to our attention that you are a physic.”
“I have been trying to see the Commandant for almost a week. If I don’t see him soon, I shall take my services elsewhere!”
“That really won’t be necessary, Mistress,” Mysekis said. “I shall take you to see him immediately.”
Khira nodded and rose to her feet. “I should think so!”
She beckoned Brak to follow as she walked with Mysekis down a narrow polished corridor until the captain knocked on a closed door and opened it without waiting for an answer. Khira swept into the room with a commanding stride and glared at Wilem.
“You are the Commandant of this place?” she asked.
“I am, Mistress,” Wilem replied, rising to his feet. “And you are?”
“Mistress Khira Castel,” she replied, taking a seat uninvited and indicating with an imperious wave of her hand that Wilem and Mysekis could sit. “This is my manservant, Brak. I am a physic and an herbalist, and I wish to establish a practice in this town. I have been informed by the tavern owner that I need your permission to do so. Is that correct?”
“It is, my Lady,” Wilem told her, a bit puzzled. He obviously didn’t have too many petitioners actually wanting to stay in the Grimfield.
“Isn’t there a woman in charge?” Khira asked. “A Sister I could speak with?”
Brak cringed a little at the question. Khira was pushing her luck.
“In the Grimfield, I am responsible,” Wilem explained. “By order of the First Sister and the Quorum of the Sisterhood.”
“I see. Then may I assume I have your...
“May I inquire why you would choose such a place, my Lady?”
“The people here need me. A simple walk down the main street could tell you that. And—”
“And?” Wilem prompted, casting a glance at Mysekis who had remained standing at the back of the room. He responded with a confused shrug.
“Can I rely upon your discretion, Commandant?”
“Of course, my Lady. Nothing said in this office will go any further.”
Khira took a deep breath. “I had a small problem. In Testra. I chose to help a number of young women dispose of unwanted pregnancies. Unfortunately, the Physics’ Guild in that city is sadly lacking in compassion or common sense.” Khira waited for her announcement to have its full impact before she continued. “As you can imagine, such a situation makes it difficult for one of my profession.”
“I can see that.”
“Obviously, I am unable to establish myself in any town of note. Here, in the Grimfield, I thought that such a... history might not present a problem.” She lifted her chin proudly. “I am a skilled physic, Commandant, and I do not see that my past actions should affect my ability to minister to those in need.”
“I agree, my Lady.” The Commandant couldn’t believe his luck. No physic wanted to come to the Grimfield. To have one actually volunteer was an unheard-of gift. “In fact, I welcome you. We have been sorely in need of someone of your skills for some time.”
“Then I assume I may set up my practice as soon as I find suitable premises?”
“Of course! If you want for anything, please ask the captain here. He will ensure that you have everything you need.”
“Thank you, Commandant,” Khira said, rising from her chair. Then she cocked her head curiously. “What is that racket?”
They all stopped and listened for a moment as the sound of raised voices grew louder. Brak thought Wilem must know the rhythm of the town like his own heartbeat. The commotion seemed to be coming from the rear of the building. With a concerned glance at each other, the Commandant and Mysekis excused themselves and rushed from the office.
Khira looked at Brak. “What’s going on?”
“Let’s find out, shall we?”
They followed the Defenders to the rear of the building and out into the chilly winter sunlight. Thirty or more men, Defenders and prisoners together, stood in a circle, shouting encouragement to a pair of brawlers who were rolling in the dusty yard, bloodied and bruised. Brak had no idea who the smaller man was, but he appeared to have gotten the worst of the fight. The other combatant was Tarja. Brak stepped back into the shadows gently drawing a glamor around himself to avoid recognition and watched as Wilem and Mysekis pushed through the crowd.
Brak winced as Tarja leaped to his feet and delivered a massive, two-handed blow to the side of the other man’s head as he struggled to rise, sending the man flying unconscious into the arms of several spectators. From the mood of the crowd, it was obvious they had been on the loser’s side. Tarja stood warily in the middle of the circle, his eyes blazing, waiting for someone else to take him on. He had a cut over one eye and his chest was heaving, but he looked fit enough to defeat anyone foolish enough to get within reach.
“Enough!” Wilem bawled, as much to the spectators as to Tarja. “Get him out of here,” he ordered Mysekis, pointing at the unconscious man. “See what our new physic can do for him. As for the rest of you, get back to work this instant, or you’ll all be facing punishment.”
The crowd disbanded with remarkable speed, leaving only Tarja, a sergeant, and another prisoner. Khira hurried to the unconscious prisoner and began checking his wounds. The sergeant had the decency to look contrite.
“What happened here, Lycren?”
“We was havin‘ a break when Grafe’s work detail came back from the stables, sir. He started mouthin’ off ‘bout Tarja bein’ a traitor. Tarja just flew at him! I couldn’t stop him!”
Brak was quite sure Lycren was telling the truth. Tarja was a big man and a better-trained fighter than most other men he knew. Had he taken it into his head to defend his honor, the sergeant would have had little hope of holding him back. Wilem turned to the rebel, and Brak was relieved to see the bloodlust fading from his eyes.
“Defending their honor is a privilege reserved for men who have some.”
Tarja’s eyes narrowed at the insult, but he made no move toward the Commandant. Brak could see the defiance there, lurking just below the surface. Tarja was likely to be a major problem for Wilem if that raw spirit wasn’t broken soon, something of an inconvenience for Brak if it was.
“I will not tolerate brawling among the prisoners. The standard punishment is five lashes. See to it, Lycren.”
“You think five lashes is going to keep me happily hauling shit?” Tarja’s fists were clenched at his sides, his knuckles white.
“Ten lashes,” Wilem replied. “Care to try for twenty?”
Tarja stared at the Commandant for a few moments, before he consciously relaxed his stance. “Ten lashes will be fine,” he said.
Brak had no doubt that Tarja had chosen not to force the issue. There was no fear in his eyes. He had not backed down because he was afraid of the lash. Brak strengthened the glamor as Tarja moved away, not wanting to provoke another outburst. Tarja would not be pleased to see him, he knew, and the time was not yet right for him to make his presence known.
News that Tarja had been spared the noose reached the rebels in Testra while the disgraced Defender was still in transit for the prison town. The seeds of doubt planted by Lord Draco had done their work on the rebels. Even worse, the Defenders began rounding up rebels whose sympathy for the cause was a well-kept secret. Only one man could have known the identity of so many of their number. By the time news reached them that Tarja still lived and had been sentenced to a mere five years at the Grimfield, the rebels were certain he had betrayed them. The sentence was a joke. Tarja had committed high treason. He should have been tortured and then publicly hanged, his head left to rot over the gates of the Citadel as a warning to others who thought to follow the same course. The rebels were too familiar with the Defenders’ methods to believe that he had suffered at their hands. It was further proof of his treachery.
The rebels called a meeting and passed their own sentence. Tarja would die, they declared. The more slowly and painfully the better, Ghari amended. Brak heard the news with mixed feelings. He did not want the man to die, but he suspected the first thing Tarja would do the next time they met was try to kill him.
