by Gary Meehan
“You literally . . . ?”
“Isn’t she the best?” said the sergeant. “We all love her.” Of course you do; she’s kept you well away from the action. “She’s prettier than the last officer we had too. He was an ugly bastard. Had this hairy wart right”—he held a finger up in front of his face and tried to focus—“here.” He jabbed himself.
“His eye?”
“That’s why it went dark. No . . . here.” He poked himself in the corner of his mouth, smearing his cheek with beery spittle.
“I am thinking of making him a lieutenant,” said Afreyda. “Can I? Say yes. Please.”
“You don’t think he’s overqualified for the role?”
“He is not overqual . . . he is not overqual . . . he is not too good for anything.”
There was little chance of sensible discussion with Afreyda in this state. “We need to get you home.”
Afreyda slammed the table and whooped. “You will have to do without me, boys! I have pulled!” Raucous cheers filled the tavern.
“Not tonight you’ve not,” muttered Megan.
Afreyda frowned. “It is a very strange expression, ‘pulled.’”
“I’m sure you have a very precise phrase for it in Diannon,” said Megan, slipping an arm around Afreyda’s waist and pulling them both along the bench.
“Of course. We would say . . . we would say . . .” Afreyda rested her head on Megan’s shoulder. “I have forgotten. Am I forgetting home? Who I am? Are they forgetting me? I have a brother, little . . . brother sons and brother daughters. Have I told you that? He stayed with the Emperor when we . . . when we . . . you know.” She looked up at Megan. “He is a bastard. Why am I talking about him? I have you.”
Willas appeared in the crowd, his head jerking about as if looking for someone. He spotted Megan and waved. She beckoned him over.
“Give me a hand with this one, will you?” said Megan, draping one of Afreyda’s arms over his shoulder.
“What’s she had to drink?” said Willas.
“Pretty much everything.”
“Where have you been, captain?” asked Afreyda. She beamed. “Hey, ‘captain,’ that is my name! Are we related?”
Willas patted her shoulder then leaned around her to address Megan. “I’ve been interrogating the prisoners,” he said. “One of them asked after you.”
“I’m not interested in being berated for blasphemy.”
“He asked for you by name.”
Megan’s skin tingled. “What name? The queen? The Mother? The Apostate?”
“Megan.”
twenty
The prison was underground, a low-ceilinged warren with water seeping in through the pores in the rock. It was a dank cold, the kind you could never escape, no matter how many layers you wrapped yourself in. Megan had had some wine to warm herself up, but all it had done was screw her stomach into knots and engender a mugginess she couldn’t quite shake off.
A single lantern her side of the rusting bars cast long shadows that danced constantly against the walls, as if searching for an escape route. On the other side, sprawled on the floor, was the prisoner; the chain joining the manacles clamped around his wrists looped through an iron ring hammered into the floor. He was bare-footed, dirty, his clothes reduced to rags—but oh so recognizable.
“Where did you find him?” Megan asked Willas.
“On the beach.”
Megan grunted. “It happens.”
“He was clinging on to a plank,” said Willas. “Had a hard time prying it out of his hand.”
“I guess it saved his life.” Megan nodded at the captain. “All right. Open it up.”
“You sure?”
“He’s not dangerous.”
Willas selected a key from the ring he’d commandeered from the jailer. Neither the clunk of the lock snapping back nor the creak of the gate swinging open disturbed the prisoner. He remained slumped, his back to them. Really unconscious or faking it?
Megan stepped inside, picking her way carefully across the slippery stones and the drain—nothing more than a track gouged into the stone—that snaked out of the cell. Still the prisoner didn’t react. Had the Hilites been a little too enthusiastic in their interrogation? The wine and the beer had been flowing freely, and restraint could be so terribly restraining.
Willas picked up on what she was thinking. “He was alive the last time I saw him,” he said. “I can kick him up if you like.”
“There’s military thinking for you,” said the prisoner, at last breaking his silence.
Megan took a steadying breath. “Never could resist an opportunity for sarcasm, could you?”
“That wasn’t sarcasm, that was criticism.”
Damon sat up. Droplets ran down his face, tracing the imprints the stone had left in his cheek. “Are these really necessary?” he said, holding up his chained hands.
“They are if you want to wipe your own arse,” said Willas.
“I meant the manacles.”
“I don’t know,” said Megan. “Which I guess means they are necessary.”
“You were fighting for the witches,” said Willas.
“Me? Fighting?”
“Helping them then,” said Megan.
“Me? Helping?”
“Why are you being so evasive?” said Willas.
“Why are you asking so many stupid questions?” said Damon.
Megan sighed. They weren’t going to get anywhere with Willas around. Some men showed off with muscles; Damon did it with his mouth. She asked the captain to leave. He did so reluctantly and only after pressing a knife into her hand. It was endearing he thought her innocent enough not to already have five blades strapped to various parts of her body.
Damon shifted position on the stone floor, trying to get comfortable. “How’s Afreyda?” he asked.
“She’s fine.”
“I heard she found her way to you.”
“Isn’t there someone else you should be asking about?” said Megan, her voice stiff.
“You look great,” said Damon. “Queen, eh?”
“Not me.”
A haunted look passed over Damon’s eyes. “I . . . I . . .”
“Yes, Damon, what exactly did you do?”
“I . . . They gave me no choice.”
“You’re not giving me the impression of someone who was brutally tortured to near death.”
“I’m a quick healer.”
Megan swallowed. “You were tortured?” Awful as it was to think it, it would make things much easier to accept if he had been.
“Well, they were very mean.”
“Did they?”
Damon squirmed. “Not exactly. But I don’t think they’d have to clear it with the ethics committee if it came to it.”
“You know what happened, don’t you?” said Megan. “When you told the witches where Cate was. You know what Eleanor”—Damon looked away at the sound of her name—“had to do to stop them.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And what?” said Damon. “Oh, I’m sorry, I see from that look on your face you expect me to feel guilty about something.”
“You betrayed us.”
“And you sent her to her death.”
Megan dropped her head, fiddled with the knife Willas had given her while the guilt fed on Damon’s words. “It was her idea,” she said.
“And you couldn’t talk her out of it?”
“You don’t think I tried?” said Megan, anguish breaking her voice. “We had no other choice. The witches were coming for Cate.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And what would it matter?” asked Damon.
“They . . .”
“Yes, Megan, they what exactly? You think Cate was in any danger? As compared to being dragged across the mountains to this place with these people?”
“You know what the witches want with her.”
“And how’s that going to change anything?
” said Damon. “I don’t notice the witches holding back, do you? What do you think this is, the pre-war?” He gave his chain an angry wrench. “You and Gwyneth are like toddlers arguing over a doll.”
“That’s my daughter you’re talking about.”
“And is she any more valuable than all the other people who have died for her? I mean, from their perspective, not yours.”
“You think I don’t ask myself that every day?” said Megan.
“You might ask,” said Damon, “but do you answer? You don’t have to watch—do you?—because you’re always miles away at that point. You don’t have to look in their eyes and see the life slipping away. You don’t have to feel their despair, their hate. You don’t have to witness themselves throwing themselves off . . . off . . .”
Awareness enveloped Megan like dread. That look on Damon’s face. He wasn’t hypothesizing, he was talking from experience. “You were there, weren’t you? When Eleanor . . . ?”
Damon’s eyes widened to that of a prey animal who had spotted a predator. He edged away, as far as the chain would allow him. “I . . .”
“Weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why the hell are you still alive?”
Megan snapped. She hurled the knife Willas had given her at him. It missed—just—and bounced across the stones, the clamor making them both wince.
Damon held up his hands in surrender. “There was nothing I could have done.”
“There’s always something you can do!” screamed Megan.
“It was hopeless.”
“It’s never hopeless. Not if it’s someone you love. Not while you’re still capable of making a fist or kicking out or just holding on to them and telling them they’re not alone, that whatever they’re going through you’ll share it.”
“You’d prefer us both to be dead?” asked Damon.
“At least then I’d know you cared.”
“I apologize for my continued existence.”
This was getting them nowhere, this sequence of accusation and counter-accusation. They were both responsible for what had happened to Eleanor; they were down to arguing who had the least amount of choice in the matter. And it wasn’t only a matter of what choices they had made on the day of the countess’s death either. Megan had dragged Damon and Eleanor down to Eastport, but they had let themselves be dragged. Eleanor had convinced Megan they couldn’t go back for Damon, but she had let herself be convinced. The witches had caught Damon, but he had let himself be caught.
“What happened in Kewley?” asked Megan.
“What’ve you heard?”
“This is not about getting your story straight, it’s about the truth.”
“Saviors,” said Damon, “has it come to that?”
“You do realize I can stab you with impunity, don’t you?”
“Because you were so concerned about the legal ramifications before.”
Megan turned her back on him and took a step toward the gate. “Fine. Explain it to Willas.”
“Wait.” Damon made a play of pushing his manacles up his arms and rubbing his raw wrists. “There was this guy. He owed me money.”
“Money?”
“Man cannot survive on homicidal rage alone.”
“Why did he owe you money?”
Damon gave her a sly grin. “Do you really want to know?”
“I guess not,” said Megan. “What happened with Aldred? What was he doing there?”
“He barged in with the local branch of the workers’ collective and set about applying the principles of the distribution of wealth.”
“Huh?”
“He was on the rob.”
“Go on.”
“Things degenerated,” said Damon. “It got all squelchy, and not in a good way. You would have enjoyed it.”
“Why did Aldred lock you up?”
“Getting rid of witnesses.”
“Why not kill you?”
“You could ask that of almost anyone,” said Damon. “What did he tell you?”
“Not much,” said Megan.
Damon beamed, like a schoolboy who’d got his sums right. The smugness ignited the rage within Megan, making her muscles twitch and her fists clench. Everything was reduced to some smart-arse game with him, even the loss of someone who meant so much. She wanted to slap him and punch him and kick him, make him feel some of the pain she did, offload some of it. She restrained herself. Barely.
A wailing filled the air, dozens of voices combining into a harmony that prickled Megan’s skin. “What’s that?”
“The Sandstriders,” said Damon. “Pledging themselves to the arrival of the sun goddess.”
Sun goddess? Was it dawn already? How long had she been down here? “Do they do that every morning?”
Damon nodded. “And every evening, when they throw over the sun goddess and commit themselves to the moon god. Flexible people, the Andaluvians.”
Megan let out a long “hmm.” The Sandstriders certainly had had no trouble switching their allegiance from neutrality to the witches then to the Realm and the Snow Cities.
“What happens now?” asked Damon.
“That’s for the Hilites to decide.”
“I was thinking more of when I was getting fed.”
“I’ll have chef prepare you something special,” said Megan. “Maybe a little wine on the side.”
“You have wine this far north?”
“It’s import—I was being sarcastic.”
“I suspected,” said Damon. “Thought I’d roll with it anyway.”
“You’ll get fed when the other prisoners are fed.”
“I’m still a prisoner?”
Megan rested her arm against the wall and watched the condensation darken her sleeve. “We picked you up from an invading fleet,” she said. “What else are you going to be?”
“It’s not like I was there voluntarily,” said Damon, spreading his palms. “They conscripted me. For the second time. I was just a translator.”
“They trusted you to translate?”
“They’re a very trusting people,” said Damon. “It’s one of their few redeeming qualities.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t really needed. You know what foreigners are like. They all speak Stathian really.”
“So you weren’t really working for the witches?” said Megan, trying to keep the hope from her voice.
“The bastards certainly never paid me.” His smile vanished at sight of Megan’s look of exasperation. “You do what you have to do to survive.”
“There are limits.”
“But they’re always just that one step beyond the worst you ever have to resort to.”
Megan snorted. “You can excuse anything if you put your mind to it. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I guess.”
“What exactly are you looking to excuse, Damon? Tell me. Because to hear you speak, you’re as innocent as a newborn kitten.”
“Are we going to do this again? Don’t think I don’t regret the things I was made to do. I did love Eleanor, and I’m sorry if my love doesn’t live up to your suicidal standards. If all you’re going to do is stand there and be morally superior at me, I’d prefer you to piss off and leave me to rot in peace.” He looked around. “State of this place, I don’t think it’s going to be hard. Do the Hilites know they have a damp problem?”
Megan needed someone to talk to, but the person she needed most wasn’t there, would never be there. It was at times like this she felt the truth of her adoption, that she was a little girl crying out for a mother. Only Eleanor could have understood. Her real parents, her grandfather, even Afreyda, they could offer her love but not guidance, not in a situation like this. Life hadn’t prepared them for this, hadn’t prepared her for this. She wanted to believe Damon. She wanted her friend back, her connection to Eleanor, but how could she trust him? He was telling her what she wanted to hear, or what she expected to hear; how could she know he wouldn’t sell her out to the witches if
it ever became the easiest option?
She found Cate and Synne beside the fire in the mansion kitchen, the former suckling contentedly at the latter’s breast. At least there was one parent–child relationship not troubled by treachery and politics and the fate of the world. Megan pulled up a chair and warmed herself against the flames until the heat sent prickles rippling across her body.
Synne stroked Cate’s head. “She’ll be weaning soon. You’ll be able to feed her yourself. You won’t need me any more.”
“We’ll always need you,” said Megan. Concern flashed across Synne’s face, a hint of “but you said . . .” Megan leaned across and patted her knee. “You should do what’s best for you, but you’ll always have a place with us if you want it, if you need it.”
Synne managed an embarrassed smile and looked down to Cate. “Everyone’s talking about going back home now the war’s won,” she said, wiping away a dribble of milk with her thumb.
“The witches haven’t been defeated yet.”
“I thought—”
“One battle, that’s all we’ve won,” said Megan. “There’s many more to come, and we won’t be so lucky next time. The witches’ll know what to expect. They’ll be waiting for us. They’ll throw everything they have at us, they’ll fight to the last bastard. Many of the people out there celebrating . . .” She shook her head. “And even if we do win, who knows who our next foes will be.”
“Next foes?”
“Whoever controls the guns.”
Synne frowned. “I thought we did.”
“Fordel does.”
“Isn’t he our friend?”
“He’s our ally,” said Megan.
“What’s the difference?”
“Friends are with you because they like you; allies because they dislike someone else. And while they have the guns . . .”
twenty-one
Boots thundered, doors crashed, voices cried in alarm. Before Megan was aware of what was happening, she found herself hauled out of bed and marched through the mansion by a squad of soldiers.
“What’s going on?” she said. A soldier barked back something in Hilite; it didn’t sound good whatever it was.
