Demontech: Gulf Run (16 page)

Sergeants Phard and Geatwe, the senior enlisted men among the Skraglanders and Zobrans, were nearby. “Let him go,” they both agreed.

Maid Marigold, though not a member of the council, leaned close against Haft and whispered into his ear, “Don’t be a murderer.”

Haft looked at her quizzically. He was a sea soldier, a Frangerian Marine; killing people was his job. He sighed deeply: killing in battle; hanging was different. “All right,” he agreed. He looked at Phard. “Get him.”

Phard went away and returned in a few minutes with bal Ofursti. He’d unbound the officer’s legs, but his men had had to gag him overnight to still his yelling. The gag was still in his mouth. Phard carried bal Ofursti’s fine saber in its belted scabbard.

“Captain bal Ofursti,” Spinner announced after looking at the disheveled Dartmutter officer for a long moment, “we have decided. You are banished from the caravan. We will unbind you and you will leave. You will not return, under pain of death.” Then to Phard, “Release him.”

“You can’t do this!” bal Ofursti said, or croaked, as soon as the gag was removed. “You can’t send me out there alone and unarmed. That’s the same as a death sentence!”

“We narrowly decided against hanging you here and now,” Haft snapped. “Would you rather we did that?”

Bal Ofursti worked his jaw and throat to get them in better order before he replied. “At least give me my sword and knife, and some food.”

“We cannot spare food,” Haft said before Spinner could order food for him.

Spinner held back the retort he wanted to make; it wouldn’t do to show dissension. Instead he asked, “Does anybody have an old sword to give him?”

“I do,” Fletcher said. “I’ll fetch it.” He was back in a couple of minutes with a straight sword in a worn scabbard; its belt had a knife in a sheath. At Spinner’s nod, he handed it to bal Ofursti.

The officer looked at the sword, appalled. It was far inferior to his saber. He began to draw it to check for rust on the blade, but Phard’s hand suddenly clamped on his neck.

“Don’t do it, laddie,” the grizzled sergeant rumbled.

He let go of the sword hilt and it slid back into the scabbard.

“Now leave,” Haft ordered, pointing west. “If we see you again, you are dead.”

Bal Ofursti took two slow steps backward, looking anxiously at the impassive faces that stared back at him. Then he spun around and ran.

They continued along the meandering northerly road. Refugees still headed more or less west, wandering, lost in their flight from the Jokapcul who were pillaging Dartmutt. Most of them had learned by now that there was no safety in numbers, and so made their way through the caravan once they saw its westerly direction. Others accreted to the caravan. No one told them nay, nor did many say yea to the new arrivals—the caravan was moving too fast for anyone to take the time and energy to pass judgment on them, and it wasn’t going to stop until the end of the day.

They were a sorry bunch, these newest additions. More than half of them had gotten away from Dartmutt with nothing but what they wore, or what small goods they could snatch up as they ran. Some who had fled with nothing had the presence of mind to pick up what others had dropped as they made their way through the forest west of the city. Many of the men and a few women bore weapons of one sort or another, mainly knives and hunting bows. Many of the refugees who had been camped farthest from the harbor managed to make their escape with enough to survive for a time in the wilderness. Only a few, who were just arriving in the environs of Dartmutt when the Jokapcul attacked, had wagons.

They saw oddities in the caravan, these newly accreted additions. Here and there along its length was a man wearing a richly brocaded jacket, an extravagantly embroidered shirt, fine, snug trousers, and soft, glowing boots. A far larger number of women were clad in loose gowns of silk or cotton, some of which were finely embroidered in gold and silver thread, or shod in fawn-skin shoes, or protected from the dirt and dust by linen travel cloaks, or resplendent in velvet capes. These were the people to whom Alyline and Doli had meted out, one garment per person, the wardrobes from the chests in the concubines’ wagons. Not many of the new arrivals saw the four foot-sore women who whined as they trod the road, dressed in thin flowing robes that hung from their shoulders by thin, satin straps and turned nearly transparent where they clung to sweaty flesh. Not all who did see them wondered about the red welt that slashed across the shoulders of three of those women, or the frayed stripes across the gown of the fourth unhappy woman. None saw all four of those women as they were spaced out along the column. Few saw the platoon of twenty soldiers, most of whom cast occasional wary glances at the banty little soldier who chivvied them through their paces in the trees west of the road.

Hardly any of the new people noticed the soldiers or other armed men who fell in behind them as they walked or rode with the caravan. And most who did notice were soldiers, or had been, and understood why soldiers stayed close behind newcomers—and they made sure to keep their hands clear of their weapons.

All saw the taller than average, dusky-skinned young man who rode from one end of the caravan to the other, and the respectful way nearly all greeted his passage. A very few recognized his uniform and wondered how it happened that a Frangerian Marine was in charge of the refugee caravan. Did that mean a counterattacking army was nearby, or at least a large force to rescue the refugees? Whichever, it gave them hope.

Veduci, the bandit leader, had stayed with his own people since the day they’d joined the caravan, and they’d had as little contact with the Frangerians leading it as possible—especially Haft, who Veduci believed would as soon as not cut him and his people down. So he hadn’t seen what happened with the Dartmutt Prince’s Guards, though he knew about it. In fact, though remaining close to his own people, Veduci made sure he knew as much as possible about what was happening along the caravan’s length. At all times while it was moving during the day, and as long as movement was safe at night, he had no fewer than four and often as many as eight of his people scouting. They didn’t appear to be scouting, of course, since that would draw attention, and such attention wouldn’t do. But the scouts wandered up and down the column, eavesdropping on conversations, engaging other refugees in conversation, picking up all manner of rumors. During the day, Veduci’s scouts were more often women than men—women were seldom perceived as potential threats. At night his men most skilled at stealthy movement went about quietly listening in on campfire talk.

So, not only did Veduci know about the Earl of Dartmutt’s caravan before they reached it, he knew who was in it before Spinner and Haft did. He knew bel Yfir was acting the spoiled pet before she sent for that Golden Girl. He had a more graphically detailed report of the tracery of welts and scars on the back and legs of the handmaid bel Bra than did Spinner and Haft. He knew all about the confrontation with the Earl’s Guards and its subsequent change of command. He knew almost as soon as the Golden Girl did that all of the handmaids’ backs bore marks from being switched by the concubines. He knew about bal Ofursti’s expulsion from the caravan. And he knew what was in the smallest chest carried in each wagon of the Dartmutter caravan.

Disaffected soldiers, royal playthings accustomed to far better treatment than they were being afforded, a group of handmaids who had good cause for anger and resentment. A banished, angry officer who was likely pacing the caravan. And royal riches.

These things required thought. One well-placed arrow at the right time could ally the Earl’s Guards with him. And that captain could possibly be used as a diversion. Use the royal playthings to create more distraction. What about the handmaids? Other than the scars and welts, they were—every one of them—fine-looking women. Did his band have use for more women? Of course, men could
always
find use for more women, especially attractive women. Then, while everyone’s attention was elsewhere, snatch the royal riches.

But no matter what plan he might come up with to gain the royal riches, at this time there was nowhere to go with them. Besides, thought and planning take time, and with the Jokapcul so close in Dartmutt and likely already extending their perimeter, and the caravan making haste to gain distance from them, there was no time for such thinking. And there were more immediate concerns—the growing number of refugees attaching themselves to the caravan. Who were they, and what might they have that was worth taking?

No, any banditry would have to wait.

“Hello, friend,” the bandit leader said to a red-faced, puffing man who stumbled out of a forest trail onto the road. Zlokinech, one of his men stopped with him.

The sleeves of the man’s linen coat were tied around his neck so he could wear it like a cape. Under the dirt and wear of long travel, the coat itself was dyed in bands of color from top to bottom so each band blended into the next in the Bostian manner, and was piped in royal purple. The sweat-stained cotton shirt that would have been mostly hidden by the coat sagged off the man, and his trousers were bunched and bloused around his waist, held up by a belt that drooped a very long tongue—the clothes belonged to a much larger man. But the redness of this man’s face and the shortness of his breath told Veduci they were indeed his; their looseness was because he’d lost a great deal of weight recently. He looked like he had been a well-off merchant.

Veduci stopped while the man paused to catch his breath. He knew some Frangerian, which was the trading language, though he hadn’t admitted it to Spinner and Haft. If this man was a merchant, he probably did as well. Veduci talked calmingly to him in that language. “We’ve been on the road since Eikby, running from the Jokapcul in Penston. We’d hoped to find succor in Dartmutt, but got there just as the barbarians invaded. Now we go farther north. Where do you head?”

“My wagons—I don’t know.”
Pant.
“I’d thought to find passage on a ship in Dartmutt.”
Puff
, and a shake of his head. “But—my wagons! You saw?”

Veduci nodded. “We arrived just in time to see.”

The caravan chugged and jerked by, mostly unnoticed by the merchant. The refugees paid them little attention. The soldiers who passed gave them a quick once-over and kept going.

“My wagons—they’re lost!”
Pant.
“Now I don’t know where to go.”

“Where is your family, your retainers?”

“My—”
Gasp.
He looked about madly. “They were—”
Puff.
“They were right,”
pant,
“behind me.”

“We’re here,” a reedy voice said.

The merchant turned to the voice and scurried to it, arms spread wide. “I was afraid I’d lost you!”
Pant.
He flung his arms around the beardless youth who followed him from the forest trail.

“Mother comes on the cart,” the youth said, pushing to free himself from his father’s smothering grasp; he was an age where a boy no longer wants to be hugged by a parent.

“The cart—”
Sob.
“My wagons!” He spun to Veduci. “My wagons! I emptied an entire wagon’s worth of cloth bolts and metal household items crossing Skragland, all in exchange for food for my family and people!”
Pant.
“I still had four wagons when we reached Dartmutt.”
Heave.
“I tried to bring them when we fled the city, but the Jokapcul were too fast.” He buried his face in his hands. “They came and slaughtered two of my drivers.”
Cry.
“The other drivers cut horses free and rode away, leaving my wagons behind.” He lifted his face and his voice rose as well. “They could have continued driving. The Jokapcul who killed the two drivers stopped to plunder those wagons—my other two wagons were safe, we could have left with them!” He ended with a wail.

A pony cart emerged from the trail, led by a young man who walked next to the pony’s head. A stout woman as finely—and dustily—dressed in clothes too large sat on the cart’s small bench. A lass of not quite marriageable age sat on top of chests in the back of the cart, and another in full flower walked behind. The pony strained under the load it hauled.

Now more of the refugees looked at the newcomers. Some didn’t recognize them as such and wondered idly why the pony cart had stopped. A few slowed to make space for them in the column, resuming their pace when the newcomers didn’t join the caravan.

“Who are these?” the cart driver asked, awed by the steady stream of people moving along the road.

“We’re refugees from Eikby, near Penston,” Veduci quickly replied. “We are protected by many heavily armed soldiers led by Frangerian Marines who are leading us to safety.”

The young man breathed in evident relief. “
That’s
who they were. I saw some soldiers moving north in the forest. I didn’t know who they were, and they made me afraid for my mother and sisters. But they just looked us over then continued on without speaking to us.”

Veduci nodded. “A flanking patrol, to screen us from surprise attack or ambush.” He noticed a small team of soldiers approaching, curiously eyeing him and the merchant, and gestured at the passing caravan. “Join us. You are safer with us than anywhere else. Please.”

“Thank you, good sir,” the merchant said, and told his son to guide the pony cart into the next opening. The driver of an approaching wagon saw and slowed enough for them to move in.

A thin smile was on Veduci’s face as he made note of where the merchant and his family were in the column—he had noticed the telltale bulges of money pouches under the merchant’s coat. And he knew the most precious goods the merchant carried had to be in the cart his son drove. He let them get a short distance ahead, then stepped out to follow before the approaching soldiers reached him.

Zlokinech made sure they were far enough ahead of the soldiers that he wouldn’t be overheard before quietly asking, “Tonight?” He smiled as he tapped his fingers on the hilt of his short sword.

“No. If anyone is killed and robbed, suspicion will immediately fall on us. We don’t do anything until we are someplace where it’s safe to leave this caravan. I will say when; do nothing until then. Make sure all know that.”