Guardians of the Flame - Legacy

by Joel Rosenberg

  He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe . . . I guess maybe I'd have tried to spring him—'

  No.

  He looked over at her. "Did Thomen say anything to you?"

  It hit her, too; she shivered. "No. But he wouldn't put me in that awkward a position." She caught her lip between her teeth for a moment. "I'm not sure that I'd have told you even if he had."

  He rose to his feet. "We'll talk about that some other time." The question was what to do now. The young baron would take responsibility on his own shoulders. It was something that he had learned from his late father, and that had been reinforced by his emperor and mentor.

  "Can you locate him for me?"

  She nodded. "Unless he's protected—but are you sure you want me to?" she asked as she stretched broadly. She gathered her long, flowing hair up and with a few fingerstrokes almost magically twisted it into a neat bun, securing it with a pair of ebony hairprongs.

  Are you sure you want me to?

  That was the trouble. Technically, if Thomen was doing what Karl half hoped he was, half prayed he wasn't, the boy was committing treason. . . .

  Technically.

  The job of a ruler, Karl Cullinane had once noted in his journal, consists primarily of pissing on sparks. This counted as a spark. "How quickly can you pin down where he is?"

  "I haven't done any locating for a long time." She shook her head. "It'll take me a couple of hours to set up and work the spell."

  That could work right. As long as Karl could leave before the prisoner cart did, he'd have the jump on Thomen.

  But there were some preparations to be made, if he was going to get out quietly, or be reasonably certain of getting back safely.

  Shrugging out of his nightrobe and dropping it to the floor, he padded across the carpet back to the bedroom. "Do it, then meet me at the stables."

  As he reached for his clothes, he was smiling: There was something to do.

  * * *

  The engineer on duty at the desk outside of the underground armory was one of Karl's scribes, a thirtyish, somewhat overweight, dark-bearded man who, refreshingly, never seemed terribly impressed with the emperor. Engrossed in his scribblings, it took him a moment to look up as Karl walked down the hall.

  He was clearly surprised to see Karl down here in the middle of the night, but managed to muzzle his curiosity.

  "A good evening to you, sir," he said, as he put his steel pen back in the inkwell and took a moment to knead his hands together as he stood. "Anything I can help with?"

  "No need, Jayar," Karl said, giving Master Engineer Ranella's wax seal across the keyhole a perfunctory look before breaking it with his fingernail. "Just get the lock for me. I'm going out for a bit of exercise around dawn, and I just want a few fresh pistols; I can handle that alone," Karl said, then thought better of it. "Mmm . . . better yet, let's do this assembly-line style—I'll charge, then you load and prime."

  There was plenty of time, but there was also no sense in spending a lot of it playing around loading pistols.

  "My pleasure." The engineer used the large key from his ring to open the door.

  It took Jayar a moment to light the overhead lamp; the engineer carefully set the lamp back in its place before he took down three small wooden canisters; the chalk marks on the canisters labeled one as a portion of the latest batch of Ranella's gunpowder, the second as fine priming powder, the third, which rattled as Jayar hefted it, lead bullets.

  They each took a brace of pistols from a rack on the wet stone walls and set the weapons down on a battered workbench over by the opposite wall.

  "Aren't you a bit senior to be on the night shift?" Karl asked. After all, Jayar was a sufficiently high-ranking journeyman that Ranella had authorized him an individual signet ring; he was entitled to access the armory on his own authority.

  "Tricky question." Jayar pursed his lips, and cocked his head to one side. Karl took a conical brass powder measure down from a hook, tapped out a healthy charge, loaded the first pistol, and after tamping the powder down, passed the tamping stick and weapon to Jayar.

  "You and Ranella not getting along?" Karl asked.

  "Well . . . careful of the pistol; that's a heavy load," Jayar said. "And in answer to your question, I'm technically too senior to draw it as a duty, but I make a real lousy Engineer of the Day." Jayar shrugged. "I get distracted too easily." He jerked his thumb toward the door and the table with the pen and paper. "Ranella would rather have me in charge when there's nobody else around to be in charge of."

  "I haven't heard you complaining about it."

  "You're not hearing me complain now, sir. It suits me." With the foot-long tamping stick, Jayar pushed some wadding into place, then carefully wrapped the ball in an oil patch and rammed it home, seating it firmly. "I like the night," he said, carefully tipping some priming powder into the pan before shutting it with a firm click. "It gives me a chance to get some writing done, without all the clatter of the day."

  "Still working on the history, eh?"

  The engineer shrugged. "Somebody's got to do it."

  "Mmm? How far have you gotten?"

  "Well . . ." The heavy-set man frowned. "Not nearly far enough. But farther than yesterday."

  "In other words, I should mind my own business." Karl chuckled.

  "I wouldn't have put it that way," the engineer said, setting the pistol down on the table, the barrel pointed toward the wall, away from the two of them. He picked up the next one. "I would have thought just that, mind, but I wouldn't have put it that way."

  Karl chuckled. "When you're done, you will let me see it?"

  "I'm not sure I want to." Jayar tilted his head to one side. "You might not like how I treat you."

  "Then again," Karl said, putting just a touch of steel in his voice, "rank hath its privileges. You will let me see it, when you're done."

  "Yes, sir. I'm ready for the next."

  In just a few minutes, all four of the pistols were charged, each carefully loaded into Karl's holsters.

  "Going to the stables, sir?" Jayar asked, as he locked the door behind them, reaching for the speaking tube with one hand while he picked up his sealing-wax candle with the other.

  "Yes," Karl said, knowing what was coming next. He really didn't want anybody else in on this, but . . .

  "Did you want anyone in particular for your guard, sir?"

  "Garavar—and tell him all I need are him and his sons. And no rush. It's just a little thing—I'll be leaving at false dawn."

  Garavar would keep his mouth shut, Karl hoped. After a few years, even an emperor learned to give up issuing orders that he knew would be disobeyed. It wasn't that it was considered improper for a ruler to go out at night sans escort; it was a matter of calculation. Even if Karl ordered no bodyguard, it was an open secret that he wouldn't order punishment for engineers and soldiers who insisted on accompanying him.

  On the other hand, if he was killed on one of his nighttime jaunts, it was far less than clear that his successor—be it Jason or whichever baron managed to grab the throne—would be so merciful toward the then-late emperor's supporters, supporters who had let the emperor get himself killed.

  With the possible losses being—at most—a slap on the wrist in one event versus a likely beheading on the other, the bet was an easy one.

  "Yes, sir," Jayar said, pulling the tube close to his mouth. "Attention, attention," he shouted into the speaking mask, then put it to his ear until he heard a distant, muffled response. "Runner to General Garavar's quarters," he went on. "General Garavar and sons, repeat sons, report to royal stables for escort duty. No need to run; a sprint will do. Repeat and go."

  He tossed Karl a quick salute and a friendly smile.

  "In case it doesn't turn out to be just a little thing, sir," Jayar said, "it's been nice knowing you." He sobered. "And I mean that sincerely, sir. It has been a rare and distinct pleasure."

  "It's mutual." Karl Cullinane forced a chuckle. "Take care of yourself."


  * * *

  The predawn light hung grayly over the dusty road as distant thunder sounded from the west.

  Some riding in front of Karl and Andy, some riding behind, Garavar and his six sons kept their eyes on the horizon as they left Biemestren behind them and briskly cantered their horses away from the lightening sky. While the fiction of this merely being a pleasure ride was maintained orally, nobody believed it for a moment: Older hands tended to stay near swordhilts, while younger ones gravitated to pistol butts.

  Even Garthe, the youngest. He was only fifteen, although large for his age, and could easily have been taken for several years older than he was—perhaps even to the mid-twenties. There seemed to be a tendency in the family to grow old quickly, then stop aging, although, Gashier, the oldest, actually looked older than his father; there were many more worry lines in Gashier's face. Way back when, Karl had guessed him to be the general's elder brother; Garavar didn't show his age.

  Karl had speculated that it was partly genetic, partly repeated use of healing spells and draughts over the years—healing spells seemed to have mild rejuvenative effects in some individuals.

  Maybe even in Karl himself. He ran his fingers through his hair. Maybe that was the trouble; he'd been out of combat for so long that he hadn't been even nicked in a number of years, although he exercised frequently and vigorously. Maybe he was slowing down?

  I'd best not even think that loudly around Tennetty. He chuckled.

  Danagar, riding at Karl's right side, scowled at the sound, then muffled it when he realized who he was glaring at.

  "Ta havath, Danagar," Karl said. "We're just out riding for fun."

  "Yes, sir," Danagar said, manifestly unconvinced.

  The chill wind gusted harder as they approached a bend in the road. It was hard to see; while the rising sun was winning a temporary victory over the fog, the combination of fog and glare prevented him from seeing well.

  "Garthe," Garavar called out, "ride ahead, scout, and report."

  "Yes, Father," the boy said, giving a twitch to his reins.

  "Wait," Karl said; Garthe subsided. "Andy?" Karl stood in his saddle and turned to his wife.

  She shook her head. "I can't tell, now. He's in that direction," she said, pointing, "but it could be a mile, maybe three. Let me try something." She murmured a few harsh syllables. "No, he's just around the bend."

  "Fine. Vanish and wait here."

  She knew better than to argue with him; she closed her eyes and gripped at the air around her, speaking the harsh, foreign, evanescent words that could only be heard and forgotten, never remaining in the mind of either speaker or listener.

  Silently, space itself spun into a solid fabric of mist and fog, swirling in a silent hurricane around Andy, as she sat astride her dappled mare, the mists spinning faster, faster, until they totally concealed her and her horse, and then, suddenly, as if someone had flicked a switch—

  —she and the horse were gone.

  "Andy?"

  A familiar chuckle sounded out of the air. "No. It's Claude Rains," she said. "Get to work, hero. I'm fine."

  Karl turned and kicked his horse into a canter.

  "With me, not in front of me," he said, raising his voice. "Because we," he said, calling out, "and that means I, Karl Cullinane, prince and emperor, and my entire escort are going to be waiting around this bend for the prisoner cart to pass later this morning," he called out, "and we will all ride with it to Tyrnael, if necessary, to see that no mishaps befall it. If you catch my fucking drift."

  There was a rustling from the woods. Garthe started for his pistol, but desisted at his father's emphatic shake of the head.

  "We will wait here for it," Karl said. "And since I know the seven of us are alone, we won't have to worry about any sounds from the woods—they're just rabbits or something."

  A voice called out from the mist and leaves. "I'm coming out, Karl."

  In a moment, Thomen Furnael, dressed in a ragged farmer's tunic but with a sword belted around his waist, stood in front of him.

  "He's not alone, sir," Gashier said. "I can hear two others, at least."

  "Of course he's alone," Karl said. "The baron is just out for a pleasure ride, like ourselves. It wouldn't be old Hivar back there, would it?"

  "Very good," Thomen said, his hands folded across his chest. "How did you know it was him?"

  Karl swung a leg over the back of the horse and dropped to the ground, signaling at Garavar and the others to stay put. "Who else would you trust, boy? Hivar's been with your family since before I met your father. But you're wrong—he's not back there, and there aren't any other loyal family retainers back there, because you're out, alone, for a pleasure ride—and you're going to finish your pleasure ride and hie your ass back to Biemestren. Understood?"

  It was the sort of fix that would have occurred to Karl at that age: dress up as highwaymen, free Vernim, and send him on his way. Simple, elegant.

  The only thing wrong with it was that it wouldn't work. Too many people had seen how shocked Thomen was when Vernim spoke up during sentencing; Vernim had already demonstrated that he had a loud mouth—he would talk.

  It wouldn't work, dammit.

  "There's another possibility," Thomen said, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "We could settle it, you and I, your majesty."

  "Make another move and you're a dead man, Danagar," Karl said, as he caught a motion out of the corner of his eye. He turned back to Thomen. "You think that you could take me? Truthfully?"

  Some skill with the sword was something that Thomen had inherited from his father; blunt, brutal self-honesty was another. "No. I may not be good enough even to put a mark on you. But—"

  "Then do you think that we'll all be better off if both you and Vernim die? Who benefits, Thomen, who benefits—" Staring the younger man straight in the eye, Karl Cullinane snapped a foot into Thomen's crotch; as Thomen gasped, clutched at himself, and crumpled, Karl gripped him and spun him around.

  "Hivar, there's no need for a fight," he said, as he eased the groaning young baron to the ground. "He's not badly hurt."

  There was a long pause, then a voice called out from the darkness. "He'd best not be."

  "I told you, he isn't. He's not going to want to fork a horse for a while, but he isn't badly hurt." Karl beckoned to Garthe. "Take charge of the baron. Bind him—we'll release him after the cart has passed. He can ride home with us. I'll take responsibility for his safety, Hivar. My word."

  "Very well," sounded from the fog. "And I?"

  "You get out of here, old man," Karl said. "Because you were never here, and this never happened."

  Garavar nodded in approval; Thomen, in pain, forced a question through his lips: "Why?"

  "Don't ever threaten me, Thomen," he said. "It's impolite."

  Because, Karl Cullinane thought, hanging Vernim is my responsibility. You're not ready for it, not yet. You were ready to salve your conscience by letting me kill you; I'd rather salve your conscience more cheaply.

  I owe that to you, Thomen—and to your father and brother.

  "Because I am the emperor," Karl Cullinane said. "And you'd better understand that, boy."

  CHAPTER EIGHT:

  The Best-Laid Plans . . .

  I'm a hero with coward's legs. I'm a hero from the waist up.

  —Spike Mulligan

  Except for the weather, Walter Slovotsky's part of the attack went off like it was charmed.

  Walter Slovotsky's commando—he insisted on the correct usage of the word; it referred to the group, not the members of the group—consisted of only ten; ten against the seventeen in the horseborne slaver reserves wasn't great odds.

  But there were compensating factors. Lou had told him that Aeia was still just about the best shot in Home; Bren Adahan, while inexperienced with a pistol, was a better swordsman than Walter, and quite good with a crossbow—and, most important, an experienced warrior; he had been thoroughly blooded in the Holtun-Bieme war.r />
  Six of the others were warriors that Daherrin had recommended, only two of them tyros, one of those serving as medic—which meant that in addition to his weapons, he carried bandages and the bottle of healing draughts.

  Daherrin had suggested Jason as the tenth, but Walter had vetoed the suggestion: This was a tricky bit; much better to put Jason with the group that was going to hit the slaver scouts—that looked to be the relatively cushy job.

  No, Jason wasn't his tenth. His tenth was Ahira. The two of them had been friends for half their lives, and partnered for much of that time. In or out of a fight, having Ahira around was to Slovotsky like having a concrete backboard when playing basketball: The ball would rebound, period.

  Still, given that the goal was to end up with seventeen dead slavers and no-count-them-no dead Home soldiers, it was going to be touch-and-go. Their pistols should lower the odds some; the rope in his hands was going to even them even more.

  As was the element of surprise.

  Which was the reason that Walter was in tactical command, after all, and not Ahira.

  Besides, Ahira was part of the tactical reserves. Way back when, when he was in ROTC, Walter Slovotsky had been told that it was always necessary to have a reserve; it was the only thing from his two-week military career that had benefited him.

  A stray raindrop hit him square in the left eye, stinging as he rubbed at it.

  The weather was not promising; it was hard to reload in the rain.

  As before, there was no sign of the slaver reserves from down the road when the last of the main party vanished around the bend. Wind whispered down the trail, a further promise of the oncoming storm.

  Walter crept around the bend and waited silently until they were far enough away so that he could be sure his low-voiced call to Aeia and Bren wouldn't possibly be heard.

  Distant flashes of lightning and remote crashes of thunder sent chills racing down his neck.

  "Okay, you two," he whispered, hefting a coil of braided-leather rope as he stepped onto the trail. "Let's get to it."

  While the first spatter of raindrops touched the leaves overhead, Bren Adahan knelt next to a tree, easily lifting Aeia when she stepped into his cupped hands. Walter tossed her the end of the rope.