Sword of Hemlock (Lords of Syon Saga Book 1) by Jordan MacLean Page B

Lady Renda, it was, what sent her in after them,
and Lady Renda what she serves to this day.  Not counting as she brought the
late Duke Brada out besides, at war’s end.  So three times in and out of
Kadak’s prison, it is.  Three!”
    Finnig grinned.  “But Duke Brada died.  She did not save him
after all.”
    “Oh, but she did.  Our duke lived long enough to see the
war’s end and victory at Brannagh hands.  A good death, indeed.”
    “Brannagh, Brannagh,” grumbled Bernold.
    The tavernman paused, and Gikka watched a worried wrinkle
cross his brow before he smiled again and continued his story.  “Calls herself
Squire, now, does Gikka, both of the Graymonde lands and mines she came to own
and in service to Brannagh.”  He cast a quick, self-conscious glance at the
woman.
    “Graymonde.  That’s it, Bernold, Gikka of Graymonde.” 
Finnig laughed loudly, lifting his mug.  “The war hero.  Yes, squire to Renda
of Brannagh, no less; there’s irony for you.”
    Irony?  Gikka looked up at him and watched him empty the
mug.  She dared not ask what he meant, though the question sat on the edge of
her lips, begging to prove their guilt.  But no whore would ask.  She’d played
the part often enough, smiled and cooed countless marks into the alleyways and
inns of Brannford, and she’d learned her role well.  She drew a deep breath. 
Listen, Gikka.  Watch.  Learn.
    “...consorts with a sorcerer, and a nasty one, at that.  Looks
the very picture of a mother’s son but icy shrewd behind those blue eyes of
his.  Dith the Impenitent.”
    She could not resist.  “I thought they called him the
Merciless.”
    The barkeep laughed.  “Both, says I, and worse.  Burnt a
whole ship right on the waterways, and for what?  To kill a few graetna dogs,
or so I heard.”  He mopped the table again.  “Oh, on stories of that one alone,
I could keep you a tenday.  Under threat of death from Rjeinar, the Hadrian god
of vengeance, so they say, for that wicked business at Kadak’s stronghold—sure
you heard about that, gents?”
    “No,” Finnig said, “in truth, from where we were, we only
saw the Hadrians fleeing in a panic.”
    “Is what we all saw.  And run they did!  Oh, but I never
seen Hadrians run so fast in all my days, like to break down the very walls,
screaming, ‘Rjeinar!  Rjeinar is upon us!’”  The man wiped his tears of
laughter away with his apron.  “That’s him.  Saucy as you please.  Course,” he
gestured roundly, “he’s away now, gone north to study with some master, or so
they say.”  He winked.  “Gray magic at best, if you take my meaning.  Comes
away from that, and you’ll be glad he’s got his loyalties to the House of
Brannagh.”
    “Quite.” Finnig’s tone was oddly terse.
    “But barkeep,” broke in Bernold.  “What does this Gikka of
Graymonde look like?”  He looked at the woman and grinned.  “I mean, this could
be she, and how are we to know?”
    “Oh, Bernold.”  Finnig laughed and reached an arm around her
possessively.  “You need only look at her to see.  She’s no killer.”
    The barman glanced up at the ceiling above their heads as if
trying to remember, but Gikka thought he might be putting back a grin. 
“Bremondine, is our Gikka, maybe even that witchy Verdura blood from up
north.”  He ignored the blaze of contempt that flared in the woman’s black
eyes.  “Dark of hair and eye, like this one.  Handsome trim figure, mannish
loose hair.  Just like this one.”  He watched the quick look of worry cross the
knights’ faces and the glare from Gikka. At that, the innkeeper straightened,
laughed and clapped her on the back with a wink at the two knights.   “Oh, but
I’m scaring you gents!”  He laughed.  “Oh, but look at those wide eyes!  I had
you lads, didn’t I?  Fear me not, the real Gikka’s a good bit older, to my
mind, and with none so sweet a face.  Nah, Gikka, that’s a common name with
these