Adrina listened to her brother thoughtfully, as she considered possibilities that had not had time to register.
“And what about you?” she asked. “He’s banished you north as well.”
Tristan shrugged. “I’ve got fourteen half-brothers, Adrina. When Hablet tires of trying to get a legitimate son on one of his wives, there’ll be a rather spirited competition for our father’s favour. That’s a bloodbath I’ll be more than happy to miss.”
“This does present some interesting opportunities, doesn’t it?” she agreed.
Tristan laughed. “You know, sometimes, you’re so like Hablet it’s scary.”
Adrina stopped and looked up at him. “The regiment that’s going north, what’s its function?”
“They’ll be the Princess’s Guard,” Tristan told her. “Under your command, to use as you see fit.”
“And you are the Captain of the Guard?”
“Naturally,” he said with a smug grin.
“Is Father sending any cannon with you?”
Tristan’s grin vanished. He glanced up and down the hall before answering in a low voice. “No, and I’m not certain the Kariens will ever see any artillery.”
“But he’s promised them!”
“You know as well as I do how much Father’s promises are worth. He’ll take their gold and their timber and happily send his daughter to Karien as a bride to prove his good intentions, but he really doesn’t want to hand the Kariens anything as dangerous as a cannon. He’s had every man in Talabar who even thinks he knows how to make gunpowder taken into custody.”
“He could be doing that just to drive up the price.”
“I suppose.”
“So the regiment going north are just light cavalry then?
Tristan nodded warily. “For the most part. What are you up to, Adrina?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “Not yet, anyway. Can you get me that list? Before we sail? And I want to know who Hablet arrested, too.”
“Why?”
She ignored the question. “And I want you to do something else for me. Find out why Cratyn is so unhappy about this marriage.”
“He’s probably heard about you,” Tristan suggested.
Adrina frowned at him, but didn’t rise to the bait. “Maybe, but I’ve got a feeling there’s more to it than that. I want to know what it is.”
“As you command, your Serene Highness,” Tristan said with a mocking bow.
“One other thing,” she added as she turned to walk away. “Do any of the regiment speak Karien?”
“Most of them, as far I as know,” Tristan said.
“Then the first order you’re to give them is to conceal that knowledge,” Adrina told him. “The men are to act dumb. I want the Kariens to think they don’t understand any orders but mine. Including you. If I have to go through with this, I’ll do it on my terms.”
Tristan was as good as his word, and by early afternoon Adrina had the names of every man in her regiment, and every man and woman rounded up by Hablet prior to the arrival of the Karien prince, to prevent the secret of gunpowder falling into the wrong hands. She studied both lists carefully. The names on the first list, for the most part, meant nothing to her. She was not permitted to socialise with Tristan’s fellow officers, although a few of the names she had heard spoken in court. The second list was much more interesting. She studied it carefully, delighted when one name appeared that she knew—by reputation at least.
Adrina spent the rest of the day driving her slaves mad as she made them drag the entire contents of her wardrobe out, so that she could decide what she should take with her on her journey north. By the end of the afternoon, the floor of her chamber was littered with discarded outfits. At that point, Adrina loudly announced that she simply had nothing to wear, and certainly nothing suitable for a future queen. She threw a rather impressive tantrum that had the entire palace scurrying out of her way. Just on dusk, Hablet sent word that she could send for the tailor of her choice and order whatever she liked.
The following morning Mhergon, the palace tailor, arrived, nervously clutching a bundle of cloth swatches. Adrina refused to see him and demanded to see Japinel instead. He was the only tailor in Talabar worthy of such a task, she declared. Nobody else would do. She threw another tantrum, just to make her point, and then sat back and waited.
She didn’t have to wait long. Less than an hour after Mhergon had fled her chambers, Lecter Turon arrived. Adrina, draped over the chaise in her morning room, graciously granted him an audience.
“Where is Japinel?”
“He is unavailable, your Highness. Your father, his Majesty the King—”
“I know who my father is, Turon. Get to the point.”
“Mhergon is eminently qualified as a master tailor, your Highness.”
“Mhergon couldn’t make a sack out of homespun,” Adrina scoffed. “My father said the tailor of my choice. I want Japinel.”
“Japinel dabbles, your Highness, in tailoring as he does in everything else. The last I heard he was calling himself an alchemist. I can’t see why—”
“You don’t have to, Turon. Get me Japinel or I will come to dinner tonight naked. We’ll see what his Royal Highness, the Crown Prince of Karien thinks of that!”
Lecter Turon waddled off in a foul mood, but Adrina knew she had won. Just on sunset a very pale and confused-looking Japinel was ushered into her chambers. He seemed stunned that the Princess Adrina had even heard of him, let alone wanted him to design her trousseau. Adrina ordered her slaves out and waited until they were alone, before she allowed him to speak.
“Your Serene Highness!” Japinel cried as he prostrated himself at her feet.
“Oh, do get up! I don’t have time for that!”
Japinel was a weedy little man with eyes set too close together. He scrambled to his feet, managing to bow at least half a dozen times on the way up.
“I am honoured, your Highness. I will design you a trousseau that the gods will envy. I will create—”
“Shut up, fool! I wouldn’t wear something designed by you if my life depended on it.”
“But your Highness! Chamberlain Turon said—”
“I have gowns enough to sink my father’s flagship,” she told him. It was a poor analogy under the circumstances. “I want something else from you, Japinel. If you do as I say, you’ll be rewarded as if you really did create my trousseau. If you don’t, I’ll make sure you never see the light of day again.”
Japinel might have been a scoundrel, but he wasn’t stupid. His eyes narrowed greedily.
“What is it you want, your Highness?”
“I want to know how to make gunpowder,”
Japinel’s eyes widened. “But I’m a tailor, your Highness. What would I know about such things?”
“My father is currently holding you in custody because you claimed you did know.”
Japinel wrung his hands and shrugged helplessly. “A mistake, your Highness. I had thought to try a different career…I boasted unwisely…”
Adrina could have strangled the little worm. “Where are they holding you and the others?”
“In the slave quarters, your Highness.”
“Then that’s where you will return. I will see you again tomorrow. I suggest you get the formula from one of your cell mates. I leave Talabar in three days, Japinel. If I don’t have what I want by then, I will have you sent to the salt mines in Parkinoor and you won’t see Talabar until your grandsons are old men.”
After he left, Adrina cursed for a full ten minutes. She was still cursing when Tamylan arrived to help her dress for dinner.
CHAPTER 5
Captain Wain Loclon was forced to wait for almost an hour outside the Lord Defender’s office before Garet Warner arrived. In that hour he had rehearsed, over and over again, what he planned to say. It sounded reasonable and logical and he was certain of success—right up until the moment the commandant appeared.
The commandant glanced at him
briefly as he opened the door, his expression more put-upon than welcoming. Loclon followed him into the office, taking a deep breath. Although of lesser rank than the Lord Defender, Loclon wished it were Jenga, not Garet Warner, that he was forced to confront. The Lord Defender was predictable, and much easier to read than the enigmatic commander of Defender Intelligence.
“I see you’ve recovered,” Garet remarked as Loclon closed the door behind them.
Garet lit the lantern on the Lord Defender’s desk and studied the younger man in the flickering light for a moment, before seating himself in the padded leather chair behind the heavy wooden desk.
“I was released from the infirmary this morning,” Loclon confirmed.
Garet nodded. “And you are ready to return to your duties?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Report to Commandant Arkin. He’ll find you something useful to do. Sergeant Jocan will arrange for you to be accommodated in the Officers’ Barracks, unless you prefer to make your own arrangements.”
“I have rooms near the main gate, sir. I was planning to return there.”
“As you wish. Was there anything else?”
Loclon swallowed before answering. “Actually, I was hoping I could request an assignment, sir.”
Garet looked up curiously. “Request away, Captain, although I’ve no guarantee you’ll get what you ask for.”
“I want to be part of the detail assigned to hunting down Tarja Tenragan.”
Garet Warner smiled briefly. “Is that so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Captain, but there are no details hunting Tarja down. The First Sister has pardoned him.”
“Sir?” Loclon thought he was hearing things. He had been out of touch for the past few months as he recovered from the wounds inflicted on him by R’shiel and Tarja, but he could not imagine any circumstance that could have arisen in that time that would give the First Sister reason to pardon her wayward son.
“You heard correctly, Captain. Tarja has been pardoned and restored to the Defenders.”
“But after all that he’s done…”
“All of which has been forgiven. Was there anything else?”
“Sir, I cannot believe that the First Sister would simply pardon him! What of the Defenders he killed? The heathen rebellion he led? What of his desertion? And what of his sister?”
“R’shiel? She has also been the recipient of the First Sister’s mercy.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Believe what you will, Captain. The fact is they have been pardoned. While I can understand your distress, considering the circumstances, there is nothing you or I can do about it.”
Loclon refused to accept Garet Warner’s calm assurances. “Sir, I believe I have the right to insist that charges be pressed. After what they did to me…”
“Ah, yes, I read your report. You allege R’shiel used heathen magic on you.”
“I do not allege, sir, I know she did. It was she who gave me this.” Loclon pulled down the collar of his high-necked red Defender’s jacket to reveal a savage pink scar that ran from one side of his throat to the other. It made an interesting counterpoint to the puckered scar that ran from the corner of his left eye to his mouth. His misshapen nose was the final touch on his ruined—but once handsome—face.
“Quite an impressive collection of scars,” Garet noted. “But hardly proof that R’shiel is a heathen.”
“I know what I saw, sir,” he insisted. They can’t do this to me, not now. Not when he was finally ready to seek revenge.
“Just exactly what were you doing when R’shiel revealed this unexpected talent for wielding heathen magic, Captain? Your report was rather vague on that point.”
Loclon hesitated as images filled his mind of R’shiel, naked to the waist, her pale breasts stark in the jagged lightning, her eyes glittering and totally black, filled with forbidden heathen power. He could still taste her lips and the raindrops on her skin. He could still feel the blade she had used to cut his throat. Hatred burned through his veins like acid.
“She was attempting to escape, sir.”
“And succeeded, as I understand it,” Garet pointed out. “This entire episode is something of a blemish on your record, Captain. I would have thought you’d be anxious to let the matter drop.”
“She is dangerous, sir, and so is Tarja. They must be punished.”
Garet shook his head. “Unfortunately, the First Sister does not agree with you. Report to Commandant Arkin for reassignment and let the matter drop.”
“May I ask where they are now?” It took all he had to ask the question calmly.
“Tarja is with the Lord Defender and the First Sister is on the northern border. As for R’shiel, I assume she is with them, although I can’t say for certain. I’m leaving for the northern border in the morning. I’ll give Tarja your regards, shall I?”
Garet Warner was mocking him, but there was nothing he could do about it. “Permission to accompany you, Commandant!”
“Denied. Arkin will be in charge until the Lord Defender or I return. You are dismissed.”
“But sir—”
“I said you’re dismissed, Captain.”
Loclon saluted sharply, rage burning in the depths of his blue eyes, the scar on his face a livid reflection of his mood. He slammed the door behind him, thinking that if Garet Warner thought that he would so easily forget the pair who had tried to destroy him, then he was sadly mistaken.
Later that evening, after he had reclaimed his rooms in Mistress Longeaves’ Boarding House, Loclon made his way through the torchlit streets of the Citadel to the eastern side of the city. An earlier shower of rain made the cobbles glisten and the footing treacherous as he neared the seedier part of town. Passers-by became more rare, then stopped completely, as he walked through the darkened warehouse district. Only the sudden harsh bark of an alert watchdog and the scurrying feet of rats disturbed the night. He had not been here in almost a year, but the route was familiar enough that he walked with assurance; unafraid of anything he might meet, as the streets narrowed into shadowed pockets of darkness. The cutpurses of the Citadel would be plying their trade along Tavern Street, where the pickings were more fruitful.
When he reached his destination, he knocked on the dilapidated door that was squeezed into a laneway between two warehouses. When he received no response to his summons, he pounded louder and was rewarded by a metallic screech, as the spy-hole in the door was forced open. A pair of suspicious dark eyes glared at him, taking in his red uniform with a frown.
“What d’ya want?”
“I want to come in. Mistress Heaner knows me.”
“Yeah? What’s her cat’s name then?”
“Fluffy,” he replied, hoping the scabby creature had not died in the past year. Mistress Heaner was fond of her cat and it amused her to use his name as a password.
“Hang on.”
Loclon tapped his foot impatiently as the locks were drawn back. The door opened just enough for him to squeeze through. He waited as the man pushed the door shut and bolted it after them. The narrow alley was littered with garbage, and Loclon covered his nose against the smell as the hunched little man led him forward toward a square of light at the end of the lane. When they reached it, the man stepped back to let Loclon enter, then turned and disappeared into the darkness, presumably back to his post by the door.
The main room was sumptuous and belied the paltriness of the exterior. Cut crystal lanterns lit the soft draperies, and carpet thick enough to hide in stretched the full length of the room. Comfortable sofas were scattered through the room, each in its own private alcove, separated by diaphanous curtains that revealed as much as they concealed. Mistress Heaner’s House was exclusive; known only to a few and only those who could afford the unique entertainments she provided. A captain’s pay was not usually enough to allow one the funds to patronise Mistress Heaner’s, but Loclon had just received se
veral months’ backpay and he intended to treat himself, this one night at least. Back in the days when he had been the champion of the Arena, his winnings had assured him a place here any time he wanted it.
“Captain.”
Mistress Heaner glided toward him with a smile. Her gown was simple, black and plainly cut, although the material was expensive and the emerald necklace that circled her wrinkled throat was worth more than he could earn in a lifetime as an officer.
“Mistress,” Loclon replied, with a low bow. She insisted on courtesy. One could do whatever they wished to the young men and women she employed, but the slightest hint of bad manners would see one banned for life.
“We’ve not had the pleasure of your company for some time, sir.”
“I’ve been away.”
“Then you must be looking for some…special…entertainment?” she suggested, with an elegantly raised brow. “I’ve several new girls that might interest you. Even a young man or two that might tempt a jaded palate.”
“I’ve no interest in your fancy boys, Mistress. I want a woman. A redhead.”
“Not an easy request, Captain.” Mistress Heaner appeared to think for a moment, as if she didn’t know the physical characteristics of every soul in her employ. “Red is an unusual colour. Is there anything else that might tempt you?”
“No. She must be a redhead. And tall. Preferably slim.”
“Such specific requirements can be expensive, Captain.”
“How much?”
“Fifty rivets.”
Loclon almost baulked at that point. Fifty rivets would leave him almost penniless until his next pay. It would mean eating in the barracks and avoiding his landlady.
“Fifty rivets, then.”
Mistress Heaner watched carefully as he counted out the coins into her arthritic hand.
“You may use the Blue Room,” she said, as her claw-like fingers closed over the money. “I will send Peny to you.”
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