‘I know just the place,’ Anton said, brightening once more. It was a side of the lad Nobul hadn’t seen. It was certainly better than the side to Kilgar he hadn’t seen — all caring and touchy feely like.
They made their way up through Northgate, past the dilapidated houses, up through the cold streets, the muddy ground frozen almost to stone. It wasn’t a bad time of year to walk through Northgate, if any time could be considered good. At least the cold of winter hid the human stink.
The further they went the more Nobul began to wonder if Anton knew where in the hells he was going.
‘Sure this is the right way?’ he asked.
‘Oh, it’s not far, Nobul,’ he said. ‘Just down here.’
‘All right. If you say so.’
Anton led them down an alley but it didn’t look like a decent spot for no alehouse. In fact it didn’t look a decent spot for much of anything, but who was Nobul to complain. It wasn’t like Anton was one of the rougher lads. It wasn’t like he’d be leading them into some cut-throat shit hole.
As Nobul thought that, he frowned, suddenly realising what had just been said between them. Anton had called him ‘Nobul’.
And he’d answered to it.
Before he could speak something hard hit him on the back of the head. It fuzzed his vision and dropped him to one knee, but it didn’t put him out.
‘Hit him again,’ someone said, panicked, desperate that they hadn’t knocked him unconscious.
Nobul spun around, dizzy, stumbling, seeing the club come down again. He just managed to raise an arm, felt an impact, grunted against the pain. More feet clattered towards him across the hard earth and he knew he didn’t have much time. He reared forward, butting the club wielder and knocking him back but that made Nobul stumble again and by the time he’d righted himself someone had shoved a sack over his head.
They pulled on it, dragging him, tightening the sack round his neck.
‘Fucking hit him!’ screamed another voice more frantic than the first.
Nobul backed up, shoving against whoever held the sack, trying to smash him against a wall, but he lost his footing. Something hit him in the shoulder, a plank of wood, another club maybe. He growled, getting his mad up, ready for the next blow. When it came he lashed out, feeling his foot hit someone who squealed. He grabbed at the sack trying to get it off.
‘Fucking help me!’ someone cried from behind. ‘He’s strong as a fucking ox!’
Nobul’s hand grasped a wrist, dragging it forward. The sack loosened about his neck as he pulled someone in front of him, punching out twice, feeling the impact against his fist, hearing a pained wheeze from someone’s lungs.
Before he could finally drag the sack off something hit him again, bang across his skull, driving him to the ground.
Last thing he heard was the sound of blows smashing in, pummelling him to …
TEN
She was on her hands and knees, retching up a long string of bile that dangled from her mouth but stubbornly held on, as though it didn’t want to break off and fall into the bowl in front of her. Janessa’s long red curls hung in that bowl, the strands of her hair splaying in the fresh vomit, but she didn’t care.
All she wanted was for this to go away.
Her hand strayed down to her belly. She could feel it had grown, the swollen flesh seeming to have hardened around her middle. It wouldn’t be long now until people other than Nordaine started to notice … if they hadn’t already.
And what would happen when they did? How would she be greeted at court? Half of them already despised her, coveting her power, waiting for her to fail so they could grab some advantage for themselves. And would the other half remain loyal once they discovered the truth?
The Whore Queen, they would call her. Her courtiers would snigger and gossip behind her back. Who is the father? Could be anyone — I hear she’ll lie with any man who offers her a red rose and some honeyed words. Must be young Lord Raelan Logar’s, I heard he was quite the rogue. No, they say it’s Leon Magrida’s, though she refuses to marry him.
Yet it was not the courtiers who mattered to her. It was the people of Steelhaven, her people, she really cared about.
Would they see this as a betrayal of their trust? Would it make them lose faith in her?
Whore Queen or virgin, her desire to do her best for them remained the same. She must still lead Steelhaven against the tyrant who would see the city razed to the ground; fight for victory — no matter her condition.
Janessa rose gingerly from the floor, and sat back on her bed, relieved that the nausea had abated. What a state she must look — hair dishevelled, sweating like a fat drunkard. Her appearance was the least of her worries, however.
What was she to do?
Should she find a husband, and quickly? Janessa had been determined to rule on her own, but the child inside her put an entirely new complexion on things and now her options looked decidedly slim.
Should she marry Leon Magrida? Would he want her, now she was with child? Or could she attempt to deceive him? What was she even thinking? Leon’s views were immaterial — Baroness Magrida would seize any chance to share the Steel Crown, even if it meant her son marrying a three-copper whore.
No.
This was desperation. Why was she even considering marriage to a man she despised? The very thought of it made her skin crawl. She could never give herself to another man while River was still out there … somewhere.
She felt a moment of panic. Was he still faithfully waiting for her? Would he come back? Hold her in his arms once more? Take her away from this place?
Janessa shook her head against the thought.
That was all whimsy. Another life she had dreamed she could have. But it was impossible. Janessa Mastragall could run away neither from Steelhaven nor from her daunting responsibilities.
The worries of giving birth out of wedlock would have to wait. Her armies to the north had been defeated. The Khurtas would be at the gates of Steelhaven within a few short days. Amon Tugha was coming.
Word had reached her that the Wyvern Guard had arrived, though they alone could never be enough to hold off an army tens of thousands strong. The entire city had to fight — its people united against the merciless enemy. They needed a beacon to rally around, and Janessa was determined to be their light.
Wallowing in her woes would not see the city defended.
Rising with new purpose, Janessa heard a knock at the door. She knew it was Nordaine. Her governess had been more attentive than ever these past few days, but there had been no prattled advice. The older woman knew Janessa had to find her own way.
Janessa allowed Nordaine in. Silently, the governess placed a little food down next to Janessa and began clearing away the bowl of vomit. Every day she brought food, even though Janessa usually refused it.
With fresh water she washed Janessa, wiping away the sheen of sweat on her body. Then she rinsed the vomit from Janessa’s hair, before dressing it formally. Finally, Nordaine helped Janessa into the gown she wore for court. It was a plain dress, austere as the room and throne from which she governed.
When ready, Janessa stepped out of her chamber and waiting, as ever, were her Sentinels. Kaira looked stern; always ready to carry out her duty. Merrick was more casual, but he snapped to attention on seeing her.
These two warriors, still new to Janessa, instantly made her feel safe. However the city and her court might judge her, she feared no harm as long as these two were by her side.
They led the way through Skyhelm’s corridors and into the main hall where Janessa saw Odaka waiting for her. The throne room had been cleared, not a soul in sight, and Odaka looked troubled.