The Lion of Senet

by Jennifer Fallon

  Chapter 49

  It was during his second week in Avacas that Dirk met Barin Welacin, the man responsible for interrogating Johan Thorn.

  Since arriving in Senet, Dirk had gone out of his way to appear unconcerned about the fate of the former Dhevynian king—for the pirate’s protection as much as his own. His feelings about Johan Thorn were ambivalent, but he had no desire to make things easier for the Lion of Senet, so he feigned indifference to the prisoner’s welfare, while hoping against hope that something would happen that might spare the exiled king from his fate.

  As the days passed with no attempt to rescue Johan, Dirk wondered why his people in the Baenlands had done nothing to free him. Although Dirk knew there was no ransom on Ranadon large enough to secure Johan’s release, and no force strong enough to steal him from under Antonov’s watchful eye, it still seemed a bit craven of his followers to simply leave him to die.

  Fortunately, it wasn’t that hard to stay out of the way of the people involved in Johan’s incarceration. The third floor of the west wing had been turned into one big prison, and was off limits to all but a select few. Alenor speculated it was because her mother was due any day, and Queen Rainan of Dhevyn would not be amused to find her brother rotting in a leaky dungeon somewhere beneath the palace.

  The sheer size and complexity of the Senetian palace almost overwhelmed Dirk. His home at Elcast Keep had always exuded a feeling of ageless solidity. By contrast, the palace in Avacas seemed a study in tasteless and conspicuous wealth. There were more servants in one wing of the palace than served the whole of Elcast Keep, and the entire staff outnumbered the population of Elcast Town. There were servants to clean his boots, servants to take care of his clothes, servants to make his bed and servants to tend his bath. There was even a servant who insisted it was his job to dress Dirk each morning, a task he hurriedly assured the young man he could more than adequately do himself.

  He wasn’t just given a room in the palace, he was given a whole suite on the same floor as the royal family. The suite included a bedroom three times the size of his old room on Elcast, a sitting room, a book-lined study and bathroom sporting a tub large enough to swim in. Even more impressive was the fact that the thermal springs below Avacas had been tapped for the benefit of the palace occupants, and at the turn of a gold-plated stopcock, the bath could be filled with steaming, faintly sulfur-tainted water.

  The day before his sixteenth birthday, Dirk was called to Antonov’s study to discuss the proposed trip to Arkona the following day. True to his word, Antonov had arranged for them to visit the vast Senetian horse markets so that Alenor could find a new pony and Dirk a suitable mount for his birthday. As Arkona was some eighteen miles from Avacas, they had decided to make a day of it. Antonov had planned a picnic, and they were taking so many servants with them to attend their every need that the whole thing was taking on the complexity of a major expedition.

  Barin Welacin was sitting in the straight-backed chair opposite Antonov’s gilded desk when Dirk entered the room in answer to the Lion of Senet’s summons. The Prefect was a small man, with a deceptively pleasant face and short stubby fingers that seemed out of proportion to his palms. He had dark curly hair and warm brown eyes, and looked no more dangerous than Alenor.

  “Ah, Dirk!” Antonov declared expansively, as Dirk stopped in front of the desk and bowed respectfully to the prince. “Thank you for sparing the time to see me.”

  As if I had a choice. “I was told you wanted to see me, your highness.”

  “I did, yes,” Antonov agreed. “Have you met Prefect Welacin, yet? He’s going to begin Johan Thorn’s interrogation tomorrow while we’re in Arkona.”

  “My Lord Provin,” Barin Welacin replied, rising to his feet and bowing with remarkable deference.

  “Prefect Welacin.”

  “We were just discussing the issue of Thorn, in fact,” Antonov told him.

  “I can come back later if you’re busy, your highness.”

  “Not at all! In fact, you might be able to assist us.”

  “Me, sire?”

  “His highness informs me that you spent a great deal of time in Thorn’s company on the voyage from Elcast,” Barin said, taking his seat again. “Perhaps you can offer some insight regarding the best way to deal with the man.”

  “I thought you were the interrogation expert, Prefect Welacin,” Dirk replied, a little annoyed that he was being drawn into this. “I can’t see how my opinion would be of much use.”

  “It might,” Barin replied with a shrug. “Do you think physical torture would work on him?”

  “I think you’d be wasting your time,” Dirk answered honestly, after only a moment’s hesitation. He couldn’t afford to give the impression that he cared about Johan’s fate. “The man survived a tidal wave, Prefect Welacin. He has a tolerance for pain that defies belief.”

  “Then what do you suggest, Dirk?” Antonov asked. He was leaning back in his chair, studying Dirk intently. Sunlight streamed into the office from the diamond-paned windows, catching the gilt on Antonov’s chair and making him appear bathed in his own light. Dirk suspected the desk and chair were placed quite deliberately to make the most of that effect. “What would you do if you were trying to extract information out of a man like Johan Thorn?”

  Dirk was tempted to reply that he would never be stupid enough to let an enemy remain at large for so long that it became an issue. But he didn’t.

  “I don’t know, sire.”

  “Perhaps he would respond to another sort of pressure?” Barin suggested. “If we could capture one of his cohorts and threaten his life? That might work. I heard reports that Reithan Seranov was seen in Paislee recently.”

  “Who’s he?” Dirk asked, before he could stop himself. He really should learn to stop asking questions.

  “A drug runner and a murderer,” Antonov informed him coldly. “I would torture Reithan Seranov just for the hell of it, if I ever got my hands on him. Rumor has it that he’s Johan’s right-hand man.”

  “Then you’d be wasting your time.” Dirk shrugged. “He’d be just as ready to die for his cause as Johan is. And Johan would probably let him die for the same reason. You’d have more luck with a complete stranger than you would with one of his followers.”

  Antonov nodded, wearing a disappointed frown. “You’re right, I fear. But then, we never thought this was going to be easy. Are you all set for the trip to Arkona tomorrow?”

  “Er...Yes, sire.” As usual, the abrupt change of subject caught him off guard.

  “Excellent. I would ask a favor of you, though, Dirk. Stay close to Alenor tomorrow. She’s feeling a little guilty about buying a new mount. I think she fears Snowdrop will feel betrayed if she finds another horse to love. You know how it is with young girls and horses.”

  Actually, Dirk didn’t know, but if agreeing to console Alenor was all it was going to take to escape this room and the discussion about the best way to torture Johan Thorn, then Dirk was more than willing to accommodate the prince’s request.

  “I’ll keep an eye on her, your highness.”

  “Thank you, Dirk, I knew I could rely on you.”

  “May I go now?”

  “Of course.”

  Dirk bowed politely and let himself out, leaving Antonov and Barin alone to make their plans.

  The following evening, on their return from Arkona, Dirk was looking around the crowded anteroom for Kirsh or Alenor when the Baroness of Quaran, a coastal holding east of Avacas, cornered him near the tall windows overlooking the palace gardens, and began to question him about his mother.

  Her inquiries had seemed innocent enough at first. She began by wishing him a happy birthday, but her conversation rapidly progressed to questions about whether or not Morna had resumed her affair with Johan Thorn while he was a prisoner on Elcast. And what did his father think about it? Antonov came to his rescue, interrupting the interrogation with a question of his own about this year’s grape harvest. As Quaran wa
s renowned for its wine, and the baroness was anxious to promote her produce to the prince, she abandoned Dirk for a more profitable discussion with the Lion of Senet.

  Antonov smiled sympathetically at Dirk as he steered the baroness away, as if he understood how uncomfortable Dirk was, and how much his intervention was appreciated.

  Although the excuse for this evening’s gathering was his sixteenth birthday, dinner in the Lion of Senet’s palace was always an occasion, always formal, and required Dirk to dress in finery he would never dream of wearing in Elcast. The guest list was different every evening, and every person in attendance was a person of note. To Dirk, all this lot seemed to want was to either curry favor with Antonov or gawk at Morna Provin’s youngest son. Dirk was aware that he was the subject of intense speculation, but rarely was the subject discussed openly, and certainly not in his presence.

  They were seated for dinner at the long table amid a forest of fine crystal and silverware, when someone asked if this morning’s executions had been successful.

  “Moderately,” Antonov replied, taking a sip of his wine. The servants were laying out the main course: a sumptuous arrangement of delicately roasted meats and crisp vegetables accompanied by a delicate red wine sauce. The food served in the palace was always like this—rich, aromatic and served in quantities that defied logic. He’d never seen anyone finish a meal since he’d been in Avacas, with the possible exception of Kirshov, who apparently had a bottomless pit in lieu of a stomach.

  “What did you hope to achieve by them, your highness?” a man a few places to Dirk’s left inquired. “I heard the dozen men put to death this morning were rounded up at random.”

  “We were testing Thorn’s resolve,” Antonov shrugged, as if he were discussing the weather. “If one believes the legends he likes to spread about himself, one would think he was a noble champion of injustice.”

  “And did he prove to be so?” the Baroness of Quaran asked.

  “Quite the opposite, my lady,” Antonov told her. “And it’s not as if Welacin didn’t give him a chance. Before he slit the throat of each man, he promised Johan he would spare the man’s life, if Johan would tell him what he wanted to know.”

  “And Thorn said nothing?” The baroness’s face was flushed, her eyes bright.

  “Not a word. Johan Thorn maintained a stony silence throughout the whole ordeal.”

  “Then your ploy was unsuccessful,” the man who had asked the question in the first place surmised. Dirk had been introduced to him earlier. He was an earl from somewhere in northern Senet.

  “Not at all. If nothing else, we proved that Johan Thorn is a heartless monster. When one has shattered such a powerful myth, one cannot say that it was a completely wasted effort.”

  Dirk nearly choked on his meal. Twelve innocent men had died and Antonov is pleased because he thinks he’s proved that Johan Thorn is a monster? He glanced across the table at Alenor, but she refused to meet his eye. She was trying to be as quiet and inconspicuous as possible. Kirsh was tucking into his meal, seemingly oblivious to the conversation going on around him.

  The northern earl raised his glass to Antonov. “I admire your subtlety, your highness.”

  “I can’t claim any credit, I’m afraid,” Antonov said modestly. “This masterful strategy was devised by our birthday boy, not me.”

  Dirk froze as every eye at the table turned to him. He turned to stare in horror at the Lion of Senet, who smiled at him proudly.

  “I’d never have thought up anything so fiendishly effective, myself,” Antonov continued. “But it’s a brilliant ploy. We just keep executing innocent men, giving Johan the power to put an end to the carnage anytime he wants. If he saves the lives of the innocent, he betrays his followers in the Baenlands. If he doesn’t, then our champion of injustice is responsible for the needless death of innocent people. And it has the added benefit that I can’t be accused of treating the Queen of Dhevyn’s errant brother like a common criminal.” He looked across the table and smiled at Alenor. “I’ve no wish to do anything that would cause dissent between your mother and Senet, my dear.” Alenor blushed, but didn’t answer him. She looked as if she wanted to disappear. Antonov turned back to the rest of the diners and smiled. “It’s quite simply the most ingenious stratagem I have ever seen.”

  “And young Dirk here thought of it?” the baroness asked. She was looking at Dirk with a hungry, predatory eye, almost as if she found the idea arousing.

  “I never suggested anything of the kind, my lady,” Dirk protested, finally finding his voice.

  “Don’t be so modest, Dirk. I believe your exact words were that we’d have more luck with complete strangers than we would with his followers. Isn’t that right?”

  “Well, yes, I did say that, but—”

  “He gets his modesty from his father, I think,” Antonov laughed. “You remember how Wallin would never want to claim credit for anything during the war? A touching trait, I always thought.”

  The guests all laughed politely at Antonov’s words. Dirk sat motionlessly at the table, the conversation going on around him like a blur. It’s not my fault, he told himself. I didn’t mean to...

  But the damage was done, and it took less than a day for word to spread through Avacas that the whole sickening episode had been Dirk Provin’s idea.

  Chapter 50

  Didn’t I warn you?” Tia demanded angrily, as soon as she found Reithan out in the yard of Ivon’s cottage. The door banged shut behind her as she stepped out into the small courtyard bathed in red light from the first sun hanging high in the sky.

  “Warn me about what?” he asked, looking up from the chair he was mending. He was bored, trapped here in Ivon’s house all day, and had taken to mending the furniture to keep himself occupied.

  “Dirk Provin.”

  “What’s he done?”

  “He’s got them rounding up innocent bystanders and executing them in front of Johan to make him talk.”

  Reithan stood up and frowned as he brushed the wood shavings from his trousers. “And it was Provin’s idea?”

  “Sella told me. She’s one of the laundry maids.”

  It had taken Tia two weeks of getting up at dawn and patiently waiting at the palace before she was finally called up from the crowd gathered outside the South Gate.

  “Sella’s brother was serving in the dining room tonight when Antonov was crowing about how clever Dirk was to think of it. I told you he was trouble, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did tell me.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Stay off the streets so I don’t get rounded up and executed for Dirk Provin’s entertainment,” he replied in all seriousness.

  “Reithan!”

  “Well, what exactly did you want me to do, Tia?”

  “I don’t know,” she grumbled, sitting down on the step and wrapping her arms around her knees miserably. “There must be something we can do.”

  “There’s nothing we can do. Besides, you always said you thought the only good Senetian was a dead one. Maybe that’s Provin’s plan? Maybe he’s just found a way to rid the world of a few excess Senetians.”

  “Hah! How likely is that? Dirk Provin thought this up because he’s a sadistic little bastard. You can tell it just by looking at him.”

  Reithan did not disagree with her assessment. He came to sit beside her on the step. “What about Johan? Do you have news of him?”

  She shrugged. “He didn’t talk, if that’s what you’re asking. Didn’t say a word, according to Sella. It must have been killing him to do nothing while those men died.”

  Reithan nodded in agreement. “Even Johan will eventually fold under that sort of pressure. We really need to do something soon. Have you had any luck getting near him?”

  “No, but I think I’ve worked out how to do it.”

  “How?”

  “I need to get Emalia’s job.”
>
  “Who’s Emalia?”

  “The maid who changes the sheets in the royal suites. She has access to every one of them, although I hear they haven’t allowed Johan any sheets on his bed for fear he’ll try to make a noose of them. Sella and Emalia talk about him all the time. When they’re not talking about their love lives,” she added with a groan.

  Sella was a tall girl with a very large bosom and a great deal of interest in the goings-on upstairs. Emalia was her best friend, a tiny, voluptuous young blonde whose passion was men—in particular, big, dark-haired, handsome ones. Although Tia thought the girls she worked with vapid and stupid, she had spent days feigning intense interest in their activities, folding sheets and cooing with admiration as Emalia gossiped endlessly or chronicled her conquests.

  “Access to the royal suites would be a good start. But how are you going to get Emalia’s job?”

  “You’re going to get it for me.”

  “How?”

  Tia looked at Reithan and grinned. “This time, you get to be the whore.”

  Reithan looked at her oddly.

  “After we finish work, Emalia and Sella usually head down into the town to drink at the Lone Soldier.”

  “I’ve heard of it. It’s a pretty rough place, by all accounts.”

  “According to Emalia, the tavern’s main attraction is that it’s frequented by plenty of big, dark-haired, handsome men. And seeing as how my arsenal of weapons consists almost entirely of one big, dark-haired, handsome man, I might as well use him.”

  “Your arsenal?” Reithan repeated with a frown.

  “I owe you for making me pretend I was a whore on Kalarada.”

  “One does what one must for the cause, Tia. So what’s your plan?”

  “Emalia and Sella usually drink in the tavern until late at night, then stagger back to the room they share above the tea merchant’s shop in Grainway Street. If they’re lucky, one or other of the girls gets to spend the night elsewhere.”

  “Preferably with a big, dark-haired, handsome man, I’m guessing,” he remarked dryly.