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healing draughts. Just in case. No. He shook his head. He couldn't afford to take the bombs, because he couldn't afford to use the bombs. If he did use explosives on the hunters, it would only call attention to this area and while the offshore island probably could stand a casual search, it probably couldn't take a more thorough one. There was a crack in the outer chamber that let in air and, during the day, a bit of light. A thorough search might involve someone putting his eye to the crack, and seeing the crystals inside. Worse, any use of the bombs might suggest to Ahrmin what Karl's game plan was; the slavers would spread out to several smaller camps, and wait Karl out. But what if he needed the bombs? Shit. If I need the bombs, I'm dead anyway. He set the canvas sack down. Best not to take it. There was something wrong. It felt suddenly colder in the chamber. But only physically; inside, he was warmed. For a moment, he wasn't alone anymore. He closed his eyes, and they were there. Maybe. He was never sure if it was real or just his subconscious sounding an alarm in a way it knew would get his attention, but it was as though the three of them were there, with him: Fialt, Rahff, and Chak. He opened his eyes, and they were gone; but when he closed them again, he could almost see them; their presence was almost palpable. Saturnine, slow-speaking Fialt, who didn't want to be a warrior, but had died on an Ehvenor dock, distracting assassins for a priceless second. Karl knew the price of that second; it had been Fialt's Page 143 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html file:///C|/2590%20Sci-Fi%20and%20Fantasy%...%20-%2004%20-%20The%20Heir%20Appar ent.txt (213 of 252) [12/29/2004 12:59:25 AM] file:///C|/2590%20Sci-Fi%20and%20Fantasy%20E-books/Joel%20Rosenberg%20-%2004%2 0-%20The%20Heir%20Apparent.txt life. As Karl squeezed his eyes tightly shut, he could almost see Fialt shaking his head no. Young Rahff, his face a mirror to his soul, never able to resist asking why like his brother Thomen, but even more so. He'd died here, in Melawei, protecting Aeia, here on the goddam Melawei sands, his belly sliced open, gutted like a trout. Karl could almost feel Rahff looking up at him, a puzzled frown on his young face that would never grow old. And short Chak, an easy grin always on his dark face. Chak, who had spent too much of his life protecting Karl's back, making sure it didn't start sprouting knives. Chak had died outside of Kiar, blown to pieces in an explosion of slaver powder, protecting the myth of the invincibility of Home forces. It was as though Chak was there, cocking his head to one side. Leaving the bombs behind doesn't make sense, kemo sabe, he seemed to say. Since when do we count on getting out of anything alive? There was a distant chuckle. If you need them, you need them. Take any weapon you can carry. Karl Cullinane opened his eyes. There was nobody there. But there was. Take the bombs, Karl. Karl squeezed his eyes shut once more, and then nodded as he opened them to stoop for two of the packets, packed them in a small leather pouch, then tied that tightly to his left shoulder. It was less than a tenth of his stock, but that would surely be enough for now; with any kind of luck at all he wouldn't even need it. He patted his bowie for a moment, then shook his head. He was going to have to make a run from the sea, and take out the two of them before they could react. It was a chancy gambit, at best. Better to have more than fourteen inches of steel to use. He dashed back to the cavern of the sword. It still hung in the air, the spidery letters playing across the surface. Take me, they said. file:///C|/2590%20Sci-Fi%20and%20Fantasy%...%20-%2004%20-%20The%20Heir%20Appar ent.txt (214 of 252) [12/29/2004 12:59:25 AM] file:///C|/2590%20Sci-Fi%20and%20Fantasy%20E-books/Joel%20Rosenberg%20-%2004%2 0-%20The%20Heir%20Apparent.txt He fastened his fingers around the grip. It was blood-warm, alive. "No promises, Deighton," he said. "No deals. But I'd like to borrow this, for a while. With no obligation." He tightened his fingers around the hilt and pulled. The sword didn't give, Take me for your son, the letters said. "No." He pulled once more, hard. But the sword was anchored tightly in the air. "Fuck you, asshole," Karl Cullinane said. He dropped his hand from the hilt and ran from the cavern of the sword of Arta Myrdhyn and into the outer chamber. He paused a moment before the pool leading to the underwater tunnel that was the only exit from the caverns. Karl Cullinane didn't believe in ghosts. It must have been just his subconscious acting up, trying to prevent him from making a mistake. Page 144 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html Still, it wouldn't hurt. He hefted the canvas bag. "Fialt, Rahff..." He choked for a moment, "Chak. My friends. Thank you. For everything." He raised his bowie in a quick salute, then slipped it back into its sheath, thonged it into place, took a deep breath, and dove. He broke surface on the seaward side, quickly crossed the rocks, and resubmerged on the landward side of the island to keep the island between him and the offshore slaver ship. Good. If only he could keep the island between him and any possible observers, he might be able to take out the hunters without drawing any undue attention. Tennetty's group was more than a hundred yards to his left as he crept up on the shoreline; the two slavers were too intent on them to notice Karl Cullinane silently rise from the water and bear down on them. The only sound he made was the whisking of his bare feet on the sand, and that was covered by the lapping of waves on the shore. The slavers crept on silently, the leader in his curious half-crouch, the bowman lagging behind. Unstrapping the package and setting his packet of explosives gently on the sand, Karl Cullinane drew his bowie and closed in on them. Perhaps he was breathing too loudly, perhaps an unconscious growl forced itself from between his
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