by John Marco
It seemed impossible to shake Breck’s calm. He glanced back at the tapestry. ‘You asked me why I’m here,’ he said. ‘Let me try to explain it to you. Look at the tapestry, lieutenant.’
Van studied the wall art. It was very beautiful and calming.
‘Someday this war will be over,’ Breck continued. ‘Someday, when all the warlords are gone and Jazana Carr with them, Liiria will have peace again. When that day comes, the world is going to need the library.’
A faint smile crossed Breck’s weary face. Suddenly, Van knew he had his answer.
Together they were silent, studying the artwork and its scholarly men. The noise of the hall faded around them.
‘I became a Royal Charger because it seemed the best work a man could do,’ Van said suddenly.
What might have been a smile cracked Breck’s face. ‘It’s time for supper.’ He turned away from the scholars and their curious faces. ‘I expect my officers to dine with me every night.’ He strode past Van, then paused when he noticed he wasn’t being followed. ‘Come along, Vanlandinghale.’
Happy for the invitation, Van did not hesitate.
16
The Richest Man in the World
When he was a very young man, Baron Reynard Ravel’s father had given him a useless bit of wisdom. In a dusty field of their barren farm, his eyes weary from years of struggle, the older Ravel told his son that a man can’t have everything, and that he should not expect too much in life.
It had been easy for Ravel’s father to make such a statement, a convenient excuse to pardon his many failures. To Reynard, who had grown up poor but who had quickly made a fortune importing tea and spices, his father’s advice now seemed quaint, and not at all applicable to the grand life he had built. It was the only thing his father had given him. It was, sadly, a useless inheritance.
Tonight, Reynard Ravel rolled the advice over in his mind. He began to laugh, and his enormous belly convulsed beneath his silk shirt. After a day touring his plantations and an evening spent poring over ledgers, Ravel was tired. His mood, however, remained good. Now at last he could relax over his supper and celebrate his coming victory. Lying on his side amid a bed of colourful pillows, he reached across the floor toward the feast laid out before him, an orgy of meats and fruits and peacock eggs, from which he selected a single, plump fig. He sucked on the fig slowly, admiring the woman dancing before him, her body only partially clothed, glistening with sweat as she turned to the music. An enormous fire in a marble hearth kept the room warm. Ravel watched the perspiration slide down her bare belly and felt a stirring in his loins. She smiled at him, noting his lust, forcing the smile to her lips. Ravel’s girth made him grotesque to women, but his wealth kept them willing. The Merchant-Baron of Andola pinned the fig between his teeth and clapped, grinning like a wolf as he quickened the slave’s pace. The musicians beat their drums and picked their strings faster and faster while the woman sped through her pirouette, her scarlet skirt spinning out around her, the silk around her breasts blurring with colour. Ravel clapped and clapped until she cried with exhaustion, and at that delicate lament he stopped his clapping and watched her collapse to the floor, completing her dance with a toss of her golden hair. The music abruptly stopped. The girl knelt, panting, smiling, looking at him from across the floor. Ravel pulled the fig from his mouth and cheered.
‘Beautiful,’ he applauded. ‘Fate above, you were worth every penny, my dear! Your father wasn’t lying when he said you were an accomplished dancer. I should increase his fee just for that performance.’
A glee that was more like relief flashed through the girl’s blue eyes. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said, then let her gaze drop dutifully to her knees. Her heavy breathing quickened Ravel’s own. He glanced at the musicians and shooed them out of the chamber with a wave of his jewelled fingers. The girl waited obediently. Unsure what to do with herself, she adjusted the beads over her breasts. Ravel pursed his lips, loving her innocence.
‘Come here, girl,’ he said at last. She obeyed, padding toward him on bare feet. An arrangement of pillows had been set for her before the feast. Baron Ravel gestured to the soft spot. ‘Sit.’
Again she did as told, folding her legs beneath her as she sat before her new master. She dared not look up at him, but Ravel did not want her to fear him. He had a harem of women just like her, but he had never raised a hand to any of them. He had found out long ago that love given willingly was far sweeter than any love stolen.
‘You please me,’ he told her.
Her reply was curt. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
Her name was Simah, but she was not precisely a slave, or at least not in the traditional sense. There had been no slavery in Liiria since before the reign of Akeela, and in Ravel’s mind that was good and just. But times were tough, and there were fathers throughout Liiria willing to sell their daughters for enough gold or grain to see them through a season. Above all else, Reynard Ravel was a businessman. He knew a bargain when he saw one. And his precious Simah was certainly that. For such a beauty she had come cheaply, and it seemed her father had been glad to be rid of her. To be truthful, Ravel knew her bondage was slavery, but felt no guilt over the deal. It was not his place to moralise, he decided, but to profit. Simah would have a good home here in Andola. For dancing and the occasional night in his bed, she would avoid the starvation that had snared so many others.
‘You are warm,’ he said. Sweat still glistened on her creamy skin. He imagined the taste of it. ‘Forgive the heat. It is a condition of my blood, you see, for I am always cold. I’m like a little flower. You would think so much blubber would keep me warm!’
He went on to tell her how his own father had been a spindly man, a man of little means, who had worked his tiny parcel of land until dropping dead from exhaustion. When he died, Ravel explained, he was as emaciated as a fishbone.
‘I swore that would never happen to me,’ he told the girl. ‘And as you can see I kept my promise.’
He laughed at his jest but Simah simply stared, too confused to make sense of it. Ravel hoped he hadn’t purchased an idiot.
‘Eat,’ he told her.
She shook her head slightly. ‘I have no appetite, my lord.’
‘Oh, but you must. After such a dance? And such a long day? Eat, girl.’
But the girl did not eat. She simply stared at the food, her expression distant.
‘Simah, I purchased you from your family. You know that, yes?’
Simah nodded.
‘Then you know that you are mine now. You are to obey me.’ Baron Ravel softened his tone a bit. ‘My cooks went to trouble for you, to make you feel welcome. Have a little, at least.’
So the slave did as asked, selecting a single olive from a bowl overflowing with them. She put it in her mouth, chewing slowly and not tasting it.
‘It is painful to be taken away from your family, is that it?’ Ravel probed. ‘Then let me ask you this – is it more painful to leave your family, or to know that your father did not want you?’
The cruel question at last made Simah look at him. ‘My father was as poor as your own father, my lord. Did your father sell you?’
Ravel laughed. ‘You are insolent, but honest. And I will not argue bloodlines with you. My father never had coins in his pocket, only dirt. He didn’t know it, but he taught me what not to be in life. And now look at me. I’m the richest man in Liiria. Rich enough to buy your affection, child.’
‘I came willingly to this bargain, my lord,’ said Simah. ‘I was just a burden to my family.’
‘But you will not be one to me, girl; I will not allow it. I know a bargain when I see one and you were a great find, a treasure.’ He looked at her, inspecting her up and down, letting his eyes wander over her curves and smooth skin. She was a delight. Not yet resigned to her fate, true, but that was how all mustangs were at first. In time, she would accept him and her new life. Her eyes darted about the opulent chamber, plainly astonished by it. According to Bern, wh
o had brought the girl to him earlier, Simah’s own home was a hovel. Living just outside the city, she had watched Ravel war with the other merchants, reducing everything around them to dust. Surely she had never seen anything like the merchant-baron’s home. The elaborate friezes on the wall, the festoons of fragrant flowers, the fountain that miraculously never ran out of water; all these things amazed her. They were so unlike the buildings surrounding the castle, unscathed treasures in a time when everything else was broken. In a way, Ravel’s home was an obscenity, and he knew it. Gilded and dramatic, his castle remained oblivious to the battle-scarred streets below.
‘This is your refuge,’ said Ravel proudly. ‘Nothing will hurt you here. You must get used to that idea. Unlearn the fear you’ve been living with, girl. Others may die in fire and war, but not us. Not here.’
The promise left Simah unimpressed. ‘My lord, men like you bring war.’
‘Oh, you have me wrong, child. I am the saviour of Andola! If not for me the city would have been overrun by bandits. Don’t you know how safe you’ve been because of me?’
Simah did not answer, and Ravel realised she had no concept of his explanation. He sighed at his wasted effort. All the peasants of Andola were like Simah. They blamed him for their plight, never once thanking him for the order he’d brought to their city after Akeela’s death. He had battled for Andola, using his wealth to hire every mercenary he could against the opportunists who had tried to claim the city. The fighting had been fierce and had left a burnt-out husk in its wake, but Ravel was slowly rebuilding. Urchins like Simah simply didn’t realise how long it took to consolidate power.
‘I was in a fine mood but you’ve ruined it now,’ said Ravel. He glanced away, angrily toying with one of his rings.
‘Shall I go then, my lord?’
‘No,’ Ravel growled. ‘You will sit there and let me admire you, and remind me why I thought I had to have you. Tonight is a special night. I’m supposed to be celebrating. You’re supposed to be part of that celebration, Simah. There is an opera being performed right now in the castle for my men and servants. I could be there enjoying it, but I chose to be here with you instead.’
Simah blanched. ‘I’m sorry, my lord.’
‘You should think before you speak of things you know nothing about,’ said Ravel. ‘Politics is not for the weak-minded, and especially not for girls like you. Liiria is in chaos, Simah. It is by my good grace alone that Jazana Carr’s hordes do not come here and capture you. Ah, but you don’t know that, do you? You believe the nonsense fools like your father spout, that I am ambitious and cruel and not to be believed. Great Fate, you don’t even know why I’m celebrating tonight, do you?’
He could see her struggle to answer. Behind her pretty blue eyes her mind worked feverishly.
‘I didn’t expect you to understand,’ said Ravel. He reached for an olive, chewed the meat from it and spat the pit into his palm. ‘Because this is the size of your brain.’ He rolled the pit between his chubby fingers, smiling at the girl, then flicked it away. ‘Tomorrow I depart for Norvor. I’m going to speak with Jazana Carr.’ He paused. ‘You do know who she is, don’t you?’
‘The Diamond Queen,’ said Simah.
‘That’s right. The only woman in the world with enough gall to think she’s my equal. She has her eyes on Liiria, you see. Her forces have been massing near the border.’
‘I know this,’ said Simah. ‘My lord thinks I’m ignorant, but I am not.’
‘Hmm, that’s still in question. What you don’t know is that I sent an envoy to Jazana Carr, asking to speak with her. And she accepted. Now, let’s try out your sharp mind, Simah. What do you think that means?’
‘What?’
‘What do you think it means that she accepted my offer to talk?’
Simah thought for a moment, determined not to look stupid. But she did not know the answer, and had to admit it. She squared her shoulders and said, ‘I cannot say.’
‘That’s why the Fate made you a dancer,’ said Ravel with a grin. ‘But you’re not stupid, Simah. I can see that. I can teach you these things, so listen closely. Jazana Carr is weak. She would not have accepted my offer to talk so readily if she were not.’
Simah frowned at the deduction. ‘My lord, I have heard otherwise.’
‘Speak freely.’
‘My lord thinks the Diamond Queen is weak, but my family lives close to the Novo Valley. She is rich, my lord, richer than you even.’
‘Preposterous,’ spat Ravel. ‘I too have heard this rumour and it irks me. There is no one richer than me, girl, and no woman especially.’ He grunted in disgust. ‘Is that why you spread this lie? Because Jazana Carr is a woman like yourself? It must be nice for you to imagine such things, but I assure you it’s a fantasy. There is no one more wealthy than I. Not even King Akeela had such a fortune.’
His sureness deflated Simah. Her gaze dropped to her lap. As if she had suddenly realised how naked she was, she arranged her meagre garments to hide herself. The act of modesty stoked Ravel’s hunger.
‘Perhaps I should take you on the road with me,’ he purred. ‘Your company would be most welcome in my carriage.’
Simah stiffened. There was no way to decline his offer, so she simply nodded. ‘If that is what my lord wishes.’
‘I will consider it,’ said Ravel. ‘If you please me tonight.’ He clapped his hands loudly. Across the room a door opened and a servant hurried in. The baron told the servant, ‘Fetch the musicians.’
The fellow bowed and backed out of the room, and soon the men with the instruments returned. Without a word they sat themselves down on their pillows, not looking at Ravel, not waiting for him to say anything. They simply began to play. A soft, curvaceous tune came out of their instruments, filling the fabulous room. Ravel finished the sausage he was eating, wiped his greasy lips on his sleeve, then held out his hand toward Simah.
‘Come.’
In all her young life, it was not how Simah expected to lose her maidenhood.
The next morning, Ravel set out for the tedious ride to Hanging Man.
He was refreshed from his night of lovemaking with Simah, a girl he had not expected to be such a tiger. He had forgone the opera for her, and he was glad for that now because they had made their own music together, moaning strains of lust. He had lapped wine off her smooth belly, and summoned his manhood again and again until at last his fat body could take no more. Exhausted, he had rolled over into his pillows and slept, and by the time he awoke Simah was gone, taken to be with the rest of his women.
Baron Ravel had not brought Simah with him as threatened. Instead he rode alone in his opulent carriage, and was glad for the solitude. With the shades rolled up he could see his entourage of soldiers snaking out ahead of him, leading the way toward Norvor and his meeting with Jazana Carr. The sun was unseasonably strong and the fat baron revelled in its touch, letting it warm his face. A decanter of wine sloshed on the bench next to him, held in place along with a collection of crystal goblets by the craftsmanship of a master woodworker. Ravel’s seat was also custom fitted, a huge cushion of red velvet bolstered to endure his enormous weight. With all its adornments and its heavy occupant it took a team of four horses to pull the great carriage, a smartly dressed driver helming the team. The driver’s name was Merwyn and he had been with Ravel for years. Sadly, the same could not be said of most of the other men, who were all mercenaries, lured into Ravel’s army by his great wealth. The ranks of his private militia had swelled considerably in the past year, costing him a fortune, but Ravel knew it would be worth the expense. Eventually, all of Liiria would be his. He was going to Norvor now to assure that bright future.
She is weak, Ravel thought to himself, remembering what he had told Simah the night before. Bern and his other men had warned him against approaching Jazana Carr, but he was certain of the move. There was simply no way the Diamond Queen could best him. She had blustered by mustering forces at Hanging Man, but she was a woman and
that meant she didn’t have a military mind. Worse, she had moved far too quickly to make the bluff believable. Her grip over Norvor was only a few months old.
Not just weak, Ravel realised. Stupid, too.
For a moment he was disappointed. Oddly, he had expected more from Jazana Carr. He reached for the decanter, chose one of the identical goblets, and poured himself a portion of the thick wine. He drank to his easy victory.
Moments later, Bern fell back from his lead position and waited for Ravel’s carriage to catch up. When it did, the big colonel rode alongside. He looked uneasy, the way he always did when broaching the subject of Norvor. Unlike most of his men, Bern wore nothing to remind him of his days as a Royal Charger. Instead he wore the common garb of a mercenary, without a crest of any kind. His cape was dusty from the road and his leather gauntlets were cracked from overuse. Dark sweat ran down his grooved face. The sun had turned his neck and balding head crimson. Baron Ravel plucked a handkerchief of yellow silk from his vest and held it out the open window.
‘Here, wipe your face.’
Bern took the cloth, vigorously wiped the perspiration from his brow as he rode, then offered it back to his lord, who winced in disgust.
‘Thank you, no.’
Colonel Bern shrugged and tucked the cloth into his shirt. ‘Warm,’ he commented. Always a man of few words, he let his dour expression speak for him.
‘We’re making good time, yes?’
Bern nodded his sunburned head. A year ago he’d been in Jador, like many of his men. The desert kingdom had turned his skin into bronze leather. According to Bern’s lieutenants, his time in Jador had also made the colonel quiet and sullen, but Ravel had never bothered asking Bern about his days in Jador. Bern was a good soldier. Men followed him, and that was all that mattered to Baron Ravel.
‘We may reach the bridge by noon tomorrow,’ said Bern. His lips twisted at the prospect. The bridge at Roan-Si spanned the river Kryss. More importantly, it would bring them into Norvor. From there it was only a few hours more to Hanging Man.
