White Wolf (19 page)

Once Skilgannon was clear of the men he thanked the girl, and declined a massage. “I shall leave a handsome tip for you,” he told the surprised masseuse. “When my friends have been suitably relaxed tell them I was called away, but that I have arranged for them to dine at my expense.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

Moving back to the changing room, he swiftly dressed and left the building. Leaving the park, he moved swiftly through the streets, pausing once more at shops and stalls, just in case there were other followers. Satisfied at last that he was alone, Skilgannon followed the directions Sperian had given and headed into the north of the city.

The house he was seeking was new, built on the outskirts, and close to an army barracks. It was a small three-roomed property, with a roof of rough-cast red tiles. There were some twenty similar buildings constructed for the wives and children of workers at the barracks: cooks, carpenters, and blacksmiths. Sperian had described the house, saying that a bougainvillea bush was growing on the western wall alongside the front door. There was something about the location that spoke of Greavas. Only a man with his keen sense of humor and irony would hide the most wanted pair in the capital within a stone’s throw of one of the largest barracks. And yet even as the thought occurred to Skilgannon, he realized there was also great intelligence in the decision. All the buildings in the city’s richest quarter had been searched, as well as outlying estates. No one would dream of seeking the empress and her daughter in a hastily built dwelling so close to a center for the new king’s loyal troops.

Skilgannon tapped at the door, but there was no reply. Moving around to the back of the house he tried the small gate leading to the tiny patch of garden. This was locked. Glancing round to see if he was observed from any of the other houses Skilgannon scaled the wall and leapt down into the garden.

As he landed he caught a glimpse of movement to his left. Something flashed for his head. Ducking he hurled himself to his right, landed on his shoulder, and rolled to his feet. Even as he came upright a sandal-shod foot thudded against his temple. He rolled with the blow, throwing up his arm to prevent a second high kick exploding against his head. His assailant was blond and female, her dyed hair streaked red at the temples. She launched another attack, her left hand slashing toward his face. Grabbing her wrist he twisted it savagely, trying to turn her. Instead of resisting she threw herself forward, aiming a head butt at his face. It thudded painfully against his collarbone. Angry now he threw her to the ground. She rolled expertly to her feet and advanced on him again, her pretty face masked by fury, her eyes narrowed.

“Enough! Enough!” yelled Greavas, running from the doorway and grabbing the girl by the waist. “This is a friend—though a stupid one. What are you doing here?” he demanded of Skilgannon.

“Not a subject I think we should discuss in the presence of a whore,” he snapped.

“A whore you cannot afford,” she responded. “And if you could you still wouldn’t be man enough.”

The venom in her voice stunned him. Never had a pleasure girl spoken so to him. Always they were deferential, never making eye contact. Added to which this girl had used moves that Malanek had taught
him
. Unheard of for a woman. Skilgannon looked more closely at her, then back at Greavas. A middle-aged woman appeared in the rear doorway, her eyes fearful. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

“Everything is fine,” said Greavas. “Unless of course you were followed here,” he added, swinging to Skilgannon. “Then we are all dead.”

“I was not followed—though two men were assigned to the task. I left them at the bathhouse.”

“Let us hope there were no others.”

“There were no others,” said Skilgannon, his temper flaring. “I came to warn you not to return to the house. Boranius is seeking you.”

“No more than I expected. I had not intended to return. If that is all you have to tell me, Olek, then you had best leave now.”

“I thought you would need help.”

“Aye, I do need help,” said Greavas. “But this is not a boy’s game. This is not some schoolboy adventure. The stakes here are high. Torture and death await failure.”

Skilgannon said nothing for a moment, calming himself. He looked again at the yellow-haired girl he had taken for a prostitute, then back at the fearful woman in the doorway. “The disguise is a good one,” he said. “It still leaves you with the problem of smuggling a mother and her daughter from the city, when soldiers have been given your description.”

“I intend to cut my hair and dye it black,” said Greavas, “but you are right. They are searching for a woman and her young daughter. Nothing I can do about that.”

“Of course there is. You can separate them. As a whore the princess can travel anywhere without suspicion. Without her daughter the empress can travel as your wife.”

“All the gates are guarded,” replied Greavas, “and there are faithless former retainers stationed at all of them, ready to betray the royal family for gold. There is no escape, Olek. Not yet.”

“They should still separate,” said Skilgannon. “And I
do
have a plan.”

“
This
I would love to hear,” said the princess.

Ignoring the contempt in her voice, he pressed on. “If I get back to the bathhouse swiftly, the men who followed me will still be there. I shall do as I proposed and buy them a meal. If the princess is outside the bathouse in three hours, and approaches me as a whore, they will see her. They will also see me engage her services and take her home. They will make their report. Olek Skilgannon is not linked with traitors. He is more interested in playing with whores. She will be invisible to them—well, invisible as a princess anyway.”

Greavas sat down at a small wooden table and rubbed his chin. “I don’t know,” he said.

“It is a good plan,” said the princess. “I like it.”

“It has dangers,” Greavas told her. “First you must get to the bathhouse. The road there is packed with men. You will be accosted all the way. Secondly there are already whores at the bathhouse. They will defend their territory—harshly. They will want no strangers coming in and stealing their trade. Thirdly you do not sound like a whore. Your voice is refined. And lastly you might still be recognized, despite the disguise, and that will lead to your capture and death, and the death of Olek.”

“The alternative is to sit in this appalling closet of a house until we are discovered, or we die of boredom,” said the princess. “And do not concern yourself about my refined speech. I spent enough time with my father’s soldiers to know how to speak roughly. And Malanek trained me well enough. I can deal with angry whores. I assure you of that.”

Greavas looked uncertain, but he nodded. “Very well. Olek you get back as swiftly as you can. And may the Source watch over you both. I will get a message to you when it is safe to move. Go now.”

Skilgannon sped back to the bathhouse. Less than an hour had passed, but he was still worried that Morcha and Casensis might have left. He located the girl he had spoken to and asked her if she had passed on his message. She said she had not, for they were still in the booths with the body maidens. Relieved, Skilgannon thanked her and settled down to wait. Morcha emerged first, arm in arm with a buxom blond girl. Leaning down he kissed her cheek. She smiled at him and walked away.

“Man oh man,” said Morcha, “this is a day I shall remember fondly.” He sat down and leaned back against the wall, fingering the thick, soft cloth of his robe. “How the rich live,” he said.

“I am ashamed to say I had not considered it,” said Skilgannon, with sincerity.

“Not your fault you are rich, lad. Gods, I don’t blame you for it.”

Casensis emerged from another booth. The girl curtsied to him, but did not smile as she left. He wandered out, looking sour and unhappy, and asked Morcha if had bedded his girl. “Indeed I did,” said Morcha, happily. “And she did not charge me.” Casensis swore.

“Knew I should have chosen her,” he said.

“Some men have no luck,” said Morcha, with a wink at Skilgannon.

“Join me for a meal,” Skilgannon offered. Both men accepted and, once they had donned their clothes, he led them up the stairs to the dining hall. An hour later, having devoured several roast pheasants in a berry sauce, plus consuming a tankard of fine wine, the two soldiers were in good spirits. Even Casensis had a smile on his surly features.

As they left the building by the main entrance Skilgannon felt tense, and, for the first time that day, uncertain. The plan had seemed so good when he had thought of it. But Greavas was right. This was no schoolboy game. What if the princess was recognized by Morcha or Casensis? What if she could not play the role? Added to which he himself had now become a traitor to the new order. What future would there be for him now? Be calm, he told himself, remembering his father’s advice. “A man should stand by his friends—unless they do evil—and hold always to what he believes in.” Could Greavas’s actions in protecting two women from death be considered evil? Skilgannon doubted it. Therefore there was only one course of action.

There were around a dozen whores in the marble square. One of them was sitting down, nursing a cut lip and a swollen eye. Others were clustered together, staring malevolently at a slim, beautiful newcomer. As the three men emerged several of the whores moved toward them, smiling provocatively. Casensis stopped to chat to them, while Morcha stood back.

The slim girl approached Skilgannon. She walked with a subtle sway of the hips. She tilted her head and smiled at him. It was as if he had been struck in the chest by a hammer. Gone was the violent, scornful girl in the garden. Here was the most devastatingly attractive woman he had ever seen. “You look like a man in need of a little company,” she said, linking her arm in his. Her voice was rough and uncultured, and her smile full of dark promise. Skilgannon’s mouth was dry, and he could think of nothing to say. Morcha laughed good naturedly.

“I’d take her up on it, lad. I may not be the sharpest arrow in the quiver, but she looks like something special to me.”

Skilgannon was about to speak when the girl slipped her hand under his tunic, fondling him. He leapt backward and almost fell. “Be careful with him, darling. He’s young and I’d reckon a little inexperienced,” said Morcha.

“My home is close by,” was all Skilgannon could say. He felt like an idiot, and knew he was blushing.

“Can you afford me? I don’t come cheap.”

“I don’t think I can,” he said, “but I’ll sell the house.”

“That’s the way, boy,” said Morcha, with a booming laugh. “Damn, but I wish I hadn’t sported in the bathhouse now. This is a girl I’d willingly fight you for. Go on, go off with you. Enjoy!”

The princess took his arm and led him away. He glanced back to see Morcha and Casensis watching him. Morcha waved. Casensis looked sour.

And so it was that Skilgannon met the love of his life, and took her home.

Sitting in the tree, overlooking the distant city of Mellicane, Skilgannon recalled the day. Despite the horror and death that had followed that meeting he found he could not regret it. Before that afternoon, it seemed to him, the sky had been always gray, and after it he had experienced the beauty of the rainbow.

Jianna shone like the sun, and sparkled like a jewel. She was unlike anyone he had ever met. He still recalled the scent of her hair as they walked together arm in arm.

He sighed at the memory. Then she had been a beautiful young woman, no older than he. Now she was the Witch Queen and wanted him dead.

Pushing such somber thoughts from his mind he climbed down from the tree.

Cadis Patralis had been a captain in the army of Dospilis for a mere four months. His father had purchased his commission, and he had taken part in only one action, the routing of a small group of Tantrian archers at a bridge some twenty miles from Mellicane. Now, it seemed, the war was over, and for young Cadis the prospect of glory and advancement was receding by the hour.

Instead of fighting the enemy, and earning respect, admiration, and increased rank, he now led his forty lancers across the hills, seeking escaped Arena beasts. There was no glory to be had in hunting down these abominations, and Cadis was in a foul mood. It was not helped by the sergeant who had been foisted on him. The man was insufferable. The colonel had assured Cadis that the sergeant was a sound fighter and a veteran of three campaigns. “He will be invaluable to you, young man. Learn from him.”

Learn from him? The man was a peasant. He had no understanding of philosophy or literature, and he swore constantly—always a sign of ill breeding.

At nineteen Cadis Patralis cut a handsome figure in his tailored cuirass and golden cloak. His chain mail glistened, and his padded helm fitted to perfection. His cavalry saber had been made by the greatest swordsmith in Dospilis, and his thigh-length boots, reinforced around the knee, were of finest shimmering leather. By contrast Sergeant Shialis looked like a vagabond. His breatsplate was dented, his cloak—once gold, but now a pale urine yellow—was tattered and much repaired. And his boots were beyond a joke. Even his saber was standard issue, with a wooden hilt, strongly wrapped with leather strips. Cadis glanced at the man’s face. Unshaven, his eyes red rimmed, he looked ancient and worn out. How such a man could have fooled the colonel was beyond the understanding of Cadis Patralis.

Leaning forward in the saddle, Cadis heeled his gray gelding up a slope, pausing at the crest and scanning the land. Some quarter of a mile to the south he saw a group of refugees struggling across a valley.

“Rider coming, sir,” said Sergeant Shialis. “It’s the one of the scouts.”

Cadis swung in his saddle. A small man riding a pinto pony rode up the hill, drawing rein before the officer. “Found ’em,” he said. “Wish I hadn’t.” Cadis fought to control his temper. The man was a private citizen, paid to scout, and therefore not obliged to salute or follow military protocol. Even so the lack of respect in his manner was infuriating.

“Where are the others?” he asked the man.