Knights of the Crown w-1

by Roland Green

  Then the glow died.

  * * * * *

  Pirvan was past the worst part of the passage when an outcropping of stone knocked the hood off his lantern. In the silence of his mind, he relieved his frustration. Shielding the lantern with his body, he learned what made him think even stronger language. A tinker would have to take hood and lantern in hand to rejoin them.

  A nice dilemma now faced Pirvan. Had he been on the streets or, even better, on the rooftops, he could have gone forward as swiftly and deftly in the darkness as in the light. His agility, his night-sight, and his sense of direction kept him moving the way he wished, as long as he was in the open air.

  Below ground was a different matter. He had mostly foresworn deep work for that reason, and would have done so tonight. But the open-air paths to the house would surely be guarded. The only safe way lay below, and to use that, he needed light, whether or not it gave warning to anyone waiting above.

  Pirvan reminded himself that, strictly speaking, he did not have to roam the house until he found Lady Eskaia’s bed and the strongbox under it. He could reach the cellar, fling the bag of jewels with its notes to Lady Eskaia attached-into the hands of any servant who might have slipped down to tap a wine barrel. Such might be indiscreet; they could even be dishonest.

  Pirvan’s honor and the thieves’ safety demanded a complete, discreet return.

  He could only hope that his mask would not go the way of the lantern shield.

  Nothing more went awry in the remaining few minutes of Pirvan’s underground journey. Safely far back in the passage, he blew out the lantern and drew up his sack of gear. It would be an irony to make a dozen gods laugh if he needed more tools to return stolen property than to steal it in the first place.

  At last he was peering out into the cellar, the lantern behind him. All seemed as he would have expected, with no alarm given. The only light was a dim, guttering one, from a single torch or lamp high up and out of his sight to the left.

  Trying to keep his head up and his eyes roaming, Pirvan slipped out of the crack in what now seemed to be a cellar wall. The dim light made the wine barrels to his right seem a solid mass, whatever was hanging to his left appear as giant bats with their wings folded.

  A mouse skittering drew his eyes to the right. Then across the open space, he saw something move. A human shape, creeping on hands and knees, clearly knowing that he was not alone, thinking that he had not been seen.

  Pirvan drew his dagger, tossed it so that he held it by the point, then waited until he could have a clear shot at the man’s head. Man-no, a boy, more likely, or even a girl-but no one could be allowed to give warning this soon, nor would they receive more than a headache from the pommel of the dagger.

  Seeking that clear line for his throw, Pirvan had taken two steps away from the wall. That was one too many. In one moment, he sensed someone approaching him from his left; in the next, the person was behind him, between him and the passage.

  He whirled, angling the dagger upward to hammer the pommel up under his attacker’s chin. That could kill, but he would pull his blow if he could-

  The next moment, he felt as if a dragon had whipped its tail into his lower abdomen. He doubled up, all the breath going out of him in a whuff he was sure must be waking the house. The pain he felt was such that if he had let out the scream deserved, he would have awakened half of Istar.

  But the breath for the scream would not come. He was still fighting for it when he felt the dagger plucked from his hand and a second attacker behind him. Trying to turn merely cost him what was left of his balance, and as he went down, a hard fist hammered against the side of his jaw.

  Pirvan the Thief was as senseless as a log of firewood before he struck the floor.

  Chapter 5

  Pirvan awoke with pains lingering in both head and belly. He concluded that he must have struck his head in falling. He also discovered that his bruised temple and scraped cheek had been cleaned, salved, and lightly dressed.

  He was on a pallet stuffed with fresh-smelling hay, with a clean woolen blanket over him and a wooden frame lifting the pallet off the wooden floor. Beside the pallet, on a low table, were a jug of water, a cup, and a plate of light biscuits. The water was clean and smelled of herbs, the biscuits an appealing brown, and the jug, cup, and plate good gray pewter with the Encuintras mark on it.

  If he was a prisoner of Lady Eskaia’s family, they were either fattening him for the slaughter or wished his goodwill.

  Meanwhile, his throat tasted as if a regiment of ogres had camped in it. He washed some of the taste out with the water and cleaned the rest away with two biscuits. He was afraid that the biscuits would make him nauseated, but there was something in the water that settled his stomach enough for them to stay down.

  The water also held something to make him sleep. After his second cup, he did. He awoke feeling free of pain, a bit muzzy-headed, and hungry enough to eat not only the remaining biscuits but half of a good-sized bakeshop as well.

  When he’d done that, he began to study his quarters. They were well above the level of a cell, not quite a guest room. There was a private cubicle in one corner for the necessary pot, and a second pallet rolled up and leaning against one wall. The light was dim; it came from lamps set in horn-covered niches in the wall. It was enough to let him see a good deal more, once his eyes adjusted to it.

  All the walls were smooth-scraped, whitewashed wood, and the other two were largely covered with racks and stands. On one wall were buckets, sponges, jugs, short robes, padded leggings, and what Pirvan recognized as exercise sticks and weights. The racks on the other wall mostly held bottles, stoppered jars, and glass vials that might have contained anything from poisons to spices. Some of them Pirvan recognized as Qualinesti work.

  He stood up, realizing as he did so that someone had removed all of his garments and given him a thorough bath-which he admitted he must have needed, after his struggle up the passage into the cellar. This meant that he was neither clothed nor armed, but with the loaded racks in easy reach that hardly mattered.

  He walked slowly to the rack with the exercise sticks and took down three, a pair of short ones and a long one. He tested their balance and his own, and discovered that both passed. Then he put on one of the robes, which ended the sensation of being naked and helpless.

  It was odd that they would put him in a room so full of things that might be used as weapons, if in fact he was a prisoner. Perhaps they were setting a trap for him, tempting him into some bold escape attempt that would give them cause to punish him more severely.

  And perhaps not. They presumably had the jewels, unless that servant had snatched them from Pirvan’s prostrate form before-Haimya was her name-had been able to search him. Not that a man in a loinguard and gloves would need much searching, either …

  The plate was empty, the jug full. Pirvan drank some more water (a thief who had traveled among the desert barbarians said that the best place for spare water was in your stomach). It seemed that someone had changed the water since the first jug; this time there was no taste or scent of herbs.

  The water did nothing to ease a hunger that by now was nibbling at his stomach like rats. Much longer, and it would be tearing at him like a catamount. He also became aware of scrapes and strained muscles that no one had done anything to heal. Sleep again or remain awake, so they would not take him unawares?

  Instinct told him that sleep was folly, keeping from him even a hope of going down fighting. Reason told him that House Encuintras could simply wait until exhaustion put him at their mercy, and take him then. In any event, the better rested he was, the safer. The knowledge that he should not enter a battle of wits half asleep helped soothe him.

  Presently he slept again. When he awoke, Pirvan was not alone.

  * * * * *

  The Crater Gulf was on the eastern shore of the fat peninsula that was one of the northernmost points of the continent of Ansalon. It was not far from Istar, if one could fly. But
dragons slept, pegasi were rare, kyrie the next thing to legends, and griffons so untrustworthy that no one wishing to end their journey outside their mount instead of inside cared to use one.

  That left land and sea. The mountains that ran down the spine of the peninsula had many names in many tongues, but none of them sang praise. They were not high, but their upper slopes were rugged, steep, and chill; their lower slopes, overgrown with a hideous tangle of vegetation. A man could spend a whole day hacking his way through a mile of it, fall into an exhausted sleep, and never wake again as the leeches drained his blood and the insects devoured what the leeches had left.

  In two days he would be unrecognizable. In five he would be bones, and before seven days ended the bone-borers would have come, and nothing of the man would be left except his metal gear, which might last as much as one season before the endless rain dissolved it with rust and corrosion.

  Wise men did not seek to reach Crater Gulf by land.

  By sea, one had to run the gauntlet of mist and fog, squalls and more enduring storms, reefs close to shore and reaching far out into what rash captains thought was deep water, and enough floating logs each day to build a small ship. Seafarers with no business on Crater Gulf gave it a wide berth-and they were the majority, for it offered little except timber, fruit, and fresh water, and no civilized inhabitants of any race.

  It could therefore hardly have been more suitable as a refuge for pirates. Of whatever race they might be (mostly human and minotaur, with an occasional ogre; goblins seldom went to sea of their own will) they wrecked little from dangers that drove most ships well offshore. Their light, fast-sailing vessels could ride over reefs that gutted larger ships, the forest offered refuge if an enemy did contrive to land, the reefs abounded in fish, and altogether a sailor could make a dishonest living on the Crater Gulf more easily than in most other places.

  In the year Pirvan the Thief did night work at the Encuintras estate, most of the pirates in the gulf gave allegiance to one Synsaga. They did not give it as readily as they had done to his sister Margiela, and some had not given it at all. But most of those had left Crater Gulf for either honest livings or piracy elsewhere, and Synsaga had needed only one pitched battle five years before to make his rule at least tolerated.

  The battle had left gaps in the pirates’ ranks, however, as much among Synsaga’s friends as among his enemies. Thus he came to need men who owed everything to him, and began to seek them from wherever they might come. One source was captives, who might prefer liberty and loot to death, captivity while awaiting ransom, or slavery. One of those captives who swore allegiance to Synsaga, in the fourth year of the pirate chief’s authority, was a young Istarian named Gerik Ginfrayson.

  * * * * *

  Not much to Pirvan’s surprise, his visitor was Haimya.

  She was sitting cross-legged on the other pallet, without armor or any more garb than a sleeveless tunic and short breeches. The attire was mannish, as was the sword across her lap. Everything else about her was nothing of the kind. Pirvan particularly noted the length and muscular curves of her half-bare legs.

  “Greetings, Haimya.”

  Her bushy eyebrows rose. “You know my name?”

  Pirvan bowed from a sitting position. “I injured the honor of your house out of ignorance, but I did not enter with no knowledge whatever.” He refrained from adding that he had seen her even before their most recent encounter. A thieves’ rule was: “Give nothing, for knowledge demands the highest price.”

  “Then I presume you know in what way you injured us?”

  That was not entirely a question, but Pirvan decided to take it as such. If he appeared to know too much, Haimya (who seemed to have wits as keen as her sword’s edge) might wonder how he came by it. Grimsoar One-Eye and the servant girl were entirely innocent parties; Pirvan would leave no trail leading to them.

  “The rumors and certain events were enough to bring me to my decision, to undo that dishonor by further night work. But I much doubt that the rumors told everything.”

  “They could not have, for there is much we do not wish known.”

  “Altogether wise and proper. But I insist on learning one thing. Are the jewels safe?”

  Haimya appeared to hesitate. Pirvan could have even sworn that she looked at the lamps, as if their flickering yellow glow might tell her yea or nay. If she sought an answer there, she did not find one.

  At last she nodded.

  “I am delighted. I am also free of any further obligation to House Encuintras, am I not? Your hospitality has upheld its reputation-”

  “It should have. This is no discipline cell, but my exercise room.”

  “Ah. I thought the robes and sticks had some such purpose.”

  “Indeed. A warrior must have a private space, for practice.”

  Pirvan was of the same mind, but he could not help smiling. Into his mind strayed, not quite unbidden (those legs were still in plain view), the image of Haimya at weapons practice, in garb that would indeed require privacy.

  “Such is my custom, too.”

  “When there is great sickness in the house, I practice elsewhere, if I have time to do so at all. This is the sick chamber, for those too ill to tend for themselves or too likely to spread their sickness to others.”

  The Encuintras pesthouse, to be rude about it, mused Pirvan.

  Pirvan’s stomach twisted. A vigorous effort kept his face from doing the same. His horror of disease went far back, to his earliest memories of his mother lying dead and covered with boils, on a pallet far dirtier than this one. But there was no need to let Haimya know how effective her threat to keep him here had been.

  If it was a threat. Again Pirvan wondered what construction he should put on the curious conduct of House Encuintras.

  “Well, I should not care to cause trouble for either you in health or anyone else in sickness. I should think that after the return of the jewels we have no more business, one with the other.”

  “That is not quite so.”

  “Oh. Then perhaps you should indeed explain the circumstances of your house. The rumors certainly said nothing about my having given you any further insult beyond the theft of the jewels.”

  To Haimya’s credit, she explained quickly. The story was much as Pirvan had heard it, with certain additions that no one not of House Encuintras could have made. Pirvan also heard a certain note in Haimya’s voice that made him wonder what she truly thought of her betrothed.

  Oh, the words came out as propriety demanded. But behind the words Pirvan did not so much hear yearning for a beloved partner as outrage at the pirates’ insult in taking him away. For the sake of Gerik Ginfrayson (and, indeed, for the sake of Haimya, on whom he did not wish unhappiness in love), Pirvan hoped he was misjudging the lady.

  At last Haimya finished the narrative and looked around for something to drink. Pirvan lifted the jug; it had not been refilled this time.

  “I will not dry your throat much more,” he said. “You have told me all I wished to know, except one thing. That is what further service is required of me.” He was able to get that far without his voice betraying him, as far as he could judge from her face.

  “Oh, it is simple enough. You will sail with us to the Crater Gulf, when we ransom Gerik Ginfrayson.”

  When the gods wish a rare jest, they will answer a man’s questions. If that was not an old saying, it ought to be.

  Pirvan decided that he had nothing to lose by firmness. “That may be difficult. Or will you strike further at the thieves with your tame mage if I do not obey?”

  Haimya’s face said nothing one way or the other. Pirvan decided to leave her no illusions. “I cannot be the judge of honor for all the brothers and sisters of the night work. Not even my own honor. If I were to cast it away by doing as you ask, I would not be safe in Istar. And if I were not released, your house would be in peril.”

  “The watch-”

  “The watch can be bribed by the enemies of your house, who
I am sure are numerous. Also, night work can be done so subtly that only you will know the injuries you suffer.”

  “What of thieves’ honor, in not striking at the innocent?” Haimya snapped.

  Pirvan was briefly glad to have broken through that iron mask. “I will be an innocent victim if held here after the return of the jewels.”

  “Your innocence will not keep you safe if you remain forever defiant.”

  “I will not have to remain defiant forever. I will be out of here, preferably alive but perhaps dead, before Branchala is half gone.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “If you wish to wager that it is nonsense, wager what you can afford to lose.”

  Haimya glared at him. One could not justly say that anger made her beautiful, but her features were certainly so arranged that anger did not mar them. Pirvan looked for his sticks, discovered that they were within easy reach (in fact, unmoved), and decided that Haimya was not planning to have at him with naked steel.

  That left only three or four hundred other courses of action that she might be contemplating. Pirvan took a deep breath and lay back on the pallet, his hands in sight.

  “Haimya,” he said. “I do not doubt that Lady Eskaia trusts you in all things. But what you have said is so improbable that I must hear it from her. If Lady Eskaia says there is need for me to go to the Crater Gulf, I will listen. I do not promise to go, but I promise to give her the same hearing I would a blood brother or a father.”

  He thought he saw Haimya bite her lip, but the sound of the door opening drew his attention. The moment it had opened wide enough, a dark-haired young woman in a simple robe with wine-hued trim at throat and wrists slipped into the room.

  “Pirvan, I believe you asked for me? I am Lady Eskaia of House Encuintras.”

  * * * * *

  It was going to blow up a storm before nightfall. Gerik Ginfrayson knew this, though he had no inborn weather sense, and his reason for being in the healer’s huts had given him none. A fall into a stream while chasing a fleeing captive had twisted a leg, and swallowing the scummy water had given him both a flux and a fever. Nothing to kill a man, only to make him (for a day or two at least) wish he could die.