The Silver Crown

by Joel Rosenberg

  "Lying? Me?" Karl stooped to pick a pebble from the road, then threw it off into the night.

  "That golden collar was inspired."

  Karl breathed on his fingernails and buffed them against his chest. "Thank you. I thought it made a nice metaphor. Didn't you?"

  "Right. But I don't recall that as being one of Khoral's gifts."

  "I never said it was, did I?"

  "No. You didn't." Ahira was silent for a few minutes as they walked along the road toward the house that the dwarf shared with Walter and his family. "We make a good team, you and I. I can handle the day-to-day stuff, but I can't . . . inspire people, not the way you do." He shrugged. "Just not in me."

  "Don't put yourself down."

  "I'm not. It's just that if you hadn't been here, we might have lost. You might have found yourself faced with Chton as Mayor the next time you came Home."

  "Stop talking around whatever it is that you want to talk about, Ahira. Just say it."

  "You've got to settle down, Karl. Spend more time here, not on the road. If you'd been here, you might have been able to shame Chton into not pushing for a town meeting in the first place."

  "Can't. Too much work to do. There's the Enkiar operation coming up, and I've promised to take Beralyn home."

  The dwarf nodded grimly. "It might be best, in the long run. I've been talking to Gwellin; he's always thinking about going back to Endell."

  "I knew that—but why you?"

  "You notice a lot of dwarf women around?"

  Karl nodded. "Well, it was always understood Gwellin and his people are only temporarily with us. But their word is as good as—"

  "The word of Karl Cullinane." Ahira chuckled. "Quite right; no word will be said about guns. But, Karl . . ."

  "Well?"

  "Well, if they ever throw me out of office, I'm thinking that it might be a good idea if I went with him. I'm still not sure what I am, Karl. I've spent seven years now as a cross between a human and a dwarf, and I'm beginning to wonder . . ."

  Karl stopped. "Ahira. Look me in the face. You wanted to lose today, didn't you?"

  The dwarf didn't answer.

  "Didn't you?"

  "Karl, I . . . just don't know." Ahira pounded his fist against the flat of his hand. "I really don't know, not anymore. It's different for me than it is for you. You subordinated Barak to your own needs years ago. I'm . . . still betwixt and between. And I know that I owe my life to Walter, and Riccetti, and Andy—and most particularly to you, but . . ." He looked up. "Dammit, Karl, why can't things be clearer to me? You always seem to know what you're doing."

  "Not you. Please." Karl threw up his hands. "Don't you start to buy into the legend. I'm still me, Ahira, just plain old Karl Cullinane who staggers through life, improvising as he goes." And some of those improvisations have cost lives, Jimmy. "I just do the best I can." He clapped a hand to Ahira's shoulder. "But once I finish with this Enkiar operation and get Beralyn back to Bieme, what say I hang around Home for a while? Would that do for the time being?"

  "Let's try it." The dwarf nodded. "I think so. It wouldn't be all bad, you know. You could teach some school, spend more time with your wife and son."

  "Okay. Just give me time, Ahira. It'll take a while to finish up what I've started. One favor, though."

  "Yes?"

  "When it's just the two of us alone, could I call you James Michael? It'd be sort of a taste of home."

  "And it might remind me who I really am supposed to be, eh?"

  "No. That you've got to decide for yourself."

  They walked along in silence for a long time. In front of them, the lamp still burned on the porch. The dwarf climbed the steps and turned to him. "You do what you have to, Karl. And I'll hold out here just as long as I can. Who knows? This whole Joiner nonsense may subside."

  But your own problem won't. "Maybe it will."

  "About that favor . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "I think you'd better call me Ahira. It's who I am, after all. Goodnight."

  Chapter Twelve

  Parting

  The voice of the turtledove speaks out. It says: Day breaks, which way are you going? Lay off, little bird, must you scold me so?

  —Love Songs of the New Kingdom

  Karl checked the third packhorse's cinch for the twentieth time as he eyed the house in the predawn light, wondering if he'd ever see it again. I've always got to make my goodbyes count, he thought. They may end up being all too real.

  *You're stalling. Which is probably the most sensible thing you've ever done. You should let me—*

  No. Case closed.

  Beralyn and Tennetty sat astride their horses, waiting with patently false patience. Chak, sitting comfortably in the saddle on his gray gelding, was more phlegmatic. It didn't matter to him whether they left now or in a few minutes.

  Karl shook his head. I'd better go.

  Andy-Andy stood on the porch, watching him silently. There was nothing more to say; all of it had been said last night.

  I'll miss you terribly, he mouthed. As always.

  One more thing to do. He walked up the steps and into the foyer, then climbed the stairs to Jason's room.

  Mikyn and Jason lay sleeping under their blankets.

  Karl knelt on the floor and gently kissed Jason on the forehead. No need to wake him. Watch over him, will you? He tore himself away from the room, and the boy.

  *As always, Karl.*

  U'len caught up with him on the steps. "Look, you—be careful," she said, her voice a harsh whisper. "I have a bad feeling about this." She shook her head, her hands behind her back.

  "You always have a bad feeling."

  She snorted. "True enough. Here," she said, producing a muslin sack, then turning away. "For the road."

  "But we've got plenty of food—" He stopped himself. "Thank you, U'len," he said. "See you soon."

  She nodded gravely. "Maybe. Maybe this time. But one time you won't come back, Karl Cullinane. Get your fool ass killed, you will, sooner or later."

  "Maybe." He forced a smile. "How about double or nothing on your salary? If I'm not back in, say, two hundred days, you get double your pay for that time—otherwise, you work for free for however long I'm out."

  "I don't bet against you." She cocked her head to one side. "Although, if you'd care to give me odds?" She put her hands on his shoulder and turned him about, then pushed him toward the door. "If you're going, get out of here."

  * * *

  Andy-Andy was still waiting on the porch. "I still think you should let Ellegon fly you."

  He shook his head. "I don't want him away from Home. Not until Gwellin and the rest are back on guard. They should be back in a couple of weeks at the outside; then he can go back to resupplying runs. But until then, I'd just as soon not have to worry about whether or not you're safe when I go to sleep at night."

  "And I'm not supposed to—" She stopped and shook her head in apology. Arguing over a settled issue wasn't a luxury that Andy allowed herself. "Did you mean what you told Ahira the other night? About spending some more time around here, after this one?"

  He nodded. "I think a couple of years of semiretirement would do me a bit of good—let Tennetty or Chak run the team for a while. Besides, if the guild keeps raiding into Therranj, I might just take a small group out for a tenday every now and then, keep them on their toes."

  The whole world didn't rest on Karl's shoulders, not anymore. With Aveneer's and Daven's teams working, with rumors of others attacking and robbing slavers, the guild was on the run.

  Even if he knew that he couldn't possibly live to see the end of the work, it was fairly begun. A phrase from Edmund Burke popped into his mind: "Slavery they can have everywhere. It is a weed that grows in every soil."

  Not any soil around me, Eddie. Just think of me as a weedkiller.

  No. Lou Riccetti was the weedkiller, although eventually, the secret of gunpowder would get out. And that might not be a bad thing. Like them or not,
guns were a leveling phenomenon, a democratizing one, in the long run. "All men are created equal," people would say. "Lou Riccetti made them that way."

  He hitched at his swordbelt, then threw his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. "Be well," he whispered.

  "You'd damn well better take care of yourself, hero." She pressed her lips to his and kissed him thoroughly.

  He released her and walked down the steps, then over to the roan he had picked for the trip. Carrot was getting a bit too old to be taken into battle; this mare would have to serve until he was able to reclaim Stick from Slovotsky.

  He levered himself into the saddle.

  Tennetty tossed him a square of cloth. "Wipe your eyes, Karl."

  He tossed it back. "Shut up. Let's get out of here."

  Part Three:

  Enkiar

  Chapter Thirteen

  To Enkiar

  Cease to ask what the morrow will bring forth, and set down as gain each day that Fortune grants.

  —Quintus Horatius Raccus

  The watchman picked them up less than a mile outside of camp.

  "Two all-beef patties," a harsh voice whispered from somewhere in the trees, "special sauce, lettuce, cheese . . ."

  The voice fell silent.

  " . . . pickles, onions on a sesame-seed bun," Karl called back, deciding that he was going to have to have a serious talk with Walter about the passwords Slovotsky was selecting.

  It was a sound idea, in principle, and Karl had approved of it when Walter had suggested it several years before: The password phrases were culled out of Other Side popular culture, guaranteeing that Karl, Walter, or Ahira could answer a challenge without having been given the response ahead of time.

  But this was just too much. It was too damn much. Karl had been dreaming of Big Macs and similar delicacies for years.

  His mouth watering, he dropped his reins and turned to Beralyn. "Baroness, raise your hands."

  "What?"

  "There is someone pointing a gun at you who doesn't know you, and doesn't know that you don't have a pistol trained on my back. He will know it if you get your hands high in the air. Now."

  Slowly, she complied.

  Peill stepped out onto the road, his slaver smoothbore carefully just out of line with the baroness' chest. "Greetings, Karl." The weapon didn't waver. "I don't recognize your . . . companion."

  "Ta havath, Peill. Beralyn, Baroness Furnael, I'd like to introduce Peill ip Yratha."

  "May I lower my hands now?"

  "Certainly," Tennetty said. "If you really want a hole through your chest. Peill isn't going to take either Karl's or my word that you're harmless, not until he's sure that we're not under some sort of threat. You still could have a pistol up your sleeve; if you were fast enough, you'd be able to get it out before we could do anything about it. We've got to prove that you don't."

  Chak snorted. "You could have warned her before you said 'certainly,' instead of after."

  "It's more fun my way."

  "Shut up, both of you." Karl slowly edged his horse over to the baroness, drew his saber, and held the point a scant few inches from her throat. "Satisfied, Peill?" He resheathed his sword.

  The elf lowered his rifle. "Yes." He turned and gestured to someone hidden in the woods; leaves rustled momentarily.

  Peill bowed deeply as he turned back. "Please lower your arms and accept my apologies, Baroness—Furnael?" He raised an eyebrow. "Rahff's mother?"

  "Right." Karl nodded. "Now, I don't want to get shot on the way in. How much of a lead should we give your second?"

  "He is quick on his feet, Karl Cullinane. I suggest you take a few moments to water your horses, then ride directly in." Peill eyed the late-afternoon sun. "We are camped in a clearing—you'll be met. I'd better move up and find another watch station. If you'll excuse me?" He bowed deeply toward Beralyn, then vanished into the bushes.

  Karl dismounted, took a waterbag and a wooden bowl down from a packhorse's bags, and began to water the horses. "Sorry about the discourtesy," he said. "But it can save a bit of trouble. If you did have us covered, all we'd have to do is go along with whatever you wanted, and count on Peill to take care of things from the other end."

  "There seem to be many . . . strange rituals involved in this business of yours."

  Tennetty snickered.

  * * *

  The interior of the late wizard's wagon was elegant: The floor was deeply carpeted, the wooden walls covered with tapestries. Karl, Chak, Walter, and Henrad, Andy-Andy's apprentice, sat around a common bowl of stew, eating a late supper. Peill was busy settling the baroness in for the night, while Tennetty was off by herself, working on her disguise.

  Setting down his spoon, Karl reached over to what had been the wizard's study desk, took down a leather-bound book, and idly flipped through the pages, ignoring Henrad's wince. He hadn't brought up the Henrad problem with Andy, but there was no sense in taking it any easier on the boy than necessary.

  The pages of spells were just a blur to him, although anyone with the genes that allowed him to work magic would have found the letters sharp and black.

  There was no sense in staining the pages; Karl tossed the book to the boy, then picked up his spoon.

  "You cut it kind of close, Karl," Slovotsky said, folding his hands behind his head and lying back on a floor pillow. "I was beginning to worry. Peill, Henrad, and I have been talking about doing Enkiar without you. Why didn't you just have Ellegon fly you over? Come to think of it, why haven't you lost the beard, like we were talking about?"

  Karl swallowed another mouthful of stew before answering. "I didn't have Ellegon fly me over because I'm nervous about leaving the family alone, after that last attempt. I want him guarding them until Gwellin, Daherrin, and the rest are Home, and on watch. Besides, there's another reason that I'm nervous about leaving the valley alone right now. . . ."

  "Well?" Slovotsky raised an eyebrow. "Don't you trust me anymore?"

  Karl forced a chuckle. It wouldn't do to go public about Ahira, and about Karl's own doubts that Ahira would want to stay on as Mayor forever. That was for Walter's ears only.

  "No, not at all. It's just that . . . don't you think that this business with the baroness smells kind of funny? Supposedly, she, Thomen, and Rhuss were just witnesses that guns have been used in the Bieme-Holtun war. But why them in particular? Why did Khoral go to the trouble to find someone that he must have known I'd feel beholden to?"

  "To get you out of the valley for as long as possible." Slovotsky nodded. "To let them push for another town meeting while you're gone. Why did you play along?"

  Karl shrugged. "I think that Khoral is underestimating our people—the Engineers, in particular. I think I persuaded Dhara that they won't go along with any sort of fealty to Khoral. It's Riccetti's Engineers that Khoral really wants, not the land."

  Henrad spoke up. "But what if you're wrong?"

  "If we don't solve this powder problem, it doesn't matter," Chak said, talking around a mouthful of stew. "I think this slaver powder is more dangerous than all the elves in Therranj put together."

  Slovotsky raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

  "Ow! This is hot," Chak said, his eyes tearing.

  "You probably just bit into a pepper."

  "Pass the water." Chak accepted the jug, tilted it back, and drank deeply. "You know, this isn't bad stew, but someone has to teach your cook that pepper's a spice, not a vegetable."

  "You didn't answer my question."

  Chak snorted. "I was busy being peppered to death. . . . It's a matter of status, of legend. We are . . . the feared Home raiders; we carry thunder and lightning with us. And as long as we're the only ones who can do that, local lords and princes are going to be nervous about interfering with us, no matter what the reward; as long as we don't make a habit of taking on local lords and princes, they won't feel obliged to.

  "But what if they can come up with their own guns? Couldn't that change the whole balance?"
/>   "Maybe." Karl wasn't sure that Chak had a solid point, but he didn't like contradicting him in public.

  "In any case," Walter said, "you're probably right that Ellegon's the best person to keep an eye on things—including politics. Even if the elves are shielded, Chton and the rest of the joiners aren't, eh?"

  "Right. But the person that they're really underestimating is Ahira, I think. He can keep a lid on Home for years." As long as his heart is in his work, Karl added to himself. "And then . . ."

  "And then?"

  He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. "We had a huge victory; I don't know if anyone else saw it. There's this twelve-year-old kid, name of Petros. He lives in a lean-to next to what Ahira says is the scraggliest field that he's ever seen. Doesn't crop for anyone, because he wants his own land, his own vote, and he wants it now."

  Karl opened his eyes and smiled. "You give me another hundred like Petros, and I won't ever have to worry that Home might be bought out by anyone. Ever." He waved it away. "But forget about that for now. We've got Enkiar to deal with. And Ahrmin."

  "Ahrmin." Walter shook his head. "I hope Ellegon's wrong about him. His father scared me shitless. The son is probably going to be worse."

  "He's badly burned and scarred, but he's still alive—and he hired the assassins. In Enkiar."

  Slovotsky pursed his mouth. "If I remember right, he's the one who killed Fialt. Tennetty'll be all over him like ugly on an ape—which explains her being here. I've got to admit that her being with you surprised me."

  "Dammit." Karl threw up his hands. Of course. That was why Tennetty had changed her mind, decided that she was willing to play slave. Sometimes I think U'len's right about my lack of brains.

  Slovotsky smiled. "You missed one, eh? Happens to the best of us. You think we'll have a shot at Ahrmin?"

  "Maybe. If he's still in Enkiar. If he shows his face. If this whole thing isn't a trap for yours truly." Karl bit his lip. "Which is why we're going to do things a bit differently than we'd planned. I don't think that Lord—what's the name of the Lord of Enkiar?"