The Road Home

by Joel Rosenberg

  On the other hand, neither would me ducking into the woods by myself, forgetting for a moment that trying to ride through wooded land in the dark is a terrific way to get scratched at least, get clotheslined by some dark branch quite probably, and/or lose an eye. So, cursing the highborn idiot under my breath, I tugged hard on the rope of the horse I was leading, and kicked my horse after him.

  * * *

  By the time the two horsemen rode by, we were over the rise, our horses hitched to a marker post in the depression beyond, and back just at the rise, the tops of the wheat tickling my nose and ears. Any idiot pursuing us would have seen the path through the grass, but the horsemen, both of them in what appeared even from this distance to be black and silver Imperial livery, barely even gave it a glance.

  And then they were gone, and we were left in the dark, the breeze cool, the night insects chittering in their mild amusement.

  Ooops. If they'd been looking for us—for anyone—they would have noticed the path. The fact that they didn't meant that they weren't, that it was just a couple of couriers being sent to Barony Tyrnael, not anybody in hot pursuit, that my original notion that I could be long gone before Thomen could decide to send somebody after me still made sense, and that I'd just, well, if not panicked, overreacted.

  I could have jumped up and down and shouted to the skies, I never, ever overreact, and then stabbed my horse in frustration, but I don't think that would have made the point.

  Switching horses made more sense, so we did.

  "Not everybody is after you, Walter Slovotsky," Adahan said, as he loosened the rear cinch of his saddle and moved it to his spare horse. "Even if you do try to make things happen that way."

  "One point for you, Baron."

  He snickered. "One question?"

  "Yes?"

  "Can we get going now, or do you just want to stand there?"

  That wasn't a question I wanted to answer with words; I just set the bit squarely in the mouth of the horse I was going to lead—who says I can't learn—tightened the cinch around the belly of Aeia's stocky horse, and then swung to its back and kicked it into a fast walk.

  * * *

  Night riding goes well with wondering. I wondered when Bren would ask why, if I was going to Castle Cullinane from the first, I'd needed to supply myself with money by ripping off Thomen.

  And I wondered what I'd answer, if I'd say that Thomen had needed a lesson about not screwing around with us, and that it had been both my duty and my pleasure to administer it; I wondered if I'd say that if I hadn't ripped him off, he might have wondered what I was going to do for money and could well have sent somebody to Castle Cullinane to find out if that destination was the answer.

  I wondered if I'd tell him the truth: that it hadn't occurred to me until we were safely on the road and an idle thought had reminded me that the dragon was due in, and that a side trip to the barony would save weeks of traveling, and bring Ellegon in on everything.

  But he never did ask, and we made the trip to Castle Cullinane in record time.

  * * *

  I was stretched out on a cot in the courtyard behind the Castle Cullinane residence tower, the early morning sun warming me, while a bedewed glass of chilled herb tea sat on the stones near my elbow. I'd had the pleasure of the company of Doria and my daughters for breakfast, and the somewhat mixed pleasure of Bren Adahan and Kirah having slept in, or at least having kept to their rooms for the morning, which kept the room temperature comfortable.

  The girls had gone off on their various plans for the day—having Daddy around was no big treat for them, not after the first day—and Doria had some things to oversee at the farm, and I was practicing the art of waiting patiently, an art that is best practiced horizontal, with refreshments nearby.

  Off in the distance, leathery wings beat the air, triggering a chorus of shouts over by the barracks. If I'd opened my eyes, I would have seen people waving to Ellegon as he banked in for a landing.

  I heard a familiar roar, felt the ground shudder to a familiar thunk, and then a familiar voice in my head.

  *Good morning, Walter.*

  I opened my eyes and rolled to my feet to see Ellegon settling down onto the stones of the courtyard, while a team of burly men from the house guard set up the ladder against his broad side, emptying his load of packages.

  Ellegon: a bus-length of gray-green dragon, huge vaguely saurian head eyeing me with an expression that would have looked disapproving even if he hadn't meant it, which he probably did. Truth to tell, I would have left him chained in that Pandathaway sewer; Karl letting him loose almost got the lot of us killed, and I wouldn't want to deprive the universe of Stash and Emma's baby boy.

  "Anything interesting?" I asked.

  *A couple of letters for Doria, a new saddle for Andrea and a doll for Doranne. Various and sundry.*

  "No emergencies pending?"

  He snorted. *I predict interesting times. There are emergencies pending all over the Eren regions—in case you hadn't noticed, there's been an epidemic of strange things coming out of Faerie.*

  I let that pass. Not only had I noticed, but I'd been at least peripherally useful in stopping the flow, as the dragon knew damn well.

  "You mind running a couple of errands with me?"

  *I guess that would depend on what they are.*

  "Well, for one thing, I'm about to become awfully unpopular around here—"

  *Who is she?*

  Well, there were some honest answers to that—like Andrea, in one sense. She wasn't going to be thrilled with me ducking out instead of bringing her along. But not for this; this could get sticky, and no matter how impressive she was in the gym, the real world's much messier.

  Aeia, of course, in another sense.

  But there was no need to go into that now. Shh, I thought at the dragon. Nothing like that—and for another, I think Jason and Ahira might be able to use a hand. Never mind that I needed to chase the nightmares away; put it in terms that the dragon would likely understand and accept.

  *Then again, maybe I can understand nightmares, and just possibly you should not be quite so condescending.*

  Hey, it's my head. What I think to myself between my very own ears is something you should have the decency to pretend you don't hear.

  Flame roared. *True enough.*

  So?

  *So what?*

  So, are you in on this?

  *Well, the next stop on my route is supposed to be Biemestren.*

  That was easy to handle; he could unload his cargo for Biemestren here—

  *—I could do any number of things. The question is whether or not I should.*

  You like being the mailman?

  *Well, yes, I do. We each contribute in our own way, and with everybody and his brother cultivating dragonbane these days, I'd just as soon stay out of unfriendly territory, lest before asking 'Are you a good witch or a bad witch,' somebody sends another dragonbaned bolt into my otherwise none-too-tender hide.*

  Fair enough. He had a point. What with the various things that had been leaking out of Faerie, and the fact that dragonbane was a poison not only to dragons but to most magical metabolisms, the cultivation of dragonbane was becoming awfully common, after many years—there just hadn't been any use for the stuff until recently. But now, all over the Eren regions, people had dragonbaned bolts and arrows ready to fly. It made sense for Ellegon to give this one a bye.

  *True enough. But if I was sensible, I wouldn't be doing this. I take it you're ready to leave?*

  I didn't bother to open my eyes as I smiled. "Better call Adahan, and let's go." Maybe the dragon could pull him out of bed with Kirah.

  Ellegon just looked at me, and had the grace to say nothing about the hypocrisy inherent in that thought.

  *Where?* is all he asked.

  "First Home, and then Pandathaway."

  *Let's fly.*

  Chapter 8

  Pemburne

  Honi soit qui mal y pense.

 
—Motto of the Order of the Garter

  Relax; the universe is out to get you.

  —Walter Slovotsky

  Baking in the late afternoon sun, the ramshackle guardhouse outside the low wall surrounding the township of Pemburne was manned by a short troop of horsemen, accompanied by a dozen young boys holding spare mounts, and Jason didn't like that much at all. A confrontation between armed men could only end with a negotiation, fight, flight, or some combination, and while a township whose lord tended to go for a fight all too often would itself be a proper and likely victim of surrounding towns, their lords insisting on mercantile peace if nothing else, Jason didn't like to count on the enlightened self-interest of township lords and lordlings.

  Flight didn't seem likely, not with the locals having fresh horses and Jason, Ahira, and Toryn weary on the backs of their tired mounts.

  Neither did he like the chances of the three of them taking on a dozen well-armed and well-armored soldiers, two armed with slaver rifles, several with short bows, and all with swords.

  Jason stopped counting the worn pommels of the swords at six in a row. Veterans, all of them.

  Toryn raised an open palm. "Toryn, Journeyman of the Slavers Guild, greets you, and asks that we be conducted to Lord Pelester, at your convenience."

  "Another?" one said. "Should we—"

  "Silence." The corporal of the guard, a fiftyish man with metal rank tabs of green copper on the shoulders of his harness, had never taken his eyes off Toryn and his companions. "Perhaps. Quite perhaps. You travel on orders of the Guildmaster, yes?"

  "Yes," Toryn said. "Given to me by him in person."

  "Oh. And how is that old injury to his wrist?"

  "Nonexistent," Toryn said, his sneer accompanied by a derisive snort. "That was the previous one. Guildmaster Yryn has a small scar under his lip, hidden by his beard—but that came from biting through it during the Ordeal. It was Eldren who had the bad wrist. The right wrist." He eyed the guard levelly. "And what else would you like to know about private matters concerning my Guild brothers?"

  "No offense meant, none at all," the guard said, raising a palm in protest or acquiescence. "Just doing my job, Journeyman, just doing my job. You seek the Warrior? With hired help?" He eyed Jason, holding his gaze long enough to make it clear that he would not turn from a challenge, but not quite long enough to pose a challenge.

  "Yes," Jason said. "His coin is as good as any other."

  "And you are . . . ?"

  Jason almost used Taren, a common name and his usual alias, but he didn't want Toryn to know his usual alias. "Festen of Wehnest," he said. "Called 'the Lucky.'" He jerked a thumb toward Ahira. "My dwarf companion: Denerrin of Endell."

  The corporal looked suspicious. "I thought there was some sort of . . . arrangement between Endell and Holtun-Bieme."

  Ahira snorted. "There was. I didn't like it. I left."

  "And you work for humans now."

  "They pay. I work." He patted at the pouch at his belt. "They don't, I walk."

  He didn't glare at Jason, but there was something in his manner that made Jason think Ahira was irritated with him. Still, it had been the right move—on the off-chance that one of these knew anything about the Endell warrens, Ahira, who had lived there for a decade, could have given the right answer.

  "You have objections to my companions?" Toryn asked, his voice low.

  The guard's face broke into a smile that Jason decided was intended to be ingratiating. "Not at all, Master Toryn."

  "Journeyman Toryn, if you please." I don't need to put on airs, the sniff with which he punctuated the sentence said. "And are there standing orders regarding guildsmen presenting themselves?"

  "Yes, we're to show you the hospitality of the town—"

  "Then why do we sit here baking in the sun?" Toryn raised a finger, interrupting the start of the guard's protestations. "Lead us to Lord Pelester's keep, and see to our horses, and we'll forget all this impertinent questioning."

  The corporal smiled as he shook his head. "That would do me no favor, young Journeyman—but I'll see to your horses and see you to the lord anyway."

  * * *

  "In my house, he was," Lord Pelester raged, gesturing at the serving-girl to pour him more wine. He rose, holding up his hand to tell Toryn to keep his seat, not appearing to notice that he hadn't started to rise. "He sat under my roof, eating my food, and lay under my roof, in a bed of mine, with my favorite slave girl. In my house."

  Jason and Ahira hadn't been offered seats or refreshment; they stood behind Toryn's chair, but at no particular position of attention: hired guards devoted to their duty, but not to the appearance of doing their duty. It all fit with their assumed roles, but Jason silently fumed, knowing that the slaver was enjoying lolling in a chair, a hot mug of tea, a longstemmed glass of inky wine, and a platter of sweetmeats at his elbow, while they stood hungry and thirsty.

  His lordship had received them in a small study off the keep's great hall, a room whose walls were covered with oil paintings of previous lords in courageous poses—one over the dead body of an improbably small dragon, barely twice the size of a horse.

  Jason hadn't had a lot of experience with a lot of dragons—just the one—but the creature looked too old to be so small. Was it a young one, or a small one, or had the artist simply shrunk the dragon to fit into a frame where a lord could pose heroically, the butt of his lance on the blood-soaked ground, one foot on the dragon's chest?

  "In my house," Pelester repeated. He was a tall man, smooth complexion over thick cheekbones and massive jaw, peasant's bones wrapped in noble skin. He was dressed in silver and black that reminded Jason of Imperial livery; his fingers were bare of rings—in fact, he wore no jewelry save for a signet ring on a delicate-looking , silver chain around his neck, and he incessantly, almost obscenely fondled the ring as he talked.

  His glare fixed on Toryn. "He identified himself as a master of your Guild, and I had no reason to doubt him. It was hours after he was gone the next morning that Sensell, my slave-keeper, was found dead. And if I—" he waved the matter away. "If a spot of indigestion hadn't kept me alone in my own bed, I likely could have joined him."

  Well, that explained the extra questioning by the guards. Mikyn had passed himself off as a Guild slaver, and gotten away with it, long enough to kill off Pelester's slave-handler.

  Despite everything, it was all Jason could do not to smile. A slave-handler dead, and Toryn the slaver embarrassed. Not bad, Mikyn.

  "Well," Toryn said, "we're closer than we've been before. I'll ask for your hospitality tonight for myself, my horses, and my companions, and we'll pick up the trail in the morning."

  "Granted, of course." Pelester dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand. "You may have a guest suite in the keep—"

  "—and I'll need for my companions to sleep in the outer room." Toryn spread his hands. "They're too devoted to me to allow me to close my eyes otherwise."

  "That's hardly necessary here."

  "We watch him." Ahira grunted. "He dies, we look bad. He lives, we get paid."

  "Of course." Pelester nodded. "You'll dispatch a messenger when you've . . . dealt with him."

  "It will be generally known, I promise you," Toryn said.

  "That isn't good enough. I want to know, personally, that he's dead. Is there any part of that you don't understand?"

  "As you wish it, of course," Toryn said. He sipped at his steaming mug of tea. "You have many slaves here?"

  "Just a few. Mostly too old to do much more than help tenants plant their crops. Nothing like it was in my father's time. Most of my own fields are tilled by tenants; I dislike snaring the crop, but it's just too expensive these days to buy labor; cheaper to hire it." He eyed the serving girl. "On the other hand, we do have good crops these days, and that pays for some diversions." Pelester beckoned the serving girl over and pulled her to a sitting position on the arm of his chair, one hand resting possessively on her hip.

  She was
about Jason's age, slender rather than slim, and the thinness of the creamy cotton shift, belted tightly at the waist to accentuate the swell of her breasts, made it clear that it was her only garment. Her hair was black as coal, framing a delicate face with full, red lips that parted for just a moment, a hint of pink tongue playing at the corner of her mouth.

  She smiled and nestled closer to Pelester; he patted her hip in dismissal, and she returned to the sideboard, straightening cups and refilling a boiling copper kettle in its rack over a small brazier.

  "Just a few of the household servants, these days, like Marnea, here," Pelester said. "My treat for last year's tax surplus."

  "Hmm." It was all Jason could do not to snarl at the way Toryn eyed her professionally. "Klimosian?"

  "Indeed." Pelester's eyebrows raised. "Most mistake her for a Salkosian, what with her hair and coloration."

  A thin smile. "Salkos hasn't had a famine for eleven years; Klimos' swamp-rice crop failed six years ago, and when they need money, they tend to start by selling daughters who are just barely rounding."

  "Quite." Pelester shrugged the matter aside. "Would you like her for the night?"

  Marnea's back stiffened, for just a moment, and then she returned to her work. She had been passed around before, it seemed, but she was not used to it.

  Jason's fist clenched. The right thing to do was to draw his sword, announce who he was, and hack his way out through the local lord.

  But he couldn't do the right thing, not here, not now.

  A thin smile crossed Toryn's face. "Not I, but I think it's been too long since Festen's been properly serviced; he's off his feed, and overly tense. Have her sent to him later."

  "Indeed," Pelester said, "it has been too long; he reddens at the thought."

  "I think we embarrass him; and he's too useful in a fight to anger permanently. Let us change the subject."

  Jason could, at the moment, have gladly strangled the slaver.

  * * *

  "What was that all about?" Jason hissed as soon as the old major-domo, with a bow, had closed the heavy door to their suite behind them. It was a standard sort of arrangement: an outer sitting room, a low couch and chair on the carpeting near the open window; the curtained, arched doorway in the center of the far wall left room for two sleeping pallets in front of it, so that a noble—or slaver—could have his guards sleep across his doorway.