but a pike which had been sawed ofP
or
broken and smoothed
to a total length of about five feet, butt to point. It was useless except for prodding away a drunk who tried to climb into the site, but serious trouble was for soldiers summoned by the alarm gong
not for the cretin
to deal with by himself.
"I dunno," the fellow muttered, but he picked up the 52
David Drake
DAGGER
53
heavy jack with as much assurance as he managed with anything.
"The bar too," Samlor directed. "To turn it." The watchman blinked, fumbled, and then laid down his pike to bring the iron rod which drove the mechanism.
The jack was a solid iron screw which the contractor's men were using to drive into place the quarter-ton blocks which had to interlock with the existing fabric of the structure being renovated. A frame clamped to the front of the building provided a base from which the jack could be screwed. Its steady thrust would move stones smoothly, instead of shattering them as would result from an attempt to hammer them into place.
The watchman had approached within six or seven feet of the fence. Then he lobbed the pieces of the jack underhand in the direction of Samlor and skipped back like a keeper who had just fed a restive lion. Iron bounced from the ground into iron with exactly the sort of clangor which Samlor had hoped to avoid.
"Idiot!" the caravan master snarled under his breath as he tried to damp the ringing bars by squeezing them in his hands. It didn't help a lot
the grating
vibrated in a hundred separate harmonies
but it was a good release for the fury
that wrapped Samlor for the moment. As well get mad at a dog for barking. . . . He reached through the grate and lifted the screw jack. Maybe the watchman, holding his pike again in the terrified certainty that he would need it, wasn't as frail as he looked. The bar and screw weighed a good thirty pounds, and the handle was solid enough to be a crushingly effective weapon in a strong man's hands.
The noise hadn't aroused any obvious interest. It wasn't exactly that residents of this district minded their own business. Rather, they were wealthy enough that noise in the night implied criminality of too trivial a nature to be profitable to them.
"Spend it wisely, friend," said Samlor as he tucked the jack under his cloak. No point in giving a view of the proceedings to anyone who chanced to be peering through a window. He backed a few paces away from the fence and bowed sardonically to the watchman, who was hopping from one foot to the other as if executing a clumsy dance with his pike.
Samlor turned and strode back to his companions. Behind him, he heard the fellow diving for the gold which he could at last safely retrieve. Well, the fool had already outlived the caravan master by a couple decades, so it wasn't absolutely certain that possession of that much money was the kiss of death. They'd made a bargain, and Samlor had kept his part of it. The results beyond that weren't a concern of his.
"If\ a fool follows his heart," said Tjainufi from the Napatan's shoulder, "he does wisely."
Samlor started, looking at the manikin with appraising eyes. "Do you think so?" he asked, then grimaced to find himself talking to the unnatural little
thing.
"Khamwas," he said gruffly, "come help me with the window." Star was curled in the corner of the door alcove, dozing with the Napatan's cape for a pillow. Khamwas stood in front of her, watching the street as well as the caravan master. He was very slim without the bulk of the outer garment, and his bare chest was no garb for this night.
"I, ah," he said, looking down at the child. "I thought it would be good if she got some rest, so. ... She's very like my own daughter, you know."
"Wish I had more talent for what she needs," said the caravan master quietly, staring at the child also. "Wish I knew what she needs, what any kid needs. But you do what you can."
He grimaced again. "Bring 'er along, will you? I need you
or
broken and smoothed
to a total length of about five feet, butt to point. It was useless except for prodding away a drunk who tried to climb into the site, but serious trouble was for soldiers summoned by the alarm gong
not for the cretin
to deal with by himself.
"I dunno," the fellow muttered, but he picked up the 52
David Drake
DAGGER
53
heavy jack with as much assurance as he managed with anything.
"The bar too," Samlor directed. "To turn it." The watchman blinked, fumbled, and then laid down his pike to bring the iron rod which drove the mechanism.
The jack was a solid iron screw which the contractor's men were using to drive into place the quarter-ton blocks which had to interlock with the existing fabric of the structure being renovated. A frame clamped to the front of the building provided a base from which the jack could be screwed. Its steady thrust would move stones smoothly, instead of shattering them as would result from an attempt to hammer them into place.
The watchman had approached within six or seven feet of the fence. Then he lobbed the pieces of the jack underhand in the direction of Samlor and skipped back like a keeper who had just fed a restive lion. Iron bounced from the ground into iron with exactly the sort of clangor which Samlor had hoped to avoid.
"Idiot!" the caravan master snarled under his breath as he tried to damp the ringing bars by squeezing them in his hands. It didn't help a lot
the grating
vibrated in a hundred separate harmonies
but it was a good release for the fury
that wrapped Samlor for the moment. As well get mad at a dog for barking. . . . He reached through the grate and lifted the screw jack. Maybe the watchman, holding his pike again in the terrified certainty that he would need it, wasn't as frail as he looked. The bar and screw weighed a good thirty pounds, and the handle was solid enough to be a crushingly effective weapon in a strong man's hands.
The noise hadn't aroused any obvious interest. It wasn't exactly that residents of this district minded their own business. Rather, they were wealthy enough that noise in the night implied criminality of too trivial a nature to be profitable to them.
"Spend it wisely, friend," said Samlor as he tucked the jack under his cloak. No point in giving a view of the proceedings to anyone who chanced to be peering through a window. He backed a few paces away from the fence and bowed sardonically to the watchman, who was hopping from one foot to the other as if executing a clumsy dance with his pike.
Samlor turned and strode back to his companions. Behind him, he heard the fellow diving for the gold which he could at last safely retrieve. Well, the fool had already outlived the caravan master by a couple decades, so it wasn't absolutely certain that possession of that much money was the kiss of death. They'd made a bargain, and Samlor had kept his part of it. The results beyond that weren't a concern of his.
"If\ a fool follows his heart," said Tjainufi from the Napatan's shoulder, "he does wisely."
Samlor started, looking at the manikin with appraising eyes. "Do you think so?" he asked, then grimaced to find himself talking to the unnatural little
thing.
"Khamwas," he said gruffly, "come help me with the window." Star was curled in the corner of the door alcove, dozing with the Napatan's cape for a pillow. Khamwas stood in front of her, watching the street as well as the caravan master. He was very slim without the bulk of the outer garment, and his bare chest was no garb for this night.
"I, ah," he said, looking down at the child. "I thought it would be good if she got some rest, so. ... She's very like my own daughter, you know."
"Wish I had more talent for what she needs," said the caravan master quietly, staring at the child also. "Wish I knew what she needs, what any kid needs. But you do what you can."
He grimaced again. "Bring 'er along, will you? I need you
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