Shrieking mindlessly, Hahrteeos dashed to the door and frantically ripped at it, heedless of the ruination of his soft hands and carefully tended nails. But the door remained closed and the Warder of the East backed into the corner, as far as he could get from that bloody, still-twitching horror at the foot of the ladder.
Pawl Raikuh came down that ladder agilely, his gory sword in hand, followed by three of his men, all four of them generously splashed with fresh blood. At his shout, the “jammed” door swung open easily and several more Freefighters trooped in. When they had drained the last of the wine from the silver ewer, they began a hot argument over to whom it now belonged, but Pawl ended it.
“Henree, bundle the ewer and the goblets into that fancy cloak yonder. Plunder will be property of all the condotta. And get the rings and armlets and all else of value off this dead pig. But don’t kill that one behind the door. If I think aright, there’s one here has more claim on his worthless life than do any of us.”
Peeos did not fear death; indeed, only the strictest supervision by Hahrteeos and his servants had prevented the boy from taking his own life, after he came to realize for just what uses his master had purchased him. So as the huge, hard-looking soldier approached, Peeos bared his bony chest, pointed first at the naked sword, then at the area above his heart.
Captain Raikuh smiled and shook his head. “I don’t mean to slay you, lad. Do you want your freedom?”
Peeos stared at the figure looming over him and shook his blue black head with its covering of tight ebon curls.
Raikuh had spoken in Mereekuhn, or the Confederation dialect of that ancient tongue; now he repeated himself in Ehleeneekos.
Hesitantly, his lips painfully shaping the words, Peeos spoke. “Free-dom? Mean when … no, what? Mean What, Lord Master? Peeos not under . . . not… ?”
Pawl whirled and strode purposefully over to the corner that held the trembling, pasty-faced Hahrteeos. Grabbing a handful of the Ehleen’s perfumed hair, he dragged him to the center of the room and demanded, “What language does yonder lad speak, you sad excuse for a man?”
Hahrteeos moved his well-chewed lips, but no sounds issued from them. Pawl tried raising his sword threateningly, but his captive’s only reactions were to start screaming again and to explosively befoul himself. Pawl dropped the Warder of the East disgustedly and paced back over to the bed. One after another, he tried the many languages and dialects he had learned in his nearly thirty years of Freefighting. Tune was very short, and he was getting desperate, when he asked his question in Kweebehkyuhn. He nearly dropped his sword when the black-skinned boy answered him, not in that far-northern tongue, but in one which sounded much like it.
Over his shoulder, Pawl called urgently, “Frahnswah? Where is Frahnswah?”
“Here. Pawl… uh, Captain, I mean.”
The situation was quickly explained and, in his own native tongue, Frahnswah stated, “We are leaving this city, little man. If you would leave with us and be free of your master and his vice contre natur, speak now.”
But once the boy was clad, it was discovered that none of the spare jazerans were small enough to fit him.
Pawl declared, “There’s like to be some hard fighting, an’ our new lord is what he seems. The lad will be dead meat, and quickly, if … wait, that pig we had the head from, his is a damned small body. Let’s have off his cuirass and see if that won’t fit our new comrade here.”
The gilded corselet proved only a little too big, while the greaved boots and the flashy helm fitted perfectly. A few more holes were punched in the swordbelt and it was buckled around the boy’s waist. Pawl found the late Stavros’s swordblade to be inferior and its hilt nought but gilded copper. He threw it in a corner, saying to one of his men, “Buhk, you, Henree, and Frehd take our dear commander’s keys and see what’s worth taking from his office, and one of you be sure to bring his small target and his shortsword for the lad.”