The splendid woman smiled, curtseyed, and said, “Patrick DuTaureau of Mordeina, my name is Rachida, and I welcome you to my home. This is Moira to my right, and to my left is Antar Hoonen, whom I think you know.”
Patrick snapped his fingers. “Antar? Bardiya’s friend, Antar? But…you were so young when last we met!”
Antar smiled a toothless smile. “Ah, if only we were all bestowed with the blessing of timelessness. I, my friend, am not.”
“It’s not such a blessing,” Patrick muttered out the side of his mouth.
“Anyhow,” said Rachida, breezing through the room as if she weighed nothing, “it was Antar here who healed you. He’s been acting as the township’s healer when it comes to the more…extreme illnesses and has been ever since the masters of House Gorgoros evicted him from their land.”
Patrick cocked his head. “Why did they evict you?”
Antar shrugged. “I disagreed with Master Bessus, so I struck him. I was not welcomed after that.”
“And yet you can still heal?” asked Patrick, staring at his hands in disbelief.
“I lost no faith in Ashhur, only in Bessus,” replied Antar. “My faith has never gone away, and it never will until the day I die.”
“Well, thank you, old friend,” said Patrick, bowing. He then turned to Rachida. “And thank you, my dear, for rescuing us on the road that day. I don’t know how you did it, but you and your partners were a wonder to watch. Disregarding all the blood, of course. Who were the others?”
Rachida tapped the head of the lithe, silver-haired girl, who giggled and nuzzled into her touch. “Moira was one of them, and the other was Corton Ender, the man who taught us what we know of fighting.”
“Two ladies and an unknown gentleman took down seven bandits? I’m impressed.”
“Six men. You took care of one yourself.”
“By accident.”
Rachida knelt by his bedside. “By accident is a good start. Some of our greatest accomplishments happen when we least expect them to.”
“I suppose you’re right. I truly never expected to get into a skirmish. The reason I came here was to make sure Deacon took down his temple before the third new moon.”
“Wait,” said Deacon. “You were sent here?”
“Well, yes. Nessa didn’t tell you?”
Nessa shook her head. “Wasn’t my place.”
Patrick sighed. “Well, all right then. I was sent here by Jacob Eveningstar, Ashhur’s most trusted servant, with a plea for those in the delta to yield to Karak’s will. I wasn’t told much, just that Jacob fears the worst will happen to you should you refuse to yield.”
Rachida’s expression turned from warm and welcoming to hard and blunt.
“So even Jacob is against us now,” she said. “I expected better of him.” She slapped her knees and stood up, pacing around the room, weaving in and out of those who were standing. “Those men you ran into were sent here by Karak’s followers, the same god you would ask us to kneel before. They’ve burned four holdfasts, slaughtered thirty heads of cattle, and murdered six men. And those seven are just a small number of the many who have ‘visited’ us here in the delta since Karak’s Army loosed their arrows on our temple. Our wills have been made iron. They will not best us, even if Karak himself comes here to show us his wrath, as promised.”
Patrick swallowed hard. “But…don’t you fear being destroyed? Karak created you, all of you…well, except for you, Antar…and trust me, I’ve spent many hours with Ashhur, and I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side either.”
Once more Rachida knelt before him. This time she slid a long object out from beneath the bed, grunting as she lifted it and leaned it against the bed. It was Winterbone, retrieved from the marsh grasses, scabbard and all.
“We are tired of being slaves,” she said. “Karak preaches freedom and prosperity for all, but the game is fixed. The wealthy are free to amass as much affluence as they wish, so long as their tithes and professions of faith remain plentiful. But they prey on the weak and the unfortunate, and Karak does nothing to stop it. He has abandoned his people. I don’t care if he ever returns, though I doubt he will ever step foot in our village. This is a power play by Moira’s father. He is trying to prove his might before his followers by scaring us into submission. He hates humanity and is bitter that his family wasn’t allowed to rule. He will take us down to prove his point to his beloved god, and trust me, Patrick, he won’t stop at the delta-not when your people are so unprepared to defend themselves.”
His head swimming, Patrick gawked at the gorgeous woman and asked the only question that popped into his mind. “Moira’s father? Who are you people?”
Rachida stood and threw back her shoulders. “I am Lady Gemcroft by title only. My husband Peytr bestowed the title upon me to help hide my true heritage. Before, I was Rachida Mori. As for Moira Crestwell…”
Patrick blinked, hardly able to believe it. Mori and Crestwell…two women of the First Families…here in the delta? He looked over at Nessa, whose face was stretched into a huge grin.
“You knew?” he asked, and she nodded exuberantly.
Suddenly, Patrick didn’t feel quite so upset that Jacob had sent him there. Things had just gotten far, far more interesting.
CHAPTER 14
The smell of sweat hung in the air as line after line of the newcomers to Karak’s Army practiced their thrusts and parries in an enormous field. The grass was matted, torn down to the rocky soil in spots from the clomping of countless booted feet. The township of Omnmount’s lone building was barely visible over the rise of a distant hill. The recruits’ swords were cheap and wooden; the genuine articles hadn’t arrived yet. According to the bird sent by Romeo Connington, the delay had been caused by Matthew Brennan’s attempts to fleece them with high shipping rates, which meant that the Conningtons needed to hire their own people to convey the new weapons all the way from the Thettletown refineries, by horse instead of boat. Crian rolled his eyes on reading the words. He knew for a fact that the Conningtons owned boats of their own. It was an excuse, another way for Romeo and Cleo to curry sympathy in their pathetic turf war with the Brennan family while hiding how far behind they were in production.
But it was all a concern for another day. Real steel would do his inexperienced soldiers little good if they didn’t know how to wield swords properly. The members of the City Watch that he and Avila had brought with them from Veldaren had spoiled him. They’d been given leave from their positions-along with a hefty raise of two silvers a week-to join in the fight against the blasphemers in the delta. Lord Commander Mori had already trained them well, training Crian had continued upon taking over as Watch captain. These new recruits, however, were farmers and peasants plucked from their homes in Omnmount and the outlying agricultural territories, as far away as Ramere, with the promise that King Vaelor would make sure there was plenty of gold to feed their families and pay for their crops.
Crian watched two men in particular as they sparred-a balding waif named Grant and a fat tub named Harren. Despite Harren’s advantages in both girth and reach, it was always Grant who landed the winning blows with the tip of his waster. The waif laughed like a hyena whenever he struck Harren a solid blow, and the fat man’s jowls were growing red with anger. Crian knew a dangerous situation was building, but he remained silent. Every moment was a teaching moment, as his father had been wont to say.
Grant sidestepped a clumsy thrust and poked Harren in his meaty thigh, barely missing his balls. The waif then spun away and cackled. “Fat man can’t move!” he shouted. “Fat man needs another side of beef!”
When Grant’s back was turned, Harren threw down his waster and, moving much faster than in their training, leapt forward and wrapped the smaller man in his chunky arms. Grant’s eyes bulged as the breath was squeezed out of him. His slender fingers lost grip on his waster, which fell harmlessly to the dirt. Harren tossed him to the ground, where he bounced once, twice, striking a rock hard enough to make his mouth bleed.