Fate

by Mary Corran

  Jerr removed his jacket, for the front was soaked with Mylura’s blood; he dabbed at it ineffectually, then gave up and turned it inside out, hiding the stains. Signalling the men to let the body drop to the dirty floor, he came across to Asher.

  ‘This was for you, so you should see what will happen if you speak a single word of the lie you have concocted. My master would know of it in the same instant.’ He looked straight into her eyes as she spoke, and she was chilled by his expression. ‘Take this warning. It is the only one you will be given. If you keep silence, you will be spared. Even your real name and background will be lost — for I know who you really are, as does my master. But if you speak, or if you continue on your present path, you die. Not even your friend the Councillor will be able to save you, or himself, or anyone else to whom you tell this lie. Do you hear?’

  Asher bent her head.

  ‘My master has chosen to give you this lesson rather than kill you. Consider and be grateful.’ It was plain Jerr found such generosity incomprehensible. ‘And you — you’d not die so easily as this one, I give you my word on it. Is that clear to you?’

  Again, Asher bent her head, glad to be absolved from any necessity to reply. She looked over Jerr’s shoulder and saw one of the men lift Mylura and sling her body over his shoulder, as if she were only so much dead meat. He moved to the ladder and began to climb. She felt cold.

  Jerr, seeing where her attention lay, said curtly: ‘She’s for the river tonight. Don’t bother looking for her. And now, we’ll let you go. Straight back to that hostel and nowhere else, and not a word to anyone. If you speak, I’ll come for you. There’s nowhere in this city you can run I can’t find you, no door that will keep me from you.’ He touched the bloodied knife he still held in his hand, then reached behind Asher and slit her bonds, freeing her arms to hang limply at her sides. She was trembling so violently she could hardly stand. ‘Remember,’ he added softly, ‘not a word.’

  His companions were gone, and they were alone in the cellar. With a last look, Jerr put his foot on the first rung of the ladder, then the second. Asher spat out the rag, her mouth dry and bitter-tasting, clinging desperately to the wooden post, unable to stop shaking.

  ‘Farewell, girl, and hope, for your own sake that you never see me again.’

  Jerr disappeared from view then Asher was alone with the lanterns and the floor, stained with Mylura’s blood, and was sick suddenly, retching in endless spasms until she could hardly breathe, falling to the floor and moaning to herself a stream of mindless denials.

  She stayed there for a long time.

  *

  She never knew how she managed to find her way back to the hostel; she was not aware of where she walked until she found herself at the door of the hostel, and heard the first bell of curfew toll, and knew she must go in.

  I can’t, not looking like this.

  It was her first rational thought for some time. She could not go in until she was in control of herself; no one must know or guess what had happened, or they would be in the same danger as herself. With trembling fingers, she smoothed her hair and wiped her face on her sleeve, biting her lips to give them some colour. She practised a smile, and when she was sure she could keep it in place for the minute or so she would need, she knocked on the door for admittance. To her relief, neither Margit nor Essa answered, and somehow she reached the privacy of her own room without encountering her closest friends.

  Once in that sanctuary, she could not control her hands sufficiently to hold the key, which dropped from her fingers to the floor; she stared at it, not really seeing it. It seemed too much trouble to bend and pick it up, and she let it lie until she heard movement on the stairs. Then she stooped for it and locked her door, barely in time; someone knocked, then tried the handle. She ignored the sound of Essa’s voice calling her. She stood motionless, unable to summon the energy to move, feeling a lead weight settle in the pit of her stomach. The room was dark, but she did not want light; she did not want anything at all except to be left alone.

  The second curfew bell rang and the hostel was suddenly filled with noise as the women made their way to bed, laughing and joking with one another. Their voices did not sound real to Asher. Another knock at her door. A voice calling. She ignored that, too. Guilt dripped like acid through the protective numbness in which she had surrounded herself, corroding the fragile shell in which she hid, bringing with it such mental anguish that Asher gasped aloud.

  My fault, my fault, mine.

  She thought she might go mad as the words repeated themselves over and over again in her head. Time passed, but she was not aware of it, nor of anything else but her guilt.

  Was there a hollow place in her mind, as there was in the world, without Mylla? Her stomach felt tight and empty, the acid of guilt dripping slowly down, each drop a flare of agony. In the dark, Asher knew she had never been so utterly alone as she was that night.

  It was a little before dawn when a sense of reason returned, and another thought stirred.

  Not me, not the Fates, but Avorian.

  She gulped in air, filling her lungs. She could not, would not rid herself of the guilt of responsibility, but it was Avorian who was the cause of Mylura’s murder, who was its instigator. It was the worst form of arrogance for Asher to take to herself all the blame, to imply that Mylura had only acted as her surrogate. She would not use her own pain as an excuse to hide herself and give way; Mylura’s death was Avorian’s open admission of guilt, making their suspicions fact. It was he who had stolen Vallis, who held her in a prison of his making, who would kill rather than let his secret be known. That killer was the real man behind the mask.

  Mallory. In the morning he, too, would know, when he read the letter, unless ... but she could not let herself believe Jerr or Avorian knew about Cass, or Carob, or the letter. She had experienced no sensation of being watched during the short time she had spent at the inn; no need, with Jerr keeping them under physical surveillance.

  He will know, and he’ll come. She knew a fierce desire for the comfort of his physical presence; she wanted to share with him the lust for vengeance that burned in her heart, the sharpness of her loss. She had not mourned Lewes, and there had been no time to mourn even her parents, for the events of the night they had died had left no time for such a luxury, but she would pay Mylla the tribute she deserved. Mallory would understand her helplessness and guilt and despair. Mylla, he’ll pay, Avorian will pay, I swear it! she promised passionately; that vengeance was worth living for.

  Time went by. Hollow-eyed, Asher sat and waited behind her locked door. She could not sleep and did not weep; there would have been no relief in either. Morning came, and several times someone tried her door, and voices called out to her, but she did not answer them; they were an irrelevance that had nothing to do with her life. They had nothing to do with the cellar, and Mylura, and the real secret only she, and now perhaps Mallory, knew. Essa and Margit and the others might speculate on her whereabouts, and on Mylla’s, but they would know nothing, which was as it must be.

  When she was sure the others had all gone to work, and the hostel was empty, she unlocked her door and went downstairs to the main salon from where she could watch for Mallory. She trusted him to come; he had to come. If Jerr were watching, she did not care.

  As she waited, she wondered why Avorian had let her live. There seemed no sense in it. Did he hold her in such contempt that he believed she would keep silence from fear? Except that even if he had enjoined her death, it would already have been too late, for before Mylla had died, she herself had already written to Mallory, telling him the truth. Was it that, that choice, which had saved her life? Could Mylla’s, too, have been saved, if she had been able to use her gift to look at the future, to understand its possibilities? My fault — mine! She curled up, trying to get rid of the pain. In denying the gift’s existence, had she ensured it should be useless to her when she needed it most?

  The pain of loss was unendurable, but
it had to be endured. She must find the courage to bear it.

  She returned to the question of her own survival; it was easier to think about that than to remember.

  Asher stood by the window and waited, watching, seeing nothing, wondering: Why?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kirin had discovered his attic eyrie the previous year, when he was only seven, before his father had died and his Uncle Mallory had come to live with them; it was a wonderful place from which to watch the comings and goings on the hill because it had windows on three of its four sides, so he could see from the front and back of the house as well as the road along the side.

  Yesterday, there had been movement higher up the hill; the house which stood behind their own belonged, he knew, to Chief Councillor Avorian, and there were always carts and wagons coming and going, although rarely so early. This time their cargo was wine-casks which he guessed had been sent downriver from the Councillor’s estates; that was how their own were dispatched, the empty ones taken away and sent back overland by the slow route. He had counted at least a dozen or more before he had to leave the window.

  This morning the excitement was someone coming in through their own gate — a slave-woman, and Gormese by her dark colouring. Intrigued, Kirin watched as she stood for a moment looking up at the house, obviously unsure where to go; then she disappeared along the side and Kirin heard a loud knocking at one of the doors at the rear. He could not hear what was being said as a maid responded to the summons, for he had not thought to open the windows, but he waited until the woman reappeared soon after, still watching as she walked out of the gates and back down the hill and out of sight.

  He considered whether he should go downstairs, for his nurse was angry if he was late for meals, but instinct held him by the window and he was rewarded when, a short time later, he saw his Uncle Mallory appear, followed by several of their menservants. Horses were brought, and the party — at least ten, although they were so close together it was difficult to count them all — mounted and left by the main gate, heading downhill. Since this was an entirely new departure, Kirin spent some time wondering where they were going and why, wishing he could go with them. No one ever told him what was going on, even though he was the heir to the house, and he debated running downstairs and following them; but they were mounted and he was not, and he was probably already too late. Reluctantly, he abandoned his watch to join his brother and sister for nursery breakfast.

  After a hasty meal, Kirin ran back up the attic stairs to his post, for there was still time before lessons. It was early, but already the fishing fleet down by the harbour was making its way out to sea and he sighed. His mother refused to let him go with them, no matter how often he asked, even in the calmest weather. Perhaps he could ask his uncle? But he was a little in awe of his tall uncle, who had spent so many years sailing the world, and who might not think much of an ambition merely to go fishing.

  And there he was, coming back. Peering carefully, for his eyesight was excellent, Kirin thought he saw a woman among the group, a woman he had never seen before. Was that all? He made a face, having hoped for something more exciting. He moved to the rear window to watch them dismount, but there was nothing, really, to be interested in, for his uncle and the strange woman had already entered the house, and the rest was dull and overfamiliar.

  Abruptly, he remembered he had left his pocket knife in the garden the previous day — he had been throwing at a target with Lake — and decided to fetch it before lessons. Bored, now, with his vigil, he ran down the three flights of back stairs, then, with more caution — for he was now late, which he had promised not to be, and he was not supposed to run about the ground-floor rooms in case he broke things or bumped into any of his uncle’s visitors or customers — he opened the door to a small waiting room behind the main hall and let himself out into the garden through the window.

  The gardens ascended the hillside in a series of terraces, the lower more formally designed than those higher up, with strict borders and patterned paths. Kirin thought the knife would be on the uppermost terrace, which was only grass and trees, for that was where he had been throwing it. He kept low as he made his way up towards the wall bordering the property to the west. No one saw him and he straightened up as he reached the place, the small ornamental garden sufficiently secluded by trees and bushes to hide him from sight of the house, which is why he and Lake and Crisa used it to play in. Carefully, he began to search the ground.

  ‘Hello.’

  Kirin looked up, startled. The voice came from the ash tree beside the wall. There was a man perched in it, leaning comfortably against the trunk, arms behind his head; he was fair-haired and dressed in a grey livery — not their own — but Kirin knew him by sight. He was one of the Chief Councillor’s servants.

  ‘What are you doing there?’ he asked stiffly, very much the son of the house, for the man had no right to be in their gardens.

  ‘Oh, nothing in particular.’ The man smiled broadly. ‘Are you looking for something? Can I help?’ He swung down from his perch to land lightly and neatly on the ground.

  Kirin hesitated for this was his garden, although impressed by the servant’s agility; but the man was not a complete stranger, and Kirin was now very late for his lessons. ‘I lost my knife,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Somewhere round here, I think. It’s a good one.’

  ‘I’ll help you look.’ The man moved closer, apparently scouring the ground for the missing object. Kirin relaxed and went on looking, paying the stranger no more attention.

  He was still bending down when an arm came round his throat, his head was forced back and, when he opened his mouth to cry out, a vile-tasting liquid was poured into it. He had no choice but to swallow or choke. Almost at once he felt weak and dizzy, and his eyes closed, his body relaxed.

  The man picked him up, placed him over his shoulder, then went back to the tree leaning against the wall. With slow, lazy movements he began to climb, disappearing on the far side.

  Kirin did not stir; he breathed in long, slow breaths. Oblivious to anything, he slept.

  *

  ‘Asher,’ he began, ‘I’m sorry.’ But she turned to look at him with a face so hard and angry that the words of sympathy died on his lips.

  ‘Don’t.’ Even her voice sounded brittle. ‘I can’t bear it yet.’

  Mallory sighed, wishing she would do something as feminine as burst into tears; that would have been easier to cope with than her bitter self-reproach.

  ‘It was my fault,’ she said, ice-cold. ‘I didn’t pay enough heed to the warnings, because I didn’t understand. I thought we were cleverer than Avorian.’

  ‘I wish — ’

  She finished the sentence for him. ‘That you’d been involved? Do you really think you would have made a difference?’ Her red-rimmed eyes stared the challenge.

  Since it was exactly what he had been thinking, he denied it instantly, guiltily aware it was, in fact, probably untrue; she and Mylura had been more than competent, and it was arrogance to believe he would have managed better against such odds and such numbers. ‘I liked her, too, Ash, even if I didn’t know her very well,’ he said gently. ‘And it’s not your fault, not in any way.’

  ‘Thank you.’ But the words were automatic; he had made no impression on her.

  ‘Would you consider going down to Kepesake and leaving me to deal with the rest?’ He made the suggestion with inner trepidation, and was relieved she answered him quite calmly.

  ‘This is not a physical battle, Mallory, or not in the sense that strength is what matters. It’s a war against a single man, where wits will count for as much as the force of his army of servants. And it’s my battle, even more than yours now.’

  ‘Very well.’ Left to himself, he knew he would not have given her the choice, but he was learning to stifle such instincts. Her life belonged to herself, not to him, and he had no right to make any decisions on her behalf.

  ‘What do you intend to do?’ he asked at
last.

  ‘Do?’ She looked at him sharply. ‘Go on, of course.’

  ‘How?’ The signs of exhaustion were obvious in her face, but she seemed to burn from within.

  ‘We know. Now we have to find her, and tell her who she is. We have to stop Avorian from marrying her.’ Her voice sounded hard, unforgiving.

  ‘But he’s threatened to kill you.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Her eyes flashed with sudden rage. ‘He’ll know I’ve told you. You know now. I’ve involved you, without your agreement, for which I’m sorry.’ She did not look apologetic. ‘Before she died, Mylla said I had to make it worth it.’

  ‘I was already involved.’

  ‘I’ve nothing else now, Mallory.’ She did not speak from self-pity, merely making a statement of fact. ‘I can’t go back to the hostel, or I risk the lives of my other friends; it would be easy for Avorian to arrange their deaths. And you must say if you want to draw back now. That’s your choice.’

  He realized, with shock, that she was trying to protect him. ‘I’ve made mine, Asher, you know that,’ he said stiffly, half-offended.

  ‘Then there’s only us. Only we know the truth about Avorian. He’ll try to kill us both, he has no other option. We have to find the girl before he succeeds.’

  ‘She can’t be far away, not if he means to marry her. And he has to do so before the Dominus dies.’

  Concentrating on the task in hand was evidently easier for Asher than dealing with her emotions, for she sounded more like herself when she next spoke. ‘We don’t know when he intends to marry, but it must be soon, so that his popularity is still high when he announces Menna is Vallis, and no one will protest too loudly.’

  ‘We’d have a riot on our hands if we spoke out against him now, especially before the tribute ships sail.’