The two porters in gray abandon the cart and scramble off the cobblestones of the wharf road toward the gap in the brick wall beside the last warehouse. For the first time, Lorn spurs the gelding, and the white responds, his hoofs clattering on the stones.
Lorn lifts the firelance, aiming it toward the fleeing merchant.
One of the guards stops and turns, then lifts his big blade. He sees the firelance and jumps off the side of the seawall into waist-deep water. The second guard sprints onto the single long pier, past the slower and heavier merchant, his legs pumping as he dashes around abandoned handcarts and shoves an older man in maroon into a bollard. The man totters, then plummets into the gray water of the harbor.
Lorn triggers the firelance. Hssst! The bolt strikes the wooden planks of the pier seaward of the merchant. “Trader! Halt or die!”
The trader looks to the end of the pier, where his former guard jumps across the widening gap between the Hamorian ship and the pier, grabbing a dangling line which has been cut, for the other end of the line dangles from the last bollard on the pier. Then the trader stops and shrugs, helplessly, lifting his arms.
Lorn watches for a moment, then shakes his head. He can do nothing about the trading vessels that have escaped. Slowly as the last ship pulls away from the end of the long and narrow pier, it will be beyond the range of his firelance by the time he can reach the pier’s end. He can only hope that what he needs is among the abandoned bags, bales, and handcarts on the pier, and the street that borders the pier and seawall. He turns the gelding.
“Rhalyt! Take the pier, and make sure that no one makes off with any of the bags or carts! And guard that trader in crimson. Don’t let him escape or kill himself.”
“Yes, ser.”
Lorn turns the gelding, and the first squad follows him as he rides back toward where the armsmen and the lancers had been fighting. He winces as he sees the number of mounts lying across the street. As he nears, the last armsman in crimson falls to an attack of three lancers.
Lorn reins up, looking around. Except for the dead Hamorian armsmen, all those remaining at the eastern end of the street flanking the seawall are Cyadoran lancers.
Cheryk rides forward. “Lost near-on a halfscore, ser. They were better than any we’ve faced.”
Lorn nods. “I’m sorry. But we couldn’t leave them here to provide a guard for more shipments of blades.”
“No, ser. Not after all we’ve done.”
Esfayl eases his mount toward Lorn. “Ser?”
“Are your men in order?”
“Yes, ser.”
“I’d like you to find as much lamp oil as you can,” Lorn orders. “Around here, if you can. Bring some of it to the long pier out there, and some to the warehouses.”
Esfayl raises his eyebrows.
“We’re going to burn the piers before we leave.” Lorn mouth twists into the smile he dislikes. “It’s harder to land blades if you have to bring them in by boat. And the warehouses, once we take anything we need.”
Gyraet rides up. “We’re going through the nearer warehouse, ser. Spidlarian, looks like.”
“See what you can find, quickly, and records, if you can.” Lorn looks back at Emsahl. “Can you and Fifth Company stand guard while we do what has to be done?”
“Yes, ser.”
“We’ll try to be quick.”
Lorn rides back along the seawall. In a way, he feels ineffectual, for it seems as though all he has done is ride back and forth.
Rhalyt’s lancers are escorting a bearded figure in crimson from the foot of the pier toward the front of the last warehouse, a three-story timber structure that still flies the ensign of Hamor. The trader’s hands are bound behind him, and there is a slash across his cheek.
“We got him, ser, and some others who might be traders.”
“Hold him there, and don’t let him near the warehouse.” Lorn rides toward the foot of the pier, and the abandoned handcart filled with footchests, where he dismounts, absently handing the gelding’s reins to the nearest lancer. He steps to the handcart, and the chests, then notes the heavy leather bags beneath the footchests. He leans forward and manages to wrench one free. The weight and sound of coins confirm his suspicions. He motions to Rhalyt, who has remained mounted.
“Ser?”
“We’ll need a guard here. Several.”
Lorn looks back at the four chests, then lifts the top one and opens it, running through the papers. He shakes his head. They will need a wagon. It will take more time than he dares take in Jera to sort through the records.
“Rhalyt,” he calls again. “We need to find a wagon to carry this, and any supplies we can use. See if you can have one of the squad leaders round up one and some team horses.”
Rhalyt nods.
Lorn remounts the gelding and looks out into the harbor, where the Hamorian trader has also spread its sails. He shakes his head again, then rides the short distance to the end warehouse, the Hamorian one. He dismounts and ties the gelding to a post by the door. Rhalyt also dismounts and follows him.
In the front room are open wooden cases, one is half-filled with long dark iron blades, coated with oil and wax. The other nine cases have not been opened.
Lorn counts the blades in the open case-over a score. “It looks like there are over twentyscore blades just here.”
Two lancers slip in, and Rhalyt motions to the door. “Best you check the rooms before the majer.”
The graying veteran nods and steps through the doorway. After several moments, he returns. “No one there, ser.”
Lorn and Rhalyt enter the storage section of the warehouse. Some of the racks are empty, but most of the goods have been left in the warehouse. Lorn sees bolts of cotton, amphorae which may contain olives or oils, barrels of dried fish, dried fruits, even some barrels of clay from Biehl.
“Ser!” Rhalyt gestures.
Lorn rejoins the undercaptain, before whom are two wooden cases, each lettered in a grayish greaselike paint: sabres, cup., 2 sc., Smdck.
“Fourscore lancer-type sabres-made from cupridium,” Lorn says. “We’ll need to take these back. We’ll have to cart them and the other blades out front.”
Lorn steps back out from the storage area into the side room where his glass had shown that records had been kept, but the room is bare except for a flat table and a chair. Marks in the floor dust show where chests had been.
“Ser,” calls one of the lancers, “Captain Esfayl is here with a wagon.”
Lorn hurries out into the still-hazy afternoon sun. Two lancers stand by the bound trader, and beyond them, Esfayl is mounted beside a four-horse team. The large wagon behind the team carries eight huge barrels of lamp oil. Esfayl grins at Lorn. “We got the oil, ser.”
Lorn grins back, momentarily. “We’ll use six on the pier, and one each for the two large warehouses. There’s oil in this one, anyway. Have your men space the barrels evenly along the piers-one at the outermost end. Put a small hole in each and roll them in so that the oil spreads over the wood. Then, I’ll go out and set them afire.”
Esfayl nods.
“We’ll use the wagon for the blades and the coins and supplies-and the records we’ve gathered. Leave it here so Rhalyt’s men can load it.”
As the lancers begin to unload the barrels and roll them along the rough cobblestones toward the pier, Lorn turns to the Hamorian trader. “You seem to have a prosperous warehouse here-especially in blades.”
The Hamorian trader, his hands tied behind him, spits on the cobblestones. “You are a worthless piece of dung…a man whose mind is as narrow as the lance you carry.”
“If I didn’t need you to deliver a message…. you’d be dead,” Lorn says quietly. “I might burn off your right hand, though, if you aren’t silent.”
The trader closes his mouth, and his eyes radiate hate.
“Cyador doesn’t like Hamorian traders making golds off blades that kill its lancers.” Lorn fixes his eyes on the trader. “Think long about why we’re here. We’re going to leave you here. Someone will find you, I’m sure, and you can explain everything.”