Vaelin against the metal-bracketed edge of the doorway with sufficient force to provoke a pained grunt. Hearing the man who had shoved him let out a snicker, Vaelin groaned again and sank to one knee, head sagging in exhaustion.
“On your feet, you barbarous ape,” the shover said, meaty hand clamping hard on Vaelin’s shoulder. He sagged lower, forcing the guard to stoop and slightly unbalance his stance. Vaelin’s head snapped back in a blur, connecting with the soldier’s nose, producing a satisfyingly loud crack. As the man reeled, Vaelin twisted, catching hold of the hand on his shoulder whilst simultaneously lashing out with his foot, sweeping the soldier’s leg away. He collapsed onto Vaelin, trying to tear his hand free as his companion loomed closer, reaching for Vaelin’s arm. He rolled, taking the soldier with him, hands moving with brisk, practised efficiency, screams filling the musty confines of the carriage. In the time it took for two more soldiers to climb into the carriage and drag them apart, he succeeded in breaking three of the shover’s fingers.
“Enough!”
Vaelin felt the cold kiss of steel under his chin and found the man with the familiar face standing over him. He held the tip of a sword to Vaelin’s skin with a precise but firm grip, a deep temptation to use it plain in his gaze.
“Kill me,” Vaelin said, “and who will you take to meet your king?”
“I strongly suspect,” the man said as the sword tip pressed harder, Vaelin feeling a trickle of blood on his neck, “he may well be satisfied with just your head.”
Vaelin gave a bland smile and released his grip on the soldier, letting the man scrabble away, cursing and clutching his ruined hand.
“Shut up!” barked the familiar man, the note of authority in his voice marking him as an officer of some kind. Sheathing his sword, he spared the soldier a disgusted glance before turning away. “Short rations and no wine for a month. You were warned he was dangerous.” Turning to Vaelin, he inclined his head at the door. “No more trouble. Understand me, barbarian?”
“I have companions,” Vaelin said. “I would know where they are before I go anywhere.”
“Any questions will be answered by the king, if he deigns to sully his tongue by conversing with you. Now get up or I will happily deliver you to him in chains.”
Climbing down from the carriage, Vaelin found a bucket full of soapy water waiting at the foot of the steps. A few paces beyond stood a soldier holding a bundle of plain but clean clothes.
“Strip,” the officer said, gesturing at the bucket. “Then wash, then dress.”
Vaelin took a moment to scan his surroundings. He stood amidst a ring of a dozen red-armoured soldiers in a courtyard he would have taken for a field were it not for the smooth slate tiles that covered it from end to end. It was bordered by three-storey buildings with low-angled roofs, the corners and edges of which were richly adorned in statuary. Beyond the buildings he saw towers rising into the pale cloudy sky. They were almost as tall as the towers of Volar, but thinner, each one crowned by a structure that resembled a miniature fortress. Watch-towers, he concluded, finding himself impressed. No army could approach within fifty miles without being seen.
“Strip, wash and dress!”
Vaelin glanced at the familiar man and gave a courteous bow before divesting himself of his clothing. The sweat-matted fabric peeled away from his skin to birth a miasma that even he found strong enough to sting his eyes. “You haven’t asked my name,” he commented once fully naked, moving to the bucket. “Is that because you already know it?”
He gave the officer a sidelong glance as he lathered himself, seeing a determinedly rigid composure in his features. This was a fellow well practised in concealing emotion. “Or my business in the Venerable Kingdom,” Vaelin went on. He dipped his head into the bucket and soaked his hair before working his fingers through the tangled strands. “Don’t you wish to know why I am here?”
The man said nothing, face just as rigid as before.
“Sherin Unsa,” Vaelin said, watching for any reaction and finding none. “A woman of my former acquaintance. Sister Sherin Unsa to be precise, formerly of the Fifth Order of the Faith. Although I imagine she dropped the title years ago.”
Still nothing beyond a slight twitch to the eyes. “She’s an easterner,” Vaelin added, hefting the bucket. “A barbarian you would say. Like me.”