The Sword and the Chain

by Joel Rosenberg

  Two mail-clad guardsmen at the gate eyed him casually as they sat on three-legged stools, their spears propped up against the wall nearby, but well out of reach.

  Karl nodded to himself. Ill-kept, unattended defenses were a clear sign that Metreyll hadn't known warfare for a while, and the lack of challenge from the bored guardsmen meant that the locals were used to the presence of strangers.

  "Are you going to sleep just standing there?"

  Squinting in the bright sunlight, Walter smiled down at him from the bench of the half-filled flatbed wagon. "You'll be glad to hear that beef is cheap—seems the ranchers had too good a year. I picked up about four hundred pounds of jerky for a song." He snorted. "Not exactly 'This Way to Cheap Street

  ,' but a song."

  He set the brake and dismounted, patting the two hitched mules in passing. "Although horseflesh—even muleflesh—is at a premium. I bought a stallion and another gelding—the hostler will hang on to them until dark—but they set me back a nice piece of change. Apparently it's going to be another bumper crop of cattle this year, and the tributary ranchers are paying nice prices for labor—all kinds of labor."

  Karl smiled as he took off his rucksack and tossed it into the wagon. "I almost wish we needed a bit of money. When I was a kid, I fully intended to be a cowboy." He shrugged. "Maybe we could look into all of us hiring out as hands, anyway. Just for a while." Of course, they would have to figure out how to keep Ellegon out of sight.

  No, that probably wouldn't do. He had responsibilities now. Fulfilling childhood fantasies was something he would have to set aside.

  Walter shook his head. "I don't think that's such a good idea. All the hiring is for a cattle drive—and guess where that's headed."

  "Pandathaway?"

  Slovotsky nodded. " 'Everything comes to Pandathaway'—except us, I hope. I doubt they go easy on felons' accomplices."

  "Good point. So you keep your eyes open, too."

  "They never close, Karl. Now, how'd you do at the smith's?"

  "Fine, I guess. Although he struck a hard deal. Come to think of it, I probably was taken. But he did throw in a couple of used swords." He shrugged. "In any case, we can pick up that gear at sunset, too. West end of town." He eyed the noon sun. "Any ideas on what we should do until then?"

  Slovotsky raised an eyebrow. "Joy Street

  ? Or whatever they call it. It's down this way—" He held up a palm. "You don't absolutely have to cheat on Andy, you know. Just a few beers, while I see what's available. Prisoner of my hormones, I am."

  Karl laughed. "Why not? I could use a beer." He boosted himself to the bed of the wagon and sprawled on a sack of grain. "You drive."

  The unpaved street twisted gently through the markets, past a drab tarpaulin where a sweaty grain seller hawked his muslin sacks of oats and barley, a ramshackle corral where a well-fleshed hostler groomed his tattered assortment of swaybacked mares and half-lame geldings, an open-air workbench where a squinting leatherworker and a bewhiskered swordsman haggled angrily over the price of a fore-and-aft peaked saddle.

  Wagons creaked through the street, as farmers and their slaves brought sacked grain and caged chickens to market. Some wagons were drawn by dusty mules, or slowly plodding oxen; others were handcarts, pulled by slaves.

  Karl gripped his sword. He fondled the sharkskin hilt for a moment, then sighed and let his hand drop. Damn Walter for being right. This wasn't the time or place to get involved in a swordfight. And besides, I can't solve the problem by chopping up everyone who owns a slave. That just wouldn't do it.

  That thought didn't make him feel any better. "Goddammit."

  "Just keep cool," Slovotsky whispered, urging the mules on.

  The street widened as the slave market came into view. Surrounded by a hundred bidders and spectators, a noisy auction proceeded in front of a boxlike wagon bearing the wave-and-chain insignia of the Pandathaway Slavers' Guild.

  The auctioneer accepted a handful of coins from a farmer, then, smilingly, snapped the farmer's chains around the wrists of a skinny, bearded slave before removing his own chains. "You should have no difficulty with this one; he has been well tamed," the auctioneer said, as the fanner looped a hemp rope around the slave's neck. As the slave was led away, Karl shuddered at the old scars that crisscrossed his back. Well tamed . . .

  "Easy, Karl," Walter whispered. "There's nothing you can do about it."

  One of the slavers brought the next slave out of the wagon. This slave was a short, dark man in a filthy cotton loincloth. His whip scars were fresh; livid red weals were spattered randomly over his hairy torso and legs. Lines around the edge of his mouth and eyes suggested that he used to smile often. But he wasn't smiling now; chained at his neck, wrists, and ankles, he stared sullenly out at the crowd.

  A cold chill ran up Karl's spine. "Walter, I know him."

  "No kidding?" Slovotsky's expression belied his calm tone; he looked as if he had been slapped.

  "The Games in Pandathaway—he was my first opponent. Took him out in a few seconds."

  This was horrible. An expectant father had no business risking his own life, forgetting the danger to the others, but this man was somebody Karl knew. Not a close friend, granted; he didn't even know the other's name. But someone he knew, nonetheless.

  He turned to Slovotsky.

  The thief shook his head. "Karl, do us both a favor and get that expression the hell off your face. You're starting to draw stares." He lowered his voice. "That's better. We're just a couple of travelers, chatting idly about the weather and the price of flesh, got it? I don't know exactly what harebrained scheme you're working on, but we're not going to do it. No way. Remember, you gave Ahira your word."

  "Walter—"

  Slovotsky raised his palm. "But this isn't the time to put your honor to the test. We've got plenty of coin. We'll bid on him. Sit tight for a moment." Tossing the reins to Karl, he vaulted from the wagon and moved into the crowd.

  The bidding was stiff; several of the local farmers and ranchers forced the price from the initial twelve gold up to more than two platinum. The most persistent, a stocky man in a sweatstained cotton tunic, followed each of his bids with a glare at Slovotsky, as though challenging him to go on. When the bidding topped two platinum, the stocky man threw up his hands and stalked off, muttering vague curses under his breath.

  Finally, the auctioneer raised the twig above his head, holding it delicately between his thumbs and forefingers.

  "Will anyone challenge the price of two platinum, three gold for this man?" he asked the crowd in a practiced singsong. "A worthy, well-mannered slave, no doubt useful both in the field and as breeding stock. Both he and his sons will work hard, and require little food. No? I ask again, and again, and—" He snapped the twig. "The slave is sold; the bargain is made."

  He nodded down at Slovotsky. "Do you want to claim him now? Very well. No chains? Two silvers for the ones he wears, if you want them. I'd advise it; this one hasn't quite been broken to his collar. Yet. And watch the teeth—he's nasty."

  Walter reached into his pouch and handed over the money, accepting the slave's leash and an iron key in return. A few cuffs and curses moved the man down the platform's steps and over to the wagon.

  The slave's eyes widened as he saw Karl. "You're Kharl—"

  Slovotsky backhanded him across the face, then drew one of his knives. "Keep your tongue still if you want it to stay in your mouth." The point of his knife touching the smaller man's neck, he urged him onto the back of the wagon. The auctioneer smiled in encouragement before calling for the next slave to be sold.

  "Just keep quiet," Karl whispered. "And relax. Everything's going to be fine."

  "But—"

  "Shh." With a clatter, the wagon began to move. "I know a smith on the edge of town. We have to make a stop first, but we'll have the collar off you in just a little while. Just be patient."

  "You mean—"

  "He means you're free," Walter said, giving a fl
ick to the reins. "It just won't show quite yet."

  The little man's mouth pursed, as though he were bracing himself for a slap. Then he shook his head, puzzled. "You mean that, Kharlkuhlinayn." It was half an unbelieved statement, half a terrified question.

  At Karl's nod, his face grew somber. And then his gap-toothed mouth broke into a smile. A special sort of smile.

  Karl didn't say anything. Nobody else would have understood how beautiful that smile was.

  Unless they had seen it on the face of someone they loved.

  Or in a mirror.

  * * *

  "Ch'akresarkandyn ip Katharhdn," the little man said, as he sat on a sack of wheat in the bed of the wagon, rubbing at the lesions left by his chains. The sores were infected, oozing a hideous green pus in several places. Undoubtedly, his wrists and ankles ached dreadfully, but the light rubbing was all he allowed himself. "It's not so hard to pronounce, not as difficult as Kharlkuhlinayn."

  "Call me Karl."

  "You can call me Chak, if you'd like. You can call me whatever you want." Chak nodded slowly. "I owe you, Kharl. I don't understand why you freed me, but I owe you."

  Walter chuckled. "So your only objection to slavery is when you're the slave."

  Chak's brow furrowed. "Of course. It's the way of things. Although . . ." he shook his head. "There's times when it turns my stomach. Then again, it doesn't take much to turn my stomach. I'm a Katharhd; we've got delicate digestion."

  "What happened to you?" Karl asked. "When we met, you were living off your winnings in the Games, but—"

  "You put an end to that, Karl Cullinane, and I've spent many an hour cursing your name. When you knocked me out of the first round, I was down to my last couple of coppers. Fool that I was, I signed with this shifty-eyed Therranji; said he was taking on guardsmen for Lord Khoral. Damn elves can't help lying.

  "In any case, fourteen of us rode out of Pandathaway. Took a while until we were past Aeryk and clear of the trade routes. One night, we camped and had dinner—with an extra ration of wine. Spiked wine; we all woke up in chains, got sold off in small lots. Seems the Therranji was a clandestine member of the Slavers' Guild, not a recruiter for Khoral." Chak shrugged. "He was just trying to get us clear of Pandathaway. That way, chaining us wouldn't bring the Guilds' Council down on him for ruining the damn city's reputation as a safe place to be." His eyes grew vague. "Not that it'll stay safe for him."

  A clattering came from around the bend, accompanied by a distant snorting and whinnying of horses.

  Chak's nostrils flared. "I know that bloody mare's whining. It's the wagon of my former owners." His right hand hovered around the left side of his waist. "Wish I had a sword." He eyed the two scabbarded weapons lying on bed of the wagon. "Would you be willing to lend me one?"

  Karl nodded. "Sure."

  "No." Walter shook his head. "We don't want any trouble. Karl, give him your tunic. I don't want them to see Chak out of his chains; we don't need loose talk about two strangers who bought and freed a slave."

  Karl shook his head. "I never gave my word about not—"

  "Karl. It comes down to the same thing. Now, is your word good, or not? Give him your tunic, please."

  Nodding slowly, Karl complied. "Just sit tight for a moment." He tossed the tunic to Chak, who slipped it on without comment, although the hem fell well below his knees. Chak sat down, tucking a loose blanket around his legs to hide that, and began a careful study of the contents of a muslin sack.

  Karl snatched the rapier from the bed of the wagon and tossed it to Walter.

  Slovotsky raised an eyebrow; Karl shook his head. "I'm not looking for trouble," Karl said. "But slip this on anyway. We don't need to look helpless, do we?"

  "Well . . ." Walter conceded the point, belting the rapier around his waist. "Let's look busy."

  Karl jumped down from the wagon and busied himself with offering bowls of water to the mules, while Walter checked the leads of the trailing horses.

  The slavers' wagon passed without incident, although the two slavers riding beside it gave practiced glances at Karl's and Walter's swords. Karl nodded grimly; when the smith had agreed to throw in a pair of swords, Karl had deliberately picked a slim rapier for Walter, one with a well-worn, sweat-browned bone hilt. Since Slovotsky wasn't good with a blade, it had seemed a sound precaution to pick a weapon that advertised a nonexistent expertise.

  Several grimy faces peered out through the barred windows of the boxy slave wagon. Chak kept his face turned away, although he couldn't resist sneaking a peek.

  As the wagon pulled away, he sighed. "Damn." The word was the same in Erendra as in English, something Karl occasionally wondered about.

  Karl took his hand off the pommel of his sword. Walter and Ahira were right; they couldn't afford to draw attention to themselves here and now. But . . .

  But that doesn't excuse it.

  Walter peered into his face. "I'm sorry, Karl." He spread his palms. "Slovotsky's Law Number Nine: Sometimes, you can't do anything about something that sucks." He sighed. "No matter how much it sucks," he murmured.

  Chak was already pulling off Karl's tunic. "That child is what bothers me. Just too young."

  Karl raised an eyebrow as he slipped on the tunic.

  "She's only eleven or so. But Orhmyst—he's the master; the rest are just barely journeymen—likes his women young. Says they're more fun. He's had this one for better than a year, ever since he raided Melawei; kept chattering about keeping her, even after they get to Pandathaway. Said she wouldn't bring much coin, compared with the pleasure."

  Karl's heart thudded. "What?"

  Walter's face whitened. "He's raping an eleven-year-old girl?"

  Chak rubbed at the back of his neck. "Every night. And she spends her days whimpering, and begging for some healing draughts to stanch her bleeding; Orhmyst isn't gentle." Chak pounded his fist against the bed of the wagon. "In the Katharhd Domains, we'd cut off his balls for that, and not worry about whether the girl was slave or free."

  "Walter," Karl said, "we can't—"

  "Shut up, dammit. Give me a minute." Slovotsky brought his fist to his mouth and chewed on his fingers for a long moment.

  Then he threw up his hands. "Cullinane, if it were possible that you set this up . . . never mind." He glared at Karl. "You remember what I was saying, about how you sometimes can't do anything about some things that suck?"

  Karl nodded slowly.

  "Well, you can just forget it. Sometimes I don't have the slightest idea of what I'm talking about—"

  "We agree on something, at least."

  "—but for now, how do you want to handle this? You're the tactician, not me."

  "I promised Ahira I wouldn't get in any fights, unless it was a matter of self-defense." He chuckled, knowing what Walter was going to say.

  "And you also agreed that I'd decide what constitutes self-defense. This does." Walter flashed a weak grin. "We'll work out an appropriate rationalization later. Tactics are your department: How are we going to do it?"

  Karl smiled. "We'll follow them, but lag behind. Until it gets dark. Then you get the pleasure of skulking around, doing a nice, quiet recon." He turned to the little man. "Do you want in on this? You can have a share of their coin."

  Chak shrugged. "I wouldn't mind. Always could use a bit of extra coin. Particularly," he said, patting at a phantom pouch, "now." He took the other sword from the wagon and drew it partway out of the scabbard. It was a wide, single-edged blade, more of a falchion than anything else. Chak nodded. "As long as my share includes this, it might be worth it."

  Karl raised an eyebrow. "And maybe you've a score to settle with these folks?"

  "That too." Chak smiled grimly. "There's always that."

  * * *

  Karl sat back against the base of a towering pine, his sword balanced across his lap. Deliberately, he twisted the chain of the manriki-gusari between his fingers. It helped to keep his hands from shaking.

  Overhead
, the branches and pine needles rustled in the wind, momentarily revealing, then hiding the flickering stars. A cool breeze blew from the west, sending a shiver across his chest. Half a mile down the road, almost hidden by a stand of trees, a campfire burned, sending gouts of sparkling ashes soaring into the night sky.

  Chak grunted. "That friend of yours is taking too long," he whispered. "Probably tripped over his feet. Got himself killed." He tested the edge of his falchion's blade, then sucked at the cut on his thumb for the twentieth time. At least. "Good blade."

  Karl shook his head. "No, we would have heard something."

  "We would have heard that it's a good blade? Truly?"

  "No, if he'd gotten into trouble—" Karl stopped himself, then gave Chak a sideways look. The little man's face was a caricature of puzzlement. "Seems you're getting your sense of humor back."

  Chak smiled. "I always joke before a fight. Helps to steady the nerves. Now, my father, he always used to drink. Claimed it sharpened his eye, tightened his wrist. And it did, at that."

  "Oh." Karl was skeptical; he let it show in his voice.

  A snort. "Until the last time, of course. His wrist was so tight it was still straight as an arrow after a dwarf chopped his arm off." He bit his lip for a moment. "Which is why I don't drink before a fight—joking keeps the arm looser." He looked over at Karl. "Now that you know all about me, tell me where you're from. The name is unfamiliar, although you look a bit like a Salke. A tall Salke, but they do grow them high."

  Karl shook his head. "It's kind of complicated. Perhaps I'll go into it sometime."

  "As you wish." Chak took one end of the manriki-gusari. "But you will tell me about this metal bola you're holding. Please? Never seen one like that before; doubt even you can throw it far."

  "You don't throw it, usually. And as to what it can do, I suspect I'll have a chance to show you, in a while."

  "Damn sure of yourself, Kharl."

  "Of course." He smiled genially at Chak as he knitted his fingers together to keep them from shaking. In fact, it's all I can do to keep my sphincters under control. But he couldn't say that. "We were talking about that valley of yours."