His Own Good Sword (The Cymeriad #1) (26 page)

“You’d spoken with him?”

“Once before. Yes.”

“A well-educated man for a farmer,” Luchian said.

Tyren said nothing. His thoughts were darting wildly on and on—so
Luchian knew, somehow. It didn’t matter how. He knew, that was
what mattered.

Luchian said, “You must have known, Risto. Even if you didn’t
know for sure—you might have guessed. But I think you knew.”

There was a heavy silence between them. If he’d had his sword
he might have considered putting it to use then and there; the
corridor was empty save for the two of them. But he had no sword, and
Luchian was fully armed, and Luchian could best him in a fight
anyway. You didn’t get picked for the Guard on name alone, even
if you were a Marro. Luchian’s skill as a swordsman was
renowned.

“Treason, Risto, if you knew and did nothing,” Luchian
said.

His mouth was dry. He couldn’t get words out. He looked at
Luchian silently, stupidly, his jaw clenched, his throat tight.

Luchian smiled, though his eyes didn’t show it; they were
ice-bound, dead. “No, there’s no need to worry, Risto. To
accuse you of treason now is to admit I’ve had you watched
these three months, to admit I knew of the priest too. And you’ve
the legate on your side.”

So Luchian had had an informer in Souvin.

For some reason it didn’t really surprise him—he couldn’t
muster much reaction to it, at least. Surprising, perhaps, it hadn’t
been Verio—Verio, who was common-born, power-hungry, resentful
he’d been passed over for the command, getting the chance to
win the favor of the Marri. But it couldn’t have been Verio,
because Verio had been dead before Muryn had come to the fort.

He said, through shut teeth, “What do you want, Marro?”

“I want to know what you’ll do, knowing I intend to deal
with the priest when I return to Souvin tomorrow, now you’ve
sworn before Ruso and Senna you’d no knowledge of him.”

“You think it makes a difference to me what you intend to do?”

Luchian said, “He has family, does he not, this Muryn?”

Tyren said nothing.

Luchian lifted his shoulders. “Very well—if it makes no
difference to you,” he said. “That’s what I wanted,
Commander. I’ll see you in the capital sometime.”

He stood frozen there in the empty corridor a long while after
Luchian had left him. Finally he made himself start walking. He went
out from the headquarters and across the yard to his own quarters,
walking slowly, numbly, heedless. There was a ringing in his ears.
The thoughts came frantically, half-completed. Panicked coward’s
thoughts at first: it didn’t matter, let Luchian do as he
wished. The thing was out of his hands now. Nothing concerned him now
except this commission, except Senna, except Choiro. Weighed against
all that Muryn meant nothing. He’d protected the priest as best
he could for the time he was in Souvin, but it was out of his hands
now and he couldn’t be faulted for it.

In his quarters he sat down on the cot and leaned back his aching
head against the wall and closed his eyes. Possible Luchian had meant
only to test him—would let the matter go now, having gotten no
reaction. Or possible he’d done it in jest.

But that was only possibility, desperate, fanciful possibility, and
even were it probability he couldn’t wager Muryn’s life
on it. He couldn’t make himself believe Muryn meant
nothing—couldn’t pretend it, even a moment. Muryn meant
everything: everything he’d fought for at Souvin, everything
that made this Empire worth the blood price he’d paid. If Muryn
meant nothing then this Empire meant nothing.

He sat there a long time. He hadn’t bothered to light a lamp
and the room turned slowly blue and black with night shadows.
Eventually he heard the guard on the wall calling out the hour. Two
hours until midnight. Eight hours until he rode out with Senna and
left this thing forgotten behind him. Easy enough to let it go like
that, to do nothing, to let the hours slide by until morning, until
it was impossible to do anything. Easy enough to let it go like that.
And in truth, went the voice of cold reason in his head—in
truth there was nothing else he could do.

No, there was more he could do.

There was Senna himself. If no one else he could go to Senna. Senna
was reasonable, had led the soldier’s life, surely knew how
complicated things could be when you got away from the comfort and
ignorance of the city. Senna would understand, would see the truth of
the matter, would be willing to deal sensibly with it.

And if not through Senna there was another way still.

Senna’s own quarters were across the barracks courtyard: a
study and a bedchamber, with smaller adjoining quarters for his
personal guardsmen and his slaves. There were two guards posted at
the doorway, sitting down bored-faced and slack-legged against the
wall with their spears propped up beside them. The languidness was
pretense: they got up quickly to their feet when Tyren came, saluting
him, measuring him head-to-toe while they did so. One of them sidled
smoothly round to stand behind Tyren while the other stepped into the
doorway, directly in his path.

“Yes, sir?” the latter said.

“I need to speak with the legate. Tell him Commander Risto asks
to speak with him. Tell him the matter’s urgent.”

The guardsman looked him over and saluted again. “I’ll
tell him, sir,” he said.

He’d been afraid of rousing Senna from sleep, but Senna was
dressed still, was at the desk in his study, a lamp lit at his elbow,
a length of papyrus spread out before him. He put down the quill in
his hand when Tyren came into the room.

“Risto,” he said.

“I apologize for the late hour, sir.”

“No matter. It was urgent, you said?”

Tyren didn’t speak for a moment. Doubt washed over him all at
once, made the words lodge in his throat.

“Sir, I—wasn’t entirely truthful, earlier,”
he said, finally. “In Ruso’s office.”

Senna’s tanned face showed nothing. He leaned back in his
chair, keeping his eyes on Tyren. “Go on,” he said.

“There’s a priest in the village, sir—in Souvin. A
Cesino named Muryn. I met him, spoke with him. I decided he was no
threat, sir. He gave me no trouble and I—I let him alone.”

“Bold of you to tell me that, Risto,” Senna said,
quietly.

“I apologize I didn’t speak of it earlier. I should have
spoken earlier, sir. But Marro—the Guardsman—”

“No, it was prudent to wait,” said Senna, and he smiled a
little.

“Muryn isn’t one of these firebrands preaching the return
of Tarien Varro, sir, I swear it. I swear he’s innocent of
treachery. I’m asking that he be given protection—that
Marro not be allowed to lay hands on him.”

Senna shook his head. “I can’t grant that, Risto.”

“Sir—”

“You must understand the nature of their doctrine, Risto.
Inherently, inextricably, it’s bound to the idea that Tarien
Varro’s throne will be restored, that we’ll be driven
back over the mountains and the Cesini will have their independence
again—else there’d have been no division between our
priests and theirs after the war, do you see? Theirs is an entirely
different doctrine from ours now. Their priests are political
leaders, not religious ones. Otherwise they’d answer to the
authority of the Church.”

Tyren said, stiffly, “He doesn’t preach rebellion, sir.”

“Listen to me, Risto. Marro has a grudge against you—I’m
aware of that, I’m not blind. And it’s more than petty
rivalry left over from some mess-hall squabble at Vione. He means to
ruin you, Risto. He wanted charges brought against you for the murder
of your own adjutant.”

Something icy-cold and aching spread out from Tyren’s heart,
traced its way slowly through his chest to settle in his gut.
“Lieutenant Verio’s death wasn’t murder, sir,”
he said.

“I know that, Risto.” Senna’s voice was calm. “I
looked into the matter myself. I know the circumstances. There’ll
be no charges. You’re no traitor, no matter what Marro might
claim. You wouldn’t have had this victory otherwise; you
wouldn’t have been so eager to continue the work. No—naïve,
maybe. But naïveté isn’t treachery even in Berion’s
Empire. You’re no traitor. Let this go now. Trust me, Risto.
The priest is dangerous, and his death will be enough to satisfy
Marro you’re loyal.”

“He deserves better justification than that, sir.”

Senna was silent a moment. He seemed to be weighing something in his
head. “Listen to me, Risto,” he said, finally. “There’s
more afoot here than some restless natives and a renegade priest. I
need you at my side—for your own sake, and far more than that.
Do you think you were in Souvin on Luchian Marro’s whim? You
were there because you were a threat. You had to be eliminated—you,
and all others who still believe there’s a place for honor in
this Empire. Marro understood that. But killing you outright wouldn’t
have served his purpose. No—he gave you the opportunity to
destroy yourself instead.”

“I’ll go with you to the capital, sir.” Anger was
straining at the back of his throat. He spoke through clenched teeth
to keep it from tearing loose. “Anything you ask of me—I’ll
do it, and gladly. But I won’t let an innocent man die for my
inaction.”

Senna’s eyes were cool, unblinking. “Raise a hand, Risto,
and you sign your own death warrant.”

“If that’s what it takes, sir,” said Tyren.

Unexpectedly Senna laughed. “They told me truly,” he
said. “You’re your father’s son.”

Then his face sobered again. “No, Risto. I need you with me in
Choiro, and for that I need you alive.”

Tyren said nothing.

Senna stood, came over, put his hands on Tyren’s shoulders.
“Listen to me, Tyren. Let it go. Don’t let the bastard
ruin you over this. What would it accomplish? He’d kill the
Cesino anyway, and you’d be hanging from a gibbet for nothing.
So long as you live you’ve the chance to do some real good. But
I could never face your father again if I let you die for this—die
to no purpose.”

He inclined his head. He couldn’t look in Senna’s eyes.
“Yes, sir,” he said, quietly. “Forgive me.”

Senna’s hands tightened on his shoulders. “Get some
sleep, Commander. It’s late. I’ll see you at first light
in the morning.”

“Yes, sir,” Tyren said again. “Thank you, sir.”

There was cold determination inside him now, a strange, deep calmness
with it. He went back to his quarters unhurriedly. He buckled on his
cuirass in the dark when he got there, buckled the sword-belt on his
hip. His bags were readied by the cot in preparation for the morning.
He took them up, put them over his shoulder. Then he went out into
the corridor again, out to the columned portico adjoining the yard,
and he followed the portico down to the stables.

The stable-yard was mostly empty because of the hour and none of the
stable-hands paid him any mind. He found Risun in the stall row and
opened the door and put down his bags in the corner of the stall so
he could do the saddling work. When it was done he took the reins in
his right hand and turned to lead Risun out into the row.

The edge of Luchian Marro’s sword blade came to rest across his
throat as he turned.

“Thought you might try this,” Luchian said.

For a moment he didn’t move, didn’t speak. He stood there
dumbly with the cold steel against his skin, trying to think, to look
for Luchian’s weakness.

Luchian said, “I’m arresting you for treason, Risto. You
can explain before a court martial you’d no intention of riding
to Souvin.”

He lowered his hands, dropping Risun’s reins, relaxing his
muscles as though he intended to yield. Luchian shifted his weight in
response and Tyren took that moment to bring up his left arm and push
away Luchian’s blade with his vambrace. He fumbled for his own
sword, got his fingers round the hilt, but Luchian recovered quickly,
brought the blade sharply back towards him, and the tip of it caught
him just under the lower edge of his cuirass, above the hip-bone. He
stumbled backward, lost his balance, landed heavily on his back on
the stall floor and lay there a moment blinking up at the ceiling,
feeling the hot blood spread out over his tunic and trickle down his
trouser leg.

Luchian came close, knelt beside him, bent over him to loosen his
sword from his fingers.

“Fool,” he said.

Tyren took his belt knife in his left hand and thrust the blade up
into Luchian’s belly while Luchian was still reaching for the
sword. Luchian made a strangled noise deep in his throat. He dropped
his own sword, reaching with both hands to take Tyren’s wrist,
and Tyren shoved the knife forward and let it go. Then he pushed
himself backward across the floor with his heels. He found a handhold
in the stone wall and pulled himself up unsteadily to his feet,
keeping his left hand pressed to the wound. He left Luchian kneeling
there and limped over to Risun. He managed to drag himself up into
the saddle with his right hand caught in the black mane, sucking in
his breath as he got his weight settled, leaning forward, eyes shut,
teeth clenched, as the pain washed over him. Then he pushed himself
up again, reaching for the reins. He dug his heels into Risun’s
belly and took him out into the yard.

The gate guards saluted him and opened the doors for him without
question. He rode out onto the gate-path and down through the city to
the western gate, then onto the southwest road, towards the
mountains, towards Souvin. When they were free of the city he leaned
forward over Risun’s withers and kicked him into a hard run.
They ran until the lights of the city were nothing but a faint yellow
glow in the night behind them and thick black-pine forest was hemming
the road round them.

The pain was pulsing through him with every hoof beat by then,
blackness closing round the edges of his vision. The blood had gone
all over his tunic beneath the cuirass, had soaked his trouser-leg
down to the boot. He could feel Risun trembling beneath him—knew
he couldn’t run the horse much further without resting. He
reined him in, slowing him to a walk, and Risun’s head dropped
low and the reins ran slackly through Tyren’s hands and he
found, suddenly, he didn’t have the strength to pull them taut
again. They slipped to the ground and he could do nothing but grasp
frantically at Risun’s mane, swaying, trying to hold himself
upright. The world slid round him. Then it was still, and sharp pain
was going all through him, and he realized after a moment he’d
fallen from the saddle, was lying on his back in the middle of the
road. He managed, with effort, to lift his head from the wet dirt. He
saw Risun stumbling, going down heavily to his knees a short way up
the road—the road itself going on beyond, west and south
through the black pine, bright in the moonlight. Numb exhaustion
spread over him. He lay back against the earth and let the blackness
come.