Medalon (26 page)

He ordered Tarja forward. “You are a disgrace to the Defenders and a traitor even to your heathen friends.”

Tarja offered no reply.

“It is my duty to see you remain alive,” he continued, as if the very thought disgusted him. “That is not likely to happen if I let you loose among the other prisoners. They take a dim view of traitors and you have managed to betray both sides. But I’ve no wish to see you enjoy your time here, either. I will be assigning you to the nightcart. Maybe a few years of hauling shit will teach you some humility, at least.” He turned away and beckoned his aide forward. “Mysekis, see that the others are taken to the mine. Have Tarja sent to Sergeant Lycren and make sure he’s guarded. I don’t want any accidents.”

“Sir,” Mysekis said with a salute and hurried off. The commandant then turned his attention to the women. He looked them over disinterestedly. “Loclon, take them to Sister Prozlan in the Women’s Hall, then report to my office.”

Loclon saluted smartly and turned to carry out his orders. As the Commandant turned away, a youth of about fifteen with sandy hair and cast-off clothes slipped out of the crowd and approached him. He said something which made the Commandant look back at the line of women.

“Oh, Loclon,” the Commandant called as he strode back towards his barracks, “take the redhead to my wife. She said something about wanting a maid.”

Loclon’s scar darkened with annoyance as he herded them away. R’shiel kept her relief well hidden. The welcome news that she had escaped life as a
court’esa
was only slightly overshadowed by the awful prospect of being placed in the custody of the notoriously difficult Crisabelle.

The Commandant’s wife was a short, obese blonde with ambitions far outstripping her station as the wife of the prison commandant. She examined R’shiel critically with a frown, plumping her hair nervously.

“Don’t I know you?”

“You might have seen me at the Citadel, my Lady.”

“What were you sent here for?”

“I was…in a tavern. After curfew,” she answered, deciding that it was enough of the truth that she couldn’t be accused of lying. “I…got involved with the wrong people. They committed a crime and I got caught up in it…accidentally.”

Crisabelle nodded, not familiar enough with the prisoners in her husband’s charge to realise that they all considered themselves innocent. She thought on it for a moment then her brown eyes narrowed. “What did you do at the Citadel? Were you a servant?”

“I was a Probate.” Then she added another “my Lady” for good measure. R’shiel was determined to make Crisabelle like her. Her safety in this dreadful place depended on it.

“A Probate! How marvellous! Finally! Wilem has found me someone decent! The last two maids he sent me were thieving whores. But a Probate!” Crisabelle frowned at the brown linen shift that R’shiel had been given at the Women’s Hall after her own travel-stained clothes had been taken from her. “Well, we shall have to see about more suitable clothing! I will not have my personal maid dressing like those other women. Pity you’re so tall…never mind, I’m sure we can manage. Go and report to Cook and tell him I said to feed you. You look thin enough to faint. Then you can draw my bath and help me dress for dinner.”

R’shiel dropped into a small curtsy, which had Crisabelle beaming with delight, before hurrying off to do as she was ordered.

Crisabelle’s cook proved to be a small man named Teggert, with bulging brown eyes, thin grey hair and a passion for gossip. The large kitchen was warm and inviting, with softly glowing copper pots and a long, scrubbed wooden table. It was Teggert’s personal kingdom. He eyed R’shiel up and down when she informed him of Crisabelle’s instructions then ordered her to sit as he fetched her a meal of yesterday’s stew, fresh bread and watered ale. He began to talk to her as he bustled around his tiny realm and she nodded as she listened to him rattle on. Mistaking her politeness for interest, he launched into a detailed explanation of the household politics. Before she had finished her dinner—the best meal she had eaten in weeks—he was telling her about Wilem and Crisabelle and Mahina and anybody else he thought worthy of notice in the small town.

“Of course, I don’t doubt that the Commandant loved her once,” he added, after he finished his longwinded explanation, “but what is delightful in a girl is just embarrassing in a woman over forty.”

“I see what you mean,” R’shiel agreed, not wishing to offend the man who would be responsible for seeing her fed in the months to come.

“The poor Commandant knows she expected more,” Teggert continued. “I mean, for a woman not of the Sisterhood or with independent holdings of her own, marriage to an officer of the Defenders is an eminently acceptable course to follow. The trouble is that Crisabelle only ever saw the shiny buttons, the parades and the pennons. Spending years in a place like the Grimfield is not what she had in mind, let me tell you! Even L’rin, the local tavern owner, has more social standing in the general scheme of things.”

Teggert took the evening’s roast out of the oven as he talked, the smell making R’shiel’s mouth water. As he basted the roast he kept up his tale, delighted to have a new audience. “Sister Mahina only makes things worse,” he lamented. “Retirement doesn’t suit her at all and the fact that she simply loathes her daughter-in-law is apparent to everyone. Poor Wilem. Just between you and me, I think he resents her mightily. Had it not been for her disgrace, he would have been able to fulfil all of Crisabelle’s fantasies. But he can hardly turn his own mother out now, can he? I mean everyone knows he’ll be here forever. The trouble is, Crisabelle knows it, too.” Teggert returned the roast to the oven and sat down opposite R’shiel, pouring himself a cup of tea as he continued his litany.

“Status is everything to Crisabelle,” Teggert explained. “When she married Wilem, his mother was the Mistress of Enlightenment, a member of the Quorum and a candidate for First Sister. Being kin to the First Sister was something.” R’shiel nodded. Teggert had no idea how well R’shiel could attest to that fact. “It’s no help, either, that more than one of the officers stationed here at the Grimfield have married their
court’esa
when they were released from their sentence. And Mahina seems to find their company delightful. She even invites them for tea! Some days, I think Wilem actually envies the prisoners.”

“It sounds very…awkward,” R’shiel agreed, not sure if her opinion was even called for, or if Teggert merely liked the sound of his own voice.

“Aye, it is, lassie. But you just keep your nose clean and stay out of trouble, and you’ll be fine. How long did you get?”

“Ten years.”

“Ooh! You must have been a bad girl. You’re going to be here a good long while then.”

Not if I have any say in the matter
, R’shiel added silently.

Wilem called for R’shiel later that evening. She had not seen Mahina, but Teggert had taken her a tray before he served Wilem and Crisabelle their dinner, so she knew the old woman was here. She entered Wilem’s study with her head lowered, hoping he wouldn’t remember her. After all, she had been a mere Probate and he was a high ranking Defender. Their paths had rarely crossed in the Citadel.

She was wearing an old red skirt, which had once
belonged to Crisabelle, although even with the waist pulled in and the hem obviously let down it still barely reached her ankles. Her blouse was also one of Crisabelle’s cast-offs, and it sat far more loosely on her slender frame than it had on Crisabelle’s ample bosom. Her long auburn hair was braided down her back and her slender arms bore several quite nasty, days-old bruises.

Wilem stood before the crackling fireplace, hands clasped behind him, unconsciously “at ease”.

“What is your name, girl?”

“R’shiel of Haven, sir,” she said with a small curtsy.
Not R’shiel Tenragan. R’shiel of Haven.

“R’shiel!” he gasped. It was obvious he recognised her. In his shock, he barely even noticed that her face bore the fading remnants of even more bruises. “Why have you been sent here?”

“I ran away from the Citadel. And I was involved with Tarja’s escape, sir,” R’shiel answered honestly. There was no point in trying to lie to Wilem.

“But your mother…”

“Joyhinia is not my mother. I’m a foundling.”

The Commandant studied her curiously. “So you’re not Jenga’s child, either?”

“I’m nobody’s child, apparently.”

“I didn’t realise who you were this morning when I singled you out. When young Dace reminded me that Crisabelle was looking for a servant, I picked you because you were youngest. You were the least likely to be a hardened criminal. I hope you appreciate your good fortune.”

Good fortune was definitely a relative term
, R’shiel thought. “I’ll try not to let you down, sir.”

“You were always reputed to be a bright girl. Prove it and stay clear of Tarja. Perhaps, if you conduct yourself well here, you may be able to return to the Citadel one day.”

“Not while Joyhinia is First Sister, Commandant.”

“You are not the only one who shares that fate, child,” he said, then shook his head as if pushing away his own disappointment. The subject obviously closed, he studied her for a moment, then frowned. “Where did you get those bruises? On the trip here? Or at the Citadel?”

Wilem waited for her answer. Had he guessed what had happened to her? R’shiel didn’t take the chance he offered her. She would settle her score with Loclon in her own way.

“I tripped over, sir,” she said.

Wilem sighed. “Then you will need to be more careful in the future, won’t you?” He appeared uncomfortable for being too craven to force the issue and find out what had really happened. “If you continue to please my wife then I will see that your sentence here is as comfortable as I can make it.”

“Thank you, sir. May I go now?”

“You may, but let me offer you some advice. As my wife’s servant you will have more freedom than most, but stay clear of the Women’s Hall and the Barracks. I will do my best to see that you remain unmolested, but I would prefer not to do it after the fact. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“As I’m sure you know, my mother lives with us,” he added. “She is now simply a retired Sister and you
will treat her with the respect you would treat any Sister, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may go.”

R’shiel returned to the kitchen to ask Teggert where she would be sleeping. Although unsophisticated, the residence was large and she was foolish enough to hope that her accommodation would be a bedroom, not a cell. As she opened the door that led from the hall into the kitchen, she heard voices. Teggert was gossiping again, this time about L’rin and from the little R’shiel overheard, her tragic but well-publicised love-life.

As she stepped into the warmth of the kitchen, Teggert’s companion leapt to his feet.

“There! You see! Aren’t I clever?” he announced with a beaming smile. He looked to be about fourteen or fifteen, with a shock of sandy hair, clear blue eyes and a wardrobe that could only be described as motley. “I told them I could help.”

Teggert nodded patiently. “Yes, you’re very clever. R’shiel, this is Dace. He is the one you have to blame for your appointment here. You may want to wait a few days before you decide whether to thank him or throttle him, though.”

“Hello, Dace,” she said, and then added curiously, “Who did you tell you could help me?”

The boy’s eyes reflected a fleeting moment of panic before he recovered himself and shrugged. “Oh, nobody. Just some friends. You know…”

“Pay no attention to him, R’shiel,” Teggert warned. “Dace is an inveterate liar and an accomplished thief. He’s probably committed more crimes than half the prisoners in the Grimfield put together.”

The boy seemed to swell with pride. “Teggert, you say the nicest things.”

She smiled at Dace before turning to Teggert. “Do you know where I’ll be sleeping?”

“In there,” Teggert said, pointing to a door leading off the kitchen. “It’s not much, but it’s warm in winter. Come summer, it’s unbearable, I’m afraid.”

Come summer, I’ll be long gone
, R’shiel promised herself.

“Mistress Khira?”

Brak glanced up at the bearded man who had called Khira’s name, noticing with relief that he was a captain. They were waiting among the other petitioners—free and prisoner alike—in the cold anteroom of the Commandant’s office for the fifth morning in a row to see Wilem for permission to practice as a physic in the prison town. Brak was dressed as a servant, his eyes suitably downcast. His companion wore an expression of annoyance. A middle-aged woman with a sensible head on her shoulders, she had been a surprising choice to accompany him to the Grimfield. Padric’s good sense triumphing over Ghari’s hot-blooded need for vengeance, he had decided.

“Yes?”

“I’m Captain Mysekis,” the Defender told her. “I must apologise for the delay, my Lady. It has only just come to our attention that you are a physic.”

“I have been trying to see the Commandant for almost a week. If I don’t see him soon, I shall take my services elsewhere!”

“That really won’t be necessary, Mistress,” Mysekis said. “I shall take you to see him immediately.”

Khira nodded and rose to her feet. “I should think so!”

She beckoned Brak to follow as she walked with Mysekis down a narrow polished corridor until the captain knocked on a closed door and opened it without waiting for an answer. Khira swept into the room with a commanding stride and glared at Wilem.

“You are the Commandant of this place?” she asked.

“I am, Mistress,” Wilem replied, rising to his feet. “And you are?”

“Mistress Khira Castel,” she replied, taking a seat uninvited and indicating with an imperious wave of her hand that Wilem and Mysekis could sit. “This is my manservant, Brak. I am a physic and a herbalist, and I wish to establish a practice in this town. I have been informed by the tavern owner that I need your permission to do so. Is that correct?”

“It is, my Lady,” Wilem told her, a bit puzzled. He obviously didn’t have too many petitioners actually wanting to stay in the Grimfield.

“Isn’t there a woman in charge?” Khira asked. “A Sister I could speak with?”

Brak cringed a little at the question. Khira was pushing her luck.

“In the Grimfield, I am responsible,” Wilem explained. “By order of the First Sister and the Quorum of the Sisterhood.”

“I see. Then may I assume I have your…
permission…
” the physic almost choked on the word, “to open a practice in this town?”

“May I inquire why you would choose such a place, my Lady?”

“The people here need me. A simple walk down the main street could tell you that. And—”

“And?” Wilem prompted, casting a glance at Mysekis who had remained standing at the back of the room. He responded with a confused shrug.

“Can I rely upon your discretion, Commandant?”

“Of course, my Lady. Nothing said in this office will go any further.”

Khira took a deep breath. “I had a small problem. In Testra. I chose to help a number of young women dispose of unwanted pregnancies. Unfortunately, the Physic’s Guild in that city is sadly lacking in compassion or commonsense.” Khira waited for her announcement to have its full impact before she continued. “As you can imagine, such a situation makes it difficult for one of my profession.”

“I can see that.”

“Obviously, I am unable to establish myself in any town of note. Here, in the Grimfield, I thought that such a…history, might not present a problem.” She lifted her chin proudly. “I am a skilled physic, Commandant, and I do not see that my past actions should affect my ability to minister to those in need.”

“I agree, my Lady.” The Commandant couldn’t believe his luck. No physic wanted to come to the Grimfield. To have one actually volunteer was an unheard-of gift. “In fact, I welcome you. We have been sorely in need of someone of your skills for some time.”

“Then I assume I may set up my practice as soon as I find suitable premises?”

“Of course! If you want for anything, please ask the captain here. He will ensure that you have everything you need.”

“Thank you, Commandant,” Khira said, rising from her chair. Then she cocked her head curiously. “What is that racket?”

They all stopped and listened for a moment as the sound of raised voices grew louder. Brak thought Wilem must know the rhythm of the town like his own heartbeat. The commotion seemed to be coming from the rear of the building. With a concerned glance at each other, the Commandant and Mysekis excused themselves and rushed from the office.

Khira looked at Brak. “What’s going on?”

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

They followed the Defenders to the rear of the building and out into the chilly winter sunlight. Thirty or more men, Defenders and prisoners together, stood in a circle, shouting encouragement to a pair of brawlers who were rolling in the dusty yard, bloodied and bruised. Brak had no idea who the smaller man was, but he appeared to have gotten the worst of the fight. The other combatant was Tarja. Brak stepped back into the shadows gently drawing a glamour around himself to avoid recognition and watched as Wilem and Mysekis pushed through the crowd.

Brak winced as Tarja leapt to his feet and delivered a massive, two-handed blow to the side of the other man’s head as he struggled to rise, sending the man flying unconscious into the arms of several spectators. From the mood of the crowd, it was obvious they had been on the loser’s side. Tarja stood
warily in the middle of the circle, his eyes blazing, waiting for someone else to take him on. He had a cut over one eye and his chest was heaving, but he looked fit enough to defeat anyone foolish enough to get within reach.

“Enough!” Wilem bawled, as much to the spectators as to Tarja. “Get him out of here,” he ordered Mysekis, pointing at the unconscious man. “See what our new physic can do for him. As for the rest of you, get back to work this instant, or you’ll all be facing punishment.”

The crowd disbanded with remarkable speed, leaving only Tarja, a sergeant and another prisoner. Khira hurried to the unconscious prisoner and began checking his wounds. The sergeant had the decency to look contrite.

“What happened here, Lycren?”

“We was havin’ a break when Grafe’s work detail came back from the stables, sir. He started mouthin’ off ’bout Tarja bein’ a traitor. Tarja just flew at him! I couldn’t stop him!”

Brak was quite sure Lycren was telling the truth. Tarja was a big man and a better-trained fighter than most other men he knew. Had he taken it into his head to defend his honour, the sergeant would have had little hope of holding him back. Wilem turned to the rebel and Brak was relieved to see the bloodlust fading from his eyes.

“Defending their honour is a privilege reserved for men who have some.”

Tarja’s eyes narrowed at the insult, but he made no move towards the Commandant. Brak could see the defiance there, lurking just below the surface.
Tarja was likely to be a major problem for Wilem if that raw spirit wasn’t broken soon, something of an inconvenience for Brak if it was.

“I will not tolerate brawling among the prisoners. The standard punishment is five lashes. See to it, Lycren.”

“You think five lashes is going to keep me happily hauling shit?” Tarja’s fists were clenched at his sides, his knuckles white.

“Ten lashes,” Wilem replied. “Care to try for twenty?”

Tarja stared at the Commandant for a few moments, before he consciously relaxed his stance. “Ten lashes will be fine,” he said.

Brak had no doubt that Tarja had chosen not to force the issue. There was no fear in his eyes. He had not backed down because he was afraid of the lash. Brak strengthened the glamour as Tarja moved away, not wanting to provoke another outburst. Tarja wouldn’t be pleased to see him, he knew, and the time was not yet right for him to make his presence known.

News that Tarja had been spared the noose reached the rebels in Testra while the disgraced Defender was still in transit for the prison town. The seeds of doubt planted by Lord Draco had done their work on the rebels. Even worse, the Defenders began rounding up rebels whose sympathy for the cause was a well-kept secret. Only one man could have known the identity of so many of their number. By the time news reached them that Tarja still lived and had been sentenced to a mere five years at the Grimfield, the rebels were certain he had betrayed them. The sentence was a joke. Tarja had committed high
treason. He should have been tortured and then publicly hanged, his head left to rot over the gates of the Citadel as a warning to others who thought to follow the same course. The rebels were too familiar with the Defenders’ methods to believe that he had suffered at their hands. It was further proof of his treachery.

The rebels called a meeting and passed their own sentence. Tarja would die, they declared. The more slowly and painfully the better, Ghari amended. Brak heard the news with mixed feelings. He did not want the man to die, but he suspected the first thing Tarja would do the next time they met was try to kill him.

It was with some relief that Brak learnt R’shiel had also been sentenced to the Grimfield. She was long gone from the vineyard by the time he realised she had run away and even the gods had ignored his pleas for help in locating her. Kalianah did not visit him again and Maera was too vague to be of any use. He cursed Kalianah’s interference and his own ineptitude. He had been so certain Mandah was the one he sought, he refused to see the truth about R’shiel. Even if her unusual height, or her dark red, té Ortyn hair, had not alerted him, her anger should have. He knew what it was to burn with a rage that sought any outlet it could find. If he had not been so blind, he could have picked it a league away. He had made the mistake of thinking the demon child would be Harshini, when in fact, the one she resembled most was himself—a half-breed hungering for a balance between two irreconcilable natures.

The only way to find R’shiel and ensure Tarja’s sentence wasn’t carried out was to volunteer for the
job of assassin himself, hence his arrival in the Grimfield with Khira. Padric did not entirely trust him, although rescuing Ghari and his friends from the Defenders in Testra had gone a long way to easing the old man’s mind. He had argued that he couldn’t just ride into the Grimfield and run a sword through Tarja, who would be guarded for fear of that very thing. Mandah had agreed that the only way to be certain was to send someone to the Grimfield to investigate. Besides, she thought Tarja should be given a chance to explain, but then Mandah was like that. She tended to think the best of everyone.

The physic Khira had volunteered her services and their mission had been set. Khira had not lied to Wilem about the reason she left Testra. She really had been expelled from the Physics Guild for performing illegal abortions. Unfortunately for Khira, her customers had mostly been poor young women from provincial towns. The Sisterhood professed an extreme abhorrence to the practice, but any Probate or Novice who found herself in the same situation was dealt with quietly and efficiently by the physics at the Citadel.

Grafe had regained consciousness by the time Lycren led Tarja and his fellow prisoner away. Khira fished out a small packet of herbs for the man’s concussion and ordered bedrest and a poultice for his bruises. Mysekis had the man taken away and smiled at Khira before returning inside. Brak recognised the look he gave her and rolled his eyes. Khira was a handsome woman, with thick dark hair and a comely figure. Brak released the glamour and walked over to Khira wondering if she reciprocated the captain’s
obvious admiration. One look at her expression and he doubted it. Khira hated the Defenders. If Mysekis made a move on her he was likely to get much more than he bargained for.

“So that was Tarja,” Khira remarked as she closed her bag and dusted off her skirt.

“In the flesh,” Brak agreed.

“He’s in pretty good shape for a man supposedly tortured in the Citadel,” Khira noted sourly. “I’ve treated men the Defenders have questioned and I can promise you, he shows no sign of it.

“Well, never fear, Mistress Physic. Ten lashes should take the fight out of him.”

“He’ll probably be sent to me afterwards. You could…you know, do it then.” For a woman sworn to protect life, she was pretty anxious to see Tarja’s snuffed out.

“Let’s not be hasty,” Brak advised. “I would rather see him taken back to the others for a trial, wouldn’t you? That way everyone would see what happens to traitors.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she agreed.

“Of course I am.”

Khira nodded, albeit reluctantly. She was as bent on seeing Tarja brought to justice as Ghari, in her own way. Brak sighed with relief as they left the yard and headed back to the inn, reflecting on the irony of Tarja’s assassin going to so much trouble to keep him alive. But he wasn’t ready for Tarja to die.

Somewhere in this godforsaken place was R’shiel, and he had not found her yet.