Medalon (29 page)

Tarja dumped the load of vegetable scraps and other unidentifiable matter into the back of the muledrawn wagon, forcing himself not to gag. They collected the garbage from the Inn of the Hopeless and the other stores in Grimfield whenever the mood took Lycren, rather than on any set schedule. Since it was nearly a month since the last time Lycren had felt in the mood, the leavings had had plenty of time to ferment into an odoriferous, cockroach-infested sludge. Tarja swung the heavy barrel down to the ground and glanced up, feeling himself being watched. A young, fair-haired lad stood near the cellar doors watching him with interest. Tarja wondered about the boy. He seemed to turn up in the most unusual places.

“Get a move on, Tarja!” Lycren called.

Tarja glared at the boy as he straightened up. He hated being stared at. Anger, buried deep inside for survival, threatened to surface again. Only once had he made the mistake of letting it show. The lashing he had received as a consequence had done little to humble him, but it had taught him to control his
temper. The pain had not bothered him nearly so much as the knowledge that he had let a fool provoke him.

As they moved out of the tavern yard and headed for the smithy further down the lane, Tarja wondered about the boy. It was not inconceivable that he had contacts in the rebellion. The Grimfield was full of convicted heathens, both real and imagined. Had they sent the boy to spy on him? To confirm that he was still alive? He wondered sometimes how well his fellow rebels had listened to what he had tried to teach them, the foremost of which was never, ever, let a traitor go unpunished. Tarja had spent the winter half-expecting a knife in the back, every time he found himself in a crowd of prisoners. Lycren saw to it that he was segregated for the most part, but at meal times in particular he knew how much danger he was in. It was with mild surprise that Tarja realised how long he had survived in this place. He had not expected to live through the journey here.

Tarja’s thoughts turned to the rebels he had left behind. Old Padric, worn out and weary from years of fighting against impossible odds. Mandah, with her ardent faith in the gods. Ghari, so young and passionate. Where was he now? Still fighting? Killed in a skirmish with the Defenders? Or maybe he had given up and returned to his mother’s farm in the Lowlands. Was he one of the names on Joyhinia’s infamous list? Tarja seethed with frustration as he thought of the rebels. He was doing nothing here. He was not likely to either, collecting the garbage and emptying the privies of the garrison town. Each day he spent here in the Grimfield ate a little more out of
his store of hope. Tarja knew he would have to do something before it was all gone.

One of the few advantages—possibly the only one—of being assigned to the garbage patrol was that Tarja was allowed to bathe daily, unlike the miners who were only allowed the privilege once a week. Being allowed to wash away the stink of rotting food and other despicable decaying matter was the only thing that made his work detail tolerable. Many a time he had wished Wilem had sent him to the mines where he could have taken out his anger with a sledgehammer on the rock face. He shivered in the chill of the dusk, his skin covered in goose pimples from the icy water, as he rubbed himself briskly with the scrap of rough cloth he used as a towel and glanced up at the sky. Angry grey clouds stained red and bloody flocked around the sun as it cowered behind the foothills until it could finally escape into the night. As he dressed in his rough prison uniform, Tarja glanced at Zac who was attempting to dry his shaggy head with a saturated towel.

“It’ll rain again tonight,” he remarked.

“S’pose,” Zac agreed.

In almost two months, he couldn’t recall Zac putting more than two words together at a time. The big, taciturn murderer was a good companion for a man who wished to answer no questions. Together they walked to the gate where Fohli, Lycren’s corporal, waited for them. He locked the gate behind them and escorted the prisoners across the compound to the kitchens. The garbage detail was always fed last, and out of habit, Tarja and Zac sank down onto
the ground to wait their turn at a meal. The compound was busy in the dusk as the prisoners from the mines and the various workhouses were fed in shuffling lines. Tarja watched them idly, not paying attention to anyone in particular, until he spied R’shiel walking purposefully across the compound towards the kitchens, her grey shawl clutched tight around her shoulders against the cold.

The sight of R’shiel reminded Tarja even more painfully of the mess they had made of their lives. She didn’t belong here in the Grimfield among the dregs of Medalon, spared a life as a barracks
court’esa
only by sheer good fortune. He had spoken to her only a handful of times since they had arrived and always in the company of Zac or a guard. Unless she happened to be in the yard when they came round to collect the garbage, he never even saw her from one week to the next. He wanted to know how she was doing. He needed to assure himself that the journey here had not destroyed her. His frustration was almost a palpable thing, bitter enough to taste.

He watched R’shiel as she walked towards him, wondering if she knew how beautiful she was. She carried herself in the manner of one unaware of her effect on others. Tarja had expected himself to be immune to her allure but every time he caught sight of R’shiel, even from a distance, he was startled by the effect she had on him. It was an odd feeling he could not define. It wasn’t desire, or even simple lust. It was just the strangest feeling that to be near her, to be noticed by her, would be a very pleasant thing indeed. It had been creeping up on him ever since that night in the vineyard. Despite everything that
had happened since, she was always somewhere in his thoughts.

R’shiel was looking around as she approached them. Not finding the object of her search, she turned to Fohli.

“Have you seen Sunny Hopechild?” she asked.

“Lost her, have you?” Fohli replied, with vast disinterest.

“She was supposed to report to the Commandant’s house an hour ago. She’s been reassigned.”

“She’ll turn up. Them
court’esa
are too smart to duck an order like that. You’ll be in trouble yourself if you don’t get back before dark.”

“Will you send her along if you see her?” she asked, looking around in the rapidly fading light. “She’s about this tall, with blonde hair.”

“Sure,” Fohli promised. The corporal would promise anything provided he didn’t actually have to put himself out to keep his word.

In a slash of yellow light, Sister Unwin, her round face flushed from the heat of the stoves, emerged from the kitchen to survey the lines of prisoners waiting for their dinner. She glared at R’shiel and marched across the compound, planting herself in front of the girl with her hands on her wide hips. Her blue skirt was dusted with a faint sheen of flour and there was a smudge of something on her chin.

“And just what do you think you’re doing here, girl? Does Mistress Crisabelle know you’re gallivanting about town at this hour of the day, flirting with the guards?”

“Mistress Crisabelle sent me to look for her new seamstress.”

“Well, she’s not here. You get along back where you belong and don’t let me catch you hanging around my kitchen.” Unwin turned her wrath on Fohli. “You take her back to the Commandant and see that he knows what she’s been up to.” With that, she stormed off back to her kitchen.

Fohli was left in something of a quandary. He couldn’t leave his two charges unattended, nor could he ignore a direct order from a Sister. With a shrug, he glanced at Zac and Tarja.

“C’mon lads, looks like we’ve a bit of a walk before dinner.”

They climbed wearily to their feet and followed Fohli to the gate. The guards let them pass and the four of them headed across the Square towards the Commandant’s residence on the other side of town. Fohli was not the least bit interested in the additional duty Unwin had thrust upon him and dawdled along with Zac at his side. R’shiel was angry and her step carried her ahead of the others. Trying not to look too obvious about it, Tarja caught up with her. By the time they had crossed the Square, it was almost completely dark.

The threatening clouds rumbled ominously as they turned down the main road, which led to the married quarters. R’shiel glanced at Tarja as he drew level with her but said nothing.

“What does Crisabelle want Sunny for?” he asked. Zac and Fohli had fallen back far enough so that their conversation was unlikely to be overheard.

“Crisabelle wants a new wardrobe before she visits the Citadel in the spring. Sunny is supposed to help with the sewing.”

“Can she sew?” Tarja asked curiously. From what he had observed of Sunny, she appeared to excel in only one thing and it certainly wasn’t sewing.

“I truly don’t know. But Loclon beat her up again and I thought she could do with a break. It’s sort of my fault she got hurt. I’m sure he only does it because of me,” she added with a heavy sigh.

So he’s found another outlet for his anger
, Tarja thought sourly. The thought relieved him a little. R’shiel was safe from him, for the moment. Tarja had made a silent vow to himself to kill Loclon. All he lacked was the opportunity. He didn’t need a weapon. Killing him with his bare hands would be half the pleasure.

“She’ll turn up. Fohli’s right, you know. Sunny isn’t stupid. She won’t defy a direct order from the Commandant.”

“I suppose so.”

“Anyway, what do you mean, it’s your fault?”

“He…well, he’s still mad at me. And you. I guess I’m just the easiest target.”

R’shiel was silent for a moment before she continued, as if weighing up whether or not to confide in him. “It seems that every time I turn around he’s standing there, just watching me. The way he looks at me makes my skin crawl. A couple of times he…well, it doesn’t matter. He never gets an opportunity to do anything about it. But each time he misses a chance to get at me, someone else seems to get hurt.”

Tarja shook his head, appalled that she would blame herself for Loclon’s insanity. “It’s not your fault, R’shiel. Any more than it’s my fault—”

“That we’re here?” R’shiel finished for him. They walked on in silence. Within a few minutes, they had reached the low stone fence surrounding the Commandant’s residence so they stopped at the small gate to wait for Fohli and Zac to catch up. In the lamplight blazing from the windows, Tarja could make out the Commandant and Loclon discussing something in silhouette. R’shiel tensed as she saw them.

“He’s here.”

Tarja looked at her, not truly surprised by the vehemence in her tone. She still had not forgiven or forgotten the journey to the Grimfield.

“Maybe he’s in trouble.”

“I wish! More likely here to get tomorrow’s orders.”

She turned from him, but he caught her arm and turned her back to face him, studying her intently in the gloom. “Are you all right, R’shiel? Really?”

“I’m fine, Tarja,” she told him, a little bitterly. “I’m in prison for the next ten years. I’ve been beaten and raped and now I’m serving a woman who takes a picnic basket to a public lashing. What more could I ask?”

Tarja had to resist the urge to take her in his arms. To hold her as he had when she was a little girl, following him and Georj around, skinning her knees as she ran to catch up with two boys who thought their red Cadet jackets made them too important to associate with obnoxious little girls.

“I’m sorry, R’shiel,” he said, helpless to offer her anything more. “I’ll find a way out of this. Soon.”

“I can take care of myself.”

Before he could add anything further, Fohli and Zac caught up to them. R’shiel shook her arm free of Tarja and faced Fohli defiantly.

“Well, are you going to report me to the Commandant?” she asked.

“Not bloody likely,” Fohli muttered. “Less the Commandant notices me, the better. You get along and stay outta Unwin’s way.” Without bothering to thank him, R’shiel lifted her skirts and stepped over the low gate. She ran around the house and disappeared into the darkness. “She’s odd, that one.”

“Harshini,” Zac said sagely. Both Tarja and Fohli stared at him in astonishment. “She’s got the look,” he added knowingly. The big man hitched his trousers into a more comfortable position and headed back down the road towards the prisoner’s kitchen.

Fohli caught at Tarja’s sleeve and pulled him along in Zac’s wake. “Here, you was a rebel, Tarja, mixin’ with all them heathens. Is it true what they say about the Harshini? Are they really gods?”

“I doubt it,” Tarja said, as he watched Zac’s retreating back. “How do you suppose Zac knows about them?”

“Zac’s from near the border. That’s what they sent him here for. He’s a pagan. Killed a couple of Defenders they sent to arrest him. I heard the Hythrun reckon the Harshini are still out there somewhere. In hiding. Not that I ever seen no sign of it. You think that girl is one of them?”

“Are you kidding me?” Actually, he thought it was the most absurd idea he had ever heard.

“Aye, you’re right at that,” Fohli agreed. “Here! Isn’t she your sister or something?”

“No, she’s not my sister.”

“Well, she’s foreign, that’s for certain,” Fohli said.

News of the riot at the mines reached the Commandant’s house early on the morning of Fourthday. R’shiel was woken by the sound of raised voices and the pounding of hooves in the street. Teggert pushed open the door to their tiny room off the kitchen and ordered R’shiel and Sunny to get up and come help in the kitchens while Wilem and his officers held their council of war over breakfast in the dining room. Still rubbing the sleep from their eyes, the two young women hurried into the kitchen. As Teggert issued orders like a little general, he told them of the riot—how the miners had barricaded themselves in the main pit, and the rumour that Captain Mysekis and several other Defenders were dead. Dace had been right, she realised as she lugged the heavy iron kettle to the fire. It was a pity Loclon was assigned to the town and not the mines. Getting up this early would have been worth it to hear that he had been killed.

The racket woke the whole house, and once news of the riot reached Crisabelle, she went into a spin, declaring that she was about to be murdered in her
bed. In a rare display of temper, Wilem turned on her and told her that he was too busy to concern himself with her right now, and that if she didn’t like it, she could visit her sister in Brodenvale and stay there until the damned summer, for all he cared. Wailing like a banshee, Crisabelle fled to her room, screaming for R’shiel to help her pack, making sure that everyone within earshot knew that she was leaving and Wilem would be lucky if she ever came back. The Commandant ignored her and turned back to the business at hand. It was dawn when Wilem thundered out of the town. Fetching and carrying for Crisabelle, R’shiel barely even noticed he had left, but for the unusual silence that descended on the house. Of Mahina there was no sign. She had either slept through the entire ruckus, which was unlikely, or chose to remain uninvolved.

The confusion of Crisabelle’s departure, hard on the heels of the Commandant leaving for the mines, made the morning fly. Once she had made up her mind to be gone from the Grimfield there was no stopping her and R’shiel was quite astounded to see how determined the normally absentminded woman could be. The free servants of the Commandant’s household were hastily given a holiday and only R’shiel and Sunny were to remain in the house while Crisabelle was away. As Crisabelle clambered aboard the carriage she was still yelling instructions at R’shiel and Teggert. The cook and the convict girl nodded continuously. Yes, Teggert would empty out the pantry before he left. No, R’shiel wouldn’t let any thieving whore from the Women’s Hall into the house. Yes, the stove and the chimneys would be
cleaned before the summer. No, Teggert wouldn’t forget to be back in time for her return. Assuming she did return. Wilem had some apologising to do before that would happen! The orders went on and on, until the driver climbed into his seat and Crisabelle finally gave the order to move out. R’shiel watched the carriage disappear from sight with a sigh of relief.

Teggert went back inside as soon as the carriage moved off. R’shiel waited a moment, just in case Crisabelle thought of something else and ordered the driver to turn around.

“Prisoner!”

R’shiel turned slowly towards the voice, schooling her features into a neutral expression. She had hoped that Loclon would accompany Wilem to the mines, but one of the captains had to stay in the town until he returned. With a sinking heart, R’shiel realised it might be days before the Commandant returned, depending on how well organised the prisoners were.

“Yes, Captain?”

Loclon dismissed the corporal he was addressing and walked towards her, blocking her way back into the house. He must have been here since early this morning, waiting.

“You are to report to Sister Prozlan for reassignment.”

“Mistress Crisabelle said I was to remain here.” Wilem was barely gone. Crisabelle’s carriage had probably not even left the walls of the prison town yet.

“The Commandant isn’t here and Crisabelle’s orders aren’t worth a pinch of horse shit,” Loclon reminded her. “I am in charge at the moment and I’m
ordering you to report to Sister Prozlan for reassignment.”

“Crisabelle said I was to remain here,” she repeated. Reassignment meant more than losing the protection of the Commandant’s house.

“Are you defying a direct order, prisoner?” Loclon asked. He took a step closer and she couldn’t help but take a backward step. The low fence surrounding the Commandant’s house pressed into the back of her knees “Do you know what the punishment—”

“R’shiel! Get in here at once! I want my tea!” Mahina was leaning out of the upstairs window, her expression thunderous. “Captain! Haven’t you got something better to do than annoy my servant? Off with you!”

Without another word to Loclon, she fled inside to safety, aware that this time she had been very, very lucky.

R’shiel spent the remainder of the morning tidying up after Crisabelle. Mahina made no further comment about Loclon. She promised R’shiel she would see her at dinner but in the meantime, she was off to have lunch with Khira the physic, who was, according to Mahina, the only woman in the Grimfield capable of holding an intelligent conversation.

Sunny announced that she was going back to bed, once they finished. The
court’esa
was not used to getting up in the early hours of the morning. She was not particularly pleased with her new position. R’shiel was a little hurt that Sunny had not been more appreciative of her efforts to free her from the Women’s Hall. Sunny’s face was still bruised, but the
swelling had gone down. Maybe, in time, Sunny would learn that there was more to life than being a
court’esa
, although R’shiel was not hopeful. Sunny simply believed that you should just go with whatever life threw at you and if there was a profit in it, so much the better. But she didn’t argue the point. Sunny was already asleep by the time R’shiel finished clearing away the table from lunch.

R’shiel knew that with a skeleton force left to guard the town there would never be a better chance for escape. The sky was dark with thunderheads and another storm was threatening as R’shiel let herself into the yard to collect more wood for the stove. She glanced up at the sky with satisfaction. A few more hours and she would be free of this place. In the meantime, she decided to follow Sunny’s example and get some rest.

It was going to be a long night.

When R’shiel woke it was dark outside. Cautiously, she went to the door and opened it a little. The kitchen was dim and deserted. Gathering up her few belongings, she slipped out of the room softly, so as not to disturb Sunny. She stopped in the kitchen long enough to gather up a loaf of bread, half a wheel of cheese and a thin paring knife, which she secreted into the side of her boot. She let herself out of the kitchen and ran down the muddy lane, away from the Commandant’s house.

The ominous sky rumbled as she ran, jagged lightning illuminating her path. R’shiel reached the end of the lane, crossed the street and then stopped, glancing around the square. Announcing itself with a
fanfare of thunder the storm unleashed itself over the Grimfield, the rain lashing the shuttered windows in its fury, bouncing off the cobbled square like muddy glass marbles. She had only taken two or three steps when she froze at the sound of horses. Quickly jumping back into her place of concealment, she held her breath as two Defenders trotted by, hunched over their saddles in the downpour.

“No one would be out in this!” the nearer one said. He was yelling at his companion to be heard over the storm.

She stayed hidden until they had crossed the square, trying to decide which was the safest route to the South Gate. Should she risk the square, and being seen, which was by far the shorter route? Or stick to the back alleys and take even longer, further increasing the risk of being discovered? R’shiel wavered with indecision for a moment before deciding on a simple mathematical fact. The shortest distance between two points was a straight line. The square was completely deserted now, the shops shuttered against the storm. Even the Defenders’ Headquarters building on the opposite side looked dark and abandoned for the night. The less time she spent getting to the gate, the better. Besides, the majority of the Defenders were at the mines with Wilem. There were not the men to spare to guard the town effectively.

R’shiel turned out of the lane and headed across the square at a dead run. Drenched to the skin in seconds, her feet slipped on the slick cobbles as she ran, but she righted herself without too much effort and maintained her pace. The thunder crashed
overhead as the lightning showed her the way. As she passed the tannery, which marked the halfway point, she smiled grimly to herself. She would make it, she was certain now. However, her certainty lasted only a few seconds. Too late, she heard the pounding of hooves on the wet cobbles behind her, their sound muffled by the thunder. She began to run harder.

R’shiel screamed as she was scooped up from behind. Struggling wildly she fought off a strong arm that encircled her waist as her captor turned his horse towards the Headquarters building. When they arrived, he hauled savagely on the reins and she was a thrown heavily down to the cobbles. The second rider was only a split-second behind her as he jumped down from his horse and hauled her to her feet. R’shiel wriggled out of his grasp desperately. The other trooper grabbed at her wet hair as she tried to run and pulled her up the short steps to the verandah. She tried to pull away from him, screaming as he gave her hair a vicious twist. The other man opened the door and thrust her inside, stopping long enough to lock it behind him, then pushed her through to Wilem’s office.

With a shove, he let her go. A single candle burned on the mantle. The vicious Tail of the Tiger lay on the desk.

Loclon sat behind Wilem’s heavily carved desk, as if trying it on for size.