There was a flicker of confusion in the officer’s eyes. After a pause he shook my hand cautiously, saying, “I wasn’t aware you knew my name.”
“How could I not, sir?” I breezed. “Commander Lightfoot, the supreme intelligencer, the Empire’s most acute and watchful eye.”
“But when I spoke to you earlier,” said Lightfoot, dimly, “I gave you no clue to my identity.”
At his elbow, two officers exchanged knowing glances.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “it seems we were talking at cross purposes. I was under the impression that you wanted me to try and locate Mithos and his gang for apprehension using the Dantir ruse to lure them to this place? No?”
“Well, yes,” he muttered, “but I don’t see. .”
“I am a good citizen of the Empire, sir, and, knowing your methods, resolved to do all I could. Alas, as you can see, I was unsuccessful. I decided to dine with my friends here so I could pass on the news.”
“Indeed. .” said Lightfoot, uncertainly. One of his soldiers smirked and looked down.
Encouraged by this, I went on. “But I do have word, from a very reliable source, close to Mithos’s party, that a raid is intended on the south garrison where they believe Dantir is being held.”
At this, two things happened. Lightfoot’s eyes lit up with anticipation, but the looks exchanged by his men changed. What had been a mixture of bored exasperation and embarrassment instantly became suspicion. It seemed that out of the entire population of Stavis (no small city), only Lightfoot and me were stupid enough to believe that Dantir was alive and worth rescuing. I thought I heard Orgos groan.
One of them, decked out in the white linen cuirass and silver helm of a young sergeant, stepped forward, hesitating awkwardly. Then, in a stage whisper, he addressed Lightfoot. “Excuse me, commander, sir, but these people do actually fit the descriptions we have of Mithos and his group.”
“Nonsense,” spat the commander, with barely a glance at where we stood around the table. “Mithos is on his way to D garrison. We should be on our way to intercept him.”
“Sir. . if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, I doubt it.”
“What is this insubordination?” muttered Lightfoot, turning on him.
“I don’t think this man is to be trusted,” responded the sergeant, with a glance for support at some of his comrades, “and I don’t think we should act on what he tells us. In fact, we should take him and his ‘friends’ into custody immediately.”
“Custody?” bellowed Lightfoot.
“Yes, sir. The party that arrived in Stavis three-and-a-half months ago was described as looking just like them,” the sergeant continued, his voice rising, as he opted to disregard protocol. “I was on gate duty then and I remember. A pale man and a blond woman”-he said, indicating Garnet and Renthrette-“a black man”-stabbing a finger at Orgos-“and an olive-skinned man with dark hair and eyes, who may be Mithos himself.”
The sergeant stepped closer to make the identification clearer and spoke the last words into Mithos’s face. The soldiers who had been lounging carelessly around the room were now alert and attentive, their spears swinging toward us menacingly. There was a new urgency to the situation, and the troopers felt it. Only the idiocy of their commander could save us now, and, given the grim surety of the young sergeant, even that might be insufficient.
“And what about her?” asked Lightfoot, gesturing to Lisha in an offhand and slightly juvenile so-there gesture. The sergeant looked over Lisha’s almost childlike frame, her impassive face with its small Eastern features and long, raven black hair, and he faltered.
“I don’t know, sir,” he spluttered. “I do not think she was with the party when they entered the city, but. .”
“Exactly,” said Lightfoot, “and I will not have these good and loyal citizens harassed further.”
“May we go?” I inserted, a little too eagerly.
“Have you finished your supper?” asked Lightfoot. He looked doubtful.
“Oh yes,” I blustered. “You’re welcome to what’s left. It’s quite good, but I had rather a large lunch and. .”
“Yes, yes,” agreed the commander, hasty and anxious to be off. “Go on your way, and thank you.”
“With all due respect, sir. .” began the sergeant, now with undisguised anger.
“We’ll discuss this later, young man,” said Lightfoot, ominously.
“You’re damn right about that,” murmured the sergeant, turning his back on his superior contemptuously.
We needed no further encouragement. Within seconds I was holding the door to the street open as Renthrette and Garnet filed out. Behind us, Lightfoot growled formal charges to his sergeant. Perversely, I couldn’t help feeling a little disdainful pity for both of them. Still, this was not the time to show sympathy for the enemy. Taking up the rear, I stepped into the open doorway, smiling to myself at a job well done, some dignity saved, and so on. Then, the young sergeant, presumably figuring he had nothing to lose, walked away from his commander, dipped into The Book, and looked up the oldest trick.
“Oh, Mr. Hawthorne?” he called.
And, like the death trap/beer keg that I am, I turned. “Yes?” I began guilelessly.
At that, even Lightfoot’s face fell. Then they started running.
For a second I was rooted to the spot as if I’d been blinded by a combination of my own stupidity and the glittering of all those steel spear tips aimed at me. Then Orgos shoved me out into the street, drew his sword, and closed his eyes.
For a split second there was amused disbelief on the part of the soldiers-this guy’s going to try and hold us off singlehandedly? But then the stone in Orgos’s sword seemed to swell with golden light, and there was a pulse of energy that radiated from it like ripples in a pond. I shut my eyes at the last second, but I still felt the firelight amber of the stone burst forth. When I opened them again, the soldiers looked dazed.
Knowing the moment wouldn’t last, Orgos slammed the double doors shut.
“Wedge them closed,” gasped Lisha. Garnet and Renthrette dropped to the ground, looking for suitable rocks or bits of wooden crate as Mithos joined Orgos, shoulders to the door. In seconds it jolted with the impact of the soldiers’ first charge, but the pale siblings were already positioning a pair of heavy planks up against the door handles. They would buy us a few moments till the troopers levered the doors off their hinges with their shortswords.
I stood there, as I am wont to do in situations like this, looking vacant, uncomfortable and, more to the point, useless. As soon as the doors looked like they would hold, Garnet wheeled around and hoisted me up against a wall, plucking a knife from his belt. Déjà vu, eh? Still, at times like this, it’s nice to know that some things can be counted on. Why worry about the Empire plowing the door down like crazed buffalo when Will Hawthorne is there to beat up on, eh, Garnet?
Fortunately, Garnet wasn’t the only one in character. With a strong arm and a baleful glare, Orgos liberated me and began spitting insistent words like “priorities,” which I could sympathize with, and “time for this later,” which I was rather less keen on.
Lisha interrupted him. “Garnet, run back to the Hide, load as much of our campaign equipment as you can onto the wagon, and meet us tomorrow morning at the Black Horse Inn. It’s about twelve miles north of here on the road to Vetch. Go. Quickly.”
Garnet paused only to shoot me the briefest but most murderous look imaginable, then was off and running. Lisha began walking swiftly, talking as she did so. “We have to move quickly, avoid the major roads. We need to get past city limits before news of this fiasco spreads. Run! Mithos, go with Will.”