at the woman, ‘people just gave up.’
Sillen and two others had got the strongbox down, straining and cursing at its weight. ‘Locked, captain.’
‘Key’s right here,’ Ivis replied, lifting free an ornate key looped through a thong of leather round the young woman’s flushed neck. He tossed it over, then glared up at the coachman. ‘Take a walk — back to the village.’
‘What? I got to return the carriage! And the horse!’
‘One of my men will do that. Go, get out of here. Wait!’ Ivis plucked a small leather pouch from his belt and tossed it over to the coachman. ‘You didn’t see any of this — not her passing out, nothing at all. Am I clear?’
Wide-eyed, the man nodded.
‘If word reaches me,’ Ivis continued, ‘that what’s happened here has gone through Abara, I will hunt you down and silence your flapping tongue once and for all.’
The coachman backed up a step. ‘No need to threaten me, sir. I heard you. I understand what you’re saying.’
Hearing the lock on the strongbox click, Ivis waved the coachman back on to the road. The man hurried off, his head bent over as he peered into the leather pouch. The glance he threw back at the captain was a surprised one, and he quickly picked up his pace.
Ivis turned to Sillen. ‘Open it.’
The lid creaked, and then Sillen frowned. Reaching in, he lifted clear a well-wrapped clay jar, the kind used to hold cider. When he shook it even Ivis could hear the strange rustling sound the contents made. Not cider. Meeting Sillen’s questioning eyes, the captain nodded.
The soldier worked free the heavy stopper, peered in. ‘Stones, captain. Polished stones.’ He nodded towards the strongbox. ‘It’s full of these jars.’
‘From the shores of Dorssan Ryl,’ Ivis muttered, nodding to himself. He took from Corporal Yalad the wet cloth and leaned over to brush Sandalath’s forehead. Stones of avowed love — they all carried a few, mostly from family and mates. But whole jars filled with them? An entire damned strongbox of stones?
‘More than a few suitors, I guess,’ Sillen said, returning the stopper and slapping it tight with one palm.
Ivis stared across at the soldier. ‘If that was meant as a jest, Sillen, I’ll-’
‘No sir!’ Sillen said quickly, looking back down as he replaced the jar and closed the lid. ‘Begging your pardon, sir. What do I know of pretty daughters from noble houses?’
‘Not much, it seems,’ Ivis allowed. ‘Lock it up, damn you. And give me back that key.’
‘She’s coming round, sir,’ said Corporal Yalad.
‘Mother’s blessing,’ Ivis whispered in relief, watching her eyelids fluttering open.
She stared up at him without comprehension. He waited for some recognition as she studied him, but it did not seem forthcoming.
‘Hostage Sandalath Drukorlat, I am Captain Ivis. I am leading your escort to House Dracons.’
‘The — the carriage…’
‘We have to leave the road now, mistress — the track before us is good only for riding. Can you sit a horse?’
Frowning, she slowly nodded.
‘We’ll stay here for a while longer,’ Ivis said, helping her to sit up. Seeing her notice her half-undressed state, Ivis took up her outer cloak and draped it about her. ‘You were overheating in that carriage,’ he explained. ‘You fainted. Mistress, we could well have lost you — you’ve given us all a serious fright.’
‘I am weak with imagination, captain.’
He studied her, trying to make sense of that confession.
‘I am better now,’ she said, managing a faint smile. ‘Thirsty.’
Ivis gestured and a soldier closed in with a canteen. ‘Not too much all at once,’ he advised.
‘You’re holding my key, captain.’
‘It was constricting your throat, mistress.’ When she looked across at the strongbox, he added, ‘We’ll rig a harness between two horse-men.’ He smiled. ‘No idea what’s in that thing, but it’s damned heavy. Young women and their toiletry — it seems there’s no end to paints and perfumes and such. I know — got me a daughter, you see.’
Sandalath’s gaze dropped away and she seemed to concentrate solely on sipping from the canteen. Then she looked up in alarm. ‘The coachman-’
‘Sent him away, mistress.’
‘Oh. Did he-’
‘No. On my honour.’
It seemed she was about to press him on this, but lacked the strength, sagging back down as if moments from collapsing once more.
Ivis took her weight. ‘Mistress? Are you all right?’
‘I will be,’ she assured him. ‘So, how old is she?’
‘Who?’
‘Your daughter.’
‘Only a few years younger than you, mistress.’
‘Pretty?’
‘Well, I’m her father…’ And then he ventured a wry grin. ‘But she’ll need more wits about her than most, I’d wager.’
Sandalath reached out and touched his upper arm, a gesture that a princess might make upon a kneeling subject. ‘I am sure,’ she said, ‘she is very pretty.’
‘Yes, mistress,’ he replied. He straightened. ‘If you will excuse us for a time — I need to see to my troop, and see to the strongbox. Gather your strength, mistress, and when you feel able we will resume our journey to House Dracons.’
When he moved round to the other side of the carriage, Sillen edged close and said, ‘Mother help her if she looks like you, sir. That daughter of yours, I mean.’
Ivis scowled. ‘You’ve got a mouth on you, soldier, that’s going to see you looking up at us from the bottom of a latrine.’
‘Yes, sir. Didn’t know you had a daughter, that’s all. It’s, uh, hard to work my way round, sir.’
Behind them, Corporal Yalad snorted. ‘You really that thick, Sillen?’
‘See to that harness, Sillen,’ Ivis said.
‘Yes sir.’
Proper men had two arms for good reason. One to reach for things, the other to keep things away. Galdan had lost the arm that kept things away, and now, when every temptation edged into his reach, he snatched it close to be hungrily devoured.
He’d discovered this grim curse in the depths of cheap wine, and then in a young, innocent woman who lived only to dream of a better life. Well, he’d promised it, hadn’t he? That better life. But the hand that touched belonged to the wrong arm — the only arm he had left — and the touch did nothing but stain and leave bruises, marring all the perfect flesh that he should never have taken in the first place.
Love had no limbs at all. It could neither run nor grasp, couldn’t even push away though it tried and tried. Left lying on the ground, unable to move, crying like an abandoned baby — people could steal it; people could kick it until it bled, or nudge it down a hillside or over a cliff. They could smother it, drown it, set it on fire until it was ashes and charred bone. They could teach it how to want and want for ever, no matter how much it was fed. And sometimes, all love was, was something to be dragged behind on a chain, growing heavier with each step, and when the ground opened up under it, why, it pulled a person backwards and down, down to a place where the pain never ended.
If he’d had two arms, he could have stabbed it through the heart.
But nobody around here understood any of that. They couldn’t figure the reasons why he drank all the time, when in truth there weren’t any. Not real ones. And he didn’t need to do much to throw out excuses — the empty sleeve was good enough, and the beautiful woman stolen away from him — not that he’d ever deserved her, of course, but those who reached too high always fell the furthest, didn’t they? Forulkan justice, they called it. He’d had his fill of that, more than most people. He’d been singled out; he was certain of it. Touched by a malign god,
