After all had spoken, the Warlord looked at Hurst. “The accused may rise.”
Hurst stood facing him.
“Do you wish to say anything?” the Warlord asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“You admit your guilt?” His tone was level, unsurprised.
“If you mean do I admit that I killed him, close to a hundred people watched me do it, so there’s not much point in denying it, is there?”
“Do you have anything to say in your defence?”
“You’ve heard the story from start to finish from a number of people, and nobody’s said anything I’d take issue with. You know exactly what happened.”
The Warlord looked at him in silence for a long moment.
“Is there anything else you feel you should say?”
Hurst had a suspicion that he was missing something subtle here, perhaps some form of words, an excuse, a justification. Was he supposed to plead for his life? In the end, he simply said, “Such as?”
“An apology, perhaps?”
“I’d say it’s a bit late to apologise to a man after he’s dead.”
“You could apologise to me for killing my best Commander.”
“Was he really?” Hurst said without thinking, too surprised to stop himself. “Because it didn’t seem to me that he was a very good Commander at all.”
There was a rumble from the audience, but the Warlord said curtly, “Explain.”
“Well, firstly,” Hurst said, “he liked to intimidate people, and that’s a strategy that has a bad effect on the men. They have to respect their leader for himself, not just because he bullies them and they’re afraid of reprisals. Secondly, he was unjust. I’ve not been here long, but I’ve seen two separate occasions when he handed out punishment unfairly, without properly investigating what happened. And thirdly…”
He stopped, suddenly reluctant. But he had nothing to lose now, so he went on, “I don’t like to say this of a man I fought beside in battle but he was a coward.” The silence in the room was absolute now. “He should have led his men round the flank, he was ordered to do it, but he handed over responsibility to others and took himself back to a safe point. The manoeuvre was almost lost as a result. It was only the bravery and determination of his men that enabled something to be achieved in the end.”
There was a low murmur around him, and Hurst saw people nodding in agreement, but the Warlord only said, “I remember the events of that day too, very clearly. The accused may sit.”
Hurst did so, and realised his legs were shaking. He had felt quite relaxed in mind, but obviously the strain was telling on him. It crossed his mind that perhaps he was not quite as easy about the prospect of dying as he’d thought.
“This is my judgment,” said the Warlord, and even now his face gave nothing away. An implacable man indeed. “The accused offered provocation to Commander Bulraney, that is undeniable. However, a certain amount of such talk is commonplace during training, as a way of creating tension, of rousing an opponent to a higher level of performance. It is not normally an offence. However, if Commander Bulraney saw it as a problem, he should have dealt with it as a disciplinary matter, with routine punishment. Once he drew his sword, however, his battle sword at that, the issue became a different one. Commander Bulraney himself chose to view the matter as a personal challenge, and drawing his sword confirmed that he accepted the challenge. The accused had no option but to fight. It would be cowardly to do otherwise.”
He paused, looking directly at Hurst, while a low buzz ran round the room and died away, before continuing. “It is therefore clear that the accused, having brought Commander Bulraney to yield, won the challenge. At that point, the accused in fact became the rightful Commander of the Third Section.”
Hurst’s eyebrows shot up.
The Warlord continued relentlessly. “Logically, therefore, when Bulraney picked up his sword and attacked his new Commander, he committed a grave offence. It was a serious lack of discipline in a subordinate, possibly even attempted murder. The accused would have been perfectly justified, at that point, in ordering any means of restraining Bulraney, including immediate execution. That he chose to deal with the matter himself does not negate that right. The accused defended himself against an attack from a junior which threatened his life, and thereby executed a dangerously ill-disciplined warrior under his command, as he was entitled to do. I can see no fault in his actions.”
Hurst was speechless. He had expected death, and a tiny corner of his mind had hoped for some lesser penalty – a flogging, maybe, or banishment to the infamous Supplies – but this was too ridiculous for words. His punishment was to be made Commander in Bulraney’s place! It was quite preposterous. He could tell the assembled warriors thought so too, from the growing noise behind him.
Heddizan was clearly of the same mind. “You can’t be serious!” he burst out.
The Warlord stood up and frowned down at him, Hurst’s sword resting point downwards. Any sensible person would have quailed at that point and drawn back, but Heddizan was not inclined to be sensible. He had been Commander for a matter of days, and now he had lost his position to the man he regarded as a murderer.
“Lord, he killed Bulraney! You can’t make him Commander, it’s not right! If you do this, we’ll have everyone knifing their superiors to get promoted.”
“Captain—?”
“Heddizan, Lord.”
“Well, Captain Heddizan,” he said, his voice crisp as ice, “if you had been paying attention, you would be aware that I did not make anyone Commander. A challenge was issued, albeit informally. ‘I’d like to see you try’ – those were the words. Commander Bulraney could have made light of it, or he could have disciplined the man for his cheek, but he chose instead to accept the challenge, and the result was very clear, was it not?”
“Yes, but—”
“So salute your new Commander, as is proper.”
Heddizan turned and stared at Hurst, and now that he could see his face he realised it was not anger written there, but disappointment. Something he had wanted had been given to him and was now snatched away, and he looked as mortified as a child who has broken a favourite toy. But he bowed his head to Hurst and resisted the temptation to storm out petulantly.
The Warlord turned back to Hurst.
“Commander, I shall meet you in your office in one hour.”
“My office?”
“Your Captains will show you the way.” And with that he left, still carrying the sword, trailed by his four henchmen, exchanging covert glances.
A cacophony of excited chatter broke out in the room, and Gantor, Walst and Trimon materialised next to Hurst.
“How did you do that?” murmured Gantor. “From certain death to overall command in one bound.”
“Fuck it, I thought my promotion was rapid, but that beats everything!” Walst said, grinning.
“Now we have to call him Sir again,” Trimon said in disgust.
~~~
They gathered in Bulraney’s office on the highest floor of the tower, Hurst, all five Captains and Gantor, who wasn’t invited but tagged along anyway. Hurst supposed he would be able to choose one or two ordinary warriors as runners, so he saw no reason to send him away.
Bulraney’s big chair stood forlornly empty in the middle of the room. Hurst had only been there briefly twice, but he could see at once that the place was different. It was tidier, for one thing, and more chairs had been brought in and arranged in a loose semi-circle to one side of the large one. Heddizan was clearly more of a discussion man and less of a dictator than his predecessor.
Hurst went across to one of the windows and gazed out across the plains. The glass was scoured by wind-blown dust and hard to see through, but here and there a pane had been replaced giving a clearer view. Slowly, he walked from window to window admiring the expanse of emptiness. The view from the top was spectacular. He hadn’t realised quite how much he’d hated being confined, not just in his pris
on cell but the whole compound. The high walls were necessary, he conceded, to keep out marauding Karningholders and kishorn alike, but still it felt stifling when the whole plains were outside.
Meanwhile, a head appeared at the top of the stairs from the floor below.
“May I?”
“Come in – um, Delnor,” Hurst said.
“Just came to hand in my sash,” he said, thrusting a fistful of crumpled material into Hurst’s hand. And without another word he disappeared down the stairs.
“I’m confused,” Hurst said plaintively.
Walst sighed loudly and rolled his eyes dramatically. “It’s really not difficult. The Commander died, Heddizan got to be the new Commander, Ainsley became First, I moved up to Second and Delnor, being the best of Third’s group, became Captain there. Then you magically got made Commander and we all got demoted again. Understand?”
“I think so, yes. A lot seems to have happened rather quickly just lately.”
Light footsteps on the stairs announced the arrival of the Warlord. He was alone, but he still carried the sword. My sword, Hurst reminded himself.
“Come in,” he said breezily. “Erm – Lord? Is that how I address you?”
“Formally, yes, but Dethin will do here.” He looked around at all the faces watching him. “I shan’t need everyone. Captain Heddizan, you may go. Ainsley. Gronnash. Thank you.” He waited while they filed down the stairs and the thumping of boots had died away, then gazed impassively around at the four of them. Hurst stood beside the big chair, with Walst next to him and Trimon across the room. Gantor leaned against the wall behind them. “Well now, let us speak freely – Most High.” And he bowed formally to Hurst and then, with a murmured “Most Respected”, to each of the others in turn, but his face was cold as he turned back to Hurst. “I daresay Bulraney didn’t recognise your sword, but he knew there was something unusual about the four of you. He had his faults, but he had good instincts and he was very good at keeping me informed. He was right to be curious – it’s not usual to see a Karningholder and his Companions here, fully armed. So now you had better tell me exactly who you are, how you got here and what in all Nine Vortices you want with us.”
Hurst didn’t have to think about his response. The Warlord was a man of little emotion, but he had seen enough of battle-hardened Karningholders to understand the defensive layers a man might wrap around his heart to protect him from the work he must do and allow him to sleep at night. This was no Bulraney, driven by anger and selfishness and violence. The Warlord kept himself under tight control, but he was a man of intelligence and imagination, as he had proved at the trial. He would listen and consider before taking any action, and Hurst trusted him enough to know that he would do nothing without good reason. The time for secrecy was past.
So Hurst carefully peeled off his gloves to reveal the Karningholder tattoo, the spiral filling the whole back of each hand, with the jewel colours from his three Karnings clear and vivid.
“I am Most High Hurst dos Arrakas, First Husband of Karning Dranish Turs Kan-forst,” he said. “I have come to find my wife.”
35: Books (Mia)
Mia didn’t miss Dethin much while he was away. She kept to her usual routine and so did his men, so it almost felt as if he were still there, except that she slept alone and ate her supper with the other women, instead of sitting silently beside Dethin while he talked to his men.
He had twenty Captains, two from each Section, who spent two or three years with him before returning to their home Section carrying his discipline and methods with them. There was no doubt that his men both respected and feared him. He set high standards, expecting all the Captains to train with him every morning. After the stillness each day he carried out inspections, descending unannounced on the stables or the stores or the kitchens or the armoury to check that all was as it should be and woe betide anyone found deficient.
Yet everyone apart from the Captains had been with him for years and all were fiercely loyal to him. Mia found that two of the men looking after the stores and the most senior stable worker were all former Warlords now retired through injury or age, yet they happily stayed on under Dethin, and talked darkly of moving on whenever Kestimar from Sixth Section should take over. Even the kitchen workers here were a cheery and friendly group, unlike the lecherous men at Third Section. The women were treated with friendly respect.
Dethin always held a planning meeting in the big room next to the bedroom at noon, and his men continued the tradition even when he was away. Sometimes when she was busy in the bedroom, she overheard them talking about her, either forgetting or not knowing she was there.
“Don’t touch those, they’re for Mia,” one of them said one day, and she guessed someone had reached for an apple from the bowl of them Dethin had left for her.
“Mia?”
“Cassia. He’s changed her name.” That made her smile.
And again: “He’s too soft with her – taking her riding, bringing presents. And those trousers…!”
“He’s always like that with them. Don’t you remember the last one?”
“Course! Gorgeous, she was, lovely body, not like this one.” There was a burst of coarse laughter.
“She didn’t last long though, did she? Nor will this one, you’ll see. He’ll get rid of her soon enough.”
“No, he likes this one.”
“He always likes them, but they don’t like him.”
“Ack, it’s stupid being so soft, they don’t respect you for it. They like it rough.”
“Don’t let him hear you talking like that.”
Mia still wasn’t sure what she felt about Dethin. She had no real affection for him, although perhaps that would come in time, and she still feared his moods. Yet he was polite and considerate, and he didn’t abuse her beyond the obvious fact that he took his pleasure with her against her will. But there was nothing to be done about that, and if it were not him, it would be someone else, or more than one.
He had told her that he would never send her back to Bulraney, but that was not much comfort, since he could just as easily send her to any other Commander. Last year, she was told, Dethin had traded his woman for a dozen archers and twenty horses. She wondered miserably whether she would be valued so highly.
Mia had made some effort to get to know the women at the Warlord’s House. There were four of them now, for a new one had recently arrived, a gift from Ninth Section. They were quite cheerful about the life they were required to lead, and when Mia tentatively asked whether perhaps they resented being used in such a way, they couldn’t understand what she meant. One had worked in a brothel all her adult life, and the others had never hesitated to sell their bodies when they needed money or food, or simply for a quiet life. Even now they often disappeared with one or other of the Captains for the afternoon, in exchange for an extra ration of meat or ale, or a handful of the bones they used for their endless gambling games.
“There’s not many men here,” they would say, “they don’t often get drunk, it’s only evening work, and there’s no one nagging you to find more customers. And it’s nice not having to take the herbs.”
That was something Mia couldn’t agree with. None of the four had been married or had children, and although they sympathised with her for the loss of her baby, they couldn’t really understand the depth of grief she felt. From time to time she still had flashes of pain deep inside, as if her body remembered. Sometimes, when she was alone, she curled up on the bed and wept.
But now she had a new source of comfort – books. Dethin had brought her fourteen of them, all different shapes and sizes, and she had settled down eagerly to look through them and decide on the most interesting to read first. She’d thought they would be a random mixture of subjects, but to her surprise they were all books about the Gods. There was a children’s history of the coming of the Word, a detailed technical manual of all the types of plants ruled by Pashinor, a dry theological comparison between Gullinor and Syl
inor and so on.
To her pleasure, there was also a Book of the Hours, with all the chants required for each hour of the day through the seasons. In the early years of the Word of the Gods, when Slaves were few and lived mostly at the Ring or the Karningholds, anyone with any pretension to education had their own Book of the Hours, so that when they had the opportunity to commune with the Gods, they would know the correct words. Now that even the smallest village had its own Slave, there was no longer much need for such things, and only those who travelled a great deal or lived remotely had one of their own. Mia had never even seen one outside the Ring, apart from the huge versions kept in the temples.
She soon discovered, when she asked around, that there was in fact a temple within the compound. It was tucked into a corner of two of the outer walls, and was more a slightly rounded off square than a circle, but it had the little round windows filled with coloured glass to depict the domains of each of the Nine, although high up and only on the inner walls. It was being used as a hay store, but she found a couple of men willing to clear it out for her, leaving just a ring of bales around the outside to sit on. She swept it clean herself. It became a comfort to go there and sit quietly, or read the words of the hour out loud, as if somehow she still had a connection to the Gods, even in this place that often felt like one of the Nine Vortices.
One or two of the other compound residents went to the temple too, but most were cynical about the Gods.
“They never took any interest in me in my Karning,” one said, “and they certainly won’t here. Why should I pay any attention to them?”
“They only look after the Karningers,” another said. “There are no Gods here.”
Mia could understand why they felt that way, but the Slaves had always taught that the Nine were everywhere, listening and watching with compassion, even if they only spoke directly to Those who Serve the Gods, and only in the Tower of Reception. She had never doubted their word. Even if it was one of the Servants who had taken her away from her Karning life, had killed her child, she knew he only acted on the will of the Gods, and she could never question the purposes of the Nine.
The Plains of Kallanash Page 36