by Tia Reed
“Why aren’t you with a physic?” she asked before he could speak of his injustice.
“We tried, my Lady. The hospice turned him away,” the woman said. Her ugly face was prematurely aged with deep lines, and she sounded as grisly as the carved oak bears rising from the two minor thrones.
“Why?” Jordayne asked, guessing what the answer would be. They were the fourth claimants this morning who had been refused treatment.
“We’ve no coin left. The ointment the physic gave us cost us the last of it. We’ve not even the lek for a loaf of bread.”
“Am I to understand you paid the physic for an ointment which did not work?”
“My lady, please, my Lady, we did all he said, dawn, noon and dusk. It weren’t for the lack of trying. If he’d just see us again.”
“Who did you see?”
“Physic Chas deq Arios.”
“I see.” She turned to Ordosteen, solid as the carving of the massive oak tree springing from the back of his golden throne. “What are we to do about this?”
Her dear uncle blinked and looked at her with a harried expression. “Hmm? Yes. Your judgement is acceptable,” he temporised yet again.
Jordayne sighed. The poor, lovesick man had not heard a single complaint. It was just as well she enjoyed wielding power or she would have left this tedious open court hours ago. “Take him back to the hospice and ask for Physic Hamid deq Lamont. Tell him I sent you. You may collect a dozen lek from the Treasurer on your way out.”
“Me Lady,” came a reedy voice.
Allowing herself another sigh, though for an entirely different reason, Jordayne slumped back in the uncomfortable chair and spun one of her gold bracelets. After an eight-day suffering the begging masses, the reason for Matisse’s poor posture was becoming obvious. It was time she was back to dealing with the larger matters at hand, not this petty grovelling.
“Forgive the intrusion, my lady, but I believe my lord has returned,” Sergeant Rokan interrupted.
She was off the throne in an instant. The timing of her brother’s return was irregular enough for her to want to ferret out the cause.
“But Court is not yet over,” Farsil the fastidiously groomed chamberlain protested.
The faces before her were a sea of dismay. “Who among you seeks the attention of a physic?” she asked. The sudden chorus was telling. This refusal of the healers to work for the common good was a vice she was going to have to deal with, and soon. “Go to the hospice and tell them I sent you.” Half the crowd backed out of the doors into the iwan. “Go with them Rokan, there’s a good fellow. You can act as an official sanction. And don’t trust anyone other than deq Lamont to see they are given the attention they need.” She turned to Farsil. “You see. We have just cleared the quota for today. You men should learn to be half as efficient.”
“My lady, one healer could not possibly deal with this number of ailing citizens.” The man’s face was pinched in disapproval. It contrasted beautifully with the immaculate cut of his purple kurta.
“Then you will just have to see that he gets help. Recruit every physic in the city if you have to. I’m sure there’s enough gold in the coffers to cover the expense.”
“My lady, the taxes are not acquired to be returned to the poor, or to make the rich richer.”
“Farsil, you must learn not to scowl so. It encourages wrinkles. As for the gold, I’m sure there will be enough left over to buy me a new bracelet or six.” Leaving the irate chamberlain to herd the remaining peasants out, she skipped down the marble dais steps, and along the aisle hastily cleared for her exalted passage.
“You may tally coin sufficient to treat all these citizens at the hospice,” she said to the treasurer in the iwan. He sat with quill and ink behind a table, undaunted by stunning mosaic of the oak and bears on the dome above him. She left him stammering a protest, and passed through the pistaq, its coloured tiles perfect complement to the mosaic, emerging with a flick of her skirt into the gorgeous day. She hurried along the cypress-lined canal, one of the three leading out from the palace. The alternating bear and oak fountains enchanted both wagtails and the healthier of the petitioners into dawdling in the gardens. Indulgence bred a grateful population and an irritated Lady. Ignoring her direction, Rokan was providing close escort along a perpendicular canal bordered by flower beds. The hospice, she knew, would have to wait until she was safe in the company of her brother and his men.
The sun was not yet halfway through its arc, which meant Matisse had timed his journey to avoid camping close to Faradil Forest’s edge. For someone who bragged about dicing with death, he had chosen a prudent course. She slowed when she spied the reason slipping off her horse into Matisse’s arms. The woman was aging well, granted, and she displayed a rare intelligence, but was there a shred of decency in her, that she would return to flaunt her newest liaison in front of her Shah?
“Did you quite enjoy your visit, brother dear?” Jordayne asked.
“What do you think?” he answered with a grin at Rochelle, and no thought for the men his lieutenant was organising.
Jordayne rolled her eyes as the older woman adopted a coquettish stance. “I think our dear Uncle does not deserve this. Not after everything he has done for you. Or you,” she added to the shah’s former mistress, frost in her voice.
“His idea, Jordayne. Besides, I don’t think he wants to see Rochelle pine away from lack of attention in Zulmei. He might even find he enjoys her company. I am not the jealous sort.”
“But I’ll wager he is, and that chaste companionship is not what he seeks.”
Footsteps behind her made her turn. Ordosteen was looking ashen. A fool would not have missed the teasing glances between the pair before him. The two parrots flirting on the wall certainly didn’t. Fresh from an early dip in Lake Tej, they didn’t even have the decency to look travel-stained and weary.
“Zulmei is a shambles, Uncle. I have asked Elan to recall Denkan from Point Rai,” Matisse said, unabashed. He put an arm around Rochelle’s waist and pulled her closer.
“Does the satrap not require your assistance then?” Ordosteen said to Rochelle. She had worn a rather demure, pale pink kameez with a skirt which hugged her hips before flaring, and sleeves which did the same to her arms.
“Majesty, my father is old-fashioned where women are concerned. If Denkan heeds the call, it will not be long before he assumes responsibility for the province.” She was relaxed in Matisse’s hold, though she had the grace to seek Ordosteen’s approval with her eyes.
“So I take it you have returned to enjoy yourself.”
“I have decided to take your advice, Uncle,” Matisse said. He looked at Rochelle, their bodies, their lips close. “You can expect me at the palace more often.”
“I am sure you will be happy together.” Ordosteen never could deny his brother’s children anything and that, Jordayne thought as she watched him shuffle back to the palace, was the cause of the problem with her hedonistic brother who would one day rule a prospering realm but could never elevate it to greatness. One needed a degree of self-restraint for that. A modicum of concern for someone other than yourself, even if, no especially if, you were slated to be the next Shah. She would have to find Ordosteen a lover more intellectual than Katrine. Nobody too astute, of course. It would not do to have him fall in love again. Just a courtier nubile enough to smooth the stiffness of a broken heart out of his gait.
“Well I trust you at least accomplished what you set out to do,” she said to Matisse.
“There’s a disagreeable prisoner trussed up for our amusement this afternoon. I’ve had my men take him to the dungeon.”
“To the interrogation courtyard it is then. You do intend to come along?” She raised an eyebrow as Matisse and Rochelle kissed.
“Now?” Matisse said, refusing to tear his eyes from Rochelle.
“Do I get one of those?” Drucilamere, escorted by a guard despite his regular attendance at the palace, was heading straight for
her with long purposeful strides, his pathetic excuse for a red-headed, freckle-faced apprentice trailing in his wake.
“Will this do?” she asked, standing on tiptoe and pulling his head to her for a long kiss.
“Not bad, but I might have to try again to be sure.”
She tucked a hand into his green kamarband, and allowed him a briefer union. “Be careful what you say,” she warned.
“It does very well,” he answered, his lips broadening beneath his wide but neat moustache. “Though we could do better later.”
“Not above it, are you sis?” Matisse said.
“I am not flaunting my lover in my Shah’s face,” she replied, glaring at the sour apprentice. He was ogling her and Rochelle, and not once did his eyes rise to their faces. “Did you need to bring your pet toad with you?” she asked Drucilamere. She noted his emerald green kurta and black shalvar. “And since you did, I take it this is not a social call.”
“He does need minding, and with Shom ready to practice magic, I thought it best to have this one out of the guild. His only interest centres on when he can imbibe porrin.” Drucilamere turned to Matisse. “My lord, your message suggested your need for a mage was urgent.”
“How urgent I cannot say, but I thought it best to get your opinion. A cursed strange thing happened in Zulmei.” Matisse indicated they should walk. They took the path by the wide central canal. The fountains of mythical creatures babbled. “I was in the midst of a swordfight–”
“Tavern brawl, more like,” Jordayne interjected. He ignored her.
“When my sword disappeared right out of my hand.”
That stopped them all in their tracks. Right at the midpoint of the canal, where an intricate fountain fashioned as an oak tree dripped water from its leaves while the six stone bears it sheltered spouted water.
Drucilamere blinked. “Where did it go?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“My lord was in a precarious position at the time,” his faithful lieutenant said.
“Dear Vae, were you hurt?” she asked.
Matisse ran a hand through his blonde hair. “Would I be standing here if I were? You are supposed to be the intelligent one, Jordayne.”
For all his faults, she did harbour an uncommon affection for her brother. “Don’t you ever do anything so foolhardy again,” she said, giving him a hug.
“I did not exactly have a choice in the matter,” he said, plainly amused. “Why don’t you settle back in,” he said to Rochelle. She turned away with a flick of her hips and an inviting raise of her eyebrow that brought a grin to Matisse’s face.
“Who were you fighting?” Drucilamere asked as they continued down the canal. The magus glanced at Brailen, whose ears had pricked up even if his eyes had not.
“A contact of that swindler of a merchant you deal with.”
They walked to the private back gardens, through the ivy-covered arch into the drab courtyard adjacent the dungeons.
“I need to take porrin,” Druce said, and sent the sullen boy to fetch a mug of water.
While they waited for the prisoner to be dragged up, Jordayne inspected the prayer she had ordered carved into the walls. The stonemason had done an expert job on the calligraphy. The political prisoners interred here were unlikely to repent, but the Vae might accord her credit for trying.
“Master Magus, can I try too?” Brailen asked when he returned.
“Considering the number of unexpected things that happen when you take porrin, and your decided lack of both training and focus, I do not think this an appropriate time,” Druce answered dryly. “But you should know how to mix the powder. Here, make sure it is all dissolved. Then you can brag to your friends about how you helped.”
Drucilamere kept the eyes of a hawk on Brailen as the boy stirred the red powder into the water. When Drucilamere handed the imperfect solution back for another mix, the lazy git rolled his eyes. Jordayne wanted to string him up, Drucilamere too, if the mage persisted with the folly of trying to train the lackwit. She should have guessed he would shake the last specks of powder in the packet onto his tongue while Drucilamere drank the potion.
“You have an addict for an apprentice,” she said as Druce’s eyes took on the tell-tale glazed look.
“If you left enough in the packet to wreak any sort of havoc, there’ll be a reckoning the like of which would send Vae’oeldin cowering, boy,” Druce said. His voice had already acquired the mistiness of the magical daze.
The boy’s pupils had dilated but he seemed alert. She was about to dismiss him when the empty mug flung itself across the courtyard. Matisse only narrowly avoided it before it clanged into the wall. That magic was not the controlled act of a Master Magus. Jordayne had reached the limit of her tolerance. She put her fists on her hips and said, “I’ll have him hanged if there’s so much as a peep out of him.”
The boy snorted. “Don’t doubt she’ll do it,” Druce growled, and Brailen shut up, though he did have the gall to creep within touching distance of her. At a gesture, the lieutenant dragged him off to the side with a pointed glance to the gallows that had remained erect since she interviewed Raj.
Unfortunately, the scruffy, cussing, pot-bellied taverner two guards dragged before her would most like need the threat of a hanging to spill information. “Korwin the Stout, I presume. He’s all yours,” she said to Druce when the guards had pushed him to his knees.
“Don’t you touch me, you oversized piece of god dropping,” Korwin bellowed, struggling hard.
“Here I was thinking the schkaan were shy,” Jordayne said, observing the tattoo covering his left arm.
Drucilamere stepped forward as the guards flattened the taverner. “I’m afraid that’s exactly what I need to do.”
“Wait. Wait. I’ll confess.”
“Dear me, that was altogether too easy,” Jordayne said. “And schkaan being secretive creatures, too.”
“You get this abomination of a man away from me,” Korwin said as the guards hauled him off his paunch and back to his knees.
“What is this realm coming too? Everyone is a coward at heart,” said Matisse, sprawling along the bench opposite the gallows.
“I’m afraid the magus stays. Now what were you going to confess?” Jordayne said.
“Whatever you want. You ask and I tell you what you want to know.”
“For starters, how long have you been doing business with the Verdaani smuggler Raj?
Korwin eyed the birds landing on the walls to and from their way to the fountains like he wanted to wring their necks for chirping. “A few moons,” he admitted, most like because he knew she was aware of that titbit.
“What exactly is your arrangement?” Her bangles clinked as she crossed her arms. They were not making quite the chime she had hoped for since she had bequeathed so many to the Vae. A shopping trip was in order. She had a reputation to uphold, after all.
“He brings in porrin and I dole it out to them as want it,” Korwin said.
“And make a tidy profit on the side.”
“No harm in that.”
“But there is,” Matisse said, completely relaxed, “when people who can’t afford to pay work up a huge debt. How do you collect?”
“They give me what they have and work off the rest. In the tavern.”
“You mean to say intoxicated drug abusers pour the ale? No wonder it tastes like horse piss.” Matisse’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward. “The satrap’s guards told rumours of people disappearing off the streets. Down-and-out types whose relatives report they were addicted to the drug. What has that to do with you?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t suppose you might surrender the culprit?” Jordayne said.
“Don’t rightly know who that is.”
Drucilamere stepped forward, hands on hips.
“It’s nothing to do with me, you piece of –”
“Yes, god dropping. I’ve heard it all before,” Drucilamere said mildly, thoug
h Brailen’s amused snort drew a glance of annoyance. She sympathised to the point she nearly asked if he wanted the sorry excuse for an apprentice dragged over here beside Korwin.
“Well,” Jordayne said. “Let’s see what Raj has to say about it.” Guards jumped to her gesture, pulling Korwin, still bellowing about his innocence, toward the gallows. Chirps changed to alarm calls as the birds on the wall flew off.
“What! You can’t do this. You can’t,” he said, as he realised the gallows it actually was.
Sul had appeared, black hood in hand, bless him. The holes for his eyes were a nice touch. It had to inspire fear if the prisoner believed the hood was for her benefit. The bald executioner’s chubby hands slid it over Korwin’s head. The man kicked and screamed as they dragged him to the block. What perfect timing Raj appeared just as Sul dropped the noose around Korwin’s neck. So satisfying to see the little man balk. It did increase the chance of a confession.
“I cooperate, I cooperate,” Raj said. He had lost weight he could ill-afford to lose.
“So you did. A pity co-conspirators must share the same fate. I do believe the pardoning question is what happens to the unfortunates who can’t honour the debt for the drug you supply?”
The poor man looked like he might have a heart attack. She could have kissed Korwin, well blown him one anyway, for peeing his pants as Sul tightened the noose.
“Whoever organised this forgot a bowl of roast nuts to go with the show,” Brailen said.
She flung her arm sideways and pointed at the miserable lump of creation without taking her eyes off Raj. “One more peep out of you and you’ll hang next.