The Swordbearer

by Glen Cook

  "Sounds like he's halfway there," Rogala growled.

  The Brother nodded. "Misplaer and Eldracher are out of his way. If he's elected Fray Magister, Elgar and Count Cuneo won't have much of a life expectancy."

  Gathrid prompted, "Yedon Hildreth is no fool."

  "He can't fight Ventimiglia, root out treason amongst the Alliance Kings, and shield the Empire from Mulenex all at the same time. He'll have to compromise somewhere. He'll have to surrender something. He'll do it with his usual savage cunning, of course. He'll salvage what he can."

  "Politics," Gathrid grumbled. "Always politics."

  The Blue Brother offered a sad little smile. "Happens whenever you get three people within shouting distance. It's what separates us from the beasts."

  "I find it repulsive."

  "I expect you would. Life is simpler when you have the Power to impose your will."

  Captain Kraljevac gave them passes which permitted their passage through the cold-eyed guardians of the Beklavac narrows. They rode on to Torun.

  "Put your eyes back in," Rogala whispered.

  Despite having seen Senturia, Gathrid gawked endlessly. Torun was less populous than Ventimiglia's capital, but its massive public works were more impressive. He saw buildings bigger than all of Kacalief.

  Torun's people seemed to know them. Crowds came out. Each street showed its unique temper, ranging from friendly to hostile. Gathrid could detect no pattern of response.

  A King's messenger intercepted them. He bore an offer of royal hospitality. Gathrid glanced at Rogala. The dwarf shook his head. Gathrid refused graciously.

  "Don't ever put yourself in the hands of princes," Rogala told him. "That's a good way to get your throat cut. There's a likely looking inn."

  The inn refused their custom. They asked in the streets, and were directed to another. The dwarf found it acceptable. Its landlord was willing to take them.

  Gathrid walked back outside and looked up. The structure was four storeys tall. A private building. He was amazed.

  He went back inside. Something seemed to bore in between his shoulderblades. It became an almost physical ache. He whirled, saw nothing.

  "What's the matter?" Rogala demanded.

  "I don't know. Just had a funny feeling."

  Rogala scrutinized the common room narrowly. "I don't feel anything."

  That spot on the youth's back still itched. He glanced round again. "False intuition, I guess. Your senses are better than mine."

  "Not necessarily." Rogala kept a hand on his dagger.

  That same pain wakened Gathrid in the middle of the night. He did not move immediately. Aarant made warning sounds inside him. Across the room, near the single candle, Rogala was dozing in his chair. Gacioch's box lay on the table, beside the candle. He and the dwarf had been talking when Gathrid had gone to bed. Now the demon was snoring.

  There was something badly wrong.

  "Sorcery," Aarant told him.

  No doubt. Rogala did not sleep. He always took the night watches. Should Gathrid waken, he would be mumbling to himself or, lately, with Gacioch.

  Moving slowly, he reached for the Sword.

  "Use the other one," Aarant suggested. "They'll be listening for Daubendiek."

  Quietly, Gathrid made his bed look occupied. Finished, he scanned the room. Nothing seemed to be happening. He went and crouched in a shadowed corner, leaving Rogala to his slumber.

  Whence would they come? The door was locked and barred. The window was sealed against the winter's chill.

  A section of wainscotting crept away from the wall.

  Ah, he thought. This was why the landlord had insisted they have "the best room in the house."

  He had intuited the best lurking place. The swinging wainscotting masked him.

  A head popped out, glanced around. The whole man stole forth, reached back, helped another. The first then stalked Rogala with a garrote while the other went toward the bed. He carried a knife which burned a bright blue.

  Gathrid took the strangler first.

  The new sword was slower than Daubendiek, but devoured a soul as greedily.

  The man's name was Fiebig Koziatek. He was a Torun assassin, a freelance. He had no idea who had paid him. His equally ignorant associate, Zais Baukla, died a moment later.

  "Behind you," Aarant snarled.

  A thin golden rod poked out of the hatchway. Gathrid jumped, evaded pale fire which sliced six inches into the wall behind him. He charged. His blade found flesh.

  This was a man who had known something at one time. His mind had been cleansed of all but a command to kill. Even his name had been taken. Gathrid dragged him into the room. He neither wore nor bore anything condemning.

  "Someone will be watching for them," Aarant suggested.

  Rogala and Gacioch still slept. After checking them, Gathrid entered the hidden passageway. If no one else, he thought, the landlord would do some explaining. He had to be involved.

  The passage reached many of the rooms. Gathrid checked each and found it innocent. The hidden way ended in a cellar accessible both from the kitchen and an alley. The horizontal, hatchlike alley door was of rough, weathered lumber with wide gaps between time-shrunken boards. Through these Gathrid spotted a watcher on a nearby rooftop, crouched beside a pot-topped chimney.

  How to approach him? The detailed planning of the attack suggested that all exits would be watched.

  There had to be a way to trace the principal. Mulenex? Nieroda? Ahlert? Hildreth, trying to frame Mulenex? Or some local entrepreneur trying to obtain Daubendiek for his own use? Torun had an underworld replete with famous names.

  The watcher drifted away for a moment, pacing in boredom.

  Silent as a weasel, Gathrid slid into the alley. He took cover in a shadow out of view of the roof. He listened for evidence of a trap.

  "You're becoming another Rogala," Aarant chided good-naturedly. "It's safe. The sorcery was likely bought."

  A dog with an odd bark spoke from the far side of the inn. A cat yowled above Gathrid. A moment later a rope dropped and the watcher clambered down. He kept glancing around and muttering to himself as he stole to the cellar door. He grabbed a nearby keg, knocked its bung out, started splashing liquid around.

  Some sort of combustible, Gathrid realized. The assassins had been written off. The backup plan was to burn the inn with everyone inside. "That's getting a little carried away," he whispered. Aarant agreed.

  Gathrid sprinted toward the arsonist. The man just had time to look surprised . . . . Another ignorant hireling.

  Gathrid raced down the alley, into a side street, then round front, where he found another arsonist at work. A warning hooted from a rooftop. An arrow burred behind Gathrid's head and thunked into the inn wall.

  So. Bowmen to prevent escapes through the windows. Very thorough.

  The arsonist ran like all the imps of Hell were after him. Gathrid chased him a few hundred yards, then doubled back. He hoped to pick up the director of the team.

  Luck ran with him. He crossed the trail of a vagrant who gave himself away by moving with too much speed and suspicion. He glared at every shadow. Gathrid narrowly avoided betraying himself.

  The man led him to a small, neat house guarded by dogs. The animals fled from him without a whimper. He listened at the one window revealing a light.

  The vagrant reported to an underworld chieftain whose name, Suftko, Gathrid had heard in faraway Kacalief. In Torun he was as powerful as any prince. Once the vagrant guaranteed his unnoted escape, he took the failure of his agents philosophically.

  A short time later the crime baron took to the streets. Four bodyguards accompanied him. He led Gathrid to a large church. There he met briefly with another man. The bodyguards made it impossible for Gathrid to eavesdrop. The meeting ended. Gathrid had to make a choice of pursuits.

  He chose the paymaster, reasoning that if another attack had been ordered it would find Rogala wakened and on guard.

  His man we
nt on to another church, a tiny chapel hugging the skirts of Torun's royal citadel. His stride was confident, his attitude bold. He was not concerned about being tailed.

  In the chapel he met an early rising monk.

  Who was no monk. Gathrid recognized him instantly. He was Bilgoraj's King, Kimach Faulstich. The Kimach Faulstich he deemed responsible for Gudermuth's destruction. "How did it go?" this make-believe monk asked.

  "Failed. The Swordbearer didn't respond to the sleep spell."

  "Damn!"

  "Suftko is willing to try again. For another fee."

  "The man is greedy."

  "He has his uses. He'll keep trying till he succeeds, till you go broke or there's a shortage of blades. He's got pride. But he won't risk his own people."

  "Alfeld, there's gold in the sacristy. I'll send more down if it's necessary. Just get it finished before noon tomorrow. That's when we finalize the agreement."

  "It went through, then?"

  The King fiddled with a chalice. "It did. Don't ever forget. When Sartain is mine, Torun is yours."

  "And the Contessa?"

  "Of course. I have no other use for Hildreth's brat."

  So, Gathrid thought. Kimach was plotting to usurp Emperor Elgar. Sartain was going to grow crowded with all the pretenders. And this cousin Alfeld was to receive the Bilgoraji crown for his part in the treachery. Meaning he had an eye on the Imperium himself. Elgar had no natural heir. He had declared Yedon Hildreth his successor. The Count's claim would descend through his daughter, the Contessa Cuneo, Fiona Hildreth.

  "Is Suftko suspicious?"

  "No." Alfeld snickered. "He's convinced we're working against Ahlert. He wouldn't have helped otherwise."

  "Patriotic blindness has its uses, too. Pay him. And don't stint. Light a fire under him. I need those people dead."

  Kimach turned to the altar, knelt. Alfeld fetched a sack from the sacristy, hurried into the night.

  Kraljevac was dead on target, Gathrid thought. He eased out from under the pew where he had hidden. There was a sellout in the script. Though Ahlert probably had other prospects, a great treachery could be smothered in its cradle here. And Gudermuth's demise could be counterbalanced a caratweight.

  Kimach glanced up from his prayers as the blade fell. He died before he fully realized that he had placed his bet and lost.

  How very vulnerable they become when they get sneaky, Gathrid thought. Had Kimach remained faithful he would have been surrounded by so many bodyguards even Daubendiek could not have reached him. To play foul he had to venture out on his own, baring his neck . . . .

  Gathrid swallowed Bilgoraj's politics in one great, sticky, sour, disgusting lump.

  There would be hell to pay in the morning. He wished there were some way to make the Red Order look responsible.

  He ran into the street, toward the gangster's home. He overtook Alfeld four blocks from his destination. The royal cousin was strolling along whistling. The sack he bore had, mysteriously, lightened by half. Gathrid cut him down and took what was left.

  Despite the cumulative gruesomeness of this night's work, he chuckled. It was a sound as fell as any ever to issue from the mouth of Theis Rogala. He was changing. There were moments when he enjoyed his role.

  He was delighted with what he learned from the dead man. Neither Kimach nor Alfeld had been honest with his cohort. Kimach had used Alfeld so he would have a convenient scapegoat. He had had no intention of delivering the promised crown. Or the Con-tessa, whom he had earmarked for a favored son.

  Alfeld had had his separate arrangement with Gerdes Mulenex. It had promised him kingdom and Contessa in exchange for the life of his cousin.

  Gathrid's loathing of politics grew stronger.

  There was Suftko yet. The gangster had tried murder, yet seemed clean by comparison. Maybe he could be manipulated.

  Again the dogs did not challenge the youth. He eased to Suftko's door, gave the knock the pseudo-derelict had used.

  The guard within sensed trouble. He opened the door a crack, then shouted.

  Gathrid drove his blade through wood and flesh, withdrew it, hacked at the chain holding the door. As he entered, attacking in a whirlwind of steel, he realized that he had made a tactical blunder. The house was dark. He could not see his foes. They could see him silhouetted in the doorway.

  His weapon knew where they were though. In seconds it was over. Three lives had been devoured. Gathrid pushed on to a lighted room from which panic sounds came.

  He found another three men. One was Suftko, another was a bodyguard. The third was a renegade Brother. Gathrid slew the bodyguard and was closing with Suftko when the magnitude of his peril struck Aarant. "Behind you!"

  Once again he dodged the aim of a golden rod. A beam sliced furniture and scarred walls. Gathrid ducked and dove forward.

  The sorcerer was nimble. His weapon was one the younger sword could not negate. It took all the youth's borrowed skill to survive the next minute.

  The sorcerer died.

  "A Blue!" Gathrid said. "And owned by Mulenex . . . . " But no more. He had fled, had enlisted with Suftko. A man in Suftko's business could find a thousand uses for a competent sorcerer.

  The man was overdue for death, Gathrid reflected. He had murdered Honsa Eldracher and betrayed Katich. No punishment was adequate . . . .

  Suftko had been hiding him from both Yedon Hildreth and Mulenex, each of whom wanted him desperately.

  "Watch the other one," Aarant whispered.

  Gathrid whirled. Suftko was opening the door as he had been fighting. "Stop right there! Or you'll die."

  The gangster turned, raised his hands. He was a small, hard man. Gathrid guessed him to be as shrewd and pragmatic as Hildreth or Ahlert. No doubt he was aware of the dead wizard's entire history.

  "There'll be hell to pay tomorrow. Unless somebody does one good cleanup job."

  Suftko said nothing.

  "You've got one chance to buy your life." Gathrid told the man the true story behind his hiring. "I want the trail covered. For both our sakes."

  "All right. I don't have much choice, do I?"

  "Not much. I'll be back if you don't deliver."

  The hard little man nodded.

  "Good luck, then." Gathrid went away admiring the gangster. The man had shown no fear.

  He returned to the inn before dawn more than tainted the eastern sky. The scullery help were about, but did not notice him slipping into the cellar. The body in the alley was absent. The fish in the Blackstun would feed well today.

  Rogala still snored. So did Gacioch. The corpses in their room had not been disturbed. Gathrid left them lie. He placed his weapon near Daubendiek and slipped into bed. The Sword moaned softly, evilly, jealously.

  "Be careful," Aarant whispered.

  "I plan to."

  He was adrift on the twilight edge of sleep when he suddenly realized that he had been away from Daubendiek for hours, and by miles. Well might the Sword be jealous. His hand stole toward the new blade. He yanked it back. Suppose? . . .

  There were always levels to Nieroda's schemes. This might be one to seduce him away from the blade he hated, then leave him powerless. He lay back. "Tureck, mull that one over."

  "I am already."

  Gathrid bolted up again, horrified.

  He had slain no fewer than a dozen men that night, without qualm or question, and without being controlled. He could not deny responsibility . . . . The Swordbearer's fate was closing in. He was becoming a man without remorse.

  Sleep was a long time coming. He could not stop poking a stick into the hornet's nest of his conscience.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sartain

  Gathrid and Rogala hit the road again after just the one night in Torun. Kimach's disappearance had stirred too much excitement and speculation. None of it was pleasant.

  The dwarf had less than usual to say. Gathrid tried to enjoy the passing countryside. He failed. He felt Rogala's veiled, curious eyes too strong
ly.

  The youth had said nothing about his night's work except to admit that he had forestalled the assassins. The dwarf, though, had seen the innkeeper's terror that morning. He had heard the news, rumors and speculations in the streets. He had done his sums.