Revenge

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘One’s going to be fine. The other is a magnificent bird but he’s odd. Very withdrawn. I think he just needs some settling, though he has been here long enough now. I keep him in a separate cage actually; he’s quite aggressive towards the others. When left alone he just sits very still. One of the boys calls him “The Dead” because he makes no sound; doesn’t even move unless he has to. Definitely a strange one, but flies like a bird of the gods. Faster, stronger and more beautiful in the air than any falcon we’ve ever had here, which is why I’ll persevere with him.

  ‘I have to keep him permanently in the hood. He’s only quiet if it’s on. We made the mistake the first few hours of leaving it off and he nearly killed himself flying against the cage, tearing at himself and the other birds in a frenzy to escape. We’ve got him under control now though. I think he’s forgotten freedom. He’s fallen into the routine here. Queen Sylven will adore him. He hunts with such ferocious intensity; she likes her birds to be a bit savage.’

  ‘Really?’ Saxon could not care less whether she did or did not but he had to sound interested in her majesty. In truth, all that mattered to him was Hume’s description of the strange falcon. It was Cloot. He was sure of it.

  Back at the castle, well after dinner, the young lad who was the Queen’s chef had called to him. Ryk had obviously noticed Saxon lurking around the kitchens, hoping for some scraps from dinner. Always happy to feed someone, Ryk had not minded pulling together a meal of sorts.

  The boy even had a way with bread and meat, Saxon thought, as he sat outside that night beneath a starry sky. Without realising it, his gaze followed the same direction as that of Torkyn Gynt, west towards where Cloot may be.

  Goth had lain low since his arrival the previous day with the final carts of provisions and people who made up the winter palace staff. There were enough of them milling around that he could slip away unnoticed. If he stayed far enough away from the Queen and her immediate servants, no one would question him. He was a reasonably familiar face around the city palace by now anyway, though he intended to draw no undue attention to himself.

  Goth found himself a tiny chamber within a seemingly unused wing of the Neame palace. He could hide out there and wait for the right opportunity to don Elma’s black robe and veil. Right now, inside the palace surrounds, the Queen’s women were unveiled. His plan depended on them leaving the palace walls, when they would wear their veils.

  Patience is required, he thought, drumming his fingers on the sill of the window which overlooked a courtyard where provisions were being unloaded. He must not attract any attention to himself. It did not matter if he was seen by some of the palace staff, but he did not want the Queen to know of his presence. The fact that he had not been invited to Neame meant Sylven did not trust him.

  Goth knew she did not like him, but he was used to such a response from women. She was, however, intelligent enough to appreciate the value of his counsel. Whether she would take much notice of it was still to be seen, but her interest in hearing information and, indeed, considering advice from someone who had been a senior member of the Tal court was heartening. Goth appreciated the quick mind of the Ciprean Queen; even at that very first meeting, when he had begged an audience after being rescued by her guards, he had seen immediately that she was no fool. Her frank appraisal of him had obviously resulted in a similar impression and she had permitted his continued presence at the palace, yet kept him very much at arm’s length. No formal appointment had been discussed on the few occasions they had met, but he had been asked by the Queen for a first-hand account of Lorys and the former Queen Nyria. Goth had been surprised at a more recent meeting to hear Sylven ask about Alyssandra Qyn as well.

  And now she had taken Torkyn Gynt into her bed. Her interest in Gynt was salt in the wound of hate for the physic that festered inside Goth. But she would not enjoy Gynt’s attentions for much longer. Goth pulled out of his pocket the tiny vial with its even tinier amount of the palest of pink arraq. This liquid would be the undoing of Torkyn Gynt, he mused.

  He had bought the tiny vial from the apothecary in Caradoon, at the same time as he had stocked up on supplies of the liquid to get him through the voyage to Cipres.

  The wrinkled, shrunken old man behind the dilapidated counter had sold Goth the necessary supply of clear arraq to dull the pain of the stracca withdrawal. Then he had smiled malevolently and pulled another vial from under the counter. This one was tiny and curved and its contents were a very pale pink.

  The apothecary held it up to the light. ‘Clear for health, pink for death,’ he said and winked. ‘Both come from the same berry but not many people know about the pink liquid.’

  ‘Poison?’

  ‘The nastiest and swiftest of all of them. Very painful but lightning fast.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ Goth said.

  ‘Ah, but it will cost you plenty. A thousand dukes alone for this tiny amount.’

  ‘I have plenty,’ replied Goth, adding more money to the pile already on the counter.

  ‘Be careful with it, sir. Just one drop will kill a person.’

  Now it was time to test the old man’s claim for the pink arraq. Just one drop and Gynt would be out of Goth’s life for ever.

  Tor was up hours before the Queen. He had been unable to sleep properly and had fallen into a fitful doze, waking every now and then, longing for dawn. Before it had even announced its arrival across the sky, he was dressed for the day. When finally Sylven began to turn and make waking noises, he bent and kissed her.

  ‘Sylven, wake up.’

  ‘Why? Come to bed and make love to me.’ She spoke in a sleepy voice, hardly aware of what she said.

  ‘Come on, Sylven, I have an idea for today. You’ll enjoy it.’

  Her eyes opened to slits. ‘Are you dressed already?’ She groaned.

  ‘Want to hear my plan?’ he said, brightly.

  Sylven cleared her throat. It was obvious Tor was not returning to her bed this morning. ‘Tell me,’ she said and yawned politely.

  ‘A picnic in the forest. Sarel will love it!’

  ‘Sounds nice,’ she mused, her head falling back onto the pillow. ‘It’s still dark outside.’

  ‘Will you join me?’

  She finally shook herself awake. ‘I shall get Hela to organise everything.’

  ‘No, I will. You take your time and get ready.’

  He heard her groan again as he left.

  Saxon and two other men were put to the task of cleaning out the cages. Hume had asked him to pitch in because the rest of his men had already been despatched this morning with most of the birds.

  ‘I need everything spotless for her majesty. I’ve just heard she’s coming into the forest today for a picnic and she’ll almost certainly want to see her aviaries. Tomorrow she’ll probably want to go hunting,’ he said apologetically.

  Saxon had not minded; he preferred a task which would not show his incompetence.

  ‘Where’s that difficult falcon you spoke of?’ he asked, as though making conversation. ‘Don’t want my head bitten off whilst I clean the cages.’

  ‘Oh, you won’t have to worry, we always keep his hood on and he’s silent then. He came in late last night and is out again; we’ll show him off in flight this morning for the royal party.’

  ‘I see.’ Saxon felt the sharp pain of disappointment again.

  Hume read it wrongly. ‘Oh, you’ll get your go with him. Think you can change him, eh? Help these men first and then I’ll meet you at that northern copse at noon.’

  ‘Right,’ Saxon said, reassuring himself it was only a few hours to go.

  He finished his work much earlier than Hume had anticipated but did not want to be around when the Queen’s party came through, so he washed up and disappeared into the forest. He could kill an hour here before meeting at the rendezvous point. It was a good chance for some solitude and time to formulate some sort of plan for making his escape with Cloot.

  Saxon chose a comfortable s
pot under cover of some bushes and sat down to munch on some cheese he had saved from his early breakfast. He slipped deep into thought, turning over ideas on how to get himself and Cloot out of Neame, back to Cipres and onto a ship. It was a tall order when he had no money and would soon be a fugitive on the run. Cloot could fly but he would be on foot and vulnerable. Perhaps he could steal a horse from Neame and gain some time?

  Suddenly footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Coming into the clearing, his back to Saxon, was a man. It struck Saxon that the man was behaving furtively; he kept looking around, as if checking whether he was being followed. The Kloek could not see the stranger’s face but he took in that the man was not especially tall though fairly broad across the shoulders. He had the vague notion, from the man’s gait, the way he held his head, that this was someone familiar, but no name came to mind and the thought dispersed.

  As he watched, the man pulled off his warm, long-sleeved jerkin. This was odd. It was cold in Neame. Saxon smiled at the curious behaviour and put down the apple he had been chewing. This would be interesting, he thought; there was something strange going on here. He could see the fellow was not young from his bared arms, although Saxon’s experienced eye, honed over years in Cirq Zorros, told him those arms had once been well muscled. He sensed there was strength in that body still.

  Saxon suddenly felt awkward sitting amongst the bushes watching this person engage in tasks which were obviously personal. He decided he should announce his presence and was considering what he might say so as not to startle the man completely, when the stranger pulled some black garments from the sack he had been carrying.

  They looked like a robe and veil, Saxon thought with surprise. What could the man want with what was obviously women’s attire?

  Still with his back to Saxon, the man put on the long black robe over his own clothes and set the veil over his face. Saxon shifted for a better look and disturbed a small creature who broke cover. The noise made the stranger spin around. Saxon held his breath. It was too late to say anything now. He would have to remain hidden. All he could see were two small eyes staring through the slits in the veil. Saxon knew he was well covered yet those fierce eyes disconcerted him.

  Then the stranger sat down in the clearing, obviously intending to remain there for some time. Saxon could not move without revealing his presence yet if he stayed under cover he would be late for his meeting with the other falconers. He did not care about Hume or the temper he was bound to get into if his new handler did not turn up, but he was desperate to learn whether Cloot was among the birds. But there was nothing to be done about his tardiness today. If he revealed himself now, it could have serious consequences. He had no idea who this fellow might be, but if he wielded any power at all with the Queen, Saxon would lose his best chance of tracking down Cloot.

  Resigned to a lengthy wait, Saxon turned his attention to working out why the man was hiding in the clearing in the first place and in such strange garb. The man appeared to have disguised himself as one of the Queen’s personal servants. What reason could he have to do so, unless he meant to cause harm?

  Goth, oblivious of Saxon’s presence, was turning over in his mind the frighteningly simple plan. Disguised as one of the Queen’s serving women, he would join the picnic party later that morning. He pulled the tiny vial of arraq from his sack and held it up so the sunlight glinted through its palest of pink contents. Goth chuckled softly and slid the vial into a pocket in the robe.

  Even Saxon’s untrained eye recognised that the only thing likely to be contained in such a tiny glass vial was poison. So who was this fellow planning to kill? It had to be the Queen. There was no question of Saxon leaving his post now. He had to find out what the stranger intended and, if necessary, prevent him from achieving his evil aim. Just when Saxon thought he would have to let out the cough which had been tickling his throat for the past few minutes, the man stood, gathered up his sack and hid it behind a tree. Then he crept out of the copse and carefully picked his way back into the open, in the direction of the site where Saxon knew the Queen’s picnic was to be held.

  Saxon followed. It meant he would have to wait longer still for a glimpse of Cloot, but if he was able to foil this man’s murderous intentions and save the Queen’s life, she might listen to his request to reclaim the falcon.

  He may yet be able to get away from here with Cloot and himself in one piece.

  They were welcomed by the head of the aviary, Hume, who immediately launched into a lengthy apology for the absence of his new man. Tor paid no attention. He could see two men on the rise of a hill, with three birds. All were falcons; two of them of similar size, the third much bigger. It could be Cloot, but from this distance he could not tell.

  He cast and felt something give in the usual blankness. His heart leapt…but his concentration was interrupted as Sylven and her man stepped up next to him and he had to give them his attention.

  ‘Tor, this is Master Hume, head of our royal aviary. He has agreed to take us through the entire complex so you can search for your falcon. Right now, he wishes to give us a demonstration of his newest birds. He thinks I will enjoy them. Do you mind?’

  ‘Not at all, your majesty,’ Tor replied. ‘Please—I would be fascinated to watch them myself.’

  The keeper bowed again and signalled. They watched the first bird launched into the air. It flew beautifully and then, at a single command, it returned to the handler’s thick glove.

  Hume looked at his Queen. ‘Your majesty, this next bird is the one I’m excited about. He is very special.’

  Once again he gave the command. The handler pulled the hood off the bird’s head and threw the falcon into the air. It lifted off with strength, its wings beating powerfully.

  ‘Ah,’ he heard the Queen say, ‘this one is majestic.’

  ‘I’m glad you like him, your highness,’ Hume replied, bowing again.

  The falcon dived and swooped elegantly.

  Tor instantly recognised the familiar flight. It was Cloot.

  Tears welled in his eyes as he cast to his friend. Cloot, you old rogue. There you are at last.

  The falcon faltered in the air.

  ‘Oh, what’s happened there?’ Sylven asked.

  Hume cleared his throat with embarrassment. ‘Ahem…he is a little feisty, your majesty. We are training him still.’

  The link was strong now; the falcon was reciprocating the bond.

  Cloot. Don’t come back to the handler. Stay up there, Tor said.

  Tor? came the deep and gentle voice, almost too frightened to ask.

  Tor began to run towards Cloot. He could hear the Queen calling to him but he cared only for the falcon above.

  ‘Cloot!’ he screamed aloud now, so all could hear. ‘Fly, you beautiful falcon. Fly away.’

  The handlers were incensed by this stranger yelling at their bird. Hume caught up with him. ‘Physic Gynt, sir. My falcon is nervous enough without you frightening it.’

  ‘He’s not nervous, fool—and he’s not your falcon either. He’s mine!’ Tor snarled. He surprised himself with the visceral emotion in his voice.

  ‘Tor?’ It was Sylven. She looked alarmed. ‘Are you not well?’

  ‘Never been happier, Sylven,’ he said, ignoring protocol. ‘That’s my falcon up there.’ His grin was fierce.

  The handlers called out as Cloot climbed even higher into the sky. ‘He’s not returning, Master Hume. He’s not responding at all.’

  ‘This is terrible. That bird cost us a fortune,’ Hume said, glaring at Tor but unable to say too much; after all, the man was a guest of the Queen.

  ‘You won’t catch him now,’ Tor said with glee. He snatched at the hood which dangled from the handler’s hand. ‘Is this what you use to keep him quiet?’ he asked.

  The man nodded dumbly. The hood was fashioned from leather and studded with the same midnight archalyt which had prevented Tor using his powers to save Locky from the Maiden’s Kiss.

  ‘Can I keep
this?’ he asked the Queen but was already pushing it into his pocket without waiting for her answer.

  ‘Now, let me prove this is my falcon. You men—give your call, summon him.’

  They tried again and again but Cloot continued to circle higher and higher above.

  When they shook their heads in failure, Tor made his move. ‘Watch this,’ he said.

  He reopened the link and felt it lock freely onto Cloot.

  I’ve been shipwrecked, almost drowned, captured as a slave and now I’m having to play royal paramour…all to find you.

  There was a long pause. Tor wondered if Cloot was changed in some way, if he had lost his ability to speak. But then he heard the voice again. Well, don’t you just have all the fun.

  Tor laughed, surprising his audience. As far as they could see, all he was doing was staring at the bird; he made no attempt to sign or call out to it.

  Cloot, show them we belong to one another. I have to prove it. Fly to me now.

  The voices around him intensified their enquiries but Tor turned and put his finger to his lips to hush them and they fell silent. Looking up, they watched the superb falcon turn on itself into what seemed an impossible stoop, then drop like a stone from the sky.

  ‘It will never pull out of that,’ one of the handlers said.

  ‘He is the most amazing flyer I’ve encountered in my time,’ Hume said, his voice filled with awe.

  Cloot was racing towards them at a reckless speed.

  ‘Step back, your majesty,’ Tor warned. Everyone else followed his advice too.

  In a matter of seconds, the falcon slowed from its breathtaking speed, turned its body and put its bright yellow claws out to land. Tor needed no protection as Cloot alighted on his outstretched arm; his prayers were answered. Cloot flapped his wings once and turned to stare at his handler. Tor burst into laughter once again at the accusation in those piercing yellow eyes.

  Thanks for finally turning up, Cloot said, the familiar sarcasm thrilling Tor.