Reave the Just and Other Tales (26 page)

Then, however, he turned a gaze dull with fever toward me. Despite his illness, he seemed to know himself and where he was—he seemed to know me—for he moistened his lips with blood in order to murmur hoarsely, “Stay back, fiend. Taint me not. Touch me not. I die because I must.” He coughed thinly. “I will not go to God with your foulness upon me.”

After he had spoken so, I could no more have taken his life than I could have turned my back on Irradia’s memory. I had no soul, and knew myself damned. Nevertheless I had sworn vows I meant to keep.

Above my head, Duke Obal addressed the gathering. His voice grew in force and conviction, yet I hardly heard him. References were made to “tests” and “healing” and “Heaven,” but I did not regard them. Shamed by my unrepentant appetites—and grieving at my own cruelty—I made a show of what I did, so that my actions would be visible to the whole gathering.

From within my robe, I drew out an inquisitor’s dirk, a blade as keen and well pointed as necessity and a whetstone could make it. For a moment I brandished it above my head as though I might plunge it into the chancellor’s breast, or my own. Then, swiftly, I drew a thin cut across the pad of my middle finger—one new cut among the lattice of scars I had acquired in Duke Obal’s service.

Bright and precious in the intense illumination, a drop of rich ruby swelled from my wound.

By blood I devoured life—and restored it. Just as I consumed a man’s vitality through the touch of his vein’s fluid, so I returned it with the touch of my own. Lord Numis moved his lips in supplication, but I did not heed him. A last moment I hesitated, gazing at the gem of blood upon my finger—a bead of purest ruin—and dreading what was to come. Then I set all pity aside. Deliberately I slid my finger between the chancellor’s jaws and stroked his tongue with my strength.

Whatever the reaction behind me may have been, I did not witness it. The instant Lord Numis tasted my blood, I felt the life pour from me like oil from a broken amphora, to be replaced by weakness and despair—and by a near-murderous hunger. My substance withered within my robes, the pliancy fled my muscles, and hope dwindled in my veins. Between one heartbeat and the next, I passed from vitality to utter sorrow. Now a child might have slain me—if I did not first contrive to snatch a touch of his blood. I had become no more than the sum of what I had lost.

For a brief time, I failed of consciousness. Fainting, I slumped into the depths of the Duke’s rugs.

Yet the very richness of my bed seemed to spurn me. Stricken by panic and inanition, I heaved up my head and clawed my limbs under me, thinking to see swords high in the harsh light, men rabid with execration, guards and lords armed for slaughter—

Apparently, however, the interval of my stupefaction had been too brief for so much motion. Indeed, no one present had lifted a hand. Caught in a hush of mortal trepidation, none spoke or breathed. Duke Obal and his adherents remained poised like inquisitors about me. Lord Numis had not shifted on his cot.

Then the chancellor raised his head—and a hoarse sigh spread across the assembly.

Frowning bitterly, he considered his circumstances. His eyes held an unappeased glitter, which showed that his fever had left him. In its place, disgust twisted his lips, and his jaws seemed to chew the fouled meat of his restoration as though its rank savor pleased him obscurely.

When his abhorrence had collected all the force of my gift—my spent life—he swung his legs from the cot’s edge and stood, trembling and strict, clad only in his loincloth and his righteousness.

At once Lord Ermine swept a cloak from his own shoulders and wrapped it about the rigid chancellor. But Lord Numis shrugged it aside as though he craved the humiliation of his nakedness—as though he wished all the gathering to see how he had been abased.

“Abomination,” he croaked. “Abomination and sin.”

Clearly he meant to shout, but at first his disused voice betrayed him. He did not falter, however. Swallowing the residue of fever from his throat, he began again, more strongly.

“Abomination, I say!” he declared, claiming the right to dispense Heaven’s judgment. “Abomination and
sin
!”

“My lord, you forget yourself,” put in Lord Rawn quickly. At a sign from the Duke, he and Lord Vill moved to interpose themselves between Lord Numis and the assembly. “You have been most gravely ill. You do not grasp the wonder of your recovery.”

But the chancellor thrust them away. Fired by the force I had given him, he confronted his shocked audience.

“I have been most foully harmed!” he cried. “This vile minion of Satan has placed his taint upon my soul!” With one grim arm he aimed his accusation at my bowed head. “My God whom I have served with my life called me to the bliss of my just reward, and I answered gladly. But this blood-beast, this
hellspawn,
this eater of
death,
has snatched me back from Heaven! With the Duke’s knowledge and consent, he has practiced his evil upon me, and I am prevented from peace.”

I made an attempt to rise, and found that I could not. My weakness outweighed me. No other voice was raised, yet the atmosphere in the hall fairly crackled with apprehension, as furious and frantic as a fusillade. I had heard similar denunciations before. They carried the pang of sweet Irradia’s death, and of my helplessness to save her, and in my despair I was filled by such a fury of weeping that I could scarcely suppress it.

Lord Numis swung toward me. His ire blazed from him in the excruciating light. “Carrion-crow,” he ranted over my kneeling form, “
slave of evil
. I will know no rest until I have seen you
slain
!” Then he turned to the assembly again. “My lord Bishop, for my soul I beg you. I implore. Command his death. Instruct all Mullior on peril of damnation to hack him limb from limb and heart where he kneels. Anele me of this corruption before my soul is consumed by it.”

Under the lash of his fanaticism, the highborn of the Duchy stirred and fretted. Some glanced uncertainly at their comrades, perhaps perturbed to hear such violence urged in the wake of unexpected healing. A number of them, I believed—those most sincere in their love for the Duke—disliked and distrusted Lord Numis. But others began to mutter encouragement for the chancellor’s demand. Clergymen crossed themselves, and ladies prayed. Guards and fusiliers clutched at their weapons. Merchants and officials drew back in dread, or edged forward angrily. My kind was easily feared. And the strictures of Mother Church, harsh in the name of God’s love, multiplied that alarm. Men and women who would have risked their own souls without hesitation to postpone death assented eagerly to the legalist’s righteous umbrage.

They had never known my weakness, and could not conceive how my kind treasured life.

For a moment every eye was fixed on His Reverence Heraldic. Every heart awaited his response.

I would not have called the Bishop courageous. However, he was not a man who shirked precedence and power when they were offered without apparent cost—or apparent hazard. He put himself forward a step or two, announcing his authority. With both hands, he held high the wealth of his pectoral cross so that it shone like a beacon in the acute illumination.

“Guards,” he called—and more loudly, “servants of Mother Church!” In stentorian tones, he proclaimed, “I name this Scriven damned. He is an eater of death, vile in the sight of the Almighty, and must be destroyed. The gifts of fiends are corrupt, and the more precious they appear the greater their corruption must be. Acceptance leads to damnation. The will of Heaven is plain. He must be destroyed now.”

Irradia would have asked Heaven to forgive him. I did not.

Half the assembly shouted an acclamation at once, eager to see the source of their fear exterminated. Released from their tension, guards and lords surged to assail me, drawing their swords as they advanced.

I strove anew to gain my feet. “Do it yourself, my lord Bishop,” I panted as I rose. “If you dare.” But my defiance was so frail that even those near me did not hear it.

Instead Duke Obal compelled their attention. With a feral stride, he moved to confront those who meant my death. Closing one hard fist on the back of the chancellor’s neck, he drove Lord Numis forcibly to his knees. The other he raised in threat.

“Hold!”
he commanded, his voice ringing off the walls. “Stop where you stand!” The fury and force which made him dreadful in battle emanated palpably from him. “I have promised Scriven safety. He serves me, and is under my protection. Any man who lifts a hand against him will answer for it with
blood
.”

Lord Ermine closed with his father, as did Lord Vill and the Duke’s captains, forming a barrier to shield me. Accustomed to obey their lord, the hostile throng paused. While a few judicious voices called for restraint, men in the grip of righteous fervor looked uncertainly toward the Bishop, seeking his support.

To this Lord Numis croaked a protest. But the Duke’s hard grasp on his neck prevented him from speaking clearly.

At another time, His Reverence might have regretted his hasty opposition. However, the chancellor’s outrage had touched on the most sensitive part of Bishop Heraldic’s posture of accommodation toward Duke Obal’s apostasy. On other points, the Bishop could argue that he sought to prevent a rift between Mother Church and the people of Mullior. On
this
point, however, on the subject of tolerance for the creatures of Satan—

“
No,
my lord Duke,” he retorted with apparent courage. “I know my duty to Mother Church, and to God. This Scriven is an abomination! We have witnessed his vile power, and must not endure it. In the name of Heaven, he must—”

Harshly the Duke interrupted His Reverence. “Have I not made myself plain?” he blared. “
Scriven has my protection
. If any hand rises against him, I will
lop it off
! Even yours, my lord Bishop.

“Have you forgotten where you are? This is the ducal palace of Mullior.
I rule here
.”

To my amazement and chagrin, and to my vast sorrow, Duke Obal bound his fate to mine inextricably. He had spoken words which could not be recalled. If Mullior accepted Bishop Heraldic’s denunciation now, the lord I served would share my doom.

And he was not done. “Perhaps it has escaped your notice,” he continued acidly, “that this ‘abomination’ has saved a life. In fact”—here he jerked Lord Numis upright, so that the energy of the legalist’s struggle was displayed for all to see—“he has saved the life of a man dedicated to Mother Church.” Then he released Lord Numis so that the chancellor staggered away toward Bishop Heraldic and the shelter of the Bishop’s retinue.

“I was taught by clergymen,” stated the Duke, “that those who heal do God’s work. I am no theologian, but I will venture to assert that the condition of my lord Chancellor’s soul is not determined by the illness or health of his flesh.”

The assembly stirred in confusion and thwarted ire. Fearful of their own temerity, and of their lord’s wrath, the guards retreated to their duties. Bishop Heraldic did not fall back, however. Supported by some score of Mullior’s most devout folk, he bore the withering force of Duke Obal’s scorn.

Nevertheless he moderated his manner. “My lord,” he answered carefully, “you cannot so lightly set aside Heaven’s revulsion. Yes, Mother Church teaches that healing is God’s work. But She also teaches that the stalking fiends of night, all werebeasts and succubi, vampyrs and ghouls, are scions of Hell. Merely to encounter them is to hazard damnation. To treat with them—to accept their service—to cover them with your protection—”

Piously rueful, His Reverence shook his head. “Perhaps you believe you have the strength to endure such evil, my lord. But you do not. It is not given to men to be greater than evil. Only by God’s grace, and by the strict intervention of Mother Church, do we withstand Satan’s depredations.”

I had gained my feet, but I retained scarcely enough vitality to keep them. The blaze of the illumination seemed to bear down upon me as though I were a blot to be effaced from the hall. Nevertheless in my frailty and grief I sought for words potent enough to fend off Duke Obal’s doom.

“My lord,” I might have urged him, “withdraw your protection. My service will cost you more than it merits. If you turn against me now, you may yet retain the countenance of Mother Church in this siege. Without it, you must fall, and the Cardinal’s triumph will be inevitable.”

I could conceive no other salvation for him.

Yet I remained mute. My vows precluded surrender. And I had not yet been granted opportunity for supplication or defiance. Duke Obal did not hesitate to answer His Reverence.

“My lord Bishop, I am not a fool.” He spoke as though to the emissary of a mortal enemy. “And I am a good son of Mother Church, whatever the High Cardinal may preach, or you may think. I am not careless of my soul’s sanctity, or of my hope of Heaven. If I have accepted Scriven’s service, with all its perils—
I,
Obal, Duke of Mullior”—vehemence flew like spittle from his lips—“then you must bow to the knowledge that
I have good reason
!”

At first His Reverence appeared shaken by this rejoinder. He could not reiterate his demands without insulting Duke Obal—and that would have been gravest folly at any time. While the Bishop searched his uncertainty for a reply, however, Lord Numis called fiercely, “Name them, my lord! Name your reasons.”

The Duke gave a bark of harsh laughter. “Thank you, my lord Numis,” he returned, his tone trenchant. “That is precisely why I have called my handservant Scriven to this assembly. I have had enough of rumor and innuendo and baseless defamation. Mullior has been sickened by them, and they must cease. Tonight their place will be taken by plain speech—and plain truth.”

Felled by the import of what I heard, I found myself on my hands and knees. The senseless intricacy of the rug confronted me blindly. If the Duke desired “plain speech,” “plain truth,” he could ask it of but one man here—and that burden was greater than I could bear.

From the hour when I had first entered Mullior, I had told my tale to no living soul. Duke Obal himself had no knowledge of it. He had inquired into it, of course. He had inquired often. But I had answered him with evasions—evasions which he had accepted because my service to him was precious.