“Five. Dark-haired like you. She would have been about your age now—young, and full of life. Married, probably, to some farmer.”
“And you would have been a doting grandfather with babies on your knee.” He chuckled at the thought. “I need to swim,” she said. Rising, she had stripped off her boots, leggings and tunic and dived into the pool below the falls. Necklen had rarely felt as old as he did at that moment.
He was dragged from his reverie by the sound of the door opening. Karis moved across the room and sat down opposite the old warrior. He forced a cheerfulness he did not feel. “You are looking brighter, princess,” he said. “What can have changed your mood?”
“One more tactic against the Daroth,” she said. “The last one.” She told him about the catacombs, and her plans for a rolling retreat to draw the enemy to a desired location.
“But if there are seventeen exits, the Daroth might split their force and not follow our men. Or they might read their minds and realize the trap.”
“Exactly! That is what we must work out. How do we misdirect the Daroth?”
“Well, firstly, is there a need? In the darkness of the catacombs, amidst the chaos of a rolling retreat, the Daroth may not be able to read minds.”
She shook her head. “We cannot rely on that.” Moving to the table she spread out a map of the catacombs. “Six of the exits emerge into the Great Park. Only one of these is surrounded by flat land where we could assemble all our ballistae, spreading them in a half circle around the exit. Then, when the Daroth emerge we can cut them to pieces.”
“There is a second problem there, princess: they will not emerge all at once. Let’s say twenty scramble out, then charge the ballistae. We shoot, they fall, then fifty more emerge while we are reloading. We will also need a plan that allows the greatest number of Daroth to rise from the darkness—before we shoot.”
“One problem at a time, old one.” They talked on for more than an hour, discussing possible strategies, then Karis called a halt. “I will sleep on it,” she said. Necklen rose to go, but she lifted her hand. “Wait for a few moments, my friend,” she said.
“What else is troubling you?” he asked.
She gave a wistful smile. “Nothing of great importance—not to the city anyway,” she told him. “You once told me about your wife. Did you love her?”
“Ay, I did. She was a fine woman.”
“How did you know you loved her?”
The question took Necklen by surprise. “I can’t say I know what you mean, princess,” he said. “How does anyone know? It just happens.” She looked disappointed, but said nothing and Necklen felt he had failed her. “How do you feel when you are in love?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I never have been.”
“But you’ve . . .” he faltered.
“Had a hundred lovers,” she finished for him. “I know. I’ve always been careful. Never rutted with a man who touched my soul.”
“In Heaven’s name, why?”
Karis half filled a goblet with wine, then added water. But she did not drink; she merely stared into the wine’s crimson depths. Necklen was about to ask her again when she looked up. “I don’t remember how old I was when I first saw my father punch my mother. But I was very small. I saw her thrown across a table, and lying upon the floor with blood seeping from her smashed lips. He kicked her then, and I began screaming. Then he struck me.”
“What has this to do with your falling in love? I don’t see the connection.”
“You don’t? She married for love. It destroyed her.”
“And you feel it would happen to you? Why should it?” he asked. “You think all men are like your father?”
“Yes,” she answered, simply. “They all want control. They see women as possessions, and I will not be possessed.”
“Forin,” he said. “You are in love with Forin. He is the last person you think of before going to sleep, and the first person you see in your mind’s eye when you wake. Yes?” She nodded. “Ah, princess, you are a fine, intelligent lass, and yet dumb as a jackass. Of course love is dangerous and wild and irresponsible. By Heaven, that’s what makes it so wonderful!”
“You think me stupid?” she asked him, her voice soft, barely above a whisper.
“I adore you, princess, but you should not be looking at love through the eyes of the frightened child you once were. Let me go and find him. I’ll send him to you.” As Necklen pushed himself to his feet, Karis rose and stepped close to kiss his bearded cheek.
“I love you, old man,” she said. “I wish you had been my father.”
“I love you too,” he said.
And, with despair in his heart, strode off to find Forin.
The sun was high in the sky as Ozhobar and Vint stood on the parapet of the north wall watching the Daroth toil. “They have hit rock,” said Ozhobar. “It has slowed them considerably.”
“Maybe they will not be able to pass it,” suggested the swordsman hopefully.
“They will pass it,” said Ozhobar grimly. “Before long we will be able to hear them below us, like termites.” He switched his gaze to the soldiers on the wall; they were stern of face, and there was little conversation. The celebrations in the city had died away as the news spread of the new Daroth initiative. Already citizens had begun to report sounds underground, which they became convinced were Daroth engineers. It was hard to allay the fears, and fresh columns of refugees had already started to stream towards the south.
The smell of onion soup drifted up to them. “I cannot stand another day of that,” said Vint. “Join me for breakfast?”
“I thought you wanted to kill me,” Ozhobar observed.
“I also want to eat,” said Vint coldly. The two men left the ramparts and walked to a nearby tavern, where they breakfasted on eggs, bacon and beef, washed down with cider. “Where are you from?” Vint asked the Weapon Maker.
“The islands. My father was a blacksmith and an inventor.”
“What brought you to the mainland?”
Ozhobar shrugged. “I thought I’d travel and see the world. Thought there’d be more scope for my talents.”
“Well, you were right about that.”
“I didn’t mean with weapons,” said Ozhobar sadly. “Prentuis had a sewerage system—not a very good one, mind, but they survived the plague better than any other city. Less filth on the streets. Less disease.”
“The city doesn’t exist anymore,” said Vint.
“That’s not the point I am trying to make. Life could be so much better for people if we weren’t always fighting, using all our resources for weapons and armies. I suppose, however, that life would be exceedingly dull for you if peace ever came?”
“No, I would paint and write,” said Vint, draining the last of his cider.
“You are a painter?”
“Ah, I have surprised you,” said Vint. “Yes, I paint. Landscapes mostly, but I have tackled portraits. I would offer to paint you, Oz, but I fear I wouldn’t have a canvas large enough.”
Ozhobar laughed. “Vint the painter and Ozhobar the sewer designer. What a pretty pair!”
“Indeed we are,” agreed Vint. “And now, I fear, it is time for the return of the Swordsman and the Weapon Maker! Shall we tour the catacombs?”
Servants were rushing about the house packing valuables into chests and carrying them down to the two wagons drawn up outside. Miriac walked past them into the main room to find Pooris pushing papers into a leather shoulder-bag.
“What is happening?” asked Miriac.
“My dear, it is time to leave. The city is about to fall. I have had most of your clothes packed and loaded in the wagon. We set off for Hlobane within the hour.”
“I thought you had decided to stay,” she said.
“That was then,” he told her. “Now events have overtaken my plans. The Daroth are tunnelling beneath the city as we speak.”
“And the Duke has allowed you this leave of absence?”
?
??I am not a bondsman,” he said curtly. “I can go where I will. Now please look to your personal possessions and make yourself ready.”
Miriac left the little man and moved back into the hall. Stopping a servant, she told him to unload her chests and return them to the master bedroom. Pooris heard her and rushed out. “Do not be stupid,” he said. “The Daroth will have no need of courtesans, my dear—save to cook you over a charcoal pit.”
Leaning forward, she kissed the crown of his bald head. “You go, Pooris,” she said. “I will stay and look after your house.”
“You don’t understand . . .”
“I understand well enough. The Daroth are tunnelling beneath us and you believe the city is about to fall. You wish to save yourself—that is entirely natural. Do as you think fit, Pooris. But I will remain.”
“But . . . I need you.”
“No. You want me. There is a difference.” He stood very still, and she could see the confusion on his face. Even more, she could understand the warring emotions within him. Pooris was not a coward but, like all politicians, he was a pragmatist. If the Daroth had won—which he believed they had—then it was only sensible to retreat before them. Now Miriac had presented him with a fresh dilemma. He loved her, and, as a man, wanted to protect her. He could not do this from Hlobane or Loretheli. Realistically, however, he could not do it here in Corduin either; the tiny councillor would be no match for a Daroth. “I want you to be safe,” she told him. “You are very dear to me. I think you have made the right decision.” She saw him relax then, as she had known he would.
Without further conversation, she went upstairs to her rooms and began to unpack the chests. She had promised Tarantio to return at dusk, and had been wondering how to break the news to Pooris. Now there was no need.
The councillor came to her an hour later, and stood in the doorway of her bedroom. “Please come with me,” he said. “I beg you.”
“No, dear heart.”
“I have great wealth, much of it invested in Loretheli and the islands. You would be like a queen there.”
“Go, Pooris. The Daroth may even now be riding to intercept the convoys.”
Moving forward, he kissed her cheek, then turned and ran from the room.
Miriac heard him on the stairs, then returned her gaze to the long mirror on her dressing table. “You are a fool,” she told herself. Then she remembered the time with Tarantio, the warmth of his body upon hers.
She had thought of him every day since the curious events two years before, after the duel with Carlyn. The Duke had asked her to entertain his new champion, and she had done so to the best of her considerable abilities. It had been a wondrous night, and she had been surprised by the intensity of his virgin love-making. Then he had fled. No other word could describe it. The following morning she had tried to dismiss it from her mind, yet she could not. Investigations revealed that Tarantio had spurned the Duke’s offer to become champion and instead had enlisted as a mercenary. There was no sense to it. Why would any man turn down the promise of riches and comfort for a life of hardship and premature death?
For some time she continued to ask about him. Then she met the merchant Lunder, whom Tarantio paid to invest his hard-earned silver. Through Lunder she knew where Tarantio was, and what battles he had fought in. It was a tenuous link, but a link nonetheless.
When she had gone to him last night she had hoped to find him less fabulous than in her memories, so that she could finally be rid of the torment of thinking of him. Instead she found the experience enriching, and she still felt an inner glow as she recalled his tender touch.
“I will not lose you again,” she said.
In the three days that followed, the Daroth made one half-hearted attack on the eastern gate, but were driven back by the fireballs of two catapults. Meanwhile the endless tunnelling continued. Minute by minute, Daroth engineers could be seen leaving the mouth of the tunnel bearing sacks of rock which were loaded to wagons, then ferried away out of sight. They worked ceaselessly, and always at the same pace. “They are like machines,” said a soldier to Forin, as he and Karis observed the work. “Do they never rest or sleep?”
“Apparently not,” replied Forin. “But they die, boy. And more of them will die when they break through.”
“It is said they don’t die,” put in the soldier. “They go back to eggs or some such, and are born again.”
Forin did not reply. When Karis walked away, he followed her. “You are pensive today,” he said, as they strolled along the avenue towards the palace.
“I have much to think about.”
“We will survive, Karis. I’m sure of that.”
“It would be nice to be so sure.”
“I don’t intend to fall before some whey-faced giant termite—not now I’ve found you.”
“I hope that you don’t!”
“You have a plan yet?”
“If I tell you, then you will not be able to lead the fighting in the catacombs. Do you want me to tell you?”
He paused. “I would dearly like to say yes to that, but I cannot. Tarantio and Vint have their magical swords. I have my strength. It will be needed in the catacombs. Speaking of Tarantio, I haven’t seen him for days. Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” replied Karis. “He has failed to attend two meetings. I want him there tonight.”
“I’ll fetch him myself,” promised Forin. She made to walk on, but he gently took her arm. “When this is over, would you consider marrying me?” he asked her.
“You are certainly an optimist, Redbeard.”
“Always. But especially now. You think I will allow the Daroth to steal my joy?”
Karis looked up into his broad, flat face and met the intensity of his green gaze. “You are the strongest man I’ve known. Perhaps you can survive. Ask me again when the Daroth are defeated.”
He moved to kiss her but she stepped back, her eyes cold. “Not in the open, Forin.”
“Are you ashamed of me?” he asked, bewildered.
“Have you not heard what they call me? ‘The Ice Queen.’ Let them keep their illusions. Now is not the time for them to see Karis the woman.”
She swung away from him and strode on. Forin cut off to the left and made his way to the small house Tarantio had rented. He hammered on the door, but at first there was no reply. Four times more he thumped his fist against the wood, then finally the door swung open and Tarantio stood there, bare-chested. “Sleeping in the middle of the day? You are getting old, man.” Without waiting to be invited, Forin stepped inside, walking through to the main room. His nostrils flared; the smell of strong perfume lingered in the air.
“I am sorry, my friend, I did not know you had company.”
“Well, I have,” said Tarantio. “What brings you here?”
“Karis wanted to make sure you would attend tonight’s meeting.”
“Tell her I will not be there.”
“You must be—that is where we will plan the fight in the catacombs.” Swiftly he told Tarantio of the caverns under the city. “Ozhobar thinks the Daroth will break through sometime tomorrow.”
“I am no longer willing to fight,” said Tarantio.
“Is this a joke? You think you have a choice?”
“A man always has a choice. I am leaving tomorrow.”
“I don’t believe it,” declared Forin, stunned. “You of all people! How can you consider leaving us to fight alone? You are the best swordsman I ever saw, and you have a magical blade. We need you, man.”
“The sword is by the door. Take it when you go.”
Forin looked at him quizzically. “What has happened to you, Chio? You are not the man I knew. You are certainly not the man who said he could swallow me whole if someone buttered my head and pinned my ears back. Gods, man, has the heart gone out of you?”
“Yes,” said Tarantio. “The heart has gone out of me.”
Disgusted, Forin swung away from him and headed for the door. The sword belt was
hanging on a hook and the giant lifted it clear.
“I am sorry,” he heard Tarantio call out.
“Rot and die,” replied Forin.
Dressed in a loose-fitting white gown, the ties undone, Miriac came out of the bedroom as the front door closed behind Forin. For a moment she said nothing, but stood looking at Tarantio. He smiled at her. “Would you like some wine?”
“He was your friend,” she said.
“Yes. Would you like some wine?”
“No. I don’t understand why you told him that.”
“What is there to understand? I’m not going to fight anymore. I want to get you somewhere safe.” He reached for her, but she drew back. “What is wrong?” he asked her.
“I don’t know—but he was right, Chio. Something has gone out of you; I’ve sensed it for days.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“It is to me. I love you, but you have changed. Have I done this to you? Have I robbed you of your courage?”
“My courage has not gone!” he said, but the words came out defensively and he could hear his own fear echoing in his denial. “It has not gone,” he said. “He wasn’t my courage.”
“He?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Not even to me?”
Tarantio turned away from her and stared around the room. Miriac remained quiet and still, allowing the silence to grow. He moved over to the fire and added coal to the embers, then sat down on the rug and looked into the flames. In a low voice he told her of his life, and the birth of Dace, and how they had lived together ever since. “I am not insane,” he assured her. “Dace was as real to me as you are. You asked me why I fled that night. Dace wanted to kill you; he felt my love for you, and saw it as a threat. When you came to the house two nights ago, it was Dace who met you.” He fell silent, and did not look at her.
She moved alongside him and sat down beside the fire. “I don’t understand,” she said gently. “I have never heard of anything like this. But I do know that the man who met me was not you. And when I kissed him he was holding a dagger.” Taking his face in her hands, she looked into his deep blue eyes. “And his eyes were grey,” she said, “and fierce.” Her hands fell away, and she leaned in and kissed his cheek.