Blood Road

by Amanda McCrina

  After he sent the rider, he went to see the young Espere in the infirmary.

  He hung back in the doorway of the boy’s cell, at first, while one of the infirmary slaves did something with the dressings on the boy’s arm and at his side. The boy’s supper was on a tray beside the mat, and the slave, finishing with the dressings, tried first to push the bread into the boy’s mouth and then, failing at it, tried to slip a shallow spoonful of bean broth between his teeth. The boy turned his head away and would not take it. His face was very pale in the lamplight. The stump of his left arm was limp and straight at his side, but there was a thick leather strap running from his right wrist to an iron loop bolted on the wall. The slave tried again with the spoonful of broth, and the boy turned his head away to the other side.

  Torien ducked in through the doorway. “I’ll do it,” he said.

  The slave bowed, put the bowl and spoon on the tray, and went out. Torien sat down beside the mat. The boy lay tightly still, watching him and saying nothing—shivering sporadically, though there was sweat on his face.

  “It’ll ease the pain if you’ve something in your stomach,” Torien said.

  The boy said nothing.

  Torien looked at the strap at the boy’s wrist. “You’ve been making trouble?”

  “They think I will kill myself.”

  “It would be a stupid thing to do. There’d be no point to it.”

  The boy swallowed. He looked as though he wanted to say something and could not bring himself to say it. Torien picked up the wine cup from the tray. “I won’t make you eat, but you should try to drink.”

  The boy swallowed again. He shut his eyes but made no other move. Torien slid a hand under the boy’s head and put the cup against the boy’s lips. The boy opened his teeth, finally, slowly, and accepted a long sip of wine. He lay rigidly back down against the mat, holding the wine in his mouth.

  Torien set the cup down. “You have family back in Varen?”

  The boy opened his eyes. He looked at Torien. He swallowed the wine and said nothing.

  “It’s my duty to write them concerning your father’s death,” Torien said.

  “Leave them out of it.”

  It came out quietly but with a forcefulness that surprised him. “I mean nothing else but to write them, I swear it to you.”

  “You swore my father would stand trial in Choiro.”

  Torien felt a flick of irritation. “As he would have done if he hadn’t put a knife to his throat. There’s only so much I can control.”

  The boy was silent, considering this. He said, unexpectedly, “Can you protect them?”

  “They’re not culpable for your father’s crimes.”

  “I mean when I go under examination.” The boy’s face was carefully blank, but he was holding onto himself very tightly. “It won’t matter to them,” he said, “to the Guard. We’re common blood. If I do not answer what they ask of me—you know what they’ll do to my family if I do not answer, if I cannot answer—if I do not satisfy them.”

  “I’m not going to give you to the Guard.”

  The boy did not seem to have heard. “I’ll do anything,” he said. “I’ll do anything you ask, if you will give them your protection.”

  “You can tell me who betrayed Tarrega.”

  Pain and disappointment and hopelessness chased in succession across the boy’s face. “I don’t know. I swear I’d tell you if I knew.”

  Torien did not say anything. He had not expected the boy would know much. Espere had bought the boy’s commission and put the boy at the mines most likely for that reason—that he would ask no questions, that he would do as he was told quietly and without trouble. It had not been necessary that he know. He was as blind and trusting as a puppy.

  The boy mistook Torien’s silence. “I’ll swear it to you under examination,” he said.

  Torien got up. “I’ll keep in mind that you offered.”

  “Please, Lord Risto.” There was desperation in the boy’s voice. “I will pay. I can pay near four thousand eagles.”

  “Your cut from the mines?”

  The boy did not notice the sarcasm. “My year’s salary. I can get more if you’ll give me time, I swear. I’ll sell my horse and gear.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Torien said. “You may need them shortly. Anyway, there’s something else you can do for me, if it’ll make you feel better.”

  “I will do anything.”

  “Don’t kill yourself. And don’t ask the surgeon again to do it for you, though I’m sure he’d appreciate four thousand eagles. At present, you’re just about all that’s holding together our truce with the tribes. That’s a better guarantee from me than you can buy.”

  There was lamplight coming out under the curtain in the doorway of Chareste’s cell, down the corridor. When he ducked in through the curtain, Chareste put down the tablet and stylus he had been balancing against his updrawn knees. “Commander Risto,” he said. He was sitting up on his mat, his shoulders braced against the wall. He stretched his legs straight, slowly, not quite managing to hide a grimace.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “No, sir. It’s nothing—some instructions for Lieutenant Savio. It’s very good of you to come, sir.”

  “How are you feeling, Anzo?”

  “I’ve no complaints about a day in bed, sir, though I’m not so sure about a month of it. I’ll have run out of faults to find in Savio’s work, by then.”

  Torien poured two cups of wine from the jug on the table and carried them over to the mat and gave one to Chareste. “You’ll still have plenty to find in mine, I imagine.”

  “It’s not so difficult, sir, to command a garrison. It’s mainly a matter of delegation.” Chareste smiled as he took the wine cup, but Torien could tell by his eyes that his thoughts were elsewhere. “I wanted to speak with you, sir. I know you were busy earlier.”

  “You should have sent for me.”

  “There were other things more urgent, sir. But I wanted to speak with you about the Lieutenant—about Commander Briule, sir, about what he said to me the morning of his execution. You remember what I told you he said, sir, when the Guardsman asked.”

  “I remember.”

  “It wasn’t hallucination, sir. I lied to say that it was. He was in pain, but he had clarity. He meant to say it. He meant that I should hear. I’m very sure of it. I was sure of it yesterday, but I didn’t want to say so in front of the Guardsman.”

  Torien sat down against the wall beside the mat, holding the wine cup between his hands. “Then it was a confession of guilt.”

  “It’s a code—a name. His betrayer’s name, sir. You understand for my sake he couldn’t speak it plainly with the Commander there.”

  “Show me.”

  Chareste set his wine cup down and opened the tablet on his lap. He scratched out the lines he had written for Savio. He commenced to write again. His hand moved slowly and carefully across the wax face of the tablet. Torien watched over his shoulder as the words took shape: a Valle perdoname ar’ordenone meo s’ie revaia. “This is what he said, sir,” Chareste said, as he wrote, “word for word.”

  “Yes.”

  On a new line, Chareste now made a series of quick strokes across the wax: AVPA’OMS’IR. Then, beneath, he rearranged the letters, drawing the tip of the stylus down in a line from each letter above so that Torien could see the count was straight. Torien read aloud when he had finished: “Maris Pavo.”

  Chareste held the tablet on his lap and said, “I would have told you yesterday, sir, but I didn’t know about the Guardsman.”

  Torien did not say anything.

  “I can’t believe it’s coincidence, sir,” Chareste said, quietly.

  “It’s no coincidence.”

  “He might have been mistaken, sir. It might have been just a guess.”

  “It had to have been someone among the Guard command. We knew that already.”

/>   Chareste hesitated. “If this much was done on the High Commander’s orders, sir, then perhaps also the rest of it—perhaps also the business with the mines.”

  Torien did not say anything.

  “Sir.” Chareste’s voice was very quiet. “If it goes to a court martial, and it is your word against Lord Pavo’s—”

  “I need to speak with Valle.”

  “Valle is the Guardsman? He may not be trustworthy, sir. He may have been on Lord Pavo’s orders himself.”

  Torien was silent, considering this out of necessity, remembering the way Valle’s sword had slipped on its sheath after the fight at the cove and the way Valle had held Tarrega’s body on the gate wall. He shook his head. “He didn’t know—doesn’t know. He’s gone to ask Pavo’s help finding the traitor.”

  “We can send word after him to Modigne, sir.”

  “I don’t much care to sit and wait two weeks before I know whether the message has even reached him. It’ll be better done in person. If nothing else, it’ll be quicker. Right now, we need time most of all.”

  “If it has been Lord Pavo’s work all along, then Modigne will know you were meant to die here in Tasso. They’ll want to correct that failing, sir.”

  “Possibly. It’s a chance I’ll have to take. Listen to me, Anzo,” he said. “You’ve nothing to do with it. You don’t know where I’ve gone, or why. Pavo must not be given reason to think you or any of the rest of the men are involved—at least not of your own volition. You understand he doesn’t need the courts. He didn’t need a court to kill Tarrega.”

  “Is there no other way, sir?”

  “Not that will save Valle’s life.”

  “Then I ask that you let me go with you, sir.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Anzo.”

  “It’s only the ribs, sir. Nothing that a little wine can’t carry me through.” Chareste smiled.

  “I need you here. You’ll have the command in my absence.”

  Embarrassment flooded Chareste’s brown face. He ducked his head. “Sir, I’ve only a field commission. I didn’t come through Vione.”

  “Vione is for senators’ sons playing at soldier.”

  “There are others here better qualified, sir.”

  “Command is nothing but delegation. You said it yourself. I have to ask this of you, Anzo. I don’t know who else I can trust. If Pavo’s in this business, then anyone might be in this business. Pavo’s got long fingers—and a deep purse.”

  “Until you return, then, sir.” Chareste’s voice was quiet.

  “Until I return. With any luck, I’ll be back in a fortnight. Meanwhile, I need you to keep Espere the Younger from killing himself. That may be just as important, in the end: he’s our pledge of peace from the Asani, or as good as we’ve got.” Torien drained his cup and stood. “If I write out a few letters tonight, Anzo, will you send them for me? Only if I—only if you have word that I failed. Otherwise and hopefully they’ll be superfluous.”

  Chareste looked at him. He looked as if there was very much he wanted to say, but he said only, “If it’s necessary, sir, I will send them.”

  “I’ll bring them by in the morning.” Torien set his cup on the table. “I’ll have the surgeon send in more wine.”

  The ship was a double-masted sailing ship which had carried olives and oil out of Modigne and was being reloaded now with grain and spice brought up by camel train on the Road. On foot, Torien guided the tall black horse carefully by the reins through the archipelago of bushels and spice chests dotting the quay below the gangplank. The armed slaves who stood guard watched his progress silently but closely. A pound of cinnamon was six months’ pay for a common soldier, an equal weight of saffron better than a full year’s, and he supposed they had been trained not to consider anyone beyond temptation.

  The ship master was overseeing the loading from the foot of the gangplank. He was a leather-faced Modigno with three gold loops in each ear, and he did not immediately notice Torien. He was shouting harshly in his own tongue to two slaves on the gangplank who were wrestling a bushel up the plank. When at last slaves and bushel had disappeared onto the deck, the ship master turned and saw Torien. Something very akin to annoyance went over his face. His eyes darted past Torien to the guards. “You see that I am busy and cannot speak to you now,” he said.

  Torien slipped his belt knife from its sheath and dug the point under the Modigno’s ribs. “Perhaps you can make time.”

  The Modigno stood very still, looking from the blade up to Torien’s face. “I am a citizen.”

  “Then you’ll know this shouldn’t be necessary. You owe me your attention.”

  The Modigno gathered himself carefully together. “It was of course my mistake,” he said. He bowed, delicately. “I am at your service, Commander.”

  Torien took the knife away from the Modigno’s ribs and sheathed it. “The harbor master told me you sail tomorrow.”

  “With the morning tide,” the Modigno said, “provided the loading is done without delay.” His voice was cool.

  “I must have passage today. For myself and the horse.”

  “There are other ships.”

  “None licensed for Modigne.”

  The Modigno was silent, for a moment. Then he said, “The loading will not be finished today.”

  “You are required by law to give me passage.”

  “This is absurd!” The Modigno flung up his hands in frustration. His bronze face flushed darkly. He pressed his lips together and drew a long, low breath through his nose. He licked his lips and said, more quietly, “It is one day, Commander. You must understand I cannot sail before the loading is done. I have creditors to pay off.”

  “I can make up your losses.”

  The Modigno was contemptuous now rather than angry. “Have you any idea of the value of my cargo?”

  “Some idea,” Torien said. “I’ll pay thirty thousand eagles if you will sail this morning.”

  It was too outrageous an offer even to be considered a joke. It was more than half again his year’s salary as an officer, and the ship master knew it. He studied Torien’s face, saying nothing.

  “I’ll pay three thousand as surety,” Torien said. “You’ll have the rest by draft when we reach Modigne.”

  The Modigno’s eyes went from Torien’s face to the seal ring on Torien’s forefinger. He said, very quietly in disbelief, “It is one day.”

  “We have an agreement?”

  “I will have it in writing,” the Modigno said. Torien could see in his face what he thought of Vareni, and in particular of Vareno nobility. The Modigno lifted his chin, suddenly bold. “And I will have six thousand as surety, not three—if you want me to believe you are in earnest.”

  “I’ll seal it to you before the harbor master,” Torien said.

  He saw to the black horse himself, putting him in traces between two stout posts in the ship’s upper hold. He spent a little while in the half-light of the hold, rubbing down the black coat with a piece of sacking: the horse was skittish with the movement of the ship and the commotion of the loading going on below, and there was sweat broken out on the shoulders and flanks. The unshod hooves tapped a nervous rhythm on the floorboards. Torien finished with the sacking and held the long black head between his hands and spoke softly into the flattened ears. “You and me both,” he said. There was a flutter in the pit of his stomach and an ache between his shoulder-blades that would not go away, he knew, until there was solid ground beneath his feet in Modigne. “You and me both.”

  He did not go up on deck to watch the casting-off. For thirty thousand eagles, they had given him the cabin that normally would be reserved for creditors’ agents or government officials. He lay in the narrow bunk against the inner bulkhead, and he heard the creak of the rigging and felt the long, rolling weightlessness as the ship slipped out from its mooring stones on the tide.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and saw in his mind the burnt red sho
reline of Tasso going back in the port-side distance, the wide blue nothingness running to starboard. They would tack along the coast to Istra and then cross open sea and then, sighting Gola, run along Epyris to Modigne. Each leg of the voyage was two days, and apart from the stretch from Istra across to Epyris never more than three miles offshore. Pirates were a higher probability than the ship going down. Alluin had pointed this out to him during the crossing from Modigne. It had not made any difference then, and it was not making any difference now.

  At noon, the cook’s boy edged in through the curtained doorway with a tray in his hands. There was bread and salt fish and a sticky handful of dried dates, and a jug of wine which the boy was taking care not to spill. Torien sat up against the bulkhead, stomach fluttering. His head ached with sun and salt. His mouth was dry. He shook his head when the boy held out the tray. “Water,” he said.

  The boy bowed and retreated with the tray and returned with a water-skin and a cup. He poured carefully and held the cup out, holding it so that his fingers would not touch Torien’s. His downcast eyes were gray the color of hoarfrost above high, sharp cheekbones made sharper with hunger. The iron ring around his neck sat loosely on his jutting collarbone.

  “Look at me,” Torien said.

  The boy looked up from his bare feet. Even so, he did not look in Torien’s eyes but somewhere away past Torien’s right ear.

  “Which tribe?” Torien said.

  The boy said nothing. His thin brown hands were tight on the water-skin.

  “Dobryni?” Torien said. The boy was old enough to have been taken in the rebellion. He was perhaps twelve years old. Possibly he was older. With the mountain tribes, it was hard to tell age with any certainty. The boy was small, but all the mountain people were small.

  The boy was studying the bulkhead at Torien’s back. Torien tipped the cup and drank. The water was slimy and stale and tasted of brine. His stomach roiled against it. His throat jumped. He gave the cup with dignity back to the boy and jerked his chin to the doorway. “Go,” he said. The boy bowed quickly and backed away. When he had gone out through the curtain, Torien leaned over the edge of the bunk and was sick into the pot. He wondered if it had been deliberate on the ship master’s part. Another day in port and there would have been time to take on fresh water.