Tower Lord

CHAPTER SEVEN

Reva

They saw the cathedral spires first, jutting over the crest as they led their horses up the hill. “Faith!” Arken breathed, gazing at the cathedral as they reached the top. The two spires rose from the centre of the city like twin arrows. “How tall are they?”

Reva replied with a quote from the priest, “Tall enough to match the Father’s glory.”

Alltor was another place she had never been, but the priest had told her many stories of the city named for the World Father’s first and greatest prophet. A whole city built in the Father’s honour, a wonder of marble and beauty when it first rose, shaming the wooden hovels of the Asraelins. Looking at the city stretched out before her, Reva couldn’t quell a suspicion that the priest’s description may have been coloured by the assumption she would never set eyes on the place. It was smaller than Varinshold, confined within its walled island in the middle of the Coldiron River, and not quite so smelly, at least from this distance. But she saw no wonder in it, just a jumble of stone buildings under a thick haze of smoke from a thousand chimneys. Only the cathedral came close to matching the visions the priest had conjured in her girlish mind, and even that was a soot-blackened shadow of her imaginings, the marble of the spires darkened from centuries of windblown grime.

“Do you have family, here?” Arken asked. Recent days had seen his questions become more frequent, and irksome. But she found herself unable to lie to him, her answers brief but always truthful.

“Yes.” She climbed onto Snorter’s saddle and started down the slope. “An uncle.”

“Will we be staying with him?” She could hear the hope in his voice. Sleeping in the open every night had dispelled any boyish notions of grand adventure, and the prospect of room and board was no doubt very welcome.

“I hope not,” she replied. “I don’t think he’d be pleased to see me.”

It was market day and the guards on the gate were too busy collecting dues from the hawkers to bother with them much. Reva had hidden her weapons under a blanket strapped across Snorter’s back and Arken kept his knife concealed within his shirt. They rode through without incident but were soon snared by the throng of the market. Reva had to dismount to calm Snorter as he began to rear, nostrils flaring with the stench of so many people. “Don’t like it do you?” she said, holding a carrot to his mouth. “Not bred for cities, eh? Me either.”

An hour of shoving and squeezing bought freedom from the crowd, delivering them to a maze of narrow streets bordering the market square. They found an inn with a stable after what seemed like an age of aimless wandering. Snorter and Arken’s squat horse, named Bumper for his less-than-comfortable back, were ensconced in the stable boy’s care whilst Reva paid five coppers for a room she could share with her brother.

“Brother eh?” the innkeeper said with a knowing leer. “Doesn’t look like you.”

“You won’t look like you if I let him have his way for five minutes,” Reva replied. “How do we get to the Fief Lord’s manor from here?”

The man seemed unruffled by the threat, merely chuckling a little as he said, “Just keep headin’ for the spires, you’ll find it. Stands opposite the cathedral. Petitioning day’s not till Feldrian though.”

“We’ll wait.”

His grin broadened. “Then I’ll need another two days in advance.”

She left the weapons in the room with Arken, cautioning him not to open the door too wide if the innkeeper came sniffing, then went to find the manor. As instructed she kept the spires ahead of her, marvelling ever more at their height, until the streets fell away to reveal the great central square. It was paved from end to end in granite, clouds of pigeons flocking and breaking continually on the stones, the cathedral rising on her left, the largest structure she had ever seen, so tall she wondered it could remain upright. On the opposite side of the square stood a large three-storey building of many windows, surrounded by a ten-foot wall topped with steel spikes. Pairs of guards patrolled the walls and a squad of five manned the main gate. She counted four archers on the roof. Clearly her uncle was very conscious of his security.

She circled the manor several times, keeping to the shadows as much as possible, counting another four archers on the back roof and four guards on the rear gate. The walls were in an excellent state of repair and there was a good twenty yards between them and the nearest cover. The guards were alert and changed at intervals of two hours. There would be a drain within the grounds allowing access from the sewers, but she had a strong suspicion whoever had care of her uncle’s person would ensure that too was guarded.

No way in, she concluded, perching herself on the cathedral steps with an apple she had purchased from a nearby vendor.

“Here for the petitions?” he asked her as she took a bite. “Don’t have the look of a city girl, way you’re staring at everything.”

“My stepmother claimed the farm when Dadda died,” she replied, munching. “The sow won’t give me and my brother our share.”

“Father save us from greedy women,” he said. “A tip for you, don’t appeal to the lord, appeal to the whore.”

“The whore?”

“Aye, he’s only got the one these days. An Asraelin no less. She does much of his thinking for him, and they say she’s a fair judge, whore and heretic though she is.”

She favoured him with a smile. “My thanks, old fellow.”

“I’m not so old,” he replied in mock outrage. “Not so long ago you’d’ve been glad to earn the eye from me.” His humour faded as his eyes lit on something behind her. “That time already,” he said, moving back from his cart and falling to one knee.

Reva turned to see a procession entering the square from the north, people kneeling as they passed. In the lead a young man in a priest’s robe walked with a measured gate, holding aloft a silken banner emblazoned with the flame of the World Father. Behind him walked five men side by side, robed in the dark green worn only by bishops, all holding a book in each hand. At the rear walked an old man in a plain white robe, his gaze fixed firmly ahead, giving off an aura of calm dignity, only slightly spoiled by the bulge of belly beneath his robe.

“Kneel girl!” the fruit vendor hissed. “Do you want a flogging?”

The Reader, Reva realised as she knelt, watching the procession mount the steps a few yards away. The priest had always been very clear on the first target for her father’s sword. Corrupt leader of the corrupted church. Near as vile a traitor to the Father as the drunkard in the manor.

She watched the white-robed man as he lifted his skirts to ascend the steps. His face was unremarkable save for a somewhat hooked nose, lines of age, and no particular shine to his eyes bespeaking either evil or goodness. The church held that the Reader heard the Father’s voice every time he read from the Ten Books. An absurd notion, since the Father had clearly ordained there should now be eleven books. This old man, with his belly and his sycophants, was the worst kind of heretic, deafening himself to the Father’s voice for fear he may lose power over the church.

One thing at a time, she thought as the procession disappeared into the cathedral, turning back to the manor. No way in . . . except on petitioning day.

The next two days were spent familiarising herself with the city streets and gleaning as much information as she could about the interior of the Fief Lord’s manor.

“Sits in his chair on a platform in the main hall,” the innkeeper said. “People come, plead their cases, it all gets written down then a week later he gives his judgement, or rather what judgement the whore tells him to give.”

“Doesn’t it make people angry?” she asked, careful to keep her tone merely curious. “The fief being governed by some Asraelin strumpet.”

He cackled; she noticed he did that a lot. “Would do if she wasn’t so good at it. Streets are clean, trade is good, outlaws under control, more so here than in the other fiefs so I hear. Wasn’t like this in his father’s day, I can tell you.”

From what she could gather petitioners would line up at the front gate in the morning, the proceedings commencing at the tenth hour, though the Fief Lord’s punctuality was often lacking. Petitions were heard until the sixth hour past noon, the order they were heard in determined by lot. It was tradition for the Fief Lord to provide a meal for the petitioners at midday. “It’s no banquet,” the fruit vendor told her. “But it’s a decent spread, takes all the servants in the manor to dish it out.”

Servants . . . Lots of them moving about, pages and maids.

She sat with Arken on the cathedral steps that evening, waiting for a cart to trundle up to the gate.

“The thing you’re after is in there?” he asked, sounding dubious.

“I believe so.”

“And you’re going to steal it?”

“You can’t steal what’s yours by right . . . But yes. Is that a problem?”

“Stealing from a Fief Lord.” He grimaced and shook his head. “They’ll kill us if we’re caught.”

“No, they’ll kill me. You’re not coming.” She held up a hand as he started to protest. “I need you to secure our escape. You’ll wait with the horses at the city gate.”

“And if you don’t come?”

“Then ride away, fast.”

“I can’t . . .”

“This isn’t a story and it isn’t a song, and you’re not some noble warrior who can rescue me. You’re right, if I’m caught, I’m dead, and your waiting around will make no difference. You will take the horses, and the money, and go.”

Her gaze was drawn back to the manor as a cart arrived, laden with wine and sundry foodstuffs. The guards opened the gate and a troop of servants emerged to unload the cart, mostly men, but also a few women. She watched them closely, drinking in the details of their garb. A pale blue scarf tying back their hair, skirts black, blouses white.

“Where would I go?” Arken was asking, sounding very young.

She watched the servants disappear back into the manor. “North,” she said. “The Reaches. If you present yourself to the Tower Lord and mention my name, I’m sure he’ll find a place for you.”

His voice was hushed when he spoke again, reverent almost. “You know Lord Al Sorna?”

She got to her feet, brushing dust from her trews. “Certainly, I was his sister.”

She bought a plain white blouse, a blue scarf and two skirts, one black, one green. She spent the evening before petitioning day sewing them together, green outside, black inside. She had seen how punctilious the guards were in searching visitors to the manor so discounted the notion of concealing a weapon beneath the skirts. If need be, she could always find the kitchens where there would be knives aplenty. Come the morning she presented herself at the manor gate, clutching a scroll bearing a fictitious claim against an imaginary stepmother. She was a little flustered, the farewell with Arken had been awkward, the boy leaning close to press a kiss to her cheek then retreating with a hurt look as she pulled back in alarm.

“Remember, don’t wait,” she said. “If I’m not there an hour after the gate opens in the morning . . .”

“I know,” he said, scowling a little.

She hoped he would be content with a squeeze to his hand and took herself off to the manor. She got there early but a line of over a dozen people had already formed, the number soon growing to well over two hundred by the time the gate opened. A House Guard emerged to walk down the line, a sack held open in his hands, each petitioner reaching in to extract a wooden peg as he did so. Reva duly plucked one when her turn came, doing her best to look anxious.

“Six!” exclaimed the old woman behind her, reading the symbol carved into the peg Reva had drawn. The woman’s own read fifty-nine. “I’ll be here all bloody day, with my old legs about to buckle any second as well.”

Reva thought the woman had a fairly sturdy look to her, but made a sympathetic face. “Don’t worry, grandmother. We’ll swap, here.” She held out the peg.

The woman squinted in suspicion. “How much?”

“The Father loves a generous deed,” Reva told her, smiling broadly.

“Oh.” The woman glanced at the cathedral then held out her own peg. “Righto.”

From behind came shouts of discord as the last peg was chosen. “Not my problem,” the guard with the sack called over his shoulder as he made his way back down the line. “Come back next month.”

They were soon ushered through the gate, each searched for weapons before being allowed to proceed into the grounds beyond, a bizarre mix of ornate topiary and fruit trees, then into the manor itself. The petitioners were required to gather in the main hall, situated at the end of a short hallway featuring few doors, all having the varnished look of many years’ disuse. In the hall a cordon of guards stood before a raised platform where an empty chair waited. When all one hundred petitioners had been led in, a guard held up a hand to silence the murmur.

“Bow for Fief Lord Sentes Mustor, most loyal servant of the Unified Realm and ruler by the King’s Word of the Fief of Cumbrael.”

Reva had positioned herself at the rear of the hall so only had a partial view of the man who emerged from a side door. He was of average height, somewhere past his fiftieth year, well dressed but with a long tangle of unkempt hair, walking with a slight stoop. When he sat down she had a clear view of his face, finding it far from edifying: sunken cheekbones, sallow unshaven skin and eyes that were unnaturally red, even for a drunkard. She had expected to find some vestige of her own features there, some echo of shared blood, but there was nothing, making her wonder if she favoured her mother more than her father.

The guard tapped the butt of his pole-axe on the floor and spoke again. “Keep silence for the Lady Veliss, Honorary Counsel to the Lordship of Cumbrael.”

The woman who stepped onto the platform was dressed simply in a skirt and blouse, not dissimilar to the garb of the maids Reva had so keenly observed the day before, distinguished only by the bluestone amulet hanging on a golden chain that did much to draw the eye to her ample bosom. Her hair, tied back in a simple ponytail with a blue ribbon, was a dark but natural shade of brown and her comely features, full-lipped and apple-cheeked, were free of paint.

“Filthy whore,” an anonymous male voice muttered close to Reva, though not loud enough to reach the ears of the guards.

The Lady Veliss smiled and opened her arms in a gesture of welcome, speaking in precise tones but the coarseness of her Asraelin accent giving the lie to her noble title. “On behalf of Lord Mustor, I bid you welcome. Please be assured that all petitions will be heard today, and will receive careful deliberation before judgement is made. Patience, as the Father tells us, is amongst the finest virtues.” She smiled again, showing bright and perfect teeth.

“Like the Father would soil his sight on you,” the unseen voice muttered.

“We shall proceed,” Veliss went on. “Number one. Please come forward and state your name, home and case.”

The first petitioner was an old man complaining on behalf of his village about a recent increase in rents, blaming it on his landlord’s taste for spoiling his son. “Buys him a new horse every month, milord. Ain’t right, people goin’ hungry and there’s a lad no more than twelve riding about on a brand-new stallion.”

“Your landlord’s name?” Veliss enquired.

“Lord Javen, milady.”

“Ah. I believe Lord Javen lost his eldest boy at Greenwater Ford, did he not?”

The man gave a stiff nod. “Along with half the lads in the village, milady. And they weren’t lost in the ford, they were slaughtered afterwards, having surrendered on promise of honourable treatment.”

Veliss gave a tight grimace, Greenwater Ford had been an Asraelin massacre after all. “Quite so.” She looked towards the pair of scribes sitting at a desk to the side of the platform, one of them looking up and nodding. “Your case has been noted,” Veliss told the old man. “And will receive urgent consideration.”

And on it went, one complainant after another, each with a similar tale of woe; unfair rents, unjust disinheritance, theft of land, one young girl asking for sufficient alms to buy her grandfather a new wooden leg, lost in service to the Fief Lord’s mighty forebear. “I think this one can be decided now,” Veliss said, gesturing for a servant to come forward with a purse from which she handed the girl twice the amount she had asked for, drawing an appreciative murmur from the crowd. This one’s no fool, Reva judged. Uncle is wise in his choice of whore.

The last petitioner of the morning proved the most interesting, a man of middling years and somewhat shorter than most, but impressively muscular, his belly free of any paunch despite his age, the hard muscle of his arms discernible under his shirt. Archer, Reva decided as the man bowed and stated his particulars. “Bren Antesh, Tear Head Sound, seeking permission to convene a company of archers.”

For the first time the Fief Lord stirred in his chair, eyes narrowing at the man’s name. “There was a Captain Antesh at Linesh,” he said in a voice of gravel. “Was there not?”

The archer nodded. “Indeed, my lord.”

“They say he saved the Darkblade’s life,” her uncle continued, raising a murmur from the crowd. “Can that possibly be true?”

A faint smile came to Antesh’s lips as he said, “That’s not a name I use, my lord. There is no Darkblade, it’s a story for children.”

Some of the murmurs became angry mutters. “Heresy! It’s in the books . . .” The voices fell silent as a guard slammed his pole-axe stave on the stone floor.

The Fief Lord seemed unaware of the commotion, wiping a hand over his bleary eyes as he went on, “A company of archers, eh? What on earth for?”

“The young men at the Sound grow lazy, my lord. Given to drunkenness and brawling. The bow brings focus to a man’s gaze, trains the body and the mind, gives him the skill to feed his family, and pride in having done so. Deer are plentiful in our woods but few possess the skill to hunt them, save with a crossbow,” he added with a disdainful curl to his lip. “I will tutor the lads in the bow, so that they may know the skills of their fathers.”

“Along with a monthly stipend from me into the bargain?” the Fief Lord asked.

Antesh shook his head. “We ask for no payment, my lord. We will craft our own bows and shafts. We merely seek leave to form a company and practise freely. “

“And should I require the service of this company in time of war?”

Antesh hesitated and Reva saw he had anticipated, but dreaded, this question. The tone of his answer had a certain heaviness to it. “We will be yours to command, my lord.”

The Fief Lord’s gaze became distant with remembrance. “As a boy I was good with bow, better than my brother in fact. Hard to believe I could best him at anything, I know. Had I not been . . . distracted by life, perhaps I’d have muscles like you, eh, Captain?”

The archer replied quickly, neatly side-stepping the opportunity for transgression. “If my lord would care to pick up the bow again, I’d happily teach him.”

Mustor laughed a little. “A man who hits the mark with words as well as arrows.” He turned to the scribes, raising his voice. “The Fief Lord of Cumbrael hereby grants the men of Tear Head Sound leave to convene a company of archers under the captaincy of”-he fumbled, waving a hand at the archer-“Master Antesh here, for a term of one year.” He turned his gaze back to Antesh. “After that we’ll see.”

The archer bowed. “My thanks, my lord.”

The Fief Lord nodded and rose to his feet, looking expectantly at Lady Veliss. “Lunch?”

Servants brought trestle tables and benches into the hall, soon laden with bread, chicken, cheese and bowls of steaming soup. As the vendor had said, the fare was simple but hearty, the petitioners falling to the meal with enthusiasm. The Fief Lord and Lady Veliss retired to enjoy a private meal and Reva found herself seated next to the sturdy old woman from the line. Her case had been heard, a claim against her former employer for unpaid wages, but she stayed for the food.

“Sewed dresses for that ungrateful bitch for near ten years I did,” she said around a mouthful of chicken. “Wore my fingers to nubs. One day she says she’s had enough of my waspish tongue and sends me packing. Well, the lord’s strumpet’ll see to her, all right.”

Reva nodded politely as the woman ranted on, eating a small portion of food and watching the servants come and go, mostly via a large door in the east wall. They were an efficient lot, moving with brisk purpose and little talk, causing Reva to suspect the Lady Veliss had small tolerance for lazy servants, which meant she was likely to know them all, if not by name, certainly by sight.

She waited a short while before asking a passing servant girl the way to the privy, being pointed to a smaller door in the western wall. She found the stalls empty and quickly went about her change of garb, removing the skirt and turning it inside out, pulling her hair into a tight tail before tying the blue scarf in place. Deception is a matter of expectation, the priest had told her once. People do not question what they expect to see. Only the unusual draws the eye. People expected a serving girl in this house to move quickly and speak little, and so she did, emerging from the privy with an unhesitant stride, going to the table to lift some empty plates and taking them to the eastern door. She was gratified by the fact that the old woman didn’t even glance up from her plate as she passed by.

She stood aside as other servants exited the door, thankfully too intent on their own tasks to afford her any attention. The door led to a long corridor ending in a flight of steps which she judged led down to the kitchens. The numerous voices echoing up the stairwell made her discount any notion of trying to secure herself a knife just yet. She placed the plates on a nearby windowsill and went looking for a hiding place. Only one door in the corridor walls was unlocked, opening into a cupboard holding nothing more exciting than a collection of mops and brooms. However, fortune had also provided a large wicker basket piled high with laundry. A few moments squirming and she was safely concealed beneath the mound of mingled bedclothes and garments. Discovery seemed a faint possibility, since with so much clearing up to do after the petitioners had left, any laundry duties would probably be left for the morrow. With little else to occupy her, she went to sleep.

She awoke to the soft impact of more laundry being piled on top of the concealing mound, hearing a muffled exchange of tired voices, cutting off as the door closed. She balled her fists and started counting, stopped at a hundred and started again, extending a finger every time she began a new count. When all ten digits were extended she balled her fists once more and forced herself to repeat the process three more times, only then did she push her way out of the laundry basket, groping for the door in the pitch-darkness. She opened it a crack and peered out onto the dimly lit corridor. Nothing, no footsteps, no voices. The house was at rest.

She divested herself of the heavy double-skirt, having worn her trews underneath the whole time, then crept out into the corridor, ears straining, still hearing nothing. Satisfied, she rose and made for the stairway. The kitchens were large and empty, the only sound coming from a few steaming stock-pots left on the long iron range. Her eyes soon picked out the gleam of metal next to the chopping block. The knives were neatly laid out on the table, offering a wide choice, from large broad-bladed cleavers to needlelike skewers. She chose a plain butcher’s knife with a six-inch blade and good balance to the handle, pushing it into the leather strap she had tied to her ankle before donning the skirts.

As she expected, the kitchens led to another stairway which she hoped would provide access to the Fief Lord’s private chambers, where he was sure to keep any items of value. She climbed the stairs with slow, softly placed steps, careful not to raise the slightest noise. The first room she came to held a long dining table, polished surface dark and gleaming in the light from the oil lamps, the walls covered with tapestries and paintings, mostly portraits. She annoyed herself by allowing her eyes to linger on the faces gazing out from the canvases, searching once more for echoes of her own features, but finding only the distinctive jawline and broad nose that characterised her uncle’s visage.

The dining room adjoined a library, three high walls of book-laden shelves. In the centre of the room sat a writing desk where a book lay open, the silk ribbon trailing across the centre of the page, a few handwritten sheets of parchment next to it. Reva paused as she passed, turning the book to read the title on the cover; Of Nations and Wealth by Dendrish Hendrahl. The writing on the sheets was precise, scribed by a tutored hand. The price of wine defines this fief, she read. Its wealth therefore derives from the vine. The most important man in the fief? Is it the man who owns the vine or the man who picks the grapes?

Reva returned the book to its previous state and moved on, finding another stairwell at the far end of the library. The sight of the room on the next floor up provoked a sudden leap in her heart. Swords!

The room was windowless, lit by a candelabrum hanging from the ceiling, the light from the numerous tiered rows of lamps playing on the swords that covered all four walls. The floor was wooden and springy underfoot as she ventured further, drawn to the nearest sword, a plain but well-made blade of the Asraelin pattern, as were most of its brothers. They were each held in place by iron brackets and easily lifted. Reva’s gaze was drawn to the white plaster above the sword racks, finding it decorated with faded but readable paintings, men frozen in the lunge or the parry. This, she realised, was a room for sword practice. Her father must have learned his skills in this room. What better place for his brother to keep it?

Her eyes roved the walls, seeing more and more Asraelin blades, here and there an archaic long sword or a poniard, but none that matched Al Sorna’s description or the example the smith had shown her . . . Wait!

It hung in the centre of the far wall, a twin to the sword in the smith’s shop, except . . . the handle was finely made and bore an engraved silver emblem; a drawn bow ringed in oak leaves, the crest of the House of Mustor. Can it be? Her fingers played over the handle, her eyes noting the uneven edge of the blade and the scratches on its surface. This sword had seen use, this sword had been carried to war. Perhaps her uncle had the handle made when he brought it back from the High Keep, finding some vestige of decency to honour his fallen brother.

This is it! she decided, grasping the handle and lifting the sword from its bracket. It has to be.

She closed her eyes, held it close, the blade cold against the skin of her forearms, fighting the hammer of her heart. At last . . .

She exhaled slowly, calming herself. Success would only come when she and Arken were free of this city. She would return to her cupboard and wait for the morning, conceal the sword in a basket of laundry and leave via the front gate under the gaze of the guards.

She returned to the stairwell, casting a brief glance upwards . . . and saw a hand. It jutted from behind the corner, lying on the stone ten steps up. It was small, skin smooth and youthful though speckled with blood, the fingers slender but unmoving.

The sword was heavy and clumsy in her grasp, making her pine for her own Far Western blade, but still she reversed her grip on it, holding the point low as she ascended the steps. The girl lay on her back, eyes wide and staring, blue scarf askew on her head, the white of her blouse dyed red from the gaping wound in her neck. The blood still flowed, this was recent.

Reva’s eyes tracked to the steps above, seeing bloody footprints on the stone, overlapping each other in a red collage. More than one. Probably more than two. The realisation was cold and implacable. The Sons, it had to be. The Sons are here, and they have not come for me.

Her immediate instinct was to flee. The manor would soon be in an uproar, bringing danger but also the chance to slip away in the confusion, carrying her prize . . .

They’re going to kill my uncle.

That this undeniable fact was unwelcome surprised her. Her only living blood relative, a man she had never met but been raised to despise, was about to die alongside his Asraelin whore. A just end for the Father’s betrayer, and for his heretic slut. She tried to force some passion into the thought but it remained a listless inward recitation of long-held dogma, empty and insincere in the face of the atrocity confronting her gaze.

What about her? she wondered, continuing to stare at the face of the murdered girl. What end did she deserve?

She found herself climbing the stairs, stepping over the corpse on silent feet, sword held in front of her in a two-handed grip. The bloody footprints faded as she climbed higher, but still left enough gore for her to follow, all the way to the top. She crouched before turning the final corner, using the blade of the butcher’s knife as a mirror, edging it out to afford a view of the last flight of steps, seeing dark shapes moving in a gloomy hallway. No-one had been left to guard their line of retreat, a curious error . . . unless there was no expectation of danger.

She turned the corner and ascended to the hallway. There were three of them, dressed all in black, including the silk scarves covering their faces. Each held a sword, light Asraelin blades, not the like the clumsy bar of sharpened steel she held. They were crouched before a door, outlined in yellow light from the room beyond where voices could be heard, a man and a woman. The woman sounded tense, angry even, the man weary, and drunk. The words “archers” and “foolish” were audible amidst the muffled babble. The man closest to the door reached up to grasp the handle.

“Why did you kill the girl?” Reva asked.

They whirled as one, the man close to the door rising to his full height, green eyes staring at her in appalled recognition, eyes she knew well.

She took an involuntary step back, the sword sagging in her grasp, air escaping her lungs in a rush. “I”-she choked, coughed, forced the words out, holding up the sword-“I found it. See?”

The green eyes narrowed and a voice came from behind the scarf, hard, flat and certain, as it had been every time he beat her. “Kill her!” the priest said.

The man closest to her lunged, sword extended, the point seeking her neck. Her counter was automatic and largely the fruit of Al Sorna’s teaching, the heavy sword coming up to sweep the stabbing point aside as she stepped back, ducking under a following slash. Behind her attacker the priest kicked the door open and charged in, sword raised for a killing thrust, a shout of astonishment sounding from a female throat.

Reva side-stepped another thrust, jabbed fingers into her attacker’s eyes then brought the heavy sword up and round to hack into his leg below the knee, biting deep into the flesh. She left him writhing and screaming, leaping clear and charging into the bedroom.

The priest’s companion had his back to her, slashing repeatedly at something on the bed, something that wriggled in a thick welter of bedclothes, feathers billowing as the blade tore through the quilts. Reva slammed the sword into his back, putting all her weight behind the blade as it speared him between the shoulder blades to jut an inch from his chest, blood erupting from his mouth as he arched his back, collapsing lifeless to the floor.

Reva had expected to find the Fief Lord dead but instead he gaped up at her from his protective swaddle of quilts, his only injury a small cut to the cheek. Shouts of fury dragged Reva’s gaze to the other side of the bed where the priest was battling the Lady Veliss. She lunged at him with a short rapier, teeth bared in a snarl, a torrent of foul abuse issuing from her lips with every thrust. “You cock-munching fucker! I’ll make you eat your own balls!”

For all her fury, Reva was impressed with her control, the thrusts were quick, precise and not over-extended, forcing the priest back, away from the bed. He parried without difficulty, the blade moving in a fluid series of arcs, the way it had when he blocked Reva’s attempts to find a way past with her knife. Despite her skills, Veliss proved to be outmatched, the priest finding an opening as he feinted a jab at her eyes then swung a punch to her face, sending her sprawling.

Reva scooped up the fallen sword of the man she had killed, placing herself between the priest and the bed.

He stared at her in outraged frustration. “You forsake the Father’s love with this betrayal!” he screamed, skin reddening about his eyes. “Al Sorna’s Darkness has twisted you!”

“No,” she whispered, hating the tears that streamed from her eyes. “No, you did that.”

“Filthy, Fatherless sinn-”

She lunged, fast and low, the blade straight and true, finding his thigh, coming free bloody as he twisted away with a howl.

A shout and the thunder of many feet drew her gaze back to the door before she could press the advantage. The priest hefted a stool and threw it at the nearest window, glass shattering amidst the billowing curtain. He glanced back at her once, eyes bright with hate, then turned and ran, leaping through the remains of the window.

Reva dropped her sword and stared at the curtain as it coiled in the night breeze, the sky beyond black and empty. Metal scraped from scabbards and shouts of challenge filled her ears as rough hands closed on her.

“STOP!” The command filled the room, stilling the tumult.

The Fief Lord cursed as he disentangled himself from the bedclothes, stumbling into her gaze though she barely saw him, her eyes still fixed on the curtain and the window.

“Look at me,” he said, voice gentle, fingers soft on her chin. She looked into the red-rimmed eyes of her uncle and saw tears there as he smiled, his lips forming a fond murmur. “Reva.”