“But you’re the biggest,” the weedy fellow said doubtfully.
Another fellow, a stout redhead, said, “Leader has to see everything at once. Knows what to do.”
Rel gave a nod at the redhead. “All I know is something about defending myself against whoever comes at me with sword or knife.”
The woman said, “If you’re willing to do point, that is, you take the front position in any squad, and make a lot of noise, and wave that sword of yours around—that’s a nice blade, youngster, inherit it?—well, seems to me, that’s the next best thing.”
Rel did not offer any explanation for the sword that Atan had given him, just shrugged, and everyone accepted that as assent.
The leader said, “Good. Then here’s how we’ll divide up the watches . . .”
The caravan left at midday, under gentle drifting snow that slowly turned to sleet, then slushy rain, making everyone but the oxen miserable.
By week’s end, they had descended far enough down the weather-pitted, neglected road to feel the thaw of spring, which made for somewhat cheerier campfires, at least for the hired guards. One of the two merchants, a young woman, was unrelievedly anxious about her barrels of winter flush Sartoran leaf. It wasn’t the best leaf, but even the last winter pickings would bring a tremendous price in a world that had been deprived of steeped Sartoran leaf for a century. The other merchant was more cheery, a plump old bookseller serene with the conviction that few bandits ever showed any interest in books.
Oxen were slow, but their pace guaranteed little jiggling or smashing of contents. Spring storms flooded the ancient wheel ruts in the roads, left bare after three generations of raided flagstones while Sartor was beyond reach. Consequently it was nearly a month after they left the border when the caravan entered the rolling hills that, the caravan leader said cheerfully, meant that they’d soon be at the west branch of the Margren River.
“That means we’ve left the woods behind, and surely the brigands,” the redhead stated, and the others nodded, as if saying it would make it true.
Rel had been placed either at the front or the rear, where he’d be seen by lurking scouts. From either position he had an unimpeded view ahead or behind; he was fairly certain that the caravan had been watched on at least three occasions, and he was definitely certain that a lone horseman was following them in spite of their crawling pace. The only thing he couldn’t be sure of was the horseman’s target.
When he pointed out the follower to the caravan leader over their meal of pan bread and fried fish, she shrugged. “One shadow, I don’t worry about.”
Nobody else seemed concerned.
The next night they reached their first market town. After all those weeks of camping (for few of the tiniest southern villages had inns above their taverns, after a century of no travel), it was most welcome.
The next day, two of the caravan guards went missing, but the rest set out without them, made confident by the sight of traffic on the road, and the thought that the Mardgar Harbor was only three days away.
They’d just settled the oxen for the night, and a good fire was going under a kettle of trail soup, when Rel, who had picket duty, noticed all the horses’ ears twitching in the same direction.
Rel turned. All he could make out was a hillock topped with an ancient, overgrown hedgerow, marking some long-abandoned boundary. He’d learned that abandoned houses made great hideouts if they were isolated enough.
Drawing his sword, he yelled, “Alert—”
The word was lost in the thunder of hooves. From over the hedge in one direction and around the hill in the other galloped a gang of brigands, swords and knives upraised.
Rel had little practice fighting upward, but he’d learned one trick. Sheathing his sword again, he dashed to the wagon and snatched up one of the poles, snapped it free of ties, and spun it humming as he dashed between the first two riders. He ducked one’s slashing sword, knocked the man out of the saddle, and clopped the second rider across the back of the head on the backswing.
He had enough time for a brief spurt of triumph. Grinning, he launched into the thick of the skirmish. For a short burst he was too busy staying alive to be aware of anything beyond a wailing cry; the wagon leader shouting, “Jem, get back here!”; the leaf merchant’s hysterical shouts of “Help! Help!”; and the wheezing breathing of the book merchant from under one of the wagons.
We’re losing, Rel thought, anger burning through him hot and bright. He’d take as many of them with him into death as he could—
Then the sounds changed, and he stumbled, fighting for breath, aware of a furious increase in the noise of battle from the other side of the shifting, lowing oxen. Rel slung the stinging sweat out of his eyes and pushed himself forward.
Brigands lay dead or wounded, except for a knot still furiously fighting, these all on foot. Rel launched himself at the fight, tossing away the pole and pulling his sword. He got in a kick and warded a blow, then his burly attacker gave a shocked, eye-bulging, mouth-open stare. Foamy blood dripped out of his mouth as he began to topple. He jerked as a sword was pulled from his back.
The burly man dropped dead at Rel’s feet. Beyond him, Rel glimpsed a pale Chwahir face flicking a look his way. Shock froze him.
He knew that face. It was Prince Kessler Sonscarna.
The short, slim renegade prince fought with unnerving speed and brutality; with one accord the remaining brigands turned and ran. Kessler chased after the five of them for a few steps, blood-smeared sword raised, then slowed. He stooped, wiping his blade on the jacket of a dead brigand.
Rel caught up, heart beating painfully. “It was you following us?” He might as well get the worst over.
Kessler was breathing hard, his quiet voice husky with spent effort. “No.” He reached with his free hand into a pocket of his black tunic, and with an ironic gesture, held up a transfer token. “Had you tailed. He sent for me when you were attacked.” He jerked his chin at the brigands.
Rel glanced back. Those left of the caravan were just beginning to pick themselves up, exclaiming questions no one listened to, and checking themselves, the animals, the wagons.
“That was fun,” Kessler said, looking up at Rel with that well-remembered flat stare, out of light blue eyes shaped unsettlingly like Atan’s, evidence of a long-ago treaty marriage between a Landis and a Sonscarna. “Haven’t had a good fight for too long.”
Fun, Rel thought, sick with disgust as he glanced down at the dead scattered about in a rough circle around Kessler.
Kessler said, “You had fun, too.” His smile was brief. Knowing.
Rel had scarcely exchanged a hundred words with Kessler since their disaster of a first meeting. Since then, instead of words, there’d been a near execution and two sword fights, both of which Rel had lost. Rel’s shoulder still ached in cold weather from where Kessler had stabbed him moments before Atan lifted the Sartor enchantment.
He was going to deny having fun, but the vehemence of the urge unsettled him, and he remembered that moment of triumph. He was not going to admit it to Kessler. There could be no possible good result.
“I’d think you can fight any time you want to, in Norsunder,” Rel said.
“Not the same,” Kessler said, with a slight shrug. “You were seen by my scout in Eidervaen. I had him follow you until I could get the time to interview you. This attack forced things.”
Rel’s heartbeat thudded in his ears. The first time he’d met Kessler was right after Rel had turned down the Knights’ invitation to join them, during his very first journey. He’d just met up with Puddlenose and Christoph on Everon’s border when the three of them were jumped by Kessler’s recruitment gang, and transferred to a hidden compound that Kessler had set up in some desert, where he was training assassins to take down all the major rulers of the world.
Kessler really hated kings.
Oh yes, and he also hated ugly people.
Rel always reminded himself of that when encountering venal authorities who had inherited positions of power, in case he caught himself ever thinking Kessler’s plan the least bit sane.
“You had me followed,” Rel said, reaching for the immediate, and the personal. “Are you recruiting again? If so, my answer is still no.” Rel forced a shrug. “Sorry you had to go to so much trouble to save me, if you’re going to haul me off and finish the execution that got interrupted the last time I turned you down.”
Kessler’s mouth twitched, and he continued in the same tone as before, as if they sat together over a tankard of ale instead of standing over the fast-cooling body of an unknown man. “I still do not understand what you could object to in ridding the world of corrupt rulers, leaving the way for a system based on skill and brains.”
“Because,” Rel said, “your plan began with assassination.” He didn’t mention the wholesale slaughter of ugly people; when he’d asked, during that first interview, “Who decides who is ugly enough to die?” Kessler had replied without a hint of doubt, “I do.”
Kessler made that slight shrug again. “Do you think the likes of Wan-Edhe of the Chwahir would relinquish their thrones any other way?”
“Do what you want in Chwahirsland,” Rel said. “But I don’t believe Clair of the Mearsieans is evil,” Rel said, then wished he hadn’t brought her name up.
“When I investigated Clair of the Mearsieans, she appeared to be an ignorant brat, unable to rid herself of the senile Kwenz, or even that fool from Elchnudaebb. I underestimated her, as I underestimated her friends’ sense of loyalty.”
Rel didn’t want to cause those girls to become targets any more than they might already be. He said, “Norsunder seems to be the place to recruit for assassination plans.”
Kessler glanced sideways as the caravan leader began limping toward them, then shifted from Sartoran to Mearsiean, spoken with a heavy Chwahir accent. “Worse corruption and stupidity there than in the world. Everyone fighting one another for place. Siamis swanking around thinking he can conquer the world by cleverness. Even his uncle is giving up in disgust.”
Good, Rel thought, but said nothing.
Kessler said, “The goal is the same, but the game has changed. Your friend King Berthold of Everon might not be corrupt, but his precious Knights are divided, one side ruled by stupidity and privilege, the other half merely obsolete in strategy and tactics. You know that. You saw it. Is that why you turned down their invitation to join the Knights of Dei?”
Rel said nothing. Somewhere behind, the caravan leader called, “Rel?”
Kessler glanced over his shoulder, then said, “Tell your friend King Berthold that the danger is not from me, or even from Detlev, right now. Ask him if he remembers Henerek.”
“You want me to warn him?” Rel asked.
Kessler’s teeth showed in what might have been meant as a smile. “Do what you want. If Berthold is ready, Henerek won’t succeed.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want Henerek to die trying.” Kessler spun a transfer token into the air, caught it, muttered the spell, and vanished.
Sickened, Rel turned away. He remembered Henerek, a fellow Knight candidate, a bully and a braggart. If Kessler meant that Henerek had made his way to Norsunder, Rel was not surprised. The only question was why he would go to this trouble to give Rel the message to pass on. Rel would have expected that pettiness from Kessler’s followers. Kessler’s grudges had been reserved for kings.
Then it hit him: if the world was watching Everon, Kessler could attack somewhere else and take his target by surprise.
“Who’s your friend?” the caravan leader asked, as she closed the distance. “He coming back?”
“He’s not my friend,” Rel said.
She grunted. “Friend or not, we could use him, if he does. He musta accounted for half these deaders. I’ll give him an entire journey’s pay for the next two days. You tell him that.”
Suppressing the impulse to declare that he never wanted to see Kessler again, Rel stared at her. The sense of unreality was fast changing to urgency, and even dread. He had to spread the word. He had to . . . “Last night, did anyone say anything to you about the northern route, once we reach Mardgar?”
The caravan leader squinted up at him. She looked old in the flickering firelight. “I thought you was headin’ east.”
“Changed my mind,” Rel said. “Going north first.”
She grunted. “Just avoid Remalna, directly next Mardgar, but that’s nothing new. Bad king there. Getting worse.” She pointed at the burly man lying so still on the ground. “Help me lay out these deaders, so we can describe ’em exact for the Road Guild, or the local magistrate, whichever we find first. Then we’ll Disappear ’em, nice and decent. Though I always wonder why we treat ’em decent in death when they didn’t treat us decent in life.”
Chapter Six
Winter, 4739 AF
Chwahirsland
JILO shivered.
Was it really cold, or was it time to go out again? He leaned against a work table, looked around the dim room, and sniffed the stale air. What had Clair said when they were walking toward Senrid’s city, talking about his castle up ahead? Something about how clerestory windows could let in light and air, but still leave a place defensible. Jilo looked, imagining windows. Oh, what a good idea.
He shivered again. Surely the air was cold, it wasn’t just him. Either way, he had better get out again. He became aware of the familiar drag on bones, teeth, muscles. Breath. Thoughts.
One more search. He’d gotten adept at teasing out the traps and wards as he went over the empty hall finger-measure by finger-measure until he found a space midway down the gloomy, moldy stone hallway between the magic chambers and Wan-Edhe’s quarters.
Jilo’s heart lump-lumped in his chest. His head panged. He gripped the magic protection-layered token he’d hung around his neck in mimicry of Clair’s medallions. He whispered the key words, then staggered back. When he peered into the weird space, he spied a book about as thick as his thumb, its size somewhat bigger than his hand. It seemed to be floating in a thick murk.
Cautiously he extended a finger, wary of yet another trap, though reason would say that having come this far he was safe. But you were never safe with Wan-Edhe—ever.
Closer . . . closer . . . he touched it gently, as if that would matter to magic. The book jolted from the murk and began to fall. He bent to catch it before it reached the stone, his head pounding from the sudden exertion.
It was definitely time to go out.
Clutching the book to him, he made his way down and down, the air colder with each turn in the stair, each door gone through. When he approached the last door, he slowed. From the other side of the iron-reinforced wood came the moan of high winds. The door guards stood inside, which meant winter.
Winter? Already?
But he needed to get out. He thrust the book inside his tunic and signed for the guards to open the door.
The icy wind nearly took him off his feet. He bent into it, each step a struggle, the cobblestones slippery under his feet. His socks squidged, and his toes itched and tingled. His body began trembling, but the headache actually diminished, though his nose and ears and lips were numbing painfully.
He wasn’t going to make it to the street, not like this. He raised his head, and descried a sentry box, a gray silhouette barely visible against the outer wall. He fought his way there and stepped inside, surprising the watch gathered around a table. They exclaimed, words cut short as they recognized him.
“What’s a neckin?” he asked.
The youngest froze, staring as if he’d been stabbed. The older ones shifted, gazes dropping or sidling.
Jilo said, “This is not for Wan-Edhe. It’s for me. What is a neck
in?”
The oldest said to the lintel of the door, “It’s by way of being a trip to the wall. For two, you might say.”
“Trip to the wall? I don’t get it.”
Jilo gazed in frustration as they tightened into rigidity. They were afraid. Somehow he’d ventured into punishment territory. But then with Wan-Edhe, everything was punishment territory. Whatever it meant, it seemed to have nothing to do with him, and so he said, “I need a place to sit.” He pulled the book out of his tunic.
Nobody asked why he didn’t find a place to sit in the vast fortress on the other side of the courtyard. Chwahir did not ask questions. Everyone except the two on duty faded through a narrow door on the other side of the sentry box, leading to the covered corridor to the guard station.
Jilo was left to himself. He sat down at the table on the side nearest the little stove, wherein burned a single firestick. He set the book before him, opened it, and stared in amazement.
The words were too uniform to be handwritten, which pointed to a magical cause. He had no idea what kind of spells produced words, other than the copy spells that book makers sometimes used, though it took as much magical exertion to make them as it did the exertions of a copyist. But magic didn’t wear down pens or run out of ink.
This book, though, could not possibly be a copy, for its text was nothing more than a list: first a name, then the location of the person. No date.
Jilo scanned the names. Early on, nothing was familiar, except for Detlev of Ancient Sartor. Then there was Kwenz, farther down. Paging on, Jilo found more familiar names: Wan-Edhe’s sons, nephews, then grandsons. Gradually the names became more familiar—and then his own name appeared, along with Clair’s and CJ’s. Paging back, Jilo discovered ‘The Brat,’ and wondered if that was Puddlenose.
Jilo flipped to the end, to find the pages blank. He paged back until he found text, and as he looked, words appeared at the end of a solid block of notations after Kessler’s name: ‘Norsunder Base.’
A Sword Named Truth Page 29
