How can you say that? Stop that!” She interposed between him and the case. “Are you really leaving?”
“I’m going to Zahual to see a Star Rider commander in charge of manning a new ship. She might call me to serve on it and if she does then yes, I will probably go.”
“But why?”
“Why? Why should I stay here? There’s not much prospect for anyone not of Clan Vil and anyway, I was only ever supposed to be a stop-gap until Paril could take over.”
“What about me?”
“I’ve told you what you could do, if you really believe your life is in danger. I offered to help – you don’t seem to have shown any interest in taking me up on that. It’s up to you, Dazil. There’s only so much I can do.”
She was silent for a long moment. “All right,” she said firmly. “I’ll go with you.”
“What? Go where?”
“Wherever you’re going. I’ll do what you said, I’ll dress up as a servant. I’ll pretend to be your servant. Then, when we get there, I could pretend to be your wife.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Why? Who would know? How would they be able to tell if I’m your wife or not, these people that we’ve never met?”
“Because – for a start, you couldn’t escape from Car’a’vil pretending to be my servant because everyone here knows I don’t have one. Secondly, it would look mightily suspicious, even to a fool like Carral, if you disappeared at exactly the same time as me. The only way to do this kind of thing is alone, unnoticed, not attached to someone whose identity is known. You would get us both caught within a day.”
“So… you’re just going to leave me?”
“There’s nothing more I can do. The best thing I can do for both of our safety is to get off Car’a’vil and far away.”
“But I love you.”
The shock of this non-sequitur threw him off balance and he stared at her, trying hard to contain his anger. He was doing his best to help her in circumstances which were not easy for him, and she was talking half-witted nonsense. “What has that got to do with it?”
“I want to go with you. Not just to escape from Carral and Saghat. I want to be with you.”
“That’s impossible. Come on, use your intelligence. What the hell did you think this was going to lead to? You’re married to Carral and there’s nothing you can do about it, and even if there were, I wouldn’t take you with me. I’m safer alone.”
It was easy after all to end an affair. Her eyes grew wider, and filled with pain, and she gathered herself together and left without another word. Jay finished packing with a euphoric sense of relief.
There was a pounding in his head.
He sat upright and realised that the hammering sound was filling the darkness, that someone was banging on the door. His first thought in the disorientation of sudden waking was that it was Dazil, panicking and making a racket in the middle of the night; his second, an instant later, was that she had been found dead and this was a terrified guard come to rouse him with the news. When he flung open the door, he was confronted instead by three armed swordbearers whom he did not know and Zamual, a senior commander from Antra.
They did not bow.
“What is this, Zamual? It’s the middle of the night.”
“You’ve to come with us immediately,” said Zamual.
Two of the three warriors stepped forward and actually started to lay hands on him. Jay shrugged them sharply off with all the authority his rank could muster, and they deferred. “Why?”
“There have been charges made against you, serious charges. You’re under arrest pending investigation.”
“What charges?”
“Fraud, deceit, impersonation and injuring the dignity of the Swordbearer Caste. You’ll be charged before the council of your clan. I’ve to take you to Antra now. Come on.”
He had no chance even to pick up his packed bag, and this time he could not without undignified violence stop the warriors seizing an arm each and marching him, as he was, down the darkened corridor. Zamual walked in front, the other warrior behind.
At the head of the main stairway stood Carral, Saghat and Dazil, with some others. Zamual stopped and bowed to Carral, without an exchange of words. Jay barely registered that Carral looked dazed. His eyes instead had locked with Dazil’s. She was standing a little apart from the others, tall and straight and completely composed, and her expression – blazing out from a white, sculpted face – was cold fire.
Nine
She had done it. She had betrayed him.
It was an act of treachery that he had not foreseen because it did not make sense. Unless everything she had said about Carral and Saghat had been a lie, how could she imagine that she was better off or safer now? How was she to know that he would not retaliate by denouncing her adultery to the caste elders? He had nothing left to lose.
Or had she forestalled this by confessing to Carral, and buying her safety with her knowledge of the two murders? Dazil, Carral and Saghat – a triangle of silence and dark secrets, festering away at the heart of that God-forsaken moon. It seemed appropriate.
No, it was incomprehensible. Whatever the truth about the deaths on Car’a’vil, Dazil’s fear had been real and she must surely have put herself in far greater danger now.
He had plenty time to wonder, because he had been thrown without ceremony into a featureless cell and left there. For three days a silent servant had brought him a tray of food and drink, but nobody had come to interrogate him and he was obviously not even being accorded the honour of a swordbearer guard. He had no clothes other than the nightshift he had been wearing when he had been arrested, and no possessions that he ever hoped to see again. He had become a negative entity, stripped of everything physical, and for the moment everything mental except rage against her. Without any clue about what was going to happen to him now – other than Zamual’s claim that he would be hauled before a council of his clan – he had nothing else to think about.
When he had first arrived he had demanded to speak to General Neveth, and any of the commanders on Antra whose names he could remember. The servant guards ignored him, and the door was slammed shut. Exposed, he had lost every vestige of power and personal authority. He was invisible and inaudible.
On the third day the guard opened the door earlier than the usual time, and let in the last person that Jay had expected to see here. He rose from the bench where he had been gazing at the wall, and stared at Saghat.
“This man is a dangerous criminal,” said Saghat to the guard, keeping his eyes fixed on Jay. “I need to talk to him alone. Restrain him.”
Jay stood absolutely still and unresisting while the guard bound his hands behind his back and his ankles together with restraining bonds, and then allowed himself to be pushed into a sitting position on the bench. The murderous intent in Saghat’s eyes was unmasked, shining and unmistakable.
“Now leave us alone,” he growled.
There was a long silence after the door slammed shut behind the guard.
“Are you going to kill me like this, Saghat?” said Jay eventually. “Is this your idea of honourable swordbearer conduct?”
He was cut short by a blow to his diaphragm that doubled him over and took all his breath in one explosion of pain. The next knocked him sideways off the bench and he slid helplessly onto the floor as Saghat’s boot slammed into his ribs.
“I’m not going you kill you today, you filthy worm. I wouldn’t dirty my sword with your servant blood. I’m here to pay you back for shaming Lord Carral - and to tell you that if what you did on Car’a’vil ever becomes known, I will track you down and finish the job, I swear.”
He punctuated this speech with vicious kicks and punches, landing them at random. Jay tried to roll over against the wall for protection but he was too much at a disadvantage to have any chance even of twisting away from one blow before another fell. He heard a sharp crack as a rib shattered, then saw a shower of bright lights – descending into hazy r
ed darkness – when a boot smashed into his face.
He never quite lost consciousness completely. For a long time after the boot came towards his eyes he was aware of intense, jolting pain, and an ever-tightening suffocation. Fighting for breath when he managed to open his eyes, he saw the floor, and a pool of blood spreading out slowly from his mouth, and the bottom of the door closing.
He knew he had to stay awake to stay alive. He could not move and he could not make a sound. He could just about draw breath. For what might have been hours he lay still, watching and feeling his own blood congealing around him, until at last the servant came with his evening meal – dropped the tray on the floor with a clang which jolted his fading senses – and ran.
Only when someone stooped over him and touched him did he let go.
“How was this allowed to happen? No – don’t tell me. It was a rhetorical question. It’s painfully obvious. This camp is a shambles.”
One voice was very strong, much stronger than the rest, and penetrated above a hazy babble of others surrounding it.
“…Yes sir…”
“Well, I haven’t come halfway across the Empire to have him die on me. Make sure he lives. And do something about his face. Don’t leave it to heal like that. I want no visible scars – you understand.”
“.. Sir…”
“Bring him to me when he’s on his feet. I’m not going anywhere in the meantime.”
Ten
There was a window in this room, at any