‘No boozing.’ Mirag wrung out the suds, then heaved the sodden clothes into the rinse bucket. ‘Nor have I wool plugs stuck in my ears. Married to you all these desperate years, I can hear if a hound pack’s coming or going. That lot’s not coursing the forest at all, but hellbent down the road towards the lowcountry.’
‘Not all of them,’ Benj contradicted her. Awake or asleep, his ear stayed attuned to a pack’s belling music. He stomped an undaunted course to the doorway and snatched up his mud-crusted boots.
The wife dropped her laundry and bolted to stop him. ‘Just where do you think you’ll shove off to, old man?’
Benj flashed her a glare. ‘Outside,’ he answered. ‘Have to cut loose the hounds. You want my pack requisitioned on crown business? Those are Highgate horns. Hear them?’ In Benj’s opinion, the king’s uppity officers were pinch-fists. They took what they pleased upon grounds of privilege, with no thought of hard use on the dogs.
‘My pack’s better off out scaring up rabbits,’ Benj insisted. ‘Won’t risk leaving them tied for the taking. They’re wont to pick up bad habits like ticks, mishandled by Highgate’s slack huntsmen.’
Mirag frowned and clawed back a stuck wisp of hair. Her crafty awareness had noted the horns, as well as the call of the conch shell sounded by Devall’s overdressed retinue. That a foreigner’s men rode out in armed force boded trouble, by all common sense. ‘I promised Mykkael.’
‘Bedamned to the wind in your nagging mouth, woman!’ Benj shoved through the doorway, still talking apace. ‘I don’t loose the pack quick, we’ll have none to offer if and when yon dark foreigner gets here.’
Sharply afraid for no tangible reason, Mirag hiked up her splashed skirts and plunged out of the cottage, hard on the heels of her husband. ‘Here, Benj. I’ll help.’
As the oddly matched couple dashed into the yard, the dogs burst into yapping pandemonium. Leaping and yammering against their chains, they surged towards a man whose shadowy form emerged from the breaking mist. He carried a sword, worn shoulder-slung over the crown’s falcon surcoat.
‘Damn all to the nethermost pit of red hell!’ Benj cursed. ‘We’re too late off our arses to make any difference.’
Mirag snatched his wrist. ‘No. Maybe not.’
For when the figure knelt down and offered a hand, the mastiff bitch stopped her snarling and quivered with exuberant welcome.
‘Well expose me for kerrie bait!’ Benj slapped his gawping jaw with relief. ‘About damned time that scoundrel of a captain showed up to claim his due service.’
The rangy poacher hastened his stride, Mirag puffing beside him. They reached the kennelled pack just in time to see Mykkael himself bending down to free the hounds’ shackles.
‘They’ll be requisitioned,’ the desertman warned, untying rope collars at speed. He was out of breath, and hampered by a gash that had recently laid open his knuckles. More bloodstains marred his surcoat and breeches. ‘Hurry on. We don’t have much time.’
Where Benj had no eyes, beyond liberating dogs, Mirag’s sharp wits never rested. ‘They’re after you, Mykkael?’
‘Yes.’ His sharp face stayed absorbed, and his flying hands did not falter. ‘The result of misguided politics and an enemy who’s by far too clever and dangerous. I’ve been framed.’ Passing the stripped collars into Mirag’s stunned grasp, the desert-bred added, contrite, ‘You don’t have to shelter me, or shoulder the risks of an innocent promise made yesterday. Here and now, you’re released from my claim over Benj’s skilled service.’
Through the instant that Mirag stood fish-eyed and speechless, Mykkael unsnapped the last brace of chains, peeled off the final two collars, then pushed erect with a forced hiss of breath. He looked like a man who was hurting as he gave Benj his strait-laced apology. ‘I can settle for information alone, and be gone. Keep the coin. You’ll have earned it if you still know where your boy has holed up near those horses I’m chasing. But we’re going to have to speak quickly’
Mirag stiffened, offended. ‘That’s unworthy nonsense!’ Never before had she turned off the needy, or delivered a friend to crown justice.
Her husband agreed. ‘You can hide in the straw at the back of the mastiff’s barrel. No fool searches there. Lose a hand if he tries. Old bitch likes nothing better than mauling a meddling stranger.’
Mykkael glanced from husband to wife, his eyes obsidian-hard, and his tension as ruthlessly measuring. ‘I can’t do this. Far too dangerous. The High Prince of Devall’s lured a sorcerer to Sessalie. You could both be condemned to die, or much worse, if you’re caught harbouring me as a fugitive.’
Benj surveyed the desert-bred with professional acuity, then delivered his withering assessment. ‘You try to run, cut and bloodied as you are, even those fat, stupid hounds down from Highgate can’t help but nose you out.’ He scraped his jaw, spat, shared a glance with his wife. ‘Never took you for foolish, Captain.’
Mykkael said a word in blistering dialect, then winced as he tested his bad knee. ‘You’re right, of course. I’ve no choice but accept.’ He looked up again, his bronze features desolate. ‘No coin I have can repay you for this selfless kindness.’
‘No matter,’ said Benj, already moved on to eye the stained surcoat, then the holed breeches and splashed boots. ‘Strip,’ he said, terse. ‘Every damned stitch. Have to bury your clothing under the midden. No way else to keep the damned tracker’s pack off you. Wife!’ he bellowed, though she still stood beside him. ‘Shout up to the melon patch. Tell the girl to fetch out the phial of fox piss I use to mask scent for my trapping.’
The woman glared at her spouse, both her ham fists jammed with dog collars. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t!’ Her eyes widened, horrified. ‘The idea’s a straight cruelty.’
Benj shrugged. ‘Unpleasant, I warrant.’ His pale eyes shone, adamant, through his lank forelock. ‘Nonetheless, I’d rather be safe than rock-stupid.’
The raw-boned woman sighed in apology. ‘I’ll wash the clothes, Captain. Don’t fret for your dignity.’ Still, she shied from Mykkael’s too direct gaze as she faced the errand just asked of her. ‘For your poor, abused person, I’ll promise to have the lye soap and hot water waiting.’
‘Mirag, I’m grateful.’ The desert-bred caught her hand one brief moment, and touched her chilled palm to his cheek. As he let her go, his smile burst through, swift as lightning flashed through a stormfront. ‘No doubt I’ve smelled worse in my time on campaign.’
Old Benj slapped his knees in uproarious delight. ‘Oh, no, my fine fighting cock, you surely haven’t. The recipe in that phial’s a trade secret, besides. I’m going to enjoy every moment, watching your eyes stream with tears as you sluice yourself down. The gagging aroma’s my rightful revenge, I tell you. Fair penance for the wretched dunking you served me last night in the moat!’
XIX. Cipher
BY MIDDAY, WORD OF THE DESERT-BRED’S BUTCHERY HAD SPREAD FROM THE FALLS GATE TO THE SALONS ABOVE HIGHGATE. MYKKAEL HAD always aroused stirring controversy. Sown in the wake of his discredited character, new rumours sprouted apace. Opinions were bandied about in the market, or across idle glasses shared in the wine shops. Conjecture turned vicious, until Sergeant Cade was forced to rein back heated talk in the garrison. For the handful who maintained that Mykkael might be innocent, others insisted his hand lay behind the abduction of Princess Anja. Men-at-arms voiced their outrage by chafing to join the Prince of Devall’s rabid man hunt.
The belief Mykkael practised dark sorcery was widespread, since the uncanny construct made of stakes and singed string had been found on the blood-soaked tourney field. Such lines had too likely been some fell snare, drawing men like live prey to their doom.
Above Lowergate, servants returned from their shopping agreed: the uncanny foreigner had surely been a paid conspirator all along. The misfortunate princess’s fate, at his hands, ranged the gamut, from a captive held for extortionate ransom, to a victim earmarked for torture to feed the dire evils of spellcraft.
&
nbsp; The litters seen bearing up wounded and dead had quashed the last whisper of uncertainty. Through bloodshed and poison, one ditch-bred savage had just butchered a company of lancers. The Middlegate merchants who shipped goods to the southern coast aired their entrenched distrust of the Scoraign Wastes’ scattered tribesmen. Such creatures lived rootless as wandering beasts, with their singing shamans and queer fetishes and their clannish, uncivilized ways. As wealthy matrons gathered for their morning teas, the old tales resurged: yet no desert warrior in their husbands’ experience ever slaughtered as wantonly as this one.
Above Highgate, where discussion of lurid detail was considered unseemly manners, the privileged court ladies were compelled to react with constraint and circumspection. Taskin’s house staff was notoriously close-mouthed. With his stately wife departed for the season to the duchy’s lavish estate, social callers were firmly discouraged. Lady Lindya’s retirement to attend her father forestalled direct questions after the noon vigil held at the Sanctuary. Inquiries were pursued with gloved velvet discretion, until a court lady with a relative in the guard at last confirmed the sad news.
‘Yes, the vile rumours are true. The low-caste Captain of the Garrison has struck down a brave company of the king’s men-at-arms.’
Closest to the palace, Lady Shai affirmed, ‘Lord Taskin lies gravely wounded, and there were deaths among the guard. Since Lady Phail deemed the trouble too distressing for the king’s ear, the seneschal was forced to press charges for treason through the council, then call for the precedent of having Prince Kailen sign the death warrant on behalf of the crown.’
‘Four more companies of lancers have been commandeered from Captain Bennent,’ the guardsman’s relation ran on. ‘They are scouring the countryside for the fugitive, with assistance from Devall’s elite honour guard.’
Since the sorry affray was now public knowledge, the wife of a prominent high chancellor added in lisping sorrow. ‘Oh, yes, we have harboured the minion of a sorcerer, or his accomplice, all along. A dreadful tragedy, that Princess Anja should be taken by such evil on the eve of her formal betrothal.’
Her veiled face turned sideways to acknowledge Bertarra’s insistent question. ‘Indeed, Lord Taskin is far gone. Sadly, he may not survive.’ Commiseration followed for young Lindya, who had already lost her gallant husband to last year’s fever.
Moral duty demanded the charitable response. Of one mind, the court ladies gathered, bearing baskets of food. They assembled clean linen, helping hands, and cut flowers to ease the burden set on the afflicted.
Taskin’s house staff intercepted their offerings at the door, then dispatched volunteers to assist in the sickroom. The refined manners of Highgate did not condone uselessness. With cheerful good grace, the court ladies shouldered the unpleasant chore of cleansing and feeding the bedridden convalescents.
The Fane Street physician patted their ringed hands, and gave calm reassurance that the infirmity they witnessed would pass. One man had already started to stir, and required diligent oversight to keep him from mindless thrashing.
Lady Shai knelt at the tormented man’s bedside. ‘Here, let me,’ she murmured. Her violet eyes unflinching in kindness, she took over the physician’s place on the stool.
‘Bless your care,’ he said, grateful, and moved on his way to mix remedies.
Shai graciously nodded. She soothed the sick man’s flushed forehead with lavender water and made no complaint for the stains on her embroidered sleeves. Sessalie’s security had ever allowed such selfless charity to flourish. Wakened to threat by the loss of their princess, and now shown the first ugly casualties, the ladies of Highgate fought for their graceful lifestyle the only way that they could. They made themselves useful tending the helpless, and eased cruel infirmity and suffering.
Except for Bertarra, whose kin ties to royalty would bow to no living impediment. She brushed aside the importunate servants. Arms clasped to a gargantuan vase of fresh flowers, she barged up the stairs like a siege ram. There, she all but cannoned into the young guardsman posted outside Taskin’s bedchamber.
Her attempt to plough him aside met blunt force, and a farmhand’s uncivilized accent. ‘Woman, I don’t care blazing powers if you’re cousin to ten royal donkeys. You could be born marked with the trinity’s blessing, and not pass this doorway without Jussoud’s word, and Lady Lindya’s approval.’
‘Take your hand off my wrist!’ Bertarra bristled. She tipped her powdered face past the flame blooms of the lilies, and bestowed a withering glare. ‘Wrap a pig in a crown guard’s surcoat, he still stinks of the sty.’
Vensic returned his best imitation of Mykkael’s razor-toothed smile. ‘Dress a milch cow in jewellery, she’s still a cow. What’s your name, Bessie? Who shall I say’s come ploughing the gate?’
Bertarra blinked, stonewalled. ‘You insolent sprig! Move aside! Apologize at once, or I’ll see you publicly gelded.’
‘In a crown guard’s surcoat? Now wouldn’t that show set a farmyard precedent on the elegant lawns above Highgate!’ Vensic tucked her plump wrist back over the flower vase to forestall its alarming tilt. ‘Since I won’t apologize, and you can’t shove past, you need not threaten my bollocks, madam cow. Looking at you would dismast any bull who ever had the healthy urge to rut.’
Flustered to outrage, Bertarra flounced. The vase disgorged a dollop of chilled water, which slopped down her bulging cleavage. Her furious shriek all but cracked the ceiling’s antique plaster.
Brisk footsteps approached from behind the shut door. Then the panel snatched open, and Jussoud appeared, black eyebrows snarled into a frown like a stormfront. ‘You’ll be quiet, or I’ll come out with a gag. Choose which, lady. Quickly! My patience is spent.’
‘Jussoud, leave be,’ interjected a female voice from the top of the stairway. ‘Everyone at court knows it’s useless to thwart Lady Bertarra’s curiosity.’
The Duchess of Phail had slipped up from behind, discreetly dressed in robin’s-egg blue, with peacock feathers tucked through her netted white hair, and her leaning hands crossed on her cane. ‘Bertarra, please! Your noise is a trial to Lindya, whose child has awakened. One wailing infant cutting new teeth is quite enough to upset the peace.’
Bertarra flushed pink. While she shed her vase on a side table and routed the spill from her bosom with a handkerchief, Lady Phail tipped up her diminutive chin and cast her inquisitive glance over Vensic. ‘Stand aside, soldier. I promise to keep Lord Taskin undisturbed, and to answer to Jussoud’s instructions.’ Then, in polite expectation the young guardsman would yield, she called past the nomad’s obstructive form into the curtained chamber. ‘Lindya, let me spell you. Take your time, dear. Go on and wash up, and visit your son in the nursery’
Jussoud stepped aside, and Vensic backed down, clearing the doorway as Taskin’s daughter emerged, looking wan and transparently grateful. ‘My Lady Phail, you’re sent by divinity itself. I’ve left a bowl and a rag on the tray. Could you try and drip broth into Father’s mouth? He’s lost blood, and needs to take fluids.’
‘Out, Lindya, I’ll see to him.’ Without looking aside as Taskin’s daughter departed, Lady Phail added, acerbic, ‘Bertarra, the lilies look lovely right there where they are. Downstairs, the ladies are serving cake to the neighbours who have come asking for news. Your help would be greatly appreciated.’ With no further ado, the Duchess of Phail hefted her cane and pattered into the commander’s sickroom.
Bertarra craned her neck this way and that, to peer past Jussoud’s thwarting bulk.
‘Do you wish to follow?’ the nomad said, deadpan. ‘I could use assistance emptying the slop jar.’
Yet the late queen’s niece gleaned little from the dimmed room, beyond an uncouth reek of cedar smoke, and a pale and motionless form masked in tucked sheets to the chin. No bloodied bandages showed; no bustle of life-and-death drama. In fact, Bertarra found the astringent quiet of Jussoud’s management dull.
‘I’ve mopped up enough water already, t
hank you.’ After one scathing, last glower at Vensic, Bertarra beat a mollified course back downstairs.
Jussoud granted his Lowergate sentry a broad grin for diligence, then gently closed the chamber door to restore Taskin’s dignified privacy.
Lady Phail, in her inimitable way, could put Bertarra’s brash nature to shame. Her first, shocked assessment of the commander’s low state caused no hitched breath, and no outcry of feminine sympathy. She simply stood by the bed with closed eyes, perhaps recalling the exuberance of today’s stricken man, when she had doctored his skinned knees during boyhood. Then, in upright resignation, the duchess marshalled her poise. She checked the comfort of Taskin’s blankets and pillow, and assumed the lapsed duty with broth bowl and rag that Lindya had left in her charge.
Before the nomad could regroup and sit down, she demanded, ‘What can you tell me that might grant an opening to settle the seneschal’s hysterics?’
Jussoud blinked, clasped the palms he had scoured shiny from strong liniments, and tempered his chafing distress. ‘Nothing Lord Shaillon would regard as substantial. He’s not much inclined towards a foreigner’s opinion concerning Mykkael’s sterling character.’
‘The bright stars of your ancestry aren’t going to impress him,’ Lady Phail agreed with acute honesty. ‘Not that you would waste such an oath on the cause of this morning’s debacle.’
‘In fact, I do swear, and my oath is not wasted,’ Jussoud said, his scarce buried rage the surprise of a whipcrack unleashed across silence.
Rings sparkled to the bounding start of old hands as the duchess dropped the linen in the broth bowl. ‘Blinding glory, Jussoud! How can you demean the honour of your family name for the sake of a renegade savage?’
The nomad laced his strong fingers in taut effort to stay his explosive frustration. ‘Mykkael,’ he said, firmly, ‘is the most civilized man I have the privilege to know. He was to have married my sister, who is royalty. Before a misfortune ended the match, my clan viewed his suit favourably. By my word, as a legitimate blood son of Sanouk, your Taskin lies here through the fault of the council, and the impetuosity of the High Prince of Devall. They led the factions that forced your commander to undertake Mykkael’s arrest.’