Taste of tenderloin, p.9
The Blade of Ryl, page 9
part #1 of Corelle Of Dur Series
Her legs were sore and stiff and would not run to her house when she begged them to. She fetched up at the corner of his street. The sun peeped above the eastern city skyline as she reached her front door. Pettra hoped Jorinda would care for her and give her the chance to apologise. She would never again beg for pain during lovemaking. Jorinda had been right; the dangers were immense, and the night had gone far, far beyond anything Pettra had wished for. Worse, he had believed she craved the extreme brutality he had visited upon her. How could anybody enjoy such terrible punishment?
Jorinda appeared concerned at first, then devastated Pettra with news of her plans to leave. Pettra would be alone the morning after she had endured the worst night of her entire life. What had she done? Her desire for pain had almost cost her life and had driven away the woman she loved, left her alone, battered, and with no prospects. Jorinda had urged her to return to Raolos. That would humiliate her almost as much as the treatment at the hands of the market stall man.
Jorinda left as Pettra pretended to sleep. She had no strength left to attempt to detain her lover and felt an emptiness in her heart she had never known before. Although she had told Jorinda she hated her, she did not. Despite Jorinda’s constant insistence to the contrary, Pettra loved the younger woman. For much of the day and the night that followed, Pettra slept. Jorinda did not return, though Pettra ached for her to reappear in the bedroom. Each time she heard a sound, she raised her head from the pillow, hopeful Jorinda returned, but her hopes were dashed every time.
The next day, she did not leave the bed other than to relieve herself. She cried enough tears to refill the Torr Sea if somebody had drained it beforehand, and she cursed herself and the dice she had rolled. The woman she loved had left, she suffered terrible pain, and she found blood on the bedsheet. It seemed possible the man had damaged something inside her when he had violated her in so repulsive a manner.
On the second morning after Jorinda had left, Pettra heard a knock at the door. Jorinda had returned. She descended the stairs in agony and tried to call out, to tell Jorinda she would reach the door soon. Nothing but a croak emerged from her lips. Another knock echoed through the lobby before she reached the locked door at last. She fell to the ground in tears—she had left her key in the bedroom. Another knock came, and she croaked, “I must bring the key. Please wait. Do not leave.”
“I will wait.”
The deep voice had not been Jorinda’s. Could it be the man from the market? It did not sound like him, but fear gripped her and constricted her chest, her breath trapped in her lungs. “Who is it?”
“A courier. I bring a letter from Corelle.”
Jorinda had scribed her a letter. “One moment.” Pettra pulled herself up the stairs, grabbed the key, and returned to the lobby where she pulled the door open.
The man stood and stared at her, then turned away. She wore no clothes, and she had not realised it. “Are you all right?” Those marks—”
“I am fine. You have a letter from Corelle?”
“That I do not. I have a letter for Corelle. This is her home?”
She must have misheard him, or he had played some cruel jest on her. Tears sprang again to her eyes. “That it is.” She held out her hand for the letter, he placed it on her palm, and she pushed the door closed. Slow, dejected, she dragged herself back up to the bedroom. She fell onto the bed, broken and wracked by sobs. After some time, she studied the letter. Wilash had sent it, and she tore the seal and opened it. Her horror intensified as she read each line.
Klordia had been killed. She had not come home from work one night, and despite extensive searches she could not be found. They found her naked body dumped at the door of the Bailiff’s Offices at first light, her throat slit in the way Jorinda had slit throats in the Guild. Wilash exhorted Jorinda, or Corelle as he called her in the letter, to return to Dur and assist him to find the killers and dispense justice. The slit throat had been intended as a message, Wilash suggested, although Pettra could not imagine what the message could be.
Raolos appeared ready to turn a blind eye to Jorinda’s presence in Dur as long as he did not see her, and she used discretion in any justice she dispensed. Pettra gasped. The “justice” Wilash sought was death. He had summoned Jorinda back to Dur to kill for him, to avenge Klordia. Pettra had never met Klordia, but she had heard stories of her. Jorinda had never liked her, it seemed. Wilash, however, had been a good friend to Jorinda, and to her first lover, before Deineike, and had Jorinda been here to read the letter, Pettra thought she would return to Dur to help her friend.
She dropped the awful letter, went to the privy to relieve herself, and gazed at herself in the reflecting glass. Black and purple bruises covered her battered body. Angry red strips on her face, wrists and ankles showed where he had bound her. When she turned, blood caked the backs of her thighs and dripped from her rear passage. The man had damaged something, she felt more certain than ever.
Scribing tools stood on the cabinet she carried the letter to, and she read it again. Raolos had been right. Jorinda would always be a killer. She had abandoned Pettra so she could kill the Bailiff, and Wilash had scribed a letter to implore her to kill on his behalf. Death followed Jorinda wherever she went. Death pursued her and begged her to be its companion across land and water, and she loved it, though she would never love Pettra. She had gone, driven away by desires Pettra could not control and that had brought her terrible injuries. Pettra picked up the scribing tool and scribed on the parch under Wilash’s signature, “J. I love you. P.” Then she added the address of the market stall man. At the bottom of the parch, she scribed, “I hope R can forgive me.”
Pettra left the letter on the cabinet and forced her battered body out to the landing. Death followed Jorinda, and more awaited. She climbed, unsteady, onto the flat rail of the balustrade, then raised her arms out from her sides and leaned forward. The tiles of the lobby floor rushed up to meet her.
CHAPTER 12
CORELLE
Corelle reined her horse to a halt at the outskirts of Yantogi. She had spent two nights in inns and had not pushed the horse too hard. Early on the morning of the third day, she had set out on the last part of the journey. The city spread out before her in the mid-morning sunshine, large and radiant in the hot sun, most of its buildings built from the same pale-coloured bricks as in Arkkyd. She kicked the horse forward and rode toward the centre of the city. She imagined she would find Undilk at the local version of the Portreeve’s Offices. She did not know what the title of the Portreeve’s equivalent might be here. It had never occurred to her to find out, and they had not had any cause to visit him in Arkkyd. Since Undilk served as an Upholder, Corelle guessed he worked from some central and important building.
Before she embarked on her search for Undilk, she found an inn and rented a room for the night. She stabled the horse and left her pack in a trunk in her room. With both of Wilash’s daggers tucked in the waistband of her trousers, she went back to the street. Despite her reasonable grasp of the Vyrrmod language, she received nothing but blank stares in response to her requests for directions to the city square. Mayhap the city had not been built around a central square like cities in Dur. Questions about where the Upholders could be found yielded better results. Not long after the midday, she entered a large, impressive building, inside which a woman sat at a desk in the entrance lobby.
“Good day to you.” The woman spoke in Vyrrmod as she glanced up at Corelle.
“And to you. I seek Undilk.”
The woman nodded. “May I ask with what akhtinta?”
Corelle did not understand the word “akhtinta” but imagined the woman had asked why Corelle wanted to see Undilk. “Friend.” She had confidence in the word.
“Your name?”
“Corelle.” The name would mean nothing to Undilk, and he would not recognise her as a friend. She could not, however, call herself Rakulaj, and there seemed to be no alternative to her own name.
The woman said something Corelle did not understand, but she gestured to some chairs nearby, so Corelle sat on one of them and waited to see what would turn. The woman stood, opened a door behind her, spoke in hushed tones to some unseen person beyond, then sat behind the desk again and smiled at Corelle.
Time passed, and Corelle wondered whether her lack of ability in the language had resulted in some confusion that meant the woman had not sent for Undilk at all, but as she considered another approach to the woman, a man appeared from the door behind her desk. He had the usual Vyrrmod dark skin, a tall man with black hair cropped close to his skull. His remarkable features appeared as though they had been chiselled from some dark rock. He spoke to the woman, and she pointed to Corelle. He approached, a quizzical expression on his face. “You are Corelle?”
Rather than trust to her Vyrrmod, she handed him the button. He glanced at it and nodded his head before he handed it back to her. “You are a friend of Rakulaj?”
“That I am.” She nodded in support of words she did not quite trust.
“How can I help you?”
“Speak in private?” She hoped she had asked the right question. Other ears should not hear what she wished to know.
“Ah.” He nodded. “Come.” He led her across the lobby and through a door into a small room. “Private.” His smile bonded them in an as-yet unknown conspiracy.
“I seek Glailam. Bailiff of Dur.” Again, she hoped she had said what she intended to.
“I know of him. Why do you seek him?”
“Friend.” Corelle forced a smile to her face. “From Dur.” He need not know Glailam would die if she met him.
He stared at her and seemed to wrestle with something he saw or suspected. “You are Corelle of Dur?”
She bit at her lower lip. Had she not said as much already? “That I am.”
“We know of you. Rakulaj”—another word she did not understand; it sounded like hyarget—“you.” What had been the word she had missed? Loves? Hates? Desires? Her blank expression must have told him she had not understood. “Respect is due.” He had spoken in shaky Dur.
She smiled. “Respect is due.”
He held up a hand. “You are known. I am nobody.”
The strange reply might mean something to the people of Vyrrmod, but not to her. “Glailam?”
“Yes. Tonight, here.” Had he attempted to keep his Vyrrmod simple so she could understand? He had failed, unless Glailam would, in truth, be at the office tonight.
“Glailam here tonight?” She pointed to the floor.
“No.” He laughed as he used the unfamiliar negative, as all people of Vyrrmod did. “You. Me. Here tonight.”
Had he asked her to lie with him? That could not be what he meant. He must wish to meet her here tonight. She pointed to him, then to herself, then to the floor.
“Yes. Tonight.”
“When?”
“Tonight.” Another smile.
Corelle doubted she had the patience to pin him down to a more precise hour, so she decided to sit on the chair in the lobby until he came for her and outlined whatever plan he had. She nodded her agreement.
“Good.” He opened the door and held it for her as she re-entered the lobby. “Later, here.” He walked toward the desk and returned through the door he had appeared from.
She sat on the same chair, and the woman glanced up at her. “Do you need help?”
“I wait for Undilk.”
“He has left.” She seemed confused.
“We have arranged a further meeting later.”
The woman nodded and carried on with whatever she had been about before. Corelle had spent many hours motionless as she waited and watched nothing happen in preparation for her gests in Zhanghar. The wait today would be no hardship as she had a chair and had no need to lie in mud or squat in a shop doorway in bitter, cold winds.
The hours passed. The shadows in the lobby changed as the sun crossed the high window above and behind her. She watched the last of the sun fight to remain in one low corner of the lobby, then it had gone, and the soft shadow light that comes to any space when the sun has left for the day bathed the lobby. Undilk did not reappear, and still Corelle sat motionless on the chair. From time to time somebody entered the lobby and spoke with the woman. Some of them sat near Corelle until some other person came and took them away to other parts of the building. She watched them leave later, sometimes shown back to the lobby by the person who had collected them, sometimes alone. Some took parch away with them. Corelle did not listen to their conversations; they were not her business.
The woman placed some parch in a drawer in her desk and tidied the scribing tools on the desk surface. She appeared ready to leave for the night, and Corelle wondered if the woman might shoo her out of the lobby. Corelle worried the Offices might close as the woman left, but she did not glance Corelle’s way when at last she stood and went through the door behind her. Moments later, an older man came out of the door and sat behind the desk. He wore the same olive-green tunic Undilk had worn, no doubt the uniform of the Upholders. He inclined his head toward Corelle but did not speak to her. She smiled at him.
An hour after the woman had left, Undilk emerged from the door behind the other man. The men spoke for a moment, then Undilk approached her. “You are ready?”
She nodded and followed him out of the building. The hour had grown later than she had realised as she sat in the lobby. Corelle followed him, cautious, as he walked through the streets of the city, and she peered around to ensure they had not been followed. Though she had no reason not to trust Undilk, her natural sense of caution did not permit her to relax.
When a large tavern appeared ahead, Undilk stopped and turned to her. “What will happen next?”
Corelle did not feel she could place him in an awkward position where he might need to respond to an unpleasant situation. Rakulaj had sent her to him, though he had known what she intended, so she rolled the dice and decided to tell him the truth. “I will challenge him.”
He nodded, and a serious expression sprang to his face. “He has wronged you?”
“He and another killed someone I love.” Her grasp of his language would not permit a more detailed explanation.
“A worthy challenge. Come.”
He led her into the busy tavern. Corelle made no attempt to approach the counter or buy drinks. She checked her waistband for both of Wilash’s daggers and pushed through the crowd behind Undilk. He stopped next to two burly men, both too pale-skinned to be Vyrrmod folk. Undilk did not look at Corelle, and she tried to imagine what would happen next. A great commotion broke out ahead of her, so she pressed on through the crowd.
Several men sat around a large table. Each of them had coin on the table before them and cards in their hands. Other cards lay on the table. It seemed they played some form of game for coin. Rakulaj had mentioned Glailam often gambled in a tavern, and she found him easy to pick out, his pale skin out of place among the darker skinned Vyrrmod players. She moved closer and observed. A large stack of coin sat on the table in front of him, but she could not discern whether he had enjoyed good fortune or played with an inordinate amount of coin every night. He laughed and chatted with the other players and his grasp of Vyrrmod appeared well advanced compared to her own.
Corelle saw no others who might be Durfolk other than Glailam and the two she had first noticed, and she guessed they must be Glailam’s guards. Undilk still stood beside them and now watched her with intense interest. She wondered if the guards would be a complication, but she had not come here for them, so she returned her attention to the former Bailiff. He lost a hand, a large sum of coin, but he seemed unconcerned and laughed as the winner scooped the coin from the centre of the table. Corelle had no idea what game they played. She knew nothing of card games, and they did not interest her, since they relied too much on chance. Since she had joined the Guild, she always focused on the highest probability of a favourable outcome, and card games offered none of the assurance she preferred.
She controlled her breaths and rehearsed the gest in her head. It would be simple and quick, and she would leave afterward without delay. The less attention she attracted after she had killed in so public a place, the better. The number of witnesses discomforted her, but Rakulaj and Undilk had convinced her the challenge ensured she could kill without any fear of being hanged. In truth, as long as Glailam died, her own fate mattered little to her.
Several of the players stood from the table among jeers and laughter. Some drifted away, but they left their coin at their places. It seemed they had taken a break. The time had come. Glailam would not leave the table alive.
She pushed past a small group of men and stood next to Glailam. Deep in a conversation with the man next to him, he did not notice her as she slid both daggers into her hands and held them tight against her legs.
She called his name, soft but confident. “Glailam.” He half-turned toward her, though he still spoke to his neighbour. “Glailam.” She said it again, louder.
He turned in his chair and gazed at her, a curious expression on his face. “Do I know you?” He spoke Vyrrmod.
“I have a gift for you.” She replied in Dur, and she placed the dagger from her left hand on the table before him. A silence fell around her and spread through the room like a wave that crashed, soundless, onto the shoreline. In the periphery of her vision, every head turned toward the table.
“What is it?” He glanced down at it. He had switched to Dur to her relief. Part of the deception required that few of the patrons understood their conversation.
“Pick it up and see.” A shout came from behind her. She ignored it.
He glanced at her and gave a nervous laugh. Did he know about the challenge? He moved a hand toward it and the noise of a commotion built behind her. He glanced up and tried to peer around her as if to see what turned.
She pressed on. “Pick it up. It is a gift from Styrrach.”
