The Unwilling Warlord (10 page)

Chapter Twelve

His Majesty Phenvel III looked distinctly bored, but Sterren pressed on with the speech he had prepared, trying not to stumble over any of the unfamiliar words. He had picked up a few choice Semmat phrases from Agor and Lar, and did not want to ruin their effect by mispronouncing them.

“It seems clear,” he said, “that if Semma has won so many of its wars, and yet neither treacherous Ophkar nor perfidious Ksinallion has ever resorted to magic to defeat us, then Ophkar and Ksinallion cannot have many magicians available. If they had magicians, surely they would have used them rather than admit defeat! Therefore, they will be unable to counter whatever magic we use. One really good wizard could probably turn the tide of this next conflict — a competent demonologist might be even better, if one could bring oneself to deal with such dark forces . . .”

“No demons,” the king interrupted.

“Your Majesty?”

“No demons, no demonologists,” Phenvel said, emphasizing his words with a wagging finger. “No sorcerers, either. We’ll use good, clean magic if we need to use magic at all.”

“Oh, we do need to, your Majesty,” Sterren replied quickly. “I swear that my own inexperience and the sorry state that my poor senile great-uncle left the army in leave us no other choice.” He mildly regretted insulting his dead relative, but after all, the man was dead, and he really had left the army in sad shape.

“All right,” the king said. “But no demonology and no sorcery. Is that clear?”

“Oh, yes, your Majesty!” Sterren grinned with sudden relief. Up until that moment he had thought the king was not listening, and would reject the whole idea out of hand.

“It might be entertaining to have some real magic around here,” Phenvel said. “Agor’s all very well, with his lights and voices, but I’d like to see something new. Do you think you can find a wizard who can fly? I’ve heard that some of them can do that; is it true?”

“Oh, yes, your Majesty,” Sterren assured him. “I’ve seen it myself, in Ethshar’s great . . . in Ethshar.” That was true enough. He had meant to say that he had seen wizards fly in the Arena, but he didn’t know the Semmat word. He had also seen his warlock-master fly. It was not a particularly rare or valuable talent.

“Good. Find a magician who can fly.”

Sterren nodded. He knew better than to argue, though he could see little military value in the ability to levitate.

“Yes, your Majesty. Then may I have a letter of credit against the treasury, to show that I . . .”

“No letter!” Phenvel snapped. “Do you think I’m a fool, to give you free run of my money like that? No, I’ll give you a pound of gold and a few jewels — I understand that wizards like jewels. That should be enough, I should think.”

The bottom dropped out of Sterren’s stomach, but he did not dare argue at this point, for fear the king would change his mind and cancel the whole project.

A pound of gold, though, would barely buy a single untraceable death spell back in Ethshar, let alone magic on a scale to be of real military value. Powerful wizards did not work as cheaply as the pitiful village witches and herbalists out here on the edge of the World.

So much for borrowing against the entire royal treasury to hire a squad of hotshot magicians from the Wizards’ Quarter! He would be lucky to find one really good wizard at that price; more likely he would have to settle for a few failed apprentices.

“I do like the idea of getting a few new magicians around here,” Phenvel mused, “I really do. But no sorcerers, and no demonologists, not even a little one.”

Sterren nodded again. The king was repeating himself, but that was hardly unusual. Nobody had ever dared point out such little slips, so the king made them frequently.

He was trying to phrase a request to be excused, when Phenvel said, “You’ll need to have a guard along, of course, and I think Lady Kalira should accompany you. Does that suit you?”

“Very much, your Majesty,” Sterren lied. He had hardly dared to admit it even to himself, but he had had the idea of taking this opportunity to simply vanish in the streets of Ethshar in the back of his mind right from the start. Guards would make that much more difficult — but perhaps no more difficult than buying the services of a competent magician for a pound of gold and a few nondescript gems.

It appeared he was still doomed.

At the very least, though, he would be able to revisit his homeland before he died. He had been fighting off homesickness for the last day or two, ever since the possibility of returning to Ethshar had begun to seem real.

“Good,” the king said. “You’re excused, then, and I wish you a safe journey.”

Sterren bowed, and backed out of the audience cham­ber.

In the corridor outside he straightened up, brushed at his cut-down black tunic, and then stood, staring stupidly at the door, for a good three minutes.

What was he supposed to do now? Just turn and go? How was he to collect the gold and gems, or find Lady Kalira? Who was to choose the guards he would take with him?

Kings were not much on detail work, he supposed. It was up to him. Unless someone told him otherwise, he assumed that he would have to organize the expedition himself.

He glanced around. The only people in the antechamber with him were the two doorkeepers, and he knew better than to ask one of them to leave his post.

Sterren had no servants of his own, and always felt uneasy ordering the castle servants about, since they always seemed to have plenty of work to do without running his errands, but he was the warlord, commander of the Sem­man army, and his soldiers never seemed to do anything at all unless he was there egging them on. He headed for the barracks.

As usual, half a dozen soldiers were dicing in the corner. The barracks was otherwise empty.

“You men!” he called.

Two of them looked up, without much interest.

“Settle up, the game’s over. Right now.”

The two glanced at each other, and two more looked up, startled.

“Now!” Sterren bellowed.

Reluctantly, the game broke up, and the six men came sloppily to attention, facing him.

“All right, you, Kather — go find the Lady Kalira, and tell her I must speak to her as soon as possible. Let her choose the time and place, but make plain that it’s very urgent, and then come back here immediately and tell me what she said.”

Kather stood silently, accepting this.

“Go!”

Startled, Kather nodded. “Yes, my lord,” he muttered, as he started off.

“You, Terrin,” Sterren said to the next, “go find the Lord Treasurer, and tell him that I need a pound of gold and a dozen of the finest gems in the treasury, no later than dinnertime tonight, by the king’s express order. Arrange a time and place for me to pick them up. If he needs to check with the king first, I have no objection, so long as he’s quick about it. If he doubts your authority, bring him back here to speak to me.”

Terrin, having learned from Kather’s experience, es­sayed a quick bow, said, “As you wish, my lord,” and departed.

Sterren looked over the remaining four. He knew them all slightly, but only slightly, and did not think much of any of them.

“Gror,” he said, choosing the best of the lot, “I need a party for a voyage to Ethshar — a peaceful expedition, recruiting aid for the coming war. Who would you suggest?”

“Uh . . .” Gror blinked. “My lord, I . . . I don’t know.”

“You could call for volunteers,” another soldier, Az­daram by name, suggested.

“I could,” Sterren agreed.

He considered the idea.

He almost immediately saw an obvious drawback, and prepared to discard the whole notion.

Then he caught himself.

The problem with calling for volunteers was that he might well wind up with men only interested in a diversion from the tedious life of a Semman soldier. It was entirely possible that some of them would desert at the first opportunity . . .

He stopped his chain of thought at that point and backed up.

They might desert. The guard intended to keep him from deserting might themselves desert.

That might not be good for Semma, but it would, on the other hand, be a gift from the gods for him, personally. If his escort were to vanish, he could easily lose himself in the streets of the city, and leave Semma to fend for itself.

It probably wouldn’t do much worse without him than with him, really. He was hardly a great warlord, after all.

He tried to think what would happen if the guards did desert, and he, too, slipped away.

What would Lady Kalira do? What would the others, back here in Semma do — the king, the queen, the princesses, his officers and men, even Agor the theurgist?

Well, the officers and men would presumably go out, fight, and lose. Some would die, the rest surrender. Semma would probably be divided up between Ophkar and Ksin­allion, and the royal family sent off into exile somewhere. Agor would almost certainly find employment elsewhere, without much difficulty.

That wasn’t so awful, was it? It seemed that a few soldiers were going to die anyway, no matter what happened, so he refused to worry about that. As for exiling the royal family, it was hard to imagine King Phenvel in exile, but on the other hand, it was hard to imagine him doing much of anything. He seemed born to be an incompetent monarch; the only way he could survive the way he was was if other people had no choice about putting up with him.

Princess Shirrin would find exile terribly romantic and exciting, Sterren was sure. Princess Lura would think it was fun. Princess Nissitha would be mortified. Queen Ashassa would take it calmly in stride.

The young princes he didn’t know well enough to say, but he suspected they would rather enjoy a change of scene.

As for divvying up Semma, would anyone but the de­posed aristocrats care? In his sixnights in Semma he had never seen any sign that the peasants cared a whit which king they paid taxes to.

There might be practical problems in slipping away, though. Lady Kalira would be in Ethshar when he deserted, and she would probably try to track him down. She might even succeed, eventually — though surely not before the war was lost.

What if she found him?

Well, it was obvious that the aristocracy of Semma would not be at all happy with Sterren, Ninth Warlord. He would, beyond question, be guilty of treason under their laws. In all probability, any Semman noble who ever found him would try to kill him on sight.

That was not really a very appealing long-term prospect, but then, he didn’t have to stay in Ethshar of the Spices. He could move on to Ethshar of the Sands or Ethshar of the Rocks, or even head north to the Baronies of Sardiron. The nobility of Semma would not be likely to find him; the World was a big place.

The Small Kingdoms would be too dangerous, though; the Semman aristocracy, all two or three hundred of them, were likely to scatter through the region, sponging off various relatives and allies.

He’d want to take a new name, of course.

It occurred to him that the Semmans knew his true name. That was awkward. That meant that they would always be able to find him if they could afford a good wizard, or even a very good witch. Warlocks didn’t use true names; neither did sorcerers, so far as he knew.

Theurgists sometimes did, and the Semmans were familiar with theurgy. That was how they had found him in the first place.

And worse, couldn’t demonologists use true names?

If the Semmans were determined to track him down and kill him, and had the sense to hire magicians, they could do it.

Desertion looked considerably less appealing than it had a moment before.

On the other hand, Semmans weren’t accustomed to magic, and if Sterren could keep the gold and gems with him when he slipped away, perhaps he could buy himself some decent magical protections.

Could a true name be changed?

He didn’t really think it could, but he didn’t know.

He realized he was standing there looking stupid in front of his four men, and he cut off his thoughts abruptly.

“All right, then, I’m calling for volunteers — do any of you four want to sail to Ethshar?”

The four looked at each other, and then one by one, answered.

“No.”

“No, my lord.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Not really. Not sail. I don’t trust boats.”

Sterren was not surprised.

“All right, then, I want all four of you to separate and go find my other soldiers, all of them, and ask for volunteers. Then meet me back here, with the volunteers. And if you don’t find enough volunteers, I’ll take you four, in­stead. Understood?”

“Yes, my lord,” they chorused raggedly. One by one, they straggled away on this unwanted errand. One of them, Arra Varrin’s son, thought to bow as they headed for the stairs.

Sterren watched them go, and pretended not to hear the grumbling that began as soon as they were out the door.

When they were out of sight, he sank down onto a convenient bed and began thinking, planning, and weighing possibilities.

Could he really slip away in the streets of Ethshar?

Did he want to?

Which death was more certain — commanding a grossly-outnumbered army, or being an escaped traitor?

That was a very hard question to answer, and it was one he had to consider carefully. He had no interest in dying.

He had plenty of time to consider the question, of course. He would have the entire journey to Akalla, and then the voyage across the Gulf of the East, to decide what to do and make his plans.

Of course, he knew he might never have a chance to slip away — his soldiers might not desert, he might be closely watched at all times. Still, he also knew he would be thinking about an escape all the way to Ethshar.

Chapter Thirteen

As the rooftops of Ethshar grew slowly nearer Sterren leaned on the ship’s rail and stared at them hungrily. He could smell the city as well as see it, a scent of smoke and spices with an undertone of sewage, a wonderfully familiar odor that he hadn’t smelled in far too long. He had never realized, until this moment, that the city had a distinctive odor — he had never left the city until being dragged off to Semma, so the smell had always been there, unnoticed.

Now, though, he knew that he had missed that smell during his absence, that to him that scent meant home, as the salt spray of the ocean or the hot rotting-grass smell of Semma never could.

To his left, Dogal the Large — Dogal d’Gra, that is — sneezed.

To his right, Alder the Very Large — Alder d’Yoon — said, “May the gods keep you well!”

Dogal snuffled in reply, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and then spat at the ocean below.

Alder, apparently interpreting Dogal’s response as a negative one, said, “Well, at least we’re finally here. Not much longer now before we’re off this damned boat.”

“Except that we’ve got to sail back,” Dogal muttered.

“But going back, the wind should be with us, rather than against us,” Alder said.

Sterren took no part in the conversation, but he thought that it was certainly true that the wind had been against them. He understood now why Lady Kalira, on her previous voyage to Ethshar, had bought herself a storm from the weather-wizards in Akalla of the Diamond, and why she had wanted to spend two-thirds of his meager hoard of treasure on another one for this trip — after, of course, she had used up most of her own resources in hiring a ship that would sail when and where she wanted, rather than one that would treat the Semman party as ordinary passengers.

Sterren had absolutely forbidden wasting their funds on a storm; the little gold he had would not really be enough as it was, he was sure. He had refused to listen to any argument from Lady Kalira; it was easy enough to simply stop thinking in Semmat, so that her words became meaningless noise. His mind was made up.

Of course, he had not realized that the prevailing winds of the season were from the northwest, and that it would take their chartered ship a month and a day to tack up the Gulf of the East to Ethshar of the Spices. To make any progress to the northwest at all against the cold, steady autumn wind, they had had to beat back and forth, zigzagging across the Gulf from one side to the other.

The only good thing about the delay was that it had given him considerable time to practice his Semmat.

Sterren was heartily sick of the cramped shipboard life and the ship’s constant wallowing and rolling, and his feet were almost itching at the thought of walking on dry land again.

The fact that the land in question was his homeland, and that he might yet have a chance to slip away to freedom, made waiting all the harder.

Of course, he might not have a chance to slip away. Lady Kalira, when informed of the expedition, had insisted on bringing the two soldiers she most trusted, Alder and Dogal, and had gotten royal backing for this demand. Sterren had had no choice but to yield.

He thought that Alder and Dogal liked him, at least slightly, but he was also quite certain they would not willingly let him desert and leave Semma to its fate.

This was unfortunate, since the other four in the party might well desert, themselves. They were genuine volunteers — Kendrik, Alar, Zander, and Bern were their names, and Sterren was not impressed with any of them.

He knew Kendrik’s type from his gambling days; the man was obviously convinced that he was smarter than anybody else, and only needed the right opportunity to make himself rich, famous, and powerful. Semma certainly didn’t provide many such opportunities, Sterren had to admit — but he suspected that Kendrik wouldn’t find them in Ethshar, either, because he wasn’t anywhere near as clever as he thought he was.

People like Kendrik had been among the most generous suppliers of Sterren’s funds before his abrupt departure from Ethshar’s taverns — but they were also bad losers and very likely to accuse him of cheating. Sterren didn’t like Kendrik any better than he had liked those old opponents.

Alar appeared to have volunteered just because somebody asked him. He was easy-going, not too bright, and highly suggestible. Sterren suspected that he had wound up a soldier at somebody else’s suggestion, and that he might well desert along with one of the others because he wouldn’t see any reason not to, until it was too late.

Sterren might have suggested it to Alar himself, if Alder and Dogal hadn’t been present. Once they were ashore he might well make a few suggestive comments in Alar’s hearing. For now, though, he was keeping Alar close at hand. He didn’t really like the poor fool, but such people could be useful to have around — they could be talked into doing all the unpleasant tasks one inevitably encountered.

Zander had joined the army to get away from a boring life as a peasant farmer. He had volunteered for this trip to get away from a boring life as a soldier in Semma Castle. Ethshar, whatever its flaws, certainly wouldn’t look boring to him, and he could easily decide against returning to his boring old homeland.

Sterren thought Zander was pretty boring, himself.

Bern was a mystery; he had said nothing beyond the necessary minimum for politeness ever since he answered the call for volunteers. Sterren had absolutely no idea what to expect from Bern — desertion, loyalty, insanity, anything might be possible.

Alder and Dogal, of course, had not volunteered. Alder might have, given a choice, but Dogal was clearly fed up with travel after his previous journey, and would greatly have preferred to have stayed home, where he had a friendly understanding with one of the cook’s more attractive female assistants, and where he didn’t have to worry about seasickness or foreign languages and customs.

Alder was a bit more adventurous, and seemed genuinely, if inexplicably, fond of Sterren. Sterren suspected it might be an emotion similar to what one might feel toward a stray puppy one had taken in; after all, Alder had found Sterren, and taught him Semmat, and helped him settle into his job as warlord.

Lady Kalira would never have volunteered; on her previous journey she had discovered, to her surprise, that she hated travel, and hated Ethshar. Neither one fit her romantic preconceptions; the stories never mentioned seasickness, rude sailors, smelly crowds, and all the other inconveniences she had encountered. Furthermore, she thought the whole idea of using magic to fight a war was revolting. She did, however, have a powerful sense of duty, which accounted for her cooperation, such as it was. The king had sent her, and she did as her sovereign ordered.

She had surely heard the call from the lookout when the city came into view, but she was ignoring it, staying in her cabin below.

To some extent, Sterren thought he could sympathize with her, but at the sight of the city spreading across the World before him, its smell in his nostrils, he found his eyes filling with tears, and felt a swelling in his chest as if he were about to burst.

He swallowed, and to distract himself, he called to a sailor who was hanging from the forestay, “Hey, there! Where will we tie up?”

The sailor glanced at him, but shook her head.

Sterren realized he had spoken in Semmat, since Alder and Dogal had been speaking it.

“Where will we tie up?” he called in Ethsharitic.

“The Tea Wharves,” the sailor called back. “Near the New Canal!”

Sterren was unsure exactly where the Tea Wharves were, but he knew the New Canal — which, despite its name, was about four hundred years old; it was new only in comparison to the Grand Canal, which was no longer particularly grand, but had been there for centuries before the New Canal was dug.

The New Canal divided Spicetown from Shiphaven, in the northwest corner of the city. The Wizards’ Quarter was near the southeastern corner. Sterren’s party would need to do some walking, it appeared.

That was no problem; it might provide more opportunities to escape from his escort. If there was a crowd at the Arena, for example, he could easily become separated “accidentally.” The Arena was directly on the way, too; Arena Street was certainly the best route to the Wizards’ Quarter from either Shiphaven or Spicetown.

That assumed that he actually wanted to slip away. After a month of debating that with himself, he still hadn’t really decided.

It would seem an easy enough decision to make, really — life as a fugitive in his homeland, or near-certain death in a nasty little kingdom in the middle of nowhere — but whenever he thought he had settled on escape he kept finding himself reconsidering, thinking of what might happen to the people he had come to know in Semma. Would Princess Lura wind up starving somewhere? Might Nissitha and Shirrin be raped by their victorious enemies? Would Alder and Dogal and all the soldiers he had diced with get themselves killed in a futile defense?

None of this, he told himself, really ought to be any responsibility of his — he hadn’t volunteered to be warlord.

Still, he was the warlord, like it or not, and abandoning Semma to its fate seemed wrong.

Of course, not abandoning Semma might get him killed, and that seemed even worse.

Perhaps, he thought with sudden inspiration, he could hire his magicians, and then disappear into the city streets. Semma could still win its stupid war, but he would be free and home. True, he would be guilty of treason under Semman law, but surely, nobody would go to all that much trouble looking for him under those circumstances. The Semman nobility would have no very strong reason to hold a grudge against him if he won their war for them, whether he was present at the time or not.

And if his magicians didn’t win — and given his estimate of the purchasing power of his available funds, that seemed likely — at least he would have made an honest effort, and would be no worse off than if he had deserted before recruiting anybody.

He would have tried, and if the Semman princesses were still raped or murdered, if the Semman army was still slaughtered, he would have done the best he could.

He liked that approach. He would carry through on his promise, hire the best magicians he could — and then, if the opportunity arose, he would escape on the way back to the ship.

That shouldn’t be too difficult, he thought. He smiled and blinked away the tears of homesickness.

He would hire magicians — but how did one go about hiring magicians for something like this?

His smile vanished again as he realized that he had no idea at all.

To buy a love spell or a curse, to cure warts or foresee the future, he knew exactly what to do. He would take his money to the Wizards’ Quarter and pick a likely magician by reading the signboards.

None of the signboards had ever advertised “Wars won,” though. How would he know which magicians to approach? Trial and error would not work; there were hundreds of magicians in the Wizards’ Quarter, and asking each one in turn would take years. Most surely wouldn’t be interested.

Recruiters of various sorts always worked in the city’s markets, particularly Shiphaven Market and Westgate Mar­ket, calling out their offers to the passing crowds; anyone who wanted to take up a career as an adventurer, or any other particularly hazardous and messy job, could go to the markets and pick from several options.

But there was no market in the Wizards’ Quarter. There was Arena Plaza, but Sterren had never seen a recruiter there. The nearest true market was in Southgate — and Sterren had never been there at all. The taverns and gaming in Southgate were organized, and freelancers like himself were not welcome.

Or would Southmarket, by the reservoir, be closer to the Wizards’ Quarter than Southgate? He had passed through there once. He didn’t remember seeing recruiters, but he could not be absolutely sure they hadn’t been there.

And there was always Eastgate Market, and Hempfield Market, and Newmarket, and Newgate — he had gambled in inns and taverns near all those, at one time or another, before settling back into his home turf around Westgate and the two Merchants’ Quarters. Those other markets had no recruiters, generally, and weren’t particularly close to the Wizards’ Quarter, but should he rule them out com­pletely?

For the first time, Sterren began to see the city’s immensity as a serious drawback.

He blinked, shook his head, and reconsidered.

None of the various markets seemed exactly right, but pretty obviously, Shiphaven Market would be the best if he decided to go that route. It was the traditional place to recruit people interested in traveling by sea, after all, and it would be closest to the Tea Wharves, wherever they might turn out to be. That would mean less walking through the city streets, but on the other hand, Shiphaven Market was always crowded, was not too far from his old stamping grounds, and was surrounded by places to hide.

He didn’t know all those places as well as he might, since he had usually avoided Shiphaven in order to avoid drunken sailors who might be prone to violence, or ships’ officers who might stoop to kidnapping to complete their crews, but he thought he could manage to find something.

But would there be any magicians around Shiphaven Market?

The Arena Plaza was certainly much closer to the Wizards’ Quarter, and he thought he remembered a signboard there that he could post a message on — that was a second possibility that did not deserve to be discarded out of hand.

For that matter, simply asking around in the Wizards’ Quarter, or walking the streets calling for volunteers, might produce results. Perhaps he could inquire after ambitious near-term apprentices, or even journeymen. The magicians surely gossiped among themselves, and would know who might be desperate enough for work to be interested in such an adventure.

And what’s more, there was no reason he couldn’t try all three approaches.

He smiled again. That would certainly be reasonable, and would call for a good, long stay in Ethshar, with visits to two of the most crowded places in the city — Shiphaven Market and Arena Plaza. The Wizards’ Quarter was less crowded, but full of nooks and crannys and odd little byways where a person could easily lose sight of his companions.