Horseclans' Odyssey

12

The winter was as hard as any that Milo of Morai could recall. It came early, howling in from the far north, and it necessitated a measured scattering of the painfully gathered clans in order to provide graze and to preserve as much livestock as possible. He and Blind Hari of Kxooguh could but hope that the clans would reassemble at the appointed place if spring ever arrived. Nor was the winter any whit easier on Duke Alex, his army or the folk of the Upper Town. What remained of the invading force was now all foot soldiers with no transport, all oxen and horses and even the mules having either been slaughtered by the troops, with or without orders, or stolen by groups of ravenous civilians.

The besieged besiegers had scoured and rescoured the Upper Town, completely ridding it of pigs, goats, dogs, cats and even rats. Now rawhides and leather were being boiled up over fires fueled by chopped furniture, while mixed bands of soldiers and citizens willingly risked the deadly attentions of archers and crossbowmen on the walls of the citadel in order to secure one or two of the huge wharf rats on the streets and in the alleys of the old town. Duke Tcharlz, who was in actuality nowhere near as hard, uncompromising and unfeeling a man as he would have had the world believe, permitted an early exodus of nursing mothers and young children. At length he began to allow supply trains to reach the city, and finally when unusually heavy icing brought river traffic to a standstill, he and his men de-livered dozens of wagonloads of cordwood, charcoal and nonperishable foodstuffs to just beyond bow range of the city’s low walls.

By then his infantry had marched back up from the south, and he well knew that come spring, those scarecrow-defended walls would present little obstacle to his army. Nor would King Uyr of Mehmfiz present a problem any time soon, for, was the intelligence correct, that unhappy young man and what was left of his hired army was hotly engaged in putting down scattered rebellions on his northern marches.

Messengers passed with the greatest of ease between the duke’s field army and the “beleaguered” citadel in the Lower Town. Tcharlz was inordinately pleased with and proud of his selection of Captain Martuhn, nor did he hesitate to express his good nature toward him and his garrison in every way possible. “I think, Sir Wolf,” Martuhn chuckled, “that his grace would adopt me, name me his heir and gift me half his duchy, did I but drop the word that such would please me.”

“Then why don’t you, my lord count?” Wolf mindspoke. “I think I’d enjoy serving a duke’s heir.”

Martuhn just shook his head. “No you wouldn’t, old friend, you’d have to guard not only my back but taste all of my victuals, as well, and eventually you’d get a fatal bellyache of it. Too much politics of a poisonous nature goes on among the higher nobility to suit me. Count is as high as I will ever aspire, thank you.

“But if you’d rather enter Duke Tcharlz’s service, I could easily arrange…” Sir Wolf looked wounded. “My lord should know that I’d never leave him, in good times or foul.”

Aware that his barb had penetrated more deeply than he had intended, Martuhn laid a hand on his old retainer’s shoulder. “Oh, Wolf, I was but jesting. You’re ever so serious.”

Lolling in a chair, Nahseer had been observing while sipping at hot, spiced cider. Now he said, “Whilst your overlord be in a good mood, Martuhn, would it be too much to ask that you get my freedom and that of the boys in writing? You could get your adoptions of them legally attested at the same time, you know.”

“Oh, aye,” responded Martuhn, “and my last messenger to Pirates’ Folly requests those very things, among others. But he has not yet returned with answers.”

“But you sent the last messenger over a week agone,” Nahseer said worriedly. “He should be back, long since.”

“Why so perturbed, friend Nahseer?” smiled Martuhn. “Likely the fellow was trapped somewhere for a few days by last week’s blizzard, or his horse could’ve turned up lame, or he could’ve reached Pirates’ Folly only to find the duke in the field with his cavalry. He’ll be back, soon or late.” Nahseer squirmed in his chair, his features revealing real concern. “You’re most likely right, Martuhn. Nonetheless, I’ll not feel even marginally secure until I can hold in my hand the legal documents that declare Bahb Steevuhnz, Djoh Steevuhnz and one Nahseer ibn Wahleed al-Asraf Ahkbahr to be free and unindentured or apprenticed.

“And I warn you, my good friends Martuhn and Wolf, do not ever make the error of underestimating Lord Urbahnos of Karaleenos. He is shrewd and cunning. But then, most successful merchants are so; such traits are needful in their work. But in addition, the Ehleen is stubborn as a cur with a bone when he truly wants something. He has vast wealth and influence in high places, and he is utterly without morals or scruples.

“Urbahnos desperately needs little Djoh to gift to some-high-ranking pervert in Karaleenos, hoping that in return that man will see to the reversal of the order of exile that sent Urbahnos hence, years agone. Bahb he will probably torment until his spirit breaks or he dies. Me he means to torture to death, very slowly.

“Had matters progressed his way, he meant to sell me into the hellish living death of the barges. But, too, he meant to take his family upriver just far enough to be out of Duke Tcharlz’s sphere of influence, then sell them, his own wife and children, into slavery!”

Few men had ever seen the peculiar cold light that then beamed from Martuhn’s eyes… not and lived to tell of it. “You’re not describing a man, Nahseer, but rather a beast, a loathsome monster. I wonder if his grace knows the truth, knows that his duchy holds so debauched and terrible a thing?” “If he did not before, he will as soon as my messenger gains his ear,” said Martuhn grimly. “And then I would not care to be in this Lord Urbahnos’ shoes, my friend.”

However, although Martuhn was not to know of it for some time, that messenger never reached Pirates’ Folly or Duke Tcharlz, and no trace of him was ever found until, with the final melting of the deep snows, his remains and those of his horse were discovered in a deep gully… and by then it was too late. Milo of Morai and Blind Hari of Krooguh had worried needlessly. With the spring thaw, all the clans of autumn plus a few new arrivals, began to converge at the chosen location. At the first full meeting of the Council of Chiefs, Chief Rahn, the Patrik of Patrik, arose, cleared his throat and said, “War chief, revered bard of the tribe, brother chiefs of the Holy Kindred, we all have waited patiently through a long winter, but now it is time. Let us gather our warriors and our maiden archers and help our brother, Henree of Steevuhnz, avenge himself upon these despicable dirtmen. How says the war chief?” Milo’s head inclined. “Yes, my brothers, it is time. But I have had word that three other clans are on the march and nearing this place. Let us delay for two weeks, that their warriors and chiefs be not cheated of a chance to share in this mission of honor.

“But, although we delay the war ridings, yet will the tribe continue eastward, for all must be across the Great River ere next winter’s snows overtake us. “Plan to divide your fighters into three war parties, for there are three of those little forts along the border in our line of march, and if we strike but the one, the others will try to come to its aid. “Chief of the cats,” Milo mindspoke the huge, gray brown, winter-shaggy prairiecat that sat in the circle, thick tail lapped over its big forepaws, red-pink tonguetip slightly protruding from between its three-inch incisors. “Yes, war chief?” replied the immense feline, Elksdeath. “Choose six of your best to accompany the twolegs scouts. It will be the mission of the twolegs to observe everything about the forts and the mission of your cats to see that no dirtmen live to tell that the scouts are about.” “The cat chief hears and will obey, war chief.” Stehfahnah, the mare and the ass had wintered well. She had had time to clean the cabin, rechink its walls with new clay, chop and stack a decent amount of firewood and mow a good supply of wild hay grasses before the really bad weather commenced.

Soon after the first, deep snows, she located a deeryard not far from her cabin, and so seldom lacked for fresh meat to eat herself or trade to her otter friends for fish or smaller game. Her only moment of real danger came when a big, solitary male wolf began to openly stalk her as she bore home parts of a butchered doe, but two quick-loosed arrows crippled him enough for her to be able to finish him with the man’s fine, heavy spear. She still used her low-topped felt boots inside the cabin, but for outside wear, she had fashioned for herself a pair of thigh-high boots such as she had seen on some of the traders. Drawing liberally upon the man’s store of cured hides, pelts, skins and hanks of dried sinew, and adding her own expertise at felting and compounding fish glue, she whiled away the long hours within the cabin working by firelight The finished footwear was fine by any standards. Soles were compounded of no less than four thicknesses of shaggy-bull hide, triple-stitched with heaviest sinew and sandwiching thick coatings of fish glue. She had even made provision for easily attaching the high, horn-sheathed wooden heels of her felt boots when she took to horseback in the spring.

The uppers, which came to midthigh, were of two thicknesses of soft, pliable deerskin, with a layer of her felt quilted between them. She had found in rechinking the walls a small leather bag containing a double handful of the discs of gold, silver and copper that dirtmen used in trading, and these, plus discs of horn and bone, had gone to decorate her new boots. But boots were not all that she fashioned or improved upon that winter. By the time that the winter ice began to weaken, then crack apart to be swept downstream on the high-surging waters of the river, she was well clothed and equipped for however far she might have to travel to find her clan. Following the receipt of a shattering message, and a hurriedly concluded conference with Duke Tcharlz—which had included some highly painful concessions, among them a document conferring full ownership of the transriverine cable and all its appurtenances to the Duchy of the East Bank (which was Tcharlz’s newest title for his holdings)—Duke Alex was allowed to make use of the cable barges to ferry his decimated and dispirited army back across the river to his own domain. For his lands were now threatened by a horde of prairie nomads, who had overrun three of his border forts and were presently playing merry hob in the croplands and raiding to within sight of the very walls of Traderstown. Besides his guard of hard-faced cavalrymen, Duke Tcharlz brought with him to the citadel a large, fattened ox, a wagon-load of other eatables and a wain the sole lading of which was a full hogshead of splithead cider—a very potent variety of tipple, so called because of the aftereffects of imbibing too deeply of it. After he had reviewed the garrison, the duke first praised them, then thanked them in blunt, simple terms for their help. Then, in view of every man jack of the assembled troops, he formally invested their captain to be the count of the city and of a broad swath of farmland and pastures and forests round about it. When the men had cheered themselves hoarse, they were dismissed to gather about the massive hogshead and the beer barrels, with empty but expectant jacks, cans and buckets. And Martuhn led his overlord up the stairs to his tower chambers. While they awaited the serving of their meal, prepared by ducal cooks brought along for the purpose, and of course far more elaborate than the simple roast ox, cabbage and potatoes the garrison would soon enjoy, Martuhn described in detail the farcical investment of the citadel by the inept or unlucky Duke Alex. The duke, draining off flagon after flagon of beer, was clearly in a rare good humor throughout, but at one point he threw back his leonine head and rocked the very stones of the tower with his deep laughter. “So after burning up all their stores and a good part of that traitorous city, as well, your engineers threw your garbage, by the bushel, into the palace square? Ah, Martuhn, Martuhn, I’ve always said it, you’re a man after my own heart. Had I but an hundred like you, I’d be master of every acre from the Great River to the Eastern Sea.

“I’ve but just come from the palace, you know, stopped there on my way here from Pirates’ Folly. The court of the duchess is much reduced and she and they are no longer at all popular among the commoners and lesser gentry of the Upper Town. The palace itself is a bit charred in places; the north wing is mostly roofless and may have to be torn down entirely.

“I was cheered when I rode through the gates of that city up there, Martuhn; cheered, do you hear, by folk who’ve hated my guts for as long as I can recall!” A smile flitted across the captain’s scarred face. “I know the feeling, your grace. For all the death and destruction and terrible suffering I hurled upon them, whilst Duke Alex the Feckless squatted with them, yet did they seem most fond of me when my guards and I visited the Upper Town yesterday.” The duke just nodded. “And well they should, Martuhn. Your holding of this citadel gave them all a salutary, if painful, lesson. They learned just how spineless and fickle is their formerly esteemed duchess and just how little she really cares for them and their welfare. They also learned that, with friends and allies like Alex and his minions, they will never have need of enemies. “They now love you because you were the first to fight against the man who quickly became their oppressor and exploiter. And it is well that love you they do, for you must rule over them for the rest of your life.” He allowed Martuhn to refill his flagon yet again, then went on, flinging the beads of moisture from his drooping mustachios with a hard, browned hand, the back of which bore a fairly new scar, broad and jagged. While the duke talked on of his own campaigns, both the southern one and the eminently successful guerrilla war he had waged in his own lands against Duke Alex’s cavalry— while the beasts still were war horses, rather than siege-beef—and in the swift, meroiless raids on the supply trains, Martuhn noted to himself that his grace had seldom looked better. Gone was any trace of surplus flesh at waist, hips, or jawline. Duke Tcharlz once more was the hard, weather-browned, intensely masculine fighting lord who had first hired Martuhn and his ragtag company on ten years agone. Gone were the dark half circles and pouches from under his eyes, and those eyes were once again clear and piercing; gone were most of the showy rings from fingers no longer chubby, but ridged with hard callus, with nails square-cut and neither buffed nor polished.

Moreover, it was obvious to Martuhn’s experienced eye that the duke still did not stick at risking his own skin, for the quillions of the plain, heavy saber he had hung on the sword rack before he sat down showed the nicks and dents of many a close and vicious combat.

At length, the duke said, “I saw her grace, of course. Most contrite, she would appear, and weighing less than she has in at least twenty years. Still plug ugly, of course—that’s one thing fasting can’t cure—but shapely enough now to look beddable.” He chuckled. “Being a man, I thought of it, naturally. I thought me of closing my eyes or of decently hiding that caricature of a face in a pillowcase or a bean sack. But all along I knew I’d not touch the bitch, for I want me no spawn out of such a graceless, demented creature. I’ll name one of my flock of bastards my heir, if it comes to that… but I’d rather leave my lands and cities and folk in better hands, in the hands of a man who thinks like me, a man of proven worth and valor and perception, a man of honor who will rule by love and respect, not by brutality and fear. And such men are an exceedingly rare breed. Martuhn, I thought me for long and long that I’d never find one of them.

“Is there any honey wine in this place, Martuhn? I’ve swilled me enough beer, for the nonce.

“Now, where was I? Oh, yes. How old are you, Martuhn, do you know?”

‘The winter just past was my thirty-eighth, your grace.” The duke frowned. “Hmmph, you look older than that, but you’ve no reason to lie, and you’ve led a harder life than do most men; that could account for it. “Well, Martuhn, my boy, I’m old enough to be your father, more than, considering the tender age at which I started swiving serving maids, peasant girls and suchlike. Last winter was my fifty-fifth, and few are the men, even of our class, who see more than threescore winters.”

The first.courses of the expertly prepared repast had long since been served, but the duke talked on between mouthfuls, motioning Martuhn to do likewise. “Now, my boy, we two have soldiered together for the best part of ten years, and I think that I probably know you as well as I know myself. Furthermore, I’ve always held that a man should only be allowed to assume high rank or office when he is at least forty years old, with a sound mind and body, and no stranger to warfare, women, men and horses… not necessarily in that order, you understand.” He grinned, then ripped most of the meat from a chop with his strong teeth and tossed the bone over his shoulder to his waiting wolfhound, who nabbed it in midair, crunched a couple of times, then swallowed and continued to sit, an expectant gleam in his yellowish-brown eyes.

“Now, true, my boy, we two differ in some small ways. For one thing, you’re far less lecherous than am I, but for all that, I know you’re no sodomite.” His eyes twinkled. “Oh, yes, my dear Martuhn, there are others who watch you when I cannot… and they all report back to me. So I know of the Lady Behti—fat as a lard sow or as my wife used to be, but most skilled, ‘tis said, in some rather esoteric modes of mattress play.

“I know, too, of the black-haired Dohlohres, in Pahdookahport; talk about contrasting taste, man, she’s skinny as the scarecrows in the Upper Town. How is it that you never ruptured yourself on those protuberant bones, Martuhn?” He chuckled again.

Then all trace of humor flew from his voice and demeanor. “Martuhn. you’re a perceptive and a highly intelligent man, and I’ve not the slightest doubt that you know in advance just what I’ve been building up to these past few hours.” Martuhn did know, he had read it all in the duke’s surface thoughts, and it had almost stunned him. “But my lord cannot mean to… but, your grace, I am so unworthy.”

The duke smiled again, this time most warmly. “Yes, my boy… my son, I mean precisely that. And I—whose word is law in these, our lands—I say that there is none more worthy from one end of the Great River to the other.” The duke withdrew a flat leather case from his belt pouch and from it extracted a cigar. Piercing one end with the point of his tableknife, he dunked it into his brandy, then puffed it to life over the flame of a candle. Waving to disperse the thick cloud of bluish smoke, he added a few more words. “Think on the matter, Martuhn. I believe we can spare a few weeks. Mehmfiz will not be bothering anyone until they get their own house back in order, and Alex will certainly have no idle hands with which to meddle in the affairs of others, not with western nomads over his borders. Things are winding down to normal again. Well talk this over at another time, but I wanted you to know my mind, my boy.”

In his mental confusion, Martuhn completely forgot to ask about the written evidence of full freedom for Nahseer or of a formal document of adoption of Bahb and Djoh Steevuhnz for himself. There was no time the next morning either, for the duke rose with the sun, quaffed a hurried stirrup cup and then thundered out the gate and across the bridge at the head of his horseguards. “Son Martuhn,” began the letter that arrived ten days later, “you are reputed to have presently among your garrison three escaped slaves: a Zahrtohgahn castrate of some thirty-five years, one Nahseer Something-or-other; and two nomad boys, a twelve-year-old, Bahb Steevuhnz, and a ten-year-old, Djoh Steevuhnz. These three were the property of Urbahnos of Karaleenos, a merchant/factor of Pahdookahport, and they all escaped from him sometime last fall, partially burning my serai and lifting five horses, the property of a band of plains traders. “Now, my boy, since informants assure me that the castrate Zahrtohgahn was once an officer of the Kaliphate and proved himself quite useful to our arms in the course of the late unpleasantness to the point at which you saw fit to rank him among your officers, I consider him to have earned his freedom and the attached document proclaims that fact to all the world hereabouts; this Nahseer is now his own man, or yours, if you so wish it. I respectfully advise that you keep him on and if his asking price is more than you can just now afford, I’ll be pleased to advance it to you.

“Despite their tender years, the minor boys are said to be superlative archers, known to have slain two, possibly three grown men during their escape and four after enlisting in our forces, so I would free them as well, save that their former master, this Urbahnos, has already done so. Furthermore, he has legally adopted both of them, the adoption (copies of the orders included herein) having been enacted by my sworn surrogate, His Honor Judge Baron Yzik Lapkin of Pahdookahport, shortly after Duke Alex’s precipitate withdrawal. Therefore, these boys must be returned to their adoptive father. “The last document should not be taken seriously; it is included merely for your amusement, my boy.

“Insofar as the claims of the plains traders are concerned, Master Hwahruhn, their leader, is not pressing them very hard, so ignore them; I am so doing. Portuh and his losses are another dish of oats. Although I am his silent partner, at the times of his losses, you were unofficially his overlord; his taxes would have been paid to the county not the duchy, so I leave his claims to your capable hands to settle as you think best. “In that comical fourth document, you will see that this Urbahnos—a sly and oily bastard if one was ever born!—lays claim to everything from a shirt of chain mail and a sword supposedly valued at ten pounds of silver—and, my dear Martuhn, you and I both know that there aren’t any three swords in the duchy worth that much, nor would any man arm a slave with such a prize!—down to and including the cotton drawers that this Nahseer was wearing on the night of the escape. “I have instigated some preliminary investigations of this Ehleen. He’s too wealthy for my liking, but his tax records appear to be in order, and he will soon be sailing upriver back to his homeland. This is why it is imperative that the adopted boys be returned without undue delay, that they, his wife and the children of his loins may be ready to accompany him east.

“With a true paternal regard for your welfare,

“Tcharlz, Duke of the Duchy of the East Bank.”

And near the bottom of the last page, below the ornate, beribboned seal, “This by the hand of Ken Kohtz, Scribe to His Grace Duke Tcharlz.” Among the documents was a folded square of extra-fine vellum, all of its folds and edges sealed with a layer of wax and in two or three areas impressed with the duke’s thumb ring. Inside, in Tcharlz’s own, sprawling script was a short note.

“As regards this adoption business, Martuhn, I too was suspicious at the first, but now I can see his reasoning. Although he has added no suffering price to his overlong list of claims against the Zahrtohgahn, the knowledge is fairly well disseminated that, ere he took his leave, this Nahseer overpowered Urbahnos, stripped him, bound him to a bed and had out both his stones, then packed the empty bag with glowing charcoal.

“Both his sons by his wife are puny, unsound little things, the eldest afflicted with the falling sickness, to boot. So, since he can never again sire sons, I suppose he feels that these nomad boys, already proven warriors, will carry the name of his house well and honorably.

“Baron Lapkin avers that the Ehleen provides well, if not lavishly, for his family. The baron also swears that Urbahnos is an honest businessman, but this statement I must take with a grain—nay, a double handful!—of salt, for I’ve never seen or even heard of an honest Ehleen.

“Tcharlz.”

When he had skimmed over the letter and the note and glanced through the various documents, Martuhn bade the messenger, one of Tcharlz’s bastards, Sir Huhmfree Gawlin, bide the night in the citadel and ride with his reply on the morrow. Then he sent for Wolf, Nahseer, Bahb and Djoh.

The duke’s next letter was shorter.

“Son Martuhn, your accusations against this Ehleen seem, on the evidence available to me, to be pure and unfounded libels. Baron Lapkin solemnly avows that Urbahnos of Karaleenos truly and deeply loves his wife and his children. Yes, before his maiming last fall, he was often seen in the brothel district of Pahdookahport, but I, for one, do not consider such peccadillos in any way reprehensible even in a married man, perhaps especially in a married man. “The only man I have thus far found who supports even a portion of your allegations is one of the plains traders who captured the boys and sold them to Urbahnos, one Master Trader Hwahruhn. And even his testimony may be tainted more than a little by the fact that Urbahnos has filed a suit against this Hwahruhn for a refund of the purchase price on some complicated legal ground understood by Judge Baron Lapkin, but certainly not by me. “Martuhn, my dear boy, you know that I have great plans for you, for us and our duchy. You know that I deeply respect you, and therefore I would much dislike being compelled to order you to accede to my request. But I have many things to consider, and Baron Lapkin and his minions are at me night and day in regard to this matter of the nomad boys. Please send them to me or to him or directly to Urbahnos, that this troublesome baron will grant me a few days of peace.

“No, there is no legal way—and here I am bound by my own laws, states the judge baron—in which I may set aside the Ehleen’s adoption of the boys in favor of your own. I would that all this turmoil could be so easily settled. You are yet a young man, with all your parts still in place and in good working order, I presume, so you can sire your own heirs on women of good bloodstock. You can rear them to be as brave, as honorable and as dutiful to superiors as are you, my boy.

“Paternally, Tcharlz.”

Martuhn put down the letter and sighed gustily. Young Sir Huhmfree asked politely, “Will it take my lord count long to draft an answer this time? I would doubt that his grace expects me back much before tomorrow, so my lord need not make haste.”

Martuhn had heard much of Sir Huhmfree’s previous visit to the garrison’s officers’ mess. This particular ducal bastard was said to be affable, to hold his liquor well and to be possessed of a good singing voice and skill on several musical instruments, so he had a host of admirers among the younger officers. He forced a half-smile. “My hospitality and that of my officers is always yours for the asking, young sir. Stay you the night, if you wish. But my answer in the morning will be verbal and no whit different than what I now say. “Pray inform his grace that my answer to this letter and the reasons therefor are contained in my letter replying to his first one. Pray inform his grace, also, that although I truly respect and honor him in all ways, I have come to love these sturdy little boys as sons and I shall willingly forsake all that I might ever possess, sacrifice anything to which I may ever aspire, rather than accede to the delivery of Bahb and Djoh Steevuhnz to a man who will subject them to lives of pain and shameful degradation.”

Sir Huhmfree gulped audibly. His face had gone white as curds under the campaign tan, and his dark-blue eyes were dilated with shock. But his voice was firm. “My lord count, will you but repeat the message once more, I shall deliver it word for word. But I pray, my lord, reconsider, for much as his grace respects and cares for you, you must know that he will not and cannot tolerate rebellion in any form. If I deliver such a message, he will certainly march on you with force, seize these two boys, and relieve you of your command and rank, if not of your life.”

Martuhn nodded wearily. “Thank you for your kind concern, Sir Huhmfree. I’ve known his grace for ten years and I know as well as do you what his certain reaction will be, but, you see, I cannot do other than what my conscience dictates.

“But wait, sit you down and partake of that ewer of wine. HI summon Bahb Steevuhnz to tell you of what occurred on the night this Urbahnos bought him.” “… and so,” Bahb concluded the tale unabashedly, having recounted it so many times, “when the black-haired pig tried to tear off my breeches, I stabbed him in the crotch, just to one side of his yard, with one dagger; and when he clapped both hands to himself, I used the other blade to open his ugly face. “When Nahseer came in, fully armed, he was ordered to take me alive for torture and promised torture and the loss of his eyes should he chance to slay me. Instead, he gave me a better weapon, his dirk. Then he tied the dog, spread-eagled, gagged him and cut out his nuts and threw the things onto the coals of the brazier.

“Then Nahseer thrust a chunk of hot charcoal into the swine’s emptied scrotum. You should have seen him then, chiefs son—I thought his little pig eyes were going to pop out of his head and roll onto the floor!” Sir Huhmfree, who had tried to evince disinterest to begin, had clearly been moved by the lad’s sorry tale. His mobile features were a study in ill-suppressed rage, his lip line thin as a whetted blade and his eyes slitted, while a tic jerked at one cheek and his right hand clenched and reclenched around the hilt of his dagger.

“Mere deballing were far too good for such an unspeakable and depraved animal. The Zahrtohgahn should have had of? his damned yard, as well, and his two kneecaps. It had been hoped that his grace had either eradicated all such unnatural creatures from his lands years ago, or at least made them understand that his duchy was a most unsalubrious climate for such subhumans as they.

“My lord count, due in part to the well-known fact of my paternity and to my personal efforts over the last few years, I own some small power and I am become influential in some circles. Now you know as well as do I that his grace is as stubborn as are you and will not back down or appear to change his mind on this or any other matter without good and clearly spelled-out reason. Mayhap I and my resources can supply that reason, can his grace but be kept mollified for the time it may take.

“Will you not now rephrase your reply?”

Martuhn tried, but his mind refused to conjure up lies and he could not bring himself to write down the suggestions of Sir Huhmfree, Wolf or Nahseer. Finally, Sir Djaimz Stylz, who had been one of the duchess’ scribes, penned a letter composed by himself, Wolf, Nahseer and Sir Huhmfree. Then they all badgered Count Martuhn until he signed it, and the next day Sir Huhmfree bore it back to Pirates’ Folly.

It was the first of many such over the next few weeks, citing illnesses of varying, but believable, sorts as the reason why the boys could not travel—first they were said to be suffering a bout of the bloody flux, then a mild case of camp fever, then a siege of large, painful boils in highly sensitive areas of their bodies.

The young knight was too shrewd to openly name the fictitious maladies. Rather did he describe the symptoms with an almost clinical accuracy—this achieved with the clandestine aid of Martuhn’s Zahrtohgahn garrison surgeon, Medical Sergeant Hahseem ibn Sooleemahn—leaving the duke to draw his own conclusions. Nor did Sir Djaimz further compromise Martuhn in this most dangerous game. He took to signing his own name over the official seal of the county, adding below, “Chief Scribe to the Most Honorable Sir Martuhn, Count of Twocityport.” Sir Huhmfree made no more appearances at the citadel during this period of subterfuge, but rather sent messages by way of one or the other of his squires. “My lord Martuhn,” he wrote, “there is a ‘place’ along an alleyway just off Shippers’ Row in Pahdookahport. You may know of it, for its open activities are legally licensed; it is called the Three Doors, and is ostensibly owned and operated by an old harridan who calls herself Lady Yohahna. The first door leads to a big hwiskee house and inn for sailors and other riffraff, the second door to a mean and dangerous gambling den, the third, of course, to the bordello. But I have determined that there is a fourth door and another and most shameful operation housed therein.

“At this point, all that I write is mere hearsay and my own suppositions, for some very powerful person (or persons) seems to be protecting this ‘place’ and so difficult is firsthand information to obtain that I have determined to have the so-called owner seized and brought to a place whereat I can have the truth wrung out of her, at leisure.

“What little I have thus far learned points not only to this Ehleen, but to certain of his grace’s most trusted officials and at least one of his advisers. But perhaps, when the ‘owner’ feels her bones leaving their sockets and sees the irons heating, she will give me and my witnesses some names and solid facts. “Your servant and admirer, Sir Huhmfree Gawlin.” But it could not last for long. The duke was not a stupid or unperceptive man, else he never would have risen to his present power. Near to the nooning of a day, it all came to a head.

Baron Hahrvee Sheeld, commander of the duke’s personal guard, arrived before the citadel with half a troop of the black-cloaked and -plumed horseguards. The baron had served the duke as long as had Martuhn, and though each respected the courage, prowess and accomplishments of the other, they had had their differences and had never been friends.

With his troopers in formation a few paces from the end of the drawbridge, the baron rode into the citadel alone. In Martuhn’s ground-floor command office, the grim-visaged visitor removed his helmet and cradled it in his arm, but brusquely refused offers of a drink or a chair.

“Count Martuhn, you have rendered his grace most wroth by your refusal to accede to his requests. I have here his warrant”—he reached under his breastplate and withdrew a folded document bearing the ducal seal—“to bear to him at his castle the persons of the two boys, Bahb Steevuhnz and Djoh Steevuhnz, be they sick or well, living or dead.

“You may accompany us back, if you wish. But my candid advice would be to shun the duke’s proximity for a while.

“I presume that you have mounts for these boys. If not, they can double up with a brace of my troopers as far as the Upper Town and the palace stables. “Please have them fetched at once. I am due back at Pirates’ Folly by dark.” “I’ll see the warrant first, if you please, Baron Hahrvee.” Martuhn spoke with as much cool formality as had the baron.

“Of course, that is your right, Count Martuhn.” The black-cloaked nobleman proffered the document.

Martuhn broke the seals and read. The warrant was cold, impersonal and brief. It simply empowered any officer of the duchy to seize the boys by any means necessary and to convey them to the duke. However, there was one thing wrong with it, and Martuhn grasped at this single straw. “Baron Hahrvee, I would be bound to honor this warrant, save for one detail.” “And what, pray tell, is that, sir?” demanded the short, thickset, powerful-looking man.

“It is not signed by his grace,” answered Martuhn. “Now, by my stallion’s balls, sir,” swore the baron hotly. “Yon’s a legal document, drawn up by the clerk of the Court of Pahdookahport and signed by the Honorable Baron Yzik, judge of that court. Baron Yzik is also his grace’s deputy and voice in Pahdookahport, just as you are—so far—in Two-cityport.” Martuhn shook his head, knowing that his very words were damning him, but desperate to buy time, no matter the cost. “Not good enough. Baron Hahrvee. Baron Yzik, whatever else he may be or not be, is my inferior in rank, and I cannot be legally bound by his decrees or warrants. Present me a warrant signed by his grace and we’ll go further into the matter.” The officer shook back his shock of black hair, grinned and relaxed a bit. “I had hoped that your answer to this warrant would be something similar to what you just said. Count Martuhn. I, and some others at Pirates’ Folly, are deriving a measure of true amusement and no little satisfaction in watching you destroy yourself in the eyes of his grace.

“We all saw you rise above your betters, too fast and too far. Your imminent fall will be interesting to observe.

“You well know how his grace deals with rebels. I just hope that I am on hand to view your execution, Count Martuhn.”

Redonning his plumed helmet, the baron spun on his heel and, with a jingling of spur chains and a clanking of his saber scabbard, stalked out to his waiting horse.

A week later, the duke himself arrived before the citadel with a full brigade of his army and a siege train.