by David Weber
He himself had acquired the herd sense—the herd stallion’s ability to sense the hearts, minds, health, and location of the members of his herd—when he healed the survivors of the Warm Springs herd after Krahana’s attack upon it. He still had it, although only Gayrfressa remained of the Warm Springs coursers he’d touched all those years ago, and he knew Walsharno had it, too. Had they not bonded, had Walsharno not become another of Tomanāk’s champions, he probably would have become a herd stallion in the fullness of time himself. Unlike Walsharno, however, Bahzell’s herd sense was specific to the Warm Springs coursers, so he wasn’t surprised by the fact that Walsharno could see more deeply into Glamhandro than he could.
Bahzell nodded in understanding of the difference Walsharno was attempting to define.
Bahzell’s ears half-flattened at Walsharno’s serious tone. And it was a sobering thought, the hradani admitted to himself. He knew how intelligent Sothōii warhorses were, he’d seen how deeply and completely they came to understand and bond with their own long-term riders. Walsharno knew that even better than Bahzell did, so when he said that Glamhandro’s understanding surpassed that level of comprehension he knew exactly what he was saying.
Bahzell’s ears stood straight up in surprise at that one, and Walsharno shook his head and tossed his mane in agreement.
the roan stallion continued,
Bahzell’s upright ears folded slowly close to his head. Something in Walsharno’s voice told him the stallion’s words meant more than they seemed to.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Secrets in Sindor
Three weary riders entered Sindor as afternoon edged into evening.
Eyebrows rose as they passed, for they led eighteen riderless mounts. Obviously something untoward had happened, but only a hardy soul would have stopped the travel-stained trio to discover what. The last weekend been dry, and they were coated in grit, but dust couldn’t hide the identities of the flame-eyed rider on the black courser or the towering hradani on the even bigger roan, and while a handful of those witnesses might have had the temerity to pry into Bahzell Bahnakson’s affairs, none of them wanted anything at all to do with those of Wencit of Rūm.
Kenhodan paid the curious little heed as he studied the city’s impressive walls and grim battlements. There were two Sindors—one within the walls and one growing beyond them—but the city had kept new structures clear of the main curtainwall, and an extension of the present fortifications had begun. Such a project was hideously expensive; the fact that the city proposed to spend so much emphasized both its own wealth and the chance of trouble.
The walls cut black shadows across the street as they passed the ironbound gates. Guards paced the wall, halberds shouldered, but the slight slouch of their shoulders indicated they expected no immediate trouble.
“Well, that’s the second stage done,” Bahzell said, slapping dust from his chest. “I’d best be turning these horses into the Order’s keeping. The bailiff can be explaining to the Guard, which should be after keeping it out of our business.”
“A good idea,” Wencit agreed wearily, “but somehow I doubt our arrival will go unreported.” He gestured at the gawking bystanders.
“And could you be telling me how it might be after being any other way?” the hradani asked dryly. “They’ll not see our like here often, Wencit. Still, is it likely to be making much difference either way?”
“It might. We’ve dealt with one lot of dog brothers, but that’s only likely to spur them on. And I’d just as soon give Wulfra as little warning as possible.”
“Maybe so, but we’ve no choice but to be stopping in towns now and again betwixt here and Torfo—South Keep, at the least. After that, it may be we’ll have more options, but it’s little choice we have for now. It’s one threat we’ve already dealt with—” he nodded over his shoulder at the riderless horses “—and it’s in my mind as we’ll deal with the others as they’re arising. For now, what I’m mostly wanting is a bath, a meal, and a bed, and I’m thinking Walsharno, Byrchalka, and Glamhandro wouldn’t be so very unhappy as to be finding themselves under a roof with a nose bag full of oats!”
“A masterly prescription,” Wencit chuckled. “And you’re right. Caution and stealth are one thing; running from shadows is another. You know a place?”
“And would it happen that was a serious question?” Bahzell shook his head. “There’s times you’re after reminding me of a babe just out of diapers, Wencit. Of course I do! The Dancing Unicorn’s just down yonder street, and old Telbor was landlord when last I checked, an honest man as welcomes himself’s servants. It’s after being a mite noisy, but the beds’re clean and the food’s good. Not up to the standards of Leeana’s kitchen, maybe, but then what is?”
“I’ll be happy as long as the meat’s dead and the bedbugs are no bigger than ponies,” Kenhodan sighed.
“Then the Dancing Unicorn it is, Bahzell. Lead on.”
Bahzell grinned and turned down Gate Street, picking his way past taverns, rows of eating places, and the sorts of shops that catered to every sort and grade of traveler. Sindor was larger than Korun, with broad streets and a more sedate population, but Kenhodan was surprised by the number of troops he observed. Everywhere he looked he saw cavalry surcoats or the tunics of royal and imperial infantry. It puzzled him, and his brow furrowed as he considered it, but then his expression cleared as he recognized why they were there. If the southern border was brewing trouble, Sindor was a logical place to mass reserves. Which might also explain the new walls; perhaps the imperial treasury was foo
ting the bill. He looked away from the scenery to raise an eyebrow at Bahzell and twitch his head as they passed a marching squad of infantry.
“Aye, you’ll be finding a Purple Lords’ caravan guard of soldiers in Sindor most times,” the hradani replied with a nod, “but with Angthyr on the boil, the King Emperor’s after looking to his defenses.”
“So I see. And South Wall Pass is the last pass down this way?”
“Aye. It’s naught but twenty-five leagues to the south, but South Keep’s after being built clean across it. No army’s come that way since King Emperor Forgoth was after finishing the keep three hundred years ago.”
“I take it the keep is…formidable?”
“I suppose there’s some as might say so. The main wall’s after being two hundred feet high and eighty thick.”
“Definitely formidable,” Kenhodan decided.
“Aye, but that’s not to be saying it can’t be taken.”
“I suppose not,” Kenhodan said, although his tone was doubtful.
“Bahzell’s right.” Unlike Kenhodan’s, Wencit’s tone was flat and boned with iron certitude. “The walls were strong in Kontovar, but they fell. Not too better generals—I knew Toren Swordarm’s generals, and there were no finer commanders. Sorcery took Trōfrōlantha and razed the walls of Rollanthia.”
Bahzell and Kenhodan exchanged glances.
“Never forget that!” Wencit turned in the saddle to stare at them fiercely. “What happened there can happen here, and that’s only as far away as we can hold it! Folk forget how close the peril is. They see the walls of Sindor, of South Keep—of Axe Hallow itself—and they forget that simple force of arms is useless against those willing to twist and pervert the art. They forget it can happen here, but it can. It can!”
His sudden passion shook his companions, and Kenhodan looked around uneasily, his mind hazed with images of fire and rapine. A shiver ran down his spine. Could it really happen again?
He shuddered. Of course it could, and he suddenly realized that Wencit, who’d seen the ruin of Kontovar with his own eyes, was warning them that their present mission wasn’t simply to deal with a single rogue sorcerous. He was telling them it was the first skirmish of the long-awaited final struggle, and what in the names of all the gods had caught Kenhodan up in such a clash?
* * *
Another mind asked the same question, if from a different perspective. A slim figure leaned against the wall and frowned at the passing travelers.
Well, at least Rosper’s fate was confirmed, Chernion thought grimly. It seemed Wulfra’s infuriating message had been correct.
The assassin wondered how it had been done, not that it mattered, and growled a mental curse. Rosper should never have been sent after them on his own. Never! And Chernion had known it at the time. Now the dog brothers were committed to kill the targets out of self-preservation, and Wulfra knew it, curse her! Her insolent letter had said as much, if not in so many words, just as it proved she’d witnessed the slaughter with her accursed sorcery. The thought of Wulfra watching what had obviously been a massacre did not endear the baroness to the Guildmaster.
Chernion muttered one more curse, then turned and slipped away, considering the next move. The Guild had lost its chance to back away; despite all Chernion’s distrust of the wizard breed, the dog brothers were trapped right in the middle of Wulfra’s and Wencit’s struggle. There was no point weeping over it, but Chernion didn’t much care for the Guild’s tactical position at the moment.
It was always irksome to work with a craftmaster who wasn’t privy to his Guildmaster’s secret, and while Umaro was a good man, he didn’t know Chernion well. Of course, Ashwan was with him, and Ashwan was the only man who’d always known Chernion’s most guarded secret, but Chernion had no intention of revealing that secret to Umaro if it could be avoided. It could be a deadly weapon, properly used, but it was more likely to slip out with each new mind that shared it, which was one reason Chernion avoided attention and familiarity among the dog brothers as well as in public. The terror of the Guildmaster’s name rested in no small part on the fact that Chernion was a shadowy, secretive figure even to senior Guild members. Now Chernion might have to admit Umaro to a secret unknown even to the Guild’s present Councilors.
The assassin paused in the street, frowning in thought. Perhaps there was another way? The secret had served the Guild before, and it might again—even against Wencit and the Bloody Hand, if the stage were properly set. After several minutes of careful consideration, the Guildmaster nodded and stepped silently into the Windhawk Inn and passed through its taproom, signaling an unobtrusive dog brother to collect his fellows in Chernion’s room.
It took less than five minutes for them to filter silently into the small bedchamber, and the Guildmaster turned to face them, expression grim.
“They’re here…with Rosper’s horses.”
One of the four cursed softly.
“Shall we strike tonight, Chernion?” Another asked quietly.
“No.” Chernion’s answer was soft, and they tensed in disbelief. “No, their guard’s up. They’ve killed eight dog brothers; I see no reason they can’t kill five more. Besides, the Dancing Unicorn’s a sinkhole of the Order of Tomanāk. We can’t take them there.”
“You’re saying we’re going to just let them go?!”
One of the shocked dog brothers forgot himself enough to blurt out the question, and Chernion’s hand flashed. Bladed fingers slashed into the bridge of his nose—not quite hard enough to break it—and he collapsed with a muffled scream, clutching his face. His fellows watched impassively. Fools who angered Chernion could expect sudden punishment and scant sympathy.
“Get up,” Chernion said coldly, and he staggered up, leaning against the wall, one hand trying to staunch the flow from his bloodied nose, while the Guildmaster continued as if there’d been no interruption at all. “We won’t ‘let them go,’ but it’s time to try another way.
“Craftmaster Umaro’s been summoned from Morfintan. I’d hoped he would have arrived by now, but obviously he hasn’t. Either that, or he already knows the targets have chosen the Dancing Unicorn and he’s lying low to avoid attracting their attention rather than risk joining us here. Horum, you’ll take charge of this group and find him, wherever he is. Tell him that under no circumstances is he to attack without my direct command.”
“Yes, Chernion.”
“This is only one of several projects I must attend to, and I’ve spent too long on it already. I see, however, that I can’t leave the matter unattended, so I’ll place a spy among them as a first step.”
“A spy? How?” Horum’s questions were profoundly respectful.
“There are ways, Brothers. The agent I have in mind is an independent, and while we must always be careful with any such, I’ve used her before. Yes, her,” Chernion answered their expressions. “More often than not, men see what they want to see. They don’t look for threats in fair places, and the agent I have in mind is fair. Very fair.”
“But a woman, Chernion?”
“Yes. She’s not a dog brother, so we can’t trust her fully, but she knows better than to betray me. Don’t show yourselves to her unmasked. She knows her duties, but I’m the only dog brother she knows, and I wish it to remain so. I’ll instruct her, and you’ll be guided by her messages. And mark this well: she’s valuable to me. In fact, she’s more valuable than you are, my brothers. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Chernion,” Horum said carefully, “but may I ask what your plans for her are? Or does Umaro already know them?”
“No, he doesn’t, so see that you find him quickly, lest he attack before he learns what I intend. Curse the wizard for choosing the Unicorn! It’s too near for comfort, and I can’t blame Umaro for staying clear of it, but I don’t like how little time we have to rearrange things, and it’s always possible he’ll act on his own initiative in the absence of direct instructions from me. That’s why it’s vital that you find him and be
certain he knows he isn’t to attack in Sindor.”
“Understood, Chernion,” Horum said. “We’ll do our best.”
Another assassin might have promised not to fail, but Horum had worked with Chernion before. He knew how little use the Guildmaster had for easy promises…and that Chernion was unlikely to punish anyone who truly did do his best to fulfill his instructions.
“Tell him I want to study the targets,” Chernion continued. “If we learn their purpose, we’ll be better able to plan their deaths, and beyond that, there are parts of this I don’t like. I think our client may be trying to manipulate the Guild, and we have to discover whether or not that’s true, as well. Our targets are bound for Angthyr, so we have time to think and plan, and it seems to me it serves the Guild’s purposes best to spend some of that time discovering what we can about our client’s intentions where we’re concerned. At the very least, I think she’s trying to…amass information she might use to try to control our future actions. That’s one reason I want to place my agent in the targets’ midst—to learn what she can about their intentions and purpose. That sort of knowledge may give us insight into what our client has in mind and why she wants them dead, and that might be a weapon against whatever plans she has in mind for the Guild.”
Chernion paused, and Horum and nodded in understanding.
“Beyond that,” the Guildmaster continued “I want the targets threatened from as many directions as possible when the time to strike finally comes, so while she joins them and—hopefully—gains their trust, I’ll move ahead of them and Umaro will trail behind. If I need aid, I’ll summon it from the other chapters, but I think it’s important I reach South Keep ahead of them to find a proper spot between there and Angthyr for a careful attack. In the meantime, the woman will keep us in communication. She knows my codes, and she’ll relay messages from me to Umaro, but under no circumstances will he make contact with her. If contact must be made, she’ll signal him.”