On closer inspection, the camp revealed much, too. It had no defenses-no palisade, no trench, no sharpened stakes to foil enemy horsemen. It was a hodgepodge of tents great and small, arranged in no order. Bonfires blazed at intervals between the patched canvas shelters.
That was too bad, Amergin thought. For the deed they were contemplating, darkness would have been better.
It was not a disciplined camp. Bandits strolled about, gobbling stew off tin plates and drinking from clay bottles. Seeing Howland and his companions, they stopped eating long enough to glare balefully at the cause of their grief. A few of the harder-looking brigands fingered blades as Howland passed. The back of Amergin’s neck tingled from all the hostile eyes raking over him. He was grateful for Rakell’s escort now.
Catcalls and rude remarks greeted Ezu’s entry into the camp. Playing his part, he acknowledged every greeting with a seemingly good-natured nod or a wave, as if they were the kindest good wishes.
The riders led them through a labyrinth of tents to the center of the camp. There a high-walled tent was pitched, with many lesser appendages attached to it. The leader of the escort reined in his mount and called Howland forward. Seven bandits emerged from the tent and took charged of the village delegation.
“Are you the general?” asked one of the men on foot. He was a much older man, almost Howland’s age, with a grizzled red-gray beard and a massive scar where his left eye had once been.
“I am Howland uth Ungen.”
“Huh. Right.” He barked orders to the younger men with him, and the trio was roughly and thoroughly searched for weapons. Amergin kept his face impassive. Would they find his sling? The stars in Ezu’s hat? The stiletto in Howland’s scabbard?
A bandit with fresh cuts on his arms and face grabbed Howland’s scabbard. Rattling it, he saw it was empty and left it dangling from the Knight’s hip. Nor did they find Amergin’s sling, which was merely a length of braided twine and a leather tab. When it came to searching Ezu, though, the bandits were in for a surprise.
One snatched the hat from Ezu’s head. He peered into it, saw nothing, and flung it on the ground. Before Ezu could stoop to retrieve it, a small brown rabbit hopped out of it into the firelit night.
“Hey!”
The veteran bandit grabbed the rabbit by the scruff of the neck and shook it under the younger man’s nose. “Didn’t you see he had a rabbit in his hat?”
“But he didn’t, Taylo!”
“Then where did this come from?”
“Oh my,” said Ezu, squeezing between the two rawboned bandits. “He shouldn’t have been there, the rascal.” He took the rabbit from Taylo’s hand and inserted it back into his hat. Once on his head, Ezu smiled benignly. “Settle down, Brownie!”
“Gimme that!” The grizzled bandit took the curled headpiece off Ezu. He shoved his hand into it, expecting to find a handful of soft fur. Instead, his blue eyes widened in alarm. When Taylo withdrew his hand, he was clutching not a rabbit, but a thick, coiling snake with iridescent copper scales. With a shout, he tried to hurl the serpent to the ground, but the reptile was too tightly wound around his hand.
“Get it off!” he cried to all and sundry. His young subordinates remained rooted where they were.
Howland shot a glance at Amergin. The elf was watching the ridiculous scene with great amusement. When Howland caught his eye, they exchanged a knowing look. Ezu’s ability to befuddle onlookers was truly a great asset to their cause.
The snake was halfway up Taylo’s arm when he drew his sword, apparently to hack off his own arm, snake and all. Ezu made soft shushing noises and gently pried the serpent loose.
“Now, Brownie,” he said soothingly, “behave, will you?”
“You said the rabbit was Brownie,” said one of the young guards.
“Sometimes,” said Ezu. He carefully fitted the bulky reptile into his hat.
“Sometimes?”
“Sometimes Brownie’s a rabbit. Other times he’s a snake.”
The bandits were incredulous.
“That’s nothing!” Ezu assured them. “Once he came out a full grown bear. I had no end of trouble getting him back into the hat then!”
The guards stepped back warily. A tall man with a black forked beard, dressed in a burgundy velvet robe, appeared in the tent door. “What in thunder is going on here?” he demanded. The bandits fell into line, white-faced. “Are these the ones from the village?”
“Yes, my lord!” said Taylo.
“Did you search them for weapons?”
“Yes, my lord. That is-”
“Well, did you?” the well-dressed brigand roared.
Taylo weighed whether or not he should describe Ezu’s hat and its peculiar occupant to his superior and evidently decided against it.
“All is in order, my lord!” he declared with a stammer.
“Bring them in!”
Howland and Amergin were chivvied inside. The bandits ushered Ezu in with considerably more circumspection.
Inside, the tent had a gaudy splendor. The ground was covered with thick carpet runners, brocaded in Nordmaar style. Brass and pewter lanterns, every one a different shape and size, hung at intervals overhead. Racks of spears and unstrung bows were sited at every turn, and the air was heavy with the smell of incense, spilled wine, and roasted meat.
After three turns, Howland and his companions found themselves in the great room in the center of the tent. He quickly counted fourteen people in the room: nine men, four women, and a dwarf in a deep blue robe. The dwarf had a scale set up, and was weighing a smooth metal ingot. Since it was the wrong color for gold, Howland assumed it was iron from Rakell’s mine.
Noticing the arrival of visitors, one man in the crowd stood. He was stocky and broad-shouldered, with prominent black brows and a nose pressed flat by too many years in a helmet. His black hair was salted with a little gray. Howland took him to be fifteen years his junior. Draped in black silk, he wore a heavy silver chain around his neck, and his fingers glittered with many rings. There was something about this man, though, that Howland almost recognized.…
“General uth Ungen?” said the man, voice laden with irony.
Howland did not respond immediately. The black-garbed man separated himself from his comrades and came to face Howland and the others.
“I am Rakell,” he said. “You’ve put me to a great deal of trouble, do you know that?”
“That is why I am here,” Howland returned.
Rakell studied the old Knight’s face closely. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
Brow furrowed, Howland said, “Have we met?”
Rakell laughed loudly, displaying fine white teeth. “We once served the same master, Burnond Everride!”
Howland shuddered as if struck. Recognition came to him in a flood. “You rode with Lord Burnond’s host!”
“So did you. I was not known as Rakell then, nor were you a general.”
Ezu, plainly curious, spoke up. “Sir Howland was a Knight of some repute.”
“Quiet, popinjay! You’ve heard the tale ‘Sir Howland’ spun for you, no doubt.” Rakell turned to his minions. “See here what time and tide has accomplished, my friends!” He swept back to an ornate wooden chair and sat down. “I, who was once a prince of my Order, am now a prince of thieves, while Howland here, a sergeant in Lord Burnond’s guard, has become a general of farmers!”
Amergin looked to his leader. Sergeant?
“Sergeant was his highest rank. Did you think a true Knight of the Rose would deign to serve the Dark Order so readily?” Rakell laughed again. “When they brought me the note you wrote, I almost believed it. I knew someone with martial skills was directing the farmers! But a Knight? I consulted the rolls of the ancients orders and found no Howland uth Ungen.”
Howland unbuckled his sword belt, saying nothing. He wrapped the leather strap around the scabbard and turned it over. The finial, a brass ball kept bright by constant rubbing, gleamed by lantern light.