Hand of the King's Evil - Outremer 04 (47 page)

'There are other healers,' she muttered, twisting again against his grip, this time trying to avoid his level gaze and his steady voice.

'Yes, there are. Some are stronger than you, and some are less strong, and all will be needed - but none among them is granddaughter to the Princip. It makes a difference, Elisande.'

'I know,' she said, sighing, subsiding. 'I'm sorry, Grandfer. But Marron can make a difference too,' added determinedly, a new justification. 'He's no good to us lying on a pallet in the sunshine.'

'Forgive me, lad - but what good to us is he on his feet and twitching with your borrowed strength? As Ghost Walker, he was dangerous to both sides equally; as a boy, he's all bone and nothing.'

'He can fight. He's a demon with a sword, I saw him outfence four Sand Dancers at once

That was the demon with the sword, not me,
though it was true that he had his own skills. But he didn't say so, he said neither of those things; he had something else to say that was more important. 'Elisande — I will not kill.'

'What,
still
?

'Still.'

She glared, with an exasperated affection; he made a helpless gesture,
sorry, but your grandfathers right, I'm no use to anyone.
..

Surprisingly, it was Jemel who offered a way forward. Jemel the fierce warrior, always ready to kill anything that did not kill him, Jemel said, 'The wounded will be brought to this house?'

'Yes, any who are seriously hurt. They'll be looking for me, but I can't be here — no, Elisande, I
cannot!’
I must go out to the field again, I've delayed too long already.'

'Which field? There are three armies on your land now.'

'Each of them in turn. Naturally.'

'And do what? Fight and die an old mans death, too foolish to remember that your body is not the force it used to be?'

'Experience is like armour in a battle, Elisande—' '—Yes, it slows you down—'

'—And I don't plan to fight much in any case, only to organise the defence of my country'

'Oh, that needs you, does it? It's not as if everyone in Surayon hasn't known for thirty years what they should do when this day comes
...'

'Knowing and doing are different things, when there is fire and death at your heels. I simply have to be there, the Princip has to be seen. And no, you may not ride with me. You have to be here, you're as much a symbol as I am. Rudel is dead, and you are more than ever the continuity of the state. I've indulged you before, but no longer. You stay here, and you help my people, your people - which does not mean wasting what energy you have to make your friends feel better!'

Jemel spoke again, quickly across the seething silence, before the storm could break. 'It will not have been wasted. We will ride out, Marron and I, if there are any horses left in your stables; we'll help to bring your wounded in. Armed men defend the weak simply with their presence. And if we meet a war-party, well, I am Sharai and he is Patric; between us we may turn them without need to fight. Both our peoples have honour enough, not to attack the injured or their escorts. They may need only to be reminded of it, in the heat of the day.'

More likely, Marron thought, he and Jemel would simply incite extra fury in those they faced, regardless of any codes of honour. Sharai and Patric riding together, in this cursed and desecrated land? That was reason enough for more slaughter.

Still, it was a good idea. Even the Princip couldn't deny that. He nodded briefly, and even managed a glimmer of a smile as he said, 'There are horses remaining, though they may not meet your standards, Jemel. I've mounted the Sharai before, and even my finest would barely satisfy. Now my finest are dead, or ridden half to death already'

Jemel shook his head. ‘I
wouldn't waste a warhorse, nor a racing horse. If we fight, we fail, and we will not flee. Give us sumpters if you have them, they can carry two at need; give us dray horses if you must. Perhaps we should take a dray
...'

'Perhaps we should,' Marron said quiedy. 'Jemel, I can't ride— Oh. Oh, yes. I suppose I can, at that.' A breath, which didn't help at all, and then, 'With your permission, sir? We'll do what we can.'

Another nod from the Princip. 'Go. Tell them in the stables - if you can find anyone to tell - that I will come shortly, and I need my Boucheron saddled and prepared. No doubt there will be others riding with me.
Not
you, Elisande,' before she could utter the first syllable of the argument they could all see rising to her lips. 'You stay, and play princess for me as your mother would have done. Marron, you feel well just now, but you are not. Do what you can for my people, and by the God's grace I will thank you for it later, but don't drive yourself into exhaustion. There's no more either one of us can do for you today.'

'Except one thing,' Elisande said swiftly, determined apparently to have some kind of final say, if not the one she'd wanted. 'An armed man needs a weapon, Marron sweet, or he may be very scary but he isn't very armed. Esren!'

The djinni appeared at her word in its common form and place, a darkling rope above and behind her shoulder.

Hanging seemingly unsupported in the air below was a sword in a belted scabbard of white leather with silver edging.

Marron would have thought it lost, if he'd had the time to think it missing. His rush of joy at its recovery told him how much he would have mourned that loss.

He spoke his joy in a wordless cry, in a sudden movement that pulled him free of Jemel's restraining arm. He reached past Elisande and snatched for the sword; there was a moment's resistance, and then Dard's familiar weight fell into his hand.

'For a young man who doesn't want to kill,' the Princip observed mildly, you seem uncommonly pleased to have your weapon back, Marron.'

'Uh, yes, sir
..
.' He was too busy buckling the belt around his waist to worry about the old man's unabashed interest, Elisande's smug self-content, even Jemel's stony silence. They all had their meanings, and any one of them might mean trouble to come, but he could puzzle them out later. He shifted the b
elt until the sword hung perfectl
y, put his hand to the hilt and drew the blade a hand's span from its sheath. He wanted to go further, to examine its edge and run his fingers along its chasings, to come that little closer to Sieur Anton. This was not the time, though; he released the hilt and let the sword slide down into its sheath again. In that moment of separation, he remembered again his other, his genuine loss. And looked at Elisande and said, 'Where have you put the Daughter?'

'Where it will be safe,' the Princip replied brusquely, when she hesitated. 'The fewer who know, the safer it will be.'

Safest of all if you don't know,
that seemed to be what he was truly saying. If safety meant separation, if keeping them apart was its true measure, then even Marron thought that he was right. Already something in him looked at the Princip and thought
thief
thought
give me back what you have taken from me
...

If safety meant separation, though, then Marron had been safe before, behind the Daughter's distance. Sometimes a veil, sometimes a shield, always a breach, it had lain between himself and the world, numbing pain and weariness but numbing sympathy also, holding him that
little
way apart from the concerns even of his friends.

Now that distance had been snatched away, and he stood entirely within mortal touch again, and was not ready for it. Not the Princip, but the world stood by to give him back everything that the Daughter had taken from him.

14

A
Bridge
to
Fal
l

This was not like watching from the terrace, even with the spells of farsight that seemed to bring close what was truly distant. That was only seeming, like a tale told of a
battle
fought; there was skill and wonder in it, but it was a long, long call from being there, from the taste and the touch, the glory and the terror of it, the chill of steel and the hot run of blood.

The terrace, the palace lay above and behind them, not so very far in ridden road but all that other, greater distance between the tale and the truth. Up there they had watched and listened, seen and heard; down here they were in the landscape, part of the picture, actors in the play. They were what they had been watching.

Down here and a long ride yet from any fighting, drifts of smoke on the wind were occasionally heavy enough to sting at their eyes, and they had to veil nose and mouth against a fall of dust-fine ash. The sun seemed hazy, high and cool in a thickening, shadowy sky; that was a portent, surely. With

the air so bad to breathe and the light failing far too soon, it was an easy message to read. Death had come to Surayon, and spread its hands wide across the valley.

Himself, he rode towards it. His teeth were gritty with the sour taste of burning, his nostrils were stretched for the first scent of blood; the horse beneath him was as jittery as a boy on his first raiding-party, and he was little calmer himself; and yet, and yet
...

Jemel couldn't help, couldn't keep himself from laughing.

He was riding deliberately in front now, but still kept twisting round despite himself, despite every effort at proper discipline. They rode to war, if not to fight in it; this was no time for foolishness, for giggling.

And yet what better time, for a Sharai who should treat his life as lighter than his honour? The tribes were never solemn before battle, honour demanded a coarse joke, an arrant boast and a grin flashing brighter than a scimitar in the sun; today - as he was supposed not to get involved in any battle that they came across - honour demanded, honour absolutely required that he laugh.

Since the night Jemel had seen him first, running tirelessly with his eyes a smoky red, Marron had always been the Ghost Walker. The name had come from legend, from a thousand firelight stories; the truth of it had been a thing to learn over weeks and months, was still a shadow largely unexplored, known only by its borders. The one fundamental, though, the self-evident truth had always been that the Ghost Walker walked or ran, and never rode. No animal would allow him anywhere near. Horses reared and kicked, camels roared and bit whoever was most handy, and usually Jemel.

So it followed that Jemel had never seen Marron in a saddle, until now. And now - seeing the gawky gracelessness, the shambolic slouch of it, hearing the excuses punctuated by yelps as boy met saddle, bouncing - well, how could he help but laugh?

'You be quiet, you. I haven't ridden a horse in months and I never could handle a charger, we only ever had ponies at home and I didn't like those. Fra' Piet mocked me for my riding and so did— so did everyone else, I don't need your teasing too.'

'This is not a charger, Marron.'

'No, it's a raw-boned nag with no manners and nobody could ride it with any hint of style, so stop that giggling and keep your eyes on the road, we could meet trouble any moment.'

True, it was a raw-boned nag that Marron rode, but Jemel's mount was worse and he rejoiced in handling the creature with deliberate, ostentatious style.

But it was also true that they were riding into trouble, and he should be watching for it. A Sharai earned his laughter on enemy ground by being always ready to meet that enemy, which meant reading the land, the sky, the wind; and meant also trusting the man at his back to guard his back when he was first man in the file, while his eyes and attention were all turned ahead.

Enough of teasing, then. He turned to face forward, to scan the country as he rode, as he chuckled; and it wasn't long before the chuckle died, before he was calling on the furthest stretch of every sense to help him and still felt that he blundered blindly in the dark.

This was hard, hard land to read. In the desert, the slightest sough of a breeze might tell him how far he was from water, or how long it would be before a dust-storm hit. The glimpse of a bird could show where camels might find grazing, or where a man crouched in cover. Every mark on sand or rock was a sign that spoke loud and clear, ink on a page and all
the better for the wind's acti
on on it; this was writing that said just when it was written, and often who else had read it since.

Here, though, all was confusion. Surayon seemed as empty as the Sands, and he did not believe it but he couldn't read the signs that would tell him otherwise. This was wet country, there were open streams to cross, there was a wide and shining road in the valley bottom that they told him was a river. Look at a footprint in the muddy ooze before a ford, see how water pooled in the bottom, and who could say how long since that print was made? Not he
...

They had skirted the turmoil that was also Surayon, Surayon-city. War hadn't reached it yet, might not for another day or two, and there were men enough to meet it when it came. One glimpse through the open gates, and Jemel had felt infinitely grateful not to be going inside; walls and roofs made him uncomfortable, people in number made him nervous. What use would he be, who could use a Sharai boy in a city? Better far if he and Marron rode the open country and offered help where it was needed, where he had it in him to offer .
..