His Own Good Sword (The Cymeriad #1) (10 page)

Viere’s hounds flushed a quarry from the underbrush soon
enough. The boar led them on for the better part of an hour before
they encircled it; then it was Moien’s spear to earn the kill.
They started the southward ride back to the villa a little before
noon. When noon came they rested on the bank of a deep, quiet stream
and ate a meal from their packs. Afterward Viere poured them wine in
leather cups and they sat in the shade of the trees along the bank to
drink and to talk. Torien sat with his back against the bole of a
tree, the cup in his right hand.

“It’s not a bad life you lead here, Viere,” he
said.

Viere smiled. “No. I prefer it to Choiro, in truth, Lord Risto.
I was never made for the city. It’s a quiet life here, at
least.”

“I envy you that,” said Torien.

Tore said, “You’ve no trouble from the native people,
Viere? I’ve heard these backwater regions are the likeliest
place for uprisings, rebellions.”

“No, they’ve treated me well,” said Viere. “I’ve
made efforts to get to know them—to visit their farms, to
accept their hospitality and show them mine. I hope to earn their
real respect, eventually. They’re good people.”

Later, back in their own quarters at the villa, Tore said, “The
Senate got him away to these northern wilds for a reason. He’d
be an embarrassment in Choiro.”

Moien, leaning against the jamb with his arms folded across his
chest, said, “He’s honest, at least, Lord Risto.”

He only ever addressed Tore in that formal way, as ‘Lord
Risto.’ He called Torien by name, or else he called him ‘sir’
when occasion required it—old habit left over from their army
days.

Tore said, “He’ll be little enough use to us.”

Torien was amused. “You’re saying there’s no use
for an honest man in the Empire? Or only that I’ve no use for
an honest man?”

“That isn’t what I meant,” said Tore, defensively.

“Of course not,” said Torien.

Afterward he lay awake on the bed in the cool darkness and reflected,
with bitterness, this whole thing had been in vain. Tore couldn’t
see, couldn’t understand, was too much caught up in the Choiro
life to know the full cost of it yet. Whereas he, himself—he’d
give anything to live as Viere lived, to be unconcerned with Choiro
and the rest of it. If only there weren’t this war to fight.
But there’d always be this war. Until his own death,
anyway—he’d come to expect that was how it would end. The
Marri would win, eventually, would finish the work they’d
started all those years ago, and he’d join his father and his
brother in the earth before it was done, because he knew no other way
than that of the sword. He wished, above all else, it might be
different, but he’d too much stubbornness for that, too much
pride, had carried this weight and this anger too long. And he’d
let Tore fall away, in the meantime. He’d let all of them fall
away from him—Tore, Tyren, Chæla. Challe would be the
last. And the Marri had won anyway.

The window in his room was set in the villa’s outer wall, the
rear wall, which faced north to the pine forest and the mountains. He
heard the intruder before he could see him—heard the quick,
quiet scuffling of feet across stone. He sat up from the bed, tensed,
listening. His sword was leaning upright against the wall, close by
the head of the bed, and he stood up and took the sword and
unsheathed it and pressed himself against the wall on the near side
of the window. The intruder came slowly, carefully into the room.
There was a steel-bladed knife in his right hand. Otherwise he was
unarmed, dressed in tunic and leggings only, barefoot for the
climbing. Torien waited until he’d come two, three steps in.
Then he fell in behind him, preparing to reach with his free hand and
take the man by the shoulder and jerk him round. But the man turned
as soon as Torien moved, ducking the wide arc of Torien’s sword
blow. He slashed quickly through the air with the knife. Torien
dodged the stroke, brought his blade back in a counterstroke as the
man recovered. The man crumpled to the floor before him, curling up
as he landed, making no other sound than a low, thick groan.

Moien, in the adjoining room, must have heard the struggle. He came
in at a run, a torch in one hand, his drawn sword in the other.

“Bring the light,” said Torien, sharply.

Moien came quickly over to hold the torch above him. Torien threw
down his sword and knelt and took the collar of the man’s tunic
in his hands. He pulled the man up to look at his face.

“Tell me who paid you, bastard,” he said.

The man looked at him and said nothing. The sword stroke had opened
him up crosswise from the bottom of the rib-cage to the hip. He
dribbled blood after a moment and was still, his head lolling back,
his breath leaving him in a long, gurgling sigh. Torien recognized
the face in the flickering torch-light. The man was one of Viere’s
own guard. He’d been with them on the hunt earlier.

He let go the man’s collar. “Tore,” he said harshly
to Moien.

He sat back on his heels and looked at the body while Moien was gone.
There was a tightness inside him, a coldness: so this was why Viere
had wanted him here.

Moien returned with Tore behind him. Tore swore through shut teeth
when he saw the body. “Bastard. This is his hospitality?”

There was a sudden rush of footsteps out in the corridor. Viere came
into the room with two other of his guardsmen close at his heels.
He’d dressed—hurriedly and carelessly, by the look of
it—and he carried an unsheathed sword in his hand.

“Lord Risto,” he said. “They told me—”

“Explain this, Viere, before you explain anything else,”
said Moien, cutting him off. He prodded the body with his right foot,
turning it so the face could be seen in the torch-light from the
corridor.

Viere looked down at it. There was a sudden dazed stupidity in his
face when he recognized it. Unfeigned, Torien thought, and some of
his inward tightness eased away. He picked up his sword and got to
his feet. If this had really been Viere’s man, if Viere had
arranged the thing, then surely he’d have some excuse prepared,
would be able to handle himself better. Instead he was silent, his
back suddenly rigid, his fingers tight round the grip of his sword.
He looked, white-faced, from the body to Moien, from Moien to Tore.
His eyes came to Torien last of all. They looked at each other. Then
Viere swallowed, and turned a little, and gave his sword slowly over
to the guardsman who stood at his right elbow. When that was done he
went down to his knees before Torien, his head bowed, his shoulders
stiff, holding himself up with his sword hand spread flat against the
floor.

He spoke quietly.

“I have no explanation, Lord Risto. It is an unspeakable shame
to me that this was done in my house, by one in my pay. I’ll
accept whatever punishment you pronounce for that.” He drew a
breath and added, “Only—let it be on my own head, lord.
Spare my family.”

There was silence in the room a while.

Torien looked over to Moien in the torch-light. Moien gave one
slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head, but he said nothing.
His mouth was pressed tight, his brow creased in a dark scowl.

Tore spoke first, in a low, harsh voice. “Let him tell you who
plotted this with him, Father. He didn’t act alone.”

Viere didn’t move from his knees, didn’t raise his head,
but Torien saw the brief twitch of his mouth, as if he’d
started to speak and had decided against it.

“Give Lord Viere’s sword here and leave us,” Torien
said to the guardsmen.

They did as he said, giving over the weapon to Moien and then going
out obediently, wordlessly, though one hesitated in the doorway a
moment, casting an uncertain glance back towards the kneeling man.

Viere spoke again when they’d gone. His voice was dry and gray
as ashes now, but quiet as before. “My family, Lord Risto.
Please.”

Tore said, sharply, “Who else, Viere? Who paid you for this?
You couldn’t have done it alone. There’d have been an
examination, a trial. You’d need Choiro money for that.”

Viere shook his head. “No. I’d no knowledge of it, lord.
My loyalty belongs to you and to our Emperor, none else, I swear it
on my life.”

“You brought my father here so he’d be vulnerable,
defenseless.”

Viere shook his head again, doggedly. “That wasn’t my
reason, lord.”

“Your man happened into this chamber by mistake, I take it?”

“Tore,” said Torien.

Tore looked over to him, met his eyes, looked quickly away again,
clenching his jaw. There was hot anger in his face but he didn’t
say anything else.

“When did he come to you, Viere?” Torien said. He lifted
the tip of his blade briefly towards the dead man.

“He isn’t new to me,” said Viere, after a moment’s
hesitation. He raised his head just enough to glance over to where
the guardsman’s body lay. “He’s been among my own
household guard a while. I—can’t say how long, for sure.
Seven, eight years. He was my father’s man before he was mine.
I trusted him, Lord Risto, I admit that to you.”

“I know what it is to be betrayed by those I trust, Viere,”
said Torien. “It’s never an easy thing.”

“I’d no thought of betraying you, Lord Risto,” said
Viere.

“No,” said Torien. “No, I know that.”

Tore said, through shut teeth, “Father—”

Torien went over to the bed, to his packs, and found a cloth, and sat
down on the bed to clean the blood from his sword. He sheathed the
sword afterward and set it back down against the wall. There was a
sudden heavy weariness in him.

“Get up, Viere,” he said. “This wasn’t your
doing. I’m not blind.”

Viere got up slowly to his feet. There was nothing changed in his
face, but the tense set of his shoulders had eased a little.

“You were willing to show honest friendship to me, Viere,”
Torien said. He spoke quietly for the weariness. “So I’ll
be honest with you. I was to die, you were to be blamed for it.
Whoever plotted this thing will certainly not want alliance between
us instead. If you give me your loyalty now I can’t promise you
they won’t seek retaliation for it, do you understand? Loyalty
to me is more unhealthy than it used to be.”

“I understand you, Lord Risto,” said Viere, calmly. “My
loyalty lies with you regardless.”

“Learn what you can of him, then.” Torien dipped his chin
towards the body. “Had he family, that you know?”

“Not to my knowledge, lord,” said Viere.

“Well, with luck there’ll be some clues for us among his
effects. And ask among the rest of your people. He may have dropped a
careless word or two.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Viere.

“Take your sword, Viere,” said Torien. “Send your
men back for the body.”

* * *

“What other evidence are you hoping to find?” Tore asked
him, afterward. He was still angry. Torien could see it in the stiff
bracing of his back, hear it in the fervent, hastily reasoned rush of
his words. “He got you away from Vessy, and it was his own man.
What other evidence do you need? There are plenty of men in Choiro
who’d have paid him to do it—and paid for his pardon,
afterward. We’ve our enemies in the Senate, and the Vieri are
an old Senate family.”

“It wasn’t his work,” said Torien. “If he’d
intended to murder me there were better ways he might have done it,
ways which didn’t point to him so clearly—a poorly thrown
spear during the hunt, hired brigands on the road. No, this was
another’s doing, and it was meant not only to accomplish my
death, but to ruin Viere. He and I have common enemies, it seems.
I’ll give him the chance to prove himself an ally.”

“Or to laugh at us,” said Tore.

“You’d rather I kill him?”

Tore said nothing.

“And his family?” Torien said. “Sell them, maybe?
Or do you recommend their deaths, too?”

Tore closed his eyes, briefly. “Examine him further, at least,”
he said. “You’ve no reason to trust him.”

“Maybe he swore himself falsely,” said Torien. “Maybe
this was his doing after all. Maybe, maybe not. Any of it is
possible. I could turn against every last one of my allies for that
kind of fear, for doubt, and whoever arranged this thing will have
succeeded anyway.”

There was a tinge of mockery to Tore’s voice now. “So you
reserve your fear and your doubt for the Marri instead. No doubt you
think they were the ones behind this?”

“The Marri murdered my father and my brother and were let to go
unpunished for it, Tore. I know the truth of that, at least. If
nothing else I know the truth of that.”

“You’ve better evidence Viere arranged to murder you here
than you have that the Marri murdered your father and your brother.
Don’t be a fool, Father. You’ve let this thing distract
you, delude you for twenty years now, and your enemies in the Senate
have finally taken advantage of that, and you’re blind to it.”

“What do you know of it?” said Torien. “You’ve
heard the telling of it. I was there to bury them. Don’t call
me a fool, Tore.”

But he said it without conviction, with the same dull weariness
sinking into him, blunting the anger, because he knew Tore was right.
He’d poured himself utterly into this fight, and he’d
nothing left now but his own stubbornness, his own blindness—nothing
else left to him, after all these years, but to go on fighting
proudly, doggedly, stupidly, while his world fell to ruin round him.

VI

The days passed in the routine he’d established and suddenly
Tyren had been in Souvin more than a month. It was full summer now,
the fields ripening for harvest, the farmers busy with the
wheat-threshing and sheep-shearing, their women with the spinning.
Verio came into his office one afternoon to remind him of something.

“Tomorrow’s the twenty-sixth, sir,” he said,
sitting down in the cross-legged chair before the desk.