Charles Ingrid - marked man 02 The Last Recall

by Charles Ingrid

  He left her alone in the room.

  But she wasn't alone in it. Her nightmare filled her waking mind as her rapist pounded himself into her flesh again. She shuddered again and began to cry.

  Thomas left the schoolrooms, in a press of flesh congratulating him for Gray Walton's appointment and his delegacy. He fought off the momentary claustophobia he always had in like situations—so many weapons, so many opportunities for them to strike—and smiled when Lady showed her teeth to him, prompting.

  It had only taken two days to accomplish the impossible. Gray's admitted fairness had helped immensely. He was a compromise candidate that all factions finally agreed upon. Bartholomew was not greatly pleased, but had acquiesced. And Gray, undoubtedly briefed by Lady before the proceedings had begun, had promptly tabbed Blade to go out and try diplomacy with the growing nester nation before all-out warfare became inevitable.

  Judge Teal drew most of the crowd away from them by demanding the bar in the manor house be opened, and a hospitable round for all be poured. The judge gave him a last look, keen eyes measuring him as if to tell him that it wasn't over yet. Teal was not a man for compromises with justice and welfare.

  Blade watched the man walk away, his older body still elegant within the lines of his suit. "He's not done with me yet," he remarked to Lady.

  "Nor am I." She looked around. "Have you seen Drakkar and Shankar? I didn't like the looks of Drakkar when he caught up with his father's ambassador."

  "I didn't see them."

  "They were first out the door. Bolted for it, I'd say."

  Lady's instincts were nearly as good as his. "Then I'd say we'd better find them."

  Drakkar caught Shankar at the edge of the barn. He'd stripped off his soft-cuffed gloves and the ambassador edged away, shrinking inside his clothes, as he reached for him and caught him by the shoulder.

  "Shankar," Drakkar said.

  "Young chieftain," Shankar returned. He blinked at the bared wrist, so close to his neckline. "I have many duties awaiting me, Drakkar, not the least of which is notifying your father of this afternoon's events."

  "My father will wait," Drakkar said. With his free hand, he patted down Shankar's body. He found a wicked-looking shiv, dropped it in the dust and kicked it aside. Inside the stable, a horse whickered shrilly. Drakkar continued his search, dipped his hand inside a pocket, and came up with tiny rolls of paper.

  "Pigeon scrolls," he said.

  "All blank, my lord," Shankar breathed.

  "But the ones I have are not." Drakkar let the blank scrolls rain into the dirt. He pulled a missive from his front pocket. He began to read: "Settlement satisfactory. Confirm your agreement to our terms. Instructions for your deployment to follow.'' He returned the scroll to his pocket. "I went through a lot of pigeon shit to find this. Tell me, Shankar. Why would my father send such a message? Are you or are you not already his assignee? Or is it possible that your allegiance has just been sold?"

  Shankar trembled wildly within his clothes. His first pair of eyelids dropped down. "I know nothing of what you read." He threw an arm up over his head as Drakkar shook him violently.

  "No? Just as you knew nothing about Micah's sudden illness, leaving this post vacant so you could conveniently claim it? Our Mojavan rebels have had a wealth of information from the Seven Counties, Shankar. Who sends it to them? Who finds it necessary to operate a pigeon cote secreted far from the Warden compound? Think before you answer, reptile. I have witnesses who have already testified as to your actions."

  With a sinuous movement, Shankar slipped himself of his jacket. Drakkar found himself holding an empty garment as the ambassador went to all fours.

  "You are a boy," the ambassador snarled. "You understand nothing of the real world! Your father is about to be overwhelmed and he does not even see the tide that is coming." He scrabbled about in the dust.

  "Go for your knife," Drakkar spat out. "Let me see what you're really made of." His feather crest rose in rage.

  "My God, Thomas," Lady breathed. "Drakkar's fighting bare-handed against Shankar!''

  Blade was already slowing to a walk. He'd seen the wicked spurs free of their gloved confines. "I'd say he has the advantage," he replied, even as Shankar's shiv caught the sunlight as the ambassador lunged at his princeling.

  Blade admired Drakkar's quick, space-efficient move out of the way, without a strike. The boy's mouth moved. He knew, hearing them, that the words were calculated to enflame Shankar further, so the wily ambassador would lose all rational thought and coordination. He put a hand out to catch Lady's wrist. "He's baiting him," he said. "He wants the ambassador alive."

  She slowed reluctantly to his pace. "But," she answered, "does Shankar know that?"

  Blade looked about. "I don't want any witnesses. We got enough shit over Drakkar while trying to get Gray nominated. If the Mojavans cause any more trouble or can't present a united front, we're going to lose all our backing for the alliance.''

  Lady dropped back a step. She said, "Keep them in the shadows. I'll ward the stables as best I can. Mind those spurs! Accidents happen."

  He left her behind as he approached the fighters.

  On dusty trails in the inner counties, he'd often seen roadrunners baiting rattlesnakes. The encounter he watched now reminded him of those encounters, though this time it was the bird with the venom to be watched. But Shankar was a lizard man, with most of the dominant reptilian traits so reprehensible to the Countians. His movements were oddly jointed, incredibly fluid, and his speech had sunk into a low hissing of anger as he danced about Drakkar. The two wove a spectacle even as he felt Lady drop a cloak of seeming about it.

  She joined him. "Put an arm around me," she said.

  He did so, felt her body trembling from the effort of illusion. "What are they seeing?" he asked, his attention on the two fighters.

  "Why us, of course. Kissing in the shadows."

  He would have chuckled, but just then Shankar made a deadly strike. He caught Drakkar smiling, mocking him, even as the shiv hit home, skated off a rib, and ripped cloth.

  "Damn!" Drakkar whirled away. His face went dead white, his eyes large in his face.

  "Come closer," Shankar hissed. "Let me strike again."

  Drakkar took his hand away from his right flank. He showed his teeth in a smile that was reminiscent of Blade just before a fight. "You'd be dead, old man, but I want you alive. Traitors are best served warm."

  "Traitor? Your father doesn't know the meaning of the word. He knows nothing of friends or enemies."

  Drakkar made a swift move, snagging Shankar by the collar of his shirt. "He'll know you."

  There was a slight rip of cloth. Then Shankar twisted about, shiv stabbing upward. He impaled Drakkar's wrist on the blade.

  Drakkar made no noise. It was Lady who screamed, and cut her panic short with her hands as the two men suddenly entwined about one another, tumbling down in the dust. Drakkar jerked his wrist free of the shiv. The spur stayed direct and menacing. Blood streamed down his open cuff.

  Lady swayed. "Thomas," she said lowly. "Stop them. I can't . . . hide this much longer. ..."

  He took his arm from her as both men grunted, their bodies flailing, legs entangled. Drakkar had the shiv at his throat, his jaw clenched as he forced Shankar's hand away. Lady's legs folded up and she collapsed into a gentle sit-down at Blade's feet.

  The wind gusted. Dust rose, obscuring faces, as bodies rolled. He hesitated, unsure of whom he reached for, his wrist knife coming smoothly into his own palm.

  A boot toe kicked him sharply in the ankle as he stepped in. The pain rocked him a second and he lost sight of whose face was on top as the fighters rolled again. Then he saw Drakkar, left wrist crimson, fighting Shankar to the ground, hand clenched about the other's forearm, the shiv paralyzed between them.

  The point was at Drakkar's eye, but Shankar could not force it home. Drakkar's face showed the strain, but a savage joy lit his features. Shankar's arm shook. The ambassad
or kicked up, planting a knee solidly in Drakkar's solar plexus.

  The tactic worked. Drakkar deflated and recoiled abruptly, but his hand remained clenched about Shankar's as the point of the shiv dropped. It stabbed brutally at his shoulder, ripping through cloth and flesh.

  Drakkar had him a second time, both at counterpoint to one another, shiv frozen, its tip dripping blood between them. They held one another off, sinews tight, faces intent.

  Drakkar suddenly smiled. "My tailor," he said, "is going to hate you." He struck, cracking Shankar's arm across his kneecap, and the knife went flying.

  Shankar's eyes widened, then narrowed. Drakkar caught him up and drew him with him as he knelt in the dust. Shankar kicked and twisted, but could not free himself from the hold. Drakkar looked up and saw Blade for the first time.

  "Politics," he said.

  "At the very least. What happened?"

  "Our dear Shankar has been running his own messenger system for some time, perhaps since he first arrived. He has two masters, maybe more. Father would like to know who."

  Blade resheathed his knife. "I wouldn't mind knowing either," he said.

  Shankar showed his too sharp teeth as he gulped for breath. "I'll tell you nothing."

  "That," Blade said, approaching him, "is where you're mistaken."

  Shankar reached for Drakkar's wrist. With an abrupt movement, he drew the poisonous spur across his throat.

  Drakkar dropped the Mojavan as though he'd been struck. He got to his feet. "Damn."

  The ambassador began to convulse in the dust. Lady struggled to her feet. "Where does he keep the antidote?"

  "In his quarters." Drakkar turned after her. "Wait, Lady Nolan. There's not enough time."

  Shankar began to strangle, his lips going blue, his eyes bulging. They watched as the ambassador died a horrible death. Drakkar, hands shaking, pulled his gloves from his belt and tugged them on, despite the gaping wound in his left wrist where he'd been impaled.

  Lady reeled and Thomas caught her up, steadying her. "Illusion gone," she said weakly.

  "Son of a bitch," Drakkar said. "I wanted that information." He looked at Thomas. "What are we going to tell the others?"

  "I'd say," Blade answered, looking him up and down, "you look battered enough for me to say you defended yourself against an assassination attempt. You'd better get that rib scoring and wrist looked at. The shoulder's negligible, but you're right. Your tailor is going to hate you."

  They were suddenly surrounded by a crowd, voices rising in excitement and curiosity at Shankar's twisted corpse in the dust. Thomas moved Lady back as Drakkar's guard bulled their way through. He was not too familiar with the guard as they'd kept to themselves, but now the headman went to one knee in front of Drakkar. Blade made a point of memorizing the triangular, too sharp face, the mottled tan and sienna patterning of the skin, human and yet inhuman. Tando, he thought. That's the one called Tando.

  "My lord. Are you all right?"

  "I will be."

  "What happened here?" Bartholomew's voice rose over the general clamor.

  Drakkar turned, found the warty man's face in the crowd, and said coolly, "I was attacked. I defended myself."

  Tando got to his feet and signaled the other three to pick up Shankar's body. The nails of the hands and his lips had gone blue-black. Two-handed Delgado said, "Ain't never seen a knife wound do that before."

  Drakkar's crest had settled around his shoulders and the boy's face remained deathly pale, but he looked steadily at the drover. "Then I suggest," he said, "you don't pull a knife on me." He tried to push his way past, following his guard.

  "Witnesses," demanded Bartholomew.

  Thomas squeezed Lady's shoulders and guided her tired steps with his. "That's a matter for the DWP," he answered, "but we saw everything." As they stepped through, the crowd began to disperse. "The boy needs a healer. Let him go. You'll have the story tomorrow."

  Lady's strength returned step by step. He said little, walking with her. He'd seen more than he wanted to, actually. Knew more than he wanted to.

  Including the fact that Drakkar always kept a bottle of antidote on him, in case of accidents. Now was not the time, but there would come a reckoning when he would ask Drakkar why he'd not used it on Shankar.

  Drakkar had almost made it to the barracks on his own when he went down, writhing in the dust. Tando dropped his share of the ambassador's corpse and dove to catch his prince. He looked up.

  "Poison," he said. "The devil's blade was poisoned as well. His own works against it, but—"

  The barracks door flew open. Alma and Stanhope stood in the dimly illuminated doorway. Lady grabbed Tando's shoulder. "Get him inside," she ordered. "As quickly as you can."

  Her stomach miseries seemed insignificant in comparison to the sounds she heard emanating from the room designated for Drakkar over the next few days. And, though hers stemmed from a kind of fight for life, his were genuinely a hard fought battle. Lady and Stanhope rarely left his side and she could lie awake at night and listen to him moan between bouts of retching as they tried to purge his system.

  She lay in bed one gray morning, listening to the wind die down. The sudden calm following the days of blasting punishment from the Santa Anas brought a cold clarity to her thoughts. It was strange, she thought, that Drakkar's valiant battle for life gave her no inspiration to fight for hers. She rose from her cot and went downstairs, then into the drying shed for the herbs grown in the manor gardens. No one took heed of her. She had no real occupation in the compound, but they were used to her helping out with the wards and with the healers and not an eyebrow was raised, even when she dipped into the toxic supplies.

  She drew a bucket of fresh water from the pump, went inside, and heated a teakettle off the always warm stove. As the water heated, she prepared a teapot with the herbs she'd chosen. Chamomile, for its soothing qualities. Orange zest and clove for their pleasing flavors. Honey, for sweetness. Oleander, just a touch, for its deadliness. She would be ill, very ill from that. And then she added a pinch of herbs said to cause abortions in newly conceived mothers, guaranteed to slough off unwanted babies during plague years. When the water boiled, she poured it over the mixture to steep and fixed a tray to carry it upstairs.

  She carried her tray upstairs to the privacy of her small room and set it down on the writing table by the window. She shut her door. With the wind down and Drakkar sleeping at last, it was quiet, very quiet. The teapot steeped, steamed, and then cooled.

  It was very, very cold when finally she stirred enough to touch a fingertip into the brew to test it.

  She shrank back from the tray. Alma rose and walked to the window, where dawn was in earnest and the compound had bustled to life. She looked across. Rape was not unknown, particularly in areas where nesters raided. It was a crime which had never died out. She knew her disgrace would be accepted, if painfully. If she could bear it, the shame would be bearable.

  But she could not. Not Stefan's child. Not a lover's.

  But seed of a being she found so vile the thought of him made her wish she'd more than just hit him. Made her wish she'd pounded his face into a featureless blob, skull in splinters, brain and blood seeping out. . . .

  Alma spread her hands open and looked at them, as if she might see his blood on them.

  She would have to be strong. She would have to treat this like a plague baby, an abomination so wrong it would be cruel to bring it to term, no matter how prized children were. She only wished she could have asked Lady for the forbidden recipe.

  She might have used too much oleander. The flowering shrub was incredibly lethal. If something went wrong. . . .

  Alma turned from the window. She found her writing paper and pen and ink and sat down to write. If all went well, she would destroy the letter. If not, then Lady would read and understand.

  She put away her pen and ink and poured a cup of tea. She saluted the morning with the drink and put it to her lips.

  Morning
sun woke Drakkar. Its heat drifted across his face and he fought to get his gummy lids open. His ears popped slightly and he realized the pressure front which had been bringing in the hot, merciless winds had changed. Like a sea gone suddenly calm, it was quiet outside.

  And though the back of his throat burned as if it was on fire, the convulsions and retchings had fled, leaving him feeling weak as a newborn. Drakkar turned his head on his pillow. He did not recognize the room. He must be in the orphan barracks. Lady Nolan sat in a rocker, Sir Thomas' battered leather jacket draped over her chest, her mouth slack and her breathing gone deep in a way that was almost a snore, but not quite. Clever woman, he thought. You saved me.

  Thirsty as he was, he didn't feel like waking her. He stretched out a hand that wove and dove its shaky way to a goblet of water sitting on the bedstand.

  A crash of china made him jerk. There was a second crash. Drakkar swung his feet out of bed. Lady Nolan heard nothing, sleeping the sleep of the innocent and the exhausted. He pulled himself to his feet and lurched to the door. He could hear a dull thud. He looked down, half-expectant that it was his own uncooperative body hitting the planking. His vision wavered.

  A feather touch. A consciousness like that of perfume brushed past him. He knew it instinctively and reached out to catch Alma, but there was nothing tangible of her in the hallway.

  Drakkar stumbled to the next doorway and managed to get the door open.

  Her body lay slumped on the floor amidst shards of stoneware. He reached for her, his own weakness upsetting a writing table between them. A feather-light piece of paper drifted to the floor. It was that his uncoordinated hand grasped instead of Alma's limp arm. His gaze ran over it, unseeing.

  Then Drakkar's attention flew back to the words. He had no time! Leaving her there, he shambled back to his room and woke up Lady Nolan by yanking her to her feet.

  "My God." She dropped Thomas* jacket at Alma's feet as she knelt by her. "Let me sniff what's left of the teapot."

  Drakkar handed it to her and then managed to get Alma up in his arms and lift her formless body to the cot. Lady Nolan sniffed the small amount of tea still in the pot, a mass of leaves and herbs sodden at the bottom. Her tongue flickered out and tasted it fleetingly.