Liar's Bargain: A Novel

by Tim Pratt

  Bannerman quickly tied Zumani to the back of his horse, then mounted. “All right, let’s go. We need to put some distance between ourselves and that fort. I’ve made arrangements to meet up with a group of Nirmathi fighters just this side of the border. They’ll help us make our way north.”

  Before climbing on his horse, Rodrick paused beside Prinn. “Thank you for that. Saving me from the arrows, I mean.”

  Prinn looked at him for a long moment, and then his lips moved, transforming his face into a grim rictus. Was he trying to smile?

  Just to be safe, Rodrick smiled back, then hurried to his horse. “Did you have fun, Hrym?”

  “Oh, it was all fog, fog, fog. My talents were wasted.”

  “On the bright side, it wasn’t hard work.”

  “It was still work, though. I’d better get that scabbard of gold at the end of all this.”

  “It’s certainly something to look forward to.”

  After that, there was no talking for a while, as Bannerman pushed them at a fast pace along a fairly well-maintained trail that cut through the forest. Judging by the heaps of horse apples everywhere, mounted people used this route often, and Rodrick hoped they wouldn’t run into anyone wearing Molthuni uniforms. After a while they slowed and took a less traveled path, one that meandered with the contours of the landscape rather than imposing order upon the resistant terrain.

  Bannerman called a halt in the middle of nothing at all, just bushes and trees and so on, as far as Rodrick could see.

  “Is this the Nirmathi camp?” Rodrick said. “They must be very good at camouflage.”

  “The soldiers will hesitate to follow us this far into Nirmathi territory, wary of an ambush—that’s if they even realize we went in this direction,” Bannerman said. “The camp isn’t far, but before we get there, I need to know why Zumani is on the back of my horse groaning with a lump on the back of his head?”

  The Specialist shrugged. “We were taken into the prison. Prinn disabled the guards easily. We announced that we’d come to save Zumani. He asked if Temple sent us, and I admitted that she had. And then…” The old man sighed. “He said he wouldn’t come with us unless we met his demands.”

  Bannerman frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he insisted we meet certain conditions before he would allow us to rescue him.”

  “That’s asinine,” Bannerman said.

  “That’s idealists for you.”

  “What were his demands?”

  “Apparently a few elder statesmen of the movement have been captured recently. The Molthuni realized they were valuable targets, and took them to a special facility farther south for interrogation. The sort of interrogation that involves hot knives and pincers, I would imagine. Zumani insisted we rescue them, too, or he wouldn’t go with us—he would rather, he said, be a glorious martyr to the cause. I told him it would be better to save himself now, and deal with other issues later. Zumani then threatened to reveal all his dealings with Lastwall to the Molthuni authorities if we didn’t agree to his scheme.”

  Bannerman pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “All right. What did you do?”

  “I wanted to lie to him, and tell him we’d be delighted to save his compatriots if he’d come along with us. Prinn, however, elected to take a more direct approach, and bashed Zumani over the head to subdue him. The other prisoners were unhappy about that—one of them struck me in the eye, which means I’ve been injured twice on this operation—so we had to push them back into their cells, lock them in, and leave without them.”

  “Oh, this is marvelous,” Bannerman said. “This operation was meant to enhance Zumani’s reputation, you know—the stories would have made him the leader of a daring prison break.”

  “We were told to retrieve this man, and we did,” Merihim said. “It’s not our fault he was uncooperative.”

  “Yes, but it changes our situation. We were supposed to meet up with Zumani’s people, let them know he was free, and start building him up as the brave new leader of their movement, before taking him back to see Temple. Now … He’s not likely to be very cooperative, is he? If we meet with his men, they’ll almost certainly help him be uncooperative.” He sighed. “I’ve got to contact Temple and see how she wants us to proceed.”

  “How long will that take?” Merihim said.

  “Not very. I have a magic scroll—I can write a few words, and they’ll appear on a scroll in Temple’s possession, and she can write back. It’s a one-use spell, unfortunately, for emergencies only … but I’d say this qualifies. Take a rest, eat something, make sure Zumani doesn’t have permanent head trauma, and I’ll see how Temple wants us to proceed.”

  They all dismounted, Bannerman going off to find a flat rock to write on, the others patting their horses and breaking out rations, except for the Specialist, who examined their unconscious revolutionary. The rest sat along the trunk of a fallen tree while they ate.

  “Prinn tells me you improvised a bit in there,” Merihim said. “Came to help them get out of the stockade.”

  Rodrick shrugged. “I saw an opportunity to be of assistance, and took it.”

  “Right. I disapprove of the show of initiative, but appreciate the apparent competence. I’ll keep it in mind when I deploy you in the future.”

  “Oh, good. I strive to impress.”

  Eldra leaned her head on his shoulder and made a contented noise, which cheered Rodrick up despite himself.

  “Good work throwing bombs,” he said. “If you hadn’t taken out that guard tower, I’d be feathered with so many arrows I’d look like a chicken.”

  “There was a game we played in the Conservatory, throwing a small ball at moving targets. I was champion three years running. The watchtower just stood there. It was easy.” She had a smear of soot on the end of her nose, and Rodrick wiped it off, feeling a surge of tenderness for the ninety-year-old brazen thief of a great-grandmother. “This job isn’t so bad,” she said. “I’d prefer it if it paid in something other than threats, but the work itself isn’t objectionable.”

  “Except insofar as it’s work,” Hrym said. “I’m an immortal sword of living ice. Why do I need to work at all? It’s not like I need food or shelter.”

  “Gold, though,” Rodrick said.

  “Gold, though,” Hrym agreed glumly.

  Prinn leaned over and whispered into Merihim’s ear, and she chuckled. “Prinn says to remind you that the love of gold is the wellspring of all trouble.”

  “True, true,” Hrym said. “But what else am I supposed do? It’s gold. The heart follows its own dictates.”

  The revolutionary woke up, groaning first, and then struggling. “What is this? Let me go!”

  Merihim rose and went to him. “Shh, Zumani, please, you’re among friends.”

  He looked at her and shrieked. “Devil-creature, get away from me! Are you one of the Molthuni’s monstrous recruits?”

  She sighed. “I work with Temple. I’m one of the people who broke you out of the fort.”

  “You stole me away from the struggle! I am just one man among many, and my brothers and sisters still languish in chains. I demand that you free—”

  “Can we knock him unconscious again?” Merihim interrupted.

  “I wouldn’t hit him on the head again,” the Specialist said. “We might damage him permanently. I could dose him with something, but that can have deleterious effects, too. He is ostensibly our ally, after all.”

  “Gag him, then, if he won’t be quiet,” Merihim said wearily.

  Zumani declined to be quiet, so the Specialist used a few strips of cloth to gag him. The poet still struggled and complained, but it was a lot less noisy.

  “Nothing’s ever easy, is it?” Rodrick said.

  Eldra put her hand on his knee and smiled, her cheeks dimpling fetchingly. “Nothing worth doing, anyway.”

  17

  AN EXCESS OF CONSCIENCE

  The revolutionary poet eventually se
ttled down enough that they took out his gag, let him off the horse, and sat him down on a log to eat, though they kept his legs tied. He complained between bites, though in a more level voice. “My captivity serves to symbolize the bondage of all the Nirmathi people, who must struggle against the territorial ambitions of the Molthuni oppressors.”

  The Specialist chewed a bit of bread thoughtfully, then said, “You’ve got that wrong. This captivity doesn’t symbolize anything—this is literal captivity. That other kind of captivity, the kind where you live free in the forest in the independent nation of Nirmathas, that’s the symbolic sort of captivity. It’s important to keep such things straight. Confusing the real for the symbolic is a good way to get killed.”

  “I knew someone who was eaten by a symbolic dragon once,” Hrym said.

  The Specialist cocked his head. “Do you care to explain that?”

  “If you’ve got the gold.”

  Bannerman joined them, nodding to Zumani. “How are you doing?”

  “I was dragged away from my compatriots, who are doubtless being tortured by the enemy.”

  “So you’re doing better than they are, anyway.” Bannerman took a swig from a canteen. “I don’t understand you, Zumani. My people come to save you, and you make demands?”

  “Some things are more important than the freedom of one man.”

  “The freedom of four other men, apparently?”

  Zumani lifted his chin. He did look very poetic, Rodrick had to admit: sort of pale and slender and delicate-looking, despite the fact that he lived and fought in a forest. Though who knew how much he really fought? Perhaps he was just adept at encouraging others to fight. “They are leaders of four of the major militias, Bannerman. They were having a secret meeting to coordinate a large-scale operation against certain Molthuni fortifications near the border, and someone betrayed them.”

  Bannerman nodded. “They were taken the day before you were, Zumani. They’re probably dead already. You must know that.”

  “If they can’t be freed, we can at least liberate their bodies and make sure they’re buried in the soil of Nirmathas, the land they fought and bled for!”

  Bannerman squinted at him. “You want me to deploy a highly trained team of mercenaries to retrieve some corpses? Admittedly, it would be good for your image—Zumani, the man who gave the fallen heroes a proper burial. It would play well with the people. But I’m not sure it’s the best use of my resources.”

  “Have you forgotten all the things I know?” Zumani said. “Names. Places. Times. Transactions. I have proof that Lastwall has secretly supported Nirmathas for years. If Molthune found out…”

  “Threatening to betray your allies to your enemies isn’t usually a good tactic,” Merihim mused. “I’ll grant there could be some circumstances where it’s the right choice, but this doesn’t seem like one of them.”

  “Threatening Temple and the Bastion of Justice is never a good tactic,” Bannerman said. “You’ve been useful to us, Zumani. If you stop being useful…” He shrugged.

  “I don’t fear death.”

  Rodrick shook his head. “Why in the world not?”

  “It’s not my decision anyway, Zumani.” Bannerman unrolled a scroll and looked it over. “Temple replied to my message. I told her your demands and asked if we should try to free your compatriots.”

  “Another prison break?” Merihim looked at Prinn, who shrugged. “How boring.”

  “Temple replied, ‘No. Return to the Bastion by fastest route.’ There it is. From here on out, it’s just down to me following orders.”

  Zumani lifted his chin even higher. “Am I to be executed, then? Because I will not collaborate with you under these conditions.”

  Rodrick wondered the same thing. At least he wouldn’t be expected to do the killing, if so. There seemed to be a general understanding among the group that if cold-blooded murder needed to be done, that was Prinn’s department.

  Bannerman shook his head. “Zumani, don’t be so dramatic. Temple would greatly prefer to have you alive—she wants the opportunity to convince you of the stupidity of your ways. That said, I have a certain amount of discretion. If you slow us down, or work to inhibit our swift departure from Nirmathas, I am authorized to do what’s necessary to pacify you, even if it’s the sort of pacification that involves leaving you in a shallow grave. Do you understand, Zumani? Just don’t make a fuss. If you cooperate, you might even end up leading your people again. We’re on your side, you know. Treat us like allies, not enemies.”

  “I’m tired of being Lastwall’s pawn.”

  Bannerman snorted. “Pawn? It’s a partnership. True, one partner is a nation and the other is a poet, so there’s a certain power imbalance there, but we’ve treated you fairly, and will continue to do so. Come to Lastwall peacefully and talk to Temple. Maybe the two of you can come to some accommodation that satisfies everyone.”

  Rodrick wasn’t so sure. Temple didn’t strike him as the negotiating type, and zealots were very difficult to threaten. Even implanting a gem in Zumani’s chest and ordering him to obey could fail—the man seemed to value honor more than he feared death. The reason the gems worked so well on the Volunteers was because they were all criminals, and criminals could generally be counted on to act in their own best interests, barring a few lunatics with peculiar personal codes.

  “Will you come willingly, or do we have to keep you bound and gagged the whole way back to the Bastion?” Bannerman said.

  “Did you hear that birdcall?” the Specialist asked, his head cocked.

  Rodrick listened, but there were lots of birds calling, and branches creaking, and leaves rustling in the wind, and all the usual noises of the forest.

  “What about it?” Bannerman said.

  “Oh, nothing. I’m just surprised to hear that particular birdcall in this part of the country. A fluted warbler. They have a distinctive cry, but they’re mostly found much farther south.”

  An arrow streaked out of the forest and struck Prinn in the right shoulder, knocking him off the log. He sprang up instantly and streaked off into the woods. Eldra dropped to her belly and went slithering into the trees, Bannerman leapt up and drew his sword, Merihim jumped to hide behind a horse, and the Specialist sighed and put down his piece of bread. “That arrow looked homemade, not the standard issue produced for the Molthuni military, so these are probably Nirmathi here to liberate Zumani. Adjust your tactics accordingly.”

  Rodrick picked up Hrym and swung him in the direction the arrow had come from, sending out a flurry of icicles, and was rewarded with a scream and a thump as someone fell out of a tree.

  “I’m here, brothers!” Zumani cried. “They have me—”

  The Specialist cracked Zumani on the back of the head with the hilt of his dagger, making the poet’s jaw clack closed, then thumped him again to make him fall down. The old man knelt, listened for a moment to Zumani’s breathing, then joined Rodrick. “I wouldn’t want to throw firebombs around here. Conditions are dry. We could easily become caught in the resulting conflagration.”

  Merihim reappeared, deciding that hiding behind Rodrick was better than hiding behind her horse, apparently. “We need to get Zumani out of here. Bannerman!”

  The crusader was still holding his sword, looking around for someone to hit, but he joined them when Merihim beckoned. “We should have posted sentries.”

  “Agreed. That was my mistake.”

  Rodrick was astounded. To hear Merihim matter-of-factly admit she’d done something wrong … It was as unbelievable a second time as it had been the first.

  “But now we need to get away,” she went on. “Eldra and Prinn are out there picking off anyone they can find, but even Prinn might be outmatched by people who know the terrain. The mission is to get Zumani back to the Bastion. I say you, me, and the Specialist get on our horses and ride out of here while Rodrick and Hrym cover our escape.”

  “I do not approve of this plan,” Rodrick said.

  They
ignored him as Bannerman nodded. “All right. Help me load up Zumani. We’re making our way back to Tamran. Meet us at the safe house, Rodrick. Try to meet up with the others, but don’t dawdle too long—we won’t stay in Tamran longer than overnight, and if we get to the Bastion without you, I imagine Temple will consider you a deserter and let the gem in your chest do its work.”

  “There, in the trees!” Hrym shouted, and Rodrick turned his attention to swinging the blade and sending more ice shards into the branches above them, praying—to no god in particular, just in general—that he wouldn’t hit Eldra. Prinn, of course, would probably be fine if a few spikes of ice hit him. An arrow in the shoulder certainly hadn’t slowed him down.

  The Specialist and Bannerman got Zumani onto a horse, and without so much as a fond farewell or a “Good luck,” they left.

  Rodrick moved hunched through the trees in the opposite direction until he could put his back against a nice wide tree. Once his rear was covered, he basically just swung Hrym in an arc, spraying ice, with occasional upward swings to pepper the tree branches with frozen shards. Leaves, needles, trees, and branches came down like hail, among bits of ice, which were even more like hail. Rodrick doubted he was inflicting much damage on the enemy … but no one was even trying to get close to him.

  “Ease up for a moment!” Eldra called from somewhere to the right, and Hrym stopped spewing ice without waiting for Rodrick to ask. Eldra rose from the underbrush and hurried toward him. She’d acquired a magical cloak at some point, doubtless stripped off a foe, and its shifting patterns made her almost disappear into the trees around her, her lovely oval face seeming to float in isolation.

  “Where are the others?” she said.

  “Escaping. We’re supposed to make our own way to the safe house in Tamran.”

  Eldra sighed. “That’s just where we’ll go, too. They have us on a long leash, don’t they? I killed a few, and I think Prinn did what he usually does. I saw several men flee while shouting about ice elementals and nature magic.”

  “Why don’t people ever assume it’s a white dragon attacking them?” Hrym complained. “Ice elemental? Pfah.”