Hammer Of God (25 page)

Rhian, with a great gasp, sprang onto her extended left arm and swirled herself upwards and sideways, her right leg extending to catch Zandakar across the belly. He twisted under her foot, seemingly boneless, and his leg caught her instead in the chest. She crashed heavily, awkwardly to the trampled and sweat-stippled grass. With a shout of savage triumph he came down on top of her, straddling her torso, knife swinging round to press to her throat.

But before his blade could cut off her breathing, hers whipped up into his face, its tip pricking the skin beside his right eye. One deep breath and she'd have him blinded…or worse. A thread of blood, like a tear, found its way down his cheek.

“Setzhay?” she demanded, the air rasping in her throat.

Zandakar's blade fell to his side. “Setzhay, hushla,” he replied, then smiled. “Good. Good.”

Dexterity let go of the breath he'd been holding, aware that beside him Ursa's face had paled to milk-white. This time he put his arm all the way round her shoulders, and she was so shaken she didn't object.

“Rollin have mercy,” she murmured. “I can't come here again.”

He would. Not because he enjoyed the sight of Rhian and Zandakar fighting like cat and dog, but because it was one of the few ways he knew how to show them he cared.

Zandakar hadn't moved. Neither had Rhian. Her knife-point still pricked the skin beside his eye. The trickle of blood on his cheek was drying a darker red.

She said, still breathing heavily, “Do you believe that I believe you? Do you?”

So slowly, so gently, he took her wrist in his hand and lowered her blade from his face. “Zho. I believe.”

“This is a new thing? Since you were banished, Zandakar?”

Dexterity watched Zandakar's face twist with pain. “I think zho. Rhian…” He took a shuddering breath. “Yatzhay, Rhian.”

“What are they talking about, Jones?” said Ursa. “What's a new thing? Why is he sorry?”

He shrugged. “I've no idea.”

“Then you'd best find out, hadn't you?” she replied. “Because it's trouble, whatever else it may be.”

Yes. It was trouble. There was dreadful grief in Zandakar's face, revulsion in Rhian's. And beneath the revulsion a deeper, sharper pain.

Oh dear. What's happened? Hettie, what's gone wrong now?

Rhian slapped Zandakar's thigh with the flat of her blade. “Up. I must get ready for Litany.”

Elegantly uncoiling, Zandakar rose to his feet. Then he held out his hand to help Rhian onto her feet. She followed his easy movement, their gazes not shifting from each other's face.

“Speaking of trouble,” said Ursa, under her breath. Then she shook herself, and turned her back to the tiltyard. “I'm off, Jones. Physick Travvis in the township's got a bunion, so I'm taking his place at the clinic tonight. Don't blame me if I stink of regurgitated ale come the morning.”

“Oh, must you go?” he said. “You're the royal physick now, Ursa. You should have a care for yourself.”

“No, I should have a care for those folk less fortunate in their health,” she snapped. “I never was a physick to give myself airs and graces, and I'm too old to start such nonsense now.” She slapped him. “As you well know, Jones. Wash your mouth out with soap.”

He watched her stamp away, muttering, and smiled. It was good to be on side with her again, that was certain. He'd missed her severely, even the rough side of her tongue. Or perhaps especially…

“Dexterity!”

He turned. Rhian was walking towards him, sweaty and dirty, lightly spattered with blood. Her own blade was sheathed again, and Zandakar's was in her hand. He walked behind, nicked and bloody himself here and there.

As he watched her walking, Dexterity felt his heart thud hard. Yes indeed. Oh dear. Something definitely was wrong.

When she reached him, he bowed. “Majesty. Is everything all right?”

She smiled. “Of course.”

Her statecraft was flawless. Without his days on the road, learning her, he'd not have seen the truth beneath the mask. “But you're wounded.”

“Wounded?” She glanced at the red-stained slash in her sleeve. “A scratch. No need for healing. And no time if there was. I have to go, I'm running late for Litany. Did you come out to stretch your legs, Mister Jones? Perhaps Zandakar would keep you company.”

Her message was clear: she wanted him to spend time with Zandakar. He glanced in the warrior's face, and saw there an echo of the distress he'd witnessed earlier. Yatzhay, Rhian. But why was he sorry?

“Yes, indeed, Majesty,” he said heartily. “I do need the fresh air. Would you walk with me, Zandakar? I'd be glad of the company.”

“Of course he'll walk with you,” said Rhian. “But mind you stay in the gardens, Mister Jones. The soldiers will fetch you when it's time to come in.”

As he watched Rhian out of sight, he heard Zandakar sigh. Without turning he said, “Zandakar. Why are you sorry?”

Zandakar didn't answer. “Zandakar?” he said, and did turn. “What's happened?”

The warrior's brief captivity in the castle's dungeons hadn't marked him. Not like the nobles had been marked by their stay, under Marlan. He looked strong and well and just like himself. Dexterity looked closer.

No. Not quite like himself. He's had a bad shock.

“Dexterity—” Zandakar began, then shook his head.

“Come along,” he said, and patted the man's arm. “You heard Rhian. We're to stroll in the gardens.”

A scattering of bees still buzzed in the fragrant flowerbeds, even though the sun was slowly sinking, dragging dusk in its wake. From the corner of his eye Dexterity caught sight of four castle soldiers, hovering discreetly beyond the garden's borders. He thought Zandakar knew they were there too, though he made no comment.

How small his life has become. Not so long ago he was a prince in his own land, commander of an army. And now he's a prisoner who must walk in a garden watched by men who'll gladly kill him if he so much as takes one wrong step.

“Zandakar,” he said again, breaking the long silence. “I can see you're upset. Rhian's upset too. I wish you'd tell me what's happened.”

The late afternoon air was warm and scented, almost too sweetly for comfort. Zandakar reached out his hand and trailed his fingers through a waterfall of pale yellow sassy-blossoms. Then he sighed again, deeply, a sound full of pain.

“Yuma gives humans to chalava.”

It took him a moment to make sense of the comment. Understanding halted him dead in his tracks. “You mean – sacrifice? Human sacrifice in Mijak?”

Zandakar continued another few paces, then slowed. Stopped. Without looking back he nodded. “Zho.”

Oh dear. Oh, Hettie. Feeling sick, Dexterity stared at Zandakar's braced, rigid shoulders. “You didn't know.”

That made Zandakar turn. His ice blue eyes were too bright. “Wei.”

“But Rhian thought you did?”

Zandakar swallowed. “Wei. Alasdair king.”

Well of course Alasdair thought that. Alasdair would believe anything of the man who loved his wife.

“Human sacrifice?” he said, still sickened. “Oh, this is bad, Zandakar. It's – well, it's worse than barbaric.” A thought occurred. “How did Rhian learn of it?”

Zandakar shrugged. “Wei know.”

“But she's quite certain? She knows it for a fact?”

“I think zho.”

“And you believe it,” he murmured. “With no proof, you think it's true.”

His face twisting, Zandakar nodded. “Zho.”

Because you know your mother. Because you've seen what she can do, you've seen her slash your unborn child from your wife's belly. Seen your own death in her eyes.

“Zandakar…” Dexterity folded his arms, suddenly chilled through. “Is this chalava? Has your god ever asked for human blood before?”

“Wei! Wei!” Zandakar's fist struck his chest. “Chalava say wei kill.”

To you. Not to her. “Zandakar—”

Zandakar said something swiftly in his own tongue, then, the words dressed in misery. Only one word was familiar. Yuma. His fist struck his chest again, surely hard enough to hurt.

Dexterity stared at him, nonplussed. He's grieving. After all she's done, he's grieving for his mother. I don't understand it, Hettie. Why doesn't he hate her?

“Zandakar…” He put a gentle, careful hand on Zandakar's shoulder. “This is dreadful news. Yatzhay.”

A little of the pain eased from Zandakar's face. “Zho. Thank you. Dexterity gajka.”

“Zho,” he said. “You mustn't forget that. Even though we've had our differences and difficulties I am your friend, Zandakar. You can confide in me.”

Zandakar rubbed a hand across his face. The thin line of dried blood from Rhian's knife-prick flaked off his skin, to float haphazardly on a current of air. “Rhian is Dexterity gajka?”

He sighed. “Yes, we're friends again. She's forgiven me, it seems. I'm back on the council.”

Zandakar mimicked whittling. “Toys?”

“I'm afraid they'll have to wait. But I'm sure I'll get back to my little business one of these days. Zandakar—”He took a deep breath. “I'm sorry you ended up in that prison cell. I did try to speak for you. I tried to explain. You must understand, people are frightened. And with Emperor Han arriving unexpected like that—”

“Zho,” said Zandakar. “I know.”

Dexterity started walking again, and Zandakar fell into step beside him. “While you were in prison, nobody…hurt you?”

A shadow of memory chased over Zandakar's face. “Witch-men.”

He felt his own memories shudder through him. The winnowing of his soul by Emperor Han's Sun-dao. Not a word spoken, yet all his life laid bare…or so it had felt at the time.

“I know. They're awful. But no-one else?”

“Wei,” said Zandakar.

“Well that's good. That's good. And now you're free.”

Zandakar glanced across the flowerbeds, to where the soldiers were lurking. “Zho,” he said, his expression wry. “Free.”

Oh dear. Change the subject. “I'm told you saved Rhian's life by teaching her how to fight Damwin and Kyrin. That was a good thing, Zandakar. That was the right thing to do.”

“Zho.”

“Did you see it? Were you there?”

“Wei there.” Zandakar glanced up at the nearby looming castle. “In chamber. I saw from window.”

“And was it – was it dreadful?”

“Dreadful?” said Zandakar slowly, as though he tasted the word. “Wei. Rhian stupid, she wei kill Kyrin quick.” His face clouded with remembered anger, then his teeth bared in a smile. “She kill Damwin quick. She kill Damwin in her hota. Rhian hushla, killing queen.”

Dexterity stared at him. I will never, never understand this man. The thought of human sacrifice torments him, and yet he is pleased by the deaths of those wretched dukes. “Well,” he said faintly. “It was a nasty business, but it's all over now.”

“Zho,” said Zandakar, then stopped and looked to where the soldiers were approaching.

“Ah,” said Dexterity. “It seems our pleasant stroll is over too.”

“Sir,” said the sergeant, joining them with his men. “This man must be escorted inside.”

“This man has a name!” he snapped. “I'll thank you to use it.”

The sergeant's eyes narrowed. “Sir—”

“And I've got a name too. It's Dexterity Jones. I'm one of the queen's councillors, in case you weren't aware.”

“Mister Jones,” said the sergeant, his manner deflating considerably. “I see.”

He felt slightly ashamed, puffing himself up with consequence like the worst kind of nobleman, but he couldn't bear to have Zandakar treated like a common villain.

“Dexterity,” said Zandakar as the soldiers gave a little ground. “I eat now. You eat with me?”

Dexterity looked at him. Zandakar's face was schooled again, he and Rhian were equals in their discipline, but even so…he couldn't quite hide his loneliness.

Or perhaps it's just I know him as well as I know Rhian.

“It would be my pleasure,” he replied. “Sergeant, lead on.”

The castle apartments given over to Zandakar for his use were neat and pleasant, but hardly lavish. It seemed there were two rooms, a public area for sitting and dining, and a smaller room for sleeping.

Dexterity flinched at the sound of a key turning in the outer door's lock. He glanced at Zandakar, but if he heard it he gave no sign. Probably he was used to it now.

Used to being a prisoner. It may not be a dungeon cell, but that's the only difference.

“This is wrong,” he said, frowning. “It's an insult. I take it the soldiers remain on the other side of the doors?”

Drifting over to the window so he could look outside, Zandakar shrugged. “Zho.” He sounded…resigned.

“Well, it's not good enough. I'll talk to Rhian, Zandakar. I'll see the soldiers sent away, I'll see that your doors are left unlocked. Rollin's mercy, you're a man, you're not some – some dangerous animal.”

Zandakar glanced over his shoulder. “You say?”

He took a step closer. “Rhian will listen to me.”

“Rhian, zho,” said Zandakar, and shrugged. “Alasdair king? I think wei.”

“It won't be Alasdair's decision! It's for Rhian to decide how you're treated and I tell you I won't stand for you being treated like this.”

Slowly, Zandakar turned from the window. “You care, Dexterity. Why? I am Mijak.”

“Why?” Dexterity found the nearest chair and dropped into it, abruptly weary. “Because it's reprehensibly immoral for us to expect you'll fight with us against your own people, against your family, yet continue to treat you like a pariah. Either you're one of us, or you're not. And if you're one of us, then you'll live like one of us. Truly free. Truly trusted. That's what I intend to say to Rhian.”

Zandakar shook his head. “And Alasdair king? Council? Emperor of Tzhung?”

He banged his fist on the arm of his chair. “Zandakar, if God himself were here I'd say it to him!”

Now Zandakar was frowning. “Wei trouble, Dexterity. For you. Wei trouble.”

“Oh, it's no trouble. I don't like to see anyone slighted. And Rhian will listen, just you wait. Like it or not, I'm more than a toymaker these days. And if I have to remind her of that, I will. Unless—” Dexterity hesitated. “Unless you don't want me to. Unless you're happy to remain here under lock, key and guard.”

Zandakar sat back, relaxing a little at last, and let his gaze roam around the small apartment. “Happy?” His face settled into a sharper expression. “Wei.”