Forging the Sword (The Farsala Trilogy)

by Bell, Hilari

  A surge of resentment shook him. Why should he sacrifice his best chance of escape to help a pair of deghans who’d done nothing for him but threaten to kill him when they finished using him?

  But he wasn’t doing it for them, and there was no time for heart-searching now. The Hrum would be searching the outbuildings soon, and not in a metaphorical sense either.

  Kavi dashed back into the stable and pulled the harness over Duckie’s nose and ears, pushing aside the thought that this might be the last time he’d stroke his friend’s satiny muzzle. This night’s worst—likely—result would be for him to end up a Hrum slave alongside the deghans he’d betrayed. And if Jiaan and Soraya succeeded in getting their hands on the gold, that wouldn’t last long.

  Yes, slavery was absolutely the worst thing—unless Garren decided that the fact that he’d been a Hrum spy made him not an honorable enemy but a traitor, who deserved a traitor’s …

  “We’re not going to think about that,” he told Duckie firmly. “And I’ll thank you not to mention it again. We’re walking out of here as if we hadn’t a care in the world, got it?”

  His hands twitched toward his pack, but it would be foolish to burden his messenger.

  Kavi summoned up his nerve and led Duckie out of the stable and down the path toward the gate where they’d entered. It wasn’t his real goal, for he knew he wouldn’t make it that far, but he had to get Duckie within scenting distance of the lake, and walking as if he had a perfect right to be there was his best chance of doing it. And if his hands were shaking, well, the running patrols and the alert guards couldn’t see it.

  Duckie had picked up on his anxiety by now, prancing uneasily, ears swiveling and nostrils flared as she sought to discover what had frightened her person so badly.

  But the guards paid no attention to a mule in the hands of a groom, strolling calmly down a path in plain sight. A hundred yards passed beneath his feet and Duckie’s hooves.

  The sun broke through the clouds, then vanished again. The brisk, cold wind dried his sweat-damp shirt, making him shiver. Another fifty yards.

  Duckie smelled the lake and took two steps toward it, then swerved back to follow Kavi without even being prompted, unwilling to leave him when his scent must be shrieking that danger threatened.

  That would be all he needed!

  Kavi took a breath and forced calm into his voice. “Easy, girl. It’s not so bad as that. Nothing going on to worry a mule.”

  As the seconds dragged by, the quiet, familiar voice had its effect. Duckie settled a bit, her ears turning more often in the direction of the water.

  They weren’t quite abreast of the lake when the shout rang out, “Hey, there he is! The peddler! Stop him!” but it would have to do.

  Kavi dropped the lead rope and slapped Duckie’s rump. “Off with you, my friend. Go—”

  Duckie, always fickle in the face of temptation, was already turning toward the duck-strewn lake.

  Ridiculous tears, of relief, of abandonment, chased down Kavi’s cheeks as he ran—in the opposite direction, to be sure no one would capture Duckie before she reached the lake. Once in the water, especially deep water, she’d be impossible to catch till she was ready to come out—no stranger would persuade her to emerge.

  They caught him easily, for there were far more of them, and he surrendered the moment they had him surrounded. He might allow himself to be captured for the cause and even enslaved for a few months, but allowing himself to be injured was too much to expect.

  “Hah!” the watch commander wheezed, trotting up to them. Dried blood marked his chin and his breastplate, and his nose was swelling. “I don’t know what you thought you were doing, rebel, but you’ve failed. You may even have the privilege of meeting Governor Garren himself, for he’s interested in people who work for Sorahb—but not today. Take him to the cells and lock him up.”

  The cells. The guards must have wondered at his sudden snort of laughter, but he couldn’t resist. He’d soon be having every single one of the passwords he’d come for—and they’d not do one bit of good. Even if he survived the Hrum, Nadi would kill him for worrying her so.

  As they dragged him into the building that on Hama’s map was labeled “armory,” which had both the cells and the tunnel to the vault below it, the last thing Kavi heard was a voice shouting, “Someone go in and get that mule! It’s only water.”

  He was smiling as the door closed behind him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  JIAAN

  IT WAS NADI’S OLDEST son, Sim, who finally lured the mule out of the lake. Nadi had been forced to tell him what had happened, for the story of the mule who swam with the ducks, and of the half a dozen Hrum soldiers who couldn’t catch it, had spread through the city like wind. For someone who knew Duckie …

  The boy had been torn between fury at having been left out and fear for the peddler; that left him better off than Nadi and Hama, who were frightened but blamed no one. Though that would change if they found out what Jiaan had done. None of them knew what had happened, but Jiaan was almost certain that the peddler had encountered one of Substrategus Arus’ officers.

  He had tried to control it—to acknowledge the good the peddler had done, to work with him, for Farsala’s sake. But as soon as Jiaan had set eyes on the man, the hate flooded back.

  Besides, if I’d told him what Patrius told me, that some of the officers weren’t sent to Dugaz, he wouldn’t have gone in.

  It was true, too, and if there was even a chance of getting rid of that accursed gold before it was shipped to Kadesh—under heavy guard, no doubt—Jiaan had to try. But now, without any of the passwords …

  We’ll have to capture it before it reaches the border, but that means bringing the whole army out of the desert—away from Mazad. And even if we can get that many men into position near the Trade Road without Garren learning we’re there, he’ll know as soon as we attack. Then all he has to do is get a large body of troops to Mazad before we can get back. Assuming there are enough of us left to make a difference.

  The crowd that had gathered to laugh at the Hrum soldiers’ efforts was beginning to disperse. Jiaan watched the dripping boy pull the balky mule up the shore, but his heart was too cold to smile. Attacking a large convoy of guards who expected an assault was the most dangerous thing his fledgling army could do—except, perhaps, fighting a field battle like the one that had destroyed the deghan forces at the Sendar Wall, or making an assault on a fortified city, such as Setesafon had become.

  A last determined goose trundled out of the waves after the mule, hissing and trying to peck, but Sim drove it off with shouts and kicks. Jiaan wouldn’t have blamed him for wringing the beast’s neck; there were bruises on his face and arms where the ducks and geese had pecked him as he swam after the mule. They’d assaulted the Hrum soldiers, too, who swore and flailed at them with great splashing blows. But in the end it was the crowd’s laughter that had defeated the Hrum. Let the misbegotten creature drown! I’m not making a fool of myself any longer.

  Nadi flung a blanket around the boy, and Hama took the mule’s lead rope, preparing to take her home—preparing to care for her, for her master’s sake, until he returned with the rest of the Hrum slaves and reclaimed her. Nadi had decreed that he would be back—firmly, defiantly refusing to acknowledge that the peddler’s failure to return with the passwords had significantly reduced the chance that the slaves would be returning. Though the lady Soraya, standing silent and grim at Jiaan’s side, was obviously aware of it. Curse the fellow for failing! Serve him right if the Hrum killed him—it would save Jiaan the trouble! But the Hrum didn’t execute prisoners, any more than they tortured them. They did kill traitors, however, and the uncertainty as to which they would consider the peddler had left Nadi’s face white and miserable.

  If it were up to Jiaan there’d be no doubt—he was a traitor, a traitor to Farsala, whatever he was to the Hrum. As far as Jiaan was concerned they could—

  The girl, Hama, was leadi
ng the mule toward him, which was odd because they’d agreed it would be safer if they pretended not to know each other in this all-too-public place. The crowd was leaving, but …

  Her face was grim, but her eyes blazed with anguished hope.

  “Look at her halter!” she murmured, before Jiaan could complain about the attention she was drawing. In truth, that attention wasn’t much—garbed as low-ranked craftsmen, with the lady’s deghass-black hair covered with a scarf, Jiaan and Soraya could have been friends or even kin of the girl before them.

  It was the lady Soraya who stepped forward, running curious fingers over the wet leather. Then she stiffened. “Salute!” she exclaimed incomprehensibly. “But if that’s two, what’s one?”

  Only when Jiaan came forward and looked for himself did he see the dark letters scorched into the leather. His heart began to pound.

  “Not here!” he commanded sharply. “Inside, where no one can overhear us.”

  Inside turned out to be a small shed attached to the laundry, where Nadi had decided to keep the mule. It was currently filled with casks of soap, coils of laundry line, and bundles of stirring paddles, all of which would have to be moved to accommodate Duckie. In fact there was barely room for all of them to squeeze in beside her—Soraya climbed onto a big barrel to get out of the way—but they couldn’t wait any longer. Hama and Sim stripped off the mule’s halter and spread it out between them.

  “‘Today 1,’” Hama read. “That means the first password is ‘today,’ doesn’t it?”

  “And ‘salute’ must be the second,” said the lady Soraya. “What’s that last one? It’s upside down from here.”

  “Mile,” said Nadi, pronouncing the Hrum word awkwardly. “But there’s no number after it.”

  “He probably ran out of time,” said Jiaan, the calmness of his voice belying the rapid beat of his heart. How fast had the peddler’s heart been beating as he took the time—time he might have spent escaping—to burn those words letter by letter into the straps, knowing that Duckie might succeed where he had failed?

  Traitor, perhaps—coward, no.

  “That’s only three of them,” said Nadi reluctantly. “We don’t even know how many layers of security you’d have to pass to reach the vault.”

  “It’s better than what we had before,” said Jiaan. “According to Hama, this will be enough to get us out of the grounds and into a building. After that, we’ll take our chances.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Sim, who Jiaan judged to be all of twelve years old. “I can help.”

  His mother’s mouth opened, but Jiaan beat her to it. “You’ve already helped, lad, getting this”—he lifted the damp halter—“into our hands. And I’m afraid you’d look a bit unconvincing in a Hrum breastplate and helmet.”

  The boy, who had drawn a breath to object, fell silent—though he came up with plenty of other plans in the next few marks, including disguising himself as the lady Soraya, which told Jiaan just how badly he wanted to go. But he wasn’t a fool, and when the men began arriving in response to Jiaan’s summons, Sim gave up and helped them don their disguises and arm themselves.

  Nadi, who had wisely left the task of discouraging her son to Jiaan, was even more helpful. She provided clean tunics and trousers that not only suited the rank of common Hrum troopers, but fit each man as if they had been made for him.

  The breastplates didn’t fit well, but after a bit of shuffling they got each man into something that wasn’t too uncomfortably small or too obviously big. Once they donned their cloaks, discrepancies in the size of the armor were hidden.

  Then Hama led the lady Soraya off to help her dress, and Nadi approached Jiaan with a decimaster’s tunic and a scarlet cloak over her arm.

  “Time for you to get ready, la … Commander.”

  “You can call me lad,” said Jiaan. His hands were cold with fear, but his heart was light. This was best. If they could get the gold, even most of the gold, out of Garren’s hands, then Jiaan’s army could defend Mazad against anything Garren would be able to bring against them. Even if Jiaan failed to return, he knew he could entrust that task to Hosah and Fasal.

  “I’ll be calling you commander,” said Nadi. “For it’s as a commander that I want to ask a favor of you.”

  “You want me to get the peddler out?” It wasn’t a difficult guess; all the underground areas, the wine cellar, the vault, and the cells were connected by a tunnel that paralleled the aqueduct. “I can’t prom—”

  “He has a name!” the woman snapped. “After all he’s done for you, the least you owe him is to use it. The least you owe him.”

  Jiaan took a deep breath. “Well be lucky to get out ourselves. Even if we claim we’ve taking the lady to be questioned, sooner or later—”

  “If you’re taking one prisoner to be questioned, why not two?” Nadi handed him the tunic, watching as Jiaan stripped off his shirt and put it on. “Remember to keep those sleeves pulled down, by the by. No one will find that odd, not in this weather, but if anyone sees that none of you have rank tattoos …”

  “I’ve already told them,” said Jiaan. “And you have to understand … oh, all right. If it’s possible to get him out, I’ll try.”

  The peddler had earned that much—even Jiaan had to concede it. “But getting the gold out of Garren’s hands comes first. Before anyone’s safety, especially his.”

  Nadi stopped unbuckling a decimaster’s breastplate to glare at him.

  “He put that first himself,” said Jiaan. “You know he did.”

  “I do,” the laundress admitted. “Though I’m not so blind that I can’t see the anger between you. I don’t know why you’re feeling that way—-frankly, I don’t care. But let me tell you what lies between Kavi and me.”

  As she fastened Jiaan into the unfamiliar armor, she told the tale—briefly, though it clearly mattered to her. He understood that. If you were a recent widow, impoverished, with a pile of children both your own and others’ to feed, and someone offered you a source of income—no matter how dubious its legality—which allowed you to survive and set yourself up in a respectable business, you would care about that person.

  In truth, Jiaan wasn’t impressed. Even the greatest villains usually cared about their families. Of course, these people hadn’t been the peddler’s family then … but he was still the man who had betrayed the Farsalan army at the Sendar Wall, and nothing would change that. A part of Jiaan hoped Garren would kill him—though didn’t that make Jiaan as bad as Garren? He had told Fasal they had to be better …

  He thrust the confusing thoughts aside. Still, those straight, careful letters scorched into the leather had to be worth something. “I’ll try to get him out if I can,” Jiaan told Nadi finally. “But I can’t promise more than that.”

  “That’s all I ask,” said Nadi, though she probably would have asked for more if she thought she could get it. “But I’ll hold you to that much, Commander.”

  Jiaan nodded acknowledgment and reached out to take the helmet as the lady Soraya returned.

  It had been more than a year since Jiaan had seen her dressed like this, in flowing, embroidered silk, with glass beads and feathers braided into her too-short hair. The gasps of the men around him were a tribute to her beauty, but Jiaan had been in her company often enough to see her almost as the sister she truly was. And at least …

  “Whatever happens,” he said, “you’ll make a fair diversion.”

  “That’s the point.” said the lady Soraya, coolly ignoring the admiring looks of his men. “Shall we go?”

  Jiaan thought he heard a quiver of fear in her assured voice—arrogance could be a cover for fear, he had learned—but he couldn’t be certain.

  THE SUN WAS SETTING as they made their way to one of the palace gates—a deci of guards escorting a deghass prisoner. She was clearly a deghass and clearly a prisoner, her hands bound in front of her, her overrobe artistically ripped. Her gleaming, shoulder-length hair formed a disheveled black cloud around
her tense face. She really did look as if she’d fought them, and if Garren knew her at all, Jiaan reflected wryly, that would add verisimilitude. She’d been arguing with Jiaan almost every step of the way.

  “Say it again,” she murmured in Hrum.

  “I say it often, already,” said Jiaan in the same language. “I say it again, it will be …” He paused, the Hrum word eluding him.

  “Ariapar,” said the lady Soraya. “It means ‘suspicious.’ Repeat it please.”

  She couldn’t possibly expect to teach him Hrum in just one afternoon—but if she didn’t, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying on her part. Or on his. Jiaan sighed. “Ariapar.”

  “Ariapar. Say it again.”

  “No,” said Jiaan. “It will be ariapar if I say it again.”

  Not that the Farsalan workmen around them were likely to care what he said, especially in Hrum. They were still casting dark glances toward Jiaan and his men, and in the lower city, less than a quarter mark ago, a group of apprentices and journeymen had followed them for several blocks, calling low-voiced insults. The one about needing eleven Hrum soldiers to capture one Farsalan girl had been the mildest of them, and since then Jiaan’s men had been marching with drawn swords in their hands.

  After that the mob had melted away. No others had dared to take their place, but Jiaan was still nervous.

  The mood in the city was odd this evening: half celebratory, for the feast had already begun, and, perhaps unwisely, Garren was handing out beer for the adults as well as sweets for the children.

  He and the committee had already taken their places in the pavilion, watching a parade of the cities’ craft houses pass through the square before them. Soon the speeches would begin. Jiaan suspected that the peddler had been forced to use his tale about a demonstration of hostility toward the committee, for there were almost as many Hrum soldiers in the square as Setesafon townsmen. That left the rest of the city lightly patrolled, and under the cheer of beer and celebration an undercurrent of sullen resentment bubbled upward. When darkness fell, Garren and the committee might need their guards.