by Джеффри Лорд
Eventually it was, just in time to keep Blade from strangling several of the interrogators with his bare hands. Then he had to endure a round of feasts and drinking parties, laid on to greet the returning heroes. Blade was glad that the other returned prisoners had a chance to eat and drink their fill. But he himself ate and drank very lightly and kept a close watch on his own tongue and on anyone who tried to strike up a conversation with him. He had the feeling Stipors still suspected that something was wrong somewhere. The last thing he could afford to do was give the Autocrat for War any excuse to imprison him, or even prevent him from seeing Krodrus.
Eventually Blade got his private appointment with Krodrus.
He had somehow expected an undersized man like Krodrus to occupy an imposing office and sit on a raised dais behind a desk half the size of a tennis court. But Krodrus' office was barely larger than Blade's sleeping cabin aboard Green Mistress. His desk was a rickety little table half buried under stacks of papers and inkwells containing five different colors of ink. Krodrus obviously didn't need any props to build himself up. He knew what he was and what he could do and felt no need to impress anybody with either by artificial means.
The Autocrat sat quietly behind his desk while Blade explained what he wanted to do and what help he needed to do it. Except for the occasional flicker of his eyelids, Krodrus might have been the carved figurehead on the bow of a Talgaran ship.
Blade held nothing back, or almost nothing. He mentioned the possibility that the Fishmen might want to make peace, only as something he had guessed, from what he had seen in the Reefs.
«They've taken losses too, Financier. I would guess they've lost at least a thousand warriors, plus all the destruction. Not as much as we have lost, of course. But I imagine they'd find it cheaper to make peace, if we offered them reasonable terms.»
Krodrus said nothing.
Blade did not mention Alanyra. Still less did he mention the fact that Alanyra and certain of her picked warriors were going to be helping him on his mission to Nurn. If he went.
«My Lord Autocrat,» Blade finished. «What I ask is something strange, I admit. But it is dangerous only to me, at least for now. If I am willing to run these dangers to help Talgar find peace and perhaps freedom from Nurn, can I ask your help?»
There was a long and, to Blade, exceedingly chilly silence in the dark and musty little room. Blade stared intently at Krodrus, trying to make out some expression on the brown and wrinkled little face.
He was trying to read the unreadable.
The silence stretched on, until Blade began to find it difficult to breathe because of the tension growing in him. And on. Now Krodrus wasn't even blinking. His dark eyes stared back at Blade, as motionless and expressionless as those of a snake.
Then the Autocrat took in a breath, and said, «What sort of help will you need?»
Blade in his turn let out a breath. He flexed muscles that had suddenly become cramped, and swallowed to get the dryness out of his throat. Then he gave the list that he had long since settled in his own mind. A small, fast ship, well-equipped and well-armed, with a small crew completely loyal to him and equally adept at fighting and seamanship. A reasonable sum in gold. Unquestionable credentials as an arms buyer for the Autocracy of Finance of the Sea Cities.
«I see you've thought this out well in advance,» said Krodrus. «Good. I was afraid I might be sending you to your death.»
«I have often done this sort of work before,» said Blade. «One learns much in traveling far.»
«One does. I wonder exactly how far you have traveled,» said Krodrus. He seemed to be speaking half to himself. Then, briskly, «How many men will you need?»
«Ten or twelve. I can act as my own captain, but I'll need a good mate. If he's available, I'd like Gershon-the one I defeated on the Council House steps the day of the riot. He'll be loyal to me, I'm sure, so I can let him pick the rest of the crew himself.»
«I will have word sent to the Registrar of Sailors,» said Krodrus. «I hope for your sake and the sake of the Sea Cities that he can indeed be trusted. Stipors would pay well to learn of this mission, and I think even better to foil it.»
«You think he is behind the war, perhaps?»
«He favors it because it favors some plans of his own. If I knew what they were- But one cannot go about accusing one's fellow Autocrats, unless one has proof of great wrongdoing. Not now. I do not think that he himself is the game player you believe in. I think you are right that there is one, but I also agree with you that he is most likely in Nurn.»
«Have you any idea who he might be?» asked Blade. «If I can guide my search-«
The Autocrat shook his head. «There are any of half a dozen great nobles who might be ambitious in this direction. To break the power of both the Sea Cities and the Fishmen and make them vassals of the Empire would be much to his credit. Perhaps he might even think to set up his creatures to rule over both people, and then turn them into a base for his own power. In such a case he might be aiming at the throne of Nurn itself.»
Intrigues piled upon intrigues, it seemed. But this was normal, in any dimension. «Thank you, Lord Krodrus. I hope to be back within two months with at least some of the answers.»
«You would do well to be back sooner, if you can.»
Krodrus's face clouded. «Stipors is speaking of trying the Conciliators for treason. If matters come to a trial, I am sure they will be convicted, and if convicted, they will die. If you can return in time-«He let the sentence die unfinished.
It was a hot airless summer dawn, with a low heat haze over the glassy sea. The scout boat Sea Fox drifted aimlessly, her sails flapping monotonously against her mast.
Gershon saluted as Blade came up from the tiny captain's cabin aft. «Mornin', sir. Put the men to the sweeps?»
Blade shook his head. «Not much sense in that. We'd have everybody worn out inside of two hours.»
«I know, sir. But supposin' the Fishmen were about-?»
«All the more reason for keeping everybody fresh. We've got little enough chance if they attack as it is.»
Gershon saluted again and went forward. Blade leaned against the railing, hands clasped behind his back, and looked up. The white-painted mast and yard showed clearly from the deck. That was the identifying sign he had agreed on with Alanyra. And here they were, within two miles of the rendezvous. Damn that haze! If Alanyra's little company couldn't find Fox before some other less friendly group of Sea Master raiders did- Blade swung himself into the rigging and hauled himself hand over hand up to the crow's nest. He might not be able to see much better up there. But at least he wouldn't be able to pace up and down the deck until someone asked him what he was so worried about!
An hour passed, then another. Sea Fox rocked gently to the swell. Small sounds floated up from her deck-voices, a bucket dropped with a clatter, the banging of the pump as it worked to keep the bilge dry. Not much needed for that-Fox was a tight, well-found little ship. Also, appropriately named for the mission she was on, thought Blade. He looked down again and realized that the sun was beginning to burn off some of the haze.
Then a shout from the stern made him spin around. A hundred yards dead astern the head of a yulon broke the water. Blade stared. It was a tame one. He could see the harness. But did that mean-?
Gershon was already beating the signal drum for battle call, and the crew was dashing about, snatching up their weapons. Blade flung himself into the rigging and scrambled monkeylike back down to the deck. As he reached it, the head of the yulon sank slowly out of sight. No sign of any of the Sea Masters with it.
Gershon was cursing under his breath as Blade came up to him. «We should never ha' come with such a small crew, Cap'n. Now we're all in trouble.»
«Perhaps,» said Blade. «It depends on how many of them there are.» And also on who they are, he added silently.
Howls of fear rose from Fox's deck a moment later, as the head of the yulon rose from the water again almost alongside. Bu
t another head rose beside it, high-cheeked, elfin, green-haired, with a broad smile on the full lips, and red jewels glittering in the green hair. Blade waved a hand in greeting-then struck Gershon's crossbow to the deck as the mate raised it to fire at Alanyra.
Gershon let out an oath and drew his dagger. Blade stepped back until he had the railing and the sea behind him, then dropped into fighting stance. «Hold, Gershon! If you have any faith in me, let me speak. And make the rest of the crew let me speak too. Otherwise we shall all die, and so will many others-all for nothing.»
Gershon's eyes narrowed sullenly, but he growled agreement. One of the other sailors sprang forward, knife raised. As he did, Gershon spun around and drove an enormous, sun-browned fist into the man's stomach, then chopped down with the other hand on his right wrist. The man folded in the middle, sat down on the deck, and tried to ease his tingling wrist and throw up his breakfast at the same time.
Blade was relieved. For the moment at least Gershon's loyalty held. He began to speak, in a low, firm, urgent voice. He left out nothing except his relations with Alanyra, nothing at all that was needed to explain the situation to the crew.
He could not be sure for a long time that they were listening to him, still less believing him. To have the idea of friendship with the Fishmen sprung on them this way would have stunned better minds than those of the sailors'.
But eventually Gershon sheathed his dagger. His brown face split in a rueful grin. He shook his lead, so that his pigtail swung from side to side. «Well, may the Goddess strike me dead if I foreswear my friendship with ye, Cap'n Blade. I make no promises to like this new friendship, mind ye. But the Fishmen'll have naught to fear from me or any man aboard Fox, long as we've naught to fear from them.»
Blade nodded and smiled. «Fair enough.» It was as much as he could hope for at the moment. But it was also enough.
Chapter FOURTEEN
The towers of Mestron, the capital and chief port of the Empire of Nurn, rose black against the sunset. Blade and Alanyra leaned against the railing of Fox's crow's nest. They watched the setting sun trail orange across the waters of the bay and gild the sails of the coastal shipping sliding in and out of the harbor. The wind had dropped, and Fox once again rocked gently on the waves.
From below, the voices of both Talgarans and Sea Masters rose into the evening air. The Sea Masters were almost submerged, hanging onto lines trailing over Fox's side. They seldom came aboard, but that was more to keep their presence a secret than out of fear of Blade's crew.
The week's voyage from Talgar had done one thing at least. It had taught each people that the other was not necessarily a monster lusting for blood and destruction. Hearing each other call many sea creatures by the same names and swear by the same Goddess had been a new, almost frightening experience for both sides. But slowly they had recovered. Now they still could not exactly be called friends. But they could be called a crew that Blade would trust to do anything he asked of them. That was a good enough start for the mission.
Alanyra turned to Blade. The red sunset light gave her skin a weird pinkish tinge. «Are you waiting for a pilot to take you in?»
«No. We're not going into Mestron, at least not aboard Fox. There's a smaller port to the north of Mestron that Gershon knows like he knows this ship's deck. That's where Fox and the yulon will be staying. There'd be too many prying eyes and wagging tongues around us in Mestron. In Clintrod there won't be so many questions asked, or so many soldiers around to fight if we can't give the right answer.»
«I see. But you will be in Mestron, Blade. You will be in danger all the time, and the rest of us only part of the time. Is that fair?»
Blade shrugged. There was really no better answer to that question.
A big pleasure galley raced past, oars scarring the darkening water with silver foam. On her single, green, triangular sail was a black bull's head.
«Some nobleman's private yacht,» said Blade. Then he leaned over the railing and shouted down to the deck. «Ahoy, Gershon! Set a course for Clintrod.»
«Aye, aye, sir.»
Blade's plan was simple, like any good espionage operation. Complicated schemes in that business had a way of going wrong in the worst way at the worst possible moment. The only thing complicated about Blade's plan was its use of eight Sea Masters and their trained yulon. But that was also something nobody in Nurn would believe even if they saw it. So nobody would be looking for it. Blade hoped things would stay that way until he had finished his work.
That work went slowly at first, slowly enough to have given Blade a few sleepless nights if he had been the type to lie awake worrying. He wasn't. He was painfully aware that the more time passed, the greater his chances of returning to Talgar and finding Svera's head nailed on the Traitors' Beam by the dockyard entrance.
Fox dropped anchor at Clintrod, and Blade and four sailors donned heavy disguises and went ashore. In their chests and bags rode armor and weapons, a good sum in gold, and enough other disguises to make the five men look like forty other ones. The chest also contained two sealed envelopes. One held credentials showing Blade to be an authorized arms purchaser for the Autocracy of Finance of the Sea Cities of Talgar. The other showed Blade to be an equally authorized arms buyer for the Clan Gnyr of the Sea Masters. The arms dealer would not ask any questions once they saw those letters. The arms trade was far too profitable for any dealer to wish to doubt a buyer's word and risk driving him into the arms (or warehouse) of a competitor.
They nearly came to grief even before they entered Mestron. A mile from the North Gate they heard the thunder of fast-moving hooves and the blare of trumpets behind them. Then came shouts of «Way, way for the Duke Tymgur and his household! Way all!» Blade pulled the two pack mules to one side of the road and turned.
A long, cavalcade of men in black and green livery on sleek black horses was coming up behind them. In the center rode a tall, thin man with a close-cropped black beard fringing his pale, bony face. He was flanked by two banner bearers. The banners they carried were green, with a black bull's head on them.
The cavalcade pounded on toward the gates of the City. Blade led his little caravan back onto the road. As he did, he overheard a brief grumbling exchange between two porters staggering along under massive loads of pots.
«Hunh-Tymgur be gettin' much abo' hisself, nae?»
«Yar. No t'Emperor hisself do ride like thot on common roads.»
«Maybe Tymgur ha' dreams o'-«
«Hssssh!»
Blade kept that exchange and the Duke's face very much in his mind as they rode on into Mestron. A small bribe to the sentries got them the names of several reliable inns that catered to arms buyers and other merchants. Blade chose one called the Inn of the Seven Cats.
There were a good many more than seven cats underfoot as he entered, but the place was tolerably clean, and the landlord asked no more than the usual number of questions. Blade settled his party in two adjoining rooms and gave them a quick lecture on disguises and a longer lecture on keeping their mouths shut. «Never mind what good wine or willing girls you find. If you can't handle them and keep your tongue from flapping too, then leave them alone! Flapping tongues have been known to slit their owners' throats or stretch their owners' necks.»
The next morning Blade went out into the city and down to the waterfront warehouses, to begin his career as an arms buyer.
The first few days were almost straight espionage work. The city was strange, the streets reeked of fish and horse droppings, and the policemen carried swords and crossbows instead of pistols. But it was the same sort of painstaking, careful work that Blade had done for the first twenty years of his career, in Prague and Ankara and Tokyo. However, he was too experienced ever to let himself assume that something was completely routine. That assumption might eventually take the edge off his alertness and his head off his shoulders.
So he was alert as he made the rounds of one stuffy warehouse after another, talking with one greasy bearded
armorer's representative after another, inspecting one barrel or crate of weapons after another. He had been advised to bargain ruthlessly, sneering freely at the quality of the weapons offered him. Blade knew medieval and other primitive weapons as well as he knew the guns and explosives of the twentieth century. He put all that knowledge to use now. He found more often than not that he didn't have to pretend at all to sneer at the quality of the weapons he was usually offered.
He always broke off the dealings just short of making an agreement. If he had not done that, the merchant would have asked what his ship was and where it was. An awkward question, particularly when Blade had just finished discussing an order for spears and armor that would have sunk three ships the size of Fox. It was a question he was very careful to see never got asked.
He was also careful to never show up on the waterfront in the same disguise two days' running. He had hair dye to give his hair eight or nine different shades, false beards and mustaches, and a dozen complete changes of clothing with accessories. He also had enough skill in using all of these to make the job of picking out the one man under all the disguises nearly impossible even for someone who was deliberately looking for him. As long as nobody was doing that, he was even safer.
Each night Blade would return to the Inn of the Seven Cats. He usually had aching feet, a head splitting from the musty air of the warehouses, and a throat half raw from the endless bargaining. A sailor would bring him a cup of wine and help him off with his boots, clothing, false beard, eyepatch, and the rest. Then Blade would sit down and write out his report of the day's events. He wrote in a Sea Master code, using the Sea Master's slightly acid ink, on the greased fishskin they used for paper. Such a message could be sunk a mile deep in the crystal seas and then brought up a year later, fully legible.
Usually it was a short report that nothing had happened, plus a set of numbers-a coded location. One of the sailors would take the message, put it in his pouch, and head out of the Inn. He would cover the ground at a good clip, although not fast enough to attract attention.