Frost

by Robin W Bailey

  “Not to hurt little woman,” the jailer warned.

  The guard glared, promising retributions to come.

  But the jailer's words offered new hope. Whoever wanted her preferred her in one piece. That was some advantage, at least, for she had no qualms about hurting these three if she got the opportunity. She spotted her sword and Demonfang with her clothes on the table, just out of reach.

  “Go now,” grumbled the jailer, clanking his keys with irritation. “Make Zarabeth mad if you keep her waiting."

  Frost saw her chance suddenly as the insulted guard reached out to shove her. His hand brushed an unresisting shoulder as she sank into a deep crouch. Unbalanced, he pitched forward, crying out as she straightened. He tumbled into the other guard; both fell in a heap.

  Only the jailer stood between her and her weapons. She hit him hard and low with her shoulder, slamming him back against the wall.

  Rejoicing, she reached for the sword.

  But even as her fingers touched the hilt a fat hand twisted in her hair. The jailer was not stunned as she had hoped; his obese form had absorbed the impact without harm. With an angry grunt he jerked sharply, snapping her head back, and dragged her from her weapons. The corridor resounded with her outcry as she struggled to free herself from his painful grip, and the cold floor stones scraped her shoulders as he forced her down.

  An immense fist hovered over her face, ready to smash.

  “No! Don't mark her face!"

  A woman's voice, used to command. The jailer looked up to see who ordered him, his own face a mask of fury. Frost could see no one; the voice came from behind her, but she felt the fat man stir and tremble when it spoke. When he looked back down on her, the fury was gone from his features, replaced by a more subtle mixture of fear and cruelty.

  “All right, then,” he whispered. “Not her face."

  His hand covered her breast and began a gentle, teasing massage. Then, steel fingers started to squeeze slowly. An involuntary scream reverberated through the halls. Frost sucked breath and clamped her eyes shut against the incredible jolts of pain. Her knees kicked ineffectually on the giant's back, and her nails raked the flesh on his thick arms. Grinning, he trapped both her wrists with one hand, pinned her with a knee in the stomach.

  How long the pain continued she could not say. It seemed forever, and her throat was raw long before the jailer's weight lifted from her.

  She strained to sit, her breast afire, tears freely flowing on her cheeks. The two guards, on their feet again, looked on aghast.

  “Not mark her face you said.” A half-smile flickered on the jailer's ugly face.

  An old woman stepped out of the gloom, cursing as she pushed the guards aside. Kneeling down, she placed a consoling arm around Frost's bare shoulders.

  “Now get up, dear. You'll know better than to try that again, won't you?"

  Frost pushed the frail old arm away and glared at the leering jailer. “I'm going to kill you,” she warned, and not even the shaking in her voice could deny her resolution.

  He scowled, raised a menacing fist, but with surprising quickness the old woman sprang up and caught his arm. “That's enough!” Authority swelled her voice. “She's for Tumac, and you know his command."

  Tumac. She turned the name over in her memory. It meant nothing to her. A man of power, though, to judge by the jailer's reaction.

  The old woman turned back to her, then. “And you mind your mouth,” she said sternly. “I don't intend to scrape you off the wall if you make Orgolio mad a second time."

  The jailer folded his fat arms, regarded her coldly.

  “Now get up.” She offered Frost a hand and pulled her to her feet. Surprising strength in that small, veined hand. “No serious damage,” she pronounced as she examined the tortured breast. “The pain will pass, and soon the greatest joy in Zondu will be yours."

  Frost forced a bitter smile. “My greatest joy will be to leave this treacherous city."

  “Oh no, dear,” she answered curtly. “Forget about that.” Then, she turned to the guards standing just behind her and dealt them each a savage kick on the shins. “Out of my way, you worthless morons! I send you to fetch one girl and she nearly cracks your empty skulls. If I report your disgusting behavior, Tumac will have your heads piked on the front palace gates."

  They shuffled aside, begging pardon. The woman strode magnificently by them, unheeding, motioning for Frost to follow. Humiliated, the guards fell in behind.

  Frost thought to ask a name.

  “I am Zarabeth,” came the answer, “keeper of Lord Tumac's seraglio."

  They passed through a number of brightly-lit halls, encountering no one, then through a number of dark ones with a single torch to show the way. Frost tried to count her steps, the right turns and the left ones so that she could retrace the course. It was a hopeless task; the way was too long and winding, and the walls were all the same. At last they stopped. An ivory door and two barrel-chested sentries barred the way.

  Zarabeth addressed the original guards. “This is as far as you go. Return to your duties and pray that I forget your faces."

  The two saluted sharply, spun about and disappeared down the corridor. When the echo of their footsteps had faded, the door sentries bowed and parted. Zarabeth rapped a special knock on the portal and it swung open.

  The scents of costly perfumes touched her nostrils. A young girl held the door wide, lowered her eyes in abasement as Zarabeth passed, but met Frost's own gaze with a look of cool superiority.

  She paused, took in the pale paints that shaded the girl's face, the kohl smeared, almond-shaped eyes and the thick black hair that hung past the hips. A piece of transparent silk fell over one shoulder to her ankles, fastened at the waist by a chain of delicate golden links from which gems and precious stones dangled on silver threads.

  The girl stuck out her tongue.

  Frost made a gesture she had seen her father's men use in dice games or heated quarrels, unsure of its meaning, but loving the blush it brought to the concubine's cheeks. She followed Zarabeth into the chamber.

  It was staggering, vast. Slender columns of white marble rose to a domed ceiling which was painted with scenes of passion and lovemaking. The walls were hung with tapestries depicting nude, lovely females at play in gardens or woodlands, pursued by stags, bulls or lusty men. In contrast to the cold stones of the corridors, the floor was thick with fleecy carpets and rich rugs. There were no furnishings other than cushions and pillows piled high and, here and there, a brazier of incense.

  Nine more women in various stages of dress looked up as Zarabeth clapped her hands. Behind her, Frost heard the door close.

  “See that this young woman is bathed and clothed suitably,” Zarabeth ordered. “She sits with Tumac tonight."

  Frost watched the different reactions of the concubines. Some were jealous. A few seemed awed. Most at least feigned indifference. Whoever Tumac was, these women were his, though. That meant a high statesman, possibly governor. She lingered on that. She was for him, Zarabeth had said. Well, by the three eyes of Tak, she had other ideas.

  Casually, she brushed a girl aside and crossed to the door. No knob, only a large keyhole. She cursed, whirled. The one she had pushed—the same one who had admitted them—smiled guilefully and waved a large iron key. Its end was a ring that served as a handle when the lock was turned.

  Zarabeth took the key, dropped it down her bosom and folded her arms. No malice showed in her old gray eyes. “You had to try once, and now you've done so. Leave it at that."

  She considered taking the key from the old whore. She doubted the other females in the chamber could stop her. Oddly, though, she was developing a liking for Zarabeth, an admiration for her strength and forthrightness.

  She decided to bide her time. Other opportunities would come.

  The women led her away.

  They scrubbed her with stiff brushes. With heavy oils and perfumes they massaged her. Then, her hair was washed, combed dr
y and more perfumes added to it. Eyes were carefully, tastefully painted, then her lips and cheeks. Zarabeth personally tended her short nails, staining them a shade that matched her eyes.

  When her grooming was finished they dressed her in the same transparent veil they all wore.

  “This is too much!” she cried, ripping the thin garment to shreds. “I'll not display myself in this lascivious manner. If you want to dress me, then give me clothes."

  Zarabeth whispered to a girl. A length of light blue silk was brought to replace the transparent one. Two women fussed as they draped it over her and fastened it with one of their own golden belts.

  Zarabeth rose. “No, no dears. Too much of her breast is bare, and Orgolio's finger marks are starting to show."

  Livid blue bruises spotted her breast. The garment was removed and arranged over her left shoulder, carefully hiding the mottled flesh.

  Frost studied her reflection in a length of polished bronze. Her front and back were covered, but her sides from shoulder to ankle were completely bare. Only the gold belt and dangling jewels kept the cloth in place. It was a shocking, brazen costume, yet she found she did not entirely dislike it.

  “You're very lovely, child.” Zarabeth paced a small circle, nodded approvingly. She beckoned for one of the women. “Bring my personal chest of jewels."

  When the chest was brought and opened, Zarabeth dug deep into the contents, at last removing a thin circlet of twisted silver. One polished moonstone gleamed on the band. She gave the ornament a long, loving look, then drew a deep breath as she placed in on Frost's brow, centering the jewel with ginger care.

  “I give this to you."

  A murmur raced through the concubines, angry glances and jealous whispers. “Zarabeth!” one dared, “you can't!"

  The old woman slapped the dissenter in the mouth until she cowered away. An inner fire lit Zarabeth's eyes. “It's not your place to say what I can or cannot do,” she warned. “Don't ever presume it is."

  She turned back to Frost. “That was a gift from Tumac's father, given our first night together. I was very young then, and as high-spirited as you.” With a wave, she dismissed the others. “It's time for you to go now. Tumac is waiting."

  They crossed the chamber to a certain tapestry. Behind it was another door opened by the same iron key. Two guards with pole axes waited on the other side. Frost marveled how they bowed their huge, hulking bodies so low when Zarabeth spoke.

  “The new one is ready."

  The old courtesan led the way, the guards in the rear respectfully silent. From an unseen cranny two new guards assumed their vacated posts.

  Her bare feet made no noise on the cool tiles as they traveled a series of winding passages. There were no windows, and the few doors along the way were closed. Oil lamps blazed on the walls, but she shivered, doubting she could ever find her way alone through such a maze.

  Faint strains of music and laughter drifted toward them from behind a set of immense oaken doors. Zarabeth stopped, and one of the guards came forward, seized gleaming brass handles and pushed.

  Her mouth went moist as the savory odors of roasted meats surged from the dining hall. Music, sweet and wild, poured into the passage while dancers and tumblers cavorted in the center of the floor. Servants bearing platters of sweetmeats and vegetables scurried among the guests, and wine goblets were constantly refilled by a score of pretty maidens.

  She stepped uncertainly inside.

  Where did Zondu get such fare in so barren a land? She looked questioningly at Zarabeth, who smiled, took her hand and ushered her through the hall straight to the head table and the highest lords and ladies.

  One man rose ponderously, ceremoniously as they approached. He gazed down on them. Frost met his gaze, forgetting to bow until Zarabeth slapped her on the stomach.

  Short and fat, he wore bright robes and too many rings. His head balanced precariously on a thin neck adorned with chains and precious gems that glittered brilliantly in the dancing light of countless torches. His balding scalp was only partially hidden beneath a golden coronet.

  Zarabeth bowed again. “I have prepared her, Lord, as you commanded me."

  Tiny white teeth showed in his smile. “My dear,” he addressed Frost, “you are quite exquisite. More so than when I saw you first. Oh, don't trouble your memory—you were, ah, sleeping at the time.” He motioned to an empty chair at his right hand. “I've saved a place of honor for you."

  A winecup smashed on the floor. A young nobleman leaped to his feet, slamming an angry fist on the board. “Lord Tumac!” All eyes turned to the outraged guest. “She wears your chain—the badge of your concubines!"

  Tumac was unruffled. “You really don't miss a thing, do you, young Telric?” He took a sip of wine. “Be a good boy and don't make a fuss about it."

  The fist pounded the table again. “She's mine! She murdered two of my brothers; the honor of my house demands she die!"

  Tumac stepped down from the dais that elevated the main table above the others, came forward and took her hand, kissed it and smiled. “Die? This lovely vision? I couldn't allow that, oh no. Such a waste!” He guided her to the seat by his, dismissing Zarabeth with a gesture. “I confess that I considered giving her to you, but now that I've seen her scrubbed and properly attired I realize that would have been a gross error in judgment."

  “She murdered my brothers!"

  “And rest assured that I will personally see to her punishment."

  Frost didn't miss his sly wink.

  “My father will not like this!” Telric screamed.

  Tumac fluttered his hands serenely. “There is very little Lord Rholf can do about it. Now sit down and try to enjoy the festivities before you work yourself into a choler."

  Telric purpled. “For the last time, Tumac, I ask you—give her up."

  Zondu's governor frowned in mild irritation. “I'll put it to the men among you,” he addressed his guests. “This lad tells a wild tale of murder done by this beautiful creature.” He placed a fleshy, pallid hand on her head, stroked her hair. It was a disgusting truth that he held her fate in his palm at the moment, so she tried not to shrink away. “In fact,” he continued, “he claims she killed his brothers using a sword in a common tavern brawl.” A big grin lit his features. He lifted her arm and squeezed her biceps playfully. “Now I ask—could this pale, delicate limb slay such two strong swordsmen as old Rholf's sons? Come now, and give me judgment. What say you?"

  The feast hall erupted with laughter.

  Tumac shrugged, made a helpless pass in the air. “Well, young Telric. You've heard the verdict with your own ears. I can't, in good faith, turn her over to you. But be assured that when I have the time I will investigate your claim and seek the truth of this unpleasant matter. Until then, be at peace and enjoy my wine."

  The son of Lord Rholf swept a blistering gaze over the hall, and the guests grew uncomfortably silent. Then, he spat contemptuously in a platter of steaming meats, spun on his heel and strode from the banquet.

  “Convey my greetings to your noble father,” Tumac called as the youth disappeared through the doors. Then, confidentially to Frost: “Never did like his father—quite a pompous ass, really."

  She sipped reflectively at the wine he offered and nibbled a piece of fruit, then a slice of meat. Kregan had warned her Rholf and his family would pursue them. The Shazadi governor must have found their tracks and guessed their destination; as Kregan had feared, some hard riding and a string of fresh horses had put Telric in Zondu first and given him time to lay a trap for them.

  But there was more than one trap to fear this evening it seemed, and more than one trapper.

  Instinctively as she thought of Zarad-Krul her hand strayed toward where she kept the Book of the Last Battle. Her fingers brushed only the golden belt that marked her as one of Tumac's concubines; the Book was with her clothes and weapons in the dungeon far below.

  Her brow wrinkled, her mouth creased in a tight-lipped frown and sh
e wondered at the time. The feast hall lights gave no hint of the hour's lateness. Sundown when she rode into the city—how long since then? It was surely night, and the wizard must be seeking the Book with all his night-spawned forces. If he found it ... she pushed that thought from her mind.

  Resolutely, she drained her winecup, tossing the fiery liquid down her throat. Time to find her Chondite friend and leave this wretched city.

  And there was only one way to accomplish that.

  Her fingers sought the back of Tumac's bony hand and played lightly there for one tantalizing moment. A small, shark-toothed smile flashed on his face, and he gave her hand a squeeze. “You have the most remarkably green eyes,” he said, breathily.

  Frost swallowed hard, her throat suddenly tight. “I have a number of remarkable attributes,” she brazened, “not all of them as accessible as my eyes."

  It was not a role that suited her. She was no seductress, and she fought to hide her trembling. But Tumac, his hand on hers, felt her body's quivering, misinterpreted it, and uttered a wry comment over the rim of his cup.

  She averted her eyes in calculated coyness. “Shouldn't a maiden tremble with such a man as you?"

  The winecup hesitated at his lips; Tumac's eyes rolled over the edge. Slowly, never removing his gaze, he set the cup aside. “Maiden?"

  Again, she looked away, wondering if she could force a blush. She settled for a shy nod.

  The shark-toothed smile returned, and Zondu's governor licked his lips with sudden desire. He stroked her arm from shoulder to wrist, his palm damp with perspiration. “If you're lying, it will go hard with you,” he warned.

  She let a little grin slip over her face and toyed with a bite of roasted fowl. “Will it not, in any case?"

  Tumac threw back his head and roared. “Well said!” he bellowed, shaking the table with his belly, startling his guests into puzzled muteness. “Well said, indeed!” He beckoned for more wine, and a servant replenished his cup. He downed it with a single, long gulp. Another draught, then he rose pulling Frost with him, her hand locked firmly in his.