by Glen Cook
“I wondered. He stretched the rules a bit with his night walks.”
Case gnawed his lip and wondered if he ought to give the Colonel Corbie’s message. He decided it was not yet time.
“Upstairs?” the Colonel asked one of the men who had found Corbie.
“Yes, sir.”
Case was up the stairs already. He spied Corbie’s oilskin packet, without thinking started to slide it inside his jacket.
“Son.”
Case turned. Sweet stood in the doorway, frowning.
“What are you doing?”
The Colonel was the most intimidating figure Case could imagine. More so than his father, who had been a harsh and exacting man. He did not know how to respond. He stood there shaking.
The Colonel extended a hand. Case handed the packet over. “What were you doing, son?”
“Uh … Sir … One day. …”
“Well?” Sweet examined Corbie without touching him. “Well? Out with it.”
“He asked me to deliver a letter for him if anything happened to him. Like he thought his time was running out. He said it would be in an oilskin packet. On account of the rain and everything. Sir,”
“I see.” The Colonel slipped fingers under Corbie’s chin, lifted. He returned the packet to the table, peeled back one of Corbie’s eyelids. The pupil revealed was a pinprick. “Hmm.” He felt Corbie’s forehead. “Hmm.” He flicked several reflex points with his finger or fist. Corbie did not respond. “Curious. Doesn’t look like a stroke.”
“What else could it be, sir?”
Colonel Sweet straightened. “Maybe you’d know better than I.”
“Sir?”
“You say Corbie expected something.”
“Not exactly. He was afraid something would happen. Talked like he was getting old and his time was running out. Maybe he had something wrong he never told nobody about.”
“Maybe. Ah. Holts.” The horse doctor had arrived. He followed the course the Colonel had, straightened, shrugged.
“Beyond me, Colonel.”
“We’d better move him where we can keep an eye on him. Your job, son,” he told Case. “If he doesn’t come out of it soon, we’ll have to force-feed him.” He poked around the room, checked the titles of the dozen or so books. “A learned man, Corbie. I thought so, A study in contrasts. I’ve often wondered what he really was.”
Case was nervous for Corbie now. “Sir, I think that way back he was somebody in one of the Jewel Cities, but his luck turned and he joined the army.”
“We’ll talk about it after we move him. Come along.”
Case followed. The Colonel seemed very thoughtful. Maybe he should give him Corbie’s message.
On the Road
After three days during which Tracker and I returned to our landing place, loaded the wagon, then headed north on the Salient Road, I began to wonder if I had not erred. Still no Goblin or One-Eye.
I need not have been concerned. They caught up near Meystrikt, a fortress in the Salient the Company once held on behalf of the Lady. We were off the road, in some woods, getting ready for supper. We heard a ruckus on the road.
A voice undeniably Goblin’s shouted, “And I insist it’s your fault, you maggot-lipped excuse for fish bait. I’d turn your brain into pudding for getting me into it if you had one.”
“My fault. My fault. Gods! He even lies to himself. I had to talk him into his own idea? Look there, guano breath. Meystrikt is around that hill. They’ll remember us even better than they did in Roses. Now I’m going to ask you once. How do we get through without getting our throats cut?”
After an initial relief I halted my rush toward the road. I told Tracker, “They’re riding. Where do you suppose they got horses?” I tried finding a bright side. “Maybe they got into a game and got away with cheating. If One-Eye let Goblin do it.” One-Eye is as inept at cheating as at games of chance themselves. There are times I think he has a positive death wish.
“You and your damned amulet,” Goblin squeaked. “The Lady can’t find him. That’s great. But neither can we.”
“My amulet? My amulet? Who the hell gave it to him in the first place?”
“Who designed the spell that’s on it now?”
“Who cast it? Tell me that, toad face. Tell me that.”
I moved to the edge of the woods. They had passed already. Tracker joined me. Even Toadkiller Dog came to watch.
“Freeze, Rebel!” I shouted. “First one moves is dead meat.”
Stupid, Croaker, Real stupid. Their response was swift and gaudy. It damn near killed me.
They vanished in shining clouds. Around Tracker and me insects erupted. More kinds of bugs than I imagined existed, every one interested only in having me for supper.
Toadkiller Dog snarled and snapped.
“Knock it off, you clowns,” I yelled. “It’s me. Croaker.”
“Who’s Croaker?” One-Eye asked Goblin, “You know anybody named Croaker?”
“Yeah. But I don’t think we ought to stop,” Goblin replied, after sticking his head out of the shining to check. “He deserves it.”
“Sure,” One-Eye agreed. “But Tracker is innocent. I can’t fine-tune it enough to get just Croaker.”
The bugs returned to routine bug business. Eating each other, I guess. I constrained my anger and greeted One-Eye and Goblin, both of whom had donned expressions of innocence and contrition. “What you got to say for yourselves, guys? Nice horses. Think the people they belong to will come looking for them?”
“Wait up,” Goblin squawked. “Don’t go accusing us of. …”
“I know you guys. Get down off those animals and come eat. We’ll decide what to do with them tomorrow.”
I turned my back on them. Tracker had returned to our cook fire already. He dished up supper. I went to work on it, my temper still frayed. Stupid move, stealing horses. What with the uproar they had caused already. … The Lady has agents everywhere. We may not be enemies of the grand sort, but we are what she has. Someone was bound to conclude that the Black Company was back in the north.
I fell asleep contemplating turning back. The least likely direction for hunters to look would be on the route to the Plain of Fear. But I could not give the order. Too much depended on us. Though now my earlier optimism stood in serious jeopardy.
Damned irresponsible clowns.
Way back down the line the Captain, who perished at Juniper, must have felt the same. We all gave him cause.
I braced for a golden dream. I slept restlessly. No dream came. Next morning I packed Goblin and One-Eye into the wagon, beneath all the clutter we deemed necessary for our expedition, abandoned the horses, and took the wagon past Meystrikt. Toadkiller Dog ran point. Tracker strolled along beside. I drove. Under the tucker, Goblin and One-Eye sputtered and grumbled. The garrison at the fort merely asked where we were bound, in such a bored manner I knew they did not care.
These lands had been tamed since last I passed through. This garrison could not conceive of trouble lifting its naughty head.
Relieved, I turned up the road that led to Elm and Oar. And to the Great Forest beyond.
Oar
Don’t this weather ever let up?” One-Eye whined. For a week we had slogged northward, had been victimized by daily showers. The roads were bad and promised to get worse. Practicing my Forsberger on wayside farmers, I learned that this weather had been common for years. It made getting crops to town difficult and, worse, left the grains at risk from disease. There had been an outbreak of the firedance in Oar already, a malady traceable to infected rye. There were a lot of insects, too. Especially mosquitos.
The winters, though abnormal in snow and rainfall, were milder than when we had been stationed here. Mild winters do not augur well for pest control. On the other hand, game species were diminished because they could not forage in the deep snows.
Cycles. Just cycles, the old-timers assured me. The bad winters come around after the Great Comet passes. But even they t
hought this a cycle among cycles.
Today’s weather is already the most impressive of all time.
Deal,” Goblin said, and he did not mean cards. That fortress, which the Company took from the Rebel years ago, loomed ahead. The road meanders beneath its scowling walls. I was troubled, as always I was when our path neared an imperial bastion. But there was no need this time. The Lady was so confident of Forsberg that the great fortress stood abandoned. In fact, close up, it looked ragged. Its neighbors were stealing it piece by piece, after the custom of peasants the world over. I expect that is the only return they get on taxes, though they may have to wait generations for the worm to turn.
“Oar tomorrow,” I said as we left the wagon outside an inn a few miles past Deal. “And this time there will be no screwups. Hear?”
One-Eye had the grace to look abashed. But Goblin was ready to argue.
“Keep it up,” I said. “I’ll have Tracker thrash you and tie you up. We aren’t playing games.”
“Life is a game, Croaker,” One-Eye said. “You take it too damned serious.” But he behaved himself, both that night and the next day when we entered Oar.
I found a place well outside areas we frequented before. It catered to smalltime traders and travelers. We drew no especial attention. Tracker and I kept a watch on Goblin and One-Eye. They did not seem inclined to play the fool again, though.
Next day I went looking for a smith named Sand. Tracker accompanied me. Goblin and One-Eye stayed behind, constrained by the most terrible threats I could invent.
Sand’s place was easily found. He was a longtime member of his trade, well-known among his peers. We followed directions. They led me through familiar streets. Here the Company had had some adventures.
I discussed them with Tracker as we walked. I noted, “Been a lot of rebuilding since then. We tore the place up good.”
Toadkiller Dog was on point, as often he was of late. He stopped suddenly, looked around suspiciously, took a few tentative steps, sank onto his belly. “Trouble,” Tracker said.
“What kind?” There was nothing obvious to the eye.
“I don’t know. He can’t talk. He’s just doing his watch-out-for-trouble act.”
“Okay. Don’t cost anything to be careful.” We turned into a place that sold and repaired harness and tack. Tracker yakked about needing a saddle for a hunter of large beasts. I stood in the doorway watching the street.
I saw nothing unusual. The normal run of people went about their normal business. But after a while I noted that Sand’s smithy had no custom. That no smithery sounds came forth. He was supposed to supervise a platoon of apprentices and journeymen.
“Hey. Proprietor. Whatever happened to the smith over there? Last time we were here he did us some work. Place looks empty.”
“Grey boys is what happened.” He looked uncomfortable. Grey boys are imperials. The troops in the north wear grey. “Fool didn’t learn back when. Was into the Rebellion.”
“Too bad. He was a good smith. What leads regular folks to get into politics, anyway? People like us, we got trouble enough just trying to make a living,”
“I heard that, brother.” The tackmaker shook his head. “Tell you this. You got smithery needs doing, take your custom elsewhere. The grey boys been hanging around, taking anybody who comes around.”
About then an imperial strolled around the side of the smithy and crossed to a pasty stall. “Damned clumsy,” I said. “And crude.”
The tackmaker looked at me askance. Tracker covered well, drawing him back to business. Not as dumb as he appeared, I noted. Maybe just not socially adept.
Later, after Tracker expressed a desire to think on the deal the tackmaker offered and we departed, Tracker asked, “What now?”
“We could bring up Goblin and One-Eye after dark, use their sleeping spell, go in and see what’s to see. But it don’t seem likely the imperials would leave anything interesting. We could find out what they did with Sand and try to reach him. Or we could go on to the Barrowland.”
“Sounds the safest.”
“On the other hand, we wouldn’t know what we were headed into. Sand’s being taken could mean anything. We better talk it over with the others. Catalog our resources.”
Tracker grunted. “How long before that sutler gets suspicious? The more he thinks about it, the more he’s going to realize we were interested in the smith.”
“Maybe. I’m not going to sweat it.”
Oar is a city like most of substantial size. Crowded. Filled with distractions. I understood how Goblin and One-Eye had been seduced by Roses. The last major city the Company dared visit was Chimney. Six years ago. Since then it has been all the hard times and small towns you can imagine. I battled temptations of my own. I knew places of interest in Oar.
Tracker kept me on the straight line. I’ve never met a man less interested in the traps which tempt men.
Goblin thought we should put the imperials to sleep, give them the question. One-Eye wanted to get out of town. Their solidarity had perished like frost in the sun.
“Logically,” I said, “they would get a stronger guard after dark. But if we drag you down there now, somebody is sure to recognize you.”
“Then find that old boy who brought the first letter,” Goblin said.
“Good idea. But. Think about it. Assuming he had perfect luck, he’d still be a long way from here. He didn’t catch a ride like we did. No go. We get out. Oar is making me nervous.” Too many temptations, too many chances to be recognized. And just too many people. Isolation had grown on me out there on the Plain.
Goblin wanted to argue. He had heard the north roads were terrible.
“I know,” I countered. “I also know the army is building a new route to the Barrowland. And they’ve pushed its north end far enough so traders are using it.”
No more argument. They wanted out as much as I. Only Tracker now seemed reluctant. He who first thought it best to go.
To the Barrowland
Oar’s weather was less than exciting. Farther north it became misery curdled, though the imperial engineers had done their best to make the forest road usable. Much of it was corduroy, of logs trimmed and tarred and laid side by side. In areas where snow became obnoxious, there were frameworks to support canvas coverings.
“Amazing scope,” One-Eye said.
“Uhm.” There was supposed to be zero concern about the Dominator since the Lady’s triumph at Juniper. This seemed a lot of effort to keep a road open.
The new road swung many miles west of the old because the Great Tragic River had shifted its bed and continued doing so. The trip from Oar to the Barrowland was fifteen miles longer. The last forty-five were not wholly finished. We endured some rough going.
We encountered the occasional trader headed south. They all shook their heads and told us we were wasting our time. The fortunes to be had had evaporated. The tribes had hunted the furbearers to extinction.
Tracker had been preoccupied since we left Oar. I could not draw out why. Maybe superstition. The Barrowland remains a great dread to Forsberg’s lower classes. The Dominator is the bogeyman mothers conjure to frighten children. Though he has been gone four hundred years, his stamp remains indelible.
It took a week to cover the final forty-five miles. I was growing time-concerned. We might not get done and home before winter.
We were scarcely out of the forest, into the clearing at the Barrowland. I stopped. “It’s changed.”
Goblin and One-Eye crept up behind me. “Yuck,” Goblin squeaked. “It sure has.”
It seemed almost abandoned. A swamp now, with only the highest points of the Barrowland proper still identifiable. When last we visited, a horde of imperials was clearing, repairing, studying with a relentless clatter and bustle.
Near silence reigned. That bothered me more than the decayed state of the Barrowland. Slow, steady drizzle under deep grey skies. Cold. And no sound.
The corduroy was completed here. We rolle
d forward. Not till we entered the town, buildings now for the most part paintless and dilapidated, did we see a soul. A voice called, “Halt and state your business.”
I stopped. “Where are you?”
Toadkiller Dog, more than normally ambitious, loped to a derelict structure and sniffed. A grumbling Guard stepped into the drizzle. “Here.”
“Oh. You startled me. Name is Candle. Of Candle, Smith, Smith, Tailor, and Sons. Traders.”
“Yeah? These others?”
“Smith and Tailor inside here. That’s Tracker, He works for us. We’re from Roses. We heard the road north was open again.”
“Now you know better.” He chuckled. I learned that he was in a good humor because of the weather. It was a nice day for the Barrowland.
“What’s the procedure?” I asked. “Where do we put up?”
“Blue Willy is the only place. They’ll be glad for the custom. Get yourself settled. Report to headquarters by tomorrow.”
“Right. Where is the Blue Willy?”
He told me. I snapped the traces. The wagon rolled. “Seem pretty lax,” I said.
“Where are you going to run?” One-Eye countered. “They know we’re here. There’s only one way out. We don’t play by their book, they stick the stopper in the bottle.”
The place did have that feel.
It also had a feel that went with its weather. Down. Depressing. Smiles were scarce, and those mostly commercial.
The hostler at Blue Willy didn’t ask names, just payment up front. Other traders ignored us, though the fur trade, traditionally, is an Oar monopoly.
Next day a few locals came around to examine our goods. I had loaded up with what I had heard would sell well, but we got few nibbles. Only the liquor drew any offers. I asked how to get in touch with the tribes.
“You wait. They come when they come.”
That done, I went to Guard headquarters. It was unchanged, though the surrounding compound seemed seedier.
The first man I encountered was one I remembered. He was the one with whom I had to do business. “Candle’s the name,” I said. “Of Candle, Smith, Smith, Tailor, and Sons, out of Roses. Traders. I was told to report here.”