Leda

Chapter Twenty-One: Cold Meat

The glass hit the wall with such force that it exploded in a shower of crystal, a crimson streak of wine spraying tapestries and carpets like a bleeding wound. Castor rose unsteadily, gripping the dining table for support, shivering with rage, blood pulsing in the veins on his temples. Behind him, a pair of hounds whimpered for safety into a corner.

"Tell me again." His throat constricted as he spoke, the words a reedy rasp. "Tell me what you just said."

Denec Morva paled and stiffened, his guard's helmet tucked beneath his right arm, a trail of sweat coursing down one side of his shaved scalp. "I said they escaped, your Majesty."

"They...escaped?" Castor's strangled voice rose another octave. "All of them?"

"Not Senator Treniac. He was...mauled by the crowd."

"Mauled? By the crowd? The same crowd which failed to hold back Hannac, Roc...even my aunt's own maid, a mere slip of a girl?"

"They had help, your Majesty." Morva wiped sweat from his brow with a twitching hand.

"Help?" Castor passed around the table, leaving his dinner to cool. The dogs peered up, hopeful, strings of drool leaking from their muzzles. "What kind of help?"

"We believe it was Brighthair, your Majesty. She charged the tumbril on a destrier."

"Alone?" Castor shrieked.

"No, my Lord. We believe she was aided by the Riverside thieves."

"The thieves I ordered you to catch and execute?"

"We had Salvesté, Majesty."

"We had?" Castor's nostrils flared, his breathing ever more erratic.

"He escaped, too, your Majesty."

Drawing back his hand, Castor suddenly slapped his chief of guard across the face. Morva's eyes hardened ˗ shame brewed and spread ˗ a red flush burning across his cheeks. The muscles of his jaw line twitched, but he said nothing.

"And I suppose you're now to tell me there's been no sign of Leda Nérac ˗ or her mother ˗ or my brother Josen?"

"Not yet, your Majesty. We've hung likenesses. I have men scouring to the West and North."

"Not enough, though, is it, Morva? My traitor brother will already be summoning men to his side ˗ perhaps he and the Néracs were in on this all along. And what do you do? You spread 'a few likenesses' around the crofts?"

"And my men, your Majesty, search day and night."

"Day...and...night. Shall I tell you what effects your search parties will bring, Morva?" Castor crossed to the wood panelling by the door. He sensed the guardsman's abject fear - he could smell it. Slain, stuffed heads of forest beasts peered back at him from the wall ˗ a stag, its glassy eyes so well crafted they seemed to weep. A wild boar, tusks sprouting savagely through rough, wiry fur. An eagle caught midflight, its wings pinioned to the panels, its beak open in a last despairing cry. And below them, the very weapons which had brought about their deaths ˗ a bow and a sheath of arrows, a spear, the axe which had severed the boar's head from its shoulders. Castor turned back into the room, his mind now tipping from fury to excitement.

"Nothing. That will be the effect of your search parties. These people are animals, Morva. Not to be reasoned with."

"Yes, your Majesty."

"We will ˗ that is, Colvé ˗ will march North. We will ensure that they have no homes to run to, no safe places left to turn, no friends remaining who might hide them."

Morva nodded stiffly.

"And when we've smoked them out ˗ all of them ˗ Hannac, Brighthair, the Néracs, Roc, the thieves and all their families, all their friends, we'll walk them back here in chains and execute them by degrees."

The guardsman swallowed. "As you wish, Majesty."

"As I wish. It is indeed, Morva, what I wish. But I'm afraid I'll be needing a new chief of guards to aid me." Turning to the wall, Castor plucked the boar spear from its panel, turned and hurled it into Morva's back. There was a sudden rush of air, a grunt, a groan, and Morva slumped and knelt, propped upright by the spear, its tip buried in the carpet.

Suddenly cleansed, his anger dissolving like salt dropped in water, Castor returned to his seat and peered into Morva's dying eyes with idle curiosity. A thin streak of blood trickled down the guardsman's chin.

"Curse you."

"An Emperor can't be cursed, Morva." Castor bestowed a crooked smile upon the dying man. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

He poked at a thin piece of meat on his plate. "Cold, now," he said, as Morva's eyes closed. "Here!" A sharp whistle brought the hounds to his side.

"Finish it." Castor tipped the remains of his dinner onto the floor, as the last breath shuddered from Morva's body. At his side, the dogs crammed their maws with meat, and Castor dreamed of the burning North.