by Dave Freer
She knew as well as he did that the Morkth troops held the city in a vicious siege. They had for the last five months. She knew that those close, purple hills were as unreachable as the moon. But she played a toxic little game with him. The uninitiated would have failed to understand it, but she was, for lack of anything better to practice on, manipulating him. She would reduce him to abject fear and pleading. Then she would forgive him if, of course, he obliged with a few other trifles. The game was partially to relieve her boredom, but partially because this was what she'd been trained to do, from very early childhood.
Yes, she was pampered. Yes, in almost all respects, she was allowed free rein. But she knew what she was. She was simply a pawn in her father's machinations. He planned to use her to further his Empire dream, and for this he had trained her. She could have her way with all but her instructors. They had shaped her to his design. She knew how to manipulate. She could have written volumes on court intrigue, and how to turn it to her own ends. She'd been taught by the best. She could have seduced an eighty-year-old eunuch if need be. They'd had some very unusual palace guests to teach her the theory of bed arts. Theory only: her virginity had some considerable value in certain circles. However, she'd been taught how to fake that, too. She knew far more than any apothecary about poisons, where to find them, how to make them, and how to administer them. She was an expert with a thin-bladed dagger. She was also sixteen and tired of waiting. She felt her talents were being wasted.
Now for the strike. The pleas would begin in a moment. She turned her face away toward the door, in time to see the second of her ever-present guards stagger and fall. The man who had pressed the razor-tipped spike in through the guard's ear was smiling, sharklike. She'd seen him often enough before, but now she scarcely recognized him. He was a minor courtier, always servile, and exquisitely polite, like so many others. She'd not realized how power and triumph could transform a face. She shrank back.
"Scream and I'll kill you, you little cow." His voice was cruel and deliberate. Blood still dripped from his fingers. Behind him stood several more armed men.
"Try not to, Lord Blis," said a voice from down the passage. The princess was an expert on tone, and this speaker did not sound as if it would concern him greatly if she was mutilated, but not quite dead. "We have her father, but it would be nice to have two little `gifts' for our great liberators."
The tall, sardonic speaker stepped into the room. The naked and bloody falchion in his hand belied his otherwise foppish appearance. With a single sword-stroke he severed the head of the still kneeling majordomo.
"You promised me I could have her!" There was a mixture of fear, chagrin and a dangerous edge of insanity in the guard killer's shrill demand.
"And so you shall, my dear Blis. And so you shall. But only for the next half an hour. The gates are opening now, and I want her alive when our `friends' arrive. But they won't mind if you've used her first."
The courtier smiled, a dribble of spittle leaking across his thin lips. "Yes, Emperor Deshin." He looked at her, his wild eyes hungry. "She'll be . . . alive!" He laughed. "Leave me ten guards. They can take it in turns when I've finished."
The tall man lifted a disdainful lip. "The title is premature, Blis. And I doubt if even the most desperate will use a girl after you've finished with her. Enjoy yourself . . . her body will be worthless to the hive anyway." He looked at her then, his eyes cold with hatred. "You're not going to be raped, little Princess. Rumor has it that you'd enjoy that. Blis has no interest in sex. He can't get it up, so he likes to use knives instead." With this chilling finish, he turned and walked out, ignoring the dangerous glitter in his ally's eyes. The girl wished desperately that she'd not used Count Deshin for one of her little games. But it was too late now. She could hear him selecting guards outside. The door closed.
The thin-lipped Blis dropped the spike, and took a dagger from his highly polished boot. He began to advance, very slowly. "You can scream all you like now. We've secured the palace," he said. His voice, just above a whisper, was full of almost palpable anticipation. He licked his lips, his eyes glowing with an evil inner brightness.
For the first time in her life the Princess knew real fear. Nervously her hands strayed across the golden bangles as she edged further away. The wall was behind her. She tried to press herself into it. She looked around, desperately seeking some avenue of escape. All that she could see was the majordomo's head, the eyes staring vacantly. Bilberries . . .
Blis lunged toward her suddenly, seizing her arm. She screamed in pure panic, and grabbed her own arm with the other hand as she lurched forward. Her fingers closed on a jewel-adorned golden bangle, which abruptly became a lump of dry ice . . .
A bilberry is an innocuous thing on its own. Dusty purple and the size of a fingernail. However, several hundred thousand of them, if they materialize inside someone's body, are more deadly than any toxin can be. Blis didn't even scream. There was no air in his lungs to do so.
For long moments she simply stared at the remains of the man lying in a pool of his own blood into which was slowly seeping a deep purple juice. Then she looked at her own purple and red splattered arms, staggered away, and threw up. For a while she simply wept and shivered. Gradually a measure of emotionally washed-out calm descended on her. She looked at the door. The guard would be expecting sounds of pain. She screamed. It was not difficult to put real anguish into that scream. She tiptoed across and bolted the door as quietly as she could. The door was a heavy oak one, and the bolt a solid bar of steel. It was intended to isolate her apartment from possible assassins, but it would never stop a determined assault with a battering ram. She knew she had very little time.
Her father, on one of those occasions when he had been pleased with her, had said that she had a scalpel mind. She was accustomed to thinking herself far more intelligent than everybody else. It didn't feel that way now. She dithered.
Could she bribe the guards? But if she failed, they'd break in here. She hugged herself in desperate self-pity. Could she hide? If she was not apparent, they'd tear this place apart. Under the bed or in the wardrobes, the only hiding places she could think of, would be the first places they'd search. Could she escape? Her apartments were six stories up. Could she arm herself, at least? She looked across at Blis's dagger, which lay in a pool of swirled purple and red, and retched. It took her a good few more minutes to decide what to do. She tore strips of sheet and knotted them, screaming occasionally for good measure. She would hang the sheet rope out of the window, and then hide.
She opened the window, kicking off her jewelled slippers and climbing onto the broad sill. There were bars on the outside. For a moment her heart fell. She'd forgotten those. Careful inspection suggested that she could get through them. She tied the sheet rope to them and dropped it down. It was still a long way short. She'd better just try and see if she could actually squeeze between the bars. Resolutely not looking down, she searched for the best way. The bars were welded into a sort of outwardly bulging box, allowing the window to swing open to the outside. Where the bars were attached to the wall there was just a little more space. She'd just see if her head and shoulders could go through . . .
She was committed, and more than halfway through when the door to her apartments was blown apart in a burst of purple fire. Fear made the rest easy. She was perched on the window ledge outside the bars and out of direct sight when the Morkth burst into what had once been her withdrawing room. A few moments later there were the sounds of combat, but this too lasted only seconds. Then there was silence.
Suddenly, just as she was thinking about going in again she heard more sounds. Running footsteps came to the open window, and then she heard the rasping sibilant speech of the Morkth. The words, as always, were hard to make out. But they definitely included the order to search below. She looked down for the first time since she'd begun to squeeze out between the bars. She could see the streets from here. They were full of fighting. The black-clad Morkth-man br
igades were everywhere. She didn't want to be down there, even if her frail sheet rope had reached. Perhaps she could go sideways or . . . up. And she'd better make up her mind, quickly. At the moment folk were too busy to look up, but even now searchers were running down the stairs.
Sideways was simply too far for her to reach. But up was plausible. Climbing the bars on this window she could reach the bars of the next, and from the top of them the gutter was within reach. She pulled herself onto the roof just before the Morkth troops spilled into the gardens. A few feet away was a low ornamental curlicue, with a gargoyle at the head of a down pipe. She slithered to lie behind it. Her thin arms were shaking, making the bangles tinkle faintly. Without real fear she could never have done such physical feats. She'd never done any manual labor in her life, and her only muscular training had been for bed arts, which had rather neglected her arms and shoulders. She lay in the gutter behind the stone gargoyle and shivered. It would be more than an hour before she dared to move enough to look out.
When at last she was a little more self-possessed, and able to think rationally and beyond her immediate survival, Shael peeped out cautiously. The picture that presented itself was not an attractive one. There were still patches of fighting, but it was obvious that it was nearly over. The black-clad Morkth troops were herding frightened prisoners along the streets. Sections of the town still burned. She shivered with fear. Would the fire spread? Would they fire the palace?
Resolutely she shrugged off the thought. She must plan. She must win clear of this place. The fallen city-state of Shapstone was less than a tenth part of her father's lands. Even if it had been conquered she could still go . . . She stopped short. He was dead. She hadn't loved her father, and he certainly had never shown the least real affection towards her. She had never expected any. She was his tool, a valuable tool, but still a tool, to be married off to his best advantage. She had never questioned this: It was simply what she was bred for. She now realized that with his death, she was nothing.
The Tyn States were his creation. If he had fallen, so had their unity. None of them would welcome the Tyrant's daughter as a ruler. They were more likely to kill her in various unpleasant, slow and vengeful ways. Her mother's people in far-off Arlinn would not welcome her either. Her father had taken the lady at swordpoint to be his bride, stepping over the bodies of several of her kin who had objected. The act that had resulted in Shael's conception would have been regarded as rape in any eyes but that of the law. Of course, when you were the law . . .
Shael knew that in the eyes of the nobles of Arlinn she was tainted with her father's blood. They would offer her no refuge. She cast the net of her mind about for someone else to turn to and drew it back, empty. Friends, not mere toadies, were something she'd never had. What need had there ever been? Relatives were simply other claimants to the throne, and her father had been singly effective in his purge of those. The few that had fled to dubious safety in the lands of exile certainly had no cause to love her.
Where to then? There seemed no answer, except away from here. Shael was not a likable person, but as she lay there, with the evening wind blowing cold, it would have been easy to feel sorry for her. With goosebumps on her bare arms and tear streaks in her makeup, she looked far more like a miserable sixteen-year-old than a twenty-four-carat bitch of a princess.
She rationalized that it would be better to wait for the conquerors to get drunk beyond competence before she tried to escape from her hiding place. In reality, which she could not truly hide from herself, she was simply too scared to move from that little patch of safety. She hugged herself and pulled her knees up under her chin. She wished she'd worn something less flimsy and revealing that morning. It was only as she drifted off into an exhausted sleep that the thought slipped into her tired mind: who or what had killed that animal Blis? She vaguely tried to focus on this thought spark, but her brain was too soggy to fire up a logical train of thought. Sleep came mercifully.
She awoke cold. Teeth-chatteringly cold. She'd never been this cold in her life. She would die for something warm. She was about to call out to her maids when awareness of where she was came flooding back. If she called out now she might really die. Hugging herself and rubbing her bare arms she looked out over the dark city. There were no more burning buildings. There were no sounds of drunken revelry. She could see squads with torches patrolling the streets below in a systematic fashion. These were the zombielike warriors of the Morkth hives. Human bodies without human passions. Soulless, near mindless, killing machines. She watched the regular pattern weaving through the streets, like a formal dance outlined by their torches. Eventually the cold forced her to turn her attention away from the hypnotic ebb and flow of lights. She must get off this roof, out of this cold wind. Could she face going over the edge with that drop reaching for her?
The height had been hard enough to face in the heat of the moment, but now in the dark, and in cold blood, the very idea filled her with terror. But if she stayed . . . she might die of cold. Her stomach growled at her. It reminded her that it had been a good many hours since she had emptied it onto the marble floor of her room. There must be some other way off the roof. She decided to stand up, and explore the icy refuge in which she'd interned herself. Standing next to the gargoyle, with it as a support, was not too bad. She took the step beyond it on the steeply sloping slate roof . . . no! The Princess settled for crawling, with a hand on the gutter. At least that was flat. Even that small comfort was denied her when it creaked, and dropped several inches. She pulled away in fear, the seven stories of darkness dragging at her. Holding her quivering lip between her perfect white teeth, she moved on, only on the slippery slates now, edging her way round. A slate beneath her knee cracked, a sudden, sharp sound in the silence. She stayed as still as fear would let her, tasting the warm saltiness in her mouth.
When no reaction came after a few cold minutes, she began to move again, but in reality it was a pointless exercise. She was no longer looking for a way out, just moving. Soon even that stopped.
It came on silent wings, with a terrible screeching cry. Her own scream was a feeble, ratlike squeak in comparison. The feathery soft touch just brushed her shoulder. She scrambled, almost fell over the edge, her sweaty hands slipping as her toes felt frantically for some purchase.
And found it. She was no longer above the drop, but rather just off the edge of the ridge line of the roof of the south wing of the palace. With immense relief she dropped and scrambled along the ledge. She covered several hundred yards before she dared to stop and look behind her. She could find no sign of pursuit. Shael would never acknowledge that it could just have been a hunting owl.
Below her was the great balcony, from which it had been the tradition of the Grand Dukes of Shapstone to address their subjects on feast days. It was here that the assassins dispatched by her father had relieved the last of that line of his life, by means of four well-directed crossbow bolts. As the Tyrant had dryly commented afterwards, "height alone is no defense." Right now it was her only defense. But she knew she couldn't stay there forever. At least the balcony would provide a safe place to get off the roof, without too long a fall below her. Perhaps there would be a drainpipe or something to climb down. She left the ridgeline and began her cautious descent.
Which rapidly became an uncontrolled high-speed descent. With two or three loose slates for company she flew clear over the edge, to crash onto the balcony. Half stunned, it took her a moment or two to come to her senses. There was a sound of running feet. She scrambled off her knees, and darted to hide behind some curtains just inside the doorway.
The feet thudded past, through the open door and out onto the balcony. "The sounds came from here." The voice was wooden, with no trace of emotion.
The reply was different. She could hear distaste in the coarse tones. "Slates fallin'. Do whenever th' wind blows." One traitor guardsman, and one Morkth hiver. Her stomach was a knot of fear, but there was a blossoming of hatred, too. The Morkth-
man, he was the enemy, but the other was something worse, far more detestable. She could do little to him if they caught her, but at least she would spit in his face. She began working her dry mouth for the material to carry out her resolve.
"We will search anyway." The Morkth-man did not make it a matter of debate.
"Waste o' time. Only the curtains to hide behind here. I'll take t' left side." That was the side she was on. She'd been trained to listen for nuances of voice. He had spoken just a shade faster than natural. Did he know she was there?
She desperately tried to gather spittle for her last act of defiance. She would die like Cru, even if all she wanted to do was to burst into tears.
He pulled aside the curtain in front of her. And put his finger to his lips. Then he stepped calmly away, as if he had seen nothing. She had but seconds to look at the heavy, brutish face in the lamplight, but it etched onto her memory. She would never forget that face. . . . Her knees felt as if they might give way any moment.
"Nothin' my side." His voice might have betrayed him to his fellows, but the other guard was unaccustomed to any form of duplicity.
"We must search the other passages." The Morkth-man was not going to give up easily.
"Aw, come on. The doors are all guarded. Nothin's gonna get out'v here. Let's go back to our post at the stairwell." He was telling her where the guards were stationed. Which stairwell?
"We search." Their footsteps went away up the east passage.
It was at least warmer here, but she knew it was no permanent refuge. She had to get out of the palace, out of Shapstone, somehow. There was one way out of the palace that might not be guarded . . . and her father's rooms were close. Holding her arms so that the bangles could not tinkle she fled down the passage toward the great doors that led into his palatial apartments. She peered forward. A guard in Shapstone livery was snoring peacefully to the side of the doors. She sneaked past him, and cautiously tried the handle. It was locked, but the valet's door ten yards further on was not. She slipped inside.
