The Prison Stone Read online

  “Horn of blood,” Gravelhorn swore.

  Cormoran took no offense. If anyone had earned the right to candor, it was Gravelhorn. “You lead, I’ll follow, my lord,” the dwarf said. “I always was partial to dancin’.”

  “You would let me lead?” Cormoran said, slashing his way forward.

  “Try to find a more nimble-footed partner. I dare you,” Gravelhorn growled, keeping close behind.

  “Why does the last delivery of the day have to be to Rhory?” Ellis asked. His feet were already aching from the miles they’d trodden that day. He tugged on the strap of his courier bag, feeling the weight of the one package they had yet to deliver.

  Kit didn’t answer, and her mind seemed to be elsewhere.

  “I mean, why shouldn’t it be Rhory, after all?” Ellis countered his own argument. “Who am I? Why not give the unpleasant assignments to the napper, right?”

  “Are you through?” Kit asked, a little too irritably. “This isn’t a punishment, you thimblehead. It’s just a job. It’s the luck of the draw. Even if you hadn’t had your little encounter with Tubber, we’d still be here, on our way to Rhory.”

  “I hate Rhory,” Ellis said.

  “I think even the humans hate Rhory,” Kit agreed.

  Rhory was a human outpost on Everdale—which was otherwise designated a haffolk reservation. It served as the administrative seat of the moon, connecting them to the Kingdom of Hearth, and it also hosted Everdale’s ætherport. It was not a place one wanted to get caught in after dark, as the crowded streets were filled with those on their way from one place to another, many of whom, for various reasons, did not want to land on Hearth.

  As they rounded a bend in the road, Ellis made out the border crossing ahead of them. There was a short line, as usual, for it took time to answer the questions of the border agents and obtain writs of passage.

  Ellis sighed. “I’m tired of my life.”

  Kit rolled her eyes.

  “I mean it,” he said. “It’s sunup and walk thirty miles and sunset and then do it again.”

  “You don’t have to tell me about that. I walk every bleedin’ mile with you.”

  “Nothing is ever going to change. I’m just going to be a courier, second-class, until my feet fall off.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Your feet won’t fall off. They’ll just grind down to nubs.”

  “I want to do something important with my life,” Ellis complained. “I wish I could just leave all this behind and go do something…big. Something that matters.”

  “O! By the horn—will you stop whining?” Kit snapped.

  “I’m not whining.”

  “You are. You make me want to crush the head of something innocent.”

  “Something that isn’t me, I hope.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  Ellis looked sideways at her as they walked. “You scare me sometimes.”

  “Well, you irritate me sometimes, so we’re even.”

  They’d reached the border crossing, and stood at the back of the line. Ellis counted four travelers ahead of them. One was human, apparently finishing business in the Dale for the day and heading back to his home in Rhory. Three others were haffolk, two wore merchant’s coats, and the other was wearing ordinary Dale dress, so Ellis couldn’t guess why she might be crossing. And it is none of your business, he reminded himself.

  A wooden fence made of rough-hewn timbers stretched as far as the eye could see. It came to about chest-high on the haffolk, and ran for many miles around the periphery of Rhory. Ellis wasn’t sure if the purpose of it was to keep humans and dwarfs in or haffolk out. Perhaps it was both.

  There was a large gate set into the fence, and a small guard house sat just inside on Rhory land. A wooden table had been placed about three paces in front of the gate, and two human guards sat at it. One, a thick-set woman in her middle years, had a pile of papers in front of her, and two spindles stacked with writs and receipts. Small, round spectacles perched on her nose, and her lips seemed frozen in a perpetual purse. A tight gray bun stuck out asymmetrically from one side of her head. The other human was sprawled in his chair, looking as if he might slide off in a sleepy stupor, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

  As Ellis and Kit approached, Ellis withdrew his courier ID and held it up for them to read. The one keeping records slapped her partner’s thigh. “Courier,” she said. “I need Form 86E.”

  “Horn of blood, woman,” he said, but he hauled himself to his feet and ambled back to the guard house. A moment later he returned.

  “Name?” the woman asked.

  “Ellis Sunderland, Courier Second Class, Everdale Post Office Number 27.”

  “Name?” The woman looked at Kit.

  “Kittredge Cornfeather.”

  The woman looked back and forth between them. “You married?”

  Ellis’ face flushed and he began stammering.

  “By the horn! No,” Kit said. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, emphasizing the absurdity of the notion. “He’s a whiner.”

  “I am not a whiner,” Ellis protested.

  “You’re whining right now,” Kit pointed out.

  The woman put her hand up to stop them. She spoke once more in Kit’s direction. “What is your occupation?”

  The man returned and slapped Form 86E on the table, groaning as he dropped once more into his seat.

  “Bodyguard,” Kit said.

  “Bodyguard?”

  Kit put her hand on the hilt of her longneedle. “Bodyguard.”

  The woman’s eyebrows rose. She looked at Ellis. “Is she your bodyguard?”

  Ellis nodded vigorously.

  “Well, all right then.” The woman made a note.

  “Did she say ‘bodyguard’?” the man asked.

  “She did.”

  “Is this what the world is coming to?” The man shook his head. “Not only do we have to live on this gods-forsaken d’race planet, not only do we have to lower ourselves by talking to the filthy creatures, now we have to put up with them giving themselves airs. Oooh, the d’race needs a bodyguard. As if a d’race could be fancy enough to need one, or important enough, like.”

  Ellis saw Kit stiffen. Haffolk was the name the Dale inhabitants used for themselves and was the respectful and proper term. “D’race,” however, was a contraction from “mixed race,” a word used only by humans and considered impolite at best—and an insufferable insult at worst.

  “It’s not what the world is coming to,” the woman joined his lament, “it’s where it bleedin’ is.”

  “’Sooth,” the man agreed.

  “Let me see the package,” the woman said to Ellis, making a “come” motion with her upturned hand.

  Ellis removed a box about twelve inches square from his courier’s bag and placed it on the table.

  The woman eyed it suspiciously, noting the addresses of both the sender and the receiver.

  “What’s in it?” she asked.

  “How should we know?” Kit snapped. Ellis noted her hand was tight on the hilt of her weapon.

  Ellis was eager to mediate Kit’s aggression. “We don’t open the packages, I’m afraid. That’s against the law. We just deliver them.” Ellis wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t already know. Couriers passed through the border in both directions daily.

  The woman turned to face the man. “I don’t know about these two,” she said. “Something smells off.”

  “I know just what you mean. You can smell a d’race a mile away.” Then the man burped loudly.

  “I’m not sure what to do about them,” she tapped her fingers on the table.

  “We’re right here,” Kit seethed. “We can hear you.”

  “If you’ll pardon me,” Ellis said. “But Hearth postal regulation 5, subsection D guarantees unimpeded courier service between reservation territories and Hearth municipal districts—which Rhory is, even though off-planet, subsequent to the Quintin Fieldmanor act.”

  The man nudg
ed the woman, “Givin’ himself airs.”

  “I see that.” The woman turned back to the haffolk. She pointed to Ellis’ chest. “That’s a nice necklace.”

  Ellis’ hand went to the medallion he wore—the same medallion he had been wearing since he had first been shipped off-world to Everdale.

  “What is it?” she asked, peering at it.

  Ellis’ hand closed over it, holding it tight, covering the design.

  “I’d like a necklace like that,” the woman said to the man next to her.

  “It’d look good on you, it would,” the man nodded.

  The woman looked Ellis in the eye and cocked her head.

  “It’s my birth medal,” he said. “And you can’t have it.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Too bad, then. Well, our work is done here. Passage denied.”

  “For what reason?” Kit asked, incredulous.

  “Suspicious package,” the woman said. “Might be poison.”

  Ellis scowled at them. He shook the package. “That would be a lot of poison.”

  “Might be an explosive,” the man said to the woman.

  Ellis tossed the package on the table. It landed with a thud that made the man jump. He was losing his temper, which was usually Kit’s response, not his. This time, however, Kit intervened. She grabbed the package and dutifully replaced it in the courier bag hanging from Ellis’ shoulder. “We’ll need to file a report,” she said. “So we’ll need your names.”

  The woman turned her papers over. “No, you won’t.”

  Kit grew louder. “You are standing in the way of our delivery, and we’ll need to explain why. Give us your names.”

  “Shall I call security over, to rough them up?” the man asked casually.

  Eyes locked on Kit, the woman slowly smiled, as if to suggest she would like that very much.

  Kit’s jaw was set like granite, but she grabbed Ellis’ elbow and steered him away.

  “They’re trolls,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t be saying bad things about trolls, if I were you,” Ellis cautioned.

  “Come on,” she kept pulling him, back through the line, away from the gate. “When I’m sheriff…” Kit trailed off.

  “We have a duty to deliver this package,” Ellis insisted.

  “You’re whining again.”

  “I’m not whining. I’m saying—”

  “I know, and we will deliver it,” Kit said.

  “How?”

  “Only one thing to do,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Sneak.”

  Cormoran swore as he took the ridge. Orfek was gasping for breath behind him. Clearly the dwarf was made for battle, not long distance sprinting. The slope was steep, and Cormoran paused to let them both catch their breaths. “It’s taken us too long,” he confessed his fear. “We won’t catch up to him.”

  “Aye, we might not head him off,” Gravelhorn agreed, “but we may yet be able to clean up after ’im.”

  Cormoran didn’t disagree with that. “Can you carry on?”

  “My lord, it would take a lot more than this to slow me down.”

  Cormoran smiled sadly, his eyes moving to the battle raging beneath them. “My place is down there, not chasing after Ealon.”

  “And it’s not my place to question your father’s wisdom in sending him to this battle,” Gravelhorn said, “but…”

  He left it at that, and Cormoran nodded as he turned to follow the ridge and his errant brother. “My father’s wisdom is sound—”

  “‘Course it is, lord,” Gravelhorn said, too quickly.

  “What I mean is, under ordinary circumstances, a king would want his son—even a second son—to gain experience in battle. You cannot lead if you do not fight.”

  “No, lord. ’Tis true.”

  “But there’s no such thing as ‘ordinary circumstances’ where Ealon is involved.”

  Gravelhorn said nothing. His dwarfish legs had to work faster than Cormoran’s own to carry him as far and as quickly. But he was the most dependable, loyal, indefatigable sideman Cormoran had ever known. Finally, the dwarf said, “Where the devil is he going?”

  “My guess is to the rebel general’s camp. See,” he pointed back along the ridge to their own general’s camp. “Both of our camps are along this ridge, just in front of the treeline. It’s the only thing in this direction.”

  “Is he planning to single-handedly take out their command?” Orfek asked. “I mean, he has little enough skill with a sword.” A moment later, he added, “Begging your pardon, lord.”

  “No, ’tis true enough. There are plenty who don’t dare speak truth to their sovereigns, Orfek, but more should. We are far from perfect. We pretend we are gods, but we are often as blind as moles, and just as dug in. I cherish your candor.”

  “Thank you, lord,” Gravelhorn said, although he did not sound very certain.

  Just through a stand of trees, Cormoran saw the bright colors of the rebels’ pavilion. He held his hand up, a gesture meaning both “halt” and “silence.” Gravelhorn froze, waiting for further instructions.

  Cormoran peered through the undergrowth and whispered, “We’ve got two guards in front. They don’t look particularly wary—they’re watching the battle and pointing as if they’re betting on a tournament.”

  Gravelhorn grunted. “All the better for us.”

  “Indeed. Come.” Cormoran slid to the left, deeper into the copse of trees, edging his way around to the rear of the pavilion. He squatted, moving more quickly than a man should in full armor, and more quietly. The copse came to an end just ahead, and Cormoran saw an open distance between the trees and the pavilion of about twenty yards. He also saw his brother, his black-clad backside turned toward them, peering through what appeared to be a hole in the tent.

  “There’s the bugger,” Gravelhorn said, drawing alongside. “What in the Dark Field is he doing?”

  “Trying to get himself killed, dammit,” Cormoran spat. His mind reeled at how livid his father would be if he let that happen.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, sir. Look.” The dwarf pointed to a place a few yards in front of the truant prince—it looked like the grasses had been trodden down, and as Cormoran squinted, he could just barely make out the crumpled figure of a man. Some of the grasses were smeared with crimson.

  Cormoran blew a gust of air through his cheeks. “Oh, my brother, what are you doing?”

  “He’s trying to single-handedly win the battle,” Gravelhorn suggested.

  “By flouting the most sacred rules of military propriety,” Cormoran agreed. “How can we expect our enemies to fight honorably if we do not?”

  Gravelhorn grunted.

  “Do you see anyone else? Anything amiss?” Cormoran asked. Dwarfish eyes were sharper than human eyes, having been fashioned by the oyarsu to see in the dark.

  “All looks clear to me, lord.”

  Cormoran drew his sword and held it at the ready before him. “Then let us go.” He stepped out from the cover of the copse and moved quickly over the brown grassy stretch toward the pavilion. He was almost upon Ealon when the prince, sensing movement, whipped around, dagger drawn. Ealon’s eyes went wide at the sight of his brother, and Cormoran saw a series of emotions taking the field of his face in rapid succession—surprise, fear, anger…opportunity.

  Wordlessly, Cormoran came up beside his brother, and signaled behind him for Gravelhorn to halt. Ealon turned back toward the pavilion without a sound and pointed at a small rip in the pavilion’s fabric. His chin was inclined, as if daring Cormoran to question him, or challenge him, or—oyarsu forbid—judge him.

  Cormoran looked back at Gravelhorn, who stood close behind, ax at the ready. Were they alone, Cormoran would have hesitated to bend and put his eye to the hole. It would be as good as showing his brother his neck, and he did not trust Ealon not to take the opportunity to slit his throat. The thought made him sad. But he knew Ealon would try nothing with the dwarf standing
guard. So he bent, exposing his neck to his little brother, and peered through the opening into the large tent.

  At first, it took Cormoran a moment to figure out what he was seeing. He had expected generals gathered around maps, issuing orders to various runners, and arguing over strategy and tactics. Instead, he saw a fair-haired young man, dressed in ill-fitting armor, sullenly swishing a rapier from side to side.

  “No, no, my young sir,” came the weary voice of an unseen man. “Less elbow, I beg of you. Turn at the wrist. Always with the wrist. You must hold the blade in balance; it should feel an extension of your arm.”

  Cormoran shook his head in disbelief. A civilized country would have used such a pavilion to benefit its soldiers. There should be couches for relaxation, whoring for entertainment; yet these backwoods, rustic cowbedders were wasting it to train one imbecile child.

  Rising, he moved away from the tent, gesturing for his brother to follow. Ealon reluctantly submitted, and the three of them crouched in the grasses not far from the body of the murdered guard. Cormoran could plainly see where the man’s blood had spilt out onto the soil.

  Cormoran removed his helmet and fixed his younger brother with a steely gaze. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Cutting off the snake’s head,” Ealon said with contempt, as if it were obvious. “Did you see the boy?”

  “I did. Who is he?”

  “He is the scion of the pretender, Avantir.”

  Avantir was the client king of Wybrook, and it was his army they were facing on the field that day. Wybrook was considered small, but its location up the coast, between Uther’s land and the northern mountains of Untwold, gave it great influence. Two months ago, Avantir had declared its independence from the high king’s throne. Obviously this was tantamount to a declaration of war. Battle had been inevitable.

  “What’s he doing here?” Cormoran asked.

  “Not much at all, from what I could see,” Ealon replied wryly.

  “Let me rephrase,” said Cormoran. “What are you doing here? What is your plan? If you have a plan.”

  “I was planning to cut through the fabric of the pavilion and slit the boy’s throat from ear to ear.” Ealon permitted himself a grin, but Cormoran saw little humor in the situation .