Exile (The Nandor Tales Book 1)

by Martin Owton

  “Come this way,” Cristoff said, his voice a light tenor.

  Aron stepped across the threshold into a fine airy hallway lit by lamps burning scented oil. The floor was tiled with a fine mosiac centrepiece and a large mural of fauns dancing with shepherdesses covered the wall that faced the door. Aron paused to admire the mural as Cristoff closed the door.

  “Magnificent, isn’t it?” said Cristoff. “It took the artist a year and a half. His Lordship is a connoisseur of beautiful things.”

  Aron shivered as he tried to reconcile the magnificent painting before him with the countless brutal acts that Tirellan had committed.

  “This way,” said Cristoff holding open a door at the side of the mural.

  The door led into a wood-panelled corridor, and Aron followed Cristoff past paintings and cabinets filled with fine silverware. At the end of the corridor another door stood ajar; Cristoff pushed it open and led Aron into the room.

  “Petter, he’s here.”

  Petter, Lord Tirellan turned from what he was doing and Aron got his first sight of his prey. He was slightly shorter than Aron, but heavier in the shoulder; his dark hair was short and a neat beard and moustache framed his mouth. He was dressed in a simple tunic and leggings and moved with an easy fluidity that spoke of a trained physique.

  Tirellan scrutinised Aron much as Cristoff had, but his blue eyes lingered longer on Aron’s body. Then he smiled showing even white teeth.

  “Splendid,” he said. “Bazarkis excels himself.”

  Aron had to consciously avert his eyes from meeting Tirellan’s gaze in challenge. Looking down he took in the dagger at Tirellan’s belt that was larger than those commonly worn for decoration

  “Well worth the price,” said Cristoff.

  Aron noticed that he, too, wore a large dagger. Have to wait until they’re undressed, he thought.

  “Wine for all,” said Tirellan.

  He turned to a sidetable that bore a decanter and tray of goblets. Aron watched intently as he poured and then passed Cristoff a goblet. Cristoff took a sip.

  “This is a good one,” said Cristoff appreciatively. “Where did you get this?”

  Tirellan passed Aron a goblet. Aron eyed it suspiciously. Tirellan took an appreciative mouthful from his own goblet. “Yes, it is rather fine. I picked up a cask in Peresia last year. Surprising for such a young wine, I should have bought more.”

  Aron watched as Tirellan and Cristoff both drained their goblets and refilled them from the decanter. Can’t be poisoned then if they’re drinking it so freely, he thought and took a cautious sip. There was nothing unusual about the taste of the wine. Aron looked around curiously, wondering what they wanted him to do.

  “Just stand there so we can look at you for a while,” commanded Tirellan. Aron did as he was told and watched as they gossiped and occasionally looked his way. I wish they’d get on with it, he thought; the tension in his stomach making him very conscious of the concealed knife. He took another mouthful of wine. I could take them right now. He looked out of the corner of his eye at Tirellan. Remember Tirellan is Academy trained. He’s probably as good as you are; better to wait until you can be certain of the kill.

  Still Tirellan and Cristoff did nothing . Aron stood looking at the finely decorated walls and carved furniture, better even than the household of the Duke of Kyria. The air was thick with the scent of perfumed oil from the lamps and Aron felt a trickle of sweat run down his body. His head swimming slightly, he looked down at his goblet and saw it was empty. Surely he couldn’t had drunk it all, he didn’t remember. He looked up sharply and the room kept moving. He shook his head to clear it, but that made it worse.

  Tirellan looked at Aron and smiled. He picked up a small hourglass from a side table.

  “I believe you win, Cristoff,” he said.

  There was nothing wrong with the wine, thought Aron desperately. The drug was in the goblet before he put the wine in. He tried to move, to attack while he still could, but his body felt as if he was moving through some thick fluid. Tirellan and Cristoff stepped forward and caught his arms. He tried to resist, but his strength seemed to leak out of him and they half carried, half dragged him towards a door in the far wall.

  Cristoff pushed the door open with his foot and Aron saw into the room beyond. It was only small, built originally perhaps as dressing room. Secured to one wall was a whipping frame, with leather straps to bind the victim to the bloodstained wood. Beside it stood a rack of whips, wicked metal spikes, slim pincers and other implements of torture. Opposite stood a pair of velvet upholstered couches piled high with pillows.

  Aron struggled, but Cristoff and Tirellan easily overcame him and strapped him face first to the rack. Cold horror spread through Aron and he would have collapsed to the ground if he wasn’t secured. He felt the cold touch of steel on his back as his tunic and tights were cut from him to leave him naked. The room spun and the darkness at the edge of his vision threatened to claim him. All was silent for a moment; then the first lash of the whip tore a line of fire across his back. Aron shrieked in agony; a second lash fell and the vomit rose in his throat cutting off his scream. He clenched his arse tight to hold the concealed knife. A third stroke slashed into his buttocks and he emptied a mouthful of bitter fluid onto the tiles. Too late, he thought fleetingly, the drug’s done its work. His vision blurred; he looked down into a mist that seemed to be rising from the floor. Another blow fell and the mist thickened as Aron tottered on the edge of an abyss of darkness. He seemed to hear his own voice screaming in the distance and the last thing he saw before the world turned black was a pair of blue eyes smiling at him.

  CHAPTER 31

  “Damnation take the man,” shouted Earl Baldwin as he stamped into the room heading directly for the bottles on the table beside the fireplace.

  “I take it that His Majesty has not taken our part in his judgement,” said Lady Alice, her face a mask of calm.

  “Stupid little pup who shouldn’t even be given charge of a flock of chickens,”

  snarled Baldwin, his face mottled red and his hands shaking as he struggled with the cork.

  “What did he say, papa?” asked Edith.

  Baldwin’s reply was a wordless roar of rage as the corkscrew slipped out of his hand. He picked up the bottle and broke the neck off against the stone of the fireplace then filled the largest goblet to the brim.

  “Sit down Baldwin, before you burst something,” said Lady Alice. “And don’t curse in front of the girls.”

  Baldwin snorted in reply and took a deep draught of wine which provoked a violent coughing fit resulting in him spilling a good portion of the wine. Tears ran down his scarlet cheeks as he strove to control the cough. After watching his struggles for a minute, Lady Alice put aside her embroidery.

  “Go and help your father, girls.”

  Edith and Celaine shared a glance and then went to Baldwin. Celaine took the wine bottle and goblet from him and Edith slapped him firmly between the shoulderblades before mopping his tunic with her handkerchief.

  “Now sit down and tell us exactly what His Majesty said without cursing,” Lady Alice said.

  Baldwin collapsed onto the chair and sat gasping, trying to regain his breath. Celaine and Edith returned to their seats to await the news.

  “Blasted little jackanapes,” spluttered Baldwin.

  “Baldwin, will you get to the point,” Lady Alice said, her eyes narrowed with annoyance. “Did you see the King?”

  “Yes,” snapped Baldwin, pouring himself more wine.

  “Is he going to make them release Maldwyn?”

  “No,” said Baldwin from behind his goblet.

  “Do we have to pay the ransoms and cede the land?”

  “No.”

  “What then?” said Lady Alice.

  Edith and Celaine held their breath awaiting the news.

  “Damn fool said that he had no means of deciding between us, as if I were lying
to him. He’s not fit to be king if he can’t tell an honest man when he sees one.”

  “But what’s going to happen, Papa?” cried Edith.

  “Because this idiot can’t see the truth when it’s under his nose, it’s to be settled in the arena by trial of champions.”

  Baldwin took another mouthful of wine. There was silence for a moment while the ladies considered the news.

  “When?” said Lady Alice her usually smooth brow furrowed.

  “The next tournament,” muttered Baldwin in reply. “Day after the next full moon.”

  “And who is to be our champion?” Lady Alice fixed her husband with a hard stare. “It will not be you, Baldwin.”

  “Why not, dammit?” Baldwin raised his head defiantly. “The honour of Nandor is at stake.”

  “You are too old and too slow,” said Lady Alice. “I absolutely forbid it. We will forfeit rather than you risk your life in such a manner.” Baldwin glared back at her, his fists clenched showing the knuckles white. “There’s no good looking at me like that. You know very well Sarazan has three or four Academy trained masters at his beck and call, any one of whom would cut you to pieces in a few moments. When do we have to name our champion?”

  “By sundown the day after tomorrow,” said Baldwin gruffly.

  “Then we haven’t much time,” said Lady Alice. “We need to find someone to take this fight for us. It will be expensive, but that can’t be helped now.” She shot a look at Baldwin who was reaching for the wine bottle. “Would you leave please, girls. Your father and I have a lot to discuss.”

  Edith and Celaine stood up, and with a curtsey to their parents, left the room closing the door behind them.

  “I wish Aron was here,” said Edith as they stood on the landing. “He’d be our champion.”

  “But he’s not here, is he?” replied Celaine. “Anyway, we don’t need him. Petter will do it. He’s Academy trained too, you know.”

  “What makes you so sure he’ll do it?” said Edith a little more sharply than she intended.

  “For the honour of Nandor, for my honour. He wouldn’t want a wife from a dishonoured house. Petter is a very honourable man.” Edith said nothing but rolled her eyes. “I shall ask him myself, he wouldn’t refuse me.”

  “You sound just like Papa with all that talk about honour,” said Edith.

  Celaine had the grace to look embarrassed.

  “Well, have you got any ideas then? We have to do something.”

  “When are you next seeing Petter?” asked Edith.

  “I shall go to him today,” said Celaine. “He doesn’t dine until late, there’s time enough.”

  “We should go right now then.” Edith nodded at the door behind her. “Before they arrange something else.”

  “I’ll just ask Mama if we can go.”

  Celaine moved towards the door, but Edith blocked her.

  “Let’s just go. They’ll be busy for hours. We can be back before they’re finished.”

  “But what’ll Mama say?”

  “If you ask her now, she’ll say no. Just change our shoes and go.”

  Edith steered Celaine towards their room where they exchanged their slippers for street shoes. Celaine paused in front of the mirror, a hairbrush in her hand.

  “There’s no time for that,” Edith said as she shooed Celaine away from the mirror. “You look fine as you are.”

  Together they tiptoed past the door to their parents sittingroom and then down the stairs. Through the open door of the taproom, they saw Captain Thalon and two other Nandorans at a table, engrossed in a dice game. Holding their breaths, the girls flitted silently past out into the street. Dusk was falling and already some of the buildings had their night lanterns lit. As was usual for this hour there were many people about; watching a juggler, buying sweetmeats from a pedlar or just strolling in the warm evening air.

  Edith felt a little thrill of excitement as she looked around at the scene. “Which way is it?” she asked.

  Celaine paused and looked around. “It’s this way, I think,” she said, setting off towards the thickest part of the crowd; Edith had to scamper to keep up with her.

  A few hundred paces on Celaine headed off down a well-lit side street where the press of people was thinner. They made faster progress, until Celaine halted in front of a shop.

  “Isn’t that lovely? Don’t you think it would suit me?” Celaine said.

  Edith looked into the shop. A wedding gown was displayed on a mannequin. Edith turned to her sister who was staring longingly at the gown.

  “Is this on the way, or did you come here to just look at that?”

  “No, no. It’s on the way, but isn’t it beautiful? I just had to stop for a minute.”

  “Now you’ve seen it, let’s go.” Edith plucked at Celaine’s sleeve without response.

  “Don’t you want to look at one for yourself? It won’t take a minute.”

  “I’ll do it when we’ve got more time,” said Edith, biting her lip. “Now I really think we should go. How much further is it?”

  “It can’t be very far. It doesn’t take long in Petter’s coach. There should be a lovely square with a fountain at the end of this street.”

  To Edith’s relief, Celaine turned away from the shop and headed down the street.

  There was indeed a square at the end and a small garden where a number of young women were strolling or gossiping in small groups. They were as finely dressed as the women Edith had seen when she first arrived in the city, and a number of them carried small dogs in baskets at their elbow.

  “Oh look at those sweet little dogs,” said Celaine moving towards the nearest dog-bearing woman with Edith following.

  “Isn’t he lovely. What’s his name?” Celaine reached out to stroke the dog which bared its teeth and growled at her. The woman looked at her suspiciously. Up close, Edith could see that she wore a lot of facepaint and the roots of her blonde hair were dark.

  “What do you want?” said the woman showing yellowed teeth.

  “I just wanted to see the little dog,” said Celaine.

  “Piss off, you stupid little bitch,” said the woman pulling the basket out of reach. “This is my patch.”

  Celaine stepped back in surprise as the woman spat at her, and tears started to well up in her blue eyes. Edith grabbed her sister and pulled her away as the woman bent, scooped up a handful of dirt and hurled it at them. The other women in the square turned from what they had been doing to stare at the commotion; a few bent to find missiles to throw. The sisters hitched up their skirts and fled down the street, stumbling on the cobbles, pursued by a volley of rubbish and invective.

  The pursuit did not last beyond the first corner though Celaine and Edith kept on running well beyond. Eventually they halted in a quiet side street and stood hands on thighs gasping with the exertion.

  “Why was she so horrible?” sobbed Celaine once she had breath enough to speak. “I don’t understand; people are so strange here.”

  Edith hugged her close and fought to control the anger surging through her; she wanted to go back and slap the woman until her teeth rattled. She pulled out a handkerchief and dried Celaine’s eyes.

  “How can I go to see my Lord looking like this?” said Celaine plucking at her disheveled hair. “And I’m sure my eyes will be all red too.”

  “I think I can hear water,” said Edith. She walked a little way down the street to an archway. “Come here Celaine, there’s a fountain. At least we can rinse off the worst of it.”

  “Have you got any soap?” asked Celaine as she walked shakily towards Edith.

  “No, of course not,” said Edith. “We’ll just have to do what we can.”

  She walked to the fountain in the centre of the little square and sat on the low stone surround. Celaine came and sat down beside her. Edith drew out a handkerchief from a sleeve, dipped it into the pool and started scrubbing at the worst stains on Celaine
’s dress. Celaine fished in her reticule and found a hairbrush which she wetted and started to brush her hair.

  “How far is it to Lord Tirellan’s house?” asked Edith.

  “It can’t be far,” said Celaine, concentrating on her hair. “I’m sure we’re heading in the right direction.”

  Edith was about to answer when she noticed the man watching them from an archway on the far side of the square. She plucked at Celaine’s sleeve as the man, aware that he was being observed, walked towards them. Edith glanced around; the shutters were closed on all the buildings overlooking the square and there was no-one else in sight.

  “Good evening ladies,” he said as he reached them. “Are you together?”

  Edith looked at him suspiciously. His accent was that of an educated man and he was quite well-dressed, though his clothes seemed rather worn. He was only slightly taller than her as she stood up to face him.

  “Yes,” she said hesitantly, glancing at Celaine.

  “Are you sisters?” he asked with an oily smile.

  “Yes,” said Celaine.

  “And how much for the pleasure of your company?” He reached into his coat and pulled out a leather pouch. “I have money. Come along, girls, it’s not a hard decision. An evening of your time for half a crown.”

  He held out a grimy hand with silver in it.

  Edith turned to look at Celaine, confusion in her eyes. Celaine sat holding the hairbrush, her mouth open, saying nothing. As Edith turned back the man stepped forward and grabbed her. Edith gasped in alarm and astonishment as she felt his arms around her. His hold tightened as she squirmed and she felt his tongue slip into her mouth. Celaine stepped up behind him and hit him over the ear with the hairbrush. He loosened his grip on Edith, half turned towards Celaine, and then Edith brought her knee up sharply between his legs. The blow was somewhat cushioned by her skirt, but she felt her knee make contact with soft flesh. The man stared at them for a moment, eyes bulging and then doubled over in pain.

  “Run,” cried Edith.

  They both gathered up their skirts and pelted up the nearest street, Celaine still clutching the hairbrush. They didn’t halt until they emerged from a side street into a square that was thronged with people. As they careered to a halt and stood gasping, heads turned to stare. Edith didn’t care who was watching and collapsed down on a low wall. Sweat dribbled into her eyes as she panted for all she was worth. Celaine came and propped herself beside her sister and was quietly sick.