‘Yes, sir,’ Cray said and sped off.
Del Garza sat back in the commander’s chair, enjoying the way Cray had leapt to obey, enjoying the privilege of taking over the commander’s office, enjoying the memory of the look on Leighton’s face when he had realized del Garza held the power in Krondor for the moment.
He turned his mind away from feeling any pleasure at the prospect of authority. How could he enjoy anything when his lord had been humiliated this morning? How could that wicked girl abandon her father so? And why? So that she would not have to partake of the honour of wedding the Duke du Bas-Tyra; one of the greatest, one of the noblest men in the Kingdom! How dare the little baggage treat his lord so?
Poor Prince Erland, to have such an uncaring child. Not that he was much better, for he, too, had defied his lord’s will. Well, he’d just have to suffer the fate to which his own daughter had condemned him. Del Garza considered: perhaps if the Prince was relocated to one of his draughtier dungeons, and word was leaked that he would remain there until his daughter returned …? He considered that a move to be made if Radburn didn’t return with the girl soon. If the girl had been coerced into leaving the city, it might convince her to return of her own volition, and if the Prince didn’t survive the ordeal, that was another problem that could be laid at Jocko’s feet when the Duke again graced the city.
Del Garza sighed. So much to be done, and he so much preferred routine to the unexpected. But, at least he knew the task at hand.
These … thieves, these nothings must be brought to heel, whipped into place like the dogs they were. That they should dare to steal Guy du Bas-Tyra’s rightful bride, interfering in matters they knew nothing about, and indeed should know nothing about …
With an effort del Garza calmed himself. He took deep breaths until his heart rate returned to normal. He shouldn’t waste this anger; he should harbour his fury until the men came, and then release it. Things were going to change around here; soon and forever. By the time Guy du Bas-Tyra returned from the south, Krondor would be a city in order and under firm control. Yes, he thought, in control.
He called for a parchment and pen and set his mind to the list of things that would have to be done, and first on that list was to round up as many of the Mockers as could be ferreted out of whatever dark warren hid them.
The crossroads was crowded.
Hotfingers Flora was chatting and laughing with her friends while tossing saucy, flirtatious glances at every passing male when the wagon pulled up beside them. At first she didn’t give it much of a glance; the streets were busy with men on foot, porters with heavy loads, handcarts full of golden loaves of bread, cloth, boxes and bales, a sedan-chair – she cast an envious glance at the courtesan lolling within it – and any number of farmers’ wagons hauling in the city’s food.
When it stopped in front of her, she realized that this one wagon was different. It was a curious sight, with high sides and hoops over the top as though it was meant to be covered by a canvas tilt. But there were crossbars tied onto the hoops with rawhide thongs, making it look like a cage. It was driven by a pair of Bas-Tyran guards and followed by four more on foot, their hobnails a counterpoint to the clangour of iron-rimmed wheels on stone and their halberds swaying as they marched in step.
Some of her friends moved away cautiously – anything out of the ordinary was dangerous. But the majority of the girls watched with arms folded across their breasts and their eyes flicking toward the surrounding alleys, holding their ground despite their suspicion. After all, a lot of their business came from soldiers.
A sergeant descended from the wagon and approached the girls with the rolling swagger of a man who’d spent as much of his life on horseback as on foot. His corporal went to work lowering the tailgate and opening the cage door; the rest of the squad braced their polearms, the sharp hooks on the backs interlinked, a bare upright tent.
The sergeant chucked Flora under the chin and turned to grin at his men who also moved in, smiling. He smelled of sweat, leather and sour wine; she was used to that, but this man was ranker than most, and she wrinkled her nose a little. Flora tossed her head and with a slightly nervous smile asked, ‘Anything I can do for you, soldier?’
‘Yes,’ the sergeant said, leaning in close, ‘you can come with me, my little canker-blossom, you and all your friends. We’re having a party for you back at the keep.’ He took hold of her arm with a hard grip and a cruel, crook-toothed smile.
‘Well, there’s no need to be rough about it,’ Flora snapped, trying to pull away.
‘I suppose there isn’t,’ he agreed amiably. ‘But, ye see, I want to be.’
With that, he picked her up by her hair and the waist of her skirt and tossed her into the cage in a squawking cartwheel of limbs and cloth. Her knee hit something hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. Before she could get to her feet, her friends were thrown in on top of her, driving the breath out of her lungs with a force that left her struggling for air. One of her teeth cut the inside of her lip with a little stab of pain, and the iron-salt-copper taste of blood filled her mouth.
‘Wait!’ she cried after an instant, sucking back her breath as she went scrambling backward out of the writhing heap. ‘We haven’t done nothing! What are you doing?’
The cries of the others were shrill around her: protests, sobs, curses and wordless shrieks of rage. She hauled herself up by the bars of the wagon in time to see two of her friends scurry down an alley with their skirts gathered up, and took heart from the sight. Word would get back to the Upright Man and something would be done about it. Flora rattled the wooden bars of the cage as hard as she could, glaring.
‘You can’t just throw us in jail for nothing!’ she shouted.
The sergeant came up to her and smacked her fingers with a mailed fist; not hard enough to break anything, but more than hard enough to hurt. ‘Oh, yes we can,’ he said, with what might have been mistaken for good humour, if you weren’t watching his eyes.
Those eyes had something in them that made her shiver and remember what Jimmy had said about the risks of freelancing.
The sergeant slapped his gloved hands together; the metal rings on their backs clinked dully. ‘So says the acting governor. We can do anything we want to trash like you, and serves you right. Now shut up and settle down like a good, sensible girl or I’ll knock your teeth out.’
Flora sucked her wounded knuckles and did as she was told. The pain was distant, less real than the way her heart pounded with fear, and her throat tried to squeeze itself shut beneath a mouth gone parchment-dry.
By the time they arrived at the keep, the cage was full to bursting and Flora was pressed tightly against the bars – which was still better than being in the middle, since at least there was open air on one side. The wagon was filled with whores and beggars and a very few of the younger pickpockets who had been doing absolutely nothing illegal when they were taken. The soldiers had even rounded up a few people who were simply poor, or who’d happened to be standing next to the wrong whore. But she’d noticed that most of those in the cage with her were Mockers. And that frightened her. Clearly Jocko Radburn was not taking the Mockers’ adventure with the Princess Anita lightly.
The gates clashed shut behind them. More Bas-Tyra guardsmen hauled them out of the wagons to join a growing file of prisoners being herded to stairways that led downward. Boots and fists and the steel-shod butts of halberds and pikes thudded on flesh; almost all the cursing came from the guards, though.
Their prisoners were mostly silent, except for the occasional cry