C J Cherryh – Morgaine 02 – Well Of Shiuan

She will finish it, Roh had prophesied of her, end all hope for them. That is what she has come to do.

CHAPTER Eleven

In the lord’s hall too there was chaos, bodies lying where they had fallen. Even the white dog was dead by the hearth, in a pool of blood that stained the carpets and the stones, and flowed to mingle with that of its master and mistress. A knot of servants huddled in the corner for protection, kneeling.

And in the other corner men were gathered, rough and ragged folk, who held prisoner three of the house guard, white-haired halflings, stripped of their masking helms, bound, and surrounded by peasant weapons.

Vanye stopped, seeing that, and the sudden warmth of the fire hit him, making breath difficult; he caught for balance against the door frame as Morgaine strode within the room and looked about

“Get the dead out of the hold,” she said to the ragged men who awaited her orders. “Dispose of them. Is their lord among them?”

The eldest man made a helpless gesture. “No knowing,” he said, in an accent difficult to penetrate.

“Liyo,” Vanye offered, from the doorway, “a man named Kithan is in charge of Ohtij-in, Hetharu’s brother. I know him by sight.”

“Stay by me,” she ordered curtly; and to the others: “Make search for him. Save all writings, wherever found, and bring them to me.”

“Aye,” said one of that company at whom she looked.

“What of the rest?” asked the eldest, a stooped and fragile man. “What of the other things? Be there else, lady?”

Morgaine frowned and looked about her, a warlike and evil figure amid their poor leather and rags; she looked on prisoners, on dead men, at the small rough-clad folk who depended on her for orders in this tumult, and shrugged. “What matter to me?” she asked. “What you do here is your own affair, only so it does not cross me. A guard at our door, servants to attend us—” Her eyes swept to the comer where the house servants cowered, marked men in brown livery who had served the qujal. “Those three will suffice. And Haz, give me three of your sons for guards at my quarters, and no more will I ask of you tonight.”

“Aye,” said the old man, bowed in awkward imitation of a lord’s courtesy; he gestured to certain of the young men— small folk, all of them, who approached Morgaine with lowered eyes, the tallest of them only as high as her shoulder, but broad, powerful young men, for all that

Marshlanders, Vanye reckoned them: men of Aren. They spoke among themselves in a language he could not comprehend: men, but not of any kind that his land had known, small and furtive and, he suddenly suspected, without any law common to men that he knew. They were many, swarming the corridors, wreaking havoc; they had failed deliberately to find him for Morgaine—and yet she came back among them as if she utterly trusted them. He became conscious that he was not armed, that he, who guarded her back, had no weapon, and their lives were in the hands of these small, elusive men, who could speak secrets among themselves.

A body brushed past, taller than the others, black-robed; Vanye recoiled in surprise, then recognized the priest, who was making for Morgaine. In panic he moved and seized the priest, jerked at the robes, thrust him sprawling to the floor.

Morgaine looked down on the balding, white-haired priest, whose lean face was rigid with terror, who shook and trembled in Vanye’s grip. In a sudden access of panic as Morgaine stepped closer, the priest sought to rise, perhaps to run, but Vanye held him firmly.

“Banish him to the court,” Vanye said, remembering how this same priest had lured him into Ohtij-in, promising safety; how this priest had stood at Bydarra’s elbow. “Let him try his fortunes out there, among men.”

“What is your name?” Morgaine asked of the priest.

“Ginun,” the slight halfling breathed. He twisted to look up at Vanye, dark-eyed, an aging man—and perhaps more man than qujal. Fear trembled on his lips. “Great lord, many would have helped you, many, many—I would have helped you. Our lords were mistaken.”

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