Page 59 of Traitor Son

“No. It may be that we will spare someone useful.” This was a lie. Drazhake knew it was a lie. But he wanted to live.

“We went to Ferrede,” he said, bitter, angry. “Twice, over the winter. They have a mill. We ordered them to give us grain and said if anyone complained, we’d come back and burn it all.”

That was a good one. It might even be true. And Juste knew it, too; he gave Drazhake a long look and then turned away without anotherword. He had been asked and answered. Now they would see what the other bandits had to say.

Over the next hour, the source of the grain was variously given as theft from a grain cart they encountered on the road, theft from a mill, supplied voluntarily by an elderly man and a teenage girl—which made everyone else glare ferociously at the man who said it—and supplied directly from Valleth. That last was so transparently impossible that Juste only looked sadly at the man who had said it, as if he were ashamed for him.

They might have gotten more details if they had tortured a few of the men, but what they had was enough. This did not look like a complex conspiracy. Remin took his own turn killing the bound, wailing men. There was no glory in it, he didn’t like it, but he wouldn’t ask his men to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself. His knights and squires silently performed the same task further down the line, lifting their swords to plunge them into dirty, squirming backs, the heavy steel slamming through flesh and bone, aimed for the heart of a man who was doing his level best to wiggle away. Remin had to put his boot on the back of one dying man to wrench his sword free before he went on to the next.

He reminded himself that the bandits had chosen to march on Tresingale, where he and those loyal to him were breaking their backs to carve homes out of the wilderness. His soldiers had laid down their arms and deserved some peace. There were hundreds of other men who had come to the valley at his invitation, who might have been injured or killed.

And one seventeen year-old girl. What might these bandits have done to her, given the opportunity?

Remin’s jaw tightened. That thought made it easier to do what was necessary.

In less than half a day, they had positioned themselves to intercept the bandits, killed them, questioned the survivors, and left over a hundred corpses on the bare crowns of the Iron Hills. Remin left a few men to search the dead and dispose of them, sent his archers home, and moved on with his remaining force for Ferrede, five days away, riding hard.

Remin had all but forgotten Drazhake’s name by the time they were on their way. There were so many other names and faces in his memory already.

And when he arrived in Ferrede, he suspected there would be at least two more.

* **

“My lady?”

“My lady.”

A gentle poke.

“My lady, wake up.”

“Lady, it’s morning…”

“Ophele.”

Ophele’s eyes snapped open, meeting a pair of bemused hazel eyes. Sir Miche straightened.

The donkey.

“Oh, no,” she said, bolting upright in bed and clinging to her blankets. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

“Another slugabed,” he said, but he was smiling as he headed for the door, which he had left carefully open. The duke’s knights were scrupulous that there would be no opportunity for misunderstandings.

Ophele flew to get dressed. She hadn’t even wondered how she would wake up on time in the morning; she had never had to, and the duke hadn’t been the least bit shy about shaking her awake when he wanted her up. Stumbling out of bed, she tugged a dress out of her trunk and put it on the right way round on the second try, then buried her face in a basin of cold water until some of the fog cleared. In ten minutes, she was outside with her veil and hat in hand, and had only fallen over things twice.

“I thought Rem was exaggerating,” Sir Miche said, amused. “No, don’t trouble yourself to apologize, my lady, I knew someone else who had the same trouble. Stable’s this way. Sure you’re awake?’

“Yes.” Her eyes were open very wide.

She had often visited the stables in Aldeburke, so she was familiar with the smells, the sounds, the stomping, blowing, curious horses. There was a lone donkey in a small corner at the back of the stable, an elderly little fellow whose head was roughly level with Ophele’s.

“Hello,” she said softly, holding her hand under his muzzle and wishing she had a treat for him. “Do you know his name, Sir Miche?”

“Just Miche. Drover said they called him Eugene.”

He looked like a Eugene. He lipped at her fingers, searching for food, but didn’t bite, and Ophele looked him over. She would feel horrible if he were hurt or too old and she made him work anyway.

“Some of the masons used him to carry their kit on the journey,” said Sir Miche, who seemed to intuit something of her thoughts. “But he’s too small for most work around here. They were talking about putting him down, but he makes do with scrub, so it’s not like he’s costing us in feed. I think he could handle a small cart.”

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