The Pearls (12 page)

“Not there,” he said slyly, gazing up. “Not there. Not safe. Now I tell Empress.”

“You'll tell
me
. Immediately.”

The sharp command in Lady Avitria's tone scared him. And she was staring at him hard as though she could see through his disguise. Avitria was dangerous, he told himself. Oh, woe indeed. Revenge was not worth this risk.

Wanting to hide in a cupboard until he was forgotten, he tried to dart away, but she caught him and held him fast by one pointed ear as she shut the door firmly. When he squirmed to pull free, she pinched his ear so hard the pain took his breath.

Released with a shove that made him stumble, he retreated to the far corner of the closet, hissing through his fangs and feeling very sorry for himself. With the door shut, very little light came through a high, tiny window. For once, the gloom and shadows did not reassure him.

“What are you, little creature?” Avitria asked softly, her gaze boring into him. “What are you really? Not a
jinja
. Something…else.”

“I am
jinja
! Am! Am! I have news, important news. Lady Lea is abducted. She is in danger.”

“Oh yes? Are you the go-between, delivering terms of her ransom? Why come to me with such a lie?”

“Tell Empress she is—”

“Silence! If I denounce you for using magic inside the palace, the priests will stake you in the sunlight at midday. And then, little shadow creature, you will scream and scream as you wither to nothing.”

She was staring at him more intensely than before. He felt dizzy, as though the enchantment on him was crumbling. Desperately he clung to it, even as his heart shrank to a cold knot.

Maelite,
he thought.
Worse than Master. Maelite is great woe
. The certainty that she was one of those terrible witches grew in his mind and trembled on his small, forked tongue. He wanted to shout the word at her, and yet in horror he held himself silent. As he gazed up into her glittering, fierce eyes, he had the feeling that if he even whispered the word she would kill him. He felt trapped, like a fly on the tongue of a toad.

I am fool, bigger fool than Master,
he thought desperately.
I am traitor. Be quiet. Be quiet!
But it was too late to be quiet. Already he had betrayed himself instead of Master. Even if she let him go, he would never be safe, never, never.

“Are you
sure
Lady Lea is in danger?” Avitria asked now. “Who's behind the plot, if there is one?”

At last, the question Bronzidaec wanted. He drew a deep breath. “Question Jafeen.”

“Jafeen. Where is he to be found?”

“He is clerk for Chancellor. Clerk! Clerk! Stupid clerk with ink and sealing wax who spies on Empress. Ask him.”

Avitria said nothing, and Bronzidaec's words seemed to hang in the air. He found himself panting.
I have done it, made an accusation. Master will hurt me, oh yes, oh yes, Master will hurt me bad…unless the guards take him for questioning. Oh, please, let them torture him very hard.

Heartened by the prospect of Master's legs being so broken he could never kick his servant again, Bronzidaec straightened his small body. He ached to tell this lady everything, but he thought he had said just enough.
Let Master betray the others,
he thought in self-satisfaction.
If they fall, it is not because of me.

“Jafeen,” she said slowly, as though tasting the word on her tongue. She began to laugh. “So Jafeen is behind this supposed plot against Lady Lea. I think you tell me a great lie, creature.”

“No, no! No lie! Truth!”

“I think you tell me a great lie to bring harm and suspicion to Jafeen, who is a trusted, loyal servant in my employ.”

Bronzidaec stared up at Avitria, seeing the malice dancing in her eyes. A terrible feeling sank through him.

“Or perhaps there really is a plot against Lady Lea,” Avitria said as though to herself. She smiled. “Either way, this is the perfect time to take action, while the empress is distracted.” Her gaze narrowed on Bronzidaec. “And you will come in very useful.”

Panicking, he rushed at her with bared fangs. “No! No! No! I warn Empress. I say she has witch for friend. I tell her—”

Lady Avitria struck him across the face, putting magic into the blow, so that he went reeling back into the wall and slid down it, stunned. A series of shudders went through him, and he wanted to wail aloud.

“Haven't you said enough, little fiend?” she asked softly. “You are done spying. I shall put you to better use.”

She advanced on him slowly, slowly. He felt as helpless as a mouse held by the gaze of a cobra, and suddenly he was sick, very sick. The reek of sealing wax overwhelmed his nostrils, and his throat burned. Acute misery washed through his terror, and he wished he had never, never, never come to the palace, no matter how many extra years of servitude it would have meant.

Master is fool,
he thought as Lady Avitria bent down to grip his shoulder.
But I am doomed
.

O
livel
Hervan came to with a yelp of pain and the realization that someone's attempt to lift him was causing him intense agony.

“Ow! Kill me or let me lie!” he said, and desperately blinked open his eyes.

“Be easy, sir,” Barsin's voice said. “I'm not the enemy.”

A sigh escaped Hervan, and he let his hand sag away from his dagger. “Let me be,” he said. “Don't move me.”

He found himself sitting propped up on the cold, muddy ground, supported, he thought, by his adjutant. Snow was falling on him, and he felt cold to his very bones. He hurt all over, but the worst—a throbbing ache—came from his shoulder. When he tried to put his hand to it, a hot iron of pain branded him. It took all his strength to grit his teeth against screaming.

His adjutant shouted, and several men came running, surrounding him in a circle and staring down with grim faces.

“Here, you,” Barsin said. “Give me that blanket. Hold him steady for me.”

Men changed places behind Hervan, and then his adjutant—looking filthy and tattered—was kneeling beside him and wrapping the blanket around his legs. It didn't help. Hervan could feel the cold spreading through him, numbing his fingers and toes, rendering his face so stiff he could barely speak.

“Barsin,” he began, “put the blanket
under
me, not—” He broke off with a yelp, clutching his elbow and holding it tight against his side as he fought against screaming. Sweat beaded up on his brow.

“You mustn't move, sir,” Barsin said. “I think you've broken your collarbone.”

“Gods,” Hervan said weakly as the agony eased off. He felt quite clammy and spent. “I think you might be right.”

Someone gave him smoky mead to drink, and while he waited for it to take numbing effect a minor sword cut on his arm was bandaged.

“Ready, Captain?”

Hervan hesitated and took another deep gulp of the mead before nodding. “Get it over, then.”

His cuirass was removed and an awkward sling devised to bind his shoulder. The potent drink might as well have been water for all the effect it had. When the mauling was over, he found himself sweating with pain, sick to his stomach, and ready to stab the next man who came near him.

“Feeling all right, sir?” Barsin asked.

Hervan glared at him. It was, he thought furiously, a damned stupid question, but honor demanded that he keep up a pretense of bravado. The men mustn't see him howling like a peasant.

“I feel like a trussed chicken,” he complained. “How in Gault's name could I break my collarbone wearing armor?”

No one answered. Hervan shifted his shoulders experimentally, cautiously. As long as he didn't try to pull his arm from the tight sling that bound his arm in such a way that his fist was jammed in his ear, the bone seemed stable. It was a damned embarrassing injury, nothing to boast about in either the barracks or the palace. Still, he supposed he should be grateful he hadn't lost an arm or an eye. A slight scar or two tended to impress the ladies, but disfigurement would put him right out of the Crimsons for life.

“Do you think you can stand, sir?” Barsin asked worriedly.

“Of course. Put me on my feet, fellows. And for Gault's sake, don't bump my arm!”

Upright, he found himself holding his breath until the freshly stirred pain and nausea subsided to bearable levels. His head felt light and inclined to float a little above his shoulders, but he supposed that was the mead, finally kicking in. Barsin carefully draped a long cloak around him. Gault knew where it had come from, but with his teeth chattering Hervan wasn't going to complain.

A bit wobbly on his feet, he looked around and saw that he was in the middle of the churned-up field where he'd tried to rescue Lady Lea. Of her, there was no sign. He frowned thoughtfully. He remembered seeing her thrown across the warhorse of some brute in black armor, remembered spurring his horse in pursuit, and that was all. The rest of it, until he'd come to flat on his back in the mud and snow, was a blank.

“Uh, Sergeant?” he said.

Barsin's green eyes were watching him as though the adjutant expected him to collapse. “Are you ready for a report, sir?”

“Yes, of course. But where is the—”

“Sergeant Kress is dead, sir. Lor is wounded. Taime is busy seeing to the wounded and organizing a burial detail. Lieutenant Rozer is…shall I give the report in his stead?”

“Get on with it,” Hervan said wearily. “You're already making the report, Barsin. This is no time to be so damned formal.”

Barsin saluted. “Yes, sir. We have seventeen dead and twenty wounded, including yourself. Four men are seriously hurt and may not live through the night.”

“And Lady Lea?”

The adjutant blinked at him a moment. “Gone, Captain.”

“Gone,” he repeated, seeing again in his mind's eye the girl caught up by her abductor and then…nothing.

“Yes, Captain. They took her into the…you were right there, almost in the maw with them before you were struck down.”

The maw of what? Hervan wondered. Seeing the puzzled concern in Barsin's eyes, however, he did not ask. The men had enough problems right now without thinking him incapable of command.

“Captain!”

A short distance away, a man was shouting and waving his arms. Hervan turned in that direction, but as he struggled forward Barsin stopped him.

“Wait here, sir. I'll go.”

“What's he found?” Hervan asked, squinting in an effort to see what lay at the man's feet. “What is it? A lady? Great Gault!”

A terrible chasm seemed to open in the pit of Hervan's stomach. Shaking off someone's steadying hand, he forced himself to follow Barsin. He had to see for himself, had to know.

It was not Lea.

The moment he saw the dark hair fanned across the snow, he felt a shudder of relief, followed by sorrow and the terrible sting of anger. “Rinthella,” he said softly.

Barsin, who was kneeling beside her, glanced up before slowly drawing a fold of her cloak over her face. Silence fell over all of them. There was not a man among the Crimsons that the beautiful attendant had not flirted with. Bold, vivacious, and great fun, Rinthella had been as available as her dainty mistress was not. Remembering the supple grace of her body and her readiness to receive him anytime, anywhere despite the risks, even because of them, Hervan sighed and bowed his head.

“Why?” Barsin whispered, his voice thick. “Why would they hurt her? What barbarians are these? She is not…they've
mangled
her.”

“Magic,” someone said gruffly, clearing his throat. “Shadow magic.”

The cluster of men backed away from Rinthella's body. Clumsily Hervan bent down to take something from that still, slender hand. It was an opal, a large, smooth, milky stone. Its iridescence shimmered as he turned it over in his fingers.

The archer who'd found her drew back with a hiss of indrawn breath. “Bad luck, that.”

Ignoring the Cubrian, Hervan straightened carefully with the opal still in his fist. He would keep it, he decided with a frown. Keep it to remind himself of Rinthella, her dark vivid beauty, her unnecessary death.

But how had this all happened? he wondered blankly. This sudden ambush and the aftermath of defeat…it was impossible. The Crimsons did not know defeat. Such a thing was completely foreign to the proud tradition of his regiment. The beginnings of shame curled around him, as with it came the sick awareness that he'd let Lady Lea down, let the emperor down, let his regiment down. He'd never failed at anything in his life, wasn't trained for failure. Yet what else was this if not…and what should he do next?

Pull yourself together,
he thought, turning away from Rinthella's body.
Start issuing orders
. It hardly mattered what kind of orders. The men, he knew, would feel better with something to do.

“Set the scouts to tracking at once,” he said. “We must pick up these renegades' trail as soon as possible.”

The men standing around him looked so dumbfounded that Hervan stopped talking.

“Well?” he demanded after a moment of silence. “Are you stricken as well as witless? Get to it.”

Two of the men saluted, then hesitated and sent Barsin a look of appeal.

“My orders are surely clear enough,” Hervan said, wondering if they meant to rebel. Frowning, he turned on his adjutant. “Barsin! Am I not clear enough?”

Barsin hastily wiped all expression from his young face and stood at stiff attention. “Very clear, Captain,” he replied crisply. “It's just…how will the men carry out your order? I mean—what are they to look for?”

“Tracks, of course. What do you suppose?”

Barsin and the others looked confused, but they all saluted. The men dispersed, leaving Barsin alone at Hervan's side.

“Come, sir,” he said in concern. “I think you need shelter and rest. You're in shock, not yourself.”

Hervan nodded, liking the idea of sitting down to a warm fire and drowning himself in a flagon of good wine. He started walking back, moving with slow stiffness like an old man. “Have the men pitch camp, and see that those trackers find something before this blasted snow covers everything.”

“Sir—”

“Hervan!” roared an irascible voice.

The very sound of it tore across Hervan's frayed nerves.
Why,
he thought with profound irritation,
hadn't Thirbe perished in the fight?
Exchanging a swift look with Barsin, Hervan swallowed a sigh and turned to face the protector.

Thirbe came limping up, begrimed and splattered with blood. His long cloak hung in tatters, and he'd lost both helmet and shield in the fight. Blood from a darkening cut on his forehead still trickled down his face. A great deal more of it had dried into a brown crust on his temple and cheek. His gray eyes held a wild fury. Their expression, plus his filthy face and gray hair sticking up in all directions, made him look nearly demented.

“She's gone,” he said without greeting. “Gone into the Hidden Ways and taken captive in the filthy hands of shadow folk. What are you doing about it? Eh? Standing about, wanting the mud cleaned off your white gauntlets and pretty boots, no doubt.”

“See here—”

“I told you not to take this road! We could have sat out the trouble at Brondi and gone on when the way was clear. Stick to the primary roads…them was our orders. Now look at the mess we're in. And her in an even bigger mess through your blundering.”

His shouting was making Hervan's head ache, but one portion of his comments seemed clear. “You cannot blame me for what's happened.”

Thirbe set his jaw. “I can, and I do.”

Barsin stepped forward, as fiery as a small gamecock. “Captain Hervan is not responsible for what's happened today. Can't you see he's injured?”

“Son, that makes not a spit's worth of difference to me. He's the commanding officer, and he's made just about every blunder possible today except achieve a total massacre of his men.” Thirbe gestured at the detail gathering up the dead. “Half our forces down. Could have butchered the lot of us if they'd wanted.”

“We drove them off,” Hervan insisted. “With brave valor—”

“Beloth shit! Save your speeches for when you stand before the emperor and explain to
him
how you lost his sister.”

Hervan burned to challenge this mouthy old man who refused to keep his place. Only he could barely hold himself up, much less fight a duel.

“Look, you itty-witted whelp,” Thirbe went on, “what do you think this was about, eh?”

“Bandits have—”

“The lady. The lady!”

“Well, her beauty is such that fills the eye.”

“These weren't common road bandits!” Thirbe roared, making Hervan's head throb harder. “Gods, man, they wore legion armor.”

“Renegade soldiers, deserters,” Hervan said. “We'll catch up with them soon enough and show them a thing or two.”

“Catch up with them how?” Thirbe asked, flinging wide his hands in exasperation. “Have you a way to enter the shadow world? Do you think that priest of ours can open the Hidden Ways?”

Everything grew suddenly too hard for Hervan to understand. Fretfully he looked around and hitched his borrowed cloak tighter about his shoulders. “Shadow worlds…what in Gault's name is all this nonsense? You're talking like a fool.”

“Wait, Protector,” Barsin interjected hurriedly before Thirbe could speak. “The captain needs rest. We mustn't keep him standing any longer in the cold. And your hurts, sir, need attending as well.”

Thirbe wiped at the blood on his face. “What matters here is Lady Lea's safety and whether we can pull her back from Beloth's gullet.”