The Last of the Renshai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Sterrane pulled his shirt over a thickly-padded chest and a back furred with the same black hair that covered his head and face. He nudged Garn. “Come get pay.”

  Though eager for the money that would prove he could pay the midwife and support his family, Garn waved the giant off. He could not explain why he saw something private in the ritual of his first payment, but, for some reason, seeing Sterrane collect the same number of coins would taint the success. “You go. I’ll be along in a moment.”

  Sterrane’s huge shoulder’s rose and fell. “See you home?”

  “Yes.” Garn nodded, staring at the sky. “I’ll see you at home.” He listened to Sterrane’s shambling footsteps fading into the distance.

  * * *

  Before a grounded oil lantern, the foreman, Kruger, watched Sterrane’s approach through slitted eyes. Twelve years at the docks had taught him to read personalities like an expert. Though large to the point of danger, Sterrane’s placid manner and telegraphic speech marked him as an imbecile. Likely, the bearlike man could not count. Even if he could, he would certainly fall prey to any of the scams Kruger had adopted both to warn his men not to shirk and to glean some extra income for his family. Eagerly, he awaited the newcomer.

  To Kruger’s right, his staunch, white gelding stood tethered. It raised its head, snorting, as Sterrane approached, entering the circle of illumination from the foreman’s lantern. The big man stopped directly before Kruger and extended his hand. “Me collect pay,” he said with childish finality and pride.

  Kruger flicked coins from his pocket to his hand, then dumped them into Sterrane’s beefy palm. He waited while Sterrane counted each coin, flipping them with a finger as he did so. As he came to the last, he met Kruger’s gaze with wide eyes nearly as dark as his hair. “Only ten. Promise twenty.”

  “I know, Sterrane. And you have potential, probably more than anyone.” Kruger placed a fatherly hand on Sterrane’s massive shoulder. “I wanted to give you twenty, I honestly did. But you were still learning these last two weeks and, well, you couldn’t be expected to jump right in and work as hard as the men who have been here. . . .”

  “Only ten. Promise twenty.” Sterrane pouted, obviously hurt, “Me do same others.”

  Kruger adopted a sincere expression. “I know it seems that way, Sterrane. I’m sorry. I’d like to give it to you anyway, but I have bosses, too. I have to do as they say, and they say you were still in training. You get half this time. Now that you know what you’re doing, you’ll certainly get it all next time. You understand, don’t you?” He tried to meet Sterrane’s gaze.

  “Understand.” Sterrane’s fist closed over the coins. He dodged the foreman’s look, focusing instead on the white gelding that pawed impatiently at the grass beyond the lantern light. “How much horse worth?”

  Unprepared for the question, Kruger jerked his head in the direction of Sterrane’s attention. “You could get one like it for about thirty chroams. Why?”

  Fast as a snake, Sterrane caught Kruger’s hand, pried it from his own meaty shoulder and dumped the ten coins back into the foreman’s palm. “Here ten. Now horse worth twenty. That mine. I take horse.”

  Before Kruger could argue logic or mathematics, Sterrane had mounted and kicked the horse into a gallop toward town.

  Swearing, the foreman tightened his fist over the chroams until they bit into his flesh hard enough to leave impressions. He’ll pay for that. Shaking back sand-colored curls, he regathered his composure. “Let it go, Kruger,” he mumbled to himself. Learn a lesson from it. Sterrane’s a hard worker and a good one to have on my side. And there’s more to that man than I could have guessed. No matter how dim-witted he seems, he’s sharp as a knife cut.

  Despite his annoyance, Kruger had to admire the ingenuity of Sterrane’s method. The chroams it would take to replace the gelding would be sorely missed, yet the battle was not lost yet. There was one man left to collect his pay, another newcomer. Kruger had debated whether or not to attempt his swindle on Garn; though quiet and naive, there was a tenseness about Garn’s manner that made him seem always on the razor-edge of violence. Now Kruger realized he would have to cheat the new man of ten chroams just to break even on his own pay. As Garn’s form appeared as a distant shadow emerging from the docks, Kruger readied his argument.

  * * *

  Garn hummed as he headed toward the lantern and the slouching figure silhouetted in its light. Thoughts on his first wages, he did not even notice that the melody running through his mind and throat was one Nantel used to sing while he worked. Collecting pay. Garn smiled, his memory filled with guards’ chatter about payday dreams. For the married ones, it had involved replenishing food supplies, toys for their children, baubles for their wives, or jokes about money to keep their wife’s mother from visiting. The single men invariably anticipated women and a long night at the tavern or a card game. They justified keeping me caged because they said I’m an animal. Now, I’ve got a wife any of them would envy and am collecting my pay just like them. By the time he entered the circle of lantern light, Garn had broken into a broad grin. He held out a hand.

  Lean and wiry, Kruger returned the smile. Coins clattered musically as he drew them from his pocket and poured them into Garn’s eager palm. Ten chroams gleamed with silver highlights lit violet by the dimming arch of sky.

  Garn waited, hand still outstretched for the rest of his wages. When no more came, he met friendly eyes the color of cinnamon. “That’s half,” he reminded.

  “I know.” Kruger scuffed his shoe in the grass and made a fluttering gesture of apology. “I’d really like to pay you twenty, but I can’t. The merchants who receive these crates are delinquent in their account. If we don’t have money, I can’t give you money.” Kruger met Garn’s gaze, looking suitably repentant. “If I had it, I’d give it to you. You understand that?”

  Disappointment tightened, viselike, in Garn’s chest. “I understand.” His shoulders drooped as he turned to leave. Another two weeks dependent on Mitrian’s gems. At least I earned a few coins. He dumped the chroams into his purse.

  Behind Garn, Kruger bent for the lantern. Coins jangled, muffled by the lining of his pocket.

  Garn whirled, sorrow instantly transformed into fury. He sprang, catching Kruger by his shirt laces before the foreman had come fully erect. The lantern overturned, splashing hot oil across both men’s feet. Small fires sputtered through the grass.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Kruger regained his balance, cheeks colored scarlet around a long, pinched nose.

  Garn’s grip tightened. “You have money.”

  “What?”

  “You have money. You told me you couldn’t pay me, but you have money. I heard it when you moved.”

  “That’s my wages.” Kruger’s hands went to Garn’s wrists and he started to pry the larger man’s fingers loose with his nails. “Get your hands off me.”

  Garn’s hold loosened, but he did not let go.

  “Let go. Now! Or you’ll never work in this city again.” Kruger’s face went purple. “Do you understand that?”

  Thunder beat in Garn’s ears. His cheeks felt aflame and he tried to ground his reason by staring at the trickles of smoke from the dying red pinpoints of grass fires.

  “Did you hear me?” Kruger was shouting now. Abruptly, he planted both hands on Garn’s chest and shoved violently.

  Garn’s control snapped. His ears rang with the jeers and cries of spectators and the raging curses of his opponent. His fists clenched spasmodically. He jerked Kruger with a suddenness that sent the foreman lurching toward him. With all the power in his arms, Garn bashed his forehead against Kruger’s face. Cartilage cracked and blood ran warm across his cheeks. Stunned by pain and impact, Kruger went limp in Garn’s hands. A well-practiced wrench and a twist fractured Kruger’s neck. Garn let the body slide from his hands.

  Gods. Garn shuffled away, dazed. Blood slicked his arms and face, and the taste of salt on his lips was sickeningly fam
iliar. The guards were right. I am an animal. His hatred for Rache trebled in that moment. He slammed his boot into the corpse, watching it roll awkwardly across the grass. Rache. He kicked the body again. His mind burned, awash with a collage of whips, chains, blood-smeared pits, and the image of a stern-faced, blond guard with ice blue eyes. Garn stared at the broken body as the last of the fires trickled to smoke. The final edge of sun sank below the horizon, plunging the world into darkness.

  Garn turned and fled.

  CHAPTER 19

  Kinesthe

  That night, sleep eluded Garn. He lay in his loft bed beside Mitrian, listening to the soft, slow rhythm of her breaths. He kept his lids pinched closed, but darkness could not hold judgment at bay. Repeatedly, Garn relived Kruger’s death, seeking answers, and always his mind gave him the same one. Something had driven him from controlled anger to the wild savagery instilled by years in the gladiator pit. To Garn, that something bore the name Rache.

  A low growl of hatred escaped Garn’s throat. He rolled to his side, awaiting the fuzzy perception preceding sleep. It would not come. Garn listened to the ultra high-pitched ringing that accompanied long, deep silences, his senses almost painfully alert. It was not the killing that bothered Garn; he had been trained since youth to understand the necessity, even to seek joy in the triumph and methods. What goaded Garn to self-hatred and blind fury was killing without intent, by reflex, and the knowledge that he had lost the humanity he had struggled so hard to maintain.

  Rache taught me to kill. He whipped his callousness into me until killing has become habit without need for thought. Garn sprang from the bed, no longer able to delude himself that he might find sleep tonight. The loft lay black as pitch, without seam to break the darkness with moonlight. From memory, Garn avoided the chair and clothing chests, pausing only to pull out a cloak and grab one of the three horseshoes balanced across the headboard. Donning the cloak, he stuffed the horseshoe into a pocket and scurried down the ladder.

  Sterrane’s snores filled the main room, and Garn skirted the dark, sleeping bundle in the corner. Nearer the hearth, a stripe of moonlight from between the curtains revealed Arduwyn’s smaller form curled beneath his blanket. Garn assessed the patterns of his companions’ air exchange. No doubt, Sterrane had reached the dreaming depths of sleep, but Arduwyn’s more delicate breathing revealed he was still awake. Quietly, Garn crept to the outer door. He held the latch, tripping it in silence, then pulled it open. The hinges creaked. Cringing, Garn glanced at Arduwyn’s still form before slipping into the night. He pulled the door closed behind him.

  Moonlight spilled over the heavens, lacing the overcast night with silver. Few stars poked through the hazy network of clouds; each pinpoint spark diffused to glare. Chips of quartz and mica glimmered in the road cobbles while cottages stood in dark lines on either side. Behind the cottage, at the bottom of a steep hill, the river that supplied the city with water meandered, a black gash stirred into pearly spray by stone and driftwood. Garn stood, ankle-deep in the tangle of weeds that formed his yard. Locating a familiar rock the size of a large dog, he headed toward it. So many times before in the last two weeks, he had knelt upon that stone, surrounded by horseshoes. The urge to understand the elusive strength of an aging Renshai obsessed him. Yet failure followed failure.

  Garn had just reached the stone when Arduwyn’s voice wafted from behind him.

  “Garn, wait. We need to talk.”

  Garn whirled, his back pressed to the shielding bulk of granite. He was more than simply startled; it needled him that he had relaxed his guard enough that a man, even a friend, could come upon him unsuspecting. He crouched against the rock, waiting.

  Arduwyn approached, clothed in britches and a hastily wrapped robe. He did not speak again until he reached Garn’s side. “While you were gone this evening, guards came to ask if you and Sterrane had gotten your pay.”

  Discomfort clutched Garn. He had told no one about the incident with Kruger, but he guessed Arduwyn’s concern would be related.

  “We told them you both had,” Arduwyn finished. Though he had asked no question, he seemed to want an answer.

  Garn nodded. When Arduwyn did not continue, Garn spoke to reinforce his gesture. “Kruger paid me.”

  Arduwyn intertwined his fingers, resting his hands on the stone. Now fully facing Garn, he abandoned subtlety. “You killed him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Garn admitted.

  Arduwyn went motionless. Despite the directness of his question, he had apparently not expected Garn to reply so boldly. “Why?” he finally managed, sounding more curious than chastising.

  “He tried to cheat me.”

  “And?”

  “I killed him.” To Garn’s mind, that told as much of the story as Arduwyn needed to know.

  Arduwyn leapt to a crevice on the rock. “I thought you understood. No violence. Couldn’t you have talked things through? Better, why didn’t you take what he gave you, then come to me? I could have talked the rest of your wages out of him.”

  Garn shrugged, unused to having other men handle his problems. “I didn’t think of it.”

  “But you thought of killing him.”

  Garn shrugged again, finding nothing more to say. He saw no right nor reason in defending murder.

  Arduwyn raked a hand through red hair that sleep had plastered into lopsided spikes. “What now?”

  Garn cleared his throat. “You know better than I do. I suppose I get punished for breaking the law. Right?”

  Again, Garn’s response seemed to catch Arduwyn completely off his guard. Obviously, the little hunter had prepared arguments that did not fit Garn’s compliance. “After you killed Kruger, did you take those wages he owed you?”

  “No.” Garn rested a foot on a rocky outcropping, twisting toward Arduwyn on the stone. “I just took what he had given me. I was upset.”

  “Well, someone did.” Arduwyn’s features went lax in thought. “Apparently, some thief found the body and ransacked it. Luckily, the authorities are assuming the same thug did the killing. Murder for the purpose of robbery.” Arduwyn shook his head. “The guards have no reason to think one of Kruger’s own workers killed him. I don’t see why we should tell anyone.” He glanced quickly at Garn for confirmation.

  Garn chewed his lip, surprised he had gotten off so easily.

  But Arduwyn had not yet finished. “You may not get caught this time, but I can’t in good conscience loose you to kill the next person who annoys you. Do you understand?”

  Dread shivered through Garn, and his sinews tightened in defense. Though uncertain of Arduwyn’s plans, they sounded suspiciously like captivity. “What are you saying?”

  “You have to learn to control your temper.”

  Silence followed while Garn waited for Arduwyn to elaborate. When the hunter said nothing more, Garn spoke tentatively. “Agreed. I’m working on it.”

  Amazement widened Arduwyn’s eyes. “You have a plan?”

  Garn nodded, kneading the horseshoe through the fabric of his pocket.

  “And you think it’ll work?”

  “No doubt.” Garn conjured up an image of Rache’s broken corpse and could almost feel the wake of calm that would free his mind once the deed was done.

  Arduwyn leaned toward Garn. “What’s your idea?”

  Garn guarded the thought protectively, aware no one else could understand how one man could shackle another’s common sense. “It’s personal, inside myself. It’s not something I can share.”

  Arduwyn ran his fingers over the cold surface of stone. Some time passed before he answered. “I think I understand.” He stopped his movement to clamp his fingers onto Garn’s shoulder. “If you decide you need help, I’m here. Just tell me one thing. Will it require us to leave Pudar?” A strained look crossed Arduwyn’s face, and his eyes gained a film of pain. Yet a glimmer of hope streaked the dark depths, as if some innate part of him begged the opposite answer.

  “We can stay.” Garn wat
ched his friend curiously, wanting to give the reply Arduwyn needed to hear, but uncertain which it might be. “For a while, at least.” The strangeness of his companion’s look encouraged him to question. “Why?”

  Arduwyn straightened his robe, the gesture nervous even to Garn’s socially untrained eye. He had never seen the hunter so rattled. “I’m going to make Bel my wife.”

  Garn blinked, the news such a foregone conclusion, he could not believe it was the cause of Arduwyn’s concern. Already, most of his pay had gone to support the woman and her children. Since Arduwyn’s discussion with Mitrian in the Granite Hills, his pairing with Bel seemed natural and obvious to Garn. “Good.”

  “I’ll be going to live in her cottage. I’ll take Sterrane with me.”

  “Good,” Garn repeated, finding nothing else that needed saying.

  His piece spoke, Arduwyn became noticeably more relaxed. “Counting back days, Mitrian should have had the baby by now. It’ll come any day. She ought to rest. Why don’t you take over the housework until the baby’s born?” He paused, as if expecting protest.

  But Garn had been raised with no more than a passing understanding of men’s and women’s roles, and Arduwyn’s underlying intention, to keep Garn out of trouble, slipped right past the ex-gladiator. He nodded agreeably.

  “Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can find you some work that can either accommodate your temper or, at least, not aggravate it.”

  Garn knotted his fingers around the horseshoe in his pocket. He wanted to promise Arduwyn that he would never again kill in anger. But until he unraveled the riddle of steel and Rache lay dead at his hands, he had no reassurances to offer. “Thank you,” he said, at length.

  And, for now, that seemed enough.

  * * *

  Three days of housework was enough to convince Garn that being born and raised a townswoman would have driven him to madness. On the morning of Mitrian’s fourth crampy, bed-ridden day, Garn stared at the apron dangling from his fist, aware that from the instant he donned it, he would fall back into the cycle of sweep, clean, carry, and cook. Stalling, he glanced over a living room he knew by heart. Three chairs, a couch, and a low table formed a cheerful circle, all carved and assembled by Sterrane with Garn’s help. Mitrian had bought matching, down-filled cushions in the market square for the rigid seats and backs. Currently, horseshoes covered the tabletop from Garn’s efforts the previous night.