Despite Hadley’s unflappable coolness, Aurora seemed to recognize something of the iron in her soul.
“One to watch, Mr Dalton,” she said cryptically. “Absolutely one to watch.”
Dalton glared at Hadley after Rosten had moved on.
“Stick to the plan, whore,” he hissed. “You have no idea what you’re up against.”
Hadley suppressed a wave of anger, but Dalton was right - she was running on instinct alone. She steered her ‘husband’ into a quiet alcove, where a pair of burly men served Falberry wine from a foundation barrel.
“Let me do my thing and we’ll be friends,” Hadley muttered.
“If you fuck this up, I’ll slit your throat,” Dalton countered. “I suggest you focus on Ballist.”
“You know what your problem is, husband? You’ll always be a half-step behind. The tragedy is you’ll never even realize.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Dalton stammered, face reddening with anger. “Grell should’ve listened to me. I knew you were trash. Just another disposable whore.”
Hadley glanced around her. Though their argument was more heated than either would’ve liked, the pair wouldn’t be the first “married couple” to cause a scene. Hadley leveled an icy gaze Dalton’s way.
“If I was in power, you’d be the first against the wall. I just can’t bring myself to tolerate inadequate men.”
Dalton muttered something in reply, but Hadley’s gaze had been drawn elsewhere. A pretty woman was peering through a flap in the wall at the back of the alcove. She saw Hadley and Dalton, smiled, disappeared again.
“Our unseemly moment, dear husband, seems to have paid dividends,” Hadley said, slapping Dalton condescendingly on the cheek. “Good boy.”
Hadley knew what she had to do. She’d never been more certain in her life. That woman had to be Ballist’s wife. Ballist himself was back there somewhere, no doubt preparing himself for the hurly burly of polite conversation. Hadley would pin him now or forever remain in the shadows. She nodded amiably at the servants as she stepped around the wine barrel. Leaving Dalton’s impotent outrage far behind, she peeled back the tent flap to reveal an annex. A pugnacious, ginger-haired man reclined on a divan while his wife massaged his shoulders.
Sandor Ballist. The man could only be described as a ruddy, sun-burned pig. His abrasive complexion suggested an age of at least seventy, yet he was probably no more than fifty-five. His jowls were cracked with varicose veins and half his nose had been eaten away by a skin disease. The less said about his flabby, flaccid, top-heavy body the better. Not even his loose shift could hide the rolls of fat dripping over his belt. And yet there was a ferocious, belligerent intelligence in those beady eyes. The outfit might have been simple, but those rings on his right hand, although understated, and were obviously expensive. Ballist radiated effortless power. In Hadley’s admittedly limited experience, a man either had it or he didn’t. Nothing, not even Ballist’s many physical disadvantages, could quell the light of authority shining from within.
Hadley approached the Governor before she had time to think twice. After all, his wife, his impeccably dressed, porcelain-fine brunette of a wife, was by his side. Hadley knew that she herself looked lovely, like a desert mirage. It was critical that Ballist’s first look etch a corrosive memory into his soul. Hadley wanted to be a toxin that he would struggle to be rid of, especially after she left. The wife, whose name she had deliberately neglected to learn, glared as Hadley floated over the Governor’s shoulder like a celestial vision. Slowly, inexorably, her target, the man she would dominate, turned his heavy frame toward her.
Hadley didn’t speak, instead clasping her hands and arching her back ever so slightly. Despite decades of political experience and countless skirmishes with brutal opponents, Ballist was unable to prevent an unguarded moment. His eyes widened momentarily, but it was enough. Now for the coup de grace.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said in a deep, mellifluous voice. Hadley looked forward to hearing it in the dead of night.
“I’ve been underground,” she said in a smooth, honeyed voice. The words came easily - she’d been rehearsing them for hours. “There are so many rats under your town.”
Ballist’s bloated face instantly tightened. It was a subtle change, but Hadley felt a chill in her bones. She would make the next moment count, or die.
“A girl can get lost in those tunnels,” the governor said. The implied threat was obvious, as effective as a hard, callous slap in the face.
Smiling with every ounce of willpower she had left, Hadley pulled one of her hair pins free. Half the oaken shaft was a vibrant shade of royal blue. The blue of malacine powder. She tossed her empty handbag to the floor.
“Not me, Governor,” she purred. “I think I could even find my way back.”
10 - Catelyn
The dungeon underneath Duskovy Castle was surprisingly cold. That, combined with the pervasive damp, laid Catelyn low with fever for several days. The chamber, carved from the very rock supporting the castle, was partitioned into six cells split by a central walkway. When she was first installed in her corner cell, Catelyn was glad to find she was alone. It wasn’t long before she longed for conversation. Even a “wet” soldier sent underground to sober up would’ve been better than nothing. There did appear to be someone in the cell by the door, but he was slumped against the bars with his back toward her. Probably a corpse. Catelyn made a concerted effort not to think about it.
And yet that was precisely the problem - so much time to think. One moment she’d been exploring her latent “ability” with Yoii, the next she’d been unceremoniously tossed into a barren cell. Such was the Baron’s apparent disgust, she’d started without facilities of any kind. Forced to sleep on the cold cobblestones and make her toilet in the corner. Catelyn liked to think she was hardier than most, but the experience chipped away at her. Yoii hadn’t yet appeared, which troubled her deeply. In fact, her only visitor had been Sange, who at least seemed prepared to acknowledge she was still a human being. He’d insisted she be provided with a cot and bucket. Such comforts, modest as they were, meant the world. Catelyn also took strength from the continued faith he showed in her.
Alas, that was where small mercies began and ended. Catelyn’s days were spent in gloomy, isolated rumination. She kept reminding herself that there was a wide world beyond her miserable cell. That the castle was actually under threat from an orcish force. The concept seemed too ridiculous to be true, but there could be no mistaking the panicked report she’d witnessed in Duskovy’s quarters. Orcs in the Southern Reaches! There’d always been rumors of orc skirmishers in the Mittels, where Ardennia maintained several lookout towers, but such stories had become an annual joke in Guill. Orcs had assumed the status of bogeymen, used to scare children into going to bed.
If Guill hadn’t been sacked by elves weeks earlier, Catelyn would’ve roundly rejected the notion of “marauding orcs”. She had no way of knowing what an orcish attack meant in a political sense, only that it potentially deferred her “trial” and consigned her to rot indefinitely. Worse, the accursed dungeon was cut so deep into the bowels of the castle she couldn’t hear a thing. Orcs could be storming the inner keep and she’d be none the wiser. Logic suggested any approaching force would be required to lay siege - Duskovy Castle had not been taken for several hundred years. That consigned Catelyn to the worst kind of purgatory - being forgotten.
She still couldn’t quite get her head around what had happened with Yoii out there on the edge of the lake. One minute the old man was alive with expectation, the next he was looking at Catelyn with something like hatred. She remembered being overcome by a strange feeling, perhaps even magic, but her subsequent loss of bodily control had pushed everything else from her mind. Before the incident, she’d harbored zero interest in pursuing magic of any kind. That hadn’t changed. And now, as she suffered the indignity of rotting in a filthy cell, her best option was to plead ignorance and req
uest that she be released. If she couldn’t train for knighthood under Duskovy’s patronage, she’d need to look elsewhere. Of course, things weren’t that simple. The Baron wasn’t likely to deal with her anytime soon.
The days trickled by. Passing the time in bitter rumination was one thing, but contracting a virus and writhing in a cold sweat was something else entirely. Catelyn alternated between outright delirium and abject misery as she lay, vulnerable and cold, on the flea-ridden cot. At one point she imagined the corpse in the far cell had risen, like a specter, to stand over her. She’d screamed when she realized its features were far from human. Occasionally she thought she heard Sange’s reassuring voice, a beacon of hope in her clutching despair. She was sure she’d sipped from a bowl of chicken broth, surely the tastiest meal she’d ever had.
On the eighth day, at which point Catelyn was barely more than a sub-human husk, her fever broke and she was left pale, gasping and drenched in sweat. All she could do was lie prone as the wall-mounted torches drew dancing shadows. At length she was able to prop herself against the slime-covered bluestone and wait for her brain to arrive. Her first observation was that her clothes were soiled and needed to be replaced immediately. Second, she was certain she owed her life to Sange Duskovy, who’d spent hours by her side. Third, she wasn’t alone in the chamber after all. That figure in the opposite corner, so still during the day, was now pacing slowly, rhythmically, in his cell. Though he was heavily cowled, Catelyn caught glimpses of his face. She froze, her breath catching in her throat. Orc. Not the seven-foot lump of meat Catelyn was conditioned to expect, but a fine-boned creature with an air of sharp intelligence. Despite the long arms and charcoal-colored skin, this particular orc neatly countered just about all of Catelyn’s prejudices. Indeed, it was several minutes before she had her pulse under control. An orc, right in front of her! Possibly a forward scout, captured by a Duskovy patrol.
Catelyn was mulling over the notion of calling out to the creature when Sange Duskovy entered the chamber. The squire’s face lit up when he saw that her fever had broken, but the orc chose that moment to launch into a crazed rant. Catelyn recognized some Orsilian words in amongst the guttural orcish torrent. There might have been a little Fanewen, too. What kind of orc knew three languages? The beast’s voice rose in intensity until spittle was flying in between the bars. Sange, to his credit, remained calm and ignored the verbal onslaught.
“I’m so sorry, Catelyn,” he said, in obvious distress. “I’ve been pleading with my father for days.”
“I don’t know why I’m here, Sange,” she said, the intensity of her fear surprising even her.
“I could kill someone over this,” the squire said. “No one is telling me anything. They’re under some daft impression you’re dangerous.”
“Well, you’ve seen me with sword in hand,” Catelyn said through a weak smile.
“You’re good, but not that good,” Sange grinned, calming a little. “There’s something else at play here.”
“What’s happening outside?” Catelyn asked, hastily changing the subject.
Sange’s face darkened. “An orcish host, Cat. Bigger than you could ever imagine. A charcoal sea, just across the southern bridge. I can’t …” He collected himself. “The enemy has set up a long-term siege camp on Felwood Hill. Guill … is no more. Consumed by the host. Castle Duskovy remains steadfast.”
Sange looked so pained, so worry-lined, that Catelyn decided not to pursue the topic.
“I’m on watch tonight,” Sange said crisply. “I’ll bring bread in the morning. Alas, it won’t be fresh - we’re rationing.”
Catelyn was dying to ask Sange if he could spring her, but such a notion was pure fantasy. He had other things to worry about. For the moment, she seemed safe enough. Provided she didn’t get sick again.
“Catelyn, I …”
“Go, Sange,” Catelyn said firmly. The squire seemed on the verge of tears and she was on the wrong side of the bars for those.
“I’ll do anything,” he said.
“I’d be partial to a simple key,” Catelyn replied. “Let’s start with the small things.”
Sange’s face relaxed into a smile. “Hang in there, Cat.”
“You too.”
As the squire headed out, the orc unleashed a second verbal barrage even more intense than the first. The odd creature fell silent as Sange’s footsteps faded away. The boy’s visit had buoyed her spirits and she decided to call out to the captured enemy.
“There’s no point yelling yourself hoarse,” she said.
The orc spun around and considered Catelyn for several moments.
“Ah,” he said, opening his cell door with perfect nonchalance. Catelyn backed against the wall in horror as the creature approached and opened her door too.
“What makes you say that?” he asked, peering at her with intense curiosity.
The beast’s voice was so precise, so meticulously deliberate, that Catelyn was momentarily lost for words.
“The cells aren’t locked?” she eventually squeaked, immediately regretting her stupidity.
The orc swung her door back and forth for good measure.
“Perfectly functional doors,” he said. “What difference does it make? There are two men on the exit and neither of us has the ability to fight our way through the barracks.”
Catelyn couldn’t fault that logic, but the thought of being alone with an orc made her head spin.
“Yes,” the creature said, watching her closely. “You are right to be afraid. Thankfully, I am not battle-born.”
Catelyn got the distinct impression she’d been wrong about her savior. It hadn’t been Sange by her side when fever struck. She’d merely wanted it to be.
“It was you …” she breathed, dread crawling up her spine. “You kept me alive.”
The orc shrugged. “Of course I did. It was difficult, you must understand. Restoration isn’t my strong suit.”
Catelyn took a deep breath and appraised the orc at her cage door. Smaller than orcs were supposed to be, and far, far more erudite. In fact, his Ardennian was close to perfect. Catelyn believed in using shocks and surprises as opportunities to learn. As weary as she was, she summoned forth what little critical analysis she had left.
“For all the Baron knew, you might’ve killed me down here,” she began. “Why are we together?”
“Why, indeed?” the orc agreed, leaning casually against the opposite cage. “Perhaps I did not waste my time. There is a brain in there after all.”
Catelyn looked into the orc’s emerald eyes and noticed how the lids moved laterally. His blink was slow and hypnotic. Or perhaps she was still delirious. One thing was certain - this orc knew far more than she did and it was time to redress the balance.
“Why did you feign outrage when Sange visited earlier?”
The orc paused, caught off-guard.
“It is convenient for me to feed their prejudice,” he said at length. “A stupid, half-mad orc is less likely to draw attention.”
“Why were you captured and what do you know about the coming attack? You don’t strike me as a lowly scout.”
The orc grunted. Perhaps it was a sigh.
“Ottala, you have a dexterous mind,” he said. “I believe I was right to save it.”
Despite the obtuse flattery, Catelyn sensed the orc was hesitant to say more. At least not until she offered something in return. He wouldn’t be the slightest bit interested in her small-town background, but there was something. This orc had an aura both familiar and dreadful. It reminded her of the moment she’d lost control at the crater lake. The moment that had turned Yoii against her.
“The Baron doesn’t trust me,” she said. “I carry something no one can identify. Least of all me.”
“Yes, yes,” the orc mused. “You are tainted, but blind to it. I am not.”
“I don’t need riddles,” Catelyn retorted. She composed herself quickly - it was futile to let her emotions bubble over.
&n
bsp; The orc seemed to arrive at a decision. “Perhaps … it is better that you know. First, tell me - what do you know about magic?”
Catelyn shrugged. “A little of the Tevalo school. I never showed aptitude, but then I’m sure you know that magic is dying among our kind.”
“I do know it,” the orc said seriously. “The Tevalo branch is a noble one, but the ravages of time have been unkind. Decay is a powerful force and no one can stop it.”
There was something incredibly surreal about waxing philosophical with an orc in a dungeon, but Catelyn ploughed on.
“You’re not interested in Tevalo magic, are you?”
The orc bared his teeth. It might’ve been a grin.
“No. I am not. Tevalo is not your sphere either. You, human, exhibit a dire taint. The likes of which I haven’t seen for some time. Truth be told, I am unsure what to make of you.”
“Join the queue,” Catelyn retorted bitterly.
The orc barked a guttural, hearty laugh.
“You show spirit. That is good. The dire taint will attempt to consume you over time and it is better that you are strong-willed.”
A low boom reverberated throughout the ancient walls and a sheet of dust was released from the ceiling. Catelyn looked at the orc in alarm.
“Less time than I hoped,” he said. “I will reveal my name to you - Zan of the Okshori Clan. Scribe-born.”
The last was uttered with particular pride. Catelyn sensed this ‘Zan’ was the orcish equivalent of …
“A mage,” she said, her throat tightening. “A dire mage.”
She wanted to run, to be anywhere but alone with this dangerous individual. Catelyn knew little about magic, but had always been told that of the known paths, dire magic was more a curse than a blessing. At least Baredain, the magic practiced by the filthy dune skrim, was restorative in nature. There was nothing to redeem dire magic - its end purpose was the destruction of life, even for the user. Afraid her legs might give way, Catelyn leaned against the wall.
“I may be described as such,” the orc admitted. “But I can see the prospect troubles you. I offer no consolation but this salient fact - you were also born with the taint. It has been with you all your life. If you seek answers, I would begin with your parents.”
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