Dave Duncan – The Living God – A Handful of Men. Book 4

No, she was in no hurry.

“Aha!” Ylo said. Shadowy buildings were congealing out of the fog. There was a seasonal post at the top of the pass, where weary horses could be replaced. Tomorrow, doubtless, the old gray would plod its way down again, to one side or the other, pulling some other vehicle.

“You go back to your mother now, Princess.” He passed Maya across.

“Do you suppose the food is edible here?” Eshiala asked, adjusting her too-heavy daughter on her lap.

“Probably nothing much. Why don’t you buy a snack while I’m changing horses, and we’ll eat by the roadside somewhere.” He pulled his hat brim down to shield his face.

That was an odd gesture for Ylo, who was well aware of his good looks. It was as if he was frightened of being recognized.

2

Despite her sincere belief, Eshiala was not a widow. Far off to the northeast, in Guwush, her husband bounced around unhappily on the roof of a stagecoach. On one side of him a dealer in raw silk lamented endlessly on the ridiculous prices gnomes expected for their produce these days; on the other a minor Imperial bureaucrat expounded on the impossibility of collecting all the new taxes Hub was demanding to fight the current war. At times they gave up hope of winning any sympathy from Shandie and debated with each other as if he were not there, between them.

The three of them were right at the back, which was the worst place to be, and the motion nauseated him. This was gnome country. The coach was crowded, yet not one passenger was a gnome. If gnomes had any reason to travel, they were required to do so in wagons, by themselves. Raspnex was sitting at the front with another dwarf, a dealer in ironware. All the rest were imps. The driver, of course, was a faun.

Shandie wondered how Inos was doing, crammed inside with the other women. She was probably even less comfortable than he was.

The road wound through darkly forested hills, but at least it was flatter than it had been the day before, without the steep inclines that had required the male passengers to dismount and walk. After a day of dust and wind and summer sunshine, they were heading toward some very unfriendly-looking rain clouds. He felt in dire need of a hot bath and fresh garments, but apparently he was about to receive a cold shower first. The knowledge that he could travel on horseback twice as fast with half the discomfort did nothing to improve his mood. He could recall being very impressed as a child by Inos’ horsemanship, and he had no doubt that she could still control a horse superbly, but Raspnex could not. Dwarves fell off horses unless they were tied to the saddle. Besides, the coach fare included the cost of the necessary armed escort.

“Nasty stretch this!” the tax collector bleated, eyeing the sinister woods crowding in on either hand. “Been quite a few ambushes near here.”

Shandie uttered a noncommittal grunt that would not have shamed a camel.

“Disgraceful!” the silk merchant agreed. “Don’t know why the army doesn’t clean out those rebels once and for all.” Shandie could have asked him how. He could have mentioned that he had slaughtered ten thousand gnomes near here less than three years ago. He did not. He had invented a vague cover story about representing a syndicate of Hubban investors looking for opportunities in undeveloped land; it allowed him to be tight-lipped about his plans and background. If he tried to explain that it was precisely because this area was infested by gnomish partisans that he had come here, then his companions would report him to the legionaries of the mounted escort.

The XXVIIth had always been an inferior outfit. Even so, this contingent inspired him with disgust. They were a sloppy bunch. He would dearly enjoy taking them in hand for an hour’s drill. Two hours would be even better; then he could skin them completely.

For a moment he toyed with the absurdity of marching over to the leader at the next stop and introducing himself. “Good evening, Optio. I am Emshandar the Fifth, by the grace of the Gods imperor of Pandemia, not to be confused with the imposter presently occupying my throne and claiming to be myself. I am your authentic commander in chief. Now tell me, has this bronze always been green or did you paint it like that for some reason? . . . ”

Another hour ought to bring the coach to Yugg, if there was no ambush in the meantime. From what Shandie could recall of Yugg, it had nothing to commend it except that it marked the unofficial border between the rule of law and areas held by rebels-or between Occupied Guwush and Free Guwush, depending on one’s point of view. It had a fort with an Imperial garrison. Undoubtedly Oshpoo’s forces would have agents in Yugg.

The first problem was going to be making contact with them. They would be very wary of any imp. The second problem would be staying alive afterward.

Without slowing, the coach went rumbling through a hamlet. The huddle of squat cottages glowered at the passing strangers with tiny windows under their heavy thatch. They were obviously gnome dwellings, so small that imps would have to crawl on hands and knees inside them. They seemed deserted, but that would be because the inhabitants preferred to sleep during the day and work at night. For a moment the passengers held their noses, and then the coach was through the little settlement, back in forest again.

Such were the joys of Guwush. Despite the Impire’s best efforts, it never managed to do much to improve the place. The parts it did not control were even worse, of course, with most of the population living in burrows, but to see squalor like this on a main Imperial highway was very depressing.

Shandie could not shake off a question Inos had posed that very morning, just before entering the coach. It had been bothering him all day. If gnomes preferred to live like that, she had said sweetly, then why should they not be allowed to do so? Fortunately no one else had heard her, except perhaps Raspnex. In Hub it would be ranked as heresy. In the army the idea would be treason, cause for court-martial if spoken aloud. But by definition the imperor himself could never be guilty of treason, could he? If the imperor decided that the Guwushian war was bleeding his treasury white and the best way to solve the partisan problem was just to go away and let the partisans be the government, then nobody in the world could argue with him. Except the Senate, of course, and most of the clergy and the army hierarchy and all the aristocrats who had acquired title to estates in Guwush and likely other groups that would surface in due course.

Well, fortunately Shandie was not required to make such decisions at the moment. Being an outlaw did have its advantages.

He was still thinking about the matter when he noticed that Raspnex had twisted around and was staring back at him, peering between the much taller impish passengers. His ugly face was screwed up in a curiously agitated expression. There were too many people between them for conversation. In a moment the little man rolled his eyes and turned away again to face the front.

In his shabby dark clothing he looked like a retired mineworker, but he was a potent sorcerer, warden of the north. A dwarf rarely displayed emotion like that. What could he have detected that had so upset him?

3

A one-horse chaise, a stagecoach, and a longship . . . Farther yet to the northeast, Blood Wave II surged over the cold green sea, propelled by the rhythmic swing of her oars, rising and falling in steady beat, with the grace of a gull’s wings. Half the crew rowed, most of the rest were asleep under the rowers’ feet. Onward to Nordland.

Stroke.

Gath and Vork were crammed in together on one bench, pulling the same oar. Thane Drakkor himself had the helm, and he was keeping a steady eye on those two recruits. He had very bright blue eyes, very deadly eyes, killer’s eyes.

Stroke.

Gath had no pore that was not streaming sweat. He was certain he had no skin left on his hands. Every muscle in his body burned.

Stroke.

He wanted to ask Vork how he felt now about being a raider, but he had no breath for speaking. His lungs and throat were raw and there was a sour taste of metal in his mouth. He was starting to feel a stitch in his side.

Stroke.

Oars swung. Thole pins creaked. The coxswain’s pipe called the stroke. Water hissed past the thin planks of the narrow hull. Salt-scented sea wind blew blessedly cool on fevered skin. Stroke.