Multiverse: Exploring the Worlds of Poul Anderson (38 page)

A CANDLE
by Raymond E. Feist

Raymond E. Feist
is the author of numerous worldwide fantasy bestsellers, perhaps best known for his extremely popular
Riftwar
series, which began in 1982 with
Magician: Apprentice,
and continued on through another five volumes. Feist followed this up with the related four-volume
Riftwar: Serpent War s
equence and later with the three-volume
Riftwar: Legacy
sequence, and has also written
Riftwar
novels in collaboration with Janny Wurts, S. M. Stirling, Joel Rosenberg, and William R. Forstchen. Feist is also the author of the three-volume
Demonwar Saga,
the three-volume
Darkwar
series, and the three-volume
Conclave of Shadows
series. His most recent novel
, Magician’s End,
is book three in the
Chaoswar
series.

Here Raymond E. Feist delivers another fast-paced Dominic Flandry adventure, one that’s not quite what it seems, and contains something of a passing of a torch. Or perhaps a candle.

Men groaned
or wept, were silent or cursed fate, as was in keeping with their nature. The man in the gray hooded robe watched. It had taken some time to find those he had been seeking, but once he had found them, things had proceeded quickly.

Oddly enough, his search had been hampered by the fact that Spriacos was a human world, far enough off major trading lanes that few aliens bothered to visit. Without significant industry, no exports more valuable than bulk metals and processed foodstuffs, and no tourist attractions due to no indigenous sapients occupying the world before the Empire claimed it, there was little anyone wished to see here. The hooded man had seen one Wodenite, a few Tigeries, and a pair of Donarrian iron traders. Otherwise, Spiracos was a place one came to catch another ship to somewhere else.

Still, the Empire’s business had brought the hooded man to Tanhis, the capital city, seeking a man. In the end, he had found his man, wrung the truth from him, and was about to depart when another band of unlikely visitors to Spiracos had come to his attention; a slaver crew pillaging the Pits, as the poorest quarter of the city was known. Bordering massive mining pits, the Pits was home to day laborers, gambling halls, and strip clubs, a place where a man could find any vice he sought if he had the price.

“Celia, how are you receiving?” the hooded man asked sub-vocally. A pair of clicks in his ear told him that he was being received five-by-five. A tiny transmitter sewn into the hood broadcast on a sub-carrier to the ship in orbit above. Even if the encrypted message was received and decoded, it would have appeared to be only a mercantile communication unless one could determine which of the fifty subcarriers embedded in the signal was transmitting the real data.

Sir Dominic Flandry, Agent of the Terran Empire, considered it something of a technological overkill, but he conceded that the gadgets Special Branch’s researchers cobbled together for him always worked, so he choose not to be a critic. He leaned back against the rear wall, part of the concrete foundation of the building, and took stock of his surroundings.

The cell was beyond filthy, a thirty-foot square of bare earth in the basement of an abandoned warehouse, defined by three walls of iron bars and the concrete against which he rested. Flandry had quickly ascertained that the simple cage wasn’t bolted to the floor or ceiling; the two side walls were bolted to an ancient cinder block wall. Men were packed so closely that no one could move without jostling someone else, but so universal was the misery that there were only faint complaints at the discomfort.

The warehouse was otherwise empty, a single double door in the opposite wall leading up to the surface. The guards who had herded Flandry and the others into the cage earlier that night had vanished back through those doors, leaving the prisoners unguarded. It was a safe bet; they had all been searched and anything resembling a weapon or potential tool had been confiscated.

Flandry had already calculated the risk from the guards and decided that it all depended on timing; they were lax, as they counted their job already completed, even though the prisoners were still under their supervision. Flandry suspected that they would soon be moved. No water or food had been provided, but slavers were disinclined to diminish the worth of their inventory, so transportation soon was the most likely answer. Once on the ship, they would be given food and water certain to be dosed with drugs to render the slaves docile; if they were to escape, it would have to be before they were taken off-world.

Flandry knew that he could be extracted with a single word—Celia had already alerted local police to stand by—but that would likely involve a great many casualties, and while he had no compunctions seeing the guilty instantly killed when needed, he had qualms about unnecessary collateral damage; it was inelegant.

Flandry studied those around him, trying to determine who he needed to talk to first. Two men were possibilities. One appeared to be moving from despair to anger, and soon a mindless outburst of rage might bring unwelcome attention from the guards. He might be an asset, but he might also prove a dangerous liability, Flandry finally judged.

He turned his attention to the second man, and saw in him a likely candidate as the natural leader in this group. He was calm, studying the surroundings and the other men, constantly recalculating his chances to change circumstances rather than merely giving in to hopelessness. For a brief second, his gaze met the hooded man’s and in that instant each acknowledged in the other someone of like mind.

Rising, Flandry moved as best he could through the press, gaining rising complaint and curses for his efforts, but he reached the man he had been studying without anyone objecting violently. Softly, he asked, “You ready to fight?”

The other man spared him a glance, then nodded once. “What are you called?”

The hooded man threw back his hood and said, “Flandry.”

Absent the hood, Flandry’s features were strong. Dark eyes that in brighter light would have revealed flecks of amber, dark hair cut short in military fashion, a determined expression that immediately communicated this was a dangerous man.

“I’m Laren,” said the other man; he was of like height, well muscled and fit, despite being older. His leathery face and gray hair did nothing to diminish Flandry’s estimation of him.

“You’re not from Spiracos?”

“Off-world,” Flandry answered.

“How did an off-worlder end up in the Pits, getting caught up in a slaver raid?”

“It took a bit of doing,” he said. Raising his voice just enough to be heard by the other men in the cell, he spoke. “Listen. I’ll only say this once. This man, Laren,” He glanced at the man next to him, “and I, we are going to fight.”

Instantly there came muttering and objections.

“Shut up!” Flandry said, not loud but forcefully enough to silence the men. “These are Alcaz Slavers. Some of you have been here for only hours, others no more than two days. Their style is grab and dash, quickly culling brothels, gambling halls, and bars, and away again to avoid detection by local police. They are in and out swiftly, and once you’re chained in the hold of a cargo ship, your life will never again be your own. This is your last hope for freedom. They will kill you if need be. But you are of no value to them dead or severely damaged, so they will hesitate in that killing, and that hesitancy will be your salvation.

“If you act quickly, you will win freedom, be home in a few hours with your families.” With a wry smile he said, “Some of you might be back at work by morning. I’m asking you to risk pain and injury now, to avoid dying in the games on Ashula or the mines on Peridan. The choice is yours.”

“What do we do?” asked a man in the far corner.

“Watch the stairs and if you see any movement, let me know.”

Flandry moved to one corner of the cage most removed from the stairs and said, “Two fasteners.” He tore at the hem of his cloak and produced a small tool. A white hot flame jetted out and he cut through a restraining bolt above his head. “Don’t touch this cage until I tell you.” He knelt and cut partially through the lower fastener. He moved quickly through the press to the opposite junction and cut the top fastener and halfway through the lower. “Now, anyone knocks this over before we’re ready and I’ll kill him.

“Wait until I act, then hit these bars hard. Any guards left standing, swarm them. Some of you will be hurt, but you’ll survive shock sticks and clubs. Keep them from unholstering their weapons.”

“But—” began another man.

“Shut up,” returned Flandry. “We are doing this. Help or get out of the way, but if you help, we all stand a better chance.”

Three rapid clicks sounded in Flandry’s ear, followed by another three. That was Celia’s unofficial code for, “Are you crazy?” and he chose to ignore it.

The prisoners returned to quiet as the far doors opened and two guards appeared at the bottom of the stairs. They moved lazily towards the crouching men, who remained silent. One reached out and wiggled the cage door, testing the lock, and Flandry prayed to whatever gods of hopelessness might be attending him that the iron cage didn’t fall apart.

One prisoner begged, “Please, I have a family.”

“No talking!” shouted the guard in heavily accented Terran, then paused a moment, seeing nothing more than what he expected, and left.

Spiracos was a fringe world, but located at a trading nexus that was more useful than vital. It was therefore constantly verging on being important, yet never quite reaching industrial, financial, or political critical mass. It was predominately human, with the occasional sapient from other races, but save for a slightly lower gravity and two moons, could have been a twin of ancient Terra.

Reaching up to the seam of his robe where right shoulder met hood, he pressed a tiny bead and whispered, “Ready?”

A faint voice in his ear answered, “Standing by.”

Raising his voice again, just enough for the other prisoners to hear, he said, “Be ready. Act as beaten dogs until I move.”

Flandry hoped he had driven home the point; he had little concern for his own safety, but he had a mission, and turning this slave raid on its ear was proving to be exactly the vehicle for completing his mission. Turning to Laren, he said, “Can I count on you?”

The man returned a half-smile and nod and Flandry knew that his instincts were serving him again. “Military?” Laren looked like a veteran. His hair was shot through with gray, but his eyes were clear blue, and he had a hard edge to him that came from more than years of laboring.

“Conscripted at eighteen,” he said. “Second Marines LURPS.”

Flandry couldn’t have been more pleased. Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol members were resourceful, deadly, not particularly battle-happy, and as difficult to kill as a cockroach. “Early out?”

“Lost a leg at Vindabar to a Merseian sniper. The Empire gratefully grew me another, but by then the war was declared over and I was given a bonus and cut loose. Apparently, they didn’t need someone whose only skill was being a sneaky bastard behind enemy lines.” He looked into Flandry’s eyes a moment, then said, “You?”

“I’m with the IG.”

Wide-eyed shock was followed moments later by a broad grin. “Deputy Inspector General? Here?”

“Long story. I’ll tell you more after we get out of here.” He reached up and activated his com and asked, “Anything?”

“Just about to contact you. Heavy transport dropping out of orbit above your location. No chatter with planetary approach control, so they’re definitely off the books.”

“Someone was bribed,” agreed Flandry. “Let me know when you see shuttles coming down, then wait for my signal.”

“About five minutes.” The com fell silent.

Laren said, “You have people outside.” It wasn’t a question. “How many?”

“Enough.”

The distant sound of heavy engines came faintly through the heavy walls of the underground pen. What had originally been housed in this warehouse was unknown, but it made an ideal location for human traffickers to keep their prisoners for transport off-world.

A dull thud announced the landing of the shuttle. Flandry guessed that it was a probably an old military transport, given the number of slaves they wished to move. He idly wondered where the female slaves were being held, but assumed they’d be moved by a different craft. It was academic; if things went according to plan, he’d soon find them and cut them loose.

When he heard the sound of boots coming down the stairs, he whispered, “Soon!”

Five slavers appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and crossed the room. Four took up equally spaced positions behind the one with the key to the cage. All were dressed as civilians, but, with a slight nod to Laren, Flandry identified the two on the left as former military. Their stance and the alertness in their eyes was in stark contrast to the almost bored expressions and lax behavior of the other three. Laren nodded in return and with a slight motion of his head indicated he’d go after the left-most guard.

Flandry waited. He gently reached out and tugged slightly on Laren’s arm, signaling the need to hang back and be among the last out of the cage. He needed as much chaos as possible before they struck.