The Hero Strikes Back (2 page)

I'd been too distracted to even hear the music for the past hour or so. I concentrated on the light lyrical strands floating from the flutist stuck in the far corner. “No danger of that making me go berserk,” I assured her. “Your furniture is safe. So are your guests.”

Risa nodded, then slapped her brother on the shoulder. “Stop monopolizing her.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Do you see some kind of barricade around us?” he demanded with amusement. “Anyone is free to join us if they wish.”

“Huh,” she said, unimpressed. Then she wandered away, her attention caught by someone else.

“But,” Erin continued, briefly touching the back of my hand, “whether or not I've been monopolizing you, I have been monopolizing the conversation. So please,” he gestured at me, “What's it like to be a Shield?”

Ugh. I hated that question. I heard it so very often. I'd been out of the academy for a little more than a year and I was already sick of trying to describe my calling to people who couldn't possibly understand. There were parts of it I just couldn't explain, because I didn't understand them myself. They just were. Other aspects were, as far as I was concerned, none of their business. But I had to tell them something.

The upside to being asked the same question about eighty thousand times was that I had developed a nice neat answer that usually addressed every element of a regular's curiosity. “I was born with this ability,” I said, my voice immediately dropping into the sing-song of a well-worn recital, “and my parents sent me to the academy when I was four years old. I don't remember this happening, but I have been told it was not a traumatic experience for me. It rarely is for Shields. My family was able to visit me often and I feel I know them well.” Or as well as I could, under the circumstances. “I enjoyed my classes, mostly. I really do have a little more difficulty feeling things like pain—or the cold—than regulars, and I had to be taught how to feel them when I was a child. I am, however, extremely sensitive to the effects of music, which is why Risa is showing such care. It can make me very emotional, sometimes violent, and it is kind of Risa to invite me to a gathering like this, especially when my Source isn't available to watch me.” I hated, really really hated, that Karish was needed to keep me under control at times. It was so humiliating. “I really am bonded to my Source, and no, that does not mean we are in love or can't bear to be out of each other's company.” I knew I was wasting my time there. I'd read enough novels and seen enough plays to know regulars loved romanticizing the Pair bond. Every Pair in every piece of fiction, tragedy or comedy, ended up lovers. “All it really means is that I can shield Karish better than I can any other Source.” Well, no it could sometimes mean more than that. We could make each other feel better with proximity and touch, easing aches and injuries. I always beat him at cards, because I could somehow tell how he felt about his hand. And the big disadvantage: When one partner died, the other died with them. But I didn't tend to discuss that sort of thing with regulars. Give them a little bit of information about the emotional and physical impacts of the bond and they started weaving weird fantasies. “Shielding is difficult but also exciting. Basically it entails making sure the forces the Source is handling during an event or disaster don't crush him and kill him.” A simplified version of events, but it was really hard to explain to people who couldn't do it.

Erin blinked, looking a little stunned. Then he smiled. I had a feeling he had realized his question wasn't exactly original. Smart lad. “And what is it like to be a Shield for Lord Shintaro Karish?”

Ooh, hated that question even more. “Karish is a thorough professional.”

But Erin didn't want to know about that. They never did. “That's not exactly what I asked,” he said, which was kind of true. “And one hears things about him.”

It was my turn to shrug. “No one can help what people say about him except those that do the talking.” And if some of the rumors were based on fact, well, that was no one's business. I wasn't going to defend Karish's actions to anyone. He was a good, decent man and an excellent Source and what he did in his free time with consenting adults was purely his affair.

Another bent smile. “I see.”

And that was it. Apparently he was ready to drop it. How unique of him.

Something shattered, the sharp sound exploding across the room, halting music and conversation. “Damn it!” I heard Risa hiss.

Erin was on his feet. “What happened?” he demanded.

“The damned bottle exploded. Just as I was opening it.”

“She's sliced her hand up pretty bad,” I heard someone say. Bardma stood beside Risa, holding the Runner's hand and peering into the blood. “I can't see any glass,” she said, “but it's hard to be sure.”

Erin looked down at me. “Excuse me,” he said to me. He was off before I nodded. He took Risa by the elbow and led her towards the kitchen. I knew nothing about medical aid, and it didn't appear life threatening, so I decided not to follow him.

Bardma knelt down to pick up the pieces of broken bottle. “Careful,” I said, grabbing up some serviettes to mop up the wine. At least the wine was white.

“It's the Spring Vale, too,” Bardma muttered. “Too bad. Though it's not like she should be splashing out on that sort of thing.”

I had no idea how much money a Runner earned, and if the number of coins were told to me it wouldn't mean much anyway. But it always seemed to me that every time Risa threw a party, she served the best of everything. “Risa is very generous,” I said.

“Hmph,” was Bardma's response. For some reason this resulted in an uncomfortable silence.

“What was that lovely piece you were just playing?” my mother asked the startled flutist.

She blinked. “Uh, Twilight Sonata,” she stuttered.

“Please, start it again. It will soothe my nerves after hearing about poor Lord Greenmist.” My mother laid her hand against the base of her throat, as though she were worried about fainting. An oddly fragile gesture from a woman I knew to be robust and calm.

“Oh my yes, can you believe it?” said a young woman named Delia, who worked at the pie shop Risa loved. As far as I knew, that was the only thing the two of them had in common. Delia made pies and Risa loved eating them. Risa could make friends with absolutely anyone.

“Just disappearing like that,” Delia continued, snapping her fingers. “It's spooky.”

“Oh, no doubt he'll show up in a ditch somewhere,” said Samuel, a bailiff. “Probably got drunk and was attacked by robbers.”

Shaka, a street artist who thought he knew everything, snorted. “They'd be wasting their time, wouldn't they? Greenmist's pockets have less in them than mine.”

It never ceased to amaze me, the kinds of intimate details strangers knew about each other. I'd never heard of Greenmist before he went missing. I certainly didn't know the weight of his purse. But once he disappeared he was famous, and everyone knew how well—or badly—he'd done in school, who he slept with and what he liked to eat for breakfast. Incredible.

“If he looked the part of a lord, they wouldn't know he was broke until after they went after his purse,” Captain Wong pointed out.

“And then they would have killed him for raising their hopes.”

“Don't say that, Shaka,” Delia chided him. “There's no reason to think he's dead.”

“No reason to think he isn't,” Shaka retorted. “No one's found any of the other High Landers that have gone missing, have they? The Risto Reaper strikes again, and gets away scot free.”

Puerile name aside, I had to admit—to myself—that I was feeling uneasy, too. Five disappearances over five months, all of them aristocrats, with no indications of why they were disappearing. No one knew for sure that there was a single person behind it, if the disappearances were even connected at all, but stories of the Risto Reaper, some brilliant, mad villain intent on cleaning out the High Landed class of its least appealing members, were making the rounds. And for that reason, I was willing to let Karish linger in Erstwhile for as long as he liked.

Captain Wong's eyes narrowed at the less than subtle criticism. “We're working on it,” he snapped.

“Sure you are, Captain, but nothing's turning up, is it?”

The party had taken a decidedly dark turn.

“He might have merely taken a vacation,” said the Captain.

I wanted to smirk. I couldn't believe he'd said that. How weak. Captain Wong knew it, too, if the way he flushed were any indication.

“Without telling anyone about it?” Shaka mocked him.

“Besides,” Samuel added, “he didn't have any money either. Where was he going to go?”

Visiting friends and family who had money. I'd heard aristocrats did a lot of leeching.

“What would anyone want with landless High Landers?” the Captain challenged them. “All the High Landers who've gone missing have had no power, no money, no land. There was no reason to take any of them. Or kill any of them. And we have no evidence at all that the disappearances are related to each other. I tell you, it's just a bunch of bad coincidences. Or someone's idea of a joke.”

“Oh, who cares?” Zeva piped up, speaking for the first time. She was a prostitute. I found it ironic she had been invited to a Runner's home for a social engagement. “They're High Landers. Useless High Landers. If there is someone picking them off, they're doing us a favor.”

“That's a terrible thing to say,” Delia scolded her.

“Oh, grow up.”

“
If
someone's doing something to these people,” said the Captain, “it is a crime, and they will be punished.”

“Aye, as soon as you can figure out what is going on and who is doing it,” said Shaka, his voice nicely laced with derision.

And they were off. Suddenly the whole room was taken over with competing discussions concerning the uselessness of High Landers and the ineffectiveness of Runners. I folded my collection of sodden serviettes and put them on a table. I made my way through the crowd, sneaking up to my mother's side. “Well done, Mother.”

“I thought so,” my mother responded without a trace of remorse. “It's certainly more interesting than talking about the most fashionable length of skirts this season.”

She had a point there. I didn't know if Risa would appreciate my mother setting her guests at each other's throats, though.

“You seem to be enjoying Erin's company,” my mother said.

“You seem to be enjoying the Captain's,” I retorted sharply. Ooh, bad. Keep the tone even.

“Yes, he's interesting,” she answered, unmoved by my obvious disapproval. “I spend so much time talking to holders and traders, it's nice to meet someone with a completely different perspective on things. I'm sure you understand.”

The hell I did. I wasn't laughing coyly and flipping my hair at anyone. “What would Father say if he saw you flirting that way?” And why was I still talking? It had nothing to do with me.

Mother stared at me, surprised. Then she started laughing. Not the reaction I'd been expecting. “My dear sweet cloistered child! That wasn't flirting!”

I was not sweet, cloistered, or a child. “You were fiddling with your hair,” I pointed out.

“Yes, well, I wasn't trained out of my natural twitches, dear,” my mother said dryly. “Unlike some.”

I'd never had any twitches. “I'm serious, Mother.”

“Yes, dear, aren't you always.”

I had discovered that my mother was never short of a quick comeback. That could be annoying. “It is not appropriate for you to be making up to another man—”

Mother rolled her eyes. “I was not making up to him, Lee. I was just talking to him, and enjoying it. We are people. People are meant to enjoy each other's attractions.”

“Mother!” I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

“I'm not talking about sex, Lee.”

Gods. Struck speechless. I was not hearing this. Surely I wasn't too old to stick my fingers in my ears and hum? Surely.

“What is wrong with enjoying another person's wit? Or the timber of their voice? What's wrong with liking the knowledge that they enjoy your company, too?”

I tried again. “When you're married—”

“You swear your loyalty to one person. And your fidelity. It doesn't mean you can't enjoy the company of other people. And it doesn't mean we can't like being attractive to others. Else we'd all be wearing black.” She looked me up and down with blatant censure.

I wasn't wearing black. I was wearing a dark blue gown of simple, practical lines. It wasn't the most attractive gown I had, but it was warm. I'd wanted something warm. “Don't start, Mother.”

“That dress—”

“I like this dress.”

“It's a lovely dress. For someone twice your years.”

So? I hadn't noticed a real difference in the fashion of young girls and mature women, more's the pity. “It's fine.”

“It does nothing for your complexion or your figure.”

Was pale a complexion? And I had, unfortunately, no figure to speak of. I was neither ethereally thin nor sensually voluptuous. The best anyone could say about me was that I was healthy.

There were times when it was appropriate for me to go to the extraordinary effort of looking my pitiful best. An informal party given by a friend was not one of those times. I'd just have to charm people with my winning personality. But my mother wouldn't accept that. It was the only thing marring her visit. From day one she hadn't stopped harping on my clothes. “Leave it, Mother. I mean it.”