The Sword of the South

by David Weber

  “Why not?”

  “Because friend Fradenhelm was after sending them after us like a shot, lad, to save his own skin. Not but what he wouldn’t have done it for pay, anyway. He was after hearing us, and his only chance—and that not a good one—is to be telling them all he can.”

  “I thought you said he couldn’t do any more harm!”

  “And so I did, for I wanted him to be thinking I thought that. I’m hopeful of leading the dog brothers astray, and it’s mortal hard to lead someone wrong if they don’t think as they know where you’ve gone.”

  “Why not go south if he sent them east, then? We might’ve lost them!”

  “That we wouldn’t have. If we’d taken the South Gate, how long d’you think they’d’ve taken to be learning just that? We’re not after being the very hardest group for folks to notice, and Chernion’s the reputation of the best hired killer in Norfressa—not one to be running off on the say-so of such as Fradenhelm! No, Chernion’s one as knows his trade as well as I’m after knowing mine. He’ll have checked all the gates to be certain, for he’s not one to leave anything to chance, either. I’m doubting as it took him all that long to check, but it’s surprised I’d be if he could send runners to all of them in much less than an hour. So we’re after being that far ahead, and it may be—though I’d not count on it!—that he’s after believing we’re truly off to Morfintan.”

  “Well, we are.” Kenhodan paused accusingly. “Aren’t we?”

  “Lad, the war god loves truth, but himself’s also one as loves a cunning mind. In fact, to be cutting a long tale short—” Bahzell’s teeth gleamed “—no.”

  “Then where in Phrobus’ name are we going?” Kenhodan was on his feet, amazed by the anger exploding within him. “You and this wizard seem to have a means of communication denied to lesser mortals! Am I supposed to consult the birds to divine our future—when I can find any birds in this Chemalka-cursed climate? We been riding hard all night, and you haven’t even seen fit to tell me where we’re really going?!”

  He couldn’t see himself, but his companions could, and he no longer looked like a worried young man without a past of his own, for that inner imperiousness he’d already detected within himself had risen to the surface. His green eyes were hard, his jaw taut, and his expression was that of a man accustomed to command, not to obey. The wizard and hradani glanced at one another, and then Bahzell shrugged.

  “It’s sorry I am, lad,” he said calmly. “It was no part of my thinking to be misleading you, but you’ve the right of it—Wencit and I are after knowing each other too well. It’s not so very often we discuss our plans, because we’re in the habit of each knowing the other’s thought before he’s thought it. It may be as we feel too comfortable with you to be remembering you’re a newcomer.

  “Well I am a newcomer,” Kenhodan half-snapped, and felt embarrassment at his own reaction heat his face. He dug a toe angrily into the sodden turf and glowered at them. “I can accept that you can’t discuss my past, but you can bloody well discuss the future! And you can start with why we’re freezing our arses off in the rain in the middle of nowhere like village halfwits waiting for hired assassins to stick knives in our backs!”

  “Now, that’s after being a reasonable question.”

  Bahzell’s chuckle snapped the tension—and Kenhodan’s anger. He felt suddenly abashed by his words and sank back down, reaching for his cup.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “I guess I’m too sensitive, but I feel so damned helpless. So…so uninformed. And there’s so much I need to know!”

  “Wencit,” Bahzell said more seriously, “the lad’s the right of it. And I’m thinking, now that I think about it at all, that it’s surprised I am he’s been patient with us this long.”

  “You’re right,” Wencit agreed, then turned to Kenhodan. “You’ve reason to feel ill used—not least because you know I know more about you than I can tell you—and you certainly have a right to know anything we can tell you. Please believe we left you in ignorance out of thoughtlessness and haste, not by design.”

  Kenhodan nodded, gratified by their reaction but confused by his own. He knew part of it was frustration mixed with fatigue and not a little fear, but he also knew there was more to it. There’d been more than a trace of the rage he’d felt on Wave Mistress in that anger, and that worried him. It wasn’t the same sort of killing rage…but it wasn’t completely different from it, either, and that thought evaporated the last embers of his temper, leaving him shaken and cold, instead. Did he have his own share of the hradani’s Rage? And if he did, what did that say about him?

  He drew a deep breath and clenched his teeth. What he’d been mattered less than what he was now. It had to. He couldn’t undo his past, even if he’d known what it was, but whatever sparked his fury lay within him. He couldn’t alter what he’d been, at least he could control what he might become, and he would control it. He must.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated more naturally, “but I really do want to know what we’re doing, so tell me, please. At least—” his lips twitched a wry smile “—until my mindreading catches up with yours.”

  “That’s better!” Bahzell clasped his forearms firmly. “Aye, and this old spell-spinner’s after speaking for me, as well. It’s not that we undervalue you, but sometimes we’re after forgetting, d’you see? Forgive us.”

  “Don’t make me feel guilty, you oaf! You’ll start it all over again!”

  “Tell him, Bahzell!” Wencit laughed. “As you value both our lives, tell him!”

  Kenhodan surprised himself with an answering spurt of laughter, and his companions’ chuckles erased the last tension as if Wencit had used a spell.

  “Aye, I will, then,” Bahzell agreed, and knelt as the moon blinked through a fortuitous hole in the cloud drift. He smoothed a patch of soil and put a pebble on it.

  “This pebble’s after being Korun, Kenhodan. This line’s the South Road—” he scribed with a fingertip “—and this is the East Road.” He jerked a thumb at the mist-hidden high road. “This line’s the Morfintan High Road,” he went on, scribing in another north-south line to cap the eastern end of the East Road. “If we were to be going clear to the Morfintan High Road, we’d be hitting it here—” his forefinger jabbed “—at Losun, and it’s straight south we could turn for Sindor. But that’s after being the longer way. It’s leagues out of our way it would take us—not but what I’d not be so very unhappy about that, if it should so happen it would be after throwing off the dog brothers. Only that’s not so likely to happen, I’m thinking.

  “But that’s not so bad a thing, for we’re after knowing it won’t, so…”

  He made more lines.

  “This is after being the White Water, and this other line the Snowborn—a river from the East Walls as meets White Water about five leagues from this very spot…here. The East Road’s after crossing the Snowborn on the Bridge of Eloham, then runs seventy more leagues to the Morfintan High Road.”

  “All right,” Kenhodan said as Bahzell paused and glanced up. “I see where we are, but not why we’re here.”

  “As to that,” Bahzell said, sitting back on his haunches, “the answer’s at the Bridge of King Emperor Eloham. Right at its west end, there’s a trail branches off to follow the Snowborn a league or two before it’s after turning back southwest through the Forest of Hev to join the South Road a hundred leagues south of Korun.”

  “And we take that trail, do we?”

  “Aye, and one of two things will be happening. If the dog brothers know the trail, or if they’re after figuring it out, like as not they’ll follow us. If they’re not after knowing or guessing, I’m thinking they’ll keep on to the east after ghosts and the wind. Either way, we’ll come out to the better.”

  “I can see where we’d come out ahead if they lose us, but won’t we still be in the same fix if they do follow us down the trail?”

  “No. First, I’ve no doubt at all, at all, that our horses—even the pac
k beasts—are after being better than theirs. Thief and traitor Fradenhelm may be, but he’s a master’s eye for horseflesh, and it’s his best we took. It’s not so very likely the dog brothers can match them, and cross-country, they’ll not find remounts when their own steeds fail. Holding to the roads, though, they’ll be after hiring or buying fresh at every posting station. That’s something we can’t do, unless we’re wishful to abandon the horses we have—aside from the courser, of course—and that I’d not do with all the scorpions of Sharnā nipping at my backside. But cross-country, it’s our heels we’ll show them, unless it should happen they’ve plenty of spares.”

  “And if they do?”

  “I’ll still not worry overmuch.” Bahzell smiled, and his tone was almost hungry as he touched a spot on his crude map. “Right about here,” he said almost wistfully, “there’s after being a stream. It’s not so much a stream it is in summer, but right now it’s running deep and fast. Best of all, the west bank’s sheer as a temple wall, and the trail’s after being as steep as heartbreak and narrow as honor. It’s a place where horses can be going only in single file, and at the top, why there’s a nice cluster of trees. I’m thinking as we might make camp in those trees a day or two, lad.”

  He met Kenhodan’s eyes in the moonlight, and the red-haired man nodded slowly. If he had a killer’s soul, who better to unleash it against than assassins? His smile was colder than Bahzell’s bright, fierce grin and his eyes were hard.

  “That might be nice,” he murmured softly.

  “Aye. At best, they’ll be ‘following’ us to Morfintan while we cut across the inside of the loop—a little slower, but a lot shorter. We can be waiting two days at the stream and still gain a week over them, and set them a pretty puzzle, too. At worst, they’ll follow along the trail and come up with us at a time and place of our choosing, not theirs.”

  “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 l
ive 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.