Fool's Errand (38 page)

That is why the rebel attack had come as such a shock. They'd come out of nowhere and the only thing that had saved him from being instantly pitchforked to death alongside his men was that he'd happened to be a dozen paces away enjoying a quiet moment of reflection when the attack occurred. Upon hearing the shrill screams of his men, he'd immediately stepped behind the nearest tree, turned and started silently slinking away from the sounds of the screams. Cowardice had not caused him to act thusly, of course, but rather the thought that he would fail in his duty if he were to be murdered alongside his men.

Unfortunately, two of the rebels had spotted him and given chase. By casting terrified glances over his shoulder and pretending to falter, he'd lured them onward. And when he'd been certain that they were far enough away from their companions that their screams would not be heard, he'd turned abruptly and attacked.

As it happened, they'd not even had time to scream. However, one of them had had time to slit his belly.

Wiping his clammy forehead with the back of his bloody hand, General Murdock leaned against the nearest tree, understanding that if he sat now he might never get up again. He needed to decide what he was going to do, and he needed to decide quickly. Could he continue to follow the princess? Difficult to say. The rebel's blade did not appear to have pierced the intestine itself; if he'd had his pack he'd probably have been able to stitch up the wound with catgut and fashion some sort of bandage to keep out the dirt. But he did not have his pack.

General Murdock's long nose twitched. Had the wound already begun to fester or was the odour he detected only a figment of a fevered imagination?

If it had not yet begun to fester, it soon would.

And when it did, death would quickly follow.

Death—and duty unfulfilled.

It was this prospect of duty unfulfilled that spurred General Murdock to decide to break off his pursuit of the princess in favour of making for the New Man training camp northeast of the Great Forest. Upon reaching it, he'd have his wound tended and take all steps necessary to recover his strength as quickly as possible. While convalescing, he'd select a new company of soldiers to accompany him once he resumed pursuit. He'd also send a carefully worded message to the Regent explaining the situation and assuring him that he knew where to find the princess and would do so as soon as he was able.

How fortunate that he'd happened to overhear where the princess and her companions were headed next.

Indeed, if he'd been the kind of man who believed in fate, General Murdock might have been tempted to believe that finding the healing pool was the princess's destiny and that killing her was his.

But he was not the kind of man who believed in fate. He was the kind of man who believed in cold hard facts.

And so, keeping one hand firmly pressed against the gash in his belly, General Murdock pushed away from the tree and forced himself to begin staggering in what that small, feral part of his brain told him was a northeast direction.

Because the fact was, even if he somehow survived the night in the forest, if he didn't reach the training camp by the next day, it would almost certainly be too late.

THIRTY-EIGHT

W
HEN THE LOWBORN REBELS
attacked General Murdock, the man in meanest homespun had been caught quite as off guard as the General had been.

It was he who'd killed the two timber wolves and the big cat. He hadn't enjoyed killing such proud beasts any more than he'd enjoyed killing the second messenger but the alternative would have been to allow them to eat him, and he was quite sure that he'd have enjoyed
that
even less.

The man had, of course, understood why the beasts had come after him instead of going after either of the two groups ahead of him. He was travelling alone behind the others; in the world of a large predator, this marked him as a weakling that had become separated from its herd—an easy meal, as it were.

Well, he'd shown them who was a weakling. A miserable childhood spent defending himself against the taunts and threats of bigger children had taught the man to wield a slingshot almost as well as a Gorgishman. In the case of all three beasts, the rock they'd taken to the head had so stunned them that he'd been able to slit their throats before they recovered.

Unfortunately, it had not occurred to the man that their carcasses might alert the forest dwellers to the presence of intruders. Well, to be more precise, the man hadn't realized that there
were
any forest dwellers. That is probably why he'd nearly had an apoplexy when they'd appeared out of nowhere, stabbing with their pitchforks and chopping with their axes.

Luckily, he'd been far enough back not to be noticed—but not so far back that he hadn't noticed the General fleeing with two of the forest dwellers in hot pursuit. Surreptitiously, he'd followed these three until without warning he'd come across the bodies of the two pursuers. Their injuries had been so horrific that they'd actually made the man's gorge rise. He'd been about to turn away when he'd noticed that one of them had bloodied his knife. Cautiously, then, the man had proceeded onward only to come across General Murdock shoving his guts back into his belly. From his hiding place, the man had watched the General sweat and tremble briefly before appearing to come to some decision that prompted him to stagger off—not toward the place where he'd last seen the princess, but
away
from it!

The man in homespun had been aghast.

The one who'd set him to this task had said that he needed to fulfill his orders for the greater good of the realm. However, if he was to fulfill the first part of his orders—which required him to follow the General—he would not be able to execute the second part of them—which involved the princess.

Worriedly, the man realized that he was not going to be able to simply follow orders.

He was going to have to
think
.

After a long hard moment of thinking, he decided that he ought to retrace his steps and pick up the princess's trail. One of the reasons he thought this was that since the General's soldiers were all dead, he could not send any more reports to Parthania. The other reason was that alone and wounded as he was, the beasts of the forest wouldn't just mark the General as a weakling; they would mark him as an injured,
dying
weakling.

And in the world of a large predator, there was no easier meal to be had.

THIRTY-NINE

Eighty-two beans left in the jar

A
S ANTICIPATED, PERSEPHONE
, Azriel and Rachel arrived in the coastal town of Syon the day after they'd said goodbye to Robert and Big Ben at the edge of the Great Forest.

Anxious though she was to find a ship and cross the channel to the Island of Ru while the weather held, Persephone could not help pausing to marvel at the inexpressible beauty of the town that had once belonged to the Marinese. Streets cobbled even more cunningly than those in the imperial capital were lined with tall, closely set buildings that looked as though they'd been carved from blocks of pure salt. Wrapped in narrow, curving stone staircases and topped with twisting spires, these buildings were like works of art. Indeed, evidence of the artistry of the Marinese could be seen in everything from the imposing statues of the Marinese sea gods to the elaborate public fountains to the intricately carved stone benches and stalls of the bustling market.

As Persephone breathed deeply of the salty air and felt her skirt (which she'd changed into before entering town) flap in the breeze, she thought of Dane. He was the sad, old Marinese craftsman who'd been a slave in the manor house where she'd lived with her Cookie until that terrible night the master had lost her in a game of dice. Dane had grown up in this beautiful town at a time when it had still belonged to his people; he'd apprenticed for many years at his father's knee that he might one day become a great craftsman himself. How awful, then, to have been enslaved by his own people and handed over to a man like the master—to have been forced to live in a town like Wickendale, with its slums and slave markets and muck-filled streets, where the stomach-churning miasma of rot and waste ever hung heavy in the air.

When we've found the healing pool and rid the realm of the Regent, I will ask Finn to give Syon back to the Marinese
, thought Persephone suddenly.
I will return to Wickendale and free Dane—and Cookie, too!

Smiling as she imagined the expression on Cookie's plump face at the news that the poor, overworked little slave girl she'd loved so well was actually a
princess
, Persephone followed Azriel and Rachel down to the harbour. It was humming with activity. Slaves and servants were busy unloading the holds of docked vessels; rowboats were conducting notable persons between shore and the dozens of large ships anchored in the harbour's deeper waters. Dubious-looking characters in rickety flats bobbed from ship to ship trying to tempt those left aboard into handing over hard-earned coin for exorbitantly priced fresh fruit, red meat and liquor. Merchants hurried along in search of the next lucrative shipping contract; darting street urchins picked pockets and threw rocks at the crying seagulls. Sailors too long at sea roamed the wharf in search of strong drink and loose women.

There was so much activity, in fact, that Persephone was quite sure they'd have no trouble at all finding passage to the Island of Ru. To her dismay, however, it soon became clear that few captains were willing to risk a channel crossing so close to the storm season, and
none
were willing to risk undertaking such a journey with women on board.

Women, apparently, were bad luck.

“Don't worry,” said Azriel, chuckling as he held Persephone's wrists to keep her from shaking her fists at the swarthy specimen who'd most recently brought this tidbit of valuable information to their attention. “I have an idea.”

Azriel turned to Rachel—who'd lived friendless and alone on the streets of Syon before being discovered by Fayla—and asked her to lead them to an inn. She found a modest one situated not far from the market. After paying for the last available room, Azriel extracted a promise from Persephone that she'd stay put and a promise from Rachel that she'd see to it that Persephone stayed put, then he ducked back out into the street.

He was not gone long.

“I've found passage to and from the Island of Ru for two men aboard the only ship in the harbour willing to make a channel crossing,” he announced triumphantly as he stepped sideways into the room, the door frame being too narrow to accommodate his broad shoulders.

Persephone and Rachel stared at him blankly.

“Only one of you will be able to accompany me to the island,” he explained in a slightly exasperated voice, “and she will have to be disguised as a man.”

Without realizing what she was doing, Persephone reached up and touched her hair. As surely as she knew that it must be her who accompanied Azriel to the island, she knew that to pass for a man she was going to have to cut her hair. The thought filled her with dismay From the start she'd known that she might have to sacrifice her life on this quest of theirs, but she'd never
dreamt
that she'd have to sacrifice her hair! Thick, dark and glossy it had not been shorn since the night she'd arrived at the Mines of Torodania. She shuddered now as she recalled huddling in the darkness of the mine shaft running her fingers back and forth over her scabby, bristly scalp. She did not know if she could cut her hair now. She supposed she'd have to but—

The sudden feel of Azriel's fingers gently gathering up her hair caused all further thought to fly out of her head. Piling her tresses upon her head, he leaned down, gave her neck a lingering kiss, then laid his lips beside her ear and whispered, “I would not have you cut your beautiful hair, wife.”

Breathless at the undercurrent of desire in his voice—and having completely forgotten that Rachel was still in the room—Persephone languorously turned her face toward his. As she did so, Azriel plopped a boyish cap down onto her head—and hair.