“Neither will this signo matter to a court martial.”
“No. But right now I want answers as much as evidence. He may know something about this business with the mines.”
“You think Espere would have given him to you for examination if he did?”
“I don’t see how he could have refused me without admitting his guilt. And if he’s already arranged for us to die in the desert, I don’t imagine he much cares what the signo knows to tell us.”
In the guardhouse common room, the captain of the watch stood up quickly beside the fire pit, shrugging back his cloak to salute. “Commander Risto,” he said. There was a scarlet lieutenant’s braid on his shoulder. “Lieutenant Chareste, sir. I’ll bring the prisoner out to you.”
Torien was surprised. “Commander Espere told you I’d be coming?”
“Lieutenant Tarrega did, sir, last night.”
“I’ll see the prisoner in his cell. There’s no need to trouble yourself bringing him out.”
Chareste hesitated. “The prisoner is in isolation, sir, on the Commander’s orders.”
“My business won’t take long.”
“I mean that he isn’t being held in a cell, sir.”
There was distaste in Chareste’s face, and an equal measure of shame. Something turned over in Torien’s stomach. “Show me,” he said.
He expected another hesitation, or perhaps an excuse. Instead Chareste complied at once and wordlessly. They went in file down into the cell row. Chareste went ahead with a torch. The row was unlit save for the torchlight splashing over raw sandstone walls, the air cool and damp and bitter with the smell of must. At the end of the row, the corridor turned down another flight of steps and came out through a doorway into a low, close room.
At first glance, it reminded Torien of the family crypt back home in Vessy, and he felt for a moment the fear and gravity which one feels in the houses of the dead. But this was profane rather than sacred fear. His insides turned again and tightened as the light of Chareste’s torch went around the room. There was a fire pit dug in the far corner. Above it on the smoke-blackened wall hung branding irons and an array of other instruments whose purposes he did not know and was glad he did not know. A low trestle table fitted with restraints stood at the center of the room, a three-legged stool beside it. In the torchlight, he could see bloodstains on the tabletop and on the sand-swept floor below.
Chareste put his torch into a bracket on the wall. He took his key ring from his belt and fumbled with it in the half-light. There was an iron grating bolted across the wall at his knees, and behind the grating a low cavity hollowed out from the stone, gaping black like an empty eye socket. Chareste found the key and knelt against the wall to open the grating. He leaned head and shoulders into the cavity. He dragged out a limp, dark thing which Torien recognized only belatedly as a body.
He thought at first the signo must be dead. The signo lay face-down and unmoving against the floor at Chareste’s knees. His head was hooded but the rest of his body was uncovered, and in the torchlight Torien saw the lattice of whip weals over his back and shoulders and the open sores which the irons had left on his arms and legs. Chareste turned the signo carefully onto his back and bent over him to slip off the hood. The signo’s fingers twitched against the floor, searching for a hold. The tattooed number, the signone, marking him by law nameless and rightless, marched indelibly across the back of the signo’s hand.
Chareste lifted the signo’s head and tugged the hood free. He sat back on his heels, the hood in his lap. “It takes some time for his eyes to adjust,” he said. His voice was as dead as ashes.
Torien looked at the signo’s face. It was an obscene mockery of a face grinning up at him like a skull in the torchlight: flesh shriveled with hunger, bones jutting. The scalp was shaven, the skin nicked and gouged and knotted with scars. At the corner of the right eye, skin and flesh were stripped or burned away entirely, the cheek gaping open, the bone exposed to the ear. The eyes blinked and streamed and darted here and there frantically in the torchlight. The lips were cracked and crusted black with dried blood and peeled back slightly so Torien could see the teeth clenched beneath. It had been a young face when it was whole, a young body. It was a desecrated corpse now through which the last nervous impulses still spasmed.
He knelt, slowly, too unsteady on his feet to stand. “How long?”
“Under examination? More than a month.”
He sat on his knees, looking at the signo’s body. He watched the signo’s skeletal ribs rise and fall in slow, shivering breath. The rest of it was dead on his dry and aching tongue. He looked up, finally, to see if Alluin might have words. Right then he was in desperate need of Alluin’s words. Alluin shook his head without speaking. His jaw was knotted tight, the muscles in his throat moving as though he were swallowing back sickness.
Torien shut his eyes and opened them. “You’ve had charge of it?” he said to Chareste.
“Lieutenant Tarrega, sir.” Chareste’s voice was very quiet.
“He hasn’t spoken?”
Chareste said nothing.
“He hasn’t spoken through a month of this, and you suppose it’s doing any good?”
“The Commander may suppose it does some good, sir.”
They looked at each other across the signo’s body. Chareste swallowed. His shoulders were stiff. He twisted the hood once in his hands and leaned forward to slide his fingers under the signo’s head.
“Don’t,” Torien said.
Chareste looked up, the signo’s head in one hand, the hood in the other.
“Take him up to a cell and send for the surgeon. My orders. You may tell Commander Espere so, if he asks.”
There was a stretch of silence. Then Chareste said, in a deliberately empty voice, “Yes, sir.” His face was as empty as his voice, but his shoulders loosened.
On the thoroughfare, Torien said, “I mean to take the signi on patrol tonight.” Dawn had broken above the eastern wall. There was wood smoke on the air, and the murmur of voices from the barrack blocks.
Alluin did not look at him. His eyes were somewhere distant. His face might have been carved from stone. “You know he’s going to kill you, and you know he’s going to use the signi to do it.”
“Possibly.”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
“The mines are our only chance for solid evidence against him. Show me they aren’t, Alluin.”
“A spear between your shoulder-blades is solid evidence. It won’t much matter to you, by then.”
“The signi have no conviction of loyalty to Espere.”
“Nevertheless, I’ve just seen one convincing reason why they might feel compelled to obey.”
“Or one convincing reason why they might be compelled to turn.”
Alluin looked at him now. He said nothing.
“Give the word to the quartermaster after muster,” Torien said. “We leave at sundown.”
“I want Tarrega with us,” Alluin said.
“As a hostage?”
“As a casualty.”
“He may prove useful in court, at some point.”
“You understand that, and I understand that,” Alluin said, “but I wouldn’t much mind if it were lost on the signi.”
He went to headquarters, after the muster, to see about getting a map of the Road. He found the office empty except for the spotted cat. Upon inquiry, he was informed by the sentry in the vestibule that Espere had ridden out into the desert to inspect a string of Asano horses.
“The Asani supply our cavalry horses?”
“No, sir. For racing. The Commander has a stable down to the city.”
Torien absorbed this for a moment, silently. “Did the Commander give any indication when he’d be back?”
“No, sir. It won’t be before noon, sir. They took the meal with them.”
In the office, he drew the curtain shut across the doorway. The spotted cat watc
hed him lazily from the far end of the room. He searched through the codices on the shelf above the desk, pulling out each in turn: the pay register, the quartermaster’s inventory, the log. He held the latter in his hands, considering. A smaller codex slipped to the floor from between the pages. He bent to retrieve it. He took both over to the desk. He spread open the log and read it through page by page, finding nothing. He opened the smaller codex and ran his fingers down the row of numbers set forth along the left margin. For each number there were corresponding jotted notes under various headings across the page: date, age, birth place, crime. In a few places there were addenda—behavioral issues, disciplinary methods used to what effect. He searched through the pages as he had done the log, pausing at intervals to read entries, noting the entries that had been struck through and the brief explanations which accompanied them: killed in battle—killed in battle—captured—executed—suicide.
A shadow fell across the desktop. Torien looked up from the codex into Tarrega’s face.
Tarrega laid the muster list on the desktop. Wordlessly, he eased the codex from Torien’s hands. He turned the pages under quick fingers. “Sixteen,” he said, “born in Puoli, convicted of murder. He’s eighteen now, or close: the registry is two years old. He had the command because—alone of the lot—he could read and write.”
He put the codex down. “Or is that not what you were looking for?”
Torien said nothing.
“It’s lucky I should find you here,” Tarrega said. “We can talk, you and I.”
“I’ve nothing to say to you, Lieutenant.”
“Then I’ll talk, and you can listen. I’ve a warning for you—and advice, if you’ll have it. Also, I’ve a favor to ask of you.”
Torien stood, pushing back the chair. He put the codices back on the shelf. “You can tell Espere I’m taking the signi on patrol tonight.”
“He means to kill you,” Tarrega said, “you and Senna both. The signi are already under orders. I imagine you can appreciate the signi do not refuse his orders.”
Torien turned to look at him across the desktop, one hand still outstretched to the shelf.
“They’ll wait till you’re on Mayaso ground. It will look routine in a report: killed in battle with Mayaso rebels. Commended for valor, perhaps, if he’s feeling charitable.”
Torien lowered his hand very slowly. “Why?”
“Why do you think? You and Senna know too much. You went in over your heads in Modigne.”
“I mean why not just kill us here?”
“He needs this war with the Mayasi—else he has to admit the mines are Mayaso by right, and he needs the mines. If you die at Mayaso hands, it gives him further excuse to push the Mayasi off the Road.”
“Tell me why I should trust you.”
“Maybe if I hadn’t found you behind a curtain in his office trying to read his guilt into his log books, then you could afford not to trust me. As it is, you don’t have much choice.”
“I could kill you and make it look like the cat did it.”
Tarrega smiled. “Unlikely,” he said, “and pointless anyway. Listen to me, Risto. We’re fighting the same fight, you and I, but I’ve neither the time nor the means to prove myself to you. Nor do I much care whether you believe me or not. I’ve no real need of you. You, on the other hand, have very great need of me.”
“We’ll see.”
“At least listen to me.”
“Before a court martial, when they stay your execution long enough that you can testify against Espere—I’ll listen. Until then, I’ve no interest in anything you have to say.”
“I can save your life and Senna’s on the Road tonight. I can see you safe aboard a ship for Istra by low tide tomorrow morning.”
“We’ll take our own chances.”
“For the signo’s sake, then.”
“What has the signo to do with any of it?”
“I ask that you take him with you. Tell Espere you want to make use of his knowledge of the Road. Tell Espere anything—I don’t care. I’ll arrange for—certain friends to meet you on the Road and take him off your hands. After that, you and Senna may die as you please.”
“This is out of your concern for his life?”
“For a number of reasons,” Tarrega said, “none of which are of any interest to you, as I’m not presently standing before a court martial.”
“He can’t sit a saddle. Right now, he can’t crawl of his own strength. You must know: Chareste told me it was your work.”
Tarrega’s face was expressionless. His eyes were very dark. “An hour,” he said, “two at most. That’s all I ask of you—of him. The surgeon can at least ease his pain that long.”
“How am I to know your friends?”
“The locals avoid signi. To them signi are dishonorable, outcast, lower than slaves. So they’ll be either my friends or a particularly bold Mayaso raiding party.” Tarrega shrugged. “But it’s very rare the raiding parties come so far north.”
The signi were not allowed weapons off-duty, on Espere’s orders, nor were they permitted on leave to the city, but they were allowed the use of their horses on the parade ground, under guard. He came down from the headquarters and stood alone under the western gate to watch. He watched for two hours, the sun white-hot overhead and the heat wisping off the flat, hard-packed sand. They did not push the horses very hard, on account of the heat. It was noon now and they were moving off the parade ground and coming up on foot to the gate under the watchful eyes of the guards, leading their horses. Torien stood up from against the gate wall as they approached. He reached a hand to the bridle of the first man’s horse. “You,” he said. “Wait.”
They stood aside stiffly and wordlessly as he picked them out. He picked twelve of them. He had watched them and decided on them individually. He knew horses, and he knew you could know much about a man by the way he handled a horse. The corporal who had charge of the guards came over to stand with him under the gate. “They’re afraid,” he said. He smirked a little. “They think you’re picking them out for punishment.”
“Take their horses,” Torien said.
“You don’t require our assistance, Commander?”
“You and your men can go.”
The twelve signi stood in a line, waiting. They did not look him in the face. They stood very stiffly and looked at the ground. They were shaven-headed, and they wore undyed wool tunics like field-slaves’ tunics and low, thin-soled sandals rather than boots. He could see they were afraid. In two days’ time, when they had come down onto Mayaso ground, they would kill him on the Road; until then they must be afraid of him.
“My name is Risto,” he said. His name did not matter to them, as their names should not matter to him, but there was comfort in the formality. “Commander Espere has given me command of you and orders to patrol the Road. We leave at sundown. I’ve instructed the quartermaster to prepare your gear. I’m aware the Commander has already given you—certain other orders.”
“And you’ve come to beg your life?”
One of them raised his eyes to Torien’s. His freckle-strewn face was pale but hard. His shoulders were braced very straight, his hands clenched. “Go ahead and beg. I’d like to hear it.”
“I know the consequences you face for refusing him, signo.”
“Doesn’t matter to you, does it?”
“You’re dead either way. You can’t testify before a court, but you might still loose your tongue to someone who can. He can’t afford that. He’ll kill you when you’ve carried it through the same as he’d kill you for refusing.”
“Not the same.” The signo shook his head. “Not the same.”
“Are you offering better?”—another signo, older and calmer.
“Your freedom, if you go with me to the mines.”
“Freedom does us no good—not from you, not as long as Espere is in command.”
“Take me to the mines and Espere won’t be
in command much longer.”
The signo’s face was blank in a practiced way. “Modigne won’t hear a case against him.”
“Choiro will.”
“What do you care about the mines, anyway?” the freckled signo said. “It’s such as you making a profit of them.”
“Then it’ll take such as me to right the wrong. I swore I would, in Modigne.” Torien peeled off his glove and held up his hand so they could see the half-healed gash splitting his palm. “I don’t break my word.”
They considered his hand. They looked at him in silence. It was not a hostile silence now, but it was an uncertain one. Then someone said, “It’s a better chance than we’ve got from Espere.”
“Either way it goes,” the older signo said, “it’s got to be all of us or none of us. I’ve had enough of killing our own.”
“I’ve had enough of being used,” the freckled signo said, “by Espere or otherwise.”
“He’ll be at our mercy on the Road,” the older signo said, “unless he’s an uncommon quick learner.” His eyes were cool on Torien’s face. “Tell me which of us is using which.”
It was a clear, bright night but a windless one. Even after the sun had gone down beyond the rim of the desert, the heat pushed up into their faces from the sand. There was a young moon hanging just over the horizon, stars turning slowly above. He recognized the stars, though he could not remember all the names. He could see the Wolf, the summer star, which Vareni called the Dog, and he wondered if they could see it that night in Cesin. He wondered if they saw it burning so brightly.
His father had always been uneasy when the Wolf rose. He had not understood it as a boy. The Wolf was theirs, the sign of the Risti, running rampant on the arms of their house, and the rising of the Wolf meant winter was done at last, and if it rose particularly clear and bright it meant a good wheat harvest and a mild winter to come. There were, Tauren Risto had explained, certain Cesini who might make trouble at the rising of the Wolf. It was superstition, and foolish, but Cesin had once won a great victory against Varen under the Wolf, and the Wolf had afterward been the sign of the Cesino kings, and even now there were those who thought the rising of the Wolf portended the day Cesin would be free of the Imperial yoke.
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