The Sellsword (8 page)

Gredchen punched Vanderjack in the arm. “Put it down! They’ll be bursting in here any moment. We have to leave.”

The Sword Chorus was absent; Vanderjack had released his grip on the hilt in order to make use of the bar, and he knew he’d get no end of mocking from the ghosts at that point as it was. With the warm smoky feeling of the spirits collecting in his stomach, the sellsword set aside the tankard and slipped off the barstool.

“Right, then. Theo? Should I assume you’re going to hold that Southern Ergoth thing over my head until I compensate you for it?”

The gnome sputtered. “‘Southern Ergoth thing’?”

Vanderjack nodded. “I can tell it’s really bothering you. I mean, you went to all this trouble”—he motioned around to the bar and the empty seats formerly occupied by mercenaries—“came all this way, and so on.”

“Single combat has crossed my mind,” Theodenes said, moving back toward his big desk. “Given that monetary reparations don’t appear to be something you are capable of.”

Gredchen said, “Actually, Lord Glayward is paying him quite well.”

Vanderjack watched as Theodenes reached behind the desk and brought forward a long pole with metal studs along one side near where a person would grip it.
“Yes,” the sellsword agreed cheerfully. “And I’m sure to get a lot more too.”

Theodenes brought the butt of the polearm down upon the wooden floorboards, as if to emphasize his ownership. “How much more?”

“Oh, enough to buy you passage to Gargath again to get a new cat.”

Theodenes stroked his beard and considered.

Gredchen took another look out the window then called out, “They’re checking all of the other shops in the square. I see eight soldiers and a captain. It’s Captain Annaud, one of Highmaster Cairn’s men.”

“Oh, I’m sure we can handle nine little soldiers,” said Vanderjack, his eyes on Theo and the polearm.

“Very well,” Theodenes said. “I shall prepare a business contract stipulating transference of funds to me and attach it as a rider to your existing contract, with the unfortunate-looking woman as a witness.” He looked up at Gredchen. “What do you say to that, whoever you are?”

Gredchen grabbed her satchel and slung it over her shoulder. “I’d say the pot is calling the kettle black.” She glared down at the gnome, who didn’t flinch; he was a lot more intimidating than she would have given him credit for. “My name’s Gredchen. I’m Lord Glayward’s aide, and yes, I think that would be fine. Now really isn’t the time to sit down and draw up a contract, though, so …”

Vanderjack adjusted one or two belt straps and clapped his hands together. “We can take care of the details later. Right now, I believe there’s a gang of soldiers preparing to break through the door and arrest us all. Why don’t we go out through the kitchen? That’s always popular.”

There was a muffled exchange of words outside the door to the tavern and a stamping of feet. Theodenes and Gredchen both made for an exit at the rear of the common room, beside the bar. Vanderjack shoved a bench in front of the front door and ran after the others.

The three of them ran through the swinging wooden doors and into the kitchen, which was in a dreadful state of repair, and promptly fell over a man who had been standing immediately inside, apparently eavesdropping. Gredchen and Theodenes went sprawling, but Vanderjack, seconds behind them, remained on his feet.

“Cordaric!” shouted Theodenes. “Why haven’t you left with all the others?”

“Who’s this guy?” asked Vanderjack.

“Etharion Cordaric, my cook,” said Theo. “Recent hire.”

“Doesn’t look as if he was cooking,” said Gredchen, getting to her feet. “In fact, I would bet anything that he was listening at that door.”

The cook looked as if he had had the wind knocked out of him, which wasn’t far from the truth. Vanderjack found him completely nondescript, although he was vaguely Solamnic. “Not listening really,” the cook said, catching his breath. “I was … worried about the commotion. I was just about to go out and investigate.”

“Cordaric?” asked Vanderjack. “You don’t look very Ergothian. I should know. My father—”

“My family were Solamnic exiles,” stated the cook.

The sellsword looked the cook up and down. “The name Cordaric loosely translates to
recursive mistake
in Ergot. Your ancestors must have been very interesting people.”

The cook rubbed at his head. “It does? Er … I mean… of course it does! It’s inside humor in the family.”

“Well, we’re trying to leave, on account of the dragonarmy soldiers,” said Vanderjack, hooking a thumb back in the direction of the common room door.

“Yes, any time now,” said the gnome impatiently.

There was a smash and the tumble of a wooden bench, followed by a series of curses and yells.

“That’s our cue! Let’s get out of here.” The sellsword took hold of Gredchen’s arm and raced past the ovens, pantry shelves, preparation areas, and sinks filled with soiled dishes. Theo and the cook ran after him.

The kitchen had a delivery entrance, which Vanderjack kicked out with his boot. Gredchen wrenched her arm free of the sellsword, but he kept going, ducking into the alley behind the Monkey’s Ear and running along it. She and the other two followed, looking back over their shoulders to see if there was any pursuit.

There wasn’t. Nobody seemed to be following them at all. Vanderjack stepped out of the alley and onto a street; he looked up and down the street before glancing over his shoulder and holding his finger up to his lips.

Theodenes frowned and looked around the corner. “I don’t see anything.”

“Trust me, Theo, any officer worth his salt’s going to have the back watched. We need a distraction. They’re probably only looking for me because I’m so infamous. I’ll go out and draw their attention.”

Gredchen rolled her eyes. “Bad idea. Lord Glayward needs you alive, not shot through with crossbow bolts. I’ll go. I can steer them away.”

Theodenes nodded in agreement. “Quite right. The woman is so monstrously unpleasant in appearance that the soldiers will have no choice but to look away.”

“Monstrously unpleasant? Who in the Abyss are you to—”

Vanderjack held his hand up. “Quiet! Theo, we’re mercenaries, not bards. We are expected to look fearsome.”

Gredchen was about to say that she wasn’t a mercenary and she didn’t look fearsome either when Etharion cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose I could go.”

“Great solution!” said Vanderjack. “We’ll send the Ergothian with the strange name.”

Theodenes frowned. “I would rather send out somebody I had no financial investment in.”

Gredchen spoke up. “If Etharion wants to go, let him go. He can tell them he saw us running off in the other direction.”

Etharion, who didn’t in fact seem all that eager to follow through with his own suggestion, pushed past the others and out onto the street. Vanderjack watched as the cook loped along for a few yards, passed under a low-hanging canopy, rounded the street corner, and walked out of sight.

“So is he any good?” asked Vanderjack of the gnome.

“Actually, so far all he’s made is cookies,” said Theo. “Not bad, as cookies go.”

“Cookies? Did you mean to hire a pastry chef?”

“He assures me he knows how to cook a wide range of dishes.”

“Did he mean a wide range of cookies?”

Theo just shrugged.

There was a faint sound of a scuffle, a loud crash, then yelling. The cook came running around the corner, chased by dragonarmy soldiers, and straight into one of the canopy support poles. The canopy collapsed, enveloping the cook and the soldiers, and the entire affair slammed into a vegetable cart.

“Pretty good for a diversion,” Vanderjack said. “Go! Go!”

The sellsword, the gnome, and the baron’s aide ran across the street from the alley and away from the confusion. Crowds, attracted by the noise, milled into the area, creating further obstacles. Three streets later, Vanderjack called for the other two to stop and catch their breaths.

“Do you think Etharion will be all right?” asked Gredchen anxiously.

“I’m sure,” Vanderjack said, not really caring. “This road here leads to the eastern gate, and we can take that out of town and be on our way. I really did want a little more help than just Theo, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

“But we can’t just leave Etharion back there,” said Gredchen.

“I agree,” echoed Theo firmly.

“Besides, Lord Glayward’s castle is at least six days from here and I could use some help in cooking this salmon.” She patted her satchel.

“And there’s my investment,” added Theo. “I paid the cook two weeks in advance.”

Vanderjack sighed. “All right. Stay here and I’ll circle back around and see how he’s doing. Keep out of sight.”

Leaving the gnome and the aide hiding under the eaves of a clothier’s shop, Vanderjack grabbed a plain-looking gray cloak, threw it over his shoulders, and sneaked back in the direction of the dragonarmy soldiers. Gredchen was right; they could use a good cook—assuming, of course, that Etharion knew how to make anything other than cookies.

Highmaster Rivven Cairn stalked the halls of the governor’s palace in Pentar, searching for the governor.

She had left Cear before sunrise in one of the sprawling courtyards on the palatial estate, telling him not to eat the gardeners, and then set off to find the man the red dragonarmy was paying chests full of steel each month to send reports. Yet almost four hours after her arrival, the governor still managed to elude her completely.

According to her sources, the real rulers of Pentar, the twin brothers Tochel and Tochi Pentar, were presently enjoying an extended vacation with Saifhumi pirates. After the fall of Neraka, the Red Highlord Rugoheras (Ariakas’s immediate replacement, also dead) had informed Rivven that she was to install a governor in Pentar and lock up the brothers who had caused the Red Wing so much trouble during the war. Rivven didn’t remember them causing any special trouble at all. In fact, she preferred the town before it was thrown into disarray, becoming a haven for mercenaries. Orders were orders, she reminded herself.

Rivven’s first thought had been to give the town to Baron Glayward as yet another means of securing his cooperation, but the baron would have none of it. He said it would interrupt the flow of information from the west. He also said the Solamnic folk living in Nordmaar wouldn’t enjoy having one of their lords govern a town full of ne’er-do-wells and rogues. She reluctantly agreed but had her men stationed on his grounds for two weeks to reflect her disappointment.

Rivven’s next choice was the wizard Cazuvel, who had been her spy among the orders of High Sorcery and somebody she’d worked with closely near the end of the war. She needed Cazuvel to keep her apprised of
the Tower mages’ actions, especially those of the young mage Raistlin Majere, who many claimed had brought down the emperor—with Tanis Half-Elven’s help. The irony of Ariakas’s falling victim to the combined efforts of a wizard and a half-elf was not lost on Rivven, who was both.

Cazuvel had declined her offer, as she had half expected him to. The Black Robe liked his autonomy, and only Nuitari himself knew what the albino did when he wasn’t assisting Rivven with one task or another. Black Robes nowadays were living under the constant shadow of the Majere wizard, and Cazuvel was no exception. If he had become governor, he wouldn’t have had the time to plot his eventual mastery of all black magic, or whatever it was he was always so busy doing.

No, Rivven couldn’t have either of her first choices. She was forced to recruit from outside her circle of contacts and informants, and so she had turned instead to the next most sensible pool of candidates—the family of the people who were really in charge.

Pentar had always been ruled by identical twins. They were traditionally male, but a hundred years earlier, the rulers had been two women, survivors of a generation of sickness and plague. The grandchildren of one of those women were Tochel and Tochi Pentar, but the brothers weren’t the only family of twins in town.

Oxoloc Pentar was cousin to the brothers Tochel and Tochi, descendant of the other of the female rulers, and like his cousins, he was one of twins. Oxoloc, however, was alone; his brother had died at birth. Such a tragedy had far-reaching repercussions in Pentar. Although he was technically eligible to be the tribal chief of the Cuichtatl people, the circumstances of his birth were a shadow over his life. They were a dire omen, inescapable.
Oxoloc was, in many ways, only half a man because he was only one man.

Rivven Cairn had extended her reach through her usual local channels a year or so previous, when the Red Wing leadership had given her the command to eliminate Pentar’s rightful rule. Those channels turned up Oxoloc, living a fairly depressing life in a luxurious yet tiny house near the palace. Shunned by his family, Oxoloc was more than willing to be placed in the role of governor. In return for his complicity and his almost completely hands-off approach to the problems of the town, the dragonarmy would support the leadership of the young Pentari man and maintain his opulent lifestyle.

Thus, in light of all of the history the governor had with Rivven’s forces, and their deal, his not being available to the highmaster when she was in town was almost unforgivable. Rivven finally found him hiding in the orchards.