The Black Robe (The Sword and the Spell) (27 page)

Tallison smiled and walked away and Jonderill heard the pavilion’s door covers move and fall back into place. He might not have been able to see what was happening but the cries of the girl and the grunting of the men enjoying their unexpected prize made it clear. It was a long time before there was silence and he spent every moment praying to the Goddess to intervene but as usual his prayers remained unanswered.

When the guards finally pulled on their loose trousers and left and the girls whimpers had faded to nothing. Jonderill turned his thoughts back to what had happened, how he had fallen out of his cage. His mind was fogged with pain but despite that he knew it didn’t make sense. His body had been pressed tightly against the door since Tallison had put him in the cage so why hadn’t it opened before? There was something else too; Nyte had said he called for help and yet he was certain that he hadn’t said a word. His heart beat faster at the sudden possibility and he leaned forward and pressed against the door as hard as he could. Nothing happened. He should have known there would be nothing there. Resignedly he eased back, closed his eyes and waited for death to take him.

*

He must have slept, although in his position it was unlikely, but there had been a dream, of that he was certain. There had been open spaces where he could stretch his arms and his legs and could run and breathe deeply in the fresh, clean air. Then there had been gnawers running across his cage, scratching at his skin, eating his flesh. His eyes shot open and he swallowed the scream that tore at his throat to be released. He shuddered and gasped as the dream slipped away from him and blinked to focus his eyes on Rothers who stood there in front of him. His eyes were wide with surprise as he stared at the open door of the cage.

“Gnawers, there were gnawers on the cage.”

Rothers frowned and looked puzzled. “No, Lord. You destroyed them, the ones here, the ones in the city, even the gnawlings in their nests. They’re all gone.”

Jonderill tried to understand what had happened. The gnawers were still in his mind, their tails and claws and shrieks as they died. He shook his head trying to dispel the sight from his eyes and the stink from his nose.

“Lord, the door is open.”

He looked down in surprise but he already knew that it was true, his arms and legs were dangling over the edges desperate to be free. “Help me down.”

Jonderill knew it was unwise, that Tallison or his personal guards could return at any moment but he had no control over the demands of his body. Rothers scurried around and lowered the chain which held the cage suspended above the ground. The moment the cage rested Jonderill’s body rolled from it. It was better this time; his body remembered what it was like to move and when he stretched his cramped muscles and twitched his frozen joints they sluggishly obeyed his commands. The pain was intense but he knew now how to wrap it up and close it off in a corner of his mind. It was only temporary and it would come back demanding its right to be felt, but for now it was contained.

He croaked something but the words stuck in his throat. Before he could try again Rothers was at his side with a skin of something which hurt his throat and made his stomach roil. He coughed and choked and took another swig. The second swallow was better, making him retch but clearing his head enough to let him string two thoughts together.

“Where’s the girl?

Rothers looked to the dark corner where he slept amongst a pile of dirty rags. “She doesn’t feel anything for the moment.”

With Rother’s help Jonderill staggered across the pavilion to the corner where she lay. She was as pale as new milled flour except where new bruises mixed with the old and two streaks of blood, which Rothers had not wiped away, stained her skin. For a moment Jonderill thought she was dead but her chest rose up and down with her shallow breathing.

“She needs help.” Jonderill looked down at himself and gave a small laugh. “And so do I.”

Rothers rung his hands and looked afraid. “I will do what I can.”

“Yes, I know you will but we need more help than you can give.” He sank down beside the girl and studied her features. The hardness that was there when she was awake had gone and she looked young and vulnerable. Despite what she’d done to him he would help her if he could but he had barely enough strength to keep himself alive. “Do you know where the brotherlords are camped?” Rothers nodded. “Then you must go there and find the one called Tozaman. Bring him back here, he will help us.”

Rothers gave a small whimper and looked terrified. “I can’t go there, I’m not allowed and it’s half way across the city and I will be seen.”

Jonderill looked at him and scowled and then remembered that the man had been a prisoner for years in this awful place. He had been beaten, abused and humiliated and if he had been in the same situation he would have been terrified too. “You’re right. It’s going to be difficult and dangerous and will require lots of courage, but it is the sort of thing that a lord of the six kingdoms would do.” Rothers looked abashed and stared down at the tattered rags he wore. “You were once a lord, my friend, and can be again. It just takes a little bit of courage.”

“I wasn’t a very good lord,” whispered Rothers, “but I could try.”

He gave a nervous smile and left Jonderill sitting by the girl. Jonderill would have liked to have wiped the blood from the girl’s body and cover her with something, but it was impossible. When he had been confined to his cage, having no hands wasn’t a problem, but now he felt helpless. He stared at the black stumps and for a moment wondered if it wouldn’t be better to climb back into his cage and wait for death to take him. Then he shook his head and put the thought out of his mind. If Rothers could find the courage to go and fetch help, then he had to have the courage to go on. In any case, if Rothers didn’t return with help, which was likely, he was dead anyway, but until then he would do his best to survive.

Using the corner post to give him some support he slowly stood and did what he could to get the blood circulating around his cramped limbs. His legs wobbled beneath him and his arms ached when he moved them, but at least he was able to stand up straight, which was a miracle considering how long he had been held immobile. He tried rolling his shoulders and winced as the weeping sores, where the bars of the cage had pressed down on him, rubbed against the filthy fabric of his robe. Slowly he tested each limb and muscle, stretching and bending until he learnt what his abused body was capable of. When he was certain that he wouldn’t fall he took a few hesitant steps away from the corner post and made his way carefully to the centre of the pavilion avoiding the scattered cushions and small tables.

From his cage he’d only been able to see one corner of Tallison’s domain and hadn’t realised just how large the pavilion was. It wasn’t just the size that amazed him but the richness of the decoration and the value of the contents. There was more gold, silver and precious gems in this one room than in the palaces of Tarmin and Alewinder put together. Why then were the people so wretchedly poor and starving? Tallison’s greed was the obvious cause but there had to be something else otherwise why hadn’t the people risen up and overthrown the Rale?

He looked around the pavilion seeking an answer and his eyes fell on the gold statuette of two entwined sand crawlers. Their glowing, ruby eyes held his and for a moment he shuddered in fear, overwhelmingly certain that the snakes were going to strike. The flame in his mind exploded into brilliance making him cry out, stagger and fall backwards onto a pile of cushions.

Jonderill gasped for breath and rolled onto his knees, his heart pounding so fast that it felt as if it was trying to burst from his chest. Shakily he stood and stared at the table not believing what he was looking at. The statuette had gone and in its place a small pool of molten metal dripped from the edge of the table onto the richly patterned carpet. He moved closer, fascinated by the swirl of silver and gold and blew on what had to be the remains of the four rubies, now just four piles of black ash. Just like the gnawers, they had threatened him and then they were gone. He sank to his knees in exhaustion, too overwhelmed by what he had done to be able to stand any longer.

*

Tozaman sat on the camp stool outside his tent and stared into the pot of ardas that his servant had brought him. It was too early in the day to be drinking the fiery spirit but his mind was troubled, and the duty he was about to perform lay as heavily on his soul as his disagreement with Oraman did. The Brotherlord could have been right; perhaps it was unwise to argue with the Rale and try to persuade him that to give the magician to the mob would only incite them to uncontrollable violence. What did Tallison care about violence or the mob for that matter?

The people were suffering, being pushed to the edge of existence and it wouldn’t take much for them to lose all reason and sanity in their need to survive. Once out of control they would be unstoppable, and he feared for all those who tried to stand against them, himself included. He had tried to get Oraman to understand, but whilst he had persuaded the Brotherlord to accompany him to Tallison’s pavilion so he could put his argument to the Rale, he hadn’t really been convinced about keeping the mob and the magician apart.

He didn’t want to argue with Oraman, the Brotherlord was older than he was and had been commanding men when he had still been a boy, but sometimes he was too traditional, too cautious. Oraman had been his guide and had taken on the role of mentor when he had first ascended to the position of brotherlord on his father’s death. For that he had been grateful, but his advice was based on tradition and the strict code of conduct that governed the actions of the brotherlords. He didn’t understand why Tozaman should be concerned about preserving the life of a foreign magician or the appalling condition of the people, despite the fact that he knew things couldn’t go on as they were.

Tozaman rubbed his temples and wished that life could have been as simple as it had been when he was a boy. Then things had been black or white and all he had to do was follow the rules. Perhaps it was because his father had taught him not to blindly follow rules but think of the consequences that his life had become so complicated. The rules said that he should have no friends apart from his fellow brotherlords, that his thousand warriors were there to obey his every word and the punishment for disobedience was death. He looked up at the sound of approaching feet and watched as two armsbrothers approached with Brotherhand Dravim between them. Oraman’s advice had been clear and unequivocal; there was only one punishment for disobedience and disloyalty.

It was his right as the man’s brotherlord to pass sentence and carry out the punishment without allowing the offender to say a word in his defence. If he had been Oraman this is what he would have done, but Dravim had been the closest thing he had to a friend and he deserved more than that. He stood and crossed to where the three men waited, waiving the two armsbrothers away so they could speak in private, and absently touching the hilt of his sword at his side.

“Dravim, Brotherhand, have you anything to say?”

Dravim managed a small, nervous smile. “I’m sorry Brotherlord; it was a moment of weakness. I saw the gems glitter in the wall of the gemcave and I thought of all the good I could do with them. I thought of the food I could buy for your sister and the children and perhaps have enough left to pay one of the desert brothers to take them away from here and keep them safe. I didn’t take the gems for myself, honestly.”

“And was it your idea to kick the mine prop away and bury me alive?”

“Oh no, Brotherlord, that was Bradge. It was all his idea.”

“But you knew he intended to do it?”

Dravim said nothing but looked down at the pile of sand that he had heaped together with his sandaled feet. Tozaman looked down at the pile as well and knew the answer. “Why, Dravim? We were friends, why would you betray me?”

The man looked up, a sudden look of defiance in his eyes. “Because I wanted what you have. I only wanted a better life. I want a tent to sleep in instead of the ground, food to eat every day and not just when your kind remembers to feed us, ardas to drink at night and a woman to carry my seed. That’s all I wanted and Talis, whose words are like jewels falling from the heavens, says that is what a man should have.”

Tozaman shook his head. He didn’t believe in Talis but the words were true, that is what a man should have. Could he execute a man for wanting to live a proper life? The answer was no but neither could he allow Dravim to go unpunished and perhaps do the same thing again with fatal consequences.

“Dravim, you have let your desires overwhelm your obligations of duty and loyalty to me and I cannot allow that to happen again.” He took a step forward and removed the chain with its insignia of office from around Dravim’s neck, ignoring the look of anguish on his face and the tears in his eyes. “You may return to the ranks, armsbrother.” He hit him sharply across the face with the back of his hand sending him spinning into the dirt and then kicked him contemptuously before walking away. Neither blow was heavy but Dravim felt as if he had been cut with a knife.

Rothers had found Tozaman at the edge of the brotherlords’ camp and had waited, hiding behind a small tent until the Brotherlord had finished berating the man in front of him. In all the time he had been Tallison’s prisoner he had never spoken to a brotherlord but he knew all about them. Next to the Rale the twelve brotherlords were the most powerful people in Sandstrone. They commanded the army, kept discipline in the all male city of Astazin and held the power of life and death over twelve thousand warriors.

He had heard that in the days before Tallison had become Rale, the brotherlords had led the twelve desert tribes of Sandstrone. They were not that powerful now but even so the thought of having to speak to one terrified him. He crept closer, trying to stay concealed, but at the same time drawn to the scene in front of him. By the look on the face of the man who faced Tozaman he had been foolish enough to displease the brotherlord in some way. Rothers watched in fascination feeling a strange sense of elation that someone else was in trouble instead of himself for once. He jumped in surprise when Tozaman struck the man across the face and then kicked him.