by Jaine Fenn
Why would their attackers drop their weapons because Rhia was threatened? A very devious ploy. She hoped her knees wouldn’t give out before she had played her unwitting part in it.
The fight paused, all three combatants poised. Breen’s opponent had already turned to face Sorne. The big man was on Sorne’s right-hand side. The captain had his back to the wall, standing next to the fallen swordsman. He had his guard up and his eye on the two men facing him, stave raised to cover one, dagger pointed at the other. He looked surprisingly calm, although there was an odd twist in his expression; not anger but something more complex.
“Captain,” said Breen. “Give it up now.”
She must have misheard. Breen couldn’t be telling his superior officer to surrender.
Without taking his eyes off his two opponents, Sorne said, “Why?”
This isn’t a ploy.
“I don’t want to hurt her, but–”
“That’s not what I’m asking, Corporal, and you know it.” Sorne’s voice was tight.
“Reasons don’t matter. Drop your weapons, Captain.”
“You’re right, you don’t want to hurt her, do you? Those aren’t your orders, are they?”
Breen’s presence overwhelmed her. His warm breath, stirring her hair, was the only sign he was human.
Human. Fallible. And my enemy.
She had a knife. But no chance of getting to it. Even breathing hurt, against the stave tight across her chest. If she let her legs buckle – as they were threatening to do – would he relax his grip? Maybe she should faint. And then what?
Sorne spoke with forced casualness, “So did she sleep with you? Or did she just promise to?”
Did who sleep with Breen?
Breen tensed. The tip of his blade broke the skin of her flank. Despite herself, she whimpered.
“Now, m’lady. Stay calm.”
Stay calm? When you have turned traitor and have a knife to me? Anger flashed, but it was a puff of crazy fury, dispersing at once, leaving her boneless with fear. Her legs began to quiver. The prickling in her side intensified. She locked her knees. She had been right not to try fainting.
Breen’s head, so close to hers, moved away a fraction. “Why don’t we even this out then, hmm? What do you say, my friends?”
The club-wielder spared a glance for Breen. His expression wasn’t friendly; more unsure. How many sides are there in this fight?
Breen continued, “So I’ve got the lady. How about one of you fine gents recovers the little brother?”
No. Leave him alone! But all that came from her lips was a pained hiss.
The men hesitated. Perhaps the fallen swordsman was their captain. Without him, faced by one of their opponents switching sides, they were at a loss. Then the larger man nodded and, still covering Sorne, edged back towards Etyan, though not with a raised weapon, thank the First.
Sorne grunted as though someone had just laid down a winning hand of cards. “You’ve got me. I’ll put up my weapons, and accept my fate. But before I do, you owe me an explanation, Corporal.”
“What’s to explain? I’ve chosen my side.”
“I’d love to know why.” Sorne sounded genuinely interested. How can he be so calm about this?
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me. And it won’t matter to anyone else. After all, you’re about to kill me.”
“Well I–” Breen jerked. His grip loosened. Rhia stumbled forward, catching herself to land on all fours. She looked up at movement. Sorne lashed out at one opponent. More movement to the other side. She was not sure where Breen had gone, but now he had, she just wanted to get out of here.
But Etyan was undefended. He needed her. She began to crawl towards him. She glimpsed Sorne clubbing his opponent to the ground with his stave, following up with two sharp blows that kept the man down.
The bloody body of the swordsman blocked her path. She needed to stand up. Come on legs, stand up.
She looked to one side. The club-wielder was no longer heading for Etyan but had been intercepted by another local. Who? Lekem! Where did he come from?
Etyan was not in immediate danger. She sagged against the wall, then turned to sit with her back to it, not looking at the dead man beside her. She’d just stay here a moment.
Sorne moved across; it was two against one now on the man with the club. They had him backed up to the opposite wall. He put up his hands, dropping his club. Sorne, his voice as casual as ever, asked, “Who sent you?”
The man stared at him, white-faced.
“We don’t have time for this, do we?” he asked Lekem. Lekem raised his dagger, elbow back, ready to strike the man’s throat.
The club-wielder looked terrified, but stayed silent.
“Are you really willing to die for your prince?”
At Sorne’s comment the man’s eyes widened. Sorne muttered, “Aha.” He smashed the man’s nose with the heel of his left hand. As blood spurted he grabbed his hair, banging his head on the wall. The man crumpled.
Sorne dropped him and strode back towards Rhia. “Are you all right?”
Compared to nearly everyone else here she was, so she nodded. Fainting looked increasingly attractive but, given the soldiers would have to carry Etyan, that would be unhelpful. She watched Sorne, because what he did decided everything. He went over to Breen, who lay on his side, curled in on himself, one arm caught under his body, the other trying to reach behind for the knife stuck in his back. His eyes glittered and his breath rasped.
Sorne stared at him without a word.
From beside the captain, Lekem called, “You should look away now, m’lady.”
Lekem’s words made no sense. Then again, very little made sense just now. Rhia stared as Sorne bent over Breen. She could name the captain’s expression now: disappointment.
Sorne laid down his stave and put his hand on the side of Breen’s head, pressing it to the floor. Breen stopped moving and looked up at him, lips pressed thin. Sorne nodded, and said, “You die as a traitor.”
His other hand came round, still holding his punch-dagger. He placed the point in Breen’s ear, then pressed down with all his strength.
At which point, Rhia did faint.
Chapter 38
For the second year running, the caliarch asked his eparch to join him on the royal barge. For the second year running, Sadakh declined. The offer showed how much Numak valued him, even as it exposed the caliarch’s naivety, which grew with age. For the two of them to appear in public side-by-side was an open snub to the prince. Not to mention a temptation: Mekteph had got where he was in part through unattributable “accidents” suffered by other members of the royal family; an incident which removed both the caliarch and the eparch at once would suit his purposes well. The birthday regatta was a security nightmare as it was, with every window, jetty and shoreline along its route occupied and the water packed with boats. How fortunate the caliarch was well loved by his people.
Sadakh took his place at the front of the second barge, by tradition reserved for priests and advisors, in the wooden eparch’s chair, which he tried not to think of as a throne despite its high carved back. An oiled mauve and red striped canopy kept the fitful sunlight from him.
In the lead barge, a larger throne under a gold and black canopy allowed Numak to survey his domain and receive the adoration of his subjects. From here Sadakh could see only seatbacks but Mekteph would be sitting just behind his uncle, waving and smiling, throughout their stately progression. The prince’s young son and daughter sat either side of their father. Their mother was too unwell to attend; Princess Imkanet, the only surviving child of the late, mad Caliarch Hyrek, was ailing fast and unlikely to be alive this time next year. Once, the canopy would have covered a dozen thrones, each sized and decorated according to the complexities of royal rank, but treachery, madness and disease had taken their toll on the Zekti royal family.
As Numak was childless the transference of the royal line to the prince’s
family was a given, in Mekteph’s mind at least. Yet still the prince plotted. Mekteph was not content to wait for the caliarchy to pass to his son when Numak’s earthly rule ended; he wanted to taste power himself, even if only as nominal regent for his child.
Action would have to be taken, once Sadakh’s own plans came to fruition. With an eternal ruler there was no need of a successor. Numak might baulk at such expedience but Mekteph was not the only one who had it in his power to arrange accidents. Timing would be key, as once Mekteph saw there was no chance of succeeding to the caliarchy, not even the wiles of the court eunuchs would prevent his machinations exploding into open conflict.
The royal barge pulled away from the wharf at the base of the Eternal Isle with a trilling of flutes and a clash of lyres. A cheer went up. Sadakh forced a smile as his barge followed on. This had not been a good week. Four days ago, another test subject had passed away. Only one remained now.
And then there was Akbet. She had assumed, as she currently had a place in his bed, she would have a place on the ceremonial barge. He had explained that the caliarch’s birthday celebrations were a matter of tradition and ritual, as important in their own earthly way as the communions and services of the Church; to use the opportunity to show favour to a lover would be inappropriate. Though she said nothing, from her expression she took his ruling as a personal affront. Why must they always be like this? Despite explaining in advance what the terms of the relationship were, every woman he took to his bed thought she was special, the one who would change him.
She has to go.
Soon, he told his ghost. Her youthful enthusiasm continued to refresh him but she had started asking awkward questions. A few nights ago she had noticed the scar on his forehead. He had said it was old, just as he had told other over-curious lovers before. But she had persisted, and mentioned the other, newer, wound on the inside of his arm, hidden from most eyes by his sleeves. Why did that cut not get better, she wondered? Even had he been minded to tell her, Sadakh doubted she would have understood; doubted, in fact, that she even knew what an animus was. And she had already given him a route into the natural enquirers.
The time to eject the poor foolish creature from his bed was approaching.
The barge was underway now, the shorelines of the islands lined with smiling faces, the air sweet with incense, the water thick with heavensbreath petals. Sadakh’s soul was lifted by such massed joy, though as ever he felt the tinge of disdain, which his ghost voiced.
They’re cheering because they have a day off work and an excuse to drink rice spirit.
She was oversimplifying, but had a point. How many of these people thought beyond the shallow pleasures of the day? How many of them appreciated how important it was to have a caliarch who valued stability – and who had the eunuchs behind him to ensure he remained in power. Very few of these citizens, he suspected, realized how lucky they were.
Chapter 39
“M’lady?”
The skull had cracked. Hearing that sound had done it, had made her slide to the floor for a moment of merciful oblivion. The jaw appeared to have been dislocated as a secondary effect of the blow. Impressive damage for such a short blade.
“M’lady!”
She had only fainted briefly, then woken eye-to-eye with Breen. His eyes were already glassy, all animating force departed. Hard to believe he had been alive so recently.
“Rhia! Are you all right?”
She sat up. There was surprisingly little blood around the dagger in Breen’s ear. Presumably that clear liquid running down his cheek was the “essential water” anatomists talked of. Not her area, anatomy.
“M’lady, we have to go.”
All very well for him to say, this man of action. He had called her Rhia just now but that was a forgivable lapse, under the circumstances. She tore her attention away from Breen’s body.
“Please. We must leave now.” Sorne made to touch her arm, then paused. “Can I help you up, m’lady?”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. Thank you.” Her own body felt heavy. Despite the thing lying next to her, she wanted to rest here a while, though the captain was having none of it. “Where is…?” She looked up to see someone bending over her brother. She opened her mouth to cry out, before realizing it was Lekem.
“That’s right, let’s get you up, m’lady.”
She let Sorne haul her upright, then called, “How is he, Corporal?”
“Alive, with no sign of injury, m’lady,” said Lekem. “He appears to be asleep.”
Rhia exhaled. Beside her, Sorne kept hold of her arm. She gave the bodies on the floor one last look. A vile smell was emanating from one or more of them, presumably due to relaxation of the bowels. She had read about that somewhere, with sudden death. She rocked back on her heels, then stabilized herself against Sorne’s firm grip.
Seeing the cut on Sorne’s arm, she remembered being wounded. Yes, but not much more than a spindle-prick in the side. She could ignore that.
Lekem hoisted Etyan onto his shoulder and they set off, one on either side of her. Somewhat to her surprise, her legs knew what to do.
Sorne released her arm. He examined the wound on his elbow as he strode beside her, then raised his arm to look at the nick in his side.
“Anything serious?” asked Rhia in what passed for polite conversation in the current situation.
“Scratches. You’re all right?”
“Oh yes. I’m fine.”
They stopped at a door. It was ajar. Rhia tensed, remembering the last such door and what had been within, but worse had happened since, and she was still on her feet.
This door, however, gave onto the drying room. The ladder lay under the high window. Sorne raised it, then climbed up, pausing at the top to check outside.
“Let’s get the boy up,” he said. Lekem raised Etyan’s limp form; Sorne caught his shoulders and they manhandled him out like a sack of grain. Rhia let herself look at her brother for the first time, noting how he had a rash on his face and hands, making the skin look red and raw, how his hair was long but clean, how he looked relaxed, almost content, even if he was limp as a doll. Something began to uncurl in her chest.
She went last. She did not look back.
Outside, Sorne was there to steady her. He helped her into the boat then pulled the ladder down, sliding it off the ledge into the water, where it began to float off.
They laid Etyan in the bottom of the boat, amongst the baggage. It was damp down there, due to drips from Lekem’s inexpert poling. He’d get wet.
As Lekem raised the pole and pushed off, Sorne bent down beside her.
“Let’s look at your side.”
“My side?”
“Yes, you’ve been wounded.”
“Ah, that. Nothing serious.”
Sorne lifted her shirt, and she made to slap his hands away before catching herself. She looked down to see a thin smear of blood on the waistband of her breeches.
Sorne grunted. “This’ll stop the bleeding.” He pressed a leaf to the cut. Numbweed, if she was not mistaken.
While Sorne treated his own cuts, Lekem built up some speed and they cleared the priory isle. The water around them remained deserted. There was noise in the distance. She had no idea what that was. She felt as though she was observing herself, unable to quite connect with reality.
They sat as they had on the way here: she faced Sorne, Lekem faced forward. Except there were two important changes. No Breen – yes, the dagger had gone in through the ear and the skull had cracked; she would never forget that sound – and the addition of Etyan, who did indeed appear asleep.
The first time Rhia had watched her brother sleep she had considered killing him. She had sneaked into the nursery and peered into his crib. She had wanted a brother for so long. Then she had given up wanting one, accepting she was an only child. And finally, after so many confinements ending in whispered sorrow, this tiny pink wrinkled thing had come into the world, taking Mother away in the process.
<
br /> If she killed it now, perhaps Mother would come back.
But at twelve years old, she knew that Mother was gone forever, and that her brother was here to stay. Her fingers had still itched, for a moment. But then he’d stirred and yawned, and opened huge eyes, and she’d wondered what was going on in that tiny head, and what might go on in there in future, and realized that this was her brother, the only one she would ever have. And neither of them had a mother.
She loved him in that instant, fully and unconditionally. She would do anything to keep him safe.
“M’lady?” She looked up to see Lekem staring at her. “Are you all right?”
Her eyes prickled. She nodded.
“It’s shock,” said Sorne. “It will pass, you’ll be fine.”
She made to shake her head, to say that wasn’t it, but lacked the energy to argue.
The noise was clearer now. Cheering, and music. The regatta. She looked up as Lekem brought the punt to a halt. Ahead, the waterway narrowed to a gap between two islets, blocked by a low bridge. A wider passage led off right.
Lekem looked round; Sorne turned in his seat. The noise was getting louder, and seemed to come from all around.
Lekem called down, “I’m not sure it’s wide enough to turn safely here.”
“Let’s go right, then.”
Lekem set off. The waterway curved to the right, and narrowed. Lekem slowed, scanning for other options.
The curve sharpened. They came around the corner to find the path ahead blocked. At first Rhia thought this was a dead end, that what they had taken to be a passage was just a long thin inlet. Then she saw what blocked their way. People, dozens of people standing up in punts, facing away from them.
Lekem planted his pole and stopped the punt, then edged it across to one side of the channel.
“Are you going to turn us around?” Rhia had to raise her voice to be heard above the din.
“I can’t risk getting stuck halfway, m’lady, so, no.”
“Then are we getting off here?” It would not be the most unexpected thing to happen today.