Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  Riam whistled. There were enough clothes in the room to outfit his hometown several times over. The shop was overfilled with shelves and bins that held all manner of clothing in more colors than a field of flowers. There was hardly an empty space that didn’t have something poked away. Clothing hung haphazardly on pegs down the support posts in the center of the room, and there were bins of sandals and shoes. Several pairs of leather boots were lined up on one of the shelves. An open doorway to the back revealed two boys near Riam’s own age who were sitting at a table and sewing.

  “I need at least one set of clothes and either the sandals or the boots now. The rest I’ll need in a glass, or at most a glass and a half, unless you’re willing to bring it to the outpost.”

  “Hmm. Let me see.” The man eyed Riam up and down, sizing him. “I think I have some things that’ll do.” He combed through one of the bins, throwing clothing this way and that.

  Riam watched one of the boys stitch while the tailor searched. The boy pierced the cloth he was working, pulling the needle through, then the thread. He tightened the stitch, and then he did it again . . . and again . . . and again. A door opened in Riam’s mind, showing him the future. This would be the boy’s life forever. The two boys would live and work here, doing the same thing day in and day out until the tailor grew too old or passed on. Then one of them would take over. The other, most likely the younger, would either work for the older brother or head out to start his own shop in another town. It didn’t matter which brother left or stayed, they would both be doing the very same thing they were doing now for the rest of their lives.

  Riam shivered. No wonder Lemual wanted to leave home so much. He hoped with all his might that Lemual was safe and had gone his own way. No one should be forced to spend their life doing something they hated. He almost felt sorry for the two boys, but they had a roof and food, and a father who didn’t seem unkind. That was more than he’d grown up with.

  It may have been only a pair of tendays since Riam left home, but it felt like seasons. The power he’d felt had done more than heal him. He’d confronted something more terrifying than anything he’d ever faced in his life, more terrifying than his grandfather, and he’d survived it. No, not survived. In a small way, he’d helped defeat it.

  He wasn’t sure that he wanted to be a Draegoran yet, but by Sollus, he knew that he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in a room pushing a needle or planting seeds on a farm. He was meant to use the power he’d felt for something more. He could feel it in the sword at the edge of his awareness.

  Riam looked toward the blade. He wasn’t the only one looking. Gairen stood staring down at the sword handle wrapped in the dead man’s shirt with a scowl on his face. He lifted a hand to touch the sword, then hesitated before reaching it. He kept his hand there, a finger’s breadth away from the hilt for a moment, before shaking his head in frustration. He rubbed at his temple.

  “This might be a little big, but it’ll do.” The tailor stepped up to Riam with a plain gray shirt with short sleeves. “Big is good. Boys grow fast at your age. Put it on.” He dug in another bin. “I think I have a long-sleeved gray that’ll fit.”

  The cloth was a plain, heavy weave that would last, and it smelled far better than the shirt he was wearing. He put it on. The man was right. It was too big and hung loosely from his shoulders.

  “Ah, here it is.” The man pulled another shirt from the bin and tossed it onto a table.

  “I’ve sandals that will fit, always make plenty for summer, but no more trousers that small. I can have my boys sew two pair, and they’ll be ready in half a glass. Boots I can work on myself and have one of the boys bring them to the outpost ’fore dark. I’ll have to charge you extra for the rush.” He pulled out several pair of simple leather sandals and handed them to Riam. “One of these should fit.”

  “If you could have one of the boys bring a set of the trousers to the baths—”

  “Sha’ra—sha’ra, as they say in Arillia. It is nothing. Captain Karlet told me he’s headed downriver in the morning. Every year it’s the same. Always a rush for the last few children you bring in.” The tailor snatched up Riam’s old, torn shoes and threw them onto a pile of scraps in the corner.

  The second pair of sandals Riam tested seemed to fit. He fumbled with the laces until the tailor showed him how to tie them properly. He was embarrassed by how dirty he was, but the tailor didn’t say a word. Riam walked around the shop like a marcat with wet feet, lifting and shaking each foot. The sandals felt light but comfortable—they were the first pair he’d ever worn, and the first of anything that hadn’t been handed down from Lemual.

  Next, the tailor grabbed a long, slender chain hanging from one of the racks. Red links were spaced evenly along it. “Let’s see. You look to be about seventy-five links tall, so that means . . .” He measured from the floor to Riam’s hip. “Yep. Thirty-one links. I’ll have the boys make ’em thirty-four. You can roll the bottoms up, and I have a piece of rope you can use for a belt.” The tailor whipped the chain around Riam’s waist with a practiced flick of his wrist and caught it easily with his other hand. He pulled it snug and nodded to himself before letting it fall back around. “That’s all I need. Have the trousers to you in no time.” He stood with his hands on his hips.

  “The total? For him and the others,” Gairen asked curtly.

  “Let’s see. Six dregs for the boots, and eight for everything else . . . times ten . . . and of course a small fee for the rush . . . that’s a hundred and forty-eight. Fourteen to a silver in the market, so ten silver and eight iron, or a gold and a half-silver.”

  Riam swallowed. The rent and taxes on the farm had only been fifteen silver dregs a season.

  Gairen opened the pouch and counted out eleven silver dregs before shoving them into the tailor’s hand. “Keep the extra.”

  “As always, it’s an honor.” The tailor slipped the coins into a pocket. “Let me get you a chit. Know you’ll need it.”

  They left the tailor’s shop, and Gairen marched them down the street. Riam had to run at times to keep up. Funny, he wouldn’t have been able to run at all if the sword hadn’t healed him. They turned down one of the side streets and followed it until they came to the last building on the edge of town. It wasn’t exactly a building, more of a large roof with missing walls and a line of tubs separated by strung canvas. The tubs varied in size, with some large enough to fit several people. A small bench sat next to each, with split timbers laid out between the tubs to walk on.

  A young man with pockmarked cheeks met them at the front. “Two dregs for a fresh tub, or a single for the use of a common.”

  Gairen paid two, and they were led to one of the smaller baths. “Pumped this one this morning. It’ll be cold still, but it’s clean.” The young man placed a small bar of soap and a brush on the bench and pulled the canvas curtain closed.

  Between the long ride, the escape from the Esharii and the fight with the wasps, there wasn’t a single part of Riam that wasn’t filthy.

  This fact hadn’t escaped Gairen. “I’ll go first,” he said quickly as he stripped his shirt off and threw it over one of the ropes. He unclasped his belt and stood both swords against the bench. He was careful when he put the wrapped one down, and he was slow to release it, as if it might disappear the moment he let it go.

  Riam watched Gairen, in awe of the numerous scars and glyphs on his back and arms. The largest scar ran in a jagged white line from his shoulder, down along his side, to his hip, and the skin was puckered and uneven around it. There were dozens of glyphs, not just the ones Riam was used to seeing. Many of them were damaged or torn by whatever wounds created the scars.

  Gairen caught him staring. “Hopefully, you can avoid having as many of these as I do. It was not my intent to give you your first.”

  Riam tilted his head, confused, and Gairen tapped on his nose. Riam ran his fingers along
the bridge of his own nose. He’d forgotten about the cut. There was a firm line running from one side to the other, and there was a slight notch where it crossed the bridge.

  “I’ll give you some advice to remember as payment for the scar,” Gairen said. He climbed into the tub and eased down into water. “Most people want a drink or a woman after facing death, but a bath is best.” He laid his head back on the edge of the tub and closed his eyes. “I’ll tell you why. First, a bath won’t make you do something stupid, and it never asks for more coin if you stay in it too long.”

  Riam almost dropped his new shirt into a puddle of water by the tub. Gairen had never spoken like that before. It was . . . well, it was like Lemual or one of the other boys from town.

  “Second, it washes away the blood and sweat so you get the smell out of your nostrils. Extremely hot or extremely cold—either will do. Makes it feel as if the water is burning away the past and you come out fresh.”

  Riam didn’t want to get into the cold water no matter what Gairen said. He turned his hands over. There was blood and green ichor on them, and the sight brought the events of the timber yard back into his thoughts. Maybe the bath would help, but he doubted it.

  “Hand me the brush and soap.”

  Riam did as asked automatically, thinking of the bodies on the loading dock. “Do you ever get used to it? To the dead, I mean, and the killing?” He was asking about more than the wasps and the dead men. If he was going to become a Draegoran, he wanted to know about the prisoners Gairen had executed and the Esharii he’d killed on the plains.

  There was an awkward pause as Gairen weighed the question and how much he wanted to say. He glanced at the swords and ran his palms down across his cheeks till they were closed in front of his lips and nose like a man praying to Sollus. He took a deep breath and sighed, and when he spoke, there was something different about his voice that Riam couldn’t put his finger on.

  “You learn to see beyond the death and the dead—beyond the blood. In the beginning, it’s easier if you look inside a person and know the crimes, like with your grandfather. Then you get angry, but it’s an honest anger, and you use that rage . . . that wrath, to get through doing what needs to be done. It’s harder when the innocent die, but it’s the same. You use the anger over the injustice of the world to motivate you. After a time, you simply don’t think about it much. As far as the Esharii, that’s war. People die in war, and there’s no use getting angry. It’s simply you or them.”

  Riam’s heart clenched at the unexpected reference to his grandfather, although he was more startled than hurt. Thinking of the old man wasn’t nearly as painful as it used to be. That didn’t mean he didn’t feel anything. It was simply more distant.

  “And afterward?” Riam asked. “How do you live with it?”

  “If what you’ve done is right, it’s no harder than getting over the death of the insects we killed today. It’s the mistakes you remember. Those are the memories that follow you and keep sleep at a distance.” Gairen slid under the water and came back up. He ran his hands through his long hair, combing it out.

  If being a Draegoran meant protecting others, then Riam could live with that. He could see himself standing up against people like his grandfather someday. But he still wasn’t convinced. Too many people seemed to hate the Draegorans. From what he’d seen, it didn’t add up.

  “I don’t understand.” Riam paused, trying to figure out how to get at the question. “If all Draegorans are like you, why do so many people seem to . . . well, hate you? I mean, you’ve been good to me, sir, and you’ve never hurt me or—as far as I can tell—anyone that didn’t deserve it.” He took a deep breath. “But are all Draegorans like you? And if they are, then why doesn’t everyone love the Draegorans? It doesn’t make sense. You’ve told me I have the Fallen’s blood, and now that I am connected to the sword,” he pointed to the blade against the bench, “I believe you, but I’m missing something.”

  It was Gairen’s turn to look shocked, his eyes widening at the offhand mention of the sword. At first, he seemed to float between anger and discomfort, but to Riam’s surprise, he tilted his head back and laughed.

  “You’ve your father’s direct logic, that’s for Fallen sure. Well, you didn’t pour sugar on it and neither will I. Far too few Draegorans are like Master Iwynd or me. Many enjoy the killing and the power, especially the Wolf Regiment. You saw some of them in the taulin out on the plains. That’s the difference between the Owls and the Wolves—we serve the people of the Covenant. The Wolves see everyone who isn’t Draegoran as maston or cattle.”

  Riam’s head snapped up, all thought of the sword forgotten. Father? Did Gairen say father? His heart beat faster.

  “The Wolves and their allies led the Draegoran Council for hundreds of years. They caused most of the resentment and hatred that exist today. To be fair, those were harder times with an Esharii or an Arillian invasion every year, and they called for harsher methods. Times have changed, but the Wolves have not. They no longer lead the Council, the Stonebreakers do, but they want to, and they haven’t changed their methods.”

  Riam nodded as if he was paying attention, but his mind raced. Gairen had never mentioned Riam’s father before, and Riam wanted to know more. He tried to slip in a question. “Was my father like you . . . or the Wolves?”

  Gairen paused and stared off at nothing. “He was a far better man than I am.” It was almost a whisper.

  “So he was a warden? Everyone calls you that, but I don’t even know what that is.” Riam held his breath and leaned down to untie his sandals casually. He was afraid that if Gairen saw the eagerness on his face he would stop speaking.

  “It’s a rank. Like the kydens we spoke of earlier. Every Draegoran has a rank and position. Initially, it’s easy to understand who commands whom, but later it gets more complicated. To keep it simple, after your training is complete, you’ll most likely be assigned duties as an armsman or a scout. Armsmen can be sent anywhere, but scouts tend to go to one of the two passes.

  “Five armsmen and a taulin leader make up a taulin, and a half-warden leads five taulins. From there, it goes to warden, senior warden and then a master. A master commands at both of the passes and in each capital with a senior warden as his second-in-command. Understand?”

  “I think so.” Riam wanted to talk about his father, not receive a lesson on Draegoran ranks.

  “Good, repeat the order back to me.”

  Riam let go of the laces and looked up. He hadn’t expected to be tested. “Um . . . armsman, then taulin leader, um . . . a half-warden, a senior . . . no, wait, a warden, then a senior warden. Last is a master.”

  “Good.” Gairen scrubbed with the soap as he spoke. “Now, those are the primary ranks. There are numerous positions, like scout or inspector, or training the regulars. These are each a bit different. Scouts, for instance, are assigned directly to a warden who falls under the senior warden. They have but two positions—scout, which is equivalent to an armsman, and senior scout, which is equivalent to a taulin leader. There is one exception to that, and that’s a free scout who carries the rank of a half-warden, but that’s where it starts to get complicated.”

  It’d become complicated long before now. There was no way Riam would remember all of it.

  “And the regiment a Draegoran comes from also makes a difference. For instance, most Owls start as scouts.”

  “So you’re a scout?” Riam asked.

  “Yes and no.”

  Riam groaned. There was no way to sort it all out.

  “I’ve been something . . . different for a time.” Gairen paused and bobbed under the water a few more times to rinse. “This will get easier. It’s mostly a matter of understanding that many positions have the same rank. For instance, there are wardens who oversee city districts or are advisers to the high landowners.” He wiped the hair out of his face. “Now, tell me the rank o
rder for scouts.”

  This time, Riam was ready. “Scout, senior scout, free scout, and then warden.” He could repeat the words, but most of it didn’t make any sense.

  “You’ve a good memory. Don’t worry on it too much. You’ll learn all of this later. What I’m really trying to tell you is that everyone and everything has its place and rank, and everyone knows that place.” He smirked a bit to himself. “Or at least I thought it was that way. You taking control of that sword has put a bend in my thoughts.”

  Riam tried to slip in another question about his father. “What was my father’s place? Was he a scout?”

  Gairen’s face sobered. “Your life is about to become more difficult than it’s ever been. You can either embrace the order and structure of the island and your regiment, learning your place and becoming a working part of it, or you can fight it and chase your own needs and desires. Some choose the latter, but they don’t live long. Don’t waste your time worrying about things that are out of your control.” He chuckled. “Would that I could heed my own advice.”

  Riam listened and did his best to understand. I don’t know if I can forget trying to find out about my real father. “I’m just curious about him. That’s all.”

  Gairen ignored him and climbed out of the tub. “Your turn,” he said and sat down on the end of the bench to dry.

  Riam stripped off the rest of his clothes and climbed in. The water was freezing. He grabbed the soap to get it over with. He’d thought the conversation over, but Gairen surprised him.

  “None of this may make sense, but all you need to remember is that you will not succeed at anything you don’t believe in. Forget your family. Forget your past. Forget worrying about your father and your grandfather. Commit everything to becoming a Draegoran, and you might survive long enough for the answers to find you.”

  Yes, but it’s hard to decide something when I’m not even sure what that something is! He wasn’t going to say that out loud, however. He simply nodded in agreement like he thought Gairen expected. How can I forget my past?