“Just so you know, there will be towns along the way where we will change horses. These stops will give us a chance to adjust our supplies as necessary. That way, we won’t have to slow down.” Dragahn looked at Jasper and asked, “Any questions?”
He shook his head.
“Let’s meet the rest of the team,” Dragahn said. He drained his cup and headed toward the door.
As they walked across the courtyard and between the various workers who came up asking questions, Dragahn continued, “You’ve already met Lucky, Sachin, and Pyotr. I want to introduce you to our horsemen—Viktor, Bogdan, Branimir, and Daniil.”
As Jasper crossed the courtyard, he noticed Grendel and Sachin in the warehouse. They stood over the shoulder of one of the workers as he used a bar to pry the lid off a crate. Had they discovered the crate Xandor and Chert broke into?
The horses in the barn nickered and kicked the walls as Jasper and Dragahn arrived. Nearby, Pyotr shouted at the stable hands, demanding they move faster. He turned when he heard the two approach and said, “We’re expecting Viktor’s riding horses to arrive before lunch.”
“Good. Pyotr, you met our new recruit?”
Pyotr looked at Jasper briefly and nodded. “Yeah, we met.”
“Where’re Viktor and the others?”
“Daniil and Branimir had a late night, so they’re sleeping it off. Viktor’s over there with Bogdan, inspecting the horses. Again.”
With a nod, Dragahn motioned Jasper to follow him into the drive bay of the barn. Only somewhat familiar with horse breeds, Jasper could still tell that the horses in these stalls were remarkable.
The massive, dappled-gray workhorses with muscular bodies and large feet were Percherons, a breed of draft horse that originated in northern Francesca. Considered second only to the famous Lundellan Chargers, Dragahn and his teamsters would be using ten of them to haul the three wagons. However, the difference between these beasts and most other draft horses was their impatience. Bred to work—and work hard—the horses were excited and eager for the run.
Two men with thick black beards stood observing the horses. They wore the traditional muted clothing and sash of Lower Pazard’zhik, marking them as members of the laborer class.
“Viktor and Bogdan, I want to introduce our newest member,” Dragahn said.
The two stopped their conversation and stared at Jasper, quickly sizing him up. Viktor stepped away from the stall door with his hand held out, smiling. “Good to meet you. It will be great having you as part of our team.”
“What do you think of our horses?” Dragahn asked.
“Chief, these will work great,” Viktor said. “Pyotr’s been complaining about them all morning.”
“I heard that, you bastard,” Pyotr yelled as he stomped off.
Dragahn looked back over his shoulder and said, “What’s wrong with him?”
Viktor and Bogdan said in unison, “Hungover,” as they turned and resumed their morning duties.
“We should get our last four mounts this afternoon,” Dragahn said.
Jasper looked around and asked, “How many people do you have working here?”
Dragahn stared at the cook, the question catching him off guard. He thought a moment before answering and said, “Twenty-five, if you include yourself and that half-orc Sachin hired.”
“I need to spend a little time preparing for dinner today, if that’s alright, especially if I need to serve that many people,” Jasper said. “And I’ll need Yosif’s help.”
“All right, go ahead. Do what you need to, but don’t forget the chuck wagon has to be ready today.”
“Yes, sir, I haven’t forgotten.”
* * *
Inside the larder, Jasper pulled together some coarse salt, fresh cracked black pepper, paprika, cayenne pepper, some dried oregano leaves, cumin, and garlic. He took his stash to the main hall, where he found Lucky waiting for him.
“Hey,” Jasper said as he walked through the door. “Where’s all the cooking gear?” The teen simply motioned for Jasper to follow him. It wasn’t long before the cook had his ingredients mixed and divided into several bowls.
“What’s that?” Lucky asked.
“Seasoning,” Jasper replied. “Can you go get the meat?”
“Sure,” Lucky said with a smile before running off. When he returned, the two men cut three strips of flat-cut brisket from the slab and placed them in large pans. Lucky watched Jasper strike each piece of meat with a tenderizing hammer.
“Don’t just stand there gawking. Get more wood for the fire and set up the grille.”
Like a shot, Lucky bolted out of the room.
Turning the meat over, Jasper scored the layer of fat several times, brushed the surface with olive oil, and then smothered it thoroughly with his spice mix. The cook bowed his head, closed his eyes, concentrated, and whispered a few words. Once finished, he straightened, startled to find Lucky staring at him from the doorway, his arms filled with wood.
“What did you say?” Lucky asked.
“Just a prayer—of sorts.”
* * *
Everyone worked through lunch, the list of chores seemingly growing. Frustrations were high, and Dragahn cast nervous glances at his teamsters. It would not go well for the cook if this turned into a disaster.
* * *
Jasper returned to flip the meat and refill the water; three more hours, and the brisket would be ready. Some of the workers got curious and kept finding their way into the main hall.
Dragahn stepped inside, and the men scattered. “Jasper, you’re distracting my men.”
“Not on purpose, sir.”
“Do something about it,” Dragahn said as he walked back out.
Jasper thought for a moment before he yelled, “Yosif!”
The youth run up. “Yes, sir?”
“Stand guard and keep everyone out of this room.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jasper was about to step back out and thought better of it. He turned back to Lucky, his face serious. “Don’t touch that meat. If you do, I’ll know.”
Before Lucky could say anything, Jasper drew close and whispered, “It’s just as easy to serve long pork, and no one here would ever know the difference.”
“L-long pork?” Lucky stammered.
Jasper prodded the youth’s chest.
Lucky’s eyes grew wide and his mouth formed an O. Rooted in place, the youth watched Jasper leave.
At the door, Jasper turned and smiled. He touched the side of his nose with his forefinger and strode outside.
* * *
By mid-afternoon, the four mounts arrived, saddled and ready for riding. Jasper, who stood in front of the larder with the last armload of goods, watched Daniil, Bogdan, Branimir, and Viktor each pick a horse. They led them into the corral, and in short order, were riding around the compound.
It was easy for Jasper to see the importance breeding made with the two types of horses. Standing about fifteen hands, the rounceys were sleek and lean while the Percherons were large and all muscle.
There was no sign of Grendel or Sachin. Jasper kept an ever-watchful eye on the door of the smaller office. It remained closed most of the day with only the occasional arrival of a courier to suggest someone was inside.
Surprisingly, very little was mentioned about the previous evening. The teamsters proved to be a tight group and, try as he might, Jasper had trouble getting them to loosen up around him.
With an hour before the meat would be done, Jasper excused himself again. The chuck wagon was packed, and there was even space left over for the sweet feed and a few bales of hay.
* * *
Standing at the warehouse, Dragahn was stunned by the smells coming from the southern end of the compound. Most of the smoke went up and out, but occasionally, the wind shifted just right and everyone would catch a whiff. It was worse when the door opened, which, for some reason, people kept forgetting to shut.
As mealtime approached, everyone
became curious. Pedestrians milled outside the gate—some even venturing inside the compound.
“Get them out of here!” Dragahn yelled at Viktor. “And close that gate!”
The horseman quickly gathered his men and herded the small crowd back outside.
“What’s going on?” Pyotr asked.
“Jasper’s cooking,” Dragahn replied.
* * *
Jasper walked into the main hall to wash up. When he finished, he sent a relieved Lucky to collect tables, chairs, cups, and utensils while he prepared the side dishes. Several volunteers arrived to help, and within a few minutes, the main hall transformed into a large dining room.
Viktor, Daniil, Bogdan, and Branimir burst through the door and claimed seats next to one another. Similar in appearance with their unkempt, dark hair, thick beards, and clothing styles, they could have been brothers. However, to Jasper, it appeared that Viktor, being the oldest, set the tone for the other three, and he suspected that they probably competed with each other over a lot of things.
Next through the door was Pyotr. The horse doctor had cleaned up and seemed sober enough. Dragahn, who led the rest of the stable hands and workers into the main hall, followed him closely.
Once everyone was seated, Lucky and Jasper busied themselves with setting the food on the table. There were sliced sweet potatoes, grilled and coated in a thick brown sugar and cinnamon glaze, pinto beans, and even a salad of carrots and cabbage, which Lucky had helped put together. With a flourish of true showmanship, Jasper and Lucky set three plates topped with sliced brisket upon the table. Everyone immediately dug in.
Lucky glanced at Jasper, who gave him a surreptitious nod. The youth quickly found a seat and joined the other teamsters.
As Jasper passed from person to person to make sure everything was to their liking, Grendel appeared at the doorway. The cook gave the person he was talking with a pat on the back and walked over to the half-orc. “Sachin would like for you to prepare him a dish,” Grendel said.
“Sure. Give me some help, and I will fix you one as well.”
* * * * *
The Watchers (October 12)
A waning gibbous moon cast a pale light on Lower Pazard’zhik. Xandor took another swig of water from his canteen. High up in a belfry, he peered over the compound wall and watched the last light inside the main hall go out. Behind him, a church bell hung ominously near. Fortunately for him, this church didn’t ring the bell every hour.
Xandor and Chert had spent the entire day taking turns sleeping and watching the teamsters. Below, Chert rested in a pew, hopefully keeping half an eye on the bell rope. The priest and his acolyte had retired for the evening, letting them have the place to themselves.
It just didn’t feel right. Xandor had observed the activities in the compound most of the day, and if this was a smuggling operation, they were doing an excellent job hiding it. There had been nothing in those crates. He kept coming back to the soap, but the soap was soap—wasn’t it? And what about the nails? Jasper had said they were silver. He wanted to kick himself for missing that oddity.
They had watched Sachin, but the man had done what he would have done—find out if any of the crates had been opened and count the bars to see if any were missing. Xandor could almost hear the grumbling when Sachin ordered the workers to take all the crates off the wagons and check each one. Dragahn tried to intervene, but whatever was said between the two didn’t reach his ears.
One thing he noticed—Sachin replaced the nails, but he did not use the spare nails in the toolboxes. He used nails from a pouch he carried.
* * *
It was close to midnight when Xandor decided to wake Chert. He had not seen anything suspicious, just the usual rounds made by the city guard, and even those were sporadic. It was no wonder they had been able to break into the teamster compound so easily.
Xandor poked his head out the belfry window one last time. Making sure the trapdoor was closed tightly, he climbed down the ladder and entered the chapel proper. Flickering light from the prayer candles in the small side altar lit his way as he approached a pew that snored softly.
“Chert, wake up.”
The dwarf jerked toward his hammer.
“It’s just me,” Xandor said, laying a reassuring hand on the dwarf.
Laying his hammer aside, Chert said, “This is holy ground, and I still don’t feel safe.”
Walking toward the door, Xandor replied quietly, “It’s not the church; it’s the people we’ve met. They bring out the best in us.”
“Where are we going?” Chert asked with a massive yawn.
“We’re going to check on Mrs. Khristova, Sachin’s partner.”
The two stepped outside and headed toward the Majna I Vira, a massive stone edifice carved into the face of the several-hundred-foot escarpment that separated Upper Pazard’zhik from Lower Pazard’zhik.
As they drew closer, the runic symbols of strength and durability etched into the front wall seemed to glow with an inner power. Inside, two vertical cylinders spanned the height of the cliff and contained massive lifts used to transport both goods and people. To either side of the Majna I Vira, another two rectangular chambers supported switchback stairs, partially cut into the cliff face.
Torches set into wall sconces flanked each of the main entrances. Xandor and Chert approached the guards standing in front of the left-hand stairwell. They eyed the two men curiously but didn’t say anything.
Xandor pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it. Handing it to one of the guards, he said, “My partner and I need to go upstairs.”
After reading the document, the guard snapped to attention and replied, “Of course, sir.” The other guard glanced at the paper and straightened like he was about to be inspected by the Kral himself.
The first guard produced a key and unlocked the door. “Gentlemen, please allow me to escort you to the top.”
* * *
Chert and Xandor stood behind a desk inside an upstairs corner office, rifling through the drawers. The drapes over the windows were pulled tight, and the door was closed. Soft light from Xandor’s bone-tube illuminated a small portion of the room. The placard on the other side of the door read, “адвокат Христова.”
After a moment, the dwarf sighed heavily and asked, “Do we even know what we are looking for?”
Xandor shook his head as he scanned a document with an official seal at the top. “Anything out of the ordinary.”
“Like a silver nail?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
It was a long shot, but the two figured this would be their only opportunity to check out Sachin’s partner. The law office seemed legit, but it was hard to tell. The few papers they found were mostly plats, and the rest were estate documents. They had already searched for a safe, but if there was one here, they couldn’t find it.
A loud thud, like a door closing downstairs, made them stop.
Xandor doused his tube light and gently pulled back the drapes. When he did, a sudden movement caught his eye—not a flash of color or even the flickering of a light. It was pure motion. Motion that didn’t blend with the rhythms of the night.
Fading back into the shadows, Xandor searched the street.
There it was again. Someone, or something, was crossing the street away from their building. Had they been spotted?
Xandor slowly slid back away from the wall, letting the drape settle back in place. He pointed to his eyes and then pointed outside. Chert quickly opened the door to the office, his eyes shining in the darkness. He peered down the hallway and signaled all was clear.
Xandor peeked out the window again. No one.
Creeping down the hall, the two moved silently toward the stairs. A pungent aroma wafted up from below. The smell grew stronger as they descended and made the two men light-headed. Chert said a quick prayer and the air cleared a little, but they still needed to find a window. Following the peculiar odor to the rear of the building, the pai
r found a door with a flickering light glowing underneath it.
Xandor unsheathed his longswords while Chert cautiously cracked open the door. The odor wafted out of the room like a solid object. Inside, red fire from a wood burning stove lit the room, the iron grate on the door casting odd shadows on the tongue-and-groove wall paneling. At the opposite corner sat an ornate, wooden scrivener desk, its chair tipped over. Beside it, a man lay sprawled on the floor, surrounded by accounting ledgers.
Xandor rushed to the man’s side and felt for a pulse. The man was dead.
“Body’s still warm.”
Chert followed the odor to the stove. He wasn’t familiar enough with herbs to identify the poison, but there was no doubt that whatever it was had been thrown into the fire on purpose. He followed the vent pipe to a bend in the metal joint where smoke poured out a small gap. Climbing a stool, the dwarf gripped both sections of pipe with his hands and pushed them together, closing the hole. Woozy, he nearly fell, but Xandor caught him and helped him to the floor.
The main door to the building burst open, and several soldiers carrying lit torches ran inside. They quickly fanned out; some headed upstairs, while others searched the ground floor.
Xandor poked his head out the door and stared at the newcomers. The city guard. Great.
“This is the militsiya!” someone shouted. “We have the place surrounded!”
Chert looked to Xandor for some plan, but the man just shrugged, his motions slow and clumsy. The dwarf fought the effects of the poison. Using his hammer as support, he tried to stand but all he managed was a kneeling position.
Taking a different tack, Xandor gave the dwarf a meaningful look that said I hope this works. He pulled out his paper and yelled, “Back here! A man’s been poisoned!”
Son of Cayn Page 4
