by A. F. Dery
“We were told to go, sir,” one of the men said hoarsely. “We just did as we were told.” He looked up at Malachi, faintly hopeful. “And also I always have admired your fairness in taxation, sir.” The other prisoner glared daggers at his fellow, who staunchly ignored him.
“Ah, I can’t say how that warms me, lad,” Malachi said flatly. He looked to the officer. “Take them to the dungeons, keep them separated. I don’t need them trying to coordinate stories. I should have the irons warmed up inside of two hours. There’s no rushing these things.”
“Irons?” the other prisoner said, in a voice that was a touch too high. He was suddenly looking around at the sentries that ringed the exits, eyes practically bulging.
“Oh, and make sure they are fed and their wounds bandaged. We can’t have them dropping dead before I’m ready to melt them down,” Malachi added, turning to leave.
“Honestly, sir, we don’t know anything about anything!” the first prisoner blurted to his back. “We were told to cross the border and go no more than a mile deep!” The other man began to hiss something at his partner, and Malachi turned back in time to see one of his soldiers give the man a threatening jab with the hilt of his sword to silence him.
“So you were not instructed to invade? Only to cross the border?” Malachi asked slowly. “I received reports that you Ossians were attacking when you crossed.”
“We were told to attack only within a mile, that there were rogues who were going to cross into our border,” the prisoner insisted. “We heard rumors that some of your people had been turned by Raiders.”
“That is ridiculous,” Malachi said flatly. “Even in instances where people ‘turn’ against their lords to spare themselves suffering at Lyntaran hands, it never happens before actual invasion forces arrive. The Raiders are meant to weaken a country’s defenses and sow fear and intimidation among the people. They lessen the resistance to the future occupying forces. They would never incite them to move against their present lord prematurely. What would be the point? If I subdue them, there are that many fewer laborers for Lyntara should they occupy us.”
“I don’t know the politics, sir, but I am telling you, that is what we were told- that we were preventing rogues from coming into our own country,” the prisoner insisted earnestly. “We were only to attack within a mile of the border.”
“You mean where there are always patrols of my perfectly loyal men? Does Ossian take instruction from Eladria now on programming mindless drones to do her bidding?” Malachi asked nastily. The prisoner blinked at him, startled.
“I don’t know anything about Eladrians, sir,” he said. Malachi sighed. Of course he didn’t. He was actually rather fortunate that a mere infantryman knew this much. At least, he assumed the man was only infantry.
“Why do none of you wear signs of rank?” Malachi crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at the soldiers in a manner he hoped was intimidating.
“We are militia, sir, not military,” the other man ceased glaring at his partner and spoke up, his eyes glinting. “These are the uniforms we were given when we were called to formation. We have no rank. It is our duty to defend the border when called upon in a time of need. We will not let our families be overrun by rogues while awaiting the arrival of the military!”
“Yes, sir,” the first prisoner agreed, nodding his head fervently. “Our good Lady told us to form and defend within a mile across the border, and that is what we did. We were told the military was needed elsewhere and we would have no trouble.”
“No trouble?” Malachi laughed without humor. “Yet I only get two living captives.”
“We thought there were only rogues,” the prisoner replied miserably. He dropped his eyes suddenly, and Malachi realized by the man’s sudden trembling that he was on the verge of tears. His voice, when he spoke, was lower and rougher now. “We did not anticipate facing organized troops or mechanical men. Our fathers, brothers, friends and neighbors were trying to save our women and children from Malachaians turned by Lyntaran wickedness. We would never march on our loyal allies or try to invade someone else’s home! We were protecting our own, and now so many are dead to that cause.”
“You’ve said enough, Korin!” the other prisoner barked. “Let them do what they want with us. We do not know our Lady’s interests and will not aid her betrayers if that is what this man has in mind! We did what we could for our homes and families, and there is nothing more for us to do, or say.” He turned his eyes to Malachi. “Do what you want, sir,” he repeated stonily, lifting his chin.
Malachi stared at him a long moment, his mind racing. The man stared back shamelessly, his eyes bright and his face set. It could be that it was a misunderstanding of some sort after all, Malachi thought. It had made little sense that another member of the Union would betray him, after all. To betray a Union ally meant betraying the High Lord as well, along with all his other allies in the Union. And the Ossian forces at the border HAD been disorganized and weak, too few in number to be a true attempt at invasion.
Militia. That did explain a lot, though it still didn’t explain Eladria’s oddness at their own border or the Raiders. Though perhaps if they heard these same ‘rumors,’ they were merely taking precautions, Malachi mused. He couldn’t imagine Eladria falling for such rubbish, though. He knew how the Raiders and Lyntara worked as well as he did; but then again, so did Lady Ossian. Yet who could say with women? He had never understood one before his Maggie, and he still couldn’t claim total comprehension even of her.
“Take them to the dungeon,” he repeated to the officer at last. The man saluted and the prisoners were taken away. At least Ossian did not appear to be a real threat at the moment. He would need to confirm this for himself, and having already deployed his only diplomat, that left him with the unenviable task of writing another letter.
But not yet. He had a consultation to make first.
“You’re up, Maggie!” Malachi stared in surprise at his wife, who was sitting at the table and already having tea when he made his way back to her rooms.
“Sleep comes harder and harder these days,” Margaret answered with a small smile. But her gaze darted quickly to the chaise bearing the Mirror on the other side of the room and then back down to her teacup. Malachi frowned and looked over to see the woman looking as haggard as ever. She was apparently still asleep, but her face was ashen and the lines in her face ever deepening, her body rigid even in repose.
“You improve by the day, but she still looks as though she’s at death’s doorstep,” he muttered, more to himself than to his wife. The whole thing was perplexing. Was Margaret truly in such dire condition? Surely if she were wasting away before his eyes, there would be some sign of it. The Mirror only took the pain away, after all, not the actual ailments. But Margaret looked very nearly glowing again and very much herself despite the bandage around her shoulder he still saw peeking out from the neckline of her gown.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Margaret murmured in agreement, clearly having heard him. She traced the handle of her teacup with a fingertip, her eyebrows drawing together in troubled furrows.
Malachi grunted and sat down in the chair next to hers at the small table. Her eyes flicked up to his and she smiled to see him looking at her, and he felt his heart warm.
This is why I need to fix things, he told himself firmly. Whatever it takes, I must figure out what the hell is going on here and put it to rights. For Maggie.
“Maggie, love, I would like your thoughts on some things.” He proceeded to tell her in low tones, with the occasional wary glance towards the Mirror, about the messenger and the prisoners, conveniently overlooking the small matter of his returning sentries and the evidence of Raiders. There was no need to distress her unnecessarily, or so he told himself. Time enough for panic once he made some sense of the situation.
Margaret listened attentively, never taking her eyes from him even as she slowly sipped her tea. When he’d finished, she asked, “So do you believe
this is a misunderstanding?”
“Why would Lady Ossian believe there were rogues in the first place?” Malachi countered. “If they are telling the truth, and this is what she told them-”
“But do we know she told them that?” Margaret interrupted gently. “Maybe she handed down a different order and that was misunderstood. Maybe it became garbled somewhere down the line. There was that talk of Raiders, perhaps they too have been afflicted and that was what she was really concerned about, and it all became muddled.”
That was one of the things he liked about Margaret, Malachi mused: she was able to imagine goodness or at least indifference in people who clearly didn’t deserve any such merits ascribed to them. The gods knew how this had worked to his unexpected good fortune when she’d agreed to marry him.
“No I suppose we don’t,” he agreed. “It is, after all, rather unlikely that she actually spoke to those men in person. I will ask them, of course, but it is fairly safe to assume they actually received her orders through other channels.” He couldn’t picture Lady Ossian speaking directly to commoners even if he had someone draw it for him. “But let’s assume they were told correctly, and she really did mention ‘rogues.’”
Margaret considered this a moment and finally said slowly, “There’s always a chance she…misinterpreted…your efforts to build our military of late. Are you sure there were no training incidents near the border that perhaps you weren’t told about?”
Malachi scowled, rising abruptly enough to nearly tip the chair he’d been seated on, and he began to pace the short distance in front of the table. “Of course I’m not sure. It was madness ever bringing in troops of the warm blooded variety. Yes, I can certainly believe things have gone on that I would not be told about!”
“Edmund, I’m not trying to upset you,” Margaret said soothingly, tracking his fruitless pacing with her eyes. “I know how hard it was for you to recruit those men, and our new servants, and I do think it was the right thing to do. No, I know it was. But it takes time to build trust-”
Malachi barked a laugh. “Trust? Trust?”
Margaret sighed, shaking her head. “I know, I know. But hear me out! That is why you came to me, yes?”
Malachi said nothing, unwilling to admit to so much as his own name at that particular moment, so she continued: “It takes time for these people to learn to trust you and your judgment, and for you to trust them as far as you can trust anyone-”
“Other than you,” Malachi put in, stopping and meeting her eyes. He was pleased when she reddened and looked away, suddenly shy.
“Other than me,” she repeated quietly to her teacup. “But the fact remains that there are many possibilities to what happened, what was said and done and by who. You need to go to the source if you’re ever to sort it out.”
“I thought you would say so,” he admitted. “I was planning on writing a letter after I’d talked it over with you, in case there was some possibility I had overlooked.”
“It might better to speak with her in person if she will agree to it, perhaps at the border,” Margaret suggested carefully. “You may get a better sense of her motives that way. After all, if she will not even agree to meet you, when you are supposed to be allies and something like this has happened…it may shed still more light on what is going on.”
Malachi nodded slowly. “There is merit to that idea,” he said. He did not say: and that it is that I am sick of writing all these letters with no sensible results whatsoever.
“But you must be very careful if you do meet with her,” she added with a frown. He half-expected her to say “because if you offend her there may be a real conflict, no misunderstanding about it” but instead what she actually said was, “If she has turned on you, she could arrange a trap.”
“Oh gods, you’ve spent too much time with me, my love!” Never did he think he would see the day that his Maggie would suspect a trap. She was so innocent, so idealistic. No more after all this, he thought bitterly. I suppose multiple assassination attempts will do that to a person.
Malachi sighed and sat back down, running a hand through his hair wearily. He felt like all strength had fled from his body along with his indignation. “I’m so tired, Maggie. It’s wearing on me and I know it’s only a matter of time before it all catches up to me. I’ve made a mess of things. You- both of you-” here he gestured almost absently to Margaret’s round belly- “deserve better.” He pressed his palms against his suddenly aching eyes and nearly jumped out of the chair when he felt a hand on his shoulder a moment later.
“How the hell did you move so fast without my notice? No offense, Maggie, but you’re about the size of a horse right now,” Malachi said startled.
Margaret sighed and squeezed his shoulder. “At least you didn’t say ‘heifer.’ I don’t think I could have handled it.” She settled herself carefully on his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“In front of the help, you naughty girl?” he teased, and she swatted his shoulder lightly.
“You listen to me, Edmund Malachi,” she said sternly, pressing her forehead gently against his and looking him in the eyes. “I’m sure mistakes were made, because we all make them. But it’s not too late to fix things. We’re still here, aren’t we? But even if we lost everything…as long as I had you..” Margaret stopped, her eyes watering. Impulsively, he brought his hand up to her cheek and kissed her. For a blissful moment, the world was as it had once been, the past was forgotten and the future condemned to irrelevancy.
Then the Mirror groaned faintly from across the room as she stirred upon the chaise. Malachi echoed the noise against his wife’s mouth and pulled gently away, the moment lost.
Margaret caught his hand in hers as it fell away from her face and squeezed it gently. “We will have it back again,” she whispered, as if reading his thoughts in his eyes.
“Damn straight we will,” Malachi grunted, forcing himself to smile. Margaret returned it gratefully and he was glad he had made the effort, even though inside he felt vaguely homicidal.
“Well, I think I’m in just the mood to question the prisoners now, my Lady,” he announced with false cheer. Margaret’s eyes narrowed as she carefully returned to her feet.
“You aren’t going to…do anything you don’t need to do, are you, Edmund?” she asked worriedly.
“’Need’ is such a wide spectrum-”
“No irons, no fire,” Margaret said impatiently. He eyed her with something akin to being impressed.
“My dear Maggie-”
“There is no need, Edmund. They are people. And it doesn’t sound like they were trying to do any evil, it could have well been a true misunderstanding, and if it was- they are innocent people,” Margaret insisted earnestly, returning to her chair. “How would you feel if you did something…regrettable…only to learn they were innocent all along?” She watched him, obviously expecting to hear of some sentiment that Malachi was entirely certain he did not in any way actually possess.
So he gave an inarticulate grunt and then said, “Very well, Maggie. Nothing unnecessary.” For you and you alone, he added, only in his head.
But he somehow suspected by the look on her face as she poured herself another cup of tea that she knew anyhow.
Lady Ossian was either the dumbest woman in the world or the canniest, Malachi decided as he settled onto his throne in the audience chamber the following afternoon. He had sent a messenger with a formal invitation the day before, requesting her presence for tea. Having questioned the prisoners (most civilly, he thought to himself with some disappointment), he had learned nothing new, nothing incriminating, and came away with the same sense that he had gone into the interrogation with: they believed their own story and that was that. He did receive verification that their orders were not, as it were, given them directly by their Lady’s own lips.
Just the same, supposed ally or no, Malachi had sent the invitation expecting the usual hemming and hawing followed by the polite counter-offer, no d
oubt either on her own territory or on neutral ground of some sort, considering what had only just happened at their border. But with all the insanity he was coming to expect from her, Lady Ossian had sent the messenger back with an immediate and apparently enthusiastic written note of acceptance.
So Malachi arranged his guards, both human and sentry, with care. He made sure that his new cook was apprised of the need for a decent tea, to be delivered that afternoon. He had another, considerably less ornate, chair placed near his throne with a small table for the teapot. He was sure it would have been handled more gracefully by Margaret, but he wasn’t letting her anywhere near this little tea party, Lady Ossian’s sense of propriety be damned.
He had not even told Margaret about the event, opting to tell her about it afterward. He told himself it was just to spare her the worry over their meeting, but in truth, he hadn’t wanted to be put in the position of talking her out of attendance. And if she didn’t come, he knew she’d feel guilty about it, as though a difficult pregnancy paired with assassination attempts were no excuse for poor manners. Bah.
Then came the sound of some horn or other, informing all and sundry of Lady Ossian’s approach. Malachi rolled his eyes. Her ostentation truly had no limits. He waited patiently, musing on how the correct thing to do would be to go meet her out front. He lazily studied his cuticles. Yes, meeting her out there was almost certainly the done thing.
A short while later, a servant opened the double doors that led to the main corridor.
“Presenting the fair Lady of Ossian, my Lordship,” the servant intoned, bowing. It took all his strength not to roll his eyes again, even as he finally looked up from his hands to see Lady Ossian herself sweeping into the room, looking perturbed. She was rather like a peacock he had seen once at the High Lord’s court, Malachi thought dismissively. Even now, a guest in his audience chamber, she was all artificial glitter, bright colors, and ruffled feathers.