by CS Sealey
“You can’t afford to pay?” she asked, her voice quivering from fear.
“I don’t want to pay,” the man corrected her.
“I don’t do this for free,” she said. “I have to pay my way, you know.”
“Got children, do you? Do they know their mother’s a whore?”
She glanced from his face to the knife, feeling beads of sweat trickle down the back of her neck.
“What would they say if they found out? What would they do if they heard their darling mother was selling her body for a few measly scraps of bread? Four men tonight so far, is that right? How much does that give you? Ten pfenns?”
“You’ve been watching me!”
“I singled you out,” the man said, grinning again. “I want you to do something for me.”
“I already told you, I don’t do this job for free.”
The man tightened his grip on her throat and his eyes flashed with anger. “The empire is overrun with filth like you. Don’t try to play games. I know where your apartment is. I know the names of your three children. I know that one of them has the fever and may not live out the week. What would happen to them if you don’t return home tonight? I’ve seen young girls on the street. Some men like them before they’re ripe to pluck. Your eldest will have to feed the others somehow.”
She tried to lift her foot to kick at him but he pressed his body against hers roughly and knocked the wind out of her.
“You don’t want to be fighting me. I need what you can give and, if you love your children – if a whore can love – then you’ll listen to what I have to say.”
She nodded frantically.
“I don’t want you for myself, you’re for a friend of mine,” the man said. “He likes his women to be exotic and you’re the darkest woman I could find. Tomorrow, I want you to go to this address and ask to see this man.” He produced a scrap of paper from his pocket and held it up. “This man, you must understand, is a wealthy bastard, so wear the best you’ve got. Nothing crude like this filth you’re wearing.”
“What…what sort of service is he after?”
“It doesn’t matter what he’s after, it’s what I’m after,” the man said sternly. “I want you to get into his house, go up to his room and, once you’re there, I want you to kill him.”
She gasped and shook her head, her eyes wide.
“Oh, I’m afraid you have no choice. You will do this, because if you don’t, I’ll go up to your apartment and kill your darlings.”
“You wouldn’t!” she cried.
He fixed her with a cruel gaze. “Don’t tempt me if you value their lives. This man needs to be killed.”
“Then do it yourself!”
“I can’t,” the man admitted. “The only strangers he allows into his house are ladies of pleasure. He doesn’t do men. So what’s it to be? General Carter or your three children?”
She glanced at the knife again. The man was serious. She nodded reluctantly and the man smiled. He stuffed the piece of paper down the front of her bodice and turned to leave.
Varren saw her as she approached the house the man had indicated. She had walked the streets of the upper city only a few times before but had not lost her way. The upper floor windows were lit behind drawn curtains and she saw a shadow passing them. That was her man.
She knocked twice on the door and then arranged herself nervously, making sure the knife she had concealed on her thigh was ready to be drawn. Her dress did not reveal her ankles tonight, though a slit ran up to her right knee. A maid opened the door and looked her up and down with an obvious note of disdain.
“Miriam Dill. Your master is expecting me,” she said as calmly as she could, and did not wait to be admitted before crossing the threshold.
“Another one? I’ll let him know you’ve arrived,” the maid said, closing the door. “Can I take your cloak?”
Miriam drew herself up proudly and removed her cloak. The maid hung the dark cloak up beside the door and then curtseyed stiffly.
“Wait here.”
The maid glanced at her as she passed and then disappeared upstairs for several minutes. Miriam grew quickly impatient and walked the length of the hallway to the stairs. The sooner this was over, the sooner she would be able to contact the man and be rid of him forever.
The maid returned and made a casual gesture for Miriam to follow. She ascended the grand staircase and shadowed the maid as she walked across the landing and down a passageway to an open door. The maid stood outside and made a brief gesture for her to enter.
The sitting room was lit by half-a-dozen candelabra and the table that dominated the middle of the room was laden with fruit and wine. There was a fire crackling in the grate and a man rose from one of the comfortable armchairs in front of it. He looked her up and down but not like her usual clients surveyed her – there was an expression of pure delight on his face.
“Do sit down,” he said, offering her the second chair.
She sat awkwardly, feeling the sharp edge of the knife on her thigh. She could see the general’s eyes raking over her body as she warmed herself before the fire and went over the plan in her head.
“I apologize,” the general said, easing himself into his own chair once he had shut the door. “I had planned to offer you some refreshment first, but your body is a welcome distraction. Take off your clothes.”
Miriam stood, knowing the time to strike would be soon. She reached behind her back and began to untie the cords of her dress, then slowly prized it apart at the back. She slid the dress off her shoulders and let it fall to a heap around her ankles, revealing her white undergarments. The general sat back in his chair and watched her, his eyes wide and eager. She stepped out of her dress, then lifted a leg and brought it down heavily on the chair between the man’s thighs. He drew back in his chair suddenly as though he had expected her to crush his manhood but, calming, he unlaced her boot and pulled it off, exposing her stockinged foot, which he caressed diligently.
He was distracted. She feigned running her hands over herself in the way she knew some men enjoyed and found the handle of the knife instantly. But the general was following her hands with his eyes and she was forced to distract him once more.
She twisted her foot from his grasp and ran it along one of his thighs, inch by inch. He shifted himself in his chair and seemed unable to decide whether to let her do what she wanted or to grasp her leg with his eager hands. Miriam did not give him time to decide. Pretending to raise the hem of her undergarments for him, she grasped the handle of the knife and, without a moment’s hesitation or doubt, she slashed the blade across his exposed neck.
He grunted and, for a moment, did not seem to understand what had happened. His eyes darted from her face to the bloody knife in her grasp, and then a shaky hand came up to his neck. Blood was spurting from the wound. He made to rise from the chair and Miriam stumbled back, her eyes wide. The general’s knees buckled and he fell, rasping.
She took to her heels, leaving her dress lying partially beneath General Carter’s twitching body. She flung open the door and ran down the length of the passageway. There was blood splattered across her chest, a telltale sign of what she had done. Her cloak could cover it until she reached home and could wash. She reached the landing and flew down the stairs, colliding with the maid, who was carrying a bundle of fresh towels upstairs.
“Hey!” the maid cried, as the towels cascaded to the floor. She clamped her hand angrily around Miriam’s wrist. “What is going on? Is that blood?”
Miriam acted without thinking. Her knife came up again and she dealt the maid a similar blow across the throat. The hold on her wrist slackened and the maid crumpled and fell down the stairs, gasping. Miriam began to shake with shock. She ran down the hallway toward the front door and her cloak. If she could only escape the house, she and her children would be safe! She was barely half-a-dozen yards from it when someone knocked. She ground to a halt and stood there, trembling and blood-splattered. She could
hear her heart beating frantically in her ears.
The room. I can try the window.
*
Archis Varren retreated from Miriam’s memories and turned away from the woman, contemplating what he had just seen. The man who had hired her had been a Ronnesian, his accent had revealed that much. So it had been a political killing. General Carter had been a fool for seeing courtesans. The empire needed him and his ideas so badly – he was worth the lives of a dozen whores’ families.
In a moment of anger, Varren whirled around again and, seeing Miriam rise shakily to her feet, he flung his hand out in her direction. A bolt of white-hot energy hurtled toward her chest and she crumpled soundlessly, barely seeing the spell that killed her.
Varren prowled around the room in the aftermath of his fury and ended up at the general’s writing desk. He would have bypassed it without a second thought had he not noticed a sealed letter addressed to himself lying there. He broke the seal quickly and smoothed out the single page.
My lord,
Apologies for the late reply. I have been inspecting our reserves at Rhóhn and have only this hour returned. Unfortunately, the army will need more time before deployment. Though we have a vast quantity of ships in the harbor at present, there is not nearly enough for passage for the amount of men you suggest. More ships, therefore, have been commissioned from Tolersley, but they will not arrive before the month is out, nor will our carpenters be able to modify them. However, as soon as work is completed, the fleet need only take the men down to the agreed destination before the campaign may begin. Supply drops are all in place and the bridge is almost complete.
Varren sighed as he lowered the letter. At least the man had completed his work. Regardless, this unfortunate turn of events would halt the campaign. The army fiercely respected their general of ten years and would be devastated with the news of his death. But the demise of one man would not deter King Samian now.
Archis Varren crossed the room and knelt by Carter’s corpse. The general’s well-built frame and strong muscles had been powerless to resist this creature of the night. It unnerved Varren that a man as great as he had died in such an undignified way. He had fought countless battles amid his infantrymen and campaigned long and hard, all to die at the hands of a whore.
General Carter’s eyes were open and staring. Varren slid his fingers across the lids, closing them. He rose and looked down at the woman who had killed the Ayon general. The Ronnesian who had threatened her had given her a piece of paper detailing what she must do. He pulled the woman’s dress out from under Carter’s body and searched it for pockets. A great deal of the general’s blood had soaked through it, turning it from blue to black.
Nothing, he thought angrily, thrusting the garment back down. Where would the whore have hidden…?
Frowning, Varren approached the body of the woman and stood over her. He crouched and drew open the cords of her bodice. When they were loose, her breasts spilled out but so too did a scrap of paper. Varren quickly snatched it up and moved over to the nearest candelabra.
Well, well, well…who is this Nomanis Tirk?
CHAPTER 20
The northernmost encampment was situated on the southern bank of Kilsney. The rolling plains of Menthenae by the Great River Divide were some of the most beautiful places Rasmus had ever seen and the beauty of the green, rolling hills dotted with trees and deer made life at the front line all the more bearable. He had been there a number of times in his life, all for several-month deployments, but he had rarely had the chance to stop and look at the land they were defending. Fifty years ago, before Queen Sorcha’s grandfather Reider had pushed the northerners back and made the border between the two empires secure at the river, Menthenae had been part of the Ayon Empire. The Divide was a hard obstacle to cross for both sides, so neither army had been able to push any substantial advance since. Constructing a permanent bridge had never been a top priority for either side, so rafts had been used in the rare instances that either force had crossed.
That morning, a thick blanket of mist hid the northern bank entirely, as it often did, but Rasmus felt the heat of the sun warming the back of his neck and knew its rays would soon disperse the veil. He breathed in the crisp morning air as he tied his blue surcoat tight at his chest. Regardless of the front line’s reputation for being uneventful, he woke early and made his rounds every day before even thinking about breakfast. He ensured that his battalion of two hundred men were all fit to fight and their horses were well cared for. Rasmus was a fine horseman, despite transferring from the infantry only two years ago. He had quickly gained the respect and support of his peers through a combination of skill, leadership and personality. He was an outgoing man who seemed to know exactly how to befriend all types of people. By the way they talked, Rasmus could tell whether they would want to sustain a long conversation or not and about which subjects. By the way they acted, he could tell whether they would be up for playful fights. And by the way they drank, he could tell whether they would be willing to challenge him to a popular military drinking game.
To the south, the sky was clear and he could see for miles across the plains of Menthenae. The Black Mountains were topped with snow and a cool breeze from that direction brought with it the whisper of winter. He drew his weapons belt tight and went to tend to his horse. The cavalry were rarely needed in the north. During the periods of uneasy truce, the infantry guarded the narrows of the river, while Rasmus and his battalion were responsible for patrolling the plains west and east of the Kilsney encampment. It was rare for the Ayons to launch an attack from the east but Commander Tiron took no chances. The main Ayon encampment was at Rhóhn, no more than four days’ march further upstream from Kilsney. Not an immediate threat in itself but the terrain on the opposite bank of the river was so hilly that it prevented Ronnesian watchtower soldiers from seeing more than a few miles into Leith. Should the Ayons decide to march, they would have very little warning. Rasmus and Cassios, who had been deployed in the same rotation, had been here for three months and there had been nothing, not even a whisper, from across the river. The town of Kilsney, the southernmost settlement of the Ayon Empire, was essentially deserted. Those who had once lived there had long since moved further north to escape the constant threat of war. The Ayon border garrison was camped just beyond the town’s outskirts – or at least, it had been: it was strange that none of the soldiers had been seen for days.
The talk about the encampment was that General Kaster would not give the order to invade because the Ayon King had offered his hand to Queen Sorcha and she was contemplating her answer. However, Rasmus had heard the same rumor for weeks. If the queen had answered in the affirmative, an envoy would have arrived at the front line. As it was, there had been nothing and some reports had even spoken of more reinforcements, boosting the defense by half again. Rasmus was not a political man and tried not to worry too much about what might be happening between the two monarchs. All he cared about was the sword at his side, his horse and all the men who were at the border with him. Whatever his orders, he would carry them out.
He approached the stables, a section of the encampment that had been divided into makeshift pens covered by tarpaulins. They had not considered constructing anything permanent for the horses, just as they had not considered constructing anything more permanent for the soldiers. The men had been sleeping in tents for years; he supposed it was one of the ways in which the commanders made sure the soldiers did not forget that their situation could change in the blink of an eye. He spotted his horse immediately, a dark brown stallion with white rear socks and a light smudge on his left flank. The horse turned his head and nudged his master’s side, recognizing the feel of Rasmus’s fingers when he stroked its neck. He loved horses and how the strength of them could break enemy ranks. In the heat of battle, a horseman was worth at least ten infantrymen. Rasmus quickly strapped on the saddle and led his steed away from camp for his usual morning exercises.
He jogged for a
while, holding the reins securely as his horse trotted alongside him. After several minutes, he stopped, leaped into the saddle and went for a short gallop across the plains to the east. He enjoyed these moments when it was only him, his horse and the wind in his ears. He loved the way he could pretend, for a moment, that there was no war, no opposing empire on the other side of the river. In these moments, he could be a farmer returning home after a hard day’s work. He could pretend he had a wife who would be waiting for him when he came in off the back paddock. He could even be a boy again without a care in the world.
That was until he turned his head to the north.
The mist was thinning quickly with the strengthening sun. As he watched, a gust of wind broke it apart, revealing the northern bank of the river. The very instant he saw the dark mass of soldiers, he heard the sentries’ horns blazing back at camp. He brought his horse around and galloped back, glancing every few seconds at the Ayon army. They seemed to have already constructed a quarter of a bridge across the Divide! The Ayons had used the mist as a perfect veil. Their carpenters had built a strong, demountable bridge and the pieces were being lashed together with little effort. It would take them some time to span the entire one hundred and eighty yards of the river at the point they had chosen, but the speed at which the men were working was alarming.
Rasmus slowed as he entered camp and slid from the saddle without releasing the reins. He shouted to the archers to fall into quick formation behind a defensive wall of infantry. Hurrying through the camp, he led his horse to the commander’s tent and handed the reins to a guard before entering. Commander Tiron was hastily pulling on his armor.