Dragonfly (36 page)

Fergox gave ground until he had his back to a pillar swathed in red cloth.

With a swipe he cut the cord and the cloth fell down in folds, burying Ramil's sword. Before the Prince could get it free, Fergox thrust at his heart. Ramil dived, feeling the blade nick his left arm. He rolled, now weaponless, his sword still caught up in the cloth. A soldier behind him moved forward to finish him off.

"Leave him!" barked Fergox. "He's mine."

Ramil sprang to his feet and sprinted back to the throne.

"Pathetic!" Fergox laughed. "Still clinging to power, are we, Prince?"

Ramil kicked the chair over and picked up a short spear from among the weapons he had hidden there. He levelled it on his shoulder, knowing he had only one shot before Fergox ran him through. The warlord

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charged, mouth open in a yell. Ramil threw his spear. It struck Fergox in the throat, above his breastplate, cutting off the cry.

"We never did finish best of three, did we?" Ramil said.

The warlord staggered, then stopped, the sword clanging on the floor as his arms lost all strength. He swayed, then fell backwards, a look of shock on his face.

With a shout of fury, the soldiers rushed forward to avenge their commander.

Ramil swept up Fergox's sword and leapt back on the dais to defend himself. A soldier swiped at his legs, catching him on the calf. Ramil cut him down with a back stroke. His slave supporters burst from their hiding place in the robing room; arrows hissed from overhead. Bloody confusion reigned as fighters exchanged blows and some cut down their own side in mistaken frenzy. When Ramil was finally able to lean on his sword, surrounded by the dead, he saw that he had lost many of his men, including the surly man who had challenged his authority on that first day in the market. He had turned out to be a fierce and loyal fighter and left a family in eastern Holt. Others lay there, each with his own history, united only by their belief in Ramil's promise to offer them a better life.

Ramil bowed his head in respect, vowing to fulfil their expectations if he survived the day, then limped to the door.

"Toll the bell," he ordered one of his men.

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The great bell of Tigral began to boom--the prearranged signal that Fergox was dead. Ramil thought he could hear faint cheering around the palace. He stepped through the open door and looked down into the courtyard.

The killing had gone on here too. As ordered, Yelena and her troops had engaged the army as it entered the courtyard. The rebels had been losing ground against the best-disciplined of Fergox's soldiers when a mass of purple-robed horsemen had appeared out of nowhere, sweeping through the North Gate. Galloping into the courtyard, they had been like a scythe through corn, cutting down the warlord's men. A small band resisted, fighting back to back surrounded by the bodies of their comrades, harried from all sides by slave fighters and the ruthless men of the Horse Followers.

Ramil gave a shrill whistle. Gradually, the rebels heard the signal and stepped back, their weapons red with blood.

"Soldiers!" Ramil shouted, brandishing the warlord's sword. "Fergox Spearthrower lies dead on the steps to his throne. This battle is over. Put down your weapons and I will be merciful. Carry on fighting and it will be to your deaths."

One soldier howled with rage and threw himself at the large chieftain of the Horse Followers. Before he even reached him, the soldier died with a kitchen knife in his back, thrown by the resistance-friendly cook. This seemed to convince the others. They dropped their weapons.

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Ramil nodded. "Good. Yelena, take the prisoners to the barracks."

The Dark Prince gazed around his kingdom. What a way to start his new order: men lying in bloody heaps, limbs severed, the wounded groaning.

The wounded.
The thought prompted him back into action.

"Sir Cook!" he shouted to the knife thrower. "Can you gather some men and see to the wounded, please? Tell Professor Norling that we treat friend and foe alike."

Professor Norling jumped down from the wall, where he had been expertly firing a crossbow for the last half hour, and rolled up his sleeves.

"Professor Norling wouldn't let you have it any other way," he muttered.

The chieftain dismounted and walked up to Ramil, leading a familiar blue roan by the bridle. The prince thought that in his exhaustion he might be hallucinating:
Thunder here? But how?

"Greetings, Grandson. I haven't seen you since you were a baby and I must say you've turned out well." Zaradan gestured to the conquered palace. "A credit to your family. My daughter, Zarai, would have been proud."

"Thank you, Grandfather," Ramil said faintly, remembering the tales of his mother's father, the Umni of the Horse Followers, and of his presence at Ramil's naming ceremony. What he was doing here now Ramil could not even begin to guess. "Your decision to come for a family reunion was very well timed."

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Zaradan smiled, his white teeth gleaming. "That wasn't my idea. I am here merely as a messenger. Tashi sends her love and returns your horse."

Ramil swayed with shock at this news. Zaradan let go of Thunder's reins and caught his stunned grandson to his chest, feeling him shake with laughter mixed with sobs.

Thunder trotted forward and gave Ramil a nudge with his nose, checking his rider was all right.

"Oh yes, Tashi told him to take care of you," said Zaradan, laughing. "Not my idea either."

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Two weeks into Tashi's sentence, the peace in the Courts of the Goddess was disturbed by the arrival of exiles from Holt. Four women and assorted children had been accommodated in the pilgrims' quarters in the palace, separated from the devotees only by a grille. Tashi watched them closely as they moved among the pilgrims, keeping themselves aloof from the

Islanders. They appeared to be led by a formidable grey-haired woman dressed in white mourning robes and took no part in the worship in the Enclosure.

Of course if they were from Holt, they would no more worship the Goddess than a goat, Tashi told herself. But what were they doing here? And why had the Crown Princesses decided to lodge them somewhere that must be

offensive to their Easterner sensibilities? Her obligation of silence prevented her from asking. Each day for a week she lingered by the grille, hoping to have her curiosity satisfied.

Strange, it was the first time she had felt anything

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but despair since being sentenced to spend the rest of her life here. They represented to her a link to the outside world--to the land where she hoped Ramil still lived. And from what she gathered from the twitter of voices around the white-robed woman, the Holtish exiles were bitter, complaining about everything from their beds to the food, deeply suspicious of the intentions of their hosts.

Her silent observation did not go unnoticed by the four women as they sat over their desultory attempts at embroidery. On the eighth day, their own curiosity got the better of them and the grey-haired one strode forward to the grille to challenge the young woman hovering there.

"What do you want?" she snapped.

Tashi took a step back and shook her head.

"Come to gloat over our fall?"

She shook her head vigorously; she had meant no disrespect.

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Who are you?"

Tashi put her finger to her lips to signal that she could not speak.

"Goddess got your tongue?" sneered the woman. "I expect they've cut it out.

I heard they do that here."

"My tongue has not been cut out," Tashi replied, stung to defend her faith. "I have a duty of silence."

"Which you have just broken," the woman declared triumphantly, glancing back at the other women.

It was true, Tashi acknowledged. She had failed the

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first test of the obligations imposed on her, just as she had failed at everything else. There was no surprise in that; hardly any shame, as she was already as low as she could get.

"Yes, I have failed," Tashi agreed humbly. Now that she had broken her silence, she might as well satisfy her curiosity. "Who are you?"

"You have not heard?" The woman seemed displeased not to be recognized.

"No, I'm not allowed out. I am a pris--a devotee." The woman was not fooled.

She moved closer to the grille to stare at the fair-haired girl.

"A prisoner? You are like me then, though they call my incarceration

'hospitality.' What did you do, child?"

What had she done? Everything--nothing. "I broke my vows. And you?"

The woman smiled grimly. "I married the wrong man."

"Can you not divorce him?"

"He is dead--and his Empire another's."

Tashi felt a swoop of alarm. Even in the enclosure, all had heard of the fall of Fergox and given thanks for his defeat. She now knew who she was

speaking to and could guess who the other three women were. But what strange paths had brought them to Rama she could not fathom. She had to get away from them before they found out about her.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she whispered hastily, and backed away.

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"No, stay!" commanded the First Wife. "You are the first Islander to speak civilly to me."

"I
can't, I'm sorry." Tashi walked quickly back to her cell, determined to stay away from the grille in the future.

The First Wife was not a woman to let her desires be ignored. The fair-haired oath-breaker intrigued her and she wanted to talk to her again. The girl was more like an Easterner than any of the Islanders the wives had met since disembarking from their ship.

The Etiquette Mistress had been appointed as liaison between the Holtish exiles and the Blue Crescent court. The Crown Princesses had agreed to shoulder the burden of protecting the warlord's family as a goodwill gesture towards the new ruler of Holt, but no one was happy to have the wives in the palace. The Etiquette Mistress met the women once a day to check that their reasonable demands had been granted and their unreasonable ones dealt with diplomatically. She had naturally refused the Holtish exiles' request to be given a place to pray to their own god--worship of Holin in the palace: unthinkable! The Crown Princesses were seeking more suitable

accommodation for the exiles, somewhere where they could do no harm, but the population were hostile to having Fergox's family settle among them and so far no suitable solution had been found.

The First Wife listened impatiently to this explanation. She drummed her long fingers on the table as the

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Etiquette Mistress apologized to her with the elaborate courtesy of the Islands.

"So, we are to remain your prisoners," the First Wife rapped out.

"You are free to go out with an escort--for your own safety," explained the Etiquette Mistress evenly. "We keep no one prisoner."

"No?" The First Wife pounced on this admission. "What about the fair-haired girl in the Enclosure--the one with purple robes?"

The Etiquette Mistress's eyes glinted. "You spoke to Taoshira?"

"Who?"

"She spoke to you?"

The First Wife could hear the barely suppressed rage in the woman's voice.

"Yes, we spoke. Briefly," the First Wife said coolly.

"That should not have happened."

"But it did. I am interested in her. Who is she?"

The Etiquette Mistress swallowed, debating whether she should answer. If the First Wife did not hear it from her, she could winkle it out from any palace servant.

"She is the disgraced Fourth Crown Princess."

"The witch!" exclaimed the First Wife in disgust.

The Etiquette Mistress did not correct her, pleased that she had taken the news so ill. She would not be seeking Taoshira's company again, the Mistress thought smugly.

"Is there anything else, my lady?" the Etiquette Mistress asked.

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"No. I've heard enough." The First Wife strode from the room, clenching her fists.

The first Tashi knew about her visitors was when someone grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her from her bed. Her room was pitch black, the floor cold; it was still the middle of the night.

"What--!" she gasped, dazed with sleep.

The hand let go. Tashi sensed that there was more than one person in the room.

"You evil witch!" snarled a woman's voice.

Tashi panicked. "Guards!" Further cries were cut off by a hand over her mouth.

"You caused the ruin of us and our families," continued the First Wife, "and you will pay for that."

Tashi wanted to say that it was none of her fault; that Fergox deserved to die; that it was madness to invade the Enclosure and attack a devotee; but the Second Wife had gagged her with a silk scarf and bound her wrists and ankles.

"You have humiliated us; now we will do the same to you," announced the First Wife gleefully. "First we will cut off that hair that so bewitched him, and then mark that perfect skin of yours so no one will forget what you did."

Terrified, Tashi struggled in earnest, kicking with two feet at the woman crouching by her legs, propelling herself backwards against the washstand.

She struck with her fists at the First Wife, knocking a knife

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from the woman's grip. Rolling over, she upset the dented bronze fingerbowl at her bedside; it fell to the ground with a reverberating clang.

"Oh no: you don't escape again!" panted the First Wife, grabbing Tashi's arm to pull her back into the center of the circle.

Feet pounded in the corridor outside. A fist thumped on the closed door. The four wives froze.

"Devotee Taoshira, are you all right?" bellowed the guard.

Tashi screamed through her gag, a strangled sound but enough to alert the man that something was wrong. The door flew open.

"What in the Goddess's name is happening here?" he exclaimed.

The First Wife kicked the knife out of sight under the bed and moved calmly to the entrance.

"We were just paying a social call on our sister here," she said. "We'll return to our beds now."

"Social call? In the Enclosure? At midnight?" spluttered the guard. "Why is Devotee Taoshira tied up and gagged?"