Springwar (8 page)

“Is she dead?” she heard someone whisper, and that true voice sounded loud as thunder.

“No,” another roared back. “But we dare not increase the dose until tomorrow.”

“If you lie very still, it is less likely they will sting you,” Lynnz advised, from where he leaned casually against the polished metal railing that surrounded the sand on which Kraxxi lay. Unlike Merryn, he lay in broad daylight, spread-eagled on sand, not carpet. And while tent walls rose around him, there was no roof, and the midday sun beat down on his flesh, every bit of which was ruthlessly exposed. That sun beat down on metal, too: an inward-sloping circle of oiled brass, designed to keep certain things confined.

Very large, very black, very deadly somethings.

“The scorpions don’t generally start on anything important,” Lynnz offered helpfully. “In fact, they’ll ignore you entirely until you start to sweat. After that … they’ll sample that sweat. And then they’ll find they like the places where most of that sweat occurs, and notice how the skin tends to be softer there, and they’ll start to … nibble.”

He helped himself to a swallow of wine from a goblet on
a camp table beside him. “They’ll have trouble with your forehead because it’s smooth, so they’ll probably go for where the sweat pools by your ears—which are also just of a size for them to get their mouths around. Eyes … Probably not, there’s something about them that repels them. Noses don’t sweat much, but as the day gets hotter, they’ll be looking for caves, and though these are much too big, they might want to probe inside your nostrils. Be sure not to sneeze. A sting in the face is very bad. Not treated, stings tend to fester, and then the flesh around the wound drops off. And that’s with the small ones.”

Another swallow, and for the first time, Kraxxi felt something brush against his bare thigh. Or had it?

It was as if Lynnz read his mind. “Was that real?” he wondered. “Or was that your imagination? Doesn’t really matter, does it? Not when I’m giving you advice.

“Now, as I was saying, they like salt and soft places, and in the day, they like tunnels. So I’d be thinking about my armpits, which embody all three of those things—and you’ll notice that we’ve made sure your legs are wide apart. There are all kinds of interesting dark and sweaty places down there.”

Kraxxi tensed in spite of himself, then, as slowly as he could, relaxed.

“Did I mention,” Lynnz purred, “that one of these is a female—with young? I’ve heard
they
like to burrow.”

Kraxxi knew what Lynnz was doing: trying to instill fear in his mind, knowing that a person’s anxieties could overrule actual facts, letting the person being tortured do all of the torturer’s work.

He wasn’t even that afraid of scorpions, beyond the usual healthy respect any intelligent person granted them.

Which didn’t mean he liked them, or that he wouldn’t be able to feel them doing what Lynnz had said. He was ticklish, too—extremely—and while he doubted they’d actually let him die, he also doubted they’d spare him pain. Nor was this Eron, where kings must be physically perfect in order to reign. Here it wouldn’t matter if he had a nibbled earlobe, or eyelid, or … scrotum.

No!
He was doing exactly what Lynnz wanted: thinking about what
might
happen, when none of it was a surety.

What
was
a surety was that they wouldn’t let him die until he’d come face-to-face with his father. And if they thought he didn’t know that word had gone out by the fastest messenger to inform Barrax of Ixti that his wayward heir had been found, they were more than fools.

So he had to endure—a while. Two days—four. An eighth at most—and somewhere during that time they’d surely expedite the interrogation by moving him closer to his father. Closer to Ixti.

And Merryn … He dared not think about her. She was strong, and they’d do nothing to her that would provoke a war. For though Ixti wanted war, they wanted it on their terms—and on Eronese soil. Eron come south was not an option Barrax would risk.

Besides, there was one thing Lynnz hadn’t reckoned on before he’d begun this torture session, which was that Kraxxi had been deprived of sleep for days before it had begun. At some point his body would take over. And sleeping men chained to the ground could not be bothered overmuch by anything as minor as tickling.

Which was good, because he could hear something raking across the sand, not far from his left ear.

Zrill’s mount was not one he would have chosen for a wild midnight ride across the desert. As Lynnz’s Master of Horse, he naturally knew more than a little about the suitability of mounts for situations, and would’ve picked something more surefooted, even were it slower, for any less clandestine activity. But since he
was
Master of Horse, no one dared question his choice of steeds. And since he was known to be a loner, no one questioned him disappearing into the desert, either. The official excuse was that every spare horse, even pack animals, had to be given rigorous regular exercise, and that Zrill himself would take beasts at random for long
gallops, so as to assess their care and condition. But since Lynnz’s infernal meetings and intelligence reports seemed to consume most of the day, the only time that could actually be accomplished was after the evening meal, which was traditionally served at sunset.

Taking an unimportant horse on an important mission was therefore a good way to disguise his trail. And thank the Gods for the steady desert wind that would either disperse his tracks entirely or fill them with what little drifting snow still remained on the Flat.

And it
was
an important mission, of that there was no doubt—though not one that would please Lynnz if he knew. Zrill reined in Obyll, the sturdy black mare, at the top of the long ridge southwest of Lynnz’s camp, such that any observing his progress would see what they expected: him putting her through her paces.

Actually, however, it gave him a chance to note if anyone was marking his departure. The camp had a perimeter guard, though a sketchy one, since the Flat was no-man’s-land, and the main threat that might be brought against it was not from man at all, but from nature. And sure enough, he could see the west guard marching his slow patrol in his gold-sylk winter cloak and high-domed, gold-washed helm. Not that Zrill could see those details, only the cloak as a splotch of light against darker tents, and the occasional gleam of firelight on the helm. A flickering behind the guard was his shadow, splashed by the largest visible moon across the landscape of tents.

It was too big a camp, Zrill thought: too big for mere reconnoiter. But of course everyone else knew that as well.

On the other hand, it was too small for an all-out attack. So what was it? He wasn’t sure, save that it was certainly a monument to Lynnz’s pride.

But he’d tarried long enough. The desert beckoned; the vast, blue-black arch of sky lured him on. Heels to Obyll’s sides, he moved, down the stonier western slope of the ridge and into snow at the bottom. Not much snow—a hand’s depth here and there in the most shadowed places—but enough to remind him that Eron wasn’t impossibly far away,
and that snow was a way of life there, though even Eron’s folk had the sense to hide from it in their vast winter holds during what that land called Deep Winter.

The wind was from the south, though—from Ixti—and it carried with it the scents of coming spring. As if sensing that, Obyll snorted with what sounded suspiciously like delight, and of her own will strove to move faster. Zrill let her—cautiously, for stones could lurk beneath that snow. And worse. He’d heard rumors—things babbled by the Eronese woman in one of her torture sessions—that the Prince had lost a mount to a scorpion burrow.

And there were more scorpions here than farther north.

Still, he was young—twenty-five—and strong enough to survive even if he lost a steed. He was also well fed, and had more food in his saddlebags, and weapons, because no one left Lynnz’s camp without them. Finally, he wore more clothing than might be apparent, because he was never certain when he might be marooned out here.

But for the moment, all was well, and so he and Obyll kept going.

He was still riding when midnight rose overhead. Desert still surrounded him, but it was flatter now, and comprised of sand interspersed with stone. One moon had set and two risen to replace it, washing the place with a strange admixture of shadows. But what drew Zrill’s attention was a dark crescent in the landscape straight ahead, as though some vast
thing
had taken a bite from the earth—a crescent that a finger’s farther riding revealed to be a declivity in the land. It was in fact the rim of the Pit, as the escarpment-edged depression that occupied most of the Flat’s western half was called. And except for a few odd streams below that rim, it made the desolation of the Flat resemble a garden.

It was also Zrill’s goal. He reined Obyll to a walk and nudged her north. He’d missed a minor landmark—the spires of wind-worked sandstone hereabouts looked too much alike in the dark—and had arrived south of his goal.
Not that it was a problem. It was simply that he prided himself on not making such fundamental errors.

Mistakes got you killed; they got you found out and distrusted. Trust was very important to Zrill—and not only Lord Lynnz’s.

He’d reached the rim now, and dared to peer over the cliff. It was fairly low here—only a dozen spans—and was marked and fissured with any number of depressions that looked like the start of a way down. Only one was, however, and he found it with little trouble a hand later, though he had to dismount to guide a frightened Obyll part of the way. The trail was narrow, and the moonlight too faint to show a clear way to the bottom. He therefore felt a certain comfort when, halfway down, a black-clad figure melted from the rocks to his right to block his path, face veiled by a black-sylk mouth-mask, but with a sword clearly visible.

“Zrill min Bizz,” Zrill announced. “The scorpion stings its own kind.”

“The sting is the child of the sword,” came the reply.

The figure—he couldn’t guess its sex—merged back into the shadows. Zrill exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and edged past.

A second figure intercepted him where the trail issued into a flat sand field at the foot of the cliff. The Pit swept away to the west, a featureless, dark-sanded abomination as anonymous as a waveless ocean.

“The sting is the child of the sword,” he intoned.

“A child with a sword should be stung,” came the reply.

And once again Zrill moved on.

The cliff to the right was pocked with caves at various levels, all of which he ignored until he rounded a certain head-high outcrop and turned sharp right, which put him face-to-face with one from which issued a furtive light. So little light, in fact, and so precisely located, that only one seeking it would notice.

He followed it into the cliff. Turned left, and relaxed as that light washed out to meet him, becoming brighter and clearer as he progressed. The cave walls changed, too,
becoming smoother, squarer, and straighter, and he could hear voices now, and smell food. The scent of stables reached him as well, and then suddenly a tunnel opened to one side, down which he heard louder talk. A few paces farther on he passed an actual door, and then he was facing a much larger door indeed: gilded bronze twice as high as his head. Tunnels broke off to right and left. A sexless figure appeared from the right-hand one, to relieve him of Obyll, as another made to undo his mouth-mask.

He intercepted the black-gloved hand and drew it down. “Zrill,” he repeated, and stopped where he was, arms folded, staring at the doors.

“A moment,” the left one replied, and strode away.

More quickly than he’d expected, both doors parted down the middle, and as soon as the gap was wide enough to admit him, Zrill stepped boldly through.

Had he not known he was inside a cave, and many shots from civilization, Zrill would’ve sworn he was in some princeling’s pleasure dome. Marble surrounded him. The trickle of water reached his ears from rills hidden beneath bronze screens, exactly as in Barrax’s palace. The ceiling was a sweep of white sylk that continued down the walls to define chambers, all kept carefully away from the myriad beeswax candles and the odd glow-globe imported from Eron.

A few people lolled about, but only a few. In spite of the luxury, the place had an austere feel, like a well-run military camp.

Which it was.

Zrill would’ve been impressed had he not been here before. And at that, there were a few things he’d forgotten, which always impressed him anew.

One of which was the way that Barrax, though he was king of Ixti, could often be found lounging casually about as though he were some particularly well-clad and well-groomed off-duty soldier.

The king saw him before Zrill was aware of his presence, and called the Horse Master by name, motioning him to the cushion opposite, in an alcove defined mostly by walls of
sylk. A tray of cold meat sat there, surrounded by a crescent of sauces arranged from sweet to sharp.

Zrill met the king’s eyes briefly, then withdrew his ceremonial geen-claw dagger and, with a formal nod and bow, laid it on the carpet before him.

“Step into my home,” Barrax said, already reaching for a brass wine ewer from which he filled a twin goblet to his own.

“Majesty—”

“You rode shots to meet me and, king or no, it is I who am in your debt.”

Zrill nodded and sat down, cross-legged. Barrax’s face was intense. And though well combed, his black hair was in need of trimming.

A pause for the ritual sip of peace, and for another to slake his thirst, and Zrill set down the goblet. “This news shouldn’t wait,” he began. “In short, Prince Kraxxi has returned.”

Barrax tensed, and his eyes flashed, but he showed no other reaction—which surprised Zrill. “Returned,” he mused. “Was that the word you would choose?”

Zrill nodded. “He came out of the Flat five sunsets back. To my eternal regret, there was no way I could get away until now. Lynnz made me watch.”