Fate

by Mary Corran

  At last he sat back, exhausted.

  ‘Carling’s.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Mallory was already on his feet. Omond heard his steps pounding down the stairs, but was too drained to move or do anything at all. He would sit and wait, and perhaps sleep.

  If anything happened to the girl, he was not sure he would be able to withstand the shock the severing of the link between them would bring him. His heart, as if in answer to his doubts, began to beat with an uneven rhythm.

  *

  Mallory struggled with the girth buckles, cursing fluently; the stallion stood placidly waiting while he tied a bag to the pommel and put his foot in the stirrup. Mallory considered waking Ish, but on balance he preferred to go alone, wanting no witnesses to the night’s work.

  What had possessed Asher to take such an insane risk? Why had she chosen to confront Lewes alone, in the middle of the night? How had it happened? It seemed to Mallory she was commanded by a demon that spurred her on to greater and greater tests of her own capacity, as if she could not live with herself without such proofs of courage; he had known men of a similar character, who rushed to embrace their own destruction with open arms. Yet in Asher’s case it was different, for he sensed her recklessness had its origins in a degree of self-hatred which could only have been engendered by her marriage to Lewes; the man had destroyed her ability to enjoy being a woman, so that she saw only the weaknesses of her sex and none of the strengths or pleasures.

  Small wonder, if all he made her feel was ugly and unwanted; a thing to be owned and despised. The day of her wedding came back to him, and he remembered how he had teased her about the night to come, and pain stabbed him in the pit of his stomach; how easily Lewes must have been able to destroy the open spirit of the girl he had married. Her sexual inexperience would have made her an easy target for his cruelty.

  It was not the desire to protect her frailty that sent him out into the night, although that was still a part of it, for Asher was strong in will but not in physique; it was his feelings for her as an individual, as Asher, whom he valued for her sense of humour, for her transparent integrity. That was what was important, not the rest. Some men might see such emotion as weakness, but Mallory had learned how highly to value friendship in his years at sea, and was not afraid or ashamed to admit to affection, even, although he was not quite certain of it, to love, if love could be defined as a form of friendship.

  He dared not spur his horse to a canter; the night was too dark, and there might be any number of potholes along the trail. Abate’s malevolent eye stared down at him, pale and chill across the ploughed fields, and Mallory had to check his pace as a hare ran between his horse’s legs, making the beast rear and almost unseating him. Sweating, he held on; time was slipping away — too much time.

  He intended to kill Lewes. He had thought for some time it was the best and simplest solution to Asher’s dilemma but had hesitated to present it to her in case she felt some lingering sense of obligation towards her husband — although he doubted it. The man deserved to die on many counts; not least for what he had done to her. Mallory knew he could easily justify his intent; Lewes was a collaborator, a traitor, condemned by his own deeds. He had broken the moral, if not the written, laws of Darrian. But a hard core of vengeful anger told Mallory that his desire was as much personal as pragmatic, that he would find real satisfaction in killing the man. He should not deceive himself into believing he acted from any elevated motive, unless there was something lofty in wanting to avenge the hurts Asher had endured.

  If he came too late, they would never find Vallis. That, too, was a motive, but a lesser consideration.

  Carling’s was visible now, and he decided to go round and approach the house and barn north, from the rear, for the wind was coming from the south and would otherwise take his scent straight to the dogs; he was glad he had remembered their existence in time. There was no need to alert Lewes to his presence until he was ready.

  He left his horse in a wheatfield, draping the reins over a convenient branch and untying his bundle from the saddle; the rear of the barn was only some three hundred paces distant and he made his way on foot towards it, stepping carefully through the grasses and brambles to make as little sound as possible. No lights shone in the house, but he could make out a faint gleam from the yard ahead.

  As he reached the barn, a warning growl came from somewhere to his left, and he became aware of a fetid smell; he froze instantly, seeing the head of an immense black mastiff appear round the side, jaws open. He could smell the rankness of the creature’s breath. Mallory crouched down, but to his relief the animal came no closer, although even from a distance he could see its prominent ribs; hear the rattle of links of chain. He realized Lewes, as he’d hoped, had set his dogs to guard the front of the farm, not allowing them to roam free. He felt inside his bundle and withdrew three small, spherical objects and a tinderbox; with them in his hands, he edged forward, until he was only feet from the yard, and the mastiff was about to progress from a warning growl to a full-bloodied frenzy of barking. Quickly, he struck three sparks, igniting the paper tails attached to the spheres, then threw all three into the centre of the yard. He knelt down to watch the results.

  A flurry of deep baying came from the mastiff, bringing forth an echo from its fellow, which he could not, for the present, see. The first of the spheres began to emit bright sparks and a rose-coloured sulphureous smoke as it jumped about, and a series of small explosions set off a chain reaction, resulting in more sparks and denser smoke. Mallory had bought the spheres on a visit to Baram, which lay east of the Kamiri homeland, where they were used to celebrate the Day of the Dead, the festival the Baramites held once a year to commemorate their ancestors. He had intended them as a gift for Callith’s children, for they were harmless and entertaining, but he was sure Lewes, who had no interests beyond land and gold, would never guess they were toys. He was as superstitious as any sailor, certain to read some omen or other into their appearance; more importantly, they would provide an excuse for the dogs to bark while Mallory carried out the second part of his scheme.

  He heard the creaking of a door, then a voice shouting over the noise of the spheres.

  ‘What’s all that racket?’

  The voice belonged to Lewes; Mallory knew it instantly and sent silent thanks to Omond for identifying Carling’s accurately. The dogs were barking louder than ever, excited by the leaping sparks and the smoke, and Mallory heard Lewes strike one of them with a link of chain; then he came into view as he moved further out into the yard, keeping a wary distance from the sparks.

  ‘Fates preserve us!’ He made a gesture of aversion, and Mallory smiled grimly to himself; he had never thought the man particularly intelligent. Lewes glanced round, obviously trying to decide the meaning of the strange visitation. The dogs continued to howl, but after a quick inspection of the hen run and a look at the house, Lewes turned back and disappeared again inside the barn.

  Mallory reached inside his bundle and withdrew a large piece of meat removed from the kitchen stores at Kepesake. Creeping forwards, he threw it towards the mastiff, now at the full extent of its chain. Surprised, it stopped barking and bent to sniff the offering, at first with suspicion, then with real interest; within moments it was lying down, chewing the joint between its forepaws while its eyes roved warily for any danger to its prize. Lewes, like so many of his type, relied on starvation to keep his dogs savage, and its need for sustenance was greater than its desire to guard. Keeping his distance, Mallory walked silently round to the front of the barn. The mastiff’s companion, a gangling beast barely out of puppyhood, had scented food and was howling and leaping against the restraint of its chain. Mallory neatly threw his second offering, which landed by the animal’s haunches. It emitted a yelp, then set to, without further hesitation, too ravenous to care that its territory was being invaded.

  The barn doors were shut, but Mallory inched open the right-hand side with extreme care,
peering in through the narrow gap; he drew his sword in his right hand, holding it loose but ready, touching a finger to the needle-sharp point.

  The Fates might be the arbiters of which of the three of them should live or die that night, but Mallory had every intention of making their decision an easy one: if he had harmed Asher in any way, Lewes would die.

  Chapter Twelve

  While Omond sat and waited, and Mallory fought his horse along rutted lanes, Asher lay asleep.

  She first became aware of being awake because she could feel rough stalks tickling her cheek and nose, and she wanted to sneeze. She was perfectly comfortable, lying on something soft, breathing in a reassuringly familiar odour compounded of the scents of wet hay, leather and sawdust; the only thing troubling her was that she had no clear idea where she was. She thought about sitting up and opening her eyes to look, but at that moment it seemed too much trouble, and in any case she was not absolutely sure she wanted to know; she had a hazy memory of something bad, some undesirable event, and the recollection kept her still.

  Many-coloured patterns played before her closed eyelids in a slow series of random forms darting out in all directions, some shaped like tree trunks, others like narrow branches, all originating from a single point; she tried to blot them out, for they were making her dizzy, but it proved impossible.

  I should wake up, she thought dreamily, her head aching and heavy; but somewhere nearby there was movement, as if she were not alone, and the sounds made her nervous.

  A chain rattled not far away. It was a familiar noise but it puzzled her, for she had thought she must be in her room at Harrows: but no, that was wrong. Perhaps she was at Carling’s — but no, she had left years ago ...

  Memory returned with a rush as she grew conscious of soreness on her face and jaw, and knew their cause. Lewes — she was with Lewes! Cautiously, she allowed her eyelids to lift, but only a crack; a rapid glance brought her a glimpse of a section of wall with various tools hanging from hooks in an orderly fashion: a scythe; a drill; a spade. Quickly, she lowered her lids once more, but not before she had recognized the place; this was the barn at Carling’s, too small to be Harrows. Lewes must have brought her here after he had knocked her out, and was now nearby, watching and waiting for her to revive. But in order to do what?

  Suddenly time seemed immensely precious, the longer she could lie still the better. She waited, keeping her arms and legs lax while listening intently for sounds of Lewes’ approach, and after a while there came the scuffing of booted feet across the wooden floor; she made herself breathe slowly and evenly as they drew closer, then stopped. For a moment, nothing happened, and she wondered if her ploy had succeeded; then a shower of cold water was thrown over her, and she sat up, gasping with shock.

  Lewes stood laughing down at her, hands on hips, an empty pitcher dangling from one hand.

  ‘That shook you, I’ll bet!’ You should see yourself — you look like a drowned rat!’ And that’s an improvement.’

  She wiped the water from her eyes with a sleeve, then felt for the scarf round her head and pulled it off, using it to tie back her dripping hair in a loose tail; she did these things extremely slowly, as if every second she could gain was important. Lewes watched her impatiently. Beyond him, Asher saw the barn doors stood shut, but at least the dogs were not in sight; presumably they were outside, for which she was grateful. Lewes trained them through a combination of cruelty and hunger, and his animals were always savage. For the second time in two days she tried not to remember the horror of his old threat to set them on her.

  ‘You’ve no looks left,’ he commented casually, as if he were judging the points of a horse he did not intend buying. ‘Mind, you were always a plain, scrawny, little thing, even when you were young.’

  She gave a non-committal shake of the head, horrified to find the old feelings of inadequacy returning full force; she had never been vain, but in the early days of their marriage she had made an effort to look attractive, hoping it would put him in a better frame of mind. Instead, he had wasted no time making it plain he found her lacking in face and form, pointing to the other village girls and telling her exactly where her own deficiencies lay: she was too thin, too pale; her eyes were too small; her nose was an ugly shape. The list had been endless, and the steady stream of invectives had sapped her self-confidence until she found it easier simply not to care about her appearance.

  It doesn’t matter, I know it doesn’t, and he only does it to hurt. So why do I still mind? She bit her lip.

  ‘Nothing to say?’ Her silence seemed to anger him, and he came closer, stretching out a casual foot to kick her; it landed on her thigh, and she suppressed a cry of pain.

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  Lewes seemed pleased with her reaction. ‘Better. Perhaps you should try telling me you’re sorry for all the trouble you’ve caused, for a start.’

  ‘I would have thought that was a waste of time.’ She was glad to hear the steadiness in her voice. ‘Even if I meant it.’

  ‘Oh, it would be, but I’d like to hear you say it.’ He eyed her speculatively as she sat on the pile of loose hay, her back against neatly stacked bales; the position seemed to offer less of her as a target than if she had been standing.

  ‘Why did you bring me here?’ she asked quietly, shifting back until she was out of range of his booted feet.

  He stepped forward, unwilling to allow her any margin of safety. ‘To kill you, of course. Or were you hoping I wanted to bed you?’

  She felt a chill travel down her spine. There was no doubt he meant it. ‘Hardly that.’

  ‘I’ve no use for you in that way. Dora’s eight times the woman you were,’ he said pleasantly. ‘And she’ll give me a son before I’ve done with her. Not like you — worthless slut!’ He kicked her again. ‘And. I’ll have Harrows.’

  ‘It’s yours,’ she said wearily. ‘I’ve told you — ’

  ‘And has been, but for you and your precious friend Councillor Mallory, for the past six years.’ His eyes blazed a deeper blue in the lanternlight. ‘Years you stole from me, the pair of you, keeping from me what was rightfully mine. Do you think I’d have married you otherwise?’ He kicked her again with greater viciousness.

  Pride kept her face expressionless. ‘I took nothing from you, Lewes, and I want nothing from you. I have a life of my own, far away from here. Let me go, and you’ll never see me again. But if you kill me, Mallory will know.’

  Lewes showed no concern at all at the threat. ‘You think so?’ He chuckled, an unpleasant sound. ‘Your lover won’t be able to prove anything. Anything. Dora will swear I was with her all night, and none of the villagers will care. If a man’s wife goes straying, it’s no surprise if she turns up dead in a ditch!’

  ‘Mallory is not my lover, and never was.’ But she stated the fact with little hope of being believed; Lewes was a man who had only one use for a woman. ‘And you’re wrong. Your reputation is catching up with you, Lewes. Or so I heard at Kepesake.’

  ‘No!’ He lashed out again, and she knew he would make her pay for the perceived offence; he was a man who not only bore grudges but nurtured them into full-grown grievances. She had learned that, too, during their marriage. ‘You expect me to believe you? You were always close with him, and that sister of his; too close. Was it him you ran to, that night? Or was there some other man, one who threw you out when he found out how useless you were, and you went bleating to Councillor Mallory for help?’

  ‘Believe what you want,’ Asher said coldly. ‘You always did.’

  ‘Oh, I will.’ His foot caught her on the hip, a moment of agony. ‘Do you know, I went looking for you when you left? For a long time. You cost me money!’

  ‘You know why I went.’ There was no point in trying to placate him, she thought wearily. ‘Not for another man, but to get away from you and what you were. A traitor!’

  ‘Shut your lying mouth!’ He bent and took a handful of hair in his fist, pulling painful
ly. She struck out, scratching the back of his hand with her ragged nails, and he swore, letting her go.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ Anger came to her rescue, as it had so often in the past. ‘You always twisted things in your mind so that you were right and everyone else wrong, but you can’t lie to me. I despise you. You sell friends and neighbours to feed your greed and self-importance because you’re a weak man, and always were!’ And stupid, to believe no one would ever find you out.’

  He let her finish, but his face flushed an angry red and she was ready for the onslaught when it came, curling up to shield face and stomach from his hands and feet. It was soon over, and he stood back, breathing hard.

  ‘Sit up!’ he ordered. ‘I’ll not let you tempt me to leave too many marks on your skinny body. Your death is going to be an accident.’ Although his fury had not subsided, common sense returned some semblance of his self-control. ‘Unless people believe your precious lover tired of you, and tried to put the blame on me, the innocent husband, when he killed you!’ Asher wondered fleetingly if such a thing were possible. ‘No one,’ and he spoke so emphatically that Asher could not doubt him, ‘is going to stop me. Least of all you.’

  Shakily, she sat up, more afraid than ever before in her life. She had placed herself in the hands of the Fates, but at the same time she had hoped — or believed? — that no harm would come to her. Now, stripped of anger, of hope, and of confidence, Asher knew her luck had finally run out. She fingered the chain round her neck, thinking bitterly that she deserved it should be so; she was guilty of the same self-importance of which she had accused Lewes, the same selfish assurance that she, and only she, was right. None of this would have happened if she had listened to Omond and Mallory.

  I thought I could manage him. I’d forgotten ... During her years in Venture, she had grown to believe herself immune to her old terrors — another mistake.

  ‘Worried?’ Lewes’ voice taunted her; hating him, she shut her eyes.