Without her daughter the Empress can travel as your wife.’
‘All the gates are guarded,’ replied Greavas, ‘and there are faithless former retainers stationed at all of them, ready to betray the royal family for gold. There is no escape, Olek. Not yet.’
‘They should still separate,’ said Skilgannon. ‘And I
‘
Ignoring the contempt in her voice he pressed on. ‘If I get back to the bathhouse swiftly the men who followed me will still be there. I shall do as I proposed and buy them a meal. If the princess is outside the bathhouse in three hours, and approaches me as a whore, they will see her. They will also see me engage her services and take her home. They will make their report. Olek Skilgannon is not linked with traitors. He is more interested in playing with whores. She will be invisible to them — well, invisible as a princess, anyway.’
Greavas sat down at a small wooden table and rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘It is a good plan,’ said the princess. ‘I like it.’
‘It has dangers,’ Greavas told her. ‘First you must get to the bathhouse.
The road there is packed with men. You will be accosted all the way.
Secondly there are already whores at the bathhouse. They will defend their territory — harshly. They will want no strangers coming in and stealing their trade. Thirdly you do not sound like a whore. Your voice is refined.
And lastly you might still be recognized, despite the disguise, and that will lead to your capture and death, and the death of Olek.’
‘The alternative is to sit in this appalling closet of a house until we are discovered, or we die of boredom,’ said the princess. ‘And do not concern yourself about my refined speech. I spent enough time with my father’s soldiers to know how to speak roughly. And Malanek trained me well enough. I can deal with angry whores. I assure you of that.’
Greavas looked uncertain, but he nodded. ‘Very well. Olek, you get back as swiftly as you can. And may the Source watch over you both. I will get a message to you when it is safe to move. Go now.’
Skilgannon sped back to the bathhouse. Less than an hour had passed, but he was still worried that Morcha and Casensis might have left. He located the girl he had spoken to and asked her if she had passed on his message. She said she had not, for they were still in the booths with the body maidens. Relieved, Skilgannon thanked her and settled down to wait.
Morcha emerged first, arm in arm with a buxom blonde girl. Leaning down he kissed her cheek. She smiled at him and walked away.
‘By the Source,’ said Morcha, ‘this is a day I shall remember fondly.’ He sat down and leaned back against the wall, fingering the thick, soft cloth of his robe. ‘How the rich live,’ he said.
‘I am ashamed to say I had not considered it,’ said Skilgannon, with sincerity.
‘Not your fault you are rich, lad. Gods, I don’t blame you for it.’
Casensis emerged from another booth. The girl curtsied to him, but did not smile as she left. He wandered out, looking sour and unhappy, and asked Morcha if he had bedded his girl. ‘Indeed I did,’ said Morcha happily. ‘And she did not charge me.’
Casensis swore. ‘Knew I should have chosen her,’ he said.
‘Some men have no luck,’ said Morcha, with a wink at Skilgannon.
‘Join me for a meal,’ Skilgannon offered. Both men accepted and, once they had donned their clothes, he led them up the stairs to the dining hall.
An hour later, having devoured several roast pheasants in a berry sauce, plus consuming a tankard of fine wine, the two soldiers were in good spirits. Even Casensis had a smile on his surly features.
As they left the building by the main entrance Skilgannon felt tense, and, for the first time that day, uncertain. The plan had seemed so good when he had thought of it. But Greavas was right. This was no schoolboy game. What if the princess was recognized by Morcha or Casensis? What if she could not play the role? Added to which he himself had now become a traitor to the new order. What future would there be for him as a result?
Be calm, he told himself, remembering his father’s advice. ‘A man should stand by his friends — unless they do evil — and hold always to what he believes in.’ Could Greavas’s actions in protecting two women from death be considered evil? Skilgannon doubted it. Therefore there was only one course of action.
There were around a dozen whores in the marble square. One of them was sitting down, nursing a cut lip and a swollen eye. Others were clustered together, staring malevolently at a slim, beautiful newcomer. As the three men emerged several of the whores moved towards them, smiling provocatively. Casensis stopped to chat to them, while Morcha stood back.
The slim girl approached Skilgannon. She walked with a subtle sway of the hips. Her head tilted and she smiled at him. It was as if he had been struck in the chest by a hammer. Gone was the violent, scornful girl in the garden. Here was the most devastat-ingly attractive woman he had ever seen. ‘You look like a man in need of a little company,’ she said, linking her arm in his. Her voice was rough and uncultured, and her smile full of dark promise. Skilgannon’s mouth was dry, and he could think of nothing to say. Morcha laughed good-naturedly.
‘I’d take her up on it, lad. I may not be the sharpest arrow in the quiver, but she looks like something special to me.’
Skilgannon was about to speak when the girl slipped her hand under his tunic, fondling him. He leapt backwards and almost fell. ‘Be careful with him, darling. He’s young and I’d reckon a little inexperienced,’ said Morcha.
‘My home is close by,’ was all Skilgannon could say. He felt like an idiot, and knew he was blushing.
‘Can you afford me? I don’t come cheap.’
‘I don’t think I can,’ he said, ‘but I’ll sell the house.’
‘That’s the way, boy,’ said Morcha, with a booming laugh. ‘Damn, but I wish I hadn’t sported in the bathhouse now. This is a girl I’d willingly fight you for. Go on, go off with you!’
The princess took his arm and led him away. He glanced back to see Morcha and Casensis watching him. Morcha waved. Casensis looked sour.
And so it was that Skilgannon met the love of his life, and took her home.
Sitting in the tree, overlooking the distant city of Mellicane, Skilgannon recalled the day. Despite the horror and death that had followed that meeting he found he could not regret it. Before that afternoon, it seemed to him, the sky had been always grey, and after it he had experienced the beauty of the rainbow.
Jianna shone like the sun, and sparkled like a jewel. She was unlike anyone he had ever met. He still recalled the scent of her hair as they walked together arm in arm. He sighed at the memory. Then she had been a beautiful young woman, no older than he. Now she was the Witch Queen and wanted him dead.
Pushing such sombre thoughts from his mind, he climbed down from the tree.
Cadis Patralis had been a captain in the army of Dospilis for a mere four months. His father had purchased his commission, and he had taken part in only one action, the routing of a small group of Tantrian archers at a bridge some twenty miles from Mellicane. Now, it seemed, the war was over, and for young Cadis the prospect of glory and advancement was receding by the hour.
Instead of fighting the enemy, and earning respect, admiration and elevated rank, he now led his forty lancers across the hills, seeking escaped arena beasts. There was no glory to be had in hunting down these abominations, and Cadis was in a foul mood. It was not helped by the sergeant who had been foisted on him. The man was insufferable. The colonel had assured Cadis that the sergeant was a sound fighter and a veteran of three campaigns. ‘He will be invaluable to you, young man.
Learn from him.’
Learn from him? The man was a peasant. He had no understanding of philosophy or literature, and he swore constantly — always a sign of ill breeding.
At nineteen Cadis Patralis cut a handsome figure in his tailored cuirass and golden cloak. His chain mail glistened, and his padded helm fitted to perfection. His cavalry sabre had been made by the greatest swordsmith in Dospilis, and his thigh-length boots, reinforced around the knee, were of finest shimmering leather. By contrast Sergeant Shialis looked like a vagabond. His breastplate was dented, his cloak — once gold, but now a pale urine yellow — was tattered and much repaired. And his boots were beyond a joke. Even his sabre was standard issue, with a wooden hilt, strongly wrapped with leather strips. Cadis glanced at the man’s face.
