Guardians of the Flame - Legacy Page 18

  Karl shook his head. Not while Jason was wearing his amulet, she couldn't. And I don't think I'm going to get out of this one, Lady. "Besides, I'm not going after him. I'm going after the sword."

  "What?"

  It was a necessity. The others could track Jason better than Karl could. Karl's presence as one of the searchers wouldn't make a difference.

  This might. The only way for Karl to get the heat off Jason's neck was to put it on his own. The only quarry more interesting to the guild hunters than Karl's son would be Karl himself.

  "As long as I wear this," he said, tugging idly at the amulet around his neck, "Ahrmin can't locate me. As long as I wear this. . . ."

  He brought up his other hand and, holding the thong between thumb and forefinger of each hand, pulled at it; it parted as though it had been made of wet paper.

  "Now," he said, his voice almost a whisper, "they can find me. I'll take a few men, ride to Ehvenor, and take ship out of there. Ellegon, I want you to stop off and relay the story as you make your rounds. Let everyone know that Karl Cullinane is going for the sword."

  The dragon gave a mental shrug. *Hardly necessary, even without that. News travels by the shortest possible route. But I will.* The dragon's flame roared skyward, cleaving the night. *After I resupply Daven, where do I go? Search? Or join up with you?*

  "Neither. You are going to be needed here, to pick the brains of the Nyphs and find out who was behind the massacre. And then there's Daven's team. More supplies are probably going to have to be ferried to them." He looked out into the night. "You and I have taken on many responsibilities, old friend."

  *I understand.*

  He turned to the rest. "Is there anything else that has to be done before I—?"

  "No." Thomen Furnael stepped in front of the emperor. "Karl, you can't do this. I understand why you want to, but you can't. Your first responsibility is to the empire, not to Jason. And you—"

  Karl laid a hand on his arm. "He's my son, Thomen. I have to." He turned to face them all. "I'll be leaving in the morning. Garavar, pick out a party of five to accompany me—one of them a junior engineer—and have my supplies packed before you go to sleep. Thomen, I'll want you and Harven to ride with me to the border—we'll have time to go over some details."

  Ellegon nodded. *I hit the sky, now. Yes?*

  For a moment, a smile peeked through Cullinane's stony expression. "You're not going to take me aside and try to talk me out of this?"

  *I may be a young dragon,* Ellegon said, as he shook his massive head. *But I've gotten older and wiser in the time I've known you,* the dragon said, the light tone of his mental voice manifestly false. *I won't waste my time. Or yours. Go take your wife to bed, Karl. It may well be your last time.*

  It might, at that.

  Karl was tempted to blame Walter or Ahira, or Valeran. But that wasn't right. If—if—Valeran had been wrong to take the boy on the raid, Valeran had paid for his error. Besides, Karl didn't blame him. Or Walter or Ahira. Jason would have had to go through this, sometime.

  Hell, he didn't even blame Jason; it must have been hard on the boy, and it wasn't right to expect a sixteen-year-old to make the right decision. Once he'd run, turning back would have been very hard. There were some things that couldn't be turned back from.

  *Take care of yourself, Karl,* Ellegon said. *Walter and Ahira will find him. And when he's safe, we'll send someone after you.*

  "I'll be okay. Just make sure that the hounds go my way." He pulled Andrea to him, and, ignoring all the others in the room, held her tightly.

  *We will.* Craning his neck upward toward the balcony where Karl and Andrea stood, Ellegon's eyes searched his deeply, as the mental voice softened. *Karl, just between you and me, do you think you'll get out of this?*

  "Of course," he said, smiling. "Haven't I always?"

  I hope so, he thought. But I don't know.

  It all depended. Which way would Ahrmin and his hunters jump? And could Karl stay a jump ahead of him?

  Guess we'll all find out, the hard way.

  *I guess so.*

  Ellegon? In case I don't make it back, will you watch over her?

  *Of course, Karl. Karl?*

  Yes, Ellegon?

  *In case you don't make it back, thank you. I'll always remember.* A relayed image flashed through Karl's mind: a younger version of himself, waist-deep in sewage, reaching up to cut through a strand of the golden cable that held the dragon down. *I'll remember everything.*

  Karl smiled. Don't go maudlin on me. The last thing we need around here is ten tons of maudlin dragon. "Andy . . ."

  She held him tightly. "I know. In the morning?"

  "In the morning." Taking her hand, he gave a sketchy salute to the others. "Good night all, and farewell."

  "Good night, your majesty."

  *Goodbye, Karl.*

  Flame roared, as the dragon leaped skyward.

  CHAPTER TWENTY:

  Pandathaway

  Our swords shall play the orator for us.

  —Christopher Marlowe

  As they reached the top of the last hill, Jason gasped; he clutched the wagon's reins tighter and gave a slight, unconscious hitch to them, as though to speed up the team.

  "Don't be silly," Doria said, with a chuckle. "Well get there soon enough. It is pretty, though."

  Between rolling hills and the blue Cirric sparkling in the sun, the city of Pandathaway stood, white and gold, dancing in the sun. The streets were broad and even, some curving to help cup the harbor, others cutting across evenly, regularly. There were small parks scattered all over the city, squares of green checkering the field of white and gold.

  Doria extended an arm. "That's the library, there—and over there is the Coliseum, where your father beat Ohlmin."

  "Shh." Why did she have to talk so loosely? What if somebody overheard?

  Behind him, hooves clattered on the road, as Falikos eased up alongside the wagon.

  Doria patted Jason's knee. "Taren," she said, in a normal voice, "I do have my skills; trust me. Oh, and—greetings, Falikos." She eyed the setting late-afternoon sun carefully. "Are you going to try for the stockyards before dark?"

  Falikos shook his head. "No. We might be able to get all the beasts in, but I've found that some always manage to disappear when we try to count them in the dark. We'll make camp just outside the walls, and move the herd in the morning. Speaking of which, Taren, what are your plans?"

  Why, Falikos, I'm going to prove that I'm not a coward by assassinating Ahrmin.

  "I'm not sure, sir." He shrugged. "I'm open to anything."

  Doria spoke up. "If you're good with a sword, I've heard that there's money to be made in the Coliseum."

  "If you're some kind of Karl Cullinane," Falikos said, with a chuckle. "It's supposed to be a hard way to make a living. But probably worth a try, at that."

  Some kind of Karl Cullinane.

  Jason swallowed, hard. "And your plans, sir?"

  "After I sell the stock I'll take ship out of here; that's all I can say." Falikos shrugged. "I've been thinking about making a run up north and buying a load of blades, or south to Ehvenor and seeing what the faerie are trading—I will have to spend a few days and a few coins in a trader's tavern to pick up the gossip. What with all that I'll be carrying, Kyreen and Dyren will be staying with me, although I'll need even more of a bodyguard; I'm sorry that I can't ask you."

  "Oh?"

  "I haven't known you long enough. Too much of a risk." Falikos dug into his saddlebags and pulled out a small leather sack. "Speaking of which, here are your wages, as agreed—I threw in a little extra for the scar. I won't need you tonight; you can enter Pandathaway when you please. Doria? I don't believe I owe you any more, do I?"

  The cleric shook her head. "No—there hasn't been cause for extra charges, Falikos."

  "Then I'll bid you both farewell." He leaned over and pointed. "The entry station is—"

  "I've been in Pandathaway before, Falikos,"
Doria said, her voice holding a decided edge.

  The cattleman nodded. "Then be well." He wheeled his horse around and kicked it into a canter.

  "Let's go, Jason," she said. "I want to check in tonight."

  Jason turned to see that Libertarian was still hitched to the rear of the wagon; seeing that the gelding was still trotting easily along, he gave a sharp whistle and flicked both sets of reins.

  "Nice of him to pay us off today," he said. It really was; Falikos could have made him guard the camp that night, waiting for the next day and the entry of the herd into Pandathaway.

  "Nonsense. Don't be so gullible." Doria shook her head. "You've led a sheltered life. There's a tax on entry into Pandathaway—sometimes they charge warriors, sometimes not. Now, Falikos doesn't have to gamble; if we were still with the herd, Falikos would have had to pay it. Nothing I can do about it, either; Elmina negotiated with Falikos, not me. But enough of that."

  She eyed him carefully. "Any idea about what you're going to do now?"

  He shrugged. "I should be able to find some sort of work. Or take a chance in the Coliseum," he lied. First step was to find a place to load his weapons; second step was to find out where Ahrmin was; and then the last. To kill Ahrmin.

  You killed my Uncle Chak, bastard.

  But would Jason run again?

  Not again. No.

  Doria didn't say anything for a long time. Then: "Think it through, Jason. Don't you think your father sent assassins after Ahrmin?"

  Jason shook his head. "No. He wouldn't do anything like that."

  "Jason, grow up." Doria chuckled. "You'd be surprised what your dad would do. But I agree, for once: I don't think he would have sent good men after Ahrmin, because he'd know that Ahrmin is going to have at least as much security around him in Pandathaway as Karl does in Biemestren or Home. Swordsmen, bowmen, magic—he's going to be fully protected."

  "What?" It hit him: she knew he was after Ahrmin. "You knew I was going to—"

  She shrugged. "It's obvious. You feel you have to prove something. You have to go out and slay the biggest dragon you can find."

  At his puzzled look, she chuckled and shook her head. "Sorry—Other Side metaphor. The point is, though, that you're acting just like your father used to: You fix your mind on one thing, and forget everything else. Not good, Jason. Not good at all. You've got to think this through; this will require some patience, not just crashing into a situation the way," she said with a warm smile, "your father always does."

  She had known what he was up to. She had known, and she had kept the fact that she knew from him. The fact that she was right—that he did have to do this carefully—didn't make any difference. The fact that she'd misled him did.

  "Move over," he said. "You're blocking the door."

  "No. I want to talk about it."

  "Go talk with yourself."

  He gathered the reins together and handed them to her, vaulting from the wagon's bench and recovering in time to swing himself up, and in through the back door.

  "Jason," she called out, "what do you think you are doing?"

  He threw his things into his saddlebags and retrieved his disguised rifle. "What does it look like?"

  "You're not leaving. Listen to me. It can end here. Here's where you can turn around, and head back to Home. By the time you get there—"

  "No."

  "Then at least stay with me for the night. We'll drop off the horses and cart at the Hand Residence; I'll go find us a room somewhere and we can talk about it." She muttered a few quick words and hung the reins in the air, rising from the bench and crawling into the wagon.

  Doria drew herself up straight. "I swear, Jason, you put all that down and agree to stay with me tonight, or I'll Compel you." She turned halfway away from him, almost into a fighting stance. "I swear it."

  "You can't." He sneered. "You can't help me, remember?"

  "I could." Doria smiled thinly. "Once. The spells are in my head, boy. My . . . standing wouldn't be forfeit until I used the spell, until I actually helped you."

  "This isn't help."

  "I say it is. Now, do I have your word?"

  "Go ahead, Doria. Try it. Then what'll you be? A nothing, a nobody—how would you get by?"

  She shook her head sadly. "I don't know. But I swear, unless you give me your word, now, that you'll stay with me tonight and hear me out, I'll Compel you."

  "Doria, you're bluffing."

  "Am I now?" She swallowed, once, twice. "Very well." Her eyes went vague.

  She wasn't bluffing,

  "Wait! No—don't." The words tumbled out. "Agreed, Doria. Agreed, dammit. I'll stay with you tonight and talk to you."

  "That's listen to me."

  "Agreed. Whatever you say. Just don't. Please."

  She lowered her hands, all menace gone from her manner. "Good. Now, let's get ourselves ready to go through customs, okay?"

  Her voice was light and steady, but her forehead was covered with sweat, and her hands shook until she clasped them together.

  * * *

  The inspection proved to be even more pro forma than Jason had suspected; the elf asked them their business in Pandathaway, charged Doria a silver piece for entry, and waved their wagon through the gate, into the city of Pandathaway itself.

  Just then, the wind changed, and blew the stench of the city toward him: Pandathaway smelled like a well-used outhouse. Like Biemestren on a hot day, only worse.

  Doria's nose wrinkled, too; she brought up a finger and rubbed at it. "It wasn't this bad last time. But we won't notice it after a while."

  Thankfully, the wind changed again. There was a row of stables down the street to their right; Jason turned the wagon, the wheels rattling on the cobblestones.

  "First thing is to find a stable," he said.

  "No, Jason, we've got to find a place for us to stay tonight. We can leave the team with my sisters."

  "Not my horse, though. We take care of Libby, first."

  "Mmm . . . agreed."

  That was one thing that both Valeran and he had always insisted on: You fed and watered your animals before taking care of yourself.

  They left his horse and too much of his pay as a deposit for Libertarian's care with the third hostler they tried, a bored dwarf whose prices were merely highway robbery.

  And then they went into the markets.

  It was all new to him, but somehow it was all very familiar. It took him a while to figure out what it reminded him of.

  Back when he was just a baby, back before they had made the move from Home to Biemestren, Mother used to occasionally cook, giving U'len the night off. She always made the same thing, a dish she called paella. When she brought it to the table, Father always went into the same little speech about how it was a damn strange thing for a good Greek girl to make as her specialty, which always puzzled him, because he knew that Mother and Father came from a country called America.

  She would always laugh at that, and the stern lines in both of their faces would soften. It didn't bother Jason, being left out of their private joke, their own little world that contained just the two of them. It warmed him.

  Besides, he liked paella.

  It was always different, but the general theme was that of saffron rice cooked in chicken broth and a whole variety of spices, surrounding a rainbow of things that had all been cooked together: little cubes of chicken, beef, and lamb, all of which had been carefully browned until their outer crust was a dark brown, almost black; tiny wild onions; headless freshwater prawns and the huge mussels from the Seven Streams; strips of slow-cured ham; and tiny little peppers, always hiding so that they could make your eyes tear when you bit into one accidentally.

  He had always loved paella, and perhaps not just for the taste. Maybe it was the fact that Mother was doing something for him, for once; perhaps it was just that the idea of mixing different kinds of things excited him.

  The Pandathaway markets were like paella: a collection of sights and sounds
and smells, some of which weren't things that he would have thought would go together . . .but they did, nonetheless.

  The walls near the markets were plastered with broadsides proclaiming the virtue of some wares for those who could read, and the air was filled with the cries of loud-voiced merchants for those who couldn't.

  One of the broadsides caught Jason's eye. Are You a Swordsman or Bowman with Great Skill and Greater Ambition? it asked.

  He nodded for a moment as the press of the crowd swept them by the poster. He wasn't at all bad with a sword, and he did have a great ambition: to kill Ahrmin. But he doubted that that was what the broadside was all about.

  "What about my horse?" he asked.

  "What about your horse? He—it—should be fine where it is."

  "No. After. After I . . . do it. I may have to get out of Pandathaway quickly."

  "True. In which case you'll either have reclaimed your horse first, or you'll find another way out of town and just leave the horse behind." Cocking her head to one side, she eyed him quizzically. "Or do you really think that the hostler will let a valuable beast starve to death rather than decide that it's been abandoned?"

  "Good point." Still, the idea of abandoning the animal rankled. But she was right. As usual.

  Doria guided him down through the markets, past basketweavers and cobblers, coopers with freshly made barrels bleaching in the sun, and one baker's stall where the scent of fresh bread momentarily threatened to overpower the miasma of stale donkey urine and rotting dung.

  She stopped for a moment by a sandalmaker, a shrunken little man with tired eyes and a graying ponytail, and bargained hard for a pair of sandals to replace the riding boots that had Jason's feet sweating, then insisted that the sandalmaker shorten the anklestraps on the spot when they were too loose, threatening to leave him with blisters.

  Shortening the straps took about a fifth as long as the argument.

  The next stop was at a Spidersect stall, of all places, where a fat, greasy-bearded, black-robed cleric muzzled his puzzlement at Doria's presence long enough for Jason to purchase a small pot of unguent that the fat man swore would take all the sting out of Jason's saddle sores. Checking to make sure of the wax-and-cork seal, Jason tucked it in next to his boots in his backpack.