Free Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) by David Hair Page B
Authors: David Hair
scouring the skies for one windship just isn’t practical. Let her rouse the kingdom: I’m planning on making an example of Forensa anyway.>
Gyle retorted .
He broke the connection with a savage burst of energy, vindictively burning out Gyle’s relay-stave. I hope I seared your fingers, you arsehole .
He re-ran the conversation in his head, then shrugged. I’m not going to jump at his behest . He doubted there was any windship; more likely it was some trick. Gyle was right about their relative strength, though, and that troubled him. He needed more men. Perhaps I need to woo that damned Tolidi bint in Hytel after all . . .
He waved offhandedly at Wilfort. ‘Finish this,’ he growled, gesturing to the line of men still waiting to be executed. He surveyed the crowds below: skinny, unwashed Jhafi, staring up at the scaffolding bearing the broken prisoners, their faces sickly and frightened. Look and learn, mudskins.
He waved his personal aide forward. Mikals, a portly Hollenian, shared his taste for young flesh. ‘Let’s go and see about the afternoon’s entertainment. Have you had her washed?’
‘She’s had her Noorie stink rinsed off, my lord. I left Pendris to oil her.’ Mikals rubbed his hands together. ‘A feisty bint, this one. She should be entertaining.’
They strode together through the palace, past the Kirkegarde sentries at each door, reaching the inner bailey just as a skinny Jhafi boy wearing the Betillon livery skittered out. He glanced after the boy, a little puzzled to see a native in his livery, but Mikals was talking, describing a furnace he’d found, perfect for disposing of the girl’s body after they’d done with her.
‘Pendris better not have done more than oiled her,’ he growled, clapping Mikals on the shoulder. ‘I want first flower – she is a virgin, I trust?’
‘Not this one, Lord,’ Mikals replied. ‘Well used, I deem – everyone knows Noorie women can’t keep their legs together. But even so, she is young and nubile enough to please you.’
His anticipation soured a little. ‘I suppose a virgin was too much to hope for,’ he acknowledged. This one had caught his eye during the capture of Mustaq al’Madhi – she’d put up quite a fight, and that would make her conquest all the sweeter. They climbed the stairs to the royal suite, to the room he’d set aside for his pleasure. He paused at the door, grinned at Mikals and pushed open the door.
A river of blood flowed down the middle of the floor. Its wellspring was young Pendris’ throat, which had been laid open ear to ear. The young man was lying on his back in the blood, naked and paling as he bled out. Untied ropes were turning scarlet, soaking up the blood. The girl was gone.
Betillon clenched his fists, suppressing the urge to immediately immolate this whole tableau. Mikals blanched and fell against the wall: the unlucky Pendris was his only son. Slowly his hand raised, pointing at something scrawled in blood on the wall.
ALHANI.
Betillon growled. ‘What is that word? Is it her name?’
Mikals shook his head. ‘No. Her name was Tarita.’
‘Then what does “Alhani” mean?’
‘It doesn’t mean anything . . .’ He paused, his face almost as white as his son’s. ‘Well, except . . . I’ve heard that the Jhafi called Elena Anborn “Alhana”, so maybe “Alhani” would be like a plural of that? Or a collective noun, maybe?’
Betillon stared. Fuck! Has Elena Anborn
He re-ran the conversation in his head, then shrugged. I’m not going to jump at his behest . He doubted there was any windship; more likely it was some trick. Gyle was right about their relative strength, though, and that troubled him. He needed more men. Perhaps I need to woo that damned Tolidi bint in Hytel after all . . .
He waved offhandedly at Wilfort. ‘Finish this,’ he growled, gesturing to the line of men still waiting to be executed. He surveyed the crowds below: skinny, unwashed Jhafi, staring up at the scaffolding bearing the broken prisoners, their faces sickly and frightened. Look and learn, mudskins.
He waved his personal aide forward. Mikals, a portly Hollenian, shared his taste for young flesh. ‘Let’s go and see about the afternoon’s entertainment. Have you had her washed?’
‘She’s had her Noorie stink rinsed off, my lord. I left Pendris to oil her.’ Mikals rubbed his hands together. ‘A feisty bint, this one. She should be entertaining.’
They strode together through the palace, past the Kirkegarde sentries at each door, reaching the inner bailey just as a skinny Jhafi boy wearing the Betillon livery skittered out. He glanced after the boy, a little puzzled to see a native in his livery, but Mikals was talking, describing a furnace he’d found, perfect for disposing of the girl’s body after they’d done with her.
‘Pendris better not have done more than oiled her,’ he growled, clapping Mikals on the shoulder. ‘I want first flower – she is a virgin, I trust?’
‘Not this one, Lord,’ Mikals replied. ‘Well used, I deem – everyone knows Noorie women can’t keep their legs together. But even so, she is young and nubile enough to please you.’
His anticipation soured a little. ‘I suppose a virgin was too much to hope for,’ he acknowledged. This one had caught his eye during the capture of Mustaq al’Madhi – she’d put up quite a fight, and that would make her conquest all the sweeter. They climbed the stairs to the royal suite, to the room he’d set aside for his pleasure. He paused at the door, grinned at Mikals and pushed open the door.
A river of blood flowed down the middle of the floor. Its wellspring was young Pendris’ throat, which had been laid open ear to ear. The young man was lying on his back in the blood, naked and paling as he bled out. Untied ropes were turning scarlet, soaking up the blood. The girl was gone.
Betillon clenched his fists, suppressing the urge to immediately immolate this whole tableau. Mikals blanched and fell against the wall: the unlucky Pendris was his only son. Slowly his hand raised, pointing at something scrawled in blood on the wall.
ALHANI.
Betillon growled. ‘What is that word? Is it her name?’
Mikals shook his head. ‘No. Her name was Tarita.’
‘Then what does “Alhani” mean?’
‘It doesn’t mean anything . . .’ He paused, his face almost as white as his son’s. ‘Well, except . . . I’ve heard that the Jhafi called Elena Anborn “Alhana”, so maybe “Alhani” would be like a plural of that? Or a collective noun, maybe?’
Betillon stared. Fuck! Has Elena Anborn
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