to his mouth. His misshapen nose was the final touch on his ruined – but once handsome – face.
“Quite an impressive collection of scars,” Garet noted. “But hardly proof that R’shiel is a heathen.”
“I know what I saw, sir,” he insisted.
“Just exactly what were you doing when R’shiel revealed this unexpected talent for wielding heathen magic, Captain? Your report was rather vague on that point.”
Loclon hesitated as images filled his mind of R’shiel, naked to the waist, her pale breasts stark in the jagged lightning, her eyes glittering and totally black, filled with forbidden heathen power. He could still taste her lips and the raindrops on her skin. He could still feel the blade she had used to cut his throat. Hatred burned through his veins like acid.
“She was attempting to escape, sir.”
“And succeeded, as I understand it,” Garet pointed out. “This entire episode is something of a blemish on your record, Captain. I would have thought you’d be anxious to let the matter drop.”
“She is dangerous, sir, and so is Tarja. They must be punished.”
Garet shook his head. “Unfortunately, the First Sister does not agree with you. Report to Commandant Arkin for reassignment and let the matter drop.”
“May I ask where they are now?” It took all he had to ask the question calmly.
“Tarja is with the Lord Defender and the First Sister is on the northern border. As for R’shiel, I assume she is with them, although I cannot say for certain. I’m leaving for the northern border in the morning. I’ll give Tarja your regards, shall I?”
Garet Warner was mocking him, but there was nothing he could do about it. “Permission to accompany you, Commandant!”
“Denied. Arkin will be in charge until the Lord Defender or I return. You are dismissed.”
“But sir —”
“I said you are dismissed, Captain.”
Loclon saluted sharply, rage burning in the depths of his blue eyes, the scar on his face a livid reflection of his mood. He slammed the door behind him, thinking that if Garet Warner thought that he would so easily forget the pair who had tried to destroy him, then he was sadly mistaken.
Later that evening, after he had reclaimed his rooms in Mistress Longeaves’ Boarding House, Loclon made his way through the torchlit streets of the Citadel to the eastern side of the city. An earlier shower of rain made the cobbles glisten and the footing treacherous as he neared the seedier part of town. Passers-by became more rare, then stopped completely, as he walked through the darkened warehouse district. Only the sudden harsh bark of an alert watchdog and the scurrying feet of rats disturbed the night. He had not been here in almost a year, but the route was familiar enough that he walked with assurance; unafraid of anything he might meet, as the streets narrowed into shadowed pockets of darkness. The cutpurses of the Citadel would be plying their trade along Tavern Street, where the pickings were more fruitful.
When he reached his destination, he knocked on the dilapidated door that was squeezed into a laneway between two warehouses. When he received no response to his summons, he pounded louder and was rewarded by a metallic screech, as the spy-hole in the door was forced open. A pair of suspicious dark eyes glared at him, taking in his red uniform with a frown.
“What d’ya want?”
“I want to come in. Mistress Heaner knows me.”
“Yeah? What’s her cat’s name then?”
“Fluffy,” he replied, hoping the scabby creature had not died in the past year. Mistress Heaner was fond of her cat and it amused her to use his name as a password.
“Hang on.”
Loclon tapped his foot impatiently as the locks were drawn back. The door opened just enough for him to squeeze through. He waited as the man pushed the door shut and bolted it after them. The narrow alley was littered with garbage, and Loclon covered his nose against the smell as the hunched little man led him forward toward a square of light at the end of the lane. When they reached it, the man stepped back to let Loclon enter, then turned and disappeared into the darkness, presumably back to his post by the door.
The main room was sumptuous and belied the paltriness of the exterior. Cut crystal lanterns lit the soft draperies, and carpet thick enough to hide in stretched the full length of the room. Comfortable sofas were scattered through the room, each in its own private alcove, separated by diaphanous curtains that revealed as much as they concealed. Mistress Heaner’s House was exclusive; known only to a few and only those who could afford the unique entertainments she provided. A captain’s pay was not usually enough to allow one the funds to patronise Mistress Heaner’s, but Loclon had just received several months’ backpay and he intended to treat himself, this one night at least. Back in the days when he had been the champion of the Arena, his winnings had assured him a place here any time he wanted it.
“Captain.”
Mistress Heaner glided toward him with a smile. Her gown was simple, black and plainly cut, although the material was expensive and the emerald necklace that circled her wrinkled throat was worth more than he could earn in a lifetime as an officer.
“Mistress,” Loclon replied, with a low bow. She insisted on courtesy. One could do whatever they wished to the young men and women she employed, but the slightest hint of bad manners would see one banned for life.
“We’ve not had the pleasure of your company for some time, sir.”
“I’ve been away.”
“Then you must be looking for some... special... entertainment?” she suggested, with an elegantly raised brow. “I’ve several new girls that might interest you. Even a young man or two that might tempt a jaded palate.”
“I’ve no interest in your fancy boys, Mistress. I want a woman. A redhead.”
“Not an easy request, Captain.” Mistress Heaner appeared to think for a moment, as if she did not know the physical characteristics of every soul in her employ. “Red is an unusual colour. Is there anything else that might tempt you?”
“No. She must be a redhead. And tall. Preferably slim.”
“Such specific requirements can be expensive, Captain.”
“How much?”
“Fifty rivets.”
Loclon almost baulked at that point. Fifty rivets would leave him almost penniless until his next pay. It would mean eating in the barracks and avoiding his landlady.
“Fifty rivets, then.”
Mistress Heaner watched carefully as he counted out the coins into her arthritic hand.
“You may use the Blue Room,” she said, as her claw-like fingers closed over the money. “I will send Peny to you.”
Loclon nodded and pushed his way past a flimsy curtain hanging over a couch, where a middle-aged man was fondling the breast of a girl young enough to be his granddaughter. He stepped into the hall and walked the short distance to the Blue Room, named for the colour of its door. The Red Room beside it was reserved for those whose tastes ran to multiple partners and boasted a bed large enough for six. The Green Room further down the hall, housed a bath the size of a large pool. The Yellow Room at the end was the domain of those who got pleasure from their own pain, and was better equipped than the cell where the Defenders carried out their more “persuasive” interrogations. The Blue Room was reserved for less exotic pleasures, and Loclon was not surprised to find it unchanged since his last visit.
The room was lavishly furnished, with a carved four-poster, whose woodwork glowed softly in the lamplight. White sheets peeked out from under the blue quilt on the bed, and a pitcher of chilled wine with two glasses waited on the side table. Satisfied with the room, Loclon turned as the door opened and a woman stepped through. She was older than he would have liked, thirty-five perhaps – or maybe the life she led had aged her faster than normal. Her hair was carrot-red, obviously died, and her body was too full under the thin shift she wore. Disappointed, Loclon ignored her welcoming smile and turned to the wine pitcher. He poured himself a good measure and swallowed it in a gulp.
