Hand of the King's Evil - Outremer 04

by Chaz Brenchley

  'Hasan should do what he believes is right, what he has always taught and argued for.' Jemel's voice was as tight and unforgiving as his face. 'It is a cowards way, to escape into dreams when the road is hard. He knew that Surayon was part of Outremer, he has always known that. It was Catari land before, and holy to us.'

  'And what would you do, if he made that choice and went to lead the tribes? Would you join their slaughter, as you wanted to before? It is a slaughter, Jemel, just lift your eyes and look. Or listen, can't you hear the screaming? There are children's voices in the screaming.'

  'There always are. Children, women, the old and the sick - they die, whosever hand directs the blade. That is war, Marron. You know this, you have done this too. You say you will not kill again; I say wait, the time will come. Hasan might control the tribes a little; the slaughter will be worse without him. But no, I would not follow if he left. I followed him once, and Jazra died. I swore then that I would never follow him again, but kill him rather. I was hot then, blaming him for saving me; that oath was foolish, and I broke it. But now he is sleeping in the sun while men die - yes, and children too - and I will not follow him again. A man should not be weak when he is needed. Besides, I am sworn to stay with you, and that oath I will keep, foolish or not.'

  Marron might have wished the last answer to have come first, but he was glad enough to hear it at all. He nodded his acceptance, although privately he wondered if his changeable friend might not turn once more, when Hasan was awake and in his strength again. That man had a drawing power in his voice and manner, that Jemel had been helpless to resist before.

  For now, he just nodded his head towards the open doorway that led off the terrace and into the palace beyond.

  *

  Standing had been hard enough; walking was worse, even with Jemel's shoulder as a crutch beneath his arm. He felt absurdly weak, utterly drained and more. He shuffled along like a man old and spent, as though all his youth and vitality had been ripped from him. His body had not forgotten the steely inexhaustibility it had borrowed from the Daughter. With every step he expected to recover it, and with every step he was betrayed into a trembling helplessness.

  Probably any man so cruelly reduced would hunger for what he had lost. He couldn't blame himself for yearning to have the Daughter back in his blood again; his soul's freedom didn't seem worth the price today.

  They passed through a wide and empty room, and came to a corridor that led straight and far, too far, seemingly into the hillside the house was built against. There was still no one in sight, no sound of movement from any of the many doors that opened to left and right. Marron wondered foolishly if the entire household had abandoned them and ridden off to the war. More seriously, he wondered if he could possibly walk as far as the corridor's end, even with Jemel's support. If he did, and if they found nothing but empty rooms all the way, he was utterly certain that he would not be able to walk back.

  Jemel knew; he said, 'This was stupid from the start. We should sit on the terrace and wait. The Princip will come soon, Sherett said so.'

  Perhaps Hasan is not so cowardly and weak, then, eh?The words hovered treacherously on Marron's tongue, and were not - quite - said; instead he only sighed, close to yielding already, only wanting not to make waste so quickly of the great effort that had brought him this far.

  He hadn't felt like this those times when Elisande had healed him, neither her father Rudel. Perhaps the legendary Princip was cruder in his work, coming to it late as he had, lacking the subtlety of the native-born miracle worker . . .

  Even as the thought occurred, he heard voices, down at the further end of the corridor. He waited a beat, to know who they were and what they were saying; then remembered that it was the Daughter's trick and not his, to hear such details across such a distance.

  So he waited in an ordinary way, as Jemel waited beside him, two young men adrift in a strange house, not at all where they were thought or meant to be. He could have been nervous, he thought, at being found — or caught, he might have said - like this. The boy he'd been, Sieur Anton's squire would likely have ducked through any convenient doorway to avoid it. Now he didn't care, except that he hoped not to startle whoever was coming.

  Two of them, figures coming up through an archway, arm in arm and arguing hody. Marron didn't need the Daughters eyes, nor its ears to identify them now. The one he'd lived and travelled with for many weeks, while the other was actually easier for him to name from some little way off. The squat figure, the barrel chest, the beard - he might almost have thought that Jemel had lied to him, if the beard hadn't been white and Elisande hadn't been so closely in the stranger's company.

  'Grandfer!' Her voice rose, easy to hear every word suddenly. ‘I thought you'd healed him?'

  'So did I.' It was a fit voice to come from such a chest, from such a man, deep and carrying. 'And so I did. He's not bleeding, not possessed, not grey and fading into death -what more do you want?' 'You know what more!'

  'And you know what little I had left me, or could afford to give

  But he was talking to empty air; Elisande had disengaged her arm from his and was running the length of the corridor, skirts flapping awkwardly about her legs as she came.

  She hurtled into Marron, clutching at him, all but knocking him over with the force of her arrival. It was Jemel's wiry strength that held them all upright; that earned no thanks, though, only a glare and, 'What were you thinking of, to let him leave his bed?'

  'Have you ever tried to keep him there?'

  Elisande blushed furiously; Marron felt a little tremor in his friend's arm and thought the Sharai was laughing, deep inside.

  Then the girl took his hands in a tight grip, muttering, 'Just hold him for a minute, let me work.'

  She closed her eyes, perhaps to see the better. Marron felt warmth flood into his fingers, into his wrists, wherever her skin touched his. It chased through him, blood and bone, the course the Daughter always used to take; he felt a pang of near-recognition. But this was something far less harsh, sunlight and not fire; what it left in its wake was not the limitless energy nor the seeming immunity that he could have borrowed from the Daughter. Rather it was an awakening, his own strength stirring as his muscles fed, as they drew from Elisande something of what they had lost in his draining.

  Not all: she couldn't give him what had not been his.

  Nor could she restore to him the full power even of the boy he'd been before, the brother Ransomer who would sweat and endure and achieve through sheer stubbornness. What he had now, though, what she gifted to him felt like another miracle, a pulsing wonder in the deep hollows of his body, a secret flame whose light could not be hidden, whose source would never show.

  'Enough.' That was the Princip, who knew that source too well. Elisande nodded and released his hands, looking pale and shivering herself now, apparently glad to step back into the shield of her grandfather's arm.

  Jemel frowned as Marron did the opposite, straightening and stretching and peeling away from the Sharai s supporting hold.

  'It's all right, Jemel. Look, I can do this now,' standing by himself and smiling at his friend, secure on his own feet. He could do a lot more; he felt as though he could run the length of Outremer, race Jemel on a camel, on a horse, whatever. It wasn't true, of course, he'd fail sooner than he ought to; it was only with the Daughter's strength that he could run all day, the granddaughter's wouldn't sustain him long at all if he were wasteful of it.

  'You can, yes,' the Princip said, with an edge to his voice that was patendy saying, and see now, she cannot. 'Forgive my sounding churlish, Marron, you are very welcome to Surayon, and to my house; but she should not have spent so much of her energy where it was not needed.'

  'Oh, what, not needed?' Elisande roused herself into instant outrage, squirming against the arm that held her pinned to his side. 'He was falling down, you saw him—'

  '—And could have been picked up by Jemel there and carried back to his bed and kept in i
t, tied down if necessary, until he had eaten and drunk and slept his way to health again. It would have come, in time.'

  'He might not have had time,' she argued, with that sullen look that said she knew she had lost the point already.

  'No, that is true - but if Marron lacked the time to recover naturally, then so will everyone else who comes here in search of healing. And they will come, Elisande, they are coming now. And what will you say to them, to the men with their wounds and the women with their burns and the children with their terrors and their broken bones, when they turn to you and you are too spent to help them?'

  'There are other healers,' she muttered, twisting again against his grip, this time trying to avoid his level gaze and his steady voice.

  'Yes, there are. Some are stronger than you, and some are less strong, and all will be needed - but none among them is granddaughter to the Princip. It makes a difference, Elisande.'

  'I know,' she said, sighing, subsiding. 'I'm sorry, Grandfer. But Marron can make a difference too,' added determinedly, a new justification. 'He's no good to us lying on a pallet in the sunshine.'

  'Forgive me, lad - but what good to us is he on his feet and twitching with your borrowed strength? As Ghost Walker, he was dangerous to both sides equally; as a boy, he's all bone and nothing.'

  'He can fight. He's a demon with a sword, I saw him outfence four Sand Dancers at once

  That was the demon with the sword, not me, though it was true that he had his own skills. But he didn't say so, he said neither of those things; he had something else to say that was more important. 'Elisande — I will not kill.'

  'What, still?

  'Still.'

  She glared, with an exasperated affection; he made a helpless gesture, sorry, but your grandfathers right, I'm no use to anyone. ..

  Surprisingly, it was Jemel who offered a way forward. Jemel the fierce warrior, always ready to kill anything that did not kill him, Jemel said, 'The wounded will be brought to this house?'

  'Yes, any who are seriously hurt. They'll be looking for me, but I can't be here — no, Elisande, I cannot!’ I must go out to the field again, I've delayed too long already.'

  'Which field? There are three armies on your land now.'

  'Each of them in turn. Naturally.'

  'And do what? Fight and die an old mans death, too foolish to remember that your body is not the force it used to be?'

  'Experience is like armour in a battle, Elisande—' '—Yes, it slows you down—'

  '—And I don't plan to fight much in any case, only to organise the defence of my country'

  'Oh, that needs you, does it? It's not as if everyone in Surayon hasn't known for thirty years what they should do when this day comes ...'

  'Knowing and doing are different things, when there is fire and death at your heels. I simply have to be there, the Princip has to be seen. And no, you may not ride with me. You have to be here, you're as much a symbol as I am. Rudel is dead, and you are more than ever the continuity of the state. I've indulged you before, but no longer. You stay here, and you help my people, your people - which does not mean wasting what energy you have to make your friends feel better!'

  Jemel spoke again, quickly across the seething silence, before the storm could break. 'It will not have been wasted. We will ride out, Marron and I, if there are any horses left in your stables; we'll help to bring your wounded in. Armed men defend the weak simply with their presence. And if we meet a war-party, well, I am Sharai and he is Patric; between us we may turn them without need to fight. Both our peoples have honour enough, not to attack the injured or their escorts. They may need only to be reminded of it, in the heat of the day.'

  More likely, Marron thought, he and Jemel would simply incite extra fury in those they faced, regardless of any codes of honour. Sharai and Patric riding together, in this cursed and desecrated land? That was reason enough for more slaughter.

  Still, it was a good idea. Even the Princip couldn't deny that. He nodded briefly, and even managed a glimmer of a smile as he said, 'There are horses remaining, though they may not meet your standards, Jemel. I've mounted the Sharai before, and even my finest would barely satisfy. Now my finest are dead, or ridden half to death already'

  Jemel shook his head. ‘I wouldn't waste a warhorse, nor a racing horse. If we fight, we fail, and we will not flee. Give us sumpters if you have them, they can carry two at need; give us dray horses if you must. Perhaps we should take a dray...'

  'Perhaps we should,' Marron said quiedy. 'Jemel, I can't ride— Oh. Oh, yes. I suppose I can, at that.' A breath, which didn't help at all, and then, 'With your permission, sir? We'll do what we can.'

  Another nod from the Princip. 'Go. Tell them in the stables - if you can find anyone to tell - that I will come shortly, and I need my Boucheron saddled and prepared. No doubt there will be others riding with me. Not you, Elisande,' before she could utter the first syllable of the argument they could all see rising to her lips. 'You stay, and play princess for me as your mother would have done. Marron, you feel well just now, but you are not. Do what you can for my people, and by the God's grace I will thank you for it later, but don't drive yourself into exhaustion. There's no more either one of us can do for you today.'

  'Except one thing,' Elisande said swiftly, determined apparently to have some kind of final say, if not the one she'd wanted. 'An armed man needs a weapon, Marron sweet, or he may be very scary but he isn't very armed. Esren!'

  The djinni appeared at her word in its common form and place, a darkling rope above and behind her shoulder.

  Hanging seemingly unsupported in the air below was a sword in a belted scabbard of white leather with silver edging.

  Marron would have thought it lost, if he'd had the time to think it missing. His rush of joy at its recovery told him how much he would have mourned that loss.

  He spoke his joy in a wordless cry, in a sudden movement that pulled him free of Jemel's restraining arm. He reached past Elisande and snatched for the sword; there was a moment's resistance, and then Dard's familiar weight fell into his hand.

  'For a young man who doesn't want to kill,' the Princip observed mildly, you seem uncommonly pleased to have your weapon back, Marron.'

  'Uh, yes, sir .. .' He was too busy buckling the belt around his waist to worry about the old man's unabashed interest, Elisande's smug self-content, even Jemel's stony silence. They all had their meanings, and any one of them might mean trouble to come, but he could puzzle them out later. He shifted the belt until the sword hung perfectly, put his hand to the hilt and drew the blade a hand's span from its sheath. He wanted to go further, to examine its edge and run his fingers along its chasings, to come that little closer to Sieur Anton. This was not the time, though; he released the hilt and let the sword slide down into its sheath again. In that moment of separation, he remembered again his other, his genuine loss. And looked at Elisande and said, 'Where have you put the Daughter?'

  'Where it will be safe,' the Princip replied brusquely, when she hesitated. 'The fewer who know, the safer it will be.'

  Safest of all if you don't know, that seemed to be what he was truly saying. If safety meant separation, if keeping them apart was its true measure, then even Marron thought that he was right. Already something in him looked at the Princip and thought thief thought give me back what you have taken from me...

  If safety meant separation, though, then Marron had been safe before, behind the Daughter's distance. Sometimes a veil, sometimes a shield, always a breach, it had lain between himself and the world, numbing pain and weariness but numbing sympathy also, holding him that little way apart from the concerns even of his friends.

  Now that distance had been snatched away, and he stood entirely within mortal touch again, and was not ready for it. Not the Princip, but the world stood by to give him back everything that the Daughter had taken from him.

  14

  A Bridge to Fall

  This was not like watching from the terrace, even
with the spells of farsight that seemed to bring close what was truly distant. That was only seeming, like a tale told of a battle fought; there was skill and wonder in it, but it was a long, long call from being there, from the taste and the touch, the glory and the terror of it, the chill of steel and the hot run of blood.

  The terrace, the palace lay above and behind them, not so very far in ridden road but all that other, greater distance between the tale and the truth. Up there they had watched and listened, seen and heard; down here they were in the landscape, part of the picture, actors in the play. They were what they had been watching.

  Down here and a long ride yet from any fighting, drifts of smoke on the wind were occasionally heavy enough to sting at their eyes, and they had to veil nose and mouth against a fall of dust-fine ash. The sun seemed hazy, high and cool in a thickening, shadowy sky; that was a portent, surely. With

  the air so bad to breathe and the light failing far too soon, it was an easy message to read. Death had come to Surayon, and spread its hands wide across the valley.

  Himself, he rode towards it. His teeth were gritty with the sour taste of burning, his nostrils were stretched for the first scent of blood; the horse beneath him was as jittery as a boy on his first raiding-party, and he was little calmer himself; and yet, and yet...

  Jemel couldn't help, couldn't keep himself from laughing.

  He was riding deliberately in front now, but still kept twisting round despite himself, despite every effort at proper discipline. They rode to war, if not to fight in it; this was no time for foolishness, for giggling.

  And yet what better time, for a Sharai who should treat his life as lighter than his honour? The tribes were never solemn before battle, honour demanded a coarse joke, an arrant boast and a grin flashing brighter than a scimitar in the sun; today - as he was supposed not to get involved in any battle that they came across - honour demanded, honour absolutely required that he laugh.