Gifts were meant to be surprises, so far as Saska knew. She gave a sigh. “Does the Strong Eagle have anything to say?”
“Nothing that will make you smile.”
Little does these days, she might have said. But that was too morose. “Lord Hasham wants to see you. I’ll be upstairs when you’re done.”
She left him, drifting through the sea of soldiers toward the grand central stair, beginning her ascent. The palace was three-tiered, towering, with many smaller levels on each, accessed by switchback stairs of stone that seemed, sometimes, to go on forever. She passed eagles along the way. Eagles in stone and eagles in iron and eagles stitched into tapestries and drapes. They perched upon the walls, clutching torches in their talons, or looming in some cold dark corner, staring out with piercing eyes. Leshie had given some of them names, though Saska never remembered which was which. They were always silly too. Beak-Face and Angry-Eyes and Feathers, things like that.
A third of the way up, she heard the tread of footsteps coming down. A bustle of bodies that told of a group three of four strong. She rounded a corner and saw them, moving between a patch of shadow between two torches. Then the face of the Surgeon appeared, as stony and inexpressive as the eagles on the walls.
“Serenity.” He gave a bow. “We have delivered the chest to your chambers.” His eyes had a soulless quality to them, those eyes that never seemed to blink. It was an affected thing, Saska suspected, a learned habit, part of his persona. The Surgeon was all about precision, and calm. Ruthless, calculating, a man of modest physical stature, but intimidating in manner and mood.
Saska could understand how this man might unnerve another, but not her. She’d seen much worse than him. “My thanks.”
“There’s good godsteel in there,” he said. “You’ll forgive me for having a look.”
Stop ruining the surprise. “I would imagine a prince has access to a wealth of good godsteel, Captain.”
A small smile and dip of the chin. He was clean-shaven, lightly tanned, with plain, forgettable features. “Yes. I would imagine the same.”
The captain had with him three others. Two men, and a woman. The men were large, the woman larger. Saska craned her neck to look at her. “We haven’t had the pleasure, as yet.”
A hiss slipped through the woman’s lips.
“The Tigress does not speak, Serenity,” the Surgeon explained. “At least, not until she is comfortable with a person. But I know her hisses, and that one was very polite. She is not unfamiliar with courtesy.”
“Courtesy I will take or leave. It’s strong swords and loyalty I’m after.”
“I have heard. There is a rumour that you are leaving Aram, and require an escort.” He presented his men. “Let me introduce Gutter and Gore. Two of my finest implements. They look rather alike, do they not?”
“Brothers?” Saska asked.
“Cousins. But their fathers were twins to one another, and their mothers looked rather the same as well. Gutter. Gore. We bow when we meet our betters.”
“Cap’n.” The two men spoke in unison, dull-voiced, and bowed in time as well. They were greatly more alike than the Butcher and the Baker, that was certain, a pair of broad-shouldered men of similar stature with long, flaxen hair tumbling to their necks, one with a light wave only, the other more thickly curled. They had square chins, flat cheeks, narrow noses, piercing eyes. Handsome, Saska thought, taking a good long look at them. One of them had mismatched eyes, she saw. The left purple, the right clear blue. The other’s were a striking hue of hazel, almost gold.
She had a question for them. “I have to ask…why Gutter and Gore?”
One pointed at the other. “He guts, I gore.” He made a stabbing motion with his hand, glanced at the Surgeon as though for guidance, then bowed again. “My lady.”
Fine implements, Saska thought. But not the sharpest. “Does every sellsword have a name?”
“Only those that earn them,” said the Surgeon. “When you gut or gore a score of men, the name does tend to stick.”
“And the Tigress?” Saska looked up. The woman must have been over six and a half feet tall, taller even than Lady Marian had been. And beautiful as well. Feline ochre eyes, straight black shimmering hair, skin the colour of honey. Is that one of the Surgeon’s requirements? Must all his killers be comely? “I’ve heard you suffered the lash, once before,” Saska said, addressing her directly. She perused her garb, a mix of godsteel chainmail and plate, with a cloak of black and orange vair flowing from her shoulders. Beneath it, her flesh was scourged, Saska had been told. The flaying had left her horribly disfigured across the breasts and back, savage stripes that won her her name, a beauty from the neck up only.
The woman hissed.
“That means ‘yes’,” translated the Surgeon. “One day, she may show you. Only few have ever seen them.”
He was one of them, she did not doubt. Perhaps he even stitched her up? “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.” Saska thumbed over her shoulder. “I’ve been whipped as well, Tigress. I’m a striped woman, same as you.”
A smile, this time. And a nod.
“She likes you,” the Surgeon observed, in that mechanical way of his. “I think Gutter and Gore do as well, though perhaps for a different reason. Eyes down,” he said to them, suddenly fierce, snapping the words out. They obeyed at once, eyes to their toes. “Discipline is important in my ranks, Serenity. I am sorry if they were staring.”
“It’s fine. I’m used to it. Though I suggest they be careful when Sir Ralston is around. He is very protective of me.”
“They mean no harm. But yes, I will make sure of that. I daresay Sir Ralston could gut and gore these two without so much as breaking a sweat.” He put a hand on the Tigress’s arm. Bands in black and orange were wrapped around the steel of her vambraces. “She would give him a better fight, I think. I am proud of her, perhaps you can tell. She is the greatest of all the Bloody Traders. Perhaps the most deadly sellsword in all the world.”
“A bold claim. The Butcher might disagree with you.” Along with a hundred others.
“Every sellsword worth his salt would disagree with me. We are a swaggering sort, a race of braggarts and boasters, with very thin skin when our competence is called into question. Now a man like Sir Ralston…he does not need to boast. He knows, in his bones, that there are few knights in this world who could conquer him, if any.” That hand on the Tigress’s arm again, the little proud smile to go with it. “She is the same among sellswords. A marvel of the Unseen Isles, who has slain five hundred men.”
Saska had heard that one too. That and the blood. There were whispers going around that the Tigress liked to drink the blood of her victims, Bladeborn blood in particular, to keep herself young. That she had mage blood in her veins. Saska suspected that was just another tall tale, but if true, she cared not. She’s just the sort of woman I need. A killer, born and bred.
“Will you come with me?” she asked.
“Yes,” said the Surgeon.
She blinked. “Oh. I hadn’t thought…”
“It would be so easy?”
“Well…yes. You’re known as a man of careful thought. I would have imagined you’d want to consider it for a while. You don’t even know where we’re going.”
“Vandar.”
Another blink. A strong pump of the heart. “How…?”
