Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Three

by Shepherd, Joel

  She closed her eyes against the new glare, trying to keep her wrists still. In the manacles, they chafed something awful, a pain nearly as bad as the burns. There were ten of those, two to each side, two on her back and two on each thigh. The cane had made cuts, and her stomach and ribs were bruised all over. Every breath was agony, though she did not think a rib was broken. Fury was the only thing that made it bearable.

  The cell door shut. The owner of the lamp crouched nearby. Sasha slitted her eyes, rolled her head, and looked. Emerald eyes, beautiful and frightening beyond description. Snow white hair. Such unearthly, long-limbed beauty. Memories of loving friendship, all betrayed…fury surged, and she was lunging to her knees, lashing with manacled wrists, whipping the chain toward that long, shapely neck…. But it was pointless, and the chains pulled her short, an agony of severed skin, and wounds disturbed.

  Rhillian barely moved. She watched as Sasha strained against the chains like a mad thing. And finally collapsed, frothing and gasping. She set the lamp aside.

  “Sasha,” she said coolly. “I’ve been to see Errollyn. They would not let me talk to him, but he is well. Alythia too. You are the only one I can talk to. Kessligh is demanding that someone gives him proof you are still alive.” Sasha said nothing.

  “Sasha, the Justiciary is heavily defended,” Rhillian continued. “A thousand, I’d guess. I have not seen Sinidane, I don’t know if he lives. There is open war in the city, I have not the forces to contain that and retake the Justiciary. I must prioritise. Council has fallen too. The Civid Sein hope to make a rallying cry, by claiming control of Tracato’s institutions.”

  Sasha gave an exhausted, crazed, exasperated laugh. “What do you want me to do about it? Help? You make a fucking mess, Rhillian. You always make a fucking mess. Look at me. I’m a fucking mess.”

  The cell was spinning. It was too much, and she slid down on her side, and lay on the straw. Rhillian did not reply.

  “I cannot be always attempting to justify myself to you,” she said finally. Her voice was quiet. Strained, almost. “We shall all do what we will, for the best interests of all. It’s all we can do. None of us is wise enough to know all ends.”

  “That’s great, Rhillian,” Sasha gasped. “A philosophical excuse. Sorry I fucked everything up, even the wise are fallible. How nice.”

  Another, longer pause. Rhillian got up abruptly, and strode to the cell door. Stopped just as abruptly. Came back, and squatted once more. Sasha struggled for focus, through slitted eyes.

  “I cannot stop them from hurting you, Sasha,” Rhillian whispered. Her voice trembled. “They are cruel. All sides are cruel. I play them against each other. I will defeat them soon, or they shall defeat themselves, but I cannot stop them from what they do here now. I have not the force.”

  “You said that already,” Sasha managed. “What do you want from me? Forgiveness? You won’t get it.”

  “There was a time you would have forgiven me anything.”

  Petrodor. Sadisi festival, dancing and cook fires on the dockside, reflections gleaming in dark waters. Rhillian, impossibly beautiful, taking a prawn from Sasha’s plate. Laughing, avoiding the inquiries of forward young men, discussing the night with wonder in her eyes.

  “Not anything,” Sasha murmured. To her incredulity, there was a lump in her throat. Not now. Revenge required a steely heart, such softness appalled her. “Never anything.”

  “Do you recall,” Rhillian said softly, “that once, I insisted you should sleep with Errollyn?”

  “I didn’t do it just to please you,” Sasha croaked.

  “No.” Rhillian’s lips pursed in a small smile. “I don’t suppose you did. Had I known the trouble it would cause me, I would never have suggested it. Do you recall our discussions with Father Berin?” The North Pier temple on Dockside, near the great shipping docks. Berloni the painter, swathing beautiful, holy images across the ceiling. Spirits she wished she were back there now. “He insisted that if he could convince just one serrin of the holy teachings, he would die a happy man.”

  “You used to provoke him.”

  “I did. But he was a rare Verenthane, he enjoyed it. I truly think he was more interested in converting you than me.”

  Sasha managed a small, breathless laugh. “I’m even more the hopeless case than you.”

  “I did tell him,” Rhillian agreed. “I also think he merely enjoyed the company of two pretty girls, whatever his priestly protestations.” She gazed at Sasha in the lamplight, humour fading from her eyes. “Oh, Sasha.” Regarding her wounds. “What have they done to you?”

  “You protest yourself innocent of violence now?”

  “Any serrin can kill for the cause of survival, Sasha, but…” she shook her head. “This is not in our vocabulary. To kill fast is one thing. To kill slow is entirely…”

  “Kiel would,” Sasha gasped. “I hear that Kiel has.”

  “Sasha, please, just tell them what they want to hear. The Army of Lenayin is powerful, it will make no difference if they know….”

  “I don’t care. I don’t care. I’ll kill them.”

  “Sasha,” Rhillian protested, in mounting desperation, “these people are crazy! They…some of them accuse the priesthood and refuse religion, but in truth, they remind me of the fanatics at Riverside. One truth, one belief, and it’s repeated, over and over, as though by sheer force of will they can arrange truth and stone and blue sky above to suit their fancy. And Reynold Hein! The most intelligent man of the bunch, and the worst as well. Every opposing argument, he turns on its head, twists it, flips it, remoulds it to suit his preordained conclusion. It’s the most incredible feat of intellectual self-blindedness. There are serrin in Saalshen who have not travelled in human lands who struggle to believe it when I explain it to them! How can I explain the likes of Reynold Hein to the wise and gentle souls of the Saalshen councils? Even Lesthen struggles, and he’s travelled widely!”

  “You forgot Sevarien.”

  “No, I never counted Sevarien amongst the most intelligent,” Rhillian retorted. “He was always a big, blustering fool. Sasha, they have identified themselves as the victims, and in their victimhood, all manner of crime becomes acceptable. And worst of all, they are the victims of feudalist oppression, so their arguments appear valid to any without the patience to search more deeply!”

  “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

  “Sasha,” she tried again, “just do what they say. Please. As the fighting grows more desperate, so will they. They believe blood can solve their ills.” She looked again at Sasha’s wounds. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Don’t,” Sasha whispered. “You’ll not get off that lightly. You got me into this. If anything happens to Errollyn or Alythia, I’ll hold you responsible. I’m Lenay. You know what that means.”

  “You’ll not scare me that easily. Serrin are a complex people, Sasha. We can hate and love at the same time.”

  Sasha could feel her steely resolve slipping. Through the agony, she felt a pain that had nothing to do with wounds. She swallowed hard, and tried to recapture the steel mask. She needed it. It sustained her.

  “You’re responsible,” she whispered. “If the people I love die, I’ll kill you.”

  “In the end,” Rhillian said sadly, “we must all do what we must.”

  It did not seem like more than a few hours before Sasha was hauled from her cell once more down to the wide, hot dungeon. There, she was hung from the hook, grasping the chains with tight fists to try to keep the manacles from digging into her wrists. She did not see Reynold Hein, but the handsome, dark-haired man was there. Perone, she recalled his name.

  She did not think much time had passed since the last session, however deceptive such perceptions could be underground. She thought perhaps the last session had been late afternoon, and now it would be night. Something about Perone’s manner seemed hurried, perhaps distracted. From that, and Rhillian’s visit, she guessed that the Civid Sein might think their time was l
imited. She didn’t know if that made her less frightened, or more.

  The grip on her chains began to slip. She felt beyond dizzy, nearly nauseous with pain. Any more treatment like the last time, and she knew she could die.

  More footsteps entered the dungeon, and the sound of something heavy being dragged. Sasha twisted to look…and saw Errollyn, chained as she was, and dragged by two men. Her heart nearly stopped.

  “Errollyn!” He twisted, and saw her. He had been beaten, his face swollen, but what he saw enraged him. He lashed at his captors, knocking one to the floor, but others grabbed him, kicking and beating him until he fell. It took four strong men to hoist his manacle chains over a ceiling hook, and winch until he hung nearly suspended, like her. “Errollyn, I’m all right!” she told him in Lenay, trying to be reassuring.

  He did not look in quite as bad shape as her. He had taken blows to the head, which she had not, but his shirtless torso bore far fewer bruises, and no burns that she could see. His green eyes burned at his captors, beneath a wild, sweaty fringe. His breath came hard. Errollyn had no love of closed spaces, Sasha knew. He did not fear them, exactly…but he had lived most of his years before becoming talmaad in relative solitude in the foothills of Saalshen. Now, his eyes had that slightly crazed look, like a wolf backed into a corner.

  “Your slut has not been particularly forthcoming to our questions,” Perone said now, whistling a cane with expert flicks of his wrist. “She appears to enjoy pain…not surprising, for a Lenay bitch. I hear that lovemaking in Lenayin is little more than a violent beating followed by climax.”

  Laughter from one of the other men. Sasha made certain she got a good look at his face. She wanted to recall that laugh, when she killed him. It was with little surprise that she recognised the man—it was Timoth Salo, the young nobleman of the Tol’rhen, Reynold Hein’s prized convert to the Civid Sein.

  “Someone had the very clever idea,” Perone continued, “that she might be more responsive to someone else’s pain than her own.” He shrugged. “I don’t hold much hope, but I’m willing to give it a try.”

  He lashed with the cane, and a sharp, red line appeared across Errollyn’s stomach. Errollyn made not a sound.

  “Rhillian will kill you!” Sasha snarled. “All the serrin will kill you, you neither harm nor kill serrin without setting all of Saalshen at your throat!”

  Perone smiled. “Oh, I think you exaggerate.” He signalled to the big, bald man, who drove a fist hard into Errollyn’s ribs. Errollyn barely grunted, swinging on his chains. “Rhillian could have demanded his release, but she did not. Besides, the serrin are fools to think they could rule Tracato. This city belongs to the true patriots of Rhodaan, and we rule here now. All who stand against us are traitors, human and serrin alike.”

  His stroll brought him to the horrid little table, picked up a nasty little blade, and examined it. Sasha’s heart galloped. Another fist drove into Errollyn’s midriff. “Stop it!” Sasha screamed at them. “Leave him alone!”

  Errollyn’s green eyes were fixed on her. “Sasha,” he said hoarsely. “No sheth an sary. You tried to explain it to me once. Now I understand.”

  Perone strolled back to him, the blade in hand. Tears spilled in Sasha’s eyes, sobs threatening to wrack her body.

  “The only comfort,” Errollyn told her, in Lenay, “is in the knowledge that you will kill these men. Concentrate on that, and do not fear for me. Your revenge shall sustain me.”

  Perone’s knife flashed, and a new red line appeared, this one trickling blood. Pain flashed on Errollyn’s face, yet he made no sound. Sasha thrashed against her chains, in desperation, crying. Perone slashed again. No one asked her any questions.

  Later that night, if night it was, Sasha awoke. It had not been sleep, merely unconsciousness. She lay on dirty straw in her cell, mostly naked, in chains. Her body bore no new injuries, but in her memory, she now carried her last sight of Errollyn as they’d unhooked him from the ceiling. There’d been a lot of blood, drenching his pants. A thin maze of scars across his torso. They’d used salt, which had finally made him scream. She’d never before in her life heard Errollyn scream. It did worse than make her cry, or make her stomach retch—it robbed him of that strength of dignity he’d always carried.

  But he’d been alive when they’d dragged him away. The cuts were shallow, designed more for pain than injury. She clung to that hope.

  She wanted to think, but could not. Her mind was awash with pain, with fury, with exhaustion and fear. The fever she had feared had not advanced, yet still her skin flushed hot and cold. Her burns seemed to have come up in blisters. Her stomach muscles were bruised, her wrists badly strained beneath the chafing, but most of the injuries were no more than skin deep. Were she to get free, she was certain she could still move fast if she had to. If she could ignore the pain.

  She closed her eyes, not wishing to see the dull, grey stone of the cell, lit by a single, yellow lantern. Not wishing the disorientation of feeling the walls and ceiling swinging around her. She would be all right. As would Errollyn.

  She might have slept for a moment, she could not tell, but suddenly there was a rattle of keys, and the clank of the door’s lock. The door squealed open. A thud as something was thrown into the cell, and then the door closed once more. Food maybe. One of those big, ugly loaves of stale bread. Sasha’s stomach turned. She was not hungry, but she should try to eat.

  She opened her eyes, and slowly focused on the object on the stones before her. It was a human head, facing her, eyes open. Long black hair. The eyes, the features, were Alythia’s.

  Sasha screamed.

  A long time later, she was still screaming.

  There was a commotion when they dragged her next from the cell. The first flight of steps did not go down, as before, but up. Dazed, Sasha realised she was being led out of the catacombs entirely. A cloak was thrown about her bare shoulders, covering her to the knees.

  She registered a broad hall, filled with light, blinking and squinting as she was shuffled across the flagstones. Men were shouting, footsteps running, weapons clattering…and was it her imagination, or could she hear the distant sounds of battle? Yes, and then, clearly, there came a clash of weapons. The Justiciary was under assault. A thousand Civid Sein defenders, Rhillian had said. Who was assaulting? The feudalists? The Steel? Kessligh’s Nasi-Keth? All three, she hoped.

  She was pulled up more stairs, three flights in total…the Justiciary was no taller than four floors, surely? She could not recall. Despite the chains, the sleepless night, the lack of food, the horror, her head felt clear. The stairs seemed to help, as exercise always did…but mostly, she thought, it was the prospect of battle. It made her nostrils flare, like some old warhorse.

  On the upper floor, her guards handed her to Perone, whose two Civid Sein companions dragged her down a corridor and into a small room that might have been a study. They threw her down on a chair beside a bookshelf, and one man stood by to guard her, his sword out. Perone gave that guard a harsh instruction in Rhodaani, then left, slamming the door behind. By the guard’s stance, Sasha guessed those words had been to the effect of: “If she tries anything, kill her.” Chained hand and foot, she did not fancy her chances.

  There was an arched window nearby. With gritted teeth, she heaved herself from the chair and shuffled to the window, hunched like an old woman. The guard did not protest, but watched her all the way, his blade ready.

  She had a view of the Ushal Fortress, across a jumble of tiled roofs. It was morning, she saw from the light. It had been just one night then, that the Civid Sein had occupied the Justiciary. Possibly Kessligh knew what that would mean, for her. Possibly that knowledge had forced his hand. She knew better than to assume so. Kessligh had far more on his plate than just concern for his wayward uma.

  The sounds of battle were clear from this height. It was difficult to discern their location. Sasha guessed that was partly because the battle was all around. The Justiciary was being attacke
d from all sides. The feudalists would have the numbers for such an attack, but not access to the eastern approaches, which were away from feudalist heartland and currently strong with Civid Sein. The Nasi-Keth lacked the numbers, and were no good for massed combat anyway. It had to be the Steel. True to her word, Rhillian had lost patience.

  The door crashed open and an angry-looking Perone strode back in. He paced across the room, apparently aimless, then reversed. Then kicked at a table, furiously, and snapped at the guard. Perone, Sasha noted, was wearing a swordbelt, good boots and a wide-collared leather jacket. The stylish attire of a wealthy Tracatan. Curious choice, for a Civid Sein revolutionary.

  The argument with the guard continued. The guard looked a genuine country lad, tall and blond, freckled and missing some teeth. Sasha caught a few words, and knew enough of young men and warfare to guess that Perone had been told to stay here, and not to go out and fight. Guarding her, no less.

  Perone saw her watching. He stopped and gave an exasperated laugh. “Look at her,” he said, in Torovan. “Thinking this all so amusing.” Abruptly he made toward her. Sasha backed away from the window, her ankle chains nearly overbalancing her. Perone caught at her wrist chain, and Sasha lashed back. Perone’s blow struck her head, and suddenly she was on the floor, seeing stars.

  Perone and the guard picked her up and dumped her on the table. “You should be grateful,” Perone told her, unbuckling his sword belt, as the other man held her arms down over her head. “I am a great man of the revolution. If you are fortunate, you may die with my bastard in your belly.”

  They were going to kill her, Sasha realised, blinking her vision clear. Or at least, they had moved her upstairs so that no sudden breakthrough on the lower floors could liberate the dungeons.