If he hadn't been looking for it, Jason wouldn't have seen the rope snake up and around the pole supporting the glowsteel and mirror next to the guard station. Jason dipped the pike twice to the left, and then to the right.
At that signal, Walter Slovotsky climbed quickly up the rope and disappeared over the side. There was silence for a few moments, and then a dark form slumped out of the window of the narrow guard shack at that corner.
"Guard," Durine hissed. There was movement at the near guard shack.
The door to the shack opened and the guard stepped out onto the walkway.
"Now." Two bolts hissed into the night, vanishing in the darkness. Jason was sure it was Durine's that pinned the slaver's throat to the wall of the shack.
The man struggled feebly and Durine put another bolt into him, this one piercing his chest squarely.
"Let's get downstairs," Durine said, quickly reloading the crossbows, then tying the windlass and a quiver of bolts to his belt.
It was a bit awkward walking down the stairs with a cocked crossbow in each hand, but in a few moments they were at the rear door. It slowly opened, just far enough to admit the two of them.
Walter Slovotsky stood there, smiling in the dim light of the overhead glowsteels. He hitched at the pistol at the right side of his waist.
"Now?" Durine asked.
"Now, we go kill some slavers in their beds."
Sick to his stomach, Jason returned Slovotsky's smile.
* * *
They stood in front of the locked door to the slave pens while Jason fumbled with the keys.
It had all gone bloody, but well; they'd killed six sleeping men, Walter Slovotsky slitting their throats while they lay in their sleeping pallets, while Jason and Durine had stood in the doorway, ready to put a bolt in anyone who woke up.
But none of them woke up; Slovotsky had slit six throats, with no sound except for gurgling gasps.
They'd walked through the sleeping room, the floor slick with blood and shit, and through a swinging door into a kitchen, where five men, sitting around a table, drinking wine and talking, had sprung up, only to fall beneath hissing bolts and swords.
Three of them had shouted and leaped to their feet, reaching for weapons. One had whimpered as he tried to parry Slovotsky's lunge, only to be spitted on a sword, and another had thrown up his hands and begged for his life; Durine had hacked through his neck like a woodsman chopping down a tree.
Just numbers. That was all they were: six men sleeping, five men sitting, three shouting, one whimpering, another begging, eleven men dying. Just numbers.
Finally Jason found a key that fit into the lock of the knobless door. Durine stood behind him, ready to kick the door open if necessary.
Walter Slovotsky's brow furrowed; he held up a hand. Wait, he mouthed, running his fingers along the frame, up to the top of the door.
As his fingers tested the oak timber above the door, his face broke into a smile.
He gestured Jason to move away. Slovotsky took a small metal rod from his pouch and inserted it into the hole in the end of the key, tying the lockpick into place with a quick twist of string. He tied another length of string to the end of the pick, took a few quick turns around the key, and stepped back.
Slovotsky beckoned the two of them over. "That timber above the door isn't a timber," he whispered, his voice barely audible even inches away. "It's a deadfall. My guess is that if we turn the key counterclockwise, the way you usually would, it'll slam down. But I want to hedge my bet; it might be set to fall when the door opens, so when you do the door, Durine, get your leg out of the way, quick."
Durine nodded, and took up a position in front of the door, no longer quite below the timber.
Jason drew his pistol, opened the cylinder and thumbed a cartridge into the empty chamber, while Slovotsky did the same. If there were other slavers behind the door, this was a place for guns; a sixth round in the cylinder might make a difference.
Slovotsky pulled on the string. Slowly the key turned in the lock. Something snicked inside.
Durine, his sword in his right hand, his left arm wrapped in a cloak and left hand holding a lantern aloft, drew back his foot for a kick.
Slovotsky nodded. Durine's booted foot kicked the door, hard; wood splintered and shattered as it slammed inward.
Missing Durine's foot by only inches, the deadfall timber slammed down on the stone floor, splitting lengthwise with a pistol-like crack. Hopping over it, Slovotsky was first through the door: he broke left as he skittered inside in a half squat, the pistol held out in front of him.
Jason followed him in, breaking right.
There were shouts and cries, and Jason brought the pistol around, looking for targets.
There were targets in front of him: behind the bars, half-naked men crouched and shouted, some of them flinging hands up in front of their faces.
His wrist wavered, seeking a target. His finger tightened on the—
No. Those were the slaves in the cages; there were no slavers, no targets in the room.
Durine was smiling. "We're all set." The big man hung the lantern on a hook by the door, and left. He'd be keeping watch for a midnight relief party of slavers from the Silver Mushroom Inn.
Slovotsky was already straightening. "Ta havath, all of you. Shut up. You're being freed, assholes," he said, sticking his pistol into the front of his belt. He drew his knife and rapped on the bars with its hilt. "There's clothes upstairs, and you're welcome to what money and weapons you can find," he said, as Jason tried to stop the pounding of his heart.
Jason sagged against the coolness of the stone wall while Slovotsky released the slaves, ten unsmiling men in collars and filthy, ragged breechclouts, some of them standing in the front of their cage as though not sure what to do next, some of them still inside. They didn't appear to be ill-fed, but the slave kennels reeked of unwashed sweat; it was almost as bad as the charnel house outside.
Jason's lungs ached for the taste of fresh air.
"You'll find tools over there for getting the collars off," Slovotsky said as he worked the keys in the lock of the second cage. "The Warrior's next door, finishing off the guards in the stable. Help yourself to horses and saddles. I'd suggest you grab some food and weapons, and then get out of here. You're on your own."
One of the slaves, a skinny man, nodded briefly at another.
There was something very wrong here. The metallic taste of fear filled Jason's mouth, clutched at Jason's gut with icy fingers. Jason stepped away from the wall.
One of the slaves was having trouble getting up; Slovotsky took a step into the cell.
"No."
A black-bearded man reached out and pulled Jason off balance while strong fingers grabbed at Jason's left arm. Instinctively, Jason jerked on the trigger.
The blast was impossibly loud in the close confines of the kennels, the gun kicking hard in his hand, flame lancing into the ceiling.
A blow to the head set the world spinning, sent him reeling back, but he brought the pistol down and shoved the cold metal barrel against an unwashed belly.
The hammer rose and fell. The gun kicked hard against his hand. A warm, salty spray and awful stench splattered Jason's face as the man staggered back, two more rushing to take his place.
Jason shrugged off one attacker and pulled the trigger again, flame lancing out, spearing a slaver in the neck, sending him stumbling back into the bars.
A hairy arm snaked around Jason's throat, but he had already drawn his bowie with his left hand and stabbed backward, slicing into flesh, twisting his knife out when he hit bone. The man's scream deafened Jason's right ear before fading off into a sobbing whimper as he fell away.
"Back off," Jason screamed, shooting another one. Three shots; three to go. "Back off."
It was all obvious, now; these weren't slaves. They were the trap within a trap—slavers, masquerading as slaves.
Three of them had wrestled Slovotsky up against the bars, and on
e of them had gotten his knife, setting it against his throat while another clawed at the butt of his pistol. But Slovotsky, his eyes glazed, pressed his belly hard against the bars, trapping the pistol.
"Put it down. Put it down, or he dies," the slaver said, digging the point in for emphasis. "Do it now." Slovotsky's teeth clenched around a groan.
Fuck you, asshole, Jason thought as he brought up his pistol and shot the slaver in the right eye.
Slovotsky elbowed the other slaver away, drew his pistol and shot him, then picked up his sword and quickly speared two of the moving injured.
Jason had holstered his pistol and drew his own sword. He crouched, his bowie in one hand, ready to block, the point of his saber weaving, searching, hunting.
But they were all dead, all lying on the stone floor that was slick with the blood and the piss and the shit, and not only didn't it bother him, he liked it that way.
" 'Put it down or he dies'?" Jason spat on the body of the slaver who had said that.
* * *
Durine was in the door. He took it all in with one quick look, then turned to Jason.
"Go get the horses ready," Jason said. "And fire the place. We'll be along."
Walter Slovotsky faced him, his face and beard speckled with blood, not all of it his.
"You could have shot me, Jason," Walter Slovotsky said.
"You complaining?"
"Not at all. Not at all." He pressed a hand tightly against the side of his neck, staggering.
Jason was quickly at his side, supporting the older man. He dug a flask of healing draughts out of his pouch and handed it to Slovotsky, who pulled the cork out with trembling fingers, then drained it quickly.
"Let's get the hell out of here, kid," Walter Slovotsky said, his voice deepening, strengthening. "We can skip the note this time."
"Like hell." Jason was already untying the strings of Slovotsky's pouch; he fumbled out two speedloaders, then quickly loaded both his and Walter's pistols, careful to put the spent brass back in Slovotsky's pouch. He'd leave the bastards only dead bodies and a note to remember him by.
He took the note out of his own pouch, and stuck it in the mouth of a dead man. "Like the man says, the Warrior lives."
He kicked the body in the face. "And we are not nice people," he said. He clapped a hand to Walter Slovotsky's shoulder. "Come on, old man. Now we get the hell out of here."
CHAPTER 26
Laughter in the Dark
You know how to win a victory, Hannibal, but you don't know how to use it.
—Maharbal
Jason couldn't sleep. The hold had been dank and musty, and the constant, albeit gentle rocking of the boat had him vaguely nauseated. Again.
Whatever I'm good at, it isn't sailing, he thought. Again.
At least he wasn't alone, and hadn't been all night. He'd taken a turn with the tiller, letting Bothan Ver and Thivar Anjer get some sleep. With the search for the Warrior behind them, and with Salket long vanished over the horizon, tight muscles were beginning to loosen.
They'd made it away, again.
As long as the wind held steady it was easy, and Thivar Anjer had made it easier on Jason by lashing a rod to the starboard rail; he didn't even need to use the compass. From Jason's seat in the cockpit, all he had to do was keep the pole star, high above, over the rod.
* * *
Jane Slovotsky had taken the first turn with him, just sitting alongside him on the steersman's bench, his free arm around her, the back of her head resting against his chest. Her hair smelled of soap and sunshine.
"You got any bright ideas about what we do when we get back?" she asked, toying with his fingers.
"Not really."
"You don't want to, like, get married and start making babies and stuff?"
"Nah." He touched his lips to the top of her head. "Maybe later."
She laughed. "Well, that's good, 'cause I don't, either."
"Besides, you've probably got to work your way through most of the young barons-to-be around court."
"Jason Cullinane," she said, half-pretending to be shocked. "What kind of girl do you think I am?"
"You're Walter Slovotsky's daughter. And what's the matter—does only one fit?"
They both laughed.
* * *
Jane had gone below to sleep, and Durine had come up on deck a bit later, to noisily urinate over the side for longer than Jason would have thought humanly possible.
After he fastened himself up, Durine had started to go below, then shrugged. "Would you mind some company, young sir?"
"Not at all, Durine."
He sat down across from Jason and spent some time with him, not saying much. They just watched the stars and the night sky, and the distant pulsing of the faerie lights, until Durine yawned and got to his feet.
"I don't suppose," he said, "that you and I will be seeing much of each other after this, young Emperor. I just wanted to say that I'm glad to have been with you."
"Getting maudlin in your old age, Durine?" Tennetty's head poked through the curtains covering the hatchway.
Durine shrugged, his massive shoulders working beneath the thin cotton of his tunic. "A bit, perhaps."
She dropped to the deck, squatting tailor-fashion next to Jason. "Walter's been talking a lot about you. He says you did good. Real good."
"Yeah, but he lies a lot."
Tennetty's smile warmed him in the dark. "Pretty pleased with yourself, aren't you?"
Durine started to bristle, but Jason touched him once on the arm; he subsided.
"Yes, I am," Jason said. "I am very pleased with myself."
"You should be," she said. "None of us got killed on this one."
"I noticed." Although that wasn't true. Vator had died, and Vator was Jason's friend, even if Tennetty wouldn't think of him as one of them. But dead was dead, and there was nothing that could be done about it. Next time he'd do better.
He hoped.
She was silent for a long time. "You're not Karl, you know."
"I know."
"But you are a cold-blooded little killer. You'd slice a man open from crotch to his sternum, and then slit his throat for dirtying your boots with his blood and his guts."
He didn't remember drawing it, but his bowie was in his free hand. "Bet your ass, Tennetty," he said. "And not just a man."
She laughed. It wasn't a pleasant laugh, but that was fair enough, because she wasn't a pleasant person.
And he laughed back the same way.
Durine just looked at them as if they were both crazy.
* * *
Bren Adahan hadn't taken a turn, but he had come up on deck to relieve himself, too. He started to go back down, but then shrugged and sat down across from Jason.
"I want to talk to you about your sister."
Jason thought about telling him to go away, but Bren Adahan had been a good hand with the horses, had them at just the right spot down the road. He'd had them wait a few minutes while he walked back down the road and fastened a blackened rope across the road, at about the height of a rider's neck, and he'd even insisted on riding in front, his own sword drawn and held in front and to the side to at least give them a chance to catch any similar trap that had been set for them.
So Jason said: "Good idea."
"I'm a product of my time and place, Jason Cullinane. Don't judge me harshly. In Holtun, a baron has the right to ask. Besides," he added with a smile that was clearly man to man, "Jane is awfully attractive, at that."
"What are you asking me?"
"Don't mention anything to your sister. It wouldn't do any good."
Jason pretended to think it over, then nodded. "Perhaps I won't," he said. I will, he thought. Let Aeia decide whether or not she wanted to take official notice of it. "No problem, Bren. Go to sleep."
Betrayal? No. Aeia was family. Family came first.
* * *
As dawn broke over the horizon, he felt a familiar presence in his mind.
&nb
sp; *Jason, are you all right?* Ellegon was just a speck on the horizon, but the speck grew.
I'm fine. But this thing about the Warrior—
*I know—I've got Ahira and your mother with me.*
Jason stood. "Okay, people. Everybody, wake up," he called out. He stood, more tired than a sleepless night accounted for. "It's time to go home."
PART FOUR
After the Search
CHAPTER 27
"The Warrior Lives"
A Roman, divorced from his wife, being highly blamed by his friends, who demanded, "Was she not chaste? Was she not fair? Was she not fruitful?" holding out his shoe, asked them whether or not it was new and well made. "Yet," added he, "none of you can tell where it pinches me."
—Plutarch
Jason stood outside the great hall, waiting, until he decided he'd had enough of waiting. It didn't take long for him to have enough.
There were three ceremonial guards at the door tonight: Durine, Kethol and Pirojil.
"Let's do it," Jason said.
Pirojil started to protest that it was too early, but Durine shook his head and Kethol rapped the butt of his halberd on the stone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the Heir."
Jason walked across the carpet, uncomfortable in his velvet finery. It didn't feel right.
But that didn't matter. Got to keep a sense of proportion about everything. Control what you can, and let the rest go.
He paused for a moment at the foot of the table. Mother's chair. He rested a hand on her shoulder for a moment. She was stronger every day. Just have to keep her away from that damn magic that threatened to drive her crazy. Her fingers gripped his with surprising strength.
Ellegon, tell my mother that I love her— He stopped himself. She knew it.
To her right Walter Slovotsky and Kirah sat; to their right was Doria. A few days' rest had done Slovotsky a world of good; he looked a decade younger, and his I'm-so-clever-to-be-Walter-Slovotsky smile was perhaps a degree wider.
Guardians of the Flame - Legacy Page 48
