by Gary Meehan
According to Gwyneth, the general kept wine by his bed to help him sleep at night. All Damon had to do was tip the herbs into the cup and let bastardry take its course. Whichever way you looked at it, it was cold-blooded murder. While his ethical objections to such an act weren’t as strong as they should be, he still feared the conse-quences, for his body if not for his soul. But what choice did he have but to do what Gwyneth commanded and hope she didn’t drop him in it?
Osgar’s room was in the old royal apartments, a couple of floors below Gwyneth’s. It was empty for the moment: no general, no wine. He must still be plotting with Gwyneth and his captains. How could she look him in the eye, knowing she had ordered his death? Damon would have been at least a little embarrassed. But then, how long had Gwyneth known what she was going to do to Megan and their grandfather? Straightforward assassination was nothing more than a household chore to her now.
Damon looked for somewhere to hide. The room was bare but for the essential furniture. Judging from the discoloration in the paint and the gaps in the dust, it had been stripped recently—the general’s ostentatious austerity. Damon crept outside. A tapestry hung from ceiling to floor, depicting the priests’ victory over the True or, rather, the priests’ victory over a demon army three times their number. He wondered why the True had left it there. Perhaps they didn’t recognize themselves among the vanquished.
He squeezed in behind it. The mustiness made him want to sneeze. He jammed his knuckles in his nostrils and pulled his sleeve over his mouth. It helped a little. He found himself dozing. The hour was late and the constant stress was tiring him out. Here, cloaked by the heavy fabric, it was easy to forget everything, surrender to the darkness.
The scuffing of leather upon stone jolted him awake. He peeked out. A soldier carrying a pitcher and a goblet. Osgar’s midnight nostrum. The soldier disappeared into the general’s room and reappeared moments later, empty-handed. Damon watched him troop away. Osgar himself would be along soon. It was now or never. He slipped out from behind the tapestry, contemplated the stairs the soldier had taken. Away from this. Into Gwyneth’s wrath.
He trudged into the general’s room.
Damon sat down on the edge of Osgar’s bed, weighing the pouch of herbs in his palm, nerving himself to pour them into the pitcher of wine standing on the bedside table. A few seconds, that’s all it’d take, and then he could be out of there. He thought about praying, asking God for guidance, but when had God ever answered? Sod it. He tipped the pouch into the wine and made to leave.
Approaching footsteps, the rasp of Osgar’s voice as he ordered unseen men to let no one disturb him, the crash of boots snapping to attention. Damon looked around at the barren room in despair. Only one thing for it. He threw himself to the floor and crawled under the bed. Some assassin he was, reduced to a child’s tactic.
Candlelight shimmered across the floorboards. Springs creaked and pushed into Damon’s back. He waited for the telltale tinkle of liquid. It didn’t come. Of all the nights to turn teetotal. He wondered if the apothecary would give him a discount for repeat business.
There was the burned whiff of extinguished candle. More creaking and scratching as the general made himself comfortable. A broken spring clawed Damon in the shoulder, the shoulder where the True had forcibly tattooed the star-broken circle. He gritted his teeth and endured the pain in silence. There was no other choice but to wait out the night.
Necessity kept him awake. He couldn’t afford to fall asleep and let his snoring or even heavy breathing give him away. Instead he lay there, staring into darkness, thinking about everything he’d ever done, everything he’d had done to him. Saviors, what a pathetic existence. Surviving from day to day, pledging allegiance to whoever was most likely to kill him if he didn’t. Maybe once the war was over the True would let him go and he could . . . and he could do what? Repeat all this somewhere else?
There was a commotion out in the corridor. Changing the guard? Above Damon, Osgar shifted but didn’t wake. Someone entered, closed the door behind him. Boots crossed the room, as silent and indistinct as a phantom’s in the blackness.
The bed jerked. “Tob—?”
The general’s query was reduced to muffled squeals. The bed rocked from side to side. Springs clawed Damon. There were repeated slaps against the mattress. And then all was calm.
Damon lay as still as possible, holding his breath, willing his heart to stop its conspicuous thudding. Something scurried across the floorboards beside him. Wiry fur brushed his cheek followed by the flicks of a sinewy cord. A rat.
The intruder paced around the bed. His intonation of the funeral prayer confirmed his identity: Tobrytan. He’d killed Osgar, but why? Had Gwyneth got to him too?
The rat’s tail continued to swish at Damon’s face. He tried to nudge it away with his head. This only served to pique the rat’s interest. The tail was replaced by the fleshy point of a nose. Damon’s nerves fluttered, muscles contracted, cramp stabbed the soles of his feet. He just had to hold on a few more seconds, surely. Tobrytan was almost finished. Damon mentally recited the last few words along with him.
“. . . out of death comes life.”
Tiny teeth nibbled at Damon’s lips. He snapped, batted the rat away with his fist. It screeched in protest.
“What?”
Damon’s hand froze in mid-swipe. Metal slashed against flint. There was a spark, then the warm glow of a candle. A few seconds later, Damon was staring into Tobrytan’s grim face.
“You know,” said Damon, “I don’t think I’m cut out for rat wrangling.”
“Get out from under there.”
Tobrytan stood back up. Damon considered staying where he was, but Tobrytan was perfectly capable of thrusting his sword through the mattress. He wriggled out and got to his feet. Osgar was sprawled out on the bed, his pillow haphazardly shoved under his head. That’s how Tobrytan had done it: he’d smothered the old man.
“Should I ask?” said Damon.
“He had lost sight of what was important,” said Tobrytan. “We must secure the Savior. At any price.”
Easy to say when you weren’t the one paying that price. “You want to march on Hil?”
“God commands it.”
“And the fact your daughter is held prisoner there . . . ?”
“What are you doing here?”
Damon brushed the dust from his clothes. “Oh, you know,” he said, trying to sound insouciant. Tobrytan’s hand moved to his sword. “You think that’s going to help? It’ll make things look very suspicious.”
“I caught you standing over the general’s body and brutally hacked you down while trying to escape.”
“You do have a sense of humor.”
Tobrytan grinned. It was the most unsettling thing Damon had ever witnessed. “Will anyone believe anything else?”
“Will anyone believe a weakling like me could overpower Osgar?” said Damon. “He might be old, but he was strong.”
Doubt flickered across the captain’s face. Damon wandered around to the bedside table and picked up the pitcher. “I think it’s safe to assume I have no interest in grassing you up,” he continued, “so why don’t we walk away and practice our shocked faces for when we learn Osgar has died?” He poured a cup of wine and held it out to Tobrytan. “Let’s drink on it.”
Tobrytan hesitated before accepting the cup. He raised it to his lips then paused.
“Go on,” said Damon. “It won’t kill you.”
Tobrytan cocked his head. He proffered the cup to Damon. “You first.”
“Me? I never touch the stuff.”
“I insist.”
“You have seniority. You should—”
“I insist.” Tobrytan thrust the cup into Damon’s hands.
Black specks floated around in the wine. The dose had been for an old man: maybe Damon would survive it, especially if he vomited it up as soon as possible. On the other hand, it could make death a more drawn-out, a more agonizing, process.
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Steel flashed in front of his face. Tobrytan’s sword. “What are you waiting for?”
“The cheese plate?”
“Drink.”
“I’ve been thinking, I should really give up booze. It only ever gets me into trouble.”
“Drink.”
“It doesn’t seem right,” said Damon, “with Osgar here not, well . . . not. Feels like we’re celebrating.”
Tobrytan prodded him with the tip of his sword. “Drink!”
Damon took the smallest sip imaginable. His throat contracted, refusing to let the wine down. He coughed, spraying drops of liquid everywhere.
“More.”
Damon drank some more. “I want to see you swallow,” said Tobrytan.
Damon’s mouth was too full to supply the obvious punch line. Fighting the gag reflex, he forced the wine down. Spasms gripped his stomach. His head swam. Quicker than expected. He wasn’t going to have time to stick his fingers down his throat. At least it wasn’t painful.
As Tobrytan looked on dispassionately, waiting for him to die, Damon realized he wasn’t. His taste buds alerted him to what he had consumed along with the wine: basil, oregano and was that sage? The bloody apothecary had ripped him off.
He relaxed, had another drink. Thyme in there as well. Bit of a mismatched bag, culinary-wise. Still, non-lethal, which was the main thing.
He flashed Tobrytan a smile, hiding his relief in cockiness. “You were expecting someone deader?”
Gwyneth summoned the captains to the throne room at dawn to hear the news. Despite being neither a captain nor ignorant of the news, Damon invited himself along. He wasn’t the only hanger-on. Tobrytan and Sener had each brought with them a contingent of loyal lieutenants and sergeants who glared at each other from either side of the central aisle. Word had got out then. Maybe they’d kill each other in an orgy of violence. The thought cheered Damon immensely.
Gwyneth seemed in no hurry to start the meeting. She was curled up on the throne, looking up to the ceiling. Damon peered up to see what fascinated her. It was a window barely a foot in diameter, of glass so pure it was almost invisible.
“It’s very small,” said Gwyneth.
Damon thought back to his history lessons. “The sun shines down through it at noon on Saviors’ Day.”
“Sounds very pagan,” said Gwyneth. “Why noon?”
“That’s the time the Saviors traditionally appeared to Edwyn,” said Damon. “Just in time for lunch. I wonder who picked up the tab.”
“Is that important?”
“Have you ever eaten in Statham? The prices are astronomical.”
Gwyneth beckoned him closer. “You did well,” she whispered, her breath tickling the fine hairs around his ear.
“It was nothing.”
“Come to my apartment tonight. I have a reward for you.”
Damon didn’t like where this was going. “That’s really not necessary. I did it for the love of my fellow man. Well, not all my fellow men, obviously.”
Sener stepped forward. “If we’re disturbing you . . .”
Gwyneth gave him a wave that was half magnanimous, half shooing. She straightened up in the throne. “I have some bad news,” she said. “I’m sorry”—Damon coughed—“to announce the general passed away in his sleep.” This was technically correct: smothering caused unconsciousness before death. She nodded at Sener. “My condolences for your loss, captain.”
The throne room held its breath, wondering how Sener would react. That he’d suspect foul play in the death of his father was a given; whether he’d dare voice his suspicions was another matter. His jaw clenched; his hand drifted close to his sword. One of his lieutenants whispered in his ear. Sener took a breath and folded his arms.
“Thank you, Mother,” he said. “During these difficult times I think it’s important we respect my father’s wishes, his decisions.” His words sounded stagy, rehearsed. He’d be all too aware of the danger facing him now his father and protector was gone. “They were for the good of us all. We shouldn’t think of rushing into something against his wise counsel.”
“That’s for General Tobrytan to decide,” said Gwyneth.
“General?”
“I have made my decision.”
“It is not your decision to make.”
“I am the Mother of the Savior.”
“You’re not the only one,” said Sener. “And we don’t take orders from her.”
“The Apostate will be dealt with very soon,” said Tobrytan. “A crack force will march double time to Hil and retrieve the Savior.”
“You will command it,” Gwyneth said to Sener.
“Me?”
“Mother,” said Tobrytan, “I really think I should be the one who—”
Gwyneth dismissed him with an idle flick. “I think we can trust Captain Sener, can’t we?”
Sener’s eyes darted around the throne room, their agitation betraying the calculation behind them. Gwyneth was forcing him to prove his loyalty, and by removing him from New Statham she was ensuring he couldn’t act against her.
“What about the Hilites?”
“They will be no match for your guns. They’ll hand the Savior over at the first explosion.”
“Unlikely,” said Sener. “They don’t have a reputation for giving up.”
“I’m sure your men will fight bravely,” said Gwyneth. And die bravely, diminishing what support you have. “The safety of the Saviors was your father’s paramount concern. I’m sure you’ll give everything you have to continue his work.”
“I shall honor my family, Mother.”
Gwyneth pursed her lips but didn’t rise to the bait. “On the subject of family, I think it’s best we bring my daughter to New Statham. We can protect her here better than . . . Where exactly is she, general?” Tobrytan whispered in her ear. “Why on Werlavia . . . ?”
“Last place anyone would think to look for her.” Tobrytan looked apprehensive. “I think it’s best she remains there, Mother.”
“What?!”
“Until we have secured her sister,” said Tobrytan, taking a step back. Was he really that scared of her, wondered Damon, or was he just playing up for the audience? “The city has too many people, too many possibilities for treachery.”
“I don’t mind you thinning out the population,” said Gwyneth.
Tobrytan smiled thinly. “Once we have both Saviors the people will understand. And then nothing will stop us.”
Damon had just enough time to take in the soldiers looming over his bed before the pillowcase was thrown over his head. He thrashed around in the blackness, trying to free himself. Spots danced in front of his eyes as he sucked in fabric. This was it. Gwyneth and Tobrytan were getting rid of the witnesses.
A knife pierced the linen and pricked his throat. “Be still.”
Damon froze, though he could do nothing about his heart hammering away against his ribs. He could just about breathe through the pillowcase, though there was a strange taste to the air. Sweat and dandruff and night terrors.
“You’re coming with us. Make a noise and you won’t be.”
Strong hands hauled Damon out of the bed. He winced as his bare soles touched cold stone. Probably futile to ask if they’d brought slippers.
They marched him through the palace. At first, Damon tried to keep a mental map of where they were going, counting off steps and turns, but he soon lost track. Not that it mattered. This was a journey he’d be doing only once. He just hoped they wouldn’t make him dig his own grave. Spadework always played havoc with his back.
Light breached the veil. Heat prickled his skin. There was a whiff of perfume in the air and other, more primal, odors. The pillowcase was ripped off his head. He was in a bedroom. A young woman was fastening up her gown. The brief glimpse of flesh under the silk gave Damon very inappropriate thoughts given the circumstances.
“That will be all, Taite.” A man’s voice. Damon turned. Sener was by the window, pouring wine.
Damon couldn’t help but watch as she left. “Working out your grief?”
“Leave us,” said Sener. Damon made to leave. “Not you, fool.”
Damon’s escorts retreated. He shuffled awkwardly on the spot. This wasn’t what he had been expecting. He supposed it was better than a nighttime execution, though he conceded this was based more on optimism than evidence.
“My father . . .” said Sener.
“You don’t know how sorry I was to hear his—hear about his death.”
Damon moved closer to the fire. When Sener didn’t object, he warmed each of his feet in turn.
“What do you know about it?”
“Me?” Damon tensed and gauged the distance to the door. “Nothing!”
“I meant death in general.”
“Well, I wouldn’t recommend it as a lifestyle choice . . .”
“There are ways of testing if a death is natural or unnatural, correct?”
“You mean an autopsy?”
“Is that what it’s called?” said Sener. “Do you know someone in New Statham who can do one?”
“You think your father’s death was unnatural? That he was . . . ?”
Sener stalked close to Damon, so close he could practically see the alcohol seeping out of the captain’s pores. “Do you know someone?”
“I did . . .”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Let’s just say we don’t need an autopsy to know how they died,” said Damon. Sener’s brow creased. “Who controls the learning in the Realm?”
“The prie—ah.”
“You should really learn to think before you slaughter.”
“There is no one else?”
Damon shook his head. “Anyone with that degree of medical knowledge would have been conscripted into the army of the Faith.”
“How about you?”
“Me?”
“You received a priest’s training, I hear.”
“That was . . . I was strictly history and languages, not the gooier subjects. Do you know what they do to frogs in—?”
