Part 28 (2/2)

Jianna does not forget those who serve her faithfully. But this creature,' she cried, pointing to the pitiful Baliel, 'put all your courage at risk. My grat.i.tude to my friends is infinite. My enemies will always find that my vengeance is swift and deadly.' Askelus drew his sword and plunged it into the belly of the blinded man. His scream was hideous. Servaj saw Askelus twist the blade, then wrench it clear. Disembowelled, Baliel fell to the ground, and began to writhe in fresh agony. The Queen let the sounds go on for a while, then signalled Askelus. The soldier drove his sword through Baliel's neck. The silence that followed was total. 'So die all traitors,' said the Queen. Someone began to chant: 'Jianna! Jianna!' Servaj saw it was the former swordmaster Malanek. Other men began to follow his lead, but the cheering was not enthusiastic. Jianna raised her hands for silence. 'When we have taken Perapolis every man in my army will receive three gold pieces, as a sign of my love and grat.i.tude.'

Now the cheering began in earnest. Servaj shouted in jubilation, along with the others.

Three gold coins was a fortune. Even as he cheered, however, he glanced at Skilgannon.

The general looked troubled.

Shaking himself from his memories Servaj returned to the problem at hand. The d.a.m.ned had been sentenced to death, and it was left to Servaj to determine the manner of his execution.

He had under his command a number of good swordsmen, but none with the skill of Agasarsis. Skilgannon was staying at the Crimson Stag. There would be no opportunity to poison his food.

Servaj thought the problem through. There would need to be an attack on the general.

Five, maybe six men. And two men with crossbows, hidden close by. Even this was fraught with risk. He would have to visit the alchemist. If the crossbow bolts were tipped with poison, then even if Skilgannon escaped the ambush he would die later.

How, though, could he ensure Skilgannon came to the place of his execution?

249.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BACK AT THE CRIMSON STAG SKILGANNON WAS DELIGHTED TO FIND that two merchants had vacated a room overlooking the harbour. He paid s.h.i.+vas an extortionate four silver pieces for two nights, then went upstairs to the room and closed the door. He had not been aware that his need for solitude was so great. Even the muted noise from the tavern below was welcome, for it emphasized that he was alone now. Lifting the Swords of Night and Day from his shoulders he dropped them to the bed, then pushed open the window and gazed out over the ocean.

The reunion with the Old Woman had been hard - bringing back memories he preferred to forget. Something in him had died that night, along with Molaire and Sperian. In truth he did not know what it was. Childhood perhaps. Or innocence. Whatever the answer, his heart had withered like a flower in the frost.

The planning of the escape from the city had taken days and nights, as each idea he put forward was discussed and dismissed. The Old Woman offered to take them through the gates in the back of a loaded wagon, hidden beneath sacks of grain. Skilgannon disliked this idea. Were he the Captain of the Gates he would search all conveyances. They talked of separating, and meeting later in the forest of Delian, but this was too fraught with the possibilities of becoming lost. Eventually they decided on simple deception. The Old Woman fas.h.i.+oned a harness that Jianna wore below a torn and colourless knee-length dress. The leather straps of the harness hung down her back. Lifting Jianna's left leg the Old Woman secured a strap to her foot, then bound the ankle tightly to the thigh. Jianna complained of the discomfort. The thigh and calf were then bandaged, leaving the knee exposed. With great skill the Old Woman added to the disguise, using small strips of shaved pig skin, and partly congealed blood, which she pasted to the skin of the knee.

Skilgannon watched it all, amazed. By the finish the knee looked like a stump covered in weeping, bleeding sores. The illusion was repeated on Skilgannon, this time twisting his left arm up between his shoulder blades. She also added, using a mixture of white candlewax and a foul-smelling balm, three long scars to his left cheek and eyebrow. Once she had fas.h.i.+oned an eyepatch for him Skilgannon gazed into a cracked mirror. The face he saw looking back at him seemed to have been raked by the talons of a bear. Lastly the Old Woman cut away the dyed parts of Jianna's hair, leaving her with a short, boyish hair style.

She allowed them an hour to become used to their acquired deformities. Jianna spent it practising with a pair of old crutches. Skilgannon merely waited, his crooked and tied arm pulsing painfully.

Finally they set out in the Old Woman's wagon. She stopped some three hundred paces from the East Gate. Already lines of supplicants were queuing there, waiting to be allowed on the two-hour walk to the Maphistan Temple, and the yearly opening of the Chest of Relics. As far as Skilgannon knew there had been no reported miracles for years, but it didn't stop the diseased and the lame from making the annual trip, to kneel before the bones of the Blessed Dardalion, and the faded gloves of the Revered Lady. The richest of the supplicants were allowed to kiss the hem of the robe said to have been worn by the immortal Silverhand, whose death two thousand years ago had caused a dead tree to bloom into life.

It was almost dusk as Skilgannon leapt down from the wagon, then clumsily helped Jianna. She half fell against him and swore. The Old Woman pa.s.sed down her crutches.

Jianna took them and slowly made her way to join the line. Skilgannon fell in behind her, and waited.

Guards were stopping everyone at the gate, and questioning all young women. In the shadows by the gatehouse Skilgannon saw three men standing, watching the crowd intently. He moved alongside Jianna, and tapped her arm. 'I see them,' she whispered.

'Do you know them?'

'One of them. Keep moving.'

As Skilgannon approached the guards he longed to have his hand on the hilt of his sword, but did not. Head bowed, he shuffled forward with the others. A guard stepped in front of him and looked hard at Jianna. Leaning forward he lifted her skirt, then let it go. 'What happened to you?' he asked sympathetically.

'Wine wagon ran over it,' she said, her voice coa.r.s.e.

'I don't think the relics will grow you a new one, la.s.s.'

'I just want it to stop turning green and stinking,' she said. He stepped back, trying to mask an expression of distaste.

'Keep moving then. And may the G.o.ds bless you,' he said.

Jianna leaned on her crutches and followed the people in front. As Skilgannon moved to follow he saw Boranius walk from the gatehouse. A terrible rage flared in him, but he fought it down. Now is not the time, he told himself. Gritting his teeth he walked beneath the gate arch and out into the countryside beyond, keeping his eyes fixed on the distant tree line of the forest of Delian.

Laughter from the tavern below jerked him back to the present. Music had started, and men were clapping their hands, establis.h.i.+ng a rhythm. Obviously there was some entertainment going on, but Skilgannon had no wish to observe it.

Stripping off his jerkin, s.h.i.+rt and leggings he stretched himself out on the bed. Only then did he notice the huge mirror fastened to the ceiling. He stared up at the tattooed figure reflected there, meeting the cold stare of his double's bright blue eyes. There was no trace of the idealistic youngster who had fled into the forest with the rebel princess. Idly he wondered what he might have become had he not met Jianna. Would he have been more content? Would Greavas, Sperian and Molaire still be alive? Would Perapolis now be a thriving city, full of happy people?

A great cheer sounded from the tavern below. Then a woman's voice began to sing, the sound high and clear and beautiful. It was an old ballad about a warrior's return to his homeland, in search of his first love. Skilgannon listened. The song was overly sentimental, the lyrics maudlin, and yet the woman's voice imbued it with a sense of splendour that overcame the mawkish sentiments. It seemed to offer fresh insights into love and its power, giving a magnificence to the man's ultimate, life-giving sacrifice.

When the song ended there was a moment of silence, then a thunderous burst of applause.

Skilgannon took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

For if love is the ocean, on which sail the brave, we should welcome the storm winds, and the wind-driven waves.

Even now he did not truly know what love was. Jianna had filled his heart. She still did.

Was this the love the poets sang of ? Or merely a mixture of desire and adoration?

Memories of the times of tranquil harmony with Dayan both lifted his spirit and deepened his sorrow. Was this love? If so it was a different beast entirely from what he felt about Jianna. There were never answers to these questions. He had tormented himself with them every day back at the monastery.

Swinging his legs from the bed, he stood up and walked to the basin stand beside the harbour window. He poured himself a cup of water and sipped it, seeking to free his mind of thoughts of the past.

He heard a board creak outside his room and turned. Someone tapped at the door.

Skilgannon felt his irritation mount. The tap was too light to be Druss, who would have hammered upon the frame and called out. It was probably the youth, Rabalyn. Skilgannon hoped he would not again request to travel with him.

Walking to the door, he pulled it open.

Garianne was standing there. She was holding a flagon of wine and two empty goblets. Her eyes were bright, her face flushed. As he opened the door she eased past him and walked into the room. Placing the goblets on the bedside table, she filled them with red wine.

Lifting one, she drank deeply, then wandered to the window.

'I love the sea,' she said. 'One day I will board a s.h.i.+p and leave them all behind. They can argue amongst themselves. I will be free of them.'

He stood quietly, watching her. She had removed her jerkin and was wearing a thin, figure-hugging s.h.i.+rt. Her leather leggings were also form-fitting, leaving little to the imagination. Skilgannon turned away.

Garianne swung towards him, then brought him a goblet of wine. 'I do not drink,' he said.

'I drink to be alone,' she told him, her voice slightly slurred. 'It is a wonderful feeling to be alone. No voices. No demands. No shrill screeching and pleading. Just silence.'

'I too like to be alone, Garianne. Now I would like to ask what you want of me, but I know that you do not like questions.'

<script>