"True." Ahrmin smiled; slave-taking raids did have a way of making one's guild unpopular with the locals.
"But I have been tracking his progress for the past tenday. It seems that he is traveling through the Middle Lands, possibly bound for Ehvenor."
"Ehvenor, Master Wenthall? Could he have dealings in Faerie?"
"That seems unlikely," the wizard said, scowling. "It's too risky for humans. Particularly normals. But there are other reasons for going to Ehvenor besides trying to beg passage into Faerie. As you should know, slaver."
"Melawei. He's bound for Melawei."
But why? There were only two reasons for traveling to Melawei: copra and slaves. Neither seemed to apply to Karl Cullinane.
"Quite possibly," Wenthall said. "But possibly not; it's conceivable he has dealings in the Middle Lands. I suggest you begin by taking passage to Lundeyll—here." He tapped the map. "Take another sighting, with both ball and compass. If Cullinane hasn't moved, the two lines will intersect at his location.
"Now"—the wizard raised his finger—"if ever you do lose him, you can use that technique to locate him precisely.
"In any case, from Lundeyll you can take the southern route through the Aershtyls, if he is still in the Middle Lands. There is a land route to Melawei; that could be his intention. If so, you should be able to beat him there by ship, no?"
"Certainly, Master Wenthall. The overland route is said to be very difficult."
"Fine. I will speak to your guildmaster later today. See him before you leave Pandathaway; he will give you a writing that will allow you to commandeer a raiding ship. If, that is, Cullinane is bound for Melawei."
"Perhaps he'll take ship to Melawei." I could catch him at sea. If the Flail or Scourge are in Lundeport . . .
"Perhaps." The wizard extended his hand, the sphere cradled in his palm. "Treat this device carefully; it is the product of far more time and effort than I would like to recall. A finger from a freshly killed maiden elf is difficult to obtain these days."
Accepting the proffered sphere, Ahrmin nodded grimly. "I'll find him, sir, and bring him back to you," he said. He started to turn away, but caught himself.
No. His father wouldn't have wanted him to leave it just at that; by profession, slavers were supposed to be cold and bloodless. "The reward still stands? There will be expenses in this, Master Wenthall. I'll have to hire a team. And if I commandeer a ship in Lundeyll, I'll have to pay the seamen's wages. That is the law, master."
The wizard chuckled thinly. "Quite your father's son, eh? Very well, the reward is doubled. Trebled, if you bring him back alive." The wizard smiled. "I have a use for his skin, but it must be taken while he lives."
Despite himself, Ahrmin shuddered. But he forced a smile and a nod. "You will have it, sir. I swear." With a deep bow, he turned and left the wizard's room.
So Karl Cullinane was alive and well. Probably, Cullinane often snickered over killing Ohlmin. He wouldn't be snickering soon.
You killed Ohlmin, Karl Cullinane. You shouldn't have killed my father.
Chapter Nine
Baron Furnael
When we are planning for posterity, we ought to remember that virtue is not hereditary.
—Thomas Paine
"Relatively speaking, I'm beginning to like the Middle Lands," Ahira said, looking up at Karl from the back of his dappled pony. "Bieme in particular."
"Relatively speaking," Karl answered, tired.
Ahira nodded. "We've seen a few slaves, but neither slavers nor whips. By local standards, this isn't bad."
"By local standards."
Ahira snorted. "What are you today? A Greek chorus? Like you and Slovotsky in Chem?"
Karl laughed. "I didn't know you knew about that."
"Walter told me. Swore me to silence, until the statute of limitations runs out. Not that it matters anymore." His smile faded. "What's bothering you?"
"A touch of homesickness, I think."
"You miss Andrea."
"Yes, but . . . actually, I was thinking about home-home, not the valley-home." Karl loosened his tunic to scratch at his ribs. "I think I'd trade a finger for a bar of Lifebuoy, or a pound of Kenya double-A coffee, or a case of toilet paper . . . hell, even for a pizza."
"You complain too much. Why let it get to you? At least we're not camping out every damn night, for now. The beds may not be Posturepedics, but they are soft."
Karl nodded. The dwarf had a point. In the forty days of traveling since they had left the valley and worked their way into the Middle Lands, they had gone through some hard times.
Not dangerous, particularly; the only slaver caravan they had run across had been easy pickings, so much so that Karl didn't consider the encounter a proper shakedown for Fialt and Tennetty.
The slavers hadn't even bothered to set out a watchman. The late slavers.
Karl had been able to send seventeen former slaves toward the valley, one of them carrying a letter to Andy-Andy. He hadn't worried that the group might not find the valley, as long as they passed nearby. Ellegon would be flying watch at night. Once the dragon spotted them and flew close enough to read their minds, they would be met and guided in.
No danger there, not for anyone.
The closest Karl and the rest had come to real danger was when Fialt accidentally slashed Tennetty across the belly during a fencing lesson. Two quickly administered healing draughts had taken care of that; a switch to wooden swords for training purposes ensured that they wouldn't again have to use up more of their small supply of expensive healing draughts for that sort of accident.
It wasn't the danger that bothered Karl. It was the drudgery.
Moving camp every day had been fun during the summer when Karl's Scout troop had gone up to Manitoba to canoe down the Assiniboine, but part of the fun of that had been knowing that the primitive life-style was temporary; that hot showers, clean clothes, fast food, and air conditioning awaited them at the end of the trip.
But that wasn't true here. The endless grind of stopping to camp, finding firewood, lighting a fire with flint and steel, cooking, cleaning pots and pans with dirt clods, pitching their tents, watering the horses, breaking camp in the morning—all of it had started to wear on him, bringing him almost to the breaking point.
Perhaps crossing the border from Nyphien into Bieme hadn't saved his sanity, but sometimes it felt like it.
Bieme was possibly the oldest of the Middle Lands; certainly it was the best developed. Tilled by drayhorses and oxen, the farmland produced an abundance of grains and legumes, one-tenth of the fields lying fallow under strict rotation. The productivity of the land and its people had brought both wealth and trade to Bieme; grain sellers and hostlers came from as far away as the Katharhd and Lundeyll to do business there.
Few armsmen were evident, and then only singly, or in small groups. They functioned primarily as a constabulary, rather than a standing army. While there was no love lost between Therranj and any of the Middle Lands, an attack on Bieme would have to go through one of the surrounding principalities first, giving the Biemei ample time to prepare; there was no need to have a large nonproductive soldier class standing by, although all freefarmers were required to produce a well-honed sword for inspection on two different holidays each year.
The best thing, though, was the inns along the main thoroughfare. By law, each community of five hundred or more along the Prince's Road had to sponsor a well-kept inn, the high standards maintained through frequent inspections by the local baron's armsmen—where there was a local baron—and infrequent but potentially more penalty-bearing ones by the Prince's.
Throughout most of the Prince's Road, the village inns were no more than a day's ride apart. In the few places where villages were more widely spaced, there still was an inn, directly supported by the crown. And the Prince's Inns were the most luxurious and least expensive of all.
"There's a trick to all of this," Karl said, as he reined in Carrot, forcing her to keep close to the
rest of the group. "Easy, girl." He stroked the rough hair on her neck. She was still dry, even after half a day's ride. His only complaint about her was her tendency to go at her own quick pace, her sneering disdain for the slower pace of the other horses.
"A trick?"
Karl nodded. "Remember Kiar?"
"That inn with the marble floors? Not quite as lush as the Inn of Quiet Repose, but a nice place." The dwarf nodded. "This sour beer isn't all that good, but that cook really knew how to use it as a marinade. Although," he added under his breath, "I guess I do miss some things from home. I'd kill for a Genesee, or a Miller. Or even a Schlitz."
Karl raised an eyebrow. "Kill?"
Ahira shrugged. "Well, maim. I really do love a good beer."
"Don't remember you being much of a beer drinker back home."
Ahira frowned. "I had to be careful about when I drank. It used to really start my kidneys going."
Karl shot a glance over his shoulder. That had become a reflex, and one that he didn't intend to give up, even in the relative safety of the Prince's Road.
But there was no problem. Tennetty, Fialt, and Aeia rode behind, Chak bringing up the rear. The little man favored him with a friendly nod and a slight, open-handed wave.
"So?" Karl asked. "Beer does that to everyone."
Ahira chuckled. "You're forgetting." He raised a thick arm and flexed it, the chainmail tightening around his biceps. "I wasn't just anyone. Muscular dystrophy, remember?"
"I know, but—"
"What does that have to do with it? Karl, I couldn't go to the john by myself; couldn't even lift myself out of my wheelchair and onto the toilet. Going out for a drink with the guys wasn't something I could do, unless I had my roommate-slash-attendant with me, to drag me off to the bathroom. I used to envy the hell out of the way all the rest of you were so mobile."
"You don't anymore."
"Well, no," the dwarf said, unconvincingly.
Karl nodded to himself. There was something he had that Ahira didn't, and that was the memory of always being sound of body, of being able to take for granted something as trivial as going out for a few beers.
As if he were reading his mind, Ahira cocked an eyebrow. "Let's leave it alone. 'What cannot be cured . . . ' You were talking about the inns?"
"Right," Karl said. "There's a trick there. If you notice, a lot of the inns were originally built by the crown. Back in Kiar, they'd taken down the Prince's coat of arms, but the outline was still on the stone. A prince built it, and supported it for a while."
"And then?"
"People moved nearby, probably got a good deal from the Prince on the land, and such; the crown brought in a cleric, probably sponsored a smith or two."
"Cute. And then, when the population was large enough, the Prince gave the territory to a baron, and made the locals support the inn."
"Right." Karl nodded. "At least, that's the way I read it." And, if it had worked that way, it spoke well for the local form of government, despite Karl's admitted bias against feudalism. There was nothing wrong with a bit of economic encouragement. It was coercion that was the problem with feudal societies.
"Hmm." Ahira considered it for a moment. "Possible. And it's not as oppressive around here as we've seen elsewhere. That why you haven't signaled for a fight?"
Karl shook his head. No, that wasn't it at all. The plan didn't call for them to attack every slaveowner they ran into; that would quickly result in their being buried under a flood of bodies: Anyone who either owned a slave, wanted to own a slave, or had owned a slave would see them as the enemy.
Attacking slavers was different. Outside of the markets, slavers were unpopular; locals always knew that in a slaver's eye, everyone was potential merchandise.
"No," he said, "we fight slavers, and in self-defense."
"Liberally construed." Ahira threw back his head and laughed. "Like the way you and Walter decided that attacking Orhmyst was self-defense."
"Well, it felt like self-defense." Karl dismissed the subject with an airy wave. He stood in the saddle and turned, raising his head. "Chak?"
"Yes, Kharl?"
"Where are we stopping tonight?"
"Furnael." Chak dropped his reins to rub his hands together. "Best inn in the Middle Lands. We might even meet Baron Furnael himself."
Tennetty snorted. "What a thrill."
* * *
"Time for some practice, Fialt, Tennetty," Karl said, gesturing at them to follow him out of the common room and into the courtyard. Chak was ready; he had the bag of practice swords slung over a shoulder.
Ahira yawned and stretched. "I'm going to get some sleep. See you folks in the room."
Aeia put down her rag doll and lifted her head. "Me, too?"
"Well . . ."
"Please, Karl? You didn't let me, last time. Please?"
He smiled down at her as he nodded genially, then gently rubbed his fingers through her hair. "Sure." Sure, little one, I'll be the gracious father substitute and teach you a bit more about how to disembowel a rapist.
Goddam world. An eleven-year-old girl should be thinking about dolls and boys and stuff like that. "Let's go."
Wordlessly, Chak followed, carrying the canvas bag of wooden swords.
The courtyard of the Furnael inn was a large open square, surrounded by the windowed walls of the inn proper. Slate flagstones checkered the ground, well-trimmed clumps of grass separating them.
Heavy with fruit, evenly spaced orange trees dotted the courtyard. Karl unbuckled his sword and hung it on a low branch, then reached up and pulled down a couple of oranges, tossing one to Chak before quartering the other with his beltknife.
Nothing for the other three; they would get theirs later, as a reward for a good session. If at all.
He ate quickly, not minding that some of the juice dripped down his chin. The fruit was cool and sweet. He tossed the peels to Chak, who stashed them under the equipment bag. "Now," he said, wiping the remaining juice and pulp from his chin, "we're going to start with a bit of hand-to-hand today." Karl slipped out of his jerkin and unlaced his sandals, stripping down to breechclout and leggings.
It promised to be a hot session; he slipped out of his leggings, awkwardly balancing on each foot alternately.
Already down to his breechclout, Chak hung up his sword and nodded. "This keeohokoshinkee stuff of yours?"
"Kyokoshinkai. And yes."
"Good." Chak nodded his approval.
Fialt frowned, rubbing a finger through his salt-and-pepper beard. "Rather do swords," he said. Which was, for Fialt, being unusually talkative.
Tennetty recoiled in mock horror—and probably a bit of real disgust. "Not around me. Not even with a wood sword. Liable to put my eye out while you're trying for a thrust to the kneecap."
"Fialt," Chak said, "you'll do swords with me, later. After Kharl's done with you." He shot a grin at Karl. "I'll make him sweat a bit. A bit more."
Karl nodded. When it came to fencing, Chak was the better teacher. There was a good reason. Karl had gained his skills with a sword as part of the transfer to this world. He'd never had to go through the long hours of learning. There was no deliberate method to his swordplay; his arm and wrist just did it, as of their own volition.
A gain? Well, yes; his instantly acquired fencing skills had saved his life on more than one occasion. But it was a loss, too; he'd never had the experience of learning, of knowing how to improve his skills. While he had run into only one swordsman more adept than himself, there were undoubtedly others.
The loss went beyond his inability to teach. Without knowing how to learn swordfighting, his skills were frozen at their present level. He would never get better.
Guess I'll have to live with it.
But with his karate skills, there was the possibility of improvement, enhanced by the innate agility, balance, and reflexes of his body on this side. Here, he could easily have won enough in competition—if they had competitions here—to qualify for a brown belt;
back home, the best he had been able to do was green.
"Loosen up, first," Karl said, breaking into a series of bends and stretches. The others followed his example; working out without first warming up was an invitation to wrenched muscles and torn tendons.
After his joints and tendons stopped protesting and settled down to a nice, quiet ache, he straightened. "Enough. Let's start."
Tennetty, Fialt, and Aeia lined up opposite him, bowing Japanese-style, their eyes always on his. Karl returned their bows.
Were the traditional customs irrelevant here? he wondered, not for the first time.
Possibly. Quite possibly the customs of the Japanese dojo were out of place; probably they had been silly back home. Probably it would be easier for him to use simple or compound Erendra names for punches, kicks, blocks, and strikes.
But the traditions seemed to have worked back home; there was no sense in violating custom without a compelling reason.
"Sanchin dachi," he said, swinging his right foot past and slightly in front of his left and planting his feet a shoulder width apart, toes canted slightly in. Sanchin dachi was the best practicing stance for strikes and punches, as well as snap-kicks. Not necessarily the best fighting stance—Karl had always favored zenkutsu-dachi, a split-legged, forward-leaning stance—but a natural one that could be assumed without triggering a violent response.
"We'll start with a few seiken."
"Chudan-tsuki, sensei?" Chak asked, as he took his position at the end of the line, next to Tennetty.
"Fine. Start with your right hand." As always, he began by demonstrating. Seiken chudan-tsuki, a punch to the midsection, began with the nonpunching hand extended outward as though it had just been used to block, the punching hand pulled back, the fist inverted, resting at his side, just under the pectorals.
The Sword and the Chain Page 10