“Caliam Halveric,” the voice mused. “Oldest living son of Aliam Halveric—his second in command—his heir, I understand. Cal, they call you, don’t they?” A hand brushed his body and he realized he was naked—then remembered the hood—and what had come before. The hand traced some of his old scars, slowly. He shivered, telling himself it was from the cold. The voice began again, brisker. “Caliam Halveric. What are you worth to your father—” the hand touched his manhood, “—whole? What would he give for you? Anything? Or—would you fetch a better price elsewhere? As a gelding, perhaps. Or perhaps his enemies would pay for you—” the hand touched here and there, “—piecemeal, so to speak. Eh?”
Cal smiled grimly under the hood. He knew his worth to his father well enough, and the price someone would pay for his death. “I have sired sons enough,” he said, answering that oblique threat.
“Ah yes.” The voice carried amusement. “You are married, are you not, to—now what is her name?” Cal did not answer. “Five sons and three—no, four—daughters, as I recall. But Cal—what makes you think I have no agents over the mountains. Are five sons enough, if you cannot get more?”
He had not thought of that. Surely they were safe, so far away—young Aliam, only fifteen but furious at being left behind, Berrol the stubborn twelve year old, Malek and Kieri and baby Seli, born just a month after his uncle’s death. And the girls: tall Tamar, wild as Aliam, and Zuli, and Volya and Amis. Surely they were safe. But his breath came quicker. How did they know this? Were some of his own men traitors?
After a long pause, the voice went on. “Your father, Cal—he has made a very unfortunate alliance with that crazy dukeling, Phelan.” Cal suppressed a snort. Phelan was as crazy as his nickname of fox. “But perhaps, if he values you, he might be persuaded to—to forget that alliance, at least for awhile.”
“He will not be likely to forgive your murdering one of his sons because of your threats to another,” said Cal calmly.
“Murder? You aren’t even harmed—yet—barring a rib you might have bruised falling off your horse.”
“You mean your spy system does not extend to knowing all his captains? How incompetent.”
“But when did—oh. Was that your brother, last fall? I had been told a hireling captained that troop. Then is that why—?” Cal was silent, willing enough to let him think his brother’s death was the only reason for the Halveric-Phelan alliance. That reason might be public knowledge; the rest were secrets he did not care to have probed. The voice went on.
“The loss of one son should not harden a man to the loss of others, surely? You must be even more dear to him—or your sons must be. We must convince him, Cal, that his desire for vengeance will condemn you, too. And to no such quick death as your brother. I do wish I’d known who he was. Even so, he would be alive had he released his prisoners to me, as any sensible person would have done. That nonsense you mercenaries spout about honor—ridiculous!” With no warning, scalding liquid splashed Cal’s chest. “Oh—” the voice said archly. “How clumsy of me!”
Cal was suddenly disgusted by the tone as much as the pain, so angry that it swamped his fear. “South coast scum,” he began. “You’re not just clumsy, you’re stupid and incompetent as well. You couldn’t captain a mercenary company, because the only way you can get fighters to follow you is to threaten their families—coward as you are. And you don’t have the guts to stay and fight with ’em, when you lead ’em into a mess—” The blows began soon after his words, but he kept on until he passed out once more. “Stupid—cowardly—scum—that’s what you are, and furthermore—”
This time pain woke him. He was wedged into a space so small that he could move nothing but his head, and that only slightly. His arms had been rebound behind him, tightly; he could not feel his hands at all. His bruised cheek rested on his knees. Everything ached and throbbed, and he had a cramp in one shoulder. With every breath his broken ribs grated and stabbed. He had had bruises and broken ribs often enough before—but not the other pain, a growing fire that gnawed between his thighs, leaving him no doubt about one irreplaceable loss. Perhaps, he thought grimly, I will bleed to death from this. If only I had been able to taunt him longer, he might have killed me at once. He felt contempt for his captor, who could so easily be moved by a rough tongue. But Halverics are not bred to despair or suicide, and his mind returned to his children. If he died, they would avenge him: but he was not dead, not yet. His mind wandered to his own childhood, when Kieri Phelan was his father’s squire, and he had seen Kieri’s scars. “Don’t ever ask,” his father had said, “and never complain, Cal, until you’ve borne the like.”
He woke, not knowing he had dozed, at the touch of a hand on his leg. A voice—not the soft voice, but one with a northern flavor—whispered nearby. “Are you th’ Halveric, are ye?” He froze, afraid to answer. It must be a trap. The hand, hard and horny, slid along his thigh to his buttocks. A whispered curse, then a comment: “Holy Falk, he’s been—” Another whisper, silencing the first. He worked his tongue around in his mouth, as the hand found his ankles and a cold thin thing—blade?—slipped under the thongs that bound them. He heard the thongs snap. The blade slid up and cut the thongs at his knees. He tried to whisper, but it came out as a grunt, unintelligible even to him. “Quiet,” the voice commanded, itself very soft. “Are you the Halveric?” He nodded, then realized it was dark and managed a shaky yes. “Don’t make a noise,” the voice said. “We’ll pull—don’t fight us.”
A hard hand grasped his feet and pulled them to one side. The wrench of pain that followed almost drew a sound from him, but he clamped his jaws on it. He felt his legs scrape past an edge of some sort, and smelled fresher air, cold air. The hand reached up past his thighs to his body, felt around toward his arms. Again the blade, slicing the bonds at elbow and wrist. His elbows rolled out, catching on the sides of whatever held him with a little thump. Again a muffled curse. The hand reached and pulled first one arm forward, then the other. Something soft bound his forearms loosely together. He leaned now against the side of the container, trying to yield to the hands without making any sound. One set grasped his legs below the knees, and the other reached in and lifted his hips slightly. He choked back a scream at that, and tried to arch his back against the surface behind him. They pulled, and his body eased out, his head sliding down the wall. He tipped his head forward so it would not thump on the floor of the container. He could feel hot blood seeping from reopened wounds. At last, inch by careful inch, the unknown hands drew him free of his prison, and he lay at full length on a flat surface.
“Be very quiet,” a voice murmured in his ear. “Not out yet. Talk later.” Meanwhile the hands were busy, running along his arms and legs feeling for broken bones. His hands began to come to life again, with the throbbing pain of returning circulation. He flexed them, glad to have control over something. “Need cloth,” murmured the voice. “Blood trail if we don’t.”
“Here,” said the other voice. He was lifted and a pad of cloth wrapped against his back—then he could feel them dragging a tunic over his head. A flask pressed against his lips and he swallowed. While he was dreaming, he thought, he might as well dream numbwine—but it was water, cold and clean. He realized that his mouth was full of some foul taste, blood or vomit, and swallowed again. Very quickly they had him ready to move, with loose trousers drawn up to his waist, and stockings pulled over his feet. “Will hurt,” said the voice in his ear. “No sound.” A hand lay along his face for a moment, and he nodded.