As Calistin waited for Treysind to finish, he noticed a placard posted atop the well:
Sheaton Laws:
1. No killing 2. No stealing 3. No brawling 4. Do not display weapons of any kind 5. Only the bucket may enter this well
Calistin smiled, rearranging his sword belt to assure his swords showed prominently. Only a competent warrior would dare confront a man violating any of the first four rules, especially one so obviously well-equipped. While Treysind continued filling waterskins, Calistin leaned casually against the well, in flagrant violation of the law, and waited for the repercussions.
Now, Calistin noticed that the citizens whispered to one another as they passed, and a small crowd began to gather along the closest buildings, a safe distance from where he stood.
As they did so, Treysind grew visibly nervous. He paused frequently to glance at the growing chaos of spectators.
Finally, a man approached. Tall, broad-shouldered, and clean-shaven, he appeared to be about thirty. He wore a clean pair of brown britches, a tan woolen shirt, and a tunic belted at the waist. A cloak covered his outfit, but Calistin could make out a hilt buried beneath it. Though not openly, the man clearly carried a sword.
Calistin's opinion of the stranger plummeted. No Renshai would hamper his sword arm by pinning his weapon beneath fabric. He turned the newcomer a look of bored nonchalance.
Treysind stopped his task, set aside the last of his waterskins, and drew up beside Calistin.
The man extended a hand in greeting. "Welcome to Sheaton." He used the Common Trading tongue.
Calistin only nodded.
"Thank ya's!" Treysind said exuberantly.
Calistin frowned but said nothing, leaving the next move to the stranger.
The man let his hand drop to his side. "My name's Howall. I keep the peace here in Sheaton."
Calistin met his gaze.
Treysind looked at Calistin. Taking his cues from his hero, he also went silent.
The crowd seemed to lean forward collectively, listening for an answer that never came.
Locked into a one-sided conversation, Howall continued, "Just wondering if you read, young man."
Not wanting Treysind to answer and make them both look stupid, Calistin finally spoke, "I read."
Howall's brows inched upward. Clearly, he had assumed illiteracy accounted for Calistin's flagrant violation. "Did you happen to notice the laws of our town?" He tipped his head toward the placard.
Calistin did not bother to turn. "I noticed."
Treysind whirled, staring at the sign, though it seemed unlikely he could make anything out of it.
"Then, you know we don't allow the open display of weapons here."
Having already decided to answer only direct questions, Calistin said nothing.
Treysind looked from Calistin to Howall and back. "We ain't meanin' ta vi'late no laws…"
Calistin frowned, wishing the boy would just shut up, and not for the first time. "Yes I am. I'm meaning to violate the law."
Treysind's jaw clamped suddenly closed.
Howall's nostrils flared. "You mean to…"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Calistin also meant to irritate. "Why not?"
Treysind reached for Calistin's hand, but he jerked it away. The boy whispered, "What's ya doin', Hero?"
Howall kept his attention on Calistin. He peeled aside his cloak just far enough to grant access to his own weapon. "Then I'll have to ask you to leave."
Calistin never moved from his cavalier position against the well. "Ask, then."
Howall's brow furrowed. "What?"
"You said you would have to ask me to leave."
"Yes."
"So ask."
Howall's hands balled to fists. He had clearly lost patience, which pleased Calistin. "Young man, you're not funny. Will you either put away your weapons or leave Sheaton forever?"
"No."
"No, you will not pack up your weapons? Or, no, you will not leave?"
The conversation had grown tedious to Calistin, who was ready for his battle. "No, I will not 'either put away my weapons or leave Sheaton.' "
Again, Treysind reached for Calistin's hand, this time managing to brush it before Calistin knocked Treysind away.
"Neither?"
Treysind hissed, "Let's jus' go, Hero."
Now, Calistin recalled why he wanted to ditch his devoted companion. "I believe I made myself clear."
The crowd had shuffled closer. Howall seemed to take no notice. "Then you leave me no choice, stranger. I'll have to remove you from Sheaton."
"All right." Calistin finally stood up straight. "You may try."
Howall's brows shot up. He seemed more curious and uncertain than angry. "Very well." He reached for his hilt and started to draw.
Faster, Calistin whipped his blade out and slammed it against Howall's hilt, pinning it. A foot sweep sent Howall toppling, with Calistin's sword at his throat.
The crowd gasped, shrinking from the violence.
Calistin sheathed his sword in one fluid motion, exasperated by the ease of his victory.
Howall clambered to his feet. The light had gone out of his eyes, replaced by a flicker of fear.
"Would you like to try again?" Calistin suggested.
Howall set his jaw, then grabbed for his hilt. This time, he got it free before Calistin's blade licked through, chopping it from his grip.
Calistin could have caught it but did not respect his opponent enough to do so. Howall's sword crashed to the cobbles as Calistin sheathed his own weapon. He looked askance at the self-proclaimed peacekeeper. "Is that the best you can do?"
Howall's gaze went to his weapon on the ground. He started to reach for it, watching Calistin as he did so. Clearly, he did not wish to make himself any more vulnerable.
Calistin stepped away, less in a show of good faith than to denigrate. He did not need any advantage to destroy this pitiful excuse for a town guardian.
Howall picked up his sword but made no move toward Calistin. Nor did he look at the crowd behind him.
It was all too easy, and that bothered Calistin more than anything. This man, this best Sheaton had to offer, was not worth the time it had taken to talk to him. He addressed the crowd. "You deserve better." With that, he lunged in again.
Howall attempted to parry. Once more Calistin cut the sword from his hand, and then bore in for a power stroke that would claim the man's head.
"No!" Treysind leaped between them, forcing Calistin to harmlessly redirect his attack or skewer a friend.
Calistin chose the former, reluctantly. At the moment, it seemed more satisfying to cut through boy and man alike.
Howall tumbled to the dirt, Treysind flopped on top of him. "Don't kill 'im!" the boy shouted, scrambling for a better position. "He's jus' doin' his job."
"Fine." Though he would have preferred a clean beheading, Calistin sheathed his weapon. "Not worth cleaning his coward's blood off my sword." He stomped on the grounded weapon, the ultimate Renshai insult, then turned toward the farm fields. "Let's go."
Treysind sprang to his feet with a muttered apology. Grabbing his pack and waterskins, he scrambled after Calistin.
Not a word passed between the two until they had left the farm fields of Sheaton far behind and settled into a clearing beneath a thick overhang of trees. Though they prematurely darkened the area, the interwoven roof of branches also kept the ground free of underbrush. Calistin crouched, glancing around for kindling.
Treysind walked to the opposite side of the clearing, his back to the Renshai.
For several moments they remained in this awkward position. Calistin finally broke the silence. "I'll build the fire again, if you'll catch the food."
Treysind muttered an answer Calistin could not hear.
Calistin rose and walked to Treysind. "I said-"
"I heared ya," Treysind said, his words muffled by the hands he placed over his mouth and chin. "An' I sayed 'no.' "
"No?" Calistin repeated, puzzled. "You want to make the fire and brave eating what I find?"
"I's leavin', Cali… Cali-Stan.Ya ain't my hero no more."
"I… ain't?" Calistin did not know whether to question further or celebrate. He found himself laughing.
Treysind's arms slammed against his own chest. "Shouldn't figger ya'd care."
Calistin considered, surprised to find he did care. After trying so hard, so long, to lose the boy, he had finally come to grips with the realization that it would never happen. In the last day, he had even come to appreciate Treysind's wit and company. It seemed impossible he would lose it now. "I do care."
Treysind turned, as shocked by the sentiment as Calistin. "Ya cares?"
Now that he had spoken the words, Calistin realized they were true. "Of course, I care. If I didn't, I'd have killed you a long time ago."
"Then why's ya always laughin' at me?"
"I don't-" Calistin started, but Treysind interrupted.
"Ya do. Ya never laughs at nothin' funny. Only… only mean stuff."
"Mean?" Taken aback, Calistin did not know what to say. No one had ever spoken to him in this manner. His first instinct, to dismember the boy, passed swiftly. Calistin had spoken honestly; if he was going to kill Treysind, he would have done it long ago. "What do you mean by… mean?"
"Mean! Mean!" Treysind unfolded his arms. "Ya know, not nice."
Calistin shook his head. He did not need the word defined. He simply did not understand the concept. "You're saying I laugh at mean things?"
Treysind cocked his head, and his brilliant orange hair slid across one ear. "When someones trips an' looks silly, tha's funny. If they breaks they leg, it ain't funny."
Calistin shook his head. "I wouldn't find either of those things funny." Still, he considered Treysind's point beyond the poorly worded explanation. He did tend to find himself silent when others laughed with great amusement. He also frequently laughed alone, like just moments earlier when he belittled Treysind about his decision to leave. Clearly, denouncing his hero had meant a lot more to the boy than to Calistin.
Treysind turned away. "Ya's right. It prob'ly wouldn't be funny ta ya till ya breaks they's other leg, then kills 'em."
"What?" That went way beyond the explanation, and it seemed utterly unfair. "Treysind, what's actually bothering you? I'm not good at riddles."
Treysind's eyes became blurry puddles of white and blue. "When they's telled me ya killed that guy in the streets fo' no reason, I dint belief 'em. Then I seed what ya nearly done in Sheaton… y'ain't my hero no more."
Calistin rolled his eyes but did not dare to laugh. "Treysind, you've seen me kill before.You know it's what I do."
"I seed ya kill men what attacked ya, men what woulda kilt ya if they could. But I ain't seed ya torture no ones bafore. I ain't likin' bullies what kills fo' no reason."
Suddenly, the whole situation gained clarity. Calistin remembered how he had rescued Treysind from street toughs and understood how the boy might liken what had happened in Sheaton to the day they met in Erythane. Only now I'm the one hurting a helpless innocent; and he's the one who swooped in, at great risk to himself, to save the victim.
Calistin found himself desperately uncomfortable. He had never bothered to consider the world from another's viewpoint before. Many times, in conflicts with his brothers, his father had asked him to consider how Saviar or Subikahn might feel. Always, he had dismissed the idea, focused on his own innocence, his own needs and desires. He would say whatever it took to extract himself from the situation.
Nothing mattered but his swords, his practices, and becoming the consummate Renshai. Other people were merely props to use in his quest to become quicker, faster, more deadly. Anyone who could not significantly exercise his sword arm was unworthy of his attention, or even of life itself. They deserved nothing but derision and ridicule. Laughter. A band seemed to abruptly circle Calistin's heart, tightening and squeezing painfully. "Ya never laughs at nothin'funny.Only… only mean stuff."The little ganim is right.
Treysind was still talking. "… prob'ly gots a wife an' chillen.They dint do nothin' ta deserve losin' they's Papa. An' all's he did was try ta keep tha law-'s not like he was tryin' ta hurt ya…"
"You're right," Calistin said softly, expecting his concession to please his companion.
But it merely sent Treysind off on another track. "Ya's a killer, Cali-Stan, but I's never belief thems what sayed ya's jus' a killin' device without a-"
"-soul," Calistin finished. It explained so much.
Treysind blinked away tears. "I's gonna say a cons'ience. I knows ya gots a soul. Ever'one's gots a soul."
"I don't," Calistin said. "The gods say I don't. And if I don't have a soul, how can I be expected to think of anyone but myself?"
Treysind stared. The tears he had been fighting to keep back jarred loose, rolling down his cheeks. " 'Cause doin' what's nice and what's right don't gots nothin' ta do wit' havin' a soul. It's choosin' ta be a good person. An' havin' a cons'ience. That ain't something ya's borned wit' or the gods gived ta ya. Tha's somethin' ya decides ta have fo' yaself."
That put the onus back on Calistin, and he did not like it. "But I wasn't raised to-"
"I wasn't raised atall," Treysind interrupted. "But I still knows it ain't good ta hurt people what ain't hurtin' ya."
Calistin sighed. He found all the talk about morality irritating, and he always vented his strongest emotions on battlegrounds and practice fields. He had skimmed into a deep part of his psyche he had never tapped before, and it seemed dark, terrifying, and completely unnecessary. "Treysind, you can't catch a rabbit with a sword. Believe me, I've tried. I haven't got any money either. So, if you leave, I'll have no choice but to kill other travelers for their food."
Treysind wiped away his tears swiftly, and none followed. "So's, if I stays wit' ya, ya ain't gonna kill no ones?"
Calistin could not promise that. "Treysind, I'm challenging these warriors for a reason. I'm preparing to face my mother's killer. When I find him, I'll have practiced in real battles with many different ganim and will have built a reputation."
"Does that repoo… repyute…" Treysind started again. "Does ya gots ta be knowed fo' bein' a rut'less killer?"
"It helps."
"Rilly?"
"Yes."
Treysind sighed and tried again. "Can't ya be a rut'less killer a… a rut'less killers insteada nice folks?"
"That," Calistin had to admit, "would be even better. But-"
"Ya'd git knowed fo' bein' a killer, but pee'ple could still like yas. Ya could be ever'one's hero."
Once again, Calistin forced himself not to laugh at an idea that Treysind clearly found important. "It's not that simple, Treysind. The best fighters in town aren't always going to be demons. Even if they are, finding them would take time I don't have."
Treysind finally smiled. "Tha bestest villains often is tha bestest fighters 'cause no one kin catch 'em ta punish 'em wit'out gettin' kilt. If I kin finds 'em for ya, will ya practice on 'ems 'stead a guards an' good men?"
It seemed the perfect compromise, though Calistin worried that he might tie himself to something irritatingly hampering. "So long as you can locate these men quickly, and they give me at least a good challenge."
"I kin," Treysind promised.
"And, when I'm fighting, you stay out of it. Completely.You can't be diving in to 'protect' me."
Treysind's lip quivered, and he stood in silence several moments before finally forcing out, "All righ'."
"Then I will," Calistin agreed. "And now, will you please handle the meal?"
Treysind rushed to his pack for his bow.
CHAPTER 32
Success never happens by luck; it is a matter of careful planning that, sometimes, closely resembles happenstance.
-General Santagithi
Matrinka reposed on the tall, canopied bed in the center of her bedroom, the curtains drawn back to reveal the bureaus, w
ardrobes, and the shelves that lined her room. Back propped against the headboard and knees drawn up to support the large, silver tabby in her lap, she petted Imorelda with the wistfulness that seemed to assail her whenever she found herself alone with her thoughts.
Three weeks had passed since Rantire had smashed Tae's nose. Gradually, the blue-black bruises had faded from around his eyes; and a bump had formed in the center where the bones knitted together without her ministrations. He looked more gaunt and haggard at every meeting, and he imparted less and less useful information. Meanwhile, the pirate attacks grew more frequent, more deadly, and the news coming from the front more harsh and horrible. She guessed it was worse even than she knew; Griff tended to protect her from the worst of it.
"I'm worried about him," Matrinka told the cat as she ran her hands over fur slick from her repetitive stroking. Few hairs came free, most already swirling through the air of her room. "Your master is courageous, but he's also a fool."
Imorelda purred heartily. Matrinka suspected she agreed. The queen could almost hear the cat's response in her head, as she had heard Mior for so many years. It seemed petty and self-indulgent to pine over an animal when so many humans were dying for her kingdom. Yet Mior had been so much more than just a cat: a confi dante, a physician, a sister, and her closest friend. "I hope he knows how lucky he is to have you." Matrinka smiled as she spoke. She knew how precious their bond was and took pleasure in the realization that Tae had such an extraordinary relationship that no one but Matrinka knew about or understood. "You're a beautiful cat and a special friend."
Imorelda rolled over, still purring.
Matrinka rubbed her belly with appropriate gentleness. Few cats enjoyed the enthusiastic scratches that dogs preferred in this area. As she worked over the cat's favorite places, she studied her room. Once, the shelves had held an assortment of wooden and ceramic knickknacks, most of which closely resembled Mior. Now, they lay empty. The myriad cats that filled the castle had shattered enough for Matrinka to pack the rest away. *Can anyone hear me?* Matrinka sent her plaintive call into the emptiness. She used to test every newborn kitten, every cat she passed; but months had gone by without even a single attempt.*If you can, please answer, even if only to say you don't wish to talk.* *I can hear you.* The response touched Matrinka so faintly, she thought she had imagined it.
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