Oath of Swords

“Hirahim, you are a big one!” a deep, gravelly voice snorted. “Have a seat, man! Have a seat before you sprain something!”

Rianthus nudged Bahzell and pointed, and the Horse Stealer sank gratefully onto the chair. It was far too small, but there were no arms to get in the way, and it didn’t creak too alarmingly as it took his weight.

“Better,” the gravel voice said. “Now I can at least look you in the belly button, can’t I?” It chuckled at its own wit, and Bahzell finally spotted its owner.

The man behind the desk had to be sitting either in a very tall chair or atop a heap of cushions, for he couldn’t have stood much over four feet. He was also very nearly as broad as he was tall and bald as an egg, but a massive, forked beard streamed down his chest in compensation, and strange, topaz-colored eyes glittered in the light.

“So,” he said now, turning to Brandark as the Bloody Sword found a chair of his own, “you must be young Brandarkson.” He rubbed the side of his nose with a finger while his other hand spun the ring on the desk before him, and his topaz eyes narrowed. “Well, you’ve the look of him, and the ring’s right, but what you’re doing here has me in something of a puzzle.”

“You’ve met Father?” Brandark asked, and Kilthan shrugged.

“No, I’ve never had that, um, privilege, but I make it my business to know what I can about those I do my business with . And,” he added judiciously, “I’ve always found your father an honest sort, for a Bloody Sword hradani.” He chuckled. “Especially for a Bloody Sword, if you’ll pardon my frankness.”

“I suspect Father would be amused, not insulted,” Brandark replied with a smile, and Kilthan chuckled again.

“Aye, with that accent you’d almost have to be Brandarkson. Damn me, but your Axeman’s better than mine!”

“Perhaps that’s because it’s not your native tongue, either.”

“Hey? How’s that?” Kilthan demanded, eyes narrower than ever.

“Well, you were the senior Silver Cavern delegate to the conference that asked the Empire to a

“So, you know that, too, do you?” Kilthan nodded, then leaned back, folding his hands on his belly. “In that case, I think we can assume you’re who you say.” He unfolded one hand to wag a finger at Rianthus and indicate another chair, then returned it to his belly and cocked a bushy eyebrow at Brandark. “And that being so, young Brandarkson, suppose you tell me what you’re doing here and why you need a job, you and your long, tall friend?”

“Well, as to that,” Brandark said, and launched into an explanation. He did it almost too well for Bahzell’s peace of mind, dropping into the rhythmic cadences of a bard. At least he seemed untempted to resort to song, for which Bahzell was profoundly grateful, but he felt himself flushing as his friend enlarged on his own “nobility” in coming to Farmah’s rescue. There’d been nothing “noble” about it-just an iron-headed Horse Stealer too stupid to stay out of a mess that was none of his making!

Kilthan’s eyes gleamed appreciatively, and his hand crept up to cover his mouth a time or two when Bahzell flushed. But he heard the entire tale out, then nodded and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk to look back and forth between them with those sharp, topaz eyes.

“Well, now! That’s quite a tale . . . and it matches the bits and pieces I’ve already heard.” Bahzell’s ears shifted in surprise, and Kilthan gave a crack of laughter. “Oh, yes, lads! I don’t say anyone believes it, mind you-Esganians are Esganians, and the thought of hradani doing anything ‘noble’ isn’t one they’re comfortable with-but my factors stay abreast of Rūmors. Bad for business if they miss one and it turns out to be true, you know. But I’ve heard of your father, too, um, Prince Bahzell, and that suggests which rumor to believe in this case. If even half the tales are true, your Prince Bahnak sounds like a man who understands the business of ruling, not just looting. If Navahk and its cronies weren’t in the way, I’d have factors in Hurgrum, too . . . and judging from what your people did to Churnazh two years back, I think Navahk might not be a problem so very much longer, at that.

“In the meantime, however, I can see why you’ve come west. And you, young Brandarkson,” those disconcerting, yellow eyes cut back to Brandark, “were quite right. Hradani who wander about without obvious employ don’t fare well in other lands.” He inhaled deeply, then slapped his hands on his desk.

“So! That being the case, I might just take a chance on the two of you. Mind you, you won’t be lords or princes to my men, and some of them won’t be any too happy to see you.” His face turned much sterner. “We’ve our own rules, and Rianthus will tell you what they are, but one applies to everyone: no drawn steel! I doubt you two would have made it across Esgan if you were given to, ah, hastiness, but you know as well as I that someone’s going to press you sooner or later, just for being what you are. Do I have your word you’ll settle it without blades?”

“Well, now,” Bahzell rumbled, “I’m thinking you do, so long as they’re not after spilling blood. It’s grateful I’ll be for honest work, but not so grateful I’ll let someone slice a piece or two from my hide without slicing a little back in trade.”

“That’s fair enough,” Rianthus put in. Kilthan looked at him, and the captain shrugged. “If any of our lads are stupid enough to break the rules and draw against these two, we’re better off without them, anyway, Kilthan.”

“Hmmmm. There probably is something in that,” Kilthan agreed after a moment, then shrugged. “Very well, do I have your words that you won’t draw steel first? ” Both hradani nodded, and Kilthan nodded back with a curiously formal air. “Done, then! Two gold kormaks a month to start with, more if you work out well. And it’s a good thing you found me when you did, for I’m bound back to Manhome before the month’s end.” He looked back at Rianthus and jabbed a finger at Bahzell with a grin. “Get them sworn in, Rianthus-and see if we’ve a tent long enough for this one!”

Chapter Eight

The next few weeks were very different, not least because Bahzell had to see much less of the locals. That would have been a vast enough relief, but Kilthandahknarthas dihna’ Harkanath was far too important for anyone in Esgfalas to irritate, and Bahzell and Brandark now wore the black and orange colors of his house. The change their livery wrought in the Esganians they were forced to encounter was intensely satisfying, even after they discovered they owed Kilthan over a month’s wages each for the bond he’d posted in their names with the Merchants Guild and Guild of Freeswords.

Not that everything went smoothly. As Kilthan had warned, some of their new fellows were unhappy at having hradani among them. The majority chose not to complain, particularly after they’d watched the two of them demonstrate their competence against Rianthus’ arms master. Yet a few muttered balefully, especially Shergahn, the chunky ex-corporal from the army of Daranfel whom Rianthus had called to hold their horses that first day, and Bahzell and Brandark both knew it was only a matter of time until more than words were exchanged.

That much they were prepared to take as it came, for it was only to be expected. They were strangers, after all, and strangers would have been tested-probably more harshly than anyone was likely to attempt here-before being accepted by any hradani unit. Neither looked forward to it, but other problems were more immediate . . . and irritating.

There was, for example, their plunder from Churnazh’s guardsmen. Two hradani, one a Horse Stealer, had no need of six horses. Rianthus bought two of them, but the others were too heavy for his taste and too well bred for draft animals, so Brandark took them and the weapons to the Square of Gianthus, Esgfalas’ main market, and sold them . . . for far less than their value. They were no Sothōii coursers, but they were worth far more than anyone chose to offer a hradani-even one in Kilthan’s service. In the end, he had either to take what was offered or bring them home again, and he swallowed his pride and closed the deal.