Crusader. Novel by Sara Douglass

“The footman. Pete.”

“Oh.” The girl’s hand was very bold, and Raspu supposed he should say or do something about it,

but…

“It’s only you I care about,” the girl whispered, and now somehow her blouse had fallen open, and

Raspu found that one of his hands was kneading at her breast.

“You’re so strong,” she whispered, “and so powerful. You’ve given everyone such a scare.”

She thrust her breast more firmly against his hand and Raspu groaned.

“I do like a man with authority,” she said, and shivered enticingly as she tilted her head back and

closed her eyes.

That was enough for Raspu. Tearing away his butler’s stiff black coat and grey-striped trousers, he

threw her to the floor and took her there and then.

If she wanted authority, then who was he to deny it to her?

Deep in her watchful seclusion, Gwendylyr grinned. He was almost lost. There remained only

one more small test.

“Y’see,” the footman said, “there’s no reason why we shouldn’t do it, is there?”

His voice was very persuasive, and Raspu looked about at the rest of the staff gathered together in

the kitchen.

The maid he’d enjoyed — several times — the previous night, ran a tip of pink tongue over her

lower lip, and one of her hands crept caressingly over her belly.

“It’s only a packet or two here and there,” the footman continued. “The mistress’ll never miss it.”

“And it’s not like we don’t deserve it,” another footman said.

“What with the wages we get, and all,” said the cook.

“I know you don’t get paid much —” a small, red-haired maid to one side began, and Raspu stared

at her. He’d never thought about how much he got paid. Was it not good enough for him?

“— and yet we all know how hard you work,” she continued.

Raspu nodded. Yes, he did work hard, didn’t he?

“At all those accounting books,” the cook said, and Raspu wondered that he’d never previously

noticed the pleasantness of her voice.

“I mean,” said the cook, “what thanks do you get for keeping all those numbers ordered and neat?”

That’s right! Raspu thought. No-one has ever thanked me for all the work I’ve put in.

“Just a can here and there,” said a gardener, poking his head in the open window. “For me kids,

y’understand. No-one else.”

Of course. Of course.

“Just a can here and there,” the cook whispered, and Raspu nodded.

“Just here and there,” he said.

Gwendylyr stood before the closed brown door to the kitchen. She tucked a stray hair neatly behind her

ear, then took a deep breath. She opened the door and walked in.

Raspu jerked out of his doze and leapt to his feet.

A cat, which had been curled up beside his head on the table, yowled, and fled out the door to the

garden.

The cook was lying in an alcoholic coma to one side of the kitchen, an empty brandy bottle in her

hand, and the remains of a meat pie crumbled across her ample bosoms.

She’d vomited a while before, and the horrid stuff lay crusted on her chin and neck.

One of the maids had pulled her blouse open to allow a footman to lick and suck at her

breasts, while two other footmen were packing sacks full of food and assorted packets and handing

them out the window to one of the gardeners who put them in a cart.

Three footmen were once more engaged in a game of poker at a small table in the farthest reaches of

the kitchen.

A thin-ribbed hound was humping a grunting bitch in the cold room, while several rats

chewed on a joint of meat lying on the floor.

Dust and grime and trails of fat lay everywhere.

Raspu’s uniform was creased and stained and his hair wild.

Gwendylyr stood, as if transfixed by the mess and sloth, and then she half gasped, half sobbed, and

began to cry, slapping her hands to her face in theatrical despair.

Raspu reddened, and then cursed as he realised the blaze spreading across his cheeks.

Gwendylyr managed to control her weeping, and she turned her face to Raspu. “I am so sad,

Demon. I thought you were strong enough to govern my household but —”

“No, wait!” Raspu cried, and stepped over to the cook, landing a foot in her ribs. “Wake

up, you drunken sot! There’s a meal to prepare! You! Get back to work!”

He made a grab at the footman nuzzling against the maid’s breast, but the man rolled to one side, and

Raspu’s hand slapped harmlessly against a barrel.

“Be still,” said Gwendylyr. “It is too late. You have made your —”

“No!” Raspu screamed turning back to her. “Wait! I can still redeem myself! I can —”

“Ah,” Gwendylyr said, “now that would be difficult. How can any man redeem himself who

cannot even keep a kitchen in order?”

Gwendylyr waved her hand around at the mess. “Look at this! You allowed yourself to

embrace laziness and corruption, you allowed yourself to —”

“Give me another chance.”

“No.”

“I know I will manage next time — just give me the chance!”

Gwendylyr stared at the Demon, still red-faced, although now from fear. “No. You have failed the

challenge. You could not govern this household, and thus you have lost the right to govern yourself.”

“No!”

“Yes. Self-determination is no longer yours, Raspu —”

He stretched out a hand, his face twisted in pleading, but already he could feel the bonds encircling

his being.

He was no longer free.

“— and thus you must accept an eternity of servitude.”

“No,” he whispered.

,

“Servitude is the price of your failure,” Gwendylyr said, no sympathy in her voice at all. “What a pity

you would not listen to me when I tried to tell you that.”

Raspu crouched close to the floor, whimpering.

Gwendylyr stared at Raspu briefly, then twisted her fingers amid his hair and hauled him to his feet.

“Be silent, and accept your servitude. Your position has already been chosen for you —”

Raspu stared at her. To what slavery would he be put?

Gwendylyr smiled, and as she did so Raspu’s face lightened in hope.

“The Field of Flowers,” she said, “requires a man for the door.”

And she snapped her fingers.

Far, far away, sitting at her table before the Gate of Death, the haggard crone looked up, her fists

clenched.

“I’ve been made redundant?” she said. “Me?”

Chapter 50

The Memories of the Enemy

SpikeFeather had jumped at the chance to escort Azhure and Katie into the waterways, and had

only been mildly surprised when the two ice sisters had said they’d come along as well. The

only wonder was that Urbeth had not seemed to mind, saying only that the threat to the column

had now receded, and it would do her daughters good to see the waterways.

And so now here they were, trudging through ice and snow. SpikeFeather had not known of any

entrance to the waterways in the frozen northern tundra, but Urbeth’s daughters had merely smiled

secretively to one another, and led the small group towards the coast.

It was freezing away from the protection of the trees, and while the ice women were apparently

unaffected, SpikeFeather, Azhure and Katie had to huddle close, sharing their cloaks and their warmth,

in order to survive.

Azhure was deeply unsettled. It had been a generation at least since she’d been

separated from Axis. And had she ever been separated from him without the use of

power, or the comfort of Alaunt and Wolven at her side? Now she had the responsibility of Katie —

Azhure would sooner have died than to let Faraday down — and nothing with which to guarantee the

girl’s survival.

Nothing.

Not even a dagger.

What was I thinking of, she thought, to have walked away without even a knife?

In fact, they had nothing with them save a small bag with enough food for a day in it. Nothing but

SpikeFeather’s assurance they’d find something in the waterways, and nothing but the confidence of the

two ice women in finding an entrance down to the Underworld in the first instance.

As they stumbled forwards, eyes narrowed against the icy wind, numb hands clutching the edges of

the cloaks about them, Azhure glanced down at Katie.

The girl was subdued — but then who wouldn’t be under these circumstances? Otherwise

she seemed well enough, her cheeks coloured despite the cold (or perhaps because of it), and she lifted

her eyes and smiled sweetly enough at Azhure when she realised the woman’s regard.

Azhure nodded at the girl, and swung her eyes forward to where the two ice women strode

straight-backed through the wind, heedless of the cold. Their grey and silver hair streamed and

snapped out behind them, and every so often one of them would lift a bare, white-skinned arm and swing