Lyssa sat on the boat's cabin, her legs crossed with the wooden one on top, a wide-brimmed hat pulled low to shade her eyes. She liked the hat, liked the style the pioneers had adopted – trousers, a belt where she hung her mace, shirts with long sleeves and stiff collars, vest overtop. She liked life on the River Cabre too; compared to captaining a seafaring vessel or leading an army, the calm waters were relaxing. That was part of why she and Niethan had left both of their homelands, coastal Rydom and the Keran plains, to come north and live as river traders in the sparsely-settled Cabrish Territories.
The barge drifted towards Three Hills, where they docked often enough to be greeted as returning friends. Lyssa was fond of the townspeople; Niethan teased her about how well she got on with Jones Baker, the oldest man in town. “I see why you like him,” she'd said after first meeting Jones, “he's the old curmudgeon you wish you were.”
“I'm younger than you,” Lyssa had retorted. Lyssa was in her mid-thirties; though Niethan was older, she appeared to be in her twenties.
Ahead, the river bent lazily. Lyssa spied the rhododendron-covered hills that currently concealed the town and gave it its name.
Smoke rose from beyond the hills.
Pushing back her hat, Lyssa raked her fingers through her deep blue hair. “Niethan?” She thumped the roof with her boot's heel before standing. “Trouble in town.”
From the door beneath her, Niethan emerged, still attired in the Keran style. Her dress swept down to her ankles, sleeves tightly-laced at her forearms, the garment all in coppery colors that complimented her green skin and dark brown hair. Even after years together, Lyssa had to remind herself not to stare. Instead she jumped from the roof to the deck, holding her hat to her head. She pointed at the smoke.
“Bandits again?” Niethan guessed, eyes grim.
“We'll find out soon,” Lyssa said.
The sun was still high when they docked. As usual, Mayor Bullinger was the first to greet Lyssa when she disembarked. A fellow Rydomi expatriate, Bullinger had the same deep brown, slightly glittering skin that Lyssa did, but the mayor's hair was a shockingly pale sea-foam. On his sister, the town seamstress Vethani, Lyssa found the contrast fetching – but not on Bullinger, who'd cultivated a large, garish mustache. Today that mustache drooped with the rest of him.
“Bad timing, trader,” he said, unusually softly. Bullinger tended to announce everything he said. “Robbers came last night. Smashed up the general store, burned the laundry, took everything they could, and...” He faltered, then swallowed and said, “killed Baker.”
The news struck hard. In the last two years, Lyssa had gotten used to the people she liked not dying. Tears stung her eyes and in a distant way, she was surprised by them. “Why?” Surely the old man wasn't foolish enough to-
“Ole mule tried t'stop 'em,” the mayor said, anger creeping into his tone. He spat to one side, then his eyes widened as he glanced behind Lyssa. He touched the brim of his hat and added, “Apologies, ma'am, meant no disrespect.” Lyssa looked over her shoulder at Niethan, who had joined them with the boat's manifest and their docking fee. There was no official Cabrish Territories currency, but Three Hillfolk preferred Rydomi coin, which was what Lyssa and Niethan carried.
“Bandits?” Niethan asked.
“They killed Jones,” Lyssa said. She blinked hard against the tears. Why would one old man I only see every couple weeks make me feel this bad? Must be getting soft...
Niethan laid a hand on Lyssa's shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. Lyssa reached up to put her own hand over Niethan's, her palm rough compared to the other woman's soft skin. Mayor Bullinger coughed, glancing up and away to give them a moment of privacy.
When he turned back to them, he said, “Poor Baker's granddaughter is shut up with Hallow Sage.” Niethan snorted derisively, a habit she'd picked up from Lyssa; rather than looking put out, Bullinger shrugged. “Damned charlatan, but I can't prove he don't believe what he peddles. If I could… Tried to tell Annize that Sage ain't no good. She won't hear it.”
“Let her grieve with Hallow,” Niethan said, with scornful emphasis on the false name, “until he tries to get one single coin from her. Then run him out of town.”
Lyssa knew if she'd been the one to voice that suggestion the mayor would have shut down, mustache bristling and chest puffing out. He'd have said something like “I'll mind my town, you mind your boat.” Nobody reacted that way to Niethan, though; Bullinger nodded solemnly.
“Hope you'll stick around a bit,” Bullinger said, “Trade might do folks good after the fire's out.”
“What’s burning?” Niethan asked.
Lyssa plucked the coin purse out of Niethan's hands and tossed it to Bullinger who, despite slumped shoulders and baggy eyes, was not too weary to catch it neatly and tuck it away. Lyssa held her arm out for Niethan's, her other hand falling to her mace. Its weight at her hip was a comfort. As she led Niethan toward the town, she told her about the laundry.
On Main Street they saw the damage. The butcher only had a single window broken, glass lying scattered outside her door. The butcher herself, Pylla Eavenson, was absent. She traded for most of their salt, when she hadn't spent all her goods or coin in the Honey House. Lyssa had spent months thinking the Honey House was a brothel before learning about the honey made from the special rhododendrons growing on these hills. It caused euphoria and wild visions, and the beekeepers who owned the Honey House never turned away a paying customer, even in a crisis like this one. The general store was in shambles; the owners, two more of Lyssa and Niethan's regular customers, were arguing in the street. The men hadn't come to blows, but the shouting sounded like a marital dispute boiling over in the wake of stress and loss, so Lyssa shook her head sharply and turned back the way they'd come.
“Thought we'd see if Cethro and Sarrad need a hand,” she murmured, glancing at the shopkeepers, “But I think they need to calm down first.”
“We should check on Wenilyn,” Niethan said.
But when they came upon the laundry, it hadn't just burned; it had been torched to the ground, and there was no sign of the laundress. Finding nothing that they could do, Lyssa tugged on Niethan’s arm and nodded back the way they’d come, toward the docks and their boat.
The two women left, unnoticed by Wenilyn’s neighbors. The townsfolk were busy running a bucket line from the river to wet down the nearest buildings. No one wanted a stray ember starting new fires.
* * *
“We oughta go,” Lyssa said once they were back on their boat. “Not gonna make any money here today, and I'd feel dirty trying. They don't need us hangin' around gawking.”
Niethan shook her head. “We should stay and help,” she said.
Lyssa pinched the bridge of her nose. “You don't mean help them rebuild, or you'd have said it when we were ashore. You wanna try and solve the whole bandit problem.” She dropped her hand and gave Niethan a flat stare. “Don't you?”
Niethan shrugged.
“Been a few years since I had an army at my disposal,” Lyssa said, “Been almost as long since you lost most of your skills.”
“I hardly think we need an entire army or creation powers to handle a few outlaws, my dear,” Niethan answered. “There can't be more than ten of them. Or haven't you been paying attention?”
Lyssa crossed her arms and said, “Between ten and thirteen, I'd guess. So, yeah, it can be more than ten.”
“You're splitting hairs.”
Lyssa ignored that. “Important thing isn't how many there are. It's how many folks in town are working with them.”
That gave Niethan pause, and Lyssa allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. She didn't often surprise her partner.
“What makes you think that?” Niethan asked.
“Seen it before,” Lyssa answered. “Coastal town gets hit by pirates too often, you know somebody in town is helping 'em.”
“You're telling me,” Niethan said, “that the people of this town are being betrayed by someone they trust, and you don't want to stay and help?”
We fought a whole war two years ago, Lyssa wanted to shout, I want to rest!
Instead she grimaced and let her hair down so she could re-braid it. She thought about Jones Baker. Thought about how Niethan hadn't tried to use Jones' death to convince her to do what she wanted.
“Fine,” she said shortly. “We'll get involved. But after this we really are retired. Right?”
“Absolutely,” Niethan said, leaning forward and lifting up onto her toes to kiss Lyssa on the cheek. She drew back only an inch or so, smile turning enticing. “I have a plan, but we can worry about the details... later. Can't we?”
Lyssa put her arms around Niethan, pulling the slighter woman close. She tugged the laces on the back of her dress. “We can,” she said, voice low.
Afterwards as they relaxed in one another's arms, Lyssa tried not to let guilt mar the comfort and closeness. Tried not to think about the Three Hillfolk rebuilding parts of their homes while she lounged in bed with Niethan. Her mind kept wandering away from the warmth and softness of the woman in her arms, to the charred remains of the laundry and the glitter of broken glass on the street.
Lyssa ran a gentle hand up Niethan's side, then sat up. She began dressing, the process as easy now as it had been before she'd lost her leg, though when the wooden one was new it had been difficult.
“Gonna go see what I can learn.” Lyssa stood and hooked her mace onto her belt, caressed it as softly as she had her lover. “Talk to some people.”
Niethan shook her head. “Don't do that.”
“Don't do what?” Lyssa asked innocently, reaching for her hat, “Don't find out how everyone is?”
Niethan gave Lyssa's mace a pointed look. Pretending not to notice, Lyssa busied herself with her vest buttons. She heard Niethan huff behind her and kept her face carefully blank. Now that she'd agreed to get involved, it was time for action.
The mattress creaked, then Niethan put her arms around Lyssa's waist and rested her head on Lyssa's back.
“You don't need to go marching around, waving your mace and pretending to still be General Lyssa Sorne,” she said. If her tone hadn't been so gentle, Lyssa would have pulled away at the words. She did stiffen, and Niethan's arms tightened around her, pressing the two of them closer as she continued speaking, “I’ll go instead, I just need to figure out who looks like they're suffering from the raids but aren't. Why don't you stay here, get some work done on the boat? I'll go learn what I need and be right back.”
Tending the barge was never a chore to Lyssa; she found it soothing, as Niethan was well aware, but she wasn’t going to let Niethan convince her to stay behind instead. Lyssa turned around. “I can't let you do that alone.”
“Fine,” Niethan answered, “But leave the mace.”
“I won't.”
“You can't handle a bunch of townsfolk without it?” Niethan asked in mock surprise. With false solicitation she put the back of her hand to Lyssa's brow. “Are you ill? Or have you grown so old and soft that you can't-”
“Alright, alright, enough with your feeble wit,” Lyssa said, raising her hands in defeat before stepping back and unhooking her mace from her belt.
“My wit's not feeble,” Niethan said cheerfully, “It's robust and in fine fettle.”
Lyssa only snorted. “Shall we?”
“I think I should get dressed first, don't you?”
* * *
“It's a terrible idea.” Lyssa pinched the bridge of her nose. “Something out of a dreadful play.”
Niethan looked up with an unperturbed smile. Her arms crossed on the low railing of the boat, she sat on the deck with her legs between the bars, feet just above the river. Lyssa perched atop the railing, and although her pose was more precarious she suppressed a shudder to imagine sitting the way that her partner was. The idea of an animal attacking Niethan was as absurd as the idea of an animal inviting them for tea. But the idea of something lunging out of the water at Lyssa if she dangled her leg over the edge...
“I got the idea from a dreadful serial in a newspaper, actually,” Niethan said. The Keran idea of a city's news coming written out on sheaves of paper for anyone to buy was strange to Lyssa, who preferred the Rydomi method of regular readings of important happenings in the town square.
“They'll see through it,” Lyssa said.
In town, Lyssa had watched Niethan work. The Keran woman didn't have as much power as she'd commanded two years ago, but she could still summon the voice that made Lyssa's skin crawl and reminded her of squids surfacing to pull down a drowning man. She hadn't known squids would do that until she'd seen it. She hadn't known what Niethan could do until she'd seen that, either. It wasn't as strong anymore, though, and on this day all Niethan did was get the information they needed.
There were three people in town who hadn't suffered from the bandits, and Lyssa thought Niethan was underestimating them.
“I don't think so,” Niethan said, ticking them off on her fingers as she explained, “Hallow Sage invested too much in his mystic persona to have ever read that kind of story. Pylla Eavenson is dreaming on mad honey too often to think clearly. And Mayor Bullinger is so pleased with himself it would never occur to him that someone might outwit him.”
“So we just tell them we have treasure buried somewhere and wait to see who jumps us?” Lyssa said, twitching her fishing line gently.
“Essentially,” Niethan agreed. “Tell one of them we've buried something upriver, one of them we've buried something downriver, and one of them that we've hidden something right here on the boat.”
Lyssa let the line play out a little. “Stupid,” she said, then squeezed her eyes shut a moment and shook her head. “That came out wrong. Not you. That story. Why bury anything on the river bank?”
Niethan's grin widened. “We don't need a reason, my dear. We don't tell them what it is we're supposed to have. Just that it's special, and we'll get a lot for it trading upriver, but we hid it. The mystery will draw them in, their own guesses will fill in any excuse they need to believe it.”
The cork on the line dipped briefly beneath the water and resurfaced, then jerked all the way under. Lyssa braced the reel to prevent any slack, then gave the pole a sharp jerk to secure the hook in whatever had bitten. “You think that'll work?” she asked as she got off of the railing to reel their dinner in slowly, careful not to let it break the line.
Niethan stood, reaching for the long-handled net. “Positive.”
* * *
Vargo Bullinger had been mayor for long enough that his hands had lost their calluses, but the scale of his home and the furnishings in his parlor were testament to the skill he'd once had as a carpenter and woodcarver. They'd called on Bullinger early in the morning, and he offered them coffee. Lyssa declined – she'd never tried it before coming to the Cabrish Territories and found that she didn't have a taste for it – but Niethan happily accepted a cup. Bullinger drank it in greater quantity than Lyssa had ever seen.
“We wanted to ask if there's anything we can do to help while we're here,” Niethan said between sips. “We'll be in town five more days, on the boat so we don't put anyone out.”
“Awfully kind of you,” Bullinger said, then he stopped and glanced up with a smile. He stood, smoothing his mustache. “Miss Drafter,” he said, and Lyssa turned to see Wenilyn and Vethani enter the parlor together. The laundress had taken up residence with the mayor and his sister during the rebuilding. From the way his eyes softened, Lyssa thought that Bullinger, a widower for as long as she'd known him, would begin courting the laundress soon. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you,” Vethani said, making a face. “Just stopped in to say we're goin' to the general store to see if they're fixed up enough to brew a decent pot of tea. Good day Vargo, good day traders.” With that, she and Wenilyn left, and the mayor returned to his seat.
“I don't know what you'll do in town for five whole days,” he said to Niethan, picking up where they'd left off.
“Between you and me,” Niethan said conspiratorially, leaning in and lowering her voice, “We have something very interesting to trade at the next town, it's going to make our fortunes. We're not even keeping it in the hold with everything else. It's in our own cabin. But we can't sell it for another week. So-” she straightened and her tone drifted back to normal, “we might as well stay and lend a hand while we wait.”
“Certainly, in that case,” the mayor said, smoothing his mustache again before he drained his coffee cup for the fourth time since they'd sat down.
“We only stopped by to settle the docking fees for five days,” Niethan said, setting her own empty cup down. Lyssa fished her coin purse out of a pocket and tossed it to the mayor. “If you think of any way we can help, let us know.”
“Of course,” Mayor Bullinger said, whisking the coins out of sight and returning the emptied purse. “I know where to find you.”
* * *
“Why now?” Lyssa whispered, catching Niethan's elbow before she could open the door to the Honey House. “She's dreaming her mind away, won't even recognize us.”
“If there's anyone we know with enough tolerance to mad honey to remember what we tell her, it's Pylla,” Niethan countered, pulling Lyssa's fingers off her elbow and twining their arms together instead. “Let's go. We'll be quick.”
They went into the Honey House. It was the first time either woman had been inside, and Lyssa expected someplace ill-lit and untidy. Instead it was all warm amber tones, well-lit and decorated with rhododendrons in vases on every table. In the center of the room stood a huge, taxidermied bear. Lyssa peered at the plaque affixed to the bear's wooden base. It read only “The Dreaming Bear of Three Hills.”
Niethan tugged her arm and pointed to Pylla, lounging on a pile of cushions in a far corner. She was the only customer, and the proprietor was at the opposite side of the room cleaning wooden honey dippers behind the bar. They crossed to the butcher.
“Pylla Eavenson,” Niethan said, leaning down. Perhaps responding to the familiarity of a Keran accent, not heard often in this part of the Territories, Pylla glanced up with dull recognition. “We're going to be in town for four more days, so when you're available, we need meats to hold us over. We'll give you a whole cask of salt in trade. We're going to be able to afford to be generous after we sell what we've got buried upstream. A special trade item, going to make us rich. But we can't trade it in the next town yet. We buried it upstream until we're ready to go do that. See you tonight, okay?”
Pylla's eyes narrowed as she tried to follow the sense of what Niethan was saying. Eventually her smile lit up, maybe at the idea of a whole cask of salt for only four days' worth of meats, maybe at the idea of whatever treasure Niethan was dangling so blatantly in front of her. If Lyssa had been inclined to feel alarmed by how obvious Niethan was being, Pylla's hazy, distant expression eased her concerns. Such bluntness was the only thing that would ensure that the butcher would remember the conversation later. The honey would guarantee that she didn't recall it well enough to understand just how unsubtle Niethan was being.
* * *
Lyssa had seen Niethan's antagonism towards religious leaders before, but her ire for Hallow Sage made the rest pale in comparison; for this conversation, Lyssa had to take the lead.
Hope I don't foul up, she thought as she sat cross-legged on the mat that served as a floor in Sage's little hut on the outskirts of town. Until she'd seen this place, Lyssa wouldn't have thought that a hut could be pretentious. Everything about the single room looked as though it might fall apart at any moment, but the construction was designed that way without actually being unsafe. The appearance of hardship without the struggles. More, Lyssa couldn't shake the suspicion that beneath the trap door near the wall was probably a secret living area much more comfortable than the rest of the hut.
“Wondering if we might see Annize,” Lyssa said shortly, counting on her reputation as a woman of few words to help carry her through this conversation without mishap. “I was fond of her grandfather.”
“I am terribly sorry to inform you that Miz Baker is unavailable,” Hallow Sage said, speaking with the slow, deep tone he affected. Lyssa was certain that he thought it made him sound grave and thoughtful. She thought it made him sound like he couldn't remember what he was about to say.
“We want to pay our respects,” Niethan said in a harder voice than the situation called for, brows drawing together in a scowl.
“Of course, I understand. The depth of your feeling is profound.” He made a vague gesture in Niethan's direction that was meant to be reminiscent of a religious blessing. “But Miz Baker asks not to be interrupted for any reason. She grieves in the way that will best help her heal.”
Niethan opened her mouth to reply, but subsided when Lyssa laid a gentle hand on her arm. They hadn't actually come to speak with Annize, and Hallow's repugnance wasn't the issue. She hoped Niethan would stay focused, that she wouldn't let her dislike of religious folks and her hatred for Hallow Sage distract her from her part.
“We're moving on in three days,” Lyssa said, standing up and offering Niethan a hand. “Please tell Annize we'll be back about a week after that-”
“No,” Niethan interrupted, and Lyssa's worry eased. She shouldn't have doubted her partner; Niethan wouldn't let a little personal hatred make her miss her mark. “Remember, we have to stop downriver and dig up the – oh.” Niethan shot the barest glance at Hallow Sage and then turned, angling her body so that she was facing mostly away from him. Her voice was pitched perfectly as she continued, low enough that Sage would believe that she really was trying to whisper, but just loud enough that he could hear her anyway. “We have to go downriver to the spot and dig the thing up, then go trade it first. We'll probably be back in two weeks.”
As Lyssa followed Niethan out into the sunlight, she found herself hoping that the traitor was Hallow Sage, self-satisfied manipulative liar that he was.
* * *
The night before their advertised departure, they behaved normally. Lyssa made her last round on deck, checking that everything was in order, then joined Niethan in their cabin. Once inside with the curtains drawn, Niethan turned the lamp off and Lyssa sat on the bed, eyes closed, breathing slowly. Her palms began to tingle. A buzzing spread up her spine and under her skin. It had been a long time since she'd had a good fight; she savored the anticipation even as it made her grind her teeth. She stroked her mace again and again.
Finally came the sound hoof beats, then of shouts. Lyssa grinned and opened her eyes, stood and heard a rustle of cloth as Niethan did the same. A flash of irritation. Lyssa had asked Niethan to stay below with the cargo in relative safety. Of the three suspects, the only one who thought there was treasure on the boat believed it was in this very room. As she'd always done, Niethan refused any attempt Lyssa made to convince her to keep away from danger.
Lyssa shook the distraction off.
Shattering glass and rising cries formed a counterpoint to the hooves. There was a crackle, and a flicker of light became visible through the curtain. Lyssa gestured for Niethan to stand back and moved herself closer to the door. The chaos outside rose, it became harder to pick out what was going on based on sound alone. However, she thought roughly half of the bandits were riding towards the river. There followed the hollow thudding of feet on the wooden docks. The steps' tone changed and the boards beneath her boots vibrated.
They'd been boarded. She counted the footsteps as each successive outlaw leapt onto her boat. Six. There was a shuffle, someone muttered and took a few steps in the direction of the hatch leading down to the cargo hold. A reprimanding voice barked, “Nah! House part, not hold, remember?”
The bandits were working with Bullinger.
Footsteps approached the cabin. “Stay back,” Lyssa muttered to Niethan, then threw open the door and leaped out.
There was a new fire burning in Three Hills, small but bright enough for Lyssa. She didn't pause, but assessed the situation as she charged. Her eyes fell on a bandit cradling a weapon she hadn't seen often, an Ushlandic crossbow. Lyssa threw herself to one side as he shot it. The weapon was surprisingly quiet, until she heard a thunk in the cabin wall behind her. She rolled and came back to her feet. The crossbow-wielding bandit would have to be taken care of first. Lyssa set her foot on a coil of rope, used it like a step to propel herself up and into a jump. She swung her mace with the leap so that when she landed, she smashed both the crossbow and the hand holding it. The robber screamed.
Blood surging, Lyssa leaned into his face and screamed back. Then she shoved him overboard between the boat and the dock. He'd probably survive. As long as there were no alligators in this part of the river.
Lyssa turned, saw a glint of reflected firelight moving toward her, and jerked back, barely avoiding a flashing knife. A Keran woman dressed in the Cabrish style advanced, slashing with a long-bladed dagger. Lyssa dodged to one side and another, measuring the quality of her opponent. The woman attacked with precision, but her movements were predictable. Fighting was like dancing, and if the other person never changed their rhythm then Lyssa had the advantage no matter how precise their movements were. Within a moment she had the woman's pattern. After that it was easy to duck under the next strike. With her free hand Lyssa grabbed the woman's wrist, twisted it fast and hard. The crack was audible. Crying out, the woman dropped her dagger. Lyssa shouldered into her. The invader fell, tried to crab-crawl backwards without using her broken wrist. Lyssa took one step forward and kicked her head, knocking her senseless.
The kick was poorly planned, Lyssa's landing on her wooden leg imperfect. Two men took advantage of her unbalanced moment to come at her together.
To regain her footing, she was forced to fall back several steps. At least she could do so without worrying about the terrain – the wooden deck was as familiar to her as any place could be. Right when she expected to, she bumped into the railing. Lyssa widened her stance and took a two-handed hold on her mace. She tightened her grip, breathing hard but not panting, and tried to ignore the pleasant way her belly tightened and her senses sharpened. I've missed this, she thought distantly, not allowing the thought to surface consciously enough to distract her, perhaps a little too much.
The bandits came at her from either side, planning a coordinated attack. She glanced from one to the other. One of them sneered, but the expression was forced, brittle. His eyes were wide and wild, white around the edges. Of the two, he was the one who was afraid. Lyssa saw it and grinned, baring her teeth.
The other looked cooler, more collected. Angrier. He had two weapons, a stout club and a long knife. For now, he was the one she should keep her focus on. And he was the one who attacked first, leading with the club. She deflected the blow with her mace, barely glancing at it, trusting her instincts and her training as much as her weapon. She kept her focus on defending against his knife. The club was a distraction; the blade was the real danger.
He stabbed at her so fast that if she hadn't been paying close attention, she'd have missed it. Lyssa pulled to the side, avoiding the slash. She followed through by pivoting just long enough to kick the frightened one in the gut before he could work up the nerve to come at her. He fell back with a winded grunt.
Lyssa whirled back again, hissing as the angrier bandit's knife scored a cut on her upper arm. Adrenaline dimmed the pain. She stepped into his reach rather than pulling away. The grunt he let out sounded annoyed, and she knew he'd been expecting her to make the foolish move of trying to withdraw instead. Lyssa was no stranger to combat, though, and she knew that his knife was less useful at this range. Her mace was, too, but the battle-joy surged with her pulse and she would bet her life – was betting her life – that she was the better warrior, and that he would be restricted by relying too much on using his weapon rather than his head.
He dropped his club and grabbed her wrist, trying to keep her mace out of play. With her free hand she got a similar grip on his knife arm. He dug his fingers into her tendons, trying to make her drop her mace, but the pain was minimal and Lyssa embraced it with a grunting laugh. She wanted to return the favor, was confident that her grip was strong enough to do damage.
Unfortunately there was no time for an extended grapple. The bandit behind her was sucking in a breath, getting his wind back. Lyssa pushed their arms out to the sides, ducked low, and tilted her head down. When she shot upwards she put her whole body into the strike and smashed the crown of her head into the middle of his face. He cried out. Something sharp dug into her skin at her hairline. Perhaps a tooth? The bandit's knife dropped. Warmth began to trickle down Lyssa's face. She took a step back and easily twisted her arm out of the dazed man's grip. She didn't use her mace on him yet, but punched the bandit in the jaw instead. His head snapped back and he fell, loose-limbed, to the deck.
Lyssa turned on the other one just as he finished regaining his feet. She swung her mace with her turn, aiming for the side of his head. At the last moment she softened the blow and adjusted her strike, the head of her weapon crashing into his side instead. She heard ribs crack, watched him fall, but knew it hadn't been a killing blow. This wasn't war, after all, and these weren't soldiers.
Even as she instinctively took a defensive stance and spun to look for her next opponent, it occurred to Lyssa that the boat was too quiet. Nothing moved, no one came at her. The deck was deserted. She had fought four bandits, but six had come aboard.
Her heartbeat sped up, her stomach dropped. The door to the cabin stood open, the darkness inside impenetrable now that she'd become accustomed to the red light from the fire in town. Apprehension cooled her as it hadn't during the fight. The basic, consuming fear for Niethan's well-being was layered over with concern about what her partner might do, how it would shape what came next. Rolling her shoulders to ease the sudden tension, Lyssa took a firmer grip on her mace and strode towards the door.
When she reached the threshold a voice called a sharp warning. “Hold it.”
Lyssa paused, peering within. One of the outlaws ripped down the curtain so she could see that he stood facing Niethan, holding a knife barely touching her throat. Another woman stood behind Niethan, restraining her arms behind her back, gripped at the elbows and twisted up high.
Niethan was disheveled, hair mussed and dress rumpled, although Lyssa's sharp glance picked out no blood. The bandit with the blade was breathing hard, standing with his legs pressed together in a way that suggested that he'd taken a blow to the groin. The woman looked wary.
“Don't take another step or I'll gut her,” the man said.
“This is a bad idea,” Niethan said softly. Lyssa blinked hard and took a deep breath, bracing herself against that tone. Niethan turned her head just enough to make it clear that she wasn't talking to Lyssa or to the man with the knife, but to the woman holding her elbows. “I can't imagine this feels right to you.”
The sounds from Three Hills grew distant. Niethan's voice was no louder. The opposite. Softer. Smooth. Nonetheless it began to grow. “I think you understood right away, didn't you?” she said.
The splashing of the crossbowman in the river became harder to hear. Lyssa shoved away the memory that always resurfaced when Niethan did this. Calm waters and a man overboard one moment, shadows beneath and tentacles the next. Not now, she thought, I can't remember that now.
“The moment you touched me, that was when you knew you'd made a mistake. Am I correct?” The woman holding her arms was staring mostly at the back of Niethan's head, she must have known that her captive couldn't actually see her. Nevertheless she nodded anyway, licking her lips.
Niethan responded as if she had seen the gesture, nodding right back as she said, “I thought so. Some people are more sensitive to the power.” That voice rang in Lyssa's bones. The squids materialized from the depths again in her mind. She pushed the memory away. The man with the knife let his arm drop, taking a step back. Outside the cabin the wind stopped whispering.
“This must be hard.” The sympathy in Niethan's voice didn't lessen the power building behind it. Lyssa couldn't hear herself breathing. She looked away from Niethan. Away from her eyes. She couldn't look at her when the glow started or she'd see that white light in her eyes every time they tried to make love for weeks after.
“You should let go.” The entire world contracted and distilled into a single voice. Lyssa shuddered. In her mind's eye the squids came to the surface and pulled a sailor underwater. In the cabin the woman let go of Niethan's arms and stumbled backwards.
The strangeness dissipated in that instant. The squids sank back beneath the surface. The world returned, splashing and shouting and burning. When Lyssa risked a glance at her partner, the other woman's eyes were warm and brown.
“Snakes,” the man with the knife said abruptly. After the soft totality of Niethan's voice, his sounded both too loud and weak. “I hated those snakes.”
Lyssa turned to see his expression as fragile as his voice. She knew came next. She had seen it every time someone without a strong enough will heard Niethan use her power. The memories that came to the surface were never the same but always similar, and without the spine to bear it, the fear was overwhelming. The bandit looked delicate in that moment. He didn't have what it took.
“Your voice is fulla snakes in the rock s. It bites.” The fear began to sharpen into hatred, just as she'd known it would. Lyssa readied her grip on her mace, prepared to spring. Before Niethan could speak again the bandit lunged, blade leading. He struck towards her throat.
The ceiling was low, there was no room in the cabin for an overhead blow. Lyssa leaped and swung the mace underhand instead, knocking the knife up and out of his hand. Keeping up her momentum, leaning into her charge, she knocked him onto the bed. Lyssa grabbed his ankle with one hand and stepped backwards, putting the weight of her body into pulling him to the floor. Balanced on her good leg, she stomped down on his belly with the end of the wooden leg. He curled around himself, gasping.
If he surrendered then he might have lived, but the fear was in him. Not fear of Lyssa. Niethan was the frightening one. Most people didn't realize it, but the bandit was smart enough to have figured it out. But he wasn't quite smart enough to know better than to grab the knife again, and lunge up onto his knees towards Niethan. Lyssa didn't think, just swung sideways, pivoting at the hips to give the blow her full force. The mace struck the back of his head. The crunch was as satisfying as ever.
Distantly Lyssa knew she'd feel disgust about the satisfaction. Not just yet, though. When she looked up at Niethan there was no judgment in the other woman's gaze. There never was. Her regard was a soft warmth, soothing. This was not the time to dwell in that comfort, however. There was more work to be about tonight.
* * *
The fire had been controlled, and this time none of the Three Hillfolk had died. The bandits sat in a tight circle, facing inward, on the packed dirt in the middle of Main Street. They were bound hand and foot. A young fisherwoman had gone to fetch Bullinger.
Cethro from the general store, still wearing a nightshirt and house slippers, held up a lantern and stepped close to the outlaws. “Yeah, get the mayor, all right,” he snarled, pointing at the one from the boat who'd carried both a knife and a club. “Never seen 'em without masks when they was robbin' us, but if that ain't Hathen Greentree I'll jump in the river.”
The name meant nothing to Lyssa, and Niethan looked blank, but the townsfolk murmured and jostled. The bandit narrowed his eyes and met their gazes.
Soon the mayor's voice rose from beyond the crowd, and Lyssa heard the note of panic trembling in it. She saw anger ripple through the townsfolk and knew they'd heard it, too. Whoever Hathan Greentree was to them, she could see that he made the mayor's connection to the gang clear.
“Move aside,” he called in a tight voice, “let me through.” Bullinger stepped into the cleared area on the road and stared at Greentree. His shoulders slumped, just a little, just for a moment, then someone shoved past him from behind.
Vethani, in a long nightdress and no shoes, stopped in her tracks and stared. Her shock seemed genuine. “Hathan Greentree?” she gasped, then turned to her brother. “You said he was dead!”
So much of the drama of the moment was lost on Lyssa that she forgot her reluctance to appear at any kind of disadvantage, and turned to the townsfolk nearest her. “Who's Hathan Greentree?” she muttered to the blacksmith, standing next to her with his arms crossed and jaw clenched.
“Bullinger's brother-in-law.” He turned and spat. “S'posed t'have died when Bullinger's wife did.”
“I – I thought he was!” the mayor lied in answer to Vethani, his breath coming more rapidly.
Greentree sneered.
“How did he know to check our cabin for trade goods, mayor?” Niethan called out, her voice carrying a thread of sharp mockery.
Bullinger's face fell, but he squared his shoulders and tried to bluster through, “Now how would I know? He could've heard from anyone-”
“We only told you that there was something hidden in our cabin,” Lyssa interrupted. With a cold grin she added, “There never was.”
The mayor sputtered, trying to think of a retort. He cut himself off as Wenilyn squeezed out of the crowd and came up behind Vethani, giving Bullinger a wide berth. She fixed her gaze on the bound bandit. “We were friends, Hathan. You burned down my laundry?”
Greentree looked down and away, but still he kept his mouth shut. The crowd was closing around the mayor, who began to speak softly as if they were all good friends and he could talk sense into them, repeating the phrase “no proof” over and over.
Niethan shifted impatiently. Lyssa glanced at her a moment too late to stop her as she stepped nearer to the bandits. She stood over Hathan Greentree, drawing back her shoulders, looking down her nose at him. Not here, Lyssa thought, not in front of all of these people.
But when Niethan spoke it was with only the barest shadow of the voice which pulled the world into itself. The squids mostly stayed beneath the surface. “Tell them the truth, Hathan Greentree.” Even with her voice so subdued, lacking the soft fullness and the terrible ringing, Lyssa saw a tremor pass through the crowd. They'd heard, even those who should have been too far away to make out even a murmur of her words. The eyes of the Three Hillfolk turned to Niethan. The bandit woman who had felt her voice before shuddered violently.
Greentree obeyed.
“Vargo told me to burn down the laundry,” he said, and Wenilyn turned on the mayor with a stunned gaze. She didn't have time to respond; Greentree was still talking. “He said you started takin' in sewing with laundering, cut into Vethani's profits.”
“What?” Vethani gasped, rounding on her brother and slapping him so hard his head rocked. “She's my friend! How could you!”
“Wait – please-” Bullinger began, his eyes widening. The two women hurried away together, betrayal stark on both of their faces, before he could offer any excuse or another denial.
Greentree kept talking, telling the truth as commanded. “When my sister died I faked my death too. Started robbin' travelers. Vargo said he knew a better way t'get us both rich. He knew who in town had the most coin, all th'time. How to send his cut back to him in little bits so it looked like land investment payin' off. Been doin' it for years. He helped put t'gether the gang. Vargo's the brains.”
“That's enough,” Niethan said.
“Jail the lot of 'em,” someone shouted. Before Bullinger could try to bolt the crowd engulfed him. When they parted enough tat Lyssa could see him again, he was being dragged off with the outlaw gang in the direction of the town lockup.
The remaining townsfolk began to whisper amongst themselves, then murmur, then gradually came talking and shouting. The traders stepped back, giving the Three Hillfolk space as the talk turned contentious. Mostly they bickered over whether to send Bullinger and the others to Hub City for a trial or simply hang them, but soon they started arguing over who should be in charge. A voice rose above the crowd, “How 'bout a temporary mayor? Just til we have a proper election, yeah? I think we should pick trader Niethan.”
Lyssa glared at Niethan and muttered, “You had to use that voice in front of them, didn't you?”
Niethan shrugged. “It sped things up.”
The two women sidled into deeper shadows. By the time someone called, “Where'd she go?” they were around the corner of a building and jogging toward the docks. Better not to have this conversation with the townspeople at all, especially so soon after they'd heard that hint of Niethan's power. Better to disappear into the night.
It was the work of a few moments to cut the lines – untying would take too long, rope could be replaced – board the boat, and cast off. Lyssa took the wheel and kept her gaze turned out towards the darkness rather than the warm light of town. Her eyes needed to adjust again. Night navigation was risky, but staying in Three Hills with talk like that wasn't an option. She glanced at Niethan, who stood at the railing watching the riverbank slide by.
“Always comes back to battles and politics, doesn't it?” Lyssa said.
Niethan agreed with a rueful laugh. “Not much of a retirement, I suppose. The Cabrish Territories seem less comfortable all of a sudden, don't they?”
Lyssa shrugged. “Let's try our luck in Halan Torania,” she suggested. “Got all our lives to figure out where we wanna be.”
C.J. Dotson (she/her) has been reading sci-fi, fantasy, and horror for as long as she can remember, and writing for almost that long. She's bi, and is a wife, mom, and stepmom. She lives with her family in an almost-certainly-haunted house in Ohio. Before the pandemic she worked in a bookstore and co-hosted a sci-fi and fantasy book club, and will hopefully do both of those again someday. In her spare time, she paints and bakes. C.J. has work featured in the anthology "Upon a Once Time" from Air and Nothingness Press, as well as in online publications such as The Storyteller Series: Print Edition and the 2020 Pride issue of Prismatica Magazine. For more content and information, check out cjdotsonauthor.com or find her on Twitter as @cj_dots.