remembered her mostly as a friendly, wrinkled face and a warm voice telling impossible tales. His grandfather, who had raised him after all the others were dead, had missed her terribly and had spoken of her often, explaining how he had brought her back from a tiny little kingdom on the very edge of the world, talking about how she got along so well with everyone so long as she got her way.
“Her name was Tanissa the Stubborn, I think; she came from the Small Kingdoms somewhere.” As did these four, he realized, or at least three of them. The questions suddenly began to make sense. She must have stolen something, or committed some heinous offense, and they had finally tracked her down.
It had certainly taken them long enough. Surely they wouldn’t carry their revenge to the third generation! “She’s dead,” he added helpfully.
“Was she ever called Tanissa of Semma?”
“I don’t know; I never heard her called that.”
There was another exchange in the familiar but incomprehensible language, including his grandmother’s name as well as his own. By the end of it the woman seemed excited and was smiling.
The smile didn’t look vindictive, but that was very little comfort; whatever crime his grandmother had committed must have been half a century ago, and this woman could scarcely have been born then. She wasn’t exactly young, but she didn’t look that old — and she didn’t look young enough to be using a youth spell. She must have been sent on the hunt by someone else; perhaps her father or mother was the wronged party. In that case she’d be glad to have the job done, but would have no reason for personal dislike.
A glance to either side showed the two soldiers as impassive as ever, and he wondered whether they understood what was going on any better than he did.
The interpreter, as the sailor apparently was, turned back to Sterren and asked, “Do you have any family?”
“No.” He didn’t think it was worth trying to lie.
“No wife?”
Sterren shook his head.
“What about your mother?”
“She died bearing me.” Perhaps, he thought, they would take pity on him because he was an orphan.
“Since you’re the eldest, there could scarcely be brothers or sisters if she died bearing you. What about old Kelder, your grandfather?”
It occurred to Sterren, a bit belatedly, that he was removing the possibility of spreading the blame or getting off on grounds of family support; but it was too late already, and he continued to tell the truth. “He died three years ago. He was an old man.”
“Uncles? Aunts? Cousins?”
“None.”
“Your other grandparents?”
“Dead before I was born, from drinking bad water.”
“Good!” the sailor said with a smile. “Then you should be able to leave immediately!”
“What?” Sterren exclaimed. “Leave where? I’m not going anywhere!” He made no attempt to hide his surprise and indignation. “Why not?” the sailor demanded. “You’re not still an apprentice, are you?”
“What if I am? Where are you taking me? Who are you?” His remaining assurance faded a little more; they wouldn’t dare kill him here in the tavern, probably not anywhere in Ethshar, but if they managed to remove him from the city they could do anything they pleased. There was no law outside the walls — or at least Sterren knew of none.
“I’m just an interpreter...” the sailor began.
“What were those sparks?” Sterren interrupted.
The sailor waved the question away. “Nothing; I bought them on Wizard Street to help find you. Really, I’m just an interpreter. I’m not the one looking for you.”
“Then who are these others, and what do they want with me?”
“The Lady Kalira is taking you to Semma,” the sailor replied.
“The hell she is!” Sterren said. “I’m not leaving the city!” He was close to panic; visions of death by slow torture flickered through his mind.
The sailor sighed. “I’m afraid you are, whether you like it or not.”
“Why?” Sterren asked, letting a trace of panic into his voice in hopes of inducing pity. “What do these people want with me?”
The man shrugged. “Don’t ask me. They hired me in Akalla to get them to Ethshar and find you, so I got them to Ethshar and found you. It’s none of my business what they want you for.”
“It’s my business, though!” Sterren pointed out. He tried to struggle; the soldiers gave no sign they had even noticed. He subsided and demanded, “You can ask, at least, can’t you?”
“I can ask Lady Kalira,” the sailor admitted. “Those two don’t speak Trader’s Tongue, and for all I know they’re the ones who want you.” He seemed appallingly disinterested.
“Ask her!” Sterren shrieked.
The sailor turned and said something.
The tall woman did not answer him, but stepped forward and spoke directly to Sterren, saying very slowly and distinctly, “O’n Sterren, Enne Karnai t’Semma.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Sterren asked. He was about to say something further when he realized that the two barbarians had released his arms. He looked up at them and saw that their huge flat faces were broken into broad grins. One stuck out an immense paw and shook Sterren’s hand vigorously, clasping it hard enough to sting. Utterly confused, Sterren asked the sailor, “What did she say?”
“Don’t ask me; that was Semmat, not Trader’s Tongue. I don’t speak Semmat.”
Lady Kalira saw Sterren’s continued incomprehension and said, “Od’na ya Semma!” When he still looked blank, she said, “Et’sharitic is bad.” Her pronunciation was horrendous.
Sterren stared for a moment, then turned to the sailor and demanded, “Is she telling me my native tongue isn’t fit for her to speak? Is this some sort of barbarian ritual thing?” He was even more thoroughly confused than before.
“No, no, no,” the sailor said, “she’s just saying she can’t speak it very well. I don’t think she knows more than a dozen words, to be honest, and I taught her half of those on the way here.”
The Semman aristocrat apparently gave up on direct communication with her captive and gave the interpreter a long message to relay. He interrupted her twice, requesting clarifications — at least that was what Sterren judged to be happening, since each interruption was followed by a careful repetition of an earlier phrase.
Finally, the sailor turned to Sterren and explained, “She says she was sent by her king, Phenvel the Third, to find the heir of your grandmother’s brother, the Eighth Warlord, who died four months ago. She consulted a magician — I’m not clear on what sort — and that led her to you. She is to bring you back to Semma to receive your title and inheritance and to fulfill your hereditary duties as the new warlord — you’re Enne Karnai, the Ninth Warlord.”
“That’s silly,” Sterren replied. He relaxed somewhat. If the story were true, then his worries about vengeance were groundless, and he saw no reason for the woman to bother lying.
“That’s what she said,” the sailor replied with a shrug.
“What if I won’t go?” he asked. While it might be nice to have an inheritance waiting for him, that bit about ’hereditary duties’ didn’t sound good, and he wanted nothing to do with wars or warlords. Wars were dangerous. Besides, who would want to live among barbarians? Particularly among barbarians who apparently didn’t speak Ethsharitic.
The idea was ludicrous.
The interpreter relayed his question, and Lady Kalira’s face fell. She spoke an authoritative sentence; the sailor hesitantly translated it as, “Failure to perform one’s duty to one’s country is treason, and treason is punishable by immediate summary execution.”
“Execution?” The inheritance suddenly sounded much more attractive.
Lady Kalira said something in Semmat; the smiles vanished from the faces of the soldiers, and each dropped a hand to his sword hilt.
