The Three Lands Omnibus Part 10

Carle's face grew as dark as the Jackal's face. "Of course it matters!" he said in a voice that might as well have been a shout, though both of us had been speaking softly all this while. "I disobeyed my army official. My crime is greater than yours, since you owed no duty to Fowler."

"No, I mean- I only meant that I've done things wrong before too. Gone against my duty."

Something melted in Carle's spine. He reached forward for his flask, though his gaze remained upon me. "You mean your broken blood vow?" he said. "Would you like to tell me about that?"

I did, very much a that is to say, I had wanted for days now to ask another person's opinion of what I had done. If I had still owed any duty to the G.o.ds, I would have sought out a priest before this. Still I hesitated, not wishing to bore a stranger with my life's troubles.

In the end, I gave him the minimum he needed to understand my tale: my friendship with Fenton, Hamar's death, the blood feud, Fenton's death, my father and the blood vow, and finally, my moment of revelation concerning the G.o.ds. By the time I was through, the fire-logs had settled lower in their bed, and Carle had his legs spread out upon the floor.

He was silent for a while after I finished, and I felt a tightness in my chest, wondering how he regarded the revelation of how far my dishonor extended. His gaze remained fixed on his flask, untouched for some time, and then rose to meet mine. "I was thinking about Fenton," he said. "He was a good man; he didn't deserve to die that way."

"Well, yes ..." I stopped, bewildered. Something deeper than sympathy for a stranger's death was etched into the lines of Carle's face.

He started to raise the flask to his lips, then abandoned it, saying softly, "Fenton was my father's slave. I'm the boy that Fenton told you about, the one who helped him escape." He took hold of the flask again, but did not raise it. "The lieutenant is Quentin, the other boy Fenton mentioned ... though I don't advise you to call the lieutenant by his name. He comes from a long line of patrol guards named Quentin, and I don't think he likes to be reminded of his heritage."

"But ..." My bewilderment had reached its peak; I had forgotten, now, the fire burning my back. "But Fenton said that his master's son lost his opportunity to join the patrol."

Carle shrugged. "The patrol is more forgiving than its reputation suggests; you've witnessed that for yourself. Of course, it helped that Quentin was willing to speak on my behalf."

I stared at Carle. His body was being licked by the flicker of the fire, turning his skin golden and highlighting the copper in his hair. There was a watchfulness to his eyes I had not noticed before, a patience that I guessed had been hard learned. I felt a shiver join the pain along my back as I remembered where I had seen that watchfulness last. I ought to have noticed before his resemblance to Fenton.

"But-" My voice staggered to a halt.

"Yes?" Carle turned his gaze toward the men around us. One of them murmured in his sleep, while another snored softly. At the front of the hut, the door was open a crack, and the smoke was edging through it.

"It seems so odd, you helping Fenton to escape to Koretia, then Fenton helping me escape to Emor, and us meeting this way ..."

Carle shrugged, picking up his flask and running his fingers along the leather. "It's not so strange if you think about it. The patrol is the key in both cases. I was able to help Fenton escape because I wished to join the patrol, so I'd memorized the patrol whistles. You were nearly able to pa.s.s the patrol because of the patrol whistles I'd taught Fenton. It's just a coincidence." His gaze returned home to me. "I hope you're not going to say that it was the will of the G.o.ds that we met."

His brows were drawn low now; I wondered whether this was what lay behind his watchfulness. "I'm not a servant of the G.o.ds any more," I said quickly, as though that answered his question.

Carle nodded. His gaze fell to his flask, and he began tracing its outline once more. After a while, he said, "So ... you've refused to murder an old friend, which means that your family believes that you've been cursed by the G.o.ds. If your family finds you, they'll murder you in order to please their G.o.ds. That's what it comes down to in the end?"

It was odd, hearing him describe my dilemma that way. Having witnessed for myself how the Chara's law worked, I could see now how the workings of the G.o.ds' law would appear to an Emorian, yet dimly I felt that Carle wasn't being entirely fair to the Koretian perspective on what I had done.

My hesitation must have seemed like unwillingness to speak of the shadow of my fate, for Carle didn't await an answer, but instead added, "So you're emigrating to Emor, both to escape your family and to live in a land where blood feuds are forbidden."

"Yes," I said, relieved that Carle understood. "I want to live under the Chara's law. The lieutenant ... Quentin ... he hasn't changed his mind about letting me enter Emor, has he?"

Carle shook his head, his gaze still carefully fixed on the flask. "Have you decided what you'll do there?"

"Find out more about the law," I said promptly.

The side of Carle's mouth twitched slightly. "I meant, have you decided what sort of work you'll take up? Are you trained for a trade?"

"No," I said, "not really." This was a matter that had begun to worry me in the day before I met the patrol. Absorbed as I had been by Fenton's tutoring, and confident that my family would continue to support me once I came of age, I had thought that there was no great rush in deciding upon my life's work. Then, with Hamar's death, it had seemed that the matter was decided for me. Now I was beginning to realize, with a chill, that I was in a position frightening for a young man of my age: I had no special skills, nor any money by which to apprentice myself. Could I perhaps work the fields, doing some lowly manual labor? And if so, would that leave me enough time to learn about the law? For my experiences at my trial had only whetted my appet.i.te to learn more, and I was rapidly realizing that my need for food to feed my body was less than my need for the law to fill my spirit.

"We've been talking about you while you were asleep."

I looked up, startled out of my silence, to find that Carle's gaze was now speared upon me. He must have read the confusion in my expression, for he added patiently, "The patrol. We've been discussing you. Disagreeing about you."

"Oh?" I said faintly, unsure what this disagreement signified. Could it be that Lieutenant Quentin did not have the power alone to allow me to enter Koretia? Did the whole patrol have to vote on the matter?

"Yes." Carle's gaze rose up toward the rafters, where the smoke was rising. "We can't agree, you see, on your character. The majority of the guards are most impressed by your skill with a dagger, and by the way in which you almost managed to fool us. They say that your character is shown by your boldness and your determination. Quentin, though, disagrees; he thinks that your character is best shown by your behavior during your trial. He says that he has never before placed on trial a prisoner who showed so much honesty and so much thirst for knowledge of the law. As for myself- Well, you can guess what impressed me most."

He paused, and I wondered whether I was coming down with a fever; my skin had turned as hot as an oven. With his eyes still tilted up toward the dark ceiling, Carle concluded, "Though we can't agree on whether you're most distinguished in honor by your resolve or your love of the law or your courage, we're all agreed about one thing: that you should be offered the opportunity to join the patrol."

"The patrol?" My voice, which was still in the process of taking on manly tones, squeaked as I spoke, causing the guard nearest me to sigh and turn over. I lowered my voice and said, "But how could I-? I mean, I attacked a patrol guard- Surely it can't be that easy to join the patrol."

"Oh, it's not." My reaction had evidently rea.s.sured Carle, for he looked back down at me and sipped from his flask. I could see a spark of amus.e.m.e.nt in his eyes. "The Chara's border mountain patrol receives more applications for entrance than any other unit in the Emorian army; even though nine out of ten of the applications are rejected immediately, we still make it hard for qualified candidates to be accepted. For one thing, youthful vigor is needed for this sort of work, so all applicants must be between their sixteenth and seventeenth birthdays. You're qualified that way, aren't you?"

Something in his expression told me that he was hoping I would lie if I wasn't. "I am," I a.s.sured him. "The day Hamar was killed a that was my coming-of-age day, my sixteenth birthday."

Carle nodded. "You need to be skilled with your blade. Well, Fowler can give witness that you are qualified in that respect. You need to speak Common Koretian and be familiar with Koretian customs; that eliminates most of our candidates, but of course that isn't a problem for you. You even know the Border Koretian dialect, which few Emorians do. You need to be the sort of man who would show supreme loyalty to the Chara-" He stopped, reading something in my face, and said in a softer voice, "That's not something any of us can judge for ourselves. Quentin says you're qualified in that respect, and he's the best judge of men I know... . There are several dozen more qualifications, but I'll save time by saying that you qualify in all of the ways that matter. The question is ..." He placed his flask on the floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "The question is whether you would want to join the patrol."

I suppose that my face must have been expressive, for Carle chuckled lightly. "I don't want to leave you with the impression that the border mountain patrol is like a light game of Hunter and Hunted."

I had no idea what he was talking about, but feared showing my ignorance, so I simply said, "I realize that the consequences for dealing poorly with a border-breacher can be deadly."

"Well, yes." For a moment, there was a twist to Carle's mouth that made my breath catch within my throat; then Carle turned, threw back onto the fire a branch that had slid off a we were that close to the flames a and said, "But the danger doesn't just come from the breachers. Adrian, the border mountain patrol is the oldest army unit in the world. Our origins go right back to the earliest days of Emor. So we have traditions, and we have a reputation to uphold. As a result, you're not going to find it easy to accept the strictness of the patrol's discipline. Quite frankly, even I find it a trial sometimes, and I'm as pure-blooded an Emorian as any man can be."

I was so stung by this implication that I lacked the necessary blood to be a patrol soldier that I said, without thinking, "There are no pure-blooded people in the Great Peninsula, other than in Emor's dominions. All of us share blood, right back to ancient times."

Carle lay down on the floor then and laughed. His laughter was quiet, and breathy, and a little sad. "Oh, my," he said finally, sitting up and brushing dust out of his hair. "It has been eleven years since I heard Fenton speak those words. How that brings back memories... . He was right, of course. I hear tale that some of the men in the Dominion of Marcadia set great store by the pureness of their family's blood, but there's less of that nonsense down in Southern Emor. Oh, I won't say that you'll be entirely free of taunts about your skin color or your accent or any number of other things. But it's not as bad as it would be in the dominions, where whether your hair is white or merely light blond really does make a difference in your standings among other people."

"I expect," I said, comforted by Carle's words, "that the dominion dwellers don't have a borderland to remind them of the old days."

Still brushing dust out of his hair, Carle said, "I meandered from the subject. What was I speaking of again?"

"Discipline," I replied. And then I added on impulse: "The patrol's law."

From the flash of the smile that Carle gave me, I knew that I had provided the right response. He began to talk then about the Law of the Border Mountain Patrol a of how, being isolated from the rest of Southern Emor, the patrol has the high honor of serving, not only as a unit of capture and discipline, but also as a court. The lieutenant holds the same role in the patrol as the Chara does in the empire, and the lieutenant's men serve like the Chara's council. Indeed, the lieutenant is required by law to formally consult with his men on matters of severe discipline of a patrol guard, before pa.s.sing sentence.

"But the lieutenant tries to keep matters from reaching the point where he must place high discipline upon a soldier." Carle fiddled with his wine flask; he hadn't drunk from it since our conversation grew more serious. "I'll give you an example. There's a certain soldier in the unit; I won't give his name-" He stopped, smiled, and said, "No, I will. If you're joining us, you need to know such matters. Chatwin just became a member of the unit this summer a he's our newest member a and on his first hunt, he balked at an order that the lieutenant gave him that would have placed him in danger. Sheer nerves; all of us undergo this at some time or another. But that left the lieutenant with a difficult choice: he could beat Chatwin for his disobedience, or he could rebuke him."

So absorbed had I become in Carle's tales that I had nearly forgotten the bodily pain that weighed me down, like a heavy blanket. Now it came upon me again, and it was a moment before I could find the strength to say, "A rebuke doesn't sound like much of a punishment."

Carle emitted his soft chuckle. "You've never been rebuked by the lieutenant. But yes, it was the lesser punishment ... in a way. In a way, Not. For the army laws say that, if a soldier is rebuked and then commits the same crime again a in this case, blatant disobedience to orders a he must receive the highest possible punishment for his crime. Otherwise, you see, the lieutenant has more flexibility in choosing how high a sentence to give to a prisoner he is trying."

He was trying to avoid my eye now, which made me smile. "That's all forgotten. You've had your rebuke from the lieutenant; I'm not going to give you another one."

My voice must have sounded firm, for the look Carle gave me then was a mixture of amus.e.m.e.nt and respect. "I was wondering when that diffidence of yours would begin to peel away."

"Oh. Well." I sc.r.a.ped at the dirt floor with my fingernail, suddenly shy again. "It's proper for me to be diffident, isn't it? If I'm to join the patrol, I'll be the lowest-ranked member of the unit."

Carle shrugged. "Maybe."

I began to rise up to see his face better, then immediately regretted it as pain clawed its way down my spine. "Only maybe?" I said breathlessly as I lowered my body.

"In the patrol, rank is based on merit rather than seniority. Quentin's partner Devin is third in rank here, even though he only joined us last spring."

I understood what he was saying: that it was unlikely I would ever rise above the lowest-ranking position in the guard, having had the disadvantage of not being raised as an Emorian. But that didn't matter to me; just to join the patrol was privilege enough. So I couldn't resist saying, "You're second-ranked. How long have you been in the patrol, in relation to the others?"

He glared at me then, as though I had just pulled a slave-mask from his face. "I'm nineteen," he said gruffly. "That's all you need to know."

That meant he had been in the patrol for three years, which was, I was quite sure, less than some of the other patrol guards I'd seen, if they all joined the patrol when they were sixteen. I kept my mouth shut, since it was clear that Carle's own distinguished service as a soldier was the one topic he was not prepared to discuss.

After a moment more of pulling out the stopper in his wine flask, pushing it in, and examining the leather, Carle said, "You'll need a partner."

"Does the lieutenant a.s.sign me one?" I asked.

"No. That's one of the patrol traditions. The new patrol guard must find a guard who's willing to take him as his partner. It's a serious choice. Even though the lieutenant juggles around the partnerships whenever needed ... Well, it's like being married at a time when warfare is taking place. That's the only way I can describe it. Your back is bare to a border-breacher's blade unless your partner is willing to protect you. The trust needs to be high between two guards who partner together, or else they're all too likely to fall into the most common patrol tradition."

"Which is?"

Carle's mouth quirked. "Death. Most patrol guards die within two or three years. Are you sure that you want to join a unit where the odds are against you surviving?"

The firewood settled in its bed. One of the patrol guards was snoring lightly. Through the door, I could hear faint whistles in the wind. And very far off, I thought I could hear the howl of a jackal.

It's odd how death has become so close a companion to me since my birthday. I never expected it to be that way. I grew up on tales of feuds and duels, yet I had always thought of myself as immune from the Jackal's reach. Others might need to pa.s.s through that fire, but not me.

I've heard that the presence of death exhilarates some men. Presumably, such men haven't angered the Jackal. The thought of meeting his claws in just a short time, of feeling his fire a or, since I would reject the cleansing of his fire, to be sent to eternal coldness... .

"Being a man means seeing death on the horizon and not flinching," I said softly, more to myself than to Carle. "Fenton met his death without flinching. And I ... I think I could bear anything except seeing the execution dagger in my father's hand." I looked up at Carle, who was sitting very still and silent through this recital. "Carle," I said, as though we were old friends sitting around a fire reminiscing, "I know that I'm the last person who should ask for this honor ... but would you be willing to be my patrol partner?"

Carle was silent for a minute longer, long enough for me to realize my audacity in asking such a favor from a soldier whose partner I had nearly killed. Then slowly, ceremonially, he held out his flask of wine.

I had no idea what type of ceremony he was alluding to. But the basic message behind his gesture was clear. I reached out my hand and took the wine and drank from it.

And that is how I joined an army unit where my life is not likely to be long. But it was a clean decision, pure and joyful, unlike my decision to become a blood-feud hunter.

Law Links 3 G.o.d OF MERCY.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

The twenty-second day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.

Carle and I are on our way to Emor. Carle says that the Capital City of Emor isn't far from the border a only half a day's walk a but we're forced to proceed slowly, as we are pulling a cart that carries Fowler.

Gamaliel drugged Fowler for the journey, for which I am grateful, as I'm sure that I'm the last person Fowler would want as his escort. It's necessary that I accompany Carle on this trip, though, because I must be approved for the patrol by the Captain of the Home Division.

"It's purely a formality," Carle a.s.sured me as we reached the final ridge leading down into the Emorian borderland. "The patrol selects its own guards and takes care of its own. Captain Wystan's only duty is to intervene in important disciplinary cases. I'm sure that the captain is more than happy to leave the patrol's activities in Quentin's hands; Wystan already supervises three divisions. The Home Division," he explained, without waiting for me to ask. "That's the division which guards the city and palace if the vanguard should be withdrawn from the palace grounds due to war. The Border Division a not just the mountain patrol, but all of the border guards of the empire. And the Division of Disclosure a that's made up mainly of spies."

"Spies?" I said, turning my head. We've been taking turns driving the hand-cart: one person pulls at the front while the other pushes at the back. Carle's face was covered in sweat, and his red hair had turned black where it clung to his forehead.

"Spies," said Carle with a grin. "You'll meet those eventually. So what do you think of our palace?"

I swung my head around, as rapidly as though I had heard a breacher creeping up behind me. There, falling away under our feet, was the final stretch of bare mountain, followed immediately and abruptly by a carpet of autumn-brown fields, neatly divided by stone walls. Not a tree was in sight a this was the first thing I noticed, as I suppose it is the first thing that any newcomer to Emor notices. But my puzzlement was soon replaced by a hollow pit in my stomach, for spread across much of the horizon was the curving grey wall of the Emorian capital. The city was built on an upswelling of the land, and I could see little grey houses cl.u.s.tered within the great walls. Rising above them all, ringed by two more walls, was a steep hill of immense proportions. It looked as though it could house all the armies of the Three Lands and still have room for the barbarian armies. Yet the whole of its crown was capped by a shining white building. It looked, I thought, like the palace of the G.o.ds within the City of the Land Beyond.

I became aware that Carle was standing beside me; he was pulling from his pack the food for our noonday meal, while watching me, a smile on his face. I cleared my throat and said, "It's a bit larger than the buildings I've seen before."

Carle laughed then and said, "A bit more intimidating, you mean." I nodded. "Well, you'll have to overcome your fear soon," he said. "This time tomorrow, you'll be standing inside that building."

I gulped and looked back at the palace, blazing white like the sun at noonday. "We're going inside the Chara's palace? Why? I thought you said that the army camp was located next to the palace."

"On the northern side of the palace grounds," Carle confirmed, leaning over the cart to check on Fowler. "But of course we have to enter the palace. You still want to give your oath of loyalty to the Chara, don't you?"

His face was serious; his expression mildly inquisitive. Perhaps he was wondering, from the expression on my own face, whether I was going to faint on the spot. "Carle," I whispered, "you don't mean ..."

"Oh, didn't I mention that?" he said lightly, handing me my share of the bread. "Border mountain patrol guards, like all other members of the special divisions, have the honor of being under the Chara's immediate care. Strictly speaking, Captain Wystan isn't our high official; the Chara is. Naturally, one can't expect the Chara to supervise the everyday activities of the division; Captain Wystan does that, in the Chara's name. So you'll never meet the Chara a except when you give him your oath. It's no worse than meeting the King. You've done that, of course?"

"Carle, I've never- That is, when I was young- But I was only a babe in arms when my grandfather died and my father-" It is perhaps just as well that I lapsed into Border Koretian at this point, and no doubt incoherent Border Koretian, for in the next moment I noticed the laughter struggling behind Carle's face, and I realized that he was teasing me about my prior contact with royalty. So we both burst into laughter, and by the time we were through, the moment was past, and our talk had turned to other subjects. It occurred to me afterwards, though, that I gave Carle a very hasty summary of the events leading up to my arrival in Emor, and perhaps I didn't tell him as much as I should have. But there's plenty of time for that. Right now, my mind is too filled with the powerful oath of loyalty I will give tomorrow. Finally, and for all time, I will be free of the blood-l.u.s.ting G.o.ds.

We've paused again on our journey. I had thought that Carle would hire a pony to pull the cart, once we reached the Emorian borderland, but we pa.s.sed through the borderland without stopping at the villages, and eventually I realized the obvious. Quentin could easily have hired a merchant and his horse-cart to bring Fowler back to Emor's capital; merchants pa.s.s by us every day. He must have chosen this manner of travel so that Carle could test my physical endurance. This drove from my mind any temptation to complain about the heavy travelling.

We're taking the journey in easy stages, though, and we're presently sprawled under the afternoon sun, all except Fowler, whose cart is under the shade of the only tree we have pa.s.sed during our journey.

Carle is an arm's length from me, lying on his back with his hands behind his head and his eyes closed, though I've no doubt that he would leap to his feet with blade in hand if he heard the slightest sound of danger. Between us is the flask of wine we've been sharing. It has occurred to me since I wrote my last entry in this journal that, while Carle doesn't know everything about me, I too know very little about Carle. Fenton almost never spoke of his slave years, and all that I know from him about Carle was that the young boy whom Fenton tutored was clever and loyal and courageous and affectionate in a reserved manner. I've learned all of that on my own. I wish I knew more about Carle a about his weaknesses especially a for I'm dreadfully afraid of doing something that will hurt him and build a wall between us.

Yesterday, for example, the patrol brought Fowler out of the hut's storage room, where he had been lying since his wounding. He was groggily conscious at that time, and I felt uncomfortable being in his presence, so I went into the storage room to see what lay there.

I'd never seen a room that was filled with so many items. Iron shelves jutted out from the stone walls, from floor to ceiling; I could dimly see them in the lamplight. Stacked on the shelves, in an orderly manner, were food supplies, bowls and spoons, fire-pots, swords, whetstones, boots, blankets, bandages and dried medical herbs, splints, fire-flints, firewood, a death mask ...

I asked Devin about this last item when he entered the storage room a short time later, in order to fetch a fresh linen cloth for Fowler. "That is Sublieutenant Carle's notion," he explained, pouring wine into a flask from one of the kegs. "When we execute Emorian prisoners, we send their bodies back to Emor for burial, but we burn Koretian bodies here and spread their ashes. That is why the ground around the hut is so fertile a it contains a thousand years' worth of dead Koretians. The sublieutenant thought our relations with Koretia would be better if we burned the bodies in the Koretian manner: placing death masks over the corpses' faces, reciting one of Koretia's less disagreeable death rites ..."

He gave a disarming smile as he said this. He was speaking in Border Koretian, which was kind of him, so I took the opportunity to ask him what it means when an Emorian shares his wine with another person.

His smile disappeared then, and he gave me a look that I could not interpret, but he answered my question readily enough, even though it took me time to realize what he was saying.

When he did, my breath was driven out of my body by the realization of what Carle had offered me. The Emorian reader for whom I began writing this journal, if he has not long since disappeared, must have been shaking his head during the past couple of entries, wondering at the ignorance of Koretian-born men. Truly, how could I have known? But I understand now what Fenton meant when he said that the Emorians don't take blood vows. After all, a life-binding vow need not be exchanged through blood. It could just as easily be exchanged through wine a and could be just as binding.

I was thinking all this through after Devin left, and was feeling the weight of what had happened fall upon me, when I noticed that Carle was standing at the door to the storage room, watching me with a serious expression. I was tongue-tied for a moment. What do you say to a new blood brother when you had not even known that you had exchanged blood? The matter was taken out of my hands a moment later, as Carle spoke.

"Now that you're well again," he said in a firm voice, "I suppose we'd better start your patrol training, and part of that training consists of learning the law. The first thing you need to understand is the concept *without clear understanding,' which played such an important role in your trial. It's more than simply a trial sentence; it's a term that pervades the whole of the Chara's law. The premise behind it is that no man can be condemned by the full force of the law unless he deliberately breaks the law, and that requires him to understand that he is breaking a law. Likewise, no man can keep the law in full unless he understands the law that he is keeping. Thus, Emorian law declares that an oath is not binding upon a man if he does not understand, at the time of his oath-taking, what vow he is making ..."

Carle continued in this vein for several minutes. Gradually, it dawned upon me that Devin had reported to him what I had asked, and that Carle was telling me, in as tactful a manner as possible, that I need not consider myself his wine-friend, because I had not understood what he was proposing at the time he offered me his wine.

It was an awkward moment. Because Carle had spoken in the way he had a rather than raise the subject overtly, as Fenton or Hamar would have done a I tried to answer in the same way, making clear to Carle, through my comments about the law, that I would have accepted the wine in any case and that I was honored and overwhelmed to learn that he wished us to be bound in this way. But I had no practice in this type of sideways speech, and after a while, I found myself falling into helpless laughter.

Carle looked deeply hurt at first, as though I had pulled my blade on him while his back was turned, but after I explained, he grinned and said, "I suppose there's something to be said for Koretian forthrightness."

So then I poured wine into one of the flasks from the shelves, and this time I was the one who offered the wine, and everything was all right after that. But it made me wonder in how many ways I have hurt Carle's feelings since my arrival, without clear understanding of what I was doing. I have so much to learn about being an Emorian.

The twenty-third day of October in the 940th year a.g.l.