The Sword and the Chain

by Joel Rosenberg

  Karl closed his eyes. The strategy wasn't a problem. Not Karl's problem, in any case. Ahira could probably work something out.

  Still, three hundred against five was not Karl's idea of good odds. Then again, they wouldn't have to take on all three hundred at once.

  But that wasn't the issue. The question isn't can we, it's should we.

  And that was harder. Granted, Zherr Furnael was—or at least appeared to be—a good man for this world; given, any war between Bieme and Holtun would be bad for everyone concerned, including the slaves of both sides.

  But . . . I'm Karl Cullinane, dammit, not Clark Kent. I can't do everything; I've already made a promise I'm not sure I can keep; I can't let other things divert me.

  His conscience pricked him. How about Aeia? Taking her home didn't constitute carrying the war to the slavers.

  No. Aeia's case was different. Melawei was suffering from slave raids; it was reasonable to take her home, since that path would lead to some good opportunities to strike at the Slavers' Guild.

  What would helping Furnael have to do with ending slavery? Anything?

  No, there was no connection.

  I'll have to turn him down. I—

  Wait. "There . . . is a price, Zherr. A large one."

  Furnael spread his hands. "We do have money, Karl."

  "I don't really need money. But, in return for me and my friends solving your problem, would you be willing to give up all your slaves?"

  Furnael smiled. "That's a high price, Karl. It'd cost me much time and coin to replace all the slaves in my barony. Perhaps we could consider—"

  "No. Not replace. Your payment would be to give up the owning of slaves throughout your barony. Forever."

  For a moment, the Baron's face was a study in puzzlement. Then Furnael sighed. "I . . . I thank you for the politeness of not turning me down directly. But it wasn't necessary; I understand. You don't want to make our battles yours."

  "Baron, I'm completely serious."

  "Please. Don't insult my intelligence." Furnael held up a hand. "Let it be, Karl Cullinane, let it be."

  Karl opened his mouth, then closed it. It wouldn't work. To Furnael, the concept of slavery was so normal that he couldn't take at face value any suggestion he give up owning people. It wasn't really offensive to Furnael, just incomprehensible. But trying to explain further could only be an affront.

  Furnael's face grew grim. "I'd thought to try to frighten you into serving me, you know. Threatening to hold that little girl—Aeia, is it?—as hostage against your success." He drummed his fingers on the wood. "You do seem to care about her welfare."

  "That wouldn't leave me any choice, Baron."

  Furnael nodded. "Then—"

  "No choice at all. I'd either have to take on three hundred raiders, relying on your word to release Aeia if I did, or I'd have to take on you and your forty or fifty armsmen, none of whom seem to have done much recent fighting." Karl left his hand fall to the hilt of his sword. "That would be an easy decision, Baron. Granted, my friends and I would probably all die, but we'd take some of you with us. And how would that leave you in the war that's coming?"

  "It was just a thought. But a silly one." He sighed deeply. "The sort of warrior I need wouldn't be frightened into doing something unwillingly." The Baron shook his head as he rose to his feet and walked to the peg where his sword hung. "But, as your friend Ahira put it, I have prepared a fallback position. A ruler, even a lowly baron, should always keep an option ready."

  "Baron, you—"

  Furnael lifted the scabbard and drew the sword.

  Karl leaped away from the table, sending his stool clattering on the floor. Drawing his own sword with one fluid motion, he spun around into a crouch. Got to be careful. Can't let the woman or the children get behind me; they might grab my swordarm.

  The sword held loosely in his hand, Furnael drew himself up straight. "Karl Cullinane," he said, his voice dripping with scorn, "put up your sword. You are in no danger here, not from me. I swear that on my life, sir."

  What the hell was going on? First Furnael had tried to buy his services, then intimidate him, then he had gotten ready to attack Karl. "I . . . don't understand." Karl lowered the point of his sword.

  "On my life, sir," the Baron repeated.

  To hell with it. I've got to trust somebody, sometime. Karl slipped his sword back into its scabbard.

  The Baron turned to Rahff. "Hold out your hands, boy."

  Silently, Rahff shook his head.

  "Do it." The Baron's shout left Karl's ears ringing.

  Slowly, Rahff extended his palms. With exquisite gentleness, Furnael laid the flat of the blade on the boy's palms, then untied his pouch from his own waist. Carefully, Furnael tied the leather strands about the middle of the blade. "There are ten pieces of Pandathaway gold here."

  White-faced, Beralyn laid a hand on Furnael's arm. "Don't do this. He's just a boy."

  Furnael closed his eyes. "This gives us a chance, just a chance, Bera. If Rahff survives, he may be strong enough to see the barony through the coming years, through the war. I . . . I don't see any other way. Please, please don't make this any harder."

  He opened his eyes and turned back to Karl, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Karl Cullinane. I offer my eldest son to you as apprentice, sir, to learn the way of the sword, bow, and fist. I offer as payment my horse, this gold, this sword, and the services of my son, for a period of five years."

  Karl looked down at Rahff. The boy's whitened face was unreadable. "Rahff?"

  "It's not his choice, Karl. I'm the boy's father."

  Karl didn't look at Furnael. "Shh. Rahff? Do you want to be my apprentice?"

  Clenching his lower lip between his teeth until the blood flowed, Rahff looked from his mother, to his father, and back to Karl. Slowly, he walked over and extended the sword and pouch, his arms shaking. "It's . . . my father's wish, sir."

  "But is it yours?"

  Rahff looked from his father, to his brother, to his mother, to Bren. Hero worship was one thing; agreeing to leave his home and family was another.

  Bren nodded. "Do it. If you stay, we'll soon be enemies, be after each other's blood."

  "And if I go? Will that make any difference?"

  "I don't know. But it will give us five years' grace, five years until I have to kill you, or you have to kill me." Bren clapped a hand to Rahff's shoulder, gripping tightly. "Five years, at least."

  Rahff swallowed. Then: "Y-yes. Will you accept me as apprentice, Karl Cullinane?"

  Karl looked at Baron Zherr Furnael with a new sense of admiration. It took a certain something for a man to see his own limitations, to accept the likelihood of his own destruction, while planning to protect at least a part of his family from the storm of arrows and swords that would certainly leave him dead.

  Not necessarily just part of his family; perhaps Furnael had other plans for Thomen and Lady Beralyn.

  Apprenticing Rahff to an outlaw was a cold-blooded act, but that didn't make it wrong. If Rahff survived an apprenticeship, he might be strong enough to hold the barony, perhaps even all of Bieme, together through the coming years.

  And what if he dies, Zherr Furnael? We're heading into danger; what if he's not quick enough or lucky enough to live through it?

  Karl didn't voice the question. The answer was clear: If Rahff couldn't survive a five-year apprenticeship, then he wasn't the ruler that the barony needed.

  Zherr Furnael would either have a worthy successor, or a dead son. Not a pleasant gamble.

  But what other choice do they have? Karl accepted the sword and pouch on the palms of his hands. "I accept you, Rahff, as my apprentice. Spend some time saying goodbye to your family and friends; we leave in the morning. Oh, and you can sleep at the inn, if you'd prefer." He untied the pouch from the sword, then accepted the scabbard from the Baron.

  "I'd rather stay."

  "You're his apprentice, boy." Furnael's low voice was almost an animal's snarl. "You
will sleep at the inn."

  Karl drew himself up straight. "I'll thank you not to interfere with my apprentice, Baron. I gave him the choice, not you." He took two copper coins from his pouch and dropped them on the rough table. "This should cover his lodging; he'll spend the night here, as he chooses."

  Slipping the sword into the scabbard, Karl handed it to the boy. "Take good care of this, Rahff. You're going to be spending many hard hours learning to use it."

  And may God have mercy on your soul.

  The boy nodded somberly.

  "But I think you'll do just fine."

  A smile peeked through Rahff's tears.

  And through Furnael's.

  Part Four:

  Melawei

  Chapter Ten

  To Ehvenor

  Practice is the best teacher.

  —Publilius Syrus

  As they rode down the shallow slope toward Ehvenor, the freshwater sea called the Cirric lay below them and ahead of them, rippling off across the horizon. Off in the distance, Karl could see the rainbow sails of a wide-beamed sloop, tacking in toward the harbor.

  Ten, perhaps twelve, small ships huddled around Ehvenor's docks, as seamen bustled like ants to load and unload their cargo. Just harborside of the breakwater, three large ships lay at anchor, attended by half a dozen small launches that swarmed around them like pilotfish around a shark.

  The low stone buildings of Ehvenor cupped the harbor, flat and ugly. The streets were narrow, crooked, and strewn with refuse; the town of Ehvenor looked like one large slum.

  There was only one exception: A cylindrical building, seemingly three or four stories high, stood in the center of town like a rose on a pile of dung. It shone whitely.

  Karl rubbed his eyes. It was hard to make out the details of that building; the edges and details fuzzed in his eyes, as though he couldn't focus on it.

  "Ahira?"

  The dwarf shook his head. "It doesn't seem to suit my eyes, either."

  "You think that's the Faerie holding, or embassy, or whatever they call it?"

  The dwarf snorted; the snort was immediately echoed by his pony. "Not likely to be anything else; I doubt the locals build out of mist and light."

  Karl nodded. "I'd like to know how they do that."

  "Ever hear of magic?" Ahira fell silent.

  After a reflexive check to see that the others, riding behind him, were doing fine, Karl patted at Carrot's neck. "I wonder how you're going to take to being on a ship."

  Did horses get seasick?

  And how about the others? Chak, Tennetty, and Rahff had never been on a boat before. Fialt wouldn't be a problem; he was a Salke, and apparently everyone in Salket spent a good deal of time at sea. Ahira wouldn't be a problem, fortunately. A vomiting dwarf wouldn't be any fun to be around. And Aeia was a Mel; according to Chak, everyone in Melawei was practically conceived at sea.

  Well, at worst, we're going to have four upchuckers among us. Probably including me.

  Karl rubbed at his belly. Maybe this time will be different. God, please let this time be different. His only other time at sea had been on the Ganness' Pride. The trip from Lundeyll to Pandathaway on the Pride was not one of Karl's fondest memories; he had spent the first few minutes throwing up his breakfast, the next couple of hours vomiting up food he didn't even remember swallowing, and most of the rest of the trip with the dry heaves.

  Ahira chuckled.

  "What is it?" Karl looked down at the dwarf. "You think seasickness is funny?"

  The dwarf shook his head. "No. I wasn't thinking about seasickness at all."

  "Oh. So it's my nervousness about going on a boat again that's funny?"

  Ahira scowled. "Your nervousness? Karl, you don't know what nervousness about being on a boat is."

  That was strange. Ahira hadn't shown a trace of nausea while they'd been aboard the Ganness' Pride. "Iron-guts Ahira, that's what we'll have to call you. You hid your seasickness well."

  "No, I wasn't seasick. There are other problems than seasickness," the dwarf said, scowling. "Think it through, Karl."

  "Well?"

  "How much do you weigh?"

  "Huh?" What did that have to do with anything?

  "A simple question, actually. How much do you weigh?"

  "Mmm, about two-twenty or so, on This Side. Back home, about—"

  "How much do I weigh?"

  "About the same, I'd guess." A dwarf was built differently than a human. Ahira's body wasn't just shorter and disproportionately wider than Karl's; his muscles and bones were more dense.

  More dense. "Oh. I hadn't thought about that." A human's body was, overall, less dense than water. But the dwarf . . . "If you fell overboard, you'd sink like a stone, chainmail vest or no."

  "Exactly. I could easily drown in five, six feet of water. A bit more serious than a spot of projectile vomiting, no?"

  "But what was so funny about that?"

  Ahira smiled. "You were the one thinking about boats. I was thinking about towns."

  "Well?"

  "Think about it. What was the first town we ever dealt with on This Side?"

  "Lundeyll. We just barely got out of there with our lives." Not all of them had gotten out alive. Jason Parker had died in Lundeyll, spending the last few moments of his life kicking on the end of a spear. Someday, if I can find the time, I think I'll look up Lordling Lund and feed him his fingers, one joint at a time.

  "Exactly. We left Lundeyll just about ten seconds ahead of the posse. The next town was Pandathaway. We got out of there a couple days before Ohlmin left, chasing us. We didn't spend any time worth talking about in a town until you and Walter went into Metreyll. And look at the time frame there: From the time you killed Lord Mehlên's armsmen until Metreyll found out must have been . . . at least a week, maybe a tenday." The dwarf held out a stubby finger. "One: ten seconds." Another finger. "Two: three days." A third finger. "Three: a full week." Ahira shot a glance at Karl. "Now, think about Bieme, and Furnael. For once, we left a town without anybody after us, even though the Baron wasn't pleased about your turning down that job. I was a bit nervous about that for a couple of weeks, but now that we're almost in Ehvenor, it's clear that he's not coming after us."

  "So?" Karl didn't see the point of it all.

  "So, it seems to me it's sort of a progression; looks like we're learning to get along better and better with the locals. If this keeps up, eventually we might even make friends somewhere, be invited to stay. If this keeps up . . ."

  "Well?"

  "Well, yonder—I'm starting to like saying yonder—lies Ehvenor. All we have to do there, all we want to do there, is book passage to Melawei."

  "Do you always have to belabor the obvious before you ask me a favor?" Karl couldn't help returning Ahira's smile. "Try just asking."

  "Fair enough: While we're in Ehvenor, try to avoid sticking any locals through the gizzard."

  Karl shuddered. You're talking as though I like bloodshed. He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. Keep it light, just keep it light. "That's asking a lot. What'll you do for me?"

  Ahira thought about it for a minute. "Ever hear of positive and negative reinforcement?"

  "Of course. Used to be a psych major."

  "Good. Let's use both. Negative reinforcement: If you get us into trouble here, I'll bash you with my axe."

  "And the positive reinforcement?"

  "If we do get out of Ehvenor without any bloodshed, I'll give you a lollipop. Fair enough?"

  "Fair enough." Karl chuckled a moment, then sobered.

  Even though it was hidden by the banter, Ahira was serious.

  And he had a point. If they ran into slavers in Ehvenor, the city wasn't the place to take them on. The locals wouldn't like it; Karl had no illusions about his group's ability to take on a slaver team and a large detachment of local armsmen.

  Though the group was shaping up nicely, come to think of it.

  Tennetty was getting better and better with a sword. Sh
e didn't have the upper-body strength to parry more than a few solid thrusts without tiring, but she did have an almost instinctive feel for the weak points in an opponent's defenses.

  Rahff was coming along well, although he didn't seem to have Tennetty's natural bent for swordplay. The boy had to work at it. But he did work hard. A good kid, although the way Rahff hung on Karl's every word was quickly getting old.

  Fialt's swordsmanship was still lousy, but his hand-to-hand skills had come a long way, and he had developed a nice feel for both manriki-gusari and staff.

  Chak was a good man. Not a fancy swordsman, but a reliable one. With Chak on watch, Karl could sleep peacefully; with Chak bringing up the rear of the group, Karl could concentrate on what lay ahead, with only an occasioned glance behind. Chak was . . . solid, that was it.

  Even little Aeia's bowmanship was coming along. She wasn't as good as Ahira had told Furnael, of course. But not too bad, either. Aeia and a cocked crossbow could be a nice hole card in a fight.

  Wait a minute. "Ahira?"

  "Yes?"

  "I've got one question, though. If you don't mind."

  "Well?"

  "Where are you going to get the lollipop?"

  Chapter Eleven

  Ehvenor

  Remember that no man loses other life than that which he lives, or lives any other life than that which he loses.

  —Marcus Aurelius

  Him? Karl started. The aging, wide-bellied ketch tied at the end of the narrow dock didn't look familiar, but the man in the sailcloth tunic, directing the loading crew, did. Avair Ganness, what the hell are you doing here? And if you're here, where's the Pride?

  It had to be him. While sweat-stained sailcloth tunics weren't at all rare around the docks, there couldn't be a whole lot of short, dark-skinned sailors with waist-length pigtails and thick, hairy legs who carried themselves with the rolling swagger and easy confidence of a ship's captain.

  "Captain Ganness?"