by David Weber
"Is—is he alive?" she asked weakly.
"Um." Bahzell gave the limp body a brutal kick, and it flopped onto its back without even a groan. "Aye, he's alive," he grunted, grimacing down at the ruined face and watching breath bubble in the blood from its smashed nose and lips, "but how long will he stay that way? There's the question." He knelt, and his jaw tightened as he touched an indentation in Harnak's forehead. "He's less pretty than he was, and I'm thinking he hit the wall a mite hard, but he's a head like a boulder. He might live yet, Krahana take him."
The Horse Stealer sank back on his heels, fingering his dagger. Cutting a helpless throat, even when it belonged to scum like this, went hard with him. Then again, a man had to be practical. . . .
"Chalak saw him take me," Farmah said weakly behind him, and he spat a fresh oath. Finishing Harnak might protect him, but if the prince's brother knew his plans for Farmah, Harnak's death would only make her hopeless situation still worse. Chalak might keep quiet, since Harnak's elimination would improve his own chance for power, yet he was only Churnazh's fourth son. It was unlikely Harnak's removal would profit him significantly . . . but identifying his brother's killer to their father certainly would.
The Horse Stealer stood and glared down at the motionless body while his mind raced. Killing Harnak wouldn't save Farmah, and that meant it wouldn't help him, either. Enough torture would loosen any tongue, and Churnazh would apply the irons himself. He'd like that, even if he hadn't lost his son. So unless Bahzell was prepared to cut the girl's throat as well as Harnak's . . .
"How badly are you hurt, lass?" he asked, turning to her at last. She looked back mutely, and he waved a hand in a gesture that mixed impatience with apology. "We're both dead if we stay, girl, whether he lives or dies. If I get you away, can you stay on your feet to run?"
"I—" Farmah looked back down at Harnak and shivered, then stiffened her shoulders and nodded as her own thoughts followed his. "I can run. Not fast, M'lord, but I can run," she said hoarsely. "Only where could I run to?"
"Aye, there's the question." Bahzell gave Harnak another kick, feeling her watch him in silence, and the look of trust in her one good eye made him feel even worse. He wished her no ill-fortune, but he couldn't help wishing he'd never heard her screams, and he knew too well how misplaced her trust might be against the odds they faced. But counting the odds never shortened them, and he sighed and shook himself. "I'm thinking there's just one place, lass—Hurgrum."
"Hurgrum?"
He smiled sourly at the shock in her voice, for if one thing was certain it was that he couldn't return to Hurgrum. There'd be hell enough to pay over this even if Harnak lived; if the bastard died, Churnazh was certain to outlaw Bahzell for breaking hostage bond. He might well do so even if Harnak lived—gods and demons knew he'd seemed happy enough to let others try to provoke Bahzell into something which would let him do just that! And if the Bloody Swords outlawed him and he returned to his father's court, the fragile balance holding the armies from one another's throats would come down in ruins.
"Aye, Hurgrum," he said. "But that's for you, lass, not me." He turned away from Harnak, doubts banished by action, and lifted her in his arms. "I came this way to avoid people. Let's be hoping the two of us don't meet anyone else on our way out—and that no one finds this bastard before we're gone."
Chapter Two
Bahzell moved swiftly down the ill-lit halls despite his burden. Churnazh's "palace" was a half-ruinous rabbit warren whose oldest section had been little more than a brigand's keep, built in a swampy bend of the small Navahk River as a place to lie up and count loot. Its newer sections included a few straighter, wider passages—evidence of days when Navahk's rulers had at least aspired to better things—but the present prince's notions of maintenance left much of his palace's crumbling core dangerously unsafe.
Bahzell knew that, but it was always best to know the lay of the land, and after two years, he'd learned the palace as well as any of the slaves and servants who toiled within it. Now he used that knowledge to pick a circuitous route that avoided sentries and well traveled areas, and he made it almost all the way to his assigned chambers before he heard the sound of feet.
He swore softly but with feeling, for he couldn't have picked a worse place to meet someone. The brisk footsteps clattered down a cross passage towards the last four-way intersection before his rooms, and the bare corridor behind him offered no concealment. But at least it sounded like a single person, and he set Farmah down and drew his dagger in a whisper of steel.
The feet pattered closer. They reached the intersection, and Bahzell leapt forward—only to jerk himself up short as his intended victim jumped back with a squeak of panic.
"M-M'lord?" the middle-aged woman quavered, and, despite the situation, Bahzell grinned. Her eyes were glued to the steel gleaming in his hand, and she sounded justifiably terrified, but she wasn't running for her life. Which she would have been, if she hadn't recognized him. Churnazh's servants had the reactions of any other terrorized and abused creatures, and it had taken Bahzell months to convince them he wouldn't hurt them; now this single moment made all his efforts worthwhile.
"I'd no mind to frighten you, Tala," he said mildly as he lowered his dagger. The woman who would have been the palace's housekeeper in Hurgrum (here she was simply one slave among many, and more exposed to her "betters' " wrath than most), drew a deep breath at his pacific tone and opened her mouth . . . just as Farmah stepped waveringly out from behind him.
"Farmah!" Tala gasped, and leapt forward as the girl's legs began to give. Only Tala's arms kept her from collapsing, and the housekeeper gasped again as she realized how badly hurt Farmah was. Her eyes darted back to Bahzell, and he winced at the sudden, horrified accusation—the look of betrayal—in them. Yet he couldn't blame her for her automatic assumption, and the accusation vanished as quickly as it had come. The horror remained, but fury replaced the betrayal, and her ears flattened.
"Who, M'lord?" she hissed. "Who did this?!"
"Harnak," Farmah answered for him, resting the less injured side of her face against Tala's shoulder, and the protective arms tightened about her. Tala looked into Bahzell's eyes, searching for confirmation, and her own face tightened as he nodded. She started to speak again, then pressed her lips together and handed Farmah back to him.
She darted back to the intersection without a word and looked both ways, then beckoned him forward, and he sighed with relief as he scooped the girl back up and followed her.
Tala led the way to his chambers like a scout, then closed the outer door behind him and leaned against it to watch him deposit Farmah gently in a chair. Her expression was grim, but she showed no surprise when he shrugged out of his tunic, squirmed into a padded buckram aketon, and lifted his scale shirt from its rack. He drew it on and reached up for his sword, looping the baldric over his head and settling the hilt against his left shoulder blade, and Tala cleared her throat.
"Is he dead, M'lord?" Her voice was flat.
"He was breathing when I left him. Now?" Bahzell shrugged, and she nodded without surprise.
"I was afraid of this. He's been after her so long, and—" Tala closed her mouth and shook her head. "How can I help, M'lord?"
Bahzell shook his head quickly, his face grim. "You'd best think what you're saying, Tala. If he dies yet, or if we're caught inside the walls—"
"If you're caught, it won't matter whether I helped you or just didn't call the Guard myself." Her voice was bleak as she looked at Farmah, huddled brokenly in the chair and little more than half-conscious. "That could be me, M'lord, or my daughter, if I'd been fool enough to have one."
Bahzell frowned, but she was right. He'd already put her at risk simply by crossing her path, and he needed all the help he could get.
"Clothes first," he said, and Tala nodded, accepting his acceptance. "I've naught that would fit her, and if anyone sees that cloak—"
"I understand, M'lord. We're close enough in size my clot
hes would do. And then?"
"And then forget you ever saw us. I'm thinking it's the servants' way out for us."
"Can she walk?" Tala asked bluntly, and Farmah stirred.
"I can walk." Tala eyed her skeptically, and she straightened in the chair, one arm pressed to her side to cradle broken ribs. "I can," she repeated, "and I have to."
"But where can you— No." Tala cut herself off and shook her head. "Best I don't know any more than I must."
"Aye, for all our sakes," Bahzell agreed grimly, and began stuffing items into a leather rucksack, starting with the heavy purse his father had sent with him.
"Very well, M'lord. I'll be as quick as I can."
Tala slipped out, closing the door behind her, and Bahzell worked quickly. He could take little, and he made his choices with ruthless dispatch, watching Farmah from the corner of one eye as he packed. She listed sideways in the chair, no longer holding herself erect to prove her strength to Tala, and he didn't like the way she was favoring her right side. Something broken in there, and gods only knew what other damage she'd suffered. He admired her courage, but how far could she walk? And how quickly, when Churnazh's men would be after them a-horseback within hours?
He pushed the worry aside as best he could and buckled the rucksack, then took his steel-bowed arbalest from the wall. (That was one more thing for Churnazh to sneer at—what sort of a hradani relied on arrows or bolts instead of meeting his enemies hand to hand?) Bahzell had hostage right to carry his personal weapons whenever he chose, but one sight of the arbalest by any sentry would raise questions he dared not answer, and he hesitated, loath to abandon it, then whirled as the door opened silently once more.
It was Tala, clothing bundled under her arm. She paused if to speak when she saw him holding the arbalest, then shook her head and crossed quickly to Farmah and helped her up from the chair. The door of the inner bedchamber closed behind them, and Bahzell laid the arbalest aside with regret. Their chance of getting as far as the city gate unchallenged was already so slight as not to exist; adding more weight to the odds would be madness.
He shrugged to settle his armor and began to pace. No one was likely to stumble over Harnak, but every second increased the chance of his regaining consciousness and raising the alarm himself. Once that happened—
Bahzell pushed the thought aside with his worries over Farmah's strength. There was nothing he could do if it happened; best to concentrate on what to do if it didn't, and he rubbed his chin and shifted his ears slowly back and forth as he thought. The immediate problem was escaping the city, but after that he still had to get Farmah to Hurgrum somehow, and how was he to do that when he himself dared not enter Hurgrum's territory? He could think of only one way, but with Farmah's injuries and—
He turned as the bedchamber door opened once more and Farmah stepped through it. Her movements were slow and obviously painful but stronger than he'd dared hope, and Tala followed her with a worried expression.
The housekeeper had done well, Bahzell thought. It would take an observant eye to realize the plain gray gown was just too large, its hem just too short for Farmah, and the extra girth helped hide the bandages Tala had bound tight about her ribs. Its long, full sleeves hid the bruises and rope burns on the girl's arms, as well, and Tala had dressed her hair, but nothing could hide the marks on her face. The blood had been washed away, and the cuts no longer bled, yet they were raw and ugly, and her bruises, especially the ones on her broken left cheek, were dark and swelling.
Farmah felt his gaze and touched her face.
"I'm sorry, M'lord," she began wretchedly, and he felt her shame at her ugliness, her knowledge that some, at least, of those cuts would be scars for life and that anyone who saw them now would guess instantly what had happened to her, "but—"
"Hush, lass! It's no fault of yours." He glanced at Tala. "I'm thinking a hooded cloak might help," he began, "and—"
"Indeed it might, M'lord," Tala agreed, raising her arm to show him the cloak draped across it, "and I've had another thought or two, as well."
"You'd best not be getting any deeper into this," Bahzell objected, and the housekeeper snorted.
"I'm deep enough to drown already, M'lord, so save your worry for things you can change." She was old enough to be Bahzell's mother, and her tart tone was so like his old nurse's that he grinned despite his tension. It seemed Churnazh had failed to crush at least one of his slaves completely, after all.
"Better," Tala said, and folded her arms beneath her breasts. "Now, M'lord, about this plan of yours. If the pair of you try to leave together, you'll be challenged by the first guard you meet."
"Aye, that's why—"
"Please, M'lord!" Her raised hand shut his mouth with a snap. "The point is that you don't have to leave together. All the servants know how you creep in and out to visit Lord Brandark." His eyes widened, and she shook her head impatiently. "Of course they do! So if they see you, they'll assume that's all you're doing and look the other way, as always. And the guards are less likely to challenge you if you're by yourself, as well. True?"
"Aye, that's true enough," he admitted slowly.
"In that case, the thing to do is for you to go out through the back ways while Farmah walks right out the front gate, M'lord."
"Are you daft?! They'll never let her pass with that face, woman! And if they do, they'll guess who marked her the moment someone finds Harnak!"
"Of course they will." Tala glared up at his towering inches and shook her head. "M'lord," she said with the patience of one addressing a small child, "they'll guess that anyway when they find her missing, so where's the sense in pretending otherwise when leaving separately gives you both the chance to pass unchallenged, at least as far as the city gate?"
"Aye," Bahzell rubbed his chin once more, "there's some sense in that. But look at her, Tala." Farmah had sagged once more, leaning against the door frame for support. She stiffened and forced herself back upright, and he shook his head gently. "It's nothing against you, Farmah, and none of your fault, but you'll not make the length of the hall without help."
"No, M'lord, she won't . . . unless I go with her." Bahzell gaped at the housekeeper, and Tala's shrug was far calmer than her eyes. "It's the only way. I'll say I'm taking her to Yanahla—she's not much of a healer, but she's better than the horse leech they keep here for the servants!"
"And if they ask what's happened to her?" Bahzell demanded.
"She fell." Tala snorted once more, bitterly, at his expression. "It won't be the first time a handsome servant wench or slave has 'fallen' in this place, M'lord. Especially a young one." Her voice was grim, and Bahzell's face tightened, but he shook his head once more.
"That may get you out, but it won't be getting you back in, and when they miss Farmah—"
"They'll miss me, too." Tala met his gaze with a mix of desperation and pleading. "I have no one to keep me here since my son died, and I'll try not to slow you outside the city, but—" Her voice broke, and she closed her eyes. "Please, M'lord. I'm . . . I'm not brave enough to run away by myself."
"It's no sure thing we'll have the chance to run," Bahzell pointed out. Her nod was sharp with fear but determined, and he winced inwardly. Fiendark knew Farmah alone was going to slow him, and if Tala was uninjured, she was no spry young maid. He started to refuse her offer, then frowned. True, two city women would be more than twice the burden of one, under normal circumstances, but these weren't normal.
He studied her intently, measuring risk and her fear against capability and the determined set of her shoulders, and realized his decision was already made. He couldn't leave her behind if she helped Farmah escape, and her aid would more than double their chance to get out of the palace. Besides, the girl would need all the nursing she could get, and if he could get the two of them to Chazdark, then he could—
His eyes brightened, and he nodded.
"Come along, then, if you're minded to run with us. And I'll not forget this, Tala." She opened her
eyes, and he smiled crookedly. "I'm thinking my thanks won't matter much if they lay us by the heels, but if they don't, I'm minded to send Farmah to my father. She'll be safe there—and so will you."
"Thank you, M'lord," Tala whispered, and he wondered if he would ever have had the courage to trust anyone after so many years in Navahk. But then she shook herself with some of her old briskness and touched his arbalest with a faint smile. "You seemed none too happy to leave this behind, M'lord. Suppose I bundle it up in a bag of dirty linen and have one of the serving men carry it around to meet you outside the palace?"
"Can you trust them?" Bahzell asked, trying to hide his own eagerness, and her smile grew.
"Old Grumuk wanders in his mind, M'lord. He knows where the servants' way comes out—he taught it to me himself, before his wits went—but he'll ask no questions, and no one ever pays any heed to him. I think it's safe enough. I'll pass the word to him as we leave; by the time you can make your way out, he'll be waiting for you."
