Saga of Menyoral: Hard Luck

by Ray, M. A.

  She stroked the sticky red hair, sighing, and glanced up to the dark tulon, who stood with his arms folded, raining fire on the heads of the townspeople in a hard, flat voice. “Voalt’s always said he should be. Takes him out hunting, you know? When things get bad in town. Dingus loves it. Always comes back with a smile…” She hung her head. “I couldn’t let him go. Might as well have put irons on him. Now look.”

  Vandis had nothing for that. He glanced up again to see the mob filtering away down the hill, the bailiff supported by the one with wax in his hair. The night was quiet now, quiet enough to hear the boy’s breathing rasp, the song of frogs, and the breathless sobbing that floated up from the hillside. A dumpy little tulua fought her way to the summit.

  “Daddy!” she bawled. “Mama, is he okay?”

  “He’ll live,” Vandis said.

  She flung herself down beside the boy and seized his shoulders.

  “Be careful with him, Rhiada! His poor ribs—”

  His poor head! Vandis thought, watching it flop as Rhiada tried to shake him awake. The grandmother put a stop to it as quickly as she could, but she didn’t manage to stop the mother’s caterwauling.

  “Oh, Dingus, you big oaf, I told you to run away! What is it with this stupid tree? He’s always out here!”

  Vandis had to wonder that himself. He’d been too distracted by the lynching to give the tree any thought. He could swear, when he looked, that he saw a face in the trunk—but any investigation would have to wait until later. “Ma’am, are you this boy’s mother?”

  “Of course, he’s my son!” She glared at him out of tear-swollen eyes and Vandis wondered how someone as tall and gangly as the boy on the ground could’ve come out of someone so short and squashy. “What do you care? I don’t even know you!”

  “Hush, Rhiada!” said the grandmother. “That’s Vandis Vail.”

  “It is not! Vandis Vail lives in Dreamport! Why would he come here?”

  “Unless I miss my guess,” said the dark tulon, watching the last of the mob trickle down the hill, “he’s here to take Dingus.”

  Vandis said, “That’s right. I’d like him for my Squire. He’s a little too old—but I can bend that. Being Head has its benefits.”

  Rhiada stared at him. “Dingus?”

  “I have every confidence he’ll do well.”

  The dark tulon smiled slightly. “I’d have brought him up to Elwin’s Ford the day he turned twelve if I’d had my way, but his mother wouldn’t have it, nor would his grandmother.”

  “Now, hold on, Daddy!”

  “You know he’s right,” said the grandmother, Rhialle. “I didn’t like the idea of him running off alone in the first place, and even if he hadn’t—done what he did today, we knew he wouldn’t be able to stay much longer.”

  “I’ll do my best to keep any harm from coming to him,” Vandis promised, but he’d take Dingus with or without his mother’s permission. From him, Akeere got what She wanted.

  “But…he’s only a baby!” she sobbed.

  “Rhiada,” said the dark tulon, “babies don’t sprout hair inside their breeches.”

  Vandis crouched and summoned all his diplomacy. “Ma’am, if he stays here with you, a baby is all he’ll ever be. Is that really what you want for him? Let him come with me, and someday soon he’ll be a man.” The grandmother sniffled loudly.

  Rhiada sobbed afresh. “Who’ll muck out the chicken coop?”

  “You will. Now kiss your son good-bye,” said the tulon in a long-suffering voice. She clung to her son for a moment more, and then kissed the cleanest spot on his forehead. “Rhialle, take her home, please,” he said to the grandmother. She kissed the boy, too, and then straightened.

  “I was wrong,” she said. “Make sure he takes the swords. He’ll need them.” Then she led Dingus’s mother away down the hill. They leaned on each other as they went, weeping.

  “Women,” Vandis muttered when they’d gone, including the Lady in the assessment.

  The tulon shook his head. “They couldn’t bear to see him go. Come to that…” He crouched next to Vandis, sighed, and touched his fingertips to Dingus’s bleeding head. “Come to that, nor could I. Sixteen years is a blink to us, and we loved him the moment we laid eyes on him. Our loss is your gain, Sir Vail, and you won’t regret him.”

  “And they said he was a berserker.” Vandis rolled his eyes.

  “Well…” The tulon’s mouth curved in an inscrutable smile. “Dingus is a constant surprise to me, but that wouldn’t be a shock.”

  “So he is one.” Was everyone in this little place out of his mind?

  “I don’t know. It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Vandis sighed. “Tell me if I’m going to have problems with his father.”

  “If Angus Xavier’s spared a single thought for his wife and son, I should be very surprised indeed.”

  Shit! Warn a guy, why don’t You? “He’s legitimate, then?”

  The tulon’s face hardened. “I made sure of that.”

  “The Knights don’t care if he is or isn’t.” But old Marcus Xavier, warming his chair in Last Resort, would care like nobody’s business.

  “Rhialle and I…we haven’t mentioned it to him,” the tulon said, “but our Dingus is no by-blow. Angus even left him a gift.” He laid the matched pair of scimitars out on the sparse, matted grass, and Vandis let out a low whistle. Old Marcus would do a jig when he heard about this. Vandis had never seen them before, but he’d heard a story or two—and the stories didn’t do them justice. Three millennia hadn’t dulled their sheen. They gleamed like they’d been first polished yesterday, with a gentle curve of heart-stopping beauty on each, and plain hilts wrapped in fine black sharkskin. They were unadorned except for the tiny mark etched on each, the rune of the Bearded forge that had made them. Simple. Lethal.

  He got out his extra blanket to wrap them away from envious eyes.

  “He’s been taught to use them,” the tulon said, glancing around. “But he mustn’t, not here. You’ll have to carry them. If one thing would see him killed—”

  “I know the law.”

  The tulon stood. Vandis did, too, to clasp wrists with him, and added, “I’ll do my best by him.”

  “Oh, I’m certain you will, Sir Vail. And if you don’t, well, they don’t call me Voalt for nothing.”

  “Eagle Eye?” Vandis translated blankly, thinking, Whoa, that Eagle Eye? The Eagle Eye?

  Before he could ask, Voalt said, “Yes, I can see you have some hituleti. Good-bye, Sir Vail.” And off he went down the hill, toward the village. Vandis turned back to the unconscious boy, fists on hips, scowling.

  What did You get me into?

  Nothing you can’t handle, My own.

  Oh, sure. He’s only a half-blood noble scion with legends on both sides of his family. He might be a berserker, and to make it more fun for me, he’s about as inconspicuous as a dick in a women’s bathhouse. That hair! What is he, six foot, six-two? And he’ll grow yet! His father’s Angus the Red! He’ll be huge by the time I get done with him, and I’m supposed to feed him!

  I won’t be changing My mind.

  Vandis moved over to Dingus Xavier, pulling his handkerchief out from under his cloak and wetting it from his waterskin. I didn’t say You should, he told Her as he sponged blood off Dingus’s face. I’m just saying he’s going to be a six-foot pain in my ass.

  Go on wi’ y’! He’s a good laddie, and you’ll love him, I promise. I’ve chosen him out special.

  Picked him out for me, did you? He eased Dingus’s tunic off so he could bind up the boy’s ribs. Better safe than sorry.

  Well…

  Vandis set the boy’s tunic aside, then took hold of Dingus’s broken nose. He tugged it back into place as well as he could, but it might heal crooked. He hated to think this about a kid, but Dingus probably wasn’t much to look at even without the bruises. He had a fishbelly-white, concave chest and about ten miles of skinny leg.

  It’s more that
I’ve chosen you for him, She decided, making him jump. Look at him, My own. He needs you so badly.

  Vandis didn’t need to be told. His chest already ached with unaccustomed pity. He grimaced and rolled the kid onto his side so he wouldn’t pull blood into his lungs. You, he thought, are messing with me. Would You mind not screwing around in my heart?

  He got a sudden jab of pain in his right temple. I never would, Vandis Vail! You take that back!

  All right—I’m truly remorseful, my Lady—ow!

  See that you are, She said snippily. That would be against My own code, as you well know. Don’t blame Me for your poor wee feelings! Oh! The horror! That you should have compassion for a tormented lad!

  Oh, trust me, I feel for him, he thought, rubbing his skull. He stood up to lay a fire. You’re sticking him with me.

  She laughed. He scowled and went to the work of settling in for the night. So much for his holiday.

  Strange Machines

  Fort Rule, Muscoda

  There were always two. Two Aurelians, that was, Mendicant and Militant, preacher and warrior. St. Aurelius himself had decreed it should be so, many hundreds of years before, when he had written his Holy Rule: “Let no monk walk alone; instead, let there be at all times two, a Mendicant to minister to the people and a Militant to protect them; and let each guard the words and the heart of the other, so that they two may be more perfect than one. Let justice be tempered by mercy, and mercy be delivered by the strength of the arm.” There were no exceptions. There were always two, from the lowliest pair of novices to the loftiest heights of the Aurelian Security Prelates.

  Lech and Krakus had been together just that long and just that far, all the way up through the ranks. They were thrown together the first day; mostly, Krakus suspected, because they’d come in at about the same time. Krakus had made the long journey to the cloister outside Muscoda City because his parents couldn’t afford to feed him anymore. Lech had come because he had a calling. When they took the tonsure at sixteen, they became Brother Lech and Brother Krakus, and Father Lech and Father Krakus when they were selected for the Prelates. According to St. Aurelius’s original model, they were co-equal, but in practice, Krakus didn’t much care about any of it, especially since he and Lech had risen to the very top. “Like cream,” Lech would say, plucking at the white robes that had replaced his black habit—not that Lech would know much about cream. He followed the proscriptions of the Rule to the very letter, refusing to eat anything that came from an animal or to touch the sick, dying, or dead. He had a tendency to scowl disapprovingly at Krakus whenever Krakus wanted a bit of beef or a draught of wine.

  Then again, Lech scowled disapprovingly at nearly everything, and had for the past thirty years. Krakus couldn’t be sure, but he thought Lech even scowled at the fine weather this morning. He certainly spent enough time grimacing at the large, open window in their office. They sat at either end of their desk, Krakus on the right, Lech on the left. Lech’s end was covered in papers and scrolls and scriptures and ink. His drawers were stuffed with important seals, wax, and candles for melting it. Krakus’s end mostly held little toys to fidget with when he was bored, and his drawers were full of candy.

  All the shutters were open in the window-lined chamber, and the office, like the rest of their third-floor apartments, was full of light and air. A soft breeze blew over Krakus, who sat with his feet up, contentedly munching a cherry turnover as a midmorning snack. Lech sat at the other end of the desk, already in full, formal vestments, writing painstakingly away on Bright-Lady-knew-what. His tonsured head bobbed as he concentrated, one of those familiar mannerisms that always brought Krakus a sense of home. Nobody else would have dared to dress as Lech did, not around black ink. The Mendicant Head of the Aurelians wore snowy white wool robes that swathed him neck to ankle, with wide sleeves and embroidery in thread of gold. Lech never blotted himself.

  Krakus dressed in head-to-toe white himself, but it wasn’t time to go out yet, and so he wore tunic and breeches with his bleached leather sandals. He didn’t stuff himself into the enameled suit of plate until he absolutely had to. He shoved the last bit of turnover into his mouth and brushed the crumbs off the front of his tunic as Brother Feodor, the secretary, tapped on the door to alert them he meant to open it.

  “Doctor Droshky to see you, Fathers,” Feodor said in his papery, mournful voice.

  “Show him in,” Lech said, without looking up, and Krakus took his white sandals down from the desk. He picked up a little top and started to spin it, until Lech cleared his throat. Krakus rolled his eyes and set the top aside as Doctor Droshky hurried into the room with a weird device.

  Droshky was a chubby little fellow who’d never lost his puppy fat, but his gaze was as mad as a hungry weasel’s. When he came in, Krakus wished he’d put on the breastplate this morning after all. It would’ve been nice to have a barrier between his torso and those tiny, crazed eyes, and he carefully did not think of what Droshky got up to in Medical. He couldn’t abide the idea of Droshky’s raking through his guts with wild eyes and puffy fingers, trying to find what made him tick.

  “It’s finished, Father Lech,” Droshky said, without so much as a hello or a nod in Krakus’s direction, only a fleeting glance. Lech shuffled papers out of the way so Droshky could place his machine on that end of the desk; Krakus almost expected him to give it a tender pat.

  Lech shifted. His expression didn’t change much, but his posture tightened and Krakus read excitement from the set of his shoulders. He reached a hand toward the device, a bizarre item if Krakus had ever seen one: a plain board mounted with two metal posts. The posts had small axles thrust through them, and a small, polished stone wheel rested on each axle. The rocks—plain-looking things, with gleaming olive-green chips here and there—came from a certain field northwest of Fort Rule, a field with a great, cracked round of gray stone, constantly guarded, but never touched. Stretched between the posts was a silvery strand as thin as spider’s silk—and that was all Krakus understood of the machine, since he’d decided, the first time Droshky brought the idea to Lech, that it was something he didn’t want to hear, and had therefore stopped listening.

  Lech laid his fingertips on the whisper of silver. Those little stone wheels began to turn, inching themselves along, slow as anything, and Lech scowled up at Droshky. “When you said it was finished, I assumed you meant it would work properly.”

  “But it does,” Droshky whined. “Potential, Father, it measures potential. We here, at Fort Rule, are constantly exposed to the vapors of magic emitted by the Stone. I believe that the possibility exists, however small, that any one of us might develop certain gifts, exactly as the Special Units…”

  Krakus turned his face to the window and let the sound of Droshky’s voice trail off into a high droning at the back of his brain. He wondered, or tried to, what was for dinner that noon. He certainly didn’t want to think about the Stone. It did funny things, sometimes, not funny to laugh at: funny strange. It was guarded ’round the clock, yes, but the guards changed shifts every half hour, and even that didn’t always help. On a trip to Medical with Lech, Krakus had seen for himself the throbbing, nacreous growth removed from the brain of a dead guard: impossibly huge and—impossibly—making anyone who approached it think of cheese. The guard had had enough presence of mind to fall on his own sword. And then there were the children—

  “Krakus,” Lech said, probably for the fifth time, from the sound of him.

  “Eh?”

  “Do me the favor of touching the wire.” Lech pushed the little machine across the desk. Krakus leaned across and touched the silvery strand. His spine prickled with pins and needles; the wheels turned, no faster than they had for Lech, and he pulled his hand back. A shivering twitch ran through him.

  “Horrible,” he said. “Where’s the good in that?”

  “Father Krakus, if we can narrow the field, find people who might manifest extra-human power before it manifests, think how Muscoda’s rank
s will swell,” Droshky explained.

  “We—” Krakus began, meaning to ask, We already have enough, don’t we? But he knew the others wouldn’t agree, and it wasn’t in him to spoil such a fine day arguing with Lech and Droshky. He shook his head, lapsing into silence.

  Lech went on as if the interruption hadn’t happened. “Duplicates, Droshky. I want duplicates.”

  “Of course, Father, as soon as we can manage. A fortnight, perhaps, for the first. I’ll begin at once. With your permission?”

  “Very well, Doctor. Do send Brother Feodor to me on your way out.” Droshky left with a tight bow. When Feodor poked his head in the door, Lech said, “I want Yuri and Barna here on the double.”

  “Of course, Father Lech—right away,” Feodor said, and scuttled away again into the antechamber. Krakus rummaged in one of his drawers until he found a horehound stick, planted it in his cheek, and wandered down the stairs and across the yard to the kitchen so he could pester the cooks.

  Later, after a square dinner helped down the hatch with a few mugs of ale, Krakus returned to the third-floor apartments, to his own bedchamber. The office door was still shut, and he imagined Lech must be behind it, writing. Feodor worked in the anteroom, slotting papers into their appropriate cubbies in the massive, incomprehensible filing system on the wall. Brother Fillip already waited in Krakus’s chamber. He was Feodor’s Militant, and served Lech and Krakus as general dogsbody, cleaning the apartments and seeing to a thousand different chores that would’ve interfered with their high duties. In theory, Lech was meant to help Krakus array himself in the spectacular suit of plate that marked him as one of the Heads of the Order of Aurelius, but in practice, it was Fillip’s job.

  Krakus didn’t envy him. He didn’t complain, of course he didn’t, but he did go red in the face whenever he cinched Krakus’s buckles. “Time for a new one, don’t you think?” Krakus suggested, trying to suck it in and watching the young man turn purple with effort.

  Fillip did up the last buckle, struggling to make the tab slide through even the first hole in the strap. He propped his hands on his thighs and panted, “Yes, Father Krakus, I think so.”