by John Marco
"I do not believe it," spat Dyana. "Kalak is a beast. He lies."
"It's not a lie," said Tendrik. They were face to face now, and his breath was hot against her cheeks. "I know. I saw him. You're making too much out of this. He's a whelp, a boy. There's nothing for you to be afraid of."
"I will not do it."
"Yes you will." Tendrik seized her wrists and pinned her hands up against the wall. Dyana beat at him, but so much fat bearing down on her thin wrists threatened to crack them. She turned her face away as he whispered his familiar threat into her ear.
"In three days' time I am leaving for Talistan. Carlina and the others are going with me. If you want to be with us, you will do as I tell you. If not, I will be more than glad to leave you here for the Drol to find. And the Drol don't much like Triin whores."
Dyana cringed, wanting to argue but knowing the man was right. He owned her now. He was her only passage to Nar. Still, she had to try.
"Offer him another girl. Give him that wretch Carlina."
"Don't ask me what he sees in you, little one. I saw that mark you gave him. If I were him, I would buy a night just to beat you. But he won't do that because he's soft. And for some reason he's taken with you, enough to pay all our passage back through the Run. I'm not giving it back, girl. I'd kill you first."
"Let me go," commanded Dyana. "Now."
"Will you go to him?" asked Tendrik, pressing down harder.
"Yes!" Dyana cried. He was crushing her. "I will! Let me go!"
He finally released her and she fell forward, panting. Two stout red marks circled her wrists. She rubbed at them distractedly.
"Where is he?"
"Downstairs. He wants to see you in an hour."
"I have nothing to wear." Dyana pulled at her dirty dress. "This will have to be good enough for him."
"Pretty yourself up!" the innkeeper rumbled. "He's not paying for a night with a kitchen wench. Borrow a dress from one of the others, something clean. And brush your hair. It looks like a rat's nest!"
He stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind him. Dyana picked up a shoe and hurled it against the door.
The sun was down, the stars were up, and Tendrik's dirty little beer hall had been turned into the perfect romantic venue. Richius lifted his glass and tested the wine. It was a strong red from the south of Gorkney, and he smiled to himself as he tasted it. The little table in the corner of the room had been set with Tendrik's own stoneware, a collection the innkeeper proudly explained had been "acquired" from a Naren nobleman who had traveled to Ackle-Nye and developed a nasty lung infection on the way. The infection had killed him, and Tendrik had done the rest. Richius guessed that the ornate candlesticks were also the nobleman's, since they bore the crest of Criisia, a minor but wealthy province of the Empire. There was fine flatware on the table, too, and the crystal goblets were worthy of any royal banquet. Richius grinned as he inspected the table. Tendrik was unbearable, but he was certainly resourceful. He was sure Dyana would be impressed.
It had cost Richius more than just Dinadin's dagger to make the arrangements. He wanted the place to himself for the night, and that meant a severe loss of business for the innkeeper, a fact that could only be corrected by Richius' emptying his pockets and providing the innkeeper with a note. Actually more like a bill, one he could present to the king of Aramoor upon his safe passage through the Run. Richius knew his father wouldn't be pleased, but he also knew he would pay the innkeeper. And if it was an annoyance to the old man, well, to Richius that was just an added benefit.
Now only he and the lute player occupied the room. The musician, a Naren vagabond with an overly friendly smile, had agreed to play for them. His name was Po, and his services had come much cheaper than the food. As Richius sat back, anxiously waiting for Dyana, Po plucked absently at the strings of his instrument.
"So who is she?" the musician asked. He leaned back on his seat, his long legs propped comfortably on another chair. "Some sort of princess?"
"No, not a princess," said Richius. "Just a girl."
"Oh, not just a girl! Not for all this trouble." Po leaned in closer and winked. "She must really be something, eh?"
"Yes, she is. But do me a favor, Po. You're going to notice when she comes down that I think a lot more of her than she does of me. Just ignore it, all right?"
"Lovers' spat, huh?"
"Not exactly."
Po took the evasive hint and nodded. "Not a problem. You won't even know I'm here." He went back to playing his lute, stroking a soft and easy melody from the strings. Richius leaned back to listen. He heard a sound and thought for a moment it was Dyana, but it was only the serving boy returning from the kitchen. When he noticed Richius was alone he stopped halfway to the table.
"She's not here yet?" asked the boy awkwardly. "Your pheasant..."
"It's all right," said Richius, waving the boy closer. "Just leave them on the table. She'll be down soon."
The boy did as Richius bade, taking the time to breathe deep of the sweet odor of the roasted birds. An excited giddiness rippled through Richius. She would be impressed, he was sure of it. Po took a glance at the plates, too, and his smile widened.
"Nice," he commented. "Where did you find those?"
"Tendrik," said Richius. The answer made the musician laugh.
"That explains it. That man could find a baked ham in the middle of a desert. But I don't know about that wine. Are you sure it goes?"
"It's fine."
Po shrugged, then added, "You should think of a white."
"It's fine!" said Richius. "Come on, fellow. Can't you see I'm nervous? Just play."
"It's going to get cold," said the boy.
Richius sighed. "So what if it does? The last fresh meal she had was probably still moving. You think she's going to mind cold pheasant?"
"I could take it back to the kitchen--"
"It's not necessary. Please, just be quiet. All right?"
The serving boy started to apologize, but Richius ignored him. Over the boy's shoulder he could see Dyana descending the stairway. A quiver of anticipation moved through him as he rose to greet her. She was splendid. Her white face was colored lightly by a dusting of makeup across her cheeks, a mellow pink that complemented the dazzling scarlet of her dress. There was a resentment in her eyes that made them sparkle. She moved like a wraith down the staircase, soundless, and she did not look at him until she reached the lower level. Richius heard Po give a small, impressed whistle. The lute player's smile was as wide as his face.
Dyana wore no such smile, and her face held no exuberance. She looked defiant. Cold and unapproachable, she raised her eyes to look at him. And when she saw the splendid table he had set for her, an expression of utter shock passed over her.
"Hello," said Richius, offering his hand. "Thank you for coming."
The music, the smell of the pheasants and the candle wax; all of it rushed at her senses just as he knew it would. She stood dumbfounded, spying the servant boy waiting to push her chair in, and what looked almost like a smile passed her lips.
"What is this?" she asked. She did not take Richius' hand, but she did not pull away from him, either. Richius took a breath.
"This is an apology," he replied.
"It will take more than all this to make up for what you have done, Kalak. I am only here because Tendrik said I must. He said you want to speak to me. Why?"
"We can talk about that," said Richius easily. He gestured toward the table and the serving boy waiting to seat her. "Will you sit with me?"
Without a word she went to the table. She saw the exquisite food and her mouth twisted hungrily. Richius tried to hide his smile. It was like setting an elaborate trap. He would have to speak like an angel and move like a serpent. Dyana's eyes flicked up to him as he took his own seat. He could almost hear her stomach rumbling over the lute. Then the girl's expression hardened, and she pushed the dish away.
"I am not hungry," she declared.
&
nbsp; A lie, Richius knew. He feigned agreement. "No? Me either. I really just wanted to talk to you. We don't have to eat all this."
Dyana's face fell. "This is a bribe. You should know I cannot be bought like this. I may be a whore, but I am not a fool."
"I don't like that word," said Richius. "Don't call yourself that."
For a moment it seemed she would get up and leave. She looked down at the table and let out a sigh. "Why am I here?" she asked. "Tendrik told you I will not go to your bed again, yes?"
"He told me," replied Richius. "That's not why I wanted to see you."
"Why then?"
"To talk. To tell you how sorry I am for what I did." He touched his face to remind himself of the stinging bruise she had given him. "This morning, when you ran from me, I told you I was sorry for taking your maidenhood. I was wrong to abuse you so. But I truly didn't know. I swear to you, if I had I would never have done it."
"Then it would have been someone else," she said simply.
"Why?" asked Richius. "Why are you even here?"
"You ask too many questions," said the girl sharply.
Richius shrugged. "I'm curious about you. I want to know why you hate me so much. You call me a jackal but you don't know me. I'm not your enemy."
"You are," she corrected harshly. "You destroy. I knew people in that village. Now some of them are dead. Your men killed them. This is why I hate you. This is why you are Kalak."
"You have me wrong. Those weren't my men who burned that village. And it wasn't my order. No one from my company would ever hurt you or your people."
"I saw you there," countered the girl. "And Kalak is the supreme Naren in Dring. Even the Drol say that."
"But it wasn't me," insisted Richius. "I was the one that stopped the burning. I saved you from that brute, remember? He's the one you should hate, not me."
"You kill Triin. I know you do."
"I kill Drol," said Richius. "I'm not proud of it, but I kill people who are trying to kill me. Don't think I enjoy it. Whatever your people say about me, they're wrong to think I'm a butcher. I'm not." The thought of Dinadin ripened in his mind and his smile melted away. "I'm just stuck here."
The girl stared at him skeptically. "You have made your apology. Can I go now?"
Richius didn't know how to answer. Finally he nodded and said, "Yes, if you want. But I wish you wouldn't. I would rather not be alone tonight."
There was a definite softening in her harshness. She looked down at her food, then back up at Richius.
"We don't have to talk if you don't want to," said Richius hopefully. He felt on the verge of tears, but he didn't know why. "We don't have to do anything, just listen to the music."
The girl's face was miserable. "I am hungry."
Richius looked at her. "Me too."
It was all the encouragement she needed. She pulled back her plate, then waited for Richius to do the same before picking up her fork and tearing off a piece of pheasant. Together they tasted the poultry, perfectly prepared by Tendrik's woman in the kitchen. The girl's eyes glazed with satisfaction. Food was painfully scarce in Ackle-Nye, and she was so thin. Richius had known the symptoms of hunger too well not to be able to recognize them. Dinadin had been right. He did want to rescue her.
Not far from the table, Po strummed his lute, playing a soft ballad. He tossed Richius an encouraging wink.
They ate in silence, and Richius was content just to have her close. Then suddenly she stopped eating. She lowered her fork to the table and looked up at him. He was sipping his wine and noticed her staring at him through the bottom of the glass.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"You are right," she said. "You did save me. I know that." She seemed to be struggling as she added, "Thank you."
"You're welcome. And thank you for staying with me. I meant what I said. I won't hurt you anymore. If I hurt you last night, well... As I said, I'm sorry."
"It only hurt a little. I am better now."
"Would you like some wine?" Richius asked, to keep her talking. "It's a good one."
Her defenses rose up instantly. "No. No drink."
"Tendrik told me your name is Dyana. That's a very pretty name. Where I come from lots of women are called that. Is it a Triin name, too?"
"My father named me," said Dyana, and didn't elaborate.
"You told me you arrived in Ackle-Nye yesterday. Did you come from Dring?"
Her lips twitched evasively. "Yes, from Dring."
"Why? Was the village badly damaged?"
Suddenly the misery on her face changed to a hard anger. She got up from the table. "I have to go."
"Wait," Richius cried, jumping up after her. "Don't go, please."
"I must." The girl was almost at the stairs when Richius caught up with her. She turned on him, her eyes wild. "Do not follow me. Leave me alone. I cannot be with you."
"I don't want to hurt you, I swear. I don't want anything from you tonight. Just some company."
There was something in his words that stopped her from retreating. Maybe it was the aching loneliness in his voice, or maybe it was simply the allure of the food. Richius didn't know why, but when he opened his eyes again she was still standing before him.
"My cousin was in that village. My little cousin, just a baby." She wrapped her arms about her shoulders. "She is dead."
And in that instant Richius understood all the venom she had dealt him. He felt filthy, dirtier than the lowest dog. The music stopped. Dyana stood there, smoldering. Richius moved toward her and reached out a hand, barely grazing her naked arm.
"I'm sorry," he said weakly.
"She was trampled," Dyana went on. She looked away. "Just a baby..."
"Dyana, I swear to God it wasn't me. I grieve for you but it wasn't me. Blame the Talistanians. They're butchers, and they're nothing like my people from Aramoor. You have to believe me."
"I do. But I still must go. I have said too much already."
"Don't. I want to help you. It doesn't have to be this way for you."
She shook her head and said, "It will not be for long. Tendrik will look after me?'
"Tendrik?" asked Richius. An ugly idea was occurring to him. "What do you mean?"
"It is my business, Kalak. Do not ask me of it."
"I'm not Kalak," he growled. "Don't ever call me that. I'm Richius Vantran. Call me Vantran or Prince, I don't care. But don't call me a jackal."
She bit her lip. "I do not know what to call you. To me you are Kalak."
"Call me Richius. That's my name."
"I cannot."
"The innkeeper. What do you mean, he looks after you?"
"Please," she implored. "If I am wrong about you, I am sorry. But let me go now. I have nothing for you."
"I can't do that. I can't let you go until you tell me what hold Tendrik has over you. I know merchants like him. And I bet I know what he's got planned for you. If you think you're going to escape the war or hunger or anything else by working for him, you're wrong. You'll be nothing but a slave, especially if he takes you back to the Empire. Is that it? Is that what he's promised you?"
"You do not understand. I must go with him."
"Where's he going to take you?" pressured Richius. "The Black City?"
"No," she said simply. "Talistan."
Richius started, struck by her terrible innocence. She might speak the tongue of Nar, but it was clear she had never been anywhere in the Empire, especially not to Talistan. No woman, no matter how desperate, would agree to such a fate.
"Dyana, come back to the table. We have all night, and I really have to talk to you." He held out his hand. She regarded it suspiciously. "Trust me."
Amazingly, she took his hand. He led her back to her seat and sat her down, gestured for Po to continue playing, then took his seat.
"You said you have to go with him. Why? Because of the war? If so then you should stay in Lucel-Lor. From what I've seen lately, the war is almost over anyway. Going to Talistan would
be worse for you than living under Tharn, I'm sure."
"You are wrong about that," said Dyana. "Very wrong."
"No," continued Richius. "You are wrong if you think your life would be better in Talistan. I know Talistan, Dyana. You would regret that the rest of your life. Triin have no rights there."
"But women have rights there," said Dyana. "My father told me so."
"Your father was wrong. I'm sure he didn't mean Talistan when he spoke of Nar. In some parts of the Empire women are treated no better than here in Lucel-Lor. And Talistan's the worst of them. You would be Tendrik's property if you went with him. He'd sell you to every man with a gold coin."
"That's not true," she protested. He could see her frustration welling up. "Do not say so. My father would never have lied to me. Tendrik will let me go when we get to Talistan. He promised he would."
"Sometimes fathers don't know everything. Believe me, I know. If you go to Talistan you'll be this cretin's slave forever. He'll never let you leave, because he won't have to. Do you really think that's better than staying here?"
"I have no life here!" she flared. "You do not know me. You do not know why I am here, why I have done this to myself."
"You'd better tell me, then. Because I can think of no reason worth your taking this innkeeper's offer. What's in Talistan that's so important?"
"It is what is not in Talistan that is important."
"Oh? And what's that?"
"Tharn."
"Tharn?" repeated Richius. "I don't understand. Why should you be afraid of him?"
She looked at him, her eyes filled with despair. "Let me go. You are not Triin. You cannot know what I have been through, and I cannot explain it to you."
"Try, at least."
She shook her head. "No."
"I can't let you leave until you do," said Richius firmly. "I know it doesn't make much sense to you, but I can't."
The girl shut her eyes. "It is difficult. So much has happened to me, so much..."
