Lewin said sourly, “Very well. But I insist that my men be permitted to join me, likewise Sir Esthazas, and that we receive honorable treatment.”
Pirvan’s face twisted for a moment, and Lewin knew he had scored a point. Bringing forty new mouths into the hungry, thirsty confines of the citadel of Belkuthas and leaving them armed was perilous. The alternatives were more so. Leave Lewin and his men free, and they could rejoin the sell-swords, for better or for worse. Kill them-but not even the gutter-sprung Pirvan the Wayward would contemplate that.
Lewin had wanted to enter the citadel of Belkuthas. Why should he turn down an invitation to do so, even one so informal as this?
He stood, and tried to brush dirt and less seemly matter off his clothes.
Chapter 15
With the air of a prince visiting a petty noble, the Knight of the Rose rode into the citadel of Belkuthas. It almost seemed as if the heavy guard around him was an honor, rather than a precaution.
It was a precaution Pirvan would not have required if Lewin and his company had submitted to having their weapons peace-bonded, with leather or cloth thongs. The knight had refused, coming close to raising his voice in anger or at least offended dignity, and Pirvan had been forced to choose an alternative.
That alternative was to bring the Solamnic newcomers into Belkuthas surrounded by a guard of nearly every able-bodied mounted fighter the citadel could command. Pirvan hoped the sell-swords wouldn’t regained their courage while he was appeasing Sir Lewin’s dignity.
He had to admit, however, that the odds were long against that. The near-mob with whom Lewin had been riding had not only lost whatever leadership he gave it, it had lost near a hundred men killed or taken, never mind how many had limped off with wounds that would keep them out of the fighting for a while. None would be heard from today.
From prisoners’ tales and scouts messages, one of the other two columns had lost its captain, to what was variously reported as a kender assassin or a plot by High Captain Zephros. Zephros, leader of the other column, was nowhere to be found. Again there were assorted rumors, that he was dead, fled, ensorcelled, or otherwise not where he could command his men.
Pirvan was of two minds about the tale of the assassin. On the one hand, it would account for the two kender, who had been missing since before dawn and who deserved to avenge for Edelthirb’s death. On the other, such an assassination would hardly shrink the “lesser races” problem. Judging from remarks overheard from Sir Lewin’s men-at-arms, this problem already was almost insuperable.
Within the courtyard, Sir Lewin dismounted, without waiting for Pirvan’s permission, and began doing an arms ritual with his sword. Pirvan waited until Sir Lewin had-looking at the matter with charity-restored limberness to his body, then also dismounted.
“I must ask you and your men to give your word of honor to remain where we send you, until you and I have spoken,” Pirvan said. “I do not command this, but the Measure speaks against hindering a fellow knight, even of lesser rank, in the performance of his duties. You will certainly be hindering me if you do not-to put it plainly-stay out of the way until certain matters are further forward.”
Lewin drew himself up to his full height, which was considerable, if not as great as Darin’s. “That provision of the Measure applies only to honorable and lawful duties to which a knight has been ordered by a superior. I permit myself to doubt that your commanding Belkuthas is such a duty.”
“I permit myself,” Pirvan replied, “to doubt that you know what my orders are. They came from Sir Marod, and they were to learn all I could about the tax soldiers and whether they would do justice or not.” That was a free interpretation of what Sir Marod had said, but well short of a lie.
The mention of Sir Marod stopped Lewin, as Pirvan had prayed it might. Taking the silence for agreement, Pirvan embraced Lewin, although he would on the whole have as willingly embraced an ogre. “I rejoice in your safe journey, the valor you showed in battle, and your coming here to aid me in my duties. I am sure we shall see that justice is done once we have a moment together, but that must wait.
“Rynthala, Tharash. Find suitable quarters for these noble knights and their men-at-arms and provide them with food, water, and whatever else they may require after their journey and fighting.”
“Water?” exclaimed Rynthala, in a tone of stark outrage. “We have-”
Pirvan and Tharash both raised their voices without much caring what they said, but it was too late. Pirvan saw a smile flicker on Sir Lewin’s face.
The first impulse that swept through Pirvan was to have Sir Lewin disarmed, bound, and confined. That, of course, would lead nowhere save immediately to a brawl with Lewin’s company, and in the end, to a tribunal of the knights. The second impulse was to pretend he had seen nothing, leaving Sir Lewin believing that the gutter-knight (a name Pirvan knew well, though none used it to his face) had been thoroughly deceived. On the whole, that seemed wiser.
As the new arrivals marched off under escort, Rugal Nis approached and saluted. He was, Pirvan noted, wearing his sword, but one of Pirvan’s men-at-arms was with him.
“Wishing to report, my lord, that we lost no men in the attack. The lads are out picking up after the enemy. We met a dwarf, and he says he wants to talk to you.”
“A dwarf?”
“Aye. He gives his name as Nuor of the Black Chisel and says he needs to speak to the chief of the citadel. That’s you.”
“The chief of the citadel is actually Krythis. I know you came against him in arms, but he doesn’t eat honorable sell-swords. Neither does his lady.”
“What about their daughter?” Nis said impudently.
Pirvan mock-glared. “Where did you find this dwarf?”
“Out to the other side of the walls, near the first of the outer wells. We were seeing that no one had heaved bodies down it to poison it, when all of a sudden this dwarf popped out.”
“Out of the well?”
“So it looked.”
“Thank you. Well done, Rugal Nis. Finish your work. I will see this dwarf.”
Nuor of the Black Chisel was tall for a dwarf, and somewhat the worse for a long underground journey. He sat astride one of Pirvan’s camp stools and, with a finger dipped in ashes from the fire, sketched a map on the floor. He could have used much fouler materials without Pirvan’s protesting.
What the dwarf was offering was life itself, to Belkuthas and, above all, to those innocents who had sought the safety it could no longer provide.
“We couldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t for the wells feeding from two different underground waters,” Nuor said. “That mage-Wilthur the Turd-Colored, or whatever-”
“Has he been working the spells against us?”
“Of course. Gran Axesharp had it from our own thane himself, so if you want to call all three of us liars besides interrupting me-”
Pirvan hastily assured Nuor that he would rather commit several gross crimes (he made the dwarf laugh describing them) than do any such thing. Mollified, the dwarf continued.
“We can cut a tunnel across from the outer well to the one inside. At night, so we can dump the spoil without anyone seeing. Of course, it will mean a deal of stoop work for your people, fetching water through the tunnel, but we’ll size the tunnel for humans.”
Pirvan looked at the map. “Couldn’t you cut a new well?”
“I serve you venison and you want dressed beef as well?”
“Pardon, but-”
“Oh, I’ll explain or you’ll be fretting at me. Can’t do a new well inside the citadel, without tapping into the same water as the old one. That water’s gone, or if there’s any left, most likely it’s not fit to drink. Ask your Red Robe about that.”
Pirvan started to return to the matter, then stopped. The dwarves’ aid promised another possibility, and Pirvan would rather have cut out his tongue than foreclose it.