The Wounded Guardian (27 page)

‘I was sent here by a friend. He advised me to ask for Lahra,’ Martil said thickly.

Sillat arched an eyebrow. ‘A wise choice. And a popular one. How long do you require?’

Martil had no intention of revealing his plans to this woman. Much better to put the offer of big money direct to this Lahra. Sillat saw his hesitation and moved swiftly into her spiel. ‘We do a special rate for regular customers. It’s a gold piece for a turn of the hourglass, or five gold pieces for seven visits.’

Martil winced inwardly at the price. ‘I’ll take the seven-visits offer,’ he decided, hoping this display of gold would lull any suspicions she might have.

Sillat rummaged under the counter and produced a pink wooden token in an unusual, although rather
apt, shape. She saw Martil’s expression and smiled, while her hands made his gold disappear under the counter.

‘Just show this at the gate from now on.’

‘If I must,’ Martil muttered, making sure it was stowed in the very bottom of his belt pouch.

‘Now, I’ll send for Lahra but I might suggest, if Lahra is to your taste, you may need to book ahead in future. She’s very popular with the nobility. You’re just lucky that most of our nobles are out of town at the moment. May I take your name?’

Martil hesitated. ‘I don’t think we need to bother with names,’ he shrugged.

Sillat’s smile grew even further. ‘No need to worry on that count. Welcome to the Golden Gate. It is always a pleasure to have a new member,’ she added with a wink.

Martil smiled, as he was supposed to.

Sillat then opened a large cupboard behind the counter. Inside were a dozen bellpulls, all in a different colour. She reached for the blue one and tugged it; a bell sounded somewhere further back in the house.

‘Lahra will be with you in a moment. Please wait over there.’ She gestured towards a blue-painted door on the other side of the room.

Martil walked over carefully, avoiding the large divans. By the time he reached it, the door opened and Lahra stepped through. The first thing Martil noticed was that she was wearing a green dress cut so low at the top, and so high at the bottom, that it would have caused an instant riot had she been on the street. It was hard to tell, as the Queen had been wearing a much more conservative dress, but he was fairly confident this woman was rather more well
endowed than the Queen. Then he looked at her face. He had only seen the Queen briefly, but seemed able to recall her face in detail, instantly. Lahra’s resemblance was remarkable, the only differences were her lips—stained red—and the eyes. While the Queen’s eyes had seemed to Martil to be liquid green pools, filled with hidden depths, Lahra’s were glassy and shallow. But then Martil did not intend to look deeply into her eyes.

He did wonder at the nature of this country’s so-called nobles, who bowed to the Queen then rushed here to have her lookalike obey their every whim. Even Barrett had come here. As for himself, well, he would worry about being hypocritical afterwards.

Once inside one of the bedrooms, he had to force himself to concentrate on the rescue plan.

‘I have an important question for you,’ Martil said.

‘What’s that then?’ Her voice was nothing like the Queen’s. It was low and coarse.

He laid his swordbelt on a chair and turned, ready to give her his pitch about earning big money for a simple job, to find she had slipped out of her dress and was right in front of him, wearing nothing more than an expensive necklace and a welcoming smile.

‘I’ve forgotten,’ he said.

Martil yawned. ‘How would you like to earn some big money?’ he asked her.

She dropped the dress she was about to step back into and climbed back onto the bed. ‘I’m listening,’ she purred. ‘Big money, you say? How big?’

‘Gold—just for you, not the few silvers you get from Sillat,’ he said, knowing a place like this had to be taking most of the money earned by the whores.

‘Gold?’ She smiled, then sniffed. ‘Does that mean you are another one who wants me to dress up in a crown and give them orders before they rut?’

Martil coughed guiltily. ‘In a way. I want you to pretend to be the Queen, but there’ll be no rutting afterwards. I want you to come with me to the Church of the Sun tomorrow and then go for a carriage ride afterwards.’

She thought about this for a second. ‘Haven’t done that before. I’ve had to turn up at a lot of strange parties dressed as the Queen, though. They like me to do that. Walk around in a crown and loads of jewels but with no dress on.’

Martil could not help but think that if the Queen was counting on the Norstaline nobility to help her against Gello, she was in for a shock.

‘Two gold pieces,’ Martil offered.

‘For that price you don’t get my tits hanging out in the church, and it’ll be another gold piece if you want to rut in the carriage and I won’t clean up after the horses for less than five,’ she agreed.

Despite himself, Martil was intrigued. ‘Have they actually got you to do that?’ he asked.

‘Once. But I won’t do it again unless it’s for big money.’

Martil struggled to maintain his concentration. No wonder the country was falling apart. ‘Right. We have a deal—as long as you come back to my house with me, because we’ll be going to the church early tomorrow.’

She shrugged, which was an impressive gesture with no clothes on.

‘For two gold pieces, that’s fine. I do this sort of thing all the time. Usually Sillat takes a commission when they book me for parties, so I don’t mind getting all the gold just for me this time. Business is quiet at the moment—everyone seems to have buggered off to their country houses. And they don’t want me when the wife is around. It’s like pissing in the soup.’

Martil tried to look sympathetic.

‘The only thing is, the gate guards will probably tell Sillat that I’m going home with you. They’re supposed to. Then she’ll want her take. So unless you done a deal beforehand, I might need a bit extra on top…’

Martil smiled. ‘I don’t think the gate guards will be a problem,’ he suggested.

‘Well, I’m ready to go when you are.’

‘But I’m not finished yet,’ Martil said thickly, reaching for her.

Earl Byrez had known he would be hunted. Nobody was allowed to defy King Markuz and survive. It was a mark of the King’s weakness that Byrez had been able to walk out of the throne room alive. He had expected a visit from Cezar at any moment, although the King’s mysterious Champion seemed to be otherwise occupied.

That was an unexpected relief, as it gave him time to see his wife and children safely hidden with friends in other parts of the country. Despite its history, there were some Berellians, such as himself, who still believed in honour.

But they seemed to be shrinking in number. Byrez had been appalled to see the way his countrymen were accepting the mass conversion to Zorva. Going along with the Fearpriests, taking the first steps on the road to surrendering their souls to evil, this seemed to be an easier option than fighting against the King and a tradition of obedience. On the run himself, he was trying not to stay in one place for more than a night. He had arrived at an inn, under a different name, to find a horrific sight in the town square—a flayed body impaled on a stake. But when he learned it was the body of the town’s priest, that the whole town had watched the man’s horrific death at the hands of a Fearpriest—
and cheered
—it took all his discipline not to give himself away. He found himself almost wishing for a visit from Cezar, so he did not have to watch this descent into madness and evil.

Martil had to persuade Lahra to bring along the most conservative dress she had there, which was
still far more—or rather, less—than a Queen would wear. But if Lahra and the Queen were going to swap clothes, it would at least be an interesting sight—one perhaps even worth all the gold he was outlaying. Lahra led him out of the building by a side door and then down a hidden path to the gate at the front. As Martil had predicted, Kesbury and Dunner were more than happy to keep quiet about Martil going home with Lahra, especially when he pressed a silver piece on them both.

‘We don’t need money, sir. I owe you my life!’ Kesbury declared.

‘This is not payment,’ Martil told him. ‘It’s just in memory of what we all went through.’

‘Then thank you, sir. And if you need a hand, just let us know!’

Luckily it was close to Barrett’s place.

‘How far is it to walk? Me feet are fair killing me in these shoes,’ she grumbled.

‘Not much further, Lahra,’ he urged her on.

‘Me name’s not Lahra, it’s Rabbag, only Sillat don’t think men will pay gold for someone with that name.’

He managed to get her to Barrett’s place without anyone seeing them and before her complaints got too loud.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll be riding tomorrow,’ he told her as Barrett opened the front door.

‘’Ere, I knows him. He’s one of my regulars. The wizard with the long staff,’ Rabbag declared as soon as she saw Barrett.

Martil said nothing, he just looked at the wizard. Barrett flushed a little. ‘Come in then. I take it she has agreed to do the job?’ he asked Martil.

‘She’ll be perfect, as long as she doesn’t open her mouth,’ Martil declared.

‘I know what to do. Don’t talk, just sit up straight and wave your hand around,’ she protested.

‘Fine. I’m off to bed,’ Barrett stated.

Rabbag linked arms with him. ‘Where do you sleep, wizard?’

Barrett regretfully stepped away. ‘There won’t be any time for anything but sleep. Conal has passed out. So you need to stand guard, Martil,’ the wizard said, with just a trace of a triumphant sneer on his face. He spun on his heel and walked away.

Sleeping with Lahra—or Rabbag—was Barrett’s guilty secret. Each time he told himself it would be the last, but it never was. Sharing that with Martil made him feel dirty. He told himself that these sessions with Lahra just made it easier for him to serve the Queen, although he had never quite convinced himself of that.

Martil reluctantly showed Rabbag to an empty bedroom—at the opposite end of the house to Karia and then grabbed a jug of water and prepared to stand guard. He found a spot beside a window overlooking the front of the house. He dragged over a chair then stared out wondering what the day would bring. He was a little concerned about what would happen to Rabbag, should things not go quite right. But he hoped even Gello would refrain from executing a whore. As for himself, he hoped the Queen would not demand he immediately unsheath the Dragon Sword and attempt to force Gello’s soldiers to turn on their master. He drew the Sword. He had a suspicion he might need it tomorrow, and wondered how he could make it return to its normal shape. He tried to concentrate but it still looked like
his old shortsword. Without Barrett to advise him, he had no idea if that was because he was doing it wrong, or because he could not access its magic. And with the Sword’s appearance magically changed, he could not even see the dragon on the hilt, let alone see whether its eyes were sparkling.

The night passed slowly, and he found himself thinking about Queen Merren. His time with Rabbag had only added spice to his thoughts. Before he had learned to hate them, he had read all the sagas; he knew what often happened between queens and their champions. And why couldn’t he end up as a Prince Consort? Sure, he was a Ralloran farm boy by birth but he was also the wielder of the Dragon Sword. And if the nobles around here were interested in whores dressing up as the Queen and cleaning out their stables, then the place was certainly crying out for some new blood. He liked the thought of that. He had drawn the Dragon Sword without even thinking about it. The decision to bring it to the Queen had been made more by Karia than himself; the decision to accompany Barrett had been made for him—either he help or the Sword would kill him. He was still trying to work out how he had ended up here. One moment he was leaving Rallora, swearing to avoid all wars and bloodshed; the next he was ambushed by a family of useless bandits and all of a sudden he was the wielder of a magical Sword and about to become the focus of a civil war. Where had it all gone wrong, and just when had he chosen any of this? Was he just some sort of puppet, being used by powers beyond his knowledge?
That was a cheerful thought for a quiet night
, he reflected. Again he wondered what Father Nott had seen. The old priest had to be in the city. If he had had more
time, he would have liked to search him out and demand some answers. He focused again on the Queen and specifically how he had felt when he saw her. The sagas all went on about love at first sight, which made him think such a thing could not exist in real life. But seeing her had been an almost physical blow. Rescuing the Queen because he was attracted to her and wanted to feel that way again was not a particularly good motive, but it gave him something to think about. He concentrated on that, spicing it up a little with the memories of his time with Lahra.

When he saw dawn lighten the sky he went upstairs and dumped a pitcher of water over Conal.

‘Wake up, I’ve stood guard all night,’ Martil told the spluttering bandit.

‘You know how to wake a man up,’ Conal grumbled. ‘I suppose I should be glad it’s not my own piss, at least.’

‘Just stand watch. I need some sleep.’

‘Been at it all night, eh? Getting your money’s worth?’

Martil ignored him and, leaving the old bandit on bleary-eyed guard, he found a comfortable-looking couch and dropped onto it with a sigh.

But it seemed he had barely closed his eyes when someone poked him in the ear.

‘Conal, this had better not be you,’ he groaned without opening his eyes.

‘Wake up. I’m hungry,’ Karia complained.

Martil was reminded of when he had taken a glancing axe blow to the head early on in the war. His helm had saved his skull but he had still been knocked down. Getting up after that, even knowing an axeman was trying to finish him off, had been one
of the hardest things he had ever done. Until now. Sighing, Martil dragged himself up and made her a plate of fruit, before flopping down onto the couch once more. He was just about asleep when she jumped onto his back.

‘I’m bored now. Can we play a game or something?’

Martil managed to stop himself shouting only by a supreme effort of will.

‘I’ve been awake all night. I need some sleep. How about you sing me a few songs?’

Karia liked that idea, and sang away. It was not particularly soft, and it was certainly not tuneful, but it was strangely comforting and Martil fell asleep anyway.

He awoke to see Conal reading Karia a story, and trying to get her to pick out some words by herself.

‘It’s mid-morning. Barrett’s up and about, although the, er, lady isn’t. Thought I’d try to entertain Karia a little. Make up for last night. I’m sorry, Captain, it won’t happen again.’ Conal looked to have recovered now, and appeared faintly embarrassed.

‘What won’t?’ Martil stretched.

‘Getting drunk on duty. Damn wizard’s wine is far stronger than the goat’s piss I’ve been used to.’

Karia giggled at this, and Conal coughed. ‘Let’s go and get the captain something to eat,’ he suggested.

‘And me, too!’

Martil watched them head off towards the kitchen but just lay there for a while, then stretched and stood. He felt better now, and with some food inside him he knew he’d be ready to go. Still, he wanted to make sure he brought one of Barrett’s books along to read to Karia. She was sure to get bored in the
church otherwise. He smiled to himself. She was one of the main reasons why he was in this position, yet he found he did not regret meeting her. It was not just because the dreams about Bellic had stopped. It was for all she had brought into his life. He reached out for his swordbelt and strapped it on, then grasped the Dragon Sword’s hilt. To his surprise, it turned from an old shortsword into itself. He stared at it for a moment, then willed it to turn back. He was not sure but he felt that he had seen the dragon’s eyes flash brightly at him.

‘Maybe I just needed to practise,’ he muttered, feeling pleased with himself.

They were enjoying breakfast when Barrett and a sleepy-looking Rabbag walked in.

‘Why is that woman here?’ Karia asked in a loud whisper.

‘She’s part of our trick to rescue the Queen,’ Martil whispered back, much softer.

‘Rescue the Queen? What’s that?’ Rabbag rasped, proving there was nothing wrong with her hearing.

‘It’s just a game we play,’ Martil said hastily. ‘She’s a princess and we need to rescue a queen.’

‘Oh, right. Got anything to drink?’

With that problem avoided, and equipped with food and books, they were ready to leave. Rabbag was put on Tomon, which Martil led, while Karia rode with Barrett and Conal walked. There was no way anyone would believe his shabby little donkey could possibly belong in this part of town. Except, perhaps, as a beast of burden for someone who cleaned the privies.

They reached the church without incident. Martil tied the two horses to the hitching rail, then he and Barrett ushered everyone inside. This time, almost as
soon as they were inside the church, the priest bustled over to see them. Three men, a woman and a child were probably not the most unusual group he would have seen coming into his church, but this group were certainly dressed differently enough to attract his attention.

He was tall and thin, with a hooked nose and sharp grey eyes that looked them up and down carefully. If this was the church the royal family used, it was an important position for a priest.
Perhaps even a fast track to a bishopric
, Martil thought. This priest certainly looked the ambitious type.