Deeds of Honor (14 page)

"Hmmph. And you've been lurking the streets since?"

"No—Marshal. I—ouch!" He clenched his fists; the Marshal seemed to be digging into one of the welts with his fingers.

"Sorry, lad. This one was going bad; full of pus. It has to come out."

"It—didn't—feel like—that before—" Selis had buried his face in the blanket.

"I know. The ones that go bad quit hurting for a time. Those damned hooks they use dig in and make a deep place for wound fever to grow." By the time the Marshal finished, Selis was shaking again, trying not to cry aloud, with a mouth full of blanket. "That's all," the Marshal said finally. "They're all clean—and plenty of salve on them—shouldn't go bad now." His hand on the back of Selis's head was gentle and warm. "You're a brave lad, to be so quiet—a beating is bad enough; I know this hurt."

Selis looked up in surprise. "Me? I'm not brave—"

A chuckle surprised him further. "You've enough experience to judge? I would hope you did not." The other man reappeared, carrying a deep bowl and a pitcher. The Marshal nodded, and he withdrew. "Eat a little, if you can, and drink all of this. You may be fevered; don't eat more than you want." While Selis ate a few mouthfuls of beans, and sipped the bitter drink, the Marshal fingered his clothes. "These aren't beggar's clothes," he said finally. "Are they yours?"

"Yes, Mas—Marshal."

"Good cloth. Were you stolen away?"

"N-no, Marshal."

"No?" The Marshal's eyes glittered in the candlelight.

"Your family consented to this?" His gesture included Selis's wounds and his hiding in the streets.

"It—they—" Selis shook his head, near tears once more.

"They were afraid too," said the Marshal, without hint of question.

"Yes, sir," said Selis.

"So they let this happen?"

"It couldn't be helped," whispered Selis to the blanket. "He couldn't stop—"

"Ah. Does your family ask our aid? Is that why you came?"

"No." Selis drew a long breath. "They don't know I am here. I was not to go home until daylight, they said."

"They—Liart's priests?"

Selis nodded. "They said they'd do more if I did—"

"To your family?" At his nod, the Marshal frowned. "Your family worships there, boy? Is that what you mean?"

He shook his head, unable to say; how could he explain? Marshal sighed.

"I don't understand, lad. You were afraid when you came—I thought from your face that you feared Gird himself. Your family let Liart's priests beat you, and yet you say they don't worship him. Why did you come, if not for that? Did you hope sanctuary for yourself?"

Selis closed his eyes, to see the paladin's gray eyes watching him gravely. "She wasn't afraid," he whispered.

"
What
!" The Marshal went on in a quieter voice. "What do you mean, 'she'? What have you seen?"

He clenched his hands on the blanket. "Sir, they had a—a lady. A fighter—"

"A paladin," said the Marshal. His voice had chilled. Selis glanced at him and froze again; the Marshal's face was hard as dry bone. "Go on," said the Marshal.

"A paladin," he repeated. "They hurt her. And she wasn't afraid. She looked at me."

"Looked at you?" Selis could hear the effort ofcontrol; he shivered, feeling great anger near.

"Yes, sir. When—when they hurt me, and when I—" He stopped, shivering again. Surely the Marshal would kill him, if he told it. He had tasted her blood; the memory sickened him.

"What did you do?" asked the Marshal, in that remote quiet voice. Selis found himself answering as quietly.

"They called us up—the children—we had to spit on her and taste—" he faltered momentarily. "Taste her blood," he finished. His head sank, waiting for the blow.

"Was that before or after they beat you?" asked the Marshal.

"After," said Selis.

"And did you enjoy it?" asked the Marshal in the same level tone.

"Enjoy!" Selis's head came up. "Marshal, no! How could anyone—it was terrible, but they would have killed me—my father was there—"

The Marshal's pale eyebrows had risen. "No one enjoyed it?"

Selis felt a wave of heat flush his face. "Some," he admitted. "Some did, but—"

"But you did not. And now do you think it was right, boy?"

Selis dropped his eyes again. "No, but I was afraid."

"After that beating—" He heard the musing tone, a heavy sigh.

"It wasn't only that," he found himself saying. "My father—they had told him—I heard them threaten him—we were all afraid. Only she wasn't. When I went forward, I forgot what to do; she looked at me, not frightened, not angry. Then the priest hit me again, and told me—and—and I did it. But sir, whatever they did, she was not afraid. At the end—"

"Stop." The Marshal's face was unreadable. After a long moment of silence, he went on. "Boy, you came to us frightened, cold, hungry and hurt: do you acknowledge that?"

"Yes, Marshal."

"What's your name?" He hesitated; what would happen to his family? The Marshal went on impatiently. "I need something to call you besides boy; if you don't want to tell me your father's name, that's all right."

"Selis," he answered.

"Selis. You came here needing aid; Gird is the protector of those who cannot protect themselves, and as his followers we are bound to aid the helpless. Do you understand?"

"Yes." He thought he did; they were oathbound, but unwilling.

"I doubt that." The Marshal went on. "But we have our rules too, Selis. If you take our aid, we will expect payment from you—not these silvers in your pocket—" he jingled the coins in his hand. "But the payment of an honest heart. Until now I have listened as I might to any frightened child needing help. Frightened children lie, to save themselves pain. I ask you now for the truth, Selis, and if you lie I will not scruple to throw you out. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Marshal." Selis stared, confused.

"Now. You say you witnessed the priests of Liart tormenting a paladin, a woman. Is that true?"

"Yes—"

"And when was this?"

"It—began some days ago, sir." Selis counted on his fingers, to be sure, backwards and forwards both. "Five days, after sunset."

"And you spoke of an end: when?"

"This afternoon, near dark. It was dark when I came outside."

"And what was the end you saw, Selis?"

"It—" Selis paused. In the confusion that had followed the healing of the stone burns, he was not sure just what had happened. "What I saw," he began cautiously, "was the burns going away. But she did not wake, and the priests were angry and drove us all out. But I had heard she was to be killed outside the walls somewhere."

"The burns went away?" The Marshal's voice had warmed a trifle.

"Yes, Marshal. They had put hot stones to her legs, to cripple her, and when they unbound them, the burns healed, disappeared, even as they held her for everyone to see."

"Gird's grace." Selis looked up at that, and saw the balding shiny top of the Marshal's bowed head. Then the Marshal lifted his head slowly; his eyes glittered with unshed tears. "And so she lives?"

"I think so—then. The guards dropped her, and then they told us to leave, and began pushing at us. I looked back, and saw one of them tying her arms again. But she did not wake—"

"No. And you say she showed no fear—"

"No, sir. At first I wondered—I couldn't believe the gods would let a paladin—if it was a paladin—" He floundered for a moment, catching an expression on the Marshal's face that frightened him again. "I mean, sir, that I had heard about paladins—and she had no sword, even—and did not fight—"

"And you doubted she was a fighter at all?"

Selis shook his head. "No—I've seen fighters; she looked like that. But paladins—the priests said it was all a lie, and that she was no more than any other fighter. I thought if she was, the gods would do something, and they didn't. The priests went on, and the others—"

"What others?"

"The—the ones there. Everyone, nearly. The priests require it."

"That everyone join the torment?"

"Yes, sir." Selis glanced quickly up and away, letting his eyes roam around the bare room.

"Were you there for all of it, Selis?" The Marshal's voice was curiously gentle; it surprised him enough to face that blue gaze.

"Yes, sir. They said I had to stay for it all. They wouldn't let my father even speak to me that day, or the day after—"

"How many times did they beat you?"

"Only the once, sir. But then—they made me sit on the other side, with the children, and they told me they would beat me again if I angered them."

"I see." The Marshal's lips folded in a tight line. Selis watched him, sure of anger when he spoke again. After a moment, the Marshal shook his head slightly. "Boy—Selis—if you had stayed on the streets until morning, in this cold, you'd have had wound-fever enough to keep you abed until spring. The priests knew that: wounds festering four days, hunger, a cold night. They must need a hold on your father. Remember that, Selis: they serve a bad master with bad service; there's enough pain in the world without causing more."

He stretched, and went on more briskly. "Now—you need rest before anything else. Sleep here. Do not leave this room without permission; if you wake, you may eat and drink again, but do not leave. There's a pot under the bed. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Marshal."

"And will you stay?"

"Yes, Marshal."

"Later I hope you will be free of the grange, but this night we are keeping a vigil it could be dangerous for you to witness. Sleep well, Selis, and fear no more."

But he did not sleep well. His back hurt, from shoulders toknees, a stinging pain almost as sharp as the first hours after the beating. His head ached, and spun strange unpleasant dreams when he dozed off. The bandages chafed; in a half-sleep he felt them as bonds holding him down, and fought himself awake. The bed was tumbled and damp around him; the room black dark, for the candle had burnt out. A line of light showed the door ajar. Selis pushed himself up. His mouth was dry and tasted foul. He lurched into the table and felt around for the pitcher and mug. After a drink his head felt clearer; he fumbled under the bed for the pot.

When he lay down again, he could not sleep at all. His back throbbed; the tangled bedding caught his feet as he shifted and turned. He thought of the coming day, of his father's fright, of the home that no longer seemed safe, since he could be dragged away at the red priests' whim. Raki and the others waited for him in the streets, and the red priests underground. And even his father was not safe. He knew, now, that they might have hung his father on that frame, for all his wealth and position in the Guild. Even his mother—that thought was too terrible. He groaned aloud. No one was safe anymore: not him, not his parents. If the red priests wanted, he did not doubt they could steal the prince, or any of the nobles. There was no safety for anyone, anywhere—

He was crouched in the bed, shaking with fear, his blood pounding in his ears. They would find him, even here; he must run. They were coming, they would always be coming, but if he ran fast enough they might not find him. He threw back the bedding, and felt around the room for his clothes. He stumbled over his shoes, and put them on. His pants were easy, but he could not squirm into his tunic with the bandages; he folded it on his arm and stole to the door.

It opened noiselessly to his touch, giving on a dimly lit passage with other doors. Beyond the passage was a larger space with more light. He tried each door in turn, without success. He had not Raki's skill with locks. He crept farther along the passage. It ended in the grange itself; he crouched near that opening and looked along the length of that large room. Ahead, the street wall, with its wide door open to the night outside. On the opposite wall, racked weapons: clubs, swords, spears, all neatly arrayed. On the near wall, coils of rope and a row of ladders: fire-fighting gear. Very cautiously he put his head out the opening, and looked to his left. A wooden platform centered the floor there. At each corner stood an armed figure: two men and two women, facing inward, swords drawn. In the center of the platform, a brilliant light, like a jewel on fire. Selis could not see the Marshal; he put his head out farther, craning his neck to see around the corner to his left.

"Selis!" That call came from beyond the open door, fanged with malice.

His head whipped around; he stared into the blackness, trying to see Raki. But the darkness beyond was featureless. He cowered back into the passage.

"We see you, Selis rabbit," came the mocking call. "We'll find you."

He wanted to hear the armed Girdsmen chasing Raki; he wanted to hear something but the beat of his own heart. But the Girdsmen did not move; the Marshal did not appear. A wisp of fog stole into the grange by the door. Selis stared at it as if it were alive. After a time it seemed thicker. He looked around the grange from his hiding place: each torch was haloed now, and he could no longer see the spear-hafts clearly on the opposite wall. He jerked his gaze back to the main door. Fog and shadows clung about it, shifting in the hazy light. Was that a blacker shadow coming in? Selis backed a step. A light mocking laugh ran along the wall.

"Selis—I see you. It's not so dark there." Selis backed again, into the dark passage. Damp fog filled half the grange, reaching along the walls toward him. He remembered the Marshal's warning. If he had stayed in that room, Raki could not have seen him. It was his fear—he shook his head. If he retreated to the dark room now, Raki could follow; Raki moved faster in the dark than he did. But in the light, he could be seen. Raki might throw a dart, or his dagger.

Or might not. Selis thought hard, choking on his fear. If he hid in the dark, Raki would surely come. If he came to the light, perhaps the Girdsmen would protect him. Perhaps Raki would wait for a better chance. He squeezed his eyes shut. What would she do, the paladin? He saw those gray eyes, unafraid, watching. She would never have left the room, perhaps. But it was too late for that. He opened his eyes again. Fog had eaten half the light, slicking the walls with icy moisture. A shadow moved along the near wall, dark and silent. Selis pushed himself up, and took a step forward. The shadow halted. Another step, another. He came to the doorway again, and stepped free of the passage.