began some time after this, impressions filtering into her mind so softly she was not aware of the transition until she seemed to open her eyes on a scene lit by flaring pine torches. Thirty men, arms bound, knelt before her on the sandy floor of a large cave open to the forest. Twice that number of men-at-arms guarded them. One man, apparently the leader of the captives, was protesting vehemently.
“There was no High Born, only those eight over there.” He nodded toward eight peasant women with torn clothes and bruised faces huddling together.
“I heard her. So did he.” It was the sergeant, although Rachael couldn’t see him, just an arm pointing at one of the men-at-arms.
“There was no High Born,” the captive repeated stubbornly, but Rachael sensed he was lying.
“Hang them.” The sergeant’s order sounded harsh, his tone remorseless. “We’re wasting time here.”
“Thank you.” The captive seemed relieved. “My boy first. He’s afraid.” His chin indicated another captive, a youth in his late teens.
Rachael felt the sergeant’s nod, and then she seemed to sense his thought. It was softer, almost ruminative, Damn it, Red. You’ve slipped through my fingers again, and the scene shifted to the charcoal burner’s camp. Thin spirals of smoke came from all the mounds. Her signal was on its way.
* * * *
Kamran watched the hangings without emotion. It was good training for his men and the smugglers were getting off more lightly than they deserved. The High Born were quite inventive when it came to punishing an attack on them. They enjoyed inflicting pain. He would have to be careful when he explained the operational necessity of hanging the smugglers immediately so captives wouldn’t hamper his men when the second group arrived.
He might not have the interrogation skills of his scouts, but winkling information out of men who knew they were doomed didn’t require them. Except for Red slipping through his fingers again, he felt pleased with the day’s work. The companies had carried out the attack with dispatch, losing less than a handful to the smuggler’s twenty. When they finished the hangings, he’d rest them to eat a meal cooked by the women, and then they could dispose of the dead while he scouted for a good ambush position. Two successful battles would bind them to him and, if Red got her signal away, it would work in his favor. He needed the Federation to know how she died for their reaction to give him the opportunity, and these men the power, to grasp it.
Not that he had any illusions about the Federation. He’d seen their methods on other planets and the difference between them and the High Born was minimal. The trick was to offer them an easy way to get what they wanted and ride their need to the top. They wanted to establish a Treaty Port. If he had to, he could give them this principality and a chance for revenge on the High Born who humiliated them and ordered their agent killed.
“Sergeant,” one of the women said. “I heard you asking about a High Born.”
“Do you know something?” He studied her appearance. Younger than the others, her clothes a little finer, she could be a servant to the High Born.
“There was one. I was with her when they caught us. She did a deal, trading me and her jewels for freedom. Half the smugglers had her by the fire before she left.”
“Her name?” He didn’t doubt the woman’s story. It was typical High Born behavior.
“Fleur d’Gracay.”
His Idiot’s sister-in-law. “You’re certain she left.”
“I heard them boasting she’d taken a young one to her bed and damn near gelded him.”
“She’ll not welcome the sight of you.” He could guess what was coming next.
“She’ll have me killed.” The woman straightened, she’d placed her life in his hands in a desperate gamble to survive, but she wouldn’t beg.
“Do any of the other women know?”
She nodded. “Our deaths were part of the deal.”
“Go back to
The 12 NAs of Christmas, Chelsea M. Cameron