“Forgive the intrusion,” the outcast said. “It's been some time since I've seen one of my own kind. I noticed you from across the plaza and hoped to hear news of the desert."
Kalnai extended a hand, consciously keeping his gaze away from the other's collar. “Kalnai Firrakh, feyrhakin of Clan Vysthuk,” he said.
They clasped hands. “Soto,” the other replied. For obvious reasons, he gave no clan affiliation. “What brings a desert soldier to the wetlands of Hurst?”
“Trade caravan,” Kalnai said. “It's my great fortune to accompany the merchants this season."
“Ah, a truly lucky man,” said Soto, and both Sandlanders laughed.
“The dwarven beer is almost worth drinking,” said Kalnai. “Perhaps I could buy you one?"
Soto nodded affably, and the two Burning Men strode through the plaza. They passed a juggler's flying knives, then an elaborate display of gnome pipeworks. The crew foreman stood on a stool and extolled the benefits of gnome craftsmanship while his assistants stood by, prepared to take orders should a customer appear. Kalnai made a mental note to inquire about the possibility of bringing such innovations to the crag.
Soto noticed the direction of the feyrhakin's attention. “A good idea,” the exile said. “We had nothing like it when I left the sand."
“How long ago was it?” Kalnai asked. Though common courtesy prevented him from broaching the subject directly, Soto's comment made the question acceptable.
“Eleven years, most of it spent in this place. If the Great Death visited the Western Realm, I'd open the gates for it myself."
The pair laughed again as they came to the beerstand. A cart of roasted chicken legs stood nearby; between the two, the dwarven proprietors were quite busy. A number of chairs, most of them occupied, were arranged under tall parasols to shade the patrons. Kalnai paid for two tall mugs and handed one to Soto. The Sandlanders opted to stand in the sunlight as they downed the harsh, dry drinks.
“Is Tragmarik yet the fandyiha of Crag Minvyil?” asked Soto.
“He is,” said Kalnai. “Though their thaumaluk, Lahnnak Asav, returned to the sand earlier this year."
“Ah, what a loss for Crag Minvyil. Lahnnak was a legend when I was a child."
“How do you occupy yourself here in the Western Realm, Soto?” Kalnai sipped his beer and gazed idly around the plaza. He wished to learn more about the outcast, but knew he should avoid showing too much interest.
Soto gave a dismissive wave. “I've hired out as a mercenary during their petty squabbles, guarded caravans between cities. I, too, was a soldier, in my former life."
They drank in silence for a moment. A band of children hurtled by, shouting and kicking a leather ball stuffed with rags.
“It's a tolerable place,” said Soto, “so long as you avoid the sea. My heart damned near stopped beating the first time I saw all that water."
“I imagine,” said Kalnai. “Is there any truth to the rumors of war between Hurst and Addamantia? I wouldn't mind another reason to turn my merchants back to the desert."
“They're all talk and posture,” said Soto. He shook the hilt of one of his scimitars. “I haven't had to draw one of these in well over a year."
“Mine has only been unsheathed at sentry duty for the Grand Council of Clans,” said Kalnai. “The displaced elves caused some brief skirmishes nearly ten years ago, but Clan Vysthuk arrived too late for the fighting."
“Ah, I must have passed the elves on my way out,” said Soto. Kalnai marveled at the casual manner with which the other Sandlander spoke of his banishment.
“Interesting work on your pommels,” Kalnai said. The steel knobs at the end of Soto's scimitar handles were carved to resemble tiny, demonic faces. “May I see one?"
The feyrhakin reached forward as if to grab one of the weapons. Though Soto's hands didn't move, the leather sheath twisted slightly, pivoting the grip of the scimitar away from Kalnai's grasp. A chilling sensation shot through Kalnai's stomach. Soto quickly slid the scimitar halfway from its sheath, proffering the handle. Kalnai recovered his wits and leaned forward to examine the intricate carving. The detail on the pommel stones was amazingly intricate, but the feyrhakin scarcely noticed. The ramifications of what he'd just seen stunned the Burning Man. He composed himself as he pretended to study the pommels.
“It's beautiful. Dwarven?” asked Kalnai, straightening.
Soto's expression erased any hope that the exile had missed Kalnai's reaction. His eyes had darkened to a deep orange, and he stared at the feyrhakin with undisguised fury. “An artisan in Tigras sculpted them,” he said. “They do excellent work."
“Watch them carefully,” said Kalnai. “The thieves of this city love to relieve us of oblatt."
“Yes, thieves,” said Soto. “I think a thief would find these difficult to steal."
“I'm sure of it,” said Kalnai. He glanced up at the sun. “Time for me to return to duty, I'm afraid."
“Ah, duty. Horrid as this realm is, Feyrhakin, it has its advantages. Responsibility to no clan is one of them."
Kalnai felt his loathing for the exile growing by the second. He wanted to report to Mezzino immediately; even more important, he wanted to part company with Soto. Taking the empty mug from Soto's hand, he returned both vessels to the dwarven proprietor.
“Good fortune to you,” said Kalnai.
“Good fortune to you, brother.” Soto's lips curled into a small hint of a smile before Kalnai turned and hurried into the crowds.
The feyrhakin made his way to the edge of the plaza and searched for a vacant rickshaw. The first driver took in the Sandlander's massive body and trotted by without slowing. The next was a two-man affair, however, and agreed to take Kalnai to the keep for double fare. Kalnai nodded impatiently—at the moment, he was ready to pay ten times the usual price. He clambered into the cushioned seat and urged the drivers forward. The Sandlander never noticed the small boy who emerged from the crowd. Adam stood at the edge of the cobblestones, staring after the rickshaw until it vanished from sight.
CHAPTER SIX
Adriana was waiting in the inn's common room when Alexander descended the stairs. He'd slept late after the nocturnal conversation with Count Hafflston and felt a quick stab of guilt at the sight of the counselor sitting alone. He waved to the innkeeper and took the seat opposite the counselor. The innkeeper brought a bowl of steaming oatmeal and a wooden cup of something that smelled like cinnamon. Glancing out the window, Alexander realized that the hour must be close to noon.
“Sorry I'm so late,” he said. “I hope you haven't been waiting long."
Adriana shrugged. “Decided to visit our infamous Evening District?"
“No,” he said, laughing. “My only visitor was an old man with a limp."
“Oh, Count Hafflston."
“Yes. He spoke highly of you, and of Virmual Postwick.” Alexander shoveled a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth. It was scalding hot and utterly bland, but his stomach ceased complaining as he ate.
“Did he know anything helpful to us?"
“The weather, the latest fashions, the importance of me preventing all-out war between Hurst and Addamantia. Nothing special."
Adriana smiled. She tossed her head back to move her hair out of her eyes. “He's right. If people think things are bad now, they'll really love what war does to the Realm. Hafflston's working with Simon Gerhardt on the trade agreements now. That could go a long way toward solving the problem."
“I've heard he's one of our best diplomats. He was definitely our best Huntsman."
“I wondered why he wanted you here so badly. He recommended you directly to the Emperor, you know. Right after the third killing."
The question that had nagged at the back of Alexander's mind all night suddenly rushed to the forefront.
“Three killings,” he said. “But you said there've been four. We never got around to the fourth on the way to the mine."
Adriana looked momentarily flustered. “I didn't te
ll you about the last one?"
“On my mother's grave.” He raised his hand. “You were about to when we made it to Selmer Ridge."
“You're right—I told you about the farmhouse, Virmual, and Rominfeld, right? The other was Samuel de Niron. General Samuel de Niron, I mean. Have you heard of him?"
“'Fraid not.” The last of the oatmeal disappeared into Alexander's mouth.
“Neither has anyone else. He was one of the five generals in the Imperial Army, and the only one who wasn't a veteran of the Elven Exodus. The Emperor appointed him last year, after General Lauren passed on."
“Where was he killed?"
“On the parade ground."
Alexander nearly choked on the final bite of his breakfast. “Nobody helped him? There must've been five thousand soldiers within hearing range!"
“Someone lured de Niron out of the keep in the middle of the night. Apparently, he died without waking anyone."
“Damned polite of him, though not very helpful to us.” He fell silent, staring into his cup.
“You're trying to figure out how he was connected with the others?” Adriana asked. The Huntsman nodded.
“He wasn't involved with Selmer Ridge. De Niron was commander of the cavalry and probably didn't know we'd positioned infantry there. He was familiar with Counselor Postwick, of course, but I don't know of any special relationship between the two of them. Virmual didn't involve himself often with day-to-day military matters."
“What about the bard? Where was de Niron when Postwick was murdered?"
“Inspecting the garrisons in the Black Mountain Pass. He didn't return until three days after Virmual's death."
Alexander sighed. He set the cup back on the table without finishing it and leaned back in his chair. “You've been thorough,” he said.
“I've been frustrated."
He thought of how close he'd come to packing his bags and leaving Hurst the night before. “You're not the only one, Counselor. What's our plan for today?"
Adriana wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “You said you want to see Virmual's quarters, so I thought we'd start there. I have another idea, but it'll probably come to nothing."
“Well, I've got none at all right now, so let's give yours a try."
“All right. We've already talked to the criers who worked the streets where Rominfeld was killed. None of them saw the creature or the fight. Same with the Air Corps. There's someone else I want to question, though."
Alexander leaned forward eagerly. “You've found a witness?"
“Nothing that definite,” she said. “I just thought of someone else who may have been nearby. The ratters."
He sat stock still for a moment, then a smile spread across his face. “Blazes, Counselor, you'd make a hell of a Huntsman. I've seen them out at night, but it never occurred to me—Can we find out which ratters worked that neighborhood that night?"
“Easily. Believe it or not, the ratters are highly organized. Their guild master arranges a strict schedule so the innermost parts of the city are worked first. They move outward from there to scare the rats toward the walls."
“This works?"
Adriana shrugged. “As well as anything else, I suppose."
“No matter. Talking to the ratters a brilliant idea."
Adriana appeared pleased but remained cautious. “It could be another dead end."
“Or it could be exactly what we need. For now, it's the best idea we've got. Unless you've got something else up your sleeve?"
“Not really. I've reserved one of the boxes at the Theater of Giants tonight."
“We're going to a play?"
“No, there's a troupe of ropedancers from Peloris performing tonight. Everyone in the city will be there, so it'll be a good opportunity for me to show you the members of the Emperor's court."
“Ropedancers? Really?” The dancers were a true novelty in the Western Realm, coming from across the sea every few years to perform on the legendary stage in Hurst. The theater was considered one of the Five Splendors, the great works from the earliest days of the realm.
The ropedancers of Peloris were a wonder themselves. Though their art was duplicated occasionally in the Western Realm, no one had yet matched the prowess of the entertainers from across the sea. The Pelorisins rejected all invitations to teach, preferring to exhibit their craft on occasion and disappear back across the water. Seeing both the theater and the dancers seemed to Alexander a welcome distraction.
“I take it the plan's approved?” said Adriana, smiling at the Huntsman's obvious excitement.
He grinned back at her and stood. “Let's go visit the keep."
* * * * *
Mezzino stood next to the colonel, watching their men go through the basic drills of the Sandlander foot soldiers. They practiced on the parade ground in front of a line of barracks. Hammering and sawing filled the air from a short distance away, where a group of gnomes worked on a half-finished building.
The soldiers were paired up in opposing lines, one Hurst swordsman facing each of Mezzino's men. For the most part, the Sandlanders stood a head taller than their counterparts. The soldiers stepped through the practice patterns as Shinvai called out numbers the practice patterns. The men wielded straight, blunted training swords. Mezzino had opted for the safer weapons, knowing that the desert fighting style would feel completely alien to the westerners. Despite their preference for large, wide blades, the Burning Men fought close to the opponent, utilizing the free hand to maneuver and block. Western Realm soldiers, on the other hand, stood at sword's length. Closer proximity was reserved for killing blows or shield strikes. Though they were obviously new to the method, Mezzino was actually impressed with how quickly the Hurst infantry learned the unfamiliar footwork.
“Well, Fandyiha,” said Colonel Ledneck, “I'd hate to set even three of my boys against one of yours without shields and spears. I'd not thought those boys could defend so well bein’ in so close.”
The sun glinted off his nose ring.
“The weapons are key, Colonel. If the large scimitar is to be used, it must be made of oblatt and thus light in the hand,” said Mezzino. “A steel sword of such size would be too heavy for such maneuvers. You're quite correct regarding your shields and pikes. Against these troops we would engage our prongers.” He pointed to the nearest pair. “Here comes the killing blow for this set."
Shinvai called the next number and the line of Sandlanders slid away from the opponents, stepping backward at a sharp angle. The Burning Man indicated by Mezzino struck his partner's shoulder with his free hand, throwing the soldier off-balance. The Burning Man's sword swept upward to deliver a vertical cut across the stomach, then flipped around and descended to the juncture of neck and shoulder.
“A desert man isn't retreating until you see his back,” said Mezzino, “and even then you can't be certain."
“So I see. Small wonder the elves caused so you so little trouble."
“Their bows were their only effective weapons. They found quickly that their men aren't well suited for desert fighting."
A giant of a westerner stepped away from the nearest barracks. Mezzino watched him approach. The soldier walked with the smooth, even balance of a natural fighter, disguised somewhat by an arrogant attitude. The Fandyiha's sharp eyes picked out the subterfuge, as well as the rank symbol on the man's nose ring. He was a sergeant and, by Mezzino's assessment, a seasoned soldier.
“Sirgar!” exclaimed Ledneck, “you ought to be working with us. I'd think their style's well suited for you. Fandyiha, I present Sergeant Sirgar. The sergeant is one of the most valuable soldiers in Hurst."
The sergeant stood nearly as tall as Mezzino, and easily as broad. “I've been watching, sir.” To Mezzino he added, “It's an entertaining style, yer lordship. Don't know that it's much good other than fightin’ dwarves and midgets."
The colonel's mouth opened and shut without any sound emerging. Sirgar's face betrayed no insolence, only bland attention.
<
br /> “I assure you, Sergeant, we're quite capable against men of any size,” said Mezzino. He kept his voice as neutral as Sirgar's, acutely aware of Ledneck's consternation. The drill had ended, and the participants stood watching the trio of officers.
“Yeah, I've read some about your war with the ogres. Sounded to me like them wizards of yours did most of the real work, though."
“Sergeant!” said Ledneck. “There's no—"
“Perhaps a bout, Sergeant?” asked Mezzino. “I'm sure the men would be entertained by a demonstration between one of your finest fighters and ours. No magic for either side."
“Did you bring your best, yer lordship?"
Mezzino smiled. “I always travel with my men, Sergeant."
Colonel Ledneck tried to protest, but Mezzino unbuckled his sword belt and tossed it to Shinvai. The soldiers chattered eagerly and spread into a wide circle. Mezzino heard bets being placed in both the western tongue and the desert language. Blunted swords were handed to him and Sirgar, then the two squared off. Ledneck stood just inside the ring and fidgeted with his sword hilt, wondering whether or not he should intervene. His decision hardly mattered, as both combatants were already ignoring him.
“Any rules where you come from, Lordship?” asked Sirgar.
“We prefer not to maim nor kill one another in practice.” Mezzino hefted the unfamiliar weapon, finding it comparable to his scimitar. Of course, the size and shape of the blade were quite different.
Sirgar nodded an acknowledgement and charged. He came in clumsily, nearly tripping as one toe dug into the grass, but Mezzino wasn't fooled. Instead of stepping toward the stumbling man, the fandyiha moved to the side and knocked away Sirgar's extended thrust. The sergeant's hand was reaching for the Sandlander's leg, but Mezzino was safely out of reach.
He darted forward, smashing one shin against Sirgar's thick upper arm and whistling a downward strike toward the sergeant's legs. Sirgar was already rolling away, however, and came to his feet near the edge of the ring. The hammering had ceased. From the corner of his eye, Mezzino saw the gnomes clambering up the skeleton of the new barracks to watch the fight.
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