The Sword and the Chain

by Joel Rosenberg

  He moved slowly, pulling his left hand back as he brought his right hand out, turning his wrist so that the back of his hand faced upward, tensing his entire body just at the moment that the blow would have made contact, had there been a real opponent.

  "And now the left." He demonstrated, then dropped his hands. "Now . . . on my count, seiken chudan-tsuki; groups of four." He moved closer to them. "One—keep it slow, now; follow the pace. Two—better, better. Three. Four. Speed it up a bit, now. One, two, three, four. Full speed, just as if it were for real. One-two-three-four. Keep going."

  Chak was doing it properly, as usual; his stance easy, he punched smoothly, his arms moving like greased pistons.

  Karl passed behind the little man and moved to help Tennetty. "No, keep your wrist straight," he said, adjusting her hand. "Mmm . . . better. A bit more tensing of the belly when you strike. Don't rise to the balls of your feet. Flat-footed blows have much more power." He moved on to Fialt.

  Fialt was still throwing the shoulder of his striking arm forward. Standing in front of him, Karl reached out and grasped his shoulders. "Try it now. Ignore me." With Karl's much longer reach, Fialt's punch wouldn't land.

  Fialt punched the air in front of him, pushing his shoulder forward against Karl's hand. "No good," Karl said. "You've got to keep the shoulder steady. Chak?"

  "Not the knives, again?" The little man frowned.

  "Knives, again. Tennetty, Aeia, keep it up."

  Chak walked over to the tree where his clothes and equipment hung and drew his two beltknives, tossing them hilt-first to Karl. Karl caught them, then rested the knifepoints gently against Fialt's shoulders. "Now try it."

  Fialt scowled, and punched timidly.

  "That was better. At least your shoulders didn't move. But," Karl said, increasing the pressure of the knives against Fialt's shoulders, "you didn't have any force behind the blow. Wouldn't have squashed a bug. Do it right, now."

  Still a timid punch.

  "Do it better or I swear I'll stick you," he said, just as his karate teacher had once said to him. Karl wondered for a moment if Mr. Katsuwahara had been lying, and dismissed the notion as blasphemous.

  This time, Fialt struck properly, his shoulders rocksteady, his body tensing at the moment of impact.

  "Nice." Karl nodded, handing the knives back to Chak. He turned toward Aeia, and—

  Fialt struck, a perfectly executed seiken chudan-tsuki that landed just below Karl's solar plexus, knocking him back.

  Blindly, Karl brought his right arm around to block Fialt's second blow, then swung his right leg into a fast but gentle roundhouse kick that bowled Fialt over.

  "Very pretty," a voice called from the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Karl glanced up. A man stood, looking down at them, his hands spread on the balcony rail.

  "Chak. Handle it." Karl jerked his thumb in the direction of the voice as he stooped to help Fialt up. "Nicely done, Fialt."

  Fialt's grizzled face broke into a smile. "I did it right?"

  "Very. You hit me legally, and hit me hard. If you'd really been aiming here,"—Karl tapped himself on the solar plexus—"you would've had me." He clapped a hand on Fialt's shoulder. "Keep it up and we'll make a warrior of you yet."

  "Just a man who can protect himself and his own. That's all I ask." Fialt nodded grimly. "That's all."

  "I said, very pretty, sir."

  "And who are you?" Karl turned.

  "Zherr, Baron Furnael, sir." He bowed. "May I join you?"

  At Karl's nod, Furnael walked back into the building, reappearing just a few moments later at the door into the garden, two armsmen and an old man in gray wizard's robes at his side.

  Baron Furnael was a tall man in his early fifties, perhaps an inch or so over six feet. Despite his age, he seemed to be in good shape: His thick wrists were heavily muscled, his leggings bulged with well-developed calves and thighs, only a small potbelly puffed out the front of his leather tunic. Furnael's face was deeply lined, and stubble-free enough to suggest that he shaved himself both carefully and frequently, or had someone else shave him. On his upper lip, a pencil-thin mustache was heavily streaked with gray, although his short-cropped hair was as black as a raven.

  Karl kept his chuckle to himself. That bespoke a bit of vanity. But why hadn't Furnael dyed the mustache, too? A bit of self-honesty? Or was it just that whatever dye they used here would have stained his lip?

  "Baron." Karl bowed slightly, Fialt, Tennetty, and Chak following suit.

  Aeia glanced up at him, looking ready to break into tears. Strangers often affected her that way. Particularly male strangers. Which was understandable.

  "Easy, little one." He smiled. "I think it's time for your nap."

  She nodded and ran away, her bare feet slapping the flagstones.

  Furnael smiled. "A pleasant child. Yours?"

  "No. But in my care. She's a Mel. I'm not."

  "So I see." Furnael turned to the armsmen at his right and snapped his fingers. The armsman produced a bottle of wine, and uncorked it with his teeth before handing it to Furnael. "A drink for luck?" Furnael asked, his voice making it clear it was more a command than a question. He tilted back the bottle and drank deeply. "Zherr Furnael wishes you luck, friend." Smiling thinly and wiping his hand on a purple silk handkerchief he produced from a sleeve, Furnael handed the bottle to Karl. "Enjoy."

  In the Eren regions, a drink for luck was a custom that was invariably followed by an introduction, whether the drinkers already knew each other or not. Typically, a drink for luck would take place between two strangers meeting on a road, the provider of the wine drinking first to assure the other that it was unpoisoned.

  The fact that Furnael had suggested—ordered—a drink for luck in a situation where the custom wasn't really appropriate was suspicious. The fact that his armsman had an opened bottle ready was more so.

  Karl drank deeply. The rich, fruity wine was icy cold. "Karl Cullinane thanks you, Baron."

  Furnael's smile broadened. "So. I was wondering if it was you, in this company; it's said that you travel with a Hand cleric and another warrior from a land called Seecaucuze. Not a Mel child and a Katharhd."

  Secaucus was Walter's hometown. So it was only known that Karl had been traveling with Doria and Walter. Which suggested that someone had seen the three of them at the cesspit when Karl had freed Ellegon, or that some spell had been able to look back, into that time and place. But how would anyone on this side have known that Walter came from New Jersey? Slovotsky hadn't mentioned it, as far as Karl knew.

  Probably Walter had mentioned it to some local, at some time, and that local had talked to someone else about the stranger he had met, and someone in Pandathaway had started putting two and two together. That didn't sound good at all. Too damn many unknowns.

  "There has been a price on your head for more than a year, friend Karl," Furnael said. "It seems that Pandathaway wants you."

  Chak started to edge toward his sword; one of Furnael's armsmen, hand near the hilt of his shortsword, moved between the little man and the tree where Chak's falchion hung.

  Even if Furnael meant them harm, this wasn't the right time to do something about it. The odds were poor, with the wizard right there, behind Furnael. "Stand easy, Chak," Karl said. "Stand easy. That goes for you, too," he said, holding up a palm to forestall any move by Tennetty or Fialt. "I don't think the Baron is out to collect the reward."

  Furnael spread his hands. "You are wanted in Pandathaway, friend Karl. This is Bieme. And here we have no love for the Guilds' Council." He gestured at the wizard who stood behind him. "Sammis, here, once was a guild master, studying daily in the Great Library. Today, he uses his death spells to kill corndiggers; he was thrown out of the Wizards' Guild, forced to flee Pandathaway."

  "What'd he do, give out a spell for free?"

  Furnael cocked his head to one side, his forehead furrowed. "How did you know?" He shrugged. "In any case, it is fortunate for you that my Prince is neither
allied with Pandathaway nor particularly hungry for coin," he said, laying his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Even if you are as good as they say, we do have the advantage."

  "That depends on how you look at it, Baron." Ahira's voice came from the balcony above.

  About time. Karl glanced up. Beside Ahira, little Aeia stood, the spare crossbow held clumsily in her arms, leveled at one of Furnael's armsmen.

  Ahira held his own crossbow easily, the bolt lined up not on Furnael, but on the wizard. "Aeia can't cock the bow, but she can put out a sparrow's eye at sixty paces."

  Karl suppressed a smile. Aeia could probably hit a cow at five paces, if the cow was big enough. The little girl tried hard, but she had no talent for bowmanship at all.

  Ahira went on: "And I'm not too bad with a crossbow, myself. We're generally peaceable folk. How about you?"

  As usual, Ahira had picked his potential target correctly. If the wizard opened his mouth to use a spell, Ahira could put a bolt through his back before the first words were fairly out.

  Karl folded his arms across his chest. "You were saying, Baron?"

  Furnael smiled broadly. "Again, very pretty, sir. I was saying that I must have a word with my chief man-at-arms; he didn't tell me about the others, just you. And I was also saying that you simply must be my guests at dinner, at my home. We dine at sundown. And . . ." Furnael let his voice trail off.

  "And?"

  "And, as long as you break no law, harm no one, do not offend my Prince, you are safe here. Within my barony, at least. You have my word on that, Karl Cullinane."

  And even if you're eager to try to collect the reward, you'd rather do it over my dead body than yours. Karl hesitated. If they had to take on Furnael, there probably wouldn't be a better time.

  But he couldn't kill everyone who might present a threat. "We are honored, Baron. And accept."

  The baron's smile made Karl's palm itch for the feel of his saber's sharkskin hilt. Furnael gestured at the nearer of his armsmen. "Hivar will conduct you to the estate." He turned and walked away, the other armsman and the wizard at his side.

  "What was that all about?" Chak asked, his swordbelt back around his waist.

  Karl shrugged. "I think the Baron wants to know what we're up to. What I'm up to. Seems that freeing Ellegon has gotten me some interesting word-of-mouth. It also seems that word about what we're doing hasn't gotten to Bieme yet.'

  "So? How do we handle it?"

  "We'll see." Karl turned to the others. "Well, what are you all standing around for? This practice isn't over. You, there. Hivar, is it? These aren't Pandathaway's Games. If you want to stay around, then strip down and join in."

  * * *

  Sitting in the honored-guest position at the foot of the long oaken table, Karl wiped his mouth and hands with a linen napkin. Just what are you up to, Zherr Furnael? he thought. Lifting the wedge with both hands, Karl took another nibble of the sweetberry pie. He ate carefully; the dark filling was bubbly hot.

  "I must admit to a bit of embarrassment," Furnael said, pushing his high-backed chair away from the table. "I've never had a guest go hungry at my table before. And two?" He daubed at his mustache and the corners of his mouth with a purple silken napkin, then dropped the napkin back to his lap as the white-linened servitor at his side held out a washing bowl for his use.

  "I wouldn't have thought it possible," he said, drying his hands on a towel, gesturing at the servant to continue down the table to Fialt, Tennetty, Aeia, and Karl.

  Karl considered another helping of pie, but decided against it. Overeating any further wasn't the way to cap the best meal he'd had in months. Whatever your flaws may be, Zherr Furnael, you do set a fine table.

  "Normally it wouldn't be possible, Baron," Karl said. A fresh washbowl was presented to him; Karl washed the meat juices and berry stains from his fingers. "At least as far as I can imagine."

  With a slight nod and a vague frown, Furnael sat back, knitting his fingers over his belly. His face a study in concern, he cocked his head at Chak and Ahira, who sat side by side, across from the others, their silver plates clean and empty in front of them. "Is there anything you would eat? Anything?"

  Ahira shook his head. "My apologies, Baron, but it's a religious matter. It's the fast of St. Rita Moreno, you know. My ancestors would never forgive me if I let food or water pass my lips today."

  Furnael furrowed his forehead. "I must admit I'm not familiar with your faith, friend Ahira. Which warrens are you from?"

  The dwarf frowned at the question, as though surprised at Furnael's prying. "The Lincoln Tunnels. Far away." Ahira sighed, the picture of a dwarf far away from home, missing the comfortable familiarity of his own warrens.

  Furnael opened his mouth as though to ask just exactly where, and how far away, then visibly reconsidered. Dismissing the subject with a wave and a shrug, he turned to Chak. "Surely a Katharhd doesn't have religious objections to my food."

  Chak glanced at Karl. For once, the little man didn't seem pleased with him. Chak didn't relish having had to pass on the Baron's fare. Platters of juice-dripping roast beef, the slices crisp, brown, and garlicky around the edges, purply rare in the middle; spit-roasted potatoes, so hot that they had to be nibbled carefully from the end of a knife; tiny loaves of warm, pan-baked bread, each with a dollop of sweet, icy butter at its core; bowls of a pungent mixture of chotte and burdock, sauteed together in wine and fresh garlic—it had been a delightful meal, much better than Karl had had since Pandathaway.

  But I don't think we're going to trust you any too far, Baron Zherr Furnael. You reek of hidden intent. Never did like people who do that. Furnael had politely sampled all of the food first; eating from the same table as the baron probably wasn't risky.

  But only probably.

  The cover story, such as it was, had more than a few holes in it. But for all of them to trust Furnael's food was too much of a chance. Best to keep up the pretense.

  Karl nodded.

  "My apologies," Chak said, glancing with apparently real regret at the silver platters, still well laden with food, that lay invitingly on the table. "But this western food doesn't agree with me. Haven't been able to stomach what you eat here; I've been living on my morning meals of oat stew and greens for more tendays than I like to recall."

  "Oat stew?" Furnael shrugged. "Well, if that's what you desire . . ." He gestured to one of his servitors, a short, plump, round-faced woman. "Enna? Would you—"

  "No," Chak said. "Please."

  The Baron's face clouded over. "And why not?"

  Good question. They hadn't worked out what to say if Furnael was able to provide such a bizarre and disgusting dish.

  Ahira spoke up. "With all due respect, you're not thinking it through, Baron."

  "Well?"

  "If all you were able to keep down was oat stew, how eager would you be to eat more than once a day?"

  Karl chuckled. "Or even that often." He looked over at the dwarf. Nice going, Ahira. "Baron?"

  "Yes?"

  "It was a wonderful meal and all, but what's this really all about?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "What I mean is this: I'm wanted in Pandathaway; there's a large reward on my head. You say you're not interested in collecting that reward. Fine; I'll accept that."

  The Baron lifted a razor-sharp eating knife and considered its bright edge. "Although you are not convinced of it." Furnael smiled thinly. "Perhaps that's wise under the circumstances; perhaps not." He tested the edge of the knife against his thumbnail, then replaced it on the table, the point, perhaps by chance, aligned with Karl's chest.

  "What I'm not convinced of," Karl said, "is that you invite everyone who stops in the Furnael inn into your home. And it'd be impossible to believe that you'd provide this sort of wonderful fare—"

  "I thank you, sir." Furnael inclined his head.

  "—for all guests of the inn. It seems to me that there has to be something else on your mind."

  "Point well ta
ken, Karl Cullinane. I do have a business proposition for you. If you are as good with that sword as your reputation suggests."

  "I doubt I'd be interest—"

  "Would you at least listen to it, as a courtesy?" Furnael stood, dropping the napkin on his chair. He lifted his swordbelt from the rack next to his chair and buckled it on. "Let's take a short ride together and talk about it privately. These days I get little enough chance to ride just for the pleasure of it. Enna, see to the needs of our other guests, if you please."

  Karl stood and buckled on his own sword. "Very well." He walked with Furnael toward the arching doorway.

  Ahira cleared his throat. "Baron?"

  Furnael turned, clearly irritated. "Yes, friend Ahira?"

  The dwarf steepled his hands in front of his chin. "It's occurred to me that you may have a fallback position in mind, if Karl turns you down. And, since you are a wise man, that fallback position is undoubtedly something terribly wise, such as wishing us well, as we go on our way."

  "And if my, as you put it, fallback position isn't so wise?" Furnael gestured vaguely. "As an example only, what if the alternative I present Karl Cullinane with is my taking possession of a young girl who is manifestly an escaped slave, and returning her to her proper owners?"

  "Aided by, no doubt, your full complement of twenty or so armsmen, some of whom you have stationed outside, as a precaution."

  "No doubt." Furnael smiled.

  "Baron, may I tell you a story?"

  "This hardly seems the occasion."

  "Please?" The dwarf smiled thinly. "At least listen, as a courtesy to a guest? It's a very short story, Baron. And it might amuse you."

  Furnael gave in, seating himself on the empty chair next to Ahira. "Since you insist."

  "Good. Let me begin it like this. There once was a slaver named Ohlmin. A master of the blade, Ohlmin won the swords competition in Pandathaway's Games every time he entered. With one exception.

  "One man defeated him. Karl Cullinane, fighting in his first competition, ever. As you perhaps can understand, Ohlmin resented that."