Wind whipped out of the south, rough coated and sinewy, carrying a deep, rhythmic crash of sound and the high, fierce cry of gulls. The world was awash with energy and life, dancing on Bahzell's skin like electricity as he waded through waist-high grass, topped the crumbly sand of a high-crested dune, and saw the sea at last.
It froze him, that sight. It held him like a fist, staring out over the endless blue and flashing white, lungs aching with the smell of salt. Surf boomed and spurted against the tan-colored beach in explosions of foam, and his braid whipped like a kite's tail as the ocean's breath plucked at his worn and tattered clothing. He'd never seen, never imagined, the like of this moment, and a vast, inarticulate longing seized him. He didn't know what it was he suddenly wanted, yet he felt it calling to him in the surge of deep water and the shrill voice of sea birds, and his heart leapt in answer.
"Phrobus," a tenor voice said softly, half lost in the tumult about them. "It's big, isn't it?"
"Aye, it is that," Bahzell replied, equally quietly, and turned his head.
Brandark sat his horse with unwonted awkwardness, eyes huge in wonder. His bandage-wrapped right leg still gave him considerable pain, and it was all he could do to hobble about on it dismounted, for his body had yet to complete its healing. Yet a literal glow of health seemed to follow him about, and his reaction when he woke clearheaded and hungry for the first time in days had been all Bahzell could have desired. For once, even Brandark had been stunned into silence by the change in his condition, and when he learned how that change had come about—!
It had been too good to last, of course, and in his heart of hearts, Bahzell was glad of it. Refreshing it might have been to have Brandark deferring to him every time he turned around, but it had also been profoundly unnatural, and he'd felt nothing but relief the first time the word "idiot" escaped Brandark's lips once more. By now, things were almost back to normal, and the Bloody Sword shook himself.
"Well," he said dryly, "this is all very impressive, I'm sure, but what do you plan for your next trick?"
" 'Next trick,' is it now?"
"Indeed. You said something about heading west along the shore, I believe, but that was when we still had all our supplies. Now—" Brandark waved at the single sparsely filled pack on the mule beside his horse and shrugged.
"D'you know, I've been giving that very thing some thought my own self," Bahzell rumbled, "and I'm thinking what we need is a ship."
"A ship?" Brandark looked at him in disbelief. "And just how, pray tell, do you propose to manage that? Those bastards hunting us are still back there somewhere," he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, "and correct me if I'm wrong, but hadn't we decided they must have sent word ahead?"
"Ah, the pessimism of the man!" Bahzell shook his head mournfully. "Here he is, with a champion of Tomanāk to see him safe home, and all he can be thinking of is wee little things to carp over!"
"If you think half an army of cavalry is a 'wee little thing,' then Harnak must've hit you on the head with that thing." Brandark kicked the cloak-wrapped sword with his left foot.
"Nonsense! Now don't you be worrying about a thing, a thing, for I've a plan, little man."
"Gods preserve us, he's got a plan!" Brandark groaned, and Bahzell threw back his head and laughed. He couldn't help it. A strange, deep bubble of joy had filled him since the night he'd healed Brandark—or helped Tomanāk heal him, or whatever had happened—and the wild, restless vitality of the sea flowed into him. It was like a moment of rebirth, a strange, unshakable confidence and zesty delight impossible to resist, and he roared with laughter. He saw Brandark staring at him for a moment, and then his friend began to laugh, as well. They stood there on the dune, laughing like fools, drunk on the sheer joy of living, and Bahzell slapped Brandark on the shoulder.
"Aye, it's a plan I have, so come along with you, now! We've things to do before I set it in motion and dazzle you with my wit!"
* * *
"Ah, now! There's what we want," Bahzell said in satisfied tones. The sun was slanting back into the west once more as they stood on a firm-packed beach, waves washing about the hocks of Brandark's horse and Bahzell's calves, and looked out across a hundred yards of sea at a small island. It wasn't much of an island—just a bare, lumpy heap of sand, sea grass, and stunted scrub, no more than a hundred yards across at its widest point—and Brandark gazed at the Horse Stealer in patent disbelief.
"That's what we want?"
"Aye, the very thing. And unless I'm much mistaken, the tide's gone out, as well," Bahzell observed with even deeper satisfaction.
"And what, if I may ask, do you know about tides?"
"Not so very much," Bahzell conceded cheerfully, "but look yonder." He pointed up the beach, where the sand turned crumbly and a tangled necklace of driftwood marked the tide line. "I'm thinking that's where the water's coming to at high tide, so, as it's down where we are just this minute—" He shrugged, and Brandark sighed.
"I hate it when you go all deductive on me. But even allowing that you're right about the tide, what difference does it make?"
"It's part of the plan," Bahzell said smugly, and started wading out into the sea.
"Hey! Where d'you think you're going?!"
"Follow and see," Bahzell shot back, never turning his head, and Brandark muttered under his breath. He hesitated another moment, but Bahzell was already waist-deep in surging water and showed no sign of stopping, so he closed his mouth with a snap and urged his mount into the waves.
The horse didn't want to go, and the mule was even more recalcitrant. Brandark had his hands full getting them started, but Bahzell only grinned back over his shoulder at him as he cursed them with fervent artistry. The mule laid back its ears and bared its teeth, but a firm yank on its lead rein started it moving once more, and both animals churned forward at last.
They never quite had to swim, but it was close before they reached the island and scrambled ashore once more. By the time Brandark led the soaked, indignant mule ashore, Bahzell was standing on the southern side of the island, hands on his hips, and gazing out to sea with obvious delight.
"Will you please tell me what you think we're doing?"
"Eh?" Bahzell turned to face him, and the Bloody Sword waved an exasperated hand.
"What're we doing out here?!"
"As to that, we're about to make camp," Bahzell said, and grinned again as Brandark swelled with frustration. "Now, now! Think on it a minute. We've kept below the tide line since lunch. What d'you think will be happening to our tracks when it comes back in?"
Brandark paused, eyebrows arched, and rubbed his truncated right ear.
"All right," he said after a moment, "I can see that. But they'll know that's what we did and just cast up and down the shore from where the trail disappeared."
"So they will, but they'll not be finding us unless they search every islet they come across, now will they?"
Brandark rubbed his ear harder, then nodded.
"All right," he conceded. "As long as we don't do anything to call attention to ourselves, they'll probably assume we kept on going. Gods know only a lunatic wouldn't keep running! But we're short on provisions, Bahzell, and I don't see any sign of fresh water. We can't stay here long."
"No more will we have to. Give me another few hours, and I'll be off with the dark to fetch back a ship for us."
Brandark's jaw dropped. He stared at his friend without speaking for over a minute, then shook his head slowly.
"The man's mad. Stark, staring mad! Where d'you think you're going to find a ship, you idiot?"
"Why, as to that, I'm thinking there's ships and to spare down to Bortalik Bay," Bahzell said cheerfully, "and we've still that nice, fat purse Yithar was after leaving us. With that, all I need do is nip down and, ah, hire one of them."
* * *
Bahzell dumped the last armload of driftwood on the heap and regarded it with a proprietary air. He'd chosen the site for the bonfire-to-be with care, then spent over an hour heaping sand into a high wall to improve it. The island's low spine and his piled barrier would prevent anyone ashore from seeing it, but once lit, it should be visible for miles from seaward.
Brandark had sat propped against his saddle, strumming experimentally on his balalaika while he worked. The Bloody Sword's maimed left hand made chording difficult, and he seemed to be concentrating on that to the exclusion of all else—until Bahzell dusted his palms with an air of finality.
"You do realize just how stupid this is, don't you?" he said then, never looking up from the bridge of his instrument.
"Well, no one was ever after calling me smart." Bahzell crossed to the tethered mule and horse to free their leads from the picket lines and grinned at Brandark's caustic snort. "And stupid or no, I've yet to hear a better idea from you."
"I've done my part by trying to talk you out of this. I don't have the energy to think up better ideas on top of that."
"And here I thought you such a clever lad!" Bahzell gathered the animals' reins and headed down the beach into the wash of the surf. Water filled his worn, leaky boots instantly, but he ignored it. He was still damp from wading out to the island in the first place, and it was no part of his plan to leave visible tracks along any of the islet's shoreline.
"You'll never be able to do it—not alone," Brandark said more seriously.
"I'm thinking you're wrong, and wrong or no, it's a notion worth trying. We've little chance of outrunning them all afoot, and they'll not be expecting such as this."
"Maybe that just indicates how much smarter than you they are!" Brandark growled, eyes still fixed on his balalaika.
"It may that," Bahzell agreed, listening to the grumbling breath of the sea, "but smarter or no, it's time I was gone. Don't you go drifting off to sleep, now!"
"Don't worry about me, you lunatic. Just watch your own backside, and—" Brandark looked up at last, his eyes unwontedly serious in the twilight "—good luck."
Bahzell nodded, raised one hand in a half wave, and waded further out into the surf.
* * *
It had been dead low water when they crossed to the island; by the time Bahzell reached the mainland once more, the flood tide was sending hissing waves high up the beach. A newly risen moon spilled silver light over the sand, and he looked back over his shoulder in satisfaction as he led the unsaddled horse and mule clear of the water. His and Brandark's earlier tracks had already been eaten by the tide, leaving no sign that anyone had detoured to the island, and he moved rapidly along between the surf and the high-tide mark for the better part of a mile before he climbed higher up on the beach. If any tracker did cast along the shoreline for his trail, they should find exactly what he wanted them to: the same prints of one pair of boots, one horse, and one mule, with nothing to suggest that at least one of their quarry was no longer in front of them. He hoped no one would ever see those tracks at all, but if they did, he'd at least gotten Brandark safely out of it, and he'd left all their remaining provisions with the Bloody Sword. They should last him for a week or so, if he was careful with his water. By then, any pursuit should have moved on to other areas and his leg should be recovered enough to give him an excellent chance of making it back to the Empire of the Spear on his own.
Not, Bahzell reminded himself, that there would be any reason for Brandark to do any such thing . . . assuming, of course, that his plan worked.
He urged the animals up the beach into the lee of the high dunes to avoid silhouetting himself against the moon-silvered sea and jogged eastward.
* * *
Bahzell had gone perhaps a league when his head jerked up, and he frowned. His ears pricked, trying to identify the sound which had cut even through the grumble of the surf, and then he blinked in disbelief. The high, fierce cry of a hunting falcon came yet again, and he wheeled away from the sea as a black shape swept across the star-strewn sky.
An instant of cold panic touched his heart, yet there was too little time to feel it fully. There was no way a falcon should be on the wing so late at night, and even less reason for the bird to launch itself towards him like a lodestone to steel. Instinct screamed warning at the unnaturalness of its appearance, but another instinct brought his right arm flashing up to guard his face as the fierce-beaked predator shot straight into it. His muscles tensed against the rending attack of powerful talons, but it never came. Instead, those lethal claws struck his wrist and closed with impossible gentleness.
Bahzell's breath hissed out of him in a deep, shuddering gasp, but his relief was far from total. He lowered his arm slowly, cautiously, extending it well away from him, and the bird mantled as it shifted its weight to balance on his wrist. It cocked its head, small, round eyes bright with reflected moonlight, and Bahzell swallowed. He wore no falconer's gauntlet, but the bird still gripped with those gentle talons, and then its beak opened.
"Hello, Bahzell." The Horse Stealer twitched again, muscles tensing to jump back. His ears flattened, but then he made himself stand very still, for he recognized the voice issuing from that dangerous, hooked beak. It was Zarantha's! He stared at the falcon and licked his lips, aware that he must look like a total idiot, then opened his mouth to reply, but the falcon spoke again before he could.
"I asked Wencit for a favor," Zarantha's voice went on, "and Father agreed to give up his prize falcon for it. Wencit promises it will find you, but I'm afraid not even he can guarantee it will ever come home again afterward. Father was a bit upset by that, but I guess he thinks getting his daughter back is worth a few sacrifices."
Despite himself, Bahzell grinned as he heard the familiar, laughing wickedness in Zarantha's voice. It was even more welcome—and precious—as he recalled her wan, wounded look on the morning they parted, and the falcon flapped its wings again, shifting from foot to foot as if it shared her laughter.
"At any rate, Wencit got me safely home, dear friend," Zarantha went on more seriously. "He tells me his gramerhain suggests that you and Brandark won't be able to visit us after all—this time, at least—so I wanted you to know you don't have to worry about me anymore. I've heard from Tothas, as well. He and Rekah are indeed well, and they should be home within a few weeks, too. Thank you, my friend. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. If we never meet again, know that I will never forget all you and Brandark did for us."
The voice paused for a moment, then changed. It was no longer Zarantha's, but a man's, deep and measured.
"I know little of sorcery, Bahzell Bahnakson and Brandark Brandarkson, but if Wencit is correct and you ever hear this message, know that Caswal of Jash,n stands eternally in your debt. I repeat my daughter's invitation, and beg you to visit us here, if ever it should be possible, and I name you Bahzell and Brandark of Jash,n, sept to Jash,n. If ever I, or any man of Jash,n may serve you or yours, send word. And if the gods decree we shall never meet, know that wherever you may go, you are blood of our blood and bone of our bone, my friends."
Duke Jash,n's voice ceased, and the bird stood silent for another moment while Bahzell stared at it. Then Zarantha spoke a final time, and her voice was soft.
"And so our journey ends at last, dearest of friends and now my brothers. My life and the lives of those dear to me were your gift, and I give you now the only gift I can across the miles between us: my love. May it go with you always, and may the Gods of Light keep and guard you both as you kept and guarded me. Farewell, Bahzell Bahnakson, Prince of Hurgrum. Farewell Brandark. Remember us."
Bahzell blinked eyes that burned with sudden, unexpected tears. The falcon lingered on his wrist, gaze still fixed upon him, and he drew a deep breath.
"Farewell, Zarantha of Jash,n," he whispered, and the bird threw back its head with another high, fierce cry. And then, suddenly, it launched itself like an arrow from the string and vanished into the stars, and only the sigh of the wind and the rumble of the surf breathed in the night.
* * *
The trip took longer than Bahzell had expected, but it was without further incident, for there were few decent anchorages between Falan Bay and Bortalik, and the merchant princes who ruled the city of Bortalik protected their position. No other ports were permitted along their coastline. Even fishing villages were almost unheard of and existed only on sufferance. Bortalik tolerated them within a few leagues of the city itself, where the city's customs agents could police them, but none were allowed to dabble in trade. More than one fishing port had been burned out—by landing parties from merchantmen, as well as warships—if the city merchants so much as suspected it of smuggling. And so, ironically in a land whose enormous wealth depended upon its control of seaborne trade, this entire vast sweep of coast was almost empty.
Almost, but not quite. The moon was well into the west when Bahzell rounded a headland and found himself abruptly facing a good-sized village at last. There were few lights, ashore or afloat, and he frowned at the fishing boats drawn up on the beach or nestled alongside the rickety-looking wharves.
The animals blew gratefully as he squatted on his heels, gazing at the boats and pondering his options. It was tempting, but, after several moments' consideration, he shook his head. He was no seaman, yet those vessels looked too flimsy to his landsman's eye. Most of them were little more than glorified rowboats or small, single-masted craft. No, he needed something bigger and better suited to deep water . . . but that didn't mean the village was useless to him.
He led the horse and mule inland, eyes sweeping the dark. This might be a fishing village, but somewhere there had to be a—
Ah! He grinned to himself as he found the small, stonewalled pasture. It held perhaps a dozen cattle and runty horses, and he made his way around to a gate in the low wall. The night was undisturbed by so much as a barking dog as he eased the gate open and turned his own animals quietly into the pasture. They stood for a moment, gazing back at him curiously, then shook their heads and trotted over to the pasture's other inhabitants, and Bahzell chuckled as he closed the gate behind them.
Unless he missed his guess, the owner of that pasture was unlikely to mention the sudden arrival of two big, strong, healthy, and expensive animals to anyone. Indeed, he might go to some lengths to hide his unexpected gifts, which would suit Bahzell fine. Even if he did report them to the authorities, Bahzell should be long gone by the time those authorities figured out where they'd come from, and he felt better leaving them to someone's care. They'd served him and Brandark well, and the thought of simply abandoning them hadn't set well with him.
He started off once more, and, divested of the animals, he made better time. He jogged past two more villages—their existence welcome signs that he was nearing his destination—and the moon was still well above the horizon when he finally spied the dull glint of high walls before him.
Bortalik dozed under the moon. Bahzell made his way out onto a rocky point and leaned back against a boulder, catching his breath while he gazed across a wide arm of Bortalik Bay at the sleeping city. Watch lights dotted the curtain wall and crowned the countless towers that ribbed its length, and more lights were smears of brightness along the wharves that lined its foot. There was activity at dockside even this late at night, and masts and rigging rose in a black lace forest against the light. Other vessels dotted the bay, lying to anchors or buoys, and, despite himself, Bahzell felt a trace of wonder at the sheer size of the port.
The northern hradani tribes knew little more about the Purple Lords than the Purple Lords knew about them, but even they had heard of Bortalik Bay, and Zarantha and Tothas had told him far more. Bortalik was the undisputed queen of the southern coast and determined to remain so. The enormous bay was not simply a superb natural anchorage; it also controlled the entire delta of the mighty Spear River and, with it, all trade that moved up the Spear or any of its tributaries. It was an advantage the Purple Lords used ruthlessly, and the power it gave them was obvious as Bahzell looked out upon their city.
He shook himself after a moment and turned his eyes away from the city walls and back out over the bay, searching for what he needed. Not too small, he thought, but not too big, either, and well away from the docks. Surely, among all that shipping, there must be—
His eyes settled on a single vessel, and he rubbed his chin. The twin-masted schooner was further from shore than he'd hoped, but aside from that it seemed perfect. The anchor light on its foredeck burned like a lonely star, for there was nothing else within a hundred yards of it, and even in the uncertain moonlight it looked low, sleek, and fast. Best of all, it was little larger than one of Kilthan's riverboats, which suggested a reasonably small crew.
He studied it a moment longer, then nodded once.
* * *
There was no surf within the confines of the sheltered bay, but water washed and surged rhythmically as Bahzell laid aside his baldric and unbuckled his weapon harness. He'd left his arbalest and scale mail with Brandark, for he'd known this moment was coming, but he felt exposed and vulnerable as he methodically stripped to the skin. He belted his dagger and a fat, jingling purse back about his naked waist, then laid his sheathed sword atop his discarded boots and clothing with a final pat he hoped looked less dubious than it felt. Part of him wanted to ask Tomanāk if this whole notion was truly a good idea, but the rest of him dug in stubborn toes and refused the temptation. A man couldn't just go about asking "May I?" every time he had to make a decision, he told himself. Of course, he was relying heavily on what Tomanāk had told him about his sword, but even so—
He snorted and shook himself, ears half-flattened in amusement. Either it worked, or it didn't, and standing here thinking of excuses to delay the inevitable wouldn't change the final outcome! He grinned crookedly at the thought and waded out into the bay.
The bottom dropped off more sharply than he'd expected. It was going to be a longer swim than he'd planned, but a broken, drifting spar bumped up against him, as if to compensate, and he seized it gratefully. He was no fish, and the spar's added buoyancy was welcome as he kicked his way across the bay. There was enough noise in the night to hide most sounds, yet there was no point taking chances, and he tried—not entirely successfully—to avoid splashes. It was a long, tiring swim; the bay was colder than he'd anticipated when he was only wading through the surf; and he was acutely aware that he was a land animal. He sensed the empty water between him and the bottom, how easily it could suck him under, and found himself thinking about sharks. Or octopuses—they ate people, too, didn't they? And even if they didn't, the gods only knew what else might be hiding just under the water, circling him, waiting . . . .
He pushed the thought firmly away. People swam in the sea all the time, and they'd hardly do that if something pounced on anyone who tried! Of course, that didn't mean nothing ever pounced, and—
He looked up and inhaled in deep, heartfelt relief as he saw his destination close ahead. He kicked more strongly, and his ears twitched in amusement at his own eagerness to reach it. For all he knew, that vessel's entire crew had seen him coming and was lined up behind the bulwark to knock him on the head, but it didn't matter. The company of his thoughts on the swim out left him impatient to confront them even so.
He reached the schooner's side and swam along it as quietly as he could. It was flush-decked, with a low sheer and a freeboard of no more than six or seven feet, yet that was high enough to make things difficult for a man in the water. He was confident that he could lunge high enough to get his fingers over the rail, but not without an appalling amount of noise, and he continued forward until he reached the flared bow. The bowsprit was a long, graceful lance, reaching out above his head, but the anchor cable plunged into the water beside him, and he laid a hand on the thick hawser. He craned his neck, peering up to where it curved over the anchor bits. It looked far more promising than trying to heave himself bodily over the side, and he nodded in satisfaction and shoved the broken spar away.
He got a grip on the hawser and hauled himself cautiously up it. A cathead thrust out above him, and he hooked an elbow around it, then curled his body up to get his knees over it. He crouched there a moment, catching his breath, listening to the trickling splash as water dribbled back into the bay from his skin, then shoved his head cautiously over the rail.
There was no one in sight, but he heard a fiddle and what sounded like an accordion, and what he'd thought was just an anchor light was also the gleam of light from the scuttles of a low, midships deckhouse. More light glowed from an open companion, and his ears flattened at the realization that some, at least, of the crew was awake. He had no special desire to harm anyone if he could help it, but they wouldn't have any way of knowing he sought peaceable conversation, now would they? That was why he'd hoped to surprise them asleep in their berths, but it seemed he was going to have to do things the hard way.
He sighed and stood, balancing on the cathead, then stepped across to the deck. His bare feet made no sound, and he started towards the companion. If he could come down it and block access to the deck, then—
"Here, now! What're you doing creeping about my ship?"
The sharp, crisp voice was behind him, and he spun like a cat, one hand going to his dagger.
"Ah, now! None of that!" the voice said even more sharply, and Bahzell swallowed an oath. There had been men on deck; he simply hadn't seen them because they were so small they'd been hidden behind the deckhouse. Now five halflings stood facing him, and each of them held a drawn shortsword as if he knew what to do with it.
He stepped back against the rail, taking his hand carefully from his dagger, and his eyes narrowed. He'd seen several halflings since leaving Navahk, but none as big as these fellows. They might be little more than half his own height, but they were a good foot or more taller than the only other ones he'd met, and there was nothing hesitant about them. They seemed confident of their ability to deal with him, and the one who'd spoken cocked his head, then spat over the side.
"Ha!" The spokesman wore the golden trident badge of a worshiper of Korthrala. Now he surveyed the towering, naked, soaking wet intruder on his foredeck and tweaked a handlebar mustache with such superb panache Bahzell's lips twitched despite himself. "You've picked the wrong ship tonight, friend," the halfling said with obvious satisfaction. "I think we'll just feed you back to the fishes and be done with it."
"Now, now. Let's not be doing anything hasty," Bahzell rumbled back.
"Oh, we won't be hasty, friend!" The halfling smiled unpleasantly and nodded to his fellows, who split up into pairs to come at Bahzell from both sides. "But you might want to nip back over the side right sharp."
"And here was I, thinking as how halflings were such cautious folk, and all," Bahzell replied, still keeping his hand away from his dagger.
"Not Marfang Island halflings." The spokesman kept his eyes fixed on Bahzell, but his lip curled. "We can get downright nasty, so if I were you, I'd be back over that rail double quick."
"Marfang Island, is it?" Bahzell murmured, and his ears cocked. He'd heard of Marfang Island halflings. They were said to be a breed apart from their fellows—taller, stronger, and noted for a personal courage that verged all too often on rashness. Even the Wild Wash hradani who lived across the channel from their island home had learned to treat them with cautious respect, despite their size advantage. More to the point this night, the Marfang Islanders were also the finest seamen Norfressa bred, despite their small stature, and they hated the Purple Lords with a passion for their interference with free trade.
"Aye, it is," the halfling agreed. "And the rail's still waiting for you," he added pointedly.
"You've guts enough for five wee, tiny fellows with knives, I'll grant that," Bahzell said easily, and the halfling gave a crack of laughter.
"Maybe so, but there are five of us, and you've naught but a knife yourself, longshanks!"
"Do I now?" Bahzell murmured, and raised his empty right hand with a brief, silent prayer that he'd understood Tomanāk correctly that night in the Shipwood. The halflings stopped, suddenly wary, and he drew a deep breath.
"Come!" he bellowed, and the halflings jumped back in surprise at the sheer volume of his shout—then jumped back again, with unseemly haste, as five feet of gleaming steel snapped into existence in his hand and an empty scabbard thumped the deck at his feet.
"Well now! It did work," Bahzell observed. He put both hands on his hilt but lowered the tip of the blade to touch the deck unthreateningly and smiled at the spokesman. "I'm thinking I've a bit more than a knife now, friend," he pointed out genially, and the halfling swallowed.
"How . . . how did—?" He stopped and shook himself, then cleared his throat. "Who in Korthrala's name are you, and what d'you want?" he demanded.
"As to that, my name is Bahzell Bahnakson, Prince of Hurgrum, and I've need of your ship."
"Prince of—?" the halfling began incredulously, only to stop with a bark of laughter. "Aye, of course you're a prince! What else could you be?" He ran his eyes back over the naked hradani and tweaked his mustache once more. Bahzell's ears flicked in amusement at his tone, but there was no more give in his eyes than in the halfling's, and he nodded.
"That I am, friend, and a champion of Tomanāk." All five halflings looked at one another in disbelief, and Bahzell's voice hardened. "I'd not be laughing at that, were I you, for I'm not in the mood." He raised the tip of his sword slightly, and the spokesman held out a restraining hand as his fellows bristled in instant response.
"Not yet, lads," he said, his eyes still locked with Bahzell's. More feet scampered up the companion as his crew belowdecks realized something was happening, but neither he nor Bahzell turned their heads. They faced each other in the darkness, and then the halfling looked pointedly at Bahzell's sword and raised an eyebrow. The Horse Stealer turned it slightly, letting the light catch the symbols of Tomanāk etched deep into the steel, and the halfling nodded and lowered his own blade.
"Well, then, Bahzell Bahnakson," he said dryly, "my name's Evark, and I'm master of this ship. If you need her, I'm the man you have to talk to about it, so suppose you tell me why I should waste time listening?"
"I've no mind to be rude," Bahzell replied politely, "but I'm thinking this—" he twitched his sword "—might be one reason."
"It might," Evark allowed. "You might even be able to carve us all up into fish food with it, though I doubt Tomanāk would approve. But that would still leave you a little problem, friend—unless you've got a spare crew tucked away?"
Bahzell chuckled and leaned back, propping his weight on his sword.
"You've a way about you, Evark, indeed you do. Very well, then, if it's a reason you're wanting, d'you think we could be keeping our swords out of each other long enough for me to give you one?" He twitched his heavy purse so that it jingled, and added, "You've my word you'll not lose by listening."
"Oh, I suppose we might." Evark beckoned his crewmen back and sat on the roof of the deckhouse, his own sword across his thighs, and grinned at Bahzell. "Assuming, of course, that you understand we'll still chop you into dog meat if it's not a reason we like."
* * *
Brandark sat huddled in a blanket beside the piled heap of driftwood and stared morosely out to sea. The night lay in ashes about him, a hint of gray tinged the eastern horizon, and he chewed the inside of his lip.
Bahzell should have been back by now, assuming his lunatic plan had worked, and worry gnawed at the Bloody Sword. The whole idea was crazy, and he was bitterly aware why Bahzell had hatched it. He touched his bandaged leg and swore. The sheer joy of realizing it was going to heal after all had been so great he'd almost been able to forget what his continuing incapacity implied, but he could no longer pretend. Without him to look after, Bahzell could have played catch-as-catch-can with the cavalry patrols; with someone who could barely ride, much less walk, that was impossible. Which was why Bahzell had hit upon the notion of somehow hiring—or stealing—a ship. The idea had a sort of elegant simplicity, but only an idiot would think a hunted fugitive could sneak into the Purple Lords' very capital, get aboard a ship, and—
His thoughts broke off as something flashed in the darkness. It blinked again, then burned steadily—a tiny pinprick of light, spilling reflections of itself across the sea. Brandark stared at it incredulously, unable to believe in it, and then he was fumbling madly for his tinderbox.
* * *
A brilliant arm of sun heaved itself drippingly out of the sea just as the launch came gliding in. There was something strange about the boat, and it had taken Brandark several seconds to realize what it was. That enormous shape in the bows had to be Bahzell, but the oarsmen looked like children beside him, and the Bloody Sword shook his head in fresh disbelief as he saw the glint of ivory horns and realized they were halflings.
The boat slid up on the beach, and Bahzell—wearing sword and dagger but otherwise naked as the day he was born—leapt over the side and heaved it higher on the sand.
"I see there's some benefits to bringing along someone your size after all!" a voice called from the stern sheets, and Bahzell grinned.
"You've a sharp tongue for so small a fellow, Evark!" he replied. The fiercely mustachioed halfling laughed, and then Bahzell was bounding through the surf to clasp Brandark on both shoulders. "And you, little man! Don't be telling me you weren't feeling just a mite anxious."
"Me? Anxious?" Brandark heard the huskiness in his own voice and cleared his throat. "Nonsense!" he said more strongly. "Everyone knows Horse Stealers are born to be hanged. What could have happened to you on a simple little job like this?"
He waved at the boat as Evark jumped onto the beach and stumped up to them. The halfling captain propped his hands on his hips and peered up at the two hradani, then shook his head.
"Hanged, is it? Well, he came near enough to it, I suppose. But what's a man to do when an idiot with more sword than brain climbs over the side of his ship in the middle of the night?"
"Here, now! It's hard enough when one of you is after calling me names!"
Evark ignored Bahzell and thrust out a hand to Brandark. "So, you're the bard, are you?" he said gruffly.
"Ah, no." Brandark grasped the proffered hand with a smile. "I'd like to be one, but I've been told I lack the voice for it."
"Do you, now? Well, never mind. From what your friend tells me, the two of you managed to piss off half the Purple Lord army, and that's recommendation enough to anyone who's ever had to deal with 'em! Besides, Korthrala wouldn't like me anymore if I left one of Scale Balancer's lot to fend for himself, and if Tomanāk's crazy enough to take on a hradani champion, who am I to argue with him?"
"Ah, the tongue of him!" Bahzell mourned, then laid a hand on the captain's shoulder. "Brandark, be known to Evark of Marfang Island, master of the Wind Dancer, who's after being kind enough to offer us a ride."
"But I'll not change my schedule for you, mind!" Evark said gruffly. "I'm bound straight to Belhadan with a cargo of Wakūo dates. They won't keep long, so it's to Belhadan you'll go if you ship along with me. Aye, and you'll pull your weight aboard, too!"
"Belhadan?" Brandark laughed. "D'you know, I suddenly have an absolutely overwhelming desire to see Belhadan. Where is it?"
"You'll find out, my lad," Evark assured him. Several more of his men swarmed ashore and began gathering up the hradani's sparse gear, and the captain made a shooing gesture at the launch. "Get aboard, get aboard! Your friend's been freezing his arse long enough—we'd best get him back to Wind Dancer and into some clothes before something he'll miss freezes off!"
"Aye, I'll be going along with that." Bahzell grinned at Evark and slipped an arm around Brandark to help him hobble to the boat. "It's a terrible temper he has for such a wee little fellow," he told the Bloody Sword, "but he's a head on his shoulders for all that."
"And a good thing, too," Evark snorted, chivvying his passengers across the beach. "Korthrala knows the pair of you need looking after if even half of what you've told me is true, longshanks! Damn me for a Purple Lord if I know which of you's the bigger idiot—you, for getting yourself into this, or this other fathom of fish bait for following you!"
"Oh, it's Bahzell, hands down," Brandark assured him as the Horse Stealer half-lifted him over the gunwale and settled him on a thwart. One of Evark's men handed him his balalaika with a grin, the other halflings scrambled back aboard, and Bahzell heaved the launch off the beach and crawled over the stem as they backed oars to slide away from the island.
The bonfire still burned, pale and smoky in the growing, golden light, and Brandark gazed back at it and shook his head again at the breakneck speed with which everything had changed. They were going to live after all.
"So, I'm the bigger idiot, am I?" Bahzell growled as the launch curtsied across the water. "And where would you be without me, hey?"
"Snug in bed in Navahk—and hating every minute of it," Brandark said, and Evark snorted behind him.
"Well, you're a long way from Navahk—wherever it is—" the captain observed, putting the tiller over to steer for his ship "—and I can hardly wait till I put the two of you ashore in Belhadan! Korthrala, the Axemen will have a fit! Still," he squinted into the sun, his voice more thoughtful, "I doubt you'd've made it this far if you couldn't land on your feet."
"Oh, we'll be fine," Brandark said, turning on the thwart to sit facing him. "Assuming, of course, that Bahzell doesn't find something else to come all over noble about."
"Noble, is he? Him?" Evark gave a crack of laughter. "Now somehow I don't think that's the very word I'd use to describe him!"
"Oh, but he is!" Brandark assured the captain. "Nobler than you could possibly guess."
"Here! That's enough of that!" Bahzell protested while the entire boat's crew chortled.
"Don't let his modesty fool you," Brandark said earnestly, a wicked gleam in his eye. "He's too shy to brag on himself, but I know. In fact, why don't I just entertain you with a song on the way back to your ship, Captain?"
"Oh, no, you don't!" Bahzell made a grab for the balalaika, but he couldn't reach far enough past the oarsmen, and Brandark settled the instrument in his lap with a seraphic smile.
"It's just a little thing I'm still working on," he told a grinning Evark while Bahzell sputtered behind him. "I call it The Lay of Bahzell Bloody-Hand, and it goes like this—"