The Silver Crown

by Joel Rosenberg

  "Which means?"

  "Utshay upway, Walter." Karl elbowed Slovotsky in the side, then turned back to the prince. "It translates to 'A wise man accepts a gift in the spirit in which it is intended.' It's a simple proposition, your majesty," he said. "We're willing to get rid of the slavers and their powder—and we'll start by lifting the Furnael siege."

  He crossed his arms over his chest. "We'll have to capture two or three slavers or Holtish officers for one of my people to interrogate; she can find out where their center of operations is. All I need is a few mercenaries, provisions, and the temporary use of enough land for our training and staging grounds. The rest is up to us."

  "But as an independent force, not under my barons' command." Pirondael stroked his salt-and-pepper beard. He looked vaguely like Baron Furnael, which was understandable: apparently, all of the Biemish nobility were more or less related. "You see the problems that would cause?"

  "No. I don't. And, honestly, I don't care. Before the slavers brought guns and powder into the war, you took how many baronies away from Holtun? Two?"

  "Three." Pirondael smiled, remembering. "The Holtish should not have started the war. Prince Uldren isn't much of a general. Then again, neither am I. The difference is that he insists on being one, while I do not; I leave the planning to those who know war."

  "And how many of those baronies do you still hold?"

  The smile vanished. "None. Since they brought those accursed weapons into the war, we've lost those, plus barony Arondael, Krathael, and most of Furnael—most of them almost emptied of their people, hauled away by slavers. As we speak, Furnael Keep is under siege." Pirondael shrugged. "It may already have fallen, for all I know—"

  "Your majesty," Beralyn put in, only to be quieted by a quick chopping motion.

  "—and while I wish I could, I can't spare the troops holding the line in Hivael to try to break the siege. You say that you can do that, with how many men?"

  "One hundred—forty of mine, sixty of your mercenaries to be released into my service. Plus a few . . . surprises that I have in mind."

  "I'm told that there are more than a thousand Holts maintaining the siege."

  Karl smiled. "Their misfortune."

  "Or mine, if you are not sincere." Pirondael shook his head. "My men tell me that you are . . . not oversupplied with these guns of yours." He raised a palm. "No, Karl Cullinane, none of my soldiers have tried to capture any. I'm told that would not be wise. But I was asking what else you require."

  "To break the siege and take the slavers out of the war? Nothing. Except . . ."

  "Except? I thought that there would be more."

  "I'll need you to get rid of any dragonbane in Biemestren and its environs. I want it all burned—by the end of tomorrow."

  The prince spread his hands. "That is hardly a problem. We have not cultivated dragonbane for hundreds of years. I wouldn't know where to find any. Why is this important to you?"

  "Within the tenday or so, a friend of mine is arriving. He doesn't like dragonbane."

  "A friend?" The prince whitened. He started to turn toward Beralyn, but Karl stopped him with a nod.

  "Yes. And if you're still thinking about trying to torture the secret of gunpowder from Walter and me, I'd caution against it. For one thing, neither of us knows how to make it," he lied. "And for another, my . . . friend wouldn't like it. Don't get Ellegon angry, your majesty. Dragonbane or not, you wouldn't like him when he's angry. Now, have we an agreement, or not?"

  "Possibly, possibly. If you manage to break the siege of Furnael Keep, what then? You will require additional forces in order to attack the main guild camp on Aershtyn, no?"

  "Possibly. We'll talk about it then, your majesty. Have we an agreement?"

  The prince nodded.

  Karl turned to Walter. "Walter—"

  "I know, I know." Slovotsky raised his hands. "You want a recon of the siege of Furnael Keep, and you want the report yesterday. It'll take me a bit more than a week; you think you can live without me for that long?"

  "Yup." Karl turned back to Pirondael. "Your majesty, if you'll have your soldiers lead us to our staging grounds, we have many preparations to get under way."

  The prince nodded. Karl and Walter turned and walked out of the room, reclaiming their weapons at the door. Accompanied by three guards, they walked down the stone staircase of the tower and out into the bright daylight.

  "I don't like it, Karl. I don't like it at all. Assume we succeed at barony Furnael and in knocking out the slavers on Aershtyn. What if Pirondael decides that's enough, once we've taken guns and powder out of the war? It could be Holtun that gets chopped up and shipped off by the slavers—after all, the guild has been free to deal in Bieme before. Would that be any better?"

  "No. But I don't think he'll push for that."

  "And if he does?"

  Karl looked him full in the face. "Three guesses. The first two don't count." They emerged from the arched doorway, squinting in the bright sunlight.

  "That's what I thought. Who've you got in mind to replace him? The line of succession passes to his sons—"

  "Both of whom are dead." Maybe that was it. The death of his sons should have been bothering Pirondael. What kind of man shrugged that sort of thing off?

  "And then probably to a near relative, no?"

  "As I understand it, right now the legitimate succession would be pretty much up for grabs among the barons—at least one of whom is a man of honor, one who will keep any agreement we make with him. And he's under siege. For now."

  "Which is why you want to break the siege of the keep, instead of going directly to Aershtyn. I don't like it when you get tricky." Slovotsky caught himself. "Sorry."

  "Better get going."

  "Right."

  "One more thing, Walter?"

  "What?"

  "Don't get yourself killed."

  Slovotsky smiled. "My pleasure."

  Chapter Seventeen

  "One Thing at a Time"

  Do not peer too far.

  —Pindar

  Karl spread his blankets on the ground and lay back, staring up at the night sky.

  There were no faerie lights dancing in the overcast sky tonight; only a dozen of the brightest stars were visible through the haze. Across the field, the five equally spaced signal fires sparked their message up into the night. Either Slovotsky or Ellegon would recognize the signal; both of them should be showing up soon.

  He closed his eyes, but he couldn't sleep.

  This time I may have bitten off more than I can chew, he thought. Even if Ellegon brought enough guns and powder, the odds were just too much on the other side. The sixty mercenaries that Pirondael had released to him would have to be watched carefully; it was unlikely that they'd be worth much in a firefight. Valeran's men were coming along quickly, granted, but riflery wasn't something that they could learn enough of in only a few tendays, not when it was such a new skill. While their marksmanship was adequate, their reloading speed was pitiful even during practice; in combat, it could only be worse.

  That left Karl, Walter, Peill, and their ten remaining warriors, plus Henrad. Maybe Ellegon would bring along a couple of warriors, in addition to Nehera and the Engineers.

  That still wasn't enough, not even with Ellegon. The dragon couldn't be risked in close combat; the slavers would surely have some dragonbaned bolts.

  Reflexively, he started to curse Tennetty for deserting, but one more person wouldn't really have made any difference.

  Dammit, I can't do it all by myself, he thought.

  But this war had to be stopped, no matter what. The guild couldn't be allowed to trigger a war with impunity. This was even more dangerous than slaving raids: Human spoils of war could easily and cheaply supply Pandathaway and most of the Eren regions with slaves for years to come.

  This wasn't how Karl and the others had planned it. Their plan to interfere with the slave trade was three-pronged: first, to make the business deadly to the
slavers; second, to drive the price of slaves up, forcing the locals to invent and adopt better ways of getting things done; third, to turn Riccetti and his Engineers loose, seeing that new technology was a medium for freedom, not repression.

  That last was always a real fear. The invention of the cotton gin had brought new life to slavery in the United States.

  So . . . the slavers had to be stopped, and stopped here; war was too efficient a way for them to procure human merchandise.

  But how?

  We just don't have enough manpower, just don't have enough time.

  It was conceivable that they could break the siege of Furnael Keep; possibly they could surprise and savage a slaver encampment; but ending the war was just too much to ask. Old hatreds, old angers had been awakened. How could they be stilled?

  That's what it came down to: If the war couldn't be ended, the guild would profit. The Holtish and the Biemish were willing to sell each other off. It had to be stopped.

  But I just don't know how to shut a war down.

  He shook his head. It would have been nice to have Chak to talk to. Chak had long ago come to terms with the notion that he was going to die in battle, and had accepted it almost eagerly. Or maybe not almost.

  How do you stop a war?

  I don't know. But since when is not knowing an excuse?

  "Hail, Caesar: We who are about to die . . ." Walter Slovotsky's voice sounded in the distance.

  Karl stood. " . . . are going to take one hell of a lot of the bastards with us," he called back.

  "That's not the response."

  "It'll have to do, for now. When did you get back?"

  "Just a few minutes ago. Valeran said you left orders I was to report to you the instant I arrived. I'm reporting."

  "How does it look?"

  Slovotsky rubbed at his tired eyes. "Look, Karl, I had a hard four days' ride to Furnael, a tough all-night recon, and a harder ride back. Can we let it wait until morning? I've got to get some sleep. One thing at a time, eh?"

  "What did you say?"

  "I asked if we can wait until morning."

  "No, not that—what did you say after that?"

  Slovotsky's forehead wrinkled. "One thing at a time?"

  "One thing at a time." Karl nodded. "Sometimes, Walter, you're a genius."

  "Huh? I don't follow."

  "Never mind." Karl shook his head. "Don't worry about it." One thing at a time. First we save Furnael Keep, then kill Ahrmin and his group, and then stop the war—somehow, dammit, somehow. "That's my department. You get some sleep; we'll talk in the morning."

  "Fine by me."

  As Slovotsky stumbled off, Karl lay back down.

  "One thing at a time," he said to himself.

  And then he was asleep.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Aveneer

  One finds many companions for food and drink, but in a serious business a man's companions are very few.

  —Theognis

  "Karl," Walter called out from the top of the low rise, "I think you'd better get up here."

  "Trouble?"

  "No, but move it, anyway."

  Karl handed the rifle over to Henrad. "Keep them working at it—dry firing only."

  The boy nodded, his face a sullen mask. Henrad was supposed to be Andy-Andy's apprentice, learning magic, not teaching basic riflery.

  Too bad for him. Karl started up the slope, pausing for a moment to speak to Erek, who was busy conducting a class in speed reloading for the benefit of Valeran and his men.

  "How's it going?"

  The boy smiled. "Good. Valeran is almost as fast as I am; Halvin's a touch faster."

  "Great. Keep at it." Karl broke into a jog.

  Slovotsky was beaming as he stood atop the rise. "Things just started to look up," he said, as Karl trotted over. "Check this out."

  Off in the distance, a line of more than two hundred mounted soldiers rode toward them. But not Biemish soldiers; even at this distance, Karl could see that they were armed with rifles. He squinted; the man at the head was a burly redhead.

  "Aveneer!" He turned to look at Slovotsky. "How—"

  "I don't know." Slovotsky shrugged. "It sure wasn't me."

  "Maybe Ellegon? When you met up with him west of Enkiar—"

  "I just relayed your orders, Karl. As far as I know, the dragon was planning to head home and pick up the supplies and crew you ordered, then rendezvous here. If he had anything else in mind, he kept it a secret."

  "I guess we'll know in a minute."

  Aveneer spotted Karl and waved, then gestured to Frandred, his second-in-command, to have the men dismount. Aveneer spurred his roan into a full gallop, braking the horse to a panting halt as he neared Karl.

  He dismounted heavily, then stood for a moment, oversized hands on his hips. Nature had intended Aveneer to be a towering giant of a man, but something had gone wrong; although his hands, feet, and facial features were larger than Karl's, the Nyph stood more than a head shorter.

  "You look well, Karl Cullinane," he said, turning for a moment to check the leather thongs that bound his battleaxe to the side of his fore-and-aft-peaked saddle. Aveneer was the only human Karl knew who preferred a battleaxe to a sword; an axe was typically a dwarf's weapon.

  "I heard," Aveneer said, his voice a slow basso rumble, "that you could use some help." He ran blunt fingers through his dirty red hair. "I hope you don't mind the presumption. But it was . . . convenient for us to ride this way."

  His appearance and that of his men made his words a lie. They were all road-dirty, with the deeply ingrained filth that only a long forced ride could cause.

  "No, I don't mind." Karl took Aveneer's outstretched hand in his. Aveneer's grasp was firm, although he wasn't trying for a bone-crushing grip; Aveneer wasn't much for childish games. "I don't mind at all. But—how?"

  Aveneer nodded slowly. "I told her that would be the first thing you would want to know." He raised an arm; a lone rider broke off from the rest of the group. "She caught up with us in Khar."

  It was Tennetty, the glass eye gone, now replaced by a ragged eyepatch that somehow looked much more fitting.

  Karl didn't know whether he wanted to hug her or shoot her down as she stopped her horse in front of him and waited, her face impassive.

  "Tennetty . . ." What could he say? Karl had been sure that she had deserted; it now was clear that she had decided to hunt up some reinforcements. Did that make up for her indirectly causing Chak's death? No, but . . .

  Dammit, why couldn't she have stayed a deserter? That had made things so much simpler.

  "Greetings, Tennetty," he said, the words sounding warmer than he had intended.

  She nodded grimly, not saying anything.

  "We have plenty of powder left, and a few spare guns," Aveneer said. "The pickings have been slim. We were hunting for a slave-raiding party in the Katharhd, but . . . nothing."

  "Well, you won't be able to say that in a while. How tired are you?"

  Aveneer rubbed at his bloodshot eyes. "Bone-weary, Karl. As is obvious. And our horses—"

  "Walter, have their animals seen to."

  "Right." Slovotsky trotted away.

  Karl turned back to Aveneer. "What I meant was, can you and your people ride with only a day and a half of rest?"

  "Of course. What will we be facing at the end of the ride?"

  "Slovotsky says that there are a thousand men holding Furnael Keep under siege. He guesses that there's anything from one hundred to four hundred warriors inside."

  "Can we count on them? Do they know we are coming?"

  "No. If Walter could have snuck inside, then—"

  "—the Holts could have done so, too. Hmm. . . . The Holtish have these slaver guns I've been hearing about recently?"

  "Yes. Not many, though—Walter guesses less than two hundred, about one gun for every five men."

  "Most of their weapons are up north, where most of the fighting is going on, eh?" Aveneer pursed his l
ips and nodded. "Let me see if I understand this: You want to take less than three hundred of us against a thousand Holtish line troops—perhaps with some slavers mixed in—relying on Baron Furnael to support us, although there won't be any way for us to coordinate our movements with him. Correct?"

  "Correct."

  "Well." Aveneer brightened. "Then it looks like I won't die in bed after all. Now, is there someplace where an old man can sleep?"

  Karl started to open his mouth, then closed it. Karl wouldn't have gone to sleep unless he was sure that his people were settled in, but there were sound arguments for doing it the other way.

  It's Aveneer's team, not mine; criticizing would only be asking for trouble. "Use my tent," he said. "See you in the morning." He called for Erek, then had the boy lead Aveneer away.

  Behind Karl, Walter Slovotsky cleared his throat.

  "I thought you were going to see to the horses," Karl said.

  "I delegated it. Just as well I did, Karl—I heard that last." Slovotsky shook his head slowly. "I don't like the idea of riding out. I thought we were going to wait for Ellegon."

  "And I thought he'd be here by now. We can't wait forever; we move out day after tomorrow, regardless. He'll probably catch up with us en route."

  I hope, he completed the thought. Though Aveneer's people had plenty of rounds and powder, that could be eaten up quickly in battle. Besides, since Chak had died, there had been nobody around who Karl could talk freely and comfortably with. Being around Slovotsky wasn't the same as being around Chak or Ellegon.

  "He'd better." Slovotsky nodded grimly. "And Aveneer's team? How are you going to split them up?"

  "I'm not. He and Frandred know their people better than I do, and they're all used to the way he splits them into three equal-sized teams. We're better off adapting to him, rather than the other way around. I'm going to stay in overall command—"

  "Surprise, surprise."

  "—and keep Valeran and his squad with me. We'll scatter Pirondael's mercenaries among Aveneer's squads."

  "Sounds okay."

  "One more thing: I want to get as close as possible to the keep before we're spotted. I guess that means we'll have to travel at night."