. . . a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation, Even in the cannon's mouth.—William Shakespeare
Barak came awake at a touch, flinging away the blankets, reaching for his sword—
"Easy." Ahira's voice was a harsh whisper. "It's only me."
He set the sword back on the grass and tightened his cotton loincloth around his hips. That had been enough to sleep in, on a warm night.
He looked around. Within the circle of wooden boxes, everyone else was asleep, sprawled out under their blankets like a collection of corpses—except for Andy-Andy, who was huddled under hers in a fetal position, shivering in her sleep. Barak shrugged. It was her own fault: Not only had she turned down his suggestion that they share each other's warmth, but she had stubbornly ignored his reminder to make certain she kept at least two-thirds of her covering underneath her. The ground stole a body's warmth more readily than even the chilliest air.
Rubbing his eyes, he glared up at the dwarf, not able to make out his expression in the dim starlight. "My turn to go on watch? Already?"
"No." Ahira beckoned him to his feet. "Look down the hill, down toward the city."
Barak drew air into his lungs and stared off into the distance. Nothing. A few lights twinkling in the city, stars shimmering over the sea, but that was all.
Wonderful. Our leader is jumping at shadows. "So?"
"You don't see anything on the road?"
Below them, the road was a black ribbon on a black background. "Don't be silly. You do?"
"I . . . I thought I saw a shape, like somebody fallen—there it is. Can't you see it? It's glowing like a—"
"Glowing?" He stared. Nothing. Oh. "I don't see in the infrared, remember?"
"Sorry—wait." The dwarf pointed. "But you can see that, can't you?"
Barak followed the other's gesture. Farther down the road, lanterns twinkled like fireflies. Three—no, four of them. They were too far off, too dim for Barak to make out the shapes holding them, but . . . "I do see the lanterns. But why are they out—"
"Ohmygod. The shape on the road—it's Hakim." The dwarf spun around. "Everybody, up. Now."
Barak stooped to pick up his scabbarded sword. Best to keep it in its dark sheath, lest the bright steel reflect light, announcing his presence. He cast a longing look at his leather armor, heaped next to his blankets on the grass. "I'd better take it."
"Like hell you will. No time."
"No, I didn't mean the armor. I meant I'll get him, bring him back. Your legs are too short to run fast." Four of them, eh? He would have to take out two quickly, before they became aware of his presence. And even two-on-one would be a chancy shot. "Get your crossbow, follow me."
Ahira's face was still unreadable. He hesitated. Then: "Go."
Barak sprinted away. Behind him, Ahira called to the others. "Get up, damn you all."
* * *
Barak reached Hakim when the soldiers were still a few hundred yards away, the flicker of their lanterns announcing their coming. "Walter!" He reached out a hand and felt at the thief's neck. Good; there was a pulse. He slipped his hand down, his fingers coming away sticky. There was a knife in the thief's shoulder, dripping blood.
He rubbed his hand on his thigh. Where the hell was Lightfingers? No time to worry about that now. He could try to move Hakim off the road, but that might be too dangerous. There could be other wounds; moving him might kill him.
He smiled. Besides, there was some business to take care of first.
Slipping silently into the bushes beside the road, he loosened his sword in its sheath. Well, Karl, now we find out if you have it.
Karl? No—Barak. Karl Cullinane hadn't raised a hand in anger since the third grade. Karl wouldn't squash a spider; he'd lift it on a piece of paper and fling it out of a window instead.
Karl was a peasant, Barak a warrior. So it had to be Barak, not Karl.
And to a warrior, everything is a challenge, or a reward. But he had to decide what the challenge was. Merely chasing them away wouldn't do; perhaps they could dig up reinforcements. He had to take out four soldiers—no euphemisms, kill them—and he had to do it without getting hurt himself. Doria had none too many healing spells left; Walter might need all of them.
"Arno, I think I see him," the closest of the soldiers said in curiously accented Erendra, then broke into a trot. Chainmail and a shortsword, plus his lantern—Barak could save him for later. But the lantern, dangling from a pole—that had to go quickly, before anyone spotted him crouching in the bushes.
Barak felt around the ground. His fingers located a jagged rock, half the size of his fist. He hefted it experimentally, and threw.
The lantern shattered, drenching the soldier in flames. He dropped his sword and screamed, his skin crackling.
The screams were like a signal to the other three; they dropped their lantern poles, the nearest two drawing their swords, the other, probably the leader, bringing up his crossbow. Its tip weaved, uncertainly.
The wind brought a stench of burning flesh to Barak's nostrils. He slipped his sword from its scabbard, keeping the blade low, next to the ground.
"Where?"
"I don't see—"
"It's the thief—he's shamming." The leader's crossbow leveled itself at Hakim's crumpled form.
Barak gripped his sword and charged out of the bushes, directly at the leader, a growl forcing itself from his throat.
The crossbow wavered as Barak closed, breaking stride to kick one of the swordsmen sprawling, ducking under the other's wild swing. Too bad. You want to live too much. The leader's drill was obvious: Kill one enemy, ignore the other one charging you.
He smacked the flat of his sword against the side of the crossbow, sending it spinning away in the dark, the bolt discharging harmlessly to his left.
The leader's eyes grew wide; he reached for his sword as Barak's backswing caught him at the base of the neck, the swordtip cleaving his throat effortlessly, dark blood fountaining.
The heavyset man clapped both hands to his throat, trying to hold the wound closed, his cry of pain only a gurgle as a dark torrent poured out through his fingers.
Barak spun around, leaving him at his back. No time to finish him off, not yet. When it's one-on-many, you can't worry about killing a disabled enemy when there are still unhurt ones around.
The one he had kicked away was gone, vanished in the dark, his sword lying still on the ground. Where is he? Never mind—worry about him when you've killed the other.
The small dark man in front of him smiled, crouching, his sword in his right hand, a long, curved dagger in his left. "Many thanks for the promotion, friend," he said in Erendra, stepping lightly forward, his sword weaving like an eager cobra. "I never liked Arno anyway."
No time for chatter; there was still one man unaccounted for. Barak slashed, the blade of his sword parallel to the ground.
The soldier slid to one side, easily deflecting Barak's sword with the flat of his dagger. Before Barak could bring his sword back into line to parry, the slim rapier had nicked at his biceps. It stung, terribly.
"Not used to two-swords, eh?" He lunged, in full extension.
And gasped down at his right wrist, almost severed by Barak's blade. The sword dropped to the dirt.
Barak smiled down at the crumpling figure. "Then again, maybe I a—"
An arm closed on his throat, dragging him back, off-balance. At the edge of his vision, a gleaming dagger rose, and started to fall.
Time seemed to slow. You stupid idiot. You know better than to chat while a fight's going on. He released his grip on the sword, bringing his hands up to block the downward thrust, knowing that he'd never make it in time.
It just wasn't possible; the knife only had to travel a few inches to reach his throat, but his hands would have to seize the wrist, stop the downward movement—
Both hands met at the soldier's flaccid arm, as the other arm loosened at his throat. He grabbed, twisted, brought an elbow back into his enemy's midsection, and spun around.
"No need," Ahira's voice rasped from behind.
Barak looked at the soldier. A crossbow bolt transfixed the man's head from temple to temple, its dark iron head bent, crumpled.
The dead soldier stared up at him, eyes wide in reproach.
Twang! Barak turned to see Ahira standing over Walter, drawing the string of his crossbow back, slipping in another bolt and sending it whistling into the leader. "Never worry about conserving bolts. Better to make sure that they stay dead." The dwarf sent another bolt into the smoldering body of the first soldier, the one whose lamp Barak had shattered, then looked up, a crooked grin on his broad face. "Not bad, Barak. Not too bad at all." He frowned. "Except for that stupid bit of bravado. But never mind; just do it better next time. Right now, we've got to get these bodies hidden, have Doria heal Hakim—and you, come to think of it; don't want your arm getting infected—then get ourselves packed up and out of here. There's probably going to be hell to pay—hey, what's wrong?"
Karl Cullinane was on his hands and knees in the dusty road, the stench of burning flesh in his nostrils, vomiting like a fiend.
* * *
Squinting in the dawn light, Ahira tugged at the cords lashing his two rucksacks together, then shook his head. It would tend to keep him off balance, having two packs on his back, but that couldn't be helped. Somebody had to carry the extra—either that, or leave behind supplies that might be needed.
"Hakim?"
The thief stopped fiddling with his pack and lifted his head. "What is it?"
Ahira held out a hand. "Toss me one of your knives. If I have to, I want to be able to cut these loose."
"Fine." Hakim flipped a knife point-first into the ground at Ahira's feet, then turned back to his work.
Ahira opened his mouth, then closed it. Ever since Doria had healed Hakim, he had been distant, quiet, not himself. Not at all. Best to leave him alone, at least for a while. What had happened in Lundeyll must have been bad—climbing down a sheer wall with a knife in his shoulder, running flat-out for five miles with soldiers after him, wanting his blood . . .
He'll get over it. He's always been strong.
Doria gave her rucksack a final pat, then raised an eyebrow in an unvoiced question. There would be a bit of time until the others were ready to leave; Ahira had assigned loads based on physical strength, and the only one with less to carry than Doria was Aristobulus. Less to carry; less time to pack.
He gave her a nod and the warmest smile he could come up with. "Go ahead." Even if she was almost out of healing spells, maybe she could do some good.
As Doria crouched beside Hakim, Ahira beckoned the others to him.
"You almost ready?" Ahira kept his voice low. No need to distract Doria or Hakim.
Andrea nodded. She was keeping her distance from Barak. That was strange, considering the way she'd behaved the previous morning. Then she had clung to him like a leech. "Just a couple more minutes."
Barak frowned, rubbing fingertips against the bloodstained tear on the arm of his jerkin. The blood had dried, and Doria had healed the wound, so it couldn't be hurting him.
Then again, not all wounds are to the body.
Barak shrugged. "I'll be done shortly. I can take more, if necessary. No need to have the rest put out a lot of effort carrying what I can haul easily." He flexed his shoulders, threatening to split the seams of his jerkin.
Ahira smiled. Barak was getting damn cocky, after the way he'd almost gotten himself killed. Then again, that was better than his Karl-self exercising his guts about a few local soldiers who had been trying to kill Hakim and him when they died. "You too, Ari? Good. Just as soon as Doria's done talking to Hakim, we head down to Lundeport, and see if we can book passage to Pandathaway." He stooped to pick up Hakim's knife and stuck it diagonally under his belt, the cutting edge up, then bent carefully at the waist to make certain it was secure, and that it wouldn't cut him. A quick check on the straps binding his battleaxe to his chest showed that they were tight, too, although it would take only two quick tugs to undo the loops and free the axe.
"Pandathaway? Andrea's forehead wrinkled. "God, that sounds familiar." She turned to Barak. "Doesn't it, Karl?"
He shook his head. "No. First I've heard of it. Maybe you overheard something, when Hakim was telling Ahira what happened down there." He glared down at the dwarf. "Not that he's seen fit to share it with the rest of us."
The warrior had all the sensitivity of a stone. "He didn't want to have a bunch of people around," Ahira said, not bothering to keep the scorn out of his voice. "How would you feel if you'd been cut up like he was?"
"Listen—"
"Karl." Andrea took a careful step closer to him. "Didn't you tell me once, quite a while back, about another character of yours? Something of Pan-something . . . ?"
Barak nodded, quizzically, stroking at his beard just the way Karl Cullinane used to stroke at the stubble on his face. "Sure. Lucius of Pandathaway—Pandathaway." His face lit up; he dropped his sword, grabbed her by the arms, whirling her around. "Pandathaway! Of course. I know where we are, we—"
"Put me down!" As he did, she rubbed at her shoulders, arms crossed defensively across her chest. "You practically pulled my arms off, you clumsy—"
"Quiet." Ahira turned to the big man, who was still grinning like an idiot. "Two things: First, what do you mean, you know where we are? Second: Why the hell didn't you mention it before?"
"It was a . . . character Deighton and I rolled up, once. I never got a chance to use him, but he filled me in on the background—where he came from, like that." He rubbed his fists against his temples. "I . . . I don't know why I didn't think of it before. It's like there's too much inside my head, too much to manage."
"I understand." Ahira had been wrong to give him trouble for not remembering. Things in James Michael Finnegan's life seemed like something distant; it took a bit of effort to be James Michael, sometimes, to think like him.
But that didn't cure his impatience. "Would you please tell us what you know about Pandathaway? It could be—"
"Damn important." Barak nodded, still smiling. "And it's all good. Pandathaway's a port city, on the Cirric—"
"The Cirric?"
"It's a huge freshwater sea, sort of like one of the Great Lakes, only big—" He caught himself, pointed an eager finger at the vast expanse of water spreading out over the horizon. "That's the Cirric!"
"Almost certainly. You were talking about Pandathaway?"
"You're going to like it. Nice place. No government—well, not much of one. The city's run by a council of guilds. Lot of them are merchants, so they like to keep the city open and safe, to keep the customers coming. Doc said that you can buy most anything there. There's a saying: Tola ergat et Pandathaway ta." Everything comes to Pandathaway, in Erendra. Barak shook his head, puzzled. "But he didn't say it in Erendra, he said it in—"
"It translated." Aristobulus nodded wisely. "As we did. It makes sense, if you think about it."
"Not to me," Barak said, shrugging. "But I was saying—you can get anything there: jewels, silks, spices, slaves, horses—Lucius owns a Pandathaway-bred mare; keeps a quarter horse's pace for a full two miles—anything." He beamed. "And I haven't even given you the best."
Ahira returned his smile. The swordsman's enthusiasm was positively contagious. "Do I have three guesses?"
"No. You wouldn't guess right, anyway. In the city—right smack in the middle of the city—is the Great Library of Pandathaway. Doc said, and I quote, 'The Great Library of Pandathaway is to the Great Library of Alexandria as a broadsword is to a paring knife.' "
Andrea chuckled. "You mean that it's big and awkward, no good for paring an apple?"
"Get off my—"
"Shut up." Ahira couldn't help joining in the laughter. "What he's trying to say is that there might be a map there, to show us where the Gate is."
"Might? If it's known, it's there. It seemed kind of strange, then, how he kept going on about it. I thought Doc was patting himself on the back."
Aristobulus had been listening quietly, his lined face somber, his head cocked to one side. "And there might be something else there. Something we need, badly." His gesture included both Andrea and himself. "Spell books. Give me sufficient time, and I'll make two copies of—"
Ahira shook his head. "I hope we have time for that. But we might not. Consider—"
"I will consider nothing. Do you have any idea what it is like for a wizard to be without spell books? It's like being a, a . . ."
"Being a cripple?" Ahira kept his voice low, as his hands balled themselves into fists at his side. "I . . . have some idea of what that feels like." He forced himself to open his hands. "Believe that. But tell me: How long does it take to write a spell? Just one spell, a simple one."
Aristobulus shrugged, indifferent. "Given the right materials and enough quiet . . . ten days, perhaps. But I don't see—"
"Precisely. You don't see. And if you don't have everything you need on hand? How long would it take?"
"That depends, of course. For the Lightning spell, the ink must contain soot from a lightning-struck tree—preferably oak, of course. And then the pen has to be made . . . ." The wizard spread his hands. "But it doesn't matter. I have to have spell books. So does she."
Ahira shook his head. Didn't the old fool see that anything—everything—had to take a back seat to getting to the Gate? This world was dangerous. It had already cost the life of one of them. They had to get home.
And me? Am I going to exchange security for the ability to be a full person? Here, I'm not a cripple. "Just listen—"
Barak stepped between them. "Let's leave this alone for the time being. We should have enough time to argue about it on our trip, no?" He frowned.
Ahira nodded, accepting the implied criticism. Barak was right, of course: The leader had no business getting involved in an argument, not when there were things to be done. Maybe Barak should take over—no, he hadn't acted very intelligently during the fight. An excess of bravado was bad enough in a team member.
And besides, I took on the obligation. It's mine, not his. "Correct, Barak. My fault.—You haven't packed your armor, have you?"
"Huh? What does that have to do with anything? I haven't, but I don't see what—"
"Take off your clothes—I need your jerkin, but you can keep your leggings. You can put your armor on over your bare hide."
"What?"
Ahira smiled. "I said, take your clothes off." Not a good time to bring it up, but he didn't want Barak musing on the leader's shortcomings. Best to keep him off-guard. He sobered. "I don't intend to make a habit of explaining myself, but . . . what do you think the chances are that they're looking for Hakim, down there? A big man, dressed only in pants, no shirt? That can't be too common around here, not from what we've seen and heard of the locals. So we make sure he isn't dressed only in pants, go for more standard clothing. You're the only one bigger than he is, so you get to provide the clothes." Ahira extended a palm. "It'll be a bit scratchy for you—the inside of boiled leather isn't too smooth—but that's the way it goes." He tapped a thumb against his axe. "Come to think of it, give me your leggings, too. You can switch pants with him; they won't look so loose on you."
"Now? Here?"
"Now."
Aristobulus snickered; Andrea giggled.
Glaring at all three of them, Barak began unlacing the front of his jerkin, then shook his head. He chuckled. "You little bastard."
"Right." Ahira returned his smile. "But hurry up; I want another chance to talk to Hakim before we get going. The sooner I get finished with that, the less time you have to wander around in your bare skin."
* * *
Ahira seated himself in front of Doria and Hakim, dropping the pile of clothing to the grass. He jerked his head at Doria. "Go put your pack on. We're leaving in a few minutes."
She nodded and walked away, shaking her head when she got behind Hakim. Clearly, she hadn't gotten anywhere with him; he was sitting against one of the now-empty boxes, running stiff fingers over the thin pink scar that was all that remained of his wound, staring blankly off into space.
"I want you to put those clothes on, before we leave. You can give your trousers to Barak. And you'd better stash your scimitar in your pack—I'll give you my crossbow, so you don't feel naked."
"Fine." He made no move to pick up the jerkin and leggings; he just sat there, rubbing the small scar as though he were trying to rub it away.
"And you'll be glad to know that Barak knows quite a lot about Pandathaway. Sounds like a nice place." Ahira crabbed himself sideways, into Hakim's line of sight. "No lords."
"That's nice."
The best thing to do would be to try—gently, gently—to get him to talk it out. But there just wasn't time. The area around Lundeyll was probably not a healthy place for any of them. The graves of the dead soldiers were shallow, and nearby; it was only a matter of time until the bodies were discovered. And that would be one hell of a problem.
Quite possibly a fatal one. They could all end up like Jason Parker.
But why don't I feel anything for Jason? Granted, I never liked him—but I should feel something for him, now that he's dead.
Ahira shook his head. Introspection could come later; for now, he had to get Hakim up and moving. One more try the nice way. "I thought I could count on you. You disappointed me."
The thief's head snapped up. "What? How the hell was I supposed to know that he was going to pick Lund's pouch, get himself killed? You told him not to take chances, I told him not to . . ."
Good. Anger was better than shocked numbness. "That's not what I meant. We've got to get going. But you're just sitting there, feeling sorry for yourself—I expected better of you."
Hakim spat. "What do you know about it? You ever have to run a few miles with a knife in you, a bunch of people behind you, wanting your goddam blood?"
"No." Ahira shrugged, then started to rise. "I had better go give Doria a talking-to. Looks to me like she did a pretty poor job of healing you, if it still hurts you like this."
"Wait." Hakim held up a palm; Ahira lowered himself back to the grass. "It's not that. The time I played in the . . . game against Cornell—the time I played a half with a torn triceps . . ."
"I remember." He nodded. "That must have hurt almost as much as this did."
"It hurt more. But that was different. We won, that time."
"We won this time."
"But I didn't." Hakim slammed a fist against the ground, "I was supposed to get back intact—with Jason, with information."
"One out of three isn't bad, considering the situation."
"You don't understand, do you? I've never failed at anything before. I'm big, I'm strong, and I'm smart. I've always just assumed that was enough. This time, it wasn't." His eyes bored into Ahira's, as though daring him to deny it. "If you and Karl had been just a few seconds slower, I'd be dead. Like Jason." He shuddered. "God, James, you should have heard him screaming. I could have been next. I was lucky."
And you're terrified that you won't be lucky next time. I don't blame you for that.
Once, he had envied Walter Slovotsky. His attitude, his perfect faith and complete confidence that he was firmly at the center of the universe, and that all was well with him and his universe—that didn't seem so enviable. Not now. A self-image cast in stone could shatter. "Of course I never failed at anything." That was easy, as long as you didn't run into a situation you couldn't handle; that was fine, until you had to stagger down a road, armed men chasing you, knowing that if you fall, you die.
But when that self-image shatters, where do you go from there?
He clapped a hand to the thief's shoulder. "I don't know about next time. No promises." He shrugged. "But I'll be there, if you need me." He rose to his feet. "And for right now, I need you to get back on top of things. We had better get down to Lundeport and book passage the hell out of here. There could be trouble, if anyone recognizes you. On top of that, Barak is giving speeches when he should be fighting, Aristobulus is objecting to anything and everything, Doria can't get her spells back—and I'm waiting for Andrea to give me a problem; so far, she's the only one who hasn't." He held out a hand. "So I need your help."
Hakim sat motionless, then nodded weakly. "I'll do my best. I . . . I can't promise that that'll be good enough." He accepted the hand, and let the dwarf pull him to his feet.
"Welcome to the real world." Ahira found himself smiling. Almost. "Now, get the hell out of your clothes and into Karl's." He raised his voice. "Everybody—we're moving out."
* * *
Aristobulus, standing sweatily in his robes, bent to lower his rucksack to the sunheated wood of the pier. There was no need to keep it on his back while Ahira and Hakim negotiated with Avair Ganness, captain of the Ganness' Pride—it looked to be a long bargaining session, and Aristobulus' muscles were already complaining from the strain.
He rubbed a fist against the small of his back and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the constant babble from merchants arguing over the price of grain, the squawking of the gulls overhead, the foul stench of rotting fish.
Eyes closed, he could see his own power wrapped about him, a strong crimson aura that warmed him—and pleasantly, despite the heat of the day. He raised his hand in front of his face, working his fingers, enjoying the way the redness outlined his unseen hand, even as it moved.
It was magic, of course. Which meant that it was good. And which meant that it was power—something Lou Riccetti had always wanted, but never known.
Off to his side, another source blazed—but less intensely, much less so. Andrea simply wasn't in his league. Was that just because her character had been of a lower class than his? Or was it that she just hadn't wanted this as badly as he had?
He shrugged. It really didn't matter. The only thing that did matter was that he had been reprieved by Deighton. Life had condemned Lou Riccetti to be an inconsequential little man; at best, a second-rate civil engineer in an age when damn close to nothing important was being built. No more great suspension bridges to span mighty rivers, few if any dams; the future of American engineering was in electronics—diddling with little circuit diagrams, not building things, not making magic.
And if you couldn't make magic with stone and steel, all that was left was to dream about real magic. All that had been left. . . .
He let his remaining spells cycle through his brain, making sure each one was ready and complete. Not that that was necessary; an incomplete spell wouldn't make his mind pulse, wouldn't push at him night and day to release it, as though it were some sort of huge sneeze, backed up in his nostrils. He could live with that, easily, in exchange for the power.
He could even live with the knowledge of his best friend's death. His only friend's death. Probably he should be mourning Jason; perhaps Lou Riccetti would be going over all his contacts with Jason, dredging up pleasure and pain from their friendship, regretting that Jason was gone.
But he couldn't do it. Not with his power wrapping him, keeping him warm. The death of one powerless human just didn't seem significant. Now, the loss of the spell books, that hurt.
Which makes me a small person, perhaps?
If that was so, then so be it. He—
"Are you falling asleep?" Andrea asked, nudging him. "Standing up?"
He opened his eyes regretfully, the warm glow of his power overwhelmed by the bright sunlight. "No."
"Well, Ahira says to keep an eye out for anybody who looks official—since the soldiers chasing Hakim didn't come back, the locals may be looking for him. And I don't think that would be very healthy for the rest of us."
"Very well." Although Aristobulus didn't see why he had to be the lookout—probably there was something interesting going on at the boat. Keeping an eye on the shoreside crowd, he moved closer to where Hakim was haggling with the captain.
Avair Ganness tapped bare toes on the wood, his heavy calluses clicking like dice. "Well then, make up your mind. It hardly matters to me. I can make a profit of five, perhaps six gold by carrying good Lundess wine, instead of you." He spoke Erendra in a pleasant rhythm, his r's rolling melodiously. Huge shoulders shrugged inside his sweat-stained sailcloth tunic, belted at the waist with a length of rope. The tunic stopped abruptly at midthigh; below, his thick legs projected like treestumps.
Hakim smiled, raising an eyebrow. "There would be advantages to carrying us, instead."
Ganness nodded. "That is so." He sighed. "I do have this problem—happens to many a man my age. It would cost me much to have it cured in Pandathaway. Perhaps even more than your passages will cost me, all things considered. But only perhaps."
Problem? He looked healthy enough.
"That wasn't what I meant." Hakim gestured at the crewmen swarming around the sloop, checking lines, stowing cargo, pausing occasionally to leer at Doria and Andrea. "I have been watching the way they check their bows, their arrows. There are few spots on deck that don't have a weapon within reach. You are concerned about pirates, no?"
"Not concerned. Properly cautious. I've sailed the Cirric for . . . forty years, man and boy. Only run into pirates seven, eight times." He grinned, a gap-toothed smile that was not at all friendly. "And I have managed to give a good account of myself, those few times." He tossed his head, his waist-length pigtail curling around his torso like a snake. "So I have no need of wizards or warriors to protect me. But"—he extended his arm toward Doria, frowning as Hakim moved between them—"I do require a cleric's help." His face went blank. "But that can wait until we dock in Pandathaway. I won't need . . . I won't have any use for it until then. I don't bugger my seamen." He smiled at Doria.
Well, that explained what his "problem" was—a case of impotence, eh? And just perhaps Avair Ganness was a bit more eager to have her cure it than he appeared to be—otherwise, he might well have set his price for passage at enough money to overcompensate the loss of cargo space.
Aristobulus nodded to himself. Yes, that made sense—but best to whisper it quietly to Ahira or Hakim, rather than confront Ganness. The trouble with most people was that they weren't rational; the captain might refuse to carry them, just out of stubbornness.
He took a few steps closer, and called to the dwarf.
"What is it?" Ahira snapped. "We're talking, here—and I thought you were told to—" He cut himself off, his eyes going wide, as he looked past Aristobulus' shoulder.
The wizard turned. A troop of ten—no, twelve soldiers were working their way toward the pier, stopping and questioning passersby as they came. He moved toward the end of the pier, trying to carry his rucksack casually.
"We had best conclude this quickly, no?" he said, careful to speak in English rather than Erendra.
Ahira turned to the thief. "Hakim?"
Hakim shrugged in the loose tunic. "I don't think they'll recognize me, not unless—cancel that. The one with the longbow is Marik—he'll know me, if he sees me. Maybe."
"Then turn around."
Ganness frowned. "What tongue was that?"
Barak took a step toward him, smiling faintly. "I don't think that is any of your concern, is it?" He switched to English. "Better agree to something, folks—other than her Heal Disease spell, the only decent one she's got left is for Minor Wounds. And she's only got one of those left. If we get in a fight . . ."
Doria spoke up. "I don't remember anyone asking me if I wanted to cure him, and then . . . prove that I have."
Aristobulus sneaked a glance over his shoulder. The soldiers were still working their way toward the end of the pier, where the Ganness' Pride was tied up. But unless the one that knew Hakim recognized him at a distance, they still had a few minutes; the soldiers were a few hundred yards away on the crowded pier.
Barak shrugged. "I don't see what your problem is. After all, you've always been willing to make it with practically any—"
Her hand struck Barak's face with a loud whack! It probably wasn't the force of the blow that staggered him, it was the surprise.
Aristobulus sighed. It was starting to look like he'd have to waste a spell or two. The stupid, overmuscled, underbrained—
"That is it," Ahira snapped, then switched back to Erendra as he turned to Ganness. "We have been trying to reach an accommodation with you, captain, but clearly you're unwilling to talk business," And in English: "I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a pimp. Hakim, keep your head turned away; everybody, up packs and move quietly down the pier. And I do mean quietly." He fiddled with the straps holding his battleaxe to his chest. "We just might be able to get out of this without—"
Doria raised a palm as she shot a look back at the approaching soldiers. "Wait. I . . . I agree to your terms, Avair Ganness," she said in Erendra to the captain. "Free passage for all, in return for . . . in return for . . ."
"Agreed." Ganness smiled gently, then spoke to the others. "Your cabins are forward, belowdecks. A bit cramped, perhaps, but I do keep a clean ship. And my cook is of the best; I bought him in Pandathaway." Ganness vaulted over the railing, landing lightly on the deck. "And you, Lady, I will see in my cabin, as soon as we clear the harbor" —he ran blunt fingers across his stubbled cheeks— "and I shave myself. I'll be gentle, I swear." He smiled. "You might even enjoy it.
Her knuckles whitened as she clutched the railing. "This is a business affair, Ganness. And I'm only agreeing for reasons—"
"—that are nobody else's concern," Ahira interrupted. "Captain, you were about to show us our cabins?"
"That's him!" A rough voice shouted, from down the pier. The twelve soldiers broke into a trot. Aristobulus sucked air into his lungs. "I'll slow them down—yes?"
Ahira nodded, unstrapping his axe. "Everybody else—get on board. Captain, you're about to be in the same trouble we are, if you don't get this ship moving quickly." Idly, he tore through the leather strap that slung his crossbow across his shoulders and tossed the bow and his quiver to Hakim. "Use it."
Ganness stood motionless for a long moment, then shrugged. "It seems I have little choice. All hands! Cast off!"
Asristobulus turned, raising his arms. Now, let the power flow. . . . It would have to be the flame spell; nothing else would slow down the charging soldiers.
So I'll give you fire. He let the spell click to the forefront of his mind, his chest tightening, straining as though he had drawn in twice as much air as his lungs could handle. The red glow brightened, a hot envelope enshrouding him, tingling his skin, so intense it blanketed his vision.
And the urgency grew; the spell had been pushing constantly at the back of his mind—but pushing gently. Now it roared, demanding use, painfully growing in his skull until he thought his head would explode from the pressure and heat.
Aristobulus released it, the rush of sound so loud he couldn't begin to hear or understand the words issuing from his own mouth.
The charging soldiers were a scant hundred feet away; halfway between the two men at the head of the group, the pier exploded into fire. The wood glowed with white heat for a moment before it could start to flame.
The wall of fire grew, tongues of flame licking easily two hundred feet into the sky, roaring, crackling.
Aristobulus dropped his hands. It was done.
"You stupid—" Ahira grabbed the collar of his robes; the pier dropped away under his feet as the dwarf threw him over the rail. He landed on his shoulder on the deck of the Ganness' Pride, sliding until he banged into a mast.
Pain lanced through him; he staggered to his feet.
And then he understood: He had cast the spell too far away; the lead soldiers had been able to get past the wall of fire before it blocked the way for the rest.
Ahira waited for them, his battleaxe held easily in his hands.
"Cast off, damn you all!" Ganness shouted at his crew, following his own orders as he raced to the front of the boat to slash through the bow line. "Get those sails up—a hard hand on the tiller, there."
The first soldier glanced at the boat as seamen pushed it from the pier, then moved toward the dwarf, only his outline visible against the wall of fire.
Aristobulus had known that the dwarf was strong, but he had never realized just how strong; Ahira ducked under the swing of the soldier's sword, planted the stock of his axe against the man's chest, and pushed.
The soldier tumbled back, head over heels, a full fifty feet into the leading edge of the fire. He jerked to his feet, gibbering and flaming, and twitched himself over the side of the pier, splashing into the water.
Ahira turned to the other soldier.
A crossbow bolt spanged! into the pier at Ahira's feet. Aristobulus turned to see Hakim, swearing, pull back the bowstring, then reach for another bolt.
The dwarf moved smoothly toward the remaining soldier, feinted with the blade of his axe, caught the soldier's swordthrust on the haft of his axe, and swung, once.
Once was more than enough. The soldier, chainlink armor and all, dropped to the pier, his torso twitching itself a few feet away from his legs before it stopped. Ahira had sliced the man neatly in half.
Raising his bloody axe over his head, Ahira threw it toward Aristobulus. It thunked into the deck beside him, only a yard from his sandaled feet. The dwarf took a running start and jumped across the ten feet separating the boat and the pier.
"Not too bad, though," he smiled. "Captain, let's get out of here."
Ganness swore under his breath as he bounded across the deck to the tiller.