by Gary Meehan
“You’ll do it.”
“Don’t you have bodyguards and whatnot to do your dirty work?”
“You’ll do it.”
five
The steam rising off the surface of the pool made it look as if it was on fire. Synne was over at the shallow end, supporting Cate as they floated on the water. Megan watched her daughter’s little limbs kicking in a frenzied imitation of a swimmer, laughing every time she made a splash. It was a heart-warming scene of mother and child at play, but heart-wrenching if you were the displaced mother.
Hot springs were dotted all along the foothills of the Kartiks. This particular one was for the use of the Lord Defender and his family. Steep rocks formed irregular walls, turning the pool into a private bath, albeit one open to the sky. This time of day, Vegar and Rekka’s children would usually be here, splashing and playing and making enough noise to have the dead organizing petitions of complaint, but they had been packed off to Downín on an “educational exercise,” which Megan suspected was code for “to give their mother some rest.”
Megan slipped out of her clothes. She made herself wait a few moments, until the chill mountain air raised goose pimples all over her exposed flesh, then plunged into the pool. The warm water caressed her weary body, dissolving her worries and soothing away the pain. Megan submerged, shook her hair out, then kicked her way over to Synne and Cate.
Screams greeted her surfacing. Synne grabbed the bawling Cate and backed off toward the side. Megan started to go after them, then stopped, realizing this would only agitate them more.
“It’s only me,” she said, pushing the wet hair from her face. “It’s only me.”
Synne relaxed, but not entirely. She rocked Cate, calming her down. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I’m sorry,” said Megan. “I thought you knew I was there.”
Synne shook her head. Cate was still pouting, her cheeks red. Megan held out her arms. “Here, let me.”
“You?”
“I am her . . . Please?”
Synne waded across to Megan and placed Cate in her outstretched arms. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” Megan said softly. “It was just Mummy playing.”
She shifted Cate on to her left arm and tapped the surface of the pool, sending droplets flying. “See?” Cate giggled. Megan hit the surface again, harder this time. Too hard. Water splashed into Cate’s eyes and she started to cry.
“Saviors, I can’t do anything right, can I?” muttered Megan. She looked down at her tearful daughter. “Sorry for taking your name in vain.”
“She’s getting tired,” said Synne. “I’ll take her back to the room, get her down.”
“I only just got here.”
“But we didn’t.”
Megan couldn’t argue with the sleeping patterns of a six-month-old. She had a few moments with Cate while Synne got out of the pool and dressed, then had to hand her over. She could have gone with them, ignore her redundancy, but pride prevented her. It was easier to pretend she was delegating, that she really was a countess and had servants to take care of the trivialities, that it didn’t wrench her insides every time she saw her daughter taken away. She stayed in the pool, letting the water numb her, drifting off into nothingness.
Scuffling from the other end of the pool woke Megan. Evening was falling, and the cooling air had thickened the mist rising from the water, meaning she could see nothing bar ghosts. A shape advanced through the fog, solidifying into the form of Fordel. He was completely naked. He stretched and, eyes closed, took several deep breaths. Had he seen her? Megan made to back off and clamber out of the pool, but she too was naked. Her clothes were at the other end of the pool—along with her knives. She sank into the water instead.
“I’m sorry,” said Fordel, eyes still closed. “I thought you wouldn’t be bothered.”
Megan turned around, embarrassed by her embarrassment. “I’m not.”
Fordel stood there until he started to shiver, then plunged into the pool.
“You do that too?” said Megan. “Make yourself cold so the hot water feels all that much better?”
“It opens the pores.”
“That what it is?”
“If you want to”—Fordel motioned to the rock ledge that circumnavigated the edge of the pool—“there’s no need to be shy in front of me.”
“Yes,” said Megan, “I’d heard. About . . . you know . . .”
Fordel started to scrub himself, massaging his close-cropped hair and beard. He stared down at his ink-stained fingers and rubbed them on the back of his hands. It had no effect. “I always forget to bring soap,” he muttered.
“Do people mind?” asked Megan.
“The ink?” said Fordel. “You want to see what some of my compatriots have their hands in. Well, you don’t actually. You’ll never have the fish pie again.”
“Not that,” said Megan, wishing she hadn’t started down this particular route. “About you? About you liking”—Fordel cocked his head—“. . . boys.”
“Boys? What am I—twelve?”
“Men then.”
“Maybe they do, maybe they don’t,” said Fordel. He flashed a wolfish grin. “It’s not wise to antagonize the person who controls the tax auditors.”
“And is there someone . . . ? Do you have a . . . ?”
“Ími,” said Fordel. “He’s the official mathematician.”
“Hil has an official mathematician?”
“The Realm doesn’t?” said Fordel. “And you call us uncivilized.”
“What do you do when you’re . . . ?”
“In bed?” asked Fordel. Megan squirmed and nodded. “Paperwork, mostly. We’re very diligent.” He finished his scrubbing and lay back in the water. “Don’t get obsessed by dangly bits and holey bits and what goes where. Man and woman, man and man”—he gave Megan a pointed look—“woman and woman, it’s all the same thing. You’re with someone you love and you want to be with them in every way possible. Though when you get to my age the possible ways are fewer in number.”
He started to drift off to the other end of the pool. Megan could have hung back, taken the opportunity to leave, but she gave a little kick and floated alongside him. “How did you . . . ? How did he . . . ? How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That the two of you liked each other. Even though you’re both . . .”
“Same way anybody does,” said Fordel. “You take a chance and hope your heart doesn’t get broken.” He rolled over in the water. “If you did take a chance, I’m sure she’d listen.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Megan, her heart thumping.
“Of course not.”
Fordel hauled himself out of the pool and stood at the edge, rivulets streaming down his body and collecting at his feet. “We’ve had word from Janik,” he said, toweling himself off. “They’re organizing elections for a new Supreme Priest. We should consider making our move before you have a rival.”
“You really think I can rival the Supreme Priest?” said Megan. Even hearing herself mentioned in the same sentence as him was mind-blowing. “That’s—”
“What have the priests to offer the Realm?”
“They saved us from the witches before.”
“A lifetime ago.”
“What have I to offer the Realm?”
Fordel flashed his lupine grin and started to dress. This wasn’t about what Megan could offer the Realm, it was about her offering the Realm to Fordel and Rekka. They wanted another Vegar, a figurehead they could manipulate, only instead of controlling a single city, they wanted the entire continent.
“I don’t want to be queen,” she said. “I’m only interested in defeating the witches. We should be working with the priests not against them.”
“Very diplomatic. I think you’re going to be a natural.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Of course,” said Fordel.
He took a step toward the exit. “Sila ta.” I
t was another of the few Hilite phrases Megan had learned, or at least partially learned. It meant either “see you later” or “we fight at dawn,” depending on which syllable was emphasized. As she could never remember which was the less-belligerent variant, she had been reluctant to try it in conversation.
She watched Fordel disappear between the rocks then hauled herself out of the pool and hurriedly dressed. Squeezing out through the same gap, she emerged on to stairs cut into the mountain, steep and rough and irregular as a priest’s gratitude. She took each one slowly, side on, bringing her feet together before cautiously feeling for the next step, worried her ankle would twist under her and she’d plummet all the way down to Hil. How Synne managed this while carrying Cate was another secret of motherhood Megan feared she’d never grasp.
Angry voices from below made her pause, as much for respite from her perilous descent as from curiosity. She pressed herself into the rock wall by the side of the steps. The distance and the twilight made it hard to see what was going on or make out what was being said. Fordel was talking—arguing?—with a man in priestly robes. Not Father Galan or Father Broose. Hard to tell, but it looked like one of the latter’s followers. Had Father Broose been ordaining acolytes? That was a right reserved for the Supreme Priest. It wouldn’t be the first time Father Broose had accorded privilege upon himself.
Fordel looked up in Megan’s direction. She instinctively drew back. Soldiers stormed up to Fordel and the priest. There was a confrontation. A fist struck out. Fordel crumpled. Megan let out an involuntary gasp. Heads snapped up in her direction. Someone pointed. Two of the men barreled up the steps toward her.
Megan stared down, unable to move. These were soldiers of the Faith. She had fought with them, fled with them—admittedly more the latter than the former. They could mean her no harm, surely? But Megan had more than enough experience of armed men coming at her. She turned and scrambled back up the steps.
Her foot slipped and flew out from under her. The steps rushed toward her face. She got her hands up just in time, gripped on to the rock, cried out as the stone rasped the skin off her palms. She pulled herself up, or tried to at least. A hand grabbed her ankle. She tried to pull away. The grip tightened. She kicked out with her free leg. There was an impact, a crack, a yell of pain followed by one of alarm. The lead soldier released her leg and fell backward, on to his comrade behind him. They tumbled down the steps. Megan hastened upward.
Panting, she found herself back at the spring. She hurried through the ever-thickening fog, circumnavigating the pool in search of another way out. There wasn’t one, but the place was open to the sky; perhaps she could clamber over the rocks and make her way down the mountain. Megan rushed around, looking for the easiest point to climb. The rocks ranged from a little over her head to twice her height. She found a spot that wasn’t too vertical and prepared to climb.
She froze. Two figures in the mist. Huffing and puffing and vituperative comments condemning Megan in terms normally reserved for her sister. She crouched and huddled next to an outcropping.
“. . . bitch go?” said one man.
“She’s not getting out of here,” said the other. “You go that way, I’ll take this.”
“You want us to split up?”
“You scared of a girl?”
“After the fight the other one put up? They say this one’s worse.”
The other one? Afreyda? Agitation clawed at Megan. Was she all right? What about Cate? Saviors, what about Cate? If they—and at present she didn’t know who “they” were—were coming for Megan, they would go after her daughter too. Megan had to get to her, protect her, take her to safety. That meant going through the men who’d come for her.
She peered around the rocks hiding her. The hazy shape of a soldier shimmered in the fog. Megan tensed, took deep breaths of the clammy air. She thought about what she was going to do to her compatriots, the people she claimed to be fighting for. Did “me or them” justify her actions? Maybe if she gave herself up they could resolve everything peacefully. Maybe, but she couldn’t risk it.
A stomping of boots cut off the time for contemplation. Megan spun out of her hiding place, sweeping her leg around as fast as she could. Pain exploded in her calf as she hit the soldier’s shins. Megan ignored it, let her momentum carry her around as the soldier flew through the air. She stuck out a knife. There was no need to thrust. The soldier broke his fall on the blade, skewering himself through the throat.
Megan tried to ease the body to the ground, but the weight was too much. Armor clanged upon stone, a racket even the sodden air couldn’t dampen. Wordless shouts pierced the fog. Megan’s head snapped from side to side. She couldn’t tell which way it was coming from. Only one thing for it. She threw herself in the pool.
She kicked off the side, shooting away as fast as possible, unsure how visible she was beneath the surface. A rock crashed into the water in front of her, bubbles streaming in its wake as it plummeted. Megan cut to the side, hoping that would confuse her attacker.
The bottom of the pool inclined upward. She’d reached the shallow end. Megan planted her feet and pushed up. Her head spun as air rushed into her lungs. She held herself steady, watched through a curtain of matted hair as the remaining soldier raced around the pool, his form shifting from phantom to man as he approached. It was one on one. Eleanor had warned her she’d never win a straight fight, not against a much stronger opponent. But there was more to strength than size.
She advanced until the surface of the pool was just above her knees. Water streamed down her body. Steam billowed off her in great clouds. The soldier took a step forward. He had his comrade’s sword as well as his own, one in each hand. He twirled them both. Clumsy, but Megan had no wish to get in their way. She held back, out of reach.
The soldier considered his options. If he was going to strike her, he’d have to enter the pool. Megan swept her hair back, waited for his decision. He poked a tentative boot into the pool. Water crept up the leather, darkening it. Megan slowly stretched back a leg, checking the footing behind her. Doubt showed on the soldier’s face.
“Come on in,” said Megan. “The water’s lovely.”
The mockery did its job. The soldier plunged into the pool and slashed at Megan. She stepped back, evading the blades that sliced the space she’d just vacated. The soldier lunged, slipped, dropped his swords, fell over in the water. Megan threw herself after him, knife first. An arm whirled out of the water and smacked into her. There was an almighty splash as she slammed into the pool. Water roared in Megan’s ears. Hands clawed at her. She fumbled for another knife. Fingers squeezed her face as if trying to claw it off. Megan wrenched the blade out and thrust. The water robbed her strike of its momentum, and that was before the soldier’s armor deflected it.
The fingers crawled up her face and pressed into her eyeballs. Twin columns of pain spiked into her head. Megan forced herself not to panic. She ran the tip of her knife across the man’s armor until she felt flesh yield underneath it, then rammed it in. Clouds of scarlet bloomed in the water. The pressure on her released.
More soldiers would come to check on their comrades. No time to waste. Megan waded out of the pool and hauled herself up the rocks. Her wet hands slipped on the stone. She went to rub them dry on her clothes. They were saturated; everything was saturated. Her body caught up with what this meant. Her teeth chattered from cold.
Movement was her best defense. She thought about using the steps, but the other soldiers would be waiting there. Best to keep to her original plan: climb down the mountain, letting the rocks and the dusk cover her. As carefully as her palpitating heart would let her, Megan climbed the wall surrounding the pool and straddled the ridge at the top. All that remained of the day was a pinkish hue edging the horizon. The first stars were starting to come out. Down in Hil, pinpricks of light dotted the city. It looked peaceful. Everything looked peaceful if you were far enough away. Maybe that’s why God never felt the need to intervene.
The slope leveled out. Megan pushed herself up into a run, dashing through a narrow band of trees until she reached an area that had recently been felled to provide wood for much-needed shelters. She bent over and rested her hands on a stump. The breath she sucked in chilled her insides.
No time to stop: she had to get to Cate. Megan moved on, crouching and trying to ignore the shivers that racked her body. She reached the outskirts of Hil. Still quiet. That was wrong in itself. There should be workers making their way home, the clatter of pans as dinner was made, the roar of drinkers celebrating the survival of another day. What the hell was going on? Something was wrong; something was terribly wrong. Had the witches made it into the city? Saviors, no. Saviors, please, no.
Flitting from cover to cover, Megan made her way to the Lord Defender’s mansion. Soldiers patrolled the city, grim-faced men wearing the sign of the circle. Maybe the witches weren’t responsible for this, whatever “this” was. She thought about stepping up to one, demanding to know what was happening, but instinct warned her against it and instead she hid whenever she heard the stomp of their boots, shivering in the dark, clenching her jaw shut to prevent her rattling teeth giving her away. Once, when she rested her hand against a wall to steady herself, it came back sticky. Blood. She wiped it off on her wet clothes.
More soldiers swarmed around the mansion—Megan would have to sneak in. She crept around to the back. Rekka was definitely the type of woman to have secret passages, but she was also the type of woman to keep them secret. There didn’t seem any obvious way in, though the gloom would have made it hard to spot any entrance not painted brilliant white and lit like a pagan shrine.
A hand slid around her mouth. Megan would have jumped high enough to clear the mansion had she not been held down. “There’s a cellar door around the western side, Mother,” a voice whispered in her ear. “I don’t think the soldiers know about it.”
