The Empire Stone

by Chris Bunch

  “Interesting haul,” the large man said. “A beauty and a dwarf, eh? What riches do you carry?”

  “Not much,” Peirol said. “A handful of gold, for traveling money.”

  “Toss it over.”

  Peirol pulled out the small bag he kept ready for such emergencies, handed it across. The heavy man hefted it. “You’re not nobility, or the bag would be a deal larger. What’s your business?”

  “We’re fugitives,” Peirol tried. “Leaving a place called Isfahan for a better place to live.”

  “I know it only on a map,” the large man said. “The question is, what’ll be done with you now? You needn’t worry about better lives, but rather whether you’ll have one at all.”

  A bandit licked his lips. “She could make all of us happy for a while.”

  Zaimis’s hand was on her dagger. “You’ll be the first I’ll caponize if you try it.”

  The dark-bearded man chuckled. “She looks like she’s capable of it, Bamian. In any event, she’ll not entertain all, not as long as I’ve silver for the auction.”

  “Or if I choose to exercise my right as leader,” the heavy man said. “She’d make a fine mattress for a fat man like me.”

  The bandits found this funny, laughed hard.

  “Brave men,” Peirol sneered, wishing he had better control of his mouth. “Eighteen against two.”

  “Actually,” the dark-bearded man said, “eighteen to one and a half.”

  Again, the bandits laughed.

  “So what’s to be done with us?” Peirol asked.

  “Generally, three paths exist,” the bearded one said. “By the way, I’m Manco, and I serve as Urga’s right-hand man. You needn’t bother with your names until we decide if you’ll be companying us for a while. As I said, there are three paths. The first, reserved for the poorer travelers, is to be stripped bare, used as we see fit, and left to welter in your blood.

  “The second is for you to amuse us for a time, then we sell you at the first slave market. I rather imagine, lady, you know what form that amusement would take. You could be bought for a time by one of us at tonight’s campfire, or if the lads are of a common mind, your services can be procured generally, if they choose to make the highest bid.”

  “An ugly fate,” Urga said. “Better to choose one of us, and hope he has enough silver to buy you out.”

  “The third and best,” Manco said, “is if you have people to ransom you. The greater amount they’re willing to put up, the less damaged you’ll be when we hand you over. You see, fair and equitable choices. Now, if you’ll hand over your weapons, we’ll take you to camp for the vote.”

  Peirol was deciding if he could send his dart into Manco’s face, plant his dagger in Urga’s gut, and then gallop on in the confusion when Zaimis shook her head. “None of those paths appeal to me.”

  “They ain’t intended to,” a bandit called.

  “What about people who want to join you?”

  The laughter was very loud.

  “Lots of mice wish they were cats, when they hear the meow,” Urga said.

  “Those we accept into our band,” Manco said, “are generally known as reputable rogues to our members. We’re very selective, partly to avoid spies who might betray us to the Brown Men, but more practically because the more comrades, the more shares must be made.”

  “Suppose,” Zaimis said, “suppose someone gives you something, something of far greater value than even a ransom? Would that be a sufficient price?”

  Urga coughed laughter, but Manco stroked his beard. “You interest me, lady. First, because you’re not vaporing about your fate, unlike most of your sex. But also because of what you say. Go on.”

  “No,” Zaimis said boldly. “You’ve not said you’d make such a bargain.”

  “We would,” Urga said. “And I’d give my word you’d be undamaged, if — and I’ll say if again — what you give us is truly valuable.”

  “I don’t know about your word,” Zaimis said. “But his” — and she looked at Manco — “I’d accept.”

  “I give my word as well, in front of my comrades,” Manco said, sounding amused. “As for being able to join our band, we have a few women, but none as riders.”

  “We had two,” Bamian said. “Before you came, Manco. Twins. Hellions, they were. Let no man touch them, and in a raid they showed no mercy. But they were taken and garroted by the brown bastards, what, four years ago?”

  Another bandit said, “I remember them. Good fighters. So we’ll let women in as full members of our band. If they can fight.”

  “I know how to use a sword,” Zaimis said. “As does my companion. And I can shoot after a fashion.”

  “All this is all very well,” Urga said, irritated. “But all we’re doing is sitting beside the road, jacking our jaws. Just what do you have for us?”

  Peirol was as puzzled as the others.

  “Twenty traders,” Zaimis said. “Heavily armed, with a hidden cargo. Suspicious men, so I guess that’ll mean what they carry is valuable.”

  “Twenty of them,” Urga said. “We’re eighteen. Plus, what, another score back at our camp. Close odds.”

  “Not if I can tell you just how to attack them where they’re weakest.”

  Urga hesitated.

  “What do we have to lose?” Manco said. “We can send for the others, listen to this woman’s plan, lay in wait if it makes sense, and reach a final decision when — and if — the traders materialize.”

  “They will,” Zaimis said. “I give my word on that. They’re about half a day behind us, and there’s been no cities for them to stop in or crossroads to turn aside on since we encountered them.”

  Urga looked at the bandits. “Well?”

  “Let’s see what the woman offers,” a bandit said. “Something different, something new.”

  “And if it doesn’t happen the way it should,” Bamian said, “there’s still Manco’s three paths, now ain’t there?”

  The bandits were hidden in a draw, with scouts posted in both directions on the road, ambush teams dismounted between them and the main force. Zaimis and Peirol waited back with the horses, guarded by two men.

  “You haven’t said anything to me.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Peirol said.

  “Are you angry with me for being willing to betray those bastard traders?”

  Peirol wouldn’t have done it, but what of that? “No,” he said honestly. “No, I’m not angry at you.”

  “Then what’s the matter?”

  “I guess I’m just surprised.”

  Zaimis looked at him, and her eyes were hard. “Surprised that I don’t fancy being raped by these bastards, or becoming a springboard for that gross son of a bitch who probably hasn’t bathed in a year?”

  “I wouldn’t have let that happen,” Peirol said.

  “But would we still have been alive after you set your plan, whatever it was, in motion?”

  “Be quiet, there,” one of the bandits snarled. “Don’t upset your own cart, woman.”

  Peirol was happy to be silent, since he didn’t like what he would have had to honestly answer. He wondered what Zaimis had noticed about the traders, and what secret plan she’d whispered to Manco while they were waiting for the other bandits.

  Time dragged, the buzzing of flies in the clearing was loud, and the sun was very hot. A man came up from the road and waved to the two guards, and they trotted into the bushes. Peirol heard the clatter of horses’ hooves, and a moment later a trumpet sounded. There were two great crashes, as of trees falling. Then came shouts, and musketry, and men and horses screaming. Again, the trumpet came, and more shots. Peirol thought he heard someone crying for mercy, the plea cut short. Horses’ hooves thundered, and three single musket blasts came. Then all was silence once more, and the flies buzzed around.

  Peirol saw Manco.

  “You two! Come down here!”

  They obeyed. The road was a scatter of twenty bodies, some downed h
orses. Ahead and behind the massacre, trees had been felled to block the road. The bandits were busy looting the horses’ packs. Bamian was dancing around a corpse, waving a pair of tooled boots. “Just my size, and what beauties, what beauties, what beauties.”

  Urga was reloading his four empty pistols. One bandit lay facedown in the brush; another rocked back and forth, holding his arm, blood leaking between his fingers.

  Manco bowed. “Very good, milady. You should have been a man, a warrior. You said they didn’t watch their rear, and so it proved. And you’ve gotten us a treasure greater than your ransom, as you promised.”

  “What were they carrying?” Peirol asked curiously, trying to keep from looking at the corpses.

  “Spices from the far south,” Manco said. “More valuable for their weight than gold. We can sell these, no questions, in any city we choose. I doubt me if there’ll be much talk after this about the three paths. At least, not from me.”

  Peirol saw Zaimis had a pleased smile on her face, lips parted and wet.

  • • •

  “What do we do now?” Peirol asked. Zaimis seemed to be firmly in control. “We wait for them to vote, and then what, flee at the first chance?”

  “First,” she said, and the same smile was on her face he’d seen at the raid, “let’s see what happens when the spoils are divided.”

  The bandits’ camp was cleverly set up behind a small village, in a rocky wilderness of lava tubes entered through a long draw, barely wide enough for two men to walk through abreast. The bandits could come and go as they pleased, the small store in the village could buy their supplies when a single man making large purchases would arouse suspicion, and anyone prosperous taking the side road to the village would be prey.

  Some of the bandits used the tubes to sleep in, others had built crude huts. When the raiders rode in, fires had already been built and two calves had been butchered and spitted. Other pots, tended by the bandits’ women, steamed with spicy beans and a thick soup, while ears of corn roasted in the ashes. Peirol noticed three or four children scampering around, wondered what they’d grow up to be, wondered if they’d live to grow up, remembering from somewhere that bandits lasted about five years before meeting either the gibbet or a sword. Flasks and bottles appeared, holding everything from brandy to wine to unknown, brain-numbing concoctions.

  Zaimis asked Urga when the vote would be held on their joining the gang. Urga frowned and said, “Certainly not this night. Tonight we celebrate victory, our new riches. But you’ve nothing to worry about.” He leered. “I’ll always be there to protect you.”

  Zaimis gave him a look that should have ignited his beard but said nothing until she and Peirol were alone. “That man is going to present a problem,” she said. “I know what he wants.”

  “It seems obvious,” Peirol agreed.

  “That’s why there’s been nothing said about this vote. I’ll wager he thinks the help we gave will be forgotten in a day, and then we’ll be no different from any other poor soul they’ve captured. But he’s in for a surprise if he thinks that will happen,” she said grimly.

  “Shall I go talk to Manco?”

  “No,” Zaimis said. “But maybe, a bit later, I might. We’ll certainly not let either of them renege on the bargain.”

  Peirol made a face, but he had to agree Zaimis would be far more convincing than he would. The two set their bedrolls a bit away from the camp. Peirol took their horses to the edge of the bandits’ lines, watered, fed, and curried them, and made sure they could be untied without raising an alarm. He filled plates with food, got a bottle of wine, and took this repast to where Zaimis sat. They ate and watched the bandits gorge and guzzle.

  Three men produced a mandolin, a drum, and a flute and began playing while the bandits danced. Some danced with the camp women, some with each other, some by themselves, shouting abandon to the dark skies. Peirol barely noticed Zaimis slip away, then saw Manco lead her into the firelight, where they began dancing. Neither knew the other’s style, but they quickly learned, both being agile. Peirol didn’t like the way they danced, how the steps were, at least to him, like a wooing.

  Bamian sat down beside him, handed him a bottle of raw spirits. Peirol thought about drinking deeply; he realized that was foolish, but let a swallow go down his throat, pretended to drink more.

  “If she were mine, dwarf,” Bamian said, “I’d not be happy, the way she’s rubbin’ up to Manco.”

  “We’re friends,” Peirol said, trying to sound casual. “No more. What we do is our own business.”

  Bamian shrugged, drank.

  “I’ve got a question,” Peirol said. “Twice now, somebody’s talked about men in brown, bastards in brown. What are they?”

  “They pretend they’re poor mendi — mendi — beggars, travelin’ from place to place, seeking charity an’ practicin’ good works. At least, those are the young ones, the new ones, who maybe believe in the shit they spout in the beginning. They’re supposed to be like priests, I guess, but all belongin’ to one sect, and damned if I know what their gods are, if they have any.

  “There are others who wear brown, too, but they ride with soldiers who do their beck, an’ they pretend to be enforcin’ the law. But the only law they believe in is what benefits them. Nasty ones, they are. If you fall into their clutches, you’re doomed. First a tribunal, in the nearest village, then the worst death they can imagine. Best, if you’re one of us, to die with your sword in your hand, than finish with the death they’ll grant. Needless to say, whatever loot you’re taken with stays in their hands.”

  “Where are they from?”

  “Far away. A big city, across some straits, called Rest’rmel, which I’ve never seen, and don’t think anyone save maybe Manco has. The story is they’re the real rulers of that city, or country. I don’t know.”

  Peirol forgot about Zaimis. “Restormel? You know of it? How far away is it?”

  “Who knows? Who cares, if the Brown Men hold it? More than a week, more than two weeks. A month? Maybe a month to the ocean, maybe three weeks. Damn, but I’m getting drunk.”

  “Do the Brown Men have a name?”

  “Yeah. They call themselves … uh … the Men of Lysyth.”

  “Just men?”

  “Nobody’s seen any women wearing brown,” Bamian said. “When their nobles ride with the army, nothing happens, I mean they pretend to be high’n’mighty. But there’s stories from village wenches they’re no different than the rest of us, after dark, when no one’s about. Just godsdamned secrety about getting their wicks dipped.”

  “Have you ever heard about something called the Empire Stone?”

  “Hells no. If I had, assumin’ it’s some kinda jewel, I would’ve been figuring a way to steal it.”

  Peirol asked for details about Restormel, but Bamian said he knew nothing more. “And you’d better not waste your time thinking about Rest’rml, or your friend’ll be in Manco’s bed before you notice.” He got to his feet. “Speaking of which, I’m gonna go call on somebody myself. Take care of my own self. Here, dwarf. I’ll leave you the bottle. Maybe you’ll need it.”

  Peirol put it between his legs and watched as Manco and Zaimis danced on, ever more erotically, Zaimis coming close, darting away as Manco tried to pull her into an embrace.

  Urga stumbled out of the shadows. “My turn t’ dance.”

  Manco flushed; his hand touched his dagger and came away. “Your turn,” he gritted.

  Urga tried to dance like Manco had, and now the dance became a comedy as Zaimis flitted around him like a butterfly annoying a bear. The bandits howled laughter. Urga was red-faced, angry. But he caught himself, pretended laughter with the others. He glowered at the three musicians, and the music came to a ragged end.

  “Late,” he said. “Best we go to bed. Tomorrow we’ll figure out where we’ll market those spices. Tomorrow, boys, we’ll all be rich!”

  He grabbed a bottle from someone, upended it, hurled it far into darkness.
Peirol heard it shatter on rocks. Zaimis bowed deeply to Urga, then to Manco, and ran around the fire to sit beside Peirol. Her face was sweaty, and she was laughing. “That was fun!”

  She saw Peirol’s expression. “What’s the matter?”

  Peirol almost said something, caught himself. “Nothing, nothing. I was just admiring the way you dance … and then I started thinking about other things. About our quest.”

  “Your quest,” she corrected. “Our journey. And that’s for tomorrow, or the day after. Come, Peirol. Tonight I want to love you.”

  They went away from the fire, to their bedrolls. Zaimis savaged Peirol insatiably, and the dwarf was hard pressed to hold with her. At last he fell asleep, waking once to find Zaimis was gone. A few moments later, she slid back in beside him.

  “You’re awake?”

  “Umm-hmm. Where’d you go?”

  “When you’ve been drinking wine like I have, where do you think I went? Come here, little dwarf. If we’re awake, let’s not let the moment slip away.”

  Finally she seemed to tire, and they fell asleep.

  He was jolted awake by screams. It was after dawn. Peirol sat up, saw two women howling, leaping around the dying campfire. Men stumbled toward them, listened, began wailing.

  “What is it?” Zaimis asked, frightened.

  “I don’t know. But get dressed quickly. Something’s wrong.”

  Something was. Urga had died during the night. The bandits assembled, some still half-drunk, others wooziling through their hangovers, not improved by the camp women’s keening. Manco got silence, found that one of Urga’s women — he had three, none of whom had slept with him the night before — had tried to wake him gently with a potion guaranteed to cure a head filled with wine fumes.

  “But he just lay there, lay there on his face, and I rolled him over, and saw his face, and oh gods, gods, I’ve never seen anything that awful, nothing, nothing, nothing ever like it,” and she dissolved in tears. Peirol noticed the other two women were envious at her performance, then tried to equal it.

  The band trooped to Urga’s hut, one of the lava tubes he’d hung with silks and expensive rugs. It didn’t smell nearly as good as it looked. Evidently the late Urga had some objection, possibly religious, to bathing. Peirol managed to slip through the crowd, looked at the dead bandit. The woman hadn’t been exaggerating — Urga’s face was twisted in a terrible rictus, and his clawed hands still pulled at his guts.