He told briefly of Pirvan’s discoveries at the Inn of the Chained Ogre, then continued. “Since Sir Pirvan embarked on the remainder of his journey, we have learned more about the inn. It may be a center of certain-rites-conducted without the knowledge or blessing of the kingpriest.”
The training of the Servants of Silence was only partly a rite, and Sir Niebar and Sir Marod both gravely doubted it went on without some blessing of the kingpriest. But to ask these men to follow him into open warfare against the kingpriest would be asking too much. Moreover, if they could claim ignorance of the true purpose of the raid, any vengeance would be more likely to fall on Sir Niebar alone.
Beyond the loss of honor, through lying to these good men.
“So-the kender’s a witness?” one of the men said.
“Of that, and other things.”
“Against humans, or kender, or who?”
Niebar reined in tongue and temper. “Does it matter?”
“Well, Sir Niebar, to my way of thinking, it’s overdue for us to be taking a hand on the side of the other folk. I’m no great lover of any of the odd breeds, but I think-I won’t say the kingpriest, but maybe some close to him-are trying to gull us. Let folk get into bad habits toward kender, and next thing you know, they’ll be doing it to each other.”
“Aye,” said a second man. “I’d do this, too, for anyone but a gully dwarf.”
Who are not likely to need our help, Niebar considered. What the gully dwarves lacked in wisdom, they made up for in centuries of experience in hiding, so that would-be persecutors often gave up even trying to find them.
Kender, on the other hand, were about as hard to overlook as the Towers of High Sorcery.
* * * * *
Darkness clamped down on the sea like a vast lid on a bowl. Tarothin stood in the waist of Pride of the Mountains, judging the distance to the ship with the minotaur head on its foresail.
All he could see of it now was its stern lantern. Darkness had long since swallowed the minotaur head and everything else aboard, including the young giant, as tall as a minotaur himself, who strode the deck.
The Minotaur had sent his heir to sea, probably in search of Jemar rather than what he had found. The heir had even survived this unexpected meeting, thanks to the favor of the gods, the honor of Aurhinius, and very probably the ignorance of the priests of Zeboim.
Tarothin had used the spell-hearing trance sparingly since the first time, and not at all in the past few days. The priests of Zeboim seemed quiet for the moment, and the wizard would have given ten years of his life to know why.
Did they think that victory was already won, without further need to exert themselves? Or were they saving their strength, to fight desperate battles they saw ahead?
Which, of course, depended on how they defined “victory”-and Tarothin would not even venture a guess at that. The priesthood of Zeboim was more secretive than most, and priests of Zeboim set afloat with all restraints removed by the command of the kingpriest himself were likely to defy ordinary human or even wizardly understanding.
However, if Tarothin could not understand them, he could at least carry a warning. The Red Robe ran through his mind the estimate he had already reached, about the distance to Waydol’s ship. He was not an accomplished swimmer, having come to that skill late in life, but he was not what he had been aboard Golden Cup on the voyage to Crater Gulf, a man who would have sunk like a stone if he’d gone overboard.
Also, the water was warmer than farther south, the wind light, and the darkness fit to hide him. If he could just get overboard without a splash that would have the alarm up and boats scurrying about in search of him-
Boats. Like many ships of the fleet, Pride of the Mountains was towing a couple of seagoing barges, fitted to sail or row and able to carry heavy loads of soldiers or stores. The towlines trailed from the waist. If he could just climb down one of them, without being seen, then slip quietly overboard from the barge …
This was one of those decisions, Tarothin realized, that had to be turned into action before thinking about it drained the courage to even try. He had his staff with him, and a waterproof pouch of herbs for certain spells never left his person, even when he bathed.
He was as ready to go now as he ever would be. He refused to think about losing his way, about encountering hungry fish, about being in the water so long that it chilled him to weakness.
Instead he waited until no one was looking toward the port side. Then he climbed over the railing, wrapped arms and legs around the towline, and began a clumsy slide down it toward the barge.
Chapter 18
“Halt! Who goes there?” a sentry called.
Pirvan had been about to dismount, but stopped with one leg still over the saddle. Then he swung back onto his horse. It was still no proper charger, but at least it wasn’t the ravens’ fodder he’d ridden the first day at Waydol’s camp.
Waydol had ordered the patrols increased, mixing cavalry and infantry now that they had nearly forty horses. Pirvan, as a Knight of Solamnia, was assumed to be the best leader of mounted troops, as well as expected to be the most skilled in the difficult art of patrolling.
Along with Birak Epron and Haimya, Pirvan had a good laugh over that.
Less amusing was the danger that he might have to fight Istarian soldiers or their allies. Honor bound him to lead and defend Waydol’s men until Jemar arrived to carry them to safety. However, if his honor ended by forcing him to kill Istarian soldiers, the rulers of the city might have something to say to the Knights of Solamnia about one Sir Pirvan of Tiradot.
So far, however, there had been no such awkward encounters. Pirvan had provided biscuit and salt fish for starving bands of fleeing farmers, sighted Istarian cavalry patrols at great distances, and given would-be recruits for Waydol directions to the camp. He had yet to draw, let alone bloody, a weapon since he began riding the patrol rounds.
Tonight’s patrol was five mounted men, including Pirvan, and ten more on foot. Half of the foot soldiers were Birak Epron’s veterans, who were teaching the other half, from Waydol’s recruits.
From the edge in his voice, the sentry sounded like one of the new men.
Pirvan urged his horse forward, while signaling the others to spread out to each side of him. He doubted that they faced an ambush or serious opposition, but it was always well to have a few men clear of any trap, to ride or run and bring warning.
It was a night of patchy clouds, but otherwise clear, and Solinari was waxing as Lunitari waned. There was enough light to tell friend from foe, with a little luck, which was the best a warrior could hope for, in night fighting.
“Halt!” came again. “Who goes-ahhh!”
The sentry’s scream was that of a man caught in the jaws of a monster. Pirvan shuddered in spite of himself, and of the certainty that only human foes roamed tonight. Now he dug in his heels, and the horse moved up to a canter, the fastest he dared take it in darkness on uncertain ground.
Pirvan and his riders overran the sentry post almost before they knew it was at hand. The knight had a brief glimpse of a body lying gape-throated on the ground, with two figures in dark clothing standing over him. Then a third and fourth enemy loomed out of the darkness, both mounted, both also dark-clad. Pirvan realized that all four of the attackers were far too neatly dressed to be outlaws, but were not Istarians unless the dark clothing was a disguise.
That was his last untroubled thought for some time. In the next moment both mounted figures charged Pirvan, swords in hand. Pirvan was between them, and he and they swept past one another so fast that all he had to do was duck his head for their swords to clang together over his head, showering sparks but no blood.