Exile's Children

by Angus Wells

  “Is it worth my speaking?” Arcole touched the brand on his cheek. “I’ve witnessed Evanderan justice.”

  Var’s face darkened. Damn the man! He pushed too hard. And yet … Var must sympathize with him. He paused, reining his temper. “I have heard the woman, Flysse Cobal, and Davyd Furth plead on your behalf. They say those men were bent on rape and you acted only in defense of them both. Was that so?”

  “I could hardly stand by,” said Arcole, “and call myself a man. Much less a gentleman.”

  “Then you did act to protect the woman and the youth?”

  Arcole wondered why the captain did not simply pronounce his Evanderan version of justice and be done with it. Could it be that he sought some loophole? Could an Evanderan officer be so honorable?

  “Well?” Var prompted.

  “Well, then, yes,” Arcole said. “Oster and his bullies intended to rape Flysse and Davyd, both. No gentleman could fail to defend them and retain his honor.”

  Mostly to himself, Var murmured, “No.”

  At his side, Bennan snorted scornfully. Var ignored him, studying Blayke’s face. Finally he said, “My orders are clear. You have damaged property of the Autarchy—raised hand against other exiles, for which the punishment is a flogging.”

  He heard Bennan vent an anticipatory chuckle and decided he did not much like the captain. “But,” he continued, “I find such extenuating circumstances exist as persuade me to relax that punishment somewhat. So I hereby order that all the exiles be paraded on deck to witness administration of your punishment. Which shall be twelve lashes; to be delivered immediately.”

  16 Across the Sea of Sorrows

  The full complement of marines lined the bulwarks as the exiles were summoned up from the hold. It was a little past noonday, and the sun glinted on the bayonets and polished buckles of the soldiers who stood at rigid attention. The exiles milled nervously, not sure what they should anticipate. All they knew for certain was that Karyl Oster was dead, his corpse already delivered to the sea, and that four of their number were taken by the marines. Flysse and Davyd had no better idea of Arcole’s fate than any others—they had been questioned by Tomas Var and immediately returned to their quarters. Flysse smiled as she caught sight of Arcole, standing erect between two blue-coated marines, and scowled at the other prisoner, recognizing him as the man who had threatened Davyd.

  For his part, Davyd was nervous. He had far less faith in—and far more experience of—the Autarchy’s justice than Flysse, and when she whispered “Arcole is well, no? Surely they’ll not punish him?” he could only shrug and hope she spoke aright.

  When sailors were ordered forward to raise a hatch and lash the grille upright, his doubts grew.

  Then Tomas Var stepped out before the assembly. He wore full-dress uniform, tricorn set straight on his fair hair, left hand on the hilt of his sword. He climbed partway up the quarterdeck ladder and halted, surveying the crowd awhile before he spoke, his voice pitched to carry to them all.

  “You see before you two men sentenced for crimes against the Autarchy. Let their punishments be an example to you all! Do any of you think to perpetrate such crimes as these are guilty of, let their fate dissuade you.”

  He paused as a nervous murmur ran through the crowd. Davyd felt Flysse take his hand.

  “First,” Var continued when silence fell again, “know that none escape. For their part in the attempted rape, Petyr Rayne and Matrym Greene are sentenced to thirty lashes apiece, which shall be delivered immediately the ship’s surgeon declares them sufficiently recovered. Meanwhile, for his part in that heinous crime, Anton Gryme shall now receive thirty lashes.”

  He nodded toward Gryme, and the marines flanking the man motioned him forward toward the raised hatch. A sergeant, his tunic removed and his shirtsleeves rolled back, let fall the coils of a heavy whip. Gryme licked his lips. Davyd saw the sweat that trickled down his face, and experienced a savage satisfaction at the impending flogging.

  Gryme took an unsteady step in the direction of the hatch, then shook his head as if denying the reality of his situation. A marine pushed him on, and suddenly Gryme let out a wailing cry and spun around. He ducked beneath the soldiers’ outflung arms and ran screaming down the deck. For a moment Davyd wondered why the musketeers lining the rail failed to shoot, then saw the reason as Gryme flung himself wildly up the ladder to the foredeck and vaulted the rail there.

  It was as though he struck a solid wall, save it was invisible: a wall of magic, set there by the hexes inlaid along the bulwarks. Gryme’s leap halted in midair, his body bouncing back to crash onto the boards of the deck. He yelled anew and sprang to his feet, crossing to the farther side. This time he did not jump, but set his hands upon the rail and swung a leg upward, over the metal. He brought up his other leg—and was once more flung back. Moaning in frustration, he clambered to his feet, eyes darting madly, like an animal trapped by circumstances beyond it comprehension. Twice more he attempted to find the sea, and twice more was denied escape as the two men of his escort marched briskly toward him.

  As they brought him back, Var said, “Another lesson. You shall none of you find that release—the hexes warding such escape are too strong. Now, sergeant, do you administer punishment.”

  For all Davyd bore Gryme no love, he winced as the lash cut stripes over the man’s pale flesh. Screams dinned against his ears and he glanced at Arcole, who stood grim-faced; Davyd thought of his friend cut by that savage whip, and smiled his sympathy.

  Before it was done, Gryme had passed out. He hung limp from the hatch as a seaman doused his bloodied back, and was still unconscious as two marines dragged him away.

  “Now, the case of Arcole Blayke,” Var declared. His voice rang loud in the hushed silence. “In that this man acted on behalf of others, I will not inflict such punishment as might be his. However, in that he damaged property of the Autarchy, I sentence him to twelve lashes.”

  Davyd heard Flysse cry, “No! That’s not fair!”

  He felt her grip tighten on his hand and said, “Arcole’s strong, and twelve lashes are not so bad.”

  Flysse shook her head and moaned “No!” again. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she did not take her eyes from Arcole’s face.

  Arcole did not flinch when his escort motioned him forward, but stepped out as if taking a promenade about the deck. When he stood before the hatch, he removed his frock coat and held the jacket out to a marine as if the man were his second. The soldier stared at the garment, perplexed, not quite sure what to do.

  Var called out, “Someone take it, eh?”

  Before any other had chance to move, Davyd tugged his hand loose from Flysse’s grip and darted to Arcole. A marine moved to halt him, but Var said, “No, leave the boy be,” and Davyd took the coat.

  “My thanks.” Arcole ducked his head, smiling at Davyd. “And be so kind as to take my shirt too? I’d not see it needlessly soiled.”

  Davyd nodded, quite unable to speak in the face of such magnificent courage. He waited as the shirt was removed, then carefully folded the linen and retreated backward to where Flysse stood, his eyes intent on Arcole all the way.

  Arcole stretched leisurely and favored the sergeant with a quizzical smile. “I trust your efforts do not fatigue your arm, sergeant?”

  The marine grunted and shook his head. Someone in the crowd laughed nervously, another heartily. In the rigging overhead, a sailor called, “Bravely said!” From his station on the quarterdeck ladder, Tomas Var could not help smiling—though he swiftly hid the expression.

  “So, gentlemen.” Arcole stepped to the hatch and rested his weight against the metal frame, his arms upraised. “Shall we commence?”

  The two men of his escort secured his wrists. One set a wad of leather between his teeth, murmuring, “Bite hard on this. It’ll ease the pain somewhat.”

  They stepped clear and the sergeant uncoiled his whip. Davyd felt Flysse’s hand clutch his shoulder as the plaited leather swung back. As i
t fell on Arcole’s shoulders, her fingers dug deep, and she gasped as if she shared the pain. Davyd remained silent, only grimacing in sympathy each time the lash descended. It left long, angry stripes of red across the skin, and at each blow Arcole’s body jerked. He did not cry out as Gryme had, but Davyd could hear the stifled grunts the pain elicited.

  Tomas Var watched with an impassive face. He was pleased to see his sergeant follow the instructions given—that he place his blows with care, not overlay them but deliver each stripe separately. That would make it easier on the victim, and Blayke recover swifter. It was as much as he could do for the man and still do his duty by the Autarchy.

  Down the length of the schooner he saw Captain Bennan watching from the poop deck and noted the look of disapproval on the man’s face. He wondered if the shipmaster would find occasion to set his disagreement in the log or make report on his return to Evander. Var thought it likely: Bennan was something of a martinet.

  Well, no matter, he decided. The punishment of the exiles was his territory, as was their care; and should his superiors in the God’s Militia find cause to question his judgment, then he would justify his lenience with the explanation that he’d not see valuable property needlessly damaged. That he felt a sympathy for Blayke need not be known. That he felt—almost—a kinship with the man, he dared not admit even to himself. He was an officer in the God’s Militia, a captain of marines with hope of advancement to come and a sincere belief in the Autarchy. Arcole Blayke was an exile, a criminal—it was not for Tomas Var to question that sentence. Neither to wonder if they might, ever, have been friends.

  And so the captain of marines and his men watched in stolid silence, and the exiles nervously, and none there knew they shared a common emotion: admiration for Arcole.

  But Arcole knew only pain, and anger that an honorable act be punished with the indignity of a flogging. He bit on the gag, determined to show no sign of weakness to the Evanderans, and it was easier than the branding, for he was sustained by his anger. When the final blow was given and the flogging ended, he still braced himself against the hatch, not knowing it was over.

  That awareness came with the saltwater that splashed against his back, a sudden, sharper pain on the fiery throbbing of his ravaged skin. He had not known tears clouded his vision until then, when he gasped and blinked, and grew aware that his wrists were freed. He spat out the gag and forced himself to stand upright, unaided as he moved back from the hatch.

  The sergeant was coiling the whip, his face fixed and rigid as a statue’s, but as he carefully wound his loops of leather, he murmured, “The saltwater helps. It hurts, but have someone bathe the wounds each day.”

  Arcole looked toward him, but it was as though the man had not spoken, even when—barely moving his lips—he added softly, “You were lucky. The captain ordered I flog you easy.”

  Arcole would have asked him why—would know why an Evanderan officer should show mercy to a Levanite exile—but his mouth was too dry to shape words, and the sergeant’s blocky figure was suddenly vague, the masts and watching faces beyond him suddenly revolving in a slow and stately whirligig. So he only nodded his head and took a weak-kneed step forward toward where he thought Flysse and Davyd stood. And then he must concentrate on the next movement of his foot, and the one after, for he would not show weakness.

  He reached the two and halted. Davyd still held his coat and shirt, but when the boy extended the garments he shook his head and mumbled, “Not yet. I’d not spoil a good shirt. When I’m healed … Now, water, if you would.”

  Davyd ran instantly to the nearest water butt. Arcole looked at Flysse’s horrified face and forced his lips to stretch in semblance of a smile. “Might I borrow your shoulder a moment, Flysse? Else I think I shall fall down.”

  She came close, taking one arm and setting it gently about her shoulders. He leant on her, surprised by her strength, and waited until Davyd brought him the water. It was tepid: he thought he had never enjoyed a drink so much.

  When the taste of leather was washed from his mouth, he said, “I think I should like to retire now, do none object.”

  Davyd came to his other side and, leaning on them both, Arcole made his unsteady way toward the hold. The crowd parted before the trio, none speaking, only watching in silence. Arcole’s legs felt simultaneously lead-weighted and insubstantial. Each step was an effort, as if he wore impossibly heavy boots; and yet his knees were rubbery: had Flysse and Davyd not supported him, he should have fallen. He knew he lacked the strength to crawl, and that increased his anger. He forced his head upright and saw Tomas Var watching him. The captain’s expression was unreadable. Arcole essayed a brief smile and ducked his head as if bidding the man farewell. He was surprised when Var returned the gesture.

  Then he must concentrate on the ladder, which was now becoming a serious obstacle. Flysse went down before him, Davyd behind, and together they got him to the foot where he must rest a moment before finding his bunk. He was glad it was the bottommost—he did not think he could find the strength to climb.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain each movement brought, he eased onto the pallet, stretching out facedown. That was a little better: the fire lit on his flesh became a single throbbing ache. He wondered how Gryme felt, and supposed—a small consolation—that the man experienced far worse.

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  He turned his head to find Flysse crouched beside him. Her eyes were large with concern, reddened by weeping, and moist with tears.

  “I think not.” He found it difficult to construct his thoughts in coherent fashion: he had much rather close his eyes and drift away. “The sergeant said the wounds should be bathed each day in saltwater. But otherwise …”

  He realized he had closed his eyes only when he heard her voice again.

  “Arcole? Arcole, the ship’s surgeon attends you.”

  He focused on the breeches standing before his bunk. They stretched tight over an ample belly. It was too much effort to raise his head, so he did not see the man’s face, but he thought the fellow’s boots would benefit from polish. He grunted.

  The surgeon grunted back and Arcole saw a bulky valise set down on the planks, opened by chubby pink hands that extracted a small pot.

  “I’ve seen worse.” The voice was genial, coming from a point above and behind Arcole. “The other fellow, f’r instance. Now …”

  Arcole felt his back massaged. He supposed the surgeon applied a salve; certainly the throbbing pain abated.

  “That’ll help the healing. Tomorrow, wash him with seawater; do that every day until he’s mended. Best he doesn’t move until then.”

  The chubby hands returned the pot to the valise, snapped the bag shut, and lifted it out of sight. Flysse’s face came back into view, Davyd close behind her. Arcole tried to speak, but his mouth was dry and his eyes very heavy. Shaping words was too much effort, so he only smiled and retreated into sleep.

  When he woke, the hold was dark and filled with night sounds. He could hear Davyd grunting overhead. He was thirsty beyond endurance. He lay still, trying hard to ignore the thirst, but he could not. His mouth was arid and he attempted to rise. Pain lashed his back anew and he groaned. He did not think the sound loud enough to carry through the multitude of other noises, but on the instant he saw a shapely leg descend and moonlight fall silvery over Flysse’s hair. She drew a shawl about her shoulders as she knelt beside him. Lit by the moon, he thought she resembled an angel.

  “What is it?” she asked softly. “Do you hurt?”

  Through gummy lips he said, “Water.”

  Flysse nodded and was gone. He thought to call her back—he feared for her, wandering the nighttime hold alone and he helpless to protect her—but it was too late and he could only lie there, cursing his weakness. He hoped the lesson of the floggings was taken by the bullies.

  Then she was back, bringing a brimming pannikin to his lips.

  It was not easy, drinking prone, endeavoring to
lift only his head, for any other movement inflamed him. He must sip when he would have gulped, but Flysse was patient—more than he—and knelt holding the cup until it was emptied.

  “Enough?” she asked. “Or shall I fetch you more?”

  “No,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

  She smiled and stroked his hair. He remembered she had stroked Davyd’s hair, and wondered if the touch had comforted the boy as much. When she clambered back up to her own bunk, he felt a pang of guilt as he watched her ankles. They were very trim, and he recalled the touch of her body when he had held her.

  In the days that followed, the order that had become established was reversed. Flysse and Davyd nursed the helpless Arcole. They brought him food and water, and once daily carried a bucket from the deck, bathing his wounds. One or the other was always with him, talking when he wished, silent as he slept, but always there when he woke. He came to take it for granted and would have missed their presence had they been less attentive.

  He was, if anything, more in Davyd’s company than in Flysse’s, for the boy seemed loath to risk the deck without Arcole, as if the man had become a kind of talisman. It afforded him the chance to speak somewhat of Davyd’s dreams—cautiously, for he remembered his promise to Flysse, and felt newly guilty that he broke it. He told himself it was for all their good—that if Davyd was a Dreamer, then that talent might benefit them all. But he was careful to make his inquiries casual, so that it should seem, almost, that Davyd spoke of his own free will, not through inducement.

  “How do you sleep now?” he asked as if he did not lie listening to the boy’s nocturnal cries. And when Davyd shook his head and lowered his eyes, “The nightmares still?”

  Davyd nodded and Arcole laughed and said, “You saw Gryme try to jump the rail? You saw the magic that halted him? Strong magic, no?”

  It was a slow process, but Arcole had little else to occupy his time as the Pride of the Lord entered the Sea of Sorrows and the easterly winds died away. Indeed, as the schooner ventured deeper into those latitudes, it was often necessary to put the ship’s longboats over the side and have them tow the larger vessel. On those occasions the boats were crewed by exiles, marines stationed at tiller and bow. Arcole and Davyd were excused this exercise—the one because he was still weak, the other because he was too scrawny, too young. Then the hold was emptied, and Arcole might easier draw Davyd out.