Whom they fear they hate.
—Quintus Ennius
"Master Ahrmin?" Fenrius' basso boomed from outside his tent. "It is time to go."
Painfully, slowly, Ahrmin got to his feet and limped out of his tent, squinting in the early-morning sunlight. His carriage was waiting for him; he let Fenrius help him through the door and onto the padded seat.
The slaver camp at the base of Aershtyn was different from its cousin halfway up the slopes. Up there were the pens and corrals holding the well-chained cream of the captured Biemish population, guarded only by the few guildsmen necessary to keep them safely confined.
But this camp was a military operation, a place where Pandathaway-made powder was stored, guns made and repaired. Until today—now, the camp was breaking up, as Ahrmin's guildsmen prepared to move out.
It would be difficult to move three hundred men silently, and when they joined up with Prince Uldren's Holtish troops it would be impossible. Fortunately, the element of surprise wasn't always necessary.
The problem with you, Karl Cullinane, isn't that you challenge me. Were that all, I would still have you killed, but you wouldn't haunt my dreams so. If you were only the murderer of my father, I would have you killed slowly.
But I was wrong about you: You are not only my enemy; you challenge the fabric of what is. I can't allow myself the luxury of killing you slowly; it is vastly more important that I kill you surely.
"You're sure of the assassins?" he asked Fenrius.
"Nothing is certain," the big man said, choosing his words carefully, "but they are said to be competent. I am . . . confident that he will be dead, or at least out of action, by the time we get there."
"Good." No, surprise wasn't necessary. Not when your enemy was trapped like a bug in a well-corked bottle. Then, all that was necessary was to heat the bottle. . . . "Very good. Make sure the barrels are tied down." Ahrmin leaned out the window, his good left hand pointing to the wagon that contained the huge barrels of powder; the massive, well-oiled oaken barrels were sealed so tightly that neither air nor water could penetrate their sides.
"Yes, Master Ahrmin." Fenrius snapped his fingers and pointed toward the wagon; a dozen journeyman slavers ran to it, giving tie ropes another examination.
"You have had word from the Holts?"
"Nothing new." Fenrius shrugged. "Prince Uldren has pulled out most of his army from the battle in Arondael, as promised—although I'm not sure he believed the message—"
"I believed the message. And that is more than sufficient. As Uldren knows." If Uldren hadn't been willing to cooperate fully, well, the Biemish would have made adequate allies. Perhaps better ones—it was unlikely that Pirondael would stupidly fail to press home a tactical advantage, the way Uldren had in the north. It was clear to Ahrmin that Prince Pirondael was determined to benefit from every possible advantage.
Still, switching alliances hadn't been necessary; Uldren knew that his own survival depended on slaver powder and slaver guns.
"There should be more than enough for the task—once we join them." Fenrius gestured toward the tarpaulin-covered cylinder, twice the length of a tall man, that was mounted on the largest of the flatbed wagons.
Ahrmin nodded. "True. Have you seen the latest shipment from Hivael?"
"Yes." Fenrius nodded happily. "A hundred slaves came through this morning."
"I take it they aren't like that last batch?"
"No, not at all. Baron Drahan seems to have understood your message."
Ahrmin smiled. "A simple matter of withholding powder until their commitments were met. And with the shipment to Keranahan destroyed, the shortage was acute."
"Perhaps, Master Ahrmin, but it was effective." Fenrius smiled his approval. "I held back a dozen women. Definitely not culls." He smiled thinly. "Prime stock, although perhaps a bit spiritless."
"Fine. Send two of the best to me as a diversion for the trip."
"Yes, Master Ahrmin. At once."
That was a pleasant prospect. The trip was likely to be agonizingly long; best to have a distraction. "When they are delivered to me, move us out."
"Yes, Master Ahrmin."
Ahrmin leaned back against his cushions. Soon. It would be soon.
You and I have a score to settle, Karl Cullinane. It is only proper that a . . . version of one of your own devices will kill you.