Paladin's Strength

by T. Kingfisher

  Clara sat back in her chair and let out a long, shaky breath. Something in her chest loosened a little. “Thank you,” she said. “That means more than you know.”

  Raulann nodded. “They may not be slated for the pit at all,” she said. “We will make inquiries as we can, but this is not easy. The Sealords pay well to keep their amusements a surprise. One-upping one another is how they display their power.” Clara nodded.

  “If that is all…”

  “Oh no,” said Faizen, clearly amused. “There’s more!”

  “More than an ecclesiastical shapechanger?” said Bishop Raulann. “Good heavens. When I asked the Rat to bring us something interesting, I should probably have been more specific.”

  Istvhan snorted. “Mine may not be urgent, though I fear it’s just as unpleasant.” He outlined the situation with the smooth men.

  “And you think they’ve come to Morstone?” asked Raulann.

  Istvhan spread his hands. “I think they’re in the area. It’s worth alerting the city watch if you can.”

  “There isn’t one,” said the Bishop.

  Clara had rarely seen Istvhan taken aback. “There isn’t?”

  “Ironically, one of the few good things the Sealords did in recent memory. They were a corrupt pack of bullies, extorting money from impoverished neighborhoods. Though I can’t say that the Sealords did it out of altruism—the former Watch got too ambitious and their commander wanted to be made a Sealord himself. The army…dealt with the problem.” She grimaced. “It actually got a lot safer around here once they did. At least we’ve only got one Sealord per district sweeping through and extorting people.”

  “I have yet to hear anything about the Sealords that I like,” muttered Clara.

  Raulann shrugged. “The three Dovekies are the least awful of the lot, and the best you can say about them is that they treat the lower classes like cattle, which means they think they should have food, water, and a decent place to sleep in order to maximize profits. We work primarily in Dovekie districts. The other four…well…if you’re thinking of going to the Sealords directly to ask about these clay men, I’d get that idea out of your head right now.”

  “How do we get word out, then?” asked Istvhan. “Are there paladins?”

  “No real tradition of paladins up here. They have a lot of gods of the sea, but if one of them calls a paladin, you get a god-touched privateer. Haven’t heard of one recently, though. In the little villages, they have the Benandanti, the Good Walkers, who banish demons and lay spirits to rest, but they’re much more loosely knit, and a lot less martial. We’ll send word to community leaders, but…” Raulann steepled her fingers. “I see why Archenhold’s Bishop was reluctant to put word out. Start going after people with the wrong sort of expressions and you’re declaring open season on many vulnerable souls. And if you start warning people about severed heads and corpses, god knows what we’ll get. Gah. What a mess.”

  “Walking corpses sound a bit like Sealord Antony’s drowgos,” said Faizen.

  “You mentioned those before,” said Istvhan. “What are they? And do they have eerily identical heads?”

  “No, their heads are all different. As different as corpses, anyway. Supposedly he’s got a tame necromancer who raises the drowned dead,” said Faizen. “They’re a great favorite in the arena, because it’s hard to kill the dead.”

  “A necromancer?!” Istvhan looked more appalled by this than he had been by any of the other myriad tyrannies of Morstone. “In public? Working for a government official?”

  “I know,” said Raulann, “I know.” She closed her eyes wearily. “In any decent society, we’d have paladins crawling out of the woodwork to put a stop to it. But the Rat doesn’t call paladins and the Forge God’s temple says they’ll handle it just as soon as we can identify the necromancer and we’ve got an army available as backup. The Sealords are like one of those families that all hate each other, but god forbid an outsider threaten any one of them. They’ll band together in a heartbeat. And Morstone, Rat help us all, isn’t an easily conquered city.”

  Istvhan grunted. Clara didn’t blame him. Necromancy was like demons or rabies. In most of the world, it transcended notions of right and wrong and blame and guilt. You just dealt with it as quickly and thoroughly as possible and hoped like hell it didn’t happen often. Fortunately it was much rarer than either.

  “What about the Dreaming God’s people?”

  Raulann sighed. “Two death or glory charges. They didn’t end in glory. We stopped asking. They’re good people, but even for paladins, they’re dim. No offense intended, Paladin Istvhan.”

  “None taken. It’s the sort of thing the Saint of Steel’s chosen were for, before…” He trailed off, and no one moved to fill the gap. “And no one else is appalled by the necromancer? No one with power? No one who can stop things?”

  The Bishop’s smile was humorless. “Welcome to Morstone, Paladin Istvhan. We hope that you survive your stay.”

  Twenty-Nine

  It was early evening by the time they left the temple. The Bishop took them to a man with heavy jowls and a massive gut and nimble, ink-stained fingers. He took down the names and descriptions of the raiders, and of Clara’s sisters, asking questions about each of them. Clara was embarrassed to realize that she could not remember what Sigrid’s eye color was or the Abbess’s height. “She always seems taller than she is,” she said cautiously. “But she has a personality like that. I think perhaps she’s actually rather short, but that’s not how I remember her. And she walks slowly, as if she was thinking about each step in advance, because her hips hurt her.”

  Ironically, she could have recognized each of their scents, but that wasn’t much use either. How did you explain the differences in sweat and skin and breath, when the convent all used the same kind of soap and wore the same kind of robes? And how did you put that into words that would mean anything to someone looking for them?

  Faizen explained about the bears. “And how much you choose to tell your people is up to you,” he said. “I realize it sounds quite mad, but treat it as if it were written in the Rat’s own hand.”

  The man’s gaze flicked from Faizen to Istvhan to Clara, then back. He gave a single, explosive grunt and began to write furiously. Clara had originally guessed that the man was a scribe, but changed her opinion to de facto spymaster as soon as Faizen said “your people.” But he did not ask for proof, or offer any comment. He simply took notes and then nodded to Faizen. “I’ll get them out to people in the next day,” he said. “Though it won’t be quick. We’ll focus on things related to the gladiatorial pit, but we only ever get to speak to some of the workers on their days off.” He glanced over at Clara and gave her a small nod. “Your descriptions are good though, Sister. I believe we can work with these.”

  “Please,” she said, resisting the urge to throw herself at his feet and beg him to find her sisters. “It’s been too long, and I’m afraid for what might happen.”

  He nodded, and Faizen ushered them away, into the dim streets of Morstone.

  “Proctor Ethan is a little odd,” warned Faizen. “A good man…the best…discreet!...but…odd.” His delivery was rapid-fire, as if he couldn’t quite decide whether to warn them off or beg them to give the proctor a chance.

  Istvhan shrugged. “I’ve met many odd people,” he said. “Arguably, I’m one of them.”

  Faizen did not look encouraged by this. “Ah…yes. Well. Somewhat.”

  “What does he do?” asked Clara. “For the Rat, I mean. Is he a lawyer?”

  “Oh no. No, no. He cares for people’s animals.” Faizen must have caught their puzzled looks because he ran a hand over his hair. “Morstone’s full of animals. There’s a dovecote on every roof or a chicken coop. People have cats or terriers for the rats. Most inns keep a slop pig. Hell, a few of the old families even fish with cormorants still. So that’s where Ethan comes in.”

  “He heals animals?” hazarded Istvhan.

  �
�Nothing so grandiose. But this is one of the problems the Rat has to solve.” Faizen shook his head. “You’ll get people who won’t leave a house that’s literally halfway in the river because they’re afraid they won’t be able to take their dog, or who won’t go to the healer, even if they’re half-dead, because they’re afraid their chickens will starve with no one to feed them. If we can find them somewhere to go where they can take the dog or the cat or the chickens, that’s the easiest, but a lot of times…” He lifted his hands, let them drop. “We have a couple people who handle relocation. We’ve actually got a few farms outside the city who will temporarily house poultry or doves or dogs, and thankfully, there’s a strong local belief that if you harm a cat, the ship’s cats will learn of it and refuse to work, so the sailor temples step up there.”

  Istvhan had a fairly good idea how the Rat worked by now. “And if there should be excess eggs or young cockerels or squab, and if people should be grateful for the Rat’s help and wish to donate that excess to the hungry?”

  Faizen grinned. “We solve each other’s problems, Paladin Istvhan. It is all part of the Rat’s ministry. Ethan goes all over the city for people who need help but are afraid no one will care for their animals. So he’s always out feeding the chickens so someone can actually visit the healer, or whatever. And he helps take in some of the…odder…creatures, too.” He paused. “Ah…do you like animals?”

  Istvhan very carefully did not look at Clara as he answered. She was wearing a heavy hooded cloak provided by the Rat, but he could practically feel her eyes on him. “Mostly, yes. I can’t say I have much luck with horses or mules. Dogs like me.”

  “They don’t like me,” said Clara. “Not at first, anyway.” She smiled faintly. “If their human acts as if I’m normal, they usually come around.”

  “Is it the scent?” asked Istvhan, interested.

  “I imagine so.” She shrugged. “Though cats don’t seem to mind. As far as cats are concerned, my scent is in very poor taste, but most humans are in very poor taste, so they don’t hold it against me.”

  “Well, that’s cats for you.” Faizen nodded.

  They arrived at last at a very strange house. It had been built up in a gap between two much larger buildings, but even by the standards of Morstone’s somewhat eccentric architecture, this one was odd. The planks were enormous and curved outward in places, and if there was a straight angle in the place, Istvhan couldn’t see it. It looked like a weaver nest built in wood instead of straw.

  “…huh,” said Clara.

  Faizen hammered on the door, then stepped back and waited. After a minute, he hammered again. “Sorry,” he said apologetically. “He gets into the middle of something and you have to keep reminding him you’re here.”

  After the fourth round of hammering, the door opened. The man in the doorway was short, slim, and wore the robes of a minor functionary of the White Rat. He had tied the long sleeves back, but the lower hem was dripping wet.

  “Faizen!” he said. “It’s you! Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting, I was just transferring the banded salamanders. They’ve laid eggs, you know, and you have to get them out of the jar before the eggs hatch or they tend to go to cannibalism, and no one wants that.”

  “Certainly we must avoid cannibalism,” said Istvhan, in his most diplomatic voice. Clara elbowed him in the ribs. “What? Cannibalism is a real problem!”

  “Especially in salamanders,” said Proctor Ethan. He was the sort of man who looked as if he should wear thick spectacles, but apparently nature had blessed him with decent vision. He grinned up at Istvhan and thrust out a hand. Istvhan shook. The man’s hand was extremely damp, not in a sweaty fashion, but in a “only recently extracted from a jar of salamanders” fashion.

  They stepped inside. Faizen performed introductions all around. Clara pushed her hood back and shook Ethan’s hand, and received the same soggy benediction.

  Ethan’s home was an odd concoction of cabinets, nooks, and niches, each of them jammed with glass jars and enormous ceramic bowls. “It was an old ship,” their host explained. “Most of one, anyway. A seer told the captain that as long as he stayed close to his ship, he’d never be ill in his life. When he retired, he had the ship dismantled and built his house out of the wood. There wasn’t a lot of space, though, so he built up and around another building that was already here—it’s a bakery now, keeps everything warm even in winter—and then he still had wood left over and he was afraid to lose any of it, so he had cabinets and shelves and staircases built all over. It’s such a weird shape that hardly anyone wanted to live here for long, particularly since the doorways are all so low…”

  “I’d noticed,” said Istvhan dryly, trading a glance with Clara. Both of them had almost bent double entering the room.

  “I’m sorry,” said Ethan. “I’ll put you in the tall galley. Err, you’ll have to share with Maude.”

  “Maude?” said Clara.

  “She’s a Northern Great Toad. You’ll love her. Everyone loves her. Except mice, of course. It’s a bit cold, that’s the only thing. Maude likes cold. Most amphibians don’t, of course.” He re-tied the strings on one sleeve. “Anyway, I love the house because there’s so many places to store my jars.”

  “Did it work?” asked Istvhan.

  “Did what work?”

  “Keeping the wood from the ship. Did the captain ever get ill?”

  “Oh no.” Ethan grinned. “He lived to be nearly a hundred, and then he was stabbed. By a jealous husband, if the stories are to be believed.”

  Istvhan felt a strong urge to remove his hat. He wasn’t wearing one, so he settled for putting a hand over his heart.

  Faizen had waited patiently through all of this, and now cleared his throat. “There’s a reason we need them to stay with you,” he said. “And it requires utmost discretion.”

  Ethan blinked. “Oh,” he said, sounding rather more focused. “Yes, of course. Is someone after them?”

  “Someone would be, if they knew who they were.” Faizen glanced over at Clara. “Do they know Sister Clara by sight?”

  “The original raiders would, but it seems unlikely that they are looking,” said Clara, thinking. “I am fairly distinctive, I grant you, but the people who know that I am still alive were mostly killed in the attack.” She paused. “I won’t swear that one or two might not have survived and ridden hell for leather here, though.”

  “Oh dear. May I know why?”

  Clara glanced at Faizen. He nodded.

  “Is it wise, so soon?” asked Istvhan worriedly. He didn’t like how pale she got when she stacked transformations so close together.

  “I’ll be ravenous afterward,” she said. “But no one ever believes you unless you show them.” She stripped off her cloak and then her robes. Istvhan took them. Ethan’s mouth fell open. Faizen gazed at the ceiling. Istvhan kept his gaze firmly above her collarbone, because if he looked any lower, naked lust was going to cross his face and make everyone uncomfortable.

  She dropped down to her hands and knees, surprising him. Then again, with the low ceilings…oh gods, the things we could do with her in that position… He looked at Ethan instead, who had turned scarlet and was starting to back away.

  The pressure in the room changed. The jars rattled softly on the shelves. The room was suddenly a great deal more crowded and Ethan’s jaw, already hanging open, looked in danger of imminent dislocation.

  “Oh my,” he said softly. “Oh my heavens. Oh by the Rat’s tail and toes. What are you?”

  “A person,” said Istvhan, hearing the harshness in his voice and trying to pull it back. “A sister of the Order of Saint Ursa. This is the gift their saint gives them.”

  “Oh my, yes. And you’re real, ma’am?”

  “Hrrwufff.” If a bear could roll its eyes, Clara did.

  “And you can do this voluntarily? At will? Not under the full moon?”

  “Hrrwuf.”

  “May I touch you?”

&n
bsp; Istvhan was astonished at the strength of his reaction to this. Am I jealous? Of this reedy little man with his salamanders?

  He had absolutely no right to be jealous. He didn’t. He had no claim on Clara, except that he had kissed her a few times and stabbed her once. Stabbing someone did not count as an exclusive relationship.

  The bear sighed and stepped forward. Ethan sank to his knees and buried his hands in the bear’s fur, then began a quick physical examination. “Can you open your mouth? Thank you…” He peered into the bear’s jaws, clearly unconcerned by the massive canines. Over his shoulder, the bear gave Istvhan a do-you-see-what-I-have-to-put-up-with look.

  “Incredible. And do you eat raw meat in this form?”

  “Haauuughghh,” the bear said, which Istvhan assumed was as close as it could get to Hrwuff with its mouth open.

  “And it doesn’t upset your digestion? What if you turn into a human with a stomach full of raw meat?”

  “Haaauugh.”

  “I didn’t quite catch that?”

  “I believe she is saying, ‘I cannot answer with my mouth open,” said Istvhan. The bear shot him a look that he chose to believe was gratitude. It was not an expression that came easily to ursine features.

  “Oh! Yes, of course, I’m so sorry. Please, turn back if you like.”

  Clara materialized on her hands and knees. Istvhan hurriedly dropped the robe over her shoulders, even though he was quite sure that Ethan’s interest was purely academic.

  “Thanks,” she said. He offered her a hand up and she took it, which worried him a bit. Was she woozy?