The Complete Morgaine

by C. J. Cherryh

  But he had not touched the binding on his ankles. He had eaten every bit of the cake and the bacon off the cloth, down to the crumbs. And there was still a look on his face, as if having eaten off their charity, he felt there was a chance something else of hope might happen, but much doubted it.

  “I will tell you,” Vanye said, sinking down on his heels, arms on knees, in front of him, “how I am. I hold no grudge. A man in the dark and fevered—he may do strange things. I reckon that this was the case last night. On the other hand, if you take some other mad notion that endangers my liege, I shall not hesitate to break your neck, do you understand?”

  The man said nothing at all. There was only a stare of wary blue eyes, beneath the tangled hair, and the stink of filth was overwhelming.

  “Now I think you have been a warrior,” Vanye said. “And you do not choose to be filthy or to be a madman. So I should like to take you down to the water and give you oil and salve and help you present a better face to my lady, do you understand me at all, man?”

  “I understand,” the man said then, the faintest of voices.

  “So you should know,” Vanye said, taking out his Honor-blade from his belt and beginning to undo the knots which bound the man’s feet, “my lady is herself a very excellent shot, with weapons you may not like to see—in case you should think of dealing with me.” He freed the knot and unwrapped the leather, tucking it in his belt to save. “There.” With a touch on the man’s bare and swollen right foot. “Ah. That did the swelling no good at all. Can you walk?—Have you a name, man?”

  “Chei.”

  “Chei.” Vanye rose and took his arm, and pulled the man up to take his weight on his left foot, steadying him as he tried the right. “Mine is Vanye. Nhi Vanye i Chya, but Vanye is enough outside hold and hall. There. Walk down to the water. I warn you it is cold. I would have heaved you in last night, with that gear of yours, except for that. Go on. I will find you down by the water. I will find you down by the water—or I will find you. Do you hear me?”

  Thoughts of escape passed through the man’s head, it was clear by the wariness in his eyes; then different thoughts entirely, and fear, the man being evidently no fool. But Vanye walked away from him, going back after his kit by the fire.

  “Be careful with him!” Morgaine said sharply, as he bent down near her. Her eyes were on the prisoner. But he had been sure of that when he had turned his back.

  Vanye shrugged and sank down a moment to meet her eyes. “Do as I see fit, you said.”

  “Do not make gestures.”

  He drew a long breath. So she set him free and then wanted to pull the jesses. It was not her wont, and it vexed him. But clearly she was worried by something. “Liyo, I am not in danger of a man lame in one foot, smaller than I am and starved into the bargain. Not in plain daylight. And I trust your eye is still on him—”

  “And we do not know this land,” she hissed. “We do not know what resources he may have.”

  “None of them came to him on that hilltop.”

  “Thee is leaving things to chance! There are possibilities neither of us can foresee in a foreign place. We do not know what he is.”

  Her vehemence put doubt into him. He bit his lip and got up again. He had never quite let his own eye leave the man in his walk downhill, save the moment it took to reach her; but it seemed quibbling to protest that point, the more so that she had already questioned his judgment, and justly so, last night. Beyond this it came to opinion; and there were times to argue with Morgaine. The time that they had a prisoner loose was not that moment.

  “Aye,” he said quietly. “But I will attend him. I will stay in your sight. As long as you see me, everything is well enough.”

  He gathered up one of their blankets for drying in, along with his personal kit. He walked down the hill, pausing on the way to lay a hand on Siptah’s shoulder, where the big gray and white Arrhan grazed at picket on the grassy slope. He reckoned that Morgaine would have that small black weapon in hand and one eye on him constantly.

  It was not honorable, perhaps, to deal with hidden weapons in the pretense of being magnanimous; but Morgaine—she had said it—did not take pointless chances. It was not honorable either, to tempt a frightened man to escape, to test his intentions, where keeping him under close guard would save his life. And other lives, it might well be.

  But the man had not strayed—had attended his call of nature and limped his way down to water’s edge by the time Vanye had walked the distance downslope, and he had never dared bolt from sight of them or wander behind branches. That much was encouraging. Chei had bent down to drink, with movements small and painful, there on the margin.

  “Wash,” Vanye said, and dropped the folded blanket beside him on the grass. “I will sit here, patient as you like.”

  Chei said nothing. He only sat down, bowed his head and began with clumsy efforts to unbuckle straps and work his way out of the filth- and weather-stiffened leather and mail, piece after piece of the oddly fashioned gear laid aside on the bank.

  “Lord in Heaven,” Vanye murmured then, sickened at what he saw—not least was he affected by the quiet of the man sitting there on the grass and taking full account, with trembling hands and tight-clamped jaw and a kind of panic about his eyes, what toll his ordeal had taken of his body—great, deep sores long festered and worn deep in his flesh. Wherever the armor had been ill-fitted, there infection and poison had set in and corruption had followed, deepening the sores, to be galled again by the armor. Wherever small wounds had been, even what might have been insect bites, they had festered; and as Chei pulled the padding beneath the mail free, small bits of skin and corruption came with it.

  It was not the condition of a man confined a day or even a few days. It bespoke something much more terrible than he had understood had happened on that hill, and the man sat there, trembling in deep shock, trying stolidly to deal with what a chirurgeon or a priest should attend.

  “Man—” Vanye said, rising and coming over to him. “I will help.”

  But the man turned his shoulder and wanted, by that gesture, no enemy’s hands on him, Vanye reckoned—perhaps for fear of roughness; perhaps his customs forbade some stranger touching him; Heaven knew. Vanye sank down on his heels, arms on his knees, and bit his lip for self-restraint, the while Chei continued, with the movements of some aged man, to peel the leather breeches off, now and again pausing, seeming overwhelmed by pain as if he could not bear the next. Then he would begin again.

  And there was nothing more than that, that a man could do, while Vanye watched, flinching in sympathy—Lord, in Ra-morij of his birth, a gentleman would not countenance this sort of thing—chirurgeon’s business, one would murmur, and cover his nose and go absolve himself with a cup of wine and the noisy talk of other men in hall. He had never had a strong stomach with wounds gone bad.

  But the man doggedly, patiently, worked out of the last of it, put his right leg down into the water, and the left, and slipped off the bank, to lose his balance and fall so suddenly that Vanye moved for the edge thinking he had gone into some hole.

  Chei righted himself and clawed for the bank—held on in water only chest deep as Vanye gripped his forearm against the grass. Chei was spitting water and gasping after air, his blond hair and beard streaming water, his teeth chattering in what seemed more shock than cold.

  “I will pull you out,” Vanye said.

  “No,” Chei said, pulling away. “No.” He slipped again, and all but went under, fighting his way to balance again, shivering and trying to pull free.

  Vanye let him go, and watched anxiously as the prisoner ducked his head deliberately and rubbed at ingrained dirt, scrubbing at galled shoulders and arms and body.

  Vanye delved into his kit and found the cloth-wrapped soap. “Here,” he said, offering it out over the water. “Soap.”

  The man made a few careful steps b
ack to take it and the cloth; and wet it and scrubbed. The lines about the eyes had vanished, washed away with the dirt. It was a younger face now; tanned face and neck and hands, white flesh elsewhere, in which ribs and shoulder-blades stood out plainly.

  More of scrubbing, while small chains of bubbles made serpentines down the rapid current. There was danger of that being seen downstream. But there was danger of everything—in this place, in all this unknown world.

  “Come on,” Vanye said at last, seeing how Chei’s lips had gone blue. “Come on, man—Chei. Let me help you out. Come on, man.”

  For a moment he did not think the man could make it. Chei moved slowly, arms against his body, movements slowed as if each one had to be planned. The hand that grasped Vanye’s was cold as death. The other carefully, deliberately, laid the soap and the cloth in the grass.

  Vanye pulled on him, wet skin slipping in his fingers, got the second hand and drew him up onto the grass, where Chei might have been content to lie. But he hauled Chei up again and drew him stumbling as far as the blanket, where he let him down on his side and quickly wrapped him against the chill of the wind, head to foot.

  “There,” Vanye said. “There—stay still.” He hastened up again, seeing Morgaine standing halfway down the slope, there by the horses: and recalled a broken promise. He had left her sight. He was shamefaced a second time as he walked up to speak to her.

  “What is wrong?” she asked, fending off Arrhan’s search for tidbits. There was a frown on her face, not for the horse.

  He had turned his back on their prisoner again. But: “He is too ill to run,” Vanye said. “Heaven knows—” It was not news that would please her. “He is in no condition to ride—No, do not go down there, this is something a man should see to. But I will need the other blanket. And my saddlebags.”

  She gave him a distressed look, but she stopped with only a glance toward the man on the bank, a little tightening of her jaw. “I will bring them down halfway,” she said. “When will he ride?”

  “Two days,” he said, trying to hasten the estimate; and thought again of the sores. “Maybe.”

  It was a dark thought went through Morgaine’s eyes—was a thought the surface of which he knew how to read and the depth of which he did not want to know.

  “It is not his planning,” he said, finding himself the prisoner’s defender.

  “Aye,” Morgaine said quietly, angrily and turned and walked uphill after the things he had asked.

  She brought the things he asked back down to him, no happier. “Mind, we have no abundance of anything.”

  “We are far from the road,” Vanye said. It was the only extenuation of their situation he could think of.

  “Aye,” she said again. There was still anger. It was not at him. She had nothing to say—was in one of her silences, and it galled him in the one sense and frightened him in the other, that they were in danger, that he knew her moods, and her angers, which he had hoped she had laid aside forever. But it was a fool who hoped that of Morgaine.

  He took what she gave him and walked back to the bank, and there sat down, a little distance from their prisoner—sat down, trying to smother his own frustration which, Heaven knew, he dared not let fly, dared not provoke his liege to some rashness—some outright and damnably perverse foolishness, he told himself, of which she was capable. She scowled; she was angry; she did nothing foolish and needed no advice from him who ought well to know she was holding her temper very well indeed, Heaven save them from her moods and her unreasonable furies.

  The focus of her anger knew nothing of it—was enclosed in his own misery, shivering and trying, between great tremors of cold and shock, to dry his hair.

  “Give over,” he said, and tried to help. Chei would none of it, shivering and recoiling from him.

  “I am sorry,” Vanye muttered. “If I had known this, Lord in Heaven, man—”

  Chei shook his head, clenching his jaw against the spasms a moment, then lay still, huddled in the blanket.

  “How long,” Vanye asked, “how long had you been there?”

  Chei’s breath hissed between his teeth, a slow shuddering.

  “Why,” Vanye pursued quietly, “did they leave you there?”

  “What are you? From where? Mante?”

  “Not from hereabouts,” he said. The sun shone warm in a moment when the wind fell. A bird sang, off across the little patch of meadow. It meant safety, like the horses grazing above them on the slope.

  “Is it Mante?” Chei demanded of him, rolling onto his back and lifting his head, straining with the effort.

  “No,” Vanye said. “It is not.” And reckoned that Mante was some enemy, for Chei seemed to take some comfort in that, for all that his jaw was still clamped tight. “Nor anywhere where they treat men as they treated you. I swear you that.”

  “She—” The man lay back and shifted desperate eyes toward their camp.

  “—is not your enemy,” Vanye said. “As I am not.”

  “Are you qhal?”

  That question took the warmth from the daylight.

  “No,” Vanye said. “That I am not.” In Andur-Kursh the fairness of his own brown hair was enough to raise questions of halfling blood. But the one who asked was palest blond; and that puzzled him. “Do I look to be?”

  “One does not need to look to be.”

  It was, then, what he had feared. He thought before he spoke. “I have seen the like. My cousin—was such a man.”

  “How does he fare?”

  “Dead,” Vanye said. “A long time ago.” And frowned to warn the man away from that matter. He looked up at a motion in the edge of his vision and saw Morgaine coming down the hill toward them, carefully—a warlike figure, in her black and silver armor, the sword swinging at her side, either hand holding a cloth-wrapped cup she was trying not to spill.

  Chei followed his stare, tilting his head back, watching her as she came, as she reached the place where they sat and offered the steaming cups.

  “Thank you,” Vanye said, as he took his cup from her hand, and took Chei’s as well.

  “Against the chill,” Morgaine said. She was still frowning, but she did not show it to Chei, who lay beneath his blanket. “Do you need anything?” she asked, deliberately, doggedly gracious. “Hot water?”

  “On the inside of him will serve,” Vanye said. “For the rest—the sun is warm enough when the wind falls.”

  She walked off then, in leisurely fashion, up the hill, plucked a twig and stripped it like some village girl walking a country lane, the dragon sword swinging at her side.

  She was, he reckoned, on the edge of a black rage.

  He gave Chei his cup and sipped his own, wrinkling his nose as he discovered the taste. “’Tis safe,” he said, for Chei hesitated at the smell of his. “Tea and herbs.” He tasted his again. “Febrifuge. Against the fever. She gives us both the same, lest you think it poison. A little cordial to sweeten it. The herb is sour and bitter.”

  “Qhalur witch,” the man said, “into the bargain.”

  “Oh, aye,” Vanye said, glancing at him with some mild surprise, for that belief might have come out of Andur-Kursh. He regarded such a human, homelike belief almost with wistfulness, wondering where he had lost it. “Some say. But you will not lose your soul for a cup of tea.”

  He had, he thought when he had said it, lost his for a similar matter, a bit of venison. But that was long ago, and he was damned most for the bargain, not what sustenance he had taken of a stranger in a winter storm.

  Chei managed to lean over on his elbow and drink, between coughing, and spilled a good amount of it in the shaking of his hands. But sip after sip he drank, and Vanye drank his own cup, to prove it harmless.

  Meanwhile too, having considered charity, and the costs of it on both sides, he delved one-handed into the saddlebags and set out a horn cont
ainer, intricately carved.

  And perhaps, he thought, a scrupulous Kurshin man would regard the contents of that little container as witchcraft too.

  “What is that?” Chei asked warily, as he finished his cup.

  “For the sores. It is the best thing I have. It will not let the wounds scab, and it takes the fire out.”

  Chei took the box and opened it, taking a little on his fingers and smelling of it. He tried it on the sore on the inside of his knee, his lip caught between his teeth in the patient habit of pain; but soon enough he drew several deep breaths and his face relaxed.

  “It does not hurt,” Vanye said.

  Chei daubed away at himself, one wound and the other, the blanket mostly fallen about him, his drying hair uncombed and trailing water from its ends. Vanye took a bit on his own fingers and covered the patches that Chei could in no wise reach, those on his shoulders, then let Chei do the rest.

  “Why?” Chei asked finally, in a phlegmy voice, after a cough. “Why did you save me?”

  “Charity,” Vanye said dourly.

  “Am I free? I do not seem to be.”

  Vanye lifted a shoulder. “No. But what we have we will share with you. We are in a position—” He drew a breath, thinking what he should say, what loyalties he might cross, what ambush he might find, all on a word or two. “—we do not want to make any disturbance hereabouts. But then, perhaps you have no wish to be found hereabouts—”

  The man said nothing for a moment. Then he reached inside the blankets to apply more of the salve. “I do not.”

  “Then we do have something to talk about, do we not?”

  A pale blue stare flicked toward him, mad as a hawk’s eye. “Have you some feud with Gault?”

  “Who is Gault?”