Part 20 (1/2)
”Yeah.” The voice was strangely impa.s.sive, as though all emotion had been drained from it. ”He's the captain of the Guard.”
”Okay, buddy, go on in.” The muzzle of the rifle dropped away from Lytham's face.
Other Grayfaces stood in the yard, lounged in the shadow of the palisade, kept watch from the platforms. Helwych, distressed by Dryyim's behavior and fearful of the Specter's forces, had taken refuge behind soldiers who did not show fear, who would follow any orders he gave them.
Lytham walked quickly across to the Hall and entered. Inside, Helwych was slumped in the king's chair, his staff across his knees. His wounds were long healed, but though he was young, the constant expenditure of magic demanded by the battles with the Specter gave him the appearance of an old man.
The sorcerer did not lift his head. ”Dryyim ...”
Lytham stood near the door, conscious of the Gray-faces who stood to either side of the dais. ”Dryyim is dead, lord.”
”Ah, yes. Lytham.”
Helwych still had not looked up. Lytham had the uncomfortable feeling that the sorcerer could see without actually looking. ”My lord,” he said, ”I was in the street just now. The people are hungry.”
”Indeed.”
”They need food and water.”
”Indeed.”
A silence. A silence that lengthened. The Grayfaces stood as though carved out of granite. Helwych slumped in his chair, his hands thin and white on his staff.
Lytham mustered his courage. ”Can you not-”
Helwych lifted his head. ”No, hayseed,” he snapped. ”I cannot.”
The words and the blue-black eyes that lay behind them carried the impact of a club, but Lytham steeled himself and approached, for behind Helwych's eyes lay others: gray and dull with starvation, closed in fevered illness and imminent death. ”Surely, lord, there is something ...”
Helwych eyed him. ”What do you expect me to do, captain? Conjure up banquets for the people? Perhaps a few thousand skins of wine.” He laughed dryly. ”They should be grateful that their own skins are safe.”
”But they are dying! They have no food!” Lytham almost shouted the words, and the Hall was suddenly very quiet. The captain felt cold. Dryyim had died less than a week ago.
Helwych examined him out of those eyes. Void. They looked like void. ”Come here, Lytham.”
Unwillingly, Lytham came and stood before the sorcerer, mentally cursing that other time he had come, when, innocent and awkward, he had entered Helwych's room bearing a bowl of gruel.
”Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” said Helwych softly. ”I intend to win this war. I intend to win it thoroughly, without question, without doubt. The Gryylthan system of country life has gotten in the way, and therefore it has to be broken. When the war is over, I will devise new ”systems. Until then, we will just have to make do.”
Lytham did not have to see the sorcerer's face to read the denial in it. The people of Gryylth, maybe the land itself, was expendable. But he tried again. ”The king-”
”The king has his own battles to fight,” said Helwych without raising his voice. ”If he is not dead already. He cannot but appreciate our efforts in Gryylth.”
”But-”
”Are you fed, captain? Have you had enough to drink?”
Lytham felt a cold loathing creep up his throat and realized that he was feeling now the way that Dryyim must have felt moments before he had been struck and killed. Very carefully, he edged away from the abyss that had opened before him. ”Do you have orders for me, lord?” he said.
”Keep the people within the town. Hold them here at all costs. Should they try to leave, we must a.s.sume that they have taken sides with the Specter, and we must kill them.” A flicker of blue-black eyes. ”Understood?”
The abyss yawned before Lytham. He resisted the urge to plunge in. ”Understood, lord.” He turned and started for the door, but he stopped. ”The queen, my lord,” he said without turning around. ”How is she?”
”She plays with her dolls, captain. Like any child should.”
Lytham gritted his teeth, mustered his self-control. ”Does she have enough to eat, lord?”
”All she wants, captain.”
Lytham strode out of the Hall, crossed the yard, and entered the barracks. It was dim and stifling inside, and the pallet upon which Relys had been chained, though it had been shoved roughly out of the way, was still dark with her blood. Lytham looked at it and turned away quickly.
At the other side of the room was Haryn, alone. The tall, thin man was sitting over a plate of meat and bread and a full cup of wine.
”Haryn?”
Haryn was not eating, and when he lifted his eyes, Lytham saw his own expression mirrored in them. ”I am not fit to be a tyrant,” said Haryn.
Lytham waited.
”It is the children who are the worst,” Haryn went on. ”They . . . they do not even ...”
”I know.”
Haryn shoved the untouched plate away. ”I cannot eat this. I cannot eat at all.”
Lytham's stomach twisted. ' 'And what of our men?'' Men? Boys, rather. Foolish boys who had raped their rightful commander on that stained pallet over there.
Where was Relys, anyway? Dead, probably; dragged down by the hounds as she had staggered out of the barracks and into the rainy streets. Maybe she would have figured out an escape from the h.e.l.l into which Gryylth had been plunged: a woman who would chew her own hand off in order to gain her freedom was capable of anything.
Haryn was shaking his head. ”Some are fools, and they eat. Most feel as do we: they take but a morsel now and again for strength.''
Lytham licked his lips. ”There are others, I think, who would appreciate what morsels we do not consume.”
Dropping his eyes, Haryn contemplated the full plate before him. ”I am afraid, Lytham.”
”And I also, my friend.”
Haryn's lip trembled much as it had months ago when, a boy with the carelessness of a boy, he had bent over the still form of a dead puppy. Now it was the corpse of his land that he mourned. ”Let us feed the people as we can,” he said. ”Let us begin quickly, before I turn coward.”