Mason dismounted, drew his .45, and checked the loads. Then he signaled to Beazeley.
“Jack, follow me. Anybody in there knows we’ve come loaded for bear. If it’s what I think, they’re going to fight. I want prisoners. Live ones. Just remember that.”
Beazeley tilted his head to one side. “Yes, sir.”
* * *
The farmhouse showed signs of recent repairs, rough but sturdy. The only unusual thing was an image of Vothan One Eye painted on the door.
“Another orphanage of the Children of Vothan?” Beazeley asked.
“That’s what it says.”
“But why out there?”
“Good question. Now shut up.” Mason rapped on the door with the butt of his .45.
Silence.
Mason knocked again. After a moment there was a click, and movement behind Vothan’s eye.
“Who seeks entry to the House of the Wolf?” The voice was unfettered.
“Open in the Name of the War Leader of Drantos.”
“There is plague in this house, my lord.”
Mason and Beazeley exchanged looks. “All the more reason to open the door. I bring starhealing and medics.”
“My lord, we—”
“Open in the name of the Wanax and the Captain General of Drantos!”
Silence.
“Prepare to batter down the door.”
Beazeley handed his M-16 to an orderly and took out a grenade. “Blow it in?”
“If it needs it.”
“Right. Here goes.” Beazeley tied a string to the grenade pin and wedged it against the door. “Stand back.”
They heard the sound of bolts being thrown back. Beazeley retrieved the grenade and his rifle and moved to cover the door as it opened slowly to reveal an unshaven man in peasant dress.
“I am Bartolf, my lord. A sick child and I are the only ones in this house. The plague took the ones who did not run away to seek better healing than I can give. The gods grant they find it.”
“Indeed. Now if you will show me through the house.”
“My lord, I beg you, do not expose yourself—”
“Now, Bartolf.” Mason shouldered his way through the door. “Stick with me, Jack.”
“Sir.”
Bartolf led them off to the right along a low hallway lit by a pair of rush dips. There wasn’t enough dust to show footprints.
“Damn fast plague,” Beazeley muttered.
“Yeah.”
“The boy is in here,” Bartolf said, gesturing toward a curtained door. Beazeley tapped the opposite wall with a rifle butt. The wall was solid. Beazeley backed against it as Bartolf raised the curtain.
Inside was a row of pallets. A blanket-shrouded figure tossed and moaned on one of them. Bartolf led the way in. Mason raised his pistol and slipped through the door sideways. It may be just what it looks like. But I might as well give Jack a clear field of fire.
The moaning stopped and the blanket fell away. The small figure on the pallet held a crossbow. Mason ducked and fired. The .45 slug showered plaster over the pallet as the crossbow bolt ripped through the hood of his coat. A club smashed across his mailed shoulders and sent him sprawling onto the pallet.
Who? Bartolf was in the doorway, but there was someone else in the room and no time to think about that. The boy flung the crossbow away and pulled a dagger from under the pillow. Mason ignored the new man behind him. Leave him for Jack! Art dove toward the boy feet first. His boots smashed against the kid’s elbow sending the knife flying across the room.
Art kicked at the boy’s head and turned on Bartolf.
Bartolf threw up his hands. “My lord—”
Whatever he was going to say didn’t matter. Mason chopped at the older man’s throat, and when Bartolf raised both hands to ward off the blow Mason came down hard on both insteps. Bartolf grunted and Mason slammed him against the doorpost, kicked at a kneecap, and turned back toward the boy on the pallet.
Bartolf’s fall left the doorway clear. Beazeley came through. The third man leaped at him with a short sword. The blade hacked deep into the jacket Beazeley had wrapped around his left arm. Beazeley feinted high to bring the man’s arms up, then drove four stiffened fingers into his attacker’s solar plexus with a blow that lifted the man from the floor.
That’s one. As Mason turned the boy leaped toward him. He held the dagger. Any inhibitions Mason had about cold-cocking children vanished. He stepped sideways and slammed the blade of his right hand into the base of the boy’s neck. As the child thrashed, Mason braced two fingers under the boy’s chin, and dug into the carotid arteries. He held on as the boy’s other hand flailed against him. In fifteen seconds the boy slumped. Mason held the grip another ten seconds and then drew his Colt.
The only other person on his feet was Jack Beazeley.
Mason shook for a second while his mind accepted the fact that it was over. “Thanks, Jack.”
“Any time. Now, what the hell was that all about?”
“Later. Right now, you go out and give Bisso—” The sergeant and five Guardsmen burst into the room.
“We heard shots. No action outside, and I’ve got the First Platoon in tight around the house, so—”
“No need, Bisso. There were two sick people instead of one. Wrap ’em up like mummies. Jack, you come with me.”
* * *
Mason and Beazeley sat at a table in what must have once been the manor’s bedroom. “Jesus.” Mason waved to indicate the pile of objects on the table. “All that stuff.”
There was a lot. Noose. Garrote. Bastinado. Fishskin buskins for climbing. Masks and scarves and hoods. Daggers. Crossbows, and the quarrel the boy had shot at Mason. There were also a dozen clay pots with lead stoppers. The crossbow quarrel and all the dagger points were stained with a dull green oil. “Want to bet those are poisoned?” Mason asked.
“Don’t have to bet. I’ve smelled hydras bane before. Art, what in the hell is this place?”
“I’m still not sure, but—Jack, you ever hear of Ninjas?”
“Jap assassins. Every now and then some merc claims to have ninja training. Never met one who knew anything. But yeah, I heard of them. Supposed to be able to walk up walls and turn invisible.”
“I think that’s what this place is. A training ground for the Tran equivalent.”
“Humph. That kid can’t be more than twelve. And all this gear is kid-sized. Apprentices? Maybe it makes sense.”
“They’re more than apprentices. Look how much trouble I had taking that one. A lot of good troopers got killed in ’Nam by kids no older than him.”
“Yeah, I’ll buy that, but Jesus, Art—Major—teeny-bopper ninjas? Whose?”
“Who do you think?”
“I don’t get paid to think. But since you ask, let’s see. Not the Romans. Not Ganton, he’s not old enough. This place has been going since before he got crowned. Not the captain. He doesn’t think that way. So who?”
“This is a House of Vothan. Who founded them?”
“Goddamn! Major, you think the captain knows?”
“I know he doesn’t know. Next question. Do we tell him?”
“Why not? So his wife keeps a herd of trained juvie assassins. So what?”
“So one of them offed Caradoc.”
Beazeley whistled. “Shee-it. You sure? Sir?”
“Wasn’t until we took this place. Sure now.”
“Okay. I guess I believe. Now what do we do?”
“We tell people. Start with Bisso and Elliot. That’s enough so that if the mean little kids come after us somebody’s left to tell the captain.”
Mason fingered a wine jug. “I sure want a drink, but—”
“Right. I wouldn’t touch nothing from this place. Okay, we spread the word. What do we do with Bartolf and the others?”
“Good question. This place belongs to the Lady Tylara. Who’s our boss, sort of. Makes them hers. But damn all, she’s got no right keeping a herd of private killers.”
“Turn them loose. I’ll swear not to harm them or this house, if they swear to harm only the proclaimed enemies of the Crown of Drantos. If they go with that, we can leave them alone. I’ll make that Bartolf write a report for our great Lady Eqetassa, explaining what we know, and what we made them promise. That ought to make her go easy on everybody.”
“You hope. Sure it won’t hit the fan anyway? Sir?”
“Hell, it probably will. Most of the kids got clean away. And there’s fresh snow. We sure as hell can’t track them. Look, we take this lot back under guard or we turn them loose under oath. I don’t think of any other choices.”
“So do we tell the captain?”
“Shit. Ask Yatar. Ask Christ. Ask Ghu, but for Christ’s sake don’t ask me—”
“Still your job.” Beazeley chuckled. “Major, I’m sure glad I’m not an officer.”
* * *
The room was small and had earthen walls. The only entrance was hidden behind the coal bin, but tubes ran to all the rooms in the House of Vothan. Chai listened to Mason and Beazeley and smiled. He hadn’t understood all of what they said, because they often spoke in star language; but when they called in Bartolf and the boy called Bennok they had to explain again.
So, he thought. The starmen are not going to burn out the Children root and branch. They were not going to reveal what they had learned to their soldiers. They had not even slain any of those who attacked them.
Yatar be thanked we shed no starman’s blood.
The prayer came easily, and brought a wry grin. He had not always been called “Chai,” and he had once been a consecrated priest of Yatar. That was before the infernal starmen with their new wisdom caught him stealing temple revenues. A change of names and tasks seemed preferable to an appointment with the Eqetassa’s hangman.
Chai pulled a piece of sausage from inside his robe and munched it cautiously. It might have to last him for several days until the starmen led their Guards away.
Let it be soon. Chai had long practice in hiding, but being able to endure it was not the same as enjoying it. For many reasons it would be best if the Guards departed swiftly. The Lord Mason had found that four of the children’s rooms had been empty far longer than the others, but he hadn’t understood. Now it was too late. The four who went south would surely complete their mission. . . .
Still, one must be sent to warn the Lady Tylara that this house had been found. When the messenger and the four who went south returned, all the Children of the Wolf could move to the other house, the house on the Littlescarp that no one would ever find. Then let Mason rage.
Oaths? What were oaths to those destined for Vothan’s Hall, chosen by Vothan the Chooser to do His will in this world?
9
Gengrich looked up at the grey sky. The villagers standing in front of him would probably think he was praying to Yatar for the wisdom to give fair judgement. Actually he was trying to guess if it was going to rain before he reached home.
The sky said nothing about either rain or judgement. He could wait on the rain, but the judgement had to be given now. The villagers had given up half a day’s work to bear witness before their lord; they would resent no judgement almost as much as a bad judgement.
Here goes nothing.
“I have heard all the witnesses from the villages of Fallen Eagle and Oak Creek. I have prayed to Yatar for guidance. Now I, Lord Gengrich do Zyphron, do give this as my judgement in the matter of the strayed cow of Oak Creek.
“I judge that the cow was indeed found unlawfully in the pastures of Fallen Eagle. I also judge that the cow strayed because of negligence by the herdboy, Bemis son of Nestor.”
The faces of the Oak Creek people looked as grim as the sky. “I also find that the herdboy was trying to herd the cow back home when the men of Fallen Eagle came upon him. Therefore they had no cause to beat him so that he has been unfit for work these past ten days. They also had no cause to hurry the cow along so that she miscarried of a heifer calf.”
“That old screw would’ve miscarried if we’n tapped her w’ a feather!” shouted someone from Fallen Eagle. “Everybody knows that!”
“That cow was as healthy as yer big wind, Kuris!” came an equally loud reply from the Oak Creek side.
Now voices were raised on both sides, and a few fists. It would be knives and flails next. Gengrich signaled to Boyd, who shouted: “Silence for the Lord’s judgement!” and signaled to the guards. The thump of pike-butts striking the ground brought results.
“I therefore find that the offense of Fallen Eagle is the greater, and they owe a fine of four silvers plus two silvers toward the cost of healing the herdboy. I have also learned that this is the cow’s third miscarriage. I will therefore buy her from the village of Oak Creek for eight silvers, that she may be slaughtered and provide a feast for both villages. If at that feast they will also swear peace with each other, I shall send bread and wine from my cellars.”
Gengrich studied the crowd and was relieved to see long faces turn to smiles. A few villagers from Fallen Eagle still looked sullen, and a few of the Oak Creekers made rude gestures, but it looked as if the feud had been headed off.
“I thank you for your loyalty in bringing this matter before me. Yatar grant you warm beds this winter and good crops and sleek beasts next year.”
Fat bloody chance, he added to himself. Aloud, he called for his horse.
They were riding past the stumps of the oak trees that had given Oak Creek its name when Boyd pulled close to him. “Arnie, how’d you know about the cow’s miscarrying? She looked like it to me, but you’re a city boy. No offense meant.”
“I’m a city boy who knows how to use spies. One of Vinicianus’ people went in disguised as a traveling shoemaker. He kept his ears open and his mouth shut until he got home.”
“Oho.”
The bridge over the creek had fallen during the last bunch of earthquakes, but it hadn’t rained for a couple of days. They forded with the water no higher than the bellies of the horses, and were checking their gear on the far side when four men in Gengrich’s colors rode up leading one of his warhorses.
“Lord Gengrich! A message from the Lord Vinicianus. He begs you to return at once to the castle. He has sent a fresh mount.”
The horse was Buster, Gengrich’s favorite. If Vinicianus had risked sending him out, it must be something worse than a flooded privy. Still, he was supposed to hear cases in three more villages. . . .
“What is it?”
The messenger lowered his voice. “He says it is an important message from the north.”
“Very well. Alex, take fifteen men and ride on to the other three villages. Hear the witnesses—”
“Me? I’m no feudal judge!”
“You’re the best they’ll get today, buddy. Or do you want to spend half the winter patrolling their fields for barnburners and cattle thieves?”
“You put it that way, no. Okay, hear the witnesses, and then—?”
“Tell each of them to send a man to Castle Zyphron. I’ll give my judgement tomorrow.”
Gengrich waited until Boyd had picked his men. Alex has his problems. But he takes orders and you don’t have to watch him every minute. It’s worth a few bribes to husbands and fathers.
* * *
Bloody tears ran from the staring eyes of the man in the bed. The fingers of his bandaged hands all ended at the first joint. His cheeks and nose were blackened ruins, stinking with infection and decay.
His moans rose to a gasping scream as Guilford unwrapped the bandages from one foot. Gengrich turned away, his stomach twitching. The foot was black halfway to the heel. The toes dangled in shreds of flesh, and the smell was beyond anything Arnie Gengrich could have imagined.
He forced himself not to be sick as Guilford snipped away the dead flesh, amputated the ruined toes, doused everything with antiseptics and ointments, and put on fresh bandages. When Guilford started on the other
foot, Gengrich bolted for the door. As he went out he heard the screams turn into words.
“Evil—bandits—thought she sent them—didn’t know—killed—killed . . .”
Gengrich stopped. “Eh?”
Guilford shook his head. “No point in you staying, Arnie. That’s more sense than he’s made in the last couple hours. Go on, before I have to tend you too!”
Gengrich nodded and stumbled through the door.
He stood on the castle wall and drew in deep lungfuls of damp chilly air. He watched the carpenters at work on the south gate. The castle had come off pretty well in the last quakes. Not like Rustengo. The big port city was supposed to be one-third in ruins now, with a lot of the rest ready to fall down if you sneezed hard.
He wondered if that would take some of the wind out of Schultzy’s sails. Last time Mort had come for a visit he’d acted like a royal ambassador. Maybe he did have clout in Rustengo; he’d always been good at looking out for himself. Lucky too, and Gengrich had learned that luck counts for a lot.
Time, Mort. For you and me. We got anything the captain wants, time to produce it. We ain’t either one of us going to hold on down here much longer.
“Arnie?”
Guilford was standing behind him. “Yeah, Frank?”
“I gave him a knockout dose of babble juice. If he’s lucky, he won’t wake up.”
“That bad?”
“That bad. If I was a real M.D. with the whole nine yards I still couldn’t save his hands or feet. As it is, the gangrene’s spreading, he’s got hemorraghic fever, and he’s developing pneumonia. I’m surprised he got far enough for our patrols to pick him up.”
“He’s from up north?”
“Far as I can tell. From what he said before he went out of his head, he was some kind of clerk at Castle Dravan. Something made him think he and a couple of his friends were in danger. They cooked up a story about a dying mother and rode off in the middle of a snowstorm. They figured nobody would try to track them. If they didn’t come back at all, everybody would think the storm got them.
“It did get one of them, and that’s where—Karl, I think his name is—started the frostbite. Bandits killed another one south of Vis. Karl was going on sheer guts when he ran into one of our patrols.”
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