The Pariah

by Anthony Ryan

  She glowered at my grin. As a scribe who was emphatically no longer welcome in either Ascendant Hilbert’s scriptorium or within the bounds of the city walls, I had been excused the daily round of fieldwork. Consequently, my evenings were spent avoiding the numerous chores required to keep a soldiers’ camp in good order. Instead, I would seek out a secluded spot to continue my transcription of Sihlda’s testament.

  After Toria and Brewer joined the tired mob traipsing towards the town gates, some judicious scouting led me to the west-facing trunk of an aged willow, its branches arcing down into a busy stream. It was as I settled down to unfold the writing desk that I espied a familiar figure of slender proportions further along the bank. For once Ayin had lost her childlike aspect, her face rendered into a hard frown of focused concentration as she waded slowly into the stream. She had gathered her robe up around her waist and I couldn’t help my gaze lingering on the pale flesh of her thighs. After wading several yards into the water she stopped, her form taking on a frozen stillness as she stared into the churning current. She maintained the pose for quite some time, apparently immune to any chill, then suddenly plunged into the stream with catlike swiftness, emerging in sputtering triumph a heartbeat later with a large wriggling trout clutched in both hands.

  “He’s a big one!” she exclaimed to me, her smile bright amid the water cascading over her face. I had made my way along the bank and stood regarding her happy visage with decidedly mixed emotions.

  “That he is,” I said, looking around for some fallen timber. “You gut him and I’ll make us a fire.”

  “I heard the Holy Captain speak,” Ayin said, her words garbled as she sucked flesh from the trout’s roasted head. “Wanted to hear her speak some more. It made my belly go all funny. She’s very pretty. D’you think she’ll let me kiss her?”

  I blinked at her, my eyes stinging a little in the smoke from the small fire I had crafted on the riverbank. Ayin had gutted the trout with a speedy efficiency that told of habitual skill, spitting the splayed carcass on a forked stick before roasting it over the fire. She turned it at regular intervals, ensuring it cooked evenly, seasoning the flesh with some salt from a pouch on her belt. Whatever maladies affected her mind, Ayin certainly possessed some agreeable skills.

  “I very much doubt it,” I said.

  “Just touch her hair then. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “It truly isn’t. And it would be best if you didn’t ask.”

  “Oh.” Ayin pouted a little before shrugging and returning her attention to the fish head. I watched her for a time before venturing a question.

  “The bad man – did you tell anyone about him?”

  “Oh yes.” Having denuded the head of all flesh, including its eyes, which she popped into her mouth, chewing and swallowing as if they were berries, Ayin tossed the bony remnant into the fire and licked grease from her fingers. “Ascendant Kolaus was cross about me being late for supplications and asked me about it next morning. I told him about the bad man and then I told Ascendant Hilbert.”

  “Hilbert?”

  “Oh yes. Ascendant Kolaus took me to him right away and said I had to tell him too.”

  I grimaced and prodded at the fire with a long twig. “And Ascendant Hilbert was very interested, I’m sure.”

  “Yes.” Ayin burped. “He gave me a whole bag of chestnuts for being so…” her smooth brow creased a little as she frowned “… forthright, whatever that is.”

  “Honest and fulsome in your words. A trait that often does you credit, Ayin. But not always.”

  “The strictures say to always tell the truth.” She angled her head in to regard me with a prim expression. “So I never lie. And you shouldn’t either.”

  “You don’t have to lie. Just not tell everyone everything that happens. Especially not here.”

  “Why?”

  I teased a burning branch with the twig, struggling to compose an explanation she might understand. “What happened to the bad man, you’ve done it before, haven’t you?”

  “Sometimes.” Her primness faded into a sullen reluctance. “But they were all bad, even though their wives said they weren’t. They were all liars. Lying is bad.”

  Her voice took on a good deal more heat as she spoke, her eyes losing focus. I decided a change of tack would be appropriate.

  “You cooked that fish very well,” I said, which had the fortuitous effect of instantly returning the smile to her face.

  “Ma taught me. Ma was a great cook. Everyone said so. She could cook all manner of things and so can I.”

  “That’s… good to know, Ayin. Come on.” I got to my feet, resisting the urge to offer her a hand as I wasn’t entirely sure she wouldn’t take it into her head to deprive me of a finger or two. “There’s a man we need to talk to.”

  I found Supplicant Sergeant Swain engaged in conversation with the captain outside a small tent pitched just within the picket line at the camp’s northern edge. The unremarkable tent and absence of a servile retinue set the Lady Evadine apart from other nobility. She even groomed and tended her two warhorses herself. Unlike her plain canvas tent, these beasts were clear evidence of wealth, one black with a white patch on its forehead, the other a dappled grey with a hide the colour of polished steel. Embodiments of martial power, they both stood at least eighteen hands at the shoulder and would become aggressive with teeth and hoof if anyone but their owner came near.

  I stood with Ayin at a respectful distance as sergeant and captain continued their discussion. Ayin stared at the Lady Evadine with unabashed fascination the whole time while I kept my gaze averted, trying not to betray the fact that I strained to hear every word. I could catch only a few sentences, mostly from Swain rather than the more softly spoken noblewoman.

  “… a month, at least,” he was saying, voice clipped to denude it of emotion but I could hear the concerned edge it held.

  I discerned little of Lady Evadine’s response beyond mention of “the Shalewell” and a reference to “thirty miles”. To this Swain gave a grim response: “I’m not sure this lot could march thirty yards in good order…”

  The Shalewell, I knew, was the river that formed much of the border between the duchies of Alberis and Althiene. Lady Evadine’s speech in Callintor had made it clear the Pretender’s horde was encroaching upon the realm’s heartland, presumably with the intention of striking at Couravel, capital of Albermaine and ancestral seat of the Algathinet dynasty. I doubted King Tomas and his court would allow themselves to be besieged and, as befits royalty in a time of crisis, could be counted on to hastily decamp for safer environs. Not that this would dissuade the Pretender. With Couravel and its royal palaces, warehouses and moneylenders in his grasp his claims to kingship would finally have some credibility.

  “What do you want, ball-cutter?”

  Swain’s harsh demand broke through my calculations, causing me to bob my head lower before risking a glance at his stern, dismissive features.

  “A matter of some importance, Supplicant Sergeant,” I said, glancing at Ayin who was now idly twirling a finger through her hair, her gaze still rapt by the sight of the Lady Evadine.

  “Supplicant Blade Ofihla commands your troop,” Swain snapped, waving us away. “Speak to her.”

  “It’s all right, Sergeant,” Lady Evadine said, offering me a smile and beckoning me forward. “Come, good soldier. What name do you go by?”

  It is not often the case, dear reader, that I find myself rendered abashed or hesitant in noble company. This moment was a singular exception. The Lady Evadine Courlain had a very direct gaze many described as piercing. Added to that was the disconcerting sense that arose when in proximity to a human being gifted with the kind of beauty normally confined to a statue or painting. Although shorn of her armour today and clad in a plain shirt and trews, she still made an inescapable impression. I entertained few doubts regarding this woman’s awareness of her own appearance, or the effect it had on others. Like Lorine, it was another
weapon in her armoury, albeit employed to very different ends. In time, I would also come to understand that the disconcertingly penetrating gaze she directed at those she met was a very deliberate ploy, for their reaction told her a great deal.

  In my case I simply stared back, meeting her gaze in full, but also momentarily unable to form an answer. Her face captured me, just for an instant, long enough to take some measure of this woman as she took measure of me. In that instant I gained only a marginal insight, but it was enough to convince me of two important facts: she could not be lied to and nor would she lie.

  I bowed again, breaking the shared scrutiny. “Alwyn, my lady. Alwyn Scribe.”

  “It’s ‘Captain’, you ignorant wretch,” Swain growled.

  The Lady Evadine, however, took no offence. “Scribe?” she asked. “Is that a family name or your profession?”

  “My profession… Captain. I have no family name.”

  “He worked in Hilbert’s scriptorium, apparently,” Swain told her. “Until he murdered a man in the most depraved manner, not one week ago. Also, one of the few members of Deckin Scarl’s pack of cut-throats still living. A most bloody man, to be sure.”

  “All sins are forgiven those who follow our banner,” the noblewoman said, her tone possessing a light, chiding note. “Now then—” I shied again as she turned her piercing gaze back to me “—Alwyn Scribe, what brings you to my tent?”

  I risked another glance at her face, seeing only honest interest and none of the disgust or judgement I expected. Swallowing a cough, I turned and gestured to Ayin. “She can’t be here, Captain.”

  In response to their attention Ayin clasped her hands behind her back, looking away as a flush crept over her cheeks. This, of course, gave a very misleading impression. I watched Swain give Ayin a long look of appraisal, detecting a faint glimmer of something in his expression. Lust perhaps, or just an echo of feelings long suppressed and rarely summoned.

  “Any soldier who lays a hand on another,” he said, deliberately shifting his gaze from the girl, “be it in anger or carnal interest, will be flogged and dismissed from this company. Rapists will be hung. You and every other miscreant heard this on the first day of your enlistment.”

  “With respect, Sergeant, it’s not the hands that might be laid upon her that is of concern.” I risked another raised glance, seeing shared bemusement on their faces. “I know how she appears. It is not who she is, not entirely.”

  I steeled myself and looked Evadine Courlain in the eye, keeping my voice to a respectful pitch but also filling it with hard conviction. “Captain, it is my belief that Sergeant Swain let me into this company because you have need of dangerous souls who don’t hesitate in the shedding of blood when needed. A bloody man he calls me, and so I’ve been in my time. So, please trust the word of this bloody man when I say that Ayin requires no protection. This company requires protection from her. For our sake, and hers, she should be sent back to Callintor.”

  “What manner of danger, exactly?” Swain enquired, the many creases of his forehead bunched in mingled doubt and amusement.

  I faltered, unwilling to give a full account of our shared crime and trying to formulate the most effective lie. Ayin, however, possessed both very keen ears and a desire to be helpful.

  “I cut a bad man’s knackers off,” she piped up cheerfully. She twisted a little as she spoke, casting a bashful glance at the Lady Evadine, for all the world a little girl expecting a reward for a well-done chore.

  “Oh,” Swain grunted, his face softening into scornful realisation. “So she’s the real ball-cutter, is she?”

  I let out a sigh of annoyed discomfort. With the captain’s gaze still fixed on my face I found my usual facility for deceit had treacherously deserted me.

  “Out with it man!” Swain demanded. “I’ve heard enough lies from you.”

  “She cut him,” I said. “I held him down and smothered his screams so he would bleed to death. The other things I told you were true. There was a debt between us, so it was a… fortuitous happenstance.”

  I attempted a smile, but the unyielding judgement on the sergeant’s face banished it quickly. The Lady Evadine, by contrast, appeared more saddened than disapproving, shaking her head with a frown before asking, “This girl is kin to you?”

  “No, Captain. Just a… recently acquired friend.”

  She angled her head, eyes narrowing as the piercing gaze stabbed a little deeper. I knew there was a question behind those eyes, one that bespoke this woman’s lack of naivety and her estimation of my character. Why didn’t you just kill her? It would have been a relatively easy task. Despite her lethality, Ayin was also a trusting soul and I had given her no reason to fear me. I could have distracted her by pointing excitedly at a bird or a squirrel and swiftly cut her throat when she turned to look. A few rocks to weigh down the body and let the stream be her grave. I could have, so easily. But I hadn’t.

  A thin line appeared in Evadine Courlain’s brow, either puzzlement or satisfaction, I couldn’t tell. It vanished as she blinked and shifted her focus to Ayin, smiling and extending a hand. “Come here, child.”

  Ayin’s bashfulness changed as she trotted closer, first into the eager, happy face of a girl receiving sought-for attention, then shifting into something very different. It happened when she came within arm’s reach of the captain, her girlish aspect falling away and leaving behind an expression of blank, enraptured devotion. The muddy ground squelched as she sank unbidden to her knees, reaching up with tremulous hands to touch the fingers the lady extended to trace through the soft brown tresses of her hair.

  “You,” Evadine said, “are a very beautiful soul, my sister.”

  And Ayin wept. The storm of tears came upon her without warning, welling in her eyes and streaming down features abruptly contorted into a rictus of grief and pain. Ayin collapsed into herself, huddling with hands covering her face, letting out a series of hard, convulsive sobs. The captain crouched at her side, smoothing her hands over the girl’s shuddering back.

  The change in Ayin had been so jarring I found myself retreating from it, my mind filled with a sensation I hadn’t felt for years. The seed of it took a moment to come to me: that moment on the road when the chainsman made mention of Hostler. I knew then I witnessed something far beyond the bounds of normality, and I knew it now.

  “Yes,” Sergeant Swain murmured, “it’s quite something to see.”

  I turned to find him regarding the lady and the weeping girl with the eyes of a man who had witnessed this before but would never tire of the sight.

  “Shhh,” the lady said, gentle hands clasping Ayin’s shoulders, raising her up.

  “I didn’t wanna…” Ayin wept, her eyes wide as she stared into Evadine’s face. “Ma said I had to, else I’d be like her… I’d be all dirty like her…”

  “Your soul is clean,” Evadine assured her. “I can see it. It shines so brightly.”

  Ayin spluttered, a desperate smile coming to her lips. “Am I not, then, for the Malecite to claim?”

  “No, child.” Evadine enclosed Ayin in tight embrace, resting her chin on the girl’s head. “The Seraphile will never shun a soul such as yours.” She continued to hold Ayin until her sobs abated, finally easing the girl back to tease the tear-dampened hair from her face. “Now then, your friend believes you are in the wrong place. Is he right?”

  “No!” Ayin shook her head fiercely, although her eyes remained locked on Evadine’s. “I will never be anywhere else, my lady.”

  “Just ‘Captain’ will do.” Evadine smiled and tweaked Ayin’s chin before guiding her to her feet. “You’ve been pestering me to find a page, Sergeant,” she commented to Swain. “I believe I have.”

  Swain lowered his head in a respectful bow. “And a fine choice she is, Captain.”

  “My thanks, Alwyn Scribe,” Evadine said to me. “Your concern for a fellow soldier does you credit.”

  My discomfort with what had just transpired made me hesita
te before offering my own bow, realising as I did so that I had retreated several more steps. The desire to be gone from here was strong, as was the suspicion that, should she wish it, this woman could do to me what she had just done to Ayin.

  “Come along,” Evadine told Ayin, leading her by the hand to the two warhorses tethered nearby. “I have some new friends for you to meet.”

  Bobbing my head to the sergeant, I turned to go, then stopped as he muttered an order to wait.

  “Sergeant?”

  “Report to me after training tomorrow,” he instructed. “The company books need attention. The fellow making the entries has a hand that looks like tracks left by a drunken beetle.”

  He turned and marched off without another word. Before hastening away, I spared a final glance at Ayin and Evadine. The girl laughed as she held a handful of oats to the muzzle of the grey warhorse while the black gently nuzzled her shoulder.

  When we march, I decided, turning my back and striding away. There’ll be a chance to run off when we march.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  It was another week before Crown Company marched away from Callintor. By then our sackcloth garb had been replaced by more hardy attire of woollen trews and shirts with jerkins of leather, all products of the Callintor artisans. Some of us had even been provided the accoutrements of war, after a fashion. The day before we marched, Sergeant Swain had handed me a sack full of pig-hide gloves with orders to share them out among my troop.

  “Not a good notion to go into battle with bare hands,” he sniffed. Since I hadn’t detected more than a slight thaw in his regard for me, I deduced this to be a reward for my exemplary record keeping.

  His description of the previous clerk’s hand had, if anything, been overly generous. The ledgers recording the company’s strength, equipment and, most interestingly, payroll had all been filled with an untidy, barely legible scrawl that offended my scribe’s pride no end. So, without orders, I had copied all the existing books before embarking on recording fresh entries. This had the added benefit of revealing my predecessor’s fraudulent accounting of the food stores, a decent portion of which had been surreptitiously sold off to the increasing stream of folk passing along the road. People fleeing war are often hungry and willing to pay excessive prices for basic fare.