Sorrowing Vengeance

by David C. Smith

  The master of the house and a number of his guests, who were seated at tables in the front room, rose and pushed against one another to get a glimpse of Adred and Rhia as they were led outside to a waiting cart. It was an ordinary farm cart, its bed covered with damp old straw, its walls reinforced with metal spikes.

  The young private helped Rhia inside, then climbed in after her. Jumping up awkwardly, Adred followed them. The sergeant double-checked his manacles, then told him to get toward the front of the cart.

  As the sergeant turned toward his horse, Adred asked him, “What would you do—I want to ask you this, officer. What would you do if your son found out that the city patrol was rotten and completely corrupt, and he tried to tell you about it, and you got offended and didn’t want to hear that sort of talk? But he knew the city patrol was corrupt, and so he and his friends started planning to get rid of it and started a new kind of city patrol. What would you say to that?”

  The sergeant grinned and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I don’t know. My son wouldn’t ever do a thing like that because he does what he’s told. And there’s nothing wrong with the city patrol in this town, young man.”

  Adred frowned and watched him walk to his horse, mount it, and wave the cart forward. It rolled to life, and Adred struggled toward the front and crouched beside Rhia.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  General Vardorian believed that that person serves his country best who puts his nation’s interests before his own. Vardorian was even-tempered, prudent, practical; he had risen through the ranks and gained command of the Third Legion West, not by sycophancy or through reckless heroism in combat, but by patiently applying whatever tools he had available to whichever tasks were to be done. And while the ordinary Athadian citizen had never heard Vardorian’s name, the general was regarded with respect by all who knew him, within the Imperial Army as well as in the corridors of government in Athad.

  It seemed appropriate to Vardorian, then, that—given his skills and his temperament—his truest test as a leader should come, not from ordering men onto a battlefield, but in taking charge of a delicate situation in which divergent, antagonistic elements needed to be brought to some sort of mutual acceptance or balance. When his close friend Colonel First Grade Lutouk had resigned his commission in Sulos following the Shemtu Square Rebellion, Vardorian had learned from him the facts regarding the situation of the revolt as it had developed. Therefore, Vardorian was fully prepared when he received his orders from King Elad to undertake, following the murder of Governor Jakovas, the position of Acting-governor of the city of Sulos in the province of Kendia. It was Vardorian who, moving his regiments into the city, arranged for the rebuilding of Sulos. And it was Vardorian who had taken the initial steps to calm the tempers that still ran high in Sulos: he had ordered that martial control of the city be lifted in thirty days, as well as all bans, curfews, and restrictions, if the populace of Sulos would keep the public peace.

  His rational political gesture had accomplished much. Where Lord Uthis in Bessara to the south had imposed an iron fist upon his city in an attempt to curb seditionist anger, Vardorian’s policy had led to more than two months of calm in Sulos. Vardorian had made it his business to visit the taverns and halls of Sulos to speak with the people—both the working people and the aristocrats and business gentry. “You may kill a man who has an idea,” Vardorian said time and again, “but that doesn’t mean you’ve killed the idea”—a sentiment that became common throughout Sulos. It was an astonishingly moderate attitude for a man who owed his rank and authority to a throne that had so far shown, contrarily, little lenience and less patience.

  General Vardorian also commenced sending letters and recommendations regularly to King Elad in Athad; and it was his voice, as much as Count Adred’s and those of a handful of other responsible aristocrats, that led Elad to begin considering the revolutionary ideals in a more open frame of mind. The assassination attempt against the king had given Vardorian much to fear: he suspected that the hot tempers he had tried so hard to keep in check would surface again. But while this had happened in Bessara, in the capital, and in other cities, Sulos itself passed through the crisis in relative calm. And in the months that followed, it seemed that calm would prevail.

  Acting-governor General Vardorian was surprised and saddened, therefore, to have a report brought to him on the morning of the first of Sath that indicated that farmers in the northeastern crop district along the swollen Dims River had blockaded the roads leading into the vicinity and, in an alterca­tion, had taken the lives of two young businessmen representing the House of Lodul, a food processing and distributing company based in Sulos.

  “Why are they doing this?” Vardorian asked his city ministers that morning over breakfast.

  “The revolutionaries,” one of his officials explained, “have convinced the farmers that they’re being underpaid for the grain they grow and that the great profits the Loduli make should properly be shared by their workers or distributed to help the underprivileged. The growers get three silvers a bin; Lodul packages the flour or bakes it into bread and charges three ieds or more a bin. It costs Lodul nowhere near that much to turn grain into bread. Therefore, the revolutionaries and the farmers claim they’re being taken advan­tage of.”

  “They are,” Vardorian agreed, ignoring the shocked looks he received. “But matters will hardly improve if we resort to violence. I assume that the Loduli will lose a great amount of money if crops are not planted within the next few weeks. Well, then. These representatives of the House of Lodul—they were insured by their employers, weren’t they, against…accidental death?”

  “I believe so, General Vardorian. The Loduli did business with the throne, and so naturally they were obliged to buy insurance for—”

  “Yes, yes, I understand.” After a moment, he made a practical decision. “Tell these farmers that if they remove their blockade and do as they have agreed to do with the House of Lodul, I will begin an investigation into the matter. They will hear from me within the month. Their families, as well as others, need that grain, no matter whose business ultimately claims to own it.”

  “Yes, General Vardorian.”

  “But we’re going to have to send a company out there to supervise the blockade’s dismantling and protect the lives of these busi­nessmen. Send Captain Lutho to me; I’ll dispatch the Tenth Company.”

  “Yes, General.”

  “And…get me a scribe. I have to notify the throne of this.”

  * * * *

  It was Lord Abgarthis who received the report from Acting-governor Vardorian; and in the box full of dispatches, contracts, and other official documents with which Vardorian’s report had been shipped (and which Abgarthis routed to different offices of the bureaucracy) was a long scroll from the offices of Lord Uthis of Bessara listing the most recent political arrests in that city.

  Abgarthis, who had been scanning these lists from Bessara and other northern cities for months, found his patience rewarded at last.

  …20: Helud dos Helud, public involvement with Lord so-Dulis. S Grem 1879 DP;

  21: Viran dos Semdasian, complicity with seditionists;

  22: Adred dos Diran, akod, complicity with seditionists;

  23: Rhia des unknown, companion of 22, complicity with sedi­tionists;

  24: Nolos dos Avurru, threatening political assassina­tion, threatening man of the Patrol with a weapon; public drunkenness and disorder; killing the pet monkey of.…

  Adred!

  He smiled hugely to see that name. Still alive, then—thank the gods! Abgarthis had realized too late that he should never have let the young man leave the capital. He was bound to get himself into trouble; but now that he was safely tucked away in Uthis’s prison—

  Well, in a day or two, Abgarthis’s letter would reach him, and the royal seal in itself would be persuasive enough to induce Lord Uthis to return the radical to Athad.

  Abgarthis set aside the list and began
sorting through the other documents and scrolls. When he read the report from Lord Vardorian, his mood came under a shadow. Sulos had been quiet for months; if the revolutionaries meant to—

  Gods!

  Abgarthis, stunned, rose from his desk, walked from his chair, and paced quickly as a bold plan opened to him. The brilliance of it excited him; but he carefully played out each step as he considered its possible ramifications.

  He poured himself a cup of sweet wine, sat again at his desk, and stared at the documents. He placed Uthis’s list of political prisoners on his left, Vardorian’s report of the farmers’ blockade on his right. He glanced from one to the other and slowly sipped his wine. Bessara…to Sulos.…

  Abgarthis took down a sheet of parchment from one of the desk shelves, uncapped a reed pen and unstoppered a gourd of ink, and began to write.

  * * * *

  Early that afternoon, following the midday meal, Lord Abgar­this made his way into the palace eastern gardens, where King Elad was sitting with Queen Salia, taking sun and fresh air. Lord Abgarthis was pleased to see Elad outside. It gladdened his heart further to find the king and his wife, this afternoon, enjoying one another’s company. Salia was holding Elad’s hand and whispering things to him to make him smile.

  The king made to rise as Abgarthis approached, but his minister gestured for him to remain where he was.

  “I am glad to see you taking exercise, your crown. Queen Salia, you complement nature with your beauty.”

  “Thank you, Lord Abgarthis.”

  “You’re in a good mood,” Elad observed.

  “I am indeed.”

  “We’ve had response to my announcement?”

  “None as of yet, King Elad.”

  “Well, Council is planning to undo it, I’m sure. What have we there?” He meant the papers his minister had brought with him.

  “Dispatches from the north. Some of these require your attention.”

  Elad frowned. “News from the north puts you in a good mood? Then we have a new north. The world’s changed overnight.”

  “Alas, no. We have a serious dispatch from Sulos and…important news from Bessara. I have the idea that much benefit could come of these events.”

  Elad extended a hand, and Abgarthis passed the documents to him.

  “This top one is a report from General Vardorian in Sulos. Next is a list of political arrests recently made in Bessara. Following that—something of my own.”

  Elad read the papers in the order Abgarthis had handed them to him. When he had finished the dispatch from Vardorian, he cursed quietly. “No, the world has not changed.”

  “Continue, please.”

  Elad read the second parchment. “So…our Count Adred has finally been netted. Well, they won’t behead him; he can thank me for that. Was it your agents found him?”

  “Actually, no. Uthis may be more capable than I thought. Now, please read what I have done, King Elad—this one. With your permission, I’m going to send it to Bessara this evening.”

  Elad read.

  Abgarthis leaned on his walking stick and smiled to Queen Salia. He enjoyed the beauty of the garden and glanced down the walkway at the tall, armored Khamar who stood guard beside a fountain.

  “Are you serious?” Elad asked when he’d finished. His tone was critical.

  “Absolutely,” Abgarthis replied. “I leave Adred no choice—but I do it in the most civil way possible. He will agree to this.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Abgarthis nodded succinctly and smiled.

  Elad considered the plan as Salia glanced at what the minister had written.

  After a moment: “Very well,” the king allowed. “Send it, with my seal. And if Adred does as you’ve asked him to do…well, I’ll cancel the report of his arrest and return his bank holdings and property to him. But don’t tell him that.”

  “It wouldn’t do any good to bribe him, in any event,” Abgarthis smiled. “But to convince him? That is an achievement. The man is no fool.”

  “And neither are you, Abgarthis.”

  “Your crown, your praise is generous. If the queen and your throne will excuse me?”

  Abgarthis turned and hurried from the garden.

  * * * *

  Three days later, Lord Uthis received a Khamar in the main office of his palace. The envoy handed him orders from the king. The governor read, and scowled.

  “I am not in the habit of bending my knee to prisoners of the empire.”

  “Bending of the knees is not a requirement,” the Khamar told him. “However, King Elad has ordered immediate action be taken.”

  Uthis scowled more deeply. He was lord in his city and as powerful as any man might be within his own domain, but even this palace guard, a soldier, had more political strength, at this hour, than did Uthis himself. It was humiliating.

  The governor pushed back his chair and stood away from his desk. “This is a mistake on the king’s part,” he grumbled. But he led the way downstairs, to the first floor of his palace and still farther down, two stories underground, where the holding cells were. Winding stone stairs led through damp corridors; soldiers slapped their chests respectfully and unlocked heavy iron doors; and the Khamar followed Lord Uthis every step of the way to cell number 132, where Count Adred was housed with three other revolutionaries. A young soldier who held the ring of keys for the cells waited on the governor.

  “Open it,” Uthis ordered the recruit.

  The young soldier, in awe of both his commander and an official representative of the throne, did as requested, fumbling nervously with his keys until finding the right wedge to release the lock.

  As soon as the door swung back, two of the prisoners rose and stepped forward. The Khamar, reacting with ingrained discipline, had his longsword out in the space of a breath. The young jailer, astonished at the guard’s fleetness, moved aside and lowered his right hand to his own sword pommel—in the event that trouble developed and the Khamar needed assistance.

  “Count Adred!” Uthis bawled. “Step out here!”

  The two prisoners who blocked the opening carefully stepped away as Adred moved ahead into the corridor. His clothes were rumpled, his hair tousled, his beard flecked with straw and dirt. He regarded the Khamar uncertainly, then shot a look of mistrust at Lord Uthis.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Uthis ordered the jailer, “Close the door. Now!”

  The young recruit did so; the Khamar sheathed his sword, then pulled from his belt a wooden tube holding Abgarthis’s rolled message. He handed it to Adred.

  “Lord Abgarthis asked me to have you read this the moment I met you. I’m to be your escort.”

  Adred accepted the container and squinted at Uthis. “Is this some kind of trick?”

  “I wish it were, you damned red.”

  “I am under orders from the throne, Count Adred,” the Khamar assured him.

  “First they knock you down,” Adred muttered, extracting the scroll and unrolling the paper, “then they help you up, just so they can…knock you down.…” He fell quiet as he read. “Name of the gods.” He looked at the Khamar. “Do you know what this says?”

  “I do. I’m under orders to assist you in fulfilling King Elad’s dictate. If you decline to do so—”

  “What is it, Adred?” one of the prisoners called to him.

  “Shut up, you!” growled Uthis.

  “You can’t hurt me!” was the angry response from the cell.

  “I can’t kill you, you damned radical, but I’ll sure as hell make you bleed!”

  The letter trembled in Adred’s hands as he reread it. “He wants me to—betray my friends?” he whispered.

  “The decision is yours entirely, Count Adred,” the Khamar told him. “But I don’t believe Lord Abgarthis means for you to betray anyone; he wishes only the best for the empire.”

  Uthis said, “I can tell him what’s best for the empire!”

  Adred folded the parchment and tucked it i
nside his vest. “I’ll do it,” he agreed, “on one condition.”

  “Count Adred, King Elad’s terms are unconditional.”

  Turning to Uthis, Adred demanded, “I want Rhia freed as well. She goes with me.”

  Uthis laughed in his face. “Never! Back inside with you, ‘Count’ Adred!”

  “King Elad,” affirmed the Khamar, “made reference only to yourself, sir.”

  “Very well,” Adred agreed. “But you’ll have to return to him empty-handed, and you’ll have to explain why I refused to go along with this. Because I’m willing to do as Elad and Abgarthis ask—only I want Rhia to come with me. She’s no more guilty than I am. You know Abgarthis, officer. You tell me—wouldn’t he be willing to agree to this? What do you think his reaction would be?”

  Uthis interposed, “I suspect his answer would be to lock you up again, my friend, so back in you go. You’re a political prisoner.”

  “Lord Abgarthis,” said the Khamar, “makes it a point to work with people, not against them. Were the conditions of this—Rhia’s—arrest,” he asked Uthis, “the same as Count Adred’s?”

  Lord Uthis had to admit that they were.

  “Then I suggest,” allowed the Khamar, “that, under the circumstances, we allow Count Adred this privilege and get on with the throne’s business.”

  “It’ll be your responsibility!” Uthis angrily told the guard. “Your responsibility! Does Elad intend to free every damned radical in his kingdom, now?”

  “She’s my responsibility,” Adred told the Khamar in a quiet voice. “I’ll speak to Lord Abgarthis.”

  The Khamar nodded.

  Uthis threw his hands behind his back and rocked on his feet for a moment, ground his teeth together, then told the jailer, “Cell 127. Down there.”

  The recruit began fishing through his key ring as he moved down the corridor. The others followed him. When he unlocked the cell door and pulled it open, women’s voices called out in surprise.

  “Rhia?” Adred asked.

  “Yes?” She stepped to the opening.