The Tale of Oriel (4 page)

“Not true,” the Damall said.

“But Griff is older,” Tomas said.

“Not true,” the Damall said.

“But—” Tomas said.

“All of you, help Nikol, hold Tomas until he is bound,” the Damall said, then rose and left the hall. By the time he returned, Tomas was bound and ready, and they set sail immediately.

He had the tiller, following the Damall's directions even though he thought he could probably guide them to the Old City without help. Not a word was spoken, as the wind pulled the boat through the water. Tomas watched him, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of hope, or a glimpse of some reason that hope shouldn't die. The Damall watched him as if to catch a glimpse of weakness. He sailed with a stone face that neither of them could read.

That was the way of the island—the older boys left, and new boys arrived. There was no reason nor use to question the way of the island, established by the Great Damall and carried on by his successors. The way things were was the way things had been. He would be the seventh Damall—he named it to himself—to hold rule over the island.

The wind blew brisk and favorable. They were in time to exchange Tomas for five silver coins, and the Damall was pleased with the day's work. The Damall was in good spirits as they left the enclosed slave market and headed for the market square. “What shall we get for you?” the Damall asked. “Dinner in a tavern? A tankard of wine? A woman?”

The market spread out before them. At its center a tall stone column pointed like a finger at the sky, and at its back broad buildings stood in a line.

He could make no response to the Damall's questions, and then he thought he could. “A dagger.”

The eyes glittered. “You may think I've forgotten what happened to the last dagger you were given, but I haven't. I won't give you another dagger so that you can lose it, as you did the other.”

The words wanted to tumble out—that he hadn't lost it, it had been stolen, he suspected stolen by Nikol. But he held his tongue, warned by the glittering eyes. There was something dangerous here, something he didn't understand. He would say no more.

“A dinner, wine, and a woman it is, then,” the Damall said. “In the morning we'll stop by the slavery again, and you can choose.”

He did not ask what it was he was to choose.

The next morning, after buying a full cone of salt at market, and two of the delicate loaves of sweetened bread the bakers put out in the mornings to tempt the hungry, they returned to the fenced slave market. He was to make the selection alone, the Damall told him. He was to spend no more than one silver coin and five coppers. They needed the rest of the silver truemen to feed them across the winter, the Damall said, and hadn't he noticed that the treasure boxes were not as full as they might have been?

He didn't answer.

“You didn't count when I had you fetch the coins?” the Damall asked, and then he laughed. “I know you didn't steal any. I was there behind you, to know if you were a thief.”

Why should he steal what would become his own? He didn't ask. Instead, he turned to a huddled group of boys, ranging as he guessed from two winters in age up to twelve. The biggest boy was too old, too tall, he thought, just as the littlest was too little. He noted that only one of the boys stood bravely, without tears or bent head. This boy had curly black hair and a body as round as a tree stump. He went to the master to ask the price. He asked the price of the oldest, first, then the price of the youngest, and he looked doubtful at each answer. It didn't matter what the answer was, he wrinkled his forehead, as if the price worried him. “How old?” he asked, pointing. “How much?”

The black-haired boy was not the first he asked about, nor the last. When he had heard all of the prices, he stepped back from the master and opened the hand he had held closed. He examined the coins on his palm, as if he were counting them. Then he closed his fingers around the coins again, and wrinkled his forehead again, and bade the master farewell. “I am sorry to have troubled you,” he said. He turned, and moved three paces towards another group of huddled boys and their master. Then he turned swiftly around to ask, “I don't think you would take five coppers for him?” pointing at the dark-haired boy.

The master barely hesitated before agreeing, and taking the coins, and pushing the boy forward.

He kept his eyes stony, so the master wouldn't see his pleasure.

As he led the boy away he asked, “Do you have a name?”

“Carlo. I wanted you to choose me.”

He didn't answer.

He thought the Damall must be pleased when he returned the silver coin whole, but the man said only, “There'll be a reason he came so cheap.”

NO REASON BECAME EVIDENT WHEN
they returned to the island. Carlo made no complaint, learned his chores quickly, and performed them without error. Other boys, especially the smaller ones, would spend a sennight weeping and whining; and the Damall would whip their complaints out of them. Carlo never complained. He became a favorite among the littler boys, who vied to work beside him, and eat beside him, and sleep at his side.

After a few days of this, the Damall called for the whipping box and called Carlo. When Carlo knelt naked and afraid, the Damall said, “I'm a little tired. Would anyone care to do this for me?”

“Me,” Nikol said. “I will. I can.” A few of the other boys asked for the favor.

He stood silent as stone. He thought, when he was the seventh Damall, there might be no whippings ever again.

“Here, you.” He was the one to whom the Damall held out the whip.

He thought, he might decline to take it. But even as that thought was in his mind his hand reached out for the wooden handle. He knew it would be dangerous to refuse. If he couldn't wield the whip, to win order on the island, then it might be thought that he wasn't worthy to be Damall.

He had no desire to whip Carlo, who besides had given no reason to be whipped. “How many?” he asked, each word like a stone rolled from his mouth.

“You decide,” the Damall answered.

Nikol watched, the firelight making his face red.

He raised the whip and brought it down once, twice, not hard, not gentle, and then a final third time.

Carlo cringed at the strokes, but made no sound.

“That's enough,” he said, holding the whip now in two hands. He had shown that he could do it. He asked no more of himself.

Carlo stood up, left the whipping box, and put his clothes on.

“Now it's Nikol's turn,” the Damall said.

“Me?” Nikol asked. “Turn for what?”

“I saw your face,” the Damall said. “I know your mind. Do you think to defy my will?”

“No,” Nikol said. His face was pale now. “How many strokes?”

“Let
him
decide,” the Damall said, and smiled.

“You don't dare,” Nikol said to him.

He would dare.

“I'll get you back,” Nikol said.

“Strip,” the Damall said to Nikol. “Kneel.”

Naked, kneeling, Nikol shivered, on his skinny arms and legs.

He thought he would do one stroke, and get it over with, because Nikol's fear made him feel ill in his stomach, and the whipping made him feel ill. Even though he knew he had to, if the Damall told him to. If he was to be the seventh Damall, he must. He raised his arm and brought the whip down, not gentle, not hard.

Nikol whimpered.

He felt like laughing at Nikol, whimpering now when just before Nikol had been telling him he wouldn't dare. He felt like bringing the whip down again, and harder, to see if he could make Nikol cry and beg for it to stop. Thinking of the whip, and Nikol weeping and begging, his stomach tightened, and his loins. He brought the whip down hard.

Over the sound of his own heart beating he heard the Damall's voice. “Remember the boat that was lost? When there was a squall and only one boat was lost? Nikol untied it. I saw him.”

“You did not!” Nikol cried out. “He's lying! I didn't!” Blood rose up out of one of the welts on Nikol's back.

He held the whip that had made those marks, and drawn that blood, and he was ashamed. He held the whip that could make more marks on the flesh of Nikol's back. While Nikol begged.

“I didn't mean to do it!” Nikol cried out, and the Damall laughed. “It was an accident! It served you right, anyway, and I don't care!”

“A confession,” the Damall announced. “You all heard it. And with fishing our livelihood, too, but this boy—” he pointed a finger down at Nikol, “didn't care about our livelihood. He didn't care if we went hungry,” the Damall said. “What does he deserve?” the Damall asked.

“A whipping. A bad one,” the boys answered in ragged chorus.

Nikol wept and blubbered and would have fallen onto his belly in despair except for the sharp stones of the whipping box.

“A bad whipping,” the boys urged. Griff watched him out of dark eyes.

He was ashamed, and sick at his stomach, and he passed the whip back to the Damall without a word. The Damall stared at him just for a minute. Then, “He's right, you're not worth the trouble,” the Damall said to Nikol. “Get up. Get out of there. You're disgusting.”

He knew the Damall would make him take the whip again, and he knew he could take it, and wield it. He had to be able to, because he was the heir. But he would choose the number.

WHEN THE LADY DAYS CAME
that fall, he hoped to be sent out again with the group of boys. It might be uncomfortable without shelter or food supplies, but those discomforts were a rest from the discomforts of the Damall's house. But he was ordered to stay behind, with the Damall and Griff, while all the others went off under Nikol's charge. When the boys returned a fortnight later, Carlo was no longer with them.

The little boy had disappeared, Nikol said. Carlo had just gone in the night, one night. Isn't that so? he asked, and pale faces nodded in agreement. They had searched for him, all the next day—wasn't that the case? There was no disagreement. They finally had to conclude, Nikol reported, that Carlo must have drowned, somehow. Perhaps he wandered in the night, the way some little boys did, and had fallen over the cliff and his body washed out with the tide. Perhaps he had walked into the sea to escape. He had been low in spirits, didn't they agree? The boys agreed.

The boys who had spent Lady Days under Nikol were exhausted, and hungry, and timid. Two of them needed bandaging and all needed hot food, and water. Nikol didn't look worn at all. Nikol looked as if the days had nourished him well. Nikol looked pleased with himself, as if he knew no one would dare to stand in the way of the words he spoke, as if he knew no one would hesitate to obey him.

The Damall said nothing, not to praise or to blame, not to Nikol, not to him.

He waited, uneasy. When he thought of Carlo, the uneasiness flamed. Across the winter, it was sometimes Nikol who was handed the whip. He was given the whip rarely. When he at last heard the whispered rumor, he was not surprised.

Nikol, the little boys said, had been chosen to be heir. They had heard it from Raul, to whom Nikol had told it in secret. The Damall had said: It was Nikol who would be the seventh Damall.

He didn't say a word to the tale-carrying boys. He didn't say a word to Griff. He stood, and thought, and his heart turned to a fist inside his chest. His heart was a stone fist.

A
FTER THE LONG WINTER CAME
days of foul weather, cold day-long rains that froze at night into sheeted ice that covered everything, like snow, then melted the next day under the cold rains. The boys stayed inside, except when they needed to feed the animals and visit the privies, day after day. The Damall moved restlessly around the house, a blanket wrapped around him. It was earlier each day that he called for his tankards of wine, and called for the whipping box.

Day after day, the weather went on, unchanging. One afternoon all the boys complained of stomach pains, and thirst, and the shits. Some even stayed miserably outside, to be close to the privies. The Damall stayed in his bed, with buckets to be emptied by whatever boy was well enough to carry out, and dump, and put back. By the next morning all felt eased, as if some poison had worked its way out of their bodies. In the morning, all the boys gathered pale and weak in the main hall, where the Damall waited pale and weak for them. Outside, sleet clattered down. Inside, the Damall's eyes glittered. The whipping box was set out and the whip hung in its place on the side of the stone fireplace.