With two lancers beside him and a mage at his back. It was suicide.
He had a better idea, and offered his fist.
For a moment, Rynher just stared at it as if unable to comprehend a change of plan. Then his fingers curled, and he reached to knock knuckles, something in his eyes so hollow that it pained Sarovy not to kill him and end the suffering that had apparently brought him here.
Beltras made a dismayed sound and stepped forward, blade slipping past Rynher's side to come at Sarovy's chest. Sarovy back-fisted him across the jaw before he could get close, and the man staggered and nearly fell on the polished floor.
“What the—“ said Lancer Garrenson, but Lancer Serinel—the sharper of the bodyguards—was already in motion, breezing past Sarovy's shoulder to slam Beltras off his feet. The militiaman went down and Serinel dropped on top of him, one plated knee flattening his knife-hand to the floor while the other hit his solar plexus and both hands clamped on his neck.
A moment later, Lancer Garrenson tackled the still-staring Rynher, evidently not wanting to be left out.
Sarovy watched them long enough to determine that Serinel was not actively strangling Beltras—just threatening in a low tone—and that Garrenson had stopped punching Rynher when the militiaman dropped his own knife. Then he looked up the stairs to where the Bahlaeran councilors stood aghast.
“Sirs, madam, I apologize,” he told them, “but it seems I have an incident report to write. If you will excuse us.”
On cue, both lancers hauled both militiamen to their feet, and Sarovy turned to lead them onward. No objections followed.
'Well, that was interesting,' murmured Scryer Mako in his mind as servants dragged the main doors open.
“You could have halted them,” said Sarovy aloud.
'Yes, but you ignored my warning. Therefore you deserved it.'
Emerging into the light, Sarovy exhaled heavily. If this was what he had to look forward to, he almost wished he had let the guards stab him.
*****
“Giving you 'a look' is not a fight-worthy offense,” said Linciard. “Nothing is a fight-worthy offense.”
“My honor—“
“Your honor is not a fight-worthy offense!”
Lancer Stormfollower glared at him. Short for a Jernizen, he nevertheless bore all the hallmarks of that proud people: the fair hair, the tawny-leather skin, the bullheaded domineering arrogance. If they hadn't been the best horsemen in the company, Linciard would gladly have pitched all the Jernizen off a cliff, Stormfollower first.
“My honor is all I have,” Stormfollower said darkly.
“Hog-crap.” Linciard slapped the pile of incident reports on his desk, where he stood because he couldn't be angry and sit still at the same time. “You still have all your teeth, though Light knows why. You still have most of the skin on your back, though not for long! You still have your piking fingers! Do you want to lose some of those?”
The Jernizen ringleader's eyes narrowed, as did those of the three men behind him. Linciard switched tactics. “Your fight is not with your fellow Blazes. Lieutenant Arlin will investigate the supposed provocation—“
“Feh.”
“—and handle the Drixi, but it's your responsibility to handle yourself. If you can't, then it's Corporal Vyslin's job. If he can't, then it's mine.”
One of the Jernizen at the wall murmured something disparaging to his neighbor, and they both sneered. Linciard lost his cool.
“Setter!” he snapped. “Tycaid! You have given your allegiance to the Empire, and we do not tolerate infighting! I don't know how they do it in Jernizan, but I don't have to flog you; I can just send for the Scryer and she'll twist your minds into nice obedient knots. Believe me, you don't want her in there.”
They fell silent at that, and Stormfollower flushed red, not from anger but from—
Ugh, though Linciard.
“Corporal Vyslin,” he said slowly, looking to the dark-haired man who stood a few paces from the lancers, “this altercation took place where?”
“Outside the Velvet Sheath,” said the corporal, plainly amused.
Linciard rubbed his temples with his fingers. “So when you say your honor, Stormfollower, you mean the Drixi insulted you in front of the Velvet Sheath women?”
“They said—“
“I don't want the details, lancer. Was it in front of the women or not?”
Stormfollower fidgeted, arrogance punctured. He was young, Linciard reminded himself. Barely past his majority. “Yeah. The place was closing up. They don't allow morning visits. The Drixi were coming out, and they said—“
“I don't care. Why were you there?”
“There's this one girl, Dhalyar—she's southern—she asked me to come back after the first courting, right, but we had the dawn shift so we were just gonna swing by—“
“During patrol time.”
“It was on the ride-out. I was just gonna say hoi, y'know, holler up at her window...”
“Because you're...courting.” Linciard scanned the other Jernizen. “I suppose you all think you have girlfriends now.”
One of them, Janison Setter, flushed. The other two looked awkward. Off to the side, Corporal Vyslin was twitching with the effort not to laugh. Cautiously, Linciard continued, “So...do you not know what a prostitute is?”
Stormfollower leaned forward, suddenly intense. “The corporal says they're loose women. Y'know, unattached. We don't have any unattached women in Jernizan. Soon as a girl hits marriageable age, one of the lords buys her up and no one else can touch her. Sir, we came here and signed on with your Empire because you've got women all over the place, running free. And so now, since we've got some money, we're gonna use it.”
“You paid them, then.”
“Of course. Dowries are essential.”
Corporal Vyslin made a choking sound and covered his mouth.
In any other place, Linciard would have laughed too, but these were his men now and all he felt was aggravation. “All right, I see the problem,” he said, “and we're going to have a long talk, but not at this moment. The four of you are still getting a whipping, do you understand? That's what you get when you fight. And you are not betrothed. We're gonna get your...dowries back, minus whatever costs you incurred, and then you're gonna have to demonstrate to me that you understand eastern ways before I let you visit them again.”
Sneering, Lancer Tycaid said, “Eastern ways, like men fucking each—“
“Don't make me call the Scryer. Now get out.”
The lancers saluted desultorily and slunk off. Linciard waited five heartbeats after the door clicked shut, then looked to Vyslin, who was braced against the wall and shaking like a leaf.
“They don't know about prostitutes?” he said wearily.
Corporal Vyslin burst into guffaws, barely able to hold himself upright. A few times, he tried to speak through them, but never managed more than a word before the snickers took hold, doubling him over and eventually forcing him to the ground.
Hands braced on his desk, Linciard just stared at his former lover, wondering what he'd ever seen in this man. Finally the giggles turned to wheezes, and the wheezes to recuperating breaths, and Linciard said, “I hate you, Cambriel.”
“This... This is what I have to deal with all day, every day,” said the corporal, clambering awkwardly to his feet. “Ow, my sides.”
“I'm pretty sure you bring it upon yourself.”
“Fie. I'm a paragon of virtue.” Vyslin flashed him a grin, eyes gleaming with gleeful tears, and Linciard reflected that it would probably be best to throw Vyslin off the cliff first, or else hear his laughter echo back forever.
It would be a tough fight. Vyslin was wiry and quick and mean as an adder, even in the throes of humor. His smirk was etched so deeply into his face that it might well have been part of his skull, and the big Darronwayn eyes that made him seem initially endearing could flash hot with hate in an instant. As he raked his short hair back, the edges
of black tattoos peeked out from beneath his sleeves.
“Seriously, you haven't explained?” said Linciard.
“What am I, their father?”
“Their corporal.”
“I can't help it. You know my tongue.”
Linciard gave him a dirty look. They had been together during the Jernizan campaign but parted by mutual consent, Vyslin's promotion from lancer to corporal providing a smooth exit from a relationship that had grown toxic. Vyslin liked to hone his wit on others' hides and Linciard couldn't stand to be a whetstone; Linciard held grudges and cultivated enemies and Vyslin just laughed everything off. They were much better now that they were apart.
And still Linciard wanted to throttle him.
“I swear, I have tried,” said Vyslin, swiping at his eyes. “But they still think they can buy the women outright, as brides.”
“Look, if you can't handle them, I can shuffle people around. I heard that crack Tycaid tried to make...”
Vyslin shrugged. “That's half my fault. I mince it up just because they react.”
“Cambri...”
“I know, I know. I should set a proper example. But it's not like I got here on good behavior, and I won't even ask what you did to become lieutenant.” Linciard stared at him until he said, “I'm kidding. I'm kidding, you know I respect you.”
“Do I?”
“Erolan, shit, I—“
From down below came the bang of the great doors, accompanied by shouted questions. Linciard straightened; he knew trouble when he heard it, and he'd rather face that than resurrect old problems. “That's Lieutenant Shit to you,” he grumbled as he stalked to the door.
Vyslin snorted, and then they were out to the hall, to the balcony, to the stairs, to join in on this newest fiasco.
Chapter 4 – Conversion
No matter how much she prayed, Ammala Cray could not find answers.
“Be at peace,” said the woman beside her, who called herself Vriene Damiel. Pale and placid, she seemed almost comfortable in the white robe she had been put into, though by her words she belonged in a Trifold Mother Matriarch's brown dress. At her side lay her husband Sogan, his head in her lap, her fingers soothing his heavy brow. He was unselfconsciously naked, having torn his robe apart when he shifted forms to try to mangle their captors—yet even in the form of a great bear he had failed, and lapsed back into human shape and this deep gloom. Now he stared at the white wall without expression, trapped as the rest of them.
Ammala grimaced and let her hands fall from their position. “How can I do so when there is no hope for us?”
“There may yet be,” said Vriene, but her smile was sad, and her gaze moved from Ammala to the old woman, and then to the children.
Ammala looked to them as well. Her mother-in-law, Maegotha Cray, slept heavily at her side, parchment-like eyelids flickering erratically. One wrist was roughly splinted, but around that, her bony arm showed the bruises of their captors' grips—too strong for mortal men. Her children huddled a few steps away, whispering to each other: Izelina and Aedin, one thirteen, the other ten, both with their dead father's determination etched on their faces.
It hurt her heart. Like her—and Vriene, and Maegotha—they wore prisoners' robes and nothing else. No slippers, no undergarments, not even their protective braided cords. All they'd owned was gone, leaving them entombed in this exit-less white chamber. Whether they were here to await some punishment or simply to starve to death, Ammala did not know.
Her children wanted to fight for their lives. But if Sogan the bear could not triumph, how could they?
“Ammala. Seek your calm center,” said Vriene, offering a hand. Ammala clasped it and tried to derive some comfort from the priestess's presence, but all she felt was fear. For herself; for her children; for her homeland; and for all those who had been brought here before her.
In this, the Imperial Palace, so many others must have met their doom.
“The goddess can not see us through the interference of our enemy,” said Vriene, “but we can never belong to him. If we die, we will return to our place in her heart. As long as you remain true in your faith, you can not be separated from her, nor from those who share your devotion.”
“I want to believe that,” murmured Ammala.
“It is a part of the Gods' Pact. They can not keep those who belong to another. Yes, we face our end here, but only our mortal end. Our souls will go on in her keeping.”
Ammala tried to smile, but it felt deeply rueful. The priestess meant well, and she appreciated the honesty; she was just glad the children weren't listening.
“And perhaps...” Vriene trailed off, drawing Ammala's eye, but the priestess was just looking at the nil space where the door had once been. “Perhaps this is not death,” she said finally. “One of my sons is here. Malin, my youngest, who had been declared lost. I saw him only briefly, in that terrible armor, but... We have never known much of the deep workings of the Empire. Perhaps there is a chance.”
“Perhaps,” Ammala echoed, but she couldn't believe that either. This place was too strange—too alive—for her to hold out hope of escape, and its inhabitants too fanatical for any hope of leniency. She barely knew why she was here.
Because she had sheltered that boy Cob? Because she had shown a modicum of resistance to that Crimson officer?
Such petty reasons, and now her youngest daughter had been torn from her, and her eldest son slain, and the two who remained of the six she had borne might well die before her eyes. She wanted to clasp them to her chest, to weep, to beg for their young lives, but she knew that any such act would break her. She had to be strong for them, and dignified, for there would be no mercy.
A ripple passed through the chamber, and she yanked her hand from Vriene's in alarm. Like startled hares, all the others went still and watchful, except for Maegotha who twitched awake and sat up with a garbled oath.
The place where the door had been suddenly dimpled outward, then split into an oblong opening. Voices drifted in.
“—father's orders all the time? Never once deviate? This is nonsensical and you know it—you have to. The conversion rate is one in ten, so if all our armies—“
“Your Highness, please. We have a task.”
“I know we do. But—“
Ammala rose slowly. From the gap in the wall, a row of blank white helms stared at her, but behind them were two bare-headed men: a tall, handsome blond and a scarred old fellow with a white right eye. The old fellow beckoned curtly, and the front-line soldiers entered the chamber. Since Ammala was already on her feet, two simply bracketed her, while others hoisted Maegotha and Vriene and Sogan up. One each took custody of the children.
Through the gap, the blond man stared aghast. “This is the task? Women and children?”
“Yes, Highness.”
“No, leave them there. We need to talk with my father—“
“Highness, you may be the heir but within the White Flame you are a mere lieutenant. You can not give me orders. I speak with you as a courtesy only.”
“I don't accept that. And if you try to put me in a cell again...”
“We are allowed to discipline you, Highness.”
“Because that piker Rackmar said so?”
“Because your father authorized it. Please. I do not mean to antagonize you. I am only doing my job.”
“Can't you see what this job is?”
“Sacrifices must be made, Highness. You know that.”
Redemption through service; purification through sacrifice, Ammala thought sourly. The foolishness that boy Cob had believed. The soldiers nudged her forward, and she lifted her chin and obeyed; she would not entertain them by resisting.
The others made way, the un-helmed men moving to the fore. “Is this Rackmar's idea?” said the blond, and she suddenly recognized the name: the grinning, bearded man she and her family had been presented to in Bahlaer. The one who had claimed her daughter Jesalle.
“He is our comman
der,” said the one-eyed man blandly. “Most everything is his idea.”
“He isn't even here. You don't have to—“
“Highness, I will report this.”
“No, no— Actually, yes. You report to Rackmar, I'll contact Enkhaelen, and we can get all of this hog-crap sorted. So put them back in the cell.“
“Highness...”
Ammala's brows arched. The blond man kept casting looks back at them. He seemed youngish but perhaps it was just the transparency of his emotions. They were written all over his face: discomfort, anger, bitterness, guilt. Unlike the others, whose armor seemed form-fitted and somehow organic, his was white-enameled metal, and it creaked as he shifted on his feet.
“I'm serious,” he said. “I want to call a formal court session. This is my empire too.”
“I'm not sure your father would see it that—“
A roar filled the hallway, deafening at such close range. Startled, Ammala lurched forward as the area behind her became a sudden frenzy of claws and fur, white swords and armor. She heard Vriene scolding in a high voice and Maegotha shrieking imprecations, but when she turned, the hall was too full of bear to see either of them.
Or the children.
Her heart leapt.
A soldier grabbed her by the arms and shoved her face-first against the white wall. Luminescent, it yielded to her slightly, like a firm cushion. She wanted to kick and twist and scratch and spit at her captor but already her shoulders burned from how he'd twisted them, so she watched with one eye as the White Flame soldiers brought Sogan down again, his great bulk constricted by tightening white nets.
Beyond him, Vriene stood composed, a soldier gripping each arm. Maegotha was in another's clasp, kicking and hollering, and down the hall another man hoisted Aedin by the waist to carry him back to the group. Yet another White Flame jogged toward the far bend in the hall.
The Living Throne (The War of Memory Cycle Book 3) Page 10
