Medalon

by Jennifer Fallon

  “He…well, he’s still mad at me. And you. I guess I’m just the easiest target.”

  R’shiel was silent for a moment before she continued, as if weighing up whether or not to confide in him. “It seems that every time I turn around he’s standing there, just watching me. The way he looks at me makes my skin crawl. A couple of times he…well, it doesn’t matter. He never gets an opportunity to do anything about it. But each time he misses a chance to get at me, someone else seems to get hurt.”

  Tarja shook his head, appalled that she would blame herself for Loclon’s insanity. “It’s not your fault, R’shiel. Any more than it’s my fault—”

  “That we’re here?” R’shiel finished for him. They walked on in silence. Within a few minutes, they had reached the low stone fence surrounding the Commandant’s residence so they stopped at the small gate to wait for Fohli and Zac to catch up. In the lamplight blazing from the windows, Tarja could make out the Commandant and Loclon discussing something in silhouette. R’shiel tensed as she saw them.

  “He’s here.”

  Tarja looked at her, not truly surprised by the vehemence in her tone. She still had not forgiven or forgotten the journey to the Grimfield.

  “Maybe he’s in trouble.”

  “I wish! More likely here to get tomorrow’s orders.”

  She turned from him, but he caught her arm and turned her back to face him, studying her intently in the gloom. “Are you all right, R’shiel? Really?”

  “I’m fine, Tarja,” she told him, a little bitterly. “I’m in prison for the next ten years. I’ve been beaten and raped and now I’m serving a woman who takes a picnic basket to a public lashing. What more could I ask?”

  Tarja had to resist the urge to take her in his arms. To hold her as he had when she was a little girl, following him and Georj around, skinning her knees as she ran to catch up with two boys who thought their red Cadet jackets made them too important to associate with obnoxious little girls.

  “I’m sorry, R’shiel,” he said, helpless to offer her anything more. “I’ll find a way out of this. Soon.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  Before he could add anything further, Fohli and Zac caught up to them. R’shiel shook her arm free of Tarja and faced Fohli defiantly.

  “Well, are you going to report me to the Commandant?” she asked.

  “Not bloody likely,” Fohli muttered. “Less the Commandant notices me, the better. You get along and stay outta Unwin’s way.” Without bothering to thank him, R’shiel lifted her skirts and stepped over the low gate. She ran around the house and disappeared into the darkness. “She’s odd, that one.”

  “Harshini,” Zac said sagely. Both Tarja and Fohli stared at him in astonishment. “She’s got the look,” he added knowingly. The big man hitched his trousers into a more comfortable position and headed back down the road towards the prisoner’s kitchen.

  Fohli caught at Tarja’s sleeve and pulled him along in Zac’s wake. “Here, you was a rebel, Tarja, mixin’ with all them heathens. Is it true what they say about the Harshini? Are they really gods?”

  “I doubt it,” Tarja said, as he watched Zac’s retreating back. “How do you suppose Zac knows about them?”

  “Zac’s from near the border. That’s what they sent him here for. He’s a pagan. Killed a couple of Defenders they sent to arrest him. I heard the Hythrun reckon the Harshini are still out there somewhere. In hiding. Not that I ever seen no sign of it. You think that girl is one of them?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Actually, he thought it was the most absurd idea he had ever heard.

  “Aye, you’re right at that,” Fohli agreed. “Here! Isn’t she your sister or something?”

  “No, she’s not my sister.”

  “Well, she’s foreign, that’s for certain,” Fohli said.

  CHAPTER 39

  News of the riot at the mines reached the Commandant’s house early on the morning of Fourthday. R’shiel was woken by the sound of raised voices and the pounding of hooves in the street. Teggert pushed open the door to their tiny room off the kitchen and ordered R’shiel and Sunny to get up and come help in the kitchens while Wilem and his officers held their council of war over breakfast in the dining room. Still rubbing the sleep from their eyes, the two young women hurried into the kitchen. As Teggert issued orders like a little general, he told them of the riot—how the miners had barricaded themselves in the main pit, and the rumour that Captain Mysekis and several other Defenders were dead. Dace had been right, she realised as she lugged the heavy iron kettle to the fire. It was a pity Loclon was assigned to the town and not the mines. Getting up this early would have been worth it to hear that he had been killed.

  The racket woke the whole house, and once news of the riot reached Crisabelle, she went into a spin, declaring that she was about to be murdered in her bed. In a rare display of temper, Wilem turned on her and told her that he was too busy to concern himself with her right now, and that if she didn’t like it, she could visit her sister in Brodenvale and stay there until the damned summer, for all he cared. Wailing like a banshee, Crisabelle fled to her room, screaming for R’shiel to help her pack, making sure that everyone within earshot knew that she was leaving and Wilem would be lucky if she ever came back. The Commandant ignored her and turned back to the business at hand. It was dawn when Wilem thundered out of the town. Fetching and carrying for Crisabelle, R’shiel barely even noticed he had left, but for the unusual silence that descended on the house. Of Mahina there was no sign. She had either slept through the entire ruckus, which was unlikely, or chose to remain uninvolved.

  The confusion of Crisabelle’s departure, hard on the heels of the Commandant leaving for the mines, made the morning fly. Once she had made up her mind to be gone from the Grimfield there was no stopping her and R’shiel was quite astounded to see how determined the normally absentminded woman could be. The free servants of the Commandant’s household were hastily given a holiday and only R’shiel and Sunny were to remain in the house while Crisabelle was away. As Crisabelle clambered aboard the carriage she was still yelling instructions at R’shiel and Teggert. The cook and the convict girl nodded continuously. Yes, Teggert would empty out the pantry before he left. No, R’shiel wouldn’t let any thieving whore from the Women’s Hall into the house. Yes, the stove and the chimneys would be cleaned before the summer. No, Teggert wouldn’t forget to be back in time for her return. Assuming she did return. Wilem had some apologising to do before that would happen! The orders went on and on, until the driver climbed into his seat and Crisabelle finally gave the order to move out. R’shiel watched the carriage disappear from sight with a sigh of relief.

  Teggert went back inside as soon as the carriage moved off. R’shiel waited a moment, just in case Crisabelle thought of something else and ordered the driver to turn around.

  “Prisoner!”

  R’shiel turned slowly towards the voice, schooling her features into a neutral expression. She had hoped that Loclon would accompany Wilem to the mines, but one of the captains had to stay in the town until he returned. With a sinking heart, R’shiel realised it might be days before the Commandant returned, depending on how well organised the prisoners were.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  Loclon dismissed the corporal he was addressing and walked towards her, blocking her way back into the house. He must have been here since early this morning, waiting.

  “You are to report to Sister Prozlan for reassignment.”

  “Mistress Crisabelle said I was to remain here.” Wilem was barely gone. Crisabelle’s carriage had probably not even left the walls of the prison town yet.

  “The Commandant isn’t here and Crisabelle’s orders aren’t worth a pinch of horse shit,” Loclon reminded her. “I am in charge at the moment and I’m ordering you to report to Sister Prozlan for reassignment.”

  “Crisabelle said I was to remain here,” she repeated. Reassignment meant more than losing the protection of t
he Commandant’s house.

  “Are you defying a direct order, prisoner?” Loclon asked. He took a step closer and she couldn’t help but take a backward step. The low fence surrounding the Commandant’s house pressed into the back of her knees “Do you know what the punishment—”

  “R’shiel! Get in here at once! I want my tea!” Mahina was leaning out of the upstairs window, her expression thunderous. “Captain! Haven’t you got something better to do than annoy my servant? Off with you!”

  Without another word to Loclon, she fled inside to safety, aware that this time she had been very, very lucky.

  R’shiel spent the remainder of the morning tidying up after Crisabelle. Mahina made no further comment about Loclon. She promised R’shiel she would see her at dinner but in the meantime, she was off to have lunch with Khira the physic, who was, according to Mahina, the only woman in the Grimfield capable of holding an intelligent conversation.

  Sunny announced that she was going back to bed, once they finished. The court’esa was not used to getting up in the early hours of the morning. She was not particularly pleased with her new position. R’shiel was a little hurt that Sunny had not been more appreciative of her efforts to free her from the Women’s Hall. Sunny’s face was still bruised, but the swelling had gone down. Maybe, in time, Sunny would learn that there was more to life than being a court’esa, although R’shiel was not hopeful. Sunny simply believed that you should just go with whatever life threw at you and if there was a profit in it, so much the better. But she didn’t argue the point. Sunny was already asleep by the time R’shiel finished clearing away the table from lunch.

  R’shiel knew that with a skeleton force left to guard the town there would never be a better chance for escape. The sky was dark with thunderheads and another storm was threatening as R’shiel let herself into the yard to collect more wood for the stove. She glanced up at the sky with satisfaction. A few more hours and she would be free of this place. In the meantime, she decided to follow Sunny’s example and get some rest.

  It was going to be a long night.

  When R’shiel woke it was dark outside. Cautiously, she went to the door and opened it a little. The kitchen was dim and deserted. Gathering up her few belongings, she slipped out of the room softly, so as not to disturb Sunny. She stopped in the kitchen long enough to gather up a loaf of bread, half a wheel of cheese and a thin paring knife, which she secreted into the side of her boot. She let herself out of the kitchen and ran down the muddy lane, away from the Commandant’s house.

  The ominous sky rumbled as she ran, jagged lightning illuminating her path. R’shiel reached the end of the lane, crossed the street and then stopped, glancing around the square. Announcing itself with a fanfare of thunder the storm unleashed itself over the Grimfield, the rain lashing the shuttered windows in its fury, bouncing off the cobbled square like muddy glass marbles. She had only taken two or three steps when she froze at the sound of horses. Quickly jumping back into her place of concealment, she held her breath as two Defenders trotted by, hunched over their saddles in the downpour.

  “No one would be out in this!” the nearer one said. He was yelling at his companion to be heard over the storm.

  She stayed hidden until they had crossed the square, trying to decide which was the safest route to the South Gate. Should she risk the square, and being seen, which was by far the shorter route? Or stick to the back alleys and take even longer, further increasing the risk of being discovered? R’shiel wavered with indecision for a moment before deciding on a simple mathematical fact. The shortest distance between two points was a straight line. The square was completely deserted now, the shops shuttered against the storm. Even the Defenders’ Headquarters building on the opposite side looked dark and abandoned for the night. The less time she spent getting to the gate, the better. Besides, the majority of the Defenders were at the mines with Wilem. There were not the men to spare to guard the town effectively.

  R’shiel turned out of the lane and headed across the square at a dead run. Drenched to the skin in seconds, her feet slipped on the slick cobbles as she ran, but she righted herself without too much effort and maintained her pace. The thunder crashed overhead as the lightning showed her the way. As she passed the tannery, which marked the halfway point, she smiled grimly to herself. She would make it, she was certain now. However, her certainty lasted only a few seconds. Too late, she heard the pounding of hooves on the wet cobbles behind her, their sound muffled by the thunder. She began to run harder.

  R’shiel screamed as she was scooped up from behind. Struggling wildly she fought off a strong arm that encircled her waist as her captor turned his horse towards the Headquarters building. When they arrived, he hauled savagely on the reins and she was a thrown heavily down to the cobbles. The second rider was only a split-second behind her as he jumped down from his horse and hauled her to her feet. R’shiel wriggled out of his grasp desperately. The other trooper grabbed at her wet hair as she tried to run and pulled her up the short steps to the verandah. She tried to pull away from him, screaming as he gave her hair a vicious twist. The other man opened the door and thrust her inside, stopping long enough to lock it behind him, then pushed her through to Wilem’s office.

  With a shove, he let her go. A single candle burned on the mantle. The vicious Tail of the Tiger lay on the desk.

  Loclon sat behind Wilem’s heavily carved desk, as if trying it on for size.

  CHAPTER 40

  The whole town seemed to relax a little once Wilem departed the Grimfield. It was nothing obvious—a loose collar here, an undone button there. The Defenders of the Grimfield were like any other soldiers the world over. When the Commanding Officer was away, everything slacked off, just a little. The general feeling among the Defenders left to guard the Grimfield was that all the troublemakers were at the mine. They were not expecting trouble. Tarja was an experienced soldier and knew it would happen. He was relying on it. He also knew it wouldn’t last. Wilem would return soon enough and his window of opportunity would be gone.

  Since learning of the impending riot, Tarja had been honing his plans. Having had over two months to think things through, Tarja was certain he could escape with relative ease. His first step he had taken by becoming, if not a model prisoner, then at least a tractable one. He had done nothing to give Wilem reason to suspect that he was not accepting his punishment with silent fortitude. The second step he had taken when collecting the garbage from the back of the physic’s shop. A small stoppered tube had fallen from a shovel load of garbage. Retrieving it carefully, Tarja had unstoppered the tube and caught a faint whiff of sickly sweet jarabane. The poison was used for trapping animals, and the tube was all but empty. Tarja had pocketed the small phial and hidden it in his small cell under a loose stone. With a small amount of water added, he had a potion that would make the recipient violently ill.

  He carried the tube with him now and could feel it pressing against his hip as he sat on the cold ground with Zac, waiting for their dinner. The sky rumbled disturbingly and Tarja silently hoped that it would rain and rain hard. He had a much better chance of escaping if the Defenders were huddled under shelter, trying to escape the inclement weather. An escape in the middle of a storm was just as likely to be, if not ignored, then overlooked as long as possible. Who wanted to hunt down a miserable escapee in the rain?

  “Gonna be a good one tonight,” Fohli remarked as another loud rumble rolled across the compound.

  “Sure is,” Tarja agreed. He felt somewhat ambivalent about Corporal Fohli and Sergeant Lycren. The part of him that still felt pride in the Defenders was appalled by the men. They were unshaven, slovenly, lazy—everything Tarja despised in a soldier. Had either been in Tarja’s Company, they would have been straightened out very smartly indeed. On the other hand, were it not for their slackness, Tarja would have little hope of escaping.

  It was almost completely dark by the time Tarja and Zac were handed their meals. Tarja offered to collect Fohl
i’s meal too, and carried it back to the feeble shelter of the cookhouse eaves. It was a simple matter to tip the watery contents of the tube into Fohli’s stew. Tarja handed him the bowl and the corporal wolfed down the contents hungrily. Large raindrops splattered intermittently across the compound. Fohli urged his prisoners to eat faster and had them handing in their bowls and heading back to the relative warmth of the cellblock, almost before they had swallowed their last mouthful.

  They were back in the cellblock when the corporal doubled over with pain as a stomach cramp clutched at his guts.

  “Mother of the Founders!” he swore, clutching at the back of a roughly carved chair for support. Like model prisoners, Tarja and Zac waited patiently for the corporal to recover. When Fohli showed no inclination to move them anywhere, Tarja stepped closer.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “You don’t look at all well, Corporal.”

  Fohli yelped as another spasm took him. His skin was ashen and Tarja worried for a moment that there had been more jarabane than he suspected in the tube. He didn’t want to kill Fohli, just disable him. Zac thoughtfully lit the lantern on the guard table and waited for Fohli to recuperate enough to lock them up.

  “It must have been the stew,” Fohli gasped, as another cramp seised him.

  “Should we get someone?” Tarja offered.

  Fohli shook his head. “In there.” He waved vaguely in the direction of their cells. “Have to lock you up first. OW!”

  “Not tonight,” Tarja said, mostly to himself as Fohli collapsed semiconscious against the scrubbed wooden table. With a sigh, Zac stepped forward and scooped the Corporal into his arms. He turned his dull eyes on Tarja.

  “You go now.”

  Tarja looked at him in surprise. “Go?”

  “Escape. You go. I take care of Fohli.”

  Tarja was astounded that Zac had read his intentions so easily. “Come with me.”

  Zac shook his shaggy head. “Got food. Got bed. Zac stay here.”