man?'
'Swear,' Fost said grimly, his eyes moving around the small circle. One by one they took the vow until Fost came to Synalon. Fost refused to break the gaze and, such was the intensity of his feeling, it was Synalon who turned away.
'If you insist,' she said, making an irritable gesture with one hand, 'I'll swear your silly little oath, as well.'
'Then let's drink to it,' Rann proposed. The toast was drunk. And Fost wondered what he was getting into.
In her official capacity before Synalon had driven her into exile, Moriana had dealt with many of the financial matters of the Sky City. Haggling for provisions and material proved second nature. And, after Rann had visited the House of Omsgib-Bir, money began to flow from the official coffers of the City. Fost was never sure what Rann had threatened, but the goatlike banker now fell over himself to supply ample amounts of money, presumably drawn against Sky City accounts. But such was Rann's effect on people that Fost didn't discount the possibility that Omsgib gave them money from his own pocket – out of fear.
While Moriana purchased supplies, Fost and Rann went to the waterfront district to find mercenaries seeking employment. Rann promptly sought out the biggest braggart of the lot, a big red-bearded man who wore his hair plaited into pigtails. Physically he was imposing enough, but it was obvious to Fost that the man knew even less of military arts than of discretion. 'You're the man I'm looking for,' Rann told the giant.
'What's that, little man?' the giant bellowed. He obviously wanted to have some sport with the diminutive Rann. Fost waited to see the color of the fool's blood, but instead of a blade, Rann brought forth a well-filled purse and swung it slowly before the big man's bloodshot eyes.
'I hear you,' the giant said, and followed Rann and a thoroughly bemused Fost to a booth in the shadows at the rear of the inn.
'What I'm about to tell you,' Rann said conspiratorially, 'must be kept in the strictest confidence. I am empowered by certain parties who cannot be named to raise a company of stalwart warriors to march to the relief of the Empire. As a man as well-informed as yourself is doubtless aware, the Empire is beset by inhuman foes camped along the River Marchant. We – those I represent – intend to mount an expedition to take the Hissers in the rear.'
The big man nodded slowly and thoughtfully, though Fost doubted he understood a word in ten. 'And you want me to join this expedition.' Rann's eyebrows shot up in surprise.
'Why no, my good man! I want you to lead the expedition! You will, discreetly of course, raise a company and march north. Yours will be one of several secretly travelling to a rendezvous. However,' he said quickly, as the man began to frown, 'I don't doubt that with your obvious talents you'll find yourself in a position of authority. Perhaps even overall command.' And to Fost's further astonishment, Rann simpered in a fashion that went well with the dandefied accent he had adopted.
'How much?' the big man finally said, after his mind had slowly worked over the ramifications.
Rann swept his arm across the table, sowing circles that rang with deep, true tones. Coins of Tolvirot gold, not Imperial clay and tin, sprouted. The giant's eyes grew as big and round as the klenors winking seductively at him from amid the pools of spilled drink. 'Elhard Lanisol's your man,' he said with ponderous sincerity.
The deal was quickly done. Half the princely sum scattered on the table went directly into the big man's pocket. The rest was to be used to begin recruiting. Rann said he would return to meet Lanisol in a few days. Before Lanisol found out the name of his employer, Rann and Fost were pushing through the door and out into the street.
'You look as thick witted as our friend inside,' laughed Rann. Fost set his jaw. He wasn't going to ask for an explanation. Rann smiled and answered, as if he had. 'The Nevrymin and the Dwarves are openly ranked with the
Vridzish,' the prince explained. 'It's safe to assume that other human allies of the Dark exist who keep their sympathies concealed. And I suspect there are such here in Tolviroth Acerte. And it is no assumption at all that they'll have heard about the small, scarred man and the expedition he's mounting to save the Empire.' 'I don't follow you,' Fost said reluctantly.
'The hypothetical minions of the Dark are going to learn that Moriana and Synalon have joined forces, and that they are spreading their coin liberally about Tolviroth Acerte. That much we cannot hide.' He flicked a speck of soot from his shirt collar. 'They'll wonder, of course, where we intend to go – and lo! the worthy Master Lanisol will tell them, as he's no doubt done to all in earshot by now.'
'But you wouldn't tell him who you were. How will the spies know who's recruiting?' Rann looked at him sidelong. Fost instantly regretted the question.
'How many men have you encountered matching my description, Longstrider? If it got back to someone with wit, this Zak'zar, say, that the renowned Prince Rann was accosting drunks under his own name to raise an army, what would that someone think? He'd feel the trap as sharply as if its jaws were closed about his ankle.' Fost still looked doubtful.
'Of course,' Rann went on, 'I'll have to hire a few legitimate mercenaries to march north to lend some credence to the tale. But mostly I seek out ones like Lanisol.'
'Likely, he'll keep the money himself,' said Fost, confused by the prince's devious mind.
'What of it? His ego won't let him keep quiet about the important secret mission that brought him such a weight of gold. That the story reaches the proper ears is all that matters.' They rounded a corner and Rann lightly touched him on the sleeve. 'Let's go in here, and see if the Blow On Inn is as ghastly as its name.'
CHAPTER EIGHT
'So, friend Fost,' asked Erimenes, expansive after a night spent cavorting with Ziore, 'what do you think of our travelling companions? They're not such monsters, eh?'
Mostly occupied with trying not to think about the way his piebald riding dog's trot traumatized his kidneys, Fost didn't answer immediately. He let his gaze sweep the horizon, front to rear. The ground sank slowly behind into the green woods and metallic luster of the River Wirix, which could be glimpsed in its windings far away. To the right – north – the land became a sea of grass rippling on the frozen waves of hills. There in this season the grass grew taller than a man on dog-back; from this it had gotten the name Highgrass Broad. In front rose a barrier that had grown day by day, dark when the sun hung in the west, but a dry yellow light when the sun still mounted the cloud-piled eastern sky. It was the rim of the central massif, a great slab of land that tilted upward from the foothills of the Thails to a line meandering south of Mount Omizantrim. Now the cliffs were near, sheer and forbidding, looking as if they'd been scooped out by a great trowel. They were over a thousand feet high, though numerous and perilous trails ascended the many faces. They planned on reaching the foot of one such trail, which Fost and Moriana both knew from their travels, by early afternoon, completing the climb to the top before night made the way too dangerous.
'Did you say something?' Fost asked, belatedly aware that the spirit had.
'That's what I like about you, Fost. Always on the alert.' 'Ziore would never forgive me if I accidentally dropped your satchel halfway up the face of the rim.'
'I've told you before, you have exceedingly dubious tastes in humor.' Erimenes shook his head, tiny trails of vapor drifting from his forehead as he moved. 'As I was saying, I believe you've learned that our new companions aren't the fiends you'd thought. Of course, I realized long ago that Rann and Synalon were not wholly lacking in merit. But then I had more intimate contact with them…' 'Collaboration is the word, Erimenes.'
The genie heaved a melodramatic sigh and drew himself up even straighter.
'For all your experience in the wide world, and for all my tutelage over this past year – think of it, Fost. We've spent almost a year in one another's company.' Ignoring Fost's groan, he carried on brightly. 'At any rate, though I've no doubt been a maturing influence on you, I find to my deepest regret that you are still callow, unable to appreciate the subtler motivations of your elders.'
'Your motivations aren't subtle. They come down to only one thing. Hedonism.'
'Fost, you must curb this tendency to stray from the subject.' Erimenes wagged a finger at him. 'Now, about
