Liar's Bargain: A Novel

by Tim Pratt

  15

  PRIVATEERING

  Rodrick shouted in alarm and dismounted, then waded in to help the patrolman wrestling with Prinn. He had the pleasure of punching Prinn in the jaw, making the man rock back on his heels. Prinn held up his hands and ducked his head in submission. All part of plan, but there was glittering hate in the sorcerer’s eyes when he met Rodrick’s gaze. That was hardly fair. Rodrick had seen Prinn shake off blows from monstrous fey without breaking stride, and it would have taken ten men to hold him down if he’d been determined to escape, rather than merely causing a distraction. Nevertheless, Rodrick felt himself the target of a grudge.

  As they’d hoped, once Prinn was restrained, they patted him down rather viciously and, when they found no weapons, seemed content, and didn’t go back to finish checking the Specialist—which meant the vials and small bits of metal hidden under his clothes in the vicinity of his crotch went unnoticed.

  “Clean!” a patrolman called.

  A small door in the larger gate swung open, big enough to lead a horse through, but not to ride through. Rodrick guided his horse, trailing the restrained captives, inside. The interior of the fort was vast and sprawling, with several low buildings made of timber, a smithy, storehouses, stables, and training grounds where entirely too many soldiers were drilling and practicing archery and swordplay. The general impression was that of wood and dust and smoke and horseshit, and it all struck Rodrick as immensely dreary. He couldn’t imagine what would cause people in full possession of their faculties to sign up for the soldiering life. Most people who lived lives more conventional than his own baffled him, but to become a soldier seemed especially lunatic: if you were a tanner or a cooper or a hostler your life might be boring, but at least people trying to kill you wouldn’t be a regular part of your duties.

  Then again, people tried to kill Rodrick as a regular part of his duties, so perhaps he was in no position to judge. At least his job paid well. When it paid at all. Which it didn’t at the moment. How depressing.

  The guard controlling the gate was older, more grizzled, and more competent-looking than the patrolmen outside, and he examined the prisoners with occasional grunts of disapproval. “All right, then.” He took the rope from Rodrick and gave it a jerk, making the Specialist stumble and Prinn tense up. “One of the grooms will see to your horse. The captain’s office is just there.” He nodded toward a sturdily built structure of wood flying a flag that Rodrick supposed must be that of Molthune: a red field with a sword crossed by a hammer. Ah, well, that explained it. If you grew up seeing a flag like that flapping all the time, no wonder you’d think a life of blood and blade and toil was a fine aspiration.

  “Where are you taking us?” the Specialist said.

  “Shut up, rebel.”

  “Nirmathas has been independent for sixty years,” the Specialist said. “It’s older than me, though not by much. Referring to me as a ‘rebel,’ therefore, is inaccurate and—”

  Rodrick smacked the Specialist on the back of the head, earning a sullen glare and a mumbled complaint in reply. He’d probably hold a grudge against Rodrick, too, even though he’d only smacked the Specialist to keep the guard from hitting the old man a whole lot harder. “This one doesn’t know when to shut up,” Rodrick said. “I’m sure your interrogators will have a fine time with him.”

  “He’ll have to wait his turn.” The guard sighed wearily. “We caught a whole raiding party a few days back and we’re still trying to find out if any of them have information worth hearing, or if they’re the usual run of idiots. Go on and talk to the captain.” The guard jerked the rope and the Specialist and Prinn followed him. Rodrick watched long enough to see where they were going—a large and heavily guarded structure well away from the fort’s walls, with steps leading down, suggesting there was a cellar or basement underneath, too. Well, why not? When you had prisoners to do the digging for you, such construction was very cost-effective.

  Rodrick strolled through the fort, whistling, nodding to passing soldiers, making his way toward the command center while trying to get a sense of troop strength at the same time. A guard at the door nodded at him without making any demands or objecting to his entrance. Once you were inside the walls, you were assumed to be friendly, unless there was a rope around your neck. The interior of the building was well made, almost more house than fortlike, and Rodrick grabbed a harried-looking aide on the way past and asked for directions to the captain’s office.

  Captain Lewton was about the Specialist’s age, with a fair bit of gray in his beard and his drooping mustache, but he was broad across the shoulders and still looked fit and hale. He wore a neat uniform with rank insignia on the shoulders, and worked with his head bent over a sheaf of papers spread out on a desk covered in files and scroll cases. He glanced up when Rodrick entered, gestured vaguely at a hard wooden chair—the Molthuni were not a people known for their embrace of creature comforts—and then returned to his files. Rodrick was used to petty displays of power, and didn’t object to being kept waiting. The longer he sat here, the more time Prinn and the Specialist had to find Zumani.

  Eventually Lewton put his folder aside, sat back in his chair, and laced his fingers over his stomach. The way he looked at Rodrick made it clear he wasn’t impressed by what he saw, but Rodrick didn’t mind. Some people just had terrible judgment.

  “What happened to Karstan?” Lewton said eventually.

  Rodrick put on a sorrowful face. “I’m afraid our fearless leader should have been a bit more fearful. He swaggered up to a rebel group to give them the bad news about their impending massacre, but they killed him before he finished gloating over our impending victory. We engaged the rebels, of course, but it was a bit chaotic, and both sides withdrew bloodied but undefeated.”

  The captain nodded, as if the news didn’t surprise him at all. “Karstan always did have a flair for the dramatic. That made him a terrible soldier, but I thought being something of a peacock could be an asset in a bandit. He could be persuasive, too—he talked me into letting him be a ‘privateer,’ didn’t he? Ha! The others made you the leader after he died, then?”

  Rodrick nodded. “It’s possible I have a small flair for the dramatic myself.” He tilted his hat to a more rakish angle. “I just know there’s a proper time and place for such things.”

  “Mmm. And you expect me to continue the arrangement I had with Karstan with you? He served under me—not well, it’s true, but I knew from experience that Karstan was a loyal son of Molthune. I don’t know you at all, and by your accent, you’re from somewhere off east.”

  “Well spotted! I hail from Andoran. I came west, as so many have before me, in search of new frontiers and opportunities.”

  Lewton grunted. “And signed up with a bandit troop, even if it was an authorized one. That last part is the only thing that keeps me from simply hanging you.”

  “I’m always pleased to hear I won’t be hanged. It never fails to brighten up my day. I can be of service to you, Captain. Indeed, I have been already. I brought two prisoners, both leaders of the resistance.”

  The captain looked like he might spit, if he hadn’t been sitting in his own office, so he settled for a sour face. “How can you tell who’s a leader, in that filthy rabble?”

  “One of them is an older man, and his people fought fiercely to protect him. Once we caught him, he went on at great length about the nobility of the human spirit and how all men and women are born free only to be enslaved by tyranny and circumstance … and other such claptrap.”

  “Ah, one of the philosopher types. A few of those always spring up, even among the dirt and rocks and trees. What about the other one?”

  “I’m not sure he’s a leader, exactly, to be honest. But he killed four of my men and fought like a demon possessed before we brought him down, so he’s certainly dangerous, and if he’s locked up here, he’s not murdering good soldiers of Molthune in midnight raids.”

  The captain nodded and rose. “All righ
t, let’s see what you brought me—”

  A bell began to ring in the distance, a wild tolling, and the captain’s gaze snapped toward the door. One of his aides leaned in and said, “There’s an attack on the south wall!”

  “Stay here, and don’t let this man leave,” Lewton snapped, pointing at Rodrick, who held up his hands to show how harmless he was.

  Rodrick half-rose from his chair. “Lend me a sword instead, and I can help you repel the invaders—

  “Ha!” Lewton stalked out of the office. Ah, well. He was smart enough to be suspicious of a stranger who arrived immediately before an attack on his fort. A pity, but not entirely unforeseen.

  Rodrick finished rising from the chair, extending a hand and smiling widely at the young and panicked-looking aide. The man didn’t take Rodrick’s hand, just stared at him, so Rodrick patted him on the shoulder instead. “What kind of attack was it?” he asked.

  “I—some sort of explosion, and smoke.”

  “That would be the bombs,” Rodrick said. “Eldra’s got marvelous aim.”

  “What are you talking aboughhrr…” The aide’s eyes glazed over and he slumped down, Rodrick catching him and lowering him gently to the floor. The trick ring Rodrick wore, with a hollow needle on the underside, had delivered a single dose of the Specialist’s sleeping potion through the aide’s shoulder. The man would be under for ages.

  According to Merihim’s plan, all Rodrick was supposed to do now was get out of the fort, perhaps causing a few minor distractions and sowing acts of sabotage if the opportunity arose. Merihim clearly didn’t want to assign him any more crucial duties—she must think that, in the absence of Hrym, Rodrick wasn’t worth much. That annoyed him.

  Rodrick looked at the fallen aide critically and decided he would do, though the uniform would be a bit tight across the shoulders.

  * * *

  Dressed in the unconscious soldier’s uniform, Rodrick ran through the halls and out of the building, trying to look like he was on an important mission. There was a delightful amount of chaos in the fort: the wall was broken by bombs and ice on one side, and an impenetrable freezing fog hovered over a large portion of that area, with soldiers running into the haze and occasionally sliding back out again. Rodrick seized a passing soldier by the arm and shouted, “What’s going on?”

  The man wrenched free and kept running, but shouted, “Rebel attack!” as he went.

  How gratifying. Eldra and a sack of bombs and Merihim and Hrym had managed to successfully impersonate a full-scale attack by the Nirmathi. All this fuss was supposed to cover the escape of Prinn and the Specialist and the rescued revolutionary leader, but Rodrick didn’t see his compatriots or their charge anywhere. He moved purposefully toward the long, low building where the other Volunteers had been taken. Rodrick nodded to the guard on the door, who gripped his polearm with white knuckles. “Captain Lewton sent me to secure the prisoners,” Rodrick said.

  The guard, who was a head taller than Rodrick and had the flattened nose of a man who got into a lot of fistfights and didn’t always win, scowled. Rodrick got the sense he was the type who’d taken up soldiering because it was a way to hit people without getting arrested for it. “They’re already secure. They’re in cells down there.”

  “Yes, but the captain thinks this is an attempt by the rebels to rescue their captured comrades, so I’m supposed to make them even more secure—and execute them if the attacking rebels manage to murder you and force their way in.”

  The man’s eyes went wide. “They’re coming here?”

  Rodrick nodded. “Looks that way. They’ve got some kind of filthy nature magic, too—fire and ice and things. Nasty stuff.”

  Rodrick half expected the guard to drop his polearm and flee, but the Molthuni clearly beat serious discipline even into their more brutish recruits, because the man swallowed, put his back against the wall, and held his weapon higher. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

  “Good man.” Rodrick gave him a firm handshake, very brothers-in-arms, and a moment later, the guard slumped against the wall and slid down to sit in the dirt. That was it for the Specialist’s lovely potion. Rodrick should have worn more rings—he’d have to knock people out in a cruder fashion from now on. He took the guard’s keys and opened up the heavy door, stepping into the gloom.

  16

  A POLITICAL PRISONER

  Prinn was just inside the door, standing over the very fresh corpse of a soldier. The Specialist stood nearby, the unconscious body of a man dressed in brown rags thrown over his shoulder—the old fellow was deceptively strong. He also had the beginnings of a black eye. “Oh, hello,” the Specialist said. “Glad you came. I was wondering how we’d get out—only the guard outside has keys to the outer door. I thought Prinn would have to chew through the wall.”

  “Always happy to be of service,” Rodrick said. “Who’s that sack of potatoes you’ve got draped over your shoulder?”

  “The great revolutionary poet Zumani.”

  “Where are the other prisoners?” The plan had been to release everyone imprisoned here, and let that addition to the chaos help cover the escape of the Volunteers.

  The Specialist shook his head dolefully. “Still locked up, and it’s better that way. I’ll explain later. Let’s escape, hmm?”

  When they emerged, there was a lot more chaos than before in the fort, and an ice-crusted hole in another wall. The freezing fog Hrym had created was confusing matters wonderfully, but eventually the soldiers were sure to realize they hadn’t actually made contact with any enemies, and Lewton would start to figure things out. The thing about people who worshiped military order was that they seldom stayed panicked for long enough.

  “Carry him.” The Specialist all but tossed the revolutionary at Rodrick, who hoisted him over his own shoulder. Zumani was a slight man, almost willowy, and he smelled of dirt and sour, stale body odor. The Specialist looked around the fort, closed his eyes for a moment, nodded, and then strode off purposefully around the side of the jail. Rodrick looked at Prinn—and, to Rodrick’s shock, the man gave a little shrug, as if to say, “Who knows?” before following the Specialist. Was the mad silent mage actually becoming companionable? Maybe the Volunteers were becoming a team, despite themselves.

  Rodrick followed them, lugging Zumani, and his stomach churned as he realized they were walking across an execution ground. A gibbet stood in the center of a cleared area, with four ropes dangling over the platform, for those times when killing prisoners one by one was simply too time-consuming. Rodrick wondered what the Molthuni did with the bodies of the condemned. At least there wasn’t an open mass grave next to the gallows.

  “Here.” The Specialist went toward the wall, waving his arms wildly at the lone guard on the gate there. “Excuse me! We’ve got a body to take out for burial!”

  “We’re being attacked,” the guard began, but Prinn was on him in an instant, wrenching his head around on his shoulders and dropping his corpse to the ground. Rodrick winced. He never liked killing, if he could avoid it. Ending someone else’s life seemed a rather extreme way to further one’s agenda.

  “You have keys?”

  Rodrick tossed the ring of keys he’d taken off the jailhouse guard to the Specialist, who clucked his tongue. “Very poor security protocols.” He opened a heavy iron padlock and dropped it into the dirt, pushed open the door, and poked his head out. “All clear,” he said, opening the door.

  Rodrick surveyed their path to freedom. They would have to cross a large expanse of open ground, dotted with fresh grave mounds, before they reached the concealment of the trees. Rodrick didn’t relish running with an unconscious zealot over his shoulder as snipers shot arrows at him. He glanced up at the nearest watchtower, though, and was relieved to see it was actively on fire. One of the Specialist’s incendiary bombs had made that position an inhospitable one to hold.

  They went through the gate, and didn’t see another soul in the vicinity. Eldra and Merihim had shif
ted their attention to the other side of the fort, and the soldiers had turned their focus that way as well. The Volunteers rushed past the graveyard, then through a field of stumps, the trees cut down to remove cover for any approaching enemy forces.

  They made it halfway to the trees before the first arrow fell. It was almost as if it magically appeared, a feathered shaft suddenly there, sticking out of a stump, alarmingly close to Rodrick. He swore, shifting Zumani around on his shoulder, hoping the man draped over his back would catch any arrows that would otherwise hit Rodrick. Sure, Temple would be displeased at the poet’s death, but if Temple was shouting at Rodrick, that meant Rodrick was alive to be shouted at.

  Suddenly something lifted Rodrick off his feet, and he began to move very quickly. After a moment of intense confusion he realized Prinn had picked him up, carrying the weight of Zumani and Rodrick both, and set off at a rapid clip, weaving through the stumps and avoiding falling arrows with a terrifying economy of motion. Soon they were beyond the tree line, but Prinn didn’t put them down until they reached a small clearing where Merihim, Eldra, and Bannerman were waiting with their mounts. Hrym hung in a scabbard dangling from the saddle of Rodrick’s horse.

  Way off in the distance, there was a noise that sounded a bit like a horde of giants roaring, but even more like a very loud explosion.

  As the echoes rolled away, Merihim said, “There go the delayed bombs we planted. The Specialist does good work. Where is he?”

  As if summoned, the Specialist limped in, clutching his left arm close to the shoulder and looking even more doleful than usual. “An arrow grazed me. I doubt it was poisoned. If I’d been loosing arrows, they would have been poisoned.”

  “Why is Zumani unconscious?” Bannerman demanded, taking the man from Rodrick.

  The Specialist sighed. “That is something we will have to discuss once we have made our escape.”

  Prinn nodded, once, sharply.