The Jester: Foes Foreign and Domestic (2)
Episode 29: "Red Rescue"
Dusk was more than an hour away, and the day’s clouds and rain marched toward Angeva, leaving Palisade behind. Sitting on its front bench, Aran drove a covered wagon, courtesy of Lirens’ company, down into the city’s Fourth Level. The area’s residents boasted of their strong work ethic, with craftsmen producing quality goods and shopkeepers selling them for fair prices. But for a few magnificent exceptions, most of its well-kept homes and businesses were architecturally unexciting and unpretentious. But since the plots tended to be larger with the greater area of each descending level, many had yards and gardens that added life and cheer to what might have otherwise been an entirely pedestrian sector of the city. It was prosperous in its own way but without the aristocratic panache and accompanying snobbery found higher up.
In the shade of the wagon’s canvas cover, Mardans sat with Sergeant Rayan and his patrol partner, Nekhar, the Leitani guard. Tiena’s best surveillance agent, Teko, a short, slim man going on forty years old, crouched in a back corner. Legend said he was so unobtrusive he could essentially disappear at will. On the ride down, the slight agent had demonstrated his uncanny ability to imitate dozens of bird songs, which, for their operation’s purposes, Mardans narrowed to a handful. The last call he wanted to hear was a raven’s raucous cry since it meant, “Abort! Abort!”
The Tilanta estate, temporarily doubling as the Tanjari embassy, occupied the top of a prominent, out-thrust shoulder overlooking the southern plain. From its many south-facing windows, its occupants had a clear view of the White River as it left Palisade and sped south toward Kingsport. A primary spur of the main road swept past the grand home on the north, trees on either side shading the way toward a few fine homes nearer the river. Sitting at the promontory’s peak, the beige stone, white-trimmed villa boasted a pebbled circular drive with a cascading fountain and pool in its center. Beautiful lawns spread to both sides of the house and drive, encased by lines of spreading oak trees to east and west, the latter shielding the estate’s less comely working areas.
Just inside the embassy’s main gate, a narrow lane branched to the right, passing through the western line of oaks near the property’s northern wall. This track led to a coach house and stable and a few other outbuildings on the property’s northwest corner where Mardans suspected Dinae was being held. Both clues the Prophetess had given him pointed to the coach house.
Whistling “Margonne’s Noble Kingdom Is Our Home,” Aran drove the old campaign wagon past the closed iron gate, which stood at an angle at the intersection of the north and east walls. Their dark eyes full of suspicion, two white-clad Tanjari guards, orange-dyed egret plumes fluttering on either side of their helmets, stood at attention, ornamented halberds at their sides. Aran waved but received no response.
Somewhere between the gate and the line of spreading oaks where the guards could no longer see, Teko jumped soundlessly to the ground and scurried like a squirrel up an oak tree. When the wagon reached the end of the property, Aran pulled the horses to a stop, and his three passengers scrambled out. A moment later, they heard the call of an owl, Teko telling them he was in place. Soon, they heard a meadowlark’s song, signaling, “All clear.”
Rayan and Nekhar, dressed in well-worn workman’s clothes, each lifted a ladder from hooks on the wagon’s sides. The sergeant angled his against the west wall close to the corner, and Nekhar climbed up, standing his ladder on its other side. In a minute, all three men had climbed inside the embassy compound, screened from sight by the bulk of the coach house. Here, they waited, crouched in the narrow space between it and the wall. Aran clucked to the horses, continuing along the road until the wagon was no longer visible. At that point, he turned it around and waited for the call to return.
A few minutes later, they heard the distant beat of horses’ hooves and the jangle of harnesses coming from down the road, the signal they had been waiting for. Prince Lirens, deciding overkill would be most effective, had brought a dozen soldiers with him, all handsomely dressed in their finest uniforms. His guess proved correct. All eyes within the Tanjari embassy fixed on him and his troops as he spoke first with the guards and then the chief secretary, who had come running down the pebbled drive with the order to allow them to enter the compound.
The three palace guards slipped from hiding when they heard the hoofbeats. Nekhar, the stealthiest among them, went first, his job to slip from outbuilding to outbuilding to check if her captors held Dinae in one of them. Praying that the stable’s hayloft door was unlocked, Mardans pulled himself up a drainpipe to find a second-floor entry. Rayan, armed with his bow and a quiver of arrows, found a concealed vantage point to watch and cover the whole yard.
Despite the earlier rain, the slate roof felt firm under Mardans’ feet. Cresting the ridge, he stepped gingerly across to a valley and then down along an edge until he could peer around the gable end to check the hayloft door. It lay flush against the jamb, his first disappointment, so he climbed the gable and lay flat, reaching down to test if it would open.
Again, he was disappointed. Untying his whip, he wrapped it around the exposed beam at the roof’s peak, to which hung a pulley for lifting hay bales. Trusting his whip to hold his weight as it had in Blayne, he swung out and soon hung suspended, swaying in front of the door, scrabbling as quietly as he could for a ledge to brace his feet on.
Only the door’s trim gave him any purchase. He rested both feet on the left-hand door, transferring as much weight to the one-inch-thick trim as he dared. He reached for the right-hand door and pulled. To his further disappointment, it was either locked or stuck shut. This is wasting too much time! he thought, panic beginning to rise. Here I am, in plain sight, dangling twenty feet off the ground!
Awkwardly, he fumbled a long, thin dagger from his left boot, almost dropping it to the dirt below. Slipping the blade between the doors, he raised it until it stopped with a dull clonk. Wood, he thought. They’ve got a bar holding the doors shut. Probably not locked. I hope, I hope. Here goes nothing!
Ripping upward with all his strength, he felt the locking bar give way and fall to the loft floor with a series of resonant claps and clunks. Now truly panicked, Mardans threw the right door open and kicked off the other, swinging himself into the loft. Scrambling to his feet, he hastily returned the dagger to his boot, retrieved his whip, and looked for a hiding place. Finding one, he grabbed the six-foot wooden bar as he passed and dove behind stacked bales a few yards away.
Seconds later, the sounds of heavy breathing and creaking wood came from the direction of the loft’s ladder. For half a minute, the creaks stopped, which Mardans assumed meant the person climbing to check on the noise had stopped to peer into the loft. New creaking followed some muttered curses as the climber reached the ladder’s top. Hearing footsteps approaching the open hay door, Mardans risked peeking over the bales. A heavyset young man, dressed as a stable hand, had his hands on his hips, trying to figure out how the door had gotten open and where the locking bar had gotten to.
Mardans applied the latter to the side of the man’s head, felling him in one blow. That’s two men I’ve had to knock out lately! Better than killing them.
He shut the door and replaced the bar. Finding a coiled rope attached to a baling hook, he tied the unconscious young man with it, slipping the end with the baling hook over a rafter for good measure. Hustling down the ladder, he surveyed the room, looking for the likeliest places her captors would have stashed Dinae. Under the loft, a half-dozen stalls housed as many white horses, and the large open area into which he had descended held two carriages and two coaches. On the door of a glossy black official vehicle hung a replica of the Tanjari royal flag, eleven orange hands and one red hand in a circle, palms outward, on a white field.
In the end, he had no need to search for Dinae. Muffled cries came from the direction of the carriages and coaches. Putting fingers to his lips, he gave two sharp whistles. The cries stopped immediately. He took a step toward the second black coach, but cold steel across his throat stopped him before he could take another. He gulped involuntarily as he realized the kidnapper behind him held a foot-long, thick-bladed fighting knife honed to razor sharpness.
“Who do we have here?” a sneering voice said. “A bird or a meddling palace guard? What will the Tanjari ambassador say when he discovers an agent of the Margonni king was holding a woman hostage right under his nose? Hmm. I wonder how he’ll reward me for taking care of this problem. Perhaps with a nice, heavy bag of gold coins!”
Mardans kept as still as possible as the knife nicked the skin where it rested over his jugular vein. “You’ve got the story all wrong,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. “That’s my sister in there.”
The man laughed. “If she’s your sister, I’m her granddaddy! I’ll tell you what, she’s more like a tigress! Fights like one—and with a tongue that’ll blister your hide! But you already knew all that, right, brother?”
Mardans’ eyes darted about, trying to find something he could use to fight back, but nothing was at hand. Unable to move, he stood out in the open. The nearest carriage was still a few steps away, and all the tools and tack were against the walls, far beyond reach. His whip hung uselessly at his hip, making his wits his only defense. He decided to take a chance. “What will Formosis say if you kill me?”
“‘Good job!’ I reckon,” the man said without care. “Maybe I’ll get another bag of gold! You know, he doesn’t like you very much. Too much snooping around. But I daresay, he’d enjoy gutting you himself.”
Despite the situation, Mardans felt a thrill that this Tilanta guard had verified who orchestrated the theft and murder. He tried for a bit more. “So, he likes gutting people, does he?”
The man chuckled. “Spear says Lord Formosis enjoys it very much. And, like him, I’m going to enjoy slitting your throat, Lieutenant.” He spoke the last word in a mocking tone. Then he let out a sudden grunt, and his grip stiffened for an instant and abruptly went slack. The long knife fell from boneless hands and clattered on the stone floor. The man fell back, gurgling, limbs limp and useless. Then he lay still, blood streaming from his neck where a heavy broadhead arrow had slashed through spine and vein.
Mardans’ legs crumpled under him. On his knees, breathing hard as if he had just run a mile, he stared at the man’s lifeless body without comprehension. Off to the left, another arrow in his bow, Rayan stepped cautiously forward from a shadow, searching for another target, but none were to be found. He let his bowstring go slack.
From behind, Nekhar ran to Mardans, kneeling beside him, clutching his officer’s shoulder. “Are you all right, Lieutenant?”
Mardans nodded, clearing his throat. “I think so,” he croaked, his mouth still dry. “That was a close one. Thank you.”
Rayan snorted. “You’re welcome. I’ve decided I like you, despite you being an officer.”
That got Mardans laughing, breaking the shock. A moment later, with Nekhar’s help, he was on his feet, gradually feeling like himself again. He leaned down to pick up the knife, noticing blood reddening its edge—his blood. Putting a hand to his throat, it came away with just a smear of red. Just a shallow cut, thank the Shepherd.
Kneeling, he stripped the knife’s sheath from the dead man, and after wiping the blade on his pants, rammed it home. He offered it to Rayan. “Yours by right,” he said.
“No, sir!” he said. “Nice knife, but not my style. You keep it as a trophy, sir.”
Mardans shook his head. “Not a trophy. As a warning not to get careless.”
Nekhar nodded. “Not bad for close-in fighting either.” A slight upturn of the corner of his mouth hinted that he was not entirely serious.
The cries from the coach began again. Mardans stuffed the sheathed knife in his right boot and trotted to its door. A twist of the handle revealed Dinae lying on the floor, bound hand and foot. A gag filled her mouth, but she had been screaming and yelling through it. As soon as she saw Mardans, her eyes began flowing with tears.
He climbed inside and lifted her onto the seat. With his new knife, he slit her bonds and then untied the gag. She collapsed into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably. A minute later, Nekhar brought her some water, which she drank as if she were insatiable, and he fetched another.
It seemed to settle her, and she even blushed. “I’m sorry, Mardans,” she said softly. “I didn’t do what you said, and you had to rescue me again.”
“What are brothers for?” he said, using a thumb to wipe her cheek. “That’s the deal, right?”
She melted into tears again.
Mardans picked her up, carrying her like a child, and she clung to him. “Let’s go, my friends!” he said. “We’ve still got to get her over the wall and back to the palace. Nekhar, signal Aran.”
“What’ll we do with him, sir?” Rayan asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the corpse.
“Leave him,” Mardans answered, “but retrieve your arrow and any money he might have on him. It might be Red’s. We’ll let the Tanjari ambassador try to explain the body to Prince Lirens when they get here.” The smile he gave them was grim.
A note:
Why do Tanjari guards wear white? The people of Tanjar are fascinated with symbolism and constrained by countless superstitions. To them, the color white is connected to both death and purity, thus their expression, “Only the dead are pure.” Before each shift, royal Tanjari guards, like the ones at the embassy, perform a cleansing ritual of bathing in water and then in incense, preparing for death. Then, they don their white armor, which promises death to their enemies. More than providing a splash of color, the orange plumes on their helmets first stand for the Tanjari nation. In addition, since orange is the color of emotional balance and harmony, they also signal that the guards will perform their duties without unnecessary and distracting emotions clouding their minds.
Whew! Close call for Mardans! It's good to have friends covering your back.