Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories

by Vox Day

  Marcus wiped his nose. “I’ll warn the bishop, and you tell Father Aestus what’s going on. Lodi will get our gear together. Then we’ll all climb onto the roof. I don’t think the bird can carry more than three on its back, although maybe it can carry a fourth in its claws.” He shuddered at the memory of the fear and cold. “Or perhaps Caitlys can ferry us to the stables. The bishop and Father Aestus should sneak out as soon as they can and meet us there. I don’t think the treacherous false Michaelines will strike tonight as long as they don’t know we know of their plan.”

  “Too dangerous,” Lodi said, picking up his axe. “You’re the target, boy. You stay here and pack. I’ll go to the bishop. Marcipor, you go to the fat little priest, but don’t tell him to sneak out. Have him keep his window open instead.”

  “Aestus can’t climb the rope,” Marcus said. “He’s too fat. He probably couldn’t even hang on while we pulled him up! And Cassius Claudo is too old.”

  “I’ll climb down and carry them up,” Lodi said. “No miner hasn’t climbed up and down a shaft with twice the weight of that priestling on his back. And the roof is safer than trying to go out the stairs. If anyone sees either of them two sneaking about, they’ll know somewhat’s up and might just start their killing on the spot.”

  “Listen to the dwarf,” Marcipor urged. “He’s right. It’s not safe for you to leave this room.”

  Reluctantly, Marcus agreed. Marcipor and Lodi departed on their separate missions, stealing silently out of the room and closing the door softly behind them.

  Marcus looked around the room and saw that, fortunately, the habits of the road had not abandoned them upon their arrival in Elebrion: their packs remained largely unemptied. He shrugged off the overlong coat, slipped out of the too-long leather trousers with the legs rolled up, and removed the ruined remnants of his court finery. He felt a mild pang of regret for having worn them only once. But, since the fine fabrics were ruined anyhow, he scrubbed clean his hands on them and gingerly dabbed at his nose, which had almost, but not entirely, stopped bleeding.

  It took him a moment to find his own riding leathers, which he’d previously left lying on the soft grey-feathered elven bed but were now missing. He located them in the bottom of the clothing chest, where Marce, or more likely Lodi, had put them. He wrinkled his nose as he drew them on. They were still filthy from the ride, but they would keep him warm.

  His sword and the Merithaimi elvenblade were in there too, but he elected to stow the sword in his pack and content himself with slipping the scabbarded knife into his belt. If it came down to a fight with the wardogs, they were already dead. But one never knew when a sharp blade might be of value.

  He stuffed Lodi’s dress clothes into the dwarf’s giant bag, which clanked ominously. Marcus gave it an experimental pull and found he could barely lift it. Marce’s leathers, he laid out on the bed. The rest of their personal gear was packed away according to whom it belonged.

  The door opened and he looked up, his hand dropping to his belt. But it was only Marce, who slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. Marcus nodded at him and kneeled beside Lodi’s pack to put away the long-tined metal comb the dwarf used on the rare occasions he unbraided his thick orange hair.

  “You were faster than I expected. You told Father Aestus what he must do?”

  “Father Aestus is dead, Marcus. They killed him.”

  There was something strange in Marce’s voice. Marcus glanced back over his shoulder and saw that his bodyslave was moving toward him, holding his ludicrous gilded sword in hand.

  For a moment, Marcus was too amazed to react. Or speak, or think at all. He simply stared at the tall figure with the familiar face and the eyes of a stranger, who barely seemed to even recognize him.

  “Not you, Marce. It’s not you. It can’t be you!” His eyes dropped to the sword. The blade was bright and clean. “You didn’t kill anyone. Why the sword?”

  Marcipor stood over him, the blade hesitating in the air. “I’m not— This is … not what it seems.”

  He staggered a step and his sword arm dropped. “I can’t do this. They told me I could, but I can’t. I just can’t.” Marcipor’s eyes were bright with tears now. “I can’t kill you, Marcus. I’m supposed to, but I can’t do it.”

  Marcus rose slowly to his feet and kept his hand well away from his knife. He could see Marcipor was struggling with something inside himself, and it was impossible to tell what might cause him to react one way or the other.

  He wasn’t afraid to fight the Marcipor he had known all his life, not even with a knife against a sword, for Marcus was the better-trained fighter by far.

  But the Marcipor he’d known would never have raised a sword against him. Unless … unless he had been ordered to do so by someone he wouldn’t dare disobey.

  “Was it Magnus? Did Magnus hire the mercenaries?”

  “Magnus? No. Not that I know of. It was after that night, the night the dwarf saved you from the wolf-thing. I was so glad you weren’t hurt badly, but I was thinking about what it might have meant for me if you didn’t … Please, you have to understand: I didn’t want you to die! I’d never even thought about it, but after we talked, I thought perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to be free after all.”

  “I believe you,” Marcus said, never taking his eyes away from Marcipor’s face. “What happened? Who approached you?”

  “The next day, I was riding ahead. Maybe you remember? With Zephanus and Captain Hezekius. I said something about you nearly getting killed and Zephanus laughed. He said it might have saved a lot of people a lot of trouble if you did and … they gave me gold, Marcus. Captain Hezekius himself gave me gold and told me I could ride with them if I wanted to join them. That I could be one of them. That I could be free like them—the lying devil! He should have given me thirty pieces of silver.”

  Marcipor looked at the sword and laughed bitterly. He cast it aside so it landed on the bed. “You should have whipped me when I asked, Master. Now you’ll have to kill me. There’s only one punishment for a slave who tries to kill his owner.”

  “You haven’t tried to kill me, Marce, not yet. Who killed Aestus?”

  “One of the Michaelines. Serranus probably. He’s the real killer. Even the other Michaelines are afraid of him.”

  Not Zephanus, Marcus thought. He’d seemed so friendly. It must be that the smiling, laughing warrior-priest was an accomplished liar, and he was certainly intelligent. It occurred to Marcus that he was probably the most dangerous mercenary of all, except possibly for the captain. Zephanas had never served with Corvus, after all! But the lies had flowed as smoothly off his tongue as a fine vintage wine being poured from a crystal decanter by an expert servitor. Marcus had never thought to doubt him for a moment.

  There was a shout from somewhere inside the building, followed in quick succession by a wild scream and the bang of a door being slammed shut. The screaming continued, inspiring shouts and the sound of running feet.

  “Lodi must have killed someone, or nearly killed them, anyhow,” Marcus said. “They’ll be here as soon as they deal with Lodi. Marce, we have to go.”

  “No,” Marcipor shook his head. “There’s only time for one trip on the bird. You and the bishop have to go. And Claudo needs Lodi to get him to the roof. That’s three.”

  “So maybe it can carry four!”

  “Too much risk. If they find me up there and you’re gone, they’ll kill me.”

  “Marce, they’ll kill you now!”

  His slave, his childhood friend, shook his head. “They might, but they probably won’t. I’m just a slave who plays the fool with a theatre sword. And they know it. You’re a nobleman trained to fight by the best soldiers in the legions. They’ll expect you to be able to best me. But you’ll have to hit me, Marcus. You have to hit me hard enough to knock me out.”

  Marcus winced, but the rude plan made sense. Even when Marce was standing before him with a sword to his undrawn knife, he hadn’t really been af
raid.

  They could hear a methodical slam-slamming vibrating through the building as someone, probably the Michaelines, sought to break down the door. There was the sound of more running feet, but all were heading away from them, presumably toward the bishop’s chambers.

  “Do it now. Quickly, please, it’s the only way. They still might kill me to cover their tracks, but if they do, it’s only what I deserve. Oh, Marcus, how could I be so stupid?”

  “Well, you know, thinking was never your best attribute,” Marcus said lightly, trying not to cry. “Here, maybe this will make things look more convincing.”

  He rubbed at his nose and came away with a little blood. It wasn’t enough, so he grabbed his nose with two fingers and twisted. It hurt enough to make him gasp, but it had the desired effect, and as soon as he could feel blood trickling down his upper lip, he picked up the sword and smeared the tip with it. “You tried, okay? You managed to stab me in the shoulder, but before you could stab me again, I hit you. Okay?”

  “Okay. Marcus, I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. Again.”

  Marcus pressed the bloodied sword into Marcipor’s hand and kissed his forehead. Just then, there was a loud crashing sound and they heard the booming of a dwarven warcry. More screams erupted.

  “Ego te absolvo, Marce. As often as you need it. Get away from those murderers as soon as you can and come back to Amorr. Come to House Valerius. It will wait for you. But if you can’t, I free you now.”

  “No, Marcus—”

  Marcus drew his dagger and hit his lifelong friend in the temple with the silver pommel.

  Marcipor, a slave no more, never saw it coming. He crumpled instantly in an unwieldy heap. Marcus quickly leaned down to slash the side of Marcipor’s head just above the right ear. The blade was wickedly sharp, and blood soaked through the golden curls almost immediately.

  Marcus took one last look at the impromptu tableau. It would do. About the only thing that would have looked more convincing was if he’d actually cut Marcipor’s throat. Poor Marce: freedom was even worse than he had feared.

  God, You’ll have to bring him back to Amorr, Marcus prayed silently. Because I can’t.

  He shouldered his pack and turned back to the window. The rope was still there, but it was bobbing up and down. It seemed Caitlys, quite rightly, was growing impatient. He gave the rope a tug, then climbed awkwardly over the wooden sill and wound the rope around his wrists to give himself a better grip for the climb upward.

  “Valerian?”

  “It’s me, Caitlys,” he called back.

  “I heard screaming and I thought— Oh, never mind. Hold on,” she ordered.

  “Wait—” He swallowed his protests and concentrated on clinging to the rope as it jerked violently and began dragging him up the stone face of the building.

  His arms felt as if they were being pulled out of their sockets, and he kicked his legs wildly, but somehow he managed to hold on. For a moment, the dark edge of the overhanging roof threatened to bash itself against his head, but then the rope pulled him away from the building, leaving him with his legs dangling uselessly and the sickening sense of empty air beneath him. But moments later, he could see the roof just beneath his feet again, and he let go before Caitlys had the chance to demonstrate any more insane avian tricks.

  The bird landed next to him, and he looked up to see Caitlys leaning over the side of the bird, looking concerned. “Are you hurt? You’re bleeding. If you let go of the rope, I’ll throw it down for the others.”

  “Not there,” he gasped, pushing himself up from the hard tiles. “Other side. Where all the noise is. Two more, but they come together. Maybe too late.”

  “Take my hand,” she told him, and with that unnatural strength so at odds with her slenderness she all but pulled him up behind her, then urged the bird back into the air.

  Lodi was still alive. Marcus could hear the shouts, curses, and weapons clashing from the open window below. They circled out away from the building, then swooped lower and slowed as they approached the window at which the bishop was standing with his back to them.

  “Claudo!” Marcus shouted as he threw the rope. Cassius Claudo turned around, and his jaw dropped at the sight of Marcus and Caitlys on the back of the huge bird. But blind instinct caused him to catch the rope. It played out nearly to its full extent as Caitlys circled around again, and Marcus feared that the old man might try to hold on to it.

  As they passed the window again, Marcus could see Lodi still battling to hold the broken doorway. He had the aid of the last of the bishop’s servitors who were not already down.

  “We need the dwarf,” Marcus shouted. “The old priest can’t hold the rope!”

  “I know!” she shouted back. “When we go by again, tell him and the dwarf to fall on their faces on our next pass and hold on to the rope!”

  “No, no magic!”

  “Just do what I tell you, Valerian!”

  “But we can’t—”

  “Do it!”

  Appalled, but seeing no other way, he took a deep breath as they approached the window again. But before he could shout out her orders, Lodi hurled his axe in the face of one attacker, ducked the thrust of another, then turned and fled just as the sword of a third flashed down where he had been a moment before.

  He swept something from a nearby table and tossed it over his shoulder without looking, then grabbed Cassius Claudo around the waist with his left arm and took the rope in his right hand. The grim look on the dwarf’s face told Marcus what he was going to do.

  “Go up, go up!” he screamed in Caitlys’s ear.

  She instantly leaned back and urged the bird higher. Vengirasse responded with four powerful beats of his wings. There was an immense roar, and the window belched out fire just behind Lodi as he dove over the window sill with the bishop in his arms. It was almost as if a huge dragon had found them unpalatable and vomited them forth, like a fiery Jonah being spat up on the beach.

  For one horrible second, the rope grew taut, and the bird seemed to stagger in the sky. Marcus feared that Lodi had lost his hold on the rope.

  But the dwarf had a grip like the iron in his mountain, and he held on to both priest and rope with stubborn dwarven determination until Caitlys managed to circle the bird back around to light upon the rooftop of the now-burning building.

  Marcus couldn’t resist hugging her in his excitement. She was laughing wildly, almost hysterically. Lodi and Cassius Claudo stood up unsteadily. Lodi was bleeding from four or five minor wounds, and both were half-covered from the black residue of the dwarf powder Lodi had used to effect their escape, but they were alive.

  Then Marcus heard Caitlys catch her breath and say something softly in Elvic. He didn’t know what it meant, but it didn’t sound like anything salutary or edifying.

  Then he saw what she was staring at, and he felt a sudden desire to learn what she had said in order that he might repeat it.

  For out of the night sky, three dark shapes were sweeping down upon them from the direction of the royal citadel. The light of the fire burning below them cast golden-red reflections on the well-burnished helms and lance tips of the High King’s skyriders.

  IA Q. VII A. I AD III

  Ad tertium dicendum aliqui aelvi, etiam in statu viae, sunt maiores aliquibus homines, non quidem actu, sed virtute; inquantum scilicet habent caritatem tantae virtutis, ut possint mereri maiorem beatitudinis gradum quam quidam homines habeant. Sicut si dicamus semen alicuius magnae arboris esse maius virtute quam aliquam parvam arborem, cum tamen multo minus sit in actu. Ergo aelvi habent animae naturaliter unita.

  MARCUS WAS MARCHED unceremoniously by two armored skyriders into a large room located two flights down from the avian stables at the top of the High Tower. Behind Marcus, other guards escorted Caitlys, Bishop Claudo, and Lodi. The procession made its way to the accompaniment of a litany of extensive verbal abuse to which Caitlys was subjecting their captors. He didn’t understand a word of the elvish but was
impressed by the effortless way it cascaded from her lips.

  They entered a stone chamber. It was formed like a rectangle at the entrance with walls that angled out to meet the far side, which curved like a semicircle with the outside of the tower.

  It was windowless, and the furniture looked comfortable but surprisingly shabby. Two couches and a chair were loosely arranged around a low wooden table. The table was marked by water stains and four jeweled dice were scattered atop it. Three other cushioned chairs were arrayed as for a conference long complete. The stone walls were painted white and were unadorned but for a few lines of elvish scrawled upon the one to the left of the entrance. It was, Marcus thought, probably where the skyriders waited when they were on duty.

  Upon one of the couches lounged King Mael, looking informal but still unmistakably regal in a purple silk robe. He also looked royally furious as he lounged on the overstuffed divan. He did not appear to have much appreciated being interrupted in whatever kingly duties he had previously been engaged.

  To Marcus’s surprise and dismay, in addition to a skyrider wearing leathers and a pair of elven guards, the king was accompanied by Zephanus, who was still wearing the rich yellow vestments and blue cloak he’d worn hours earlier. Marcus glared at the false priest. His earlier affection for the glib mercenary had been transformed by hurt and anger into something that almost approached hate. Zephanus wasn’t the least bit abashed by the sight of Marcus. He actually had the gall to wink at him! The appearance of Cassius Claudo, however, seemed to throw him at least a little off balance.

  Fury filled Marcus as he thought of how the brutish mercenaries had slain the brilliant, affable Jamite, who in his good cheer had seldom thought ill of anything, not even of those he had finally concluded were creatures without soul. It was, Aestus had argued, an intrinsic error to conclude that animation without anima was the result of a demonic heritage. The sparrow was equally unworthy of the Gospel, and yet it was loved by its Creator all the same. It was an outrage, an abomination, that such a brilliant mind should be forever silenced by stupid and greedy men so that other stupid and greedy men could hope to increase their wealth.