‘So have a great many others…’ she answered absently. Her dark eyes glittered as she studied the night. ‘I wish I could take credit but I cannot.‘ She motioned to a member of her staff. ‘Find out who that is.’ The woman saluted and ran to a horse. ‘And now,’ she said, ‘I suggest we try to get some sleep before dawn. Urko, V'thell, you may speak with your soldiers but only through the barricade. Until tomorrow.’
V'thell bowed. Urko gave a curt jerk of his head. Both crossed to the spikes of the barricade. Wiping his hands down his face, Ullen joined them.
Knocking on the front pole of her tent woke Ghelel. She rose, found the sheathed dirk she kept next to her cot then pulled on a thick warm cloak, tucking the blade under it. ‘Yes?’
‘Apologies, Prevost,’ came the Marquis's voice, ‘but news has arrived.’
‘Come in.’
The thick canvas hissed, brushing. She heard the man moving about within the outer half of her quarters. The light of a lamp rose. She pushed aside the inner hanging. ‘Yes, Marquis?’
The man was pouring himself a glass of wine. He wore a plain long shirt and trousers; his considerable bulk plainly consisted of equal muscle and fat. He turned to her. ‘We've lost.’
‘Lost?’
‘The battle.’ He frowned down into his glass. ‘The Talian League has been shattered. Toc presumed dead. Urko, Choss, the Gold commander captured.’
Her knees went numb; she searched for a chair then stiffened herself, refusing to display such weakness. ‘So quickly…’
‘I'm sorry.’
‘Yes…’
‘Will you have a drink?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
He poured another, crossed to hand it to her. ‘Had been there you would now be captured — probably dead.’
Ghelel took the glass, smiled sadly. ‘Had we been there, Marquis, we might have won.’
‘Yes, well.’
‘Now what?’
‘We must move. No doubt the Kanese will come to hunt us down to curry favour with the Empress.’
‘Where will we go?’
‘Back to my province, north Tali. We'll be safe there. There will be some reprisals, of course. A winnowing of the aristocracy. Reparations. Funds will be extorted to weaken Tali. But that will be the worst, I expect.’
‘And myself, Marquis? What will I do?’
The man's face flushed and he glanced aside. ‘That should be obvious… Ghelel. You will be the Marchioness. My wife.’
Ghelel felt the need for that chair. What? How dare he! I would die first! She tossed the glass aside. ‘So, what now? Throw me down on the cot? Rape me?’ She slipped a hand within her cloak to close on the dirk.
‘Nothing so melodramatic, I assure you. No, in time you will come around. You will see the union of our families as the political necessity it is. The Tayliin line must be preserved, after all. I'm sure you understand that.’ He returned to the table, set his glass down. ‘We failed this generation — but perhaps our sons or daughters or theirs…’ He glanced back, his blunt features softening. ‘I know it… 7… am not what you've dreamt of. But think carefully. It is for the best.’ He gestured to the entrance. ‘And do not try anything foolish. You are of course under guard for your own safety. Good night.’
She longed for that wine glass to throw at him as he left. Once the cloth flap fell she dropped into the nearest chair. Where could she go? What could she do? She was his damned prisoner! Stirring herself, she went to the table for that wine. Perhaps she could collect the food and slip out the back. Movement behind her spun her around, her hand going to the dirk. It was Molk. The man was pulling himself up from under the edge of the tent where she'd thrown the glass.
‘Still hard on your tableware, I see,’ he commented, studying the broken glass.
‘Where have you been?’ she hissed.
The man rolled his bulging eyes, his mouth widening. ‘Around. Listening. Watching.’
‘Some bodyguard you are! I'm a prisoner!’
‘Keep your voice down,’ he warned. ‘You've been safe so far, haven't you?’
‘So far!’
‘Exactly. But now I'm worried you're about to try something stupid.’
‘Me?
‘Yes. Such as running off in a huff without thinking things through.’
Lowering her voice even further, she whispered, carefully, ‘There's nothing to think through.’
‘Yes, there is.’ The man went to the table, selected a cut of smoked meat, poured a glass of wine. ‘Why should you be the one to leave?’ he asked, innocently.
‘I'm sorry…?’
He turned to her, shrugging. ‘I could make it look like the Claw…’
Ghelel stared, her hand fell from the dirk. Make it look like the… Dessembrae, no! What a terrifying offer! She felt sick, wiped her palms on her cloak. ‘What an awful thing to suggest.’
He gave a thoughtful frown. ‘Yes, I suppose it would be best to wait until you are actually married. Then kill him.’
‘That's not what I meant!’ she shouted, then slapped a hand to her mouth. Molk listened, cocking his head. After a moment he waved off any worries. ‘No? Really? Well, of course the problem is that the man's already married.’
‘What?
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Then what…’
A shrug of regret. ‘Well, her blood is not nearly as rich as yours…’
‘He wouldn't…’
Molk sipped his wine. ‘An ambitious man, our Marquis.’
Through clenched teeth Ghelel hissed, ‘You're enjoying this far too much, Molk.’
He stepped closer, lowered his voice even further. ‘This is what I do, Ghelel. What I'm good at. My business… Now you face an important choice. A major fork in the path of one's life, so to speak. Do you want to stay in the business or do you want out? Which will it be?’
Ghelel almost said immediately that she wanted out but a small voice whispered: just what are his orders from Amaron regarding me? To guard me and, if failing that… to kill me? Is that what he means by ‘Out’? She walked away, saying, ‘I have to think,’ then turned back with the dirk bared and ready. ‘What if I said I did want out, Molk. What would you do?’
His broad mouth stretched in a large smile. He gave a rueful shake of his head. ‘I would say too bad — you have the right crafty turns of mind. But no, nothing like that. Suffice it to say that if I wanted to kill you — you'd be dead already.’
Ghelel did not lower the blade. ‘So you say now. But how can I believe you?’
The smile melted away. He raised a hand, cupping the fingers, and a darkness blossomed within. A dancing flame of night. ‘Believe me.’
Oh. She straightened, sheathed the dirk. ‘I see. Now what?’
‘Get dressed for travel. We'll leave tonight.’
Assenting, she pulled aside the inner hangings.
When they were ready, Ghelel having gathered all the food and water they could pack, Molk went to the rear wall of the tent and stood listening for a time. He waved her over then pulled up its staked lip. She gave him a glare and he shrugged. ‘Simplest is always best,’ he mouthed, and urged her on.
She didn't know if he used his arts to disguise their passage, but they made it out of the camp without being seen or any alarm sounding. They climbed a hill north of the sheltered, hidden forest depression the Sentries had chosen as their retreat and she could now hear the roar of the distant falls, Broke Earth Falls, where they tumbled down Burn's Cliff on their way to Nap Sea. ‘Now what?’ she asked him.
‘We'll cross at the falls. Lots of rafts ‘n’ such there. After that I'll escort you back.’ He looked to her. ‘I presume you do mean to return to Quon?’
‘Yes. And you'll… let me go?’
A waved agreement. ‘Oh yes. It's plain to me you don't have the, ah, stomach for this life. Way too many scruples. No, best get out before you're killed, or become something you despise…’ He looked away, clearing his throat. ‘And I wish you luck.’