David Weber - Oath of Swords

Brandark started to reply, but Bahzell touched his shoulder and looked down at the human.

“Your pardon, I’m sure, but I’m wondering what business of yours that might be?” he asked pleasantly, and the black-haired man nodded.

“That’s fair enough. My name is Rianthus, and I command Kilthan’s guardsmen. So, you see, it’s my business to wonder what a pair like you-no offense-might want with my employer.”

“A pair like us, hey?” Bahzell’s teeth glinted. “Aye, I can see you might be thinking we’d need watching, but we’d be right fools, the both of us, to be walking slap up to you if we’d anything clever in mind, now wouldn’t we?”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Rianthus agreed. “On the other hand, you might be clever enough to expect me to think just that. It wouldn’t be very wise of you, but you might not know that yet, you see.”

“Aye, you’ve a point there,” Bahzell chuckled, then shrugged. “Well, if you’re after commanding his guards, then I’m thinking you’re the man we’re most needful to see.”

“Oh ho!” Rianthus nodded again, narrowed eyes glinting. “Looking to hire us your swords, are you?”

“Well, I’ve heard it’s either guard or raid for such as us,” Bahzell replied, “and I’ve no mind to take up brigands’ ways.”

“Well, that sounds honest enough,” Rianthus murmured, looking the immense Horse Stealer over from head to toe, “and no question you two could be useful. Assuming you haven’t taken up brigands’ ways already. We’ve had raiders try to put a man or two inside before, but it hasn’t helped ’em yet.”

“And a great relief to my mind that is,” Bahzell said politely, and Rianthus gave a crack of laughter.

“Aye, you’ll do-if you’re what you say.” He looked back at Brandark. “You’re the one with the name to drop, my lad, so suppose you tell me who might vouch for you?”

“I’m hoping Kilthan himself will.” Brandark’s reply raised the guard captain’s eyebrows, and the Bloody Sword shrugged. “My father and he have, um, done business a time or two in the past.” He tugged a ring off the forefinger of his left hand and held it out. “I think he’ll recognize this.”

“Will he, now?” Rianthus bounced the ring on his palm, then closed his fist around it with a grin. “You know, I’ve always suspected the old thief was just a tad less respectable than he claims. Wait here.”

He vanished into the office, and Bahzell glanced down at his friend.

“ ‘Done business,’ is it? And what sort of business might your revered father have been having with an Axeman dwarf?”

“Oh, a little of this and a little of that,” Brandark replied airily, then grinned. “As friend Rianthus says, old Kilthan’s factors aren’t above buying goods without too many questions. But aside from that small foible, he’s as respectable as he claims, and honest to boot. Father always said-”

He broke off as Rianthus reappeared in the doorway and beckoned. Bahzell raised a handful of reins at him, and the captain thumped one of his men on the shoulder and pointed. The guardsman-a shorter, chunky fellow-rose with ill grace and stumped over to the hradani. He took the reins with a surly grunt and stood holding them while Brandark and Bahzell moved to join Rianthus.

The door was a close fit for Bahzell, and the ceiling beyond was worse. Navahk had been bad enough for one of his stature, but at least it had been built to fit other hradani; the warehouse office hadn’t, and he fought a sense of claustrophobic enclosure as he hunched his shoulders and bent his neck to accommodate its cramped dimensions.

“Hirahim, you are a big one!” a deep, gravelly voice snorted. “Have a seat, man! Have a seat before you sprain something!”

Rianthus nudged Bahzell and pointed, and the Horse Stealer sank gratefully onto the chair. It was far too small, but there were no arms to get in the way, and it didn’t creak too alarmingly as it took his weight.

“Better,” the gravel voice said. “Now I can at least look you in the belly button, can’t I?” It chuckled at its own wit, and Bahzell finally spotted its owner.

The man behind the desk had to be sitting either in a very tall chair or atop a heap of cushions, for he couldn’t have stood much over four feet. He was also very nearly as broad as he was tall and bald as an egg, but a massive, forked beard streamed down his chest in compensation, and strange, topaz-colored eyes glittered in the light.

“So,” he said now, turning to Brandark as the Bloody Sword found a chair of his own, “you must be young Brandarkson.” He rubbed the side of his nose with a finger while his other hand spun the ring on the desk before him, and his topaz eyes narrowed. “Well, you’ve the look of him, and the ring’s right, but what you’re doing here has me in something of a puzzle.”

“You’ve met Father?” Brandark asked, and Kilthan shrugged.

“No, I’ve never had that, um, privilege, but I make it my business to know what I can about those I do my business with . And,” he added judiciously, “I’ve always found your father an honest sort, for a Bloody Sword hradani.” He chuckled. “ Especially for a Bloody Sword, if you’ll pardon my frankness.”

“I suspect Father would be amused, not insulted,” Brandark replied with a smile, and Kilthan chuckled again.

“Aye, with that accent you’d almost have to be Brandarkson. Damn me, but your Axeman’s better than mine!”

“Perhaps that’s because it’s not your native tongue, either.”

“Hey? How’s that?” Kilthan demanded, eyes narrower than ever.

“Well, you were the senior Silver Cavern delegate to the conference that asked the Empire to annex Dwarvenhame,” Brandark murmured.

“So, you know that, too, do you?” Kilthan nodded, then leaned back, folding his hands on his belly. “In that case, I think we can assume you’re who you say.” He unfolded one hand to wag a finger at Rianthus and indicate another chair, then returned it to his belly and cocked a bushy eyebrow at Brandark. “And that being so, young Brandarkson, suppose you tell me what you’re doing here and why you need a job, you and your long, tall friend?”

“Well, as to that,” Brandark said, and launched into an explanation. He did it almost too well for Bahzell’s peace of mind, dropping into the rhythmic cadences of a bard. At least he seemed untempted to resort to song, for which Bahzell was profoundly grateful, but he felt himself flushing as his friend enlarged on his own “nobility” in coming to Farmah’s rescue. There’d been nothing “noble” about it-just an iron-headed Horse Stealer too stupid to stay out of a mess that was none of his making!

Kilthan’s eyes gleamed appreciatively, and his hand crept up to cover his mouth a time or two when Bahzell flushed. But he heard the entire tale out, then nodded and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk to look back and forth between them with those sharp, topaz eyes.

“Well, now! That’s quite a tale . . . and it matches the bits and pieces I’ve already heard.” Bahzell’s ears shifted in surprise, and Kilthan gave a crack of laughter. “Oh, yes, lads! I don’t say anyone believes it, mind you-Esganians are Esganians, and the thought of hradani doing anything ‘noble’ isn’t one they’re comfortable with-but my factors stay abreast of Rūmors. Bad for business if they miss one and it turns out to be true, you know. But I’ve heard of your father, too, um, Prince Bahzell, and that suggests which rumor to believe in this case. If even half the tales are true, your Prince Bahnak sounds like a man who understands the business of ruling, not just looting. If Navahk and its cronies weren’t in the way, I’d have factors in Hurgrum, too . . . and judging from what your people did to Churnazh two years back, I think Navahk might not be a problem so very much longer, at that.