"Yes, sir. I'm ready for the next."

In just a few minutes, all four of the pistols were charged, each carefully loaded into Karl's holsters.

"Going to the stables, sir?" Jayar asked, as he locked the door behind them, reaching for the speaking tube with one hand while he picked up his sealing-wax candle with the other.

"Yes," Karl said, knowing what was coming next. He really didn't want anybody else in on this, but . . .

"Did you want anyone in particular for your guard, sir?"

"Garavara"and tell him all I need are him and his sons. And no rush. It's just a little thinga"I'll be leaving at false dawn."

Garavar would keep his mouth shut, Karl hoped. After a few years, even an emperor learned to give up issuing orders that he knew would be disobeyed. It wasn't that it was considered improper for a ruler to go out at night sans escort; it was a matter of calculation. Even if Karl ordered no bodyguard, it was an open secret that he wouldn't order punishment for engineers and soldiers who insisted on accompanying him.

On the other hand, if he was killed on one of his nighttime jaunts, it was far less than clear that his successora"be it Jason or whichever baron managed to grab the thronea"would be so merciful toward the then-late emperor's supporters, supporters who had let the emperor get himself killed.

With the possible losses beinga"at mosta"a slap on the wrist in one event versus a likely beheading on the other, the bet was an easy one.

"Yes, sir," Jayar said, pulling the tube close to his mouth. "Attention, attention," he shouted into the speaking mask, then put it to his ear until he heard a distant, m.u.f.fled response. "Runner to General Garavar's quarters," he went on. "General Garavar and sons, repeat sons, report to royal stables for escort duty. No need to run; a sprint will do. Repeat and go."

He tossed Karl a quick salute and a friendly smile.

"In case it doesn't turn out to be just a little thing, sir," Jayar said, "it's been nice knowing you." He sobered. "And I mean that sincerely, sir. It has been a rare and distinct pleasure."

"It's mutual." Karl Cullinane forced a chuckle. "Take care of yourself."

The predawn light hung grayly over the dusty road as distant thunder sounded from the west.

Some riding in front of Karl and Andy, some riding behind, Garavar and his six sons kept their eyes on the horizon as they left Biemestren behind them and briskly cantered their horses away from the lightening sky. While the fiction of this merely being a pleasure ride was maintained orally, n.o.body believed it for a moment: Older hands tended to stay near swordhilts, while younger ones gravitated to pistol b.u.t.ts.

Even Garthe, the youngest. He was only fifteen, although large for his age, and could easily have been taken for several years older than he wasa"perhaps even to the mid-twenties. There seemed to be a tendency in the family to grow old quickly, then stop aging, although, Gashier, the oldest, actually looked older than his father; there were many more worry lines in Gashier's face. Way back when, Karl had guessed him to be the general's elder brother; Garavar didn't show his age.

Karl had speculated that it was partly genetic, partly repeated use of healing spells and draughts over the yearsa"healing spells seemed to have mild rejuvenative effects in some individuals.

Maybe even in Karl himself. He ran his fingers through his hair. Maybe that was the trouble; he'd been out of combat for so long that he hadn't been even nicked in a number of years, although he exercised frequently and vigorously. Maybe he was slowing down?

I'd best not even think that loudly around Tennetty. He chuckled.

Danagar, riding at Karl's right side, scowled at the sound, then m.u.f.fled it when he realized who he was glaring at.

"Ta havath, Danagar," Karl said. "We're just out riding for fun."

"Yes, sir," Danagar said, manifestly unconvinced.

The chill wind gusted harder as they approached a bend in the road. It was hard to see; while the rising sun was winning a temporary victory over the fog, the combination of fog and glare prevented him from seeing well.

"Garthe," Garavar called out, "ride ahead, scout, and report."

"Yes, Father," the boy said, giving a twitch to his reins.

"Wait," Karl said; Garthe subsided. "Andy?" Karl stood in his saddle and turned to his wife.

She shook her head. "I can't tell, now. He's in that direction," she said, pointing, "but it could be a mile, maybe three. Let me try something." She murmured a few harsh syllables. "No, he's just around the bend."

"Fine. Vanish and wait here."

She knew better than to argue with him; she closed her eyes and gripped at the air around her, speaking the harsh, foreign, evanescent words that could only be heard and forgotten, never remaining in the mind of either speaker or listener.

Silently, s.p.a.ce itself spun into a solid fabric of mist and fog, swirling in a silent hurricane around Andy, as she sat astride her dappled mare, the mists spinning faster, faster, until they totally concealed her and her horse, and then, suddenly, as if someone had flicked a switcha"

a"she and the horse were gone.

"Andy?"

A familiar chuckle sounded out of the air. "No. It's Claude Rains," she said. "Get to work, hero. I'm fine."

Karl turned and kicked his horse into a canter.

"With me, not in front of me," he said, raising his voice. "Because we," he said, calling out, "and that means I, Karl Cullinane, prince and emperor, and my entire escort are going to be waiting around this bend for the prisoner cart to pa.s.s later this morning," he called out, "and we will all ride with it to Tyrnael, if necessary, to see that no mishaps befall it. If you catch my f.u.c.king drift."

There was a rustling from the woods. Garthe started for his pistol, but desisted at his father's emphatic shake of the head.

"We will wait here for it," Karl said. "And since I know the seven of us are alone, we won't have to worry about any sounds from the woodsa"they're just rabbits or something."

A voice called out from the mist and leaves. "I'm coming out, Karl."

In a moment, Thomen Furnael, dressed in a ragged farmer's tunic but with a sword belted around his waist, stood in front of him.

"He's not alone, sir," Gashier said. "I can hear two others, at least."

"Of course he's alone," Karl said. "The baron is just out for a pleasure ride, like ourselves. It wouldn't be old Hivar back there, would it?"

"Very good," Thomen said, his hands folded across his chest. "How did you know it was him?"

Karl swung a leg over the back of the horse and dropped to the ground, signaling at Garavar and the others to stay put. "Who else would you trust, boy? Hivar's been with your family since before I met your father. But you're wronga"he's not back there, and there aren't any other loyal family retainers back there, because you're out, alone, for a pleasure ridea"and you're going to finish your pleasure ride and hie your a.s.s back to Biemestren. Understood?"

It was the sort of fix that would have occurred to Karl at that age: dress up as highwaymen, free Vernim, and send him on his way. Simple, elegant.

The only thing wrong with it was that it wouldn't work. Too many people had seen how shocked Thomen was when Vernim spoke up during sentencing; Vernim had already demonstrated that he had a loud moutha"he would talk.

It wouldn't work, dammit.

"There's another possibility," Thomen said, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "We could settle it, you and I, your majesty."

"Make another move and you're a dead man, Danagar," Karl said, as he caught a motion out of the corner of his eye. He turned back to Thomen. "You think that you could take me? Truthfully?"

Some skill with the sword was something that Thomen had inherited from his father; blunt, brutal self-honesty was another. "No. I may not be good enough even to put a mark on you. Buta""

"Then do you think that we'll all be better off if both you and Vernim die? Who benefits, Thomen, who benefitsa"" Staring the younger man straight in the eye, Karl Cullinane snapped a foot into Thomen's crotch; as Thomen gasped, clutched at himself, and crumpled, Karl gripped him and spun him around.

"Hivar, there's no need for a fight," he said, as he eased the groaning young baron to the ground. "He's not badly hurt."

There was a long pause, then a voice called out from the darkness. "He'd best not be."

"I told you, he isn't. He's not going to want to fork a horse for a while, but he isn't badly hurt." Karl beckoned to Garthe. "Take charge of the baron. Bind hima"we'll release him after the cart has pa.s.sed. He can ride home with us. I'll take responsibility for his safety, Hivar. My word."

"Very well," sounded from the fog. "And I?"

"You get out of here, old man," Karl said. "Because you were never here, and this never happened."

Garavar nodded in approval; Thomen, in pain, forced a question through his lips: "Why?"

"Don't ever threaten me, Thomen," he said. "It's impolite."

Because, Karl Cullinane thought, hanging Vernim is my responsibility. You're not ready for it, not yet. You were ready to salve your conscience by letting me kill you; I'd rather salve your conscience more cheaply.

I owe that to you, Thomena"and to your father and brother.

"Because I am the emperor," Karl Cullinane said. "And you'd better understand that, boy."

CHAPTER EIGHT:.

The Best-Laid Plans . . .

I'm a hero with coward's legs. I'm a hero from the waist up.

a"Spike Mulligan.

Except for the weather, Walter Slovotsky's part of the attack went off like it was charmed.

Walter Slovotsky's commandoa"he insisted on the correct usage of the word; it referred to the group, not the members of the groupa"consisted of only ten; ten against the seventeen in the horseborne slaver reserves wasn't great odds.

But there were compensating factors. Lou had told him that Aeia was still just about the best shot in Home; Bren Adahan, while inexperienced with a pistol, was a better swordsman than Walter, and quite good with a crossbowa"and, most important, an experienced warrior; he had been thoroughly blooded in the Holtun-Bieme war.

Six of the others were warriors that Daherrin had recommended, only two of them tyros, one of those serving as medica"which meant that in addition to his weapons, he carried bandages and the bottle of healing draughts.

Daherrin had suggested Jason as the tenth, but Walter had vetoed the suggestion: This was a tricky bit; much better to put Jason with the group that was going to hit the slaver scoutsa"that looked to be the relatively cushy job.

No, Jason wasn't his tenth. His tenth was Ahira. The two of them had been friends for half their lives, and partnered for much of that time. In or out of a fight, having Ahira around was to Slovotsky like having a concrete backboard when playing basketball: The ball would rebound, period.

Still, given that the goal was to end up with seventeen dead slavers and no-count-them-no dead Home soldiers, it was going to be touch-and-go. Their pistols should lower the odds some; the rope in his hands was going to even them even more.

As was the element of surprise.

Which was the reason that Walter was in tactical command, after all, and not Ahira.

Besides, Ahira was part of the tactical reserves. Way back when, when he was in ROTC, Walter Slovotsky had been told that it was always necessary to have a reserve; it was the only thing from his two-week military career that had benefited him.

A stray raindrop hit him square in the left eye, stinging as he rubbed at it.

The weather was not promising; it was hard to reload in the rain.

As before, there was no sign of the slaver reserves from down the road when the last of the main party vanished around the bend. Wind whispered down the trail, a further promise of the oncoming storm.

Walter crept around the bend and waited silently until they were far enough away so that he could be sure his low-voiced call to Aeia and Bren wouldn't possibly be heard.

Distant flashes of lightning and remote crashes of thunder sent chills racing down his neck.

"Okay, you two," he whispered, hefting a coil of braided-leather rope as he stepped onto the trail. "Let's get to it."

While the first spatter of raindrops touched the leaves overhead, Bren Adahan knelt next to a tree, easily lifting Aeia when she stepped into his cupped hands. Walter tossed her the end of the rope.

It only took a few seconds for her to make the rope fast to the tree; she dropped lightly to the trail, and she and Bren repeated the process on the other side.

"Gin," Walter said. "Now we just have toa""

Shots sounded from down the trail.

Too early!

Panic washed across him in an icy wave, as the rain intensified, hard drops spattering his chest. As he dove for the cover of the woods he heard a harsh voice whispering, "Everyone to his place, and hold your fire," and realized it was his own.

More gunshots sounded from down the road; distant cracks that had him reflexively reaching for the pistols in his belt, knives at his hip, the swordbelt that was slung over his left shoulder, the better to discard it.

He could see only four of his people; the other four, under Ahira, were farther down the trail, giving them two lines of fire.

If it worked.

The rain fell hard, icy sheets clawing down through the trees, Hoofbeats thundered on the hard ground; the troop of slavers galloped down the path, four abreast.

His bare back against the rough bark of the tree, Walter reached across his waist and drew a pistol, c.o.c.king it as he brought it up to chest level, hoping, praying that the rain hadn't penetrated into the pan.

The first four slavers. .h.i.t the rope almost simultaneously. The taut leather knocked them into the air as though they were bowling pins.

Except that bowling pins didn't have neckbones that cracked with a horrible snap. Bowling pins didn't fall to the ground twitching and screaming in a final agony.

Two of the horses stumbled and fell, one sending its rider tumbling, the other rolling and crushing the scream from its former rider.

Of the next four slavers, one was able to duck under, but a gunshot caught him in the shoulder, slamming him out of the saddle and to the ground. Walter Slovotsky stood, bringing his first pistol to bear on an advancing slaver, firing as the heavy-bearded man fell into his sights.