The Empire Stone (22 page)

The commotion was quite respectable. Men came to their feet, overturning chairs. Kuphi managed, “But that sets the day for the Redeemer!” and there was other, confused babble. Some men had expressions of bewilderment, some fear, others dawning hope.

Peirol had heard tavern tale-tellers describe someone as going green in shock, had always thought it wild exaggeration, until Makonnen. His already white face went corpse-pale, took a very peculiar tinge to it. He slammed to his feet, held up a hand for silence, didn’t get it.

One man was on his knees, praying at the top of his lungs, eyes streaming tears.

Makonnen shouted. Then there was stillness. “Repeat that foolish rhyme.”

Peirol did.

“It seems obvious, Makonnen,” Kuphi said. “The Redeemer’s arrival, hallelujah, has been foretold, and I’m embarrassed I remembered this legend not, for surely it would have made your task simpler, not that we know — ”

“I said, silence!”

Makonnen walked to a window, looked up at the guardian wall above him. The only sound in the room was the scuff of his sandals. “Very well,” he said. “As I’ve written, the arrival of the Redeemer will be a surprise, even for me. This legend does seem to have promised things, even though I’m not sure yet what those things are, and will need to pray and think for a time as to its significance, as shall you all. I bid you, my advisers, to say nothing of this to anyone, not to your kith, nor your kin, on pain of my most severe displeasure.

“As for you two, I must thank you for bringing me this legend.” He sounded like he was gargling bits of glass in his happiness. “I will not be able to give you a proper interpretation tonight. But perhaps at another time, when we shall also discuss your gifts to the Redeemer, I shall be ready. In the meantime, return to your inn and say nothing of tonight, nor of that legend, to anyone at any time, until I personally give you leave to do otherwise.”

“Of course, great Makonnen,” Peirol said. “You’ll note I’ve not spoken of this matter before tonight.”

“I am aware of that. My guards will accompany you to your inn, and in the days to come ensure your safety.”

They left, bowing, and the four escorts followed them back to the Contented Duck.

Zaimis leaned close as they rode. “You are a very fast thinker.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“And a terrible poet.”

“Hush. Your voice carries.”

At the inn, the guards stationed themselves at the front.

“Now what?”

“Now I go to the innkeeper with gold, settle our accounts, and pay him well enough to ready our horses without telling those thugs of the True Thinker. You pack.”

“We’re fleeing?”

“As soon as circumstances warrant.”

“Which will be?”

“I’d guess by tomorrow afternoon.”

But it didn’t take that long. By midnight, the streets were alive with people, some shouting, some singing, some with torches, some drunk, some fighting. Peirol watched from their room’s window, saw the guards being called away by a superior. Clearly, some of Makonnen’s advisers had talked.

“Now we ride,” he said, and they went downstairs, saddlebags over their shoulders. The horses were waiting, and Peirol pulled himself up into the saddle.

He tossed more gold to the innkeeper, who bowed deeply, even though he kept glancing at the street as pandemonium built. “The gods be with you,” he managed.

“I’m afraid, my friend, they’re with you,” Peirol said, and they made their way through madness toward the city gates. Twice Peirol heard shouts directed at them, once saw someone grabbing for a sword. But his own blade was ready, and the man came no closer. The gates were open, and the guards were staring into the heart of the city, paying no mind to anyone leaving.

Peirol of the Moorlands and Zaimis left Isfahan, leaving a powerful message of the spirit behind.

“I don’t think,” Peirol said, “I’m very fond of gods or the people who associate with them. They’ve brought me not much but grief.”

“And I’m not very sure I like men,” Zaimis said. “For the same reasons.”

“But what about me?”

“You’re different.”

“I’m a dwarf?”

“That, too. I meant you seem to actually care about women.”

“Of course,” Peirol said. “Who doesn’t?”

“Oh, I suppose that man on the ship would have been one of those who don’t, except in bed. What was his name, Edirne?” Zaimis said. “The sort I’m always attracted to, it seems. Aulard. Makonnen. My father. Some other boys, men, whose names wouldn’t matter to you. It’s a long list,” she said sadly, then brightened. “You know, if that horrible Makonnen had done what I thought he was planning, he wouldn’t have been around long enough to meet his Redeemer, not that I ever think there was any such anywhere but in his imagination.”

Peirol lifted an eyebrow.

“I would have poisoned the bastard before he could’ve gotten his hand above my knee,” she said fiercely.

Peirol felt the hair along his spine ruffle. He certainly would have approved if she’d said she would have stabbed him, or pushed him out a window, even if such would’ve been probable suicide. But poison? That seemed insidious, in the same way he dreaded snakes, possibly for the same reason.

“Let’s not talk about that,” Peirol said. “For Makonnen and the others are behind us.”

She leaned across, gave him a hug. “You’re a lovely fool, always expecting the best. Maybe that’s your problem.”

“Why do anything else?” Peirol asked reasonably. “The worst seems to always take care of itself. And isn’t it easier to be cheerful than gloomy?”

Zaimis shivered. “Like you said, let’s put what’s behind us behind us.”

• • •

They traded in two small cities, Peirol content with the profits he made. Again, Zaimis asked why he bothered, and he quoted one of the maxims of the master jeweler Rozan: “Better quick coppers than slow gold.”

They encountered no one from Isfahan. The few travelers who caught up with them said they’d bypassed the city, hearing turmoil within and seeing refugees fleeing in all directions.

A small boy whose parents were staying at their inn came by Peirol’s table after he’d finished a successful trade with a local collector: one who knew the value of semiprecious stones, but not that of the scattering of precious gems he’d merely polished and left uncut.

The boy marveled over Peirol’s stones, and the dwarf showed him how to use the glass, how the gems were cut. Zaimis got more and more impatient. At last the boy’s mother called him away.

“Now what made you do that? We haven’t eaten or drunk for hours, and I’m starving. Did you think the boy’s parents were rich or something?”

“No,” Peirol said. “I just remembered a journeyman jeweler named Ty Lanherne, who was nice to another boy a long time ago.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Let’s go find something cold.”

• • •

Beyond the two cities, Zaimis’s mood changed abruptly. She was short, testy, quick to anger. Peirol asked repeatedly what he’d done wrong, and whatever it was, that he was sorry for it. Zaimis said it was nothing, just a mood. And it passed in time. But still every now and then he caught her looking at him, as if evaluating his worth.

• • •

“Do you realize something?” Peirol said gleefully. “We’re off the Manoleon Peninsula.”

“So?” Zaimis said, a little irritated. “I’ve got a blister on my behind that’s just as important. Actually more, because it’s not going away.”

“I thought we’d never see the end of that land,” Peirol said. “The things that happened to us … I hope the next time I visit it is never.”

“Well,” Zaimis allowed. “I’ll admit it hasn’t been wonderful to me, either. Although I never would have met you if I hadn’t been sent here.”

“True, true.”

They watered their horses at a village well, and an old woman warned them there were bandits about. A caravan had passed through not more than a glass or two ago, and they’d best join it for safety. Peirol thought that an excellent idea, and they caught up with the traders by mid-afternoon. There were twenty of them, hard-faced men with ready pistols and swords, cargo concealed by canvas.

Zaimis and Peirol gave them a start, riding up from the rear, and there was a rearing of horses and worried shouts as the traders spun, hands on their weaponry, then recognized there were but two oncomers. Peirol asked to ride with them, for safety, and would be prepared to pay when they reached the next city and he was able to make some trades. He didn’t want to mention the sacks of gold they already had, nor the precious stones behind his knee.

“What are you trading for?” one man asked, pistol still aimed steady.

“What makes me a profit, the same as yourself.”

“I don’t think so,” another man said. “First, the bandits of this country frequently send out spies who pretend to be travelers, join a group like ourselves, and then betray it to their real masters. Second, you’ve a woman with you, and we swore an oath to take no women on the road, to prevent trouble amongst ourselves.

“And you, dwarf, may have the weapons of a man, but I doubt if any bandit would see you as a threat, nor take longer than a heartbeat to spit you. We’d be lessening our capabilities by having to protect you.”

“Right,” a third said. “Ride on, you two.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Peirol said, and he and Zaimis trotted past the caravan. The traders stared suspiciously as they passed.

Zaimis turned in her saddle, cupped her hands, and shouted back: “For that, you shitbutts, I’ll not tell you which village you passed through today had a poisoned well, and hope you spend the night puking out your guts!”

She spurred her horse, and they galloped off as a single arrow lofted through the air at them.

• • •

That night they dined off a fowl Peirol purchased at a roadside farm and drank wine from their saddlebags, then made love slowly at first, then fiercely. Their camp was above the road, hidden in brush, yet they could still see the valley from where they lay, Zaimis’s head on Peirol’s chest. The sun was just setting, a bit of its bright coin showing across the hills.

“I love this,” Peirol said sleepily. “To lie here with you, an unknown road winding ahead to cities and people and places unfamiliar.”

“It’s nice when it’s like this,” Zaimis said. “But what about when it rains? What about when it’s hot and dusty and we’re out of water, and the horses keep trying to bite us? What happens when a village turns us away because you’re a dwarf and most likely a mad wizard?”

“That’s not good,” Peirol said. “But if there were no bad, how could you appreciate the good?”

“I’d manage,” Zaimis said. “So that’s your dream, a road that goes on and on, and there’s always a new gem to trade for and people to chance your wits against? Hardly mine.”

“What would be yours?”

“I don’t know,” Zaimis said after a time. “Maybe a world where I’m not at the beck of any man who lusts after me and has enough power to enforce his will. Maybe I’d like to be a queen. No, not a queen, for I couldn’t stand having to listen to the problems of everyone who came to me, having to pretend I care if a peasant’s crops are failing or if a merchant’s been seized by pirates for ransom or if the neighboring king wants my land and what’s between my legs to boot.

“I like travel, moving about, when it’s nice like this. Or maybe I just like things to be changing, so I don’t get bored. That was one reason my father wanted to marry me off without paying much attention to who my husband might be. Maybe I’d like to be a pirate queen, with my own secret island, that no avenging navy would ever find. I’d have my men, who were devoted to me, and when I chose I could take one as a lover, and when I tired of him there’d be no tears, no resentment, no anger. And everyone would know my name and fear me, but no one would know who I really was.”

“A strange dream,” Peirol said.

“Some say I’m a strange woman.”

• • •

That night, Peirol dreamed a real dream. Again he stood in Abbas’s study, and the sorcerer was staring at him. But this time, his expression was friendly.

“You have done well, Peirol of the Moorlands,” Abbas said. “It has taken me two nights to find you with my magic, for you’ve traveled far since I last thought of you. You are now well on your way, and if my charts are right, you are two-thirds of the way to Restormel. My thoughts and best wishes go with you.”

Abbas vanished. Peirol came slowly awake. He was happy at first, then realized there’d been no scent of jasmine or roses, no hint of Kima’s presence. He felt guilt, wondered if the wizard’s daughter had somehow sensed Zaimis curled against him and was angry. That was absurd. He’d made no commitments to her beyond the mildest of romanticisms. And that was two years ago. Most likely she was being happily wooed by a hundred of Sennen’s richest youths. At eighteen, she might even be wedded to one, with her first child on the way.

But he had trouble going back to sleep, and woke at dawn feeling guilty and sad. He managed to avoid being grumpy to Zaimis, and they rode off, through a day that was overcast and humid, with flies buzzing around their horses. Zaimis was in no better mood, and Peirol wondered if she thought she’d said too much the night before.

At midday Peirol’s horse trod on his foot, and he spilled a jack of wine. He glumly wondered what else could happen to them on this ill-feeling day. An hour later they were taken by bandits.

There were eighteen of them, evil-eyed, scruffy as a nightmare. But their horses and weaponry were well groomed and polished. They ranged from teenage to their fifties, all men. Their leader was a large man whose beard and long hair were braided and tied incongruously with bright ribbons. He wore stained finery, evidently of the school of thought that expensive clothing doesn’t need to be washed but can be worn until it falls away. At some time in his career he’d taken a club blow to the face, for it was dished in slightly, his nose flattened and leaning to one side. He carried four pistols in a sling across his chest, a sword, and two daggers.

His lieutenant wore an immaculate white linen shirt and unstained leather trousers and vest. His beard was dark and well trimmed. He was armed with a single richly engraved pistol and a dagger. For some reason, he reminded Peirol of the long-dead mate of the
Petrel.

“Interesting haul,” the large man said. “A beauty and a dwarf, eh? What riches do you carry?”

“Not much,” Peirol said. “A handful of gold, for traveling money.”

“Toss it over.”

Peirol pulled out the small bag he kept ready for such emergencies, handed it across. The heavy man hefted it. “You’re not nobility, or the bag would be a deal larger. What’s your business?”

“We’re fugitives,” Peirol tried. “Leaving a place called Isfahan for a better place to live.”

“I know it only on a map,” the large man said. “The question is, what’ll be done with you now? You needn’t worry about better lives, but rather whether you’ll have one at all.”

A bandit licked his lips. “She could make all of us happy for a while.”

Zaimis’s hand was on her dagger. “You’ll be the first I’ll caponize if you try it.”

The dark-bearded man chuckled. “She looks like she’s capable of it, Bamian. In any event, she’ll not entertain all, not as long as I’ve silver for the auction.”

“Or if I choose to exercise my right as leader,” the heavy man said. “She’d make a fine mattress for a fat man like me.”

The bandits found this funny, laughed hard.

“Brave men,” Peirol sneered, wishing he had better control of his mouth. “Eighteen against two.”

“Actually,” the dark-bearded man said, “eighteen to one and a half.”

Again, the bandits laughed.

“So what’s to be done with us?” Peirol asked.

“Generally, three paths exist,” the bearded one said. “By the way, I’m Manco, and I serve as Urga’s right-hand man. You needn’t bother with your names until we decide if you’ll be companying us for a while. As I said, there are three paths. The first, reserved for the poorer travelers, is to be stripped bare, used as we see fit, and left to welter in your blood.

“The second is for you to amuse us for a time, then we sell you at the first slave market. I rather imagine, lady, you know what form that amusement would take. You could be bought for a time by one of us at tonight’s campfire, or if the lads are of a common mind, your services can be procured generally, if they choose to make the highest bid.”

“An ugly fate,” Urga said. “Better to choose one of us, and hope he has enough silver to buy you out.”

“The third and best,” Manco said, “is if you have people to ransom you. The greater amount they’re willing to put up, the less damaged you’ll be when we hand you over. You see, fair and equitable choices. Now, if you’ll hand over your weapons, we’ll take you to camp for the vote.”

Peirol was deciding if he could send his dart into Manco’s face, plant his dagger in Urga’s gut, and then gallop on in the confusion when Zaimis shook her head. “None of those paths appeal to me.”

“They ain’t intended to,” a bandit called.

“What about people who want to join you?”

The laughter was very loud.

“Lots of mice wish they were cats, when they hear the meow,” Urga said.

“Those we accept into our band,” Manco said, “are generally known as reputable rogues to our members. We’re very selective, partly to avoid spies who might betray us to the Brown Men, but more practically because the more comrades, the more shares must be made.”

“Suppose,” Zaimis said, “suppose someone gives you something, something of far greater value than even a ransom? Would that be a sufficient price?”

Urga coughed laughter, but Manco stroked his beard. “You interest me, lady. First, because you’re not vaporing about your fate, unlike most of your sex. But also because of what you say. Go on.”