A tale to frighten children with, so they didn’t stray too near the water. But I wouldn’t say that to one who did. “I’ve never seen her myself.”

  “She came for him,” Liane said. “Reached out from the depths and grabbed him, and pulled him under. And then he was gone.” She turned those intense dark eyes on me, and I shivered. “Truly. I saw it.”

  I finished my own skewers, took the empty sticks from her hand, tossed them all in a corner basket. Considered everything she’d said. Came up with three or four explanations, none of which I liked.

  “Doesn’t matter anyway,” I told Liane. “As far as we’re concerned, you’re innocent of any charge.”

  ~o0o~

  “Why fret over it?” Katti demanded irritably. “He was on another errand, saw an opportunity, took it. Worse luck for him. What’s the problem?”

  “It’s too neat.” I lay on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. From the shop below our one-room flat came the sound of voices arguing, tireless and insistent. “Or, I don’t know. Wrong, somehow.”

  “In what way?”

  Nothing obvious, I had to admit. Girl walks along the river, thinking about—oh, any number of possibilities. Man walks along the river, on his own business. Grabs girl. Gets more than he bargained for, staggers back, trips, falls. Caught by the current and dragged under, girl never sees him again. She’s off like a judge at last bell, because who knows what he might do if he pulls himself out of the water, or who might have seen her and demand payment for silence...

  “Why was he alone?” I asked the ceiling.

  “Eh?” Katti sounded half asleep. She’d probably been writing briefs in her head. “Who—the attacker?”

  “Yeah. Why would a liveried man be walking along the river bank at twilight, alone?”

  “Running an errand. Taking a message.”

  “Unhurried,” I said. “Strolling, according to Liane.”

  “Maybe he was just taking the air.”

  I shifted, slowly, felt the hard wooden boards under the fraying rope of the mattress. “He wasn’t off duty. I’ll venture my life on that.” Liveried servants worked through nightfall, in every rich house I’d ever known. “But he wasn’t in any particular hurry. So maybe he was waiting for someone.”

  Katti remained absolutely silent for a moment. Not a breath out of her. Then: “Liane?”

  “Could be.” And I saw him in my mind’s eye, strong and sure of himself, waiting.

  I swung myself off the bed. Pulled on my shoes, strapped my sword to my belt.

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Katti murmured.

  “Just going for a walk,” I said. “Down by the river.”

  The streets outside were busy with evening folk, venturing out in the soft air. Sunset hung in the sky, blood-gashed, with scalloped clouds frowning and a light breeze picking up. I strode through familiar streets, confident and at ease. Crowds parted to let me through, men crossed to avoid me.

  I was used to this, didn’t have to think about it, but I pondered as I walked. Liane wouldn’t have my advantage of height and strength and confidence, she’d be living by wits and knowledge alone. I was used to sizing up fighters, I didn’t rate her chances high. An unexpected shove, a stagger back, an unfortunate mooring-post—it could happen. About the only way someone like her would kill a liveried man, who’d sworn to lay down his life for the family he served if there was need.

  It was a fair walk from our flat to the riverside gardens. By the time I got there, the fire of sunset had faded. Twilight settled like smoke over the trees, and a faint glimmer of turquoise sky reflected in the rippling waters. The place was peaceful enough, and quiet. I could see why people would stroll along, unhurried, musing on their place in the world.

  Old willows arched over the banks, trailing their fingertips in the water. I paused within the embrace of one, studied the mooring-post driven hard into the earth for pleasure craft to use at will. Here it had happened, or nearby: it didn’t matter much.

  “What are you doing?” The voice was sharp, and imperious, and came from further up the slope. The voice of a wealthy woman, accustomed to deference.

  But not from me. I turned lazily, contemptuous of contempt. “What concern is that of yours?”

  She was a thin little creature, dressed in black silk and pearls, hands and face pale as lilies. But her eyes seared me. “I am Marina de Chiesa, and you are trespassing on my property. Leave, or I will summon my guards.”

  “You lost one hereabouts,” I observed in a conversational tone. “Just the other day. Careless of you. Might be worth showing a little caution with the rest.”

  “How dare you!”

  “Courage is easy when you get the hang of it.”

  She stalked towards me, down the slope towards the water’s edge. The bank curved inwards at that point, and I saw her reflection briefly mirrored in the water, a dark figure with pale hands outstretched. The River Lady herself.

  “You saw him go in,” I said on impulse. “And you saw what led up to it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Hidden within the arms of the tree I turned, and saw a tall fighter staring back at me from the water. Turned again, to see Marina de Chiesa so close that I flinched.

  “Leave,” she said. “Or it will go badly with you.”

  “An unlucky place then,” I replied. “Is it you or the current that makes it so?”

  “This is my land.”

  “Actually, it’s city land.” I smiled at her, though it felt more like a snarl. “The City owns it. You are merely a visitor. Like me.”

  “Then I’d be obliged if you’d make the visit brief.”

  I didn’t dare turn my back on her, but from the corner of my eye I saw a black shape moving on the water, and pale hands reaching for my throat.

  “You stood here,” I said, certainty growing as I spoke. “Just about where you are now. And watched for him to arrive. He didn’t see you, and neither did the girl, because the tree is in the way.” I paused for effect. “But someone did. And can bear witness that he wasn’t thinking much about you.”

  “That little slut!” She spat with rage, malevolence gleaming in her eyes. “Showed up here as bold as you like, peddling her wares. But she’ll pay for it.”

  He’d gone into the water, and seen her staring down at him, baleful and cold, as he died.

  I shook my head. “Liane won’t stand trial for his death. Not if someone mentions to the judge that you were here, and saw what happened. That you could have saved him, but didn’t even try. Another eyewitness, who you never even knew was there.”

  “You lie!”

  I stared her down, like an opponent before the fight begins. “Do you want to take that chance?”

  Silence hung between us, meaningful and tense.

  “Look,” I said, feigning calm even though my voice shook. “Whatever was between you and him is nothing to me. A lone widow, even if she is a great lady, can have feelings that must not be spoken. I understand.” All the more if a fat inheritance depended on her remaining aloof—but I didn’t mention that. The moment didn’t seem right, somehow. “But he died, and not through the fault of the girl who was here that day. You know it, and I know it. Now I’d like the court to know it, too.”

  Marina de Chiesa clutched at her chest. With shock, I thought, until she snapped out the brooch that held her black shawl together and stabbed the pin at my eyes.

  I grabbed her wrist and twisted hard, and felt the crack of brittle bones under my hand.

  “Don’t,” I said, with my other hand tight around her scrawny neck, her skin silk-smooth under my touch. “Or you go in after him. The current is strong here. If it sucked a man down so fast, I don’t rate your chances high.”

  We stood absolutely still, locked together. Then she let fall the brooch. Gold glimmered briefly, and vanished with a faint splash.

  “You will have the case dropped,” I said. “I don’t care how you do it. Obviously you have connections in the courthouse, or Liane would never have been found and charged so quickly. Talk to your people. Make sure she walks free.”

  “Or else?” Marina de Chiesa gave me a malicious smile. “You’d kill a frail old widow who cannot possibly defend herself against a capable young court fighter like yourself? That will end your career, and your life, more quickly than you imagine.”

  I let go, stepped back, smiled sweetly at her. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of trespassing on the person of such a noble lady as yourself. Merely mention around the courthouse what a pity it is that your own servant should die in such terrible circumstances. Such a handsome man, so attentive to your needs, so kind and obliging—”

  “Shut up.” She swirled her unraveling shawl around her shoulders, gave me a baleful glare. “No one would listen to you. Why should they?”

  “Because,” I said softly, “when that brooch of yours is recovered from the river—which may take some doing, I admit, now that the current has swept it away—and people recall that you’d worn it until recently, and start to wonder—”

  “Enough.”

  Silence, and a faint breeze picking its way through the willow leaves, making them whisper among themselves.

  “I’ll meet your fighter at the courthouse,” I said peacefully. “When you’re on trial for murder, and choose to take the case to blades. Because if you don’t, I know a clerk or two who would relish the opportunity to plead against you. And when word gets out—”

  “Enough.”

  I waited. So did the whispering willows, and the river with its steady whirr, spreading rumours faster than even Marina de Chiesa could move.

  “Slither back to whichever sewer you came from,” she said. “Your filthy little protégée will not be tried. But I advise her not to walk this way again. You, also.”

  I bowed. “Always a pleasure to serve such an illustrious family as the de Chiesas. Even those of its members who are only married in, and can be flung out at will should they ever be so foolish as to give cause.”

  ~o0o~

  The carved double doors that led to the courtroom stood open, splayed apart and spilling forth the ring of voices. Mild laughter ensued, and then the shuffle of leather soles on marble floor.

  “Sounds like success,” I told Liane, who waited pale-faced beside me. “All over now. You’ll see.”

  Katti emerged from the courtroom, flourishing her parchments, triumphant. “Case dismissed. Unreasonable on the face of it. Abuse of process and misuse of authority.” She grinned. “No fighting for you today, Elyse. Sorry.”

  “There’s always tomorrow.”

  “But they won’t—” Liane began, panic in her voice.

  “No, no,” I reassured her. “You’re safe.”

  She stared back at both of us, that ragged little thing, and her eyes were bright with knowledge. “For now. Thanks to you.” She heaved a deep sigh. “I know maybe you don’t believe me, but he was alive when he went into the river. And he did trip. It was half my fault, but no more. I’m not strong enough to kill a man.”

  But something glimmered there, deep in her eyes, like gold in dark waters. Something I’d missed at first, but which I saw now clearly. And I realised it had drawn me to her, inexorably, from the moment we met. My own reflection.

  “You’d be surprised,” I said.

  “It doesn’t matter now anyway,” Katti said. “Case dismissed. We’re done here. Anyone hungry?”

  We ambled out of the courthouse, into the warmth of morning. Scents of grilled meat and olive oil rose from the stalls.

  “I’m angry with you two,” I said in jest as we crossed the square. “There’s been no fights at all for me these past couple of days. I’m in agony from the boredom. You both owe me.”

  “You’ll get a fight,” Katti promised. “I had a quick word with the opposition clerk. There’s a juicy case coming up, and I’ve made a note of the complainant. Get our offer in first. Nothing wrong with hawking for work, right?”

  “Can I help?” Liane asked. “I’d like to repay you both somehow.”

  We looked her over. Ragged, yes, but determined. A fighter, like me.

  “You’ll have to clean up,” Katti said. “But I could do with a runner, to be frank. We’ve got plenty of work coming in these days, and no time to chase the small stuff. If you’re willing to run errands for small coin, I’d be happy to take you on. Week by week to start with.”

  The poor scrap actually teared up. “Thank you. Really. It means so much. I can’t tell you how grateful I am—”

  “Don’t try.”

  We stood in comfortable silence, in the sunshine, while the crowds swirled around us. Me in my blue fighter’s jacket with my sword secure at my side, Katti in her blue clerk’s robe with ink stains on her hands.

  We’d come a long way since we’d scrabbled for jobs along with all the other desperate souls who lived one meal at a time. But we weren’t quite where we wanted to be, not yet.

  “You can start,” I told Liane, “by finding us decent lodgings.”

  Lin’s Hoard

  by Deirdre M. Murphy

  As I read this story, I found myself drifting with Lin through her house, savoring each worn, beloved treasure…and wondering where the “story” was. The evocative language held my attention and kept me moving forward until all the subtly woven elements crystallized into a perfect ending. To say anything else is to spoil that ending, except that this story merits a second reading, or a third. It came as no surprise to me to learn that the author is a poet.

  Deirdre M. Murphy tells is that she is a writer, poet, artist, and singer-songwriter whose first professionally published story appeared in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s FANTASY Magazine. Since then her work has appeared in various venues including Crossed Genres; Trafficking in Magic, Magicking in Traffic; and Tails of the Pack. She is one of the primary creators of Torn World, with stories, art, and award-winning poetry set in an original science fantasy world at www.tornworld.net.

  Lin wove between the things in her tiny home. She was old, and her mind wandered. Her hand brushed against the tablecloth her mother had woven, and memories flitted through her mind. But the new-cooked scent of cookies drew her onward. Deliberately, she reached for her felted wool hot-pads instead of the tablecloth.

  As her fingers touched the hot-pads, a rush of imagery hit her. Her then-young daughter had made them for her, alternating between daydreams and wishing the gift was done already. Lin resisted getting lost in that dear memory. She focused instead on the recollections of cooking. She opened the old stove carefully, taking the cookies out before they burned.

  Pads still in hand, she checked the stove and added some wood to the fire.

  She heard singing outside and tried to place the voice. She walked to the door and ran her hands over the items she’d hung from hooks set in the back of the door—there—this one. A lopsided rag doll that once belonged to her daughter, Nera.

  The singer moved away again while Lin held the doll and remembered dancing with the small girl in the sunlight. She imagined she could smell the spring flowers and feel the sun on her skin, until her fingers cramped and she let go.

  Lin took a deep breath and smelled the cookies again. Eagerly, she picked up a gingerbread man from the pan. It was still hot; this time she hadn’t gotten lost in the memory for long. The cookie was fragrant and tasty, like her grandmother used to make. It crumbled on her tongue like honeycomb.

  Her other hand brushed against the very old table. Suddenly, she remembered her grandmother, swatting her slender young fingers away from the pan. “You’ll burn your fingers, my dear.” The image was clear and bright, delightfully in focus. It filled her mind, every detail clear.

  She turned her hand over to inspect her fingertips. They looked perfectly normal: red, chapped, swollen, and more than a bit wrinkled. They hadn’t been red or wrinkled back then, not unless she’d gone swimming, or had a bath. Or washed other things, like the cracked dish with the dragon painted on it. Granny had loved that dish, had fed her cookies from it often, or as often as there was sugar or honey for cookie-making, anyway.

  She rocked to her feet and wobbled around the cluttered table, looking around until she found the plate. With it in hand, she remembered her grandmother telling her stories. She walked stiffly back to the oven and moved the cookies onto the plate, then had another. Eating cookies from this plate was important, for some reason. She ate another, and another, trying to find the explanation.

  Her stomach full, she walked around the kitchen, picking up items at random and remembering. This cup brought a memory of her daughters sharing berries. The broken saltshaker reminded her of her sister, Ana, who would not eat from the dragon plate, even when that meant she got fewer cookies. Ana was usually more practical than that.

  Lin heard footsteps on the gravel walkway outside, and quickly set the plate and cookies in a cabinet, twisting the knob so it came out in her hand. Secrets—that cabinet always held secrets, and kept them safe.

  The young woman from the village—the one with the silver-bright hair like Ana’s—knocked and opened the door. “Hello, Granny.” She gave Lin a cheerful smile, and looked around. “You made cookies?”

  Lin nodded, and hurriedly hid the cabinet-knob in her pocket. She wasn’t as quick with the broken salt shaker, and the woman saw it. “Oh, dear, let me have that, Granny!” She reached for the saltshaker.

  “It’s mine.” Lin hid it behind her back.

  “Oh, but it’s broken. You could hurt yourself on it.”

  “No.”

  “Seriously, Granny, what good is it? It’s broken.”

  Her head seemed empty of words. “Mine,” she insisted.

  “I tell you what, Granny, I’ll bring you a new one tomorrow, and we can trade.” The woman reached out and touched her hand, and Lin flashed on another memory—Ana was holding Lin’s first baby, little laughing Nera. This was her own baby, all grown up, but not laughing today.

  “Nera.”

  “Oh, you remember my name today, Granny?” When had Nera stopped calling her Mammy? But Nera was smiling, such a pretty smile, and still talking. “That’s good. You must have slept well. Did you sleep well?”