“And what if he is not shamed?” Kelven retorted instantly. “What if a magistrate hears him—and believes him enough to question you? What would you say?”
The widow did not raise her eyes. She had no need to gaze upon her husband again. “I would say that I am the prisoner of your malice and the plaything of your lusts, and I would thank God for His mercy if He would allow me to die.”
“That is why I will not let him go.” Kelven sounded oddly satisfied, as though an obscure desire had been vindicated. “Perhaps instead I will put his life in your power. I wish to see you rut with him. If you do it for my amusement, I will let him live.”
Jillet did not hear what answer the widow would have made to this suggestion. Perhaps he did not properly hear anything which the Divestulata and his wife said to each other. His shame was intense, and the pain in his arm caused his head to throb as though it might burst; and, in truth, he was too busy cursing himself for not invoking the power of alchemy sooner to give much heed to what was said over him. He was a fool, and he knew it—a fool for thinking, however briefly, that he might accomplish for himself victories which only magick could achieve.
Therefore he struggled to his feet between Kelven and the widow. Hugging his arm to his side, he panted, “This is intolerable. My kinsman, Reave the Just, will be outraged when he learns of it.”
Despite their many differences, Kelven Divestulata and the widow Huchette were identical in their reactions: they both became completely still, as though they had been turned to stone by the magick of the name Reave the Just.
“My kinsman is not forgiving,” Jillet continued, driven by shame and pain and his new awareness of the power of ideas. “All the world knows it. He has no patience for injustice or tyranny, or for the abuse of the helpless, and when he is outraged he lets nothing stand in his way.” Perhaps because he was a fool, he was able to speak with perfect conviction. Any man who was not a fool would have known that he had already said too much. “You will be wiser to come with me to the magistrate yourself and confess the wrong you have done this woman. He will be kinder to you than Reave the Just.”
Still united by the influence of that name, the widow and Kelven said together, “You fool. You have doomed yourself.”
But she said, “Now he will surely kill you.”
His words were, “Now I will surely let you live.”
Hearing Kelven, Jillet was momentarily confused, misled by the impression that he had succeeded—that he had saved the widow and himself, that he had defeated the Divestulata. Then Kelven struck him down, and the misconception was lost.
When he awakened—more head-sore, bone-weak, and thirst-tormented than he had ever been in his life—he was in a chamber from which no one except Kelven himself and his own workmen had ever emerged. He had a room just like it in his ancestral home and knew its value. Shortly, therefore, after his acquisition of the manor house he had had this chamber dug into the rock beneath the foundations of the building. All Forebridge was quite ignorant of its existence. The excavated dirt and rock had been concealed by being used in other construction about the manor house—primarily in making the kennels where Kelven housed the mastiffs he bred for hunting and similar duties. And the workmen had been sent to serve the Divestulata in other enterprises in other Counties, far from Forebridge. So when Jillet awakened he was not simply in a room where no one would ever hear him scream. He was in a room where no one would ever look for him.
In any case, however, he felt too sick and piteous to scream. Kelven’s blow had nearly cracked his skull, and the fetters on his wrists held his arms at an angle which nearly dislocated his shoulders. He was not surprised by the presence of light—by the single candle stuck in its tallow on a bench a few feet away. His general amazement was already too great, and his particular discomfort too acute, to allow him the luxury of surprise about the presence or absence of light.
On the bench beside the candle, hulking in the gloom like the condensed darkness of a demon, sat Kelven Divestulata.
“Ah,” breathed Kelven softly, “your eyes open. You raise your head. The pain begins. Tell me about your kinship with Reave the Just.”
Well, Jillet was a fool. Alchemy had failed him, and the power of ideas was a small thing compared to the power of Kelven’s fist. To speak frankly, he had lived all his life at the mercy of events—or at the dictates of the decisions or needs or even whims of others. He was not a fit opponent for a man like the Divestulata.
Nevertheless he was loved in Forebridge for a reason. That reason went by the name of amiability, but it might equally well have been called kindness or openheartedness. He did not answer Kelven’s question. Instead, through his own hurt, he replied, “This is wrong. She does not deserve it.”
“‘She’? Do you refer to my wife?” Kelven was mildly surprised. “We are not speaking of her. We are speaking of your kinsman, Reave the Just.”
“She is weak and you are strong,” Jillet persisted. “It is wrong to victimize her simply because she is unable to oppose you. You damn yourself by doing so. But I think you do not care about damnation.” This was an unusual insight for him. “Even so, you should care that you demean yourself by using your strength against a woman who cannot oppose you.”
As though Jillet had not spoken, Kelven continued, “He has a reputation for meddling in other men’s affairs. In fact, his reputation for meddling is extensive. I find that I would like to put a stop to it. No doubt his reputation is only gossip, after all—but such gossip offends me. I will put a stop to it.”
“It is no wonder that she refuses to wed you.” Jillet’s voice began to crack, and he required an effort to restrain tears. “The wonder is that she has not killed herself rather than suffer your touch.”
“Simpleton!” spat Kelven, momentarily vexed. “She does not kill herself because I do not permit it.” He promptly regained his composure, however. “Yet you have said one thing which is not foolish. A strong man who exerts his strength only upon the weak eventually becomes weak himself. I have decided on a more useful exercise. I will rid the world of this ‘Reave the Just.’
“Tell me how you propose to involve your kinsman in my affairs. Perhaps I will allow you to summon him”—the Divestulata laughed harshly—“and then both you and my wife will be rescued.”
There Jillet collapsed. He was weeping with helplessness and folly, and he had no understanding of the fact that Kelven intended to keep him alive when the widow Huchette had predicted that Kelven would kill him. Through a babble of tears and self-recrimination and appeals for pity, he told the Divestulata the truth.
“I am no kinsman of Reave the Just. That is impossible. I claimed kinship with him because an alchemist told me to do so. All I desired was a love potion to win the widow’s heart, but he persuaded me otherwise.”
At that time, Jillet was incapable of grasping that he remained alive only because Kelven did not believe him.
Because Kelven did not believe him, their conversation became increasingly arduous. Kelven demanded; Jillet denied. Kelven insisted; Jillet protested. Kelven struck; Jillet wailed. Ultimately Jillet lost consciousness, and Kelven went away.
The candle was left burning.
It was replaced by another, and by yet another, and by still others, so that Jillet was not left entirely in darkness; but he never saw the old ones gutter and die, or the new ones set. For some reason, he was always unconscious when that happened. The old stumps were not removed from the bench; he was left with some measure for his imprisonment. However, since he did not know how long the candles burned he could only conclude from the growing row of stumps that his imprisonment was long. He was fed at intervals which he could not predict. At times Kelven fed him. At times the widow fed him. At times she removed her garments and fondled his cold flesh with tears streaming from her eyes. At times he fouled himself. But only the candles provided a measure for his existenc
e, and he could not interpret them.
How are you related to Reave?
How do you contact him?
Why does he meddle in other men’s affairs?
What is the source of his power?
What is he?
Poor Jillet knew no answer to any of these questions.
His ignorance was the source of his torment, and the most immediate threat to his life; but it may also have saved him. It kept Kelven’s attention focused upon him—and upon the perverse pleasures which he and the widow provided. In effect, it blinded Kelven to the power of ideas: Jillet’s ignorance of anything remotely useful concerning Reave the Just preserved Kelven’s ignorance of the fact that the townspeople of Forebridge, in their cautious and undemonstrative way, had summoned Reave in Jillet’s name.
Quite honestly, most of them could not have said that they knew Reave had been summoned—or that they knew how he had been summoned. He was not a magistrate to whom public appeal could be made; not an official of the County to whom a letter could be written; not a lord of the realm from whom justice might be demanded. As far as anyone in Forebridge could have said for certain, he was not a man at all: he was only a story from places far away, a persistent legend blowing on its own queer winds across the North Counties. Can the wind be summoned? No? Then can Reave the Just?
In truth, Reave was summoned by the simple, almost nameless expedient of telling the tale. To every man or woman, herder or minstrel, merchant or soldier, mendicant or charlatan who passed through Forebridge, someone sooner or later mentioned that “Reave the Just had a kinsman here who has recently disappeared.” Those folk followed their own roads away from Forebridge, and when they met with the occasion to do so they told the tale themselves; and so the tale spread.
In the end, such a summons can never be denied. Inevitably, Reave the Just heard it and came to Forebridge.
Like a breeze or a story, he appeared to come without having come from anywhere: one day, not so long after Jillet’s disappearance, he was simply there, in Forebridge. Like a breeze or a story, he was not secretive about his coming: he did not lurk into town, or send in spies, or travel incognito. Still it was true that he came entirely unheralded, unannounced—and yet most folk who saw him knew immediately who he was, just as they knew immediately why he was there.
From a certain distance, of course, he was unrecognizable: his clothing was only a plain brown traveler’s shirt over leather pants which had seen considerable wear and thick, dusty boots; his equally dusty hair was cropped to a convenient length; his strides were direct and self-assured, but no more so than those of other men who knew where they were going and why. In fact, the single detail which distinguished him from any number of farmers and cotters and wagoneers was that he wore no hat against the sun. Only when he drew closer did his strangeness make itself felt.
The dust showed that he had walked a long way, but he betrayed no fatigue, no hunger or thirst. His clothing had been exposed to the elements a great deal, but he carried no pack or satchel for food or spare garments or other necessities. Under the prolonged pressure of the sun, he might have developed a squint or a way of lowering his head; but his chin was up, and his eyes were open and vivid, like pieces of the deep sky. And he had no knife at his belt, no staff in his hand, no quiver over his shoulder—nothing with which to defend himself against hedgerow robbers or hungry beasts or outraged opponents. His only weapon, as far as any of the townspeople could see, was that he simply appeared clearer than any of his surroundings, better focused, as though he improved the vision of those who looked at him. Those who did look at him found it almost impossible to look away.
The people who first saw him closely enough to identify him were not surprised when he began asking questions about “his kinsman, Jillet of Forebridge.” They were only surprised that his voice was so kind and quiet—considering his reputation for harsh decisions and extreme actions—and that he acknowledged the implausible relation which Jillet had claimed for the first time scarcely a week ago.
Unfortunately, none of the people questioned by Reave the Just had any idea what had become of Jillet.
It was characteristic of the folk of Forebridge that they avoided ostentation and public display. Reave had the effect, however, of causing them to forget their normal chariness. In consequence, he did not need to go searching for people to question: they came to him. Standing in the open road which served Forebridge as both public square and auctioneer’s market, he asked his questions once, perhaps twice, then waited quietly while the slowly growing crowd around him attracted more people and his questions were repeated for him to the latecomers until a thick fellow with the strength of timber and a mind to match asked, “What’s he look like, then, this Jillet?”
The descriptions provided around him were confusing at first; but under Reave’s influence they gradually became clear enough to be serviceable.
“Hmm,” rumbled the fellow. “Man like that visited my master t’other day.”
People who knew the fellow quickly revealed that he served as a guard for one of the less hated usurers in Forebridge. They also indicated where this usurer might be found.
Reave the Just nodded once, gravely.
Smiling as though they were sure of his gratitude, and knew they had earned it, the people crowding around him began to disperse. Reave walked away among them. In a short time, he had gained admittance to the usurer’s place of business and was speaking to the usurer himself.
The usurer supplied Reave with the name of the widow Huchette. After all, Jillet had offered her wealth as collateral in his attempt to obtain gold. Despite his acknowledged relation to Jillet, however, Reave was not satisfied by the information which the usurer was able to give him. Their conversation sent him searching for alchemists until he located the one he needed.
The alchemist who had conceived Jillet’s stratagem against the widow did not find Reave’s clarity of appearance and quietness of manner reassuring: quite the reverse. In fact, he was barely able to restrain himself from hurling smoke in Reave’s face and attempting to escape through the window. In his wildest frights and fancies, he had never considered that Reave the Just himself might task him for the advice he had sold to Jillet. Nevertheless, something in the open, vivid gaze which Reave fixed upon him convinced him that he could not hope for escape. Smoke would not blind Reave; and when the alchemist dived out the window, Reave would be there ahead of him, waiting.
Mumbling like a shamed child—and inwardly cursing Reave for having this effect upon him—the alchemist revealed the nature of his transaction with Jillet. Then, in a spasm of defensive self-abnegation, attempting to deflect Reave’s notorious extravagance, he produced the gold which he had received from Jillet and offered it to Jillet’s “kinsman.”
Reave considered the offer briefly before accepting it. His tone was quiet, but perfectly distinct, as he said, “Jillet must be held accountable for his folly. However, you do not deserve to profit from it.” As soon as he left the alchemist’s dwelling, he flung the coins so far across the hedgerows that the alchemist had no hope of ever recovering them.
In the secrecy of his heart, the alchemist wailed as though he had been bereft. But he permitted himself no sound, either of grief or of protest, until Reave the Just was safely out of hearing.
Alone, unannounced, and without any discernible weapons or defenses, Reave made his way to the manor house of the deceased Rudolph Huchette.
Part of his power, of course, was that he never revealed to anyone precisely how the strange deeds for which he was known were accomplished. As far as the world, or the stories about him which filled the world, were concerned, he simply did what he did. So neither Jillet nor the widow—and certainly not Kelven Divestulata—were ever able to explain the events which took place within the manor house after Reave’s arrival. Beginning with that arrival itself, they all saw the events as entirely myster
ious.
The first mystery was that the mastiffs patrolling within the walls of the manor house did not bark. The Divestulata’s servants were not alerted; no one demanded admittance at the gatehouse, or at any of the doors of the manor. Furthermore, the room in which Jillet was held prisoner was guarded, not merely by dogs and men and bolted doors, but by ignorance: no one in Forebridge knew that the chamber existed. Nevertheless, after Jillet’s imprisonment had been measured by a dozen or perhaps fifteen thick candles, and his understanding of his circumstances had passed beyond ordinary fuddlement and pain into an awareness of doom so complete that it seemed actively desirable, he prised open his eyelids enough to see a man standing before him in the gloom, a man who was not Kelven Divestulata—a man, indeed, who was not anyone Jillet recognized.
Smiling gravely, this man lifted water to Jillet’s lips. And when Jillet had drunk what he could, the man put a morsel or two of honeycomb in his mouth.
After that, the man waited for Jillet to speak.
Water and honey gave Jillet a bit of strength which he had forgotten existed. Trying harder to focus his gaze upon the strange figure smiling soberly before him, he asked. “Have you come to kill me? I thought he did such things himself. And liked them.” In Jillet’s mind, “he” was always the Divestulata.
The man shook his head. “I am Reave.” His voice was firm despite its quietness. “I am here to learn why you have claimed kinship with me.”
Under other conditions, Jillet would have found it frightening to be confronted by Reave the Just. As an amiable man himself, he trusted the amiability of others, and so he would not have broadly assumed that Reave meant him ill. Nevertheless, he was vulnerable on the point which Reave mentioned. For several reasons, Jillet was not a deceptive man: one of them was that he did not like to be found out—and he was always so easily found out. Being discovered in a dishonest act disturbed and shamed him.
Reave the Just and Other Tales Page 4