“But only because Alahnah’s no longer in contention for Most Beautiful Baby of the Year, of course” Sharleyan said rather pointedly.
“Do I look like I just fell off the turnip wagon?” her husband demanded. “Of course that’s the only reason it’s not a three-way tie!”
Laughter murmured over the link. Then Cayleb straightened in his chair.
“Since it’s going to be at least another thirty or forty minutes before you can find some privacy in your cabin, Hektor,” he said to his adopted son, standing on Fleet Wing’s quarterdeck under the bright—if somewhat chilly—afternoon sun of the Gulf of Dohlar, “I propose that we save the rest of this well-deserved lovefest and general baby-slobbering until you can join us.”
Hektor snorted, then waved one hand dismissively as the helmsman looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
“It’s nothing, Henrai,” he told the seaman. “Just thinking about something His Majesty once said when he thought he was being clever. You know, his sense of humor’s almost—almost—half as good as he thinks it is.”
“Aye, Sir. Whatever you say,” the helmsman said, grinning at his captain’s dry tone, and returned his attention to the set of the schooner’s sails.
“Oh, well handled, Hektor!” Cayleb chuckled. But then his expression sobered and he set his whiskey glass on the desk in front of him. “In the meantime, though, I really do want to discuss where we are with Countess Cheshyr. I’m pleased with how well the plan to slip her additional armsmen ‘under the radar’ is working out. By the way, Merlin, I’ve decided that’s a very useful term. We just have to be careful not to use it with anyone else! But I’m still not happy about how focused Rock Coast is on slipping somebody onto her household staff. Sooner or later, either he’s going to succeed or he’s going to figure out that someone’s warning her every time he tries to put an agent inside Rydymak Keep. When that happens, I think someone like him is likely to try … more direct measures.”
“Not without profoundly pissing off his co-conspirators,” Merlin pointed out. “They’re not remotely ready to come out into the open yet, and assassinating Lady Karyl would risk doing exactly that. Especially if somebody’s warning her, since that would imply that someone—probably more of those nefarious, devious seijins—already has at least some suspicions about what they’re up to.”
“That’s true,” Sharleyan agreed. “On the other hand, Zhasyn Seafarer’s about as pigheaded, arrogant, and obstinate as a human being can be. If he thinks he won’t be able to get what he wants, he’s exactly the type to resort to smashing whatever he thinks is in his way and devil take the consequences.”
“Agreed,” Merlin began, “but—”
“Excuse me,” a new voice said over the link. “I hate to interrupt, but something urgent’s come up.”
“Urgent?” Cayleb asked sharply, recognizing an unusual sawtooth edge in Nahrmahn Baytz’ tone. “What kind of ‘urgent’?”
“Owl’s been monitoring our remote in Ahrloh Mahkbyth’s shop,” Nahrmahn said grimly. “What it’s picking up isn’t good.”
.XIII.
St. Thyrmyn Prison,
City of Zion,
The Temple Lands,
Charisian Embassy,
Siddar City,
Republic of Siddarmark,
and Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s Office,
The Temple,
The Temple Lands.
The cell was small, dark, and cold. There was no light, only a dim trickle of pallid illumination spilling through the small, barred grate in the massive timber door. There was no bed, no furniture of any sort, only a thin layer of damp straw in one corner. There wasn’t even a bucket or a chamber pot in which a prisoner might relieve herself.
She huddled in the corner, naked, crouching in the straw, her knees drawn up under her chin and her left arm—the only one that still worked—wrapped around them while she folded in upon herself. It was very quiet, but not completely so, and the distant sounds that came to her—their faintness somehow perfected and distilled by the stillness—were horrible. The sounds of screams, for the most part, torn from throats on the other side of heavy doors or so far down the chill, stone corridors of this terrible place that they were faint with distance. And then there were the closer sounds. The sound of a cracked, crazed voice babbling unceasing nonsense. Another voice, pleading helplessly—hopelessly—for someone to listen, to understand that its owner hadn’t done whatever it was he’d been accused of. A voice that knew no one was listening, knew no one cared, but couldn’t stop pleading anyway.
She knew where she was. Everyone in Sondheimsborough knew about St. Thyrmyn’s, although only the truly foolish spoke about it. She’d known exactly where they were taking her and Alahnah from the instant they dragged them out of the shop into the snow and threw them into the closed carriage, and the knowledge had filled her with terror.
Alahnah had wept pleadingly, her pale face soaked with tears, begging to know what had happened to her cousin and her uncle, but of course no one had told her. Zhorzhet hadn’t wept, despite her terror and the anguish pulsing in her crippled elbow. She’d refused to give her captors that satisfaction. And she hadn’t said a single word, either, despite the monk who’d sat behind her holding the leather strap which had been fastened about her throat, ready to choke any sign of resistance into unconsciousness.
They’d chained both of them as well, of course, although that had scarcely been necessary in Zhorzhet’s case. There’d been no way she could have fought them after the damage they’d already done to her right arm. Besides, they’d been armed and armored. She’d been neither, and even if she’d been able to fight, there was no way she could have provoked them into killing her. Not when the under-priest clearly knew exactly what sort of prize he’d stumbled upon.
Alahnah had moaned, shrinking in upon herself, seeming to collapse before Zhorzhet’s eyes, when the carriage door opened on the courtyard of St. Thyrmyn Prison. She’d shaken her head frantically, bits and pieces of terrified protest spurting from her, but the priest who’d arrested them had only flung her from the carriage. She’d landed on her knees with brutal force, crying out in pain, then sprawled forward on her face, unable even to catch herself with her hands chained behind her, and a waiting agent inquisitor in the black gloves of an interrogator had jerked her back to her feet by her hair.
“Please, no!” she’d moaned, blood oozing from a split lip as he hauled her high on her toes. “It’s a mistake! It’s all a mistake!”
“Of course it is,” the interrogator had sneered. “And I’m sure we’ll get it all sorted out soon enough.”
He’d dragged her away, and the arresting under-priest had looked at the monk holding the strap about Zhorzhet’s neck.
“Be very careful with this one, Zherom,” he’d said. “She has a great deal to tell us, and I’m looking forward to hearing all of it. Be sure you don’t let her … slip away before Father Bahzwail’s had the chance to make her acquaintance.”
“Oh, no worry there, Father Mairydyth,” the monk had assured him. “I’ll get her delivered safe enough.”
“I’m sure you will,” the priest had said with a cold, cruel smile. Then he’d climbed down from the carriage himself and strode briskly across the courtyard without a single backwards glance, a man who was clearly eager to report his success to his superiors.