Treason Keep

as she collapsed.

The screams stopped only when she finally passed out. He waited for a long, long time to be certain she really was unconscious this time.

When Loclon finally stopped shaking he was appalled to discover his bladder had let go and for the first time was grateful for Joyhinia’s long skirts. R’shiel lay under the window, her breathing shallow. He approached her cautiously, half expecting her to be faking again. As he neared her, he realised it was unlikely. Her magnificent long hair tumbled over her face, obscuring the worst of the damage, but blood streamed from her forehead and he could see savage blisters marring her neck above and below the now quiescent collar.

He prodded her experimentally with the toe of Joyhinia’s boot, but received no response. A harder kick got the same reaction. He kicked her again, this time for sheer pleasure rather than any attempt to determine her state of consciousness. The kick following that one was just for the hell of it.

He tired of that game soon enough. Bruises and broken ribs would heal in time. Even her scars would probably fade – she was Harshini, not human. He wanted to leave her with a reminder. He stood back and studied her for a while, wondering. Then it came to him. He crossed the room to the door and opened it a fraction.

“Bring me scissors,” he ordered.

The guard looked a little startled by the order but hurried to comply. Joyhinia taped her foot impatiently as she waited for him to return. When he hurried back to his post clutching the scissors, she snatched them from his hand and locked the door again.

Loclon dragged R’shiel to the bed, annoyed by Joyhinia’s weakness. If he had his own body, it would have been nothing to scoop her up and throw her onto the bed. As it was, he grunted and struggled to get his hands under her arms and move her across the room. Lifting her was almost beyond him, but he managed it somehow. When he finally got her on the bed, he laid R’shiel out with almost tender care, crossing her hands demurely across her breast. He combed out her glorious mane with his fingers until it spread like a fiery halo around her head then stepped back to admire his handiwork.

If one was prepared to ignore the blood and the burns, she looked quite stunning. He smiled, thinking he had never seen her quite this way – so peaceful, so... vulnerable.

Loclon sighed and picked up the scissors. He moved to the bed and planted a lingering kiss on her slightly parted lips.

Then he took the scissors and cut her hair as close to the skull as he could get. He hummed tunelessly as he worked, stopping only once to stare suspiciously over his shoulder.

He could not avoid the feeling that someone was watching him.

Chapter 52

When Tarja questioned first Hadly, then Sergeant Monthay regarding the whereabouts of the Karien boy, neither of them could provide a satisfactory answer. Hadly was too busy, and Monthay sounded genuinely perturbed. He could recall giving the boy the afternoon off, but not why.

Tarja thanked him for his assistance and went looking for the child himself. He didn’t blame the sergeant. If the God of Thieves had taken it into his head to lead Mikel astray, there was little Monthay could have done about it.

He leaned forward and patted Shadow, wondering where a small Karien boy and a mischief-making god could be hiding in the vast camp. Nowhere there was work to be done, that was certain. They were unlikely to have gone north toward the border. Not only was it dangerous, there was no entertainment in that direction. The Keep was just as unlikely, as was the Hythrun camp, where Mikel’s brother was, or the neat Defender’s camp, where surely somebody would question their right to be there. He glanced south at the follower’s camp thinking there was plenty of trouble to be found there. He turned Shadow and let her pick her own pace, hoping he was heading in the right direction.

There would be a town here soon if the war dragged on much longer, he thought as he rode through the vast camp. Already some enterprising merchants had set up rickety wooden frames to house their commercial endeavours between tents that ranged from the ramshackle to the truly spectacular. The larger tents belonged to the Court’esa’s Guild. They had moved in within days of the Defenders. All these lonely men out here in the middle of nowhere was an opportunity too good to be missed. Half the court’esa here could probably retire in luxury by now and those that couldn’t would not have long to wait.

Tarja debated stopping by the largest tent to speak to Mistress Miffany. If Jenga surrendered, the court’esa were in real danger. Miffany was a generous, rotund little woman who had worked in the Citadel as a court’esa when Tarja was a cadet. She had inherited the business from Mistress Lyndah, when the sour old bitch had finally died – making everyone in the Citadel who knew her breathe a sigh of relief – and had set about making life pleasant for as many Defenders as possible since then – at a reasonable price, of course. Tarja liked her and had no desire to see her, or her girls, stoned by the invading Kariens.

On impulse, he turned toward her gaily-striped tent. If he could do nothing to stop the surrender, he could at least save a few lives. That Jenga would surrender was a very real possibility. The Lord Defender had stretched his loyalty about as far as it was likely to go. From the moment he had defied Joyhinia in Testra, he had been fighting a losing battle with his conscience. The order to surrender, while unpalatable, was probably easier to live with than treason.

A grubby child ran forward to hold his mount when he arrived. He dismounted and threw the child a copper rivet, before pushing back the flap, bending over to enter the tent. Inside, a number of women looked up hopefully at his captain’s insignia, smiling at him with open invitation. Tarja smiled back, but otherwise ignored them. Miffany hurried forward as soon as she recognised him, obviously happy to see him.

“Tarja!”

“Hello Miff,” he said, kissing her cheek. “You’ve lost weight.”

Miffany laughed delightedly. She was almost as wide as she was tall.

“You tease! I look like a pudding, and you know it, but it was nice of you to say so. Did you want a girl?” Miffany was never one to beat around the bush.

“No, I wanted a word with you. In private.”

Curious, but unconcerned, she turned to her girls. “I’m going to take a turn of the camp with the captain, here. Becca, you’re in charge until I get back.”

Miffany slipped her arm though his and led him outside.

They headed south between the tents down what could only very loosely be described as a street. The tents had been placed with little thought to the traffic in the camp and they were forced to step over tent pegs and dodge muddy puddles as they walked. Miffany clung to his arm with a smug grin that broadened to an outright smirk as they passed by the tent of one of her competitors.

“There’ll be tongues a-wagging in there, soon enough,” she predicted.

Tarja smiled. “We could stop outside on the way back while I declare I’ve never had better.”

“You are such a sweetheart,” she laughed, squeezing his arm.

“Have you done well since you’ve been here, Miff?”

“I’ll say! I’m rich enough to buy myself one of those posh little villas on the riverfront in Brodenvale. War is good for a business like mine.”

“Then perhaps you should think about retiring.”

She looked up at him suspiciously. “You’re taking a sudden interest in my welfare.”

“I care about you.”

“You’re sweet Tarja, I’ve always thought that, but you’re a captain. One of Jenga’s closest officers. You didn’t come all this way to suggest I retire without a damn good reason.”

“Isn’t caring for you enough?” he asked with a hopeful smile.