Free A Play of Shadow by Julie E. Czerneda Page B

walls, and they’d closed the door. No chance a shout would carry to the stablehands outside. As for his foes? Even if they were fools enough to believe he hadn’t heard them, the easiest way to be sure would be to let him by, then stab him in the back. Or knock him on the head, if they felt more kindly disposed.
    The silent man, with the grim look? He’d prefer the stabbing.
    Nothing to lose, then. “You fine gentlemen are making a mistake,” he said cheerfully. “Between the railroad and the truce, there’s no demand for horses. Sheep, now. They’re your best bet.”
    Pimple-face laughed. “Haven’t heard about the war? Where’ve you been?”
    War? It was the truth he saw, but how could it be? When he’d left—why he’d left!—the Prince’s truce had bound Rhoth and Eldad to Ansnor, the price of peace, ending generations of border raids and far worse, being access to mines and rail for the Eld’s trains.
    The stable’s warmth, the light playing on their hard faces, the swish of a horse’s tail, the smells, everything around him snapped into sharp focus as Bannan’s heart began to pound with dread. By an effort he didn’t dare show, he kept his tone level. “We don’t get much news up north. Who broke the truce? Ansnor?” With what remained of Vorkoun—for the treaty returned the portion of the city south of the Lilem to Ansnor, stripping border patrols and garrisons from the rest—first in her path.
    And Lila.
    White-hair raised a brow. “The truce holds, stranger. It’s Lower Rhoth shouting for reinforcements, including mounts. Mounts we—” with a nod to his companions, “—intend to acquire.” Too casually, he hooked his lantern on the nearest post. “Get in our way and die.”
    He’d die regardless, from the smirk on the silent man’s face. “Manners require I warn you very fine gentlemen that Horst himself chose me as his replacement.” White-hair shrugged. Pimple-face swallowed.
    The hitherto silent man spat. “That’s what I say to the old fool.”
    “I wouldn’t,” Bannan said and bowed, fingers to the stable floor. Straightening, he did two things at once.
    Launched himself at White-hair.
    And whistled.

    The whistle was short and quiet. It was drowned out by the anguished cry when Bannan drove an elbow into White-hair’s groin. As if he’d play fair, three to one. Following the man as he crumpled to the dirt floor, Bannan searched under the coat for a weapon. A boot stomped near his head. Before a second try, he was up and away, the hilt of a knife in his hand. Flipping it so the blade lay against his wrist, he used his empty hand to shove Pimple-face aside. The boy stumbled into the back of a horse who grumbled but didn’t bother kicking him. Just as well. He held the remaining lantern in shaking hands.
    The boot belonged to the third man. Dropping the halters, he pulled his sword with regrettable skill. His very long sword.
    Ancestors Unfair and Unworthy. Bannan flipped the knife again and threw it.
    The sword batted it aside.
    He’d never liked knife fights anyway. Win or lose, you were always cut by the end and the winner was whomever didn’t slip in blood at the wrong moment.
    “It doesn’t have to end this way,” Bannan assured the swordsman as he took a step back. “We could go into the inn and have a drink together.” White-hair stopped moaning to spit out a curse. “Don’t say I didn’t offer,” the truthseer continued blithely and whistled again. A little desperately, truth be told.
    The sword point drew a little circle in the air as his opponent closed the distance between them. Get on with it, he hoped that meant. Otherwise, it appeared a plan to disembowel him.
    Bannan raised his hands. Where was the idiot beast? “You don’t want to do that.”
    “Ancestors Witness,” the man said with a wide, unpleasant grin, “I most surely do.” He tensed, the sword straightened to point at Bannan’s stomach, then lunged!
    The truthseer dodged into