The Deed of Paksenarrion

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Gird’s grace on that boy,” said Paks quietly. “The protector of the helpless grant him peace.”

  The priest dropped her head abruptly. After that came several torments, repeated careful blows of a slender rod, cuffs and blows with padded sticks and weighted thongs. Then she was untied and thrown to the floor, kicked and prodded and beaten again, not enough to break bones, but until she was dizzy and sick. All the time the crowd watched, jeering at her whenever she cried out. Paks fixed her mind on Gird and the High Lord, on the magical fire the Kuakgan had raised, on the feel of the red horse’s nose in her back.

  Next she was shoved over to the platform where the boy hung, now stirring again and moaning. Blood spattered the floor, streaked his body. The guards untied him, and tossed him aside. Paks winced at the hollow thud his body made, hitting the floor, and muttered another prayer for him. The priest slapped her. “Pray for yourself, fool! Better yet, beg mercy of our Master, who is the only one who can help you now.”

  “The High Lord has dominion over all the gods,” said Paks, again to her own surprise. The priest signalled the guards, and Paks was jerked off her feet by a rope from her bound wrists over the crossbar. It nearly took her shoulders out of their sockets. The guards untied her ankles, and spread her legs, tying them to either side of the frame, then hauled on the rope until all her weight came on her wrists.

  “You,” the shorter priest said, “are not a god, and therefore our Master has dominion over you—or would you dispute that?”

  Sweat ran into her eyes, stinging. Paks gasped, “I am Gird’s paladin—your slavemaster has no dominion over me.”

  “Gird is not helping you now, paladin,” sneered the priest. “Nor will you hold a sword again, if we disjoint both shoulders and leave them so.”

  “Nor is that the limit of our skill,” said the other. “Trussed as you are, we can do anything—and you cannot prevent it.”

  Paks answered nothing; she could not breathe evenly. Pain wracked her shoulders and back; she hardly felt the burns and welts that had hurt so earlier. How long had it been? How much more?

  “I will show you,” he said. His gloved hands began to move over her body, gentle at first, in mimicry of lovemaking. The crowd laughed loudly as he exaggerated his movements for their benefit. Then his fingers probed her body, finding points that radiated spikes of pain. She could not stand it—had to writhe—could not, for the pressure on her shoulders. Soon she was panting, gasping for breath, tumbled in a roil of pain that brought back the night she’d been attacked at the inn. He stood back, then, and waited until her breathing quieted. Then he did it again. And again. The third time, she passed out.

  When she came to, her arms were tied overhead to corners of the same frame, and the shorter priest was lecturing the crowd.

  “—you see, you need not maim or kill—not at first. It is the skill, the knowing where to touch, and how hard. Knowing, for example, which child is a father’s favorite.” A pause; alert silence from the crowd. “Knowing how much punishment to give.” Another long silence. “But some of you would already have killed this paladin of Gird—and spoiled our Master’s pleasure by so many hours. Watch and learn—enjoy with us, the power of our Master over all mankind. Not even the hero-saints of old can save this paladin in her pain. We can do anything—anything at all—and we come to no harm, as you see. Our Master has the power—the only power. Our Master shares his mastery with his slaves, if they are obedient. You, too, can have power over even a paladin. Watch—learn—do as we say, and you can make a paladin bleed and cry out. And if a paladin falls to us, how much more easily an ordinary man, eh?”

  He prowled the front of the hall, menacing, predatory, and Paks saw those in front shrink back slightly. Their eyes followed him, wary.

  “What power is it you want? Is it money? We have her gold. Is it blood? We have it all—you will see it fall for our pleasure. Is it lust? You will have your chance. Is it mastery itself? You will see her cringe before us, and before those of you chosen to assist. Our Master has power—real power—and you can share that power. Everyone else is helpless in the end—helpless like this paladin. Would you have feared her once, with her big sword, her fancy armor?” His voice dripped contempt. The crowd shifted, not quite answering. “Yes, admit it! You would have feared her, up there on the street—yes you would, unworthy slaves! You might have cringed from her—but look now. There she hangs, bound and helpless. What she has, she has because we left it to her.” He waved an arm back at Paks, and some eyes shifted to meet hers and as quickly shifted away.

  “You—you there in the third row—you could blind her, couldn’t you? And you—you could cut off her ears. Who would stop you but our Master? Who could punish you but our Master? Who is worthy of your service but—” he paused; the answer came quickly from the crowd:

  “Master—Master—Master.” The faces Paks could see were tight with fear, not so avid for the spectacle as before. She felt a surge of pity for them.

  “Yes. Our Master: Liart the strong. You must never say his name, unworthy slaves, until you come to his altar to swear your souls to him forever. But you know who he is.” He raised his hand, fist clenched.

  “The Master,” came the response.

  The priests noticed her open eyes and came to her again. She met their gaze evenly.

  “And you are still with us, little paladin?” asked the taller.

  “The High Lord is still with us all,” she said. Someone in the crowd hooted, and others laughed. The shorter priest reached out and stroked her sides.

  “He hasn’t done well by you, with these scars,” he said. “I’d almost think you’d been given to our Master already.”

  “No,” said Paks recklessly, “that was Achrya’s work.”

  He slammed his fist into her belly. “Don’t say that name aloud, scum.”

  Paks gasped for breath. “You—fear—her?”

  Again a blow that took her breath away, and another to her face. One of the priests took up the barbed whip they had used on the boy, and showed it to her. “This will teach you something of our Master; he is bolder than that webspinner.” He slashed it across her body, then her legs, and walked behind her. Five rapid blows split the skin of her back; hot blood sheeted down, dripping from her legs. Paks clenched her jaw against the fiery pain. Before it dulled, they had brought the next torment, a heated chain held carefully in tongs. First around her waist—then each thigh in turn. Paks could smell the charred skin, her charred skin.

  Again the crowd was invited up, in groups, to participate. Now the men were urged to arouse themselves. “Not yet,” the priest said, to those fumbling at their trousers. “Wait for that—but go on and enjoy what you can.” They traced her scars and the whip welts with their fingers, poked and prodded every orifice. She saw one man lick his finger after wiping it in her blood. The thought of it made her sick. The priests laughed. “Good, eh? It’s blood like any other—taste it.” Several others did the same thing. Paks thought briefly of the many soldiers she had killed—the blood she had shed—but she had never tasted their blood, never seen soldiers as wantonly cruel. Yet some, she could tell, were more frightened than eager: they took no pleasure in it, their eyes downcast, their faces tense. It seemed a long time before the priests ordered the crowd back to their places.

  The taller priest held up an iron that had been heating in the brazier, and flourished it.

  “Now that you carry Liart’s brand, we must do worse than threaten your beauty. But if we decorate you with deep burns here—” He touched the inside of her thigh. Pain flared along her leg. “—you might never ride or walk again.” She could not tell how bad the burn was; her whole leg felt afire.

  “There are other ways,” said the shorter one, conversationally. “If we show you all of them, I fear you will not be able to appreciate the artistry involved. Perhaps we should demonstrate—” and he signalled to the guards. Paks did not notice where they went. Soon they were back, dragging with th
em a girl Paks had never seen. She looked to be in her mid-teens, someone’s servant by her clothes. She was gagged and bound, her eyes wild; as soon as the tall priest ripped the gag roughly away, she screamed.

  “Shut up!” He slapped her face. “If you scream again, I’ll—” He did not finish the threat; she choked off her cries, and watched him, eyes streaming with tears. He turned to Paks. “From time to time we find our sacrifices in the streets—this girl loitered in an alley, and as we had need, we—borrowed her.” As he spoke, the girl turned her head and saw Paks; her eyes seemed to bulge from her face in panic, and she struggled wildly. One of the guards twisted her arm, and she subsided. “Now, paladin, let me offer another bargain.”

  Paks said nothing.

  “You are bound to endure five days and nights—let us say, five days and four nights, now—of our Master’s pleasure, whatever comes. But if you will agree that our Master has dominion over all, then we need not waste this girl’s limbs showing you the range of our skill. If, however, you still insist that your gods—whatever you name them—are more powerful, then we must teach you your weakness through her. Did you not name Gird protector of the helpless—and you claim to be his paladin? Yes—but you, a paladin of that so-called protector of the helpless, you cannot save this girl from anything, except by our Master’s name.”

  “Please—” The girl’s voice was faint, but she looked straight into Paks’s eyes. “Don’t let them—”

  Paks looked away, scanning the crowd, then the priests, then the guards, and finally looking back at the girl. “No,” she said steadily. “I can’t.”

  “So,” said the tall priest. “You begin to enjoy our entertainment then? You would like to see more, is that it?” Someone in the crowd tittered.

  “No,” said Paks again. “I take no pleasure in giving pain, or seeing pain given.” The girl’s mouth opened again, but Paks spoke first. “I cannot forswear my gods, child. I will pray for you—that Gird and the High Lord protect you, comfort you, and strengthen you, that the Lady of Peace bring you peace in the end—but the Master of these slaves is evil, and I will not praise him.”

  “Then she will suffer, and it is your doing,” said the tall priest.

  “No. If you harm her, she will suffer because of you. I am not a torturer: you are.”

  “But you could stop it, and you refuse to help her.”

  “Could I?” Paks managed a smile that seemed to crack her face. “Could I stop it? Have I any reason to trust your word? As long as I am trussed here, you can do as you like—and you like to do evil. Besides, your Master is a paltry fellow; I cannot call him great. Liart the strong, indeed! Liart the coward is more like it!”

  “Girdish slut!” The tall priest snatched up the barbed whip again, and laid two strokes on her before the other grabbed his arm.

  “She is stronger than you thought, brother—she taunts you into just such haste. See—if she faints, she rests.”

  “She will not faint.” The tall priest swiped his hand down the bleeding welts and rubbed it over Paks’s face, then licked his hand. “And if she does we will add every hour to the length of her bargain. Your blood tastes sweet, paladin. Before long we will try your flesh as well.” He turned back to the girl, and his voice calmed.

  “There are several ways to cripple without killing, paladin. Some are more . . . artistic . . . than others. Consider this—” He used tongs to pull from the brazier a fist-sized cobble. “A hot stone. Applied to the inside of a joint—say the knee—and bound there, it will burn deeply, and the scars contract, pulling the limb awry. It works best at knee, crotch, elbow, and armpit, choosing the size of stone to conform, of course—” The guards had forced the girl onto her face, and pulled up her skirts. Now the priest set the hot stone against the back of her knee, and the guards quickly forced her leg back against it, and bound it tight with heavy thongs. Her screams echoed off the stone walls. The guards let her go, cutting the thongs that bound her arms, and she thrashed on the floor, shrieking and clawing at her leg.

  Paks fought down nausea. She could do nothing; she closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on Gird, trying to pray. But she heard the crowd shouting, jeering now at the struggling girl. Something tugged at her, sending a wave of pain through her. She opened her eyes to see the girl clutching at her ankle, trying to drag herself upward on Paks’s body. “Please!” she begged. “Please—stop them!”

  “I can’t—” muttered Paks. “But Gird—”

  “No! You—!” the girl screamed, clawing now. “You won’t help—curse you—!” She threw herself upward, shaking Paks back and forth in her bonds. Then she collapsed, still screaming. Paks shook her head; tears burned her eyes. Her heart seemed to falter in her chest. The priests waited until the girl’s screams died to sobbing, then the guards pinned her again, cut the thongs, and pulled her leg straight. She gave a final shriek as they knocked the stone loose; it left two charred wounds in her leg as it rolled to the floor; smoking bits of her flesh clung to it.

  “Well, paladin—did Gird protect her?" The taller priest nudged the sobbing girl with his foot. Paks did not answer. She fought the black despair Liart sent, forcing herself to think of the king riding eastward, his squires around him. She would not have spent someone else’s pain for that, but even so she did not repent the bargain. After a long pause, he asked, “Do you think he will protect you? Will you fight well, paladin of Gird, with your leg twisted like this? Or imagine your arm—your sword arm—drawn up with scars.” He touched the hollow of her elbow, and her armpit; Paks shivered. “I see you do understand. We need not be in haste to show you, then.” He turned to the guards. “Tie that one, and leave her; we will want her later.”

  “No,” said Paks.

  “No? You dare give orders here? Or are you agreeing that our Master has dominion?”

  “I am not. I am telling you not to hurt her more—she has done you no harm.”

  “What of that? It amuses us—and teaches you to know your helplessness. You can save her only by accepting our Master as yours.”

  Paks prayed, trying to convey what healing she could across that space, as she had with Garris. But she had known Garris, touched him with healing before. This girl was a stranger. She felt a comforting touch on her own head, as if a firm but gentle hand cradled it for a moment, but nothing that let her suspect she had healed the girl. She could not see the girl’s face, where she lay, but the sobs quieted, and the heaving back was still.

  For some time after that, she was left hanging before the crowd; she noticed that it ebbed and flowed, and individuals came and left, to return after an interval. From time to time the priests came to her again, repetitions of the torments already begun. Once they tried to rouse the servant girl, and found her dead; they dragged her body aside. Paks could not be sure of the passage of time. Pain and thirst confused her. Whenever she fell into a doze, they roused her, until she longed for rest more than anything. Then the crowd thickened again.

  The guards lit new lamps, and set pungent incense burning in a row of censors. The smoke swirled back and forth. Paks watched it, half-tranced by its intricate patterns that seemed to make pictures in the haze. She had managed not to listen to the priests’ words, even reciting to herself the ten fingers of the Code of Gird. But now as they approached her again, her concentration wavered. Her belly knotted; her tongue seemed too large for her mouth. Two guards cut the thongs that held her wrists, and shoved. She fell forward, slamming into the floor with stunning force. She was just aware when they cut the ankle thongs and her feet thudded down.

  The relief in her shoulders lasted only a few moments. Guards yanked her up by the arms and dragged her to the rough stone altar that centered the platform. They bound her again by wrist and ankles, with the rough-hewn stone rasping her lacerated back. The taller priest laid a single flat stone on her belly. He stood back, and the second priest laid another similar stone on her chest. Paks waited; the stones were uncomfortable, but not painful, except wh
ere they lay on the burns. She was too relieved to have her head supported at last, and the weight off her arms. Then returning blood seemed to dip her hands in fire for a few minutes. The priests called the crowd forward.

  “We will show you a torment that lasts long only with strong sacrifices, such as this one,” said the first. “We will add weight to those stones, a heavy link of chain at a time, until she can scarcely draw breath. Then time alone becomes the tormentor; in the end her breath will fail. And you will help. As you have given to the Master, so in your name will the links be added.”

  And each person who came by dropped a coin or so into a pot, naming the number; the guards fed a heavy chain from its coil onto the stones, link by link, one or two or three at a time, as the worshipper gave. One heavy man in a silk robe gave a large silver, and twelve links at once dropped onto Paks’s chest.

  The weight forced her back into the stone; before half the crowd had passed, she was finding it hard to breathe. When she tried to keep her chest expanded, they added links to the lower stone, forcing her to use chest wall as well for breath. Her sight dimmed; she let her eyes shut, concentrating on breath alone. She heard the priests’ voices, but could not follow their words. No more links dropped. She struggled, fighting for every breath. Air rasped in and out of her throat. Cold water drenched her face; she choked on it, tried to cough, and could not. Before she quite passed out, they took off a few links. Then they watched as she struggled with that weight. When that, too, exhausted her, they removed a few more links.

  She longed for rest, for sleep, but could not sleep with that weight; whenever she dozed, she could not breathe. Again, she had no idea how long this lasted; each painful breath seemed to be an hour away from another. She could hear the voices, hear the clank of metal as they played with her, taking off a link or so, and dropping it back on. She felt other pains, as the priests and worshippers prodded her, spit on her, and tried to provoke some reaction, but all that really mattered was air: the struggle to suck it in, the weight that forced it back out too soon.