To Ride Hell's Chasm

by Janny Wurts

  Jussoud dipped the linen into the tin, let the melted gum soak through the fabric. ‘Do you care very much if you itch as you heal?’

  Mykkael curled his lip at the strong reek of pine gum. ‘That concoction you’ve got’s going to spare me from having my torso done up in strapping? Great glory. I’ll scratch like a dog, and be grateful.’ Then he flinched, gasping swearwords, as the healer plastered the heated strips over his traumatized flesh.

  To divert him from the pain, Jussoud posed a sensitive question. ‘What made you think Kaien might grant you release?’

  Eyes shut, head thrown back, with the sweat rolling off his temples in drops and soaking his sable hair, Mykkael jerked out his answer. ‘Such a seal is given, master to student, on the swearing of oath. It is kept on display, then awarded with ceremony upon completion of training. I did not finish my schooling. Not then, not ever, with Kaien’s do’aa. When I deserted without given leave, the master smashed my seal, for dishonour. The first assassin he sent delivered that token. Though that aspirant died by my hand, I sent his disc back, unbroken, along with his ashes. For the second man, I did the same. By my respect for their dead, they would understand I had never shared secrets between do’aa. Tonight, as you see, they dispatched their reply. Third is final. My appeal is not going to be heard.’

  ‘Outcast,’ Jussoud said. ‘Did you murder that beggar girl?’

  That snapped Mykkael out of pain-shocked stupor. Riled beyond hurt, his eyes open and angry, he slammed his taut fists on the trestle. ‘With these hands? No! The spilled blood stained another’s. But, by allowing such knowledge to exist in the world—yes. Which weapon strikes down the victim, the living man or the sword? All of us in that do’aa killed that child. Saddest of all, maybe, that I was the only one there who was shamed enough to walk out.’

  ‘I spoke for you, today, when I wasn’t sure,’ Jussoud said, in one measured sentence drawing the sting from his test of the captain’s integrity. ‘Brother I lost to Orannia’s madness, I say here, you were good enough to have wed as a prince of the clan.’

  That undid Mykkael. He stared, thrown off his balance in surrender, while the nomad’s deft touch steered his unsteady steps towards the pallet. Settled, face down, the tears almost came that the past had never wrung from him. ‘Demon, begotten of demons,’ he murmured, exhausted down to the bone. ‘I had better be good enough now, to recover Isendon’s daughter.’

  Jussoud moved in staid calm and fetched the clean bucket. Endlessly patient, he sat on the edge of the cot, sorted among his oils and remedies, and made up a second infusion. This one did not sting, as the warm cloth tenderly swabbed the three livid welts on the desert-bred captain’s back. Jussoud cleaned the spatter of bloodstains, also, everywhere else he could reach. ‘You cannot help her Grace by any means if you don’t keep your head and stay free.’

  Mykkael sighed, eyes half lidded and weary, now that he was stretched prone. ‘By that, you know I have a garrison man turned informer?’

  ‘Do you?’ That steady, soft touch scarcely faltered.

  ‘The assassin’s dropped sword wasn’t found in the archway when I sent a boy to recover it,’ Mykkael stated, and this time the bitterness blistered. ‘You learned the fact I had two masters from your tribe? Not Taskin.’ Satisfied once that point had been clarified, the captain closed his eyes fully. ‘How much is my oath-breaking likely to cost? If Taskin kept silence, I have to expect the unpleasant truth that somebody knows how severely I’m forsworn with one, if not both of the do’aa.’

  With practised mercy, Jussoud ripped off a stuck scab to cleanse the festering flesh underneath. ‘The bald truth you’ve asked for is ugly enough. The king’s trust in fact rests upon your past record of loyalty, and you are foreign-born, which draws enemies. That could see you bound in chains on an implied charge of treason at the slightest hint of provocation. Will you go if you’re summoned?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Mykkael shifted his knee, fretful, the fine tremors now more due to pinched nerves than the backlash of excess adrenaline. ‘As your people have said, it’s the ancient problem facing the starving snake who foolishly swallowed its own tail. Go or not, I would find myself damned. Break my oath of crown service by jilting Taskin’s authority, or submit to the chain of command by free choice—Sessalie’s chancellors would clamour for my arraignment either way’

  Jussoud blotted his handiwork dry, then set to with more lint and salve. ‘Short-term decision,’ he pronounced at due length, breaking through the strained quiet. ‘Cover these, you’ll feel more comfortable, later. After the last, can you bear it?’

  Mykkael swore. ‘Do your worst, healer. By such grace, the doomed man counts his blessing of life. If I pass out, asleep, just be sure that my sword is left underneath my right hand.’

  Arisen to warm his tin of congealed resin, Jussoud recovered the harness and blade from the floor. He could not avoid the tragic glance sideways, or fail to acknowledge the sad altar made over the battered wood of the clothes chest. The stick of lit incense had long since burned out. Under the lucent flames of wax candles, the smashed token disc blazed like a brand. Moved by sharp impulse, Jussoud bent and veiled it. He snatched up the stained linen just used to swab down Mykkael’s back, and saw, amazed, that his hand was unsteady with anger.

  For long minutes, he walked the floor, after that. He paced until he was certain his hackled emotions had dispersed back to centring calm.

  Mykkael watched, eyes slitted with irony. He slept the moment the cold mark on the sword hilt was slid underneath his slack hand. Lightly breathing, he scarcely stirred as Jussoud sealed his back under strips of resin-soaked bandage. Battered unconscious by blinding exhaustion, he thrashed once in a dream, and called Anja’s name. Or perhaps his appeal was Orannia’s. His whisper ran on in an unknown tongue, a wracked cry of desperate, hoarse agony.

  Jussoud wept, then blotted his run tears in relief for the gift of blank silence, restored. His hands faltered, then moved on, careful, so careful, not to brush against the bronze skin with the knife blade he required to cut away the stained wrap that supported the lamed knee. Mykkael rested, oblivious. His hands on the coverlet stayed slack and trusting, as perhaps they had during childhood. As the candles burned low, and the mist spun white tendrils past the arrow slits, the masseur finished his labour in unstinting quiet. He eased what he could. At the end, when the oils and the strength of his hands had achieved all the healing he knew, he sewed a fresh binding over the damaged joint with its crippling scars.

  This time, with no pang of regret, he used the fine eastern silk embroidered with the Sanouk royal dragons, cut away from the sash at his waist.

  The horses gave her their hearts under cover of darkness. Their shod hooves struck sparks, clambering over sharp rock, and sliding on perilous footing. The game trust that risked slender legs to a lameness brought tears to her anxious eyes. Should a misstep cause injury, the distressed animal would draw marauding kerries, an event sure to betray her desperate flight, and cast her, helpless, back into the reach of her enemies…

  XV. Charges

  RETURNED THROUGH THE HIGHGATE IN THE STILL HOURS BETWEEN MIDNIGHT AND DAWN, JUSSOUD MADE HIS WAY THROUGH THE STATELY streets that wound behind the east wing of the palace. The houses here belonged to old blood nobility. Even so late, the candle lamps cast fuzzed light over dooryards and carriageways, glinting on the glazed panes of sash windows. The beautiful town home surrounded by cherry trees had been in Taskin’s family for centuries. Though the seat of the earldom bestowed on the patriarch was a hall on a country estate, the house in the citadel was never unoccupied. Younger sons often served in the royal guard, or held a chancellorship in the crown council. For this generation, the tradition of palace residence fell to Commander Taskin.

  Jussoud passed the carved lions flanking the entry, tired down to the bone. He knocked quietly, knowing a servant would answer, despite the uncivil hour. Admitted by a punctilious bald man in an immaculate jacket, the nomad healer
shed his grass sandals. He accepted the house stockings he was offered, relieved that the servant had the grace not to comment on the spoiled state of his clothes. Then he padded where he was led, over floors spread with antique carpets, past ancestral portraits and darkened doorways that smelled of walnut oil and lavender. The servant admitted Jussoud to the drawing room, where Taskin’s widowed daughter sat beside a lit candelabra, the quilted wrap in her arms filled with a squalling infant.

  ‘Teething,’ she explained. Her shy glance towards the nomad held genteel apology, while the scarlet-faced child in her slender arms hiccoughed and kept on howling. ‘The little warrior wouldn’t quiet for his wetnurse.’

  Jussoud smiled. ‘If I offered the remedy we use in the steppelands, your father might never forgive me.’

  ‘A Sogion bean mash?’ The young woman smiled, rocking the babe, as she probably had been, for hours. ‘The old soldier came home muttering the substance must be addictive, or why else would any sane human being suffer the hideous taste.’

  ‘The plants themselves aren’t narcotic,’ Jussoud said, searching the scatter of rich furnishings for a chair that was not ancient, and delicate with carving. ‘Infused, the roots and the leaves act as a tonic. Only the seeds react on the nerves. They cause numbness along with a mild euphoria, which is why they work best to ease pain.’

  Porcelain fair, the young mother watched with amusement as her nomad guest awkwardly perched his large frame on a tasselled tuffet. ‘Well, that explains Father’s rigid disdain. He has always distrusted ebullience, wringing his happiness out of hard work.’

  ‘He’s awake, still?’ Jussoud inquired, hopeful.

  The daughter shook her head, hands adorned with sapphire rings smoothing the child’s corn-silk hair. ‘Your commander’s asleep. He needs the rest. This uproar over the princess’s disappearance has worn him until he is driven.’ She regarded the healer’s stained sleeves, her social verve clouded to apprehension. ‘I expect you’ve come to report from the garrison? Is there aught that can’t wait until daybreak?’

  Jussoud measured the pleading love in her eyes, sparked by a concern that was also fuelled by an unsettled, formless fear. ‘I can imagine Taskin would be exhausted. He was strained when I saw him, earlier.’ Too worn himself to shoulder another round of dissecting interview, the nomad firmed his decision. ‘Let the man rest.’

  ‘Father will be duty-bound to rise before dawn,’ the daughter said, gracious. ‘If you wish, I can have a spare place laid at breakfast. Be here, and I promise you’ll see him before anyone.’

  Jussoud stood, a towering figure robed in spoiled silk, and the remnants of a sash that had once borne a magnificent work of embroidery. The uneasy trouble his presence implied sat ill in that chamber, amid the inherited comfort of genteel years of tradition. ‘I’d be grateful. Expect me. Only one message I carry is urgent. Tell Taskin by my word, sealed upon the blood of my ancestry, to trust Captain Mykkael above everything.’

  ‘Your commander will hear what you ask upon waking,’ the young woman avowed, while the attentive servant arrived at the door to attend the tall nomad’s departure.

  Jussoud crossed the palace precinct and retired to his quarters, where, ground down by weariness, he warmed a goblet of sennia to soothe his lingering tension. Then he slept through the night, unaware of the price his kindly solicitude might exact from two men whose sworn vigilance defended the realm.

  Two hours before dawn, when the teething grandchild at last quieted in the arms of the exhausted young mother, a thunderous pounding at Taskin’s front door upset the household’s routine. The same well-groomed servant answered the knock. This time, the candle lamp scattered reflections on jewels and gold, the maroon velvet of Devall’s royal livery, and a tight pack of official faces still puffy with sleep. No chance was given to make civil inquiry, or to observe the custom of house stockings. All but bowled aside, the servant could only bow and make way before birth-given rank and urgent authority.

  Heading the pack, the High Prince of Devall eschewed court manners and demanded the Commander of the Guard. Just behind his shoulder came the seneschal, Lord Shaillon, looking harried in yesterday’s creased finery. At his heels trouped Devall’s perfumed retainers, half a dozen mailclad lowland honour guard, and two of Sessalie’s chancellors, brought up from the rear by Captain Bennent in his falcon surcoat.

  The invasion aroused Commander Taskin. He arrived in the hallway, no less competent for the fact the disruption had caught him in bed. His silver hair was combed. Without slippers, he had thrown a dressing robe of dark wool hastily over squared shoulders. ‘Lord Shaillon, what is amiss?’

  The seneschal spun, brandished a rolled parchment, then bobbed in deference to the High Prince. ‘Tell him, your Highness.’

  ‘Perhaps we should retire where your lordship can sit down?’ Devall’s heir apparent suggested. His veneer of state courtesy masked smouldering rage.

  ‘By all means.’ Commander Taskin inclined his head.

  The flustered servant led the way into the formal dining room, then scrambled to light sconces and arrange chairs. Royal rank assumed precedence; Devall’s prince led his glittering retainers. Taskin granted a host’s deference and permitted the disgruntled chancellors to follow, the stout one shaking his head in apology, and the gaunt one stone-faced and silent. As the seneschal stalked past, the commander ventured an ice-clad whisper: ‘You had better hold a writ from King Isendon’s own hand to excuse this uncivilized intrusion.’

  Lord Shaillon fielded the pressure in silence, his face showing smug satisfaction. Taskin trailed the ranks of his uninvited company, his last word to his captain to stand at the doorway. ‘Do you know what’s happened?’

  Bennent’s demeanour stayed grim. ‘Let their own words inform you. It’s not good.’

  Fine cloth rustled, and jewels flashed through the moving tableau, as the household servants scrambled to accommodate the party of distressed dignitaries, and foreign-born courtiers sorted their disparate stations. They settled at last, the high prince installed in the high-backed head chair, with his marshal and his advocate at right and left flank. Taskin selected the foot of the table, and by preference remained standing.

  Lit from behind by the flare of fresh candles, he measured his guests with a glance coldly hard as any bestowed on his guardsmen. Then he addressed the High Prince of Devall. ‘Your Highness, I would hear what has passed, stripped of the dance steps of protocol.’

  Through a disruption at the door, as Captain Bennent forestalled the distressed inquiries of the household, the High Prince of Devall inclined his fair head. His sculptured features seemed haggard, his circlet of rubies blood red in their burnished gold settings. ‘Your Captain of the Garrison has been charged with treason. The Seneschal of Sessalie holds the royal writ commanding his immediate arrest.’

  Taskin advanced and received the parchment from Lord Shaillon’s lizard-thin hand. He snapped off the ribbon, unrolled the document, and read, quick to ascertain the fact the seal at the bottom was genuine. ‘I don’t see the king’s signature,’ he admonished.

  While the partridge-round chancellor squirmed in his chair, the thin one cleared his throat. ‘My Lord Taskin, five of the high council have stood as signatories. Of eight, that presents a majority.’

  Taskin slapped the parchment down on to the table, where it rolled itself up with a hiss. ‘Where are the other three worthies who did not set their mark? Still in bed?’ His blue eyes flickered back to Lord Shaillon. ‘As the king surely is, also, at this hour.’ Arms folded, he stalked back to his place, his sangfroid unmoved by the hot-blooded haste crowding the chairs in his dining hall. ‘I will breakfast, and dress, and consult with his Majesty once he arises.’

  Which unhurried authority at last broke the high prince’s patience. ‘Shining powers above!’ His fists slammed the tabletop. The cut-glass salt cellar jumped, sheeting costly white crystals over the lace doily beneath. ‘Your princess is in deadly danger! While this deser
t-bred officer stands at the heart of conspiracy, free to seed ruin at will, how can you think of delay? Action is required, not breakfast, not dalliance with consulting a witless old man!’

  ‘Who is my sworn king!’ Taskin cracked. ‘Take care how you speak of the sovereign whose realm graces you with guest welcome.’

  ‘You will act to guard Anja!’ the high prince erupted, ‘or by the nine names of the demons of hell, I will see you cut down for obstruction.’

  The mismatched pair of chancellors pitched into the clamour, one stammering to placate, and the other adding the threat of high council authority. While Devall’s retinue coalesced, seething, the seneschal’s distressed appeal to see reason razed through the noise.

  ‘Commander, you hold a lawful writ, set under seal of the realm!’

  Taskin glared. ‘I have seen a sealed parchment scribed with empty words. No proof! No grounds whatsoever to depose a crown officer.’ As his rebuttal imposed a strained silence, he added with forceful finality, ‘Nor will I stir one man of the guard to call down another for treason with no shred of evidence in hand.’

  ‘But we do have evidence,’ said the seneschal with shattering dignity. His expectant glance swung towards the head of the table, where the heir apparent of Devall nodded his affirmation.

  Taskin returned no trace of thawed warmth. ‘Show me.’

  Rubies glittered as the high prince gestured to his marshal-at-arms. ‘Bring the sword.’

  That muscular worthy arose at his prince’s bidding. His hands were a fighting man’s, ringless and direct, as he laid a cloth-wrapped bundle on the tabletop.

  ‘Lord Taskin,’ invited the high prince. At his gesture, the marshal slid the object across the waxed wood. ‘See what you make of this weapon.’

  Heads craned, while Sessalie’s crown commander flipped back the cloth. The folds fell away to unveil gleaming steel, raised to an exquisite temper. The sword’s handle was strapped in black leather, the guard ring at the hilt a foreign style engraved with symbolic patterns.