Land of the Burning Sands (16 page)

Just at that moment, Derich opened the library door. He stepped aside for Perech Fellesteden to enter. Derich entered at Fellesteden’s back; another of Fellesteden’s retainers held Fareine by one arm. The woman looked older and far more helpless than she had ever seemed before.

Tehre stood up, crossed her arms across her small breasts, tilted her chin up, and glared at Fellesteden.

Gereint moved a step out from her side. He was not at all certain now what could possibly prevent Fellesteden from forcing Tehre to cut the cords she had just made. He had wanted her to bind him for his own protection—to do it herself before Fellesteden could—but now Fellesteden could simply threaten Fareine; he could threaten one woman of her household after another, and he wouldn’t stop at threats; Tehre could not possibly resist him—

“Gereint,” Tehre commanded, staring straight at Fellesteden, “kill him.”

Gereint couldn’t believe she had said that. Perech Fellesteden couldn’t believe it. In fact,
no one
could believe it. For that first instant, everyone in the room was frozen in astonishment. Except for Gereint. Because he did not have to believe it. It did not matter that
he
was shocked or that he had never in his life killed anyone and probably would not have been able to do it on his own; the
geas
could not be astonished and did not accommodate delay.

Gereint’s body moved in automatic
geas
-driven response to Tehre’s command. He yielded to it instantly, let the
geas
drive his lunge forward, put his own will behind it, and rode it for strength and force and, most of all, speed.

The man holding Fareine had a knife drawn; Gereint hit him hard in the throat, caught his knife as he staggered, spun, plunged the knife into Fellesteden’s side and ripped forward and up, ignored the man’s gasping cry as he jerked the knife out, and pivoted as Derich, shouting wordlessly, moved at last. Gereint caught Derich’s wrist in his other hand and struck viciously at the other man’s chest, but Derich twisted away and snatched out his sword, and the
geas
was already dragging Gereint back around to make sure of Fellesteden, whatever threat Derich presented at his back—

Tehre hurled herself bodily against Derich and the two went down together in a flailing tangle. Gereint had no attention to spare for that struggle, all his focus was on Perech Fellesteden. The man was down on the floor, on his knees, one hand braced against the floor, the other hand pressed tightly against the wound Gereint had dealt him. He stared up, his face white, his mouth open, unable to catch his breath to speak.

Gereint felt no pity at all. But it would not have mattered. Fellesteden was still alive, so the
geas
was still a goad, still a source of speed and violence. Gereint jerked Fellesteden’s head back by the hair, whipped the knife across his throat, and felt the compulsion of the
geas
relax as the life went out of his old master’s eyes. He did not watch, but whirled, looking for Derich.

Derich was just getting to his feet, and Tehre as well, though much more slowly. Gereint faced Derich, horribly aware that the knife he still held was not a match for the other man’s sword, that even if he’d had a sword of his own, he would not have been a match for Fellesteden’s man. Derich knew it too. He stalked Gereint, smiling tightly, as he always smiled when about to murder or torture or inflict any sort of brutality. Gereint wondered if Tehre might give him another
Kill him
command, and whether that might help—

Fareine, her face set and white, stepped forward, swung the long bronze statue of a flying swan up by its neck, and brought the heavy base of the statue swinging down toward Derich’s head. The man jerked to the side and the swan hit his shoulder and arm a glancing blow. Not his sword arm. He shouted—the cry sounded more furious than hurt—and swept his sword around in a vicious low cut that would gut the old woman like a fish. Fareine cowered from the sword, lifting the bronze swan in a hopeless gesture of defense.

Gereint flung the knife he held, using all his maker’s skill to encourage it to fly straight and hard and hit point first. But he knew even as he threw the knife that it would not strike Derich in time to stop him cutting Fareine in half.

But Tehre flung her hands out, making a twisting motion as though wringing the neck of a hen, and when Derich’s sword struck the bronze statue, it did not batter past the statue and slash into Fareine’s body. It wasn’t that Fareine was holding the statue firmly enough to block the sword. But when the sword struck the statue, it
shattered
. Metal splinters exploded across the room.

Fareine dropped the swan statue, crying out as some of the steel splinters struck her—Derich shouted too, in surprise if not in pain—so did Tehre, in sympathy perhaps, she was too far away to have been injured—Gereint’s knife snapped into Derich’s lower back with all the force and precision he might have put into ordinary practice with a straw target when making throwing knives.

This time, when Derich cried out, it was definitely in pain.

Gereint was already on him. One big hand snatched the neck of the bronze swan from Fareine. But when Gereint swung the statue up like a club and brought it down, he put a lot more force behind the blow than the old woman ever could have. And his aim was better. It took only one blow.

Then he looked at last for Fellesteden’s other retainer. He found the man at once, fallen where he’d stood when Gereint had struck him in the throat. He was not moving. So Gereint had hit him hard enough the first time. And no other enemy was in the room. And Fellesteden was—yes, Gereint confirmed, staring at his old master’s body. Perech Fellesteden was dead.

They were safe.

For the first instant after that realization, Gereint could not believe what had happened, what he had done, what any of them had done. He braced his hands on his knees, lowered his head, and tried to catch his breath.

Tehre said faintly, “That was… We are…” and stopped. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. The room stank of blood and terror, and her pallor only deepened. She opened her eyes again quickly.

Gereint went to her and put a hand under her elbow. “There’s no time to faint, yet,” he told her urgently. “Though, earth and iron, you deserve to!” He turned his head. “How many men did Fellesteden bring with him? Do you know, Fareine? There’s no knowing what they’ll do, now their lord is dead—”

Fareine straightened her shoulders. “They’ll leave,” she declared. “They’ll get out! That’s what they’ll do. Their master illegally invaded the house of the honored Lady Tehre Amnachudran Tanshan and threatened the lady and her household! The honored lady has every right to bring charges, serious charges, against Lord Fellesteden! Or his—his heirs and estate, I suppose.” She glanced quickly at the bodies and away again. But then she drew herself up and, although she was still trembling, glared haughtily at Gereint.

“That’s… one possible view,” Gereint allowed. He, also, still felt sick and shaken, but he couldn’t help but grin at Fareine’s prim tone. “Especially if the city patrol was here to see to it. Do you think—?”

“They can be brought,” Tehre promised. “Fareine, you can—no. I don’t know how you could get out of the house. The rest of Fellesteden’s men must be watching the doors.” She rubbed her forehead, trying to think.

“How many are there? Do we know?” Gereint asked Fareine.

“About… about ten,” the old woman said, but uncertainly. She glanced involuntarily at the man with the crushed throat and winced, but did not let herself recoil. “Or nine, I suppose. There are men in the kitchens, in Tehre’s workroom, in the garden… He sent men everywhere… ”

“The servant’s hall?”

“Yes. I told you, they’re everywhere—”

Gereint closed a big hand on the woman’s shoulder and shook her, very gently. “Nine men can’t be everywhere. The bedrooms?”

Fareine thought about this. “No,” she said at last in a surprised tone. “I don’t think so. Tehre’s suite is just down the hall, you know, and it looks out over the front walk. And those iron lanterns make a good step down… Tehre used to sneak out that way, when she was just a bit of a girl and her family stayed here.”

“You knew about that?” Tehre asked, astonished, and Fareine gave her a wry look.

Gereint longed to ask why Tehre had, as a girl, snuck out of her father’s house. But probably that was not the most urgent question to ask at this moment. He began instead, “Ah… Fareine…”

“Young man, I’m not so old I can’t manage a little climb like that,” Fareine said with some asperity. “If you will make certain none of Fellesteden’s brigands are in the hall, please?”

Gereint flexed his hands and looked for the knife… remembered it was in Derich’s back and swallowed. He rubbed his palms on his thighs and glanced unhappily at the body. But he needed a weapon before he opened that door.

Though Fellesteden’s other retainer ought to have—yes. A sword, still in its sheath. Much better than trying to pull a bloody knife out of a dead man. Much better. Gereint didn’t try to get the sheath off the retainer’s belt, but gingerly drew the sword and straightened again. The sword had decent balance, fit comfortably in his hand… ah. It was, he realized at last, one he’d made himself, as he’d made many of the swords and knives Fellesteden’s men carried. The recognition carried a strange kind of reassurance with it, as though Gereint had unexpectedly found a friend at his side in an uncertain situation.

He shifted the sword in his grip, glanced over at Tehre. He knew very well that, sword or no, he was not a match for any of Fellesteden’s thugs. But if there was no more than one man… If he could at least make the man hesitate… all he needed was to win enough time for Fareine to get out of the house and the day was won… “Maybe we should all go?” he said to Tehre.

The small woman lifted her head proudly. “I won’t be chased out of my own house by thugs! And anyway,” she added more practically, “if those men find their lord dead and want vengeance, I’m the only one whom they might hesitate to attack. I won’t leave my household at their mercy. I can make them pause, at least, and all we need is for them to hesitate.”

Gereint hated for her to remain in danger, but he also knew she was right. Taking a deep breath, he stepped past Fareine, flung open the library door, and stepped through with a bold, confident stride that might deceive one of Fellesteden’s men, if not himself.

The hallway was deserted. Gereint let his breath out, extremely relieved.

“Tehre’s bedroom is right down…” Fareine slipped past him and hurried twenty feet down the hall, cautiously opened a door, glanced into the room, looked back at Gereint, gave him an all’s-well sign and a shooing gesture that obviously meant,
Get back to Tehre
. Then she slipped into the room and closed the door after her.

It seemed odd to let a woman, a matron who was no longer young, climb down from that window, risking danger from Fellesteden’s men as well as simply from falling. But there was no other choice, and Fareine was right—he needed to get back to Tehre. If any of Fellesteden’s thugs discovered what had happened to their lord… Well, maybe Tehre could make them pause and maybe she couldn’t, but if not, he would have to try to hold them himself until the patrol arrived.

In the library, Tehre was sitting in a chair she had pulled around to face the door, carefully angling it so she could also more or less avoid looking at the bodies. She was rubbing her face with both hands, but she glanced up when Gereint came in. Her face was tight with strain and weariness. When she saw he was alone, she nodded and pressed her hands over her eyes.

Gereint laid the sword aside on a table and came forward.

“Fareine?” Tehre asked without looking up, in a small, tight voice, before Gereint could speak.

“Well away. There was no sign of any of Fellesteden’s men. It shouldn’t take the patrol long to arrive. With luck, before Fellesteden’s thugs find out what’s happened.”

She nodded, lowered her hands, and glanced vaguely around the room. But her glance snagged on Fellesteden’s body and stopped there. “He would have ruined us,” she said after a moment, as though answering an accusation.

Gereint was not going to argue. “He would certainly have tried.”

“Huh. Well, now he won’t.” But Tehre seemed to be unable to look away from the body. Gereint moved forward to lay a hand on her shoulder, and she flinched and jerked her gaze up at last, her breath coming sharp and quick. But after a moment she said, in a tone that only shook a little, “Lord Fellesteden threatened me, threatened my household—he intended theft and violence. He intended it from the first, in complete disregard of the king’s law—he probably quarreled with my father in the north—thus he brought so many men.” She glanced sharply up to meet Gereint’s eyes. “Will the city patrol believe that? Will a judge?”

“When your enemy is dead, honored lady, you are free to offer any story that pleases you. It seems to me that one is somewhat plausible.” Gereint paused. Then he said, “But here’s a better story, if you will permit me. I’ve never encountered your father. I met your brother in Dachsichten. He suggested I come to you because he knew that you were looking for a maker to assist you in your work. He wrote you a letter representing me to you; your father never wrote a word to you about me. I came here for reasons of my own; you had no idea I was
geas
bound and can’t imagine who might have removed my brand. Fellesteden recognized me. He never intended anything against your household; he merely recognized me and wished to reclaim his lost property. In a madness of rage and despair, I managed to kill him and both these other men. All the fault is mine. You and your household are merely witnesses. You summoned the patrol to protect yourself against me, not against Fellesteden’s remaining men.”