“You should have cut his thumbs off.”

Daine raised her eyes to settle on the man who had sat, unbidden, opposite her. Considering the volume of ale she had quaffed, such focus took an effort worthy of a Knight of her renown.

She vaguely remembered him from a previous Tour. Ceyn? Cryn? It was some such name like that. One where the letters performed a noise they had no business making.

She disliked words. Could not trust them. Could not rely on them to do the same thing, day in, day out. Once something was spoken, regardless of the original intent, its meaning could end up being entirely different.

It was the reason — at least, she acknowledged, one of the reasons — she travelled alone. Bards might sing countless odes to the origin of her name: Darkhelm. But none of them mentioned any companions. Depending on the source, it was held that she perpetually wore the visor of her black-iron helmet down because she was horrendously scarred; that the helmet had been deformed in a titanic struggle with a dragon and hence could never be taken off; that her silence when wearing it was the result of a mighty Wizard’s final curse depriving her of a voice. The reality was, of course, far more prosaic. She wore the helmet with the visor permanently down to dissuade conversation. Words could not be twisted if they were never spoken.

She wished she had it on now.

Although probably not. Helmeted, storied warriors in village taverns raised conversations all on their own.

Warming to her theme, ignoring the uninvited companion who continued to speak, she reflected that words had caused more strife across her Tours than any giant, orc, or enemy action. She had lost count of the judgements she had made where words had been used to mislead the unprepared: property stolen, funds misdirected, assassinations ordered. More often than not, the whole span of human cruelty came down to the malicious misuse of words.

With a snort that startled her unwanted guest, she recalled her habit of posting judgements on the door of the Church of Dawn in whatever hamlet she found herself in. She had liked the formality of that action. Had thought it prevented people from “forgetting” her meaning once she moved on. At the very least, she trusted that the words of the Goddess would be enacted when given written form. It had been somewhat of a shock when she learned how rarely the orders she’d written occurred as intended.

How Old Gant had howled when she’d come to him for advice. “If you make the judgement, you’re the one to carry it out, Darkhelm! You don’t write the truth and expect the Goddess to spring, fully formed, from your quill. She may be divine, but the rest of us surely ain’t.” Laughter dogged her for weeks following that. Anything told to Old Gallant Stonehand in the strictest of confidence would be broadcast news. But it had been worth it. From that moment, she had learned her lesson: words were slippery.

The untrustworthy man — was that fair of her? She shouldn’t let her sour mood run away with her. He couldn’t help the role he was given. Call him the changeable man; that was better.

The person sitting across from her whoever, whatever he was, spoke again. She wished he wouldn’t. Or, at least, would find someone else to do it to.

“Goddess knows there would be testimonies of support enough. He’s always been a bad one, has Drunnoc Trellec. Doubt he was even born when you last came through. That’s been plenty of time for him to have earned a thumb-pruning a hundred times. And there are rumours that we don’t know half what he has been up to. His father’s coin, you get me? Much silence can be bought with a deep enough purse. If you’d taken action today, even at the cost of the Acas girl, you’d have been cheered to the rafters for it. Her mother would tell you the same if you asked her. The greater good and all that.”

This man with the changeable name — still not being fair, Daine — was not the first to seat himself opposite her with such a tale of Drunnoc Trellec. At least the others had read her mood accurately enough to bring a couple of full tankards with them when they imposed themselves. It would have been rude to reject such generosity. She did wish they’d leave off with all the talking, though. It was getting that she’d have to do something about it. And she wasn’t sure she had it in her tonight.

Daine stared significantly at her empty cup, and the man took the hint, scooping it up and retreating to the bar. She watched him go and nodded to herself. She did recall whatever-his-name-was from early in her second Tour. He’d been younger then, of course, but there was still much around the eyes of that earnest man who’d asked for judgement concerning his father’s estate. He was a Tailor, she remembered, and a good one. Had some sort of unusual Skill that increased the durability of his wares. His shop had been flourishing, and he did not seek redress for any financial benefit. He was troubled, that was all, by a sense of something that was not as it should be in the way his father had passed from the world. She’d liked that about him: there was nothing mercenary in his heart when he raised the complaint. On the contrary, he had been genuine in his concern. And she had seen little enough of that recently to be touched.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

She’d found in his favour. Memories of a young widow who had been rather too eager to speed up the day of her inheritance stirred, unwelcome, in her mind. The Goddess had been clear about her guilt, and the execution had been swift.

That widow had cried at the end. There’d been a lover — wasn’t there always? — and a promise of a better life overseas. But funds to set up the venture were needed. All in advance, of course. And the lover would have to set sail without her, perhaps with another, more generous partner if she could not raise the required sums. She had become desperate and acted out of “love.” With the deed done and an estate mortgaged to the hilt, it went without saying that better life did not manifest. “But he sent me such beautiful letters,” she’d sobbed. “I had to do it, or I would have lost him.”

Words. They were slippery.

She’d hunted the lothario down. Blood was also slippery.

Now that she thought on it, unless she was mistaken, the Tailor had gifted her a cloak in thanks. She didn’t usually accept such things, it gave the wrong impression, but she’d liked him, and the giving of it mattered to him. Was it the one she still wore? She thought it might be. Fine work indeed, to have survived ten years on the Road. Did the man opposite her think she consciously chose to wear it on her return? That would explain his belief that he had the right to her ear. She had been on his side before, after all, hadn’t she? She would retake his side again, surely. He clearly believed that she could be used to further whatever passed for an agenda in this place.

None of them ever understood. There was no side. There was only judgement.

He sat down again and presented a filled tankard. Her irritation at his presumption — probably undeserved, she recognised — sparked. “You’re telling me you need a Knight of the Road to keep your children in line? That’s the tale you want me spreading on my travels? ‘All is well in the West, provided enough of us carry out hourly visits to stop door-knocking, apple-scrumping, and the like.’ Thought Westerners were made of stronger stuff. At least you used to be.”

The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced furtively about him before leaning in. If he were about to say something unpolitic about his betters, he must have been both mad and a fool. Five men, all in Trellec’s red and gold, were conspicuously lurking within earshot. At least two were armed; the rest were probably simply better at hiding it. None of them caused her any concern. Low-ranking Men-at-Arms. Maybe the odd Serjeant-at-Arms mixed in, if Trellec was seriously thinking about making an issue of what occurred earlier. She hoped not. Such a confrontation would be beneath her.

That said, the least of them would be more than enough to deal with a Tailor, no matter how skilled he might be with a needle and thread. In her darkening mood, if he were to bring them down upon him by being indiscreet, there was little she was minded to do about it.

He leaned forward and whispered, “Drunnoc Trellec—”

“Take care with your words, whatever your name is. If these walls don’t have ears, those men surely do. It’s been ten years since my last Tour, and I am heartened to see you well. I would that it stayed so. I have no wish to ride through in the future and hear of the mysterious death of a Tailor that needs investigating. You may feel safe opposite me now, but in a few days, I won’t be here. Ten years is a long time until I’m back. You’ve surely got enough years on your back and brains in your head to know better than to thumb your nose at power and seek to hide behind my skirts.”

Hurt bloomed behind his eyes. He paused for a second to gather his thoughts. “My name’s Cenwyn. I thought, after what happened before —”

She had been cruel, unnecessarily so, with her words. She’d have liked to blame the ale, but she thought dimly that it was more than likely just her. At least, how she had been of late. Casting backwards for a kinder version of herself to share, she tried to soften her voice. “Ten years is a lot of wronged men in small taverns buying me drinks, sir. But, yes, Cenwyn, I do remember you. Faces and judgements, I don’t forget. Names, though? They have started to wriggle free.” She smiled to break the tension. “See if you can do better when you get to my age.”

The hurt faded to be replaced by — something she could not entirely read. “My Lady, I was right when I came to you back then, and I’m telling you, I’m right now. Drunnoc Trellec is not going to let what happened today stand. He’s going to seek a fearful reckoning.”

“The boy? You overstate, sir.”

He silenced her with a raised finger. When was the last time someone had the wherewithal to stay her in such a manner? “Please, my Lady, hear me out. Things are not what they seem in this village. There are currents to the tides that flow here, of which you need to be aware. I see those men in their bright livery and their swaggering noise, and I tell you that their purpose is to hold your attention. Those who know where to listen have heard tell of four outsides in the alley and three sent to the woods to dog your path. And not the usual dregs we see around here. There’s been a call for serious talent to linger in the fog. And the coin offered to make it worthwhile.”

Cenwyn leaned even farther forward, his words barely audible even at the intimate distance. “You were right in what you said. Ten years is a long time. It’s a long time for us to live without judgement. You may think your time on the Road brings order to chaos. But I tell you, Lady Darkhelm, you and your kin are a brief candle in a long night. You pass through, and we are grateful, but the blackness will take you. In your wake, we live in the shadows with those who seek to do harm. In the face of that, your light is too little and oftentimes too late. We deserve more, but we will take what we can get. I would not have your light snuffed out. There’s a dire need for you and yours in the world.”

Her already sour mood was in danger of tipping into something she, or more likely someone else, would profoundly regret. “What are you telling me, sir?

“I’m saying you should have taken Drunnoc’s thumbs when you had the chance.”