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# Chapter Seven

The gate guard gave them a sharp look as they made their way through Drover's Gate into Esgfalas. Bahzell gazed back with a certain dour bitterness but let it pass. Waymeet lay days behind, and he'd managed to conquer his fury at what had happened there, yet the all-pervasive hostility around him was worse, in its way, than anything he'd been forced to endure in Navahk. At least there he'd known his enemies had cause for their enmity.

The outright hatred had eased as they got further from the border, yet what was left was almost worse. It was a cold, smokelike thing that hovered everywhere yet lacked even the justification of border memories. It sprang not from anything he or Brandark, or even raiders, had done; it sprang from who and what they were.

The gate guard took his time checking their road tokens, and Bahzell folded his arms and leaned against his packhorse. The gelding blew wearily, then turned its head to lip the hradani's ears affectionately, and Bahzell rubbed its forehead as he studied what he could so far see of Esgfalas.

Esgan was a human realm, and Bahzell knew the shorter-lived, more fertile humans produced denser populations than his own folk found tolerable. But he also knew from his tutors that Esgan was less populous than many other human lands . . . and its capital still seemed terrifyingly vast. The city walls were enormous, if in poorer repair than they should have been, and the traffic passing through the gates beggared anything Bahzell had ever seen. He couldn't even begin to guess how many people lived within those walls, but at the very least it must be many times the population of the city of Hurgrum, possibly greater than his father's entire princedom!

His ears twitched as they picked up the whispered comments of the humans making their way past him. Judging by their content, most of the speakers believed he couldn't hear them, or that he wouldn't understand if he did, and he chose to pretend they were right. In fact, his Esganian was much better than it had been, for, like most of the human tongues of central and northern Norfressa, it was a variant of Axeman, and Prince Bahnak had insisted all of his sons must speak that fluently. The Empire of the Axe seldom impinged upon the distant lands of the eastern hradani, but its might and influence were so great no ruler could afford not to speak its tongue any more than he could not speak that of the Empire of the Spear, its single true rival, and constant exposure to Esganian had helped him master the differences.

Brandark finished speaking to the guard, and the two of them made their way into the city. As always, people tended to clear their path, pushing rudely back against their neighbors when necessary, and Bahzell smiled sourly as even beggars gave them a wide berth. There were some advantages to being a brutal, murdering hradani after all, it seemed.

The sounds and smells and colors of the city made it hard to maintain his impassivity. The streets shifted with no apparent rhyme or reason from flagstone to cobbles to brick and back again, and not one of them went more than fifty yards before it bent like a serpent. He wondered how much of that was by chance and how much by design. This warren would be a nightmare for any commander, but if a defender knew the streets and an attacker didn't . . .

Some of the serpentine quality faded as they neared the center of town. The streets grew broader, too, lined with solid structures of brick, stone, and wood and no longer overhung by encroaching upper stories. Taverns and shops stood shoulder-to-shoulder with carpet stalls, cutlers, and street-side grills that gave off delicious smells, but that, too, faded as Brandark turned down a wide avenue. Houses replaced them—enormous houses, by Bahzell's standards—set in manicured grounds. He knew the smell of wealth when he met it, yet even here, the houses clustered tightly, for there simply wasn't room for spacious estates in this packed city.

Some of the well-kept homes boasted their own guards, who stood by closed entry gates, often with hands near their weapons as the hradani passed, and Bahzell wondered what he and Brandark were doing here. This was no place to find the sort of employment they sought, and the palpable suspicion of those guards left him feeling like a scout walking knowingly into an ambush, but he could only trust Brandark knew what he was about.

He pulled his attention back from the watching eyes and made himself pay more attention to the city's quality and less to its sheer size. Vast and crowded Esgfalas might be, but it was infinitely better kept than Navahk. Even the poorer streets were as clean as anything in Hurgrum; these broad, residential avenues actually sparkled under the sun, and the gutters along their sides were deep but clean, obviously for drainage and not simply a convenient place to shove refuse. He hated the feeling of being closed in, denied long sight lines and space, yet there was a safe, solid feel to this place . . . or would have been, if the people who lived here hadn't hated him.

Brandark made another turn, and Bahzell heaved a mental sigh of relief as they left the palatial avenues behind and the buildings changed quickly back into places of business. A short quarter-hour took them into an area of huge warehouses and shouting work gangs mixed with the grating roar of wagon wheels, and he felt himself relaxing still further. A man had to watch his toes or lose them to those rumbling wheels, perhaps, but there was too much activity and energy here for anyone to waste time staring at him bitterly.

There were more foreigners, as well. He heard at least a dozen languages chattering about him, and his ears pricked in surprise as a slender, gilt-haired man crossed the street ahead of him. He'd never seen an elf, but those delicately pointed ears and angular eyebrows couldn't belong to a human, and now that he looked, he saw representatives of still other Races of Man.

He watched in fascination as a small cluster of halflings trotted busily down the street. They stood barely waist high to a human, reaching little more than to Bahzell's thigh, and delicate ivory horns gleamed on their foreheads. They attracted their own share of distrustful looks, and he snorted in understanding. The histories said there'd been no halflings prior to the Wizard Wars. The same wars that had brought the Fall of Kontovar and afflicted his own kind with the Rage had produced the small, horned people of the youngest Race of Man, and that was enough to make them suspect to anyone else. Nor did their reputation help, though Bahzell had always taken such tales with a grain of salt. No doubt there was some truth to them—after all, there was some truth even to the tales about hradani—yet he couldn't believe an entire race consisted solely of cowards and thieves. Besides, if he were such a wee, puny fellow as they, no doubt he'd be on the . . . cautious side, as well!

Brandark was watching signboards now, and suddenly he nodded and raised a hand.

"Here we are!" Bahzell suspected his friend's satisfied tone owed at least a little to their having crossed the city without incident. City boy or not, even Brandark had to find this place on the overpowering side.

"Are we, now?" he rumbled. "And where might 'here' be?"

"With any luck, the place we'll find someone to hire us. Follow me."

Brandark led the way into a brick-paved courtyard surrounded on three sides by huge, blank-faced warehouses. A score of workmen labored about them, too busy to do more than glance their way, but a quartet of guards rose from a bench beside an office door. One of them—a tall, black-haired fellow in well-worn chain mail, leather breeches, and a cavalryman's high boots—said something to his fellows and made his way across the courtyard towards the hradani with the rolling gait of a horseman. The saber scabbard at his side was as worn but well kept as his armor, and he cocked his head as he stopped in front of them.

"And what might I be able to do for you?" he growled in rough-edged Esganian. It wasn't discourtesy; Bahzell had heard the same gruffness too often to mistake a voice worn to a rasp by the habit of command.

"I'm looking for an Axeman merchant," Brandark replied.

"Aye? Would he have a name?"

"Well, yes." For the first time since Bahzell had met him, Brandark sounded a bit embarrassed. "I'm, ah, not certain I can pronounce it properly," he apologized, "and I wouldn't care to offer insult by getting it wrong."

"Aye?" The black-haired man's dark eyes glinted with amusement. "Well, he's not here just now, whoever he might be, so you just lean back and let her rip," he said in Axeman that was much better than his Esganian.

"Very well." Brandark replied in the same language and drew a breath. "I was told to ask for . . . Kilthandahknarthos of Clan Harkanath of the Silver Caverns."

Bahzell turned his head to stare at his friend as the long, sonorous name fell from his tongue, but the black-haired man chuckled.

"Well, you didn't do so badly, at that, but it's 'knarthas' there at the end." He cocked his head the other way and squeezed his sword belt and rocked on his heels. "And might I ask your business with old Kilthan?"

"I'm hoping," Brandark said, "that he might have jobs for us."

"Jobs, is it?" The black-haired man sounded dubious. "What sort of job would that be?"

Brandark started to reply, but Bahzell touched his shoulder and looked down at the human.

"Your pardon, I'm sure, but I'm wondering what business of yours that might be?" he asked pleasantly, and the black-haired man nodded.

"That's fair enough. My name is Rianthus, and I command Kilthan's guardsmen. So, you see, it's my business to wonder what a pair like you—no offense—might want with my employer."

"A pair like us, hey?" Bahzell's teeth glinted. "Aye, I can see you might be thinking we'd need watching, but we'd be right fools, the both of us, to be walking slap up to you if we'd anything clever in mind, now wouldn't we?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," Rianthus agreed. "On the other hand, you might be clever enough to expect me to think just that. It wouldn't be very wise of you, but you might not know that yet, you see."

"Aye, you've a point there," Bahzell chuckled, then shrugged. "Well, if you're after commanding his guards, then I'm thinking you're the man we're most needful to see."

"Oh ho!" Rianthus nodded again, narrowed eyes glinting. "Looking to hire us your swords, are you?"

"Well, I've heard it's either guard or raid for such as us," Bahzell replied, "and I've no mind to take up brigands' ways."

"Well, that sounds honest enough," Rianthus murmured, looking the immense Horse Stealer over from head to toe, "and no question you two could be useful. Assuming you haven't taken up brigands' ways already. We've had raiders try to put a man or two inside before, but it hasn't helped 'em yet."

"And a great relief to my mind that is," Bahzell said politely, and Rianthus gave a crack of laughter.

"Aye, you'll do—if you're what you say." He looked back at Brandark. "You're the one with the name to drop, my lad, so suppose you tell me who might vouch for you?"

"I'm hoping Kilthan himself will." Brandark's reply raised the guard captain's eyebrows, and the Bloody Sword shrugged. "My father and he have, um, done business a time or two in the past." He tugged a ring off the forefinger of his left hand and held it out. "I think he'll recognize this."

"Will he, now?" Rianthus bounced the ring on his palm, then closed his fist around it with a grin. "You know, I've always suspected the old thief was just a tad less respectable than he claims. Wait here."

He vanished into the office, and Bahzell glanced down at his friend.

" 'Done business,' is it? And what sort of business might your revered father have been having with an Axeman dwarf?"

"Oh, a little of this and a little of that," Brandark replied airily, then grinned. "As friend Rianthus says, old Kilthan's factors aren't above buying goods without too many questions. But aside from that small foible, he's as respectable as he claims, and honest to boot. Father always said—"

He broke off as Rianthus reappeared in the doorway and beckoned. Bahzell raised a handful of reins at him, and the captain thumped one of his men on the shoulder and pointed. The guardsman—a shorter, chunky fellow—rose with ill grace and stumped over to the hradani. He took the reins with a surly grunt and stood holding them while Brandark and Bahzell moved to join Rianthus.

The door was a close fit for Bahzell, and the ceiling beyond was worse. Navahk had been bad enough for one of his stature, but at least it had been built to fit other hradani; the warehouse office hadn't, and he fought a sense of claustrophobic enclosure as he hunched his shoulders and bent his neck to accommodate its cramped dimensions.

"Hirahim, you are a big one!" a deep, gravelly voice snorted. "Have a seat, man! Have a seat before you sprain something!"

Rianthus nudged Bahzell and pointed, and the Horse Stealer sank gratefully onto the chair. It was far too small, but there were no arms to get in the way, and it didn't creak too alarmingly as it took his weight.

"Better," the gravel voice said. "Now I can at least look you in the belly button, can't I?" It chuckled at its own wit, and Bahzell finally spotted its owner.

The man behind the desk had to be sitting either in a very tall chair or atop a heap of cushions, for he couldn't have stood much over four feet. He was also very nearly as broad as he was tall and bald as an egg, but a massive, forked beard streamed down his chest in compensation, and strange, topaz-colored eyes glittered in the light.

"So," he said now, turning to Brandark as the Bloody Sword found a chair of his own, "you must be young Brandarkson." He rubbed the side of his nose with a finger while his other hand spun the ring on the desk before him, and his topaz eyes narrowed. "Well, you've the look of him, and the ring's right, but what you're doing here has me in something of a puzzle."

"You've met Father?" Brandark asked, and Kilthan shrugged.

"No, I've never had that, um, privilege, but I make it my business to know what I can about those I do my business with. And," he added judiciously, "I've always found your father an honest sort, for a Bloody Sword hradani." He chuckled. "Especially for a Bloody Sword, if you'll pardon my frankness."

"I suspect Father would be amused, not insulted," Brandark replied with a smile, and Kilthan chuckled again.

"Aye, with that accent you'd almost have to be Brandarkson. Damn me, but your Axeman's better than mine!"

"Perhaps that's because it's not your native tongue, either."

"Hey? How's that?" Kilthan demanded, eyes narrower than ever.

"Well, you were the senior Silver Cavern delegate to the conference that asked the Empire to annex Dwarvenhame," Brandark murmured.

"So, you know that, too, do you?" Kilthan nodded, then leaned back, folding his hands on his belly. "In that case, I think we can assume you're who you say." He unfolded one hand to wag a finger at Rianthus and indicate another chair, then returned it to his belly and cocked a bushy eyebrow at Brandark. "And that being so, young Brandarkson, suppose you tell me what you're doing here and why you need a job, you and your long, tall friend?"

"Well, as to that," Brandark said, and launched into an explanation. He did it almost too well for Bahzell's peace of mind, dropping into the rhythmic cadences of a bard. At least he seemed untempted to resort to song, for which Bahzell was profoundly grateful, but he felt himself flushing as his friend enlarged on his own "nobility" in coming to Farmah's rescue. There'd been nothing "noble" about it—just an iron-headed Horse Stealer too stupid to stay out of a mess that was none of his making!

Kilthan's eyes gleamed appreciatively, and his hand crept up to cover his mouth a time or two when Bahzell flushed. But he heard the entire tale out, then nodded and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk to look back and forth between them with those sharp, topaz eyes.

"Well, now! That's quite a tale . . . and it matches the bits and pieces I've already heard." Bahzell's ears shifted in surprise, and Kilthan gave a crack of laughter. "Oh, yes, lads! I don't say anyone believes it, mind you—Esganians are Esganians, and the thought of hradani doing anything 'noble' isn't one they're comfortable with—but my factors stay abreast of rumors. Bad for business if they miss one and it turns out to be true, you know. But I've heard of your father, too, um, Prince Bahzell, and that suggests which rumor to believe in this case. If even half the tales are true, your Prince Bahnak sounds like a man who understands the business of ruling, not just looting. If Navahk and its cronies weren't in the way, I'd have factors in Hurgrum, too . . . and judging from what your people did to Churnazh two years back, I think Navahk might not be a problem so very much longer, at that.

"In the meantime, however, I can see why you've come west. And you, young Brandarkson," those disconcerting, yellow eyes cut back to Brandark, "were quite right. Hradani who wander about without obvious employ don't fare well in other lands." He inhaled deeply, then slapped his hands on his desk.

"So! That being the case, I might just take a chance on the two of you. Mind you, you won't be lords or princes to my men, and some of them won't be any too happy to see you." His face turned much sterner. "We've our own rules, and Rianthus will tell you what they are, but one applies to everyone: no drawn steel! I doubt you two would have made it across Esgan if you were given to, ah, hastiness, but you know as well as I that someone's going to press you sooner or later, just for being what you are. Do I have your word you'll settle it without blades?"

"Well, now," Bahzell rumbled, "I'm thinking you do, so long as they're not after spilling blood. It's grateful I'll be for honest work, but not so grateful I'll let someone slice a piece or two from my hide without slicing a little back in trade."

"That's fair enough," Rianthus put in. Kilthan looked at him, and the captain shrugged. "If any of our lads are stupid enough to break the rules and draw against these two, we're better off without them, anyway, Kilthan."

"Hmmmm. There probably is something in that," Kilthan agreed after a moment, then shrugged. "Very well, do I have your words that you won't draw steel first?" Both hradani nodded, and Kilthan nodded back with a curiously formal air. "Done, then! Two gold kormaks a month to start with, more if you work out well. And it's a good thing you found me when you did, for I'm bound back to Manhome before the month's end." He looked back at Rianthus and jabbed a finger at Bahzell with a grin. "Get them sworn in, Rianthus—and see if we've a tent long enough for this one!"

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