by David Drake
Her father-in-law recovered himself sufficiently to look Knopf in the eyes. “This is not your fault, Knopf, and we don’t hold it against you. Thank you for your troubles. See Dillard, and he will reimburse you for—”
Then a sob rose in Benjamin’s throat again. He shook his head, unable to speak. Knopf, taking the hint, bowed and exited, leaving the basket pack behind. Mahaut carefully covered the head again with the sack and set it down inside the basket.
Solon put a hand on his father’s shoulder. Benjamin stood silent, staring at the basket pack. His jaw was clenched so hard his face trembled.
“This will have to be done carefully. Thoroughly. And without mercy.”
“What, Father?” said Solon.
“He’s talking about revenge,” Mahaut said.
Benjamin Jacobson turned to her. “Yes,” he said, catching her eye. There was impersonal malice in her father-in-law’s face. The expression of a carnadon waiting on the banks for one false move from its prey. “I’m going to need you, Mahaut.”
“Me, Pater?”
“Yes. Will you help me do this?”
Mahaut nodded. “Of course I will.”
“Cold hell, Father, I’ll help, too!” Solon said. “Curse them. Curse them all.”
Benjamin held out an arm. “No. That would make you the next sure target. I cannot have that.”
“But Father—”
“I said no!” Benjamin lowered his hand. He was still gazing at Mahaut. “What do you say, daughter?”
Mahaut nodded. “Yes.”
“You owe this house nothing. If anything, we owe you.”
“That’s not the way I see it, Pater.”
Benjamin nodded. “Then it’s done.” He looked back down at the basket, suppressed another sob. “I have to go for a walk. A long walk. I won’t be back today. I won’t be—”
Benjamin could say no more. He strode past the basket pack and out the door.
Mahaut and Solon stood silently for a moment.
“Land and Law, I’m not meant for this,” Solon finally said. “I want to sell grain. I want to sell grain, then go home to Mary and the children in the evening. And that’s all.”
“I know, Solon.”
“What are we going to do?”
Mahaut knelt beside the basket pack, pulled it up, and put one strap over her shoulder.
“First, we’ll bury this,” she said. “Then you leave it to me.”
2
She began to take her archery practice as seriously as she had when she was in operational command of the women’s auxiliary. She rose early and worked with a former soldier who was on staff as a guard with knife and gun. The skills came back to her fairly quickly. In the afternoon she tried to put into practice what she had learned in the morning, although, as always, she avoided firing her pistol inside the compound.
She studiously avoided Edgar, and it seemed he was doing the same with her. He was much better now and began to take rides in the countryside. She had figured it would not be long until he strayed around the southern lake shore and wandered the league and a half into Hestinga. This was the longest time she’d ever seen Edgar go without visiting a tavern or whorehouse.
Plenty of people made the journey both ways every day. The children who were learning to read and do arithmetic rode donts or were trundled to and fro inside dak wagons to the private school in Hestinga where the better-off families had hired tutors, often moonlighting Regular officers or priests, to teach their children what they would need to know to maintain their status in society.
One of these students was Loreilei, of course. Mahaut knew that Loreilei was using her trips into town to visit with Frel, who now was apprenticing afternoons with Reidel, the civil engineer, while he finished his studies. They seemed to have taken her advice to heart, at least the part about not running off to be married so early. She hoped that Loreilei was being careful in other ways as well.
Frel had to come to Lilleheim occasionally on business from his master. Reidel was trusting him more and more with the layout of irrigation systems, especially the simple ones that fed off of a central ditch leading from the lake. Often Frel stayed the night in Lilleheim with a couple who were friends with his father. Mahaut was not surprised on those nights to wander by Loreilei’s bed and notice that the sleeping form under the covers looked suspiciously like a pile of pillows.
She’d received word from Jeptha Marone, both in coded scrolls sent along the trader network and from the more expensive flitterdak winged messengers used for important matters. Marone had discovered that there was a child, but he had few other details, and was following up on the matter. The woman had moved back to her parents in Lindron, while her husband remained in Garangipore as the Eisenach factor. Mahaut had considered having the man assassinated, but he was well-guarded and his death would not serve as just revenge, in any case. He was a wronged party in this matter, and if anyone had a legitimate grievance against Edgar, it was him.
Besides, mere assassination wouldn’t be enough.
In the meantime, there was grain to grow, harvests to get in, and contracts to fulfill. Together with her weapons practice, her days were completely filled. She had to arrange beforehand for moments of necessary rest, or those moments would never come.
Firing guns on the range was exhilarating, and the archery was calming in its way. She’d been shooting with a bow and arrow almost before she could walk. She hardly needed to think during practice, only draw the bow and listen to the arrow sing on its way to her targets. Sometimes her mind wandered, and when it did, usually she was thinking about the man, Abel Dashian.
With all that was going on here, and with Abel’s studies in Lindron, they hadn’t arranged to get together in over ten months.
Ten months, eighteen days and counting, she thought. Too long.
She liked to imagine him sitting still after lovemaking, the way he did. He would hardly move a muscle, listening with that slightly puzzled look to what he called his “inner voices.” She didn’t know who or what these voices were, but she imagined they were just part of himself that he’d attached personalities to, as a lonely child might invent an imaginary friend. Whatever they were, she understood they were important to Abel, and she never made light of him in these moments of communion.
Abel always acted calmly and decisively after such a spell, but it was in that quiet moment before taking action that he was most like a child overcome with wonder. It was as if he were seeing a world vastly larger than everyone else, vastly more complex and more beautiful. It made Abel himself seem otherworldy, filled with an inner light. And it was the vulnerability he showed when concentrating on those thoughts, those voices, the intensity he put into making a decision, that she most loved.
That she longed for.
Mahaut let go the arrow and it flew into the target, striking a thumb’s length from the bull’s-eye. This was the long-range arrow, the white-fletched one with the less damaging tip. She needed to practice with both versions, and next she pulled a black-fletched arrow with its double-notched feathers from her quiver. This was the mankiller. It had a shorter range than the white-fletched arrows, but its strike was meant to tear a jagged hole in a man when it struck, and take him down quickly.
She had notched the arrows on her bowstring when a beaded curtain over a doorway in the courtyard rattled and was pushed aside. She took the arrow off the bow and set the bow down, not putting the arrow back in the quiver. Maybe this would be a short interruption and she could quickly get back to shooting.
It was Loreilei. And she was not walking toward Mahaut, she was running. As she drew closer, Mahaut saw that tears were running down her cheeks. Her face was flushed.
“Aunt!” She called out. “Auntie Mahaut!”
“What is it, niece?”
“You have to come,” gasped Loreilei as she charged up to Mahaut. “He’s going to kill Frel!”
“What are you talking about? Who is going to kill Frel?”
“My uncle, that’s who,” said Loreilei, now shouting into Mahaut’s face. “You have to stop him.”
Edgar. Up to his old tricks.
Mahaut took the girl’s hand, gave it a quick squeeze. “Yes, of course I’ll come. But where are we to go?”
“The entranceway chapel. He caught us in there, Frel and me. We were only talking. Just talking. He said Frel was insulting the Family and he was going to make him pay.”
“What?” said Mahaut. “Frel never insulted this Family. He’s a good kid.”
“Uncle Edgar said he’d insulted it by being with me. Because he is the son of a Redlander barbarian, and he’s with me.”
“How does he even know about that?”
“He was in Hestinga yesterday. He saw us together. He saw us kiss. Come!”
Mahaut quickly followed the distraught girl out of the courtyard and through the maze of passageways that led to the family chapel. It was a large empty room used for Thursday school gatherings and other religious ceremonies. It was also a place for reflection and meditation. Almost nobody used it for that, of course, so Mahaut suspected Loreilei wasn’t telling the whole truth. It was the perfect place for clandestine meetings between lovers. The chapel was empty but for one thing: there was a room-size pyramid at the front built as a replica of the great step pyramid of Lindron, where the spirit of Zentrum was said to dwell.
Frel was lying at the bottom of the altar with Edgar standing over him. When they drew near they saw that Frel’s face was badly bruised and scraped up. His lip and nose were bleeding, and one eye was swollen.
“Edgar!”
Edgar turned to Mahaut. “What? Oh, curse it all, what is it now?”
“Stop this.”
“This? Why should I? Do you know what this piece of trash was trying to do?” Edgar raised a hand. In it was a pistol. Mahaut stopped in her tracks. “He and dear niece there were going at it behind the altar. Going at it like rutting donts, they were. And when I kicked him off her, she told me that they were going to run away together. How very sweet.” He aimed the pistol at Frel’s prostrate form. “But I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“Please don’t shoot him!” Loreilei whimpered. She rushed forward, but Edgar cocked the pistol, and she, too, stopped.
“It would be better if you stay where you are, niece,” Edgar said.
“Haven’t you done enough to the boy, Edgar?” Mahaut said gently. “You’ve shown him his mistake.”
“I don’t think it’s quite enough. And I think Father would agree.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“What the cold hell do you know about it!” Edgar screamed at the top of his lungs. “Who are you to have an opinion on my father? He would not want that…thing inside his granddaughter, that I can promise you.”
“Maybe not, Edgar, but Benjamin wouldn’t want you to permanently hurt the boy. I’m sure of that,” Mahaut said.
She tried to shuffle forward without Edgar noticing, but her feet made a noise against the stone floor and Edgar shouted, “Stay where you are, woman!”
“All right.”
“What do you think you’re going to do with that arrow, anyway?” he said. “Toss it at me like a spear?”
Mahaut looked down. She was still clutching the black-fletched arrow. “No, I was practicing with it when Loreilei came to get me.”
Frel groaned and tried to sit up. The effort was too much. His arms shook, came out from under him, and he collapsed.
“Please Edgar. Let him go,” Mahaut said. “You’ve taught him his lesson.”
Edgar shook his head. “He’ll come back. His kind always do. Look at you, for example.”
“As I remember, you came after me,” Mahaut said quietly.
“You didn’t mind. You loved it.”
“I didn’t know any better. And I was seventeen. I’d just discovered sex. It wasn’t you in particular, Edgar.”
“He needs to be dealt with,” Edgar said. “My contribution to the Family.”
“Not this way.”
Edgar spun, pointed the gun at Mahaut.
“Shut up!” he said. Mahaut gasped, took a step back. “Just shut up.” He turned back around to Frel, steadied his aim.
“No!” Loreilei shouted. Whatever fear had been holding her in place melted and she rushed forward. Edgar backed away from her, but she wasn’t going for him or the gun. She placed herself between Edgar and Frel. “No, uncle,” she said.
Brave, thought Mahaut. And foolish.
“You were a slave once, weren’t you?” Edgar said. “Weren’t you, niece?”
Loreilei slowly nodded.
“It seems the filth did not quite wear off of you. You are still a slut, I fear.”
“You will not shoot him.”
Edgar lowered the gun. He took a step toward Loreilei. “Of course not,” he said. As he did so, he turned the pistol around in his hand, now gripping the top of the barrel.
Mahaut shouted a warning, but it was too late.
With a vicious snarl, Edgar swung the pistol butt at Loreilei’s head. The crack of the wood handle against skin and bone was audible. Loreilei dropped like a rock through water and hit the stone floor. Her head was spurting blood from a gash from her temple to her ear. She did not move.
“Stupid little slave whore,” Edgar muttered.
Mahaut was wearing a simple tunic belted over women’s leggings. She transferred the black-fletched arrow to her left hand, and her right hand went to the back of her belt.
Edgar lined up on Frel.
Mahaut’s hand emerged from behind her back with a throwing knife. She turned the action of drawing the knife into an overhand cast, as hard as any she’d ever made. The knife flew across the five paces separating her from Edgar. It sunk into his left shoulder, the wounded shoulder. His arm jerked at the pain.
The pistol fired.
For a moment, Mahaut feared she’d been too late. But there was a puff of rock beside the altar, beside Frel, where the minié ball struck the pyramid altar.
Then, in the same eyeblink, there was the sickening sound of a ricochet.
Loreilei cried out. She clutched her side. Blood began to pour from a wound that could be nothing else but the bullet Edgar had fired.
It was a terrible wound.
Loreilei is not going to get up from that one.
“What did I do?” he said, looking down at the girl. It wasn’t said with pity, Mahaut knew. It was anger that the unjust world treated Edgar Jacobson so shabbily.
Edgar dropped the pistol. With a yell of defiance, he took the knife in his arm by the hilt and pulled it free with his left hand. “I’ll kill you for this, Mahaut!” he said. “This time, I’ll kill you.”
He spun around, Mahaut’s knife in his hand and raised to strike.
With a quick, sharp, and strong shove, Mahaut sunk the black-fletched arrow into Edgar’s chest. It scraped against a breastbone but found a way through, between. She pushed harder. She pushed until the arrowhead tore through Edgar’s shirt in the back and emerged on his other side.
“You bitch,” Edgar gasped.
“Husband,” said Mahaut. “You never said a truer word.”
Mahaut backed away, and Edgar stumbled backward, clutching the arrow shaft. He struggled feebly, and Mahaut realized he was trying to pull it out.
Good luck with that, she thought. The black-fetched arrows were made with a curving barbed arrowhead to make such an attempt futile.
The Scouts called them mankillers for a reason.
After a moment he either gave up the struggle or lost strength. He stumbled toward her. She took a step back.
And Edgar Jacobson toppled over and fell face-first at Mahaut’s feet. This drove the arrow the rest of the way through until the better part of the shaft was sticking out his back.
Edgar’s leg spasmed once. Twice. And then he ceased to move at all.
“No, no!” It was Frel. He’d pulled up his pants and found the strength to c
rawl over to Loreilei and examine her. “No, no, no.” He took her limp form into his arms, cradled her.
Mahaut stepped over Edgar’s body and came to kneel beside the two lovers.
“She can’t be, she can’t be gone,” moaned Frel. “It’s not fair. She was rescued. She was saved. Nothing bad should ever happen to her again. Nothing, nothing, nothing.”
He truly does love her.
Mahaut did not reply. She let Frel hold Loreilei for a moment, rocking her, stroking her hair. Loreilei’s head lolled to the side.
Mahaut touched the boy’s shoulder. “You have to let her go now, Frel,” she said.
Slowly, Frel lowered Loreilei’s body to the floor. Mahaut looked down at the wound that had killed her. On her right side was a hole oozing blood.
When the shot woman’s head touched the stone floor, Loreilei gasped suddenly. Her eyes sprung open, then rolled up in her and head and closed again.
“Blood and Bones!” Mahaut leaned over, felt Loreilei’s neck for a pulse.
There. Faint, but there.
“She’s alive, Frel,” Mahaut said. Another gasping breath from Loreilei.
The girl was a fighter.
Her niece tried to speak, but only a bloody bubble emerged from her lips. Mahaut leaned over and brought her lips to Loreilei’s. She pinched her niece’s nose closed, then blew air into the mouth. Down to the lungs.
Loreilei’s chest rose. Then, with a primal heaving sound, Loreilei threw up. The bile ran onto the floor, mingling with her blood. But after that, the girl breathed more easily.
“You stay with her,” she said to Frel. “I’ll go and get help. Can you do that?”
Frel nodded.
“Good.” Mahaut rose. The hem of her tunic and the knees of her leggings were now soaked with Loreilei’s blood. And that of her husband. She turned and stepped over Edgar’s prone body.
Then she spun back around. The arrow, point first, was still sticking up from Edgar’s back.
No need to let that go to waste. I might need it again soon.
Mahaut reached down. She got a good grip on the shaft. With a yank, she pulled it the rest of the way through.
Then, putting the arrow, slick with blood, into the quiver that hung at her side, Mahaut went to find enough servants to transport her niece to Mahaut’s own quarters.