Deathknight

by Andrew J Offutt

  “Do you think you have enough for two? One and a half, really; I don’t eat much. It’s just that it’s been a long time. Querry says I just pick at food...”

  “Pick your own,” Falc said, chewing.

  She stiffened, showing that she recognised her own words. If she felt guilt, she recovered swiftly:

  “You are an exasperating man!”

  Falc saw no reason to say anything. He did make certain that his equable expression did not change.

  She walked past him, upstream a little, and without turning he heard the little splashes as she stepped into the water and washed her hands and face. He heard her drink from cupped hands. After a time she returned, barefoot, to stand over him.

  “I suppose the message is that I pick and share berries and you share what you already had.”

  “That’s a nice offer,” Falc said. “I’d love some berries. And of course I’ll share. Fair is fair.”

  She picked up the frypan and went to pick some more berries. He saw that her straggling hair had become more forlorn now with some of the straggles wet. She had made no attempt either to repair her bun or to take it apart and let her hair hang free.

  Falc glanced at the dargs. They had drunk a little, and had found something to eat. Dargs always did. All he had to see to was that they didn’t go too far upstream when they decided it was time to wallow and muck up the water. He thought they’d choose the pool a few feet away. That way clean water would remain, upstream behind him.

  He stood and, in the ritual way, disencumbered himself of his weapons belt. He had just dipped out a drink and was returning to the scene of his repast when she returned with newly purple hands. The frypan held a pile of derrberries. Falc gestured.

  “Sit or squat,” he said. “Thanks.”

  She sat, arranging her skirt. “What may I have?” “Anything you want. I don’t even know what the sack contains. My host at the White Horn packed it.”

  She ate bread, more berries, and a ferg leg. She picked little bits off the bread and tucked them into her thin-lipped mouth to chew ruminatively. The habit was unpleasant to Falc and he ceased watching.

  After a while she had said, “Shall we gather wood?”

  “The food doesn’t need a fire and neither do we. It isn’t chilly and this isn’t wild animal country.”

  “Oh.”

  The dargs had decided it was time to get wet, and then thoroughly wet. They had chosen the nearby pool. Even happily and noisily wallowing in shallow water, the greenish blue and blue-green creatures were somehow more graceful than on land. Or less ungainly, at any rate; grace might not be a word applicable to dargs.

  Now Falc and Jinnery sat in silence, watching the beasts flop and slop about in their beloved water.

  She sighed. “This is twice I’ve been orphaned, in a way. I was staying with Uncle Querry when my father was killed, in Morazain. Now...”

  “I’m sorry, Jinnery.”

  “Are you?” Her tone was satiric. Ah, how sharp that tongue was!

  Falc nodded, looking at the grass. “Yes,” he said low-voiced. That was so obviously real that it shut her up in something approaching shame. Neither of them spoke for a time. Then Falc did:

  “Have you wept, Jinnery?”

  Her sigh was almost silent. “A little.”

  He nodded. He saw no reason to say anything more.

  After a minute or so she said, “Why?”

  He looked up. For once her tone sounded not challenging, but curious. Nevertheless he was not about to tell her: because she was even more defensive than when they had met, more challenging and unpleasant so that he preferred not to talk at all, and that the probable reason was that she was holding in the grief, even justified self-pity, which needed to be let out in tears or yelling or both.

  “You probably need to weep a lot,” he said. “It helps. It’s just something that has to be done.”

  She cocked her head. “Have you wept?”

  “Whether I’ve wept or not doesn’t have anything to do with anything.”

  “Meaning that you’d never admit it if you had.”

  Falc saw no reason to say anything to that.

  The dargs splashed and Harr snapped at the other darg. It squealed. Falc said, “Harr,” sternly, and looked at Jinnery. The hatchet-carved boniness of her face seemed to have softened, and he realised that it was because the sky was nearly dark.

  “Have you given that darg a name?”

  She shook her head. “Chalis wanted to call him Falc.” Seeing what that did to his face, she chuckled. “I won’t.”

  He fell into a trap: “Thanks.”

  She snapped it shut: “He’s too nice a beast.”

  Falc ran a few lines of the Calm Psalm through his head. With his face arranged in quite pleasant lines, he said, “This is most unpleasant for me, Jinnery. I am more than reluctant to have you with me. It is possible that you could be less deliberately unpleasant.”

  Jinnery stared, blinked, and at last began to weep. There, Falc thought, and rose and went into the woods to relieve himself. He was careful to stay away longer than necessary. Complete darkness closed while he said prayers and hoped the Messenger would appear. It did not. Falc looked up and could just make out Orlam. It showed as about half a moon, with Jera’s shadow on it.

  He took care to make noise in returning to the clearing and could just make Jinnery out, standing well away. He thought he saw the knife in her hand.

  “Falc,” he said, and saw her hand go behind her back. “Good. Tha-thanks for... for privacy, I guess.”

  “Um. Remind me tomorrow to show you how to hold that knife.”

  He saw the swift flurry of movement and knew she was embarrassedly stowing away the dagger.

  “I do recommend a short name for your darg,” he said.

  Fully clothed, retaining his mailcoat, he stretched out on his back and arranged the saddle so that it was partially under his head. The dargs were silent; Falc and Jinnery were silent.

  “How old are you, Jinnery?”

  “Twenty,” she said sharply, and he was sure her expression was as sharp when he heard her head turn to look at him or in his direction. Very little moonlight filtered down into the small streamside clearing. Whether his reaction indicated that she “should be” older or younger, he assumed that she was ready to be defensive. Probably offensively so.

  “In a way you look younger,” he said, to the sky. “In a way, older. The eyes. And perhaps the set of your mouth.”

  “Twice orphaned, Sir Falc of Risskor. Should I be a sweet li’l girl with laughing eyes and upturned mouth?”

  Falc saw no reason to say anything.

  “And besides, Ashah saw fit not to give me lips or breasts.”

  To the sky he said, “I ride to Secter, and then to Lock, where I am Contracted to a Holder.”

  “I ride with you, Cousin Falc,” she said, and he heard her movements as she turned and curled to sleep.

  He remembered his thoughts about her that night in the barn, and considered it again, reminding himself. She is years and years younger than Querry was, and than I am too, and niece or no, she shared his bed. And she was no happy woman, even three days ago when she had family and home. And she probably just told me what it is that soars in her to make her so bitter. Thou art not known for being fair, Ashah my god. We men invented that.

  He lay long awake, staring up at nothing save a dark blue sky cut into interesting segments by the black shapes of tree branches.

  “Chalis, Chalis,” he muttered into the night. “And Querry, good man and good father! I would take vow this moment and ride back to Lango for Faradox’s head! Yet I do not know whether I may do, for I am not my own ruler. Falc does not decide, for Falc.”

  Sadly, Falc stared up into the night, seeing nothing.

  FIVE

  One need not love his neighbour and thus all men. That would be ridiculous and lead to great frustrations and crippling guilt as well as encourage a society based on the
impossible — egalitarianism — and pauper the people to make them “equal” while less free. No. We say that you must instead deal fairly with each individual as an individual, whether he or she is loved (or even lovable) or not.

  — Sath Firedrake

  *

  In a dark area of Ryar where he really had no business at this time of night, Sir Relashah came upon three footpads in the act of attacking a man, who was down on the pave. Relashah called out, drawing as he broke into a run. In the pale light of the moon called Jera, one look at the charging man in black persuaded the trio to flee.

  Relashah of Kem saw that they were still running as he reached their victim, and sheathed his blade. His cloak made him resemble a great bat alighting as he went to one knee beside the poor fellow. He put a gauntleted hand gently on the fallen man, who, twisting with inordinate swiftness for a wounded victim, stabbed straight up into Relashah’s throat.

  Making gargling sounds in his own blood, Relashah caught that murderous wrist and used it to yank the blade out of his neck. It fountained. He forced the treacherous barga’s hand down, and down, and forced the dagger into his killer’s chest. Or tried to; it skidded off well-lacquered armour under the man’s tunic, and the fellow chuckled.

  “No such luck, Deathknight swine!”

  Sir Relashah sagged, spewing blood as he died.

  The supposed footpads came hurrying back to speed him along with vicious kicks. Drenched with Relashah’s blood, their supposed victim hustled to his feet to help.

  “Fell right into it, didn’t you, Deathknight swine! Uh! Feel that one?”

  “These swinish Deathknights can’t resist aggrandising theirselfs by helping poo-oor people in trouble! Here’s one in the — uh! — nuts!”

  “That’s enough; look, he’s running out of blood. This ain’t a Deathknight, it’s a Deadknight!”

  They laughed. Swifty they stripped off the dead omo’s equipage and clothing, which they stuffed into a waiting pair of rough-cloth bags.

  “Look how pale the pig is under his blacks!”

  “Huh, look at the size of these stones! No wonder he’s a monk!”

  The victim laughed as he peeled off Relashah’s coif. “And look at this! Ever see anything so ridiculous?”

  They left him there, dead and naked in an alley in Ryar.

  2

  Falc tried to forbear telling his companion that with her hair down this way, long and mildly wavy past her shoulders, the lines of her face were softened to her considerable benefit. She had risen the instant he had, and waded upstream to wash body and hair and clothing. She rode with wet hair and wet clothing, a condition soon remedied by the sun. At last he succumbed to that impulse to say something nice, and was immediately sorry.

  “You mean with my hair hanging I’ve suddenly become almost attractive?” Her voice was scornful. “Well, try to contain yourself, Cousin Falc!”

  Falc rode for the next three hours in silence. He hoped sincerely that she hated silence. Not singing, or at least executing his version of singing, was not easy. He would give her no chance to make fun of his voice or ability to carry a tune. He already knew about those lacks.

  The sun moved slowly across the sky, and the road stretched on. They met no one save a pair of laden wagons with two outriders. When Falc reined aside, Jinnery did. Two drivers and two outriders nodded a greeting; one outrider lifted a hand. Falc did both.

  “How far is Secter?” Jinnery asked, after three hours of silence.

  “Not far.”

  “Will we reach it today or tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  After waiting long enough to be sure that he meant to say no more, she said, “Which?”

  As before, Falc continued to gaze straight ahead while he answered. “Which what?”

  “Will we reach Secter today or to — Will we reach Secter today, or will we reach Secter tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.”

  An hour passed in silent plodding. They met a trio of riders who gave them nods and strange looks. A Deathknight with a woman!

  “Oh,” Jinnery said a while later, “I am to remind you to show me how to hold a knife.”

  “Yes, I had forgotten,” Falc said. “It is important. We’ll do that when we stop for the night.”

  “You think I hold a knife by the wrong end, perhap?”

  He compressed his lips and said nothing for the better part of an hour. Then:

  “The very worst way to attack or defend with a dagger is to brandish it; that is, to hold it high for an overhand swing. It leaves you open all the way up and down and the length of the swing makes it easy to dodge or defend against. Hold the knife down, near your side and at the waist, and keep it moving. I will show you.”

  “I see. You must know all about knife-fighting, hmm?”

  “Yes.”

  Falc said nothing more. He tried to meditate on the statement: “Treat the day as if it were the morrow, for soon it will be.” Not soon enough this time, O Ashah, he thought.

  Later, seeing a farm wagon about to emerge from a side road ahead, Falc decided to trot for a while so as not to have to trail the wagon and breathe its dust. That was wise; as they approached, they saw that the wagon was laden with shab: manure. They trotted until Falc decided to slow.

  “Falc?”

  Since he said nothing, she said “Falc?” in that questioning way again.

  He glanced at her for the first time since he had complimented her. “You are here and I am here. You know I heard you.”

  “So sorry. I was going to ask why we have so little new steel. All of us, I mean. Everyone.”

  “Society, you mean.” Falc’s face tightened. “We have none. We are Sij, now, and Sij is confined by its resources. Steel requires iron. The only iron left by the First Civilization is available only as something called oxides.”

  “What are oxides?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  “I don’t know what an oxide is.”

  “The Sons of Ashah don’t know everything?”

  “The Sons of Ashah do not know everything,” he said, and heard her sigh.

  “Oh, I am glad of that! And fuel... what about this thing called coal? That black thing you wear around your neck; is that coal?”

  “Yes. Coal is too deep inside Sij for us to get at. So I am told. These are the things called ‘technoscience,’ Jinnery. I know nothing of it, and do not care to.”

  “Would it burn as fuel, that bit of coal about your neck?”

  “I suppose.”

  “You’re not afraid that this hot sun might set it ablaze?”

  “I know that it requires more heat than that,” Falc said, with some pride.

  “Hmm! Have you no handy saying for all this?”

  “I can tell you words. These are the words I know, and I am not sure of their meaning, or whether anyone is: ‘The only available oil, sulphur, copper, coal, iron are buried so deeply within Sij as to be irretrievable... not only irretrievable, but inconceivable.’”

  “That... I don’t know what that means.”

  Falc shrugged one shoulder. “Neither do I. It means that any return to what Sij was before is impossible or at least extremely improbable because the First Civilization, the technosociety, used all non-renewable resources, and used them up. This is written, and I will tell you before you ask that I am not sure what it means.”

  She rode in silence, chewing on all those words, before she said, “Well, at least now I know more than I ever did in my life.”

  Falc saw no reason to comment. Ashah guide and deliver me!

  *

  When they camped, he spent some time demonstrating to her the use of a knife as weapon. She assured him that she did not intend to use this knowledge. He assured her that he never had or did, either. He reminded her that such knowledge might possibly have served her in good stead had he not rescued her from the two bent on taking her darg an
d “whatever else they intended to take.”

  “Would you call those two men bad?” she asked, surprising him with the sudden switch of topic.

  “They were intent on a bad act.”

  She surprised him further by showing him why she had asked; she introduced a subject they had touched on that night in her home.

  “If pink is the colour of the universe and the red of blood is the colour of bad, why then should men — should we strive to be better than the universe?”

  Ah, a surprised Falc mused, she both remembers and thinks!

  “The universe is composed of all,” he told her, not quite from rote. “The bad and the good. No one has stated that everything should be attainable. We can only try.”

  “What’s ‘attainable’?”

  “Means you can get it, reach it.”

  “And do you seek that perfect and ungettable-unreachable goal, Falc of Risskor?”

  “I seek unity. The natural enemy of humanity is chaos. Perhap it is our natural state; I don’t have that answer either. Surely the highest goal, though, is unity.”

  “Unity.”

  That hung there in silence for a while, and she said, “Perhap that is what I came seeking, that night in the barn.”

  He saw no reason to respond to that, but did anyhow: “That is not what is meant by unity.”

  She did not, Ashah be thanked, ask.

  3

  Under a graying sky along about noon next day she announced that she had chosen a name for her darg. Falc looked over at her, her face shadowed dark under the hat Baysh had given him. She had restored her hair’s bun last night, probably because he had said she looked softer with it down and loose. Now she told him the name she had chosen for her mount. He assumed that this too was spite, since he had praised the excellence of the creature and advised a short word as name. She would call him Shabtain.

  “Dungheap!” he echoed.

  “I certainly wouldn’t name him after a flower,” she said with scornful emphasis, gazing straight ahead.

  Let her misname and mistrain the animal, then. I shall soon be rid of her, and thanks be to Ashah!