It was dark in the barracks, with no fire to light the gloom. She waited, letting her eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. Gradually, she could make out the sleeping forms of the slaves, sprawled on the dirt floor, wrapped in rags and scraps of blankets. Light fell across them in bars, coming through the gaps in the rough pine walls of the building. The Committeemen, Erak had told her, had a separate room at the end of the barracks, where they even kept a small fire burning for warmth. But there was always a chance that one of them might stay on watch in the main barracks. That was why he had given her the silver.
And the dagger.
She touched her hand to the cold hilt of the weapon now, feeling it for reassurance. She had reconnoitered the barracks several days ago and she knew roughly where Will had his sleeping space. She began to head toward it, picking her way carefully among the prone bodies.
Her eyes moved this way and that, seeking him out, and she felt a growing sense of desperation as she searched. Then she made out that unmistakable shock of hair above a ragged blanket, and with a sigh of relief, she made her way to him.
At least there would be no problem getting Will to move. Yard slaves, their senses dulled and their minds slowed by the drug, would obey any command they were given.
She crouched beside Will, shaking his shoulder to wake him-gently at first, then, realizing that in his drugged state he would sleep like the dead, increasingly roughly.
"Will!" she hissed, leaning close to his ear. "Get up. Wake up!"
He muttered once. But his eyes remained tight shut and his breathing heavy. She shook him again with a growing sense of panic.
"Please, Will," she begged. "Wake up!" And she hit him across the cheek with the palm of her hand.
That did the trick. His eyes opened and he stared foggily at her.
There was no sign of recognition but at least he was awake. She dragged at his shoulder.
"Get up," she commanded. "And follow me."
Her heart leaped in triumph as he obeyed. He moved slowly, but he moved, rising groggily to his feet and standing, swaying unsteadily, beside her, waiting for further instructions.
She pointed to the door, swinging open and letting a band of white light into the barracks. "Go. To the door," she ordered, and he began to trudge toward it, uncaring where he put his feet, kicking and treading on the other sleeping slaves. Remarkably, they showed little reaction, at most muttering or tossing in their sleep. She turned to follow him, but a cold voice from the far end of the room stopped her in her tracks.
"Just a moment, missy. Where do you think you're going?"
It was a Committeeman. Even worse, it was Egon. Jarl Erak had been right. They did take turns to stand watch over the other slaves. She turned to face him as he made his way through the crowded room. Like Will, he paid no heed to the sleeping figures on the floor, treading on them as he came.
Evanlyn drew herself up, took a deep breath and said, in as steady a voice as she could manage: "Jarl Erak sent me to fetch this slave.
He needs firewood brought into his quarters."
The gang boss hesitated. It was not impossible that she was telling the truth. If one of the senior Jarls ran out of firewood in the middle of the night, he'd have no compunction about sending a slave to bring a new stack in.
However, he was suspicious and he thought he recognized this girl.
"He sent for this slave in particular?" he challenged.
"That's right," Evanlyn replied, trying to sound unconcerned. It was the one part of their story that was thin. There was no reason why Erak, or any other Skandian, would have specified a particular yard slave for a menial carrying task.
"Why this slave?" he pressed, and she knew the bluff wouldn't work. She tried another tack.
"Well, he didn't actually say this one. He just said a slave. But Will's a friend of mine and he'll get to work inside where it's warm for a few hours and maybe a decent meal, so I thought:" She let the sentence hang, shrugging her shoulders, hoping he'd be satisfied.
Egon, however, simply continued to stare at her. Then, finally, his eyes narrowed in recognition.
"That's right," he said. "You were in here the other day. I saw you looking around, didn't I?"
Inwardly, Evanlyn cursed him. She decided she had to break this impasse quickly. She tugged out the small sack of coins and jingled it.
"Look, I'm just trying to do a friend a good turn," she said.
"I'll make it worth your while."
He glanced quickly over his shoulder to make sure none of the other Committeemen were witness to the scene. Then his hand shot out and he grabbed the sack from her.
"That's more like it," he said. "I do something for you, and you do something for me." He shoved the coins inside his shirt and moved closer to her, standing only a few centimeters away. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Will was waiting, an uninterested spectator, by the doorway. Suddenly Egon grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her closer to him.
"Maybe you can find a few more coins hidden somewhere," he suggested. Then a frown came over his face as he felt a sharp pain in his belly-and a warm trickle running down his skin from the spot where the pain was centered. Evanlyn smiled without any warmth.
"Maybe I can gut you like a herring if you don't let go," she said, jabbing the razor-sharp dagger into his skin once more.
She wasn't totally sure that herrings were gutted. But neither did he seem to be. He backed off quickly, waving at the door and cursing her.
"All right," he said. "Get out of here. But I'll make your friend pay for this when he comes back."
With a vast sigh of relief, Evanlyn hurried to the door, grabbing Will's arm and dragging him outside. Once there, she turned and slid the bolt home again.
"Come on, Will. Let's get out of here," she said, and led the way toward the path to the harbor.
From the shadows, Jarl Erak watched the figures leave and heaved his own sigh of relief.
Then, after a few minutes, he followed them. There was still work for him to do this night.
26
T HE SMALL CAVALCADE FOLLOWED THE ROAD NORTH. H ALT AND Horace rode in the center with Deparnieux, who had changed into his customary black armor and surcoat. The raddled old hack that he had been riding was now consigned to the rear of the column, and he was astride a large, aggressive and, as Halt had expected, black battlehorse.
They were surrounded by at least two dozen men-at-arms, marching silently ahead and behind. In addition, there were ten mounted warriors, split into two groups of five and stationed at either end of the column.
Halt noticed that the men nearest them kept their crossbows loaded and ready for use. He had no doubt that at the first indication that they wanted to escape, he and Horace would be bristling with crossbow bolts before they had gone ten steps.
His own longbow was slung across his shoulder, while Horace had retained his sword and lance. Deparnieux had shrugged at them as he took them captive, indicating the mass of armed men around them.
"You can see it's no use resisting," he said, "so I'll allow you to hold on to your weapons." He had then glanced meaningfully at the longbow resting lightly across Halt's saddle pommel. "However," he added, "I think I'd feel more at ease with that bow unstrung, and slung over your shoulder."
Halt had shrugged and complied. His look told Horace that there was a time to fight, and a time to accept the inevitable. Horace had nodded and they had fallen in beside the Gallic warlord, finding themselves immediately bunched in by his retainers. Halt noted wryly that Deparnieux's generosity did not extend to their string of captured horses and armor. He gruffly ordered for their lead rein to be handed to one of his mounted retainers, who now rode at the rear of the column with them. Their captor noted with interest that the shaggy little packhorse did not have a lead rope, and stayed calmly alongside Halt's mount. He raised an eyebrow, but made no comment.