Paladin's Strength

by T. Kingfisher

  Clara chuckled. Istvhan smiled, but looked back over his shoulder again. “That said…do you have the energy to change and then change back? I’m wondering about the smells.”

  “I should be okay.” Clara handed him her pack and slid her cloak off her shoulders. He averted his eyes as she undressed, which she found somewhat amusing. “You always look away when I do this,” she said. “Is the change that unsettling?”

  “I’ve never gotten a good look,” he said, surprising her. “It seems like I should be able to see it happen but somehow I don’t. You stand up a bit and then there’s a shadow and then you’re a bear.”

  She paused, holding her robe up to her chest. “That’s what it looks like when my sisters change too. I’ve seen it hundreds of times, and I miss it every time. I can usually feel it coming on before someone else does it, and I still never catch it.”

  “Oh?” He met her eyes, keeping his gaze on her face. “What does it feel like?”

  “The beast wakes a little. As if it senses someone coming. It’s how we teach the novices not to change in their sleep. As soon as your beast starts to mutter, you dump a glass of water on whatever girl is about to go over.”

  “What if someone doesn’t plan to change? Can you do it spontaneously?”

  “Yes, although usually I have to be panicked or angry. And then you don’t get any warning, which is dangerous, because the beast doesn’t like surprises, and another bear suddenly appearing is very surprising. Right, I’m getting cold. One moment.” She tossed the robe to him and asked the beast to come forward.

  The world got brighter and then the smells covered everything—river, swamp, mud, tree, small animal, dry grass. The mud here had a thick algal scent, a gray-brown taste of clay. And Istvhan, of course, a beacon of metal and leather and sweat and ginger muscle rub and a trace of plum. (The bear didn’t understand humor, but Clara laughed internally.)

  Nothing like the burnt carrion scent of the clay men. She changed back, shaking her head. Istvhan held out her robe and she stepped into it.

  “If it isn’t the change that bothers you,” she said, as he dropped the robe lightly around her shoulders, “why do you never look?”

  His breath touched the back of her neck like a caress. “I would like to very much,” he murmured, “but you’ve never given me permission.”

  What the hell is wrong with me? thought Clara, pulling on the cloak. Love or not, I should have been riding this man until we both walked funny. But not in the middle of the woods. Certainly not in the middle of swampy woods, while they hunted monsters.

  Still.

  She caught his eye briefly, and the hunger there was so raw that she felt as if she’d drunk cheap whiskey, something that burned all the way down to her toes. “Right,” she said, clearing her throat. “Probably another hour to moonrise. Where’s this porcelain place? I’d rather not be out here fumbling around all night.”

  The porcelain works was overgrown with weeds, the main building in disrepair. It looked as if someone had carefully tidied up, sold all the fixtures, and then simply walked away and let time and weather take its toll. Possibly that was exactly what had happened. There was nothing to indicate that anything strange had ever taken place there. There was a large brick kiln, now home to bats, and a wasp nest had grown over the door to the little house beside it.

  “Not promising,” said Istvhan.

  “No. I can’t imagine the bats staying too close to anything that smelled like those corpses we found.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “On the other hand, I doubt the smooth men are hanging out close to the main roads, either. Let’s go back into the trees a little way and I’ll try smelling again.”

  Istvhan nodded. He let her lead the way, scanning the darkness, and reached out reflexively to take her robe when she stopped. Clara held on to it for a moment and he looked toward her, surprised.

  I’m probably mad, she thought, feeling giddy and absurdly euphoric. I’m much too old to feel this way. “Istvhan,” she said, letting her end drop, “you have permission to look.”

  He inhaled sharply. She saw his nostrils flare and his eyes go wide. And then he did look at her, drinking in the sight that he’d been studiously avoiding so long. His gaze lingered over her breasts, dropped lower, and Clara could actually feel a blush starting. Blessed St. Ursa, it’s as bad as losing my virginity, except I’m sagging in a lot more places.

  “Seen enough?” she asked.

  “Not nearly,” he said. His voice was rough with desire. “I could look at you all night. But you should probably change before I’m not able to stop at just looking.”

  The bear came forward, grumbling that mating season was in spring, not fall. Clara stifled an internal sigh and told it to sniff.

  The world smelled of mud and water and trees and Istvhan. She was about to tell the bear to go back again when the breeze carried something to her nose, something that smelled of rot and burning.

  There! That! Follow that smell!

  The bear was unconvinced. It was a bad smell. Why would anyone go toward it? Clara exerted her will over the matter and the bear, grumbling under its breath, went forward.

  “Do you have something?” asked Istvhan.

  “Hrwuf.”

  “One of these days,” said the paladin, following her, “we shall have to work out a system. One hrwuff for yes, two for no, that sort of thing.”

  “Grrrrr...”

  “That sounded like a no.”

  “Hrwuf.”

  “See, now I have no idea what you’re saying…wait, you’re panting? Are you laughing? Do bears laugh?”

  “Hrwuf!”

  “This is all very complicated.”

  The smell got stronger. There was no path here now, which did not particularly bother the bear. The undergrowth was mostly tall, reedy grasses, which bent easily as the bear passed. Clara knew from experience that she was leaving a trail as wide as an ox, but there was nothing much to be done about it. The smell grew stronger and the bear dropped its head, pulling its lips back in disgust.

  She came out of the bear shape easily, even though the world spun around her and she had to take a minute before she could climb to her feet. “Are you all right?” asked Istvhan.

  “Too many changes. I’ll be fine. I should probably eat something, but that smell…”

  “I can just make it out myself, but I can’t tell where it’s coming from.”

  Clara nodded. Istvhan held her robe up and she shoved her arms through the sleeves. His fingers brushed the tops of her shoulders and it occurred to her suddenly how very careful he had been to drop the fabric onto her before, rather than touch her skin. This time, his fingertips lingered just a little, sliding up her collarbone before he released her.

  I’m just woozy from the changes, she told herself firmly, which was absolutely a lie. She scrubbed at her nose with the side of her hand, which was one of the least sexy gestures a human was capable of making. “It’s ahead of us. I think this is older than the one we found in the woods, though.” Istvhan nodded.

  The reeds were much more annoying as a human. The leaves had sharp edges that dragged at her skin and promised her the mother of all papercuts. Istvhan took point, shoving the leaves aside. “I can still do that,” she said. “It’s just grass.”

  “I’m wearing armor.”

  “Fine, be logical about it.”

  They emerged from the grass into a clearing, surrounding a large building. It resembled the pottery works they had seen before, with a large chimney and piles of broken crockery. Weeds grew up wherever the earth had not been packed hard, and the chimney was cold and quiet, but there was a light on inside.

  “Somebody’s home,” murmured Istvhan.

  “The smooth men have been here,” said Clara. “But I can’t tell you how long ago, or if they’re here now.”

  “They might be here, but haven’t made a new one for a while. The smell, whatever it is, seems very strong when they switch hosts.”

/>   “Do they need lights?”

  “We’re not entirely sure. Piper, the one doctor who examined one, said that he thinks the eyes are the same clay as the rest and they see with their whole head somehow.”

  “…I dislike that immensely.”

  “Yes, we all do.” He gestured to the door. “Shall we see who’s home?”

  “Let me eat something first. If I need to change again, I’m going to want something more substantial in my stomach.”

  “The beach plums aren’t cutting it?”

  “I could murder a beach plum about now.”

  Istvhan dug through his pack and pulled out one of the ration bars. “This is the last one I’ve got. Remind me to stock up in town.”

  Clara wolfed it down and felt the hollowness in her gut ease a bit. “That’s better. Normally I’d carry some, but then again, normally I’m not changing four or five times a night.”

  Istvhan nodded. He waited until she was done, put his hand on his sword, and went up and knocked on the door.

  The man who answered did not say “Hello?” or “Excuse me?” or “What are you doing here at this ungodly hour of the night?” or any of the things that one might expect a person to say when a nun and a paladin knocked on his door after moonrise. Instead, he stared at them with a puzzled air, as if he knew them from somewhere and couldn’t quite place them.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” Istvhan began.

  “Oh,” said the man in the doorway. “Oh, you’re…people, aren’t you?”

  Clara did not like the implications of that at all. She eyed the man’s face but he was certainly not one of the smooth men. No sculptor could have ever recreated the looseness of his skin in clay, the way that it hung like wet parchment from his face and gathered in folds at his neck. He looked desperately sick, and yet his arm, braced against the door frame, was corded with muscle that rivaled Istvhan’s. Clara’s eyes traveled down the heavy line of tendon and sinew to the middle of his forearms, which were wrapped in rags. The rags were spattered with dry clay. The man’s pants were also covered in dry clay, in long splashing lines up the insides of his thighs.

  Istvhan was a trifle quicker on the uptake than Clara. “You’re a potter, aren’t you?” he said.

  “For my sins.” The man took a step back. “You…you’re not from the…” He paused, made a vague back-and-forth gesture above his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “I’m not as good with words as I used to be. Come in, I think. If you’re safe.” He stepped back from the door.

  “Are we safe?” asked Clara in an undertone.

  “From him, probably. For him, probably not.” Istvhan put his hand on the hilt of his sword and stepped inside the doorway.

  Nothing immediately jumped at him. Clara watched as the lines of his back relaxed fractionally. He stepped aside and gestured to her. “Clear.”

  The room beyond was covered in gray-brown dust. Shelves lined every wall, covered in pots and bowls, stacks of parchment, discarded clothes and withered plants that had not been watered for a long time. There was a table with a single chair, and a low bed by the hearth. A door in the far wall, if Clara was not completely turned around, led to the large studio they’d seen from outside.

  The potter was moving around the room, trying to set out mugs and find chairs for them, but he was clearly having a difficult time. He would pick up a mug, put it down, and then seem to forget what he had been doing. “Guests,” he muttered. “Guests. I’m sorry. I haven’t had real guests in a long time. They don’t drink, you know. Not water, not wine. Although sometimes if it’s very dry, they have to dip their heads in water. They get disconnected if they dry out. Like a plant’s roots, I think. It needs a little water where it presses against the soil.” He paused, a mug forgotten in his hands. “Unless they changed that, too. They keep making improvements. But he doesn’t tell me anything, he just brings me the design. Once I make it, he takes it away, and then they cast the molds themselves. Or that’s how it used to work. I don’t know now.”

  Clara and Istvhan traded looks again. “He?” asked Clara, trying to keep her voice pleasant and not accusing.

  “Him. You know. You must know, you’re here.” The potter looked down at his hands, saw the mug, and smiled. “There, that’s three. We’ll have some wine.”

  He took a stoneware jug from a shelf by the door. Those shelves looked marginally cleaner, and Clara saw a few glass jars among the ceramics. Sardines in oil. Pickled eggs. Someone is bringing him food, she thought, or perhaps he is going to the market.

  “Are you Stachys?” asked Istvhan.

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Didn’t I tell you? No, I might not have. I’m sorry, my mind’s not what it was.” He smiled up at them.

  Istvhan found a low bench without anything on it and carefully moved it to the table. “May we sit?”

  “Yes. Yes, I should have offered.” Stachys took the chair. “What brings you visiting?”

  Clara sat down on the bench next to Istvhan. Given their heights and the size of the table, it was not as uncomfortable as it might have been. She rested her elbows comfortably on the tabletop. “We were hoping that you could tell us more about…ah…Him.”

  Thirty-Three

  “I sculpted a bust at first,” said Stachys. “I mostly make…I made…bowls and cups and things. I wanted to sculpt but you can’t make a living as a sculptor, not unless you have a patron. I didn’t have one. I’m not very good at talking to people. I wasn’t then, either. Better than I am now, of course.” He paused, looking guilty. “I’m not blaming him, you understand. He didn’t mean to do it.”

  “Didn’t mean to do what?” asked Istvhan, in a voice so gentle that Clara could hardly believe it was coming from a man that she had personally seen gut an enemy on his sword like a rabbit.

  “He didn’t know how people worked.” Stachys looked embarrassed, then turned his head and lifted up the side of his hair. Clara caught a glimpse of a red scar, long healed, and a place where the skull bent inward in a manner that human skulls were not meant to do. She inhaled sharply.

  “He didn’t mean it,” said Stachys, letting his hair fall back into place. “He just got frustrated. He thought I was clay, like him, and I could just fix the spot. He didn’t know that humans didn’t work the same way.”

  “No, of course not,” said Istvhan, still in that gentle, inexorable voice, like snow falling. “He learned, though.”

  “Yes. He learns so fast. Faster than I do, now.” Stachys laughed, a little too loudly, and took another drink of wine.

  “So he was a bust,” said Clara, trying to hold up her end. She suspected her voice wasn’t as gentle as Istvhan’s. Maybe it was a paladin thing. “At first.”

  Stachys nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. I made him.” He wiped his hand across his mouth. “I was lonely. I didn’t mind making bowls, but I was tired of not making anything else. So I made a bust and I talked to him. And I thought…oh, I can’t really remember now. The old story, though, you remember? The sculptor makes a statue of a woman, and he loves her, and she comes to life because he loves her?”

  “I love that story,” said Istvhan.

  “Me too.” Stachys sighed, focusing on the mug in front of him, tapping the rim over and over. “Oh, me too.”

  “So then did he come to life?”

  “Not at first. I did something. I think I did something. Or maybe someone else came and offered to do something?” His face screwed up, and he rubbed the side of his head. “There was a man, I think. Unless that happened later. I’m sorry. It was a long time ago, I think?”

  “It’s all right,” said Istvhan. “I’m just curious. He is very impressive, isn’t he?”

  Stachys beamed. “I think so,” he said. “Although…” His brow knotted with sudden worry, every emotion passing across his face as clearly as a child’s. “I worry sometimes. I know he’s smarter than me, since then. But I don’t know what he does when he’s not here.” He stood up, consumed with sudd
en, jittery energy, and began prowling among the shelves, looking for something. “Did you tell me your names? I can’t remember now.”

  “Yes,” said Istvhan, before Clara could speak. “But it doesn’t matter. We can tell you again if you forget. But tell me, what happened after he came to life?”

  Stachys groaned. “I did it,” he said. “I loved a statue and it came to life. I was proud. I was so proud of him. But I hadn’t thought. You can’t just make a bust. If you make a bust, they’re stuck. Just a head. He wanted a body. A whole body. I tried to make him one. I really did, but…” He dropped back in his chair, abandoning whatever he’d been searching for. “I couldn’t make it work. I could make a body, but it didn’t do anything. I tried to put him in it, but the clay was just other clay. It wouldn’t come alive. Then he got frustrated and he bit me.” Stachys shook his head, seemingly less angry than bemused. “I hadn’t even sculpted teeth. But he had them.” He rubbed the side of his head again, and Clara pictured one of the smooth men, sitting on a pedestal, unhinging its jaw and taking a chunk out of the side of someone’s skull. She shuddered.

  “I’m amazed you survived,” she said.

  “Oh, me too. I nearly didn’t. I was on the floor for hours. I think he called for help, but of course he couldn’t talk to the neighbors. They wouldn’t have understood at all. But one of my neighbors, the sweet woman who brought us goat milk, she found me and she patched me up. And when I came back, he was still waiting for me, just like he had been. And he was so kind. He felt terrible.”

  “Of course,” said Istvhan. “He didn’t understand about the bodies.” He squeezed Clara’s arm under the table and she took the hint to let him take the lead. “But you did manage to give him a body, didn’t you?”

  Stachys hung his head. “It wasn’t good,” he said. “It wasn’t sculpting. He said he was done with that. He thought flesh would work. After he’d had mine, he said he could bring it to life. It was still hanging off his lips when I came back. Just a chunk of bone and hair by then, but he could make the skin flex like it was alive. So he asked me to kill someone and bring him the body, but I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t!” His throat worked as if there was more he wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come.