Walter saw the distant flash of a telescope several times that morning, which didn't surprise him: He'd seen an occasional rider paralleling their course for days; the nearer they got to Home, the more intense the scrutiny.
He nodded in silent approval and rode on, noticing with some pride that none of the others had caught it. The Home watchers were taking some pains to keep their attention inconspicuous.
Still, by the time Walter, Ahira, and their dwarvish escort reached the top of the ridge overlooking the valley that the elves called Varnath, Walter felt like he'd been thoroughly frisked.
A simple "Assume the position" would have sufficed, guys.
Not that Walter Slovotsky had anything against deviousness—in fact, he preferred it, all things being equal—but there was a time for a simple confrontation.
If it'd been his show...
Then again, it's not my show. Not anymore. Not even to the extent that it was when he was seconding Karl, back in the old days when they were on a raiding team together.
He didn't yearn for that time, not really. Food was eaten cold, then, for fear that the slavers would see a cooking fire; they had to sleep lightly, remembering the face of a man who hadn't. Those had been days of strain and nights wrenched in fear, all the time hoping, praying, that the next man doomed to fall to the ground, clutching at the crossbow bolt protruding from his mouth, was the next man, not Emma Slovotsky's baby boy.
No, he didn't miss the fighting.
But there had been a certain something to those days, something that the last years just hadn't had. Something hard to put a finger on.
Maybe it was that the heartbeats seemed stronger when you could hear each and every one, Walter decided. That was it.
And he cursed himself for an idiot. "There is an old Chinese curse, 'May you live in interesting times,' " he muttered to himself, before remembering that, after all, foolish consistency was the hobgoblin of little minds.
That made him feel better; Walter Slovotsky didn't want to risk the size of his mind by being unnecessarily consistent.
"There's also an old American saying," Ahira said. "Goes like this: 'People who talk to themselves are a bit loose between the eardrums.' "
Slovotsky dug his heels in a bit deeper and kicked his horse into a half-canter, smiling quietly to himself as the dwarves behind him cursed, spurring their own mounts. Dwarves and horses—even well-tempered ponies like Geveren and the rest of their escort were riding—were renowned for not getting along.
"You're a mean man, Walter Slovotsky," Ahira said, bouncing along on the back of his animal. He was the only dwarf to ride a full-sized horse, although he and his gray gelding didn't seem to like each other's company particularly well.
Then again, that was Ahira: He always seemed to pick a gray gelding that he didn't get along particularly well with. His swearing at his horse seemed almost as much a part of the dwarf as the clanking of the patched chainmail vest and the huge, double-bladed battleaxe strapped to his saddle.
Nothing ever remains quite the same; there had been a time when Ahira carried a smaller axe, strapping it across his absurdly broad chest. He had traded that axe in on a bigger one, one that was almost the size he was.
"Hey, Walter, doesn't that look like—" The dwarf's homely face creased in puzzlement, then broke into a broad smile. "It is! Wheeee!"
"Huh?"
"At the customs house—it is!" Swearing, the dwarf kicked his horse into a full canter.
The oversized log cabin that stood as the Home customs station was only a blur near the horizon to Slovotsky, but Ahira must have seen something. Clearly, it wasn't anything to worry about, or Ahira would have sounded some sort of alarm, but...
Slovotsky stood in the saddle and called out to the dwarf who was driving the flatbed wagon.
"Hey, Geveren," he said, putting the accent firmly on the first syllable of the dwarf's name, "I'm going to go catch up with Ahira. Take a little time, if you need to—"
"Just a small amount," Geveren said, a gap-toothed smile peeking through his beard. "Only a short while."
Slovotsky's short jokes didn't bother the dwarves; to them, they were the right height, and humans were stretched vertically, although not as badly as elves.
"—but you bring the rest in," Slovotsky finished. Then, remembering that none of these dwarves had ever been to Home before, he added, "And be prepared to put up with a thorough inspection at customs without taking offense—I don't want to hear about your giving the inspectors any trouble."
The dwarf smiled, nodded, and waved; Slovotsky spurred his horse after Ahira.
By the time Slovotsky's mare had gotten herself worked up to a full gallop, they were almost at the customs house. Ahira seemed to be wrestling with some human, while another, holding a flintlock carbine at the ready, looked on.
One hand on a pistol, Slovotsky brought the horse to a quick halt and vaulted out of the saddle, only to see that Ahira was hugging a full-sized human, a boy perhaps fifteen or so; tall and a bit gangly, he awkwardly patted the dwarf's back—
"Son of a bitch—Jason Cullinanel" Slovotsky dropped his hand away from the pistol's butt, noticing how the guard relaxed only microscopically, only lowering the hammer of his carbine when a strangely familiar metal rattling issued from the interior of the customs house.
A grizzled face leaned out and nodded. "Greetings, Walter Slovotsky and Ahira. You are welcome Home."
"Betcher ass," Slovotsky said, then switched back to Erendra. "That is, I thank you. It's good to be back."
The dwarf released the boy and turned to Walter. "Can you believe how much he's grown? Last time we saw him, he was tiny."
Slovotsky nodded. "Damn, but he wasn't much taller than this," he said, winking at Jason as he held his hand half a foot above Ahira's head.
"You'll pay for that, Slovotsky," the dwarf said, with patently false menace.
Jason walked over to Walter and held out a hand. "Hello, Uncle Walter," he said, perhaps a bit stiffly. The grip was firm, but it was clear that the boy was trying too hard. No problem—he was just growing faster up than outside, and probably faster outside than inside. It looked like he might easily end up as tall as his father; right now, his eyes were almost on Slovotsky's level.
Slovotsky shook his head. "A handshake is just not going to make it, kiddo." He seized Jason in a bear hug, signing to himself when the boy's returning grip was only perfunctory.
"Damn, but it's good to see you, boy. How's everyone?" he asked as he let Jason go.
Jason smiled. "Just fine, as of a couple of tendays ago." He pursed his lips for a moment. "I'm sure that Mom and Dad would have wanted me to—"
"Sure, sure, and pass our best wishes along, when you see them. Which'll be when?"
Jason shrugged. "Another couple tendays. Ellegon's supposed to pick up some supplies here for Daven's team, and pick up Valeran—"
Slovotsky smiled. "Vat's here? I haven't seen him since we gave your father the crown." A good man to have around in a fight. Or just to drink with.
Jason frowned. "Dad has him baby-sitting me," he said, making it evident that he didn't think he needed any watching. He brightened. "And teaching me swordsmanship, too. In any case, Ellegon's supposed to pick him and Bren and—" ,
"Bren Adahan? The Holtish baron?"
Jason whistled in irritation at being interrupted again. "Yes, him. Dad has him here, partly to be taught by Lou Riccetti, but mainly to keep an eye on me, like Valeran does." The boy tried to shrug away the notion that he needed watching over. "I don't have to put up with it for much longer. Then Ellegon will pick up Valeran and me on his way out; we're going to be his tenders while he makes a sweep to Ehvenor and then back Home. Now, what are you two doing here?"
Walter tried to smile disarmingly. "Whatsamatter, boyo, aren't you glad to see us?" he asked, trying to change the subject. Jason's was a hard question to answer honestly, and Walter had no intention of doing so.
Anything involving Walter and Ahira's plans to skulk around Pandathaway had to be handled on a need-to-know basis.
Jason didn't.
Walter had no intention of telling Jason that he and Ahira were going to pick up some trade goods to take to Pandathaway to sell while they were trying to dig up word of either what Ahrmin was up to or what Ahrmin thought Karl was up to; if a rumor of intended spying reached Pandathaway, the spies in question might be easily detected.
Which would be hard on the spies.
So Walter Slovotsky broadened his smile and spread his hands. "Just doing a little business, and checking up on Lou. I take it—"
He was interrupted by the same rattling from the customs house. He furrowed his brow, finally noticing the wires strung on poles that led from the building and down the hill and into the valley. "Son of a—"
"Telegraph." Ahira smiled. "He's got a telegraph." He looked over toward Slovotsky. "How's your Morse?"
Slovotsky shook his head. "I just barely was able to learn enough to pound my clumsy way to a beginner's license, and that's more than twenty years ago. You?"
"Not even that close." Ahira lifted his right hand, making it shake. "Remember? I couldn't make a dit different from a dah, much less get up to twenty words per minute."
"And a telegraph means electricity—coal, you think? Lou used to say that he thought there was a seam of coal up in the hills."
"Could be, could be." Ahira nodded, "I think we'd better have words with the Engineer; he's been keeping secrets."
Jason cocked his head to one side. "Excuse me?"
"Secrets, secrets," Ahira said. "I thought Lou was going to tell us about any major advances, and this telegraph is—"
"No, not that. You said that you couldn't learn Morse. It doesn't seem hard."
Ahira's face darkened; Walter stepped in. "You know how your Uncle Ahira used to be a human, on the Other Side?"
"Yes, yes," Jason said, tapping his foot impatiently.
"Well, as a human he had a dysfunction. It's called muscular dystrophy—his muscles didn't work right."
"Oh," the boy said, clearly indifferent.
The idea of a permanent disease wasn't something he could identify with, Walter realized; any member of the upper class could afford the services of a good healer, and even a clumsy Spidersect cleric could help someone compensate for disobedient muscle and nerve better than could possibly be done by the most competent physician on the other side.
Some injuries, granted, were permanent, or close to it; Tennetty's eyes, the missing fingers on Karl's left hand, scars from where the body had healed itself imperfectly without benefit of healing draughts.
But muscles not working right? It was foreign to the boy's limited experience. Lucky kid.
Slovotsky walked over to the shack and leaned in. "Please tell the Engineer that Walter Slovotsky and Ahira are here, bringing a load of dwarven blades, raw silver, and fourteen hefty appetites."
The man inside began beating a rapid tattoo on the telegraph key.
Slovotsky threw his arm around Jason's shoulder. "So tell me, what's this bullshit I hear about your dad going after the sword?"
"I haven't heard anything about it," Jason said, his face reflecting what appeared to be only honest puzzlement. "And I'd like to. Now."
You're taking on something of your father's imperiousness, Jason me boyo, and I don't like that much. Before you get to sing the blues, you gotta pay the dues.
"Make it a bit later, okay?" he said, trying to put just a trace of sternness in his voice. "We've had a long trip."
Jason visibly considered it for a moment, then nodded. "Agreed, Uncle Walter."
Slovotsky smiled. "Now, get on your horse. I want the ten-cent tour of Home—by way of the bathhouse, and with special attention to the brewery. Seems there's been some changes of late."
"Brewery?" Ahira smiled. "Good idea. While you do that, I'm going to head for Lou—is he in the cave?" he asked, raising his voice and turning to the guard in the customs house.
"Yes, Ahira; I'll alert him that you're coming."
"That won't be—"
"Easyway, warfday," Slovotsky said. "Ememberay ouyay aren'tway ayormay," he added in pig latin, knowing that it took most of a lifetime of English speaking to be able to follow deliberate fracturing of the language.
Jason smiled and nodded his agreement, but the guard was puzzled. Which was just the way Slovotsky wanted it; no need to embarrass his friend in front of strangers.
"Right," the dwarf said. "And please ask him to tap a keg; I haven't had Homemade beer for far too long."

*Good morning, your imperious majesticness,* sounded in his head. *It*s time to get up.*
Go away, Karl Cullinane thought, pulling the vaguely musty blankets over his head, as he summoned up a mental image of himself holding Ellegon's saurian head under the water until the dragon gurgled. Goddam, goddam world, where the best blankets you could get smelled like horses had been using them.
As they often had, come to think of it.
*First of all, you couldn't do it, because I wouldn't let you. Second of all, you wouldn't do it, because you love me, and third of all—*
"Third of all, that's imperial majesty, not imperious majesticness."
Out in the courtyard, flame roared skyward. *You say it your way, I'll say it mine.*
Go away. Just go away. I'll get up soon.
*Fine.*
So, go—
*As long as "soon" means now.*
"Leave me alone." Huddling in his blankets, Karl Cullinane tried to go back to sleep.
Being Prince of Bieme and Emperor of Holtun-Bieme wasn't, by and large, a whole lot of fun, but the job was supposed to carry with it some perquisites, and—according to Karl Cullinane—foremost among them was sleeping in late in the morning. He wasn't going to give that up. No way.
*I always find it amazing, the stoicism with which the wealthy and powerful manage to bear their horrible burdens, and the deep resolve with which they refuse to have those burdens made more cumbersome.*
Translation; I should stop bitching and get my lazy ass out of bed.
*You have a keen eye for the obvious.*
Even his morning-tasting mouth had to quirk itself into a smile. I take it I needed that?
*That was my guess.*
Part of the dragon's job, after all, was to yell Cut the nonsense! when Karl got out of line, even if Karl thought that the dragon was the one who was out of line this time.
But still, dammit, it was only fair.
After all, as rulers went, Karl Cullinane didn't demand all that much.
On the Other Side, the lowliest of French nobility had thought nothing of ordering their subjects flogged or killed for trifling offenses; of obliging peasants to stay up during spring nights, beating the surfaces of ponds with sticks and branches, frightening frogs to silence and thereby preventing the mating cries of frogs from interfering with Monsieur le Baron's sleep; or of taking advantage of the droit de seigneur or lettres de cachet, phrases that Karl didn't even translate mentally into English, not wishing to soil the language.
Hmm... come to think of it, the phrase "French nobility" was a contradiction in terms, as far as Karl was concerned. Not that the French were alone. Lèse majesté, no matter what it was called, was punishable by death in most countries.
Unlike Chinese and Japanese emperors—and many lords and princes on This Side, for that matter—Karl collected only this year's taxes this year, leaving next year's for next year.
Karl Cullinane didn't keep peasants up at night, and he didn't punish anyone outside the nobility for running off at the mouth. He neither seduced nor raped peasant girls; he didn't practice his skills with a lance by skewering boys.
He just wanted to sleep in.
That wasn't much to ask.
*Well, life isn't fair, and you're going to have to get up. And that's the name of that tune,* the dragon added. *Andrea and her escort have left to kill some rot in Bieme's Village; I've got to leave on a supply run; and you've got to finish your new letter to Lou and maybe the one to Walter and the dwarf before I leave.
*And remember, Thomen has that poacher to sentence this morning, and you really ought to supervise the sentencing—and then you have to hold court.*
I'll cancel it.
*Sorry. You've got to see the ambassador from Khar. And I've got to grab some sky.*
Goddam Khar. To hell with Nyphien. Fuck Pandathaway and—
*And get up.*
Right.
He swung his feet to the floor and rubbed his eyes for a moment before forcing himself to his feet and, naked, padding over to the mottled-glass window.
Down below, in the inner courtyard, several porters and soldiers were strapping Ellegon's cargo to his scaly back: various leather sacks, containing food, powder, shot, and comfort rations for Frandred's raiding team, which was prowling about the coastal areas, trying to grab a slaver caravan.
*You'd better hurry up; I'm less than an hour from leaving. You go use the bathroom; I'll order up writing materials and breakfast.*
He nodded; taking a silk robe from his nightstand and belting it around him, he walked down the hall to the garderobe.
When he returned to the bedroom suite, his pen, ink bottle, and lap desk were already in the window seat; he sat down and put his feet up.
He set his lap desk on his lap; it was a wedge-shaped box of wood, the lid hinged; inside were paper and other writing materials. He swung the lid open, pulled out the six or so pages he'd already written, and quickly scanned them.
He also had some Dragon Express messages for Home, including Master Ranella's notes on her latest innovation: an improved wash for guncotton, which seemed to bring the spontaneous-detonation problem under control.
And a couple of long letters for Jason. I miss you terribly, he thought. Maybe he should have kept the boy around.
No; Andy was right. Jason would get a better education at Home: Valeran teaching him the soldierly arts, Aeia working on language skills, Riccetti and the rest of the engineers teaching him what they knew—and without Jason having to labor under the burden of the security considerations that applied in Biemestren, where he couldn't take a step out of the castle without an armed guard.
Perhaps more important, it was best for Jason to spend as much time as possible being treated merely as someone important, rather than as the heir apparent to the silver crown of the Prince of Bieme, the Emperor of Holtun-Bieme.
Kari shook his head and forced himself to get back to work, as though it was something he didn't relish. There were just a couple of notes to be made to clarify Karl's rough sketches for his railroad—which might be the most important thing he ever did. A railroad was a catalyst for trade, almost literally.
He idly whistled a few bars from Gordon Lightfoot's "Steel Rail Blues." If he could tie Holtun and Bieme together with a railroad, and then expand the line into Nyphien and on to Khar and eventually Kiar, it would be a damn fine bit of work. In effect, Holtun-Bieme would conquer two or three other countries in his lifetime, without hurting anyone, without firing a shot, enriching both sides.
Not a bad way to win a war: never declare it, never fight it, never make anyone lose it. Cheaper transportation was a form of wealth; wealth would lead to better lives for the peasant class—better prices for grains, shorter hours, meat on the table every day instead of twice a tenday.
*A chicken in every pot, eh?* He could hear Ellegon's mental smile. Despite everything, despite the fact that humans had chained him in a cesspit for three centuries, Ellegon had learned to like humans.
*Some of them.*
There was a rap on the knocking board.
"C'mon in," he called, without looking up.
It was Tennetty, carrying his breakfast tray awkwardly; she was much more comfortable with a sword at her waist than with a breakfast tray.
She set it down less gently than he'd have preferred.
"Easy on the crockery, eh?"
"If I break it, I pay for it. Okay?"
The years hadn't treated her badly, but they hadn't left her alone, either. Her stringy hair had gone mostly gray, and her remaining eye had laugh wrinkles around it, but she still carried herself comfortably, easily, as she seated herself across the window seat from him, pouring herself a cup of herb tea first, and then handing him one. Not a bad trade: From the neck up, she looked older than her forty or so years; from the neck down, she was still strong and wiry.
"Since when are you sitting in for the upstairs maid?" he asked, reaching out an eating prong to spear a mouthful of ham. It was a bit too heavy on the salt, but nicely smoky; he washed it down with a swallow of tea, regretting it instantly when he realized how hot the damn tea was.
Not bothering to mask her amusement, she handed him an earthenware mug of water as she shrugged. "When the dragon called, I was down in the kitchen, hearing from U'len what an ungrateful wretch you are, how you don't finish what you start. And since we've got some business..."
He raised an eyebrow. "We do?"
"Yeah." She nodded. "I want to go with Ellegon again; be attendant this trip. Maybe spend some time in Home with the boy, teach him the right way to use a sword."
"I'd really like you around for the council meeting. Keep an eye on my back, eh?"
She shook her head. "I don't think so. With all the musclebound swordsmen you have cluttering this place, the only danger is that you might get glared at too hard."
He didn't like this. Having Tennetty watching his back was something he was used to; he'd miss her. Then again, if Tennetty was added to the group, Karl would have even less reason to worry about Jason. If Ellegon, Tennetty, Bren Adahan, and Valeran couldn't watch the boy, then things were in worse shape than Karl knew how to deal with.
What really bothered him was the usual: It was the difference between Tennetty and sane people; she liked violence, particularly when slavers were on the other end of the blade or gun.
He pursed his lips. "Getting twitchy again?" Tennetty didn't take to peace well; this wasn't the first time she'd made such a request.
"Yeah."
Or the first time he'd granted it. "Have a nice time, and say hello to everyone for me, okay? But easy on the load on the way back; I don't want to overtax the dragon."
"Thanks, boss." She smiled. "What would you think of coming along?"
He shook his head. "Sorry—too much to do. Besides, I'm slowing down. I don't want to be around when you go looking for trouble." He gave her his I'm-damn-serious look. "And I'd better not hear about your getting the boy into any danger; he's too young."
"That he is. But it's too bad," she said, picking up and corking his ink bottle, then setting it down gently on the windowsill.
"What are you doing?"
She shrugged. "Well, you said you were slowing down—"
In one smooth movement, she drew her beltknife with her right hand and lunged for him, the knife held properly, the point moving to cut him economically from just above the crotch to the sternum, one slash gutting him like a trout.
Reflexes took over; with his left foot, he kicked her hand away, then batted his pen and lap desk aside, while he used his right leg to kick himself out of the window seat, rolling away once, then bouncing to his feet.
She was still coming at him; he scooped up a throw rug and tossed it in her direction to slow her down enough for him to retrieve his sword from the swordstand.
He tossed the scabbard aside; Tennetty had already drawn her own sword, and moved to an en garde position, standing easily.
Slowly, she lowered the point of her sword and resheathed her dagger. "Slowing down, eh?"
He sighed as he lowered his own sword. "I wish you wouldn't do that. I really do."
"I wish you wouldn't give me any nonsense about slowing down. Had to show you better."
He knew better; she'd done it for her benefit, not for his. "Sorry, Ten, but I can't go. I've got to hold court, and then I'm going to ride back to Arondael and supervise the maneuvers." It was one thing to hold Arondael responsible for any violence; it was another thing to let that pot boil unattended.
She shook her head. "Night before last was the most fun I've had in what feels like years. Peace is too wearing on us bloodthirsty types. Including you," she said.
She just didn't get it. The fact was that Karl Cullinane really didn't like violence. He committed it, when necessary; he tried to be damn good at it; but he had no compunctions about avoiding it when possible.
He rubbed the fingers of his right hand over the stumps of the outer fingers of his left. Violence had costs; Karl Cullinane had been lucky to lose only three fingers. Tennetty had once lost an eye; Chak, Rahff, Aveneer, and all the others had died. Some quickly, some slowly—but they all were dead, dead, dead.
Mortality pressed down on Karl Cullinane like a corporeal weight. Again, he rubbed his stumps. If he'd been just a few inches to the left, out of the blast shadow, it might have been his head.
All he'd lost was fingers ...
"Look at it this way—nobody can count better in base seven than you.*
Thanks, Ellegon. "Some other time, okay? And you'd better leave me alone; I want to finish this letter in time."
She nodded; wordless, she sheathed her sword, turned, and left.
He gathered together the scattered writing materials, uncorked the ink bottle, dipped his pen, and got back to writing.

It didn't look good, Walter Slovotsky decided, but maybe it didn't look too bad, either.
It was likely going to be goddam bloody.
But not yet. Squatting in their perch in the hastily manufactured blind in an old oak tree along the trail, Slovotsky patted Jason reassuringly on the arm while they both looked down at the progression of the slaver caravan below.
The slavers were moving both themselves and their cargo as quickly as possible, but it wasn't a rapid gait; the horses had to hold to the pace of the slowest of the neck-chained slaves—humans and elves of all ages and sexes—although the very youngest and weakest were carried by their companions.
Not a pretty sight; as he watched, one of the captives, a boy of perhaps eight, maybe nine years of age, tripped and fell, only to be dragged along for several feet by his neck chain until the rag-clad men in front and in back of him could help him regain his feet. As he did, a horse-borne slaver's whip snaked out and caught him across the shoulders with a quiet snap; his scream trailed off into a whimper, punctuated by another yelp of pain when the slaver lashed him again and cursed at him to keep up. Crimson welts flared on the boy's shoulders.
Walter Slovotsky's fingernails clawed at the bark of the tree. Most of the time he let himself forget what this was all about. Most of the time he let things like a nine-year-old boy being whipped become only distant memories.
He didn't want reminders like this; the slaver with the whip would pay for that, would pay for reminding him.
The slaver was a big, blond man, with close-cropped hair, looking vaguely Germanic to Slovotsky's eyes. Probably from Osgrad. Slovotsky made a mental note to deal with him personally.
Walter nodded grimly to his companion in the tree. Jason, me bucko, it seems that some of your father rubs off on us all.
But not all of his father. Karl Cullinane probably would have dropped into the crowd of slavers and taken them all on, no matter what the odds, trusting on his extraordinary fighting ability and his even more extraordinary luck to carry him through.
Slovotsky held back a smile; Karl would probably have been right, at that. He probably would have chopped all of them into slaver pate, only working up a good sweat.
That was the advantage of leading a charmed life.
Walter Slovotsky, on the other hand, was fully aware of his own mortality, and while he had the utmost faith in his own luck, he figured that it was best used as rarely as possible.
Besides, remember Slovotsky's law number nine, revised: Sometimes you can't do anything about something that sucks—until later.
Still, how to handle this one was hard to figure. At least it wasn't a trap, thank God; for once, his suspicions, if not quite groundless, had been proved wrong. Slavers trying to draw Home raiders into some sort of ambush wouldn't be driving themselves, their horses, and their chain of slaves this hard.
The slavers were on the run with their booty—both people and gold—trying to avoid a fight, not find one.
The trap hypothesis hadn't been likely, granted; slavers' minds wouldn't work that way. They wouldn't assume that a Therranj raid would draw Home raiders; besides, they hadn't been operating openly in the region, and wouldn't have the kind of support they'd need to make it a trap. The few communities between Therranj and Wehnest were far more attached to Home-made steel than to slaver-supplied slave labor—labor which could be liberated without warning.
If little ol' me isn't suspicious of a trap, it ain't a trap. And that's the name of that tune.
He nodded and smiled at Jason. It's looking good, kid, he thought.
Still, there were probably aspects of the slavers' marching order that could constitute a trap for the unwary.
But unwary isn't something I am. He pulled a piece of jerky out of his pouch and took a silent bite, offering the stick to Jason, who refused with a too-violent shake of his head.
The idea is to not move a whole lot, boyo. Still, not a huge danger; humans didn't tend to look up to spot danger.
Walter Slovotsky counted sixty-three slavers, with another ten or so probably resting in the wagons. The few ragged men helping to chivvy along the chain of the slaves were clearly the equivalent of trusties, and while Walter didn't have a whole lot of respect for that or for them, they didn't look like either a problem or a danger; they'd run, not fight.
The slavers, on the other hand, looked to be both a problem and a danger.
The horsemen riding point rode with an easy confidence, never turning to check behind them, manifestly trusting those at the rear to keep a lookout behind the group, while an advance party of five was about an hour and a mile ahead; it seemed that they sent back riders both to report an all's well and to switch off with decent regularity.
The classic Karl Cullinane method of taking on a caravan was out. Karl always liked to spook the slavers; a loud attack could get them running into a two-guns squad ambush that would cut the bastards to ribbons with minimum casualties to his raiders.
But the slick, professional way these folks were running their march suggested that the Slavers' Guild had been taking lessons in military tactics, and the importance of not letting oneself be stampeded into an ambush was something that they had likely worked out. That was too bad; Daherrin was a student of Karl's and wouldn't like another method.
Still, the news wasn't all bad, thank God.
Most importantly, there were no guns in evidence, and no sign of slaver powder. And while the slavers practically bristled with both crossbows and short Katharhd hornbows, there weren't any visible signs of longbowmen. Which was good. For reasonably close but not quite intimate combat, the longbow was the most dangerous projectile weapon available—when held by someone who could use it expertly, which was always the problem.
Hmmm... Walter wasn't surprised that this wasn't as large a group as they had been told about by Khoral's emissary; he'd more than half expected that. Reports of battles tended to grow in the telling, and the raid on a few Therranji towns had quickly grown.
Being off by a factor of two wasn't much; the last time Walter had heard about the time the legendary Karl Cullinane had killed Ohlmin and his slavers, Ohlmin had been the marshal of a force of a thousand slavers, and Karl had defeated them all by wielding the sword of Arta Myrdhyn.
Walter Slovotsky muffled a chuckle.
He'd been there, and it hadn't happened that way, not that way at all. At the final showdown, there had been precisely six slavers, and Walter had picked off four with his crossbow while Karl distracted them with an admittedly nice display of swordsmanship—and it was an ordinary saber that Karl had used that night, not the magical sword that they didn't even know about until long after.
Ohlmin hadn't been dispatched by the legendary single slash that clove him from head to crotch; in fact, he'd been a better swordsman than Karl, and although it was Karl who had killed the bastard, he'd done it with a half-dozen crude headsman's chops, while Ohlmin was clutching at the bolt Walter had fired into his groin.
—had cleverly fired into his groin, Slovotsky amended, chiding himself for his uncharacteristic and unintentional modesty.
It had been pretty damn clever, at that. As good a swordsman as Karl was, that murderous bastard Ohlmin was better, and would have carved the big man into bloody little chunks if Slovotsky hadn't distracted him by sinking a foot of iron-tipped wood into his crotch.
And if I'm so clever, he thought, why didn't I mention to Lou the possibility—hell, the likelihood—that we didn't need as many men as he was willing to spare?
The answer to that one was easy: While Lou might have wanted to keep the group as small as possible, from Walter's point of view there was no such thing as too many, and Walter didn't want to give Lou any excuse to cut down on the size of the raiding party. Port captains always liked to see ships in their ports; post commanders didn't like to see empty parade grounds.
Still, even a hundred warriors versus sixty wasn't going to make the job easy, not necessarily. Or bloodless, on their side.
Walter's maps were in his horse's saddlebags, and his horse was a couple of miles away; he didn't exactly remember this trail, but he knew that somewhere it fed into the major road toward Wehnest, and that could mean trouble. If the Home raiders didn't hit the slavers early enough, they'd have to do it in the cleared fields surrounding that town. Much better to jump the slavers in the woods; an ambush would be by far preferable. Something a bit complicated, maybe almost anything would be better than a meeting engagement on a farming road.
The last rider passed under their tree. Jason waited until he had passed out of sight, then turned to Walter.
"Unc—"
Slovotsky shot his arm out and clapped his hand over the boy's mouth. He put his lips next to Jason's ear. "Shut up, asshole," he whispered, barely any breath behind his words. "I'll tell you when you can make noise—if you understand, nod."
At Jason's nod, Slovotsky let go, not bothering to hide his irritation as he shook his head.
The boy pursed his lips as though to say something, but decided against it. Which was just as well.
Again, Slovotsky placed his lips next to the boy's ear. "A silence isn't over until I say it is," he whispered as quietly as he could. "Now just sit still."
After making sure that Jason was sitting still, Slovotsky leaned back against the rough trunk of the tree and closed his eyes, letting his mind drift. It was just a bit too neat; it would have been easy to drop to the trail and backtrack to the side trail where they had stashed the horses. Walter Slovotsky, always conscious of the fact that his own tendency was to do things the easy way, was by policy suspicious of too-easy solutions.
Policy aside this was a situation worthy of some suspicion: The slavers had put out an advance party; was it beyond possibility that they had a detachment batting cleanup? Not at all.
Five minutes of silence passed, and then ten. He nodded to himself and forced his eyes open, beckoning to the boy.
Hear that? Slovotsky mouthed, putting his hands behind his ears to pantomime listening carefully.
Jason wrinkled his brow as though to say, Hear what?
What is the strange thing that the dog did in the night, Watson? Slovotsky mouthed.
At the boy's puzzled look, Slovotsky was reminded again that these goddam kids had been brought up on This Side, with only traces of a proper cultural upbringing.
He put his lips next to Jason's ears. "We've been silent," he whispered, his voice pitched to carry no more than inches, "and we haven't been moving around; the forest noises should have returned by now."
But they haven't, the boy mouthed.
"Precisely my point, Watson." Slovotsky pointed down the trail in the direction from which the slaver party had come. "So keep your mouth shut and your eyes open—and on the trail."
Thank you, squirrels and birds. The animals were keeping watch for them. Since they were still quiet, their keener senses had picked up something. Possibly somebody else using this rarely used trading trail through the forest....
In another ten minutes, he could hear the clatter of hooves along the trail; moments later, a party of seventeen sharp-eyed men rode underneath.
Make that a hundred to eighty-seven. Still, not the worst odds he'd ever run across.
As the riders disappeared around the bend, Walter turned to Jason. The lesson had made an impression on the boy. He didn't even breathe heavily as he watched the heavily armed troop ride slowly down the trail, and he didn't make a move to leave when the troop rode out of sight.
Walter Slovotsky mouthed, See? I do know what I'm talking about, then breathed on his nails and buffed them across his chest.
Still if we can get the jump on them, it should be a piece of cake, Walter Slovotsky said to himself. Then a wanton burst of self-honesty forced him to respond: Then why are you scared shitless, as usual?
He shrugged off the question, and waited only a few more minutes before standing and stretching as the forest noises returned.
"Let's go get the horses, boyo—we've got some hard riding to do."
Jason hesitated. "Uncle Walter?"
"Yes?"
"How did you know?"
"Well..." Walter Slovotsky could have mentioned the forest's silence, but he wasn't sure he wanted to let the boy in on all the trade secrets. Not yet, anyway; right now, Jason's being impressed was more important—besides, the tone of admiration in Jason's voice was a definite and pleasant improvement over the previous disdain. "Elementary, my dear Cullinane, quite elementary—a little bird told me," he said, more or less truthfully.
"What?"
"Let's get moving; with a bit of luck, we can hook up with the team sometime tomorrow morning."

The silence bore down on Karl Cullinane's shoulders as he stepped out onto his balcony and stared out into the night.
The night was dark and damp, the sky overcast, a west wind promising rain and cold. The darkness was relieved by no playful faerie lights; the only break in the curtain of black was the lights of the castle itself, and distant glows in a few stray windows in the town of Biemstren.
Why couldn't he sleep? The night was half gone, and it had been all he could do to rest for a few moments.
Was there something threatening out there? Had he suddenly developed some paranormal danger sense?
Nah.
Don't be silly, Karl.
There was nothing out there but dark. Nothing important at all.
There had been another time, when a young Karl Cullinane would have been out in the night, his mind on things of overriding importance, perhaps on hunting slavers, perhaps on other great deeds to be done... perhaps on just being young.
Being young had been nice. But that was gone; the years had fled all too quickly.
That was it. The years went by too fast. Just too damn fast.
He closed the doors to the balcony and plopped down into his chair.
Maybe it was the baronial council meeting. Perhaps the time wasn't right, but he had called for the session, and it would have to be done sometime. Holts and Biemish would have to sit down at the same table and get used to the idea that this was one country now. And Nerahan deserved to own his own barony again. Still...
"Karl?" There was a rustling of cloth behind him; light flared as Andy used a piece of straw to bring fire from the fireplace to a lamp.
"Yeah. Just me." He tried for a light tone in his voice. "Who were you expecting? Go back to sleep."
Ignoring the halfhearted plea, she rose and came to him, her white, silken nightgown rippling in the wind.
"There was a time, old girl, when we both slept raw."
She smiled. "On the cold ground, with too few blankets between us and the ground." Her hand smoothed down her side, and then fluttered up to tug at his arm. "Come back in."
He shrugged. "Okay." He closed the doors to the balcony, reflexively slipping down the crossbar. "Just sit with me for a while."
"What is it?" Andy laid a gentle hand on his shoulder as he sat, scowling.
Karl shook his head. "I don't know. Nothing."
"Then will you please come to bed? Please?" She moved to the bed, pulled back the covers, and slipped between them. "You have a long day tomorrow."
"You get some sleep." He jerked his head toward the bed and took the lamp from her hands. "Just because I have a little insomnia doesn't mean you should stay up with me. Just give me a while. I've got some paperwork to do."
Ushering her back to bed, he padded across the carpet to his study, closing the twin doors quietly behind him. He set the lamp over his desk, then sat down and picked up a sheaf of papers, pretending to read.
The subject was important—it was a précis of the latest land-tax collection in barony Adahan—but, as usual, there wouldn't be any discrepancy he could catch. Minor stealing by the tax collectors was the rule, not the exception. While, officially, embezzlement of tax money was a hanging offense, in fact petty tax theft wasn't frowned on, as long as the collectors didn't get too greedy; baronial tax collectors were paid poorly, and there was always the temptation to collect a bit more than the records showed a freefarmer owed.
But even double-entry bookkeeping couldn't catch that; it was the initial entry that was false, not subsequent reconciliations.
But he didn't care. It just didn't seem to matter.
He wished Ellegon were here. Karl could always trust the dragon to help clear his mind.
Damn. He reached up and tugged at the bellrope, twice—the nonemergency signal for a guard.
Boots thudded in the hall outside; the door swung open. "Yes, your majesty," the guard boomed, in a voice much larger than his slightly shorter than normal size warranted.
"Shh; not so loud." Karl turned in his chair. "And good evening, Nartham," he said. He would have known who it was just by the volume.
"I am at your service," the guard said, his voice rattling the night.
"Ta havath, Nartham," Karl said. Easy, Nartham. Why this guard always had to talk as though he were a half-deaf artillery sergeant on a parade ground was something Karl couldn't fathom. "My wife's sleeping in the next room, eh?"
"Sorry, sir," the guard said, at a barely reduced volume.
"The prisoner cart—did it leave this afternoon?"
"No, your majesty. Driver got here too late, I hear, and the bar—the judge told him to stay overnight. It should go out at first light."
Karl nodded a dismissal—"Thank you—"
—which Nartham didn't catch. "Is there anything else?"
"No." Karl shook his head. "Good night, Nartham."
"But—yes, sir."
As the door closed behind the guard, the twin doors to the bedroom swung open.
"Better talk about it," Andy said from the doorway, her arms crossed defensively over her chest.
"I thought you were going to bed."
"No. You told me to go back to bed. There's a difference. Not that I was going to go back to sleep anyway, but Nartham's voice could wake up the dead. What is it? What's really bothering you?"
"Probably the trial." He shrugged again. "It doesn't make much of a difference. It's just that... Vernim. Idiotic bastard. If only he'd kept his mouth shut, if only he hadn't been too stupid to see that Thomen was only trying to scare him—"
She shook her head. "And that's what's bothering you? The poacher? Maybe I've gone a bit native, but so what? You declared an amnesty when you took the throne; all he and his family had to do was switch from poaching deer to snaring rabbits."
"But he didn't."
And it wasn't right.
But was that what was bothering him? He honestly couldn't say.
Didn't make sense. In Karl's time, he had had to put up with things a lot more raw than hanging a man who should have been, at worst, flogged.
He shook his head. "Something more's bothering me about this, and I can't figure out what it is."
Damn idiot thing, at that. A young Karl Cullinane always used to make fun of the California types who were always trying to "get in touch with their feelings" and similar nonsense. Get in touch with your feelings? Not know what you feel? Could anything be sillier?
Except when it happened to you. "Y'know, when I was younger, I wouldn't have put up with this."
Maybe that was it. Then again, maybe not.
"Put up with what?" She set her hip on the arm of his chair.
He reached over and stroked her knee. "I wouldn't have put up with not even hearing you get out of bed, that's what I wouldn't have put up with. I'm getting old," he said, glad that Tennetty wasn't here.
She shook her head and pushed his hand away, not falling for either distraction. "No. That's not it. You wouldn't have put up with a man being hanged for hunting for meat for his table, that's what's bothering you."
He shrugged again. So what? "I had to. There wasn't any choice."
She nodded. "So? You're going to let that bother you forever?"
He shook his head. "Not forever." He'd had to do worse in his time. He'd once marched a bunch of friends into enemy gunfire, and not regretted it for a moment, even though only he and Tennetty had survived.
No. His fists clenched. He had regretted it every moment. Aveneer, Piett, Erek... he'd always miss redheaded Aveneer's booming voice, Piell's unrelieved but strangely reassuring frown, Erek's expression of intense concentration—he'd always regret having marched them into the cannon's mouth.
He'd always regret the action and the necessity, but not his obedience to the necessity.
Some necessities were always to be regretted. Always; it was a debt to the dead.
"Then what is it?" She smiled down at him. "You know, when you were Thomen's age, you wouldn't have pouted over something like this. You'd either have sprung the bastard, or let him hang without worrying."
It wasn't so simple now. There were other things to be considered. On balance, it was better to let the idiot hang than to alienate Tyrnael.
"You're right, though," he said. "When I was Thomen's age, I wouldn't have put up with it."
"What would you have done?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe... I guess maybe I'd have tried to spring him—"
No.
He looked over at her. "Did Thomen say anything to you?"
It hit her, too; she shivered. "No. But he wouldn't put me in that awkward a position." She caught her lip between her teeth for a moment. "I'm not sure that I'd have told you even if he had."
He rose to his feet. "We'll talk about that some other time." The question was what to do now. The young baron would take responsibility on his own shoulders. It was something that he had learned from his late father, and that had been reinforced by his emperor and mentor.
"Can you locate him for me?"
She nodded. "Unless he's protected—but are you sure you want me to?" she asked as she stretched broadly. She gathered her long, flowing hair up and with a few fingerstrokes almost magically twisted it into a neat bun, securing it with a pair of ebony hairprongs.
Are you sure you want me to?
That was the trouble. Technically, if Thomen was doing what Karl half hoped he was, half prayed he wasn't, the boy was committing treason...
Technically.
The job of a ruler, Karl Cullinane had once noted in his journal, consists primarily of pissing on sparks. This counted as a spark. "How quickly can you pin down where he is?"
"I haven't done any locating for a long time," She shook her head. "It'll take me a couple of hours to set up and work the spell."
That could work right. As long as Karl could leave before the prisoner cart did, he'd have the jump on Thomen.
But there were some preparations to be made, if he was going to get out quietly, or be reasonably certain of getting back safely.
Shrugging out of his nightrobe and dropping it to the floor, he padded across the carpet back to the bedroom. "Do it, then meet me at the stables."
As he reached for his clothes, he was smiling: There was something to do.

Except for the weather, Walter Slovotsky's part of the attack went off like it was charmed.
Walter Slovotsky's commando—he insisted on the correct usage of the word; it referred to the group, not the members of the group—consisted of only ten; ten against the seventeen in the horseborne slaver reserves wasn't great odds.
But there were compensating factors. Lou had told him that Aeia was still just about the best shot in Home; Bren Adahan, while inexperienced with a pistol, was a better swordsman than Walter, and quite good with a crossbow—and, most important, an experienced warrior; he had been thoroughly blooded in the Holtun-Bieme war.
Six of the others were warriors that Daherrin had recommended, only two of them tyros, one of those serving as medic—which meant that in addition to his weapons, he carried bandages and the bottle of healing draughts.
Daherrin had suggested Jason as the tenth, but Walter had vetoed the suggestion: This was a tricky bit; much better to put Jason with the group that was going to hit the slaver scouts—that looked to be the relatively cushy job.
No, Jason wasn't his tenth. His tenth was Ahira. The two of them had been friends for half their lives, and partnered for much of that time. In or out of a fight, having Ahira around was to Slovotsky like having a concrete backboard when playing basketball: The ball would rebound, period.
Still, given that the goal was to end up with seventeen dead slavers and no-count-them-no dead Home soldiers, it was going to be touch-and-go. Their pistols should lower the odds some; the rope in his hands was going to even them even more.
As was the element of surprise.
Which was the reason that Walter was in tactical command, after all, and not Ahira.
Besides, Ahira was part of the tactical reserves. Way back when, when he was in ROTC, Walter Slovotsky had been told that it was always necessary to have a reserve; it was the only thing from his two-week military career that had benefited him.
A stray raindrop hit him square in the left eye, stinging as he rubbed at it.
The weather was not promising; it was hard to reload in the rain.
As before, there was no sign of the slaver reserves from down the road when the last of the main party vanished around the bend. Wind whispered down the trail, a further promise of the oncoming storm.
Walter crept around the bend and waited silently until they were far enough away so that he could be sure his low-voiced call to Aeia and Bren wouldn't possibly be heard.
Distant flashes of lightning and remote crashes of thunder sent chills racing down his neck.
"Okay, you two," he whispered, hefting a coil of braided-leather rope as he stepped onto the trail. "Let's get to it."
While the first spatter of raindrops touched the leaves overhead, Bren Adahan knelt next to a tree, easily lifting Aeia when she stepped into his cupped hands. Walter tossed her the end of the rope,
It only took a few seconds for her to make the rope fast to the tree; she dropped lightly to the trail, and she and Bren repeated the process on the other side.
"Gin," Walter said. "Now we just have to—"
Shots sounded from down the trail.
Too early!
Panic washed across him in an icy wave, as the rain intensified, hard drops spattering his chest. As he dove for the cover of the woods he heard a harsh voice whispering, "Everyone to his place, and hold your fire," and realized it was his own.
More gunshots sounded from down the road; distant cracks that had him reflexively reaching for the pistols in his belt, knives at his hip, the swordbelt that was slung over his left shoulder, the better to discard it.
He could see only four of his people; the other four, under Ahira, were farther down the trail, giving them two lines of fire.
If it worked.
The rain fell hard, icy sheets clawing down through the trees.
Hoofbeats thundered on the hard ground; the troop of slavers galloped down the path, four abreast.
His bare back against the rough bark of the tree, Walter reached across his waist and drew a pistol, cocking it as he brought it up to chest level, hoping, praying that the rain hadn't penetrated into the pan.
The first four slavers hit the rope almost simultaneously. The taut leather knocked them into the air as though they were bowling pins.
Except that bowling pins didn't have neckbones that cracked with a horrible snap. Bowling pins didn't fall to the ground twitching and screaming in a final agony.
Two of the horses stumbled and fell, one sending its rider tumbling, the other rolling and crushing the scream from its former rider.
Of the next four slavers, one was able to duck under, but a gunshot caught him in the shoulder, slamming him out of the saddle and to the ground. Walter Slovotsky stood, bringing his first pistol to bear on an advancing slaver, firing as the heavy-bearded man fell into his sights.
He must have overloaded the gun; it went off with a bang that shook Walter to the bone. He missed; he never did see where the bullet went.
But the flash of his pistol and the clamor of the gunshot had identified him as a target for the charging slavers, who were now reining their horses in, some with swords already unscabbarded, others with lances seated firmly against their hips, yet others with short hornbows brought up, arrows nocked.
The slaver he had fired at brought his lance down and spurred his horse toward Slovotsky.
It was strange, Walter thought as his fingers clawed for another pistol, the things you noticed at a time like this: mud splashing from the pounding hooves, the flaring of the horse's nostrils, a vein in the bearded man's throat pulsing once, twice, three times—
And then vanishing as a shotgun blast tore him from the saddle, turning the face into a bloody pulp and sending him tumbling in the rain to the wet ground.
Walter unholstered his remaining pistol, and cocked it. It had been perhaps ten seconds since the first of the slavers had hit the rope, and there were already eight down.
As he brought his pistol up, a flurry of gunfire knocked three more of the slavers from their saddles, including the one Slovotsky had been aiming at.
He switched targets, but missed; his bullet struck his intended target's horse in the neck as the animal reared.
The horse screamed.
Something whizzed past Walter's ear, stinging him as a new wetness touched his cheek.
Another slaver, this one a blond boy no older than Jason, reached with trembling fingers to pull his crossbow's string back, but Walter's fingers found the hilt of one of his knives, drew, and threw it, sending another one flying after it even as the first one thunked home.
And then, from behind the last of the slavers, Ahira stepped into the rain, a potlike steel helmet strapped to his head, new chainmail protecting his torso, the metal shirt dropping all the way to his knees.
His staff, freshly cut from a sapling, was easily three times his height; even though it was thicker than Walter Slovotsky's wrist, the dwarf held it easily in his huge hands.
With a guttural cry, Ahira swept the end of his oversized staff toward the nearest of the slavers, moving so quickly that the sapling visibly bent even before the end whipped around to bowl the slaver from his horse, the man broken like a discarded child's toy.
A bolt of lightning momentarily dazzled Slovotsky's eyes; as they began to clear he saw Ahira still wielding his oversized weapon as lightly and easily as a human would handle a wooden switch. The dwarf quickly batted five more from their saddles. Other Home warriors were upon the dazed or dead slavers in seconds, slitting their throats with an efficiency that chilled even Walter.
It had been less than half a minute since the trap had sprung, and there was only one slaver left alive and uninjured.
Slavery is an unjustifiable evil, at any time and in any place. But that does not mean that all slavers are cowards. The last one was a brave man: instead of trying to run, or cowering and waiting his fate, he vaulted from his saddle and with a muttered oath of defiance lunged at Ahira.
Ahira brought up his staff to parry, but his sandals slipped in the mud of the trail and he fell flat on his back, momentarily stunned, the pole falling from his hands.
The slaver lunged at the dwarf; the tip of his sword caught in Ahira's chainmail.
On his back, the dwarf tried to crab himself away, but the slaver turned only momentarily to parry the attack of one of Slovotsky's warriors, then went after Ahira, his sword weaving as it pursued the dwarf like a snake after a rabbit.
Walter Slovotsky had already snatched his own sword from its scabbard; at a full sprint, he barely paused, broken-field-style, to kick a dying slaver out of his way, and ran toward the dwarf and his opponent, hoping that he would make it in time, praying that Ahira could hold out just a few more seconds, just a few more.
"Hold your fire, everybody," Walter called out. Ahira and the slaver were too close; a mis-aimed shot could easily hit the dwarf instead of the slaver. And Ahira was trapped; he had crabbed himself backward into a tree, and had nowhere to go, no way to defend himself.
Walter dropped his sword and snatched at a throwing knife as the slaver brought back his own weapon for a final, fatal thrust.
Two shots rang out; the slaver's throat disappeared in an awful shower of blood and bone. As the body slipped to the mud, the slaver's head, its face miraculously almost whole, fell to the ground, all the while seemingly watching Walter with shocked, wide eyes.
A splash of muddy water covered the eyes.
Walter turned to see Aeia lower her second pistol. Her stringy hair, sopping from the rain, clung to her face and neck; she eyed him levelly as she pressed her face hand against her side. "I don't miss slavers," she said from between clenched teeth. "And I don't take chancy shots."
That was nonsense. Anyone could miss. But she hadn't missed, and that was what mattered.
Besides, there wasn't time for discussion, not now.
"Places, everyone," Walter Slovotsky said. "Gunmen, get under the tarpaulin and reload," he said, reaching for where he had dropped his own pistols and fumbling in his pouch for his powder horn. It still might work; they had set up a tarp as a fly, to give them a dry place to reload if the rain was too intense.
Which it was; he wiped the water from his eyes as he gathered up his own weapons, hoping that there were enough dry cloths under the tarp so that he could dry the weapons enough to reload.
"Jimmy, I want those trees down. Danerel, see to the injured animals; bind or put them out of their miser—"
In midword, it hit him.
Aeia was pressing her hand to her side. No.
He ran to her. She was sitting on the ground, leaning against the rough bark of a half-dead elm, staring blindly out into the rain, clumsy fingers clawing at her pouch, ignoring the pounding of the storm and the frightening dark wetness that spread across her hip, staining her shirt with her own blood.
"Aeia, please... let me," Bren Adahan said as he knelt next to her, but Walter shoved him away, sending the younger man tumbling.
It only occurred to him much later that he was acting like Karl would have—that monomaniac Cullinane could never concentrate on more than one thing at a time.
"Medic, dammit," he shouted, as he crouched beside her. "We need a goddamn medic here. We've got one down." He tore the pistol and powder horn from her hands and gripped both of her wrists in his left fist, ignoring her vague, distant protests.
"I decide what the priorities are here, understood?" he said, tugging at her shirt, trying to pull it up so that he could get at her wound. Wet, it resisted; it clung tightly to her skin.
Fastening both hands on her shirt, he ripped the cloth away, revealing the deep gash in her side. The hole went all the way through her, about kidney-height. Blood flowed evenly, a dark oozing. Trying to staunch the flow, he clapped a palm to her wound, then snatched it away as she screamed, her body writhing spasmodically.
"No," she said, struggling against his grip with a weakness that frightened him. "Later. Got to reload, or—" Her voice trailed off in a gurgle as a spasm sent a stream of bloody vomit pouring from her mouth, spattering him.
The runner arrived with the brass bottle of healing draughts; out of the corner of his eye Slovotsky saw Bren Adahan snatch it away and uncork it. Adahan splashed some on Aeia's wound, then forced the bottle between her lips, while Slovotsky held her still.
But another spasm splattered Walter's face with wasted healing draught and more sour vomit. Shaking his head to clear the vile fluid from his face, he tried to hold her still. Bren splashed more of the precious stuff on the outside of her wounds, and was only partly successful.
"Try it again—Aeia, you've got to drink this," Bren said.
"Can't—"
Walter Slovotsky called for his command voice:
"Do it, Aeia. Now," he said.
God, I sound like Karl, he thought, as she swallowed once, hard, and then went limp in his arms.
"No!" Bren Adahan shouted, a shrill half-scream, while Walter held her tightly against his chest, her cold, wet form horribly still.
No. Make it not so.
But—God and all the saints be praised!—the thumping wasn't just his own heart. It was hers, too.
"She's alive, Bren." Walter found himself smiling so hard he thought his face might split. "She's alive." Gripping her hands, he could feel her pulse. Thin and thready, but it was there. He fancied he could hear her heartbeat.
Somewhere off in the storm, Ahira was barking orders; a tree crashed to the ground. "Walter," the dwarf called, "we've got to set up."
Walter stood, Aeia in his arms. "Bren—take her away from the trail; I don't want her hurt any more."
Bren nodded grimly as he accepted her limp form, holding the girl easily, tenderly, leaving behind only a quick glare as he ducked his head and pushed away into the rain.
Clever, Slovotsky, very clever. You sure concealed that relationship well.
Walter Slovotsky had always prided himself on not being the kiss-and-tell type, but it never seemed to matter much; interested parties usually worked such things out.
To hell with it. He wiped sour vomit from his face and chest as he worked his way back to the trail, slogging through the now ankle-deep mud.
Save that for later.
"Save it for later, Walter," Ahira said, echoing his own thoughts. The dwarf swung the woodaxe against the bole of another tree; chips the size of Slovotsky's fist flew off into the rain. "And reload, now."
Walter looked down at where he had dropped his pistols; they lay in the leaves, wet and muddy. It would take more than a few towels and a few minutes to dry them enough for reloading. s #
"No good; I'm going to have to substitute."
"Then do it." ?
Crossbow, that was the best bet—he could relieve one of the dead slavers of a weapon. The bastards always seemed to have good bows.
He walked over to where the still body of a slaver crossbowman lay on the ground, half covered by his dappled mare. Glassy-eyed, barely breathing, the animal whinnied in pain, its right foreleg badly broken, bloody shards of bone poking through the skin.
Dead slavers were something that didn't bother Slovotsky, not after all these years. But an animal in pain was something he could never get used to.
"Danerel?" he called out. "You find any healing draughts?"
The fat man nodded and pulled a small clay bottle from his pouch, tossing it to Slovotsky.
While healing draughts were precious, it wasn't possible to trust the slavers' potions—more than once, they had been boobytrapped; once he had watched one of his and Karl's team die a horrible death in front of their eyes. Four times, Walter had watched the same happen to a captured slaver, used as a test animal.
There weren't any test animals here. "Then again, Dobbin, I don't see you're going to lose anything by my trying."
Walter uncorked the bottle and poured the thick liquid onto the horse's wound.
This time, the stuff was pure, the real thing: Skin and muscle reached out and drew bone into place, slashed flesh sealed up like a zipper. But the horse was still weak, still whinnying in pain. Internal injuries, probably.
Well, Slovotsky decided, laughing inside at his own hypocrisy, there could still be a slow-acting poison in this; best to use it on the animal and not himself.
He splashed the rest into the animal's mouth, then tossed the now-empty bottle aside.
The familiar miracle repeated itself: In less than a minute, the horse was on its feet. As he stooped to move the body of the slaver, Walter took a moment to pat at its muzzle, resolving to take this mare as part of his share of the booty.
Half covered by the body of its former master, the slaver's crossbow was unbroken, surprisingly.
Cocking it, Walter took a quiver of bolts down from the horse's saddle and slipped one into the slot, nocking it into place. He hung the quiver from his belt and headed to the roadblock that Ahira had set up.
Three trees lay across the trail, their boles and branches making the way almost impassable. But over to the left, the brush on the side of the trail was thinned out, just enough. "Danerel—and you, yes, you—take positions over there. And restring the tripwire from that tree to that one. In case they crash through."
It had been only a few minutes since the start of the attack; retreating slavers should be due any moment. The only question in Slovotsky's mind was how long his commando could hold them without relief from the rest of the Home forces.
After all the anticipation, it was an anticlimax when only three slaver horsemen made it down the trail to the roadblock. Three bullets and two crossbow bolts were enough to bring them down.

I'm going, too. The moment that the words were out of his mouth, Jason Cullinane had known that it was a terrible mistake.
But it had also been expected of him, required of him. Everything was expected of his son. By him, as well as everyone else.
Including Aeia and Valeran. Well, perhaps Aeia would have smiled tolerantly at him, even if he hadn't volunteered, but the old soldier, who didn't seem to approve of much that Jason Cullinane did or was, had responded to Jason's hasty words with a brief nod of approval, the highest praise that the old captain had ever deigned to confer on Jason.
It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. So what if other sixteen-year-olds were expected to use a sword, bow, or gun, to put themselves in the way of flying crossbow bolts and sharp steel edges—why did Jason have to be like everyone else? The others were all so stupid—didn't they know that swords could cut, that bolts could pierce too-weak flesh?
Didn't they know?

"We don't have much time," Ahira said, staring out into the night. The rain had faded to a drizzle, but it was enough to mask Jason's trail. Just a couple of miles farther, the forest opened on the cleared land of the holdings outside of Wehnest; he could go in any direction.
Go after him now? Riding down a forest trail at night was a fine way for horses and people to lose eyes; maybe once they broke through into cleared land they might be able to make some safe progress.
But cleared land was miles away. It might as well be light-years.
Ahira didn't like it at all.
Why did humans have to make a bad situation worse? The dwarf shrugged. It was typical.
"He might turn back," Aeia said, taking another mouthful of stew. "I doubt it, but he might. Stubbornness runs in the family," she said, a little proudly.
Bren Adahan shrugged, the flames of the cooking fire dancing in his eyes. He ran dirty fingers through his sandy hair. "I don't see what the problem is. As Mikyn tells it, Jason... left after the matter was decided; it wasn't cowardice—"
"Says you." Walter Slovotsky shook his head. "And says me, for that matter. All it looks like is squeamishness. But what if it looks like cowardice to him?"
Trust Walter to put his finger right on the problem.
Adahan didn't understand; he shrugged again. "So? We find him and explain otherwise. It's not uncommon to panic, one's first time in a fight."
"Tell that to the boy," Ahira said. Please tell that to the boy.
"Very well; I'll go after him," Bren Adahan said, spreading his hands. "But, again, I do not see the problem. We can send easily half a hundred men to find him, persuade him to come back, even force him if they have to."
Aeia's eyes flashed at that. "Force my brother?"
"Never mind that, Aeia. Think again, Bren Adahan," Daherrin said. "Think again."
"Excuse me?"
"He's telling you to think it through," Aeia said. She spoke slowly, patiently, as though explaining something obvious to a half-witted child. "Jason isn't just my little brother; he's also Karl Cullinane's son—don't you think that any member of the Slavers' Guild would give his right leg to have his hands on the emperor's son?" She swallowed more stew. "It's got to be done fast. We don't have much time until the word gets out."
That was true. Word of Jason's desertion had quickly spread among the Home warriors—and probably the ex-slaves. Gossip travels at around the speed of sound, even though it feels like the speed of light. Those Therranji heading back to Therranj would quickly spread the story; even those going Home would soon pass the news throughout the valley, and from there to an outbound trader.
Within weeks, word would be out: Jason Cullinane was traveling. Alone, unprotected.
When the news reached that bastard Ahrmin, would he try to kidnap the boy to use as a lever to pry Karl out of Holtun-Bieme? Or would he just torture the boy to death, and use that to draw Karl out to where he could be killed?
Did it matter?
Ahira shook his head. It didn't look good at all.
"Got to find him before it's generally known," Daherrin said. He shook his head. "Don't like this much at all; this sorta thing is not my job." He called to his second, "Three or four days until we should be seeing the dragon?"
"Four," the answer came back. "If he makes it Home on time, and if we get to the rendezvous on time."
"Ellegon! That's the solution," Bren Adahan said eagerly. "Couldn't Ellegon find him?"
"Sure." Walter Slovotsky poked a stick into the fire, then pulled it out and considered the glowing ember at its tip. "If they're close enough, Ellegon can read him—the two of them have been around each other since before Jason was born; Ellegon can read him from a greater distance than he can Karl, even. But that's not much; the dragon's got to be reasonably close." Walter shrugged. "Jason can cover a lot of ground in four, five days. Ellegon doesn't dare get too close to towns; he's too liable to get shot out of the sky."
Ahira nodded. "Let's assume he's going to at least stop off in Wehnest. Maybe we can catch up with him there—we'll bring in some of the slavers' gear, and play merchant as a cover."
Aeia set her bowl down. "Fine with me."
Bren and Walter both spoke up. "You are not going," they said in unison.
"Really. How interesting." Aeia tilted her head as she looked over at Ahira; it was one of Andrea's gestures. "Do you think I'm not going?"
Ahira didn't like it, but he knew as well as anyone that he didn't have the authority to stop her. Besides, it was a family affair.
"Aeia," Walter said, "you're not going. And that ends that discussion."
She stared off into the dark for a moment. "Have you ever heard my father talk about threats, Uncle Walter?"
Walter frowned.
"He says," she went on, "that if you make them strong enough, and mean them sincerely enough, you almost never have to follow through. So..." She eyed him levelly. "If you're going to try to keep me out of this, then you'd better find three or four big men to chain me down, because he's my little brother, and I'm not being left behind," she said, one hand on the butt of her pistol. "And they'd damn well better not want to live, because when I get unchained, I'll kill them. Dead."
Despite himself, Ahira grinned. He looked over at Walter. "She's going."
"I worked it out."
Ahira laughed. "Aeia, I think you've spent too much time around Tennetty. Hmmm... who else do we want?"
Bren Adahan stirred at the ashes. "I'll come. I already said I would."
Hardly surprising, considering that Aeia was coming.
"You're in." Ahira nodded. "But we'd better leave it at that: Aeia, Bren Adahan, Walter, and me. Any more, and the size of our group will draw attention. Can't have a whole troop of dwarves marching into Wehnest."
Walter Slovotsky grinned. "I don't know. It might be kind of fun to see Geveren and the others marching in, singing, 'Hi-ho, hi-ho.' Could draw a lot of attention."
"Shh," Daherrin considered the flames for a moment. "What do we tell the dragon?"
"Simple," Walter said. "The usual rendezvous south of Wehnest still where it used to be?"
"No," Daherrin said, then visibly reconsidered. "Well, yeah, if you're thinking of the one we used to use when you were seconding Karl—we just moved it back last year. It's the clearing, just 'bout three days out. Where we first ran into slaver powder, back when he was running the team."
"Right. So we'll meet Ellegon there."
Daherrin spat into the fire, a sizzling glob that vanished in a hiss of steam, "That wasn't what I meant. Ellegon isn't going to be happy about losing the boy—what do I tell him?"
"You just tell him the truth," Ahira said. "The truth. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. With a bit of luck, the truth will be that Jason, Aeia, Bren, Walter, and I are heading back toward Home."
"Without luck?"
Ahira picked up a log that was half as thick as his arm. It was a bit long for the fire; he gripped it firmly and snapped it in two. He turned to the others and looked over the faces, shining in the firelight.
"Without luck, we're all dead."

By the time dawn broke, Jason was sure of four things: first, that he'd been a coward to run; second, that there was no way he could go back; third, that he was hungry; and fourth, that he was tired.
As dawn broke redly across the cornfields, the weariness beat down on him like the rain had; a dull, metallic morning taste clung to his teeth.
But it just didn't seem to matter. Still, he pulled a piece of jerky from his saddlebags and let the leather-hard meat soften in his mouth before chewing.
"See," he explained to the brown gelding that his father had named Libertarian, for reasons he wouldn't explain, "I'm not just anybody else. I'm supposed to be special." He mumbled around the mouthful of jerky. "Supposed to be special." He was leading his horse, as he had been doing for most of the night; it was one of the lessons from him that had apparently sunk in; he had always said that cruelty to animals was unforgivable.
But what could he do? Jason considered his situation, turning it over once again in his mind. He had a bit of money in his bags, his swords, pistol, and rifle, his horse and saddle, and the clothes on his back. And that was all.
What would Valeran have done? Valeran. He let the reins fall from his fingers, fell to his knees in the mud, and wept. What would Valeran have done? Valeran wouldn't have had to do anything; wouldn't have run like a coward in the first place; he would have stood his ground.
Jason never knew how long he cried, but when he stopped, he was kneeling in the mud on the road, his horse waiting patiently.
He got to his feet and rubbed at his eyes.
There was something Uncle Lou had once said, something about how if you don't know how to solve all of a problem, try solving a piece of it and working from there. He called it "getting a man on base," whatever that meant.
But it made sense. May as well give it a try, he decided. Ahead was Wehnest. If he wasn't going to turn around and go back—
"I can't," he said. "I can't go back."
—well, then he'd have to either stay there, go through the fields, or go forward. He'd walked the horse long enough; he picked up the reins and swung himself to the saddle, nudging the gelding into a slow walk.
He patted at the rifle in its saddle boot. Clearly he'd have to do something about the guns; they identified him as from Home. Home warriors weren't popular everywhere; there were always some who wanted to try to earn guild rewards. While concealing his pistols was easy, he knew he should throw the rifle away, but Jason had studied smithing under Nehera; the barrel alone represented hours upon hours of hard work, and it would be wrong to just toss that away.
Besides, it might be handy to have a gun.
And, besides, he thought, almost choking on the tears welling up, it was a memento of Home.
He didn't deserve it, but he'd keep it anyway.
Down the road, at the bottom of a gentle dip, a circle of low grasses surrounding an ancient oak interrupted the cornfield, its leaves arching over a well. He wasn't sure whether the well had been dug specifically for travelers and their animals or if it had formerly served a habitation, but it had been maintained: the bucket was made of new ash, and the rope was both sturdy and neatly coiled.
He watered his horse first, then set him to grazing.
Jason stripped to the buff and brought up another bucketful, giving his clothes a brief washing, wringing his tunic and leggings as vigorously as he could, spreading his clothes in the sun to dry.
He brought up another bucketful, and dumped it over his head before he could lose his nerve.
It was colder than anything he had ever felt before; by the time he had sluiced the mud from his skin, his teeth were chattering.
He dried himself awkwardly with his sleeping blanket, then spread it out and stretched himself out on its damp surface to dry.

Walter Slovotsky smiled genially at the old soldier. "So you think he was just passing through?"
The old man nodded. "That's what he said, yesterday. Did seem to be in a rush. What's your interest? You around when them Home snobs rejected him?"
Whatever the old man meant didn't matter, and he seemed to be expecting agreement; Slovotsky nodded, and thumb-flicked him the copper coin that had been enough to attract the soldier's interest but not so much as to excite suspicions.
"Just curious." Slovotsky shrugged. "I knew him when he was younger, thought I might offer him some work."
"If I see him, who should I say is looking for him?"
"Warrel," he said, picking the common Erendra name that was closest to his own, his usual phony name. "Warrel ip Therranj."
As the old soldier knowingly nudged his partner, Slovotsky kicked his horse into a slow walk. Maybe the others were having belter luck. Or worse.
At least he had some information. That was something.

Astride his mare on the crest of the hill, Karl Cullinane looked down over the carnage below.
It had been Kernat village, a small community in barony Tyrnael, insignificant to the general economy of either barony or empire except for, in some years, a minor surplus of grains, and occasionally of meat animals. Nobody of any importance had ever been born there, as far as anyone knew; the closest Kernat came to a local hero was a corporal in Karl's House Guard.
It had been an unimportant little place, except to the people who lived there.
Who had lived there... nobody lived here anymore.
"Andy, I don't need you for this."
Her brown gelding pawed the ground as she shook her head. "Yes you do." Her fingers twisted in the reins, knuckles white in the leather straps.
Nobody lived here anymore.
It wasn't a village now.
Now, it was a charnel house. Bodies littered the streets, some gaping in surprise that death had finally overtaken them, some without faces with which to gape.
Below, a crow pecked at the eyeholes of what once had been a teenaged girl; a soldier shooed it away with the haft of his spear, then swore in remote irritation as a crossbowman raised his weapon and shot the crow out of the air, the bird twitching while it shit and bled and died on the dirt road.
Karl sympathized with both of them—this was horribly wrong—but it wasn't going to be fixed by killing the scavengers. It wasn't going to be fixed at all; there is no medicine for a life that has fled, no healing of a rotting body, lying in the dirt, stinking in the sun.
There had been no wounded; all who had not been fleet of foot and well endowed with luck had been put to the sword. There had been some looting, but not much. There could not have been much; Kernat village simply hadn't had much wealth to loot.
Nothing moved in the streets except Baron Tyrnael's soldiers, who were busy clearing the town, checking through the rubble of the stone houses and the smoking ash of the half-timber ones for either enemies or survivors.
But there were none; the raiders had long since gone.
Karl swallowed as he turned to Listar, Baron Tyrnael. "They took captives?"
"Yes." The baron nodded his head slowly, then rubbed at his tired eyes and unshaved cheeks. He clearly hadn't shaved in days; he probably hadn't slept, either. "Not many. Perhaps ten. Given slave prices these days, it would justify the raid. Perhaps. They were thorough," he said, a funereal calm in his words. "A runner tells me that there's a messenger from Lord Pugeer waiting me at home. Offering me his protection, do you think?"
"No, I don't think so." Karl shook his head, and he dismounted, handing his reins to one of his soldiers.
As he did, Danagar, who was commanding the House Guard bodyguard detail, nodded to his escort and issued a few monosyllabic commands.
The forty pairs of riflemen and gunner's mates spread out, the riflemen with weapons at half-cock, each mate holding a loaded replacement piece, ready to either switch and reload or, if necessary, draw sword and protect the gunner while he reloaded.
It was a matter of discipline, not necessity; the killers were long since gone.
Andrea gestured with her right hand, an awkward motion that spoke more of magic than anything else, "I can smell the power."
He nodded. The fact that there were no escapees clinched it—even a large force of raiders couldn't have killed or rounded up everyone. No, there had been a wizard involved, locating villagers who hid in bushes or in their homes, perhaps putting some to sleep, to be chained or slaughtered.
"Any idea how much?"
She shrugged. "One or two, in my league or close to it. At least."
"Stay here."
"Karl—"
"Shut up and stay here." Karl started to walk toward the town, grateful that the wind was at his back.
Tyrnael walked beside him. "You don't think he's going to offer cooperation."
"Too crude. No, Baron, that's not what he's going to say." Karl shook his head. "He's probably going to tell you that a village in Nyphien, too, has been hit by raiders, and he's surely going to suggest some coordinated patrols between your people and Pugeer's, so that raiders can't slip between the cracks again."
The awful thing of it was that it might even be true. Maybe it wasn't Lord Pugeer trying to spread his influence into barony Tyrnael.
There were many with possible motives for this. It could be Pandathaway, trying to drive a wedge between Karl and one of his more important barons, working on bringing Karl's throne down; or Khar, trying to create trouble between Nyphien and the empire, the better to slice off a piece of Nyphien.
Or it could have been Deighton, for that matter.
Why Deighton? Because of the magic? No. There were other wizards besides Deighton. The trouble was, despite some suspicions, Karl wasn't sure what Deighton's motivations were, when it came down to it; without knowing what ends Arta Myrdhyn sought, Karl couldn't possibly swear as to what means might suit those ends.
"You ordered a pursuit?"
Tyrnael paused for a moment before answering. "Yes, sire. Only to the border. They found sign of the raiders, but they didn't go past the river." He didn't add that it had been pointless, that barony Tyrnael and Holtun-Bieme ended at the Jerun River, only a day's ride away, and that with their lead, there was no question but that the raiders were long since gone, escaped into Nyphien.
The only clue would be in the enslaved Biemish citizens—if they knew anything, if they could be recovered. Doing it quickly didn't seem likely; the raid was three days old, and the raiders were long since gone.
Tyrnael dropped to one knee and knelt beside what had been a stocky peasant; now it was just a body stinking in the sun, pinned to the ground by a spear. The baron took a long took at the man's face, then shook his head as he rose.
"You knew him?"
"Name of Hen'l." The baron nodded. "I know all my people, sire." He pulled himself up straight, "We'll need some reinforcements for when I retaliate."
The calm was purely a pose, Karl decided. All that the baron wanted to do was punish whoever was responsible—and if whoever that was wasn't handy, the nearest Nyphs would do.
It even made sense, in a way. Lord Pugeer should be told, in no uncertain terms, that it was his responsibility to see that no attacks on Holtun-Bieme occurred across the frontier; imperial forces couldn't patrol both sides of the border, so the Nyphs would have to take their side of it.
Basic Orde Wingate strategy: When Brigadier Wingate was advising the pre-Israel Palmach, Arab terrorist strikes were always met by retaliation against the nearest Arab village—care being taken to inflict the maximum property damage, leaving villagers alive to learn that allowing one's village to be a terrorist staging area was unwise.
It might be necessary to try that here. But... not yet.
"We'll see," Karl said. "We'll have to decide what we're going to do, first."
"At least you'll move some troops toward the border."
Karl shook his head. "Nothing for now."
Although the baron made no movement, not the slightest motion toward his sword, for a moment Karl thought that Tyrnael was going to draw on him. They had sparred many times—Tyrnael was, technically, a better swordsman than Karl, and utterly unbothered about the possibility of humiliating his emperor—but that had always been for sport and practice, never serious.
But the moment passed.
"Trust me," Karl said. "I'll do what's necessary. First we have to find out what that is."
"Yes, sire." Tyrnael didn't sound convinced.
Karl raised his voice. "Danagar."
The captain wasn't far from his side. "Yes, sir?"
"You're relieved of guard duty. Turn over your guns and command to your second."
Danagar's face was studiously blank. "Yes, sir."
Good man; he knew how to take an unpleasant order. "Tonight, I want you to take as many men you need and sneak over the border into Nyphien, in disguise—you pick the disguise. I'll need to know everything you can find out about this, as quickly as possible. The baronial council is in twelve days; I'll want you there, with a report, then."
"Yes, sir."
Tyrnael watched Danagar's retreating back. "I doubt if he'll have time to find out much. I've long had spies in Nyphien, but there's been no report of troop movements."
"Which perhaps means that Pugeer isn't behind this. We shall see, Baron."
Tyrnael didn't answer.
Karl raised his hands and placed his palms on the baron's shoulders, looked him straight in the eye. "Look at me, Listar," Karl said, dialing for his most sincere expression.
As his acting teacher had long ago said, actual sincerity didn't excuse you from appearing sincere. "I will do what's necessary. They won't be unavenged."
"Agreed, Karl," the baron said. "They won't be unavenged."

Vator the hostler was silent that morning as he banged on the wooden ladder that led up to the loft, bringing Jason his breakfast of fresh brown bread and raw onion. While Jason ate his sketchy meal, he and Vator turned the animals out into the yard.
Then Vator left, mumbling something about some business with the smith down the street, after setting him to mucking out the stalls.
Jason was left to his own devices; the fat man was simply too busy to supervise him. His pasty-faced wife and three ragged children were no help, as they spent their day just outside of town, working the few acres that provided Vator with grain and vegetables for both animals and table.
He had always said that a bit of hard work was good for the soul; Jason couldn't see it. But a lot of what his father did didn't make much sense to Jason. While he liked horses and all, there really didn't seem to be a whole lot of value or knowledge to be gained from being up to your calves in horseshit, the smell combining with a nauseating breakfast—such as it was—to set you gagging.
Didn't make much sense at all.
A lot of things didn't make much sense.
His fists clenched around the handle of the spadelike manure fork, as an image welled up of Valeran falling away, blood fountaining around the stuck hiltdeep in his right eyesocket...
No. Make it go away.
He hadn't slept well; he had had nightmares all night. That wasn't new; he'd always had nightmares, as far back as he could remember. Too many nights brought visions of himself wading through pools of blood and gore, accompanied by friendly faces who would turn suddenly vicious, huge fangs growing from their jaws, drool falling from the corners of their mouths only to hiss and steam on the ground below.
Usually, he was gone, off raiding in Jason's early years, off governing in the later ones. So Jason's screams would wake his mother. She would come to him, shake him gently awake, and hold him tightly, a smile always on her face, as though dispelling his nightmares was a great joy.
If that failed, she would mutter a few quick words that could only be forgotten, and her fingers would quirk into awkward and powerful contortions, as she beckoned lights from the darkness, whirling blinking motes of ruby, emerald, and actinic blue through a dance of reassurance and comfort.
Sometimes, if the dreams persisted—and when she was in residence; often she was in Home while he was in Biemestren, or vice versa—Aeia would spend the night holding him, until he decided that he had grown too old for that.
Twice that he could remember, Karl Cullinane had been home during the worst of Jason's nightmares. Both times, he sat next to Jason's bed, sometimes allowing himself to nod off, but holding his hand through the night.
Lately, Valeran had been the one to be wakened by his cries.
The old warrior had a different method; he'd brew a strong pot of herb tea, and tell Jason stories of the old days, some of things he had seen, others of things he had only heard of: about battles during the Katharhdn wars, of the conquest of Holtun after his father had taken the crown, stories about Ch'akresarkandyn, the Katharhd who had given his life in a battle over slaver powder. Jason remembered Chak, of course—and would smile tolerantly when Valeran would talk of him as a little man. Little, hah! Chak had been a gentle giant.
Jason would always listen intently, asking for stories by name. Tell me How-Tennetty-Lost-Her-Eye, he would say. Or Daven-and-the-Slaver, or How-He-Killed-Ohlmin. That last was his favorite; it was about how he and Uncle Walter had killed the hundred slavers who had hurt Mother.
Valeran would never spare the details: the high-pitched screams of wounded horses, the sulfurous stink of gunpowder that somehow was worse when the shots were being fired for real, the rotting-garbage smell of a wound that festered when there was no healer or healing draughts to be found.
And when the sun came up in the morning, his mind buzzing with battles and bullets, swords and slaughter, Jason would make his way to his bed and fall into a dreamless sleep, waking refreshed, his inner demons stilled for a time.
It was Valeran's way of holding his hand, but there was nobody to hold his hand now. He rubbed the backs of his fists against his aching eyes.
"Taren," Vator said, the hostler's voice strangely low. •
It took a moment for Jason to remember that this was the name he was using. "Yes?" He turned to see the fat man silhouetted in the open stable door, standing nervously, tentatively, as though ready to run at any moment.
"I was just at the smith's. He says that there are people looking for you."
Jason shook his head. "Couldn't be me."
"The description was exact," Vator said. "The smith thinks he recognized him—he thinks he's one of those Home people. About this tall, dark hair, eyes look a little slanted, easy smile."
Uncle Walter. Jason quelled the urge to run.
"There's more. There is a Pandathaway guild slaver in town; the smith sold him the information that Home is looking for you—he figured that if Home wants to find you, so would the guild." Vator licked his lips and shook his head. "I can't have any trouble here. You're going to have to go."
Jason was already heading for where his rifle and other gear were buried in the straw; by the time he had it all tied down for travel, Vator had Libertarian saddled. He filled a canvas bag with oats, and another one with corn, and lashed those tightly, expertly to the saddle.
"I'm not a brave man, Taren," the hostler said. "I can't help you. I'm sorry."
You feel like a coward, Vator? Well, there was one thing one coward could offer another: forgiveness. "You've nothing to be sorry for. I'd best be on my way to the Hand tabernacle, where I was going in the first place," he said, hoping that the words didn't sound as clumsy in Vator's ears as they did in his own. Still, if someone did ask Vator where Jason was headed, best he had a false destination.
"Be well, Vator." They briefly clasped hands.
Jason rose to the saddle and without a further word kicked Libertarian into a fast walk, heading for the west road. Let Vator see that he was leaving town in the direction of the road to the Tabernacle; let others see, too, and be able to verify the hostler's story, if it came to that.
Where would he go, though?
There seemed to be only one choice: the cattle drive.
But what if they wouldn't take him on?
He shrugged to himself. Then he'd be no worse off than he was now. Better—he'd be further away.
He spurred his horse into a trot as he considered the provisions problem. What with circling around, it might take him a couple of days to catch up, but by allowing plenty of time for grazing, he had enough food for his horse for at least that amount of time. He could probably hunt something for himself to eat, if need be.

Leathery wings flapped, suddenly, jerkily. Whether in irritation or frustration, Walter Slovotsky couldn't say.
Tennetty's remaining eye flashed in the firelight, her hand never off the hilt of her sword. Walter Slovotsky kept out of lunging distance; at the moment, Tennetty's temper wasn't fully under control.
Not that it ever was.
"You lost him." She seemed to sway for a moment, then straightened. It couldn't have been emotion—other than loyalty toward Karl Cullinane and cruelty toward anyone who got in her way, Tennetty didn't have emotions. "You lost him."
*Sit, Tennetty. You haven't rested since the rendezvous with Daherrin's team; you've been three days without sleep. You must get some rest.*
"I'll rest when I'm ready!"
But she accepted a hot mug of tea from Aeia, anyway.
Ahira shrugged as he received a bag from Bren Adahan, who was up on the dragon's back, unloading cargo. "I can't see that now's the time to discuss this." The dwarf set the bag down on the ground and reached for another, "Now is the time for Ellegon to take off and find—"
*No,* the dragon said, tilting his huge bulk slightly to make it easier for Bren Adahan to climb over to where the next bag was tied down. *I can't. Daven's team is trapped in a mountain passage in Khar, and they need food and ammunition. I have endangered them more than enough by diverting here. Another few moments, and then I have to turn around and start back toward Biemestren to pick up the supplies, so I can get them to Daven.* "And then?" Aeia asked.
*That's up to Karl. While I'm in Biemestren, I will fill Karl in on all of this. He will decide what's to be done now that it's quickly becoming known that Jason Cullinane is without protection.*
Quickly? How could that be? And how could Ellegon know—?
*Daherrin. Some of his team were in Wehnest after you, escorting those of the ex-slaves who asked to be brought there. Some of them talked. Rumor has it that Jason was on his way to the Hand tabernacle, but I doubt that; it sounds like a planted story.*
Shit. This was getting worse and worse.
"So?" Aeia cocked her head to one side. "Who do you want to take as your loader? Me?"
Slovotsky wasn't going to volunteer for that.
*Understandable. I wouldn't want to face Karl if I'd lost his son, either,* Ellegon responded privately. *Better find him.*
Slovotsky opened his mouth to protest, shut it. If Ellegon didn't see it—
"No!" Tennetty's eruption interrupted. "I can carry the news to just as well as you can."
It wasn't, Walter decided, that she liked bringing bad news to Karl; it was more that she saw it as her responsibility.
Aeia shook her head, "You're barely holding on to consciousness; Ellegon says you haven't slept in three days. It's me or nobody. My choice."
Bren Adahan didn't like that. "Why is it your choice?"
*Because this is a Cullinane family matter, and she's a Cullinane. I suggest you stay here, Aeia. I can give the news to Karl. He'll want know that you're continuing the search.*
"Very well. Tell him we will," Aeia said.
Walter Slovotsky didn't like that note in her voice. It didn't really belong to Aeia, it belonged to Karl Cullinane. The last time Walter had heard that idiot tone in Karl's voice, it had been before Karl had sent him to sneak into Biemestren castle and almost get his balls cut off.
The lashings on the last of the bags fell free, the leather sack after it. Bren Adahan leaped to the ground, Ahira half-catching him.
*Then farewell,* the dragon said. *Find him, please. He's far too young and stupid to be off by himself.*
Walter snickered.
*All humans are too young and stupid.*
Even Karl? Slovotsky asked.
*I am prejudiced there.* **
"Ellegon?" Ahira asked. "Can't you just do some sort of spiral search? Try to find Jason,"
*There's no time. Daven needs to be resupplied, desperately.* The dragon flapped his wings and leaped high into the air; his mental voice went distant.
*Jason, I'm sorry, but I just don't have time.*
A huge wet drop struck Walter Slovotsky's hand. He looked up at the dark shape vanishing into the clear night sky.

"Ladies and gentlemen, be seated."
I'm going to have to do it myself, Karl Cullinane thought as he stood on the dark spot on the red carpet in the great hall of Castle Biemestren. This wasn't the sort of thing he could leave to anyone else.
The only question was how to maneuver the barons into supporting him. He couldn't tell them what he planned since he didn't know yet.
Force did have its place. The carpet was blood-red; the black spot was long-dried blood. The first time that Karl had called his barons together, Baron Derahan of Holtun had called him out, challenging him, man to man.
A brave act, really; by making it personal, binding his barony to loyalty to Karl if Karl defeated him, Derahan had made the challenge tempting.
Tennetty had advised against it, as she stood behind the baron, one hand gripping his hair, the other holding a dagger at the side of his throat, fully prepared to economically slice through a jugular and kick him on his way.
There was no tradition of the prince being subject to such, of course. Holtun's Prince Uldren, like Bieme's Pirondael, had been a fat man, barely able to wheeze his form upright. A twelve-year-old boy could have danced around either and killed either with a pin.
But Karl had just told her to let him go, then nodded at the baron. When Tennetty cut Derahan's hands loose, Karl had simply dragged him across the room, pushed him away, tossed Derahan a sword, and then batted the baron's sword out of his hand and hacked his head off.
Karl nodded at Terumel, the new Baron Derahan, sitting next to the military governor of his barony. Terumel returned Karl's gaze levelly as Karl deliberately stood on the spot where he had killed Terumel's father.
Karl faced the table where the barons sat, the Biemish ones with a senior adviser or major domo, the Holtish with their military governors. There was one exception to that latter. Vilmar, Baron Nerahan, sat conspicuously alone, the seat to his immediate right conspicuously empty.
The Holt had a sharp-nosed face and a bristly mustache; he always reminded Karl both of a weasel and that appearances could be deceiving—while the little baron looked like somebody had called Central Casting for a stool pigeon, he was a self-disciplined man, resolutely fair, always more concerned with gaining his barony the most benefit out of the Consolidation, never with evening old scores.
Ellegon had mindprobed the little man more thoroughly than usual, and had been impressed with both his intelligence and his resolve.
Karl itched to kill the bastard for some of the things he had done during the Holtun-Bieme War... but that would have violated the amnesty.
He smiled genially at Nerahan.
Just give me an excuse, Nerahan. Just a little excuse, and I'll kill you with my own two hands.
Sometimes, life really sucked. Nerahan had been a goddam Boy Scout ever since the war, never coming close to giving Karl an excuse to take his head. He never would; not only did the baron know what his future held if he turned against Karl, but events had persuaded him that the new ways were the better. He was a brutal man, but a flexible one.
Behind Nerahan, General Kevalun stood quietly, looking more like one of Nerahan's retainers than the military governor of that barony. And a younger retainer, at that—his short blond hair hadn't receded with age, and his face was almost baby-smooth. Kevalun looked perhaps twenty-five, too young to be a general, but he was actually the father of a sixteen-year-old girl.
"To begin," Karl Cullinane said, as he took his seat at the head of the table, General Garavar at his left, Thomen Furnael in the seat of honor at his right, "I want to make the obvious announcement: Effective immediately, the military governor of barony Nerahan is relieved of his duties and reassigned to the House Guard." Karl nodded to Kevalun. "General, I thank you for your services on behalf of all of Holtun-Bieme. You have done a splendid job."
There were nods from around the table, mainly from the military governors of other baronies and from several of the Biemish barons. The only Holt to join in was Nerahan. "if," he said, raising a finger to emphasize the word as he repeated it, "if the emperor is ever... inclined to dispense with your services, General, I'll have work for you."
At least for public consumption, Kevalun took it as intended. "I thank you, Baron." He bowed toward the baron—the first time he had ever done so.
Karl smiled. "Dismissed, Kevalun. See Garavar later about your new assignment." He deliberately kept his eyes away from the far end of the table, where Baron and Baroness Keranahan sat, the military governor of their barony sitting between them.
Kevalun's new assignment was going to be barony Irulahan, where General Caem'l was alternating between almost Prussian repression and Marshall Plan flaccidity. Karl had no objection to hanging people for fomenting rebellion, but it made less sense to lynch suspected robbers assaulting his tax collectors than to hang the lords who gave them protection. Noble necks snapped with more effect.
Still, there was no need to embarrass Caem'l in front of the others; he would be allowed to retire with dignity. Or with what dignity was possible when a man was being relieved for manifest incompetence, which wasn't all that much.
Kevalun stood up even straighter, his eyes fixed on infinity. "Yes, Emperor."
He spun on his heel and stalked out of the hall, barely limping at all on his bad leg.
"I don't know, Karl," Ranella said, sitting next to fat Lord Harven of Adahan barony, "but I think Adahan's about ready to be turned loose, if you can get the baron to do his job, instead of... being educated at Home." The master engineer cocked her head to one side. "Or let Harven be regent. He can handle it, Karl."
To Ranella, he was always Karl. To Ranella, it was much more important that they were both Home engineers—she a master, he classified as senior journeyman—than that he was the emperor and she a barony's governor.
At least that was what she affected. Maybe she just liked to be able first-name an emperor.
Seated at the far end of the table, Andy-Andy shook her head. "It seems to me that that is not properly a matter for this council," she said. "If the emperor requires the advice of this body, he can ask for it."
She kept her face grim; Karl nodded his agreement. He didn't want rush into liberating the Holts. Nerahan's new freedom was going to make the Blemish nervous enough. Best to let them see how that went before freeing another Holtish barony.
"No, Ranella," he said as he shook his head. "I see no need to rush forward and remove military government—we'll see how Nerahan does, first."
The Holtish barons were good poker players; not a face creased into a smile. Thomen Furnael's frown even deepened.
Damn Ranella, anyway. She was good at what she did, but only at what she did. Getting the Adahan mines and the Furnael steel plant into operation was going well, but Karl was often thankful that the influx of labor, money, and goods for the two projects kept barony Adahan well pacified; Ranella couldn't have handled an uprising, and another governor couldn't have handled the building of the plants so well.
Part of it was that she was a woman. With the exceptions of clerics and wizards, women were expected to breed children, not practice formal crafts and professions.
There was a payoff: The few women who did manage to succeed against such expectations tended to be pure cream of the crop. Tennetty was a good example. While Tennetty was a vicious, sometimes sadistic killer, it wasn't her naked brutality that had made her able to run squads on Karl's raiding teams; it was the general acknowledgment that her combat judgment was as good as there was.
Plus, of course, Karl's sponsorship. That counted for a lot.
Similarly, Riccetti had always been very openly impressed with Ranella's intelligence, and while the years had put wrinkles around her eyes and an unbecoming potbelly on her torso, her mind had only sharpened—but as a tool for building, not governing.
"We'll discuss your administration of the barony tomorrow, Ranella. You're to stay over tonight; the barony can get by on its own for an extra day."
"Whatever you say, Karl." Ranella shrugged. "And—"
"Governor," Dowager Baroness Beralyn of Furnael put in, "if I can address his majesty properly, so ought you." There was a slight emphasis on the personal pronoun; Karl decided to let it slide. He had always had a problem trying to keep Beralyn in line; she blamed him for the death of Rahff.
That makes two of us, Beralyn. He swallowed, hard. In Karl Cullinane's time, many, many good men had died fighting on the right side of their just cause, but the way that Rahff had died in his arms was always freshly painful.
Tyrnael snorted in disgust. "This is—" He caught himself and swallowed. He shook his head, then raised a palm in apology. "I'm sorry, but there are babies lying dead on the ground in my barony and you are arguing over forms of address?"
Arondael looked at Karl, then, at Karl's nod, spoke. "I am in agreement with Baron Tyrnael. We're faced with responding to an attack; let's not be distracted by minor issues of address and of who governs where."
Getting out those last words was clearly difficult for the slim man; the freeing of Nerahan's barony bothered him. During the Holtun-Bieme war, in an attempt to bull Arondael into sending a detachment out of his besieged castle, Nerahan had begun catapulting prisoners over the wall and into the courtyard.
The prisoners had included Arondael's son, his son's wife, and three of their children. War brings out the ugliest in men. All were dead long before they hit the ground; all—all—had been, within earshot of the castle walls, repeatedly raped by Nerahan's men, at Nerahan's orders.
Arondael's eyes searched the table for support, finding some, which didn't surprise Karl. "We have to show the Nyphs that we won't be attacked without fighting back," he went on.
Thomen Furnael's young face was grave beyond his years as he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his belly. "Baron, what if it wasn't the Nyphs who attacked us?"
"So? What if it wasn't?" The older man dismissed it. "There's no way of knowing for sure. Say it wasn't; assume it wasn't. How can they know that we know that for sure?"
Andy-Andy's chuckle sounded forced. "I think you lost me on that, Baron Tyrnael."
"Baron Tyrnael? If I may?" Nerahan raised an eyebrow. At Tyrnael's surprised nod, Nerahan went on. "The problem is this: Assume that the raid was actually executed by non-Nyphien forces. Nevertheless, for all we can know, it might well have been done by the Nyphs.
"The Nyphs know that. Now, if they discover that they can raid into Hol—into the empire without retaliation, won't that encourage them? Regardless of whether or not they did so this time, won't they see it as weakness?"
Tyrnael grunted an assent. "Exactly. Better for the Nyphs to know that if anyone crosses into Bieme to kill and enslave our people there will be a reprisal. Let the bastards guard our border from their side, instead of sending raiders across, or," he went on, the scorn heavy in his voice, "forgetting to stop them."
Everybody started talking after that, although the Biemish barons carried most of the conversation.
Karl sat back in his chair and let the argument flow undirected, Tyrnael and Nerahan urging immediate retaliation, Arondael and Ranella counseling accepting the official Nyph explanation.
The trouble with Nerahan's argument was that it made sense. It was much better, as a general principle, to force your neighbor to keep his own country from being a source of raids into yours than it was to try to patrol a border. That last was doomed to frequent failure.
Better an educational combination pursuit/reprisal raid à la Black Jack Pershing or Ariel Sharon than some Jimmy Carter-style loud talk while carrying only a small stick that you were frightened to use.
But that was only a generality. Every case was different: Pershing had known he was chasing Pancho Villa; Sharon had always had good intelligence as to where the PLO was hiding.
With Danagar yet to return from Nyphien—and that, all by itself, didn't bode well—Karl still didn't know who was responsible, and he didn't know where whoever was responsible was.
Better to find out who was responsible, and punish him or them. While it probably didn't make much of a difference to a Realpolitik-oriented baron, Karl shrugged to admit that he had this fetish about trying to restrict punishment to the guilty. One of the troubles with war was that innocents died, but at least you should try to limit the damage to innocents on the other side.
Still, as a matter of state policy, if the Nyphs allowed their rulers to strike into Holtun-Bieme, it was proper to hold them collectively to account.
But what if it was Ahrmin? What if it was the Slavers' Guild, trying to trigger an empire-Nyphien war the way it had the Holtun-Bieme war?
He needed some time. Ellegon could be back any day. Maybe the dragon could do some good—but probably not. If the raid had been instigated by Pugeer, he would hardly have informed his envoy.
Karl would have to confront Pugeer. In person, with Ellegon at his side to read the Nyph's mind.
And if Pugeer was responsible?
He could practically hear Walter Slovotsky. If you insist on juggling knives, you're going to get cut.
If Pugeer was responsible, he was dead.
He turned to Thomen Furnael. "You've been quiet, Thomen. I need your thoughts."
"I doubt that. I might not keep quiet with them."
He knows!
Karl kept his face somber as the boy eyed him coldly.
"I think this is all premature," Thomen went on. "It's not enough to guess, not when we can know. I say we should wait for Danagar." He seemed about to say something more, but stopped himself. "Wait until we know."
"You have nothing to say with regard my point?" Nerahan asked airily. "You don't find it relevant, Baron?"
"If—if we can discover for certain that it wasn't the Nyphs who are responsible, then we can let them know that. It would be insane to hold people to account for something that they're not responsible for." He turned back to Karl. "You asked my opinion. That is it."
Karl nodded. "And a second opinion it is. Tyrnael, Thomen, please stay. The rest of you are dismissed."
He caught Andy's eye. "All of you." He didn't want her around for this.

"Down in the valley," Jason Cullinane sang as he rode night herd, looking out on the sea of cattle.
He kept singing as he decided, not for the first time, that there was something he would have to ask his father—if he ever was able to face him.
In the meantime, he kept singing. A few hundred yards away, he could hear, although just barely, the slow dirge that Ceenan kept up for the benefit of the idiot cows around him.
"Down in the valley..." Jason sang. He had a lousy singing voice, but the cattle didn't seem to mind.
Whether or not it was true, Falikos had the belief, common among drovers, that singing to the cattle would help prevent them from stampeding. During the day, while the beasts were moving, a stampede was merely unfortunate; it could scatter cows far and wide, but almost always in the direction of their march.
At night, a stampede could be deadly. A sudden sound could send the nervous, stupid creatures in any direction, trampling anyone who was insufficiently vigilant or inadequately lucky.
Maybe the singing did help keep them calm. There was nobody else within earshot; he sang a slow, mournful tune he had half learned from his father, improvising the lyrics that he couldn't quite remember—

When the rest had left, Karl led Tyrnael and Thomen up the back stairs and into his private office, the one that connected to his and Andy's bedroom. He brought a dusty bottle of Riccetti's Best down from the shelves, uncorked it, and poured each of three mottled-green whiskey glasses half full.
"What are we going to do?" Tyrnael asked.
"It's simple." Karl waved them both to a seat and braced himself against the wall. "Tell him, Thomen. You worked it out."
The boy—no, it wasn't fair to call him a boy—Thomen Furnael sipped his whiskey, smiling over the rim of the glass. "We are beginning to think too much alike, aren't we?"
"I don't think like either of you." Tyrnael downed his whiskey and shook his head in irritation. "I don't understand what's going on."
While Karl poured Tyrnael a second glass, Thomen sipped at his. "True. Two things are happening. For one, do you remember that poacher that you hanged?"
"Of course."
"Well, I tried to turn him loose—but Karl figured out what I was trying to do and stopped me."
Karl had to admire the way that Tyrnael merely said, "Oh?"
"The reason he was able to stop me was that he figured out what I was going to do, and took the next step. I am about to do the same thing, in reverse: Karl is thinking of trying to take on Pugeer in person, have Ellegon sort through his mind and find out if he was behind the Kernat raid, and if he was guilty, kill him. Correct?"
"Correct." Karl nodded. "Like I said, we think too much—"
"Then you 're a damn fool." Thomen Furnael threw his glass against the wall. It shattered, spraying glass and whiskey around the room.
Footsteps thundered in the hall outside; three guards, pistols drawn and cocked, rushed into the room.
"Majesty—"
Thomen didn't move. "It's nothing, soldiers," he said, sitting absolutely still, his hands folded across his lap.
The soldiers' faces were studiously blank.
"Dismissed," Karl said coldly. "Get out of here."
When the door closed behind them, Karl spun on the younger man. "What was that about?"
"That was to get your attention. I would have preferred to kick you in the balls to get your attention, but I don't think I could."
"And now that you've got my attention?"
"You're not going to do it." The younger man stood and walked to the window, tapping his signet ring against the glass. "Karl, if you even think about trying it, I'm going to break security and this window and shout so loudly about what you're planning that you won't believe it."
He turned back to Karl. "You had to stop me quietly; I may have to stop you noisily."
"You—"
"I don't like the odds, and I'm not going to let you play the game. Think it through, Karl," Thomen said, slowly moving to the sideboard to pick up a fresh glass. "May I?" he asked, hefting the whiskey bottle.
"If you're going to drink it this time."
"Fine. —What if it is Ahrmin, Karl? Don't you think he's noticed that you do things yourself? Even after all this time, the extent you like to stick your hand in the way of the knife manages to surprise most of us, but he's been studying you for years—and he's been on to you ever since he set up the siege at Furnael Castle, back during the war. That was intended to catch you. You like to be out in front of things; you always have.
"Just in case anyone might have thought that you had outgrown it, you ran that raid on Arondael's castle a few tendays ago. If it is Ahrmin behind all this, you'll find yourself breaking into the castle, and then—"
"And then the trap gets sprung. If it is a trap."
"Exactly."
"Your suggestion, then?"
Thomen drained the glass as he returned to his chair, taking the bottle with him. "I don't like the odds; we have to know." He poured himself another glass.
Tyrnael looked from one to the other. "So? We let matters rest where they are?"
Thomen shook his head. "No. We investigate; we send out spies, we move troops into position—"
"Can't that set off a war between us and the Nyphs?" Tyrnael cocked his head to one side. "Wouldn't we be better striking first?"
"We are better off not striking at all, if the Nyphs aren't guilty." Thomen, Baron Furnael, shook his head. "You'll have to gamble, just like the rest of us. His majesty will have to brace Pugeen's ambassador, and get him to understand that there's going to be a reprisal only if Nyphien was responsible."
"If they are?" Tyrnael asked dubiously.
"Baron, when I was a boy, my father sent my mother and me away from the war. To safety, he thought. We were seized by slavers and sold off."
For a moment, Karl could almost see Thomen's father standing there, as Thomen gripped the glass with white-knuckled fingers. "I am not going to talk about that time, Baron," Thomen said quietly, the words paced like metronome beats. "It was not pleasant. Not for my mother; not for myself."
Setting his glass and bottle down on the floor, Thomen Furnael drew his beltknife and balanced it on his palm. "I swear, Baron, that we are going to do our best to find out who did to your people what was done to me, and when we do, they are going to die."
The young baron slid the knife back into its sheath. "If we can capture any, you and I are going to work the choke nooses ourselves, and watch them dance in the air while they beg for another breath. Unless you want in on that, your majesty."
Karl Cullinane smiled. "When you get older, Thomen, you'll learn that it doesn't matter who does it."
Thomen's anger at him was still manifest, but the young baron had dismissed it as irrelevant. Karl had to admire him; while he hadn't forgiven Karl for stopping him, this was a matter of state policy, and personal feelings couldn't be allowed to enter into it.
A simple application of reasoning, really—the emperor planned to risk himself, but the emperor couldn't be risked. Nor, for that matter, could he afford to strangle a baron with his own two hands to shut him up, passingly tempting as that seemed.
So: "Okay, Thomen, we'll do it your way." Karl Cullinane drained his own whiskey, looked longingly at the bottle, then shook his head. Too much work to do. "First thing is we work out how many troops we're sending into Tyrnael. I'll want to get Nerahan in on this"—he tugged on the bell rope, twice—"since he seems to understand cannon better than the rest of you."
"Cannon?"
Karl Cullinane seated himself at his desk and pulled out paper, reaching for a map of the border area. "Cannon." He spread the map out on the floor and pulled out a box of gaming pieces. "If we're taking on the Nyphs, we're going to be able to blast them into little, bloody pieces." The door opened. "Nartham. Good— I want Garavar and Nerahan here, now."

There had been a time, long ago, Karl Cullinane decided, when he could allow himself the occasional trace of panic in his voice.
That time was long gone.
"Andy?" the big man asked, his voice steady and level as he stared out into the night. "What are we going to do?"
In the courtyard below, Ellegon dipped his massive head as the dragon dined on the bloody hindquarter of a sheep while a dozen men swarmed over him, strapping down leather bags filled with supplies for Daven's team, trapped in Khar.
"Maybe the others have found him by now." Andy gripped his hand, hard. Karl could feel her pulse, going like a triphammer.
Karl Cullinane put his arm around her and pulled her close. "I'll do what can be done," he whispered. "I swear it."
*Andrea could be right. Maybe Tennetty and the others have caught up with him.* Steam hissed from between Ellegon's teeth; the dragon daintily dipped his head to take another mouthful of the sheep. Or, rather, what had been the sheep; there wasn't much left.
Karl shook his head. Maybe Jason was safe, and maybe not. But he wasn't going to assume anything. If it worked out that way, fine; certainly, Tennetty and Ahira could track Jason down, given enough time, absent sufficient competition.
If they had enough time.
"Very well," Karl Cullinane whispered. "So be it." Cullinane turned slowly to the old general. "Garavar—can you help Andrea handle things while I'm gone?"
The old soldier nodded slowly. "The military side of it. Not the political. Even at that, I'll need Kevalun as my deputy. Or Danagar." Garavar looked at Karl reproachfully.
"I understand." Karl nodded. "Danagar is overdue from Nyphien, and you're not sending out parties after him. But it is different, dammit. Danagar is a professional soldier; Jason's just a boy. Garavar, you understand why I have to treat this differently."
"No." Garavar's face was rock-still. "But I accept it."
"You'll need me," Thomen Furnael said. "To help keep the nobility in line. If you insist on doing this."
Karl nodded. "Right. Thank you, Thomen. You're a good—"
"No. This doesn't change anything between us, Emperor. The empire needs stability right now, and if you're going to run out—"
Andy plucked at Thomen's sleeve. "He has to. Your father would have understood."
"My father would not have understood." White-lipped, Thomen snatched his arm away and drew himself up straight. "He sent Rahff into danger, knowing that the chances of his coming out alive were small. He sent my mother and me away, and let us be clapped into slavers' chains. But he never left his barony behind. He never abandoned his people, his duties." His voice softened as he turned to Karl. "He understood what came first; he understood his responsibilities. Better than I do, perhaps; certainly better than you seem to, Emperor."
"Good point." Karl nodded. "And well taken. But I'm still going, Thomen."
Andrea went to Karl and gripped his hand. "I'm going with you. Maybe I can find him."
Karl shook his head. Not while Jason was wearing his amulet, she couldn't. And I don't think I'm going to get out of this one, Lady. "Besides, I'm not going after him. I'm going after the sword."
"What?"
It was a necessity. The others could track Jason better than Karl could. Karl's presence as one of the searchers wouldn't make a difference.
This might. The only way for Karl to get the heat off Jason's neck was to put it on his own. The only quarry more interesting to the guild hunters than Karl's son would be Karl himself.
"As long as I wear this," he said, tugging idly at the amulet around his neck, "Ahrmin can't locate me. As long as I wear this...."
He brought up his other hand and, holding the thong between thumb and forefinger of each hand, pulled at it; it parted as though it had been made of wet paper.
"Now," he said, his voice almost a whisper, "they can find me. I'll take a few men, ride to Ehvenor, and take ship out of there. Ellegon, I want you to stop off and relay the story as you make your rounds. Let everyone know that Karl Cullinane is going for the sword."
The dragon gave a mental shrug. *Hardly necessary, even without that. News travels by the shortest possible route. But I will.* The dragon's flame roared skyward, cleaving the night. *After I resupply Daven, where do I go? Search? Or join up with you?*
"Neither. You are going to be needed here, to pick the brains of the Nyphs and find out who was behind the massacre. And then there's Daven's team. More supplies are probably going to have to be ferried to them." He looked out into the night. "You and I have taken on many responsibilities, old friend."
*I understand.*
He turned to the rest. "Is there anything else that has to be done before I—?"
"No." Thomen Furnael stepped in front of the emperor. "Karl, you can't do this. I understand why you want to, but you can't. Your first responsibility is to the empire, not to Jason. And you—"
Karl laid a hand on his arm. "He's my son, Thomen. I have to." He turned to face them all. "I'll be leaving in the morning. Garavar, pick out a party of five to accompany me—one of them a junior engineer—and have my supplies packed before you go to sleep. Thomen, I'll want you and Harven to ride with me to the border—we'll have time to go over some details."
Ellegon nodded. *I hit the sky, now. Yes?*
For a moment, a smile peeked through Cullinane's stony expression. "You're not going to take me aside and try to talk me out of this?"
*I may be a young dragon,* Ellegon said, as he shook his massive head. *But I've gotten older and wiser in the time I've known you,* the dragon said, the light tone of his mental voice manifestly false. *I won't waste my time. Or yours. Go take your wife to bed, Karl. It may well be your last time.*
It might, at that.
Karl was tempted to blame Walter or Ahira, or Valeran. But that wasn't right. If—if—Valeran had been wrong to take the boy on the raid, Valeran had paid for his error. Besides, Karl didn't blame him. Or Walter or Ahira. Jason would have had to go through this, sometime.
Hell, he didn't even blame Jason; it must have been hard on the boy, and it wasn't right to expect a sixteen-year-old to make the right decision. Once he'd run, turning back would have been very hard. There were some things that couldn't be turned back from.
*Take care of yourself, Karl,* Ellegon said. *Walter and Ahira will find him. And when he's safe, we'll send someone after you.*
"I'll be okay. Just make sure that the hounds go my way." He pulled Andrea to him, and, ignoring all the others in the room, held her tightly.
*We will.* Craning his neck upward toward the balcony where Karl and Andrea stood, Ellegon's eyes searched his deeply, as the mental voice softened. *Karl, just between you and me, do you think you'll get out of this?*
"Of course," he said, smiling. "Haven't I always?"
I hope so, he thought. But I don't know.
It all depended. Which way would Ahrmin and his hunters jump? And could Karl stay a jump ahead of him?
Guess we'll all find out, the hard way.
*I guess so.*
Ellegon? In case I don't make it back, will you watch over her?
*Of course, Karl. Karl?*
Yes, Ellegon?
*In case you don't make it back, thank you. I'll always remember.* A relayed image flashed through Karl's mind: a younger version of himself, waist-deep in sewage, reaching up to cut through a strand of the golden cable that held the dragon down. *I'll remember everything.*
Karl smiled. Don't go maudlin on me. The last thing we need around here is ten tons of maudlin dragon. "Andy..."
She held him tightly. "I know. In the morning?"
"In the morning." Taking her hand, he gave a sketchy salute to the others. "Good night all, and farewell."
"Good night, your majesty."
*Goodbye, Karl.*
Flame roared, as the dragon leaped skyward.

As they reached the top of the last hill, Jason gasped; he clutched the wagon's reins tighter and gave a slight, unconscious hitch to them, as though to speed up the team.
"Don't be silly," Doria said, with a chuckle. "We'll get there soon enough. It is pretty, though."
Between rolling hills and the blue Cirric sparkling in the sun, the city of Pandathaway stood, white and gold, dancing in the sun. The streets were broad and even, some curving to help cup the harbor, others cutting across evenly, regularly. There were small parks scattered all over the city, squares of green checkering the field of white and gold.
Doria extended an arm. "That's the library, there—and over there is Coliseum, where your father beat Ohlmin."
"Shh." Why did she have to talk so loosely? What if somebody overheard?
Behind him, hooves clattered on the road, as Falikos eased up alongside the wagon.
Doria patted Jason's knee. "Taren," she said, in a normal voice, "I do have my skills; trust me. Oh, and—greetings, Falikos." She eyed the setting late-afternoon sun carefully. "Are you going to try for the stockyards before dark?"
Falikos shook his head. "No. We might be able to get all the beasts in, but I've found that some always manage to disappear when we try to count them in the dark. We'll make camp just outside the walls, and move the herd in the morning. Speaking of which, Taren, what are your plans?"
Why, Falikos, I'm going to prove that I'm not a coward by assassinating Ahrmin.
"I'm not sure, sir." He shrugged. "I'm open to anything."
Doria spoke up. "If you're good with a sword, I've heard that there's money to be made in the Coliseum."
"If you're some kind of Karl Cullinane," Falikos said, with a chuckle. "It's supposed to be a hard way to make a living. But probably worth a try, at that."
Some kind of Karl Cullinane.
Jason swallowed, hard. "And your plans, sir?"
"After I sell the stock I'll take ship out of here; that's all I can say." Falikos shrugged. "I've been thinking about making a run up north and buying a load of blades, or south to Ehvenor and seeing what the faerie are trading—I will have to spend a few days and a few coins in a trader's tavern to pick up the gossip. What with all that I'll be carrying, Kyreen and Dyren will be staying with me, although I'll need even more of a bodyguard; I'm sorry that I can't ask you."
"Oh?"
"I haven't known you long enough. Too much of a risk." Falikos dug into his saddlebags and pulled out a small leather sack. "Speaking of which, here are your wages, as agreed—I threw in a little extra for the scar. I won't need you tonight; you can enter Pandathaway when you please. Doria? I don't believe I owe you any more, do I?"
The cleric shook her head. "No—there hasn't been cause for extra charges, Falikos."
"Then I'll bid you both farewell." He leaned over and pointed. "The entry station is—"
"I've been in Pandathaway before, Falikos," Doria said, her voice holding a decided edge.
The cattleman nodded. "Then be well." He wheeled his horse around and kicked it into a canter.
"Let's go, Jason," she said. "I want to check in tonight."
Jason turned to see that Libertarian was still hitched to the rear of the wagon; seeing that the gelding was still trotting easily along, he gave a sharp whistle and flicked both sets of reins.
"Nice of him to pay us off today," he said. It really was; Falikos could have made him guard the camp that night, waiting for the next day and the entry of the herd into Pandathaway.
"Nonsense. Don't be so gullible." Doria shook her head. "You've led a sheltered life. There's a tax on entry into Pandathaway—sometimes they charge warriors, sometimes not. Now, Falikos doesn't have to gamble; if we were still with the herd, Falikos would have had to pay it. Nothing I can do about it, either; Elmina negotiated with Falikos, not me. But enough of that."
She eyed him carefully. "Any idea about what you're going to do now?"
He shrugged. "I should be able to find some sort of work. Or take a chance in the Coliseum," he lied. First step was to find a place to load his weapons; second step was to find out where Ahrmin was; and then the last To kill Ahrmin.
You killed my Uncle Chak, bastard.
But would Jason run again?
Not again. No.
Doria didn't say anything for a long time. Then: "Think it through, Jason. Don't you think your father sent assassins after Ahrmin?"
Jason shook his head. "No. He wouldn't do anything like that."
"Jason, grow up." Doria chuckled. "You'd be surprised what your dad would do. But I agree, for once: I don't think he would have sent good men after Ahrmin, because he'd know that Ahrmin is going to have at least as much security around him in Pandathaway as Karl does in Biemestren or Home. Swordsmen, bowmen, magic—he's going to be fully protected."
"What?" It hit him: she knew he was after Ahrmin. "You knew I was going to—"
She shrugged. "It's obvious. You feel you have to prove something. You have to go out and slay the biggest dragon you can find."
At his puzzled look, she chuckled and shook her head. "Sorry— Other Side metaphor. The point is, though, that you're acting just like your father used to: You fix your mind on one thing, and forget everything else. Not good, Jason. Not good at all. You've got to think this through; this will require some patience, not just crashing into a situation the way," she said with a warm smile, "your father always does."
She had known what he was up to. She had known, and she had kept the fact that she knew from him. The fact that she was right—that he did have to do this carefully—didn't make any difference. The fact that she'd misled him did.
"Move over," he said. "You're blocking the door."
"No. I want to talk about it."
"Go talk with yourself."
He gathered the reins together and handed them to her, vaulting from the wagon's bench and recovering in time to swing himself up, and in through the back door.
"Jason," she called out, "what do you think you are doing?"
He threw his things into his saddlebags and retrieved his disguised rifle. "What does it look like?"
"You're not leaving. Listen to me. It can end here. Here's where you can turn around, and head back to Home. By the time you get there—"
"No."
"Then at least stay with me for the night. We'll drop off the horses and cart at the Hand Residence; I'll go find us a room somewhere and we can talk about it." She muttered a few quick words and hung the reins in the air, rising from the bench and crawling into the wagon.
Doria drew herself up straight. "I swear, Jason, you put all that down and agree to stay with me tonight, or I'll Compel you." She turned halfway away from him, almost into a fighting stance. "I swear it."
"You can't." He sneered. "You can't help me, remember?"
"I could." Doria smiled thinly. "Once. The spells are in my head, boy. My... standing wouldn't be forfeit until I used the spell, until I actually helped you."
"This isn't help."
"I say it is. Now, do I have your word?"
"Go ahead, Doria. Try it. Then what'll you be? A nothing, a nobody—how would you get by?"
She shook her head sadly. "I don't know. But I swear, unless you give't me your word, now, that you'll stay with me tonight and hear me out, I'll Compel you."
"Doria, you're bluffing."
"Am I now?" She swallowed, once, twice. "Very well." Her eyes went vague.
She wasn't bluffing.
"Wait! No—don't." The words tumbled out. "Agreed, Doria. Agreed, dammit. I'll stay with you tonight and talk to you."
"That's listen to me."
"Agreed. Whatever you say. Just don't. Please."
She lowered her hands, all menace gone from her manner. "Good. Now, let's get ourselves ready to go through customs, okay?"
Her voice was light and steady, but her forehead was covered with sweat, and her hands shook until she clasped them together.

His heart thrumming a steady backbeat, Jason slowly advanced in the line; outside the Slavers' Guildhall.
He wasn't impressed with the others in line with him; they were a dirty bunch of swordsmen.
But he couldn't really look down on them. Maybe they weren't cowards.
"Where you from, boy?" the man in front of him asked, probably just to make conversation.
Jason ignored him. The man took a too-long moment deciding whether or not to take offense, decided against it and then struck up a conversation with the man in front of him.
Doria had warned Jason about getting involved in idle chatter. It wasn't a deliberate interrogation he had to worry about—he knew enough about the fictitous Taren ip Therranj to answer questions—but an accidental slip.
It was a deceptively pretty building, or set of buildings: four connected three-storied structures of glistening white marble, surrounding an interior courtyard. Each of the linked buildings was supported by a pair of high fluted columns, guarding an entry arch.
He had seen the spreading branches of an ancient oak through an archway. It looked gorgeous, rising cleanly into the sky.
But the facade faded at the edges. A pair of rag-clad Mel women, the younger about Jason's age, the other perhaps a decade older, were on their hands and knees a short way down the corridor to Jason's left, scrubbing the floor under the watchful eye of a half-tunic-clad boy of about fifteen or so, who, every now and then, snapped his many-stranded whip to draw their attention to missed spots, real or not.
Jason wasn't sure what the purpose of it all was, or if the boy was merely being cruel to no purpose. Blood was trickling down the back of the younger of the two women, staining the marble, causing the slaver to redouble his efforts.
Jason turned his face away, but the sound persisted.
The line in front of him slowly shrank. Over the background noise of whip cracks and stifled screams, the guard at the door looked into the room beyond and nodded.
The grizzled soldier in front of him had been gone only a few moments when the guard nodded at Jason.
"Next. Taren ip Therranj."
Jason followed the guard's gesture into the outer room, where a skinny, cringing man knelt in front of him with a damp rag.
"To wash your feet," the guard explained, as the slave began scrubbing at Jason's sandals and feet. "Must mind the carpeting, even in the Stranger's Room."
The soap felt slimy between his toes, Jason forced himself not to let the disgust he felt show in his face.
"Lift your arms," the guard said, patting Jason down thoroughly, checking even the contents of Jason's purse, and, after a quick explanatory gesture, even checking to be sure that there was nothing in Jason's scabbard other than his sword.
"Nice blade," the guard said, slipping Jason's saber back into its scabbard and handing it to Jason. "You can keep that; I'll need the beltknife."
Jason handed over his bowie. He wasn't worried that the Nehera markings on sword or bowie would expose him; smiths all over were trying to copy the dwarf smith's striations, even if they couldn't get quite the same strength and sharpness from their own inferior steel or quite the same edge from imported Home wootz.
"And now," the guard said, knocking a staccato tattoo against the oaken door, "they should be ready for you."

Walter Slovotsky had wanted to stay in the Inn of Quiet Repose, but Ahira had overruled him: granted, they hadn't been in Pandathaway for years, but Tommallo might recognize them.
Still, they would have to make up their minds and make their arrangements soon; it was late afternoon, and the sun sat only about ten degrees above the horizon.
He stretched his arms as he sat on the passenger's side of the flatbed wagon, then continued the motion to grab the muslin sack of jerky behind the bench seat. After serving himself, he offered the bag around; everyone else declined, except for Tennetty.
"Still think it'd be worth a try."
It had been years and years since they'd first come through Pandathaway, but Walter could still remember the meal they'd had in the inn. Wonderful, wonderful food.
"We'll try another inn," the dwarf said, bouncing up and down on the back of his pony. "Nearer the docks. We'll want to sell our cargo, as long as we're here. But I don't want to take any chances on being made. Understood?"
Bren Adahan twitched his reins. "What's the difference? There's no price on your head."
"Not specifically," the dwarf admitted. "But the Slavers' Guild still has a reward out for Home warriors. I think we qualify, so we'll keep a low profile."
"Right," Tennetty said, sitting next to him, as she drove their flatbed wagon. She flicked the switch at the left drayhorse; the animal lowered its head and slogged on. "That's my vote."
Walter had to repress a chuckle at the way she kept a lock of hair in front of the right side of her face, concealing her glass eye; she looked sort of like Veronica Lake.
A wiry, scarred, completely unpretty Veronica Lake, who could as easily slit your throat as look at you.
Her level look at him said it all: I don't like you much, either.
"I didn't think it was a voting matter," Aeia said, with a sly smile. "Isn't this supposed to be a led party?"
"Shut up," Walter explained, returning her smile with interest.
Things had settled down to a relatively stable set of relationships. Whatever Aeia had said to Bren Adahan while Walter had been off in Holtun-Bieme was working: As long as Walter didn't rub Adahan's nose in what he and Aeia were doing, Adahan seemed resolved to ignore it.
Bren Adahan's brow wrinkled for a moment; his face brightened. "Let me make the arrangements for housing; I have an idea."
Ahira nodded, bouncing up and down on the back of his pony. "Sure. Meet us in Dolphin Plaza. It's down by the docks."
"If you can't meet us there, try at the steps of the Great Library," Walter put in, It wasn't impossible that that place had been torn down or something; best to allow for an alternative.
Adahan spurred his horse. Aeia, after a glance toward and a nod from the dwarf, went after him. Walter Slovotsky approved; she made a good brake on Adahan. Or anyone else, for that matter.
Tennetty chuckled ruefully. "Like a couple of puppies, them two." She eyed Walter speculatively. "She any good?"
"None of your business."
"Hey, Walter, ta havath." Tennetty shrugged, "I like them young, too."
"Boys or girls?" he asked, then immediately regretted it as her face clouded over. But he couldn't resist adding, "Careful, careful, Tennetty—you're in disguise, remember. Slitting the throat of a robust fellow like myself might draw some attention."
"I won't always be in disguise."
"Enough, the two of you," the dwarf said, shaking his head. Then: "Damn you, ease up," as his gray gelding half-reared, spooked by a something small and furry that scampered across the filthy street.
"Fine," Tennetty whispered. "We'll settle up for this some other time. When I clear it with Karl."
"If."
"When."
Walter didn't understand Tennetty. As devoted as she was to Karl Cullinane, the notion of the big man riding into the jaws of a trap didn't bother her. It was as though Karl was a force of nature, not merely a very tough man.
The dwarf squinted at a broadside, pasted against the building ahead "Does that—shit."

The area around the Pandathaway docks was neither as crowded nor as fast-moving as Walter Slovotsky remembered. The first time they had entered the harbor, Avair Ganness and the rest of them had been forced to wait while the elf running the guideboat found them a place among the dozens and dozens of ships there. Silkies at the waterline had nudged the Ganness' Pride into its berth, while Ganness' pigtail twitched in irritation and worry; he'd babied that boat of his.
The water had been clean, sparkling in the sunlight; the docks had seemed more burnished than weathered by wind and water.
Now, the morning sun shone down a sludge pipe dumping a slow trickle of raw sewage into the harbor, while foul green algae lapped at the pilings. Over at the far dock, the single working guideboat leisurely dragged a schooner into its berth, both boats propelled by polemen in the guideboat, not enslaved silkies.
The dwarf nodded. "Put another one in the plus column."
"Right."
"Daven's raid, I think? Or was it Frandred's?" Aeia asked. "I don't remember, for sure. I don't like either of them." She shivered visibly.
"Daven, as I recall," Ahira said. "A strike that close to Pandathaway itself was too much for Frandred. He's not clever enough."
"Let's go," Tennetty whispered.
Slovotsky lightly tugged at the leash leading to the chain around Tennetty's neck.
"Harder, asshole," she hissed at him. "If you blow our cover, we're dead meat."
"Right. Just don't blame me later," he said. One of the seamen loading the boat—it looked like a junk, in both senses, Walter decided—glanced at them, then frowned, turned away, and turned back.
"Shit," Walter said. "Tennetty—sorry. That will be enough talk from you, Ettlenna," he said, backhanding her across the face, leaving blood at the corner of her mouth,
Tennetty whimpered.
She did a good whimper.
A very good whimper.
Slovotsky would have commented on what a good whimper she did if he didn't remember that she did a great eviscerate.
"I've found three possibilities," Bren Adahan said. "Only three, and none of them heading as far as Ehvenor."
Slovotsky frowned. While it was clearly a slow time in the Pandathaway harbor, there had to be at least six ships sufficiently fast for their needs.
Bren Adahan caught his expression and shook his head. "You're not thinking it through, Walter Slovotsky. We need a single- or double-masted boat, or it'll take too much crew to run it. And it's got to be large enough for us and the horses to fit on." His face grew grim. "I am not selling Seabiscuit; the emperor gave her to me."
Ahira nodded. "Besides, we may need horses in Mela—whoa."
"Melawhoa?"
"Take a look at that big one, over there. The square-rigged job. Look at who's running it."
Slovotsky looked. Sure, it was large, at least by local standards; except for a broad-beamed, three-masted ship on the far dock, it clearly was the biggest boat around. Supervised by a shaven-headed man who was clearly either the captain or somebody awfully senior aboard the ship, a gang of at least a dozen men were working a winch-and-crane setup, unloading a net filled with canvas sacks.
"Yeah. So?"
"Use your eyes, man."
"I am using my eyes. They're just not seeing anything."
What he saw was a square-rigged ship that clearly needed a crew of at least a dozen to sail: Unlike the way a lateen-rigged boat was sailed, it would be necessary to send seamen into the rigging to trim the sails. Granted, the design gave the ship a lot of useful deck space and allowed it to move a lot of cargo in the hold, but running it called for a large, well-trained crew operating under the guidance of someone who knew the Cirric and his ship, not a scared captain operating with a cocked pistol stuck in his ear.
"I still don't see anything useful," Walter said, shrugging.
Bren Adahan nodded. "I have to agree with Walter Slovotsky. This wasn't one of the ships I think we ought to consider."
"Aeia, Tennetty," the dwarf said. "Take a good look at the boat. See him?"
"No; and the boat doesn't look fam—oh." Aeia chuckled. "Him."
"Yup."
Tennetty snickered out of the corner of her mouth. "He shaved his head. And he's done a lot with the ship since we saw it last—switched the masts, added on the raised poopdeck. All in disguise, eh?"
"All in disguise. Follow me," the dwarf said, leading them toward the ship.
When the captain saw them, his dark face turned almost white; he staggered and clutched at the rail, only to miss and fall overboard, splashing into the filthy water below, sputtering out curses as he shinnied up one of the pilings to the pier.
Under the coating of black-green slime, the captain's face was pale.
Walter Slovotsky grinned down at Avair Ganness. He turned to the others. "I do believe we have ourselves a ride."

Under a dome of stars, mocked by the pulsing faerie lights, Karl Cullinane rode with his three companions down into Ehvenor, his sheathed sword bound across his saddle, his right hand never straying far from the butt of the short-barreled single-shot shotgun in his rifle boot.
Kethol, the broad-shouldered redheaded warrior riding at Karl's left, worked his pistol loose in its holster. It was just a nervous habit; the shoulder holster didn't need to be primed to release its cargo. " 'Ware the crazies," he said quietly. "They're not after a reward, more'n likely. But they're dangerous, just the same."
"Tell me something I don't know," Pirojil said. He rubbed a blunt finger against his heavy brows. He was a remarkably ugly man, his flat nose splayed to one side from some long-ago fight. Karl could understand why Pirojil hadn't bothered to have the nose taken care of. It wouldn't have helped.
Pirojil visibly winced every now and then. He'd taken an arrow in the thigh during the ambush outside of Tinkir that had killed Aren and Ferdom, and the scant portion of healing draughts that Kethol had doled out hadn't quite been enough to bring him back to health; a steady regimen of riding and walking hadn't allowed the wound enough time to heal. But Pirojil pushed on, bringing up the rear, he tugged at the ropes of their two packhorses, keeping the animals and the party's supplies close.
"Movement, off to the left," Durine said. A treetrunk of a man, he rode with his reins held daintily in his hamlike left fist, his massive right hand holding his shotgun easily, as though he didn't notice the weight.
"Just a rabbit," Pirojil said. "Ta havath, eh?"
The Cirric glistened in the starlight, small waves lapping the shore. As the company rode down toward Ehvenor, Karl could see only two large ships docked there, although a wide-bellied sloop seemed to be putting in.
Between the road and the water, Ehvenor stood, waiting.
Ehvenor. The sole outpost of Faerie in the Eren regions. Off in the distance, the faerie embassy, woven of light and mist, glimmered in the night, its brightness refusing to dispel the darkness surrounding it. It was almost cylindrical, almost three, four stories high. Almost, almost, almost—always almost; it was hard to look at; the building seemed to change before his eyes, to mold itself into another form ever so slightly different from what had been the moment before, but the change so slight and subtle that Karl couldn't put his finger on just what it was.
"Want me to go on ahead, sir?" Kethol asked. He was no Walter Slovot-sky, but he did a good recon.
"No. Just keep alert." Best not to go separately; the Ehvenor crazies sometimes ran in packs. And who cared that a warrior could take down a dozen of the filthy creatures before they brought him down? The idea was to avoid the crazies, not to kill them. "And let's keep quiet."
Kethol nodded, transferred his reins from his right hand to his left so that he could draw his blackened saber, holding it easily in his hand.
The main road into the city led past a row of ramshackle houses, none of them issuing any light at all. Perfect cover for another ambush, for someone else after the guild reward on Karl's head.
Karl didn't like the looks of it; he nodded at Kethol, who led them down a side alley.
The alley twisted and turned through the dark, dung-laden streets, past the hovels of Ehvenor. Occasionally they could see dim faces peering out through windows or shutters, only to disappear instantly when Durine brought his shotgun into line, or at the whisk of Kethol's steel cleaving the cold night air.
The plan was to go down to the pier and make a rude camp until morning, when—they hoped—passage to Melawei could be procured. They carried with them twenty coins of good Pandathaway gold and ten fine Nehera-made swords, both the gold and steel distributed among the party; leaving it all on the packhorses could leave them in trouble if they were separated from the animals.
There were also a few surprises in the horse's pouches. This Side wasn't used to explosives yet, and the twenty or so pounds of guncotton on the rear horse might come in very handy.
Not that it would make much of a difference, not in the long run, Karl thought, wishing that he could take his amulet out of his saddlebags and put it on again.
But he couldn't. It had to be known that Karl Cullinane—
With no warning, a dim shape rushed out of the shadows and leaped on Kethol, dragging the warrior down from his saddle before he could begin to bring his sword into play. It clawed at the man, uttering a satisfied, low growl.
Instantly, Karl was off his own horse, his drawn saber in his hand. Firing a gun at whatever had jumped kethol was out of the question; he'd be as likely to kill his own man as whatever it was.
Durine's animal reared, while the huge man looked desperately for a target for his shotgun.
Karl couldn't exactly make out the form of whatever it was that was clawing at Kethol, but he could find parts that he knew weren't his warrior; Karl stabbed into the dark mass, and felt his blade slice through flesh and cut into bone.
With a hideous, liquid scream, the form went into a spasm, arms and legs twitching and then falling still as the body went limp, the body voiding itself of its waste in the final reflex of all animals.
Karl kicked the stinking mass away from Kethol, and then immediately ducked to one side to make himself a bad target for the next attack.
But there wasn't any.
Pirojil spoke up. "I don't see anything."
"Me, neither," Durine put in. "Nothing."
Kethol got slowly to his feet; he looked okay, if a bit shaken.
"Light, Pirojil," Karl said.
As Pirojil pulled a glowsteel from his tunic, horribly bright blue light flared in the alleyway, sending a watching rat scurrying for cover. But there was nothing else there, nothing except the rag-clad, half-starved body of the man Karl had killed.
As he got painfully to his feet, Kethol used the toe of his boot to turn the crazy over, after stabbing the corpse a couple of times with his own sword, just to be on the safe side.
That's all it was, just a crazy. It happened in Ehvenor. Spending too much time around faerie was very bad for some humans, turning them violently, self-destructively insane. It didn't affect many—perhaps no more than one in five hundred, perhaps less—but that was enough.
Above, the faerie lights pulsed more brightly, echoing Karl's pulse.
Walk this way. Come to me.
Kethol muttered a startled cry. Durine brought up his shotgun. Pirojil Spun his horse around.
Walk this way. Come to me. The voice was directionless, and quiet.
Karl started. "Who is it? Pirojil—douse the light."
Walk this way. Come to me. As Pirojil tucked his glowsteel away, the faerie lights hovered over the alley, pulsing even more intensely, the speed of the pulsations become an argent staccato. Strangely, though, they didn't make the alley any brighter.
Walk this way. Come to me.
Karl retrieved his amulet from his saddlebag and slipped the thong over his head. It should provide some protection from whoever it was that was—
Walk this way. Come to me. The faerie lights descended to line up over the alley, a path in the air that wound toward the faerie embassy.
Embassy is such a silly word, "Finger" is better. Walk this way. Come to me.
"Are you for me or against me?" Not that he could trust an affirmative answer, but perhaps a negative one would make his decision easy.
No. Walk this way. Come to me.
He decided not to, and was turning to tell the others that they were moving out when the universe twisted.

Slaver rifle slung over one shoulder, Jason Cullinane walked along the beach in the early-morning light, following Hervian, the leader of the five-man squad. As far as he could see, the sand, beaten down by last night's rain, was unmarked save for their own footprints and the deep hoofprints of the two horses that had been ridden out to relieve the distant watch at dawn.
"Just as well," Hervian said. "I don't see no sign of 'em. We'll have a good hunt-down for later. Maybe get your wick dipped for you, boy, if you can earn it," he said with a genial, gap-toothed smile. "For a good bowman, you make a sorry gunner, Taren."
Pelius, a lanky, spade-bearded fellow, chuckled at that. "True, true. I don't think you're going to enjoy much of those Mel girls. Then again, if you need it, you could try the cook, although meat that old is too tough and stringy for me."
The villagers had long since scattered; undoubtedly they were back in toe hills someplace, waiting until the slavers left.
Ahrmin had made no attempt to sneak up on Eriksen village; he had merely sailed the ships along the coast, letting the Mel run and hide. This wasn't a slaving raid, after all; the purpose was to set up to capture or kill him, not procure hard-to-train Mel as slaves. A confrontation might have necessitated using some of their hard-purchased magical defenses against Clan Eriksen's wizards—the only magical facilities the slavers had with them, as no guild wizard had been willing to risk going up against the possible combination of Karl Cullinane and Arta Myrdhyn's sword.
It was easiest to chase the Mel away, although Ahrmin and the first party had managed to seize a dozen or so; the men had been killed when they proved too intractable for immediate taming, the seven women had been impressed into service in a hut that was used as a bordello by the slavers, a treat to be withheld for poor performance of duty.
Jason had chosen to be a dreadful shot with the slaver rule; while he couldn't do anything about the screams at night, at least he didn't have to participate.
He was more than vaguely sickened by his inaction. But what was he supposed to do? Take on more than a hundred men all by himself?
It wasn't fair. It was already too great a demand of an already overexacting universe that he kill Ahrmin to prove himself and save his father from getting killed; adding the additional requirement that he rescue some Mel he didn't even know or kill off two companies of slavers was just ridiculous.
He wouldn't do it; he didn't feel obligated to try. Not really.
Several bowshots offshore, Scourge bobbed lazily in the waves. Flail was somewhere over the horizon, waiting to locate Karl Cullinane's ship if he came that way, or to prevent its escape if it managed to slip into Melawei —assuming he could find someone foolish enough to grant him passage to Melawei. The scuttlebutt was that he'd try the overland route; if so, there was going to be at least another tenday until he stepped into Ahrmin's trap. Ahrmin had announced yesterday that Karl Cullinane was definitely on his way toward here, and that everyone ought to keep alert for him.
Plenty of time, Jason thought.
All he needed was a chance. Just let him get close to Ahrmin with either a loaded gun or bow, and he'd finish that problem.
The chance hadn't come, yet. On the trip out, Jason and Doria had been on the Scourge, while Ahrmin had traveled ahead on the Flail, a faster, less-broad-beamed sloop, the same ship now lying off the coast to the west, waiting to drop off a horseman on shore to report that Karl had been spotted, or receive a signal from shore to reinforce the Pandathaway forces in Eriksen village.
I'll get him, Father, he thought.
The timing would have to be right. He'd have to find the opportunity sometime before his father arrived, and it would have to allow for an opportunity to get Doria out. Jason felt responsible for her, and was more than a little aware that she felt responsible for him. His woodsmanship was good; given a knife and bow, Jason could feed the both of them off the land on the trip overland.
"Deep thoughts, eh, lad?" Vikat said. The well-muscled blond fellow was only a year or so older than Jason, but, as a junior journeyman of the Slavers' Guild, he outranked all the rest in the squad, save only Hervian, the senior journeyman slaver. "Taren, Taren, whether you're going to join the guild or no, you're going to have to learn to concentrate on the task at hand."
Hervian chuckled again. "Fine one to talk, guild brother. I remember when you gelded that Salke for Lord Lund." He gave Jason a friendly nudge. "His hand was shaking so hard that instead of just cutting off the bugger's balls, he sliced all the way through—"
"Shut your festering gob, guild brother," Vikat hissed. "Will you mock me in front of outsiders?"
Hervian gestured an obviously insincere apology, and fell silent, only to furrow his brow. "We haven't walked so far that we've neared the watch post, have we?"
Jason followed his gaze. The hoofmarks, instead of hugging the water-line, led up across forty meters or so of sand toward the treeline.
One of the mercenaries started to break into a trot.
"Carefully, now." Unslinging his rifle, Hervian stopped him with a gesture. "Slow and steady, now, we'll take it slow and steady. Check your loads, all."
The five men crept toward the treeline, Jason taking up a position a bit to the right and front, separating himself from others, just in case. They found the horses hitched, a short way into the woods. The two animals, stripped of saddle and all gear except for an improvised rope halter, were idly chewing on some ferns around the base of an old oak.
"Look, over there," Jason said.
Off in the distance, Jason thought he could make out a shape, but it wasn't him.
Hervian pushed past him. "No."
Faces pale, almost yellow in death, both slavers hung upside down by one heel from an overhanging branch, their arms outstretched toward the ground as though raised. Each man had been neatly slitted under the chin, unmarked save for that.
Flies buzzed around their wounds, and around the clotted blood marking the sands beneath them.
"Cut them down, Taren," Hervian said, his voice quavering. "Cut them down."
Jason swarmed up the tree, then steadied himself on a limb, drawing and reaching out his bowie, neatly slicing through first one rope, then another, the riflemen below easing the bodies to the ground.
Jason dropped lightly to the trail as Vikat snatched at a piece of parchment that had been tied to a nearby tree.
The young slaver's hands trembled as he read; wordless, he handed it to Hervian, who read it and handed it to Jason.
In steady Erendra script, the brown letters said, "I understand that you want to see me, Ahrmin. I wait for you."
It was unsigned.
Despite his rising gorge, Jason almost smiled. The dead slavers were all the signature that Father needed.
"Karl Cullinane," Hervian said. "He's here sooner than expected. Are you enough of a horseman to bring the news back to camp, Taren? For Master Ahrmin's eyes only, on my authority as a journeyman guildsman, understood?"
"Understood."

Reach out the arms. Wait. Pull up the legs. Pause. Push slowly, slide. Rest.
This was one of the times when Karl Cullinane envied Walter Slovotsky. Karl tried hard, but creeping through the night silently didn't come naturally to him.
Reach out the arms. Wait. Pull up the legs. Pause. Push slowly, slide. Rest.
It didn't matter. It couldn't be permitted to matter. Acquired skill and unrelenting effort would have to serve him where natural inclination couldn't.
Flat on his belly, the cold sand sticking to his damp body from face to toes, he crept along the edge of the treeline, the woods at his right, the beach, and beyond it the Cirric, at his left.
Careful. Slow and careful does it.
This called for stealth, not strength.
Reach out the arms. Wait Pull up the legs. Pause. Push slowly, slide. Rest.
Ahead in the dark, two nervous slavers stared off into the night, their backs to a campfire. Karl crept a bit closer.
From the safety of his cache and refuges, he had watched the beach throughout the day to see if the slavers had set up watchmen to watch the watchmen. That would be their next step, but they hadn't taken it yet.
They probably have as little respect for my skulking abilities as I do, he thought.
Unarmed save for his bowie, he moved closer, moving with exquisite slowness, arms moving glacially forward before he transferred his weight to his hands and then pulled up his legs to push himself across the sand slowly, tediously, deliberately. He froze in place, and repeated the process.
Reach out the arms. Wait. Pull up the legs. Pause. Push slowly, slide. Rest.
He had to make his game plan work. The slavers would assume, at first, that they could hunt him down during the day, and would keep their watchmen out during the night.
But after a few were found dead, with no clue as to Karl Cullinane's hiding place, they'd set watchmen to guard the watchmen. That would be their next step, along with setting booby traps. Probably some sort of tiger pit, punji sticks on the bottom. Perhaps some kind of deadfall.
He'd have to keep alert, to keep a watchful eye, in order to beat that.
And after that, when that failed—if that failed—the slavers would huddle together at night, pulling in all of their men into one camp, hoping to chase Karl down during the day.
That would be Karl's chance.
Reach out the arms. Wait. Pull up the legs. Pause. Push. Slowly slide. Rest.
Right now, the odds were just weighted too heavily against him. If he'd had a dozen men, he might have been able to launch a dozen simultaneous attacks, but he didn't. It was just him. Which meant that he would have to get the enemy all together one night, then attack with his stash of guncotton bombs, and blow them all to hell. Even a successful attack wouldn't kill all of them, but it might cut the odds against him down to a manageable level.
Possibly, with the slavers weakened, the Mel might even come down from the hills and counterattack, and even aid Karl in setting up an ambush for any arriving slaver reserves. ,
But that was for later.
For now:
Reach out the arms. Wait. Pull up the legs, pause. Push slowly, slide. Rest.
First he'd have to scare the slavers into collecting in one place, and then he'd have to take it from there.
Until they all gathered in the killing zone, he couldn't use any of his stash of guncotton bombs; it was vital not to get the slavers thinking about the dangers of huddling together, vital to get them worrying about the dangers of not huddling together.
Reach out the arms. Wait. Pull up the legs. Pause. Push slowly, slide. Rest.
He froze in place as a stray sound from the forest sent the two watchmen into sudden motion, the larger of the two men bringing his slaver rifle up while the other hefted his sword.
He didn't move for at least fifteen minutes, until the watchmen had sat down and relaxed, until their eyes had glazed over again.
And even then he slipped the index finger of his right hand to his left wrist and carefully counted a thousand pulsebeats before he resumed his slow progress.
Reach out the arms. Wait. Pull up the legs. Pause. Push slowly. Slide. Rest.
The trouble with his plan, of course, was that it probably wouldn't work. The odds were all too great that he'd be brought down on one of the nightly raids, or that the slavers would dig a trap that he wouldn't see in time.
Well, the plan was a long shot, but at least it held some chance. Besides, he did have an intelligence source that the slavers didn't know about.
He hoped.
Reach out the arms. Wait Pull up the legs. Pause. Push slowly, slide. Rest.

The cavern of the sword was empty, save for a naked, shivering Karl Cullinane and the shining sword.
The sword...
Clutched in fingers of light, the sword of Arta Myrdhyn hung in the air above a roughly hewn stone altar.
There was no sound, save for his own breathing, the wet slap of his footsteps on the cold stone, and the fast, even thrum-thrum-thrum of his own heart.
Karl Cullinane had never felt so alone.
The sword looked the same as it had years before, probably the same as it had for century after century: a two-handed broadsword with cord-wound hilt and thick brass quillons, its surface shimmering in the ghostly light, unblemished save for the spidery shapes that crept across the blade, forming letters and then vanishing.
Take me, the letters spelled out. Give me to Jason.
"Like hell," he said.
He crouched for a moment, huddling in the Mel blanket. Under the rough blanket, he was still wet and naked except for his amulet, shivering from the cold; the cavern, hidden inside a close-offshore island, was accessible only by the underwater passage.
Across the blade, spidery letters again played.
Take me, they said. I wait for your son.
"Not as far as I'm concerned," he said. This was what this was all about, at least according to Arta Myrdhyn: a sword that protected its bearer against even the strongest of magical spells; a sword made for killing wizards.
Arta Myrdhyn's way of preparing to strike at Wizards Grandmaster Lucius, his ancient enemy.
Not with my son, you don't.
Jason would find his own destiny; Karl's son would not become a pawn in Deighton's game.
Karl Cullinane forced a chuckle, the laugh sounding thin even in his own ears. Make a play for the sword, indeed. Hah. It wasn't the sword that had brought him to Melawei; it wasn't the sword that had brought him to the hidden offshore caverns. But he did have to see it again; he couldn't have come all this way without seeing that it still stood here.
No, what Karl Cullinane had come here for was in the outer room: his edge against the slavers.
Ahrmin had taken Eriksen village, chasing the Eriksens back into the hills. It was understandable: That was the area of Melawei where Karl had defeated him before; Ahrmin would want to avenge himself on the land and villagers, as well as Karl Cullinane.
But there was something else near that village.
You made a huge mistake, bastard, he thought as he walked into the outer room. You picked the wrong spot to lie in wait for me.
Glowing crystals were scattered across the walls and ceiling of the outer chamber; captured starlight played across the mottled far wall. Karl knew that if he'd had the genes to work magic, the dim markings on the wall would have resolved themselves into sharp-edged runes, the words of spells that could be impressed on the mind of a user of magic, to be saved, hoarded in the mind, spilled out as needed.
But he didn't; it was only a dirty wall to him. It wouldn't have been to Andy, but...
But she wasn't here.
She wasn't here. He'd likely never see her again. What would he give to hold her in his arms again? What wouldn 't he give?
Easy, Karl. We've got work to do. He forced his mind back to the task at hand, and decided that it had been too long since he had last eaten, although he didn't feel hungry. Killing took away his appetite.
At least, it used to; it used to be that he felt sick to his stomach both before and after a kill. Lately, over the past few days, he had returned from his forays ravenous.
He wasn't hungry now, but, still, the body-as-machine had to be taken care of, if only for a short while longer. Karl Cullinane left the cavern of the sword and walked back through the roughly hewn tunnel to the outer chamber where he had left his gear.
His tunic, breechclout, and leggings were spread out on the cold stone, drying as well as they could. He squatted for a moment, feeling at his clothes. His? Well, close enough; the slavers he'd relieved of them wouldn't have any further use for them. They were all still wet from last night, as were half the stack of blanketlike towels that the Mel had left in the cave, for the convenience of their clan wizards.
He shrugged. He'd be in for worse than damp clothes before the night was over.
Ignoring the two big sacks containing guncotton sticks and the small one with the detonators, he dug into the fourth one for a hunk of dried beef, and bit off a piece while he examined the near wall.
What appeared to be a picture window looked down on the nighttime sea.
Waves roiled beneath flickering stars, while a distant darkness covered the horizon. To the west, south, and east, other offshore islands lay, some only tiny rocky outcroppings sporting a tree or two, some large ones only technically islands, just barely separated from the shoreline by passages too narrow for any craft save a Mel dugout canoe. A bird flitted across his field of view; it was gone before Karl could make out what kind it was.
Off in the distance, a slaver ship lay, floating freely at anchor. That would make a juicy target, but not for tonight. The slavers were starting to pull in their outlying posts, but the process wasn't finished.
There was an old Vietcong trick Karl planned to try tonight, which should speed things along, another turn of the screw: He'd cut off tonight's victims' genitals, and leave them stuck in the corpses' mouths. He'd thought about doing so for days, and had decided to wait on it. Mutilating bodies didn't bother him, not at all. He had put off doing it to give himself something else to add to the pressure on the slavers.
He turned back to the window. It wasn't really a picture window, of course; the cavern was at sea level, but the view looked down from a height. The Eye, the sphere which transferred the image to the glass, was on the island's heights, waiting.
For this.
Karl ran his fingers over the glass; in dizzying counterpoint, the view spun until the beach filled the window. Karl would have given a lot to be able to move the Eye out and over the forest to do a more complete remote recon—village Eriksen was hidden by the trees—but even without that, it was a powerful tool.
Besides, he liked it; the Eye and window suited him.
It was magic-as-technology—do this with this, and this happens, see? There was something far more satisfying about a device that he could see work, emotionally preferable to even something as useful, as important, as the amulet that protected him from being located.
He moved his fingers again, then examined the glass closely until he could see a distant fire that was at least a mile down the beach. It was the spot where, just a few nights before, he had killed the two watchmen, leaving one burning.
Right now, all it was was a vague glow, so he lightly touched his index finger to the flicker, and pressed down while the flicker grew, zooming in, the watchfire growing on the screen until he could see the two slavers sitting in front of it, one tending a head-sized piece of meat on a spit, the other scanning the water and forest. The view was flat, as though he was looking through a telephoto lens.
That didn't bother him. The trouble was that it looked far too easy. By now, the slavers would be trying to trap him; there would be a backup.
"So, let's find the backup."
It took him five hard minutes of scanning to find it: another pair of slavers, hidden in a blind built into a nearby tree, visible only momentarily when the more skittish one would shift position.
He still didn't like it, though. Ahrmin was clever; there was probably a second backup, at least, but a half hour of intense scrutiny, making minuscule motions to barely move the Eye, didn't reveal it.
Karl Cullinane sighed. He probably wasn't going to be able to hit that target. Not tonight. There had to be backups, or bobby traps on the approaches to such a tempting target; until he could figure out exactly what the slavers were up to, he'd have to give this target a pass. The next step had to be to persuade the slavers to pull their men in close, defensively. Pull all the outlying guards into one camp, and huddle together there.
So that Karl Cullinane could blow them to bits with guncotton bombs. He smiled. Just a little more, he thought. Just a few more deaths, and the slavers would gather together for him. And then, boom. Cut them down to size, then cut them to pieces.
Back to work.
Maybe he could spot the traps here. It would be nice to take apart a three-level trap; that would mean killing at least five slavers. Not a bad night's work at all. If he could do it.
He spun the view and looked westward down the beach, scanning slowly until a motion caught his eye. He zoomed in, yet again, and spotted three dark figures moving single-file along the treeline.
Not a bad job of skulking, he decided. The slavers wouldn't be visible except from the sea, and except for their own ship, there were no ships in evidence—even a keen observer wouldn't have been able to spot them from the island, not without the Eye.
Too bad—for them—that the slavers didn't know about the Eye.
Wait. He shook his head.
That hadn't looked right. There was something about the walk of one of them.
He zoomed in closer, but they were gone; they had probably ducked back into the trees. He scanned the Eye farther down the beach, and saw two others, trailing the first three by about a hundred meters. The hunting team's backup, probably, looking for traces of him, wisely figuring that Karl wasn't going to be skulking inside the forest itself at night, for the same reason that the slavers weren't: Only a few dozen meters inside the forest, the overgrowth of leaves blocked out all light.
But... that didn't make sense. Maybe they would put out one man as a Judas goat—Ahrmin seemed to have little concern for his men; likely most were hired mercenaries and not guild slavers—but not three, not with two following. To justify using three men as bait, there would have to be a much larger party waiting to spring the trap.
Granted, the two following looked to be fairly tough: two large men, one half crouching as he followed their trail, the other holding two loaded crossbows.
But still. It didn't make sense at all. Unless...
Karl spun the view again, leaving the two hunters while he searched for their quarry.
He found them. Three figures, hiding in darkness. Not hiding well enough.
The three came to a spot where a wide trail led away into the trees. The right move would have been to go into the forest, and cross the trail under cover.
Even Karl knew that; Walter Slovotsky had taught him.
You didn't cross open spaces, not if you didn't have to.
They crossed the open space.
"No!" His heart pounded in his chest as he zoomed in tight on their faces, his fingers automatically making the minor corrections to keep them in view.
It was Aeia, Tennetty, and Bren Adahan. What were they doing here?
Getting themselves killed, in just a few minutes, if Karl didn't do something.
Wait a minute, he thought, and then smiled. If they were here, that meant that Jason had been found; they'd still be looking for the boy, otherwise. This had to mean that they'd found the boy; they were here to pull Karl's head out of the noose.
He knew how Atlas felt after his shrug.
Change of plans, Ahrmin, Karl thought. "I, Karl Cullinane, hereby cancel my last run, and promise to get my butt out of here in one piece, if at all possible."
He would take another try at Ahrmin, and soon, but with better odds than were offered here and now.
Now, to rescue his rescuers....
He ran to his gear and pulled out his bowie, then went into one of the leather sacks and produced a dozen gun cotton sticks, each carefully sealed for watertightness. He dug into the small bag for sealed packets of detonators, igniters, and fuses, putting all of the retrieved explosives and equipment in a canvas rucksack. His guns, powder, and sword were cached in the woods with his boots; he hadn't wanted to expose his guns to the water, and, once having tried swimming with a sword, had no intention of swimming with it and other gear.
His clothes were still wet, but dark clothes would provide more cover in the night than his bare skin. On top of the explosive, he set a brass flask of healing draughts. Just in case.
No. He shook his head. He couldn't afford to take the bombs, because he couldn't afford to use the bombs. If he did use explosives on the hunters, it would only call attention to this area—and while the offshore island probably could stand a casual search, it probably couldn't take a more thorough one. There was a crack in the outer chamber that let in air and, during the day, a bit of light. A thorough search might involve someone putting his eye to the crack, and seeing the crystals inside.
Worse, any use of the bombs might suggest to Ahrmin what Karl's game plan was; the slavers would spread out to several smaller camps, and wait Karl out.
But what if he needed the bombs?
Shit. If I need the bombs, I'm dead anyway. He set the canvas sack down. Best not to take it.
There was something wrong. It felt suddenly colder in the chamber. But only physically; inside, he was warmed.
For a moment, he wasn't alone anymore.
He closed his eyes, and they were there. Maybe. He was never sure if it was real or just his subconscious sounding an alarm in a way it knew would get his attention, but it was as though the three of them were there, with him: Fialt, Rahff, and Chak.
He opened his eyes, and they were gone; but when he closed them again, he could almost see them; their presence was almost palpable.
Saturnine, slow-speaking Fialt, who didn't want to be a warrior, but had died on an Ehvenor dock, distracting assassins for a priceless second. Karl knew the price of that second; it had been Fialt's life.
As Karl squeezed his eyes tightly shut, he could almost see Fialt shaking his head no.
Young Rahff, his face a mirror to his soul, never able to resist asking why—like his brother Thomen, but even more so. He'd died here, in Melawei, protecting Aeia, here on the goddam Melawei sands, his belly sliced open, gutted like a trout.
Karl could almost feel Rahff looking up at him, a puzzled frown on his young face that would never grow old.
And short Chak, an easy grin always on his dark face. Chak, who had spent too much of his life protecting Karl's back, making sure it didn't start sprouting knives. Chak had died outside of Kiar, blown to pieces in an explosion of slaver powder, protecting the myth of the invincibility of Home forces.
It was as though Chak was there, cocking his head to one side.
Leaving the bombs behind doesn't make sense, kemo sabe, he seemed to say. Since when do we count on getting out of anything alive? There was a distant chuckle. If you need them, you need them. Take any weapon you can carry.
Karl Cullinane opened his eyes.
There was nobody there. But there was.
Take the bombs, Karl.
Karl squeezed his eyes shut once more, and then nodded as he opened them to stoop for two of the packets, packed them in a small leather pouch, then tied that tightly to his left shoulder. It was less than a tenth of his stock, but that would surely be enough for now; with any kind of luck at all he wouldn't even need it.
He patted his bowie for a moment, then shook his head. He was going to have to make a run from the sea, and take out the two of them before they could react. It was a chancy gambit, at best. Better to have more than fourteen inches of steel to use.
He dashed back to the cavern of the sword.
It still hung in the air, the spidery letters playing across the surface. Take me, they said.
He fastened his fingers around the grip. It was blood-warm, alive.
"No promises, Deighton," he said. "No deals. But I'd like to borrow this, for a while. With no obligation." He tightened his fingers around the hilt and pulled.
The sword didn't give,
Take me for your son, the letters said.
"No." He pulled once more, hard. But the sword was anchored tightly in the air.
"Fuck you, asshole," Karl Cullinane said.
He dropped his hand from the hilt and ran from the cavern of the sword of Arta Myrdhyn and into the outer chamber. He paused a moment before the pool leading to the underwater tunnel that was the only exit from the caverns. Karl Cullinane didn't believe in ghosts. It must have been just his subconscious acting up, trying to prevent him from making a mistake.
Still, it wouldn't hurt. He hefted the canvas bag.
"Fialt, Rahff..." He choked for a moment, "Chak. My friends. Thank you. For everything." He raised his bowie in a quick salute, then slipped it back into its sheath, thonged it into place, took a deep breath, and dove.