“Do you still have the use of your old bedroom?” she whispered, pressing her lips to his ear. “I’m beginning to feel like.…” She stopped speaking and although she remained in his arms he knew that somebody had entered the room.
He turned and saw Gesalla Maraquine regarding him with cool disdain, the familiar expression she seemed to reserve just for him. Her dark filmy clothing emphasised her slimness. It was the first time they had met in almost two years and he was struck by the fact that, as with Fera, her appearance had not altered in any significant way. The sickness associated with her second pregnancy — which had caused her to miss the littlenight meal — had invested her pale features with a near-numinous dignity which somehow made him feel that he was a stranger to all that was important in life.
“Good aftday, Gesalla,” he said. “I see you haven’t lost your knack of materialising at precisely the wrong moment.” Fera slipped away from him. He smiled and looked down at Glo, expecting his moral support, but Glo indulged in playful treachery by gazing fixedly at his book, pretending to be so lost in it that he had been unaware of what Toller and Fera were doing.
Gesalla’s grey eyes considered Toller briefly while she decided if he merited a reply, then she turned her attention to Glo. “My lord, Prince Chakkell’s equerry is in the precinct. He reports that the Princes Chakkell and Leddravohr are on their way up the hill.”
“Thank you, my dear.” Glo closed his book and waited until Gesalla had left the room before baring the ruins of his lower teeth at Toller. “I thought you weren’t…hmm… afraid of that one.”
Toller was indignant. “Afraid? Why should I be afraid?”
“Huh!” Fera had returned to her position by the window. “What was wrong with it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You said she came in at the wrong moment. What was wrong with it?”
Toller was staring at her, exasperated and speechless, when Glo tugged his sleeve to signal that he wanted to get to his feet. In the entrance hall there were footfalls and the sound of a man’s voice. Toller helped Glo to stand up and lock the verticals of his cane frame. They walked together into the hall, with Toller inconspicuously taking much of Glo’s weight. Lain and Gesalla were being addressed by the equerry, who was aged about forty and had tallowy skin and out-turned liver-coloured lips. His dark green tunic and breeches were foppishly decorated with lines of tiny crystal beads and he wore the narrow sword of a duellist.
“I am Canrell Zotiern, representing Prince Chakkell,” he announced with an imperiousness which would have been better suited to his master. “Lord Glo and members of the Maraquine family — no others — will stand here in line facing the door and will await the arrival of the prince.”
Toller, who was shocked by Zotiern’s arrogance, assisted Glo to the indicated place beside Lain and Gesalla. He glanced at Glo, expecting him to issue the proper reprimand, but the older man seemed too preoccupied with the laboured mechanics of walking to have noticed anything amiss. Several of the household servants watched silently from the door leading to the kitchens. Beyond the archway of the main entrance the mounted soldiers of Chakkell’s personal guard disturbed the flow of light into the hall. Toller became aware that the equerry was looking at him.
“You! The body servant!” Zotiern called out. “Are you deaf? Get back to your quarters.”
“My personal attendant is a Maraquine, and he remains with me,” Glo said steadily.
Toller heard the exchange as across a tumultuous distance. The crimson drumming was something he had not experienced in a long time, and he was dismayed to find that his cultivated immunity to it was proved illusory. I’m a different person, he told himself, while a prickly chill moved across his brow. I AM a different person.
“And I have a warning for you,” Glo went on, speaking in high Kolcorronian and dredging up something of his old authority as he confronted Zotiern. “The unprecedented powers the King has accorded Leddravohr and Chakkell do not, as you appear to think, extend to their lackeys. I will tolerate no further violations of protocol from you.”
“A thousand apologies, my lord,” Zotiern said, insincere and unperturbed, consulting a list he had taken from his pocket. “Ah, yes — Toller Maraquine… and a spouse named Fera.” He swaggered closer to Toller. “While the subject of protocol is in the air, Toller Maraquine, where is this spouse of yours? Don’t you know that all female members of the household should be presented?”
“My wife is at hand,” Toller said coldly. “I will.…” He broke off as Fera, who must have been listening, appeared at the door of the dayroom. Moving with uncharacteristic demureness and timidity, she came towards Toller.
“Yes, I can see why you wanted to keep this one hidden,” Zotiern said. “I must make a closer inspection on behalf of the prince.”
As Fera was passing him he halted her by the expedient of grasping a handful of her hair. The drumming in Toller’s brain crashed into silence. He thrust out his left hand and hit Zotiern on the shoulder, knocking him off-balance. Zotiern went down sideways, landing on his hands and knees, and immediately sprang up again. His right hand was going for his sword and Toller knew that by the time he fully regained his feet the blade would be unsheathed. Propelled by instinct, rage and alarm, Toller went in on his opponent and struck him on the side of the neck with all the power of his right arm. Zotiern spun away, limbs flailing the air like the blades of a ptertha stick, crashed to the floor and slid several yards on the polished surface. He ended up lying on his back, unmoving, his head angled close to one shoulder. Gesalla gave a clear, high scream.
“What happens here?” The angry shout came from Prince Chakkell, who had just come through the entrance closely followed by four of his guard. He strode to Zotiern, bent over him briefly — his sparsely covered scalp glistening — and raised his eyes towards Toller, who was frozen in the attitude of combat.
“You! Again!” Chakkell’s swarthy countenance grew even darker. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“He insulted Lord Glo,” Toller said, meeting the prince’s gaze directly. “He also insulted me and molested my wife.”
“That is correct,” Glo put in. “Your man’s behaviour was quite inexcus—”
“Silence! I’ve had my fill of this doltish upstart!” Chakkell swung his arm, signalling his guards to move in on Toller. “Kill him!”
The soldiers came forward, drawing their black swords. Toller backed away, thinking of his own blade which he had left at home, until his heel touched the wall. The soldiers formed a semicircle and closed in on him, eyes slitted and intent beneath the rims of their brakka helmets. Beyond them Toller could see Gesalla hiding in Lain’s embrace; the grey-robed Glo rooted to the spot, his hand raised in ineffectual protest; and Fera watching him through latticed fingers. Until that moment the guards had remained equally distant from him, but now the one on the right was taking the initiative and the point of his sword was describing eager little circles as he prepared for the first thrust.
Toller braced himself against the wall and made ready to launch himself forward beneath the thrust when it came, determined to inflict some degree of injury on his executioners rather than simply be cut down by them. The hovering sword tip steadied, purposefully, and its message for Toller was that time was at an end. Heightened perception of everything in his surroundings brought him the awareness that another man was entering the hall, and even in the desperate extremity he was able to feel a pang of regret that the newcomer was Prince Leddravohr, arriving just in time to savour his death.…