Juliet McKenna - The Assassin's Edge

“Not as yet.” Temar couldn’t say that in an even tone and didn’t even try.

“We’ll have to keep the burning hot enough without her then.” Halice pointed at the pyres being built with sombre efficiency by a bloodstained gang of mercenaries. “Deg knows how to catch the wind to best advantage.”

“What do we put the ashes in?” asked Temar with sudden consternation.

“We’d better talk to Rosarn. She’s inventorying the salvage,” Halice replied. “There must be pickle jars, butter crocks, wide-necked carafes, that kind of thing.”

“You’d send someone’s son home in a pickle jar?” Temar was appalled, both at the notion and the realisation he had nothing better to suggest.

“I’ve sent people home as no more than a few charred bones in a twist of greased sacking before now.” Halice turned her gaze from the measured destruction of the beached ships and Temar saw tears in her eyes. “I always told myself it was better their family know what had happened than be left with hope and fear from season to season.”

“I’m sorry.” Temar couldn’t think what else to say.

Halice smiled without humour, her sorrow retreating. “I wasn’t sorry to think I’d left all that behind. Me and Deg and all the rest of us who opted to stay in Kellarin.”

“Will you still be staying?” Temar wondered aloud.

“Oh yes,” Halice assured him. “We’ve shed too much blood to give up on you now.”

“In the cohorts, any man wounded in battle was recompensed according to the severity of his wounds,” said Temar distantly. “I don’t know if the custom still holds but I intend to abide by it.”

They watched the work continue for a while longer in the same pensive stillness. Other captives were dumping their fallen comrades in long boats with scant ceremony. The Fire Minnow waited in the middle of the strait to tow the carrion into open water. Her crew made ready to sail, with billows of white canvas and the D’Alsennin pennant jaunty at her masthead.

“They’re taking those well clear?” asked Temar, concerned. “We don’t want corpses washing back on the tide!”

“The sharks will make short work of that lot,” said Halice with grim satisfaction. “Remind me to tell Naldeth what we’ve done.”

Temar looked again at the pyres being built, running an idle finger over his bandage until he inadvertently touched the tender sore beneath it. He banished the treacherous thought that Guinalle could heal the hurt for him. Her talents were needed elsewhere. He could heal as time and Ostrin allowed. “We need a shrine,” he said with sudden decision. “If we keep these ashes in humble containers, so be it but we should at least give them the sanctity of a proper shrine.”

“Agreed.” Halice nodded firm approval. “Some families will want to leave the ashes where their loved ones fell anyway. We should make sure a roll of the dead goes back on the first ships to Tormalin. Do you think Tadriol would let us use the Imperial Despatch to send word to the families in Lescar and Caladhria?”

“It’s not for the Emperor to permit or deny couriers to an acknowledged Sieur,” Temar retorted with some spirit. “The Imperial Despatch can take word of your losses to the far side of Solura or answer to me for it.”

“Word to Bremilayne will reach Toremal quicker but the quickest way to get news to Caladhria and Lescar will be sending someone to Zyoutessela, so a courier can take passage on to Relshaz. Someone needs to take word to Hadrumal as well.” She reached into her jerkin and dug in an inside pocket to retrieve a thick silver ring. “This was Larissa’s. It should go back with her ashes.”

Temar was puzzled. “I don’t recall her wearing that.”

“Nor me.” Pity and apprehension mixed uneasily in Halice’s words. “I think it belonged to Planir.”

“We’ll discuss who goes where when we have all the ships together.” Temar knew he was avoiding the question but he’d face down Emperor Tadriol and the entire Convocation of Princes before he’d tell Planir the woman he’d loved was dead. “We should bring them all in here, and everyone from the sentry island.”

“Not today,” Halice said firmly. She nodded at the gangs of toiling mercenaries. “They’ll end up roaring drunk tonight and meaner than privy house rats. You should make sure any prisoners you don’t want lynched are locked safely in the Dulse ’s hold as well.”

“Oh.” Temar hesitated. “Do you think that’s wise, letting the men have such liberty? What if some of the pirates who fled sneak back in hopes of more mischief or stealing a boat?”

“Then they’ll live to regret it just so long as it takes someone to sling a rope over a tree or gut them like a fish.” New vigour sounded in Halice’s voice. “Still, you’re right. One spark makes a lot of work if it catches. Rosarn can take out her scouts tomorrow.”

“As soon as Guinalle can spare the time, she can drill me in the Artifice to search out any stragglers.” Temar straightened his back, shoulders square. “Ros can start a survey as well as clearing out vermin. Vaspret can help. The sooner we know what we hold here, the better we can plan how to use these islands.”

Halice smiled. “You’ll be telling Tadriol Kellarin claims these islands? In your capacity as Sieur?”

“Yes,” Temar said firmly. “Do you have some objection?”

“None at all.” Halice looked at the steadily rising pyres. “It’ll be nice to see a battleground showing something more permanent than burn scars for winter storms to wash away.”

For all his newfound determination, Temar’s thoughts turned inexorably sorrowful, so he was accordingly grateful for an apologetic cough at his elbow. It was Glane.

“Beg pardon, Messire, Commander but what are we to do with the prisoners that aren’t working? Some are saying they were never pirates, only captives. And then there’s the wounded—”

“I’ll see to the wounded.” Halice clapped Temar on the shoulder. “Justice and mercy are your prerogative, Messire.”

Temar bit his lip as the tall mercenary strode away.

“Rosarn! Do we have any kind of inventory yet? I want decent food for the wounded,” Halice called out. She kicked at a rickety remnant of some hovel and it collapsed with a clatter. “And somewhere a cursed sight better than this to sleep!”

Temar turned to Glane. “Where are these prisoners?”

The boy led him across gravel and dusty turf to a sullen gathering guarded by grim-faced men from Edisgesset. Some were blank faced with fear, staring dejected at the ground, some not even easing the painful bonds constraining them. Others huddled in twos and threes warily alert for any chance to flee, eyes vicious as feral dogs. One woman sat silent, hugging her knees, green dress bloodied around the hem and scorched on one sleeve, the skin beneath red and blistered. Temar felt she was not so much beaten as slyly husbanding her strength. Her hair was still secure in a tidy black braid pinned around her head.

“Build a gallows,” he said in matter-of-fact tones. “Fit to hang a handful at a time.”

A few faces disintegrated into sickened rage or wretched whimpers, his words confirming their worst fears. Consternation wracked the rest, several trying to stand for all the bonds hampering them. Their protests came thick and fast.

“No, your honour—”

“Your mercy, we beg you—”

“They forced me—”

“Silence!” Temar held up his hands. “You’ll all have your chance to plead for pardon.”

“And to bear witness?” A bedraggled girl struggled to her bruised feet, tied hands awkwardly clutching a blanket some mercenary had thrown her to cover her ragged chemise. “Hang me if you wish, Messire. I don’t care but don’t let that bitch escape the death she deserves!” She turned on the woman in the green dress whose eyes were still fixed on the ground. “Muredarch’s whore, the filthy slut, she kept all his secrets.” She broke into wild sobs, kicking at the silent woman. “She made a whore out of me! Let any of them use me—” As she lashed out again, the woman in green tripped her with a deft foot. The hysterical girl fell hard and other prisoners turned on the woman in green and then on each other.