Oath of Swords

Yet that was the same prince who’d raised his sons and daughters with the notion that they owed their people something, not the reverse. It was the commander who insured that the least of his troopers got the same rations, the same care from his healers,that any of his officers might expect in the field. And it was the father who’d raised a son who couldn’t turn his back on Farmah. No doubt he was heartily cursing that son for landing in such a harebrained scrape, but Bahzell could imagine exactly how he would have reacted had his son not taken a hand. The fact that Bahnak saw no contradiction in his own attitudes might make him less of the cold, calculating prince than he cared to think, but it also made him an even better father than Bahzell had realized.

Now the first wagons were inching through the gates of Derm amid the friendly greetings of the city guard. Bahzell strode along in his post beside the pay wagon, and he saw a few of those welcoming guards turn thoughtful when they clapped eyes on him. But Kilthan was well known here; anyone in his employ-even a murdering hradani-was automatically respectable until he proved differently, and he saw little of the instant hostility he’d met elsewhere. Wariness and curiosity, yes, but not unthinking hatred. The observation left him cheerful enough to forget, for the moment, the vague, troubling memories of the dreams which still made his nights hideous, and he found himself whistling as the cumbersome wagons wound through the streets.

Kilthan’s couriers had preceded him, and his local factor was waiting. The compound the dwarf’s trading house maintained just off Derm’s docks was larger even than his seasonal camp outside Esgfalas, for his wagons would be left here for winter storage when he took to the river. Bahzell knew from overheard comments that Baroness Ernos paid Kilthan a handsome subsidy to make Derm the permanent base for his eastern operations, and her motive became obvious as he watched the other merchants haggle for similar facilities. Just as Kilthan’s caravan served as a magnet to draw the others with him on the road, so his headquarters drew them into leasing winter space for their wagons . . . or disposing of them to local carters who would cheerfully sell them back-at a profit, no doubt-next spring.

Bahzell watched it all, making mental notes to share with his father, but then they reached the docks, and the sight of the river drove all other thoughts from his head.

The Saram had looked impressive from a distance; close at hand, it was overwhelming. Bahzell had seen the upper reaches of the Hangnysti, but they were mere creeks beside the Saram. The broad, blue river flowed past with infinite patience and slow, deep inevitability, and the thought of that much water in one place was daunting. He could swim-not gracefully, perhaps, but strongly-yet hradani and boats were strangers to one another, and he felt a sudden, craven longing to keep it that way.

Unfortunately, he had no choice, and he drew a deep breath and spoke sternly to his qualms as the train unraveled into its individual components. The largest string of wagons-Kilthan’s-rumbled gratefully into a vast brick courtyard between high, gaunt warehouses, and work gangs were already descending upon it. Bahzell joined the six other men Hartan had told to guard the pay wagon and shook his head as he watched the bustle engulf them.

Rianthus had told him Kilthan intended to spend no more than a single day in Derm, but he hadn’t quite believed it. It hadn’t seemed possible to unload, sort, reorganize, and stow so much merchandise away aboard ship in so short a time; now he knew the guard captain had meant every word of it.

Teams of hostlers joined the train’s drovers to unhitch the draft animals. Foremen with slates and sheafs of written orders swarmed about, shouting for their sections as they found the crates and parcels and bales whose labels matched their instructions. A full dozen local merchants circulated with their own foremen to take delivery of goods Kilthan had freighted to them from Esgan or Daranfel or Moretz, and a dozen more bustled in with new consignments bound further south or clear to the Empire. Squads of officers and senior guardsmen kept an alert eye out for pilferers, racing fingers clicked over the beads of abacuses, sputtering pens recorded transactions, fees, and bills of sale, and voices rose in a bedlam of shouted conversations, questions, answers, and orders. It was chaos, but an intricately organized chaos, and the first heaps of cargo were already being trundled off to dockside and the broad-beamed, clumsy-looking riverboats awaiting them.

“Quite, ah, impressive , don’t you think?” a familiar tenor voice drawled. Bahzell turned his head, and Brandark gri

“Not this side of a battlefield.” Bahzell chuckled. “I’m thinking some of these folk might have the making of first-class generals, too. They’ve the knack for organization, don’t they just now?”

“That they do.” Brandark shook his head, ears at half-cock, then turned as his platoon commander bellowed his name and pointed at a line of carts creaking back out of the courtyard towards the docks. The Bloody Sword waved back with a vigorous nod, then glanced at his friend.

“It looks like I’m about to find out what a boat is like.” He sighed, hitching up his sword belt. “I hope I don’t fall off the damned thing!”

“Now, now,” Bahzell soothed. “They’ve been sailing up and down the river for years now, and you’re not so bad a fellow as all that. They’ll not drop you over the side as long as you mind your ma

“I hope not,” Brandark said bleakly. “I can’t swim.”

He gave his sword belt a last tug and vanished into the chaos.

True to his word, Kilthan had every bit of cargo stowed by nightfall. The final consignments went aboard by torchlight, and even Bahzell, whose duties had consisted mainly of standing about and looking fierce, was exhausted by the time he plodded across the springy gangway of his assigned riverboat. He felt a bit uneasy as his boots sounded on the wooden deck and the barge seemed to tremble beneath him, but he was too tired to worry properly.

As usual, his size was a problem, especially with the limited headroom belowdecks, so he was one of those assigned berth space on deck. He would have preferred having a nice, solid bulkhead between his bedroll and the water, given his recent restless dreams, but he consoled himself with the thought that at least the air would be fresher.

The riverboat’s master was a stocky, squared-off human who knew a landlubber when he saw one. He took a single look at the enormous hradani, shook his head, and pointed towards the bow.

“That’s the foredeck,” he said. “Get up there and stay there. Don’t get in the way, and for Korthrala’s sake, don’t try to help the crew!”

“Aye, I’ll be doing that,” Bahzell agreed cheerfully, and the captain snorted, shook his head again, and stumped off about his own business while Bahzell ambled forward. Brandark was already there, sitting on his bedroll and gazing out at the stars and city lights reflected from the water.

“Looks nice, doesn’t it?” he asked as Bahzell thumped down beside him.

“Aye-and wet.” Bahzell grunted, then gri

“Oh, thank you!” Brandark muttered.

“You’re welcome.” Bahzell tugged his boots off, then stood and eeled out of his scale mail. He arranged his gear on deck and groaned in gratitude as he stretched out. “You’d best be taking that chain mail off, my lad,” he murmured sleepily, eyes already drifting shut. “I’m thinking someone who can’t swim’s no need of an extra anchor to take him to the bottom.”