Guardians Of The Keep tbod-2

by Carol Berg

  “What did he look like?”

  “Fellow looked like a desert rat, hard and bony. Black hair cut real short, black beard, dressed fine with rubies on his belt.”

  Darzid. I kept one part of my mind fixed tight on the stable and the desert, so he wouldn’t hear what I was thinking.

  “Why do you do the things they want?”

  “I have no choice. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I understand you quit riding Firebreather so they wouldn’t kill him. And you warned me off. At first I thought you’d come to be just like them, that they’d made you evil, too, but they haven’t done it yet. Not if you gave up Firebreather to save his life. You don’t have to be what they want.”

  I hit him then, so hard it knocked him to the straw and made his mouth bleed. “You are stupid, ignorant, and insolent, and if you don’t watch yourself, I’ll cut out your tongue.” I grabbed his filthy shirt and shook him. “You don’t know anything at all. I have been evil since the day I was born. If my father had known what I was, he would have slit my throat, and if my mother had known it, she would have had me burned alive and drunk wine while they did it. I’ve killed people, and I’ve lashed them until they cried for mercy, and I’ve left men in the desert until they turned black and begged for water. I’ve had a slave killed just to heal my bruises. I am a friend of the Lords of Zhev’Na, and I’m going to become one of them, because that’s what I was born to be. And nothing an ignorant servant says can make any difference at all.”

  I felt the Lords stirring… curious… but I kept them shut out. “Leave me alone!” I walked a long way before going back to my house.

  It was many weeks until I saw the Leiran boy again-or, rather, I saw him almost every day, but in public places where I could pretend he didn’t exist. I didn’t want to think about him or about Firebreather. Keeping things private from the Lords wasn’t easy. And mostly I wanted what the Lords taught me.

  I worked harder every day at my training. I told Darzid I wanted a new master of hand combat, that I had learned all that the current one could teach me, and that only because he outweighed me by three times could he get any advantage at all. The new master taught me how to fight with knives and axes and other small weapons. I got better sparring partners and damaged several of them, so that I guessed they would die. But I learned that if they were good enough, the Zhid would send a surgeon to bandage them up. The better ones were very valuable. I would be a warrior, the best there ever was. Then we would see how the world might be ordered.

  One afternoon as I walked into the stables, I saw a Zhid warrior taking a whip to one of the stable hands. “Perhaps a few lashes will improve your hearing,” he was saying. “At least they might improve my disposition.” He laid on another stroke and another. The groom was curled up in the corner of a stall with his hands over his face, but I recognized the ragged breeches and dirty bare feet. He was cut and bleeding all over.

  “What’s he done?”

  “Young Lord!” The warrior bowed. “This insolent fool ignored my command to wipe the muck off of my boots. He acted as if he didn’t understand what boots were.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t. He’s probably never worn any, and I’ve noticed he’s a particularly ignorant boy,” I said. “Can’t put two sensible words together.”

  “I’ve a mind to string him up and lay the flesh off of him to strengthen my arm. He’s no good for anything else.”

  “I think he could serve a better purpose, more suited to his calling,” I said. “That horse Zigget is a vicious beast. Look at the walls of his stall and you’ll see; I’m worried he’ll damage his legs kicking holes in them. Maybe he needs something softer to kick. String up this boy in Zigget’s stall for a night. It will either bring some sense into his head, or remove his head where we don’t have to worry about it any more.”

  The warrior took the Leiran boy to Firebreather’s box and tied him to the wall as I watched. The Leiran boy was woozy from his beating and bleeding from the lashes. Firebreather snorted and tossed his head.

  “I’ll come scrape what’s left off the walls in the morning, young Lord.”

  “Perhaps I’ll come to watch. Make sure my horse doesn’t have indigestion.”

  The warrior closed the gate behind us, and we walked away laughing.

  You find an interesting way to amuse yourself, my young Lord, whispered Ziddari in my head.

  “The warriors enjoy such things. I don’t like it myself.” I had to say that. The Lords could read me so easily that it was hard to lie to them.

  Shall we amuse ourselves in other ways tonight? asked Notole, as I went to collect my horse.

  “No. No lessons tonight. I’ll be riding late, and then I’m going to bed. You’ve had all you’re going to get out of me today.”

  As you wish. Tomorrow, then.

  For two hours I practiced tight maneuvers, a tedious and boring exercise. At sunset I told the horsemaster that I was going to ride into the desert for a while to cool off. I did so, forcing myself to be patient and not return before all the grooms were asleep. He’d be all right. If he woke up, he could calm Firebreather easily. If he woke up…

  When I got back to the stable, I heard a terrible racket from Firebreather’s stall. I shoved my horse into a vacant box, grabbed the lamp from its hook, and threw open the gate. Firebreather had done a thorough job of destroying the walls of the horse box. Though his head was drooping and his eyes swollen half shut, the Leiran boy was murmuring, “Once more. Another lick, and he’ll bring you oats when he comes. Oats for Firebreather. Another nice wallop. Good. It’ll make you strong. Don’t let him down.” The hooves never touched the boy.

  “Are you having fun?”

  His head lifted a bit. “A barrel of it.”

  He drained half the contents of my waterskin. Then I untied the ropes that held him to the rear wall and helped him down to the straw, taking a quick inventory of the bloody stripes on his arms and legs. “I’m not going to clean you up. None of this looks too serious.”

  “Crackin‘ uncomfortable though.” He stretched out and groaned.

  “Why did you disobey a warrior? Of all the idiotic things. Would it have killed you to wipe the fellow’s boots? You’ve done worse. You love horse muck.”

  He grinned, which, with his face all purple and swollen, looked pretty horrible. “Damn. Was it his boots? I couldn’t figure it out. Thought he was telling me to wipe the shit off his door.”

  “You didn’t know the word for boots? You mean I was right?”

  “Is that a rock in your stew or what?”

  I hadn’t laughed in so long I’d almost forgotten how, but we both took off with that, until he rolled onto his side holding his ribs, and said, “Oh, damn, you’ve got to stop. Yell at me or something. This hurts too much.”

  “Here. I should have thought. Show me where it hurts the most.”

  He pointed to a tender, swollen bruise on his left side below the ribs, and I traced my finger around it to make it numb. I did the same to a couple of other places that looked particularly bad. “This won’t fix them, only stop the hurting for a while.”

  “It’s a deal better. Are you… are you coming to be a Healer, then?” He said it almost with reverence.

  The thought nauseated me. “No. I could never do that.”

  “Whenever you need to go, just put me back on the wall. Firebreather will take care of me.”

  “Nobody’s expecting me tonight. I arranged it.”

  “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “You won’t. Do you want something to eat? I’ve got some things in my cloak.”

  “I’d eat your boots if I knew the word for it.”

  That set us laughing again, and it was a while until I could pull the bread and cheese from the pocket of my cloak, along with a flask of cavet that I heated up with sorcery.

  After he had spent a few moments demolishing the food and drinking the cavet, he eased himself against the wall, and said,
“So what do you do here besides take horse lessons from the Zhid?”

  “I learn sword fighting and hand combat and sorcery.”

  “I know you’re good at wrestling. Never thought I’d have a nub shorter’n me put me down so quick. Are you good at the other things, too?”

  “I’m getting better. Swordsmanship-that’s the hardest. I improved really fast when I first came here, but not so much lately. I don’t think I’ll ever be as good at it as I want.”

  “Why is it so important?”

  “I’ve debts to pay. Debts of honor.”

  “Maybe I don’t understand debts of honor-being who I am and all. It would be an education if you’d tell me.”

  It was like ripping a hole in your waterskin. No matter how small the hole, everything got out eventually. I started just to tell him about my life debt to the Lords, but ended up telling him everything while we sat in that horse box- about how my whole life had been a lie and a betrayal, that no one had been who they said they were, and how it was all the fault of one man. I dumped everything on an ignorant stable Drudge who had never owned a pair of boots.

  He was quiet for a long time after I was done, then shook his head slowly. “Blazes… that is the damnedest story. I’ve got to think on it a while before I can even know what to think. Some of it’s clear enough, but some… Why did you think this wicked prince that was really your da killed your nurse? I didn’t see that.”

  “It was obvious. It’s why Seri brought him to Comigor, to take her revenge on Lucy and Papa. And it was his knife that did it. I saw it.”

  “But that was in your dream you saw his knife. I’ve seen horses fly in dreams.”

  I didn’t like him questioning me. “Your head’s in a muddle. I don’t expect you to understand. And I don’t know why I babbled all of this to someone who doesn’t know the word for boots.”

  “It’s true. I don’t got half your brains, and what brain I’ve got is full of horse muck.”

  “You must be about horses like I am about sword fighting. You’d like to be the best at it, wouldn’t you? At training them and knowing about them. I’ll bet you’d like to run a stable of the best horses there were anywhere.”

  He screwed his swollen face into a frown. “I never told nobody that. You didn’t go picking at my head, did you?”

  “No. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “I appreciate that. Gives me the crawlies to think on it.”

  About that time a faint buzz in my head told me it was second watch, about two hours before dawn. “Do you want to sleep for a while? I should go soon, and once I do, it’ll be harder for you.”

  “No need. I can sleep anywhere. It’s an advantage when you’re born low. Go ahead and put me back.”

  I tied him back up to the wall, trying to duplicate the way the warrior had fixed him. “I can’t come in the morning, you know,” I said.

  “It’s all right. It was a better night than I expected.” He was asleep before I shut the gate.

  It had been foolish for me to do what I’d done, but I felt a little better than I had in a while. When I went to the stable the next afternoon for my riding lesson, I wandered past Firebreather’s stall. The boy wasn’t there anymore. Two days passed before I saw him again, mucking out a stall, still bruised and scratched, but otherwise looking no worse for the experience. I looked right through him, and he didn’t turn his head.

  CHAPTER 36

  Seri

  Dia and I had both been summoned to service in the Gray House. We still slept in the dormitory with the sewing women, but instead of the sewing room, we reported to the Gray House scullery each morning at sunrise. A sour-faced Drudge named Gar assigned us to our duties, Dia to light the fires, prepare food for the Drudges, and deliver gray-bread to the slaves twice a day. I spent my days with a pail and rags, scrubbing floors and railings, polishing brass, scraping candle wax, and wiping layer upon layer of red dust from everything. It was a change from sewing, at least, and allowed me to see a great deal of what went on in that house. I was assigned to the lower floors, while two other Drudges cleaned in Gerick’s apartments. Just as well for the present. There was always a risk he would recognize me.

  I saw him for the first time on my second day in the house. My task of the morning was to scrub a tiled passage that opened onto one of the inner courtyards. The dawn provided scarcely enough light for me to see what I was doing. In the way of Drudges and slaves, I shrank back into the shadows at the ring of approaching footsteps. Gerick strode past me and into the yard.

  Though his build was still slender, he had grown two hands taller and his shoulders and upper arms had filled out. A green singlet exposed his deeply tanned arms, and his brown breeches, leggings and boots were well fitted. Alone in the fencing yard, he removed his sword belt, hung it on a hook on the wall, and began to warm up. His movements were like a ritual dance, done to no music I could hear.

  He was beautiful. His shining hair fell softly about his sun-bronzed face as he stretched and spun, a few thin braids dangling in front of each ear, and even as his exercise grew faster and more violent, he showed no signs of the awkwardness one might expect from a boy so young. His features were composed, peaceful, his mind seemingly focused inward… until a Zhid warrior appeared across the courtyard.

  “What shall we work on today, young Lord?” asked the newcomer. “You fall short in so many areas, it’s hard to know where to begin. Every day, it seems, our greatest challenge is to decide what you’re worst at.”

  Gerick’s only response was to halt his exercise, buckle his sword belt about his waist, and stand waiting, his face now cold and expressionless.

  Throughout the morning the swordmaster continued in this manner, casting insults, taunts, and humiliation. Gerick did as he was told, repeating moves a hundred times with no complaint, no argument, and no change in his haughty demeanor.

  The stone walls of the passageway became a furnace as the sun grew high. The fencing yard would be worse, as it had no scrap of shade, but the rigor of the training exercises did not diminish. At mid-morning Gerick donned his leather practice armor, and a slave was brought to spar with him. The swordmaster faulted Gerick’s every move. Whenever he wished to pause the match, the Zhid would use a whip on the slave, a lithe, quick youth of eighteen or so.

  After the third time the slave was left gasping in the dust by the swordmaster’s lash, Gerick spoke tightly. “If you have some reason to kill this slave, then do so and bring in another.”

  “Shall I direct this practice like a nursery, then?” snarled the Zhid. “Childish sensibilities have no place in true warfare. Is this the weakness of your blood showing itself?”

  Gerick strolled over to a barrel and drank deeply from a copper dipper. Then he returned to the sneering Zhid, who stood leaning against the wall. Almost before one could see it, Gerick had a knife pressed up against the swordmaster’s ribs. “You will direct my practice the way you think best, but if you ever speak to me in that way again, I will carve out your liver and have you staked out right here until your skin cracks like an unoiled boot. I’ve done it before with those who crossed me. Consider it.”

  As quickly as he had unsheathed it, Gerick put away his knife, returned to the slave who waited in the center of the yard, and raised his sword in a ready stance. His face was expressionless again. There was no sign the incident had ever occurred.

  The Zhid did not lash the slave again. When he wished the match to stop, he brought up a wooden staff between the two boys. One might think him chastened by his pupil’s rage, unless you saw his smirk when Gerick’s back was turned.

  I had come near scrubbing grooves in the stones at the wide entry to the fencing yard. As I moved on down the passage, I could no longer see the yard, but the clash of weapons and the shouted instructions of the swordmaster continued throughout the morning. It was difficult to associate the cold-eyed youth in the fencing yard with the child I had met at Comigor. Even such a brief glimpse revealed a great deal tha
t I didn’t want to know. No need to hear the deepening timbre of his voice to know there was nothing of the child about him any longer.

  Gerick trained in the fencing yard almost every morning. Even if I wasn’t cleaning an area that allowed me a view, I would walk by, if only to catch a glimpse of him. I had no idea how to approach him. All midnight imaginings of revealing myself to a terrified child, grateful to be rescued from a villainous captivity, had crumbled on that first morning. And the days that followed did nothing to reverse my failing hopes.

  Late one afternoon a ferocious wind storm hit the fortress, a howling, choking tempest of red sand that could flay human or beast. Gerick was in the stableyard when a horse broke from its tether, driven wild by the whirling sand. A young slave yanked Gerick aside, dragging him to the ground as the horse reared and kicked and galloped out of the yard. The slave had saved Gerick from certain injury, yet, once back on his feet, Gerick knocked the youth to the ground with the back of his hand and kicked him viciously. “Touch me again, and I’ll cut off your hands,” he said to the cowering youth.

  On another day the entire household was called out to the Lords’ Court. We gathered in awkward assembly- Drudges, slaves, Zhid-to witness the lashing of a Zhid warrior, one of the house guards whom Gerick had found asleep at his post. The Zhid was bound to an iron frame. Gerick gave the warrior two lashes, and then turned the whip over to a burly Zhid. Cold and imperious, Gerick watched as ten more lashes were administered, and the torn and bleeding warrior was dragged away.

  My companions chided me for my tears. “The guard deserved his punishment,” said Dia. “What if someone had come to harm the young Lord? The Worships have their duties just like us.”

  I didn’t tell her that it was not for the Zhid I wept.

  I quickly lost my fear that Gerick might recognize me. He took absolutely no notice of any servant, whether Drudge or slave. Two slaves were always within range of his call, but never did I see him acknowledge their existence by word or glance. It might have been the wind that fastened his cloak about him before he went out in the evening, or the weight of the air that deposited a cup into his hand at the end of his sword practice. Several times he came close to stepping on my hand as he walked past me, and once I rounded a corner and came near running into him. I was shaken, as his face was now almost on a level with mine, but his eyes never wavered from his destination, and he made no response to my mumbled apologies. I feared I might be too late to save him.