The Seven-Petaled Shield (14 page)

Tsorreh felt a jolt of apprehension at being separated from Zevaron. No matter how dismissive the governor might be about the seriousness of the Gelonian attack, conditions might change. “I am indebted to you for your hospitality. But I would prefer that my son remain with me.”

“It is not our practice to house unmarried young men with women, even their mothers.” Drassos scowled. “Perhaps the standards of propriety are different in Meklavar, but here such a thing would be intolerable for one of your standing, Lady Tsorreh.”

“Pardon my ignorance of your customs. I meant no offense. Yet surely some allowance can be made for the hardships
my son and I have endured and the natural desire of families to remain together.”

“No offense is taken,” Drassos said in a tone that implied the matter was settled.

Tsorreh realized that to press the matter further would risk offending the man on whose good will they depended. Drassos could easily declare the token a forgery and throw the two of them on the street. They needed his help to reach her mother’s people in Durinthe.

She glanced at Zevaron, who had clearly been following the conversation. He looked pleased at being treated as an adult man, instead of a child too young to leave his mother. Swallowing her trepidation, she bade him go along, and they were invited to break their fast with the governor the following morning. Drassos inclined his head in dismissal and returned to his documents.

Chylan, the councillor, conducted Tsorreh to a sumptuous suite of rooms. The central chamber, like the governor’s office, had a wide, open balcony. Mosaic panels studded with mother-of-pearl, lapis, and polished coral decorated the whitewashed walls. One entire room was devoted to bathing, with a tiled floor surrounding a deep round tub. Before Tsorreh could puzzle out how the tub was to be filled, flaxen-haired maidservants arrived to turn levers on the pipes, sending a stream of hot water into the tub. One added fragrant oils to the rapidly filling bath, another carried in a pile of thick towels, and two more coaxed Tsorreh to undress.

Tsorreh allowed herself to be washed with an enormous sponge, rinsed, dried and scented, and dressed in Isarran style. The robe was of pale yellow silk, gathered at the shoulders with golden clasps in the shape of sea stars. The hem was stiff with embroidery in the same pattern as the clasps.

By the time the maids had finished combing out and oiling her hair, rebraiding it with the Arandel token and smoothing her face and arms with scented ointments, the sky had gone dark. Tsorreh went to the balcony and looked
out. Below her, the city stretched north to the harbor. Lights dotted the streets.

She inhaled, smelling a dozen unfamiliar flowers, a whiff of roasting chicken, the undertone of salty tang. Above her, clouds scudded across a full moon. A woman’s laughter soared over the jingle of a harness, the distant call of gulls, men’s muted voices, and a harp arpeggio alternating with the sweet low tones of a flute. At this moment, it was hard to believe that somewhere on the water, Gelonian ships waited for the morning to renew their attack. But they were, and she dared not forget it.

An under-steward presented himself while Tsorreh stood on the balcony. He was followed by servants bearing trays of food, and a young and rather nervous-looking guard. The steward explained that the guard would remain outside her door, in case the honored lady should require anything. She asked where the unmarried young men were housed, but since she did not know the landmarks he mentioned, the answer made little sense. The place was not far, however.

Tsorreh didn’t feel hungry, but when the steward and his assistants left, she uncovered the dishes. She found a bowl of an unfamiliar grain, steamed with a sauce of apricots and topped with slivered almonds. There was more flatbread and bean paste, and a pot of stewed lamb and tomatoes. It all tasted wonderful, and she ate far more than she intended. With a full belly, lulled by the sound of music from the street outside, she stretched out on the silk-covered bed and fell asleep without even taking off her sandals.

*   *   *

She woke suddenly, to darkness and the sound of running feet in the corridor. The room around her lay dark, the oil lamps unlit. From the street below, she heard shouting, then a high-pitched scream. She went to the balcony and looked out. Men raced along the streets, some carrying torches. She strained to make out who they were, what they were doing.
She caught a glint of light off curved metal. A sword, perhaps.

To the north, close enough so she could almost feel the flames, the harbor was burning.

Zevaron, where was Zevaron? What a fool she’d been, to let down her guard even for an instant with the enemy so near! She had to find him, get him out of there. They must not be taken, should the palace fall.

Tsorreh threw the door open. The young guard was not at his post. From the direction of the stairs came more sounds of running and shouting. She started in that direction. Before she had taken more than a few steps, a woman appeared, holding an oil lamp and hurrying in the opposite direction. She saw Tsorreh and let out a shriek. Tsorreh grabbed her arm and forced her to a halt.

“What’s going on?” she asked in Isarran. “Is the palace under attack?”

“Let me go!” The woman, barely more than a girl, began babbling. “We must flee! The devils will eat us all!”

“Nonsense! The Gelon do not eat their captives!”

The girl broke into hysterical sobs.

“Where is the—” Tsorreh could not remember the word for the unmarried men’s quarters. “Where do the men sleep? My son!
Where is my son?
Take me there!”

The girl paused in her weeping. For an instant, the flame of the oil lamp illuminated her features, the wide uncomprehending eyes, the rounded cheeks, the flyaway, lint-pale hair. Her parted lips trembled. She was beyond speech.

With shrieks, a clatter of sandals, and a great deal of fluttering draperies, a small mob of ladies rushed down the corridor. Three or four of them carried little glassed lanterns.

“Come along!” barked a masculine voice. “Hurry! This way!” In the wavering light, Tsorreh saw several men among the ladies. They looked like soldiers to her, urging their charges along. Filling the corridor and leaving no room on either side, they bore down on Tsorreh.

She darted up to the nearest soldier. “Where is—” she began, but he grabbed her, none too gently, and shoved her
toward the other women. The speechless maidservant hid herself in their midst like a frightened rock-rabbit. Between the shouted orders of the men and the women’s cries of terror, Tsorreh could not make herself heard.

Like a stampeding herd, the women carried Tsorreh along. She tried to work her way to the outside, thinking to break away. The tallest of the ladies seized her arm and drew her close. Musky perfume mingled with the smell of adrenaline-laced sweat.

“You must stay with us!” the woman said in a surprisingly self-possessed voice. By her imperious manner and the richness of her dress, she might well be the wife of the governor. “It is not safe for a decent woman to be abroad, now with the city under attack. Come, we will take you to a well-protected place. Before long our brave soldiers will repulse the invaders. We have done so many times before. Truly, there is no reason for alarm. Menelaia! Stop your sniveling this instant! Your mother would be ashamed of you, carrying on this way!”

As the lady spoke, the party continued speeding through the palace. Tsorreh lost track of the turnings and stairs. Within moments, she had no idea where she was.

“My son!” she tried again, pulling at the other woman’s arm. “I must find him—he is with the other men!”

“Then he is with them still, defending the city. Do not fret on his account, my dear. All young men seek glory in battle. It is their nature. I promise you, he will fight all the more bravely for your sake.”

“But—”

They burst through a narrow doorway, jostling one another. For an instant, Tsorreh could hardly breathe in the press of bodies. Then they were out in the cooler darkness, stumbling down shallow steps. Lanterns and grease-smoking torches turned the plaza into a cauldron of shadows. From the direction of the harbor came a brighter orange light and the stench of burning.

People rushed by, men on foot bearing weapons, men on horses or mules, women with shrieking children, carts
drawn by huge, ponderous, oxen-like beasts with but a single horn on their foreheads, lowing their distress. Dogs barked. The sounds mixed together into a roar like a mountain avalanche. Tsorreh flinched, thinking only that it would be impossible to find Zevaron in the roiling chaos. But somehow she must—

“Come on!” shouted the soldier in the fore, and they burst into a run. He managed to find an opening through the surging traffic. By now, Tsorreh was too disoriented to do anything but follow. Her sandals slapped flat stone, bare earth, sometimes gravel. She slipped and caught herself, but kept on. Her legs repeatedly tangled in the fabric of her robe. She longed for her Meklavaran vest and trousers and swore to herself that she would never be flattered into wearing such an impractical dress again.

The crowd thinned out, except for the sound of fighting in the next street over, and they raced the last distance to a squat, single-story building. Lanterns hung from either side of the narrow door, and two strong-looking men stood there, urging them on. As they filed through, Tsorreh noticed the metal straps reinforcing the wooden door, and the bars across the high-set windows. The place was either a fortress or a trap. Unless the builders of Gatacinne had dug an underground tunnel, there would be no escape.

The door slammed behind them, shutting out the noise of the street. They went through a short passage and into a large windowless chamber, furnished with couches, tables, and freestanding holders for the ubiquitous oil lamps. A number of these had already been lit, and even now, a pair of maidservants were placing more and bringing in trays of fruit and pastries, and beakers of wine. With a murmur of pleasure, the governor’s wife draped herself across the largest divan.

“What an exhausting bother this all is!” she said. “I’m simply parched! Menelaia dear, bring me some wine, and then fetch a harp from the music room. We must have a song to soothe our nerves.”

The other women arranged themselves about the room,
the ladies reclining, the servants attending to them. Tsorreh lowered herself to a bench. There was no cause for alarm, she told herself, repeating what the governor had said earlier that day. Gelon had sent many forays against Gatacinne in the past, without success. She looked around her. Clearly, these people were prepared.

Even if the Gelon took the palace, they would not find her here, in this fortress. But neither would Zevaron.

Zevaron
.

She might be hidden, unable to leave this place, but
he
was at liberty. He would learn where she had been taken, along with the other palace ladies. The governor would be anxious to see his wife, once the fighting was done.

The sweet arpeggio of the harp rippled through the air, its notes evanescent as ghosts.

Zevaron was out there, in fire and darkness and confusion.
Fighting,
the governor’s wife had said.

Tsorreh’s heart stuttered. She waved away a goblet of wine and murmured an excuse to the concerned-looking older lady beside her.

Her son was no child, she reminded herself. He had been trained in combat, with weapons and his bare hands, since he could walk. She thought of him battling at the
meklat
walls, drilling the sling-throwers, fighting mounted at his father’s side. Flirting with Shadow Fox. At that, she smiled.

He would survive. He would find her, and together they would flee Gatacinne. They would make for Durinthe, where she would raise an army to liberate Meklavar.

CR-R-RACK! CRASH!

The sound of snapping metal and splintering wood echoed through the room. Tsorreh, her nerves already taut, scrambled to her feet. Before any of the other ladies could react, a handful of soldiers poured into the room. There was no mistaking the Gelon—short leather kilts, helmets plumed with blue and purple, pale bare arms. Some had drawn their swords, those distinctive double-edged blades. The foremost wore a gilded helmet and carried a whip.

“Outside!” bellowed the officer.

The other soldiers shoved the women together roughly. The women whimpered in mingled terror and confusion. It was clear that not all of them understood Gelone. Tsorreh pretended to be as cowed as the others.

“Leave the servants,” the officer said. “If need be, we can round them up later, once the city’s secured. Right now, we don’t need slaves, we need hostages. One of these is the governor’s—you there!” He prodded the governor’s wife with his coiled whip. “What’s your name?”

The lady drew herself up, glared at him, and answered in accented but grammatically perfect Gelone, “I do not converse with rabble.”

“That’s her, all right!” The officer threw his head back and laughed. “From what I’ve heard, I don’t know if His Excellency will pay more to get her back or have us keep her!”

The wife looked ready to scratch his eyes out, but one of the soldiers grabbed her, spun her around, and tied her wrists in front of her.

“How dare you!” She spat at him but missed.

“Let’s get going!” The officer barked out a few more orders. Moving with ruthless efficiency, his men bound the rest of the ladies, Tsorreh among them, and tied them together. One of the women began sobbing.

As they were being led away, the governor’s wife shrieked, “My husband will have you beheaded for this insult!” The officer laughed again as she went on. “Beheaded, and then flayed into little strips, and then—”

Tsorreh shuffled along with the others, her head down. As she drew near, the officer came alert.

“What’s this?” He tapped her shoulder with his whip and signaled the soldier leading the string to halt. He lifted her chin for a better look. “You’re no Isarran, not with that black hair.”

Tsorreh jerked away, resolutely silent.

“You savage!” the governor’s wife shrilled. “She is a noble guest and must not be harmed!”