MEN SHOUTED.
Erik motioned the third element of the infantry forward and they marched out into the killing zone. The heavy ram had breached the door, and the first and second waves had swarmed the gates and were now inside the barricade. Resistance had been heavier this time, but as with the first two barricades they had encountered, the defense was more for show than for real resistance.
The messages from Subai had Erik and Greylock worried, for his picture of the defenses ahead had Erik concerned that they simply were not equal to the task of breaking through in time to rescue Yabon. The summer was nearly half over, with the Festival of Banapis only a week away. If there were heavy fall rains, or an early winter snow, they could lose Yabon Province for good. And if they lost Yabon this year, it was possible they would lose Krondor again the next.
If not sooner.
Erik could not escape the feeling that Krondor lay naked and ready for the taking if Kesh should simply realize that fact. He hoped the negotiations at Stardock were proceeding well.
He pushed aside his worry and looked at Owen. The Knight-Marshal of Krondor nodded, and Erik spurred his own horse forward. For whatever reasons, Owen had ordered Erik to remain behind at the headquarters tent, rather than lead the first assault as was Erik’s desire.
The fighting was fierce for an hour, then suddenly the defense collapsed. Erik moved his horse through the gate and realized that, once again, they were facing an enemy that lacked the resources for a sustained defense.
Erik rode around, and saw that everything was now under control. As before, he dispatched light cavalry to ride up the road, seeking those fleeing northward, preventing any from reaching their own lines.
Greylock appeared at the gate of the barricade, and Erik rode toward him. “This is pointless,” he said. “If what Subai says is true, we should have sat outside the wall and starved them out.”
Owen shrugged. “The Prince’s orders didn’t give us leave to tarry.” He looked about the scene unfolding around them, and said, “Though if you put a dagger to my throat, I’d be forced to agree with you.” He stood up in his stirrups. “My backside longs for a comfortable chair by the fire at the Inn of the Pintail, a jack of ale in my hand, and your mother’s stew in front of me.”
Erik grinned. “I’ll mention that to Mother when next I see her. She’ll be flattered.”
Owen returned the smile, then seemed to leap out of his saddle, backward, spinning over the rear of his horse and landing hard on his back. His horse sprang forward.
Erik looked in all directions, and all he could see were mercenaries throwing down their swords, putting their hands in the air, and being herded to rear positions. A few signs of struggle could still be seen, and there was sporadic combat in the distance, but whoever shot the crossbow bolt that had felled Greylock was nowhere to be seen.
“Damn!” Erik leaped from his horse, and raced to where Greylock lay. Before Erik’s knee touched the ground next to his old friend, he knew the dreadful truth. A crossbow bolt protruded from above the breastplate Owen wore, and it had smashed the upper portion of his chest and lower throat to pulp. Blood flowed everywhere and Owen’s eyes stared lifelessly at the sky above.
Erik felt a cold stab of anger and hopelessness. He felt like screaming, but resisted the impulse. Owen had always been a friend, even before Erik had become a soldier, and they had shared a love for horses, an appreciation of the great wines from the Darkmoor region, and the fruits of honest labor. Looking down at the lifeless form of his old friend, Erik’s mind was awash with images, laughter over jokes, losses endured together, and the approval of an old teacher who was generous in his praise and frugal in his criticism.
Erik turned and his eyes sought out Owen’s killer. A short distance away, he spied two Kingdom soldiers arguing. One held a crossbow and the other pointed in his direction. Erik leaped to his feet and ran to face them. “What happened?”
Both men looked as if the Killer God Guis-wa had appeared before them. One of them looked as if he was ready to vomit. Perspiration appeared on his brow as he said, “Captain … I was …”
“What?” demanded Erik.
The man appeared close to tears as he said, “I was about to shoot when the order to hold was called out. I put the crossbow over my shoulder, and it went off.”
“It’s true!” said the other man. “He fired it backward. It was an accident.”
Erik closed his eyes. He felt a shaking in his body start at his feet and run up his legs to his groin and up through his chest. Of all the jokes he had endured in his short life, this was the most cruel. Owen had died at the hands of one of his own men, by accident, because the man had been lazy and sloppy.
With a hard swallow, Erik forced back his frustration and rage. He knew there were other officers in the army who would hang this man for not unloading his crossbow and costing the Kingdom the life of their commander in the West. He looked at the two men involved in the accidental shooting, and said, “Go away.”
They didn’t hesitate, but ran as if wishing to be as far away from the giant young Captain as possible when his rage finally erupted. Erik stood motionless a moment, then turned back to see soldiers gathered around the body of Owen Greylock, Knight-Marshal of Krondor. Erik calmly moved through them, gently but firmly pushing them aside until he was once again beside his old friend.
He knelt next to Owen and scooped him up in his arms, as if carrying a child, and turned toward the gates. The battle was not quite over, but the situation was well in hand, and Erik felt a need, a duty, to carry his old friend back to his command pavilion; he would not trust the task to another. Slowly, he walked back down the road, holding his dear friend.
The officers had assembled and the silence was awkward. Erik stood beside Owen’s empty chair of command. He glanced around the room. There were a dozen captains senior to him, but none holding the unique position of Captain of the Prince’s Crimson Eagles. The nobility in the tent was also senior to him, but none of them were part of Patrick’s command structure.
Erik self-consciously cleared his throat, then said, “My lords, we are faced with a dilemma. The Knight-Marshal has fallen and we are in need of a commander. Until Prince Patrick appoints one, we need to be united in our duty.” He looked around the tent. Many eyes regarded him suspiciously. “If Captain Subai were here, I would easily accept him as leader, given his years of service to the Principality. Or if Captain Calis, my predecessor, were here, he also would easily ascend to the office of commander. But we have a situation both dangerous and awkward.”
Erik looked at one old soldier, the Earl of Makurlic, and said, “My Lord Richard.”
“Captain?”
“Of those here you are senior in service and age. I would be honored to follow your command.”
The minor Earl, from a small comer of the Kingdom located outside Deep Taunton, appeared both surprised and pleased. He glanced around the tent, and when no one seemed to object, he said, “I will serve as interim commander until the Prince names another, Captain.”
There seemed an almost palpable sigh of relief in the tent as the conflict between the Prince’s handpicked Captain and the more traditional nobles was avoided for the time being. The Earl of Makurlic said, “Let us get the Knight-Marshal on his way back to Krondor, then I want a meeting of all senior staff immediately after.”
Erik von Darkmoor saluted and said, “Sir,” and left the tent before anyone could say another word. He hurried in search of Jadow Shati, for he needed to make sure his own men knew what they must do before any other officer could find them and send them off on another mission. He might give public acknowledgment to the new commander, but he wasn’t about to turn his own men over to the whim of a man who a year before had been hosting parties at his peaceful seaside estate a half-continent away.
Save those soldiers guarding prisoners, the entirety of the Kingdom’s Army of the West stood at attention as the wagon carrying Greylock’s body rolled south. Men who barely knew the Knight-Marshal of Krondor stood side by side with men who had served every step of the way with Owen.
Despite the previous day’s victory, there was a grim mood in camp, as if everyone sensed that the easy victories were behind them now, and that the future held only more loss and suffering.
Drummers beat a slow tattoo and a single horn blew farewell, and as the wagon passed each company on parade, they dipped their banners and the men saluted, fist over heart, head bowed, until the wagon moved on.
When the last company on parade was left behind, a company of Krondorian lancers, twenty handpicked men, fell in, ten on each side of the wagon, to escort the leader of their army back to the capital.
Each company commander dismissed his men, and Richard, Earl of Makurlic, sounded an officer’s call. Erik hurried to the command tent, putting aside his discomfort at seeing someone else sitting in Owen’s old chair.
Earl Richard was an old man, grey hair and blue eyes his dominant features. His long face seemed worn by years of duty, but his voice was strong and without hesitation when he spoke. “I am appointing Captain von Darkmoor my second-in-command, gentleman, to keep as much continuity as possible. For that reason, I’m asking all of you to return to your previous assignments, and to funnel all communications through Captain von Darkmoor. I will instruct my son, Lelan, to assume command of our cavalry units from Makurlic. That will be all.”
The nobles and other officers departed, and Richard said, “Erik, stay a moment.”
“Sir?” asked Erik when they were alone.
“I know why you chose me, son,” said the old officer. “You’ve a fair grasp of politics. I appreciate that. What I don’t appreciate is any thought you might have of using me for your own gains.”
Erik stiffened. “Sir, I will follow your orders and offer you the best counsel of which I am capable. Should you find my service lacking, you may remove me at your pleasure and I will not voice objection, even to the Prince.”
“Well said,” replied the Earl, “but now I need to know your heart. I’ve seen you lead men in the field, von Darkmoor, and the reports of your actions last year at Nightmare Ridge do you credit, but I need to know I can depend on you.”
“My lord,” said Erik, “I have no ambitions in this. I am a reluctant Captain, but I serve to my utmost. If you wish to replace me and have me serve at the van of my men, I will acknowledge your orders and depart immediately to fulfill whatever mission you name.”
The old man studied Erik a while longer, then said, “That won’t be necessary, Erik. Just tell me what’s going on.”
Erik nodded. He outlined his fears and Greylock’s, that they were being lulled by a series of modest defenses to have them charge foolishly into Fadawah’s real southern position. Erik pointed to a stack of parchments. “Subai’s messages are there, sir, and I suggest you read them.” Erik pointed to the map on the table before Earl Richard. “We’re here, and about here” – his finger jumped up the map about sixty miles – “we should hit the first serious defensive position. If what Subai writes is accurate, it’s going to be hell to pay getting to Ylith.”
“I assume you’ve considered all the alternatives, landing on Free Cities soil and attacking from the west, attempting to land outside the harbor, and the rest?”
Erik nodded.
“I’ll want you to cover those discarded options for me later, just in case I might think of something you and Owen missed, but I’m certain you didn’t miss anything. Assuming that’s true, what do we do next?”
Erik said, “I want to take a patrol and go north, and see how far I can get before things get nasty. I want to see what Subai saw, my lord.”
Richard, Earl of Makurlic, said nothing for a long moment, his mind weighing options, then he said, “I sent a letter to Prince Patrick, asking him to relieve me of this command, but until he does, I suppose I should act like a commander.
“Here’s what you do. Send those Hadati hillmen ahead up the right flank. They can move through the hills better than anyone we have. Have them leave at once. Then send a company of your Crimson Eagles up the left flank, along the coast but out of sight.
“Then at first light tomorrow, I want you and my son to lead a patrol of cavalry up the highway. Be as loud and careless as you wish.”
Erik nodded. “That should flush out anyone looking to lay an ambush.”
“If the Gods were kinder, you’d all ride into Ylith at the same time and hoist an ale. The Gods, however, have been short on kindness toward the Kingdom of late.” He looked up and saw Erik still standing there. “Well, go, dismissed, whatever it is I’m supposed to say.”
Erik grinned at the old man. “Yes, sir,” he said with a salute, and he was off.
Talwin signaled from outside the building and Dash waved a reply through the open front door. He then motioned with his hand indicating Talwin and the men next to him should circle around the next block of buildings and come up behind the men they stalked. Their targets, four men who had been waiting for a fifth for the last half hour, were gathered together in a workyard behind an abandoned shop in the poor quarter. Talwin vanished into the night with his men.
It had taken Dash, with the help of the Mockers, a week to discover this meeting place. Talwin had identified three men who were very likely to be Keshian agents, and the fourth was either another agent or their employee. Dash had overheard enough snippets of conversation to know they were getting restless waiting for someone and would soon leave if that person didn’t show up.
Dash wanted Talwin and the two constables with him ready to come in from the other side of the yard, through a broken-down fence next to an alley. Dash and his men were in an old shop, hiding by hanging above the main floor in the rafters. A glance into the murk of the shop’s ceiling showed his three men crouched uncomfortably on the roof beam. He’d better get them down soon, he thought, or they’d be too stiff to move.
Dash motioned and the three men hung from their fingers, then dropped quietly to the floor. Dash crouched low so as not to alert the men out back, as he was closest to the open door.
“He’s not coming,” said one of the four men, a muscular man dressed like a common laborer. “We should split up and meet somewhere else tomorrow.”
“Maybe they got him,” a second man said; he was thin and dangerous-looking, and bore a sword and dagger at his belt.
“Who?” asked the first man.
“Who do you think?” offered the first man. “The Prince’s men.”
“They’d have to be quicker than they’ve been so far,” came the voice of a man ducking into view from the next building. “You almost got nicked,” he said.
“What do you mean?” asked the first man.
“I saw constables hurrying away from just in front of this building. They looked like they was looking through the door. They must have just missed you all.”
Dash decided it was time. He pulled his sword and ran from his hiding place, his three constables behind him. The first man turned and fled, running right into Talwin as he climbed through a large hole in the fence. “Put down your weapons!” Dash commanded.
Four of the men put down weapons, but the one slender man, the one Dash had judged dangerous, pulled his. “Run!” he shouted to his companions, and as if to buy them time, he launched a two-weapon attack on Dash.
Dash had practiced against this style of fighting before, but this man was very good at it. One of his constables tried to come to his aid but only managed to almost get Dash killed. “Back off!” Dash commanded after he slipped aside of a thrust, while his constable moved away.
Talwin walked up behind the slender man and slammed him in the back of the head with the hilt of his sword. Dash, frustrated at the long wait, turned to his constable and shouted, “That’s how you do it! You hit them from behind! You don’t leap in and almost get someone killed! Got it?”
The constable nodded, looking embarrassed, and Dash turned to inspect the other prisoners. The fifth man, the one who arrived last, looked familiar to Dash. Dash studied him for a moment, then his eyes widened. “I know you! You’re a clerk from the palace!” The man said nothing, looking terrified.
Talwin said, “Let’s get this bunch to the palace for some questioning … if you agree, Sheriff.”
“Good idea, Deputy,” said Dash.
The other members of the constabulary knew something odd was going on with Talwin, but no one had voiced any concerns, or at least not within Dash’s hearing. Dash, Talwin, and the other five constables ordered two of the prisoners to pick up their unconscious comrade and started them on their way to the palace.
“They’re not Keshian,” said Talwin as he closed the door behind them.
“Then who are they working for?” asked Dash.
They were in Dash’s room, unused since he had been given the office of Sheriff. “I think they’re working for the Keshians, but they may not know that.”
Dash had appropriated five rooms in the palace in which each of the prisoners was isolated. He didn’t want them talking to one another before questioning each in turn. Talwin had briefly spoken to each man, before beginning intensive questioning. He said, “We’ve got one interesting case, Pickney, a clerk from the Prince’s office. The rest of them are … odd. One vagabond swordsman, one baker, a stablehand, and a journeyman mason.”
Dash said, “Hardly the lot I’d pick for conspiracy.”
Talwin said, “I think they’re dupes. Not one of them has the wits of a bug. Pickney worries me.”
“I’d worry a little about that swordsman—”
“Desgarden,” supplied Talwin, “is the happy blade who tried to kill you.”
“Desgarden,” repeated Dash. “He was willing to try to fight his way out rather than be captured.”
“Either he has an inflated sense of his own ability with a sword, or he’s just as stupid as I think he is.”
“Stupid he may be,” said Dash, “but unlike the other three, he’s not what I would consider a ‘stand-up’ citizen. He has the look of someone who knows his way around the back alleys and sewers. He may be part of those who are causing some troubles in the Poor Quarter.”
Talwin nodded. “Well, let me squeeze them and see what I can find out.”
Dash said, “Good. I think I’m going to sleep in my own bed tonight. It’s been a month.”
Talwin said, “By the way, I should be leaving your service at the end of the week.”
“Oh?” said Dash, with a slight smile. “Have I been that difficult an employer?”
“Duke Rufio arrives.”
“It’s been confirmed he’s to be Duke of Krondor?”
“Not publicly,” said Talwin. “You didn’t hear that from me.”
Dash waved away the man, who closed the door while Dash took off his boots. He lay back on his own bed and marveled at how soft his heavy down mattress was compared to that straw thing in the back of the jail.
He was wondering if he should take this one back with him when he fell asleep.
He came awake suddenly when someone pounded on his door.
“What?” he said sleepily, opening his door.
Talwin said, “We need to talk.”
Dash waved him inside. “How long was I asleep?”
“A few hours.”
“It wasn’t long enough,” said Dash.
“We have a grave problem.”
“What?” asked Dash, coming awake.
“Those five are dupes, as I suspected, but they were working for someone inside the palace, and from what I can tell, he’s an agent for Kesh.”
“Inside the palace?”
Talwin nodded. “The clerk believes him to be someone connected with a business concern – he thinks it might be your old employer, Rupert Avery.”
“Hardly,” said Dash. “Whatever Roo needs to know, he simply asks. The crown owes him so much gold, we usually tell him.”
“I know. He’s well connected with you, von Darkmoor, and others. But that’s what Pickney believed. Desgarden on the other hand, thinks he’s working for a band of smugglers from Durbin.”
“Cut to it, what’s going on?”
“These five, and others I’ll warrant, were gathering information on the deployment of resources, soldiers, the condition of defenses, every potentially valuable bit of information an enemy might want. They were feeding it to someone here in the palace.”
“Now I’m confused. I could see someone in the palace feeding the information to someone outside, but from outside in?”
“That’s what had me puzzled for a bit, but the fact is, the person inside the castle they were reporting to wasn’t part of Patrick’s staff.”
“Who was it?”
Talwin said, “A man who was working here when Patrick arrived, but who stayed on when Duko left. A man who seemed to be everywhere when someone needed help with documents or messages. A man named Malar Enares.”
Dash said, “Gods! He’s that servant we met out in the woods last winter. He claimed to be from the vale.”
Talwin shook his head. “If we had access to your grandfather’s documents, I bet we’d find his name amongst those on a list of agents of Great Kesh.”
Suddenly Dash was concerned about his brother. “I need to see if there are any messages in from Duko down at Port Vykor in the last few days.”
“Enares left with your brother, right?”
“Right,” said Dash. “If he’s a Keshian agent, he’s either already left for Kesh, to let them know how bad things are in the city, or he’s down in Port Vykor doing more harm.”
“Send word to Duko, and if your brother has arrived there safely, let me know.”
“Are you quitting the constabulary today?” asked Dash as he pulled on his boots and moved to the door.
“I think so. Once the new Duke is in his office, I need to repair the damage done during the war. There are agents who reported to me who don’t know I’m still alive. There are agents I don’t know are dead yet. Your grandfather had a marvelously devious mind and created a thing of beauty. It may take me the rest of my life, but eventually I’ll get the intelligence network he made back in place.”
“Well, as long as I’m the Sheriff of Krondor, if you need help, let me know.”
“I will,” said Talwin, following Dash through the door.
Talwin turned without another word and moved back toward the rooms in which the prisoners were kept, while Dash hurried toward the Knight-Marshal’s office, where all incoming military messages would be logged before being sent to Prince Patrick, or north to Lord Greylock. If Jimmy had sent word, it would be there. Dash picked up the pace and was almost running when he reached the door.
The sleepy-looking clerk looked up and said, “Yes, Sheriff?”
“Has there been a message from Port Vykor in the last day or two?”
The clerk looked over a long scroll upon which the most recent messages were logged. “No, sir, none in the last five days.”
Dash said, “If one arrives anytime soon, inform me at once. Thank you.” He turned around and started back toward his room. Then he glanced outside and saw the sun was rising. Putting aside fatigue, he turned and started to ward the door to the courtyard and the way back to the New Market Jail. He had a great deal of work to do and it couldn’t wait on worrying about his brother.
“Sheriff Puppy,” came the voice through the window.
Dash came awake. He had spent a long day keeping the city under control and had retired to the little room in the rear of the old inn he used for sleeping.
“Trina?” he asked as he stood up to look through the shutters. Opening them, he saw the young woman’s face illuminated by moonlight.
Grinning, he stood there in his under-trousers. His shirt, trousers, and boots lay in a heap beside his straw mattress. “Why do I doubt you came to my window because you couldn’t bear to be away from me?”
She smiled back and took a moment to look him up and down, then said, “You’re a pretty enough boy, Sheriff Puppy, but I like my men with a little more experience.”
Dash started getting dressed. “I feel like I’ve got enough experience for a man three times my age,” he said. “As much as I enjoy bantering with you, why did you wake me?”
“We’ve got a problem.”
Dash grabbed his sword, handed it to Trina, then with a single vault, grabbed the upper sill of the window and hauled himself through. Landing on the ground next to her, he said, “We as in ‘you and me,’ or as in ‘the Mockers'?” as he took back his sword and buckled it around his waist.
“As in the entire city of Krondor,” she replied. Suddenly, and apparently impulsively, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I wasn’t mocking you about being pretty.”
Dash reached out and put his hand behind her head, drawing her to him. He kissed her deeply and lingeringly. When he let her go, he said, “I’ve known a lot of women, despite my youth, but you’re unique.” He looked into her eyes a moment, then said, “Let me know when I’ve got enough experience.”
Softly she said, “I’m a thief and you’re the Sheriff of Krondor. Wouldn’t that be a match?”
Dash grinned. “Have I ever told you about my grandfather?”
She shook her head in irritation. “We don’t have time for this.”
“What’s the problem?”
“We’ve found that bunch who’ve been using the sewers, and who probably killed your men.”
“Where?”
“Near that point where Kirby was found, over by Five Points. There’s a big tannery that was burned to the ground during the battle, but it’s got a subbasement, a big one, and a long water entrance to the bay, as well as the usual sewer dumps.”
“I want to see this.”
“I thought you would.” He started walking away when Trina said, “Dash?”
He stopped and turned around. “What?”
“The Old Man.”
“How is he?”
She shook her head slightly. “Not much longer.”
“Damn,” said Dash, and he surprised himself at how sad knowing that his grandfather’s brother was dying made him. “Where is he?”
“Someplace safe. He won’t see you.”
“Why?”
“He won’t see anybody but me and one or two others.”
Dash paused, then said, “Who’s going to take over?”
The girl grinned. “I would tell the Sheriff?”
Seriously, Dash said, “You will if you get into enough trouble.”
“I’ll think on this,” said Trina.
They hurried through the night, and when they reached the abandoned northern quarter of the city nearest to the old tanneries and slaughterhouses, Trina led Dash through a series of back alleys and abandoned buildings. Dash memorized the route and realized that it had been cleared by the Mockers so they would have a fast avenue of escape.
They reached a burned-out row of shanties, barely more than a few charred walls and portions of roofs, bordering a large watercourse, a stone-lined channel that would flood during the rainy season, or that could be fed by water gates off the river that bordered the northeast corner of the city. In summer, with the gate destroyed, only a little water ran through the very center of the manmade stream. Trina jumped over it nimbly and Dash followed her, marveling at just how lithe she was. She wore her usual man’s shirt and black leather vest, tight leggings and high boots. Dash could see she was both strong and fast.
She headed straight toward a large open pipe in the far bank. It was old, fire-hardened clay, circled by a heavy iron band. Pieces of the clay had fallen away over the years, where the pipe extended from the bank, and a three-foot length of metal could be seen at the upper lip of the pipe. With a prodigious leap, she vaulted to where she could grip the bar and swung herself into the pipe, vanishing from view.
Dash waited a moment to let her get clear, then duplicated her leap. He discovered why as he swung over broken crockery, glass, and jagged metal. Landing behind Trina, he said, “Not the normal garbage one expects.”
“It discourages the idly curious.”
She moved on without another word, and Dash followed her.
They moved deeper into the sewer network, the woman leading the way surely, though there was almost no light filtering down through the burned-out buildings above. At the first turn right, she turned and stopped, felt around, and produced a lamp. Dash smiled, but remained silent. The system still hadn’t changed.
She lit it and shuttered it. The tiny bit of light that was allowed to escape would provide ample illumination for their purposes, and someone more than a dozen feet away would have to be looking directly at the light source to notice it.
Trina led Dash deep into the sewer system until they reached a confluence of two large pipes entering a third, with two smaller – though big enough for a person to crab-walk through – emptying into the large circular cavern. This was Five Points. Trina pointed at the upper left of the two smaller pipes. As he poised to jump, she whispered, “Trip wire.”
Dash pulled himself up and moved slowly and quietly in the dark, feeling around before him in case there might have been any additional alarms added. Trina would have warned him had there been one she knew about, but Dash’s grandfather had impressed on him that people who took things for granted in these situations were called corpses.
As he inched along, he found himself thinking of Trina. He had known many women since the age of fifteen, being handsome, noble, and the grandson of the most powerful man after the King in the nation. Twice he had been infatuated to the point of thinking he might be in love, but both times the notion had quickly passed. But something about this woman thief, with her mannish clothing, unkempt hair, and piercing stare caught his imagination. It had been quite some time since he had known a woman and that was part of it, but there was something more, and he wondered if circumstances would ever permit more than a casual flirtation.
Dash froze. He was alone in the dark looking for traps, and he was daydreaming about a woman. He scolded himself and heard his grandfather’s voice in his mind. The old man would have had a great deal to say about this sort of inattention.
Dash took a deep breath and began moving again. After a few minutes he heard a sound ahead. It was little more than a whisper, but Dash waited. It came again, and with effort he made out what appeared to be a low conversation.
He inched forward again. Suddenly he halted. Ahead of him he sensed something. He put his hand out and felt a line. He didn’t move when his palm came into contact with it. He waited, listening for an alarm, a sound, a voice, anything that would tell him he had alerted whoever had placed this line across the duct. When silence continued unbroken for a long while, he moved his hand back, waiting again.
He touched it again, as gently as possible, and ran his finger to the right. He encountered a metal eye, driven into the side of the duct, and there the line was tied. He moved his finger to the left and found another eyelet, but this time the line was threaded through and ran forward in the direction he was heading.
He felt over and under the line to make sure there wasn’t a second, and when he was satisfied this was the only line across the way, he moved back. With a little squirming, he got on his back and crawled under the line. When he was past the line, he again got up into his kneeling position and continued his careful progress.
Soon he saw a dim light ahead and he worked toward it. Again he heard voices and again the conversation was just below his ability to hear it. He moved slowly forward.
He reached a large catch basin, with a big grating overhead, and above him he could hear boots on the stone. From the stench at this end of the pipe, it was obvious the men had been using the catch basin to relieve themselves and didn’t have enough water to flush the pipe easily.
“What is that?” came a voice from above and Dash froze.
“It’s a baked meat roll. It’s got spices and onions, baked into a bread crust. I got it at the market.”
“What kind of meat?”
Dash moved closer.
“Beef! What do you think?”
“Looks like horse to me.”
“How could you tell by looking at it?”
“You better let me taste it. Then I can tell.”
Dash moved around and craned his neck. He could see movement, and a pair of boots. Much of his view was cut off by a chair, near the catch basin grate, and the man who sat on it.
“Cow, horse, what does it matter?”
“You just want some because you didn’t bring anything to eat.”
“I didn’t know we’d be spending our lives waiting here.”
“Maybe the others ran into some trouble?”
“Could be, but orders are clear enough. Wait here.”
“Did you at least bring some cards?”
Dash settled in.
Near dawn, Dash lowered himself out of the large pipe at Five Points. He found himself disappointed that Trina wasn’t waiting. He knew she probably left a moment after he entered the pipe, but he still wished she had lingered. He found that feeling irrational alongside the distress he was experiencing over what he had found.
Not wishing to stay too long, he hurried through the pipes and back toward the New Market Jail. He knew that as soon as he got there, he was going to have to change clothing, then hurry to the palace. This wasn’t a matter for the Sheriff and his constables, but Brian Silden and the army.
Dash forced himself to calmness, but if what he had overheard was any indication, someone was readying a staging area. Inside the city itself, a nest of soldiers was being prepared, soldiers who would appear within the walls of Krondor at some future date, and Dash was certain that date was not far off.