Firethorn

by Sarah Micklem

  I set the lamp carefully on the ground before looking at him straight. “Galan, do you think I want that whore in your tent? Do you think I’d risk a beating for her? It is for your sake I spoke.”

  He raised himself on one elbow abruptly and I held out one hand, palm toward him, to fend off the threat in his eyes.

  “Why should I help her, if not for you?” I asked. “Do you think she’ll be grateful to me if I cure her? She’ll likely spit in my eye—and if she dies I’ll get the blame. But I’ ve seen this. Hazard Fate showed this to me the night you were wounded.”

  He was still as a cat daring a mouse to cross its path.

  I went on in haste. “Everything has gone amiss since your wager. This is not Chance, just as it wasn’t Chance alone that you were spared. You’ re in Fate’s domain now. As I kept watch by the tent, I saw the paths as clear as I see your face before me now, as clear as the lines on the palm of my hand, and there is but one way out and it’s a narrow road indeed. You must save her life to end the feud.

  At that he cursed and lay back on the cot, staring upward. His face had paled. Then I knew why he listened, why he held his hand. He was frightened.

  I pressed on. “If you wait—even another day—it may be too late. The paths in Fate’s kingdom do not stay in one place.”

  He said, “Hazard sent you a vision. The gods don’t soil themselves with mud.” Despite the scorn in his voice, I counted it a victory that I’d made him speak.

  “The gods made us first and found us fair, or you’d have no ancestors.”

  “Oh, you’re fair enough. But mud is mud.

  Mud is mud. I rose up from my knees and walked away from the cot, out of his reach.

  I said, “Once you called me Hazard’s breed. Have you forgotten?” No matter that I didn’t believe it, if he did. “Perhaps, if Hazard sent me to you, it was to tell you this. But now I know my words are wasted. You’ll never take her as a concubine, for what would the hotspurs say? You’d rather affront the gods than have it said you lost your wager and paid for her after all. Why the gods took offense, I don’t know, for there’s nothing remarkable in a plucked maidenhead. You made amends—sacrificed unsparingly to Rift and Crux and Hazard, to every god but the one you most offended. You begrudged Ardor, and Ardor will hound you.

  Galan sat up abruptly and put his feet on the ground as if he meant to stand, but pain waylaid him and he went no farther. He gripped the edge of the cot, hard. The look he turned on me was still full of rage, but it was shadowed with fear and hurt and something more—disgust. “I’m weary. I’ll take no more taunts from you,” he said, and paused to catch his breath. “It’s your spite I can’t stand. One minute you seem fond and the next …” He shook his head and looked away. I could see the weariness in his face, in the ashy skin and the bruised flesh under his eyes and the gaunt cheeks.

  He went on. “I don’t care where you sleep tonight, but you’ll not lie beside me. If you still want a thrashing in the morning, ask me then.” And he bent down and snuffed the lamp’s wick, and settled on his side with his back to me again and the blanket over him.

  The night was at its lowest ebb when I went outside and sat by the deserted hearth and stirred up the coals. The fog was thinning, dark patches streaking the white, but it was still hard to see from one side of the common yard to the other, much less anything beyond our tents. I’d learned to rely on shadows to see in the dark; in the fog I was as blind as everyone else. The fog blanched the night and smothered the eye. It begot wraiths that moved among the tents, and I was afraid if I looked too long I might recognize them.

  I shivered under my cloak and put a handful of salt hay on the fire to make it flare up. I would begin the night over, and when he asked if I was content, I would say yes and yes again, and a curse on Maid Vulpeja and all her kin for coming between us.

  I heard a rumbling growl and looked up and forgot to breathe. A great manhound bared his teeth no more than ten paces from me. A man behind the dog said, “Who is it?” and I breathed again, seeing it was Dogmaster and the beast was chained.

  I said, “It’s me,” and a moment later thought to add, “Firethorn.”

  He came closer and the manhound loomed over me, his hackles up, still growling. Dogmaster put a hand on his ruff and said to the dog, “Be still! No danger.” To me he said, “What are you doing out in the middle of the night?”

  I shrugged. I couldn’t recall he’d ever spoken to me before.

  “Best go in,” he said, and turned and walked past the tents and into the fog. He was patrolling and I was a lackwit, for I’d never stopped to think that if Sire Alcoba and Sire Rodela could go in search of trouble, Ardor could also bring trouble to us. The weather favored raids.

  They’d know Galan’s tent by his banners. They’d know he was in there wounded. Thank the gods they didn’t know he was alone save for Noggin, who was worse than useless.

  I went to Sire Alcoba’s tent and peered inside. The tent was empty, as I feared. I stood, and when I turned around, there was Sire Alcoba with his sword point at my breastbone. He raised one black eyebrow and said, “Looking for someone?”

  “Sire Galan’s men, Sire,” I said, my eyes on the ground. “He lies unguarded.”

  Sire Alcoba motioned and Rowney came out from between his tent and Galan’s. From the corner of my eye, I saw another shape move, and that was Spiller on the path that edged our camp. Sire Alcoba with Galan’s men: well, that was fair, as he’d lost his jack and his armiger too through Galan’s wager. Fetcher was Sire Alcoba’s jack now, raised from his bagboy to replace Rowney, but he’d found no armiger to take the place of Sire Buey. Perhaps he must avenge him first.

  “I thought you’d gone hunting, Sire,” I said.

  He pointed to Galan’s tent. Rowney took me by the elbow and pushed me inside. When I turned to protest, Rowney put his finger over his lips and squatted down outside the door flap with his bare sword before him. I scrabbled under Galan’s cot for my belt with its little knife. Not for the first time, I wished for a longer blade and the knack of using it.

  I sat inside the door, facing into the tent. I knew how easy it was to cut another doorway in a canvas wall; Ardor’s men could come from any direction. A plague on Galan, sleeping soundly after our quarrel. He’d sleep through his death if he wasn’t careful.

  So I waited through the night, cold and shivering, until I heard a noise—and there was little to hear but the manhound sniffi ng around the tent, the clink of his leash, the scuffle of Dogmaster’s footsteps—and then heat would flood me and sweat would seep from my skin. Stomach queasy, mouth dry, heart thumping. My thoughts skittered away from the danger, and once I drowsed, only to start awake more afraid than before. After a while I thought to draw Galan’s sword. It was folly. What harm could I do with a blade against a trained man, unless he chose to fall on it? The sword was heavier than I expected. But my hand was soothed by the feel of the hilt.

  A dog barked. The other war dogs sent up a clamor, and I jumped to my feet and hissed to Rowney, “Are they here?” and discovered he was no longer on the other side of the tent door. The fog was more like gauze now than uncarded wool. Rowney stood near the tent with his head tilted. He saw me and shrugged. The dogs quieted, but not before they were answered by others around the Marchfield, and those by others.

  I heard someone ask, “Anything?” and Sire Alcoba said, “Nothing.”

  “The gods send us a quiet night,” said the Crux, moving away.

  Sire Alcoba didn’t answer.

  Rain came instead of dawn and pelted the fog away. When it cleared there were still dark clouds in the east, hiding the Sun, but over the sea there were more scraps of blue in the sky than we’d seen for many days. Spiller was the first to come back to the tent, and I hurried to sheathe Galan’s sword as he entered.

  He grinned when he saw it and asked if I’d slept well.

  “About as well as you,” I answered.

  Rowney came in and Spiller laug
hed, saying he looked like a drowned rat. Spiller had no call to talk, with his thatch of hair matted to his forehead and water dripping from the eaves.

  Noggin had slept through the disturbances of the night. Spiller rousted him out of bed and sent him off, sniffling and coughing his morning cough, to empty the chamber pot and fetch water. “Lazy sod,” he called after him.

  Galan still slept, so I kept my voice low. “Did you really think Ardor would attack our tents last night? Break the king’s peace?” In the night it had seemed so likely, but now that it was day and nothing had happened save for dogs barking, I had my doubts.

  “Aahh!” Spiller said with disgust. “The Crux is too careful.” He unlaced his heavy leather jerkin, which was stiff with tow padding and sodden from the rain, and hung it from a tent pole. “He caught us leaving camp and put the hobbles on us, made us keep watch instead.

  Rowney dried his sword and dagger on a blanket. “Too bad Ardor didn’t try us. The Crux planned on it, I think. He had fifteen men on guard besides us, waiting for them. If they’d come, we’d have spilled their blood and caught no blame for it.

  Noggin set down the water bucket, saying, “You should have waked me,” and Spiller snorted.

  I said, “The Crux has too much sense to want this feud. More sense than you. I wager he expected more trouble from Sire Alcoba than from Ardor last night, and had you standing guard against yourselves.” I laughed at how the Crux had outwitted them, but the jest pricked me too. I hoped I’d never live through another such night.

  Yet I would. Wasn’t I on my way to war? I wondered if I’d have the strength for it.

  Rowney shook his head as if he disagreed with me but couldn’t be bothered to argue. Spiller said, “Huh. The Crux spits on Ardor’s name. He must be planning something to requite the murder of our armiger.”

  I said, “No matter how carefully you measure out the blood spilled on each side, the scales never balance. They tip one way and then another—it’s easier to start a feud than end one.”

  Spiller scoffed and gave me the old saying: “A coward’s wisdom is as easy as a whore’s virtue—and just as little to be trusted.” Rowney shook his head silently again and took out his oil and whetstone.

  I lit a fire in the brazier and set about making a strong brew of wake-me-up. When I looked up Galan was watching me. I flushed, wondering how long he’d been awake.

  His stare slid past me and he said to his men, “Where’s Rodela?”

  Spiller gaped.

  “Well?”

  “I don’t know, Sire,” Spiller replied. It was plain he had an idea where Sire Rodela was, and wouldn’t say.

  “Get over here,” Galan said, “and help me to the pisspot.”

  Spiller and Rowney jumped up and helped Galan to sit on the edge of the cot. A rank, foxy smell came from the bedclothes. One jack grasped him under the arm to keep him steady, while the other held the chamber pot. When Galan had pissed he shook them off and sat with his shoulders hunched. In a while he said, “Bring me clothes,” and Rowney fetched a linen shirt and eased it over his head. It was not a simple matter to put on hose but Galan insisted on it, though we could tell it pained him. Next he stood and next he walked, Spiller and Rowney on either side, a few paces across the tent and back.

  I asked, “Is this wise?” He ignored me, except his lips tightened and I could almost hear his teeth grind together. “I’ll fetch Divine Xyster,” I said. Then he looked at me and I stopped halfway to my feet and sat back down on the ground.

  He called for his boots and his surcoat. To put on his boots he must sit and stand again, and by that time his face was haggard. He left the tent with one hand on Spiller’s shoulder and the other on Rowney’ s, and I watched him walk past the tents of Sire Guasca and the priests to the tent of the Crux—not many paces, but every pace costly—and as he walked he straightened his back and seemed to steady.

  A few cataphracts were already at the hearth. I guessed that most of them had been up all night; they were boisterous, pestering Cook and his drudges as they went about their work, cawing at every little gibe. They hailed Galan when they saw him. He lifted his hand and smiled and ducked into the Crux’s pavilion. Rowney and Spiller stayed outside, squatting on their heels and pitching stones at a puddle. Before long the Crux’s men came out of the tent, leaving Galan alone with him.

  I was sitting on the ground eating porridge and watching the Crux’s doorway when Sire Rodela came back. He sauntered up as if he’d been out for a stroll, wearing the borrowed jack stiffened with iron rings, a sword, and his usual crooked smile. Wherever he’d been, the rain had caught him, for he was wet through. His arms were crossed, which seemed odd until I saw that one arm cradled the other and there was blood between his fingers. He jerked his head to bid me follow him into the tent.

  He sat on Galan’s cot and started to unlace the jack one-handed. The leather thongs were swollen tight from the rain; he impatiently called me to help. He had a habit of ordering me to do this or that for him, and I of pretending not to hear. Spiller too was often deaf to his commands. The jack and I were allies in this, at least, our private war with the armiger, and though it was risky, we were practiced at reading his moods; his smiles often foretold more trouble than his frowns. This morning Sire Rodela was well pleased with himself, warmed by some secret cheer, though his left hand curled uselessly in his lap and he dripped blood on Galan’s bedclothes. I told Noggin to help him and busied myself with the cook pot at the brazier.

  The armiger scowled and asked, “Where is Sire Galan?—

  “He wondered as much about you, Sire,” I said.

  “Well, here I am,” he said sharply. “Where is he? I thought he’d be safe in his bed.”

  “He’s with the Crux.”

  “Oho, so that’s how the wind blows.” He didn’t seem perturbed. I wondered if he knew why Galan had gone to see the Crux; not that it mattered, as Sire Rodela was ever one to tell me what I didn’t wish to know and hide the rest.

  He grimaced as Noggin pulled off the jack and the padded red shirt. He bent his left arm at the elbow and inspected it.

  Noggin sucked air between his teeth and I took one look and said, “I’ll get the carnifex quick.” I’d expected a cut, but this wound laid bare the meat in a slice along the back of Sire Rodela’s hairy forearm, from his elbow halfway to his wrist. Blood welled from it.

  “No,” said Sire Rodela, looking at me. “No need. You bind it.”

  “I won’t touch it. Divine Xyster would have my hide. It’s bleeding badly.” I wondered he was so willing to risk defilement by letting a woman touch his wound. Did he mean to trap me in a transgression so he could turn the priests on me?

  He set his jaw and said, “This is not so bad; I’ve had worse. Now clean me up and be quick about it—and you’d better keep quiet about it or I’ll have your hides.”

  Noggin stood there slack-jawed until I snapped at him to find some linen—a shirt, anyone’s shirt—and hold it over Sire Rodela’s wound. “Press hard,” I said, “even if he curses you.” I fetched rainwater from the barrels. It was none too clean, but would do. What else? Spiller had poured wine on a cut once. That was all we had, lacking Divine Xyster’s cobwebs and foul-smelling salves. If he were a woman, I’d have put a paste of woundwort on it and maybe even stitched it closed, but I wouldn’t risk so much for Sire Rodela. And Noggin was too clumsy; I’d seen his mending on Sire Galan’s shirts.

  Sire Rodela’s eyes met mine over Noggin’s shoulder. He didn’t even flinch as Noggin pressed. “And the other man?” I asked. “How did you leave him?”

  He smiled one of his dangerous smiles. “Shorn,” was all he said.

  I asked Noggin to lift the cloth; the bleeding had lessened, but the linen was mostly soaked. I could see something white that looked like bone. I said, “This is deep. If you won’t let me get the priest, let me fetch Spiller. He’ll keep quiet.”

  Sire Rodela said, “He couldn’t hold his tongue unless I plucke
d it out and handed it to him.”

  “You think Noggin can? He tells Sire Galan everything,” I said. The bagboy seemed too daft to be sly, but I’d not overlook him again—and if I made trouble for him with Sire Rodela, I didn’t mind. “Let me get Spiller.”

  Spiller was reluctant to come at Sire Rodela’s bidding until I whispered why he was needed. On our way back to the tent, under the eyes of the cataphracts, I asked quietly if he could hear what Sire Galan and the Crux were saying to each other. “For I know you were listening,” I added.

  He claimed he hadn’t heard a word.

  Spiller set about tending Sire Rodela’s wound. The jack had a little smirk fixed to his face as he poured wine over the wound, and Sire Rodela yelped and called Spiller’s mother a sow and said he’d render his whole family for lard. Then he told Spiller to stop dawdling and tie it up quick and have done with it.

  “Who did this, Sire?” Spiller asked, as he tore a strip of linen from Sire Rodela’s only bedsheet to wind around his arm.

  Sire Rodela said, “See if you can guess.” He loosened the drawstring of the purse at his belt and pulled out a handful of brown hair. He dangled it before us. For a moment I failed to understand; then I saw that the hair sprouted from a bloody piece of scalp about as wide as my palm. I looked from this thing to Sire Rodela, so vain of his prize, and felt the skin tighten on my own scalp. Noggin tittered.

  Spiller said, “Where’s the rest of him?”

  “In the sea.”

  “What was he, a jack?”