Faithful

by Michelle Hauck

  So why wasn’t their alcalde here to meet him? The whole situation gave him an uneasy feeling.

  Appetite fled, and it had nothing to do with the wastefulness before him. Julian pushed his untouched plate forward so he could rest his elbows on the table. Two days of riding nonstop to speak with the alcaldes here, only to be kept waiting for hours. Why would they do that? He was sore and tired and a knot of emptiness rested in his chest, the same lump he got every time he was separated from his wife and children. Even without a clock in the room, time pressed down upon him in a silent ticking of the seconds. Rather than pacing, he adjusted his tunic and coat, rehearsing his speech once more in his head, but he couldn’t settle.

  The leaders here would know such delaying tactics to be useless on a man of his experience, thus the slight was either because they found him, the leader of the largest ciudad-estado with one of the biggest militaries that could break them twice over, unimportant—unlikely—or they were well and truly flustered at his arrival. He could grant that his presence was unwanted. They must guess at his reason for being here and would oppose it. Nor did his plan satisfy himself—for a moment his inner landscape rocked, and he tried and failed to tighten his left hand into a fist, then he regained control, pushing aside the doubt.

  The plan was flimsy enough against what faced them, but the alternative was to roll over and let Ordoño win.

  That Julian would never allow, not until the last breath left his body. He would try whatever it took to convince the leaders here to listen, including anything that might keep them off-balance and likely to concede. He arranged the throw pillows—Beatriz might have had a hand in decorating this room from the amount of plush and lace—against his back in the throne-like chair and laced his hands over his chest for a nap. Although a sham, let the alcaldes see him perfectly at home and relaxed, not a frantic man, flinging out desperate ideas.

  In the end, the long day’s ride did send him into a light doze, a pleasant-seeming dream where he walked hand in hand with Beatriz through their favorite garden while the boys ran around them. It harkened of days that would never come again, bittersweet bliss. When the door creaked open, he woke with a smile on his face and an ache in his heart. Three men entered. He recognized Alcalde Juan of Crueses and Alcalde Ramón of Suseph.

  Juan and Ramón were similar enough in feature and figure to be brothers though decades separated them in age. This was not surprising—their families had been intermarrying for generations. The term alcalde was only a formality here, their elections a mockery, considered more of a quaint tradition, as the eldest son always succeeded the father as ruler. Both had long fingers and high foreheads with sloping chins. Alcalde Ramón ran to jowls under his beard and a comfortable paunch around his middle. He kept his beard full to touch his chest. As the younger—and Julian’s contemporary in age—Juan still wore his hair in curly ringlets to his shoulders, a fashion in their cities for younger men that Julian found made them look more like women. He wore his beard short over the chin and lips, but with great bushy sideburns. Their clothing could have been selected by the same tailor: bright colors that didn’t necessarily match and puffy sleeves on the short doublet the wealthy seemed to favor worn long over green hose. Despite being prepared as they had met many times before in better times, their colorful attire hurt Julian’s half-asleep eyes.

  The third member of their group was a priest. Julian gave him a cursory glance as he climbed to his feet and offered a bow. The elderly man was so old as to be hunched over under the weight of his own shoulders. He wore the black robe of a bishop under the traditional triple-rope belt. Another aspect of their cities that did not surprise Julian. Instead of an advising elected council, Crueses and Suseph relied on the clergy. This bishop must be their leading counselor. Oddly enough he wore a curling mustache dyed a startling black. Julian did a double take. In his fifty-four years, he’d never seen a priest with facial hair before.

  “Turn right back around,” Juan said before they’d cleared the threshold. “We know what you’re about and we’re not having it.”

  “We are not the shelter for the entirety of your ciudad-estado,” Ramón added. He waved a ringed hand. “Turn your people around and take them somewhere else.”

  Julian felt glad to have the worst out—it did save time—though it was odd that they didn’t seem to be guessing about his purpose. Their posture spoke of certainty. There were rumors that the twin cities employed birds as messengers, and he knew it must be true—no runner could have brought word of the number of civilians headed this way this quickly. “There is nowhere else.”

  “There are plenty of other places,” Juan interrupted. He remained standing while Ramón dropped into a chair and dipped his fingers into the olive bowl. “Go deeper into the desert. Head for Vista Sur. It is too many for us. You are not welcome.”

  “Not welcome,” Ramón repeated, holding out a hand in a warding gesture. The man had a vain fetish over displaying his plump, smooth hands when he talked. It had always been so—Julian used to laugh about it with Beatriz—but today it irritated.

  Julian pushed the pillows on the floor. “There isn’t time for this, and you know it. You are talking nonsense, not the wisdom of an alcalde. The people of Colina Hermosa are coming here and that is that. Will you open your gates or will you force our hand?”

  Lips curled at Julian’s threat, but there was also a touch of fear in both men’s eyes, for it was not an idle one. Julian was perfectly prepared to batter down the gates to the twin cities if needed to provide safety for his people. The smaller ciudades-estado would be unable to stop them. It was a gigantic waste of time and resources, though. People would die on both sides. No one wanted that, but they knew it was not a bluff.

  They would do the same in his place.

  “Be reasonable. We cannot absorb so many, Julian,” Ramón said, placing a hand on his heart. “On our honor. We’ll all starve.”

  Julian looked at the overloaded table with an eyebrow raised and his patience drained another notch. “I have a solution for that. You will only be taking our civilians. The fighting men will go with me to Aveston.” He held his breath for a heartbeat. Getting the people inside was not his fear. Here came the tricky part. “And we will take your pelotónes as well. That will save your provisions for a time.”

  Ramón pushed himself back from the table, the chair legs screeching on the tiles. Fury overtook Juan’s face. “You bastard.”

  The bishop touched mind, heart, liver, and spleen. “Hold. Hold,” the priest said. “This is a conference. We will talk it out. Be cal—”

  “The Northern army around Aveston is the smaller army,” Julian shouted over the priest. “Together, we can take it down. That will be one less part for Lord Ordoño to bring against us. One less group of fighting men to resist.” The remaining army would continue to be huge; Julian feared them unbeatable. But he had seen one miracle in the last sevenday. Given time, could not another be worked and brought to save them? “We would free Aveston, so their men could join us. Together we can pressure the other ciudades-estado to join us, too. If all our cities send their armies, we have a better chance.”

  Juan raised his chin. “We care not for your chances. Engaging the Northerners at all is delusional.”

  “Delusional,” Ramón echoed the younger man, punctuating it with a raised fist. “We are small, vulnerable. Fighting is not our choice.”

  Julian frowned. Not their choice.

  As if the Northerners are giving us a choice.

  “Do you think to buy the Northerners off?” he scoffed, standing. Crueses and Suseph were wealthy cities, but no one with half of a mind would think that a possibility. Or not anyone who’d met Ordoño. “I can tell you have not talked with Ordoño. I’ve seen him myself, and we had an insider close to him who knows his mind. Father Telo assures me the Northern leader will not be dissuaded. Look how he burns his victim cities. He’s not interested in riches.”

  Ramón had pulled his cha
ir back to the table as Julian spoke, piling a plate with thin-sliced pieces of beefsteak and pouring turnip gravy over it. Juan took a seat, leaving the bishop as the only one of the three still standing. “You mistake us,” Juan said.

  “Wha—” Julian snapped his mouth shut. “You . . .” The word wouldn’t come. “You aren’t buying off the Northerners. Or rather . . .” He looked at the men, his vision almost wavering. “Saints. You . . . you are taking their terms.” His legs trembled and he sat abruptly, unsure whether he was more shocked or horrified. “Do you not know what that means?” His voice rose. “They demand a portion of your population—for sacrifice. How can you accept them?”

  “We’d planned on a lottery of all nonessential persons.” Ramón’s knife paused. “It is the only logical way. Fair to all.”

  “Fair to all,” Juan repeated. “We have no power to fight, and they recognize it. This way we save our city. We will not burn as your Colina Hermosa.”

  “So you sacrifice your people”—Julian waved his hand around the room—“for this? You give up your people in favor of buildings? You haven’t told them, have you? Your people don’t know you intend to do this.”

  “We act to save our way of life,” Juan corrected. “It was not an easy decision. Our people will be told when the time is right. Do not mock us because you were too selfish and lacked strength to make the hard choice.”

  “Strength? What you do is a mockery. You will not keep your way of life. The Northerners will not leave you that. You will become the fodder for their knives until there is nothing left of you. Can’t you see that? You might think to protect yourselves”—Julian pointed at the three of them—“but it will not succeed.”

  “Caballeros,” the priest hobbled forward. “Our Lord gave everyone leave to follow their own path. Our differences make us as various as clouds in the sky.”

  “This isn’t about differences,” Julian shouted, incensed. “It’s about insanity!” Were they so isolated in their rosy palaces as to have no feel for the common people? What deal had they struck with the priests to gain the support of the church? Could they be so foolish as to overlook that if you opened the door for one rat, it was impossible to keep the rest out?

  It all smelled of rot to Julian.

  The elderly bishop stepped forward to scold again as Juan and Ramón shared a look. Ramón raised a plump hand and sent the bishop back to his corner. “You will not change our mind, Julian. It will be announced to the people when the moment is right and accepted. They will see there is no other way. The failure of your city is a fine example for them. We will do you the concession of taking your people into our shelter if you choose to go fight.” Both alcaldes focused on the table as if unable to look him in the eye. “But you may not have our fighting men.”

  Julian blinked, suddenly understanding and feeling like a fool. They’d maneuvered him perfectly. All along, they’d been ready to accept his people, counting on it. Who better to throw to the Northerners as the first victims? They spoke of lotteries they no longer had to hold—not right away on any count. Why sacrifice their own people when Julian provided replacements? They’d give the people of Colina Hermosa to the Northerners.

  And what choice did he have?

  No wonder they waited so long to see him. They should be ashamed to show their faces to the world, let alone to him. How could they act so? The cities had always squabbled—sometimes to trading blows—but to betray each other like this before outsiders . . .

  He couldn’t go fight the Northerners at Aveston and leave the people of Colina Hermosa undefended and without walls around them. He’d already debated that point. That was the reason for sending them here.

  “It doesn’t have to be this way. If we all joined together—”

  Their eyes snapped to him. “Drop it. We are decided. Continue to force the issue and you will not leave this room.”

  The bishop swung open the door, revealing a dozen guards with swords drawn. Chills ran down Julian’s back. Alcaldes had been murdered by rival ciudades-estado in the past. Precedent existed. “Would you kill me to prevent me from stopping my people from coming?”

  “You’re a smart man,” Juan said. “You know they must come here with or without your support.”

  “We don’t want to kill anyone,” Ramón added. “Especially you. You are our brother alcalde.”

  “It would be a poor return,” Juan agreed. “Think of leaving your people with us as insurance and payment to us as you go to incense the Northerners more. We allow you to have your fight, with your soldiers. We keep your people safe, feed them, clothe them, and tend their ills. If worse comes to worse, they save our people.”

  Julian worked double time assessing the possibilities and hit a blind alley. By the saints, they’d have his wife as hostage. They might as well have beaten him senseless with sticks, the result was the same. “Supposing I accept this quietly, have you a way to contact those inside Aveston?”

  Again, the alcaldes exchanged glances and Julian took that for yes. Ideas clicked in his head. To be able to slip a message inside Aveston would be invaluable. Could he let his people go for this concession? Could he betray them with a smile and a wave of the hand, in an instant becoming the biggest traitor in his people’s history? All for the chance to strike a feeble blow against his enemies. Without the extra military units it was even odds they could win.

  The thing was: Did he have a choice?

  The fingers of his left hand closed enough to manipulate his thumb over them, though it brought enough pain to draw tears from his eyes. He’d let himself be outmaneuvered. Saints forgive him his failures, for Julian would never forgive himself.

  “For our people . . .” he whispered.

  “For our people,” Juan and Ramon echoed, their grins turning his stomach.

  Chapter 17

  The horses’ hooves sloshed through puddles from the recent rain. The marshland where Ramiro had camped during his last trip to the swamp had changed beyond recognition. There, where he’d tied Claire to a slender birch tree, a latrine had been dug. The grass was trampled and matted from the passage of many feet. The trees where Claire had tried to escape him had been hacked down. Dozens of little mud huts, more like lean-tos in height, dotted the area. A large camp had been here, but now only a few eyes stared out at them from inside the small shelters, most of the structures empty. Claire echoed him in glancing around uneasily.

  It wasn’t right. Why hadn’t Teresa greeted him? Ramiro had expected there to be more . . . life about the place. Why were there so few children in evidence? There should have been dozens.

  “The ciudad man returns.”

  Claire let out a yelp of surprise. Anger tightened Ramiro’s muscles at the sound of that swaggering voice. Signaling Claire to remain in place, he held himself together, descending from Sancha before turning to look, giving his temper a chance to settle. He wanted nothing so much as to pound Suero into a greasy stain on the ground. The man had stood aside to let the Northerners kill him. Only Claire’s unexpected interference had saved his life. They’d had a deal and Suero had kept it by the slimmest of margins, abandoning Ramiro as soon as allowable. Now it appeared Suero had failed to protect the children of Colina Hermosa as well.

  And just like a cheat and a liar, the leader of the village had deliberately let them go past to move in at their backs. It was a wonder he spoke and didn’t just fill them full of arrows, though Ramiro guessed it was more about their lack of skill with such weapons than any idea of honorable courtesy.

  Back bent like he was hiding something, Suero stood with feet spread apart, Salvador’s sword held at his hip by a length of rope. He sported bits of Ramiro’s stolen armor on upper arms and thighs. Spots of rust dotted the metal, in places as big as a thumbprint. Armor needed constant scouring in such a wet place to avoid corrosion. Suero had done none of that. The anger swelled again and it had nothing to do with the armor.

  “Where are the children? Where’s Teresa?” Ramir
o squeezed his fingers into fists, ready to grab for sword or knife. If Suero had altered that part of their bargain, nothing kept Ramiro from taking back his brother’s sword—and enjoying doing it.

  “Gone and gone.”

  “Hardly an explanation.”

  “Why are you back, city man?” Suero’s hand reached up to scratch his dark beard, the only full and generous thing on his otherwise pinched and suspicious face. He stared with obvious greed at their horses and equipment. “Five ciudad people enter my swamp, and only three leave. This time I think none will.”

  Ramiro faltered. Three? Teresa and he were the only ones to survive. What did the man mean? Certainty returned as he guessed the traitorous little man had added Claire to the mix. That would explain the higher number.

  “Stop with the threats,” Ramiro said, making note of the other hunched men hiding behind shelters. No doubt they waited with heavy cudgels in hand. As sure as the sun rose in the morning, Suero would fight dirty, but Ramiro had allies now.

  Or did he?

  Claire was conflicted about her magic. Could she hold the others off as he took Suero down?

  It didn’t matter. He’d fought dirty himself in street contests as a boy. He’d just as soon do it again today. Take out Suero and the rest would slink away. He took a step forward, hand going to his sword. “Let’s get this started.”

  “Wait.” Claire shook her head at him in warning or maybe exasperation, and he stopped. “What good does fighting do? Aren’t there more important things than ego right now?”

  She was right: It was more important to find answers to his questions than take out his frustrations. “Taunting seems to be all you can do,” Ramiro called out. “It’s pathetic. Tell me where Teresa and the children have gone and you never have to see us again.”

  “Why should I care? Do you have something to trade?”

  “I’m sure you prefer to steal,” Ramiro snapped. “It’s a wonder you can show your face after you dishonored our bargain. What kind of man are you? Did you hand them to the Northerners?” Claire’s disapproval or no, his conscience wouldn’t bother him to end this treacherous sneak.