The old man was horrified.
Sara smiled warmly. She was always disarmed when told she was beautiful, knowing she wasn’t. She leaned forward and touched Rama gently on the arm. “Thank you. I know I have found what I am looking for. We will stay here, and one of the first things I shall do is teach you all about trade and how to negotiate properly! We shall make both Harrhein and Sunda very rich indeed”
Sara sat cross-legged on a cushion in the position Takeo called the lotus after a flower for some unspecified reason. Her rooms were huge, cool and airy with marble floors and walls. Ornate, intricately carved statues were everywhere, each depicting a local god in some act of divinity. She found it hard to meditate, as she missed Maciu. Unable to ride, he followed on with the marching Spakka, Kai Viti and Pahippians. Hinatea commanded them, confident in her ability to control these hulking brutes. Not misplaced, for the Spakka lived in mortal terror of her, knowing full well she had despatched several of their comrades. Esbech and Boersma still discussed revenge, out of earshot of Stiphleek who would report such indiscretions to Janis.
Glass beads hung in the doorway, and they chimed gently as Suzanne breezed into the room, followed by Mimi. She sat on a cushion opposite Sara, nodding Mimi to another beside her and waited for Sara to come back. Sara opened her eyes, blinked a few times and smiled.
“I’m having difficulty in finding peace, for some reason,” she said.
“Probably that wretched statue,” said Suzanne, glaring at a large one by the bed.
Sara had not actually realised what the couple were doing and now she turned crimson. It hadn’t occurred to her people could do that.
“Mimi, get them to remove it, please,” said Sara, desperately trying to remember who had been into her room and would have seen the revolting thing. Beside the bed too. “Everything OK, Suzanne?”
“I wanted to talk to you about sleeping arrangements,” Suzanne began. “Mimi is explaining to me the customs and morals of these people, which are a little different to Harrhein.”
“I am sure we will need to keep a close rein on the Pahippians,” said Sara.
“Hinatea will,” said Suzanne. “It is you I am worried about. I have already spoken to Pat and Ju. They have separate rooms sorted.”
“What are you talking about? Me? Why, what could I - wait! You can’t mean Maciu! He’s my consort, damn it.”
“No he isn’t, he’s an island prince with no court manners who you intend to make your consort back in Harrhein because you are revelling in what he does to you in bed,” said Suzanne with such brutal honesty that Sara was lost for words. Suzanne carried on, transfixing Sara with a knowing eye.
“Darling, I know he’s lots of fun and you are having a wonderful time with him, but I promise you two things. First the Vijayans look down on all the islanders as barbarians - they are racist enough to their own people, let alone foreigners. At the moment they respect you and Harrhein, you look the part and act correctly. In their eyes Crown Princesses do not go around sleeping with anyone, let alone barbarian islanders. If you sleep with him we lose the trading outpost and treaty.”
Sara pushed her chin forward in obstinate mode, her lips a thin line.
“The second thing I promise you is if you deny yourself his body for a while, abstain completely, then when he gets the opportunity to ravish you again, he will be a veritable stallion and you won’t stop screaming all night.” She smiled as Sara digested this, deflating in the process.
“You bitch,” she whispered. “You know how much I love him. I need him beside me at night, he gives me strength.”
“You will manage. I am sure you can arrange trips to visit waterfalls and beaches with only him as guard. And we can put him as a night guard on your room. The important thing is the locals don’t find out.”
Sara followed the drop of sweat which trickled down from the tight curls at the back of Maciu’s head. It slid down his rich brown skin, disappearing into his shirt collar and she wished she could rub it away, aching to kiss the nape of his neck, her heart beating hot and heavy through her veins.
They were shopping, without Sung Bai Ju this time, Sara with Suzanne and Mimi, Rerata and Maciu as token protection in this safe and lovely city. Maciu was bored as he led them into a square lined with stalls. The constant press of people unnerved him with their constant chatter and filthy clothing. His eyes flicked over the different stalls, wondering which ones would appeal to the girls this time. Rerata found herself distracted by a stall selling jewellery made from sea-shells, remarkably similar to ones she made herself and became enchanted with some carved nautilus shell.
Suzanne spotted some silks she wanted to try and drifted towards them with a slight smile having seen Sara mooning at Maciu’s back. Sara wondered if she could see the play of muscle through the shirt, or whether she imagined it. She saw sweat stain the back of his shirt and smiled. The smile turned to puzzlement as he bent forward slightly and his back pushed out against the shirt, staining more of it with sweat. He staggered and fell to one side, revealing a gap-toothed, olive-skinned man in boiled leather armour grinning at her. He held a wicked short sword, Maciu’s heart blood dripping from the point.
Sara gaped, a low moan of horror escaping from her as she dropped without thinking to Maciu’s side, only for her arm to be roughly grasped by another man in boiled leather armour, smelling unpleasantly of sweat. He held her up, speaking in rough Belada.
“Come, girl, Captain want you.” He started to drag her away towards three men standing by the opposite entrance to the square, some hundred paces away, not even bothering to disarm the little girl.
The Captain spoke to his sergeant in Havantine. “Good work, Baptista. Your man is well trained. Perfect heart stroke, the savage didn’t even notice him coming. Stupid to use one as a guard. Now, collect the women.”
Rerata reacted as Maciu slumped, catching the movement from the corner of her eye. The crowd surged, some away from the body and others towards it as they tried to find out what was happening. Rerata flowed with these people, stepping out from the crowd, dropping her short spear point and lancing the soldier holding Sara cleanly through the laces holding his armour together. She stood in front of Sara, glaring at the soldiers, reached back and pulled off her leathers, making herself naked from the waist up, her fighting uniform, whip in hand. Sara came out of her shock, drew Lady Strike with a savage hiss, took one step towards Maciu’s killer and feinted at his throat, The startled soldier brought his short sword up to block and Lady Strike swerved in the air, sinking deep into his solar plexus, causing him to scream in mortal agony. Sara twisted Lady Strike as she pulled her out, lacerating the bowel and filling the air with a foul smell. The soldier’s weak slash at her arm missed and he dropped his sword.
“Die in agony, bastard,” she hissed, turning to face two more onrushing soldiers who skidded to a wary halt. The soldier collapsed, clasping both hands to the gaping wound and moaning in despair at the mortal wound.
Suzanne was slower on the uptake, but realised her danger soon enough to twist her staff up between the legs of the soldier detailed to catch her. He collapsed with a pained grunt, and her tap on his head put him to sleep.
Within a minute of giving the command to collect the women, the Havantine captain, on the verge of turning away, found he had three men down, two dying. He blinked in astonishment. Where earlier there were three girls tripping through the market, laughing innocently at everything, now they were transformed.
His remaining men were facing three angry girls, armed with a thin sword, a staff and a short spear. He prepared to shout an angry order, but lapsed into silence as Sara launched a blistering attack.
She came in the high line, her sword held high forcing their heads and eyes up. Suzanne and Rerata swung in to protect her sides. The first soldiers raised their swords to protect themselves, and Suzanne broke one’s kneecap while Rerata cut through the calf of another. As they fell, the centre soldier made the mistake of checking what happened and paid for it with his throat sliced out, Sara’s extra length proving lethal to the short swords made for fighting in a shield wall.
Sergeant Baptista reacted before his amazed officers, “Form a shield wall you motherless idiots! Quick now, Ferreira, take the corner file, Porto move your bloody ass!”
The soldiers fell into line, shaking at this unexpected resistance but drawing strength from the numbers and discipline of the shield wall, even though they did not carry shields. Sara’s first exploratory attack was met by three swords in a defensive parry, while more swords came down to stop the spear and staff.
“Oh my,” breathed the captain, “she can fence! Here, Sebastien, take my cloak. I shall run her through her paces.” He stepped forward with a gleam in his eye, throwing his cloak at his lieutenant as he went. The captain enjoyed his reputation as the best swordsman in Havant’s eastern empire and thrilled in combat.
“Sir,” cried Sebastien in some alarm, “don’t forget we must take her alive. She is to be tried and crucified in Hua by order of the Viceroy.”
“Don’t worry, lad, I’ll just pink her a few times. Watch a master at work.” He raised his voice to his soldiers, “Fall back, lads, I’ll take this doxy.”
His long sword personified the high arts of the Soledo blade makers, gleaming steel inlaid with silver and gold, jewels gleaming in the basket protecting his hand. He raised his left hand behind his head, bending his knees as he approached Sara looking like a crab scuttling across the beach.
The crowds had long departed as Sara considered his approach from hooded eyes. This resembled Galician court fencing and she wondered if he followed those forms. She moved into a similar stance, but graceful rather than crabbed and the captain purred with pleasure, an almost orgasmic moan coming from his lips which lasted until the blades touched for the first time. Sara flowed through a ritual court form, faster than he had anticipated.
The captain took a step back, with his men arrayed behind him.
“Doxy,” he said in Belada, “you sure can fence. I shall enjoy this, then take you to the Viceroy. If you are good, and I enjoy the bout, I shall fuck you myself tonight, otherwise I shall give you to the men. So fight well, slut.”
Sara’s eyes narrowed. “You are the leader of these men, I presume. You gave the order to kill my man without warning.”
“He was but a savage, a barbarian.” The captain started a new form, moving into the complicated pattern with pleasure, hoping she would not know it. “There is no honour is being fair with such creatures, though you probably let him fuck you, depraved bitch that you are.”
Sara was silent, not allowing the insults to reach her, and recognising the form. She wondered if he knew the wrinkle Takeo had taught her.
He didn’t and she pinked his left arm.
The captain cursed and considered her.
Sara stepped back and took a breath. She decided to change her plan. Instead of simply killing him, she would humiliate him first. She slowed her blood, took a deep breath and went into the void, gliding forward in a new form only to switch within a minute to another, then again to a further form, the last being one unknown to the captain who resorted to the defence of the novice, an exhausting cross being drawn in front of his body with his sword, repeatedly, while Sara stood back and regarded him with no emotion.
“Haysus fucks,” moaned Baptista behind Sebastien, “the captain’s a dead man. We’ve no chance against this bitch. Keep her busy, Lieutenant, I might have an answer.” He turned, leaving Sebastien gaping as the captain’s defence slowed and he stood gasping for air in front of Sara.
Sara flowed into a strange, pirouetting stance, her blade resting on her left forearm, which she held in front of her face with just her eyes visible through her fringe of red hair. She high stepped sideways towards the mesmerised captain, who flinched as Lady Strike shot forward and pinked his right wrist. He tried to gather his wits and attack to meet empty air and agony in his side as she raked him. A sudden slash, and his beautiful sword rolled in the dust, his arm dripping blood as his hand flapped uselessly, the tendon cut through. The captain started to cry in pain and despair, oblivious of the dumbstruck eyes as Lady Strike sank through his stomach and scraped against his spine. He almost wrenched her from Sara’s grasp as he fell screaming to the ground.
She raised her eyes from his writhing form to glare at the soldiers behind him. They were transfixed by the sight of their illustrious captain so soundly beaten and took a group pace backwards, followed by another. A moment before they turned and ran, their lowly second lieutenant, the toy soldier sneered at by men and superior officers alike, stepped through them to the front, raising his regulation sabre at the towering fury in front of them.
“Stand firm, lads,” he cried, his voice quavering only slightly and with just a little crack at the end. “Don’t let them turn us. Defend as you’ve been taught. The sergeant has the answer.”
He stood determinedly in the front rank, a slight figure with lank black hair and the hunched forward figure of the slightly short sighted. His left arm grabbed the man beside him, turning him to face the enemy. “Guard my flank, soldier.”
The line steadied, and considered the girls opposing them. Twenty five soldiers remained, banked four deep and six across, short in the last file. They ignored the sobs of their dying comrades and concentrated on the women in front of them.