ability. It was a sad thing indeed.
Was it likely that the blond man at the fountain could read? No, he probably spent more of his time waving his sword about in hopes of arousing silly women. The green-eyed man, on the other hand - he had given the impression of some meagre intelligence through his reticence. That, or he was too stupid to string a sentence together. He was the kahr, after all.
The next bundle of sheets lay in front of her, menacing with their grey, beige and black threads that wove in impossible patterns. Artemi caught them up in her arms and trudged to a free washing bowl. The duties she had been charged with had to be the most boring ever created! She began scrubbing in as illtempered a manner as she could get away with. At least the sheets would not try to charm her with a big, shiny weapon.
Artemi worked her way through the rest of the washing allotted to her, and only finished when the sun descended behind the walls of the courtyard. The stones of the walls did glitter at her as if trying to be attractive in the wake of the sun, but there was such a great mass of them that their darkness could only ever be oppressive. She ignored them and made to stretch her arms out above her head until the tightness in them evaporated.
The area about her was now devoid of people, bar a single guard who paced the perimeter. Everyone else had departed in search of food or other entertainments, including that blond-haired man. He had joined his group of pointy-nosed nobles for a while,
quite bare-chested, and had then moved indoors with them. Did the politics of those people affect her? The thought of it did make her shiver, and she remembered well a quote from her father’s favourite book on leadership.
Power is rarely in the hands of those capable of deserving, the first paragraph had declared.
She twisted her mouth at the thought of it, and made her way to the servants’ chamber. The stairs that led her there were protracted, twisted and carved from the bedrock upon which Cadra was built. Each step had been worn to a dip in the middle by the many years of footfalls that had met with them, and in a few years it ought to be possible to slide all the way to the bottom. The ceiling above, however, had not been so well carved, and in places it was
low enough to force Artemi to stoop. Even the soldiers who visited the servants for their pleasures would have to crawl through here to reach their quarry, which did conjure amusing images.
Her hand ran along the wall as she descended, and it felt as cold and smooth as glass. The air cooled as well - enough to cloak the heat that came from the stand lamps that hid in the stones. She folded her arms and thought of her father’s house. Well, it was less of a house, really, and more of a glorified room. At least it had been warmer and more inviting than this dungeon.
A feeble whiff of smoke touched her nose as she approached the main chamber. Firewood and other things that made good burning material were rare down here, and so
smoke was a remarkable thing. In the exceptional instances when there were objects to set on fire, the entire population of the cellars would crowd around it as if it were a roast boar stuffed with chickens. It was often something of a social occasion.
The tunnel opened out and into the main hollow of the servants’ dwellings. From that long, cavernous and uneven chamber led the smaller cavities, and each of these were interconnected in a manner too complex to navigate in a single day. Each miniature chamber was a lodging of sorts, and was divided from its neighbour with smooth, mud walls and curving pillars. The network extended for a good mile underground, which Artemi had become lost in several times since her arrival.
Privacy was afforded by hanging strips
of cloth over one’s chamber, but if yours was poorly situated enough to be part of a main thoroughfare, there was not much point in it. There had already been a number of embarrassing situations into which Artemi had stumbled, but that was not the worst aspect of this place.
The greatest assault to the senses, and the most memorable part of it, was the noise. It was not chatter, movement, snoring, building or laughter. It was the sounds of distress, of howling, whimpering, crying and moaning. At any one time, a large proportion of the servants were suffering from nalka, and it had taken Artemi days to grow tolerant of the sound. On some nights, she would be awoken by a particularly vocal casualty. The entire situation was barbaric.
She ventured into the centre of the main chamber, where a crowd had gathered in a tight circle. There would be something fun burning in the middle of it, perhaps that blond man’s shoes, or his smug head, if she was lucky!
There was just enough space for her to squeeze and jostle her way to the front of the group, and in the centre, enveloped in hot orange flames, was a pitch-soaked log. Artemi had never seen anyone bring back such a treat to this place before, but the flames from it were wonderful. She savoured their warmth for a while, inhaled as much of the perfumed smoke as she dared, and then wove her way free from the circle.
Her hollow was deeply embedded in the network, and it would take her several
minutes to reach it with no obstructions. A few rays of light spilled from the chambers that were occupied, and their illumination lifted the pits in the floor as if they were peaks. To the right, the toilet block had only recently been sealed with doors, which served to contain the worst of the smell. Artemi doubted that this work had been completed at the request of a servant.
She cut through the intervening chambers, and kept her eyes firmly on the course she intended to follow. Hand-sized holes in the ceiling brought their cold air to her, and these would act as light wells in the day time. She upped her pace, and the sound of her feet scraping upon the ground set a rhythm to the curiously songful wails.
A final turn to the left brought her to her home. Its location made it marginally more private than some of the other cells, and Artemi drew a curtain across the two entrances so that she could settle into the red blanket that formed her bed. In one corner sat a foot-high, moulded fireplace, though its grating was dusty and had not seen use in some years. Caala had said that the chimneys were blocked off long ago, and their openings now served simply as reminders of better days when servants had been appreciated.
Artemi’s room had been occupied by a linen maid before, but she had been forced to leave when the king had placed his red scarves upon her. Benay-gosa accommodation was probably far better-appointed, though one rarely enjoyed it for long – not if the reports about the king were true.
She loosened the lacing at the back of her blue dress and slipped it off, before diving beneath the soft wool of her red blanket. Her eyelids dropped shut, and she drifted in semiconsciousness with dreams full of scarves and tall men who smirked at her.
“Wake up!”
Was that in her head, or beyond it?
“Artemi, love. Open your bloody eyes!” Caala was standing over her with hands upon broad hips.
She pulled a face. This was the night time, when people were supposed to be given the opportunity to sleep! “What is it?” she mumbled.
“What’ve you got yourself into, young lady? Didn’t I tell you to stay out of sight of those men? You know very well what will
bloody well happen. I thought you would behave differently, but no, instead you paraded yourselfaround the main courtyard and decided to be sharp to one of them.” Caala sat grumpily against the wall and drew her knees up to her chin. Her eyes were difficult to see in the low light, and that made her age impossible to judge. Of course, she looked the same as she had at twenty-five or thirty, if perhaps a little wider.
Artemi sat up and tried to remove her hair from in front of her face. “I just sai-”
“I overheard him talking about you – Lord Forllan, of all people! He said this pretty, red-headed girl had come up to him and shamed him for not doing his own washing.”
“All the washing was to be done outside today. I just... bumped into him.” She
tried to feign as innocent an expression as she could.
Caala took a deep breath. “Well, now you have to be on your guard
. He knows your blazed name and he thinks you are spirited.” Her mouth twisted with the last word. “What if he takes you in front of the king and he takes a shine to you? That’ll be the end of you, my girl! Bloody... bloody blazes!”
Artemi reached across to put an arm around her friend. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be careful, I promise.” She tried to smile in an encouraging manner. “Can we talk of something other than men? Do you want to do a little more reading tonight?”
Caala brightened at that, and pulled a candle out from one of her infinite pockets before going to the next chamber to collect a
flame for it.
Artemi reached over to the two volumes she owned and placed her hands on their wrinkly covers. “I think we should tackle a bit ofAchellon tonight, don’t you? After all, it’s supposed to be where ‘The Bloody Blazes’ came from.”
bedroom window and peered out to the gardens below. They were not gardens designed to impress or bowl one over with colour, and very little light ever reached them in any case. They followed the same ethic as the rest of the castle: grey, dull simplicity.
He exhaled noisily through his nose and pulled his mouth tight. At least there were women here, and they were the few flashes of beauty inside this cave of ugly darkness. Silar turned to look back into his rooms, and regarded the large bed that filled much of it. Four tapered spears prodded at the air above it from each corner, and in the sleeping area lay a pile of rumpled sheets and pillows. He wore his finest lazy smile as he went to one of the corner lances and leaned against it.
His eyes traced the sinuous curves and
folds of the linen, and he reached out a hand to run it gently between the ridges. The sheets immediately reworked their creases, and they stirred before a mess of brown curls emerged from the far end. It turned groggily and flopped to the pillow beneath it with a grunt.
Silar stepped softly to the side of the bed and settled himselfupon the edge, then pulled some of the dark curls away from Lady Allain’s face so that he could kiss her cheek. A smile touched her lips as she rose to greet him.
“Are you on duty today? Her voice was husky.
“No, butI do have many meetings, starting with King Acher. I’ll be late if I don’t leave soon.” He moved his fingers along her collar bone and down her shoulder. Shoulders truly were a most satisfactory area on a
woman.
“I suppose I had better get out of your bed then, and put some clothes on.”
“There’s really no need for clothes.” Silar grinned to emphasise the point.
She pushed off the covers and swept both of her legs across his, so that he could put an arm about her and lift her to her feet. “I ought to dance with you at the next feast day,” she said once he had set her down.
“I’ll hold you to that, my lady.” He examined her behind and the curved arch of her back that led to it while she sought out her clothing. When she bent down to collect her slip, he found himself swallowing air. She was teasing him, and there was no time for any of it! He clenched his jaw, but kept his eyes right where they were.
“Do you need some help with those?” he ventured.
She said nothing, but turned halfway toward him and allowed herselfa small smile. She was dark skinned, and sleek, and just about as womanly as any woman ought to be. He quite liked her bosoms, which were peculiar things the more he thought about them. Really, what purpose did they have, other than to please men? He snorted as he recalled Beetan’s short and somewhat earthy word for them: norks. Wherever had that come from?
She looked at him quizzically for the noise, but soon returned to dressing herself. When she was ready, Silar went to help her with the buttons of her yellow silk gown. He was becoming rather practised at such things, nowadays. Once she was ready, he found
himselfa clean shirt, which smelled heavily of Cadra’s laundry soap, and saw to properly clothing himself. Within minutes, the pair of them looked almost respectable.
He approached her to say his goodbyes. “Have you ever considered becoming a red head, my lady?”
She frowned lightly. “Not really. Do you think it would suit me?”
He answered with a lengthy kiss, and then said, “Perhaps. ShallI see you this evening?”
“Perhaps.” She smiled and departed the room, and the only noise that followed her was the swishing of her skirt.
Silar studied his reflection in the mirror. He had not shaved, but there wasn’t enough time to correct it. Perhaps the king would not
notice, anyway.
He buckled his sword to his waist, hauled on a pair of well-worn boots and grabbed the green-and-black army coat. The bedroom door slid shut in silence behind him, and his feet made almost as little noise as he strode into the hall beyond.
His coat was an item of considerable importance, since it denoted the rank he held in Calidell’s army – that of lieutenant. Four green stripes had been slashed across the plain black of the chest and shoulders, and it was tightly fitted enough to impress the women. There were nine other lieutenants in the army, and every one was in charge of a battalion that neared a thousand men. The battalions would take daily shifts guarding the castle and city, with half of each guarding during the day and
the other halfat night. The responsibility of it was sometimes a burden, but he was not about to cry about it.
His rank had been a generous gift from Morghiad, who would not be best-pleased with his impending delay.
Silar reached the main doors of the Malachite Hall, where two soldiers flanked each side in their Calidellian finery, and both men raised their eyebrows at him. How rude. He gave them a brief nod in any case, and pushed the giant doors of green stone open. The hall beyond was immense, glittering, and by Silar’s reckoning, just as dimly lit as the rest of the pile.
He stepped into the enormous geode, where chunks of polished green limestone jutted from the walls with their corners cut to
simulate gemstones. The floor was of black marble and interspersed with streaks of grey and flecks of white. Square, malachite-edged mirrors clung to the lower perimeter of the hall with snake-like stand lamps before them, and though these remained lit during the day, the only true light came from three glazed slits in the ceiling.
Nine men stood at one end of the hall, each of them garbed in the black and green of the army. Eight were lieutenants and the ninth, who was taller than the others and wore a black cloak that touched the floor, was Morghiad.
Excellent! One man was later than Silar was; that was something of a relief! He jogged to the group with his hand upon his hilt, and offered them all a very polite nod when he
drew close. Before them, and seated upon a low dais, was King Acher.
Silar gave him a special bow, and for the hundredth time, compared the man’s features with his son’s. The resemblance was slight. Not only was he shorter, brown-eyed, lump-nosed and lighter-haired, he was also much more animate. Perhaps there was something the men shared in their jaw line, but Morghiad really ought to have been thankful that he took his looks from elsewhere. The girls had always appreciated Morghiad’s looks.
On one occasion, Silar had taken a fine, bright-eyed dressmaker back to his chambers only to have her ask if she could meet ‘the handsome and broody kahr’. He had obliged, naturally, and had then left Morghiad alone to deal with his adoring devotee. Riling
the kahr created endless hours of entertainment. He worked so hard to rein in emotion keep his face free of movement that Silar could spend days thinking of ways to break him. Women made the man uncomfortable – that much was obvious, but Silar hoped that his kahr-captain would not think that being late for duty was another ruse.
He looked to his friend. Morghiad’s face and relaxed shoulders revealed nothing to lazy eyes, but the whiteness of his knuckles upon his sword hilt betrayed his mood.
Beetan was the missing lieutenant of the group. He was most likely recovering from the previous night’s excesses in a ditch somewhere.
“Women kee
ping you busy, eh, Lord Forllan?” bellowed the king with a smirk.
“Er... yes. Well...” He drew himself
straight. “Ladies are as they will do, sire.” He was not sure if that made much sense.
“That they are indeed! Hah! Why don’t you take the lead of your young friend here, Morghiad? Or aren’t you man-enough?” The king leaned toward his son with his eyes narrowed. Evidently he enjoyed baiting his son as much as Silar did, but at least Silar tried to be gentler with his jibes.
With effort, Morghiad released the hilt of his sword and placed his hands at his back so that they were beyond sight, before taking a long, deep breath. “What arrangements do we need to make for the Gialdin Feast Day?”
That was a celebration held to commemorate the destruction and subsequent acquisition of the small country of Gialdin eighteen years ago. It had been a wealthy
place, full of charitable people who would pay for the welfare of others. Orphaned children would be housed, out-of-work men and women were given apprenticeships so that they could develop new skills and injured nationals were given work until they recovered.
Its capital shared the country’s name, and had been crowned by an ivory palace that was forged from Blaze Energy. For thousands of years it had stood, and many believed that it was indestructible, but King Acher’s army had found a weakness in those walls. They had levelled it in the most ruthless of battles, and its rulers, the Jade’an family, were each dispatched by Acher’s own had at the conclusion.
The Fireblade Array: 4-Book Bundle Page 3
