Rise of a Merchant Prince (40 page)

The man who came into view in the lead was oddly dressed, in whitish armor that Erik instantly marked as not being any metal with which he was familiar. For one thing, it should have clanked loudly, but it didn't; for another, it should have made the man wearing it plod along, but he moved lightly upon his feet. His head was completely enclosed in a helm with two narrow eye slits, and upon his back he wore what appeared to be a crossbow of some alien design. Otherwise he fairly bristled with swords, daggers, and knives.

The two men who followed were familiar figures to Erik, who greeted them softly when they were close. “Praji! Vaja! It's good to see you again.”

The two old fighters returned the greeting. “We'd heard you were among those who got away from
Maharta, von Darkmoor,” said Praji.

The two old men were armed as mercenaries, but Erik wondered how well they could still fight, given their advancing age. Still, he had seen firsthand two years previously Praji and Vaja's toughness, and nothing he saw now indicated they were any less skilled—just tired.

Prajichitas was as ugly a man as Erik had ever encountered, but smart and likable. Vajasia was a fading peacock of a man, still vain despite advancing years, and the two dissimilar men were as loyal to each other as brothers.

Miranda said, “Boldar, any trouble?”

The walking arsenal removed his helm, revealing a youthful face, freckled and pale, with red-brown hair and blue eyes. A slight sheen of perspiration was the only sign of exertion, while Praji and Vaja both came into camp and sat with open displays of fatigue.

The man named Boldar said, “None. It took me a while to track down your two friends, Calis.”

Calis glanced at Miranda, who said, “I described you. He was to come here and find you even if I had gone.”

Calis didn't look pleased at the “if I had gone” part. He asked Praji, “How goes it in the east?”

“Badly. Worse than we've ever imagined. This Emerald Queen bitch is far worse than we remembered at Hamsa and the other places we've run across her.” He pulled off his boots and wiggled his toes. “Do you remember General Gapi? From the mercenaries' rendezvous before the assault on Lanada? He was sent against the Jeshandi in the northern steppe—a big mistake, from my experience
with those horsemen—and they beat him to a bloody stump. One man in ten sent into the grasslands got back. Anyway, the Emerald Queen took it personally; she had Gapi staked out over an anthill and smeared honey on his balls. Made all her generals watch until he stopped screaming.”

Vaja shook his head. “You don't fail in her army.” The old fighter smiled. “Gives a whole new meaning to ‘do or die.'”

Calis said, “So the Jeshandi still hold?”

“No more,” answered Praji, a sad note in his voice. “After Gapi's failure, they unleashed five thousand Saaur into the grasslands. The Jeshandi handled themselves well enough—they made the lizardmen bleed more than anyone else so far—but they were finally crushed.”

Erik nodded in silence. He had faced the Saaur and their monstrous horses only once, but he knew that despite their size the Saaur were as good horsemen as he had ever seen. No human force could face them one to one; it took three or four human riders to neutralize one Saaur. In his idle moments, Erik had wrestled with plans to defeat the Saaur in open combat, and had yet to devise one that seemed remotely plausible.

Praji said, “There are some stragglers still riding in the foothills, raiding a camp here and there for food, but as a force, the Free People are no more.”

Calis was silent a moment. Of all the cultures in this remote continent, the Jeshandi counted the largest number of elven people. Each elf who was killed was a loss no human could understand. His mother's people would be mourning this news for decades. Shaking off his reflective mood, he asked,
“What of the Clans to the south?”

Praji said, “That's where he”—he pointed at Boldar—“found us. We were in a camp with Hatonis last night—”

Erik blurted, “You were in the Eastlands this morning?”

Praji nodded. “This lad has the means of getting us around in a hurry.”

Boldar held out a device, turning it slightly in his hands. It was an orb with a series of small protruding switches. “We got here in the blink of an eye,” continued Praji. “We spent most of the day trekking around these bleeding mountains trying to find you.”

Turning back to Calis, Praji said, “We are pretty helpless, old friend. The Emerald Queen's fairly got her army lining the banks of the river on both sides these days. We hardly get a bowshot at her lumber barges. Best we can do sometimes is attack from ambush and try to run a barge aground on the banks, that sort of thing. The last time we tried to raid into the City of the Serpent River we lost half our force and did no damage to speak of.” He sighed. Looking directly at Calis, he said, “The war here is over, Calis. Whatever you propose to do here in the Westlands, it had better be something special, because that fleet she's building is going to be ready to sail next year, year after at the latest. We thought we were buying ten years for you, but it's more like three or four.”

Calis nodded. “And two of those are gone.” Looking at the two tired old men, he said, “Get something to eat.”

As Praji and Vaja were handed cold rations, Miranda turned to Boldar. “Did you bring it?”

Boldar unshouldered his bag and reached inside.
He pulled out a small amulet. “Cost a fair bit, but not as much as I thought it would. I'll add the cost to what you owe me.”

“What is it?” asked Calis.

Miranda handed it to him and Erik observed it as Calis held it up. It seemed nothing more than a simple gold neck decoration. Miranda said, “It's a ward against scrying magic. As of this moment, no magician can find you and anyone within a dozen paces of you. This may save our lives when it's time to get out of here.”

Calis nodded. He handed it back to Miranda, but she put up her hand. “I don't need it.” She reached out and pushed his hand back toward him. “You do.”

Calis hesitated, then nodded and put the amulet around his neck. Turning to where Bobby de Loungville stood, he said, “We leave at first light.”

Erik stood and started his rounds. De Loungville didn't need to tell him what to do or that now was the time to do it.

Jason came running into Barret's, gripping a sheaf of paper and parchment, and looked around the room. Spying Roo on the stairs, he called his name and raced past a pair of startled waiters.

“What is it?” asked Roo. His eyes had dark circles under them, as he had missed sleeping for the better part of two days. He had promised himself he would stay away from Sylvia for a few days. He intended to spend time with his wife and children, getting some needed sleep in the master suite while Karli slept with the baby in the nursery, but each of the last two nights, as if he had no volition, he had told his driver to take him to the Estherbrook estate.

Jason lowered his voice. “Someone's convinced Jurgens to call our note.”

Roo instantly lost his fatigue. He took Jason by the arm and led him to the table that was now thought of as the Bitter Sea Company table, where Masterson, Hume, and Crowley sat. Roo came, sat, and said, “Jurgens has called our note.”

“What?” said Masterson. “He agreed to the extension.” Looking at Jason, he asked, “What happened?”

Jason sat down and spread out the paper work before him. “This is far worse than an untimely debt call, gentlemen.” He pointed at a ledger sheet. “Someone at our countinghouse has been . . . for lack of a better term, embezzling funds.”

At that both Hume and Crowley sat upright. “What?” demanded Crowley.

Jason politely and patiently began to explain, despite several interruptions. The short explanation was that not only had someone cleverly buried tens of thousands of golden sovereigns through clever transfers from account to account, they had also managed to avoid detection for months. Now there was almost a quarter-million sovereigns unaccounted for. The only reason Jason had been able to uncover the deceit was because of the note being called. “The worst of it, gentlemen,” said Jason, “is that one way or another, the call comes at the most critical moment for the Bitter Sea Company since it was founded. If we can't meet this demand note from Jurgens, we lose the options on Blue Star Shipping, and without those ships, we can't make a half-dozen critical contracts.”

“What's the worst?” asked Roo.

“The worst? If this note is not met, you can lose it all.”

Suddenly Crowley was saying, “This is your doing, Avery! I told you we were moving too fast. We needed time to consolidate, to build capital reserves, but you insisted we keep taking positions. Luck turns, Rupert! And it has just turned on us!”

Masterson said, “What's the note?”

Jason said, “Six hundred thousand golden sovereigns.”

“How light are we?”

Jason laughed bitterly. “Exactly what was embezzled. We can liquidate a few holdings quickly and maybe come to four hundred thousand. But there's easily two hundred thousand less than we need.”

“Who did this?” demanded Hume.

Jason said, “More than one scribe had to be involved.” He sat back and scratched his chin. “I hate to say this, but it's as if the entire firm was being employed to ruin the Bitter Sea Company.”

Roo was silent a moment, then said, “That's exactly what happened. That countinghouse was just too ripe a plum for any of us to pass up.” He pointed a finger at Crowley. “That includes you, too, Brandon.”

Crowley reluctantly said, “That is true.”

“Someone set us up, gentlemen. Who?”

“Estherbrook,” said Masterson. “At least, he's one of the few with the resources.”

“But he hurts himself,” said Roo. “He's involved in a half-dozen deals with the Bitter Sea Company.”

“But we're big enough to be causing him some concern,” said Hume.

Masterson said, “There are others. Wendel
Brothers, Jalanki Traders, hell, the big trading houses in the Free Cities, Kilraine and the others, all of them have reasons to be wary of us.”

Roo said, “Jason, go to the office and get Luis, Duncan, and any of the other men who can be trusted and know how to hold a sword. Then go to the countinghouse and put everyone there under guard. We're going to get to the bottom of this before whoever is working against us there catches wind that we know.”

Jason stood up. “I'll leave at once.”

Masterson said, “If this was an arranged betrayal, he'll find the countinghouse office empty, I'll bet.”

Roo pushed back the chair and shook his head. “I won't take that bet.” The dark feeling inside was threatening to rise up and sweep over him. He could feel a deep dread building that he might be reduced to a penniless freebooter as quickly as he had risen to prominence. He took a deep breath. “Well, worry won't feed the team, as my father used to say. I suggest we put our minds to how we raise a quick quarter-million golden sovereigns of capital in”—he glanced at the demand note Jason had left on the table—“the next two days.”

The others were silent.

Duncan glanced around the inn, then indicated with a quick nod the man he had located. Roo went over to sit next across from the man while Luis and Duncan came to stand on either side.

“What . . . ?” began the man as he started to rise.

Duncan and Luis each placed a hand on his shoulders, forcing him back into his chair. “You're Rob McCraken?” asked Roo.

“Who wants to know?” responded the man, obviously feeling less brave than he tried to sound. His face had gone pale and he kept glancing around for a route of escape.

“You have a cousin named Herbert McCraken?”

The man tried again to rise, but found that the two men held him tightly. “Maybe.”

Suddenly Luis had a knife lying alongside the man's neck, and he said, “You were asked a question that requires a more certain answer, my friend. It is either ‘Yes, he is my cousin,' or ‘No, he is not my cousin.' And be sure that the wrong answer will be very painful.”

Softly the man said, “Yes, Herbert is my cousin.”

“When did you last see him?” asked Roo.

“A few days ago. He dined with my family. He's a bachelor, so he comes by every two or three weeks for a meal.”

“Did he say anything about leaving for a journey?”

“No,” said Rob McCraken. “But he did say good-bye in a funny sort of way.”

“What do you mean?”

The man glanced around. “He lingered at the door and . . . well, he hugged me hard, and we haven't done that since we were kids. It could have been a longer good-bye than I thought.”

“Most likely. If he were to decide to leave Krondor and live elsewhere, where would he go?” asked Roo.

McCraken said, “I don't know. Hadn't thought that way. We have kin in the East, but they're distant. A cousin in Salador. Haven't seen him in ten years.”

Roo paused, drumming his fingers on the table.
“If your cousin was to come into a lot of gold unexpectedly, where then do you think he might go?”

The man's eyes narrowed. “Enough to purchase a Quegan title?”

Roo glanced at Luis, who said, “I think a minor title if he took it all.”

Roo stood up. “Sarth.” To Duncan he said, “Get as good a description as you can of this Herbert McCraken, then send a dozen riders to Sarth. If they take extra horses, they should be able to overtake him within ten hours.”

Roo said to Luis, “Head for the docks and start asking questions. No ships in from or bound for Queg are registered, but you never know if one has slipped in claiming to be from the Free Cities or Durbin. Sniff around and double-check that no one matching McCraken's description is trying to slip aboard a ship bound out of the city. We have enough eyes and ears down there working for us that we should be able to find him.”