Authors: Charlotte Boyett-Compo
“Are you sure?”
“She was there, watching the whole thing.” Conar crossed his ankles. “She gave no alarm when the bastard stabbed me nor did she cry out when I was tossed over the rail.” He held Sajin’s stare. “She was part of it, Sajin.”
His appetite gone, Sajin threw the unfinished apricot away. He let out a long breath. “I am sorry.”
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Conar shrugged. “We can not be held accountable for what our siblings do, my friend. My own brother, Galen, had much to account for when he met the Gatherer.”
“She is in love with Jaborn,” Sajin admitted. “I’ve known that for a long time. The man uses her like one of his legion of whores, but she doesn’t care.”
“It’s her life,” Conar reminded him.
“She will have left St. Steffensburg, by now,” Sajin said, watching Conar’s face. “I left her there with Catherine when Yuri, Azalon and I came here to look for Storm Jale.” He shook his head ruefully. “We had no idea you were still alive, although Yuri suspected as much.”
“It will take more than a Hasdu dagger in my belly to kill me,” Conar ground out. He pushed himself up on the pallet. “And I intend to see a hundred Hasdu in their graves for all the pain they’ve given me and my people.”
“You mean Jaborn,” Sajin said.
“He’ll be dealt with in time,” Conar snapped, “but it is Storm’s death that will be avenged first.” He locked his eyes with Sajin’s. “No one lays a hand to one of mine and not pay for it.”
“You still consider the man a friend after what he did to you?” Sajin asked.
Conar looked away. “Jale felt he had reason for what he did against me; but he was loyal to the Wind Force, and thereby, loyal to me. I will honor him for that.”
“You haven’t asked about Cat,” Sajin said softly, wanting to take the hurt out of his friend’s face at the mention of Jale’s death.
Conar flinched. “Now isn’t the time to bring that up.”
“When IS the time?” Sajin shot back.
“We’ll discuss it when I’m ready,” Conar growled.
Ben-Alkazar opened his mouth to say something else, then snapped it shut. He was beginning to recognize McGregor stubbornness when he saw it emblazoned on his friend’s face and he knew arguing with the man when he was like this would be futile.
“I’ll deal with Sybelle,” he told Conar, instead.
“If you don’t,” came the answer, “I will.”
A thrust of anger drove into Sajin’s belly, but he knew his friend was right. Someone would have to see the Sybelle did not interfere again. If he, himself, couldn’t do it, Conar had every right to since he was the one who had been hurt by Sybelle’s part in the scheme.
Roget unfolded the note and stared at it, unable to decipher what he considered to be nothing more than random scratches across the parchment.
“Let me see,” Serge said, taking the note. He looked at du Mer. “It is written in Hasdu.”
“What does it say?” Rylan inquired. He hobbled over to the men, his lame foot aching miserably.
“I don’t read Hasdu, but I recognize the script,” Serge answered. He looked about them.
“Is there anyone here who can read it?”
Grice shook his head. “Not if our lives depended on it.”
“Maybe we should have brought Marsh,” Wyn remarked.
“Shit,” Thom Loure spat. “He’s our damned traitor and I know it!”
“You know no such thing,” Tyne argued.
“Well, we’ve got to find someone to read the thing,” Paegan injected.
“How about the innkeeper?” Grice suggested.
“Think you he can be trusted?” Alexi asked. He frowned. “He too damned accommodating for my liking.”
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“Alexi’s right,” Tyne acknowledged. “I didn’t like the way he seemed to be studying us.”
“We are Outlanders,” Holm answered. “Everyone looks at us strangely.”
“Perhaps we can find a constable,” Wyn suggested. “Or one of their holy men. Surely such men would not lie to us.”
“Hasdu constables are even more corrupt than the constables in my country!” Serge chuckled. “Maybe a holy man as the young one says will deal with us fairly.”
“How do we find one?” Rylan asked.
“They pray five times a day to that building over there,” Tyne answered, pointing through the window at the oddly-shaped tower. “Surely there’s a holy man inside that tower.”
“I’ll find out,” Roget told them. He glanced at Serge. “Did your mistress get settled in with Meggie?”
Serge nodded. “They are getting along quite well, aren’t they? As far as the innkeeper knows, Meggie Ruck is the Lady Alina’s chaperone.”
“Alina?” Wyn asked.
“The name Her Grace chose,” Serge explained. “We thought it best if no one even suspects her true identity.”
“Good thinking,” Roget agreed. He went to the door and was about to leave when Thom called out to him. He turned.
“Be careful, Roget,” Thom warned. “This is not a good place.”
Roget smiled. “Have you known me to be anything BUT careful, Loure?”
Ching-Ching sniffed, annoyed at the man’s arrogance. “It only takes one slip, du Mer, to put your neck on the block!”
“Or your feet,” Serge admonished him. “They sell many Outlanders from the arenas here.”
“I’ll be back,” Roget predicted, closing the door on the anxious faces peering back at him.
Half an hour later, Roget returned, his face pale, his eyes haunted. The man had risen from where they sat or leaned or lay. Not a one among them did not know trouble had found them head on.
“What is it?” Jah-Ma-El had been the first to ask.
“It’s Conar,” Roget croaked, searching the faces of the others. “He’s been captured!”
Guil listened to Rasheed’s report and smiled, leaning back in his chair. “Which Holy Man did you direct the Serenian to see?”
“His Holiness, the Ayato Mengi, Your Grace,” Rasheed answered.
“Excellent,” Guil applauded his servant. “And did the Ayato make any comment to the Outlander concerning the message in the note?”
“I doubt he understood the meaning, Highness,” Rasheed informed Guil. “It would surprise me if he knew anything of the resistance forces. He did not recognize the name Khamsin.”
“Let us hope he did not,” Guil answered. “We need no interference from others.”
“By this time, the Serenian will have returned to the others.” Rasheed grinned. “I would imagine a caravan will be in progress within a few hours.”
“If nothing else can be said for the Outlanders,” Guil chuckled, “it can be said that they are consistent.”
“Shall I have one of our men contact them?”
Guil shook his head. “let them find another to lead them to Abbadon. If they even suspect treachery, they may not fall into our trap. They are not stupid men, Rasheed.”
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“It is my understanding that the Outer Kingdom sailors will be staying with the ship here.
Do you wish them taken into custody?”
“And have Tzar Thomas at my throat?” Guil gasped. “Most certainly not!”
“There are two women who also came with the men on board the Anya Katrina.” Rasheed frowned. “I highly suspect the younger of the two is the Tzarevitch Catherine; the older is more than likely a servant.”
Guil sat up straight in his chair. “You really think Catherine Steffenovitch is here in Asaraba?”
“I do, Your Grace.”
A frosty glint entered the Hasdu Prince’s eye. “This is news that will be most welcome by Jaleel,” he breathed. “My old friend was quite taken by the Outer Kingdom wench.”
“That she may be McGregor’s woman will not have escaped his notice, either,” Rasheed said slyly.
Guil turned and stared at his servant. “You are right!” he gasped. “If she is, she will be all the more valuable to Jaleel.”
“Shall I arrange for her to be taken?” Rasheed asked.
“By all means!” Guil said. “By all means!”
“What of the old woman? The one who traveled with the Tzarevitch?”
“Is she worth taking to sell?”
“Too old and, by the looks of her, too infirm,” Rasheed answered.
Guil waved a dismissive hand. “Then leave her be. If we can not make a profit from her, she’s useless to us.”
Rasheed bowed. “I will see to it, Highness.”
And still once more, a fork appeared on the Pathway.
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Grice swung up into the saddle of his roan stallion and glanced around him as the others mounted their steeds. A Rysalian guide, handsomely paid and eager to make the trek to Abbadon, smiled at him and nodded.
“Obsequious little toad,” Thom sneered, glaring at the Rysalian.
Sentian laughed. “Where’d you learn such a word, Loure?”
“Jah-Ma-El has always described Sern in that way,” Roget commented. “Obsequious seems to be an adjective that fits most nomads.”
“Treacherous is another,” Jah-Ma-El quipped, walking his horse over to the men. “Watch yourselves, men. I have a bad feeling about this.”
Sentian rolled his gaze heavenward. “You’ve
always
got a bad feeling about things, Jah-Ma-El.” He looked pointedly at Jah-Ma-El. “Do you recall the day I took you back to Boreas from Norus? The day the keep fell to our men?”
Jah-Ma-El lowered his head. He was apt to never forget that day. “Aye,” he mumbled,
“what of it?”
“Do you recall telling me you had a bad feeling about Conar getting killed that day? Do you remember begging me to turn around and go back to make sure nothing happened to him?”
The thin man, second eldest brother of Conar McGregor, jerked his head up and he glared at Sentian Heil. “And do
you
recall that I was proven right in being worried about him?” He pointed a bony finger at his inquisitor. “Where did he go that day, Heil?” he snarled. “To what hell did my brother go from which you and Hern Arbra and Andre Belvoir had to rescue him?”
Sentian’s face flushed. “I know well enough where he went, Jah-Ma-El.”
“Then do not jeer at my feelings!” Jah-Ma-El bellowed, his reed-thin body quivering.
“Our powers, mine and Jamael’s, are useless here,” Ching-Ching remarked to no one in particular, “but that does not keep our instincts from warning us. I, too, feel strange quivers in the air that bode us ill.” He looked about him, making sure each of the men were listening to him.
“We must be on guard every moment.”
“Abbadon is a very bad place,” the Rysalian guide put in. “Some call it the Abyss.”
Jah-Ma-El jumped, turning his head toward the Inner Kingdom man. “Don’t say that!” he hissed.
The guide shrugged. “I am only telling you what people say of the fortress.”
“We don’t need to hear your rumors and superstitions,” Roget told him. “We just need your help in finding the fortress.” He narrowed his eyes at the man. “You
can
lead us there, can’t you?”
“Anyone in Asaraba could lead you there, sir,” the guide admitted. “But whether or not you reach there in safety would be another matter.”
“How do we know YOU can be trusted?” Thom growled.
“You don’t,” the man answered, fusing his gaze with Thom’s hot stare.
“We don’t have much of a choice but to trust him,” Tyne injected.
“I will get you there without a problem,” the guide told them. “What happens once you are inside Abbadon’s walls, I can not say. As for myself, I would not enter those steel gates if the lives of my entire family depended upon it.” He put his foot into the stirrup. “And you shouldn’t either.”
“You ain’t us!” Thom growled.
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“Something for which I am eternally grateful,” the guide quipped.
Rylan watched the guide mount his nag. Roget had found the guide, a man the Holy One had recommended to him, but he, no more than Thom, trusted the sly-looking little weasel even though the man had tried his best to talk them out of going to Abbadon.
“If your friend is being held there,” the guide had said with an earnest look of regret, “his life is forfeit already. No one has ever escaped the fortress at Abbadon.”
“We’ll get him out!” Roget had sworn.
“I have heard some tales of this man they call Khamsin,” the guide, whose name was unpronounceable to Outlander tongues, admitted. “He has caused many traders to lose great revenues over the past few weeks. If he has been captured by Prince Jaleel Jaborn’s men, he may already have paid the price of such interference in Rysalian commerce.”
“Paid in what way?” Wyn had asked, fear in his pale eyes.
The guide had drawn a finger across his neck. At Wyn’s flinch of terror, the man had seemed to show remorse at his action. “But then again they may have only punished him as all thieves in Rysalia are punished.”
“How?” Jah-Ma-El had barked at the man.
“They may have cut off his hands.”
Tyne Brell had turned away with a sick look on his lean face. He had angrily shrugged off the comforting hand Roget had placed on his shoulders.
“If that has happened,” Tyne had ground out, “Conar would just as soon be dead!”
Rylan knew Tyne was thinking of the deadly swordsman in himself who could conceive of no more horrible a fate than having his hands severed from his body.
“Conar?” the guide had then gasped, stunned by the name. “Conar McGregor?”
It had been Thom who had rushed forward and grabbed the man, shoving him up against the wall of their room in the inn and bringing his large face close to the dark man’s.
“What’s it to you, you ugly Pog?” Thom had spat at the guide.
“I--I--“ The man had looked around him, searching the faces. “I was at the siege of Norus Keep.”
Rylan had stepped forward. “Doing what?”
The guide had looked beseechingly at the Viragonian. “I was an archer sent there by our emirate to help get the Princess Anya Elizabeth back.”