A Fistful of Elven Gold

by Alex Stewart

  “If you say so.” Ariella shrugged, not quite failing to hide her amusement. But the squabble seemed to have convinced Oaktwig that there was at least an element of truth to the story. He turned to Graymane.

  “Forgive me if I seem a little slow on the uptake, but I don’t quite see how you’re involved in all this. Or what you’re doing with these rapscallions.”

  “Because it seems my suspicions were right,” Graymane said. “I told you someone in the camp was passing information to the bandits, and Drago confirmed that last night.”

  “So he says,” Oaktwig pointed out, with just the right amount of carefully crafted skepticism. “But I wouldn’t take a gnome’s word for anything. Unless he happened to recognize this phantom traitor?” He glanced in Drago’s direction again, with a scornful snort. “No, thought not.”

  “I was a long way away,” Drago said, truthfully, “but it was certainly an elf.”

  “I’ll make all the appropriate enquiries,” Oaktwig said, in tones which made it abundantly clear that he expected the effort to be a waste of time. Which, of course, it would have been; Drago was certain the elf had relaxed a little as soon as he’d realized his secret was apparently safe. Oaktwig turned a condescending eye on Graymane. “Unless you would prefer to carry on truffling about for yourself?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Graymane said. “With Gorash dead, and no one else to lead them, the bandits will simply disperse. Your informant will have no one to report to. My duty now is to return to Sylvandale as quickly as possible to inform His Majesty that his sister has been avenged.”

  “Of course.” Oaktwig’s polite nod of understanding was a physical reminder not to let the door hit him on the way out. “You’re quite sure the fellow’s dead, then?”

  “Pretty sure,” Ariella said, opening the bag she’d dumped on Oaktwig’s desk. “Unless he can manage without this.”

  Oaktwig blenched, and this time Drago was certain the elf wasn’t play acting. The severed head had been Ariella’s own idea, borrowed from one of the casualties of the raid on the supply convoy who had no further use for it, and was already looking somewhat the worse for wear. Getting kind of ripe, too, come to think of it.

  Drago tensed, waiting for Oaktwig to realize that this wasn’t Gorash’s head at all, but fortunately the elf took no more than a cursory glance at the contents of the satchel before turning his face away.

  “Very well,” he said, with a dismissive wave toward the door. “Let me send a messenger to Sylvandale with the news, and you can follow on at your leisure with your—souvenir.”

  “Thanks.” Ariella nodded again, curt and businesslike. “I’m not letting this out of my sight until I get the money I was promised for it.” Drago had filled her in on the deal Greenleaf had been offering the bounty hunters in Fairhaven, with the bulk of the reward money due on the presentation of proof of Gorash’s death, and she was playing the role to the hilt. The real Caris Silverthorn would have cracked a few more jokes in the course of the conversation, but been equally forthright. And probably have relished the irony of being impersonated by the wife of the warlord who’d ordered her death.

  “Drago and I will be going with her,” Graymane put in. “I take it you’ll be able to provide us with an escort?”

  “Of course.” Oaktwig nodded stiffly.

  If Drago was any judge of character, the elf would be quietly desperate to terminate the conversation as quickly as possible by now, eager to contact the rebels and confirm that Ariella, at least, was still safe. Which he had to prevent, if their plan was to work. “I think you should command the escort yourself,” he said.

  “Good idea,” Graymane agreed. “And Moonshade and Meadowsweet as well. We are, after all, on the king’s business. We ought to show him we’re taking this seriously.”

  “Both my most senior officers?” This time Oaktwig’s consternation clearly wasn’t feigned. “That’s ridiculous. Who’d take charge of the camp?”

  “I’m sure there are one or two of the junior ones capable of rising to the challenge,” Graymane said flatly. “Unless you’d rather explain to the king in person why you saw fit to ignore the direct instructions of his appointed representative.”

  “Of course not,” Oaktwig said, through audibly gritted teeth.

  “If none of the elves are up to it, you could always ask the mine manager,” Drago suggested ingenuously. “Loma seems very organized.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Oaktwig assured him, as though the suggestion had been a serious one. Very few of the elves here would have taken orders from a gnome under any circumstances. “I can think of a few names.”

  “Excellent,” Graymane said. “Then the sooner we get started, the better.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “Don’t get too much mud on my hands.”

  Despite Oaktwig’s best attempts at delaying tactics, which Graymane brushed aside with a degree of brusqueness bordering on rudeness to the evident amusement of everyone who witnessed them, the cavalcade was ready to set out shortly before noon. Leaving the elves to their preparations, Drago returned to his quarters in the burrow to retrieve his possessions; he’d intended to be quick, but the lure of the bed after the exertions of the night before proved irresistible, and he slept for most of the morning, waking only in response to a peremptory rap on the door.

  “Coming.” Still not entirely awake, he expected to see Clovis as he pulled it open; but instead of his friend, Graymane was waiting, crouching uncomfortably in the corridor which seemed wide and high enough to the gnomes who habitually used it. “Oh, it’s you.” Strangely, he felt a vague sense of disappointment.

  “It was the last time I looked. Got everything?” Graymane asked.

  “I have now.” Drago shouldered his rucksack, and left the room without a backward glance.

  “Said your goodbyes?” Graymane shuffled along behind him, bent almost double, ignoring the incredulous or hostile stares from the gnomes they encountered along the way, who had to seek refuge in rooms or side passages to avoid being trampled by the elf. Almost as many stared at Drago, too, though in a more wary fashion; it seemed word about his real profession and reason for being there had got around fast. And been embellished along the way, he had no doubt.

  “No.” Again, he felt a momentary pang of regret; Della and Clovis deserved better. But that was how things were sometimes, and there wasn’t a lot he could do about it now. If he hadn’t fallen asleep, he’d have had time to walk down to the mine and back, but he couldn’t think of anything he might have said to them that would ease the situation if he had.

  “By the sap, that’s better.” Graymane straightened his back gratefully as they regained the open air. “Much longer down there and my spine would have locked up.”

  “I appreciate it,” Drago said, settling the rucksack’s shoulder straps a little more comfortably. “Not many elves would have gone in to wake me up.”

  “Neither would I, if she hadn’t told me to,” Graymane assured him. He didn’t elaborate, confident that Drago would know who he meant, and Drago didn’t blame him for that; there was no telling who might overhear their conversation.

  “Hey! Appleroot!” The shout took him by surprise, and he turned, wondering who might want to speak to him. The voice was feminine, and for a moment he thought it might be Della intent on bidding him a proper farewell after all, although the timbre was subtly different; then he realized it came from Loma Claybed.

  “Yes?” he asked, cautiously. The mine manager did not look happy.

  “We had a talk when you arrived, remember?”

  “I do.” He nodded, trying to recall the details.

  “It’s just a technicality, seeing as you’re leaving anyway, but I just wanted to tell you you’re fired.” She held out a handful of coins. “Here’s what you’re owed for the shifts you worked.”

  “Give it to Della and Clovis,” Drago said. “Tell them to have a drink on me.”

  “I’m su
re they’ll be thrilled,” Loma said sarcastically as she turned away, his existence already apparently forgotten.

  Drago shrugged, and started up the slope. He supposed he should be feeling resentful at being so abruptly dismissed, but somehow he couldn’t be bothered.

  “Aren’t you going to kill her, or something?” Graymane asked, and Drago stared up at him in astonishment. The elf smiled thinly. “Just kidding. If I thought you were liable to react like that to a few harsh words, I’d have taken you out myself a long time ago.”

  “Of course you would,” Drago replied, not entirely sure how much Graymane was joking, but giving him the benefit of the doubt regardless. “Without her, you’d be getting a lot less out of the mine. Given your loyalty to the crown . . .”

  “Exactly,” Graymane agreed. “I can always get another thief-taker, but a good manager is hard to find.”

  They crested the top of the ramp, and Drago stopped short in astonishment. “You’ve been busy.”

  “Not just me,” Graymane said. “There’s only so much sand in the hourglass.”

  “Right.” Drago nodded, taking his meaning at once. Spells like the one disguising Ariella’s appearance—or any form of magic come to that—only had a finite duration, before reality reasserted itself. They could have permanent effects if judiciously applied, like the one which had extinguished the warehouse fire in Birch Glade, but even the strongest would fade in a couple of days: a fortuitous circumstance which enabled most mages to continue making a living. If they were to stand any chance of success in the desperate gamble he was already regretting having suggested, every minute counted. “Has the messenger left already?”

  “Hours ago,” Graymane assured him. “Oaktwig was efficient about that, anyway.” He made the remark in Oaktwig’s hearing, continuing to pretend that the garrison commander’s pretense of posturing incompetence still had him fooled, and getting in a dig which would have nettled its target if the pose was real.

  “On the fastest horse we could find,” Oaktwig interpolated, from the saddle of his own mount. “The dispatch should have reached the quay by midmorning, and be well on its way up the river by now.”

  “Good,” Drago said, a sense of unease growing in him by the moment as it began to sink in that everyone apart from Graymane and himself were on horseback. A foreboding that only increased as Graymane swung himself easily into the saddle of a roan gelding, and took the reins from the ostler holding them.

  “Come on,” Ariella said impatiently, reining in her own mount, which shied at the sight of the gnome—quite fairly in Drago’s opinion, as he found the close proximity of so many of the huge animals distinctly disquieting himself. If one of them trampled him, he might never get up. “We haven’t got all day.”

  “Quick change of plan,” Drago said. He’d never ridden a horse in his life—in Fairhaven they tended to be used for pulling carts, and anyone foolish enough to flaunt their wealth and status by riding one in any of the districts he frequented would live to regret it. Though probably not for long. The local sausage vendors, on the other hand, would think all their birthdays had come at once. “You go on ahead. I’ll walk to the quay and catch the next boat back to Fairhaven after all.”

  “Don’t think so,” Ariella said cheerfully. “Any messages on their way downriver can easily be altered, or lost in transit, if you take my meaning.”

  “I do,” Drago said resignedly. The threat was clear enough; if he didn’t help Ariella regain her throne, her husband wouldn’t call off his assassins after all. Not that he could blame her, really; in her place he’d want everyone who knew who she really was within sight at all times. Which meant him and Graymane, basically. Graymane’s loyalty she could count on, but so far as Ariella was concerned, Drago was simply a dagger for hire who’d switched sides as soon as it suited him. He had no intention of switching back, but she couldn’t be sure of that, especially given the magnitude of her brother’s wealth. “But I can’t ride one of those.” He indicated the horses milling around him. Ariella’s wasn’t the only one he seemed to be spooking, and Moonshade glared down at him from her own saddle, muttering something about shortarse troublemakers. “I couldn’t even get my legs across one.”

  “You won’t have to,” Ariella said, turning her mount side on to him, and revealing a large wicker basket behind her. “Just hop up into this.”

  “Hop up how, exactly?” Drago asked, incredulous. Trying to clamber up the side of an animal almost three times his own height didn’t strike him as something liable to end well.

  Ariella shrugged. “Get someone to give you a boost.” She pointed to the horse holder who’d been looking after Graymane’s mount. “He’ll do.”

  “I’m not chucking shortarses around,” the elf protested. “They don’t pay me enough for that.”

  “Who said anything about paying you?” Ariella asked, her hand dropping to the hilt of her sword. “When you’ve got your health you’ve got all the wealth you need. Am I right?”

  “Yeah. Well put,” the elf agreed hastily. He bent his knees, cupped his hands together, and glared at Drago. “Come on, then. Get on with it. And don’t get too much mud on my hands.”

  “Much appreciated,” Drago lied, thinking that bearing in mind what a stable boy normally got on his hands a bit of mud could only be an improvement. He got a foot into the makeshift stirrup, regaining his balance after a moment of frantic wobbling that sent a ripple of amusement around the onlookers, and suddenly found himself shooting skyward as the elf straightened his knees.

  “Up you come,” Ariella said, with a grin which seemed far from welcoming, and grabbed his arm, yanking him in like one of the fish he’d caught from the deck of the Rippling Light. Grabbing for a handhold, he grasped the rim of the basket, and scrambled in, finding there was just enough room to sit in it with his knees folded up under his chin, which was now more or less level with the lip. “Comfortable?”

  “You are joking, right?” In some ways it was even worse than the barrel he’d sneaked out of Fairhaven in. For one thing, the rocking motion of the horse was far more pronounced than the hold of the riverboat had been, and was having interesting effects on his stomach. Not in a good way. And for another the rucksack was pushing him forwards, ramming his chin painfully against his kneecaps with every lurch. After a bit of wriggling he managed to slip the shoulder straps off and pull it round in front of him instead, where he held it against his chest, and leaned back against the enclosing wickerwork with a grateful sigh.

  “Course I am,” Ariella said, and spurred the animal into a brisk walk, which left Drago jolting even more uncomfortably than before. The good news was that at least the motion was more regular, which calmed his stomach and inner ear a little, used as they were to crossing the choppy waters of the Geltwash on a regular basis. “But if you throw up down my back I’ll get to Sylvandale with two heads in my bag instead of one.”

  “I’m not going to throw up,” Drago assured her, although if he was honest that was probably because he’d missed breakfast and didn’t have much in his stomach to get rid of, rather than innate fortitude.

  “Then we might as well move out,” she said, catching Graymane’s eye, and gesturing toward the gate.

  Graymane nodded, rose in his stirrups, and lifted an arm, taking a deep breath as he did so.

  “I believe I’m still the one giving the orders around here,” Oaktwig interrupted, before Graymane could bellow the command he was preparing to give.

  Graymane smiled sardonically. “For the moment,” he agreed. He shot a disdainful look at Oaktwig, Meadowsweet and Moonshade, and the score of elven troopers accompanying them, whose uniforms were as presentable as could reasonably be expected given the suddenness of their call to action. “And they are your toy soldiers. Knock yourself out.”

  “Thank you.” Oaktwig looked as if he’d rather knock Graymane out, but nodded with a fair semblance of courtesy. Then he rose in his saddle with surprising ease, waved a languid hand in
the air, and called out something which sounded to Drago more like “Aderuer . . . . Hah!” than anything recognizable as words. The soldiers seemed to find it perfectly comprehensible, however, wheeling their mounts and setting off for the gates in a neat column, riding two abreast. Oaktwig took up his position at the front, riding alone, a little ahead of the main group, flanked by Moonshade and Meadowsweet, each of whom was leading one of the files of soldiers.

  “Which leaves us at the back,” Ariella said, with a trace of amusement, “where lowlifes like us belong.”

  “Couldn’t have put it better myself,” Meadowsweet said, as the head of the column moved out, leaving the civilian elves to tag onto the end.

  Ariella glared at the elf’s oblivious back. “The next time I get married,” she said, sotto voce, “he’s definitely not invited.”

  “I thought it was a once in a lifetime thing,” Drago said, more to take his mind off the discomfort in his stomach as the horse picked up its pace, and the rocking movement increased accordingly, than because he felt like conversation. Meadowsweet had been one of the witnesses at the ceremony, when the queen married Gorash, Moonshade the other. What part Oaktwig had played, beyond smuggling the groom in and making sure the area round the garrison chapel was clear of potentially embarrassing onlookers, he wasn’t sure, but that had probably been enough. Which meant one of the three elves was the traitor who had betrayed Ariella to her brother, and attempted to arrange her assassination. All had accompanied her on at least one trip between the Barrens and the palace in Sylvandale, and all had sufficient social connection to arrange a private audience with Stargleam. Which, in turn, meant that, despite the risk, they all had to be kept under observation. Perhaps whoever it was would tip their hand before the journey was over.

  Ariella and Graymane exchanged a smile. “You’re a romantic,” Graymane said. “Who’d have thought it?”

  “I’m a realist,” Drago said, “and once was enough. You don’t stick your hand in the bread oven twice.” The topic made him uncomfortable, brought too many memories to the surface, and he really didn’t want to talk about it.