The Death Dealer - The Complete Series

by Katie Roman

  Soup? Grace thought. Who eats soup when it is this hot outside? She stood, but continued to mutter anxiously to herself. Aside from being left alone by other prisoners, her feigned madness ensured her quick meal service. None of the other inmates dared to bother the crazy girl, even to stop her from “contaminating” their food.

  Marcus stepped in behind Grace as she positioned herself before the soup cart. She felt safe with him at her back. The woman slopped some soup into a clay bowl and shoved it into Grace’s hands. She stepped over toward the guard, who quickly produced a rock hard roll and dropped it into Grace’s soup.

  “Thank you, Your most gracious Highness,” she said and curtsied low.

  The guard shook his head and took a step away from her. “Move along, girly,” he instructed. He cleared his throat and pointed to Marcus. “Get your friend out of here.”

  Grace noted the guard gave Marcus extra bread to hurry Grace along. The two returned to Grace’s designated corner.

  Grace was pleased to find the soup lukewarm and quite hearty. Cabbage, minced meat (though she dared not ask what kind), lentils, and carrots all floated around in the brownish broth. It was a marked improvement from the watery, greenish-brown mess she had been forced to eat on the ride to Nareroc. She dipped her bread in the broth to soften it and ate as quickly as she could.

  Marcus dipped both pieces of his own bread and broke the second in half for her. “How long will they buy into the belief that you’re mad?” he asked into his bowl, his eyes darting around the cell.

  Grace followed his eyes. If she guessed correctly, he noted the few skeptical eyes that watched them from the food line. Muttering and shaking wouldn’t be a good defense forever, especially if it meant more food for her and less for the rest.

  “You can’t keep it up forever,” he continued.

  “I know, but I have to at least keep it up until we find a way to get back to Glenbard.”

  “If we find a way back.”

  Grace laughed, loudly enough so that those near them scooted away. She flashed them a smile, showing all her teeth. Her eyes were wide and looked distant as she took in everyone around them. But when she turned back to Marcus her smile was genuine, not a half-crazed smirk she used to scare others off.

  “We will find a way, Marcus. Do not worry.”

  Three

  Overhead, the sun beat down unmercifully on the convicts. There was no cloud or tree to offer shade as they trudged along the dirt road from the Nareroc prison. Grace was chained to a string of twenty of her fellow inmates, and Marcus was two bodies away from her. She could see the back of his tunic, drenched in sweat, and knew hers was the same. She felt it sticking to her back and each step forward brought more sweat. When two men fell from exhaustion, the guards unchained them and had the more fit inmates carry them.

  There was a dense jungle to the left of the road. Grace thought if she could just break away she’d be safe within the trees, but the run was a long one in her current condition. Even if she somehow found a way to break from the chain, she didn’t have enough water or food in her system to make it far before dropping from exhaustion herself.

  To the right was the ocean. The crystal waters lapped up against the beach and Grace found herself longing for a drink. Even salt water had some appeal just then. She licked her lips and watched the small waves splash against the sand. Refreshing as running for the water would be, she’d no doubt burn her feet on the sand.

  “Eyes front, girl,” a gap-toothed man with a whip said as he walked up next to her. “There’s nothing for you to the left or right. Your future is ahead.”

  Grace fixed her eyes ahead to see a large building, ugly and gray against the vibrant colors of the jungle. The road leading to it rose upwards on a steady path, and she frowned as the bulky stone mass stood starkly against the sapphire sky. It looked like Redbank prison back in Glenbard, though it was incomplete. The top floor remained unfinished, and from where she was, she saw little figures moving about.

  “Your new home,” the guard with the whip said. He used his rolled up whip to point forward. “The crown’s new prison for traitors. Can’t let Redbank get overrun with the likes of you. Folk like you don’t deserve to stand on Cesernan soil.”

  Grace cut her eyes to the side to look at the guard, but he stared straight ahead, his chin held high, as though he were proud of imprisoning so many, of whipping them when they stumbled. Grace felt dirty to even be listening to such a man and she dared a quick look at the jungle. If she could just run there...

  “I said, eyes ahead!”

  “We’re not all traitors to the crown,” Grace pointed out. “That large woman – Big Sal, with the muscled arms? – she’s just a troublemaker. And Wilbur, the pig-faced lad of fifteen, he only stole from market stalls; hardly a nefarious plotter against His Majesty. Or is each loaf of bread part of the kingdom’s treasury, now?”

  “Watch your tongue, girl, or I’ll rip it out and feed it to the jungle beasts. And them folk that haven’t committed treason,” he spat the word at Grace, spittle landing on her cheek, “they’ll work out their sentences by helping to finish the prison. Once it’s completed, you’ll be locked away and they’ll be moved on to their next project until their debt is paid. Now,” he said, straightening himself up and puffing out his chest. “No more questions.”

  Grace rolled her eyes and kept on marching. Ahead by five people, a woman stumbled and fell. The guard abandoned his post next to Grace, whip at the ready, to see what was going on. The line was called to a halt while they unchained the fallen woman.

  “You’ll get the lash if you don’t keep quiet,” the woman behind Grace growled.

  Grace hazarded a look behind her. The woman was a willowy figure with black stubble growing on her shaved head, in her early thirties by the look of her. She had a beak nose and a long neck. Her skin, though red from the sun, looked soft. Grace looked at her hands, unblemished from hard work. A lady, or perhaps a lady’s maid, as Grace didn’t know anyone whose hands weren’t rough unless they were well-bred.

  “Traitor?” Grace asked.

  The woman’s brown eyes sparkled with sudden mischief. “I am exactly where I need to be. Can you say the same, Grace Hilren?”

  “How do you know me?”

  The woman raised one of her chained hands to her face, tapping her nose gently. “Your father’s nose,” she answered cheekily.

  “Who are you?”

  “You two!” the whip guard bellowed from further up the line. “Shut your fat gobs!”

  Grace turned straight ahead again and felt the woman shift back into position behind her. There were no more words passed between them as they continued their solemn march.

  ~*~*~

  “You women will be here in the eastern cells, and your male counterparts are locked away in the western ones,” a female guard, a woman with a stubborn chin and blonde hair cropped to her ears, instructed her charges. She wore a light gray tunic over black trousers, and like everyone else, she sweated right through them. “You’ll take breakfast and dinner in a separate mess hall from them, but the noonday meal will be at your work stations.”

  Grace looked around. All around the outside of the prison was the sea and lush greenery. The traitors’ prison was set atop a cliff face that looked down on the rest of the island, and Grace liked the view. It was a shame they were shuffled inside so quickly upon arrival.

  “I am called Smythe,” the woman continued. “I am in charge around here, and if any of you take issue with that, you may talk to my baton.” She slapped a heavy wooden baton into her hand to emphasize her point. “You’ll be taking your noon meal inside today, and then you’ll be taken to the stations you’ll be assigned at from here on. Fall in.”

  As in the other prison, a cart with food was rolled into the largest cell. Unlike the other prison, tables and benches were provided for the prisoners to sit. It was also cleaner since no one had occupied the area yet. The stench of urine and vomit was replac
ed with cold, hard stone.

  Grace dropped her act of madness upon finding herself no longer lodged with men. She stepped into line to get whatever the cook served up and felt a familiar shape move in behind her.

  “I see the heat has caused your insanity to be cured,” the woman said.

  “The gods’ own miracle,” Grace said without turning.

  Other women talked around them, but Smythe didn’t seem to mind as long as no one raised their voice and the line kept moving. Her fellow guards stood by the room’s doors, their own batons at the ready.

  “I saw your father in a tournament many years ago, but I only met him once. He wasn’t much for sass, as I recall,” the woman continued.

  “Given my current circumstances, I think he’d forgive a bit of sass.”

  The woman laughed. “And how does Lord Daniel’s daughter find herself in such circumstances?”

  Grace stepped to the front of the line. She ignored the woman and took her bowl of rice and the same hard bread she’d eaten at the other prison, then she left the line and headed for an empty table. To her chagrin, the woman followed her.

  “And who inquires about me?”

  “My name is Charlotte.”

  Grace had never been one for family lines and history. Muscle memory and fighting techniques stuck to her like flies in honey, but tell her about a member of the court and her mind went all to mush.

  “Lady Charlotte?” she ventured.

  “Hardly. You would know my mistress, though – the Duchess of Actis?”

  “Katherine? You’re Katherine’s maid?” Before Grace’s arrest, the duchess told her that her maid was removed from her service. The king didn’t trust the duchess after her husband was found guilty of treason. “I didn’t realize you were arrested; I thought you were just removed from her service.” Grace shoveled some rice into her mouth.

  “I made contact with Katherine after she fled your home, and the king did not take the issue lightly. Katherine may be beyond his reach, but I certainly was not.”

  Relief flooded through Grace and a breath she’d been holding for weeks escaped. A knot in her stomach came undone. She was so used to the tension in her body that she’d forgotten it even existed. “Her cohorts…?” Grace asked. The prince and his friend were with Katherine the last time she’d seen them. All were wanted for treason, and Grace had left them in the woods of Arganis. She feared they’d been captured.

  “Drake and Tristan live as well, thanks to your friends on the Fearless Dawn.”

  “Gods be praised for that. I don’t suppose there’s been news of Arganis too?”

  Charlotte cast her eyes downward and pushed her rice around her bowl nervously. “Your cousin lives, as does his bride and your mother; however, Lord George and Sir Leon were taken to the king’s castle in Ursana for questioning. Lord Henry of Egona was taken with them. The king has never liked him, and he assumes any treacherous behavior must be of his doing. Henry and George are to be held in Redbank.”

  “And Leon?”

  “When a soldier knows he’s defeated, rather than allow his enemy victory over him…”

  “He falls on his sword.”

  Leon had long preached that soldiers of old would not allow enemies to trap them. It was considered noble to take one’s life and rob an enemy of holding you captive. Grace always thought it was a vain and stupid way to die, but Leon believed it was a righteous end.

  Her throat tightened as she thought of her uncle. He’d taught her how to use a sword and how to act like a knight, even though she was a girl. She loved him and looked up to him like a father when her own died. Now he was gone, and by his own hand. She knocked her bowl away in a fury. Rice flew everywhere and the bowl broke against the stone floor. All noise stopped.

  Smythe crossed the room in a few easy steps and then hauled Grace from her seat and knocked her to the floor. Grace immediately fell into her habit of muttering and speaking to the imaginary “Grayson.”

  “What is wrong with her?” Smythe demanded. The woman stood over her menacingly and leaned forward, putting her baton under Grace’s chin.

  “She’s mad,” Big Sal said, followed by a chorus of agreements. “Marcus, on the men’s side, he was keepin’ her in check, remindin’ her of life before she lost her mind.”

  “I’ve known this girl for much of her life,” Charlotte lied. It came out with such ease that Grace nearly believed it herself. “We were speaking of life before his righteous Majesty imprisoned us for our wicked transgressions. She took a turn. I believe her madness is a punishment for betraying His Majesty.”

  Smythe straightened and turned her attention from Grace to look toward Charlotte, but Grace didn’t move. She kept her arms pressed to her sides, her back aching from the fall. The stone was mercifully cool, providing some relief to her.

  “Mad, you say?” Smythe asked. She looked back to Grace, raising an eyebrow.

  “Grayson, do tell this kind lady to step aside so that I might go to my carriage,” Grace said with all the authority of a fine lady leaving a ball.

  “You and you.” Smythe used her baton to point to two women Grace couldn’t see from her spot on the floor. “Help her up and keep a watch over her while I speak to Crawer on the men’s side.” The woman stepped away.

  Two shadows fell over Grace. One belonged to Charlotte, who took a hold of her right arm without a word. The other shadow was Big Sal’s. Together they hefted the younger woman to her feet.

  “You best keep up with play-actin’, Gracie,” Sal said quietly as she dusted Grace off.

  “Then you knew?” Grace ducked her head to hide her mouth from the remaining guards’ view.

  “I guessed once Marcus showed up. I daren’t say anything, though. Never know when a performance like that could come in handy.”

  Charlotte looped her arms through Grace’s and gently patted her head. She made a cooing noise like she was soothing a terrified child.

  “A fine band of performers we make,” Grace mumbled.

  ~*~*~

  After the meal was over, the women were herded back into the heat and split into groups. One group of women was sent to the crown's rice farm up the road, along with a small group of men. Among those sent to act as farm laborers was Sal. Grace noted that those not guilty of treason were sent that way. Others were told they would be laying stone for the prison to help with its completion. Traitors like Grace were marched down a narrow path along the cliff face.

  The path was wide enough for only one person at a time, which meant that any attempt to run would most likely end with the runner bloodied and broken at the bottom. Grace wasn’t normally afraid of heights, but her head swam when she looked down. She decided to focus on her feet and hugged the cliff wall. At the bottom, the prisoners found others working in a small section, chiseling away.

  “We’re making a tunnel,” said Smythe, who came down as a rear guard. Looking closer, Grace could see the start of a doorway in the rock. “It’ll help with the transport of goods from the beach to the prison.”

  Grace very much doubted that this was the case. It looked like nothing more than busy work to wear down Frederick’s enemies. There were five men already at work when Marcus, Charlotte, Grace, and six others arrived. Of the new arrivals, Grace was the only one not given a pickax.

  “You will be handling the wheelbarrow,” Smythe instructed, pointing to a copper barrow with one wheel. It was set on a raised wooden road, and a few stones from the cliff were already piled inside. “Take the wheelbarrow to that cart next to the road.”

  Looking ahead, Grace saw a sturdy wooden cart. Beyond it, the road continued into the jungle, probably the safer route down to the beach from the prison.

  “A carter will haul the stones to the stone smith every night. You two,” the guard said to Marcus and Charlotte. “Keep an eye on her.”

  Smythe and four other guards took up different posts along the line of workers. Grace looked up and saw a few more posted along the cliff wit
h crossbows in hand. She headed to her barrow. It was an exercise in futility, and the guards were stupid to think she could do no damage just because she wasn’t given a pickax. Resigning herself to her current position, Grace tested the weight of the barrow. Already it was almost too heavy for her to handle.

  She pushed the barrow down the little wooden platform toward the cart, with Smythe walking about five steps behind her. At the cart, Grace unloaded the stones one by one and then returned to wait for more. By the end of the day, she thought she might legitimately lose her mind from the tedium.

  ~*~*~

  The next morning Grace’s arms screamed in protest when she raised them over her head to stretch. Everything ached and the hay mattress on her cell’s floor didn’t help matters. She felt her face and found it puffy. She had spent the night crying over her uncle’s suicide while Charlotte sat with Grace’s head in her lap, encouraging her to cry when the guards weren’t watching. Her body and heart were sore, and Grace felt it would be better to have word sent to Frederick than to have to endure another day of senseless rock moving.

  Across the cell, Charlotte groaned. “Gods,” she said. “I thought a day in the saddle brought on terrible soreness, but I don’t think I shall be able to walk today.”

  The cell they shared was small, with room only for two hay mattresses set across from each other. There was a little barred window that let in a single, sad sliver of light. The door was heavy wood, with a small opening at the bottom. After they were locked in for the night, the guards had passed a waterskin for them through it. The door had a barred window for the guards to look in to make sure the prisoners wouldn’t ambush them when they were released in the morning. In the corner farthest from the door was a wooden bucket to use as a privy.

  A heart-shaped face suddenly appeared in the door’s window. Grace looked at the female guard and frowned. “Up!” the guard demanded. “Or you’ll go to work without breakfast.”