A Cast of Stones (30 page)

Skorik would have to wait until they sold their cargo at Ambridge.

 22 
The Intersection of Probabilities

T
HE POUNDING
of his heart shook the bunk. Errol rolled to his side and unstoppered the waterskin Conger had snuck him the night before. Dawn broke cool and misty. Even so, sweat plastered his hair against his face and neck.

Today he would challenge the first.

He nodded to himself. Was he not second now? Had he not beaten Sven, wearing down the bigger man, staying out of reach until he could dart behind and beat him unconscious? Heaven's mercy, the man's skull must be thick. Or padded with so much fat it took a far stronger blow to knock him out.

He listened, waiting for Skorik to unlock his prison so that he could join the rest of the guards at breakfast. Minutes before, the sound of hooves thudding out of camp signaled Ru's departure. Rokha almost certainly had gone with him.

Today.

He could be free today.

The click of the key in the lock sent a thrill of excitement
pounding through him, and he vaulted off the bunk. A tinge of orange-hued dawn fell across the planks of the wagon's floor. Skorik stood in the opening, casting a shadow that fell the length of the tiny room.

“Breakfast.” He grunted the word and then turned.

Errol grasped his staff and stepped down, felt the springy sod give beneath his feet.

Now.

He could eat later.

“Skorik, I challenge you for the position of first.”

The head of the guards turned, his eyes filled with mockery. “Ru said you would challenge me today. Said you'd wait until he was out of camp so you could try to escape.” Skorik laughed. “I'm afraid I have to decline, boy.”

No.

“You can't be any more disappointed than I am, runt,” Skorik continued. “But it's only until the caravan master returns. Then I'll have the leisure to give you that lesson I promised.”

No, it has to be now.

Skorik turned away. The first headed for the supply wagon, obviously expecting Errol to follow. Beyond the wagons lay the picket line for the horses. Close to the middle, Midnight nibbled at tufts of grass.

Errol would have to force the first to accept his challenge. When Skorik stopped to get his food, Errol continued past him, making for his horse.

Skorik's growl caught him before he'd gone five paces. “Get back here, runt.”

Heads lifted as the rest of the guards caught the threat in his tone. Errol stopped and turned but didn't move to return.

“Hear this,” he shouted. He paused to make eye contact with every guard in Ru's service. “I challenge Skorik, the first of the guards, to a bout, here and now, to determine who will lead.” He let his gaze rest on the first for a moment. “What do you say, Skorik?”

Skorik's face flushed, and a vein throbbed in the middle of his forehead. “You'll pay for this, boy.” He spewed a stream of curses. “You'll get your bout when Ru returns.”

Now.
Errol put as much scorn in his voice as he could muster. “When Ru returns? What does that have to do with us? Surely the first doesn't need the caravan master to watch over him in a simple challenge bout.” He let his voice dip and saw the rest of the guards lean toward him to catch his words. “After all, I'm just a runt with a stick. Isn't that right, Skorik?”

A few of the guards laughed behind their hands or turned away, coughing.

“GRUB!” Skorik screamed. “Judge!”

It would be now.

Errol took a deep breath to collect his thoughts. Skorik would try to kill him. He felt for the ends of his staff, his gaze on the first, and removed the knobblocks.
Fast.
He must be faster than thought, faster than lightning. He faced Skorik across an empty space and waited.

The attack, when it came, was so sudden Errol wasn't sure he saw Skorik move. The first rushed him, trying to get inside the spin of his staff.

Errol backpedaled and willed his hands to move faster than ever before. The end of his staff disappeared, passed beyond human sight as he countered.

Skorik parried every blow.

The sword in the first's hand leapt at Errol like a thing alive, seeking, hunting him.

Only the greater length of Errol's weapon kept his opponent at bay.

Their battle hinged on a simple proposition. Would Skorik get inside the spin of his defense before Errol managed to land a blow?

He sensed, rather than saw, the flick of Skorik's wrist. Errol jerked back, and the sword grazed his forehead. Skorik pressed his advantage, and blows rained down like the staccato beats of a frantic drummer.

But Errol stopped them all.

Surprise grew on Skorik's face as his attack failed to penetrate.

Realization came to Errol in an instant between blows.

He could win. Defeat was not inevitable.

Joy welled up in him at the thought, and as he countered another furious attack, he smiled. For weeks he'd hoped for a miracle, waiting for chance to bring him his freedom, but the miracle could be of his own making. His body sang in time with the blows, and he laughed as he launched himself at his opponent. The air filled with the sound of his staff like a nest of hornets. Then his blows found something other than Skorik's sword.

The first stood like a rock in a storm, braving the torrent of Errol's attack, but his sword slowed as Errol's staff went ever faster.

A flurry of blows later, the first lay at his feet, bloody and unconscious.

He waited just long enough to assure himself that Skorik still breathed, and then he turned and strode without a backward glance toward Midnight.

Sven stepped into his path, and his grip on the staff tightened in reflex. If he had to fight every one of them to win his freedom, he would do it.

“What are your orders?” the big Soede asked.

Errol almost laughed. “Get out of my way. Make sure that somebody takes care of Skorik. I'm leaving.”

The sound of a real sword being drawn split the air with a hiss. “I don't think so,” Ru said. The caravan master stepped from behind the supply wagon. “I didn't think Skorik would be able to resist the chance to fight you, so I sent Rokha to collect the information on the merchant houses and their factors.” He favored Errol with a smile that would have seemed benevolent in any other context. “I really would like for you to stay.”

“I'm not staying. I am the first, and I am my own man.”

Ru advanced on him, casually swinging his blade back and forth, snipping the tops off the weeds as he came.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the rest of the guards back
away. There would be no help. He turned on them. “Do you know why Ru wants to keep me here?” Leveling a finger at the caravan master, he shouted, “He's forcing me to cast lots to find the best buyer for his goods.”

“Nonsense, boy,” Onan said. “You're not a reader.”

But Errol could see the rest of the guards knew the truth of his words. “Do you know what the church will do to you if they find out? You'll be lucky if you ever see the outside of a prison again.”

“Pah! You're a fool, boy,” Ru said. He waved his sword at the guards. “They have a chance to make more money in the next few months than they could make in a lifetime. Do you think they'll help you escape? The church is never going to find out.”

Then Ru advanced on him.

Errol gripped his staff, trying desperately to decide whether or not to fight. Ru's blade glinted in the summer sun, keen and deadly. He backed away.

Then Naaman Ru rushed him, sword raised.

A wail like the cry of a wounded animal ripped the air, stopped the caravan master short. A line of purest black sped through the space between Errol and Ru. The moan dropped in pitch as the arrow passed.

Errol turned, saw gleaming blue eyes beneath a shock of white hair looking at him, eyes that held no hint of anger or compassion. His hands clenched. What were his chances of defeating both Ru and Merodach? He bit his lips—virtually none.

“Who might you be, friend?” Ru asked. “You're dressed like one of the watch. If you think that's going to scare me, you don't know who I am.”

Every guard stood armed as Merodach sighted down a shaft that was trained on Ru's heart.

“I know exactly who you are. As for me, I might be the man who's going to kill you, Naaman Ru, but I hope that won't be necessary.” Merodach glanced at the guards. “These arrows are poisoned. If one of them even grazes you, you'll die. Now, drop your sword and tell your men to do the same.”

With a look of naked hatred burning in his eyes, Ru nodded once at Sven.

The clatter of arms falling to the ground sounded like freedom.

Merodach eased the tension on his draw. “Wise choice, Ru. In fact, there are churchmen who already know you've been using a reader.”

With indescribable satisfaction, Errol watched the blood drain from Ru's face. He wanted to savor this moment, wanted to bathe in it for as long as possible. Freedom was his.

“Boy,” Merodach addressed him. “Get your horse. You're leaving now.”

“Do you mean to kill me this time?”

Merodach's eyes narrowed as he continued to stare down the shaft of his arrow. “I could have killed you anytime I wanted, boy. Now get your horse.”

Errol shook his head. He would gladly leave, but not like this. “I am the first in the caravan of Naaman Ru.” He stood his ground, met Merodach's gaze. “And my name is Errol Stone, not
boy
. It will never be
boy
again.”

A ghost of a smile touched his rescuer's lips. “Well spoken, Errol Stone. Now please get your horse.”

Errol turned to Ru and bowed with as much irony as he could summon. “Master Ru, I regret that I must resign my position. I have pressing business elsewhere.” He took a few steps toward where Midnight stood in the picket line before turning back. “And Ru . . .”

The caravan master looked at him, deflated now and wary.

“I joined your caravan under false pretenses and brought you some good . . . but even more trouble—for that you have my apology. You taught me many things in our travels. But you do not own me. In fact, I hold your life in my hands. If you come looking for me, I'll let every trading house from Stelton to Weir know how you cheated them.”

Once out of the camp, they galloped their horses until they were out of sight of Ru's caravan, then switched to a canter. Errol had almost forgotten how good it felt to be on Midnight's back.
Merodach checked often over his shoulder for pursuit. After an hour, all of it spent in silence, he called for a halt.

“Why are we stopping?” Errol asked.

Merodach fixed him with a stare as sharp as Ru's sword. “Because I'm not going with you. Follow my instructions exactly. Ride west through Four Crossings until you get to Port City. Buy passage on the first boat headed for the isle and Erinon. I don't care if it's the leakiest tub in the harbor.”

Errol shook his head. “If you weren't trying to kill me, why did you shoot at me?”

The watchman paused, his head tilted as if considering. “I learned the sacramental bread in your pack was poisoned. I tried to catch up to you, but you were faster across the river than I expected. I tried to separate you from your pack by herding you into the water. When you came up out of the river with the pack still on your back, I gambled on shooting for the pack.” His mouth pulled to one side. “You're either extraordinarily brave or very stupid, Errol. Either way I failed.”

Errol felt his mouth go dry, recalling how close he'd come to dying. “Why can't you come with me? Everyone thinks you were trying to kill me.”

Merodach nodded. “And you need to go right on letting them think that. I wouldn't have put my nose into Ru's camp except at the utmost need.”

“What will the church do to him?”

The watchman snorted. “The church doesn't care about some merchant's ambition, but if they ever find out you cast lots for money, no matter the reason, you'll wish you'd stayed back in that village you came from.”