Two Queens (Seven Heavens Book 1) (17 page)

“So? You were the one who chose the one lying down. With only two legs to run away with.” He looked directly at Orion, now almost abreast of him. “I mean no offense, it's just a fact.”

“Excuses,” the first man growled.

“Besides, what would we want with her? What is it, anyways? A hairy antelope?”

Orion felt anger rising. He wished the men had swapped places. He would have beaten that little nitwit off him and Kerry could take care of herself, he didn't care how big the man holding him was, even pregnant and sprained.

The man smacked the little pontificator upside the head. A look of shock crossed his face. He tried to speak but only lost his breath as an elbow followed, right in the breadbasket. He fell of the rock into the creek with a splash. Orion almost laughed.

He was shoved again and they resumed their pace up the creek bed. Shuffling rocks told him the smaller man came behind, albeit no longer talking.

“What do you want with me?”

“You speak when I say so.” He felt his shoulders seize up and went back to looking for his next step.

At least Kerry had gotten away. Perhaps she's better without me. No rider pushing her on. Making her cross deserts devoid of water. His anger making her lame.

He tried to feel happy for her but failed. He felt lonely, which yet seemed odd, as he was back with other humans now.

“All clear,” the first man called out. Another man stood up, mere feet away behind a large rock. He was older than the other two and carried a long stick broad at the top. He eyed Orion.

“Can you handle him?”

“That I can,” the old man said.

The first man gave Orion another shove and let go. The old man grabbed his arm with fingers like pincers. At least now, though, Orion was able to stand up. He sized up the man. A hollow look was in his eyes, a tenacity that scared Orion more than the first one's burly carriage.

The man's other arm swung the stick around underneath his armpit. Leaning on it he began to limp, first the stick then Orion jerking forward. Only the broad back of the burly man just ahead kept him from fighting the cripple off. The small man caught up and passed them, his eyes staring at Orion.

Now, if only the burly one and his little friend would get far enough ahead... what would he do? Escape? To where?

They rounded a bend in the creek. Orion saw a wagon, several redheaded men standing in a cluster, and then his heart sank. Kerry stood there, near the wagon, looking as if she were standing on her toes: poised, not tensed. At her head stood a hooded figure.

Why don't you run? He wanted to scream. But Kerry wasn't even looking at him. Her eyes looked forward, the same way her ears tilted. Her nose was inches from the hood. A robed arm reached out and touched her neck. She shook but didn't break her pose. It lazily circled, rubbing the neck on the down stroke, lightly running up, but each time moving towards the head.

“Run!” Orion yelled. Kerry reared, startled. The hooded figure was lifted of its feet, hand grasping the halter. Kerry's feet came down and the figure fell. The hood had shaken off the head and Orion saw scraggly black hair thrown back and a girl's face exposed.

He saw stars next. The old man had whacked him across the face. “Anyone else want to run?” He set the walking stick back down. He glared at the men behind the wagon and dragged Orion in their direction. The girl was standing up again, both hands on Kerry's halter, her lips moving. Kerry was breathing hard.

Orion's hands were slapped in metal bracelets on a pole. He looked around at the other men, each with his own set. All tied to the same short poles ending at the wagon. He moved his wrists about. It was no good.

This was so wrong. He shoved his arms forward and back, bruising his wrists on the metal circlets. The old man cackled and left. The others mostly just looked at him though he heard some guttural rumblings he couldn't understand. Their gaze felt uncomfortable. Their beards seemed too big somehow.

He turned to look at Kerry. Why did she stay? He'd seen her throw grown men off her halter.

The girl kept talking to her. Then the her hands released the halter and stroked her neck again. He tensed, waiting for her to spring away. Her intelligent eyes looked around, her ears still flicked at the girl, and she lowered her head. How could she be so stupid? She was actually eating. Food! At a time like this?

Orion fumed. The horrid girl. He was jerked away from his thoughts as the wagon rolled away. He fell against the man next to him who then elbowed him in the face. He got the message and his footing. He plodded along behind the dozen men to the clink of the chains and the creak of the wheels. The small man held reins for both horses up in the wagon seat. The old man sat beside him. He didn't see the burly man.

He looked back. He couldn't believe his eyes. Reins in hand the girl led Kerry along. Beyond them the burly man rode on horseback.

“Theo, feed them,” the burly man said. He had just come back from wherever he'd gone when they stopped to make camp some time ago.

“Why is it my turn?”

“Oh by the blood of Artemis, do you always have to ask?”

“I did it this morning and last night,” Theo's voice trailed off.

The burly man stared at him for a second more, then attended to his horse. Orion's eyes followed him. He made Riley seem young and empty-headed. He undid the girth strap and picked the saddle up, setting it down nearby. He shook out the saddle blanket then slapped it on the horse's back. Clouds of dust rose from the horse's rump. Then he unhooked the halter—small it looked to Orion, and he wondered at the steel bar he saw in its mouth.

A grating noise startled him. He looked to see a trough of sorts being slid out of the wagon. Theo jumped out of the wagon and went over to the bubbling stew pot the girl was tending. “Anything exciting tonight?” She tasted it and handed him the spoon. He tasted it. “Clover. And thyme. No, sassafras root.”

“You're just saying words you know.” Her voice rasped like wood over stone.

“Chives? Leeks?”

She took the spoon back and served it into bowls. The other two men joined them and ate. Orion didn't realize how hungry he was until the smell came over. The men beside him stood up.

The four finished, Theo helping himself to some more.

“Pig,” the old man said.

“Don't hate me just because you've lost half your teeth, Aeneas,” he said. He slowly chewed, smiling and loudly chomping down on the food. Aeneas limped away.

Theo turned to the men, his only audience left. “Potato stew, yummy. Seasoned with chives and garlic. Another masterpiece by the one and only Desdemona.” He walked their way, showing them his emptying bowl but staying our of their reach. A man lunged at him but was held back by the chain. The wood pieces connecting chain to chain like horse traces hit his neighbors. They repaid the blows to the unsuccessful offender.

Orion's stomach started cramping. He forced himself to stay quiet to avoid pain of a different sort.

Finally Theo finished. He took the kettle and dumped the rest of the stew in the trough. A jar of water from the wagon followed. “Eat up!” He led the horses forward, bringing the wagon past the trench and the men in reach. The men surged for food, hitting each other or slurping, elbows out to make space.

Orion fell over. He crawled over to the trough, now hidden behind two shoulders. He stood up, trying to slide through, and ended up either face dumped on the trough or picked up and squished between big arms. Self-preservation overcame hunger and, too late, he tried to escape.

It felt like half the night passed in the next few moments. Orion woke up, head pounding and still hungry. Not so hungry that he didn't mind not having to vomit, though. He tried getting up but everything—elbows, rib cage, stomach—hurt.

He cried. The red beards laughed at him. He hid his face and continued, quietly.

The next days were torturous for Orion. He learned their table manners as fast as he could but there was never enough food and he was too small. He felt bruises on his bruises.

His knee still smarted from being pushed over the day he was captured. He felt like kneeing the wooden traces just to hurt it more and make it stop annoying him, blending it with all the other aches and pains. He didn't have the guts to do it so tried to forget his sore belly and shoulders and arms and legs and just feed all his anger into his weak knee.

His one consolation was seeing Kerry. She'd look over at him occasionally, as if wondering why he never joined her, and gambol about. It was a cruel twist. The red beards beat him up twice a day at the food trough, Theo had his stupid jokes, and the other two men beat him when he slowed down the wagon or got too noisy with his cries. For all that he hated the girl the most.

Her face fed that hate. She was missing half her eyebrows and her dirty hair looked like a bird's nest full of eggs, if the eggs were broken and had been rotten for some time. She had red splotches all over her face that only made her even white teeth seem sickly pale. It was a mercy she never smiled.

He wished Kerry could see how ugly she was. But she didn't. Twice already the kardja could have run away, causing angry outbreaks from the men, and twice the girl had whistled and brought her back. How he hated her for it.

And her meddling. She was always stroking Kerry's left foreleg or putting poultices of foul-smelling roots on it. She even put mud on his face the second day. He mocked her for it, or would have had he dared. He didn't heal any faster than usual. The moment she showed a gerah of pride over his fast recovery he'd... he didn't know what. Attacking a woman was dishonorable.

To add insult to injury she noticed him getting thinner and started serving him food directly. His hunger beat his pride and he took what was given. He should be eating like that anyways, he told himself.

Why the red beards didn't mess with her he had no clue: the other men stayed out of reach of the chains or were armed with club and cudgel, and never alone. Orion didn't know why. He saw none of the defiance that flashed across his father's face when he heard of Riley, and he didn't suspect them of the wit that could hide it like his father. These men were broken. Animals scrapping over food, yes; reacting to the men's presence, yes; but without a will to seek freedom.

Who were they? Thiefs, malcontents, beggars. Orion cringed. He wondered if he was becoming them. Already he'd given up. The chains were too strong. Kerry wouldn't help. Kerry couldn't help. He was trapped.

Paris eagerly mounted his horse. It was good to have money again. Or credit, which served his purposes just as well. The story swept through the city like fire. One overheard word could start gossip unimpeachable: there was no denying the collaborative word of all the loosened lips from the inn free-for-all.

Those too high to pay attention, or too proud to think another could be as rich as they, listened with affected disdain. A few confidential remarks by the jeweler—“very secretive, merely wanted his goods weighed,”—gave the story the excuse needed to fly to the highest ranks. And who could blame them? Even those more sagacious then noble or commoner, the ever watchful class of men who make it their first business to never be caught unawares—artisans, craftsmen, and roving agents of both bank and city—there was the example of the greatest of them, the House of Lachesi, which currently held the notorious treasure.

He rode to the courtyard in front of the palace where all the first men of the court waited on the Queen's descent. His nostrils swelled in eager anticipation.

He touched the painstakingly stitched pocket—he was not practiced with needle and thread—where the ring lay hidden. He learned long ago that brilliant execution was no match for moderate foresight. Three first families of Kyriopolis lost their wealth to the House of Paris on that mistake alone. He, too, must guard against it, and continue playing his long game, stitch by stitch. This sewing he was good at.

He sat on his horse, impatient but stilled. His house had waited for seven generations: a matter of hours, days, weeks would not concern him. He looked forward to the final play where he would roll the last die in his decade-long quest. He was proud of his line: prouder to know that soon he would surpass them all.

A few nods, very slight as befit his assumed station, and some words led him to the introduction with the city's finest. Some noble, he didn't listen to the boor's name, remarked about the harvest then prattled on and on about the fox hunts he was engaging in, had engaged in, would be engaging, and would have engaged but for the rude interference of his wife.

She had no sense of the sport, he said, and added, qualifying it for “among gentlemen” that he wondered why he'd ever married the little thing. Paris knew the first second he saw his face, one where merely youthful vigor kept the sensual excess at bay. The day of its failure would come soon enough. It wasn't quite compensation for his years of exile but was one consolation, he thought, resisting the urge to feel his chin, one without jowls. Boar hunts, fox hunts, dowry hunts: these were merely overgrown boys.

“That is poor sport,” he said, interrupting the noble mid sentence. He lightly spurred his horse and evaded the reply.

He stopped in the press of horsemen ahead. He looked upon them in turn, silent in these closer ranks, almost martial in statuesque array. His eyes lit on one in particular. The face had something rugged about it, not extraordinary except for the trait's overwhelming lack in the faces of his companions. He was tall, slender, the sort of frame that with lithe muscles hides its full strength. Thick sideburns studding the clean shaven chin completed the look: fecundity without superfluity.