A Painted Goddess (8 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When Stasha Benadicta showed up again in his cell with those two bruisers Bune and Lubin in tow, Giffen sensed it would be different this time.

He’d always had a ratlike cunning for self-preservation, and some instinct told him that he might have another beating coming. Previously, he’d made the beatings stop by simply telling the evil woman what she wanted to know.

But this time was . . . different.

How it would be different or why Giffen thought such a thing remained to be seen. Perhaps he was wrong. Maybe there’d be no beating at all. Wouldn’t that make for a nice change of pace?

Stasha Benadicta gestured at him as if indicating a pile of goat shit that needed to be cleaned up. “Bune.”

Bune seized him by the back of the neck and slammed him face-first into the stone floor of the cell. Giffen spit blood, blinked, and saw stars. The great oaf held him pinned against the floor.

Not that Giffen had any immediate plans to get up.

So it’s to be another beating after all
, Giffen thought.
If I had a sharp gentleman’s blade and two minutes alone in the dark with that bitch
. . .

“I need to know something,” Stasha said.

Bune gave Giffen’s neck a squeeze for emphasis.

“I presumed as much. It’s not as if you come down here to socialize.” Giffen put as much contempt into the words as he could muster, considering his face was being pushed into the cold stone floor.

“Good,” Stasha said. “Then you understand our relationship.”

“No,” Giffen said. “It’s going to be different this time.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”
It has to be. I can’t go on like this. Eventually I’ll run out of useful information, and then there will be no need to keep me around
.

No need to keep me alive
.

She knelt next to him, had something in her hands. It was wrapped in soft leather. She began to unwrap the object. Giffen watched her, held his breath.

Stasha revealed the object. It was a flawless ruby the size of a walnut, valuable beyond reckoning in and of itself, but it was no mere gemstone. The ruby was set in a silver disc with obscure runes set at different stations around it. On the reverse side of the disc were four metal prongs of various lengths, ranging from an inch to three.

Giffen had never laid eyes on the object but recognized it immediately.

The last piece. She knows
.

“We met the man at the place and time you told us, Giffen,” Stasha said. “He had this with him. Care to tell us about it?”

She doesn’t know?
“Didn’t he tell you?”

“He told us what he told us,” Stasha said. “Now
you’re
going to tell us. And if what you tell us doesn’t match what he told us . . . well, someone’s going to have to be held responsible for that, aren’t they?”

“It’s the last piece. The one that opens the doorway.” He pressed his lips together tight, refusing to say more. That would either match up with what Harpos Knarr told her or it wouldn’t.

Stasha nodded slowly. “Good. Thank you, Giffen. Then you can imagine what questions are coming next. Why don’t you be a helpful chap now, eh?”

“No.”

“No? You want to bring Bune and Lubin into the conversation again. We know how that goes.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Giffen said. “You don’t think I know what happens once I’m no longer useful. No, Lady Chamberlain, we need to work out something else. I realize I can put off a beating by telling you what you want to know, but then what? We’re going to start thinking long term, you and I.”

Stasha bit her lower lip while she thought about that. “What do you want?”

“Out of this dungeon.”

“No.”

“I don’t expect you to set me free. I’m not a fool. But lock me in some room with a bed and light. I can’t tolerate this dank hole any longer.”

“You tell me what I want to know first.”

“No,” he said. “We need to figure some way to trade what we want. I don’t trust you, and I can’t imagine you trust me. I have three pieces of information I know you will need. As we go along, other issues might arise, and perhaps I will have answers, but at the very least, I possess
three
items of information, which are essential, and I am the
only
one who has this information. On that you must take my word. Here is what I propose. The first item of information is an object you must possess.”

“I thought
this
was the final component.” Stasha indicated the ruby in her palm.

“To the doorway, yes,” Giffen said. “But where is it? How to find it? Without my help, you could look for a hundred years and never get close.”

“Go on, then,” Stasha said.

“I tell you what the object is, and in return, you move my incarceration to a more hospitable location,” Giffen said. “It will take you some time to locate this thing, and I don’t fancy rotting down here in the meantime.”

“Tell me what it is,” she said.

“No, first your promise,” Giffen insisted. “I tell you, and you let me out of this sodding hole. Then when you’ve found it, I’ll tell you how to use it.”

Stasha considered, then said, “You have my word.”

“The duke’s signet ring,” Giffen said.

Stasha frowned. “What of it?”

“Klaar is one of the oldest holdings in Helva,” Giffen said. “The Veraiin house is centuries old. The ring is more than just a symbol of Klaar, more than just an heirloom. It’s been handed down from one generation to the next to guard a very specific secret. I am privy to that secret. When you find the ring, I’ll tell you the rest.”

Giffen allowed himself a smug smile. Searching for the ring would keep the bitch busy a good long while, and in the meantime, he could enjoy a proper bed in a room not crawling with rats and that didn’t stink of his own excrement. During the Perranese occupation of Klaar, Giffen had searched high and low for the ring and had finally assumed the brat Rina had taken it with her when she fled the city.

Stasha considered Giffen for a moment, her face blank. Maybe she was trying to decide whether Giffen were telling the truth.

Stasha Benadicta dipped two fingers into her blouse between her breasts and came out with a thin silver chain. At the end of the chain hung a ring.

“Do you mean this ring right here?” Stasha asked.

Giffen gaped.
Damn the woman
.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Darshia stuck her head into the Birds of Prey barracks and counted the girls. Nine. The rest were either on guard duty or attending to personal matters. She thought about picking the three she wanted, but the fact was they were all good. They trained hard. They wanted to be Birds of Prey. They were proud of it. It wasn’t just some job. It was a way out of an old life.

And into a new one.

“Hey!”

All nine of them stopped what they were doing and looked up. They knew the sound of their captain’s voice.

“I need three volunteers right now,” she said. “Armor up and follow me.”

She turned and left without waiting to see who volunteered. Let them work it out among themselves. A second later, she heard them clanking down the hall behind her, buckling on sword belts and strapping on armor. She glanced back over her shoulder. All nine of them followed her, slipping on bracers and straightening helms.

Okay, full points for enthusiasm, but we’ll need to work on listening skills later
. They were all coming along well with the sword training, but they were newbies and hadn’t quite gotten the hang of being a military unit.
Listen to yourself
, Darshia thought.
As if you were some old war veteran
.

There was a pang of grief as she thought about Prinn. She wished her friend were at her side now. She wished Tenni were still alive. She’d have been proud to see what the Birds of Prey had become. She wondered where Tosh was, if he was okay.

She shook her head, dispelling the thoughts.
Focus on what you’re doing
.

Darshia led them up the stairs and down the hall to the residential wing of the castle. At one time, the duke, his wife, and his daughter had occupied the wing. Now it was empty, two of them dead and Rina off on some mission.

Stasha Benadicta stood waiting for them at the end of the hall in front of a closed door. She stood back straight, chin up, hands clasped primly in front of her. She had an air of authority. She made a good steward, Darshia thought. Not everyone respected her because of where she’d come from, but Duchess Veraiin had been smart to leave her in charge.

Darshia stopped in front of the steward, nodding respect.

Stasha looked past her, raising an eyebrow at the women in tow. “So many?”

“I can send some away if you want,” Darshia said.

“Never mind,” Stasha told her. “Follow me.”

She went through the doorway behind her, and Darshia followed. The room within was spacious and well lit, a bay window taking up almost one entire wall. A writing desk. Cushioned chairs arranged facing a cold fireplace. Shelves with many books. A thick rug. A small sideboard with a stoppered decanter half full of wine, and a pair of pewter wine goblets.

A man stood with his back to her, scanning the titles of the books. He turned, and Darshia recognized him immediately.

Giffen
.

Last Darshia had heard, the man was rotting in the dungeon. He’d bathed and had been given a clean robe, but she still felt slimy just looking at him.

She held her tongue, but hatred must have flashed in her eyes because Giffen sneered contempt at her.

“Ah, the red-haired harlot,” Giffen said. “With a gaggle of whores in your wake. Last time we saw each other, my hands were around your throat, if I remember correctly. I’d have finished the job if one of those oafish brutes hadn’t come to your rescue.”

Darshia’s hand fell to the hilt of her sword, the muscles in her jaw working.
One more word, you maggot. Go ahead, just one more word out of that stinking mouth
.

“Be civil, Giffen, or I’ll forget any agreement we have,” Stasha said. “I can only protect you up to a point. There are enough people in this castle who’d be delighted to see you dead as soon as I turn my back. And I’ll make a
point
of turning my back if you don’t behave.”

Giffen sniffed and turned away from Darshia. “Very well. It’s not worth my time anyway.”

“Let’s get on with it,” Stasha said. “Tell us why we’re here, Giffen.”

Giffen gestured at the room around him. “The duke’s private library. He wasn’t much of a reading man, not like his father, but it was a good, quiet place for a drink.” He gestured at the chairs by the fire. “Often we would sit side by side on a cold winter’s night and discuss Klaar’s troubles.”

“You’re trying my patience, Giffen,” Stasha said. “And if you keep talking about the man you murdered as if you were old friends, then I will let Darshia and the rest of these women hack you to bits until what’s left is unrecognizable.”

Giffen went to the fireplace. Just under the mantel was the stone carving of a face. In an instant of clarity, Darshia realized it was the face of the First Duke, the same one she’d seen on the statue in the old town square. The eye patch was unmistakable, crossed axes under the face.

Giffen reached a hand out, palm up. “The ring, if you please.”

Stasha hesitated. She pulled out the chain from her modest neckline and took it off over her head. She unfastened it and removed the ring, stepped forward, and placed it in Giffen’s hand, frowning the whole time.

Giffen slipped the ring onto his finger, looking smug, as if he’d won some petty victory. Again, Darshia suppressed the urge to put her sword through his face.

Giffen inserted the ring into the First Duke’s good eye and pressed until there was an audible clunk of some mechanism clicking into place. He rotated his fist 180 degrees to the right, stone scraping on stone until the First Duke’s head was upside down. Giffen pressed hard, shoving the face back into the fireplace, and Darshia felt the next clunk vibrate under her feet, as if something were sifting into place below them.

A loud crack, and then the fireplace began to turn, the wall shifting out, dust falling from the ceiling. Giffen stepped back as the fireplace rotated. It finally stopped, revealing an arched opening behind it and stairs spiraling down into the darkness.

“Get something so we can see,” Stasha told Darshia. “Lanterns or torches.”

Darshia waved her hand, and one of the Birds of Prey left at a run to obey.

“Castle Klaar is one of the oldest structures in Helva, along with the royal palace in Merridan, the Great Library in Tul-Agnon, and the duke’s pyramid in Sherrik,” Giffen explained. “Back then the most powerful families had much better relationships, and their reign over Helva was considered a golden age. One of the keys to their close relationship lies below.” He gestured to the stairway.

The girl who had gone for the lanterns returned breathless, one in each hand. Darshia took one of them and nodded to Stasha. Ready.

Stasha looked at Giffen, her face a grim, unreadable mask. “Lead on.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The flat-topped pyramid that served as the ducal palace stood in the center of the city and dwarfed all structures around it. Centuries ago it had been a keep unto itself, and over the decades the city had grown up around it and the wall around the city until Sherrik had become known as the fortified jewel of southern Helva, a place of culture and trade, but also a place of high walls guarded by men with long spears.

Sherrik’s streets—and especially its waterfront—usually bustled with activity as merchant ships from southern waters and western lands trafficked its piers and wharves, trade caravans setting out on northern routes to bring exotic goods to the rest of Helva. For centuries, the dukes of Sherrik had kept the peace, kept tariffs low, and kept out of the way as the city prospered, letting trade find its own natural ebb and flow.

Now the hooves of Rina Veraiin’s horse echoed on the empty cobblestone streets. Windows stood empty except for the occasional haunted face of some brave—or foolish—person who’d elected to stay behind and ride out the siege. She and Hark galloped behind Captain Sarkham, who rode ahead of them on an enormous black mare. Two more guards brought up the rear. They passed through an open-air market, the stalls empty, vendors either hiding at home or fleeing the city. The other side of the market opened into a wide boulevard, columned buildings of gray stone on either side. To Rina they seemed like the halls of government, housing the bureaucracies that ran the city, but it was only a guess. She’d never visited Sherrik before. The streets and sidewalks were as deserted here as everywhere else, and she found the eerie quiet more disturbing than the clamorous racket of a battle. Almost.

Ahead of them, the great pyramid of Sherrik rose above all other structures. From a distance it looked simply like fifteen progressively smaller blocks of square stone piled one atop the other, the top flat, unlike the smoother pyramids of Fyria, which rose to sharp points. As she moved closer, Rina saw that each level above the first was ringed by a railed balcony as wide as a city street, tall narrow windows lining the walls. They passed through a large gate into a wide courtyard. The great doors of the pyramid loomed at the head of a broad stone stairway before them.

Rina and Bishop Hark dismounted, and grooms led their horses away.

“Do you know the duke?” Rina asked from the side of her mouth.

“I met his father,” Hark said. “My understanding is that the young duke is brash but smart enough to let his advisors run the daily affairs of the city.”

“Can he handle a siege?”

Hark shrugged.

Fantastic
, Rina thought.
The perfect time for my first visit to Sherrik
.

Sarkham led them up the steps and through the great doors, which stood open on enormous iron hinges. They passed through a few anterooms until they emerged through a side door into the pyramid’s great reception hall.

Every lord, baron, and duke has a room like this
, Rina mused.
A big hall and a big chair raised up so we can greet visitors and show who’s boss. A visible and obvious projection of power
.
Klaar’s reception hall could fit ten times into this place
.

Their footfalls echoed as they walked the polished floor to the raised platform in front of them. A line of seven chairs dominated the platform, but at the moment only the center chair was occupied. A gray-haired man in a black robe bent to whisper into the ear of the man sitting in the center chair. A brief flurry of whispers and nodding heads.

The man with the black robe straightened and faced Rina. “May I present Emilio Barakas Hansfel Sherrik, the duke.”

A history lesson from one of her old tutors tickled Rina’s memory.
Oh yeah. The original duke had named the city after himself
.

Bishop Hark bowed. Rina’s bow was more of a respectful nod. As duchess she was Duke Sherrik’s equal.

Technically.

The duke rose from his seat and raised a hand in greeting. “Duchess Veraiin, Bishop Hark, you’re most welcome to my city.” He went to the edge of the platform and took a short set of side stairs down to the floor and jogged toward them. “As we’re on the brink of war, let’s dispense with the stuffy formalities, shall we?”

“That’s hospitable of you,” she said. “I hope you’ll call me Rina.”

“And I’m Emilio.” He stopped in front of her, staring openly at her face. “Forgive me. I’d heard about the tattoos. They
are
striking.”

Rina’s instinct was to reach for the tattoos around her eyes, but she resisted.

“I’m envious,” the duke said. “You look positively
fierce
.”

Rina forced a smile, not quite sure if she were pleased with the comment or not. By now she was used to the stares, but most people refrained from saying anything.

“And you also look . . . formidable,” she told him.

The duke’s armor had been painted a bright gold and was trimmed in red enamel. The emblem of the sailing ship silhouetted against the setting sun—the symbol of the Sherrik house—blazed across the breastplate. It was armor made for parades and fancy dress balls. There wasn’t a scratch on it. Rina doubted the armor had been within a hundred miles of a battle.

Emilio looked down at himself. “You don’t think it makes me look too much the dandy? It was custom made and fits well at least.” He turned to Hark. “Welcome, Bishop. We haven’t met before, have we?”

“No, your grace,” Hark said. “But I was an admirer of your father.”

“Yes, a terrible thing his passing so suddenly last year,” Emilio said. “Rest assured I have everything under control and am taking steps to make sure the city is well defended.”

“I have no doubt of it, your grace,” Hark said.

No trace of insincerity.
He’d make a good politician
, Rina thought.

“You’ve faced these Perranese devils before,” Emilio said to Rina. “And won. I’d very much like your opinion on the city’s defenses.”

“I’m no general,” Rina said. “We got lucky in Klaar and surprised the Perranese.”

“Nonsense. Come, follow me. I want to show you something.” He turned and stalked away, not bothering to look and see whether anyone followed.

Rina and the bishop hurried to catch up. Guards fell in behind them.

He’s like some kid, eager to show off something or other
. It seemed only some vague trace of ducal dignity kept Emilio from breaking into a jog.
Kid. He’s a year or two older than I am. If that.

Rina suddenly felt old beyond her years. She’d seen so much, been through so much in such a short time. She had responsibilities. They weighed her down. She spent every day second-guessing herself.

Emilio appeared unburdened by such doubts.

They headed up broad stairs, gently spiraling around the inside of the palace. A moment later they emerged through a large archway onto a wide veranda. The sun beat down, but bright linen canopies had been erected, tables and chairs beneath, making a pleasant little pavilion. Servants sprang into action, filling wine goblets. Others brought platters of food.

“Please, help yourself. Be comfortable. Be at home.” Emilio grabbed a goblet of wine as he passed a servant with a tray full of them. He motioned for Rina and the bishop to follow him.

They went to a table near the edge of the veranda. The spot offered a good view of the city spread out before them to the southern wall. They weren’t high enough to see down into Sherrik’s famed harbor, but the glittering blue sea was visible beyond
. It’s beautiful
, Rina thought. Hard to believe the view would soon be filled with an enemy fleet.

She reached into a small bag hanging from her belt and came out with a chuma stick. “Do you mind?”

“Chuma! I don’t partake myself, but please go ahead,” Emilio said.

A servant appeared as if by magic with a brand from the fire, and Rina puffed the chuma stick to life, blowing a long gray cloud out over the city. She immediately felt a slight ease in her tension. She’d ridden a long way and had been filled with various anxieties. She looked out over the city again, puffing. It would have been a nice place for a holiday if they hadn’t been on the edge of war.

They stood around a table about ten feet by five feet with a red silk sheet thrown over it. There was something lumpy beneath the sheet. Rina didn’t have to wonder long what was underneath. Emilio whipped the sheet aside with a dramatic flurry.

“Behold,” he said proudly. “The city of Sherrik and its defenses.”

Rina stuck the chuma stick into the corner of her mouth and leaned forward to squint at the duke’s revelation.

It was a painstakingly accurate model of the city—every building, wall, and street accounted for. Metal figures in armor—probably cast in lead—had been painted with the livery of Sherrik. Wooden carved sailing ships had been placed entering the harbor. They flew Perranese flags.

Emilio pointed at the figurines atop the outer wall facing the harbor, careful not to knock them over. “Obviously we can’t have a figurine for every single soldier. The ones with white helmets represent a hundred troops. The red helmets represent five hundred troops. As you can see, we have five thousand men stationed along the harbor wall, where we expect the brunt of the attack.” He made a lazy circular motion with his finger, indicating the rest of the city’s perimeter. “Another thousand stationed around the other walls.” He indicated a wide boulevard that spanned the width of the city in a straight line from the harbor defenses to the northern wall. Halfway between the two points was a building marked with a little red flag. “We can move troops to strengthen either the harbor defenses or the gate to the north should they land troops up or down the coast to march inland and attack us that way. The flagged building houses additional troops sent by cousin Pemrod. I had initially planned to station them at points around the wall but thought instead to hold them in reserve until we see how the enemy deploys.”

Rina listened to the duke with a growing sense of dread. She hadn’t really known how close she’d come to hitting the mark earlier when she’d thought of him as a kid.
He’s a child, playing at war with his toy soldiers. He’s giddy with the idea of this battle. Has he ever heard the screams or smelled the blood or bowels loosened in the throes of death
?

Emilio pointed to a space between the harbor wall and a larger wall back a few hundred paces within the city. “If they take the harbor wall, we can fall back behind this inner wall, conceding this dockside market area. Naturally, I don’t expect it to get that far, but a commander must always be prepared.”

He’ll get everyone killed. He has no idea what’s coming
.

But neither did Rina. All she knew for sure was that if she was never in another battle for the rest of her life that would be just fine. Her instincts told her fate had something else in mind.

She blinked, looking back at the duke, realizing he was asking her a question. “Your grace?”

“I asked if you thought my preparations sufficient,” Emilio repeated. “I welcome any suggestions you might have.”

She looked back at the toy soldiers. “I . . . I don’t know.”

“The defenses seem sensible,” Hark said. “I suppose it’s difficult to plan when you don’t yet know the size of the enemy force.”

“Hmmm, yes.” The duke’s eyes were still on Rina.

He’s still playing but doesn’t want Hark as his playmate. He’s waiting for me to say something.

A memory stirred. Rina’s father preparing for the oncoming invaders.

“How are your stores?” she asked.

Emilio raised an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“If they have a siege in mind, they might not bother to storm the walls at all,” Rina said. “They can blockade your harbor and choke the roads inland if they land enough men.”

Emilio brightened. “An excellent point. Our supplies are good and will stretch even further with so much of the population gone from the city, and we have deep wells for fresh water. My people estimate the stores should easily last—” The duke turned suddenly to speak to someone behind him. “Maxus, how long did the chamberlain’s clerks estimate the food stores would last?”

Rina turned also to see a man come forward from a shaded spot beneath the canopy. He’d been standing quietly; she hadn’t noticed him before.

“Eighteen months at present consumption,” Maxus said. “Longer if we go on half rations or even quarter rations.”

“There, you see?” Emilio said. “And by then we could easily have ships down from Kern to break the blockade. I’m sure even now, King Pemrod is rallying more troops to our cause. We’ll throw these Perranese bastards back into the sea, I promise you.”

Rina’s eyes were still on Maxus. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“But of course, I should have introduced you,” Emilio said. “Bishop Hark, Duchess Veraiin, this is the wizard Maxus Fench, my chief advisor.”

Maxus bowed. He was so tall and thin, Rina imagined she heard his bones creak. He was completely smooth and bald up top. His braided beard, a mix of black and white, hung almost to his belt. Nose like a beak, eyes a dull brown. A robe of deep scarlet, cinched at the waist with a tasseled green cord.

“It’s a special treat to see you out and about in the sunlight, Maxus.” Emilio turned to Rina. “Usually our master magician locks himself away in his tower, pouring over dusty books and fiddling with potions and whatnot.”

Maxus’s grin was filled with yellow teeth. “When I heard the duchess arrived, I had to see for myself. Forgive me. Professional curiosity. May I?”

He moved closer to examine the tattoos around Rina’s eyes.

Her instinct was to back away from him, but she didn’t want to be rude. She endured his scrutiny. He squinted at her face like she might be some exotic species of insect.

“Fascinating,” Maxus said. “This doesn’t look like Weylan’s work.”

Rina blinked surprise. “You knew him?”

“A long time ago,” Maxus said. “We haven’t crossed paths in nearly three decades.”

“Then you might not have heard,” Rina said. “He died.”