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Chapter 12:
The Man at His Back


I


They had almost reached the village that evening when two cloaked figures rode out of the dusk.

Hanuvar, on horse a few hundred feet ahead of the wagons, stopped on the woodland roadside and watched the oncoming horsemen. The rider in the vanguard flashed the correct hand signs, but Hanuvar didn’t relax until he recognized Carthalo. That evening the spy master wore simple traveling clothes and a light hooded cape. His face was stubbled with a day’s growth of gray-black beard.

Once they’d exchanged greetings, Carthalo wasted no time getting to the bad news. “Our way station has been compromised. Dervan slave catchers rounded up most of our people and marched them out.”

Hanuvar’s hands tightened on the reins. “How far ahead are they?”

“They came in the middle morning.”

“How many slavers?”

“Six.”

“How many of our people did they get?”

“The three slaves I freed from Taron. And Farnus. He managed to get the rest out a hidden back way while stalling. If Corven and I hadn’t been out scouting for you, they might have snapped us up as well.”

This was terrible news, and not just because lives were in danger. “How much does Farnus know about the network?”

There was the crucial question, and Carthalo’s own worry for it showed in his face. “Up until now the Dervans didn’t even know we had a network. I don’t think he’ll talk easily. But when he does our days are numbered.”

Hanuvar looked back to the two wagons. Disguised as simple merchant transports and filled with goods, between them they housed nine escaped slaves, three of them Volani. He had planned to have them rest a few days at a small farm just beyond the village before they were separated into alternate, and more comfortable, traveling accommodations. “Where can my people be sent?”

“They’ll have to head for the coastal road. Two days, then travel by boat to Ostra and thence to Selanto. It’ll cost more.”

“What do your sources say about the slave catchers?”

“Local gossip doesn’t know anything about Volani emancipation. So far they assume our people were either escapees or headed for illegal slave markets. I think the Dervans lucked into this.”

“Luck,” Hanuvar said, wishing his people had more of it. “All right. One of ours is healing from a nasty facial injury and is feverish. The majority of those we freed are pregnant, of course—a couple pretty far along. Your son and Antony were wounded. Antony’s feeling better, and Horace is over the worst of it, but he’s going to be sore for a while.” He bowed his head, calculating quickly. “We can leave Lucena in charge of the wagons. We’ll take Brutus and Antires. Five of us against six slave catchers. If we strike at night, we ought to have it simple. How far ahead of us are they?”

“The slavers spent so much time searching the farm for additional hiding places they didn’t get out until midafternoon. So, they’re probably camping by now. They shouldn’t reach Vorsini until tomorrow evening.”

“Then we’d best get moving.”

“Right.”

While Carthalo checked with his staff and children, Hanuvar asked Antires if he wanted to come along and the playwright answered with an exasperated look that meant it was absurd to ask.

Hanuvar then bade a farewell to the people he had helped rescue, regretfully passing along the news that they’d have to camp out again tonight. After, he selected official-looking credentials from his available false paperwork, on the unlikely chance he could bluff his way into freeing the prisoners. Then he gathered his gear and rode off with the others.

They passed the little farming village that would have been their night’s reprieve, then took the northwesterly road out of the community. The sun was most of the way down already and soon the stars hung bright overhead.

They pressed their horses to a good walking speed. Any faster on the dark road would have endangered them. The land grew more hilly as they travelled further west. From time to time, they passed isolated shacks and farm spreads, some of which lay behind high walls.

Riding beside Carthalo while Brutus took point and Antires and Corven brought up the rear, Hanuvar told his intelligence officer about their own mission and the dreadful encounter with a sorcerer. Carthalo, too, had been forced to rescue slaves a master wouldn’t part with, although he’d faced fewer trials. They’d drugged the man’s wine and slipped away without issue. Everything seemed to have gone perfectly until the slave catchers had somehow learned about Farnus’ inn.

Hanuvar remembered Farnus well. He’d been one of Carthalo’s most reliable field agents during the war and now oversaw a number of small way stations along key travel routes. If Farnus were forced to reveal what he knew, Dervans would learn about most of their network, from Derva to Selanto. All would have to be abandoned.

Carthalo had additional bad news. “The Eltyr’s been active again. Two more Dervan nobles are dead. Children.”

Ciprion had pledged to keep them informed about the Eltyr’s activities. Hanuvar had hoped that there’d be nothing to hear. “Who were they?”

“A remote cousin of the Marcelli, and a niece of Senator Ervonus.”

Reading Hanuvar’s brooding silence, Carthalo said: “It might not be your daughter. It might not even be one of ours.”

“It probably is one of ours,” Hanuvar said. Their people had tens of thousands of reasons to seek vengeance.

“Yes,” Carthalo agreed, and fell silent.

They rode for long hours. And then, finally, reasoning that the slavers couldn’t have gotten much further before they’d needed to stop for the night, Carthalo urged them to advance more cautiously, warning that an old camping site lay nearby.

Hanuvar ordered the others off the road and left them with the horses, including Antires. The playwright was resourceful, but he was no woodsman, and they needed stealth.

He took Carthalo ahead with him. They crested one hill carefully to discover only more landscape, then reached another and spotted a campfire on level ground a good spear toss back from the road. The camp itself seemed quiet, although the susurration of crickets drowned out softer sounds.

Carthalo breathed a sigh of relief. “Got them,” he whispered. He, too, had worried that the slavers might have pressed on, or moved further off the road. But he wasn’t in the habit of talking out his fears.

“Let’s go verify.”

When they crept closer, they spotted a sentry nodding at his post.

Hanuvar and Carthalo sank down behind a juniper bush and watched, working out a sense of the camp. Hanuvar searched in vain for an outer sentry. Carthalo pointed to the lumpy shapes lying around the fire. One had shifted and there’d been the unmistakable rattle of chains.

Hanuvar nodded in acknowledgment. “Does Farnus have a pick?” he asked in Carthalo’s ear. Carthalo had insisted his field operatives, including Hanuvar, wear sandals modified to conceal a small set of lockpicks in the heel. Hanuvar had yet to master their working, but Farnus was a practiced hand with such tools.

“If he wore the right sandals,” Carthalo whispered back.

A figure on the other side of the fire sat up with a groan, then hurried for a bush at the end of the camp and crouched. The sound of explosive flatulence ripped through the night, momentarily quieting the nearby crickets.

“All the niceties of Dervan society,” Carthalo whispered.

The Dervan continued his business for some time, cleaned himself, then moved at a foot-dragging hunch back to his sleeping roll.

Mockingly the sentinel asked if the man had worked everything out.

“You’re funny,” the other man said with a curse.

“I’m dead sick myself,” the sentry admitted.

“At least the two of us can still walk.” The first sank onto his bedroll. “Jovren’s balls. This is dreadful.”

“I told you that lamb was off,” the sentry said fiercely.

Hanuvar decided on his course of action. “This may be easier than we thought, but I’m going to scout the rest of the perimeter before we close in. Slide back and get the others. We’ll rendezvous at that rock. Leave Antires with the horses.”

Carthalo acknowledged the orders with a pat on Hanuvar’s shoulder and crawled off.

The situation was almost ideal. Several hours of darkness remained, and the Dervans were not at their best. He wondered if Farnus and his three were afflicted with a bad stomach along with them.

Staying low, Hanuvar circled a short spear’s toss from the camp’s edge. As he arrived at its northern side his diligence was rewarded, for a figure was briefly outlined against a slight rise. He would have to be eliminated before Carthalo returned.

Hanuvar advanced, his progress masked by the ever-present drone of Tyvolian crickets. He lowered to his belly and crawled forward along the side of the steep slope. The man crouching ahead of him cursed softly to himself. He thought he knew why; this watch point lay closer to the side of camp chosen as the latrine, and the stench of human waste had swung this way as the breeze changed.

A horse whinnied in the camp, and the figure Hanuvar closed upon cursed quietly once more.

And Hanuvar, already tense, felt the blood drain from his face. He had misread the situation. A sentry wouldn’t be troubled by the horses making noise, but an enemy scout would. He pressed himself flat, senses stretching taut.

Below, the camp sentry called out for one of his men to check the animals. A grumpy, sleep-fogged voice told him not to worry about it, but the sentry insisted and the grumpy man swore and said he’d look into it.

The man Hanuvar watched chuckled quietly to himself, as if pleased by the enemy’s weakness.

For what force did this man scout, and how many were with him? Hanuvar eased back until he had a better sense of what was going on.

“Chenat,” a voice whispered to Hanuvar’s left, “is that you?”

“Here,” whispered the watching scout.

“Then who’s that?”

Hanuvar wasted no time, shooting to his feet as the questioner came forward. He backed from the thrust of the shadowy figure’s dark blade, then drew and swung his gladius in a single motion. The attacker leaned out of the way, misstepped, and fell forward.

Knowing he was close to the hill’s drop-off, Hanuvar stepped right, only to have the earth give out beneath him. He dropped only half his height, but his feet went out from under him, and to keep from striking his head he had to drop his weapon. A moment later he was tumbling down the grassy slope. He struck knee and elbow and back on roots as he rolled, landing finally on his belly close to the stinking latrine. He’d lost his sword.

Gasping, and a little stunned, he lay flat until he could catch his bearings. Someone outside the camp was shouting “Go, go,” and Hanuvar presumed an attack from the mysterious second group was under way. Chains rattled on his left. He was close to the prisoners. He didn’t feel like moving yet, but he dared wait no longer. He was starting to rise when a lantern light pinned him. A man was shouting at him to lie still unless he wanted a spear point. He obeyed, frowning, uninclined to act until he could better gauge the position of his enemies.

He heard the clack of swords and a scream of pain, and the unmistakable sound of a death rattle.

A woman’s gruff voice called out of the darkness for a report. Men replied, relaying that the slavers were down. One reported the capture of two patricians, and then the spearman behind Hanuvar called out: “I’ve got one over here, and he doesn’t smell like shit. I think he’s another noble.”

“Bring him over,” the woman called.

“Up, you,” the spearman said harshly. “Hands away from your belt.”

Hanuvar climbed slowly to his feet, arms raised.

Four men sat off to one side, manacled hands lifted in surrender. A pair of guards watched them, and one barked to lower their hands. Hanuvar wasn’t put with them, though.

The spearman jabbed him toward two Dervans sitting hunched and miserable on the bare ground. One of their new captors tossed more tinder into the campfire and it blazed up, revealing the limp bodies of the rest of the slavers, dragged into a line. Bandits searched the corpses while joking about the stink.

The two dejected Dervans said nothing to Hanuvar when he was told to take a seat next to them, though their curiosity was palpable. Neither resembled the scarred, brutal slave catchers he’d seen on the streets of Derva. One was a slim man barely in his majority, wearing a light green tunic that emphasized the sickly green in his pale face. The other was a young patrician, with a proud, sharp nose, pointed chin, and honey-colored hair. The one in green opened his mouth as if to question Hanuvar but the other silenced his companion by putting a hand on his leg.

A muscular woman stopped to the right of their campfire. She wore a helmet, leather cuirass, and a soldier’s baltea and boots. The fire cast her face in deep shadow and outlined her high cheekbones. “You’re no shit-eating slaver, are you?” she asked casually of Hanuvar. “How much are you worth? You a noble Dervan?”

He answered with a patrician accent. “The noblest. My patron will reward you handsomely for my safe return.”

“Fabian, search him,” she said.

A large, freckled man patted Hanuvar down, discovering his regular knife, two throwing knives, coin purse, belt pouches, and paperwork, which held the most interest for them. The woman tilted it toward the fire, which fingered her helmet with shifting brightness as she read. “Quintus Claudius Marcellus,” she said slowly. “There’s something in small letters here about a quaestor.”

“I’m a special emissary of quaestor Lentullus.”

“You sound important.” The woman lowered the paper and shoved it roughly back into its waxed pouch. “Lucky thing for you.” She gestured vaguely toward one end of the camp. “A couple of my boys say they wrestled with a Dervan on the hill. Was that you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, well. He said he figured you broke your neck on the way down.”

“I’m a fortunate man.”

She turned her attention to the other Dervans. “Who are you?”

The obvious patrician spoke first, his voice weak from his illness. “I am Alosius Magnus Senrilla.” He indicated the man beside him with a nod. “This man is in my employ.”

“I didn’t expect to find any noble among slave catchers.”

The young man’s head rose proudly. “I’m doing what I can to help the empire.”

The bandit queen mocked him with a downward mouth twist, imitating a lackwit, and her men laughed. “Help the empire,” she repeated slowly. “Let me guess. An old family with a proud name, but low on money, right?” She smirked. “I hope your people have enough to pay a good ransom for you. Do they?”

“They do,” Alosius said grimly.

“So let me see. You lot are moving captured slaves, aren’t you? What are they?”

“A clerk, a cook, and a gardener.”

“Huh. They could earn us a little coin. And the little fellow with you?”

“My father will pay for him as well.”

“How fortunate for him. He doesn’t look as prosperous. Do you know, I heard you mention three slaves, but you have four there. Have you miscounted?”

“One of those men is under arrest for moving slaves illegally,” Alosius’ companion said.

“Oho! But that’s what we’re planning to do. Does that mean you would arrest us?” She tapped her leather armored breast. “Go ahead, Alosius Magnus. Arrest us.”

“You have us surrounded,” Alosius said, adding, “but had I the means, I would.”

Her tone shifted to one of cutting anger. “I know you would. It’s good that I have some use for you that might make me money.”

“Once our ransoms are paid, I will hunt you down,” Alosius vowed.

Hanuvar kept from wincing.

But the bandit queen seemed to expect that level of arrogance. She laughed. “All right, Dervans. You’ll have new quarters for a few days. Until your people pay your ransoms. If they pay. For now . . . get used to wearing manacles. It’s always such a shame to see them on rich folk.”

Her people came forward with heavy chain-linked wrist cuffs they had found amongst the Dervan gear and forced Alosius and his assistant to their feet.

Hanuvar watched as those two were fully made prisoner, then, resignedly, stiffly, held out his own hands and felt the iron fastened about his wrists. He had long dreaded such a day; these were not Dervans marching him off for a show trial, and his fate was far from settled, but he was not remotely reassured.

After he was manacled, he and the two Dervans were linked by a long length of chain with those he assumed were Farnus and the other Volani. Hanuvar, at the far end of the line, could barely make them out, much less engage or even exchange looks with them in the poor light.

Shortly thereafter the bandits gathered the rest of their booty, including four horses and several heavy bags of goods and weapons. There were two dozen men in all, and five stood guard at all times. The troop was capable and seasoned, and Hanuvar was glad his own people had so far held off an attack. The right time would come. Carthalo would assess the situation and plot his move for the most opportune moment. For now, he himself would have to remain patient.



II


The two Dervans remained weak throughout the hour-long march over forested hills. By the time they arrived at the bandits’ camp, they were wobbling on their feet. The three Volani looked only a little better, their faces downturned and hopeless. The man at their head, though, was alert, taking in his surroundings like a professional. Hanuvar couldn’t see him as more than an outline but was certain this was Farnus. There seemed to be no good way to communicate discreetly with him in the dark, with so many others listening, and so Hanuvar stayed quiet.

Over the course of their overland march, the bandit queen twice called one of her companions by the name Fabian. He seemed to be her second-in-command, for he relayed her commands to the rest of the bandits and travelled up and down the line to check on their underlings.

They finally reached their destination as a sliver of moon sunk low beyond the looming trees. The bandits’ settlement was situated at the base of a limestone cliff beside a sandy beach and wide stream. A fire burned low along the bank, where the two sentries must have been warming themselves. They had risen to report to the woman leader. A denser forest loomed on the stream’s far side.

The captured horses were led to a rudimentary corral at the cliff base and the captured belongings were removed and cataloged. Fabian took charge of Hanuvar and the prisoners, ordering them to sit at a fire and warning them they’d best cooperate with the recording of their names and the information needed to ransom them. He looked a formidable opponent—large, well muscled, and keen eyed—a ruddy, freckled man in his middle thirties. He said something about being back in a moment, ordering a sentry to stand over them while another bandit passed out stale flat bread and waterskins. All the men tore into the bread, but the Dervans were especially thirsty, leaving the bandit presenting their food to joke that they acted more like fish than men.

Hanuvar finally got a better look at the Volani slaves. The young heavyset fellow with his head in his hands was almost surely Melquarn the chef. The other two looked just slightly less unhappy. Both were lean, somber men in their early thirties, and both stared blankly as they wolfed down bread scraps. The more weathered one was likely the gardener. Even imprisoned himself Hanuvar couldn’t help feeling badly for them, being thrust suddenly back into captivity only shortly after experiencing a few brief hours of freedom. It was no wonder they looked dejected. And Hanuvar wondered if the slavers hadn’t bothered to feed their prisoners the evening before.

Farnus sat on their far end, and as he returned Hanuvar’s scrutiny his eyes widened. It was small wonder. With a full day’s growth of beard, Hanuvar imagined he looked very much like he had during the war, when Farnus had last seen him.

The spy remained stocky and powerful, though his dark hair was dusted with gray. His square face was puffed with bruises. His eyes were dark and alert and searched Hanuvar’s face for some kind of confirmation that he really was who he seemed.

Carthalo hadn’t passed word to his contacts that Hanuvar still lived and that he looked younger than he should, which explained Farnus’ confusion. He was surely wondering if he imagined things, or if Hanuvar was some unknown Cabera relative.

Hanuvar shifted through the three signals denoting membership in Carthalo’s organization as he lifted his waterskin.

Hanuvar saw a return signal in acknowledgment. Professional that he was, Farnus hid any further reaction. That, unfortunately, was the extent of the communication they could exchange, for Fabian returned with a companion who looked more like someone’s secretary than a fugitive or bandit. The wiry older man proceeded to ask each of the Dervans, Hanuvar included, for their full names and where their relatives or sponsors might be found, recording everything on browned papyrus.

Hanuvar named Senator Aminius as his sponsor, which prompted curious stares from both Dervans.

When their questioning was finished, Hanuvar, Alosius, and his assistant were separated from Farnus and the Volani, handed some threadbare blankets, and herded into a low cave. They were told that guards were stationed and that they’d be beaten if they made any trouble. He wondered if there was much difference between these accommodations and those accorded non-noble prisoners. Perhaps the others didn’t receive blankets.

Hanuvar kept his hand lifted to feel the ceiling, so he would not strike his head. The jangle of the chains at his wrist was a constant reminder of his situation. The air of the cave was cool, and when he sat, he found the dirt floor cold. For all that, it wouldn’t be the worst environment he’d ever slept in. He might have used the picks in his sandal to try the lock, but at the moment he had other concerns.

The questions from the Dervans came as they divvied up the blankets. Each man took one to lie on and another to cover with. Hanuvar bequeathed the two extras for his companions to use as pillows.

“That’s kind of you,” Alosius said as he lay down close by. “How did you come to be in my camp?”

“I appreciate you not raising suspicion about me.” Hanuvar had invented a reasonable explanation during the long march. “I was travelling late at night, and my horse went lame. I saw your fire and decided to approach cautiously. I thought you might be bandits.”

“That’s funny,” the assistant said with a tired chuckle. He had introduced himself as Cassius to the bandits’ scribe.

“Not especially,” Alosius said sympathetically.

“Yes,” Hanuvar agreed. “I was just approaching the camp to learn whether you could be trusted when I came into contact with the bandits. I know your names, but I don’t know who you really are. Neither of you look like the typical slave catcher.”

“I take your meaning.” There in the dark cave, Alosius was little more than the suggestion of a shape with an exhausted voice. Cassius, on his other side, could not even be glimpsed. The young patrician’s tone was bitter. “That bandit woman isn’t too far off the mark. My grandfather wasn’t wise with his investments, and didn’t leave Father with much, but Father’s a clever man. He bought an interest in a slave-hunting outfit, and when he saw how badly managed it was, he took over himself.”

“I see,” Hanuvar said. His interest in the topic was already spent, but the younger man continued, a note of pride in his voice.

“While the playwrights have you thinking slave catchers are all heartless men hunting fragile girls mistreated by abusive masters, the reality’s very different. Our group doesn’t bother hunting any but the dangerous ones. Murderers, rapists, and mad men. One of my first cases was tracking down a barbarian who’d caved in his master’s son’s head with an axe and fled into the hills. He’d turn up every few days to kill some other villager at random. Women, children, freedmen, even other slaves. Sheep, too. He didn’t eat the sheep, mind you. He just liked to kill.”

“A mad dog,” Hanuvar suggested, though he did not add that a society that enslaved people might engender some anger, or even madness, amongst its victims.

“Yes,” Alosius agreed. “And there was a rough band that escaped from a mine. They had been sold into slavery because they were trouble. They were put to work, but they escaped. It took a while to track all of them down, and they cut a swath through the region. They liked to set things on fire.”

“So you’re protecting the empire,” Hanuvar suggested.

“Yes.” Honest passion could be heard in the young man’s weary words. “My father is trying to build a real organization instead of this scattershot thing we have now. So that different regions can communicate and track the escapees and do a better job keeping everyone safe. What good does it do if someone flees Turia for Utria and the locals don’t know they’re an escaped slave because the regions aren’t in contact?”

“Those men you were transporting don’t look so dangerous.”

“They’re Volani,” Cassius said, as if that explained everything.

Hanuvar replied as if the notion amused him. “Does that make them dangerous automatically? I thought you said they were domestics.”

“It’s the fourth fellow, Farnus,” Cassius explained. “He’s the one who’s behind the whole thing.”

“The whole thing?” Hanuvar asked. Now they were finally closing on the information he most desired.

But Alosius grunted discouragingly. “I don’t know that we should go into that.”

“Is this Farnus dangerous?” Hanuvar asked. “He looked as though your men had worked him over.”

“He’s lucky he’s still alive,” Cassius said. “Or, maybe in his case, unlucky.”

Alosius cut him off. “That’s enough, Cassius.” His tone softened as he returned his attention to Hanuvar. “I’m afraid you haven’t told us why you were riding through the dead of night.”

So the young man was feeling cautious, which said something about his presence of mind. Hanuvar would have to be careful pushing him for information. What he most needed to know was how many people were aware of the Volani slave liberation network.

“It’s best I not go into too much detail,” Hanuvar said, as if he were reluctant.

“Why not?” Cassius asked.

Hanuvar explained with the condescending patience of a Dervan patrician to a social inferior. “If the bandits get word of what I was doing they may well press for details, and no one else should be put at risk.”

Cassius wasn’t dissuaded. “You’re some kind of courier, aren’t you? What kind of messages were you carrying?”

Alosius snapped his response. “Mind your manners. Quintus is trying to shield us. Little good it will do. You must forgive him, Quintus. He is Volani.”

“Oh?” Hanuvar asked.

“Half Dervan,” Cassius asserted quickly. “My mother was a Volani slave before she was freed. But I’m not like the Volani. I’ve helped you out, haven’t I, Alosius?”

“You have,” Alosius said, “but you need to know when to keep quiet.” To Hanuvar he said: “We should sleep. Especially if we’re to be alert for opportunities tomorrow.”

“Do you think we’ll have opportunities?”

“We can hope that the gods will provide them.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Hanuvar agreed. “Let’s get some rest.”

Both wished him a good sleep, and Hanuvar laid back, trying to ignore the rough iron around his wrists. Though he was no great lockpick, he guessed that with steady effort he might free himself. He longed to give it a try. But he should take advantage of his circumstance to learn just how much the remaining Dervan slaver had discovered about Carthalo’s network, and who else he might have told. He could do that best if he had Alosius’ trust as a fellow hostage.

Much as he loathed the discomfort and vulnerability of confinement, he was in a far better state than others similarly held—he knew allies were nearby working to secure his release. Carthalo would have followed, assessed the camp, and observed the interview the bandits’ clerk had held with them at the campfire; he would have deduced Hanuvar was being held with the other nobles for ransom, a common practice with captured patricians. Seeing that Hanuvar was in no immediate danger and that his own forces were outnumbered, Carthalo would likely watch the camp’s routines and confirm their numbers by daylight so he could identify weaknesses and options.

Or he might be waiting for Hanuvar to slip away, knowing that given time even Hanuvar’s rudimentary pick skill could overcome simple locks. Maybe he was wondering why Hanuvar had not already escaped.

There was no way to communicate with Carthalo without drawing dangerous suspicion, nor any way to free Farnus and the three men without loss. There was nothing he could do to resolve the entire situation without more rest, and this night he welcomed it without the usual stretches beforehand. He took a few deep breaths and, once he closed his eyes, sleep came swiftly.

When Hanuvar woke to light at the cave mouth he saw from its quality the time was well past the early morning. Low voices muttered outside. Someone cursed about rust spots on a helmet, and water splashed, intermixed with the laughter of children. He supposed that a large camp was likely to have family groups.

Alosius lay on his side, still soundly asleep. Cassius had vanished.

Hanuvar slid from the blankets, brushed grit from his feet, and slipped into his sandals, his hand passing across the metal stud he could remove to access the picks. Not yet.

In a few moments he stepped to the cave edge. The guard posted outside heard the crunch of his footsteps and the jangle of his chains and was turned toward him by the time he drew close.

“If you need to piss, come outside the cave,” the bandit said with disinterest. “Your grub will be ready soon, and we’ll have you eat and wash up before. There are a couple of waterskins there on the left.”

Hanuvar saw that indeed there were. He wasn’t surprised. Their captors understood that they needed to keep their prisoners in fair shape if they were to get their money for them.

“That’s good to know,” Hanuvar said. “Where’s our companion?”

The pockmarked bandit eyed him without comment for a count of five, then said, “Mind your own business.”

Seeing no need to antagonize him, Hanuvar took up the waterskins, lingering at the entrance to slowly drink while he searched the stream front for a clue to Cassius’ whereabouts. He saw only a half dozen children of varying ages gamboling along the edge of the water near some women washing clothing.

He retreated to the rear of the cavern, where Alosius was sluggishly waking.

“Here you are.” Hanuvar handed over a waterskin. “Feeling better this morning?”

The young man sat up. His eyes looked small and tired and somehow his nose looked even larger than it had yesterday, as though it were a feature he hadn’t grown into. “Thank you.” His voice was raw and soft. “My stomach’s finally settled, if that’s what you mean.” He blearily took in his surroundings as he drank, then lowered the skin. “Where’s Cassius?”

“The guard won’t tell me.”

Alosius chewed on that, frowning, and took another drink.

“Do you think he’s telling the bandit queen what I told you last night?”

Alosius’ frown deepened. “He might be.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He needs money. But he’d be a fool if he thought the bandits would pay him.”

“Maybe he thinks his ransom won’t be paid.”

“I promised him my father would pay for his release, but . . . he’s worried about that.” He sighed. “I shouldn’t trust someone who betrays his own people.”

“What do you mean?”

“He turned the Volani over to me. He said it was out of duty, but he was clearly in it for the reward. I gather he has some debts.”

“I don’t understand. He said his mother was freed. So he wasn’t involved with these escaped slaves.”

“No.” Alosius hesitated a moment before deciding to explain. “Someone’s going around and buying up Volani slaves, and Cassius heard about it and alerted me.”

At last, Hanuvar had an opening to the conversation he most wanted to have. “Why would someone buy Volani?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t believe him, but when Cassius told me those slaves that couldn’t be bought were being stolen, and that he knew where some were going to be . . . ” He let the thought trail off. “Well, we found them, in a hidden room in that Farnus’ inn.”

Hanuvar’s composed expression hid his anxiety. How many people might Cassius have approached before coming to Alosius? And how many people had Alosius spoken with about the Volani liberation? And how had Cassius found out about Carthalo’s organization?

He turned his discomfort into a question. “Who would want the Volani?”

Alosius shook his head. “I don’t know yet. But I’m worried it’s something dangerous. That maybe someone’s trying to build up an army of angry Volani.”

“You said these men were no real threat.”

“Well, you can train men, can’t you? And the Volani always hated us. You think they’d know by now that we’re their betters.” The young man shook his head in exasperation, as though he pitied the Volani for not understanding their place. “If they’d just given up sooner, they wouldn’t have ended up slaves.”

“That’s a good point,” Hanuvar said. “I blame Hanuvar.”

“Well, he has a lot to answer for, but I tell you this, we’re lucky his people didn’t listen to him better, or they’d have given him a bigger army. Then we’d have been in even worse trouble.” There was no missing a note of admiration in the young man’s voice. “My father met him once.”

“Did he?”

“My father was in the Mighty Sixth. His patrol got captured by some of Hanuvar’s scouts. When they were surrounded, he figured they were done for, but Hanuvar himself showed them around the camp and even drank wine with them before setting them free.”

Hanuvar remembered the occasion and wondered which of the five men had been Alosius’ father. “Why would he do that?”

“Father thought it was because Hanuvar wanted to convey just how confident he was of victory. He had every right to be,” Alosius added. “He won that battle.” The young man hesitated a moment, then went on: “Father said he wasn’t at all like he expected. He even had a sense of humor.”

“It’s easy to be gracious when you have the upper hand,” Hanuvar suggested.

The younger man bristled, as though taking offense at the slight to Hanuvar’s honor. “It wasn’t like that.”

“My apologies,” Hanuvar said, disguising his own amusement. “Put aside Hanuvar. Cassius came to you and told you someone was moving a bunch of Volani slaves. And he said others were being moved?”

“He did. And I know what you’re going to say.”

“Do you?”

“He might have been lying just to get my interest. But he says Farnus is a Volani agent, working with some kind of Volani organization freeing the slaves. I didn’t believe him at first, but then we found the slaves. It has me wondering if Hanuvar is involved.”

Hanuvar chuckled. “You don’t honestly believe the rumors he’s still alive, do you?”

“You don’t?”

“I suppose anything’s possible,” Hanuvar admitted.

“Hey, you two!”

The guard was calling to them. He was backlit by sunlight less bright than Hanuvar would have supposed, as though it were already evening. “You want your grub, get out now. You can also wash up in the river. If you’re not assholes, I’ll even let you clean upstream.” He laughed at his own wit. “But hurry it up. I’m hungry myself.”

Jangling, they came to the cave entrance. Hanuvar was close to getting the confirmation he needed about the extent of the slave catcher’s knowledge; he just needed a little more time.

Outside the sunlight was muted. A wind buffeted the trees at regular intervals, and the earth itself felt tense, as if it cringed in expectation of a blow the sky might give.

Hanuvar noted the position of the bandits. Four kept constant watch. Others ate at two cookfires, or cleaned gear, or tended horses, or just took their ease. A trio of women worked further upstream, wringing out clothes, assisted by some of the older children. The younger ones had been herded away from the stream and the prisoners.

Probably Carthalo had intercepted the bandits’ clerk and his escort when they were sent forth this morning with information about their prisoners, in which case Carthalo possessed a better idea of the bandits and their capabilities and their defensive positions even than Hanuvar.

Hanuvar and Alosius were pointed to the stream. Guards with spears stood on either side of the water, disinterested but alert. Farnus and the Volani were washing in the waist-deep water. They’d been permitted to remove their manacles, which were piled on one side of the shore. The four men scrubbed with lumps of soap placed on a flat black rock in the stream’s midst.

“Don’t cause any trouble, if you know what’s good for you,” Fabian instructed them. In the light of day his ruddy skin made his northerly Ermani heritage even more obvious. “Those that fight don’t get fed.” And, watching them carefully, Fabian removed their manacles. Hanuvar couldn’t help but rub his wrists as the hateful things were pulled away. He also couldn’t help thinking of the three nearby Volani slaves and how many times they’d had to don chains.

The big freckled bandit eyed him suspiciously. He turned away.

Farnus and the others had stripped bare and were working up a lather with the soap. The one he’d identified as the cook still moved despondently. The other two looked tired, but more alert, and they returned Hanuvar’s scrutiny. Good. They weren’t completely cowed yet. He needed all them ready to move when the time came.

Farnus’ face was puffy and purple but his eyes were sharp. Of Cassius Hanuvar saw no sign.

When he disrobed it was strange still to see his body without the prominent scars to which he was used. Almost all had faded to nothing, even the line from that near fatal attack the previous winter. He advanced into the stream, lagging behind Alosius, and was soon waist deep. The water was cold.

The Dervan pointedly kept his distance from Farnus. Hanuvar asked the younger man if he wanted him to get soap.

“That would be kind of you.”

Hanuvar pushed through the water, his toes spreading against the cool mud.

He stopped just short of the rock where the soap lay.

Farnus stood beside it, scrubbing his hair. He spoke scathingly. “It did me good to see a Dervan in chains.”

“I’m just here for the soap,” Hanuvar said. “It’s an important key to health. That and good footgear.”

Farnus grunted. “Don’t worry about my sandals or my health, Dervan.” He watched as Hanuvar lifted the soap, finger and thumb in his hair briefly shaping the affirmative signal.

“Get as clean as you want,” Hanuvar said. “You’ll still end up crucified. Even if you had a whole band of allies out there, they wouldn’t bother trying to free you. You Volani are wily, but you’re all cowards in the end.”

Farnus absorbed that with a sour look then replied with a sneer. “Rut a goat, Dervan.” He glanced at the watching guards, flashed another affirmative signal, and turned away.

Pleased with the communication, Hanuvar took the soap and returned to Alosius, lathering his chest as he went.

Alosius thanked him, then lamented the inability to shave. He thought nothing of Hanuvar’s growth of beard. But then no one in this particular camp but Farnus would recognize Hanuvar from his campaigning years.

After they’d finished washing, they had no choice but to pull on their sweat-soaked garments and submit once more to the manacles. They were served a fish broth heavy with vegetables that proved better fare than he’d expected. He was nearly done with the bowl when Fabian returned to stand over him. “Captain Olisia wants to see you.”

Hanuvar hadn’t yet heard the woman’s name, but there was no point in pretending he didn’t understand. He set the bowl aside. “I’ll not keep her waiting.”

Fabian led. The other guard followed, spear at the ready, though he wasn’t pointing it at Hanuvar’s back.

Olisia’s cave lay off to one side, up a steep slope. Someone had piled some rocks along it as rudimentary steps. Why the cave was worth the extra trouble to reach became obvious when they arrived. Its ceiling stretched high overhead so that even a man as tall as Fabian didn’t have to duck.

A mishmash of clashing red and green rugs were strewn over the cave floor, spread out before a pair of couches thirty paces back from the entrance. Twin lanterns burned on two small tables beside the one facing him.

He’d halfway expected Cassius to be on hand bearing witness, but Hanuvar saw only a single seated figure. Olisia. Fabian advanced to wait at her right hand and crossed his arms over his broad chest, like a gladiator ready for review. “Stand right there,” he said, pointing to a space in front of his captain’s couch.

He did as ordered.

Olisia’s arms were far more toned and muscular than the Dervan ideal, and her jaw was long and sturdy. She’d removed her armor, but still wore a man’s short-sleeved tunic rather than a stola, and military boots. Her eyes were flat and black.

She didn’t bother with preliminaries or pretend to play the part of a host. “I’ve been told you weren’t originally a part of the Dervan camp.”

“News travels fast.”

“It leaks faster. So you’re some kind of night courier. Working for whom?”

To sound realistic, he would have to sound reluctant. So he did. “I’m a messenger for a faction of senators.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me that?” She shook her head as though he had disappointed her. “You do know your chances of survival rise the more valuable you are to me, don’t you? And I assume your news is valuable, or you wouldn’t be travelling at night.”

“I’m routinely after valuable information. The people I work for know it and will pay for my release.”

“You sound quite certain of yourself.”

“Many men can be messengers.” Hanuvar raised an open palm, and perforce had to raise his other hand along with it. His manacles rattled. “Only a few can be good information brokers. I’m certain you understand the value of the right kind of news.”

“I do. Are you going to share your news?”

“I will if I must. It probably won’t be of interest to you, though. You’ll get the value out of me regardless, because my employers know my worth.”

It wasn’t that her expression warmed, but he saw in their depths she was reassessing him. Before she could come to a new determination or refocus upon obtaining a story he had fabricated about his imaginary message, he spoke again. “I wonder if we might have some other use for one another.”

Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that in your line you’re sure to come into contact with information sometimes. I could pay you for it.”

A bark of laughter escaped her lips. “Now? The money you carried is already mine.”

“I mean in the future, once this particular arrangement is concluded.”

She sat back against the couch.

Fabian spoke softly to her, his eyes on Hanuvar. “He’s trying to angle for release.”

She thought that over, then answered without taking her own gaze from Hanuvar. “No, I don’t think so. He’s not afraid.” She addressed Hanuvar. “Maybe you should be.”

“So far you’ve treated me fairly. Better than I might have expected,” Hanuvar added. “I think I’ve no reason to fear so long as I cooperate, which I will, and so long as my people come through for me, which they will. So. I see the potential for a more profitable future with you.”

She pulled at a thread on the couch. “Shouldn’t you be boasting how you’ll find your way back to this camp and hunt me down? You’re not insulting my men, or the fact that a woman leads them.”

“That’s not my job. And if I were stupid enough to try to hunt you down in a few weeks, when this is all over, you’d have moved on to some other place. This is clearly a temporary camp.”

She absorbed this without reaction, although he felt the intense scrutiny of Fabian, who seemed troubled that Hanuvar had reasoned so far.

“Where do you think I’ll go?” she asked.

“Another region entirely. Probably you only swing through here a few times each year. You lucked into what happened last night because you were just out on patrol. Like a good warrior, you pounced when you saw that the camp was poorly defended by a band of slave catchers with stomach maladies.”

The lantern light seemed to brighten as the daylight behind him grayed. Thunder rolled.

“You have to be ready to seize opportunities when you’re presented with them,” Olisia said. “I do sometimes hear things, although I’m not sure how interesting it would be to soft people like you.”

“I’m not soft.”

“Your hands are.”

“I’ve recently recovered from a long illness.”

“That explains your manner. You talk like a man who’s been around.”

“I’m older than I look.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her expression closed. Then she turned to the man beside her. “Fabian, undo his bonds.”

Fabian started but did not object. “Hold out your hands,” he ordered, and untied the key at his belt.

The bandits had politely permitted their prisoners to bathe without manacles, so they could remove their clothes to do so. He had hoped, but not been certain, Olisia would exchange the same small courtesy if they were talking business. Outside rain began to patter on leaves.

In a moment the big man had undone the manacles. He dropped them on the faded red rug just a foot to Hanuvar’s left. His eyes held a warning look.

“That was kind.” Hanuvar brushed rust and sand from his wrists.

“This is just temporary,” Olisia told him. “And only because you didn’t look like you expected it.”

“I appreciate the courtesy.”

“Sit. Tell me about how this would work. If we were to meet up later to trade information, how would I know you weren’t laying a trap for me?”

Hanuvar sat on the edge of the couch across from her. “I wouldn’t lay a trap for someone in my network. You supply me with useful news on people’s movements and doings, and I pay you good money. There’s no mystery.”

“So what are you wanting? Dirt on political opponents? Rumors about movements in the criminal underworld? Are you after contacts for services your men don’t want to do?”

“All of those. I handle a few of those kinds of contacts myself.”

“Do you?”

He shrugged. Sooner or later he’d have to provide her with more details. He had no idea if someone in her position could really be useful to him later on but it wouldn’t hurt to test the waters. Outside the rainstorm increased its assault. He heard the wind’s whistle. If he were Carthalo, he’d be putting aside any plans for a night assault and taking advantage of the conditions for a rescue right now. Easier to see during the rainstorm than at night, and discern where opponents hid. Farnus would also be preparing to escape. Events could easily twist any plans he made out of his control.

Olisia turned to the low table at her side. Her hand closed on the handle of a beautiful blue amphora with a single chip along its mouth. She filled a cup, handed it to Fabian, and pointed to Hanuvar. She then poured a draught for herself.

Hanuvar took the cup with a nod of thanks to the lieutenant, who frowned at playing the part of a servant.

“You can go, Fabian,” Olisia said.

“You trust him?”

“You think I can’t handle him?” she asked. “Besides, he’s serious about all this.”

Fabian frowned at Hanuvar then departed for the cave mouth. Hanuvar heard a second pair of footsteps retreating with him. Both guards were going to be out of close range.

Olisia drank without preamble.

Hanuvar raised his own goblet toward her and took a minute sip. Not top shelf. Probably Mervisian wine, with a faint back note of clove.

“Quintus, speak true. What service would someone need to provide to someone such as yourself if they wanted to rise above their past?”

For the first time her eyes shone with an inner light. This topic was her dream. The woman wasn’t just a clever manager of this group of bandits, she had ambitions, and was aware that the limitations of her current venture would be reached sooner or later, probably bloodily.

“I find with enough money one can rise above nearly anything,” he said. “You strike me as a careful planner.”

The air crackled with thunder.

“I’m talking about rising into respectability.”

“So am I. Wander into some small seaside town with a chest of coins and buy yourself a wine shop or inn to keep money rolling in. Hire someone else to manage it. Live off your gains and continue to buy other businesses with a public front. In a few years you’ll be a respected member of the community.”

“You think it’s that simple? For a woman?”

“It’s hardly simple. But it’s possible, especially beyond Derva itself.”

“I’ve been thinking about such things.” She sounded unguarded, almost exposed. Likely she seldom spoke so openly about her dreams to any of her followers.

“I’ve seen far less clever people than you accomplish such changes,” he said honestly.

“You didn’t begin life as a patrician, did you?”

He laughed. “You couldn’t have been further from one than I was.”

“Is that how you did it? With money?”

“I haven’t done it yet. I’m still pretending. If I’d succeeded in my aims, I wouldn’t be riding through the dead of night on a chancy mission. I’ve a lot of work to do before I can rest in a villa by the sea. I’m not likely to make it. I think you might manage blending in better than me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Who would suspect a woman merchant of once having been a bandit queen? Whereas a man who accumulates secrets accumulates enemies.”

“I’ve my share of those,” she mused. “Bandit queen,” she repeated. “No one’s ever called me that.”

“No? It suits you.”

Her smile was slight, but it touched her eyes. She looked as though she had another question in mind, one that obviously came with concern, for her brow furrowed, and she hesitated in its asking.

Fabian ran up, shouting about an attack. He repeated the information several times as he neared before it actually registered with Olisia.

“What?” She stood. “The legion?”

“I don’t know—but men are attacking!”

“Well, form up our boys!” Her gaze shifted to Hanuvar. In a moment she’d tell him to get the manacles back on. Already her eyes had hardened.

Fabian turned and hurried toward the exit even as she whipped out her knife. “Get the manacles back on.”

Hanuvar climbed down from the couch, frowning that his time was up, then swiftly dropped to one hand and used it as a pivot point to kick her legs out from under her. She fell into the table with a shout, sending the beautiful amphora off its side. It smashed to pieces and splattered wine. Hanuvar pounced on her knife.

Fabian charged back, slowed only briefly by the manacles Hanuvar slung at his thigh. When the taller man stabbed with his gladius, Hanuvar turned the blow with an expert knife parry. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Olisia rise and lift her hand with a throwing knife clasped. He backstepped, gauging his time, then shifted to Fabian’s right. The big man turned with him, and Olisia’s weapon struck the back of his neck.

Fabian stumbled, clutching for his throat while she gasped in dismay; Hanuvar whipped his knife at Olisia and snatched up Fabian’s sword.

She flung herself aside, tripping against the couch and sprawling.

He didn’t wait to see how she recovered but sprinted for the exit.

The rain sliced out of the sky at a slant, only a little hindered by the leaves. Hanuvar dropped out of the cave. He paused briefly to take in the shouts from his right and splashing footfalls from his left. As he headed downslope a trio of bandits rushed from the wet. Two carried swords and a third held an axe, snarling at Hanuvar: “Take him!”

Hanuvar had faced better odds. And he was all too conscious Olisia might slip in behind.

He slashed the blade in front of him to warn them off.

At the same moment a figure rushed the three from behind. The axe bearer half turned and received a blow on his chin from a wrist-wrapped manacle. He shrieked, shattering the confidence of the other two. Hanuvar struck the sword aside from one and both turned tail and dashed into the rain.

Alosius had leapt back from the man he struck; Hanuvar drove his blade through the injured man’s chest. As the bandit dropped, clawing at the mortal wound, Alosius scooped up his sword.

“Thank you,” Hanuvar said. “That was well timed. Come on.” Hanuvar hurried away, Alosius at his side.

Alosius asked him what was happening and how he’d gotten his manacles off, but Hanuvar was too busy evaluating the environment to answer. The bandits fled in every direction. There must have been a separate exit from Olisia’s cave, for she was out ahead of them and shouting for her boys to rally. No one heeded her.

A huddle of men was heading across stream, Farnus at their head. From somewhere on the south side of camp the rattle of swords could be heard even above the roar of rain, as well as the sound of Carthalo calling for him. “Quintus!”

“You have friends out there?” Alosius asked.

“Yes.” Hanuvar spotted a slim man in a green tunic splashing into the water. Cassius. “I want him.” Hanuvar followed the traitor, Alosius at his heels.

Cassius looked back when he was halfway across the stream. There was no missing the wide whites of his eyes in his rain-slick face. He froze for a moment, and Hanuvar bounded for him, splashing up a white sheet of water when he landed calf deep.

The traitor had just reached the far shore when Hanuvar snagged his tunic. Cassius lost his balance and splashed into the shallows.

“Don’t hurt me,” he cried.

Carthalo, meanwhile, still called for Quintus.

“By the stream,” Hanuvar shouted back, then dragged his sodden prisoner to the shore and flung him down near the roots of an elm.

Cassius repeated his protest, his narrow face twisted in fear. “Don’t hurt me! I’m on your side!”

“Which side is that?” There was more ire in his voice than Hanuvar meant to share. “You turned your own people over to the enemy. And you shared my secrets with the bandits. How could anyone trust you?”

The young man’s face was a tragic mask of self-pity. “You don’t know what it’s like! I had nothing, in a land where no one trusts me!”

Alosius had advanced to Hanuvar’s side and waited, dripping. The rain had slackened to a drizzle. “Why should they?” he asked.

Cassius’ eyes found Hanuvar’s. “I’m valuable. I know more than I told Alosius.”

“Do you?” Hanuvar asked. “Who did you learn the information from?”

“Farnus. He took me into his confidence. He’s not just a Volani spy. He’s been one of Hanuvar’s agents for years. And the Volani have big plans!”

“Quintus,” Alosius shouted, “on your left!”

Olisia must have crossed downstream. Her face was twisted into an ugly sneer, and she came at them with five spear-bearing bandits. Her cheek bled from a long gash. “Kill them!”

Hanuvar crouched and swept up some sand. He’d thought her a better businesswoman than this. But then she’d been showing her vulnerable side to him, so his betrayal might have been a deep strike.

Cassius crawled off to the right. Alosius stepped to Hanuvar’s side, weapon ready in his manacled hands.

The bandits approached from the front and right.

Hanuvar slipped out of the way of an eager but overextended spear thrust and stepped in with a deep slash. He leaned away from a second man’s lunge to his throat, then stabbed the thigh of one of those moving on Alosius and sent the screaming bandit down in a spray of blood.

“Stand aside,” Olisia roared, and rushed him with a bared sword.

The others gave space as she swung with measured strength, right and left. Hanuvar backed off, conscious of the tree roots to his rear. He feinted and as she leaned, he went right.

But her eyes followed, and a desperate jab drove her sword into his forearm below the elbow.

She let out a cry of triumph, but he ignored the stinging pain and switched the weapon to his left. He was merely competent with his off hand, but like many facing a left-handed opponent she wasn’t fully sure how to defend. She stretched too far to parry and exposed her belly.

He didn’t want to take the strike, but he followed through. Blood welled from her mouth almost the same moment he pulled his blade free.

Her eyes were more alive than they’d ever been as she sank to her knees near the tree roots, and they told a story of shattered dreams and astonishment. Her sword slipped from nerveless fingers, and she put hands to the bloody rent in her garment, as if she couldn’t quite believe death had come for her. After only a moment she lay as still as her bandit companion.

Her surviving comrades had fled before Antires and Carthalo, who formed a half circle around the battle site, next to Farnus. The three Volani were still manacled, but the young chef held a spear.

Alosius’ face wrinkled in confusion when Farnus and Carthalo exchanged a hearty hand clasp.

“What’s going on?” Alosius demanded warily. He seemed to realize, suddenly, that maybe Hanuvar wasn’t who he seemed, and turned to him with blade half lifted.

It was then Cassius rose behind him.

“Alosius, look out,” Hanuvar called.

The young Dervan whirled, but he wasn’t fast enough to ward Cassius’ knife thrust. The young man followed it with a second jab to the Dervan’s chest. At the same time Alosius buried his blade in the younger man’s chest, then hung onto the hilt to keep from dropping. Cassius’ eyes widened in pain and shock and he looked at Farnus. His mouth moved, but no sound came forth.

Blood sprayed widely as a staggering Alosius ripped out his blade. Cassius pitched forward, his dying breath wheezing in his throat. The Dervan cast the blade aside and dropped to his knees. Olisia lay only a body length away, looking strangely young, for her expression was open forever now.

Hanuvar hadn’t wanted to kill her. And he hadn’t particularly wanted the traitor or the slave catcher dead. But then he hadn’t wanted any of this.

Noting Hanuvar’s bloody arm, Antires asked how badly hurt he was. Hanuvar raised his good hand to them in a sign to stay clear and knelt beside the failing Dervan.

The young man’s expression was grave, and paling. His eyes were sharp. “You’re with the Volani,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“I am,” Hanuvar said with a nod of respect. “You’re a brave man. And you may have saved my life today. I will see that your ashes[15] are delivered to your father, and that he knows you died honorably.”

Alosius lowered his head once in thanks. He gasped, swaying on his knees, and looked at the tree roots, though he was surely looking past them toward his final end. Somehow he managed to find the strength to look up. “Who are you?”

“A man trying to save his people. I’m on no campaign of revenge. I just want to see them freed. If Cassius hadn’t been a traitor, no one would have had to die here.”

Alosius was fading fast, but he fought fiercely to stay kneeling. He weakly nodded his understanding.

“Did you tell anyone else about us?” Hanuvar asked.

He wondered if he would hear a curse, but Alosius was honest to the end. “No one who wasn’t with us.” His voice was losing strength. “That’s all you really want to do, to free them?”

“I mean to take them to a new home.”

His look was searing. “Are you Hanuvar?”

He nodded once. “I am.”

“I thought you’d be older.” Alosius slowly put out one bloody hand, though it nearly sent him sprawling.

Surprised, Hanuvar clasped it, and the young man steadied himself against him.

“I wish you luck, Hanuvar. I wish my father could know . . . I fought at your side.” He smiled mirthlessly.

He died shortly after Hanuvar eased him to the ground. And despite his own injury, Hanuvar knelt beside him for a long moment.

He rose, his hand still red with the other man’s blood.

Antires, as usual, had something to say. “We thought you’d know we’d attack once the rainstorm started,” he said.

“It was the smart play.” He looked down at his stinging gash. Owing to his rapid aging, the blood had already stopped flowing. “I need to get this cleaned.”

While Carthalo dug into his pack for supplies, Farnus came forward and saluted, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe it’s really you,” he said. “You barely look older at all.”

“It’s a long story. Did you make the men sick at the original camp?”

Farnus smirked and traded an amused glance with the chef. “They had Melquarn cook, and he managed to slip something into their broth that made them a bit uncomfortable.” He chuckled. “Maybe too uncomfortable, because they weren’t going to sleep. I was waiting for the guard nearest us to start snoring. Another quarter hour and we’d have been able to run for it. We needed better timing. But then this whole thing was bad timing. And bad judgment,” he added. “I shouldn’t have tried to recruit Cassius. I’d known his mother, and I thought he had the same character.”

Farnus had taken a risk, and it had almost gone terribly wrong. That’s what happened in war, even if it was a covert one. “The important thing is that we all got out of this alive, and the Dervans still don’t know about our organization.”

“It was a close thing,” Farnus said, “and I’m grateful for your help.”

Hanuvar nodded, then gave his attention to Carthalo’s lieutenant Brutus, arriving to report that the area was secure and that the bandits were on the run, though he was concerned they’d return before long.

Hanuvar had no wish to remain. They paused only to treat his wound, recover their gear, and retrieve a small cache of coins in Olisia’s cave. They wrapped Alosius in one of her rugs and bore the body with them.

Antires fell in at Hanuvar’s side as they headed off.

“What would you have done, if the young Dervan hadn’t been dying?”

He met his friend’s gaze unflinchingly. “I hadn’t worked that out.”

“He was a slave catcher.” Antires’ mouth twisted upon the word.

“Yes.” Hanuvar rubbed the edge of the white linen wrapping his lower arm. The wound throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He wondered if he’d take a fever from it, or if his accelerated healing would skip past the discomfort. To Antires’ questioning look he said: “Alosius didn’t choose to grow up in a society inured to slavery. But Cassius chose to betray us. He gave the bandits my false cover story, and before that, he turned over his own people. And at the end he tried to curry favor by murdering Alosius. I can tell you which one I trusted at my back.”

***

With those men recovered, we started north once more, but were only a few days along before one of Carthalo’s couriers caught up to us. Rokana, the sorceress who’d aided Hanuvar in the final stages of the Second Volani War, had been found, and was ready to assist, if she could.

It is true that while I respected Carthalo, I never fully warmed to him, for he was so layered an individual it was generally impossible for me to tell which was his real personality. But that day I glimpsed his true face and could tell that he was torn. He wished to ride south with Hanuvar and care for his security and learn his fate. Hanuvar ordered him north instead, saying that Carthalo had more important things to concern himself with, for there were many others still to save, and Carthalo’s being there or not would have no bearing on what was to happen with Hanuvar’s health.

Carthalo then met my eyes and addressed me shortly. “Take care of him, Herrene.” He didn’t actually pledge to kill me if I failed; his eyes conveyed his meaning well enough.

I promised I would, and then Hanuvar and I turned south once more, and on for the wildlands just north of Turia, after three days arriving at a lonely hut beyond the remotest of old farming towns.

—Sosilos, Book Twelve


Footnotes


15) In Hanuvar’s time, especially in warmer months, when men and women died far from home the people of Tyvol often cremated their dead and carried their ashes in grave urns rather than transporting corpses.

Andronikos Sosilos


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