Medalon

to the other prisoners, Loclon emerged from his tent in an increasingly vile temper.

On the fourth night he sent for Sunny, who trotted off happily to ply her trade. Sunny knew the reality of life outside the Citadel. She knew that pleasing Loclon now would ease her lot once they arrived at the Grimfield. R’shiel watched her go and turned back to huddle on the ground. She had won. He had given up in the end. Not a cry, not a whimper, no reaction at all, had Loclon been able to force from her. She bit her lip as hysterical laughter bubbled up inside her, threatening to escape and betray her silent, private victory.

The Grimfield came into sight on the tenth day after they left the river-boat. The town squatted like a mangy dog at the foot of the Hallowdean Mountains. R’shiel watched it grow larger in the distance, half-fearful and half- relieved that her journey was coming to an end. The buildings were dirty and squat, built from the local gray stone with little or no thought for style. Most were single story, thatched affairs with wide verandahs to keep out the intense summer heat. Only the inn, the Defenders’ Headquarters and a few other buildings had more than one story. Even the low wall that surrounded the town, glittering in the sunlight with its wicked capping of broken glass, looked as if it was trying to crouch.

The women had assured her that the court’esa of the Grimfield were only lightly guarded and the higher the ranked officer one managed to latch onto, the less onerous one’s incarceration was. A part of R’shiel rebelled at the idea of deliberately seeking out an officer. She liked the idea of being a barracks court’esa even less, so she made an attempt, along with the other women, to make herself presentable. Loclon had done that for her. He had driven home the reality of her situation. Being assigned to the laundry or the kitchen would not save her, and her one ambition now was to avoid any further contact with him until she could take her revenge. If that meant attracting the eye of another officer for protection, then she was willing to do whatever she had to. Don’t let anybody, ever, defeat you, she reminded herself. It was becoming the rule by which she lived. The men cheered them on good-naturedly, offering hints as to what might attract the eye of this officer or that, until Loclon bellowed at them to shut up. R’shiel caught Tarja’s speculative look as she combed her hair with her fingers and turned away from him.

The prisoners were met in the town square by the Commandant. R’shiel had forgotten that Mahina’s son was now Commandant of the Grimfield, and she prayed he would not notice her. He watched impassively as the prisoners were lined up, and a small crowd gathered to examine the new arrivals. At his side stood a bearded man who appeared to be his adjutant. Wilem examined the list that Loclon handed him and read through it carelessly until he came to a name that caught his eye. Looking up, he searched the line of prisoners until he spied Tarja.

He ordered Tarja forward. “You are a disgrace to the Defenders and a traitor even to your heathen friends.”

Tarja offered no reply.

“It is my duty to see you remain alive,” he continued, as if the very thought disgusted him. “That is not likely to happen if I let you loose among the other prisoners. They take a dim view of traitors, and you have managed to betray both sides. But I’ve no wish to see you enjoy your time here, either. I will be assigning you to the nightcart. Maybe a few years of hauling shit will teach you some humility, at least.” He turned away and beckoned his aide forward. “Mysekis, see that the others are taken to the mine. Have Tarja sent to Sergeant Lycren and make sure he’s guarded. I don’t want any accidents.”

“Sir,” Mysekis said with a salute and hurried off. The Commandant then turned his attention to the women. He looked them over disinterestedly. “Loclon, take them to Sister Prozlan in the Women’s Hall, then report to my office.”

Loclon saluted smartly and turned to carry out his orders. As the Commandant turned away, a youth of about fifteen with sandy hair and cast-off clothes slipped out of the crowd and approached him. He said something that made the Commandant look back at the line of women.

“Oh, Loclon,” the Commandant called as he strode back toward his barracks, “take the redhead to my wife. She said something about wanting a maid.”

Loclon’s scar darkened with annoyance as he herded them away. R’shiel kept her relief well hidden. The welcome news that she had escaped life as a court’esa was only slightly overshadowed by the awful prospect of being placed in the custody of the notoriously difficult Crisabelle.

chapter 33

The Commandant’s wife was a short, obese blonde with ambitions far outstripping her station as the wife of the prison commandant. She examined R’shiel critically with a frown, plumping her hair nervously. “Don’t I know you?”

“You might have seen me at the Citadel, my Lady.”

“What were you sent here for?”

“I was... in a tavern. After curfew,” she answered, deciding that it was enough of the truth that she could not be accused of lying. “I... got involved with the wrong people. They committed a crime, and I got caught up in it... accidentally.”

Crisabelle nodded, not familiar enough with the prisoners in her husband’s charge to realize that they all considered themselves innocent. She thought on it for a moment, then her brown eyes narrowed. “What did you do at the Citadel? Were you a servant?”

“I was a Probate.” Then she added another “my Lady” for good measure. R’shiel was determined to make Crisabelle like her. Her safety in this dreadful place depended on it.

“A Probate! How marvelous! Finally! Wilem has found me someone decent! The last two maids he sent me were thieving whores. But a Probate!” Crisabelle frowned at the brown linen shift that R’shiel had been given at the Women’s Hall after her own travel-stained clothes had been taken from her. “Well, we shall have to see about more suitable clothing! I will not have my personal maid dressing like those other women. Pity you’re so tall... never mind, I’m sure we can manage. Go and report to Cook and tell him I said to feed you. You look thin enough to faint. Then you can draw my bath and help me dress for dinner.”

R’shiel dropped into a small curtsy, which had Crisabelle beaming with delight, before hurrying off to do as she was ordered.

Crisabelle’s cook proved to be a small man named Teggert, with bulging brown eyes, thin gray hair, and a passion for gossip. The large kitchen was warm and inviting, with softly glowing copper pots and a long, scrubbed wooden table. It was Teggert’s personal kingdom. He eyed R’shiel up and down when she informed him of Crisabelle’s instructions, then ordered her to sit as he fetched her a meal of yesterday’s stew, fresh bread, and watered ale. He began to talk to her as he bustled around his tiny realm, and she nodded as she listened to him rattle on. Mistaking her politeness for interest, he launched into a detailed explanation of the household politics. Before she had finished her dinner – the best meal she had eaten in weeks – he was telling her about Wilem and Crisabelle and Mahina and anybody else he thought worthy of notice in the small town.

“Of course, I don’t doubt that the Commandant loved her once,” he added, after he finished his long-winded explanation, “but what is delightful in a girl is just embarrassing in a woman over forty.”

“I see what you mean,” R’shiel agreed, not wishing to offend the man who would be responsible for seeing her fed in the months to come.

“The poor Commandant knows she expected more,” Teggert continued. “I mean, for a woman not of the Sisterhood or with independent holdings of her own, marriage to an officer of the Defenders is an eminently acceptable course to follow. The trouble is that Crisabelle only ever saw the shiny buttons, the parades, and the pennons. Spending years in a place like the Grimfield is not what she had in mind, let me tell you! Even L’rin, the local tavern owner, has more social standing in the general scheme of things.”

Teggert took the evening’s roast out of the oven as he talked, the smell making R’shiel’s mouth water. As he basted the roast he kept up his tale, delighted to have a new audience. “Sister Mahina only makes things worse,” he lamented. “Retirement doesn’t suit her at all, and the fact that she simply loathes her daughter-in-law is