“Your damned dog was trying to kill me!” Cratyn gasped, still shaking from fear and shock. “I’m more inclined to knight him.”
Adrina brushed away her tears and gently kissed Tiler’s limp head before climbing to her feet.
“You’ll pay for this,” she warned, then she turned and walked out of the tent with all the regal bearing her breeding and ancestry allowed.
When she reached her own tent she dismissed her ladies-in-waiting impatiently and called for Tam. When her maid found her, she was tearing at the laces of her bodice impatiently, sobbing inconsolably.
“Here, let me do that,” Tam offered, as she saw Adrina struggling. The princess knocked the offered hand away.
“No! I can do it myself! I want you to go and see Tristan. We’re getting out of here.”
The young woman studied her closely. “Out of here? How?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. But we’re leaving and I don’t care what it does to the alliance, to the war, or to my father. I’ve had enough!”
“We’re a thousand leagues from home in the middle of a battlefield on the border of an enemy nation,” Tamylan pointed out. “Where are you planning to go, your Highness?”
Adrina glared at her in annoyance then sagged onto her bed. It was a large four-poster that had taken a full team of oxen to bring it to the front. One of the trappings of her station designed to inconvenience Cratyn.
“I don’t know,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes. “Oh, Tam, they killed Tiler!”
The slave opened her arms and she sobbed against Tamylan’s shoulder hopelessly. Grief was a new emotion for Adrina. She had never before lost a living soul she had loved.
“There, there, I know it hurts, but it will pass in time,” Tam advised.
Adrina wiped her eyes and sat up determinedly. “I can’t do this any more, Tamylan. I don’t care if there’s a crown at the end of it. I cannot bear these people. It’s like a prison.”
“I understand, your Highness, but think it through before you act too hastily. This might be a prison, but it’s a sight more comfortable than the one awaiting you on the other side of the border, or worse, if you were caught by the Kariens trying to run away.”
Adrina looked up at the slave who had been by her side for as long as she could remember. “You always did say more than was proper for a slave.”
“That’s because I’ve always been your friend first, Adrina.”
Adrina smiled wanly. “Even though you were my slave?”
“Slavery is a state of mind, your Highness,” she shrugged. “You’re a princess, yet you’ve less freedom than I have. I never minded being a slave. It just meant that I knew where I stood.”
After Tamylan left, Adrina lay on the bed and thought on what the slave had said. She was right. Even being a princess didn’t stop you from being used by other people for their own ends, or save you from being hurt. If anything, it made you more vulnerable. Well, enough was enough. She would find a way out of this and she would never, as long as she lived, ever allow a man to hurt her again.
And by the gods, she vowed, she would make Cratyn pay.
Part 2
BATTLE LINES
Chapter 21
Loclon may have been responsible for letting Medalon’s most notorious criminal escape, but his expertise with a blade was widely acknowledged. Commandant Arkin assigned him to the cadets. His days were spent in the Arena teaching future Defenders the finer points of swordplay.
Following his initial annoyance at not being assigned to active duty, he found he enjoyed the job. He had regained his fitness quickly. The cadets were in awe of both his skill and his fearsome scars, and the rumour that he had killed a man in the Arena enhanced his reputation considerably.
The work gave Loclon a rare feeling of omnipotence. While they were in his charge, he had the power of life and death over these young men, and he wielded it liberally. Demerits were earnt easily in his classes and, almost without exception, the cadets treated him with gratifying obsequiousness to avoid incurring his wrath. Of course, there was the odd dissenter. Occasionally, a cadet would fancy himself a cut above the rest of his classmates. There was one such foolhardy soul in the Infirmary now. His temerity had cost him his right eye. Commandant Geendel, the officer in charge of the cadets, had demanded an explanation, of course, but the word of an officer was always taken over the word of a mere cadet.
Loclon smiled to himself as he rode through the Citadel toward his lodgings, thinking of the expressions on the cadets’ faces when he had appeared in the Arena this morning. No doubt they had all been hoping Geendel would relieve him of his duty. Well, they had learnt a valuable lesson today. In the Defenders, the officers would always close ranks around their own. Loclon had learnt that lesson the hard way, too.
On impulse, Loclon turned down Tavern Street, deciding he owed himself a drink to celebrate his victory over the cadets. He reined in outside the Blue Bull Tavern, handed his mount over to a waiting stableboy and walked inside, his boots echoing hollowly on the wooden verandah. Business was slow this early, but he spied a familiar figure hugging his ale near the fireplace. He ordered ale from the barkeep and crossed the room to join his friend.
“Gawn.”
The captain looked up. “Loclon. Finished for the day?”
Loclon nodded and took the seat opposite. Although Gawn had been a year or two ahead of Loclon when they were cadets, their friendship was a recent one. They had discovered they shared a loathing of Tarja Tenragan that few in the Defenders understood. Gawn had spent time on the southern border with Tarja and blamed him for just about everything that happened to him while he was there, starting with an arrow he took during a Hythrun raid, to the tavern keeper’s daughter he had impregnated and been forced to marry.
Loclon had met the girl once, a slovenly, lazy slut who spoke with a thick southern accent. To make matters worse, the child had been stillborn and Gawn was left with a wife he loathed, who would hold back his career just as surely as Tarja and R’shiel’s escape from the Grimfield would hold back Loclon’s.
“I heard there was some trouble with a cadet.”
Loclon shrugged. “Nothing I can’t handle. What are you doing here so early?”
“Parenor was called to a meeting with Commandant Arkin.” Captain Parenor was the Citadel’s Quartermaster. Gawn had been assigned as his adjutant on his return to the Citadel. It was an administrative position and a grave insult to a battle-experienced officer. “They are asking for even more supplies on the border.”
Nobody in the Citadel was exactly sure what was really happening on the northern border. Near half the Defenders in the Citadel had been sent north, supposedly to push back an attack by the Kariens. The reason the Kariens were attacking varied, according to which rumours one believed. Loclon believed the one that fitted with his own view of the world – that the Kariens were invading to avenge the death of their Envoy at Tarja’s hand. But it did not explain Tarja’s reinstatement to the Defenders, or the sudden alliance with the Warlord of Krakandar, or the First Sister’s change of heart. Even Gawn, who knew the southern border well, was at a loss to explain how near a thousand Hythrun Raiders could cross into Medalon without being noticed.
“I heard something else today that might interest you.”
“What’s that?”
“The Warlord of Elasapine crossed into Medalon with five hundred Raiders and placed himself at the disposal of Commandant Verkin in Bordertown, supposedly to help fight off an expected attack by the Fardohnyans.”
“I though we were fighting the Kariens?”
“Apparently, the Fardohnyan king married one of his daughters to Prince Cratyn. Parenor is furious because now Verkin is sending in supply requisitions that he can’t fill, and the local merchants have got wind of the fact. The price of grain has doubled in the past month.”
Loclon could not have cared less about the price of grain, but it irked him that he was sitting here in the Citadel while t
here was a war going on.
“If we have to fight on two fronts, they’ll need every officer they can get their hands on. You and I might finally get a chance to do what we were trained for, my friend.”
“Instead of me pushing parchment around and you nursemaiding a bunch of homesick cadets? I’ll drink to that!” Gawn swallowed his ale in a gulp. Loclon signalled the barkeep for another but the captain shook his head. “Better not, Loclon. If I don’t get home soon she’ll be after me with a carving knife. Founders, how I loathe that bitch!”
Loclon smiled sympathetically. “Why go home at all?”
“I’ve not the money for any other sort of entertainment. She takes every rivet I earn. Speaking of which, could you fix up the tavern keeper for me? I’m afraid I’ve overspent, somewhat.”
“Very well,” he agreed, thinking of what Gawn already owed him. The amount did not bother him. He had no problem with cash these days, but it was time Gawn did something to earn such generosity. “On one condition. You come with me to Mistress Heaner’s tonight.”
Gawn pulled a face. “If I can’t afford to pay my tavern bill, how do you expect me to afford that sort of place?”
Loclon smiled. “The same way I do, my friend.”
When Loclon had woken up in the Blue Room in Mistress Heaner’s House of Pleasure, he had discovered, somewhat to his annoyance, that the redheaded whore was no longer breathing. Worse, he felt no relief. Killing her had done little to ease his torment. Peny had been too dull, too plain, too fat, and too damned ordinary to satisfy him. Even in his imagination, she had been a poor substitute for R’shiel. He lay there for a time, wondering what it was going to cost him to keep Mistress Heaner from having him kneecapped. She did not care about murder, but she did care about her assets and Loclon had just deprived her of one.
This was not the first time Loclon had killed one of Mistress Heaner’s court’esa, but on the previous occasions he had been a champion in the Arena, and his winnings had provided him with the funds to pay whatever she asked in compensation. This time, however, he had spent everything he owned and was not due to be paid for another month. At the interest rate she charged, the debt would have doubled by that time. He was still pondering the problem when the door opened and Mistress Heaner entered the room, followed by Lork, her faithful bodyguard. Lork gave a reasonable impression of a living mountain, his dead eyes reflecting little intelligence and undying loyalty to the woman who employed him. Mistress Heaner held up the lamp and glanced at Peny with a shake of her head, before turning to Loclon.
“You’ve been careless, Captain.”
“I’m sorry, Mistress. I shall see that you’re compensated.”
“With what, Captain? You’ve no career in the Arena any more. On a captain’s pay, you can’t afford a drink here, let alone indulge your rather exotic tastes.”
Loclon swung his feet onto the floor and snatched his trousers up. “I said, I will see that you are paid, Madam, and I shall. Do you question the word of an Officer of the Defenders?”
“I question the word of any man who beats women to death for pleasure, Captain,” she retorted coldly. “Perhaps I should just have Lork kill you now, and save myself any further trouble.” Lork flexed his plate-sized hands in anticipation.
Loclon glanced at his sword that lay on the other side of the room, knowing there was no way he could reach it before the man was on him. “Perhaps we might come to... an arrangement?”
Mistress Heaner laughed. “What could you offer me, Captain, that I don’t already have in abundance? Kill him, Lork.”
Loclon jumped to his feet, but Lork moved with remarkable speed for one so huge. He had grabbed Loclon by the throat and slammed him against the wall with one hand. Loclon gasped from the pressure, his feet dangling as the big man squeezed the life out of him. He discovered he was sobbing, begging for mercy in a voice that was quickly losing strength. He was on the point of losing consciousness when Mistress Heaner stepped forward and signalled Lork to release him. The big man suddenly released him and Loclon dropped to his hands and knees, sobbing with fear.
“Perhaps there is something you can do for me, Captain.”
“Anything!” he croaked, gulping for air. He wiped his streaming eyes and looked up at her.
“Anything? A careless promise, Captain.”
“Anything you ask,” he repeated desperately.
Mistress Heaner studied him for a moment then nodded. “Bring him, Lork.”
Lork grabbed hold of him again and half-dragged, half-carried Loclon down the hall to a narrow flight of stairs that led to the basement. Mistress Heaner led the way, holding the lamp, which threw fitful shadows onto the walls. Lork dropped him heavily and he spat dirt from his mouth as he looked around.
“Get rid of the body,” the woman told her henchman. “And see that we are not disturbed.”
Lork grunted in reply and returned upstairs. Mistress Heaner ignored Loclon and walked to the far end of the dark basement. She removed the glass from the lantern and lit a taper from the small flame, which she used to light a row of thick beeswax candles lining a long narrow table. He stared at the candles with growing horror as they illuminated a richly embroidered wall hanging that depicted the five-pointed star and lightning bolt of Xaphista, the Overlord.
“You’re a heathen!”
“Heathens believe in the Primal gods,” she corrected. “I serve Xaphista, the one true God. As will you.”
Loclon climbed unsteadily to his feet. “No. I won’t join your sick cult. I’ll report you for this.”
Mistress Heaner finished lighting the candles and turned to him. “You’ll report me? Perhaps you should consider your situation more carefully, Captain. You might be able to walk away from murder in the Arena, sir, but I doubt your superiors will be quite so understanding about Peny’s fate.”
“I’m an Officer in the Defenders! I can’t countenance this!”
“You are monster who kills for pleasure, Captain,” she reminded him. “I don’t recall that being a virtue the Defenders hold dear.”
“I don’t believe in your god.”
“A point that is quite irrelevant,” she shrugged. “You will serve him, however, whether you believe in him or not.”
“How?”
Mistress Heaner smiled, correctly interpreting his question as the beginning of his surrender. “The Overlord is a generous god. In return for your service, he will see that you are taken care of. All you have to do is keep me informed as to what is happening among the Defenders. Report any rumours you hear. Perhaps secure a document or two. I may even need you to kill, occasionally, something you have already proved is to your liking.”
“That’s treason!”
“You baulk at treason, yet you don’t seem to mind murder. A curious moral stance, don’t you think?”
“And if I refuse?”
“I believe we’ve already covered that.”
Loclon stared at the symbol of the Overlord and thought over Mistress Heaner’s offer. For all his faults, he believed in the Defenders and had been raised to think of anyone who practised heathen worship a traitor to his nation. The decision was surprisingly hard to make.
“Perhaps I can offer you another incentive, Captain,” she said softly. “You and the Overlord do share a common purpose, you know.”
“What purpose?”
“You’ve heard of the demon child?”
Loclon turned to her, a little confused by the sudden change of subject. “Everybody has. It’s just a stupid legend. The rebels claimed it was Tarja.”
“The heathens were wrong, as they are about so many things. There is a demon child, however, and she was created to destroy Xaphista. Naturally, my god would like to see that she does not live long enough to fulfil her destiny.”
“She?”
“The demon child is an old friend of yours, I believe. Her name is R’shiel.”
Loclon started as a sudden image of black eyes and a cold blade slicing hi
s throat filled his vision. He could hear Mistress Heaner laughing softly as the rage consumed him, blood pounding in his ears.
“Ah, you remember her, I see. Your service to the Overlord will provide you with an opportunity to redress the wrongs done you by R’shiel té Ortyn, Captain. A convenient arrangement on both sides, don’t you think?”
In the months that had passed since then, Loclon never wanted for anything. His rent was paid on time by an anonymous donor. He often arrived home to find a small purse sitting on his side table, filled with gold rivets. He was welcomed at Mistress Heaner’s and was never asked for payment, although he had been careful not to kill another court’esa. In fact, the urge had dissipated somewhat, now that the promise of a chance at R’shiel was in the offing. He no longer considered his actions treasonous. He had been offered a chance for revenge, a chance that the Defenders had refused him. That justified everything.
But teaching cadets meant there was a limit to the information Loclon was privy to, and Mistress Heaner was growing impatient with him. Gawn, on the other hand, was far better placed to provide the intelligence she demanded. By bringing Gawn into the fold, his position would be secured and his chance at R’shiel would be certain.
Of course, he needed to find something to convince Gawn to join them, and as he settled his companion’s account with the barkeep, it came to him. In return for his service to the Overlord, Loclon would relieve Gawn of his most onerous possession.
He would kill his wife for him.
Chapter 22
Tarja lay awake for most of the night, simply watching R’shiel sleeping, thinking it was a pastime he thought he would never tire of. In sleep her expression was peaceful, her breathing steady and even. The faint, familiar sounds of the camp slowly coming awake as dawn approached filtered through the canvas walls of his tent. Reality intruded rudely into his own, private, perfect world. He almost felt guilty for being so happy.
Treason Keep dct-2 Page 17