Treason Keep dct-2

by Jennifer Fallon

  “Captain.”

  Mistress Heaner glided toward him with a smile. Her gown was simple, black and plainly cut, although the material was expensive and the emerald necklace that circled her wrinkled throat was worth more than he could earn in a lifetime as an officer.

  “Mistress,” Loclon replied, with a low bow. She insisted on courtesy. One could do whatever they wished to the young men and women she employed, but the slightest hint of bad manners would see one banned for life.

  “We’ve not had the pleasure of your company for some time, sir.”

  “I’ve been away.”

  “Then you must be looking for some... special... entertainment?” she suggested, with an elegantly raised brow. “I’ve several new girls that might interest you. Even a young man or two that might tempt a jaded palate.”

  “I’ve no interest in your fancy boys, Mistress. I want a woman. A redhead.”

  “Not an easy request, Captain.” Mistress Heaner appeared to think for a moment, as if she did not know the physical characteristics of every soul in her employ. “Red is an unusual colour. Is there anything else that might tempt you?”

  “No. She must be a redhead. And tall. Preferably slim.”

  “Such specific requirements can be expensive, Captain.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty rivets.”

  Loclon almost baulked at that point. Fifty rivets would leave him almost penniless until his next pay. It would mean eating in the barracks and avoiding his landlady.

  “Fifty rivets, then.”

  Mistress Heaner watched carefully as he counted out the coins into her arthritic hand.

  “You may use the Blue Room,” she said, as her claw-like fingers closed over the money. “I will send Peny to you.”

  Loclon nodded and pushed his way past a flimsy curtain hanging over a couch, where a middle-aged man was fondling the breast of a girl young enough to be his granddaughter. He stepped into the hall and walked the short distance to the Blue Room, named for the colour of its door. The Red Room beside it was reserved for those whose tastes ran to multiple partners and boasted a bed large enough for six. The Green Room further down the hall, housed a bath the size of a large pool. The Yellow Room at the end was the domain of those who got pleasure from their own pain, and was better equipped than the cell where the Defenders carried out their more “persuasive” interrogations. The Blue Room was reserved for less exotic pleasures, and Loclon was not surprised to find it unchanged since his last visit.

  The room was lavishly furnished, with a carved four-poster, whose woodwork glowed softly in the lamplight. White sheets peeked out from under the blue quilt on the bed, and a pitcher of chilled wine with two glasses waited on the side table. Satisfied with the room, Loclon turned as the door opened and a woman stepped through. She was older than he would have liked, thirty-five perhaps – or maybe the life she led had aged her faster than normal. Her hair was carrot-red, obviously died, and her body was too full under the thin shift she wore. Disappointed, Loclon ignored her welcoming smile and turned to the wine pitcher. He poured himself a good measure and swallowed it in a gulp.

  “My name is Peny,” she said.

  Loclon turned to her, his eyes cold. “No. Tonight your name is R’shiel.”

  The woman shrugged. “If you wish.”

  “Come here.”

  She complied willingly enough, and began to unlace her shift as she approached.

  “No. Leave it.”

  “What would you like me to do, then?” she asked.

  “Beg for mercy,” he replied and then he hit her. She cried out, but nobody would come to her rescue. Fifty rivets bought silence along with Mistress Heaner’s whores. He hit her again, in the face this time, throwing her back against the carved bedpost. She cracked her head and slumped on the expensive blue quilt, too stunned to protect herself from his blows.

  “Beg for mercy, R’shiel!”

  If she replied he didn’t notice. His rage consumed him as he took out his frustration on the hapless court’esa. The desire to beat her into submission left no room for any other thought.

  Chapter 6

  Damin Wolfblade was drunk. He knew he was drunk because the walls of the tent were starting to spin, and he could no longer feel his toes. Tarja Tenragan was even drunker. He had been at this longer, and was drinking to drown his sorrows. Damin, on the other hand, was simply drinking to be sociable.

  “A toast,” he declared, as Tarja uncorked another bottle. The floor of the tent was littered with empty flagons – an impressive testament to the amount of alcohol they had consumed. “To... to your horse. What’s his name?”

  “Her name is Shadow,” Tarja corrected. He wasn’t even slurring his words. Damin was impressed. The man must have a stomach lined with lead.

  “To Shadow, then,” Damin declared, raising his cup. “May she carry you safely into battle.”

  “I’d be happier if she carried me safely out of it,” Tarja remarked, taking a long swig from the newly uncorked flagon.

  Damin laughed and downed the contents of his cup in a swallow. He held out his cup and Tarja refilled it with a surprisingly steady hand.

  “I’ll drink to that, too! May she see you safely home again.”

  “You’ll drink to anything. I’m surprised you haven’t started toasting the gods.”

  “The night is young, my friend,” Damin laughed, relieved to see that Tarja appeared to be coming out of the deep melancholy that had possessed him all day. The Medalonian captain had good days and bad days. Today had been particularly bad. “And when we run out of gods, we can always start on my brothers and sisters.”

  “Thanks, but I’d rather we stuck to the gods,” Tarja said, taking another mouthful. “You’ve enough of them to keep us going for days.”

  “True, true,” Damin agreed, silently cursing himself for bringing up the topic of brothers and sisters. Tarja’s grief was centred on the woman he once believed was his sister. Reminding him of that was the last thing Damin wanted at this point. “To the gods, then!”

  He downed his cup and glanced at Tarja in concern. The man had not touched the flagon, but was staring at him thoughtfully.

  “What?”

  “Your gods. They’d know if she’s still alive, wouldn’t they?”

  Damin shrugged uncomfortably. “I suppose.”

  “How do we ask them?” Tarja demanded.

  He shook his head. “It’s not so simple, my friend. The gods do not speak directly to the likes of you and me. Perhaps, if Brak were here...”

  “Well, he’s not here!”

  Brak had vanished only days after the Hythrun had ridden into Testra, some five months ago. Nobody had seen or heard of him since.

  “Hey, isn’t Dace a god? He spoke to us. Hell, he travelled with us. Can’t we contact him?”

  “If you have a reliable way of contacting the gods, then enlighten me, Tarja. Dacendaran appears when the mood takes him, as does any other god. I doubt if putting the mind of a non-believer at ease about whether the demon child lives or dies is enough to warrant even the fleeting attention of the God of Thieves.” He placed his cup on the small table next to the guttering candle. “If R’shiel is still alive, she’ll be back some day. If not, do your grieving and be done with it. Either way, you can’t spend the rest of your life moping about the girl.”

  “When I need sanctimonious advice from you, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, mind your own damned business.”

  “It is my business,” Damin replied, “when your misery affects the decisions you make. Particularly when it concerns the safety of my Raiders.”

  “Your Raiders?” Damin could see the anger, the pain in the other man’s eyes. “Your damned Raiders are nothing but a bunch of cutthroat mercenaries. And I’ve done nothing to endanger anybody.”

  “That’s for certain,” Damin retorted, deliberately goading him. “You’ve done nothing at all but sit here on the border and lament your great and tragic
loss. Well, I have news for you, Captain. There’s a Karien army heading this way and they don’t give a pinch of pig-shit about your tender sensibilities. Dead or alive, R’shiel is gone, and you can’t afford to sit here wallowing in self-pity.”

  The punch came out of nowhere as Tarja threw himself across the table, sending Damin backward off his stool. He rolled to the side as Tarja lunged for him, tangling himself in the tent as their brawl spilled outside. The candle fell from the overturned table and landed in a puddle of spilled wine, where it quickly caught and began lapping at the canvas tent walls. By the time they staggered to their feet in the clearing, the blazing tent provided a ruddy backdrop to their fight.

  They were both drunk, so the blows they traded lacked the strength or accuracy of sobriety, but Damin was still surprised at the force behind Tarja’s fist. Damin had time to wonder if it was guilt, even more than grief, which was eating up Tarja, before the Medalonian charged him with a wordless cry.

  By now their altercation had drawn the attention of the other men occupying the surrounding tents, who quickly formed a cheering circle of red-coated Defenders, brown-shirted rebels, and leather-clad Hythrun Raiders, cheering on their officers as they brawled liked a couple of drunken sailors.

  Damin didn’t know who was getting the better of the fight. Tarja was a professional soldier, but he was operating on instinct as much as anything. Damin knew his own battle-trained reflexes were the only thing saving him from serious injury. His mind was too wine-muddled to think anything through, other than trading hit and miss blows with his equally inebriated adversary. He felt his bottom lip split as Tarja’s fist connected with his face, snapping his head back, but he blocked the next blow with his left arm and slammed his fist into Tarja’s gut. The other man grunted in pain, but kept his feet and came at him again, a feral grin on his face that looked all the more evil for being blood-streaked and illuminated by the blazing firelight from the tent. He ducked another blow and landed a glancing hit on Tarja’s jaw, as the breathtaking shock of icy water brought the conflict to an abrupt halt.

  Damin staggered backwards, shaking the water from his drenched fair hair, as Tarja did the same, looking about for the source of the interruption. Mahina Cortanen stood not two paces from them, empty bucket in hand, her expression thunderous. Lord Jenga stood just behind her, and a pace or so behind Jenga stood the suddenly quiet spectators, their faces ruddy in the flickering light of the burning tent.

  “Is this something you gentlemen need to discuss privately?” she asked, with a voice that was colder than the water she had thrown on them.

  Damin glanced at Tarja, whose grin was now rather more sheepish than feral. Both of his eyes were beginning to blacken, and blood streamed from his nose and the corner of his mouth. His normally immaculate uniform was torn and muddied. Damin had no doubt that he looked just as bad.

  “We were discussing... the differences in Medalonian and Hythrun... hand-to-hand combat, my Lady,” Damin explained, as he gasped for air, with a quick grin in Tarja’s direction. “We had just moved... from a theoretical discussion to a more... practical demonstration of the techniques involved. A... most useful exercise, I must say.” With the back of his tender hand, he wiped the blood from his mouth, and smiled ingenuously at Mahina. The spectators, Defender, rebel and Hythrun alike, nodded their agreement.

  Mahina glared at him then turned on Tarja. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

  Tarja hesitated for a moment, his chest heaving, before he straightened up and smiled through his split lip at the former First Sister. “I’d say... both techniques were useful, given... the right circumstances, however —”

  “Oh, spare me!” Mahina cried. “Perhaps now that you’ve finished your discussion, you might attend me and the Lord Defender in the Keep? A matter of some urgency has arisen that requires your attention, gentlemen. If you can find the time, of course.”

  Damin rubbed his tender jaw and glanced at Tarja, who seemed the better for their fight, despite his physical condition. Damin made a mental note to make certain that the next time Tarja felt the need to hit something, he arranged for somebody else to be the target.

  “I believe we can accommodate you, my Lady,” Damin said, as if accepting a dinner invitation. “Shall we, Captain?”

  “Certainly.” He looked around at the gathered spectators, suddenly noticing them for the first time. “Did you men want something to do?”

  Several Defenders had taken it upon themselves to douse the blazing tent. The rest of the Defenders and rebels faded into the darkness with impressive speed. One look in the direction of his Raiders was enough to have the same effect on them. Looking idle was a thing to be avoided at all costs; every soldier in the camp knew that. Lord Jenga stood behind Mahina, a rare smile on his contour-map face as he watched the troops vanish back into their tents. Mahina glanced over her shoulder at him. He quickly wiped the smile off his face.

  “Something amuses you, my Lord?”

  “Youthful high spirits always amuse me, my Lady,” he replied evenly.

  “Is that what you call it? I can think of a better description.” She turned back to the two combatants with a frown. “Clean yourselves up, then meet me in the Keep.” She turned on her heel, still clutching the wooden bucket, and stormed off into the darkness.

  “Has something happened?” Damin asked the Lord Defender. Mahina was fairly even tempered as a rule. Anger seemed strange in a woman who looked like somebody’s grandmother.

  “We have a visitor from the Citadel,” Jenga told them.

  “Who?” Tarja asked. The shock from Mahina’s bucket of water seemed to have sobered him. Damin wished he could recover so quickly.

  “Garet Warner.”

  Damin turned to him, trying to think of an intelligent question. It was quite depressing to be drunk under the table by a Medalonian. He had to give at least give the impression that he could think straight. “Is he on our side, this Garet Warner?”

  Tarja shrugged. “That remains to be seen.”

  Garet Warner proved to be a nondescript-looking man of average height, who wore the red jacket of a Defender and the rank insignia of a commandant. He had a balding head, a deceptively quiet voice and a piercing mind. The Warlord studied him by the torchlight of the hastily reconstructed great hall of Treason Keep. Damin was unsure where the name had come from. It certainly wasn’t officially named that, and one referred to the ruin as “Treason Keep” in the Lord Defender’s hearing at their peril. It seemed fitting, though. The Defenders were here to protect their nation from invasion, but they had broken any number of oaths to get here.

  The ruin was deserted when they arrived some months ago, and a much sturdier and strategically more useful keep, closer to the northern border, would soon replace it. In the interim, Treason Keep was the closest thing to a permanent structure on the open, grassy plains of northern Medalon.

  The commandant’s expression gave away nothing as Tarja and Damin entered the hall. Garet Warner stood in front of the huge fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back as they walked toward him. Mahina sat in a chair on his right; Jenga in another chair opposite the former First Sister.

  Tarja nodded warily to Garet when they reached the hearth. “Garet.”

  “Tarja,” Garet acknowledged. “You’ve a knack for keeping your head on your shoulders, I’ll grant you that.”

  Tarja smiled faintly, which made Damin rest a little easier. There was something about this visitor that marked him as dangerous, although Damin wasn’t thinking clearly enough to define the feeling exactly. He hoped this man was on their side. He would be a bad enemy.

  “I can’t help being hard to kill. Commandant Warner, this is the Warlord of Krakandar, Damin Wolfblade.”

  “Our new and somewhat unexpected ally. My Lord.”

  “Commandant,” Damin greeted him. “You come from the Citadel, I hear. Do you have news?”

  “Questions, more than news,” Garet replied, his glance ta
king in all of them. “The Quorum is understandably suspicious about the First Sister’s extended absence from the Citadel. The orders arriving at the Citadel, under her seal, seem rather at odds with her... previous decisions.”

  “The First Sister has had a change of heart in recent months,” Tarja said.

  “Is she still alive?”

  “Of course, she’s alive,” Jenga declared. “Do you think I would be a party to murder?”

  “I’m not here to give my opinion, my Lord,” Garet told him with a shrug. “I am here to investigate the issues raised by the Quorum. And there is plenty of reason to be suspicious. You left the Citadel with an army to capture and execute an escaped convict. Six months later, here you are, sitting on the northern border with that same escaped convict pardoned and a member of your staff, a foreign warlord, as your ally, preparing to fight a nation we very recently considered our friend. All with the approval of the First Sister, who, it is widely acknowledged, was in complete disagreement with you on all of those matters. The remarkable thing about all this is that they haven’t sent someone to investigate sooner.”

  “There’s a perfectly logical explanation,” Damin offered helpfully.

  “And I look forward to hearing it,” Garet told him. “It will be fascinating, I’m sure. But first, I must insist on seeing Sister Joyhinia.”

  “You doubt my word, Garet?” Jenga asked.

  “Not at all, my Lord. But I have my orders.”

  “Very well,” Jenga agreed, with some reluctance. “You shall see her. Perhaps once you have, things will make a little more sense.”

  “I hope so, my Lord.”

  “Sister Mahina? Would you be so kind as escort Commandant Warner to the First Sister’s quarters?”

  Mahina frowned. “I don’t like to disturb her this late at night.”

  “It cannot be avoided, I fear. I doubt the commandant wants to wait until morning.”