by D Murray
“What are your names?” Evelyne asked the two other women.
“Franny,” the black-haired woman with the bruised eye said.
“I’m Jo,” the curly-haired woman said. “What do we call you?” She winced as the carriage wheel hit something under the grass.
“Eve.” Evelyne nodded towards the woman’s shoulder. “That looks sore. What happened?”
“Aye, it’s sore all right. Mostly numb this last day or so. The bastards threw me to the ground. Put my hand out to stop the fall, and something seemed to go in the shoulder.”
“I’ll see if I can get some help for that,” Evelyne said.
“Wouldn’t bother. There’s no kindness amongst men such as these.”
“We can only hope,” Evelyne mumbled as the young page who had brought her food the previous night rode up on a red roan.
“Madam.” He reined in and addressed Evelyne. “His Highness King Grunnxe would like me to tell you we’ll be making camp for the night. He wishes you to dine with him tonight.”
“Tell him I’d rather go hungry.”
“Madam.” The young man looked nervous, unable to meet Evelyne’s eyes. “The Highness said to expect something like that. He asked what could he do for your companions to sway your mind?”
Evelyne stared hard at the young man. His chin was smooth, as though not used to a razor, and his red cheeks spread an innocence about his face. Likely this was the one honest boy in a company of corrupt and black-hearted bastards.
“Madam,” the boy added, leaning in closely, “the king seems to be happy. It is wise to keep him so, for all of us.” His big blue eyes shifted to the women at the back of the wagon.
Evelyne looked back at them, their wretched faces dirty and their eyes bearing the marks of their pain. “What’s your name, boy?”
“My name?” He fumbled the words, looking about him.
“Yes, your name. Come on.”
“Um, my given name is Jessem, madam.”
“Jessem, these women, and however many other prisoners have been taken, need to wash, and eat, and rest. Somewhere other than a wagon floor.”
“I’ll pass the message back to His Highness.”
“I’m not finished,” Evelyne snapped, causing the young man’s eyes to search the ground for something immediately more comfortable than a woman’s fury.
“They will need proper clothing. They’re in rags. And this wagon will need to be cleaned, with fresh hay put down, and blankets. And we need proper relief breaks. We are not swine on the way to slaughter.” Or so I hope.
“Madam, if you’re finished, I’ll convey–”
“I am not.”
Jessem gulped.
“You see the rock over there?” Evelyne nodded towards the lichen-covered rock a few strides distant. “The women are in pain from their rough treatment when you ravaged their homes. Fetch me a handful each of the yellow and purple lichen. That will ease the pain of their injuries.”
Jessem waited for a moment, nervous eyes avoiding Evelyne’s.
“Go on, fetch it,” Evelyne pressed.
The young man looked about, and then walked the short distance to the rock. He bent over and pulled tufts of lichen from the stone before walking back and nervously handing it over to her.
“Thank you,” she said, gratefully taking the lichens. “Pass the message to your king.”
“Madam.” The young man turned his roan and trotted back down the line to where the old king’s pavilion was being erected.
“That purple lichen can be used to make poison,” Jo hissed quietly.
“Can it?” Evelyne replied innocently. “I thought it might make a nice tea for the king.”
“Lady Evelyne.” Grunnxe greeted Evelyne as she was led by Jessem through the inner curtains and into the centre of the pavilion.
Her ankles and wrists were still bound in chains, so her steps chimed with the chorus of her bondage.
“It is my great pleasure that we are able to dine tonight. Come, take a seat.” Grunnxe motioned towards a round table, covered in a rich silken tablecloth. Gold and silver threads made up intricate flower heads, and green, lilac and blue depicted what appeared to be hummingbirds.
Jessem pulled out the seat for her and Evelyne sat down, the ruffles of her new dress scrunching as she sank into the cushioned chair.
“Leave us, boy.”
Jessem bowed, and stepped outside the curtain of the inner pavilion.
“Do you like the dress I picked out for you? It appears I guessed your size just right. Well, it’s maybe a little small on you, but I like that. It hugs and pushes in all the right places, no?” Grunnxe leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other knee. He had washed and changed from his travelling leathers. He wore black three-quarter-length trousers, buttoned up the side of the calf to the knee, and white stockings beneath. On top he wore a black velvet doublet, with gold silk slashes across the ribs, and paired gold buttons up the front to the neck, which was open and filled with a white shirt and tie. His hair had been washed and oiled, and was tied in a high pair of braids along the sides of his head and down his back.
“I like it better than the rags you had me in before. It would have been more enjoyable also if you had seen fit to remove my chains.”
“Why ever would I do that? Free your feet so you may run, and free your hands so you may cut your own throat and free my most dear prisoner, Dajda? No, child, don’t think me unwise.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head. Then a smile split his beard and wrinkled his one good eye. The other flexed in a mass of scar. “Come, now. Let us begin anew.” He pouted and placed his wine goblet down on the tablecloth. “Can’t we at least do that?”
“Where did the dress come from?” Evelyne asked, her tone softening. “I doubt you carry these about awaiting the perfect guest, do you?”
Grunnxe sighed and leaned back towards the rear of the tented room. He clicked his fingers. “More wine, and bring our guest a cup. Must we behave like savages and leave her throat dry?”
A bald-headed serving man scurried in, white cloth across his arm and a bottle and goblet in his hands. “Your Highness.” The man placed down the goblet and poured Evelyne some red wine.
“That’s fine. Go, get gone.” The servant bowed and hurried off. “Don’t leave her dry again or you’ll be wearing that goblet up your arse,” Grunnxe called over his shoulder. He turned and grinned apologetically. “There’s me talking of manners, and yet I fail with my own words. Apologies.” He took a swallow of wine and ushered Evelyne to do the same.
Reluctantly, her eyes firmly holding the king’s, she raised the goblet and took a sip. It was delicious.
“As for the dress, you’re incorrect. I bring a wardrobe of dresses with me, for opportunities such as this delightful one.”
Evelyne felt her nose wrinkle and her eyes narrow, an involuntary reaction in disgust. “So you dress up your prisoners and play court. Does that dilute the barbarism and make you feel like a real king?”
He shot to his feet, rage in his face, and slammed his fist on the table, spilling wine from both goblets onto the fine silk tablecloth. “I am a real king!” he shouted. “And best you keep a mind of it.”
Evelyne felt her legs tremble beneath the table, but she kept her breathing steady and her face calm.
“The lady is dry!” Grunnxe shouted, causing the servant to sprint into the room, wine bottle in hand. Grunnxe straightened his doublet and sat down in his chair, crossing his leg back over his knee. “Not very mannerly of me to shout. I do apologise.” He smiled, and coughed out a little laugh. “That’s twice I’ve had to apologise in but a moment. I do hope we can achieve a more cordial atmosphere for the rest of dinner.”
“As do I.” Evelyne returned his smile. Play the bastard’s game. Win his trust. Get the Slowblood.
“Good. Let us begin.” Grunnxe clapped his hands, and four servants appeared from behind him, carrying plates of steaming fowl roasted in gravy wit
h vegetables, and two hind quarters of a pig, glazed with honey and spiked with cloves. He smiled at the food now before them and nodded to a servant, who began to fill Evelyne’s plate. Grunnxe forked some of the pork into his mouth with a two-pronged silver fork and chewed, his mouth open and steam escaping. “Fuck me! It’s hot!”
Evelyne smiled and worked her best little laugh free. Such a contrived nonsense. But play the game.
Grunnxe chewed and smiled at once, the grease from the pork shining on his lips. “Aye, a bit coarse a choice of words, but a sentiment of warning nonetheless. It’s good, though.” He forked some more, and held it aloft to his right. One of his servants leaned over and blew on it. “Not too much. I don’t want to be eating your spit into the bargain.”
The servant stepped back. The look he gave Evelyne spoke volumes of the fear that seemed to live constantly within Grunnxe’s staff.
“My fork?” Evelyne asked, nodding at the empty space beside her plate.
“Come now, precious one. I can’t let you have a fork. Why, you’d have it driven into your throat, or eye, or wherever you felt it would bring you to a certain end. No, you beautiful creature, you. You shall be fed by – um, what’s your name?”
The woman to Evelyne’s right bowed and straightened before speaking. “Your Highness, my name is Yara.”
“No, I knew a Yara once.” Grunnxe shook his head and frowned. “Frightfully disappointing. Bad end. Bad end. No, you shall be called, um–” He looked about the pavilion, and then back to his hand. “Ah! You shall henceforth be named Fork.” He laughed, and slurped a long draw from his goblet. “Go on, Fork, feed our guest.”
Evelyne caught the woman’s eye as she leaned down and stabbed a slice of pork. Fear and hate mark a face clearly. Be careful, Yara.
“You know,” Grunnxe waggled his fork as he spoke, “it is rare these days that I have such fine company to dine with. Truth be told, I eat mostly on my own these nights. Fork here, and that fucking idiot with the wine, are my companions most nights. Isn’t that right, Fork?”
Yara bowed, forcing a thin smile.
“Yes, it’s nice indeed to dine with someone as pleasant as you. Now, tell me, did you enjoy the bathing? I trust the water was warm enough?” Grunnxe straightened in his chair and looked about the pavilion. “I’ll flog the man who allowed you to bathe in cold water.”
“The water was warm, Your Highness.” Grunnxe smiled at the use of his title. “Thank you for that, and for allowing the prisoners to bathe. That was a kindness.”
He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Please, don’t call them prisoners. They are my people.”
Funny way of treating your people.
“You requested warmer clothes for them also, as well as a clean wagon in which to travel.”
“I did.” Evelyne smiled. Progress. Play the game.
“Well, I recognise it is indeed growing colder.” He laughed. “After all, it is winter, and the White Swell throws an awful wind down and around us here. I accept the need to better clothe you all, and so I grant new clothing and blankets to you.” He forked a heap of the fowl into his mouth, dripping gravy, and chewed for a moment. “I’ll also see your wagon clean and ensure you and your companions receive adequate relief breaks. Away from the men.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. That is too kind.” Evelyne smiled as sweetly as she could, in spite of her skin crawling, and wishing Yara, or Fork, would just ram the bastard of a fork into her throat and free Dajda. Yara did not ram it into her throat, however, and instead presented a mouthful of pork and carrot, which Evelyne gratefully ate, her roaring belly quieting now it was being tended to.
Grunnxe smiled at her over the rim of his goblet. “Are you enjoying your food?”
“Yes, Your Highness. It is most delicious.”
“Good. Good. This is nice. Please, however, call me Grunnxe. We need no titles between us, here, tonight.”
Evelyne’s flesh ran cold and her stomach felt like it would flip. Play the game. “Grunnxe, there was one other thing I asked for.”
“Ah, yes.” Grunnxe nodded vigorously. “Jessem said you asked him to collect some lichen to be used as pain relief for the injured women.”
“That’s right. They have some wounds that would benefit from a tonic made from the lichen.”
Grunnxe smiled fully, his teeth stained grey by the wine. “Yes, a tonic for the women. Boy, get in here.”
Evelyne felt the atmosphere chill.
“Your Highness.” Jessem’s voice sounded behind Evelyne.
Grunnxe tossed his goblet away behind him, red wine arcing. “Dinner is decidedly fucking over. You think me an idiot? You think you can poison me with your Slowblood?”
Evelyne’s eyes began to water, and empty words formed and died off in her dry mouth.
“Boy, give the lady here the cloth.”
Evelyne heart began to race as she saw the cloth with the little spot of wetness come around from behind. She smelled the sweetness, and saw the hand as it clamped over her face. Then she saw no more.
Eleven
Emissary
The bawdy singing comforted Subath like a mother’s lullaby. He supposed. He’d never heard his mother sing, for all he knew, and according to many that knew him, he didn’t even have a mother. No, the bawdy singing would have to do.
“Tell us the one about the Solansian duke you caught fucking his goat again, Sergeant,” a young lance corporal said, lifting his ale up to his pock-marked mouth.
“It’s 'Chief Marshal,' you moron!” A sergeant named Derham clapped the lad about the back of the head, sending his face crashing into his tankard and spilling ale down his green tabard.
Subath grimaced at the utterance of his new title. It hung around his neck like a damn anvil. He smiled, chasing away his discomfort. “Aye, lad. The story of old goat-fucker Duke Bunting is a good one, but for another time.” He leaned in and narrowed his eyes at the young soldier. “Call me 'Sergeant' again and I’ll have you whipped.”
The lance corporal looked up with wide eyes, the colour draining from his ale-soaked face. “Sorry, Chief Marshal. Just forgot. Meant no disrespect.”
Subath let a grin split his sober face and he slapped the lad on the shoulder, damn near collapsing him off his bar stool, and burst out in uproarious laugher. “Had you good, boy. You young ones are all the same, shite-scared of anyone with whiskers and scars.”
“The edges of the mould are a little softer with each new generation,” Derham sighed. “Not like us. Born with razor’s edges, we were.”
“Aye. True words.” Subath raised his tea in salute to the sergeant.
The lance corporal forced a lopsided grin and looked about at the gathered crowd of non-commissioned troops, probably trying to salvage some thread of dignity.
“Never fret it, lad. Doesn’t matter what baubles are pinned to me. Doesn’t matter how many titles they give me. I belong here in the mess room with you.” Subath clapped his hand on Derham's shoulder and looked about at the grinning faces of the men and women in the mess room. Good soldiers you are, to a one. Good enough for me as a child. Damn well good enough as a man. Too damn good for me now. An uncomfortable feeling nagged at the pit of Subath’s stomach. Damn blood-yips are back. He clenched his fists to stymie the advance of the nervous palsy that would certainly follow. He knew he couldn’t envelop himself in his family any longer; the troops would move on, even if he couldn’t. But he had to. The time was right. He stood off his bar stool, the feet grinding on the stone floor, and placed down his tin cup. The smile waned upon his face and he gripped his fists tight by his side. Can’t have the troops see the yips on their chief marshal. They can’t know what a bag of frayed nerves you are. He looked at Sergeant Derham and nodded.
The one-eyed sergeant clapped his heels together and straightened. “Attention!” he roared, sending flecks of white spit flying with the dramatic poise of a player on the stage. “Chief marshal on parade!”
The gathered t
roops took a moment, but it was fleeting. Dozens of ale cups dropped and clanged on the floor, causing a moment of hellish percussion. Arms locked tight to sides. Chins tipped up. Eyes stared forward. The ale-soaked lance corporal took up the rear, coming to attention with a flamboyant lack of composure, his rapid blinks and bobbing Adam’s apple betraying his nerves.
Subath looked about them, holding the moment to drive home the message. “I may well belong with you here in the mess room, but it’s no longer my place.” He clenched and unclenched his fists, working the tremor of nerves away. “I am chief marshal now. Against my wishes, perhaps. But be that as it may, I have served the Free Provinces my entire life, and I intend to serve her still–”
The door to the mess room ground open and Merkham rushed in. “Chief Marshal Subath!” Merkham’s narrow chest heaved breathlessly as he stood behind the massed troops, still rigid to attention and staring forward past Subath.
“Ah, Governor Merkham”. Subath’s smile was broad. Oh, my dear Merkham, I am going to enjoy this. “Not like you to seek a cup of wine with the non-commissioned ranks.”
“Chief Marshal.” Merkham could barely hide the disappointment in his voice.
Subath let his smile slowly fall from his face as he employed the well-practiced head-wobble of a drunk. You make mischief too easy for me, old friend. Too easy by far. He played an uncertain smile across his face. “Join us for a drink?”
“I cannot. There is much you are needed for in your study. There is little time for this, Chief Marshal.” Merkham emphasized Subath’s title, his brows furrowing over his small, dark eyes.