Medalon (27 page)

News that Tarja was to receive the lash spread through the Grimfield faster than a summer squall. By the following morning, any number of the Grimfield citizens had found a reason to be in the Town Square, where such punishments were normally carried out. Tarja had been in the Grimfield for less than a month, but there was not a man or woman who didn’t know about him.

The news about Tarja reached Crisabelle just after lunch on the day of the brawl. She spent the rest of the day deciding what to wear to a public lashing. Mahina made a few caustic comments about her daughter-in-law’s predilection for enjoying men in pain and announced that she did not intend to watch anybody being lashed. R’shiel thought the old woman sounded upset at the idea.

Mahina had changed since her impeachment, R’shiel decided. Although she still looked like a cuddly grandmother, these days there was a bitter edge to her voice more often than not. Her temper was short and her mood swings pronounced. The entire household tiptoed around her, except
Crisabelle, who seemed oblivious to anything but herself.

Mahina’s reaction to R’shiel’s sentence had been shock, sympathy and perhaps a little irony. Mahina had known of her true parentage, she told R’shiel. Jenga had given her the information the very day that Joyhinia had moved against her at the Gathering. But she had said nothing. Mahina had decided against using it to spare R’shiel the pain such a revelation would cause.

Whatever the reason for Mahina’s reticence in seeing Tarja punished, Crisabelle was delighted by the prospect of seeing the famous rebel publicly whipped. R’shiel was ordered to attend her, carrying a basket of smelling salts and other useful items, such as a perfumed handkerchief in case the smell of the prisoners overwhelmed her. Several pieces of fruit and a slice of jam roll were also included, in case watching a man screaming in agony stimulated one’s appetite. The phial of smelling salts was insurance against the sight of all that torn flesh making her feel faint. R’shiel was quite sure that anybody who packed a snack for a public whipping was highly unlikely to swoon at the sight of blood. Crisabelle hurried her out of the house the next morning dressed in a buttercup-yellow dress with a wide skirt and a large frill forming a V down the front of the bodice. R’shiel thought the dress was ghastly, but Crisabelle had decided it was just the thing for this sort of occasion.

The square was almost half-full when they arrived, but the crowd parted to allow Crisabelle through. She strutted up to the verandah of the Headquarters building where Wilem was going over a
list with Mysekis. He glanced up at their approach and his expression grew thunderous, before he composed his features into a neutral mien.

“What are you doing here?”

R’shiel hung back. She had no wish to see Tarja whipped and hoped that Wilem would send them home. But Crisabelle was determined to get full value from the morning’s entertainment. She ignored her husband and found herself a vantage point near the verandah railing. Wilem shook his head and turned his attention back to Mysekis.

It was not long before the four men who were to receive a lashing were brought out from the cells behind the Headquarters building. All were bare-chested and shivering in the chill morning. With little ceremony, the first man was dragged to the whipping post, which was a tall log buried deep in the ground and braced at the base. A solid iron ring was set near the top of the post and the man’s hands were lashed to it with a stout hemp rope. Once his hands were tied, the guards kicked the prisoner’s feet apart and lashed each ankle to the bracing struts. As soon as the criminal was secure, Mysekis unrolled the parchment and read from it.

“Jiven Wainwright. Five Lashes. Stealing from the kitchens.”

Once the charge was read, the officer who was to deliver the lashing stepped forward. R’shiel was not surprised to find it was Loclon. He was clutching the vicious-looking short-handled whip with numerous plaited strands of leather, finished with small barbed knots. The infamous Tail of the Tiger, it was called. The whip was supposed to deliver an excruciatingly
painful blow in the hands of an expert. Simply by the way he was standing, R’shiel could tell that Loclon not only knew how to handle the whip, but would probably enjoy it.

The man at the post screamed even before the first blow fell and howled afresh with every crack of the whip. By the last blow he was sobbing uncontrollably. As the guards untied him he collapsed, then screamed as a bucket of salt water was thrown over his bloody back. Two guards dragged him away and the next victim was brought forward. Again, Mysekis consulted his list.

“Virnin Chandler. Five lashes. Brewing illegal spirits.”

The scene was repeated again, making R’shiel sick to her stomach. The crowd watched silently, an audible hiss accompanying every cracking blow. This one didn’t scream until the second blow but he was almost as broken as the first man by the time the guards had untied him. They administered the same rough first aid to the second man, who bellowed as the salt water hit his torn flesh, but he walked away without any assistance from the guards.

By the time the third man had been similarly dealt with, R’shiel was certain she was going to be sick. She had seen men whipped before. It was a common enough practice in the Citadel for minor crimes. But in the Citadel men were whipped with a single plaited lash and care was taken to cause pain, rather than lasting damage. Loclon’s purpose seemed to be to inflict as much damage as possible.

As they brought Tarja forward, R’shiel glanced at Loclon and shuddered. His eyes were alight with
pleasure, as he watched Tarja walk calmly towards the post. Rather than waiting to have his hands tied, Tarja reached up, gripped the ring with both hands, and braced his feet wide apart. Unused to such cooperation from their charges, the guards hesitated a moment before securing him with the hemp ropes.

“Tarjanian Tenragan. Ten lashes. Public brawling.”

A murmur ran through the crowd at the number of lashes to be administered. Ten was a rare punishment. Wilem was known as a fair man who doled out punishment for discipline, not entertainment. R’shiel glanced at Wilem and suddenly understood why Tarja was last. Loclon had already delivered fifteen blows with the deadly Tiger’s Tail. Wilem had put Tarja last to spare him a little, but while she appreciated Wilem’s gesture, she doubted it would do much good. For a moment, she let her eyes lose focus on the scene and she studied the auras around both men. Her strange and inexplicable gift was becoming increasingly easy to control. Tarja’s was clear but tinged with red, the only sign of the fear that he refused to display publicly. Loclon’s was fractured with black lines and dark swirling colours. The sight evoked unwanted memories in R’shiel as she recognised the pattern from her own torment at his hands. She wondered why nobody else could see this man for what he truly was. To her, it was so obvious; it was almost like a warning beacon shining over his head.

Silence descended on the crowd as Loclon stepped up and swung his arm back, expertly flicking the tails of the whip. The lash landed with an audible crack across Tarja’s back and he flinched with the pain, but gave no other sign of the agony he must be feeling.
The next blow landed with similar force, raising a bloody welt across the first cut. Tarja remained silent, flinching with the pain, but refusing to utter a sound. The silence continued as Loclon laid blow after blow across the rebel’s back, which soon became a bloody canvas of torn flesh and raw muscle. The crowd shared Tarja’s silence—it was as if they were collectively holding their breath, waiting for him to break. Loclon grew increasingly agitated. R’shiel recognised Loclon’s frustration. He had worn the same look when she had refused to scream for him.

The only noise that echoed through the Square was the sound of Loclon grunting with the effort of laying open Tarja’s back and the monotone voice of the sergeant who was counting off the blows. When he reached ten, Loclon raised his arm for another strike, but the sudden cheer from the crowd distracted him. They might despise him for a traitor, but they were willing to acknowledge Tarja’s courage. Loclon looked disappointed as the guards hurried forward to untie him and douse his bleeding back with the salt water. Tarja finally allowed himself a loud yelp when the water hit him.

R’shiel was thoroughly sickened by the whole affair, but Crisabelle seemed quite exhilarated by it. She turned to the woman standing on the other side of her, a blue-robed Sister from one of the workhouses. She chattered on about what a lovely day it was for this sort of thing, although the wind was a bit nippy, and shouldn’t they put in some sort of seating for the spectators? R’shiel watched them lead Tarja away and wondered just how much willpower it was taking for him to stay on his feet.

“Get the physic to take a look at him,” Wilem told Mysekis as they led the rebel away.

“If your intention was to break him, then I doubt you succeeded.”

“We’ll not have any further trouble,” Wilem predicted. “Tarja has proved his point. He won back a measure of respect today.”

“Traitor or not, he certainly has mine,” Mysekis agreed. “I’ve never seen anyone take ten lashes without a whimper.”

“That’s the tragedy. He could have been a great man. Now he’s nothing more than a common criminal.”

R’shiel listened to the private conversation thoughtfully as she waited for Crisabelle to finish her discussion with the Sister, watching the crowd disperse. They were hugely impressed by Tarja’s courage, and, as Wilem had predicted, much less ambivalent towards him. She glanced across the square and spied Dace with L’rin, the tall blonde tavern owner, watching the proceedings. The man standing with them gave R’shiel pause.

It was Brak. He was the last person she expected to find in the Grimfield. He refused to meet her eye, but R’shiel was suddenly certain that he had not been watching the lashing. He had been watching her.

The first few weeks of R’shiel’s sentence passed so quickly she could barely credit it. Life settled down in a surprisingly short time, disturbed only by Crisabelle’s idiotic demands and occasional, but disturbing brushes with Loclon. Each incident served only to strengthen her resolve to escape, preferably leaving Loclon dead in her wake.

She would sometimes watch the work gangs being marched out to the mines, which were located in the foothills about a league from the town. The men appeared universally miserable. They worked long shifts, breaking down the rock face with heavy sledge hammers, while others, bent almost double with the weight of the load, carried the ore back to the huge, bullock-drawn wagons for the journey to the foundry at Vanahiem. The female convicts of the Grimfield fared marginally better. They were split into three basic groups: the laundry, the kitchens and the
court’esa
. The laundry was back-breaking work; the kitchen, although cosy enough now, was unbearably hot in the long central plateau summers. And the
court’esa
—well, that didn’t even bear thinking
about. R’shiel could still hardly believe her escape from such a fate. Dace’s timely reminder to Wilem that Crisabelle wanted another maid had, quite possibly, saved her life.

R’shiel quickly made herself indispensable to Crisabelle. She had taken to constantly reminding people that her maid was the First Sister’s daughter, ignoring the fact that R’shiel was not even permitted to use the name Tenragan any more, or claim any familial links with Joyhinia. R’shiel found the constant reminders irritating, but they reinforced Crisabelle’s belief that she had some link with the life she felt she should be leading, rather than the one she did. Crisabelle blamed Mahina, not Joyhinia, for her current circumstances and rather than take her frustration out on R’shiel, she heaped all of her woes at her mother-in-law’s door.

Mahina was a different story, entirely. She was brusque on a good day, unbearable on others, but R’shiel liked the old woman almost as much as she secretly despised Crisabelle. They had developed a private bond, brought about by the shared burden of Crisabelle’s constant and frequently idiotic demands.

Mahina treated Crisabelle’s pretensions of grandeur with utter contempt and made a point of deflating her daughter-in-law at every opportunity. Nobody else in the Grimfield dared to challenge Crisabelle; most simply went out of their way to avoid her. Mahina had a wicked sense of humour and a keen eye for the absurdities of life. She even joked about her own fall from grace once in a while. R’shiel wished she had found a way to warn Mahina of Joyhinia’s plans to bring her down. Had Mahina
never been impeached, her life would have taken a very different course.

With a sigh, R’shiel crossed the small village square and shifted the basket of laundry on her hip to a more comfortable position. Crisabelle invited selected officers and their wives to monthly formal dinner parties, which she loved, but everyone else, from the Commandant down, abhorred. No one in the Grimfield dared refuse an invitation. Wilem tolerated them for the sake of peace. Sitting down in his uncomfortable dress uniform once a month was vastly preferable to Crisabelle whining at him daily, and if he had to suffer it, so did his men.

Crisabelle was agonising over the guest list, wondering who warranted a second invitation, who warranted a first, and who she could leave off without causing offence in the tight-knit community. Mahina helpfully offered her caustic advice for no other reason than to annoy her daughter-in-law. Crisabelle’s attire for the party was almost as big a decision as the guest list, hence her hurried order to R’shiel this morning to have all her good dresses cleaned so that she could choose at the last moment.

“One never knows how one is going to feel on the night and one must be prepared for all eventualities,” Crisabelle had instructed her gravely this morning.

“Knowing implies a certain need for a brain,” Mahina had muttered, a comment which Crisabelle had loftily ignored.

R’shiel had orders to wait for the garments and to not let them out of her sight. Crisabelle didn’t trust those “thieving whores” in the laundry. She was then required to pick up a packet of herbs from the physic
so that Crisabelle’s evening wouldn’t be ruined by one of her “heads”. Mahina had suggested loudly that with a head like that, it was no wonder it ached, at which point R’shiel had managed to escape the house. Mahina was in rare form today.

“Move along!”

R’shiel turned at the voice, stepped back against the wall of the tannery and watched as another wagon load of prisoners trundled into the town square, as it had every week since she had been in the Grimfield. The wind was chill this morning, with winter almost over and spring doggedly trying to gain a foothold on the barren plains. They all looked desperate, she thought. Desperate and hopeless. She stopped and watched as Wilem emerged from the verandah of his office and the prisoners were lined up before him. As he had when she arrived, he glanced down the manifest, glanced at the prisoners, and gave the same orders. Send the men to the mine. Send the women to the Women’s Hall. Sometimes, when he had requests from various workhouses for personnel, he selected one or other of the convicts to be assigned elsewhere. The ritual varied little.

As the prisoners were dispatched, the small crowd of onlookers wandered away and Wilem caught sight of her. He beckoned her to him. She crossed the square and bobbed a small curtsy.

“What are you doing out and about, young lady?” he asked.

“My Lady’s washing, sir. She wasn’t sure what to wear for the dinner party on Fourthday.”

Wilem rolled his eyes. “Well, you’d best be on your way then girl, not hanging about the square.”

“Yes, sir,” she agreed and hurried off in the direction of the Women’s Hall.

The Women’s Hall was actually a complex of low, grey, single-storey buildings which housed the female convicts and their industries, including the laundry. R’shiel hurried through the main gate unchallenged by the guards who knew her, by sight at least, and wisely left Crisabelle’s maid strictly alone. R’shiel passed between the sleeping blocks, shivering as the shadows cut off the struggling winter sunshine. The distinct odour of lye soap hung in the still air as she crossed the small cobbled yard to the laundry to report to Sister Belda.

“My Lady wants these washed and pressed today and told me to wait for them,” R’shiel explained. The Sister was stick-thin and old. Belda was so unlike the elegant Sisters at the Citadel, it was hard to credit she was one of them at all. She glared with pale, worn-out eyes at R’shiel before ordering a girl in prison grey forward to take the basket from her.

“Well, you’re not waiting in here,” Belda snapped. “Come back after the noon break.”

R’shiel backed away from the old Sister and glanced around. Despite Crisabelle’s order not to let her dresses out of her sight, R’shiel knew whose orders carried the most weight in the laundry. Belda ruled the laundry like a Defender battalion. As there was no one else about—everyone had their assigned work to do—R’shiel slipped between the buildings to the
court’esa
quarters to see if she could find Sunny.

The
court’esa
normally slept during the day, but they frequently lazed around in the mornings and
took their rest in the afternoons. Sunny could usually be found soaking up the meagre sunlight after her evening’s labours, comparing notes with her cohorts. As she entered the small enclosure at the front of the sleeping quarters she found no sign of the plump little whore.

“Well if it ain’t the Probate,” Marielle called out, as R’shiel came into sight. “You here to invite us to the Ball, no doubt?”

Marielle, like most of the
court’esa
, envied R’shiel not at all. They considered a position under the constant scrutiny of the Commandant and his monstrous wife to be a dubious honour. Few of them would have traded places with her, even if offered the chance.

“I was looking for Sunny.”

Marielle jerked her head in the direction of the sleeping dorms. “She’s in there,” she said, her expression suddenly grim. “She’ll be glad to see you.”

The sleeping quarters were long, narrow buildings, with bunks three tiers high running down each side, leaving a narrow corridor in the centre. Each bunk had a straw filled mattress rolled up on the end, with the few possessions of their absent occupants stuffed inside. Light filtered in from an occasional barred window and a number of cracks in the walls where the weathered wood had split and never been repaired. R’shiel gagged momentarily on the smell as she hurried inside. Marielle’s tone only partly prepared her for what she found. Sunny was lying on her narrow wooden bunk, her face turned to the wall. R’shiel gently laid her hand on the
court’esa
’s shoulder and gasped as Sunny rolled over
to face her. Her face was a battered mess and she flinched as R’shiel touched her, indicating many more bruises under her thin shift.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Unsatisfied customer.”

“Did you report him?”

Sunny struggled up onto her elbow and shook her head. “Girl, how long have you been here?”

“Sunny, the Commandant would see that he was punished. He would.”

“Now, you listen to me. You might be living the high life, but down here in the real world it doesn’t work like that.”

“Sunny, this is the third time this has happened to you. Why?” R’shiel had a bad feeling she already knew the answer.

The plump
court’esa
grinned, making her battered face even more distorted. “Maybe I’m losing my touch.”

“I could get you out of here. I could talk to Crisabelle or Mahina.”

Sunny flopped back onto the bed with a groan. “Forget it, R’shiel. I’m not working for those silly old cows. Drive me loony in a week.”

“Better loony than beaten up.”

“Maybe.” Sunny closed her eyes. “Look, I know you mean well, but I’m not like you. You got yourself fixed up real good here, so don’t go spoiling it on my account.”

“Do you want me to fetch Sister Prozlan?”

“Founders, no!” Sunny groaned. “Her cures are worse than the beatings. Besides, she’d probably throw me into the box just for being trouble.”

“Khira might come if I asked her. You need a physic.”

“Khira’d have to report it. You know the rules.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No. You just get along and stay out of trouble.”

R’shiel left her alone in the long cold building. When she emerged into the sunlight she sought out Marielle.

“Who did it?” she asked.

Marielle grimaced. “Who do you think?”

R’shiel nodded and walked slowly back towards the laundry. She knew who Marielle was talking about. Three times now, in as many weeks, Loclon had beaten Sunny. Three times, had Sunny reported him, Wilem could have had him charged, maybe even whipped. Each time Sunny bore the brunt of Loclon’s temper, it was on a day when R’shiel had thwarted his attempts to intimidate her.

The first time had been only days after her arrival in the Grimfield. Loclon had been called to the house to meet with Wilem on some matter and he had caught her coming down the stairs to the kitchen as he waited in the hall. The second time had been last week while on an errand for Crisabelle. Only the fortuitous appearance of Dace in the alley behind the physic’s shop had saved her then. R’shiel was certain that Sunny’s injuries this time were a direct result of her accidental meeting with Loclon yesterday. Crisabelle had sent her to the inn to collect a bottle of mead from L’rin that the tavern keeper had ordered for her from Port Sha’rin. Loclon had been in the taproom, drinking with several other officers when she arrived. He had called her over to his table and
she had ignored him. No, she hadn’t ignored him. She had deliberately snubbed him, which had brought howls of laughter from the other officers at his table. She didn’t know what Loclon had said to his companions before he hailed her, but her disdain had made him look a fool.

The guilt ate away at her like Malik’s Curse, the wasting disease that slowly consumed its victims by eating away at their internal organs. But just as there was no cure for the Curse, there was no easy way of sparing Sunny, or any other woman on whom Loclon chose to vent his frustration. Not if the alternative was to give in to him.

R’shiel collected Crisabelle’s laundry from Sister Belda just after noon and headed for the physic’s shop that was several streets away, still brooding over Sunny. Khira was a frequent visitor to the Commandant’s house. Crisabelle had been delighted to discover a physic in town and quickly added hypochondria to her list of annoying hobbies.

“Why so glum?”

The voice startled her. “Brak!”

“Ah, you remember me then. I thought perhaps you’d forgotten all about us.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I am Khira’s loyal manservant.” He fell in beside her and took the other handle of the wicker basket, sharing the weight between them.

R’shiel cast a wary eye over her companion. “You change occupations fairly often, don’t you? A sailor, a rebel and now a manservant, all in the space of a year.”

“I get bored easily.”

“Don’t treat me like a fool, Brak.”

“I would never dream of it,” he promised. “So, how are you adjusting to life as a convict?”

“I don’t plan to be here long enough to adjust.”

He looked at her. “Just say the word, R’shiel. We can be gone from here anytime you want.”

“Gone?” she scoffed. “To where, Brak? Back to the vineyard so the rebels can put my eyes out for helping Tarja? Or was your next suggestion going to be that we help him escape too?”

Brak didn’t answer. Instead, he helped her carry the basket to the verandah calling out for Khira. The physic emerged from the dim depths of the small shop, wiping her hands on her snowy apron and smiled when she saw R’shiel.

“Hello, R’shiel. What brings you here? Not sickening for something, are you?”

“Mistress Crisabelle wants some of that stuff you gave her last time for her headache.”

Khira exchanged a glance with Brak before she answered. “Time for the dinner party, is it? Well, you come inside and have a warm drink while I make it up.”