Guardians of The Flame: To Home And Ehvenor (The Guardians of the Flame #06-07)

by Joel Rosenberg

  It was strange. Mickey, the kid who was really in charge, would address me very formally—"Skipper, I think we should stand by to come about," and then I'd say, "Stand by to come about," and they'd framish the glimrod and farble the kezenpfaufer, or whatever needed to be done, and wait for me to respond to Mickey's nod with a "come about."

  The only part they didn't like was when I told them stuff like, "All right, let's hoist up the landlubbers and batten down the hatches."

  No sense of humor.

  Particularly when I said, "Stand by to capsize."

  * * *

  "The thing is," my new friend said, his thick arm thrown across my shoulder, "is that the Watersprite may look like the slowest scow on the face of the Cirric . . ." actually, he said "Shirrick," but you get the idea " . . . and it may smell like the least-bailed excuse for a floating cesspool ever to dishonor the sewer-water in which it floats, and it may be captained by the stupidest man ever to risk falling overboard and poisoning the fish below, but, once you get used to her and her ways, she's even worse. Havanudda beer."

  He was a broad, thick man, with a rippling sailor's beard that spilled down both cheeks, across his neck and down his chest. Beneath the beard, his face was sweaty and dirty in the light of the sputtering candles that dripped wax onto the filthy surface of the rough-hewn table. Absently, he crushed a beetle with his thumb, then drained some more beer, one hand on my knee.

  I think he was about to launch into another long, drunken monologue—drunks do that, a lot—so I interposed another suggestion.

  "So," I said, weaving in time with him, "you think I should not think about thinking about signing on." My slur was worse than his, but not much.

  "Welen, my pet . . ." he waved a finger. He was trying to point, probably. "I think you'd be crazy to entertain the thought of considering contemplating the idea of thinking about signing on."

  "Aw, it can't be as bad as all that, now can it?"

  "Can't it now? I see right through you, Welen, and don't you think I don't. I know what you're up to."

  I forced a warm smile. "Oh, you do, do you?" I didn't look toward the door, but with a bit of luck I could make it out into the night with a kick, a leap, and a dash.

  "Don't you think I don't—been too long with dirt instead of a deck under your feet, eh? It shows, man, it shows. A man's got to eat—and drink, eh?—and a sailor's got to sail. I don't doubt that, Welen-pretty, but you can do better than the Watersprite, is all I say, except to add that you can't do worse."

  He rose, wobbly as a newborn colt. "No time like the present—just let me finish this, and we're off. Hey, Tonen, Rufol—I'm off. Are you with me, or against me? Swear to the Fish, I do, you'll not find your way back alone. I think you are drunk, the two of you, the both of you are drunk."

  "Drunk, us? No, just reefed a bit too tight," another sailor said, as he and yet another lurched to their feet, and we all lurched out into the night.

  We staggered down the street, down the hill, toward the center of town, belting out a very pretty harmony on a sailing song usually used to time the pulling of a rope.

  I took the baritone lead; I'd spent a fair amount of time impersonating—no, being—a sailor; it was one way to move along the coast and among the Shattered Islands without drawing any attention, and ships are always in need of crews.

  The light-negligence that I'd seen higher up the hill wasn't echoed in the center of town. The poles were ringed by a dozen lanterns, and a ten-man squad of soldiers stood guard from nearby. If I had to, I would have bet there was another troop in the dark of the lord's house, across the way, and certainly plenty more within call at the barracks. Coastal cities had always been subject to pirate raids, and local lords knew to keep troops handy.

  "—so haul them hard, sailors,

  Pull them down and away,

  You'll work hard for your money,

  No drinking today.

  So haul them hard, sailors—"

  One of the troop broke away and stalked across the darkened ground toward us.

  "Be still, the lot of you," he said, smiling, "M'lord sleeps with his windows open, and if you wake him you'll not be finding him amused."

  My new friend threw his arm companionably about the soldier's shoulders. "He doesn't like singing? What kind of lord is this?"

  The poor soldier gagged at the smell of his breath. I didn't blame him. The sailor released him, then staggered toward the nearest of the posts, dragging me by the arm.

  "Come look at what we have here. Eh, but what do we have here? Skinny little birds on their perches. Hello, skinny little bird? Would you like to come down from there and perch on my face?"

  From the cage, Bast's skeletal face looked listlessly down, his eyes dull. There was no sign of recognition; I doubt he could even have focused properly. I wouldn't have wanted to bet he could take another day. Kenda looked even worse, and the two in the cages beyond were unmoving, perhaps already dead.

  The cages were secured by locks, not apparently welded shut. No, not welded shut at all—as Kenda shifted position slightly, the door squeaked against its catch. Not good, but not as bad as it could have been—it was possible that they had been welded in there. There isn't a This Side lock I can't open, given the right tools and a few minutes. I had the right tools in my pack—the few minutes would be a problem.

  Never mind that for now. Just get information.

  One guard sat in the door at the base of the siege tower, a tall, thick column probably concealing a circular staircase—it was thicker than would have been needed for just a ladder, and it would be much easier to manhandle bound prisoners up a staircase than a ladder.

  "Heyheyhey," the guard said. "No talking to the condemned, eh? Be off and on your way."

  We staggered off into the night, belching out another chorus.

  Dockside, my thick-fingered friend let the other two on first. "I want to have a little, oh, talk with our new friend, eh?" he said.

  The other two laughed as they reeled off down the docks toward the narrow gangplank. They knew about his predilections.

  I'd worked them out a while back, but I wasn't ready for it when he clumsily threw his arms around my neck and said, "Was that good enough, Walter Slovotsky?"

  He didn't sound drunk at all.

  * * *

  His smile was crooked. "Did we find out enough, I asked you," he said quietly, then raised his voice. "What's the matter with you? I jus' wanna be friends, don' you wanna be friends?

  "You should ask how I know you," he went on, lowering his voice. "You don't remember me, but we met once before. Years ago."

  He fingered his neck, at the base of the black beard that ran down his chin and neck and into his chest. Perhaps it was the flickering lamplight, or maybe I did see, almost hidden beneath the mat of beard, white scars that an iron collar would have left behind.

  Clumsy fingers groped where his collar would have been. Had been.

  "Push me away now, Walter Slovotsky," he whispered. "A quick curse, too, if you please."

  "I do it with women, damn you—keep your hands off my cock, or I'll geld you," I shouted, as I shoved him, hard. "I swear I'll cut your balls off and stuff them up your nose."

  "Aw, let's be friends." And, again, sotto voce: "We sail in the morning. I'm not a brave man, or I'd stay and help you and your friends." He backhanded me across the face, hard enough to sting, no more. "That for your shyness." And, again, quietly: "If you're leaving by water, the two fastest ships in port are the Butter and the Delenia, but careful of both captains. They do much business here." He raised his hands in defeat.

  "I know when I've been told no," he said, staggering away into the dark, gesturing a farewell with a casual wave.

  I didn't even know his name.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  In Which a Hearty

  Breakfast Is Eaten

  In skating over thin ice, our safety is in our speed.

  —RALPH WALDO EMERSON

  Audac
ity is a virtue that should always be practiced with caution.

  —WALTER SLOVOTSKY

  The others were all up waiting for me. Ahira hauled me up into the window so fast it felt like flying.

  "How did it go?" he asked. "Did you find out what we need?"

  "Maybe." I nodded. "I'll need to think about it."

  "See," he said with a relaxed smile. I liked that smile. I hadn't seen it for awhile, not since Bieme. "You didn't have to get all that close, eh?"

  I shrugged. "I guess I should have listened to you."

  * * *

  "Sometimes things are real simple," I explained to three others, as we gathered around breakfast in the central room the next morning. "I know the easy way to get them out."

  Down in the town center, our friends were spending another day starving and frying in the hot sun. Tennetty was off running an errand.

  Here, sunlight splashed in through the breeze-stirred curtains, onto the four-person dining table and the silver trays heavily laden with rashers of bacon, chicken pies, and little ceramic ramekins holding coddled eggs, among other things. Breakfast is traditionally the biggest meal of the day in Brae, which is fine by me.

  Ahira cocked his head to one side. "Sure." Using a pair of silver tongs to protect himself from the heat, he took the lid off a baking pot, and sniffed. "Some sort of stew, I think." He slopped some onto his plate, and mopped at it with half of a golden fist-sized roll. "Hmmm . . . not bad. Kid, maybe."

  I reached for a roll—it was still warm from the oven—then tore it in half and dipped one end into a crock of raspberry preserves. It was delightfully sweet, with maybe just a touch too much tartness, and the seeds crunched between my teeth.

  Andrea wasn't having any of it—she and her son were only picking at their food.

  Ahira crunched into a thick rasher of bacon, then washed it down with a swallow of deeply purple wine. "So tell me how we do it the easy way," he said, a suspicious twitch to his grin.

  "You and Jason take over the siege tower, climb up, and run a cable through all four cages," I said. I dipped the other hunk of bread into a cup of golden butter, and bit into that. Hmm . . . it was hard to decide which way was better—I downed both halves of the roll in two bites. "We splice one end to the other, tying them together. Meanwhile, I wrap det cord around the base of each pole, and light the fuse.

  "Just before it all blows, Ellegon swoops down out of the sky, and grabs the whole mess just as the explosives cut the poles free."

  Jason frowned in disgust. Andy shook her head, tolerantly.

  "I think I see some problems with that," Ahira said, dryly.

  "Only a few," I said. "One, we don't have a cable. Two, last time we talked about it, Lou figured he's about five years away from being able to produce det cord or any other good plastique equivalent, so that part doesn't work—the closest thing we have is a handful of grenades, and they won't do it.

  "Three, there's no rendezvous set up with Ellegon for another eighteen days, so we can't count on him for this.

  "Four, there's too many soldiers out there, and they'd cut us down before we got anywhere."

  There was a pyramid of three tiny roasted chickens on one of the serving plates; I took the top one and tore off the drumstick. It came off too easily—either the bird had been overcooked, or I was more pumped up than I was trying to affect. Not that it matters: the skin of the drumstick was crisp and garlicky; the meat was rich and firm.

  Tennetty burst through the doors, shut them behind her, and gave a quick nod as she took her seat at the table and tore into a loaf of bread. "Passage for eight on the Delenia," she said, from around a huge mouthful. "We leave at noon, tomorrow."

  "Boarding?"

  "Any time in the morning, from first light on. One problem, though—she's riding too low for her dock space, and they're moving her out to a mooring today so they can finish loading her. Long Dock needs work—it's been silting up underneath, and Lord Daeran had a problem with his last set of silkie workers."

  "Launches?"

  She nodded. "Her own. Two. Each can carry eight, including crew. Both will be tied up at Long Dock from sundown on."

  Andrea had caught on. "We've done this one before," she said. "One day after arriving on This Side."

  Once we were safely on the ship, we would have a common interest with the captain in getting the hell out of here, just as we had done, long ago, with Avair Ganness and the Ganness' Pride.

  "Almost makes me feel nostalgic." Her smile brightened the whole room as she reached for a chicken breast and tore into it with strong white teeth. "How about the other part?"

  "All a replay." I shrugged. "Ahira and I did that one, too, the time we ended up having to put your husband on the throne." I shook my head. "This time, though, it's a solo."

  It would have to be me, and me alone. I'm not a hero or anything, but Ahira wouldn't be able to get in. It was totally not Andy's sort of thing; Jason was just too young to pull it all off. Tennetty could do the threatening part of it—and well—but not the rest of it. I sat back, trying to think of a way I could make this work with a fortyish woman wizard, a reliable dwarf, a still-green kid, or a one-eyed psychopath in the lead role, but couldn't.

  "Uh, excuse me? Last time you did this?" Tennetty cocked her head to one side. "As I recall, last time you went face-to-face with royalty was the time you got Baron Furnael killed, no?"

  "Close enough." I nodded. "Hey, I'll have to do it better this time."

  Jason looked from Ahira to me, and back to Ahira, and then back to me. "You love this, don't you?"

  "Truth to tell, Jason-me-boy, I do. Consider it a personality defect." It also scared me shitless, but not out of an appetite. I reached for another piece of chicken.

  One does have to keep a sense of proportion about such things.

  * * *

  While our friends baked in the hot sun, we spent the day preparing, and resting, and eating.

  I had to get up too early for breakfast the next morning. It was important to be at the residence early.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  In Which I Have

  a Pleasant Chat

  with Lord Daeran

  The same man cannot be skilled in everything; each has his special excellence.

  —EURIPIDES

  There's a balance you have to learn, between being able to do a little of everything, and therefore nothing at all real well, and becoming overspecialized and completely useless outside your specialization. Learning that balance is, I've always believed, part of becoming an adult. I figure I'm about twenty years overdue to learn it.

  —WALTER SLOVOTSKY

  Old family story—and it's one of the few that my mother used to tell, so it could be true. Nah. But . . .

  It seems that when my parents were trying to have me, there was some trouble conceiving. The doctors didn't know much about infertility then, and were trying whole bunches of things, some of which made sense, others of which were just patent nostrums. Schedules, diets, temperature taking, boxer shorts—the whole bit.

  Finally, according to Mom, the doctor said, "Look. Stop trying so hard. It may just be a matter of relaxation. So take it easy, don't worry about schedules, don't worry about time of the month. Just do it whenever you feel like, okay?"

  "That's why," Emma would say, her mouth quirked into a smile that caused Stash to blush just a bit, "we can never, ever go back to Howard Johnson's."

  * * *

  The way to a man's heart is through his stomach—or his ribcage, if you're playing for keeps; the way into a lord's residence is through the kitchen.

  It only stands to reason—the formal front door is for formal visitors, and is well-guarded by people wanting to know the reason for somebody entering. There was a lot of traffic, mind; Lord Daeran wasn't just idle royalty, but like most of the rulers of the small domains along the Cirric, the equivalent of the village warden, as well—his time was spent in negotiating rates for dock space and bargaining over t
he cost of potted fish.

  On the other hand, given the local refrigeration problems—there isn't any—there are constantly people arriving with food deliveries. Particularly in early morning, before the sun is fully up, before even those who are up and working are really awake.

  Well, give them credit—this isn't the way an attacking army would work its way in.

  The trick was to look like I knew where I was going, and to be sure that I didn't end up in a closet.

  Fairly straightforward, actually—the kitchens occupied the alley side of the residence, and there was only one open door, through which I could hear the clanging of pots and shouting of cooks. (Why all cooks shout is a mystery to me.)

  I was through the outer kitchens and into the cooking room itself before anybody braced me. It was a burly woman, who vaguely reminded me of U'len, although this one had an even meaner expression on her face, if that could be believed. She had been stirring a huge stockpot filled with bones and carrots and onions, but she stopped to look up and glare at me.

  "Sweetmeats for Lord Daeran," I said, bowing deeply, holding out a small wooden box and a piece of parchment to her.

  She didn't take either. "What am I supposed to do with these?"

  "Lady, I've ridden all of a day and a night to bring this from Fenevar and Lord Ulven." I spread my hands. "The box is to be properly presented to Lord Daeran; the parchment is to be imprinted with the mark of Lord Daeran's Valet, attesting to my having delivered it in good order." I gestured at the parchment. "Good lady, I am sure that you can mark it for him, if you would be so—"

  She eyed the broken wax seal that my carelessly spread fingers didn't quite obscure. "And what am I supposed to do about this?"

  I smiled innocently. "Which?"

  "This seal. It appears to be broken. Will I find some sweetmeats missing inside?"