David Weber - Oath of Swords

“D’ye have summat fer me, M’lord?” he wheedled, and Bahzell shook his head regretfully.

“Not this time, granther,” he apologized, “but I’m thinking it may be you have something for me?”

The old man’s face fell, for Bahzell knew how he hungered for the sweetmeats a child might crave and often carried them for him, but he only shook his head. His life was filled with disappointments, and he dragged out a huge, roughly woven sack. Bahzell’s eyes lit as he unwrapped the dirty clothing Tala had wadded around the arbalest and ran his fingers almost lovingly over the wooden stock and steel bow stave, and Grumuk cackled again.

“Did good fer ye, did I, M’lord?”

“Aye, old friend, that you have.” Bahzell touched his shoulder again, then straightened and slung the arbalest over his right shoulder. The old man grinned up at him, and Bahzell smiled back.

“You’d best bide here a mite,” he said. He turned to squint at the westering sun, then pointed at the broken stump of a drunken tower whose foundations, never too firm to begin with, were sinking slowly into the muck and sewage of the swampy river. “Sit yourself where you are, Grumuk, until the sun touches that tower yonder. Do you mind that? Will you do that for me?”

“Oh, aye, M’lord. That’s not so hard. Just sit here with m’ thoughts till th’ tower eats th’ sun. I c’n do that, M’lord,” Grumuk assured him.

“Good, Grumuk. Good.” Bahzell patted the old man’s shoulder once more, then turned and jogged away into the shadows of the abandoned keep’s walls.

The raucous stench of Navahk’s streets was reassuringly normal as Bahzell strode down them. Screaming packs of naked children dashed in and out about their elders’ feet, absorbed in gods knew what games or wrestling for choice bits of refuse amid the garbage, and he drew up a time or two to let them pass. He kept a close hand on his belt pouch when he did, other hand ready to clout an ear hard enough to ring for a week, but he no more blamed them for their thieving ways than he blamed the half-starved street beggars or whores who importuned him. Whores, especially, were rare in Hurgrum-or most other hradani lands-but too many women had lost their men in Navahk.

He made himself move casually, painfully aware of the armor he wore and the rucksack and arbalest on his back. Afternoon was dying into evening, thickening the crowd as the farmers who worked the plots beyond the wall streamed back to their hovels, but most he passed cringed out of his way. They were accustomed to yielding to their betters-all the more so when that better towered a foot and more above the tallest of them with five feet of blade on his back-and Bahzell was glad of it, yet his spine was taut as he waited for the first shout of challenge. Whether it came to fight or flight, he had a better chance here than he would have had in the palace . . . but not by much.

Yet no one shouted, and he was almost to the east gate when he spied two women moving slowly against the tide ahead of him. Farmah leaned heavily on the shorter, stouter housekeeper, and a tiny pocket of open space moved about them. A few people looked at them and then glanced uncomfortably away, and one or two almost reached out to help, but the combination of Farmah’s battered face and the palace livery both of them wore warned off even the hardiest.

Bahzell swallowed yet another curse on Churnazh and all his get as he watched men shrink away from the women and compared it to what would have happened in Hurgrum. But this wasn’t Hurgrum. It was Navahk, and he dared not overtake them to offer his own aid, either.

It was hard, slowing his pace to the best one Farmah could manage while every nerve screamed that the pursuit had to be starting soon, yet he had no choice. He followed them down the narrow street, dodging as someone emptied a chamber pot out the second-floor window of one of Navahk’s wretched inns. A pair of less nimble farmhands snarled curses up at the unglazed windows as the filth spattered them, but such misadventures were too common for comment here, and their curses faded when they suddenly realized they were standing in Bahzell’s path. They paled and backed away quickly, and he shouldered past them as Tala and Farmah turned the last bend towards East Gate.

He hurried a little now, and his heart rose as he saw the under-captain in charge of the gate detachment glance at the women. He’d thought he remembered the gate schedule, and he was right. Under-Captain Yurgazh would never have met Prince Bahnak’s standards, but at least his armor was well kept and reasonably clean. He looked almost dapper compared to the men he commanded, and he was one of the very few members of Churnazh’s Guard to emerge from the war against Hurgrum with something like glory. He’d been little more than a common freesword, but he’d fought with courage, and his example had turned the men about him into one of the handfuls that held together as the pikes closed in. It took uncommon strength to hold hradani during a retreat-and even more to restrain them from final, berserk charges while they fell back-which was why Yurgazh had risen to his present rank when Churnazh recruited his depleted Guard back up to strength.

Perhaps it was because he had nothing to be ashamed of that Yurgazh was willing to show respect for the warriors who’d vanquished him. Or perhaps he simply hadn’t been long enough in Navahk’s service to sink to its level. It might even be that he’d come to know more about the prince he served and chose to vent some of his disgust in his own, private way. But whatever his reasons, he’d always treated Bahzell as the noble he was, and Bahzell was betting heavily on the core of decency he suspected Yurgazh still harbored.

He paused at the corner, watching with narrowed eyes as Yurgazh started towards the women. Then the under-captain stopped, and Bahzell tensed as his head rose and one hand slipped to his sword hilt. Tala’s tale of seeking a healer for Farmah would never pass muster here, for there were no healers in the hovels against the outer face of the wall. Nor were palace servants allowed to leave the city without a permit, especially so late in the day, and two women alone, one of them obviously beaten and both with the shoulder knot of the prince’s personal service, could mean only one thing to an alert sentry.

Bahzell saw the understanding in Yurgazh’s face, even at this distance, and his jaw clenched as the under-captain suddenly looked up. His eyes locked on Bahzell like a lodestone on steel, and Bahzell held his breath.

But then Yurgazh released his sword. He turned his back on the women and engaged the other two gate guards in a discussion that seemed to require a great many pointed gestures at ill-kept equipment, and both of them were far too busy placating his ire to even notice the two women who stole past them.

Bahzell made his jaw unclench, yet he allowed himself no relaxation. He still had to get past, and that was a much chancier proposition when none of Churnazh’s personal guardsmen accompanied him.

He strode up to the gate, and this time Yurgazh stepped out into the gateway. He waved one of his men forward-one who looked even less gifted with intelligence than most-and Bahzell let his bandaged hand rest lightly on his belt, inches from his dagger, as the under-captain nodded respectfully to him.

“You’re out late, M’lord.” Yurgazh had better grammar than most of Churnazh’s men, and his tone was neutral. Bahzell flicked his ears in silent agreement, and a ghost of a smile flickered in Yurgazh’s eyes as they lingered briefly on the Horse Stealer’s rucksack and arbalest. “Bound for a hunting party, M’lord?” he asked politely.

“Aye,” Bahzell said, and it was true enough, he reflected-or would be once Harnak was found.