Reave the Just and Other Tales (25 page)

The impulse to cower multiplied within me. If I had not fed so recently, I would not have been strong enough to refuse it.

Clearing his throat, the majordomo declaimed unsteadily, “My lords and ladies, here is Duke Obal’s faithful handservant Scriven.” The decreed litany of my peril had already grown ominously familiar. “By the Duke’s express wish, he presents himself to attend upon his lord.”

The growl of opprobrium which at once greeted this announcement shriveled my heart in my chest. I heard “carrion-crow” muttered and “blood-beast” moaned. Priests and devout ladies crossed themselves or clutched their beads, their lips busy with prayer. Fusiliers gripped their guns or their falchions. Lords closed their hands on their sabers. Every man and woman near me drew back, looking to each other for protection.

Somehow my nature had become known—or suspected—despite all my caution. I was now a threat to the Duke. He had called me here to resolve the matter.

All that remained was to discover what form my doom would take.

I told myself that I was merely suspected, not known. Otherwise some righteous soul would have struck me where I stood, compelled by his devotion to Mother Church. But that was cold comfort, and tenuous. I could not long endure the scrutiny of so much light.

From the cluster amid which he stood, Duke Obal turned his head. Blinded by the illumination, I could not descry his features, or his expression. When he spoke, his tone was neutral, rigidly controlled.

“Ah, Scriven.” He did not seem to raise his voice. Yet nature had made him potent, despite his years. And he was no longer the wracked invalid to whom I had first offered my service. Both disease and injury had been lifted from him. His voice carried easily. “You are welcome here. My thanks for your promptness.

“Approach me.” He beckoned firmly. “You are needed.”

His self-command was evident. Still his words did not suggest that he meant me ill.

Before I could comply, however, Bishop Heraldic intervened. A hush fell over the hall as he stepped forward.

He was a fleshy individual, disinclined to asceticism. That may have explained his acquiescence to the moral ambiguity of serving Mother Church without supporting the High Cardinal’s siege. Any serious effort to denounce the Duke would have cost him considerable comfort. Nevertheless he made an imposing presence, resplendent in his vestments and miter, the gold of their stitching, and of his heavy pectoral cross, agleam with reflected lampshine. His protuberant eyes glowered, and his pendulous jowls quivered, giving the indignant authority of his office corporeal form. It seemed that his conscience had reached its limits.

Disdaining to glance at me, he confronted Duke Obal across an interval of rugs and marble.

“No, my lord,” he proclaimed, sententious with virtue. “I must protest. By my cloth, and in the name of Mother Church, I forbid this sacrilege. Fiends and demons give no service to Heaven, whatever they pretend. A life is a small price to pay for the sanctity of an immortal soul.”

The Duke raised his chin. “So you have said, my lord Bishop.” Although he owed deference to Mother Church and all Her representatives, he permitted himself an acerbic reply. “I have heard you. I have
understood
you. But I am the Duke of Mullior, and within these walls my will rules. I will address your concerns—later.

“Approach me, Scriven,” he repeated. Again he beckoned, but with more force. “I am impatient of delay. There is much at issue between us.”

Murmuring, “Yes, my lord,” I left the majordomo’s side and ventured into the expanse of the hall.

Whispers of renewed execration followed me as I moved—a miasma of revulsion and alarm. Ladies and their lords retreated to avoid my proximity. Half the assembly glared at me as though I had arrived in an eruption of brimstone and flame. The rest watched His Reverence Heraldic, hoping—or perhaps fearing—that he would call upon their righteousness to join him in protest or revolt.

For his part, the Bishop withdrew to await events. What he hoped to gain, I did not know. I could not conceive how Duke Obal meant to resolve the dilemma of my presence in Mullior.

Approaching the Duke, I crossed luxurious rugs over a floor of burnished marble, but they had no value to me. I would have preferred to walk in mud.

My lord wore the full regalia of his station—the ornamental hauberk chased with silver, the sash gathered in a rosette at his waist, the tooled greaves and boots, the saber on his hip, and beneath it all a blouse and hose of blackest silk. Rings studded his fingers. The gems of a circlet glittered in his hair. Clearly he intended a commanding display, so that he would be difficult to contradict.

In that he succeeded, for his demeanor and visage conveyed as much authority as his attire. An iron beard shot with gray sculpted the line of his jaw, and the sun-hued planes of his face might have been cast in bronze. When I had first offered him my service, he had been a mere husk of himself, drained by consumption and time, as well as by half a dozen wounds. And even then, he had sustained the High Cardinal’s siege and held the loyalty of Mullior by the unbroken force of his will. Now, however, he was whole and well, and his spirit shone with renewed vitality. He appeared as merciless as his blade.

Only the gentle intelligence of his gaze—the troubled, accessible color of his eyes—revealed the man who was loved more than feared in his Duchy, the man who could defy the edicts of Cardinal Straylish and still trust the hearts of his people. The man whose easy justice and open concern had taught me that not all rulers and powers were cast in the High Cardinal’s mold.

As I neared him, his companions stepped apart, making way for me, and I received a new surprise, a blow so sudden and unexpected that it nearly halted the labor of my heart. For the first time I glimpsed the nature of Duke Obal’s purpose. With his lords and captains, and his son, he had placed himself to conceal a cot on which lay a man of middle years, plainly dying.

I did not recognize him. And he was not identified by attire, for he wore only a cloth wrapped about his loins. Yet I saw his death beyond mistake in the waxen hue of his flesh, the sheen of sweat strained from the pores of his brow, the flecks of blood on his ashy lips. It was my nature to feed on life, and I knew its passing with an intimacy which other men reserved for their lovers, or for God. His soul would achieve its culmination before dawn, and then he would know only bliss or torment forevermore.

And Duke Obal meant— He wished—

The brightness of the hall seemed to gather about me, multiplying on the pale flesh of the dying man, so that my vision blurred, and my mind with it. Here before scores of witnesses rife with censorious piety, Duke Obal intended—

Hardly conscious of what I did, I stumbled in my alarm, and would have fallen if Lord Ermine had not caught my arm.

“Calm your fear, Scriven,” he breathed in my ear. Born late, he little resembled his father. His features did not yet bear the stamp of his character. He had the Duke’s eyes, however, and had recovered his life at my hand. “This is necessary. You have not been abandoned.”

His reassurance was kindly meant. I did not believe him—I was wise enough to fear dukes and lords when they spoke of what was “necessary”—but I drew courage from his words and his grasp, and regained my legs.

Beckoning yet again, the Duke urged me to the side of the cot.

I had expected denunciations and curses—at the worst, I had expected a doomed battle to preserve my life—but in my gravest terrors I had never dreamed that I would be asked to betray my nature before all the powerful of Mullior. The prospect appalled me. But it also shamed me. Mother Church taught that my kind had no souls, and could never win release from anguish. Now I was asked to demonstrate the lack. I would not have been more distressed if Duke Obal had commanded me to rape a child in the hall.

The Duke’s Commander joined Lord Ermine beside me. He, too, whispered for no ears but mine. “Come, Scriven. We cannot endure delay. Mullior is a powder keg this night, and every moment the fuse burns shorter.”

I turned toward him in my weakness. “My lord Vill,” I murmured, “I have not deserved this from you.”

Impatiently Lord Rawn, the Master of Mullior’s Purse, snapped his fingers. “What you deserve,” he hissed softly, “is not at issue. Duke Obal’s rule
is.
He will stand or fall here, and your hesitancy weakens the ground under him. Step forward, or recant your service, as you wish—but do it
now.
”

At once, however, the Duke intervened, sparing me an immediate response. “You are mistaken, my lord Rawn.” His tone was mild despite its tension. “We can afford a few moments.”

Turning from the men at my sides, I concentrated my attention on the lord to whom I had sworn my service against Cardinal Straylish.

“Scriven,” he informed me softly, “you have become known. I cannot explain it. I will not believe that you have been betrayed here.” He meant within his palace. “Those who serve me have earned my trust. But rumor is a powerful foe. And I doubt not that the High Cardinal’s spies are among us”—a sneer curled his lip—“spreading any tale Straylish desires.

“The charge that I countenance a scion of Hell is one I must confront.” The set of his jaw bespoke anger and restraint. “If I fail, I will fall, as Lord Rawn suggests. Until now, as you know, Bishop Heraldic has withheld the condemnation of Mother Church from my actions, preaching that it is not the duty of God’s servants to judge worldly princes. If he turns against me—if he persuades Mullior’s more devout lords to make cause with the Cardinal—I am done.”

I considered it significant that Bishop Heraldic did not preach—as Irradia had taught me—that Scripture urged all souls to embrace love and meekness rather than to practice execration or crave power. In my heart, I deemed him no better than the High Cardinal. He was merely more indolent.

“Scriven,” Duke Obal concluded urgently, “you have trusted me until now. Trust me still, and we will do what we can to defuse this powder keg.”

I could hardly refuse him. He had set my head on the block, and no one else could deflect the executioner’s stroke. Bowing weakly, I replied, “How may I serve you, my lord?” although I knew the answer all too well.

The cast of his features suggested gratitude, but he did not express it. Instead he indicated the man recumbent before us.

“This is Lord Numis. He is Bishop Heraldic’s chancellor—the Bishop’s adviser and agent in all things which pertain to the legal affairs of Mother Church in Mullior. As you see, he is dying. Surgeons and physicians without number have failed to relieve his illness.” The Duke’s gaze held mine. “I ask you to restore him.”

He confirmed my gravest dread. Doubtless his actions were necessary, as I had been told. Still I hesitated, fearing the outcome of any public declaration of my nature.

While I faltered, Lord Rawn offered sourly, “It may interest you that among Bishop Heraldic’s advisers, Lord Numis is the High Cardinal’s most vigorous and vehement supporter.”

Frozen by apprehension, I temporized. “My lord,” I murmured, “I do not understand. He is my enemy—and yours.”

In fact, I understood perfectly. Terror rendered me acute. But I wished to hear Duke Obal’s reply.

He spread his hands as though to reveal their openness—their honesty. “Scriven,” he admitted, “I cannot defeat these rumors by pretending that they are false. With contradiction, they will swell until they burst, and their putrefaction overwhelms me.” He shrugged. “Yet if I acknowledge that they are true, I must also name myself damned. Accepting the service of Satan’s minions, I cannot escape the conclusion that I number among them.”

He paused as though to consult his conscience, then continued, “This conundrum offers only two outlets. I might denounce you now, swearing that I lacked prior knowledge of your nature. By joining Mother Church in your condemnation, I might save myself.

“This course has been urged to me.” Duke Obal did not glance at anyone present. “But I will not do it.” Anger roughened his tone. “It is cowardly and dishonorable. I have promised otherwise. In addition, however, it is impolitic. It would undermine my plain opposition to the High Cardinal.”

Then with an effort he seemed to set his ire aside. More gently, he said, “The other outlet is more difficult. We must demonstrate to this gathering that whatever your nature may be, you are not in truth a scion of Hell. If you are seen to heal, these folk will be hard-pressed to name you a killer. And any demonstration will convey more conviction if it benefits your enemies, rather than those who condone your presence.” A nod indicated Lord Numis. “The healing of the Bishop’s chancellor will not be marred by any appearance of self-interest.”

Sore of heart, I noted that he did not advance an argument which might have touched me more deeply—the maid Irradia’s belief that in God’s name we were commanded to cherish those who reviled and persecuted us. If her sufferings had permitted it, she would have prayed for the Cardinal’s soul while she died—

Still the fact remained that I had no choice. I could not hope to survive by flight or struggle, despite my strength. And until this night Duke Obal had given me no cause to doubt his given word. Bowing my head, I acquiesced.

“I will do what I can, my lord.”

Again his expression suggested gratitude, but he did not voice it. Firmly he gestured me toward the chancellor’s cot.

Dry of mouth, and trembling in all my joints, I approached the in-valid. Lord Ermine and Lord Vill remained protectively at my sides. All others stepped back.

At the cot’s edge, I knelt. The assembly might think that I prayed—or that I feigned prayer to disguise my malice—but in truth I lacked the will to stand. Fear loosened my joints. And I was also, suddenly, filled by the hunger of my kind, avid and ceaseless. Despite my strength, I desired more sustenance. And here lay a life apt to be consumed—a life already claimed by God—nourishment my vows permitted.

Further, Lord Numis was my enemy. Although his ribs started from his chest, and his flesh held the waxen pallor of death, I detected the heartless exigencies of the law in the shape of his mouth, and under his grizzled beard his jaw had a fanatic’s strict cruelty. Hating such men, I burned to hasten his passage to Heaven or Hell.