Paladin's Strength

by T. Kingfisher

  “No more so than any other man,” said Istvhan, which was both a lie and probably too many words all in a row for the other man to follow.

  “Yeah?” There was a young woman with him, patting his arm furiously and murmuring that they should go. He ignored her. “Yeah?” he said again.

  “You know how it is,” said Istvhan heartily. “Look at you, my friend, you’re clearly strong as an ox yourself.”

  She thought for a minute that he might have managed to deflect the other man’s ire, but it wasn’t enough.

  “That’s right,” said the man, “I’m the big man around here. And don’t forget it.” He swung.

  Clara started forward, ready to grab the fellow by the collar and drag him back, but Istvhan was faster. He caught the man’s wrist and pulled forward, one foot tucking neatly around the man’s shin, and dropped him facedown into the dirt. His female companion squeaked in horror.

  “Careful, man,” said Istvhan, in a loud, hearty voice. “The footing here makes fools of us all, eh?” He reached down and pulled the stunned man to his feet, slapping him on the back. “Nearly fell myself. I think the mules have been leaving calling cards.”

  The man blinked at Istvhan. Clara could almost see the words trying to penetrate through his drink-addled brain.

  “That’s the problem when you’re as big as we are,” said Istvhan. Sympathy dripped off his words and he enunciated we so clearly that they could probably hear it clear to the wagon. “A lot farther for men like us to fall, eh?” Us got the same treatment.

  “Oh, aye,” said the man, clearly confused as to what was going on.

  “Are you his lady? Lucky man, yes.” Istvhan smoothly handed the drunk off to the young woman who had gone bright crimson with embarrassment. “No, no, sir, give the young lady a chance to look you over.” He nudged the drunk in the ribs in a friendly fashion. “I know it’d take a lot more to put a man like you down, but the ladies do love to fuss.”

  And just like that, it was over. The man was tugged into the crowd, muddy and mumbling. Istvhan beamed and waved, while Doc Mason carried on his stream of patter. Tolly caught Istvhan’s arm. “Are you hurt?” she whispered.

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “He was huge! I was afraid he was going to murder you!”

  “Now that hurts me,” said Istvhan, putting a hand over his heart. “So little faith.”

  “No—no—of course I knew you could deal with him, but—”

  “Balm-of-Ages,” said Doc Mason from the stage, with great emphasis, “yes, truly the most amazing and timely of herbs for so many conditions…”

  “Oh no!” Tolly hiked her skirts and ran for the wagon.

  “That was very well done,” said Clara softly, coming up beside Istvhan. “I was going to make up an excuse to drag you away.”

  “The day I cannot handle one drunken lout, Domina, is the day that my brothers put me on my pyre.”

  “Some drunken louts handle easier than others.”

  “That sounds like a euphemism and I like it.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her. She elbowed him.

  “You talk that way to your Mother Superior?”

  “I hear the order of St. Galen doesn’t stand on ceremony.”

  Tolly began closing up the wagon, which folded together with remarkable speed. Doc Mason stood on the back step, still selling tonic and keeping up a steady stream of patter. Clara wanted to help, but Tolly clearly knew exactly what she was doing. She kept an eye on the crowd as well, which was not dissipating, even as the line of customers grew shorter.

  “How do you suppose he ends this?” Clara asked.

  “No idea, but I’m guessing he’s got a plan. He’s far too polished to leave it to chance.”

  Istvhan was correct. “And now we must take leave of you all,” said Doc Mason to the crowd, as the last customer stepped back, clutching their bottle. “It pains me to leave you, but other towns must learn of Doc Mason’s Herbal Tonic! Lad! Lass! Step up, if you will!”

  “Did he just call me a lass?” asked Clara in an undertone.

  “You’re more of a lass than I’m a lad. I’m forty.”

  “I’m thirty-six.”

  “See, I win.” Istvhan stepped up on the back of the wagon and stretched down a hand for Clara. She stepped up beside him, taking the outrider’s position at the back. Tolly cracked the whip smartly and the mules leapt forward at a good trot, despite the gloom. They must have been used to this kind of late evening journey.

  Doc Mason, on the driving block beside Tolly, waved extravagantly to the crowd. “Be well, my friends! Be well and healthy! Tell your friends!” He continued waving until they rounded a corner and were out of sight.

  Twenty-Four

  Tolly dropped the mules to a plodding walk after about ten minutes, and Istvhan and Clara climbed down to walk beside them. “Do you always make such a dramatic exit?” asked Clara.

  “I must, Domina, or else they will be at our doorstep all evening. I am an old man and need my sleep.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “There’s a travelers’ rest up ahead,” said Tolly. “We never go too far after a show. It’s not as good as an inn, but it’s cheaper.”

  The rest was substantially better than many places that Clara had camped. It clearly served as a frequent stop on the road for traders. For a few coins, there was firewood and fodder for the mules. Doc Mason haggled with the attendant in a desultory fashion, and then pulled his wagon into position.

  “Not much custom right now,” he said, climbing off the wagon, “or I’d have tried to get him down farther. The off-season’s always hard.”

  Istvhan set to work building up a fire while Clara pulled their blankets out of the wagon. Doc Mason ate a few bites of food, but waved off Tolly’s offer of more. “No, my dear, I’m fine. It’s the very small crowds and the very large ones that take it out of me. That was a fine size, and reasonably well-behaved.”

  “Reasonably,” said Istvhan, a bit dryly.

  “No fruit, anyway. And you put a stop to that one fellow, my boy. I’m glad of it. Bad for business when fights break out. That man had clearly taken a bit more drink than was good for him.”

  “He was huge!” said Tolly. “I only saw him out of the corner of my eye—and you actually fought him?”

  “No, I tried very hard not to fight him. It was my fault to begin with,” said Istvhan. “Big men get used to being the biggest, and they see anyone larger as a threat.”

  “Fault’s a strong word,” said Clara.

  He grinned at her. “Yes, Domina, but notice he didn’t swing at you.”

  She snorted. Tolly’s eyes went round. “Who would try to hit a nun?”

  “More people than I’d like,” said Clara. “Also, I doubt he could focus on a holy symbol at that point.”

  “Which is why you have a bodyguard,” said Istvhan easily. He grimaced down at his tabard. “Unfortunately I was telling the truth about the mule droppings. I think he wiped about half of them off on me.”

  “I’ll wash it for you,” volunteered Tolly.

  “Never fear, I’ll wash my own,” said Istvhan. “I’m capable of it, when I’m not head to toe mud.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “I would feel guilty asking you to do it again.” Istvhan picked up his stained tunic and rummaged in his pack for soap. “Shout if you need me for anything.” He headed toward a long line of willows and the sound of running water. Tolly watched him go, then climbed inside the wagon.

  “We rarely have any problems at travelers’ rests,” said Doc Mason. “Particularly not at this season.” It wasn’t freezing, but there was a definite bite to the air. Clara was glad that they had extra blankets.

  “And now,” said Doc Mason, picking up one of the remaining bottles, “I shall do as I promised, and down a bottle in front of you. Would you care to join me, Domina? I hate to drink alone.”

  She laughed. “So long as you drink first.”

  He pulled the cork
and drank down a long draft, then smacked his lips.

  “You’re good at that,” said Clara.

  “Drinking? Mastered it in my youth.”

  “No, at selling tonic to strangers.”

  “You flatter me, Domina.”

  “I do nothing of the sort. There’s as much skill in holding a crowd rapt as in mixing herbs, and you know it.”

  Doc Mason chuckled, then sobered. “I was an herbalist’s apprentice once,” he said. “But I couldn’t handle all the death and the wounds and seeing people at their lowest ebb. Took the heart out of me. I prefer to leave them laughing and happy. Then I drive away, and in my head, they are always just as I left them. It’s a coward’s way, perhaps, but it’s what I can do.” He passed the bottle to Clara and she took a sip, wiping her mouth. It tasted herbal and sweet on the tongue, and burned all the way down.

  “Gah,” she said, wiping her mouth. “You’re not undercharging for the alcohol, anyway.”

  Doc Mason laughed. “It’s dreadful stuff,” he agreed. “You won’t go blind, that’s all I can promise. I work with four or five distillers and they’re all good quality, but whenever a batch comes out wrong, they set it aside for me.” He took another slug of it himself. “I won’t say it grows on you, but throw in enough honey and herbs and you won’t care. And if it tasted good, no one would believe it was medicinal.”

  Clara snorted. “You’re not wrong there.”

  “And what about you?” asked Doc Mason. He turned a thoughtful eye on her. “You aren’t really a mother superior, are you?”

  Clara froze, bottle halfway to her lips.

  “I’ve no doubt you’re really a nun,” he hastened to assure her. “You pray when no one’s looking and you bless your food and the first drink of water. More than that, you carry yourself like you expect that a god would listen to you.”

  “I didn’t think I was that arrogant,” muttered Clara, downing a rather larger sip of herbal medicine than was wise. She coughed.

  “No, and that’s the trick. You don’t carry yourself like you expect to be obeyed. An abbess would. You don’t expect other people to listen to you, just a god, and you’d do the god the favor of listening in return.”

  “Just a nun, I’m afraid,” she admitted. “Though we were truly attacked by bandits on the road. Mother Superior was Istvhan’s idea, so that no one questioned why I’d have a personal guard.”

  “Is he really your bodyguard, then?”

  She grimaced. “He seems to think he is.”

  “Ah…” Doc Mason sat back, looking both regretful and amused. “More’s the pity, I suppose.”

  “Eh?”

  “If I don’t miss my guess, that’s my granddaughter going down to the stream, probably with lust in her heart.” He nodded toward the line of willows, and Clara caught a glimpse of Tolly vanishing into the trees. “A genuine bodyguard, she might have a chance. But a man who follows you and takes your safety to his heart…no, I’m afraid she’s going to be disappointed.”

  Clara cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t seem particularly concerned about your granddaughter…ah…”

  “Canoodling?” Doc Mason grinned. “She’s a grown woman and she knows her own mind. And Istvhan’s a good man and would break her heart as gently as possible. That’s all you can hope for with youngsters.”

  “There might still be canoodling,” said Clara. “He can’t have me.”

  “Because you’re a nun?”

  “What? No, I—ah—” Oh goddammit, why didn’t I just say we were a celibate order? She wiped her mouth. Too much herbal medicine, that’s probably it. “It wouldn’t work out,” she muttered.

  “I highly doubt he knows that,” said Doc Mason.

  “Well, he ought to,” said Clara crossly. “And Tolly’s a fine woman. He ought to be honored to have a chance at canoodling with her.”

  Doc Mason coughed, took another slug off the bottle, then corked it. “Ah. Yes. Well, I’m going to bed. Those shows are rough at my age, and my voice will take a day to recover at least.”

  “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you the whole truth,” said Clara. And still aren’t, for that matter. Though at least this wasn’t a lie. Nobody ever asks if you’re all the way human.

  “I know. The lie’s been twitching at you like a fly on a mule. I could see it every time I said the words, ‘Mother Superior.’” He patted Clara’s arm. “I figured I’d chase off the fly. Sleep well, Domina.”

  “You as well, Doctor.” She poked the fire until it was safe to leave, then rolled herself into her blankets under the wagon. Neither Tolly nor Istvhan had returned from the river.

  Some dark emotion gnawed at her gut and she dragged it up ruthlessly into the light. Jealousy? Is that it? You have no right to be jealous and you know it. He isn’t yours. You have no claim.

  No, it wasn’t jealousy. It was…envy.

  She exhaled and stared at the underside of the wagon. Axles. Boards. Iron mechanisms that probably did something important. All of them quite innocuous, painted orange by the dim light from the coals. Not a particularly useful thing to stare at, when you were trying not to think about the fact that you envied a girl half your size and only a little more than half your age.

  I had a good life, until the raiders took it. I had sisters and a home. I traveled and my work interested me. I was healthy and my body did what I asked. I had lovers when I wanted them. I had no cause to envy anyone. Even if those lovers would not remain if they knew the truth. Even if the only time one had learned the truth, the man had recoiled in horror and fled her as if she were a devil. The young man with the poet’s eyes, the one who’d talked about building a life together.

  Four months of ridiculous youthful passion, pursued mostly in winter, while she waited for the canal to unfreeze. They’d found every sheltered place within a mile’s walk of the convent, and made love there at least twice. She’d been young enough and fool enough to believe that maybe she could simply never go to the beast again, just abandon half herself for love.

  And then one day they’d run afoul of a wild hog and her half-grown brood and she’d had to choose between letting them both die and waking the beast, which was no choice at all. Even a bear might balk at fighting off a family of angry boars, but the sow respected teeth and claws and mass and fled into the woods.

  A moment later, so had he. “What are you?” he gasped, and she hadn’t known how to answer, so she didn’t say anything, just stood there in the ruin of her clothes, while he tore off as if the hounds of hell were after him.

  Oof, I am clearly maudlin tonight. Too much herbal tonic.

  She didn’t usually dwell on him. It had been half her lifetime ago, and while time didn’t necessarily heal all wounds, it certainly blunted the pain enough to get on with things. What the hell was his last name? Started with a K, didn’t it? Or a D?

  You learned better and you got on with things. You learned that you were what you were, and tried to be the best version of that person, because you were never going to be anybody else. And you stopped envying other people because everyone had problems you didn’t know about.

  Except apparently tonight, when she was envying Tolly, because she could have a tall, good-natured paladin and Clara couldn’t.

  But I would not be other than as I am. I like being who I am. It’s the rest of the world that I would like to change.

  The stream was not quite as cold as snow melt, but it had its origin in the mountains and it certainly wasn’t warm. Fortunately, it was also shallow. Istvhan found a convenient rock and set to work scrubbing and smacking his tunic against it, while keeping a wary eye out for unexpected sinkholes.

  He enjoyed hot water enormously, but deep water, particularly deep cold water, made him very uneasy. If he couldn’t put his feet on the bottom and breathe comfortably, there was too damn much of it. It came of being raised in a desert, most likely. Although I was never afraid of it until that one river crossing…

  The battle tide that rose in t
he Saint of Steel’s chosen made them supernaturally skilled fighters, but it had its blind spots. It was not omniscient—witness its total bafflement in the face of Clara’s shapeshift. And during one particular battle, it had driven him forward, he and his comrades, in pursuit of enemies crossing a ford. Clever bastards knew exactly what they were doing, too. That was their plan all along, pull us across where they knew the terrain and we didn’t.

  The gravel crossing was carefully constructed. Half the paladins were charging across it when the trapped side gave way, dropping them into fast water. A few managed to get their footing, or were grabbed by their comrades, but four were swept away.

  The other three drowned. Istvhan, through pure luck, smashed into a boulder small enough to grab. He broke two ribs and cracked another one, but he clung to that rock for nearly an hour, until Stephen came out of the battle tide long enough to look for survivors. Probably the god had helped.

  In that hour, Istvhan had gotten so cold that he was almost warm again. To breathe, he had to haul himself upward, out of the water, long enough to get his face clear, then sink back down. The stone was too slick to stay upright and his ribs ached when he breathed, but the god in his head ordered him to hold on and so he held fast. And they very nearly had to break my arms to get me to let go of that damn rock, too. If I could have, I’d have named it and carried it around with me.

  He smacked his tunic against a rock to which he felt far less emotional attachment, then paused. Someone was coming through the trees. They were not moving like they were trying to be stealthy.

  Tolly called, “How is it going?”

  He relaxed. Tolly was unlikely to try to drown him. “It’s mostly out,” he said, picking up the soap and scrubbing again. “Fortunately, I don’t wear white.”