John Marco - The Devil's armour

Victory had come to her as a stranger, and she did not recognise it. There were still marauders and a handful of warlords to deal with, any one of whom might challenge her. And Lorn was still alive, probably. Somehow, the tyrant had escaped her. His disappearance vexed Jazana Carr. She wasn’t at all bothered by Duke Rihards’ death. He was a traitor, like all men, and she had never liked him. But he had foolishly allowed Lorn to escape, and because of that blunder Jazana Carr could find no peace.

A sense of failure gripped her. She sank deeper into the bath bubbles, until her chin was almost submerged. The man massaging her took it as his cue to stop.

‘Shall I do your feet now, mistress?’ he asked as he towelled his hands dry. Jazana Carr smiled weakly. His name was Habran of Ganjor. He had smooth, dark skin and a handsome face. From the moment he had touched her Jazana had fallen in love with his skilled hands. That was three years ago, and he had stayed with her ever since, willingly following her into hellholes like Harn because she paid him well and because he truly seemed to enjoy indulging her. Jazana Carr had no slaves. She detested the institution because it was what men did to women and she would have none of it. But she could not help the way men enslaved themselves.

‘Yes, all right,’ she said, then raised one foot out of the water. Habran chose a lime green oil from his table of ornate bottles, rubbed the fragrant stuff between his hands, then went to work on his mistress’ foot, cradling each painted toe. The sensation made Jazana’s eyes flutter.

‘My lady is bothered,’ said Habran in his thick accent. He was something of a confidant to Jazana Carr, and always spoke freely. Rodrik and her other soldiers often said that Habran was more woman than man. Perhaps that was why she liked him so much. ‘You are queen now. I expected smiles. Why do you brood, my queen?’

As Habran worked the space between her toes, Jazana wondered how she should answer. There were so many things troubling her suddenly. ‘For years I have talked of this moment, Habran,’ she said. ‘Always I boasted of the things I would do, how I would free Norvor from Lorn and make it better. And now I have Norvor but Lorn is still alive, on the loose somewhere, and I have all his burdens to deal with.’

‘It was what you wanted, my lady,’ Habran reminded her. There was a touch of reproach in his tone.

‘I know, and don’t be insolent.’

Habran grinned. ‘There is something else bothering you, my lady.’

‘You are in my mind again? It’s amazing. You’re good at everything. Very well. Share your insight with me.’

‘The child. You wanted the baby girl.’

Habran did not stop working as he spoke, but his words made Jazana freeze. Flustered by his deduction, Jazana almost pulled her foot away.

‘Perhaps,’ she admitted.

It surprised her how much she had wanted Lorn’s child. At first it had just seemed like a good way to anger him, but then she had realised the truth — she wanted the child because she’d never had one. Although she had adopted dozens of children orphaned by the war, none of the offspring of her vanquished foes had been infants, and none of them had ever appreciated her kindness. They were bitter because they remembered their fathers and what she had done to them, and were incapable of returning her love. She had even killed some of the male children, those who had vowed to slay her someday. But Lorn’s child was different. At barely nine months old, she hadn’t had the ability to really know her father. She could have been raised by Jazana as her own, and that thought had comforted her. She was a woman who had taken countless men to her bed over the years, but none of her useless lovers had ever given her a child. She supposed she might be barren, but she preferred to blame her mates for her empty womb, all of whom were too impotent to impregnate her.

‘I am old,’ Jazana sighed. ‘And now I can never have a child of my own.’

‘But you are beautiful, my queen,’ said Habran.

‘Yes,’ she agreed, because she knew it was so. ‘But I am past the years of child-bearing. I think you are right, Habran. I think I wanted that baby for my own.’

‘Because you truly wanted her? Or because you merely thought having King Lorn’s daughter would legitimise your rule?’

This time Jazana Carr did pull back. ‘What a question!’ Angrily she sank her foot back into the tub, splashing water over the edge. The lutist momentarily stopped playing and flicked his eyes toward her. ‘Don’t look at me, you troll. Get out!’

Without a word the servant hurried out of the pavilion. Habran remained at the foot of the tub, quiescent. He was accustomed to Jazana Carr’s rages and so no longer feared them.

‘I do not need a brat to legitimise my rule,’ she snapped.

‘No, my queen.’

‘And I do not need the advice of a perfumed man-girl from Ganjor either!’

‘No, my queen. Shall I do your other foot now?’

‘No,’ said Jazana petulantly. ‘You’ve ruined my bath, Habran, and my mood. Go now, let me rest.’

‘In the bath? Wouldn’t you like your robe?’

‘Leave me alone, Habran.’

The man from Ganjor left the pavilion, abandoning his oils and perfumes. Suddenly Jazana Carr was aware how empty her tent was, despite its fine furnishings. A brazier of coals stood not far from the copper tub, warming the space nearby. There were others like it throughout the tent. Outside, Jazana Carr heard the voices of her mercenary army as they prepared to march for Carlion in the morning. It would be a triumphant journey for them, and Jazana had given them permission to celebrate. Wines and beers were unkegged and musicians moved through the ranks. The smell of spitted birds hung heavily about the camp. Jazana had even allowed prostitutes to be brought in from nearby villages to entertain her men, who were hungry for the rut after weeks on the road. She didn’t like prostitutes or how men treated them, but it was one way of preventing rapes in the cities they conquered. The thought disgusted her. She shifted uncomfortably in the bathtub to stretch her back. Men had disappointed her all her life, from her father on down to her last lover, Thorin Glass. As she had so often over the past year, she wondered where Thorin was now.

No , she chastised herself. Don’t. Don’t pine for him or be weak. You are the queen!

She smiled, and her melancholy began to lift. She was queen. Not even Lorn could stop her now, wherever he was hiding. She began to relax again, closing her eyes and enjoying the warm bath, when she heard a sound at the entrance of her pavilion. The familiar throat-clearing told her it was Rodrik Varl, returned from Carlion. She opened her eyes, happy to see her bodyguard on the threshold, the tent flap closed behind him. With his customary twinkling eyes and jaunty feathered cap, she couldn’t tell if he was tired from his long journey. He grinned wolfishly.

‘My lady,’ he said with a bow, taking off his cap.

‘Rodrik, how long have you been staring at me?’

‘Just long enough to enjoy myself, my lady.’ Carefully he put the cap back on his red hair and strode into the pavilion. ‘The others are enjoying themselves, and after all I missed most of the merriment.’

He was a scoundrel but she couldn’t help adoring him. She always had, because he was loyal and protected her. She sat up. ‘Get a good look then, and tell me what you found in Carlion.’

Rodrik Varl turned away, fixing his eyes on the brazier. ‘Ah, now if you won’t have any modesty then I will have it for you, my lady.’

‘Tell me about Carlion.’

‘It’s as Gondoir said; Carlion has fallen and he’s taken full control. Prisoners have been taken but none of them are talking about Lorn. They don’t seem to know where he’s gone. He may be dead after all.’