Storms of Destiny (23 page)

Her face twisted in a grimace as she thought of her father and all the young men he’d pushed at her in the past three years. She’d refused to even dance with them, much less go out walking with them.
No man will ever touch me that way
again. I’ll die first.

Talis felt the reassuring weight of the dagger strapped to her calf and was comforted. When she was seventeen she’d vowed to learn to use weapons as well as any man, and she’d kept that promise, learning wrestling, swordplay, knife-fighting and throwing from some of Castio’s top military advisers, and practicing whenever she could find an opponent who was willing to coach her without getting any lewd ideas.

She was also an excellent shot with both pistol and long rifle, but it was her father and brothers who had taught her to shoot. The Aloro homestead lay at the edge of the wilderness, and farm children of both sexes were taught to shoot at an early age because of the danger from predators.

If I had to, I could shoot Jasti Aloro dead, cut his throat. I
could kill him in so many ways …
The thought came unbidden, but was accompanied by a satisfying vision of a bloody corpse.

Her breath caught in her throat and Talis had to stop, stand pressed against the wall of the tavern.
Oh, no. It’s been over
a year. I thought I was over it. I can’t let it happen now!

But it was coming, and Talis knew it. She managed to stumble a few steps farther, until she was hidden by a large rain barrel. Squatting down with her back to the wall, she wrapped her arms around herself and fought to stay calm.
Breathe …

breathe …
She gasped, fighting to draw air into her lungs. It felt as though a blacksmith’s vice were being pressed down onto her chest. Her attempts to draw breath resulted in inef-fectual squeaks. Black spots danced across her vision.

She closed her eyes, willing herself not to be sick, and for a moment she was back there, on that awful night …

She opened the door of the privy and stepped out, ready to
head back to the family party. Inside the big, sprawling
farmhouse she could hear the music and the stamp of dancing feet, the clapping and the singing.

As she headed back up the path, a large shadow stepped
out from behind a tree. Talis stopped dead, then backed up a

step. “Uncle Jasti, I told you, no more of your ‘games,’ ” she
said, trying vainly to keep her voice steady. “I don’t like it
anymore. It’s nasty. Besides, I’m too old for those games, I’m
sixteen now. You leave me alone or I’ll tell Dad what you
made me do.”

Jasti Aloro was a big, broad-shouldered man with graying
hair. He was five years older than Gerdal, and his gut revealed his fondness for ale. The yeasty reek of it reached
Talis as he laughed softly. “Aye, you’ll get no argument from
me, niece. You’re too old for little girl’s games. Time for
some big girl games. Come here … you’ll like it.”

For the past three years, he’d been saying that hated
phrase to her, and Talis had kept silent out of fear and
shame. But not tonight. She glared at him. “Get out of my
way. I’m telling my father what you’ve been making me do.”

When Jasti didn’t move, she turned, stepping off the path.

The blow to the back of her head stunned her so badly she
found herself on her knees, not realizing what had happened
to her. As she struggled to rise, another slap caught her
across the face. Jasti grabbed her by the hair and dragged
her up, and when she cried out in pain, he slapped her
mouth, splitting both lips. “Shut up, you whorish little slut! I
won’t hurt you none! Just want to have a little fun, and you
want it, too, you’re just too pigheaded to admit it!”

Panicking, Talis struck out, scratching, clawing, kicking,
opening her mouth to scream. Two hands grabbed her by the
throat, squeezing …

Talis did not quite lose consciousness. But all the strength
left her limbs, and she sagged and would have fallen had he
not swung her up into his arms. She managed to gasp, and
he laughed harshly. “Oh, you’re not dead, missy. You’re not
hurt, just relax …”

Talis managed a faint cry, but she knew it was hopeless.

Jasti lurched along the path, heading for the hay barn.

By the time they reached it, she could breathe again, and
again she tried to fight. He slapped her again, so hard that
everything went gray and distant.

She was roused by pain, sharp and piercing. The air was
chill on her legs, for her skirt was kilted up. He was on top of
her, grunting ale-breath into her face. Some vague instinct of
self-preservation made Talis keep her eyes closed. Jasti gathered himself and rammed into her again, cursing. “Tight …

too tight … slut …” he panted. “Never dreamed … you’d
be virgin …”

She was being torn in two; he thrust again, sending a jab
of agony through her.

Drawing breath, Talis screamed at the top of her lungs.

Cursing, he clamped his hand over her mouth, and kept it
there while he finished.

Crouched in the alley in North Amis, Talis raised her head from her arms, glad to be able to breathe normally again.
It’s
over. Over. You’re not hurt. Breathe.

Talis forced herself to exhale, rejoicing that the vise-crushing pain was gone.
Relax. He will never touch you
again, and if he tries, he’ll die for the privilege,
she reassured herself.
He’s older than Father, almost an old man.

And I’m young and strong. He could never hold me down
and do
… that,
again.

For just a moment Talis found herself imagining meeting Uncle Jasti here on the street, and he would be drunk, so drunk he wouldn’t recognize the niece he hadn’t seen in years. Not since the night when his brother had heard his daughter’s anguished cry and burst through the door of the barn mere seconds after Jasti had finished. One look at his daughter, beaten and bloody, had told the story, and Gerdal had grabbed Jasti and thrashed him thoroughly, then ordered his drunken, babbling brother to never darken his door again. As Jasti had stumbled away into the darkness, Gerdal gathered Talis into his arms and comforted the sobbing girl, pointing out that she had “taken no real hurt.”

But Gerdal, not wishing to blacken the Aloro name, had told no one of his brother’s act. He allowed his clan to believe that he’d broken with Jasti over money his older brother had borrowed. So Jasti Aloro continued to attend family gatherings, bold as brass and with a smile for any

young girl, always ready to invite them to sit on his knee.

Three years ago Talis had dug in her heels and refused to attend any events where her uncle might be present. Her father angrily expostulated with her. “ ’Tis two years past, Talis! He’ll never hurt you again, you know he wouldn’t dare. He was drunk, Talis. Drunken men do lecherous, un-holy things. But you took no real hurt—and besides, who’s to say that you didn’t give him the wrong idea, eh? Young girls flirt innocently, not knowing how such flirting can inflame—”

Talis had given her father a look so filled with utter loathing that he sputtered to a halt. In silence, she’d turned away, and since that time they had spoken only of surface things. But Talis stopped attending family gatherings, and that was that.

I could get him,
she thought.
Just a glimpse of a bared
shoulder, a teasing smile, and he’d follow me into the alley
like a bullock to the butcher. And he’d never come out again.

Talis took a firm rein on her imagination. She wasn’t here in North Amis today to indulge in visions of vengeance. No, she was here to pick the brain of a certain farmer named Levons, who had sold a flock of sheep to the King’s garrison in Venra Bay last week.

Squaring her shoulders, she picked up her skirts and forced herself to hurry. When she reached the White Horse, the tavern keeper, a thin, sour-looking man named Toneo, shouted at her. “Lazy slut! Where have you been? Get busy!”

Talis hung up her shawl and made a rude gesture at the man, bringing guffaws from the patrons.
Time to get into
character,
she told herself. She deliberately twitched her hips as she went to pick up the tray loaded with ale tankards, eliciting whistles and catcalls. She smiled at them archly, never revealing the disgust these drunken, lecherous
men
inspired in her. Talis was a good actress, and hence a good spy.

While she picked up the rest of the loaded tankards, Toneo winked at her and whispered, “Master Levons is the one you want. The red-cheeked fellow sitting alone by the fire.”

Talis winked back. Toneo was a strong supporter of the Cause.

Hefting the tray, she quickly distributed the drinks, ending up at the portly sheep farmer’s table. When she handed him his ale, she gave him a dazzling smile. Levons smiled back and flipped her a coin. Talis made it disappear, then busied herself wiping up a splotch of spilled ale. “Can I get you anything else, Master?” she asked with a coy smile.

Levons shook his head. “The only thing I want in this place, dearie, might be your sweet self.”

Goddess spare me. Another lecherous swine.
Talis sim-pered at him. “Oh, sir, you’ll turn a poor girl’s head, you will. Where are you from?”

It turned out he was from some tiny village in the south that Talis had never heard of, not far from Casloria, which she had. Levons had been on the road now for two weeks and he was feeling lonely. Having a pretty young thing hanging on his every word suited him just fine.

Over the next quarter hour, Talis learned a great deal about sheep and their care that she already knew, and little else. She did manage to glean the fact that the King’s garrison was now fully manned, thanks to a shipment of Pelanese soldiers that had come in only last month.

“I swear, I never saw so much spit ’n polish in my life,”

Levons said, waving the fresh tankard Talis had brought him so energetically that it slopped over. “They spend half the day polishing their gear, and the other half drilling.”

“Drilling? Ooooh, how exciting,” Talis breathed. “What kind of drilling? Do they march, or do they ride around on fine horses?”

“Oh, they’ve got at least two squads of cavalry, missy, but most of the soldiers are infantry,” Levons said. Raising his tankard, he gulped down the ale, his throat rippling.

Talis giggled. “I just love a man in uniform.”

Levons smiled widely, showing a broken tooth that was turning black. “Makes me wish I’d brought my militia uniform, sweetling,” he said. “I could stand some lovin’ from a pretty minx like you.”

“Militia?” Talis said, refilling his cup, careful to keep her tone casual. Castio had told her to be on the watch for certain members of the militia. “Which militia are you with, Master Levons?”

“Oh, from Casloria, m’dear. We march there twice a week. I’m a drill leader.” He grinned and gulped his ale.

“M’wife says ’tis irreverent, disrespectful to the Crown, but I say we have to be ready. One day the Viceroy’s going to decide that he wants the broth off our hobs and the shirts from our backs, mark my—” A huge belch ended his statement.

Talis gazed at the old farmer, her thoughts racing. Was he one of Castio’s couriers? He’d mentioned two key words, “militia” and “marching” in close succession, though he hadn’t voiced the actual code phrase.
Of course, he’s pretty
drunk,
Talis thought.
It could be coincidence. Maybe I
should test him, see if he makes the proper response.

Talis drew a deep breath, steeling herself for what she knew she must must do next. She slid into the seat beside Levons, pressing against him, nuzzling his cheek. “We need to talk,” she whispered into his whiskery ear, her voice barely louder than a breath. “Master Levons … do we march in unison?” It was the code recognition query Castio’s couriers learned.

The old drunkard paid no attention to Talis’s words at all.

Instead, he grunted lustfully as he grabbed her breast.

Talis’s mouth dropped open in outrage, then she controlled her features. Her right hand, the hand that was concealed from any onlookers, immediately slid down to the old courier’s homespun crotch. She closed it around his left testicle with a grip that could not possibly be mistaken for anything but a threat. “Let go of my tit,” she murmured keeping her voice sweet. Their faces were only inches apart. “If you don’t, I’ll crush it.”

Levons withdrew his hand from Talis’s bodice with such alacrity that he overturned his empty tankard.

“That’s better,” Talis cooed, still not releasing his testicle.

Levons, now considerably sobered, regarded her, sweating with sudden anxiety. “Did you say somethin’ missy?” he muttered, hoarsely. “I’m hard o’hearin’ in m’ right ear. Can you … can you repeat it? Please?”

Talis’s eyes widened.
He didn’t hear me?
She nuzzled the left side of his neck. “I said, ‘do we march in unison?’ ”

Levons nodded. “We march on the right side,” he whispered, giving the proper countersign. “Please, missy … don’t hurt me. I was drunk and not payin’ attention. I’m sorry.”

Talis relaxed her grip. “Get this straight,” she murmured, licking his good ear. “Nuzzle my neck and touch my shoulder, but leave my double-damned tits alone, or I’ll show you real pain.”

Shifting on his lap, she giggled wildly, shaking her forefinger in his whiskery face. “Naughty man!” she chided co-quettishly. “Now you must be
punished!
Tell me that I’m pretty! Tell me you’ve fallen in love with me! Tell me
everything!”

Levons obeyed. As they “fondled” and “snuggled,” the old courier gave Talis every detail of what he’d observed of the King’s garrison while selling his flock, as well as an update on the ammunition, strength, and training level of the Caslorian militia. She listened intently, as she’d been trained, so she would be able to repeat the information almost verbatim.