SEVEN
The following evening Marishka sat brushing her long hair in front of a mirror. The color of new copper coins, it fell in soft waves that covered her shoulders. She looked beyond her reflection at the gowns hanging from hooks on the dressing room wall. Though the ones less frequently used grew dusty on the open hooks, they were safe from the mildew that invaded every piece of fabric or wood left in the closets of Nimbus Castle. These had once been her mother's dresses, given to her by her father on her sixteenth birthday. With the gift came a request that she wear one from time to time to remind him of his love.
Perhaps her mother and father were together now in the afterlife, but if so, what of Lady Lorena, who had also loved him? The gods must have ways of sorting these complications out, she thought, and put the matter from her mind, certain she was not clever enough to solve the matter herself.
She turned away from the mirror and went to finger the beautiful silks and taffetas, the gorgeous thin-spun woolen capes and shrugs and shawls, some trimmed with gold and precious gems, worth more than a Pirie merchant made in a year. She wondered if she could ever bear to wear the clothes again.
A knock on her door was such a rare occurrence that she flinched, then ran to it, pulling it open before asking who was there.
'May I speak with you?' Baron Peto asked.
She stepped back, eyes downcast, hiding all the clashing emotions his presence aroused. 'Of course,' she said. 'Will you come in?'
He sat in a chair beside her dressing table while she took the one she'd been using. From where she sat she could see her own reflection, and noted how obvious the flush on her cheeks had become.
'I haven't had a chance to meet privately with you since I came here. I want to ask you if you have any requests to make of me.'
'Requests?' No one had ever asked her such a question.
'Your brother tells me that you have some affection for a young guardsman who served your father. If you wish, I could arrange for him to stay here. If he deserves it later, perhaps even a promotion.'
Marishka began to understand. If she'd been less embarrassed, she might have laughed. 'Before he came here, he'd never been away from home. He was lonely, and so was I. Now that the fighting has ended, he's going back to his village. I hope they welcome him.'
Peto thought of Mihael's dire warning about the fate of his father's troops. 'He could stay if you wish,' Peto said.
'He wouldn't want to,' she replied.
'I won't be in Kislova long, but I would like to take the baron's place as best I can,' Peto said. 'I need to know the customs of your land, the stories told by its people. Could you help me learn?'
'I really haven't been to any place beyond Pirie, and that is only a few miles north of here. You could ride over to see it for yourself,' she said.
'Would you go with me?'
'It wouldn't be wise, not yet, at least. Tempers toward my family are still so raw. And now that the rebel is dead, things will be worse.'
'All the more reason to show you have nothing to feel guilty about. We'll ride tomorrow at noontime. If anyone questions you, I'll tell them I ordered it.'
He took her hand. She thought at first that he was going to kiss it, but he only sat holding it, looking at her face as if trying to discover some important fact about her. The attention made her feel flustered and terribly self- conscious. She tried to meet his gaze, and did not quite succeed.
He left soon after, and as she closed the door behind him, she thought she heard something moving in her room. She turned from the door and picked up a poker from the hearth, then stood very still, her eyes searching the dark corners under her bed and dressing table, hoping it wasn't a rat. Gradually she relaxed. The sound must have been caused by a draft from the open door rustling the skirts of the gowns hanging on the wall.
With tears in her eyes, Marishka sat at her dressing table. Mihael was clearly making plans for her, and she didn't have strength to resist. She wished for the first time that she weren't the beautiful one, the pliant one. She longed for her sister's stubbornness-and her spirit.
Imre lay in the corner of the dark cell, staying awake and on guard while his companions slept. The heavy length of board he held had already killed three river rats bold enough to invade the cell. He'd wedged their bodies into the crack in the stone wall where they served as both a meal for and a barrier to their aggressive comrades. He could hear the tiny jaws gnawing, and thought of the sharp teeth ripping shreds of flesh and fur from their own dead. Not a pleasant thought, but the noises-the only noises in the darkness-were hard to ignore.
Their squeals and gibbering grew louder as they began fighting over the remains of their dead. One of the tiny bodies was pulled into the crack and a rat broke through the barrier and scurried across the floor.
The crusts of dried bread Imre had been using as bait rustled, and he struck with the board but did not hear a satisfying thud. Instead, the rat leapt for his face, biting deep into his cheek.
He cried out, and the rat disappeared in the darkness.
'What is it?' Dorje called.
'A rat bit me. Watch yourself. I've never known them to be this nasty before.'
'I have.' It might have been the panic in Imre's voice that made Dorje continue, detailing the night that a dozen of the vermin had invaded his family's cottage. From there the story grew outlandish, climaxing with his mother chasing the pack with a knife as they tried to carry off the baby. 'I swear it's true, every word,' Dorje said, starting to laugh.
Imre tried to join him, but couldn't. The bite burned, burned so terribly he thought his face was on fire. He pressed his palm against the cold stones, then brought it to his cheek to try to soothe the fiery pain. The burning only grew worse and began to spread toward his eyes.
'Dorje!' he called. 'I think the rat was infected.'
'You hardly had time to catch a disease from it,' Dorje countered, and moved to his side.
'Poisoned, then. I'm sure that if we had some light I couldn't see out my left eye.'
'Then be thankful it's dark,' Dorje replied. He ran his hand over Imre's face. 'It does seem a bit swollen. Should I call a guard?'
'Do it,' Imre said. His tongue felt numb, his eye seemed on fire, and it took enormous control for him to keep from clawing at it. 'We have to kill the beast.'
As Dorje called out, the other prisoners began to stir. One shouted and a moment later began to scream. The guard came running, his single torch unable to expose all the corners of the cell.
'Bring more light,' Dorje said. He raised Imre's head and pointed across the cell to the third prisoner.
The bite on the man's hand was bleeding, the flesh around it swelling so quickly that blood seeped through his skin. 'A rat bit them both,' Dorje said.
'Rat?' The guard looked from one man to the other, then handed the torch to Dorje and called for more light.
Dorje held the torch close to the crack but it made little difference to the vermin behind it. Though their fur and whiskers were singed, they swarmed into the cell and rushed toward the men.
The remaining prisoners in Imre's cell were awake, warning comrades in the adjoining cells. They all moved close to the cell doors, stomping their boots on the vermin while screaming for the guards to let them out. Imre managed to get to his feet and join the others before the rats reached him, but the other wounded man was not so lucky. The rats covered his body, biting fiercely, oblivious to his struggles or his screams. He was dead before the guards managed to get the cells open. The rats charged them as well, biting two before prisoners and jailers alike retreated down the dark slippery passageway to the safety of the underground guardhouse.
They crowded together behind the heavy wooden doors. Dorje pulled open the tiny security door and, secure behind its heavy mesh screen, watched as the rats turned on one another.
The attack was over as quickly as it had begun. Dead rats covered the passageway and the cell floors. A few still picked at the carcasses and the body but they moved weakly, as if the poison that had infected Imre also infected them.
One of the guards retrieved a torch dropped during their flight to the guardhouse, lit it, and made his way
