Sister Marguerite walked with another soldier just behind the commander. The former clarified, “Montrose is being dealt with separately, Sister, but we must retrieve those emeralds for Her Majesty. The man we seek is a notorious pirate wanted in seven kingdoms for theft on the high seas.”
“How dreadful!” Sister Marguerite returned, looking appropriately aghast. Her gaze swept the gathering of sisters. “I cannot imagine any of our Sisters of Chastity having dealings with a nefarious pirate. Why the very idea of it weakens me, Lord Commander. The Sisters of Chastity seek only to lead a virtuous life—”
“As we well know, Sister Marguerite,” the Lord Commander assured her.
“—and I cannot imagine a sister aiding such a scoundrel. Surely, could you not have received erroneous information?”
“I’m afraid the source is beyond question, Sister,” the Lord Commander answered, “for I saw the man heading this way with my own eyes.”
Hidden in the back of the group, Trell turned Carian a suspicious look, brows arched inquiringly beneath his veil. The pirate sprouted an iniquitous grin in reply.
Trell glared at him. Whatever the pirate’s convoluted plan, he didn’t doubt that the man had purposely revealed himself to the Veneisean commander. Just what are you up to, Carian vran Lea?
The Lord Commander raised his voice to include all the sisters as he commented, “Fortunately this vran Lea fellow is a dimwitted louse without an ounce of originality.” He began wandering among the collection of sisters, continuing pontifically, “Like most criminals, his intellect is of the rank and file, and his actions therefore are quite predictable.”
Trell could hear Carian gritting his teeth to keep from snarling a retort. He hadn’t imagined the islander had such self-control—from all he’d heard of the Pirates of Jamaii, they rarely saw occasion to display the virtue.
“So you see, Sister Marguerite,” said the commander as he came to a halt in front of Carian and Trell, “it shall be of no consequence whatsoever to discover the scoundrel among your number.” Abruptly he snatched the veil off Carian’s head and then skipped back three paces, drawing his sword with a flourish. “Voilà!”
The sisters nearest them gasped and drew closer to one another even as the other Tivaricum guard rushed in to lay hands on Carian and Trell.
“Sister Marguerite,” declared the commander triumphantly, “I give you the pirate Carian vran Lea.”
“The infamous pirate Carian vran Lea,” Carian quipped with a toothy grin.
“This is most unusual!” Sister Marguerite exclaimed, looking shocked. “To allow such an unrepentant man of ill repute within our sanctified walls is truly an outrage. I assure you, Lord Commander, I will search high and low for the sister who would sully our virtuous Order in such a manner.”
The Lord Commander clucked his disdainful agreement while his men bound Trell and Carian’s hands. “See that you do, Sister. I pray your virtue be restored quickly with punishment of the miscreants in due measure.”
“Indeed, indeed,” she said most critically. “They shall certainly be given their due.”
The Lord Commander led his guard away without another word, but as Trell was being hustled from the room, he spared a look over his shoulder and saw Sister Marguerite smiling beneath her veil. He couldn’t be certain, but he even thought he saw her wink at him.
Outside the villa, the Tivaricum Guard disarmed them and threw the pair indelicately into a jailer’s wooden carriage, slamming the barred door and locking it with a heavy iron key. A moment later they were knocked sideways as the horses jumped into a canter and the carriage rocked in their wake.
Looking like a travesty of a bride in his white dress and with his wild black hair long about his shoulders, the pirate pulled out a dagger, fixed it between his knees, and started sawing through the ropes binding his hands before him.
Trell stared at him. “Where did you get that?”
Carian shrugged. “They missed it in their search.” He broke free of his bounds and then attended to the ropes binding Trell. Then he found a perch in the corner of the carriage, pulled out his tabac pouch and rolled a smoke. As he exhaled a grey haze, he noted Gendaia on a lead outside the barred window and inquired of a sooty-looking Trell, “Will that horse of yours come when he’s called?”
“She,” Trell corrected in a somewhat unfriendly tone, “and yes.”
“Good. That’s good.” He eyed Trell curiously. “What’s got you so riled?”
“They took my sword, Carian,” Trell said in a tone made all the more ominous for its quiet delivery. “That sword hasn’t been out of my sight even once since I woke up on the beach in Kai’alil.”
Carian blew two smoke rings. “Relax. Everything is going according to plan.”
Trell shook his head and looked out the barred window. He really would have to kill the pirate if something happened to his sword. Only Gendaia was more precious to him. And Fhionna. But Fhionna wasn’t his to claim, though she in contrast seemed to have claimed no small part of his heart. Pushing thoughts of Fhionna from mind—for even just in memory she was uncommonly distracting—Trell looked back to the pirate. “So…emeralds fit for a queen? Where are they then?”
The pirate leered at him. “Hidden in the eyes of a zanthyr, my friend, for nothing else in the realm might overshadow their beauty.”
“The eyes of a zanthyr,” Trell repeated, thinking of Vaile’s predatory gaze one sunny afternoon in the hills above the Mage’s sa’reyth. He admitted the pirate had a fair point; certainly no material thing could ever rival a zanthyr’s gaze for depth or color.
The pirate looked him up and down. “Were you planning to keep that dress on or…”
Trell had barely noticed that he still wore the white dress. Giving the pirate an annoyed look, he pulled it over his head and let the garment fall. “So what is this all-encompassing plan of yours?”
“Get into the Tivaricum, rescue a pal of mine, recover your sword and your horse and get my prize.”
“Prize?”
But the pirate would say no more.
When they finally reached their destination and the doors opened, Trell emerged inside a well-fortified stockade.
“What’s this?” protested the Lord Commander when he saw their hands unbound. “Who dares free the scoundrel and his cohort?”
“We didn’t touch them, milord,” protested the driver. “They come out of the back like unto that.”
The Lord Commander glared at a leering Carian. “Search him for blades!” he shouted.
Abruptly five glowering soldiers descended on the pirate.
The Lord Commander turned to Trell then, looking him up and down with pale blue eyes which seemed nothing if not indifferent. “Take this one away.”
And off he went.
Trell was ushered into a cell that reeked of vomit and urine and was left there for perhaps an hour. Finally a guard came for him and took him somewhat ungently through a maze of corridors and down a long passage to a room at the end. Inside he found the Lord Commander sitting behind a wide table upon which rested Trell’s sword. An older man of middle years sat in one corner with his eyes closed. He wore courtly garments and looked as if he might be sleeping.
As the guard shut the door behind Trell, the Lord Commander looked up at him with a frown. “Now,” he said, folding fingers on the table before him, “you shall tell me how you came to possess this sword and what your business is with vran Lea, and if you are honest with me, I will see what can be done to lessen your sentence.”
“My sentence?” Trell repeated, not at all liking the Lord Commander’s tone.
The Lord Commander eyed him critically. “Any man who consorts with pirates in Her Majesty’s kingdom shall be sentenced to ten years before the mast.”
“Slave ships,” Trell snarled.
“A mercy,” returned the Lord Commander, holding Trell’s incendiary gaze. “So,” he declared, sitting back in his chair. He opened his hands toward Trell�
��s sword. “Explain.”
“The sword is mine,” Trell said evenly. “I would appreciate your returning it to me now.”
The Lord Commander leaned forward and placed a hand upon the scabbard. His blue eyes were hard. “This tête-à-tête is a generosity, monsieur,” he warned. “I can have others ask the questions in less comfortable conditions.”
“The sword is mine,” Trell said again less hospitably. He switched to Veneisean so as to ensure the man understood him and continued in his cultured speech, uncompromising and stern, “It has always been mine, it will always be mine, and I would appreciate its immediate return.”
The Lord Commander sat back in his chair and frowned at Trell. After a moment’s consideration, he asked, “What says Her Majesty’s Voice?”
The older gentleman in the corner opened colorless eyes and slowly stood. Trell realized he was a Truthreader clearly in service to Queen Indora and obviously brought in to divine the truth of Trell’s words. “He spoke Raine’s truth,” said Her Majesty’s Voice. “The sword has always belonged to him.” His colorless eyes swept Trell, but his expression was unreadable. “Tread carefully, Lord Commander,” he added, looking back to the soldier with a frown of concern. “These are matters of grave delicacy.” With that, he excused himself from the room.
Trell watched him go feeling suddenly uneasy. What was it about his sword that so bothered the Lord Commander? Why would the man require the presence of one of the queen’s Truthreaders to ensure its ownership? And what was the matter of ‘grave delicacy?’
The Lord Commander pondered Trell in silence for a long time. Finally, he asked, “What is your name, monsieur?”
Trell trusted him about as much as a bad-tempered camel, so he answered, “They call me Ama-Kai’alil.”
“A desert name,” the commander said, looking surprised. “You are…Converted?”
“I have no kingdom,” Trell returned, squelching the ache in his soul at speaking the words.
The Lord Commander looked frustrated. “This is most unusual.” He looked Trell up and down again and then stood. “Gregoire, the door!”
A guard entered.
“Put him with the pirate,” ordered the commander, “and call for the magistère.” Looking stormy, he closed himself back up in the room with only Trell’s sword for company.
After a long walk through the maze that was the Tivaricum’s stronghold, the guard shoved Trell into a room that looked like a dining hall where a dozen guards stood in a circle around the pirate, who lay upon a table. Carian raised his head at Trell’s arrival. “Well, it’s about time,” he muttered.
Trell sat down beside the islander on the table. “What’s all this?” he asked, indicating the circle of guards.
Carian sat up and swung his legs over the side of the table. “I’ve escaped from this illustrious establishment eleven times,” he said cheerfully. “For some reason, they don’t trust leaving me alone in a cell.” He looked to the stone-faced Tivaricum Guards. “And how is my old cell-mate Kardashian? I hope he hasn’t gone to dance with Jack Ketch since last I visited?”
Carian cast a stony eye upon each guard in turn until one finally answered, “He waits for the hangman’s noose on the new moon.”
“Ah, good.” The pirate smiled a feline sort of smile. Suddenly he clutched his chest and fell backwards onto the table. Trell reached for him in concern, whereupon the choking pirate grabbed his shoulder firmly, and—
Trell blinked in utter darkness. Only the pirate’s firm hold upon his shoulder reassured him that he hadn’t been transported into nothingness. He felt a heavy weight atop him and tried to wiggle out from beneath it, only he knocked his forehead against something hard instead.
“Ow!” hissed the pirate into the darkness. “That was my skull you clumsy oaf!”
“Where in Tiern’aval are we?” Trell whispered in annoyance. He was so cramped in the tiny space that he couldn’t move more than his fingers.
“In an armoire,” Carian answered in a low voice. “It was the best I could do on short notice. Their big mistake was letting me pick which table to lie upon. This place is riddled with leis. Shhh!”
Trell heard men yelling and the clomping of booted feet as soldiers rushed by. They remained silent until the sounds of men faded.
“Now what?” Trell whispered.
“We’re going to weigh anchor out of here, my bonnie lad.” Carian pawed around until he felt a latch, and then there was a great release of pressure and they both tumbled out onto the floor.
Carian was up on his feet in an instant. “Smartly now, my handsome!” he urged. Then he was off.
Trell jumped to his feet and hurried after the pirate. Carian led Trell confidently through the labyrinth of passages, down several flights of stairs, and finally onto an open level of tall, barred cages which emitted an overpoweringly sour odor. Most of the cells’ occupants were sleeping in the stinking rushes, though a few sorry sorts eyed Carian dispiritedly as he rushed past. A catcall or two drifted to their ears, but it seemed that these men had lost all hope. There were no guards about, and Trell soon noticed that the men were chained to the floor with heavy iron shackles. Most looked too emaciated to put up much of a fight, much less attempt an escape.
Carian finally found the cell he was looking for and pressed his face between the bars. “Kardashian!” he whispered.
A mop of red hair lifted from the straw, followed by the face of a man in his middle years. “About time, you bloody stinking pirate,” Kardashian muttered as he stood and wandered to the bars dragging his chains with him. “They’ve got me scheduled to dance with Jack Ketch next week.” His black eyes shifted to Trell. “Who’s your pretty boyfriend?”
“Never mind him. Do you have the map?”
Kardashian eyed him shrewdly. “I’ve got it. Did you get the emeralds?”
“I told you I would, you gout-brained fop. Pass over the map.”
Kardashian pulled out a folded piece of cloth from inside his torn vest, while Carian retrieved a velveteen pouch from inside his tunic.
“Where were you hiding that?” Trell hissed in astonishment. “I saw them search you!”
“Trade secrets, poppet,” Carian whispered. He eyed Kardashian narrowly. “On three. One…two…three.” They exchanged their goods, and Carian’s eyes glowed with triumph as he unfolded the cloth and saw the map scrawled within. “You’re sure?” he whispered, looking back to Kardashian.
The man grinned through broken teeth. “Sure as silver.” Suddenly he jerked his hands, and his shackles fell to the straw. “Let’s go.” He pushed open his cell door as if it had never been locked. “The food here smells like a Bemothi whore’s arsehole and tastes even worse than it smells. It’s not too late to catch the Talon to Kroth, and I’m starving.” His tawny eyes gave Trell the once-over again, and then he jerked his head. “Follow me.”
They rushed behind Kardashian as he led them in a new direction out of the dungeons. Trell grabbed Carian’s arm as they ran and whispered tightly, “Who is he?”
“Only the greatest thief who ever lived,” Carian answered with a grin.
Up several long flights of curving stairs and they emerged into open air across from the stable yard. “Ah!” sighed Kardashian. “The sweet smell of manure. ’Tis the odor of freedom.” He looked to Carian, nodded to Trell and then slipped away into the darkness.
“I’m so utterly predictable, am I?” Carian said, grinning after the thief. Then he looked to Trell. “Smartly now. I’ve got what we need, so—”
Trell grabbed the man by the chest and pushed him roughly into a near wall. “Not without my horse and my sword,” he growled, and his tone left no room for argument.
The pirate gave him a nightmare of a frown, but he didn’t argue, possibly because even a pirate of Jamaii knew better than to press his luck with Trell when he got that look in his eye. “Fine,” Carian hissed disagreeably. “Let’s hope you can whistle loud enough to be heard over the bloody horns,
because we’re bound to hear them any moment now—as soon as our sainted Lord Commander sets aside his ego in favor of his job, they’ll be after me in force. Where’s your damn sword then?”
“In a room with the Lord Commander.”
“Fortune prick me! I—”
But in that moment, horns blared from the stockade walls, drowning out his words. Carian grabbed Trell by the shoulder and shoved him into the shadows just as men emerged into the yard from every direction, all of them converging on the main building. Pressing a finger to his lips, the Nodefinder motioned Trell to follow, and in silence, they slipped off again.
A strange few disjointed minutes followed as Carian led them across a garland of leis he’d strung for their escape. Their first stop landed in the guards’ quarters, where they donned surcoats and breastplates and Carian did his best to hide his masses of hair beneath a helmet. Another leis took them deep inside the Tivaricum, opening upon a dusty room littered with ill-used books. Carian seemed to know the place intimately—which was only fitting, Trell supposed, if indeed the man had escaped eleven times from its confines. Still, he drew up short when they arrived unexpectedly upon the long hallway with its room at the end.
They ducked in an alcove and hid behind a dust-laden tapestry as a loud group of soldiers rushed past, and then Carian was loping long-legged down the hall to where Trell’s sword awaited. His cutlass appeared in his hand out of nowhere—how in Tiern’aval is he doing that?—and then the pirate was barging into the room.
Carian’s face fell when he found it empty of the Lord Commander, though Trell’s item of desire remained upon the table. Trell claimed his sword with palpable relief and donned the belt even as they ran out again and—
Met a stone-faced Lord Commander and ten very unfriendly Tivaricum Guards.
***
Dozier Debardieu pushed up the sleeves of his uniform and settled hands on his scrawny hips. He didn’t resent being assigned to the stables, even though he’d joined the Tivaricum Guard on the hopes of participating in grand battles or important missions for his queen. But he never had filled in the way his mama always promised he would, remaining tall and skinny as barn cat in winter. The other men made fun of him when he sparred, calling him names like Willow Reed and Peach Fuzz, among others which were less supportive of his self-esteem. He knew he wasn’t worthy to be considered among their number, so when the Lord Commander offered him the position of stable master, he’d accepted with gratitude. The horses were bigger than the soldiers he’d fought in the practice yard, but they were generally of a more even temperament and never called him names.
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 78