Paladin's Strength

by T. Kingfisher

  She heard the voices of the guards, Istvhan answering them. She heard a jangle of metal and a crack of fist on flesh.

  Calm. I am calm. I am quiet. I have faith that Blessed St. Ursa will set me on the right path.

  “Gentlemen,” said Istvhan louder, sounding both pained and somewhat bemused. “I suggest that you do not continue. I am a paladin of the Saint of Steel. If I go berserk, I will try to kill all of you. Perhaps you will kill me. I imagine neither of us desires that outcome.”

  Clara could picture his face and his expression as he spoke. She shoved her hands in her pockets and her fingers closed over something small and hard. The acorn of the emperor oak.

  The one in charge said something else, somewhat muffled. Istvhan said, “Look for the trail of dead men. I did that alone. I would be very good in your gladiatorial pits, I think. That is why I have come.”

  Clara still couldn’t make out his captor’s voice, but caught the phrase job interview in scathing tones.

  “I enjoy killing,” said Istvhan pleasantly. “I enjoy killing men. I would enjoy killing all of you. Nevertheless, if you put me in the pit with a sword in my hand, I will enjoy that even more, and there will not be nearly as many…repercussions.”

  His tone was absolutely chilling. Clara was used to paladins being poor liars, but apparently Istvhan had not been informed of that. Remember how calm he was on the road? How easily he covered for their mission? You always knew.

  The tiny, traitor voice in her head whispered, You know you can’t trust anything he said to you to get you in his bed.

  That didn’t matter now. The only thing that mattered was that Istvhan had come with her into the heart of the enemy’s stronghold and he was sacrificing himself to save her. He could leave me behind with a kiss and a tickle and a “You know it would never work,” after this is all over, but he’s here now and this is the important thing.

  Another crack of fist on flesh. Istvhan grunted.

  Now? Now?

  Blessed Saint Ursa… But Saint Ursa seemed very far away. If She protected her chosen so well, why had all the other sisters been taken? Why was it left to Clara? Why was she left listening to a man give himself up to the enemy to save her? A man who had cried out her name in passion and left safety behind to help her? What good was St. Ursa, if he died?

  What good had Istvhan’s god done him, in the end?

  She clenched her fist over the acorn and felt the tiny point on the end dig into her palm.

  Faith. Faith made material. Brant does not know if what he plants will ever grow. He has faith that it will anyway, though he will never see it.

  Saint Ursa, Saint of Steel if there is anything left of you that listens, save this man and save my sisters. I will follow this road to the end, even if it means my death, but don’t make me watch him die.

  Another guard ran up. Clara flattened back into the alcove, but he didn’t look in her direction, just skidded past. “Sir,” he gasped, “sir, the other patrol’s dead. All of them. Like they’ve been torn to pieces.”

  Whoever the man in charge was, he let out a growl that would have done the bear proud. “Just you?” he asked. He must have turned to face the new arrival, because his voice was less muffled.

  “Berserkers,” said Istvhan, “are not known for our ability to work well in groups.”

  A bark of amusement. “You’ll go in the pits either way. Maybe we’ll feed you to a tiger to warm up the crowd.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Bring him,” snapped the leader and then with clanking and grumbling and Istvhan saying, “Now, now,” in a chiding tone, like a teacher to a misbehaving pupil, the group went off down the hall, leaving Clara alone.

  She sagged back against the alcove wall, wiping at her face, and it was a long few minutes before she could bring herself to move.

  Forty-Three

  They put him in a cell. It was a fairly average cell. Istvhan had not been in a great many of them in his life, but it was neither a hole in the ground filled with rats nor a luxurious stateroom with armed guards. Distinctly middle of the road. The door was made of metal bars rather than being solid, which let a fair amount of light in, presumably so that prisoners could be assessed at a glance for suitability in the fighting pit.

  He put a hand through the bars to try and find the locking mechanism, and discovered that it was out of reach for anyone with shorter arms than an orangutan. Can’t say I’m surprised. They have a lot of experience with this, I’m guessing.

  He tested each of the bars for weakness. There was none. He checked the flagstones in case anyone had politely left a secret door or hidden compartment. No one had been so courteous. The drain for waste was firmly cemented in. Given a sharpened spoon and a couple of months, Istvhan could have chipped his way out, but his captors had not thought to provide the spoon, either.

  There was a rope hammock in the cell, as one might expect in such a nautical city. It was even long enough to accommodate Istvhan, which was impressive. He upgraded his opinion of the cell slightly.

  And then, since there was nothing he could do and the alternative was to sit up and fret, he climbed into the hammock, prayed to all the living gods and one particular dead one for Clara’s safety, and went to sleep.

  Clara was impersonating one of the cleaning crew, by the simple expedient of picking up a bucket and walking off with it. She had tied her robe up with the loop of rope and washed the blood off her face. Fortunately, on her non-descript clothing, blood was indistinguishable from any other set of stains.

  There were cleaners everywhere, once she was inside the main complex. No one looked at them twice, probably because there were simply so many people. The colosseum complex was a small city unto itself. Clara passed a floor full of gladiators working out, a floor that appeared to be sleeping quarters for workers, and two more full of cells sized to accommodate a human. She tried to calculate how much filth that many prisoners would generate, on top of the blood and dirt from the gladiators, on top of housing for the staff, and came up with an absurdly large amount. No wonder there’s people with mops everywhere you look. And we started halfway down the complex. The upper quarters are probably housing for higher ranked officials, and such people generate an ungodly amount of housework.

  The floors that had prison cells were guarded. Cleaners were still going in and out, but Clara did not know if they were on a schedule or known to the guards. She wanted very much to go check for Istvhan, but getting herself thrown in a cell would help no one, least of all him.

  She told herself this three or four times. And if you do find him, how will you break him out? This isn’t like the beasts, where hardly anyone will be watching.

  He sacrificed his freedom for your sisters. Don’t throw that away.

  She did not seem to be moving. She was rooted to the spot, washing a section of wall that was probably now clean enough to perform surgery on.

  Once you find your sisters, you can come back for him. If you set a bunch of tigers loose, that will be enough distraction for any number of guards.

  That finally got her moving again. She picked up the bucket and hurried to the next set of stairs, looking for the runs where they kept the beasts.

  “You. Paladin.”

  Istvhan looked up, startled. The speaker at the bars was so nondescript that he suspected she worked at it. Colorless hair, colorless eyes, shapeless clothes. If she had not been at the door of his cell, which automatically rendered her the most interesting thing in Istvhan’s world, he might have overlooked her completely.

  “Will you speak with me?” she asked.

  “My social calendar is not particularly full,” said Istvhan glancing around the cell. In addition to the lack of sharpened spoons and escape tunnels, no one had included any reading material. He would have given a great deal for a scandalous broadsheet to pass the time.

  “You are a paladin, aren’t you?” she said. “Saint of Steel?”

  “How did you know?” asked I
stvhan, not seeing the point of denying it.

  She shrugged. “The Sealords have eyes and ears,” she said, “and there are few enough berserkers about. Word is that a Saint came in as part of a caravan a few days ago, and now you are here and claiming to be a berserker. And enough men are dead that I am inclined to believe that claim. It does not take an expert to put two and two together.”

  A Saint came in as part of a caravan. They must have gotten word of Galen, somehow. Someone talked. Istvhan decided not to correct her impression. It might yet work out in his favor. “Then I fear you have the advantage of me, madam.”

  His flirtation earned him a colorless smile. “The Saints of Steel are said to be the elite.”

  It was his turn to smile. “We have our moments.”

  She nodded. “You will fight in the pits, then?”

  “It is what I came to do.”

  “Why?”

  The best lies were made of truth. Istvhan licked his lips. “My god is dead,” he said. “I am a weapon with no master. Most of my comrades chose to die when the God did, but I choose the manner of my death. And I heard you had a necromancer working here. To die and take such an enemy with me…” He gave her his most feral smile.

  She did not rise to the bait. “They say that a Saint of Steel cannot be defeated in battle.”

  “We can. If you throw enough bodies at us.” That was no lie.

  She nodded. “Tomorrow is the new exhibition,” she said. “Antony’s drowgos are expected to carry the day again, but the Shipbreakers have brought in something new. Something strange enough that Antony is nervous.”

  Something like a convent full of werebears, I expect.

  “It is in the interest of the other Sealords that Antony’s control of the pits be broken. Whatever Shipbreaker MacLaren is planning, a little assistance may be useful. You will go to the pits immediately beforehand. The drowgos are meant to warm up on you before they face MacLaren’s champion. If there are fewer drowgos afterward than Antony expects, that will serve all of us well. Will you do this?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Another fleeting, colorless smile. “Many men fear the drowgos. They are dead men, after all.”

  “I do not fear the dead,” said Istvhan. “In my experience, the living are the ones who cause problems.”

  She nodded to him. “The roster will be changed, then. And you may learn how much trouble the dead can cause after all. And perhaps Antony will learn how much trouble can be caused by the living.”

  She began to turn away. Istvhan raised a hand. “May I ask a question, madam?”

  Colorless eyes met his. “Perhaps.”

  “When I get to hell, who shall I say was my benefactor?”

  She smiled. “Perhaps you’ll find out before you get there.”

  The run stank of urine and fear and the boredom of beasts. The bear did not like it. It was the smell of a thousand traps, layered all together. It’s not, she lied to it. It’s not. It’s just a foolish human thing. We are free. Hush.

  Something roared, practically in her ear and Clara staggered back to the opposite wall. The bear growled and Clara locked it down with iron will. It’s nothing, it’s nothing, it can’t get to us, not now, hush, hush…

  “New here?” asked a sympathetic voice. Clara looked over and saw a wiry older woman. “Sent you to muck out stalls and didn’t warn you?”

  “They asked if someone wanted to do it and I…I like animals…” she said weakly.

  “So do I,” said the woman, “and this is a terrible place for that, if you ask me.” She offered Clara a hand up. Her grip had surprising strength in it. “Don’t mind him, that’s just Crabby.”

  “Crabby?”

  The woman gestured at the tiger who had roared. He was standing full length with his paws on the bars. Stretched out, he was taller even than the bear. “Crabby. He’s got a fancy-ass noble name, but we call him Crabby. Don’t worry about him attacking you, he mostly hates men.” She steered Clara past the tiger’s cell, well away from the bars. “Stay away from the bars, though, he likes to spray. They all do, actually. That’s your job today, cleaning piss off the walls and the floor. Glamorous, huh?”

  Clara managed a smile. Now what would a timid cleaner who likes animals say…? “Doesn’t sound much different than cleaning the men’s privies.”

  The tiger-keeper laughed. “And they’re a damn sight better behaved, too. Look, you see the gutter on the floor there? Stay behind it and you’re safe from anything but piss and noise. Don’t go over that gutter, though. Not your hands, not your head, not any part of you. Otherwise, if they can get a paw through the bars, they might be able to reach you.”

  Clara’s gulp was not entirely feigned. “Any others I should know about?”

  “Stay away from the ape cage,” said the woman. “They aren’t keeping apes in it right this second, but they’ve got an amazing reach on them, and they’ll throw nasty shit. The door’s solid, not barred. It’s at the far end.” She waved around the curved semi-circle of the run.

  Aha! Clara consulted the map in her head. The ape cage. That would be where her sisters were being kept. “Do I just mop, then?” she asked, hiding her excitement.

  “Mop to start. If you somehow manage to finish that before lights out, you can work on emptying the muck buckets at the base of the gutters, but the piss has been piling up.”

  “When is lights out?” Clara was beginning to think that this place never slept. She was fairly certain that it was already early morning, and her sense of time passing screamed at her.

  “About two hours before they start the fights, so the beasts are rested. Though we don’t have to send any of them out to get slaughtered tonight, thank the River Giant.” She sighed. “If you have any questions, just give a yell. I’ll be on for a few more hours.”

  Do you happen to have a dozen nuns locked in a cage? This did not seem particularly safe, no matter how friendly the woman was. “Thank you,” said Clara instead. “You’re very kind.” She kept her head down, filled her bucket at the nearby trough, and began to scrub.

  It was hard work, but not particularly difficult. Most of her attention was spent trying to keep the bear from making trouble. The animals yelled or roared or screamed, according to their natures, and she scrubbed up their leavings and thought calming thoughts and wondered how long until lights out.

  Her world narrowed to scrubbing, flagstones, and piss. It seemed like an eternity, but eventually a keeper began turning down the oil lamps and said, “You can stop there,” as he passed.

  “I’ll go out the other side,” she said, and waited to see if he’d protest. But apparently this wasn’t unusual or even noteworthy. “Don’t get pissed on,” was all he said, and went to the next lamp.

  She went to the far end of the run, stepped out the door, and waited, watching through the barred window. A keeper did a quick walk-through, then came out the door. Clara busied herself scrubbing the floor at the entrance and he immediately apologized for tracking dirt through, then went off, whistling.

  And that was all. She watched for nearly twenty minutes and saw no one else. When the coast outside was clear, she slipped back inside the run.

  Keys to the cages hung on the wall beside the entrances to the beast’s run. Clara had had another moment of doubt when she saw them—this is too easy, why aren’t they hidden?—but practicality overwhelmed it. You wouldn’t hide the keys to a tiger’s cage. The tiger couldn’t very well steal them. And if something did go wrong, and someone locked themselves into a cell or if an animal injured itself, you’d have only seconds to remedy the matter. You wouldn’t keep the keys locked up like you would for human prisoners. You’d keep multiple copies and you’d keep them in easy reach.

  Blessings on your shaggy head, Saint Ursa. Clara grabbed the key ring. In the dimness, she could not make out any labels on the keys, or perhaps they weren’t labeled at all. She sorted through them by touch as she hurried down the darkened run, back tow
ard the ape cage.

  Beasts watched her as she passed. A cat gave a coughing snarl. She heard something else, too, a distant thundering, though she did not know what throat it might have come from.

  She was most of the way to the cage, the sound still growing around her, when she realized that the beast that made that cry was human. Above her, through layers of wood and stone, the crowd was beginning to roar.

  Forty-Four

  Istvhan heard the roars of the crowd through the walls. He wondered how long it would take for their initial bloodlust to be sated, how long until someone came for him. If anyone did.

  I have only the word of a well-informed stranger that the roster has been changed at all. And only luck to protect me, should that captain of the guard see my name and decide to change it back.

  Assuming the captain had the rank to override the woman he had met. Which was an interesting question all on its own, and not one that Istvhan had sufficient information to speculate on. I am caught in the wheels of a vast political machine, and I have only the faintest idea of where the levers are located.

  The roars went on, occasionally falling, more often rising to a crescendo. Killing their way through the warm-up acts? He was just wondering whether to call out for a guard when one came to him. The jailer had a ring of keys in hand. “You’re pit-fodder tonight,” the man said. “Are you going to come quietly?”

  “Probably,” said Istvhan. “I’m bored. A pit fight sounds like an improvement.” He put his hands through the bars and the man manacled them together, then swung the door open.

  “Do I get a weapon?” asked Istvhan, as he was marched along the run.

  “Aye, you do. Better show for the crowd that way.” His jailer steered him toward a wall covered in weapons. None of it was of particularly high quality, but there was an extraordinary variety. “Pick your poison.”