Signing, G. Grassman
TASH WAS sitting on the floor, playing a game of drafts with Tanya. Catherine had been trying to learn as much as possible about demons now it seemed certain her father was planning to use their smoke. But how was he going to find them? How many demons were there? Were they easy to hunt? Catherine had asked Tash these things, but she had just shrugged and said, “If Gravell was free like me I’m sure he could tell you all this. It’s because of our smoke that you’ve found out about the boy army.”
Catherine knew she’d done well to get Tash released and didn’t hold out much hope of doing the same for Gravell, so she was continuing the slow process of befriending Tash, hoping that the odd piece of information might be revealed.
“So you don’t remember your parents?”
“I remember being starving and being beaten.”
“And Gravell doesn’t starve you or beat you?”
“He swears at me. Probably less than I do at him, though.”
“So would you say you were equals? I was told the women in Pitoria are more liberated than in Brigant.”
“Yeah. I’m completely liberated.” Then she mock-muttered to herself, “Wish I was liberated from this shitting castle.”
“And I hear that some women here in Pitoria own property and have their own businesses. Is that what you want?”
Tash shrugged and moved her draft. “I suppose. I tried the pie business once. But I prefer demon hunting. With Gravell I have a good life. Money. Travel. Inns with beds better than in here. Baths. Plenty of food. I don’t want for more.”
“That’s what you spend your money on? Or does Gravell pay for all those things?”
“Gravell pays mostly.”
“Ah, not so liberated then.”
“I work equal to him. I do all the dangerous stuff. I draw the demon out. I’m the bait.” Tash shut up abruptly, then said, “I’m losing this game with all this chatter.”
“What are demons like?”
Tash hesitated. “Big, fast, and red.”
“Red or purple?”
“Mostly red. I think it’s the younger ones that are purple. They look like humans, but it’s hard to say how old they are. Anyway they’re all sort of beautiful.”
“Beautiful! I thought they’d be terrifying.”
“Oh, they’re that too.” Tash shrugged. “If you had one coming after you, you’d not be thinking much about how beautiful it was. You’d be concentrating on running. Finding the best path back to Gravell. Luring the demon is serious. It’s life or death. Not a game.”
Catherine nodded. “I was in my first battle two days ago. I know what you mean about concentrating. I was focused on my horse and myself and the route ahead.”
Tash leaned her head back against the wall and studied Catherine. “You’re not how I thought a princess would be.”
“How so?”
“You’re more . . . normal.”
“Oh well, and there I was thinking I was special,” Catherine replied, laughing.
Just then there was a knock on the door: a soldier with a message from Tzsayn asking Catherine to come to him immediately.
Catherine looked at Tash and said, “Maybe not so normal, to be invited to see a prince.”
Tash shrugged again. “Is Edyon a prince too?”
“Not exactly.” Catherine stood and Tanya smoothed her hair and helped arrange her skirt. Catherine wanted to discuss the demon smoke further with Tzsayn, perhaps have another go at getting Gravell’s release. If Tash was there, perhaps they’d make more progress. She said, “Tanya will accompany me and, Tash, you will come too.”
“And the two soldiers outside, no doubt,” Tash said.
“Indeed,” Catherine replied.
In the great hall, Catherine was surprised to see several senior soldiers, including Rafyon, who looked different with his hair dyed white, though Catherine realized she was smiling to see it. Ambrose was with him, and she was smiling too that his hair was still the natural blond that she preferred. The sight of him, his armor polished brightly, made Catherine feel stronger. Across from Ambrose she spotted Edyon and March. It seemed that Prince Tzsayn was treating Edyon with the courtesy he would afford a legitimate son of Prince Thelonius. Or was it because he was Catherine’s cousin? Whatever was going on, Catherine put aside her idea of discussing Gravell: this meeting looked much more serious. Tzsayn sat on an ornate chair at the far end of the room, flanked by guards, reminding Catherine uncomfortably of her last audience with her father.
Catherine approached and Tzsayn rose and came to her, taking her hand and escorting her to a chair to his right, where the queen would sit. He spoke quietly. “A messenger has arrived from your father. He insists that you and Ambrose are here before he speaks.”
Catherine had an ominous feeling. If the message was for Ambrose as well as her . . . she dreaded to think of what shame or embarrassment her father might seek to create.
“We both know the message will be bad,” continued Tzsayn. “That is why you are sitting here beside me. We are betrothed. You have my protection.” He held his hand out for her to take.
Catherine put her hand in his and said, “Thank you, Your Highness.”
The warmth of Tzsayn’s hand was a comfort, but she felt Ambrose’s eyes on her as she took her seat beside him.
The great doors to the hall opened and the messenger entered. However, it wasn’t just one messenger—it was five: four men carrying a huge square wooden box with another in the lead wearing the uniform of her father’s guard. His jacket arm was folded over the end of his stump.
“It’s Viscount Lang. He fought Ambrose a few weeks ago; that’s how he lost his hand.”
Catherine’s own hand tightened round Tzsayn’s as Lang stepped forward.
“I am sent on behalf of King Aloysius of Brigant to agree terms for the surrender of Rossarb. King Aloysius believes that his whore of a daughter, Catherine, is with you, as is the cowardly scoundrel who constantly fawns at her heels, Sir Ambrose Norwend.” Lang made a show of looking at Catherine. “I see the whore is present.”
Tzsayn’s face was impassive. “Princess Catherine is an honorable lady and my betrothed. Whoever insults her insults me.”
“I stand in your hall under a flag of truce. You can kill me, if you dare. I am not afraid to say what I know to be true,” Lang sneered. “Is Norwend too cowardly to show his face?”
“Sir Ambrose is here,” Tzsayn said, motioning Ambrose forward. If Tzsayn’s face was a picture of studied calm, Ambrose’s was a mask of fury. Rafyon stood at his shoulder, eyeing Ambrose anxiously, as if worried he might have to hold him back.
Steady, Ambrose, Catherine thought. It’s only words.
“Then I can deliver my message. King Aloysius has surrounded this pitiful town. He may capture it at his whim. When he does, he will have no mercy. He will kill all within its walls: men, women, children. All will die.” Lang paused. “However, His Majesty may be persuaded to be merciful. The people of Rossarb will be allowed to leave the town unharmed, including yourself, Prince Tzsayn, if you give the king something he wants.”
“And what would that be?” Tzsayn asked.
“The whore and the coward.”
Catherine sucked in her breath.
“Call the princess a whore again and I will kill you where you stand!” Ambrose shouted. His sword was half out of its scabbard as he took a step toward Lang, but Tzsayn stayed him with a sharp gesture and Rafyon was blocking his path. Trembling, Ambrose thrust his sword back into its scabbard, though he didn’t step back.
Catherine forced herself to look calm, though her blood was burning as fiercely as Ambrose’s.
I should have known. He wants revenge and won’t stop until he gets it.
For her father there could never be forgiveness or reconciliation. He’d think nothing of parading his own daughter through the streets to the scaffold. But Tzsayn would never agree to such a thing.
The silence stretched until Catherine could not help but glance sideways at the prince. His gaze was fixed on Lang.