Par, Coll, and Morgan stayed together most of the time. Steff went with them on occasion, but Teel kept away completely, as aloof and uncommunicative as ever. The Valemen and the Highlander became a familiar sight to the outlaws as they wandered the bluff, the fortifications, and the caverns, studying what man and nature had combined to form, talking with the men who lived and worked there when they could do so without bothering them, fascinated by everything they encountered.
But there was nothing and no one more fascinating than Padishar Creel. The outlaw chief was a paradox. Dressed in flaming scarlet, he was immediately recognizable from anywhere on the bluff. He talked constantly, telling stories, shouting orders, commenting on whatever came to mind. He was unremittingly cheerful, as if smiling was the only expression he had ever bothered to put on. Yet beneath that bright and ingratiating exterior was a core as hard as granite. When he ordered that something be done, it was done. No one ever questioned him. His face could be wreathed in a smile as warm as the summer sun while his voice could take on a frosty edge that chilled to the bone.
He ran the outlaw camp with organization and discipline. This was no ragtag band of misfits at work here. Everything was precise and thorough. The camp was neat and clean and kept that way scrupulously. Stores were separated and cataloged and anything could be found at a moment’s notice. There were tasks assigned to everyone, and everyone made certain those tasks were carried out. There were a little more than three hundred men living on the Jut, and not one of them seemed to have the slightest doubt about what he was doing or whom he would answer to, if he were to let down.
On the second day of their stay, two of the outlaws were brought before Padishar Creel on a charge of stealing. The outlaw chief listened to the evidence against them, his face mild, then offered to let them speak in their own defense. One admitted his guilt outright, the other denied it—rather unconvincingly. Padishar Creel had the first flogged and sent back to work and the second thrown over the cliff. No one seemed to give the matter another thought afterward.
Later that same day, Padishar came over to Par when the Valeman was alone and asked if he was disturbed by what had happened. Barely waiting for Par’s response, he went on to explain how discipline in a camp such as his was essential, and justice in the event of a breakdown must be swift and sure.
“Appearances often count for more than equities, you see,” he offered rather enigmatically. “We are a close band here, and we must be able to rely on one another. If a man proves unreliable in camp, he most likely will prove unreliable in the field. And there’s more than just his own life at stake there!”
He switched subjects abruptly then, admitting rather apologetically that he hadn’t been entirely forthcoming about his background that first night and the truth of the matter was that his parents, rather than being landowners who had been strung up in the woods, had been silk merchants and had died in a Federation prison after they had refused to pay their taxes. He said the other simply made a better story.
When Par encountered Hirehone a short time later, he asked him—Padishar Creel’s tale being still fresh in his mind at that point—whether he had known the outlaw chief’s parents, and Hirehone said, “No, the fever took them before I came on board.”
“In prison, you mean?” Par followed up, confused.
“Prison? Hardly. They died while on a caravan south out of Wayford. They were traders in precious metals. Padishar told me so himself.”
Par related both conversations to Coll that night after dinner. They had secluded themselves at the edge of the bluff in a redoubt, where the sounds of the camp were comfortably distant and they could watch the twilight slowly unveil the nighttime sky’s increasingly intricate pattern of stars. Coll laughed when Par was finished and shook his head. “The truth isn’t in that fellow when it comes to telling anything about himself. He’s more like Panamon Creel than Panamon probably ever thought of being!”
Par grimaced. “True enough.”
“Dresses the same, talks the same—just as outrageous and quixotic.” Coll sighed. “So why am I laughing? What are we doing here with this madman?”
Par ignored him. “What do you suppose he’s hiding, Coll?”
“Everything.”
“No, not everything. He’s not that sort.” Coll started to protest, but Par put out his hands quickly to calm him. “Think about it a moment. This whole business of who and what he is has been carefully staged. He spins out these wild tales deliberately, not out of whimsy. Padishar Creel has something else in common with Panamon, if we can believe the stories. He has recreated himself in the minds of everyone around him—drawn a picture of himself that doesn’t square from one telling to the next, but is nevertheless bigger than life.” He bent close. “And you can bet that he’s done it for a reason.”
Further speculation about the matter of Padishar Creel’s background ended a few minutes later when they were summoned to a meeting. Hirehone collected them with a gruff command to follow and led them across the bluff and into the caves to a meeting chamber where the outlaw chief was waiting. Oil lamps on black chains hung from the chamber ceiling like spiders, their glimmer barely reaching into the shadows that darkened the corners and crevices. Morgan and the Dwarves were there, seated at a table along with several outlaws Par had seen before in the camp. Chandos was a truly ferocious-looking giant with a great black beard, one eye and one ear on the same side of his face missing, and scars everywhere. Ciba Blue was a young, smooth-faced fellow with lank blond hair and an odd cobalt birthmark on his left cheek that resembled a half-moon. Stasas and Drutt were lean, hard, older men with close-cropped dark beards, faces that were seamed and brown, and eyes that shifted watchfully. Hirehone ushered in the Valemen, closed the chamber door, and stood purposefully in front of it.
For just a moment Par felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle in warning.
Then Padishar Creel was greeting them, cheerful and reassuring. “Ah, young Par and his brother.” He beckoned them onto benches with the others, made quick introductions, and said, “We are going after the Sword tomorrow at dawn.”
“Where is it?” Par wanted to know at once.
The outlaw chief’s smile broadened. “Where it won’t get away from us.”
Par glanced at Coll.
“The less said about where we’re going, the better the chance of keeping it a secret.” The big man winked.
“Is there some reason we need to keep it a secret?” Morgan Leah asked quietly.
The outlaw chief shrugged. “No reason out of the ordinary. But I am always cautious when I make plans to leave the Jut.” His eyes were hard. “Humor me, Highlander.”
Morgan held his gaze and said nothing. “Seven of us will go,” the other continued smoothly. “Stasas, Drutt, Blue, and myself from the camp, the Valemen and the Highlander from without.” Protests were already starting from the mouths of the others and he moved quickly to squelch them. “Chandos, you’ll be in charge of the Jut in my absence. I want to leave someone behind I can depend upon. Hirehone, your place is back in Varfleet, keeping an eye on things there. Besides, you’d have trouble explaining yourself if you were spotted where we’re going.
“As for you, my Eastland friends,” he spoke now to Steff and Teel, “I would take you if I could. But Dwarves outside the Eastland are bound to draw attention, and we can’t be having that. It’s risky enough allowing the Valemen to come along with the Seekers still looking for them, but it’s their quest.”
“Ours as well now, Padishar,” Steff pointed out darkly. “We have come a long way to be part of this. We don’t relish being left behind. Perhaps a disguise?”
“A disguise would be seen through,” the outlaw chief answered, shaking his head. “You are a resourceful fellow, Steff—but we can take no chances on this outing.”