The Hero's Lot (33 page)

Errol smiled as he considered the count's arduous instruction in the days leading up to his daughter's wedding. He took a sword in each hand and hefted them. How had Rula had them made so quickly? “Their balance is perfect. Please tell the count I will practice with them at every opportunity.” With a twinge of regret, Errol replaced them in the case. A sudden desire to work the forms swelled in his chest.

“Nothing would please my master more,” Achio said. He waved to the second man, who stepped forward and opened his burnished wood case. “Count Rula earnestly hopes you never need these, but should you require them, he says they will serve you well.”

The second man opened the case. Light glinted off of twin steel blades inside. A pair of rapiers lay before him, their workmanship apparent despite their lack of ornamentation. Errol took one in each hand. They responded to the slightest pressure of his fingers, so finely were they balanced. “It's as if they anticipate my thoughts.”

Achio bowed as if Errol had paid him a personal compliment. “My lord will be pleased you find them so.”

“You made these,” Errol said.

Achio bent low from the waist. “My master sees fit to employ me as his arms smith. I try to justify his faith in me as much as possible.”

Errol lifted the twin swords as the arms smith watched with paternal pride. “Have you named them?”

Achio laughed and reached out. He lifted Errol's right arm.
“I call this one Dextra.” He lifted the other. “And this one, Sinistra.”

Rale whistled. “Boy, do you know how much those swords are worth? Any noble would pay you a ransom for them. Lord Achio isn't a smith; he's an artist.”

Achio smiled at the compliment. “Any artisan wants his work to be appreciated, Captain Elar. I don't accept a commission unless I believe the skill of the recipient matches my own.” His eyes sought Errol's as he said this.

“You flatter me, Lord Achio,” Errol said. “I'm new to the sword.”

“I do not indulge in flattery, Earl Stone.”

Errol nodded. “Please accept my thanks and convey them to Count Rula as well. His gift surpasses me. It is fit for a prince.”

Lord Achio's laugh took him by surprise. “But, Earl Stone, you accepted the princess's gesture of undying love and matched it with your own extravagance. What do you think you will be?”

Errol gaped. “What?”

“Oh yes, Earl Stone. Soon Basquon's people will speak of little else. Such a thing has never been seen before. Already men and women are making plans to match your gesture. The ‘Blood Rose' they are calling it. You and the princess would have made fine Basqus.”

Achio clicked his heels and left.

Rale shook his head. “Well, boy, I've got to admit it. You don't do anything by half measures. We'll be lucky to land in Merakh before the tale reaches Duke Weir's eyes and ears.”

Rula's men left midafternoon the next day, and the caravan, reduced to its previous size once more, seemed small and vulnerable. He itched to complete their journey to the coast and fidgeted as if his saddle no longer fit. Though it pressed the integrity of the wagons, Rale ordered a quicker pace. Errol worked his worry over their pursuers like a toothless man working a piece of dried beef. Each time he heard the cry of a hawk, he jerked as if struck.

A hand reached over and caressed his. “You're uneasy today,
maitale
.”

Adora's eyes held him, trying to communicate something just between the two of them, but Errol couldn't discern it. “Ma . . . what?”

She laughed, gave his hand a squeeze. “Maitale. It's an old word from Basquon. It means ‘heart of my heart' or something to that effect.”

The glint in her eye told him there was more to it than that. He pushed the thought aside. She would have to recant her gesture, but he didn't want her to do it yet. For a while he wanted to pretend they could outrun her duty, her destiny. “We're being followed.”

Alarm widened her eyes. “By whom?”

“That's the problem. They're staying too far back for us to find out, but I've seen the same hawk over us every day since we entered Talia.” His heels itched to push Midnight into a gallop. “I wish we were at the coast already. As much as I hate ships, I'd gladly board one to be away from whatever's behind us.”

Adora leaned over and covered his mouth with hers. Errol gasped, pulling her breath into his lungs. Heat spilled from her lips, spread across his face until he ached with it.

“You seemed surprised, maitale,” Adora said. “Do you think I offered my gesture lightly? I know you will find a way to keep us safe.” She laughed. “But in the meantime, I think I need to petition Rokha for a few more lessons.” With a twitch of her reins, the princess headed for the back of the caravan, where Ru's daughter rode next to Merodach.

“That didn't look like you were trying to persuade the princess to do her duty,” Rale drawled. “You could light a fire with your face, you know.”

“She called me
maitale
.”

Rale slumped as if defeated. “Don't be alone with her, boy. Not if you want to keep your head attached to your shoulders.” No trace of mirth showed on Rale's face or sounded in his voice.

“She said it meant ‘heart of my heart.'”

Rale nodded. “And so it does. A less literal translation is ‘lover.' The princess seems to think your mutual gestures signify
something close to marriage. If you entertain any thoughts in the direction of consummating those gestures, you won't have to worry about Duke Weir; the king will have you killed himself.”

Desperate to change the subject, Errol pointed ahead. “How long before we reach the coast?”

Rale grunted. “At this pace and with longer days of travel, a little more than a week. If a wagon fails, we'll leave it behind. Tonight will be the last camp in the open. The villages start getting more frequent from here on out.” He turned toward the rear of the caravan and bellowed. “Orth.”

The red-haired guard bounded forward, a smile on his lips. “Yes, Captain?”

The watchman's smile deepened the frown on Rale's face. “I'm taking you up on your offer to trail back and see if you can discover who's following us.”

Orth's eyes caught the light and his smile turned wolfish. “Thank you, sir.”

Rale raised a hand. “I don't want bodies, Orth; I want information. Don't bloody your sword unless you have to.”

The watchman's face fell, and he donned a look of injured dignity. “Why, Captain, would I fight unnecessarily?”

Rale just stared at the lieutenant. “I need knowledge, not casualties. Understood?”

Orth saluted, all trace of banter and jesting gone. “Yes, Captain.”

“Good. Get going.”

Errol watched him leave. “Will he be safe?”

Rale shrugged. “As long as he doesn't give himself away. But there are no guarantees. He's the second best among the watchmen with us, after Merodach.”

“Why didn't you send Merodach?” Errol asked.

His mentor nodded. “That's a fair question. You don't put your best weapon in jeopardy unless you've got no other choice, lad. Whether it's with a bow or a sword, he's the equal of ten men. We can't afford to lose him. Orth is expendable, and he knows it.”

Errol laughed, but there was little humor in it. “I guess I'm
like Gial Orth. The kingdom doesn't need to keep me safe, so they sent me out after Valon.”

Rale's eyes conveyed his disapproval. “You should know better than that, boy. You were given this quest because someone is trying to defang Illustra before the war starts.”

They set up camp against an elevated outcrop of rock that afforded an unobstructed view in all directions. Errol avoided contact with the rest of the caravan. His extravagance at Count Rula's in front of hundreds of strangers left him with an acute need for privacy. He hid in the shadows, using skills from his days as a drunk he hadn't realized he still possessed.

He noted Conger still engaged in prayers at vespers before pouring himself into another tome on church history. Errol edged farther into the shadow of one of the wagons. Across the camp Adora approached Rokha as Ru's daughter spoke with Merodach. The blond watchman's face verged on the edge of emotion, and Rokha smiled as she traced her fingers along the back of the captain's hand.

At Adora's arrival, both gave a bow of respect. That wouldn't have happened before. A moment later, Rokha nodded and left, returning with a pair of practice swords. The women squared off. The effectiveness of Rula's instruction showed in Adora's movements. She glided across the ground, and though she couldn't yet breach Rokha's defenses, neither did she take as many hits as she had in past sessions.

After a half hour they broke, sweat streaming down their faces. The feeling of being watched made Errol's neck itch. He shifted and found Merodach staring at him through the shadows. He remembered his promise to Count Rula. On impulse, he stepped out into the soft light and headed for the tall, blond captain of the watch.

Errol bowed. “Captain Merodach, would you help me keep a promise to a friend?”

Merodach nodded without committing himself. “If I can. What is this promise?”

“I told Count Rula I would practice with the swords each day.
I have neglected that promise since leaving his villa, but now that I have his gifts, I hope to start immediately.”

The watchman stepped closer. “Do you think that is wise, Captain Stone?” His voice was pitched so that it hardly carried past Errol. “I have avoided sparring in the camp to keep Naaman Ru from observing.”

Errol blinked. “Do you think you'll have to fight him, then?”

Merodach answered with the slightest shrug of his shoulders. “I don't know, but I would prefer not to give him opportunity to search me for weaknesses.”

Errol's surprise deepened. “Everything I have heard about you says you don't have any.”

Merodach didn't smile at the compliment. “Such flattery only reveals the ignorance of the flatterer. I have striven to diminish them, but every fighter has flaws.”

The watchman's modesty stoked Errol's curiosity. How good was he? “If I have Captain Elar keep Ru occupied, would that free you of your concern?” At Merodach's nod, he left in search of his mentor and his practice swords.

Errol's heart raced as he stood across the space from the best fighter in the watch. He stood with one sword in front and one to the rear, as Rula had taught him, holding his balance in his mind as well as his hands. His fights with Skorik and his bouts with Liam had been with a staff, movements quicker than thought. Would he be able to think fast enough to keep the tall captain at bay?

Merodach circled without attacking. Errol shifted his feet, keeping his balance centered through the middle of his chest and down through his legs. The captain gave a nod and reversed direction. Errol followed. Merodach feinted and lunged, the blunted end of his weapon leaping like a viper toward Errol's midsection. Errol parried with his lead sword at the last moment and spun, driving his rear sword with a flick of his wrist toward Merodach's unprotected waist.

Shock numbed his arm as Merodach parried. Impossible. No one could move that fast.

The stray thought, the slight break in concentration, cost him.
Merodach's sword found his side, and the feel of hot coals spread from the contact. Errol stepped back, his hand raised.

“You must never let your concentration waver,” Merodach said. “Against a lesser opponent it leaves you open to the unexpected. Facing a more skilled foe, it creates an opening.”

The man was a sorcerer. “How did you know?”

“Your eyes showed your surprise when I parried. The merest fraction of a second, the slightest hesitation, can be the difference between living and dying.”

Errol nodded. “Again?”

Merodach smiled; the expression all the more surprising for its rarity.

They sparred for another hour. Half a dozen times, Errol's staff instincts betrayed him, and welts bloomed on his skin. Yet as the bout progressed, those mistakes came less frequently, and he began to find a rhythm to the swords and a freedom that opened new possibilities for attack.

He parried, twisted and struck. His sword whacked against Merodach's side. The captain stepped back without grimacing, but sweat beaded more heavily on his forehead. “That was well struck.”

Errol smiled and bowed. “I would like to spar again, if you're willing.”

The captain's nod might have been the highest compliment he'd ever received as a fighter. “I am. I haven't been touched since Captain Cruk bested me ten years ago.”

“Cruk beat you?”

Merodach nodded. “A decade ago he was the best in the watch. Time has slowed him, though, and I would beat him at sparring. Steel might be another matter. A man as tough as Cruk doesn't go down easily.”

If possible, Merodach became even more serious, and his gaze bored into Errol. “There are times when you must accept your enemy's strike in order to kill him. The trick is to make sure you permit an injury that is less than a mortal wound.”

The captain spoke with the air of a man sharing a prophecy.

The following afternoon, after an uneventful day's travel, they stopped to camp just outside of a small village. Errol breathed a sigh of relief at the absence of the red-banded hawk overhead. As he and Merodach prepared to spar, Orth rode back into camp. The watchman dismounted from his horse, took one step, and collapsed.

 32 
Blood Clues

E
RROL RUSHED TO ORTH'S SIDE,
started to lift his head.

“Don't move him,” Merodach ordered. “You may worsen his bleeding.”

Errol lifted his hands and found them stained with blood. Orth was covered in it. Half a dozen rents in his clothing testified to the extremity of the watchman's struggle. Rokha arrived with her kit, with Rale half a second behind.

Errol's mentor took one look at Gial Orth and gave a brief shake of his head, his face closed to any emotion. Only the necessity of the moment showed on Rale's face.

“Will he live?” he asked Rokha.

The truth written in Orth's blood and wounds waged war on Rokha's face with her desire to tend the watchman's injuries. Blood and wounds won. She gave a shake of his head. Orth moaned, his head rolling to one side.

“I can make him more comfortable.”

“Do you have any fein powder?” Rale asked.

Her eyes widened in shock followed an instant later by
indignation. “He needs belladon. Fein powder will just kill him more quickly.” She pressed a folded cloth onto a thrust wound in his chest.

Rale grabbed her shoulder, forcing her to face him. “He's dying. If you want to avenge him, give him the powder to wake him, but avenge him or not, I need to know what he knows.”

She looked on the verge of refusing, then swore and pulled a stoppered vial from her bag. “It's not fein powder, but it will accomplish the same thing. I need water.”

Someone thrust a skin into her hands, and she poured a stream into a shallow bowl and mixed a pinch of green herbs into it. Rokha raised the bowl to Orth's lips, coaxing him to drink. Most of it spilled from his mouth, but the watchman mustered a weak swallow. A moment later his eyes fluttered open.

Rale came forward, bent over his subordinate, his face sympathetic. “We have you, Gial. Who did this?”

Orth's bloodless lips parted in the barest of smiles, and he drew a shuddering breath.

Then his eyes glazed.

Rale growled a curse. “I need to know who follows us.”

“You may yet, watchman.” A cold voice behind Errol spoke. The group clustered around Orth turned. Naaman Ru stood a few paces away, his face composed, serene. Uncaring.

Rale's face clouded. “Speak.”

Ru shrugged as if the matter were of no import. “His wounds may tell us much. Orth was an accomplished swordsman, at least in the estimation of the watch. To someone who knows how to read these things, the watchman's wounds will tell the story of his struggle.”

Rale stood. “Bring him. We'll need light.”

They laid the body of Gial Orth on the floor of Ru's wagon. Lamps turned the cabin into day. Besides Ru and Rokha, Errol, Rale, and Merodach crowded into the small space, sitting or standing shoulder to shoulder in the confines.

The caravan master pointed at the dead watchman's legs. “There's blood, but there are no wounds. He wasn't on horseback.”

“How can you be so sure?” Errol asked.

Ru shrugged. “Horses move during a fight, boy, sometimes unexpectedly. If so, at least one blow would have found Orth's legs or his horse.” He cast an insolent look at Rale. “While you were trying to get information out of a dead man, I checked his mount. The animal is winded but unhurt.”

Merodach's face, cold and merciless as winter, caught Ru's attention. “I think it would be better if you spoke in terms of respect for one of the watch who died on our behalf.”

For an instant, doubt cracked Ru's impenetrable facade and something akin to fear showed through, but the caravan master snorted his derision a split second later. “And what will you do, Captain, place me under another compulsion? I was not aware the watch held that power.”

“No,” Merodach said without changing the bitter cold of his expression, “we do not. The watch limits itself to weapons.”

Ru turned back to Orth's body. “Remove his shirt, daughter. Let us see what his wounds will tell us.”

Her hands sought the buttons and laces that held the shirt in place, her movements gentle, solemn, as if preparing a loved one for burial. Out of the corner of his eye Errol saw Merodach nod in approval.

With the shirt removed, Errol could see the indignities that had taken his friend's life. Most of the wounds were concentrated around the left side of the chest and up toward the throat. Rokha wet a cloth to wipe away the congealed blood from Orth's wounds.

“Not yet, daughter.” Ru bent to point at the wounds. “Whoever bested him preferred to attack on the high line toward the head and chest. Orth's opponent was likely taller than he was.”

Errol tried not to look at Orth. His skin, growing pale and bluish, sickened him. Yet Ru's comments aroused a curiosity within him. “How do you know he only faced one man?”

“A fair question, boy.” He pointed. “Look at his abdomen—no wounds. What does that tell you?”

“What?” Errol asked.

Ru snorted his contempt toward Rale and Merodach. “Don't you teach those puppies anything in the watch?”

Rale frowned but turned his attention to Errol. “Soldiers are taught to attack on different lines if two men are facing one opponent, one on the high line and one on the low. If Gial had faced two men, he would have taken wounds to the midsection. He didn't.”

“So Gial fought someone tall and someone better,” Errol said. “How does that help us?”

“Wait, boy. I'm not done. Daughter, wash away his blood now.”

Rokha complied, her movements tender, almost as if tending a brother. She edged back after she finished until she brushed shoulders with Merodach.

“No Merakhi did this,” Ru said. “Orth was killed by a kingdom man.”

Rale and Merodach nodded, but Errol needed an explanation. Despite Ru's demeaning tongue, he asked for it.

“Merakhi use a different style of sword than we do, boy. It's curved and only has one edge. In a fight, the Merakhi come at you with a flurry of slashes. The wounds they leave are long, deep cuts. And they never thrust. They're not trained that way.”

Errol nodded with the rest of the group, but something in Ru's manner roused his suspicions. The caravan master had presented his explanation as if he'd known what he would find. Orth had been one of the best swords in the watch. How many men in the kingdom could have beaten him so thoroughly? He looked around. Two of those men stood in this cramped room with him, and another was traveling with Martin and Luis.

But he knew of one, one who had trained with the best blade in the world, one who had a grudge worth exploiting.

“Skorik.”

Ru nodded. “It's possible, but there are other swordsmen in the kingdom equal to the watch, despite what is claimed.”

“And we make it our business to know them,” Merodach said. “This Skorik would have a reason to want to betray Earl Stone to the Merakhi, yes?”

“Yes,” Rokha said, “but perhaps not for the reason you think.” She wet her lips. “He saw Errol as a rival. Skorik was in love with me—or as close to it as he could come. At one time I thought I might have returned the favor, but his jealousies became too unreasonable, and I spurned him.” She shrugged her shoulders. “He didn't take it well.”

“Why didn't you tell me, daughter?” Ru asked.

“Because I didn't want you to kill him.”

“We would have been better off if I had. Now we have this dog following us.”

“A dog you trained, Naaman Ru,” Rale said. “I would suggest you give some thought to choosing your students in the future. You've given the enemy a weapon to use against us.”

Ru scowled but said nothing.

Merodach, closest to the door, put his hand on the latch. “The need for information remains. I will go in Gial Orth's place.”

Rale raised a hand. “No. You will not.”

Merodach raised a pale eyebrow. “Not? I am a captain of the watch.”

“Nevertheless, when you joined us you became subject to the mission. As leader of that mission, appointed by Archbenefice Canon, I order you not to go.” Rale turned to regard Orth's body. “Besides, Orth gave us the information we need. We are being pursued by kingdom men.” He pointed at Ru. “At daybreak, we will abandon the wagons and ride hard for the coast. By the time Skorik and his companions realize our plan they will be too far behind to catch us.

“Captain Merodach, would you help Errol and me bury Lieutenant Orth's body? I think we'll require the services of Conger. I'm sure he knows the rites.”

On a nearby hillside they took turns with the shovels, attacking the rocky soil of Basquon until, by tradition, the hole matched Orth's height. After they interred the lieutenant into the bosom of the cold, damp earth, they piled stones to mark his final resting place.

“Won't his family want to know where he's been buried?” Errol asked.

Rale shook his head. “The watch have no family save each other. When word reaches Captain Reynald of Gial's death, the sergeants will duel to see who will take his place. Then the corporals will do the same for the empty sergeant's slot and so on. Then we will accept a new recruit. The members of the watch serve as brothers, fathers, and uncles to each other. They have no other family.”

“But you do.”

His mentor nodded. “I was removed from the watch by the archbenefice. My reinstatement is temporary. If we survive, I will return to my wife and daughter.”

Conger bowed his head to recite the panikhida. “Deas, we commend into your mercy all your servants which are departed away from us with the sign of faith and now rest in the sleep of peace: grant unto them, we beg you, your mercy and everlasting peace.”

The ex-priest shrugged as if in apology. “It's not the high canticle. My tongue gets all twisted up around all those
thee
s and
thou
s.”

Rale rested his hand on Conger's back. “I think Gial would have appreciated it just the way you said it. The lieutenant had a familiar sense of humor.”

Errol visited his pack, then moved into the shadows, a pair of blanks and his knife in hand. The thought of Skorik stalking them raised the hackles on his neck. If the man managed to betray them to the Merakhi or Duke Weir, Errol held little doubt as to his own fate. A long, weary sigh escaped him, and he let his shoulders fall. How could one village drunk accumulate so many enemies in such a short time?

He sat away from the others where they'd gathered by the fire to share stories of the dead watchman. Errol bowed his head and cleared his mind. The question framed the answer. A simple cast such as this one hardly required all of his concentration, but despite the accolades of the conclave, he was still a novice. With single-minded intensity he pictured Skorik following them and focused on the word that would embed itself into the grain of his lot to be read by him alone. That word was
Yes.

The knife slid over the grain as easily as water flowed over the rocks of the Sprata, molding and shaping. The pungent odor of pine shavings filled him, and his mind sharpened further. His hands moved of their own accord. After the space of a few minutes, he looked down to see a rough sphere in his lap. He marveled again at his gift, that he should be able to create this thing.

He reached for the next blank, repeated the process with Skorik and the opposite answer held in his mind until he completed the carving. In the dim glow of the firelight he could just make out the word
No
against the yellowish grain of the wood. He reached into his pack for the rubbing paper. He probably didn't need it; the lots could be cast now if he required haste, but he found the ritual of lot-making comforting. Gial Orth was dead, his life drained away along with his blood and his body entombed under six feet of earth and a few hundred pounds of rock.

But where was he? Was a man nothing more than the sum of the parts of his body? That didn't seem right. Errol had met old soldiers, veterans of the Steppes War and subsequent skirmishes, who had lost an arm or leg to injury or infection. They struggled with certain tasks, but their personalities, the essence of themselves, seemed undiminished. Did a man simply wink out like an extinguished candle when he died, or did he go somewhere? He rolled each blank through the rubbing cloth, chasing slight imperfections as his mind ran in circles around the watchman's death.