“Third time for that one,” the shaven-headed shadow said. “Not a good place to be pretty, this ship. Lucky for us eh?”
Lyrna tried to speak, finding the words stuck in her sand-dry throat. She coughed, summoning as much moisture to her mouth as she could, and tried again. “How long?” she asked in a rasp. “Since Varinshold.”
“Four days, by my reckoning,” the voice replied. “Puts us maybe two hundred miles across the Boraelin.”
“You have a name?”
“I did, once. Names don’t matter here, my lady. You are a lady, are you not? That dress and that voice don’t come from the streets.”
Streets. She had been running through streets, screaming, the pain taking all reason as she ran from the palace where all was flame and death, ran and ran . . . “My father was a m-merchant,” she said, a tremor colouring every word she spoke. “My husband also. Though they hoped to ascend one day, by the King’s good graces.”
“I doubt anyone will ascend again. The Realm has fallen.”
“The whole Realm? In just four days?”
“The King and the Orders are the Realm. And they’re gone now. I saw the House of the Fifth Order burning as I was led to the docks. It’s all gone.”
All gone. Malcius, the children . . . Davoka.
Her gaze was drawn upwards as more feet sounded on the steps. One of the overseer’s not-so-large servants led a slim young man down into the hold, securing him to a free set of manacles a few feet from Lyrna.
“Another popular pretty face,” the shaven-headed man muttered.
“Necessity breeds forbearance, brother,” the young man replied in a light tone that jarred on Lyrna’s ear. She had to agree he was pretty, his features delicate, reminding her of Alucius, before the war and the drink.
“Filthy degenerate,” shaven-head said.
“Hypocrite.” The young man grinned at Lyrna. “Our screaming lady has regained her senses, I see.”
“Not a lady after all,” the gravelly voice replied. “Just a merchant’s wife.”
“Oh. Pity, I should have liked some noble company. No matter.” The young man bowed to Lyrna. “Fermin Al Oren, Mistress. At your service.”
Al Oren. Not a name she knew. “Your f-family has property in Varinshold, my lord?”
“Alas no. Grandfather gambled away every bean before I was born, leaving my poor widowed mother destitute and me obliged to restore our fortunes through guile and charm.”
Lyrna nodded. A thief then. She turned to shaven-head. “He called you brother.”
The shadowed face gave no response but Fermin was quick to reply in his stead. “My friend is fallen from the sight of the Departed, Mistress. Cast down amongst the wretched for his grievous attempt on the . . .”
The shaven head lunged forward, chains straining, the slatted light revealing brutish features and a misshapen nose. “Shut it, Fermin!” he ordered with a snarl.
“Or what, exactly?” the noble thief returned with a laugh. “What can you threaten now, Iltis? We’re not fighting over scraps in the vaults any more.”
“You were in the dungeons together,” Lyrna realised.
“That we were, Mistress,” Fermin confirmed, grinning at Iltis who had slumped back into the gloom. “Our hosts came for us the morning after the city fell, killed the guards that had been foolish enough to linger, killed most of the prisoners too. But preserving the strong and”-he winked at her-“the pretty.”
Slave, Lyrna thought, crouching to peer at the bracket to which her chains were fashioned. I am a slave-queen. The thought provoked a shrill giggle, threatening to build to more screams. She forced it down and concentrated on the bracket, her fingers describing a half loop and plate of iron, secured into the oak beam with two sturdy bolts. She couldn’t hope to work it loose. The only way these shackles were coming off was via the overseer’s key.
“You have a name, Mistress?” Fermin asked as she reclined against one of the beams supporting the steps.
Queen Lyrna Al Nieren, Daughter to King Janus, Sister to King Malcius, Ruler of the Unified Realm and Guardian of the Faith. “Names don’t matter here,” she said in a whisper.
The following day the overseer found no further corpses which seemed a signal to begin giving them better food, thick porridge with berries replacing thin gruel. Weeded out the weaklings, Lyrna surmised. And starved slaves are no use.
She watched the overseer closely during his visits, her eyes constantly on the key about his neck as he stooped to examine his stock, the key dangling, but never low enough to grab. Even if I could, he would beat me down before I could use it. She glanced over at Iltis slurping his porridge, meaty fingers scooping out the dregs from the bowl, licking them with gusto. Fourth Order, she decided. One of Tendris’s Ardent brutes. Not so easy to beat down.
She dropped her gaze as the overseer stopped beside her, leaning down to unlock the chains from the bracket. “Up!” he commanded, nudging her with his whip handle.
She rose, swaying on unsteady legs, muscles shuddering with cramp. The overseer pulled her into the light, taking hold of her face and turning her head from side to side, eyes narrowed in scrutiny, lip curled in disgust. “Too much damage,” he muttered in Volarian. “Even the crew won’t fuck you with a face like that.” Without a pause he reached down to lift her skirt, rough hands mauling, exploring. Lyrna choked back vomit and kept as still as possible. “Or maybe they would,” the overseer mused, rising and unlacing her bodice, hands and eyes exploring her breasts.
No screaming, Lyrna thought, closing her eyes and clenching her teeth as his thumb traced over her nipple. No more screaming.
“Not stupid either,” the overseer said, turning her face to him again. “What were you I wonder? Rich man’s whore? Prize daughter of a wealthy house?” He searched her face for understanding as he spoke. Lyrna stared back with eyes wide, her fear only half pretence.
The overseer grunted, stepping back and gesturing with his whip. “Sit!”
Lyrna slumped back to the boards and he relocked her manacles, leaving her fumbling at her bodice as he stomped up the steps. Davoka would have slit his belly and laughed as his guts spilled out. Smolen would have hacked his head from his shoulders in a trice. Brother Sollis would have . . .
THEY ARE NOT HERE!
She breathed deeply, forcing the tremble from her hands, leaning down to lace up her bodice with deliberate care. You have no protectors here. No servants. You must serve yourself.
Nighttimes were the worst, the other captives often given to terrors, calling out in their sleep for lost loved ones or begging for release. Lyrna slept only fitfully, waking often thanks to the pain and the memories. This night it had been the Volarian woman again, but instead of flame it was water that gushed from her arms, great torrents of it, filling the throne room . . .
She rose to her customary crouch, waiting for her heart to calm itself. The dreams were vivid, no doubt because she had repeatedly forced herself to examine every facet of what she witnessed in the throne room, realising for the first time that her fearsome memory could be a curse as well as a gift. She spared herself nothing, every word spoken by Brother Frentis, every nuance of expression, every lick of flame.
He had been flawless, she thought. Perfect in every way. Not like an act at all. A damaged man, noble in his humility, returning home after an epic of tribulation. The woman too, every inch the timid escaped slave. All gone the moment my brother died. And her rage when I killed Frentis, no acting there. Her thoughts lingered on the woman’s face, the grief and rage as the blood began to stream from her eyes. Unexpected, Lyrna decided. Frentis wasn’t supposed to die. Not part of the plan. Which begged another question. What else did she need him for? Or was it just the rage of a woman who loses her lover? The Mahlessa’s words came to her, as they often did as she pondered the mystery of it all. Three of these things . . . His sister . . . you wouldn’t want to meet her. Could it be? Had she survived an encounter with the third malicious agent the Mahlessa spoke of?