Dash sat on the bank, watching the wall of water move down the aqueduct. When it hit the break in the stones that would send water pouring into the lower sewer, he could barely see a pause as the wave swept on past it.
Gustaf said, “Well, that should drown some rats.”
“We can hope,” said Dash, taking the constable’s offered hand and pulling himself to his feet. Thinking of the Mockers, he said, “As long as it isn’t our rats that get drowned.”
“What do you want us to do with these clay jugs, Sheriff?” asked one of the constables.
Dash said, “I was going to have you throw them at what I thought would be a nice little fire down there. Bring them along. I think we can find a use for them.” As the man reached down to grab the jugs, Dash added, “And handle them gently.” He motioned to the water surging through the destroyed sluice.
They hurried back through the city, and as they turned the corner to High Street, Dash shouted to Gustaf, “Get some barricades up here.” He then pointed back another block and said, “And there. When they break through, I want them turned before their cavalry hits the market. As soon as the gate goes, get archers up on the roofs there, there, and there.” He pointed to three corners of the intersection.
Gustaf nodded. “I notice you didn’t say if they break through.”
“It’s just a question of when, and if help can get here before they do. I think we’re in for some nasty days ahead.”
Gustaf shrugged. “I’m a mercenary, Sheriff. Nasty days are what I get paid for.”
Dash nodded as Gustaf hurried off to carry out his orders and the rest of the constables carried the jugs of naphthalene to the gate. He glanced around the city streets, now deserted as people hid in their houses hoping against hope that somehow they would be spared another destructive rampage such as they had endured the year before. Dash shook his head. Mercenaries, soldiers, and constables might get paid to endure such as this, but citizens didn’t. They were the ones who suffered, and in his time as Sheriff he had forged a bond with the people of Krondor he couldn’t have imagined before. Now he was starting to understand why his grandfather had loved this city so much, both the noble and the base, the exalted and the low. It was his city. And Dash would be damned to the lowest hell before he’d see another invader take it again.
Dash hurried toward the gate when he heard horns. He knew a Keshian herald was approaching under a flag of truce to announce under what conditions his general would accept the surrender of the city. Dash climbed the steps in the gatehouse and reached the battlements as the Keshian herald approached, the rising sun peeking over the mountains behind him. He was a desert man, and on each side accompanying him rode a Dog Soldier, each holding a banner. One was the Lion Banner of the Empire, and the other was a house flag; Dash knew his grandfather and father would both disapprove his not recognizing it at once.
Sergeant Mackey said, “They want to talk.”
Dash said, “Well, it would be rude not to listen.”
Dash would be tempted to drop a jar of the naphthalene on the herald before the man was through, he thought, but each minute that passed before the attack bought them a little more time to prepare.
The herald rode before the gate and shouted, “In the name of the Empire of Great Kesh and her great General Asham ibin Al-tuk, open the gates and surrender the city!”
Dash looked around and saw that every man on the wall was watching him. He leaned out between two merlons on the wall and shouted back, “By what right have you come to claim a city that is not yours?” He glanced at Mackey and said, “Might as well go through the formalities.”
“We claim these lands as ancient Keshian soil! Who speaks for the city?”
“I, Dashel Jamison, Sheriff of Krondor!”
With contempt in every word, the herald shouted, “Where is your Prince, O jailer of beggars? Hiding under his bed?”
“Still sleeping, I think,” said Dash, not wishing to reveal to this man anything about the poisoning. “If you care to wait, he may show up later today.”
“That’s all right,” came a voice from behind Dash.
Dash turned and saw a pale Patrick standing there, being held erect by a soldier. Patrick had donned his royal armor, golden trimmed breastplate and open-faced helm, with a gold-trimmed purple sash of office over his shoulder. As he passed Dash, Patrick whispered, “Should I lose consciousness, tell them I’ve left in outrage.”
He reached the wall and steadied himself, and Dash could see how difficult it was for him to stand, even with the strong soldier holding onto him from behind. Yet Patrick found it within himself to shout out with power, “I am here, dogs of Kesh. Say what you will!”
The herald barely hid his surprise at seeing the Prince of Krondor on the wall. He obviously had believed the poisoner successful. “Most gracious Prince!” said the herald. “My . . . master bids you open your gates and withdraw. He will escort you and your retinue to your nation’s borders.”