CHAPTER 54: PIETER AND PEN
The chains had put bloody chafemarks on Pieter during the long walk up the dusty camel trail to Sulmona. At the mine barracks the receiving guards had taken the chains and his clothes and left him nothing but sandals and a loin cloth, but they did bandage his wounds. Pieter had submitted to their rough handling with stoic grace, accepted the narrow shelf in a five-stacked bunkbed assigned to him, and soon found himself in the mine stuffing sulfur chunks into a battered wooden hod. A single jug of water to drink and then wash came with the mean supper of porridge, served in a bare courtyard with a single drain where they were all expected to empty their bladders and bowels and drain their wash water. The guards issued him one thin blanket against the cold desert night, and required him to surrender it again the next morning when the meal got reprised for breakfast. The next day was the same, and now on the third day he understood they would all be the same.
He gathered his fifteenth load since dawn while the suns blistered the vast pit. He and a couple hundred other men worked on scaffolding propped against the crumbling cliff face, which gave little shade.
He noticed that some of the men had torn scraps from their loincloths and used them to shield their skin from the raw sulfur. The precious stuff ate at his hands despite his callouses.
“Why don’t they issue us rags to shield our hands?” he wondered aloud.
“To shame us a little more,” said a youth working against the pit wall. He moved like one of the clockwork automatons that rang the carillon bells at the Mother Temple in Aretzo, prying fresh chunks out of the ragged yellow face. He had a voice as dull as the sound of his wooden mallet hitting the bronze wedge he wielded.
Pieter thought he’d never seen a more hopeless face, even in the prison camps after the fall of Black Pass. But at least this one was still willing to talk; some of the prisoners did no more than grunt. As he packed more sulfur into his load he asked, “What’s your name, son?”
The youth tensed and looked at him suspiciously, then glanced at Pieter’s crotch. “Right, you’re the ballless one,” he muttered, relaxing. “I guess you aren’t gonna rape my ass. I used to be called Tricky. Now they call me Skinny.” He hammered at another spot.
The name fit; Pieter could count every one of the youth’s ribs. By the curly brown hair in his armpits and chest he wasn’t a boy any more, but his half-starved face had a waif-like air. They were laboring at the farthest end of the scaffold, wedged between the working face and several blocky pillars of non-sulfur-bearing rock that had been left behind by the mine’s advance. It offered more shade than the front part, but Pieter also had to cover a longer distance to deliver his load.
An overseer snapped something sharp, then cracked his whip for emphasis. Pieter obediently raised the hod to his shoulder and joined the line of men toiling up a ramp to the waiting oxcart. Once there he dumped his load in and headed down another ramp back into the pit, an endless loop of moving men. The mine sprawled at least a mile across on the narrow side and more than twice that long, and it descended in long slopes and cliffs cut into the hillside. A hundred men on the scaffolding chewed at the working face, a hundred more carried the fruit of their labor.
Pieter found his way back to Skinny and began scooping up the heap of loose chunks that had collected at the youth’s feet since the last load. Sulfur dust and tinier fragments sifted down between the boards and collected in windrows under the bottom level, where the workers would be sent to scoop it up at sunset. As long as there was daylight, they worked.
A supervisor down on the uneven mine floor leaned on a staff, rubbing his forehead above bloodshot eyes. Pieter recognized an epic hangover. A haughty official harangued him and waved irritably at the wooden braces holding up one of the pillars. The supervisor shrugged helplessly and the official stormed out. The supervisor went back to leaning on his staff and swigging from a water skin. Pieter’s parched tongue already hurt and there would be no more water issued until evening; he looked away.
Thus his gaze crossed a timber brace in the same instant as a crack shot through the overstrained wood. Yellow dust puffed as three more cracks split it in rapid succession and the brace shattered. Two more braces to either side followed it instantly and the entire massive pillar of unmined rock leaned toward him.
Pieter grabbed Skinny and shoved him toward the scaffold’s exit. “Run!” he shouted as thousands of tons of rock came down on his back.
* * *
“Has Lord Gwynned agreed to talk yet?” asked Sir Penghar DuVerhys DiLione.
The Truthteller shook her head regretfully. “He’s quite stubborn, My Lord. I have attempted all the usual tricks to begin conversation, but he has rebuffed every one of them. I suspect that he believes he will be rescued from his predicament by some form of superior political intervention.” Her eyes went to the gleaming silver hand pinned to Pen’s shoulder, then she uttered a slight snort at the sheer ridiculousness of that dream. “He clearly will be a long-term interrogation project.”
“He’s not the only arrow in our quiver,” Pen told her. “But keep trying, in case he breaks. And make sure he stays uncomfortable unless he starts talking.”
She grinned at that. “Trust me, My Lord, we are already working on that. He has been denied a dozen luxuries that he once considered essential, and certain subtle discomforts have been imposed upon him. Nothing blatant, of course, but continuous. Eventually his ire should reach a boiling point and we hope to steer the resulting complaints into a productive channel for His Highness’ purpose.”
Pen nodded assent and left Gwynned’s prison cell to make his way to the Records Room. “Any news?” he asked the two reeves busily poring over massive tomes.
“Our suspicions are confirmed, My Lord,” one said, showing him a cutout page in one volume. “Somebody made a significant effort to purge these books of incriminating evidence before we arrived. Fortunately, they did not get very far, and there is more than enough remaining to document the magnitude and frequency of the thefts. Most of the entries refer to another book that we have not yet found. Your men ransacked Lord Gwynned’s personal chambers to no avail, so I am told they have moved on to other possible hiding places. We’ll find it if we have to tear this entire palace down brick by brick.”
“Assuming, of course, that they didn’t simply burn it, My Lord,” added the other reeve dourly. “They may have been desperate enough.”
“I thought of that and had all the furnaces, ovens, and waste bins checked already,” Pen grunted. “Nothing as big as these account books has been burned lately.”
“Then either they took it completely outside the palace, or it’s hidden here somewhere, My Lord,” grinned the first. “We’ll reconstruct most of it from the others if we cannot find it.”
“Good work,” Pen told them and left.
His men were spread thin controlling everything. The biggest problem had not turned out to be the men overseeing the mine, most of whom were pathetically eager to betray every scrap of confidential information they’d ever learned in hope of diverting Royal ire. It had been the sheer volume of lies, half-truths, and half-remembered statistics those worthies were dumping on his other Truthteller. It would take days to sort the wheat from the chaff.
He went to the Palace mage station, where the Silbari military mage that he’d brought assured him no messages had come in since they arrived three days ago.
“Which is odd, Sir DiLione,” the man commented, wrinkling his forehead. “Their logs indicate this station usually receives at least two a day.”
And last night the Throne summoned the Twenty, Pen thought uneasily. Irreneetha heard it. I expected Terrell to recall me the instant that happened. A message construct shouldn’t have taken later than the fourth bell this morning to arrive. It’s now well into afternoon. What’s keeping him? Or . . . keeping his messages?
Message constructs were hard to intercept, but not impossible, especially if one merely wanted to destroy them and no
t read them. Pen thanked the mage and headed back to the front hall, slapping his hands together moodily. Who can I trust in this dungheap?
“Sir DiLione?” One of the soldiers addressed him. “Another merchant has arrived and is quite irate that his shipment has been impounded. He claims he will lose thousands of Imperial marks if he cannot depart tomorrow with his sulfur. He says his name is Dylan Allsford and he demands to speak to you personally.”
Pen gave his man a sardonic look. “And you told him I was the man in charge, did you?”
The soldier’s gaze shifted to a point a little above and to the left of Pen’s left shoulder. “Well, my lord, your status and reputation do make it easier to deal with most of them. Unfortunately this one is being very stubborn.”
“Tell him I don’t give a damn!” Pen shrugged irritably; why hadn’t Terrell recalled him yet? Then Irreneetha made a reproving sound and he sighed. “No, don’t do that. Give him my regrets for the damage to his business, offer him a chance to file a claim against the crown for any losses he suffers, and send him to wait with the others.”
“Ah, Goodman Allsford claims to be the second son of a Gwythlo knight, My Lord,” the soldier explained delicately. “He says he’s delivering a contract to the Governor of Pitar, and has suggested that his client has the ear of Crown Prince Osrick. He’s quite insistent that he won’t leave unless you speak to him first. Also, his retinue and their beasts are clogging the front courtyard and blocking anyone else from getting in or out.”
“So he’s an arrogant third-string noble from some backwoods manor on the ass-end of nowhere, puffing up his connections.” Pen pressed his lips together in annoyance. “Very well, I’ll chew him out myself.”
He strode down the corridors to the front door of the Sulmona Palace, which while not exactly a hovel, definitely came off poorly compared to Aretzo or any other significant city in Silbar. Probably helps make this arrogant little frog of a merchant feel superior, he thought. Two guards opened the double front doors with timed heel clicks to magnify his status and he strode through. For a moment he blinked in the bright sunlight and unconsciously set a hand on Irreneetha’s hilt so she would shield his eyes for him.
Her warning came barely in time.
Two spearmen charged him from the shadows on either side of the front door. He drew and slashed in one motion and the first spearhead fell in the dirt. The second man slowed his charge, feinting skillfully, and Pen danced back two steps to avoid his point before he slashed it off as well. The soldier who had accompanied him out the door fell to his knees with a sword through his back. Four other men swarmed the door guards.
Dung! I’ve put my back to the mob!
He whirled to face the courtyard again and chopped the point off a third spear; attackers nearly surrounded him. This is bad! Irreneetha rang against a sword and gouged a wedge out of the inferior blade. Five other swordsmen closed in on him. I’ve got to get my back against a wall or I’m dead!
He charged a fighter, broke the man’s blade and slashed his sword hand right off as he passed. But there were two more behind that one and others reached for his back.
CHAPTER 55: TERRELL AND KIRIN
The Ilvar mage slowed his carpet as they approached the front courtyard of the Sulmona Palace. “Looks like a caravan clogging the place, Highness. Should I land in front of the door?”
Then that door opened and Terrell saw Pen come out, blinking in the bright sun. An instant later steel flashed as two dozen men in the yard all drew blades and went for Pen.
“Pen’s in trouble!” he gasped, releasing his grip on both Kirin and the mage as he groped for his own sword. “Get us down there now, then fetch help!”
The carpet plummeted right onto the heads of two swordsmen, flattening them, and hovered a yard off the ground. Kirin swept the blanket off their shoulders into the face of another attacker as Terrell rolled off the other side of the carpet and drew his sword. The Ilvar mage soared away and Terrell found Kirin at his side, belt knife in hand.
“Draw your sword, not your knife!” Terrell told him. The attackers had been rocked back by the sudden arrival but were recovering fast.
“Got something better,” Kirin replied, and black Shadow poured from his free hand.
“Pen!” Terrell shouted, stabbing a man blocking the way to his best friend. “Make a triangle with us!”
Pen obeyed. The attackers growled and resumed their charge. The next several moments were a berserk fury for Terrell as he stabbed and slashed, using every trick his teachers had ever drilled into him. Then the attackers’ faces turned fearful and they drew back, giving him and Pen some breathing space. Between gulps of air Terrell demanded, “Are you hurt?”
“No,” Pen panted, then waved his free hand behind him. “What magery is this?”
Terrell glanced back and saw a billowing mass of darkness taller than his head. He knew a moment’s profound gratitude. Kirin had made them the wall they didn’t have to guard their backs. Terrell didn’t see him so he must be inside it.
“I brought a friend!” he gasped, then they were both fighting for their lives again.
* * *
Kirin eeled through his darkness, gliding between men frozen in fear or stumbling blindly while their swords wavered. He stabbed a hand and snatched the dropped sword away, slashed an arm and grabbed that sword too, trying to disable or disarm as many fighters as he could. Choked screams followed his weaving path. Two men dropped their weapons, fell to their knees and spewed Gwythlo prayers; he ignored them. Another, standing alert and listening despite the blinding Shadow, nearly stabbed him as he approached. He ducked aside, lunged, and planted his knife in that man’s throat. He could feel Terrell’s fury matching the fire in his own veins. Then hot blood cascaded over his knife hand and his gorge rose.
*It’s kill or be killed,* Terrell’s mind warned.
*Pox and damnation!* Kirin answered as he fought, and knew he killed inexpertly but too well. His Shadow devoured small magics on the attackers, thirsted for their lives too, but he denied it. I don’t want any more dying memories in my head! His clothes collected three more slashes, one leaving a burning slice on his left arm, before he had accounted for the half-dozen men trapped in his Shadow.
A remembered voice outside the darkness snapped commands.
Duke Darnaud!
* * *
Irreneetha glowed red as Pen swung and men fell back in fear. He had cleared more than half the space in front of them but two swordsmen still hard-pressed Terrell.
“Get behind me!” Pen told him as he charged the lefthand man. The noise of the fight would draw his own soldiers, but they were scattered through the Sulmona Palace and would need time to gather.
A bow twanged and an arrow lofted over the heads of the men in front of him. It fell between him and Terrell and the arrowhead gleamed wetly.
“Ware poison!” Pen shouted.
The next arrow came straight at him. Irreneetha shattered it midair with a beam of light. Then he heard a familiar voice roaring orders.
“Darnaud!” Pen made the shout a curse.
Six bows twanged together.
* * *
A chevron of seven men charged into the darkness packed shoulder to shoulder with spears leveled.
Kirin thought, If I let them through they’ll be on Terrell’s back!
He flung his knife and then the sword he’d taken at the men on the two ends, then dived under the lead spearpoint to bounce up into the wielder’s face. The heel of his rising hand caught the man’s chin and snapped his head back hard enough to crack neck bones. Kirin caught the spear and twisted it enough to knock the next two men sideways, slashing one. They crashed against the last two and the whole chevron disrupted as men fell over each other.
But right behind them came Darnaud, clad in armor and helmet with two swords swinging. Kirin remembered barely in time that the Duke might be blind in the Shadow, but it made him no less deadly.
Kirin dodged back,
tripped over a dropped spear and threw himself into a backwards somersault. Darnaud tripped on a body, windmilled both arms to get his balance back, and accidently sliced an ear off one of his men trying to regain footing. Kirin got his own feet back under him and snatched up a spear.
* * *
Darnaud paused, listening. His men wore leather boots that made a distinctive sound against the stone. When the damn shadow mage had leaped off that flying carpet there had been a glimpse of buskins. His men groveled noisily on the flagstones with pained groans, scraping weapons—and a soft whisper of supple leather on sand and stone to his right. He stabbed his right-hand sword and hit flesh.
“Got you!” he exulted, twisting the blade as he brought his left hand sword around for the finishing stroke. His victim gasped something in Gwythlo.
Then a burning fire tore into the left side of his gut below his brass chestplate. It rocked him backward to fall over another body. His head slammed against the stone hard enough to make his helmet ring and he lost one sword. The fire chewed deeper and his legs went numb when the point found his spine.
“No,” said the acrobat’s voice. “I’ve got you.”
Darnaud slammed his remaining sword against the spear shaft, nearly cut the stout ash wood. The movement tore his guts further but he ignored pain as he chopped again. The shaft broke, he cut backhanded into the space beyond it. The little turd had to be close to lean his weight on it like that.
Then another spear nailed his sword arm to the dirt. The Darkness surged backward and a face looked out of it into his own.
“For Maia, you heartless bastard,” Kirin said, his eyes black as hell’s deepest pits. “Die.”
A blade took Darnaud in the throat. He tried to raise his own sword one last time but his arm wouldn’t work. A terrible roaring filled his ears as he sank through darkness into blood and nightmare. Gray wraiths seized him and dragged him over the lip of a vast hole. He fell and fell and fell.
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