Harshini (33 page)

Tarja assigned a squad of Defenders to aid R’shiel in her search for Loclon. He even made a point of picking men who knew Loclon on sight. It was a thoughtful gesture, but not enough for R’shiel to forgive him for opening the gate. Particularly when she learnt he had ordered the men to look for Loclon, but not hinder the Karien exodus. R’shiel wanted to stop every man leaving the Citadel. She wanted to examine each soldier and knight closely, search every wagon, every sack, and every woman’s purse, to ensure that Loclon didn’t get past her. When the officer in charge of the squad repeated his orders, R’shiel turned on her heel furiously and made her way straight to the First Sister’s office.

Tarja met her rage with silent fortitude. He was wearing a new red jacket bearing the sword and shield insignia of the Lord Defender. Despite the fact that it was before sunrise, the First Sister’s office was full of Defenders. They cleared a path for her warily and avoided her gaze. None of the Defenders in the office appeared concerned that Tarja had been promoted over them to the Lord Defender. They
acted like men who were glad that the ultimate responsibility for their fates had been shifted to someone else. A small part of her understood how they felt. This coup was still very new, and although they controlled the Citadel, Medalon was a long way from being secure. If it fell apart on them, Tarja would bear the brunt of any reprisals.

“Garet said we could check everyone leaving the Citadel!”

“Actually, he said that we’d post extra men on the gate to see that Loclon doesn’t slip past. There was never any suggestion that we would allow you to stop and search every single person trying to get through the gate.”

“There are thousands of people down there! We’ll never find him!”

“Then I’m sorry, R’shiel. I’ve given you all the men I can spare.” His tone was implacable. It was as if he had assumed some of Jenga’s dignified gravity along with his rank.

“And if I find Loclon? Your men
do
have orders to arrest him, don’t they, my Lord Defender? Or did you want me to just give him a friendly pat on the back and wish him a safe journey?”

He frowned, impatient with her sarcasm. “Take the men I gave you, or not, R’shiel. I’ve neither the time nor the inclination to argue about it.”

“Is this your idea of helping me?”

“Would you care to discover what
not
helping you feels like?”

They glared at each other for a tense moment.

“If he gets away from me, I’ll never forgive you, you know that, don’t you?”

“It’s getting light out there,” he said, turning his attention to his men. “If you want to be at the main gate when it opens, I suggest you get a move on.”

The wind was biting when she emerged into the light on the broad ledge that circled the towering white walls of the Citadel. R’shiel had not been up here since she was a child, when Tarja had brought her to the walls to show her the rare spectacle of the high plains covered in snow. She was only five or six years old at the time and snow on the plains, while not unheard of, was unusual enough that she had cried out with delight at the sight of it. That Joyhinia had beaten her afterwards for sneaking out with Tarja had not lessened the thrill, and she had held on to the memory as she sobbed in her room, hungry and cold, her legs throbbing from the cane. She could remember thinking it had all been worth every savage blow. It didn’t matter that she had been sent to bed without dinner. She didn’t even care when Joyhinia had declared that as she seemed to like the cold so much, she could get a taste of what it really felt like in the snow and had the fire in her room extinguished and the blankets removed. It didn’t matter that her legs were black and blue. She had stood on the wall-walk in the still, cold air and looked out over the countryside blanketed in white, the shallow Saran River frozen with a thin coating of ice, and thought she was standing on top of the world.

A trace of the same feeling came back to her as she looked down, but this time no peaceful layer of snow softened the view. The plain crawled with
humanity as far as the eye could see, even as far away as the small village of Kordale, whose smoking chimneys R’shiel could just make out in the distance. From this high up it was impossible to make out individual details, rather the ground below rippled like some strange, poisonous ocean that lapped at the walls of the Citadel.

“Are you all right?” Brak asked with concern.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. He was sitting with his back to the wall with his booted feet stretched out in front of him on the ledge, cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his dagger. Scattered clouds left over from the rain during the night hung motionlessly in a sky tinted the colour of washed-out blood.

“If you happen to find Loclon, just be careful, will you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that if you’re planning to use your power to restrain him, try to do it as quickly as possible. You’ll be drawing on the same power as Korandellan. He’ll have to fight you for his share of it.”

Brak didn’t need to add that if she drew too much, Korandellan’s ability to hold Sanctuary safely out of time would be compromised. She had seen his weary face in the Seeing Stone in Greenharbour. R’shiel knew how close to exhaustion he was.

“You make it sound as if I actually have control over it.” She closed her eyes, letting the chill air clear her mind then looked down from the wall-walk over the mass of humanity swarming to be let out of the Citadel. “This is hopeless!”

“You knew that before you came here,” Brak pointed out.

“Aren’t you going to help?”

“What do you want me to do?”

She muttered something unintelligible and looked back over the crowd. The Defenders were pushing the people back to clear a path for the gates to open. On the other side of the wall, the plain was littered with the Karien army. There was a sizeable gathering outside the gate, waiting for their comrades inside the Citadel to be released.

A truce had been arranged the previous day, although with their leaders now hostages in the Citadel, it had taken some time to sort out the Karien chain of command and find someone capable of making a decision. The wall-walk was lined with archers to discourage the Kariens from attempting to break the truce. The Defenders could not hope to fend off a well co-ordinated attack, but they were enough to deter the disorganised and bewildered Kariens from trying anything stupid. They seemed incapable of understanding that the Citadel was lost to them, or that their leaders had been taken prisoner. The Overlord would not allow such a thing.

“Isn’t there something magic we can do?” she asked, turning her back to the Kariens.

He raised a brow at her. “Something
magic
?”

“You know what I mean.”

Brak sighed with long-suffering patience. “You still have no idea what you’re dealing with, do you?”

“I don’t want a lecture, Brak. I just want to know if there is anything we can do to find Loclon more easily.”

“You could make every person leaving tell the truth then ask their names as they pass through the gate,” he suggested.

“That won’t work. Tarja won’t let us stop them.” She was scanning the crowd and didn’t see Brak’s smile.

“I was joking, R’shiel.”

“I’m beside myself with mirth. Do you have any other brilliant suggestions?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Brak sheathed his dagger then climbed to his feet and came to stand beside her. The gates swung open ponderously as the Defenders shouted orders to the crowd. The first to leave were the troopers that had been posted around the city, and they made up the bulk of the occupation force. They looked cold and miserable, having spent a night in the damp weather confined to the amphitheatre. Most of them were simple peasants dragged into this war because their masters owed a fealty to the Karien king. They were at the mercy of their god, their king and their dukes.

“They don’t look very happy, do they?” Brak remarked.

“Can you blame them?”

“You’re not feeling sorry for them, are you?”

“A little bit. Most of them would much rather be at home getting ready for the spring planting, I think. Not stranded here in a foreign country fighting a war they probably don’t even understand.”

“Well, if you think the peasants are unhappy, imagine what that lot must be feeling.” Brak pointed up the street.

The next group waiting to be let through was the knights. Tarja had permitted them their mounts, but other than that, they were leaving empty handed. Their faces were cold and haughty, as if they were leaving of their own free will, not being forced out like beggars who couldn’t pay the rent. Sir Andony sat at the head of the small column. R’shiel could not make out the others from this height. She watched them curiously, wondering what they were thinking.
Were they plotting revenge? Were they already planning to return?

“My Lady! My Lady R’shiel!”

R’shiel glanced down at the street and discovered an urchin waving up at her. She didn’t know the child, but he was panting heavily, as if he had run all the way to the gate.

“What is it?” she called.

“That man you’re looking for? The one with the scars? I saw him!”

“Wait here!” she told Brak, heading for the stairs that led down into the gatehouse at a run. When she reached the street, she had to push through the crowd to find the child. The boy was waiting for her by the gatehouse wall. He had the most beautiful face R’shiel had ever seen on a child.

“Who are you? Where did you see Loclon?” she demanded.

“My name is Alladan. I work for Mistress Heaner.”

“Who is Mistress Heaner?”

“She’s…she’s…my employer,” the boy said, a little uncertainly. “But I saw the man you’re looking for. He was at Mistress Heaner’s last night.”

“Is he still there?”

Alladan nodded. “I think so. Did you want me to show you?”

She glanced up at the wall-walk where Brak was looking down at her and debated calling him. Although she was certain he was telling the truth, the child might be wrong, and she could not risk letting Loclon slip past her. She waved reassuringly to Brak then turned back to Alladan.

“Show me.”

As she pushed through the crowd behind the boy, she faintly heard Brak calling her back, but she ignored him. The idea that she might have found Loclon consumed her, swamping caution and common sense. They broke through the crowd after a great deal of pushing and shoving, turning towards the warehouse district. The boy ran ahead, looking back over his shoulder occasionally to ensure that she was still with him.

When the boy finally reached his destination, it proved to be a narrow gate with a small hatchway at eye level, jammed between two dilapidated warehouses. He stopped and waited for her to catch up and then jerked his head in the direction of the door.

“He’s in there.”

“Are you sure?”

“He was this morning.”

“How did you know I was looking for him?”

Alladan shrugged innocently. “The whole Citadel knows, my Lady.” Then he grinned and added, “Is there some sort of reward for finding him?”

She smiled at the boy’s expression. “We’ll see.”

“I was…well, I was hoping I could get it now,” he said. “I mean, you never know what’s going to happen…”

“Go back to the gate and ask for Lord Brakandaran. He’ll see you’re rewarded.”

Alladan looked a little disappointed, but he didn’t press the point. He ran off without another word. R’shiel watched him leave with a shake of her head. He certainly was an enterprising lad.

Turning back to study the small gate, R’shiel carefully drew on her power and pushed at the gate with a thought. It creaked open to reveal a lane strewn with litter. She could not sense anyone in the lane, so she stepped through cautiously, gagging on the smell. She stepped silently over the rubbish towards another doorway at the end of the alley. It stood open and inviting. When she entered the room beyond she gasped with astonishment.

It was sumptuous—decorated with no thought to expense, or good taste. There were velvet-upholstered couches scattered about the room, each one sectioned off by diaphanous sheer curtains. The carpet was as thick as the grass in the garden behind the infirmary. Fardohnyan crystal chandeliers hung unlit from the ceiling. There was a smell about the place, too, something she could not identify, although it was annoyingly familiar. R’shiel looked around her wide-eyed, wondering what such a place was doing hidden down here in the warehouse district—and who would frequent it.

The answer came to her as she checked the deserted rooms along a narrow passage leading off the main room. The first was innocent enough—simply a
room with a large double bed, decorated in blue to match the colour of the door. But as she opened each door along the hall, the purpose of the rooms became clear enough. There was one room sporting a huge tub, another with a bed big enough for six and then another containing nothing more than two velvet-lined, metal cuffs hanging from the ceiling by chains and enough instruments of torture to make the Defenders’ interrogation chamber look positively inadequate. Feeling a little queasy at the thought of what might go on in this place, R’shiel wondered about Alladan.
Was he part of the entertainment?
The idea made her sick.

At the end of the hall was a smaller door, which opened at a touch and led down into the darkness. Stepping through, R’shiel called up a finger of flame to light her way, rather pleased with herself. When Brak had tried to teach her how to call fire one evening on their journey here from Vanahiem, she’d almost consumed them both in a ball of flame. The short steps opened into a cellar with an earthen floor. She made the flame brighter and stared at the altar by the far wall, letting out a yell of outrage as the star and lightning bolt of Xaphista stared back at her.

With a sudden thump, the cellar door slammed shut behind her. She ran to the door and pounded on it, but it was shut fast, locked from the other side. Furiously, she called on her power and blasted the door out of her way, only to discover her way blocked by a wall of fire. She remembered now, what that smell was. Oil. Whoever had set this trap had soaked the building in it, hoping to send her to a fiery death.