Kushiel’s Dart

"In the name of the Prefect of the Cassiline Brotherhood," the leader echoed him in mincing tones, then struck Joscelin a sharp blow to the head with one gauntleted fist. "In the borders of Camlach, the only order we obey is the order of steel, Cassiline!"

Joscelin’s head snapped back at the blow, and his eyes glittered. "Then give me mine, and try its mettle!"

Encouraging shouts came from the soldiers, but their leader shook his head regretfully. "I’d like to, boy, for you’re angry enough to try for my head, and it would be an entertaining challenge. But my orders are to keep you alive." He jerked his chin at me. "You, girl; you need to use the latrine?"

Unfortunately, I did. For anyone who has never had to relieve themselves in the watchful presence of an armed guard, I do not recommend it. Joscelin had an escort of six, but he is a man, and considerably more accustomed to such company.

Thus humiliated, I was ushered back to the campfire and issued a bowl of stew. I ate it and said nothing; silence is the first skill I learned. In the Night Court, silence is common wisdom for a child; in Delaunay’s household, it was taught us for other reasons. Joscelin followed my lead and held his tongue, until the leader beckoned for a flask one of his soldiers carried.

"You’re to drink some," he said, holding out the flask.

It gleamed in the firelight. I could guess what was in it; more of the drug we’d been given before. Joscelin looked up remotely beside me, and I could sense his body coiling.

"No," he said mildly, and exploded into action, lunging forward to deliver a sharp chop to the leader’s throat. The man staggered backward, struggling for breath, and the flask fell with a faint chink to the ground.

The other soldiers moved belatedly to surround the whirling Cassiline as Joscelin fought with hands and feet, limbs moving in a blur of precisely executed movements.

He might have succeeded, against fewer men; six or eight, I would even believe. He’d taken them by surprise. But their leader got his wind back and his voice. Roaring, he waded into the fray, kicking a loose blade away from Joscelin’s reaching grasp. "Ware your swords, you idiots! Don’t let him get armed!" They surrounded him, pressing him hard, and then someone brought the pommel of a dagger down hard atop his head, and Joscelin sagged to his knees.

Cursing, one of the soldiers he’d injured stepped up and drew back his blade to run him through.

"Stop!" I hadn’t even realized I was on my feet until I heard my own voice shout fiercely. The man stayed his hand; they were all staring at me. I had remembered the rest of it, and drew up the few ragged ounces of dignity I could summon. "If this man dies, you’ll be accountable to Melisande Shahrizai for it," I said coldly. "Sooner or later, one way or another. Do you want to take that chance?"

The soldier considered it and glanced at his leader, who nodded. He sheathed his sword. At a word, the leader had the flask retrieved. "Hold him," he ordered, and two men wrenched Joscelin’s arms behind his back, while two others held him. The leader uncorked the flask and grabbed Joscelin’s chin, forcing the neck of the flask between his teeth and tipping it while another soldier pinched his nostrils shut.

Joscelin choked and sputtered, clear liquid spilling out the corners of his mouth, but a good deal of it went down his throat. It took effect quickly, and he pitched forward onto the ground.

"Tie his arms behind him," the leader ordered. "He’ll give us less trouble." He came toward me, holding out the flask. "Lady, I hope you’ll not give me the same."

"No, my lord." It was the first time I could recall using a formal address sarcastically. I took the flask from his hand and drank.

He took it back, eyeing me wryly. "You needn’t take that tone, you know. I’ve treated you fair and kept my men off you, and it’s the last kindness you’re like to see, where you’re going, lady. It’s a strange way to keep someone alive, that’s all I’ve to say."

That much I heard, and then darkness claimed me. I was vaguely aware of being lifted and slung back into the straw of the cart, feeling Joscelin’s limp form near me and hearing the gate chained behind us.

Slipping down into unconsciousness, I heard again what I had remembered: Melisande’s voice, at the end, tender and rich.

"Don’t worry, my dear, I’d no more kill you than I’d destroy a priceless fresco or a vase," she had said, somewhere beyond my failing vision. "But you know too much, and I can’t afford the risk of keeping you here. It may not be much, but believe me when I say I’m giving you the best chance I can to stay alive. I’ll even leave you the Cassiline, and pray he does a better job protecting you than he’s done so far." Her fingers, twining in my hair, cruel and sweet. "When it’s over, if you live, I’ll find you. That much, I promise, Phèdre."

Elua help me, but then, even then, there was a part of me that hoped she would.