“I agree. That’s why I was thinking of starting with the Spearmeet.”
Durnan stared at Geran and then let out a sharp bark of laughter. “By Tempus, you don’t do things by half measures, m’lord!”
“How many men are in your muster, Durnan? You’re still a captain of the Spearmeet, aren’t you?”
“Aye, I am. I’ve got two hundred in name, maybe sevenscore in fact. Of those, about a hundred would be worth anything in a fight.”
“What of the other captains? How are their musters?” The Spearmeet was made up of six mustering companies, each about two hundred strong—or at least it had been when Geran was a lad. He didn’t know if that was still true.
“Tresterfin’s boys are pretty good, but the others don’t really measure up to mine or his,” the brewmaster said proudly. “We drill every couple o’ months. Some o’ the other musters ain’t tried that in years. But you could find a couple of dozen good men in each, I’d wager.”
Hamil cleared his throat. “Geran, a hundred men on the street might not be enough. Veruna alone has at least that many, and they’re trained mercenaries.”
“We don’t need to be able to beat them, Hamil,” Geran answered. “We just need to raise the cost of intimidating Hulburg. The harmach’s willing to tolerate the foreign costers, but he certainly won’t tolerate Hulburgans cut down in the streets simply for standing up for themselves. Sergen and his foreign friends know that.”
“It’ll come to a fight before it’s done,” the halfling said. “Mark my words. The council Houses will try to punish men who are standing those watches—burning a few houses or businesses while the men are away protecting their neighbors, or perhaps baiting one of your patrols into an open fight.”
“Be that as it may, we might surprise those foreign bastards and make some o’ them bleed too,” Durnan said. “That’s the way of it with a bully. Sooner or later you’ve got to stand up to him, punch him in the nose, and damn what follows. You might get thrashed, but he’ll think twice ’fore he pushes you again. Besides, we’ll have a lot more eyes than spears on our side. If we tell the folk o’ each neighborhood to make sure they send word quick when they see council men up to no good, we’ll be able to shadow them anywhere they go.” The brewmaster shrugged and picked up his keg again. “Count me in. I’ll send word ’round to my muster. Some of them won’t show their faces since they work for the council Houses, but most o’ my men’ll help.”
“Good,” Geran said. “Who else should I talk to?”
“Burkel Tresterfin, for certain. Wester and Ilkur are fair captains too, and their musters might surprise me. After that, try Lodharrun the smith—he ain’t in the Spearmeet, but there’re a few dwarves what would be happy to stand with us.”
“I will. Can I tell the others to bring the men they need to the Troll and Tankard tomorrow evening to organize a watch scheme?”
Durnan grinned in his big beard. “I’ve always wanted to foment rebellion. For the harmach, of course.”
“Tomorrow, then,” Geran said. He gripped the brewmaster’s hand and then left the old taphouse. The light rain had faded to a mist that hung in the air, drifting in tatters just about the rooftops of the town.
“Let me guess,” Hamil said. “Tresterfin next?”
“Good guess,” Geran said. He nodded at the Vale Road. “The Tresterfin homestead is about two miles outside town.”
Geran and Hamil spent the rest of the day crisscrossing Hulburg and the farms nearby, speaking to dozens of Hulburgans about the Council Watch and what had to be done. Many were people Geran knew well from his boyhood, and he retold the story of his travels in the last ten years so often that he soon shortened the account to a few vague sentences about traveling the Inner Sea lands, visiting Myth Drannor, and buying into the Red Sail Coster of Tantras. A few of the men and women he spoke with declined to help; some feared the retribution of the Council Watch, but others were simply cautious about taking up arms and thought it likely to worsen the situation instead of improve it. They simply hadn’t yet suffered any great harm from the foreigners or reached the point where they were willing to hazard life or property to stand up against them. Two times Geran found that the Shieldmeet captains he was looking for had more or less given up on their musters, but each time the old leaders gave him suggestions for other Hulburgans who might be willing to help out.
Late in the afternoon, Geran headed to Erstenwold’s. He found the building boarded up, with a couple of Mirya’s cousins keeping an eye on the place. They told him that Mirya and Selsha were staying at the old Erstenwold homestead in the Winterspear Vale. Reassured that Mirya’s store was well looked after, Geran and Hamil returned to Griffonwatch for the night.
The next morning, the rain returned in force, and the wind picked up as well. A Moonsea gale was gathering over the cold waters of the small sea, drenching Hulburg with hard-driven rain. Hamil gave Geran a doleful look when Geran told him that they had more people to speak with, but he followed Geran back down into town. Their cloaks were sodden before they reached the bottom of the causeway. The weather was foul enough that the Harmach’s Foot seemed almost deserted, with little of the wagon traffic that normally crowded it in the morning.
“Well, where to now?” Hamil asked. “Please tell me that it’s a short walk to someplace warm and cheerful.”
Geran glanced right and left, trying to decide whom he wished to speak to next. Nearby, a party of dwarves worked to fix a broken wagon axle in the rain; across the small square, several men cloaked against the weather stood beneath the overhang of a smoking-house, arguing prices with the proprietor before large racks where dozens of smoked Moonsea silverfins cured in the open air. “East Street,” he decided. “Vannarshel the fletcher has her workshop there. She used to be quite an archer; I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s taught her sons to shoot as well as she did. Then we might visit Therrik’s Livery, which is nearby.”
They started across the small square, splashing through the puddles and mud gathering between the cobblestones. Then Hamil frowned, and his step slowed. Something isn’t right here, Geran, he said silently. This is an ambush!
Not twenty yards from the castle causeway? Geran thought in surprise. He glanced around behind him and saw the dwarves by the wagon pulling aside the canvas covering. Crossbows waited underneath. The men by the smoking-house suddenly broke off their arguing and turned back to the court, striding toward the two companions. The swordmage had expected some attempt by House Veruna, but not one so brazenly sprung beneath Griffonwatch’s battlements. Besides, none of the men or dwarves around them wore Veruna’s green and white. “Break past the men, leave the dwarves behind,” he hissed to Hamil. Then, as quick as thought, he framed the words for a spell and snapped, “Cuillen mhariel!” His silversteel veil appeared around him, glowing softly in the dim daylight, and Geran sprinted toward the men coming from the smoking-house. Hamil followed a half-step behind.
“Now!” someone shouted. The men in front of him swept out their blades and moved to cut him off; one of them hung back, drawing a wand from his sleeve and aiming it at Geran. From behind he heard the sharp snap! of crossbows firing, and bolts hissed through the air behind him. Two clattered past, skipping along the cobblestones, but a third sank into the back of his calf with a searing jolt of pain. Geran stumbled and rolled heavily to the wet cobblestones, but he let his momentum roll him to his feet again and loped as best as he could toward the swordsmen rushing him. The dwarves might not be so fast to shoot at him if he was in the middle of their allies.
Hamil divined his intent and altered his own course to follow; the halfling threw himself at the feet of the first man he reached, knives flashing, and the fellow cursed and went down as Hamil rolled through his shins. Then Geran met two of the swordsmen at the same time, sweeping out his blade to bat aside one man’s cut. He followed that with a sudden slash at the other swordsman and managed to gash that one’s forehead in a shallow, bloody cut before the man could blo
ck his blow. That enemy staggered back, momentarily blinded, so Geran returned to the man on his right.
Then the wizard snarled something in an arcane tongue, and a dazzling violet ray sprang from his wand and struck Geran over his heart. It felt as if he’d been hit with a hammer. All of the sudden his knees grew weak, he staggered unsteadily, and brilliant purple echoes jarred and danced in his eyes as his mind reeled in magical vertigo. A stunning spell of some kind, he realized, and he tried to frame a countering enchantment to clear his mind … but the words simply eluded his grasp. Before he could find them, the other swordsmen were upon him. He opened his eyes just in time to see the pommel of a long sword descending toward his forehead. The blow struck him blind again, and he staggered back over a barrel and tripped, falling to the street. His sword rang shrilly on the cobblestones beside him.
“Geran!” Hamil shouted from some great distance. Then mailed fists and booted feet descended on him in a sudden violent deluge, and darkness took him.
TWENTY
1 Tarsakh, the Year of the Ageless One
The creaking of a wagon’s wheels and the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves on cobblestones brought Geran back to a painful consciousness. He was lying in damp straw in a dark, swaying wagon, bound hand and foot. His calf burned where the bolt had struck him, his forehead felt hot and sticky and throbbed in agony, and the whole right side of his jaw ached abominably. Gingerly he ran his tongue over his teeth and found one of his molars was deeply split; loose bits of tooth were adrift in his mouth. He spat blood and debris out on the straw of the wagon and groaned despite himself.
“Good, you ain’t dead,” a deep, gravelly voice said from somewhere behind him. “I wouldn’t thrash ’round too much if I were you. ’Twon’t do you no good, it’ll hurt like blazes, and I’ll beat you senseless again if you’re makin’ me to.”
“Where am I?” Geran rasped. It hurt to talk. “On your way t’ that tawdry ten-silver festhall they call Council Hall. We’ll be there soon enough. I understand your accommodations are waitin’ for you.” The speaker laughed dryly.
Geran rolled slowly to one side and glanced up at his captor. The fellow was a black-bearded dwarf in heavy armor. He sat on a bench in the back of the wagon, watching Geran. He had a clay pipe clenched in his mouth and held a short-handled cudgel capped with an ugly lead shot in his lap. “Who are you?” the swordmage asked.
“Kendurkkel Ironthane, master o’ the Icehammer Company. Pleased t’ make your acquaintance, m’lord—’specially since you’ve earned me a very fine bonus this morning.” The dwarf’s pipe bobbed as he grinned under his thick beard, but his eyes remained neutral and wary. “I heard y’know a thing or two about magic, so don’t be givin’ me reason t’ think you might be trying t’ cast a spell, or I’ll have t’ put you t’ sleep with me little persuader, here. Besides, you’re in mage shackles, so there ain’t no point in even trying.”
Geran didn’t know if he would’ve been inclined to try a spell with Kendurkkel sitting over him with the ugly little mace in his hand, but the mage shackles settled it. He decided he’d test them later to be sure, but if the dwarf wasn’t lying, then he wouldn’t get far. Mage shackles were enchanted with negation spells that simply absorbed any magic a captive tried to summon before it could be shaped into even the simplest spell. “What happened to my friend?” he asked.
“The halfling? Well, nobody offered me a bounty on him, so I left ’im in the street. He fought like a wildcat till me wizard struck him senseless with that purple ray he used to knock the sand out o’ you.” The dwarf shrugged. “I suppose I should’ve brought him along just on speculation, if you will, but frankly I don’t like the smell o’ this whole business, and I figured I’d be wiser t’ stick t’ the contract I was certain of.”
The wagon hit a sharp bump, and Geran winced as his head pounded in protest. He felt nauseated, and his limbs felt as weak as thin straws … likely the aftereffects of the blow to the head that had knocked him down. “I don’t suppose I can offer you a better deal than your bounty to let me go, can I?”
“No, that’d be unprofessional. I’ve got me reputation to think of.”
“What if I told you that the council mercenaries intend to hold me for murder because I killed a man in a fair duel? Or that they’re angry with me because I’m interfering with their plans to intimidate and extort half the folk in town? Would that make a difference?”
The dwarf chewed on the stem of his pipe and thought for a moment. “No, can’t say that it would,” he said. “I’ve found it don’t pay t’ worry too much about what folks say when they’re in your sort o’ predicament. Most o’ the time they’re lying, but if they did be tellin’ the truth, well, then, I’d feel just awful ’bout collectin’ the gold what’s on their heads. Better t’ assume they’re all lying. I sleep better that way. Well, look, here we are.”
Geran caught a glimpse of heavy wooden beams carved in fantastic shapes high overhead through the small, barred window in the wagon’s door. Then Kendurkkel knelt down beside him and pulled a heavy leather hood over his head and face. “Mind your manners a little bit longer, and I’ll make sure I take off the hood when we get t’ your cell,” the dwarf said.
The inside of the hood was lightless, dank, and hard to breathe through. Geran heard the wagon door swing open, and then several hands seized him by the arms and hauled him out. He tried to get his feet under him as best he could, but his knees were still quite weak, and his legs didn’t work as well as they should have; he was half-carried along by the unseen men around him. They took him down a flight of steps, through several doors, down another flight of steps, and finally through another door. Geran tried to think of some way to escape, but even if he hadn’t been sick and dizzy from the beating, he doubted that he could have managed much with magic-impeding shackles on his hands and a heavy leather hood to blind him. Several men seized him closely then, and his shackles were removed briefly, readjusted, and then snapped back into place. Only after that did the hood come off his face.
The dwarf stepped back, rolling the hood in his hands. “He’s all yours,” he rasped. “The Icehammers be done with this.”
“A fine piece of work, Captain Kendurkkel.” Sergen Hulmaster stood outside Geran’s cell, dressed in a resplendent, pleated coat of deep blue embroidered with gold thread. He wore a large gold medallion around his neck—a symbol of office, or so Geran guessed. Several of the Council Watch stood nearby in their browned cuirasses. “Thanks to your diligence, this murderer will soon face justice for his crimes.”
The dwarf glanced at Geran. “That’s your business,” he said. “You know where t’ find me if you’re needing the Ice-hammers for anything else, Lord Sergen. I go.” He withdrew, his heavy tread scuffing the stone floor.
The swordmage looked down at his shackles; they’d been moved around in front of his body and tethered to an iron ring set in the floor of the cell, so he could move around a little bit. There was a plain pallet of straw in one corner of the cell, a chamber pot in the other, and a flickering lantern in the hallway outside. “Your Merchant Council has a dungeon, Sergen?” he asked.
“The Council Watch, actually,” his stepcousin replied. “It’s less than three years old and seems to me to be a much better place than you deserve. If I had my way, you’d be thrown into the darkest, foulest oubliette I could find.”
“Your generosity overwhelms me.”
“Sarcasm ill becomes you, Geran. If it helps you at all, you can take comfort in the fact that you’ll be given a speedy trial before a special commission of the Merchant Council. I expect they’ll quickly condemn you to hang, so the quality of your accommodations won’t trouble you for long.”
Geran took a deep breath and silently promised himself that he would not give Sergen the satisfaction of angering him … or frightening him, for that matter. In truth, he felt too miserable to muster much of a retort. “You’ve given yourself the power to try people who displease you and to order executi
ons? Uncle Grigor’s a patient man, but I think he might object, Sergen.”
“The laws of concession, Geran. Members of foreign legations are protected from crimes of person or property. You killed Anfel Urdinger in the sight of dozens of people, so House Veruna’s entitled to demand your arrest and trial under Mulman law.”
“I doubt the harmach will see it that way.”
Sergen snorted. “Well, as you are currently in council custody, it doesn’t really matter how he sees things, does it?” He sketched a mocking half-bow and straightened with an evil smile on his face. “Now, I’m a very busy man, and I have much to do. I’m sure that your case will be disposed of in good order. Until later, dear cousin.”
Geran tried to think of a stinging reply but failed. He watched Sergen strut off, and then he allowed his knees to fail him and slumped to the dismal little pallet. After a time he drifted off into darkness again, even though he knew he shouldn’t let himself fall asleep after a sharp blow to the skull. He felt as though he were plummeting down and down every time he closed his eyes, and yet he was so weary that he could not keep them open any longer.
When he finally woke again, his eyes felt as if they were full of grit, and his tooth was a bright rock of white agony in the side of his mouth. But his head didn’t hurt quite so much, and he was actually hungry instead of nauseated. His jailors had provided him with a bowl of porridge, a jug of water, and a half-loaf of tough black bread. Geran ate gingerly, careful to do his chewing on the left side of his mouth. After that, he pushed himself to his feet and paced around his cell as best he could with the fetters on his wrists and ankles. It was actually a good-sized chamber, about nine feet wide and fourteen long, made of carefully fitted stone—most likely rubble from the ring of ruins surrounding Hulburg. Most newer buildings in the town were built on stones taken from the wreckage of the older city. He wished he had a window, even one at the bottom of a window-well, so that he could at least know whether it was dark or light outside. Unfortunately, the Council Watch hadn’t seen the need to provide their cells with that sort of amenity.
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