To Ride Hell’s Chasm. Janny Wurts
Bound to deliver the messages he carried from Captain Mykkael of the garrison, he remounted the moment he received his dismissal and rode off to make his report.
The seneschal turned Kailen around, then began the last leg of the journey to haul his charge to the royal apartments. He puffed, grunting manfully, taxed far beyond his frail build and aged strength. All his fastidious senses were revolted by the reek of the prince’s clothes—below town smells of urine and stale pipe smoke; boiled onions, trout stew and dark beer.
‘Why oh why do you do this, your Highness? Now, more than ever, we need your subjects to see you as your father’s trustworthy son.’
‘Need me?’ Prince Kailen snorted. ‘Need me? Nobody needs me! Only Anja.’ He flung out an arm muscled fit from the tourney, too sodden to notice the woes of the courtier who sweated and struggled to brace him. ‘Find my sister, get her wed.’ He tripped, gasped a curse, then maundered into the seneschal’s longsuffering ear. ‘You’ll have your coveted sea trade from Devall. My sister reigns as a wealthy queen over us, and I, her poor relative, steward no more than Sessalie’s dirt-licking farmers.’
‘You’ll marry one day,’ the seneschal chided, wrestling the prince’s incompetent bulk up the first flight of marble steps. ‘Who knows what alliance your betrothed might bring?’
Proceeding in comedic jerks and sharp stops, the mismatched pair passed the fountain at the arch, and missed falling in by a hairsbreadth.
‘Oh, my intended will wed for a bride gift of turnips,’ said Prince Kailen, morose. ‘Who sends the princess of anything here, to marry a king who counts out his year’s tithes in cattle?’
‘Just let us get you into the hands of your valet.’ Paused, gasping, the seneschal fumbled to grasp the bell rope, and summon a footman to open the door. He was tired himself, bone-weary of Sessalie’s thankless, long service. Under damp morning mist, plagued by the ache of a near sleepless night, he had no ready answer to give to ease Kailen’s maudlin grasp of the truth. ‘Only pray your royal sister is found safe from harm, or she’ll marry for turnips as well.’
At mid-morning, when sunshine struck through and shredded the mists into snags against the snow-clad peaks, Commander Taskin had rested and washed. Reclad in a spotless, fresh surcoat, he sat at his desk in the wardroom gallery, a light breakfast sent by his daughter reduced to stacked dishes and crumbs. The gold-leafed tray had been pushed aside. Folded forearms rested upon gleaming marble, Taskin listened to the guardsman who recited Captain Mykkael’s report.
The official version was short and concise, covering the seeress found drowned in the moat, then the ongoing search for the flower girl whose petition for augury had coincided with the first unsettled rumour. Street watch had been increased. Informers were being interviewed. Mykkael expected results in by noon, along with opinions on the seeress’s corpse from a reliable physician and a Cultwaen-trained apothecary.
The unofficial report ran much longer, and contained several unsatisfactory gaps.
This shortfall fell at the feet of the guard now sweating beneath Taskin’s scrutiny. Unhappy with his assignment to Lowergate’s keep long before Mykkael’s shiftless absence, the weary man suffered the grilling review, his embarrassed features flushed the same hue as his blazoned palace surcoat.
Taskin’s long, swordsman’s fingers were not sympathetic, tapping in scarcely muffled irritation as he posed his string of questions. ‘You say Mysh kael’s own men don’t know where he went, though he came back soaked from the moat?’
‘Well, the talk says the corpse might have something—’
Taskin interrupted. ‘I don’t want hearsay, or wild rumours from the lips of the disaffected! When I said I wanted that captain watched, I meant you to mind orders, soldier! I don’t give a damn how Mysh kael slipped your escort. Understand, and dead clearly: you failed in your given charge.’
‘You don’t trust that slinking desert-bred, either,’ surmised the shamed guard.
The rebuke came, keen-edged. ‘Trusting the man is not the same thing as knowing what he’s about.’
A door opened, below. Taskin’s relentless attention changed target to assess the arrival crossing his wardroom downstairs. The guardsman kept discipline, too chastened to risk a glance past the balcony railing. Faced forward, he made out the patter of slippered feet, approaching by way of the stairwell.
A gleam of sharp interest lit Taskin’s eyes. ‘At least now we’re likely to fill in one bit of guesswork raised by your inept watch.’ He grasped the papers stacked to his right, flipped them face down on his desktop, then weighted the sheaf with the warming brick filched from under the plate on his breakfast tray. ‘Stand aside, soldier, but mind your deportment. You’re not dismissed. My case with you will stay open until after I’ve settled the matter at hand.’
The man-at-arms moved, accoutrements jingling, and took position behind Taskin’s shoulder.
Seconds later, the gallery door swung open. A man in gold braid and maroon livery stepped in with the peremptory announcement, ‘His Highness, the heir apparent of Devall.’
Two more lackeys followed, then a rumpled-looking dignitary who appeared short on sleep. Next came a pageboy, groomed and jewelled, his costume topped by a tasselled hat that made him resemble a lapdog. At his heels, wearing costly black silk trimmed with rubies, the Prince of Devall stalked in like a panther.
The commander of King Isendon’s guard did not rise, which caused his royal caller a flare of stifled pique. The fact that no servant had been sent in advance should have said, stark as words, that the business that brought him was sensitive.
‘Your Highness?’ said Taskin. ‘I regret, without notice, steps could not be taken to seat you in proper comfort.’
There were no chairs. No fool, the Commander of the Guard did not volunteer to surrender his own. The High Prince of Devall swiftly realized he was required to stand, and his dignitary with him, like any other drill sergeant taken to task on the subordinate’s side of the desk. He met the challenge of that opening play with an unruffled smile, though his gold eyes showed no amusement.
‘I will not apologize for my inconvenience, your lordship.’ The heir apparent snapped his ringed fingers, and a lackey jumped, removed his velvet mantle, and draped the lush cloth over the railing that fronted the gallery. There, still smiling, the lowcountry prince sat down. Throughout, he stayed untouched by the rancour that smoked off his dour court advocate.
That worthy held to his bristling stance, his caustic glare fixed upon Sessalie’s titled defender. ‘We have a complaint,’ he announced, only to find himself cut off by the suave voice of his prince.
‘Not a complaint, Lord Taskin. Rather, I bring you a heartfelt appeal.’ Settled without a visible qualm for the twenty-foot drop at his back, the high prince handled himself with the aplomb of a sovereign enthroned in his own hall of audience. ‘Princess Anja would not have us at odds over quibbling points of propriety. She is precious to me. This scandal has already shadowed our wedding. Should I not want her found, and restored to my side with all speed?’
‘Precisely where do we stand at odds, your Highness?’ Taskin steepled his fingers before him, eyes open in unflinching inquiry.
Rubies flashed to the High Prince of Devall’s deprecating gesture. ‘Your response to the crisis has been diligent, of course.’ His handsome face shaded into uncertainty, a reminder that he was yet a young man, brilliantly accomplished, but with heart and mind still tender with inexperience. ‘I refer to the fact that my help has been rejected at every turn.’
The dangerous insult, by indirect implication, that perhaps King Isendon’s daughter had been fickle by design, had no chance to stay hanging between them. The smouldering advocate snatched at the opening to vent his affront.
‘Not simply rejected, my lord commander!’ Chalky, all but trembling, he served up his accusation. ‘Your gutter-bred cur of a garrison captain had