They had crossbows, and they turned up in the middle of the road while Caliban was off scouting down their back trail.
Of course there would be bandits.Slate felt very calm. She didn’t know why she hadn’t seen it coming.
“So what do we have here?” asked the bandit leader. He was tall and lanky, both hair and skin an indeterminate shade of grizzled blonde.
Slate sighed. This was annoying. It probably wasn’t all that dangerous—bandits were masters of the cost-benefit analysis, and they would generally pass on a fight for a suitable bribe—but it was still one more irritation.
Worse, Caliban, and the very large sword, were still somewhere back down the road.
Well, no, maybe that’s a good thing. If I can pay these guys off before he shows up…
“I believe you’re on our road,” said the man, slouching forward and catching her horse’s bridle.
Brenner shifted a bit on his horse, an unobtrusive movement that no doubt set him up to kill several people in very short order, assuming the horse didn’t do anything untoward, like breathe or take a step in any direction. Learned Edmund had a hand on his saddlebags, ready to sell his life dear in defense of his books.
“I’m sorry,” Slate said, with carefully controlled pleasantness, “I didn’t realize this wasyourroad.”
She could kick the bandit in the face and probably get a knife in him before he’d recovered, but then they would definitely have gotten into a fight, and that would bereallyirritating.
“It is. We would quite hate for anything to happen to anyone using it.”
“Well, then.” She drummed her fingers on her thigh. “I suspect we can come to some arrangement.”
There were hoof beats on the road behind them. Apparently their knight had caught up with them.
“Quick!” she snapped at the bandit leader. “You’ve got five seconds to close this deal before he gets here!”
The leader blinked at her.
The hoof beats stopped. “Too late,” sighed Slate.
“Unhand…that…horse.”
Everyone, very slowly, turned to look at Caliban.
Brenner let out a single whoop of laughter, covered his mouth with his hand and dissolved into silent, shoulder-heaving hysterics.
So much for support from that quarter.
The bandit leader stared at Caliban, then turned back at Slate. They shared a moment of horribly embarrassed camaraderie—did he just say that? Should we just pretend that didn’t happen?
“Ignore him,” said Brenner, having gotten control of himself, “he has delusions of knighthood.”
“Shutup, Brenner,” Slate snapped. “And Caliban, let me handle this.”
“Madam—!”
“IsaidI’ll handle it.”
“Sorry,madam,” gasped Brenner, and went off again.
The bandit leader and Slate exchanged looks again. He had beer-colored eyes, and he looked about ten years older than most of his men.
“Do you ever feel like you’re the only sober person in a roomfull of drunks?” asked Slate in a low voice, leaning forward.
“Constantly,” he said, glancing back at the ragged line of men behind him, several of which had gotten bored and were picking at various parts of their anatomy. Crossbows pointed at the air, and occasionally at each other.
Slate glanced back at her rabble. They weren’t any more inspiring, but at least no one was picking his nose.
