Kneeling on the ground, the slaver was using a beltclaw to pull back his bowstring.
"Greetings," Karl said.
Chapter Six
Mindprobe
He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare, And he who has one enemy will meet him everywhere
—Ali ibn-Abi-Talib
At the sound of a gunshot down the road, Karl spurred Carrot into a gallop.
*Everything is under control,* Ellegon said, momentarily probing deeply. *As I see it is for you.*
Sure. Fine. Three more innocents dead, their throats slit. Just fine.
He eased back on the reins; the horse settled into a gentle canter.
*You take a lot on yourself, Karl Cullinane.*
There was no answer to that; he didn't try to find one.
He rounded the bend. In the vague glow of the distant faerie lights, Ellegon stood over Tennetty and the prostrate corpse of the last assassin.
No—not a corpse. While Tennetty's shot had opened the assassin's belly nicely, the bastard's chest was still slowly moving up and down.
The dragon lowered his head.
"What's going on?"
"Shut up—Ellegon's busy." Tennetty turned to glare at Karl, her fingers fastened on the assassin's wrists. "It might be a good idea to find out what this one knows, if anything."
*Too much pain. I can't get through.*
"Damn." Tennetty spat as she pulled the bottle of healing draughts from her pouch and sprinkled a bit of the liquid on the assassin's wounds, then dribbled some more in his mouth. "I hate wasting this stuff." She raised her head. "How about a hand here?"
Tennetty had already frisked the assassin and relieved him of his knives and pouch. Karl gripped the assassin's right wrist and pressed it firmly against the ground while Tennetty did the same with his left.
*Better. Shh—no. He's blocked too thoroughly. I can't go beyond his conscious mind.*
She shrugged. "No problem." She picked up his knife and flicked the scabbard away.
The assassin's head started to stir; his eyes opened.
"Who sent you?" she asked. "Tell us, and you'll live."
The round-faced man clenched his jaw. "I tell you nothing." He struggled, uselessly.
"Thank you." She smiled as she set the knifepoint against the side of his face, just over the trigeminal nerve, barely breaking the skin.
*Stop that, Tennetty. It was not necessary. Try another question, but don't distract him this time. He has to think of the answer for me to read it.*
Karl shrugged. There was always the obvious question. "What do you know that you don't want us to? What are you hiding?"
*Ahrmin. He wants to know about Ahrmin.*
Ahrmin? Karl almost lost his grip.
Ahrmin was dead in Melawei, burned in the Warthog.
*Guess again. He hired these three in Enkiar less than a hundred days ago. They're not slavers, they're mercenaries . . . I've broken through, Karl. Give me another moment, and . . . I have it all. Ahrmin, Enkiar, the Healing Hand, everything.*
The Hand?
*It seems Ahrmin requires major reconstruction. I'll give you his face later. For now . . . stand back from him, and move away.*
"No!" Tennetty drew her beltknife with her free hand. "He's my kill."
*You will stand aside, Tennetty.*
"Why?"
Ellegon's mental voice was calm, matter-of-fact. *You will stand aside, Tennetty, because the little girl's name was Anna. They called her Anna Minor, as Werthan's wife was Anna Major.
*You will stand aside because I had promised to teach her how to swim. And you will stand aside because she always called me Ehgon, because she couldn't manage the l-sound.
*And you will stand aside because this is the one that smiled down at her to quiet her as he opened her throat with his knife.
*And if you don't understand any of that, you will stand aside, Tennetty, and you will do so now, because if you do not stand aside I will surely burn you down where you stand.*
Tennetty moved away.
Gently, Ellegon picked up the struggling assassin in his mouth and leaped skyward, his mindvoice diminishing as he gained altitude and flew away. *There are balances in this world, Afbee. And while there is no justice, some of us do our best. I see you have a strong fear of falling. . . .*
"Karl? You want me to finish up here?"
"Can't. I lost my sword somewhere, and then there's—"
"I'll find it. You go home." Tennetty's face was wet. "Go."
* * *
Karl lay back in the huge bed, his head pillowed on his hands. Homecoming was supposed to be a joyous time, a passionate time for him and Andy-Andy. No matter what happened on the road, this was separate, different. Home.
But not tonight. He just couldn't—
"You're not sleeping," Andy-Andy whispered.
"I can't." His eyes were dry and aching. You'd think, after all I've seen, after all I've done, it would get easier. He patted her shoulder and slipped out of bed. "You've got school and some crops to deal with tomorrow—better get some sleep. Don't wait up."
"Karl—"
"Please."
* * *
Ahira was waiting in the hall. The dwarf was in full combat gear, his battleaxe unsheathed, his chair propped up against the door of Jason's room, his feet not reaching the floor.
Karl raised an eyebrow. "Trouble?" he asked in a whisper.
"Not at all," the dwarf answered him quietly, shaking his head. He cradled a clay bottle in the crook of his arm. "Everything's quiet. Chak and Ellegon are doing a search out over the plain, although I'm sure it won't turn up anything. It's just that . . ." He rubbed his hand down the front of his chainmail vest, then tinged his thumbnail against the axeblade. "Sometimes I forget what we're all about. I get caught up in the politics so much, sometimes . . ." He let his voice trail off, then smiled sadly. "Tomorrow, I've got to raise a burying party, to go out to Werthan's place and put him and his two Annas in the ground, and that hurts.
"But that's tomorrow." Ahira uncorked the bottle and took a sip, then offered Karl the bottle. "Tonight I'm going to drink a swallow or two of Riccetti's Best.
"But mainly, I'm going to sit here in my armor, with my axe at hand, and keep in my mind the simple fact that there are three children sleeping safely in that room there—two of whom I couldn't love more if they were blood of my blood and flesh of my flesh—and that nothing and nobody is getting past me to hurt them."
"Damn silly thing to do," Karl said, his eyes misting over.
"Isn't it, though? Mmm . . . you want me to find you a chair?"
"I can find my own chair."
Chapter Seven
The Bat Cave
It is always good When a man has two irons in the fire.
—Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher
The best way, maybe the only way, to deal with the pain was to get to work, whether or not the work was pleasant. Riding into Engineer Territory at the north end of the valley was a mixture of the two; it was something Karl always enjoyed, the pleasure dimmed only by the awkward necessity of stopping to see Nehera when he did.
The weathered Erendra sign on the split-rail fence was unchanged; it translated to "Proceed further only with permission"; it was amply decorated with the glyph for danger.
Karl laughed. Riccetti had changed the English part of the sign again, or at least had had it changed.
ENGINEER TERRITORY
Louis Riccetti, Prop.
Screw the rest
We work REAL magic here.
The smithy interrupted the miles of fence; huge doors like those of a barn stood on both sides of the line, although the eight half-sheds containing wood, charcoal, and iron stock were on the Engineers' side of the fence.
Nehera was a quasi-Engineer; his services and those of the apprentice Engineers learning smithing from him were needed by everyone in the valley: There were always horses and oxen to be reshod, plow blades to be sharpened a
nd straightened, nails to be drawn from thin nail stock, tools to be made and repaired, horsecollars forged, and so on.
Not all of his work was secret, nor did he do all of the secret work. While Nehera did virtually all of the barrel-making, the rest of the gunsmithing was done deeper in Engineer territory, in the two other smithies.
Better get it over with, Karl thought, as he dismounted from Carrot's broad back, then stepped on her reins for a moment, ignoring the hitching post in front of the smithy. If Nehera hears that I had someone else do the work, I'll have to put up with more sniveling than usual.
But dammit, why couldn't the dwarf be more like U'len? Just once, couldn't he snap at Karl, or tell him to go to hell?—anything that showed a bit of spine.
The civilian-side door was closed, indicating that something secret was going on inside. Karl walked toward the apprentice Engineer outside the guardhouse at the gate.
The boy was well trained. "Vhas!" he called out, bringing his rifle almost in line with Karl's chest. Halt. "Who goes there?"
Karl obediently halted, keeping his hands well away from his sides. "I am Karl Cullinane. Journeyman Engineer," he added, with a smile.
The boy nodded and smiled. "You are recognized, Journeyman Engineer Karl Cullinane, and welcome to Engineer Territory. I have a message for you from the Engineer: You are to join in the cave at your convenience."
"Thank you." Might as well have some fun, Karl thought. "Your name and orders, apprentice?"
"Journeyman!" The boy drew himself into a stiff brace. "I am Junior Apprentice Bast. My general orders are as follows:
"My first general order is: I am to remain at my post until properly relieved.
"My second general order is: I am to challenge anyone who approaches the fence or the gate, calling for them to halt as they do so.
"My third general order is: I am to allow no person to cross through the gate or over the fence into Engineer Territory within my sight unless and until he has halted for my challenge, and I am satisfied that he is authorized to do so.
"My fourth general order is: Should any situation not covered by the first three general orders arise, I am to send my second for the senior apprentice of the guard."
"And what would you have done if I had advanced after your call to halt?"
The boy sobered. "I would have sent my second for the senior apprentice of the guard, Journeyman," he said, pointing his chin toward the guardhouse.
"What for, Bast?"
There were only two answers; the boy picked the right one.
"To haul away your dead body, Journeyman," he said with utter seriousness.
"Good." Fortunately, there had never been a case in which an innocent citizen had tried to cross the fence after being hailed. It was just as well; many Home citizens resented the Engineers' patent arrogance.
Karl vaulted the fence and walked into the smithy.
Nehera was busy at work at the forge, two apprentices working the bellows while the smith held the long-handled tongs, occasionally pulling them back to check the color of the work.
From where he stood, Karl couldn't be sure, but it looked as if Nehera might be working on another sword. Homemade blades weren't popular only with Home warriors; they were slowly becoming a major trade item. Nehera had taken Lou's and Karl's scant knowledge of how Japanese swords were made and added his own considerable knowledge of steel-working; the result was finer blades—lighter, stronger, better able to hold an edge without chipping—than could be found elsewhere.
As the dwarf pulled the bright-red iron out of the fire and spun on his peg, bringing it over to the blocky anvil, Karl's guess was verified: Nehera sprinkled a scant spoonful of carbon dust over the steel, then hammered the iron bar over double, the anvil ringing like a bell.
He stuck the dull-red bar back in the fire, then turned to splash water on his face.
As he shook his head to clear his eyes, he spotted Karl for the first time.
Here we go again.
"I crave pardon, master." Nehera dropped to his knee, his peg skittering out sideways at an awkward angle. "I did not see you."
Karl didn't bother to tell Nehera that he didn't have to go through this every damn time; the dwarf still didn't get it, couldn't get it. Somewhere, somehow, Nehera's spirit had been broken, beyond Karl's ability to repair it.
That was the pity of it all: Nehera couldn't understand that he wasn't property anymore. The deep scars that crisscrossed his face, back, arms, and chest showed that he had been hard to break; the peg that served as his right leg confirmed that he had once too often tried to run for his freedom.
"Rise, Nehera," Karl said. "You're forgiven, of course."
"I thank you, master." The dwarf's puppy-dog smile almost made Karl vomit.
Dammit, you don't have to kneel in front of me, you don't have to beg me for forgiveness for not kneeling immediately, and you sure as hell don't have to look at me like that for forgiving you for not cringing quickly enough.
But what was the use? He could, once again, explain to Nehera that he didn't have to do that—he could even make it a command—but neither explanations nor commands of that kind had any effect. Whether Karl liked it or not, Nehera felt that he belonged to Karl, and that this was the way a slave was supposed to act; he simply refused to comprehend orders to the contrary.
The strange thing was, there were actually people in the world who liked this sort of thing, who felt that some other person cringing in front of them was their right, and their pleasure.
At that thought, Karl's fists clenched.
Nehera's face blanched.
"No, no," Karl said, forcing a smile to his face, "it's not you. I was thinking about something else. How goes the work?"
"I work hard, master. I swear it." The dwarf snuck a sideways glance at the forge, caught himself, then gave the slightest shrug Karl had ever seen.
Karl raised a hand. "Please, don't let me interrupt. We can talk while you work. I wouldn't want you to ruin something."
"I obey." Nehera momentarily drew the steel out of the fire, then replaced it, gesturing at the apprentices to pump the bellows harder. He treated them with a distant sort of superiority. After all, though they were free men, Nehera's owner had put him in charge. "It will take some time, master. Is there something I can do for you?"
"Three things, actually." Karl unbelted his scabbard. "First, this edge needs a bit of touching up. Do you think you might be able to do that for me sometime today?"
"Immediately."
"No rush, Nehera. I have to visit the Engineer, and I'll hardly need a sword here."
"May I speak?"
"Of course."
"I humbly crave your pardon, master, but you should always carry a sword." He limped quickly to the wall and brought down a scabbarded saber, pulling it a few inches from the scabbard, then offering it to Karl. "If you would care to test the edge?" Nehera extended his arm.
"No. I'm sure that it's fine."
"But, master—"
"No, Nehera," Karl said, cursing himself immediately for raising his voice as the dwarf dropped to his knee again.
"I have offended you again, master. I am sorry."
Karl sighed. "Forgiven, Nehera. Rise."
The dwarf got back up with irritating speed. "You said that there were three things, master?"
You make my teeth itch, Nehera. "Yes. Number two: I know you'd rather work in steel, but I need a golden collar made—human size. You can melt down some Metreyll coin."
The dwarf bowed his head. "Yes, master. That will be done before the next time I sleep."
"No, it won't—take your time. But I do want it before the town meeting. There is one other thing, Nehera. I've been hearing stories about how you've been working yourself too hard. That is to stop. When you are too tired to work, you must rest."
"As you command, master."
Damn. Enough of this; I'm going to go see Riccetti.
* * *
Karl accepted the c
lay bottle and took a light swig, then washed down the fiery liquor with a long drink of water. "Thanks, Lou. I needed that."
Still, the whiskey didn't wash the bad taste out of Karl's mouth. Which was perhaps just as well. Life was full of bad tastes.
He sat back in his chair, enjoying the coolness of the cave.
Well, this section of the warrens wasn't a proper cave, but a relic of the long-ago dwarven inhabitants, driven away, so legend had it, by Therranji elves. But it looked like a cave, and that was what they called it.
Caves were supposed to be damp and musty places—and most of the caverns were—but Riccetti's quarters were different, almost homey.
Riccetti's apprentices had cleared out the dirt, all the way down to the bare rock. Then they had installed four wooden walls and built a massive oak door to block Riccetti's quarters off from the rest of the tunnel, chiseled the floor smooth, and then finally bored openings through the rock to the outside to allow both for airflow and for the pipe venting Riccetti's Franklin stove.
Glowsteels hung from pulleys set into the arching ceiling above, fitted with ropes and winches so that they could easily be lowered and removed for Andy-Andy to recharm.
It was very much a Lou Riccetti type of place; rows of wooden worktables stood along two of the four walls, well laden with bottles and vats of various and sundry preparations, steel pens, bottles of ink, and stacks of notes awaiting copying and filing by apprentices.
But it was Riccetti-type homey: the sleeping and socializing part of the room consisted only of a pile of bedding in a corner and two armchairs, now occupied by Karl and Lou.
"Try the beer," Riccetti said. "I think it's the best batch yet."
Karl set down the whiskey bottle, lifted his mug, and sipped at his beer, forcing himself not to make a face. Ahira was right: While Riccetti's corn whiskey was usually good, his beer was a crime.
"Drink up," Riccetti said, chuckling. "You're being awfully patient. It isn't like you."
"I'm not like me. Not today." There were things that a human being just couldn't get used to, not if he wanted to remain a human being.
Riccetti tsked. "I should give you hell, for once. You're the one who's always saying that instead of getting worked up over something you don't like, you should do something about it." He snickered. "Not that I've always been a fan of how you've handled things. But you usually do well enough."
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