by Kris A Hiatt
“You’re from Haven. You fought Disdane, you’re the enemy,” Moff said, as if he had read his mind. “We are with you, so we’re the traitors.”
“I was simply defending us. That doesn’t make any sense,” Treace protested.
“It obviously does to Shamir,” Kiril replied.
Treace had no idea what to think. Was he really going to be executed for defending himself?
“We may still have a chance,” Moff said. “Keep it together.”
“Keep it together?” Treace asked. “We’re about to be executed! You should have told me as much on the road. We could have escaped.”
“No, we couldn’t,” Moff argued. “As I said, we still have a chance.”
Treace knew Moffred was most likely right. An escape on the road would have been difficult. The rope was thick and tight around their hands and arms. It would have been nearly impossible to get away. But there would have been a chance. Soon, there would be none, at least in his estimation.
“How so?” Kiril asked.
It was starting to be more difficult for Treace to hear them speak. All three of them were next to each other but the noise of the crowd lining the streets was increasing. More people were turning out for what they presumed to be a show.
“My father is very wealthy. He’s also Shamir’s lead researcher. Before that, he was a constable. The two know each other well. It may be enough to get us out of here alive,” Moff explained.
Treace hoped so. He didn’t say as much, but he didn’t think it actually needed to be said.
He remained quiet, as did the other two, and continued their trek to where ever it was they were going. He glanced about the crowd, ignoring their insults and their scornful looks. He looked around at the buildings, noticing more stone work here in Kadenton than what was in Haven. He was impressed with their architecture. It was too bad he couldn’t explore the city and admire it. At least he got to see it before he died.
A hand reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him to the side. He’d been slapped at a few times and bumped into frequently, but this was the first time he’d been outright grabbed. He turned to try to see who it was that grabbed him, but with all the people around, it was impossible to know who had done it. An old man stuck out in the crowd, though. He stuck out as much for his clean shaven face and equally clean shaven head as he did for not giving Treace a baleful look. His face held a look of concern and sadness, which, given the surroundings, was quite out of place. He seemed familiar to him, at least in the eyes, but he couldn’t quite place the man.
Treace felt something splatter over him and by the foul smell, whatever it was, it was something disgusting. He looked down to see the remnants of a rotten tomato dripping down his shirt and clopping onto the road. He closed his eyes and kept his head down as more makeshift missiles were thrown his way.
When the bombardment subsided he turned around and looked for the man in the crowd but didn’t have any luck. There were only angry faces looking back at him. And Kaz, who sat atop his horse several feet behind them. Treace guessed the man was back there to protect the prize. Rotten food was one thing, but Treace figured Kaz was on the lookout to make sure that’s all the crowd had intentions of doing. He imagined Jass and her crew were getting paid quite a sizeable amount, it wouldn’t do to have one of their prisoners attacked and killed while on the brink of their payday.
He turned back to face forward with his eyes closed and head down as more spoiled food was thrown his way.
~~~
Treace wasn’t certain how long it took them to get to Shamir’s palace. It could have taken them a few minutes or it could have taken them an hour. He had kept his head down and eyes closed while he walked, letting the rope pull him along to their destination. He thought of all the good things, and people, in his life, trying to ignore the insults and spoiled food thrown his way. If he was going to die, he wanted to remind himself of the good things in life rather than focus on the inevitable.
“What do you think the holdup is?” Moff asked quietly.
They were back to speaking quietly again, it was much quieter around them now than what it was when they were on the streets. Kaz was no longer behind them, but now that they were on palace grounds, there were several of Shamir’s guards all around them. They had left the horses behind some time ago and had just come to a stop. They were well before the actual palace itself and Jass was up ahead speaking with someone Treace recognized. Drokier. That old bastard was the real traitor, not Moff or Kiril.
“She’s probably trying to keep Treace to herself,” Kiril suggested.
“I think not,” Treace replied, not liking that idea one bit.
“She did take a liking to you,” Moff added.
“If that’s her ploy, take it,” Kiril instructed. “Better to be her sex slave or sparring partner or whatever the hell else she wants you for than to be dead.”
Kiril did have a point, but Treace wasn’t convinced the crazy woman would sacrifice what was surely a hefty payday to keep him around. The woman said she’d get to retire after this. He doubted he had anything to do with that discussion up ahead.
It wasn’t long before an angry, sputtering Jass came walking back to the group. Treace didn’t think that discussion went the way she had hoped.
“I ought to just kill him now,” Jass fumed.
Treace wasn’t sure who she was referring to, but the thought of her killing Drokier wasn’t an unpleasant one.
“We’re making enough to retire, let it go,” Kaz told her.
“Don’t tell me what to do, Kaz,” Jass warned, stepping right up to him. “You don’t want my ire.”
“You’re mad at them, not me,” Kaz said, not backing down. “Save your ire for someone else. We’d likely kill each other anyway.”
Treace was waiting for the volatile woman to explode into action and kill Kaz on the spot. But there was confidence in Kaz’s voice and Treace realized then that he had no idea of the man’s capabilities. Until now, he’d never seen him anywhere except the top of his horse.
A smile broke on Jass’s face and she laughed at Kaz. She stroked his face before walking away, still laughing.
“She’s predictably unpredictable,” Moff observed.
“No doubt,” Kiril added.
“Let’s go!” Jass commanded from the front, motioning her right arm over her head. “Time to give these cuties a bath.”
That oddly sounded wonderful to Treace.
~~~
It wasn’t the bath he’d envisioned, in fact, it wasn’t even a bath at all. They’d been taken to a wash room to the side of the palace, but there wasn’t a bath in there. Their rope bindings were cut and they had been stripped of their clothing. They were being washed, not so gently, by what Treace could only guess as palace servants. He was thankful that the servant washing Kiril was female. There were several armed guards in the doorway of the washroom, who had gazed intently at Kiril as she was being washed.
“We could wash her for you,” one of them offered.
“Don’t think so boys,” Jass replied, leaning against the doorway next to them with one foot propped against the wall.
Initially they were all facing the opposite wall and Treace tried not to look at Kiril. She had enough people getting a good look at her, he didn’t want to be like them. But when the servants turned him around to face the front again it was impossible not to look at her naked form only a few feet from him. She was covering herself as best as she could, but there was still plenty to see. None of it was unpleasing to him.
“Ooh,” Jass purred, pushing off with her foot and coming to stand before Treace. “She is a pretty one, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” Moff replied unashamedly.
Jass went over to Moff and grabbed the washrag from the servant and nudged him aside. She dipped the rag in the water bucket and brought it out with suds all over it. She began to wash Moffred’s body, starting at his chest.
“You think she’s pretty?
” Jass asked Moff in her overly sweet voice.
“I said as much didn’t I?”
“Really?” Jass asked, bringing the rag much lower on Moff’s body.
“Well, uh,” Moff replied with difficulty.
“You disgust me,” Kiril told the woman, obviously disturbed by the whole scene.
“Shut your hole,” Jass advised. “Or you might not be so pretty when I’m done with you.”
“That’s enough,” Drokier said, entering the small washroom with an armful of clothing.
“That’s too bad. By the feel of things, you were starting to like it,” Jass said lewdly, winking an eye before going back to her perch on the wall.
“Rinse them and get them dry,” Drokier commanded. “They don’t need to be pretty, just free from that foul debris.”
The servants grabbed a different bucket, presumably of fresh water, and dumped it over them. It was frigidly cold, but Treace didn’t mind so much. He thought it would also help Moff return to normal.
“Your leg healed nicely,” Jass offered with a questioning look on her face.
Treace wondered how long it would be before the woman noticed Moff’s wound now that he wasn’t wearing any clothing and couldn’t keep a bandage over it. She said nothing further about it, though, and Moffred made no reply either.
The servants then gave them towels to dry off with.
Treace dried himself off and noticed that while virtually everyone else in the room was watching Kiril, Drokier was eyeing him. He didn’t think the man was interested in him the same way the others were in Kiril, but something was running through the man’s mind. That much was obvious.
“Put these on,” Drokier said, dropping the clothes on the floor.
It looked to Treace like there was more than one set, so Drokier had to be talking to all three of them. He walked the few feet to the clothing and bent down to pick them up. As soon as his hand touched the pile, Drokier’s knee connected hard with his head and he was sent backward, falling to the cold, wet stone floor on his ass. He figured he’d have a bump on his head, but he didn’t think he was hurt otherwise.
“Oops, you slipped and fell,” Drokier said laughing.
The other guards laughed along with him.
“He better not slip again,” Jass warned quietly.
Even though she said it quietly, her words cut through the laughter and Treace didn’t doubt that everyone in the room heard her. Drokier stopped laughing and looked her way.
“You handed him over sweetheart,” Drokier told her. “Who knows how many more times he may fall?”
“Until I get paid. He won’t fall again.”
Jass tapped the handle of her dagger, never taking her eyes off of Drokier.
Treace pulled himself to his feet and backed up toward Kiril, putting his body between hers and the possible fight.
“Tough talk from a little girl,” Drokier mused.
Jass reacted in a blur. In an instant she was in front of Drokier with her dagger at his throat. Treace was impressed by her quickness.
“More than talk,” Jass hissed.
“Have you thought this through?” Drokier asked, raising his hand to stop his men. “Even if you kill me, the dozens of men between you and the exit will cut you to shreds.”
If Drokier was scared for his life, he didn’t show it. The man’s eyes barely widened with surprise when Jass was in front of him. Treace wondered if the man knew what was going to happen.
“I’ll take my chances,” Jass informed him.
“And miss out on the payday?” Drokier asked. “We both know that won’t happen, Jass, so put your baby sword away and back off.”
There was a familiarity between the two and the way they interacted made Treace think there was a prior connection between them. What type of connection, though, he had no idea.
Jass hesitated for a moment but she finally backed off and put her dagger away. “Could have killed you, pops.”
Pops? Could Drokier be her father? If so, Treace thought that would explain a lot. It might have just been a knock on his age instead. But, still, he thought it was possible they were related. He didn’t think that was the case, but didn’t fully dismiss it either.
“Put these on,” Drokier instructed, ignoring Jass and picking up the clothes from the floor. “You’re meeting the King.” He tossed each of them a set.
They were simple tan pants and a matching shirt. It looked to be the same clothing that the servants wore. As Treace put them on, he noticed that while they were plain, they were of very good quality.
“Shackle them,” Drokier commanded after they were clothed.
Other guards came in with shackles and went about securing their prisoners.
Treace thought about trying to escape before his shackles were on, but realized the futility of it. He’d have to disarm one of them quickly, take his weapon, and then slay over two dozen guards on his way out. At least that many, he thought. Those were only the ones he counted on the way in. He didn’t think he’d make it that far. He’d have to fight off four guards, Drokier, and Jass, all before ever reaching the other two dozen men on the way out. And he’d have to do so without getting Kiril and Moff killed. It was pure suicide. He thought it better to take his chances with Shamir.
~~~
As soon as he was led into the main hall of the palace, Treace knew it wasn’t going to go well for him or his friends. The room was like a who’s who of the people Treace disliked in this world. There was Disdane, Shamir, and, of course, Brental. The bow user from the meeting, Raythien, was also there, but so far the man hadn’t done anything wrong other than being aligned with Shamir.
The room was extravagantly furnished with beautiful tapestries and paintings covering the walls. The ceiling was taller than five men, and the marble pillars that no doubt supported the weight of the ceiling had two guards stationed at each one. One on the inside facing in, and one on the outside facing out.
“Bow to the King,” Drokier told them as they neared where Shamir was.
“He’s not my King,” Treace heard himself say before he could think about his response. He surprised himself. He didn’t intend on being so defiant. From his peripheral vision he could see that, on his left, both Kiril and Moff did as they were told. On his right, Drokier and Jass both bowed as well.
“Treace!” Moff whispered quietly yet excitedly from deep in his bow.
“Bow, you dog!” Drokier bellowed, completely overpowering Moff’s whisper and coming to stand before Treace.
“Leave him,” Shamir said. “His insolence matters not. His fate is sealed.”
“Yes my King,” Drokier replied, offering a quick bow before joining the others at the head of the room.
Shamir may have said that it didn’t matter if he bowed or not, but the man’s expression told Treace that it did. It told him that the man was used to getting what he wanted and didn’t like it in the least when he didn’t. Treace scolded himself for his stupidity. He was trying to get out of this alive. That wouldn’t happen unless he cooperated, and even then it didn’t sound like it would be enough. Shamir seemed to have already made his decision regarding that.
“Do you know what we do to traitors?” Shamir asked.
Treace wasn’t certain who the man was asking the question to, but when neither Moff nor Kiril immediately answered, he figured he should. “I do.”
“Drokier tells me you don’t have many public executions in Haven,” Shamir said. “Instead you put people in cells for months or years at a time.”
“I guess we just aren’t as barbaric as you,” Treace told him. While he knew he should be cooperative, he wasn’t going to let the opportunity to point out Shamir’s flaws pass. There were public executions in Haven, just not many. Liernin believed people could change and could learn to be useful members of society. Executions were reserved solely for murderers.
“Me?” Shamir asked, smiling. “I end lives quickly and humanely. You let them rot away in a cag
e. That’s humane?”
“At least they are alive,” Treace shot back.
“But should they be? You spend needless money on feeding them and housing them for what? The chance they may somehow become a different person and no longer commit the types of crimes they’ve already committed, or worse? People don’t change. Kill them quickly and save the money you would have spent feeding them and housing them. It makes others think before they commit a crime.”
Treace shrugged. He understood what Shamir was saying. He didn’t agree with it, but he understood it. Prevent crime by being more severe with the punishment for all crimes. Treace recalled a story during his first year in Kilindric from a brother that was originally from Kadenton. The brother was older and from a lower class family, like Treace was. He told him of his first execution when he was nine. A jewelry store owner decided to misreport his income in order to pay less taxes to Shamir. He was publicly executed a week later. It didn’t sound very humane then, and it still didn’t sound humane now.
“I do appreciate the political lesson,” Jass said dryly. “But, as interesting as it is, I’d like to discuss our deal.”
“You mean the deal your man has already agreed to?” Shamir asked, giving Treace a hard look before facing Jass at the end of the sentence.
“Yeah, and I understand there was a problem with my request?”
“You’ll get your money,” Shamir told her. “If that’s what you’re worried about mercenary.”
“I’m not speaking of the money,” Jass clarified.
“I’m sorry, but no, you won’t get to fight him.”
Treace wondered if Shamir meant him. Jass wanted to fight him? Why? She seemed infatuated with him, surely, but he didn’t think it was for the purpose of fighting him.
“That wasn’t the deal,” Jass argued.
“Your man agreed to it on your behalf,” Shamir stated. “So I’m afraid it is the deal.”
“Damnit, Kaz!” Jass cursed under her breath.
Brental leaned over and whispered into Shamir’s ear. Whatever he had to say took him a few breaths to fully relay.
“Ah, yes,” Shamir said. “Them.”
