The Armored Saint

by Myke Cole

  “You come into my hou—” Samson began.

  “Spare me,” Sigir cut him off. “You have to go. You have to go right now.”

  Samson repeated the same argument he’d given Heloise and her mother.

  “I’ll not argue with a fool. I’m the Maior and you are now an exile. Pack a ruck and leave. I’ll send the Tipstaff in an hour. If you’re still about, he’ll beat you blue.”

  Samson nearly turned blue himself. “I’ll damn well do for him like I did for that Pilgrim, and then you’ll have a dead Tipstaff and me still at home.”

  “Think of your family!” Sigir shouted.

  “I am thinking of my family!” Samson answered. “What will they do? You said it’s to be a lean winter. Who will feed them?”

  “Someone will . . .” Sigir began.

  “Who?” Samson waved his hands. “Maybe for the first month, but what about the second? And the third? Who will guard them if the brigands come again? And what’s to become of me with no trade to ply and no place to go? I’m more dead gone away than I am if I stay. If I’m to die, I’ll do it at my own hearthside.”

  Sigir opened his mouth to speak, shut it. For a moment the Maior struggled, jaw straining. At long last, he sighed. “Come to the gathering hall, then. Barnard saw the fight, and who knows who else. We’ll have to parlay on it. There’ll be some for putting you to flight, no doubt.”

  “The Emperor is my judge,” Samson said.

  “And the Order are His Hands in this world. In case you hadn’t noticed, they have judged you unfavorably.”

  Samson nodded, then turned and placed his hands on Heloise’s shoulders. “Run to the Tinkers and fetch Barnard to the gathering hall. It’s after dark, so straight there and then straight home to your mother, mind me.”

  “Master Maior,” Heloise said to Sigir, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “Will you turn Papa out? Can’t you just tell everyone to make him stay?” Heloise felt like she was two people at the same time. One Heloise saw the foolishness in her words, the great risk her father took, not only for himself, but for the entire village. But that Heloise was trampled by another, louder Heloise, who desperately wanted her father to stay, wanted everything to go back to how it was before they had met the Order on the road.

  Sigir shook his head sadly. “I am a Maior, not a lord. I will speak for your father, but I am but the loudest voice among many. Do as your father says and fetch Barnard. We don’t have much time.”

  “Run along, dove,” Samson said. “It will be all right. You’ll see.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Leuba said.

  “You know full well that the gathering hall is no place for wives,” Samson said.

  “I’ll not have this be the last time I see you,” Leuba said again, balling her fists. “I’ll stand at your side and the town fathers will have to look me in the eye as they speak their piece. Might be that will make them think kinder of what they say.”

  “It won’t help,” Samson said.

  “He’s right,” Sigir agreed. “Stay here and wait for Heloise. Children are not allowed at parlay either, and you can’t have an unmarried girl of sixteen winters at home alone.”

  “If it’s exile—” Leuba began.

  “If it’s exile,” Sigir interrupted her, “I will let you have your farewell, and you can tan the hides of the town fathers beside your husband before he goes.” He reached out and touched her wrist. “We have been friends and neighbors since we were children, ma’am. Trust that I labor in your defense, always.”

  Leuba’s cheeks were red and her hands shook, but she nodded. “Very well. May the sainted Palantines watch over you, husband. May you stand in the shadow of the Throne.”

  “I always stand in the shadow of the Throne,” Samson said, and turned to go.

  Heloise stood frozen to the spot, until her mother swatted her backside hard enough to get her moving. “Go on! Run as fast as you can and fetch Barnard!”

  Though she had gone a night without sleep, Heloise ran faster than she had ever run in her life. Even with dawn coming on, the sun was still not high enough to light the world, and the common green was a blurring gray plain beneath her pounding heels. Heloise was never let out on her own this early, and in happier times, she would have thrilled at the sudden freedom.

  But these were not happier times, and she thought only of her father’s fate, her stomach hurting and her breath burning as she burst into the Tinkers’ workshop to find Barnard before one of his anvils, hammering away at a piece of metal, cherry-red going to slate-gray under the blows. Basina stood beside him, holding the metal steady with a pair of black iron tongs.

  Heloise stopped short. The Tinkers hadn’t slept all night either. Whatever she’d expected to find, it wasn’t this. “You’re working.”

  Barnard didn’t look surprised to see her. “It helps me think. It gives me peace.”

  “Sig—”

  “Sigir wants to see me,” Barnard finished for her, “about your father.”

  Heloise choked back tears. “Will you speak for him, Master Tinker?”

  Barnard set the hammer and metal on the anvil and swept her into a tight embrace. “Always, Heloise. Always.”

  And then he was moving, his long strides carrying him to the workshop door as fast as she could run. “They’re at the gathering hall!” She shouted after him.

  “I know,” Barnard said without turning, and vanished into the gray dawn.

  Heloise felt Basina’s presence before her arms slid around her, hugging her from behind. Her tow-colored hair brushed across her shoulder, and the smell of it kept the tears at bay. “It’ll be all right, Heloise,” Basina said. “It’ll be all right.”

  Heloise cried then, great hiccupping gasps, her fingers digging into Basina’s arms, leaning her head back to rest on her best friend’s shoulder. “I don’t want them to send him away.”

  “I know,” Basina said, “but no one has sent him anywhere yet. You can stay here if you like, or I can walk you home.”

  Heloise’s grief curdled to sudden anger. This was wrong. She couldn’t go home. Couldn’t go sit by the hearth with her mother and wait to hear what the town fathers decided. Basina had been brave enough to stand up to Brother Tone. Heloise could go to the gathering hall in her own village. “I want to go and see.”

  Basina went stiff, but when Heloise broke free of her embrace and turned around, she was smiling.

  “Please, Basina. If I go home, I’ll go mad. I’m going to go and listen, and I don’t want to go alone.”

  Basina only nodded.

  And they were off and running again, Heloise’s terror tipping over into a slanted, twisted joy, so that she wanted to laugh as she had when they ran beneath the kite Barnard had made them. She kept silent, though, so as not to be heard by the men inside the hall.

  Then the Emperor set them in the places they should dwell.

  But there were those who were proud saying, “Who art thou to fix our dwelling place?”

  And they forsook the village rolls, and made their homes on their feet, or in their carts.

  The Emperor cursed them, and named them Kipti, and turned from them.

  —Writ. Ala. I. 29

  CHAPTER 6: TURN HIM OUT

  The gathering hall’s steep wooden-shingled roof was warming beneath the rising sun, burning off the shreds of the wicked night. Barrach Builder had sheeted the eves in copper, chased with scenes showing the sainted Palantines battling devils as the Holy Emperor looked on, His divine presence giving them strength. The light slid over the depressions in the metal, making the Palantines’ armor glow.

  The men were inside, in such a hurry that they’d left the huge iron-bound doors open, and Heloise and Basina slowed, stepping quietly up to the mortared stone walls. The rock was blessedly cool after the long run, and Heloise took a moment to lean against it, catching her breath and looking across at Basina. Her body cried out for sleep, but she wasn’t going anywhere until she knew her fath
er’s fate. Basina’s face was serious, but her eyes were lit from the run and the knowledge that their parents would be furious if they were caught.

  Then Heloise heard her father’s voice, echoing through the long hall. “Just listen! Let me finish!”

  There were murmurs, and finally Sigir shouting at them to be silent in the Emperor’s name. Samson spoke into the silence. “I have known most of you since we were children. I soldiered beside Sigir, and Barnard. And you, Danad Clothier. Poch Drover, I picked you up by your trews and dragged you into the breach in the seawall at Haraven—”

  “You didn’t drag m—” Poch began.

  “I did and half the damn levy saw me do it, and may the Emperor judge you for a liar when you stand in the shadow of the Throne.”

  Poch began again and Barnard growled for him to shut up. “Samson has the right of it.”

  “You, Sald Grower,” Samson said, “I taught you to keep a book for the Emperor’s tax collector. You’d be in a debtor’s prison if not for me.”

  “Aye,” Sald said quietly. “What’s that to do with this? It doesn’t change that the Order will come here for you, Samson, and they’ll take vengeance if they find you here.”

  “It means that you should hear me,” Samson said, “and think carefully before you put me out. We don’t know what the Order will do if they find me here. Might be that Brother Tone is shamed by losing a fight to a mere villager. Might be he’ll tell his brothers that he fell or ran into a tree in his haste to work the Emperor’s will. Might be the Order has pressing business elsewhere.”

  “Might be you’re a damned fool,” Poch Drover said. “Might be we’ll all burn because you’re too much the coward to do what’s best for everyone.”

  “If I stay,” Samson said, his words slow and his voice even, “I have a chance. My wife and daughter have a chance. We can live. If you turn me out, I will die and my family will be beggared.”

  “You might live,” Sald said. “You don’t know . . .”

  “I am no ranger!” Samson roared. “This isn’t Lyse where I can beg on a corner for the kindness of strangers. I will starve, or I will be taken by wolves and brigands.”

  As she heard her father’s words, Heloise felt her breath stop in her throat. If he stayed, her father would fall to the Order. If he went, he would fall to the wilderness. Either way she would lose him. The world suddenly felt very small again, and she longed to run to Basina’s arms, but it was as it had been when Austre had run toward her. Her body refused to obey. Her vision grayed, and she gasped, desperately swallowing air. That made the color come back into her sight, and the men couldn’t have heard her over the noise of them all shouting at once until the Maior’s voice won out over them all.

  “Shut it!” Sigir shouted.

  The voices gradually went silent, Poch’s trailing last, muttering complaints. “We clearly have no agreement,” Sigir said more quietly. “And we know that means the decision rests with me.”

  “That’s not—” Poch began.

  “That’s the law,” Sigir interrupted him. “You made me the Maior. If we are at odds, it is my voice that carries.”

  There was quiet then, and Heloise stood completely still, not daring to breathe for fear of what his next words would be. It seemed to her that even the wind was still, waiting for the Maior’s decision. She felt Basina take her hand, squeezed it so hard that the bones ground together. She knew she was probably hurting her, but couldn’t stop herself. Basina only squeezed her hand back, kissed her forehead, waited.

  “He stays,” Sigir said, and then Basina was holding her up, for Heloise’s knees had turned to water.

  “Sacred Throne, you’ve killed us all,” Poch cursed.

  “We will hide them,” Sigir said.

  “Them?” Sald asked.

  “Leuba and Heloise as well. All three in different places. They must not be together until we know the Order has ridden on and is gone from the valley.”

  “You’ll save his family at the cost of all of ours,” muttered someone, but Heloise didn’t recognize the voice.

  Poch shouted agreement, then asked, “And when they come asking after them? What then?”

  “Then we will tell them that Samson fled into the wood, and took his family with him,” Barnard said, “and we will all swear an oath in the shadow of the Throne to say that’s what happened.”

  “Even if they put us to the question?” Sald asked, his voice trembling.

  “Of course, you great clod,” Barnard answered. “There’s no need for an oath if they’re just going to ask us nicely.”

  “They’ll not put men to the question for nothing,” Sigir said. “It’s a likely story, and what most would do. They’ll believe it.”

  “They’ll know!” Sald shouted.

  “They won’t,” Sigir said. “They’ll see the lie in your eyes as fear of them. I’ve seen this before with lords and men of privilege. And either way, Samson is right. He’ll die out there. I know I’d be dead and buried back in the Old War and so would most of you if it hadn’t been for him. We do for him and his family, and those bastards can shove their flails up their asses business end first. They’ve killed the folk of Hammersdown, and I won’t promise you that they won’t come for us next, but I’ll be a devil myself before I let them kill our hearts. This is my word and it is final, by the authority vested in me as the Maior. I am the Emperor’s Hand in Lutet. Samson stays.”

  There was a short silence at that, followed by murmurs of “Yes, Maior,” and “Aye, Maior.”

  A shuddering breath from Samson. “Thank you.”

  “And lest any of you consider treachery, remember this. The Order may come, but eventually they will go. Samson and I will be here forever, as will Barnard, and our cousins and children. And we will not forget the man who turns traitor and surrenders his own to ravagers. Am I plain?”

  “You are plain,” the men said.

  “Who will hide them?” Poch asked. “If it’s as you say, the flail will fall hardest on them if they’re discovered.”

  “I’ll take Samson,” Sigir said. “If it’s my word that carries today, then I should take the greatest share of the risk.”

  “I’ll take Heloise,” Barnard said. “She and Basina are practically sisters anyway. It’s the closest to home she could be.”

  “Aye, that’s best. We’ll send Leuba to Deuteria. Best not to have a woman grown hiding in a man’s house.”

  Deuteria was the village herber, living alone out in the barrens beyond the sentry tower. She tended a small garden there, and gave counsel to some of the wives when they’d a problem needing women’s wisdom.

  The men muttered assent, and Heloise heard the voices coming closer, moving toward the doors. Heloise realized she was crying, cuffed at the tears as Basina dragged her around the building’s side. There was more talk, but the voices were too muted by the stone for the girls to hear. A moment later, the men emerged blinking into the rising sun. “To your homes,” Sigir said. “Tell all that Samson and his family have fled. The less who know the truth, the better.”

  There was the shuffling of feet as the men set off, but they stopped at a word from the Maior. “I don’t need to remind you of the risk we are taking today. The greatest danger lies in weak hearts and turned coats. I need you all to remember the oath you just swore. You will not cry to the Order for mercy. Say it now, while you look me in the eyes.”

  “We swear it,” a chorus of voices responded.

  “Even you, Poch Drover?” Barnard asked.

  Heloise bit her knuckle as the silence that followed stretched. “Aye,” Poch said at last. “Even me.”

  And then the men were shuffling out the door.

  Basina and Heloise tensed to run around behind the hall if Sigir and Samson came any closer, but they heard no footsteps, only Samson letting out a breath that sounded like he’d been holding it for a while. “You know that Sald and Poch were only the ones who spoke against me, but most agreed with them.”r />
  Sigir sighed. “I know it. You’ve really put your fist in the hive this time, Master Factor.”

  “He killed a little girl,” Samson said, his voice hard. “Would you have done any different?”

  “No,” Sigir said, “but I’d have made damn sure that I killed him.”

  Samson laughed, though Heloise didn’t see what was funny. “Aye, maybe you would have. Only, think kindly of me until the Order actually comes. Poch’s no fortune teller. He may well be wrong.”

  “For all our sakes, I hope he is. Barnard is with us, and that’s the important thing. He’s a mountain, that one. Men are right to fear his wrath.”

  “Aye,” Samson agreed.

  “They may try to unseat me, Samson. Call for a new Maior.”

  “They’d have to send to Lyse for an observer. It would take time.”

  “Aye,” Sigir said, “it would. Hopefully enough time.”

  They were quiet for a moment then, until Samson asked, “Why did you do it, then? Why not turn me out?”

  “You think I don’t want to? It’s not just because you saved me in the Old War, Samson. Truth is that there are no heroes in a pike block. We stand and fall together. We saved one another.”

  “Then why speak for me?”

  “Because I am not like these Pilgrims with pious words in my mouth and murder in my heart. Because putting you out would kill me just as surely as it would kill you. Because unlike the Order I believe in the Writ.”

  “That you should fall that your brother may stand.”

  “Aye,” Sigir said. “I didn’t stand against old Ludhuige’s knights because I wanted to live. I stood because I wanted you to live. And Clodio. And Barnard. And every man who came to arms in the levy. That will never change. Not while I draw breath.”

  “You have the heart of a Palantine,” Samson said.

  “And the bladder of an old man. Go home, Samson. Tell your family to make ready. I’ll come collect you after I’ve had a piss.”

  Heloise heard the crunching of her father’s boots as he turned for home. “Go,” Basina whispered. “If you run fast enough, you can beat him there.”