A Cast of Stones (20 page)

He froze.

A flicker of torchlight winked in and out of sight through the gaps in the trees. The light split, became two. The pinpoints separated over and over again, until eight of them bobbed up and down like corks in a river.

He stood transfixed as they headed downstream. If not for their lights, he would never have known they were there. What errand or mission constrained them to travel at night? Perhaps he could journey with them to Longhollow. They must surely be traveling more quickly than he, but could he trust them?

The lights stopped, and in the stillness, as though they were whispers of wind, he heard voices calling to one another. Then they came toward the woods, horses' hooves crunching through twigs and pinecones.

Coming toward him. Searching.

He pulled his eyes from the hypnotic bounce of their torches and led Midnight away, deeper into the forest. What followed became the strangest game of seeker-and-lost he'd ever played. Casting glances behind, he discerned their strategy. Somehow they must have known where he'd camped. There was no other way to explain the precision with which they'd been able to locate not only the woods he slept in, but his campsite as well. Now, they fanned out in an arc to scoop him up like a minnow caught in a pool.

How had they known where he was?

He cursed himself for a fool. They had a reader with them.

With a shake of his head he thrust the thought away. There would be time for speculation later. His only chance lay in flight.
Silence rested on the wood. No tree frogs, nightingales, or owls broke the quiet. The slightest noise could be heard a hundred paces away. Errol scooted his feet forward along the ground, trying to push aside any sticks whose sudden crack might give away his presence. As much as Midnight meant to him, there was no chance the horse would miss every twig in the dark. He led the horse, pushing aside the branches with his shins.

Behind him the arc of riders advanced, but the constant interruption of trees kept Errol from knowing whether they gained or fell farther behind. Sweat beaded on his brow. The silence took on life, pressed against him, and an insane desire to make some kind of noise to dispel it pestered him. He clenched his jaws and continued leading Midnight with his shuffling gait, trying to move faster.

He conjured Rale's face, tried to recall everything the farmer ever said about the terrain between his farm and Longhollow. There wasn't much. Stick to the river, he'd said. Sleep in the woods each night.

But how big were the woods? If Errol didn't cover enough distance to conceal himself by dawn, he'd be caught. If he could find a way out of the dense growth before his pursuers caught up to him, Midnight might be able to carry him to safety. Did the trees even have an end? He might be looking for something that didn't even exist or, if it did, would take him days of travel to find.

The torchlight seemed farther away now, mere pinpoints among the boles. He decided to risk a little noise for the sake of speed. He picked up his feet, increased his pace to a quick jog. A large crunch sounded beneath his boot as a stick snapped in two. He stopped, held his breath, and strained his ears for any sound that he'd betrayed his whereabouts. Errol cursed himself for a fool. He'd been building a lead on those who chased him.

The forest remained silent. He resumed his stiff-gaited shuffle and moved ahead. His eyes strained to make use of the splintered moonlight that penetrated the canopy of foliage overhead.
The torches fell farther behind, but always they came on, never completely lost to sight.

Time passed, and Errol found he could see through the gloom with less difficulty. Shapes held more definition as the moon ascended. Hints of shadows across his path showed him where the sticks were. He thought back. It had taken Luis twenty minutes to cast a pair of lots. Even if it could be done in half the time, he could escape as long as he kept moving.

Fatigue dulled his brain. His feet had been working through thick grass for ten paces before he realized he'd left the forest. Tiny specs of light, mere pinpricks, still moved in the forest. They would not catch him now. Errol hugged Midnight's neck, then gave the big destrier an apple before he mounted and set off in a fast trot.

Two days later he entered Longhollow, stepped into mud and chaos.

 14 
The Caravan Master

T
HE CITY
of Longhollow seemed more a massive collection of caravans interspersed with buildings than a city. It squatted atop a low bluff overlooking the river. A palisade of sharpened logs served as a barely definable boundary between the exterior and the interior. The few buildings, some of which leaned over the street on tilted supports, were made of unpainted wood rather than stone.

Porters sweated and cursed their loads into position, then cursed some more when instructed to remove what had just been moved. Dozens of trader emblems flapped in the breeze, each caravan fighting to get their goods and begin their journey to profitability. Stock that didn't come in by the four roads that converged on the city came floating in by barge or boat on the river.

Errol fought to keep his hands from twitching the reins and fleeing back to the quietude of the forest and the river farther west. The color and cacophony of the press assaulted his senses. He looked down, convinced by the smell that Midnight must be stepping through sewage.

A voice intruded on his disgust. “Move, boy. This isn't getting any lighter.”

Errol turned to see a young man about his own age with a huge sack of grain thrown over each shoulder.

“Sorry.” Errol moved Midnight aside.

The man took a step, slipped, and dropped his burden with a curse. “Look what you made me do.”

Errol dismounted. “I'm sorry. Here, we can load the sacks on my horse.” He picked one up with difficulty and plopped it on the saddle.

The young man looked at him, suspicion written across a freckled face under dark red hair. “Your first time here?”

Errol nodded. “I came to sign on as a guard.”

That earned him a laugh. “Well, at least your horse looks the part. I'll wager he's not used to carrying sacks of grain.” He hefted the second bag onto Midnight. “I'm Etann.” He caught Errol's look of disgust and grinned at him. “Not many people stay here for long. Not even the harlots or blacksmiths. Soon or late the noise and the smell drive everyone away.”

They walked toward the southern edge of the town. The noise never lessened.

Etann's hand on his shoulder brought him to a stop next to a stable that looked as if it had been hastily built the day before. “Thanks for the help.” He shouldered his grain.

The chaos of the town was just as daunting as at first glimpse. “Can you tell me how I should go about becoming a caravan guard?”

Etann gestured with his chin toward a heavy man in robes that matched the standard under which a dozen porters labored. “That's the merchant master. With the smaller caravans, it's the merchant himself; with the larger it's usually his factor, the man responsible for the hundreds of small decisions that make the merchant train profitable.” Etann smirked, his green eyes twinkling. “One of those small decisions includes who guards the goods.” He lumbered away.

How did one address a merchant or his factor? For that matter, how was he to know the difference?

Not knowing what else to do, Errol led Midnight to the merchant master and opted for the general honorific. “Excuse me, sir?”

The man rotated to face him, his bulk making the yellow and black horizontal stripes of his robes wave and distort around his middle. He looked like a giant bee. Errol hoped his smile would be misinterpreted.

It hadn't. The merchant curled his lip. “What do you want, boy?”

He leaned on his staff and tried to fix a confident grin on his face. Maybe the factor would think him experienced. “I'm looking for work as a caravan guard.”

The man laughed so hard Errol could feel the puffs of his mirth. Then the man's face hardened, though the redness of his laughter remained. “Get out of my way, boy. I have all the guards I need, and I don't have time for jokes.”

He moved to turn away, but Errol stepped around and forced the man to face him again. “Do you know of any caravans that
are
looking for guards?”

The man glared at him for a split second before the look melted away to be replaced by a smile as ingratiating as it was false. He tapped a sausage-like finger against his chin. “I think I heard Naaman Ru say he needed a new guard or two. He's got a couple that like to drink too much.” The merchant master leaned toward him, draping a thick arm around his shoulders. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “You can't have that, you know. What if the train gets attacked while the men are drunk?” He clucked. “That would never do.”

“Where do I find him?” Errol itched to shake the man's arm off. He didn't trust the fat bee any farther than he could haul him, but he couldn't afford to let an opportunity, any opportunity, to get to Erinon undetected pass him by.

A striped arm pointed across the chaos. “Ru's at the far end of the camp. Look for purple and black diamonds.” The grin returned, looking almost savage. “He has some strange ideas
about how he picks his guards, but that should be no trouble for you. I can see you're an experienced fighting man.”

Errol nodded, certain the man must be making sport of him and doubting any such merchant existed. Not one of the flags that fluttered weakly in the breeze bore a diamond pattern, purple or otherwise.

Fifteen minutes later, still walking with Midnight trailing behind in the direction he'd been sent, he began to hope there was no such man. The buildings and camps on this side of the town reeked of petty and not so petty crime. Men stared at his horse and belongings with hungry looks, and more than one fingered belt daggers as they did so. Errol paused just long enough to put the knobblocks on his staff. The looks continued, but the faces appeared more wary.
Good
. Right then he only wanted to get back to the better side of Longhollow. If he had to ride alone to Erinon, so be it.

Then he saw it. Purple and black diamonds on a yellow background waved over the teeming masses. He took a breath, like a diver about to plunge into water, and elbowed his way through the press toward the man whose tunic matched the flag in every detail. As he narrowed the distance, the smell of newly tanned hides assaulted him, and he fought to keep from gagging.

Guards of every description lounged about the site. A man with a puckered scar running down the side of his face stalked among the wagons kicking any guard who appeared to be sleeping. Many of those struck made a brief show of attentiveness before returning to their half-lidded somnolence. Errol almost turned back, convinced he should try his luck elsewhere, but the man in purple and black noticed him and beckoned to him with a smile.

He led his horse toward the caravan master, a man whose dark hair and coloring marked him as a Basqu. Unlike the other caravan masters he'd seen, this one wore a sword. Errol stopped short of the weapon's reach. “A man in yellow and black stripes told me you might be looking for a new guard.”

A smile blossomed beneath the caravan master's mustache. “Ah, that would have been Orbeck. I'm Naaman Ru.” At Errol's nod he continued. “I already have a full complement of guards, but I'm always looking to improve the quality of my protection.” Ru's gaze wandered away from Errol's eyes and stopped at his hip. “Where's your sword?”

Errol hefted the staff, tapped it against the ground twice. “I use this.”

This earned him a lift of Ru's brows, and the man caressed the hilt of the blade strapped to his side. “I find it easier to kill someone if I have something sharp.”

“If I have to kill someone, I can do it just as well with my staff.” He shrugged, trying to appear confident. “A crushed windpipe may not be as clean as a thrust to the heart, but it accomplishes the same thing.” He gripped the staff, hoping his face didn't betray the sudden racing in his veins. What had he gotten himself into?

Ru seemed to enjoy his answer. The man's eyes lit with pleasure. “Well spoken. What's your name?”

Errol licked his lips. “Call me Stone.” He bit his cheek, frustrated by the slip, but he doubted anyone outside of Callowford would know his last name. In fact most of the people in his village didn't seem to be aware that he even had a full name, but Rale's admonishment against giving away information needlessly still rung in his ears.

“So, another orphan looks to make his way in the world. I had a man named Wood for a while and another named Tanner. All right, Stone,” Ru said. “If you want to become one of my guards, all you have to do is prove that you're better than the least of them.”

Naaman smiled, enjoying Errol's confusion. “Here in Ru's caravan the guards fight to establish their position.” He pointed to the man with the puckered scar on his cheek. “See him? He's the first. There are fifteen in all.” Ru lifted his shoulders. “All you have to do is beat the fifteenth and you're hired.”

He pivoted on one heel. “Rokha! Rokha, where are you?”

A woman, tall, lithe, yet muscled through the shoulders, stepped between a pair of wagons. “What do you want? I'm not supposed to be on duty for another two hours.” The voice wore the same traces of Basqu accent that Ru's did.

But the woman's eyes and dark glossy hair marked her as Merakhi.

Ru sketched a mocking bow toward Errol. “We have a candidate. Who's fifteenth this week?”

She pointed. “Him? What's wrong with you? He probably doesn't even shave yet.”

Ru lifted his arms in an exaggerated shrug. “Who am I to turn away a lad seeking adventure and employment?”

The woman snorted, then turned her dark-eyed gaze to Errol once more. “More like he's on the run for dealing falsely with some lord's daughter.” She looked him over the way horse traders examined a prospective buy. “Yes. Skinny little girls like skinny, pretty-faced boys.” She shot an inscrutable look at the caravan master that Ru missed. “We don't want this one.”

Errol stepped forward. Rokha threatened to scuttle his chance to join Ru's caravan. “Who's fifteenth? I mean to join up with a caravan headed to the capital, if not this one, then some other.”

The woman's eyes hardened, and Errol's skin pebbled with remembered insanity. “Loman Eck.” She spat, then smiled at Ru's sudden consternation. “You still want to let the boy fight? You know the constable is just itching for some excuse to take you in.”

The merchant licked his lips, disappointment plain on his face, as if he'd been promised a sumptuous meal and then deprived of it. He chewed on his lower lip. With a smile, he straightened. “Rokha, fetch Loman. Make sure he understands not to kill the boy. I make it your duty to prevent it.”

Rokha shot the caravan master a look of pure disgust. “Have you told him the rules?” Rokha asked. At a shake from Ru, she turned to Errol. “The contestants fight until one surrenders or is disabled.” She stepped toward Errol, and her voice became soft, dangerous. “Eck prefers the latter. He fights with
punja
sticks.”

Errol's incomprehension must have showed. She took him by the elbow, guided him away from Ru. “Punja sticks have a heavy knob on the end. Eck is as stupid and mean as they come. He's hard to put down, and he likes hitting his opponents on the head before they have a chance to surrender. The last man to lose to Eck still can't remember his own name. Go find a different caravan.”

He met Rokha's eyes even as the blood dropped from his head to his stomach. “I need to get to Erinon, and traveling as a caravan guard is the best way. Thanks for looking out for me. Go get Eck.”

She snarled, baring her teeth. “Fool boy. I don't care what Eck does to you, but if he kills you, that fat constable will keep us here while he investigates your death. Lost time means lost money.” Her voice dropped. “Who are you running from, boy?”

Errol turned away from her question, ready to appeal to Ru. Warring emotions chased across the caravan master's face. Rokha's words had struck a chord with him, stoking some caution or fear.

Something needed to be done. “Here.” He handed her Midnight's reins. “I need to warm up.” He took his staff, checked the knobblocks at each end, and took a few steps to put him out of striking distance of Ru and the woman.