‘I do not deny it.’ she said, ‘If the Emperor had told me to perform that service for you, then I would do it.’ She grinned wickedly, looking down at this man who she
obviously regarded as little more than something that might be found at the bottom of a pond. ‘But he hasn’t, so you are to remain forever disappointed. Let me do the other thing that I
do best and content yourself with that.’
The two of them locked each other in a gaze, brown eyes against hellish blue. The King broke away quickly enough. He walked slowly to his display of arms.
‘I thought all Kozeans were as dark-skinned as Hem-Khozar,’ he said. ‘Not as pale as marble, and your name, Syalin, is almost Chiran.’ With his back to his two visitors,
he removed a bejewelled throwing knife from his display, by the by noting how beautifully balanced it was.
‘Ah you have forgotten,’ said Hem-Khozar unctuously, ‘when I introduced her I mentioned she hails from the foothills of the Gnekun Mountains, from Mount Kzugun itself. The
people there are naturally pale. You forget Koze is an empire incorporating a thousand different peoples – the Empire of a multitude of cultures, languages and skin colours. Syalin is a
Norvakkor; her peoples are divided equally between ourselves and Chira, hence the confusion in names.’
‘Oh yes,’ said the King. ‘I remember now, but aren’t the Norvakkor counted as one of your most rebellious peoples?’
‘I was recruited aged ten,’ said Syalin. ‘My life before this is forgotten to me; I have no memory of whether my people were loyal or not.’
‘And how old are you now?’ Aganosticlan ran the knife against his thumb. It drew blood.
‘My age is only counted from my recruitment. I am fifteen.’
‘And how many have you killed?’
‘I do not have the remotest idea. Everyone whom the Emperor has required me to kill has died.’
‘And has anyone ever got close to killing you?’
‘As a Strekha? Never.’
‘Perhaps that might change.’ With a swift movement, and he prided himself on his speed and dexterity, the King spun round and hurled the knife directly at Syalin’s head.
With an action faster than the eye could see, faster than a cat pouncing on a mouse, faster than the wing beats of the iridescent blue marsh hummingbird, she brought both hands up in front of
her. The knife was halted between her palms, its point not six inches from her face. She looked bored.
‘Do you want me to throw it back to you?’
Aganosticlan breathed slowly, his eyes wide with astonishment. Slowly a wolfish grin spread over his face.
‘It is true about you; nothing could have stopped that blade, nothing. How are you that fast?’
‘A Strekha’s abilities are enhanced with ... substances,’ said Hem-Khozar. ‘Chief among them is blackroot, which we find in our deep jungles and which is also found in
the marshes just to the south of here.’
‘Blackroot is a poison. It is known as widow’s nutmeg – it kills anyone who swallows even the smallest amount.’
With a sense of theatre, Syalin pulled out a small pouch attached to her belt under her cloak. Opening it, she pulled out a small object that resembled a piece of fresh ginger in that it was
bulbous, but, like everything else about her, was completely black. With one of her knives, she shaved off a small piece, held the knife and its shaving up to her mouth, and – with
Aganosticlan watching wide-eyed – slowly and deliberately licked it off with her dark tongue. The King fancied he saw her pupils dilate ever so slightly and she definitely gasped, slightly
but audibly. When, after a brief time, she gave no sign of dying she held out both arms as if to say ‘I’m still here’.
‘If used correctly,’ she said, ‘blackroot needn’t be a poison. For us, it gives us our speed, strength and the ability to endure pain. It is what makes us so different to
you. It also enhances the thrill of danger, heightens our senses and our libido. I have always thought that, if we were not burdened with our onerous responsibilities, we would be the most
stimulating company.’
‘And you are the best of the Strekha?’
‘I am one of The Ten. We generally number between a hundred and a hundred and fifty. The Ten are personally chosen by the Emperor, so, as you say, we are the best of the Strekha. At least
four of us are required to be by the Emperor’s side at any one time; others can be assigned duties away from his person, as the Emperor wills. Generally for us to assist another requires the
amount of coin most men can only dream of, but in his wisdom the Emperor has changed this policy, at least for now.’
‘Fascinating,’ the King said, stroking his beard. ‘Two more questions, and then I shall stop annoying you and we can discuss your first mission.’
‘Ask. Be brief.’
‘How are The Ten selected, and how does your armour make no noise?’
‘I can answer your second question easily, Your Majesty,’ said Hem-Khozar. ‘It is made from xhikon, “dull iron” in your tongue. There are only two seams of it known
to man, both located deep in the mountain range from which Syalin herself hails. It requires extreme heat to shape, but when that is achieved it can be forged into tiny, powerful links of mail that
are also almost noiseless, ideal for one who wishes to strike from the shadows.’
‘It is obviously expensive then.’
‘Indeed, Your Majesty, but in general the Strekha represent a colossal investment of time and resources on the Emperor’s part.’
‘What with the armour and the blackroot, you possess items that many would want to take for themselves.’
She looked at him – her disdain had returned tenfold. ‘Do you wish to try?’
‘As for your other question,’ – the ambassador had returned to his seat – ‘the Emperor chooses The Ten personally; he watches them train and fight each other with
blunted weapons, fights that are still dangerous nevertheless. Our current Emperor also requires poise and intelligence in those he selects. If he chooses to replace one girl with another, the
disgrace means that the one dismissed often takes her own life. Emperor Gyiliakosh has forbidden this practice; all Strekha can serve while they live.’
‘Most interesting,’ said the King. ‘Now I had better start giving you details. My court is riddled with Chiran spies and I do not want word of our discussions to get back to
Hylas.’
‘Riddled, you say?’ The assassin sounded curious. ‘How is this so? Are you unable to control the loyalty of those in your presence.’
‘Coin can purchase many loyalties, my dear.’
‘But fear can concentrate those loyalties to whom they should belong. I tell you what – give me the names of those you suspect. When they start to die, their corpses prominently
displayed, you will have the loyalty of your court, and no, this will not count as one of the Emperor’s missions. I will do this as a favour for a beleaguered king and ally, and to keep me in
shape; I am a little rusty and could do with the practice.’
‘Very well, I shall have Obadrian draw up a list.’
‘The people you consider as spies only, though, not those your man dislikes or people who slighted his wife or who accidentally ate his dinner. When I kill, it is for a purpose, not a whim
or because of some person’s idle fancy. If I am misled, it will be the writer of the list who suffers next.’
‘Of course, it will be as you wish. I am grateful for your attention in this matter.’ Despite everything, the King rather found himself warming to her. There was something about her
though, in her eyes and her manner, that set him to thinking. He had seen similar things in other men before, those berserker mercenaries who drank blood before battle and who charged their enemies
wielding a giant axe and no armour. The same men who would bite their arms or put glass in their mouths, so they could spit blood and terrify their foes. It was the demeanour of those who were not
truly sane.
‘Tell me, Syalin, does this blackroot have any other side effects?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘None that matter anyway.’ She actually smiled at him; she seemed almost coquettish ‘Now, my dear king of the muddy fields, exactly who do you want
me to kill?’
‘Now, lean on me, take it slowly now... Good. How does it feel?’
‘I am OK. I would be lying if I said it didn’t hurt, but the strapping helps. Now perhaps I can leave this confounded tent.’
Leaning on Marcus, Cheris slowly but surely made her way around the tent. A lot of sleep and the firm bandage around her torso had strengthened her and made her feel a lot more confident. She
had an invite to Baron Felmere’s council in the manor house in Grest and was not going to miss it.
‘What is the weather like?’ She asked.
‘Windy ‘Marcus grunted ‘And there is rain in the air.’
‘Sounds lovely. ‘She smiled her sweet smile ‘Come on then Marcus, take me on a tour.’
With Sir Norton walking well ahead of them she ambled her way into the fresh air. As soon as she got outside she stopped to drink it in and feel the wind on her face. She shut her eyes feeling
her hair being tugged by the breeze. It felt blissful.
‘Are you all right?’ Marcus looked concerned.
‘Never better. Let’s move on.’
The camp was a small tent city surrounded by a hastily constructed stockade, sitting directly under Grest Hill, right on the path leading up to the town itself. As she hobbled around she was
noticed. Many of the soldiers engaged in running messages or making deliveries saw her. To a man they all either hailed or saluted her.
‘See what I mean,’ said Marcus. ‘You are quite the heroine. Do you want to get on the carriage to take you up the hill?’
‘I had better,’ she said, ‘before I get too sore.’
Sir Norton was already waiting for them on an uncovered wagon. Gingerly, she climbed up and sat next to him with Marcus sitting behind them. Once positioned, he tugged the reins and they were on
their way. She felt a light smattering of rain and pulled her cloak tightly over her red robe. The wagon went over a stone, making her wince.
As they left the stockade, she had a bit of a surprise. Some two or three dozen men had collected either side of the path and as they rode past they loudly saluted her. She noticed a few ale
jugs being bandied around, which obviously added to the general bonhomie. Not knowing how to react, she contented herself with smiling at both sides, a smile that quickly became a laugh as the
gauntlet was run. Leaving the noise and the drunken cheering behind, they ascended the path. On the western side of the hill the trees and grass were dead and blackened, the ground scorched. Smoke
was still rising from the cracked and scored earth, and the smell of burnt wood and resin was inescapable – it was a desolate scene. In a bizarre contrast, on other side of the path, the
woods were untouched and were silently brooding, as if lamenting the loss of their comrades.
They approached the gates, both of which were open. The city walls themselves were not high, but sturdily built of large stones mortared together. Small wooden towers stood atop the walls either
side of the gates, with a solitary guard in each. Both saluted them as they rode through and into the town.
Grest itself was not a big place. Small, closely packed thatched cottages pressed tightly against the narrow cobbled road they were progressing along. Being on a hill, there was no natural water
supply, which came instead from wells and butts put out to collect rain. Consequently, sewage and other trash collected in trenches either side of the road. Now and then it would all be put into
carts and dumped in the river, or put on to the fields, but not until it had reached an unpleasant level of putrefaction. It was Tanaren’s poor quarter all over again.
The road opened on to the square. It was a motley affair – the largest building was the only one built of stone rather than being half-timbered. It stood at the other end of the square and
she guessed correctly that it was the manor house. There was a house of Artorus and a tiny house of Meriel, with a statue of the goddess standing just outside the painted red and white door. All
that, however, was incidental, for just to her left were a series of spears whose butts had been forced into the earth between the cobbles. Each spear sported a severed head; their white eyes
stared glassily in her direction, and sticky blood coated the spear shafts and pooled over the ground. Carved into their foreheads, probably while they were still alive, was the word
‘traitor’. In the stocks behind them were four young women, their heads shaved, all branded with the ‘W’ for whore.
And the executions had not finished. In the centre of the square was the executioner’s block, black with the blood of its victims. A burly man stood close by, brandishing a colossal axe
which he was using to make practice swings. A crowd was with him, goading him on, and, in a makeshift wooden cage not twenty feet from the executioner, were three men, bound and gagged and looking
suitably terrified. A man in fine but slightly worn red robes appeared to be directing proceedings. Evidently the afternoon’s entertainment was due to begin shortly.
‘As you said, Marcus – reprisals,’ Cheris said through gritted teeth.
‘It is as I feared,’ he replied. ‘I hope the Baron calls a halt to this soon.’ He appeared to be getting his wish. A group of Felmere’s soldiers moved across the
square and started talking to the man in red. An argument appeared to break out between them. Were those men to be reprieved? Cheris wondered what they were thinking, imagining the hope flickering
in their hearts. Alas, after a couple of minute’s discussion the soldiers returned to their posts leaving the man to his bloody business.
Cheris felt deflated. So this was what victory was like.
‘Ride on, Sir Norton,’ she said. ‘I think we have seen enough.’
The manor house’s main door was open, and guards clustered around it. Aided by Marcus, Cheris alighted from the carriage. The three of them passed the guards, who stood aside for them and
went inside.
They entered a small reception room. It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the light but when they did she noticed that the carpet was torn and stained with dark patches that she realised
were probably blood. A small bench to her right had been smashed; splintered wood lay around and about. She guessed the Arshuman garrison had made a stand here, one that hadn’t gone well for
them.