Western Watch (3rd Draft)

Chapter 1

"I don't like it," says Merreth. She glances at the items on her father's desk, blotter, paperweight, inkwell, quill pen. All arrayed with geometric precision, just as if he'd left them the very last time he'd departed his cozy study. A side table holds a small oil lamp, wick turned so low its dull orange glow does little to banish the shadows.

Merreth works short tight gloves over her fingers. They are fashioned from black leather, as are her boots, breeches, and riding vest. A coiled, ten-foot whip hangs from her belt. A dirk's hilt protrudes from the top of her right boot. The gloom darkens her light olive skin and turns her wavy, mahogany-coloured hair black.

"You don't have to like it, and there's not much choice," says her sister, Ammantha.

A distant clock strikes the quarter hour. "The footmen will be doing their rounds soon. We should be about things."

"I know when they make their rounds," says Merreth. "I used to try to sneak up on them when I was a child, remember?"

"Yes," says Ammantha, frowning, "I do. Everyone worried about you. Ten years old and running around in the dead of night. If you'd hurt yourself with your silly wooden sword, the footmen would have paid for it." Ammantha is High Mistress of Sable House, Protector of the Temple Way, Guardian of Sable Province, and sworn vassal of the Wechtan Matriarch. Her skin is pale, her face heart-shaped, her eyes blue. She is svelte and graceful in her tunic, flowing skirt, and knee-length boots. Her ash-blonde hair is red-brown in the soft orange lamp light.

Ammantha is procedure, protocol, and ceremony. Though not apparent from appearances, she is also Merreth's twin sister, older by a half-dozen heartbeats. She always makes Merreth feel gangly and awkward.

"Father didn't seem to mind," says Merreth.

"Father is dead, and mother did mind," says Ammantha. "Mother's dead as well.

Merreth swallows to get rid of the lump in her throat.

"Bboth would want us to do what," Ammantha hesitates, her lips pressed into a thin line. "what has to be done now to keep our House safe. To keep you safe."

Merreth winces. House first, me second. "Then let's do that." Her voice is edged, raw, and harsh.

Her anger is misplaced, but she needs it. The alternative is a ink-black pit, with her fears baying and snapping at her from the bottom. "You can end this farce with a single letter to the Whip. Most loyal to the Matriarch. That's us, that's our House, thanks to mother, and her mother before her. Now you're High Mistress, Ammantha. That loyalty must count for something!" Pleasant memories of playing hide and seek with the footmen have rotted into an image of her hands bound to her saddle pommel, her mount surrounded by Red Hand House guards. Vicious thugs.

"A letter will not end this, Merreth," Ammantha snaps. "The Matriarch will have to consider the charge and the evidence provided by the Red Hand and, for the love of the Goddess, by you. The blood," Ammantha whispers, "you said the blood was up to your elbows, your arms soaked in it!"

Merreth squeezes her eyes shut, her heart hammers at her ribs like a caged hare desperate to escape. She opens them after a moment and stares at her sister. "I told you I don't remember what happened. It wasn't real, it was a nightmare," she whispers. But she does remember, at least some of it.

She'd struggled into a sitting position and shook her head to clear the groggy, gauzy feeling. Her hands felt wet. She studied them, blinking until her four arms merged back into two and steadied. They were slick with deep-red blood. She held her hands up and watched in fascination as it had rolled down her arms, slid off her elbows, drip by drip, and been swallowed by the greedy carpet. An excited, coppery taste flooded her mouth. Bayllos lay on the bed in front of her, his face up, mouth open. Her eyes widened at the row of small, jagged, bloody-white sticks poking up from his chest and her body tingled at the sight. Then her screams had filled up the room.