by Tim Pratt
The sorcerer, without changing expression in the slightest, dislocated Bannerman’s left shoulder. The fugitive’s face instantly sheened with sweat, and he gritted his teeth, but didn’t cry out. Rodrick winced with involuntary sympathy.
“Be a good boy and we’ll pop that back into the joint later.” Merihim clasped the shackles around Bannerman’s wrists, behind his back, which must have been excruciating with the knob of his shoulder joint out of place, visibly pressing against his skin. The ex-crusader bore it stoically, though.
The Specialist bent to look at the shackles. “Mmm, magical—they tighten to fit. That’s marvelous. Suitable for binding everything from ogres to gnomes, I would imagine.”
Merihim took a rough hemp rope from her pack, made a slipknot, and tossed the loop over Bannerman’s head, drawing it snug around his neck without making it tight. “Don’t go running away, now.” She put the end of the lead in Prinn’s hand.
She looked around the valley. “Let’s get out of—” She stopped, frowning. “Are those heaps of leaf mold moving?”
Rodrick looked, and yes, the piles of rotten leaves and old branches that dotted the valley were now in motion, moving slowly but implacably toward the island at the center of the pond. Some of them rose up on what looked like stumplike legs, while others seemed to drag themselves forward with viny tendrils.
“They’re carnivorous plants!” Bannerman said. “I was hoping you idiots would trip over one and wake them up. They’ve noticed us now. Quick, let me loose, I know how to avoid them, I’ll show you how to escape.”
“Shut up.” Merihim turned to Rodrick, then nodded at the Specialist. “Gentlemen?”
Rodrick hefted Hrym, and the Specialist delved into his bag, and they began to calmly and efficiently lay waste with fire and ice.
When they were done, and the mounds were lumps of ice or smoking piles of fire or both, Bannerman let out a long, low whistle. “All right, then,” he said. “I’ll go along quietly.”
* * *
The horses were all still alive, which was another bit of luck. They hung Bannerman over the back of Merihim’s warhorse, and the animal didn’t seem bothered a bit by the extra weight. Rodrick was hoping Eldra would ride pressed up against his back, but his skittish horse wouldn’t hear of it, and she ended up sharing the Specialist’s plodding mount. What a waste.
“I can get you money,” Bannerman said as they moved along the forest paths, watching for blighted fey and carnivorous mounds and other dangers. “Just tell Temple you couldn’t find me, or that you found me dead in a cave, I don’t care.”
“We’re not above being bought, usually,” Merihim said. “And your offer would be tempting, if you hadn’t tried to feed us to poisonous dryads and murderous compost heaps or drop us on spikes covered in dung.”
“Oh, that? It’s not as if the traps were personal. I would have done that to anyone Temple sent for me. Who are you, anyway? You don’t look like her usual crusaders.”
“We’re freelance,” Merihim said. “Doing a job for money, and more money than you can afford to match, believe me. What did you do, anyway, to get the likes of us sent after you?”
“Oh, the usual dark deeds. I picked up a few valuable secrets along the way. I knew those secrets would keep me alive … but, unfortunately, they also made me a target.”
“Swords do usually have two edges,” Rodrick said.
“Not scimitars,” the Specialist said. “Or scythe-swords, falchions, sabers—”
“Yes, all right, I was being metaphorical,” Rodrick said, and Eldra laughed at him, or the Specialist, or both.
* * *
They camped outside the forest, taking turns watching Bannerman and the camp. Their prisoner seemed content enough once Eldra popped his shoulder back into place and fed him some bread and water. She paid entirely too much attention to him, actually, in Rodrick’s estimation, even making the man laugh several times in a gruff way.
As they were settling down for their turn to sleep, side by side but with a good two feet of bare earth between them, Rodrick said, “Why show Bannerman so much kindness? He’s a treacherous bastard who tried to kill us.”
Eldra reached out from bedroll and patted him on the cheek. “It’s much easier to deal with a prisoner when they like you, Rodrick. It’s a good principle in general when dealing with hostile people, even those in your power. If you want to get answers from someone, you can beat them with a stick, and good luck to you—or you can make them think you’re their friend, their only friend, a confidante and potential savior. Build a rapport. They won’t struggle as long, they’ll confess just because confessing feels good … and, if the worst happens and they manage to escape their bonds and steal a sword, they’ll hesitate a moment before striking you down as they make their escape. There are carrots, and there are sticks. I like to think of myself as a carrot.”
“Don’t say that around Prinn,” Rodrick said. “He’ll eat you for dinner.”
It was an objectively terrible joke, but she laughed that musical tinkle and patted his cheek again, a bit more lingeringly, before rolling over and going to sleep.
Rodrick lay on his back, looking at the stars, Hrym beside him on his pile of gold, which had grown to five coins thanks to the lies he told the Specialist. “She’s showing you the carrot, too,” Hrym said in his best approximation of a whisper. “But it’s always going to be dangled just out of reach.”
“Since when are you a student of human nature?”
“You’ve taught me a great deal about how to take advantage of people, Rodrick. Have you remembered any of your own lessons?”
“Oh, go to sleep, or whatever it is swords do,” he muttered.
* * *
They made it back to the Bastion well in advance of their deadline, taking a roundabout route and avoiding the main thoroughfares. Temple hadn’t been keen on the idea of parading a fugitive crusader through the streets, according to Merihim. Probably bad for morale. Being a knight of Lastwall meant having unshakable bedrock faith in your own moral superiority, and seeing one of your own fallen into disrepute and villainy could only serve to shake one’s unshakable convictions.
A guard opened up the high wooden gate in the back of the Bastion and let them into the stable yard. Surly grooms took their mounts from them and led them away to be fed and watered and brushed. The head of the stables inquired after the missing white horse and scowled and walked off muttering after Merihim said, “Killed by dryads. These things happen.”
A stiff-faced crusader who made a point of not looking directly at Bannerman told them Temple was waiting to receive them. He led the way into the Bastion, down echoing hallways of dark stone with arrowslit windows, and threw open a heavy wooden door. “Wait there with the prisoner.”
They went in, Merihim holding Bannerman’s leash. The room beyond was large and spare: a vaulted ceiling with a battle scene painted on it arched over the bare stone floor, and a few wooden chairs of ancient provenance stood arrayed along the walls; they looked so uncomfortable that Rodrick’s ass felt numb at the thought of sitting on them. Eldra dropped into one anyway, lounging with one leg kicked over the arm, and began peeling an apple with a knife. Where had she even gotten an apple?
The Specialist gazed up at the painting on the ceiling, and Rodrick took a closer look himself. There were massed ranks of armored knights on horseback facing off against their foes, an undead horde clad in black with skeletal arms and weapons that were all hooks and spikes and barbs, with a black and foreboding tower looming in the background. Some ancient scene from the glorious history of Lastwall, no doubt. Rodrick lived a life devoted to making sure he never ended up in a situation that could someday be commemorated in a mural like that one.
A small door on the far side of the room opened, and Temple came through, dressed in unassuming brown robes. She didn’t say anything, just walked slowly toward them, looking at Bannerman all the while. “Unshackle him,” she said.
Merihim gl
anced at Rodrick, who drew Hrym and held him ready. The devilkin did something to the magical shackles that made them fall away.
Bannerman grunted, then rubbed wrists.
“Crusader Bannerman,” Temple said gravely.
“Underclerk Temple,” Bannerman replied, stone-faced.
Then Temple’s face broke into a breaming smile, and she threw her arms wide, wrapping Bannerman in a welcoming embrace.
11
ROUSING THE RABBLE
Temple thumped Bannerman on the back, and he hugged her back warmly. She stepped back, smiling up at him, and said, “How are you, soldier?”
“Just fine, boss. They banged me up a little, but all within acceptable bounds. I was prepared for a few more boots to the ribs, honestly.”
“What’s going on?” Rodrick looked at the other Volunteers. The Specialist was shaking his head ruefully, Merihim was glaring at Temple, Eldra was laughing behind her hand, and Prinn might as well have been a statue carved out of soapstone. “Are you … wait … he’s not a fugitive?”
“Not at all,” Temple said. “He’s my most trusted lieutenant.”
“No, no, no.” Rodrick shook his head. “You said you’d never lie to us, that honesty was the bedrock of our relationship, and then you sent us under false pretenses after a supposed fugitive—”
“She didn’t lie.” Merihim sat down in one of the chairs. “We’re idiots.”
The Specialist’s tone was faraway, distracted, as if he were only halfway paying attention to what was happening in the room. “True. I remember what she said, verbatim. I have a great memory for such things. She never said Bannerman was a fugitive. She said he was a trained crusader of Lastwall, that he was in the Fangwood, and that we were to bring him back unharmed. When asked why she wanted him, she said only that she needed him, alive and unharmed.”
Temple nodded. “Indeed. I said I’d never lie, Rodrick—I didn’t say I’d spell everything out for you. That said, there was a certain level of omission in this case that I won’t bother with in the future. Though teaching you to listen carefully is a good lesson all on its own.”
“So, what, this was an initiation?” Rodrick said. “Like the knight who sends his new squire to the armory to ask for a left-handed lance?”
“Not at all,” Bannerman said. “Or not entirely, anyway. Before we sent you on a real mission, we needed to see how you’d behave when you thought no one was watching. If you’d scheme, connive, try to weasel out of your situation, break and run, seek out a wizard to save you … or if you’d actually work as a team and get the job done.”
Rodrick shook his head. “This still seems awfully treacherous for a noble paladin of Lastwall.”
Bannerman chuckled. “I’m no paladin. A crusader, yes … but there are more ways to serve the forces of good and order than shining up your armor and riding into the teeth of an assault.”
“Lastwall needs people like Bannerman and me,” Temple said. “People who can do … unorthodox things … in the interest of the greater good. Do you know how Bannerman got his name?”
“Oh, now, there’s no need for that,” the crusader said.
“It’s because he’s carried quite a few banners in battle.” Temple smiled at her lieutenant. “He fought in more than one army before seeing the light and joining the crusaders in our great endeavor—he used to particularly enjoy border skirmishes among the nobles in Taldor. Sometimes, in all the confusion, he’d accidentally find himself in possession of an enemy banner … either stolen from one of their soldiers or brought along in a pack until the moment seemed right.”
“It’s remarkable where you can go if you’re carrying the right flag,” Bannerman said.
“There were times when he carried an enemy banner into the heart of their camp, walked right up to a commanding officer, and stabbed them in the back.”
“Or the neck. I wasn’t picky.”
“Definitely not a paladin, then,” Merihim said.
“The tactic doesn’t work as well with orcs, unfortunately,” Bannerman said. “Somehow, even when carrying one of their ragged flags, I don’t quite blend in with their soldiers. Fortunately, Temple has found other uses for my talents in recent years.”
“How nice for you,” Merihim complained. “What about using our talents? We were sent into the field to chase wild geese. We went to all that effort for an exercise? A test?”
“Don’t be stupid.” Temple’s voice was a lashing whip. “It would have been a waste to send you chasing a fugitive who wasn’t really a fugitive, but you had a secondary mission, too. I just didn’t bother to tell you about it. How did that go, Bannerman?”
“The operation wasn’t clean or neat, but they managed to kill that cluster of blighted fey, down to the last dryad. I’ll send in a few of the new recruits with torches and axes to bring down the infected trees before the corruption can spread further, but they’re just sick trees, now, not sick fey, too. With luck we can keep the infection away from this side of the river, and leave it in Nirmathas.”
“All right.” Rodrick could be gracious when the situation called for it. “That was neatly done. I can admire efficiency. It would have been nice to have some warning about the blighted fey, though.”
“Nice for you. Not so nice for me.” Temple sniffed. “I needed to see how perceptive you were. Did they pull together as a team, Bannerman?”
“The blighted fey seemed to shock them into camaraderie. I’m not saying they’re a dedicated band of brothers and sisters and whatever Prinn is, but they’ve learned to watch one another’s backs. I’d be willing to take them out into the field.”
Merihim straightened. “Hold on there. I’m the field leader.”
Bannerman nodded. “You seem like a capable one, too. Think of me as your … liaison. I’ll guide you to your mission destinations, provide a little support, cover your escapes, give you intelligence when you need it. Keep you on point if you start to … drift.”
Temple clapped her hands. “For now, you can return to your quarters, get some rest, and clean up. Bannerman will be in touch in a couple of days with your next mission.”
Merihim cleared her throat. “Sorry about your shoulder.”
Bannerman chuckled darkly. “I would’ve done worse to you if our positions had been reversed, Merihim.” He and Temple strolled out of the room, arm in arm, chatting companionably.
* * *
Their quarters had been improved when they arrived. There was a shelf holding a few books, and a better class of food in the larder (or so the Specialist said), and dice, a deck of cards, and game boards with polished stones for markers. There were even more cushions on the chairs, and nicer blankets in the bedrooms.
Merihim scowled at the gifts. “Oh, look, the good dogs have been rewarded with nice new bones to gnaw.”
“Woof, woof.” Rodrick looked through the cupboards. “Still nothing to drink though. Just water. How disgusting. You don’t even want to know what fish do in water.”
Eldra said, “I’m going to freshen up,” and vanished into the bedroom, shutting the door.
Rodrick drifted over to examine the bookshelves, but there were no illustrated tomes to his liking, just dry histories of Lastwall and neighboring territories, and a slim volume of more recent vintage that seemed to be a screed about how the foundation of the nation of Nirmathas was a chance for the oppressed and downtrodden people of Molthune to boldly forge their own destiny, and other such twaddle.
“Put me down on my gold,” Hrym demanded, and Rodrick obliged, setting him up with his hoard on the settee. Rodrick wandered into the kitchen, where the Specialist appeared to be inventorying jars of dried spices.
“Your sword tells the most outrageous lies.” The Specialist shook some whitish flecks onto his palm, touched the tip of his tongue to them, and made a thoughtful face.
“Ah. You noticed that. Why did you pay him for more lies, then?”
“Because, every once in a while, he lets slip something r
eal—the name of a Shory city that appears only in a single fragment of a manuscript that, forgive me, I doubt you’ve ever read. Or one of his false tales of adventure will glancingly intersect with the fragmentary account of a real hero’s adventures from thousands of years ago. I’m not sure Hrym even realizes he’s embroidering his lies with truths. I think when he’s wildly inventing these tales, old memories bubble to the surface. It makes me wonder, though—what else might he know, that he doesn’t even know he knows?”
“He doesn’t know the location of any large caches of undiscovered gold, I can tell you that much.” Rodrick affected an airy tone, but he was troubled to hear that Hrym had old memories even the sword himself didn’t realize were real.
“That’s a shame,” the Specialist said. “Such a trove would be helpful. I don’t know how long I can afford to keep paying Hrym to talk.”
* * *
After a peaceful—which was to say, tiresome and boring—interval of two days, Temple and Bannerman finally called and had the Volunteers gather in the common area to be briefed on their next mission.
“You’ll be going to Molthune,” Temple said. “I’ll assume total ignorance of our local history, shall I? Just south of us is the young and rather … underdeveloped … nation of Nirmathas, and south of that is Molthune. Before you can understand the nature of your mission, I need you to understand something of the complex history between Molthune and Nirmathas and, to some extent, Lastwall itself.”
Rodrick groaned. “Politics. Must it be politics?”
The Specialist clucked his tongue. “Everything is politics, Rodrick. Every relationship, every conversation. They’re all just politics writ small.”
Temple said, “I trust you’ve all read A Vindication of the Rights of the Downtrodden, by the revolutionary philosopher and poet Zumani? I left a copy there on the shelf for you, along with some books on the history of the region.”
“The Specialist read them, I’m sure.” At Merihim’s glance, the man nodded. “For the rest of us, you may have to summarize.”
