Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [55]
"Tallies, knotted an' unknotted to track payments an' debts an' cargo amounts."
"Yes, but what's to stop Voldovan or any master from making whatever knots he pleases?"
The scarred, coarse-tongued caravan guard gave Narm a severe look and growled, "His love for retaining his own head. Now let's be loading. If we're not ready to roll when the horn calls, 'twill be our heads in the next stew-blandreth."
Shandril gave him a scornful look. "Just save breath and stop trying to scare us, B'marr. You don't boil heads for stew."
"Nay, you're right about that. I leave that to Raunt, who's better'n'me with salt an' suchlike."
He gave the young couple a sidelong grin. Shandril answered it with another sour look and asked, "I suppose nothing frightens veteran Harpers like you?"
Beldimarr's unlovely head and fearsome mustache turned her way and Shandril found herself looking into eyes that seemed older than she thought they'd be.
"Oh now, lass, I wouldn't say that. I wouldn't say that at all. We've just learned not to waste time worrying, or noise fretting to others about it. I'm scared of a goodly handful of things right now."
"Oh?" Shandril shook her head, and gave him a little grin. "Somehow that makes me feel better. A goodly handful, eh?" She pointed at the wagon-flap.
"Therefore tremble and depart."
"As you command, fire-witch," the Harper said good-naturedly and stepped down from the wagon with a grunt. Settling his swordbelt into place, Narm strolled across the floorboards to watch Beldimarr go – and was sent staggering by the arrival of the first coffer, tossed into his midriff with deadly accuracy by the guard outside. Shandril sputtered with laughter as Narm found an unexpected seat upon the roll of bedding and sprang forward to catch the next box herself. It clanged into her frontal collection of armor plates, rebounded up into her chin, and left her wishing she had put on her hot, heavy helm.
Another day was under way in earnest, it seemed, and familiar aches and pains swiftly returned to register their protests. Shandril and Narm gave each other wry grins and commenced fielding coffers, not bothering about proper stowage. The casks would determine that, with Beldimarr's roared directions, when they started arriving.
"I'm not spending my life running caravans," Narm grunted. "This one is more than enough."
Shandril wrinkled her nose at him. "I wonder how many folk have said that before?"
The man who was not Haransau Olimer smiled a soft smile as he watched the taller and dirtier of Voldovan's head guards stride purposefully past, several more sword-dogs in his wake. All it had taken was a bewildered comment about a certain wagon "clanking" to another merchant nursing thrusk over a fire. Even suspicious merchants talk.
Especially suspicious merchants talk – and as weakened and scared as these guards were, now, they'd even learned to listen.
The Dark Blade of Doom was a long way from familiar alleys and hiding-holes, now. In fact, everyone's favorite Marlel was trapped amid wolves who hid behind masks. Little games like this could tug a few of those masks into slipping – but the spells their wearers could hurl could snatch away his life in an instant. He'd need spellfire to have any hope of standing against them.
Spellfire. Well, now. What a coincidence…
*******
"Watch, now," Sabran the Weaver murmured to his business partner. "They're coming this way again."
"Dolts," Mhegras Master-of-Furs snapped, whirling back into the wagon. "Do they really think that searching us once more will show them things they somehow missed the last dozen times? This fool of a Voldovan'll give every last prowling beast and desperate fool of a brigand a chance at us, going so slowly! We should have been up and away at dawn, not waiting around for his self-important swordheads to tramp all over us one more time!"
"Easy, lad," Sabran said. "You're here to learn patience, remember?"
Mhegras snorted. "As if the Brotherhood puts any value on that! All it really seems to mean in our ranks is underlings smiling and