Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

‘Oh, thank you.’ Tears glittered in her eyes. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  Zabier found the king slumped in front of the fire, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. It was unusual to see him sitting still, let alone looking dejected. As Zabier cautiously approached, he realised the king was muttering under his breath.

  Charald looked up and saw him. ‘There you are. The Wyrds, they haunt me. It was all your idea, Oskane. You and Nitzel advised me. It’s your fault they’re here.’

  Startled to find himself addressed as Oskane, Zabier took a step back. Jaraile had said the king was acting strangely. Was he losing his mind? ‘Sire?’

  Charald sprang to his feet. ‘Arrogant Wyrds...’ And he was off again, pacing and ranting, but at least he now recognised Zabier.

  Zabier said all the right things and eventually managed to calm the king. Then he set out to discover why the Wyrd delegation had unnerved Charald.

  ‘WOULD YOU CARE for another curried egg?’ Kithkarne asked. The plump tithe-master had insisted they come prepared with food, drink and books to read, while they waited for the king.

  Graelen resented the need for this but he had to admit he’d rather not go hungry. It was mid-afternoon now, and he was getting restless.

  Just then a priest in rich robes entered, closing the door after him. Graelen recognised him as the Father’s-voice, and thought of Sorne, who had been sent to Maygharia on the king’s business only to be killed in the uprising.

  The priest made a shallow bow. ‘I am–’

  ‘The Father’s-voice,’ Graelen said.

  ‘At your service.’ The Mieren smiled briefly, his gaze settling on Graelen’s brotherhood torc, avoiding his eyes.

  Graelen glanced behind him to Kithkarne, who was sitting elegantly, fanning himself with High Golden Age grace, as if he had not been polishing off pickles and curried eggs a moment before.

  ‘Tithe-master Kithkarne, of Kyredeon’s brotherhood,’ Graelen introduced his companion. ‘And I’m his assistant, Gift-warrior Graelen.’

  ‘King Charald has asked me to discover the nature of your business.’

  ‘It concerns the king’s debt,’ Kithkarne said, sorting through his papers.

  As the tithe-master explained the origin of the debt and what it now amounted to, Graelen observed the Father’s-voice. He wore the white robes of a priest, and a rich brocade vestment. A small, flat-topped cap sat on his head, and his hair hung down his back in rippling waves. In the shaft of light from the window, it had a gingery tinge. He was young, but then these Mieren lived such short lives. If he was twenty-five, his life was already half over.

  According to Sorne, they could trust him.

  ‘So there it is, the final figure,’ Kithkarne said.

  The Father’s-voice looked at the number and went pale.

  ‘I’ve made two copies, one for the king and one for his advisors. I assure you, the workings are accurate.’

  Very slowly, the Father’s-voice rolled up the copies and tied them neatly. ‘This is a very large sum.’

  ‘That’s what happens when payments are not made and interest accrues,’ Kithkarne said, somewhat primly.

  ‘We are aware the sum has become unwieldy, and we understand the king spent eight years outside of Chalcedonia,’ Graelen said. ‘During this time, he could not have made payments. We are open to negotiation.’

  ‘The king will...’ The Father’s-voice cleared his throat. ‘I will speak with him. It is almost autumn cusp. King Charald has many official duties. I should think the earliest you could expect to hear from him would be fifteen days after autumn cusp.’

  Graelen drew breath, but the old tithe-master beat him to it.

  ‘Very well. You’ll see us on that day.’

  As they rode home in Chariode’s carriage, Graelen complained, ‘Why make us wait fifteen days?’

  ‘We’ve waited over forty years. We can wait fifteen days.’

  The carriage stopped at an intersection, and Graelen could hear Mieren arguing.

  ‘This is all most diverting. Dragomyr would love to know our business with the king. He sent that pretty Malaunje woman to keep me distracted while one of his men searched my chamber.’ The tithe-master’s eyes twinkled and he patted his leather folder. ‘Never leaves my side.’

  Harosel appeared at the window of the stationary carriage. ‘A word?’

  Graelen excused himself.

  ‘You play your games.’ Kithkarne waved him off. ‘I’ll play mine.’

  Graelen was grinning as he climbed out of the carriage.

  Harosel drew him into an empty lane and pressed a folded scrap of paper into his hand. It looked like it had been torn from a broadsheet. On the top was Sorne’s signal. Graelen’s stomach dropped. ‘Where did you find this?’

  ‘Where do you think? In the wine cellar.’ Harosel met his eyes. Despite his dry manner, he was excited. ‘Only the three of us knew about the message drop.’

  ‘Unless he told someone.’ Graelen looked down, almost unwilling to open it. More than three years gone, two years dead... ‘Why did you even check the cellar?’

  ‘I always check when I’m in the port.’

  Graelen shook his head and opened the message. ‘This is his handwriting.’

  ‘And it bears yesterday’s date.’

  ‘You read it?’

  ‘In case it was a forgery. He’ll be waiting there tonight.’

  Graelen looked up. ‘Almost dusk.’

  ‘Do you want me to come along?’

  ‘No. I can’t believe... Everyone thinks him dead.’

  ‘It’s the best way to avoid assassination.’

  Graelen laughed. ‘What did you learn last night?’

  ‘Nothing. My contacts have moved on, or weren’t in their old haunts. I’ll go back tonight and see if I can strike up a friendship with more of the king’s palace guards.’

  Graelen hesitated. ‘Be careful. Dragomyr tells me two of his people were followed and beaten on the street.’

  Harosel stiffened. ‘I’ve been slipping into Mieren taverns and whorehouses since before you were born.’

  ‘Right. I’m off to the wine cellar. See you tomorrow. By then, we’ll both have something interesting to report.’

  SORNE HAD SPENT the day wandering the port. Now he was tired and hungry, but looking forward to seeing Valendia. The news that Hiruna was dead had come as a blow. It made Valendia all the more precious to him. He’d timed his arrival with the evening prayer bells, and now he made his way to Zabier’s chambers.

  The assistant was ready. Utzen glanced to the connecting door. ‘He’s waiting.’

  Sorne went through, found the little door open and climbed the steep, narrow stair. His heart raced in anticipation.

  Even before he stepped into the apartment, he knew something was wrong. There was nothing, not a stick of furniture.

  Zabier turned to Sorne, who brushed past him and going from room to room. All empty.

  ‘Where is she?’ he demanded. ‘What have you done with her?’

  Zabier gave him a sympathetic look.

  ‘No...’ He took a step back, his shoulders hitting the door frame. ‘She can’t be–’

  ‘More than a year ago now.’ Zabier’s voice caught.

  ‘How?’

  ‘It was just after her fourteenth birthday. She complained of stomach pains. I offered to send for a healer, but she didn’t want me to get in trouble for sheltering her...’

  A moan escaped Sorne.

  ‘Here, sit down.’ Zabier led him out onto the terrace. They sat on the broad edge of the raised garden bed.

  Sorne remembered Hiruna tending the vegetables and flowers, and how Valendia had played her music for him. ‘I hope you–’

  ‘I did. I overrode her wishes and brought in a healer. She went down very rapidly. He said there was nothing anyone could have done. I know it’s a shock. I’ll give you time.’

  And Zabier went downstairs to his chambers.


  Sorne stared at the screened terrace. This had been the extent of her world... it wasn’t fair. Valendia had hardly lived at all.

  He was so angry...

  Sorne turned and pounded his fists into the empty flower bed. His hands sank deep into the moist, soft soil.

  WHEN SORNE CAME down, Zabier was ready with an explanation for the whereabouts of his chest. He was going to say it had all been disposed of. But Sorne appeared too stunned to think.

  Why did he have to come back? Zabier had grown used to the idea that he was dead, and now...

  ‘What will you do?’ Zabier asked.

  Sorne shook his head and wandered away.

  As Zabier watched him go, Utzen joined him at the door.

  ‘Now?’ his assistant asked.

  ‘Yes. Now.’ Zabier hated being forced to do this, but he had to protect Valendia.

  The little man hurried off to alert the thugs who’d been hired to kill Sorne, weigh his body with stones and drop it in the bay, where it would sink without a trace. No one would know he’d come back from the dead, however briefly.

  SORNE WALKED WITHOUT seeing. He had tried to hold onto hope for Hiruna, but her death had not surprised him. Valendia’s death, however...

  He heard shouts behind him, ugly jeers that turned the word Wyrd into a curse. Stepping into the shadows of a doorway, he saw a dozen palace guards drag an unfortunate Wyrd from a whorehouse opposite. The guards were followed by about two dozen True-men and -women, all eager to witness the Wyrd’s humiliation.

  ‘What’s going on?’ smeone called from a first floor window above Sorne.

  ‘The king’s guard caught a Wyrd spy passing himself off as a True-man. He was asking questions about the prince!’

  Sorne flinched, for he had passed himself off as a True-man many times. Aware that he was risking his life, he followed the crowd. They were all so intent on the fate of the captive, no one paid him any attention.

  Once Sorne had commanded men; now, he watched impotently as a shop sign was chosen, and a rope and a chair were found. Helpless to save the captive, he curled his hands into fists and felt the damp, gritty soil of Valendia’s empty garden grind into his palms.

  Damp?

  There hadn’t been rain for ages. The only way the soil could be damp was if someone had watered it recently.

  He lifted his hands to his face and smelled fresh, fecund earth. This was not the dried, dead soil of an abandoned garden.

  Zabier had had a day’s warning. Enough time to take Valendia away, empty the apartment and strip the garden beds.

  Zabier must have hidden her.

  Hope filled him.

  He looked up across the heads of the crowd to the badly beaten Wyrd. Several guards restrained him, while someone made a noose.

  Was that...? Sorne stepped into the light as he recognised Harosel. His hand went to the sword hilt he no longer wore.

  Harosel saw Sorne across the heads of the jeering crowd, and gave the slightest shake of his head.

  The instinct to go to Harosel’s aid was so strong Sorne found he’d taken several steps before he knew it. Again, Harosel shook his head and jerked his chin as if to say, get out of here.

  Sorne didn’t want to leave him.

  The king’s guards threw the rope over the shop sign, looped the noose around his neck and hoisted him onto the chair. Before it was knocked out from under him, Harosel yelled Graelen’s name in what appeared to be defiance.

  But it was a message for Sorne.

  Graelen was here in the city. Maybe even in the wine cellar right now, just a couple of blocks away.

  Sorne edged away as the crowd cheered Harosel’s death throes. Backing off fast, he rounded the corner, then ran. He’d reached the end of the block when two men came out of an alley ahead of him.

  He slowed to a walk, and veered to the other side of the street. As he passed a dark lane, arms reached out, caught him and pulled him off his feet.

  He dropped and twisted, breaking their hold. Three men confronted him, one coming at him with a knife. Sorne side-stepped, grabbed his arm and pulled him off balance, before sending him head first into the nearest wall. The knife went flying.

  As Sorne turned, a fist slammed into his stomach, right over his unhealed wound. He staggered, almost blacking out with the pain. One of his attackers tackled him, driving him into the wall. His head hit the boards and he fell to his knees, curling into a ball. His hand closed on a stone.

  He panted through the pain. One of his attackers came at him. Waiting until the last moment, he slammed the rock into the thug’s face. Heard the crunch of breaking bone.

  It was a struggle to come to his feet. Everything hurt, everything was too much effort.

  The last attacker lunged. Sorne saw the flash of a blade and only just managed to avoid it. They grappled. Somehow, he forced the knife up into the attacker’s ribs. The man fell.

  Sorne swayed. His vision came and went. Blinking blood from his eye, he saw three unmoving bodies. He had to get out of here.

  After gathering his belongings, he stumbled into the alley mouth and pulled his hood over his head.

  He needed to reach the wine cellar, but didn’t know if he could walk that far. He could hardly straighten up. Looking vulnerable in this part of town would get him killed.

  The next corner seemed so far away and, when he got there, he spotted a dozen True-men coming towards him. They were shouting and boasting about the Wyrd they’d just seen strung up.

  He’d never make it to the wine cellar.

  Wasn’t there a Wyrd warehouse near here?

  Turning back, he found the right street and saw the sisterhood symbol over the warehouse door. Lit by a lantern, the door beckoned like a beacon.

  But it was halfway down the block.

  Meanwhile, the cold fire in his stomach was all but consuming him. Sorne staggered like a drunk. His sight came and went.

  True-men passed him on the other side of the street. He half expected them to come after him, but they put their heads down and left him to stumble on.

  Blinking, he saw the warehouse door in front of him and thumped on the wood. ‘Let me in.’ Remembered to switch to T’En. ‘Let me in.’

  A slot slid across. He turned the good side of his face towards it.

  As the door opened, he threw himself inside. He felt hands dragging him in, and heard the door swing shut behind him. He fell to his knees, toppling forward. The polished wood was cold on his cheek. He just wanted the pain to stop.

  ‘What’s going on?’ a woman demanded. ‘Who is he?’

  He was rolled over. It felt like his belly had been torn apart. He heard a piteous moan and realised it was him.

  Someone made clucking noises of sympathy. ‘He’s been badly beaten. Do you recognise him? Check his travelling kit.’

  ‘That’s our sisterhood symbol. He must be one of ours.’

  Sorne wondered if he should tell them he wasn’t from their sisterhood, but the voices faded.

  GRAELEN WOKE AS a cart trundled by on the street outside. He was stiff from sleeping on the wine cellar floor. Sorne had not shown up. Had he been delayed, or changed his mind? Or was it something more serious?

  After removing all sign of his presence, he added a line to the message, saying he would be back tonight, and then went up the steps. It was a little after dawn and mist came up from the bay, growing thicker as he cut across the warehouse district, aiming for the road down to the Wyrd warehouses.

  He glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye, and a sick feeling settled in his stomach, making his gift rise. He turned to look up the rise towards the east, where a body hung from a shop sign, silhouetted against the rising sun.

  When he got closer, he could make out the beaten, swollen features. He staggered. ‘Harosel.’

  He had to lean against a shop front to steady himself. He’d sent Harosel out to spy amongst True-men; he’d known it was dangerous. His gift surged, but it was too late to help.
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br />   ‘Thanks be, you’re alive!’ Kithkarne startled him.

  He turned to find the tithe-master with several Malaunje. The half-bloods hung back, giving him time to get his gift under control.

  ‘When you weren’t in your bed, we feared the worst.’

  ‘I had a meeting.’ He could hardly speak.

  ‘So you weren’t with him when...?’

  ‘Do you think I would have let this happen?’

  ‘Do you think you could have stopped them? Ah, lad.’ Kithkarne put a hand on Graelen’s shoulder. ‘You sent him out, but he knew the risks.’

  It was true, but it did not help. Contempt for Harosel’s killers coursed through him. ‘Strung up like a common criminal.’

  Kithkarne gestured to the body. ‘Cut him down.’

  ‘Gently.’ Graelen caught Harosel’s cold, damp legs to support him as they sawed through the rope. ‘I’ll carry him.’

  ‘We should make arrangements to get everyone who isn’t a warrior back to the city,’ Kithkarne said.

  But Graelen wasn’t listening. Was Sorne hanging from a shop sign somewhere? Was that why he’d failed to return?

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  AS ALL-MOTHER, IMOSHEN received many messages from the sisterhood’s estates, but this one from their warehouse in Port Mirror-on-Sea was unusual.

  ‘They say a Malaunje staggered through their door, beaten and gravely ill,’ she told Egrayne. ‘He could be one of ours, but none of them know him and he can’t answer their questions. They say he has a silver torc of foreign origin, and a ball of glass that glows when they touch it. They also say he has a wound that won’t respond to their herbalist and they don’t think he’ll recover without help from Healer Reoden. I think I should bring him to the city and ask Ree to heal him.’

  ‘Every favour you ask of her on behalf of our sisterhood has to be repaid. She would not be a good all-mother if she didn’t hold you to this. Let me see.’ Egrayne held out her hand. Imoshen passed over the message.

  They sat on the roof garden, enjoying the sun, while Imoshen’s infant daughter slept. The idea of holding the life or death of this unknown Malaunje in her hands made Imoshen uncomfortable.