Tower Lord

The door swung open releasing a powerful stench, her senses assailed by a blend of excrement, urine and stale sweat. She fought down her gorge as the captain pushed her inside. A man was huddled in the dark corner of the cabin, hair long and greasy, his clothes the ragged remnants of a uniform, stained with his own filth. Heavy manacles were fastened to his wrists and ankles. From the stench Lyrna surmised he had been here for several days.

“If he moves, beat him down,” the captain growled at the crewman who drew a cudgel and stepped closer. “Moves like a snake this one. Stuck a hidden stiletto through the eye of the only man in my crew who spoke his pig tongue.” The captain jabbed the toe of his boot into the stinking man’s ribs, drawing a pained gasp. He stepped back, jerking his head at her. “If there’s anyone alive knows this key, it’s him.”

Lyrna crouched down and edged closer to the captive, all too aware of the guard’s proximity, the brass handle of the dagger jutting from his boot gleaming in the half-light. The man squinted at her as she drew closer and she had the impression of a handsome face under the filth and dried blood. “Sending monsters to plague me now,” he muttered.

“How do you come to this?” Lyrna asked him in his own language.

“So they’ve found a clever monster,” he replied. “Tell this pirate dog he’d best kill me soon for when our fleet finds him . . .”

“If you want to live, shut your mouth and do what I tell you,” Lyrna said in as placid a tone as she could manage. “Believe me when I say your life is of no worth to me and I’ll laugh when they throw you to the sharks. However, if I can’t convince the pirate you’re being cooperative, they’re likely to throw me in after you. Now, how do you come to be here?”

He angled his head at her in calculation and Lyrna detected a keen mind behind the arrogant sneer. Like Darnel but with brains, she thought. Not a pleasant prospect.

“Betrayal,” he said. “Deceit. The lies of a slave, for only a fool ever trusts a slave. An island of riches, he promised me. Stolen by the greatest Meldenean pirate ever to live, long thought a legend but he had a map and was willing to trade it for freedom. It was only a few days’ diversion from our route, I didn’t see the harm.”

“But when you get to the island you find this lot waiting instead of the fabled treasure.”

He gave a weary nod.

“You’re right,” she said. “You are a fool.”

He thrashed at her, chains jangling, becoming still when the guard stepped closer and placed his cudgel under his chin.

“I’ll tell them nothing,” the Volarian stated, glaring at her above the cudgel.

“He says he wants passage to an Alpiran port,” she told the captain in Realm Tongue. “In return for the key.”

The captain nudged the guard who removed the cudgel and stepped back. “Well I’m feeling generous,” he said stroking his beard. “So I’ll start with his left hand, one knuckle at a time. Tell him that’s the only payment he’ll get.”

“You don’t have to tell them anything,” she told the Volarian. “Just make them think you have.” She shuffled closer, holding up the leather-bound book. “They want the key to this code. If they think you’ve shared it, I can pretend I’m able to decipher it. But it’ll take time, maybe long enough for your fleet to find us.”

“Keen to be a slave are we?”

“Did it once, wasn’t so bad compared to this lot. The Volarians wouldn’t come near me because of my face, these dogs aren’t so discerning.”

“What’s to stop them killing me when I’ve played this little farce?”

“I’ll tell them they need to keep you alive, that the code is complex and I’ll need more help with it.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Because I’m not going to tell them they have the son of a Council-man in their clutches.” She gave a pointed glance at the tattered red shirt he wore, the gold-embroidered emblem on the breast a match for the seal on the scroll the captain had shown her. “Quite a prize to carry back to the Isles. Do you think your father’s career will stand the shame of it? Or yours?”

He raised his head, eyes intent and searching. “Who are you, monster woman?”

“Just an escaped slave trying to stay alive.”

He stared at her in silence for several moments, face drawn in anger but otherwise impassive. “Show me the book,” he said finally.

She opened the book and leaned closer, finger tracking along the text. “I’ve heard it said,” she murmured, “that only Volarians who own over one hundred thousand slaves are permitted to wear red.”

“You heard correctly,” he muttered, nodding as if in agreement as she peered closer at the text.

“You are young to have amassed such a fortune.” She raised her eyebrows in apparent understanding.

“My father’s gift on achieving my majority.” His tone was one of reluctant assent. “A third of his assets. He gave me the pick of the pleasure slaves.” He gave her a sidelong glance, eyes tracking over her burns. “Sorry if I disappoint, my dear. But I don’t think I have a place for you.”

Lyrna gave a final nod, sitting back on her haunches and closing the book. “Thank you for that,” she said.

“I keep my bargains,” he replied evenly.

“No, I meant for making it easier.”

He frowned. “Wh—”

Lyrna twisted, snatched the dagger from the guard’s boot and plunged it into the Volarian’s chest. The centre, Davoka had said. Always aim for the centre of the chest and you’ll find the heart.

? ? ?

The air whooshed from her as the captain threw her to the floor, advancing with a drawn dagger. “You treacherous bitch!” Lyrna gasped for air as he dragged her upright, forcing her against the wall of his cabin, dagger poised at her throat. “And they say my people are untrustworthy.”

“You . . .” She coughed and dragged air into her lungs. “You can trust me.”

“I can trust you’ll knife me or my men when our backs are turned.”

“You can trust me to translate the book.”

“What proof do I have of that? All I saw was you exchange some pig talk with that filth before you stuck him.”

She met his eyes. “You were sent for his ship.”

He loomed closer, the tip of his dagger pricking her skin. “What was that?”

“For that book. The Ship Lords sent you to take his ship and that book.”

His face twitched and she saw him bite down his next words. He moved back a step, dagger poised. “You see far too much, burnt beauty.”

She spoke in a rapid tumble, gasping the words out without pause. “Twenty-eight gold bars stamped with the crest of House Entril twelve barrels of wine from Eskethia a ceremonial short sword engraved with a poem of thanks from the Ruling Council to General Tokrev in recognition of his victory . . .” She ran out of breath and stared at him, seeing the hesitation in his knife hand. “That’s what you found in their hold, wasn’t it?”

“How do you . . . ?”

“It’s listed in the book, on the first page.”

“You only saw it for a second.”

“That was enough.”

“It was in code.”

“A substitution matrix based on a descending numerical order. Not especially difficult if you know how. And now I’m the only soul on this ship, and I suspect in this half of the world, who can read it.”

He took the book from where he had stuffed it into his belt and held it out. “Then do it.”

She straightened, waiting for her breath to calm. “No.”

“I already told you, you are in no position . . .”

“To bargain?” She grinned. “Oh I think I am.”

? ? ?

The men from the boat were given their own corner of the hold, plus fresh clothing and food. Lyrna and the two other women, Murel and Orena, were given the first mate’s cabin to share.

“You’re sure?” Murel asked in her soft whisper.

Lyrna held out her hand for the small mirror she had seen the girl trying to hide. “Yes.”

The mirror was backed with silver, ornately engraved in the manner favoured by Alpiran smiths from the northern ports, the motif of a man engaged in combat with a lion typical of the style. She traced her fingers over the image for a moment then turned the mirror over.

She always wondered why there were no screams, no tears, no despair sending her into thrashing hysterics. She felt it all, inside, a raging, burning storm of anguish and pain, but all she actually did was sit and stare at the burnt stranger in the mirror. Most of her hair was gone, the scalp a mottled relief of red and pink flesh. The flames had caught the upper side of her face, the scars ascending from the bridge of her nose, the line of seared skin slanting diagonally from left cheekbone to right jaw, like an ill-fitting mask worn to scare children on the warding’s night.

I am no queen, she thought, staring into the eyes of the burnt stranger. What artist will ever paint this portrait? And what do I tell the mint to stamp on the coins? The thought drew a laugh, making Murel start, no doubt wondering if she had slipped into madness.