DESPERATE ALLIANCES

by Cory Daniells

  Untouched, Imoshen stepped through the men to confront Jarholfe and the Cadre. “By what right do you take this action?”

  “Gheeakhan!” The Cadre was exultant.

  “The Ghebite warrior code? I don’t see the connection.” Imoshen focused on Jarholfe, believing him more reasonable. “You served me well on the journey south. I would hear this from your lips. Why do you betray my trust?”

  “As your Ghiad, Lord Commander Wharrd defended your honor against the charges of dishonoring General Tulkhan. Two days ago he took a mortal wound and died this morning, confirming your guilt.”

  “Only your death and the death of your half-breed brat can restore the General’s honor,” the Cadre intoned.

  Imoshen forced herself not to search the room to see if Kalleen had escaped with her son. A rush of potent anger made her vision swim with a thousand fireflies of fury. Desperately, she sought to influence the men, but without physical contact both were impervious to her gift.

  As she went to touch Jarholfe’s hand, he pulled away and she changed the gesture into a plea. “This brings me great sorrow. You have assumed the role of judge and executioner, murdering Wharrd, a good True-man. This is Fair Isle, not Gheeaba. By General Tulkhan’s signed agreement, the laws of the T’En Church govern our society. In Fair Isle Might is not Right.”

  Her head spun with the implications. If the Ghebite priest could overturn the Beatific’s ruling, how many other basic rights could he overturn? Would she live to see Fair Isle go the way of the mainland, where, except for a few aristocratic women, no female could own property or speak for herself?

  “The General has been bewitched by your black sorcery. We must act to save his soul,” the Cadre said piously.

  Imoshen snorted. If the priest had his way, she would not live long enough to see the women of Fair Isle brought low.

  Behind the Cadre, she was aware of movement as Kalleen scuttled out the door with Ashmyr’s basket in her arms. Praying the baby would not choose this moment to wake, Imoshen glared at the men. “You have overstepped your authority, Jarholfe. General Tulkhan ordered you to serve me. It brings me no joy to place you under arrest for the murder of Lord Commander Wharrd.”

  Jarholfe would have protested but Imoshen overrode him, gesturing to one of his men. “Send for the Beatific. Tell her to prepare a hearing. She must bring representatives for both the Lady of Windhaven, on behalf of her dead bond-partner, and Jarholfe, who stands accused of Wharrd’s murder.”

  Reothe groaned as he regained consciousness. Imoshen blocked out the sound. She must not think of him restrained and vulnerable. Returning her attention to Jarholfe, she spoke to him, but her words were for the Cadre. “The Beatific will be your judge, by the laws of Fair Isle.”

  “The Ghebite priesthood does not recognize those laws,” the Cadre said.

  Lord Fairban bristled. “The Empress’s word is law!”

  “This is all the law I need!” Jarholfe grabbed him, bringing his knife to the old nobleman’s throat. “I won’t take orders from a stinking Dhamfeer!”

  Imoshen’s heart faltered. She had failed Cariah; she must not fail her father. “Let Lord Fairban go. I will not resist.”

  “No. You won’t resist. You’ll be too busy with this!” Jarholfe shifted the blade lower and drove it into Fairban’s abdomen in a cruel, gouging movement.

  The old man screamed. Jarholfe shoved him into Imoshen’s arms. His blood stained her traveling tabard.

  Jarholfe strode past them to kick Reothe in the face. “Take the rebel leader away. He’s nothing but a powerless cripple. It’s the woman we have to be wary of, and she has her limits.”

  While Imoshen fought to stem Fairban’s blood, the men dragged Reothe away. She had not trusted him enough to restore his gifts, and the knowledge turned like a knife in her.

  Jarholfe crouched beside her. His malignant expression was a revelation. “I have seen you wear yourself out healing worthless peasants. Heal this old man if you can, Dhamfeer.” He sprang to his feet. “Lock him in with her.”

  “You can’t move Lord Fairban. It might kill him.” Imoshen pressed the wound closed, her hands warm and slick with blood. The old man was barely conscious.

  “Then you’ll have to make sure he lives!”

  Without apology, the Ghebites swung Fairban off the floor. Half tripping in her attempts to keep up with the men, Imoshen hurried at their side. They carried the old nobleman along the hall, down the steps, and into the storage rooms near the upper servants’ quarters. A door opened on darkness and they threw the injured man inside, pushing her after him.

  “Wait. Search her. She carries a knife!” Jarholfe ordered.

  When none of his men moved, he strode into the storeroom to confront Imoshen. Before he could lay hands on her, she pulled the knife free and held it out hilt first.

  He hesitated as if he expected a knife thrust.

  “Fool!” she hissed. “Unlike you, I value life.”

  Cursing, he took the weapon and shoved her. She fell onto the cold stone and the door swung shut. The bolt shot home. Imoshen knew that she could urge the bolt to do her bidding, but not yet, not until she was certain she could escape with Lord Fairban.

  His soft panting came to her. Every few heartbeats it would stop as a moan escaped him, then start up again. Despairing, she strove to stanch the bleeding.

  Lord Fairban caught her hands. “You mustn’t waste your gifts on me. Save yourself. The Cadre means to wipe out the last of the T’En.”

  She shook her head and prayed that Kalleen had escaped with her son. But she must not let fear for Ashmyr shatter her concentration. For now, his fate, like Reothe’s, was beyond her control. Imoshen fought the one battle she knew she had a chance of winning.

  A single shout alerted Tulkhan. By the time he stepped out of the shelter, a dozen or so of his men had arrived, dragging a prisoner. Torchlight fell on Kornel’s bruised face.

  “We caught him trying to sneak out of the camp.”

  Unless he was contacting spies from the port, Kornel had no reason to leave the camp. Tulkhan frowned. “Turn out his pockets. The penalty for treason is death.”

  “I’m no spy,” Kornel insisted. “Haven’t I proved my worth? Without me, you would never have taken your army through the marsh-lands.”

  Rawset joined them as one of the men handed Tulkhan something wrapped in a rag. A heavy gold necklace unrolled and fell into his hand. Tulkhan recognized it as belonging to Banuld-Chi. “Where is the marsh-dweller, Kornel?”

  “How should I know? He lost the necklace on the fall of a dice. I haven’t seen him since he left yesterday.”

  “Why were you leaving the camp?” Tulkhan asked.

  “I wasn’t. I couldn’t sleep. Went for a walk. Needed to take a leak so I went to the outer ditch rather than the latrines. They don’t half stink.”

  It was true. The logistics of providing fresh water and latrines for an army this size was staggering.

  “If the smell offends you, we’ll move the latrines. You can be on digging duty.” Tulkhan laughed at Kornel’s expression. He nodded to his men. “Let him go.”

  Kornel straightened his clothes and left.

  Rawset lowered his voice. “Answers spring too easily to that man’s tongue.”

  Tulkhan weighed the gold in his hands.

  “You two.” He gestured to the men who had brought Kornel in. “Take the three fastest horses and return with Banuld. I will have verification of Kornel’s words from the marsh-dweller’s own lips.”

  At least he had good news. That very evening three ships had arrived from T’Diemn and were in the process of erecting siege towers. The pressure on Port Sumair was growing.

  Much later, Imoshen woke to blazing light and shouting voices. Blood had dried, leaving her hands and her tabard crusty. Lord Fairban slept with his head on her lap.

  Squinting into the glare, she identified Jarholfe, his men, and the Cadre. A spurt of fear washed away her weariness but
did not restore her drained gifts. Her vulnerability was terrifying.

  “Not so proud now,” Jarholfe sneered, fingering his sword hilt. Surely they did not mean to kill her like this? They needed the sanctity of a trial to change her death from murder to execution. “Stand up.”

  Careful not to reopen the tender new skin that covered Fairban’s wound, Imoshen slipped his head from her lap. His hand sought hers. She squeezed his fingers briefly.

  Jarholfe waited at the door, his branch of candles bright after the darkness. He waved a sheet of paper covered with fine Ghebite writing. “The Cadre has drawn up your confession, Dhamfeer bitch. Sign it and save yourself the grief of torture.”

  Mouth dry, Imoshen met his eyes. No spark of empathy stirred in their depths. “I will sign nothing.”

  “You will sign. Be sure of that. Everyone signs eventually. I see the old man still lives.”

  Imoshen heard the implied threat and her heart sank.

  “You think you’re so clever,” Jarholfe snarled. “But we have your lover, and he will break soon. He will sign his confession and implicate you! As for the half-breed brat, he will not get out of T’Diemn alive!”

  Triumph flared in Imoshen. Kalleen had escaped with her son. But they were torturing Reothe. She must divert them. “I am innocent of the charges, and I can prove it. The Orb of Truth will vindicate me before all of Fair Isle. Call on the Beatific to bring the Orb of Truth!”

  “The Beatific has no authority here,” the Cadre said. “Besides, your own actions have condemned you. Only one who deals in the black arts of sorcery could have healed this man.”

  “The only blackness is in your hearts and minds. It clouds your vision. When General Tulkhan hears of this, he will have your heads on pikes over the gates. He made me his Voice.”

  “We act to save him from himself!” the Cadre shouted. “Lock her away before she poisons your minds.”

  Jarholfe slammed the door.

  Only a sliver of illumination came under the gap between the door and the floor. Imoshen could hear them walking away. In the darkness she sank to her knees. If only she could contact Tulkhan. But he had refused the intimacy of the mind-touch and now, in an emergency, she could not reach him. The irony of it hit her. She had not trusted Reothe enough to heal him, and Tulkhan had not trusted her enough to let down his defenses.

  “I am sorry,” Lord Fairban whispered.

  “We are not dead yet.”

  “Hope is the province of the young.” He quoted an old T’En saying.

  But Imoshen had no time for philosophy. If the Cadre and Jarholfe did not take the Orb as bait, she would have to move swiftly. She must free Reothe before they could force a confession from him, but first she needed rest to restore her gifts. Her greatest consolation was knowing that Kalleen and Ashmyr were safely hidden somewhere in the old city.

  The dawn before Large New Moon found Tulkhan preparing to ride the camp’s defensive perimeter. He pulled his hood up against the fine drizzle. A shout drew his attention just as he put his foot in the stirrup.

  Rawset ran up to him. “Lightfoot’s returned!”

  Tulkhan walked his mount back to the horse handlers and went to meet Lightfoot, who was waiting under the awning of the shelter.

  Tulkhan clasped his shoulder and caught Rawset’s eye. “Send in some Vorsch.”

  Lightfoot turned his face to the dim sun peeping beyond the clouds. “Do you see the T’En stigmata?”

  Tulkhan searched the man’s forehead. “Not a sign.”

  “She removed it. I...” He shook his head.

  Rawset returned with the drink and food.

  “Pour a drink and raise your glass,” Tulkhan said. “To the fall of Port Sumair.”

  He grinned as the men echoed him. It might be raining and the camp ankle-deep in mud, but the siege was about to turn in their favor.

  Imoshen woke with the bitter taste of fear on her tongue. The storeroom was dank and dark, yet her inner senses told her it was late morning. When she touched Lord Fairban, his skin was hot with fever and she knew that despite her best efforts the wound was festering. Another day in this place and he would be dead. She stood, arching her back, and wished for warm water, food, and a change of clothes.

  Searching her T’En senses, she found her gifts restored—at least for now. She was ravenously hungry, and if she eased the old lord’s fever she would further deplete herself.

  Imoshen concentrated, sifting through the minds of those nearest for something that might help her. Not surprisingly, the palace servants went about their tasks in terror. Of the two Ghebites at her door, one had gone to relieve himself and the other was asleep, snoring loudly. Imoshen concentrated on the door’s bolt. It slid without a sound and the door swung inward at her touch.

  Heart thumping, she glanced up and down the hall. The stench of alcohol was strong on the sleeping man’s breath. Returning to the storeroom, she lifted the lord onto her shoulders; her leg muscles ached as she straightened. It was the work of a moment to close the door and send the bolt home.

  Carrying the old man, she went up the passage. At the entrance to the servants’ quarters, she paused to ease Fairban’s weight, then entered Keeper Karmel’s room.

  Leaving Lord Fairban on the bed, she stripped off her bloodstained clothes and refreshed herself, bathing in a basin of water still lukewarm from the servant’s use. Then she cleaned the old man, sponging him down to cool his heated flesh.

  She had not fed Ashmyr since the evening before. Her breasts ached with the buildup of milk and the onset of the milk fever, which could be fatal. Huddling in the chair, she sought to heal herself. The effort left her so weary she slept.

  “T’Imoshen?”

  She woke with a start, momentarily disoriented, then everything came back to her in a rush. The Keeper looked startled. “Shut the door, Karmel. Have you any news of my son?”

  “They look everywhere for him. All gates out of the old city are closed and soldiers search the houses, but they rob and drink as much as they search.”

  “Good! And Reothe?”

  “They have him in the ball court. None of the servants is allowed near.”

  “What of the Beatific?”

  “She is under arrest in the basilica.”

  “My Parakhan Guard?”

  “Some died in the initial confrontation. The rest have gone into hiding.”

  “Murgon and his Tractarians?”

  “I have heard nothing of them.”

  Relief swept Imoshen. Her greatest fear was that the Cadre would use Fair Isle’s own weapons against her.

  “Lady Miryma and her bond-partner have retreated to their chambers,” the Keeper said. “I spoke with their servant during noon meal. No one knows what to do. With Jarholfe’s men roaming the palace, I thought it safest to return to my room.”

  Imoshen’s stomach rumbled. “I fear I must ask you to bring me food, my formal clothes, and healing herbs. And see if you can bring Miryma here.”

  Keeper Karmel slipped away. She was an old woman, worthless in Ghebite eyes. Imoshen hoped her comings and goings would not be remarked upon.

  As Imoshen bathed Lord Fairban’s forehead, she considered her position. It would take only a small trigger to tip the balance of power. Did she want the townsfolk to pick up kitchen knives and tools of trade and turn on the Ghebites? If only Woodvine and the other southern nobles had not returned to the highlands. She could have used Reothe’s Keldon supporters now.

  An image of Reothe as they dragged him away returned to her. Resolutely, she turned her mind from him and the fate of her son. She had to think like a statesman—not a mother, not a woman. But a wave of weariness rolled over her. Anxiously, she felt her forehead, fearing the fever would burn up her gift’s reserves.

  For once she had to place her trust in another. She sat in the chair beside the cot and dozed, waking every now and then to bathe Fairban’s head. The afternoon passed in a haze of gray exhaustion and feverish dreams. />
  Imoshen’s stomach told her it was late afternoon when the Keeper returned with Miryma and Shacolm.

  “I’m sorry I took so long,” the old woman whispered.

  “You are safe, that is all that matters,” Imoshen said, aware of Miryma and Shacolm watching anxiously. If she failed, their lives were forfeit. She accepted salted meat and wine, draining half a cup in one gulp. Chewing the meat, she mixed an herbal drink for the old man and something very similar for herself. She handed Fairban’s drink to Miryma to administer and drank her own, ignoring the taste.

  With the Keeper’s help she dressed in an elaborate formal tabard with a shimmering undergown. If she was to unite the people against their oppressors, she must look the part. Her pregnancy did not show and would not for a while. She was glad no one knew. If the Cadre suspected who the father of this child was, he would have killed her himself!

  “I must free Reothe before I make a move against Jarholfe and the Cadre. And we must hide Lord Fairban.” Imoshen remembered Reothe’s unexpected arrival in the library. She turned to the old woman. “You were close to the last Keeper of the Knowledge. Do you know the secret passages?”

  The woman smiled.

  Imoshen felt an answering smile on her lips.

  Cold anger consumed Tulkhan as he crouched over Banuld’s lifeless, mud-stained body. “Where did you find him?”

  “Less than halfway to the Marsh-wall. One of the dogs led us to him.”

  Tulkhan nodded and came to his feet. They were under the awning of his shelter. A stinging sleet fell, its icy needles piercing all but the thickest clothes. “Bring Kornel.”

  The man was not a spy. He was something much simpler: a greedy murderer. Tulkhan heard Rawset and Lightfoot behind him, conferring. As he looked down at the corpse at his feet, it came to him that he had failed Banuld.

  “What will you do with him?” Rawset asked.

  “Send his body back to the marsh village with his gold and my apologies. It is the least I can do,” Tulkhan muttered.