Daughter of Independence

by Simon Brown

  Quenion shrugged. ‘A mishmash. Sayenna is new, remember, and used Rivald law for most things. Well, Kevleren law, anyway. I know Numoya allowed local custom to have its way on minor matters, as long as it didn’t compromise his own authority.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s best we just take things as they come,’ Velan said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Arden asked.

  ‘Well, let us determine the law as we go, being as fair and objective as possible, referring to Kydan law if necessary. That way everyone knows they will be treated the same.’

  ‘Only if the decisions we make are consistent with each other,’ Quenion objected.

  ‘Then as bailiff you can act as a clerk as well,’ Arden said. ‘Record the decisions. Then we can refer to them when similar problems arise.’

  ‘We should also write down a code of some kind,’ Velan said. ‘Something that lets the people of Sayenna know what they can expect from the court, and what the court will expect of them in turn.’

  ‘Well, this is all a good start . . .’ Arden said.

  ‘One more thing,’ Velan interrupted. ‘Where are you holding this court?’

  ‘Right here,’ Arden said. ‘In the courtyard of the keep. That way, if we have to lock anybody up, we can use the cells beneath. At least until we build a proper jail.’ He turned to Quenion. ‘Post notices today. I will sit in court in five days. That should give people plenty of time to organise any submissions. Then every tenday after that I will hold another.’

  *

  Quenion thought Sayenna deserved Arden, Velan and herself. They were none of them ordinary or predictable, but all with some experience of leadership, all ready to take on responsibility.

  Something else they all had in common was a fragile life. Arden, she knew from things Velan had said and from the way the governor behaved when he thought he was unobserved, had left behind someone he cared for, and missed that person terribly. Velan had left behind in Rivald a life and with it a future he thought he owned, but was learning, slowly, that he never had. And she was a murderer who had killed someone she loved before he could kill her, and although what she now felt for Numoya Kevleren was not love, at the time she had sunk his own dagger into his jaw she knew she had loved him, had been possessed by her love for him.

  And yet she remembered that at the time she thought, if only briefly, that she did not care for him, that she had thrown off her need for his love. But in the end it had all proved a sham. Her obsession with Numoya had been desperate and driven and destructive. Could she then, even now, still really be in love with the Kevleren who had brought her so much pain and misery? Was she fooling herself by thinking it was all over, and all that was left were scars and not wounds?

  Quenion tried to remember what Numoya had looked like, and although she had known him almost all her life, the face she remembered belonged to the half-melted creature she had nursed back to health, and in the end back to a kind of insanity that had ultimately proved his undoing.

  She searched as deeply as possible for any trace of love. But indeed there was none left. Not even for herself.

  12

  When the creature stirred for the second time it woke completely. All its strength had returned, and surely, if slowly, it rose to its feet. It stood there for a little while, its eyes still closed, swaying, sniffing, remembering how to breathe again.

  It opened its eyes. Yes, the cottage. It had eaten here. But now it was hungry again. There was a sound near his feet. A girl lay there, moving jerkily, mewing. Its first reaction was exhilaration. Here was food, and it did not have to seek it out! It leaned over to pick up the girl, but as soon as its hand closed about her arm it found itself pulled down instead. It collapsed on top of her and roared in a mixture of anger and surprise. Her head turned and her eyes flashed open and it saw and remembered that it had seen those eyes before, with the irises swimming in a yellow pool. At the same moment creature and girl recognised a kind of kinship, and both let go of each other. The creature stood again, and with greater effort the girl stood as well. It did not help her, did not even look at her a second time. Instead it lurched out of the cottage. It recognised the shelter there where it had once tried to feed on the animals. They were all rotting carcasses, now, unfit entirely for eating. It saw that everything made of metal – a handle, bands around a water keg, the head of a scythe leaning against the cottage wall – glowed with a blue aura. For some reason the colour made it feel more determined. It sniffed the air once more. Something further inland. People. Food. It was night, but the creature sensed it would be daylight soon, and knew it would have to find shelter before then. It started walking towards the scent.

  Rambling behind it, sniffing the air as well, came the girl.

  *

  Paimer froze in the act of raising a glass of wine to his lips and stared over the table, over the head of one of his guests, his head turning slowly like a wind vane before settling almost due north. He seemed to be gazing a thousand miles away.

  Avenel Kendy looked over his shoulder in case there was something on the wall behind him that might have caught the duke’s attention, like a particularly large spider or a rat, but there was nothing but the wooden wall and a bracket holding a torch. ‘Your Grace?’

  Paimer shook his head, glanced at Kendy ‘I felt something, from a long way away. Something I have never felt before, related to the Sefid but not quite of it . . .’ His voice faded.

  Avenel swallowed nervously. ‘Something to do with the empress, perhaps?’

  ‘Almost certainly,’ Paimer replied, not sounding at all certain, and took a sip of his wine.

  The duke did not seem interested in explaining any further, so Avenel turned to Paimer’s second dinner guest and said, ‘I hear you are doing excellent work in the city, Commander.’

  ‘The administration is doing excellent work in the city,’ Monrranto corrected him, and added diplomatically, ‘under the duke’s supervision and guidance.’

  Paimer acknowledged the compliment with a nod to Montranto. ‘I am fortunate with my subordinates. Indeed, now that you are here, Ambassador, I am flush with subordinates.’

  ‘No longer ambassador, your Grace,’ Avenel reminded him.

  ‘What exactly are you, then? By what title should we acclaim you?’

  ‘Her Majesty the Empress assigned me your secretary. So perhaps simply Secretary Avenel Kendy?’

  Paimer’s eyes narrowed. ‘We’ve met before on how many occasions?’

  ‘On at least one occasion.’

  ‘In Omeralt.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘You were a soldier once, I seem to remember?’

  ‘Leader of a Thousand, in the old days,’ Avenel admitted. ‘Then they made me an ambassador.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘The Safety Committee, your Grace. I believe under Queen Sarra members of her family – of your family – were always given the post.’

  ‘And you would be happy with nothing but “secretary” as a title?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And what would your duties be, seeing as I have the excellent secretarial services of Commander Marquella Montranto?’

  Avenel was ready for this, having ascertained within hours of his arrival from discussions with servants how the duke had established his office.

  ‘I believe the commander is responsible for carrying out your instructions in regard to work gangs and city reconstruction.’

  ‘That takes up entirely all my time as well,’ Paimer pointed out. ‘That doesn’t leave much for you.’ He glanced at Montranto, then back at Avenel. ‘Unless, of course, you are planning a palace coup and intend to replace the commander.’

  Avenel saw Montranto attempt to smile to show the duke he appreciated the humour, but had some idea of how concerned the officer must really be. Montranto had worked hard to gain the duke’s approval, and now some upstart had suddenly arrived to threaten everything. Avenel was smart enough to know what to do next.

  ‘
I would not consider it, your Grace,’ Avenel said easily. ‘Montranro has your respect, I can see, and I’m sure the respect of those to whom he directs your orders. But although you are now, quite rightly, wholly engaged with reconstructing Beferen, other duties must eventually take up some of your time. Correspondence with her majesty, for example, and those governors under your command in other districts. Establishing trade rights and privileges with merchants from Hamilay . . . I mean, from the northern provinces of the empire. You will have social and political duties to attend to, which I can help you with. And I can stay out of Commander Montranto’s way.’

  Paimer patted his hands together in polite applause. ‘Oh, prettily done.’

  Montranto seemed less tense, but still eyed Avenel with some wariness. Well, Avenel thought, it was a start.

  ‘I dare say we can find something for you to do,’ Paimer allowed. He lifted his glass and raised it in salute. ‘Here’s to a long career as a secretary, Avenel Kendy.’

  *

  Away in Hamewald, Chierma felt something at the same time as Paimer had, but was considerably less sanguine about it. He was eating alone at the time, but immediately company arrived.

  ‘You know what that was, don’t you?’ Englay said.

  ‘No,’ he said, almost desperately. ‘I’m not a Kevleren –’

  ‘Your words betray you. You do know what it was.’

  ‘We both know what it was,’ he said flatly, trying to disguise his unease.

  ‘Lerena is sacrificing,’ Englay went on. ‘And I’m giving you the pleasure of discovering what it is like for those in touch with the Sefid.’

  ‘Killing, you mean. Slaughtering. Murdering.’

  ‘Sacrificing. She has hit upon a very clever method for preserving the Sefid.’

  ‘A bloody way.’

  ‘Oh, Chierma, there is no other. Love demands pain.’

  Chierma pushed his meal away. His appetite had deserted him completely. ‘Love demands nothing of the kind.’

  ‘You know what you are? You are a recalcitrant. You have never really left behind your revolutionary ways, have you? You still want to overthrow the Kevlerens, secretly, deep down, in your heart of hearts.’

  Chierma was startled to feel a tear form in the corner of one eye and roll halfway down his nose. He wiped at it. ‘No. In my heart of hearts I wanted to make Lady Englay Kevleren love me.’

  ‘But she never did, as you so rightly surmised.’

  Chierma’s head snapped up and he stared hard at his visitor. ‘Then you admit you are not she.’

  ‘You have told me so, and who am I to argue? But think, Chierma. Lady Englay never loved you. But I can.’

  Chierma laughed bitterly. ‘Love? The kind of love Lerena shows her sacrifices?’ He stood up from the table so quickly his chair clattered to the floor. A servant rushed in to see if he could help, but Chierma waved him away and then advanced on Englay. He took her arm and squeezed it as hard as he could. He squeezed so hard he could feel bone underneath.

  Englay did not utter a sound, did not blink or go pale or sweat or cry out. She smiled, sweetly, temptingly, alluringly. She leaned over and whispered in his ear, ‘Love demands pain.’

  Chierma threw her arm away, retreated from her. ‘I did not mean to . . .’ But he did not know what he had meant to do.

  Englay looked at her arm and held it up for Chierma to see. Large red welts showed where his fingers had pressed. ‘That will be blue tomorrow.’ She shook her arm, a blur, a hint of something not entirely right as if the limb was double-jointed at the elbow. She held it up again. The red marks had gone. ‘Or not. But I can make myself look as wounded as you like.’ Suddenly her right eye puffed up, swelling to the size of her cheek, and the lids looked as if they had been glued together with blood.

  ‘By the Sefid!’ Chierma cried. ‘Stop it!’

  Her face was normal again, the smile still there.

  The metal candelabra on the table shone with a blue aura.

  ‘It is starting,’ Englay said, and Chierma heard a tinge of regret mixed with the elation in her voice. ‘And it is ending.’

  *

  ‘Nena, Nena, Nena.’

  Pavo tried to say her name sweetly, but he had drunk too much wine and it came out slobbery. ‘Come out, my little sparrow.’ Pavo thought about that for a moment. ‘No. Swallow. My little,’ Pavo sighed, ‘swallow.’

  The house remained dark. No lantern flared behind his true heart’s window. She would not rouse. He was deserted. He was unloved.

  ‘Or maybe she hears but is afraid to answer,’ he reasoned. Then he smiled slyly. ‘Or she is playing coy. Ah, my coy little swallow. Fox. My coy little fox. Umm, vixen. I am the fox.’

  He lifted the flagon to his lips and shook it until the last drop had trickled down his gullet. He could not remember if he had more, but then thought that even if he had he had best leave well enough alone. He needed all his wits and strength and charm to conquer his lovely Nena. Not to mention stamina.

  He wheeled on one heel, looking for something that might assist his entry. There was a ladder by the haystack. And a pitchfork. It took him a moment to figure out that the ladder would be more helpful. He found the ladder too heavy to carry, so he dragged it after him back to Nena’s house, then fought to get it upright against the right window. He was halfway up when he noticed the front door was ajar. It did not occur to him that the door should not be ajar, but it did take him some time to decide whether to continue his climb or to descend and go through the door. In the end, romance overcame common sense and he decided to continue his ascent. When he got to the top he tapped on the window.

  ‘Psst. Nena?’

  Nothing. Well, she was a hard-working farm widow and probably slept like one, so no surprise there. He pulled a knife from his belt and eased the window catch off its hook, then slowly opened the window itself.

  ‘Nena? My little vixen? It’s your swallow. I’m flying into your bed!’

  He lifted a leg through the open window. The ladder fell away, landing with a heavy clunk. A duck quacked somewhere in the farmyard then went back to sleep. Pavo dangled there while he had a short snooze. He woke with a jerk, remembered where he was and brought his other leg up.

  There. He was inside.

  ‘Nena?’

  He took a few steps towards her bed, saw her round mass under a blanket. He slid onto the bed as quietly as possible, pursed his lips and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. He saw Nena’s dark shape rise to meet him and his sex stirred between his legs, but instead of kissing him she bit him around his lips.

  He pulled back and tried to scream, but she came with him, still biting. Then he realised she was actually chewing. A new scream leaked out the sides of his mouth and he fell off the bed. Nena followed him, her hands clawing at his stomach and groin. In the flash of moonlight before he lost consciousness, he saw it was not Nena at all, but something heavy and bloody and smelling of old meat and with eyes as round and yellow as a harvest moon.

  *

  Paimer jerked upright in his bed, a shout bolting up his throat and escaping in a hoarse cry. The door to his room immediately opened and two guards rushed in, one holding a lantern. Paimer, still half asleep and utterly confused, cried out again in surprise, thinking they must have been after some assassin or thief.

  ‘Your Grace, is everything all right?’ one of the guards asked.

  ‘What? What are talking about? Who are you after?’ Paimer looked frantically around the room.

  ‘We heard you cry out, your Grace!’ the other guard explained. ‘We thought you were in trouble.’

  ‘Me?’ Paimer said. ‘I did not cry out! I was –’ He shut his mouth. Now he remembered waking with a yelp. Worse, he remembered why. He shivered uncontrollably and pulled his sheets over him to hide it.

  ‘It was a nightmare, that’s all,’ he said abruptly. ‘Go back to your duty.’

  They saluted and left, taking their lantern with them. When the door closed, d
arkness blossomed in the room and Paimer had to stop his mouth with his fist to prevent himself from shouting again.

  Had it been a nightmare? It had seemed so real.

  Stop it, Paimer, he told himself. Of course it seemed real. That’s why they’re called nightmares. Everything is fine. There are no monsters out there eating people alive. For an old man, you are still a fool a hundred times each day.

  He forced himself to lie back in his bed and closed his eyes. Turned onto his left side. Then his right. Then even through closed eyelids realised the room was not so dark anymore. He opened one eye just a crack and groaned right away. The metal bed head was glowing blue, and there was a hum in the air like the sound of a distant swarm of bees.

  *

  Lerena, too, woke suddenly that night, but without a scream. She felt strangely disgusted and aroused at the same time, but could not recall anything of what had stirred her from sleep.

  She stretched out languorously, suddenly and intensely grateful to fate for everything that had happened. There had been times when she was growing up when she had wanted desperately to be somebody else – beautiful Yunara, wise Hetha, witty and charming Paimer – anyone but little Lerena. But now she was exactly the person she wanted to be: ruler of Hamilay and Rivald, empress of everything she surveyed.

  Except . . . except for a small dark spot at the edge of her consciousness, at the furthest limit of her lands, the tiniest mole on the otherwise flawless skin of her domain. Way, way up north. So small it could not possibly be anything significant. Nothing to worry about at all.

  13

  The first time Poloma kissed Heriot it was almost an accident. He had not set out to kiss her.

  It had happened like this. He wanted to pick up a half-full wine bottle so he could refill their glasses. ‘This is from the foot of the Walking Mountains,’ he was saying. ‘Barrels are floated down the Frey, and we bottle them. One of our chief exports to the old world.’ He reached in front of her to get the bottle, passing very close to her face. On the way back he turned his own face slightly towards her, barely aware of what he was doing, and kissed her – so lightly – on the lips.