by David Weber
Not, Bahzell reminded himself, that there would be any reason for Brandark to do any such thing . . . assuming, of course, that his plan worked.
He urged the animals up the beach into the lee of the high dunes to avoid silhouetting himself against the moon-silvered sea and jogged eastward.
Bahzell had gone perhaps a league when his head jerked up, and he frowned. His ears pricked, trying to identify the sound which had cut even through the grumble of the surf, and then he blinked in disbelief. The high, fierce cry of a hunting falcon came yet again, and he wheeled away from the sea as a black shape swept across the star-strewn sky.
An instant of cold panic touched his heart, yet there was too little time to feel it fully. There was no way a falcon should be on the wing so late at night, and even less reason for the bird to launch itself towards him like a lodestone to steel. Instinct screamed warning at the unnaturalness of its appearance, but another instinct brought his right arm flashing up to guard his face as the fierce-beaked predator shot straight into it. His muscles tensed against the rending attack of powerful talons, but it never came. Instead, those lethal claws struck his wrist and closed with impossible gentleness.
Bahzell's breath hissed out of him in a deep, shuddering gasp, but his relief was far from total. He lowered his arm slowly, cautiously, extending it well away from him, and the bird mantled as it shifted its weight to balance on his wrist. It cocked its head, small, round eyes bright with reflected moonlight, and Bahzell swallowed. He wore no falconer's gauntlet, but the bird still gripped with those gentle talons, and then its beak opened.
"Hello, Bahzell." The Horse Stealer twitched again, muscles tensing to jump back. His ears flattened, but then he made himself stand very still, for he recognized the voice issuing from that dangerous, hooked beak. It was Zarantha's! He stared at the falcon and licked his lips, aware that he must look like a total idiot, then opened his mouth to reply, but the falcon spoke again before he could.
"I asked Wencit for a favor," Zarantha's voice went on, "and Father agreed to give up his prize falcon for it. Wencit promises it will find you, but I'm afraid not even he can guarantee it will ever come home again afterward. Father was a bit upset by that, but I guess he thinks getting his daughter back is worth a few sacrifices."
Despite himself, Bahzell grinned as he heard the familiar, laughing wickedness in Zarantha's voice. It was even more welcome—and precious—as he recalled her wan, wounded look on the morning they parted, and the falcon flapped its wings again, shifting from foot to foot as if it shared her laughter.
"At any rate, Wencit got me safely home, dear friend," Zarantha went on more seriously. "He tells me his gramerhain suggests that you and Brandark won't be able to visit us after all—this time, at least—so I wanted you to know you don't have to worry about me anymore. I've heard from Tothas, as well. He and Rekah are indeed well, and they should be home within a few weeks, too. Thank you, my friend. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. If we never meet again, know that I will never forget all you and Brandark did for us."
The voice paused for a moment, then changed. It was no longer Zarantha's, but a man's, deep and measured.
"I know little of sorcery, Bahzell Bahnakson and Brandark Brandarkson, but if Wencit is correct and you ever hear this message, know that Caswal of Jashân stands eternally in your debt. I repeat my daughter's invitation, and beg you to visit us here, if ever it should be possible, and I name you Bahzell and Brandark of Jashân, sept to Jashân. If ever I, or any man of Jashân may serve you or yours, send word. And if the gods decree we shall never meet, know that wherever you may go, you are blood of our blood and bone of our bone, my friends."
Duke Jashân's voice ceased, and the bird stood silent for another moment while Bahzell stared at it. Then Zarantha spoke a final time, and her voice was soft.
"And so our journey ends at last, dearest of friends and now my brothers. My life and the lives of those dear to me were your gift, and I give you now the only gift I can across the miles between us: my love. May it go with you always, and may the Gods of Light keep and guard you both as you kept and guarded me. Farewell, Bahzell Bahnakson, Prince of Hurgrum. Farewell Brandark. Remember us."
Bahzell blinked eyes that burned with sudden, unexpected tears. The falcon lingered on his wrist, gaze still fixed upon him, and he drew a deep breath.
"Farewell, Zarantha of Jashân," he whispered, and the bird threw back its head with another high, fierce cry. And then, suddenly, it launched itself like an arrow from the string and vanished into the stars, and only the sigh of the wind and the rumble of the surf breathed in the night.
The trip took longer than Bahzell had expected, but it was without further incident, for there were few decent anchorages between Falan Bay and Bortalik, and the merchant princes who ruled the city of Bortalik protected their position. No other ports were permitted along their coastline. Even fishing villages were almost unheard of and existed only on sufferance. Bortalik tolerated them within a few leagues of the city itself, where the city's customs agents could police them, but none were allowed to dabble in trade. More than one fishing port had been burned out—by landing parties from merchantmen, as well as warships—if the city merchants so much as suspected it of smuggling. And so, ironically in a land whose enormous wealth depended upon its control of seaborne trade, this entire vast sweep of coast was almost empty.
Almost, but not quite. The moon was well into the west when Bahzell rounded a headland and found himself abruptly facing a good-sized village at last. There were few lights, ashore or afloat, and he frowned at the fishing boats drawn up on the beach or nestled alongside the rickety-looking wharves.
The animals blew gratefully as he squatted on his heels, gazing at the boats and pondering his options. It was tempting, but, after several moments' consideration, he shook his head. He was no seaman, yet those vessels looked too flimsy to his landsman's eye. Most of them were little more than glorified rowboats or small, single-masted craft. No, he needed something bigger and better suited to deep water . . . but that didn't mean the village was useless to him.
He led the horse and mule inland, eyes sweeping the dark. This might be a fishing village, but somewhere there had to be a—
Ah! He grinned to himself as he found the small, stonewalled pasture. It held perhaps a dozen cattle and runty horses, and he made his way around to a gate in the low wall. The night was undisturbed by so much as a barking dog as he eased the gate open and turned his own animals quietly into the pasture. They stood for a moment, gazing back at him curiously, then shook their heads and trotted over to the pasture's other inhabitants, and Bahzell chuckled as he closed the gate behind them.
Unless he missed his guess, the owner of that pasture was unlikely to mention the sudden arrival of two big, strong, healthy, and expensive animals to anyone. Indeed, he might go to some lengths to hide his unexpected gifts, which would suit Bahzell fine. Even if he did report them to the authorities, Bahzell should be long gone by the time those authorities figured out where they'd come from, and he felt better leaving them to someone's care. They'd served him and Brandark well, and the thought of simply abandoning them hadn't set well with him.
He started off once more, and, divested of the animals, he made better time. He jogged past two more villages—their existence welcome signs that he was nearing his destination—and the moon was still well above the horizon when he finally spied the dull glint of high walls before him.
Bortalik dozed under the moon. Bahzell made his way out onto a rocky point and leaned back against a boulder, catching his breath while he gazed across a wide arm of Bortalik Bay at the sleeping city. Watch lights dotted the curtain wall and crowned the countless towers that ribbed its length, and more lights were smears of brightness along the wharves that lined its foot. There was activity at dockside even this late at night, and masts and rigging rose in a black lace forest against the light. Other vessels dotted the bay, lying to anchors or buoys, and, despite hims
elf, Bahzell felt a trace of wonder at the sheer size of the port.
The northern hradani tribes knew little more about the Purple Lords than the Purple Lords knew about them, but even they had heard of Bortalik Bay, and Zarantha and Tothas had told him far more. Bortalik was the undisputed queen of the southern coast and determined to remain so. The enormous bay was not simply a superb natural anchorage; it also controlled the entire delta of the mighty Spear River and, with it, all trade that moved up the Spear or any of its tributaries. It was an advantage the Purple Lords used ruthlessly, and the power it gave them was obvious as Bahzell looked out upon their city.
He shook himself after a moment and turned his eyes away from the city walls and back out over the bay, searching for what he needed. Not too small, he thought, but not too big, either, and well away from the docks. Surely, among all that shipping, there must be—
His eyes settled on a single vessel, and he rubbed his chin. The twin-masted schooner was further from shore than he'd hoped, but aside from that it seemed perfect. The anchor light on its foredeck burned like a lonely star, for there was nothing else within a hundred yards of it, and even in the uncertain moonlight it looked low, sleek, and fast. Best of all, it was little larger than one of Kilthan's riverboats, which suggested a reasonably small crew.
He studied it a moment longer, then nodded once.
There was no surf within the confines of the sheltered bay, but water washed and surged rhythmically as Bahzell laid aside his baldric and unbuckled his weapon harness. He'd left his arbalest and scale mail with Brandark, for he'd known this moment was coming, but he felt exposed and vulnerable as he methodically stripped to the skin. He belted his dagger and a fat, jingling purse back about his naked waist, then laid his sheathed sword atop his discarded boots and clothing with a final pat he hoped looked less dubious than it felt. Part of him wanted to ask Tomanak if this whole notion was truly a good idea, but the rest of him dug in stubborn toes and refused the temptation. A man couldn't just go about asking "May I?" every time he had to make a decision, he told himself. Of course, he was relying heavily on what Tomanak had told him about his sword, but even so—
He snorted and shook himself, ears half-flattened in amusement. Either it worked, or it didn't, and standing here thinking of excuses to delay the inevitable wouldn't change the final outcome! He grinned crookedly at the thought and waded out into the bay.
The bottom dropped off more sharply than he'd expected. It was going to be a longer swim than he'd planned, but a broken, drifting spar bumped up against him, as if to compensate, and he seized it gratefully. He was no fish, and the spar's added buoyancy was welcome as he kicked his way across the bay. There was enough noise in the night to hide most sounds, yet there was no point taking chances, and he tried—not entirely successfully—to avoid splashes. It was a long, tiring swim; the bay was colder than he'd anticipated when he was only wading through the surf; and he was acutely aware that he was a land animal. He sensed the empty water between him and the bottom, how easily it could suck him under, and found himself thinking about sharks. Or octopuses—they ate people, too, didn't they? And even if they didn't, the gods only knew what else might be hiding just under the water, circling him, waiting . . . .
He pushed the thought firmly away. People swam in the sea all the time, and they'd hardly do that if something pounced on anyone who tried! Of course, that didn't mean nothing ever pounced, and—
He looked up and inhaled in deep, heartfelt relief as he saw his destination close ahead. He kicked more strongly, and his ears twitched in amusement at his own eagerness to reach it. For all he knew, that vessel's entire crew had seen him coming and was lined up behind the bulwark to knock him on the head, but it didn't matter. The company of his thoughts on the swim out left him impatient to confront them even so.
He reached the schooner's side and swam along it as quietly as he could. It was flush-decked, with a low sheer and a freeboard of no more than six or seven feet, yet that was high enough to make things difficult for a man in the water. He was confident that he could lunge high enough to get his fingers over the rail, but not without an appalling amount of noise, and he continued forward until he reached the flared bow. The bowsprit was a long, graceful lance, reaching out above his head, but the anchor cable plunged into the water beside him, and he laid a hand on the thick hawser. He craned his neck, peering up to where it curved over the anchor bits. It looked far more promising than trying to heave himself bodily over the side, and he nodded in satisfaction and shoved the broken spar away.
He got a grip on the hawser and hauled himself cautiously up it. A cathead thrust out above him, and he hooked an elbow around it, then curled his body up to get his knees over it. He crouched there a moment, catching his breath, listening to the trickling splash as water dribbled back into the bay from his skin, then shoved his head cautiously over the rail.
There was no one in sight, but he heard a fiddle and what sounded like an accordion, and what he'd thought was just an anchor light was also the gleam of light from the scuttles of a low, midships deckhouse. More light glowed from an open companion, and his ears flattened at the realization that some, at least, of the crew was awake. He had no special desire to harm anyone if he could help it, but they wouldn't have any way of knowing he sought peaceable conversation, now would they? That was why he'd hoped to surprise them asleep in their berths, but it seemed he was going to have to do things the hard way.
He sighed and stood, balancing on the cathead, then stepped across to the deck. His bare feet made no sound, and he started towards the companion. If he could come down it and block access to the deck, then—
"Here, now! What're you doing creeping about my ship?"
The sharp, crisp voice was behind him, and he spun like a cat, one hand going to his dagger.
"Ah, now! None of that!" the voice said even more sharply, and Bahzell swallowed an oath. There had been men on deck; he simply hadn't seen them because they were so small they'd been hidden behind the deckhouse. Now five halflings stood facing him, and each of them held a drawn shortsword as if he knew what to do with it.
He stepped back against the rail, taking his hand carefully from his dagger, and his eyes narrowed. He'd seen several halflings since leaving Navahk, but none as big as these fellows. They might be little more than half his own height, but they were a good foot or more taller than the only other ones he'd met, and there was nothing hesitant about them. They seemed confident of their ability to deal with him, and the one who'd spoken cocked his head, then spat over the side.
"Ha!" The spokesman wore the golden trident badge of a worshiper of Korthrala. Now he surveyed the towering, naked, soaking wet intruder on his foredeck and tweaked a handlebar mustache with such superb panache Bahzell's lips twitched despite himself. "You've picked the wrong ship tonight, friend," the halfling said with obvious satisfaction. "I think we'll just feed you back to the fishes and be done with it."
"Now, now. Let's not be doing anything hasty," Bahzell rumbled back.
"Oh, we won't be hasty, friend!" The halfling smiled unpleasantly and nodded to his fellows, who split up into pairs to come at Bahzell from both sides. "But you might want to nip back over the side right sharp."
"And here was I, thinking as how halflings were such cautious folk, and all," Bahzell replied, still keeping his hand away from his dagger.
"Not Marfang Island halflings." The spokesman kept his eyes fixed on Bahzell, but his lip curled. "We can get downright nasty, so if I were you, I'd be back over that rail double quick."
"Marfang Island, is it?" Bahzell murmured, and his ears cocked. He'd heard of Marfang Island halflings. They were said to be a breed apart from their fellows—taller, stronger, and noted for a personal courage that verged all too often on rashness. Even the Wild Wash hradani who lived across the channel from their island home had learned to treat them with cautious respect, despite their size advantage. More to the point this night, the Marfang Islanders we
re also the finest seamen Norfressa bred, despite their small stature, and they hated the Purple Lords with a passion for their interference with free trade.
"Aye, it is," the halfling agreed. "And the rail's still waiting for you," he added pointedly.
"You've guts enough for five wee, tiny fellows with knives, I'll grant that," Bahzell said easily, and the halfling gave a crack of laughter.
"Maybe so, but there are four of us, and you've naught but a knife yourself, longshanks!"
"Do I now?" Bahzell murmured, and raised his empty right hand with a brief, silent prayer that he'd understood Tomanak correctly that night in the Shipwood. The halflings stopped, suddenly wary, and he drew a deep breath.
"Come!" he bellowed, and the halflings jumped back in surprise at the sheer volume of his shout—then jumped back again, with unseemly haste, as five feet of gleaming steel snapped into existence in his hand and an empty scabbard thumped the deck at his feet.
"Well now! It did work," Bahzell observed. He put both hands on his hilt but lowered the tip of the blade to touch the deck unthreateningly and smiled at the spokesman. "I'm thinking I've a bit more than a knife now, friend," he pointed out genially, and the halfling swallowed.
"How . . . how did—?" He stopped and shook himself, then cleared his throat. "Who in Korthrala's name are you, and what d'you want?" he demanded.
"As to that, my name is Bahzell Bahnakson, Prince of Hurgrum, and I've need of your ship."
