A fine way to earn a living if one didn’t mind the risk.
Brother Qown minded rather a lot, but it wasn’t his place to tell his count how to fill her coffers with metal.
The outlaw turned toward the woods. “Shut it!”
Janel’s smile broadened to a grin. “Give your men time. No horse is born saddled.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” the bandit admitted, then squared her shoulders as if reminding herself not to be distracted by a friendly victim. “See here. We’ve been following you and yours ever since you crossed the river, asking ourselves the whole while what a fancy mane like you is doing out here. You expect us to believe you have nothing but an ancient mare and a fat gelding for company?”
Brother Qown straightened. “Now hold on…”
“Oh, she don’t miss the obvious, do she?” Dorna said as she pulled herself up to her feet, still holding on to the iron fry pan. “I’m old, and you ain’t never passed by a second helping of noodles in your life.”
Brother Qown frowned. “Dorna, whose side are you on?”
A whistle interrupted them. Brother Qown jumped backward, not from training as much as animal instinct. An arrow hit Dorna’s fry pan, sending it flying.
Everyone stopped.
Count Janel’s lips thinned. She no longer looked amused.
“Ow! Why’d you do that for? I weren’t done cleaning that!” Dorna rubbed her hand and scrunched up her face in protest.
Brother Qown’s heart beat so fast he thought it might turn into a rabbit and scamper away. The last bandits they’d encountered had been all pitchforks and long knives—close-combat melee weapons, which played to the count’s strength. She looked so helpless; it always brought the wolves near.
Arrows were another matter. She possessed no immunity to arrows.
Neither did Qown nor Dorna.
The bandit tightened her grip on the sickle in her hand. “We’re not here to entertain you, crone. Give over your valuables. Now.” She pointed to Janel’s family sword, sheathed and hanging by its belt from a thick branch. “Whose is that?”
Janel tilted her head. “Mine.”
“Horse crap.” The woman laughed. “I’ll be damned if you could even lift metal so big. Where’s your guard? Out in the woods, maybe, relieving himself?”
Brother Qown looked toward the trees. The leaves rustled as the bandit’s men shifted position or expressed their impatience. Whoever had fired their bow either knew their business or had been blessed by Taja. But if they had more bows, if their main assault came as a volley of arrows …
Brother Qown suspected the count knew the danger, but she had a gleam in her eye, as if enjoying herself.
Brother Qown suspected she was enjoying herself.
He made a sign to the morning sun. He wondered what he’d done to upset Father Zajhera. Did this assignment serve as punishment?
“You’re so convinced I must have a guard,” Janel mused. “There’s a saying about judging how fast a horse runs by the color of her coat. It may apply here.” She stood then, brushing the remaining breakfast crumbs from her embroidered riding tunic before she bowed. “I offer you a deal.”
“You think you’re in a position to make deals?”
Brother Qown met Dorna’s eyes. The old woman made the smallest gesture toward the large camphor tree near them, one with thick roots perfect for ducking behind. Janel always did well in fights, but Dorna and Qown needed a place to hide.
Count Janel waved the complaint aside. “You’re the herd leader. You’re concerned about my guards, and rightly so; you don’t want your people injured. So I suggest a compromise. A duel. I’ll fight any of your associates—yourself, if you wish—using any weapon you choose. If you win, I’ll give you everything I have. You have my word.”
Brother Qown held his breath and watched to discover if the leader would take the bait and leap at that twitching, vulnerable tail …
The bandit said, “You must fancy I’m a fool or a weakling, and I’m neither.”
“You are a robber.” The insult had no sting to it; Janel’s smile harkened back to a child at play with her new best friend.
She seemed so pleased to fight another woman. Few women in Jorat turned to robbery. The bands she’d faced so far had been male.7
The bandit put one hand on her hip. “You’re getting on my nerves, little girl.”
Janel laughed outright. “I might care more if you weren’t robbing me.”
“Now I’ll take the sword too.”
“If I’d been polite, would you have left it?”
“And that fancy ring.” The woman pointed to the chain around Count Janel’s neck.
The Theranon family sword and the Tolamer Canton signet ring. Brother Qown fought to keep from sighing out loud, but at least their would-be robber hadn’t yet said no.
“And the deal,” Count Janel pressed, “will you take that too?”
The outlaw paced, then gestured toward the sword. “Oh yes. Fine. Fight me, but not with your blade—the branch it hangs from is the weapon I choose for you.”
Brother Qown couldn’t help but blink. The proffered “weapon”—a horizontal limb—spilled out from the main tree’s trunk. The bough was as thick as Count Janel’s arm; removing it required an ax.
They hadn’t brought an ax.
The bandit saw the look on Qown’s face, the raised eyebrows on Janel’s. “Now we’ll have no more games, little girl. All your valuables in the camp center and consider yourselves lucky we have no use for your horses.”
Something moved in the woods behind them. In the distance, hooves galloped.
The woman must have believed the galloping signaled that much-feared guard, returning to protect his noble lady. “Circle out!” she cried. “Make ready!”
As the bandits focused on the imagined reinforcements, Janel Theranon, twenty-fourth Count of Tolamer, reached over and ripped away the tree branch. The crack of splintering wood echoed through the clearing.
“I accept your terms,” said Janel. “Now let’s begin.”
The clearing stilled as the bandit leader realized her mistake. Brother Qown almost felt sorry for her. Who would ever think the count dangerous? Just a girl. So helpless.
The trembling, vulnerable worm wasn’t a free meal after all.
The air smelled like green resin and old woodsmoke and the coming day’s rain as men and women spilled from the woods. As many women as men, which startled Qown, but they didn’t look any friendlier than their male counterparts.
“What are you doing?” the bandit woman asked, shocked from her silence. “By the Eight! Why are you leaving cover? Back into the trees, you lot!”
Brother Qown was at a loss as well. He didn’t understand why her band had fled concealment instead of shooting when they had the chance. Mare Dorna and Brother Qown hadn’t yet made a break for shelter. They were unshielded, unprotected.
The bandits not only left the woods but put away their weapons, slung their bows over their shoulders.
The biggest, a large man with black-splattered gray skin, looked askance as he pointed to Janel. “She challenged you. You accepted.” His expression suggested the explanation was obvious.