Scarred Man

By Bevan McGuiness

Second book in this gripping new trilogy ... Slave has escaped imprisonment, but his master still hunts him while an evil spirit owns his soul ...
'If it wants her dead, we should keep her alive ...'With Myrrhini taken, Slave heads off in pursuit through the wilderness. Keshik, meanwhile, has problems of his own to deal with, problems that could see him executed. the Revenants, now free, are moving through the world, following their own plans, seeking their own goals. Goals that involve the Scarred Man and the woman with him. But which Scarred Man? And who is the woman they seek? What do they want with her?Far away in her hidden city, the Blindfolded Queen is manipulating events to her own ends ... who or what will pay the price?A fabulous epic of deadly assassins, desperate journeys and the desire for vengeance ... Praise for Bevan McGuiness:'a fast-paced book with plenty of action, some great fight scenes and a nasty edge that makes it ideal for fans of David Gemmell and Joe Abercrombie' BOOKSELLER + PUBLISHER

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9780730497844

Bevan McGuiness

Bevan McGuiness lives near Perth with his wife and daughter. He has been writing for years and has published short stories, book reviews, a novel and pieces for texts on science education.

Book preview

1

The big cat stared unblinkingly over the snowdrift. Her red eyes narrowed as her prey lifted its head and sniffed the air nervously. It looked around, seeking the source of the unnerving scent. For a moment, the two pairs of eyes met — the brown of the prey and the blue-pupilled red of the hunter — before the rodent sprang away, evading the desperate lunge of the predator, who skidded to a halt in a spray of snow, yowling her frustration. She was a skilled, powerful hunter but her colouring was not suited to this wasteland of snow and wind. Her heavy black coat kept her warm, but together with her bright yellow mane and the similarly coloured crest running the length of her spine, it gave her little chance of stalking her prey effectively. More than once already she had been reduced to sating her hunger on the stinking human bodies left here by their fellows.

She longed for the heat, the humidity, the stillness of her natural habitat, but the rich forests of the south were far away and becoming more so with every passing day. A small whimper of hunger-driven pain escaped her throat. She raised her head to sniff the air. In this hateful wind the tang of ice blotted out most scents, leaving her feeling half lost. Beneath her feet, the snow crunched and each step brought a tiny stab of pain as ice and cold bit into her sensitive flesh.

Everything about this place was wrong. She hated being here, hated the cold, hated the wind, hated the snow, but more than anything, she hated why she was here. But that did not bear thinking about, so she wrenched her mind away and forced herself to focus.

The one scent that she could consistently taste beyond the ice was that of trees.

Trees running thick with sap.

Trees that would shelter her from the wind.

Trees that would keep snow from the ground.

Trees that would harbour prey she could stalk within their dim shadows.

Trees that kept drawing her north through this ice and wind.

They were getting close now. If she pressed on, she could reach their shelter by nightfall. So she pressed on, her big paws padding, her breath steaming, her stomach grumbling in complaint. She pressed on despite the aching need that gnawed at her gut, the need to turn south and bound towards …

The big cat shook her head and growled from her chest. Snow flew from her mane with the sudden movement and was quickly whipped away by the wind. She lowered her great head and kept moving.

Slowly, the scent of trees grew until she could almost taste their rich sap at the back of her throat. She risked raising her head to look and a yowl of pleasure sprang to her mouth. The dark line of vegetation was as unmistakeable as its smell. Summoning more of her rapidly diminishing store of energy, she urged herself into a run.

As she approached the line of trees, the wind started to drop, bringing with it the new scent of carrion. Not quite human, but close. There were a lot of dead bodies at the forest edge. She was choosy, normally reticent to eat such poor fare, but hunger made anything taste better. The humans had a saying, about hunger being a good sauce, but then again, the humans had a saying for everything.

Her pace abated when she crossed the tree line and entered the dim, still forest. Here, the scent of the long dead was thick, the air redolent with decay. Her stomach grumbled, half in anticipation, half in protest, but hunger won out over taste. She loped towards the first bodies.

They were scattered about a large, deep hole and bore the scars of julle. She sniffed at the ground. This had happened a while ago and the julle pack was long gone. One julle would not trouble her, but a full pack would bring her down easily. She had to be wary as she crossed the pack’s hunt home. They, unlike humans, would be immune to her various charms.

She ate her fill before lying down to rest. Her dreams were troubled and disturbing. Images of humans, of swords, of clothes and blood played through her unconscious, making her twitch and snarl as she slept. It was just before she awoke that the image of twin scars crossing a human face made Tatya’s blood run cold.

2

Myrrhini lay on the thin blanket, allowing the grief to wash over her. That many of those now dead had once humiliated and degraded her tempered her anguish somewhat, but there were some who lived at the Place who had treated her kindly. She heard Slave and Hinrik leave, but was in no mood to move herself. Their muttered conversation faded quickly in the wind, leaving her feeling as alone as she ever had. Wrapping the blanket around herself against the cold, she sat up and looked around.

Ever since leaving the comforts of the Place of the Acolytes, Myrrhini had been cold, hungry and afraid. Her need to find the Scarred Man of her vision had driven her south to this point, but now she was confused. How could this quiet, frightening man bring her peace? His terrifying fury at the slavers which led to so much death would stay in her memory as long as she lived. The sounds of his blades as they sliced into bodies, the smell of blood on the air, the sight of ruined bodies falling before him like leaves before a wind would haunt her dreams, she knew it.

The cold of the frozen earth seeped through the blanket, making her hug herself, trying to keep what warmth she still had. The endless plains stretched before her. Who could live in such a vile place? Unconsciously, her eyes sought out the two men as they walked away from her, seeking something to burn.

Hinrik. Even the name made her confused. How could anyone be such an utter bastard? She recalled his gentleness, his kindness. His hands as they caressed her willing body were sure and confident, bringing her such pleasure that she could still feel their touch. His lips on hers. The weight of him on her, so warming and so comforting. Surely not all of it had been a lie?

‘… like coupling with a lizard …’ That was what he had said. A lizard! Cold and fleshless, dead eyes and harsh skin. Myrrhini looked down at her hands — red and chapped with the cold, broken nails, healing wounds, scars that might never fade.

‘Bastard!’ she muttered aloud as she shoved her damaged hands back under her clothes. Coupling with a lizard! ‘Why did you escape? Why couldn’t you have died with the rest?’

Myrrhini pulled the blanket tighter around her, trying to keep the wind out, trying to keep some of her own warmth in. The two men were far enough away that she could not easily distinguish the one from the other. No matter how far away they were, they were both dangerous in their own way and she had to travel with them. How could she do that?

The sound of hoofbeats reached her ears. She stood and looked around. Six horses were galloping straight towards her. For a moment she simply waited, but as they came closer they showed no signs of slowing or turning aside. Fear nagged at her. Should she run? No. She could never outrun horses, and there was no place to hide. At least get a weapon. Quickly, she stooped and grabbed the knife she had taken from the soldier, which she tucked under her clothes. It was icy against her skin as she faced the oncoming horsemen.

They came at her. It was only at the last moment, as the lead rider leant over in his saddle, that she realised what was happening, but by then it was too late. He grabbed her around the body and heaved her up over his saddle.

She was slammed onto the horn of the saddle, driving the air from her lungs and leaving her almost crying from the pain. Her head crashed hard onto the side of the saddle while her legs flailed wildly. The rider slapped her firmly across the backside as he shouted something, but the pounding of the hooves and her own cries drowned out his words. He slapped her again and left his hand there as if to keep her in place as he drove his horse across the plain.

A loud scream sounded behind them, but she was unable to raise her head enough to see what had happened, and her abductor did not slow his speed so they left it to the wasteland. She quickly forgot it as the pain of her capture became unbearable. The saddle drove mercilessly into her chest and her head frequently hit the horse’s flank, leaving her dazed and bloody, tears of agony streaming from her eyes. With every stride, the metal-shod hooves sent shards of frozen ground spinning up, some of which struck her, leaving tiny cuts in her flesh and clothes.

They rode on, devouring the distance, leaving Slave and Hinrik behind.

Myrrhini was beyond exhausted, beyond agony, barely conscious when they reined in just after sunset. She slid off the horse, to be caught by its rider before she landed.

‘Like the ride?’ he asked cheerfully. When she did not answer, he laughed and carried her to where his colleagues had pitched a tent. Inside, he placed her on a thick fur and sat back on his heels to regard her.

‘You’re a delicate little thing, aren’t you?’ he murmured. ‘And those clothes are most inappropriate.’ He ran his hand down her chest, pausing at her breast. ‘I think we can find something better for you.’

He slipped his knife out of its sheath and started to slice through her dress, cutting downwards from her throat. When he reached her waist, he pulled the dress aside and stared at her chest.

‘Bit skinny, but I don’t mind that,’ he muttered. He reached out his hand to stroke her, but a sudden blast of cold air made him hesitate.

‘Hold fast, Agent!’ a voice barked.

Myrrhini groaned softly and made a feeble effort to pull her dress up to cover herself.

‘Outside!’ the same voice shouted.

The man withdrew, but only after fondling her breasts quickly.

‘Later,’ he whispered.

Myrrhini wrapped the thick, warm fur around her and closed her eyes. Every part of her ached and she felt nauseous from hunger and thirst. All she wanted to do was sleep and wake up to find this had all been a bad dream. But even sleep would not come. The sound of shouting from outside filtered in through the tent, past her veil of semi-consciousness and through her desire to sleep.

‘… the Blindfolded Queen! Do you want to explain to her in person what you were doing?’

The response was mumbled.

‘I did not hear you, Agent!’

‘No, sir,’ came the firm response.

‘You go near her again, look at her again, and you will face summary execution! Do you understand me, Agent?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now get out of my sight before I order you flogged.’

She fell asleep as soon as she heard footsteps walking away, only to be troubled by dreams. She was running, always running, fleeing from a hideous, faceless monster. She ran towards a silver flame that retreated from her as fast as she ran, never allowing her to make ground, always just out of reach. Rising from the silver flame was Slave, or someone like him. He rose like the sun, shining in the darkness, spreading peace, but also bringing chaos. Chains hung from his wrists while blood seeped from his fingers. His silver eye gleamed with its own light, somehow in conflict with the light Slave himself spread. Behind him hovered a black, threatening presence that reached out towards her. It was about to grasp her when a hand shook her shoulder.

‘Lady, we need to move on.’

Myrrhini opened her eyes to see a man kneeling beside her. He was wearing the uniform of the Agents of the Blindfolded Queen and had the tattoo of the crown high on his left cheek. Under his arm he held a helmet and at his side was a sheathed sword. His face was weather-beaten and his eyes suggested intelligence.

‘Why?’ she groaned.

‘We are in C’sobra on official business for the Queen and our orders are to return as soon as we have completed it. We are done, so we are going home.’

Myrrhini tried to sit up, but her chest was too sore. She gasped and lay back down.

‘I am not going anywhere,’ she said.

‘I have my orders, Lady,’ the Agent said. ‘And we are leaving this morning. I will send in some food and water for you and then we will leave.’ He rose as far as the tent would allow before leaving her alone again.

She examined her chest while waiting for the food. It was a mass of bruises from bouncing on the saddle, tender and purple. Her feet, hands and face were bloodied from the shards of ice kicked up by the horse’s hooves and her legs were also bruised. A heavy, warm-looking blue dress, boots, leggings and a fur hat had been left in the tent at some stage while she slept. They looked clean and would probably fit well enough, so she stripped off the dress the first Agent had cut and pulled them on, taking care to hide her knife in an accessible place beneath her dress. Just as she finished, the tent flap was pulled aside and another Agent ducked in carrying a bowl of something hot and steaming together with a waterskin and a spoon.

‘Itxtli says we are leaving soon, so if you could eat outside while we break camp,’ he said. He was young, but looked hardened and competent. Myrrhini accepted the bowl and the waterskin impassively. The Agent gave a small nod before leaving her alone again.

The food was hot and wholesome, if bland, but still the best she had eaten for a while. The water was icy cold and fresh. It all helped to make her feel a little better, almost ready to leave the tent and face the prospect of moving again. She took a deep breath and pushed aside the tent flap.

Outside was the bleak, windswept plain she had come to hate, under a dull, cloud-covered sky. Milling about preparing to leave were only ten men, maybe a few more, all dressed in the blue uniform of the Blindfolded Queen. One noticed she had left the tent and drew the attention of his commander, Itxtli. He walked towards her.

‘Lady,’ he said. ‘I am glad you are feeling better. Can you ride?’

Myrrhini looked down at the frozen ground. ‘A little,’ she said.

‘That will do for now.’ He turned and called to another Agent. ‘Yaotl! Bring Xihuitl’s horse for the Lady.’

The horse was a dappled grey mare with a dirty white mane. ‘Her name is Chicahua,’ Itxtli said. ‘It means strength, or power, in the old tongue. She is ugly, but she is loyal and strong. Your scarred friend killed her previous master, but perhaps she will bring you better luck.’

Myrrhini looked up at the horse with mistrust. Her few experiences with horses had not been entirely positive and she was nervous about spending so much time on one. Her apprehension must have been apparent to Itxtli, as he sighed.

‘We are riding out soon, Lady, and you are coming with us. I have tried to be polite and patient with you, but you are our captive and you will leave this place with us, either willingly on your own mount, or unwillingly. Make your choice.’ He spoke in a level, flat tone that carried the sense of authority and command. He was used to being obeyed, but was capable of taking action — violent action — were he thwarted.

‘I have no choice, then,’ Myrrhini said.

‘No,’ he corrected her. ‘You have a choice, not much of one, but a choice.’

Myrrhini gripped the saddle horn and lifted herself up into the saddle. Even that exertion hurt her bruised chest, but she was determined not to show how much. She sat straight in the saddle and looked down at Itxtli.

‘Which way are we going?’ she asked.

Itxtli pointed over his shoulder. ‘South.’

‘Why?’

‘I have already told you, Lady. We are under orders from the Blindfolded Queen.’

‘And how do those orders involve me?’

‘You were our task, Lady. We were sent to find you.’

‘Me? How did she know about me?’

‘If you are who we hope you are, she has known of you since the Great Schism.’

‘And if I am not?’

Itxtli shrugged. ‘That is for the Queen to decide, Lady.’

3

Keshik strained against the ropes. At the door, Alberrich stood watching as the six uniformed soldiers of the Blindfolded Queen untied Maida. She too wrestled against her captors, but the soldiers were obdurate. When she was cut loose, she tried to slash at one man with her nails, but he calmly slapped her hand away.

They grabbed her and dragged her to her feet. She screamed, spat, kicked, and tried to claw at them, but there were too many and they were too strong.

‘Keshik!’ she cried. ‘I am sorry!’

Keshik stopped struggling against his bonds and stared at her. Maida stared back for a moment, forgetting all else but his eyes, his face. He held her gaze before nodding slowly. His gesture said everything she needed to know. She lowered her eyes, no longer afraid. When the soldiers urged her towards the door, she went quietly. Alberrich held the door open for them and closed it quietly after they had left.

‘I almost regret handing her over. I think you two would provide endless entertainment were I to keep you together.’ He sighed softly. ‘Almost, but not enough to change anything,’ he went on. One misshapen hand slipped inside his robe and brought out a small leather bag. He tossed it lightly in his hand, listening to the jingle of coins. ‘It’s funny what drives some people,’ he mused. ‘Some live their lives between their legs. Others live by the heart, guided only by their various passions and lusts, while others, like me, live by other, more tangible motives.’ He looked away from the money to stare at Keshik. ‘What are you, I wonder?’

‘I will not forget you,’ Keshik hissed.

‘I have my answer, then. You seek revenge, restitution. Always you hunger for settling scores, for making amends.’ Alberrich put the money back inside his robe. ‘I myself put aside such childish notions long ago. Now I live for comfort.’

‘And power.’

Alberrich’s misshapen face shifted into a semblance of a smile. ‘What supplies more comfort than power over one’s enemies?’ He turned towards the door. He grasped the handle, and spoke without turning. ‘Relax, Swordsman, the Readers will not be long. Enjoy the time you have. I do not think they will be gentle with you.’

‘I will not forget you,’ Keshik repeated.

‘I would hope not,’ Alberrich said. He opened the door and stepped out. ‘But if you ever come back to do me harm, you will die in the attempt.’

Keshik laughed. ‘Do you think that will concern me?’

Alberrich turned back quickly. His eyes narrowed as he regarded Keshik. Their gazes locked, holding them both motionless. Finally, Alberrich broke away. ‘No, I don’t think it will.’

‘I will kill you,’ Keshik spat. ‘I will find you and I will carve your face into something even you would not recognise. I will open your foul body and feast on your beating heart. I will —’ The door slammed and, in the sudden darkness, Keshik stopped shouting and smiled thinly. Despite being unarmed and tied to a slab, he had managed to unnerve his captor. It might not mean anything now, it might never affect anything, but it was a victory of sorts. If they ever met again, this moment of fear might be the distraction that changed the outcome.

He listened to the muffled conversations from outside, trying to free himself from the ropes, but the heavy door slammed open again before he could make any headway with the knots.

Three armed men stood silhouetted in the doorway.

‘Don’t look much, do he?’ one sneered.

‘Nah, probably the wrong one,’ said another.

‘Who cares? Thems up at the Ruthia want a death,’ muttered the third. ‘This one will do for them.’

‘Yar, they want a death,’ the first man agreed. He looked at Keshik and smiled. ‘And you can do that, can’t you, little man?’

Keshik did not reply. There was nothing he could do until he was untied and the sooner that happened, the sooner Alberrich would pay. He glared at the men as they approached. He was expecting them to untie him, making the mistake that three men would be enough to cow any one man into submission, but they were experienced and skilled.

His right hand was firmly held down before the rope was cut and it was tied to his left hand before that hand was loosed. When his legs were freed, he was heaved off the slab and dragged out of the room. By the time the blood had returned to his feet and the strength to his legs, he was well away from the cell, and his swords.

He heard other voices, muffled conversations, snatches of sound but nothing that made any sense, nothing that gave him any clue about where Maida had been taken. The guards dragged him quickly along dark corridors, past black openings, through an underground world whose denizens dwelt there from choice. From the shadows leered dirty faces filled with anger, fear, loathing and secrets. Harsh sounds trickled around the walls, bringing snatches of words, hinting at events occurring within the shadows, bringing the claustrophobic sense of life beneath ground, away from light, safe from prying eyes.

Keshik breathed deeply, trying to bring his tangled mind under control. He needed the peace, the calm of Tulugma, the discipline of the master if he were to avoid dying here in this stinking world of the half-seen, the half-heard, the small, the petty viciousness of the scavenger. He closed his eyes and called on the dofain, the litany of control, his personal guardian against despair:

‘I will see the skies, I will taste the cold, I will raise arms against my enemies, they will die with their blood on my blades, I will taste the cold air of the Seven Wastes. I will overcome.’

As always, the ancient words of Tulugma brought calm. Keshik felt his heart slow, his breathing came back under his control, his eyes focused. His legs obeyed and once more he was walking, no longer dragging.

‘Oh ho, it wakes,’ the man on his right said.

Keshik snarled and spat in the man’s face. ‘You will die,’ he hissed.

The man smiled. ‘Yar, we all die, Scarred Man. We all die.’

‘Not all of us look into the eyes of our deaths,’ Keshik said, pitching his voice only for him.

‘You speak big for a dying man,’ the guard replied.

‘So do you,’ Keshik said.

The guard leading the way turned and gave Keshik a stinging blow across the head.

‘Shut it, dead man,’ he said. There was no malice, no threat in his tone; he spoke as one would to a friend. ‘The Readers want you alive, but undamaged was not mentioned. You will die just as well with only one arm, or no tongue, or no eyes.’

Keshik shook his head to clear it from the blow. He gave the guard who had struck him a glare, but subsided into silence. He needed to plan, to observe, if he were to escape.

‘Better, dead man,’ the lead guard said.

They resumed their passage through the dank tunnels of Alberrich and his noisome allies.

Now that he was alert, Keshik was able to listen and observe more clearly. The hate, the violence, the frustrated viciousness was not directed at him. It was his captors who elicited the stares and snarls of those who dwelt here. Were he to escape, he might be able to count on their aid.

Even as he thought it, the guards started climbing stairs. Light seeped down, bringing with it new scents, different sounds from a different world. Keshik struggled against the restraining hands, but another hard blow to the head made him stagger, dazed. By the time his head cleared, he had been dragged out through a door and into the sunlight. For a moment, the brilliant light dazzled his eyes, making him blink in pain before he was dragged across the ground and thrown bodily onto a cart. One of the soldiers climbed up to take the reins while the other two sat beside him.

‘Don’t be thinking none, dead man,’ one soldier said.

‘Yar, them Readers get right cranky if they don’t get what they want,’ added the other with a grin.

Keshik said nothing, he just lay still, working his wrists, trying to loosen his bonds, wrists strengthened by Crossings of wielding swords. The ropes were sloppily tied. With time, he might succeed.

Overhead, the sky was grey. A wind carrying the scent of ice whipped dust and grit into the air, stinging skin and eyes. The soldiers sat on the raised benches on either side of the cart, resting their feet on Keshik, not watching him. He closed his eyes and worked faster on the ropes, feeling some loosening.

‘I will overcome,’ he whispered.

While he worked at the bindings on his wrists, the cart moved quickly through the streets of Leserlang. Around him, the sounds of a city going about its business were loud and as unconcerned with his passage as he was with their lives. The cart slowed and came to a stop.

‘Wanted criminal to face the Readers’ Tribunal,’ the driver said.

‘They are waiting for you,’ came the reply and the cart jerked into motion once more. A gate opened then closed behind them. The noises faded, to be replaced with a low murmuring. Keshik paid little attention to the voices while he continued to work. His wrists were almost free when a sword rested lightly on his throat.

‘You’re good, dead man,’ a soldier said. ‘But so are we.’

Keshik opened his eyes to look up along the blade at the man holding the sword. Past its hilt, the soldier shook his head slowly.

‘Even if you get the rope off, you are within the Ruthia. There is no escape now.’

Keshik spat and ceased his attempt to free his hands.

‘Wise move. It would be a shame to die without hands,’ the soldier said.

The cart came to a stop again and the two soldiers grabbed Keshik by the arms. They heaved him onto his feet and dragged him down onto the ground. Keeping him firmly held, they marched him towards a large, dark building.

The Ruthia was a walled town within a city. Like Leserlang itself, it was ugly and grey. Directly ahead of him was a three-storeyed building, on either side were other, smaller buildings ringing a paved area that might have once been a town square. Several robed figures stopped to watch him pass. He heard muttered words but ignored them, his attention fixed on the guarded door ahead.

He was stopped at the door while the lead soldier spoke to the armed guards.

‘This him?’ one guard asked.

‘Yar.’

‘Don’t look much.’

‘Nar. But he’s the one.’

The guard grunted. ‘Well, he’ll have to wait.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the closed door. ‘Them inside’s busy right now. Take him downstairs. Leave him there for a while. They’ll get to him when they’re good and ready.’

4

The moment the door closed, Maida stamped down hard on the foot of the nearest Agent. He grunted and slapped her across the face. She pulled her head back and when his hand went past, she slammed it forward, catching him a savage blow on the nose. He reeled back, letting go of her as he tried to staunch the blood spurting from his broken nose. Maida took her chance and lashed out with her foot, aiming as hard a kick as she could muster into the groin of one of the others. It landed, but he was armoured and her cry of pain mingled with the metallic clang of her foot slamming into his metal codpiece. Another Agent drew back his fist and punched her hard in the face. She gave a single cry and the world went black.

‘Tough little slag.’

There was a chuckle. ‘Tell that to Tochtli. His nose looks like a horse stepped on it.’

Both men laughed: a harsh, brutal sound filled with malice. Maida remained still, keeping her eyes closed as she tried to work out where she was and what her circumstances were.

She was outside again. The sun was hot on her face and no wind stirred her hair. She was lying down, on her back, in some sort of wagon. The horses pulling it, from the sound of their steady, powerful stride, were still fresh. The smell of the air suggested she was no longer in a city. Her stomach growled from hunger and her bladder was full. She had been out for most of the day, but these horses had not been pulling this wagon for all that time. Other scents came to her — the men had not washed for a while, they had eaten recently, and had had ale with their meal. A mistake.

Her hands were not restrained, but her feet were. The wagon jolted as it hit a bump in the road. The rattle of metal told her she was not tied, but shackled, hence her hands being free. If she were simply tied, she could have untied herself, but being shackled suggested a lock. The Agents were not worried about her being able to pick the lock.

Another mistake.

She opened her eyes just a slit. There were three Agents sitting beside her, one on her left, two to her right. They were dressed in the uniform of the Blindfolded Queen and armed. The one on her left was talking to one of those on her right, while the remaining Agent was staring at her with a hard, unblinking gaze. He had seen her eyes open and gave her a slow nod to let her know she had been seen.

This one would be trouble.

‘Hey,’ the watchful Agent said. ‘The Queen is watching.’

The two men stopped laughing immediately and fixed their attention on Maida, who closed her eyes quickly.

‘She’s still out. I hit her good. She’ll be out for ages yet.’

I know your voice now. I owe you for that punch.

‘She’s awake.’ A boot nudged her in the ribs. ‘Aren’t you, Red?’

Maida toyed with the idea of answering him in the negative, but reasoned that a sense of humour would be unlikely in these men, so she opened her eyes to regard her captors.

‘Tough little slag, aren’t you?’ the man who had punched her said again, with a vicious grin. ‘I thought you’d be out for ages yet.’

‘How’s Tochtli’s nose?’ she asked.

‘Broken,’ the watchful Agent said. His flat monotone carried both command and menace. He was clearly the ranking officer here.

‘Good,’ Maida said. She fixed her gaze on the man who had hit her. ‘You hit like a girl,’ she said.

‘Just as well for you, Red,’ he sneered.

‘Shut it,’ the senior man said. ‘She’s a guest of the Queen, and you know she is watching.’

The other Agents lowered their heads and touched their tattoos, as if in fear, or awe, or something else entirely. There was a lot here to learn, and it would take Maida a while to get away.

May as well learn as much as I can while I am here.

She tried to sit up, but the senior Agent pushed her back down again. His touch was firm, but not unnecessarily harsh; it was also carefully on her shoulder purely to hold her down, not to grope or caress. She acquiesced, trying to catch his eye, but he did not make eye contact.

You really are going to be a problem.

Maida settled back down onto the floor of the wagon and tried to make herself comfortable. The wagon was a simple one, uncovered and drawn by two horses. Rough planking formed the floor and the raised benches that ran the length of each side. Overhead, the sun was hot and the sky was clear, with promise of more heat yet to come. She was dressed for the north and the further south they went, the more uncomfortable she would become. Sweat was trickling down her face and forming on her skin under her clothes. She was hungry and thirsty and, unless she had the chance to relieve herself soon, she would embarrass them all.

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘How about some food and water? And a chance to take a piss?’

The last brought a laugh, and an order to stop. She was dragged to her feet and held tightly while the soldier who had punched her unchained her feet. The chance was too good to pass on, so as soon as her feet were free, she quickly lashed out and landed a solid kick to the side of his face. He staggered back, overbalanced and fell out of the wagon to land hard on the ground.

‘I owed you that,’ Maida said quickly.

The other two Agents and the wagon driver laughed at their companion’s discomfort and before he could clamber back into the wagon, murder on his soon-to-be-bruised face, his superior raised a cautionary hand.

‘She is right, Opochtli,’ he said. ‘Call it even and leave it.’

Opochtli glared at Maida, but the murder faded from his face as he climbed in.

‘Call it even, then, Huitzilin,’ he said. ‘But don’t push it, Red,’ he added to Maida.

‘Or you will do what? Glare at me? Pull faces? Your watching queen will be so impressed.’

She did not know what sort of response she was expecting, but what she received was a shock. Opochtli’s face went white as he lowered his head and touched the tattoo on his cheek. Huitzilin’s grip on her arm wavered and the other soldier actually dropped to his knees in what she could only describe as fear, as he too touched the tattoo on his cheek.

Now that’s interesting.

Before she could take advantage of the sudden lack of attention on her, Huitzilin recovered and gripped her arm tightly, giving it a little shake.

‘Be careful, Red, how you use the Queen’s name. Some will take offence, and be aware, she does watch. There is no exaggeration or myth there.’

Maida gave a quick raising of her eyebrows. ‘Can I take a piss now?’

‘Come on, then, Red,’ Huitzilin said, pushing her towards the back of the wagon.

‘What? Are you coming with me?’

‘How stupid do you think I am, Red? You really think I am going to let you walk away into the bush alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Modesty is overrated. Let’s go.’

He jumped lightly off the back of the wagon and dragged her down with him.

Now that she was out of the wagon, Maida took a look around. They had not travelled south through the arid plains, rather they had moved more east, into a lightly wooded area. There were some