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Jason found that his knees really didn't want to support him; he sat down
heavily. "My apologies, everyone. Tennetty was devoted to my father, and she
misses him. And my particular apologies to you, Baron Derahan. While it was
your father who issued the challenge, my father should have given him a chance
to reconsider."
Derahan didn't look mollified.
*Why should he? You've now implied that his father was a fool for challenging
yours. He was, mind, but that doesn't make it politic to say so. Now sit back
and let Thomen change the subject.*
"In any case," Thomen was already saying, "this does suggest that the Heir
ought to travel to Home, in the company of Ellegon and perhaps a few others.
Clearly, it would be wrong for the Engineer to give out the secret of
gunpowder to the elves, no matter what the pay to Home. With the Emperor dead
. . ."
" . . . I'm the best ambassador you've got," Jason said.
*Smile, and repeat after me . . .*
Jason smiled.
*"Unless you think there's another who outranks me?"*
"Unless you think there's another who outranks me?"
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"I've got an idea." Bren Adahan chuckled. "Whoever thinks they outrank Jason
gets to tell Tennetty."
"You've made a good point." Nerahan pursed his lips judiciously. "Gunpowder is
the advantage that
Home and the Empire share; it's valuable to both, but only as long as it is
secret. Perhaps the Heir can persuade Lou Riccetti of that."
"Yes, yes, yes," Baron Hivael put in. "But why this other trip? This one to
Endell?"
Jason opened his mouth to answer, Because Walter Slovotsky told me to.
But, actually, that wasn't true. Walter had told them to have Ellegon bring
Kirah and the children to
Holtun-Bieme as soon as possible. He hadn't said that Jason ought to go along.
But it was Jason's job to do it; it wasn't something he felt right about
assigning to somebody else. Part of it would be to tell Kirah and Slovotsky's
daughters that their father and Ahira were still missing. He just couldn't
delegate that.
"Because I promised I would," he said. That was truthful, even if it wasn't
the whole truth. He'd promised himself another trip away, before he settled
down as prince of Bieme and emperor of Holtun-
Bieme.
Jason rose. At the near end of the room stood the slightly raised podium,
where the richly carved throne of the prince of Bieme stood. Next to the
throne was a locked strongbox. Taking a large brass key from his belt, he
knelt and unlocked the box, pulling from it a simple circlet of silver, the
beauty of the mirror-
polished metal more enhanced than overshadowed by the rubies, diamonds and
emeralds that studded it.
"Warriors swear on swords. I've sworn on this," he said, adding privately, as
of now, "that I'll take this trip, before I even consider assuming the crown
and my full responsibilities. Who here would make me a liar?"
Surprisingly, at least to Jason, the murmurs ceased. Thomen gave him an
admiring nod.
As the meeting tapered off, Jason turned to Thomen. Relay, please: Well, how'd
I do?
Thomen frowned.
*He says, "Pretty poorly, actually. The admiring nod was for my audience, not
for you. But perhaps you didn't do too badly, for a beginner."*
Jason put the crown away in its cloth bag, and then looked out in the
courtyard.
And I suppose I'm going to be graced with your opinion, whether I want it or
not.
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*Good guess.* Below, the dragon was settling in for the night, neck stretched
out so he could rest his chin on the ground, his legs tucked catlike
underneath his body. *Me? I think Thomen was half right.
The first half.*
Well, at least it was settled that Jason was going. Now, all there was to do
was decide on a team. Best to talk that over with Tennetty; her judgment about
these sorts of things was better than his. Even if she was ticked at him.
INTERLUDE
Laheran and the Dead Men
Be not angry that you cannot make others as you wish them to be, since you
cannot make yourself as you wish to be.
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Thomas à Kempis
The wind came across the Cirric, blowing across the guildhall and the kennels,
which, oddly enough, didn't smell of anything. That was strange; slave kennels
always smelled of shit and piss and fear, and sometimes death.
There were a dozen people standing on the hot stones of the courtyard of the
Erifeyll guildhall, and most of them smelled of fear.
Fear wasn't the only thing that the two ragged men and the girl stank of;
there were no baths to be had in
Erif's dungeon. The fools didn't know how to handle merchandise. There was no
way for them to run, and nowhere to run if they did.
Not only were all three chained at the wrists, throat and ankles, but a half
dozen of Lord Erif's armsmen stood by, armed cap à pied.
Erifeyll, just two days away from glorious Pandathaway.
"The entry was through the rear," a guard said. "Somebody pulled the bars
right out of the wall," he added. "But at least they didn't get away."
Laheran ignored him. The idiot seemed to think that because some of the slaves
were recaptured, this wasn't a horrible defeat. The details didn't matter.
This was Erifeyll. Did that mean that Pandathaway
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%20rare).txt was next? Probably not. That was too obvious. So, probably
Pandathaway was next, because they'd think that the guild would think not. So
probably not, so probably, so
Laheran sighed. One thing he had learned as an apprentice was that when you
didn't know how to solve a whole problem, it made sense to solve what you
could while you were thinking. He turned to the slaves.
The girl whimpered and squirmed as Laheran examined her collar. Not guild
work. There was a reason that most guild collars were dipped in gold, despite
the cost. Gold didn't rust.
The iron of these collars was rusty, and like sandpaper. The rust had worn her
neck raw underneath; at
Laheran's nod, two of his men gripped her with practiced hands so that he
could inspect her more closely. His probing finger came away with blood and a
greenish pus.
"Idiots," he said. And: "Key."
The guard sergeant thought about protesting for a moment, then shrugged and
pulled a key out of his pouch. Laheran quickly unlocked the collar and dropped
it to the dirt.
The wound was festering badly.
Amateurs. As though the only way to treat slaves was with beatings and chains.
The girl was twelve, perhaps thirteen. Her round eyes and sharp chin
proclaimed her of Shattered Islander stock, clearly, possibly Klimosian or
Bursosi. She could be almost presentable, quite attractive in a year or two,
and might well respond better to kindness than the whip if she wasn't to be
brutalized into scarred ugliness and sullen tractability.
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