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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"One Thing at a Time"

Do not peer too far.  

—Pindar

Karl spread his blankets on the ground and lay back, staring up at the night sky.

There were no faerie lights dancing in the overcast sky tonight; only a dozen of the brightest stars were visible through the haze. Across the field, the five equally spaced signal fires sparked their message up into the night. Either Slovotsky or Ellegon would recognize the signal; both of them should be showing up soon.

He closed his eyes, but he couldn't sleep.

This time I may have bitten off more than I can chew, he thought. Even if Ellegon brought enough guns and powder, the odds were just too much on the other side. The sixty mercenaries that Pirondael had released to him would have to be watched carefully; it was unlikely that they'd be worth much in a firefight. Valeran's men were coming along quickly, granted, but riflery wasn't something that they could learn enough of in only a few tendays, not when it was such a new skill. While their marksmanship was adequate, their reloading speed was pitiful even during practice; in combat, it could only be worse.

That left Karl, Walter, Peill, and their ten remaining warriors, plus Henrad. Maybe Ellegon would bring along a couple of warriors, in addition to Nehera and the Engineers.

That still wasn't enough, not even with Ellegon. The dragon couldn't be risked in close combat; the slavers would surely have some dragonbaned bolts.

Reflexively, he started to curse Tennetty for deserting, but one more person wouldn't really have made any difference.

Dammit, I can't do it all by myself, he thought.

But this war had to be stopped, no matter what. The guild couldn't be allowed to trigger a war with impunity. This was even more dangerous than slaving raids: Human spoils of war could easily and cheaply supply Pandathaway and most of the Eren regions with slaves for years to come.

This wasn't how Karl and the others had planned it. Their plan to interfere with the slave trade was three-pronged: first, to make the business deadly to the slavers; second, to drive the price of slaves up, forcing the locals to invent and adopt better ways of getting things done; third, to turn Riccetti and his Engineers loose, seeing that new technology was a medium for freedom, not repression.

That last was always a real fear. The invention of the cotton gin had brought new life to slavery in the United States.

So . . . the slavers had to be stopped, and stopped here; war was too efficient a way for them to procure human merchandise.

But how?

We just don't have enough manpower, just don't have enough time.  

It was conceivable that they could break the siege of Furnael Keep; possibly they could surprise and savage a slaver encampment; but ending the war was just too much to ask. Old hatreds, old angers had been awakened. How could they be stilled?

That's what it came down to: If the war couldn't be ended, the guild would profit. The Holtish and the Biemish were willing to sell each other off. It had to be stopped.

But I just don't know how to shut a war down.  

He shook his head. It would have been nice to have Chak to talk to. Chak had long ago come to terms with the notion that he was going to die in battle, and had accepted it almost eagerly. Or maybe not almost.

How do you stop a war?

I don't know. But since when is not knowing an excuse? 

"Hail, Caesar: We who are about to die . . ." Walter Slovotsky's voice sounded in the distance.

Karl stood. " . . . are going to take one hell of a lot of the bastards with us," he called back.

"That's not the response."

"It'll have to do, for now. When did you get back?"

"Just a few minutes ago. Valeran said you left orders I was to report to you the instant I arrived. I'm reporting."

"How does it look?"

Slovotsky rubbed at his tired eyes. "Look, Karl, I had a hard four days' ride to Furnael, a tough all-night recon, and a harder ride back. Can we let it wait until morning? I've got to get some sleep. One thing at a time, eh?"

"What did you say?"

"I asked if we can wait until morning."

"No, not that—what did you say after that?"

Slovotsky's forehead wrinkled. "One thing at a time?"

"One thing at a time." Karl nodded. "Sometimes, Walter, you're a genius."

"Huh? I don't follow."

"Never mind." Karl shook his head. "Don't worry about it." One thing at a time. First we save Furnael Keep, then kill Ahrmin and his group, and then stop the war—somehow, dammit, somehow. "That's my department. You get some sleep; we'll talk in the morning."

"Fine by me."

As Slovotsky stumbled off, Karl lay back down.

"One thing at a time," he said to himself.

And then he was asleep.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"One Thing at a Time"

Do not peer too far.  

—Pindar

Karl spread his blankets on the ground and lay back, staring up at the night sky.

There were no faerie lights dancing in the overcast sky tonight; only a dozen of the brightest stars were visible through the haze. Across the field, the five equally spaced signal fires sparked their message up into the night. Either Slovotsky or Ellegon would recognize the signal; both of them should be showing up soon.

He closed his eyes, but he couldn't sleep.

This time I may have bitten off more than I can chew, he thought. Even if Ellegon brought enough guns and powder, the odds were just too much on the other side. The sixty mercenaries that Pirondael had released to him would have to be watched carefully; it was unlikely that they'd be worth much in a firefight. Valeran's men were coming along quickly, granted, but riflery wasn't something that they could learn enough of in only a few tendays, not when it was such a new skill. While their marksmanship was adequate, their reloading speed was pitiful even during practice; in combat, it could only be worse.

That left Karl, Walter, Peill, and their ten remaining warriors, plus Henrad. Maybe Ellegon would bring along a couple of warriors, in addition to Nehera and the Engineers.

That still wasn't enough, not even with Ellegon. The dragon couldn't be risked in close combat; the slavers would surely have some dragonbaned bolts.

Reflexively, he started to curse Tennetty for deserting, but one more person wouldn't really have made any difference.

Dammit, I can't do it all by myself, he thought.

But this war had to be stopped, no matter what. The guild couldn't be allowed to trigger a war with impunity. This was even more dangerous than slaving raids: Human spoils of war could easily and cheaply supply Pandathaway and most of the Eren regions with slaves for years to come.

This wasn't how Karl and the others had planned it. Their plan to interfere with the slave trade was three-pronged: first, to make the business deadly to the slavers; second, to drive the price of slaves up, forcing the locals to invent and adopt better ways of getting things done; third, to turn Riccetti and his Engineers loose, seeing that new technology was a medium for freedom, not repression.

That last was always a real fear. The invention of the cotton gin had brought new life to slavery in the United States.

So . . . the slavers had to be stopped, and stopped here; war was too efficient a way for them to procure human merchandise.

But how?

We just don't have enough manpower, just don't have enough time.  

It was conceivable that they could break the siege of Furnael Keep; possibly they could surprise and savage a slaver encampment; but ending the war was just too much to ask. Old hatreds, old angers had been awakened. How could they be stilled?

That's what it came down to: If the war couldn't be ended, the guild would profit. The Holtish and the Biemish were willing to sell each other off. It had to be stopped.

But I just don't know how to shut a war down.  

He shook his head. It would have been nice to have Chak to talk to. Chak had long ago come to terms with the notion that he was going to die in battle, and had accepted it almost eagerly. Or maybe not almost.

How do you stop a war?

I don't know. But since when is not knowing an excuse? 

"Hail, Caesar: We who are about to die . . ." Walter Slovotsky's voice sounded in the distance.

Karl stood. " . . . are going to take one hell of a lot of the bastards with us," he called back.

"That's not the response."

"It'll have to do, for now. When did you get back?"

"Just a few minutes ago. Valeran said you left orders I was to report to you the instant I arrived. I'm reporting."

"How does it look?"

Slovotsky rubbed at his tired eyes. "Look, Karl, I had a hard four days' ride to Furnael, a tough all-night recon, and a harder ride back. Can we let it wait until morning? I've got to get some sleep. One thing at a time, eh?"

"What did you say?"

"I asked if we can wait until morning."

"No, not that—what did you say after that?"

Slovotsky's forehead wrinkled. "One thing at a time?"

"One thing at a time." Karl nodded. "Sometimes, Walter, you're a genius."

"Huh? I don't follow."

"Never mind." Karl shook his head. "Don't worry about it." One thing at a time. First we save Furnael Keep, then kill Ahrmin and his group, and then stop the war—somehow, dammit, somehow. "That's my department. You get some sleep; we'll talk in the morning."

"Fine by me."

As Slovotsky stumbled off, Karl lay back down.

"One thing at a time," he said to himself.

And then he was asleep.

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Contents
Framed