Before he turned to descend the ladder, Hume booted Carver in the rump. It was a good blow, and the kender sailed out of the loft, landing with a soft thump in the fodder below.
“Farewell!” Hume said, grinning. He snuffed the candle. For some time after, Raika could be heard snickering in the dark.
CHAPTER THREE
The General takes command
Cessation of the rain brought the inhabitants of Robann outdoors in great numbers. Early in the morning, the farmers found the throngs in the streets so thick they could scarcely make any headway. Raika and Hume had come with them, leaving the too-conspicuous Khorr behind in the stable.
“Who knew-oof! — there were so many-ow! — people in the world?” Wilf said, trying to shoulder through the crowd.
The Saifhumi woman told the young farmer that none of these people lived here. They were all drifters, soldiers of fate and fortune. By winter, none of them would be in this province.
“Where will they go?” asked Nils.
“Wherever there’s money or jobs,” said Raika.
“Or to their graves,” Hume added.
They split up once again, Raika going with Wilf and Caeta, Hume following Malek and Nils. Raika parted the mob ahead of her with ill-grace, pushing idle conversants apart and shoving dawdlers aside. Some took exception to this, but one look at the towering sailor, her large hands and taut muscles, and they sullenly let her and her companions pass.
The companions did not do so well that morning, even with Raika beside them to give weight to their purpose. They were laughed out of four taverns, three inns, and ejected bodily from a pawnbroker’s warehouse. The broker was buying up arms sold by out-of-work warriors, and the presence of recruiters, even shabby ones, disturbed his business.
Hot, tired, and discouraged, Caeta and Wilf sat down by the only public work in all of Robann, the Pool of the Skymistress. This was a shallow, stone-lined basin. A very old, very worn statue of the ancient goddess of healing stood in the center, water dribbling from her open hands. Caeta cupped her hand in the pool and brought some liquid to her lips. Thirsty as she was, she quickly spat it out.
“Bad?” Wilf was thirsty himself.
“Foul.” Caeta looked up at the eroded face of the goddess, feeling very old herself. “Nothing in this town is fair.”
They sat down on the rim of the pool. Raika mopped her brow with a scrap of homespun. She dipped it in the water, wrung it out, and tied it around her neck for cooling.
The pool was in a small, irregular square in the northwest quarter of town. This had once been the elves’ quarter, and while there were more of them about than in other parts of town, they no longer predominated. The stream of folk striding, shuffling, or sauntering past the seated trio was much the same as before-humans mostly, with the odd dwarf, goblin, or kender. The gang ruling this part of town was still made up of elves exclusively, the strangely named Brotherhood of Quen.
Across the square, the crowd stirred. Voices multiplied and grew loud. Raika stood up to see what was causing the commotion.
A pair of elves strode toward the center of the square followed by a pack of curious onlookers. At the center of the park, just a few yards from the Pool of the Skymistress, they halted, turned their backs to each other, and began pacing off a gap between them. Raika recognized this scene.
She said, “Stand up. This is worth seeing.”
Wilf helped Caeta stand. They could only see over the crowd by standing on the moldy rim of the pool. Wilf clutched Raika’s arm for support until the latter’s cold glare caused him to gingerly remove his hand.
“What’s happening?” Caeta asked.
“Watch.”
The square was forty yards wide. The two elves stood, some thirty yards apart. Between them the ground was clear. Everyone else in the square kept back. Each elf was handed a clay flagon by one of the party that had followed them in. This they placed on top of their bare heads, holding it in place until they stood upright and steady. One of the elves was slim and fair-haired, dressed in a sky-blue tunic and wearing knee-high suede boots. He looked rich and confident. Facing him, the other elf was black-headed and swarthy, a forester of the kind who usually painted their faces with strange designs. He was garbed like a woodland hunter in a tight green leather jersey, trews, and ankle boots. His garments were well covered with stitched-up tears and patches.
A young human, dark-skinned like Raika, came out of the crowd. Like a herald, he proclaimed loudly, “Take out your slings!”
The elves produced identical slings of braided twine, with deerskin pouches for their sling-stones.
“Load one stone!”
Carefully, so as not to disturb the vessels balanced on their heads, the elves each pulled out a smooth river stone from their respective belt pouches. They loaded these into the slings.
The speaker stepped back. He cried, “Loose when you will!”
The fair elf raised his right arm and started whirling his sling, taking care not to strike the tankard poised on his head. His opponent whirled his weapon with his hand at his side, almost lazily.
The crowd erupted with partisan shouts for one elf or the other. Caeta and Wilf heard cries for “Amergin” and “Solito” in equal measure. They couldn’t tell who was who.
After a long windup, the fair elf loosed his missile. The quartz pebble flew swiftly at the dark elf’s head. At what seemed like the last possible moment, the forester looped his stone into the air. Incredibly, the projectiles collided in mid-air a few feet in front of the dark-haired contestant. Caroming off each other, the stones whizzed away. Wilf heard one crash into something behind him-something that broke loudly.
The mob cheered. Puzzled, Wilf muttered, “What are they trying to prove?”
“It’s a duel,” Raika replied. “One of them is going to die.”
It didn’t seem likely, given the carnival atmosphere. However the farmers noticed that while the crowd was boisterous and cheerful, the elves were utterly serious.
Without being prompted, they reloaded their slings. Again they whirled their weapons in differing styles, the swarthy elf slow and deliberate, the blond elf with eye-blurring speed. This time the forester threw first, and his missile was deflected away by a well-aimed fling by his opponent.
Money and goods changed hands in the crowd. A chant of “Three! Three!” began. Nodding slowly to each other, the elves loaded a new stone each, and quick as they did, both hurled at the same time. As close together as two events could be, both tankards exploded in a spray of red clay fragments.
The blond elf stalked to the center of the square and flung out a hand at his opponent, pointing. A hush fell over the raucous mob.
“You see!” he shouted. “I am as good as you!”
The forester combed potshards from his hair with his fingers. “No,” he said coldly. “You lost.”
“We broke each other’s cups at the same time!”
“Mine hit first. Yours broke before mine did.”
He turned to go, but the well-dressed elf charged in, caught his arm, and spun the dark-haired elf around.
“Once more then! Without cups!” he cried.
An acorn falling on the cobbles would have shattered the sudden hush. The forester looked up at his taller antagonist with wide, black eyes.
“You know what you’re saying, don’t you?”
“Stand to your place!” was the haughty answer. The blue-clad elf stalked back to his spot, while the forester calmly resumed his stance.
“Fifty steel on Solito!” someone yelled.
“Shut up!” A scuffle broke out to the farmers’ right, quickly squelched by those watching.
Instead of stones, this time the elves loaded sling-stars, flat pieces of iron or bronze with four to six razor-sharp points. Thrown by an expert, a star point could pierce plate armor.
This time, as Solito raised his arm to spin his weapon, his opponent made a single underhand swing and let fly. Wilf and Caeta followed the
glittering bronze missile in flight. One point buried itself in the center of Solito’s forehead. Stricken, his own star flew wildly away. It flashed between Raika and Wilf. The Saifhumi woman stood her ground. Wilf threw himself backward into the pool to avoid the hissing projectile.
Without a sound, the blond elf fell dead.
Having been in Robann four days, the farmers expected the crowd to break into cheers for the winner. No one did. In fact, those on the outside edges of the crowd began to hurry away, eager to be gone. Before long, genuine panic seized the square, and witnesses were rushing to find every available avenue of escape.
Raika snagged a goblin hopping by. The ugly little creature squirmed and tried to bite Raika’s hand, but she held him by the neck so tightly he couldn’t bend down far enough to get his teeth in her.
“Leggo! Leggo!” he whined, waving his arms uselessly.
“Why all the rush?” she said. “Surely duels are common in Robann?”
“Not like this! Leggo!”
Raika shook the goblin hard. “Tell me,” she said tersely.
“That one dead-he Brotherhood!”
She opened her fingers and let the goblin drop to the cobbles. Coughing, he gathered himself up and staggered away.
“What does it mean?” asked Caeta.
“The dead elf was a member of the gang that rules this part of town.” Raika glanced at the blue-clad figure, left leg still bent, arms flung wide. “When the Brotherhood of Quen finds out one of their own has been killed, they may take their anger out on anyone who was here.”
“We ought to go!” Wilf said. He jumped down from the pool. Algae dripped from his ears.
“Not yet. I’ve no desire to get trampled in some back street. Besides, we may want to talk to the winner.”
Caeta’s eyes widened. “You’re right. He’s certainly capable.”
Against the thinning tide of fleeing spectators, Raika, Wilf, and Caeta reached the forester. He was standing with his head down, working beeswax into his sling to keep it supple. Wilf marveled at his coolness. The killer was the calmest person in the square.
“What do you want?” demanded the elf before Raika or the farmers could speak.
“Just a word.” Raika looked at the elf’s fallen foe. “That was quite a throw.”
“He was a large target.”
“What’s your name?” asked Caeta.
“Amergin.” He slurred the last syllable, Ah-mer-zheen.
“They have a proposition for you,” Raika said. “You should listen.”
Amergin finished working his sling. He tucked it away and recovered his blue-green cloak, left on the ground during the contest. To the farmers’ amazement, they saw it was made of thousands of tiny green or blue bird feathers arranged in overlapping rows of graduated color.
“I’ve no time to listen to propositions,” said the elf.
Caeta said, “We’ll give you shelter.”
“Not wise. The Quen Brotherhood will slay anyone they find at my side.”
Amergin started moving. He did not run, but his movements were remarkably swift. Wilf had to jog to keep up, and even tall Raika had to hurry.
Breathlessly, the farmers gasped out their plea as they hastened through an alley toward Silver Circle territory. During the explanation Amergin said nothing, just kept moving. At the border between the Brotherhood’s territory and the Silver Circle’s quarter, five elves in sky-blue tunics stood watch. Amergin flattened against a wall. Raika and the farmers did likewise.
“They wasted no time!” Wilf whispered.
“The first to leave the square warned them,” Amergin answered quietly. “In hopes of a reward …” He uncoiled his sling. “They’ll not take me-at least not alive.”
“Wait,” Raika said. “There might be a better way.”
She grabbed Wilf by the front of his rough shirt. “Play along,” she murmured and shoved him out of the alley into plain view of the Brotherhood guards.
Storming out after him, she shouted, “Worthless rat of a husband! How dare you come home at this hour, reeking of drink! Where have you been? Who have you been with?”
A bit stunned, Wilf could only stammer, “None of your business!” He embellished this with a belated sneer. “Wench!”
“Wench? I’ll show you who’s a wench!” She threw a punch at the hapless young farmer, who closed his eyes and cringed. Raika deliberately missed him and pretended to go reeling across the street from the force of the missed blow. She collided with three of the Quen guards.
“Shameless lout, see what you made me do!” she screamed.
“Get off, human!” said one of the elves, pushing Raika away.
“Now you want to push me around, too? There’s no justice in the world, no honor for a suffering wife!”
She drew back her large fist and knocked the closest elf cold. Wilf blundered into another, diverting him until Raika could knock him down as well.
The remaining three Quen gang members tried to seize them. They carried swords and batons, and though Raika was more than a match for them in terms of strength, they were agile and alert now, and she and Wilf received several punishing blows. Wilf went to his knees, arms encircling his head for protection. A Quen guard stood over him, ready to put him away, when a flat river-washed stone hit him squarely on the back of the head. It sounded like a melon being opened by a housewife.
Caeta burst out of the alley, shouting, “Sonny! What are they doing to you, dear boy?”
Distracted by the old woman’s sudden appearance, one of the remaining guards mistimed his attack, and Raika tore the baton from his hands. He went for his sword, but she smashed his fingers against the hilt with his own stick. White-faced, the elf abandoned the fight. He ran up Moneylender’s Street, holding his shattered hand to his chest.
Raika turned to face the last guard and saw Amergin had disposed of him already. They raced on, eager to be away before the injured guard returned with reinforcements and didn’t stop until they reached the stable.
Inside, Khorr stood with one foot propped up on a bale of hay. One hand upraised, he declaimed,
Thus did Edzi, courageous captain, lift high his awesome ax,
To smite his former friend, now the treacher Toral,
Traitor, taunter, and terrible foe-
Sitting cross-legged at the minotaur’s feet, leaning back on his splayed out hands, was Carver Reedwhistle.
“Hiya,” he said, seeing them enter.
“Why are you here again?” said Raika.
Khorr lowered his arm and took his foot from the hay bale. “He was a willing audience. I was reciting The Rage of Captain Edzi, a famous ballad of my people.”
Taking in the minotaur and kender, the elf asked, “What is this? A refuge for refuse?”
“You might say that,” Caeta said, smiling. “Take your ease, Master Amergin, and we shall explain.”
The elf listened in silence to the story of Rakell and the victimized village. When the woman was done, he said, “I cannot help you.”
“Why?” Wilf said. “You’re amazing with that sling-and you don’t seem intimidated by any odds.”
“I’m not a mercenary. I am a hunter. Solito bullied me into that contest. I knew it would end the way it did, but he would have slain me on the spot had I refused his challenge.” He went down on one knee and ran a hand along his lean, chapped face. “There was no way out but to fight, then to flee. Your battle is not my battle.”
Caeta offered him food, which he declined, and water, which he accepted. She said, “What happens now? Won’t the Brotherhood be hunting for you?” She knew the answer, but she waited for the elf’s silent headshake. “If we can deliver you from the vengeful gang, will you help us?”
Amergin lowered the waterskin from his thin lips. “The Brotherhood has many blades, and if they ask it, other gangs in town will join them in tracking me down. You can’t stand them all off. My fight isn’t your fight either.”
Caeta surveyed her com
rades. Wilf was following things intently. Khorr, too, was listening, but Raika stood by the door, gazing out distractedly at the hot afternoon. Carver lay on his back with his eyes closed, one leg cocked in the air, dangling foot bobbing.
“I never offered to fight your enemies for you,” Caeta said carefully. “Just help you elude them. We help you, so you can help us. Is that not fair?”
“Will you turn me over to the Brotherhood if I refuse?”
“No, never.”
Raika looked up at the farmer’s earnest reply. “They don’t have much, so they can afford to be honest,” she said to Amergin meaningfully. Carver chuckled.
Amergin remained kneeling. Gazing at the straw-strewn floor, he said, “The Brotherhood was supposed to send me home.”
“What do you mean?”
“I come from the forest, far to the south, over the New Sea. The Brotherhood hired me as scout and tracker. I thought I was to hunt game for them, but they made me track down those who’d transgressed against them: debtors, cheats, and thieves. When I led the Brotherhood to their quarry, they did terrible things to them.”
“Enough,” said Khorr, speaking for the first time. “Here’s your chance to be rid of them. Join us! I, too, am sought by ruffians through no fault of my own. These humans have shielded me, and I have decided to repay their sacrifice by helping them fight their enemies. Can you do any less?”
Amergin sank into a sitting position. He never said yes, but his change of posture was eloquent proof he meant to stay.
Half a mile away, Malek, Nils, and Hume trudged through the hot, stinking streets. Their luck had been bad all morning, and after noon word spread that the gang in charge of the northern quarter of Robann would pay good coin to find a certain malefactor who’d murdered one of their own. Taverns and inns emptied, and hundreds of tough, hungry mercenaries joined the manhunt.
The farmers entered a large establishment called the Shield and Saber. Upon entry they found the great room almost deserted. Capable of holding and serving two hundred at a time, it contained less than a dozen patrons. Eight of these were dwarves in heavy mail coats, seated at a round table and just beginning the seventh course of their noonday meal.
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