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 ex-
plain 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 unre-
liable 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 apolo-
getically 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
Way ford. They were traders in precious metals. Padishar told
me so himself.”
Par related both conversations to Coil that night after dinner.
They had secluded themselves at the edge of the bluff in a re-
doubr, 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. Coil 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.” Coil sighed. “So why am I laughing? What are we
doing here with this madman?”
Par ignored him. “What do you suppose he’s hiding. Coil?”
“Everything.”
“No, not everything. He’s not that sort.” Coil started to pro-
test, 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 delib-
erately, not out of whimsy. Padishar Creel has something else
in common with Panamon, if we can believe the stories. He has
re-created 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 back-
ground 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 cor-
ners 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 watch-
fully. Hirehone ushered in the Valemen, closed the chamber
door, and stood purposefully in front of it.
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