"Good. Now listen carefully. I must leave. My dear mother has been called to take her place in the heavens, among the shining blessed."
"I am sorry, master."
"You needn't be—I'm not. It is Thighday already and she died on Ankleday, so our beloved battlemaster should receive the news before nightfall. I prefer to depart before he does, just in case he makes the wrong decision."
"But how—"
Dosh felt Tarion's chuckle more than he heard it.
"Just say I have a premonition. I am quite confident that she died on Ankleday. A monarchy should not be left without a monarch any longer than absolutely necessary. And I cannot take you with me, dear boy, much as I long to, because you have no moa and we shall be going very fast. So what am I to do with you, mm?"
Dosh managed a small moan, but his throat seemed to have closed up completely.
A wet tongue touched his nose. “I love you so much,” said the dread, mocking whisper close above him, “that I can hardly bear the thought of leaving you to another master. But we have had such good times together that it does seem unkind to put you to sleep. Do you wish to express an opinion on the matter?"
Dosh believed. He knew the prince was quite capable of killing him here, now, on the tent floor, in cold blood, with a single slash of his dagger. “I love you!” His voice quavered.
"And I love you, too, darling. I considered just cutting your beautiful throat while you were asleep, but there is something I am curious to learn, most curious to learn. Men always tell the truth on their deathbeds, did you know that? And wise men tell the truth to avoid deathbeds. So you tell me now, lover: Who are you spying for?"
"I've told you before! Anyone who pays me."
"My, you are sweating, aren't you? I have known you sweat often enough, dear one, but never quite like this. So you do understand that I am going to kill you if you continue lying to me? Last chance, Dosh Houseboy. Who are you spying for?"
Dosh tried to speak and discovered he was weeping. Sobbing was not easy with so much of Tarion's weight resting on his chest. “Nobody."
"Oh, now that is absurd! Really silly. Everybody spies for somebody. The day I hired you, you hid two stars and some small change under the Niolian vase in my bedroom. You now have five stars in the bottom of my brush case. Three stars in seven fortnights? That isn't nearly enough for a clever sneak like you to earn by tattling. You probably made that much selling your pretty body around the palace guard, but you'd have gained far more if you were peddling information about me to anyone local. So you're spying for some outsider. Who?"
"I love you,” Dosh whimpered. “I don't tell anyone anything!"
A sudden searing pain at his throat and he thought he had died....
"That's just a flesh wound,” Tarion said. “At least, I think it is. It's hard to tell in the dark. I may overdo it next time. You still alive?"
"Yes."
"Good. This is taking too long. Somebody sent you to Nag to worm your way into my service and spy on me. You were not exactly subtle in your approach, I'm afraid. You claimed to be a Narshian, but you're not. Now I shall put the gag back and rip your guts open and you will die very nastily—unless you tell me who it was that sent you."
Trouble was, Dosh knew he could not answer that question. He was not spying on Tarion at all, only on the Liberator, but he could not explain that either.
He was dragged out of the tent in the bitter light of dawn. He should have been ashamed of his nudity, his tears, the dried blood on him, but the pain in his limbs drowned out everything else. His legs would not support him, and when he was brought before Kammaeman Battlemaster, he collapsed in a sniveling heap.
"Oh, sewage!” said the general. “That will be all, Captain. You may go."
The tent flap closed. There were two other men there, and they stayed. Through the blur of his tears, Dosh recognized Kolgan Coadjutant by his great height. The other was wearing face paint and a loincloth and was almost certainly the Liberator.
"All right, scum,” Kammaeman said. “Talk! When did he leave?"
Dosh's mouth was a foul desert, still tasting of the oily rag that had spent so many hours in it, but he managed to croak, “Middle of the night, sir. I don't know the hour."
"Who brought him the news?"
Normally Dosh would lie in response to such a question or demand money for an answer—or both, but he was too weak to maintain a good fiction, and his hatred of Tarion maddened him.
"I don't think anyone did. He said the queen died on Ankleday, as if it had been arranged."
The Joalian grunted. “That's entirely possible, I suppose. Coadjutant?"
"I agree."
"Hordeleader?"
"I'd believe anything of that one, sir."
Yes, it was the Liberator. Not that anyone but Dosh knew that D'ward was the prophesied Liberator, of course.
Kammaeman growled angrily. “If we believe this wretch, then they've got too good a start for us ever to catch them. Hordeleader, send for the other one."
The tent flap lifted, and the Liberator said something to someone outside. Then he returned. He came over to Dosh and offered him a water bottle. Seeing that Dosh's hands were not functioning yet, he went down on one knee and held it to his lips so he could drink. Water went everywhere, but some found its way down into the desert. Bliss!
"I'm not sorry to be rid of the royal bastard,” Kolgan muttered, “but we can ill afford to lose the mounts. It leaves us too damnably short."
Kammaeman grunted agreement. “But it'll be much worse if I detach a troop to follow him.” The Joalians moved away, to sit on the stools at the other end of the tent.
The Liberator was peering at Dosh's face. “Why did he cut you up like that?"
"Just his idea of fun, sir,” Dosh mumbled, hoping nobody put a mirror near him. He did not want to know how bad it was. The slashes on his throat wouldn't matter, but Tarion had done things to his cheeks and forehead, and close to his eyes.
"Mm?” the Liberator said quietly. His paint wrinkled. “Did you tell him what he wanted to know?"
Startled, Dosh shook his head. He had tried to! He had tried desperately, but his real master had made that impossible. His real master could not be named. It was hard for Dosh even to think his name.
Of course the Liberator did not know that, and he misunderstood. “Good for you!” he murmured. “Amazing he didn't just kill you, then."
That was certainly true! Dosh shuddered at the memory and could not speak.
"There's a surgeon's apprentice in the Rareby troop. He could stitch those slashes so they don't scar so badly."
Astonished, Dosh said, “I'd be very grateful, sir."
The Liberator chuckled drily. “After all, your looks are your stock in trade, aren't they?” He stood up and walked over to the others.
Who was he to sneer? A warrior sold his body too, and in worse ways. Beauty was a talent like strength or courage. If the gods blessed a man with those, he was expected to use them to benefit himself and other people, was he not? Then why not the same with beauty?
What chance had Dosh ever had, an abandoned Tinkerfolk brat? His own people had thrown him out. His body was all he'd ever had to offer. It had needed to be fed, just like any other. He had served women just as willingly as men—more so, actually, because they were less dangerous—but he had never found a woman with the money and the freedom to offer him long-term employment.
For a few minutes the soldiers talked tactics and battle plans, while Dosh brooded, wondering what was going to happen to him now. He had been wondering that for hours, ever since Tarion had given up and left him. When he had decided that he was not going to bleed to death, he had concluded that he would probably be lucky if the Joalians just ran him out of camp at spearpoint. Then the Lemodians would kill him. He hardly cared anymore. He was desolated by the thought that he had failed his master, his real master. The pain in his hands was a sickening throb. He stayed where he was, keeping very still, hoping to hear something of importance.