Grand Vizier of Krar

  “I will lend you a longboat and crew to take you to my superior, General Utukin, the senior commander of the siege of Quolow,” the general offered.

  “I am very grateful, general,” Pelembras replied. “However, my spies should continue in their canoes. They still have their job to do, infiltrating the locals hiding in the woods and mountain valleys. I will send my assistant with them to liaise with me.”

  “So be it,” said the general offhandedly. Having made his decision to send Pelembras to General Utukin, he was anxious to bring this distraction to a close.

  By next morning the three canoes were gliding downstream again. There was no longer any reason to travel by night, at least while Pelembras remained under cover. Arnapa was alone in her canoe; Zeep paired with Aransette; Bonmar with Norsnette. Not far in front of them they could see Pelembras standing in the longboat talking to a centurion. Twenty soldiers were hauling on the oars.

  61

  4th & 5th November

  It was a nightmare ride. Gagged, hooded, tied over the back of a horse, every bone and muscle and her head aching, giddy, and feeling sick. When Blan was finally pulled off the horse her head spun and she felt herself falling in an arc as though Earth was turning beneath her and she was no longer attached to it.

  The hood was ripped off by a grizzle-faced man who was standing in front of her. Two men were holding her from behind. Three more horses were grazing nearby.

  “Ahhh! You bitch!” the grizzle-faced man yelled as he was covered in the product of Blan’s sickness. It had not been very nice for Blan either, having to breathe through vomit under the hood and behind the gag. The man raised his hand to strike her.

  As woozy and ill as Blan felt, she instinctively pushed her face forward and her chin up in defiance. No fist came down on her. A powerful arm shot out from behind her and grabbed the wrist of the grizzle-faced man, stopping him mid-swing.

  “You might be my superior, but I’ll kill you if you strike this lady.” It was a voice full of menace, yet a young voice.

  “Keep your hat on, Corporal Pretsan. I was only going to give her a little slap. But you’re probably right. We shouldn’t be damaging the merchandise before it’s been put to good use.”

  Pretsan produced a knife and sliced through Blan’s bonds. All the men let go of her while she bent double and disgorged the rest of her dinner. She hoped she might also have disgorged the remnant of the drug she now realised that Galnet had slipped into her drink.

  Her moment of freedom, if it could be called that, was soon over. The leader lifted an armful of shackles and chains from his horse and noisily dumped them on the ground. After trying one pair which proved to be too small for Blan’s wrists, he threw it away and found another that fitted her. He then attached another shackle to her left ankle and used this to keep hold of her by rope. At least now she found herself sitting up on the horse. She could see the night around her and breathe the fresh air. She did not want to think about how she had allowed herself to be seduced by Galnet, and she dared not think about what would happen to her next.

  The ride seemed to go on forever. Despite the sickness and headache she wanted to go to sleep. Whenever she looked like she was falling off the horse, someone would shake her awake to endure more of the nightmare.

  Night became dawn and then the heat of the day increased, or maybe it was Blan burning inside. At some time during the night she had heard other voices around her but her usual acuity of hearing had failed her. It was not until later that she realised she was no longer riding but curled up on the wooden floor of a wagon wearing padded cane shackles on her wrists and ankles. Alongside her in the wagon were another five girls of about her age and three female soldiers watching over them. None of the soldiers showed any sign of sympathy in their faces.

  They stopped for the night. Still chained to the other five and under the gaze of the three soldiers, Blan was allowed out to an improvised latrine. She saw that the wagon was part of a large caravan accompanied by many cavalry in addition to the guards in the wagons. Not all the captives were young women. Apart from the closed wagons carrying people and supplies, there were drays carrying heavy goods and some with cages for wild animals. There were people of all ages and types. Some appeared to be professional performers: jugglers, acrobats and others practising their arts. Most, however, were captives in shackles, or staff with no better job to go to. She noticed that only she and the five others with her were wearing smooth cane shackles padded with cloth. All the other captives, both humans as well as beasts, were wearing the sort of iron shackles that gradually cut into wrists and ankles.

  It then struck Blan that each member of her group was uncommonly good looking or voluptuous. Although she had not felt that way herself, except in Telko’s arms, she accepted that she might be seen that way by others.

  Sometime early in the next afternoon Blan felt the wagon being rolled onto a smooth surface which, now that her acuity of hearing had returned, she recognised as the deck of a river barge. It was not long before the wagon left the barge. Blan guessed that the river was narrower than the Polnet, though substantial nonetheless.

  Later that afternoon, the wagon slowed and eventually came to a complete halt. Blan was allowed out, still chained to the other five, and she saw that they had arrived in the middle of a vast military camp. It was humming with the movement of foot soldiers, cavalry, artillery and supply wagons.

  The rest of the circus caravan was nowhere to be seen. Blan and her five companions were led through a door into what appeared from outside to be a wooden castle. It turned out to be a kind of amphitheatre, an arena surrounded by tiers of seats to accommodate at least five thousand spectators. The guards told them that it had been assembled by the army in just three days and it would be taken down and reassembled in the new camp once the army moved to a new site. Each major camp had a similar structure for the entertainment of the troops. Various circus acts would take place during the day and into the night, including contests of strength and speed and, for those who enjoyed such displays, the slaughter of slaves and animals. The slaughters were sponsored by the secret police as a demonstration of their goodwill to the welfare of common soldiers.

  As each camp accommodated vastly more than the seating capacity of the arena, an ordinary soldier might have no more than one opportunity to attend a circus, unless he had important relatives or friends or worked in some capacity connected with the circus.

  At one side of the arena there was a throne of six seats set in a dais above a door. Steps led up to the dais from either side. Above the throne, on the next tier, were comfortable seats for officers and other important spectators.

  Blan and the others were led through the door below the throne. The room they entered was adorned with cushioned couches and seats and the floor was clean and strewn with rushes.

  “This is where you will be housed tonight and this is where you will entertain the winners,” one of the soldiers said. “It’s heavily guarded, so don’t try to escape. The penalty for attempted escape is death, but only if you survive three days in the stocks entertaining all comers. The first competition will be held tonight. Whoever is the lucky girl to be chosen by the winner will entertain him here. The others will just have to wait their turn. We have two nights here and then we move on to another camp by Southport River. Any questions…?”

  There were no questions. It all seemed very clear.

  62

  Memwin – 5th November

  Memwin felt guilty about sneaking off while Questan was away spying on the circus camp, but she was sure that it was the best thing to do. Questan was not an agile person and would not be able to sneak into the camp without being caught and hurt. She left him a note on a piece of parchment she found in his saddle bag. In her childlike but perfectly legible letters, she wrote, I am going alone to Blan. Do not worry. I will not be caught. Thank you for bringing me. Sorry for leaving you by yourself. Love, Memwin.

  From her hiding spot in the scr
ub Memwin watched as Questan read her note. She saw him visibly deflate with sadness and worry, yet acceptance. She saw that he knew it would do no good trying to find her and change her mind, especially with the enemy so near. With tears running down her cheeks, Memwin turned and crawled away.

  *

  As dawn arrived the circus was ready to move on. Questan watched from behind a bushy, stunted tree, not far outside the movable palisade which was now being dismantled by a chain gang under the supervision of some of the cavalry guards. The wagons were already in a line and would move off soon. Most of the cavalry were already mounted and ready to ride out.

  While the chain gang carried their burdens to a nearby fleet of drays, one of the guards broke away from his comrades and marched toward the horses. He suddenly stopped before he reached the first horse. That was when Questan saw a small figure standing next to the man. He could not hear what was said but he trembled as he watched.

  The guard was in a hurry to join his company. He was just about to mount his horse when the girl seemed to rise up as if out of the ground. She wore dirty peasant clothes and iron shackles that he assumed were locked, even though they looked a bit too big for her narrow wrists and ankles.

  “Please sir, I went sleep-walking and got lost. I can’t remember which wagon I came from,” she called up to the guard.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said dismissively when he had mastered his initial surprise and alarm. “Here, I’ll take you to one.”

  The thought flashed through his mind that she should not have been free to wander off in the first place. However, he was in a hurry and she looked just the part; one of the waifs grabbed from some village to do chores for the kitchen and cleaning staff. He lifted her up and carried her to the nearest closed wagon. Within seconds it would be following the wagon in front which had just started to move off.

  “Take care of this one,” he instructed the women in the wagon as he shoved Memwin inside. “I don’t have time to find the right wagon.”

  The guard’s choice of wagon was fortunate. It was indeed carrying kitchen staff. He felt lucky that a service wagon had been the last one in line.

  By the time Memwin had reached the enemy camp the women in the wagon all felt that they knew her. In her child’s voice she told them stories about the flora and fauna along Polnet River where, she said, she had lived before she joined the caravan. No one asked her exactly who had brought her; they all assumed that it had been someone from another wagon.

  Nobody noticed that Memwin was no longer wearing shackles when she climbed down from the wagon; perhaps they had forgotten that she had been wearing shackles when they first saw her.

  Memwin followed the kitchen staff and it was no time before she was given chores to do. Being present seemed to be the only requirement for selection, and willingness to carry out instructions seemed to be the only qualification demanded, at least for the chores given to Memwin. She overheard some of the women talking about Blan’s fate. She did not fully understand what they meant but she did understand that her mentor was at risk of being hurt. Under cover of her chores she searched the kitchens for useful materials and she searched amongst the campsite vegetation that had so far survived being trampled by the army. She gathered some of the items she might need. Then she set about cultivating the servants most involved in servicing the needs of the arena.

  63

  5th November

  Questan followed the enemy circus as far as Quolow River. He saw the ferry crossing but he could see no sign of Blan or Memwin. They must have been inside the closed wagons.

  “What can I do now, Quoosh?” he asked aloud. The dog looked up at him enquiringly. Since his term of office as President had expired, Questan had found that fewer and fewer of his old acquaintances in government and business bothered to speak to him any more. In office he had been completely incorruptible. Consequently, nobody owed him any special favours: unofficial debts that corrupt officials would call up after they left office (and be paid, so the new generation of corrupt officials would have confidence in their eventual reward). Questan was now seen by most as just another pensioner; barely visible. So, in the absence of anyone else to talk to, he often carried on talking aloud, not to himself, mind, but to the world around him or a nearby non-human, in this case Quoosh. It eased his doubts and worries and made him feel that he was impacting the world rather than just observing it.

  “What else can I do but go to Quolow and hope to find help, Quoosh?” Even as he said this his heart sank. Quolow was under siege. It was unlikely that it could spare defenders to rescue anyone from within enemy territory. Besides, spies would first have to locate both Blan and Memwin before any soldiers were sent in to rescue them. Whilst Fandabbin’s leadership had caused Dabbin to engage many commandos and some competent spies, Quolow’s democratic bickering left it with few of either, and all of them would be very busy now.

  Questan continued his monologue, trying to steel himself for action.

  “First, I must go to the marshes where the river meets the lake. Then, I must swim to the underwater cave and find my way to the hidden passages.”

  Questan dismounted. He had ridden far enough and would be spotted by the enemy if he rode any closer to their camps. He spoke to the horse and to Quoosh in the way that only those who know and love animals can do. He told them that he had another mission where they could not follow. He thanked them for their help and bade them go home. They understood and obediently trotted off to the south, along the way they had come; a team bound together by their shared adventure.

  Questan struggled from cover to cover for a mile until the enemy soldiers guarding the ferry were hidden from sight. Then he made his way down to the water’s edge and found a path which kept near the river until the rocky south bank gave way to pools edged by marshes.

  It was cooler here. A breeze coming down the river from its mountain source reminded him that winter was coming. Although the weather would be mild in the lowlands, snow would be gathering on the higher mountains.

  After many hours Questan found a dry, grassy patch hidden from both path and river by reeds. He lay down, exhausted, and feeling powerless to affect the inexorable movement of events.

  64

  5th November

  Late that night Blan and the other five Prize Girls (as they were called by their captors) were led up to the six-seat throne. They were unchained but there were armed guards everywhere; no side exits; no chance of escape. At least they had been able to bathe in warm water with plenty of soap. They had been dressed in fine, if revealing, clothes made of silk. They had been liberally splashed with a perfume which Blan neither needed nor liked. Her acute sense of smell found it oppressive.

  Blan could not see any empty spectator seats. The stadium was full of soldiers talking, hooting and whooping. When the Prize Girls appeared a great cheer went up and the hooting and whooping became deafening. Blan took her seat with the others and then a loud trumpet blast rang out. The stadium became suddenly silent as some high ranking officers occupied the tier above Blan. She half-turned around. She almost expected to see Black Knight there. It was just some divisional general with his entourage.

  Once the general and his lackeys were seated, another trumpet blast heralded the arrival of the contestants. Then Blan knew what kind of contest it was and she felt her heart sink even lower. There were twenty gladiators armed with the most vicious looking weapons Blan could imagine for hand-to-hand combat. Before she closed her eyes she noticed that one of the contestants was Corporal Pretsan.

  “As usual, the two contestants to fight tonight will be the two who achieve the best scores in the javelin throwing competition,” a deep voice behind her announced. Blan guessed it was some professional master of ceremonies rather than the general himself. Her relief that there would be just one fight was overshadowed by her aversion to the word javelin. She had to concentrate on not retching. A picture of Telko falling from Black Knight’s quimal flashed through her mind.
However, with no immediate prospect of bloodshed, she opened her eyes.

  A frame was moved into the arena and a target placed on it. The target was an oversized and crude effigy of some aristocrat, presumably from the Free Alliance. Blan guessed correctly that it was of the Duke of Dabbin.

  The contestants took turns at throwing three javelins each. The two contestants with the highest scores were chosen as the fighters for the night. One was a stocky, shaven-headed man with very dark skin and very thick arms and legs. The other was a tall, wiry man with a dark brown complexion and unusually red hair tied in a pony tail.

  Blan kept her eyes open. She reckoned that a fight between professional soldiers would not be allowed to be fatal, and the winner would undoubtedly choose one of the other girls. Blan felt selfish about that, yet she was too run down to take on the world. She was yet to think of a plan for getting out of her own predicament, let alone helping anyone else.

  Blan was wrong on both scores. After two hours of battle and without Blan seeing any apparent change in the balance of power, the stocky man ran the taller man through with his serrated sword and then finished him with a swift blow to the head. Before the body had even been removed from the arena, the winner had bounded up the stairs, seized Blan in his huge arms and carried her down the stairs and into the entertainment chamber below.

  The cheering was still going on outside as Blan pleaded, “I am an unwilling captive, only seventeen years old. I don’t want you to take me. Don’t do something you may regret, that will burden you with guilt for the rest of your days.”