by Matthew Ward
“We’re familiar with the technique in the Southshires,” Josiri said sourly. “Only there it’s applied to more than witchcraft.”
“Witch or not, he’s my friend,” Malachi replied. “Viktor would never abandon me, no matter what the world said of my deeds. How can I abandon him?”
Josiri grimaced. “Is there nothing more we can do?”
“Perhaps. I’m not dragging you about the city for no good reason.” He peered over Josiri’s shoulder, back towards the stable block and the dressed stone of the officers’ lodgings. “And here she is, right on time.” He raised his voice. “Lady Orova! Please join us.”
Josiri turned. Rosa – clad in full armour and surcoat – halted mid-step at the door to the officers’ lodgings. She stifled a frown and strode to join them.
“Lord Reveque.” She offered a stiff bow entirely lacking in friendliness and faced Josiri. “I confess, I don’t know how I’m to address you.”
“I share your confusion. ‘Josiri’ will serve.”
She nodded. “What do you want, Lord Reveque?”
Malachi sighed. “We’re not friends any longer, Rosa?”
“Not if you insist on defending Viktor. He’s in league with the Crowmarket. He had Kas killed. He . . .”
“I’m aware of the charges, just as I’m aware that you chose to keep them from me until it was too late.” He set a hand on her shoulder. “What if he’s innocent?”
She shrugged him away. “I found the proof myself.”
“So Josiri told me. I wish I’d heard it from you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why? So you could convince me I was wrong?”
“Because I’m your friend. Right or wrong, you shouldn’t have to bear this burden alone.”
It was as impressive a disarmament as Josiri had ever witnessed. A few words and Malachi had bled Rosa’s hostility away. The woman left behind had neither the fire of the one who’d marched Viktor away the previous evening, nor the starchily formal manner of she who’d approached them moments before. Now, Rosa just seemed drained.
“What do you want, Malachi?”
“To talk. Only to talk. To hear, in your words, what you’ve found and what you believe.”
“You do want to convince me I’m wrong.”
“I want to hear your side of things. As I did after Aske Tarev died.”
Josiri noted Rosa’s flinch – as soon hidden as seen – and wondered what it meant.
“I have duties,” she said.
He heard more excuse than substance in the reply. Judging by the wry upturn at the corner of Malachi’s mouth, it hadn’t gone unremarked by him either. “Tonight, then? At my home? Constans was upset that you left without saying goodbye. This will give you a chance to make it up to him.”
“Did you just wield your child as a weapon?”
“I’m a politician,” sniffed Malachi. “No tactic is beneath me.”
Rosa regarded him sadly. “That’s just it, old friend. You’re too kind. You always have been. You’re not cynical enough to see the truth.”
“Then make me see. Tonight.”
She hesitated. “If that’s what you want.”
Marek was on his feet, serving tray in his hands, before the bell stopped. He’d expected it. Welcomed it, even. How swiftly routine bedded in. Adapting to new duties was the mark of a good servant. Even when those duties left a sour taste.
An elbow’s jab sprung the door, and then he was out of the kitchen and into the hall. Lady Kiradin met him there as she had in past days. As before, her expression gave little clue to the sorrow she had to be feeling. But wasn’t that the mark of true nobility? To stay the course even through stormy seas?
Without waiting for instruction, Marek descended the stairs into the basement. There, he set the tray down and turned the heavy key. As the door swung open, he reclaimed the tray and stepped into the dim space beyond.
He stood for a time, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The high, frosted windows gave little light to work with, and left the sheet-draped furnishings little more than ghosts. A room of echoes, where possessions once treasured lurked beyond enquiring eyes.
The chamber’s sole inhabitant sat on the narrow bed, back against the wall and one knee braced against the other. Unfriendly eyes gleamed in a filthy face. Rose-petal scent couldn’t disguise the bitter stench of a slops bucket.
Lady Kiradin set the door closed with a muffled thud. Marek shuffled across the dusty floor and set the tray on the bedside table. The previous night’s offering was still there, untouched. How swiftly routine bedded in.
“I see you’re still not eating,” said Lady Ebigail. “You remain a child, even after all these years.”
Lady Sevaka leaned forward. The chain linking her shackled wrist to the iron bedframe went taut. “You needn’t pretend concern. Or is it Marek you hope to convince?”
“Marek knows his place,” Lady Ebigail snapped. “If only you’d learned yours.”
“Oh, poor Mother. Your life is hard.”
The slap echoed about the chamber. “You will keep a civil tongue!”
Lady Sevaka pressed a palm to her reddened cheek. “Or what? You’ll have me murdered, as you did my brother? I didn’t want to believe, do you know that? Even when Rosa told me, and I knew without question, I told myself that even you wouldn’t go so far.”
Marek kept a studiously neutral expression. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the accusation. Lady Sevaka had first levelled it four nights ago, when she’d burst into the kitchen, breathless and thick with fury. She’d repeated it at every opportunity since.
“Kasamor sought to humiliate us all,” said Lady Ebigail. “He was weak.”
“He was in love!”
“And what good did love ever do anyone?” She shook her head. “I loved my first husband, but he too was weak. Sloppy in his dealings with the Crowmarket. Bad enough that he got caught, but he’d have had me on the gallows beside him. He’d have dragged the whole family down into the mire. Sacrifices must be made.”
“You’d compare accusations of treason to a marriage?”
“A calamitous marriage. The southwealders are unruly. Divisive. Their lands grow sedition as readily as any crop. The best thing Katya Trelan ever did for the Republic was to get herself killed. And you’d have her brat taint our great family? Our Republic? Just because your brother was smitten?”
Lady Sevaka hung her head and laughed. “Our great family? You betrayed your first husband to the Council. You ordered Kas’ death. You had Marek drug me and lock me in here, which I’m sure he enjoyed more than he should have. Did you enjoy laying hands on me, you old letch? You think I’ve never noticed how you look at me?”
Marek’s heart faltered at the venomous words. “Lady Sevaka, I swear . . . I’d never . . .”
Lady Ebigail cut him off with a chop of her hand. “Enough! Both of you!”
Marek plunged into humiliated silence. He wasn’t sure what stung more, daughter’s accusation or mother’s reprimand.
“Tell me,” Lady Sevaka placed each word with weighty precision, “did Father find his way to Otherworld without your help? Or was he too an embarrassment?”
“You wicked child! He’d be horrified to hear you ask such a question!”
Lady Sevaka met the icy stare head on. “Yes he would.”
Chill silence reigned, with Lady Ebigail either unable or unwilling to speak. Marek bit his tongue, lest he fill the void with renewed protestation. Ironic that Lady Sevaka had found in confinement the courage her mother had wished for her.
“I’ve always known you were cruel,” breathed Lady Sevaka. “I never realised you were mad.”
“An accusation levied by hearts too soft for deeds.”
“You can’t keep me here for ever.”
“I’ve no need. A few days are all I require. Roslava Orova has already played her part. Viktor Akadra will be exposed for what he is.”
Lady Sevaka pinched her eyes shut. “I’m sure he
’s a good man. Otherwise you’d not work so hard to destroy him.”
“Have you learnt nothing? This isn’t personal. Viktor is the key to ending the divisive nonsense of the Privy Council. He’ll drag Hadon and Malachi down by association, and the Republic will finally have a strong, guiding hand.”
“You are mad if you think the people will stand for it.”
“The people?” Lady Ebigail snorted. “The people are cattle. They care only for safety, and for the certainty of their next meal. They will do as instructed, and we shall return to our roots. Our glory.”
“And the constabulary? The chapterhouses? The army? They’ll all stand by and do nothing?”
“If they don’t, there will be a regrettable period of violence. And I shall be most disappointed in the Parliament of Crows’ ability to deliver on its promises.”
Lady Sevaka’s dry, mirthless laugh echoed about the chamber. “These are the foundations of your glorious age? Threats? Blackmail? Intimidation? It would be funny if so many people weren’t to die in order to prove you wrong.”
Lady Ebigail knelt and laid a hand on her daughter’s knee. “You’ll see the matter differently when it’s over. You and I can begin again, and you will learn to be what the Republic requires of you.”
“And if I choose not to?”
“I’ve no wish to lose you, Sevaka. With your brother gone, you’re all I have left. But do not test me.”
“Oh, Mother.” Sevaka shook her head. “How can it be that I understand you so well, and you understand me so poorly? I’m done trying to please you.”
Lady Ebigail rose, her face once more set solid as granite. “We shall see. Eat. Or I will have Marek feed you.”
She strode away, wisps of dust kicking up at her heels. The door opened, then slammed.
Marek stooped to recover the first, untouched tray. Lady Sevaka’s baleful stare bored into him every inch of the way.
“Why do you serve her?” she asked.
He winced and straightened. That he’d done his duty by his mistress didn’t mean he was proud of his actions. But what else was he to have done? “On my life, Lady Sevaka, I did nothing that was not your mother’s instruction.”
Her free hand closed over his wrist. “Answer me.”
Willpower melted beneath the earnest stare. “Because I love her, as I love you. You’re like a daughter to me.”
The words were a mistake. He knew it at once. But that was still an age too late. He glanced away, only to find himself drawn back to that stare.
“A daughter.” Lady Sevaka shook her wrist. The chain jangled. “You’ve abused my trust in almost every way possible. If that weren’t a Freemont tradition with daughters, I’d laugh in your face.”
She drew him in until his face was inches from hers. Stale breath washed across his cheeks. “You heard my mother. Love never did anyone any good. You’ve seen how she treats her own blood. What prospects for you? Run from this house, Marek. Because if my mother doesn’t kill you, I surely will.”
She shoved him away. The tray tipped as Marek lost his balance. He caught the plate of meat and congealed vegetables before it slid free. Cutlery scattered across the floor. A mug shattered on tile.
Marek righted himself and gathered what he could back onto the tray. “Lady Sevaka . . .”
She rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes. “Just go, Marek. As far and fast as you can.”
Tears stinging his cheeks, he fled the chamber.
Forty-Nine
Eskavord’s marketplace remained a drab, empty expanse, frequented only by occupation patrols and a handful of shuffling, dead-eyed southwealders. Kurkas held lonely vigil from beneath the lychgate, crutch tucked close, and cloak wrapped tight.
The soldiers barely acknowledged his presence; the southwealders ignored him entirely. At least the air was crisp beneath the overcast skies and the rain gone. More and more, Kurkas had the sense that something beyond the obvious was wrong in Eskavord, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what.
“Better to have burned the whole bloody place last time around.”
“Be careful,” counselled a soft voice. “The archimandrite doesn’t need ideas.”
Kurkas turned. Yanda stood among the skeletal yews of the outer churchyard. She looked older than he remembered.
Lot of that going around.
He shrugged. “Way I hear it, Makrov’s never short of ideas. And Makrov needs Eskavord, doesn’t he? It’s a trophy – proof that his eminent self was right all along.”
She drew closer along the waterlogged path. “Not much of a trophy.”
“Makrov’s not got much in the way of standards.”
“You want to be careful who hears that, too.”
“I can look after myself.”
“That’s a common sentiment hereabouts.” Her tone darkened. “It seldom ends well.”
Kurkas searched her eyes for a clue to her mood. “That a threat, governor?”
“Not a threat, and not a governor. Makrov holds the title now.” She offered a wry, weary smile. “Captain Shaisan Yanda at your service, and his excellency has made it very clear I’m fortunate to be that.”
“Compared to some, certainly.”
She shrugged. “You think I don’t wish there’d been another way?”
“Never been one for wishes, governor. I prefer actions.”
“And what actions bring you to Eskavord?”
Again, that slight edge to her voice. Could he trust it? Better not to. “Just taking a look around. Basking in the glories of victory.”
Her eyes tightened. “Will you do something for me, one captain to another?”
“Long as it’s within hailing distance of common decency.”
“When you see Lord Akadra – either Lord Akadra – tell him I’m sorry. I should have done more.”
For the first time, Kurkas heard a note of genuine regret. “Might be you’re not out of chances.”
“I don’t think so. Don’t you feel it? This will get worse before it gets better.” She shook her head. “Whatever brings you to Eskavord, have a care not to get caught.”
Halvor was hunched over Elda’s kitchen table when Kurkas returned, a steaming mug clasped between white-knuckled hands. Elda sat in the corner, arms folded and her expression that of a woman whose worst suspicions were coming true.
“You’d better have cleaned your boots this time,” she growled.
He lifted a foot to give her clear sight of a filthy and threadbare sock. “Boots are in the hall. So’s the cloak. And I’m fine, thanks for asking.” He hobbled over to the table. “How about you?”
Halvor stared up at him. “Like a scarecrow left out through Wintertide.”
“You look it.”
And she did. Though her eyes lacked the confusion they’d held when Elda had set her to bed, they were dark-rimmed and weary – as if she could fall back into slumber at any moment. And her skin . . . so pale as to be almost grey. Just like every other miserable body lurching its way through Eskavord. At least there was a smile, or rather the ghost of one.
“You’re nothing special yourself.”
He sniffed and pulled out a chair. “And whose fault is that? Did you at least get some sleep?”
Halvor took a pull on her tea. “I think so, for all the good it’s done.”
“At least you’re done mistaking this handsome face for someone else.”
“Elda told me. I’m sorry. I can’t explain it.”
“Nothing to explain.” Kurkas tapped the side of his head. “Age is a terrible thing.”
Eyes closed to slits. “Say that again.”
“Your ears playing up too?” He shrugged away a venomous glare. “You’re sounding more like yourself. I’ll take that.”
She sighed and set the mug down. “I wish I felt it.”
Elda laughed to herself. “There’s no sense wishing for anything, nor weeping.” She snorted, the derision palpable in her voice. “As if tears
ever counted for anything.”
Kurkas leaned back in his chair and regarded her with distaste. At least someone in Eskavord found a mote of pleasure in events. She and Makrov would likely get on like a house on fire. Now that was a happy thought. He’d even supply the flame.
Elda held his gaze for a long moment. Then she shuffled in her chair and stared pointedly out across the garden. “You should go.”
At last, they agreed on something. Especially in light of what Yanda had insisted was not a threat. “Yeah. We’d better get moving . . .” Kurkas glanced at Revekah. “. . . if you feel up to it.”
“You misunderstand me, young man,” said Elda. “You should go. Revekah can stay. This is her home. This is where she belongs.”
Halvor winced an apology. “Elda . . .”
“Why should I leave?” Kurkas interrupted breezily. “Everyone’s so friendly hereabouts.”
“Why should you stay?” snapped Elda. “There’s nothing you can do. Eskavord is beyond ephemeral aid.”
“Right barrel of cheer, ain’tcha? You’re just as bad as Yanda.”
Halvor frowned. “Yanda?”
“We crossed paths. Looks like a woman who traded her soul to old Jack and got stiffed on the deal.”
Halvor closed her eyes. “Maybe she didn’t have a choice.”
“You believe that? With everything you’ve lived through?”
“No. I suppose not.”
Kurkas couldn’t quite put his finger on why he hated Yanda’s attitude so much. Maybe Elda was right. Maybe he should leave before he found his own hanging spot on Gallows Hill. But not yet. First he’d get Halvor to Branghall. Because as much as he didn’t want the life of a south-wealder rebel, he fancied Yanda’s hollow-eyed and impotent stare far less.
“You ready to get out of here?”
Revekah shot Elda a sidelong glance. “Yes.”
To Kurkas’ mind, every step carried them further from their destination. Every inch of forest looked much the same: bedraggled and as morose as he was steadily coming to feel. It didn’t help that every root and briar seemed determined to entangle his crutch. At least it was drier beneath the branches, give or take.