Deeds of Honor

by Elizabeth Moon

  "Take a bite of my supper will you?" Raki lounged against the wall, inspecting the roll. He had years and height, and the assurance of them.

  "Wasn't for you," said Selis. He moved his shoulders, wondering if the welts had opened again.

  "Should have been. You owe me." Raki took a small bite, watching him. Selis shifted his feet, wondering which way to go.

  "I couldn't come," he said.

  "Couldn't." Raki chuckled, an unpleasant sound. "That's what I heard. Jori said you squealed like a rabbit."

  "You knew—"

  "Isn't much I don't know. Eh, dark of three nights I was there myself. Not as good sport as some, that fighter."

  "Paladin," said Selis, before he thought. Raki's brows went up, changing the shape of his face in the torchlight.

  "Paladin," he said. "You say that like you meant it, Selis. Don't you know there is no such thing?"

  "I saw it," said Selis stubbornly.

  "Saw what?" Raki spat, just missing Selis's foot. "I saw a fighter shaved naked and trussed like a market pig for everyone to sport with. That's all I saw."

  "Did you see the end?"

  "And me a prentice with an afternoon shift? Of course not—I've been on the street since midday, earning my share. Just you wait, Selis, until you're on the street—then you'll learn—"

  "But Raki—"

  Raki glared at him. "Have you forgotten, little boy? You're nothing. That's the rule—as far as you and I are concerned, and the Master is concerned, you're nothing." Selis looked down. Raki was right; he had street duty, he had rank in the Guild. And no Guild child could argue with him, however close he was to his own apprenticeship. "That's better," he heard Raki say, then two quick strides and Raki gripped his shoulders, hard, intending to hurt. "And you listen, Selis who squeals like a rabbit: you'll always be nothing. I'll always be ahead of you—I'll always have the power, and you'll always serve me—little boy." He shoved Selis against the wall, until the smaller boy was gasping with pain, then released him with a hard push that sent him sprawling.

  For a long moment Selis crouched there in the shadow, shaking with both fear and anger. Raki hated him—had always hated him. Raki's father was dead, killed on Guild business; Raki had been reared by the Guild, a foster-child. Selis's father held rank enough: the richest fence in Vérella , with contacts from Valdaire to Rostvok. But Raki was bigger, older, and early skilled in those torments that give older boys dominance in any gang. Selis knew Raki was doing well as an apprentice thief; they all knew, when the lists were posted. And Selis, small even for his younger age—his stomach knotted when he thought of the years ahead.

  That made him think of food; he looked back toward Sim's stall, but the baker was already closed. He could not go home. The priests had forbidden it as part of his father's punishment—the punishment that fell on him, because they knew that was worse for his father. They had also forbidden an inn. He dared not spend the coins his father had palmed him, with their spies everywhere. He had to scavenge, they had said. With a sigh, he pushed himself up and started toward the great market. Perhaps someone had left scraps there.

  Selis had rarely been alone on the street after dark. Before Raki made apprentice, he had gone out with that group once or twice, and his father had taken him along to a tavern from time to time, but this was different. The noise of booted feet seemed loud, and the men and women larger. He heard the crash of arms down one street, and darted across it to another. Here it was darker, with fewer people. Selis slid along the wall, half-feeling his way. It grew colder. He shivered, wishing for the cloak the priests had taken from him. They had told him where he could sleep warm, whispering in his ear as he hung on the frame, but he would never go there. For one night he could survive on the street; he had been out before with the others. He wondered about the paladin. He had heard the talk—she was being given to another, to be killed outside the walls later—but how much later? If he was cold, in wool pants and tunic, she must be colder, stripped and shaved like that. The wind ruffled his thick mat of hair, and he shivered again.

  The great market, when he came to it, was a cold windy space lit spottily by windblown torches. No stalls showed, and the local brats had scavenged any dropped food long before. Selis sighed as he hunted along the edges, turning over bits of trash with his foot. His stomach growled, and his mouth felt dry. At the public fountain, a thin skim of ice slicked the stone margin. The icy water made his teeth ache. He looked up; nothing but thick darkness that smelled wet. The wind dropped again; he could hear footsteps in the distance, and a drunken voice singing. He moved around the fountain, looking for a place out of the moving air.

  He could still see the paladin in his mind, and he could see himself. Why had he squealed like that, before they even hit him? Someone had laughed, and others had joined them; he should have been silent. The paladin had been silent. When they first brought her in, everyone was: he had been breathless, waiting for the high gods to send a bolt of fire or something. And nothing had happened. He almost believed the priests, that nothing could happen, that only the Master had power. He believed it when they dragged him forward, and when they beat him, and nothing happened. He believed it when the paladin's torment went on and on, and nothing happened. He believed it until—he frowned, thinking of it—until he had gone forward himself, to spit on her and taste her blood, as the children must. Then he saw gentle gray eyes, a tired face drawn by pain but unafraid and—most strange to him—not angry. He had stared then, forgetting what to do, but the priest had tapped his sore back and reminded him. And so he had spit, and rubbed his finger along her bloody sides and tasted it, and she had looked at him, without anger or fear.

  How could that be? They were all frightened, all the rest: he was, and his father, and all the others in the hall, and the guards. Even the priests. But she was not frightened. She had been hurt—had cried out with pain, as he had—but not frightened. Nothing changed her mind. She had said, again and again, that the High Lord was real. That Gird Strongarm was real. That the Master was nothing before them. That thought made him twitch. It was dangerous. If he defied the Master, if he didn't believe, then they would hurt him as they hurt her. He curled into a ball, the taste of that blood filling his mouth. He felt nausea burn his throat. He had to believe. He had to obey, or else— But when he screwed his eyes shut, he saw her face. He heard her voice, somehow steady and clear despite the torments. Those gray eyes seemed to watch him.

  A booted foot tapped him sharply in the ribs, and he uncurled with a gasp. A watch officer, with four guards behind him.

  "What are you doing here, boy?"

  Selis fumbled for explanations. "I—I was sitting—"

  "You can't sleep here. Who are you?" "Selis Kemmrisson, sir." It was permitted to be polite to the watch, if unwise to be stopped by them.

  "Hmm. Your father's business?"

  "Merchant, sir."

  "And you're—ah—out on business?"

  "No, sir—I mean, yes—in a way—"

  "Runaway?"

  "No, sir."

  "Hmmph. It's no night for a youngster like you to be out playing pranks. Go home and stay in."

  Selis wanted to ask why, but knew better; he started across the square as if he knew where he was going.

  "And don't let me catch you hiding in someone's doorway, boy—" the man called after him. "—or I'll think you a fairspoken thief, that I will."

  Seli could not laugh at that, as Raki would have—but Raki wouldn't have been found curled up on the fountain step. Raki would have heard them coming and been hidden in shadow. He walked on, his legs aching now. He had gone out the west side, where he rarely wandered. At the first crossing, he would have turned back, but heard another patrol. As his heart steadied again, he wondered what it would be like to be without fear, like the paladin. He tried to imagine her with Raki, but in his mind no pictures took life. Yet Raki was brave; he never showed fear. From behind or above—Selis thought of Raki dropping on her with his
little dagger, the narrow blade allowed apprentices on duty. But again the picture caught no life; Raki was a shadow attacking a shadow, and both vanished in his mind.

  Ahead on the right a wide door let out a bar of light that striped the width of the street. Selis slowed, walking as quietly as he could. He was fairly close when he recognized the place: a Gird's grange, the one called Old Vérella. He stopped short, suddenly drenched in sweat. A shadow crossed the light, and a man stepped into the street, to set a burning torch in a bracket by the open door. Selis could see little of him but the shape: massive, in glinting mail. The man went inside, and returned with another torch, set on the other side of the door. Then he stood in the opening, and drew his sword, as if guarding the door against an invader. Selis looked around, and saw no one. When he glanced back, the man was looking his way; again Selis froze, looking down as he had been taught, lest his eyes catch the light. After a long moment he looked up. The doorway was empty, but a shadow marked the light as the man paced from side to side within.

  Selis leaned on the wall beside him. His heart hammered. He could not cross that bar of light, and behind—he turned, to see a torch-bearing squad of watchmen cross the street far behind him. He tucked his cold hands into his armpits, and crouched. He wished he was at home, tucked in the warm bed with his brother, safe behind that locked door. He imagined his mother's arms around him, the soothing salve she would spread on his back, the sweet asar she would brew for him. Something clanged, down the street; his head jerked up. When he looked, the watchmen were closer, but they turned a corner down a side alley and disappeared. He closed his eyes, but the vision of home would not return. Not in comfort, at least. He seemed to see his mother, frightened, wringing her hands and staring wide-eyed at his father, who held a scrap of bloodied cloak. He remembered all too clearly the changes in the last few years, the new lines in his father's face, the silent glances from one elder to another, that began with the first of the red priests holding ceremony in the old Guildhall underground.

  He looked up the street to see the grange door still pouring light onto the cobbles. It looked warm—but it couldn't be warm with the door open like that. He sighed, leaning back until his back hit the wall, then wincing. Blast that Raki—surely the welts had reopened! He couldn't feel his feet any more, and his teeth chattered. He thought of his uncle's tales of the north, of merchants dying in the snow when they fell asleep. With an effort he pushed himself upright, and stamped, nearly falling when one leg gave way. It was too cold to stay there, and he was hungry, and—he looked again at the grange door, with the shadow crossing and recrossing that light.

  What had she been like in armor? he wondered suddenly. He had thought of paladins as shining, brilliant like stars. Once he had seen one—or thought he had—and from the crowd's murmur it might have been. But in the priests' hands, she had been nothing much to see—except those eyes. And the steady voice, refusing them. And the wounds, at the end, healing without any aid he could see.

  He had moved enough to shiver again, dancing in place, but his breath was giving out. How had she insisted that Gird would help her, when she was helpless in their hands? How had she been taken? Had she fought at all? He knew the Marshals by reputation; no thief would fight one openly. Paladins fought even better, by the stories—how they captured her without a fight? He wished he could ask her. He wanted to know why she wasn't afraid, and why she hadn't been angry, fighting. He could not imagine that.

  The light drew his eyes, a broad yellow stripe. Across and across the shadow marched. He would be unafraid, whoever that was, man grown and bearing a sword, but she had had no sword. Yet she had been Girdish—she had said so. Gird the protector, she had said. Selis found himself halfway to the light before he realized it; his teeth chattered harder than ever. Gird the protector. But Gird had not protected her, not even from a scared boy like himself. He felt another wave of nausea at the thought of her blood in his mouth. How could he turn to Gird, if Gird would not protect her? But she had not been afraid. Had Gird taken her fear, and left her the rest? It might be worth that pain not to be afraid, even for a night.

  Quickly, giving himself no time to think, Selis threw himself forward, into the light, skidding to a halt just inside the door. Fear flooded his mind, clouding his eyes for a moment so that all he could discern was a huge shadowy shape looming over him, with light behind it. He opened his mouth to scream, but as in a nightmare no sound came. The shadow bent over him; he felt strong arms around him, lifting him gently.

  "Shhh," said a voice. "It's all right. You're safe here." He was shivering with cold and fright together; he felt tears burning his eyes, running hot on his cold cheeks. The man carried him easily, speaking to someone else, directions that Selis did not follow, being deaf to anything but his fear. Gradually it eased.

  He was warm. He was cradled in someone's lap, his legs dangling, and as his sobs died away, the man began to speak.

  "There, little lad—were you the frightened rabbit crouched by the wall earlier? Don't fear—what's made you fear Gird, of all saints? Here, now—" A hiss followed, as the man touched his back. "Ah, you're hurt. We'll ease that; let me help you with your tunic." Selis sat up, seeing blurrily through the last of his tears a freckled face under thinning red hair, pale blue eyes that met his steadily. He fumbled with the laces of his tunic; the man waited until he dragged it over his head, wincing at the pain.

  "I—I'm sorry—" he mumbled, not knowing what else to say. The man's face had stiffened, seeing his back. He saw the blue eyes turn cold.

  "Gird's arm, boy, who dealt those blows?" Selis shivered again, his fear returning. He could not answer, shaking his head helplessly when the man asked again. Then the man sighed. "I think I know—if that's not the mark of a crooked lash, I'm no Marshal. And why are you sorry, boy, unless you dealt such blows to another?"

  "I—" Selis bowed his head, fighting back another bout of sobs. "I'm afraid—"

  "I can see that." The Marshal moved, turning to call. "Kevis! Bring me some water, and bandages." He gathered Selis in his arms again. "We'll get you to bed, boy, and get these cleaned out. When did you eat last?"

  "I don't know—" The motion from chair to bed made him dizzy; the Marshal rolled him neatly onto his belly.

  "I expect you've more welts below—is it so?"

  "Yes, Mast—Marshal," said Seli.

  "Don't use that scum's name here," said the Marshal grimly. "I thought so—they weren't content with her, they had to take a child as well. Here, lift your hips. Damn them. You'll carry these marks for life, boy." Seli heard footsteps, another man's voice.

  "Anything else, Marshal?"

  "Food, Kevis. Who else is keeping vigil?"

  "Arbad, Rahel, and Arñe."

  "Good. I'll be with this boy awhile, until he's settled—"

  "That's—"

  "Liart's work, yes. By Gird's cudgel, we've a housecleaning to do in this place, yeoman marshal, and no regency council fop will stop us this time."

  "Aye. That's what I thought." The other man went away. Selis dared to look around; he was lying face down on a narrow bed against the wall of a small clean room. A dark blue robe hung on one peg, a swordbelt and sword on another. A low table and broad chair completed the furniture. On the table was a bowl of water and pile of cloth strips neatly rolled into bandages. The Marshal was dipping a cloth in water.

  "This will sting," he said, meeting Selis's eye. "I'm sorry for it, but evil deeds last longer than the doing." He began working on Selis's back; it felt worse than stinging to Selis. He bit his lip, and thought of the paladin. "These are inflamed," the Marshal went on. "How long ago were you beaten?"

  "Four days," said Selis, in a jerky voice. "I—I think it was four days."

  "Hmmph. And you've been lurking the streets since?"

  "No—Marshal. I—ouch!" He clenched his fists; the Marshal seemed to be digging into one of the welts with his fingers.

  "Sorry, lad. This one was going bad; full of pus.
It has to come out."

  "It—didn't—feel like—that before—" Selis had buried his face in the blanket.

  "I know. The ones that go bad quit hurting for a time. Those damned hooks they use dig in and make a deep place for wound fever to grow." By the time the Marshal finished, Selis was shaking again, trying not to cry aloud, with a mouth full of blanket. "That's all," the Marshal said finally. "They're all clean—and plenty of salve on them—shouldn't go bad now." His hand on the back of Selis's head was gentle and warm. "You're a brave lad, to be so quiet—a beating is bad enough; I know this hurt."

  Selis looked up in surprise. "Me? I'm not brave—"

  A chuckle surprised him further. "You've enough experience to judge? I would hope you did not." The other man reappeared, carrying a deep bowl and a pitcher. The Marshal nodded, and he withdrew. "Eat a little, if you can, and drink all of this. You may be fevered; don't eat more than you want." While Selis ate a few mouthfuls of beans, and sipped the bitter drink, the Marshal fingered his clothes. "These aren't beggar's clothes," he said finally. "Are they yours?"

  "Yes, Mas—Marshal."

  "Good cloth. Were you stolen away?"

  "N-no, Marshal."

  "No?" The Marshal's eyes glittered in the candlelight.

  "Your family consented to this?" His gesture included Selis's wounds and his hiding in the streets.

  "It—they—" Selis shook his head, near tears once more.

  "They were afraid too," said the Marshal, without hint of question.

  "Yes, sir," said Selis.