The Scar (38 page)

Karver examined the students with round, slightly cloudy eyes: the newly minted lieutenant was drunk; however, neither Egert, hunched over in the dark corner, nor Fagirra, sitting very close to him, escaped the notice of his gaze.

“Ah!” exclaimed Karver loudly and joyfully. “Is this your lady friend?”

Everyone was silent; stomping his boots and dragging his heels with each step, Karver walked through the tavern and stopped opposite Egert and Fagirra, whose stiletto was concealed from the others’ eyes behind the massive table.

“There’s something I don’t quite understand,” drawled Karver thoughtfully, switching his gaze from Egert to Fagirra and back again. “Just who is whose girlfriend, eh? Bonifor”—he glanced back at his associate—“take a look at this: They’re sitting here like doves, snuggling up against each other.” He hiccuped and then continued, turning to his second companion, who in this way finally gained a name, “Dirk, make sure to keep an eye on that one. We wouldn’t want to make a widow out of Egert’s girlfriend, now, would we?”

Egert felt the poisoned blade reluctantly move away, and he breathed more freely.

“Hey, swordsmen!” The students had gathered in a dense mass, and the looks they were directing at the newcomers were far from affectionate. “Have you lost something? Do you need help finding it?”

Karver nodded to the unarmed youths and casually spit on the well-used wooden floor. The spittle unfortunately landed on the boot of the mustachioed Dirk; he hurriedly wiped off his offended boot with the side of the other. His spur clanked.

“Get up, Egert,” suggested Bonifor cordially. “Say good night to your sweetheart. It’s time to go.”

Glancing to the side, Egert saw that the venomous barb of the stiletto was concealed in a tiny iron sheath attached to Fagirra’s bootleg. He could have passionately kissed all of them: Karver, Bonifor, and the mustachioed Dirk.

Karver, in the meantime, had stepped forward, and his hand adamantly seized Egert by the collar; some confusion followed because both Dirk and Bonifor simultaneously tried to carry out the exact same action. Fagirra stood up leisurely and retreated to the side.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” several voices yelled in admonishment. The compact group of students surged forward, and the learned youths surrounded the guards and Egert.

“Egert, what’s this about?”

“Oh, their buttons are so shiny! Let’s pluck them off, yeah?”

“Would you look at that, three on one, and they’re still baring their teeth!”

“Give Egert a pair of knives, let him throw them. Their buttons will fall off all on their own.”

Karver smirked scornfully and put his hand on his sword hilt; the wall of students moved slightly, but the scholarly youths did not disperse.

Just then Fox, having answered the call of nature, returned to the tavern in high spirits. Pushing his way through the crowd of his comrades and sweeping his eyes over the three armed newcomers who were looming over a very pallid Egert, Gaetan instantly assessed the situation.

“Papa!” he yelped, flinging himself on Karver’s neck.

Confusion reigned again. Dirk and Bonifor spun away from Egert and gaped in shock at the redheaded lad who was blubbering on the chest of their lieutenant.

“Daddy, why did you forsake Mama!”

Giggles could be heard in the mass of students. Karver was furiously trying to tear Fox’s hands away from his ribbons and epaulets.

“You … You…,” he snorted, unable to add anything further.

Fox wrapped his arms and legs around Karver, who was barely able to keep his feet under him. Gaetan gently clasped his ear and said in a theatrical whisper, “Do you remember how you dragged my mama to a hayloft?”

“Get him off me!” Karver snapped at his companions.

Fox emitted a distressed howl. “What! Are you denying it?” Leaping off the lieutenant, he fixed him with round, shocked, honey-colored eyes. “You’re renouncing your own son? Well, look at me: I might as well be a copy of you! We have the same disgusting snouts!”

The students were falling over themselves with laughter, and even Egert smiled wanly. Dirk was looking around nervously, and Bonifor’s bloodshot eyes darted around the room ever more rapidly.

Suddenly, as if stricken with a thought, Fox screwed up his face suspiciously. “But maybe … Maybe you don’t know how to make babies, after all!”

Finally getting his bearings, Karver drew his sword. The students sprang back, all except for Fox who, with a mournful expression, took a pepper pot from the table and, with a quick toss, emptied it into the lieutenant’s face.

The owner, the cook, and the servants all jumped out of their skins at the wild howl; gasping and coughing, Karver fell down onto the floor, trying to scratch out his own eyes. Dirk and Bonifor both seized their weapons, but their heads were bombarded from all sides by stools, beer mugs, and any cutlery that fell into the furious hands of the students. Showered with taunts and insults, climbing over a mountain of capsized furniture, futilely swinging their blades and promising to return, the gentlemen of the guards disgracefully retired from the field of battle.

*   *   *

On the following day, Toria climbed up her stepladder, peered into the lecture hall through the small round window, and did not see Egert Soll among the students.

Having run her eyes over the rows of students more than once, Toria frowned. The absence of Egert piqued her: after all, her father was on the rostrum! Climbing down, she thought for some time while observing the free and easy games of the library’s mouser; then, feeling querulous, she set off for the annex.

She perfectly remembered the way to this room even though Dinar had not been fond of her visiting there: undoubtedly he was ashamed of the small room. She visited just the same and perched on the edge of his desk while the poor fellow scurried about, gathering up stray items and wiping the dust off the windowsill with his palm.…

Calling Dinar to mind, Toria sighed. She walked up to the familiar door, suddenly unsure of herself. All was quiet beyond the door, and it seemed likely to her that there was no one in the room. How stupid I look, thought Toria, and knocking once, she entered.

Egert was sitting at the desk, his head gravely lowered; Toria noted in passing the sheet of paper lying in front of him and the quill stained with ink. Turning his head around to greet his guest, Egert flinched; the inkpot, grazed by his hand, teetered and overturned.

For a minute or two they were distracted by silently and intently wiping up puddles of ink from the tabletop and floor. Toria’s gaze involuntarily fell on the pages, full of writing, much of it crossed out, and without even realizing what she was doing, she read in Egert’s bloated, clumsy handwriting:
and then we shall manage to remember all, and all that was …
She hastened to avert her gaze; noticing this, Egert smiled wearily.

“I’ve never been one for writing letters.”

“There is a lecture now,” she remarked dryly.

“Yes,” Egert sighed, “but I really need, especially today, to write a letter to … to a certain woman.”

The autumn wind gathered strength beyond the windows; it howled and slammed into the loose shutters. Toria suddenly realized that it was damp in the room and chilly, and almost completely dark.

Egert turned away from her “Yes. I finally decided to write to my mother.”

The wind tossed a fallen maple leaf—yellow as the sun—against the window; sticking there for a second, the yellow leaf tore away and flew farther on, dancing playfully in the wind.

“I didn’t know that you had a mother,” said Toria quietly and almost immediately became confused. “That is, I didn’t know she was alive.”

Egert cast his eyes to the ground. “Yes.”

“That’s good,” mumbled Toria, unable to think of anything better to say.

Egert smiled, but the smile came out bitter. “Yes. The thing is, I am not a very good son. That’s for sure.”

Beyond the window the wind gusted particularly strenuously. A draft swirled through the room, proprietarily rustling through the papers on the desk.

“Somehow it seems to me…” Toria unexpectedly found herself speaking. “It seems to me that a son, even one who has gotten into trouble, would be loved regardless. Perhaps even more intensely…”

Egert glanced up at her quickly, and his face brightened. “Really?”

For some unknown reason Toria recalled a young boy, a stranger to her, weeping over a dead sparrow: she was fourteen years old, and she went up to him and explained in all seriousness that the bird needed to be left alone, for only then would the Sparrow King appear and bring his loyal subject back to life. Widening his tear-filled eyes, the little boy had asked her then with that same abrupt, sincere hope, “Really?”

Toria smiled at her recollection. “Really.”

Rain started drumming against the hazy window.

Whenever Toria returned home with yet another hole in her stockings, her mother, silently shaking her head, took her wooden needlework box down from a shelf. Toria peered covetously into its mysterious depths: there among a tangle of wool and silk thread, brilliantly lustrous pearl buttons gleamed at her like eyes. Her mother extracted a needle from the box and set to work, occasionally biting off a thread with her sharp, white teeth. Soon in the place where the misshapen little hole had been, a red bug with black spots appeared; after several weeks had passed, Toria’s new stockings were always embroidered with an entire swarm of red bugs, both small and large. She liked to imagine that they would come alive and crawl over her knees, tickling her with their little feelers.

And if her mother were still alive? What if her father had not let her go, what if he had locked her up, locked the door and fastened it with an enchantment?

Father and daughter had lived together for many years, and in all that time she could not remember a single other woman with him. Not one.

The Tower of Lash launched into its mournful howl. Toria winced peevishly and in the same breath frowned, seeing how Egert’s face changed. It must be difficult to live in constant fear.

“It’s nothing,” she said briskly. “Don’t listen to it. Don’t listen. Only undertakers believe in this nonsense about the end of time: they’re hoping to make some money.” She smiled at her awkward joke, but Egert did not stop frowning. A painful-looking fold loomed between his eyebrows.

The sound came again, even more plaintive, with a hysterical sob at the end. Toria saw that Egert’s lips were starting to quiver; flinching, he hastily turned his back to her. Egert silently tried to compose himself, and Toria, who was also uncomfortable, had to witness this mute struggle.

For a long moment she considered if she should tactfully retire or if, on the contrary, it would be best to pretend that nothing was happening. The Tower finally fell silent, but Egert was overcome with the shakes and had to hold his twitching jaw with his hand to still it. Without saying a word, Toria went out into the corridor, filled an iron mug from the water fountain, and brought it to Egert.

He gulped it down and started choking. His pale face became engorged with blood; tears welled up in his eyes. Desiring to help, Toria clapped him on the back one or two times. His shirt was as damp as if it had just been pulled out of a laundry basin.

“Everything will be all right,” she mumbled, suddenly overcome with shyness. “Listen to me: There won’t be an ‘end of time.’ Don’t be afraid.”

Then he drew a deep breath and suddenly told her everything: he told her about Fagirra, about the Magister, about the ceremony in the Tower, about their promises and threats and about his secret errand. Toria heard him out without interjecting a single word, but when he got to the last encounter with the disguised acolyte, Egert fell silent.

“That’s all?” Toria looked him in the eyes.

“That’s all.” He averted his eyes.

A few moments passed in silence.

“You don’t trust me?” Toria asked softly.

He laughed: it was a strange question after all that had been said!

“Tell me, right to the end.” Toria drew her eyebrows down.

So he told her about the poisoned stiletto.

The ensuing silence lasted for about ten minutes.

Finally, Toria raised her head. “So, you didn’t tell him anything?”

“I don’t know anything,” Egert explained wearily. “But if I had known, I would have reported it all to that dear soul.”

“No!” said Toria as though she was shocked at the very possibility of such an idea. “No, you wouldn’t have told him.…” But at the end her voice lost its confidence.

“You yourself have seen what I’ve become,” uttered Egert peevishly. “I am no longer myself. I’m a wretched, cowardly animal.”

“But can’t you … try to overcome it?” asked Toria cautiously. “Try to keep yourself from being afraid?”

“Try to keep yourself from blinking,” Egert suggested, shrugging.

Toria tried. For some time she heartily looked out the window with wide-open eyes as if she were engaged in a staring contest, but then her eyelids twitched and, ignoring the command of her reason, fluttered.

“There you have it.” Egert’s gaze was fixed on the floor. “I am a slave. I’m a total slave to the curse. All I think about is what is first in my soul, and what is last, and who will question me five times, so that I might answer ‘yes’ five times.”

Toria rubbed her temple, exactly like her father. “I cannot believe it. What if you were forced to do something completely impossible? Wouldn’t you be able to resist?”

Egert smiled crookedly. “If I had a knife at my throat…”

“But really you … you’re not a bad man…,” she muttered without confidence.

He was silent. An enormous, impudent raven was strutting ceremoniously through the wet university courtyard like a judge.

Egert exhaled deeply, seeing a scaffold in his mind’s eye. Stuttering, he told her about the girl in the carriage and the highwaymen who had intercepted that carriage on the road.

Another long silence followed. Egert expected Toria to simply get to her feet and leave, but she did not.

“And if,” she asked finally, her voice unsteady, “if it had been … there … if that had been me?”