by Evie Manieri
Rho tugged on his boots.
his friend advised.
Rho stood up stiffly.
Rho looked back through the doorway at his invitingly rumpled bed.
he repeated.
Doorways flicked by, each framing the same scenes of guards and lamps and cold meat and hot tempers, until Rho caught sight of Falkar coming out of one of the chambers up ahead.
Falkar winced at his bluntness and changed the subject.
Falkar’s silvery eyes flashed over him, skirting the bruises and puffy eye with repugnance.
Soldiers were already beginning to emerge from the rooms up ahead, pulling on their uniforms as they walked. Rho ducked his head and moved through them as quickly as possible, buffeted by their heightened emotions, until he was able to turn away from the barracks and into some of the less frequented corridors.
He wound his way towards the stables until he reached Frea’s chamber. All was quiet. A torch burned in the bracket outside the red-curtained doorway, and by its light Rho could see a trail of dark spots leading into the room. He knelt down and touched the stain at his feet. It was blue Norlander blood, and it was still wet. He moved closer to the curtain, and now he could hear Frea moving about inside. Suddenly the stupidity of his vague plan became apparent to him. He had no way of rescuing the boy short of asking her to release him, and that was never going to happen. He thought of reminding her of the Mongrel’s ominous warning, but she was so stubborn this was more likely to make her tighten her hold.
No; he had nothing. Disgusted with himself, he continued pacing on down the corridor, trying to think of something. He was so lost in his own thoughts that by the time he heard the soft sounds from the crossing he had just passed it was too late. The point of a blade pricked him between his shoulder blades, covered hands jerked his arms behind his back and he felt his wrists being lashed together.
‘Call for help and you’re dead,’ someone hissed, his hot breath tickling Rho’s ear. There were six or seven of them, by the sounds of their feet scuffling on the floor. He struggled experimentally, but the bonds held fast and the hand that held the knife at his back stayed steady.
‘Have him go in there and bring Dramash out,’ someone whispered.
‘Why would he come back out, you idiot?’ the man holding him answered, and spittle flecked his face. ‘You don’t let a hostage go; you trade him. This Dead One for my boy.’
‘She’ll never do it.’
‘There are six of us, Omir, and we’re armed. We don’t need her to cooperate.’
‘You’ve only been here two hours, Faroth—’
‘And you’ve been here two years, Omir: two years! I remember you swearing that if they ever came for you, you’d kill as many as you could before they cut you down, but here I find you, alive and well! How many of them have you killed so far? Fifty? A hundred? Or is it none?’
‘Wait,’ Rho interjected, ‘if it’s the boy you want, I—’
‘Shut up!’ the man whispered.
They began pushing him back down the hall towards the red curtain. As he was shoved forward his foot caught the bottom and set it gently swinging; he caught a glimpse of Frea’s bed, with the boy curled up in the luxuriant furs at the foot, apparently asleep. Then he saw Frea herself, clutching a blood-soaked cloth to her side while she turned the blade of her sword over the the flame of a lamp on an iron stand. Rho could just make out the round curve of her breast in the soft lamplight and in defiance of every ounce of reason he possessed, his desire for her was aroused all over again.
He knew he should call out to her, but he couldn’t make himself do it. He couldn’t bear for her to see him like this.
In one smooth motion Frea drew back the blade, lifted the cloth and pressed the heated metal against the open wound. The terrible hiss of burning skin and an acrid smell filled the room.
Rho’s captors shoved him through the doorway, shouting, ‘Let the boy go!’
Frea lunged for something on the bed beside her – at first Rho thought she was reaching for the leather jacket, to cover her nakedness, but instead she grabbed the silver helmet and jammed it over her head; only then did she pick up the jacket and sling it over her shoulders. She didn’t bother with the clasps, and the hollow place between her breasts and her taut stomach gleamed between the folds of dark leather.
‘Papa!’ cried the boy, jumping off the bed.
�
��Come here, Dramash! We’re getting out of here.’ Rho’s captor stepped out to the side, and now Rho could see he was lame, his left leg dragging. He held a curved sword, the edge none too clean, and notched from rough use. The boy looked at Frea and then back again at the man with the sword. He did not move.
‘I don’t want to go,’ he announced. ‘I want to stay here. Mama’s going to—’
‘Dramash! Come here!’ roared the man, and he lunged out to grab the boy, but Dramash deftly ducked out of his way and ran around behind Frea’s legs.
Frea’s imperial knife flew into her hand from its scabbard. The slaves leapt back as one, pulling Rho with them, until Dramash’s father cut off their retreat with a savage shout. The lame man pressed the edge of his weapon against Rho’s stomach. ‘Give me my son, or I’ll gut your man,’ he threatened.
The silver helmet moved and through the slits Rho saw Frea’s black pupils fix on him. He felt nothing from her: not concern, nor anger, not even disappointment. The only thing he saw in the silver mask was his own reflection.
‘She doesn’t care if you kill me,’ Rho told the Shadari. ‘She’s not going to give you the boy.’
He jammed his shoulder into his captor’s chest and threw his body sideways, hoping to get clear of the sword; that was as much of a plan as he’d worked out so far. He heard the ripping sound of his shirt tearing, and hands reached out to grab him, but they recoiled from the chill of his skin. He tried to turn around, but his head swam and it wasn’t until then that he saw the blood welling up and dripping from the fresh cut across his side and stomach – the wound he hadn’t felt – and he realised that he was falling. He grasped with his bound hands for something to keep himself upright and managed to clutch the door covering, but the rings tore away from the rod with a series of stuttering pops and he and the red curtain tumbled down together in the doorway.
Frea charged at the Shadari, her knife and Blood’s Pride screaming in her hands, and they panicked and scrambled back out into the hallway with Frea right behind them.
He kicked ineffectually at the curtain tangled around his legs while blood seeped from his wound and soaked into his shirt.
‘You’re bleeding. He hurt you.’ Rho looked up and saw the round eyes of the little boy looking down at him. His small head was cocked to one side and his forehead was furrowed. He looked like he was trying to find the solution to a difficult riddle. ‘Are you a bad man? You don’t seem like one.’
‘Dramash,’ Rho implored him, ‘you should—’
But before he could say anything more, a pair of cold hands slipped under Rho’s arms and pulled him back through the doorway and into the hall. He saw Frea fending off the Shadari – it was six against one, and Frea was wounded, but even as he watched one of the slaves collapsed in a heap against the wall. They wouldn’t be able to stand against her for long.
Daem grabbed up a long knife dropped by one of the Shadari and started on the knot binding his wrists.
A shriek sliced through the air and both men looked up to see the largest of the Shadari men carrying Dramash over his shoulder like a sack of meal – except that the boy was kicking and beating the man with his fists and yelling something about the dereshadi. The others were trying to hold Frea at bay so the man could make his escape down the corridor.
She kicked him away in disgust, and as he went sprawling, a second shriek careened off the corridor walls and the Shadari holding Dramash cried out in pain and anger and dropped the boy, who streaked back to Frea.
‘Dramash!’ the lame man bellowed, ‘get back here!’
Rho heard a strange splitting sound, like a board being torn in two, and the rock beneath him trembled. He looked dizzily up at the ceiling. Another earthquake.
A black fissure wormed its way down through the red rock, and dust and small rocks pattered down onto his head and shoulder. He tasted chalk on his lips. The crack widened and extended down the wall and across the floor, snaking towards him – no, this was no earthquake. He looked at the boy standing rigidly behind Frea’s legs. The look on his face was just the same as it had been at the mines.
Daem grabbed Rho and jerked him to safety just as the floor spread open beside him, a crack several feet wide, running from one wall to the other. The Norlanders were all on one side of the rift and the Shadari – except for the boy – were on the other. Rho looked down into the fissure. He could see the flicker of torches on the level below, and even as he looked, more of the edge on either side crumbled away, widening the breach.
‘Dramash!’ the lame man shouted, and thrust out his hand to the boy. He hobbled towards the crack. ‘Jump, Dramash – come on!’
‘I want to stay here,’ the boy said obstinately. ‘I’m going to be a soldier. I’m going to have a dereshadi. Mama’s going to come here and live with me.’
‘Come here, you little brat! I’ll teach you to defy me!’ He shook his sword, but it was an idle threat; he couldn’t leap across the gap, not with that lame leg. Rho saw the other Shadari arguing now, and finally, after one last long look at Frea, they fled. Doubtless they were planning to come around and cut Frea off from the other side, but of course she’d be long gone by then.
In fact, when Rho looked back, she was gone already, and the boy with her.
Rho’s eyelids felt heavy and he wanted to sleep, but Daem finally returned carrying one of Frea’s spare swords.
Daem’s hand rested for a moment on his forehead; it felt wonderfully cool. He forced his eyes open again and saw Daem holding the blade of the sword in the torch’s flame.
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘You can’t be serious?’ Daryan asked wearily. His head was still pounding from his confrontation with Shairav and that strange conversation with Rah
sa in the hallway, and now Omir had cornered him with news of Faroth’s astounding and preposterous rescue plan. He wouldn’t have believed a word of it if Omir hadn’t hastily introduced him to Binit – a thick-waisted, nervous man whom Daryan had never laid eyes on before – and the short, tarnished sword he clutched to his side. Two others, Hakim, and Daryan’s friend Tal, kept a nervous watch over both ends of the corridor. ‘Omir, you don’t really believe Faroth wants me back in the city, do you?’
‘That’s what he says,’ Omir replied grimly. ‘And as for him being serious, I just saw him slice a guard open right in front of the White Wolf.’
‘But Faroth has no use for me – or Shairav,’ he protested. He wished they weren’t crowding around him so closely. ‘Harotha made that clear enough: it was one of the things they argued about before she came here. Why would Faroth do something like this? Why now?’
‘I don’t know, but the longer he’s here, the more trouble he’s going to stir up. That’s why I came to find you.’
‘Well, let me talk to Lord Eofar first, then we can—’
‘Lord Eofar can’t even help himself now,’ Omir broke in. ‘I thought you’d heard: Governor Eonar is dead and the White Wolf is using her soldiers to take control of the colony. She’s declared Lord Eofar and Lady Isa traitors to the empire – they’re to be killed on sight, along with anyone caught helping them.’
Daryan clenched his fists. ‘I knew something like this would happen. I tried to warn him—’
‘Daimon!’ Tal interrupted in an urgent undertone, and he looked up to see someone staring at them from a dozen paces away.
Rahsa still had that nasty gash on her forehead, and under the dirt her cheeks were bright red from exertion. Her robe was torn at the shoulder and bloody scratches marked the soft flesh above her breast. She blinked too often and she breathed in sharp, shallow gasps. Even as Daryan watched in horror, she raked her nails across her chest, bringing up lines of fresh blood.
‘Oh, no,’ he breathed to the others. ‘Wait here – let me talk to her. And don’t move, please,’ he implored them as he pushed past.