II
Gerin paced between the benches in the great hall, making Rihwin and Van and Drago move out of the way. 'One of those three must have snatched him,' he said: 'Diviciacus or Tassilo or Otes. I can't believe Duren would go wandering off where we couldn't find him, not of his own accord.'
'If you're right, Captain, we've eaten up a lot of the day looking around here,' Van said.
'I know,' Gerin answered unhappily. 'I'll go out and send others in chariots as well, even so; if Dyaus and the other gods are kind, one of us will catch up with our-guests.' He spat the last word. Guest-friendship was sacred; those who violated it could expect a long, unhappy time in the afterlife. Unfortunately, though, fear of that didn't paralyze all rogues.
'Who'd want to steal a little boy?' Drago the Bear growled. His big hands moved in the air as if closing round a neck.
Gerin's more agile wits had already started pursuing that one. ' Diviciacus might, to give Adiatunnus a hold on me,' he said. 'I don't think Adiatunnus would have ordered it-who could guess ahead of time if the chance would come up?-but I don't think he'd turn down a gift like that if it fell into his lap.'
'Duren might give him a hold for now, but he'd get nothing but grief from you later,' Van said.
'Aye, but since I turned him down for a joint move on Aragis, he's liable to think he'd get only grief from me anyhow,' the Fox answered, thinking, He's liable to be right, too. Aloud, he went on, 'Speaking of Aragis, Otes the jeweler came from his lands. And Aragis might not turn down a hold on me, either.'
'You're right there, too,' Drago said, making more choking motions.
'You're leaving out Tassilo,' Van said.
'I know.' Gerin kicked aside a dog-gnawed bone. 'I can't think of any reason he'd want to harm me.'
'I can,' Rihwin the Fox said.
'Can you indeed?' Gerin said, surprised. 'What is it?'
Rihwin coughed; his smoothly handsome face went a couple of shades pinker than usual. 'You'll recall, lord, that when last you made the acquaintance of this Tassilo, I was in the process of, ah, disqualifying myself from marrying the fair Elise. I hadn't tasted wine in too long, you understand.'
'Disgracing yourself is more like it,' Van said, blunt as usual. Gloriously drunk, Rihwin had stood on his head on a table at Ricolf the Red's and kicked his legs in the air… while wearing a southern-style toga and no drawers.
He coughed again. 'Perhaps your word is more accurate, friend Van, though not calculated to make me feel better about the incident or myself. Be that as it may, I resume: Elise having found you no more to her taste, lord Gerin, than her father did me, she might possibly have engaged the services of this minstrel to rape away the boy for her to raise.'
Gerin bit down on that like a man whose teeth closed on a worm in an apple. Ever since Elise left him, he'd done his best not to think about her; whenever he did, it hurt. He had no idea where in the northlands she was, whether she was still with the horse doctor with whom she'd gone away, or even whether she still lived. But what Rihwin said made enough sense that he had to ask himself those questions now.
Slowly, he answered, 'Aye, you're right, worse luck; that could be so.' He plucked at his beard as he weighed odds. 'I still think the Trokmoi are likeliest to have stolen Duren, so Van and I will go southwest after them. Which way did Tassilo fare?'
'West, toward the holding of Schild Stoutstaff, or that's where he told the gate crew he was heading,' Drago answered.
Gerin grunted. If Tassilo had Duren with him, he might well have lied about his chosen direction. Or he might not have. Schild had been the leading vassal to Wolfar of the Axe. He wasn't a deadly foe to Gerin, as Wolfar had been, but he was no great friend, either. Though he'd acknowledged the Fox his suzerain after Gerin killed Wolfar, he forgot that whenever convenient. He might shelter Tassilo, or at least grant him safe passage.
'All right, Rihwin,' Gerin said. 'You ride west to Schild's border, and past it if his guards give you leave. If they don't-' He paused for effect. 'Tell them they, and their overlord, will have cause to regret it.'
Rihwin nodded. 'As you say.'
'Now, Otes,' Gerin said.
Again, Drago answered: 'He said he was heading east along the Emperor's Highway, to see if Hagop son of Hovan had tinker's work for him. He didn't think he'd sell Hagop much in the way of jewelry: ' skinflint' was the word he used, I think.'
'For Hagop, it's a good one,' Gerin said judiciously. 'All right, you go after him, then.'
'I'll do that, lord,' Drago said, and strode out of the great hall. Gerin was as sure as if his eyes could follow that Drago was heading for the stables to hitch his team to his chariot, and that he' d ride out after Otes the minute the job was done. To Drago, the world was a simple place. His liege lord had given him an order, so he would follow it. Gerin sometimes wished he couldn't see all the complications in the world around him, either.
Van said, 'You'll want me to ride with you, eh, Captain? We'll need a driver as well, if we're to take on Diviciacus and his friends on even terms.'
'You're right on both counts,' Gerin said. He thought about adding another chariot and three-man team of warriors, too, but decided against it. Van was worth a couple of ordinary men in a fight, and the Fox did not denigrate his own skill with his hands. And Raffo Redblade, who'd been driving for them for years, hadn't earned his ekename by running from fights. The Fox added, 'And we'll send Widin Simrin's son south to ask what Aragis knows. Van, find him-he'll be in the courtyard somewhere-and get him moving, too.'
The decision made, Gerin took his armor down from the wall and put it on: bronze greaves first, then leather cuirass faced with scales of bronze, and last of all a plain pot of a helmet. None of it was polished; none of it looked the least bit fancy-the Fox left that to Van. But his own gear was sound. It did what he wanted it to do: it kept edged and pointed metal from splitting his flesh. As far as he was concerned, nothing else mattered.
He slung his quiver over his shoulder, took down his bow, and then grabbed his shield. That was a yard-wide disk of leather and wood, with bronze edging to keep swordstrokes from chewing it up.
Most Elabonian warriors had gear much like the Fox's. Some men went in for gold or silver ornamentation, but he wanted nothing of the sort: curlicues and inlays could catch and hold a point, while rich armor made a man a special target on the battlefield.
With his outlandish armor, Van of the Strong Arm was always a target on the battlefield, but no one yet had been able to strip his crested helm and two-piece corselet from him. Along with his spear, he carried a sword, a mace, and several daggers. He was also a fine archer, but did not use the bow in combat, affecting to despise slaying foes from afar as unmanly.
'Foolishness,' Gerin said, as he had many times before. 'As long as you're alive and the other fellow isn't, nothing else matters. You get no points for style, not in war you don't.'
Van brandished his spear. 'Captain, that's never been a problem.' His grin showed only a couple of broken teeth, more evidence (as if more were needed) he was more dangerous with weapons in hand than anyone he'd run up against.
Practical as usual, Gerin went into the kitchens and filled a leather sack with twice-baked bread that would keep indefinitely (and that needed someone with good teeth to eat it) and strips of smoked mutton even tougher than the bread. If he had to fight from the chariot, the sack would go over the side. If he didn't, he and Van and Raffo could travel for a few days without worrying about supplies.
Gerin shouldered the bag and carried it out to the stables. Raffo, a gangling young man with pimples along the margin of his beard, looked up from hitching the horses to either side of the chariot shaft. 'Be good to get out on the road, lord Gerin,' he said, getting the animals into the double yoke and securing them to the shaft with straps that ran around the front of their necks.
'It would be better if we were going out for a different reason,' Gerin said heavily. Raffo's face fell; he'd forgotten that. The Fox had given up on expecting tact from his men. They were, he sometimes thought with something approaching despair, only a couple of steps more civilized than the Trokmoi. Improving that was a matter for generations, not just years; even keeping them from falling back into barbarism often seemed none too easy.
He stowed his shield on the brackets mounted on the inside of the car. It made the side wall higher. Van
