Joel Rosenberg - The Warrior Lives

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The Warrior Lives

Vol. 5

The Guardians

of the Flame

For Sprague and Catherine,

role models

Acknowledgments

I'd like to thank the people who helped: Will Shetterly and Emma Bull, who found me the place to finish

this book; Pamela Dean and Nate Bucklin, for the last-minute proofreading; the rest of the Minneapolis

SF crowd, for reasons both trivial and profound; Mark J. McGarry, who made it better, again; Felix

Tang and John Jaser and the other good folks at Logix Microcomputer; Scott Raun, who quibbled a bit;

Harry Leonard, who quibbled a lot; my editor, John Silbersack; my wife, Felicia; and always,

particularly, my agent, Eleanor Wood.

PRELUDE

Laheran

Every man is like the company he is wont to keep.

—Euripides

"You have to find him," said Slavers' Guildmaster Yryn. "You have to stop him."

Yryn looked old, and stoop-shouldered. His neck seemed to have trouble holding up his massive head,

and his eyes were more of a dull gray than the sharp, piercing slate-gray that Laheran remembered from

his apprenticeship in the guild.

As they walked through the garden, Yryn fondled the piece of sun-bleached leather, his nail-bitten

fingers stroking it as if it were a magical talisman, which it wasn't.

There was little enough in the world to be sure of, Laheran thought, but the leather wasn't magical. It had

been carefully examined by a competent wizard, a master in Pandathaway's Wizards' Guild, and while

the wizards couldn't always be relied on—they were notorious cowards, for one thing—they could be

trusted to know if something was magical.

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The inner courtyard of Slavers' Guildhall was a quiet place, one for reflection. Marble benches

surrounded a lawn that was always ankle-height, the garden guarded by cornered hedges, the precision

of it all maintained each night by scissor-wielding slaves working under smoky torchlight.

Except for the flowers. A gardener, fealty-bound to the guild, had the responsibility for their care.

Flowers were different, Laheran thought, as he bent to sniff the rich fragrance of a blood-red rose. They

required loving attention, not just fearful care.

Laheran liked the garden. It was the one quiet place in the city, the only place he could get completely

away from the noise and the bustle and the smells of Pandathaway.

"You have to stop Karl Cullinane," the guildmaster said, as though Laheran hadn't heard him.

"You said that." Laheran held up an admonishing finger, hoping that Yryn would slap him down for his

insolence, silently begging the guildmaster to assert his authority.

But the older man just nodded.

Laheran could have cried. The guildmaster was losing his grip on himself. Could his grip on the guild be

far behind?

It was a bad time to be leaving Pandathaway. Perhaps Laheran oughtn't have any delusions about having

a chance at the guildmastership—there had never been a guildmaster in his twenties, and damned few in

their thirties—but as the youngest full master in the guild, it wasn't at all impossible that he could have

some impact on the outcome of the contention.

If there was to be a contention. Perhaps what the guild needed now was stability, even if that meant that

somebody would have to be the power behind the throne.

Laheran held out his hand to accept the piece of leather. It was about two handbreadths across, not of

terribly high quality, probably cut from a leather food sack of some sort.

There was writing on the rough surface; Laheran recognized it as dried blood. He couldn't make out

most of the writing, although he suspected it was in that Englits that Karl Cullinane and his friends were

turning into a common trade language throughout the Eren regions and beyond.

But below the scratchings that he couldn't decipher, there were the words he could:

The warrior lives, they said. Beneath were three crude drawings: a sword, an ax, and a knife—a threat

that Cullinane would kill them with whatever was handy.

It was the third such piece of leather Laheran had seen. The first he himself had brought back from

Melawei; it had been pinned to the corpse of a brother slaver, a man who had been split with an ax from

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his brow almost to his waist.

The second had been discovered in Ehvenor, tied to the hilt of a sword that had been struck through

three bodies; the killers had either discovered the slavers in a dark alley or drawn them into it, leaving

them behind dead, dead, and dead.

This third one had been found in Lundeyll, in a rented room at an inn there, again pinned to the corpse of

a slaver, this time by a knife that projected from the dead man's open mouth like a bloodied metal

tongue. Nimyn was his name; Laheran knew him slightly. He was a journeyman on a routine trading

mission, traveling down the coast toward Ehvenor with a string of a dozen well-tamed male slaves, most

of whom were born into servitude. There were two other slavers with Nimyn, but they were left alone.

The guildmaster finally put it as a question. "Will you find him? Stop him?"

"Yes," Laheran said, stooping to pick a rose, twisting the stem loose from the bush with deft fingers that

managed to avoid the thorns. He fixed it to the collar of his cloak with a long silver pin.

He wished he had a mirror with him; he was pleased with the way he looked. He knew what he would

have seen: a tall, slim, elegant young man in blue and gray, his hair the color of autumn flax, his short,

neatly-trimmed beard only a few shades darker. A light, crimson cloak—more of a cape, really—

fastened with a braided silver rope, hung elegantly from his right shoulder, the cut of his tunic and mid-

calf breeches more elegant, more careful than was usual among guildsmen.

He rested his palm for a moment on the hilt of his sword, striking a pose. He knew he looked somewhat

younger than his twenty-five years, and knew that his age and his foppishness tempted others to either

underrate or overrate him. That suited him.

"I believe that I will," he said finally. "What resources do I have?"

"Come with me," the guildmaster said.

The two of them passed into the dark cool of the marble halls.

The walls were spotless and the floors only barely dirtied by the day's traffic, but there was a strange

smell in the halls—beyond the usual stink of human sweat, of pain and fear—that never could be

scrubbed out of the tiles. Whip a slave to death—although with the economics of slavery these days, that

was the luxury of a bygone era—and he would leave his smell not only on the rough stone walls where

you chained him, but throughout the rest of the hall.

But there was something else. As the two slavers passed by an open door, the scribes working at their

desks in the room looked up, a quick flash of panic passing across their faces.

This was Slavers' Guildhall; there should have been no trace of fear on the face of a guildsman.

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But there was: the place also stank of slaver's fear.

It somehow smelled different than the fear of a slave.

They all feared that Karl Cullinane would come for them, and not just outside, somewhere in the field.

That would have been different. That was frightening, but acceptable. You had to learn to look over your

shoulder when you were away. Raiding or trading, you had to sleep lightly, listening for the quiet patter

of unshod feet on deck, the muffled whisper of a sword leaving its scabbard, the snick of a cocked

hammer.

No, it wasn't only an assault in the field they feared now, but one in the guildhall itself.

Laheran followed Yryn upstairs into the master's meeting room, where ten men sat around the wide oak

table.

None of them were master slavers, but they were all reliable journeymen, most of them well scarred:

tough and blooded, men who made their business as raiders and tamers, not just as sellers.

The guildmaster introduced him around the table; Laheran exchanged guild grips with each man in turn.

And each man in turn gripped Laheran's hand just a bit too hard, as though grabbing for reassurance, not

simply confirming Laheran's guild membership, or returning his courtesy.

"I can have a hundred more men for you in two tendays," the guildmaster said.

Laheran shook his head. "No. The guild has tried that before. A small group this time, with a small, fast

ship. We'll go quietly from Pandathaway, not loudly announcing who we are. We take his trail, find him,

and kill him." There was no great rush. If it was possible to catch Cullinane—and it had to be possible to

catch Cullinane—then Cullinane was headed north.

Possibly by way of Pandathaway and the guildhall? No, that was unlikely. There were too many

defenses, both physical and magical, at Slavers' Guildhall. Cullinane wouldn't be able to get in here.

But, conceivably, he would stop off in Pandathaway and kill a slaver or two, hunt them down outside the

guildhall. And that could work to Laheran's advantage: the larger the monster, the larger the reward for

killing it.

Laheran eyed them all levelly. "We will find Karl Cullinane, and we will kill him."

The warrior lives, indeed. Perhaps Laheran was younger than all previous guildmasters, but perhaps that

wouldn't matter if Laheran killed Karl Cullinane.

He smiled at Guildmaster Yryn.

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"Leave it all in my hands," he said.

PART ONE

Holtun-Bieme

CHAPTER 1

It ain't over till it's over—and maybe not then, either.

—Walter Slovotsky

Wearing only a faded pair of Home denim jeans, Jason Cullinane bent over the washbowl beneath the

mirror, scrubbing gingerly at his face. The early morning water was even icier than it should have been.

As he dried his face on a fresh-smelling towel—royalty hath its privileges, it occurred to him for not the

first time—he felt at his chin. It was a bit stubbly, although he had shaved the day before. He tossed the

towel aside and reached for the bone handle of the straight razor sitting on the sideboard, but as he eyed

himself in the mottled mirror he decided that the faint stubbling made him look older. He let his fingers

drop to his side.

A distant laugh sounded in his head.

*Take on a few responsibilities and your beard starts growing, eh?*

He didn't smile.

*Your father would have laughed at that.*

"Perhaps he would have." But he wasn't his father. He looked into the mirror. Through the mottled glass

—Empire glassmaking wasn't even up to Home standards, and Home standards weren't high to begin

with—under a shock of dark brown hair, two dark brown eyes looked back at him. Just the other day,

U'len had told him that he was looking more and more like the Emperor. In particular, there was

something about his eyes, she said.

I can't see it, he thought. They were just brown. He shook his head as he stared at himself in the mirror.

He couldn't see it at all. He wasn't the giant that Karl Cullinane had been; Jason's jaw didn't even seem to

have the firm resolve that his father's had had; there wasn't that I-can-handle-anything-that-comes-along

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look.

He shrugged. Maybe he didn't look so different, but everything else did. Things seemed so changed

since his return to Biemestren. His room on the third floor of the residence tower felt smaller. Hell, even

the castle seemed to have shrunk in his absence, although he couldn't quite figure out how or where.

His fingers reached up to his neck, the familiar feel of the leather thong and the small crystal amulet

comforting. It wasn't that it prevented him from being magically located; he didn't have to hide in

Biemestren, and if trouble came looking for Jason here, it would have the House Guard to deal with. The

comfort came from its familiarity. The leather and crystal hadn't changed.

*They're waiting for you. Hurry down.*

Give me a second.

He took a fresh soft cotton tunic from where Elarrah had laid it out on top of his bureau late the night

before and pulled it over his head, then padded barefoot across the rug to where he'd left his boots by the

door. He considered the rising scratch marks in the age-darkened oak of the door jamb, from the cluster

of six or so that were about chest-high, to the one that was on the same level as his eye, and the two

close together a bit above.

He turned about and worked his heels closer to the wall, then set his hand on top of his head, resting his

fingers against the doorjamb, before turning about to see that there indeed was a difference; his fingers

were a good half-inch above the previous high mark.

He reached down to his belt, drew his knife and marked the spot.

Jason at seventeen, although just barely. He drew himself up straighter.

*Let's try for at least eighteen. You had better move it: breakfast is being held for you, and you've got a

workout with Tennetty in an hour.*

"A workout? Today?" He sat down and pulled his boots on. He was leaving for Home and Endell in a

few days; if he wasn't good enough with pistol and swords by now, he surely wasn't going to be a lot

better by then.

*Nonsense. You grow a little each day, Jason; you'd better learn a little each day.*

True enough. He was nowhere as good with a sword as his father had been—

*—and that wasn't good enough, at least once. Remember. You've got to outthink problems; you can't

count on outfighting them. Even if you were as good as Karl was, which you aren't.*

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Again, true enough.

He went downstairs.

* * *

Breakfast in the castle had been an informal, catch-as-catch-can thing in the old days, despite Mother's

claim that breakfast was the most important meal of the day, and U'len's insistence that he sit and eat a

full meal instead of bolting down a sketchy breakfast. U'len tended to take what Mother said, as Father

used to put it, like it came out of a burning bush.

Whatever the hell that meant. Another question he'd never be able to ask his father.

But it wasn't the old days. Too much had changed since Jason's return to Biemestren with the news that

Karl Cullinane was dead. Mother and Bren Adahan had tried to minimize things with ceremony, trying

to hide in some sort of formal arrangement of their lives the fact that the core of it all was gone.

Dead.

The dining hall fell silent as Jason entered. He gave a brief bow to the two dozen people in the room,

then quickly walked to the head of the table, seating himself in his chair as though he belonged there.

"Please, be seated, all," he said. Mother still wasn't down, but they could be comfortable while waiting.

Doria Perlstein was already sitting; she didn't take to court manners. From her chair halfway down the

table, she smiled a good morning.

He returned her smile. Strange, though. He knew she was as old as Father and Mother, but when she'd

shed her Hand persona, she'd also shed all of what the years had done to her body, but not quite all that

they had done to her face: her eyes weren't those of a twentyish girl. They seemed much older.

"Morning, Jason," Tennetty said as she took her seat at his right. Turning her chair to let her single eye

sweep the room, the skinny woman scanned the assemblage with reflexive suspicion before deciding

there wasn't anybody to kill, not quite yet; she relaxed into her chair.

With a "Good morning," a smile and the clack of heels striking the floor, Jason's sister Aeia stalked

across the room and dropped lightly into her own chair by the foot of the table, rubbing at her sleepy

eyes, then gathering her long hair behind her head and tying it into an improvised ponytail. She was

dressed in a pair of tight leather trousers and a loose, ruffled blouse that was almost impossibly white.

"Going riding this morning?" he asked.

She nodded as she reached for a roll, then dipped it in a honey tub and took a huge bite. "I'm going to get

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all the riding in I can here." Back Home, what with teaching at the local school, Aeia had little time for

riding, something she had grown to like.

Tell her she'd better watch the eating, Jason thought. I think she's starting to put on weight.

*No, you don't.*

Ellegon must have relayed the exchange; she chuckled and turned to Bren Adahan, who had taken his

usual seat by the foot of the table, next to her. "My little brother seems to think I'm getting old and fat.

You willing to disagree with the Heir?"

Bren Adahan nodded slowly. "On this matter, I am."

"Fair enough, Bren—but sit over here. We've got some stuff to talk about before the council." Jason

beckoned to him, and waved at a seat next to his own.

The Holtish baron's thin mouth twitched in irritation, but then Bren Adahan studiously blanked his face

for a moment before displaying an easy smile that looked genuine enough. He nodded briskly, then

leaned over to whisper a few words to Jason's adopted sister before taking the seat Jason had indicated.

He stroked idly at a small cut at the point of his square jaw. Adahan had cut off his beard a tenday

before, and had taken to shaving twice a day.

Jason tried to conceal the fact that he didn't like Adahan. Maybe it was that Bren Adahan was more than

ten years older than Jason, and carried his extra age as though it conferred both wisdom and respect.

*Not fair. He doesn't get enough time with Aeia as it is.*

I have to talk to him about some things. We might as well get it all settled during breakfast, Jason

thought back, knowing that he was lying to himself. That was all true, but it wasn't the reason. Jason

didn't like the way Bren looked at his sister, like he wanted to—

*He does want to. Humans are like that. It's all perfectly natural, as Elarrah could have told you two

nights ago. Your sister is more than ten years older than you are, and knows what she's doing. And she is

going to let him, eventually, on her terms. So leave well enough alone.*

Jason reddened. Elarrah? The fact that the upstairs maid was sneaking into his bedroom at night was

supposed to be secret. He didn't want it noised about.

*Relax; I'm reasonably discreet. But it's silly to leave her alone just because I'm around. I have been

reading your mind, such as it is, since before you were born. The next time you want some privacy, just

ask me to tune you out. Like your father used to.*

I don't want to talk about it.

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There was a distant chuckle. He couldn't tell whether he heard it in his ears or his mind.

Bren Adahan reached out and touched Jason's arm. "Are you all right, Jason?"

"No." He shook his head to clear it. "I mean, yes. I'm fine; I was just talking to Ellegon."

Bren Adahan nodded, and looked down the table at the two empty chairs near the foot. One was

Danagar's, who was freshly returned from his travels through Nyphien, trying to find out who was

behind the Kernat slaughter. While Danagar had only negatives to report, his trip had been much longer

and far more exacting than Karl Cullinane had planned for him; he looked to be shy about twenty

pounds.

At Thomen Furnael's urging, Jason had installed Danagar in a room in the residence tower, with orders

that he sleep late—

*And fatten himself up.*

Although there was something strange about Thomen of late. Jason was tempted to ask Ellegon to peep

him, but. . . .

*But that's not right. Your father used to tell me not to peep family and friends, and I'm beginning to

understand how right his instincts were, at least on that. Either brace Thomen and insist he discuss

what's wrong with him, or wait until he brings it up.*

Jason nodded. That could be put off for a while; for now, they had a problem in the other conspicuously

empty chair: Mother's.

Bren caught his stare. "It's getting late. You really should send for her."

Jason shook his head. "No. We'll start without her." He raised his voice. "U'len, you can start serving

breakfast."

Half waddling, the fat woman brought the first tray out herself, setting it down between Jason and Bren

Adahan before lifting a huge stack of oatcakes onto Jason's plate, following that with a fist-sized cube of

ham.

He held back a smile. "I can't eat that much," he said.

She waved a finger at him. "Eat it you will, either for breakfast or as your dinner. You're leaving

tomorrow, and I'm not going to have you going out and getting yourself killed with only the

remembrance of road food on your mind. When you get your stupid head blown off, it's not going to be

because you were too hungry to think straight. It's not going to be my fault," she said. She picked up the

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honey tub and poured the thick honey on his oatcakes as if she were pouring water on a fire.

"Just go away and leave me alone," he grumbled.

"Shut up and eat."

He loved the peevish old woman—she'd been watching out for him for as long as he could remember—

not that either of them would ever admit it out loud. U'len wouldn't like that.

"I leave when you start eating," she said, crossing her arms over her massive bosom. "So eat."

He picked up his fork and set to work.

Everybody else followed his example; the room was filled with the familiar clatter of plates and

tableware, and the sounds of low voices talking between mouthfuls.

I'm starting to get a bit concerned about Mother. Relay, please: everybody's down for breakfast except

you.

*I don't want to. It's not fun being in her mind. . . . Oh, very well.* The mental voice fell silent.

What is it?

*I don't want to tell you.*

"What is it?"

Tennetty kicked back from the table and had a flintlock pistol halfway out of her holster before Doria

laid a gentle hand on her free arm, stopping her.

Everybody was looking at him.

Jason shrugged a pro forma apology. "Sorry. I was talking to Ellegon." Please. Deep inside, he knew

what the dragon was going to say.

*She's not in her room. She's in her workshop, bent over her bench, crying. Again. She won't answer me.

*

He started to push himself away from the table, but noticed that, once again, all the eyes were on him.

There was a long silence until Bren Adahan turned to him. "Please forgive me; I should have mentioned

that I spoke to your mother late last evening; she said that she was going to be involved in some sort of

work last night, and would probably sleep through breakfast, or get up early and go to her workshop."

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Joel Rosenberg - The Warrior Lives

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