Lady Of Regret (Book 2) (7 page)

“Last chance,” Rathe chided the horse. With a shout, he put boots to the horse’s flanks. The gray strained against the pillar. Rathe felt the grinding of stone in his teeth, as the immeasurable weight of the bridge pressed down on the weakened support.

The gray tried to shy again, but Rathe kept him under tight rein. “Heave, you bloody nag!” The gray snorted, seemingly in affront, and Rathe laughed out loud. “Push, you tired tub of guts!”

The gray’s neck arched, its hindquarters rippled, and its hooves began slipping over the ground. Hairline cracks widened … widened. The pillar gave way all at once. Stonework began to fall. Rathe kicked the horse into a gallop.

An instant later, thunder rolled from the collapsing bridge. Dust billowed and, by the screams, shattered stonework had fallen on at least a few of the shadowkin. There were plenty to take their place. He gave the gray its head, and they galloped deep into the misty night.

After he passed through Deepreach’s second barbican gate, which had survived the ages no better than its counterpart at the far end of the city, he found Loro waiting next to a briar patch.

Rathe glanced around. “Horge?”

Loro slammed his sword into the scabbard. “He’s lost to us.”

The nearing cries of shadowkin were growing in intensity. Rathe called out for Horge, and looked for the scrawny little fellow to come bursting out of mist or brush, but he never did.

“Mayhap he got away,” Loro offered.

Rathe nodded doubtfully. There was no need for words, or time to speak them. They abandoned Deepreach and its atrocious inhabitants, and climbed higher into the Gyntors.

Chapter 8

From high gibbets flanking either side of the road, men hung in rusted cages. As most were dead, or close enough not to matter, they offered no complaint to the squabbling crows busy plucking off strips of meat. A long summer had made dusty skeletons of those longest in the cages. Others were fresher and flyblown. Withered or seeping, all stared at passersby with cavernous sockets, for the carrion birds took the eyes of the dead first.

Squinting against the lowering sun, Lady Nesaea led the small caravan of gaily painted wagons, all fashioned after sailing ships, through the swinging garden of death and toward the low stone walls of Sazukford, a small city in northern Qairennor.

She did not have to look around to know she was not alone in holding a fragrant pomander to her nose to block the reek. Hanging cages, the impaled, tarred heads on spikes, all those and other morbid displays were common wherever men gathered in number. Such exhibitions never seemed to concern lawbreakers, for there was never a shortage of them, but open punishment and death kept order-seeking citizenry feeling safe, placid, and cared for by highborn who’d not squander their noble piss on a burning child. And if anyone had a grudge and gold enough, why, a word whispered into the right ear ensured their rival met a good and proper end, for all to see.

“Milady!” a man cried weakly. He still had his eyes, and they bulged with fright. The rest of him was a mass of dried blood. He had been flayed to the bone, and skin dangled in ribbons. Nesaea knew he would not survive the night, and within an hour of sunrise he, too, would lose his sight to feasting crows. “Bring word to Lord Arthard that … that I was
returning
his ring, not stealing it. Please, milady, have mercy!”

He fell to moaning after Nesaea’s wagon wheeled by. The possibility existed that he spoke the truth, but chances favored him being a thief who had realized too late that pilfering was not a game for fools or the unlucky, though thieving seemed to attract that sort, more often than not.

The sun dropped below the horizon, as the Maidens of the Lyre approached the stone wall. The gate guard gave Nesaea a penetrating look, demanded a trade levy despite her assurance that they had nothing to trade, then waved her through. As she passed, he went back to leaning on his spear, as if bored beyond all measure. The weapon’s leaf-shaped blade glimmered in the dusky light, and his well-kept mail shone silver under a tabard emblazoned with the device of House Arthard, a scarlet cockatrice constrained within a golden, seven-pointed star. More guards strode the wall walks. Sazukford was still a place to step lightly, much as Nesaea remembered it.

Beyond the east gate, the smallish city bustled in dusty twilight, the smell of the unwashed mingling with the scent of flowers in full bloom, roasting meat, open sewers, and rotting middens. Good and bad, places like Sazukford had a seedy charm Nesaea found alluring. Such places reminded her of home on the outskirts of Alhaz, across the Strait of Eroe-Si. She missed the evening sea breezes that cleared the dust, many stenches, and clamor of the city, and left the sky a dazzling shade of blue. Home. So long lost to her, she could scarcely understand the pang in her heart. She would go back, one day, but Sazukford and her father, first.

The last time she was here, she had been running from those who wanted to return her to the silken sheets and velvet shackles of her former master, on the island kingdom of Giliron. In Sazukford, she had laid her traps, and ended the hunt. After, she vanished as cleanly as a breath of night wind. If not for the help of one woman, whose aid she now sought again, she never would have succeeded.

Although their faces had changed over the years, Nesaea remembered the urchins scuttling among the forest of adults. Peddlers eager to earn a bit more coin, still hawked wares from booths set up along the main thoroughfare, all loud and obnoxious. Mongrels braved kicks to snuffle chickens and lambs and squealing shoats caged in wicker. Rich merchants in all their finery perused a hundred varied displays, eager to make a profitable deal.

The road wended through rows of slate-roofed houses, shops, taverns and inns, all wanting for fresh plaster and whitewash. As ever in such places, be they rich or poor, slatterns called from windows and stoops, their wares barely concealed under strips of silk or linen, or jingling garments of shiny brass coins. These last were oft the most beautiful, and so fetched the highest prices. In light or dark, they resembled fabled mermaids. Drunks reeled out of tavern doors, or were thrown out by bouncers. A dozen kinds of music merged into a discordant melody, setting a sordid but jubilant mood.

Nesaea took it all in, careful to keep an eye on those who might mistake her for the soft highborn lady she portrayed. Some lurked in the shadows, eyes beady and dark, like rats. Others sat in plain sight, sipping tankards of local brew, laughing boisterously, even as they measured the worth of every passerby. To both varieties of trouble, Nesaea showed a diamond-hard grin, daring them to make their play. Most looked to easier prey. Those who did not were the fools who might attempt a raid on her caravan. If so, they would suffer a harsh lesson.

Nesaea drew rein at a low wooden bridge spanning the River Idoril. Rickety and sagging, the bridge should have been rebuilt in stone a hundred years gone. With darkness closing fast, torches marched along its rails, lighting timbers and planking coated with tar. A barge of bloodwood logs, down from the southern foothills of the Gyntors, swept beneath the bridge’s leaning pilings, guided by a score of men with long push-poles.

After paying yet another levy, the bridge guard waved her on. Nesaea took a deep breath, whispered a fervent prayer of protection, and snapped the reins. The four-horse team took her onto the bridge. It groaned and shivered under the weight of the wagon. Nesaea did not stop praying until all her caravan had crossed.

Over the river, Sazukford was cleaner, the buildings taller and painted in rainbow hues, its cobbled streets patrolled by squads of Lord Arthard’s foot soldiers. The road split, and Nesaea turned north. The farther she led her troupe, the richer the surroundings became, until she drew rein in front of the Silver Archer, a three-story inn, its high-peaked tile roof guarded by four towers awash with flowering vines.

The inn’s proprietress, Mistress Lynira, stood amid a gathering of pretty men. Lofty arbors curved above them, supported by wooden columns carved all over with blossoms that never wilted. Lynira’s laugh filled the area, melodic and enticing as the rest of her person. Tonight she wore a gown of maroon silk, accented with cloth-of-gold to match her golden curls. As was her wont, she had loosened the laces of her bodice to reveal more of her bosom than it hid, and a belt of gold links emphasized her narrow waist.

In the short time Nesaea had spent in Sazukford, Lynira had taught her never to feel guilt for using the gifts born to her. Lynira used her
gifts
to gain wealth and notoriety, selling that which could be bought anywhere for a fraction of the price. “Peddle exclusivity,” she had advised, “and you’ll never want for gold.”

Adding to Lynira’s charming allure, a snowy owl perched on her arm, yellow eyes on the fops surrounding its mistress. It was no exaggeration to say that men crossed realms and treacherous seas for a mere glance at Lynira. Gaining an audience with her was tantamount to visiting royalty. Even if they heard from Lynira’s lips that she had been born in slattern’s hovel in the Dreamer’s Quarter of Sazukford, none would have believed it. Watching her now, with her almost magical grace and aplomb, even Nesaea found the story hard to believe.

The owl’s head turned all the way round, fixed its golden stare on Nesaea. Some of those gathered near Lynira looked, too. Their eyes widened at the sight of Nesaea’s wagons. When Lynira tossed a glance over her shoulder, delighted surprise erased some of her composure. She hastily invited her guests indoors, while she escaped the pillared terrace and stopped below Nesaea. Deep brown eyes favored her onetime pupil with a wry appraisal.

“
Lady
Nesaea,” Lynira said, with a knowing wink and a graceful curtsy. “I see now the rumors are true. You and your Maidens of the Lyre have done as well as I have heard.”

Nesaea smiled warmly. “I have you to thank.”

“I trust you have not come to steal my business?”

“Of course not,” Nesaea said. “But I dare say I can increase it while I am here, if you are in need of performers.”

“I have many performers.”

“My girls are not that sort,” Nesaea explained. “We sing and dance and entice. The rest, I leave to you.”

“I had heard that, as well, but did not believe,” Lynira said, in the musing tone of a shrewd proprietor. “Very well. I accept your offer. Even if your girls sing like screeching cats, you are welcome.”

“I must warn you,” Nesaea said, “I come to Sazukford not to entertain, but to find someone I have not seen in many years. In seeking him, I may bring danger upon you.”

Lynira laughed, a bold, throaty sound. “You let me worry about danger, girl. Now, get down off that gaudy cart, and tell me all about your wanderings. My men will take your caravan around back, for safekeeping.”

“What of your guests?” Nesaea said, nodding to a few men who lingered just outside the burnished silver doors of the inn. They jostled one another for a better look at Lynira and the newcomers, like lovesick fools.

Lynira flashed a mischievous grin. “My absence makes them even more ravenous for my attention. By the time you tell me what you’ve been up to, they will be ready to
kill
for my affection.” At Nesaea’s stunned look, Lynira laughed all the harder.

Chapter 9

Lynira glided through the common room of the Silver Archer, speaking to some patrons, laughing with others. When anyone made to stop her, she brushed past so smoothly they did not recognize the rebuff. Nesaea followed, becoming once again the young woman running from her past, and toward an uncertain future.

Lynira led them into a sumptuous chamber filled with cushioned chairs covered in colorful silks and dark velvet. She motioned for Nesaea to sit, closed the door, poured two cups of wine.

“I love you like a daughter,” she said, pressing the wine into Nesaea’s waiting hand. “As such, I know you didn’t come here to visit.” Save when dealing with customers, the mistress of the Silver Archer had never been one for idle chatter.

“I have need of a favor,” Nesaea admitted, savoring the vintage in her hammered gold cup.

Lynira pulled a chair close to Nesaea’s, and sat back with a thankful sigh. “Favors typically demand recompense. For you, though … only ask, and I will see it done.”

“I seek an audience with Lord Arthard.”

Lynira slammed her cup down on a gilded end table hard enough to slosh wine over the lip. “You are mad, if you think I would send you into the presence of that snake. Not for all the gold in all the realm, would I put you into his hands.”

“That is much gold,” Nesaea said, smiling over the rim of her cup. “I am not asking you to do anything I do not want.”

“Arthard is a monster I’d not offer up to my worst enemy. And trust that I have more than a few who deserve to be skinned alive and staked atop an anthill. Arthard is the worst of the lot. Just this past fortnight, the greedy wretch sent his thugs to burn me out.”

“Truly?”

“Last winter he determined the levies I pay are not enough. I am not alone. He has beggared most honest merchants and tradesfolk in Sazukford. The dishonest, well, that sort never suffers long. Since the River Idoril serves as the only quick way to get bloodwood timber to Millport and the Sea of Muika, he has increased the levies tenfold on passing barges. The fool will destroy Sazukford, without ever recognizing how or why. On top of it all, he demanded I share his bed. When I told him to go sell his arse in Giliron, he rightly took that as a declaration of war.”