"Not for you. For the slavers. He shouted at me, 'Tell them,' he said, 'tell them that the warrior lives, and tell them I am coming for them.' Then he shouted at his companions to meet him and the boat, and gave the body of Nosinan a final kick . . . and then he was gone."
Several of the villagers nodded in unison; one of them, a thin pock-faced man with deep-set eyes, spoke up. "It's just as Dava Natye said. It's just as we told Laheran, of the guild."
CHAPTER 20
Comfort
Be cheerful while you are alive.
—Ptahhotep
Grab what comfort you can, however you can, whenever you can. The ride gets real rocky 'way too often.
—Walter Slovotsky
Bren Adahan had decided that Jason and Tennetty, still recovering from the shock of their wounds and the healing, needed a good night's rest. Jason wasn't in the mood to protest.
So they spent the night ashore, explaining to the villagers that it would not be a good idea if anybody from the village came up on them at night. They camped out on the grassy fringe just above the rocks, in clear view of the Gazelle, where it floated at anchor. The others preferred to sleep under the stars, but Bren Adahan and Jason each pitched a small raider tent.
Jason was asleep when something touched his foot. He woke suddenly, reaching for his pistol.
"Easy, Jason," Jane Slovotsky's voice whispered from the mouth of the tent. She tapped him on the foot again. "You were crying out in your sleep."
There was a bitter taste in his mouth, and his head felt as if someone was regularly jabbing a dull icepick into the back of his head. He brought himself up to his elbows.
"It must have been a dream," he said. But the dream was gone now. Something about wading through knee-deep rivers of boiling blood, holding a crying baby girl over his head. It had been distinct, sharp as the edge of a knife . . . but now it was gone.
He wiped sweat from his forehead and stretched, his blankets damp and musty around him. "Thanks for waking me." Her outline was vague in the dark, and then it was gone. She was gone.
His mouth still tasted sour as he checked his weapons. There was no waterskin near his head; he'd forgotten to put one nearby. As far as he knew, Tennetty had the only bottle of Riccetti's Best on the island. He needed a drink of something, and his bladder was full, tight as a drum.
He didn't like waking Tennetty. Not only did she need her rest, but she always came awake armed. Two or three times the Gazelle had taken an unexpected pitch or roll and he'd found himself bumped up against Tennetty, the slim woman coming awake wide-eyed, a knife in her hand.
He had slept in his jeans, but unbuckled the waist for comfort; he buttoned himself up, slung his holster over his shoulder, then crawled out and stood up in the night.
Tennetty was asleep a few yards to his left and Jane had returned to her blankets and sleeping canvas, to his right.
Tireless Durine was on watch, sitting on a rock down by the water. The big man raised his hand in greeting.
Bren Adahan's tent was a stone's throw from Jason's, and beyond that was the forest; Jason took the traditional twenty steps beyond the farthest sleeper and urinated against the nearest tree. He buttoned his fly and walked back toward the camp.
Beyond the charred bones of the waterfront buildings, beyond where gentle waves stroked the shore, the Gazelle stood at anchor, supported by a sea that seemed built more of reflected starlight and faerie light than of water. It caught the twinkle of the million points of light overhead, and mixed it with the pulsations of the distant faerie lights.
There were light footsteps behind him—bare soles on dirt.
Jane Slovotsky cleared her throat. She stood there in the dark, wearing loose drawstring pants and a shirt, holding a pair of clay bottles. "Pretty, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"Which do you want? Whiskey, water?"
"Both," he said, accepting the whiskey bottle first.
"You're not exactly your father," she said. "He wouldn't have let me sneak up behind him."
"I heard you."
"Sure."
He uncorked the bottle and took a swig. Lou Riccetti's corn whiskey might not have been as important a development as guns and gunpowder, but it had its points. Still tasted like horse piss, though.
"Easy on that," she said. "You had a bit of a shock today. Don't push yourself."
His first reaction was to bristle, to tell her that he was capable of judging how much he should drink and that it was none of her damn business . . . but she was right.
"Good point," he said. He exchanged bottles with her, and she took a quick swallow before recorking the whiskey.
A cold wind blew out of the west, but her smile was warm in the darkness.
The water was cold and fresh. It tasted good, particularly clean and bright tonight. Valeran had once said something about the value of almost getting killed: it did tend to sharpen the senses.
He handed her the water bottle. "Thanks."
"Mind if I ask a question?" she said as he started to turn away.
He shrugged. "Go ahead."
"Why haven't you made a pass at me?" There was a curious lilt in her voice, a note he hadn't heard before. "Is it me, or is it you, or is it some combination?"
"Has every man you've ever known tried to get you to sleep with him?"
She smiled. "Almost. Since I turned fourteen."
He looked down the slope toward the others, and she nodded.
"Sure. All three of them. Durine was kind of cute about it. Bren's being kind of a nuisance."
He shook his head, once. "Bren Adahan says he wants to marry my sister," he said coldly. "I'm not sure I like that."
"No harm done." She snorted. "I said no. Besides, I didn't know that it fits in only one," she said. "Yours shaped like a key?"
There wasn't anything to say to that, but he did anyway: "Do you have to talk like that?"
"I don't know." She shrugged. "Runs in the family. A lot runs in my family. . . . Did you ever ask yourself why my father sent you after me?"
"Because he wanted you and your mother and your sister to relocate to Biemestren," he said.
She snorted. "You do need a keeper. Didn't it occur to you that he thought that the two of us might pair off? Or don't you have all the parts?"
"No." It hadn't occurred to him. He swallowed. Why was she bringing this up? Just to make him uncomfortable. It should have occurred to him, though. Back in Biemestren, around court, there had been constant subtle pressure from most of the barons to pair him off with a baronial daughter. Any baron who had a daughter had no difficulty seeing her as the next empress. Why should Walter Slovotsky be all that different?
"Oh, that's too bad," she said half-mockingly. "You don't have all the parts, eh?"
"You know what I meant."
"Yes, I do."
He didn't remember her putting down the bottles, or moving closer to him, but suddenly she was in his arms, her hands locked behind his back, her mouth warm on his.
After a while she let go of him, moved a few inches away. "About time, Cullinane."
Durine had been watching the whole thing casually from his place by the water. Jason wasn't sure, but he thought he saw Durine smile before he turned away.
"He knows," Jason said.
She shrugged. "So what? Doesn't your tent have enough room for two?"
"Y-yes," he said, biting his lip in frustration at the way his voice shook for a moment. He was the man, damn it; he was supposed to be smooth and sophisticated. "But, why?"
"Didn't your father ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?" She laughed quietly, then kissed him gently on the lips when he frowned. "No, no. I'm not laughing at you. It's because, like, you're irresistible, maybe?"
"Try again." His smile didn't feel entirely genuine. Maybe Jane Slovotsky saw herself as an empress at court, too, eh?
"Who knows?" As though she was reading his mind, she nodded. "It won't bother me that from the morning on, it'll get easier to ke
ep Bren's hand off my ass. That's getting real tiresome. But mainly it's because of my father."
"Your father?"
"Something he said. Something about what almost getting killed does. Or doesn't it make you horny, too?"
CHAPTER 21
To Salket
The logic of the heart is absurd.
—Julie de Lespinasse
Lying, like eating, can be overdone.
—Walter Slovotsky
Klimos to Geverat, and they hadn't been there, but maybe on Menelet? No, no, the raid on Menelet was tendays ago. It was Klimos. The three of them, the dozen of them, the hundreds of them, had struck on Klimos, burned everything to the ground.
And did you see that thing fly by last tenday? I don't know if it was a dragon, but you wouldn't have any essence of dragonbane to sell, would you?
* * *
Geverat to Heshtos, and Jane thought that might be it, so they fired off a signal rocket that night and lay anchored offshore for a night and a day, supposedly rerigging the mast.
A boat came out to investigate, but it was only some local fishermen: Did you see those strange faerie lights last night? And have you heard about the Warrior? He could be anywhere—I hear the slavers are pissing down their legs any time they hear a loud fart.
They went ashore, but there was nothing but rumors.
* * *
Jane Slovotsky knelt by the map. "Salket," she decided, tapping the parchment, then resting her hand on Jason's leg. "It feels right." Her hand was warmer than it had any right to be.
"Two days," Bothan Ver said, hauling in the mainsheet, nail-bitten fingers directing the rope precisely, delicately, like a puppeteer pulling on the strings of his marionette. "Perhaps."
"If the wind holds," Thivar Anjer added, leaning on the tiller, squinting at the distant horizon. "Which it might."
"We'll find him there," Tennetty said, stropping her bowie against a whetstone. "And maybe only one or two of us will die."
"Everybody dies," Kethol said quietly. "Some of us a little piece at a time."
"It's your play, Jason," Durine said. "You're the Heir."
"That you are," Bren Adahan said. "And may one inquire why you're glaring at me?"
"You and I will have a talk about my sister," Jason said. "After Salket. And give me back my damn sword."
INTERLUDE
Ahira
The world is a vast temple dedicated to Discord.
—Voltaire
The dwarf was tired, dirty, and sore as, still on the back of his gray pony, he was hurried past the guard stations, into the inner bailey of Biemestren castle. The tendons in his thick neck burned like hot wires and a hot gray film had taken up residence behind his eyes. His right shoulder was a constant dull ache. It never went away, not even when he slept. The skin around the edges of the wound was raw and red.
After he had been picked up near New Pittsburgh, riders had been sent ahead, bringing word that he was on his way. So it was no surprise that they were waiting for him on the grass.
But it was still good to see them; it had been too long.
He dropped heavily to the ground and tossed his weapons to one side.
Kirah, D.A. in her arms, ran over to him. She dropped to her knees, burying her face against his good shoulder, and wept.
"Ta havath, Kirah, ta havath," he said, awkwardly patting her on the back. "Walter was fine, last I saw him." But that was too damn long ago.
He'd taken a bolt in his shoulder three weeks before, but he ignored the pain as he scooped up little D.A. She balanced easily on his forearm for a moment, then planted a wet kiss on his wet cheek.
"I love you, Uncle Ahira," she said, clear as a bell.
He folded the little girl in his arms and held her gently, carefully, in arms that could, that had snapped a man's ribcage like matchsticks. Fingers that had crushed, fingers that had destroyed, fingers that ripped flesh, toyed with her pageboy-length hair. "Got a new haircut, eh?" he said.
She nodded and smiled, practically bubbling. "Aunt Doria and Auntie Andy did it."
They surrounded him, Doria, looking as she did in his dreams sometimes: young again, if you only looked at the arms and neck and face, and didn't quite notice the eyes.
Still holding D.A. in his right arm, he wrapped his left around her waist. "It's good to see you, old friend," he said, damning the quaver in his voice. "Is Ellegon here?" he asked, although he'd been shouting with his mind for the dragon for hours.
"No." Doria shook her head. "He's trying to rendezvous with Jason and the rest in Mipos. He'll be back—maybe with them—in a day or two. I hope." She bit her lip.
Thomen Furnael stood a few yards apart, his face creased in concern. He was dressed informally: trousers, a light shirt, a black robe tucked over his arm. "We have to know, Ahira: is he alive?"
Andrea's face was a mask of grief. She didn't have to ask.
God, she looks old.
The dwarf shook his head. "Of course not. He blew himself up in Melawei, just like Jason and the others must've told you. Get me a drink, and get me into a hot bath, and we'll talk about it. We've got a day or two before we can do anything. If we can do anything."
* * *
The water was already hot in the officers' bath, over by the barracks. Ahira crouched in the oaken vat, the water up to his neck, steam rising from the surface.
It had been forever since he'd had a hot bath.
He sat back and tried to ease his muscles; he was strung tight as a lute's treble strings.
It had made sense, when Walter had proposed it on the beach at Melawei.
"Look," Walter had said, "he's dead, and there's nothing we can do about that."
"Except gather together what we can for burial," Ahira said, kneeling in the hot sun over Karl's hand.
It was Karl's left hand: the three outer fingers were just stumps.
Miraculously, the hand had survived intact, severed almost cleanly at the wrist, although it had been thrown easily a hundred yards from the center of the explosion.
Ants were already crawling on it, but Ahira couldn't force himself to reach out and pick it up, or brush them off.
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
"We can't bring him back to life," Walter said. "But we can keep him from dying."
"You're getting clever, Slovotsky," the dwarf said. "Sounds like a bad idea to me." But he didn't mean it, not really. It was just a reflex, after so many years.
"First thing we got to do is bury the hand, plus any other parts of him we can find. Or parts of the slavers that might be him. We can't let the Mel see that hand, and work it out. The official story is that Karl left."
"And then?"
"We've got to kill us some slavers." Slovotsky's smile was broad in the sunshine. But it wasn't really Walter Slovotsky's smile.
It was Karl's.
* * *
"When the Mel came back down from the hills, we—well, Walter, actually, lied his head off. Karl had left aboard Ganness's boat, we said, and we were to follow, once the slavers were dead.
"Old Wohtansen wasn't any too happy about that—I think he still remembers the time Karl punched him—but some of the Eriksen men volunteered.
"Didn't like the trip much. If anybody ever asks you if you want to face a storm on the Cirric in nothing more than an outrigger canoe with the sloppiest lateen rigging the universe has ever seen, tell them no.
"We hit them in Ehvenor. And then Lundeyll, and then Erifeyll, careful to leave evidence of three of us at all times.
"Walter and I split up in Erifeyll. The next part of the plan called for some time at sea, in the Shattered Islands. I'd be too conspicuous. A dwarf sailor? No; better they look for two humans and a dwarf. And just in case the legend of Karl Cullinane were to reach here, and raise false hopes, I was to hie myself back, fast as possible."
Ahira leaned back in the water and toyed with a cake of pear-scented soap, blunt fingers gently stirring up lather on its translucent surface. H
e tried to loosen his tense muscles, but that didn't happen. He fastened his hand around the bar of soap and squeezed. The soap flowed between his fingers like wet clay.
"I ran into a bit of trouble. Tell you about it sometime."
Doria felt at his shoulder, dry, practiced fingers touching impotently at a wound that was only partly healed. "We've sent for a healer," she said. "Spidersect."
He shrugged. "Walter's hopping among the Shattered Islands now, working his way—as indirectly as possible—to Elleport, then back up the Orduin toward Endell. He may head there, or he could change his route and head toward Home."
"Islands?" Garavar's voice sounded like gravel.
"Yes, yes, islands. He hires on as a sailor, and spends some time in the taverns across the islands, talking up the Warrior, and how he's been heard of here, there and everywhere. With his two, or twenty, or two hundred sidekicks. He should be finished soon; by now there'll be far too many hunters on the Warrior's trail, and Walter won't want to run into them." The dwarf sighed.
"Or, maybe he won't be finished. Not if he sees a Home signal rocket. He'll have to investigate that, which means that he's going to be looking for the kids just as hard as they're looking for him. Say, about half as hard as the slavers are looking for the Warrior."
Doria's fingers gripped his with surprising strength. "I'll come with you."
The dwarf shook his head. "No. Just me and the dragon. We'll try the next rendezvous that Jason and Janie set up, and if that doesn't work we'll try to find him."
"No," Andrea said. "No. It's you, Ellegon and me. I can find them."
"How do you expect to do that?" Doria was angry.
"I have my methods, Doria. Magic." Andrea muttered a few quick syllables that could only be heard and forgotten. She held out her right hand, and sparks danced between her fingers. "I know you think I use too much magic, but don't you think it's worthwhile for this? For my son's life?"
The sparks grew more violent, more frenzied, snapping like whips between her thumb and forefinger. Andrea's skin flinched where the sparks touched her, but she didn't shrink from it. Her lips moved silently, and the sparks grew louder, the flashes brighter and sharper, until with a quick flick of her fingers she dismissed the light and sound into nothingness.
Guardians of the Flame - Legacy Page 44
