by John Marco
“We may reach the bridge by noon tomorrow,” said Bern. His lips twisted at the prospect. The bridge at Roan-Si spanned the river Kryss. More importantly, it would bring them into Norvor. From there it was only a few hours more to Hanging Man.
“What about the border?” Ravel asked. “Do you think they’ll be trouble?”
“No,” replied Bern. “I’m certain of it.”
The news relieved Ravel. He hadn’t wanted any trouble with the Reecians, who had been very quiet in the past year while Liiria disintegrated. It was said that King Raxor had been watching Liiria, waiting to see who took power. Raxor, like his deceased brother before him, had long been an ally of the Liirians, but when Akeela died that had all abruptly changed, and no one knew for sure what the Reecians were doing on their borders.
“If they give us trouble we’ll have to buy our way out of it,” said Ravel.
“They won’t,” said Bern confidently.
Ravel didn’t argue. He was, after all, a businessman, and so left military matters to Bern. He had given most command decisions over to Bern in fact, and the old colonel had proved a brilliant choice. With Bern’s help Ravel had defeated Lakrin and the other merchants, scattering their armies and sometimes hiring their own soldiers right out from under them. The merchant-baron leaned back in his plush carriage, letting the cushion swallow his backside. He studied the hundred horsemen he’d brought with him—only a small portion of the army he’d assembled—and thrilled at the sight. Soon, he would have everything he’d ever wanted. After making his peace with Jazana Carr, he could at last finish off the fools at Koth’s library.
Baron Ravel closed his eyes and sipped his wine. For some reason, the taste reminded him of Simah.
As Bern had promised, Ravel and his caravan reached the bridge at Roan-Si at noon the next day. A contingent of Jazana Carr’s soldiers waited on the other side to greet him, all dressed in different types of uniforms yet all united under the flag of Norvor. The sight of so many soldiers disturbed Ravel, who stuck his head outside the carriage for a better look. Worse, the bridge was narrower than he’d thought. Would his carriage make it over? He hoped so; he was far too heavy to ride a horse the rest of the way. Up ahead, Colonel Bern called the column to a halt. One by one the horsemen reined back their mounts.
“We’ve stopped, my lord,” called the carriage driver.
“I can see that,” said Ravel. He waited for Merwyn to shuffle down from his bench and open his door before lumbering out of the carriage. Now that he could see more clearly he realized that the Norvans had come with at least as many soldiers as he had. Immediately he looked north. Thankfully, the border with Reec was quiet. Baron Ravel straightened his garments and walked as assuredly as he could toward the bridge. Colonel Bern and a pair of his lieutenants had already dismounted, waiting for him. Across the river the men of Jazana Carr waited on their black horses. A man with a red beard and floppy beret raised a hand in greeting. Bern returned the gesture.
“He wants us to come ahead, my lord,” said Bern. “They’re our escort.”
Ravel thought for a moment, considering the risks. It unnerved him that Jazana Carr had sent so many soldiers to escort him to Hanging Man. Once across the river, it might be impossible to turn back.
“Do you smell a trap, Bern?”
The colonel seemed annoyed by the question. “This was your idea, my lord. If the Diamond Queen wants to trap us, we’re dead already.”
Baron Ravel agreed. “Come with me,” he said, then sauntered toward the bridge. Bern and his two lieutenants followed on foot. Seeing this, the man with the red beard selected two of his companions, then dismounted and came to meet them. The short walk up the bridge winded Ravel. By the time he reached the apex he was breathing heavily. Seeing his discomfort, Bern handed him the handkerchief he’d taken yesterday. It was still filthy, but Ravel used it anyway. The man with the beard came up to greet them. Behind his strange grin was unmistakable iron.
“Baron Ravel?” he asked. He spoke with a peculiar brogue.
“Aye,” Ravel replied. “I am Ravel.”
The man surprised him by bowing. “Greetings, Baron. Jazana Carr welcomes you to Norvor. I am Rodrik Varl, her man-at-arms. I’m to escort you to Hanging Man. My mistress awaits you there.”
“Indeed, that’s good news, Rodrik Varl,” said Ravel. He had heard of this man, who he knew to be more than a simple mercenary. Varl was Jazana Carr’s top soldier, and rumored to be quite dangerous. “May I ask why you’ve come with so many men?”
“Jazana Carr wishes only to provide for your safety, Baron,” said Varl. He glanced at Bern and his grin widened a little. “This is still a dangerous part of the world.”
“As you can see I’ve brought my own men to protect me, Rodrik Varl, but your queen’s concern is appreciated. How far to Hanging Man?”
“Not far, my lord. Bring your men and carriage across; we’ll reach the fortress by suppertime.”
Ravel nodded. Now that he was on the bridge he could see it was wider than he’d originally thought, stout enough for his elaborate carriage. “Very well,” he agreed. He looked at Rodrik Varl, examining his grin for any sign of treachery. “I look forward to meeting your queen.”
They parted, and Ravel and his men returned to their side of the bridge. When they were out of earshot Colonel Bern began to mutter.
“A dirty mercenary, that’s all he is. He’s not really a soldier at all, never was.”
The baron ignored Bern’s annoyance, climbed back into his carriage, and let his driver carry him over the bridge. Fifty of his soldiers preceded him, fifty came after. Rodrik Varl, true to his word, led them away from the bridge and south into Norvor, riding along the river Kryss toward Hanging Man. For the first few moments Ravel remained apprehensive. He scanned the horizon for any sign of ambush, but when he realized none was forthcoming he finally relaxed. He reminded himself that he was dealing with a woman. Jazana Carr would not ambush him; she wanted peace between them more than he did.
Perched on a cliff overhanging the river Kryss, the fortress of Hanging Man was like nothing Ravel had ever seen. It was a thousand-foot dive from the towers of Hanging Man to the churning waters below, but that was not how the fortress got its name. Years ago, Norvan kings had hung the bodies of traitors from the towers like flags, letting them undulate in the wind, a ghastly warning to anyone who opposed them. Surprisingly, the barbaric land had moved beyond that practice, but Ravel could easily imagine Jazana Carr or the deposed King Lorn reinstituting it. He was in a dangerous nation now and Baron Ravel had no illusions. If he offended Jazana Carr, she could easily send him back to Andola in pieces. The sight of Hanging Man reminded him of her power.
As their caravan hoofed toward the fortress, slowly climbing the steep road that wound toward Hanging Man’s entrance, Ravel’s mind for numbers quickly counted up the men as he noticed them. Soldiers like the ones escorting him surrounded the fortress, parading through its dusty yards and standing watch in its towers. The standard of Norvor and a dozen of its conquered cities colored the landscape, each pronouncing their loyalty to the Diamond Queen. The great stone turrets of the place stood stark against the blue sky. The scarred skin of the ancient fortress told its bloody history, its high walls pitted with dents from catapult shots, its crenellations smoothed by the freezes and thaws of countless seasons. For a moment, Baron Ravel envied Jazana Carr. In all of Andola—even in all Liiria—there was nothing like this fortress. It was an echo of another age, before men turned their fortunes to building libraries, and Ravel doubted the world would ever see its like again.
Anxious, he poured himself some wine. If Jazana Carr meant to impress she had already done a fair job, but he was not wholly worried. He had expected to see many more soldiers camped around the fortress, and he decided that the rumors of her strength had been ill-founded. This bit of knowledge relaxed him, and by the time his caravan crested the road he was once again confident he’d made the right decision. Rodr
ik Varl gave the order to halt and his Norvans stopped in the rocky yard. He waved Ravel’s carriage ahead and had Colonel Bern ride alongside it until they too reached the soaring gates of Hanging Man, where at last the carriage halted. His back aching from the rough ride, Ravel didn’t wait for Merwyn to open his door. He got out of the carriage, stepping down onto the Norvan soil with a thud. Bern dismounted and together the two men raised their gaze toward the fortress, ever upward toward its far-away peak. The shadow of the place swallowed the courtyard. Two enormous gates of black iron stood open before them, dwarfing them. Ravel peered into the dark maw and saw the bleak recesses of the fort.
“Welcome to Hanging Man,” said Rodrik Varl in his peculiar, laughing brogue. “Baron Ravel, if you’ll have your men dismount they may join you inside. Jazana Carr has arranged a welcome for you, with food enough for all.”
Ravel hesitated, but knew he could not refuse. “That’s very kind of your mistress. Colonel Bern, you come with me. Have the others remained behind to see to the horses and things. When we’re settled we can send for them.” He smiled at Rodrik Varl. “I think it’s best I see your queen first, sir.”
“As you wish,” said Varl. “If you’ll follow me . . .”
Passing through the enormous gates, Rodrik Varl left his own men in the yard and led the baron and colonel into Hanging Man, into a hall that was dark and wide and decorated with armor and old weapons. The dimness immediately made Ravel claustrophobic, a feeling that worsened as the hall funneled them deeper into the keep. Handfuls of mercenaries passed them, along with servants and page boys, and Ravel’s mind for accounting continued to total up the numbers. A little smile curved his lips, totally hidden by the darkness of the hall. Though it baked in the Norvan sun the only light in the place came from oily torches. The smell of age and sweat belabored Ravel’s already overworked lungs.
“Is it all like this?” he asked Varl. “So . . . close?”
“Not all, Baron,” replied Varl lightly. “The feast room is much better. You’ll see.”
“Will Jazana Carr be there?” Ravel pressed. “I should like to see her as soon as possible.”
“My lady lives by her own clock, Baron Ravel. Please, relax and enjoy her hospitality.”
Before he started grumbling, Ravel remembered his manners. Jazana Carr was Queen of Norvor, and this was her land. He offered Varl a diplomatic apology and continued down the hall. At last the dimness diminished. They entered a wide passage blessed with light from high windows. Ravel paused to catch his breath, then heard music. He cocked his head, discovering a pair of doors at the end of the vaulted hall.
Pipes, he told himself. More than one. And a lyre and a harp, too.
His mood buoyed, then improved even more when his keen nose detected food.
“The feast room?” he surmised, pointing at the distant doors.
“Indeed, Baron,” said Varl. “You’re tired, I know, but you’ll be able to rest there.”
“I admit, I’m as hungry as a dragon.” Ravel rubbed his chubby hands together. “Let’s have at it, then.”
Colonel Bern remained circumspect. They followed Rodrik Varl to the doors. There the bearded man paused, beamed his infectious smile, and pulled open the wooden portals. All at once the hallway flooded with music. Beautiful, accomplished music, the kind made by skilled hands and fine instruments. The doors revealed a giant chamber filled with banquet tables, lit by leaping torches, heavy with platters of food, sweet with flowers and paneled in warm, glowing wood. Servants dressed in white gloves and velvet tended to the tables or stood at attention while wenches filled tankards full of foaming beer. A trio of wine casks lined the far wall, and a bevy of metal plates teetered on a nearby table, stacked high as they waited for the crowd.
So far, though, there was no crowd. Not a single morsel of food had been touched, nor any of the tobacco pinched for pipes. Baron Ravel’s jaw hung open as he surveyed the room. He had expected a pleasant reception, but the feast before him left him dumbfounded.
“All this . . .” He glanced at Varl. “For us?”
Rodrik Varl laughed. “As I said, my lord, Jazana Carr wanted to welcome you properly. Now, shall I send for the rest of your men?”
The feast Jazana Carr provided rivaled any of Ravel’s own back home, and though he was glad for it he was also oddly jealous. Clearly she had spared no expense. It seemed to the baron that his hostess was a braggart, because she had provided so much so easily. Still, Ravel was determined to enjoy himself. As suggested, he had sent for most of his men to join him, allowing them to gorge themselves on the queen’s hospitality. There were acrobats and jugglers, pretty girls for the men to admire, endless amounts of beer and wine, and music to delight even Ravel’s jaded ears. The expert musicians had his men dancing and singing alongside the Diamond Queen’s own soldiers, who had joined in the merriment a short time after it started. Jazana Carr had even provided a small dais for Baron Ravel, with a stoutly constructed, throne-like chair to support his great weight and soft upholstery to cradle his backside. There were four other chairs just like it at the dais, two for Bern and another of Ravel’s men, and one for Rodrik Varl. The fourth chair remained empty, however. This one, for Jazana Carr, was at Ravel’s right-hand side, and its vacancy irked the Baron. For two hours he and his men had slaked their varied thirsts, eating their fill and getting drunk on expensive wines, yet Jazana Carr had not appeared or even sent word to him. Ravel hid his anger by sampling everything the servants brought him. He consumed quail eggs by the dozen, pounds of briny chicken feet, countless wedges of cheese from Jerikor—which was his favorite and hard to get, even for him—and washed it all down with rivers of beer and wine. Because of his size he could drink liters without getting drunk and today he proved this fact to anyone who doubted it. Still, while the acrobats tumbled and the singers sang, Jazana Carr did not appear.
Then, just as Ravel felt his anger cresting, he saw her.
And like her feast, she was breathtaking.
The music stopped. The lyres quieted so the horns could trumpet her arrival. Rodrik Varl and the Norvan soldiers lowered their drinks and stood. Ravel hurried to follow this example, his own men doing the same. The tumblers in the center of the room parted, making way for their mistress as Jazana Carr floated into the chamber. She was unannounced but she needed no introduction, for she was unmistakably the Diamond Queen, her body sparkling with gemstones that dangled from her ears and neck and fingers, her satin gown aglow with emeralds. Her face was magnificent, like polished alabaster, her hair a golden waterfall, long and looped with bronze braids. Her lips, moistly colored ruby red, pouted as she surveyed the room, but her eyes leaped with girlish joy at the attention. The train of her gown rippled as she walked regally toward the dais, where Rodrik Varl pushed back his enormous chair and came forth to escort her, taking her dainty hand and kissing it. He smiled at his queen with an expression so full of love that it shocked Ravel. Jazana Carr paused before the dais and nodded at her guests.
“My lord Baron,” said Rodrik Varl, “please meet my lady, Jazana Carr.”
Baron Ravel stepped down from the dais and, straining, bowed the best he could. “My lady,” he said softly, “this is a great honor for me.”
“Baron Ravel, rise, please,” bade Jazana Carr. She had a voice like a nightingale, soft and lyrical. She smiled at the baron, dazzling him. “You grace Norvor by coming here,” she continued. “Not everyone would have done so. Thank you for making the trip.”
“The trip, my lady, was well worth the sight of you. I would have crossed an ocean had I known how magnificent you are.”
Jazana Carr pretended to blush. “I have heard you are a man of taste, Baron. Your compliment honors me.”
Ravel put out a hand. “Then do me an honor, lady, and let me take you to your seat.”
With feline grace Jazana Carr slipped her hand into the baron’s. Her grip was warm and smooth. Ravel held her hand gently, then brushed past Rodrik Varl to guide the
lady up the dais. The slight sway of her hips enchanted Ravel. To say that she was magnificent was to understate the obvious. When they reached her seat Ravel paused and pulled back the enormous chair, bidding her to sit. The Diamond Queen smoothed the emerald ruffles of her gown and did so. At once, two of her exquisitely dressed servants rushed up to fill her glass and offer her food. Jazana Carr took the wine, declined the food, and settled in while Ravel took his seat. In a moment the entire gathering did the same, but they did not start speaking until the lady ordered the musicians to play once again. The instruments bloomed to life. The merriment resumed. Ravel turned confidently to Bern and gave a furtive wink.
“My lady, you have embarrassed us with so much attention,” he told Jazana Carr. “This celebration; it is all too much! My men and I are overwhelmed by your hospitality.”
“It is a trifle, believe me, Baron Ravel,” said the Diamond Queen. “And you are a man accustomed to good things. Surely I could have given you nothing less.”
“I thank you, my lady, but my expectations have been royally exceeded. I came here expecting to talk, but this . . .” Ravel sighed. “This is fabulous.”
The compliment made the lady smile. “It pleases me to hear you say so, Baron. Of course we will talk, but first you should enjoy yourself. Business is best conducted on a full stomach.”
“Lady, even my great stomach can only endure so much. We should talk, when you are ready of course. I confess that I’m anxious to hear your opinion on things.”
It was diplomatic speech, yet Jazana Carr seemed not to understand. She ignored the statement, raising her glass and cheering on the acrobats instead, who had taken up positions in front of the dais.
