Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Three (35 page)

News of the fighting arrived in the late afternoon, as Sasha struggled to take her class of Rhodaani youngsters through the works of Tullamayne in the Lenay tongue.

“Wait here!” she told them, jumping off her podium and snatching her sword. Out in the hall, many were running, shouts echoing off the high ceiling. In snatches of Rhodaani, and distant Torovan, she heard “High Road,” and “Justiciary,” several times. A fair run then.

She turned back to grab her waterskin, and found her way blocked by eager boys ignoring her instruction. “Where the crap are you lot going?” she asked them, pushing through to her podium. “You’re not going outside.”

“But, M’Lady!” Willem protested. Several more ignored her, and ran out into the hall. Others followed.

“Hey!” Sasha yelled, returning with her skin. “All right, get out, see what you can do and
obey your seniors
!”

They ran before her, all boys, for no Rhodaani girl thought the Lenay
tongue a suitably feminine subject. Sometimes Sasha wondered if she were the only sane human woman in the world, or the least.

She ran from the hall, dodging traffic, and paused at the broad atrium to join the gathering who were filling waterskins at the basin.

“Sasha!” called Daish from nearby. “I hear there’s fighting!” He looked excited at the prospect. She saw Reynold Hein nearby, with several Civid Sein friends, and scowled.

Errollyn came running, bow in hand but with no water. “Borrow mine,” said Sasha. “Let’s go.”

They ran down the marble stairs. Sasha had no idea how the Tol’rhen remained so cool, for the air was stifling, despite the shade between buildings. The streets remained quieter than usual, a few clattering carts, some servants on errands, a running messenger. Elesther Road ran through the city and away from the bustling back alleys and courtyards of neighbouring districts. Working class folk did not venture so much here.

“Is it the march?” Errollyn asked as they ran.

“What the hells do you think?” Sasha snapped. “Of course it’s the fucking march, they were spoiling for a fight from the moment they left. Reynold set this up.”

Errollyn said nothing. Sasha knew she should not have snarled at him, but damned if she’d apologise. If Errollyn had kept his mouth shut, Rhillian might not have moved to take over the city at all.

“Spirits know what Rhillian thinks she’s up to, giving the Civid Sein free rein like this,” she muttered. “The marchers were all shouting for Civid Sein friendly justiciars to replace the ones Rhillian dismissed, and if she gives in, the Civid Sein will control the Justiciary…what the hells was she thinking?”

As fit as she was, Sasha was not accustomed to running in such heat, and as she and Errollyn reached the first of the Civid Sein column, she was dripping sweat and gasping. A crowd of men swarmed on the road, most retreating, many terrified. Some carried wounded, others tended to those who had collapsed by the side of the road, unable to run further. Sasha had seen victory and defeat on the battlefield, and this looked like defeat.

They passed carts piled with bodies, dripping streams of blood onto the cobbles. Some Civid Sein were crying, others rallying their comrades to rush back to the battle. But there was no momentum for it, and Sasha ran past without bothering to counsel them otherwise.

Errollyn led them onto High Road, a right turn upslope, following the trail of the rout. Sasha paused to drain some water, then resumed, finding her second wind on the toughest part of the run. Other Nasi-Keth were ahead of them now, as Errollyn held back to wait for her.

About a bend, and here rose the great Merley Inn, overlooking the Justiciary and Ushal Fortress both from atop a high hill. It was perhaps the highest point in Tracato, and a cool wind blew off the sea that chilled her sweat—a beautiful scene, were it not for all the blood.

The fighting had ceased, and bodies lay strewn about the courtyard, and along the road. Desperate men loaded wounded onto carts, then ran off to find a surgeon. Two sections of Steel had arrived, and a third was coming from the other direction at a run, ten men in tight formation, shields slung, labouring up the incline in heavy armour.

Most of the dead and wounded seemed well dressed, tailored shirts and sleek pants now torn and bloodied where they lay. Perhaps twenty dead, Sasha counted, and another twenty wounded…although more had been carried away.

She looked up at the rooftops, and saw crossbowmen surveying the scene. On the courtyard, more men were gathered, blood spattered and wild eyed, to confront the arriving Nasi-Keth. Feudalists all, and expecting more trouble.

Sasha strode forward, empty hands raised. They recognised her, and broke into fast, terse conversation amongst themselves. Sasha recognised Lord Elot, long blade in hand, his embroidered tunic slashed about its broad girth. Long hair plastered to a sweaty forehead beneath his bald dome, his eyes proud, his sword bloodied.

“Lord Elot,” she said in greeting, and several feudalist men moved to her flank.

“Princess Sashandra,” said Lord Elot. Those men around her paused, and made no more threatening move. Princess, he called her, and the men stopped. It was provocative, yet an offer of friendship all the same.

“What happened?” she asked.

“This was arranged,” said Lord Elot, and spat. He seemed a man of cool temper, even in battle. Sasha could not help but admire it. “Your boys came right through our territory, shouting slogans of killing young Lord Alfriedo, and raping his mother.”

“Not
my
boys.”

“His,” said Elot, and pointed with his sword. Sasha looked, and saw Reynold, surveying the scene. He did not seem shocked. Sasha felt her blood cool. Reynold had ordered the Nasi-Keth not to attend. The Civid Sein were little more than farmers and villagers, some with experience in the Steel, but not many. Feudalists, however, trained with swords for sport, and Elot’s men were far better armed. Reynold must have known they’d be massacred.

“You’ve made them angry now,” said Sasha.

“No doubt the intent,” Elot said bitterly. “The White Lady sits on Council once more, and never mind that half its elected members languish in Justiciary cells. Civid Sein have numbers there now, and tomorrow they vote on the new justices. They’ll be howling, all four appointments shall be Civid Sein or their cronies, you watch.”

“All four.” Sasha gulped more water, thinking fast. Seven justices. A majority vote was required to convict. There were clamours for Lady Renine’s trial on treason…if the Civid Sein could muster four of the seven votes, they’d have her head. “Surely not. Justice Sinidane was just now at the Tol’rhen, asking Kessligh for help with the appointments.”

“He seeks to present the White Lady with an alternative list,” said Elot. “Sinidane is a good man, but Rhillian needs Lady Renine dead; it is the only way to control the mob.”

“You think she’ll fix the appointments?”

“I know it,” said Elot. “Princess Sashandra, your sister is charged with complicity in treason. A Lenay king marches upon our northern border. There are far more who want Princess Alythia’s head than Lady Renine’s. Surely you’ve heard the talk?”

Sasha had heard the talk. Tol’rhen students who liked her had whispered it to her in the hallways, nasty things said by others. Apparently even some students were saying it, echoing what they’d heard demanded out in the courtyard, where angry farmers sharpened their hoes and scythes and called for royal blood. There had been writing on walls, and some effigies found hanging.

“Some are saying it’s Alythia’s plot, and that she is the one who led Lady Renine into treason.”

Elot nodded. “I’d watch my back closely if I were you, Princess. If you wish to save your sister, come on your own at dusk to Shemon Square. It is the only way. Betray us you can, but Shemon Square is feudalist territory, and I know you love your sister well.”

“I will,” Sasha agreed.

Sasha was waiting in the alley when she heard a soft shuffle behind her, and spun. Errollyn was there, a shadow in the evening gloom.

“Damn you!” Sasha whispered, as her heart started again. Errollyn looked one way and the other, bow in hand. The air was hot and still, and there was barely a sound. Even here, on the feudalist midslope not far from the docks, people stayed indoors tonight. “I said I’d come alone!”

“You say a lot of things.”

“They barely trust me!” Sasha insisted, back to the wall so as not to make
a silhouette in the fading light. Errollyn leaned alongside. “They’ll certainly not trust a serrin!”

“They will if I’m with you. Everyone knows I’m
du’jannah
.”

“Aye, well
I
know that you’re the reason Rhillian started this mess! If they’ve found out you’re the one who spilled Lady Renine’s plans to Rhillian…”

Errollyn reached across her, a hand on the wall by her head, his eyes intense and close. Even now, as well as she knew him, those startlingly bright eyes in the gloom gave Sasha an involuntary chill. “Sasha, Alythia’s my friend too. I’m not sorry for what I did, but I am sorry for Alythia. If you think for a moment, you’ll realise that you need me.”

Need him? Abruptly Sasha recalled their passion in the Tol’rhen store room. She wondered if Errollyn might just take her here in the deserted alley, and did not mind the notion. But looking at his eyes, she realised that he meant his night vision.

She threw her head back in exasperation. “This is crazy. I don’t know whether to fuck you or hit you.”

“Can’t you do both?”

Sasha glared, angry at him for daring to remind her why she loved him.

“Cover me,” she told him, and slipped beneath his arm, edging toward the near corner.

Sasha crept about the courtyard, beneath the cover of arches. Errollyn followed, an arrow nocked to his bowstring, searching the darkness. Ahead, leaning against a column, there was a man in a cloak. A smoke stick flared orange, a gleam beneath his hood. Sasha left her blade sheathed…there was no advantage to feudalists in killing her, or taking her hostage now. But to recruit her to their cause…

“Sashandra,” said the figure. Sasha came closer, and recognised Councillor Dhael.

“Councillor.” She was surprised. She’d not seen Dhael since their voyage together, though she’d heard him spoken of. He was not a feudalist, nor was he said to have as many ties to them as some. “You are still free.”

“Indeed,” said Dhael, tapping his smoke. “There are those in Council who stand taller than I. I’ve long found that those who stick out their necks get their heads chopped off.”

Sasha glanced back at Errollyn, who peered from the shadow of columns, searching the windows above.

“But you work with the feudalists now?” she pressed Dhael. She was here on Lord Elot’s invitation. She did not want her time to be wasted. “I’d taken you for a friend of Saalshen. An idealist.”

“A pacifist,” said Dhael, with irony. “I know how you Lenays must dislike the word. Lord Elot asked me to speak to you.”

“Because you once stood with Saalshen? I still stand with Saalshen. I just want my sister back. The way Rhillian’s replacing high justices, she’ll have the votes to take her head off. Spirits know the people are demanding it.”

“Ah,” said Dhael. “Well, there are no means here to help merely your sister.”

“There’s a plan to help them all escape?” Sasha guessed. “A breakout?”

Dhael regarded her warily. Then he looked at Errollyn. “A serrin working against Saalshen?”

“I told you,” Sasha said impatiently, “we want Alythia. Nothing more.”

“Such odd distinctions,” said Dhael. “It is not an easy thing, Sashandra, to work for peace. Peace in this world is hard to find. Sometimes, its trail is confused.”

“Kill your enemies,” said Sasha. “Peace follows.”

“Yes,” said Dhael, amused. “Peace has followed you Lenays everywhere.”

“I didn’t say it would last. But that’s your problem, Councillor, it never does. You seek the impossible; men like you search all their lives and find nothing.”

“Saalshen, I think, has made a mistake.” Dhael took a long breath of smoke. “Saalshen loves freedom. That is why serrin and Lenays have long enjoyed each other’s company—you each have the love of freedom in common. But we humans…we know not what to do with serrin freedom. Rhillian now strives to preserve the order of freedom, by violence. I think perhaps Lady Renine has the best idea for the human future after all.”

“Kessligh warned me the pacifists would all side with the tyrants in the end—freedom is always violent, so tyranny must be for peace. I’m not interested in Lady Renine, Dhael, and I’m not interested in her plans to restore the throne of Rhodaan and put her son’s skinny backside on it, and I’m quite certain it won’t lead to a more peaceful world, just a world where the violence is more well controlled, and less inconvenient to the powerful. I only want to make sure that my sister’s head stays attached to her shoulders. Now what is this plan of yours?”

It was cool underground. In the blackness, even Errollyn needed a lamp. Sasha walked behind, blade sheathed, fingers trailing the tunnel’s stone wall. Behind them, five noblemen. She trusted none of them, and was uncomfortable to have them at her back, but reasoned well enough that if they wished to dispose of her, they’d surely wait until
after
she’d done them something useful.

They had entered the tunnel from the wall of a basement, downslope of
the Justiciary, and Sasha figured that it would make a straight line for the dungeons. The basement had been part of an unremarkable house, owned by a family who owed allegiance. The tunnel had existed for quite some time, unbeknown to most, the Tracato nobility having long ago foreseen a day when such access to the Justiciary dungeons would prove useful. Certainly it was no rough-cut rabbit hole, its walls smooth stone, its floor paved, its ceiling a flat surface of timber planks.

After some distance walking hunched, the tunnel turned a bend, and stopped. Errollyn placed his lamp on the floor, handed his bow to Sasha (even in such tight quarters, he insisted on bringing it) and pushed on an overhead stone, uncovered by ceiling planks. The cell above was empty, they’d been told, courtesy of some inside source. That meant that it had been empty at the time the source had walked past it, most likely some time earlier today. A late transference of prisoners, or some newly captured person, would make things interesting.