“Unfortunately,” Talamir mumbled before he could think.
Weile studied the Renshai. “You’d best get used to that, Talamir. Because the populace tends to consider itself prime owners of the king’s offspring. Our prince. Our princess. And as Subikahn is Tae’s only child, it’s presumed he will become the king someday.”
Talamir went on the defensive. “That’s not why I love him, if that’s what you mean.” He turned his gaze toward the other men in the room, assuming Weile trusted them with any words that might pass between them. “I have no designs on any throne. I would love Subikahn were he the meanest beggar in Erythane.”
Weile Kahn grinned indulgently. “Talamir, I’m not concerned about any designs you might have on the throne. I gained it, stole it most would say, from its previous owner who proved incapable of protecting it against me. If we can’t keep the kingship in our family, then we don’t deserve to have it either.”
Talamir cocked his head, trying to anticipate the Easterner’s point.
Weile did not wait for his guest to puzzle out the answer. “I’m just saying even rough-edged kings have responsibilities. Despite what most people believe, they cannot simply do as they please. Those royal duties did not suit me, so I passed them to my son. Tae handles the position far better than I did, but even he is beginning to realize that his subjects want a queen.” His dark eyes, so like Subikahn’s at first glance, held a stony edge his grandson did not share. “They will have it from Tae or from Subikahn. More likely, from both. You, Talamir, can never be queen.”
The words startled the Renshai, who had never considered such a thing. “Queen?! Of course I can’t be queen. Who said I wanted to be queen? I’m a man.”
“And men aren’t known for sharing the things that matter most to them.”
Now, Talamir understood. Subikahn would likely have a wife in addition to his lover, and the populace would demand children as well. Talamir had not yet considered the future in such detail. “I will deal with whatever it takes to keep Subikahn. He is my love, my life, my very happiness.” Anger suffused him at the unfairness of it all. He had finally found a kindred soul mate, and he had no choice but to picture his beloved cradling a beautiful, young bride. There was no positive way to view the situation, but he would not allow it to stop him.
“Ah, in the heat of young passion, you could give no other answer. But love matures, Talamir, and you need to think not about what you can suffer now, but how you will suffer in the future.”
This was not the conversation Talamir had expected. “Future, Sire? I have no future. I’m sentenced to die by slow torture for high treason and rape.”
Weile Kahn made a thoughtful noise, as if he had fully forgotten those details. “Yes. So, what should I do with you, Talamir?”
The question caught Talamir even more off guard, if possible. “Let me go?” he suggested.
“I tried that.” Weile glanced at his veiled companions. “I even gave you my sword. By the way, it’s never looked better. Thanks for taking such good care of it.”
As a Renshai,Talamir could have done nothing else, but it seemed distantly possible Weile might not know that. “You’re welcome, Sire.”
“You made me a lot of promises when you left, Talamir.”
The reminder further irritated Talamir. His fists curled around empty air. He was hiltless, naked, before his accuser. “You made promises, too,” he reminded with cautious venom. “You said you would hold your men back, but they hounded me relentlessly. I agreed not to kill them, but they made it impossible.”
“Those,” Weile said crisply, “were the king’s men, not mine.” A smile haunted his lips but did not quite show through.
Talamir got the idea that something other than his own decisions and prowess impressed Weile Kahn. It took him several moments of silent thought to realize Weile had underestimated, and now appreciated, Tae’s resourcefulness. “Whosever they were, I had to kill them to survive. And I had to survive to keep my promise to protect Subikahn.”
“Which you didn’t.”
“I didn’t fail,” Talamir pointed out. “He’s alive and well, thank the gods.”
“Is he?”
The simple question cut like a knife. Talamir’s heart skipped a beat. “What—what do you mean?” He studied the veiled figures for some outline of weapons. If Subikahn was in danger, he would do whatever it took to rescue him.
Weile remained composed, his every movement controlled. He seemed less oblivious to the fact that he faced a troubled Renshai with only two apparently unarmed guards, than unconcerned about it. “My grandson has passed the boundaries of the Eastlands.”
“He’s a competent warrior.” Talamir still did not understand why Weile worried so much about Subikahn’s safety.
“But naïve,” the regent said. “For all his sword training, he’s young and inexperienced in the ways of the world.”
It all seemed to come back to the same answer. “Then let me go again. I’ll find him, keep him well.”
Weile shook his head. “No, Talamir. That will not end well for you.”
The pronouncement, though somber, seemed utterly nonsensical. “Well,” said the Renshai. “Not letting me go will definitely end badly for me.”
“You can’t run from Tae forever.”
“I can try.”
“Not if you really love Subikahn.”
Talamir’s attention jerked fully to Weile Kahn. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that it’s impossible to have a strong relationship with someone whose parents hate you.”
“Why?” The word emerged as more of a demand than a question.
“Because it’s not a sustainable situation; it’s highly uncomfortable for the one caught in the middle. Sooner or later, your beloved will have to make a choice between lover and family. And that choice, however it is made, never results in long-lasting happiness for anyone involved.” Weile’s dark brows edged upward. He waited for Talamir’s reply, clearly expecting something significant.
Talamir considered, knowing whatever came out of his mouth needed to be intelligent. So far, he had not managed to impress Subikahn’s father. He could not risk alienating the grandfather as well. When nothing of great usefulness came to him after several moments, he tried to elicit a hint without sounding stupid. “I know I need to win over the king. I just don’t know how to do that from a cell.”
Weile waited expectantly, in silence, so Talamir glanced past him toward the guards. The squatter one bobbed his head slightly, encouraging.
Talamir cleared his throat. “I could guard Subikahn . . .”
The guard’s head shook hastily, in slight motions.
Cued, Talamir added, “But we’ve already tried that unsuccessfully. I could go . . .”
The guard cringed, head still shaking.
“I could stay . . .” Talamir amended. “I could stay here and . . .”
The guard raised and lowered his head once. Talamir wished he could see the man’s expression.
“. . . and do something that might make a good impression on King Tae.”
The guard pantomimed drawing a sword and thrusting.
“I could . . . kill . . .”
The guard’s head shook faster.
Weile Kahn said, “He’s suggesting you offer to train the regular guards.” He twisted his head to look at the elite guardsmen behind him. “Right?”
Both men stood utterly still, their expressions hidden behind silver veils.
Weile did not wait for a response but returned his attention to Talamir almost immediately.
More surprised by the suggestion than by Weile’s apparent ability to see behind him, Talamir stammered, “Me? Train Eastern guardsmen?” It made no sense. “Tae would never allow that.”
“But I would. Right now, and for the foreseeable future, I’m in charge.”
Talamir wanted to say more, but words failed him.
Weile did not suffer a similar fate. “You’re a teach
er, right? A sword instructor.”
“Well, yes.” Talamir wondered why his brain seemed to refuse to fully function. “A torke. I train Renshai.”
“Regular guardsmen would be . . . easier?”
“Easier,”Talamir repeated.“Yes, surely easier. But—” What’s wrong with my damned tongue. “I can’t teach them Renshai maneuvers.”
Weile shrugged. “So don’t. Teach them basic things. Things that make them better, more confident warriors.Things that make you . . . indispensable.”
“I . . .”Talamir started, uncertain where he was going. “. . . can do that.” As the words left his mouth, he realized they were true. “I can do that. But, if you let me out, how do you know I won’t just run.”
“I don’t,”Weile admitted, but he did not seem the least perturbed. “But if you do, I will have learned something important about you.”
Talamir knew better than to ask what that lesson might be. “Thank you.” The words seemed woefully inadequate. Despite having surrendered the throne to his son, Weile Kahn still held more power than most kings; and Talamir understood that the leader of the underground had no obligation to him. “You’ve shown me mercy and many kindnesses I don’t deserve.”
“You will earn them.” It was not a show of trust but a clear warning. “If you hurt my grandson, if you break his heart, you will face agony beyond the sensibilities of Tae Kahn to inflict.”
Talamir had no idea what Weile meant but felt certain he preferred ignorance. As much as he loved Subikahn, as right as their relationship seemed, he could not help believing his life might have been better had he never traveled to Stalmize, never became a torke, never met Subikahn at all.
Howling curses at his captors, Tae stumbled through the hallways to his cell, his arms pinched and pinioned by a pair of Béarnian guards, each twice his size. His hair hung in a lank filthy snarl, his clothing torn and frayed, his skin already bruised by the roughness of their handling. One released him to unlock the cell door. Still playing, Tae lurched to free himself. The other guard tightened his grip, squeezing until Tae’s arm throbbed and the pain nearly incapacitated him. The instant the door jarred open, he felt himself thrown angrily inside. He tumbled, heels over head, slamming his skull against the stone wall that comprised the back of the cell. Pain exploded through his head, scrambling his thoughts. Then, the door slammed shut, and the lock clicked with ominous finality.
Suddenly, Tae wished the Béarnian royals had let a few more people in on the truth. His head hurt so badly he nearly vomited, and returning blood flow made his arms throb. He forced himself to rise, though it severely tested his balance, and tried to look tough and unruffled by their treatment.
Instantly, Tae’s mind retreated to his days in Pudar’s prison, under sentence of death. Then, he had shared his cell with other prisoners, ones happy to kill or maim a newcomer for his share of the food. Panic assailed him in a sudden rush, scattering his thoughts. He wanted out, he needed out, and no tactic seemed too farfetched to earn his freedom. He ran to the bars and pulled at them, only to find them so solid he could not move them in the slightest. He lowered his head and focused his view, aware he needed his wits wholly about him. The terror receded, replaced by familiar, cold rationality. He was not a prisoner; he was only on a mission.
Assailed by pain but with his heart rate slowing back to normal, Tae slumped against the bars. Next, he did what any prisoner would, surveying the area around him with a feigned composure that suggested he could handle anything that dared to threaten him. The prisoner to his right studied him through harsh, dark eyes beneath a prominent knitted brow. Though no larger than an average Béarnide, he still towered over Tae. Wide shoulders and broad hips spoke of a stoutness he had lost in the Béarnian dungeon, and his nondescript clothing hung from his slowly thinning frame.
Tae locked eyes for only a moment, and the cold of the contact seeped through him. There was hatred in those predatory orbs and also a hint of despair that might make him as dangerous to himself as to Tae.
A smaller and leaner, but no less desperate, man occupied the cell to Tae’s left. He wore similar bland clothing, more filthy, with old bloodstains on the sleeves. Though softer, his brown eyes also revealed a deadly loathing, either for Tae or, more generally, for his surroundings. To Tae’s surprise, he read fear in this man’s expression, unmatched by his fellow, yet strong and clear. Hand gestures, words, tone could vary from culture to culture, but expressions remained the one constant on which he could rely. His left neighbor was terrified of something, and Tae sincerely doubted it had anything to do with himself.
Across the walkway, a Béarnide peeked out from the bars to give Tae the same scrutiny. He seemed harmless despite his size, probably a petty criminal. Yet, Tae had no other choice but to use him as an example. “Yah, ya ugly Béarnide!” he jeered with a hiss. “What’re ya lookin’ at?”
The Béarnide stiffened but did not return the challenge. He backed away from the bars to disappear into the shadows of his cage.
Tae dismissed him with a wave and a glob of spit that struck the bars of the other man’s cell. “Ya’re all a buncha cowards, y’are.”
A few rumbled challenges followed Tae’s proclamation, but as none of those prisoners was clearly visible, he ignored them. Instead he turned his attention to the pirates to either side. He had no way of knowing how to gain their goodwill; their upbringings would likely prove too alien to guess. Tae could only count on his own experience, that to win over tough men, one had to prove himself at least as equally brave and tough.
Without warning, Tae lunged at the larger of the pirates.
Clearly startled, the man retreated with a hiss; then, to Tae’s surprise, immediately lurched forward. A swift grab managed to capture a piece of Tae’s shirt.
Tae attempted to free himself without appearing to retreat. Trying to maintain composure, rather than following his survival instincts, proved Tae’s downfall. With a jerk, the man yanked him closer. The other beefy hand closed over more fabric, and Tae found himself in an abrupt and inescapable chokehold.
Still in control of his faculties, Tae hammered the man’s arms from below, once, twice, three times, trying to dislodge them. But he might as well have slammed against solid iron for all the good it did him. The pirate’s grip only tightened expertly.
Breath refused to leave or enter Tae’s lungs. He gasped spasmodically, suddenly realizing his life was measured in moments. He tried to roll backward, without success. The iron grip held him in place. He threw himself forward, grabbing for any part of his attacker’s anatomy and hoping he caught something exquisitely sensitive. His throat locked open, desperately sucking, and his lungs felt as if they would burst through his chest. Stars whirled around his eyes. In a moment, he would lose consciousness and any chance for escape.
Then, something dark hurtled through the air, spitting and yowling, to land on the stranger’s head. The man screamed, dropping back and releasing Tae so quickly the Easterner sank to his knees. Before he could think or wonder, Tae scrambled beyond further reach of his attacker, not caring how clumsy or desperate he appeared. Air rushed back into his lungs in an agonizing contraction, and he breathed in and out so quickly it worsened his dizziness. It took him a moment to recognize the furry, silver dervish tearing, clawing, and biting at the stranger’s face.
*Imorelda!*
Tae got no acknowledgment as the cat remained singularly focused on mangling her target.
Tae rose carefully. He knew better than to give direct orders to a cat. *Imorelda, please, get away! He might hurt you.*
Still fluffed to twice her normal size, Imorelda bounced to the cell floor and growled menacingly at the stranger.
*He’s quicker than he looks,* Tae warned. *Please. Get out while you can.*
Imorelda remained facing the stranger, back firmly arched, though she did take several rearward steps toward Tae.
*Slip out the front, if you can,* Tae suggested. *If they know we’re a team,
they’ll get more cautious.*
Imorelda whirled suddenly and ran through the front bars, galloping into the darkness. *Maybe if they know we’re a team, they won’t be so quick to murder you.* An angry howl escaped from the shadows. *Isn’t saving your foolish life worth a thank you?*
*Thank you, Imorelda,* Tae sent dutifully. He resisted the urge to rub at his neck, instead glaring at the pirate. The other man did not return the look, more concerned with his own lacerated scalp and face. He rubbed blood from his cheeks and nose with the back of his sleeve, blinking several times to adjust his vision, then uttered a string of savage words Tae took to be the equivalent of swearing. Just my luck. The first words I learn in their language, and I can’t use any of them.
From behind Tae, the other pirate spoke.
This earned him a reply laced with similar words. From it all, Tae took away the term for cat, yonha, and a few other words he tucked away for later comparison. The syntax seemed a bit sideways, with adjectives and nouns switched in their places. He thought he sifted out a descriptor for Imorelda as “savage” and for himself, “stupid.” They referred to him as “takudan,” which he supposed more likely meant “little rat” or “idiot” than “brave neighbor.” It was not the impression he had intended to make, but at least he had them talking.
Suddenly, Tae realized Imorelda was still addressing him. * . . . not even listening!*
*Sorry, Imorelda. I’m working.*
Tae imagined her tail twitching in angry bursts. *If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be alive to work.*
Tae did feel grateful, but he could not waste any time in idle conversation. *You’re right.You saved my life, and I am eternally grateful. I owe you the finest fish and hours of rubbing. But right now, Imorelda, I need to listen.*
The cat mumbled something incoherent, but the moment was lost. The pirates returned to their own problems, the larger one nursing his wounds and the smaller moving to the darkest corner to use his chamber pot.
Damn. Tae remained on the floor of his cell, enjoying the simple act of breathing. His gambit had failed miserably, but he was not without further tricks. He just needed to keep the pirate’s deadliness and quickness firmly in mind.
Flight of the Renshai Page 35
