To Ride Hell’s Chasm

‘They have not been refused outright.’ But the seneschal’s braced posture suggested an edge of stonewalled exasperation. ‘I could wish the issue had been handled differently’

‘Why don’t you address my documents of appeal and their outcomes one at a time?’ suggested the Prince of Devall.

‘The diplomatic complaint cannot be ignored. There will be a punishment extracted. However,’ the seneschal qualified stiffly, ‘the garrison captain who enacted the offence will be dealt with by military discipline.’

‘That means Commander Taskin’s been appointed to call the damned desert-bred on to the carpet.’ Kailen dashed down a swallow of wine, and grimaced. ‘That upright old stick doesn’t cut an offender much slack. He’ll execute the verdict along with the sentence, and won’t relinquish his right to keep privacy inside the ranks of his guardsmen.’

The heir apparent of Devall said baldly, ‘The commander won’t consent to an extradition.’

‘Never.’ Prince Kailen gave a tight laugh, drained his goblet, then fixed haunted eyes on his counterpart. ‘Powers above, this is Sessalie! Here, we hang only murderers and livestock thieves. Our dissenters certainly don’t include traitors. What brangles we settle between foreign diplomats are mostly disputes over how much of our best wine should be sold for export. We don’t have the occasion for criminal extradition, far less any precedent concerning the inequities of law that exist between outside kingdoms.’

‘Your Highness, you can’t have the desert-bred captain turned over to Devall’s bailiffs,’ the seneschal summed up with acidic dignity.

‘Are you trying to tell me he won’t be locked up?’ Brows raised by incredulity, the heir apparent sipped wine to douse the fire withheld from his language.

The seneschal sighed. ‘Taskin maintains his crown soldiers to fight. He keeps malcontents in line with the lash, and remands them for state prosecution only if they have incurred a direct threat of injury to a person of the royal family’

‘But this captain is the mongrel get of a darkling southerner!’ Kailen burst out in protest. ‘Surely a citizen’s entitlements won’t apply?’

‘They shouldn’t.’ The seneschal sustained both princes’ regard, his expression bitter as ice. ‘But Taskin stepped in at a sensitive moment. He stood on his prerogative to handle the trial, and King Isendon charged him to redress the misconduct with fairness.’

‘Well, no blood was drawn,’ the High Prince of Devall admitted. ‘Short of a dead advocate, I cannot submit an appeal to the primary complaint. No, the case must rest. If the outcome is lenient, I will placate my ambassador. He’ll receive my reminder that he shouldn’t expect formal protocol when dealing with low caste on errands.’

Gracious in capitulation, the heir apparent offered the last of the strawberries to brighten the seneschal’s mood. ‘Now, what of my appeal to help search for the princess? Surely that met with a warmer reception?’

‘Sadly not.’ The seneschal declined the blandishment, the deep, sour lines that bracketed his mouth hardened to dole out more bad news. ‘The king has made disposition and given the request over to Commander Taskin’s discretion.’

‘Then the writ will die there.’ Sessalie’s crown prince jammed aggravated fingers through his corn-silk blond hair. ‘Taskin’s nothing if not a cast-iron despot. Never has fancied anyone’s boots trampling over his turf. Devall’s honour guard will not be permitted to deploy, no matter how sensibly competent.’

Devall’s heir apparent absorbed this, pressed at last to withdrawn silence.

The seneschal fell back on aristocratic poise, grasped his goblet, then used the wine to ease his dry mouth. ‘On a good day, the commander would pose an obstructive impediment.’

‘A good day!’ The High Prince of Devall shoved the berry bowl aside. Bolt-upright and incensed, he pulled in a deep breath, but could not quite rein back his lit temper. ‘There’s more?’

‘Oh, yes.’ When balked, the seneschal could deliver a setback with vicious brevity. ‘Taskin made plain he’d withhold all opinion until after his appointment with the Captain of the Garrison.’

Crown Prince Kailen rocked out of his chair, swaying and flushed. ‘Mysh kael! What does Mysh kael have to do with this? My sister is missing, and past doubt in grave danger, and Lord Taskin takes pause to consult with an outlander concerning Devall’s right to assist?’

The high prince grasped Kailen’s strained wrist, bristling with autocratic authority. ‘Sit down!’

‘Bright powers above!’ The younger royal dropped rigidly into his chair. He accepted the filled wine glass pressed into his hand, and knocked back a vengeful swallow. ‘Taskin ought to be down on his knees, singing praises for Devall’s generosity.’

The high prince set down the bottle, not shaking. His rage stayed ice-cold, and his bearing immaculate. ‘I’m worried. Very much so, for Anja’s sake.’ He locked eyes with the seneschal in earnest regret. ‘I don’t like to suggest what may be spurious nonsense, but has anyone raised the question of whether your southland captain may have connections to a sorcerer? If your staunch commander appears to be acting outside of the ordinary, if in fact he’s shielding a criminal, that could be the first sign of warning. A man who wields craft might start off by casting spells of influence over another to further his nefarious ends.’

‘Mysh kael could well be the catspaw of such an enemy,’ Kailen broke in, morose. ‘Defend us from evil! Lord Shaillon, I’m not the only one to suggest that Anja’s abductors might be aligned with a demon.’

The seneschal inclined his groomed head. ‘It is true, near enough, that two women have died of questionable circumstances since yesterday. There is evidence pointing to Mysh kael, but no actual proof. The danger, as you correctly infer, is that the case might lawfully fall to Commander Taskin to prosecute.’

The Prince of Devall interjected the first breath of fresh air. ‘Well then, in good sense, something must be done to instil a proper avenue for oversight.’ His attention encompassed the seneschal, the need in him suddenly piercing. ‘For the princess’s safety, could I trust you to appeal as my emissary to King Isendon? I could offer my crown advocate to stand in on proceedings to guard against biased judgement.’

‘His Majesty has retired to bed,’ said the seneschal. ‘He’s unlikely to entertain anyone’s audience before morning. Taskin would be the exception, bearing word of the princess. Only the duchess, Lady Phail, attends the royal person throughout his informal light supper.’

Prince Kailen banged down a fist, upsetting the dregs in his goblet. ‘Balefire and damnation!’ While the wine spilled and ran, bleeding drips through the wicker, he added, ‘If that desertman’s a killer, Anja could already be dead! Powers preserve, we can’t wait till tomorrow.’

‘No,’ the heir apparent agreed in leashed quiet. ‘But we dare not tip our hand, or arouse a dangerous traitor’s suspicions by running roughshod over Sessalie’s court protocol. If Anja’s alive, such thoughtless action might actually kill her.’ He righted Kailen’s glass, spread his napkin over the spill, then tucked the crown prince’s unsteady hand over the stem of his own goblet. ‘Drink, settle down. We shall handle things quietly. If Mysh kael’s not honest, he will have a past. Unearth one incident that casts doubt on his word, or demonstrate that his record lacks integrity, and we can build a case to strike him from his post upon grounds of his questionable character.’ Devall’s heir apparent caught the seneschal’s nod of approval, and responded with an affable smile. ‘We’re agreed, then. My servants are trained to be expert at listening. My honour guard, as well, is on forced, idle time. The generous man would allow them a night’s liberty to sample the joys of the town. Let them visit the taverns in plain clothes, and see what seamy facts they might garner.’

The seneschal arose, his censure directed at Kailen as he collected the half-finished wine bottle. ‘You’d do well to get started, though if fortune favours, you may not need to look far afield.’

Devall’s high prince stood also. While a servant restored his pert velvet cap, with its ruby brooch fastening and pheasant’s barred tail feathers draped stylishly over his shoulder, he asked, ‘Is something afoot?’

‘We’ll see,’ said Lord Shaillon, Crown Seneschal of Sessalie, leaving the garden with purposeful strides. ‘Taskin was scheduled to meet with the desert-bred captain two hours ago. So far as I’ve heard, the slinking cur hasn’t shown up.’

On station at the Highgate, now nettled down to his blue-blooded bones to be forced to wait upon Captain Mykkael’s delinquent appointment, Commander Taskin had not passed the stalled time in idleness. As late day shadowed the mansions fronting the avenue that led uptown from the Middlegate, he had seen his contingencies covered both ways. Behind the walls, a task force was positioned to ride down a fugitive and make an arrest; at his side, a dependable sergeant attended, equipped with shackles and a whip in a canvas bag.

Since the breathless message sent from the garrison brought word of the captain’s delay, nothing changed, except that Taskin ceased his wolfish pacing.

Subsided into a glacial stillness at the arrow slit fronting the belltower, he held on to see whether the errant offender would bend desert-bred pride and ride in.

At streetside, no telltale sign showed to reveal any change in the gatehouse watch roster. The sergeant was bored, and displeased by the prospect he might have to manhandle a commoner. Hot in his surcoat, he stood at attention until his boots pinched, and his patience frayed into rags.

‘The wretch isn’t coming,’ he insisted at last. ‘Why should we waste the whole day? You can’t honestly expect proper conduct from a dog who was bred on a nameless chit in a sand ditch.’

Taskin said nothing. His narrowed eyes measured the activity in the avenue as the late afternoon press of foot traffic and carriages began thinning out before sundown.

‘There,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘Sadly late, but not lacking honour.’

The distempered sergeant belatedly sighted the horse, driving uphill at a prudent trot that would cover ground, but not threaten unwary pedestrians. Its rider was not wearing Sessalie’s hawk surcoat, nor did he use his crown rank to commandeer a more timely passage. Mykkael was clad in a sweat-damp, plain shirt, his preferred longsword slung from his shoulder. The casual dress at first seemed a statement of raffish effrontery, which regarded lightly the stature of a crown commission. Yet as the foreign captain breasted the rise, that impression was undone by his air of rapacious concentration.

Watching him, Taskin felt the hair on his arms rise up in primal warning.

Then the horse bearing Mykkael flung up its head, jerked short by his hand on the bit. It curveted sideways, while its rider raked an irritable, sharp glance over the sun-washed gatehouse.

‘Bright powers curse him!’ the sergeant remarked. ‘He’s noticed our archers. I’ll have the fool whipped whose careless move has served him an idiot’s warning.’

‘That’s my crack division posted up there,’ Taskin murmured in instant correction. ‘Not one of those bowman twitched a finger. Probably nobody had to, given Mysh kael’s experience. Any veteran who ever mounted a siege would measure those gatehouse embrasures. Were they empty or full, he would take pause to assess his exposure.’

Down the thoroughfare, Mykkael cranked the horse’s head sideways. Rein and heel used in concert, he dragged its weight into a wheeling rear.

‘That’s not a man acting on possibilities!’ the gate sergeant snapped in dismay. ‘If our nerve-jumpy quarry saw no sign of threat, then he’s sure as daylight running flat scared out of guilt.’

‘Do nothing!’ said Taskin, his tone scraped to ice. ‘If we react, we’ll never see how this man handles himself under the check rein of lawful authority!’ Beyond that cryptic statement, the commander chose tact. Now was scarcely the moment to mention the desert-bred captain’s predisposition for witch thoughts.

Downslope, the horse skittered on clattering hooves, its rider a blurred form masked behind a tossed flag of black mane. The pair sidled into an oncoming dray, whose six-in-hand team shied aside and milled over a fruit seller’s handcart. Its upset freight of melons tumbled and rolled, to a chorus of curses as chaos unravelled the peace. The dray team bucked in blinkered panic, while spilled fruit bounced and smashed, slicking the cobbles with crushed pith. The two carts behind entangled themselves to avoid trampling down hapless bystanders. While the watch in the gatehouse was diverted by the course of unfolding disaster, the lone horse re-emerged. It trotted a zigzagging, riderless course, with trailing reins looped under its forehooves, and vacated stirrups thudding its ribs.

‘He’s gone!’ yelled the sergeant. ‘Fled belly-down for the gutter.’ He drew in a breath to signal the archers, only to have Taskin’s hand clamp with bruising restraint on his wrist.

‘Do nothing, I said!’ the commander cracked, urgent. ‘A show of armed force will only unleash that man’s lethal instincts. Stay here. Hold hard! I won’t risk a bloodbath. Nobody moves on that captain before I’m dead certain he’s running.’