The Sword of the South - eARC (26 page)

“I like it,” Kenhodan said. He supposed he should feel squeamish about cold bloodedly planning to ambush others, but he couldn’t. Hired killers were vermin, and there was only one way to deal with them. Or, at least, there was only one way for
him
to deal with them.

He wondered if he’d always been like that?

“Then—” Bahzell rose and carefully blotted his diagram with his heel “—I’m thinking we’d best be on our way again.”

Wencit and Kenhodan nodded, and the hradani pulled the picket pins and gathered up the pack horses’ leads as his companions, reclaimed their ponchos, tightened their girths, and climbed back into the saddle. The courser pawed impatiently, tossing his head and ready to be off, and Glamhandro snorted in reply. The pack horses seemed less eager, but their heads came up as the courser gave a shrill whinny. His right forehoof thudded the muddy ground again, and when Bahzell tugged on the lead ropes, they followed him gamely, forging back to the road. Hooves sucked in mud, then thudded on wet, firm turf. Horses and courser gathered themselves, then swung to the east once more, fleeing into the teeth of a misty dawn at the hradani’s heels, and rain swallowed them.

* * *

Fine rain beaded the cloaks and ponchos of a grim group of horsemen. Two of them rode ahead while their ten companions followed respectfully behind. One of the leaders was Chernion; the other was Rosper.

“I wonder why?” Chernion murmured as they rode on through the shredding fog.

“Why what?”

Chernion eyed Rosper thoughtfully. Rosper was Craftmaster of the south, second only to Chernion in this part of the Empire, and he’d earned that position. Chernion considered him a little hasty, but he was an able man, and one of only two who knew Chernion’s deepest secret.

“Why Morfintan?” the Guildmaster said after a moment. “It’s not the straight path to Angthyr, Rosper.”

“What of it? They’re warned now, and they’re detouring to avoid pursuit.” Rosper shrugged, and water trickled down his cloak.

“Are they?” Chernion’s head cocked thoughtfully. “Neither the Bloody Hand nor the wizard is a fool. They knew the horsetrader would be listening, just as they knew he’d betray them the instant he could. No, they left us a message, Rosper. They
want
us to come this way.”

“With all respect, I think you’re seeing plots that don’t exist,” Rosper replied. “They’re afraid of the Guild. It’s that simple.”

“No, it’s not,” Chernion said firmly. “These are no fat merchants or fawning, fat-bellied nobles. Now that they know we’re hunting them, neither Wencit nor the Bloody Hand will
fear
us. They have some purpose in mind, whatever it may be.”

“I’m not so certain. Not even Bahzell would care to face all of us.”

Chernion suppressed a sigh. So Rosper meant to be stubborn, did he? Well, it was Chernion’s duty to argue with him, even if it was likely to prove a futile exercise.

“Bahzell,” the Guildmaster said bluntly, “could kill half our brothers by himself, and if a quarter of the tales are true, Wencit could kill the rest without a spell. Which says nothing of the third man—and trust me, Rosper; the Bloody Hand and Wencit didn’t bring along a man who can’t fight.”

“And if we take them unaware?” Rosper asked pointedly.

“There are times, Rosper, when you show a glimmer of genius.” Chernion’s tone was as close to jesting as it ever came. “That’s what I hope for, but our best chance was in Korun, before they knew we were hunting them. The Bloody Hand hasn’t survived so long without growing eyes in the back of his head, and their guard will be up.”

“Let it be! We have two fresh horses each. Will run them to earth and take them in the dark! Or do you question my dog brothers’ stealth?”

“Rosper, you listen like a soldier! I never question the dog brothers’ stealthiness; but I fear the Bloody Hand’s. You’ve never hunted a target like him. I wouldn’t count on surprising him even if he didn’t know anyone was hunting him. But that’s the least of it, because he has a plan. I’m as certain of that as if he’d told me so himself.”

“What good’s a plan against a dozen of us in the dark? Not even Bahzell can see in all directions.” Rosper grimaced. “Your pardon, but this sounds like the fluttering of a frightened maid, not the words of an assassin.”

“Perhaps,” Chernion returned calmly. “But the wizard’s eyes aren’t like those of other men. Who knows what they see?
I
don’t…but I’m wise enough to fear them. No. We’ll follow, but carefully. Carefully, Rosper!”

“Of course, Chernion.”

Rosper slapped his chest in salute and fell back, explaining Chernion’s plans quietly to the others, and no listener could have guessed his mind wasn’t in complete accord with his words.

Chernion smiled and peered forward, carefully wiping bushy eyebrows and an oddly delicate face as water trickled down them. Rosper! He should have been a warrior, not an assassin. His skill with poison was outstanding, and it was his dart which had paralyzed the courser’s will before it could avenge its fallen rider. The drugs he’d supplied after that ought to have
kept
that will paralyzed, as well.
Obviously, something had gone wrong with that, but the truth was that Chernion couldn’t really blame Fradenhelm for assuming Rosper’s concoctions would keep the stallion quiescent and pliant until he could dispose of it. Chernion would have assumed the same. Unfortunately, it would appear there was more truth to the tales about the coursers’ vitality and resistance to poison than the Guildmaster had believed, and while one could scarcely blame Rosper for not knowing that, the evidence that his potions had failed of their purpose in the end had touched his pride on the quick. That would have been enough to hone the edge of his determination to lay their quarry by the heels, yet the truth was that injured self-esteem was only a part of what pushed him to drive the pursuit.

Despite his well-earned pride in the efficacy of his poisons, there were times the dog brothers’ stealthy killing galled Rosper. Times when he wanted to face his prey openly,
see
the knowledge that death had come for them in their eyes. Which was foolish. Assassins were better fighters than most, or they didn’t live long, but pride paid no bills and frontal assaults were bad business. Men hired the dog brothers when they needed an enemy to vanish without fuss or bother; any hired bravo with a sword could kill openly.

No, assassins traded in skill and stealth, and the Guild’s reputation attracted patrons who didn’t relish failure. It was always wise to pick the moment carefully, and Chernion disliked the notion of meeting Bahzell on ground of his own choosing. Assassins were merchants of death, not heroes, and the Guild had long ago learned how expensive it could prove to hunt Bahzell Bahnakson on anything remotely like his own terms.

Norfressa’s deadliest killer rode silently onward, lost in thought.

* * *

Wulfra of Torfo studied her crystal, peering down on Chernion from a great height. She knew Wencit was somewhere ahead of the assassin, but that was all she knew, for the old wizard’s glamour was beyond her piercing. Her patron could penetrate it, but he would no longer share his full information with her.

She sighed and gems flashed as she combed slender, ringed fingers through her golden hair, then steepled them under her chin. She might not like the cat-eyed wizard’s reasoning, but she understood it.

Wencit knew it was beyond her power to breach his defenses. So far, her minions had attacked only when there was some other reasonable explanation for how they might have tracked him, but if Chernion went unfailingly to him, he’d know he was under close observation. At best he’d strengthen his glamours…at worst he’d know someone more powerful than Wulfra opposed him, and the cat-eyed wizard refused to alert his ancient enemy.

Anyway, her patron probably disapproved of the dog brothers. Not that Chernion had much chance of succeeding. Wulfra knew that better than most, and she didn’t much like the exorbitant price the Assassins Guild had charged her, but it was she towards whom Wencit rode. Under the circumstances, she was prepared to try anything with a chance, however remote, of success. Besides, Chernion might just be lucky, for the assassin had a formidable record. And if the Guild failed, Wulfra lost nothing but the down payment they’d already received, for the dog brothers guaranteed success. In the rare instances when they failed—and they did fail, from time to time, despite anything their reputation might say—their clients owed nothing.

It was a pity, in a way. Wulfra smiled as she gazed at the assassin. Chernion truly was as capable as they said, and the assassin had already struck down two of Fallona’s better generals for Wulfra, though the dog brothers didn’t know she was the one who’d hired them. The contract had been negotiated in the name of Ranalf of Carchon, since Wulfra was of no mind to risk her saintly public image just yet. It would be a shame if the assassin’s steel was unequal to this task, but even that could be useful, for Bahzell and Wencit were bound to kill at least a few dog brothers along the way. If that happened, the Guild would be more determined than ever to kill them in return, for assassins had no friends. They took care of their own, because it was bad business for dead dog brothers to go unavenged. It was largely fear of inevitable retribution which made brave men hesitate to face them.

Yes, Chernion might yet be a winning card. If not…at least the assassin amused her. She enjoyed her link to Chernion’s mind, even knowing Chernion would risk anything to destroy her if the assassin ever became aware that link existed. Chernion had secrets, and the Guildmaster had killed repeatedly to hide them. It might be dangerous to know them, but Wulfra was willing to risk that.

She did so enjoy being on the inside.

* * *

“I thought you said there was a trail.”

Kenhodan’s tone was both pointed and sour as he eyed the river. Like the White Water, the Snowborn was high with snowmelt, and the road arrowed out into its waters on a broad causeway that melded with a many-arched bridge. Foam boiled through those arches, fretting at the constriction in brawling rage, but the stonework rose like a fortress, throwing back the current in angry ruffles of yellow and brown lace while the river growled its anger.

Day had come, such as it was. There was no sun; clouds shouldered one another in solid, lumpy charcoal billows and misty rain dusted down. The desolate sight of the flooded river glowered at them in the barren gray light.

“Aye, and a trail there is!” Bahzell raised his voice over the bone-numbing roar. “I was never saying as it was easy to reach!”

“Easy isn’t all that important, as long as it’s possible! Is it?”

“And would I’ve been after bringing you this way if it wasn’t?”

Kenhodan shivered doubtfully. Trees drifted on the current, swirling slowly end for end while water heaved and foamed through broken limbs and roots. The swollen river rose ten feet up oaks and ash trees growing well back from its nominal bank; farther out, the willows along the “shore” were barely visible humps of foam. Two of the bridge’s arches were packed with jams of wreckage, but it stood like a cliff, its piers founded firmly in the riverbed. The stonework bore the scars of combat, yet it faced the battle undaunted.

“Show me!” he shouted dubiously.

“Would it happen you see that oak?” Bahzell pointed upstream, and Kenhodan nodded. “It’s thirty or forty feet beyond it our trail lies. All we’re after needing is to swim the horses from here to there, d’you see?”

“You’re joking!” Kenhodan was stunned. “It must be a hundred yards! Look at that current! How are
we
supposed to swim that far—much less the pack horses?”

Bahzell glanced at the weary horses and smiled as the gray gelding raised his head. The pack horse was tired and unsure of what was about to be demanded, but he was willing—though that might change when he confronted the river.

“I’m thinking Wencit will be just fine!” Bahzell shouted over the river. “And so will I. His beauty’s strong enough to be towing him ─ and me, too, come to that ─ and we’ll tie one of the pack horse’s leads to his saddle, as well. You and Glamhandro can be coming behind with the other!”

“Brilliant! And what about the current?”

“And what current might that be?” Bahzell pointed smugly into the blowing spray. “The causeway’s solid as a Dwarvenhame dam, Kenhodan! The only current’s after being out in the middle; along the downstream sides it’s smooth as a Saramanthan duck pond!”

“A duck pond!” Kenhodan snorted.

He glowered at the river a moment longer, then shook his head and climbed down to rearrange his equipment. It still sounded insane, but Bahzell was probably right about the current. He hoped so, anyway.

He rechecked the pack saddles, lashing each item individually to the frames, then fastened the gray gelding’s lead rope to Glamhandro’s saddle. He checked his bow carefully, sealed his extra string in the oiled leather case to protect it, and fastened the quiver to his saddle, trying to keep his arrows’ fletching high enough to stay dry. Then he stripped off his sword and tied it behind the cantle. Finally, he dragged off his boots, and the causeway was chill and wet under his stocking feet as he tied them to the pack frame, as well. Last but far from least, he checked the fastenings of his harp’s case and hoped Brandark would never hear how was about to abuse the magnificent instrument.

Bahzell and Wencit had made their own preparations by the time he was finished. Wencit and Kenhodan retained only their daggers, and Bahzell had stripped to his arming doublet and bundled his hauberk and breastplate into an untidy package behind the courser’s saddle. Kenhodan grinned as they all stood bootless in the ankle-deep mud, and he wondered how many had ever seen Wencit of Rūm look so ridiculous.

“Ready?!” Bahzell’s shout cut across the river’s roar.

“As close to it as I’ll ever be, anyway,” Kenhodan replied glumly. Wencit merely nodded.

Bahzell roped the wizard’s left wrist to the courser’s saddle, fastened the second pack horse’s lead to it, as well, then reached up and gripped the saddle horn in his right hand. Water licked against the causeway six feet below its crest, and Kenhodan hoped there was no undertow…or underbrush.