The Silver Crown

by Joel Rosenberg

  The only beneficiaries would be the guild. And the buzzards.

  "There's more," Walter said. "And you're not going to like it. Tennetty went with them."

  "What?"

  "Her idea—she doesn't want to see the powder get to Holtun, and she had this crazy idea that she can do something about it. And Keranahan seemed sort of interested in her, so I . . . kind of gave her to him. But she was still wearing those trick chains. She should be able to—"

  "She'll get her fool ass killed is what she'll do. You spotted the reason she decided to play slave, to come along. How could you be such an idiot?" Tennetty wasn't going to do anything about the powder, not until she got within range of Ahrmin. She hated Ahrmin as much as Karl did; the little bastard had killed Fialt, speared him through the chest.

  No. Not Tennetty, too.

  Karl sat down on the bed and rubbed his hands against his eyes.

  "Karl," Chak said, "we can't do anything about it tonight. We have to trust her to know what she was doing."

  "Like hell we do." He stood. "Walter, get going, over the roof. You're pulling up stakes and heading out tonight. Your story is that you're nervous after hearing that I'm in town. Leave one of your knives stuck in the roof, right near the peak."

  "Why—"

  "Shut up. Have Peill split off and work his way around; I'll meet him east of town—tonight if I can manage it, tomorrow if not. He's to have two extra horses, healing draughts, his longbow, and all the guns and powder that you can scrape together."

  "What do I do?"

  Karl closed his eyes, concentrating. "One: Play slaver—take the Biemish slaves down the road to the rendezvous; wait for Ellegon. Explain to the Biemish who you are and that they have a choice of going back to Bieme or going to Home. We're going to have to split the team more, dammit.

  "Two: Those who want to go to Home, send them back with the smallest group you think safe.

  "Three: Drop the masquerade—"

  "All right!" Slovotsky slapped his hands together. "You mean I can stop playing slaver?"

  "Shut up and listen. I want you to wait at the rendezvous for Ellegon's supply drop. He should be there any day now, and he'll probably have some guns and powder. Tell him I'll want a massive drop outside of Biemestren—we'll use barony Furnael as a backup—every gun Home can spare, powder, grenades, the bloody works. Tell him to add Nehera and a couple of apprentice Engineers to the drop.

  "Four: Once you've rendezvoused with the dragon, I want you to ride after us. With a bit of luck, you'll catch up with us this side of Bieme. Make sure you keep Beralyn safe—she's our passport." Karl opened his eyes. "Am I missing anything?"

  "I don't like this." Chak shook his head. "I thought you didn't want to choose sides in this stupid war."

  "I didn't; it seems that Ahrmin's chosen them for me. The way I read it, the guild is backing the Holts. We're siding with Bieme, at least long enough to break up the guild–Holt alliance."

  "And what are we going to do about Tennetty?"

  Karl bit his lip. "Walter, how many of them are there?"

  "Fifty or so. All armed to the teeth, now." Slovotsky spread his hands. "I'm sorry, Karl, but you know Tennetty. When she's got her mind set on something . . ."

  "Just get out of here."

  White-faced, Slovotsky turned to go, but Karl caught his arm. "Walter . . ."

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm sorry. I should have anticipated this." Tennetty hadn't had any enthusiasm for this, not until she had heard that Ahrmin was still alive, and had been in Enkiar. This was what she had been planning all along. Damn—if Karl had thought it through, or had Ellegon probe her, this could have been avoided.

  It isn't Slovotsky's fault; it's mine.

  "Right." Slovotsky shook his head. "I'll be telling myself that for years." He clasped Karl's hand. "You getting her out of it?"

  "I'm going to try. Now get lost."

  * * *

  Chak looked at Karl and raised an eyebrow. "You, me, and Peill against fifty?"

  "Don't forget Tennetty."

  "I wasn't. But I don't know how useful she's going to be, not in this."

  "You don't like the odds?"

  "No. Not one little bit." Chak shrugged. "Do you see another choice?"

  "Maybe." Karl pounded on the door, then swung it open. "Hey! I want to talk to Captain Valeran, and I want to talk to him now."

  * * *

  "I thought Enkiar claimed to be neutral in the war between Holtun and Bieme, Captain." Karl gestured Valeran to a chair and poured each of them a mug of water.

  "Yes, Enkiar is neutral, Karl Cullinane. Anyone may trade for anything here." Valeran rubbed a knuckle against sleepy eyes, then sipped at his water. "Am I to assume that you had me waked at this hour to discuss our neutrality?" he asked acidly.

  "No. I had you waked to discuss Enkiar's siding with Holtun in the war—a fact that is shortly to become very public knowledge, from Sciforth to Ehvenor."

  "Nonsense. Lord Gyren does not take sides; both Holtun and Bieme are free to trade in Enkiar."

  "Including for gunpowder? You consider allowing the Holts and the Slavers' Guild to trade here in guns and gunpowder to be neutral?"

  "What is this nonsense?"

  "Baron Keranahan brought in a chain of slaves to trade with the guild—"

  "Yes, yes, for gold. To pay—"

  "No. For this." Karl took a small vial of slaver powder from his pouch. "A form of gunpowder, made in Pandathaway. Enkiar has been where the trade has taken place." He tipped a spoonful onto the floor—"Stand back, please"—then picked up a water pitcher, stepped away, scooped up a handful of water, and threw it.

  Whoom!

  "Think about this long and hard, Captain. Bieme will soon know that the Holts were able to trade for guns and powder in Enkiar, while the Biemish weren't. Do you think that they will consider that neutral?" Karl cocked his head to one side. "If you were they, would you? Do you think that anyone will think of Enkiar as neutral?"

  "N-no. Not if . . . what you say is true," Valeran said slowly, eyeing Karl with suspicion. "How do you know all this?"

  Karl smiled. "That's the first good question you've asked, Captain. Sit back and relax; this is going to take a while. Now . . . we were on a sweep through the forests near Wehnest, when I received a report that there were slavers in the meadow below with guns. . . ."

  * * *

  " . . . and I can tell you that if you were to search Keranahan's wagons, you'd find almost one hundred guns, and eight large barrels full of this," Karl finished.

  "Which your man sold to him, Karl Cullinane. Not the Slavers' Guild—"

  "Captain. You are trying to avoid facing the simple truth that the Holts have used Enkiar as an unintentional partner in their . . . arrangement with the guild. Do you really think that tonight was the first time Enkiar has been used to trade slaves for powder?" Karl said. "Tell me, Captain, how do you think that would reflect on Enkiar's supposed neutrality?"

  "Not well." Valeran shook his head slowly. "But what do you expect me to do?"

  "That all depends on whether you are only Lord Gyren's puppet, or can think for yourself. You and your men are sworn to uphold Enkiar's neutrality?"

  "My oath is to Enkiar; my men are fealty-sworn to me." Valeran pounded his fist on his open palm. "But I can't remain faithful to that oath, not and challenge Baron Keranahan at the same time. That would kill the neutrality, just as surely as if Enkiar was seen as taking sides with Holtun. It's the principle, Karl Cullinane: Once Enkiar's neutrality is shattered, it can't be restored." He pursed his lips for a moment. "Unless . . . unless nobody ever hears of how Enkiar's neutrality has been violated. The Holts could be quietly persuaded to conduct their gunpowder trade elsewhere. . . ."

  "It's too late for that," Karl said. "My friend Walter Slovotsky has already been in and out of here tonight."

  "So you told me." The accent on the second-to-last word was definite. Valeran eyed him levelly, as though to say, I
may well not be your match, Karl Cullinane, but that will not stop me from trying to do my duty.

  Karl nodded his understanding. "Unless I tell him otherwise, the story will soon be spread wide and far of how Enkiar has been the place where Holtun got guns and powder. And to tell him otherwise, I'll have to live."

  "That would go well with some proof."

  "Check the roof. You'll find a knife at its peak. Slovotsky left that as a bit of evidence that he was here. Or do you want to believe that I walked out on the balcony and climbed up the sheer face to the roof without being spotted?" Karl rose to his full height and stretched. "I don't think I can climb that quietly—do you?"

  "No. I'll have it checked immediately." Valeran beckoned to the guard at the door and whispered briefly in his ear. The man ran out of the room.

  "But I ask again," Valeran went on. "Assuming that you're telling the truth, what do you suggest that I do?"

  "It all depends on you, Captain Valeran, you and your twenty men. I ask again: How loyal are you to Lord Gyren?"

  "What do you mean, sir?" Valeran drew himself up straight. "Are you questioning—"

  "No, I'm not questioning your honor, Captain. I'm asking if you're loyal enough to Gyren to have him put a price on your head, if it comes to that. Well?"

  Valeran sat silently for a moment. "I see what you mean. And the answer is yes, Karl Cullinane. But if you've lied to me . . ."

  "I know. But I haven't."

  Valeran sighed. "Then I must see Lord Gyren, explain the situation, and . . . resign from his service. He will understand, Karl Cullinane. I assume you wish to employ my men and me in hunting down the Holts?"

  "Obviously. You and your men have families?"

  "Not I, but most do, yes."

  "Chak, how are we fixed for money?"

  The little man nodded. "Well enough. I've got about six pieces of Pandathaway gold on me, five sil—"

  "Fine. Give." Karl accepted the pouch from Chak and tossed it to Valeran. "That is for their women and children, to maintain them until a group from Home comes to guide them. Leave one of your men; they will remain in his charge until then."

  Valeran bounced the leather pouch up and down on his palm. "I may regret doing this, but . . ." He nodded, a vague smile playing across his lips. "Damn me, but it's good to be alive again. Halvin!"

  The guard at the door turned about. "Yes, Captain."

  "I thought I would never say this, but . . . we ride tonight."

  Halvin gave him a gap-toothed smile. "Yes, Captain. It has been a while, sir."

  "Put that smile away, fool. Your memory fails you." Valeran turned to Karl. "I repeat: Should I find that you have lied to me, Karl Cullinane, one of us will die."

  "Understood. And until then?"

  "Until then . . ." Valeran got to his feet and drew himself into a rigid brace. "What are your orders, sir?"

  Chapter Fifteen

  Firefight

  Take calculated risks. That is quite different from being rash. . . . The most vital quality a soldier can possess is self-confidence, utter, complete and bumptious.

  —George Patton

  Ahead, the well-rutted road twisted and turned in the predawn light. As Stick cantered down the road, Karl reached down and patted at the stallion's neck. "Faster, Stick, faster," he said, digging in his heels and settling himself more firmly in the saddle, his hand automatically checking to see that the rifle was still secure in its boot.

  Valeran spurred his large black gelding, barely matching Stick's pace. "I would like to hear your plan, Karl Cullinane, if that's permitted," he called out above the clattering of hooves. "You do have a plan, don't you?"

  "Of sorts. Be still for now—and hang back, if you don't want to risk getting shot."

  Peill was waiting around the next bend. Karl pulled on Stick's reins, swinging his leg over the saddle and dismounting as the stallion halted.

  The elf was not pleased. "Ch'akresarkandyn told me what you're going to do—what you're going to try to do. I don't like it at all."

  "I don't remember asking your opinion."

  He snorted. "You're going to hear it anyway—"

  "Shut up." Karl reached up and gripped the front of the elf's tunic. "If you want out, you've got it. Just leave the bow and guns and get the hell out of my way."

  "Ta havath." Peill raised both palms. "Ta havath, Karl."

  As the others rounded the bend and cantered into sight, Karl released the elf. "How many rifles do you have?"

  "Five—and I have two shotguns left; I gave one to Chak. I also have my bow and just over twoscore arrows."

  "Can you rig a few of the arrows for fire?" Karl asked, beckoning to Valeran and his men to dismount.

  "Yes. You intend to fire the wagons?"

  Karl nodded. "Think about what happens if they try to put out the one with the slaver powder in it."

  "I have." The elf smiled. "Do you think we can actually get Tennetty out?"

  "Oh? So you're in on this?"

  "I always was."

  Karl took his shrouded lantern down from his saddle, pulled back the baffles, and hung it from a knot in a tree. He turned to Valeran. "It normally takes anywhere from two to ten days to teach someone how to use a gun correctly. We don't have the time to teach reloading and safety, but I'm going to teach you and four of your men to use guns right now." He extended his hand. "Unloaded?" he asked, flicking open the pan and feeling inside.

  "Yes."

  "Good. Valeran, pick four of your people."

  Valeran pointed at four of his men. "Over here, if you please."

  Karl called out to the other fifteen. "You can listen to this, too, but those of you with crossbows, get them cocked and loaded.

  "Now . . . using a rifle is simplicity itself. There are five steps. First, you pull back the hammer—that's this thing—until it locks." He thumbed the hammer back until it clicked. "Hear that sound? Second, you raise the rifle to your shoulder, selecting a target."

  He aimed the empty rifle at a nearby tree. "Third, you line up your front and back sights right on the center of whoever you're going to shoot. At the range we're going to be, do not allow for drop as you would with a crossbow. Four, hold your breath and squeeze the trigger—"

  Snap! Sparks flew from the lock.

  Halvin spoke up. "You said that there were five steps?"

  "Yes. Five: Drop the damn rifle and get your sword into your hand as quickly as you can, because there are going to be one hell of a lot of very angry Holts around you, even if you've killed your target."

  He tossed the rifle to Halvin. "Practice."

  Hoofbeats sounded from down the road; Karl beckoned Valeran and his soldiers over to one side, drawing a pistol and cocking it.

  It was only Chak. His horse was panting, the cloths wrapped around its hooves cut to ribbons.

  The little man dismounted, almost out of breath. "They're not moving too quickly; we should be able to get around in front of them by taking the north road."

  "Did they see you?"

  Chak snorted. "Screw you, kemo sabe," he said in his halting English. "Your nerves are making your mouth say stupid things."

  "True. Sorry." Karl jerked his head toward the road. "Grab another shotgun, and a crossbow. I want you and Peill to take the north road, and set up some sort of roadblock; the rest of us will lag behind until we hear shots. Peill, listen up: When they near your roadblock, I want you to drop the lead horse of the lead wagon, then fire that wagon. Got it?"

  Peill nodded.

  "Go."

  Valeran opened his mouth as though to say something, then changed his mind.

  God, but I wish Ellegon were here. Was Valeran as trustworthy as he seemed? The dragon could have found out with a moment's effort.

  Karl shrugged. No point in worrying about it; he was already committed to trusting Valeran. He lowered the pistol's hammer, flipped the pistol, and caught it by the barrel. He held it out to Valeran. "This works just like a rifle; you hold it at
arm's length, pull the hammer back, then sight down your arm. Squeeze the trigger gently; don't pull at it. Or you can just press the gun against my back."

  "Your back?"

  "You're wondering if I've been leading you on—if I have, you can get even very quickly. In the meantime, mount up."

  * * *

  A single shot sounded from down the road. Karl kicked Stick into a gallop; behind him, Valeran urged the others along.

  Ahead of them, the Holts had dismounted from their horses and the three wagons. The lead wagon was skewed sideways across the road, its lead horse lying on its side on the road, whinnying in pain, an arrow projecting from its chest.

  Damn. "Take cover, everyone. Valeran, assign somebody to handle the horses. Make sure he keeps a good grip on their reins."

  So much for Karl's original idea. Peill could have picked a worse place for the ambush, but not much worse. The Holts had already set up a line of defense behind their wagons and in the irrigation ditch along the side of the road. Rushing them would just be suicide. The worst of it was that dawn was already breaking; in the light, Karl's people, already outnumbered and outgunned, would be even more vulnerable.

  Another shot sounded; a bullet whizzed overhead, snapping through the leaves.

  "Don't shoot yet," Karl shouted, untying his own rifle from the saddleboot, slinging his saddlebags over his shoulder.

  "Go!" He slapped Stick on the rump, sending the stallion back down the road, out of the line of fire. He ducked into the ditch on the right side of the road, tossing the saddlebags to one side.

  "Peill, can you hear me?" he called out in English, knowing that Tennetty would also recognize his voice. "Fire the wagons, now. Then move; I don't want them fixing on your position." He cocked the rifle, then looked out onto the road. There were plenty of targets: the Holts weren't used to facing guns. Karl took aim at a head, took a quick breath and held it, then squeezed slowly on the trigger.

  The rifle kicked against his shoulder as the Holt's head exploded in a bloody shower; Karl ducked back behind into the ditch, fumbling in his pouch for a rag and his powder horn, leaving the tallow box—here, a spit patch would serve just as well.