by K. J. Parker
Daurenja was handing him the reins. He took them and watched the other three mount up. Daurenja mounted like water poured from a bottle, seen in reverse. It was, Miel couldn’t help thinking, the way you’d imagine the hero of the story would do it — assured, graceful, quick, and once he was mounted he seemed to merge with the horse, controlling it with the same thoughtless ease you use when moving your own leg or arm. He’d be the perfect hero, if only he wasn’t a monster.
“Come on,” she said, as if chiding him for using up all the hot water. He grabbed the reins and the cantle of the saddle, and made a complete botch of mounting, losing both stirrups and flopping forward onto the horse’s neck.
Back in the yard again; there were men with lanterns; somebody shouted at them as they rode past. Miel’s horse broke into a canter before he was ready, and the saddle hammered the base of his spine. Twenty years of riding; he couldn’t remember what to do. It was just as well that the horse was inclined to follow the tail in front.
Only a complete idiot or a hero gallops in the dark. After a few strides, Miel lost his nerve completely. Instead of standing to the pace, he sat and flumped painfully, gripping the pommel of the saddle like a scared child. Escaping from the Mezentines was washed completely from his mind. All he could think was, I’m going to fall off, help. He could feel the horse extending its stride to keep up. All the fear he’d so skillfully reasoned away in the pigsty flooded back, drowning his mind. He was going to be killed, and he didn’t want to be.
How long the ride lasted he had no idea, but after a lifetime the gallop decayed into a trot, then a walk; they were climbing, but he had no strength left in his knees or back to lean forward. He heard the horse wheeze, and apologized to it under his breath. Every movement it made jarred his pulled muscles. He just wanted the journey to end; a little pain was all it took, apparently, to shake him out of his high-minded resolve. Not even proper torture; discomfort. He was pathetic.
The first smear of lighter blue in the sky took him by surprise. It must’ve got there while his attention was distracted. Daylight, though; they’d have to stop when the sun came up. Hunted fugitives lay up during the day to avoid being seen, it was the rule.
They didn’t stop. The sun came up, a red mess on the horizon. They were climbing a heather-covered moor, pimpled with white stones about the size you’d use for wall-building. The outline of Sharra directly behind him told him all he needed to know about where he was. In the middle of nowhere, precision is a waste of effort.
“We’ll stop here.” Daurenja’s voice, so unexpected as to be arbitrary. Actually, the choice was good. They were high enough up to have a good view all round, but hidden by a little saucer of dead ground under the top of the ridge. With the bulk of the rise behind them, they could sneak out unobtrusively as soon as they saw pursuers approaching, and the direction of their escape would be masked by the gradient. Clever, resourceful Daurenja; a proper old-fashioned sort of hero, not like the tortured, ineffective types you got in all the modern romances.
“Get off,” he went on, “we’ll rest the horses for an hour.”
Miel realized he’d forgotten how to get off a horse. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and tried swinging his leg over the animal’s back. He must have done something wrong, because he slithered and ended up breaking his fall with his kneecap.
“Would somebody mind telling me who the hell that is?” Daurenja said.
“He’s nobody.” Her voice. “You bastard.”
“Don’t start,” Daurenja snapped. “This really isn’t the time.”
Miel lifted his head, mostly to see if Daurenja looked as weird in daylight as he had under the lamp. He saw him facing her, a let’s-all-be-reasonable look on his extraordinary face. Behind him, Framain was coming up slowly; the exaggerated strides of someone who’s not used to it trying to move without making a noise. He had a rock in his hands.
“How dare you …” she was saying; then she caught sight of her father. There was a split second before she realized she had to keep Daurenja’s attention distracted; he must have picked up on it, because he swung round, reached out his ludicrously long arm and punched Framain on the side of the head. Framain collapsed like a shoddily built rick. Daurenja turned back as though he’d just swatted a fly. She sprang past him and threw herself on top of Framain; clearly she was afraid Daurenja had killed him, but he groaned and pushed her away.
“Excuse me,” Miel said.
Framain looked up and saw him. His expression showed that he’d forgotten about Miel. He wiped a dribble of blood off his chin.
“I’d like you to meet my business partner,” Framain said. “Daurenja, this is Miel Ducas. He’s going to hold your arms while I smash your head in.”
Daurenja glanced quickly at Miel; he was judging distances, doing mental geometry. He took two long strides, sideways and back, placing himself out of distance of all three of them.
“You,” he said, looking at Miel for the briefest time required to make eye contact, then returning the focus of his attention to Framain, “get lost. Nothing to do with you. Get on your horse and go away.”
It would’ve been very easy to obey. Daurenja had a foreman’s voice, the kind that makes you do as you’re told without stopping to think. Besides, he was right: none of the Ducas’ business, therefore no obligation to intervene. Since it seemed pretty evident that the three of them together would be no game at all for Daurenja in a fight, there didn’t seem to be anything Miel could usefully do.
“If it’s all the same to you,” he said, “I’ll hang around for a bit. I mean, I haven’t got a clue where we are, for a start, and —”
“Do what he says,” Framain growled at him. “I don’t need you.”
“I know. I just —”
“Go away.” So she didn’t want him there either. It was just as well, Miel decided, that he wasn’t a democrat.
“Fine.” Miel stood up. “Can I keep the horse?”
No reply; he no longer existed. He gathered the reins and led the horse away. It didn’t want to move, so he twitched its head sideways; at least that still worked. “I’ll head this way,” he called back without looking round. “And thank you for rescuing me.”
Once he was over the lip of the saucer, he stopped and glanced back; then he found the heaviest rock he could lift, put the reins under it to keep the horse there, and walked as quietly as he could manage back the way he’d just come. Just under the cover of the lip he stopped, crouched down and listened.
He could hear Framain’s voice, shouting, but couldn’t make out the words. After a while she joined in, shrill, practically hysterical. Framain interrupted briefly, and then she resumed. He’d never heard so much anger, so much passion in any voice, male or female. Then there was a sound like a handclap, but extremely loud, and her voice stopped abruptly. Framain roared, and then he heard Daurenja say, “No” — not shouting, just speaking extremely clearly. At some point while he was eavesdropping, a stone had found its way into his hand. It fitted just right into his palm and nestled there comfortably, like a dog curled up at your feet. He crawled up to the top of the lip and looked down.
She was lying on her face. Framain was kneeling beside her, hugging his ribs, finding it hard to breathe. Daurenja stood a long stride away from him — long distance, in fencing terms. He had his arms folded too; he looked impatient and mildly annoyed. The knuckles of his right hand, gripping his left elbow, were scuffed and bleeding slightly.
Absolutely none of my business, Miel thought, taking aim.
The stone hit Daurenja just above the ear; not hard enough to knock him down but sufficient to make him stagger. Not the right time for sophistication, Miel decided. He ran down the lip, just managing to keep his balance, and crashed into him. The two of them fell together, and before they hit the ground, Miel could feel fingernails digging into his neck.
His weight helped. Landing on Daurenja was like falling into the brash of a fallen tree; his ribs, like branch
es, gave and then flexed. The grip on Miel’s neck didn’t slacken and he felt panic surging through him. The palm of his hand was on Daurenja’s face, he was pushing away as hard as he could, but all that achieved was to tighten the grip. At that moment, death lost all its serenity and grace. He was the prey in the predator’s jaws, wriggling and kicking a futile protest against the natural order of things. In his mind, dispassionately, like a neutral observer, he realized that he was losing the fight — not over yet, but he certainly wouldn’t bet money on himself. It was, he decided, a pity but no tragedy. Mostly he felt resentful, because in the final analysis this thin freak was beating him, which inevitably made him the better man.
He didn’t hear anything, but Daurenja’s grip suddenly loosened and he stopped moving; then his body was hauled out of the way and Miel saw Framain looking down, though not at him. He realized that he was exhausted, too physically weary to move. Death, he decided, simply didn’t want him, like the fat boy who never gets asked to join the gang.
“My business partner,” Framain said. “It’s all right, he’s not dead. We need him, unfortunately. He’s going to take us to join the Vadani duke. It’s his way of making it up to us.” Framain stopped, made a sucking noise and spat, very carefully, on Daurenja’s upturned face. “I suppose I ought to thank you, but you should’ve done as you were told. This is a family matter, nothing to do with you.”
“Would you help me up, please?” Miel said.
Framain frowned, as if he didn’t understand, then reached out, caught hold of Miel’s wrist and hauled him upright. He nearly fell down again, but managed to find his feet.
“Are you all right?” Framain didn’t sound particularly interested.
“I think so. Just winded.”
“We need some rope, or something we can tie his hands with,” Framain said. “Got to be careful with him, it’s like tying up a snake.” That made it sound like he’d done it before; regularly, even. “He hit my daughter, you know,” he added. “Punched her face. She’s all right, but …” He sighed. “We need him, at least until we reach the Vadani. It’ll be awkward killing him there, but you know what they say. Nothing worth while is ever easy.”
No rope on the horses’ saddles; they had to take Daurenja’s shirt off and plait strips of it. Framain was fussy and impatient at the job, fretting in case Daurenja came round before they were ready. She helped at the end. Her mouth was swollen and purple, and her left eye was closed. Daurenja was in scarcely better shape. Whatever Framain had hit him with had left a long gash on his bald scalp. It had bled copiously, as scalp wounds do, so that his neck and ponytail were caked in blood. They propped him against the slope and Framain tied his hands and feet together, working edgily, at arm’s length. “I’m surprised we managed it, actually,” Framain observed casually, as they stood up and looked at him. “Just the three of us. Of course, it helped that he was taking care not to damage us. In some respects he’s quite predictable.”
“You should kill him now.” She was using the tone of voice in which she chided him about details of mixing the colors. “Forget about joining up with the Vadani. That was his idea, presumably. Anyway, we don’t need them. They’re losers, or they wouldn’t be running.”
Framain scowled at her. “We haven’t got anywhere else to go.”
“Thanks to him.” A different him this time.
“Be that as it may. Besides, what he said makes sense. The Vadani can’t mine silver anymore; they need money. They’ll be glad to help us, if we tell them we can make them a fortune.”
“But the clay —”
“It’s the Vadani, or going back home and waiting for the Mezentines to arrest us for killing those soldiers, or wandering aimlessly till we run out of food or a patrol gets us. Use your common sense for once.”
The same argument, just a different topic. Presumably it would last as long as they did. Framain turned to Miel like a man looking for an escape route. “I suppose you’re curious to find out why we’re planning to kill the man who just rescued us all,” he said.
“I was wondering, yes,” Miel said mildly. “I’d got the impression you hadn’t parted on good terms.”
“Don’t tell him,” she interrupted, a hint of panic in her voice. “He’s nothing to do with us. And we don’t need the Vadani, let’s do it now and get it over with, before the bastard escapes.”
Framain raised his hand. Remarkably, this had the effect of silencing her. She turned her back on them both, though Miel was prepared to bet she was watching Daurenja, like a terrier on a leash at the mouth of a rat-hole. “My daughter’s quite right, actually,” he said, in a strangely calm, almost pleasant voice. “But from what I know about you, I get the feeling that if I don’t tell you, it’s quite likely you’ll carry on interfering. The easiest way to get rid of you is to tell you. Of course, I’ll need your assurance that you won’t ever tell anybody what you’re about to hear. On your word of honor,” he added, with a faintly mocking smile, “as the Ducas.”
Miel shrugged. “If you like,” he said.
“In that case …” Framain sighed, and sat down on the ground, gesturing for Miel to do the same. “It’s a long story,” he said.
You already know about me (Framain said). We used to be a fairly dull, respectable family, nobility of the middling sort, in Eremia. We were tenants-in-chief of the Bardanes, with just short of a thousand acres of low-grade pasture on either side of East Reach. When all our land and money was gone, I promised myself I’d get it back, somehow or other; for her sake as much as mine, because I loved her and I felt it was my duty. With hindsight it’d have been kinder to cut her throat, but it didn’t seem that way at the time.
Now, Daurenja here; he’s quite a character. Most of what I know about him is what he told me himself, so I can’t vouch for the truth of it. I’d be inclined to assume anything he ever said was a lie, but bits of information I picked up over the years from more reliable sources bear some of it out, so I’ve had to give him the benefit of the doubt, at least in part. You’ll have to judge for yourself, I think.
Gace Daurenja was born about forty years ago in a large manor house at Combe Vellein; it’s a smallish place just across the border from Tollin. That’s right; by birth he’s Cure Doce, though he’ll tell you his mother was Eremian, of good family. He mentioned her name once, but it’s slipped my mind. Not a family I’d ever heard of, but I’m hardly an authority.
He says he left home when he was fourteen to go to the university at Lonazep. That’s partly true, from what I gather. He was fourteen when he left, and he did go to the university. That wasn’t his main reason for leaving, though. The details are a bit hazy, understandably. It was something to do with an attack, one of his family’s tenants. I haven’t been able to find out if it was a girl or a boy he attacked, or whether it was rape or just his normal vicious temper. I don’t think the child died, but it was a wretched business; anyway, he was packed off to Lonazep with books and money. I imagine the intention was that he’d stay away for good.
I’ve got no problem with conceding that Daurenja’s a brilliant man, in his way. He can learn anything, in a fraction of the time it’d take a normal man. He’s exceptionally intelligent, an outstanding craftsman, remarkably strong and agile, and I’ve never seen him get tired. When he first came to live with us, we didn’t have any water; we had to carry it half a mile from the nearest stream. Daurenja dug a well; his own idea, we didn’t ask him to do it. To be honest, the thought hadn’t even occurred to me. I came out into the yard one morning and there he was; or at least, there was his head, sticking up out of a hole in the ground. He had to go down over seventy feet before he struck water, and he only stopped working when it got too dark to see. I wish I could show you that well. It’s faced inside with stone — not mortared, just shaped and fitted together. He picked the stones out of the river and carted them back all by himself, and the winch he made for drawing up the bucket is a wonderful piece of work. You can lift a ten-gallon bucke
t with your little finger. So you see, he had the potential to do anything he wanted. His appearance was always against him, of course, but he made up for it with charm; he could lay it on when he wanted to, but perfectly judged, not too heavy-handed with it. His main problem, I believe, has always been his temper; or rather, his lack of self-restraint.
At first, he was a model student at Lonazep. He studied everything they were prepared to teach him, four or five courses simultaneously, which was unheard of, needless to say. He had plenty of friends, and when he wasn’t studying he was a little on the rowdy side, but certainly no worse than most. Students at Lonazep are supposed to be a little bit boisterous, it’s their tradition. But something happened. Again, I don’t know the facts, but this time there definitely was a death; either a fellow student or an innkeeper’s daughter. Luckily for him, the university has jurisdiction over its students, and they couldn’t bring themselves to do anything too much to someone with such a brilliant mind. The story was that he transferred to Corlona to continue his researches there.
The name doesn’t ring a bell, I take it. Corlona’s on the other side of the sea; I believe it’s one of the places where the Mezentines recruit their mercenaries. In any event, it was held to be far enough away, and by all accounts it’s a very fine university, far better than Lonazep for mathematics and the sciences. When he got into trouble there, he moved on to another university a long way inland, and I believe he managed to stay there for several years. When he had to leave there, however, he was pretty much at the end of his resources. It was simply too far away for money to reach him from home, and his reputation was starting to precede him. Understandable: he was probably the only white face on the continent, outside of the coastal towns, so he was somewhat conspicuous. Really, he had no choice but to risk it and come back over here. Not that home had much to offer him. He didn’t want to be recognized in Lonazep or the Cure Doce country; he was cut off from his family’s money, because of course all the bankers and commercial agents were on notice to look out for him. If he came back he’d be on his own, no money, ill-advised to stay in any one place for very long. I imagine it took a certain degree of courage to make the decision; but courage is a quality he’s never lacked.