“You don’t look much like a Chett anymore,” the merchant told him.
“Ah, but I do look like a barge pilot who has run out of luck,” Gudon replied.
“You are crazy, my friend.”
A short while later he was having a drink in the sooq’s best inn. A tall, ascetic-looking man joined him.
“I see you found what you are looking for,” the man said.
“The merchant thought I was crazy.”
“You are.”
Gudon shrugged. “Perhaps, Kayakun. Crazy or not, only I can do this.”
Kayakun did not argue, but ordered a drink for himself and a refill for Gudon.
“You think Lynan can pull off this plan of his?”
“You met him. What do you think?”
“He is a boy.”
“He is a great deal more than a boy. I have seen him change beyond recognition. He has won over most of the clans. He is the White Wolf returned to us, Kayakun.”
Kayakun regarded his friend carefully. “If true, it is a marvel indeed.”
“You sound skeptical.”
“I have spent over ten years in this town, spying for Korigan and her father before her. I have seen many marvelous things, heard many amazing stories. But the White Wolf returned?” He shook his head. “I am sorry, but now legends only sound like tales from the wine pot.”
“You will see for yourself before long.”
“As long as this boy’s plan works. You are taking a terrible risk.”
“Have you any word?” Gudon asked him, changing the subject.
“There are birds flying high over the pass. Prado’s men will be here by tomorrow morning.”
“Then his scouts will be here by tonight.”
“They will not enter the town alone. You have one more night’s good sleep. You will need it. Only the gods know when you’ll sleep safely again.”
Prado woke with the sun. Freyma and Sal were already up, stirring the troops. He looked behind him at the pass, remembering with bitterness that the last time he passed across it was as Rendle’s prisoner. Next time he crossed it would be with a basket carrying Lynan’s head. In front of him lay the Oceans of Grass, a great yellow expanse still recovering from the winter. In less than a month the First Light caravan—the first caravan to make the crossing after winter—would be making the journey here from the east.
No, not this spring, he corrected himself. Not with the war. God only know how long it would be before the next caravan made the crossing.
Freyma appeared by his side. “Do we move with the archers?”
Prado shook his head. “No, they can catch up. By now those in the Strangers’ Sooq will have seen our scouts and know we’re coming. I’d like to get there before they can organize any proper defense.” He looked around at his mercenaries. “See how eager they are?”
“After marching all winter, they can hardly wait to get their hands on something to make it all worthwhile.”
“They’ll fill their saddlebags at the sooq. And that’s only the beginning. Tell them to mount up. We ride now.”
“They’re hungry. Surely they can eat a little before—”
“Tell them in three hours they can eat breakfast in the comfort of an inn.”
“Yes, General,” Freyma said, and left.
There was panic in the Strangers’ Sooq. Many merchants loaded their horses and wagons with all the goods they could lay hands on and tried to get as far away as possible from the town. Most realized there was no time to flee, and instead boarded up their homes and readied buckets of water and damp blankets to put out any fires. A few tried to set up an ambush, but there were not enough warriors for them to offer anything but the opportunity for a massacre. The oldest among them remembered the Slaver War and how the sooq had been captured and then recaptured several times, but neither side had ever destroyed the town—it was too valuable a prize to raze to the ground—and so placed their trust in the gods and hoped that whatever blood was spilled did not come from their own families.
When Prado’s main column did arrive, it raced through the town at full gallop. The riders whirled swords above their heads looking for an opportunity to use them. When they got to the end of town, they slowed to a canter and split into two lines, each one reversing their course and taking time to inspect each dwelling. By the time Prado himself arrived a few minutes later, the Strangers’ Sooq was mostly under his control. A group of young men tried to ambush him and his bodyguard, but they were cut down before they were close enough to land a blow. Prado ordered that their heads be cut off and put on pikes planted in the sooq’s trading ground, then claimed the best inn for his own headquarters.
Prado next ordered the town’s elders to be brought before him. He interviewed them carefully about the whereabouts of Lynan, but all they could tell him was what he already knew: he had come in the company of a merchant and left in the company of a Chett, a giant, a crookback from the east, and a young woman. No one had seen or heard of him since.
Prado was disappointed but not surprised. He had one of the elders tortured to make sure his story was true, but the facts did not change. Prado let them all go.
“What now?” Freyma asked, rubbing his pock-marked cheeks. He had forgotten how the dry air on this side of the pass made his skin itch.
“We wait. Let those who live here know that I will pay good money for information about Lynan’s whereabouts. Word will come.”
“How long can we wait?”
“Twenty days at the most. After that, we can expect a visit from a couple of clans at least. But someone will come in with information. In the meantime, organize a collection. Every house must deliver one half of its goods. When the collection is complete, distribute the booty among our riders and archers.”
“That will make the reward for information about Lynan more valuable,” Freyma observed.
“Exactly.”
It was at the end of the collection that Prado’s break came. He himself was riding to inspect the loot when a short, ragged-looking Chett darted from a nearby house. Prado drew his saber, thinking for a moment that he was about to be attacked by a single madman, but then another Chett, well-dressed, carrying a stick and as angry as a wounded karak, came after the first Chett, caught him, and started beating him to the ground. Prado and his men laughed at the scene, some betting each other whether or not the smaller Chett would die before his attacker’s fury evaporated. The runaway managed to get to his feet despite the blows, looked around desperately for help, and on spying Prado darted toward him crying, “My lord! My lord! Protect me, please!”
The other Chett chased after him, shouting, “Scoundrel! Thief!”
This made the mercenaries laugh twice as hard. Prado kicked the first Chett away, and he landed hard on the ground again; his pursuer nodded his thanks and raised his stick to resume the assault.
“Stop!” Prado yelled suddenly.
Everyone did.
“Pick the little bastard up and bring him here,” Prado ordered. Two riders jumped off their horse and collected the Chett. Prado peered at the captive’s face. “I know you.”
The Chett’s eyes, already wide with fear, seemed ready to pop out of their sockets.
“No, master! We have never met. I would not forget such majesty—”
Prado slapped his face, hard. “You worked on the Barda River.”
“Me? I am a Chett, master! Why would a Chett work on this river—”
Prado slapped his face a second time. “Barge pilot,” he said.
The Chett seemed to collapse in the arms of the two riders still holding him, and started whining like a whipped dog. “Oh, master!”
“We were on your barge and you drove us into a jaizru nest. Because of you, I lost two of my best men. And I lost my prisoner.”
Prado dismounted, drew his dagger and placed it against the neck of the Chett.