Penric and the Shaman

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  “Hm.” The sorcerer seemed to come to some decision. “I have a senior locator outside, who has ridden all the way from Easthome in pursuit of you. Do you surrender? No more shaman tricks, no running away?”

  What could this man do if he refused? “I’m not running anywhere.” Inglis grimaced. “I mangled my leg on the mountain.”

  The sorcerer looked him up and down. “Ah. I see. Yes, mountains will do that.”

  Inglis hung on his staff, feeling sick. “They in Easthome seek me as a murderer?”

  “Locator Oswyl is a very precise man. I’m sure he’d say he seeks you as a suspected murderer. No one is going to hang you on the spot, you know, without all those judicial ceremonies his Order is so fond of. Everyone has to dress up, first. Not to mention what could be some fraught theological complications.” He added, “I think you had better give me your knife, for now.”

  “NO.”

  He went on with unimpaired weird cheer, “That’s Tollin kin Boarford’s ghost wrapped in it, yes? So Oswyl was right. I shall like to know, later, how you managed that. Speaking from my calling. Both of them, come to think.”

  “I’m not going to use it to stab anyone.” Inglis’s voice was hoarse. “Else.”

  “Yes, but my colleagues won’t know that. Once things are more settled, I may even be able to give it back into your care. You’ve been faithful so far, haven’t you? You’ve brought it a long way.” His voice had gone soft, persuasive. Sensible. “Why?”

  “I sought a shaman.”

  “You are a shaman.”

  Inglis vented a bitter laugh. “Not anymore.”

  The blond man looked him over. Or through him? “Surely, you are.”

  “I tried. I can’t. Can’t enter the trance.” His voice, rising, fell. “I think it is a punishment. Maybe from the gods.”

  The sorcerer raised his eyebrows. “So why not take your problem to your shamanic superiors at court in Easthome? They were much closer.”

  “I killed Tollin,” Inglis said through his teeth. “I could not go back there and face…. everyone.”

  The sorcerer took a quick glance over his shoulder. Yes, there were some other men hovering outside the door. No other exits. Trapped. How?

  “Oh? I was told he’d been disemboweled by a boar. Did you stab him before, or after?”

  “After. It was… it was a mercy cut.” Inglis shuddered at the memory of the knife blade going in, the pressure and the give in his hand, all mixed up with his visions as he’d descended from the plane of symbolic action, exhilarated to have completed his first investiture, to have made a fierce spirit warrior in truth. Tollin’s agonized face… “He was screaming.” It was unbearable. I had to shut him up.

  “He could not have survived his injuries from the boar?”

  “No. Gods, no.”

  “Why didn’t you go for help then?”

  “It was… very confusing in that moment. He must have planted his knife in the beast’s neck even as he was being ripped open. I captured its spirit and passed it into Tollin before I came back to, back to, to the sty. To the blood.” His wolf-within had been wildly excited by the blood, nearly uncontrollable. Inglis could, he supposed, have claimed that he’d lost control of his powers in that moment. He’d considered that defense, on his long ride north. But I didn’t. Not really.

  That came later.

  “Came back… out of your shamanic trance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you mean to bind his spirit to your knife?”

  “No! Yes… I don’t know. I don’t know how I did that.” Well, Inglis knew what he’d done. He’d been taught about the banner-carriers, hallowed Old Wealdean warriors who were charged with carrying away from the field of battle the souls of their fallen spirit-warrior comrades. And the souls of those dying but not yet dead. The fatally wounded must have included kinsmen, friends, mentors. Had those mercy cuts, to sever the soul from its body and bind it to the banner for that strange rescue, been as horrible for them as it had been for him? I think it must.

  “Was this investiture Tollin’s idea, or yours?”

  “His. He’d badgered me for weeks. But none of this would have happened if I hadn’t agreed to try the rite. I wanted to test my powers. And… and then there was Tolla.”

  “His sister, yes? Oswyl mentioned her. I gather your courtship was not prospering. So why not use your weirding voice on her directly?”

  Inglis glared at him, offended. Arrow growled.

  “Nah, nah.” The sorcerer gave a dissimulating wave of his fingers. “You have a romantic heart, I see.” As Inglis glared harder, he went on, “I’m Learned Penric of Martensbridge, by the way. Temple sorcerer of the Bastard’s Order, presently serving the court of the princess-archdivine, who assigned me to this Grayjay…” He jerked his head toward the doorway.

  That near-youth was a Temple divine? Yes, he had to be, to be entrusted with his demonic passenger. Beyond Learned Penric Inglis saw another man entering the temple hall. Three more clustered behind him, two armed with short swords and one with a cavalry crossbow, and following them, yet another fellow—middle-aged, shabbier, anxious.

  “What kept you?” Penric, still not turning, asked of the lead man behind him. Keeping Inglis in his eye. But Penric’s sturdy hunting bow was now dangling disregarded from his hand. He slid his arrow back into his quiver.

  “I didn’t want to interrupt,” said the first man. “Your inquiries seemed to be faring well.” His accent was pure Easthome. Beneath his cloak, Inglis made out gray fabric, and the glint of brass buttons. The locator. The armed three were Temple guardsmen of some sort, Inglis supposed, dressed in a mishmash of local winter woolens and bits of blue uniform.

  Penric at last glanced back to the doorway. “And here is Acolyte Gallin, shepherd of this valley,” he continued, naming the older fellow, who was gaping at Inglis in inexplicable amazement. “The very man you sought. Now that you have found him, what?”

  “I wanted to find what shaman in turn had cleansed Scuolla.” Inglis swallowed. “Discover if he could also free Tollin. Cleanse him so he is not sundered. We were both fools together, but Tollin does not deserve that.”

  Gallin stepped forward, looking pole-axed. “I prayed for a shaman. And here you are, right here—!”

  Penric, watching Inglis stare back in bewilderment, put in with a helpful air, “Scuolla has not been cleansed, because no other shaman could be found. But he is not yet sundered. I’m not sure what sustains him. I suspect he may be drawing some spiritual nourishment from his dogs.”

  Inglis’s black yelp was scarcely a laugh. “Then your prayers must have been heard by the Bastard, Acolyte Gallin. To bring you a shaman who can’t work his craft…!”

  The sorcerer-divine pursed his lips, as if seriously considering this jibe. “That just might be so. He is the god of murderers and outcasts, among His other gifts.” He added under his breath, “And vile humor. And rude songs.”

  “I can’t cleanse anyone.” Too polluted himself by his crime…?

  “Not in your current state of mind, clearly,” said the sorcerer. His tone had grown easy, friendly. Had he understood any of this? “I think…”

  Everyone in the temple hall seemed to hang on his breath.

  “We should all go have dinner. And get a good night’s sleep. Yes.”

  Oswyl and the guardsmen stared at Penric in startled disbelief, as if he’d just proposed they all grow wings and fly to Carpagamo, or something equally bizarre.

  “That sounds very sensible.” A slight quaver in Acolyte Gallin’s voice undercut this endorsement. “The sun is already gone behind the mountains.”

  “Aren’t you going to magic him?” the lead guardsman asked Penric, nodding warily at Inglis. Inglis couldn’t tell if that was something he’d wanted to see, or to be far away from.

  “I don’t think I need to. Do I?” Penric, smiling, held out his hand to Inglis, palm up. Waiting for him to surrender his knife, which would be surrender
indeed. “By the way, how are you keeping Tollin from fading?”

  For answer, Inglis mutely held up both arms, letting his sleeves fall back.

  “Oh,” said Penric, quietly.

  “Blood holds life even after it leaves the body,” said Inglis, his voice falling unwilled into the cadences of his teachers. His own despair added, “For a little while.”

  “Mm, yes, one sees why your Darthacan ancestors were frightened of the forest magics,” murmured Penric. “It’s written that the old shamans worked some very strange effects with blood. Rather a different affair if using someone else’s blood, and not one’s own, I imagine. Theologically speaking.” His smile was unwavering.

  Inglis’s weary will was not. With fumbling fingers, he picked out the rawhide ties securing his sheath to his belt, and handed the knife across. Penric touched forehead, lips, navel, groin, and spread his fingers over his heart, Daughter-Bastard-Mother-Father-Son, completing the blessing in full before taking it. Sorcerer he might be, possessed of fearsome powers, but in this moment the full-braid divine was clearly ascendant. He didn’t hold it like a weapon. He held it like a sacrament.

  He sees.

  Lightheaded to the point of passing out with this release from his deathly burden, Inglis fell to his knees, burying his face in the thick fur of Arrow’s neck, gasping against tears. The dog whined and tried to lick him.

  From outside the temple, a woman’s voice cried, “Blood, you fool beast! Come back here this instant!”

  A copper-colored dog with muddy paws rushed into the temple hall. Inglis nearly fell over as Arrow jerked away from him. For a moment, he gathered himself to break up a dog fight, but the two animals exchanged greetings with happy yips and whines, circling around to sniff each other’s nether parts. Old friends, it seemed.

  And another survivor of the rock fall? The red dog was thick with spirit-density, although not nearly so much as Arrow. Halfway to being a Great Beast; doomed to be sacrificed at the end of its life into a new puppy, to continue layering up its powers. Inglis wondered if Scuolla would have made sure it was a long and happy life, by dog standards. The good natures of both beasts suggested so.

  The two dogs then turned their attentions to Inglis, swarming around him, nosing and licking and nearly knocking him over again. He was surprised into an almost-laugh fending off Blood leaning up trying to taste his face.

  A woman trotted into the hall and halted beside Gallin. Middle-aged, careworn, clearly his helpmate. “He broke out when I opened the door,” she wheezed.

  Learned Penric, watching the play in amusement as Blood fawned on Inglis, rubbed his lips and murmured, “Take witness of the dogs, Locator?”

  Oswyl just looked exasperated. “This benighted case is the strangest I ever worked on. And I’m going to have to report it all when I get home, you realize?”

  Learned Penric’s blue eyes crinkled as he grinned. “You’d best pray for eloquence, then.”

  X

  In Oswyl’s prior investigations, requisitioning support from the local Temple usually meant finding his bed and board at a chapterhouse of one of the Orders, or a pilgrim hostel attached to the main center, or at least a recommended inn. Linkbeck did not boast any of these, nor a jail, nor a secure lockup in some outbuilding, nor even manacles on the cellar wall of a crumbling stronghold. His prisoner must needs remain under the direct supervision of the sorcerer at all times. This resulted in their having to impose on the domestic hospitality of Gallin and Gossa; mostly, as it turned out, Gossa.

  Oswyl was deeply uncomfortable with bringing a maybe-murderer-mage into their home, but the couple seemed to take it in stride. An extra trestle table to increase the seating by six was swiftly set up by Gallin and his sons. Gossa had apparently handled sudden refugees from disasters in the vale this way many times before, driving her children and the servant girl, whom Oswyl had last seen leading the Bastard’s white pony at the funeral, this way and that. It didn’t take her long to draft the guardsmen as well, easing Oswyl’s conscience slightly. Oddments of food appeared spontaneously, as if in a tale of an enchanted castle, dishes sent over by neighbors to supplement the family’s fare.

  All the chaos coalesced in a surprisingly short time in seating twelve to dinner, plus the two dogs lurking under the table, whether following Inglis or in hope of scraps. Learned Penric looked discomfited when asked by the acolyte to bless the meal, but he delivered the formula with a seminary-trained grace, which seemed to please their hosts. The soup was hardly watered at all.

  Inglis was a blot of silent misery in this active company. Perhaps feeling the contrast, he did exert himself to politeness, belying his unkempt brigand’s looks. Someone had taught him table manners, certainly. Oswyl grew aware that Gallin, too, was watching the shaman closely. His dark presence was daunting enough that no one tried to draw him into the table talk, more to Oswyl’s relief than otherwise. Perhaps to make up for this, Penric, seated on his other side from Oswyl, contributed an unexceptionable tale or three, especially after the women found out he served at the princess-archdivine’s court in what they evidently thought of as exotic, distant, romantic Martensbridge. The sorcerer seemed as much an object of muted wonder as the murderer; Oswyl was not used to his inquirer’s menace being so eclipsed.

  After a brief post-dinner consultation with Oswyl, Gallin and Gossa sensibly sent the children off to find the beds with the neighbors, and kept Oswyl’s party all together in their house. Gossa faltered at a social dilemma: Learned Penric obviously had to be offered the best bedchamber, but Inglis perforce must accompany him there, Oswyl wanted to keep a close eye on both, and the dogs would not be parted from the prisoner. Gossa almost drew the line at the dogs, but Penric charmed her into a reprieve, promising her they would not leave fleas in her beds.

  Oswyl pulled Penric aside on the staircase. “Do you think he could control those dogs? They could prove as much a weapon as his knife.”

  “I suspect the dogs may have their own design. Or someone’s design,” Penric returned in matching quiet tones. Earlier, he had tied the thongs of the knife sheath around his neck and tucked the knife out of sight in his shirt; he now touched his chest. “And Gossa has bigger knives in her kitchen. This is a hostage, not a weapon.”

  “Do you think Inglis may attempt escape? He claims to have lost his shamanic powers, but he could be lying.”

  “Or mistaken,” murmured Penric. “Or have mislaid them. I’m rather counting on mislaid, but we’ll have to see. Anyway, with that bad leg of his we could catch him at a leisurely stroll.”

  “Unless he steals a horse.”

  A weird little smile turned Penric’s lips. “I think such a ride could prove strangely unlucky for him. Don’t fret yourself, Oswyl. He may be the best-guarded prisoner you’ve ever taken.”

  Penric sounded a bit full of himself on this point to Oswyl’s ear, but there were also the three temple guardsmen now being variously distributed with bedrolls between their room and the doors. And the shaman was plainly exhausted. The real danger might well come later, as he regained strength and balance. Oswyl shook his head and followed Penric up the stairs.

  Although the bedchamber to which Gossa conducted them was a tidy-enough refuge, no room in this house was spacious. Now containing a washstand, wardrobe, bed, pulled-out trundle bed, bedroll, three men and two large dogs, it seemed even smaller. Gossa handed Oswyl the taper, pointed out the brace of candles on the washstand, bade them goodnight, and shut the door upon them. Oswyl improved the lighting somewhat when he lit the candles, although not the smell, as they were tallow.

  Penric politely yielded first turn at the washstand to Oswyl. The prisoner came a pointed third. The sorcerer, who moved like a cat in the shadows, also preempted Oswyl’s intent to assign beds by plumping himself down on the trundle, and the dogs capped it by nosing Inglis to the bedroll and disposing themselves to either side of it. Inglis lowered himself awkwardly, with a pained grunt. Oswyl would have put the sorcerer on the floo
r in front of the door, and the prisoner between them.

  “So, Inglis,” Penric began. “I am something of a physician, although not presently sworn to practice. I think I might do a little for that leg of yours, if you’ll let me have a look at it.”

  “Is that wise?” asked Oswyl, startled. To him, Inglis’s injury had seemed as good as a leg-iron.

  “Oh, yes,” said Penric cheerily. “We’ve destroyed enough fleas in this household to balance a week of healing.” He glanced at Inglis, made a brief wave of his hand, and added, “And lice.”

  Inglis, sounding stung, said, “I slept in some vile inns. And I haven’t had a chance to bathe properly for a month.”

  All right, he sleeps on the floor, Oswyl revised his plan. And then wondered if Penric had misunderstood him deliberately.

  Inglis scrubbed a hand through his ragged hair, then swallowed a startled oath. In this light Oswyl couldn’t see the rain of dead bugs, but he could hear the faint patter as they hit the floorboards.

  Fluidly, Penric slipped to Inglis’s right side, shoved Blood out of the way, and sat cross-legged. Inglis eyed him in doubt, but did not object, though he winced when Pen rolled up his trouser leg. The limb was impressively empurpled and swollen. The sorcerer hummed tunelessly to himself as he ran his hands up and down it. The rigidity of Inglis’s body eased. “Oh,” he murmured, sounding surprised. Penric’s face was bent over his work, but Oswyl could see his lips twitch up.

  “A little ragged crack in one bone, but it’s not propagating despite your abuse of it. The rest is pulled muscles and some very unhappy tendons. The usual instruction would be to abandon ambition, put your leg up, and rest for about three weeks.”

  Inglis snorted. Oswyl frowned.

  “Indeed. But I may be able to supply a few more treatments as we go along, to replace some of that.” Penric straightened his back. There was no visible difference in the leg, but as Inglis sat up in his bedroll, Oswyl was reminded of those nursery stories where the hero removed a thorn from the wolf’s paw and was rewarded with the beast’s trust. Did Penric and Inglis know those tales, too? From the wry cast to Inglis’s face as he watched the sorcerer, Oswyl thought he might.