"Was it all right?" he asked her.
A sort of motion of her head. He could not tell what. Yes, he thought.
"Don't I get an answer?" he asked.
She took his hand that was holding her wrist and pulled his fingers from her. Then she held that hand in both of hers.
They had made love again in the night. He was not sure who had started that. She might have. Certainly he had needed no reason, whether or not she had intended to come up close against him, and he had gone slower in the act this time, to give her the pleasure she had missed the last time. But he had fallen asleep again after, till she moved and waked him in the dawn.
She gave him no answer now, except the pressure of her hands around his.
Well, maybe, he thought, that was as fair an answer as she could give—no courtesan's glib Of course, my lord. Taizu thought about things. Taizu thought for days on a matter before she ever opened her mouth. He could imagine the pensive line between her brows and the fierce tightening of her mouth. Then she slipped away from him, grabbed up her clothes on the way to the door and fled in a flash of daylight.
* * *
So Shoka sat on the porch in the cool morning, with the polished bronze bowl hooked to the post, a pan of warm water in front of him, judiciously scraping the stubble from his chin. That he did most every day, when he got around to it. But this time he had put his scalplock up in its clip at the crown, the rest of it, still black and still thick as any boy's, to hang down his back. There were weather-lines about the face, sun-frown graven about the eyes and the edges of the mouth; but overall, looking at that image in the bronze, he saw an appalling similarity between himself and a certain younger man, and said to himself: Haven't learned a thing, have you?
He was finishing when Taizu came up the hill from her bath—she still preferred the spring, for whatever reasons; and he had rather the rainbarrel, which was not so cold a walk afterward. She looked at him sitting there in his old guise, her eyes widened, and she stopped there, with her wet shirt hugged about her in the chill.
He shook water from his razor and dried it, flattered and pleased at that look, that fed a vanity he had not known he had, and for which he was, all taken, a little regretful: damned nonsense, he thought, in the same moment, because it was not Shoka the man she was seeing. It was Saukendar the fool. The one the world knew.
But it did not please her.
What in hell's the matter? he wondered, and froze, afraid suddenly, and not even knowing the answer.
She was afraid, he thought.
Of what? Noblemen? Gods knew she had cause.
"Something the matter?" he asked her.
"No, master."
"Master, hell. M'lord, if you like. Shoka if you don't." He rested the hand and the razor on his knee. "About last night—"
"I'm cold. I want to get dressed."
"Girl, I'm more than fond of you, if you haven't figured that out. I'd have you for my wife, if you want that."
She looked at him still, so still, and drew herself up with one breath and a second, sharper one. She stood there a moment looking at him, gathering her composure. Then she bit her lip and ran the steps right past him.
"Doesn't that even get an answer, girl?"
He heard her stop. He heard her standing by the door, the little movements of breathing, against the hush of dawn.
"I'm not a lady."
He turned around where he sat, and looked at her, figuring some of what was going on, at least. "My wife is whatever she wants to be. My wife is a lady. That's what I'm offering, dammit. I don't think I've insulted you."
A long silence. She looked toward the dark doorway, not at him, a long, long time. And the hand came up toward the scar which, gods witness, he had not so much as thought about, not last night, not this morning.
That damned scar and everything that went with it.
No tears. He feared she was going to cry in the next moment, and his gut tensed up; but she kept her composure. And never looked his way.
"Master Shoka, please don't come with me. Let me do this. Then I'll come back and be your wife. I'll be whatever you like. Just stay the hell out of my trouble!"
He sat there, still, calm, while a girl cut at him in a way that no one on earth would do and walk away from—if he had not sensed the pain in her, and the woman's honor she had, not to take morning-promises of a man that he might be fool enough, having shared a bed with her—to mean for three and four hours.
"I put no conditions on anything," he said. "I couldn't stop you from coming here. Now you can't stop me from leaving this place. You see—preventing things is very difficult. So I taught you. So I let you go. And now you can't stop me."
"Yes, master Shoka." A hoarse and hollow tone, as if she foreknew defeat and played the game for courtesy's sake.
"I'm no fool, girl. I passed my own adolescence a long time ago. Give me that."
Silence.
"That's what you think, is it? I'm a fool?"
"No, master Shoka."
Bitterness overwhelmed him, a sudden vivid recollection of Meiya's grave, carefully painted face, a meeting in a garden, in the palace: Marry someone. For the gods' sake— And a thought, sharp-edged, that Meiya had traveled into that hazy nowhere-land of legends, a damned romance the country-folk told in wintertimes. Saukendar and lady Meiya. As if he, plain Shoka, had no right to tamper with that, or change the ending.
Master Saukendar. . . .
—Dammit to hell, I'm still alive!
And if I want a Hua pig-girl in Meiya's place, isn't that my right?
I never wanted to be a damn legend.
"Dress," he said sharply. "Then get out here. Or if you've changed your mind about going to Hua, say. You're not obliged to be a fool, you know. Or if you're set on it, then we'll go today. Whatever you choose."
She went inside. He picked up his shirt from beside him on the boards, put it on, belted it this time, and looked up at a thump and crash of something from inside the cabin.
Temper. Yes.
He put his armor sleeves on and tied the fastenings, and the shin-guards, with their ties, before Taizu came out and dumped their rolled mats on the porch.
"Come here," he said, and pointed to the steps at his feet. She frowned and came that far. "Sit," he said, and added: "Please."
"What are you going to—?"
"Sit."
She sat, and he unbraided her wet hair and combed it, carefully—then faced her about by the shoulders and took his razor.
"What are you doing?" she cried.
"Come, come—" He took up one lock and the other, combed them back, then cut the next, making a fringe of bangs.
She squinted her eyes and wrinkled her nose as the hair drifted down. Three and four judicious cuts and he took a loop of metal and a pin and faced her about again, combing the long hair up to fasten.
"You're wasting your time," Taizu said.
"Why?"
"You can't make me look like a lady."
"That's all very well. I don't want them to take you for a bandit, either." He faced her about again, combed more hair loose about her ears, held her by the chin. "Damn, that's not bad."
Her mouth made a hard line. There was thunder in her eyes, and a trace of rain.
"It makes the scar show."
He pinched her chin hard. Shook at her. "What kind of thinking is that? Hold the head up. Hell with the scar and hell with them. People won't forget your face, that's sure. So hold your chin up. Who are you afraid of?"
"Nobody."
"What kind of words are you afraid of?"
"Nothing."
"Mmmn, it used to be Sleep with me."
She jerked away from his hand and gave him a furious scowl.
He smiled at her. "You're damned pretty."
"You're a liar, master Shoka."
"Girl, girl, you've got it wrong: a man lies to a woman about that before he sleeps with her, not after."
That set her back. He saw the fla
re of her nostrils, the set of her mouth.
"Better pack before we get into too much of this rig," he said. "And get Jiro saddled. I hope you know he's not carrying much baggage. He's no pack-horse, and his full rig weighs."
Still the scowl.
"Poor old fellow," Shoka added. "You're doing a terrible thing to him, you know."
He said it to torment her. But he also felt it.
* * *
Jiro laid his ears back when the steel went on, and he blew himself up and threw his head and shifted and stamped, all calculated to make saddling him difficult.
"I suppose you know," Shoka said to the horse, and patted him hard on his leather-and-steel armored neck. "It's the road again. Back by spring, if we're lucky."
One could promise anything to a horse. Jiro never listened anyway. He only flicked his ears and sulked.
A man, Shoka told himself, ought to have better sense.
* * *
He unfolded his armor-robe from where it lay on the porch, and put it on—a little frayed, a little stained from where he had bled on it all those years ago, but the gold-thread dragons were still bright, their green eyes undimmed. Clouds and dragons on the robe, and red stitching on the breeches he was wearing, that color being faded, considerably—hard to tell what it had been to start with. He tied his belts and sashes, eased the body armor on and sighed, fastening the side ties, while Jiro waited down at the stable, stamping and fretting.
The silk weavings of the armor had been red once. Those on the body-armor mostly looked brown—especially since the mud. He finished the ties across the chest, and looked to Taizu, who came out with their bows, their quivers, her sword, and the bundles that were their food and their pots and pans and their personal necessities.
She came back in a second trip with her armor, and sat down and did her own shin-guards and her sleeves; but he helped her with the rest.
"Not at all like a bandit," he said to her. In fact, he thought, he had done quite a good job with her gear—small deer-horn plates stitched in patterns: her colors were all tans and brown. But he found a red silk cording among the things he had brought from Chiyaden and made her stand still while he tied it in her hair.
"You have to understand," he said to her. "A little decoration makes your enemy know you're confident. It makes him worry."
She frowned doubtfully at him.
"It's the truth. Who would you be afraid of? A scruffy bandit? Or a man who takes care for himself and his equipment? A ribbon or two and you look much more substantial."
Bang. From downhill where Jiro expressed his impatience, a kick at the stable wall.
"You're damn pretty," he said, and touched the scar on her face. "Wear it like a banner, girl. Like a challenge. You survived that. You're not ordinary. Hear?"
Bang, from the stable-yard.
Taizu-gnawed at her lip. Not angry, no. Listening to him.
"You're my student," he said. "You won't make me ashamed. I have confidence in you."
"Then don't go!"
"Mmmn, it's not lack of confidence in you. Don't you think the whole of Hua province is too much for one girl to take on? You at least need someone to watch your back."
"You're making fun of me."
"No. I'm determined to get you back alive. I have a strong interest in that. You've promised to be my wife if you get back."
"I—!"
"I think that's excellent good sense. Look at what I can give you. A fine house. A whole mountain to hunt on. Good company. Are you sure you want to go to Hua?"
"I know what you're trying to do. You're going to be arguing with me all the way to Hua. And you'll step in at the last moment and kill Gitu. And I'll never forgive you for that."
Bang.
Bang.
"I have no such intention. I do plan to give you a little advice. I think that's only—" Bang."—reasonable. You can have Gitu. I certainly won't contest you for a prize like that. Are we ready?"
* * *
Shoka did not look back when they left, leading Jiro. He knew what the place would look like: like home, only empty and dead—and sights like that were no comfort. Taizu did. And at least she cared.
Jiro laid his ears back and showed the whites of his eyes on the descent. It went by fits and starts, Jiro planting his feet in the narrow slot and eyeing the next steep, root-tangled turn: then a rush that ended with Jiro braced crosswise on what level ground he could find and looking with a misgiving eye at the next stage.
It had not seemed this bad on the way up, to Shoka's recollection. Or he had been seeing less on that day—when he had come to this place and decided on a certain mountain and led a much younger horse up it. It was a relief when he had all four of Jiro's feet on level ground again, with all four of Jiro's legs sound, and bearing that in mind he let the old fellow rest a while, content to walk, under the green leaves, until the trees grew fewer and they came to the fields.
Those had changed too—much nearer the mountain than they had been all those years ago.
"Are we going through the village?" Taizu asked.
He thought about that while they walked, the chances of going in secrecy, the chances that a man and a girl in armor might not be spied in all the weeks between this place and Hua. And he had worried about that since he had realized he had to leave the mountain—about that, and other things.
Maybe there was no real debt between himself and the villagers. He had never thought of one: they provided him food in trade for good furs, they were useful to each other.
But he kept thinking about the boy who came for the furs; and about the women who sent the pots of preserve; and the farmers who grew the rice, and it worried him, what they would do and what the bandits might do, once the word spread.
"We're going through the village," he said, and stopped and freed Jiro's saddle of the baggage they had slung over it. "Here you are." He handed her the roll of mats and bedding, and both their bows and quivers; and slung over the back of the saddle the rest of the packets that had not gone into Jiro's saddle kits, and tied that down. Then he set his foot in the stirrup and climbed up.
* * *
It was certainly, Shoka thought, a reason to bring the farmers running from their fields and the people from their houses—one of the odder sights that had ever appeared in the single dusty street: a gentleman in faded armor on a graynosed horse, with a somewhat undersized and over-loaded retainer. At first they had not even seemed to recognize him, or ten years had worked more change than he had thought; but then someone in the gathering crowd said: "It's master Saukendar!" and the whole village pressed about them, making Jiro anxious and crowding Taizu close to his stirrup.
But those were the young folk. The village elders came out to them, and bowed; and Shoka bowed from the saddle.
Are there bandits? he heard asked through the crowd. "Are the bandits coming?"
He felt a pang of guilt for that.
"What brings you to us, m'lord?" the oldest asked, in a voice like the wind in dry reed. "What can we do for you?"
"Honorable," he said, and bowed again, "this is my wife. Her name is Taizu."
Murmurs and bows. He could not see Taizu's face. It was, he thought, probably just as well. He imagined the scowl, fit to frighten devils. But she kept quiet, while the village women stared at her wide-eyed and the whole village wondered, in politely hushed tones, just where master Saukendar had gotten his wife and—in a little quaver of fear—just what such a woman might be.
Doubtless they were looking closely at her hands, to see which way the thumbs were on. And her expression, if it was what he thought it was, would lend them no confidence, Taizu standing there with her feet braced and her sword in both hands, crosswise.
There were bows, profound bows, the elders and the villagers to them both.
"We had not known—" the elder said.
He almost said: You know her. She was the boy who came through here two years ago. But prudence held his tongue—with the glimmer of
an impious notion.
"My wife wants to see her homeland again," he said. "So I'm going away for a while." He heard the murmur of dismay and forged ahead quickly. "I've business to take care of. So I came to pay my courtesies to you, and thank you for your kindness—"
The elders bowed. The people did, a bending and a whisper like wind moving through a grain-field.
"But who will keep the bandits away?" an elder asked, setting off others asking the same question, a chorus of voices pleading with him.
"Quiet!" the eldest said, stamping the ground with his stick. "Quiet."
It took a moment. They were distraught. There was fear, there were looks toward Taizu, curiosity and resentment, and Jiro picked up the distress, stamping and fighting the bit: Shoka reined him tightly, for fear he would bite if someone came near—but no one was venturing that close.
"Pardon," the elder said, bowing. "Pardon, m'lord, m'lady, but who will keep us, then? The moment you go away, lord, the bandits will come down on us. They know we've been well-off, they know we've had good harvests. ..." There was panic in the old man's voice. There were pale faces, wide eyes all around, and a whisper of profound despair. "Stay with us," people began to wail.
"Be still!" Shoka said, and everyone hushed, except the children, who had begun to cry. "Listen to me. You're also well-fed, prosperous, and there are more of you than there are of the bandits, who haven't had the courage to attack you. I trust you haven't forgotten the bow or the staff in ten years. Any of you who want to go up to the cabin and take anything, that's perfectly fine: but I'd spread the word to travelers, the demons will never harm anyone from this village, but no one else should go up there. There are terrible things. You've heard them howling on the ridges, demons with eyes like lamps and fingers like ice. But this village is safe from them. It has special protection, and anyone who steals in this village and anyone who does any violence against this village, that man will never be safe. My wife and I will come and find him. Hear?"
Eyes were very wide. People bowed, pale of face, and mothers hushed babies with their hands.
"Tell every traveler," he said. "Make sure they carry that word."
Again the bows.
"Good luck to you," he said then, and let Jiro move, the elders clearing out of their path with multiple bows, the people melting back behind them.
The Paladin Page 16