The maid’s childlike face, round and soft, was darkening above Hunn Raal’s grip. Voice now rasping, she said, ‘Best awaken the guards, then.’
Face twisting with disgust, Hunn Raal pushed the woman away, hard enough to send her over the far side of the bed. He quickly threw on his clothes, and strapped on his sword-belt. He paused then, weaving slightly. ‘No, enough of this.’ A pulse of sorcerous power, held inside, made him suddenly sober.
The maid had climbed to her feet on the other side of the bed, her naked body ghostly pale. ‘How did you do that?’
Snarling, he spun to face her. ‘Get out.’ Another surge of sorcery, reaching into the body facing him, grasping hold of that secretive sliver of Syntara, and then tearing it loose, flinging it away like a torn rag. The maid collapsed.
Oh, a fine new rumour for Hunn Raal now – he kills the women he fucks. Strangles them, by the marks round the poor girl’s neck. Well, yet another sordid cloak to wear. These burdens are enough to make a man drink.
He gathered up a fur-lined cape, and then strode from the bedchamber.
Two guards stood at the far end of the corridor. Hunn Raal marched towards them. ‘Pult, rouse a squad to guard Vatha Urusander’s private chambers. If he wakes to the noise, inform him that we have an assassin in the town below, but that I have begun the hunt. Mirril, you’re with me.’
As Pult set off towards the troop hall, Mirril fell in a step behind Hunn Raal as he made his way to the keep’s central staircase.
‘There’s a dead woman in my bedroom,’ he told her. ‘Never mind the rumours that’ll come of that. The High Priestess of Light has a growing thirst for corpses – not that you can easily tell who’s dead and who isn’t, once she’s done with them. Look for the eyes, Mirril – they don’t match the face around them.’
The soldier made an obscure warding gesture.
‘Just get rid of it,’ Hunn Raal ordered. ‘No family to inform, I should think. Bury her in the refuse heap below the kitchen chute.’
‘And if, uh, she comes back to life again, sir?’
He grunted. ‘I doubt that – I wasn’t fooled, you see. But still … oh, take off its legs, then. Arms, too.’
‘Sir, I would advise the hog pens, rather than the heap.’
He glanced back at her as they reached the top of the stairs. ‘And the next slice of ham you eat, Mirril? How will it sit? No, the notion doesn’t appeal to me. Perhaps a shallow grave, then. Pick people you trust in this.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘And let the soldiers know – no one from the High Priestess’s household can be trusted.’
‘That’s past saying, sir.’
They reached the main floor opposite the front doors. ‘Good,’ said Hunn Raal. ‘Off you go, then.’
‘Yes sir.’
He left her to take care of the maid and set out across the compound towards the barracks. By rota, a company of Hallyd Bahann’s Golds were quartered there, five squads in all. Two guards stood at post outside the barracks entrance, both coming to attention upon seeing Hunn Raal approach.
‘Wake the lieutenant,’ Hunn Raal said to one of them, and then he beckoned the other closer. ‘Saddle up, soldier, and take this word down to the Legion camp. We’re on the hunt for an assassin – someone has just murdered my cousin, Serap. In the town proper. I want two companies to enter Neret Sorr and begin looking for the body. We can pick up the trail from there, if need be. Though,’ he added, ‘I doubt it will be necessary.’ Seeing the questioning look on the man’s face, Hunn Raal said, ‘I doubt she’s the only intended target this night, soldier.’ Pausing, hands on his hips, he faced the gatehouse. ‘Civil wars are dirty, but we need to hold fast to our cause.’
Led by the lieutenant – a young man Hunn Raal did not know – the Golds emerged from the barracks, still buckling on their gear, a few of them swearing at the bitter chill.
‘Lieutenant,’ Hunn Raal said, ‘shape up your soldiers, and be smart about it. One squad remains on station here. The rest of you, we’re marching down into Neret Sorr.’ He gestured at the lieutenant to join him, and then set out, at a brisk pace, towards the gatehouse, and the switchback track that led down into the town.
* * *
Renarr had time to step into a shadow-thick alcove at the gatehouse before the gates swung wide and a rider emerged, pushing his horse into a careless gallop as soon as he was clear of the gate. An instant later a company of soldiers, led by Hunn Raal, appeared, moving at a quick pace. When the last soldiers in the column were past, she waited a few moments longer, and then walked back on to the track, just as the gatehouse guards were pushing at the squealing gate. One cursed upon seeing her, clearly frightened by her sudden appearance. She moved forward.
‘Who’s that, then?’ the other guard asked, holding up a staying hand.
‘Renarr. Summoned by my father.’
She saw, as lanterns were drawn close, both recognition and suspicion. They would have known, after all, if Urusander had dispatched any messenger down into Neret Sorr. But then one grunted and said to the other, ‘Captain Sharenas left earlier.’
This man looked enquiringly at Renarr, who solemnly nodded.
They waved her through. ‘Not a good night,’ the first guard said as she passed. ‘Killings in town below, we heard. Black-skinned assassins, agents of Lord Anomander. Officers of the Legion getting backstabbed. It’s what it’s come to.’
‘Best stay here at the keep tonight,’ called out the other guard.
She continued on.
There were lights in the tower, where Urusander kept his private abode. She thought she saw a dark shape move past a window, but could not be sure. The courtyard was slippery underfoot, slick with frost. She glanced over at the squad mustered up near the barracks, and saw some of them watching her as she crossed to the keep’s main entrance.
She’d probably taken a few of them to her bed, but at this distance, and in the uneven light, there was no way to tell.
Father, I should tell you. I have intimate knowledge of your legion, its soldiers, with their myriad faces, their singular needs. I know them better than you. It’s how certain things blur together, you see. The heat of sex and the heat of battle. Death entwined with love, or something like love, if we are generous enough to gauge the motions, there beneath the furs.
Tents and temples, beds and altars, the propitiations and rituals, all the forms of confession, weakness and desire. The conceits and pride’s fragile temerity. All the appetites, Father, flow together in those times, those places. I could list for you the cowards, and the ones who would stand fast. I could speak to you about conscience and grief, and above all, about what a soldier needs.
Alas, that need no mortal can answer, though I can see you, Father, I can see you trying. When few others would dare.
Shall we give it a name, that need? Dare we venture inward, to face that sorrowful child?
Tent and temple, we raise them to disguise all that haunts our soul. Between lover and priest, I think, it is the lover who can reach closest to that shivering, wide-eyed child. The priest, ah, well, the priest killed his inner child long ago, and now but plays at wonder, dancing joy’s steps with shuffling, self-conscious feet.
Consider this, Father. No whore has ever sexually abused a child. I know this – I watch them, my hard women and men of the stained cloth. Some are harsh bitches and bastards, no doubt about that. Hardened beyond pain. For all that, they know innocence when they see it.
But priests? Most are fine, I’m sure. Honest, diligent, trustworthy. But what of those few others who took on the robes and vestments for unholy reasons? What do they see – the ones so eager to ruin a child?
Best ask the High Priestess, Father, because I have no answer to that question. All I know, and I know this with certainty, is that inside that abusing bastard priest there is the corpse of a child. Wanting company.