“Maybe we can ask these soldiers where he is, master,” observed Jeffers dryly. He reached for his sword, strapped to his waist. “Shall I—”
“Don’t bother,” said Praxle resignedly, “I can’t afford the time to look for another bodyguard right now.” He rubbed his head slowly. “He betrayed me. That monk is more intelligent than I gave him credit for.”
The guards surrounded them, and Praxle and Jeffers dispassionately held out their wrists.
Praxle noted that the manacles were, like Teron’s betrayal, cold.
“And what would you wish to be done with these two?” asked the captain. “Shall we send a detachment to take them back to Fairhaven for you?”
Teron looked over at Praxle and Jeffers, who stood amid a quartet of guards with their hands locked securely behind their backs. Jeffers looked stoic as ever, although Teron noticed him flex his arms to test the stiffness of his bonds. Praxle’s eyes burned with deliberate hatred, standing out sharply above the large ragged gag that filled his mouth.
Teron rubbed his fingers along the corners of his mouth, trying to wipe out the smug smile that lurked there, ready to splash across his face. “No, captain, that will not be necessary,” he said, “These two are smugglers, wanted by the Thrane authorities. We’ve been pursuing them in Aundair for some time, and thanks to you we have caught them.
“I will be bringing them to Daskaran and handing them over to the authorities there. The Thranes will doubtless take them to Fairhaven for trial.”
The captain tilted her head. “Why go to all that fuss just to make the Thranes happy?”
“Two reasons, captain. First, anything that can help ease tensions between Thrane and Aundair will be good for everyone. Second, and more importantly,” he added, “we could try them here, but the Church of the Silver Flame has … more creative solutions in the realm of justice.”
The captain raised her eyebrows and wagged her head, although Teron could not tell if her gesture was one of assent or merely acceptance of a tale she did not believe.
“I thank you again, captain,” Teron said, bowing, “Your assistance will not go unnoticed, I assure you.”
He walked back toward the lightning rail, and as he passed Praxle and Jeffers, he gestured to the soldiers. “Bring them this way, if you please,” he said.
The soldiers each took an arm of one of the prisoners and impelled them toward the waiting coaches. They hauled them back aboard, pushed them into the second-class sleeper cabin that Teron indicated, and turned to leave.
“You’ll be all right, then?” asked one of the guards. “That orcblood looks pretty tough, and that gnome, well, he looks downright vicious. We’d be happy to lend the church one of our swords, if you like.”
“I’ll be fine, soldier,” said Teron.
The soldiers nodded and departed, and Teron closed the door to the cabin. He pulled a key from his belt and waved it.
“Back in Ghalt I alerted the military to arrest you if you appeared at any border crossing,” he said. He offered up two pieces of parchment. “They had excellent descriptions, based on these pictures of you, drawn from your papers by one of the brothers at the monastery. The search edict was given in the name of the Prelate Quardov, and would have been obeyed. You would have been detained and sent back, and I doubt he’d believe your version of events. The only way I could think of to get you two across the border without raising suspicion was to have the military actually arrest you.”
“Why did you not inform us of your scheme?” asked Jeffers.
“It was a gamble,” said Teron, “I thought it best to keep your reactions honest and to proof your minds against telepaths.”
“I knew that,” said Praxle. “You didn’t have me fooled, monk.”
Teron glanced at Jeffers. The half-orc rolled his eyes.
13
Personal Wars
The lightning rail glided slowly to a halt, wreathed in energy. Steam rose from the coaches, the watery remnants from a brief shower being vaporized by the powerful magical effects of the conductor stones. The mist glowed whenever the slanting mid-afternoon sun broke through the scudding clouds.
The last of the flickering bolts died out as the caravan came to a halt. Stewards stepped up to the carriages and opened the doors, setting wooden steps in place for the convenience of the passengers.
“Daskaran Ferry!” bellowed the conductor. “Debark for Daskaran Ferry, Daskaran, Scions Sound, Flamekeep, and points south! Boarding, eastbound run to Thaliost! One hour to board for Thaliost!”
Jeffers stepped off the coach, down the small wooden bench, and onto the platform. His head swiveled side to side, taking in the entire area. He nodded, and Praxle followed him off the coach, using the handrail to help him take the steps that were uncomfortably large for a gnome. Teron followed the other two off, his straggly cat Flotsam perched on his shoulder.
He walked up to stand beside Praxle and Jeffers, “Where to now?” he asked.
“Not now, monk,” said Praxle quietly, “We’ve got trouble by the conductors hut.”
Turning his head as little as possible, Teron glanced over toward the small outbuilding that served as the conductor’s office. There he saw several Thrane soldiers listening intently to a ragged-looking goblin. The diminutive humanoid gestured to his wrists, shook his fists, and then pointed directly at the threesome. Eight veteran eyes followed the goblin’s finger and studied the travelers like raptors.
“What is your wish, master?” asked Jeffers calmly.
“Lets disperse,” Praxle said. “Some, but not overmuch,” he added, walking casually away from the others and picking up an abandoned broadsheet of the Flamekeep Mirror that lay on a slatted bench.
Jeffers kneeled down to adjust a nonexistent problem with his boots, and Teron simply turned the other direction and sauntered away.
The guards moved briskly over. Two stopped at Praxle, who was the nearest, and one of them used a spear to usher Praxle’s reading aside. “Your papers,” said the guard with no hint of respect in his voice.
Praxle smiled and pulled out the small case holding his forged identity papers. The case was made of lacquered ebony edged with polished silver, a fortunate find when Jeffers went shopping in Passage. The Thrane guard inspected the beautifully calligraphed identity papers and matched the illustration with Praxle’s beatific face.
“May I enquire as to what this is all about, good soldier?” asked Praxle.
The guard grimaced. “We received a report, citizen d’Sivis, that you’d been clapped in irons just the other side of the border. We, uh, we needed to pursue the matter.”
“Folderol!” said Praxle, his eyes wide with surprise and indignity. “Me? In irons?”
“Did you have any difficulties with the Aundairian law, citizen d’Sivis?” pressed the guard.
“Why, no, of course not,” replied the gnome. “I don’t underst—” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Say,” he said, leaning forward, “this … report, did it come from a goblin? About yea high, kind of a, a burgundy coat?” asked Praxle.
Flustered, the guard replied, “We can’t make any—”
“Because if it did,” interrupted Praxle, “that would be the gambler I took to the woodshed over several hands of sovereign setup. See, he’d get this little tic in his left eye when he was bluffing, and I drained his purse until it was as empty as a Karrn’s heart. He said I’d regret it, but I paid him no mind, as I have my domestic with me,” he added, gesturing to Jeffers.
“Right,” said the guard, handing back the papers as he looted past Praxle to his fellows. One was holding Jeffers’ papers, looking back for confirmation. The other had just garnered Teron’s attention. “My apologies for the interruption.”