John Carr - Siege of Tarr-Hostigos

There probably were worse things here-and-now than making a living as one of Menandra's whores. Right now Sirna couldn't think of them. She shook her head slowly.

"Well, you're handsome enough for it, and to spare."

Sirna shook her head again.

"I'll leave it be, then. Just remember, though-anything you make in the house, half goes to me. Or you go to the soldiers."

The matter of fact way Miranda said the latter made a believer out of Sirna. She closed her eyes and wished it all away. The smoke-blackened timbers were still there when she opened them back up. She really was in a situation where she could be turned over to a band of mercenaries and passed from man to man until she died or they got tired of her. It was a long way from reading or even writing about 'the inferior position of women' to experiencing it.

Deliberately, she closed and locked a door in her mind, on First Level and all the pleasures and privileges she had there, even on her chances of ever seeing it again (which were slim enough at best, with Kalvan defeated and her left for dead). She would look forward, look this Styphon-cursed time-line squarely in the eye, and dare it to do its worst.

Not that it hasn't already given me its best shot. She came back from this mental exercise to see Menandra looking positively concerned. "That crack on the head didn't addle your wits, did it?"

"I don't think so. I must have slept off the worst of it. I was just thinking about what I'm going to do to those sons of the gods-only-could-count-how-many-fathers who ran off and left me."

That was no lie, either. She now understood emotionally as well as intellectually the concept of the blood feud. If she ever caught Outtime Studies Director Talgan Dreth alone in a dark place-

"By Yirtta's dugs, girl, I can't give charity! Phidestros' men may pay me if Styphon's House ever pays them. Then again they may not. If they don't want to and I ask, they may burn the place down!"

And pass the women around among themselves, Sirna added mentally. Somehow the idea was no longer so paralyzingly frightful, now that she'd closed that door to First Level.

"If you know anything about healing, even the smallest bit, you might make yourself useful. Phidestros is going to be sending his sick and hurt here. The Iron Band's Uncle Wolf was killed in the battle, and there aren't so many priests of Galzar that even a Grand Captain-General can conjure them up. You help patch and purge Phidestros' men, and there won't be any trouble keeping you."

"Help those damned filthy Styphon's sons of-" Sirna began. Gently but emphatically, Menandra slapped her. At least it was probably intended as a gentle slap. Sirna had to shake her head a couple of times, to make sure her neck wasn't broken. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard Menandra warning her against saying anything less than complimentary about Styphon.

"Archpriest Roxthar's here with his Investigators. Anyone who blasphemes Styphon within a day's ride of him will wish she had been turned over to the soldiers. Yes, and the stallions and the draft oxen too!"

From what she'd heard of Roxthar, Sirna saw no reason to argue the point. "I'm sorry, Menandra. I'm still a little confused." Make that a lot confused, she said to herself.

"Well, un-confuse yourself, girl. You might start with that head wound. Clean it up, and I'll think you're good enough to turn loose on Phidestros' men."

Menandra bawled for scissors, a mirror, hot water, and bandages, while Sirna took off her mud and blood-smeared clothes and examined her body for other injuries. A prize collection of black-and-blue marks was all she turned up. Her anger toward the people who'd abandoned her grew. If they hadn't been too panic-stricken to spend ten seconds examining her, they'd have learned she was alive and fit to be moved.

Or was it possible that she and Aranth were the only survivors? No, the rest of the Team must have used the conveyer in the Foundry basement to flee. They were the least heroic people she'd ever met.

The head wound was a long shallow gash, probably from the gunshot. She must have picked up the concussion when she fell. No signs of infection, but she made a thorough job of cleaning the wound, starting with cutting off the hair all around it. It was bleeding again by the time she was finished, and so was her lower lip where she'd bitten it. She finished by trimming her hair all around.

"You're cutting off one of your best parts, you know that, girl?" Menandra said.

Persistent, aren't you? "I'll be hard to recognize with my hair short. Maybe they'll even think I'm too ugly to bother."

"With a figure like yours? You've got a lot to learn about men, girl. Somebody's going to want what you've got if you shaved yourself bald! Best arrange to give it to a man big enough to fight off the rest. Or else you'll wish you'd taken my first offer."

What am I, a mare to go with the strongest and fiercest stallion in the herd?

Exactly.

Sirna sighed and stood up, swaying slightly but not really wanting to lie down again. That was one good sign. Another was that she was hungry.

"Is there anything to eat around here?"

Menandra chuckled. "You'll do, girl. Come on down to the kitchen and I'll see if the bread and tea are ready."

This was only Phidestros' second visit to Kalvan's former palace, both times under duress. The first time had been for his investiture as Prince of Greater Beshta, where he'd felt like the country cousin to the groom at a village wedding. (Being a Prince was going to take more getting used to than being Great Captain-General!) Nor had sharing the dais with his co-prince, Sthentros, made it any easier. This visit, however, was for a council of war led by Great King Lysandros with both the Princely commanders and their Captain-Generals, Prince Sthentros of Hostigos, Grand Master Soton, Prince Valthames of Xanx, Archpriest Phyllos, Prince Epiclytis of Arklos, Investigator Roxthar, Captain-General Anaphon and Xenophes, Commander of Styphon's Own Guard. He was certain he would be the one getting the orders, not giving them.

Before he reached the private audience chamber, he was motioned aside by Chancellor Kyphannes, Lysandros' chief advisor.

Kyphannes, a tall wispy man with a receding hairline, whispered in his ear, "The Great King wants to meet you in private, Your Highness, before he meets with the others."

Phidestros nodded his head. This being called "Your Highness" would take some getting used to!

The Chancellor escorted him into a small handsomely appointed study.

Lysandros saw his eyes examining the room and answered, "This was Kalvan's study." He pointed to the deerskin map on one wall, with the boundaries of Hos-Hostigos marked in red ink. "The Usurper left in too much of a hurry to pack. Unfortunately, he did take time to empty the treasury. Prince Sthentros finds that impossible to accept and has his men poking their way into every palace nook and cranny looking for Kalvan's moneybox."

They both exchanged grins, leaving Phidestros feeling reassured; he hadn't been sure if Lysandros had been completely taken in by Sthentros- or his daughter.

Lysandros suddenly sobered. "There are things we need to discuss before meeting with the others. I've just received an urgent dispatch from Count Hythar. The Highpriests of Galzar have been meeting at the High Temple in Agrys City and have decided to place the Grand Host under Galzar's Ban"

Phidestros expelled a large breath, and began coughing. "I was afraid of this!"

Lysandros nodded. "Styphon's House has rather more enemies in Hos-Agrys than in Harphax or Hos-Zygros. Archpriest Phyllos suspects the League of Dralm is behind this; not that Roxthar and his Investigation have made these charges difficult to justify."