3: THE BARON’S JUSTICE
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Two days since the death of Emperor Sandus
“Wait,” Kihrin said. “The firebloods talk? Those horses in the stable can talk?” He pointed behind him for emphasis.
Kihrin had always spoken to Scandal as though she understood him. When he was a boy, he’d treated a cat named Princess the same way. People liked to regard their pets as family. That didn’t mean the animals talked back.
“Oh no,” Brother Qown said. “Now you’ve done it.”
“What?”
“They’re not horses,” Janel insisted. “Firebloods are imperial citizens with full legal rights.”
Kihrin’s eyes widened. “Has anyone told the empire?”
Janel set her mug down firmly. “When Atrin Kandor liberated Jorat from the god-king Khorsal, he granted citizenship to both races the god-king had enslaved: humans and firebloods. Calling a fireblood a horse is like calling a human an animal. Yes, they talk.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s not their fault you never learned to understand them.”1
“Well, that puts a different slant on Darzin’s attempts to breed Scandal.” Kihrin made a face. “A rather obscene slant.” Not that it would have changed his horrible brother’s actions at all. In fact, it wouldn’t have surprised Kihrin if his brother had known the truth about firebloods and tried, anyway. That sounded like Darzin.
“You call Hamarratus Scandal?” The tone in Janel’s voice implied Kihrin had flunked a test.
“Is that … wait. Why do you think Scandal’s name is Hamarratus?” Kihrin remembered Star mentioning the name to the old groom.
“Hamarratus told me in the stable,” Janel said. “Remember, they can talk.”
Kihrin considered the sounds the horses—rather, the firebloods—had produced during the dragon attack. He’d assumed they were normal excited horse noises. Storm. Big dragon. Lots of danger. But speech?
Maybe.
“I realize this is a shock,” Brother Qown told him. “Believe me, I sympathize.”
“Star says she likes the name Scandal,” Kihrin said. “I’ll keep calling her that.”
“Fine,” Janel said. “If that’s her choice rather than the pet name you gave a slave.”
Kihrin’s eyes narrowed. “She’s not a slave.”
“She’d better not be.”
Brother Qown looked back and forth between the two. “Janel, may I take over reading? You can eat.”
Janel pulled a bowl to her. “Yes. Please do.”
Qown’s Turn. The town of Mereina, Barsine Banner, Jorat, Quur.
Turning in the bandits for their reward required traveling to Mereina, Barsine Banner’s local seat. It wasn’t a happy trip. The guards joked and bantered the whole way, bragging as if they’d done anything more than arrive. In contrast, the outlaws were a dour bunch.
Brother Qown couldn’t help but compare them with the previous criminals they had captured, who had treated their situation like a game.
He’d been surprised. The rest of the Quuros Empire punished banditry with mandatory slavery. Here in Jorat, the men and women they arrested hadn’t taken the matter with any solemnity at all. They had been criminals and happy to take metal by force, but they had treated their arrest as a grand lark. They had lost; the count had won. Well played.
Ninavis and her gang behaved differently.
The silence from both the bandits and Count Janel herself was thick and sullen. She gazed around her with narrowed eyes as if she expected an attack at any moment. The whole group’s tension pulled tighter with each step toward their destination.
As they left the tree line, Mereina Castle came into view. Qown didn’t recognize it at first. He only realized the building wasn’t a watchtower or storage depot when the guards headed in that direction.
To be fair, it wasn’t much of a castle.
The squat, square structure dated from antiquity, when all these lands dwelt outside the Quuros Empire. The border fortress had been repurposed into the local government seat. Gracing it with the label castle was like comparing his native Eamithon’s gently rolling hills with the Dragonspires.
The “town” resting in a valley below the castle plateau differed from the clay brick, wood, and stone structures used in western Quur. Instead of houses, private patios and arbors covered the valley. Flags and banners flew from the posts. In a high wind—or even a low wind—the town became a sea of waving cloth. Pretty, but useless for protecting anyone from the storms for which Jorat was so infamous.
Horses and elephants wandered through the streets. Dholes—a dog breed with fox-like features—roamed streets or stayed close to family patios.
But where were the houses?
The only structures resembling buildings nestled on the same plateau as the castle: hundreds of Joratese tents called azhock. Formed from fabric and hides stretched over a wooden frame, the azhock were large enough to house men and horses both. These temporary homes sheltered the tournament travelers: merchants, traders, farmers, and those who represented their interests in the event itself.
The captured bandits walked before Brother Qown and Dorna, apart from Ninavis, who rode astride Arasgon. Count Janel journeyed with the outlaws too, refusing to ride with Captain Dedreugh or the guards, although she’d been content enough to let them carry the deer carcass intended as a guest offering for the baron. Brother Qown suspected Janel escorted the prisoners to make sure no one molested them. He recognized his naïveté, but even he noticed the way the male soldiers eyed the female brigands.
The Joratese have a word for this: thorra. The word literally means “a stallion who is not safe to leave with other horses.”
It is never a compliment.
The road to the castle took them through the fairgrounds. More than one person peeked from otherwise quiet camp flaps and then ducked back.
A black-skinned girl with silver dapples and coarse gray hair dashed from one tent to another, spreading news of their arrival. Seconds later, a larger dappled man, a blacksmith by his apron and thews, stepped outside an azhock and watched the group, wiping his hands off on a towel. His disapproval lingered long after they passed.
The hate wasn’t directed at Brother Qown, Dorna, Janel, or the bandits. The smith reserved his anger for the guards. A young man, fur clad, paused while hooding one of the eagles the Joratese often used for hunting. He seemed about to unleash his bird against the escorts, but another hunter held him back with a hand on his arm.
The townspeople recognized the outlaws, but not with malice. They were not the enemy here; the guards were. The whole town eyed them like the baron’s men were lions wandering into their meadows. Thorra—bullies—to put it mildly.
Brother Qown felt chilled. Jorat wasn’t a dominion he associated with rebellion.2 Joratese society rested on the idea each member in it accepted their place. This hatred for the banner’s soldiers stood out like a thunderstorm in an otherwise cloudless sky.
As the group continued toward the castle, Kalazan flipped around and walked backward to address his companions. “It’s been an honor and a privilege. You’re the best of people. Let no one tell you otherwise.”
The largest bandit (Brother Qown thought he was Dango) snorted. “Ah, Kalazan. Save your sweet talk. We ain’t even married yet.”
Kalazan gave Dango a sad smile. “In my next life, perhaps. I think I’ll lie on the Pale Lady’s wedding bed tonight, not yours.” His eyes met another bandit’s, the young woman with laevos hair named Gan the Miller’s Daughter. His sad smile turned bitter.
Dorna turned back to Count Janel, who watched the exchange with a flat expression. A funny look crossed Dorna’s face. “Couldn’t we—”
“Keep walking, damn it,” Captain Dedreugh ordered.
“No burial speeches just yet, Kalazan,” Ninavis said. “We’re not done here.”
“You will be soon enough,” Dedreugh snapped. “Now move, or I’ll use my sword.”
“Let’s continue,” Count Janel suggested.
They kept walking.
Brother Qown had assumed Mereina Castle would be comfortable since this banner’s rulers called it home. He realized his mistake. The stone walls had been made for security, not comfort, but in this age of modern magical siege-craft, they were long since obsolete. The castle was stuffy, cold, and cramped. He suspected when the summer rainy season arrived it would be stuffy, hot, and cramped. At no point did the fortress seem a pleasant place to live. The azhock tents appeared much more practical.
Qown pined for a House D’Talus Red Man to cast a warming spell, but given the local superstitions about magic, he didn’t like his chances of finding one.
Despite its lack of comforts, the castle had beautiful original features: wooden corbels made from cypress and Tung wood, carved with horse motifs. Tapestries, old and faded, hid the crumbling walls. Lanterns—sun patterns burned into their stretched hide covers—cast painted shadows over the tile floors. The fortress hadn’t strayed far from its military roots; armed men and women camped in the courtyard, horses left to mill in the mud-churned yard.
The guards paused at the gate while Dedreugh sent a messenger inside for the baron.
“Preparations for the tournament,” Captain Dedreugh explained to Janel. Between their first encounter and final destination, Dedreugh had decided to impress the count, transforming from belligerent to obsequious.
“I see,” she replied.
He grinned, a gleam in his eyes. “I’ll be competing myself.”
She looked at him sideways. “How nice for you.”
“I’m going to win,” he confided.
Her jaw set against her neck in a manner that suggested the grinding of teeth. Brother Qown watched her for any sign she might be rash. Not that he could stop her. He just needed to know which way to jump.
Captain Dedreugh leaned toward her. “I always win.”
That time she focused on him. “The baron doesn’t consider that a conflict of interest? Don’t you oversee who’s arrested?”
As Captain Dedreugh pulled himself up to counter the accusation, the double doors leading into the castle were flung open.
The Baron of Barsine marched into the courtyard.
The baron was dressed in sumptuous attire, far more opulent than Count Janel ever wore. Still, he didn’t match the priest’s expectations. Golden skinned and fine featured, he was also young.
As young as Count Janel herself.
“Tamin.” Janel laughed. She threw out her arms in delight as the baron gave her the traditional Joratese greeting: forehead to forehead, hands placed behind each other’s necks. She cradled him like the finest porcelain, her touch so gentle it would be easy to mistake her delicacy for shyness. “I’ve brought you a gift for your fires and goodwill for your herd.”
“And I welcome you as a guest to my fields,” he said, finishing the formal greeting. “I’m so sorry about your grandfather,” Tamin said when they parted. At Count Janel’s surprised blink, he added, “My men told me the Count of Tolamer had arrived. Yet instead of your grandfather, I find you.”
“He died in his sleep,” Janel said. “His heart failed him.” She stepped back. “But you … where’s your father? I expected to see him—?” The words tripped and tangled.
“He didn’t die in his sleep, but die he has. Murdered by a vile cabal, including my castle steward. I’m told I have you to thank for bringing me the last of my father’s assassins.” Tamin looked past her, toward the bandits.
Brother Qown shouldn’t have been surprised at what happened next. Tamin, Baron of Barsine, walked past Count Janel to where Dedreugh’s soldiers watched the prisoners and stopped before Kalazan.
Tamin slapped the man.
Kalazan grinned. “Nice to see you too, Baron.” Shockingly, he dispensed with the Joratese suffixes, the cases showing respect: my baron, my lord.
Brother Qown wasn’t fluent in Karo, the old Joratese language, but he recognized the insult. Kalazan had, with a single word, denied Tamin’s status as his liege. He declared Tamin unworthy to be his liege.
Baron Tamin would have taken it as a mortal insult even if the words hadn’t come from his father’s accused murderer.
“Is this the part where I’m supposed to throw you into the dungeon until your little friends can organize a rescue?” Tamin asked. Without waiting for an answer, he waved his hand at Dedreugh. “Kill him.”
“No!” cried Gan the Miller’s Daughter. She threw herself forward, so suddenly and unexpectedly she caught the soldier off guard. The rope tied to her hands pulled the next person in line, Vidan, off balance too. He yanked Jem Nakijan’s rope, who fell. Jem’s bonds wrenched Kalazan’s.
His ties came undone.
The soldiers may have been caught off guard, but not Kalazan. He stole a sword from a guard’s belt, slicing the man’s side as he pulled the weapon free. Another guard stood close enough to act, but Ninavis’s foot caught the man under the chin before he moved, sending him tumbling backward.
Arasgon reared up on his hind legs, screaming as Ninavis fell to the ground. Her short cry ended in sobbing as she landed on her injured leg.
Kalazan grabbed Count Janel from behind and placed his sword’s edge against her throat.
“Stop!” Tamin cried out. “Everyone, stop!”
The courtyard stilled. All present paused as they noticed Kalazan’s hostage.
Brother Qown heard Kalazan whisper, “Apologies, my count.”
He noticed Kalazan had remembered the correct form this time. My count. My liege.
“Leave her be,” Baron Tamin ordered.
Kalazan smiled as he pressed the sword harder against Janel. He pulled her back toward the gate entrance.
Count Janel didn’t speak. She clenched her jaw, her hands tight fists at her sides. Brother Qown recognized the signs well enough. Kalazan had seen Janel fight Ninavis. Didn’t he understand what would happen if she defended herself?
“Let her go,” Tamin repeated.
“Not yet,” Kalazan said. “It’s rude, I know, but your reception’s been so cold I’ve little choice but to refuse your hospitality.” He backed up toward the archway.
“Very well,” Tamin said.
Kalazan smiled.
“Shoot through her,” Baron Tamin ordered.
Every eye present stared at him in disbelief.
Every eye but those owned by Dedreugh and his soldiers, who followed orders.
Much happened then.
First, Kalazan pushed Janel forward, away from him. Arasgon shielded Janel with his body. The crossbows fired, or rather misfired, as their drawn strings snapped, all at once. Of the crossbows that discharged, one bolt hit Arasgon’s saddle, and another missed him by a coin’s width. The remaining soldiers didn’t waste their ammunition attempting to find a mark. Given his size, Arasgon made an excellent wall.
Kalazan ran.
He skipped the main doors and darted to the side. He then slipped through a door behind a bulwark, even as soldiers found the clear shot they needed.
“After him!” Dedreugh screamed. “After him!”
The soldiers were quick to give chase, although some stayed to keep an eye on the prisoners.
Dedreugh crossed back over to the guard who’d lost his weapon. He grabbed the man by the jerkin and lifted him right off the ground, giving him a violent shake. “Idiot! Take these filth to the jail, and if anything goes wrong, I swear you’ll join them.”
Brother Qown rushed to Nina’s side. The woman was unconscious, which didn’t surprise him. Landing on her broken leg must have been excruciating.
Still, she was alive.
While Brother Qown looked over Nina, he heard the others debating another prisoner.
A soldier: “What about this one?”
Tamin answered, “She’s saelen, is she not? If she wants to slum with thieves, so be it. Put ‘Lady’ Ganar with her own kind.”
Saelen.3 Brother Qown remembered his Karo lessons. Lost, or a stray. A terrible insult by Joratese standards. Almost as bad as thorra, but with the implication the subject is a small child who doesn’t understand what’s in their own best interest. His heartbeat skipped. For a second, he thought Tamin referred to the count. But no. Tamin meant Gan the Miller’s Daughter, gnashing her teeth and straining to reach the baron with fingers hooked into claws. She’d have made his beautiful face much less so if her hands had been free.
Tamin had already turned to Count Janel. “I’m so sorry for this unfortunate incident.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Shoot through her?”
“My men are the best marksmen in the whole dominion,” he assured her. “I had no fear at all for your safety.” He gestured toward the main castle entrance. “Shall we? I’ll have my men deliver your gift to the kitchen for the evening meal.”
Meanwhile, two guards bent down next to Brother Qown and picked up Ninavis.
“She’s injured,” he told them. “You must be careful. Let me follow, and I’ll treat her wounds.”
They paid Brother Qown not the slightest attention.
“What happens to the other saelen?” Count Janel sounded bored, the question asked for propriety’s sake. When she saw Brother Qown approaching, she made a small motion with her hand as a warning: I will handle this.
“Oh, the usual—we’ll award them at the tournament,” Tamin said. “Kalazan’s fate is already sealed. We’ll capture him soon enough.”
A scream rang out.
Brother Qown might have thought it signaled the promised capture, except Gan the Miller’s Daughter laughed outright, and Dango, still bound, smiled.
“This Kalazan,” Janel said. “Is he familiar with the castle?”
Tamin’s expression soured. “He was the steward’s son.”
“Ah.”
Tamin scowled and gestured to Dedreugh. “Damn it. Find him and kill him. I’ll not have him live to see the sunrise, do you hear me? And then figure out which idiot made a mess of tying Kalazan’s hands and have him flogged.”
Brother Qown made sure his eyes were on the ground, lest his glance betray him. Only when the soldiers had cleared away the prisoners, and Captain Dedreugh had left to oversee the search, did he let himself look up. Qown stared at the person who had tied Kalazan’s hands.
Mare Dorna hummed a dirty song to herself, smiling.
Brother Qown followed the guards into the castle, then stopped when one, a hulking fellow with gray skin and black blotches around his eyes, turned back.
“What are you doing?” the guard demanded.
Brother Qown pointed to the trussed prisoners being carried or led farther into the building. “I need to treat them.”
“They don’t need treating,” the same man growled.
Brother Qown smiled, shaking his head. “The count gave explicit orders. I must care for their well-being.”
And prove a complication. Brother Qown had seen the looks the guards had passed between themselves the entire ride back to Mereina Castle. The prisoners would be fair game to whatever molestations the soldiers devised, as soon as anyone who might care left.
The fact this behavior was abnormal for Jorat wouldn’t stop it from happening here.
“See them in the morning,” the guard ordered.
“But what about the blood sickness?” Brother Qown asked.
The whole group, guards and prisoners both, stopped.
“What was that?” said one man.
“The Falesini blood sickness,” Brother Qown repeated, elaborating. “It’s not very contagious. Nothing requiring a full quarantine or the like, but communicable through blood or other fluids.” Qown started over. “I mean, you’ll catch it if you touch them with your bare skin. The bandits all showed the symptoms. We were planning to treat them as soon as we settled everyone in, but in all this excitement—”
The first guard blinked, then guffawed. “What nonsense is this? These people aren’t sick.” He waved a hand as if dismissing the entire tale.
Brother Qown raised a finger and pointed at Dango.
The large man had his hands tied behind his back, and he frowned at Brother Qown. But the brigands didn’t object to Brother Qown’s story, which had been his worry.
Fresh blood dripped from Dango’s nostril.
Dango didn’t have to copy panic, because the panic was real. Brother Qown hoped the giant man was smart enough not to let it get the better of him.
Dango wrinkled his nose as if fighting off a sneeze. “It’s starting again, priest.”
“Yes,” Brother Qown said, “but at least we found it before you bled from your eyes.”
The guards stepped back.
Brother Qown waved his hands. “Oh, don’t worry. There’s no danger as long as you avoid any skin-to-skin contact.”
A soldier pulled his sword.
“What the hell are you doing?” the leader barked.
“They’re sick—” the man pointed.
“Shut up and drag them downstairs. Wear your damn gloves if you must. The captain wants them alive, you understand. They’re no good to us dead.” The leader turned back to Brother Qown. “This won’t kill them, will it?”
“Oh no. It’s treatable.” He tugged on his satchel. “I need to make a tisane for them. It should clear up in a few days.”
“We don’t need a few days as long as they’re well enough to stand tomorrow.” The guard waved to his men, motioning for them to lead the outlaws down some steps. Brother Qown assumed these led to the castle dungeon. The guards who had been giving hungry looks to the prisoners looked a lot less interested now. In fact, most left at once.
Nobody made a fuss this time as Brother Qown followed them down into the prison. To be fair, it was more like a wine cellar, a cool, dark space where one might safely secure the best of the local lord’s bottles. If so, the wines had been removed, although a few stray boxes stacked up in rows suggested that using the space for storage was still an option. The basement was clearly not meant to serve for living quarters. He couldn’t imagine being imprisoned there for any length of time.
He was unsure if such was a good sign or a terrible one.
The soldiers divided the prisoners. They also traded out the prisoners’ ropes for chains, which were fastened to iron rungs set in the walls. There was a bucket for necessities and a well.
Brother Qown pulled up a pail of water while the guards remembered they’d volunteered to find Kalazan. He then set about performing procedures with herbs—ones that might look serious to anyone without medical training.4
A last guard found himself a chair and settled in by the door, which was barred from the outside. Additional guards waited in the hallway.
Brother Qown stopped at each prisoner, offering them the water.
Dango whispered, “How did you—?” He sniffed his nose for emphasis.
Brother Qown wiped the blood from the man’s face. “Trade secret. We shouldn’t talk about it here.”
Dango nodded. “Thank you. Someone was going to try something and end up with their throat ripped out. You could tell.”
Brother Qown paused. He suspected Dango wasn’t speaking in metaphor. Joratese women had a certain reputation. Qown replied, “The count won’t stand for this. We’ll be back for you.”
Brother Qown walked around the room, handing out drinks to the prisoners and pretending to treat them for a disease they didn’t have. Kay Hará seemed so genuinely terrified that Qown thought they were either taking the story at face value or had spent a considerable length of time in theater. Jem Nakijan wouldn’t even look at him. Vidan asked the priest to treat Gan instead, and acted put out when Qown insisted on seeing to everyone. Tanner said nothing, but his gaze softened into something less murderous when Brother Qown gave him water. The guards had searched the outlaw, but Qown suspected they hadn’t searched him well enough. That might have been his imagination, though. Tanner just struck him as the sort who always had knives.
He stayed the longest with Ninavis because of her injury. Her fall from Arasgon—and the unconsciousness that followed—gave him a chance to set her break. The priest would have liked to have done more, but he sensed the remaining guard’s eyes on him as he treated her. Brother Qown didn’t wish to risk the guard recognizing magic if he saw it. Anyway, everyone knew Ninavis had a broken leg. He’d be doing her no favors if she’d healed by morning.
After seeing to the others, he left to talk tactics with the count.