King's Man and Thief (19 page)

Castyll was momentarily taken aback, but almost at once he realized he should have expected this. Young men, especially the sons of nobles or others of high regard, were sometimes invited to lie with the Blesser of Love their first time. She would teach them how to honor the goddess through the movements of their bodies, in the sacred act of lovemaking. The son of the king certainly would have been asked. Shahil ought to have been the one to escort his son to the temple for this passage into manhood; instead, the boy had become a man not through the passion of a woman, but through the weight of an invisible crown upon his dark head.

But one thing or another had delayed the rite of passage, and now Castyll would go as a man to the temple of Love. Castyll did not for an instant think this was betraying the sincere love he bore Cimarys; and knew that she would not regard it so. The excitement that flooded him at the offer of this very young Blesser of Love was not sexual. Rather, he knew that, for one full night, he would not be under the eye of the guards. And one night would be enough to escape.

He bowed low. "Lady, you honor me. I shall come to Love's temple, and be taught in the ways of love." Adara's face shone with joy, and blushed with nervousness. A huge roar went up from the crowd, for the day that the king rode to Love's temple would be yet another holiday. Ilantha had not recently seen such happy times.

Castyll sobered somewhat as he realized what was next in the ceremony. Now it was time for him to take center stage, to step forward, and spread Bhakir's poison throughout the happy crowd.

He moved toward the raised dias, carrying the rolled-up parchment in his right hand. Then, deliberately, he caught the toes of his right foot behind his left and stumbled forward. To catch himself, the young king flung his arms wide, hurling the vile speech outward. His brief, whispered prayer was answered. The wind, as if it were a live thing sensing a new playpretty, caught the parchment and lifted it up high above the heads of the onlookers.

Feigning distress, Castyll cried, "My speech!" He kept his smile small and secret at the sight of the guards chasing after the dancing parchment as it dipped and skittered just out of their reach. Finally, a stronger gust than the others caught the four pages and bore them up high, till they were lost from sight.

"Oh, no!" cried Castyll in mock horror. "I —well, my people, you will now have the opportunity to see your king speak unrehearsed. I ask your indulgence." He gave a winning smile, and the crowd chuckled appreciatively. Castyll felt Bhakir's gaze boring holes into him, but he did not meet the counselor's eyes. He was doing it. The words he spoke today would be listened to by travelers, who would take the news to their own towns. Many of those here today were sailors; Castyll knew that this speech would reach even Byrn.

"I shall speak, then, from the heart," he began, "which is more appropriate to such an occasion than carefully scripted speeches. Today we are here to celebrate the goddess Love and those who serve her. We all serve her, whenever we think a good thought about our neighbor. We serve when we clothe and feed the poor. We serve when we treat our families with gentle words and a soft hand. And we serve," he said, watching the crowd's reaction intently, "when we take steps towards peaceful relations with other countries."

They were listening. Bhakir's face was outwardly composed, but Castyll knew that the counselor was furious. He continued.

"We have long had good relations with our neighbor to the north, Byrn. Many of us have friends or family there. And trade, particularly between Ilantha and Braedon, has never been better." He smiled, and said in a confiding tone, "I in particular have great need of Love's blessing, for as you all know, I am betrothed to Byrn's princess, the fair Cimarys. And dear Lady Adara, new Blesser, perhaps you will even preside over our vows soon!"

This, as he had hoped, produced an enthusiastic round of applause. Few things pleased the common folk better than tales of young royals in love.

"Therefore, I take this opportunity to officially state that I, and I hope all my people, are at peace with our neighbors. We fear no invasion, no threat to our wives or children. Trade is sound, and all make honest profits. Byrn is not populated with the cold elves, nor the evil Ghil—it is home to people just like us. And on this day of changes, the only change I advocate is that we move forward in the spirit of Love, in the spirit of understanding and harmony. You are my people, and I swear to you now—I shall always strive to protect and nurture you, just as the beloved goddess sustains us with her kindness. Thank you."

The applause was thunderous. Castyll grinned from ear to ear, but the grin faded as the guards and Bhakir swept up to usher him away from the scene of celebration. Bhakir, too, smiled and waved at the throng, but his grin reminded Castyll of the predatory smile of a mountain cat.

"What in the Nightlands were you doing?" growled Bhakir through his grimace of a smile. Castyll feigned innocence. "I lost my speech, you saw what—"

"I saw you
drop
the speech, you little ..." Bhakir composed himself with an effort. The guards now had closed in around the young king, and though he still stood taller than most of them they formed an effective barrier between him and the crowd. "Forgive me, Majesty. I am merely distressed that your ... lack of grace at such a crucial moment resulted in such a poor speech. You mentioned none of the things we discussed."

Triumph flared in the youth. Bhakir wasn't ready —yet— to voice his true thoughts in front of the guards. Perhaps some of them were still loyal to the young king, after all. No, he hadn't mentioned the "things we discussed." Not one cursed word. "I'm sorry, Bhakir—I got flustered," Castyll lied. "I tried to think of something appropriate. Something to do with love."

"You said nothing of Lord Zhael's appointment as Commander of the Navy," snapped Bhakir. "Nor did you mention the amnesty we have granted Captain Porbrough and his compatriots. Why didn't you remember to do
that
when you were speaking so eloquently of love and good relationships? Castyll, this is a seaport. If you don't inform people of changes in the navy immediately, they won't be as quick to accept them!"

Which was, of course, exactly what Castyll wanted. He hung his head, lest Bhakir see the rebellion in the dark Derlian eyes. "I'm sorry. I guess it was because I hadn't done either of those things myself that they just—I don't know— slipped my mind."

Bhakir tensed, and Castyll realized that he had perhaps gone too far. It was a dangerous, delicate game he and Bhakir played with one another. The moment either of them clearly admitted to the other that Castyll was a prisoner, the game would be over. Castyll knew that both stood to lose should that happen. Bhakir would lose an important figurehead, a mouthpiece beyond compare. Castyll was beloved by his people; Bhakir would have a much more difficult time putting his plans into effect without the young king's apparent approval. And Castyll—well, he'd lose what little semblance of freedom he had and, sooner rather than later, he'd lose his life.

His breath caught in his throat. He could not meet Bhakir's eyes.
"Perhaps then, my young majesty," purred Bhakir, "it is time to get you more directly involved."

Inwardly, Castyll shrank back. Bhakir's words were a threat —of closer guard, of harder, more direct manipulation. He began to wonder if, today, all he had done was to delay the inevitable. Suddenly the beauty had gone out of the day, as the young king of Mhar, ostensibly the most powerful man in the land, trudged with his armed escort back toward his prison.

But take care when working with old wood, for if you bend it too far, it will break. 

—Advice from master carpenter to apprentice

Castle Seacliff had been designed with escape from siege in mind. The space below the castle was riddled with tunnels and little rooms where the royal family could be hidden—and where their enemies could be imprisoned. As he descended into one of these dungeons, Bhakir's refrain was simple:
At least the little bastard has no magic.

That thought was the only thing that comforted him after Castyll's outrageous performance earlier in the day. It had looked like an accident, and admittedly Castyll couldn't have counted that the wind would be so anxious to snatch up a royal counselor's speech. But it was just too convenient. Bhakir suspected that if the warm summer zephyr hadn't been so obliging, the boy would have ignored the speech and done exactly what he had ended up doing. He'd have come up with some excuse.

Castyll knew he was a prisoner, or at least suspected as much. Whatever else Shahil might have been, the late king of Mhar had not been stupid. Nor was his son, though Bhakir had hoped that simply because of his youth Castyll might be more pliable.

But today he had seen calculation in the boy's actions. He was starting to push, to test the limits, and soon he would become too hard to control.

Puffing with even the simple exertion of walking downstairs, Bhakir narrowed his eyes. But damn it, he still needed Castyll. The people's reaction to the king's speech today proved that. He'd just have to step up security around the youth, that was all there was to it. After Love's Blesser, ugly little thing, had had her way with him, it would be Castyll whom Bhakir would be visiting now, as well as Jemma. Enough of coddling the boy. Time to put him in the dungeon as the prisoner he was.

"Peace with Byrn," he muttered. "Pieces of Byrn, is more like it." The innocent-sounding speech had set Bhakir back several days. He'd have to contrive another official occasion, where Castyll could actually deliver the prepared speech.

Bhakir reached the foot of the stairs and paused to lean up against the cold stone wall, catching his breath. A soft moaning, emanating from the torture room, was sweet to Bhakir's ears. The two guards stationed outside the cell shrewdly averted their eyes from the sight of their master appearing less than perfect. When his breathing had slowed, Bhakir spoke to them.

"Any progress?" he asked.

They snapped to attention. "We believe so, sir. She broke down and begged for us to stop for the first time yesterday. You can hear her now."

"Indeed I do. That is good news. But has she agreed to cooperate?"
"No sir."

"Ah, well, that is unfortunate, but I'm sure it can be remedied. I've saved something special for her."

It had been ten days since he had first ordered her imprisoned; six days since the torture had begun. They had tried almost everything they could think of that would not injure her hands or her speech. Such delicacy in selection ruled out some of Bhakir's favorite tortures, such as the strappado. Hoisting Jemma up by her hands, bound behind her back, and then letting her drop would dislocate her shoulders, thus making arm movements difficult. And the water torture was perforce eliminated as an option as well. Forcing her to swallow a long length of rag and then yanking it back up—well, that could seriously injure her throat.

He nodded to the guards, and they opened the door. Bhakir swept inside. Over at the table, the torturer was busily cleaning bits of the old woman's flesh out of the clogged cat-o'-nine-tails. Jemma, barely recognizable, lay on the floor. She was bound hand and foot and was curled up in a tight ball, whimpering. Welts covered almost every inch of her body. If Bhakir hadn't known better, he'd have thought that the torturer had sliced her up with a knife.

The torturer rose immediately. Grandly, Bhakir waved him back, indicating he should finish his task. He strode over to the weeping heap that had once been a proud woman and kicked her soundly at the base of her spine.

Jemma screamed and flailed. Bhakir waited calmly for her cries to subside, then said, "All you need to do is cooperate. It's not that much to ask."

An incoherent mumbling was his response. He sighed. 'This isn't working."

The torturer, a bulky man stripped to the waist, nodded. Sweat from his exertions gleamed on his torso. "I only hope my lord finds no fault with the methods."

"Good heavens, you've more than proved yourself on past occasions, Garith," Bhakir hastened to reassure him. "You're limited in this one, unfortunately. I can't give you the free rein to which you are accustomed. No, we just have to think of something else."

"How about a variation of pressing?" volunteered Garith, as they both stood gazing at the whimpering, bloody woman. Pressing was a particularly effective form of coercion. Victims were tied faceup and arched upwards, and one by one, stones were placed on their torso, eventually crushing them. "She has muttered about her joints. Anything I've done to them has produced very positive results. It would be very painful, but not necessarily destructive."

Bhakir nodded slowly. "I see what you mean. It sounds like a good suggestion. Here, let me assist you."

Jemma lifted her head as they approached, sensing a progression in her torment, and cried out, "Nay, my lords, have mercy! I am an old woman! Please!"

"Jemma," said Bhakir in a tired, firm voice, as if he were speaking to an errant child, "I have told you what you need to do if you wish to stop this. I'd much rather you cooperate. Garith's talents are very costly." The two men exchanged a chuckle.

The old Healer closed her eyes, sinking into herself. She fell silent.

Bhakir sighed. "As you wish, old woman." Garith jerked her into an upright seated position. She hissed through her teeth as the caked-over welts began to bleed anew, and shrieked as they pushed her bound ankles into her crotch. Working swiftly, Garith tied a short length of rope between ankles and wrists, so that her feet would not slip away from her body.

Wordlessly, the two men began putting stones on the woman's thin legs, forcing them down to the floor. At this, Jemma screamed aloud, a terrible, rasping cry of pure agony. The men exchanged hopeful glances and continued applying stones. Mercilessly, Jemma's thighs pressed toward the floor, tearing the ligaments that bound them to her hips and fanning the fire of her inflamed joints. She wailed constantly, seeming not even to draw breath.