Guardians of the Flame - Legacy Page 20

  Walter had to repress a chuckle at the way she kept a lock of hair in front of the right side of her face, concealing her glass eye; she looked sort of like Veronica Lake.

  A wiry, scarred, completely unpretty Veronica Lake, who could as easily slit your throat as look at you.

  Her level look at him said it all: I don't like you much, either.

  "I didn't think it was a voting matter," Aeia said, with a sly smile. "Isn't this supposed to be a led party?"

  "Shut up," Walter explained, returning her smile with interest.

  Things had settled down to a relatively stable set of relationships. Whatever Aeia had said to Bren Adahan while Walter had been off in Holtun-Bieme was working: As long as Walter didn't rub Adahan's nose in what he and Aeia were doing, Adahan seemed resolved to ignore it.

  Bren Adahan's brow wrinkled for a moment; his face brightened. "Let me make the arrangements for housing; I have an idea."

  Ahira nodded, bouncing up and down on the back of his pony. "Sure. Meet us in Dolphin Plaza. It's down by the docks."

  "If you can't meet us there, try at the steps of the Great Library," Walter put in. It wasn't impossible that that place had been torn down or something; best to allow for an alternative.

  Adahan spurred his horse. Aeia, after a glance toward and a nod from the dwarf, went after him. Walter Slovotsky approved; she made a good brake on Adahan. Or anyone else, for that matter.

  Tennetty chuckled ruefully. "Like a couple of puppies, them two." She eyed Walter speculatively. "She any good?"

  "None of your business."

  "Hey, Walter, ta havath." Tennetty shrugged. "I like them young, too."

  "Boys or girls?" he asked, then immediately regretted it as her face clouded over. But he couldn't resist adding, "Careful, careful, Tennetty—you're in disguise, remember. Slitting the throat of a robust fellow like myself might draw some attention."

  "I won't always be in disguise."

  "Enough, the two of you," the dwarf said, shaking his head. Then: "Damn you, ease up," as his gray gelding half-reared, spooked by a something small and furry that scampered across the filthy street.

  "Fine," Tennetty whispered. "We'll settle up for this some other time. When I clear it with Karl."

  "If."

  "When."

  Walter didn't understand Tennetty. As devoted as she was to Karl Cullinane, the notion of the big man riding into the jaws of a trap didn't bother her. It was as though Karl was a force of nature, not merely a very tough man.

  The dwarf squinted at a broadside, pasted against the building ahead. "Does that—shit."

  Great Risk Great Pay

  Are You a Swordsman or Bowman with Great Skill

  and Greater Ambition?

  AHRMIN, Master Slaver

  is hiring WARRIORS

  for an expedition past Faerie.

  Apply immediately at the Slavers' Guildhall.

  TRAINING in the ART of GUNNERY will be

  provided.

  * * *

  A Cook, Armorer, Cobbler, and Smith are also needed.

  Great Pay Great Risk

  * * *

  Walter vaulted from the wagon and studied the paper for a long moment. Too fast, this was all happening too damn fast. There must have been some spies in Holtun-Bieme, spies ready to drop their cover and gallop away. Probably even some sort of pony-express-style relay; otherwise the news couldn't have gotten here so quickly.

  A tall man, wearing the steel helmet and the center-ridged breastplate of Pandathaway's police force, walked up to where Walter and the dwarf stood.

  "Interested?"

  It took Walter a millisecond to slip into character: "Of course I am," he said, hitching at his swordbelt.

  "You're too late," the guardsman said. "They left two days ago. Are you any good with that sword?"

  Walter drew himself up straight. "Sir, I am Warrel of Horelt village. The Warrel of Horelt village."

  The guard shrugged—"Never heard of you"—and walked away.

  As soon as the soldier was out of sight, Ahira threw back his head and laughed. "The Warrel of Horelt village?" Ahira asked. "Really? Not the Warrel of Horelt village?"

  Even Tennetty grinned. "And I thought you were just a useless piece of meat."

  Walter Slovotsky shrugged. "Well, now that he's put me down, he's going to forget about me: I'm just some local champion who's come to Pandathaway to show off."

  Tennetty nodded. "Clever. Very clever. What do we do now?"

  This screwed things up profoundly. They could switch gears and go searching for Jason, but the Home searchers could handle that.

  The important point was that any chance of delaying or sabotaging the slaver hunters was gone with Ahrmin and his hunters. Unless, of course, they gave chase.

  Walter shrugged. "Guess we've got to find a fast ship that's heading for Melawei."

  "Whether they know it yet or not," Tennetty said, eyeing the edge of a knife that Walter hadn't seen her draw, hadn't known she had.

  The dwarf eyed the setting sun. "Well, we're not going to get out of here today. Let's go find the kids."

  * * *

  Aeia and Bren Adahan were waiting for them in Dolphin Square.

  Walter sighed. Some things seemed to improve with age. Some things were improved with age. And some were just fucked with until all their charm was gone.

  The Dolphin Fountain was one of the last.

  Years before, the center of the fountain had consisted of a gorgeous pair of marble dolphins, spouting water into both the breeze and the fountain. The dark-veined white marble, carved simply and elegantly, had glistened in the sunlight; stray traces of mist had refreshed him as he'd watched the smiling statues that were more dolphins frozen in midleap than cold stone.

  In the interim, some soulless criminal had gilded the statues; some unfeeling murderer of beauty had covered the innocent marble with gold leaf. It was probably the same boob of a sculptor with no fire in his veins who had carved miniatures of the dolphins into the edge of the fountain itself, in an awkward bas-relief that looked like a school of hopping minnows.

  The fountain was a caricature of its former self. It was almost enough to make Walter cry.

  "Have you ever seen anything like this?" Aeia asked, smiling up at him. "Isn't it gorgeous?"

  "No, I haven't," Walter said, keeping his voice flat and level. "It's unique."

  "I have arranged lodging for us," Bren Adahan said. "A suite of rooms in the Inn of Quiet Repose."

  "I thought I told you no on that." Ahira shook his head. "Tommallo knows us."

  Bren Adahan looked insufferably pleased with himself. "It's been years and years; Tommallo sold the inn long ago. I said I was the son of Vertum the hostler, and that I wanted the same suite of rooms that he rented, ten years ago; the owner shrugged to admit that there's nobody in the inn who was there ten years ago. So you get what you want, Walter Slovotsky," he said, turning to Walter. "You owe me one."

  * * *

  The Inn of Quiet Repose wasn't as Walter had remembered it, either. Maybe it was that the colors in the tapestries had faded over the years; perhaps the food wasn't prepared with the same care that fat, jolly Tommallo had lavished. The meals were filling, but the beef was overdone and stringy; the beetle-paste was cloyingly sweet; the chotte tasted like it had been marinated in stale lard instead of fried in fresh butter.

  The rug in their rooms was worn through in spots, and the chipped marble beneath was cold on his feet.

  Well, it cost less than it had last time. And at least the bathwater was hot.

  Toweling himself off, Walter walked into the common room, where Ahira and Tennetty were stretched out on the floor, talking while they worked on Tennetty's slave outfit. The ragged tunic drew attention to her long, skinny legs, drawing it away from the collar and manacles with their solid-appearing lock that she actually could remove in less than a second. The hasp of the padlock at her neck was actually the handle of a small Nehera-made knife; t
he body of the lock was its sheath.

  "Where're the kids?"

  Ahira jerked his head toward the door. "I sent them out to have a look around—see what fast ships are docked, and where they're headed. We'll want something speedy, and planning a bit of a run—say, at least as far as Lundesport."

  "If we're going to ijack-hay it, it'll have to be something fairly small, too. We can't ride herd on a whole lot of crew."

  "True. Get some sleep—we've got a long day tomorrow."

  * * *

  When they made love that night, it finally hit him, and not just as an intellectual proposition: Someday it would be over between the two of them. Not that night, but someday soon. After Melawei—assuming that they could hire or hijack a ship and get to Melawei—it would have to end.

  Aeia's and his relationship was unnatural. You just couldn't go on having sex without consequences, not with someone you cared about.

  Something would have to change.

  Idiot. Something always changes.

  He was homesick, he decided. Even with Aeia lying here, warm in his arms, he missed Kirah. Ridiculous. She didn't have Aeia's intellect or complexity, but there was something . . . comfortable, reliable about the old girl. Old girl, hah . . . she'd kept her looks. But she did have some funny ideas about Walter; she saw him as some sort of knight in shining armor, a kind of miniature Karl Cullinane.

  Ridiculous.

  Even more, he missed Janie. Damn, but she was a good kid.

  She reminded him of himself; they were two of a kind, Walter and his elder daughter: totally without restraint, without conscience, substituting prudence, when necessary. Janie understood her father; she'd probably understand this.

  It would be a shame for Janie and D.A. to grow up without a father.

  Have to be some changes made, he decided. Not that Walter Slovotsky was going to be the faithful type, but it was time for some changes. Time to grow up a bit.

  "Aeia . . ." He stroked a hand down her smooth flank, then brought it up to cup her breast.

  "Shh," she said. "I know." In the dark he could see her smile glisten. "But don't count on the timing. I might leave you before you leave me."

  "Very funny."

  "Isn't it, though?" There was a distant hint of hysterical laughter in her voice.

  "So why are we both crying?"

  She didn't answer. She just held him, her face wet against his chest, while he held her, his face wet against her hair.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:

  "Not Twice . . ."

  Go sir, gallop, and don't forget that the world was made in six days. You can ask me for anything you like, except time.

  —Napoleon Bonaparte

  The area around the Pandathaway docks was neither as crowded nor as fast-moving as Walter Slovotsky remembered. The first time they had entered the harbor, Avair Ganness and the rest of them had been forced to wait while the elf running the guideboat found them a place among the dozens and dozens of ships there. Silkies at the waterline had nudged the Ganness' Pride into its berth, while Ganness' pigtail twitched in irritation and worry; he'd babied that boat of his.

  The water had been clean, sparkling in the sunlight; the docks had seemed more burnished than weathered by wind and water.

  Now, the morning sun shone down a sludge pipe dumping a slow trickle of raw sewage into the harbor, while foul green algae lapped at the pilings. Over at the far dock, the single working guideboat leisurely dragged a schooner into its berth, both boats propelled by polemen in the guideboat, not enslaved silkies.

  The dwarf nodded. "Put another one in the plus column."

  "Right."

  "Daven's raid, I think? Or was it Frandred's?" Aeia asked. "I don't remember, for sure. I don't like either of them." She shivered visibly.

  "Daven, as I recall," Ahira said. "A strike that close to Pandathaway itself was too much for Frandred. He's not clever enough."

  "Let's go," Tennetty whispered.

  Slovotsky lightly tugged at the leash leading to the chain around Tennetty's neck.

  "Harder, asshole," she hissed at him. "If you blow our cover, we're dead meat."

  "Right. Just don't blame me later," he said. One of the seamen loading the boat—it looked like a junk, in both senses, Walter decided—glanced at them, then frowned, turned away, and turned back.

  "Shit," Walter said. "Tennetty—sorry. That will be enough talk from you, Ettlenna," he said, backhanding her across the face, leaving blood at the corner of her mouth.

  Tennetty whimpered.

  She did a good whimper.

  A very good whimper.

  Slovotsky would have commented on what a good whimper she did if he didn't remember that she did a great eviscerate.

  "I've found three possibilities," Bren Adahan said. "Only three, and none of them heading as far as Ehvenor."

  Slovotsky frowned. While it was clearly a slow time in the Pandathaway harbor, there had to be at least six ships sufficiently fast for their needs.

  Bren Adahan caught his expression and shook his head. "You're not thinking it through, Walter Slovotsky. We need a single- or double-masted boat, or it'll take too much crew to run it. And it's got to be large enough for us and the horses to fit on." His face grew grim. "I am not selling Seabiscuit; the emperor gave her to me."

  Ahira nodded. "Besides, we may need horses in Mela—whoa."

  "Melawhoa?"

  "Take a look at that big one, over there. The square-rigged job. Look at who's running it."

  Slovotsky looked. Sure, it was large, at least by local standards; except for a broad-beamed, three-masted ship on the far dock, it clearly was the biggest boat around. Supervised by a shaven-headed man who was clearly either the captain or somebody awfully senior aboard the ship, a gang of at least a dozen men were working a winch-and-crane setup, unloading a net filled with canvas sacks.

  "Yeah. So?"

  "Use your eyes, man."

  "I am using my eyes. They're just not seeing anything."

  What he saw was a square-rigged ship that clearly needed a crew of at least a dozen to sail: Unlike the way a lateen-rigged boat was sailed, it would be necessary to send seamen into the rigging to trim the sails. Granted, the design gave the ship a lot of useful deck space and allowed it to move a lot of cargo in the hold, but running it called for a large, well-trained crew operating under the guidance of someone who knew the Cirric and his ship, not a scared captain operating with a cocked pistol stuck in his ear.

  "I still don't see anything useful," Walter said, shrugging.

  Bren Adahan nodded. "I have to agree with Walter Slovotsky. This wasn't one of the ships I think we ought to consider."

  "Aeia, Tennetty," the dwarf said. "Take a good look at the boat. See him?"

  "No; and the boat doesn't look fam—oh." Aeia chuckled. "Him."

  "Yup."

  Tennetty snickered out of the corner of her mouth. "He shaved his head. And he's done a lot with the ship since we saw it last—switched the masts, added on the raised poopdeck. All in disguise, eh?"

  "All in disguise. Follow me," the dwarf said, leading them toward the ship.

  When the captain saw them, his dark face turned almost white; he staggered and clutched at the rail, only to miss and fall overboard, splashing into the filthy water below, sputtering out curses as he shinnied up one of the pilings to the pier.

  Under the coating of black-green slime, the captain's face was pale.

  Walter Slovotsky grinned down at Avair Ganness. He turned to the others. "I do believe we have ourselves a ride."

  * * *

  Avair Ganness toweled at himself vigorously, while a pair of deckhands working in tandem dumped bucket after bucket of water over his head. They were all gathered at the stern of the boat, just aft of the wheel. Over on the raised poopdeck, a rack of marlinspikes was partnered with a rack of bolts for the twin arrow-engines. The smooth wood was hot beneath his feet as Walter Slovotsky slipped out of his boots. Somebody had once warned hi
m about losing his footing on shipboard.

  "Itches, it does, as well as stink. I can remember when you could drink harbor water; now, I don't like even having Fortune's Son's hull in this water."

  Ahira didn't let him dodge the question. "Moving quickly back to the subject, Captain Gan—"

  Ganness hissed. "Crenneth. Voren Crenneth. Don't use the other name. I'm no more loved around here than you are. I have no wish to be a main feature in a Coliseum execution; they have gotten no prettier over the years."

  Walter Slovotsky shrugged. "The real issue is how soon you can hoist anchor and set sail for Melawei. You know why."

  "I know why; I have been hearing the news." The captain finished toweling himself off and stepped into a pair of blousy sailor's trousers, shivering in the wind.

  "Try some of this," Slovotsky said, pulling a flask of Riccetti's Best from his bag and taking a healthy swig before passing it to Ganness.

  The captain eyed the flask suspiciously.

  Aeia frowned, snatched it away from him, drank some, and handed it back. "There. Now if you drink it, all three of us are poisoned. If it's poisoned, which it isn't."

  "You weren't so forward with your elders when you were younger, girl." Ganness eyed her sourly, and drank, his eyes opening in possibly affected surprise. "Quite good." He was silent for moment. "You don't dare reveal who I am, any more than I'd try to expose you."

  Things got suddenly quiet on the deck; without making a threatening motion, most of Ganness' eighteen-man crew had managed to work their way to the stern, perhaps answering a silent signal. The temperature on the deck suddenly seemed about twenty degrees colder.

  Walter Slovotsky started to open his mouth, but Bren Adahan raised a hand.

  "This one is mine," Adahan said. "I'll handle it."

  Aeia raised an eyebrow; Tennetty looked at Walter and gave a half-nod, which he relayed to the dwarf.

  Ahira spoke up. "Go ahead."

  Adahan turned to face Ganness. "I understand your position, Captain . . . Crenneth. The . . . one whose name we're not going to mention here has always spoken highly of you, and many times has told me that he felt bad that you lost two ships on account of him. But you understand our needs, and how very serious and resolved we must be on this matter."