Siege of Tarr-Hostigos

by John F. Carr

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Danar Sirna’s first thought on waking up was to wish that she hadn’t. Being dead or at least asleep seemed the best solution to quite a number of her problems, starting with her crashing headache.

  The first thing Sirna saw clearly was a dead man. Beyond him lay two more dead men, one with half of his face blown away. Was she in what passed for field hospitals on Kalvan’s Time-Line?

  She was lying on a straw pallet, with a wood-beamed roof over her, whitewashed plaster walls around her and a window in one of those walls. The warped wooden shutter was ajar; through the gap she could see what looked like a cobblestone street in Hostigos Town.

  She must have been picked up and brought in by one side or another and put in here because she looked dead or dying. The whole left side of her head not only throbbed horribly but felt caked and stiff with dried blood. A scalp wound like that could make you look dead to people in a hurry.

  Who had pulled her from the farmhouse? And where was Chief Verkan and the Paratime Police--they wouldn’t abandon her, even if her colleagues at the University would? In her mind’s eye, she could still see Aranth Sain slipping out of the farmhouse. Had Sain come back and rescued her? Or was this a holding pen for the Investigation?

  Sirna had just decided that sitting up was a bad idea when a board creaked behind her. She decided to face her visitor sitting.

  She struggled upright, groaned, and turned to see a woman well past middle age. With a woman in attendance, this must be a Temple of the local Mother Goddess, Yirtta Allmother. Any temple to Dralm would already be pulled down and burned to the foundation.

  “So you’re alive,” the lady said.

  Sirna nodded.

  “You’ve been laid out like a corpse for over a moon-quarter.” The lady pointed to a squat girl in a loose shift. “If it hadn’t been for Cryissa there, we’d have tossed you into the lime pits days ago. Those dead soldiers are waiting for a proper send off to Galzar’s Great Hall.”

  “Yeah, and we pay good coin for you to keep the bodies,” said one of the soldiers angrily.

  “Hey! This is our work; we minister to men in life and in death.”

  Sirna tried to say her thanks to the squat girl with ringlet curls, but the only sound she could make came out like a frog’s croak. Cryissa brought Sirna a wet cloth and let her squeeze some watered wine into her mouth. She tried to thank the lady with her eyes, but they felt too heavy . . .

  It was evening when Sirna awoke the second time. Cryissa called the older woman over the moment she opened her eyes.

  “They call me Menandra. What’s your name, sweetheart?” The voice was gruff and coarsened by alcohol, but not unfriendly.

  Better say something. Sirna didn’t dare nod, but her mouth was still so dry that only a croak came out.

  Menandra bawled something in a voice that would have rallied a cavalry regiment. Sirna winced. One of the house women appeared with a jug and a cup.

  “Drink this.”

  Sirna rinsed her mouth out, and then swallowed. It went down, heavily watered wine with some herbs in it. When she thought it was going to stay down, she said, “My name is Sirna. Thank you.”

  The woman who called herself Menandra looked embarrassed, as if she wasn’t used to kind words. “Praise Yirtta Allmother, it was She who brought you back from Regwarn!”

  “Are you a priestess?” It was surprising how ignorant she still was about Zarthani religion, but religious inquiry had been squelched by the Study Team as detrimental to their cover as craftsmen. However, Sirna did know from her studies at the University that in some cults the priestesses engaged in ritualized prostitution.

  Menandra laughed so loudly the walls rang. “I minister to men’s needs, not their spirits. But thank you kindly for asking! What accent is that?”

  “Grefftscharrer. I was working at the Royal Foundry as a patternmaker when Styphon’s Red Hand came.”

  “Say no more--they’re demons in human form, the red bastards! You can’t walk down the street without being kidnapped by Styphon’s Guardsmen.”

  Sirna took another drink and asked, “What’s been happening since Ardros Field?” She realized she was very lucky to be alive.

  Menandra looked at the ceiling as she spoke. “Well, King Kalvan is on his way west with what’s left of his army. Prince Ptosphes is holding the castle, to let him get away. We’re playing host to Captain-General Phidestros’ Iron Band. Does that answer you, girl?”

  “What’s Phidestros doing here?” Sirna asked.

  Menandra’s reply was a hoarse whisper. “I hear that the Captain-General’s not too pleased with how Roxthar’s Investigators are tearing up this town. He’s supposed to be staying over there at the big headquarters in what used to be Prince Ptosphes’ palace. But he spends most of his nights here or over by the siege works.” She grinned. “Once he sets eyes on you, he won’t be staying anywhere else.”

  Sirna strangled another groan. Menandra shrugged. “War’s like that. Now, the next question is, what do we do with you now? Some peasants picked you up, thought you fit for selling. They ran you on into town on a cart; face down on top of a load of squash with your skirt up to your arse. They brought you here, thinking to earn some coppers. But when I saw how ill you were I sent the peasants on their way with a good buffeting.”

  “With my skirt up?”

  The picture made Sirna giggle, then laugh. Once she started laughing she couldn’t stop, although it made her head hurt worse. It also shook her stomach, which finally rebelled.

  When Sirna stopped retching, Menandra was still standing over her, trying to look stern but not entirely succeeding. “Nothing but bile, girl. Cryissa, make some turkey broth for Sirna here.”

  She nodded her thanks.

  “As I said, what about you, girl? You’re a long way from Greffa and your friends at the Foundry are either dead or run off, the true gods alone know where.”

  The sounds of gunfire and screams in the Foundry quarters came rushing back. “Run off?”

  Menandra couldn’t give many details, but what she said told Sirna very clearly that the survivors of the University Study Team had left her for dead. It took all her self-control not to cry. She not only felt sick, she was frightened.

  “Not good for you, the more so since the Styphoni will be looking for people from the Royal Foundry. Outlanders especially. I can probably protect you here at the Gull’s Nest, if you’re willing to work.”

  This was more than Sirna could digest in one gulp. It suddenly dawned on her that Menandra was the owner and Madam of the Gull’s Nest (and why that name, this far from the sea?) and was quite willing to let her earn her keep, sick or not.

  “No!”

  “It’s how I started out in Agrys City, girl. More years ago than either of us wants to think about. There’s worse things than making a living on your back. Gives you a new view of the world, you might say.”

  There probably were worse things here-and-now than making a living as one of Menandra’s whores. Right now Sirna couldn’t think of them. She shook her head slowly.

  “Well, you’re handsome enough for it, and to spare.”

  Sirna shook her head again.

  “I’ll leave it be, then. Just remember, though--anything you make in the house, half goes to me. Or you go to the soldiers.”

  The matter of fact way Miranda said the latter made a believer out of Sirna. She closed her eyes and wished it all away. The smoke-blackened timbers were still there when she opened them back up. She really was in a situation where she could be turned over to a band of mercenaries and passed from man to man until she died or they got tired of her. It was a long way from reading or even writing about ‘the inferior position of women’ to experiencing it.

  Deliberately, she closed and locked a door in her mind, on First Level and all the pleasures and privileges she had there, even on her chances of ever seeing it again (which were slim enough at best, with Kalvan defeated and her left for dead). Sh
e would look forward, look this Styphon-cursed time-line squarely in the eye, and dare it to do its worst.

  Not that it hasn’t already given me its best shot. She came back from this mental exercise to see Menandra looking positively concerned. “That crack on the head didn’t addle your wits, did it?”

  “I don’t think so. I must have slept off the worst of it. I was just thinking about what I’m going to do to those sons of the gods-only-could-count-how-many-fathers who ran off and left me.”

  That was no lie, either. She now understood emotionally as well as intellectually the concept of the blood feud. If she ever caught Outtime Studies Director Talgan Dreth alone in a dark place--

  “By Yirtta’s dugs, girl, I can’t give charity! Phidestros’ men may pay me if Styphon’s House ever pays them. Then again they may not. If they don’t want to and I ask, they may burn the place down!”

  And pass the women around among themselves, Sirna added mentally. Somehow the idea was no longer so paralyzingly frightful, now that she’d closed that door to First Level.

  “If you know anything about healing, even the smallest bit, you might make yourself useful. Phidestros is going to be sending his sick and hurt here. The Iron Band’s Uncle Wolf was killed in the battle, and there aren’t so many priests of Galzar that even a Grand Captain-General can conjure them up. You help patch and purge Phidestros’ men, and there won’t be any trouble keeping you.”

  “Help those damned filthy Styphon’s sons of--” Sirna began. Gently but emphatically, Menandra slapped her. At least it was probably intended as a gentle slap. Sirna had to shake her head a couple of times, to make sure her neck wasn’t broken. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard Menandra warning her against saying anything less than complimentary about Styphon.

  “Archpriest Roxthar’s here with his Investigators. Anyone who blasphemes Styphon within a day’s ride of him will wish she had been turned over to the soldiers. Yes, and the stallions and the draft oxen too!”

  From what she’d heard of Roxthar, Sirna saw no reason to argue the point. “I’m sorry, Menandra. I’m still a little confused.” Make that a lot confused, she said to herself.

  “Well, un-confuse yourself, girl. You might start with that head wound. Clean it up, and I’ll think you’re good enough to turn loose on Phidestros’ men.”

  Menandra bawled for scissors, a mirror, hot water, and bandages, while Sirna took off her mud and blood-smeared clothes and examined her body for other injuries. A prize collection of black-and-blue marks was all she turned up. Her anger toward the people who’d abandoned her grew. If they hadn’t been too panic-stricken to spend ten seconds examining her, they’d have learned she was alive and fit to be moved.

  Or was it possible that she and Aranth were the only survivors? No, the rest of the Team must have used the conveyer in the Foundry basement to flee. They were the least heroic people she’d ever met.

  The head wound was a long shallow gash, probably from the gunshot. She must have picked up the concussion when she fell. No signs of infection, but she made a thorough job of cleaning the wound, starting with cutting off the hair all around it. It was bleeding again by the time she was finished, and so was her lower lip where she’d bitten it. She finished by trimming her hair all around.

  “You’re cutting off one of your best parts, you know that, girl?” Menandra said.

  Persistent, aren’t you? “I’ll be hard to recognize with my hair short. Maybe they’ll even think I’m too ugly to bother.”

  “With a figure like yours? You’ve got a lot to learn about men, girl. Somebody’s going to want what you’ve got if you shaved yourself bald! Best arrange to give it to a man big enough to fight off the rest. Or else you’ll wish you’d taken my first offer.”

  What am I, a mare to go with the strongest and fiercest stallion in the herd?

  Exactly.

  Sirna sighed and stood up, swaying slightly but not really wanting to lie down again. That was one good sign. Another was that she was hungry.

  “Is there anything to eat around here?”

  Menandra chuckled. “You’ll do, girl. Come on down to the kitchen and I’ll see if the bread and tea are ready.”

  II

  This was only Phidestros’ second visit to Kalvan’s former palace, both times under duress. The first time had been for his investiture as Prince of Greater Beshta, where he’d felt like the country cousin to the groom at a village wedding. (Being a Prince was going to take more getting used to than being Great Captain-General!) Nor had sharing the dais with his co-prince, Sthentros, made it any easier. This visit, however, was for a council of war led by Great King Lysandros with both the Princely commanders and their Captain-Generals, Prince Sthentros of Hostigos, Grand Master Soton, Prince Valthames of Xanx, Archpriest Phyllos, Prince Epiclytis of Arklos, Investigator Roxthar, Captain-General Anaphon and Xenophes, Commander of Styphon’s Own Guard. He was certain he would be the one getting the orders, not giving them.

  Before he reached the private audience chamber, he was motioned aside by Chancellor Kyphannes, Lysandros’ chief advisor.

  Kyphannes, a tall wispy man with a receding hairline, whispered in his ear, “The Great King wants to meet you in private, Your Highness, before he meets with the others.”

  Phidestros nodded his head. This being called “Your Highness” would take some getting used to!

  The Chancellor escorted him into a small handsomely appointed study.

  Lysandros saw his eyes examining the room and answered, “This was Kalvan’s study.” He pointed to the deerskin map on one wall, with the boundaries of Hos-Hostigos marked in red ink. “The Usurper left in too much of a hurry to pack. Unfortunately, he did take time to empty the treasury. Prince Sthentros finds that impossible to accept and has his men poking their way into every palace nook and cranny looking for Kalvan’s moneybox.”

  They both exchanged grins, leaving Phidestros feeling reassured; he hadn’t been sure if Lysandros had been completely taken in by Sthentros-- or his daughter.

  Lysandros suddenly sobered. “There are things we need to discuss before meeting with the others. I’ve just received an urgent dispatch from Count Hythar. The Highpriests of Galzar have been meeting at the High Temple in Agrys City and have decided to place the Grand Host under Galzar’s Ban”

  Phidestros expelled a large breath, and began coughing. “I was afraid of this!”

  Lysandros nodded. “Styphon’s House has rather more enemies in Hos-Agrys than in Harphax or Hos-Zygros. Archpriest Phyllos suspects the League of Dralm is behind this; not that Roxthar and his Investigation have made these charges difficult to justify.”

  “I warned Roxthar not to Investigate the Hostigi prisoners of war--at least, not where Uncle Wolf Olmnestes could learn of it.”

  Lysandros struck his fist on the stone wall. “These walls listen better than the Investigator. Why do you think I followed the Army so quickly? Be still, Captain-General, I know you think it was to snatch your mantle of command and put it on my own shoulders, but my real concern was to put some curbs upon the Investigation. I had heard about the rumblings in Hos-Agrys from my intelligencers a moon-quarter before I left Hos-Harphax. The Council of Galzar would have moved faster with their Ban had I not sent a large number of purses to my envoys; they spent them well, or this Ban would have been pronounced a moon-quarter ago.”

  Phidestros nodded. That was gold well spent.

  “Also, I wanted to Invest you as Prince of Beshta as quickly as I could arrange so that you were able to issue an edict banning the Investigation from Beshta.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty! I am most happy with your command.”

  Lysandros grinned, “As I expected. You will like the next one even better! I will transfer all the mercenary units in the Grand Host to the Army of the Princedom of Beshta.”

  Phidestros was completely taken aback. “But why?”

  “I want all the mercenaries in the Grand Host, almost all of whom are loyal to
Galzar, in the Army of Beshta.”

  Phidestros shook his head in puzzlement. “I don’t understand.”

  “According to my most recent dispatch, the Council of Galzar has publicly cleared you of all charges of torturing prisoners. Thus, Beshta--and you--are not under the Ban, since the government of Beshta did not exist when the Ban was ordered.”

  “Roxthar will be livid!”

  “I do not need his permission. All of Styphon’s House’s soldiers, including the Zarthani Knights are under the Ban of Galzar.”

  “Does Soton know this?” Phidestros asked.

  “No, not yet; nor does Roxthar, or even Archpriest Phyllos.”

  “How is this possible, Your Majesty?”

  “It is We who control the roads through Hos-Harphax into the False Kingdom of Hos-Hostigos--not Styphon’s House. I have had my men waylay Styphon’s messengers, claiming they carry the plague. We will release them when it is to Our advantage; if only I could do likewise with the highpriests of Galzar--but there’s no need to further antagonize them.”

  Phidestros nodded his agreement. Lysandros was far more devious than he had suspected; he would have to be even more careful about his plans now that he was a Prince and under the Great King’s eye.

  “Thanks to the Investigator’s excesses, the Royal Army of Hos-Harphax is also under the Ban.” Lysandros face was red and he was breathing faster. “If only I had my--Enough, I cannot change what already is.” He took a few deep breaths and continued, “Furthermore, I will open negotiations with my Princes and vassals to transfer any of the Galzar faithful, who so request, from the Royal to the Princely armies.”

  “Excellent idea, Your Majesty! That will buy us time and help convince Uncle Wolf Olmnestes that you are acting in good faith and are not connected to, or in support of, the atrocities the Investigation has committed in Styphon’s name--not yours! In addition, it will take moons to transfer that many soldiers, complete with pensions, to the Princely armies.”