by David Weber
There were more foreigners, as well. He heard at least a dozen languages chattering about him, and his ears pricked in surprise as a slender, gilt-haired man crossed the street ahead of him. He'd never seen an elf, but those delicately pointed ears and angular eyebrows couldn't belong to a human, and now that he looked, he saw representatives of still other Races of Man.
He watched in fascination as a small cluster of halflings trotted busily down the street. They stood barely waist high to a human, reaching little more than to Bahzell's thigh, and delicate ivory horns gleamed on their foreheads. They attracted their own share of distrustful looks, and he snorted in understanding. The histories said there'd been no halflings prior to the Wizard Wars. The same wars that had brought the Fall of Kontovar and afflicted his own kind with the Rage had produced the small, horned people of the youngest Race of Man, and that was enough to make them suspect to anyone else. Nor did their reputation help, though Bahzell had always taken such tales with a grain of salt. No doubt there was some truth to them—after all, there was some truth even to the tales about hradani—yet he couldn't believe an entire race consisted solely of cowards and thieves. Besides, if he were such a wee, puny fellow as they, no doubt he'd be on the . . . cautious side, as well!
Brandark was watching signboards now, and suddenly he nodded and raised a hand.
"Here we are!" Bahzell suspected his friend's satisfied tone owed at least a little to their having crossed the city without incident. City boy or not, even Brandark had to find this place on the overpowering side.
"Are we, now?" he rumbled. "And where might 'here' be?"
"With any luck, the place we'll find someone to hire us. Follow me."
Brandark led the way into a brick-paved courtyard surrounded on three sides by huge, blank-faced warehouses. A score of workmen labored about them, too busy to do more than glance their way, but a quartet of guards rose from a bench beside an office door. One of them—a tall, black-haired fellow in well-worn chain mail, leather breeches, and a cavalryman's high boots—said something to his fellows and made his way across the courtyard towards the hradani with the rolling gait of a horseman. The saber scabbard at his side was as worn but well kept as his armor, and he cocked his head as he stopped in front of them.
"And what might I be able to do for you?" he growled in rough-edged Esganian. It wasn't discourtesy; Bahzell had heard the same gruffness too often to mistake a voice worn to a rasp by the habit of command.
"I'm looking for an Axeman merchant," Brandark replied.
"Aye? Would he have a name?"
"Well, yes." For the first time since Bahzell had met him, Brandark sounded a bit embarrassed. "I'm, ah, not certain I can pronounce it properly," he apologized, "and I wouldn't care to offer insult by getting it wrong."
"Aye?" The black-haired man's dark eyes glinted with amusement. "Well, he's not here just now, whoever he might be, so you just lean back and let her rip," he said in Axeman that was much better than his Esganian.
"Very well." Brandark replied in the same language and drew a breath. "I was told to ask for . . . Kilthandahknarthos of Clan Harkanath of the Silver Caverns."
Bahzell turned his head to stare at his friend as the long, sonorous name fell from his tongue, but the black-haired man chuckled.
"Well, you didn't do so badly, at that, but it's 'knarthas' there at the end." He cocked his head the other way and squeezed his sword belt and rocked on his heels. "And might I ask your business with old Kilthan?"
"I'm hoping," Brandark said, "that he might have jobs for us."
"Jobs, is it?" The black-haired man sounded dubious. "What sort of job would that be?"
Brandark started to reply, but Bahzell touched his shoulder and looked down at the human.
"Your pardon, I'm sure, but I'm wondering what business of yours that might be?" he asked pleasantly, and the black-haired man nodded.
"That's fair enough. My name is Rianthus, and I command Kilthan's guardsmen. So, you see, it's my business to wonder what a pair like you—no offense—might want with my employer."
"A pair like us, hey?" Bahzell's teeth glinted. "Aye, I can see you might be thinking we'd need watching, but we'd be right fools, the both of us, to be walking slap up to you if we'd anything clever in mind, now wouldn't we?"
"The thought had crossed my mind," Rianthus agreed. "On the other hand, you might be clever enough to expect me to think just that. It wouldn't be very wise of you, but you might not know that yet, you see."
"Aye, you've a point there," Bahzell chuckled, then shrugged. "Well, if you're after commanding his guards, then I'm thinking you're the man we're most needful to see."
"Oh ho!" Rianthus nodded again, narrowed eyes glinting. "Looking to hire us your swords, are you?"
"Well, I've heard it's either guard or raid for such as us," Bahzell replied, "and I've no mind to take up brigands' ways."
"Well, that sounds honest enough," Rianthus murmured, looking the immense Horse Stealer over from head to toe, "and no question you two could be useful. Assuming you haven't taken up brigands' ways already. We've had raiders try to put a man or two inside before, but it hasn't helped 'em yet."
"And a great relief to my mind that is," Bahzell said politely, and Rianthus gave a crack of laughter.
"Aye, you'll do—if you're what you say." He looked back at Brandark. "You're the one with the name to drop, my lad, so suppose you tell me who might vouch for you?"
"I'm hoping Kilthan himself will." Brandark's reply raised the guard captain's eyebrows, and the Bloody Sword shrugged. "My father and he have, um, done business a time or two in the past." He tugged a ring off the forefinger of his left hand and held it out. "I think he'll recognize this."
"Will he, now?" Rianthus bounced the ring on his palm, then closed his fist around it with a grin. "You know, I've always suspected the old thief was just a tad less respectable than he claims. Wait here."
He vanished into the office, and Bahzell glanced down at his friend.
" 'Done business,' is it? And what sort of business might your revered father have been having with an Axeman dwarf?"
"Oh, a little of this and a little of that," Brandark replied airily, then grinned. "As friend Rianthus says, old Kilthan's factors aren't above buying goods without too many questions. But aside from that small foible, he's as respectable as he claims, and honest to boot. Father always said—"
He broke off as Rianthus reappeared in the doorway and beckoned. Bahzell raised a handful of reins at him, and the captain thumped one of his men on the shoulder and pointed. The guardsman—a shorter, chunky fellow—rose with ill grace and stumped over to the hradani. He took the reins with a surly grunt and stood holding them while Brandark and Bahzell moved to join Rianthus.
The door was a close fit for Bahzell, and the ceiling beyond was worse. Navahk had been bad enough for one of his stature, but at least it had been built to fit other hradani; the warehouse office hadn't, and he fought a sense of claustrophobic enclosure as he hunched his shoulders and bent his neck to accommodate its cramped dimensions.
"Hirahim, you are a big one!" a deep, gravelly voice snorted. "Have a seat, man! Have a seat before you sprain something!"
Rianthus nudged Bahzell and pointed, and the Horse Stealer sank gratefully onto the chair. It was far too small, but there were no arms to get in the way, and it didn't creak too alarmingly as it took his weight.
"Better," the gravel voice said. "Now I can at least look you in the belly button, can't I?" It chuckled at its own wit, and Bahzell finally spotted its owner.
The man behind the desk had to be sitting either in a very tall chair or atop a heap of cushions, for he couldn't have stood much over four feet. He was also very nearly as broad as he was tall and bald as an egg, but a massive, forked beard streamed down his chest in compensation, and strange, topaz-colored eyes glittered in the light.
"So," he said now, turning to Brandark as the Bloody Sword found a chair of his own, "you must be young Br
andarkson." He rubbed the side of his nose with a finger while his other hand spun the ring on the desk before him, and his topaz eyes narrowed. "Well, you've the look of him, and the ring's right, but what you're doing here has me in something of a puzzle."
"You've met Father?" Brandark asked, and Kilthan shrugged.
"No, I've never had that, um, privilege, but I make it my business to know what I can about those I do my business with. And," he added judiciously, "I've always found your father an honest sort, for a Bloody Sword hradani." He chuckled. "Especially for a Bloody Sword, if you'll pardon my frankness."
"I suspect Father would be amused, not insulted," Brandark replied with a smile, and Kilthan chuckled again.
"Aye, with that accent you'd almost have to be Brandarkson. Damn me, but your Axeman's better than mine!"
"Perhaps that's because it's not your native tongue, either."
"Hey? How's that?" Kilthan demanded, eyes narrower than ever.
"Well, you were the senior Silver Cavern delegate to the conference that asked the Empire to annex Dwarvenhame," Brandark murmured.
"So, you know that, too, do you?" Kilthan nodded, then leaned back, folding his hands on his belly. "In that case, I think we can assume you're who you say." He unfolded one hand to wag a finger at Rianthus and indicate another chair, then returned it to his belly and cocked a bushy eyebrow at Brandark. "And that being so, young Brandarkson, suppose you tell me what you're doing here and why you need a job, you and your long, tall friend?"
"Well, as to that," Brandark said, and launched into an explanation. He did it almost too well for Bahzell's peace of mind, dropping into the rhythmic cadences of a bard. At least he seemed untempted to resort to song, for which Bahzell was profoundly grateful, but he felt himself flushing as his friend enlarged on his own "nobility" in coming to Farmah's rescue. There'd been nothing "noble" about it—just an iron-headed Horse Stealer too stupid to stay out of a mess that was none of his making!
Kilthan's eyes gleamed appreciatively, and his hand crept up to cover his mouth a time or two when Bahzell flushed. But he heard the entire tale out, then nodded and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk to look back and forth between them with those sharp, topaz eyes.
"Well, now! That's quite a tale . . . and it matches the bits and pieces I've already heard." Bahzell's ears shifted in surprise, and Kilthan gave a crack of laughter. "Oh, yes, lads! I don't say anyone believes it, mind you—Esganians are Esganians, and the thought of hradani doing anything 'noble' isn't one they're comfortable with—but my factors stay abreast of rumors. Bad for business if they miss one and it turns out to be true, you know. But I've heard of your father, too, um, Prince Bahzell, and that suggests which rumor to believe in this case. If even half the tales are true, your Prince Bahnak sounds like a man who understands the business of ruling, not just looting. If Navahk and its cronies weren't in the way, I'd have factors in Hurgrum, too . . . and judging from what your people did to Churnazh two years back, I think Navahk might not be a problem so very much longer, at that.
"In the meantime, however, I can see why you've come west. And you, young Brandarkson," those disconcerting, yellow eyes cut back to Brandark, "were quite right. Hradani who wander about without obvious employ don't fare well in other lands." He inhaled deeply, then slapped his hands on his desk.
"So! That being the case, I might just take a chance on the two of you. Mind you, you won't be lords or princes to my men, and some of them won't be any too happy to see you." His face turned much sterner. "We've our own rules, and Rianthus will tell you what they are, but one applies to everyone: no drawn steel! I doubt you two would have made it across Esgan if you were given to, ah, hastiness, but you know as well as I that someone's going to press you sooner or later, just for being what you are. Do I have your word you'll settle it without blades?"
"Well, now," Bahzell rumbled, "I'm thinking you do, so long as they're not after spilling blood. It's grateful I'll be for honest work, but not so grateful I'll let someone slice a piece or two from my hide without slicing a little back in trade."
"That's fair enough," Rianthus put in. Kilthan looked at him, and the captain shrugged. "If any of our lads are stupid enough to break the rules and draw against these two, we're better off without them, anyway, Kilthan."
"Hmmmm. There probably is something in that," Kilthan agreed after a moment, then shrugged. "Very well, do I have your words that you won't draw steel first?" Both hradani nodded, and Kilthan nodded back with a curiously formal air. "Done, then! Two gold kormaks a month to start with, more if you work out well. And it's a good thing you found me when you did, for I'm bound back to Manhome before the month's end." He looked back at Rianthus and jabbed a finger at Bahzell with a grin. "Get them sworn in, Rianthus—and see if we've a tent long enough for this one!"
Chapter Eight
The next few weeks were very different, not least because Bahzell had to see much less of the locals. That would have been a vast enough relief, but Kilthandahknarthas dihna' Harkanath was far too important for anyone in Esgfalas to irritate, and Bahzell and Brandark now wore the black and orange colors of his house. The change their livery wrought in the Esganians they were forced to encounter was intensely satisfying, even after they discovered they owed Kilthan over a month's wages each for the bond he'd posted in their names with the Merchants Guild and Guild of Freeswords.
Not that everything went smoothly. As Kilthan had warned, some of their new fellows were unhappy at having hradani among them. The majority chose not to complain, particularly after they'd watched the two of them demonstrate their competence against Rianthus' arms master. Yet a few muttered balefully, especially Shergahn, the chunky ex-corporal from the army of Daranfel whom Rianthus had called to hold their horses that first day, and Bahzell and Brandark both knew it was only a matter of time until more than words were exchanged.
That much they were prepared to take as it came, for it was only to be expected. They were strangers, after all, and strangers would have been tested—probably more harshly than anyone was likely to attempt here—before being accepted by any hradani unit. Neither looked forward to it, but other problems were more immediate . . . and irritating.
There was, for example, their plunder from Churnazh's guardsmen. Two hradani, one a Horse Stealer, had no need of six horses. Rianthus bought two of them, but the others were too heavy for his taste and too well bred for draft animals, so Brandark took them and the weapons to the Square of Gianthus, Esgfalas' main market, and sold them . . . for far less than their value. They were no Sothoii coursers, but they were worth far more than anyone chose to offer a hradani—even one in Kilthan's service. In the end, he had either to take what was offered or bring them home again, and he swallowed his pride and closed the deal.
Bahzell wasn't with him (which might have been as well, given how the local merchants "explained" Brandark's bargaining position to him), but he took the news more philosophically than Brandark had feared. Money, as money, had never meant much to Bahzell, and he had enough left from his father's purse for both of them to meet such needs as Kilthan left unfilled.
It was as well he did, for Brandark had acquired, at ruinous expense, a chain haubergeon of Axeman manufacture. Kilthan's guardsmen were required to supply their own equipment, but it was his custom to sell them arms and armor at cost, and though Brandark had left home well supplied with coin, he never could have afforded such armor without the merchant's canny generosity. It was dwarvish work, superior to the best hradani workmanship, and the Bloody Sword wore it with the same panache as the embroidered jerkins and lace-cuffed shirts he'd commissioned to restore his depleted wardrobe. For himself, Bahzell was content with plainer, more practical garments, and not even a merchant with Kilthan's inventory could fit him with armor off the rack.
Once their immediate needs had been seen to, Rianthus was at some pains to consider how best to integrate them into his command. Kilthan's caravans were rich enough to tempt any brigand, a
nd it was Rianthus' job to see to it no one felt anything more than temptation. He commanded over two hundred men, divided into five companies, but he laughed sharply when Bahzell suggested that he seemed well supplied with troops.
"You've never seen one of old Kilthan's menageries on the move!" Kilthan maintained a sizable compound outside the city wall, and Rianthus and Bahzell watched a squad of horse archers practicing against man-sized targets from the gallop. The sun was bright in a sky already shading into a cooler, breezier blue, and the trees surrounding the compound glowed with the first, bright brush strokes of fall. "It's not just his own wagons," the captain went on sourly, "though that'd be bad enough, when all's said, but the others."