“I heard something else today that might interest you.”
“What’s that?”
“The Warlord of Elasapine crossed into Medalon with five hundred Raiders and placed himself at the disposal of Commandant Verkin in Bordertown, supposedly to help fight off an expected attack by the Fardohnyans.”
“I though we were fighting the Kariens?”
“Apparently, the Fardohnyan king married one of his daughters to Prince Cratyn. Parenor is furious because now Verkin is sending in supply requisitions that he can’t fill, and the local merchants have got wind of the fact. The price of grain has doubled in the past month.”
Loclon could not have cared less about the price of grain, but it irked him that he was sitting here in the Citadel while there was a war going on.
“If we have to fight on two fronts, they’ll need every officer they can get their hands on. You and I might finally get a chance to do what we were trained for, my friend.”
“Instead of me pushing parchment around and you nursemaiding a bunch of homesick cadets? I’ll drink to that!” Gawn swallowed his ale in a gulp. Loclon signalled the barkeep for another but the captain shook his head. “Better not, Loclon. If I don’t get home soon she’ll be after me with a carving knife. Founders, how I loathe that bitch!”
Loclon smiled sympathetically. “Why go home at all?”
“I’ve not the money for any other sort of entertainment. She takes every rivet I earn. Speaking of which, could you fix up the tavern keeper for me? I’m afraid I’ve overspent, somewhat.”
“Very well,” he agreed, thinking of what Gawn already owed him. The amount did not bother him. He had no problem with cash these days, but it was time Gawn did something to earn such generosity. “On one condition. You come with me to Mistress Heaner’s tonight.”
Gawn pulled a face. “If I can’t afford to pay my tavern bill, how do you expect me to afford that sort of place?”
Loclon smiled. “The same way I do, my friend.”
When Loclon had woken up in the Blue Room in Mistress Heaner’s House of Pleasure, he had discovered, somewhat to his annoyance, that the redheaded whore was no longer breathing. Worse, he felt no relief. Killing her had done little to ease his torment. Peny had been too dull, too plain, too fat, and too damned ordinary to satisfy him. Even in his imagination, she had been a poor substitute for R’shiel. He lay there for a time, wondering what it was going to cost him to keep Mistress Heaner from having him kneecapped. She did not care about murder, but she did care about her assets and Loclon had just deprived her of one.
This was not the first time Loclon had killed one of Mistress Heaner’s court’esa, but on the previous occasions he had been a champion in the Arena, and his winnings had provided him with the funds to pay whatever she asked in compensation. This time, however, he had spent everything he owned and was not due to be paid for another month. At the interest rate she charged, the debt would have doubled by that time. He was still pondering the problem when the door opened and Mistress Heaner entered the room, followed by Lork, her faithful bodyguard. Lork gave a reasonable impression of a living mountain, his dead eyes reflecting little intelligence and undying loyalty to the woman who employed him. Mistress Heaner held up the lamp and glanced at Peny with a shake of her head, before turning to Loclon.
“You’ve been careless, Captain.”
“I’m sorry, Mistress. I shall see that you’re compensated.”
“With what, Captain? You’ve no career in the Arena any more. On a captain’s pay, you can’t afford a drink here, let alone indulge your rather exotic tastes.”
Loclon swung his feet onto the floor and snatched his trousers up. “I said, I will see that you are paid, Madam, and I shall. Do you question the word of an Officer of the Defenders?”
“I question the word of any man who beats women to death for pleasure, Captain,” she retorted coldly. “Perhaps I should just have Lork kill you now, and save myself any further trouble.” Lork flexed his plate-sized hands in anticipation.
Loclon glanced at his sword that lay on the other side of the room, knowing there was no way he could reach it before the man was on him. “Perhaps we might come to... an arrangement?”
Mistress Heaner laughed. “What could you offer me, Captain, that I don’t already have in abundance? Kill him, Lork.”
Loclon jumped to his feet, but Lork moved with remarkable speed for one so huge. He had grabbed Loclon by the throat and slammed him against the wall with one hand. Loclon gasped from the pressure, his feet dangling as the big man squeezed the life out of him. He discovered he was sobbing, begging for mercy in a voice that was quickly losing strength. He was on the point of losing consciousness when Mistress Heaner stepped forward and signalled Lork to release him. The big man suddenly released him and Loclon dropped to his hands and knees, sobbing with fear.
“Perhaps there is something you can do for me, Captain.”
“Anything!” he croaked, gulping for air. He wiped his streaming eyes and looked up at her.
“Anything? A careless promise, Captain.”
“Anything you ask,” he repeated desperately.
Mistress Heaner studied him for a moment then nodded. “Bring him, Lork.”
Lork grabbed hold of him again and half-dragged, half-carried Loclon down the hall to a narrow flight of stairs that led to the basement. Mistress Heaner led the way, holding the lamp, which threw fitful shadows onto the walls. Lork dropped him heavily and he spat dirt from his mouth as he looked around.
“Get rid of the body,” the woman told her henchman. “And see that we are not disturbed.”
Lork grunted in reply and returned upstairs. Mistress Heaner ignored Loclon and walked to the far end of the dark basement. She removed the glass from the lantern and lit a taper from the small flame, which she used to light a row of thick beeswax candles lining a long narrow table. He stared at the candles with growing horror as they illuminated a richly embroidered wall hanging that depicted the five-pointed star and lightning bolt of Xaphista, the Overlord.
“You’re a heathen!”
“Heathens believe in the Primal gods,” she corrected. “I serve Xaphista, the one true God. As will you.”
Loclon climbed unsteadily to his feet. “No. I won’t join your sick cult. I’ll report you for this.”
Mistress Heaner finished lighting the candles and turned to him. “You’ll report me? Perhaps you should consider your situation more carefully, Captain. You might be able to walk away from murder in the Arena, sir, but I doubt your superiors will be quite so understanding about Peny’s fate.”
“I’m an Officer in the Defenders! I can’t countenance this!”
“You are monster who kills for pleasure, Captain,” she reminded him. “I don’t recall that being a virtue the Defenders hold dear.”
“I don’t believe in your god.”
“A point that is quite irrelevant,” she shrugged. “You will serve him, however, whether you believe in him or not.”
“How?”
Mistress Heaner smiled, correctly interpreting his question as the beginning of his surrender. “The Overlord is a generous god. In return for your service, he will see that you are taken care of. All you have to do is keep me informed as to what is happening among the Defenders. Report any rumours you hear. Perhaps secure a document or two. I may even need you to kill, occasionally, something you have already proved is to your liking.”
“That’s treason!”