'Who are you?' Thalric demanded.
'Me?' The faceless helm came closer. 'Why, I'm no Rekef officer, Master Thalric. I'm no lord of the Empire or grand ambassador. I'm just a poor halfbreed boy who's had to make his own way in the world.'
A name hovered at the very edge of Thalric's memory, but he could not bring it to mind.
'But look at me now,' the man continued. 'I've not done so badly. Look at what I can do.'
Thalric saw him draw back his fist for the blow, amateurish and clumsy if only he himself had been able to dodge. Then the metal-clad fist slammed into his stomach and doubled him over, only the layer of copperweave saving his innards. He sagged against his captors, who instantly jerked him upright. The armoured man was examining his mailed fist speculatively.
'Look what I can do,' he repeated, wonderingly. When the gaze of the helm tilted towards Thalric again, it was as though they were collaborators in this new exercise of power.
'You don't understand what's going on here,' said Thalric, and because he was speaking he was not ready for the next blow, which lashed into his cheek, splitting his lip and throwing him out of the grip of his captors. He hit the ground hard, clawing at the dust, trying to extend a hand out to sting. The boot came from nowhere into his ribs and he cried out at last, curling about the pain, bracing for the next blow.
There was no next one, though, and he forced himself to look up. The snapbow was directed at him, at his face, at his eye. Well, I always knew the mail wouldn't save me every time.
'This is personal, between us two,' the armoured man explained. 'The Iron Glove wouldn't thank me for killing an ambassador. Be grateful that your Fly got away to tell tales. It's enough now that you know you're beaten.'
Two of them still supported Che between them, and the two others that had been holding him now had their crossbows out and ready. The company started moving away through the Marsh Alcaia, only the armoured man pausing a moment, staring down at Thalric.
'If I ever see you again,' he said, 'know that I haven't even begun to avenge what you did to her.'
Thalric tried to sit up, unkinking bruise by bruise, his breath ragged in his throat. No broken ribs, just pain all over and a bloodied lip. He had suffered much worse. The halfbreed had no idea just how much Thalric had endured, before.
There was a flurry of movement nearby, and he instinctively jabbed an arm out towards it, reaching for his sword with the other.
'It's me, it's me!' Trallo shrilled, coming to rest beside him, surveying him critically. 'They did a real job on you, didn't they?'
Thalric groaned, pulling himself fully to his feet, light-headed and breathing through waves of pain.
'I hope you can walk,' Trallo added reproachfully. 'There's no way I'm carrying you.'
'I can walk.' And I can think up some explanation for Marger and the others, as well. He was still ransacking his memory for the name of the armoured halfbreed.
Twenty
She awoke, and was in a strange place.
She was still in Khanaphes, because the city signed every brick that composed it, but this was nowhere she recognized. The ceiling was too low, the windows too smalclass="underline" it was certainly not the splendour of the Place of Honoured Foreigners.
Nor was it the coloured cloth of the Marsh Alcaia, and that was something to be grateful for, at least. She gathered up the pieces of her last recollections and tried to put them in order. The Fir dream came back to her with shocking suddenness: the mantis of the Darakyon, reaching out with bloody claws towards her. She sat up with a start.
'Achaeos?' she whispered the name, out of force of habit, but his ghost was not there, not even a tremor in the air to hint of it. She was in some kind of dormitory, lying on a narrow cot that was one of five. It looked like a room allotted for servants.
They were going to kill me, she recalled. The woman they called Mother had urged, Take her blood. Was that why she was now here? Were they going to farm her blood, syphon it off in cups and quarts? Che realized she was not tied to the bed, but she was willing to bet that the door was locked, and the single window was too small to let a Fly in.
Trallo? Perhaps the Fly had escaped. Perhaps there would be a rescue, after all. By who, though? She could not imagine Manny and Berjek charging in with sword and pike, but at least they could always go and seek aid from the Khanaphir. It would be a diplomatic embarrassment, of course, and if the truth of her deeds should become known they might be thrown out of the city — or worse. That might still be better than being bled to death by Fir-eaters over the course of a month.
She recalled Trallo shouting something. Had he been shouting for help? And hadn't help arrived? She had an image of a bright figure with its hands on fire. The Fir-eaters had been screaming …
There was water and soap laid out for her at the foot of the bed, and the sight of it brought a surge of relief out of all proportion, since the Fir-eaters had not looked as though they cared much for washing. There was even a towel folded over the bed-end, Collegium style. Someone's trying to make me feel welcome. After washing, she drank a great deal of water from a pitcher, trying to rid her mouth of the bitter taste of the vices she had dabbled in. Perhaps this is some kind of Khanaphir hospital?
They had laid out a robe for her too, and she eyed it suspiciously. She was still wearing what she considered as her working clothes, hardwearing and practical even though they were filthy and malodorous.
Realizing her sword was gone, she cursed quietly. Her new situation seemed subtly balanced between comfort and threat. Am I a prisoner here, or a guest?
She decided not to change clothes. Instead, she tried the door, and found it opened out into a corridor. Immediately she was surrounded. There were three of them, men in dark leathers and helms, shortswords at their belts. One closed the door neatly behind her, another was off and away at a run. She swung round, reaching again for the absent sword. 'What is this?'
'If you'll come with us,' one of them said, the tone of his voice strictly neutral.
'You're — wait a moment, you're Iron Glove. What's going on?' she demanded.
'Just come with us, Bella,' the man repeated. The two of them were standing on one side of her, blocking the narrow corridor. She backed off the way that the third man had gone running, and they followed smoothly.
'I'm the Collegiate ambassador,' she told them, trying for authority. 'I insist you tell me where I am and what is going on.'
They gave no reply to her bravado, which was perhaps all it deserved. She was retreating and retreating, seeing only closed doors on all sides, or doorways and stairwells where other Iron Glove men stood and watched, barring any escape.
'Is Corcoran here?' she asked desperately. 'I know him. He's a friend.' An acquaintance, barely. 'Please would you go find him. He's in charge here, isn't he?'
'Not any more,' one of the men said flatly, and her heart sank. What have I got myself into? Some schism amongst them? And how would that involve me?
She realized that she had unthinkingly backed into a larger room, and turned, groping for her bearings. It was a dining hall, still low-ceilinged but wide, and windowed on one side beyond a row of pillars. This was a little more like the Khanaphes she knew.
The long table that dominated the room was set with fruit and some sort of fish, simple local fare. The sight of it made Che realize how hungry she was, but there were only two chairs set there, and until the other one was claimed she was not going to sit down. The two Iron Glove men had now retreated to the doorway she had entered by.