To the High Redoubt

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

“God is merciful,” the priest said quietly.

  Arkady knelt and crossed himself. “I admit that I swear—all soldiers swear. I admit that I wench when I have the opportunity. I admit that I hanker after gold. I admit that I have killed men in battle. I admit that I have been drunk and made a great fool of myself over dice and women. All that is so. But I have never knowingly exposed my men to any more danger than is a soldier’s due. That is why I refused to fight, and why the Margrave is sending me away.”

  “Is this a confession, my son?” the priest asked, a bit bewildered in spite of years of experience listening to soldiers.

  “No. I do not think this is a sin. I cannot confess it, Father. It would be a greater sin if I did.” He crossed himself again.

  “I cannot offer you absolution without confession,” the priest reminded him.

  “Then let me confess to drinking or wenching or gambling or stealing ducks from the Margrave’s larder—it’s all one to me.” He was ready to get to his feet but paused out of respect to the old man.

  “I will give you a provisional absolution, my son, and that is all that I may do, properly. This is not what will please the Margrave, for it will be learned in the camp and questions will be asked.”

  “As well they should be,” Arkady said brusquely, rising without the priest’s permission. “But in a day or two it will all be forgot, and there will be another battle.” He looked at the neatly tied bundles that Hedeon had set out. “By tonight, some of the men will have put up a different tent here, and I will be nothing more than another officer who left.”

  The priest got slowly to his feet. “I hope you will think about what I said. There are times when God is seen from the depth of the abyss.”

  “Thank you, Father. I will remember it,” he said, doubting it would ever occur to him again.

  Outside, Hedeon stood, the reins of Arkady’s horse clutched in his hands. “I will pack the saddle,” he offered.

  “I’d be grateful,” Arkady said, proffering one of the two bundles he carried. He made a studied effort not to look around him, for he knew that half the men in camp had been alerted that he was about to leave. If only I do not have to look at them, I can bear it, he thought as he went through the familiar motions of lugging the bundles of his belongings. “Make sure you tie that bag on well; that’s food for me and the horse.”

  Hedeon blinked back tears and did as he was told.

  “We hate to see you go, Captain Sól,” one of the men said in an undervoice. He was standing not far away, and at these words, Arkady looked up, taken unaware. His eyes met the soldier’s.

  “I…” He shook his head, unable to risk saying more. His eyes stung.

  There were other words he heard, whispered among the men as they stood, watching him prepare to leave them. Pride and grief almost overwhelmed him as Arkady listened, incapable of ignoring the approval of the soldiers. He tried to convince himself that this alone was enough and that because of it his leaving would not be as bitter as it had been.

  “It’s ready, Captain Sól,” Hedeon announced, no matter how obvious this was. “The saddle is—”

  “I know, Hedeon.” He reached into his wallet, which was tied to belt, and tossed two silver coins to the lad. “Take care you don’t lose them foolishly.”

  Hedeon caught the coins and gave half a salute, then turned and ran away into the crowd.

  The herald appeared and looked squarely at Arkady. “You must understand me: if it were up to me—”

  “I realize that,” Arkady interrupted him, getting into the saddle as he spoke. “Let’s get it over with. I don’t fault you, man. Just don’t take longer than you must.”

  The herald nodded as he took his place ahead of Arkady’s horse and raised his staff so that the men would clear a way for them, which eventually would lead to the edge of the camp. “This is Captain Arkady Todor Sól, from Sól, who has brought shame upon himself and disgrace upon his lord. He has refused to act in the face of the enemy and has shown himself to be unworthy of the rank he holds. May his name be vilified by every one of you for his cowardice and his insubordination.” The herald had repeated this more than seventeen times by the time the edge of the camp was reached, and his voice was growing worn.

  “It is not on your head, herald,” Arkady told him as he leaned down and gave the man a silver coin. “Take care. Your master will bring you to ruin if you do not check him.”

  The herald took the coin. “It is not right that I should listen to you.”

  “No, it’s not,” Arkady said. “But you are in danger if you do not. Well, I’ve said more than I ought and you have been patient with me. I am grateful to you for being so calm.”

  “It was not I. The men were silent, that’s all.” He looked back. “You need not tell me this, but which way will you go?”

  “How should I know?” Arkady answered, more testily than before.

  “As you wish,” the herald said, nodding. At last he stepped aside, permitting Arkady to go.

  Chapter 2

  Two days outside of camp, Arkady came to a main trade route. He looked at the road, weighing his choices. Westward was all of Europe, and the center of his faith, but westward also lay the fruits of his dishonor and the life of an outcast. “If I am truly exiled,” he said to his horse, “then let it be on my terms.” With that he turned east.

  At the end of the third day, he came to a market town, a squalid, hot gathering of mud-covered buildings and old, crowded wells, where men, camels, horses, mules and goats congregated, all of them determined to make more noise than the other. Toward the center of the houses there was a large open square, and in this place a good number of merchants set up their awninged tents to show their wares. Many of the farmers brought produce to sell to the merchants, and the most enterprising of the villagers made food to sell to both merchants and farmers.

  Arkady dismounted and led his horse toward the market square, smiling a bit at the bustle. He knew that as a soldier he attracted some attention, but as he was alone, most of the others avoided him, fearing that he was one of those men turned rogue who was not safe to deal with. He made his way to one of the food booths, and since he did not know the language the woman spoke, he did his best to make himself understood in mime. The woman accepted two copper coins in return for two puffs of bread filled with a highly spiced mixture of lamb and onions. Arkady smiled widely at her and gave her another coin for a third helping.

  The woman returned his grin and said something in a friendly tone of voice, then scowled in the direction of a platform on the other side of the market square. She shook her head in disapproval and made another incomprehensible remark before giving her attention to a new customer.

  Arkady munched at his food and led his horse toward the well where other horses were tied up. He looked around in the hope of finding a farmer selling grain, since he was low on food for his animal. “I’ll try to find you some apples or dates, fellow,” he promised the horse.

  A turbaned merchant in hodgepodge of clothes had climbed up on the platform and had started to harangue the crowd in a high, metallic voice. The attention he attracted was not entirely favorable, for some of the villagers whistled through their fingers at him in a derisive way. Others approached the platform, some of them holding wallets ready in their hands. Whatever he was selling, those merchants were interested in buying.

  His curiousity piqued, Arkady strolled toward the platform, nibbling on the last of his food. He hoped to find out what it was the turbaned merchant had to offer.

  An assistant was summoned, and he mounted the platform, pulling two large chains with him. Fifteen men and women, all shackled, stumbled up onto the platform. Most of them were dragged down by hunger, fatigue and the enervating weight of their wretchedness.

  Arkady looked at the slaves in a little surprise, for although he had heard of open slave markets, he had never before seen one. He looked over the men and women offered for sale, wondering who they were and where they ca
me from, that they should be where they were now. He had never seen clothes like they wore, or faces quite like theirs. He wished he knew enough of the local tongue to ask who the slaves were. He moved closer, as if proximity would explain matters to him. Once again he looked over the slaves as the turbaned merchant began to point out the various qualities of the first few men on the chain.

  The woman next to last was the one who held Arkady’s interest. She was young, certainly not yet twenty, with a strong and lithe body under the swathes of stained silk she wore. Her skin was a light shade of bronze and her hair was black as onyx, without a trace of red or blue in its shine. Her face was unusually tranquil, and a moment later Arkady realized why: she turned toward him, and he saw that her eyes were a strange, light shade, like frost-blighted leaves. The dark blue mark in the center of her forehead seemed more truly an eye.

  Arkady was not aware that he had come to the foot of the platform and was staring up at the woman, but the little slaver was, and he hurried over to the soldier, a fawning grin on his grizzled features. He bowed ingratiatingly and began to say something that Arkady could not understand.

  “Be quiet, you,” Arkady snapped, his eyes fastened on the young woman. He had the oddest feeling that blind as she was, the woman was looking at him. “How much?” he asked the slaver.

  Although the slaver did not understand Arkady’s words, he had been a merchant long enough to know when someone wanted to buy. He held up both hands and flashed his fingers twice, then touched the gold earrings he wore.

  Arkady shook his head, and held up all the fingers on one hand and two of the other, thinking as he did it that he was being incredibly foolish. He was a soldier without employment. To buy a slave was a ridiculous extravagance, and when that slave was a blind girl…

  They compromised at fifteen gold coins, and Arkady gave them to the merchant with an expression of distaste, and watched while the woman was unfastened from the chain. The assistant started to drag her forward; she missed her footing and almost dropped to her knees.

  “No!” Arkady ordered in the same tone of voice that he used with his troops. He clambered onto the platform and took the chain, shoving the assistant aside. The merchant and some of the men in the crowd laughed; Arkady ignored them.

  The young woman turned her face toward Arkady and said something in a low, musical voice, extending her hand.

  As Arkady closed his fingers around hers, he had the oddest sense that a current had run down his arm, and he looked at her, startled. He still did not know why he had brought her and, now that he had her, what he would do with her. He decided that he was mad. He said to the young woman, “Come with me. This way.” Gently he led her toward the stairs, then checked her. “You have to step down here.” He knew that she did not have the words, but he felt her hand tighten, and she went down the stairs carefully, feeling her way with her slippered feet.

  At the foot of the steps, she faced him again and murmured something more, touching his arm uncertainly. There was a question in the words she spoke.

  “Take my arm; it’s all right,” he assured her as he went back toward his horse. What on earth was he doing, he asked himself as he guided her to his mount. What possessed him to purchase a slave like this one? “Stay with my horse,” he said to her, feeling helpless to make himself understood.

  “N’yeh,” the young woman said, taking hold of the stirrup as soon as Arkady put her hand there.

  “Uh…good,” he said, having no idea what she meant. “You…stay here…I…I”—he pointed to himself and spoke very slowly, finding the whole situation too absurd to deal with—“have…to get food.”

  The young woman nodded, taking hold of the stirrup with both hands. She said something more that sounded like “simbruk” to Arkady and made an attempt at a smile.

  “I’ll…be back…shortly. Shortly.” He took a few steps away from her, half expecting to see her run off or be taken by one of the other men in the crowd. He looked around and decided that she might not be safe, even if she remained where he had told her. He went back to her side and said. “Look, I’m going to take you and the horse with me.”

  She ducked her head, but whether it was a nod or a bow, Arkady had no way of knowing, and this was more frustrating than complete and stoic silence would have been.

  One of the men in the crowd pointed at Arkady, laughing and saying something to the men around him. The others glanced toward the two strangers—not only different from the people in the market square, but different from each other as well—and joined the first man in laughter.

  “Don’t mind them,” Arkady said grimly as he led both the horse and the young woman through the crowd toward the farmers’ stalls. “We’ll be out of here in a little while.”

  “N’yeh,” she said with great serenity.

  “Right,” he agreed, still trying to figure out why he had let himself become caught by her and her plight. He might as well have joined forces with the soldiers of the Chinese for all the good he was doing, and now to have this slave as well!

  She touched his arm. “Tara manidatta.” She moved after him with unusual confidence, for although he chose their way carefully, she did not appear to falter as he led her. There was an odd half-smile on her full mouth.

  Arkady found a seller of grain and had much to do to keep his horse from helping himself to the farmer’s produce while he bargained for a price. At last he was satisfied that he had got the price as low as the farmer was willing to go for a stranger, and paid out the money. He noticed that his supply of coins had become dangerously low, and again he cursed the impulse that had caused him to buy the slave. Yet now that he had her, he could not stand to part with her. He gave her a puzzled look, then accepted the two bags of barley and oats the farmer held out to him.

  Near the market two men in foreign dress stood, one of them holding a long staff of bamboo. They watched Arkady and his slave as they made their way through the crowd. Although they did not speak to each other, there was an air of communication about them, as if they had no need for words. One of them frowned, but the other wore an expression of satisfaction, if not pleasure; his bamboo staff seemed to twitch in his hands.

  “The Bundhi will be satisfied,” the frowning one said at last, staring hard toward Arkady. “He is nothing.”

  “Yes; he will be pleased,” the man with the staff said. He nodded to himself. “A mercenary soldier. I could almost feel sympathy for the girl if she were not so dangerous.”

  The other laughed. “We need not concern our master about that now.” He stepped back, making a strange gesture before starting through the crowd.

  Beside Arkady, his slave turned suddenly, as if she had heard something.

  “What is it?” Arkady asked, cursing himself for not knowing how to speak even two words of her language. He felt more foolish than ever.

  She shook her head slightly, motioning him to silence, and once again he had the eerie feeling that she was actually watching for…he could not guess what.

  In the crowd, the two strangers halted. “We should not get closer,” the one with the staff told his companion.

  “True,” the other whispered. “Move back. We must not let her know we are here.”

  “What does it matter? That lout who bought her cannot understand a word she says, and if he did, he would do nothing. No more than a dozen men in this marketplace know our tongue, and they would not listen to her if she complained.” He folded his arms, holding his staff with care. “The Bundhi will want to be certain that the soldier will take care of her for us.” He sniggered, making a disgusting face. “If he knew what he had, I wonder what he would do with her?”

  “Be cautious!” the other said sharply. “She might overhear.”

  “Not in this confusion,” the first declared. “Still, no harm in watching at a distance. We’ve done it this far.”

  Arkady’s slave continued to stare, one hand raised to her mouth, and alarm in her large, clouded eyes.

 
; They had reached two stalls where food-sellers had travellers’ meats set out. Arkady, who had been trying to decide if he wanted goat cheese or a crude lamb sausage to take with him, noticed that his slave was still distracted and staring. “Is there something wrong, girl?” he asked, touching her elbow in the hope that he would not frighten her more.

  “Salghi,” she told him, tears of vexation coming into her eyes. She shrugged, sighing. “Salghi, immai.”

  The vendor in the nearer stall laughed and pointed derisively at Arkady, then pursed his lips toward the slave and laughed more loudly.

  “Stop!” Arkady turned on him. “By Saint Michael, you will not—”

  His slave took his hand and shook her head. “Vret, immai.”

  Arkady listened closely to the words she spoke, knowing it was absurd to try, but hoping that if he gave her his full attention, he might yet come to understand what she was saying. “I did not buy you for that,” he protested. “This man is lying.” But what did he buy her for? he asked himself. Blind as she was, what other use might he have for her?

  The vendor continued to laugh, and several of those around him joined him. They hooted and guffawed.

  “Monsters,” Arkady muttered, turning away. “We’ll get our food elsewhere,” he grumbled to his slave. He took her arm roughly and propelled her through the gathering crowd, away from the stalls and the mirth of the men there.

  The stranger with the staff watched them go. “You see? He is not going to bother us.”

  “Apparently not,” the other responded. “The Bundhi will be relieved.”

  “Yes.” He touched his staff with respect but not affection. “We may start back today.”

  “It would be best,” the other agreed, shuddering as the staff in his companion’s hand moved slightly. “That…bamboo will need—”

  “—Food,” the first man finished. “And soon.”

  The second man shook his head. “It may be a mark of advancement, but…”

  The first man nodded, patting the long, enveloping robes he wore. “It would not reach me easily, Mayon.”