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  New residents had built their homes on the outskirts, only to be obliterated with each successive assault that was waged upon the city. Then one day, and following a particularly vicious attack, a brilliant Cadran mason had hit upon the idea of building up instead of out. The king of the time, Rugosa, had been impressed with his plans, and had ordered that each new resident would finance their own construction and consultation with the mason.

  In the early days, the poorer district endured numerous collapses and the lower

  residents charged extortionate rents. Murder rates in the city soared as developers vied to buy the best base properties, but a millennium had quieted these troubles, and the construction had finally reached its zenith. At the centre of it all lay the castle – a construction not unlike a giant, black urchin that had become embedded in the green stone of the houses. Only its spinelike towers were large enough to reach beyond the roofs of the other buildings.

  Inside the castle were several gardens full of shade and two open-air courtyards, but in one of those a grand fountain flourished amidst the stones. Cool, white water spouted from the crown and tumbled past ireful sea creatures to the marble pool below. The yellow sunlight of the afternoon skittered off the white lip, across the water and to where Morghiad

  and Silar stood mocking each other over the events of the previous night.

  Lord-Lieutenant Silar Forllan was one of those men – the sort that was often seen with beautiful women and usually in some state of nalka or other. Morghiad had never understood the point of that sort of lifestyle, and had always sought to do his best to socialise with women as little as possible. Of course, it caused just as much gossip about him as behaving like Silar might have done, but he hardly cared. His father, King Acher, had repeatedly insisted that he should take a sort of concubine – a benay-gosa – in order to prove his masculinity. In truth, Morghiad had as much desire to take one of those to his bed as he did a viper.

  And the noblewomen he had met - all

  of them were either vacant and stupid or manipulative and cruel. Oh, it may well have been fun for a few nights, but when that part was over he would have to endure the horrors of separation. Too many men depended upon him now that he was captain of the army. He could not afford to crawl about on his hands and knees, weak and in pain while his soldiers died. A good army and a good captain could not sleep around, though such ideals did not appear to hinder many of them.

  There were more reasons Morghiad preferred to keep his bed to himself, and one of them was that his cast-offs would automatically become the property of his father. And King Acher’s cast-offs usually ended up without a head.

  Morghiad peeled off his sweat-soaked

  shirt as he thought. His practice session that morning had been lung-searing and tough, and they had worked through every move in the Fighters’ Manual. It had to be much harder leading the formations than following them. Even though the leader repeated them fewer times, he still had to walk between the men – checking, correcting, shouting and instructing. Some soldiers had been fighting for Calidell for more than a hundred years, and yet they still made foolish mistakes. There were left-arm sweeps too extended and down-slices that were far too heavy.

  Some had become exhausted after only halfthe session was done, which was not really acceptable. The men needed more discipline, less wine and fewer casual women. They needed to believe they were capable of

  something better. He intended to see at least some of these changes made while he was captain, assuming he survived for long enough to implement them.

  Morghiad suppressed a frown. His sword tutor had repeated to him often that one could only become a master of the blade if all emotion was dispensed with. Anger was a dangerous thing; fear was only valuable before a battle and love was a severe distraction. Recreation was quite acceptable, and even necessary, but had to be pursued in moderation.

  Yet this very same tutor had captained what Morghiad was fast learning was an operation consisting of contradictions. Outwardly, and outside of the bar, the men appeared ordered and smart in their black

  uniforms. Their true fighting ability was questionable.

  That particular captain had lost his life in the months before at a skirmish on the northern borders of Calidell, and the discussions over who should take command had been extended. Morghiad, with his expensive training and unusual dedication, was the best swordsman and a kahr to boot, but he was hugely inexperienced and did not particularly want the post. He also knew that he would have to win the hearts of the disgruntled men who had been better-qualified to take captaincy, but his father had intervened as always. Now he had the responsibility, and there was no shifting it.

  He fought off another frown, though it felt like it might turn into more of a grimace this

  time. A good duel would sort him right out, or perhaps a flat-out gallop across the grasslands to clear his head. He looked to his left, where Silar was happily chattering about a brunette he had met in the city – another girl who could quite possibly be the love of his life, only, she had not met him in the bar as she had promised.

  “So you decided to bury your sorrows in the bosom of Lady Allain?” Morghiad asked.

  Silar was really very smooth-featured for a man, but he managed to form those features into a passable impression of incredulity. His voice became muffled as he removed his shirt. “Morghiad, Lady Allain is very good company. You’d know that if you spoke to her privately.”

  “And if I removed her robes too, no

  doubt?” He reached for the wooden bucket at the side of the pool and dunked it in the water.

  “I just think you shouldn’t knock women until you’ve tried them. Some can be quite agreeable, really.”

  Morghiad turned the bucket upsidedown over his head, and relished the cold water that fell from it. He scraped his hair back, set the bucket down and wiped the remaining water from his face with both hands. “And what amI supposed to do if the King of Hirrah invades in two weeks’ time? ShallI ask him if he wouldn’t mind waiting, only my best swordsman isn’t feeling very well?”

  “Second-best,” Silar said with a grin, “Besides, you can’t just avoid women while you wait around for a war to come along. What sort of life is that? And nalka only happens if

  you stop sleeping with them anyway!” He lifted up the bucket and commenced his own ablutions, turning his blond hair brown with the water.

  Morghiad decided to scan the courtyard instead of providing argument. The sun had brought with it representatives of most sections of the castle’s population. In the northern corner, a group of linen washers scrubbed at clothing with such effort that their arms had turned red from it. Each of them wore the blue of the serving classes. To the left of them there was a cook who manoeuvred a large, dead animal – likely a boar – onto its back and began gutting it.

  In the western corner, six of the castle soldiers stood with smirks and sneers upon their faces as they regarded the three benay

  gosa immediately in front of them. The women wore the standard scarves - red strips that darted about their bodies like crimson paint, and not much else. All the parts that were covered up were those that the king had reserved for himself, and each woman was very pretty indeed. Morghiad tried not to linger too long on them. He did not want to earn himselfa reputation for leering.

  At the southern end of the courtyard was a small gathering of noblemen and women, who chatted noisily and who had already made a start on their glasses of tanno wine. Two of the women appeared to be regarding him, or perhaps Silar. They always gazed at Silar. Morghiad wondered if he would get more attention as a blond, blue-eyed man – not that he wanted it – he could not be doing with

  women who fell about him everywhere he went.

  He continued his visual tour of the court, and his eyes landed upon a messenger who was examining the condition of his greywhite horse. It looked to have thrown a shoe and was playing lame. Further round, at the eastern end, a group of children chas
ed stones between the cobbles, and watching them were two, shadow-eyed waiters with red-leaf cigars in their mouths. They also wore the blue of the servants’ order. Grey wisps grew from the ends of their cigars, and these meandered toward the linen washers upon invisible feet of air.

  A girl rose from among those linen washers, and she possessed a mane of dark red hair that plunged down one shoulder. As

  she moved from the shadow of the wall and into the sunlight, that hair came ablaze to a fiery gold. The breeze whipped the hair flames across to her shoulder, and her bored expression conflicted utterly with the drama of it.

  She cradled a large pile of roughly folded sheets in her arms, while her feet kicked at the blue skirt of her servant’s dress as she walked. At the opposite side of the pond, she stopped and set down her washing. There was something familiar about her face, something Morghiad had seen before somewhere. He scrambled through his thoughts to find what it was, but could not settle on any explanation. He traced his eyes down her neck and to the line of her bodice. It curved in a very pleasing way before it cinched in at a narrow waist.

  “That, I would like to see with fewer clothes on.” Silar whispered. His lower jaw appeared to have lost all connection to the rest of his head.

  Morghiad tried hard not to glower. “Get a hold of yourself. I thought you were deeply in love with the brunette.”

  “I prefer red heads. Haven’tI always said that? Watch this.” Silar drew himselfup and folded his arms. “Excuse me, my lady?”

  The girl continued with her task of soaking the linen in the pond’s water, and seemed not to be aware of his voice.

  Silar’s mouth tightened at the corners. “GIRL!”

  She jumped, eyes wide, but quickly regained her composure, if a little stiffly. “Sir... ah... my lord?”

  Silar appeared to be quite pleased with her stumbling response, and himself. Though that was not unusual. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before. What is your name, girl?”

  Morghiad was unable to suppress a small, exasperated sigh.

  “Artemi,” the girl replied. “I have only been working here a few months, mostly in the washrooms. So yes, it is unlikely you have seen me before.”

  A grin spread across Silar’s mouth, and he pretended to speak in private to Morghiad, though his voice was much too loud for that. “Named after the warrior, eh? I think we have a wit here, Kahr Morghiad.” He turned his eyes back to the girl. “How would you like to dance with a real swordsman of Calidell’s army this evening?”

  She blinked at the mention of the kahr’s name, and her eyes moved from Silar to Morghiad. She did not look away as she spat, “I would rather put my head in the jaws of a Tegran tiger!” She gathered up the soaked sheets in haste and uttered a, “Thank you, my Lord!” before turning and stamping back to her coterie. A trail of pond water followed her there.

  Silar unfolded his arms and turned to his friend. “I don’t think she... can you tear your eyes off her for a moment?”

  He watched her hair return to the shade before meeting Silar’s accusatory stare. A small smile touched Morghiad’s mouth, and it soon grew into a quiet laugh.

  Creases propagated along Silar’s brow, which was something unusual to observe

  in one of his encounters with a woman, but his forehead rapidly smoothed out again. He smiled. “You like her. I can see it.”

  Morghiad snapped his features back into their old positions. “No.”

  “Yes. You’ve gone all watery-eyed and soft on the inside. You never smile for anyone or anything.”

  “I can’t like anyone. We’ve discussed this. Whichever way you look at it, someone ends up losing their life.”

  “How can you possibly know that? Did a seer predict it? I doubt it.”

  The kahr ran his hand along the smooth marble lip of the pond, and watched as the water trickled over his fingers, full of life, and fell to the ground in a dead puddle. “The minute I grow tired of a woman, she becomes part of

  my father’s collection - then she dies. If I take a wife, she must produce an heir. We have a boy – she will die. We have a girl – the girl will be executed. I see no way around it.” He could feel his temper mounting and immediately set about containing it.

  Silar’s voice softened slightly. “You don’t know the children will be... like you. And all that is years off, besides.”

  “There has been no kanaala as strong in generations. I think I can be sure. Forget about her, Silar.”

  Silar huffed loudly and turned his eyes to the benay-gosa group. It was hard to believe that he was a lieutenant of Calidell and twentythree, let alone a full year older than Morghiad. His views always seemed to lack any consideration for the consequences of...

  well... anything.

  Morghiad picked up his shirt and strode to the southern exit of the court. Several of the nobles there acknowledged him with nods or murmurs of his title, the rest simply stared. He really was in need of a good fight. He had endured enough of Silar’s goading for the day, and would be forced to settle for a lesser swordsman, which meant less of a challenge. Perhaps a ride in the wilderness of Cadra’s plains was called for. Tyshar could probably do with the exercise. Yes, a good ride would clear his mind of everything and removed that fire-head woman from the insides of his skull.

  Silar would fall in love with every pretty girl he met. He would probably fall in love with a mop if it had breasts and a nice handle. Well,

  Morghiad was not at liberty to allow himself such stupidity.

  Lady Aval di Certa watched the two men as they stripped to their waists at the fountain pond. She allowed herselfa moment to appreciate their broad shoulders and hard, muscled arms. It had always been her intention to marry a diplomat or politician, as army officers had an unfortunate tendency to die before they’d reached their hundredth year. But they were a delight to the eyes.

  The blond one was pretty, and her cousin had tasted him according to the gossips of the town. The black-haired one, however – the kahr – he was exquisite, and far more so than he ought to have been. There had to be something wrong with him somewhere; a man should not look that way unless there was something wrong with him. It was unfair otherwise. Perhaps his occupation would give him scars in time, and roughen his crisp edges like a well-thumbed, inviting book. Both men had already collected some small scratches upon their backs and arms, but nothing was worthy of tavern banter.

  Aval focussed on the water that dripped from Morghiad’s hair. It trailed down his spine and to his backside. The man had an excellent backside – firm like a pair of kefruits. A woman could squeeze that all night, if she wished.

  She caught herself blushing and put a hand to her hair in an effort to hide her face from the other nobles. Lady Tala was beside her, and was also looking on at the same thing.

  “What do you know about the young kahr?” Aval asked. Gossip about him had been surprisingly sparse since her arrival at the castle.

  “Difficult to talk to. Interested in swords. Kanaala.” Tala sniffed. “Not worth chasing unless you want a short-lived decoration for a husband and a nine-year sentence.”

  “Kanaala?” That was unexpected, though perhaps it did explain why few women chased him. It meant that he could manipulate

  Blaze Energy. He could not create it like the female witches, but he could bend it and twist it to his will. Kanaala could unpick any nasty webs left by wielders, and better still, they could neuter wielders altogether. Very useful.

  She examined Tala’s golden ringlets as she thought. They were always so neatly arranged; like rows of shimmering, rolling soldiers in plate. How did she get them like that?

  Tala took another sip of her wine and eyed the tower guards. “Yes. The mother is well and truly dead. Boy’s quite powerful – graded twelve, I understand.”

  Tala did get to the point, which was an admirable quality that many lacked.

  “How... entertaining,” Aval replied. Sometimes the deadliest things were the

 
most fun, were they not?

  Tala nodded sagely and finished her

  glass.

  Artemi dropped the bundle of wet sheets into the drying pallet. It did seem ridiculous that she had spent hours scrubbing them with soap and hot water, only to rinse them in the same pond that sweaty men washed in. Perhaps the sweat of a nobleman was considered less polluting than that of a commoner here. Both smelled just as bad to

  her. Arrogant men!

  She sighed heavily to herself; she knew very well that she had erred today. Caala had warned her to stay out of sight of the army soldiers, as they would visit the new female servants in the cellars as a form of sport, though they seemed to like the old servants just as well. Besides, the noblewomen behaved equally as badly. Everyone in this castle seemed to be preoccupied with sex.

  Whatever happened to reading a nice book or playing a game of kernels? Of course, not many were able to read. She had spent two, long, tiresome weeks teaching Caala the basic letters and sounds. Caala was over two hundred years old and she had only just read her first word. So many imaginary worlds and aspects of this one were lost to her without the