The Edict

by P. J. Keyworth

  The pace was unforgiving. Half a mile was reached and she felt the blood soaking through her trouser leg. She was concentrating so hard on keeping going that she didn’t notice the thief watching her. His dark eyes flicked over her struggling frame, taking in the increasing dark stain.

  A moment later she faltered and knocked into the thief, and whatever sympathy he had been harbouring was eclipsed by a flash of rage.

  “Watch it!” he spat, barely regaining his balance.

  Kiara was oblivious. She staggered back over to the path of the horse she was tied to, but before long she stumbled again. This time she didn’t have anything to land on but the ground.

  Dirt and gravel cut into her face, the tug on her arms didn’t give way and her body thudded between the horses, rolling her over. The pain seemed unbearable, and she could hear a ringing in her ears. She wasn’t a fool, she knew she wouldn’t survive this. The ringing grew louder, and all other sounds seemed far away. There was an excruciatingly deep click as one of her arms was wrenched from its socket, and then all at once everything went black.

  Unconscious, she didn’t hear the yell that stopped the cavalcade, nor did she notice when a soldier hoisted her onto the back of one of the horses. At least she was alive.

  Chapter 4

  It was another hour before the cavalrymen and their prisoners finally reached the Reluwyn stronghold in the northern coastal town of Grûl. Exhausted, the thief dragged his feet through the sewage that ran down the streets of the overcrowded settlement. The mingling stench of fish and waste was acrid in his nostrils, but just being allowed to walk felt like heaven to him, no matter the stink.

  They had passed through the west of the Northern Moors where they had been caught, and were now at one of the northern settlements. The town of Grûl sprawled around the harbour’s muddy banks serving as one of the main fishing ports of the North Sea.

  It was buzzing when they arrived, in spite of the late hour. The streets were crowded with ruddy sailors, fat-looking merchants, and women of pleasure catcalling the passers-by. One of the prostitutes reached out to lay a hand on the thief’s broad shoulders.

  “Lonely night in the jail, friend? Just a wink and I’ll keep you warm.” He looked up to see a face that had once been beautiful, now stained with chalk paint and lined with hard years. He shrugged her off and carried on, ignoring the choice words she used in response. Reluwyn prisons allowed whores if the prisoner could pay, and perhaps that was where she found most of her business.

  The troops wound down through cobbled streets toward the dockside, lanterns lighting darkened inns while ships rose and fell with the tide. A left-turn and they were climbing once again. The thief’s legs ached and his feet tripped on the cobbles.

  Grûl’s jail could be seen rising up against the horizon. It sat amidst the houses but loomed above them, clearly outlined against ominous rain clouds. The doorway glowed in the heavy blackness, a welcome sight. The coming downpour would quickly make swamps out of the streets, forming a river of sewage that would invade the dwellings of those less wealthy.

  The thief was led into the Watchtower behind the Captain. They stopped abruptly before a Lieutenant sat at his desk. The man looked up without pleasure, nodding curtly to the Captain, offering a standing salute before cocking his head inquiringly at the thief. His eyes flicked back to the Captain.

  “And what’s this then?”

  “Two prisoners for a night in the jail and a formal trial. Charged with robbing an Imperial coach on the Edict of Maidens dispatch.”

  The thief’s brow furrowed but he maintained his silence. His time would come to speak. He looked between the Captain and the Lieutenant, but they said no more of the Edict. He hadn’t known it had been released, and was thankful that his beard and rough clothing concealed his identity, for the time being at least.

  “Captain, may I ask, where is your second prisoner?” The Lieutenant still stood rigidly to attention, his superior finding no impulse to let him stand at ease.

  “Here.” Aktabad didn’t turn but the thief did. The fair-haired boy was still unconscious and slung over the shoulder of one of the dismounted riders.

  The thief cast his dark eyes over the battered frame of the boy. Not even the dirt and blood on the youth’s face could coerce pity from the frustrated thief at this moment. If it weren’t for this boy he would still be on the Northern Moors, far away from any minions of the Imperial Court.

  “Yes, Captain, very good Captain,” the Lieutenant called to a colleague who was sat further down a corridor leading off the main entrance hall. The jangling of keys heralded his approach and the man’s bulging stomach arrived around the corner before he did.

  Orders were rapped out and the prisoners, one walking, one carried, were taken to a stone cell towards the back of the building. The thief was thrust in first, tripping down the steps and sent sprawling on the dirty floor. The blond-haired boy was thrown in after, almost landing on top of his cellmate. The guard cut their hands free and then left, the click of the locking door a sound of finality in the quiet that followed.

  The thief rolled over, tempted to stay lying on the floor after his marathon this evening. He rubbed his face and ran his fingers through his damp hair, scraping it back from his face. It wouldn’t be long now; his life would be forfeit when they found out who he was.

  The groaning of the youth forced him up. Damned boy! He’d be dead within a week, perhaps he should be happy about that. The thief turned away and made his way to the wooden bed. He dropped down onto it with a heavy sigh, crossing his long legs in front of him. A quick nap before being hauled in and interrogated would not go amiss.

  The boy continued to moan, and the rowdy yells of a twilight port-town could be heard. The thief’s eyes were shut, but damn it all, he could not sleep! All he could think of was the rough sea wind over the Northern Moors, the stars that had once lit his nights, and the suns that had warmed his back by day. All gone. The freedom to be himself. No more robbing, no more wild, no more freedom.

  His eyes sprang open. Curse that boy! He looked over to the slowly moving heap - it seemed to be more clothing than boy. Perhaps he was an elf. A sharp cry rang out as the youth rolled over onto the arm he had dislocated. He jolted to full consciousness flying upright and immediately grasping his injured limb.

  The thief felt a twinge of sympathy. He’d dislocated his arm once, during cavalry drills. Dainus had shied and bolted, leaving the thief in the dust. Except he hadn’t simply fallen - one of his arms had been caught in the reins, and the long drag had dislocated his shoulder. There was only one way to fix a dislocated shoulder.

  He walked across the cell. The dirt on the boy’s face hid his exact features, but the thief could see they were delicate. Definitely an elf, though he couldn’t see the ears beneath the mop of blond hair. Tears of pain cut clean tracks through the grime on the boy’s cheeks.

  The youth shuffled backwards and glanced nervously around himself.

  “It’s the prison of the Watchtower.” The thief answered the unspoken question. He crouched so he could lock the boy’s blue eyes in his. “Your fault. Thanks.”

  The youth flinched, before answering defiantly. “You didn’t have to fight me. You could have given me what I wanted.”

  The thief raised an eyebrow. “And leave you with that prize? I am not quite so young and stupid. I’ve been playing this game a while.”

  The boy leaned on the wall in surrender. “I only wanted the document.”

  “And what use does a boy have with royal documents?” said the thief, rising.

  “As much use as they should have,” the boy snapped, his anger distracting him from his predicament. “I would have burned it!” He met the thief’s gaze squarely, blue eyes blazing with fury.

  “Such hostility over a document that doesn’t even affect you.”

  “A document demanding that every beautiful maiden in the Empire be taken to the Prince for inspection. A wife is to be chosen, but only
after he has stolen their virtue. He makes whores of these women for his own pleasure - and what of them?”

  The tall thief was taken aback, but in spite of this his taunting reply came quickly. “A lover of yours is to be taken by the Prince then?”

  The boy dropped his gaze immediately.

  “Ah, so that’s it,” the thief carried on, warming to his theme.

  Fresh tears rolled down the boy’s face. He clenched his jaw against the agony.

  The thief’s eyes hardened.

  “Your arm is dislocated.”

  The boy said nothing.

  “You aren’t a good thief. Stealing paper not gold. Getting caught. You really should take up another profession.” The thief paused. “Then again, you’ll be dead soon.”

  The boy looked up shortly. “As will you be. But I will have fought for a cause; you fight simply for your own greed.”

  “Ha!” The thief’s laugh was mirthless as he paced over to the window. “A cause? A cause you’ll die for.”

  “Gladly,” spat the boy, an involuntary groan coming soon after. He looked up to the ceiling as if in supplication.

  This youth was odd. He was a robber stealing things of no value. He didn’t care about death. Who was he? Turned away his narrow back was shaking with heavy breaths of pain.

  The thief exhaled loudly. Why was he going to do this? He came up behind, before the boy even knew what was happening. Putting one strong hand on the small shoulder and the other on the wrist he took a firm hold of the dislocated arm.

  The boy cried out half in pain, half in shock, but the thief ignored him. If he knew it was coming it would hurt all the more. He pulled back. Hard. The boy thrashed wildly, but the thief wouldn’t let go. A boot caught the side of the thief’s face hard. He cursed loudly, but the extra pull was all that was needed. The arm popped back into its rightful place with a satisfying click.

  The boy gasped and then moaned pitifully. The thief fell back onto the wooden bed, rubbing his jaw and calling down such curses it would have made anyone wince. He was lucky he hadn’t broken his jaw - and the boy was lucky he hadn’t done so. The thief would have set to work undoing the shoulder if the boy had given him more than a bruise.

  Busy nursing his own injury for some time, the thief ignored the boy who now lay on his side, clutching the arm and waiting for the pain to subside.

  Why did he bother? The boy was as thin as a rake, he hardly felt like he could survive a cold night in this cell, let alone any longer. Besides he’d be hanging from the gallows by the end of the week. He couldn’t afford to care about another now, he needed to watch out for his own future.

  “Thanks.”

  The small word came from the boy. The thief paused in the massaging of his jaw long enough to catch eyes with the boy who was now sitting up. He did not reply.

  The silence stretched out between them, the thief gazing into the middle distance and the boy staring at the opposite wall. The thief didn’t want conversation, and apparently neither did the youth. Good. He’d be out of here soon enough, no point conversing with the Emrilion rebel in the meantime.

  As the minutes stretched by, it was almost peaceful in the cell. Outside the rain eased, and on the hour the night watch tolled the bell, announcing to the residents that the bawdiness of the inhabitants hadn’t resulted in any serious crimes yet.

  Across this came a screech of wood against stone and the door was thrown open. Lights shone in, beams spotlighting the two prisoners. The boy held up his hands to shield his eyes but the thief didn’t move from the bed. Let them take the boy first.

  Unfortunately for his sleeping plans, the two guards walked straight over to the thief, kicking his lounging legs to rouse him to standing.

  “Up!” shouted the first of the guards when the prisoner didn’t immediately obey the brutal kicks. He stirred, rising slowly, provoking in his laziness and then, knowing that his deception was finally at an end, followed them out the door.

  “My lord,” a small, wheedling voice sounded in the dimly lit bedchamber.

  Oil lamps flickered beside crimson hangings, bathing the room in a warm glow.

  “My lord.” That irritating voice again.

  Garesh stirred and rolled over, the silk sheets sliding over his skin and pulling across the naked woman who lay beside him.

  “My lord?”

  “Mishka?” snapped Garesh, dragging a hand across his lined brow, “What is so important that you must raise me from my bed? Are the Laowyn rebelling at our very gates?” There was no other reason to forgive this disturbance.

  “No, no, my lord.”

  Then no mercy would be afforded to the spherical courtier. Garesh opened his eyes to see that Mishka had entered the room backwards, bowing moronically to the doorway. He and Sameedos had arrived only two days ago to report that the Prince had still not been found. Their very presence tried Garesh’s patience. Perhaps if he had one of them flogged they would both improve their performance. For now words would have to do.

  “Turn around you fool,” Garesh growled, and then shoved the concubine who slept next to him. “And you can get up and get out.”

  The woman sat up, exposing herself to Mishka who shook his head vigorously and stuttered something incomprehensible.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Garesh noted the hint of irritation in her voice. He couldn’t afford her bad graces. She had dark skills that could prove useful, skills that were hard to find in a race who had learned to fear the Spirit Realm.

  Before she could reach for her discarded gown, Garesh grabbed her by the hair, twisting it as he kissed her. Let that satisfy her ego for now.

  “Leave,” he commanded, and then rose, donning an open-fronted tunic which he tied about himself.

  “Give me a reason not to have you flogged, Mishka,” he said benevolently.

  The small councillor’s round face, which he expected to show fear, was instead creased into what resembled a smile. “It is good news, my lord, we have news of him.”

  Garesh’s sour face altered considerably. “The Prince? Where?” He pushed impatiently at a cloth strewn with Reluwyn runes upon the table.

  His concubine, Nisa, had been working here, asking the dark spirits for assistance in destroying the Laowyn rebels. Garesh had thought it rubbish until things in the room had moved on their own. Now he realised that Nisa could be valuable.

  “To the north, my lord, a messenger has just arrived.”

  Garesh saw Mishka avert his eyes from the runes. Spirit conjuring was forbidden among the Reluwyn. Most feared it, but some, like Nisa, still practiced it. Not that Mishka, or Sameedos for that matter, would admit to their leader’s involvement in such a thing. It could bring them down as well as him. Even so Garesh pulled down a narrow embroidered length of material that hung by a pillar and threw it over the runes.

  He turned back to Mishka. “The messenger, where is he?”

  The arrival of a servant halted the conversation. Garesh ordered preparations for traveling to be made with a caravan ready to leave within the hour.

  “You are going to him, my lord?”

  “Of course, I am! He will not slip through my fingers at such a time as this. The maidens are flooding into the palace’s harem; I can hardly hide his absence any longer. What providence that he is found.” He had no doubt his spirit conjuror Nisa would lay the providence at the door of the dark spirits, and he had to admit, the timing was impeccable. “The messenger, Mishka?” Garesh barked impatiently.

  “You wish to see the messenger, my lord?” asked Mishka confused, sure that there was no need.

  “Yes, you fool! How am I to gather all the facts of the Prince’s absence if I do not speak to the man who has seen him?”

  Mishka’s face still held incomprehension, but Garesh expected no better. How was this imbecile to realise Garesh must know everything in order to concoct a story the courtiers would be satisfied with.

  “The messenger says there is a man in Grûl claiming
to be the Prince. So we think it is the Prince, or it may not be…” Mishka seemed intent on idiocy tonight.

  To be fair to the councillor, the Prince was not necessarily recognisable outside Emril City. Despite ruling over the entire Empire under Garesh’s Regency, he had been a mere boy when he had taken the throne. Garesh had always been his public sign of power.

  Garesh drew his brows in sharply, “The man who told them that he was the Prince?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Mishka shifted from one foot to the other, dropping his eyes from Garesh’s gaze.

  “Told who, exactly?” asked the High Councillor, with a sudden inexplicable feeling that he was not going to like the answer.

  “My lord.” Captain Aktabad bowed, his breastplate digging into the silk of his wide fitting trousers. He rose again, his white eyes taking in the High Councillor.

  A long-flowing green tunic and a blue travelling cloak swathed about Garesh’s frame, and a contingent of officials and Imperial Guards gathered around him. Under his arm was the leather document pouch he had brought with him.

  “As much as I enjoy exchanging pleasantries,” Garesh replied, his face full of displeasure and his words lacking sincerity. “I am here on pressing business.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Aktabad bowed again, reverence for the High Councillor offsetting his usually fearsome countenance. He led Garesh away from his entourage towards the interrogation room.

  “In here, my lord.”

  “Your presence will not be needed.” Garesh waited for the Captain to shut the door before looking at the prisoner.

  Prince Trevisian was in a chair on the other side of the table, feet up on the desk, eyes barely open. He almost smiled at Garesh’s shocked expression. He must look filthy to this man who had taught him to rule from childhood. His hair had grown long in the few months he’d been gone, and the stubble on his chin was dark over the swelling on his jaw where that insolent youth had kicked him.