Paladin's Strength

by T. Kingfisher

  Istvhan scanned the crowd. The beast keepers looked far more alert than the guards did. Maybe they aren’t quite sure what to do with people rather than animals? Still, if the nuns tried to bolt, they’d undoubtedly get involved. “If I cause a distraction, can you get them away?”

  “Depends entirely on the distraction.”

  He nodded. He wasn’t quite sure what the distraction was going to be himself. He could stab MacLaren with a cheerful heart, but that might just result in guards going for everyone. I suppose I will have to improvise.

  The Sealord looked up at him and his smile faltered. It occurred to Istvhan that he was probably looking incredibly grim, so he tried to soften the expression by bowing to the Sealord. Stern, but proud. Try to look stern but proud.

  …what the hell does stern but proud look like? Am I supposed to do something with my eyelids?

  Whatever his eyelids were doing, apparently they satisfied MacLaren. When he straightened up, the man was beaming again. “You’re the one the Dovekies sent in, aren’t you? Good man, good man. Not that my lovely ladies couldn’t have handled it on their own, eh sisters? Eh?”

  The Sisters of Saint Ursa were dead silent for a minute, and then someone—he thought it might be Sigrid, said, “Woo?”

  “Ah—yes, quite.” It seemed to occur to MacLaren rather suddenly that he was standing in the beast run, not congratulating the usual sort of gladiators. A trace of concern crossed his face. “Well, should be going. Just wanted to come down and congratulate you all on a fine victory. Antony is probably crying in his rooms right now!”

  Istvhan sensed his window of opportunity slipping away. Right, he thought, I can’t wait to see what I do next. And then he drew his knife and leapt at MacLaren.

  Forty-Seven

  Apparently what I’m doing next is taking a hostage. Huh. How ’bout that?

  He wasn’t in the habit of taking hostages. Paladins generally frowned on that sort of thing. I suppose this will be a learning experience for everyone.

  MacLaren was skinnier than he looked under the robes, his body all bone and aging sinew. Istvhan got the knife just behind the man’s ear, his bad arm wrapped around MacLaren’s neck. The pain in his shoulder made everything go briefly red, but as long as the Sealord didn’t struggle, he could present a convincing illusion of strength.

  Obviously he had no chance of living through this. He knew he had no chance. Keepers were already grabbing spears and nets off the walls. MacLaren gurgled against his arm. “Stop him! Stop him!”

  “I wouldn’t get any closer,” Istvhan said, holding the knife in a businesslike fashion. “One nick under the ear here, and he’ll bleed out before you get one of those spears in me.” Across the crowd, he saw Clara’s face, mouth hanging open in surprise, and then saw a sudden hardness settle over her features. That’s right, Domina, you know I’m a dead man now, but you’ll use this, I know you will.

  “You can’t kill me,” gasped MacLaren. “If you kill me, they’ll kill you. And if you don’t kill me, there’s nothing stopping them from killing you anyway.” He choked a laugh at Istvhan’s elbow. “You’re a dead man either way. Guards!”

  Tough old bird, I’ll give him that, even if he’s a damn fool. One of the keepers stepped forward, lifting the spear.

  “Poke me with that thing and I’ll cut off his ear,” said Istvhan, setting the knife against MacLaren’s ear. He did not approve of torture in either a moral or practical sense, but he approved even less of being stabbed with spears.

  “Don’t listen—” MacLaren ordered. The keeper moved forward. Istvhan pushed the blade down a quarter inch. The man’s voice suddenly went up an octave and blood squirted against Istvhan’s chin. “Stop! Stop!” The keeper froze.

  They formed a horrible tableau, the keeper, the white-faced crowd, most of them jostling for position, trying to see what was going on. At the back of the crowd, Clara and Sigrid were ushering the other sisters into a group and everyone was looking at him and no one was looking at the far door and Saint’s blood, it was working, he just had to hold their attention a little longer. What would hold their attention, though?

  Inspiration struck. “I have demands!” Istvhan cried.

  One of the medics stepped forward, holding up his hands in a peaceful gesture. “Everyone calm down. This doesn’t have to end badly. We can resolve this.”

  Blessed are the peacemakers, thought Istvhan, for they will buy us time.

  Several of the sisters seemed to be arguing. From Clara’s expression, Istvhan could tell that she was about to start swearing. MacLaren’s breath rattled in his chest, blood pouring down the side of his head. Could a man bleed out from having his ear cut off? Istvhan had no idea. Hopefully not, or at least not quickly. Not unless he’s a hemophiliac or something. Somehow, it did not seem appropriate to ask.

  “You’ll…never…” gasped the Sealord.

  “Maybe not, but do you really want to convince me of that while I’m holding this knife?”

  The Sealord gurgled something. There was so much blood. God, he hated head wounds.

  Apparently Clara had won the argument, whatever it was. Most of the sisters had vanished around the curve of the beast run. Sigrid had her good arm around the novice, who was clearly overwhelmed, and was herding her away from the crowd. “Now, what are your demands?” asked the medic.

  That’s…a damn good question, actually. Hmm.

  “What’s the easiest way off this miserable rock?” he asked.

  The medic’s eyes flicked to one side. Istvhan set his back more firmly against the wall. “Don’t think I don’t see you over there,” he said to the keeper who had been trying to angle into his blind spot. “He loses a little more ear for that.” He barely twitched the knife but MacLaren screamed again. Istvhan felt ill. Sigrid and the novice were out of sight now, thank all the gods.

  “We can get you a ship,” said the medic.

  “Which I have no way to crew,” said Istvhan. “No. You’ll get me two fast horses and a sack of coin. And an escort across the bridge and to the north wall.” He yanked the knife free—MacLaren moaned—and pressed it against the man’s throat. “Anybody tries anything, I’ll start taking off more bits.”

  “Two horses,” said the medic. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Good horses. No nags.”

  “No, of course not.” The man took a step back. “If I give you my word, will you allow some of these people to leave? It’s very crowded in here, I think you’ll agree.”

  Istvhan mentally called down a thousand blessings on the man’s head. “All the women can go. Healers too. Through that door,” he said, jerking his chin toward the near door, farthest from the way that the sisters had gone. “You lot! Find rooms and shut yourself in. I start seeing too many people in the halls when I leave, and I’m going to get nervous, you understand?”

  “Please do as he says,” said the medic over his shoulder. “Murine, Ly, get the others out of here.”

  Two of the women began herding their fellows toward the door, in almost exactly the same brisk fashion that Sigrid and Clara had used. Istvhan felt a pang of amusement at the sight.

  When they were out and the hall had fallen silent, the medic turned back. “Now…”

  Istvhan wondered how long he could possibly draw this out. MacLaren’s breath was rattling and his own arm was in so much pain that if the Sealord had tried to break free, he might have succeeded. Sooner or later he’s going to pass out, or one of the guards is going to get brave. Clara, I hope you’re moving fast.

  “And no one’s coming after me once I leave,” said Istvhan. Might as well wish for a thousand dancing girls and a kingdom while I’m at it.

  “Of course not,” said the medic, who probably also knew that this was an impossibly silly request, but was determined to keep him talking.

  “And a letter of safe passage through the—”

  A roar sounded from around the corner, shockingly loud, and then another. A cat screamed, high an
d dangerous. And above the cries, he heard Clara’s voice shouting, “The beasts are loose!”

  Throwing the doors to the beast cages open was a good way to get yourself killed, and Clara was anticipating it with every instant. The bear was not happy at all, but the bear was also very tired and completely done with fighting, and that was the only reason that she was able to bring herself close enough to the cages to unlock the doors.

  She wished them no ill. She thought it was a great crime that they were locked in these cages and made to fight. But letting them out was the only distraction she had available, and at least this way, they’d be killing people complicit in their captivity, not prisoners.

  As it turned out, though, the biggest problem was that the beasts just didn’t want to come out. They had their familiar cages, most of them had been fed recently, and there was a lot of noise and yelling outside the bars. One of the leopards snored at her. This is not a distraction, she thought grimly. How the hell do we rescue Istvhan like this?

  She sure as hell wasn’t leaving him behind. He’d saved all their lives by suddenly snatching MacLaren. All the other sisters were in the hall already, with Sigrid ready to slam the door shut if the beasts turned toward it. But none of the animals were moving! For that matter, she didn’t even know what the things in the slimy water pit were, or if there was anything living in there at all. For all Clara knew, she had just tried to summon the bathing area to the attack.

  Blessed saint Ursa, she thought, do something! Please!

  She saw a bucket of fish and dumped it out on the ground in a splash, hoping that the smell would entice someone out, and turned toward the last cage.

  Crabby hit the bars with a snarl that shook her to her bones. “Good tiger,” she said hoarsely. “Good boy?”

  He dropped to all fours, turned his back, and sprayed extravagantly all over the floor she’d spent so long cleaning. Clara dodged out of the way but felt her bare foot splash in something warm. Thanks, Saint Ursa. No distraction, and now I get to make a death-or-glory charge to save Istvhan with one foot soaked in tiger piss.

  Unless…

  “Nice tiger,” she said, slammed the key in the lock, and turned. She yanked the door open so hard that it hit the wall and bounced with a rattle of bars, but she was already bolting at top speed for Sigrid.

  Crabby understood doors. Doors were either closed, and thus unbreakable, or open. If they were open, you went through them very fast before a human stopped you.

  He understood doors so well that he didn’t even bother testing the one that slammed closed after Clara. Instead, he turned away and saw that all the other cage doors were open.

  The tiger’s roar filled the beast run, and suddenly none of the animals were sleeping.

  Clara peered through the barred window, saw Crabby loping down the run, saw that a leopard had come out to investigate the fish. The leopard saw the tiger, and then Crabby had something to chase.

  She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted a warning to the other end of the beast run.

  “It’s suicide to go in there,” said Sigrid, as she yanked the door back open.

  “Probably.”

  “Right.” Sigrid stepped inside with her. “Let’s see how big a mess we can make.”

  Istvhan cast an eye over the remaining crowd. Keepers, guards, and a couple of men who apparently were just there to serve drinks and bring clothing. When the leopard came around the corner, the servitors screamed. The keepers immediately decided that nothing involving humans was nearly as important as the animal coming toward them, and then the tiger came into view and a collective groan went up among them.

  “Get out!” shouted one over his shoulder. “Crabby’s loose! Get out, but for the love of god, don’t run—”

  It was too late. The servitors broke and ran. So did one of MacLaren’s bodyguards. Another tiger poked its head around the corner, apparently to see what all the commotion was, and saw humans running away.

  Every one of the beasts in the cages knew that you were supposed to chase humans when they ran away. They’d been whipped and harassed until they learned. Humans were prey. Admittedly, they were mostly prey when you were out on the sand in the loud room full of more humans, but even though this was the wrong room, the humans were running and there was a blood smell, and most big cats were not known for their fine handling of nuance.

  Istvhan had his back to the wall and the tiger passed so close to him that he felt the wind ruffle his hair. A wave of smell hit him, meat and urine and predator, and then the tiger had the running guard down and casually bounced his head off the ground with one giant paw.

  “Who all is out?” shouted a keeper.

  “All of them!” cried a voice from farther down the run. It sounded like Clara.

  Four wild boars with massive foreheads and underslung tusks rounded the corner. “Oh fuck,” said one of the keepers.

  Istvhan decided that it was probably time to leave for healthier climes. He flung MacLaren into the arms of the two remaining guards, shoving them backward toward—well, it was big and had spots and Istvhan was not going to try to work out the finer points of species identification at the moment—and began moving along the wall, looking for an empty cage to hide in. The spotted cat of unknown provenance did not appreciate having a person land on it. It swatted and hissed. One of the guards, braver or more suicidal than his counterpart, tried to stab the cat. It appreciated this even less.

  Moans and yowls drifted down the run, and then something that sounded like a monstrous yawn: “Gyraaaaannnnnhhhh...”

  “Was that the hippo?”

  The boars charged. Three keepers had spears. There were four boars. The math did not work out well for the humans. Istvhan waited until all the tusks were pointed in the opposite direction and slid past the fray with his heart in his mouth. He saw a cage with the door open, apparently empty, and threw himself inside. Nothing attacked him. He swung the door closed and waited. Clara, wherever you are, get the hell out of here!

  “I told them the boars were a bad idea,” said a voice sadly. Istvhan looked up and saw that there was a man in the cage opposite him, also holding the door closed. He was the oldest looking keeper Istvhan had seen, and the paladin guessed that you didn’t get to be an old beast keeper without a certain degree of sense. “I told them and told them. Cats are predictable. Boars aren’t.”

  Another spotted cat sauntered past, in a kind of I-was-just-going-this-way-for-no-particular-reason amble. The keeper watched it go, shaking his head. “Does that one eat people?” asked Istvhan.

  “They all eat people, son. That’s the only reason they’re here. In the wild, though, no. But it would eat a boar if it could get it.”

  “Maybe you can answer a question for me,” said Istvhan, fully aware that he was in a cage, holding the door shut, talking to the enemy, who was also in a cage holding the door shut, while wild beasts rampaged outside, and that this was among the more desperately surreal conversations of his recent life.

  “Son, I don’t seem to be going anywhere.”

  “What the hell was all that? One minute we’re locked in cells and the next we’re conquering heroes and you just…expect us to forget about the cells?”

  “What? But you won the fight. Against Antony’s drowgos. Those things have been ruling the arena for months!”

  “With nuns kidnapped from a convent!”

  “But they won!”

  They stared at each other through the bars in mutual noncomprehension.

  “You’re not from Morstone, are you, son?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe that’s why,” said the keeper. “Look, the gladiators start out as prison scum. Fodder for the fights. I’d fire any man who treated my beasts the way that those people get treated. But if they live through it and they win, they get treated right. Better than right. At the higher levels, you get whatever you want. Wine, sex, adoration. That’s why they fight, yeah? You win, you get everything.”

&nbs
p; “I’m not sure that nuns really care about wine, sex, or adoration.”

  The keeper sighed. “Neither do the beasts,” he admitted. “It ain’t right to make them do it, but the fights have gone on longer than you or me and they’ll keep going long after we’re dead.”

  “So MacLaren genuinely expected us to just shake hands and be happy we’d won,” muttered Istvhan. He’d dealt with some strange cultural blind spots before, but this one was so vast that he didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

  “A Sealord coming down to talk to the rabble like us?” The keeper raised his eyebrows. “He was trying to honor you. Real man of the people. Gets his hands dirty and everything.” There was a note of bitterness in the old man’s voice, and Istvhan couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

  I am on the edge of a vast political machine, he thought again. And this man has seen part of it and has opinions and if I am lucky, none of what he knows will matter at all and I will get the hell out of here as soon as the beasts are done rampaging.

  “Have you got a smoke?” the keeper asked finally.

  “No. And even if I did, how would I get it to you?”

  The man sighed. “You wouldn’t, but a man can dream.”

  There did not seem to be much more to say to that.

  Istvhan was starting to wonder if the beasts had all moved on or if everyone was simply dead, and considering actually poking his head out of the cage when Clara appeared, hurrying in his direction. “Istvhan!”

  He made frantic gestures at her. “Be careful! They’re all loose!”

  “This side’s clear, except for a couple who aren’t leaving the cages unless they get dragged out. Come on!”

  Istvhan let the door swing open and joined her. The change of angle let him see that the keeper was not actually alone.

  “There’s a big…really big…snake in there with you.”

  “Yeah, that’s Clutch. He’s harmless. He ate a goat earlier this week, he won’t bother anybody for a while.” The keeper glanced over his shoulder to where the snake lay in a quiet coil. “You could take a nap in here if you wanted.”