thrown back to reveal gaily colored tunics and kilts beneath.
Lady Kalira ignored the bustle and headed directly for the innkeeper, who stood leaning against one of the barrels. She took two rooms for her party, one for herself, and one for Sterren, Alder, and Dogal.
Sterren glanced around and decided that even though it was a pleasant enough inn, he did not really want to be there, not with Alder and Dogal watching him constantly, and with, he presumed, nobody around who spoke Ethsharitic.
Since he had no choice, however, he resolved to make the best of it. While Dogal took the party’s baggage up to their rooms and Lady Kalira settled with the innkeeper on the exact amount of the party’s advance payment, Sterren attempted to strike up a conversation with a winsome barmaid, using his very best Semmat.
She stared at him for a few seconds, then smiled, said something in a language he had never heard before, and hurried away.
He stared after her in shock.
“What was...” he began in Ethsharitic, and then caught himself and switched to Semmat. “What was that?” he asked Alder.
“What?” the soldier asked in reply.
“What the... the... what she said.”
Alder shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, “She was speaking Akallan.”
“Akallan? Another language?”
“Sure,” Alder said, unperturbed.
Sterren stared about wildly, listening to first one conversation, then another. Lady Kalira and the innkeeper were speaking Trader’s Tongue, he realized. A couple at a nearby table was whispering in some strange and sibilant speech that didn’t sound like Trader’s Tongue, Akallan, or Semmat, and which certainly wasn’t Ethsharitic. Other voices were speaking any number of dialects.
“Gods,” Sterren said, “How does anybody ever talk to anyone here?”
Alder asked, “What?”
Sterren realized he’d spoken Ethsharitic again; he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to weep or scream. He did know he wanted a drink. He sat down heavily in the nearest chair and resorted to a language understood everywhere; he waved a finger in the air in the general direction of the barmaid and threw a coin on the table.
That worked, and the barmaid smiled at him as she placed a full tankard before him. He began to feel more cheerful.
After all, he reminded himself, he was in a port. Naturally, there would be a variety of travelers, speaking a variety of tongues. “In Semma,” he said to Alder, “all speak one language?” He knew, as he said it, that his phrasing was awkward, but it was the best he could do.
“Sure,” Alder said, settling down at Sterren’s table. “Everyone in Semma speaks Semmat. Just about, anyway; I guess there might be some foreigners now and then who don’t.”
Sterren struggled to follow his guard’s speech. He had been resigned to learning Semmat, but now he was becoming really eager to learn. Whatever the ignominy of being forced to use a barbarian tongue, it was nothing compared to the isolation and inconvenience of not being able to speak with those about him.
And it looked as if he was, indeed, going to be stuck in Semma for the foreseeable future, if he didn’t get away very, very soon. Thirteen leagues inland! There was simply no way he would be able to slip away and cover that distance without being caught and dragged back, not if the Semmans had any sort of magic available, as they surely did.
If he was going to escape, he would have to do so tonight, here in Akalla, and stow away aboard a ship bound for Ethshar.
And how could he do that when he couldn’t find three people in Akalla who spoke the same language as each other, let alone anything that he, himself, understood? How could he learn which ship was bound whither, and when?
Even if he once got aboard a ship, how could he earn his way home, when he couldn’t even understand orders, or argue about the rules of a friendly game? No, it was hopeless. He was doomed to go to Semma, a country that his grandmother had been only too glad to flee, even at the loss of her noble status. Being thus doomed, all he could do was make the best of it. He would have to find some way to fit in.
He might even have to actually be a proper warlord. First though, he needed to know the language. “Alder,” he said, “I want to learn Semmat better.”
Alder gulped beer, then nodded. “Sure,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
CHAPTER 3
The road had vanished, but they seemed confident of the route, so he did not question it. For one thing, he was far too busy trying to minimize the bruising of his backside to worry about where he was going, or why. He put aside all worries about wars and warlords and life among the barbarians, concentrating solely on matters closer to hand, and closer still to his seat.
By the time the party stopped by a tiny stream for a midday rest and refreshment, out of sight of even Akalla Karnak’s highest tower, Sterren’s throat ached from dryness, his hands ached from clutching the reins, his feet ached from being jammed into the stirrups, his back ached from trying to keep him upright, and worst of all, his rump ached from the constant abrasive collisions with his saddle. He did not descend gracefully, but simply fell off his mount onto a tuft of prairie grass.
Alder and Dogal politely pretended not to notice, but Lady Kalira was less kind.
“You haven’t ridden before, have you?” she demanded without preamble.
Sterren took a moment to mentally translate this into Ethsharitic. “No,” he admitted. He was too thirsty, weary, and battered to think of any sarcastic comment to add, let alone to translate it into Semmat. Her blithe assumption that an Ethsharitic street gambler would know how to ride seemed to call for a cutting remark, but Sterren could not rise to the occasion.
“You should have told me back at the inn,” she said. “I could have gotten a wagon. Or we could have walked. Or at the very least we could have given you a few lessons.”
Sterren tried to shrug, but his back was too stiff for any such gesture. “I... It was... It did not... damn!” He could not think of any word for “appeared” or “looked” or “seemed.” Before any of the Semmans could volunteer a suggestion, he managed, “I saw it was not bad, but I saw wrong.”
“It looked easy, you mean.”
Sterren nodded. “I guess that’s what I mean.”
“A warlord really should know how to ride,” Lady Kalira pointed out.
“I’m no warlord,” Sterren said bitterly.
“You are Sterren, Ninth Warlord of Semma!” Lady Kalira reminded him sternly.
“I’m Sterren of Ethshar. I play dice in taverns,” Sterren retorted.
Lady Kalira backed away slightly. “You know, you mustn’t tell anyone that when we get to Semma,” she said.
“Why not?” Sterren demanded.
“Because you’re the warlord!” Lady Kalira replied, shocked. “You hold a position of great power and respect. We can’t let it be common gossip that you made your living cheating at gambling.”
Sterren did not follow all of this speech, but he guessed one vital word from context. “I didn’t cheat!” he shouted; the effort sent a twinge through his back and legs, and more than a twinge through his buttocks.
“Then how did you win regularly enough to live?”
“I was lucky,” he muttered unconvincingly. He had learned the word aboard ship.
“Ha!” she said. “Wizard’s luck, if you ask me.”
“Wizard?” Sterren asked. He knew the word meant one variety of magician, but wasn’t sure which. “Warlock,” he said in Ethsharitic.
Lady Kalira did not recognize the word; instead she changed the subject.
“You must relax,” she said, demonstrating by letting her arms fall limply, “when you ride. Move with the
