"What work, Sister?"
"Your robe is torn and stained with blood. You are to wash it and repair the damage brought on by your own wilful disobedience. Each botched darn will earn you one hour's Penitence for a fault in Obedience. You will note that I have kindly brought you a bucket of water, soap, and a needle and thread.
"Well?” The Sister raised her whip in a threatening manner.
"Thank you, Sister Melana!” Drex tried to lever herself from the thin mattress.
"I'm waiting, Supplicant,” the nun hissed, tapping the lash against her thigh.
Drexelica tumbled to the floor. Her fingers fumbled with the robe's fastenings; the digits felt as if they belonged to someone else. At last, the final knot fell apart, and she shucked the garment like a snake casting off its skin.
Somehow summoning the strength to rise to her raw, bloody knees, she dragged the garment towards a tub of water at Sister Melana's side.
As if seeing through a layer of grey gauze, Drex remembered the lessons of her brief apprenticeship to Mistress Gutal, a washerwoman and seamstress back in Griven. Skills learned during fourteen-hour working days under the old woman's harsh, unyielding tutelage came to the fore, giving her new strength.
Despite the pain of the blood returning to her arms and hands, she fell into the familiar routine, scrubbing each brown stain as if possessed. Once satisfied that the pristine white of the habit's coarse material had been restored, she took up the proffered darning needle.
She pricked her clumsy fingers several times while trying to thread the needle, but she took care not to spill further blood on the garment.
As she worked, she felt her thoughts clearing. She recognised that her earlier, overt attempts at resistance had been foolish, only adding to her punishment.
Drex knew she could only survive with an intact mind by trying to appear broken. She knew she must try to work on Melana with subtlety, by pretending at first to sympathise with her. The Sister was ambitious and proud, and she seemed to despise Prioress Lizaveta.
Don't give the cow any reason for suspicion, she told herself, as she darned the tears in the robe. Work on her. Play to her vanity.
At last, she snapped the thread on the last darn with her teeth, having used every artifice she had learned in her childhood under the hateful Gutal. Taking care not to raise her eyes, Drex glanced at Melana's hands as she passed the mended robe to the nun: they were soft and pink, the hands of someone unaccustomed to manual work.
Go on, bitch; find something wrong with that!
Melana turned the garment over and over, searching for the least sign of carelessness or inattention, but Drex knew she had worked well.
Compared to Gutal, Melana, you're just an amateur. She'd eat you for breakfast.
The nun grunted. “The Supplicant's work appears satisfactory."
To Drexelica, it sounded as if the words had been extracted under torture, and she struggled to keep her face demure and respectful.
"Thank you, Sister Melana. I will try to be more diligent in future, I promise."
"See that you do, Supplicant. Tomorrow, you'll have a full day of Observance, and I won't hesitate to punish the least transgression. Put on your robe.
"That's better. Now, you have earned a meal. Remember my indulgence and kindness on this occasion."
"I shall, Sister Melana.” Drex made sure to keep her voice penitent and subdued as she fumbled with the gown's laces. “Blessed be the Order."
"Oh, do stop that, slut! Your voice tires me, and you'll have ample opportunity to exercise your lungs later. Wait here; I'll be seeing you soon. You have an hour; make the most of it.
"Sleep is not permitted. Just you remember that."
Melana left the room, and one of the Novices brought Drex a bowl of thin, grey gruel and a small scrap of dark, gritty-looking bread. The meagre meal looked revolting, but the girl consumed it as if it were the choicest cuisine, wiping the bowl with the bread, ensuring that she absorbed every vital calorie.
I've got to keep my strength up. I'm not going to let these bastards beat me, and I know Grimm's on his way here. All I've got to do is to go along with this charade, and come across like a good, confused little girl. I've just got to hold out as best I can. They may have my body, but I'll be damned if I let them have my mind.
****
"So, Sister Melana; how goes our new Supplicant?” Lizaveta mumbled, tearing flesh from a chicken-leg with her teeth. She tossed the bone over her shoulder and selected a ripe fig from the heaped table at her side.
Melana, lounging on a comfortable divan in the Prioress’ chamber, took a deep draught of wine before she answered.
"She's strong, Reverend Mother; I'll give the little slut that. Even so, she was almost off with the birds by the end of Devotions, as I'd hoped. I let her rest for a little while, and then ordered her to repair her robe; it was in quite a mess, as you might guess. I told her she had failed in Obedience."
"A nice touch, Sister,” Lizaveta said. “Still, I trust you've taken care that she's not marked?"
"There's nothing that'll show, Reverend Mother, I promise. I'll have the Novices go a little easier on her tomorrow, and then hit her hard the day after.
"By the time I left her today, she looked dazed, but I'm pretty sure she was more aware than she let on. She thinks she's playing with us."
Lizaveta laughed, a harsh, unpleasant sound that grated on Melana's ears, but the junior nun joined in, nonetheless.
"How amusing!” the Prioress cackled. “Perhaps she thinks she's over the worst? We haven't even started yet! She'll learn soon enough that it's useless to try to oppose the Score… or me."
Melana wondered if Lizaveta had gazed at her with a little more intensity than usual, but she put it down to being tired; it had been a long day so far, and it was not over yet.
"Get her started on emotions this afternoon, Sister. Let her access her power; flex her muscles, as it were. Keep her busy, but let her think she's still got the upper hand. A couple of hours’ Devotion tomorrow should be enough to start with. Find some reason for some more Penitence the day after; don't give her time to think. Allow her four hours of sleep tonight, no more."
Melana almost gaped. She needed to rest, and Lizaveta's pronouncement had condemned her to even less sleep; she would need to be up before the Supplicant. “Reverend Mother, may I detail the Novices to start off without me tomorrow? I'm exhausted."
"Oh, I don't think I should entrust a matter of such importance to a pair of callow Novices, Sister! No, I'm afraid you'll have to oversee the girl's training yourself. It'll be a trial for you, I know, but I trust you to recognise your duty."
The slender nun groaned inwardly, but she knew better than to demur with her Superior.
"As you command, Reverend Mother,” she said, trying to maintain a cheerful, obedient tone.
You shrivelled old goat! Melana thought. You're never up before dawn, are you? It's always people like me who have to do your dirty work for you.
"Thank you so much, Sister Melana.” Lizaveta favoured the nun with what she doubtless thought was a sweet, seraphic smile. Instead, it looked more like the rapacious grin of a predator. “I knew I could rely on you."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 6: Investigation
Lieutenant-Colonel Shandimar, Shakkar and Sergeant Erik sat at the head of a long table in the Guardhouse. The room was bare, forbidding and cold.
The fourteenth and last man marched into the room, to Erik's shouted commands:
"Left! Right! Left! Right! Halt! Ten-shut!"
"Salute!"
To his credit, faced as he was by the exposed, steak-knife fangs of Shakkar, the guard did not tremble. He maintained a rigid pose of attention, despite his pale face. He was short but stocky, and his chest protruded like a ship's prow.
"Private Embral, reporting as ordered, Sir!” he yelled.
"Off cap… stand at… ease!” Erik, shouted the last word in an almost a fa
lsetto squeak. Embral adjusted his position; his feet now apart by the width of his shoulders and his arms behind his back. Shakkar felt puzzled by the term ‘stand at ease'-the guard appeared anything but relaxed.
"You are attached to the Gate detail, I understand, Private?” Shandimar said in a bored voice.
"That's right, Sir! Third watch, midnight ‘til seven, Sir!” the man yelled at a volume phenomenal from such a short person.
The Colonel winced, and rubbed his brow. “All right, Private; stand easy."
The hapless man relaxed his stance-just a little. His eyes still stared ahead, and his attention seemed to be focused entirely on the wall behind Shandimar.
"Do you know why you are here, Private?"
"No, Sir!” The slight hesitancy in the watchman's words implied to Shakkar either falsehood or unease. The demon had dealt with many humans in his time, and he could often tell wariness or deception when he heard it.
"Good.” Shandimar consulted his notes. After a few moments’ rumination, he looked up again.
"Relax, Private, you're not on trial here. We are just investigating an incident that may or may not have taken place, and all we want is a few truthful answers from you. You have not been singled out in any way-do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir. I think so, Sir,” the sentry gabbled. “I sort of guessed as much when I saw the other-"
"That'll do, Private!” Erik snapped, his face red. “'Yes, Sir’ is quite enough; we don't want your bloody life story! The next thing you-"
Shandimar waved his right hand. “Thank you, Sergeant. Private Embral, can you state that, to your certain knowledge, the Main Gate was not opened at any time during your watch?"
"No, Sir… I mean, yes, Sir.” The soldier's wary gaze flicked between the Colonel and the Sergeant. “I mean, it wasn't opened at all, Sir! Me an’ Volan was there all the time, Sir, and it wasn't never opened, Sir!"
Erik opened his mouth to speak again, but Shandimar silenced the Sergeant with a sharp look.
"Now, that's not quite true, is it, Private? I'm afraid Private Volan's testimony does not agree with yours.” The senior officer's tone was deceptively mild.
The soldier's eyes bulged, as if he knew he had been caught out in a lie. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Sir!” he protested.
Shandimar consulted his voluminous notes once more. “Private Volan's statement claims that you were not present for the whole of your assigned watch, Private. It states that you vacated your post at approximately five minutes past two this morning, and were absent from your post for thirty minutes or so. What do you have to say about that, Private?"
Embral's eyes narrowed. “That bastard, Volan, said that? I'll bloody kill him! I'll nail the sod to the freakin’ floor! I'll-"
The Sergeant's brows lowered, and he screamed “Just answer the Colonel's question, Private! Were you or were you not absent when you were supposed to be on duty?"
The wretched guard shuffled on his feet. “Well, Sir, I'd ‘ad this bad meat pie, and I just ‘ad to go an’ relieve meself, see…"
Erik surged to his feet, pointing at Embral with an accusing finger. “You dare give us the lie to our faces? We know bloody well where you were, sonny boy! Thirty-two, Candle Street! Do I need to say any more?"
The guard slumped, and his once-taut face hung in slack folds.
"I'm sorry, Sir,” he whispered, looking to Shandimar for succour that did not come. “See, me an’ Volan… we-"
"You deserted your bloody post!” Erik screamed, bouncing on his toes. “You left the cussed gate half unguarded an’ risked some light-fingered trollop makin’ off with your bloody key! I ought to-"
"Is this true, Private?” Shandimar seemed to be in the mood for interruption today, as he fixed the wriggling man with a stern gaze. “The truth, now!"
Embral regarded the Colonel with pleading eyes. “I did go to… that place, Sir,” he whispered. “But I didn't dare risk me key, Sir, I swear! Please believe me!"
"How so, Private?” Shandimar demanded. “How do you know your joy-girl didn't take it off you while you were… otherwise engaged?"
"Because I got Private Ludin to stand in for me, Sir!” Embral's face was suffused with red. “He owes me a favour, so I called him up an’ gave him me key, Sir! Didn't that bastard-sorry, Sir-didn't Private Volan tell you that?"
"That'll be all, Embral.” The Colonel's eyes were like slits. “You're on report, and I'll let Sergeant Erik decide your punishment. Just count yourself bloody lucky that I don't convene a court-martial right now! I could have your head for this. The next time I hear of anything like this, your feet won't touch the ground! Is that understood? I asked you a question, Private! Is that understood?"
"Yes, Sir! Thank you, Sir!"
"Report to the Stockade, Private!” Erik snapped. “I'll deal with you later, you little sod! You'll rue the bloody day you were born, I promise you! On cap! Ten-shut! Salute! About turn! Double… march!"
The Private sped from the room as if his feet were on fire.
Shakkar growled, “I do not think much of your so-called guards, Colonel. That is the third man to own up to absenting himself from his post; to admit to whoring or carousing during his duty period. How many others have managed to escape without incriminating themselves?"
"With all due respect, Lord Seneschal,” Shandimar drawled. “I don't think that's the point. Yes, these men have flouted their duty, and they will be punished for it. However, in mitigation, each of the absent sentries persuaded a fellow watchman to stand in for him. At no time was the Tower, or the Gate, left unguarded. Whatever else we know, Lady Drexelica did not leave the city by normal means, which leaves-"
"Sorcery,” the demon hissed. “Some magic-user has spirited her away."
"Why? Any ideas, Sergeant?"
"Me, Sir?” Erik scratched his forehead, as if this might stimulate his powers of thought. “Perhaps some mage has a grudge against Lord Grimm and took the lady by mistake, Sir."
Shakkar shook his head. He knew Lady Drexelica and Baron Grimm were lovers, but he ensured that the fact had been concealed from most of the populace of Crar, knowing the dim view the Guild took of its mages consorting with females.
"I will impart information to you; information that must not leave this room,” he said. “I wish you to swear on whatever you hold most dear that you will not breathe a word of it to anybody else."
"I swear in the name of the One God that I shall never repeat what you tell me,” Shandimar intoned, raising his right hand in affirmation.
"I swear on the grave of my mother that I won't say a thing, Lord Seneschal,” Erik said, his face solemn.
Shakkar cleared his throat. “Lord Grimm and the Lady Drexelica are… very good friends,” he muttered.
Erik frowned. “Is that all? Then why did the Lord Baron…"
"The Guild does not approve of such relationships,” the Seneschal snapped. “It would be the worse for our Baron if such news were to become common knowledge."
"Then this might not be a mistake,” the Colonel said. “This rogue mage may be striking directly at Lord Grimm."
"Perhaps not a mage, Colonel,” Shakkar said. “Perhaps this is an act of Geomancy: witch magic."
Shandimar shrugged. “I have met many witches in my time, Lord Seneschal, all honest, decent women as far as I can tell. In addition to their good characters, none of them could hope to compare to a Guild Mage in terms of power. What kind of witch could or would do such a thing?"
"A very powerful and evil one, Colonel.” Shakkar felt suspicion coalescing into a solid lump of certainty inside him. “I suspect her name is Prioress Lizaveta, and Lord Grimm is on his way to her demesnes as we speak. Lady Drexelica, no doubt, has been taken as some kind of hostage; we must warn the Baron somehow."
Shandimar's expression hardened. “Do you know this witch-Prioress’ whereabouts, Lord Seneschal?"
"No, Colonel. I know only the party's first port of call: they were to seek out inf
ormation as to the Prioress’ whereabouts in the town of Yoren."
"Yoren!” The Sergeant's eyes bulged. “Sorry, Sir,” he said in a hurry, with an apologetic glance at the Colonel.
"That's all right, Sergeant. You may speak freely for the rest of this meeting. And forget the ‘Sir’ for the moment."
"Yes, Sir…” Erik trailed off for a moment but then carried on. “Yoren's a very rough town, and no mistake. I can't say I know it well, but do I know the region. It's a pretty wild and lawless part of the world, but Yoren has a particular reputation for nastiness even there."
"Where might they go from there?” Shandimar asked him.
Erik scratched his head again. “Anyor, Lufeth, Brianston… the list's endless. They could be anywhere now. You'd need a seer or a mage to find them."
"We could try to find out just where this witch's Priory is, Sergeant. Cut out the towns in between."
Shakkar shook his head. “No, Colonel. General Quelgrum sent out parties of runners to try to find out before he left with Lord Grimm, all to no avail. I suggest that the Sergeant's proposal is our best option."
"What proposal?” Erik asked.
"Your proposal to find a seer or a mage to locate the party, Sergeant,” Shakkar said. “I suggest we try to find help at Baron Grimm's Guild House, in Arnor."
The Colonel looked bemused. “I wasn't briefed on much about the Baron's Quest, Lord Seneschal, but I was given to understand that Arnor House was to learn nothing about it."
"We do not go to the front door and ask for help from the Prelate, idiot!” Shakkar, aware of his growing anger at what he perceived as the obtuseness of these humans, fought to bring his rising ire under some control.
He continued in a softer voice, “I apologise for that, gentlemen. Grimm has a friend there; a Questor Dalquist, whom I have met in person. If we were to get word to him, I am sure he would use all his powers to help his brother Questor."
"Is this Dalquist a Seer?” Shandimar asked.
"No, Colonel; but Questors can cast many kinds of spells. He is resourceful and might find a way."
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