Mistress of the Gods (The Making of Suzanne Book 2)

by Rex Sumner

  The marshal sighed. “Thing is, boy, I can’t get to see the king. Won’t let me in. He’s surrounded by bloody bishops with their incense and blood-letting. Say they are the best to bring him back to health, their prayers will cure the fever in his foot. The Wall has put his own men on guard around the quarters and I’m not on the permitted guest list, never mind I won their blasted war for them.”

  Lionel didn’t say anything, while working out the marshal meant the Duke of Hardenwall when he said The Wall.

  “Yes, yes, with a bit of help, all right, a lot of help, from you and your lads. They should still let me in.”

  “Sir, we found out something in the north.” Lionel spoke with care, dropping his voice and taking a quick check to ensure nobody could over hear. “The Uightlanders are not a force They’re pitted by infighting, they’re full of pride but downright scared of Kingdom regular forces.”

  The marshal looked at him, face revealing nothing.

  “Sir, for the Spakka to land such forces unopposed so close to the Wall is only possible with a strong local force supporting them. That isn’t the Uightlanders.”

  The door creaked and without looking up the marshal spoke. “Donnell, join us.”

  The colonel drew up a chair and the general waited while the waitress brought him an ale. Lionel assembled his thoughts, wondering who could be the Spakka ally, while noting that the general showed little surprise at his dramatic revelation.

  “Sir Lionel,” said the marshal, “what do you know of politics? Factions, damn it, who decides the law, runs the country.” He snapped this out at Lionel’s blank face.

  “Allow me, sir,” said the colonel, interjecting with a smoothness based on long practice. “The kingdom is a disparate mixture of nations, each with their own customs and habits. You Fearaigh boys are fiercely independent and don’t like interference. Same with everybody. Yet we must have a uniform rule of law. At the same time, we have the king who is the man running the country and, crucially, levying the taxes with which to run the country. Arrayed around him are the nobles, each and every one of which would like his job, in particular the bit about raking in the taxes. They all support the king, but all of them would reverse that position if they saw profit for their family.”

  Lionel nodded at this; he could see similar situations in his own experience at lower levels.

  “The situation is further muddied by religion. You probably follow the old religion, that of the Elves and the goddess Danu. The church reached our shores many years ago and took firm root in Galicia, while it is pushing out the gods of the Spakka and Northmen here in the north, as the priests push up and support the farmers. The crown takes no position on religion, which is sufficient to anger all sides. Have you heard of Count Rotherstone?”

  Lionel finished his ale and held up his mug, wondering what all this rot had to do with him. He shook his head, although he knew a great deal about Rotherstone, as the waitress replaced his mug.

  “Rotherstone is a spider, and he weaves a web that draws in nobles to an alliance of Eastern aristocrats who believe fervently in the church. He has a catspaw, a royal cousin named Raphael who he wishes to make king.”

  An argument sprang up from the door, which burst open revealing the guardsman looking cross-eyed at a lance point resting on his chin, while Captain Rogers backed into the room stalked by a furious Matt.

  “They don’t like the accommodation, sir,” said Captain Rogers, twisting to make his report.

  “This place is a total dump,” said Matt, ignoring the officers and talking to Lionel. “Whole place stinks of shit, and you get to the rooms where they want us to live and they have pots under the beds they expect us to take a shit in, and leave it till morning. One pump for a hundred men and the water isn’t pure. Nowhere to take a wash. Disgusting it is, no wonder these people die like flies, breed like them too.”

  Colonel Donnell held up a hand. “Escort them to find their fellows, I am sure they will make room for them. Young man, your colleagues have elected to camp in the woods to the north, beside a river. If you would prefer that space to being in the city, you are welcome, though I have to say the accommodation you are offered in the city is considered quality by the local soldiers.”

  “Shut it, Matt,” said Lionel as Matt prepared to give his opinion on the local people. “Get everyone over there, get a place sorted for me and organise supplies. I want a report on the wounded and kit. Send Jez in to join me.”

  “He’s fucked off somewhere.” Matt left the room, casting dark glances at the despised, filthy Captain Rogers.

  “Interesting soldiers, your lads, young Lionel,” said the marshal. “You lost, what, forty-seven dead in the battle, with a hundred and ten taking wounds.”

  Colonel Donnell consulted a notebook. “One hundred and twelve, sir. Three have since died of their wounds, all the others are recovering, including one with a missing foot. The three dead all took belly wounds, and all are being treated in the forest, not in the medical rooms of the priests.”

  Lionel nodded. “Belly wounds are tough. You can’t treat the internal wounds.”

  “Nevertheless,” said the marshal, “these are remarkable statistics. Even for we Pathfinders. Regular soldiers would see most of the wounded die.”

  “Priests, not healers,” muttered the colonel.

  “Who are currently treating the king,” said the marshal. “Duke Hardenwall will not permit anyone in to see the king where he is being treated by his own physicians, all priests with a penchant for incense and bleeding.”

  Lionel groped through the implications. “So we might not be too popular in the Wall for upsetting the course of the battle? I hope my brother is all right, he’s likely to – oh no, the Princess. This Rotherstone will have her killed.”

  The marshal nodded and Donnell let out a sigh. “Not immediately, I think, so we have time to plan but I doubt she will be permitted to come back to us. Now, keep your men on alert. I doubt anyone will attack you, but lone lancers wandering around the city could be in trouble. Dine with us here tonight, and bring your brother. I want to know what skills you boys have in a city.”

  *

  Lord Hardenwall studied the painting of his father, brought up from the south on his appointment. A reward for his part in over-running some local tribes in previous years. He remembered the old man’s ambitions, wondered if he looked down from Heaven with approval at this coup, which could result in his son taking the Harrhein throne. If he played it right.

  Dropping his eyes to the man opposite, he restrained a shiver, as he feared the man could read his thoughts, perhaps block his plans which surely ran in different directions to his own. As if that pup Raphael could possibly become king.

  Count Rotherstone coughed, a small studied sound, one white hand covering his mouth.

  “Your Lordship understands the importance of the messenger system, of course,” he said, his voice a low almost sibilant sound while the long nose pointed at the Duke, those slate black eyes staring down either side. “The situation is under control. With the Spakka threat ended, we have a different opportunity. The king injured and in your care.”

  Lord Hardenwall inclined his head a fraction. Two could demonstrate subtlety.

  Silence deepened round the table. Two of Lord Hardenwall’s aides sat at either end, while his son and heir, Dominic, a strapping young man with short cut hair and broad shoulders, twisted in his seat beside his father. The two principals continued to stare at each other, measuring.

  “The king is taking a long time to die,” said Viscount Dominic, oblivious to the tic besides his father’s eye as he spoke. “I could arrange to hurry it up if you want.” Pleased with himself, Dominic pulled a large knife from his boot and proceeded to clean his nails.

  “We don’t want anything to happen to the king,” said Count Rotherstone, enjoying his opponents discomfort. “What a
tragedy to the nation to have our revered leader depart, so soon after his valiant victory over the unbelievers.”

  Dominic frowned, replacing his knife. “But, Count, he is an obstacle in the way of the church. We must...” He stopped in mid-sentence as his father’s hand fell on his knee and squeezed.

  “The Lord will move as he sees fit, my boy,” said Lord Hardenwall in tones of ice. “When the king recovers, we shall send him home rejoicing. Should the Good Lord deem his time is done, our victorious army shall bear him in state back to Praesidium.”

  A further squeeze stopped Dominic from speaking again, while Count Rotherstone’s eyes gleamed.

  “Indeed,” he said. “I shall repair to my quarters and pray for his succour.” Rising from the table, he left the room as the guards on the door saluted.

  As the door closed, the Duke turned to his son with a sigh. “My boy, the Count deals in the shadows, in innuendo and intrigue. You never tell him what you are thinking. Never ask him a question, he will never answer. He wants to ensure he maintains his reputation amongst the people and the church, and will never dirty his hands with an assassination.”

  “He’ll happily have us do it for him,” said Baron Sunder.

  “Yes, Algy, as long as nobody can link him to it. And hang us out to dry if anything goes wrong.” The Duke sipped from his ale mug.

  Dominic snorted. “What can go wrong? We’ve sent all the troops away, encouraged them to return to Praesidium and receive the laurels of victory, except a few Pathfinders who don’t matter. Damn it, father, I’m fed up with this waiting. The princess is gone, taken by the Spakka who will have raped her already and by the time she gets anybody to raise a ransom, her belly will be swelling, impossible to crown queen. Now is the time to strike. I’ll smother him tonight, nobody will know. Or shove a spear up his ass. No marks then.” His eyes gleamed at the thought of being able to boast of slaying the king.

  “Dominic, I did think you possessed some intelligence, but you seem keen to prove the opposite. Get out, and if you go near the king I will have you horsewhipped in front of the regiment. Do you understand me? You will do nothing without my leave, indeed my order. Get out, I wish to confer with my advisors and you are interrupting our planning.” The duke spoke in a low, icy tone. Dominic first blanched, looked for support from the others and found hard stares. Turning red, he took a breath, started to speak then thought better of it and rose from the table, leaving in short, angry strides and slamming the door behind him.

  The duke sat fuming, distracted from the immediate problem of the king by wondering if any of his sons would be capable of ruling after him. Damn that milksop of a wife he had married. The money and lands were useful, but she couldn’t give him a boy with any brains.

  “Although the boy is impetuous and incapable of knowing how to do something in secret, indeed doesn’t see the need, he does have a point,” said Baron Sunder. “However it might be interesting to have a word with young Toby, drop him a hint and see what happens. I suspect the king would die overnight and nobody would have the slightest idea it was anything but his wound.”

  The duke hid a smile as he considered his friend. Toby was his son as well, unacknowledged, from a girl of good family for whom he had arranged a good marriage to one of his barons. Maybe Sunder was right, and it could be time to get rid of Dominic.

  “You must take a care, my Lord,” said Baron Randall, his other aide. “Dominic is ambitious. He wants to be Duke and he is the sort to hurry his father into the grave. I apologise for speaking so, but you know I say the truth.”

  Duke Hardenwall sighed. He did indeed.

  *

  Princess Asmara slid off her horse before she stopped, throwing the reins to a stable boy rushing out at the sound of hooves. She raced up the steps and into the reception rooms, pushing past the butler as she did so, gracing him with a quick smile but not answering his stammered questions. She went up the great stairs two at a time and swung onto the first floor landing beneath the baleful gaze of generations of Hardenwalls gazing from the walls.

  As she walked down the corridor towards the guest wing, a sound gave her pause, a girl’s cry, muffled and cut off. Without stopping to think, she went through the door to find herself in a bedroom, a man’s bedroom judging by the lack of frills and the weapons rack in the corner. A girl stood by the large four poster bed with a stoic expression on her face, a fading red bloom on her cheek with a trace of blood trailing from her nostril.

  Asmara felt a stir of recognition, but she did not know the man whose hand groped up her dress while he nuzzled down the front, his other hand keeping her captive. Rich-cut clothes proclaimed him a noble, his short hair and muscled shoulders shouting his martial prowess.

  “Let go of her, you filthy animal.” Asmara grasped the little finger of the hand by the girl’s back and twisted, causing a yelp of shock and he released the girl, whom Asmara pushed behind her.

  “What the, what the devil, who the hell are you and how dare you burst into my rooms? You little bitch, I’ll have you for this. Don’t you know who I am?” He stood up from the bed to which he had fallen, his face red and angry.

  “Who you are? Let me guess, well, from your actions you can’t be a noble, unless, of course, your mother had an affair with a stable boy, or, in your case, perhaps a swineherd. Now shut up and sit down – if you bother this girl again I shall run you through.”

  His eyes grew large, his face redder and a roar of rage cut off as he stumbled forward, arms reaching for her, as she whipped out her rapier. He backed away, face cooling as his mind caught up and he remembered just which girl could use a rapier.

  “You. Bitch, I thought the Spakka had you. Now you think you can come back and cause trouble.”

  “Oh ho, the little boy barks. Maybe he thinks he can hide behind his father… so perhaps I had better run you through right now.” She paced towards him and he squealed, running behind the bed. Asmara laughed, and left the room pulling the girl after her. She could hear the young man calling for his guard.

  “I know you, don’t I?” Asmara said to the girl as she walked fast along the corridor, beckoning her to follow.

  “Yes ma’am, I’m Luce. You got me a job in the palace last year.” The girl spoke with a tough voice, a slight tremor belying her tone as she hurried to keep up.

  “Oh, I remember, those guards wanted to sport with you. Well, if they are all chasing you when you are young, you will be breaking hearts in a few years. Who was that pipsqueak?”

  “That’s Dominic, son of the Duke. Upset about something, don’t know what.”

  “Has he tried that on before?”

  “He’s well known for chasing the girls, he is. We all keeps away from him, I thought I was too young, but there you go.”

  “You are too young. Now, stick with me and you can be my maid while I’m here, you’ll be safe then.”

  They came round a corner and found a guard standing outside a set of doors. At the sight of the girls he turned, hand on his sword.

  “At ease, soldier. I’ve come to see my father.”

  “I can’t let you in, Princess,” said the guard, lacking certainty. “My orders said nobody unless with the Duke or the Bishop.”

  “Are you calling me a nobody?” The princess snarled as she lost patience, her rapier snickering out again and resting on the surprised guard’s throat before he could draw his thicker blade.

  “Ah, no, Princess, I’m sure the orders weren’t meant for you.” The guard shrank back as Asmara glared at him before stalking into the room.

  The large room was shrouded and dark, light seeping round the heavy curtains and a glow from a small fire sufficient to illuminate the bed, a mound in the middle. The smell of corruption permeated the air, sweetened by the incense smouldering in a tray.

  Asmara rushed to the bed, looking down on the sweat-streaked face, racked by pa
in. She collapsed on the figure, and the eyes flickered. A liver spotted hand raised and stroked her hair with a slight tremor.

  “Honey,” his voice whispered, a tremble breaking the croak. “You shouldn’t be here. Get out, go to General Roberts, I need you safe.”

  “No, Dad, I’ll make you better. Let me see your wound. Luce, help me.” She pulled back the blankets, almost gagging at the putrid stench that came out. “Oh, Luce, get some water, clean water.”

  She eased back the sheet where it stuck to the wound, suppurating in the top of the foot, the shape of the sword entrance no longer visible in the swelling, a gaping slit in swollen flesh.

  “Air,” said the king. “I’m choking.”

  Asmara rushed to the window, pulling back the drapes and throwing open the shutters. The king gasped, great choking breaths. Luce returned with water and Asmara bathed the wound, easing the pus out of it. She took a fresh cloth and bathed his face, easing the sweat from his brow.

  “You’re a good girl, but you must go now. Don’t trust the Wall. Get out, get back to Praesidium, take the Pathfinders and the Guards. That’s an order, girl.”

  “Shut up, Dad, I’m staying to look after you and that is the end of it.”

  The king dragged himself up onto his arms and glared at her. “Don’t be fucking stupid. You’ll lose the crown if you stay. Get to the throne, right now before Rotherstone stuffs Raphael on it. You must be prepared. Fearaigh will stick with you, round up those boys, and speak to Sol. He likes you, but his court loves Raphael. Northern dukes divided as hell. Mountains are yours. But go, go before they kill you here, or, worse, marry you off.” He fell back, eyes closed.

  Asmara studied him a moment, and went to the window, looking out. Below lay a garden, walled off from the city. A bird sang at her from the boughs of the nearest tree and she watched it, searching for inspiration. The door creaked and she turned as several men rushed in, led by Duke Hardenwall himself.

  “So, the prodigal returns,” the duke smiled. “Trying to kill your father, are you? Guards, arrest her and confine her in the Rose room. Disgraceful, a daughter trying to murder her father like this.”