Guilford rummaged in his bag and pulled out an oiled-leather packet sealed with wax. “He had this sewn into the lining of his coat. I thought you ought to see it first.”
Gengrich drew a knife and slit the leather pouch open. A folded piece of parchment dropped out. He caught it and started reading.
“Jesus H. Christ!”
“Last time I called him, I got put on hold—” Guilford stopped at the look on Gengrich’s face. “Trouble?”
“Yeah, but—Frank, you really didn’t read this?”
“You had to cut it open, didn’t you? Is it hot?”
“Too hot to talk about here. It’s trouble, but maybe not for us. I need to talk with friend Marcus.”
* * *
The long-expected rain was turning to wet snow. Gengrich hoped Alex and his men would make it home safely. Meanwhile he was fighting the chill with a roaring fire and a jug of Guilford’s homebrew.
Marcus Julius Vinicianus sat across the table from him. He turned the parchment over and over in his fingers. He hadn’t taken a drink since he began to read. Finally he shook his head. “I find it hard to believe that Lady Tylara would employ assassins to kill the man who saved her from Sarakos.”
“Not just Caradoc. They suspect she offed Dughuilas. She set up somebody else, too.”
“And I am probably looking at him?”
“Got any better candidates?”
“No. You hold your people together as an organized force. Without you to control them your Earthmen would fight. Your local recruits would be divided and many would desert. By spring the Lord Rick could set any terms he liked for taking your surviving men back under his rule.”
“Just what I was thinking.” Arnold Gengrich drained his cup and refilled. “Which means I have to stay alive. That’s a real interesting proposition, seeing as how I also have to let these thugs try to assassinate me.”
Vinicianus looked down into his cup. “Does the wine speak, or did I hear you say you must allow an attempt on your life?”
“You heard me right.”
“Then—may I say that I honor your courage, but your judgement . . . ?”
“Is okay. Look, Marcus. This is something that can blow the captain’s alliance up north to little bits. If he stands by his wife, he’s at blood feud with Caradoc’s clan. If he dumps her, he’s not Count of Chelm anymore. No land of his own. That’ll make it hard for Ganton to keep him on as Captain General. And old Drumold will take his archers home. What’s he got left?”
“Anarchy. And the Time drawing closer. The priests of Yatar will not be pleased either.”
“Nobody’s gonna be happy if this gets out. The worst of it is we don’t know anything. All we have is this paper, and it’s not signed by anybody. No proof she did it.”
“But you believe—”
“I don’t believe in coincidences. Not big ones. If Caradoc hadn’t went west, things would have come apart.”
“I reached the same conclusion. Caradoc’s death was very convenient. Too convenient. What has this to do with letting them attempt your life?”
“Hard evidence. We let ’em try and catch one in the act. Give the kid to the captain for a present.”
The Roman looked thoughtful. “That would work. But you must catch your rabbit before you make a stew. You leave yourself as bait for assassins whose numbers and skills may be greater than we know.”
“Give me a better idea and I’ll take it.”
“Stay guarded.”
“How? I have to ride circuit to give judgement. And I can’t live with guards under the bed. Marcus, I am damned if I’ll sit on my ass in this room all winter!”
“I sympathize. But I would not trade places with you. Given the Lady Tylara’s reputation I would suppose she would not employ any but the most competent assassins.
“So. You seek evidence of the plot in order to trade with the Lord Rick. What else do you offer him?”
Gengrich shook his head to try to clear out the wine fumes. “I don’t get you.”
“I think we should be able to aid Lord Rick as well as threaten him. Threats alone might not move him, but if we have both carrot and stick . . .”
“With luck I’ll have the stick. What’s the carrot?”
“The craftsmen of Rustengo. The Lord Rick’s University designs many new and useful devices, but there are few craftsmen in Tamaerthon or Drantos to make them. The Romans would gladly help, but Lord Rick does not altogether trust Romans.”
“Smart man.”
Marcus gave a tight smile. “The Lord Schultz has influence among the Guilds of Rustengo, if he is telling the truth.”
“He’s probably exaggerating, but Schultzy’s no B.S. artist. If he says he can swing the Guilds, at the least they listen to him.”
“Excellent. Then let us offer to guard all those Rustengan craftsmen who wish to seek new homes in the north. I imagine that many would have already done so, except for the winter storms at sea and the bandits on land. We can do nothing about the weather or the lack of ships. We have already done much about the bandits, and allied with the Lord Rick we can do more.”
“That makes sense. Hell, Marcus, he might go better than that. To get a couple of thousand craftsmen for the University’s shops he might even spring for enough ammo to fight Phrados’ whole damned army!” Gengrich lurched to his feet, picked up the jug of homebrew with one hand and gripped Marcus’ shoulder with the other. “Friend Marcus, let’s drink a toast. To you and me never being enemies!”
10
“Present—arms!”
Twenty soldiers banged pike-butts on the stone floor. Two officers drew swords. A herald dressed in a moth-eaten scarlet robe strode forward.
“Who comes before Arnold son of Maximilian, Lord Gengrich, Lord of Zyphron?”
Schultz nodded to his own herald. The boy hitched up his robe, which was too long for him and made of plain blue cloth, though without moth holes. Then he stepped forward and shouted, while Schultz prayed his voice wouldn’t break: “Master of Foot Mortimer Schultz of Rustengo, speaking for the Great Guilds of the Free City of Rustengo.”
“Bear you proof of this?”
“I do.”
The boy’s voice had been steady. Now his hands were too as he pulled Schultz’s credentials out of his purse and handed them to the other herald. Schultz made a mental note to praise the boy for doing so well his first time as a herald. The job should have been filled by somebody more experienced, but the Great Guilds hadn’t been able to agree on whom. So it went to young Dylos, who was some sort of cousin umpteen-times removed to Diana. He’d lost most of his family in the last quake, and landed on Schultz’s doorstep with nothing but the clothes on his back. He couldn’t just be turned away, so it was good to know he might really earn his keep.
In fact, the Great Guilds hadn’t been able to agree on damned near anything other than sending this embassy. Schultz hoped Vinicianus’ spies weren’t as good as they were supposed to be, otherwise Gengrich would know too damned much about what a poor hand old Schultzy held.
The other herald turned toward the dais where Gengrich sat. “By my own honor and that of my office, by Yatar and Vothan, I swear that these are the true seals of the Great Guilds of the Free City of Rustengo.”
Gengrich took the parchment. “Then I greet you, Master Schultz. How does the Free City?”
“Well enough.” That was actually pretty close to the truth. The Rustengans were a tough lot, and were already pulling themselves together even before the last of the quake’s thousand dead were dug out and buried. If the walls hadn’t been so badly damaged that the city couldn’t be made defensible before spring came and with it Phrados’ army—
“We honor the men of Rustengo, and join you in mourning your dead. Yet if matters are well in the Free City, what do the Great Guilds ask of us? And why do they send an ambassador who will not submit to having his weapons peacebonded?”
Dylos’ mouth dropped open. Schultz put a hand on his
shoulder before he could say anything. “Lord Gengrich, two strong men may yet find themselves still stronger by joining forces. That could be the case with the Free City and the Lord of Zyphron.”
“Indeed.”
“As to why I refused to submit to peacebonding—I do not wish to insult your valiant men, but I could not be sure they had their orders in this matter from you. If it was indeed your wish that this be done . . .”
Schultz let his voice trail off and fixed Gengrich with a look. I can play cockamamie games too.
It was an old argument in this area: did a Master of Foot of a Free city rank as a noble with the right to be received in formal audience bearing an unbonded weapon? Or did he rank as a merchant, whose weapons had to be bonded?
It didn’t make much personal difference to Schultz. He still had his holdout gun and boot knife. It was obviously important to Gengrich. His people wouldn’t let him back down.
It would also stick in the craw of the Great Guilds if they had to put up with contempt from an ally. In fact, they might refuse the alliance. But if Schultz flat out refused the peacebonding, the alliance might never even be offered.
The thought of Diana being crushed in the next quake or turned over to Phrados’ men settled Schultz’s mind. “Lord Gengrich, to honor custom I shall submit to the peacebonding of my sword. You have but to give the order in my presence, and I will say no more.”
Gengrich nodded graciously. “I see that the Great Guilds have chosen their ambassador wisely. To honor him and that wisdom, I will peacebond Master Schultz’s sword with my own hands.”
Schultz relaxed. That was an honor often shown to men who were noble in their home countries but not here—Romans of equestrian rank, for example.
Gengrich stepped down from the dais. One of his guards handed him a yard-long leather thong. He wound it several times around the hilt and guard of Schultz’s short sword, then began an elaborate knot. As he tied it he bent down until his mouth was next to Schultz’s ear.
“Schultzy?” The whispered question was in English.
Schultz nodded.
“Don’t say anything. Don’t give up your holdout gun, but don’t let anybody see it. How are things in Rustengo, really? Not so bad?”
Schultz nodded again.
“Not so bad that you’re beggars?”
A third nod.
“I didn’t think you would be. Well, I don’t think I’m going to be asking for anything you can’t give.” He tightened the knot. “Someone with my signet ring will come around to your quarters about a candle after sunset. Follow him. Don’t take anybody with you—”
Schultz shook his head.
“Okay, take your herald. But that’s all. Understand? Otherwise no deal!”
A nod. Gengrich finished the knot and straightened up. “Let this peacebonding be a sign of the strong peace between Zyphron and the Free City in days to come. Long live the Free City!”
The cheering was ragged, but with a couple of drums thrown in there was enough noise to hide Schultz’s sigh of relief. He’d made it to first base without giving up anything important. Now Arnie wanted to talk for real.
Schultz backed away from the dais. I could turn, but it doesn’t cost anything to be polite. But I’m sure going to be in armor when Arnie’s messenger comes with that ring.
* * *
Gengrich sighed contentedly as the bathmaid poured another bucket of hot water into the tub.
“I think it’s time to start warming the oil.”
“I’ve already warmed it, my lord. Then I wrapped it in a hot towel.”
“Good, Risha. You’re learning your work very fast.”
The girl blushed and looked down. She was the shy kind, never speaking unless you spoke to her first. Probably that busted nose and the scars on her chin and her left ear made her think she was ugly. She had a real nice figure, though, and with that head of blond hair—well, if he hadn’t valued peace with his women, Gengrich would have asked her to shuck off her gown and hop in the tub with him.
It was a Japanese-style tub, one of the little comforts he’d insisted on introducing to Castle Zyphron. Originally it had been founded as a Roman camp, back when this was part of the Roman provinces, but that was so long ago that you’d need a steam shovel to dig out the Roman baths. The tub leaked a couple of gallons every bath, but it still beat standing bare-assed in a stone-cold room and taking a sponge bath—
Someone was shouting outside the bathroom door, then Gengrich heard running feet. Fists pounded on the door.
“Lord Gengrich! Lord Gengrich!”
“The lord is at his bath—” began one of the guards at the door.
“Fire in the kitchen!” someone shouted.
“Damn!” said Gengrich. He stood up, sending water sloshing over the rim of the tub. A fire in the kitchen could be dangerous, with all the grease and oil ready to go up. Even if it didn’t spread, it could fill the whole place with smoke and force everybody outside on a miserable cold wet night—
“One of you go down and help fight the fire,” he said to the guards. “The other stay here, but leave the door open in case we have to leave in a hurry. Risha, you’d better go too.”
“Thank you, Lord, but with you here there is no danger.”
Gengrich grinned, not quite sure if he’d been flattered or insulted. Better warn her not to try any remark like that on Alex Boyd. . . .
One of the guards ran off to join the fire-fighting. The other wedged the door ajar with the lid of an oil pot and stood facing the opening. Risha went over to the hearth and picked up a cloth-wrapped bundle. Gengrich heard more shouting in the distance and sniffed for smoke.
Running feet echoed in the hallway. A man wearing a sodden cloak peered around the door. “Lord Gengrich! There’s a fire at the south gate! The scaffolding—ah!” He broke off with a gasp. Then he clutched at the back of his neck and fell.
As he hit the floor Gengrich saw Risha’s blue eyes blaze open. The look on her face turned her from a pretty teenager to a demon.
“Look out! The girl!” Gengrich shouted.
His warning was too late for the guard. Risha flung the oil pot straight at his head. Gengrich heard the crunch of bone, then the guard was down on top of the worker, writhing and clawing at eyes blinded by hot oil.
Risha reached under her gown and came out with a knife that looked two feet long.
He was already climbing out of the tub as she reached him. She stabbed upward toward his groin. Gengrich twisted and the thrust missed its target, but his violent movements upset the tub. It went over with a crash, and sent a wave of oily water across the floor. The water reached the hearth; the fire hissed, spat, and poured out a cloud of choking smoke.
Risha lost her footing on the suddenly slippery floor and went down. Gengrich stood and turned to run. She rolled and bounced to her feet like a trained athlete. She slashed at his leg and the knife left a thin line of red.
“Ho, guards! Assassins! To your lord!” Then, as Risha dashed between him and his sword he shouted again. “Help!”
The knife flicked across Gengrich’s left arm, leaving more red—and now he felt more pain in his leg than a light cut like that should have left. Poison on the knife? God, what a hell of a way to go, cut to bits by a teenaged girl!
“Goddamn you!” He struck at her and missed, feinted to the left, then kicked as she turned. She was fast but not fast enough to escape entirely. His bare foot whacked solidly against her left arm.
He feinted again, and stepped on a broken piece of oil pot. God dammit! He felt himself going over, and dived into a roll toward the girl. She slashed at his thigh, but that brought her knife hand in reach of his left. He grabbed the wrist, squeezing and twisting and heaving all in one motion. She let herself rise, then came down with her heel just missing his groin. He clamped his legs together on her foot without letting go of her hand, then rolled. She went down, but her thick pad of hair saved her skull.
“Give up, damn you!”
She didn’t answer. Her left arm wasn’t working. She clawed at his eyes with her right hand. “Enough,” Gengrich shouted. He locked the fingers of his free hand into her hair and smashed her head against the floor. She moaned but still struggled. He smashed her head down again. Then a third time, for luck and hate.
She was still breathing. He took a deep breath and resisted the impulse to stamp on her throat.
* * *
Schultz turned the corner behind the guide and cursed the cold and damp. He was sneezing before they reached the end of the corridor. Damn and blast. Colds were no fun on a planet ten light-years from nasal spray and Kleenex!
Maybe it would have helped if he hadn’t worn armor. He could feel the chill of his mail shirt even through the arming doublet. Now a couple of extra layers of wool might have done a nice job—
“Look out!” The shout made the guide draw his sword and sprint down the hall toward a half-open door on the left side. He’d covered maybe ten feet when the shadow of a beam seemed to turn solid and stick a knife in him.
At least that was the way it looked to Schultz. “Dylos, stay behind me—!”
“Ho, guards! Assassins! To your lord!” Smoke poured out of the door. “Help!”
The solid shadow came at Schultz with a knife in its hand.
Schultz’s nine-millimeter Star was in his hand before his attacker got to knife range. He squeezed off three rounds before he took time to wonder why the man looked so small. Schultz fired once more as he fell. That’s one. He turned warily.
A crossbow twanged from farther down the corridor and a quarrel sprouted from Dylos’ chest. Lord, why hadn’t the kid worn armor? Schultz fired twice into the darkness and was rewarded by a scream and the sound of a falling body. Six rounds. Two left. He wished for his nine-millimeter H&K with its fifteen rounds, and groped his way into the alcove.
Small fingers with an iron grip clamped around his wrist. At the same time a knife thrust toward his thigh. It struck the tail of Schultz’s mail shirt. He heard a high-pitched curse and the grip on his gun hand tightened.
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