Storm Clouds Over Sexton (Sexton Chronicles, vol. 3)

By David J. Steele

Two assassination attempts; one succeeds. The three Americans and their smuggler friends are caught in events that could lead to war...a war provoked by powers beyond their comprehension.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David J. Steele
• Release date: Oct 20, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452338286

David J. Steele

Born and raised in Kalamazoo, MI. David attended Eureka College as a Ronald Reagan Fellow. He served as a professional with a major not-for-profit from 1988-2005. Dave and his wife reside in Michigan.

Book preview

Chapter One

It was late, the mug of wine on the table was barely touched, and Rolof did not feel much like a king. Or perhaps he felt too much like a king―weighted as he was with too many problems and too few solutions. He snuffed the candle on the table and stood in front of the open doors of his balcony, staring out at the moonlight on the waves over the Bay of Sexton. A breeze caught his copper hair, cooling his scalp. It would be warm again tonight and there were no clouds in sight. As was his habit when he could, he would leave the doors open and let the cool air refresh his body, if not his spirit.

The problems of the kingdom could wait until the light of day. Perhaps he would be able to see a solution to the growing problems of too much rain in the principal city, too little on the farmlands surrounding it, and the growing―and illegal―spice importation, or smuggling, to use a better term―from Crescens. An uneasy peace had lasted for more than three generations…once the two nations decided to ignore each other because they were too far apart in important ways to negotiate. He removed his robe and draped it over the chair. The moon gave him enough light to move to the bed, which looked quite welcoming to his tired eyes. The blankets were cool, but would warm before sleep took him....

…It was later, though he could not tell how much time had passed. Something woke him. Without moving, he listened. Moments passed and still he heard nothing. Perhaps one of his guards patrolling the corridor outside his chamber scuffed his boot as he walked by. Perhaps it was a sound from outside that drifted up… No…it couldn’t be that. The balcony was a hundred or more feet above the rocks above the water. Birds flew by on occasion, and didn’t fly into the darkness of the room. They were never enough to wake him―merely part of the background sounds he loved.

There were no more sounds, but he didn’t close his eyes completely. The troubles of the kingdom began to spin in lazy circles through his overtired mind. Moonlight still bathed the furnishings, so it could not be so late.

His face tightened when movement from the balcony caught his slitted eyes. Other than magic―which was possible, though not probable given Benecala’s presence in the castle―someone would have had an impossible climb to get there. Additionally, few knew where he slept. There was someone there. Rolof saw him climb over the rail in near silence. Like a shadow, the intruder swept into the room. He stood still as stone, taking in the details like a minion of death.

Rolof could have summoned the guards with a shout. They would arrive in seconds, but probably not before the intruder escaped through the balcony doors or made his attempt at assassination. Besides, Rolof believed a king should be a leader, and the first defense in his own protection. Let the assassin play his game, he thought. I shall play my hand.

A glint of steel from the blade of a knife flashed in the blue light of the moon. The intruder came closer to the bed, making no sounds. The blade came up over his chest. Rolof grabbed the hand behind hit, driving it down to the mattress with a soft sound and a flurry of feathers. He jabbed the assassin’s face with his fist―not once, but thrice in rapid succession. Blood flew―none of it his. The man fell back and Rolof threw the blankets aside. He leapt at his attacker, nearly dodging the blade as it came up in weak self-defense. The King threw his right fist into the surprised attacker’s face and grabbed the back of his head when he raised it instinctively. He drove the face down onto his fist and his knee into the man’s gut. The rush of air mingled with a cry of pain.

Rolof picked him up: one hand on the man’s throat, the other on his stomach, and hurled him against the headboard of the bed. There was a loud crack as the man’s head met unyielding wood. The King grabbed him by the throat and hurled him over the end of the bed, spinning on the balls of his bare feet before the other man’s body bounced on the floor.

The door flew open and torchlight from the corridor flooded the room. Two guards ran in with their shout. They stopped when they realized it was the King smashing his fist into a face. The intruder was barely conscious, with blood covering most of his face. Rolof rammed his fist home one more time, then picked up the unconscious man and threw him on the chair next to the table. He looked at the guards and commanded them to hold him there.

Sire…are you unharmed? the senior of the guards―a major―asked.

Rolof nodded. He was scarcely out of breath, and untouched. His heart pounded in his chest, and his muscles longed to extend the fight, but he could make that pass with a little thought and a few more breaths. The intruder’s eyes were unfocused. Rolof looked at his face: high cheekbones, thin lips, sunken eyes, black hair, and dark skin. What is your name? The man had the presence of mind to pinch his lips tight. It seemed he had nothing to say. Who sent you?

Sire, do you want me to fetch Benecala?

Rolof saw the man’s eyes widen at the mention of the name. Not with fear, but with knowledge. So he knew enough to know the wizard, which might or might not mean anything. He looked Crescen, but there were many within the kingdom and the city. Why did you want to kill me? he asked mildly.

The black irises in the man’s eyes were locked on his and there was an absence of fear in his voice when he spoke. It was my mission. I have failed, and am unworthy of paradise.

What would happen to you in your country…if you made an attempt on the life of your king and failed?

The same as here. Death.

Rolof smiled and shook his head. You assume too much. He looked at his guards. Bind him, gag him, and put him on the next ship to Crescens. I care not if it is one of our ships, or one of those damned boats smuggling spice. Pay enough to guarantee his safe passage. To the man he said, Do not set foot on Sexton soil again, or I will have you imprisoned until your teeth fall out, your eyes cannot see, and your tongue dries in your mouth while you shout yourself voiceless asking for death.

Once they were gone, it took him quite a while to find sleep. When it came, he was grateful for it. The balcony doors remained open; he wouldn’t give up his breeze.

Chapter Two

The King of Crescens slept on a bed in the middle of a large airy room at the top of a tower. Light curtains fluttered in the pre-dawn breeze at pointed-arch doors to the balconies. It was a peaceful sleep uncluttered by dreams. And a deep sleep as far as the assassin could tell, for the man did not move.

He swept to the side of the bed. His feet made no noise crossing the intricately woven rug. Its design stood out in the gloom like a message from the heavens he was not ready to understand…nor would he ever. The only sound was that of his knife sliding from the sheath, and it did not disturb the King. Strangely, the assassin was glad. This was a mission of necessity, not of hate or vengeance. He had no desire to bring fear to the old man’s heart before he stopped it. It was over in seconds. With neither hesitation nor error, the assassin drove the point of the blade into the gray hair on the King’s chest and pulled his hand back―leaving the knife―before blood spattered him. Death was almost instant. With a light respectful touch, he shaped the dead king’s face so it would look peaceful in death. He left the way he came in: by rope, down the sheer wall of the palace.

In spite of the savagery of his act, the assassin hoped the dead King would be treated well in the paradise promised his people―something about virgins surrounding the eternal soul of righteous dead sounded good to his Sexton heart. He chuckled at the thought as he tossed his black cloak in a gutter and turned a dark corner. It wouldn’t matter what versions of heaven were available after he died. There was a notch in the Blue Hells―he was sure―where he would reside for the rest of time.

∫

Rajahd’een woke to a light tapping on his door. He opened his eyes and stretched. Before he asked who was there or gave sign he heard the knock, he reached from under the sheet and shook the Sarah’s shoulder, the wife with whom he chose to sleep the previous night. She opened her eyes and smiled at him before wrapping the sheet around her waist―taking it from him with an impish look he found wildly attractive―and slipped out a side door. The knock came again, with urgency this time. Enter, he said. There was no trace of sleep in his voice.

The tall doors opened. His father’s vizier of state affairs, and friend since boyhood, was in the hall. He waved off the others with him and walked into the room. The doors closed behind him as Raj sat up in bed. The man had never looked old before, at least not to Raj’s eyes. Now his long frame was stooped at the shoulders. His beardless face was pale, his dark eyes hooded, tired, and sad.

Greetings, your highness. He bowed and winced as he straightened his back. I beg you, dress quickly and come with me.

Raj’s head spun. What has happened, Ben-Tahek? Realization struck him and caused his heart to pause. You greet me with the wrong title. I am but a prince.

I am afraid you no longer have that luxury. Please. Rise, dress, and come with me.

∫

He wept when he saw his father, dead. A single tear fell from each eye as he looked at his father’s body, still in the bed. The servants had done well. A fresh sheet covered him from the shoulders down, and there was no sign of blood. His face looked peaceful, as if he died in slumber rather than the result of a shocking blow to the heart.

How did the assassin gain entrance?

Ben-Tahek’s voice was hushed, although they were alone in the room. We think he came through from without.

He scaled the tower?

That is unlikely. There was magic involved, most probably.

I would have felt magic…of any sort. He took his eyes away from his father and looked at Tahek. Show me the murder weapon.

Are you sure you want to see it now? There are things to be done. You must accept the crown immediately―before word gets out of his death. Coronation can come later. For now, we have no king.

I will leave matters of state to you, for the moment. He raised his eyebrows. I wish to see the knife that killed my father.

Your will… He walked to the door and opened it slightly. A moment later he returned, carrying the knife―clean of blood―on a silk pillow.

Raj picked it up. It was heavy and not well-made. The steel was good: hard, tempered, and honed to a keen edge on both sides. This blade is of Sexton make.

So it would appear.

You do not believe it?

The vizier shrugged. That is not for me to decide, your majesty.

I do not believe it. I see no reason for them to assassinate my father. Nothing for them to gain.

If I might make so bold to suggest…

Raj looked away from the body on the bed and gazed into Tahek’s eyes. In that gaze Tahek saw an enraged son and a dangerous king. Your job is to give advice, Ben-Tahek. My job, as of recently, is to decide whether or not to follow it. What is your suggestion.

You are not aware, yet, of all your father knew. This afternoon we must change that. In the interim, let us hope the servants who found your father are wise enough to pinch their tongues. Rumor will spread like disease through the palace, and spill onto the streets. He arched a gray eyebrow. Faster than you would think.

Chapter Three

Clio was beaming. His friends were at the table in the big room set aside for eating―where he and Aemilia would feed their large family as soon as they made one―and he had the pleasure of lighting the little candles they made special for the top of the cake. It was a strange custom the Americans told them about―blowing out candles to celebrate the passing, or survival, of another year. And yet it was great fun.

Aemilia was with child. The glow in her face was unmistakable. Andy, Tom, and John had a betting pool going…not that they dared share that fact with her. Clio wanted to join the pool but knew he was a dead man if he did, whether he won or not. If he won, she would find out about the money and demand to know where it came from, and if he lost she would want to know where it went. The bet was over the gender of the baby. Tom bet heavily that it was a girl. His theory was based on his―and his alone―belief that she was uglier pregnant than she was before…which meant her body was jealous of the beautiful little girl in the womb. It was boorish―and potentially life-threatening if they were caught―but they were having a great time with it.

Who’s birthday is it? she asked.

Tom and John pointed at Andy, who was pointing at Tom. His! Their voices came out as one, and Aemilia giggled.

We can’t have a party for all of you!

Why not? Andy asked. None of us have any idea what it is…by our calendar, and we don’t really care.

They sang the happy birthday song―which sounded awkward in Sextonese, at least to John’s ears―as Clio brought in the cake. The thing looked like something out of a Dr. Seuss book: three questionable layers, covered with questionable frosting of an unquestionably ugly hue of muddy brown, of questionable origin, and topped with candle stubs that should have been melted down―if resting on the cake didn’t do it―into one.

Yep, Tom said with a smile. Definitely Andy’s birthday. He looked at Aemilia. Did I mention that in America only the birthday celebrant eats the cake? To do otherwise risks bringing tragedy on the family.

Andy wasn’t going down alone. "He’s lying. Everyone eats the cake exceptthe man having the birthday. It’s all part of the spirit of giving." He looked at Tom as if to say, The liar never stands a chance."You guys give me presents because it’s my birthday…and I return the favor by giving allof you allof my cake." He might have gotten away with the lie, but couldn’t resist the urge to stick his tongue out at Tom and John.

Aemilia put her hands flat on the table and pressed her belly against it. She leaned in and glared at all three of them. You will all eat the cake…or else.

Cake, please! Andy shouted. He blew out the candles so at least something in the room was shown a little mercy.

Clio cleared his throat. Don’t let her condition fool you, gentlemen. In spite of my urging, perhaps even because of my urging, she was outside plowing the field an hour before you arrived.

"Someone had to convince that ass it wanted to pull."

I’m trying very hard not to picture it, Tom said. He cut the cake―pressing down on the knife with both hands when he got to the bottom layer, which was more like a crust―and put a piece on a plate. It was dense enough to make a fruitcake look fluffy. Wincing, he pushed the plate to Andy. Birthday boy goes first.

In an obvious attempt to stall, Andy asked Aemilia: What did you use to sweeten the dough?

Lemmings’ tails, she said with a straight face.

Lemmings’ tails?

John smiled. Lemmings don’t have tails.

They do in this world, Tom replied. He didn’t know if they did or not, but the lie was worth it just to see the look of apprehension on Andy’s face change to something resembling terror.

Eat up, Aemilia growled, and tell me you like it!

Wish I had a dollar for every time a woman ordered me to do that, Andy moaned.

The sound of horse’s hoofs beating on the road in the distance spared him from eating the cake. Tom and John went to the window and looked out. A single rider was headed their way. He wore a red cloak―a soldier’s dress cloak, and had a white plume atop his gleaming brass helmet. Whatever he wanted, he wasn’t looking for a fight.

Why would a soldier come here? John was the one asking, but the question was on everyone’s mind.

Not to attack us, Clio ventured.

He’s looking for us. Tom answered.

Then he doesn’t know who we are, Andy said, thinking out loud. Not if he’s coming alone.

I have a sneaking suspicion… Tom began.

John rolled his eyes. I hate your sneaking suspicions.

Tom glanced at him him. I have a sneaking suspicion he’s going to bang on the door and tell us Benecala wants to see us.

With no one watching him, Andy seized the opportunity and hurled his piece of cake out the window on the other side of the room. Betcha a gold Tom’s right.

You’re on, John said. He was never one to miss a chance to win a bet even though he never seemed to actually win. Ever the optimist, he was waiting for the happy day he would win money from Andy.

Clio put his arm around Aemilia’s shoulders. In spite of the fierce look on her face, she was trembling. He tried to reassure her and whispered in her ear, Don’t be afraid, Love. Remember who we are with.

The soldier banged on the door. At a nod from Tom, John opened it. Good afternoon, sir. What brings you?

I am looking for… His eyes widened. His tan face broke into a grin. By the gods! I was told the three of you would be here, but… Well, frankly, I thought I was the butt of a joke. Which of you is Tom Benton?

No one moved until Tom stepped forward. I am. What brings you here, Captain?

Orders from his lordship, Benecala. He wishes to see you in the city immediately. The matter is most urgent.

What matter is that?

The Captain’s jaw tightened and the smile left his face. I wasn’t given that information. I was told to give you the word, and to lead you to him.

How do we know he’s for real? Andy asked.

The Captain nodded. I was told to give you this. He pulled a piece of parchment from under his belt and handed it to Tom.

Tom looked at it and grinned. It’s from Benecala, alright. Anyone trying to fake this would’ve put a lot more in it to give it credibility.

What’s it say? Andy asked.

He didn’t have to look at it to repeat it. It says… ‘Say yes, damn it’.

Chapter Four

His name was now King Rajahd’een Tor al D’in of Crescens, but he would always consider himself by the name he chose, Raj―although it grated on his father’s ears while he lived. It was difficult to keep his head in the meeting. After years of exile and separation from his country and his family, he had been welcomed back from Sexton. In actuality, he was takenfrom Sexton and delivered to his father. The old king was no fool and seemed to know his days were at an end, although he thought they were near an end due to his age…and not assassination.

The other men in the room were arguing the merits of a coronation and combining the state funeral with the celebration of having a new king. It was customary, some argued. Others thought to forgo the celebration, while still others thought it would be best to separate the funeral and the coronation by the span of at least a week. Raj looked around the room, waiting for one voice to unify the opinions. After a time, it occurred to him they were waiting for him to be that voice. That thought came as a shock. Perhaps this would be more difficult than he thought. He looked at Ben-Tahek. My father is not the first king to die a suspicious, sudden death. What has been done in the past.

Ben-Tahek looked nonplussed. Funeral, followed by several days of national mourning, then coronation. All kings are shown the light of heaven and proceed thereto. His black eyes met those around the room. He noted he was the oldest of those present, and smiled. Few know who was sent to heaven, and who was taken.

The people will speculate, said a fat one on a divan at the other end of the room. Their speculation can, and often will, lead to unrest.

Our kingdom has survived hundreds of years of unrest in one form or another. Why should this be any different?

I feel a difference, though unquantifiable.

King Rajahd’een did not need advisors who spoke in riddles. It was time to put an end to the practice. If you have nothing to say, you should do that. He let the uncomfortable silence simmer before speaking again. I will make my decision on the morrow. He stood. Every eye in the room was on him, waiting to see what he would do. None saw the need to stand simply because he did.

The first twenty years of his life were spent as a prince. He knew they would watch his every move and try to follow his every thought, glean his every emotion. All would try to gain insight into his character and their ability to influence his decisions. This was exactly the life he did not want. Exile was no real hardship for him, but it was no longer a viable choice. What I need now, he said after a pause, is to know what you know. I have been back for nearly three months and still I do not know the status of our country. Take time this afternoon, Viziers of Crescens, and prepare to inform me individually of what I need to know about each of your fields of expertise. I will see each of you in half-hour sessions, starting at sundown. Ben-Tahek will arrange the order. He walked out of the chamber before anyone say anything more.

∫

As it turned out, there was little need for separate meetings. Each vizier told a variation of the same tale, and all pointed to similar conclusions. He had inherited a country rich in culture, steeped in history…a paragon of enlightenment. It was also a nation on the brink of economic collapse. Drought was the cause of it: drought and blight in areas along the mighty river that bisected most of the land. Its waters overflowed their banks regularly and deposited minerals enough to fertilize the soil and allow crops to be grown and distributed elsewhere. Robbers―organized and strong enough to almost have the status of an enemy army―disrupted trade with the countries to the west.

For quarter of an hour after the last vizier left, he stared at the clepsydra, an ancient time-keeping device that measured time by regulating the flow of water from one bowl to another. It was almost four hours past midnight. He was tired and could feel his mind was not as sharp as it should be. It was difficult, at least for now, to separate fact from wishful thinking, or unduly dark thinking, on the part of his advisors. He looked around the pillared chamber. Light from candles in sconces danced over the glossy marbled surfaces. He shifted in his throne and wished, nay, wondered, if he would be able to change the thing over for a sofa. Chuckling at the thought, he shook his head. Ladies, I seek your counsel, he said.

Ketra and Sarah―the two of his wives who chose to follow him to Sexton when he was exiled―came from their hiding places in the room. They were quite adept at not being seen when that was their wish. Only he was aware of their presence, and only because they were there at his request. Ketra came from the left, her dark hair uncovered as if she was still in Sexton where there was no law that said she must hide it. Her face was made ugly―a feat most would guess impossible―with a frown that bordered on a scowl. Sarah wore a similar expression. They stopped in front of his throne and bowed at the waist, almost like men. He was not immune to their sexuality and was not at all unhappy to see them wearing sheer silk rather than the dark barbarian wool they wore for all too many years.

I beg your counsel, my favorite wives.

Sarah coughed, a throaty sound that banished her scowl. She looked at Ketra and winked. How often do we hear that?

Not often enough, sister.

He stepped down from the throne and gestured them to the bench some distance away. After four hours on the throne, he preferred to stand. You heard the status of the country from each of those who are supposed to know. What conclusions have you drawn?

Ketra spoke first, in a quiet and not quite deferential voice. We are broke, and there isn’t enough water for the crops we need to sustain ourselves. Trade with the West is unreliable, and the generations-old embargo against Sexton goods is sacrosanct. You certainly are not in a position to attempt negotiation, not this early in your reign.

Do you agree with the viziers? There must be war?

Sarah shook her head, for both herself and the other woman. That is not what we mean to say at all, husband. The look on his face showed he was open to further explanation. The region where we met Tom, where we were attacked on our way to Sexton with our wagons of spice, is not clearly Sexton territory…nor is it clearly ours. It is capable of certain crops, and the river that flows strongly through that region extends into our sands…where it slows to a trickle, but doesn’t die completely for fifty or more miles.

Are you saying we should take it as ours? Stake a claim, and grow food there to be brought to our cities? He liked the idea.

Ketra nodded. Moreover…with some work on the part of our engineers, it might be possible to change the flow of the river and bring the water we need to our deserts.

How would this be done?

Both women laughed lightly, looking at each other with mock exasperation. Ketra sobered and spoke first. "Sire, we will leave the howup to you…for that is the province of men. We know nothing of engineering, which is exactly what two brainless, but beautiful women such as ourselves should know of engineering. But you…you are a king! Summon the engineers and command them to move the earth. Plant flags in the stone and grass in the soil in the area under discussion, and give life to our people."

He saw the wisdom in the proposal, but risk as well. This could lead to war. That their crops rot under too much rain while ours wither is giving problems to the feeding of both peoples. Further, balance seems to exist in that area. They are barbarians, but as we saw they are not stupid. Some among them will think the same way and interest in that region will grow.

Don’t forget it was one of them who slew your father, Ketra said in a low voice.

I am not sure that is the case, he said. I think someone wants us to believe a Sexton killed him.

Sarah raised her eyebrows. You don’t believe it?

I am not yet sure.

Chapter Five

The baths had been in the village for centuries and were seen as a novel adventure for wealthier merchants from the city of Sexton Proper. No man knew when they were built, or why, or knew enough of the world to recognize a hot spring when they saw one. It was said the warm waters sucked life form the flesh if used too long, as evidenced by its tendency to pucker and shrivel.

Benecala dropped his robe and slipped into the hot water. He was not at all concerned about it shriveling his flesh. Time did that long before the water was given the opportunity, and with effects that lasted much longer. A sigh slipped from his lips as he sat on the submerged ledge and the water rose to his narrow shoulders. He had time to relax before the Americans arrived. The pool holding the bathwater was large enough to hold twenty or more men, but he was the sole occupant. When word got out he was coming and intended to rest his bones in the warm water, the place cleared with astonishing and gratifying speed. Such was his curse. He was trusted by few―which, fortunately, included King Rolof―and hated by the masses. It was his heritage, and he didn’t have the power to change it. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy its benefits…like times such as these when he wanted a private meeting in a coveted setting.

He opened one eye when others entered through the arched door. Steam obscured them, but he was able and happy to see it was Tom, John, and Andy rather than a mob of men armed with pitchforks and rakes. Please join me, gentlemen, he said.

John looked at the scrawny naked guy in the stone hot tub, then at Andy. All this way, mysterious summons, interrupted birthday party…and he wants us to take a bath with him?

Andy grinned. I told ya you needed one…and here’s the proof. The old man smelled you from ten miles away! Tom was already half undressed. Andy gaped at him. You’re actually going to get naked with an old man in a hot tub?

It’s his meeting. He makes the rules. Tom walked down the gray stone steps and sighed when the water covered him. John followed right behind.

Andy looked around for something to sit on. You know I don’t swim.

Get in the water, birthday boy, John said. We won’t let you drown.

Benecala opened his eyes and cracked what passed for a grin. It had the cheering effect of a skull with a long beard streaked with black and white suddenly changing its expression. I can force him to join us.

I’m coming! I’m coming!’ He disrobed in a hurry and jumped into the water. Waves splashed over the edges and ran down drains a few feet away. The water was only chest high, and it felt good. He opened his eyes, which he didn’t know were closed, and took a seat on the opposite side of the pool from Andy and John, kitty-corner to Benecala. This is…nice."

Benecala nodded to Tom. That… His hand came out of the water and a long finger was pointed at the expression on Andy’s face, …is why I ordered construction of this bath house.

John frowned. You ordered construction of this place? It’s gotta be…

The wizard shrugged. It was four hundred years ago.

How old are you? Andy asked.

Benecala looked at him long enough to make him itchy before proceeding as if the question evaporated with the steam from the water. An assassin attempted to kill King Rolof. He was almost successful, and would have succeeded if the king was not the warrior he is. Something outside the room took his attention away, and he glanced at the doorway.

Tom turned to look, but didn’t see anything. He hadn’t heard anything either. If they were with anyone else, he would have investigated.

Would any of you like wine? Or food, perhaps?

If you’re going to conjure something up, I’ll take some. Andy grinned at his joke. It didn’t seem to bother him he was the only one.

Quaiva? Would you bring some wine and cheese for my guests?

Tom was about to object to a woman bringing them anything when they were naked in a hot tub―or Roman bath, or whatever it was called―but didn’t have time before someone entered.

She was about his height, with long brown hair done in a single braid down the back of her blue dress. Her face was oval, her lips full. She had a silver tray in her hands with four goblets and a big hunk of orange cheese with a little knife sticking out of it. Their eyes met, she smiled at him, and his mouth went dry. When she put the plate on the bench and turned to leave, he caught sight of her tan ankles and the back of a calf.

Andy watched Tom look at the girl and had to fight to resist a smartass comment. It wasn’t a hard fight…he’d seen the look before. It was the same look Tom used to give a girl in high school, the look of a man struck by a lightning bolt named infatuation. Want some cheese, Tom?

Benecala didn’t miss the look. His eyes went to the doorway, then back to Tom. His lips tightened, and he glanced at the tray. Would you like me to have her come back and serve the wine and cheese?

No! Tom seemed to realize his tone was harsher than he intended. It suddenly occurred to him that he was naked and the woman could have looked down and seen… Andy can get it.

Why me?

We elected you birthday boy. You can return the favor by getting the damn tray. He looked at the wizard. This is your meeting, sir. Why did you want to see us?

Andy walked over to the tray and picked up the knife. I’m going to cut the cheese now.

John’s ears perked up. Slice it! Do not cut the cheese! He looked at Tom and grinned. Don’t give him permission. He’ll let one rip.

Tom seemed to have recovered. He met Benecala’s eyes. You mentioned an attempted assassination. I’m glad the King is unharmed.

I think he made a mistake. The assassin appeared to be a Crescen. His majesty ordered the man bound and gagged and returned to his country by ship. He did not inform me which ship, nor do I think he knew.

How could he not know? John asked. He nodded thanks to Andy and took a goblet and a hunk of cheese.

His guards were ordered to pay for passage for the assassin to go on the first ship leaving the harbor for Crescens…whether the cargo, or the ship, were legal or not.

Tom and Andy exchanged a look. With the embargo, there were very few ships of Sexton going anywhere near Crescens. There weren’t many smugglers that made the passage either. The only one they knew of was Qua rick’s, and the old sea dog was just renegade enough to take on a boarder…especially one who couldn’t give him grief.

Tom sipped his wine. What do you want from us?

I think someone is trying to provoke a war between Crescens and Sexton. Conditions are ripe for it, and it may be too late to avoid such a thing. He shrugged and seemed to mumble to himself for a moment. His black eyes came back to Tom. We require the services of an envoy to the King of Crescens to try to broker peace. The three of you are in a unique position to be successful.

How so? Tom couldn’t seem to help himself. He looked at the doorway hoping to see the young woman again. What was her name? …Quaiva.

The king will trust you. I trust your ability to gain an audience.

Why and how?

The why is quite simple, Thomas. He gestured toward the three Americans with an open hand. You know him, and he knows you. There is a trust between you. Further, since you have no position in this country…

Andy chuckled. He winked at John. See? I told you outlaw isn’t a position.

John swallowed his cheese. Sure feels like a position. It has a label, and people treat you differently when they find out it applies to you.

You could say the same thing about Right Guard antiperspirant. Which, by the way, I think we should invent pretty soon.

Tom ignored their banter. He was used to it. Let’s say we make it there, and get an audience with the king. Then what?

Make peace. There has to be a way to meet our needs, and for them to meet theirs…short of war.

While we’re at it… John interjected. You said we know him. How do we know the king of a foreign country?

He is called Rajahd’een Toraldin…as of very recently. You know him as…

Tom blinked. Raj?

Andy coughed on the wine. "Raj? Raj…the spice guy? He’sa freakin’ king?"

Benecala’s jaw muscles tightened. "No, Andrew. He is Raj thefreakin’ king."

Chapter Six

Captain Quarick stood on the dock in the light of day and looked at the palace guards. They looked more than out of the ordinary in their bright uniforms, full armament, and silver helmets reflecting the pure blue skies. Between them: hands and ankles bound with cuffs and chains, blindfolded and gagged, was the subject of the discussion. He was olive-skinned and muscular without being overly large.

The king’s major cleared his throat and looked down at Quarick. I ask again, sir…will you bear this man to Crescens?

I don’t understand why you insist I am bound for Crescens. Everyone knows trade with them is again’ the law. He managed a straight face when he added, And I am a law-respecting man.

The major could see further discussion, at least in its present track, was going to yield no result. He glanced at the other man to make sure he had the prisoner under control, then stepped past the sea captain with a shift of his head to indicate he wanted to be followed. When they were out of earshot he said: Your boat smells interesting, Captain Quarick. I am rather surprised the soldiers haven’t caught the smell of forbidden spices wafting up from your holds.

Quarick shrugged in spite of his quickened pulse. The soldiers who have duty on the docks long ago learned to forget how to smell. Between fish too old and sweat too new, salt water and other…shipboard materials of human manufacture, no one wants to smell anything they don’t have to. He chuckled. I think it unusual you would think the wholesome odors of my ship come from spices.

We of the palace guard partake of meals prepared in one of the King’s kitchens. He spared a slight smile. Those meals are frequently made with…delicacies unavailable to most. The smile fell from his face and was replaced with a hard look of a man tired of playing a game. "The long and short of it is this, Captain Quarick―I am not a protector, nor a soldier in the regular sense. I couldn’t care less what you do, where you go, what you bring back, or what you sell on the streets. As long as it brings the King no harm, I might even approve of it from a personal position.