Petrodor: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 2 (20 page)

“And so you owe Sasha and Kessligh some gratitude,” Errollyn concluded to Duke Rochel. “But I hear you also oppose this coming war.”

“Oppose,” the duke snorted. Glanced about the room, and the lovely old furnishings, the bright walls, the ornate ceiling. “You speak as if I had any choice.”

“A man's choices are his own,” said Errollyn. The duke gave him a stare. Errollyn gazed back, green eyes intent within a dirt-stained face.

“The war is a fool's adventure,” the duke snapped. “But this is the city of fools, and this city rules all Torovan with its foolishness. It's your fault, you know.” With a hard, accusing nod at Errollyn. “You serrinim.”

“I know,” Errollyn said mildly.

“You gave Petrodor all your trade and you created a monster. Two hundred years ago I could have spanked the patachis’ insolent backsides. One hundred years ago even. The dukes ruled Torovan then. My grandfather was such a man. I recall him to this day, despairing at the growing tide of wealth from Petrodor, the promises of trade and fortune that bent one duke after another to the will of the greedy, bloody-handed patachis. Those men don't deserve such power, they've neither the wits nor the breeding. For hundreds of years Torovan has been peaceful and prosperous beneath the rule of the
oldest
families, and we raised our sons with the skills and wisdom to rule wisely, and not for simple profit. Now we are reduced to mere vassals, competing desperately for the right to lick the patachis’ boots.”

“It seems the way of much human power,” Errollyn observed, “that those who deserve it least acquire it most.”

“Don't you make sniping jousts of your lofty serrin wisdom with me, boy,” the duke snorted. “It was the wisdom of the serrinim that led to these dire straits in the first place. Fancy building up a band of fishermen to be the great power in Torovan and not foreseeing the consequences. Fancy occupying three wealthy, holy Bacosh provinces and not foreseeing that the priesthood would one day want them back, and would bend every man of faith to do so.”

“The serrinim have always tried to act with mercy,” said Errollyn.

“And exactly!” exclaimed Rochel, waggling a finger. “What do the serrinim know of human mercy? Is it merciful to show visions of the unattainable to the hopeless? Is it merciful to show a starving man only the smell and the promise of food, but never an actual meal? Is it merciful to tell the poor folk of Riverside that their gods are frauds, and thus deprive them of their one small comfort?”

“Most Petrodor Nasi-Keth are practising Verenthanes,” Errollyn corrected, “no one ever told them that their gods are frauds…”

“You play with human society as if it were your toy!” exclaimed Rochel. “You understand nothing, none of you serrinim, yet you seek to remake us in your own image.”

“Duke Rochel, the Nasi-Keth are a human movement. Saalshen holds no reins of power there.”

“That's not what I hear,” Rochel said darkly.

“Then why—”

“Oh please,” Sasha cut in with exasperation, “this is
exactly
the wrong time to start a debate about it.”

Rochel sipped his tea. “Women,” he snorted. “Never had heads for politics. Another thing to blame the serrin for. Crazy ideas.”

“How many Lenay rebellions have you successfully negotiated, Duke Rochel?” Sasha snapped. “I've been breathing nothing
but
politics the last few months, most of which is trying to get me killed. I'm trying to maintain some kind of logical focus, here.”

“Dear girl, setting Riverside ablaze does not constitute a logical focus, nor a political nous, nor the general common sense the gods gave a dead, smelly herring.”

“We were trying for an arms shipment bound for Lenayin,” said Sasha, trying to keep a hold on her temper.

“
Trying
seems to be the operative word.”

“Oh, look you smug, self-important git, if you don't wish to know about the goings-on we saw between Symon Steiner and an important-looking priest, just say so!”

Duke Rochel blinked, his cup frozen halfway to his lips. “A
priest
was at the Steiner docks at Riverside?”

“The Torack dock,” Sasha corrected.

“With Symon Steiner?”

“They appeared to have just completed an inspection of a boat's cargo.”

“You're certain it was Symon?”

“Errollyn saw him clear enough.”

The duke looked suspicious. “In matters of Petrodor politics, the priesthood are neutral. It is tradition.”

“Huh,” Sasha snorted, “and you think me naive.”

“Dear girl, naivety has nothing to do with it. All of the families give sons to the priesthood, do you understand? The balance was agreed long ago, and the ceremonies decree that the gods are neutral. Of course it would be utterly naive to believe that the holy fathers abandon all previous family loyalties upon the taking of the oath, but for the archbishop to take sides openly would be to begin a civil war within the priesthood! And Archbishop Augine is not such a fool as to…” The duke stopped, to see Sasha and Errollyn exchanging looks. “What?”

“I don't think you'd be interested,” Sasha sniffed. “Such information from a silly, witless girl like me with no head for politics…”

“Thank the dear gods for granting me a daughter of pleasant and modest temperament,” Rochel said with exasperation. “
What?
”

“They killed the priest,” said Errollyn. Watching the duke carefully, awaiting a reaction. “Murdered him.”

Duke Rochel stared. Seemed about to say something, then stopped as if lost for words. Then, finally…“Symon Steiner…killed a priest? Himself?”

“Not by his own hand,” said Errollyn. “But facing him as you are facing me. He ordered it with his eyes, to the man with the garrotte.”

“Who else saw? Besides yourselves?”

“Some Torack guards on the dock. Several family men I did not recognise.”

“Yet you recognised Symon Steiner?”

“Duke Rochel, even Sasha recognised Symon Steiner. My eyesight at night is considerably better than hers. The families have many men, and I do not know them all, despite my years here in Petrodor.”

“Who else?” Rochel was more intense, and more serious, than at any time that evening.

“There were piles of crates on the dockfront. I doubt anyone else along the dock saw.”

“What did they do with the body?” Rochel pressed.

“Stripped it. We saw no more, we became rather busy just about then.”

Duke Rochel took a deep breath. “Damn,” he muttered. “Damn, damn, damn.”

“What does it mean?” Sasha asked, too exhausted for any notion of subtlety. “Why the hells would my sister's lovely husband murder a member of the highest authority in Petrodor?”

“I don't know,” Rochel rumbled. “I only know this—any hope that this power dispute between Steiner and Maerler could be settled peacefully is vanishing fast. Now, there'll be Loth's ransom to pay.”

Sasha poured cold water over her head and scrubbed. Pazira House was not poor, and there was soap and hair oils on a tiled shelf in the washroom. She discovered yet more bruises and scrapes as she washed, but was too tired now to recall from where she had earned them.

She recalled the confusion of the Riverside alleys, and the fear. The light in Rodery's eyes as she'd taught him some new techniques. The big lad had had three brothers and two sisters. One morning, Liam had been teasing him that a neighbourhood girl fancied him. Most unlike the majority of cocky Torovan lads, Rodery had blushed.

Aiden, sitting with Kessligh by the fireplace of her home in Baerlyn. Cheerful, principled Aiden. He'd had a family that she'd never met. The Nasi-Keth were his life. He'd believed they could help all humanity, as they'd helped improve the lives of thousands along the Petrodor dockfront. He'd had hopes for the wretched poor of Riverside. He'd not expected them to parade his head on a spear. He'd only wanted to help.

Suddenly she was in tears. She steadied herself against a wall, sliding to the floor as sobs wracked her body. It was a while before she could stop. Never had she felt so helpless as now, confronted with a horror already passed, that she could do nothing to prevent or undo. She sat naked against the cold stone and cried. It could have been Kessligh's head on that pole. Or Errollyn's. A true warrior should surely cope with such fears, and continue regardless. But she had no idea how.

When the sobs had passed, she rinsed herself, dried, wrapped herself in the robe provided, and gathered her clothes and sword. The hall outside was
quiet and dark, but for a sole lamp on a side table. She looked in Liam and Yulia's chambers, even sleeping, they looked exhausted. The weariness was a blessing, she reckoned. Without it, sleep would be hard.

She pushed into her and Errollyn's chambers, and found Errollyn lying on his bed, looking at the ceiling. Light from the lamps outside cast a dim, flickering glow upon the decorated ceiling. He looked beautiful. Calm, in a way she envied more than words could describe.

Errollyn took one look at her in the gloom and got up, pushing his bed across to hers, a squeal of wooden legs on floorboards. Sasha dumped her clothes, hung her sword and bandoleer over a bedstead, slid a sheathed knife beneath the pillow, and then fell into Errollyn's arms. She cried some more, and his arms were comforting in a way that no words could possibly manage. He smelled nice and his chest was more comfortable than any pillow. They spoke not a word.

T
HE MAN WITH THE WOUNDED LEG
hung in his chair, breath snorting through his bloodied nose. When Jaryd entered the room and saw the council's handiwork, he was not impressed.

“That's what you call an interrogation?” he exclaimed in disbelief. “That's it?” Raegyl the stonemason was unwinding strips of cloth from his knuckles and flexing his fingers. The prisoner's face was swollen, and there was blood all down his shirt, but it didn't look like Raegyl had been striking very hard. Even the ropes that tied the prisoner to his chair did not look particularly tight.

“You'll address your accusations to me,” said Jaegar, Baerlyn headman. He leaned by one window, massive arms folded, long hair tied into a single, knotted braid that fell down his back. “This interrogation shall go as far as I wish it to, and no further.”

Teriyan was there too, and Ryssin, Geldon the one-handed baker, and Byorn from the training hall. Old Cranyk sat in a chair near the fireplace, his cane between his legs, and watched the prisoner through narrowed eyes.

“Let me question him,” said Jaryd and pulled a knife from his belt.

“No,” said Jaegar, unmoving.

“He has transgressed on the honour of Baerlyn,” Jaryd said incredulously, “and now you grant him favours?”

“No man of Baerlyn will stick a blade into a defenceless opponent and consider Baerlyn's honour unsullied,” Jaegar said bluntly.

“I'm not a man of Baerlyn,” Jaryd retorted.

Jaegar's stare was flat and level within a face set like granite. One eye dark within a maze of intricate black tattoos that covered half his face. “While you live here,” he said, “you are.”

The prisoner groaned and moved his legs. Blood dripped. Raegyl's fists had made a mess, but it was a mercy compared to the fate of such a man in other parts of Lenayin. In Isfayen, Jaryd had no doubt, the man's face would have been his prettiest feature by now.

“Look at him!” Jaryd exclaimed in frustration. “He knows this is the
worst you will do! He's survived this far, he probably thinks he can survive the rest!”

“Betraying the Great Lord will gain him far worse,” Cranyk agreed. “But should he hold his silence now, his reward will be even greater. Such are the moments that can make a man's life. He grasps his chance with both hands, with the honour of a whipped dog whining at his master's feet.”

“No,” Jaegar repeated, this time to Cranyk. “Not while I am headman.”

“When I was a boy,” Cranyk replied, his aged voice high and thin, “I saw Cherrovan prisoners flayed alive on the road.”

“That was revenge,” said Raegyl, still massaging his knuckles. “Revenge is different.”

“The young
daylthar
has claim for revenge,” said Cranyk, nodding at Jaryd.
Daylthar
, good gods, that was an old word. Jaryd had heard it only in recitals of Tullamayne epics, and similar old tales. It meant “stranger,” in that very Lenay sense that could mean the person from the next village, or the invading Cherrovan warlord, or the travelling serrin from Saalshen. “All the rest of the world,” in totality. Jaryd hadn't thought anyone still used the term. “If the Great Lord had any honour, he would meet the honourable challenge with a blade in his hand. Instead, he sends gold and trades favours to buy the likes of this…” with a disdainful nod at the slumped prisoner, “and a cowardly shot from a distance. All who fall outside our honour are no longer protected by it.”