The Three Lands Omnibus (2011 Edition) (22 page)

I hesitated, trying to guess the nature of this trap; I dared not look Carle's way. Finally I said hesitantly, "Sixty lashes?"
Neville allowed himself to flash a tight smile of triumph before replying, "Branding."
"But—" I stopped short, aware that any protests I babbled now would be scored on Neville's inner chart of victory. In the end I said, in a carefully controlled voice, "I see. The crime is considered worse because the man who has been attacked holds greater duties."
"No." To my distress, exasperation filled the voice of Carle. "The prisoner was given a higher sentence because the man he attacked was above his rank. That's the only reason. The nobleman in question could have been an imbecile, unfit to carry out any duties, and the crime would still have been considered great."
"But . . ." This time I turned toward Neville in genuine bewilderment. "Is that fair? The crime is the same in both cases. It shouldn't matter what title the victim holds."
Neville relaxed back into the softness of his armchair. I sensed that my consternation had cleansed him of his earlier annoyance. "It works the opposite way as well, though," he said. "If I struck you, a lesser free-man, then I would receive a higher sentence than Carle would if he struck you. My rank offers me greater protection against crimes against myself, but it also burdens me with greater responsibilities toward those of lesser rank. That's why you don't see Emorian noblemen being placed on trial very often," he added with a quick smile. "There just aren't sufficient rewards for committing a crime if you're a nobleman."
I sat staring at him in the flickering white light of the cut-glass lamps, watching sparks flare up periodically in the gilt of the plaster, and listening to the logs moan in the weariness of the late evening. Beside me, Carle said with urgent passion, "Adrian, listen. Tomorrow you will give your oath to the Chara. Would you strike him under any circumstances? Even if he were off-duty? And would you complain if you were given a higher sentence for a crime against him than you would receive for committing a crime against me?"
I felt a deep stillness enter into me then, one I hadn't felt for many weeks – one I hadn't felt since the last time Fenton and I spoke. I understood. Not for the reasons that Carle had mentioned; I understood because Fenton and I had talked about this many times. About loving the gods. About loving them without reserve and accepting without complaint the mercy and vengeance they gave. And most of all – this was something Fenton told me, and I doubt any other priest would have said it – about taking that love and acceptance and giving it to all the people around you, as a sign of your love for the gods.
All of that is false, I now know; the gods are evil, and they care nothing for love. For many weeks now that knowledge has been an emptiness inside me, longing to be filled. And now I had learned that what Fenton had said was true – not about the gods, but about the Chara. Fenton must have taken what he learned in Emor as a child and applied that knowledge to the gods, trusting them to be as honorable as the Chara who had once been his ruler. Fenton was wrong about the gods, but he was not wrong about the Chara, and now I could take all that he had taught me and put it to use.
"I see." I looked at Carle, forgetting that Neville was there. "You serve those above you in rank in the same way that you serve the Chara, and they care for you in the same way that the Chara does. To serve and care for each other is a way of showing your loyalty to the Chara."
Carle said nothing; he only smiled. I don't even remember how the conversation turned after that. But what I've decided – and I must finish this entry quickly, for I can hear the others stirring from their sleep – is that it doesn't matter what my life was like in the past, and I needn't tell Carle anything that might discomfit him. Anything good that happened to me in the past is here with me now, as I serve the Chara.
The rest can be forgotten.
The twenty-fourth day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.
I have had the greatest disappointment of my life: I am not going to be able to meet the Chara after all.
"His schedule is too busy at the moment, I fear," explained Captain Wystan when we met with him yesterday morning. "He is preparing for the wedding of his young sister – an important wedding from the point of view of the law, since the groom will become second in line for the throne, after the Chara's son. Or is he third in line? Carle, you know these matters better than I do."
He had raised his voice to be heard above the rain. Yesterday's storm came on with a suddenness that startled me; winds pulled dark clouds from the north as quickly as though they were a vanguard army on the move. Fortunately, the army tents are waterproof – the Emorian engineers are just as skilled as I'd always heard – so only a trickle of rain came though a gap in the tent where part of the cloth didn't overlap properly. The tent's brazier was blazing fiercely when we arrived, so that Carle and I, still soaked from the rain, were able to warm ourselves. This was in fact the first order I received from Wystan, which says much about the man who will be my high official.
Carle was in the process of hanging our wet cloaks from one of the interior tent poles. He turned immediately and said, "Second in line, sir, since the Chara Anthony has no brother. The line of succession is son, grandson, son-in-marriage, brother, brother-in-marriage, uncle, and nephew."
"And cousin," said Wystan with a smile. "We must not forget the Chara's cousins."
"The succession is unlikely to fall that far, sir," Carle replied stiffly.
Wystan raised an eyebrow, but merely replied, "Unlikely, yes, since the Chara's son will doubtlessly produce an heir of his own soon. At any rate, my old captain says that Lord Nicholas gives the appearance of being a happily married man." Seeing my puzzled look, he added, "The Chara's son, Lord Nicholas, is presently living in Marcadia, assisting the subcommander of the Marcadian Army. I am originally from that dominion, as you will have guessed."
I hadn't guessed, for I'd assumed that his white hair came from old age; Wystan appears to be approaching his sixtieth year. But now I remembered Sewell's white hair, and I realized that Wystan must be the second Marcadian I've met. I had a sudden vision of the whole of the Emorian Empire, stretching from Southern Emor on through the Central Provinces and up to the northern dominions of Marcadia and Arpesh, with nothing beyond them except the ice-bound mainland, where the barbarians live. . . . A moment later, I discovered that my breath was still caught by the wonder of it. All that land, bound in peace by the Chara's law. If only the lands to the south of Emor . . .
I woke from my dreaming then as I caught sight of Carle, cloaked once more, ducking through the tent flap, and I realized that Wystan must have asked him to leave so that he could talk with me alone. My stomach tightened.
In fact, the interview was relaxed. The hardest part was explaining about my blood vow. When I'd finished, Wystan nodded and said, "Your lieutenant is right in believing that your broken vow is no barrier to your joining the Emorian army. From an Emorian point of view, you showed more honor by breaking your vow than you would have shown by keeping it. In any case, the law takes no notice of crimes committed in another land, unless those crimes are against the Chara's law as well." He leaned back in his chair. We were both seated, and Wystan had moved his chair out from behind his small desk so that we would be closer together and so that our conversation could not be overheard by Carle and Wystan's orderly, who were conversing outside the tent.
"Do you have questions of your own?" Wystan asked. "I know that Carle is well qualified to answer questions you have about the patrol, but if you have any general questions about the army, I would be glad to answer them."
I frantically searched my mind for an appropriate question. Fortunately, the sun shone forth at that moment, and a shaft of light travelled through the tent gap, onto Wystan. His neck-brooch shone like a reflection of the sun.
"I was wondering about the brooches, sir," I said, with my eye on the gold brooch before me. "Most of the patrol guards wear iron brooches, but a few of them – including Sublieutenant Carle – wear copper brooches, and Lieutenant Quentin wears a silver brooch. I asked Sublieutenant Carle about this, but he didn't seem to want to talk about it."
"I am hardly surprised," said Wystan. "Your sublieutenant is a modest man." He rose to his feet, and after a moment I realized that I ought to do the same, and so I jumped up and watched as Wystan walked over to close the gap in the tent covering. As he did so, he said, "The brooches are awarded by the subcommander of the Emorian Army for honor and courage. The copper brooch is for great honor, and if a soldier should distinguish himself a second time, he is presented with a silver brooch for greater honor."
"And the gold brooch is for greatest honor," I said, keeping my gaze fixed on Wystan's brooch.
Wystan laughed then as he tossed dirt onto the brazier to douse the flames. "Do not assume that my brooch is higher in honor than Sublieutenant Carle's. Each unit in the Emorian Army establishes its own criteria for what constitutes honor, and the brooches are presented accordingly. I received my brooch in the regular army, which has lower standards than the special divisions – that is to say, the vanguard, the Border Division, and the Division of Disclosure. The highest standards of all exist in the border mountain patrol, with good reason. If we awarded brooches to patrol guards on the same basis that other soldiers are honored, every patrol guard would be awarded a gold brooch before the end of his first year. Those who were still alive, that is." His gaze slid over to me.
I recognized what he was telling me – not only that the honor of being a patrol guard was the greatest, but also that the danger was the greatest. I did my best to straighten my back and look like the type of man who fearlessly faces death. The results must have been amusing, because a smile flickered across Wystan's face, quickly suppressed.
I abandoned the effort and asked, "What type of act brings such an award in the patrol, sir?"
"Acts that are in the tradition of the patrol," he replied promptly, seating himself once more. "That is to say, acts which no man with the slightest amount of sanity would perform. If you were to fling yourself unarmed onto a blade-wielding breacher, without the faintest hope that you would survive the encounter, that
might
earn you an honor brooch. I say 'might,' because your act would need to have been witnessed by at least two other guards, while at least two-thirds of the patrol – including one of its officials – would need to have agreed that your act was a model for other patrol guards." He smiled as I reseated myself on a stool. "Even so, the border mountain patrol is the most heavily honored unit in the Chara's armies. The patrol shields its honor jealously, and it admits no man to its ranks unless the patrol believes that he will match the honor of past guards."
I thought of my broken vow; and of Fowler, lying wounded in the city physicians' house; and of myself, standing trial for my crime; and I felt the darkness of the day lower itself upon me. I was still trying to figure out how to save Wystan the words he must say next when he added softly, "Which is why I consider it one of my greatest privileges to welcome to the Emorian army those men whom the patrol believes meet those standards. Here is your own brooch, which, I assure you, shines more brightly in the eyes of the world than my own." And he placed into my hand an army brooch of dull iron.
So then he called Carle back into the tent to be witness, and I gave my oath of loyalty to the Chara by way of Wystan, and afterwards I couldn't remember why I had felt disappointed at the beginning of the visit.
The twenty-fifth day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.
Today I, Soldier Adrian of the Border Mountain Patrol of the Emorian Army of the Chara's Imperial Armies, was fitted for a uniform.
Actually, it doesn't look much different from the lesser free-man's tunic I was wearing before. I was also fitted for boots, and afterwards Carle took me to the armory so that I could select my blades.
"You have your choice," explained Carle, handing me a sword. "Have you ever had a close look at an Emorian-style blade?"
I examined carefully the sword. It was heavier than any I'd held before, and the hilt was guarded by curving metal that was evidently meant to protect the hand.
"I like this better than Koretian-style swords," I said, moving the sword from side to side to check its balance.
Carle nodded. "I thought you might. I prefer Koretian swords myself, because of their lighter weight. I suppose you've never fought with a sword before."
Actually, I had. Hamar used to let me borrow his sword, and he'd borrow Father's, and we'd practice together. But of course I couldn't tell Carle that, so I said carefully, "I have on a few occasions. The baron's son in our village was generous about loaning out his sword."
"Ah, yes; the baron's son in my village was the same way. Now, then—" Carle unsheathed his sword in a move that dazzled the eye, and held it in readiness. In the next moment, I had my new sword poised, and we began to fight.
The armorer watched us with a mirthful smile. We were in the cramped space of his tent, along with other soldiers who had taken shelter from the never-ending drizzle of rain. This is the third time it has rained since we arrived in Emor, and I'm beginning to wonder whether I'll ever see the sun again.
I concentrated my initial efforts on not killing accidentally any of the men standing nearby. Within a short time, my efforts were focussed on staying alive. The best bladesman I ever knew was my cousin Emlyn, but if he had met Carle, I think he would have hesitated before challenging Carle to a duel. Carle's sword sliced through my barriers as though he were cutting soft cheese, his blade-tip always withdrawing before it touched flesh. Obviously he was aiming for disarming rather than first blood, so I clenched my teeth and tried to follow suit. After three sweaty minutes, I finally succeeded in flicking my blade upward at the very moment that Carle's was sliding past.
His sword went flying, nearly decapitating a bottom-ranked soldier who was leaning forward to watch better. The soldiers had been chatting lightly with one another throughout the fight; now silence fell like a corpse upon the crowd. The armorer was no longer smiling.