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“An army of elves, perhaps?”
“Exactly,” Edric said, nodding. “And what better way to recruit such an army from among the desperate elves and half-elves of the cities than to pose as the embodiment of one of their most cherished myths? The Crown of Elves will lead an army to secure the lost treasure of Bodach and finance the coming kingdom.”
“And where does the House of Jhamri fit into all of this?”
“What better custodian for the lost treasure? Who better to invest it for him?”
“Ah,” the Shadow replied. “So he brings the treasure to the Jhamris, cuts them in for a share to convert it into ready assets, and then disappears with his profits.”
“Those were my thoughts, precisely,” Edric said.
“A bold and risky venture,” said the Shadow. “Aside from the risks involved in stealing Bodach’s treasure, if he proclaims himself the Crown of Elves, pretender or not, he still risks the wrath of the sorcerer kings, who would see him as a threat.”
“Not if he moved quickly enough,” said Edric. “If he absconded with the treasure, there would be no elvish king to threaten anyone. Merely a bold rascal who had cheated his gullible followers and then disappeared.”
“A fascinating theory,” said the Shadow. “But you have no proof that this is what he plans.”
“Why else would he adopt so dangerous a pose?
The rewards would have to be significant. Either way, the talonmaster must be told. If the Nomad can be taken alive, we can get the truth from him. If he really does know where the lost treasure of Bodach can be found—”
“Then we can take it for ourselves,” the Shadow finished. “I will pass on what you’ve told me. The talonmaster will decide what is to be done. Meanwhile, see what else you can learn. Do they suspect you?”
Edric snorted. “Not a chance. I have laid the groundwork for my part too well. They all discount me as an effete, limp-wristed bard en route to Altaruk to sing songs. I have even taken up with a gorgeous half-elf dancing girl, who shares a tent with me and treats me like an older sister. She does not suspect the truth, of course, and it helps maintain the fiction. However, it is all I can do to keep my hands off her. And that is another thing. She is not to be harmed in any way. Her name is Cricket, and she may have fallen on hard times, but she was tribal once.”
“I will make it known,” the Shadow replied with a smile. “So, Edric, have you lost your heart, then? I did not think you even had one.”
“Keep your jests to yourself, little brother. If you saw her, you would understand.”
“No doubt. I am looking forward to it.”
“Well, I’d best get back,” said Edric. “It will soon be sunrise, and we will making ready to get under way. I will look for you at Grak’s Pool tomorrow night.”
“Until tomorrow then, my brother.” They clasped arms, and Edric headed back toward camp. He glanced back over his shoulder once. His brother had disappeared. Edric smiled. No one moved as silently or as swiftly as the Shadows. And no one was more adept at espionage, assassination or intrigue.
The Crown of Elves? The elfling half-breed who called himself the Nomad would soon discover what a real elf was, not the pathetic, weak-willed elves who lived among the humans in their cities or the half-savage desert wanderers the remaining tribal elves had now become, but elves who still retained the former glory of their ancestors and bowed to no one save the grand master of the talons. The Shadows would teach the Nomad a lesson he would not soon forget—assuming he survived it.
Chapter Nine
It was about two hours before sunset when they reached Grak’s Pool, a small oasis roughly midway between South Ledopolus and Altaruk. For a “fast” caravan, their progress seemed annoyingly slow to Sorak. If this was how a fast caravan traveled, he could easily do without the experience of a slow one.
Of course, he reminded himself, it was an unusually large caravan. A smal
ler one would have made much better time. However, they would still have needed to stop several hours before sunset to make camp and unload all the cargo, then feed the kanks and crodlu while the cookfires were lit and the guard outposts were established. And while it wouldn’t have taken a smaller caravan quite so long to get started in the morning, they would still have needed to take down all the tents and roll them up, then load them with the cargo, take a head count of the guards and roustabouts to make sure none had deserted in the night—not that there was anything to be done about it if they had—get the kanks fed once again and line up the formation, then send outriders ahead before moving out behind them. And then, of course, there was the midday break…
They averaged between fifteen and twenty miles a day, depending on the terrain. Good time, all things considered. The caravan route was not a road, of course; it was merely familiar terrain. Yet, in the Athasian desert, the exact features of the terrain were never quite the same from one trip to another. Windstorms and monsoons worked changes on the landscape, and an area that had been easily passable three weeks earlier could be crisscrossed with windblown dunes or washes. Rarely did their course take them in a straight line. Considering his task, the caravan captain was doing an outstanding job. Even Kieran seemed impressed, though his presence was doubtless a strong incentive for achievement.
Grak’s Pool was more than merely an oasis. According to The Wanderer’s Journal, it was a vital stop along the caravan route, the only place between South Ledopolus and Altaruk where they could take on water. But the water wasn’t free.
There was a settlement of sorts at the oasis, a large mud-brick fortress that was home to about fifty mercenaries under the command of an enterprising half-elf named Grak, who had established the remote stronghold and laid claim to the oasis. The number of mercenaries in residence at the fortress varied; they came and went. Grak did not sign them to any contracts. Neither did he pay them. What Grak provided was a haven for fighting men of all types and descriptions, a place where they could find free accommodations, albeit of a rough sort, without any questions asked. And since his stronghold controlled an oasis on a busy caravan route, it attracted mercenaries in search of work, as well as criminals on the run from the authorities in one city or another. Grak cared nothing about who his men were or where they came from. Whether soldier or outlaw—sometimes both—they were welcome to stay as long as they accepted his authority. But anyone who challenged that authority found that the penalties could be draconian in the extreme.
As they passed through the heavy wooden gates in the outer wall, Kieran rode up beside Sorak and Ryana.
“If you have anything of value, such as weapons, coins, or jewels, keep it close to hand,” he cautioned them. “I shouldn’t think we would have anything to fear from Grak’s men, but there are those among them who are light-fingered. And the caravan guard will be too busy keeping an eye on the cargo to spare much attention for the passengers. If anything is stolen from you, complaints here will be of no avail.”
“Thank you, we’ll keep that in mind,” said Sorak.
“There will be some limited accommodations in the fortress for the passengers,” said Kieran. “If you wish to bathe or sleep in a bed rather than your bedroll, it will cost you a copper or two, but I’d advise against it. The attendants will doubtless go through your clothing and possessions while you bathe, unless you keep them within sight, and even that is no guarantee. Some of these people could steal the hair right out of your nose. And the beds are liable to be lice-ridden.”
