In the Enemy's Service (Annals of Alasia Book 2)

by Annie Douglass Lima

  Tonnis expected an angry retort, but Lasden didn’t rise to the bait. After a moment’s pause, the Malornian said, “Do you have access to a list of the names and addresses of those who normally work here?”

  “I could find one. I know where to look.”

  “Between you and your men – that is, the three who served on the palace guard with you – do you think you know your way around the city well enough to find their homes?”

  “Of course.” Talifus sounded indignant. “I’ve lived in Almar all my life. Why?”

  “If we have to force people to come and work for us, we might as well bring in ones who’ve worked here already. It will be less traumatic for them, so they’re likely to put up less of a fight, which means less wasted time and fewer casualties on our end. Plus they’ll already know their way around the palace and be familiar with the necessary duties.”

  Talifus nodded reluctantly, as though unwilling to admit that Lasden had a good idea. “I’ll go find the list. You get the soldiers ready.”

  When they had both disappeared into the courtyard, Tonnis leaned on the examining table and sighed. More prisoners to worry about. Undoubtedly many of them would be dragged in with injuries, and some of the soldiers would probably end up wounded too, which meant a bigger workload for him and Eleya. He hoped the enemy wouldn’t prioritize by refusing to let them treat Wennish, whose critical condition required extra time and care.

  Would Dal be one of the prisoners brought in? Tonnis hoped not, as much as he would welcome his friend’s company and superior medical skills. In any case, he and Eleya would have their work cut out for them in the next few hours. They had better do what they could to get ready.

  Anya had always dreamed of visiting the royal palace, but she had never dreamed it would happen the way it did.

  She was staying with her neighbors, Bronin and Merla, as she usually did when Father was traveling. Her brother Arvalon, who was sixteen now and just about ready to be a real partner in the business, had gone with him this time. Anya didn’t mind. She wasn’t interested in another trip to the Malornian capital of Sazellia, where her father and brother would be busy all day making deals and ordering new goods to sell in Alasia. It was one thing when she got to skip school to come along, but during school holidays she would much rather stay here, where Merla, who made her living as a seamstress, could help her improve her sewing.

  Anya had been unofficially apprenticed to Merla for several years, and during weekends and breaks from school she often came to her neighbor’s house to practice the craft she loved. Now that Anya had three whole weeks off of school, she had lots of time to learn new techniques and work on the warm winter clothes she was making for herself, as well as assist Merla with some of her customers’ orders. Besides, Merla’s husband Bronin came home most evenings with interesting stories from the palace, where he worked as a groom in the royal stable. Anya loved to hear about the king and queen and Prince Jaymin, who was only two years older than she was.

  Of course, all that had changed a few days ago. From nowhere, a Malornian army had come charging through the city, leaving enemy soldiers on every street corner and moving into the palace itself. The day before yesterday Anya had watched from a perch high in the tree in her front yard as the blue and gold Alasian flag that had flown above the ramparts for as long as she could remember was pulled down, to be replaced by the red Malornian one with its hawk and crossed spears. Bronin had stayed home that day, as he had ever since, afraid to go near the palace now overrun with enemies.

  Anya knew her neighbors were anxious for her father to return so they wouldn’t have to worry about her safety. With so many soldiers patrolling the streets all day, they had forbidden her to go out alone. Late last night when she was supposed to have been asleep, Anya had heard Bronin and Merla talking about the possibility that Father and Arvalon might be stuck in Malorn for quite some time. With all that was going on between the two kingdoms, whoever was guarding the border probably didn’t want civilians traveling back and forth.

  And so Anya knew she might have to stay with her neighbors for a lot longer than the week they had originally planned. But that was all right. She got along with them well, and though she would miss her family, she knew they’d be safe in Malorn. Father was half Malornian, after all, and he had any number of relatives in Sazellia who would be glad to host him and Arvalon for as long as necessary.

  This morning Merla had gone out to buy fabric for some dresses a customer had ordered, and Anya sat sewing in the sitting room by herself. I feel like a princess, she thought, setting aside her work once more to run her hands over the silver-white satin on the gown she was wearing. It wasn’t hers – she could never have afforded anything so valuable – but surely the girl who had ordered the garment wouldn’t mind if Anya wore it for just a little while. She had helped Merla with the job over the last few days, carefully shaping the designs in the collar and sleeves and sewing on the layer of delicate lace across the bottom, while the seamstress perfected the dainty bows and attached the glittery gold trim. Anya had completed the last of the hemming that morning and couldn’t resist the urge to try on the finished product, the latest style in Malorn at the moment.

  Someday I’ll be able to make clothes like this on my own, she vowed, standing up and taking a few mincing steps so she could feel the ladylike rustle of the four layers of petticoats underneath. Anya had heard that the Malornian princess, Kalendria, would be celebrating her twelfth birthday that spring, and children from all of Malorn’s most important families were to attend the party. Anya’s father, who knew she had always wanted to practice sewing with fine fabrics, had a customer in Sazellia whose lucky daughter was to be one of the guests. On their last meeting, Father had offered to arrange for his neighbor to make the gown the girl would wear for the occasion, and his customer had eagerly agreed – not surprising, since Merla charged much less than the fashionable tailor shops in the Malornian capital.

  Wistfully, Anya smoothed her hands across the shimmery satin again. I wish I were important enough to be invited to a princess’s party. Well, at least she could enjoy wearing a dress worthy of a princess, if only for one morning.

  Spreading the skirts gracefully around her, Anya sat back down on the sofa and picked up her other project. If she worked hard, she might be able to finish her new coat today. It wasn’t fancy or valuable, but it was all hers, and Anya was proud of the design. She had based it on one she had seen last month in a high-class clothing shop in Sazellia, the kind of place that sold clothes like this gown. Farlen’s Fashions and Fabrics catered to the nobility, and the garments sold there were far more expensive than anything Father would ever pay for even now that his business was thriving. But looking was free, and Anya had carefully studied some of the simpler designs on her last trip to Malorn, making mental notes so she could create something similar later. With glass beads instead of sapphires around the collar and cuffs, of course, and in wool instead of fur-lined velvet. But otherwise the style was practically identical, and Anya was confident that when it was done, her coat was going to be the finest in the neighborhood.

  Of course, new clothes weren’t as fun when you weren’t allowed to go out and let people see you in them. But it would be cozy to wear around the house, at least. They had been having a spell of unusually cold weather, and Anya sat close to the fireplace, enjoying its warmth and listening to the rain beat against the window as she stitched at the soft blue fabric on her lap.

  When a loud knock sounded at the front door, Anya set her sewing aside and got up to answer it, knowing Bronin probably couldn’t hear from where he was chopping wood behind the house. He had spent most of the morning so far working to replenish the supply of firewood they had been going through so quickly.

  Pulling the door open, Anya was shocked to see two soldiers in red and black Malornian uniforms standing on the doorstep, both with swords in their hands. With a gasp of terror, she tried to slam the door shut, but one of the men qui
ckly stuck his foot in the way. “Where is Bronin the groom?”

  Anya’s first impulse was to turn and run, but if she couldn’t lock the door, they would only follow her through the house. She clutched the doorknob in a suddenly icy hand and stared mutely up at the two strangers. Between them, she glimpsed a wagon parked out on the puddled street. In it – Anya blinked and looked again. In it were people. Cold, wet, scared-looking men and women. Soldiers on horseback surrounded the wagon, swords in hand, making sure they didn’t get out.

  “Answer us, girl,” barked the second soldier. “Bronin. Where is he?”

  “He-he’s not here,” Anya stammered, staring past them at the wagon. What was happening? What were the soldiers going to do with those people?

  “We’ll take a look for ourselves,” the first man declared, shoving her out of the way. The two of them stomped into the sitting room, tracking mud across the floor that Anya had helped to sweep earlier that morning.

  “No!” She tried to block their way, frantic at the thought of their finding Bronin and dragging him off to who knew what dreadful fate. “He’s gone out. Go away!” If she only had a little more time, she might be able to think up something believable, but nothing was coming to her panicked mind. Normally she was a better actress than this. She and her friends often made up stories and acted them out with their parents and siblings as the audience. Anya always got the tragic roles because she knew how to make herself cry at a moment’s notice, but she didn’t think crying would have much effect on these intruders.

  One of the soldiers kicked open the kitchen door and peered inside, sword brandished. The other had disappeared down the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Maybe they won’t look in the backyard, Anya thought desperately. Maybe they won’t find Bronin.

  “You see? I told you he isn’t here,” she called, trying to sound braver than she felt. “Now please go away before my mother comes home. She’ll be angry that you put your dirty shoeprints all over.”

  Ignoring her, the soldier who had been searching the kitchen turned to the back door. Panicking again, Anya rushed to stand in his way. “You need to leave now!”

  Still gripping his sword in one hand, the man shoved her aside with the other and reached for the handle. She stumbled and nearly fell over the three-legged stool that stood beside the door. Without planning or thinking about what she was doing, she seized the stool by one leg and swung it at the man’s head.

  Anya was almost as surprised as the soldier when the stool’s hard wooden seat impacted with his head with a loud thud. She barely had time to think What have I done? before he spun around with a yell of pain and seized her by the arm. She dropped the stool and screamed, raising her other arm in a feeble attempt to block his blow as he raised his sword.

  The back door flew open and Bronin burst in, still holding his hatchet. “What’s going on in here?” he demanded. Seeing the soldier with his blade poised to strike, her friend froze for just a moment and then leaped forward with an indignant yell, raising the hatchet.

  But he didn’t see the second soldier. Not until it was too late. The man darted up behind him and seized him by the wrist, twisting it until Bronin was forced to drop the implement. At the same time, the soldier jerked his sword up against the groom’s neck.

  The first man practically threw Anya across the room, and she cowered, trembling, in a corner while he turned to help his partner. “Freeze!” he yelled, even though Bronin had already stopped struggling. “You’re coming with us!”

  “But – I – I haven’t done anything,” gasped Bronin, his eyes darting nervously from one sword to the other. Then he focused on the first man. “Wait a moment. Captain Talifus? What are you doing here? Why are you dressed like a Malornian?”

  “Shut up and come with us.” Ignoring his protests, the two men began to drag him across the room toward the front door.

  “No,” whispered Anya desperately from her corner, but nobody paid her any attention. She rose to her feet, still trembling, and hurried after the man who was like an uncle to her. “No, please, you can’t just take Bronin away. What are you going to do with him?”

  The soldiers ignored her, intent only on their captive, who was struggling ineffectually. Spying the stool lying on its side nearby, Anya darted over and seized it again. “Let him go!” she exclaimed, lifting it over her head as she ran after them. They were pausing to wrestle their captive through the front door when she swung the stool forward with all her strength.

  The blow was much harder this time. It hit the same soldier’s head with a satisfying crack, and the man – Talifus, Bronin had called him – howled in pain and anger. Letting go of Bronin, he whirled around, his sword sweeping through the air right where she had been standing a moment ago. But Anya was already sprinting for the back door, tripping over the gown’s lacy hem, her legs tangling in the thick petticoats. “Run!” she screamed to her friend, clutching her skirts in both hands as she fled for the open doorway.

  She had just reached it and was taking the first step outside to freedom when Talifus caught her. Anya felt a hand seize her hair and she was yanked to a stop, her head jerking painfully back as the rest of her body skidded forward.

  “Ow! Let me go!” she wailed, reaching back to try to tug her hair free.

  “You asked for it, you little she-devil,” Talifus growled, dragging her toward the front door. “Just for that, you’re coming with us too.”

  “No,” protested Bronin, his arm still clutched tightly in the other soldier’s grasp. “Please, not her. She’s just a child. I’ll come quietly.”

  “Get out there,” growled the man holding him. “We’ve wasted enough time. Let’s go.”

  The two of them shoved Bronin, still protesting, and Anya, sobbing with pain and terror, down the front walkway through the rain and out to the waiting wagon. More soldiers were ready to lift them up and dump them unceremoniously inside, where they joined a dozen other prisoners sitting silent and somber on the damp board floor. The driver cracked a whip and the horses started forward down the street.

  Anya’s new life of captivity had begun.

  Chapter 5

  After half an hour and two more stops to pick up additional prisoners, the wagon turned down the final street leading to the palace. Blinking the raindrops out of her eyes, Anya stared up at it in awe as they approached. The palace was the tallest building in Almar, tall enough to be visible from almost anywhere in the city, and she saw it nearly every day. But she had never been this close before. Its gleaming white walls loomed against the sky, pointy spires and squarish battlements stretching up toward the low clouds. Everywhere she looked Anya saw graceful arches and ornate railings and artistically -shaped eaves. Glass windows gleamed in every wall, and sturdy turrets crowned the tops of towers. It must be the most beautiful building in the world, even more beautiful than the Malornian royal palace which she had seen several times in Sazellia. It was sad to think that the people who were supposed to be living here were dead now.

  The drawbridge was down, and the wagon rolled across the thick wooden planks over the moat with a hollow rumbling sound. Four soldiers were standing on top of the wide wall just ahead, and one of them called out to someone inside as the wagon pulled up before the tall, solid gates. There was a moment’s pause, and then Anya heard the clanking of metal bolts being drawn back. Finally the huge gates began to open slowly inward. The driver cracked his whip again and the horses leaned into their harnesses, pulling the loaded wagon into a wide courtyard paved with multicolored cobblestones.

  Anya peered around in a combination of fear and fascination. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen to her here, but she assumed they had been brought to the palace to work for the Malornians. She had no idea what sort of work the soldiers could possibly expect her to do, but at least it didn’t seem that she and Bronin were going to be killed. And as long as they were reasonably safe, Anya was excited to be in this place that she had always dreamed of visiting. I’m dresse
d just right for a visit to a palace, too. She ran her hands along her satin skirts, damp now from the persistent drizzle.

  The palace itself lay just ahead, its massive front door standing closed at the moment, though she knew from Bronin’s stories that it was usually kept open during the day, at least in fine weather. Smaller doors stood to either side, probably used mostly by servants while royalty and honored guests went through the main entrance. Several smaller buildings were scattered across the courtyard, some standing separately, some attached to the palace as though added on to the original building as afterthoughts. Over to the right, the long, low structure with the thatched roof must be the stable. The little two-story building to the left had to be a clinic. Anya could tell by the picture of the mortar and pestle, the traditional symbols of medicine, above the door. Beyond the clinic, that other large building matched Bronin’s description of the barracks where the palace guards used to sleep before the Invasion. Before they had been murdered.

  Three other wagons were parked beside the stable. People were still climbing out from one of them, huddling under the roof’s overhang out of the rain. They were surrounded by soldiers with swords making sure that no one tried to escape.

  “Get out,” ordered the driver as the wagon Anya was in pulled to a stop beside the others.

  She glanced over her shoulder. The gates had already been closed, half a dozen soldiers standing guard before them. It didn’t seem that she would have a chance to escape, at least not any time soon.

  Wordlessly, Anya and Bronin clambered to the ground. Goaded forward at sword point, they joined the rest of the prisoners, all of whom looked worried or scared or angry. She noticed that some of the captives had bruises and bumps or wore makeshift bandages, and a few were limping as they shuffled aside to make room for the newcomers.

  “Attention, Alasians,” came a loud Malornian voice. Anya stood on tiptoe to peer over the crowd and saw a soldier striding forward to stand in front of them. Rain dripped from his red cloak, and he glared sternly out at them from under its hood. “I am Captain Almanian. You have been brought to the palace to resume your usual duties, which you will perform under the supervision of my lieutenants, Lasden and Talifus.” He indicated the man Anya had hit with the stool, along with another soldier in red standing beside him.