Mahkas rubbed at his arm even harder, only noticing what he was doing when it really began to hurt. He pushed up his right sleeve and examined the small lump with concern. It seemed to bother him more and more lately. It was such a tiny little thing, too. The physicians he’d consulted about it—at Bylinda’s insistence—all agreed that it was the legacy of some long-forgotten war wound. According to the healers, it was not uncommon for a shard of metal, too small to find or even notice when the wound was first inflicted, to work its way to the surface many years after the original injury. It would come out eventually, they assured him, of its own accord. Digging around for the shard before it was ready to exit the body would merely increase the likelihood of infection, with no guarantee they would find anything so small.
So he itched and scratched and suffered the irritation, because a small lump was vastly preferable—and much less painful—to having a gangrenous arm amputated.
Mahkas cursed the itching and fingered the long scar beside the lump to distract himself. He’d collected that one defending Riika the day she was kidnapped by the Fardohnyans just before they’d killed her. It ran almost the full length of his arm and had come close to ending his career as a soldier.
A stupid risk to have taken considering he was the one who’d arranged the kidnapping.
Mahkas pushed that thought away hurriedly. He had long ago convinced himself he was innocent of any involvement in Riika’s death. It had been Darilyn’s idea. Darilyn had forced him to take part. And Darilyn had paid for her treachery. Mahkas had told himself that so often now, he actually believed it was true.
He pulled his sleeve down and made himself concentrate on the problem of Leila and Damin. His sisters were long dead and nothing could be done to alter that. But he could alter Leila’s fate. He could ensure the daughter of Mahkas Damaran lived as a princess. Not for his daughter the fate of a penniless wife, trying to hold together the appearance of prosperity because she suffered a noble name with no fortune or land behind it.
It still irked Mahkas that, even after all this time, he had no independent wealth of his own. His fortune was Krakandar’s fortune; Damin’s fortune. Everything he earned and anything he spent came from his nephew’s coffers, not his own.
The ultimate irony, Mahkas thought. Any money I receive when Damin marries my daughter will be money I’ve made for him, watching over his lands, his inheritance.
But how was he going to make Leila understand this?
How was he going to make her do the right thing, not just for herself, but for her whole family?
Perhaps, Mahkas thought, Starros should talk to her, after all.
It was right of the young man to say that it might be inappropriate, but even Mahkas knew that Leila had been closer to Starros than any of the other children when they were growing up. He’d always stood up for her, even against Damin. Maybe Leila would listen to Starros. His opinion was objective. He wasn’t a member of the family. He had no vested interest in the decision. It mattered little to Starros who Leila married.
For a moment Mahkas stopped worrying about Leila long enough to wonder what Starros did for female companionship. While officially a fosterling, he’d been allowed access to the palace court’esa, but, strictly speaking, they were out of bounds now he was considered staff rather than family. No doubt the fosterling was entertaining himself with some of the younger household slaves. Maybe even the housemaids. With a warm and rare feeling of paternal generosity, Mahkas promised himself he would find Starros a suitable match when the time came. Someone who might be able to serve Leila as a handmaiden, perhaps. There might even be a girl in Bylinda’s entourage the fosterling already had his eye on. There were certainly one or two Mahkas had fondled surreptitiously, when he was certain his wife wasn’t looking.
Mahkas shook his head. He was getting distracted. The question wasn’t who Starros was sleeping with. The question was, could Starros finally make Leila see the error of her ways?
Mahkas had no doubt that Starros would do as he asked, if only because he must be anxious to make amends for his gross breach of protocol the day Damin arrived. And he must see the logic in the match; probably even welcome it. Fond as Starros was of both Leila and Damin, Mahkas could well imagine his delight at the prospect of Leila married to his good friend. And maybe, if Starros explains things to her, as her friend—as Damin’s friend, too—Leila will begin to understand.
Mahkas leaned back in his seat and smiled. Yes. It’s a good idea. Quite a brilliant idea, actually.
He glanced at the water clock on the mantel. It wasn’t that long since Starros had announced he was going to bed. He’d still be awake. Now that Mahkas had settled on doing this, he didn’t want to wait. Damin might be home any day. Starros had to talk to Leila as soon as possible. The sooner she understood, the sooner she would start to do as her father wished and the sooner Damin would come to realise that his cousin loved him. Once that happened, Damin would start to pressure his mother to make the arrangement formal, Mahkas reasoned.
Mahkas rose to his feet, picking up the candelabrum on the desk, and headed for the door.
It was chilly in the corridor leading to the staff quarters. As a free servant rather than a slave, Starros’s room was on the same level as the family suites, although in a different wing. Slightly larger than the average staff bedroom, and boasting a small dressing room as well as its own entrance to the slaveways, Starros had been well favoured when he took on his apprenticeship with Orleon, as his accommodation indicated.
A draught in the hall made the candle gutter and flare as Mahkas strode along the corridor.
When he finally reached Starros’s door he hesitated, smiling to himself as he heard the obvious sounds of passion coming from inside the room.
Well, the question about who Starros is sleeping with is about to be answered, Mahkas chuckled to himself, wondering if it was that new girl Bylinda had bought last year in Byamor when they’d gone to visit Charel Hawksword and Kalan’s twin brother, Narvell, to celebrate the young man’s twenty-first birthday.
Leena, that was her name. She was the daughter of two slaves from the Warlord of Elasapine’s own household and Charel had vouched for her personally. She was a buxom young thing, Mahkas recalled, of about eighteen or nineteen. And very attractive. So attractive that even Mahkas had cornered her once or twice, just to take a nibble out of what was, essentially, forbidden fruit. He’d never slept with her, though. He was too good a husband for that. Bylinda didn’t mind him sleeping with the palace court’esa—that’s what they were there for—but she took a very dim view of him spoiling her handmaids. It was a well-known fact that as soon as the lord of the house started sleeping with the handmaids, they got all uppity and full of their own importance and it was impossible to get a decent day’s work out of them after that.
The cries from Starros’s room grew louder, more intense, as his partner urged him on. Leena was certainly an enthusiastic and uninhibited lover, by the sound of it. Mahkas smiled as he turned the door handle, thinking that at the very least—in addition to embarrassing poor Starros—he’d finally get a good look at Leena naked, something he’d fantasised about on more than one occasion.
Mahkas hesitated for a moment longer and then threw open the door, half erect himself both from the voyeuristic delight of listening to their lovemaking and in anticipation of seeing Leena in all her voluptuous glory . . .
He blinked in the sudden and unexpected light as the door slammed back against the wall, blowing out a good half of the countless candles that seemed to cover every flat surface in the room.
A scream filled the room as Mahkas’s brain took a moment or two to realise what he was witnessing; to register that it wasn’t the voluptuous and dark-haired Leena who sat astride the bastard fosterling, her head thrown back, as she demanded more, harder, faster . . .
It was his own daughter.
He bellowed a wordless cry of anguished, horrified fury that echoed throughout the sleeping
palace.
Leila screamed again as he lunged at her, grabbing her by the arm, dragging her off the bed, off him . . .
“Guards!”
Mahkas wasn’t just angry. He was beyond rage. Beyond reason.
“Leila!” Starros cried, reaching for her desperately.
Mahkas put himself between them, twisting Leila’s arm with such ferocity that her screams were as much from the pain of his grasp as they were from their discovery. Instead of cowering in shame, Starros clambered over the bed, desperate to tear Leila from her father’s grasp, but the regent swung his elbow savagely up into the bastard fosterling’s face, throwing him across the rumpled bed and against the wall.
A red veil of rage danced before his eyes as Mahkas dragged Leila into the hall. By now, the guards on duty had responded to his cries. Naked as a whore, struggling like a wild animal, Leila begged to be let go. A dozen Raiders pounded along the hall with drawn swords in answer to Mahkas’s shout.
Leila lashed out at him with her foot, connecting with his shin, making Mahkas grunt with the pain and momentarily lose his grip. On her hands and knees, sobbing like a child, she tried to crawl away from him. Furiously, he reached down, grabbed a handful of her long blond hair and dragged her back to his side.
“Arrest him!” Mahkas bellowed, pointing to Starros, who was trying to push himself up against the wall. His face was broken and bloody, his expression more dazed than defiant. “He tried to rape my daughter!”
Starros barely had time to stand before his room was full of Raiders. Although he was unarmed, he tried to fight them off with no chance of succeeding. Mahkas, his hands still tangled in Leila’s long hair, began dragging her along the hall, naked, humiliated and terrified, kicking and screaming in protest.
Starros cried out to her again, but he had no hope of reaching Leila as the guards overwhelmed him and the bastard fosterling’s illicit love affair with Leila Damaran—along with his career as the chief assistant steward of Krakandar Palace—came crashing down in an abrupt and bitter end.
Chapter 62
The Lucky Harlot was a much more salubrious establishment than its name implied. As a slave, Elezaar would not normally have been permitted in the main taproom unless he was attending his mistress, but the owners knew he was Princess Marla’s personal slave and for her they were willing to bend the rules. Besides, there was plague in the city and any customer in good health was welcome.
Located in the better part of Greenharbour, the tavern boasted snowy white tablecloths, chairs upholstered in soft, pliable leather, a large cushioned seating area surrounding a low dining table overlooking a small paved courtyard and, most importantly, a number of discreet alcoves where one could discuss business in private.
His palms sweaty with anticipation, Elezaar limped along behind the silent slave who led him to the alcove where Bekan—and maybe Crysander—were waiting. When the slave indicated they had reached their destination he bowed and walked back to the taproom.
Taking a deep breath, the dwarf pushed aside the woven curtain. Waiting for him, seated on the cushions around the low table, were Venira’s doorman, Bekan, an old man Elezaar didn’t know and a slave he knew very well indeed.
“Tarkyn Lye,” he said, shaking his head. “I should have known you’d be mixed up in this somehow.”
The blind court’esa turned his head in the direction of Elezaar’s voice and smiled coldly. He wore a scarf over his eyes, to hide his scarred face, and a rich brocaded jacket over his well-fed belly. “Well, well . . . if it isn’t the Fool. And to think, Bekan and I were just laying odds on whether or not you’d actually show up.”
“Who were you backing?”
“Bekan was willing to risk his money on you. I thought you too much a coward to leave the safety of Marla Wolfblade’s skirts.” The blind court’esa spoke with obvious contempt. Then he laughed and turned his head in the direction of Bekan. “It just occurred to me why she’s kept him around all these years, Bek.”
“Why’s that?” Bekan asked.
“Well, look at the size of him. He’s just the right height, when you think about it. Marla probably keeps him hidden under her skirts for pleasure. Elezaar was always particularly good at kissing arse, as I recall.”
For a moment, Elezaar almost forgot himself. The insult to his princess was enough to make him want to hurl himself across the low lacquered table and grab Tarkyn Lye by the throat. He wouldn’t, of course. Even blind, Tarkyn was strong enough to brush him aside like a bug. And Bekan could break him in half, if he was so inclined.
So Elezaar simply swallowed hard and trusted no hint of his anger was betrayed by his voice. “At least I can see what I’m kissing. Which makes me wonder, Tarkyn? How do you know where to find Alija’s arse when she wants you to kiss it?” He laughed then, at his own foolishness. “Of course! Silly me!
I’ve heard blind men compensate for their disability. Your other senses must be much more acute. You can probably smell her slit from across the room!”
That struck a nerve. Tarkyn’s expression darkened but, like Elezaar, he apparently had no intention of letting his opponent know how much the remark insulted him. “I can smell the stink of your fear across the room,” Tarkyn replied. “That’s for certain.”
“I’m not afraid of you, Tarkyn Lye.”
“Then more fool you, Fool.”
Affecting a bored sigh, Elezaar shrugged. “Where’s this slave you’re claiming is my brother?”
“You mean you didn’t recognise him the moment you laid eyes on him,” Tarkyn asked, sounding quite surprised. “I’m appalled! So much for brotherly love.”
Elezaar’s gaze fixed on the slave seated on the cushions against the back wall. If Tarkyn was appalled, Elezaar was shocked beyond words. This creature was nothing like the slender, handsome young man Elezaar remembered. He was old, although his exact age could have been anywhere between forty-five and ninety. Dressed only in ragged canvas trousers, his skin was the texture of orange peel, tanned from a lifetime of overexposure to the sun, and it hung on his emaciated frame as if it belonged to a larger man. His hair was long, thin and lank, and it was impossible to tell what colour it might once have been.
“Crysander?”
The man looked up slowly when Elezaar spoke his name. There was no light of recognition in his eyes. Just a blank stupor. It was the kind of look a slave wore when he’d had his spirit broken. It was the look of a man beaten down so many times he’d lost the will to get up again.
“That’s not my brother.”
“Be very certain about that, Fool,” Tarkyn warned. “If you deny him, he’ll die. As you can see, he’s hardly worth feeding now. Unless he has some other, more intrinsic value . . .” The blind man turned his head in the direction of Bekan. “Stand him up. Make sure the dwarf gets a good look at him.
I’d hate for him to have second thoughts later. After we’ve killed him.”
Bekan pulled the slave to his feet. The man didn’t resist. He was chained hand and foot, his body covered in old scars that looked to be the work of a lash or a thin cane. Elezaar was filled with pity at the sight of him, but nothing else. There was nothing in this shell of a man that reminded him of his brother.
But as he swayed on his feet, Elezaar noticed a faint white scar on the man’s belly. It ran lengthwise from the base of his ribcage to just above his navel. Elezaar’s mind suddenly filled with those horrifying images from his nightmare: the captain’s blade plunging into Crys without warning . . . the man—Alija’s man—driving his dagger up under Crys’s rib cage and into his heart, with businesslike efficiency . . . Crys falling . . . the creak of leather as the captain bends over to check Crys is dead . . .
He shook his head to push the memories away and stared at the slave. It couldn’t be Crysander.
Not this broken husk.
But that scar . . .
“Come on, Fool!” Tarkyn urged with an edge of impatience. “It can’t be that difficult, surely, to recogn
ise your own brother?”
Elezaar ignored the blind court’esa. “Do you know who I am?” he asked the slave.
The old man nodded. “Elezaar the Fool.”
That didn’t prove anything. Anybody could have told him that. He could have worked it out just from the discussion they’d been having here in this room. Elezaar needed to ask something nobody but he and Crysander would know. Something that only two brothers might have shared. If he was an impostor—some helpless dupe roped into pretending he was Crysander because of a convenient scar—
he would have no memories of their childhood together. Tarkyn Lye, or Alija, or whoever was behind this transparent plot to subvert him, couldn’t possibly know everything the brothers had shared as children. They might have been able to find out what happened once they’d both been taken to be trained as court’esa, and may have even coached the slave to respond accordingly. But the years before then, the ten precious years of relative happiness the brothers shared as slave children in the household of a minor Pentamor nobleman were beyond their reach. If Crysander had hoarded those memories as Elezaar had, then he would know the answer to Elezaar’s question.
“We had a game, my brother and I, when we were children. Something that meant a great deal to me. Do you know what it was?”
Elezaar waited anxiously for the slave to reply, his drawn-out silence convincing the dwarf he had no memories of a shared past the longer it went on.
“Horsey,” the slave said softly, as Elezaar was on the verge of turning to leave. His voice was gravelly and rough, as if he’d spent the last twenty-five years screaming at the top of his lungs and finally worn out his throat. “Your legs were too short and you were never going to be able to ride a real horse.
You wanted to know what it felt like . . .”
The voice faded away, as if that was all he could recall, and the slave hung his head, as if he expected punishment for speaking out of turn. Elezaar stood frozen in shock. And indecision. All his fears about what he should do next came crashing down on top of him.
Warrior Page 52
