Free Restoration (Rai Kirah) by Carol Berg Page B

warriors or two hundred to destroy a nest of murderers?”
    Three unsmiling soldiers stood attentively before the Prince. One of them, a short, wiry man with a scar on his chin, bowed slightly to Aleksander. I could not guess his ancestry—his skin was the color of old leather, and his close-trimmed hair and beard were mottled gray and black. From his lack of a braid, his plain dress unmarked with any heged symbol, and his air of unassuming competence, I judged him a professional soldier—a lowborn man who had risen to a post of responsibility through hard work rather than family. His companions were bigger, typical ruddy-faced Derzhi warriors with full beards, long braids, and sun-darkened shoulders protruding from leather vests marked with the Denischkar falcon. Hovering by the door were a handful of chamberlains and messengers, as much a part of the royal furnishings as were the tables or cushions. And beyond them, standing in the shadows of the great arched doorway, was a tall woman in brilliant green. Her hair was hidden by her filmy veil, but her eyes were dark as desert midnight and riveted on my own. Her mouth formed words I could not hear.
    “Have you lost your voice, then?” Aleksander was frowning at me. “Read the replies.”
    I started and bent my head to the stiff page.
    The first message was terse. Twenty warriors of the Fontezhi garrison are available at Prince Aleksander’s command.
    “Twenty!” one of the bearded men bellowed. “The Fontezhi garrison numbers three hundred. My lord—”
    “The next, scribe.” Aleksander ate another date and allowed Hessio to begin shaving his chin.
    I unrolled the next stiff paper, glancing briefly across the room to the doorway. The woman in green was gone.
    The Rhyzka heged will supply a hundred and twenty-five warriors at the Prince ’s pleasure. The house stable master will also be alerted to supply twenty-five extra horses, three armorers, and two surgeons.
    “Ah, my loyal Rhyzka. What prince dares offend such an ally?” Aleksander sat up abruptly, causing the fair Hessio to yank the razor-knife away and lose what color he had in his boyish face. All royal bodyslaves were gelded; the slave master in Capharna had told me that Hessio was, in fact, almost forty. The Prince grimaced and waved at Hessio to continue. Or perhaps it was to me. The next message was longer.
    My lord Aleksander,
    I have heard your command to supply a suitable levy of warriors by midday to carry out justice for your most honored and glorious imperial father’s untimely death. Before I commit Gorusch men, I must beg indulgence to appear before you and submit questions which I know my first lord would require be answered before engaging in such a dreadful enterprise. In short, there are disturbing accusations which bear upon the honor and rightness of this cause—
    “Read the next.” Aleksander was as red as the cushion under his feet, and Hessio’s delicate hand trembled as he quickly finished his risky enterprise with the razor-knife.
    I nodded and broke the next seal. Every response was similar. A token offering, sure to be the dregs of the house legions, stable boys, or unbraided youths. Or an excuse—rampant flux among the garrison or their lamentable absence at this exact time—or specific orders of the heged lord to commit the troops elsewhere on this particular day. For some, as for the excessively traditional Gorusch heged, some question needed to be answered before commitment. Unspoken was the real question—had Aleksander truly murdered his own father as reliable reports had it? Aleksander’s brother-in-law, the young Marag, sent a terse “none,” with no excuse or explanation. A bold lad.
    By the time I finished reading the replies, Aleksander was standing up, half dressed in leather breeches, white shirt, and thick leather vest. His fists were clenched, his face a storm of humiliated rage. But when he spoke, his voice was controlled, marred only by bitter irony.