Stillbright

by Daniel M Ford

  “Aye, I probably would. Let us say that I do so quite handily. How do the people feel about it?”

  Gideon thought for only a moment. “You seem a bully.”

  Allystaire smiled. “Indeed. Let us say, then, that in order to forestall resentment, I let their best wrestler throw me in the final match. What then?”

  “Unless you’re a fine mummer, they will probably know. And some will suspect no matter how well you act.”

  “Good,” Allystaire said, smiling again for just a moment. “Now, what if I were to simply lose early, against the first man I was pitted against?”

  “You’d look weak.”

  “Exactly. So, the lesson: if you want folk to follow you, you should share in their hardships and miseries; if they go hungry, you go hungry. If they are in danger, you are in danger. If they are wet, cold, marching or riding on no sleep—you must be those things as well. However, you cannot always share in their celebrations. If you get wine-sodden with them, sing bawdy songs with them, wrestle with them—you have too much to lose that way.”

  “You must be at a little remove,” Gideon said, grasping the concept. “I see.”

  “Aye. It does not mean you must think yourself better than them, and you certainly cannot say you are, or make them believe that you think you are, but you have to be able to maintain a distance. Not a large one, mayhap, but a distance nonetheless.” Makes it easier to ask them to die for you, too, Allystaire thought.

  “I suppose that makes it more possible to give unpleasant orders,” Gideon said.

  “Aye, lad, it does that, too.” Allystaire took another pull at the wineskin to hide his surprise at the way Gideon had echoed his thought. Then he handed it back to Gideon and surveyed the crowd. Folk were still lining up for Mol’s blessing, but the line had diminished. Some instruments had been produced: a drum, a flute, a set of pipes, and joyful music began to skirl and thrum outward. Hands clapped, feet stamped.

  “It is fitting, though,” Gideon said. “While they sing, and dance, while they labor and work, while they marry and raise children—this, this is what we will do, yes?” The boy lifted his eyes up to Allystaire. “Watch over them. So that those things—the working and the singing and all of it—may go on.”

  Allystaire smiled and felt a flush of pride—something he’d not felt in a long time. “Aye, Gideon. Out there, somewhere,” he said, flinging a hand vaguely in the air, “is war and darkness and sorcery. Here, today, is music and light, feasting and song.”

  “I like music,” Gideon said. “I always wanted to learn to play something. My master discouraged it.”

  Allystaire clapped the boy on the shoulder. He felt, suddenly, an impulse to embrace him, to wrap his arm around the thin shoulders and pull the boy against his side in avuncular affection. It surprised him, and he resisted it, settling instead for another clap and a gentle shove of the boy towards the crowd.

  “Go, Gideon. Join the music. Find a girl to dance with, if you like.”

  The boy nodded and started tentatively off. He didn’t get far before a gaggle of children, younger than him in the main, enveloped him. They were all shouted questions, Gideon’s careful, thoughtful answers being quickly overwhelmed.

  “And what about you? Going t’find a girl t’dance with?” Idgen Marte’s voice came from just a pace or so behind Allystaire’s ear, and he laughed.

  “I knew you were there, you know.”

  “Didn’t.” Idgen Marte protested, poking his shoulder with one finger. “Decent little speech, though. Good lesson for the boy to learn, even if you did just tell him to do the opposite of what you taught him.”

  “Let him be a boy for a day. It may be the only such day he has. We do not all need to stand a watch all at once.”

  “True. What’ll you do, then?”

  “Drink a little wine. Eat something.”

  “And watch.”

  “Aye, that too,” Allystaire admitted. Meanwhile, Gideon and the children who’d surrounded him had made their way to the flutist and the piper. The village children began a mad, foot-stomping dance. Only tentatively did Gideon try to imitate them, till two girls—both about his age—each seized one of his hands and began jumping with him in time, practically forcing him to keep up.

  They laughed, then, the Arm and the Shadow, and turned towards each other smiling, if only for a moment.

  “This can’t last forever, Ally. We’ll be in for a hard winter, I think. Bandits, the Baron, refugees—who knows what’ll come with the snows?”

  “Let winter do its worst,” he replied. “I will be waiting for it.”

  “We will be waiting for it,” she corrected.

  “Still behind me, no matter where that path leads?”

  “Always, no matter where. To the bitterest end, or the cruelest Cold,” she replied, her voice suddenly solemn and formal despite its rasp.

  He tilted his head, pursed his lips. “I think I have heard that before…”

  “Damn,” she cursed. “Was hopin’ you’d not notice. It’s from the cycles of Parthalian, part of the oath of his companions.” Idgen Marte turned away and coughed into her fist. “Awful, though, isn’t it?”

  Allystaire shrugged. “I would not know. I always liked hearing a story or a song, but I was never too well educated on the subject of music itself.”

  “You mean to tell me the lords here don’t bother learning music?”

  Allystaire shrugged. “We gesture at it. I recall a few lessons. In Oyrwyn, though, we have enemies on all sides. The tundra, and all its attendant horrors, to the north, Harlach to our east, Delondeur to the south. They do not leave much time for music.”

  “Attendant horrors?”

  “Elves. Gravekmir, Islandmen who have gotten mixed up with them.”

  “You’ve had elves in your borders, down off the tundra?”

  Allystaire shook his head. “Not in my lifetime, no. Before the last Rhidalish king died, they still made raids. And they are still there, or so we are told; it is not as though we signed any treaties. But the giants? We had occasion to see them.”

  “No wonder most northern song and poetry is dross. Everything is either a dirge or a call to arms.”

  “Well, what are we supposed to sing about if not war and death? Mud? Snow? Mountains?”

  “It’s not only what you sing about. It’s how you sing it,” Idgen Marte said. Allystaire pointed to the reeling dance on the Temple Field, to the mass of stamping feet, and the drummer, piper, and flutist at the edge of the whirling crowd, directing it all with a skirling melody and the increasingly fast strikes of wood on skin-drum. He said, “Which one is that, a dirge or a war-march?”

  Idgen Marte scowled at him and furrowed her brow. “It’s just one instance,” she finally, grudgingly admitted, her teeth practically clenched around the words. “It proves nothing.”

  “As you will,” Allystaire replied. “Why not go over there and show them how to turn it into a dirge, then?”

  Idgen Marte darkened, the mirth of the past few moments melting completely out of her features. “I don’t sing, or play any instruments.”

  “You seem to have a great deal to say about it,” Allystaire said, “for someone who does not engage in it herself.”

  She was silent for longer than Allystaire expected, bristling as her chin clenched. Finally, she wet her lips, spoke low and carefully, “I did, once. I still know all the songs, the cycles, the great stories. I can’t sing, anymore—not properly. I won’t sing any other way.” Almost unconsciously, her hand strayed to her neck, and Allystaire saw her calloused fingertips briefly stroke the scars that trailed down from the left corner of her mouth.

  She narrowed her eyes and put an edge to her voice. “If you tell anyone I said any of this, I’ll have your head.”

  He raised his hands, palms out. “I will spread no secrets, Idge
n Marte. You know me well enough to know that.”

  She snorted, and some of her casual insouciance seemed to take over her features once more. “It’s the form of the thing. Threat has to be made.” She looked towards the Temple steps, where the last few petitioners were waiting for Mol’s attention. “Speaking of form, seems like we have a ritual, now.”

  Allystaire sighed. “I suppose. I want—I wanted—to avoid all that. Forms, rituals, observances. That is where it all goes wrong.”

  She nodded her assent. “Even so, can any church survive without a ritual, if there’s more than a dozen folk involved? There have t’be rules, Allystaire. There have to be forms, or it’ll never hold together.”

  “And what happens when the form overtakes the meaning?”

  “You think Mol will let that happen?”

  “I think all of us will only be a part of this for so long,” he replied. “I want this to go on after us.”

  “Cold, man—we’re having our first ever feast day and you’re thinking of a legacy.”

  “Someone must,” he answered, “so that our first feast day is not also our last.”

  She was quiet a moment, then said, “You’re a hard man. I don’t mean in the bad way, the wrong way, just—you never stop. You never pause, never rest.”

  He shrugged. “I am who my father and the Old Baron made me. They did not much believe in rest.”

  “How much of what they taught you d’ya believe in anymore?”

  He considered a moment, crossing his arms over his chest. “Keep your weapons sharp. Scour any dirt off your armor the moment you see it. Plan as though your enemy is smarter than you and knows more. Sleep light. There is never a perfect course of action. Drink brandy when you can, wine when you cannot, and beer only at need. Only a fool claims to be fearless. In war, men will die, and nothing you can do will prevent that. Round towers are better to defend than square. It is better to force your enemy to react to you than to attempt to react to him.”

  Idgen Marte cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand. “Oh, for Cold’s sake, stop. They just shaped you into some kind of blunt instrument, didn’t they? War and nothing else.”

  “I learned politics, geography, history, hunting, riding—”

  “Yet not music, philosophy, art, theology…”

  “There are chapels to Fortune and Braech within Wind’s Jaw. There were priests. I dimly recall some lessons.”

  “How dimly?”

  “Well, the priest of Braech had fists of stone; I remember that. And the priestess of Fortune was shapely. And friendly,” he added, smiling at the memory. “That obscured any lasting theological insight she was trying to impart.”

  Idgen Marte snorted. “They usually are. Have you noticed, for all their talk about how their goddess spreads wealth among men, an awful lot of it seems to stick to their fingers?”

  “It was not her fingers I recall anything sticking to,” Allystaire admitted, then broke off in a curse as Idgen Marte’s fist landed solidly against his arm.

  “Enough,” Allystaire said. “How would it look if two of the Goddess’s own servants fell to blows?”

  “You’d never land one,” Idgen Marte sniffed.

  Allystaire waved a hand absentmindedly and looked back out at the revelers. “We have an awful lot of work to do, and we have no way of knowing how long we will be left alone to do it. We will have to make a start of it tomorrow.”

  “Fine. What d’ya need me to do?”

  “I would like to see a weapon count.”

  “And?”

  “Not just what arms are available. What can be made? What is lost in the rafters and hidden in the root cellars. Is there seasoned wood that can do for a bow, or arrows?”

  “Why me?”

  “You are more likely to get the answers than I am. Imagine what happens if the Arm of the Mother knocks on the door and says, ‘Evening goodman. I was wondering if you have a rusty sword around the place, or a spear out back holding up some vines.’ “

  “Someone’ll panic. Someone’ll lie, but it isn’t as though they can lie to you for long.”

  “I do not wish to employ the Mother’s Gift against someone who has no need to fear the truth,” Allystaire replied. “Yet they will fear. And if I do not hesitate to use that Gift for simple questions now, I may not hesitate in future. And where does that end?”

  Idgen Marte’s eyes widened. “The inquisition to end all inquisitions. How far ahead have you thought about these kinds of things?”

  “Not far enough. So, tomorrow, a weapon count, and an idea of what materials we have. I will speak to the Ravens and we will begin to talk about constructing defenses. I will need to make arrangements for those common stores I spoke of.”

  “You’ll have t’eat before you stand watch all night. Come on. Enough of planning and worrying and watching.” She stopped and peered at his face, squinting. “You’re never going to stop doing any of that, are you?”

  Allystaire shook his head. “No.”

  “Fine,” she murmured. “I’ll bring food.”

  Chapter 18

  A Vigil

  Just like any other night on watch, Allystaire told himself, as he stood at the door of the Temple. Still, he could feel and hear the presence and the music of the Goddess inside, as She spoke with Mol, and though it was muted and distant, it remained distinct. There was no sound as full of joy, no brush of sensation across readied nerves, that compared or even approached it.

  Makes it hard to concentrate, he thought, briefly sparing the time for a look at Gideon, to his left, who carried his staff and shivered beneath his too large cloak. Clearing his throat, Allystaire said, “Move around some. Stamp your feet, move your hands, roll your shoulders. It will help you warm up.”

  “I know that,” the boy said, almost sullenly. Quickly, though, his voice regained its typical calm poise. “I am more concerned with going sleepless. How do you do it without stimulants?”

  “Stimulants?”

  “Tea? There are certain herbal extracts that can be ingested—”

  Allystaire snorted. “No need for any of that. You decide you must do a thing. Then you do it.”

  “That is too simplistic,” Gideon protested.

  “Not in this case, my young philosopher. Nothing stands between us and maintaining our vigil but our own weak flesh. It is precisely as simple as deciding that the wants of the flesh do not outweigh the task.”

  “It still seems simplistic,” the boy noted. “Yet it seems to apply in this case. The mind is the master of the body.”

  “Aye. And it applies in almost every case, really. That was the most important lesson I was ever taught, and still the way I measure people. Someone says they will do a thing, they do it, or they do not.” Allystaire paused, then said, “Vigils are most often maintained in silence. However,” he added, “if you have questions, important questions that you must ask, I will answer. I doubt Torvul can stop himself from answering, so if you find yourself falling asleep, walk around the Temple to his post and speak with him. It will warm you, wake you, and satisfy your curiosity.”

  The boy nodded, and they once more fell into a companionable sort of silence. Allystaire rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve the pressure of his armor against his neck, but the relief was temporary. Always is, he noted. Don’t know why I bother.

  Allystaire made a slight “hmph” as he thought that over. Gideon turned to look at him but soon looked away. The point is to do something to alleviate it. The relief may be temporary, but for a moment, pain was diminished. That is worthwhile.

  He almost snorted at himself. Beginning to sound like the boy. All rhetoric and logic, and I am only arguing with myself.

  You’re arguing with the man you know you really are.

  “Were,” Allystaire said aloud, surprising himself and Gideon both. The boy turned
to him, eyes narrowing. “It is nothing, lad,” he murmured. “Just talking to myself.”

  “Do you do that often? It is sometimes a sign of—”

  “Yes, and it is not madness. Just a habit. When I speak something aloud, even if no one else is around, I seem to understand it better.”

  “This suggests that you are confused or unclear.”

  “Cold, boy, I am usually both of those.”

  Gideon paused. Allystaire could feel him composing a thought, or a question. “Yet the essence of leadership is decisiveness.”

  “A man may be confused, may not know the way forward, may not know the ground he walks, or even know the lay of his own mind—that does not mean he cannot make decisions based on what he does know.”

  “I suppose, yet it will probably be a poor decision.”

  “A poor decision made sooner based on poor understanding is often better than waiting for totally clear weather, perfect maps, and a bagful of the enemy’s dispatches—because if you hesitate, the day is lost.”

  “How can you act without hesitation if your own thinking is muddled?”

  “You do it because you must, lad,” Allystaire said. “Think back to our battle in the Thasryach. I could have stopped and demanded a thorough explanation of why you needed to get into that cave, and what you were going to do. I would have liked one, to be honest. What would have happened if I had stopped and insisted on it?”

  The boy nodded. “We would probably have been overwhelmed.”

  “It is a rule of leading people, Gideon. You may be confused, or afraid, or overwhelmed, or all three—those who depend on you must never see it. Or, as the Old Baron once put it to me, you absolutely cannot be pissing your pants when your men are expecting orders.”

  “No pants-pissing. I see.” Gideon’s voice was even but Allystaire couldn’t help the suspicion that the boy was laughing inside.