Not Exactly The Three Musketeers

by Joel Rosenberg

  But it did keep the hay off the ground and out of the damp, and made delivering it to the various stalls below just a matter of dropping it down through any of the several openings in the ceiling.

  It was a common enough arrangement, and Kethol remembered seeing children playing on something like it once, one rainy afternoon: they had extended the pole out as far as it would go, then they would swing out on the rope, trying to make their way to the crooked limb of an old oak that was barely within reach, with a running start.

  Then and there, there had been an unoccupied pigsty in between, and the boys who missed could count on falling into the soft, wet, smelly ground, and Kethol wasn't sure whether the risk or the actuality of it was the fun.

  Here, there was no old oak, and no sty - but there was a rope, and it would be possible to wrap a piece of leather around the rope to protect his hands for the moment, then slide down it and come up behind them.

  It wasn't as good a plan as the three of them could have come up with, but it was the best Kethol could do on such short notice, and it should get him at least two of them, maybe three: skewer the first one up the ladder, then kick him away, letting him fall and distract the others. Then slide down the rope, and come up behind them.

  His brace of pistols were wrapped in oiled skins in his saddlebags. If there had been more time he would have reprimed the pans and made sure the touchhole was clear, but there wasn't, so all he could do was uncover the frizzens and bring them safely to the half-cock. Kethol was a lousy pistol shot - a pistol had no life to it, not a like a bow - but at the range where you could smell the onions on your enemy's breath, you didn't have to be a good shot, and the noise just might buy him some time to ... to give a good accounting of himself before they brought him down. He probably wouldn't kill more than two, perhaps as many as three, but it was possible that none of them would walk away uninjured.

  How many had the Old Emperor taken with him? A dozen, perhaps? More. Well, Kethol was not the Old Emperor, but he would do the best he could.

  Durine, though, Durine had done something clever - yes, that was it. Kethol took his sealed flask of healing draughts from its steel container, and tucked it in the corner of his mouth. It would be important to hold off using it as long as possible, but if he clenched it between his teeth as he fought, a blow to the head hard enough to knock him down should shatter it and give him a few more moments of fighting.

  That was worth doing.

  Leria was standing silent, dressed now, her eyes wide, her hands open, fingers spread, shaking her head. No, she mouthed silently. Please.

  It was, Kethol decided, every bit as easy to go out to die with a smile on your lips as not. Durine's and Pirojil's sarcastic comments about heroism aside, it just didn't make any difference, and if you didn't mind trembling a bit at the edges - and Kethol always trembled when he was waiting for it to all hit; that was why he liked to launch himself into the thick of things first, without warning -

  For me, she mouthed.

  She didn't understand. Shit, maybe he didn't understand, but while he couldn't stop them from taking her away, he simply couldn't let them do it while he lived.

  Some things in life were complicated, but Kethol had been a simple woodsman and a simple soldier all bis life - he liked things that way.

  He was waiting for sounds of footsteps on the floor below when he heard the scream.

  It had been a pleasant evening of talk and drink with Eregen the supposed hostler, followed by a quick pronging of Horvel's woman -Sanders took advantage of his privileges with as much gusto as he took up his responsibilities - and a good night's sleep.

  And, as he sat on his front porch and ate his morning bread and stew - it was better for having simmered all night - and drank another mugful of fresh well water while he watched the sunrise, he was a happy man. From off behind the house came the sounds of the field-workers starting their day - they always made a point to rattle their tools loudly enough that he could hear them - and that meant that his sons were up and supervising, which meant that Sanders could spend the day in the smithy, catching up on some nail making and rewelding that scythe that had somehow or other gotten snapped in two, and perhaps getting a good start on the hardware for the harness that the new gelding would need. He would probably have to do more work than he cared to in return for Beneder's making the harness, but by doing the ironwork himself he would avoid having to deal with that idiot dwarf blacksmith who thought that humans didn't know iron and steel.

  And besides, that would give him a chance to go into town.

  Travelers were frequent, but nonetheless welcome for that. Conversation was a pleasure, and when the only people you could talk to were people who were beholden to you, that robbed it of some of the pleasure. Maybe it was time he thought about a new wife, a young one, perhaps with a sharp tongue in her mouth. Some of the neighbors had daughters who were ready for husbands, and Sanders just might have himself a decent bride-price handy, shortly.

  And, in a few days, there would be a good reward, he was sure. Eregen - or whatever his name was; Sanders didn't know, and didn't much care - was clearly on the run from something, and while Sanders didn't care to try to see if his people could take on Eregen's impressive looking swordsmen - he had been around steel long enough to know what somebody who could handle a sword looked like, and this Kethol person looked like somebody who could handle a sword - first thing after waking this morning, he had dispatched Kendrel's son to the village with a message that Sanders would like to see the warden as soon as convenient.

  There was no rush. Of course, these three and their horses would be on their way by then, but surely whatever they were fleeing would involve some sort of reward. If they had been on the right side of the empire, they could have, would have, asked for the local warden themselves.

  He was enjoying his own cleverness as much as the red and orange streaks of the sunrise when he heard the clop-ping of the horses, and five riders came into view.

  His brow furrowed as he got to his feet. It was too soon for the warden to show up - Kendrel's son couldn't have even reached the village by now, much less woken that sluggish warden - and these didn't have the look of arms-men anyway. Four of them were clearly soldiers, although the lack of colors in their livery surprised him. Just whom were they soldiering for?

  Presumably it was for the fifth, a youngish man in his twenties, his neatly trimmed beard and brightly filigreed and remarkably clean tunic proclaiming him to be some sort of nobility, although Sanders didn't recognize him. Not local; Lord Florent's folk ran to heavy brows and a permanent scowl - even the women - and this one had a strong but somewhat delicate face, and a smile rather than a scowl. They had clearly camped somewhere nearby last night, as the lordling's clothes were barely touched with road dust, and his hair was still damp, presumably from a morning washing.

  Sanders ducked his head politely as they brought their horses to a prancing stop. "A good morning to you, Lord and minion alike," he said. "I am Sanders, a common farmer. Can I offer your horses water and yourselves refreshment?" There was no harm in courtesy. Nobles would take what they wanted, and pay if they wanted, and what was a poor farmer to do? Petition the emperor?

  The lordling smiled. 'That would certainly do quite well," he said. "Although I'd be more interested in some information. We're ... seeking some friends. Have any strangers passed by recently?"

  Well, there was such a thing as coincidence, but Sanders didn't believe in it. "Not only passed by, Lord, Lord - "

  "Miron," the lordling said, as though he expected the name to mean something to Sanders. Well, it probably would, if Sanders was native to Neranahan and had much contact with nobility, but he wasn't, and he had as little as he could. He preferred people deferring to him, rather than the other way around. "Not only passed by, if these are the men you're looking for, one of them snores in my house right now, while the other two are sleeping in the stable."

  "Men?" one of the soldiers asked. "Just
three men?"

  Oh. That was it. These three were chasing after that silly rumor of a dowager with a dowry heading for Biemestren. Sanders tried to keep the disappointment off his face. His guests would still have some sort of price on their heads, somewhere, but he wasn't going to hear the clink of the gold from Lord Miron's purse.

  "And they're right here, you say?"

  "Yes, yes, yes, Lord." Sanders spread his hands. "Just a dealer in horses, with a fairly odd collection of mares and geldings to sell."

  "Big geldings? Dray horses?"

  Sanders brightened. "Then these are the people you're looking for, perhaps?" He turned toward the stable. "They are in - "

  At first, he didn't recognize the sound of steel on leather. Strange that a blacksmith, of all people, didn't immediately recognize the sound of a sword being drawn quickly by somebody who knew how to quickly bring it into play.

  "There's no need, Lord Miron," Sanders said, turning toward the lordling. "They - "

  The slashing tip of the sword caught him on the throat, and then Miron drew the dark tip back for a final stroke.

  Sanders barely had time to get out a single scream before the final darkness claimed him. Kethol felt strangely limp as he watched from the darkness of the stable while Miron finished killing Sanders, then quickly remounted and spun his horse about.

  In moments, the five of them were off down the road at a fast canter. It was all Kethol could do not to shake, and then he did find himself trembling, his teeth clattering together as though from a chill, his knees first shaking, then buckling as his stomach rebelled, and he fell to all fours, retching.

  Leria was at his side, shaming him with her concern. "Kethol? What can I do? "

  He shook his head, in part to clear it, in part to motion her away. He couldn't explain it himself. It had been years since seeing a death had affected him like this. You got used to it after a while; that was the sad truth.

  But this was different. It wasn't just soldiering. He had keyed himself up to take on five men to protect Leria, knowing that he couldn't, leaving behind nothing to do with all that pent-up fury and violence, and his body was taking it out on him with this shameful weakness.

  He spat sour vomit into the hay, and his trembling fingers accepted the water bag from her. He rinsed his mouth with the warm, tannic water. It usually tasted bad, but it was better than his own vomit.

  It was a few moments before he could sit, and more before he could talk.

  The riding off made sense - this was Neranahan, not Keranahan, and even Holtish nobility from another barony were not welcome to slaughter peasants as they pleased.

  But why had Miron killed Sanders? Could it be that Sanders had refused to tell Miron whether or not he'd seen them? Kethol had hardly gotten to know Sanders well -Erenor might have a better understanding of the man - but he hardly seemed to be the sort suicidal enough to dismiss a noble's question with the wave of a hand or a coarse remark.

  Leria ducked back into the shadows, and pulled on her man's tunic, quickly tying her own rucksack shut while she gestured at Kethol to do the same.

  The scream had drawn people from the house and fields, and Erenor from the house. His hair was mussed, and his tunic unlaced, but he walked up to where the body lay and quickly took charge, sending one man running off down the path behind the house, a stocky woman scurrying back into the house.

  He glanced up at where Kethol stood in the open doorway of the hayloft. "Kelleren," he said, "quickly saddle the horses. Master Sanders has been murdered by bandits, and we've got to go tell the village warden or the local lord. Quickly, now, before the murderers escape!"

  By the time Kethol gathered his gear together, the peasant woman that Erenor had sent to the house returned with a soiled sheet; she and he managed to cover the body just as Sanders's oldest son, Vecten, rounded the side of the house, panting from the long run.

  Erenor seized him by the shoulders before he could speak. "Your father was a brave and good man," he said. "I don't know why the bandits killed him, or what they're after, but quickly, quickly, you must gather all your people together here, at the house, where you can protect them. They rode off quickly, but they took no gold, no horses, nothing with them. They could be back at any moment for whatever it is that they came for."

  The questionable logic of that might not have worked under normal circumstances, but Leria and Kethol forced the issue as they brought their mounts from the stable.

  "Quickly, Kelleren," Erenor said, "gather our horses together, and we'll make for the safety of the village. We can report this murder to the town warden, and the lord - the local lord - can have a troop of good men on the murderers' tracks before nightfall." As they cantered down the path toward the main road, Erenor muttered, "What just happened here?"

  "It was Miron," Kethol said. "Miron killed Sanders, and then ran off."

  Erenor looked as puzzled as Kethol felt. "Why?"

  "I don't know." Kethol shook his head. "I don't even have an idea."

  Erenor nodded knowingly. "Well, I should have figured that out."

  Under normal circumstances, that would have gotten Kethol angry enough to say or do something, but he still was trembling around the edges.

  Leria got the horses moving down the road, and then dropped back to let Kethol and Erenor catch up with her. "So what do we tell the village warden?" she asked.

  Kethol didn't understand why Erenor laughed. It was a reasonable question.

  "Nothing," Erenor said. "Because we don't stop in the village. What we do is we get to Adahan as quickly as we can, and let them run after or before us all the way to Biemestren, if that's their pleasure."

  Kethol frowned. Erenor had changed, from an unwilling prisoner compelled to come along, to an inadequate but convincing servant, to an equal. And now, somehow, in some way that Kethol couldn't quite put a finger on, Erenor had taken over. No, he couldn't get Kethol to abandon Leria or anything of the sort, but it had become natural for Kethol to follow his lead even when Erenor took charge only implicitly.

  He wondered why that didn't bother him.

  "What is in Barony Adahan, then?" Leria asked. "You were so set against it before - aren't you worried about treasure hunters after my supposed dowry?"

  Erenor shook his head. For once, his easy smile was absent. "No. Or maybe yes, I am, but I'm more worried about what went on back there. I don't believe that Sanders was disrespectful to a noble, and I don't believe that Miron would have ridden off to escape pursuit from the local warden, or from a local lord that he could, at the very least, pay some sort of blood-price to." He looked over at Kethol. "You were a woodsman once. Did you ever try to herd your prey into a trap?"

  Well, yes, he had beaten through the brush on more than one occasion, trying to spook a deer for a waiting hunter's shot.

  But that didn't make any sense. If Miron had known they were there, he and his men could have taken the three of them right then and there. Why let them go?

  Erenor shook his head in response to the unasked question. "I don't know. You play at bones, don't you?"

  "Yes." And he played it well, at that.

  "If your opponent left you an easy pinbone, just waiting to be pulled, and kept urging you toward it, would you take it?"

  Kethol shrugged. "I'd at least look at the stack carefully."

  Erenor nodded. "Well, the easy pinbone they're leaving us - the direction they're driving us - is Biemestren, by way of Barony Cullinane. What happens when we get there? Is there some charge laid against you to embarrass your baron? Are there bandits waiting in Barony Cullinane to, say, leave our lady raped and dead on Cullinane territory? Or perhaps a detachment of Keranahan soldiers who couldn't quite save her from you?" He threw up his hands. "No, none of that sounds likely, but we're being driven one way, and I don't for a moment think that's being done for our own benefit. I think we go another way. I think we head for Adahan itself, and trust the baron's men, as the best choice we have."

  Two d
ays. It would take two days, moving quickly, to make it to Adahan. "But it's only one more day to New Pittsburgh," Kethol said.

  "You think that a steel plant is going to solve all of our problems?" Erenor shook his head.

  Kethol let his smile show. "No. Not the steel plant. The telegraph."

  Erenor touched his finger to his brow. "My apologies, Master Kethol," he said. "I thought you were just another idiot swordsman. You do have two thoughts to rub together, after all."

  "I thank you, Master Erenor," Kethol said.

  And if you're so clever, how come you didn't think of it first?

  But he didn't say that. From the curious expression on Leria's face, and the way her smile met his gaze, he knew she'd asked herself exactly the same question.

  Chapter 22

  Pirojil and Durine

  Durine stopped suddenly. Pirojil froze. You wouldn't think a big man like that could move so quietly. Of course, it was entirely possible that whatever noise Durine was really making was drowned out by the thumping of Pirojil's own heart. You'd think that after all these years Pirojil would be used to this, that creeping up on a house would be something he could take in stride, something that wouldn't put a steely, salty taste in his mouth, something that wouldn't make him long for a garde-robe or even an outhouse where he could void his bowels.

  Durine cocked his head to one side, then moved it fractionally, mechanically, like some bowman sweeping across a field of fire.

  "Three," he said, his voice a low whisper that Pirojil more felt than heard. "At least. One's a baby."

  Of course it was "at least." Even Durine couldn't hear the heartbeat of a silently sleeping man.

  "Understood," Pirojil said. Their line of retreat had already been planned. There was a small thicket just down the road, with a time-and weather-hardened dirt path running alongside it. The brambles would cut and bite, but if you took a running start and launched yourself into the air, you could miss most of them, and the thorns themselves would discourage investigation, although probably not pursuit. There were two alternatives, in case that way was blocked.