before I could pin him down.”
Catilina shook her head defiantly.
“I don’t care, Varro, it wasn’t a Pelasian. No Pelasians ever come inside Vengen except as ambassadors.”
Varro grumbled.
“It’s not as secure as you think. Pelasians can get anywhere. It’s what they do!”
“Not here,” she repeated with infuriating calm. “When Prince Ashar signed his treaties with the Emperor, one of the stipulations of freeing the borders was that Pelasian assassins would never violate certain locations, and the fortresses of the marshals are on that list.”
Varro growled.
“I think you’re being a little naive, Catilina. Ouch!”
He glared at Scortius, who merely tutted and turned the patient’s head away again.
Catilina bridled.
“No Pelasian would break that accord. You know how they are about Ashar; he’s more than a God to them.”
Varro frowned. “You’re right, of course.” He turned to Salonius. “I think we’ve got a problem.”
The young man nodded.
“Someone masquerading as a Pelasian to lay the blame with them,” he grumbled.
“Not just that,” Varro growled. “That someone was within the Palace. That means he’s one of our own again. Maybe a Pelasian could sneak in to Vengen. They train all their lives to do things like that. But if it’s not a Pelasian assassin, then it’s realistically got to be someone who was already in the military compound of Vengen. And that makes it ninety per cent sure he’s a soldier! Either Cristus has friends in the First, the Fifth or the Eleventh, or among Sabian’s own men, or…”
Salonius’ face hardened. “Or Sergeant Corda brought traitors from the Fourth with him!”
The two shared a look.
“Betrayer” they said in unison.
Catilina walked a few steps and then crouched in front of Varro.
“We have to go see my father straight away.”
Varro nodded.
“I agree, but just let Scortius finish here first.”
Beside him, the doctor sighed as he cleaned the wound.
Varro, Salonius and Catilina arrived at the office of the marshal just as the great bell in the tower at the edge of the complex tolled eleven times. Salonius had been sceptical that the marshal would be available to see them, but Catilina had assured him that Sabian would still be in his office, deeply involved in his work.
The two guards outside the door moved into a defensive posture as the three figures emerged from the corridor, though as soon as they identified the marshal’s daughter, they stood to attention and saluted.
“I take it my father is in?” Catilina asked, idly drumming the fingers of her left hand on the back of her right hand, which rested in a sling to aid the healing of her shoulder wound.
One of the guards cleared his throat.
“The marshal is unavailable, I’m afraid, ma’am, even to yourself. We have strict instructions for total privacy.”
Catilina glared at him, and the guard shuffled nervously.
“You will announce me this instant or by morning you will find yourself cleaning latrines on a border post. Do you understand me?”
The guard risked a glance at his counterpart, who stared rigidly ahead with an air of relief.
“Erm… The marshal gave orders…”
Catilina smiled a horribly vengeful smile at him and walked across to the door. The guard fumbled with his sword and dithered, unsure of where he stood in these circumstances. The young lady twisted the handle on the door and swept in regally without a further glance at the guards. As Varro and Salonius followed her in, the captain patted the guard on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry. They’ll both have too much on their plate shortly to even think about you.”
The guard look unconvinced and returned to attention as the door to the marshal’s office closed.
Varro walked straight into the back of Catilina, who had stopped immediately inside the door, and Salonius consequently bumped into him too. The pair of them peered around the lady’s lustrous black curls and stared for a moment before they remembered where they were and came to attention. Varro had been expecting Sabian to be poring over maps, or perhaps writing furiously. What he hadn’t been prepared for was the Marshal being draped over his seat, with a cup in his hand and an almost empty bottle on the table. He recognised the smell of cheap northern spirits from the doorway.
“Father?” Catilina’s voice hovered somewhere between prim disgust, worry and anger.
Sabian hauled himself upright with some stiffness of muscles. Varro heaved a sigh of relief; the marshal had been drinking, but was still compos mentis at least.
“Ah, Catilina. I thought of sending for you, but I was sure you’d come once Scortius had finished with you. I thought you’d come alone though. I wasn’t planning to see these three until the morning.”
Salonius and Varro shared an unspoken look behind the lady as Varro held up three fingers.
“Father, can we put aside your disappointment in me and your anger, and assume that you’re not going to punish me in the end anyway. It’ll save a lot of time, and this is too important to mess around with family squabbles.”
Sabian’s face hardened.
“Catilina,” he growled, “you are not ingratiating yourself with me.”
His daughter merely folded her arms defiantly, thought with some difficulty, given the sling, and gave him a patronising look.
“Catilina,” the marshal’s voice raised slightly and dangerously, “don’t play games with me, girl. I’m not drunk but I am angry.”
The young lady sighed and allowed her arm to drop back down to her side.
“Very well, father. You can shout at me, withdraw my privileges, restrict my movement or whatever the hell it is you want to do to punish me, but be angry later; there just isn’t time now!”
Something about her words sank in and Sabian seemed to deflate slightly. His eyes wandered behind her and rested for a moment on her two companions.
“I assumed Petrus would be with you?”
Varro stepped out beside Catilina.
“That’s the problem, sir.”
“What? You can’t have lost him?”
Varro sighed.
“Petrus has gone to the Gods. About fifteen minutes ago” he said sadly.
“Nearer twenty, I think,” corrected Salonius.
Sabian pushed himself upright, slapping the cup down on the desk and sweeping it aside.
“What happened?”
The three visitors stepped forward and relaxed their posture slightly.
“Assassination,” Varro announced bluntly. “Someone killed Petrus and tried the same with Salonius and me; thinks he got Salonius, too.”
Sabian blinked. “Assassins? In Vengen? That’s outrageous!”
“But true. I saw him in the garden outside the guest wing. He was kitted out like a Pelasian, but your daughter assures me that there’s no way he could actually have been a Pelasian?”
The marshal nodded in a distracted fashion.
“Sir?” Varro prompted.
“Hmm?” Sabian turned and focused on the captain again. “What? Oh, yes. She’s right. You’ll not find a Pelasian here unless he’s staying in the guest wing and wearing official regalia. Prince Ashar is a good friend of both mine and the Emperor’s.”
