“Pah!” Marl spluttered as for the second time in two days, he woke up to cold water pouring over his body. This time, at least, the water splashed over his face, not his genitals. Still, he woke up gasping and sat up quickly, then winced as his head throbbed painfully. He reached up gingerly and touched his head, feeling a hard lump on the back of it coated with a sticky, crusty substance. His vision swam as the world lurched, and he swallowed hard to keep the sudden surge of bile down in his throat. He closed his eyes and waited for the spinning sensation to stop, then opened them slowly.

Sunlight greeted him, forcing him to squint against its brightness. He closed his eyes again, giving them a moment to rest, then opened them slowly once more. The light still stabbed at him, but he kept his eyes squinted nearly shut, giving them a few seconds to rest. The world slowly stabilized around him, and while his stomach still felt queasy, he didn’t think he was in any danger of vomiting. At least, not as long as he didn’t move too quickly.

“Normally, I’d warn someone against sleeping out in the open like this,” a familiar voice spoke from above him, one that he struggled to place. “However, it appears that it wasn’t by choice.”

He opened his eyes as much as possible and saw a pair of dusty, black leather boots standing in front of him. The boots looked like they’d once been glossy, but time and wear eroded their shine until they appeared dull and muted. Even so, he could tell that they were of high quality, with tight stitching that was probably waterproof and thick soles that barely looked worn. They rose to just below their owner’s knee, where black cotton pants tucked into them, the garment simple but obviously well dyed and finely stitched.

His eyes traced up those legs, his mind absently appreciating how they flared into finely curved hips at the waist, but his gaze fastened on the woman’s belt – specifically, on the slim sword, heavy dagger, and pair of flintlock pistols all strapped to it. All the weapons looked well made – not that he really had any idea how to tell the difference between a finely crafted blade and one likely to shatter, of course. Lines of silver and copper wound around each weapon, though, inlaid into the hilts of the blades and handles of the pistols, and he didn’t think someone would go to the trouble of decorating a piece of junk.

He tried to look further upward, but the sun’s gaze burned into his eyes, forcing him to look away. He blinked rapidly and finally squeezed his eyes shut as the brilliance made his already throbbing head pound. Tiny blacksmiths roamed the inside of his skull, hammering out a tune that only they seemed to enjoy, and until he could shut them up, the sun wasn’t his friend.

“Light sensitivity?” the woman asked with a grunt. “Happens sometimes with a bad head injury. It means you’ve got more damage than you think, hizeen.” She seemed to hesitate, then spoke again. “Here. Drink this. It’ll help.”

He felt something cool pressed into his hand, and he pried his eyes open to look at the object she’d given him. A long, copper tube rested in his fist, sealed at the top with a lid with strange indentations in it. He tried to pull off the lid, but it refused to budge, no matter how he yanked.

“Damn villagers,” she sighed with obvious exasperation. “Try twisting it. No, the other – yes, like that.”

He turned the lid, and it slowly spun off as he watched in amazement. The cap dropped into his hands after several full revolutions, and he peered into the tube to see a dark liquid mostly filling it. He took a sniff and winced at the harsh smell.

“Wine?” he asked hopefully.

“Hardly,” she snorted. “It’s a revitalizing elixir, charged with sahr and…” Perhaps seeing his stupefied face, she sighed again. “Just drink it, child. It’ll make your head stop hurting.”

He stared into the tube dubiously. He knew about herbal remedies – the healer Lathania brewed some for sale in the village – but most of them worked only slightly better than leaving well enough alone. At least Lathania’s tonics smelled good; this stuff had a pungent odor, almost like someone took a piss in it and left it for a few days to ferment. It was more likely to poison him than help him. Of course, he reasoned, if the woman wanted him dead, she could have simply stabbed him in his sleep. Plus, as shitty as he felt, a little poisoning probably wouldn’t make things much worse.

Shrugging, he pinched his nose shut and chugged the tube’s contents. The liquid burned his throat and tongue, not with the searing bite of acid but with a fiery taste he didn’t recognize. His mouth and throat tingled and throbbed, and that tingling moved down into his stomach. A warmth filled his abdomen and spread outward, flowing up his body. The warmth seemed to pool in his lower stomach, upper back, and head; in his skull, in particular, the sensation strengthened until it nearly burned, and he winced and clutched his skull, letting the tube fall from his fingers. A moment later, though, the burning passed, leaving his head feeling remarkably clear. It still ached a bit, but the chorus of smiths in his brain fell silent at last, and when he opened his eyes, the light no longer stabbed into them.

“That – that’s much better,” he said after a moment, then remembered his manners. “And thanks.”

“It’s the least I could do since I was probably the reason you were mugged,” the woman replied, bending to pick up the fallen tube. As she did, he caught a glimpse of her face, and in that instant, he recognized her, and with that recognition, memories came flooding back. He hadn’t seen the woman’s face in the steamwagon last night, but he felt the same aura of power rolling off her in waves. Her eyes seemed to almost glow with energy, and he had to fight not to curl up into a ball and whimper at the sheer strength that emanated from her gaze.

She stared at him, her lips curling down into a frown. “Are you okay?” she asked. “The elixir should have cured most of your injuries.”

“I…” He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, then cursed himself for being an idiot. Twice he’d met this woman, and both times he’d acted like a stammering fool. He rose slowly to his feet, marveling at how quickly his body had recovered. “I’m fine, my Lady.” He swept into a low bow. “Once again, I’m simply mesmerized by the sight of you.”

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She gave him a contemptuous look as she tucked the empty vial into a pocket in the back of her belt, and secretly, he understood why. Her body was practically flawless. She had the type of figure that came from hard, constant exercise, lean and trim. Her torso was covered by a steel breastplate etched with the same whorls of silver and copper as her weapons, and the armor ballooned out in front of her chest, concealing her womanly features beneath. Black leather covered with enameled steel plates covered her arms and throat, conspiring to create the image of a woman who was lethally dangerous and designed for violence – and her face reflected that violence. White scars crossed the olive skin of her left cheek, and pock marks of some kind speckled her right. Her crooked nose had obviously been broken at least once and reset poorly, and an angry, red scar creased her mouth, pulling it into a perpetual grimace. Her hair was short, cut to about a finger’s width in length, and gray speckled it liberally. Hers was a face that inspired caution and respect, not lust.

She apparently agreed with his silent assessment. “That blow to the head must have damaged your vision, boy. And if you’re just trying to get into my pants, save us both the trouble and stop.”

He opened his mouth to give a witty retort, but something in the set of her eyes warned him off. He simply nodded. “As you wish, my Lady,” he bowed his head.

“Good. You’ve got a brain after all.”

“I do,” he agreed with a wry grin as he remembered Churl’s attack on him the night before. “Although sometimes, I suppose I don’t use it very well. I can’t believe I let that vadnik idiot get the drop on me!”

“Vadnik?” she repeated, her hand drifting down toward the sword on her hip as she frowned. “There’s a half-giant in this village?”

“Not a full one, no. Churl’s got some blood in his ancestry, though. It makes him tall, strong, and stupid.”

“Vadniy aren’t stupid, boy,” she shook her head, visibly relaxing. “People think they are because they’re so big, but that’s being foolish. Never assume that someone who’s big is dumb; it’s likely to be the last assumption you make.”

Marl nodded slowly as he processed what she said. “Churl must just be uniquely idiotic on his own, then,” he mused, tapping his chin.

She barked a short laugh. “Well, at least you know who robbed you. You can report him to the bureaucracy and get your coins back.”

A spike of alarm went through Marl’s chest, and he quickly patted the purse hidden beneath his shirt. He relaxed as he felt the weight of the coins still hanging there and shook his head. “Nope, he didn’t rob me. He just knocked me out.” He chuckled. “Probably didn’t even occur to him to check me for money, the moron.”

“Something personal, then?” she grunted. He opened his mouth to speak, but she waved a hand. “Not my concern, and honestly, I don’t care.” She sighed. “And I wasted an elixir on nothing.”

“Wasted? I wouldn’t say it was wasted.”

“I would,” she replied bluntly. “I thought that maybe someone had seen me toss that aka to you last night, and they mugged you for it. That would have made it my fault if you died, and I didn’t want that on my conscience.”

“Died?” he asked, startled.

“You were bleeding in your head, boy. That’s why everything was too bright. It might not have killed you – just left you blind or crippled – but it might have.” She shrugged. “Oh well. What’s done is done. Try not to let it happen again; next time, you’re on your own.”

She paused and looked him up and down. “How old are you?”

He considered lying to make her think he was older than he was. Half-spirits like him never got very tall, after all, and they developed slowly, so it was feasible that he could be eighteen or even twenty and look as he did. Again, though, something in the set of her eyes advised him that honesty was by far the best policy.

“Fourteen.”

“I thought so.” She turned away from him. “I’ll see you at the Naming Day ceremony, then.”

“Probably not,” he shook his head.

She turned and looked at him, her face perplexed. “You aren’t interested in being named an adult of the Empire?”

“It’s not that. It’s just that I’m an orphan…”

“Ah,” she cut him off, her expression giving way to understanding. “No one to give you your fifth letter, then. Surely, though, you’ll go to see your friends get theirs.”

“There are only four others in the village being named adults this year, and I wouldn’t call any of them ‘friends’,” he shrugged. “Everyone else can get named just fine without me. I’m more interested in the feast afterward, to be honest. I’ve seen the ceremony a few times, and it’s pretty boring.”

She nodded, then hesitated. “You’ll still want to come watch, boy. This year will be different, trust me.”

He frowned, and before he could reply, she turned and walked away from him, heading away from the village toward the fields. He watched her for a moment, part of him wondering what she was talking about while another part couldn’t help but admire how she swayed as she walked. He blinked, then gasped at the empty road; the woman had vanished, disappearing as if she’d never been there, leaving nothing behind but a settling cloud of dust where she’d stood an instant ago. He spun around, looking for her, but he couldn’t see her no matter how hard he looked. Either she was hiding – and was very, very good at it – or she’d somehow disappeared into thin air.

He swallowed hard, then turned back to the well, pulling up more water and jamming his head underneath the flow. The water ran pink for a moment, and he gingerly reached up to wash the blood from his hair, but to his surprise, the lump on his skull was gone, as was whatever cut Churl’s blow gave him. It still took him two minutes to scrub the blood from his shoulder-length hair, though, and when he finished, he glanced around, making sure the strange woman hadn’t reappeared, then stripped down and used a bucket of water to scrub himself. He wasn’t remotely modest, but something about the woman made him more cautious than usual.

He hadn’t planned on going to the Naming Day ceremony, really. As he’d told the woman, he had no one to give him a letter for his name. His mother died when he was still a toddler, and Axanor the Head Bureaucrat had to change his name from Ar to Mar on his fifth Naming Day in celebration of his surviving the dangerous first years of life. He’d turned that to Marl on his tenth Naming Day himself, the day he’d become a productive member of the village. He’d been sorely disappointed that day. The others received their letters from whichever parent shared their gender, and each time, the assembled villagers had cheered and applauded, congratulating the family on gaining another set of useful hands and a possible apprentice. He’d walked up to the Head Bureaucrat alone, surrounded by utter silence, and when he announced his letter, there’d been a scattering of polite applause, nothing more. He’d walked away from the stage shamefaced and angry, and since that day, he’d realized that while he lived in Tem, he wasn’t part of it, and they didn’t really want him there. He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of making him so uncomfortable and ashamed again. He’d go around to the Head Bureaucrat’s office later to register his new name; that was all that was really necessary. Everything else was just an excuse for people to celebrate.

He looked back in the direction the woman had been when she disappeared and pursed his lips. He still wouldn’t give them that satisfaction, of course, but maybe – just maybe – he could watch from some quiet spot and see what she was talking about. Nothing ever happened in Tem; he wasn’t going to miss it when something finally did.