At the end of the long hall Brak stopped and knocked on the solid wooden door. The hall was gloomy and quiet at this time of day. Most of the inn’s guests would be out and about their business. The lunch crowd had departed so this was about as quiet a time as any there was in the Inn of the Hopeless.
The door opened a crack. “It’s me,” he said softly. L’rin opened the door with an inviting smile, stepped backed as he slipped in, locking the door behind him.
L’rin’s room was the largest in the Tavern besides the taproom. Huge, multi-paned windows let in filtered sunlight through the layer of dust and grime that coated everything in the Grimfield. The room was both L’rin’s office and bedroom. A large cluttered desk stood under one window and beside it stood a huge locked chest where she kept the takings from the inn. The bed was a heavy four-poster with rich blue velvet drapes and snowy white rumpled sheets over a thick down mattress. Brak reclined on the bed, the sheets pulled up to his waist, his naked chest as sculpted as a marble statue.
A knock at the door sent L’rin scurrying around the room to get dressed. Although Brak was certain she had locked it, the door opened a fraction and a blonde head appeared in the crack. Dace glanced at L’rin who looked rumpled and more than a little guilty, her thick honey-coloured hair in total disarray and her gown slipping down over one broad shoulder.
“Did I interrupt something?”
“You’re late,” Brak snapped, although he was neither surprised nor entirely displeased by the fact.
“Good thing, by the look of you two,” Dace remarked with a grin. “You are looking particularly lovely today, L’rin.”
“Thank you, Dace,” L’rin said, actually blushing from the compliment, as she turned to her dresser and began to straighten her hair. It took her only a moment to arrange it to her satisfaction and she turned to Brak. “I have to be getting back downstairs. Don’t come down straight away. People might talk.”
Brak nodded and waited until she had left the room before turning on Dace, who was smiling angelically.
“You have been blessed by Kalianah, the Goddess of Love,” Dace remarked.
“And cursed by Dacendaran, the God of Thieves,” Brak added sourly. “What are you doing here?”
The God of Thieves shrugged. “Helping.”
“How exactly are you helping?”
Dace sat himself down on the stool in front of L’rin’s dressing table. “You know, you really should be a bit more respectful, Brakandaran. I am a god, after all.”
“You’re a Primal God. You don’t need respect. A bit of commonsense, maybe, but not respect.”
Brak had received quite a start when he realised Dacendaran had taken up residence in the Grimfield. It made sense, when he thought about it. The Grimfield probably had the highest concentration of thieves anywhere on the continent and Dacendaran needed no Temples or priests to worship him. He just needed thieves. The Sisterhood would have been mortified to think that a god resided amongst them.
True to his nature, Dacendaran was a slippery character and this meeting had taken some time to arrange. This was Brak’s first chance to speak with him alone since Dace had appeared on the verandah of the tavern to watch Tarja being whipped, and Brak was a little surprised he had shown up at all.
“According to R’shiel, Tarja didn’t betray the rebellion at all,” Dace said, swinging his legs under the stool and looking for all the world like an innocent child. “Are you still going to kill him?”
Brak folded his arms above his head against the headboard. “Who said I was going to kill him?”
“I’m a god, Brak, not an idiot. Why else would you be here with another rebel? To save him? You forget that I’m something of an expert on the baser side of human nature. And you are rather unique, you know.”
Brak frowned. He didn’t need to be reminded of what set him apart from the rest of the Harshini.
“Of course, you should be thinking about the demon child,” Dace continued, ignoring the look Brak gave him. “Not dilly-dallying about pretending to be a rebel assassin. Why do you suppose they call her the demon child? It’s not as if the demons actually had anything to do—”
“Don’t get sidetracked,” Brak cut in. “You know who it is, don’t you?”
Dace looked a little annoyed. “Well, of course I do! You don’t think I couldn’t tell a té Ortyn Harshini from a human, do you? And there’s only one outside of Sanctuary. I’m not supposed to get involved though. Zeggie would be really mad at me.”
“Zegarnald?” Brak asked with a frown. “Why does the God of War care so much about the demon child?”
Dace bit at his bottom lip. He looked more like a child accused of mischief than a god. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s a god thing.”
“A god thing?” Brak repeated incredulously.
“You know what I mean.”
“I have no idea,” Brak replied. “Enlighten me, Oh Divine One.”
Dace sighed. “Xaphista has to be destroyed. The demon child is the only one who can do that.”
“You could just dispose of him yourselves, you know.”
“Of course we couldn’t! What would happen if the gods started killing each other? Honestly, Brak, you are so human sometimes!”
“Honestly? Now there’s a word I don’t often associate with you.”
Dace pouted. “You’re really not making this easy for us.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Well, you are,” Dace explained. “Sort of. Well…maybe not you personally, but it’s what you represent.”
“You are not making any sense, Dacendaran,” Brak said impatiently.
“Well, you know that when we created the Harshini we gave the té Ortyn line the ability to channel our combined power, just in case we ever needed it? Then we made the Harshini afraid of killing so that they couldn’t turn on us. But where we really mucked up was by giving them a conscience. Not you, of course, but the rest of them. It’s really proving to be rather awkward.”
“How is that awkward?” Brak asked, ignoring the god’s assertion that he was not burdened with a conscience. This was the God of Thieves. He probably meant it as a compliment.
“It makes them worry, don’t you see? Korandellen is going grey worrying if the demon child is a force for good or evil. We don’t care. We just want Xaphista gone. Zeggie thinks that Korandellen sent you to find her hoping that if you don’t like what you find, you’ll destroy her.”
Brak didn’t answer immediately, aware that there was more than a grain of truth in Dacendaran’s concern.
“So you decided to help?”
Dace nodded, brightening a little. “I’m looking out for her. I don’t think she’s evil. Actually, she’s kind of sweet. She’s not a thief, of course, but no human is perfect.”
“I’m not going to kill her, Dace. Korandellen asked me to take her to Sanctuary, that’s all.”
“But you can’t!” Dace pleaded. “Suppose he doesn’t like her?”
“Korandellen is Harshini. He likes everyone. He can’t help it. That’s why they hired me, remember? And I don’t have a conscience, according to you.”
The God of Thieves thought that over for a moment before nodding brightly. “Well, that’s all right then. When do we leave?”
Brak was not entirely pleased with the idea that Dace had invited himself along. “Were you serious about the trouble brewing amongst the miners?”
“I’m the God of Thieves, not Liars. Of course it’s true.”
“Then we’ll use that for our cover. When they make their move, we’ll make ours.”
“What about Tarja?”
“What about him? I’m only concerned about R’shiel. Right now, she’s the most important person in the whole world.”
“Kalianah will be mad at you if you don’t bring him along.”
“I can deal with Kalianah.”
Dace looked sceptical. “Well, I still wouldn’t risk it, if I were you.”
“Your
concern is touching, Divine One.”
The god scowled at him. “You know, Brak, sometimes I think you don’t hold the gods in very high esteem.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” he asked.
CHAPTER 38
Tarja dumped the load of vegetable scraps and other unidentifiable matter into the back of the muledrawn wagon, forcing himself not to gag. They collected the garbage from the Inn of the Hopeless and the other stores in Grimfield whenever the mood took Lycren, rather than on any set schedule. Since it was nearly a month since the last time Lycren had felt in the mood, the leavings had had plenty of time to ferment into an odoriferous, cockroach-infested sludge. Tarja swung the heavy barrel down to the ground and glanced up, feeling himself being watched. A young, fair-haired lad stood near the cellar doors watching him with interest. Tarja wondered about the boy. He seemed to turn up in the most unusual places.
“Get a move on, Tarja!” Lycren called.
Tarja glared at the boy as he straightened up. He hated being stared at. Anger, buried deep inside for survival, threatened to surface again. Only once had he made the mistake of letting it show. The lashing he had received as a consequence had done little to humble him, but it had taught him to control his temper. The pain had not bothered him nearly so much as the knowledge that he had let a fool provoke him.
As they moved out of the tavern yard and headed for the smithy further down the lane, Tarja wondered about the boy. It was not inconceivable that he had contacts in the rebellion. The Grimfield was full of convicted heathens, both real and imagined. Had they sent the boy to spy on him? To confirm that he was still alive? He wondered sometimes how well his fellow rebels had listened to what he had tried to teach them, the foremost of which was never, ever, let a traitor go unpunished. Tarja had spent the winter half-expecting a knife in the back, every time he found himself in a crowd of prisoners. Lycren saw to it that he was segregated for the most part, but at meal times in particular he knew how much danger he was in. It was with mild surprise that Tarja realised how long he had survived in this place. He had not expected to live through the journey here.
Tarja’s thoughts turned to the rebels he had left behind. Old Padric, worn out and weary from years of fighting against impossible odds. Mandah, with her ardent faith in the gods. Ghari, so young and passionate. Where was he now? Still fighting? Killed in a skirmish with the Defenders? Or maybe he had given up and returned to his mother’s farm in the Lowlands. Was he one of the names on Joyhinia’s infamous list? Tarja seethed with frustration as he thought of the rebels. He was doing nothing here. He was not likely to either, collecting the garbage and emptying the privies of the garrison town. Each day he spent here in the Grimfield ate a little more out of his store of hope. Tarja knew he would have to do something before it was all gone.
One of the few advantages—possibly the only one—of being assigned to the garbage patrol was that Tarja was allowed to bathe daily, unlike the miners who were only allowed the privilege once a week. Being allowed to wash away the stink of rotting food and other despicable decaying matter was the only thing that made his work detail tolerable. Many a time he had wished Wilem had sent him to the mines where he could have taken out his anger with a sledgehammer on the rock face. He shivered in the chill of the dusk, his skin covered in goose pimples from the icy water, as he rubbed himself briskly with the scrap of rough cloth he used as a towel and glanced up at the sky. Angry grey clouds stained red and bloody flocked around the sun as it cowered behind the foothills until it could finally escape into the night. As he dressed in his rough prison uniform, Tarja glanced at Zac who was attempting to dry his shaggy head with a saturated towel.
“It’ll rain again tonight,” he remarked.
“S’pose,” Zac agreed.
In almost two months, he couldn’t recall Zac putting more than two words together at a time. The big, taciturn murderer was a good companion for a man who wished to answer no questions. Together they walked to the gate where Fohli, Lycren’s corporal, waited for them. He locked the gate behind them and escorted the prisoners across the compound to the kitchens. The garbage detail was always fed last, and out of habit, Tarja and Zac sank down onto the ground to wait their turn at a meal. The compound was busy in the dusk as the prisoners from the mines and the various workhouses were fed in shuffling lines. Tarja watched them idly, not paying attention to anyone in particular, until he spied R’shiel walking purposefully across the compound towards the kitchens, her grey shawl clutched tight around her shoulders against the cold.
The sight of R’shiel reminded Tarja even more painfully of the mess they had made of their lives. She didn’t belong here in the Grimfield among the dregs of Medalon, spared a life as a barracks court’esa only by sheer good fortune. He had spoken to her only a handful of times since they had arrived and always in the company of Zac or a guard. Unless she happened to be in the yard when they came round to collect the garbage, he never even saw her from one week to the next. He wanted to know how she was doing. He needed to assure himself that the journey here had not destroyed her. His frustration was almost a palpable thing, bitter enough to taste.
He watched R’shiel as she walked towards him, wondering if she knew how beautiful she was. She carried herself in the manner of one unaware of her effect on others. Tarja had expected himself to be immune to her allure but every time he caught sight of R’shiel, even from a distance, he was startled by the effect she had on him. It was an odd feeling he could not define. It wasn’t desire, or even simple lust. It was just the strangest feeling that to be near her, to be noticed by her, would be a very pleasant thing indeed. It had been creeping up on him ever since that night in the vineyard. Despite everything that had happened since, she was always somewhere in his thoughts.
R’shiel was looking around as she approached them. Not finding the object of her search, she turned to Fohli.
“Have you seen Sunny Hopechild?” she asked.
“Lost her, have you?” Fohli replied, with vast disinterest.
“She was supposed to report to the Commandant’s house an hour ago. She’s been reassigned.”
“She’ll turn up. Them court’esa are too smart to duck an order like that. You’ll be in trouble yourself if you don’t get back before dark.”
“Will you send her along if you see her?” she asked, looking around in the rapidly fading light. “She’s about this tall, with blonde hair.”
“Sure,” Fohli promised. The corporal would promise anything provided he didn’t actually have to put himself out to keep his word.
In a slash of yellow light, Sister Unwin, her round face flushed from the heat of the stoves, emerged from the kitchen to survey the lines of prisoners waiting for their dinner. She glared at R’shiel and marched across the compound, planting herself in front of the girl with her hands on her wide hips. Her blue skirt was dusted with a faint sheen of flour and there was a smudge of something on her chin.
“And just what do you think you’re doing here, girl? Does Mistress Crisabelle know you’re gallivanting about town at this hour of the day, flirting with the guards?”
“Mistress Crisabelle sent me to look for her new seamstress.”
“Well, she’s not here. You get along back where you belong and don’t let me catch you hanging around my kitchen.” Unwin turned her wrath on Fohli. “You take her back to the Commandant and see that he knows what she’s been up to.” With that, she stormed off back to her kitchen.
Fohli was left in something of a quandary. He couldn’t leave his two charges unattended, nor could he ignore a direct order from a Sister. With a shrug, he glanced at Zac and Tarja.
“C’mon lads, looks like we’ve a bit of a walk before dinner.”
They climbed wearily to their feet and followed Fohli to the gate. The guards let them pass and the four of them headed across the Square towards the Commandant’s residence on the other side of town. Fohli was not the least bit interested in the additional duty Unwin had
thrust upon him and dawdled along with Zac at his side. R’shiel was angry and her step carried her ahead of the others. Trying not to look too obvious about it, Tarja caught up with her. By the time they had crossed the Square, it was almost completely dark.
The threatening clouds rumbled ominously as they turned down the main road, which led to the married quarters. R’shiel glanced at Tarja as he drew level with her but said nothing.
“What does Crisabelle want Sunny for?” he asked. Zac and Fohli had fallen back far enough so that their conversation was unlikely to be overheard.
“Crisabelle wants a new wardrobe before she visits the Citadel in the spring. Sunny is supposed to help with the sewing.”
“Can she sew?” Tarja asked curiously. From what he had observed of Sunny, she appeared to excel in only one thing and it certainly wasn’t sewing.
“I truly don’t know. But Loclon beat her up again and I thought she could do with a break. It’s sort of my fault she got hurt. I’m sure he only does it because of me,” she added with a heavy sigh.
So he’s found another outlet for his anger, Tarja thought sourly. The thought relieved him a little. R’shiel was safe from him, for the moment. Tarja had made a silent vow to himself to kill Loclon. All he lacked was the opportunity. He didn’t need a weapon. Killing him with his bare hands would be half the pleasure.
“She’ll turn up. Fohli’s right, you know. Sunny isn’t stupid. She won’t defy a direct order from the Commandant.”
“I suppose so.”
“Anyway, what do you mean, it’s your fault?”
Medalon Page 31
