by J F Rivkin
“Most professions are not so likely to be fatal, however.”
“Nyc, dying in battle’s better than dying of hunger, or being worked to death slowly, year after year! You don’t understand at all-the poor don’t have choices. Asye, most don’t even have chances. My people gave me a chance to better myself, and that’s more than they ever had themselves. Oh, they didn’t do it for my sake, I know. They did it for the money, and to have one less mouth to feed. But I’ll tell you this-I had sisters and brothers, and I’d wager what you like that some of them are dead now, and that none of them live so well as I do.”
Nyctasia was silent for a time, pondering Corson’s words. So Corson did not even know whether her closest blood kin were living or dead! This was strangest of all to Nyctasia, daughter of an ancient dynasty that could trace the fate of its every child for centuries past. At last she asked hesitantly, “Don’t you ever wonder what’s become of them, Corson?”
Corson shook her head. “Why? I hardly remember them now. It almost seems as if my life started when I joined the Imperial Army…”
But if Corson had forgotten much of her life before her enlistment, she remembered the life that followed it all too well. Though years had passed since her training as a footsoldier, yet the lessons in degradation and helplessness she’d been forced to learn then were still too raw and rankling for her to speak of them to Nyctasia. Even Steifann had heard little of those memories.
The new recruits had been marched for weeks through the wasteland of the southern barrens, into the lowest reaches of Liruvath, where the westerners would be less likely to try to desert. Here they had no friends or kinfolk to hide them, and they knew neither the land nor the language. Most had never been outside of their villages before.
But the long march did not discourage many of Corson’s companions. The food was plentiful, and they were used to toil and hardship. It was not until they reached their training camp and were turned over to their commanders and instructors that they discovered the brutality and abuse that have always been a new recruit’s lot. The pick of their villages for strength and prowess with their fists, these proud youths now for the first time found themselves at the mercy of others, driven and chivvied about with kicks and curses, taunted and threatened like the lowest of slaves, yet not daring-if they were wise-to answer a word, much less raise a hand, in their own defense.
When Corson had been whipped for insolence and disobedience, she learned to hold her tongue and do as she was told. When she had spent time locked in a small wooden cage, she gave up all thought of deserting. And when she, along with the rest of the assembled camp, had been forced to witness a man being flogged to death for attacking an officer, she learned to control her quick temper, whatever the provocation. Their comrade’s torn body, hung at the gate to feed the crows, served to remind the cowed recruits of this latest lesson. No matter how Corson was goaded and insulted, no matter if she was spat upon, no matter what she was ordered to do, no matter how hard she was hit, she made herself stand silent, clenching and unclenching her fists instead of using them. But most of all, at such times, she thought of the cage. More than any beating, perhaps more than death, Corson feared the cage. She would do anything, endure anything, to keep out of its nightmare grip, which had left her with a horror of confinement that haunted her still, years afterward.
Like most of her company, Corson was glad when they were finally sent north to Yuvahn to join forces with the imperial legions ever defending-and expanding-the borders of Liruvath. It seemed that she’d spent a lifetime in the training camp, and any change was welcome, even at the risk of her life.
The footsoldiers feared for their lives with good reason, for they were ill-equipped and ill-defended, mere fodder for the beasts of battle. They cared nothing for victory or empire, but ran forward to meet the enemy, when ordered, only because there were archers waiting in the rearguard to fell those who retreated. Corson’s only thought was to somehow survive the fray, but once she found herself in the thick of combat all thought was lost, swept away by the overpowering realization that she was finally, after her many months of training, free to act. She felt as if she had suddenly been released from bonds or some long imprisonment. She need no longer hold herself in check-at last she could give rein to her stifled wrath. Fury overcame fear, and she laid about her with her broadsword like one possessed by a murderous demon. No matter that those she slaughtered were not to blame for her torment-the relief of unleashing her pent-up anger was too great to be resisted by reason. Corson’s training had been a complete success.
It was not long before her commanders recognized Corson’s value to the regiment.
She was often commended for her bravery in battle, though her superiors knew as well as she that courage had nothing to do with her prowess. Hers was the true battle-frenzy born of rage and blind hatred, not for the enemy, but for anyone or anything that stood in her way. She was worth a score of common soldiers in the field, and she was soon removed from her company of raw recruits and assigned to a place among a troop of seasoned warriors, She was taught to fight on horseback, and given further training with shield and spear and sword. In time, her skill with weapons grew so marked that she was made an instructor herself, treating those beneath her no better than she had been treated. By the time her term of service was over, Corson had risen in the ranks to become a commander, and led her own troops into battle. But she never forgot how much she was still in the power of her superiors, and though she was offered favorable terms to re-enlist, she was not tempted to accept. The army was a cage.
When she was released, Corson took her honed hatred and her deadly rage into the service of anyone who’d pay well for a skilled soldier-of-fortune. She knew enough to be respectful to her employers, but she flouted the civil authorities as much as she dared, and was soon known to the magistrates of more than one city as a troublemaker and a scofflaw. Each time she was pilloried or thrown into prison, she vowed to herself that she would behave more wisely in the future. The terror of confinement and the humiliation of helplessness would curb her reckless audacity for a time, until too much ale overcame her resolve, and the savage fury within her gathered strength to break free again.
Corson remembered those days very well indeed, but to Nyctasia she said only,
“It almost seems as if my life started when I joined the Imperial Army-and a dog’s life it was, too, but I’ve no cause to complain-it taught me how to survive. When I got out, I only had to learn how to live.” She suddenly began to laugh. “And ’Malkin had a hand in that, to do him justice. No doubt you think it’s uphill work to make a lady of the likes of me, Nyc, but ’Malkin had to make a human being of me first!”
“That must have required some courage. However did he go about it?”
“Talk,” said Corson. “Neverending talk, worse even than you, I believe-or perhaps it’s just that I’m better used to it nowadays. But ’Malkin was the first book-learned blatherskite I’d ever met, and I was none too pleased to meet him, I can tell you. He was scared out of his wits, so he jabbered like a jay the whole time. He’d never been in prison before, you see-”
“Neither had I, before I met you,” Nyctasia pointed out. “It’s an experience that seems to befall your companions as a matter of course.”
“I had nothing to do with his arrest-not that time, anyway. I’d never laid eyes on him till they threw him into my cell. He’d tried to sneak out of an inn without paying-a student’s trick if there ever was one.”
“And why were you in prison on that occasion?”
“Hlann Asye, Nyc, how should I remember that? For drunken brawling, I suppose.”
She shrugged. “I was sotted, I remember that. My head was aching, and his maddening chatter didn’t help. The cell was nothing but a hole in the wall, but at least it was a quiet hole before that one turned up.”
“I’m surprised that you didn’t just wring his neck.”
“I probably would have, but to tell you th
e truth, I thought at first that he was crazy, and it’s bad luck to kill mad people. Finally I seduced him, just to stop his talk-not that it did stop.”
“I see! Then it’s not bad luck to…?”
“Well, he’s not ill-favored,” Corson admitted. “And I was curious, too. They say students are the best lovers, you know, and I’d never had one before.”
“Students have their uses. I trust you weren’t disappointed?”
“Oh, you could do worse, Nyc. He knows what he’s about.” She sipped her wine in silence for a moment. “And he was a change from what I was used to, that’s certain. The only love-talk I knew was the crudest sort, and I thought he was mocking me when he called me ‘Kitten.’ I threatened to tear out his tongue for him, and then-I’ll never forget it-he said, so quietly, so earnestly, ‘Girl, have you had so little affection in your life that you don’t know it when you meet it?’ Gods! I’d never heard anyone talk like that-I was spellbound! After that, I started to listen to him.”
“Ah, when you listen, you’re liable to learn something. You do listen occasionally, I’ve noticed. Not often, but when you do, you learn.”
“I listen to you when you say anything worth the hearing. Sometimes you do. Not often, but when you do, I listen.”
“Go on with your story, if you please. I find it most instructive. It was his lovemaking, then, that persuaded you of his wisdom?”
“Perhaps it was. But what really beguiled me was a curious story he told me…
I don’t know now why I was so staggered by the thing. It was just some moonshine about a lady who lived in a tower, with a lot of magic creatures, and a treasure
… but then it wasn’t about those things at all. I wish I remembered how it ran.”
“But I believe I know the very tale-wait, I’ll just run to the library.”
Greymantle scrambled to his feet and followed, unwilling, as ever, to let Nyctasia out of his sight. Corson, too, was reluctant to let her go by herself.
She disapproved of Nyctasia’s habit of going about unarmed and unguarded. Though her power in Rhostshyl was now fairly secure, she still had enemies at court who could prove dangerous if given a chance. Nyctasia claimed that her seeming vulnerability was in fact a protection, because it made her appear so confident in her power that no one dared attack her. Corson thought this a clever notion, but she was not convinced that it would stand the test. Nyc had the dog with her, of course, but still…
But Nyctasia was back in a trice, carrying a small, well-worn book inscribed with the title The Parables of Albrechas the Scrivener. “Listen,” she said, dropping into a chair, “is this the one?”
“There was once a proud and powerful lady who ruled a fair and flourishing domain, where none held sway but she. Her dwelling was a tall tower, a fortress that had never yet been overthrown, for it was built of the strongest stone, and well provisioned against a siege. To guard her, moreover, the lady had two magic hounds that could defend their mistress against the threat of thief or enemy.
When she ventured abroad, two magic horses drew her carriage, and these steeds could carry her to safety too swiftly for any foe to follow. Two magic eagles had she as well, that nested in the heights of the tower and flew every day through her domain to spy out all that passed, lest any danger should take her unawares.
“Now this favored and fortunate lady guarded, in the very peak and pinnacle of her tower, a certain rare crystal, carven like a woman’s head, and this was the greatest treasure of all that she possessed. For this crystal was an infallible oracle that could answer any question and resolve any dilemma. Thus did the mistress of the tower pass her days in safety and security, for none in all the land might overcome her defenses nor challenge her dominion.
“But at last came a foeman more cunning than the rest, for he came in the guise of a friend, with smiles and charm and flattery, and he so won the trust of the lady that she herself unbarred the way and welcomed him within. Many visits did he make her, and ever did the mistress of the tower take greater delight in his company. Though her true friends warned her that he was a dangerous thief and deceiver, yet she heeded them not, but invited this false friend to visit her all the more. Finally she grew to love the dissembler so well that she could hardly bear to be parted from him for a day. And then one evening, when they sat together at dinner and made merry, the treacherous one slyly gave to the unwary lady a potent sleeping-draught that straightway left her senseless as one struck down by a grievous malady. And as she lay thus, all unknowing, he made his way secretly to the crown of the tower and took the treasure, hiding it away beneath his cloak.
“Now when, in his flight, the thief passed the chamber where the lady lay, the crystal head cried out to her, ‘’Ware thief! Hark, hark, my mistress!’ But the lady awoke in such great pain and distress that she had not the strength to stop him. She called upon her hounds to seize the thief, but he had chained them in their kennels, and she found herself too faint and weak to set them free. Thus he made his escape from the tower with the treasure. She then bade her horses give chase to the thief, but he had hobbled them in their stalls, and the lady was too ill and giddy to loose them. And so he fled far from the tower with the treasure. At last she sent her birds to fly aloft and discover whither the thief was bound, but he had clipped their wings, and therefore the treasure was lost forever.
“Without the magic oracle to advise her, the lady knew not what course to take, and her domain was left undefended. Her enemies, lying in wait, showed no mercy but stormed the tower forthwith and took her prisoner. And thus did the mistress of the tower end her days in sorrow and shame, while the thief went free to deceive and despoil others, as we may witness any day we will. Now tell me the name, if you can, of this falsehearted flatterer, for you know him as well as another, and better than some.”
“I remember it all now,” Corson exclaimed. “And I was taken in by it, too, right to the hilt! ’Malkin said, ‘What would you have done, in that lady’s place?’ And I said, ‘She was nothing but a fool. That would never have happened to me!’”
“So he led you right into the trap-how very unkind.”
“Unkind, perhaps, but very like a student.”
“And then I suppose he said, ‘But it has happened to you. If she was a fool, then you are one as well.’ No?”
Corson nodded. “I said, ‘Who are you calling a fool, you little worm?’ but he only answered so rutting reasonably, ‘You have called yourself so, for you are mistress of the tower, and the name of the thief is Drink.’”
“‘For do you not partake thereof by your own will and desire?’” Nyctasia read.
“‘Does not drink flatter you by causing you to feel clever and strong, and powerfully pleased with yourself withal?’”
“He had me in the net, and no mistake, the smug wretch. I wriggled and writhed but there was no getting out of it-he had explanations for everything. The tower was meant to be my own body, according to him, and the land was my life, I think. ‘The hounds are your two hands,’ he said, ‘that don’t do your will when you’ve had too much ale. And the horses are your legs that can’t carry you when you’re drunk.’” Corson began to mimic ’Malkin’s learned tone. “‘And what are the eagles but your own eyes that won’t guide you when your senses are addled with drink?’”
“And the oracle,” Nyctasia concluded, closing the book, “is Reason, the greatest treasure humankind possesses.”
“I was even fool enough to ask why the crystal hadn’t warned her of the thief, since it knew everything, and ’Malkin explained that she hadn’t asked its advice. ‘Had you consulted your reason,’ he said, ‘you’d not have gotten drunk and been thrown in prison.’ Well, I didn’t know much in those days, but I knew when I was beaten. If he’d just told me it was my own fault I was in prison, I’d probably have broken his neck, but once he’d tricked me into saying it myself I couldn’t deny it. And I thought he’d made up that tale himself, just for my sake. I’d never heard such a
thing before, a story that said one thing and meant another-like one of those lying Cymvelan riddles.”
“Such a tale is called an allegory.”
“That’s what ’Malkin said. No doubt you were raised on allegories with your mother’s milk, Nyc, But to me it seemed confoundingly clever and deep.”
“Yet here you sit swilling down wine,” Nyctasia teased. “You can’t have taken the moral of the story much to heart.”
Corson flushed. “It takes more than a few glasses of wine to get the better of me! I’m not a little twig of a thing like you. And I never get myself arrested for public drunkenness any more-well, hardly ever, that is. But it wasn’t
’Malkin and his allegories that cured me of that. It was Steifann.”
“And not by talking, I daresay.”
Corson chuckled. “He didn’t use a lot of big words-just a few well-chosen, loud ones. Very easy they were to understand, too. That prating popinjay ’Malkin used to say, ‘Corson, if you can’t be less conspicuous, I shall be forced to forego your acquaintance.’ And then he did,” she added, “the bastard.”
“For shame,” said Nyctasia. “That proves he was no gentleman.”
“He was a worthless, bootlicking mongrel, and I’d have realized that if I’d had any sense. He was in prison the same as me, and no better off than I was, but to hear him tell it, you’d have thought that was just some trifling inconvenience to him. He always talked as if he was going to be someone powerful and important one day, and I believed him. Eh-I was younger then, and if you only understand one word in three that someone says, of course you think it must all be great wisdom.” Corson brooded over her memories for a few moments, then said slowly,
“And I thought… that maybe if I could learn to read, and to talk like that, perhaps I’d not be poor and powerless all my days, you see. He was so sure of himself. That’s why I took up with him and let him teach me things. But all I learned from him was fancy words and notions-though he did teach me to read, for all the good that’s ever done me.”
