Forging the Sword (The Farsala Trilogy) (37 page)

With any luck he wouldn’t encounter anyone who remembered him at all. The Wheel seemed to be turning his way, because two sets of Hrum troops passed through the gate as he waited. The password for the day was “today.” Kavi wondered if tomorrows password was “tomorrow” and fought down a giggle that would have been far too nervous.

It wasn’t long before the watch officer himself returned with the runner, who led Kavi off through the maze of low hedges toward the gleaming marble spread of the palace. “Palace complex” would have been a better description: More than a dozen buildings sprawled over the huge meadow that ended at the low cliff that
divided the wealthy sections of Setesafon from the massive city below.

“What’s your information about, peddler?” his guide asked, as soon as they were out of earshot of the gate. “If it’s really confidential you needn’t tell me, but you’ll reach the person you need to talk to more swiftly if I have some idea who that is.”

“It’s not being secret,” said Kavi, “though there is some urgency about it. Last night in the tavern where I’m staying, I—oh, no you don’t!”

He retrieved the lead rope Duckie had pulled from his hand, and dragged the mule back onto the path—away from the wide lake, where the swans, who belonged there, had been joined by a rabble of wild ducks and geese.

The lake was landscaped where the shore touched the palace grounds, but the banks turned into a reedy, muddy mess where it bordered the merchants’ quarter, even though there was a path beside it.

The officer watched Duckie yearning toward the water. “Is your mule thirsty?”

“No.” Kavi sighed. “And it’s too long a tale to tell. But my news concerns the committee’s tour today. I overheard some men talking about showing the senators … ‘a proper welcome’ was how they phrased it. Shouting insults, throwing filth and such. Nothing too serious, but I was thinking the governor might like a warning.”

“Yes indeed,” said the officer, his brows rising. “I’ll take you to the officer in charge of the committees security. But first we’ll stable that mule.”

The stables, like the kitchen, were between the first and second ring of guards, so Kavi learned no further passwords on the way. He removed Duckie’s pack and latched the mule into a comfortable stall. There was only one groom, a woman who looked to be near Nadi’s age, tending the whole place by herself, since the rest were out putting up pavilions in the town square. Kavi warned her not to let Duckie anywhere near the lake unless she kept a tight hold on the mule’s tether. He thought he smelled the smoky, metallic scent of a forge nearby, but he didn’t ask. Kavi was well satisfied, despite his impatience with the delay. Surely the head of the committee’s security would be several layers in.

Shortly after they left the stable, they passed through the cordon of guards that surrounded the buildings of the palace, the watch officer passing through with only a brisk nod and the word “salute.” If Kavi hadn’t been listening for passwords he might not have noticed it, since the guard saluted as they went by.

Now they approached the main buildings of the palace. Kavi had seen the Hall of Whispers, which swept down the hillside and was used for public events. Like any visitor to the city, he had looked over the low wall at the gardens. He had never been this close to the palace itself.

Even as he thought about the hardworking farmers and craftsmen whose taxes had paid for it, Kavi had to admit that the buildings were beautiful. From a distance the marble all seemed to be a soft, golden tan; up close he saw that many different kinds of stone, in varying shades, made up the arches, the patterns on the portico floor, and the sweeping stairs leading to the carved, inlaid doors. Bronze vines twined up the pillars, and Kavi suspected that in the summer the metal spirals would serve as trellises for real vines. Even now, when only the first green shoots were breaking through last year’s dead leaves, the dancing fountains made the gardens feel alive.

The back of Kavi’s neck prickled as they approached the formal entrance of what had to be the gahn’s—no, the governor’s residence. If he encountered Garren, coming back from the privy, say …

But the commander led him past the grand entrance, and his pounding heart slowed again.

“Where are we going?” he asked. “I mean, which building?”

“That one.” The watch commander gestured to a rambling structure that seemed to drift over the low rise in three graceful levels. “The servants say that was where most of the old ruler’s nobles and his high-up guests stayed. Now it’s mostly officers’ quarters, but there was plenty of room for the committee and their households as well—and by Dagranas hand, it’s fancy enough.”

“I see,” said Kavi, calming himself with the reminder that all the officers who knew him from Mazad were either still in Mazad or hunting bandits in Dugaz. Not for the first time, he was grateful that Garren was a vengeful fool.

His nerves had quieted enough that he was amused instead of annoyed when the watch commander led him around the building to a small door that was obviously the servants’ entrance—who’d ever heard of spies going in the front door, after all? Servants’ entrance or not, it was guarded. One man stood on the stoop at the top of the short staircase, and another was posted a bit further down the wall—far enough apart that no enemy could approach them at the same time, each was able to see whatever happened to the other, and both of them had the slim brass tubes of whistles tucked into their belts.

It was good security. But all Kavi had to do was listen for the passwords as he lied his way in and out. Getting to the vault was Jiaan’s job.

The watch commander climbed briskly up the steps. “Mile,” he told the guard. It was a Hrum distance measurement, meaning roughly a quarter of a league: a good password, for it had no Faran equivalent.

The guard saluted, the commander stood aside, and as Kavi started up the stairs, the door opened and a man emerged. He wore the tunic of a Hrum officer, with the insignia of a surgeon embroidered
on the front, since surgeons wore no breastplate. He walked down several steps before he saw Kavi and stopped, his eyes widening in astonishment.

He was one of the surgeons Kavi had dealt with when he’d smuggled poisoned beer into the siege camp surrounding Mazad last summer.

Even as Kavi cursed the fools who’d told him that Garren had shipped all the men involved in that debacle off to the swamps, even as he cursed this turn of the Wheel, spinning him down into the Flame when he’d been so close to success, he pinned a delighted smile on his face and climbed the steps.

“Surgeon! I’m glad to see you. I didn’t expect to find you here.”

The blank surprise on the man’s face gave way to alarm. He stiffened, stumbling back a step, drawing breath to shout.

Kavi leapt up the stairs and punched him in the stomach.

“He’s sick!” he exclaimed, as the surgeon doubled over. It wouldn’t confuse them for more than a few seconds, as they tried to reconcile his words with what they’d seen, but those seconds carried Kavi up the last step. The watch commander was staring at the gasping surgeon, so Kavi punched the commander in the nose with all the force he could muster, shoved him into the guard’s startled grip, and pushed both of them down the stairs.

They fell together, taking the surgeon with them, their armor clattering on the stone.

Two long strides took Kavi to the edge of the stoop. Even as he swung his leg over the low railing and dropped into the flower beds below, he heard the shriek of the second guard’s whistle.

He ran for the corner of the building, not even caring about direction, then across an open space and around another corner. Other whistles added themselves to the growing chorus behind him, but he had a few moments, perhaps. One fast glance at the half-open courtyard between the two buildings told him that no one was watching him now. He made a final dash to a stand of bushes—a species unknown to Kavi—with handfuls of dead leaves still clinging to their thick, tangled branches.

Kavi worked his way into the bushes as deeply as possible and pulled handfuls of leaves over his legs and tunic, using the tips Hama had given him about hiding:
Try to break up the shape of your body—if something isn’t man-shaped, folks Likely won’t see it. Above all else …

A deci of guardsmen burst into the courtyard, running toward the shrilling whistles, swords drawn. Kavi froze, his hands buried in the mulch. His face was too clean, his head was too high, and he thought that one booted foot was sticking out, but …
above all else, hold still!

Only his eyes moved as he watched the running guards through the thin screen of twigs. He didn’t dare breathe, for fear the leaves would rustle and betray him. He didn’t turn his head as
the guards raced out of his field of vision, allowing only his ears to track their progress as they ran … right on by, without—as far as Kavi could tell—so much as a glance in his direction.

His taut nerves screamed for movement, but he stayed where he was till they were well past the corner of the building before he crawled out of the bushes. He brushed bits of leaves and mud from his clothes as he walked, tidying himself as much as he could. The leaves came off, but the mud stuck.

There was nothing he could do about that, however, and now it was time for him to take a bit of advice that he’d once given Hama. He moved toward the stables, briskly, like a man with work to do, but not running like a fugitive to draw all men’s eyes.

He couldn’t get out. As surely as if he stood beside the man, he knew what the watch commander was doing now—sending runners with his description to all the stationed guardsmen, alerting the patrols. But if Kavi couldn’t get out himself, he knew someone who might.

He wasn’t sure when the plan had come to him—it was simply there, complete, and maybe even possible if he had a bit of time.

Kavi nodded to a guard a few dozen yards away. The man was scanning the grounds for invaders and assassins; he had no interest in the grubby-looking servant who went into the stable.

The groom looked up from a bridle she was examining. “That didn’t take long.”

“No.” Kavi smiled at her. “It didn’t.”

When she rose to lead him to Duckie’s stall, he struck the back of her head with his fist. It hurt his hand, and it wasn’t enough to knock her unconscious either, but she fell to her hands and knees. Before she could summon her scattered wits, Kavi was seated on her back, pulling one arm up behind her, setting his knife against her throat.

“Make one sound and I cut,” he whispered. The vicious hiss in his own voice startled him, and he felt the vibration through the knife blade as she swallowed.

She made no move to fight as Kavi tied her wrists behind her back and gagged her with some fairly clean rags from a box of items used to polish tack. Finally he shoved her into one of the empty stalls and latched the gate. The woman turned to face him, her expression stiff with anger and fear.

“Keep quiet and you live,” Kavi told her. “Start making noise of any kind and I’ll come back and silence you the only way I can.” His mind said he was bluffing, that he couldn’t really kill her, but in his heart …

Fear grew in the groom’s face, and she nodded. Kavi turned away, fighting down a mad desire to go back and apologize. He couldn’t afford to take either the risk or the time.

The smithy was where he had guessed it would be, not only next to the stables but accessible through a door in an adjoining
wall. It was even emptier than the stables; presumably Garren had drafted all the outdoor servants to prepare for the festivities in the town square. But the fire was there, as it always was in a forge, banked and needing only the breath of the bellows to bring it to life.

Kavi chose an awl with a long, fine point and left it heating among the coals while he went back to the stable for Duckie’s halter. He should have brought the halter with him when he went looking for the smithy in the first place, but he hadn’t thought of it. He was too frightened, his thoughts skittering like startled mice, and he couldn’t seem to quiet his racing heart—and the awl would need time to heat, anyway.

He looked in on the groom on his way back to the forge. The woman had seated herself in the rear of the stall, still gagged, still frightened into obedience.

Kavi examined Duckie’s halter as he went back to the forge. The lead was made of rope, no use to him, but the headstall, the cheek pieces, the chin strap, and the nose piece were all strips of thick leather. The point of the awl was already cherry red—it was small, so it heated quickly, and the wooden handle would protect his hand.

Kavi picked up the awl and burned the letters
T O D A
into the leather before the point cooled too much to write—it was as fast to chill as it was to heat. As the awl warmed among the embers, Kavi thought of another piece of information his messenger needed to carry. When he finished burning in the
Y
, he added the numeral
I
after it, and managed to imprint the
S
and
A
of “salute” on the other cheek strap before the awl cooled.

He thought about trying to scratch or press the letters into the leather instead of burning them, but if his plan worked, the leather would get wet and muddy before anyone had a chance to examine it—and they’d likely be too upset to notice details. The letters would have to be big and dark to catch anyone’s attention.

Two more reheatings, as he listened to the growing sounds of disturbance outside the smithy, gave him the rest of “salute,” the numeral
2
, and the Hrum word “mile.” He didn’t have enough heat for the numeral
3
, but if they couldn’t figure that one out on their own, they deserved for the Hrum to win.

A surge of resentment shook him. Why should he sacrifice his best chance of escape to help a pair of deghans who’d done nothing for him but threaten to kill him when they finished using him?

But he wasn’t doing it for them, and there was no time for heart-searching now. The Hrum would be searching the outbuildings soon, and not in a metaphorical sense either.

Kavi dashed back into the stable and pulled the harness over Duckie’s nose and ears, pushing aside the thought that this might be the last time he’d stroke his friend’s satiny muzzle. This night’s worst—likely—result would be for him to end up a Hrum slave alongside the deghans he’d betrayed. And if Jiaan and Soraya succeeded in getting their hands on the gold, that wouldn’t last long.