A Warrior's Knowledge

by Davis Ashura

  “I didn’t. I still don’t.” His response was curt, and he hoped she would take the hint and leave.

  Instead, her brows furrowed in hurt. “Why are so angry with me?” she asked.

  “Why do you suppose?” he asked, knowing his lack of explanation would irritate her.

  “Do you think I wasn’t enough of a friend to you?” she asked. “Every time I did came to see you … ” Jessira shrugged apology. “You either walked away or acted like you didn’t want me near you.”

  Rukh folded his arms. “It was for the best.”

  Jessira paced the room. “You wanted everyone to think that we aren’t really friends, that we were only companions traveling together when we were in the Wildness. You were trying to save my reputation” She turned to face him. “And you think I went along with it? That I abandoned your.”

  “Only you can answer that,” Rukh replied, “but you’re ruining it all by being here now.”

  “I don’t care about any of that right,” she said, moving aside as he stepped toward his bedroll and packs piled up next to the couch. Her nose wrinkled. She must have finally caught a whiff of his odor. “I care about how you’re doing.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” Rukh said, pulling out a change of clothing from his bags and walking to the front door. “But I’m fine. Go back to Disbar and forget about me.”

  “I’m not with Disbar any more,” Jessira said. “I ended our engagement yesterday afternoon.”

  Rukh turned to her in surprise. “Why?”

  “He’s not the man I thought he was,” she said with a shrug. “We wouldn’t have made one another very happy.”

  Rukh shook his head in disbelief. What had she done? Her reputation would be ruined, especially if anyone saw Jessira here with him tonight. They’d believe that Rukh had seduced her, that he was the reason she had ended her engagement to Disbar. It would lead to even more problems for him.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Rukh said as he stepped outside the flat and closed the door before she had a chance to answer. He was too tired to think about any of this right now. All he wanted was a bath and laundry. And he wanted Jessira gone by the time he was done.

  We went down the hallway to the washroom and stripped off his filthy clothes and scrub them as thoroughly as possible. It took a while to get rid of all the grime and grossness, and while there were still some stubborn stains that wouldn’t come out, at least his clothes didn’t reek anymore. After he finished, he laid out his wet pants, shirt, and underclothes on the racks above the hot stones in the parching room where they would be dry in a few hours.

  Only then did he take his long deserved bath, cleaning himself off as thoroughly as possible. By the time he finished, the skin on his palms and soles were as wrinkled as raisins. And given the time he’d spent washing his clothes and himself, he figured Jessira would have long since left Court’s flat.

  He was wrong.

  She was still waiting for him when he returned, seated once more on the couch and thumbing through a book. She looked up when he entered. “Are you done being a martyr, or will you let me explain why I’m here?”

  “Martyr … ” Rukh clamped down on the furious words he wanted to blurt out. By the barest margins, he held on to his temper. Usually it took a lot to make Rukh angry, but somehow Jessira had the trick of getting a rise out of him without even trying. “What do you want?” Rukh snapped.

  Jessira took a deep breath. “I know things haven’t been easy for you here,” she began. “I just wanted to find out if there’s anything I can do to make it better.”

  “I’m fine. The Trials are coming up in a few days and afterward, I should be able to do whatever I want.”

  “Because of the prize winnings awarded to the champion?” Jessira guessed. “With it you could move out from Court’s flat and rent one of your own. Is that what you have planned? You want to win the Trials and move out?”

  “Close enough. Is there anything else?”

  His answer didn’t seem to satisfy Jessira. Her jaw clenched in irritation. “There is something else,” she began. “I know you’re friends with Court and Cedar, but they say you haven’t told them anything about your plans following the Trials.”

  “I wasn’t aware I was under any obligation to let them know my plans,” Rukh said.

  “You owe them common courtesy,” Jessira replied tartly. “Court has been kind to you, letting you stay in his flat these past few months. If nothing else, they are your friends. I thought I was your friend — ”

  “Friends don’t abandon one another,” Rukh said. He wasn’t being fair to her, but his situation had him frustrated and disillusioned, and he couldn’t control the bitterness. The Home Army had denied his application out of hand; men had attacked him and paid no price for their assault; many Strongholders treated him like the mud on their shoes; and for all this, he was expected to be grateful to them for allowing him to stay in their perfect city. Suwraith’s spit but he was tired of their hypocrisy.

  Jessira twisted her hands in agitation. “I already apologized for that,” she said.

  “No you haven’t.”

  “Then I apologize,” Jessira said, not sounding apologetic.

  “For what?” Rukh asked. “I was the one who came up with the idea that we aren’t friends. You were simply smart enough to go along with what I started. So don’t worry about saying sorry. I understand why you did what you did.”

  “You don’t understand anything,” Jessira spat. “I already told you: I looked in on you, and you were humiliated and miserable. The horror! The indecency! The great Kumma has to work as a laborer. It’s unconscionable!” She glared at him. “Well understand this: we all have to do what you do. Every fourth week, I’m expected to serve in the barracks. I cook, I clean, even down to the latrines. So I don’t care what you think of your work. It’s honest, and there’s nothing shameful about it.”

  “You are the one who doesn’t understand,” Rukh said, his voice soft as a whisper. He kept his composure and didn’t allow his anger to show. “I do my work here without complaint. I dislike it, but that isn’t why I don’t respect this city or her people.”

  If anything, his relatively calm demeanor in the face of her anger seemed to outrage her even further.

  “Unbelievable! We take you in, and this is how you behave? Like an arrogant Kumma!”

  “It is who I am,” Rukh said, wearing sarcastic half-smile.

  “You are insufferable!” she shouted.

  “The door’s right there.” Rukh pointed. “If you don’t want to be here then leave.”

  “I thought you needed a friend. That’s why I came here.”

  “Nothing I need is to be found in this city.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means perhaps you should wonder why justice is absent in Stronghold. If you ask around the hospices, you might learn of some recently injured men. A broken jaw, broken ribs, and a broken arm. Ask these men how they came to be hurt.”

  “Did someone attack you?” Jessira asked, her anger suddenly blowing over and replaced by a look of concern.

  Rukh didn’t feel like explaining what had happened. It no longer mattered. “The powerful in this city think they can assault the powerless with impunity,” he said, knowing his words were enigmatic. Frag it. Let her figure it out on her own.

  Jessira stared at him, apparently trying to fathom what he meant. “You were attacked, and no one did anything about it,” she said. “But if you win the Trials, your position in the city is assured. You can have your justice then.”

  Rukh shrugged, not bothering to respond. He no longer cared if those who had assaulted him were punished. The law should apply equally to everyone, no matter their status or wealth. It shouldn’t take victory in the Trials for him to receive justice. Besides, there was no way he was going to let Jessira learn of his plans to leave Stronghold. She’d only waste his time by trying to talk him out of it.

  Je
ssira sighed, an expression of resignation on her face. She stood. “Good luck in the Trials,” she whispered before brushing past him, close enough for him to feel the cinnamon breeze of her passage. She paused at the open front door. “For what it’s worth, this hasn’t been easy for me either,” she said.

  She closed the door with a soft click.

  Chapter 14: New Questions

  Only a fool searches for a four-leaf clover when opportunity is waiting at his front door.

  -Sooths and Small Sayings by Tramed Billow AF 1387

  “We have a problem,” Varesea said the moment Hal’El appeared at the door. She appeared agitated, clutching at her skirt and muttering incomprehensibly.

  Hal’El’s glad smile fell away, and only with effort did he keep his shoulders from slumping in disappointment and dread. He had hoped Varesea’s ‘episodes’ would eventually resolve on their own, but they hadn’t. At least not yet. They were certainly less common than they had once been, but they still occurred frequently enough to cause Hal’El’s teeth to grind with worry. Her fits were a challenge for both of them. When caught in the midst of her madness, not only did Varesea fear her dead husband’s wrath, but she also believed all sorts of odd notions. Just last week, she had been certain that Hal’El was seeing another woman. It had taken most of an afternoon to convince her otherwise, and afterward, Varesea — his Varesea — had returned to him as if nothing unusual had occurred.

  Hal’El carefully shut the door and turned to face her. The room in which Varesea waited for him took up the top floor of an unoccupied building in Stone Cavern. It was a place they had made their own and taken to calling The Tryst Palace. It was a sardonic title, given in jest to a meager space with boarded over windows — one of its key features — a few broken-down chairs, a cheap, pine table, and a plush sofa.

  They also now had a bed. Hal’El glanced at it in disappointment. With Varesea’s distress, it seemed unlikely that it would receive any use today.

  “It’s that Shektan girl, Bree,” Varesea explained, taking a seat on the edge of the couch. Her foot tapped the rhythm of her disturbance. “She’s been looking into the murder of Drin Port. She’s even asked to speak to Grasome Verle.”

  If she hadn’t before, Varesea now had Hal’El’s full attention. “Has he spoken to her?” he asked.

  “No. So far, he’s been smart enough to avoid her, but he can’t do so forever.”

  Hal’El sighed. “How much does he know?”

  Varesea shrugged. “Very little. Only that Drin was murdered, but not your role in it,” she said.

  “Fair enough,” Hal’El said, stroking his chin in consideration. “Will I need to make a personal visit to the good doctor?”

  Varesea wavered. “You might,” she answered, looking unhappy. “He’s always been weak. Unreliable. He’ll likely break if the Shektan girl — ”

  “Woman. The Shektan woman,” Hal’El interrupted. “Let’s not call her a girl. We risk under-estimating her if we do.”

  “Woman then,” Varesea said with a scowl. “He’ll talk if she reaches him.”

  Hal’El scowled. What a mess. “Then it appears a new medical examiner will soon be needed.”

  “Is that really necessary?” Varesea asked, appearing upset. She stood and paced the room. At least, she wasn’t muttering about her dead husband while doing so. “Grasome is one of the few physicians we have in the Sil Lor Kum and the only medical examiner.”

  “You said it yourself: he’ll talk. We can’t allow it.”

  “I know. I just wish … ” She stopped her pacing and came to rest, standing at the far end of the room. “I just wish you didn’t have to kill again. At least not with it. It’s evil.”

  Hal’El crossed the space to her and took her into his arms. “I promise not to use the Knife,” he whispered into her ear.

  *****

  Dar’El sat in his study with the late afternoon sun pouring in through the windows. The weather was warm, but somehow the sun in winter always seemed weaker, more wan, and less inspiring than in summer. The gardens reflected the change. The brilliant flowers — Satha’s pride and joy — had long since withered away, their stems decayed and brittle. Some shrubs remained bright and verdant, but otherwise the gardens were a sad, lonesome sight.

  Winter was here, Dar’El’s least favorite season. He didn’t like it, not even Ashoka’s mild version. His hands and feet were always cold. He much preferred the chili-pepper heat of summer. A warm breeze blew in through the open windows, carrying with it the false taste of spring, and Dar’El half-stood, wishing the heat of summer was upon them. He sat back down with a disappointed sigh and turned back to papers on his desk. He had work to do.

  The documents were from Garnet, and Dar’El peered closely at the words, trying to decode the nearly illegible scrawl. The old man’s handwriting had become worse with each passing year. Dar’El sighed. He hoped Garnet’s mind wasn’t also showing a similar deterioration, although he feared it likely. The changes were subtle, but they were there. At first, Dar’El had assumed it was signs of fatigue — Garnet was old but still worked as hard as any of them — but it wasn’t the case. There were episodes of confusion, times when his old friend repeated himself, asked questions already answered, or forgot details on an important matter. Such things would have never happened a year ago.

  The situation left Dar’El worried and heartbroken for one of his oldest friends. He stared out the window, lost in thought. Why would Devesh do something so cruel?

  A tapping came at the door. “Do you have a moment?” Bree asked, interrupting his reverie. “The door was open,” she said in response to his unspoken question about why she hadn’t waited for his word to enter.

  Nanna gestured for her to come in and close the door behind her. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I wanted to talk to you about Rukh,” she said, slipping into a chair facing his desk.

  Dar’El stifled an inward groan. He should have known. While the frostiness in their relationship had thawed, Bree hadn’t entirely forgiven him for what he had asked her to do. Dar’El hoped she hadn’t come here to accuse him anew. At this point, he had long since grown tired of defending his actions. He had made the best he could out of a terrible situation. Mistakes had been made, but in the end, Dar’El was certain that what had ultimately happened to Rukh was probably the best anyone could have hoped for.

  And just as tiresome as Bree’s constant accusations was her self-flagellation. She still blamed herself for Rukh’s fate. It didn’t matter how many times he — and many others — had tried to convince otherwise, she persisted in believing herself at fault. It was an irrational view, and for someone as steeped in logic as Bree, it was exasperating for those around her. Six months since Rukh’s judgment and Bree had yet to forgive herself.

  Dar’El prayed she would — and soon. It wasn’t healthy to carry such guilt, especially when it was unearned. Besides, he carried enough guilt for both of them. If anyone was at fault for Rukh’s situation, Dar’El felt it was himself. “What do you wish to discuss?” Dar’El asked.

  “Can Rukh really be brought home?” Bree asked.

  Dar’El’s brows rose in surprise. It wasn’t the question he had expected.

  “You thought I’d argue with you again about the decisions you made?” Bree asked with a guilty smile. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “You didn’t disappoint,” Dar’El said. “By asking this, am I to assume you’ve finally come to forgive yourself for what happened to Rukh?”

  Bree shrugged. “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” she said. “Only Rukh can truly forgive me, but I’ve at least come to accept that what I did to him might have saved him from an even worse fate.”

  Dar’El smiled in relief. It was a beginning, and long past due. “How did you come to this realization?” he asked.

  “I talked to Mira,” Bree explained.

  “Mira,” Dar’El mused. “Remind me to thank her.”

  “I’m s
ure you’ll remember on your own,” Bree replied. She rapped the table. “What about my question: can Rukh really be brought home? Can you persuade the Chamber to overturn their verdict?”

  Dar’El nodded. “I think so. With the Society’s help, I think it can be done. We’re close. With all the other warriors from the Chimera expedition proclaiming Rukh’s greatness, the Chamber may have no choice but to bend to popular will.”

  “As simple as that?” Bree asked, not quite in disbelief.

  “Not quite, but yes,” Dar’El replied. “I’d be happier if we had something by which to discredit Hal’El Wrestiva. He’s the glue holding the older, more reactionary elements together. Remove his influence, and their opposition will crumble.”

  “And this is Rector’s role in House Wrestiva? To learn some damning information about Hal’El?” Bree scowled a moment later. “I can’t believe I ever liked him,” she said, sounding disgusted with herself.

  Dar’El smiled. “Consider it the folly of youth.”

  “I feel sorry for Mira. I could never do what she has to.”

  *****

  Mira sat at a small table in Walthall Park, a rectangular, grassy park in the heart of the city. To pass the time — she was to meet Rector later in the morning — she had a cup of coffee and tried to read a book. However, most of her attention was held by those around her. Even this early in the day, there was much to see. A few hardy food vendors already had their carts ready, stationed beneath the canopy of trees along the borders of the park, and the scent of popcorn and puri bhaji filled the air. A few older folk walked the graveled path along the park’s perimeter while children played on the grass, laughing as they chased one another or rode the horse-driven carousel. Their sounds were drowned out by a nearby group of buskers — two fiddles, a guitar, and a singer — playing Muran folk songs.

  Mira’s foot tapped in rhythm to the music.

  Walthall Park was a place of peace; a small emerald gem in the midst of a bustling city that never seemed to slow down. Mira loved it. Walthall was like her own personal oasis, a quiet spot of tranquility. Even the nearby granite hulk of the City Library, with its jagged abutments resembling a menacing, wind-etched cliff, didn’t detract from the park’s grace and sense of rest.