Part 49 (1/2)
She meant it. Even if he hadn't seen her face, he would have known it; he could hear it in her words, in the casual certainty that lay beneath the surface of her youthful voice. Exasperation turned to something else as he met her gaze.
”You don't want me to kill them.”
The Ospreys were a team. A difficult team, yes; too difficult for the regulars to either train or control. They stood apart, keenly aware of the things in their temperaments that made them different. Unique. He'd found them. He'd put them together, giving to the Kings' Justice the one or two that served as example of behavior that even the Ospreys would not tolerate. He beat them into a unit that he could direct, control, manipulate.
And care for, truth be told, although it wasn't what he'd intended so many years ago, standing in front of The Kalakar's desk with intensity written all over his face. His first real battle.
They had no family, most of these men and women. With Alexis, he had given them a home, and they looked to each other. Half of them were survivors of the Southern wars, and they knew firsthand, full well, what the Anna-garians were capable of. Those scars he could not mask, could not a.s.suage; they lay against the heart like a brand that even blood could not quench. And blood had been spilled in the attempt.
Who was it? Who was it who planned to go against his express orders into the common to slaughter the Annagar-ians they could find there, huddled amidst the merchant ma.s.ses? Fiara was safely behind a locked door, but she was not the only one capable of such an act. h.e.l.ls, she wasn't even close.
But she also wasn't the type of person who could welcome Kiriel di'Ashaf. Not because Kiriel came from the South; no one in the company believed that. Oh, her color was right for it, and her height; her face had the right lines. But she was born to the blade, and no women were trained in Annagar. No women, that is, with hands as uncallused as Kiriel's and a back so unbent by labor. No, Kiriel was the mystery woman-and Fiara disliked mystery. Because if you kept your mysteries that closely guarded, it meant you didn't trust her-and if you didn't trust her, she didn't owe you anything.
Who? Who would include this misfit among the misfits? Who would try to make her feel at home, and test her mettle so thoroughly, at the same time? Test. Test...
”Duarte?”
”Learn,” he said, as she interrupted the abrupt turn of his thoughts, ”to use ranks, Kiriel. I am Primus Duarte. You are Sentrus Kiriel.”
”Yes, Primus Duarte.”
She was incapable of the sarcasm that any other such tone would have conveyed. ”I'm sorry. I
was musing. No, I do not wish you to kill them.” He paused. ”Kiriel, I wish to ask you a question.
I wish you to answer it truthfully.”
She nodded, her eyes guarded, always guarded.
”Why did you come to me with this information?”
”Because,” she replied, her brow rippling the perfect lines of her skin as she frowned, ”I am to
serve you.”
”Yes?”
”Your orders were clear. You did not wish us to take action for the crimes of the Southerners
against this House.”
”And you did not agree with my decision.” She frowned again. ”No.”
”Why? Answer honestly,” he told her. As if she would do anything else.
”Because,” she said hesitantly, ”it makes us look weak.”
”Weak?”
”They do this to your people, and you do nothing. They will know that you do nothing, and they
will not fear to do it again.”
”Understood.” Well understood, he'd heard the argument so many times. ”Which means you agree that something should be done.”
”Yes.”
”Then why did you come to me?”
”Because,” she said, speaking even more slowly, ”I serve you.”
”That's all?” She nodded.
”Look, Kiriel, you must have hoped to gain something.” She stared at him blankly.
”You came here to tell me this. You betray the confidence of people you've given your word to.
You must have hoped to gain something. My confidence? My trust?””They are your people, Duarte. Yours. They betray you.” Her eyes grew oddly wide, flickering as if Duarte was watching a struggle to draw a curtain beneath their surface. In the shadows, her face looked leaner, longer; a hint of the feral made him stiffen. ”You must do something, or you will appear weak. If you are weak, you will no longer rule. Do you not understand this? ”If you wish it, I will kill them.”
”No,” he said. ”I do not wish it. Leave here” and do not speak of this to anyone else.”
She nodded, and saluted, fist across chest, cool eyes shuttered. He had a momentary vision of
chilling clarity; he saw her, this one time, for what she was. And he thought that this slender, naive young woman would coolly and calmly torture a small child to death if he but requested it. Would, and could.
”And while you're out, find Alexis and tell her I want to speak with her. Now.”
Cook found her.
He wasn't a cook; in fact, he was probably the worst cook in the unit. He was taller than she was,