Prodigal Sons Read online

  Makoa’s face darkened steadily. He lifted a hand to hold back his soldiers.

  “You may have your pleasure on that Daggermark girl and the false priest,” he said to Caziar. “This one’s mine.”

  “Come on then, coward!” The voice sprung unbidden from my mouth, but it was my own, as were the arms that spread wide in challenge.

  A vein throbbed in Makoa’s pitted forehead. He hefted his blade, and I felt myself step into what I could muster of a defensive pose. He opened his mouth—and suddenly, a look that was almost thoughtful stole across his face.

  He lifted one hand to his side, and looked around in surprise. Then his fingers stiffened, and he toppled over into the dirt like a sack of rags. Startled, Caziar twisted to look—and kept on twisting, falling beside him.

  The soldiers howled. Ommarra used their moment of distraction to run two of them through, and the gladiators of Tymon—unused to the chaos of proper warfare—scattered. Ommarra lifted the horn around her throat and blew three clear notes. I started toward her, only to be pulled down into a crouch by Phargas.

  “Desna’s sake, Ollix, look around! This is poisoners’ work.”

  My mind leapt back to Makoa and Caziar fighting in the press of bodies. Two humans in plain black, with hoods low over their eyes, had fought near them, only for a moment; I’d taken them for some sort of priesthood.

  “You mean—”

  “These darts are called Midnight’s Toll.” He pointed to the gap between groin and breastplate in fallen Caziar’s armor. A tiny flash of light there, no brighter than a strand of fey’s hair, caught my eye. “Makoa and Caziar had been dead half a minute. They just hadn’t felt it yet.” He lifted a hand to display the slenderest of needles, tipped in ornamental blue.

  “You mean—”

  “And you’d taken off your hood! These poisoners know our faces. If they’d glimpsed you out of our disguise, you’d have gotten a dart as well.”

  “You mean—”

  “Listen!” The noise of battle had changed. The clash and collision had given way to bayings, trampling feet, and screams. One theme in particular caught my attention.

  “Every Tymon commander?” I asked, incredulous.

  “The Poisoners’ Guild doesn’t lie down on the job.” He reached for his walking stick and made to crawl forward, but suddenly I realized that I’d had enough.

  “Now wait a second, Phargas,” I said, and to my surprise there was steel into my voice. “How do you know so much about poison? And what witchery did you use back there? Those weren’t my words that challenged Makoa. I think you owe me some answers.”

  Phargas stared at me for a long moment, considering. Then he took a deep breath and let it out.

  “Very well, boy,” he said, and crouched down beside me in the shadow of the dead horse. The ground thundered as cavalry rode past us, chasing the retreating Tymons.

  “Ollix,” he began, “I’ve never been truthful with you about my mission, though on occasion I thought you might figure it out yourself. It’s been months since your father sent you away. Since then we’ve traveled together, you believing I was your bodyguard.”

  “I prefer ‘sidekick,’” I responded, “but yes.”

  “We found a wayfinder and a cloak pin with the Glyph of the Open Road early in our journey, and you had the nerve to start calling yourself a Pathfinder. But as a servant of the Decemvirate—”

  “The what?”

  Phargas rolled his eyes. “Forget it,” he said. “The thing that you need to understand, Ollix, is that you’ve indeed been working for the Pathfinder Society. But not intentionally.” He gestured. “I’m the Pathfinder, Ollix. I was sent out months ago on a mission to chart the ever-changing borders between the lesser River Kingdoms. One of my first stops was Kadria.” He pursed his lips. “Lord Kaddar approached me with an offer the first night I was in town.”

  “But you called yourself a priest!” I cried. Phargas smiled, and his expression of casual, paternal disdain would have been at home in any noble court.

  “Country boy, I’ve been a Pathfinder for eight years. I speak ten languages and have mastered the magic of speech and song. Believe me, I can appear as I need to appear.”

  Country boy? “If my father,” I continued, “was sending me out with a top-notch sidekick, he should have told me.”

  A cloud passed over Phargas’s face. “My charge from your father wasn’t to guard you, Ollix.”

  “What?”

  “Think about it: your old man instructed you to make a name for yourself or die trying. Given your track record, which do you think he expected to happen? And if it didn’t, well—no harm in purchasing a little insurance.”

  It took me a moment to make sense of his words. He put up his hand.

  “Believe me,” he said, “I’ve been tempted. At the Swaddled Otter? That mess with Jedda’s captain of the guard, or the ridiculous wagers on the river barge? All moments I smiled to imagine leaving you to your fate—and earning the second half of my reward.”

  What he proposed was inconceivable. “Phargas, my father would never have sent me to die.”

  “Oh really?” he asked, and this time his tone was almost gentle. “And why would that be? Because of his great love for you? Tell me—which is worth more to a petty warlord: A son who’s a constant embarrassment? Or a son whose tragic murder in a nearby kingdom might just be the impetus for one last war of expansion?”

  That sounded uncomfortably like my father’s thinking.

  “But—with Makoa,” I asked. “You just saved my life.”

  “That’s right, I did. Because I’m fed up with doing other people’s chores.” He yanked off his habit, revealing his mud-stained cloak and breeches. He stood, heedless of a troop of cavalry who pounded past us led by Ommarra. Gingerly, I rose to my feet as well.

  “I can’t believe it.” The battlefield was growing deserted. Up ahead, Tymon’s troops were fleeing west toward their distant city, Daggermark’s militia hot on their heels.

  “If I’d died under Makoa’s sword, you’d have had your fee, plus Ommarra’s eye. I saw how she looked at Francis.”

  Phargas laughed—a full, rich sound. “Watching a buffoon die is no compensation for serving another one.” He gestured at Daggermark’s lines. “Besides, I suspect Ommarra will lose interest now that she knows you and I aren’t mistresses after all. And I’ve always preferred the company of gentlemen, anyway.”

  “Well, who doesn’t? But I meant that she might take you as a lover.”

  Phargas sighed. “Never mind. Anyway, this dung-showered detour of ours will make a fine addition to my report, but if I’m ever to write it,” he snatched up his pack and dusted it perfunctorily, “I must be on my way. Your Glyph of the Open Road, please.” He put out his palm.

  It took a moment to process the request, then I dug in my pocket for the dented iron pin and dropped it into his hand. With the wayfinder in the leucrotta’s possession, my time as a Pathfinder was officially over.

  “Thanks,” he said, and began to turn away. Then he stopped and studied me for a moment.

  “You know, Ollix, for all I’ve said, your road isn’t set.” He tossed up the pin and caught it. “If you ever want to earn one of these,” he said, “you know where to find us.” Then he turned on his heels and was quickly lost to view.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  "How could anyone pass up a woman like that?"

  Ommarra found me sometime later, still standing next to the dead horse. “Where’s he gone, Olive?”

  “It’s Ollix. He was Phargas. And I’m apparently not qualified to follow where he’s going.”

  Her smile was wry. “It seems we’ve repulsed Tymon’s little assault—their leadership has been found lying down on the job. That wasn’t a bad trick, slaying the two commanders at once. Whether you’re with the Poisoners’ Guild or working freelance, your skills are impressive.”

  “Phargas was full of good ideas,” I said generously.

&n
bsp; “Pity, he made a stunning mistress. And you? Do you care to return with us to the city you fought for?”

  It occurred to me that some guildsmen in black might not be pleased to see me. “No, thanks. I have an appointment of my own to keep, back home. Family business.”

  “Family business?”

  My head spun with a thousand plans, none of them gentle. Perhaps it was time to show my father exactly what I’d learned on the road.

  “Family’s like any band of outlaws, my lady—we have to see to our own.”

  And with that, I began the long walk back to Kadria. Behind me, Ommarra blew her horn twice more. Then the soldiers returned, and the notes were lost in the cutthroat clamor of the crowd.