Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (24 page)

they've cheated and abused; there are others who need help in fighting the Tribunal."

“No one has ever successfully gone against the Tribunal of Virago, Syn-Jern,” she reminded him.

“There's always the first time."

“What of the Hesars?” she asked, knowing how much he hated Prince Innis and the royal family.

“What of them?” Syn-Jern's tone of voice had been thick with contempt.

“Even if you are able to reclaim your lands from the Tribunal, do you believe Prince Innis will allow you

to live peacefully? You were sent to prison for manslaughter. Patrick told me that was a mandatory

twenty year sentence."

“Ten years in the Labyrinth is equal to thirty in the real world,” he told her. “I served every year I was

given, Genny."

“But you only served ten—"

“Ten was all I was given,” he interrupted. “It was involuntary manslaughter, self-defense."

“Then why did you escape if your sentence was up?” she asked. They had never talked about his stay

on Tyber's Isle. It was something he never discussed with anyone, not even Paddy.

“Because they were not going to release me!” he shouted. “Innis Hesar didn't want me released because

Trace and his gods-be-damned wife didn't want me released! The three of them meant to see me rot in

that damned penal colony so I could not reclaim what was rightfully mine!"

“Wouldn't your grandmother have protested when you did not return?” she asked. “Surely she would

have counted every day and known the exact moment you were to be home."

“My grandmother died two years ago. There was no one left to champion me, Genny."

“Then, how do you expect to fight the Tribunal, Syn-Jern?” she protested.

He had gripped her arm in a punishing hold. “There are still court records, Genevieve. Records that

registered my sentence. There were people there that day in the courtyard when my back was laid bare

and the lash nearly crippled me! There will be those who remember just how long I was to stay in Innis

Hesar's hell! They will remember and they will help me regain all that was lost! Holy Dale is mine and

mine it will be again!"

“Who?” Genny asked. “Who will help you?"

The darkness had shut down his face, had hardened his mouth. “They are waiting for me to return,” was

his answer and he'd turned and left her.

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PART THREE

“The man you seek is called Pretorius,” the little Chrystallusian woman answered, her face creased with a

respectful smile. “You may find him in the town of Misawa, near Shiku Pass. The Wind be at your back,

Milords.” She bowed deeply and continued on her way, a large basket of figs perched precariously atop

her graying hair.

“Friendly people, aren't they?” Weir inquired of no one in particular.

“Very courteous,” Patrick agreed.

“How far is this Shiku Pass?” Syn-Jern asked of their guide.

“One day's journey, boss,” the wizened fellow replied. “It is in the central highlands. Very steep climb.

Dangerous traveling."

“And expensive, as well, eh?” Syn-Jern snorted.

“Ah, so it is!” the man answered. “Much expensive."

Weir grinned. He liked the man they'd hired to guide them. The little fellow's face was so wrinkled from

his constant smiling that Patrick had nicknamed him ‘The Prune'. His name was Koji. He was close to

sixty with short-cropped white hair that lay slicked back from his high forehead. His eyes were tiny, a

dark, rich brown, and he wouldn't weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet.

“I am expert guide,” he'd assured them, jabbing a bony finer into his equally bony chest. “Know all

places in Chrystallus! Know every personage of honor, as well!"

“Do you know the Serenian sorcerer who hides here from the men of the Domination?” Syn-Jern had

asked.

Koji had shaken his head. “Him, I have not heard of.” Thinking he would not be hired for his lack of

knowledge, his merry face had lost its perpetual smile. “But if you need to find such a one, I will ask."

“How expensive, Koji?” Patrick asked.

“Ten, maybe twenty more Ya,” Koji said sorrowfully. “Depends on how much snow is in the Pass."

“Twenty more Y...” Patrick stopped his outraged cry when Syn-Jern laid his hand on Paddy's shoulder.

“Pay the man, Paddy."

“But, Syn..."

“What choice do we have?"

Grumbling, whispering uncomplimentary epithets about The Prune's ancestors, Patrick dug into his purse

and counted ten golden Ya. He slapped them into the waiting hand of their guide. “That's all you're going

to get, you sniveling little thief!"

Koji hefted the coins, shrugged, and then pocketed them in his vest. “It will suffice.” His smile returned.

“For now!"

* * * *

Preparations were being made for the treacherous climb into the mountains. Horses and mules were

purchased, provisions acquired. Heavier clothing than the men had brought along was procured. It was

decided that since Genny had not been feeling well since their landing that morning, she would stay at an

inn on the outskirts of Nyotoka, the Imperial capitol. For her protection, Neevens would remain behind,

as well.

It was while Weir, Syn-Jern, and Paddy were bargaining for thick wool coats in the bazaar that they

were approached by a phalanx of Imperial guards, spears in hand.

“Uh, oh,” Weir whispered. “I think we've got trouble."

Syn-Jern turned to see the military guard coming toward them. He tensed, the years he'd spent in prison

making him wary and more than a little afraid. Patrick had become rigid, as well, his hand going to the

knife at his waist.

The guards stopped a few feet away, parted, and a man of imposing height and obvious authority

stepped forward. He bowed deeply and when he straightened, his gaze went unerringly to Syn-Jern

Sorn.

“I am Masarawa, Chief Guard of the Imperial Palace of Binh Tae. I have been ordered by his Imperial

Majesty, Emperor Akito Shimota, to invite you to the Palace.” He flung his arm toward the opening

between the guards. “Please be so good as to follow me."

Weir looked at Patrick; they both looked at Syn-Jern.

“I believe you have the wrong men, my friend,” Syn-Jern answered. “We are privateers from—"

“Montyne Cay,” Masarawa interrupted. He smiled in a condescending way. “I have the correct

personages, Duke Sorn. I never make mistakes."

Syn-Jern's left eyebrow crooked. “Really?” he drawled. He glanced at Weir and Paddy, saw the same

unease on their faces as he was feeling. “And just why would your Emperor want us to come to his

palace?"

The Imperial Chief Guard shook his head. “His Highness does not make me privy to his thoughts, Your

Grace. He orders; I obey.” He indicated the path again. “Now, if you please."

“What if we don't want to go with you?” Weir asked.

Masarawa smiled nastily. “I shall arrest you and take you there anyway. If you resist, I will have my men

beat you to the ground."

“Is that what your Emperor ordered?” Patrick snarled.

“No, it is not, but when my Emperor orders me to do something, I do it even should it mean I will be

punished later for going beyond what he desired,” the man replied.

Once more he pointed to the pathway between the guards. “Either go with us or be carried. As for me, I

do not care which choice you make, Overlander!"

“We aren't going anywhere with you,” Syn-Jern replied. “We don't know you from Alel's house cat and,

to tell the truth, you don't look like someone we could trust."

The Imperial Chief Guard blinked. “What?” he gasped, his training and manners gone.

“You heard me.” A lethal smile slowly formed on Sorn's angry face. “I damned well didn't stutter."

Masarawa frowned darkly. “You dare to suggest I am not to be trusted, Overlander?” the Chrystallusian

sneered. He raised his hand, would have backhanded Syn-Jern, but the Viragonian caught Masarawa's

wrist in an iron grip, twisted, and sent the surprised Chief Guard flying head over heels.

Weir whistled even as he drew the dagger from the sheath at his thigh. He barely noticed Patrick doing

the same. The guards, seeing their leader down, rushed forward with a chorus of yells. Weir and Paddy

had little time to protect themselves; they were surrounded, blade spears at their chests, their weapons

yanked from their hands.

Syn-Jern turned, his eyes flaring wide with rage at the sight of his friends taken captive, but before he

could summon the uncontrollable demon that lurked inside him, something hard and unforgiving slammed

heavily against the back of his head and he went down.

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“One hundred lashes,” the woman said as she washed the caked blood from Syn-Jern Sorn's head.

He was still trying to swim up through the undulating water that had enveloped him. The sound of the

woman's musical voice was distorted, warped, and the pain in his head was excruciating.

“Detention for one year.” Her fingers were gentle. “Perhaps longer."

“W ... where am I?” he asked. The sound of his own voice was an agony he'd just as soon forego. He

tried to lift a hand to his throbbing forehead, but the woman pushed it down again.

“The Imperial Palace.” She smoothed the hair from his eyes. “Lie still. The physicians say you have a

concussion."

Pain was nothing new to Syn-Jern, but the intense pounding and the nausea that was hiding in his throat

combined to make him wish that whoever had hit him, had done a better job and killed him. He groaned.

“Alel, Iluvia, and Orion! What the hell did he hit me with?"

“You are a stubborn man, Milord Syn-Jern,” she sighed, pushing his hands to the coverlet once more.

“You must lie still."

It took a great deal of effort to try to focus on the woman hovering over him. He was seeing double and

the ceiling had the tendency to lurch to the right without warning.

“God, I hurt,” he moaned.

“The physicians do not wish to give you something for your pain. They do not want you to fall asleep

again. We must keep you awake."

Syn-Jern didn't want to stay awake. He wanted to sleep, to get rid of the pain in his head; but every time

he closed his eyes, the woman beside him would gently coax him into full consciousness.

“Stay awake, Milord Syn-Jern,” she warned. The back of her hand caressed his cheek. “I can't let you

sleep."

His anger surfaced. “Aye, don't let me know any relief from this godawful agony before you lash me” he

grated through clenched teeth.

“Lash you?” she asked. “No one is going to lash you, Milord Syn-Jern! I was speaking of your

attacker."

He tried hard to see her, to make out her shifting features, but her face wouldn't hold in one position for

long. The movement made him deathly sick to his stomach and he barely had time to flip over to his side,

away from her, before hot bile spewed from him.

“Lin Su!” he heard her call out. “He is ill again."

Someone wiped his mouth, washed his face, his fevered brow, gave him water to drink. He was lifted in

rock-hard arms and held against a chest as solid as granite as the linens on his bed were changed. The

cool air on his flesh told him he was naked and the thought shamed him even as he was covered with a

downy comforter that smelled of sandalwood.

“Where are m ... my damned clothes?” he managed to ask.

“That is not a concern at the moment,” the woman told him.

Syn-Jern fought hard to remember what it was she'd said about the lashing.

“It is Masarawa who will be lashed,” she said as though she'd read his mind. “After his detention, he will

be stripped of rank and drummed out of the Guard."

“My men?” he gasped, suddenly remembering Weir and Paddy.

“Your friends are sleeping in the chamber beside your own,” she assured him. “They are well. No harm

was done them at the marketplace. The Emperor was infuriated by what happened. He has lost face and

for that, many will pay. The guards who arrested your friends have been let go."

“I don't understand,” he sighed. “What does he want with us? We're nobodies."

“That is not true, Milord Syn-Jern,” she told him. “You are a very important man, indeed."

He tried once more, unsuccessfully, to look at her, then finally gave up. His eyes wouldn't cooperate and

neither would his brain.

“I need to send word to my wife...” he began but she laid cool fingers over his lips.

“Your lady is ensconced in a chamber across the corridor. Our physicians are taking care of her."

Syn-Jern's face paled. “Why? What's wrong with my wife?” He tried to sit up but a mountain of flesh

moved to block the light.

“Calm yourself, Milord,” a deep, gruff voice commanded. “Your lady suffers no more than what any

woman suffers in her condition."

“What condition?” Syn-Jern screeched. “If Genny's been hurt ... If you bastards have done something to

my woman..."

“It is what you have done to her, Milord,” the husky voice answered in an amused voice. “Your lady is

with child!"

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Syn-Jern looked up as the door to his chamber opened. He had been expecting either Paddy or Weir,

but the gentleman who stood in the doorway could be none other than the Emperor, himself.

“May I visit?” the Emperor asked quietly.

Unable to get out of bed for his head was still throbbing painfully and his vision blurred, Syn-Jern

blushed with embarrassment. “I'd be honored, Your Highness,” he answered.