Lord of Janissaries (47 page)

What was it Samuel Johnson said about sex? “The expense is damnable, the position is ridiculous, and the pleasure is fleeting.” Yep. Just now I can sympathize.

“You’ve no horns from me,” Warner said. “My word on it.”

The look of relief on Caradoc’s face made Warner glad he’d said it. Hell, Gwen was all right, but there were other girls, and Jesus, the archer seems like he’s really in love with her.

Warner poured more wine for both of them. “Caradoc, I like Gwen. I like her a lot. She’s smart and pretty and I can talk about a lot of things with her I can’t talk about with anyone else. I don’t love her. She doesn’t love me. If there is anyone she loves besides her dead husband, it’s you.” He hoped that wasn’t laying it on too thick.

“Nothing has happened between us that you need to worry about. Nothing will, either. If you get her to marry you, I’ll dance at the wedding and take your kids up in my balloon.”

Caradoc’s face twisted. He was trying to talk, but nothing happened.

“You mean that—” Caradoc said finally.

“Sure do.”

“But—” Caradoc sighed. “And yet it is too late.”

“Why in the name of Yatar’s pissoir is it too late?”

“I have betrayed my trust—”

“Not by me,” Warner said. “If anybody has you on charges for that, it’ll be the lady.” He laughed. “Go to her, you Yatar-damned idiot!”

* * *

Gwen sat in the chair by her bed, her face buried in her hands. She felt frightened, ashamed, and guilty all at once, and she wasn’t sure which was the worst.

She’d done wrong by her own standards, never mind those of Tran. She’d as good as played the tease with Larry Warner, and that was something she always tried not to do. Usually she succeeded too, particularly when she liked the man as much as she did Larry. She’d hurt Caradoc even worse, and more stupidly. She’d
never
played off one man against another. Nobody deserved that, not even some of the real turkeys she’d met the summer she worked as a secretary. Certainly Caradoc didn’t.

So much for her own standards. She’d done an even worse job by the standards of Tran, and right now they were what really counted. A woman was a wife, daughter, or mother of some man on this planet. She could also be a widow for a while, but her time for that was running out. Even if it wasn’t, being a widow didn’t give her the right to play around after a respectable man had made an offer of honorable marriage. Noblewomen here had more rights than she’d expected, but this wasn’t one of them.

If she went on this way, she would soon be considered to have lost her rank. She would no longer have a chance for an honorable marriage. Instead, she’d be getting one proposition after another, none of them honorable. If she accepted, she’d be hardly better than a common prostitute. If she refused, she’d need Rick’s protection from the angry man, and Tylara might not let him give it.

I could retreat. Be something like an abbess of the University.

The thought almost made her laugh. She wasn’t likely to take any vows of celibacy, or even pretend to have. And without that, the University might be wrecked and her own life would certainly be miserable.

So would Caradoc, the man who loved her.

Well, ducks, said the voice in her mind. It’s like this. You can’t be your own woman here.

Tell me something I don’t know.

All right, but if you can’t be your own woman, what about being the woman of the best man around?

Can I get him?

There was a knock on her door.

Maybe you’ve got him, she thought. She knew what she’d say if that were him—

Caradoc came in, kicked the door shut, and promptly knelt. Everything she’d planned to say went right out of her mind. For a man to kneel to a woman was to place himself totally at her mercy. He would listen to any insult from her, carry out any command, abandon kin or honor or life itself at her word. He was giving her absolute power over him, trusting that she would not abuse it.

He started to talk when she wound her fingers into his hair. She didn’t remember most of what he said, because she was trying too hard not to cry. All she remembered was a phrase about “my kin are beginning to wonder where my wits have gone.”

“Caradoc,” she said, and repeated it until he looked up.

“Yes, my lady.”

“No lady. Just Gwen.” She took a deep breath. “Caradoc, you know they never found my husband’s body, after the battle where he was killed.”

“Yes.”

“That is why I have not felt free to take another husband. I have not been sure that he was dead.”

“But—more than a year?”

“Caradoc, he was—so full of life. Like you. If you died but no one found your body, how long would your kin go on wondering about you?”

He smiled for the first time. “Quite a while, I think. Particularly my aunt, who is sure I am doomed for hanging.”

“It is the same for my husband. I have not until now been ready to think of another man.”

The smile faded. “But—now?”

“I am ready.”

Then she did cry. Fortunately Caradoc was there, with his arms around her and a shoulder for her to cry on, even if it was clothed in muddy sweat-fouled wool. Being in his arms felt so comfortable that before long she knew that if he led her to the bed she would go happily.

“No.”

“No what?”

“No, I shall not ask for my betrothal rights tonight, or until I return from the war.”

“But—you might not return.”

“All the more reason for us to sleep apart until we know my fate. You are the mother of one child who will never see his father. Do you want to be the mother of a second?”

He was right, of course. But—“The priests of Yatar are said to know—”

“I will let no priest tell me when I may bed my wife!” He kissed her. “It will be enough to ride against Flaminius as your betrothed husband. My kin will swear to guard you if I do not return, or I will know why!”

Ah. This alliance made sense, more than any other. There was no man on Tran to whom Tylara owed more. While Gwen was unmarried Tylara could object to Rick working at the University; but Tylara do Tamaerthon wouldn’t risk offending the man who’d rescued her from Sarakos.

Even if Caradoc were killed—no. I won’t think of that.

And Les? Your baby’s father?

But Les was a long way off, and Caradoc was here; and Gwen had been lonely a long time. Too long. She drew in a deep breath. “Very well. I accept it as you wish.”

“Good. Now you can help me take a bath. Either that, or put me in the cellar so that my stink will kill the rats!”

11

Dughuilas dropped a handful of coins on the table without counting them, drew his cloak over his shoulders, and stepped out into the second-floor hallway. He did not look back. The girl was hardly worth it, and certainly not worth more than a fraction of the price the mistress of the house asked.

There must be something to be said for her, of course. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been whoring long enough to have a maid of her own. The maid was a little blonde who would have been lovely but for her broken nose. Probably a war orphan, and Dughuilas suspected she’d have been more interesting than her mistress. However, old Echenia wouldn’t let such things go on in her house, and that was an end to it.

Dughuilas tasted sour bile. The war would begin in less than a ten-day, and it was wrong. Far wiser to let the Romans tear each other like hungry stoats in a cage. Why couldn’t Drumold understand that? Fascinated by the warlock son-in-law, the upstart.

And I must follow him! A coward, who has never proved himself in battle. Even in the Roman battle—yes, yes a great victory for the Lord Rick—even there he avoided combat. He raced for the pikemen rather than falling upon the Romans like a man!

Dughuilas shuddered at that memory. The Lord Rick shamed him before a whole army, firing his star weapon to startle Dughuilas and nearly bringing him off his horse. He’d felt fear—real fear—and of Rick, a man whose blood would turn to water if he ever got within sword’s reach of a proper battle. He ruled from Tylara’s bed, not from the saddle, and what sort of chief was that for a man to follow?

At least they’d had a scare at the University over the sky-machine! Whatever Corgarff might have said under torture, it shouldn’t be enough to allow a trial of Dughuilas before the other clan chiefs. At worst, he could demand right of trial by combat against his accuser, and since that would be Lord Rick or perhaps Drumold, neither of them his match—

Something struck Dughuilas hard in the side of the neck. It hurt like a rat bite, and when he put his hand up to the pain he felt blood trickling and the tip of a dart. Some child’s prank with a crossbow. Curse Madam Echenia, she couldn’t keep order in her own house! She’d get no more custom from him or his clansmen.

He took another downward step, but unaccountably his foot came down on empty air. He fell forward, swallowing a shout and throwing his arms out to break his fall. He didn’t want anyone to see his clumsiness.

Pain shot up his arms and he didn’t quite protect his head. He tasted blood where a broken tooth had gashed his tongue, but somehow it didn’t hurt as much as he’d expected. In fact, nothing felt quite normal any more. His tongue seemed thick and swollen, filling his mouth. Now he tried to shout, but only a croak came out.

Poison.

Poison on the dart.

The High Rexja’s men, a plot to ruin Tamaerthon! He had to live, to warn Drumold before it was too late—or could it be—

He couldn’t finish the thought. He rolled over to draw his dagger, but fell heavily on his back, his arms unwilling to obey. Above him the light from the candle on the stair landing shone on blonde hair. Another shape bent over him, and hands fumbled at his purse and sword. Dimly, as if from the bottom of a well, he heard leather tear and thongs snap.

Then a small hand in a glove clamped down over his mouth. He tried to bite, got a mouthful of leather, felt his stomach heave. Something cold struck him in the eye and he floated away on the pain until it and everything else ended.

* * *

“The dagger in the eye went straight into Dughuilas’ brain,” said Tylara. “Instant death. His killers took his purse, sword, and boots. They must have been well away before anyone found the body.”

“Is it known who did it?” asked Rick, as his head popped out from the fur chamber robe. The messenger with the news of Dughuilas’ death had arrived as he and Tylara were getting ready for bed.

“The maid to one of the women of the house has disappeared,” said Tylara. “She may have been working with the killers, or she may have been slain as well. She was only a half-grown girl, so she could hardly have done the work herself.

“Beyond that, who knows? We know that both the High Rexja and Flaminius have spies among us. Dughuilas was a champion and clan leader, a bannerman. But more like, it was some enemy. He had enough, and all knew how he spent his nights before going to war.”

She says the right words, but she does not seem upset, Rick thought. One of our officers dead . . . a man I never liked. “He was an important leader, and his clan will demand blood,” Rick said. “A proven captain in war—”

Tylara stared. “A proven captain in the kind of war we used to fight! The kind of war which would have destroyed us a year ago. For the kind of war you have taught us, the fewer like Dughuilas we have, the better.”

“Perhaps, up to a point. But I cannot be everywhere at once—”

“The more reason for not having Dughuilas in any of the places where you are not.”

“Are you then glad that he is dead?” Rick demanded.

“I am not as unhappy as you seem to be. Why, I cannot understand. He was no friend to you or your cause.”

Ah, but you do understand, my love. Don’t you? “He was yet a brave man. A proven leader, a man of courage . . . and if we seem to care little for finding the killers, people may wonder why. You say Dughuilas had enemies. This is true. He also had fellow clansmen, who will be at my back on campaign.”

“The guardsmen can keep watch.”

“How many of Clan Calder can we afford to kill?”

“None. But I doubt we must kill any. Dughuilas’ killers will be found.”

“And if they are not?” Rick asked.

She shrugged. “It is in the hands of Yatar.” She wriggled into the bed and pulled the covers about her. The bed was large, so that there remained a little distance between her and Rick. “Vothan One-eye has done us no ill turn by this.”