by T B Phillips
Despite their earlier delay, they reached the depot in time to catch their train. Subba retrieved the bags and the driver handed him their passports. The pair made their way in silence, ignoring the staring eyes of the people waiting to board. They walked quickly then showed their documents to the travel master who directed them to their car. Once aboard, they learned that they would share a private cabin.
Fatwana collapsed on a sleeper seat while Subba stowed their bags. “I’m hungry. Will you go to the dinner car and retrieve our rations?”
“Of course, lead sister.” He bowed and departed, closing the door behind him.
Soon after, she heard a tap on the door and panic twisted her gut. She jumped to her feet and smoothed her robes before a young woman dressed in simple clothing entered. Fatwana closed the door behind her then turned with eyebrow raised, waiting for her to speak. “Well?”
“When you arrive in Bergin you will tell your partner that you feel ill. Instead of going directly to your car and driver you will say that you need to use the facilities and separate from him. Let him watch you go inside the building. Go straight through and out the rear entrance where you will again meet with me.”
“That’s it?”
The girl nodded and then quickly opened the door and scurried out. Fatwana watched as she left, anxiety building as she willed her heart to slow its pounding. So that’s how the Society makes contact, she thought. She had wondered how long they would take after receiving her message. It had been a risk, but one that she was ready to take.
Chapter Seven
Hester hated the winter. Truthfully, she hated the winter less than she hated her husband, but the season always forced her to spend extra time with him. On this day she had avoided Skander by mulling over the inventory reports. Food stores were greatly depleted from the strong bite of the season, but Fjorik had survived. Of course, he wouldn’t care about that report. He never did.
He was only interested in updates from the armory and those regarding troop strength or ship building. All he had talked about the entire winter was his plan to raid Esterling holdings and townships. She wished the channel would thaw so that she could be rid of the animal, even if only for a short time. That would be soon, she hoped.
Something on the table caught her eye. Among the dispatches lay a single message, neatly folded, and placed aside. Why would he have folded it? Hester plucked it from its perch. The words instantly disrupted her morning as she gasped with shock and disbelief. She read them many times before understanding. Rising with fury, she searched out her husband.
Hester checked the usual places but turned up nothing. Even the staff were no help, offering ideas like the practice field or the armory. She had already checked both obvious places. She eventually found him in the unlikeliest spot in the castle, the former chambers of his late father, Krist Braston.
Skander feared the room in which he had murdered his father. He avoided it, not out of remorse but from superstition. He had once been so deep in his cups that he claimed Krist Braston paced the halls of the palace, unable to join the heavenly feast. But she occasionally found her husband here, staring out the window or pacing the floor like a lunatic. She cautiously opened the door to peer inside.
On the bed she spied Bronhilde, a buxom chamber maid. The girl lay upon her stomach and was entirely disrobed. Hester’s husband loomed over the girl in the same state of undress. In his hand was a crimson knife, dripping from his perversion. The girl moaned her pleasure as Skander carved fair skin. Several healed scars revealed that this was not the first time. Mortified, Hester gasped. The eyes of the lovers searched the doorway for the source of the sound.
The queen quickly regained her composure, fighting hard to slow her racing heart. With eyes locked on the blade Hester managed words, “When you finish, I need to speak with you, husband.” She shut the door and leaned against the other side, pulse pumping fear that fogged her mind. Sounds of laughter from inside set her feet moving, anger replacing shock.
She hurried to her own chambers and rushed inside, collapsing on the bed and shuddering. With trembling hand she raised the folded dispatch and read. A bounty of five hundred thousand talents has been offered for the capture or killing of outlaw Braen Braston. He is wanted for regicide in two kingdoms and for the destruction of Diaph and Pirate’s Cove. He is guilty of rape and mutilation in Atarax, as well as inciting violence throughout the Eston Empire.
Her thoughts returned to Skander and his scarlet blade, dripping with Bronhilde’s passionate release. “No,” she whispered into the room, “not Braen. He isn’t the monster.” A kick at the door sent it flying open with brute force, and she sat up straight on the bed. “Get out, you beast.”
“Get out? You summoned me, or did you forget.” He leaned in, reflecting her eyes in his. “What was so important that you interrupted me during my private time?”
She thrust the dispatch into his hand, “Explain this.”
“So?” He let out a laugh that landed cruelly on her ears, “My brother’s a wanted outlaw and that bounty will keep him in hiding.”
“How much of that was him and how much was you?”
The chitter in his laughter turned maniacal as he responded, “You don’t want to know the answer.” He leaned in close, foul breath in her face. “But I will show you, anyway.”
His fist connected hard against her cheek and the entire room went black.
Hours later Hester awoke in agony, face down on the bed and stripped completely naked. Everything hurt, but especially the skin on her arms and legs. Her entire backside was afire with pain unlike any she had ever experienced. She closed her eyes and prayed for death. But Skander would not have been that sloppy. He wanted her alive.
She finally mustered enough courage to try and stand. Trying hard not to roll onto her back she gingerly positioned her left foot on the ground. It held her weight. With a shove she pressed up, right foot contacting the floor. She shifted slightly off balance and crashed onto the boards with a splattering thud, crying out as skin ripped between her shoulders.
The nightstand was close but seemed to loom just out of reach. Time was quickly wasting, and Hester yearned for the elixir inside. She pulled her legs to her belly, forcing her body to roll onto her knees. Bloody hands grabbed hold of the sheet nearby as she pulled herself upright, close enough that she could reach the open drawer.
She felt inside with searching fingertips and found only emptiness. It wasn’t there. Panic took over, pumping adrenaline and giving her enough strength to rise to her feet. She desperately searched the room, scanning with terrified eyes that shone like sapphires against the crimson smeared upon her face. They rested on the far wall.
Skander had found the bottle and must have hurled it across the room in his fit of rage, staining the stone with the impact. The contents had seeped into the rug below. She tried to run forward but stumbled and fell. She crawled, ignoring the pain, and hoping to find a puddle. All dignity had fled, and she would lap it up like a dog. Hester cried sobs of grief when she could not find any usable amount.
Then she noticed a spot on the rug that had absorbed quite a bit. Desperate, she gathered it to her face. Placing the corner in her mouth she sucked hard, trying to drink, but tasting only dirt. She pulled apart the fibers and pressed harder, slurping what little she could, and came away with a bloody tongue. With trembling fingers she plucked a shard of glass and tossed it aside.
She climbed to her feet using the wall for balance. Ignoring the scarlet handprints, she focused on a new goal and staggered one step at a time to the three-way mirror. How bad, this time, she wondered. It was not long before the reflection answered with a cruel image.
Skander’s handiwork sharply contrasted her previously flawless skin. Every part of her front was savaged by his anger. He had left her badly battered with more than bruises. Her eyes, adorned with eyeshadow earlier that morning, s
welled with yellow and purple. Welts had already risen on her arms and legs, remnants of a cruel belt and the wild swings from a madman. Her once perfect breasts had been marred by his foul and hideous mouth. What had once been milky white were ravaged by his teeth as claret marks evidenced his derangement.
She slowly rotated; eyes locked on her reflection as it revealed the damages on her back. Skander was careful not to reach the layers beneath the surface as he flayed. Every portion of her skin bled from his artwork. He carved designs that would certainly scar, no doubt a claim upon his property. She would forever wear the image of the Braston family crest.
Chapter Eight
A spring storm raged over the city of Weston. Rain drenched the streets with heavy droplets that pounded instead of pattered on rooftops. Large chunks of ice shattered pottery left outside, and the winds howled and broke tree limbs while swirling the dark clouds overhead. But the most dangerous storm raged in the hovels and townhomes of the people. They had split in two over the arrival of the Pescari, and protests from both factions were a daily occurrence.
Cassus Eachann stared from his window and watched the ravaging weather. “I’ll give you the contract to develop the new sewer, but the roads have been awarded to another.”
Liam Creegle bowed his thanks. “Thank you, Your Lordship. Will that be with the standard ten percent for you?”
“I find that inappropriate for a contract of this magnitude.” He considered, “No, we should agree on fifteen.” He turned from the window and ignored the disappointment on the leech’s face. “And don’t forget that you must include a sizable contribution to the Humanitarian Faction. I am thinking an additional five percent would be appropriate. You know, to aid the cause of the poor and desolate in the city.”
Creegle appeared ready to crack at the unreasonable bribes but nodded. “That’s agreeable, Lord Eachann.”
Good, thought Cassus, he’s not a complete moron. The contract would last years and increase both of their coffers. Turning down his terms would be financial suicide. “Then it’s agreed. Percy will draw up the contracts and you’ll begin construction within the week. I want my constituency to know that they have my whole-hearted devotion and I will provide their every need.”
Liam Creegle bowed and scraped as he backed from the room, escorted by Percy Roan. Roan resembled the stereotypical clerk, bookish and mild tempered. His fingers on his writing hand were perpetually stained with ink, and, when he spoke, his voice barely broke a whisper. Despite his benign appearance, the man was nearly as ruthless as Eachann. His contract writing and genius negotiation skills had made them both sizable fortunes enviable by even the Esterlings.
It wasn’t long before Percy returned to the room. He chose a soft chair and reclined, crossing one leg over the other. “That went easier than I expected.”
Cassus agreed. “He’s desperate to get on board with us early in our takeover.”
“As have many others.”
“What other deals are near closing?”
“I think Lehman will bite on the labor recruiting options for the mining initiative.”
Cassus let a grin take over his formerly stoic face. “That was a genius move, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m serious, to think that the savages are taking over the labor force for the mines? This is audacious. Our legitimate company pays them wages, showing the humanitarians that we care enough to provide jobs. That legitimizes them as citizens.”
“You mean voters,” Percy asked.
“What did I say?”
“You called them citizens.”
“As long as they appear and think that they are, then yes, they are both citizens and voters. We will tax their wages and charge them also through our subsidized companies for transportation to the mines, housing in our tenements, and for the food they buy in our markets.” He smiled. “Are the brutes still running them out of the shopping districts in the rest of Weston?”
Percy nodded. “They get harassed any time they leave their district, unless they’re traveling in our ‘protected’ caravans.”
“Hmm. Let’s plan a crackdown for a few weeks or a month on the brutes,” Eachann decided. “Tell them that we’ll continue to pay them, and any who are arrested or injured by the city guard will be compensated accordingly.”
“I’ll make the arrangements. What do you want to do about the boy?”
The governor was momentarily confused. “What boy?”
“Their chieftain. The boy named Taros.”
“You’ve found him?”
“No. We don’t believe he’s in the city.”
“If he’s not in the city then what about this vigilante they call the agent of Felicima?”
“You think that’s him?” Roan appeared dubious.
“It has to be. If it isn’t, then another Pescari has power over fire. Three more bodies have shown up in different parts of the city. Each as charred as the rest.”
“Are we sure that it isn’t a copycat? Someone pretending to be the boy to keep the legend alive?”
“There’s no evidence that an accelerant was used on the fire.
“I see.” Percy pondered the information. “Yes, and that’s troubling. The Pescari are unstable and prone to violence. We may need to consider taking their weapons in order to prevent future riots.”
“That’s my sentiment as well. Start putting together the logistics of that.”
“It will take a lot of planning. That act alone could create a riot. Let’s see if they’ll offer them up voluntarily first. Is there anything else, Cassus?”
“Yes. How are the gaming enterprises performing?”
“We’ve awarded permits to three, so far. But the owners are asking when they can introduce prostitution.”
“Westonese or Pescari?”
“Westonese.”
“No. That would lose the moderate or undecided voters. Block the sale of Westonese, but any true citizen who wants to buy a Pescari woman may do so without penalty. But no brothels! Just tell them not to bring the girls out of the district or they’ll be arrested and fined.”
Percy understood the order. “I’ll get word out through the discreet channels.”
A loud crack of thunder caused both men to jump. Cassus moved to the window and peered out. “Lovely, that started a fire.”
“Shall I dispatch the fire brigade?”
“In this weather? Not a chance. Wait until a few more of their hovels have burned, and then charge in to save the day. In fact, also set a few fires in the Westonese middle class neighborhoods.” Observing shock on his assistant’s face he explained, “So that I have a legitimate disaster to point back on when I raise police and fire taxes in the fall.”
A knock at the door silenced both men. It opened and a messenger handed Percy a pile of dispatches. He flipped through them, pausing briefly, and raised an eyebrow. After a while he carried them over to Eachann’s desk and tossed them down. “The top one’s interesting.”
“Oh?”
“It seems that Marcus Esterling put an exceptionally large bounty on the exiled Braston. Says that he’s committed atrocities throughout the continent.”
Cassus read it over. “The sick bastard’s been busy. Do you think it’s true? The part about him taking over The Cove?”
Percy shrugged. “If it is, then where’s Nevra? He’s invested a significantly large amount in our endeavors.”
Cassus considered the possibility. “Find out if he lives, and if not, draft something that turns his shares over to a fictitious party. Then use this ‘crisis’ that Marcus Esterling is whining about to depress the market. We’ll buy his shares for coppers and return golden talents when it blows over in a month.”
Another tap at the door announced the arrival of their next appointment. The door opened and an older, slightly hunched ma
n entered. The steward’s hair was thinning, and his baldness gave him a horseshoe appearance on top. The strands that remained were neatly combed over the other side.
“Your Excellency, may I introduce Lady Genevieve Flowers? She wishes to discuss pressing matters regarding the humanitarian efforts of the city.” He bowed after speaking and an older woman of obvious wealth and comfort entered the chamber.
“Thank you, Phillip.” The steward quickly closed the doors and exited.
“Lady Genevieve!” Cassus rose from his desk, eager to welcome his lobbyist.
Percy also rose. He bowed politely out of respect for the important visitor, then stepped aside and chose a different chair. The gesture excluded him from the company but allowed him details of the discussion. He picked up a quill as if he would record the meeting.
“Lord Eachann.” She held out a single hand adorned with a white glove.
Her nasally and ostentatious voice burned both men’s ears, but the governor did not let it show. “Please call me Cassus.” He bowed graciously and took her hand, kissing the top of her glove as if she were a queen. “I was so excited to see your name on the schedule today. It has been too long since our last meeting.” He helped her to a chair and sat across from her attentively. “To what do I owe this honor?”
She blushed at his flattery. Cassus was considered eligible to the Westonese nobility, having been widowed only a year before. “Lord Eachann… I mean, Cassus.” Her cheeks went rosier at the mention of his given name. “I wanted to personally thank you for intervening on behalf of the Pescari against that filthy traitor, Robert Esterling.”
“Oh that? It was my honor to stand up for the refugees against his immaturity and rash war mongering.” He whispered. “Quite honestly, I would do it again.”