Forging the Sword (The Farsala Trilogy) (41 page)

Jiaan paid her no further attention. There didn’t seem to be anyone in the kitchen now. The only light came from the banked cookfires. The long tables were clear, except for the racks of gleaming knives.

Most of Jiaan’s concentration was fixed on listening for his men, the last of whom were still coming up the stair when the guard said sharply, “Wait! How did you all get so wet?”

Jiaan let go of Soraya and spun, but his men were already taking care of it. The nearest of them swung his fist, but the guard had stopped them because he was wary—he leaped back, shouting, and bumped into a rack of pans. It swayed.

Jiaan could see the idea come to the man, almost as if time had slowed, giving Jiaan leisure to note all that happened around him. The guard’s whistle was tucked into his belt—he didn’t have time to draw both it and his sword, but this …

“Alarm!” the guard cried. One of his hands went to his sword hilt, the other pulled the top of the rack toward him. “Alarm! Intruders! Enem—”

The heavy fist of one of Jiaan’s soldiers took him square on the chin, flinging him back—but his hand, still clenched on the rack, pulled it down on top of him.

The smash of breaking crockery was bad enough, but the terrible din as the iron pots and kettles bounced onto the floor was far worse. According to Hama there would be someone posted near enough to have heard the guard’s shouts.

“Run!” Jiaan commanded. Snatching up Soraya’s arm again he set the example, weaving in and out of the tables like a bubble in a millstream until they reached the kitchen’s outer doors.

“We’ll get farther if we look like soldiers,” said Jiaan. “Hold ranks as long as you can, but if someone tries to stop us, get yourselves out! Understand?”

His men, still sorting themselves into the deci’s unfamiliar marching order, muttered assent. Jiaan had no time for more. He opened the door and started out, his prisoner held properly between the two men who marched behind him. The rope that had bound her wrists was gone, but if she clasped her hands in front of her, no one would notice that unless they examined her closely. They still looked like a Hrum troop escorting a prisoner—as long as no one drew near enough to smell them.

But why would they be escorting a prisoner out of the palace grounds?

“Why are we taking you away from the palace?” he asked Soraya.

“How should I… wait, I’ve got it. There are witnesses in the city who’ll confirm my identity.”

She repeated it in Hrum. Jiaan practiced it twice under his breath before asking, “Why don’t the witnesses come here to—”

“Hey!” It was another patrol, jogging toward them. Just as Jiaan began to panic, their decimaster called, “Did you hear something?”

Jiaan opened his mouth to deny it, then inspiration seized him. “Yes! I think over there!”

He pointed at an angle past the kitchen. The guard they’d tackled would be rousing soon, and the fewer patrols in the vicinity the better.

“Come on!” the patrol leader waved his men forward, breaking into a run. No one would expect a patrol escorting a prisoner to go with them.

“Not bad,” said Soraya. “But next time say, ‘Shouts and a crash. I think it came from over there.’” She repeated the phrases in Hrum.

Jiaan chose the most direct route to the wall. Forget the gates—if the alarm was raised, he’d never be able to talk his way
past the guards. They were only halfway through the gardens when a burst of whistles sounded behind them, shrilling and shrilling. Their cry was taken up by others, both near and distant.

“Sir?” one of his men asked uneasily.

“No,” said Jiaan, through gritted teeth. “We keep walking.”

His mind knew it was their best chance, though his body screamed for action, for speed.

Two more patrols ran past them, some distance away, giving Jiaan’s troop no more than a glance. The wall drew nearer, and nearer still. Jiaan’s heartbeat thundered through his body. They were only a few hundred yards from the wall when a shout rang out. “There! Them! Stop them!”

“Scatter!” Jiaan cried. They had planned this in advance, knowing that the Hrum instinctively stayed with their units, so to organize a pursuit that forced them to separate would take time. Jiaan grabbed Soraya’s elbow and took off once more, running all out for the low wall. Once she’d pulled up her long skirts, the lady didn’t slow him.

He glanced back and saw that one part of his plan had worked properly, for none of the patrol were pursuing his men as they fled in different directions. Instead, the whole troop was chasing Jiaan, who wore a decimaster’s insignia, and the girl, who was the other, clearly different member of their party. He reached up and cast off his helmet—it was too late to keep it from marking him, but at least
he was free of its weight. The patrol was gaining on them, but they weren’t near yet, and the low wall that bordered the palace grounds loomed before them.

In a way, low was a misnomer—the wall’s height ranged somewhere between four and five feet, depending on the slope of the terrain.

The lady Soraya was small and slim. Jiaan picked her up and threw her over the wall as if she were a child—frightened as he was, it wouldn’t have mattered if the wall had been twice that high.

Soraya squeaked in surprise to find herself airborne, and vanished from sight.

The hiss and smack of arrows on the stones sent Jiaan vaulting over the wall, hastening away almost before he landed on the other side. He found himself in a shop-lined street that he vaguely remembered led to a minor marketplace. Ordinarily it would have been nearly empty after dark, but tonight, the curfew relaxed for the festivities, there were still people abroad. Several of them stopped to stare at him and Soraya, and a few near the wall who had heard the sound of the arrows shouted a frightened warning.

The patrol must have fired low, Jiaan realized, to avoid sending arrows into the crowd. That was probably why they’d missed, and they hadn’t missed by much—an arrow shaft that had stuck in the hem of his cloak was knocking against his leg.

Soraya staggered to her feet and ran to his side. Jiaan put his
arm around her waist, pulling her into the crowd, for he knew the wall would slow their pursuers no more than it had them.

Soraya let him lead, since her attention and her quick fingers were focused on the buckles of his breastplate. Jiaan could feel them loosening. He pulled the pin that fastened the distinctive scarlet cloak and let it fall.

Some of the people in the street realized what was happening, and the crowd near the wall began to thicken as the first of the patrol vaulted over.

“Done,” said Soraya, and Jiaan felt the heavy steel part on one side like a clam’s shell. He worked his arm free and the breastplate dropped to the cobbles with a clang. He swiftly changed direction, walking up the street with most of the other pedestrians instead of directly away from the wall as he had been.

He heard shouts from the patrol as they shoved through the townsfolk who blocked their progress—and hopefully their view, as well. “Where are they?” was the most common question, and if the peddler was right about the mood of Setesafon’s citizens, they would get no answer.

Soraya had already shed her overrobe; now she struggled free of the damp underrobe and let it fall to the road. Beneath it she wore a peasant’s bright skirt and blouse, with a scarf around her waist. She pulled the scarf free and tied it over her hair.

A middle-aged man stopped for a moment, staring at the Hrum
tunic, trousers, and boots Jiaan still wore. They weren’t so different from the clothes worn by most Farsalan men, except for the drab color, but this man clearly recognized them.

His eyes shifted to the patrol, who were cursing in two languages as they tried to run through the crowded streets—in two directions, since they didn’t know which way Jiaan and Soraya had gone.

One shout would change that. Jiaan braced himself to run. The man grinned suddenly and slipped off his vest. Even in the dim light from the shops that remained open to take advantage of the festival, Jiaan could tell it was dark green, embroidered with red rams and yellow suns. The man handed it to Jiaan and turned away without a word, vanishing into the crowd.

Jiaan put on the vest, tucked Soraya’s hand through his arm as if she were his sweetheart instead of his sister, and continued toward the market—strolling now, for there was no need to run. Any member of that patrol could look right at them, and see nothing but a young craftsman who’d taken his girl out to the feast.

“It’s people like that,” said Soraya, “who make me wonder if he wasn’t right.”

“Who wasn’t right about what?” Jiaan asked.

There were tears in her eyes—something he didn’t remember ever having seen in his life. She took a deep breath and wiped her face briskly. “Never mind. We didn’t get the peddler out.”

“We couldn’t,” said Jiaan. “We’d have been caught for certain if we’d tried. We got the gold away—that’s what’s important.”

But as he spoke, he felt a pang of regret, so deep it surprised him. Perhaps it sprang from the thought of Nadi’s disappointment.

“Besides,” Jiaan went on, “he’ll be released when we win.” Was he trying to reassure Soraya or himself? “And we will win! We crippled Garren tonight. He can’t bring down Mazad without withdrawing so many troops that the whole country will rebel. We did it!”

“We did,” said the girl, and Jiaan heard the same fierce triumph in her voice. “Though I still wish …”

She didn’t have to finish the sentence. And despite his own reassurances, and the knowledge that Hrum law truly did forbid the torture of prisoners, it occurred to him that not all Hrum were like Patrius.

A
S THEY STOLE AWAY
the gold, one of Sorahb’s soldiers made some clumsy error and the Hrum captured him.

Sorahb wad sorely grieved, though he knew the Hrum did not kill their prisoners, and that if he won all thode they had taken as slaved would be returned. But Sorahb had reckoned without the desperate arrogance of the Hrum governor. Through their long fight the governor had come to know his enemy, and he saw how he might ude thid man, and Sorahb’s own honor, against him.

The governor sent out a proclamatwn challenging Sorahb to single combat, saying that if Sorahb dud not come to fight, the captured Farsalan soldier would die.

“This is a trap!” one of Sorahb’s officer’s told him. “He has no intention of fighting—he seeks to bring you out of hiding so you may be slain!”

“I know,” said Sorahb. “Yet sometimes a trap can be turned against the trapper.”

The officer frowned. “This is no tedt of the god’s deviding, Commander. He set you three tasks, and you’ve accomplished them all. Surely you need do nothing more.”

“You are right about the task,” Sorahb told him. “This is a test that men set for men. But even so, no man of honor could refuse it.”

So Sorahb strapped on his armor and went forth. And Azura watched, taking great pride in thid best loved of his creationd, who would not shrink from the tests of gods or men.

T
HE SUDDEN KICK
to his stomach brought Kavi out of a sound sleep gasping and choking. The man he sensed standing over him waited till he caught his breath. Till he rolled over and looked up, blinking in the torchlight.

“Where is the gold?” Garren demanded.

Half a dozen flippant responses along the lines of “You’ve lost something, have you?” flashed through Kavi’s mind, but one look at the governor’s face told Kavi that doing anything to annoy this man was a really bad idea.

“I don’t know.” It was the literal truth, but it still earned him a kick.

This time, braced for the blow, Kavi recovered more quickly.
There were no windows in his cell, for it was deep underground, but somehow it felt like nighttime. This impression was confirmed by the rich, ponderous robe Garren wore, draped in bands of Hrum scarlet. A Hrum governor’s formal garb? Surely he was assuming that title a bit prematurely. Had he just returned from making his speech to the populace to find that all his gold was gone? Good for Soraya and Jiaan!

Kavi’s heart sang with triumph, but he struggled to keep it out of his expression, assisted by his aching stomach. Garren-in-defeat would likely prove twice as dangerous as Garren-who-was-winning—and he had never been a good person to defy. There was no way Kavi could resist physically. Garren had brought a middle-aged decimaster and half a deci with him, along with a much younger centrimaster who carried pen and parchment and looked more nervous than someone of that rank should.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Kavi, regaining his breath. “I came here to offer some information, and then—”

“Don’t bother,” Garren interrupted him. “I won’t believe you. As soon as you smuggled yourself out of the siege camp we realized you we re working for Sorahb—which was confirmed when our assault on the gate failed.”

“But how could I know about—”

“Then you came to this palace, using a ruse to get past our guards,” Garren went on. “And shortly after you were captured,
another known agent of Sorahb’s … who, come to think of it, escaped from our custody when you were present in our camp. Anyway, she followed you into the palace, though I must admit her ruse was a clever one.”