Sharpeye in Harpen

This is an extra section from Chapter 13 of Famous (The Warrior's Heart), that I skipped over when writing that chapter, and decided not to do in the main novel to save space. I only came to write it when I was putting Sharpeye's and Lyndon's stories together as a stand alone novella called The Heartstone of Dy'olf. which I put up on authonomy and Wattpad to try to get some interest. I added it there I felt there needed to be some explanation of how Abreen and Sharpeye met. And I always enjoyed writing Sharpeye, especially when she was irritated.

Sharpeye lay on the simple bed in the cell-like room of the House Fantastic to which she had been shown. Although her headache had faded, sleep did not come. The rain and wind lashed at the window and it was pitch dark outside, but to her it was not night. She wondered idly how wizards managed to cope flitting around the world from day to night and back again. But uppermost in her mind was the impossible task she had set herself: to scour the whole world, with no magic at her call, and find one man, and that man a Master Illusionist.

It was not something she could do alone: she had only got this far because Lyral had vouched for her in Falyeder. And if she had not been with him in the morgue, if she had arrived days after him with Othal's caravan, Lyral would have let her believe Lyham was dead. So she thought initially, but then she realized he could have made her believe it was Lyham on the slab. Why didn't he? she asked herself. To keep me away from the warlocks, she realized: turn my eyes to the rat.

From now, though, on she was on her own. She had a little gold, and that could hire eyes, but then what would she live on? There's little profit in vengeance, as Highblade was fond of saying. The charity of the wizards would not last long, even if she felt she could take it. Beyond that there were her weapons, her skills as a warrior, the token the wizards had exchanged for the gelding – and that was it. Unless she sold her body: would I do that? Would it be worth it? No: that would be another win for him.

And even if she found honest eyes to hire, could she expect them to recognise Lyham? She could see through his disguises, and who else could? But Lyham was a Canvé, a member of the most famous family on Sentinle, and proud of it. She couldn't see him hiding among the desert ascetics of Daraca, and whoever else he met – from the reindeer herders of Aquilias to the pig farmers of Regizen; from the vignerons of Morgraux to the dwarven miners of Khurrea – someone would recognise him wherever he poked that notorious nose.

No, he won't be content to hide behind an illusion. His pride in being a Canvé will betray him eventually. What's that line of the Designer's that Andral used to quote? she asked herself, recalling a former lover, an acolyte of De'enebra, with whom she had served in Taraska. "Pride is always a weapon for your foes," she said aloud. That was it. He will leave a trail; he won't be able to hide forever. I hope.

Yet she was not necessarily friendless. She had fought in several mercenary companies in her time, met many people from that line of work. When her traditional three year stint away from Sahistre was over she had turned down several offers of work in order to go home, and that was only two years ago. She had never been in Qualn before, but the apprentice wizard Halar was a native of Harpen, and he should know where she might find people who knew the people she knew. An introduction is all I need, I have skills that will be useful. They are my sort of people, I might find willing eyes after all.

She would have to play it carefully. Lyham knew she was looking for him, but he might not count on her having followed him through the Portal to Harpen. I am too easily described: the bow, the hair, the tattoo. A wizard could remove her tattoo – Fullbright had been on the point of doing so after the Rite of Unnaming, until Fireswan had stopped him – but the tattoo was her only tangible link to the Dy'olf, she could not part with it lightly. Some sort of cosmetic will hide it, or high collars. And if I dye my hair ... no, cheaper in the long run to cut it and use a wig ... that won't fool the rat for long, but a brief edge will do.

Now she had the beginnings of a plan she was eager to get started, but that would have to wait until the morning. And there was another line of work open to her – the Guild of Messengers used the Portals: she was already marked for using them, that was as much an extra skill as any other. I will turn over every rock, she vowed as she finally slipped into sleep.

Mid-afternoon on the second Highday since she had arrived, Halar told her the man he wanted to introduce her to was back in Harpen and had agreed to see her – Halar had spoken to him at Devotions, for they were both of De'enebra the Designer.

"He's called Abreen," Halar told Sharpeye as they hurried through the streets to the inn at which the man was staying. "My grandmother knew him: she was Chief Priest here twenty-five years ago and he did something important – it was political so Granny never told me the details, but he's pretty well connected."

Sharpeye was not happy to hear this: he might have connections to the Canvés, so she would have to be careful what she said.

They found Abreen sitting on a bench in the inn's garden drinking wine – despite being wet underfoot it was the first clear day Sharpeye had seen in Harpen. The Sematian was none too impressed by her first sight of him. He was short, ugly and ruddy-skinned with long, black hair bound in two braids.

He looked Sharpeye up and down over the book he was reading. "I thought you said she was red," he said to Halar in Quelnish. Sharpeye recognised his accent as Daracan. "She is a looker though."

"You're not," she replied, taking her wig off. "And what's my hair to do with anything?"

The Daracan didn't seem put out by her comment on his looks. "So at least you are Dy'olf," he replied in Sematian. "Your tattoo's showing. Who're you hiding from?"

"There's no-one chasing me, if that's what you mean."

"Halar said you were after some work – sit." Abreen waved her to the other seat on the bench. "Wine?" Sharpeye nodded curtly. "Ask Patty to send another glass and a new bottle, Halar," Abreen ordered by way of dismissal. "Say hi to your Pa when you see him."

Once the apprentice wizard had gone, Abreen looked Sharpeye over again. She swallowed her irritation at his manner, although she was aware he wasn't looking at her the way most men did. Maybe he's gay, she thought.

When a serving girl brought another glass, she came with a second bottle of wine – Taraskan red, Sharpeye's favourite. Once the girl had left, Abreen began to quiz Sharpeye on her previous experience and the people she knew – they didn't seem to have any acquaintances in common. The more questions he asked, the harder she found it to keep her replies civil.

Once he had finished he sat back and appraised her again, sipping the dark red wine. Sharpeye was on the point of storming off when he said: "There's not much of you to be a fighter."

"There's not much of you, either," she snapped back: even sitting down it was clear Abreen was barely any taller than she was. "Why don't we go somewhere and prove what I can do?"

"Feisty, aren't you?" He paused, and finished off his wine. "I'll take you up on that: there's a practice ground outside the northwest gate, by the monastery of the Protector."

"Fine. Do they have weapons?"

"No, we bring our own – don't worry about carrying them through the streets: I've a permit for that sort of thing, no-one will bother you if you're with me."

Abreen accompanied her back to the House Fantastic, then to the practice ground. Sharpeye was well drilled with the sword but Abreen proved to be better than anyone else she had ever seen of a comparable build. Despite her initial feelings about him, Sharpeye realised someone so good would be a useful person to have on her side, to say nothing of how much she could learn from him. She challenged him to a competition with the bow. Abreen went first and he was a good shot. But from the moment he let fly the first arrow Sharpeye knew she was the better, and so it proved.

"Law's grip," he said when she landed five arrows within the space of a crown at a hundred paces. "You are good."

"I am Sharpeye of the Dy'olf," she replied, satisfied to have made an impression on the Daracan. "There is none better."

"You know, now I meet you I think I like you, Sharpeye of the Dy'olf," he said smiling for the first time. "Always like to meet someone who's good at what they do."

"What do you mean now you meet me?"

"Sharp of mind too. Olvin asked me ..."

"Do you mean Olvin Mercer?" Sharpeye interrupted. "The Head of the Order of Wizards?"

Abreen nodded. "He's an old friend. He didn't tell me what but I guess he owes you something.

"Okay, let's go and get something to eat, my treat – it might not be up to what the wizards serve, but it's good enough for us simple folk. I'll introduce you to some other people. Chrysal's always on the look out for guards, she might take you on."

The Daracan proved an interesting companion, as did many of the people she met later that evening. She failed to extract much of Abreen's life story: he proved skilful at avoiding any questions she asked. Although some of the others she met said they had known him for years, they either knew no more than she did, or were equally adept at hiding knowledge. By the end of the evening all she felt sure about Abreen was that he was Daracan, an excellent swordsman, a good shot with a bow, devoted to De'enebra the Designer and, given his reputation among the women, not gay: four out of those five facts she had known at the start of the evening.

He on the other hand managed to learn more about her than she intended. She tried to guard her tongue, but while they were still alone he somehow deduced that she was not the hunted but the hunter. She admitted that she was looking for Lyham Canvé, but did not say why.

"Never met him, but I thought he was a drunk," Abreen said. "At least that's what Lycin told me. Although Lyoma always had an excuse for him – Lycin said he thought she was in love with him."

"In love with him? That explains a lot."

"You know her?"

"We've met – didn't part on good terms."

"She's a bit of a bitch according to Lycin." The Daracan tutted and shook his head. "Listen to me, passing on gossip like a Canvé groupie. Who cares about the damned Canvés."

"Not me," Sharpeye lied. At that moment they were joined by two of Abreen's friends and they said no more about Sharpeye's quest.