Guardians of The Flame: To Home And Ehvenor (Guardians of the Flame #06-07)

by Joel Rosenberg

  He actually wept.

  Yeah. A cow. Not a big deal, right? Wrong. To a one-plot, two-cow peasant family, it probably represented the difference between getting by and starving. A good milk cow would go a long way to keeping a small family fed, between the milk and a calf every year or two. Cows aren't a terribly efficient way to deal with edible grain—if you know enough about balancing proteins, vegetarianism is more efficient by an order of magnitude—but a lot of what they can get by on just fine isn't edible for humans.

  Grazing rights on some of the baron's pasture wouldn't help out the peasant's family. Peasants don't eat grass.

  "Sounds like wolves to me," Jason said. His lips twisted into a frown. "The population went way up during the war."

  Ruling classes are good for something; keeping the number of other predators low is one of them. In Bieme, it's also one of the traditional jobs of the baron.

  Tennetty shrugged. "We can handle wolves," she said. "The four-legged kind, or the two-legged. Shotguns all around?"

  Durine nodded. "Not for chasing them down, but for chasing them away."

  "Took the cow out of his paddock?" Ahira shrugged. "Possible." He looked at me and raised an eyebrow about halfway, spreading his palms just so.

  I pursed my lips and shook my head. "Nah."

  Ahira nodded.

  "You don't think it's a wolf pack?" Jason was irritated.

  I sighed. "You missed it. Ahira just asked me if I thought it was too likely to be a trap, or if we ought to go out and take a look at the corpse before the wolves finish it off."

  "You did?" he said, turning to the dwarf.

  Ahira nodded. "Actually, I did." He smiled. "Pretty disgusting, eh?"

  Jason frowned; I smiled.

  It happens with old friends: you spend a lot of time with somebody over a number of years, you have some of the same discussions over and over again. Then one day you realize that when you're doing some things, or talking about others, you're leaving out most of the words, or even all of the words. You don't need to guess how they're going to deal with a situation: you know. A gesture, a word, or even less than that—and it's clear.

  But that's not something you can explain to a seventeen-year-old, even a very responsible, precocious seventeen-year-old. They won't believe you.

  In this case, though, it was easy. It wasn't necessary for Ahira and me to involve ourselves in an ordinary wolf hunt, but if it was something else, it could be connected to those stories of things coming out of Faerie, and anything involving magic could involve Arta Myrdhyn, and us.

  Look: I don't know why Arta Myrdhyn—yes, the Arta Myrdhyn of tale and legend—sent us across. It's even barely possible he did it so that we'd open the Gate for his return, as he claimed. Me, I'm skeptical. I guess it's partly that I don't like people I don't like pushing me around—my friends do enough of that. I've never liked jigsaw puzzles, and like even less being a piece in one.

  Or I'm afraid that the universe might do to me what I was always tempted to do: bash the piece into place, even if it doesn't quite fit.

  Tends to be hard on the piece.

  The trouble with life is that none of it comes with a manual, and you always have to decide what involves you and what doesn't. After more than twenty years of friendship, I knew that this was the sort of thing that Ahira would sleep better after checking out, and that he wouldn't want to sleep until we were closer to checking it out.

  As usual, he was nagging me into doing something that I had misgivings about.

  Well, we were trying to teach the kid about life and such, so I might as well continue the lesson.

  "Equipment," I said to Ahira. "Tell him what I think we'll bring."

  He nodded, and beckoned Jason over, whispering in his ear.

  Actually, this might be a bit tough.

  "Okay," I said. "Figure one flatbed wagon and a team to draw it." That was easy; everybody knows I prefer a padded bench to a hard saddle. "Rations, and standard road gear—just grab a couple of packs in the stables. But we'll take a quick run up to the supply closet and grab one net hammock each." They were of elven silk, light as a feather and strong. Given the right geometry, I'd much rather sleep a few feet off the cold, cold ground than on it. Or in it, for that matter. "Signal rockets, five fast horses—just in case. Boar spears, grenades, shotguns plus personal weapons for all. But I bet he forgot the sprouting box."

  Ahira's smile widened. "A lot you know. I told him two."

  "Fine." One of my less-than-crazy theories is that for people eating peasant food anywhere—which is largely pick-your-starch-and-beans—taking some of those beans and sprouting them is going to increase the nutrition they're getting significantly, at little effort and no extra cost.

  Hence the sprouting box. Johnny Appleseed, eat your heart out. "That isn't all."

  "So I told him." Ahira laughed. "Go on."

  "All that's too utilitarian—you told him to be sure to throw a couple of extra blankets in the flatbed, so I don't have to rest my tender butt on a hard bench. Add a clean teapot, and some tea. And a bottle of Riccetti's Best." I don't tend to get drunk on the road, but an occasional swig of good, smooth corn whiskey before bed cuts the dirt real well.

  Ahira nudged the boy. "See?"

  Jason frowned. I think he was looking for the trick, but there wasn't one, other than twenty years of being friends. I'm tricky, honest, but I hadn't set this up.

  Tennetty snickered.

  The peasant wasn't following any of this, which was reasonable—a lot of the conversation had been in English, and he probably only spoke Erendra.

  Jason turned to him. "You can show us where?"

  "Yes, Lord, I think—certainly come daylight."

  Jason beckoned to Durine. "Find Maduc dinner, and a place to sleep for the night, see that he's fed and ready to leave at dawn."

  "Yes, Baron Fur—Cullinane."

  "Yup," Jason said, with a smile. "Baron Furcullinane, that's me. Your other cow? How do you know it's safe?"

  A good deduction: the peasant, young or old, wouldn't leave his only other cow endangered for the day and a half it had taken him to walk in.

  "My father keeps it in the hut with them, Lord."

  Ahira looked at me, spreading his hands. Durine led the peasant away.

  "You'd better go get some sleep, Jason," I said. "Going to be a long day for you, tomorrow." Andrea was busy sneaking up behind us in the dark, trying not to be noticed, so I didn't notice her. Let her have her fun.

  "You, too."

  Ahira shook his head. "Nope. It's a bright enough night. Walter and I are heading out now."

  "Missing a night's sleep," I said.

  He shrugged. "Won't be the first time. We'll say good night to the family and be off." He turned to Tennetty. "You coming along?"

  "Sure." Tennetty sighed. "Probably won't be anything to kill." She turned to me. "How do you expect to find it in the dark?"

  Ahira shrugged for me. "We won't be there before dawn, and by then it'll be well marked. Buzzards." He thought about it for a moment. "The three of us ought to do."

  Jason cleared his throat. "And how about me?"

  I smiled. "But you're leaving tomorrow, aren't you?"

  He spread his hands. "Fine. I'm being taught a lesson. May one inquire as to what it is?"

  "I thought it was obvious." Ahira sighed. "When we're here, you are Baron Cullinane, and we're guests in your house. Fine. No problem. But once we step outside that house, or even plan on doing it, we're not your guests, or your servants, or anything less than your partners."

  "Make that 'senior partners,' " I added. "And add 'teachers.' The dwarf and I don't just have a few years on you; there's a lot of experience, too."

  He stood silent for a moment, and I honestly wondered how it would go. I mean, when I was seventeen, I didn't take being chastened in public all that well.

  Come to think of it, I still don't. I don't even much take to being corrected in private.

 
"Have a good trip," he said, turning and walking away.

  Tennetty spat on the ground. "Asshole." I was curious about whether that was addressed to Jason or to Ahira and me, but I didn't ask. Don't ask a question if you don't want to hear the answer.

  "Not fair," Andrea Cullinane said from behind me. "But thank you."

  I jumped a bit, as though she had startled me. Tennetty cocked her head suspiciously, and Ahira didn't have to.

  I chuckled. "I didn't do it so you could have him around a bit longer. I did it for my own tender skin. If Jason's going to be working with us, he's going to have to be reliable." Besides, he had the village wardens to keep entertained.

  And maybe I was still remembering that the boy had once bolted when it counted—okay, right after it counted—and that had brought a whole world of trouble down on a lot of heads.

  She was in her new leathers again, covered by a matching black leather trailcoat, its surface dark without being glossy. She had a bag slung across one shoulder, and beneath the open buttons of the coat, a flintlock pistol was holstered on each hip, the one on the left hip butt-forward.

  "What are you dressed up for?" I asked, as though I didn't know.

  Her eyes went all vague and distant, a look I didn't like. "I need to get out of here; I'm going stir-crazy." She shook her head as though to clear it.

  "There've been stories," she went on, "about things coming out of Faerie, about animals bit in half. And then there was that huge thing, whatever is was, that Jason and Tennetty ran into on one of the Shattered Islands. You may need me."

  "Wolf pack sounds a lot more likely."

  Magical creatures and humans don't tend to get along, and few at all remain in the Eren regions. There are always stories, but most of the time they're just stories. I've been in on the creation of enough legends to know what nonsense they can be.

  She cocked her head to one side. "What if it isn't just a wolf pack? What will you do then?"

  What the fuck did she think I'd do? "I'll run like hell, that's what I'll do."

  I had worked this all through earlier in the day, and everything had come down on the side of leaving Andy out of it. Forget Doria's theories.

  Look: given the world we live in and the situations we've been in, it's no coincidence that a lot of the women I know have been raped. Relative freedom from the likelihood of that kind of assault is a relatively modern invention—in most societies, the only question is who, other than the woman, has been affronted. (It's customary for us to talk about the Other Side as though everything worked right and well there, but in the country where I was born, assaults are a crime against the state, not the person, and it's the state that decides whether or not to prosecute it. Yeah, I know.)

  Everything leaves scars. Kirah has her troubles; it turned Tennetty into a barely controlled psychopath; Doria came damn close to ending up permanently between the lettuce and the broccoli, if you catch my drift; and while I think she's made the best adjustment of them all, there's a trace of madness around the edges of Aeia's eyes. Just like the trace around Andrea's.

  No. One crazy, Tennetty, was bad enough on the field—even if we were only going to be chasing down a few skinny, scared wolves. We didn't need somebody else marginal, and we particularly didn't need a borderline magic addict. Okay, maybe she wasn't a magic addict; Doria is perfectly capable of being wrong.

  But Andy had been out of the field for years and years, so after all my talk about how we can practically read each other's mind, I feel like an idiot for having to report that when Ahira said, "Okay. Let's say a quick goodbye and get out of here," it came as a complete surprise to me.

  And not a pleasant one, either.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In Which I Think Unwise Thoughts

  and Say Some Farewells

  The course of true love never did run smooth.

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  Nothing is more annoying than somebody who has a keen eye for the obvious.

  —WALTER SLOVOTSKY

  I managed to say goodbye to all my family, starting with the youngest one.

  Doria Andrea takes after her father—she's a late-night kind of Slovotsky, like me and Stash, unlike Emma and Steve and her mother and sister—but when you're that age, staying up late means making it through a long dinner, and that's about all.

  "Sleep well, little prosecutor," I said as I tucked her in, in a private joke that only the originals among us would have gotten, and nobody but me found even mildly funny.

  D.A. wrapped her little arms tight around my neck as I leaned over. "Come back soon, Daddy. Please."

  "Will do," I said, gently prying myself away. I rested my hand on her head for a moment, on the soft baby-hair that was getting more golden each day, like her mother's. "G'night, Sweetheart."

  Janie was waiting for me out in the hall, leaning against the wall. She started to say something, but cut off when I put a finger to my lips. I shut the door gently and followed her over to the landing.

  "Trouble is, Daddy dearest," she said, ignoring my grimace, "you're getting too tricky in your old age."

  "Oh?" I asked, trying to sound casual. I hate it when she calls me "Daddy dearest."

  "You've managed to teach my boyfriend not to push you around—to not try to push you around. But it looks to me like you gave up a cheap little dry run that would have been good for the lot of you. Doesn't sound like a good trade to me." She shrugged. "If my opinion counts for anything."

  Since that had been bothering the hell out of me anyway, I found it as hard to disagree with her as it would have been to admit that it was wrong, so I didn't do either.

  "It counts, kid," I said, hugging her for only a moment.

  She smiled. Why is it that my daughters' smiles brighten the whole world?

  "Be good," I said.

  * * *

  Kirah was sitting in the overstuffed armchair, a lamp at her left elbow, her sewing set aside as she worked on some knitting or tatting or whatever; I don't know the difference and I don't much care.

  "You're going," she said, her voice flat, as though to say, I won't ask you not to go.

  "So it seems." I smiled. "Hey, not to worry. I know how to duck."

  She forced a smile. Either that, or her real smile and her forced smile had started to look the same to me. I should have been able to tell, after all these years. I really should.

  "That's good," she said.

  It was getting chilly out, and it was already chilly in. I shrugged out of my finery and padded over to the closet, dressing quickly in undershorts, black leather trousers, blousy black cotton shirt, and—lest I look like Johnny Cash—a long brown cloak, fastened loosely at the breastbone by a blackened brass clasp. I took a rose from the vase on our nightstand, sniffed at it once, and stuck it in the clasp, examining myself in the dressing mirror.

  I'm not entirely sure I liked the sharp-eyed fellow who looked back at me, although he was good-looking enough.

  Pretty darned handsome, in fact, the features regular, and there was kind of a pleasant Eastern cast to his eyes. Nice firm jawline, and clever mouth under the Fu Manchu-style mustache. He was well into his forties, but there were only hints of lines at the edges of his eyes, although the touches of gray at the temple were pretty nice—too bad that the gray was as lopsided as the smile.

  It was clear from that far-too-easy smile that he spent too much time being entirely too pleased with himself, but it wasn't clear to me that there was enough character in his face for that to be at all reasonable.

  It was entirely possible that he was thinking about how he was going out on the road with a particularly attractive old friend of his, and how—what with her son having cleverly been talked out of joining him—he might arrange to get his ashes properly hauled.

  It was also possible that he was thinking about how wrong it was to be thinking about that in front of his wife. I doubt it, though. Like I say, I'm not entirely sure I liked the guy.

  "What are you thinki
ng?" she asked, as though we were a normal husband and wife, the kind who could ask each other that kind of question and expect an honest answer.

  Kirah, I thought, what happened to us? "Well," I said, putting on my reassuring smile, "I'm thinking I'm practically naked." Close enough.

  I went to the dresser and put on my weapons: throwing knives properly stowed, pistols in their holsters, master belt holding both shortsword and my long, pointed dagger. I know that a bowie is a better weapon, but I like the dagger better. Tradition, and all that.

  Besides, I'm used to it.

  I rolled up my hunting vest and stuck it under an arm. The Therranji garrottes were in two of the pockets.

  She put down her knitting or tatting or whatever it was and walked to the chifforobe in the corner.

  "Here," she said, handing me a full leather rucksack. "Clothes, some dried beef, a few candies, everything you need." She smiled up at me. "Almost."

  I stuffed the vest inside, then slung it over a shoulder. "Thanks." I kissed the tips of my fingers and touched the air in front of her.

  She leaned toward my hand and swallowed once, twice, hard. "You'll be back soon?"

  Of course, I should have said. Don't worry. "Do you want me to?"

  "Yes." She nodded. "Oh, yes. I do."

  "Then why not—good."

  She waited expectantly, her face upturned. No matter how many times it went wrong, I always thought that if I moved slowly enough, gently enough, she would be okay. This time it would be okay.

  Asshole.

  "It's okay, Kirah," I said, putting my arms around her. For a moment, just a moment, I thought it would be okay, now that she could let me touch her again.

  But she shook her head once, emphatically, and then again, violently, and then she set her hands on my chest and pushed me away. "No."

  I walked out of the room, ignoring the whimper behind me.

  Dammit, it's not my fault.

  * * *

  There was a farewell committee waiting for us down in the stables: Doria, Aeia, Durine, Kethol, and Pirojil. Bren Adahan had been left to keep the village wardens company.