Highlander Honor
By Daishi Prime
"Look, I don' like takin' no women aboard, an' I don' like takin' no kids. Y're both."
Maeve sighed again, shaking her head. She was sick and tired of everyone in Eisen assuming she was a child, just because she was short. "I'm no child, Captain," she told him, "MacCodrum children are kept close to home, until they're not children. Since this obviously isn't the Highlands," she waved grandly, taking in the entirety of the scruffy river-port, "obviously I'm not a child. I'm short, not young. And what you don't like doesn't interest me. I can meet your price for passage for a single person. I'll even go you one better, and offer to help protect the ship until we reach the mouth of the River."
"Don' like taking women aboard," he said, still glaring at her. He was big, even in comparison to some more normally sized, an old river-boat captain gone to seed with more fat than muscle, but a respectable portion of both. He was also dirty, smelly, and running a ridiculous racket ferrying refugees, charging through the nose to take already poor people out of ruined Eisen. "What good'll a girl do 'gainst pirates, eh?"
As if Father's claymore isn't blindingly obvious. Damn thing's taller than I am, she thought. Aloud, she smiled politely, using the more obvious part of her blood-father's inheritance to its usual stunning effect, "Captain, I may be little, and a woman, but I assure you, no one gives away these tokens." She reached into her vest pocket and pulled out a small copper medallion, twice the size of a coin, dangling from a green ribbon. The captain's eyes widened slightly at the Swordsman's Guild symbol, then grew wider when she flipped the medallion to show her name and face engraved on the opposite side. "MacDonald school," she said after a moment, "only an apprentice, yes, but still a Swordswoman. I can use the sword I'm carrying, Captain. Even better, unlike most MacDonald practitioners, I can use it aboard ship just as well as on land." Mentally, she reminded herself, I could use it better, if we weren't so bloody far in-land.
The Captain still seemed to be debating the issue. She knew he had the space, the few remaining Eisen who could afford his asking price could also afford to stay, or had already found other ways out. She also knew she would not be able to stand being this far from the sea for much longer, and her family was waiting for more word from her than a mere letter, if those had even survived to reach them all the way back in the Highlands. She needed this boat, so instead of tapping her foot impatiently, she smiled endearingly and waited calmly.
"Fine," he grunted after a few seconds, "half now, half when we sail at dawn, same as the rest o' the cargo." Maeve nodded, maintaining the smile, and handed over enough guilders to cover half the exorbitant price he was charging. "Now get off me boat. Don' want no girls i' the way when cargo's comin' aboard. Back a'fore dawn, girl, 'r I sail wi'out ye."
Maeve nodded, and retreated before he changed his mind. Not that she was about to trust him, but she could keep watch on the boat just as easily from one of the taverns as from aboard. A tub like his would not move quickly, she was sure, so as long as she could see the boat, she could get aboard before he could slip his moorings.
She found a tavern conveniently placed at the end of the dock. It was nothing spectacular, a small warehouse who's owner had removed the front wall. A few yards back he had set up a simple bar of empty barrels, without even a plank over top, and a few more empty barrels imitated tables. Unwilling to go further, Maeve took a seat at the corner of the bar, back to the wall, and decided to nurse a drink until it was time to board the boat. If the bar was cheap and pathetic, the beer was worse, making even the usual watered down piss she had found through the rest of Eisen look good. Nothing like my Highland brews, she thought, careful to keep the thought to herself. Two months crossing war-ravaged Eisen on foot had taught her that, tired or not, the locals would still fight at the drop of a hat for their 'honor'. The war just made them better at it. Smiling, she remembered, 'Course, Mother never did like me having a drink, especially not around Eamon. Poor boy could barely handle one beer, let alone five or six.
"Hey, barkeep," she said before he could disappear to the next customer, "got a question for you." He just looked at her, so she pulled a ragged piece of cloth from her shirt. A square patch of MacCodrum tartan, a white wolf's head in profile was sewn on with black thread and a yellow sword-shaped eye. "You ever see a group of mercenaries with this symbol?"
He looked it over for a moment, "What if I have?"
"My little brother was in the unit, Highland Wolves they called themselves. Bunch of idiot kids, had no place being here, but like I said, idiots. They disappeared, no word on if they were killed off or simply wandered away to greener pastures and forgot to send word. My parents asked me to look around for them, and this is my last stop in Eisen. So, any word?"
"I seen a guy with it," he allowed slowly, after making her wait a moment. "Six, seven months ago."
A month or so after they vanished, she thought, interest rising, could I really get this lucky this late?
"Didn't have that fancy color pattern behind it, though, just a leather vest. Big guy, seven feet maybe, black hair, Ussuran."
Or maybe Queen Maab's still playing games with me. She shook her head, "thanks anyhow. My brother's unit was all Highlanders." She folded the patch and put it away again, letting the barkeep, such as he was, get back to his business, poor as it was.
For a while, as the sun settled to the west, she merely sat at the bar and watched as various items of cargo were loaded aboard the boat she would be sailing on. Mostly those were uninteresting, crates and barrells, many also wrapped in canvas tarps. More interesting were the people who approached the ship as she had, searching for passage west. She saw several families, children pathetic and scrawny, parents even scrawnier, a few individuals, usually in better shape. Some managed to argue the captain into taking them aboard, most did not.
"Tha's te ship. Ge' a goo' look, we wan' te ge' tha righ' one tomarra nigh'."
The comment, low, rumbling and heavily accented in Eisen, attracted her attention more because it was coming from the far side of the wall than for its content. Between the bar and the next warehouse was nothing more than a narrow alley, certainly not a place anyone would normally be standing. The answer to that comment locked her attention on the conversation, wall or not.
"Yeah, yeah, I got it. Fool doesn't know what he's doing, using a tub like that. I'll recognize it, dark or not. Just make sure you've got the longboats and tow-lines ready. Muffled, like, remember?"
"I 'member," the first voice replied. "We shou'na be talkin' abou' this 'ere. Jus' be sure you'll rec'nize te ship."
It's a boat, Maeve thought inconsequentially. She knew ships, real ones, and the captain's tub did not qualify. It was closer to a barge, in Maeve's opinion, and a poor one at that. Damn it, why did I have to hear this now? Two months in this mud pit country, a fight every other day almost. I'm almost out, why the hell couldn't these fools have kept quiet?
As she saw it, she had two choices. She had promised the Captain to protect his boat until they reached the mouth of the River. She could make the argument that such a provision did not apply until the ship sailed, and given his attitude, she was sorely tempted to do just that. But... she had not said when she would start, which left the possible interpretation that she was already responsible for protecting the damn boat. Even if she did go with her first inclination, which was to lean back and get what enjoyment she could out of the local yellow water, she would have to deal with these jokers tomorrow night, in the dark.
"Bloody hell," she snarled, shoving away from the bar hard enough to set a barrel to wobbling. Out the front of the bar, she spun right and entered the alley. As she expected, the two men she had heard were just exiting the back end, so she hurried up to catch them. She followed them through several more alleys, almost loosing them in the warren of buildings and waste. They both looked like normal street toughs to her, big and muscle-bound, but not particularly dangerous.
She finally caught up to them in a small pseudo-courtyard formed by three warehouses and a collapsed fourth. They were talking with three more men, two other obvious thugs and one much better dressed man. Sneaking along was relatively easy here, with the noise of the streets nearby and no branches or bushes to snap and rustle at her passage. The fact that she was under five feet tall with a weight to match helped, but she never admitted that, to anyone. She came close enough to hear the first pair reporting.
"... righ' where ya said i' was, boss," the first voice rumbled. "Alrea'y 'board te ship, loik, but Gunt'er here reckons he'll know i' tomorrow night."
"I'll know it tomorrow," 'Gunther' confirmed, "well 'nough ta get the boats ta it an' get the bomb placed."
"Good," 'Boss' lacked his subordinate's heavy local accent, and as he continued, Maeve recognized his pronunciation as Montaigne, rather than Eisen. "Remember, Gunther, that we require the ship intact enough to recover the cargo. Your explosives had better not sink it. Just stop it and get the crew's attention, yes?"
Deciding she had heard enough, and that the five represented little to no threat, Maeve sang out, "Hey boys, could any of you point a girl in the direction of the local law? If there is any, that is. I've got some would-be wreckers I need to have arrested."
She smiled as dead silence fell, followed by curses and the sound of daggers being drawn. She let the confusion reign for a moment, then drew her sword and stepped out into the mouth of the alley. "Sorry to ruin your fun, but I'm going to be on that boat tomorrow night, and I don't fancy having it blown out from underneath me."
The brutes started to move towards her, each of them wielding a heavy knife almost as if they knew what they were doing with them. They stopped at a gesture from the Montaigne, however, and he stepped between them to consider her, leaving his rapier sheathed. The two of them studied each other silently, and Maeve had to admit she was slightly impressed. He was obviously a fop, as all Montaignes, but he carried himself like a dangerous one. His clothes were fancier than any Eisen would wear these days, but still practical enough for travel and combat. His sword was beautifully appointed, but the scabbard was plain leather and worn from use. Most importantly, his eyes were rock steady and calculating as he studied her.
"No need to get excited, men," he said calmly, waving his brutes back, "I believe we can resolve this amicably enough. I won't insult so beautiful and exotic a woman as yourself by claiming you did not hear what you think you heard. So I ask, what would it take, miss, to convince you to forget you heard this little conversation? I can arrange transport for you down-river on another ship, even reimburse you whatever you paid that fat fool on the dock, with a little extra for the inconvenience. Actually, now that I think of it, I could probably even find a place for you in my employ, in any number of entertaining and valuable ways. What say you, miss?"
My Lady could teach him a thing or three about flattery, Maeve thought, grinning slightly. "I'm afraid, Montaigne, that I am disinclined to betray existing bargains for the uncertain promises of a fop and a braggart."
He did not appear to notice the insult, "A pretty woman like you should be more careful, docksides like this can be quite dangerous."
Maeve just raised her claymore, letting the blade settle back to rest on her shoulder. "I think I can take care of myself."
He looked her up and down, then gave her a superior smirk, "I'm not sure a little girl like you even knows what to do with a sword."
That stung. Maeve stopped smiling and glared at him for a moment, looking him over, then smirked right back. "I will admit that I'm rather bored with fighting Eisen. They're so predictably direct, but you might prove interesting. Come, braggart, show me if your sword is truly as… tiny and flimsy as it appears."
He flushed slightly, mouth tightening in anger, and Maeve's grin grew wider. "A girl such as yourself should not be so free with her tongue. Men might get the wrong impression." He shook himself, visibly regaining control, then continued in a more cultured tone, "You understand, I have no wish to destroy something as strikingly attractive as yourself, but I cannot let my Lord's plans be set to naught. Please, Miss, do not scream too loudly. Such will only get more innocent bystanders killed." He gestured again, and the four thugs parted around him to close on her.
Maeve shook her head, dropping the claymore from her shoulder to a ready position, held sideway, guard at her hip, blade at a sharp angle almost flat to the ground to one side. "You boys really should be running for your lives right now. You have no idea what you're dancing with."
They came at her in a group, spreading out to encircle her, moving with the slow easy confidence of street toughs facing a little girl. Much as her small size annoyed Maeve, she knew enough of combat to exploit every advantage she had, and being constantly under-estimated was one of the best. She shifted slightly, trying to look frightened as they closed, then took the offensive when they reached optimal range. The pommel of her blade came up almost to her shoulder, and she lunged at the one furthest to her right, a wildly flamboyant maneuver that only looked un-coordinated. The brute, she thought he was 'Gunther', was so surprised that he barely flinched, until the heavy metal tip of her blade punched in through his ribs and out his back. He choked around the wound, hands coming up, but Maeve wrenched the blade free before he could get a grip on it, spinning to contemplate the three remaining brutes as Gunther fell to the ground.
The three remaining checked, staring with some surprise at their erstwhile comrade. Then they growled almost as one, and charged her. Her attack on Gunther had, however, ruined their encirclement, and they blocked each other rather well. A sideways heave of her claymore left a gash on the closest, though it did not take him down. As the other two moved around him, Maeve moved forward and used the momentum from her slash to roll her sword up and over for a down-ward back-hand at the same brute. He tried to deflect the strike with his dagger, but his small cheap blade had nothing on hers, and he fell with a shoulder crushed into the lung beneath.
Two more daggers came at her, one a ragged slash, the other a lunge that tried to disguise an attempt at grappling. She let the slash go past by leaning forward over the second brute, then rolled into the slash to avoid the grapple. Another wrench, and she swung wildly at the grappler. He managed to duck out of the way, and she let the blade go up and over her shoulder. It would keep the other brute off her for a precious second, and set up her next action. As the brute came out of his duck, she slammed the pommel of her sword into his face, sending him sprawling backwards, blood leaking from the gashes on his face. Maeve ignored his fall, other than thinking, thank you, daddy, for disrespecting tradition. The three spikes forming her sword's pommel had been his idea, a vicious variation from the traditional polished orb or disc.
The last brute was now trying to get away more than fight, backing up rapidly, but Maeve was not foolish enough to let a functional enemy, even an inept one, escape. He slashed at her wildly again, leaving a light graze across her shoulder. She ignored the strike and lunged again, catching him lower and nearly gutting him when she swept the blade out sideways, using momentum again to spin herself around to face the Montaigne once more.
He was still standing in the same spot, staring at her with new respect and what might have been fear. Maeve, for her part, was content to stand still for a few seconds, getting her breath back. The MacDonald school required significant amounts of exertion, and even the few seconds of that fight left her breathing hard, though she was not actually tired. It was the suddenness and intensity of the activity that left her winded.
A shift in the Montaigne's gaze to over her head caused her to tense, expecting an ambush. Before she could move, however, the object of his attention pressed herself into Maeve's back, long arms wrapped in green silk folding around Maeve's waist to settle on her hips, a long cloak of white hair falling to partially shroud her vision. "You are so beautiful when you are killing, my love." The voice, like glass bells tinkling in her ears told Maeve exactly who it was, even without the sharp scent of cinnamon. "You should indulge more often. I so enjoy watching you dance."
With a long-suffering sigh, Maeve slumped into the embrace, arms dropping limp, sword falling until the tip rested on the ground. "What are you doing here, My Lady? This far from the ocean, from Avalon, it's dangerous out here, especially for you. We are very far from Bryn Bresail. Someone might notice."
"Oooohh, do not worry for me, little one. I have not seen you in days, lover mine, and I missed you. You have not danced for me since you left the Highlands."
Sighing again, Maeve corrected her, "Months, My Lady, you have not seen me in months."
Maeve could hear her Lady's pout, "That is even worse. I missed you. The Isles are boring without my gorgeous little green-haired killer."
"Please don't call me that. You make me sound like a monster."
"But you are a monster," her Lady laughed, a light, tinkling sound like ice falling in a glass, "my monster."
"Ah, excuse me? If I may interrupt this little... lover's spat?"
Maeve looked up again, eyes widening in surprise. "What are you still doing here, idiot?"
"I believe I was here first," the Montaigne replied arrogantly, "and however easily you may have dispatched the hired help, you will find I am not so easily defeated. I am not incompetent, after all. Though, as I warned you, your refusal to simply die has merely assured that your lover will be killed with you."
Maeve stared at him in disbelief. He can't be that ignorant, can he? Can't he see what she is? Then he drew the rapier and main-gauche hanging from his hip, settling into a comfortable stance just shy of being a swordsman's. Check that. Montaigne. Not enough brains in the entire nation to fill a thimble, and this guy's obviously striving to be the dumbest Montaigne ever.
Aloud, she said, "My humblest apologies for the affront this fool has given you, My Lady. Shall I chastise him suitably for you, or would you prefer that pleasure for yourself?"
"Ooohh, you so know how to excite me," her Lady whispered in Maeve's ear, before kissing the top of her head. "Kill him for me. Humiliate him first, but kill him."
Maeve nodded, and stepped out of her Lady's embrace. The Montaigne raised an eyebrow, stepping back slightly, but Maeve merely took her time, bringing her claymore around to mid-guard and studying his posture. He was leading with his rapier, tip angled up from his hip, right leg forward, body half turned. The main gauche in his left hand was dangling loosely, but it was also half-hidden from her view. Two weapons to my one, she thought, but they're both little things. I can take a couple hits, probably, but I only need to get him once.
He shifted, and the two of them began circling, weapons shifting position very slightly as they moved, gauging each other. The fight with the brutes had been about speed and power. This would be a true duel, formal or not, with and both of them wanted to be certain of their enemy's skills before committing themselves. "You really should have run, Montaigne," she offered, "even if you do manage to beat me, you're just going to make My Lady angry, and you don't begin to have the capacity to face her."
"Oh, I think I'll be able to handle her." He glanced over to where her Lady was also circling the fight, and leered at her rather obviously, "Who knows, I'll probably be able to handle her better than you do, yes?"
Maeve chuckled, shaking her head. She did not even need to look behind her to know that her Lady's sharply defined face was sneering back at him. "Please, what would you know about handling a woman? I'm sure I've had more than you, all one of her. More men too, I bet." she paused but when he opened his mouth to counter, she added, "Of course, you've probably been had by more men than me. Though I understand you Montaigne cheat, and count the dogs, too, yes?"
He flushed at that, growling and tensing for just a second. Maeve took advantage of the opening and attacked, a fast tip-first attack that, while not fast enough to leave her as open as a true lunge would, was fast enough to fool an inexperienced swordsman. Either he was not inexperienced, or she was not fast enough, because he spun to her right, folding his rapier to one side to guide her strike past, trying to punch the main gauche into her side just beneath her extended arm.
Maeve countered by shoving her blade towards him. It was not a strike, but combined with her forward momentum allowed her to use him as a fulcrum to lever herself away from his attack. The two of them completed their spins face to face, just as far apart as they had begun, but a quarter way further through their circle. Maeve felt a trickle of blood down her side, the stinging sensation of a cut running along a rib, and shook her head.
"Bravo, my love," her Lady whispered in her ear, one fine pale hand caressing her sword arm, "an exciting beginning. But you really should go all out, if you're going to try that trick. Half methods buy you the worst of both worlds." It was a little unnerving, having her Lady in such close physical proximity during a fight, but Maeve was getting used to her antics by this time, and suppressed the shiver. Ignoring her Lady, Maeve focused on her enemy, noting his surprise at her Lady's actions and storing it away for potential later use.
He settled back slightly when she did not immediately attack again, and their circling resumed. "Maybe you should pay attention to the fight, miss, instead of seducing your lover all over again?"
Maeve snorted, "And here I thought you had eyes, Montaigne. She claimed me, not me her. No one seduces a Sidhe."
"Every woman can be seduced," he countered, feinting high with the rapier, "though I'll take your word for it. She does seem rather... spirited for someone your age to have caught."
Maeve swayed away from both feint and follow-on attack. "I'm older than I look." She took a swing at him, another test, as he withdrew.
He blocked her strike easily with the main gauche. "And I must say, you look very good for your age."
"Flattery will get you almost anywhere," Maeve sidestepped his slash, noticing the extra force behind it as he grew serious. "Or at least, it would if you were as skilled with your sword as you seem with to be your mouth." She tried another almost-lunge, whipping the blade sideways at the last second.
He leaned back and tried to rush her, rapier leading with the main gauche coming in just behind. "Ah, but wouldn't you love to find out how skilled my mouth is?"
She beat aside the rapier but missed the main gauche, earning herself a deeper slash on the leg. "No, I've never had much of a taste for pork." That's two hits to my none, she thought, I can take a few more, but... I need to get my hit in soon.
He did not care for her last remark. He drew back and shook himself out, settling for the true battle. "You should guard your tongue more closely girl. Your whore may like it loose, but no one else will."
Maeve felt herself flush with rage at that, and distinctly heard her Lady hiss behind her. "You have no idea what you're messing with," Maeve reminded him. Calling upon the reinforcement of her Lady's presence, she turned her thoughts briefly to the legend of Iron Meg, feeling her blood thrill with the power of myth. The spirit of the toughest woman in the history of Avalon flowed through her, and she smiled into the Montaigne's widening eyes as her wounds flowed seamlessly closed. "Maeve MacCodrum," she introduced herself finally, "Swordswoman and sorceress."
He settled down after a moment, at least visibly, and smiled, "So you have a little magic, do you? I've killed nobles before, girl, and I'll enjoy taking the both of you down."
"Even if you had any stones, they wouldn't be big enough to take me anywhere," Maeve countered. "But then, what Montaigne has any idea what to do with stones, eh?"
"What would you know what to do with a man, girl? Too bad you won't live long enough to learn."
Maeve just shook her head, "Men only complain when I leave. Not that you'll ever find out."
"Wouldn't be interested, child." He crouched, rapier rising, and she saw the lunge coming.
"Obviously," Maeve crouched as well, keeping here eyes on his leading leg and arm. The attack would come from there. "You're lack any equipment to be interested."
He glared, and lunged, rapier whipping towards her with lightning speed. She dropped into a deeper crouch, and countered his lunge with one of her own. He did not see it coming until they were both extended, and she deliberately dropped her blade. Instead of punching through his chest, as her teacher had drummed into her, she aimed significantly lower, scoring only slightly above her target.
He shrieks loud enough, she thought, drawing her blade back. He folded around the wound, dropping his rapier and main gauche, collapsing to the ground. "And now I can guarantee you don't have the equipment," she said aloud.
Again her Lady pressed in behind her, pulling her into a tighter embrace than the first. "Beautiful work, my love," she announced, "wouldn't you all agree?"
Twitching, looking past he curtain of her Lady's hair, Maeve realized that there had been a small audience for the fight. About twenty men and women, most of them looking like more dockside toughs, were standing in the alleyways, clear of the carnage, but close enough to have a good view. One man stood out, another Montaigne, who stepped forward slowly. His movements were slow and careful, and he seemed more concerned with keeping his feet clear of the mess than keeping an eye on the two women at the center of it.
Maeve glared at him, lifting her claymore again. "I'm tired, but not too tired to take down a few more," she warned.
"Oh, calm yourself, girl. You've carved quite enough of a hole in my supply of underlings," he said, still not looking at her. He stopped next to his countryman, who was still moaning and crying on the ground, writhing in pain. "My, that looks rather painful. He won't last long, I take it?"
Maeve nodded, "groin shot, at least one artery. He'll bleed out in a minute."
"Tsk, and here I was actually thinking of promoting him. Ah well, there'll be more where he came from." The newcomer turned to look her over, taking in not just Maeve, but her Lady. "I must say, I'm impressed with you, young lady. As I said, you just made quite a hole in my local organization, even if I was dismantling it. The thugs were nothing much, but Michel, he was actually quite skilled. A little coarse, and no knowledge of how to treat a lady, such as either of you, but skilled at what I paid him for. Oh, yes, and my apologies for his remarks, by the way. Most uncouth, but he was a peasant, after all."
"Apologies before you have us killed? You're a strange one."
He laughed, shaking his head, "No, you misunderstand me, Lady MacCodrum. These people are not my employees, just bystanders. No, I merely made my presence known to you in order to extend to you an offer. I could use someone of your demonstrable skill, in any number of roles. I won't even ask you to decide now." He reached into a pocket, and pulled out a folded card. "I was going to give this to Michel, since we were to travel by different routes. It has an address, in Tamis, where Michel and I were to meet in several weeks. Since he is no longer capable of such a meeting, I would like to invite you. Just ask for Jean-Louis Valroux."
"Take it," her Lady whispered, soft tinkling voice reaching no further than Maeve's ear, "we can have fun with him later, if you like."
Hesitantly, unwilling to take the note but less willing to annoy her Lady, Maeve reached out, gingerly took the folded paper, and slid it into a pocket of her vest. "I'll think about it," she offered.
The Montaigne smiled brightly, and bowed, a courtly gesture that clashed horribly with the surroundings, then turned and left. He stopped before he reached the crowd, however, and looked back over his shoudler. "Ah, fair warning, Lady MacCodrum. I have other... investors... who require the cargo on that boat. I cannot guarantee that my men will not attack while you are aboard. But if you do survive, and are interested, look me up in Tamis. Au revoir."
"Ooooh, it will be such a pleasure to watch you kill him," her Lady whispered, "the proud ones are always such fun."
After a few seconds of watching the audience disperse, somewhat surprised that no one was calling for the watch, Maeve pulled away from her Lady and turned to face her. Her Lady was tall, towering over most people, let alone Maeve, with a thin frame that struck many as frail. Her long, fine-boned arms crossed loosely over her chest. Her long face, sharp as a knife, was smiling down at Maeve, face displaying a mixture of sardonic amusement and icy desire.
Glaring up at her, Maeve repeated her earlier protest, in Avalon. "You shouldn't be here, my Lady." The Sidhe woman merely laughed, reaching out one delicately boned hand, almost as long as Maeve's forearm, and caressed her cheek. Letting the touch linger, Maeve continued, "I'm serious, My Lady. No one here has any idea who you are. They will not show you proper respect, proper deference. You heard that fool, the rest of these people will be even less polite. Worse, we are distant, from Avalon and the Sea, from Bryn Bresail."
"I am safe enough," her Lady said, still smiling, "but your concern is touching. I was beginning to think you did not want me any longer."
"I never wanted you," Maeve muttered, "you just don't listen when someone says 'no'."
"You did not mean it," her Lady replied, moving closer.
"Yes I did. But that's an old argument, one you've already won. This is a new one. You should not be here."
"I missed you, and I am safe enough, with my beautiful green-haired killer." her Lady repeated, tilting Maeve's head back and kissing her very softly.
Maeve sighed, enjoying the attention even while she tried to ignore it. Her Lady was entirely too good at avoiding arguments she might loose. She made a decision, and when her Lady pulled back, instead of resuming her argument, Maeve switched to a new one. She pulled her Lady into an embrace, enjoying the taste of cinnamon left on her lips, and said, "I would like to indulge you, my Lady, but I am contracted to defend a boat. I gave my word." Her Lady was just as fanatical about such things as Maeve. "I need to get back to it, lest something happens and leaves me foresworn."
"Liar," her Lady's reply was fortunately amused, rather than insulted, "you never have enjoyed shocking an audience. But I will let you get away with it this time, my love. Go back to your little boat. Come home to me soon, Avalon grows boring."
"A few weeks, my Lady," Maeve promised, truthfully enough, "just a few weeks."
A moment later, the comfortable embrace holding her vanished, and Maeve found herself standing alone in an alley, surrounded by dead and dying. She's going to get both of us killed by the Queen of the Sky, Maeve thought to herself, looking around and shaking her head. Why can't she just behave? Once, even? Oh, wait, because then things would be 'boring', wouldn't they? After cleaning and sheathing her claymore, she picked up the fallen Montaigne's rapier and main gauche, cleaning them on his cloak and cutting his scabbards free to protect the weapons.
Back down the alley she had arrived by, she found her way to the docks once more. To her surprise, the tub was still sitting at the pier, still loading cargo. Another poor fool was arguing with the captain, trying to arrange passage. Maeve just shook her head, and re-entered the bar. Her original seat was still there, though her half-finished beer was long gone, so she dropped into the same spot, and waved at the barkeep for another round. I'll warn the captain tonight, she decided, watching the latest hopeful storm off the boat, waving an armored fist back at the captain. My word requires at least that much, and I may need help getting rid of whoever tries to board us. Stupid bloody main-landers, thirty years of fighting, and that's still all they're willing to do.
Rolling that recrimination of all inhabitants of Théah's primary continent about in her mind, Maeve settled back to wait for the cargo to finish loading. She was tired of fighting, however much her Lady liked to watch her work, and just wanted to get back to open ocean and the towering highlands of home.
"Théus, I can't wait to get home," she muttered.
