Treason Keep

Geendel, the officer in charge of the cadets, had demanded an explanation, of course, but the word of an officer was always taken over the word of a mere cadet.

Loclon smiled to himself as he rode through the Citadel toward his lodgings, thinking of the expressions on the cadets’ faces when he had appeared in the Arena this morning. No doubt they had all been hoping Geendel would relieve him of his duty. Well, they had learnt a valuable lesson today. In the Defenders, the officers would always close ranks around their own. Loclon had learnt that lesson the hard way, too.

On impulse, Loclon turned down Tavern Street, deciding he owed himself a drink to celebrate his victory over the cadets. He reined in outside the Blue Bull Tavern, handed his mount over to a waiting stableboy and walked inside, his boots echoing hollowly on the wooden verandah. Business was slow this early, but he spied a familiar figure hugging his ale near the fireplace. He ordered ale from the barkeep and crossed the room to join his friend.

“Gawn.”

The captain looked up. “Loclon. Finished for the day?”

Loclon nodded and took the seat opposite. Although Gawn had been a year or two ahead of Loclon when they were cadets, their friendship was a recent one. They had discovered they shared a loathing of Tarja Tenragan that few in the Defenders understood. Gawn had spent time on the southern border with Tarja and blamed him for just about everything that happened to him while he was there, starting with an arrow he took during a Hythrun raid, to the tavern keeper’s daughter he had impregnated and been forced to marry.

Loclon had met the girl once, a slovenly, lazy slut who spoke with a thick southern accent. To make matters worse, the child had been stillborn and Gawn was left with a wife he loathed, who would hold back his career just as surely as Tarja and R’shiel’s escape from the Grimfield would hold back Loclon’s.

“I heard there was some trouble with a cadet.”

Loclon shrugged. “Nothing I can’t handle. What are you doing here so early?”

“Parenor was called to a meeting with Commandant Arkin.” Captain Parenor was the Citadel’s Quartermaster. Gawn had been assigned as his adjutant on his return to the Citadel. It was an administrative position and a grave insult to a battle-experienced officer. “They are asking for even more supplies on the border.”

Nobody in the Citadel was exactly sure what was really happening on the northern border. Near half the Defenders in the Citadel had been sent north, supposedly to push back an attack by the Kariens. The reason the Kariens were attacking varied, according to which rumours one believed. Loclon believed the one that fitted with his own view of the world – that the Kariens were invading to avenge the death of their Envoy at Tarja’s hand. But it did not explain Tarja’s reinstatement to the Defenders, or the sudden alliance with the Warlord of Krakandar, or the First Sister’s change of heart. Even Gawn, who knew the southern border well, was at a loss to explain how near a thousand Hythrun Raiders could cross into Medalon without being noticed.

“I heard something else today that might interest you.”

“What’s that?”

“The Warlord of Elasapine crossed into Medalon with five hundred Raiders and placed himself at the disposal of Commandant Verkin in Bordertown, supposedly to help fight off an expected attack by the Fardohnyans.”

“I though we were fighting the Kariens?”

“Apparently, the Fardohnyan king married one of his daughters to Prince Cratyn. Parenor is furious because now Verkin is sending in supply requisitions that he can’t fill, and the local merchants have got wind of the fact. The price of grain has doubled in the past month.”

Loclon could not have cared less about the price of grain, but it irked him that he was sitting here in the Citadel while there was a war going on.

“If we have to fight on two fronts, they’ll need every officer they can get their hands on. You and I might finally get a chance to do what we were trained for, my friend.”

“Instead of me pushing parchment around and you nursemaiding a bunch of homesick cadets? I’ll drink to that!” Gawn swallowed his ale in a gulp. Loclon signalled the barkeep for another but the captain shook his head. “Better not, Loclon. If I don’t get home soon she’ll be after me with a carving knife. Founders, how I loathe that bitch!”

Loclon smiled sympathetically. “Why go home at all?”

“I’ve not the money for any other sort of entertainment. She takes every rivet I earn. Speaking of which, could you fix up the tavern keeper for me? I’m afraid I’ve overspent, somewhat.”

“Very well,” he agreed, thinking of what Gawn already owed him. The amount did not bother him. He had no problem with cash these days, but it was time Gawn did something to earn such generosity. “On one condition. You come with me to Mistress Heaner’s tonight.”

Gawn pulled a face. “If I can’t afford to pay my tavern bill, how do you expect me to afford that sort of place?”

Loclon smiled. “The same way I do, my friend.”

When Loclon had woken up in the Blue Room in Mistress Heaner’s House of Pleasure, he had discovered, somewhat to his annoyance, that the redheaded whore was no longer breathing. Worse, he felt no relief. Killing her had done little to ease his torment. Peny had been too dull, too plain, too fat, and too damned ordinary to satisfy him. Even in his imagination, she had been a poor substitute for R’shiel. He lay there for a time, wondering what it was going to cost him to keep Mistress Heaner from having him kneecapped. She did not care about murder, but she did care about her assets and Loclon had just deprived her of one.

This was not the first time Loclon had killed one of Mistress Heaner’s court’esa, but on the previous occasions he had been a champion in the Arena, and his winnings had provided him with the funds to pay whatever she asked in compensation. This time, however, he had spent everything he owned and was not due to be paid for another month. At the interest rate she charged, the debt would have doubled by that time. He was still pondering the problem when the door opened and Mistress Heaner entered the room, followed by Lork, her faithful bodyguard. Lork gave a reasonable impression of a living mountain, his dead eyes reflecting little intelligence and undying loyalty to the woman who employed him. Mistress Heaner held up the lamp and glanced at Peny with a shake of her head, before turning to Loclon.

“You’ve been careless, Captain.”

“I’m sorry, Mistress. I shall see that you’re compensated.”

“With what, Captain? You’ve no career in the Arena any more. On a captain’s pay, you can’t afford a drink here, let alone indulge your rather exotic tastes.”

Loclon swung his feet onto the floor and snatched his trousers up. “I said, I will see that you are paid, Madam, and I shall. Do you question the word of an Officer of the Defenders?”

“I question the word of any man who beats women to death for pleasure, Captain,” she retorted coldly. “Perhaps I should just have Lork kill you now, and save myself any further trouble.” Lork flexed his plate-sized hands in anticipation.

Loclon glanced at his sword that lay on the other side of the room, knowing there was no way he could reach it before the man was on him. “Perhaps we might come to... an arrangement?”

Mistress Heaner laughed. “What could you offer me, Captain, that I don’t already have in abundance? Kill him, Lork.”

Loclon jumped to his feet, but Lork moved with remarkable speed for one so huge. He had grabbed Loclon by the throat and slammed him against the wall with one hand. Loclon gasped from the pressure, his feet dangling as the big man squeezed the life out of him. He discovered he was sobbing, begging for mercy in a voice that was quickly losing strength. He was on the point of losing consciousness when Mistress Heaner stepped forward and signalled Lork to release him. The big man suddenly released him and Loclon dropped to his hands and knees, sobbing with fear.

“Perhaps there is something you can do for me, Captain.”

“Anything!” he croaked, gulping for air. He wiped his streaming eyes and looked up at her.

“Anything? A careless promise, Captain.”

“Anything you ask,” he repeated desperately.

Mistress Heaner studied him for a moment then nodded. “Bring him, Lork.”

Lork grabbed hold of him again and half-dragged, half-carried Loclon down the hall to a narrow flight of stairs that led to the basement. Mistress Heaner led the way, holding the lamp, which threw fitful shadows onto the walls.