Poulos stationed himself inside the shuttle, directing the stowage of the crates. He kept glancing in the direction of the Dry Towners, although they were some distance away.
One of the riders took off at a jog for the ridge trail, most likely to fetch their pack animals and provisions, along with Hayat’s pavilion. Rahelle had gotten the other horses unsaddled and hobbled; one at a time, she was leading them to the water area. Merach was on his feet, hand to sword hilt, alert. Hayat, on the other hand, reclined in the shade cast by his horse, propped on a saddle draped with its own blanket. He couldn’t have been comfortable, but there was a certain dignity in his pose. Once, this might have been all the luxury a rider of the desert might desire.
Halfway through moving the stack, Offenbach looked terrible. He was sweating heavily and had gone gray around the mouth. Jory was also having a hard time, although he was younger and more fit.
Gareth finished carrying one of the crates up the ramp to the shuttle and walked over to where Poulos and the guard stood. “Offenbach needs a rest.”
“I didn’t hire you as a medical consultant.”
“With respect, sir, you did when you asked me to see to the sick men.”
“Transit windows don’t accommodate themselves to our wishes. Can’t afford to slow down now.” Poulos glanced overhead, beyond the hazy sky. “Offen! Take a break! The kid and Jory’ll carry on.”
“Captain . . .” Gareth moved closer and lowered his voice. The guard glanced in his direction, then returned to surveying the Dry Towners. “Hayat knows what’s in the crates.”
“What do you mean? Who told him—did you?”
“I’m not that much of an idiot,” Gareth retorted. “I figured it out myself, and if I did, Hayat has, and if he hasn’t, Merach has. They know you aren’t carrying fine carpets or perfumes, not out here where no one has the money to buy such things. The way they think, there’s only one type of trade goods worth all this safeguarding and only one reason to destroy the village.” He paused to let Poulos fill in the rest of the argument for himself.
Poulos bent closer to Gareth. “You’re only half right. Most of this stuff isn’t for guerilla fighting on the ground. It’s replacement parts for shipboard weapons, bound for the Castor Sector. We’ve only got enough hand weapons for ourselves and a few crates of outdated blasters for trade, and most of those are almost out of charge.”
“So the ones you gave to Cuinn—”
“—were little more than fancy trinkets. Usually the trade works great. The chief fries up a few game animals and then mounts the blaster on a stick for everyone to bow down to, and nobody realizes it’s out of power. But Cuinn got greedy . . . and you know the rest.” Poulos let his breath out in a sharp exhale. “Nothing to be done about it now.”
“Hayat won’t take that for an answer. He’ll think you’re trying to trick him.”
“Then you’d better pray to whatever shriveled-up gods there are out here that he never finds out.” By his tone and the shift in his posture, Poulos indicated the conversation was at an end.
Back and forth, back and forth, Gareth and Jory carried one crate after another to the crawler, then Jory drove and Gareth hung on to its sides for the slow, rocking trip to the shuttle. Then they’d reverse the procedure. Gareth had never thought of himself as strong, but he was able to take the greater part of the weight of each crate. Even so, Jory began to flag.
The stack of crates dwindled. One of the last was in bad shape, its surface scuffed and worn. The crates might have been designed to withstand hard usage, but this one had seen more than its share. In the process of moving it, Jory’s hold slipped and the crate fell on one corner. As Gareth bent to straighten it, he saw that one of the latches had come undone. The lid was so badly warped that he couldn’t close it without unfastening the other latches in order to reposition the lid. A layer of clear material, most likely meant to cushion shock, did not obscure the lettering on the boxes inside.
Cepheid X light pistols.
Whatever those were, Gareth would have wagered Comyn Castle itself that there were more of them in other crates.
“Not that way. Let me do it.” Motioning Gareth aside, Jory leaned hard on the lid. He secured the latches, first the nearest, then the one diagonally opposite.
The crawler took an eon to reach the shuttle, or perhaps it only seemed so. They found Offenbach slumped on the ground beside the shuttle ramp. His breathing was labored. Poulos was giving orders for takeoff in a voice gone hoarse with weariness.
Gareth squatted on his heels beside Offenbach. The thought came to him that one way or another, when off-worlders and Darkovans came into collision, people died. The early years of contact with the Federation had been filled with accidents and misunderstandings. He’d been taught so much political history and had understood so little of the human cost. None of his tutors had mentioned burned villages, children with empty eyes . . . or men like Robbard or Viss.
Offenbach licked cracked lips.
“I’ll bring you some water.”
Gareth found several of the plastic bottles and filled them from the casks. There wasn’t much left, for the horses had drained the supply. As he neared the shuttle, he noticed the crawler heading his way, carrying the guard, Offenbach, and Jory. A rumbling issued from the shuttle. Engines whined, and the elongated nozzles on the lower part of the craft began to glow.
“Hop on board!” Jory shouted over the increasing din. He slowed the crawler for Gareth to grab the hold bars. Until the shuttle attained sufficient altitude, conversation would be impossible.
Gareth helped Jory settle Offenbach in his own bed in the headquarters building. Offenbach was breathing somewhat better now. Gareth thought he would improve with rest.
Since Offenbach was too exhausted to safely pilot the shuttle, as was the original plan, Poulos had gone himself.
“I can tell you, he wasn’t happy about leaving Deeseter behind,” Jory told Gareth, “even if there really wasn’t any choice, not with them—” meaning the Dry Towners “—out there.”
Deeseter? So that was the guard’s name.
With Taz and Viss out of commission and Offenbach down as well and now Poulos gone . . . It wasn’t a good situation, but Gareth didn’t think the smugglers understood just how vulnerable they were.
26
“Think Taz’ll be on his feet soon?” Jory squinted up at the red-hued sun, now slanting well toward afternoon. He and Gareth, having finished getting Offenbach settled, stood at the headquarters building door, looking toward the barracks.
Gareth shrugged. He seemed to have become the camp healer, although he had no particular expertise. He took a conservative guess. “Tomorrow?”
“Good. If he can drive, we’ll send the two of you out in the crawler to get more water.”
“It may not be a good idea to wait,” Gareth said. With his glance, he indicated Rahelle leading two horses to the water area. The smugglers hadn’t counted on how much water horses needed, even these desert-bred animals. It would be dangerous to risk running out of water at a time when anything could go wrong. Gareth said as much aloud.
Jory did not answer at once. His brow tightened, and he began chewing on his lower lip, then caught himself and stopped. It was one thing to carry out the orders he’d been given as temporary leader, and quite another to have to make unexpected decisions himself. Jory wasn’t stupid; he clearly understood both Gareth’s point and the risks of sending off most of the able-bodied men.
“You got a better plan?” Jory asked.
Yes, pack up and get out of here! Find some other planet!
Aloud, Gareth said, “Let me see if Taz is able to sit up. If he can drive, that’ll leave you and Deeseter on guard here. Offenbach, too, once he’s rested.”
Jory rubbed the side of his nose. “Yeah, it’ll be one less thing to worry about if we’re stocked up
. I don’t like the idea of waiting until the captain gets back. You sure you can handle it? After hauling those crates today?”
A sudden inspiration burst upon Gareth’s thoughts. “I’ll need help.”
“From where? The rocks?”
Gareth gestured toward the Dry Towner’s camp.
“Them? Are you crazy?”
“No Dry Towns warrior would lower himself to manual labor, but there’s the horse boy. He looks tough enough.” Gareth reflected that if he did manage to get Rahelle away from Hayat, it would be because Merach, not Hayat, thought it was a good idea.
“Aren’t you forgetting that he’s their horse boy? I don’t like the idea of owing those local warlords any favors.”
“Hayat didn’t object when Poulos ordered me to the barracks. I can say that the captain needs both me and the horse boy.” Gareth shrugged. “This sort of thing happens all the time as a way of establishing dominance. I don’t think Hayat will refuse, but if he does, we’re no worse off than we are now. I’ll figure out something else or I’ll do the work myself. But if he concedes, he’ll be less likely to challenge us on other matters.”
Jory agreed this would be a good thing and told Gareth to try. Gareth headed off toward the Dry Towners’ camp, where Hayat’s pavilion had already been erected. The side panels had been lowered. Hayat must be inside, taking his ease in shade and privacy. Merach and one other stood guard.
As Gareth approached, Merach came alert, hand to sword hilt. Gareth halted and bowed, a shade less low than he had before. “Lord Merach, I’ve come for the horse boy. The off-world captain claims his service.”
The door panel jerked open. Hayat poked his head out. “Whatever for? He doesn’t have any horses to be tended.”
“Great lord, the horse boy is needed to carry barrels of water.”
Merach stooped to murmur, “Remember, my lord, that two of these off-worlders died from the poisoned water.” In this way, he reminded Hayat that the smugglers were under-strength.
Hayat nodded in comprehension. He waved his fingers in the direction of the water area. “Very well, then.”
Gareth bowed several times as he backed away. Rahelle had finished watering the horses and was leading them back to the Shainsa camp. He saw the subtle wariness in the way she carried herself, as if she were warning him off or bracing herself for some new crisis. Then she lowered her head and kept trudging.
“Rakhal!” He broke into a run.
She paused for him, scuffing the dirt with one foot. He halted an arm’s length away, flushing in memory of the last time they’d spoken. There was so much he wanted to say, and none of it found words.
For a fleeting moment, she met his eyes. Her posture did not alter. She still looked for all the world like a village horse boy, except for that clear, uncompromising gaze.
He cleared his throat. “You’re to help bring water from the well. The off-worlders need another strong back.”
“This is your doing, isn’t it?” Rahelle frowned. “Couldn’t you let well enough alone? Hayat is jealous enough of his kihar as it is. Likely he will see such a demand as a personal affront.”
“He’s given his permission.”
She straightened up from drawing circles in the dust with her foot. One of the horses rubbed the side of its head, itchy with dried sweat, against its leg. “There will be a price. He won’t easily relinquish anything he considers to be his.”
“Listen to me,” Gareth said, quelling the impulse to grab her by the shoulders. “You’re absolutely right. Hayat’s accustomed to getting his own way, but so is Poulos. Neither of them truly appreciates the destructive power of the other or the willingness to use it. This bargain they’ve struck is liable to fall apart at the slightest thing going wrong . . . and something will go wrong.”
She blew out her breath. “It always does. That’s the first rational thing you’ve said.”
“When that happens,” he rushed on, “there won’t be any safe place in this entire valley. The least dangerous place, however, is going to be with the off-worlders. I’d rather have you here, with Hayat’s men coming at us with swords, than over there, where Poulos and his people are going to be aiming their blasters.”
Rahelle’s cheeks went pale. In the intensity of the moment, in his fervent desire to make her understand, Gareth caught a flickering image from her mind . . . the village in flames.
Why didn’t you keep going? he wanted to ask, and then realized he knew the answer. Now here they were, each trying to protect the other.
He lowered his voice. “I never wanted you to risk yourself for me.”
For a long moment, she made no response. Her lips pressed together as if she were trying to refrain from speech. Then: “You’ve made a thrice-damned mess of it.”
“Yes.” Seeing her startled reaction, he rushed on. “I’ve done everything wrong. But I have to keep trying.”
“Then,” she said with another of those astonishing glances, “we will try together.”
Taz was not only sitting up but was looking for an excuse to get out into the open air.
“Spend enough time on a spaceship, and the last thing you want to do dirtside is lie in bed and stare up at them same gray walls.”
Taz drove the crawler, remaining in his seat while Gareth and Rahelle filled and lifted and stacked the barrels of water. Rahelle worked steadily, without complaint, although she strained visibly to lift the filled barrels.
The horses had made a muddy mess around the water area, but it had mostly dried by the time the crawler returned. The sun had disappeared behind the western ridge, and the long, slanting shadows had gone from purple to black. The strings of yellow lights glared against the darkness and the black rock. Jory, watching from that side of camp, came out to help Taz back to the barracks. Rahelle did her share of unloading and stacking the barrels without a word, then trudged back to the Shainsa camp.
A packaged meal waited for Gareth at the barracks. Sitting on Robbard’s bunk, he opened it, but he hardly tasted the food. Viss was snoring on one side of him and Taz on the other. He intended to rest here for a moment before checking in with Jory and Deeseter. Maybe Poulos would be back soon . . . maybe with more men . . . maybe with the announcement that they were leaving. . . .
Gareth sat up with jerk and scrubbed his knuckles across his eyelids. Zandru’s demons, he hadn’t meant to fall asleep! Hopefully, it hadn’t been too long or too deep. If he did that, he might wake up with Hayat’s sword at his throat . . . or not at all.
He heard the sounds of a heated discussion even before he entered the headquarters building. Deeseter’s bulky form, silhouetted against the artificial light, blocked Gareth’s sight. Offenbach was arguing in that slow, relentless way of his, punctuated by Jory’s raised voice.
“I say let them all go blow each other up and leave us out of it! How long does the captain expect us to—” Jory broke off.
“It’s me,” Gareth said as they all turned toward him. “What’s the watch schedule for tonight?”
Jory glanced at Offenbach, and in that flicker of a movement, Gareth understood Jory’s dilemma; he had been given command but felt deeply uncomfortable about taking precedence over Offenbach, who had always been his superior. Offenbach wasn’t challenging Jory; it was Jory’s own lack of experience that undermined his confidence.
“Two and two,” Jory said. “You and me, Offen and Deeseter.”
Gareth nodded. It made sense to pair the two strongest of them with the weakest.
Then Jory said, “Captain says you can have a blaster—” and something broke loose in Gareth. A burst of reflexive horror left him shaking and nauseated.
“I . . .” he stumbled. “I wouldn’t know how to use one.”
“Have it your own way.” Jory shrugged. “Me, I’ll be sleeping with mine under my pillow, ready to go.”
Deeseter, who apparently had a collection of weapons from every planet he’d worked on, provided Gareth with a long knife, serrated along its outer curved edge, and a long staff. Gareth had practiced with a staff much like this one, although without the curious markings that looked like dried blood snaking around either end.
They began their watch. Jory went quiet, focused. Gareth tried to imagine himself as someone else—no, not Race Cargill of the Terran Secret Service—maybe the best of his sword instructors. One grim old guard had taken part in the Battle of Old North Road, just before the Federation left Darkover. He wouldn’t answer Gareth’s questions about what that was like, but sometimes Gareth had noticed the look in the old man’s eyes, and then he’d have to watch out because the next bout would be in earnest, nothing held back, no quarter given. What happened next would not be a lesson in technique but a lesson in survival. Just as this night was.
Gareth’s initial rush of adrenaline faded, rather more quickly than it would have if he had not already been so tired, although he started at every night sound. He managed to find a place of balance between dry-mouthed, heart-pounding alertness and sleepwalking. He would be ready. He hoped.
Near the end of their watch, Gareth asked Jory what the discussion with Offenbach was about. Jory’s expression darkened. He said, with a flicker of his eyes toward the fading stars, “Things’re heating up. We sell, the customers buy, that’s all.” From the thinly masked emotion behind his words, that was not all. Gareth did not need laran to see how deeply worried the off-worlder was.
If things were “heating up,” if there was outright conflict between the smugglers and the rebels they supplied . . . if the Federation followed the rebels here . . . Gareth let out an explosive breath. The Shainsa lord and his followers would be the least of their troubles.
We will fly that hawk when his pinions are grown, Gareth reminded himself, although in this case, the hawk might well turn out to be a dragon.
The Children of Kings Page 30
