The Patrimony

10

The young captain insisted that Giliahna continue on to the bath, but he also insisted that Ahl and Mairee accompany her, then he and the apprentice of Master Fahreed carried the chair and its lifeless contents around to the master physician’s suite in the north wing. While the brown-skinned apprentice cleared a long table of books and writing materials, Tim held the cooling body cradled in his arms, unashamed tears of rage and sorrow streaming down his scarred cheeks.

The master was a tall, slender man, topping Tim’s own height by a head. Where the skin of the apprentice was the soft brown of Tim’s boots, the master’s was so black that it looked bluish. His scalp was as clean-shaven as his face, and both bore sufficient scars to attest to the fact that Master Fahreed was no stranger to the practice of arms, physician or no. There was an aura of concern and thoroughgoing competence about the man, and Tim liked him on sight.

“Lord Tim,” said the master, speaking Mehrikan of the Middle Kingdoms, but with a peculiar lilt and accent the like of which Tim had never heard in a Zahrtohgahn’s speech. “If this poor man was your friend, perhaps you had best leave the room whilst I inquire into the cause of his demise. Some of the procedures I may find needful might seem to you a discourtesy to the body.”

Tim shook his head curtly. “Thank you. Master Fahreed, but I’ll stay. The deaths of friends are nothing new to me. As for Rai’s body, he would have been the first to tell you that a corpse is dead meat and can no more be offended than can a side of beef. It is imperative that I know, and know quickly, how he was slain, however.”

With a nod, the master strode over to a washstand and scrubbed his hands and tapering fingers vigorously with strong soap and a small brush in a bowl of steaming water, then shrugged off his outer robe, replacing it with another of bleached linen.

Waving a hand at the contorted features of the dead sergeant, the master said, “We already can safely assume that we know the immediate cause of death, Lord Tim. And what is that, Raheen?”

“Poison, master,” replied the shorter, lighter-skinned man, unhesitatingly. Then he leaned close and examined the bulging, glassy eyes and, after a moment, parted the lips and sniffed at the mouth. Straightening, he added, “Most likely, arrow poison, master, since none of the characteristic odors of poisons are in the mouth and the lips show no burns nor the teeth any discolorations.”

Tim shook his head. “Arrow poison? There’s no wound on Rai’s body, Master Fahreed.”

“That remains to be determined, Lord Tim,” replied the master in his softly booming voice.

When the sergeant’s boots and trousers of waxed linen canvas were removed a great stench suddenly filled the room— evidence that the contortions of the facial muscles had been matched by contortions in other parts of the body. The apprentice, Raheen, examined the dung intently before consigning it to a chamber pot, squeezed a measure of urine from the sodden smallclothes and studied this sample too.

But the master all at once stepped close to the body, lightly resting two spread fingers at either side of what looked to Tim like a small, roundish bruise high on the frontal quadrant of the right thigh. Striding over to the heap of fouled, smelly clothes, the tall man squatted and carefully scrutinized the upper right leg of the breeches. Grunting and nodding, he arose and said something in the guttural Zahrtohgan language. The apprentice cleaned his hands, then opened a chest and brought a small case over to the table. When he had selected the instrument he wanted, the master beckoned Tim closer.

Holding a silver-rimmed glass lens a bit above the bruise, he said, “Lord Tim, here is your man’s death wound. The hole of entry in the trousers is so minute that one who was not searching specifically for such would never see it.”

With a small-bladed knife, the physician neatly bisected the small wound at the center of the bruised area, slowly cutting deeper and deeper and gradually lengthening the incision that he might better see into the depth. Finally, he dropped the knife into a shallow bowl, wiped his hands on his white robe and, after removing the robe, went over to the washstand and began to scrub his hands again.

While scrubbing, he spoke, “Lord Tim, a long and very slender blade—probably of less thickness than a wheat straw—was suddenly thrust deeply into the man’s thigh. Whether by design or by mere chance, it struck into one of the bigger blood tubes. Like many arrow poisons, the immediate result was almost total paralysis, though the body continued to live long enough for a bruise to form at the point of entry. He likely was generally conscious and in considerable agony almost to the end—probably about a quarter hour after the wound was inflicted.”

Tim growled low in his throat. It was an ugly, feral sound, and Giliahna felt the hairs rise on the nape of her neck and goose flesh on her arms, despite the steamy heat of the bath in which her body was immersed.

“But where,” mused Ahl, “would the bitch and her witch get arrow poison? I know of no place in the Confederation it’s used, and I believe the Sword Cult has outlawed it in all the Middle Kingdoms. Of course, some of the western barbarians …”

Master Fahreed shook his shiny head. “No, Lord Ahl, the mountain folk of whom you speak do not use actual poisons, they rather steep the points in fermenting dung. But poisons are not so difficult to obtain. Anyone with access to certain plants or their extracts can compound such vile substances, and mere outlawry never deters those who have no modicum of respect for law.”

Tim voiced agreement. “Aye, Ahl, what the master says be true enough, at least in the north. Sword Council decrees only cover the conduct of warfare, open and declared warfare; many bravos and assassins use poisons, though the unlucky lout who’s caught with any in his possession is accorded a long-drawn-out and excruciatingly painful public death as a salutary lesson; so too are those few merchants whose greed led them to stock and peddle poisons.”

Master Fahreed frowned. “Which facts—though they do not really apply to our present issue—are why all my Zahrtohgan medicines are shipped by sea and brought to me by special couriers, since many of them could easily be considered or used as poisons.”

When she was certain she was alone, Neeka Mahreemahdees thrust the lethal brass pin deep into the glowing coals of a small brazier and then placed a couple of fresh briquets of charcoal atop it. Leaning back in her chair, she smiled to herself. It had gone better, easier, more smoothly than she’d hoped.

Following her directions to the very letter—which was more than the fat, slovenly, unpredictable bitch of a mother had ever been able or willing to do!—little Behti had skipped along the upstairs hall, her budding breasts tightly bound down to make her appear younger than her eleven years. She had entered into conversation with the ill-bred northern barbarian and finally sat upon his lap. After a few more minutes of conversation, the child had plunged the pin deeply into the man’s thigh, then jerked it out and ran swiftly to Neeka’s chambers. The girl showed definite promise.

But the dam … Neeka frowned. Mehleena had always been difficult to manage, very erratic, but she was gradually growing worse. That business at table, for instance. She could easily have slain Myron; he was lucky that his mother’s choice in foods did not require the use of a table knife, else his guts would have been around his ankles. Mehleena had never been completely sane, but she was becoming more and more irrational, and the fits were lasting longer and longer. Any little thing could now trigger outbursts of violent rage in the gross woman; her servants and her children were alert as wild deer around her, and not even her priest dared to gainsay her.

That priest! Neeka ground her teeth at the thought of almost any priest. Her husband had been a priest in the land of her birth—Kehnooryos Mahkehdohnya, far to the north, more northerly even than the Black Kingdoms. She had been but a girl then, but she had been happy with him. Until the black-hearted bastard had renounced her and his marriage to her so that he might advance to offices wherein marriage was not allowed.

It had not been enough for Demetrios to renounce her and simply cast her out. He had sold her to the slaver captain of a coastal trading ship, who had raped or otherwise molested her body at least twice each day all the way down the length of the coast to Esmithpolis, one of the Karaleenos ports. There he and his officers had been jailed and his ship and cargo impounded for his ill-starred attempt to bribe a newly appointed inspector of imports. Since slavery was illegal in the lands of the Confederation, Neeka had been turned out upon the beach with the crew of the ship, glad that she at least was in a land wherein Ehleeneekos was spoken, even if that land was all of twelve hundred kaiee from her own.

But she quickly discovered that there were no convents and monasteries, here, as in her northern homeland, nor even any churches of the Ehleen faith. In the wake of a great, bloody rebellion led by priests and higher clergy a few years before her arrival, the practice of any form of the ancient faith of the Ehleenee had been forbidden by decree of the High Lords, all church properties had been confiscated to the Confederation, all senior members of the hierarchy had been put to death and all the lesser sorts had been granted the choice of similar deaths or banishment for life.

So, since there was no organized group from which a stranger Ehleen might receive charity, and since she then owned no trade, Neeka, to avoid starvation, began to offer the only commodity she had. But after less than a week, she was confronted by uniformed town guardsmen as she left a waterfront tavern one midnight. Announcing loudly that she was under arrest for unlicensed whoring, the six guardsmen bound Neeka’s arms and dragged her off to the port fortress. When they had thoroughly searched her, with many a crude and lascivious jest, robbed her of her few, hard-earned coppers and single, silver thrahkmeh piece, they stripped her and took turns raping her. Their sport finished, they loosed her arms and threw her and her tattered clothing into a narrow cell built into the wall of the fortress.

Neeka was never certain just how long she remained in that cell. It was damp and cold—so cold that she almost came to welcome the guardsmen who swaggered in in twos and threes to make use of her body, for at least then she was a bit warmer for a while. There were vermin, of course—fleas, lice, roaches and centipedes—but only once did she see a rat—and that was to prove a red-letter day.

The big, gray wharf rat, large as a cat, scurried out from a hole in the wall, long, scaly tail dragging behind him. Neeka shrieked shrilly and took a precarious stance atop the rim of the straw-filled stone trough that served her for a bed, but the rodent gave her not even a glance, rather making a mighty effort to leap onto the sill of the high, barred window, through which the morning sun streamed. But it was too high and the rat fell back onto the floor with a meaty plop.

Before the rat could gather himself to try again, another animal followed him out of the wall. Neeka had never before seen such a beast. Long of body it was, at least two cubits, but of no more thickness than the terrified rat; the tail was thick and slightly flattened and furred like the body, with a close-lying, glossy brown pelt; the legs seemed short and stout and the paws were webbed and furnished with the retractable claws of a feline; the head appeared to be a blending of feline and mustelid traits—cat and weasel—with a mouthful of glittering white teeth, damp shiny black nose and slit-pupiled, moss-green eyes. The newcomer gave the terrified Neeka no more attention than had the survival-minded rat, heading directly for its quarry in a brown blur of swift motion.

The rat tried to fight for its life, but both fight and life were over in an eye blink of time. While the rodent’s dying limbs still jerked and twitched, the strange beast lapped up every droplet of spilled blood, then tore into the carcass, devouring the tenderer portions of it.

Weak from suffering, abuse and privation—the guardsmen only fed her at odd hours and then only scraps, and she would long since have died of thirst had it not been that she had taken to licking the ice off the windowsill and walls every morning—Neeka could not stand on the stone rim long, then she had sunk back into the verminous straw, hugging the thin, filthy blanket around herself with numb, chapped hands.

Done with its grisly repast, the brown beast dragged the ravaged rat remains over to the corner of the cell, used the one paw to raise the wooden lid of the privy hole enough to push the carcass in, then lowered the lid again. That done, it sank upon its haunches and, catlike, began to cleanse its face with well-licked paws.

Seeing those moss-green eyes upon her, Neeka began to tremble, and a moan of terror bubbled up from her throat Then … then it seemed that the beast spoke to her!

“Why do you fear me, sister? The rat might well have harmed you, but not me. Two-legs are my sisters and brothers; wherever two-legs build their dens, always are there plenty of fat rats for my kind to kill and eat.”

“Oh, my dear God,” mumbled Neeka to herself, “I’ve finally lost my reason! I thought, really believed that that animal spoke to me in Ehleeneekos!”

So shaken was she that she did not even try to move when the brown beast moved fluidly to the stone trough, leaped easily upon it and snuggled close beside her in the straw, its cold, wet nose pressed against her temple through her dull, matted hair.

After a few minutes, it seemed that the beast spoke to her again, but this time she came to the realization that the communication was silent and was not truly in words; she was “hearing” its thoughts in her mind.

“You have been ill used, sister. I have seen all that has befallen you in your memories. But I cannot comprehend why you allow these shiny-chest two-legs to mount you when you are not in season and do not wish to be mounted.”

Neeka began to sob, thinking her answers since she now realized it was not necessary to speak aloud to the beast. “If I did not submit, they would just hold me down or hurt me and maybe not feed me or even take my blanket and clothes and this straw; then I should freeze to death.”

The beast snarled without conscious thought, but Neeka no longer feared her furry companion. “I would like to see the male try to mount me out of my season, sister! I assure you, he would be a feast for birds and little fishes in short order. But your poor teeth are dull and your claws almost nothing, and you have not one of the long, steel claws such as two-legs often carry. But I think I know one who will make the males here stop this mounting of you.”

After a long while, Neeka heard voices in the corridor, men’s voices. They were none of them speaking Ehleeneekos, and so she had no idea what they were saying, but the presence of more than one man in the corridor had always led to but one thing for her. She began to whimper in helpless hopelessness, for she had so wanted to believe that brown beast … or had she only imagined it all? Was it a hallucination bred entirely in her mind, that mind now crumbling and disordered through starvation, cold and long abuse? She felt then that it must have been illusion, for weasel-like cats—catlike weasels?—did not talk to people, silently or otherwise.

The voices neared. There were at least two, perhaps three, and one was raised and choppy in rage. Nearer to the door to her cell, there was the sound of a blow—flesh and bone upon flesh and bone—and a cry of pain. Then the bolts were pulled back to disclose two of the men who had so often come to use her. But this time there was no lust in their eyes, rather was there fear, and one man’s face was rapidly swelling and discoloring.

A third man stood between them, bigger than either and more richly dressed. He spoke to her in that strange tongue. When she shook her head, he suddenly bespoke her as she thought the beast had done.

“Ratbane tells me you can mindspeak, woman. Is this true?”

“Mindspeak?” Neeka thought. “What is mindspeak?”

The big man grinned. “Just what you’re now doing, Ehleen. Never mind telling me what these degenerate scum have been up to. Ratbane imparted most of it to me, and I can guess the sorry rest of the tale.”

He snapped something aloud, and both of the guardsmen suddenly stood rigid and unmoving, their faces devoid of emotion, but fear still dwelling in their eyes. Then, speaking for her benefit in pure, southern Ehleeneekos, he ordered, “Report back to your barrack, on the double! Inform the senior sergeant that you’re under arrest and that he is to send two men to replace you here. Inform him that the initial charge is flagrant insubordination and that more charges will be added to that one as I think of them. Dismiss!”

The two guardsmen almost fell over themselves in turning about to run off up the corridor.

The big man did not come into Neeka’s cell; instead he held out a hand. “Come out here. I have no doubt you’d enjoy a hot bath, and I, for one, would like to see what you look like in something besides dirt and rags and that old blanket. No doubt you could make good use of some food and strong wine too, eh?”

Captain Djordj Muhkawlee was as good as his word. When Neeka at long last emerged from the sunken tub, there were thick towels waiting to dry her body and hair, an impressive array of small flasks containing scents and fragrant oils, plus a pile of assorted items of female attire—few of the items were in her size, but all of them were wrought of far costlier fabrics than ever she had worn. Upon the top of the heap was a slender hair fillet that looked to be of pure gold.

When she had clothed herself as well as she might, Neeka was escorted by a manservant to a spacious, brazier-warmed room wherein the captain stood beside a low dining table filled with plate on heaping plate of meats, fish, vegetables, cheeses, breads and wine. At mere sight of so much food, Neeka’s eyes overflowed and she gasped great, ragged sobs. Gently, the officer folded her into his strong arms and cradled her too-thin body against his red-velvet brigandine, all stitched and embroidered with gold and silver threads. He stood immobile, silently patting her heaving shoulders, his mind broad-beaming soothing thoughts, until she had cried it all out. Then he led her over and sat her upon a dining couch.

“Eat your fill, Neeka. But be sure to eat before you take much of the wine—it’s quite strong. I must go now. I’ve some matters to attend, but I shall return as soon as I may.”

In her small workroom at Vawn-Sanderz Hall, Neeka used a pair of long-handled pincers to withdraw the glowing brass pin from its fiery bed, then dropped it into a flat pan of water with a hiss and a small puff of steam. The heat had discolored the brass, but any trace of poison paste or blood had burned off in the brazier. She poured a half-cup of watered wine from an ewer and sipped at it until the pin had cooled enough for her fingers to lift it out and dry it, then she placed it in a box of similar pins. Master Lokos had always stressed the value of neatness to a practitioner of any of the arcane arts.

She sat back and stared into her wine cup, staring as well into the dim past. Dear, dear, sweet, old Lokos. If only …

Neeka had remained Djordj Muhkawlee’s mistress for the year and a half he stayed in Esmithpolis, until his tour as fortress commander was completed and his replacement brought down his new posting orders from Goohm, General Headquarters of the Armies of the Confederation, along with notice of his promotion to mehyahlehltehros, or major, of heavy infantry. The new commander, Lieutenant First Grade Eenzeeos Rahbuhtz, also brought with him his young wife.

Three days before his scheduled departure for the western frontier and the veteran battalion he was to command, Djordj had set before her a lengthy document.

“Neeka, as you are aware, I am not a wealthy man. As you also know, I had been expecting a posting to the command of another coastal fortress, not to a command on the frontier. Therefore, I’ve had to scrape together every stray thrahkmeh and sell many of my personal effects in order to buy a set of decent plate and other essentials for campaigning in those hellish mountains.”

“I told you I would provide for you and I have. Although I can leave you no money, I’ve arranged an apprenticeship for you with Master Lokos Prahseenos, the fahrmahkohpios. This is an agreement of indenture; he agrees in it to provide you food, lodging and clothing and, in return for eight years of work for him, to train you and impart to you sufficient of his knowledge in his craft to enable you to earn a living anywhere as a craftsman of his calling. His mark is already affixed and properly witnessed—you need only sign below and I will witness your own mark. It is an honorable craft, Neeka, and one of the few that will accept women as apprentices or masters.”

“Now, Lokos is an old man and sometimes crotchety, Neeka, hut he is universally recognized a true master-of-masters and those whom he has trained are in great demand from Kuhmbuhluhnburk to Ehlehfuhntpolis. That alone, that artistry at his craft and value as a teacher, has kept him out of the fortress prison on more than one occasion, for he is one of the most rabid of the Ehleen radicals. But learn his skills, Neeka; you need not also imbibe of his politics.”

She had signed, for, as Djordj had pointed out, few honorable professions or crafts were open to mere women, and apprenticeship under so renowned a master was a priceless opportunity. That night, he had had her one last time in his tender, gentle way. In the morning, he had set her off into the city with a guardsman to guide her to Master Lokos’ shop-residence, his manservant having delivered her clothing and effects there earlier.

In her eighteen months with Djordj, he had taught her many things—to read and write in both the principal languages of the Confederation, Ehleeneekos and Mehrikan (in her homeland, Kehnooryos Mahkehdohnya, well-bred girls learned household skills and nothing more; most could not write their own names); how to ride astride a horse. He was a mindspeaker and had encouraged and helped her to develop and train her own powerful, but latent, mindspeak abilities; he had also, from time to time and in a spirit of fun, taught her the essentials of good close-in knife work and the accurate casting of knives, darts and light throwing axes.

She and Djordj had often ridden their horses through the city, so she had a fair general knowledge of the various sections and streets. And she and her “guide” had not walked a half mile from the fortress when she realized that this route could not possibly lead to the area where the well-to-do craftsmen’s shops were situated. When she spoke of this to the man, however, he smiled and nodded agreement.

“The captain sez to take you, lady, but he don’ say how we gotta go. It’s a long walk, it is, but I got this friend, y’see, as has this ass cart an’ goes that wav ever mornin’. Ifin he ain’ lef yet, we can save our pore feet a bit.”

The tale sounded plausible, so Neeka nodded assent and continued to follow the scale-shirted guardsman. As they passed the mouth of a narrow alley between two stone warehouses, the guardsman stumbled and half-fell. Neeka bent to give him a hand up and, as she straightened, a thick sack was dropped over her head. Despite her struggles and her muffled cries, several pairs of strong, ungentle hands bound the mouth of the sack tightly about her, pinioning her arms firmly against her body. An unseen man lifted her clear off the ground, and another bound her at knees and at ankles with scratchy rope. A thrill of burning agony shot up her arm as the tight-fitting silver ring—given to her by Djordj, at the midwinter Sun-birth Feast—was jerked off her finger and she screamed.

But screams gained her nothing, nor did demands or entreaties. Rough hands lifted her, bore her up the alleyway, the stone walls scraping her. Then she was unceremoniously dropped into a fishy-smelling cart and, with the snap-crack of a whip and a shout and the shrill protest of a grease-starved axle, the conveyance began to move. Over the cobbled streets, the springless vehicle provided a swaying, bumping, jolting and thoroughly uncomfortable ride. Each time Neeka tried to sit up, a horny hand slammed her back down onto the slimy boards. The last time, her head struck the wood with enough force to fill it with flashing light before a total blackness descended.