Surrender None

by Elizabeth Moon

  “We thank you, Gird, for sharing.” His voice was deep, and Gird had no doubt its bellow would carry across a battle. “Mesha, show Gird the spring.”

  The spring came up beside a flat rock. Gird knelt and held his hand over it; the surface rippled a little with the flow. He muttered the greeting for its guardian spirit, and looked up to find the kirgan watching him curiously. “You don’t speak to it?” he asked. Mesha shook his head. Gird looked back at the spring; surely it was glad to be recognized. He bent and scooped up a handful of icy, clean-tasting water. It made Gird’s teeth ache. He filled his waterskin after Mesha drank.

  “Do all your people talk to springs?” asked Mesha. Gird retied the thong that held the skin closed for travel.

  “Whenever we take water from the earth, we thank the Lady, and the guardians. It’s only courteous.”

  “Even from a well?”

  “Of course.” Gird looked at him. “If you give something to someone, don’t you expect thanks? We cannot live without water, without the rain falling and the springs rising.”

  “Yes, but—is that why peasants—why your people—tie flowers and wool to the wellposts?”

  “Yes, and if this were a spring on my land, I would bring gifts at Midwinter and Midsummer. Perhaps someone else does that here.” Mesha looked as if he would ask more, but didn’t. Instead he waved at the clearing behind the shelter. “Over there, behind that cedar, is the jacks for this shelter. Tis far enough from the water, my father says.” Gird had no need then, but wondered how long they thought he would stay.

  They came back to find Duke Marrakai pouring the dark liquid into thick-walled mugs. “Do you have sib, in your country?” he asked Gird. Gird nodded. “Good. I like it with more tikaroot than most, though that makes it more bitter; this has honey in it.”

  It might be poison, but why? Gird took a mug and sipped cautiously. A strong flavor, thicker and darker than his people made it. After another sip or so, he decided he liked it well enough. The duke had his knife out, and cut the bread and cheese into slabs. Now it was Gird’s turn to be surprised, for he held his hands over the food and used a form of blessing Gird had never heard: “Thank the Lady,” had been enough for him.

  Marrakai and his son took Gird’s bread first, which forced him to share theirs. He wondered if they knew the significance of that among his people. Arranha had not, but these were supposed to be different. One bite stood for all; he might as well have cheese and apples. They ate in silence, as hungry men do; Gird, being hungriest, was most aware of his own eating. There was enough to fill his belly, and he took it. Mesha and his father ate slowly, so that they finished all together.

  Then Duke Marrakai turned to Gird. “You are not oathbound to me, or to any with whom I share oaths: we are as strangers, among whom is no rank. Call me Kevre, if you will.” Gird stared at him: a peasant call a great lord, a duke, by one name? He nodded, trying to cover his confusion. Marrakai went on. “We have shared food; among our people, that used to mean peace, and sometimes alliance. If it is not so among your people, I will not hold you to those obligations—but if you want first truce, and then perhaps alliance, let us speak of that.”

  Gird wondered if there had been ale in the sib; he could hardly believe what he was hearing. Alliance? With a duke of Tsaia? That the gnomes had had some reason for sending him here, he’d been sure, but this went beyond all hopes.

  “Sir—Kevre—” That would take getting used to; the “sir” still came easily to him. “Among our people, shared food declares peace, at least for that meeting. And sometimes more—if something is being decided, then food shared means agreement.” He did not mention obligation, intentionally: let the Marrakai duke show what he knew.

  “Yet you were trailhungry when you came; it would be unfair of me to bind you by that—”

  “Are you bound?” asked Gird boldly. Marrakai nodded. “I am. Both by custom and by my own honor. I knew what I did when I ate of your bread, and gave you mine; therefore am I bound. While you are here, in my domain, you are my guest; neither I nor mine will harm you, nor let harm come to you.”

  Gird nodded. “And I thought of what it meant, Kevre, when I put my food with yours, and when I saw you take it, leaving me only yours to eat. I said nothing and ate: that binds me, by the law the gnomes taught me, and by the custom of my people.” He grinned at Marrakai. “Of honor I cannot speak, since I was taught that we peasants had none, but I can see right and do it.”

  “Which is honor enough for anyone,” said Mesha quickly. His father gave him a sharp glance, but nodded.

  “Mesha’s right. So here we are, you my guest and I your host, both of us brought here by an interest in gnomish law. What law have the gnomes taught you? Is that your message?”

  Gird tried to put his scattered thoughts in order. “Sir—Kevre— the gnomes taught me their law, and something of past times, and how the old customs of our people were like and unlike the High Lord’s law.”

  Marrakai frowned. “Do they call Esea and the High Lord one thing and the same?”

  “I’m—not sure. What they said was that the High Lord had been for the Aareans in the form of Esea. But they themselves consider the High Lord the source of justice. The judge.”

  “Yes. That I knew. The High Lord’s Law, as they say. You know of the Rule of Aare?”

  Gird nodded. “A priest of Esea taught me, but he was outcast, for claiming that the Rule of Aare meant differently than the king’s law said.”

  “You met Arranha?” Marrakai shook his head. “Gird, I am well rebuked: I had not thought any peasant leader, no matter how worthy, would be familiar with Arranha’s heresies and gnomish law. Are you sure you are not a scholar, rather than a fighter?”

  Gird felt himself redden. “I did not choose fighting; I would farm if I could. But—”

  “But you could not. My pardon, Gird; it is no time for jesting. But Arranha! I have not met him myself, although I have heard from his horrified colleagues all about his views. I think myself he’s right. The oldest documents in my archives are from Old Aare, and from these it is clear that the interpretation of the Rule has changed, over the generations. I have tried to convince our king to return to the intent of the Rule.”

  “Would he?”

  “Felis? No. None of them see it as I do, although some agree that great wrongs are being done in its name. Some would abandon the Rule entirely, seeing no hope of reform, and some are, unfortunately, profiting so well that they see no reason to change.”

  “Some like wrong itself,” muttered Mesha. “The Verrakai—

  “I name no man’s motives,” said Marrakai firmly. “You know what I think, but that’s not at issue here. There are bad men in any realm, and in every family.”

  “Not like that,” said Mesha. Gird looked at him and wondered if he spoke as freely to his father in his own hall. “Taris is merely foolish.”

  “Judge all by the same rule,” said Marrakai. “If you would name Verrakai wicked, for gambling with lives, then consider Taris’s loss of those steadings—were there not men and women farming them, who came under another’s power? How is that different? We have been fortunate to have so few, but we are not gods, to be perfect.”

  “You punished Taris; Duke Verrakai gave his son jewels when he—”

  “Enough!” Gird noticed that Mesha was instantly silent, but clearly unconvinced. Marrakai turned to Gird. “My nephew, whose father was killed years ago, gambled away some of his father’s lands—which to me is dishonor, for the care he owed those who lived there. Lands are not like ring or sword. As for the Verrakai— have you heard of them?”

  Gird shook his head. “Only that Verrakai is one of the dukes of Tsaia, a great lord of the east.”

  “A great lord, if wealth counts for all. I would not speak of him, Gird, without need. Our families share no great love, and I cannot be fair.”

  Gird looked from one face to the other, and said nothing. After a moment, Marrakai sighed, and went on.


  “That’s beside our purpose. The kapristi may have told you that long ago my father’s father’s father resisted our king’s attempt to invade their princedom across Marrakai lands. When they routed that invasion, and made a pact of peace with the Tsaian throne—as they did with the king of Finaarenis for the same reason—the kapristi noted our action on their behalf. They counted themselves in debt to Marrakai. My great-grandsire argued that what he had done was right—that he had laid upon them no debt—but they argued in return that by our law he had not been obligated, and so it went, until they agreed on a settlement. From that day on, we have dealt evenly with kapristi. As you know, they accept no gifts and give none, but with those they consider upright, they deal willingly and fairly.”

  “That is so,” said Gird.

  “Of course I knew of the unrest in Finaarenis; there is unrest in Tsaia, for the same reasons. And I had heard of you: after Norwalk Sheepfolds, everyone heard of you.” Marrakai paused to drink more sib, and offered Gird another mugful. Gird took it, nodded, and Marrakai went on. “A peasant turned off his land turns outlaw: that’s nothing new. That peasant joins a rebellious mob, burns hayricks, ambushes traders: that’s nothing new. But a peasant training other peasants to march, to use their daily tools as weapons, to fight trained soldiers—not only training them so, but leading them: that was new. And not at all to most men’s liking. Most lords, at least. And then you disappeared entirely, after saving Sier Segrahlin’s life. Dead, most thought, or frightened into flight.

  He had to ask, though he was sure he knew the answer, and the question itself could anger Marrakai. “Is it because you fear this for yourself? You would give me help, and for what—to let your domain abide?”

  Marrakai was not angry, but his son was. He shook his head, at both Gird and his son. “What I fear is long war, with all the lands laid waste and no justice gained. They have not begun to fight back, Gird, not with the worst magic. You will see far worse than you’ve seen: poisoned wells, fields ruined for long years, unless you find someone with magic to restore them. You did not win quickly; they know, now, what they face. Yet you must fight. I understand that—it had gone too far, and your lords have no intent to mend matters. Am I afraid? Of course. I have children too; I have lands I love, people that depend on me. Worse, I have an oath I swore to our king, when he took the crown. I cannot take my own soldiers into this, except to defend my own lands, without his permission, which he will not give.”

  “Why obey a wicked king?”

  Marrakai sighed. “Felis is not wicked, merely weak. He has wicked advisors, some of them—if he had only had the sense to marry his rose, as he called her, instead of that sister of Verrakai’s— but that’s not wickedness. Gird, I pledged my loyalty to him, to the king of Tsaia both as king, and as the man Felis Hornath Mikel Dovre Mahieran Mahierai. If I go to war against his will, then I have broken my word, and if my word was ill-given, foolishly given, it is still binding on me. It would not be on everyone; some can free themselves with less trouble. I cannot. I cannot do it and be who and what I am, the self I respect. I have argued with him, pled with him, stormed at him, and finally left court—with his entire consent, because he was tired of hearing me. But that one thing I cannot do.”

  Gird felt the unshakeable substance of the man, as unyielding in his way as the gnomes. He had never found anyone to give such an oath to; the oaths he had had to give the steward he had never felt as binding. A peasant did what he must to survive; honor was something the lords sang of, in ballads.

  “You disapprove?” asked Marrakai. Gird shrugged and shook his head.

  “I have no right to approve or disapprove. It is right to keep a promise, that I’ll agree, and if that is how you see your duty to your king, it may—must—be right for you.”

  “I wonder sometimes,” said Marrakai. His lips quirked in a rueful smile. “What I propose to do is, in the eyes of many, just as bad as marching my own men out to face his. Fine wit, one of my tutors said, splits hairs, but split hairs make weak ropes to hang a life on.” Gird said nothing; he could not follow that. Marrakai seemed to understand, for he shrugged in his turn. “Let me be clear, then: the gnomes sent word that you were the best of possible leaders to the revolt surely coming in Finaarenis. Last summer I thought you might come, and heard instead of your campaigns—”

  “Not all of them mine,” said Gird, rubbing his nose. “That fellow in the south—”

  “I expected confusion of tales,” Marrakai said. “But some were surely yours. The gnomes said you might—with the High Lord’s judgment—win in one season, but they expected not. You would need gold for good weapons, they said, and possibly troops, and they were unwilling to provide either. They thought I might, for my own reasons.” He looked at his son. “There is one of my reasons: Mesha will not succeed to my lands as long as Felis is king. He was too forthright at court, worse even than I am.” A chuckle escaped him; Gird noticed that the young man’s ears were bright red. Marrakai shook his head. “We are not good at hiding our opinions, we Marrakai; it has been so for generations. My grandfather said someone dropped yeast in the mix when the gods shaped the first of us; it bubbles out at inconvenient moments.”

  Gird looked from one to the other. He knew nothing of the lords’ way of living, but he would expect no great tact from either of them. Curiosity pricked him. “What did you do?” he asked Mesha. The young man turned even more red than before, but his eyes twinkled. He started to answer, but his father waved him to silence.

  “What does not matter, save that he spoke the truth as he saw it, and that was too stony a mouthful for the king’s dignity to chew and swallow. I’ll not have it a common jest, Mesha, I told you that: I’m proud of your honesty and courage, but it is wrong to make tavern gossip of your liege lord.”

  “He’s not my liege lord,” Mesha said, eyeing his father warily. “He will not take my oath—he said it—and thus—”

  “I named you heir, and my oath binds you. Gods above, lad, this is no time for your antics! We are near enough the traitor’s blade as it is.” The younger man sat back, averting his face, and Marrakai turned to Gird. “I’m sorry, Gird: it is discourteous to withhold the tale, and yet I cannot let him tell it. Forgive me that discourtesy, if you will, and accept in its stead my support.”

  “Support?” Gird was still confused by the rapid exchange between father and son.

  “Yes. You need weapons; I can supply some, and gold to buy others. You may need sanctuary; my woodlands are open to you, and my troops will not permit others to cross the boundary, if you should be pursued. If my peasants wish to organize—bartons, do you call them?—then I will make no objection. Your war will spread into Tsaia—it must, because our king is allied to yours—and you must win in both kingdoms if you are to win at all.” He paused long enough that Gird wondered if he had finished speaking. “What I want is much like the gnomes asked of you: I want your assurance that you will do your best to organize a society after the war, in which order and law prevail—and that you do not urge your followers to massacres and destruction beyond the necessities of war.”

  “I’m doing that already,” Gird said.

  “So I had heard, but the stories were confused enough I was not sure which stories were of you, and which of your more fanciful selves. I can see for myself that you are not a man who hates easily, who would kill or rape for the pleasure of it; I know, from my own life, that war is a fire that cannot be caged in a hearth. This has already been bloody; it will be worse. I want to know I am supporting someone with a vision of peace beyond the war.”

  “Yes.” Gird saw the futility of more words; how could he explain his vision? But his calm certainty seemed to convince Marrakai, who nodded shortly, and then stood.

  “Gold I brought with me; you may take it as you go. Mesha will guide you to our borders, and introduce you to trusted men of my personal guard. Weapons—you will have to provide transport beyond my borders, but I can supply 250 pikes, wh
enever you can take them, and heads for the same number, if you have the poles.”

  Once again Gird found himself handling gold coins, this time in daylight, openly. Coins of both kingdoms were minted with the same values: Tsaian crowns were traded in Finaarenis often enough to cause no comment. He let his fingers rummage among them, enjoying the feel, and looked up to see a wary expression on Marrakai’s face.

  “They’re so—heavy,” Gird said. “And they feel—they feel so different against my skin. It’s no wonder some men become misers, and want to touch gold all the time.”

  “Had you never felt gold before?” asked Mesha.

  “Once. Someone tried to bribe me.” Gird poured the coins from his hand back into the leather bag Marrakai had handed him.

  “You cannot be bribed?” Mesha asked.

  Gird met his eyes. “Between this gold and my heart is the memory of my daughter, raped and bleeding, her dead husband, my closest friend, struck down for nothing. I could be bribed, I daresay, but not with gold.” The young man looked alarmed, but Marrakai smiled.

  “I have trusted the right man, then. Fare well with that gold, and your memories.”

  Mesha, on the way to the Marrakai border, shared knowledge as precious as the gold he carried. “My father says I cannot tell you what I did to be banished from court and my inheritance, but he said nothing about what I saw.” He explained the kinds of magicks the lords might use, and the tools needed for each, and the cost. He knew nonmagical counters for some of them, because the Marrakai, having lost their magicks early, had had to defend themselves from rival mages.

  “It’s said the best defense is a pure heart, but none of us has one pure enough, if we even knew what the gods meant by it. Men were not made perfect, I say, and come nearest perfection as fools when they deny their mistakes.”