Havoc's Daughters

Chapter 11 - Day 2 (mid-day): Blade (part I) - seduction

Havoc slept. 

Diannah, at his side, stripped the green blades of rushes into threads and twisted them into twine. Blade thought it was mostly to keep her hands busy, but it also gave her an excuse not to look up except for frequent glances at her father. Blade had twisting rope, a time or two. It was tedious, and the more narrow the strand the faster one’s hands tended to tire and cramp. Yet she kept at it for most of fourth watch, pausing only to strip more leaves for their fibers. Her hands, he noticed, were callused. 

How intriguing.

He was being less than subtle in his fascination, but what was the point in pretending he wasn’t watching? That she had not looked at him even once was proof enough she was keenly aware of his attention. Short, abrupt motions as she worked made her annoyance plain. He kept his mouth shut, but eventually her irritation boiled over.

 “Oh, I hope you get well!” spat the Duchess Setigera, through clenched teeth. “Get well, so you can get out of here!”

Blande’s armpit tingled. In moments his skin crawled as if covered with insects, and the wound itched fiercely. 

“That’s the right idea,” Margrave Pereger commented, eyes still closed, “but it’s scarcely the right spirit.” He opened his eyes. As they focused on his daughter, his brows drew together. “What is that for?” 

“There are too many hands for the work that needs doing,” she growled in frustration, “and they seem to think I should be above getting my hands dirty. But there’s always need for rope.” She gave Blade a significant look.

“Ever industrious,” Havoc smiled, his eyes closing again. “I’ve been a most fortunate father.” 

…’Been’?

Diannah caught the past tense, too, and was alarmed enough to share a look with Blade. 

Finally, an accord. Hardly the sentiment he would have hoped to share with her, but a start.

She poked her father in the ribs with an elbow, her hands being occupied. “You will be well,” she informed him. It sounded more like a command.

“Very well,” he agreed, but didn’t open his eyes.

An old woman came around with a pitcher, pouring a carefully measured amount of bitter willow tisane for each patient. The idea of appearing more helpless than necessary in front of Diannah was more distressing then the discomfort of his wound, so Blade declined politely when she came for his mug. Each individual in the ward had a cup of some sort, which seemed extravagant, but no doubt Caidrin had her reasons. He listened to a song of lost love, and tried to ignore the ache under his arm and a growing thirst. 

Diannah worked silently until she ran out of reeds. Then she rolled the yards of twine, using a stick as a spindle, kissed her father lightly on the cheek and rose. Before leaving, though, she finally looked down at Blade and smiled insincerely. “Get well, Prince,” she said, her tone dripping sweetness.

Bleah! Blade’s mouth tasted of honey, of heavy sweet cream and over-ripe peaches. His gorge rose; a dangerous condition when rolling on his side was still a struggle. 

Diannah bared her teeth at him, and left. 

Havoc chuckled, and offered Blade the pitcher of cold water dear Cousin Caidrin had conveniently placed by the Margrave’s pallet…just out of Blade’s reach.

Rather than roll on his side, Blade tightened his stomach and sat upright, crossing his legs. His head didn’t spin; a pleasant surprise. He filled his mug, waiving assistance though an aid came running, then rinsed his mouth and drank. 

“He’s not in the habit of making extra work for others, and is habitually polite to his social inferiors. A good sign in a prince,” observed Pereger.

Blade blessed the deep tan complection he’d inherited from his Mydicean mother and hoped his blush didn’t show. He filled the mug and drank again, suddenly ravenous. “Haven’t been royal all that long, have I?” he admitted when he paused for breath. “You know that.” Last time they’d met, Blade had been only the Lord Marshal’s bastard, and curious as to who the stranger was casually conversing with the Roenish officer Father kept chained in the dining hall.

“Many would feel they had something to prove, after such a promotion. It speaks well that you did not.” 

Blade set the empty pitcher near his feet, from whence it was quickly whisked away to be refilled. “Oh, I might have done,” Blade admitted. “But then Uncle Henders would frown. I never liked people who acted like that anyway, and decided I didn’t want to be one of them.” Besides which, it gave too much power to those who would slight him. 

Like Father.

“A wise choice of role model,” Pereger approved. “The sergeant’s reputation is known, in Roen.”

Blade set down his emply cup and lay back on his mat, tired again already. He watched as Caidrin’s cat, striped black over tawny with silver highlights, prowled between the rows of mats. It paused periodically to sniff the patients, but avoided reaching hands. The margrave sucked his teeth, twice, making a clicking noise such as Blade would to signal his horse. The cat froze, its tail en pointe. 

“Lord Fsssk, here, was one of Lania’s foundlings,” Havoc murmured, fluttering his fingers at the feline. “He was starving; the scarred nose, tattered ear and missing tooth recent and infected. Lania sent him to your cousin. She said they needed one-another.”

The cat stalked slowly, cautiously forward, only to settle out of reach, watching. 

“We didn’t take anyone captive,” Blade blurted. “If Lania wasn’t among the fallen, then she got away. Surely she would have continued on into Roen to meet the army as you originally planned?”

“Likely,” Havoc agreed, thoughtfully. “That being the case, I have no doubt she’ll succeed.”

 The cat, still out of reach, crept close enough to sniff the margrave’s fingertip. In itself,  this was a surprise. The beast was famously standoffish, and Blade had never seen it get that close to anyone but his cousin.

‘Fisk’ was the term for a lord’s most loyal retainer and the third of the three face cards in a suite of a gaming deck. That his cousin’s most loyal retainer was a cat was…pitiful. Except that Blade couldn’t claim to have such a one, himself. 

Blade thought of Steel, injured, possibly crippled, by Young Havoc days before. No one had mentioned the lieutenant, and he hadn’t dared ask. For one, the news was likely bad. For another, if Father ever learned you valued something – or someone – he’d use it against you. And his ears were everywhere.

Young Havoc was the only one of the twins to have been sighted during guerilla strikes on the Cumberan forces. But oddly, among the general populace it was the Rose who was rumored to have made the simple process of invasion about as comfortable as a rash of nettles on a hot summer day. She got credited with anything from burning the bridge to seeding the fords with caltrops of clay and sharpened twigs – which she’d had fired in a kiln so they held together in water. Blade didn’t think it fair, but listening to the tales of the Mirze-folk it was as if the brother didn’t even exist.

The twins, ‘the Rebel Rose’ and her brother ‘Young Havoc’ were fosterlings. Some claimed they were Havoc’s bastards, despite his famously abstemious habits. But grey eyes were most often an Alzarin or Baxter trait, and Cumberan Mirze-side was traditionally the possession of Cumbera’s heir. Of course, pale-eyed peasants of any stripe had been weeded out during the decades of the Red Duke’s reign, but Blade knew for a fact that some had attempted escape to Roenish Mirze-side.

By now Pereger was rubbing the cat under the jaw. Purring, the beast crept forward, up onto the margrave’s hip and thence to tread his abdomen. 

“Oof!” Havoc winced. “Truly I am honored, Lord Fssk. But could you shift off my bruises, please? There.” He and the cat exchanged breaths, as the feline settled contentedly on his chest. 

Purring loudly, the cat closed its eyes. 

Pereger did, too – minus the purr.

Blade looked on in disbelief.