Lara (49 page)

“We were told these people violated Hetar’s borders, raping and killing innocents,” Wilmot said. “Confiscating their lands was to be their punishment, and by expanding our own borders we would protect Hetar.”

Lara shook her head. “Wilmot, these clan families live in peace, each within its own borders, meeting only once yearly at a time called the Gathering. The only roads in the Outlands are here in the mountains. They have been made so the carts from the mines might traverse the land easily. Are you aware that when the clan chieftain of the Piaras protested Hetar’s invasion they cut his tongue out? That the women of the villages have been used as Pleasure Women? Their young daughters saved for those among you who lead? Is this our vaunted Hetarian civilization and justice, Wilmot?”

He looked at her, both sadness and confusion in his gaze. “I have known you all your life until you left us, Lara, daughter of Sir John Swiftsword,” he finally said. “I did not know you for a liar, but what you say is so hard for me to comprehend.”

“When you came into these mountains, Wilmot, were you attacked? No. Your mercenary force swept down on the surprised villages, capturing them and forcing the people into bondage. Did you find the village in which you stayed barbaric or rough? Were those people savage to your eye? Or were they civilized, their homes far better than the hovels in the Quarter you and I have known?”

“I will admit to being surprised,” Wilmot said, “but when I remarked on it my captain said it was because they had stolen the furnishings from Hetarian homes. Yet I had never seen their like before, neither in the Quarter nor the marketplaces.”

“Because your captain lied, Wilmot. Perhaps he did not know, and said what he believed to be true,” Lara said. “But all you have been told of the Outlands is untrue.”

“And you came here of your own free will?” he asked her.

“I did, along with the young daughter of another mercenary who was sold into slavery. Her name is Noss, and she was the archer who remained here on the rise shooting with such great skill at your mercenaries. Her husband would not permit her to enter the heart of the fray,” Lara said.

“The Outlanders accepted you readily?” he asked her.

“They did. And the clan lord of the Fiacre made me his wife,” she told Wilmot.

“Where did you learn to fight as you did today?” he inquired.

“I was taught by the Shadow Princes. They say I have a destiny,” Lara answered.

He nodded. “I think they must be right.” Then pausing a brief moment he said to her, “What will happen to me now, Lara, daughter of Sir John Swiftsword?”

“We have allowed a survivor from each village we took,” Lara explained. “You are to drive the carts of bodies back to the City. This is our message to the High Council. They must abide by the ancient treaties. We will not allow our lands to be invaded by Hetar. If they understand this, the peace between us will be restored. You must tell the High Council that the Outlanders are not barbarians. They simply wish to be left alone in peace as it has always been.”

“The High Council? How could I gain their ear? I am a mercenary, and not even one of rank,” he said.

“Two of the provinces voted against breaking the peace,” Lara told him. “Seek out the Coastal Kings or the Shadow Princes,” she advised.

He looked surprised. “How can you know this?”

Lara smiled wickedly. “We have friends,” she replied. “Tell whoever you speak with that Lara, daughter of Sir John Swiftsword and wife of Vartan, Lord of the Fiacre, sent you. They will hear you out. Gaius Prospero cannot be allowed to use the council to his own advantage ever again.”

“Shall I attempt to speak with your father?” Wilmot asked her.

“Tell him I am well, and happy,” Lara responded. Would he care, she wondered? “And tell your mother I send her my regards. I hope she is well.”

“She misses your family,” he admitted. “You and your brother in particular. She will be happy to learn that all has turned out well for you.”

Vartan joined them. “It is time,” he said to Wilmot. “Some of us will escort you to the border separating the Outlands and Hetar. You must reach the City, and there may be those who for their own purposes seek to stop you, or even take your life, Wilmot. For the sake of your people the truth must be known, and spread throughout Hetar.”

“My lord, I am frankly fearful for my life now,” Wilmot said. “Gaius Prospero is a powerful man. If he would engineer a war with the Outlands, then it is likely there will be war. There was a rumor in the City before we left, softly spoken, but heard by many ears, that Gaius Prospero would be called upon by the High Council to become emperor of Hetar. For the first time in memory life has grown difficult for Hetar. When times are difficult, the people clamor for change in hopes that change will bring prosperity once again.”

“If what you say is so,” Lara noted, “then you will be safe, for Gaius Prospero will use the seven wagons of dead to his own advantage.”

“Yet we have no choice but to send them,” Vartan replied.

“I know,” Lara responded.

The five survivors from the other villages were now led forth, and boosted up on their wagon seats, Wilmot climbing into the first wagon. They moved off, horsemen of the Aghy riding on either side of the wagons. The Winter War was over. Once Imre and Petruso were settled in their fiefdoms again; once the other clan families had donated supplies to get them on through the winter, life could again return to what it had been before Hetar had been foolish enough to invade the Piaras and the Tormod. Yet why, Lara thought silently to herself, did she sense that this was but the beginning?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

G
AIUS
P
ROSPERO
, a perfumed handkerchief pressed to his nose, stared unbelieving at the seven reeking carts piled high with their dead. The stench was unbelievable, and he wondered that the drivers of these horrific wagons could stand it. But they sat stoic and unmoving upon the benches of their transports, hollow-eyed and gaunt and staring at him as if he were responsible.

“Why have you brought your burdens to me?” he demanded aloud.

“Because we were told to bring them to you, my lord,” the man on the first wagon spoke up. “Actually, we thought to drive them up to the door of your fine home, but the guards would not allow us inside. They sent for you instead.”

“How could this have happened?” Gaius Prospero said as if to himself. “They are uncivilized barbarians. They are not even united under one government, but live a tribal life. They are savages! Bandits!”

Wilmot held his tongue as he listened to the Master of the Merchants’ ruminations. He was good at holding his tongue. It aided in his survival all these years. But he had been in the Outlands long enough to learn that while the society there was different from that of Hetar, it was not the uncivilized place the government wanted them to believe it was. He wondered if the Outlands were not perhaps more civilized than Hetar in a way.

“How did this happen?” Gaius Prospero demanded to know.

“The armies of the Outlands overcame us, and obviously knowing they were coming the villagers rose up against us,” Wilmot said succinctly. The other men nodded in their agreement. What else was there to say?

“And why did you six survive?” was Gaius Prospero’s next query.

“It was decided beforehand to spare one man from each village to drive the wagons,” Wilmot answered.

“There were seven villages, and there are seven carts,” the Master of the Merchants noted sharply. “Why are there but six of you?”

“The mercenaries from Quartum joined those at Fulksburg to make a stand. One man from the other villages had escaped the Outlanders, and had come to warn us,” Wilmot reported. “They were too many for us. They fight well. All were slain but me.”

“Because you were the best of the mercenary fighters?” Gaius Prospero said sarcastically, rolling his eyes in disbelief.

“I have fought in the ranks of the mercenaries for over thirty years, my lord, but I was spared because the last warrior I fought in combat that day was someone known to me. That is why I survived at Fulksburg,” Wilmot said in hard tones.

“Who could you possibly have known among the Outlander warriors?” Gaius Prospero demanded in a suspicious voice. “How could an ordinary mercenary know someone with that kind of authority? Give me his name!”

“It was the wife of the army’s general who spared me, my lord,” Wilmot replied. He was frankly enjoying having this man who would be emperor squeeze the information from him bit by bit. His conversation with Lara had opened his eyes to things he had been avoiding for several years now.

“You fought with a woman? And lost?” Gaius Prospero’s tone was derisive.

“The wife of Lord Vartan is a great warrior, my lord. There were enough woman warriors among the Outlanders to be noticed. They are fiercer than their men, who are the best fighters I have ever encountered,” Wilmot said.

“And how came you to know the wife of this lord?” the Master of the Merchants asked. “Was she one of those used as a Pleasure Woman by our forces?”

“Nay, my lord.” Wilmot forced his face to remain impassive.

“Then who was she?” Gaius Prospero almost shouted.

“She is Lara, daughter of Sir John Swiftsword, my lord,” Wilmot said. “Her family lived next to mine when she was growing up. Recognizing me, she spared me for my mother’s sake. My mother and her grandmother were good friends, and my mother was always kind to the family.” He was curious to see what Gaius Prospero would say now. He waited.

“What?” The look on Gaius Prospero’s face was a study in amazement. “You are mistaken. You must be! My cousin the Taubyl Trader sold her to the Head Forester for a Pleasure Woman. Though they do not as a rule cohabit with those not of their blood, he was so taken with her beauty he could not resist, my cousin said. The Forester paid a fortune for her.”

“She escaped the Forest Lords,” Wilmot said, “with the aid of a Forest giant. They fled to the Desert, and from there Lara went to the Outlands where Lord Vartan saw her, and wed her. She is greatly respected among the Outlanders.”

“And she is a great warrior? How did such an exquisite creature meant only for pleasure and passion become a warrior?” Gaius Prospero wondered aloud.

“The Shadow Princes gave her the skills, along with a sword that sings as she fights,” Wilmot told him. “She is a power now to be reckoned with, my lord.”

The Master of the Merchants considered a moment, and then he said, “The High Council must be convened at once to decide upon the disposal of these bodies. Take your carts to the edge of the City, and wait for our instructions.” Then turning away from Wilmot and his companions, Gaius Prospero hurried back into the safety of the Golden District. A waiting cart took him back to his home. Entering it, he called for his secretary, Jonah, and told him of the conversation he had just had.

“You must not allow this fellow to speak with the High Council, my lord,” Jonah said. “There are those among them who did not approve this little expedition into the Outlands. These carts of dead will become a platform for them to use against you. You must take the advantage while you can.”

“But how?” Gaius Prospero said.

“By publicly disseminating the fact that our good men are dead. Slaughtered by a barbarian force who grow stronger each day, and may soon be bold enough to attack Hetar itself, threatening the very foundations of our world. We will shout down anyone who attempts to declare it is our fault for invading the Outlands in the first place. Soon the real truth will be forgotten, and with time and repetition the tale we choose will become the real truth. We will rouse the people against the Outlands, and those who have stood against us in the High Council will be silenced. They will have to join us in our fight, or be declared traitors to Hetar.” Jonah smiled a cold smile.

“There is much acreage in the Outlands for the taking,” Gaius Prospero considered slowly. “And their mines have brought us incredible wealth in these last few months. I am sorry to lose them, even temporarily.”

“And the Outlanders are strong, my lord. You can build your own private army with some by allowing them to retain their own properties within their villages. The rest of them will fill the slave markets of Hetar, making labor cheaper, and our profits greater.” Jonah chuckled. The more powerful Gaius Prospero became, the more powerful he became. The richer his master became, the richer he was. He had already purchased his own freedom from the Master of the Merchants while agreeing to remain with him. If the impossible dream could be gained, and Gaius Prospero became Hetar’s emperor, Jonah knew he could convince his master to make him his prime minister. And he would gain a lordship. He had already chosen a motto for himself: Make Haste Slowly. He forced the smile back from his lips. “What of Lara?” he asked. “Would she not make you a magnificent empress, my lord?” Jonah did not like the lady Vilia, whose eye was too sharp. The lady Vilia was far more intelligent than her husband, and could not be manipulated as could Gaius Prospero. She would have to be put aside when their plans came to fruition.

The Master of the Merchants’ eyes glowed. “You know how difficult it was for me to let her go, don’t you, Jonah? You are the only one who knows that. How very much I wanted her. I watched her in the bath through my peephole as Tania bathed her. Had her virginity combined with her beauty not made her such a valuable commodity, I should have taken her before I sold her. If her exquisite faerie beauty has not been destroyed she will make me a perfect empress when the time comes.”

“Women like that but grow better with each passing day, my lord,” Jonah soothed his master, encouraging the fantasy. But he wondered about the truth of her warrior’s skills. If it were true, would she not prove a dangerous opponent? Lara, in their brief acquaintance, had showed him an intelligence rarely found in women. If it were now combined with faerie magic, she could prove deadly. But let Gaius Prospero have his dream. There were other beautiful women with whom to tempt the Master of the Merchants when the right moment came. First things first, and the first thing was to deflect the blame for the loss of the mercenary force sent into the Outlands.

But Jonah was not quite as quick as he should have been with his scheming. Wilmot had driven his cart through the City, his companions behind him, until they had passed back through the main gates, and parked their vehicles. Wilmot jumped down from the bench on his wagon. His posterior was numb with soreness. He did not know the men who had traveled with him. They were new to the mercenaries, but he suspected if he gave an order they would obey it. They looked tired and dispirited, easily manipulated.

“Remain here,” he said. “I must go quickly to the Quarter and reassure my old mother that I am safe,” he told them. They nodded. Two of them were already falling asleep upon their wagons, their heads nodding in weariness.

Hurrying back through the main City gates Wilmot made his way to the small Council Quarter. Like all the other exclusive quarters it was gated and guarded. Wilmot sighed. He knew his appearance would count against him with the guards, but then he recognized one of the men at the entry, an elderly mercenary no longer fit for serious fighting who had managed to obtain duty as a guardsmen. Walking up to him, he greeted the old man.

“Sim! It is Wilmot. I have just returned from the Outlands.”

“I recognize you,” Sim responded, and the two men shook hands. “I heard it ended badly. Well, it would have, wouldn’t it?”

“Aye, it ended worse than badly,” Wilmot said. “Listen, I must see one of the council. A Shadow Prince, or a Coastal King. It makes no difference, but I have a message for them from the Outlands and there are some who would stop me.”

“Is this treason?” Sim said low. “I’ll have no part of treason, Wilmot.”

“It isn’t treason, I swear it!” Wilmot said. “The Shadow Princes and the Coastal Kings voted against the incursion last year. Gaius Prospero was council head then, and his vote tipped the balance that led to the troubles. Every man but the six of us saved to drive the death carts died because of the greed some of our leaders encouraged, Sim. My message comes to those who advised peace from those who would have the ancient treaties restored. If that is treason I will fall on my own sword for wanting it.”

“Prince Lothair is in right now,” Sim said softly. “His apartment is in the rear of the building on the top floor overlooking the gardens. Go!” And the old guardsman deliberately turned his head away so that he did not see Wilmot enter the residence where the council members lived.

The mercenary was very nervous, more so even than prior to battle. He had never seen a Shadow Prince before, let alone met one. He climbed the stairs to the top of the building, and knocked upon the door. It opened immediately, and he was ushered into Prince Lothair’s presence by a rather ordinary-looking manservant. Wilmot bowed most politely to the prince, who was garbed in shimmering dark silk robes.

“What message does Lara send me?” he asked Wilmot.

The mercenary’s mouth fell open with his surprise, but then he closed it. These men from the Desert were magic. Everyone knew that. “My lord, you know that Hetar entered the Outlands late last year. Our mercenary forces were told to put the native population beneath their heel for they had raided Hetar beyond their borders, killing, looting and raping. We were to make all able-bodied males toil in the mines for us. The ores and the gems were to be sent back to the City. The elderly among the barbarians were to be slain. The woman and children, ours to do with as we chose. Those who sent us lied, my lord prince.”

“Yes, I know,” Lothair said quietly.

“When the other lords of the Outlands learned of this incursion into their lands they came, and they slew all but six of us. We were sent back to the City driving carts filled with our dead. We were to take them to Gaius Prospero, and we did. He ordered us back outside the gates while a council is called to decide what to do.

“My life was spared by Lara, daughter of Sir John Swiftsword and now wife to Vartan, lord of the Fiacre,” Wilmot continued. “I knew her as a child, and she spared me, she said, for the sake of my elderly mother. The lords in the Outlands send this message to the High Council. Restore the ancient treaty between our two lands and there will be peace between us as there was before this incursion. They have repaid in kind the suffering that the Piaras and Tormod clan families endured during this illegal and unjust occupation. You and your allies on the High Council are warned to beware Gaius Prospero, and his ambitions.” Wilmot bowed again. “That is all, my lord prince.” He started to back out of the room, but Lothair raised a hand.

“Nay, remain, Wilmot. You must come with me to the High Council, and repeat to my fellow councilors what you have told me,” the Shadow Prince said.

“Gaius Prospero will have me slain for it, my lord,” Wilmot said. “I will be called traitor, and my mother will be sent from our hovel to wander homeless and helpless.”

“Did not Lara offer your mother sanctuary, Wilmot?”