No Quarter

by Tanya Huff

  “Which is why I am sending the Prince Otavas to Shkoder to visit his uncle, the king.” The Emperor’s voice softened as he spoke of his son. “The boy has had a distressing experience and needs his mind turned to other things. As Otavas’ personal bodyguard, you will go to Shkoder with my son’s household. The palace is very close to the hall of the bards. It will be natural for you to seek out and spend time with your sister. I will speak with Otavas tonight and you will leave as soon as possible.” He pointed at the assassin kneeling before him, and Bannon could feel the weight of his commission. “I am loosing you at a target. A target only the very best could hope to strike. Bring me justice for the Empire; justice for yourself.”

  “I will not fail you, Majesty.”

  “I know that you won’t.”

  Recognizing a dismissal, Bannon stood, bowed, and backed to the door. Soon, the empty space in his life would be filled. Soon, the person responsible for emptying it would pay.

  * * * *

  As the door to the antechamber closed, the Emperor nearly smiled. “He never looked; did you notice, Usef? He backed straight to the door, absolutely positive he knew where it was. Can you imagine having that certain a sense of place?”

  “He is dangerous, Majesty.” Stepping forward into the Emperor’s line of sight, Usef was nearly purple under the force of his emotion. “The blades of Jiir should not exist outside the sheath of the army.”

  “But you forget. Neither he nor his sister are assassins any longer.”

  The marshal bit back a reply that would have stretched Imperial indulgence. His Majesty himself had said training did not permit an ex-assassin, but if His Majesty wished to be facetious, there was nothing he could do about it.

  “It seems, Usef, that you were right; it was a mistake to send the woman to Shkoder. But it seems also that I was right; we have found a use for her brother.”

  “Begging Your Majesty’s pardon, but why manipulate this, this fool into bringing her back? They are both guilty of treason, Majesty. Treason! They lied to you. You should have them killed!” Then he realized what he’d said. “Not should, Majesty, I would never so presume. It is merely my belief that they should not be permitted to live.”

  The Emperor lifted a forgiving hand. “Perhaps they won’t be, but first I desire to speak with this Gyhard and I need Bannon to bring him to me. He’s the only person in the Empire with the slightest chance of actually capturing the body Gyhard wears.”

  “But you can’t trust Bannon, Majesty. He’s proved that.”

  “Did you know that I’ve never lost a hawk, Marshal? Every single hawk I have ever flown has come back to me.” He studied the scars on his left wrist, the marks of talons made in spite of gloves and padding. “That’s something very few can say. Young Bannon has proved only that he’s unwilling to see his sister hurt. I’m willing to allow him to believe in her safety in exchange.”

  “In exchange for what, Majesty?”

  “Think about it, Marshal. What does this Gyhard have that any sane person would desire?”

  Usef frowned as he attempted to follow his Emperor’s line of thought. “Control of an Imperial assassin?”

  “Immortality, Marshal. Immortality.”

  * * * *

  *… first time was an accident. When the brigand speared me, I only knew that I didn’t want to die. When oblivion began to close around me, I fought it—fought my way through it and out the other side. The next thing I knew, I was in the brigand’s body and he was in mine. When I tried to go home, they only saw the body I wore.*

  Perched on the edge of the bench, forcing herself to remain still, Vree repeated Gyhard’s story. Not until she finished did she turn and look at Magda.

  The apprentice healer sat, bare feet up beside her, legs tucked into the circle of her arms, chin resting on her knees. Her dark eyes were locked on Vree’s face. “What about the second time?” she said softly.

  *The second time?* Vree felt Gyhard move restlessly within the limits he’d set on himself. *The second time,* he repeated, *was no accident….*

  * * * *

  He’d been Hinrich for seven years and that was seven years too long. In the beginning, hunted away from his home because of the body he wore, he’d thrown himself into his new identity. If his own family would treat him as a brigand, than a brigand he would be. He suspected that he hadn’t been entirely sane those first few years although as he could remember every excess, every disgusting or violent act, insanity didn’t seem like much of a defense.

  Later, after thieving and whoring had lost its appeal, he’d made a living of sorts from an ability to brutalize those smaller and weaker than himself. Finally, he’d ended up as a caravan guard for traders too poor or too stupid to hire anyone better. He’d crossed the mountains into Cemandia with two ramshackle wagons full of junk and after drinking away his pay, such as it was, in a Cemandian tavern, he found himself heading back into the mountains again. He didn’t know why. He only knew he didn’t want to be Hinrich any longer.

  Three nights later, sober, cold, and hungry, he followed a stream to a shadowed pool, drawn by the smell of woods-moke and roasting fish.

  “Lord and Lady!” The young man behind the fire snatched up a staff. “Where did you come from?”

  He turned and pointed back along the stream. “From Artis Falls.” He thought that was the name of the town, but he was so hungry he wasn’t sure.

  “Are you lost?”

  Was he lost? Clamping his teeth around a bitter laugh, he nodded, then, drawn by the smell of the food, he staggered forward another two steps.

  “Are you hungry? No, wait.” A luminescent smile flashed in the dusk. “That’s a stupid question. You’re obviously starving. Well, the dogs caught their own dinner earlier on, so there’s plenty for two.” The crooked staff pointed across the fire. “Sit. It’s almost done.”

  Sitting turned into a barely controlled fall and a few moments later he was stuffing fish into his mouth too fast to taste it. Some kind of roasted roots followed—their Cemandian name meant nothing to him—and by the time he finished all he was offered, his brain had started working again. “Shepherd?” he asked as the sounds drifting in from the night began to make sense.

  “That’s right.” Again the smile. “Tomas.”

  “Hinrich.” But not for much longer.

  Tomas stirred the embers, a shock of dark hair falling forward over brilliant eyes. “You talk funny. You’re not Cemandian, are you.”

  “From Shkoder.”

  The shepherd laughed. “If you’re heading home, you’ve missed the pass.”

  “I have no home.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” Tomas shifted about, then launched into a long story about his own home to cover his embarrassment.

  He didn’t want to know about the shepherd’s home. Or his past. Or his life. Knowing he was a shepherd was almost too much. He stood.

  Tomas paused and looked a question at him.

  “I need to wash.” That was undeniable. He stepped toward the pool.

  “Be careful, it’s deep.”

  That would make it easier. Heart pounding, he knelt and stared at the water. The surface was bright with reflected starlight, but when he slid his hand beneath the surface, it disappeared into darkness. This has to work, he thought as he let himself fall forward. I can’t be Hinrich anymore.

  He’d known all along what he had to do, but he’d never been able to find the courage. He still hadn’t. Desperation would have to serve.

  Terror nearly flung him back to the surface, but he added the weight of those seven years to the weight of his sodden clothes and he drew in a lungful of water.

  Except for the panic trying to claw its way free, it was almost peaceful.

  He felt a hand close around his arm. Felt himself dragged upward. He twisted. And released the panic.

  He was dying!

  No!

  Drowning!

  No!

  There was a shape above him, a pat
ch of darkness with no stars.

  A face.

  Time stopped as he launched himself toward a pair of brilliant eyes. He fought for room, shoving everything that got in his way—images of sheep, dogs, parents, friends—viciously back behind him.

  Then he was staring down through an inch of water at a sandy-haired man with a bristling red beard and a face contorted in unbelieving horror. Shifting his grip, he held him under until the struggling stopped, then he let the body float away.

  He wasn’t Hinrich anymore.

  He was Tomas.

  * * * *

  *Tomas,* Gyhard repeated. He felt Magda touch Vree gently on the shoulder, felt Vree turn to face her, and lost himself in a wave of pity. In seven lives over a hundred and thirty years, no one had ever pitied him. He wanted to hide. He wanted to scream. In the end, with an image of Vree standing guard at his back, he did neither.

  “It took a long time for Gyhard to heal,” Magda murmured.

  *That’s no excuse.* But he was surprised by how much he wanted it to be. *I’ll tell you what I told Vree, don’t make me a tragic hero. I knew exactly what I was doing.*

  “I know. But I don’t think you can ignore why you were doing it.”

  “Wait a minute.” Vree held up both hands and scowled at the girl. “You heard him?”

  Magda nodded, eyes wide.

  *Can you hear me now?* When it became obvious she didn’t, he repeated the question, much louder.

  Vree winced and Magda lightly laid a hand on her knee. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  *Sorry.* He knew the apology sounded terse, but his isolation had been broken for an instant and now it seemed that instant was over.

  “I heard him.” Magda looked down at her hand, still resting on Vree’s knee. “I heard you. You said sorry. Say something else.”

  *You must need physical contact.*

  She lifted her hand. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  A moment later Vree muttered, “He wants you to touch me again.”

  *Why is this happening?* Gyhard demanded, when Magda’s fingers lay against Vree’s palm.

  All three of them considered it for a moment. Finally, Magda shrugged. “I think it’s because I touched your kigh.”

  Vree fought down a completely irrational flash of jealousy. “And?”

  “And I think it’s sad that a man so terribly afraid of dying thought he had to keep dying to live.”

  * * * *

  When Jazep saw the cluster of villagers hurrying out of Bartek Springs to meet him, he knew it had to do with the disturbance he’d been following in the kigh. The path led right by the village; too close not to have affected the people who lived in the cluster of half-timbered houses.

  “Jazep!”

  He dipped lightly into recall for the name of the woman who hailed him. Memory had Celestin’s braid more brown than gray, but there could be no mistaking either the strong beauty of her face or the focused determination in her movements. As the only priest for at least three days in any direction, she took responsibility for the spiritual wellbeing of an extended Circle. Drawing closer, he was surprised to see her expression held equal parts fear and relief and his worry about what he followed grew.

  When she reached him, she gripped his arm as though she gripped a lifeline. “Thank all the gods enclosed by the Circle that you’ve come. Did Brencis meet you on the way?” She leaned a little to the right in order to see beyond his bulk. “Where is he?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t seen Brencis.” Jazep closed his hand lightly around the priest’s as the clump of villagers murmured behind her. In spite of the Second Quarter heat, her fingers were freezing. “What’s wrong?”

  Celestin took a deep breath and let go of his arm. “We sent Brencis out to find us a bard. Something … something has disturbed our dead.”

  “Scavengers?”

  “No.” A younger woman Jazep didn’t know made an emphatic denial. “Not scavengers. Scavengers don’t …”

  Celestin cut her off. “I think you’d better see for yourself.”

  As they hurried through the village, she refused to elaborate, saying only, “I want your opinion unclouded by our fear.”

  In the graveyard, a young man stood protectively over a blanket-covered mound that lay a short distance from a disturbed grave. Jazep frowned. There was something wrong about the way the earth had been piled. Almost as if … No. He shook his head. Impossible.

  The young man watched warily as the bard approached. His eyes were red and swollen, and he looked as though a gentle breeze could push him over whatever edge it was he tottered on.

  “Dymek,” Celestin called. “This is Jazep. He’s a bard. Let him see.”

  “Bard?” Dymek repeated hoarsely. Hope skirted around grief. “Can you tell me what happened? Can you help Filip rest?”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Jazep assured him gently. He gestured at the blanket. “May I?”

  Dymek nodded, his head jerking up and down as though he had little control over its movement.

  The young man under the blanket had been dead for only six or seven days. Unfortunately, six or seven days in Second Quarter was five or six days too long to be out of the ground. Jazep waved a cloud of flies away, swallowed hard, and breathed shallowly through his mouth. Filip had obviously died of massive trauma to his lower body. His legs within the unbleached linen burial clothes seemed strangely flat and the single foot hung unnaturally from a crushed ankle. But the position of the body …

  Jazep stood, thankfully took a deeper breath, and looked back toward the open grave. He moved closer, squatted, and Sang.

  No kigh responded.

  They were there. He could feel them. Could feel the same disturbance he’d followed from the border. Still Singing, he slid out of his pack, unhooked his tambour, and added a compelling beat to the Song. A lone kigh rose partway out of the ground, squat body radiating distress. Jazep Sang it comfort for a moment, then changed the Song to ask it what had happened. It disappeared and refused to return.

  The Song slid into silence. Gnawing at his lower lip, Jazep stood, drum dangling from one hand.

  “Jazep?” Celestin prodded.

  He looked at the grave, at the body, at the priest, at the villagers, and realized he’d come to the same conclusion they had. “It seems,” he said slowly, “that something or someone partially unburied Filip and he dragged himself the rest of the way out. That he pulled himself over there on his hands and then he collapsed.”

  “He was dead when we buried him,” Dymek whispered. “He was dead. I swear it.”

  “I believe you,” Jazep told him, using enough Voice to be believed in turn and catching him barely in time when he fainted.

  * * * *

  “Dymek found him two mornings ago.” Together, bard and priest watched as those villagers able to overcome their fear took turns redigging Filip’s grave. “His scream dragged me out of a sunrise service and up here at a run. He was kneeling, just over an arm’s length away from the body, reaching out but too terrified to touch.” Celestin turned enough to see Dymek sobbing within the circle of his parents’ arms. “He’d only just begun to accept Filip was dead; now this.”

  “He loved Filip very much,” Jazep murmured.

  Celestin nodded. “He did. He does.” She looked at Jazep, her cheeks ashen. “This thing you’ve been following, this thing that’s frightening the kigh and hurting my people, what precisely is it doing? I mean, besides reanimating the dead.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What are you going to do when you catch up to it?”

  Jazep shook his head, one hand lightly stroking the bellows of his pipes. “Stop it.”

  When all the loose dirt had been dug out, Filip, wrapped again in a linen winding cloth, was lowered back into the earth. Standing at the head of the grave, Celestin traced the Circle on her breast with a fistful of dirt. “We give back to the earth as we have taken from it,” she sai
d as she scattered the dirt on the body.

  “The Circle encloses us all,” Jazep answered with the villagers. In the prayers that followed, he could hear an undertone of uncertainty; hardly surprising as this was the second time the prayers had been said. When they were finished, he stepped into the priest’s place, settled the drones on his shoulder, and began to play.

  He played grief that a young man was dead, anger at the disinterment, comfort to Dymek, to the rest of Filip’s family and friends, and then he called the kigh. They came this time with an enthusiasm that suggested they were as interested in making this right as he was. The pile of dirt slid down into the hole, spread itself, and enfolded Filip back into the earth’s embrace.

  That should’ve been enough, but when Jazep tried to leave the graveside, he found he couldn’t move. The kigh held him in place.

  Tucking the pipes back under his arm, he Sang. Reluctantly, the kigh moved away.

  “What is it?” Celestin asked, hurrying to his side.

  “I don’t know.”

  Dymek jerked forward, eyes wide, his hand stretched out toward the bard. “Is it about Filip?”

  “No, not about Filip,” Jazep told him gently, catching hold of the younger man’s fingers for a brief moment of reassurance. “They want me to help a lost kigh.”

  “I can feel him, you know. It’s like I can reach out and he’s there.”

  Celestin moved to put an arm around his shoulder. “He’ll always be in your heart.”

  Dymek shook his head, tears spilling down his cheeks. “No. It’s like he’s still here!”

  As Dymek’s parents led their son from the graveyard, their own faces twisted with grieving, bard and priest exchanged a helpless glance. Time would have to heal what they could not.

  “Will you stay for a while?” Celestin asked when they were alone beside the grave.

  “No. I have to catch up to whatever’s causing this before it can reach another village.”

  “And do the same thing.”

  Jazep nodded grimly. “Or worse.” He stepped toward his pack and found the kigh had anchored his feet once again. When he asked them why, he got the same answer he had before. They wanted him to Sing home a lost kigh.