Liberation of Lystra (Annals of Lystra)

by Robin Hardy

  “Surchatain Roman is no longer in the peasant’s hut,” interrupted Nihl. “He is beyond my finding.”

  Olynn and Kam glanced at each other, then Kam added, “I’ll lodge Izana at my sister’s house, until you decide what to do.”

  Nihl dug his heel into the ground as he thought. “How long may she stay?”

  “As long as you wish, Com—sir. But where will you be?”

  “I am going to Calle Valley,” Nihl said coolly. “Roman is alive, and Deirdre must not marry another while he lives. I am going to prevent it.”

  That morning a number of travelers crowded the rocky, westbound thoroughfare leading to Crescent Hollow and the fair: soldiers patrolling in pairs; merchants loaded down with wares; wealthy citizens boasting their own bodyguards; money lenders, curiosity seekers, and general rabble.

  It had been misting and grey in the early dawn when Roman and Effie had passed through the stone pillars marking the outskirts of Westford. Riding a swaybacked horse, the two of them presented an enigmatic picture—the man unshaven, wearing a tattered sling and a costly white silk shirt; behind him, clutching his waist, the peasant girl bouncing on the horse’s rump.

  Several hours later the Surchataine’s royal entourage passed the pillars, drawing admiring stares and whispered comments from the other travelers. Deirdre, riding the sturdy black gelding, was followed by maids and soldiers, both Lystran and Callean. The emissary Virl rode at her side, talking with grand, sweeping gestures.

  Several minutes after they had passed, a Polonti on horseback paused at the pillars. He glanced back at Westford, then gazed up the road at the royal party growing smaller in the distance. When they were far enough ahead so that he would not be spotted, Nihl, too, left the pillars for Crescent Hollow.

  Chapter 29

  As Roman and Effie plodded on the westbound road toward Calle Valley, Effie kept shifting uncomfortably behind the saddle on the horse’s bony haunches. “It’s getting hot, and this nag has the gait of a duck,” she complained.

  Roman chuckled, “And Pax thought he’d hoodwinked the trader—” he caught himself, realizing that he need not speak evil of her dead brother.

  “Surchatain,” Effie murmured, and he bit his lip for even mentioning Pax. “Are you sure you should take me to Calle Valley? It’s a long trip, and you must be needed at the palace. They think you’re dead.”

  Roman exhaled. He knew that the most logical course of action was to return to the palace and delegate the task of finding Oweda and Mathias. But for some reason he felt pressed to do this personally—to give her welfare the same priority she had given his. He feared that once he became Surchatain again, other matters of state would squeeze her out.

  “I promised to see you safely to your friends,” he told her. “I must keep that promise, for my sake as well as yours. Besides, whatever they tell the people at large, I’m sure Basil and Nihl and especially Deirdre don’t believe for a minute that I am dead. And that should be confirmed by the poulterer’s message,” he reasoned, guiding the nag with an easy hand on the reins.

  She frowned. “I tried to deliver a message, too. It’s not as easy as you make it out to be. It seemed to me they all really think you’re dead.”

  He condescendingly patted her hands on his midriff. “Don’t worry over it, Effie.” Their nag startled into a sudden lope as they were passed closely on either side by a pair of Lystran soldiers. Smirking, the pair glanced back at the broken-down horse with its mismatched riders. As Roman watched them gallop down the road, his face darkened and he muttered, “I’d like to know what urgent mission those two are on.”

  “The soldiers are always like that,” Effie remarked. “Didn’t you know?” Roman glanced over his shoulder at her. She added, “They treat anyone on the outside like garbage.”

  Shades of the Cohort! Roman stiffened. Were they really like that? She’s a sensitive girl, he rationalized, but even he had seen their disparaging look. He shrugged and she answered, “No, it’s easy to see that you didn’t know. Do you know anything that goes on outside of your beautiful palace?”

  He delayed answering for a long time, until a bellmaker had driven his cart up beside them. The ringing, clanging and tinkling of his wares prevented Roman from attending any more disconcerting questions.

  Effie was entranced by the music of little silver bells mingled with the peals of big brass ones. The road was barely wide enough for the cart and the horse, so she was able to reach out and rattle several clappers. The bellmaker, fortunately a good-natured man, leaned over smiling to give her a tiny copper bell.

  Even as Effie was shyly accepting the present, there were hoofbeats pounding behind them, followed by cursing. Effie, Roman, and the merchant craned around as a Lystran soldier shouted, “Move this cart off the road and let us pass, fool!” His fellow beside him was using his horse to try to bump Roman and Effie onto the rocky shoulder.

  The merchant jerked his cart to a stop to let the horses pass one by one, Roman’s first. But as the first soldier passed the bellmaker’s cart, he kicked it hard enough to dislodge some of the merchandise onto the side of the road.

  Roman whipped the nag around, forgetting Effie on the back, and she had to hold on tightly to keep from falling off. “What reason is there for such violence?” he demanded.

  The soldiers gaped at him scornfully. “Keep your mouth shut or get it filled with dirt, peasant!” retorted the first soldier.

  “What is your name and your outfit? Who is your captain?” barked Roman.

  The two soldiers stared at each other and the first hooted, “Why? Are you going to go cry to the Surchataine?”

  “I am the Surchatain, and I promise you will be expelled from the army, at best,” Roman declared.

  The soldiers roared. “You’re a dribbling idiot!” They spurred on, kicking up dust in his face.

  Roman wheeled the horse toward Westford. “This has gotten entirely out of hand!”

  But he felt Effie’s arms grip him from behind. “Don’t you understand they’ve always been like that? What are you going to do differently now?”

  He paused, thunderstruck. “I—don’t really know,” he stammered. “But here I almost forgot already what I had promised first to do.” Dismayed, he turned the nag up the thoroughfare again. “The soldiers will have to wait. The Lord will have to keep them busy until I deliver you where you belong. You saved my life and I owe it to you now.”

  Effie gratefully squeezed his chest, and they caught up with the bellmaker as he finished reloading his cart. “Please, fellow, accept my apologies for these ruffians,” Roman contritely offered. “If you wish, I will ride with you for protection.”

  The merchant laughed, glancing at Roman’s incapacitated arm. “Protect me from the Surchataine’s protection?”

  “What?”

  “Those soldiers are sent out along the roads to protect merchants traveling to the fair,” the bellmaker informed him, swinging up to sit in his cart again.

  Roman shook his head, confused. “No, they can’t be. By whose order?”

  “By order of the Surchataine. Where have you been not to know this?” the merchant asked, gathering up the reins.

  Not catching the shade of difference in the pronunciation of the feminine title, Roman exclaimed, “I did not order it, because Bruc’s army is marching on Corona!”

  The merchant nodded carefully, suspicious of Roman’s mental state. “As you say. Good day.” He slapped the reins briskly on his horse’s back.

  Roman stared down at the tracks in the dirt road as the bellmaker drove off. “Are you going back now?” Effie asked quietly.

  “No,” he said with forced decisiveness. “Whatever has happened in Corona, I am too late to alter it. I will just have to do the best I can by you now.” He clucked the horse to a walk, then sadly laughed. “Not very long ago, I disguised myself and my wife to look like peasants, just to get away from being Surchatain for a while. Now I find it taken away from me, and I am certainly
no happier.”

  “What does it take to make you happy?” she asked, wondering how anyone who lived in a palace could ever be unhappy.

  “A few less questions from impertinent girls,” he retorted, turning the conversation away from the discomfort of truth.

  “The man and his cat had another row

  Which ditched him in the pen with a sow,

  Who gave him such a loverly eye,

  He forthwith said to his cat, ‘Goodbye!

  You’ve scratched me, clawed me, bit me and here

  I fear for my life, so goodbye, my dear!’”

  Ahead of them, the loud, drunken song came from a young fellow who was draped across possibly the only horse in Lystra in worse shape than their own nag. Effie giggled and Roman winced, smiling. The fellow’s trade was not clearly apparent: his pack showed some barbering tools, but they were old and rusty; there were tin plates and pans, but not enough to sell—he might have been one of the many drifters who just bought (or stole) and sold enough to keep ale in the jug.

  When they passed him, he burped and waved merrily. Roman saluted, noticing uneasily the embroidered collar set with gems that he conspicuously wore. How a fellow like that came by such a treasure, Roman did not want to know. But drunk as he was, he’d never keep it.

  Effie and Roman were mingling with traffic up the road when a sudden clamor behind drew their attention. Travelers were hurrying forward to clear away from the drunk, who was being attacked by two Lystran soldiers. Roman watched in incredulous fury as the soldiers yanked the fellow from his horse and began beating him.

  Roman threw himself from the saddle and ran back down the road, reaching out with his right hand to grab from behind one soldier who already had a hand on the collar. The soldier was so surprised that he delayed swinging for an instant, during which time Roman flung him face down in the road. Then Roman wheeled in time to see the drunken traveler expertly knife the other soldier. As that one fell, his companion picked himself up and fled on his horse, mistakenly riding westward at first.

  Roman gaped at the drunk, who retained his collar but not his inebriated air. He eyed Roman sharply, stuffing the knife out of sight in his belt. “We’d better ride quickly, man, before a whole unit comes down our necks.” He bent to remove a heavy money pouch from the body of the soldier while Roman stared.

  “You baited them!” exclaimed Roman, and the other raised a cynical brow. “But—why?” Roman stuttered.

  “Was it unfair of me to make myself an easy target?” the fellow asked, a mock whine in his voice. “But if you want to hear more, you had better come quickly. The one you let go will be back straightway with the rest of his unit, looking for us. You’re an outlaw now as well.”

  Effie had moved to the saddle and brought the horse around, so Roman jumped up behind her. As he did, he looked down in surprise to see that he had unconsciously reached for the reins with his left hand. Although his shoulder was still sore, the arm was beginning to respond. He closed his eyes in silent gratitude, but the outlaw was shouting, “Come on!”

  The three cut off the road past curious onlookers and delved into a heavily shaded area of forest. The cool green dimness was a welcome respite from the hot dusty glare of the road. They slowed to a walk while the outlaw scanned the trees around them. Finding what he wanted, he began to follow markings. Roman rode with him till they came to a concealed camp.

  As the outlaw hopped down from his horse, several men resting around a campfire stood up. “How’d you do, Thane?” one asked, studying Roman.

  Thane threw the money pouch down beside the fire in reply, and one of the men began dividing up the contents. “I’ve brought two new sets of hands,” Thane remarked, jerking his head toward Roman and Effie.

  “I do not rob,” Roman said darkly, drawing amused sneers from the group.

  “No?” smiled Thane, who sat, tossing a wineskin to Roman. “Not even a murdering soldier who tries to rob you?”

  The blood rushed to Roman’s head. From the corner of his eye he could see Effie give him a knowing look, but he could not face her and them at the same time. “Those two were rotten apples,” he insisted. “The soldiers are for the most part disciplined and honest.”

  There was a burst of sarcastic laughter from the pack in response. Thane smiled in some pity. “What province are you from? Polontis?” he asked, noting Roman’s black hair and brown skin.

  “I’ve lived in Westford all my life,” Roman replied.

  “Then you’re blind and deaf to think so highly of the uniforms,” Thane said, not smiling.

  “Why should they rob? They’re well paid,” Roman muttered, squeezing the wineskin in his hand. “And Nihl would never allow it!”

  One man on the edge of the group spoke up. “The Commander expels men caught thieving, but he can’t be everywhere at once. And he can’t control the factions among the men themselves.”

  “What factions?” Roman asked. This fellow seemed to know what he was talking about.

  “The Lystrans and the Polonti. The Lystrans see the Polonti as foreigners and won’t work with them. I’d go so far as to say that a revolt is brewing within the army. The Polonti are the ones holding it together, and that’s only because the Commander is one of them.”

  “Who are you to know all this?” Roman asked, afraid of the answer.

  “I’m a soldier. My name is Quint. And I’ve found out who is responsible for most of the robberies on the road: the Blue Division of the Lystran army. But I can’t get back in to report this to the Commander, for they’ll kill me on sight.”

  Roman sat on the ground, sick to his stomach. Effie put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. Quint continued, “And you could pass for the Surchatain’s brother, were you clean shaven.”

  “I am he,” Roman answered despondently.

  “He who?” asked Thane.

  “I am the Surchatain,” Roman said as if expecting no one to believe him.

  “The Surchatain carries a brand on his chest,” Quint observed. Roman let the folds of his shirt fall open to show them the cross.

  Thane smiled ironically. “I suspected you might be alive, as no one was allowed to see the body. Why are you running?”

  “I never intended to run,” Roman said. “But now I see why the Lord kicked me off the throne. I had some things to learn.”

  “You think you’ll bring us to justice, Surchatain?” asked Thane. Again the ironic smile, as there were five men around the campfire.

  “Bring you to justice?” Roman repeated. “The world has gone mad, with soldiers robbing and renegades patrolling the roads.” He stood. “No. Rob with my blessing. Then come see me when I return to the throne, and I will give you legitimate authority to ride the roads.”

  “A man would be a fool to believe that,” Thane remarked.

  “I swear it,” said Roman. “I will appoint a special position for you to catch uniformed thieves.”

  “Then ride with us now,” Thane offered.

  “No, I cannot. I have a particular duty to perform. I must take this child to her guardians in Calle Valley,” Roman said, nodding toward Effie.

  “To the fair?” Thane asked, and Roman nodded. “Then let us ride with you. You’ve been spotted as an outlaw, so you’d best take what help you can get.”

  Roman studied his angular, youthful face with the habitual smirk and dark eyes. “Very well,” he said cautiously. Eagerly, the renegades packed up their camp and rode with Roman to the edge of the trees, where they peered out to the roadway a hundred feet away.

  A retinue of soldiers was just coming into view. The outlaws backed into the trees, watching. “That’s the one who got away,” muttered Thane, nodding toward a soldier riding up to meet the vanguard.

  But Roman was watching elsewhere. “Who could be leaving Westford with such a large train . . . ?” Then he moaned, “Deirdre!” as he glimpsed her in the midst of the soldiers. “I told her to wait for me,” he growled.

  “She didn’t g
et your message,” Effie whispered, vindicated once again.

  Roman nodded. “So she goes to the fair. Oh, my precious Deirdre, who spends money when in distress.” He squinted, thinking aloud, “If she ordered soldiers to cover the trade routes, it must have been at Caspar’s request. And if she is going to the fair, it must be at his invitation—” He froze for an instant, then nodded grimly to himself. “She does think I am dead. She is going to see Caspar. I had better get there myself, and soon—after I have delivered you,” he said to Effie.

  Thane pointed out, “Our safest course is to ride well ahead of them into Crescent Hollow, since we can travel faster than they. Once you’ve delivered your package, then we’ll see to the Surchataine.”

  Roman glanced at him, not particularly glad that this brash young man wanted to share in this critical and highly personal mission. But seeing no immediate way to shake him, Roman grudgingly accepted. They turned their horses into the woods to take a shortcut that would meet the road farther ahead.

  To the soldier riding beside her who had just reported the encounter with robbers, Deirdre murmured, “How terrible that they are so close! Please send my personal condolences to the family of the man killed.”

  “Yes, Surchataine. Since the renegades have taken to murder now, do we have your permission to execute them on sight? Surchatain Galapos ordered them under the death edict when they got so bad after Tremaine’s invasion.”

  “Yes, I remember,” she said, though it was just a vague recollection. “I don’t really know . . . ask the Commander what is best to do. Nihl will know.”

  The soldier hesitated, a smile playing across his face. “Yes, Surchataine.” He wheeled his horse toward Westford. All the Lystran soldiers with her had heard about Nihl’s dismissal. It was obvious that she did not know. Had there been one honest man with her, he would have told her. But they just smirked at each other.