by A Van Wyck
Most villages, lacking walls or guards, discovered surprising depths of generosity when the lepers drew near. Food and blankets and assorted necessities were delivered in sacks and baskets, as often as not. These were invariably left at a safe distance, with shouted instruction to burn the containers once they’d been emptied. The lepers would, quite graciously, skip the village temple (and, more importantly, the village) and move on.
Being no stranger to blackmail, he could appreciate such a system.
Thoughts returning to the moment, he eyed the group of approaching youths, noting the familiar bluster that set tension playing across the muscles of his shoulders.
Unfortunately, the lepers’ peaceable extortion wasn’t always the end of it. They were camped well away from the village – some hamlet named Hedrick. The lamplight of its windows were mere specks in the distance, the modest provender it had provided already divvied up amongst the troupe. But somewhere among those specks, in a town hall or before a family hearth or, more likely, sitting at a bar, was some pillar of the community, some concerned patriarch – some fucking idiot in his cups – whose mind had turned to the lepers. Whose thoughts had turned sour. Whose words had then been dribbled into the ears of these swaggering morons.
What if we’ve treated the lepers so well they decided to stay? What if the lepers moved into the local temple? What if they got so comfortable they tried to walk the village lanes in broad daylight like regular folk? They had to be told – they had to be shown – that they were not welcome. That they had to move on. And who would do this? Why, pillars of the community in the making.
It had happened only once since he’d joined the troupe. In another little flyspeck village, where the words breakfast, lunch and dinner were synonymous with the locally brewed beer. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done to sit and do nothing while four louts, immunized against leprosy by drink, had beat poor handless Pant. The mute leper was the biggest of them and helpless, which made him a prime target. It was an image that would haunt him. The wordlessly sobbing man, standing protectively over his lame brother. Useless arms, swinging at the laughing villagers.
He’d been shaking as he fought the compulsion to slide in amongst them like an adder and whet his knife on their worthless hides. They would have been no challenge at all, even four against one. And he wouldn’t have killed them.
He kept telling himself so.
But he hadn’t done that.
Instead he’d run to drag Hersh from under his big brother’s feet, knowing the one would not leave the other. That’s when it’d come close: crouching over the lame leper, trying to haul the man away by the arm – the cripple had pushed his hands away, cheeks wet with humiliation and rage, yelling and reaching for the wordlessly wailing mute.
“I’m comin’, Pant! I’m comin’! Leave off ‘im, ye bastards! I’m comin’, Pant– Lemme go! Lemme go, I gots t’help m’brother!”
He’d finally managed to drag the screaming man away, Pant retreating in their wake. But, by the sun’s searing smile, it had come close, looking at those impotent tears.
A long time ago, on Nan’s orders, he’d put down the Dog Piss Clan and its leaders, the Moorah brothers. Also two oversized bullies. They’d subjugated a poor neighborhood near Hammerham Nan’s orphanage. He still remembered Nan calling him in.
“They’re brainless,” Nan had said, swirling her fig brandy. “If it were a straightforward scuff, you’d have no problem. Sun sear my soul – if it were that simple, I could’ve sent Gontol or even Effie.”
“But?” he’d fished.
“But. They’re second cousins to Black Droguul. Meaning this can’t be no back alley stabbing. Not unless we want an army of blackeyes coming down on us, looking for the knife hand. No, this needs to be… official. We need to follow alley law on this one.”
“Are you asking me to challenge for leadership of the clan?”
Nan had tapped an introspective finger against her crystal tumbler.
“You wouldn’t have to keep it. I’m not asking you to become a clan leader. When you’ve put down Rik and Wallom, you disband the clan.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want to have to compete with you, Nan.”
“You know well I’m no clan leader.”
He’d smiled at that. “Looks like Rik and Wallom heard that too.”
“Like I said. Brainless.”
“Hm. Brainless enough to come looking for me? After?”
“Count on it. But like I said, Droguul respects alley law. Plus, he don’t like those two too much. Some misunderstanding from when they was children. So if we can give him an excuse under the code to let things lie and not seek blood price, it’s my feeling he’ll let it lie.”
“Better to have witnesses then.”
“Can you do it?”
“Like you said. Brainless, right?”
“Go make me proud.”
“Yes, khashjit,” he’d said formally, bowing as if to a clan leader.
And then he’d had to duck hurriedly through the door, chuckling in the hallway as the tumbler of fig brandy smash against the portal at his back.
And he’d gone and walked straight into the Dog Piss Clan’s den, bold as you please, and challenged the Moorah brothers. They’d laughed at him, spitting at his feet as their gang watched with suddenly bloodthirsty eyes. Demanding eyes. He’d had no clan. He’d had no standing. And so he’d had no real right to challenge… none of which mattered if the challenge was accepted. Of course they’d accepted, as Nan had known they would. Because, at their cores, they’d been bullies. And Jiminy was so small.
A knife fight for control of a clan was traditionally fought until first blood, unless both parties agreed to a duel to the death. Never ones to follow the code, the Moorah’s had declared the duel to the death and, since they’d ruled the clan together, they’d come at him together.
Big bastards, both of them. The memory of their flabbergasted faces as they’d stared at the cuts, mirrored on each other’s cheeks, could still warm his heart at night. He’d declared the duel over, so witnesses could say he’d tried to stop after first blood. But the bully’s mind reacted so very predictably to calculated snubs. They’d tried to kill him then, as he’d known they would.
He’d cut them to ribbons.
Whirling like the wind, he’d split ears, lips and eyelids, shaved noses, knuckles and chins and carved forearms, thighs and backs. He’d blunted his knife on them. Until they’d finally collapsed and hadn’t gotten back up, their lives bleeding away into the dirt.
In the stunned silence, under the eyes of the clan, with its erstwhile leaders dying in the dirt, he’d claimed command. Then he’d announced the clan disbanded, thrown down his knife and walked out without a backward glance.
The coarse voices of the village youths ripped his reminiscing from him and he felt his knife hand twitch.
He couldn’t.
All it would take was one body – one corpse – and the lepers would be hunted down like animals. Word would spread and any survivors would be driven off by every village they came near. They would starve, all because he couldn’t suffer bullies sensibly. The lepers had lived like this long before he’d arrived, he reminded himself, gripping his upper arms tightly to keep his hands still. They needed to be able to keep on living like this long after he took his leave.
His fingertips dug painfully into his biceps.
His temper could doom them. He couldn’t allow that. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to mute the arrogant voices but snatches intruded.
“… filthy things …”
“… kill us … your sickness …”
“… Helia … cursed you ...”
“… should just die …”
“… better for you …”
“… leave before …”
“… hey, what’s this?”
He looked up. Two of them were hovering over Mad Bergha, poking at her cart with sticks and the toes of their boots. She glared up at them f
rom beneath the wild grey mop that was her hair.
“What do you think, Rass? Is it an oxcart? Or a mule wain?”
The wit’s friend chuckled appreciatively. “See the look in her eyes? Definitely a mule wain.”
“Where’s the mule, hey?” the wit demanded, turning to poke Bergha with his stick.
She swatted ineffectually at the piece of wood digging into her shoulder.
“Probably at home,” she spat, “where you left her, cooking your dinner or rutting with your father.”
The stick whistled as it swung. Bergha tumbled into the dirt. The wit and his friend circled like vultures. Sensing sport, their three friends drifted to where Bergha rolled in the dust in silence, trying to fend off the falling sticks with her bleeding forearms.
The lepers looked anywhere but at the besieged Bergha. Another man might have thought it cowardice but he knew the depths of restraint it took to do nothing, ensuring everyone could eat again tomorrow. It was their way of honoring the sacrifice Bergha was making by deliberately drawing the villagers’ attention. There would be no shortage of volunteers to draw her cart on the morrow.
But he couldn’t tear his eyes away, his body rigid and unresponsive. The villagers were panting with exertion, stumbling in the dust-cloud that was Bergha.
With every whack of wood on flesh, the rage in him roiled like an adder in a bag. His knives were a brace of white hot brands beneath his wraps, demanding to be used. He could feel his will to resist them waning. He wasn’t as stalwart as these lepers.
The sticks flashed up and down. Up and down. He didn’t command his legs to straighten, but suddenly he was rising.
Just an ear from each, maybe a finger…
A man could still hold a hoe with just nine fingers.
The hand that settled suddenly on his shoulder whipped his head around. Amm pressed him gently back into his seat, the man’s pale eyes on Bergha’s plight. Bergha had given up on trying to fend off her attackers and simply lay with her arms shielding her head and her face buried in the dirt.
One of the yokels looked up to see the approaching Amm. Piggy eyes flicked quickly to the walking staff in the once-priest’s hand.
“How about you?” the yokel taunted, alerting his cohorts. “You in the mood for a hiding too?”
Bergha’s beating stopped as the five shifted their attention to Amm. The lepers were all watching now.
“We gotta ‘nother volunteer for a beating, looks like to me,” one of the youths scoffed, hefting a stick.
Amm drew up five paces from them. Pale eyes locked with each man until they squirmed uncomfortably, faces writhing with a plethora of emotions including shame, disgust and anger. Amm’s staff dropped sideways into the dirt. Holding arms out as if to embrace the attackers – the same as that day on the road with the riders – the once priest closed the distance at a measured pace. The youths took a collective step back from the unarmed invalid, who ignored them to crouch by Bergha, bending to put his hands under her arms.
From where he sat, he could see the bloodied forearm clutch around the once-priest’s neck as Bergha was gently levered upright. Old Paroke hobbled up to right the overturned cart without a word. Amm settled the bleeding Bergha gently back on its bed while the five troublemakers watched mutely, shuffling their feet and scowling as Amm enfolded Bergha in a consoling hug before rising to confront them once more.
He got his first look at the damage. Bergha was disheveled and in bad shape. Dirt stuck to her bleeding limbs in gritty crusts, long weals wept where the skin had peeled under the impacts. She had a split lip, a smashed nose and, above her right eye, a huge bruise that was already purpling.
After weeks in their company he knew just how tough the mad crone was, buoyed by her hatred of the world. It was impossible to like her. And yet, the tears that rolled quietly down her bloodied cheeks to drip from her stubborn lip, burned him with a shame and anger he resolved never to feel again.
He cut his eyes to where Amm faced off against the group of ruffians. It seemed the unexpected turn of events had unbalanced them and they held back, unsure.
Recovering himself with a shake, their leader stepped forward.
“You!” the screech sent spittle flying and the stick swung for Amm’s face.
The failed priest didn’t flinch or break eye contact as the club came to hover less than a finger beneath his nose.
“You!” the trembling bumpkin spat again, eager to reclaim some of the bravado that seemed to have been knocked out of them. “You leave tonight, you hear me? If you’re still here come the morning…”
He watched as the words to the end of that thought seemed to gallop beyond the grasp of the speaker.
“Leave,” the moron rallied, wriggling ridiculous eyebrows in what was probably meant to be a threatening manner. The club was lowered.
“Come on,” the leader commanded his cronies and they slouched off after him, back to the speck of village in the distance.
A collective sigh of relief went up from the shambles of their camp. Some of the lepers were already stamping out the little fire they’d built while others gathered up their meager belongings. The little camp was awhirl with activity as the lepers prepared to leave. They would trek farther away from the village in the dark and sleep in the woods tonight, huddled together for warmth.
Coming to himself, he found he was standing motionless amidst the purposeful bustle. The rage and shame he’d felt had mixed together into an emotion he had no name for. He felt drained. Amm passed close to him. At the sight of the man’s expression of weary acceptance, he felt a lick of anger and it reached out to grip Amm’s arm tightly.
“Why did you stop me?” he demanded, his words muffled by the cloth covering his face. He was being unfair to the man. He knew it wasn’t truly Amm who deserved his anger, that his curbed rage was merely earthing itself on the tallest thing nearby. Perversely, that only heightened his agitation. He met benevolent composure with hot belligerence.
“Because,” the once-priest said, sad smile unchanged, “they didn’t deserve to die.”
Stunned, he let his hand drop lifelessly from the leper’s arm. Smiling an apology, the failed priest patted him on the shoulder before stepping past to help with the preparations.
Well…
So much for camouflage.
* * *
Horses screamed. People shrieked. A deafening impact sounded. Splintered wood fountained upward–
The mounts flashed past each other. One combatant tumbled to the dirt. The victor held a broken lance aloft, galloping down the length of the stands. The excitement penned behind the spectator barrier redoubled as the ecstatic crowd serenaded their hero, rocking Marco back on his heels where he stood in the Royal Pavilion.
He repressed a flinch.
A knightly sport played on horseback?
The vellum-dry definition did not do justice to the horrific reality. They called this a sport? People were being carried off the field on stretchers! Falling off a horse was a chancy endeavor to start. Volunteering to be knocked off one at speed seemed a roundabout route to suicide! It was worse than suicide it was… uncivilized! Doubly so since he’d found out this game was the sole purview of the noble and the beknighted who, he would have thought, would know better.
He stood in a handy corner of the pavilion, sparing only brief glimpses for the slow murder being conducted outside. To fanfare, no less. Mostly, he watched the benches of nobles he shared the pavilion with. They were the epitome of dignity, limiting themselves to polite oh’s and light applause. He had no understanding of jousting or how it was scored. But he thought he could tell when a bout was particularly exciting or significant by the restive ripple that ran through the assembled nobles. They would stir on the edges of their padded seats or work their lace fans all the faster. Like a breeze ruffling the feathers of a cabinet of owls.
It made him smile to think they were not as immune to the excitement of the day as they would like to pretend. Even
if the cause of that excitement made him slightly sick to contemplate. Even gentle princess Dailill clapped daintily every now and again. It was only her obvious enthusiasm for the lists – and the thought of Father Justin’s doubtlessly tolerant attitude – that kept him from revising his opinion of the Renali being a civilized nation.
As they did by habit now, his eyes sashayed back to the princess. She sat furthest from the king, who was flanked by his eldest daughter and only son. The little boy prince watched with wide eyes as full grown men were pounded from horseback and into the dust. It was unclear how much the not-quite-toddler prince understood of what was going on. The boy appeared as sickly and thin as ever, with overlarge eyes red rimmed and stark against pale skin showing blue veins. Drowning in rich furs despite the heat, the boy looked in danger of being crushed by the circlet sitting atop his dry brow. The prince’s nanny hovered anxiously just out of sight, peeking around the pavilion curtain every now and again. The unknown nobleman in the next seat ignored the child prince completely, leaning over the minute figure to exchange the occasional word with the king. The most powerful nobles in the kingdom were here in this pavilion. The lesser nobles and dignitaries had the pavilions to the left and right. Keeper Justin was out there somewhere as well. He couldn’t imagine the priest was enjoying this needless bloodshed any more than he.
Satisfied that the princess was in no imminent danger, he let his eyes rove back over the assembled nobles. It was easy to watch them unobtrusively. As far as they were concerned, he was a servant and therefore invisible. So he saw all the meaningful glances, the pointed glares, the conspiratorial smiles, the haughty chin jerks and obstinately folded arms – even if he had no idea what motivated them or what they meant. He knew from having sat in – or stood in, really – on the princess’s many late-night sessions with palace officials, exactly how onerous and harrowing an arrangement it had been to seat all these nobles just so. There were enough jealously guarded feuds and hoarded slights in this one pavilion to color any pot black. Idly, he wondered if the same held true for the nobles of the Empire. He knew from his history that such used to be the case. But he was certain his people must have put such pettiness aside by now, for the good of the Empire. He’d remember to ask the keeper’s opinion.