Besieged (22 page)

‘You and you, come with me.’ He selected two men at random and led them into the basement.

The sight of the Wyrd warrior chained to the cellar wall thrilled him. She glared across the dim cellar, lit by a single lantern hanging over the stairs.

Oskane dipped into his bag and handed the two penitents gloves. ‘You’ll wear these. You will not touch her flesh. You will not look into her eyes.’ He had several knives: one made of silver, another of gold, and a third of bronze. He even had a malachite knife. He selected the silver knife. ‘One of you will hold her still, while the other cuts off her little fingers.’

The captive’s eyes widened. ‘What is wrong with you people?’

He hadn’t realised she spoke Chalcedonian; not all of them did.

‘Ignore her. Her voice holds no power. That is another myth.’ It was wonderful to see ignorance defeated by knowledge.

The first two penitents crossed the cellar. One of them forced the woman’s arm against the wall. Her eyes darted about in panic and, although he couldn’t sense it, Oskane knew her gift would be rising.

‘Eh.’ The one holding her arm turned his face away. ‘Fair makes me teeth ache.’

So he was sensitive to Wyrd power; some True-men were.

‘Hurry up. I can’t take much more of this.’

The other one was having trouble holding her hand still. Finally, he had the fingers splayed against the wall and started sawing at her little finger. Blood ran down her arm and the wall. She writhed and jerked, shrieking at them in her heathen language.

All of which proved Oskane’s theory. If she had any real power, she would not put up with this treatment. All these years, it had been the True-man’s fear of Wyrds that had held them back.

The two penitents cursed as they fought to keep her still. The one with the knife slipped and the blade slashed his companion’s arm.

‘Watch what you’re feckin’ doing,’ the bloodied man cursed.

Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he reached clumsily for his companion’s knife.

‘Don’t give it to him, you idiot!’ Oskane yelled.

Too late. The possessed penitent slid the knife up into the other man’s ribs, then turned towards Oskane

Oskane looked past the penitent to the Wyrd. She was focusing inward as she controlled the man. Darting forward, Oskane took the knife away from the possessed penitent, who stood there stupidly.

The agent, who had stumbled down the steps behind them to see what all the shouting was about, turned to Oskane. ‘I thought you said she couldn’t–’

‘Her blood mingled with his, giving her power over him.’ Why was he surrounded by fools? ‘Tie him to the wall.’ Oskane needed to know if she could control more than one man at a time.

But before he could be bound, the possessed penitent tackled the agent. The two men rolled across the floor. Oskane watched the silverhead; she was completely still, eyes closed. All her concentration was on the man she controlled, and he realised how vulnerable she now was. He’d read of this, silverheads lying unconscious or frozen in place while they worked their gifts, protected by half-bloods or other T’En.

There was the sound of a rib cracking and then something soft being punctured. The agent came to his feet, a little unsteady.

‘Why did you have to kill him?’ Oskane had wanted to cause the possessed man pain, to see if the Wyrd felt it too.

‘The malachite didn’t protect him,’ the agent said, as he held up the pendant.

‘Of course not,’ the Wyrd said. ‘There’s no power in it.’

‘The power is in the idea. The man clearly had a weak mind,’ Oskane said. ‘Get the bodies out of here, sluice away the blood and send the next two down.’

The next two men put on their gloves, took a knife each and came at her from the sides. She couldn’t watch both.

This time she didn’t let them get near.

With surprising speed, she kicked the first one under the chin, driving his head back. Oskane heard the click as his neck broke. The second man got in a single strike, pulled the knife out and turned to see if his partner was all right. Grasping her shackles, the woman lifted her legs, caught him around the waist with her thighs and squeezed.

‘You should have chained her legs as well,’ Oskane told the agent.

‘I didn’t think it mattered,’ he said and went to help the penitent, who had lost his grip on the knife and was struggling to breathe.

‘No. Leave him.’ Oskane noted the way the penitent pried at her legs, gasping. Would she lose strength from blood loss before he passed out? No. The man laboured to breathe, then dropped.

‘She crushed his ribs,’ the agent said.

Yes, but she’d used her strength, not her gift. It appeared the Wyrd powers were not useful in a direct physical confrontation.

Oskane’s agent dragged the body away. All the while, the silverhead gasped, flinching as her rapid breathing tugged on the wound in her side; she was failing. One attempt to use her gift on them. One attempt to use her strength. What did she had left?

‘What do you want from me?’ she gasped.

‘You specifically? Nothing.’ Oskane knew the extent of her gift now. If she was reduced to bargaining, she had nothing in reserve. ‘But I will take your hair and your little sixth fingers for trophies.’ He wanted to test Sorne, to see if he could sense residual power.

The agent brought down the next two penitents. Their eyes darted about the dim cellar.

Oskane gave them the gloves and the knives. ‘Kill her.’

‘You are an evil man,’ she told Oskane.

The penitents eyed her warily.

‘She cannot hurt you. If she had any power, do you think she would be manacled in a cellar, bleeding, at my mercy?’

Seeing the sense in this, they looked to each other and drove their knives up under her ribs.

She sent Oskane a look of triumph and...

Disappeared.

Her clothing dropped to the ground. At the same time the two penitents fell like sacks of grain and a sharp smell filled the cellar, reminding Oskane of the sea.

‘That was most unexpected.’

The agent ran to check both penitents. ‘Dead. But I thought they were safe if they didn’t touch her skin.’

‘They were covered in her blood.’

‘If she could get away at any time, why didn’t she do it sooner? Why stay here and let us torture her?’

‘Because she didn’t get away.’ Oskane was certain of this. ‘She’s dead. Wherever she went, it was a last resort, and she chose to go there to cheat me of my prizes. But today has not been a total loss. I’ve proven several theories. Next time, kill the silverhead from a distance and don’t approach until you are certain it’s dead, then send me the trophies.’

When he got back to the retreat, he wrote up his observations. He should have taken her clothing. It would have been imbued with gift power. Never mind; his agent would send him suitable T’En artefacts.

If he could teach Sorne to resist their lure, the lad would be able to enter the city. But it might take years for the boys to work their way into positions of trust where they could carry out assassinations. Oskane was tired of waiting.

He needed something concrete to take to Charald, and soon. Besides, after seeing the full-blood take over the penitent, Oskane did not know if the two half-bloods would come out of the city as his spies, or the Wyrd’s double agents.

He’d give them a year. If they had nothing by then, he’d go to Charald with the ‘discovery’ that Wyrd power was mostly bluff. Avoid the eyes, avoid touch, wear a talisman. Malachite would be as good as any.

There were many more half-bloods in Cesspit City than T’En, and only the adult T’En had innate power. The Mieren vastly outnumbered Wyrds. If they lost ten thousand True-men to the T’En gifts, those men died martyrs and it was worth the sacrifice to take the city and wipe out the Wyrds.

S
ORNE FOLLOWED
F
RANTO
into the courtyard when the cart arrived. Oskane’s assistant welcomed the carter, then called for Denat to come and unload. He was the last of the penitents, and he avoided work whereever possible.

Sorne called through the stable door. ‘Cart’s here.’

‘Cart’s here,’ little Valendia repeated in a sing-song voice as she trotted after Izteben. At three and a half, her head was a mass of red-gold curls that had yet to darken to copper, but the distinctive eyes and six fingers revealed her tainted blood.

‘Wait, Dia,’ their mother warned. She picked up the toddler and watched from the doorway. When Kolst had taken Zabier, something in Hiruna had died. She was less trusting, and never let Valendia out of her sight.

‘It’s just the cart, Ma,’ Sorne said. ‘With the same driver as always. He’s not going to take Valendia.’

‘Zabier will be thirteen next spring. Almost a man,’ Hiruna said. Sorne and Izteben exchanged looks. Where had that come from?

‘I think of him every day.’

Franto called again for Denat but there was no sign of him.

‘Go help Franto unload,’ Hiruna urged. ‘He’ll do himself an injury, if he’s not careful.’

Sorne and Izteben crossed the courtyard.

‘Have you seen Denat?’ Franto asked them.

They shook their heads, shouldered a sack of flour each and took them inside.

As Sorne returned to the cart, he saw the driver hand Franto a carved chest. A word was exchanged and Franto turned to look up to the third floor window, where Scholar Oskane was watching. The scholar beckoned eagerly.

Sorne had to get a look inside that chest.

O
SKANE TUGGED HIS
gloves on, pressing down between each finger to ensure a neat fit. Then he spread out the bloodstained robe; brocade edged with semi-precious stones. Such an arrogant display of wealth. Typical of the T’En.

According to his Enlightenment Abbey agent, a full-blood female had worn it. She’d been old and frail, and had fallen behind the rest of the party, accompanied only by an equally elderly half-blood.

They’d thought themselves safe, had discovered otherwise when they’d taken arrows in their backs.

There were stories of T’En catching arrows in flight, but that was three hundred years ago during battle, and Oskane suspected such tales were grand exaggerations.

Oskane took the small knife from his waist and sliced off a silver button, tucking it into his vest pocket before thinking better of it and wrapping it in a kerchief. He refolded the robe and placed it on his bed.

Next he picked up the silver braid. It was almost as long as he was tall. The T’En wore their hair long in elaborate styles, as a sign of status.

He hesitated for a heartbeat, then removed one glove and ran his hand over the plait. It felt like silk, fine, soft and slippery. He’d always wondered what their hair would feel like.

During the great war between the True-men and the Wyrds, the barons strung these trophy plaits from their banners. As a boy, he’d stared up at their family’s banner in his cousin’s hall and wondered about the four silver plaits, each thick as a man’s wrist. Four dead T’En.

Oskane put the T’En artefacts away, hid the chest under his bed and removed the gloves. He lifted the leather to his face and sniffed. Nothing. But, if his research was correct, a half-blood would be able to sense the residue of the gift on things worn or used daily by T’En. That was why he wore gloves while handling their artefacts.

Walking into his office, Oskane found Sorne and Izteben waiting for him, bare-chested. Aged just seventeen and nearly eighteen respectively, they were both half a head taller than him, but their chins were smooth and soft as a girl’s and there was no hair on their chests. It was strange the way Wyrds matured. It made him uncomfortable.

‘What are you?’ he asked them.

‘Holy warriors,’ they answered in unison, voices deep and melodic.

‘Whose holy warriors?’

‘Your holy warriors, Scholar Oskane.’

‘Why do I do this?’

‘To make us strong. So we can conquer pain and temptation.’

And today he would find out if they could sense T’En power. ‘Very good.’ He gestured. ‘Sorne first.’

Sorne stepped over to the frame and took a hold of the pegs, arms spread, broad back ready. Oskane handed Izteben the scourge. ‘Proceed.’

The older youth stepped back, raised his arm and struck, accurately and hard. They both knew that if he didn’t, Oskane would send for Denat, who would enjoy scourging them.

While Izteben attended to Sorne, Oskane leant on the edge of his desk. He was sixty-four and he thought he’d been old at forty-seven. He could wait no longer. Lucky for him, Nitzel still lived to feel Oskane’s revenge.

Izteben changed places with Sorne and the scourging continued.

This winter, Oskane would have Hiruna make up clothing based on the Wyrd designs he had seen; he’d send the two half-bloods to Cesspit City in the spring. He allowed himself a pleasant daydream, where King Charald begged his forgiveness while Nitzel looked on.

‘Scholar Oskane?’ Sorne had finished. ‘Do you want me to work on your portrait today?’

‘Not today.’ Oskane held out his hand, and they both kissed the ruby ring. ‘You can go, Izteben.’

The older youth glanced to Sorne, who gave the slightest nod of his head.

Oskane went around his desk and sat down. ‘Come here. Sit.’

Sorne obeyed.

Oskane knew he really should tell the half-blood the truth of his birth and his mother’s murder, but he found himself delaying. He wasn’t convinced that the boy had the maturity to deal with the facts yet. He would tell Sorne the truth in the spring, before he sent them both out. That way they would be fired up with righteous anger.

Dipping into his pocket, Oskane retrieved the silver button. The thought that it could be contaminated with a residue of Wyrd power revolted him. With meticulous care, he unrolled it from his kerchief and placed the artefact on his desk. It sat there on the polished wood, catching the light. He gestured. ‘Pick it up. Tell me what you feel.’

Sorne reached out, then hesitated. ‘What am I supposed to feel?’

‘I don’t want to lead you.’

The youth nodded. He picked up the button and frowned. ‘I feel nothing.’