by John Marco
“Fredris, wait outside for me.”
“Duke Rihards?”
“Go!”
Fredris did so at once, leaving Rihards in the gory dressing chamber. The duke closed his eyes, seething at having been deceived. Jarrin hadn’t killed Lorn, and he hadn’t stolen his daughter either. He cursed himself for being so stupid.
“I underestimated you, my friend,” he muttered. “You have more lives than a magic cat.”
He straightened. Sure that he’d been expertly deceived, he nevertheless went from the dressing chamber to the bedchamber, where he knew Lorn kept his most valued possession hidden, his ring of kingship. To his unpleasant surprise, he saw the chest waiting for him on the chamber’s floor, not three paces from the threshold. It wasn’t hidden. It had been left for him to find. Rihards knew it wouldn’t be locked. He hesitated for a moment, guessing at the chest’s contents and dreading it. Then, his resolve cresting, he went to the iron box and threw its latches. Angrily, he tossed open its lid. Jarrin’s severed head stared back at him, jeering.
Rihards leaned back on his haunches. Jarrin’s eyes were open wide, as was his mouth. A nail had been driven through his forehead, a square of paper thrust onto it.
“You sick maniac,” Rihards whispered. Not surprisingly, the ring was gone. But the square of paper beckoned him. He looked closer and read what it said, boldly written in Lorn’s unmistakable handwriting:
Rihards—The mouth has what you want.
“The mouth?” The idea disgusted Rihards. Jarrin’s mouth was slightly open, coated with dried blood from the extraction of his tongue. Had Lorn actually left the ring inside it? He doubted it, sure that another nasty surprise awaited him. But Lorn’s note had gotten the best of him, and he simply could not leave it. Carefully he pried open the slack jaw, peering inside. At once he saw the stump of the severed tongue, but little else. Cursing the darkness, he reached further into the cavity—and felt a stabbing pain.
“Mother whore!”
He jerked back his hand. Sticking deeply from between two fingers was a pin.
“Oh, heaven,” he groaned. Staring dumbly at the pin, the enormity of his mistake struck him. Already his hand was growing numb. “Oh, no, no . . .”
Duke Rihards looked around, desperately stumbling to his feet. He saw the doorway and went through it, almost tripping over Jarrin’s corpse as he raced for help.
“Fredris!”
The door to the main chamber flew open and Fredris and his knights entered. When they saw their duke clutching his outstretched hand they stared in confusion.
“My lord, what is it?” asked Fredris. The colonel hurried closer, but Rihards could barely see him.
“I am poisoned!” he shrieked. His vision quickly blurred. The ice in his hand raced up his arm. “I can’t breathe, Fredris . . . help me!”
Horrified, Fredris and his fellows watched as Rihards crumpled to his knees, gasping. Rihards felt the noose of poison strangling him, closing off his windpipe with burning pain. Blindness overtook him just before his eyes rolled into his head. He could barely hear his own screams as his body toppled and shook with convulsions.
Oddly, his mind’s eye pictured Lorn quite clearly as he died, flashing on a fond memory. They were in a field, riding together. It was many peaceful years ago, before Jazana Carr threatened them. Back when they were friends.
2
THE DIAMOND QUEEN
The hills of Harn lay in the south of Norvor, north of Carlion but many days’ ride from the Bleak Territories and Hanging Man, the fortress of Jazana Carr. Because the hills were so desolate, they reminded the Diamond Queen of home. Jazana Carr missed home. She missed the many comforts of her fortress on the river and the familiar landscape which greeted her each morning, the sun rising over her empire while her many servants cooked the morning meal. Because she was so wealthy she was able to indulge her every pleasure, except when she was on the road. Today, it was unseasonable in Harn. Outside her grand pavilion late summer winds howled through the canyons, clawing at her army of mercenaries as they huddled around campfires. Jazana Carr herself was spared the wind. The sweet water of her bath was exquisitely warm. Naked, she leaned back in the copper tub and closed her eyes, letting a servant massage her neck and shoulders. The music of a lute serenaded her as another servant plied his instrument, relaxing his mistress with a soft lullaby. Silk and brightly colored pillows decorated the floor, strewn across the expensive Ganjeese carpets. Jazana Carr and her army had been camped in Harn for many days and her nerves were frazzled from the tedium. Her generals had brought her good news, yet still she fretted. She was queen now, and wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. After years of battling Lorn, it seemed impossible that her struggle was over. Yet that was the word out of Carlion—the city had fallen. Like Vicvar and Poolv.
Norvor is mine. She considered this as her man massaged oil into her neck muscles. Now what do I do with it?
Victory had come to her as a stranger, and she did not recognize it. There were still marauders and a handful of warlords to deal with, any one of whom might challenge her. And Lorn was still alive, probably. Somehow, the tyrant had escaped her. His disappearance vexed Jazana Carr. She wasn’t at all bothered by Duke Rihards’ death. He was a traitor, like all men, and she had never liked him. But he had foolishly allowed Lorn to escape, and because of that blunder Jazana Carr could find no peace.
A sense of failure gripped her. She sunk deeper into the bath bubbles, until her chin was almost submerged. The man massaging her took it as his cue to stop.
“Shall I do your feet now, Mistress?” he asked as he toweled his hands dry. Jazana Carr smiled weakly. His name was Habran of Ganjor. He had smooth, dark skin and a handsome face. From the moment he had touched her Jazana had fallen in love with his skilled hands. That was three years ago, and he had stayed with her ever since, willingly following her into hellholes like Harn because she paid him well and because he truly seemed to enjoy indulging her. Jazana Carr had no slaves. She detested the institution because it was what men did to women and she would have none of it. But she could not help the way men enslaved themselves.
“Yes, all right,” she said, then raised one foot out of the water. Habran chose a lime green oil from his table of ornate bottles, rubbed the fragrant stuff between his hands, then went to work on his mistress’ foot, cradling each painted toe. The sensation made Jazana’s eyes flutter.
“My lady is bothered,” said Habran in his thick accent. He was something of a confidant to Jazana Carr, and always spoke freely. Rodrik and her other soldiers often said that Habran was more woman than man. Perhaps that was why she liked him so much. “You are queen now. I expected smiles. Why do you brood, my queen?”
As Habran worked the space between her toes, Jazana wondered how she should answer. There were so many things troubling her suddenly. “For years I have talked of this moment, Habran,” she said. “Always I boasted of the things I would do, how I would free Norvor from Lorn and make it better. And now I have Norvor but Lorn is still alive, on the loose somewhere, and I have all his burdens to deal with.”
“It was what you wanted, my lady,” Habran reminded her. There was a touch of reproach in his tone.
“I know, and don’t be insolent.”
Habran grinned. “There is something else bothering you, my lady.”
“You are in my mind again? It’s amazing. You’re good at everything. Very well. Share your insight with me.”
“The child. You wanted the baby girl.”
Habran did not stop working as he spoke, but his words made Jazana freeze. Flustered by his deduction, Jazana almost pulled her foot away.
“Perhaps,” she admitted.
It surprised her how much she had wanted Lorn’s child. At first it had just seemed like a good way to anger him, but then she had realized the truth—she wanted the child because she’d never had one. Although she had adopted dozens of children orphaned by the war, none of the offspring of her vanquish
ed foes had been infants, and none of them had ever appreciated her kindness. They were bitter because they remembered their fathers and what she had done to them, and were incapable of returning her love. She had even killed some of the male children, those who had vowed to slay her someday. But Lorn’s child was different. At barely nine months old, she hadn’t had the ability to really know her father. She could have been raised by Jazana as her own, and that thought had comforted her. She was a woman who had taken countless men to her bed over the years, but none of her useless lovers had ever given her a child. She supposed she might be barren, but she preferred to blame her mates for her empty womb, all of whom were too impotent to impregnate her.
“I am old,” Jazana sighed. “And now I can never have a child of my own.”
“But you are beautiful, my queen,” said Habran.
“Yes,” she agreed, because she knew it was so. “But I am past the years of child-bearing. I think you are right, Habran. I think I wanted that baby for my own.”
“Because you truly wanted her? Or because you merely thought having King Lorn’s daughter would legitimize your rule?”
This time Jazana Carr did pull back. “What a question!” Angrily she sunk her foot back into the tub, splashing water over the edge. The lutist momentarily stopped playing and flicked his eyes toward her. “Don’t look at me, you troll. Get out!”
Without a word the servant hurried out of the pavilion. Habran remained at the foot of the tub, quiescent. He was accustomed to Jazana Carr’s rages and so no longer feared them.
“I do not need a brat to legitimize my rule,” she snapped.
“No, my queen.”
“And I do not need the advice of a perfumed man-girl from Ganjor either!”
“No, my queen. Shall I do your other foot now?”
“No,” said Jazana petulantly. “You’ve ruined my bath, Habran, and my mood. Go now, let me rest.”
“In the bath? Wouldn’t you like your robe?”
“Leave me alone, Habran.”
The man from Ganjor left the pavilion, abandoning his oils and perfumes. Suddenly Jazana Carr was aware how empty her tent was, despite its fine furnishings. A brazier of coals stood not far from the copper tub, warming the space nearby. There were others like it throughout the tent. Outside, Jazana Carr heard the voices of her mercenary army as they prepared to march for Carlion in the morning. It would be a triumphant journey for them, and Jazana had given them permission to celebrate. Wines and beers were unkegged and musicians moved through the ranks. The smell of spitted birds hung heavily about the camp. Jazana had even allowed prostitutes to be brought in from nearby villages to entertain her men, who were hungry for the rut after weeks on the road. She didn’t like prostitutes or how men treated them, but it was one way of preventing rapes in the cities they conquered. The thought disgusted her. She shifted uncomfortably in the bathtub to stretch her back. Men had disappointed her all her life, from her father on down to her last lover, Thorin Glass. As she had so often over the past year, she wondered where Thorin was now.
No, she chastised herself. Don’t. Don’t pine for him or be weak. You are the queen!
She smiled, and her melancholy began to lift. She was queen. Not even Lorn could stop her now, wherever he was hiding. She began to relax again, closing her eyes and enjoying the warm bath when she heard a sound at the entrance of her pavilion. The familiar throat-clearing told her it was Rodrik Varl, returned from Carlion. She opened her eyes, happy to see her bodyguard in the threshold, the tent flap closed behind him. With his customary twinkling eyes and jaunty feathered cap, she couldn’t tell if he was tired from his long journey. He grinned wolfishly.
“My lady,” he said with a bow, taking off his cap.
“Rodrik, how long have you been staring at me?”
“Just long enough to enjoy myself, my lady.” Carefully he put the cap back on his red hair and strode into the pavilion. “The others are enjoying themselves, and after all I missed most of the merriment.”
He was a scoundrel but she couldn’t help adoring him. She always had, because he was loyal and protected her. She sat up. “Get a good look then, and tell me what you found in Carlion.”
Rodrik Varl turned away, fixing his eyes on the brazier. “Ah, now if you won’t have any modesty then I will have it for you, my lady.”
“Tell me about Carlion.”
“It’s as Gondoir said; Carlion has fallen and he’s taken full control. Prisoners have been taken but none of them are talking about Lorn. They don’t seem to know where he’s gone. He may be dead after all.”
“He’s not dead,” said Jazana. “Did you find the manservant?”
“He’s outside. I thought you might like a chance to dress yourself before speaking to him.” Varl continued averting his eyes. “I’ve already questioned him, but it’s as Gondoir said—if he knows anything, he’s keeping it to himself.”
Lord Gondoir was one Duke Rihards’ men, a nobleman who had helped the duke take Carlion. Jazana had only met Gondoir once, while negotiating the dead duke’s treachery. After the fall of the city, Gondoir had sent word to her of Lorn’s disappearance. He had interrogated the prisoners, all of whom claimed to know nothing. But the interrogation had turned up someone who might know—Lorn’s manservant Uralak.
“Bring him in. I want to speak to him,” she said, then stepped out of the bathtub. Immediately the cold air assailed her. Without being asked, Varl hurriedly retrieved her robe and helped her slither into it. She sat down in a plush chair near the brazier to warm herself.
“What good will that do?” Varl asked. “If he wouldn’t talk to Gondoir he won’t talk to a woman.” The mercenary smiled. “No offense, my lady.”
“Just bring him,” said Jazana. There was a plate of sweetmeats next to her chair and warm tea in an exquisite porcelain pot. She snatched up one of the morsels, popped it between her ruby lips, then poured herself some tea. When she noticed Varl still standing there she said, “I’d offer you some but you have an errand to run. Off with you now . . .”
Varl grimaced and left the pavilion. When he was gone the Diamond Queen laughed delightedly. They had been together many years, and had always teased each other. She suspected Rodrik loved her, but that didn’t change anything. He was a mercenary at heart and loyal to money, and she could never return his affection. He was simply too valuable to her. Varl returned a few minutes later, this time with two more Norvan mercenaries and an old man dangling by the arms between them. His face had been horribly contused. His swollen eyes looked at Jazana as he was dumped on the floor, his hands tied behind his back. Jazana Carr sipped her tea as she regarded the man. He hardly seemed a threat, and she wondered how necessary his bindings were.
“Your name is Uralak?”
The old man got to his feet. “Uralak of Carlion,” he said proudly. “And you’ll get nothing from me, Bitch-Queen.”
Varl poised to strike him, but Jazana held up a hand. She asked the man, “You served King Lorn?”
“I did, and I did so gladly. He was a great king.”
Jazana laughed. “He was a tyrant and a coward. He fled Carlion in secret and left you to die. That should bother you, but you’re too stupid to realize it.” She rested the teacup in her lap. “Rodrik tells me you’ve already been interrogated. So far you haven’t told us anything useful.”
“Nor will I,” spat Uralak.
“And the other prisoners, they had nothing useful to say either. But they were more than willing to point a finger at you, to tell us that you were closer to Lorn than anyone else in Carlion. So not only are you protecting a king that left you to die, but now you’re protecting other dogs like yourself who were all too eager to turn you over to me just to save their pathetic skins.”
Jazana studied the man, waiting for her words to penetrate. Uralak dropped his gaze to the floor. She could tell she had stung him.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she hastened to add. “There’s nothing for you to
fear. I didn’t bring you here to execute you.”
“I won’t tell you where King Lorn is, because I don’t know,” said the old man. “And if I did, I would never say.”
“I believe you,” said Jazana. With her dainty hands she put the cup and saucer down on the table and rose to stand before Uralak, ignoring the way her robe fell open. For a moment Uralak’s eyes lingered on her. He forced himself to look away.
“Whore,” he muttered. “Norvor will never accept you as queen.”
“Oh, but they will. And you’re going to help me, Uralak. That’s why I brought you here.”
The manservant looked at her. “What?”
Jazana Carr stepped up to him, unafraid because his hands were tied, and put her face close enough to his so that their breaths comingled. “I am a woman, Uralak, and that frightens you. That’s why you condemn me. But I’m going to change that. I’m going to show this ancient wasteland what I can do, and men like you are going to have to sit back and watch, because there’s nothing you can do to stop me. That’s how you’re going to help me, Uralak. By bearing witness to my greatness.”
Uralak began to shudder. Jazana could see the rage cresting in him. Rodrik Varl took one step closer, ready to protect his queen. Still Jazana was unafraid.
“Go forth, Uralak. Go back to Carlion if you like. Tell them that the Diamond Queen is coming, and that their lives will never be the same.”
“They will hate you,” said Uralak. “As I hate you.”
“They will love me, because I will free them and feed them and take them to my bosom, and I will show the women of Carlion that they have worth, and any man that speaks against me will die. I could punish you, Uralak, but I will not. I could snap your spine on a rack or let you linger on a noose until you die, but I think I have a far worse torture for you. You will be my herald.” Turning away, Jazana sat herself down again. With a dismissive wave she said, “Take him away. Give him a mount and send him south again.”
Rodrik Varl seemed stunned. “That’s it? After all I did to bring him here?”