Kushiel's Justice (52 page)

“All of this before Maarten’s Crossing?” I asked wryly.

“No.” Ethan smiled a little. “No, he learned fast, but not
so
fast. But I could see that his heart was good. I persuaded him to take the pilgrim’s cap and spoke on his behalf.”

I nodded. “I see.”

“But through Skaldia, we spoke.” Ethan tilted his head, gazing into the past. “When we crossed into Vralia, I could feel it was different. I could feel it in the soil, I could feel it singing in the marrow of my bones. A change. A kingdom built in Yeshua’s name, a kingdom on earth. That night, I prayed for Berlik, and I persuaded him to kneel and pray with me. I told him that whatever he had done, if he was willing to surrender his heart and his guilt into Yeshua’s keeping, he would find forgiveness here. Berlik wept.”

I swirled my beer. “And is it all you hoped, Ethan? Yeshua’s kingdom?”

“All?” he said thoughtfully. “Not all, no. There is much that is different and strange. The first time I saw the soldiers of Tadeuz Vral, wearing the cross upon which Yeshua died as a badge of war, I felt strange to myself. But there is hope, too. For me, for my family. Perhaps for Berlik, too.”

Another silence fell between us. I had thought to lie to this man and his family. Now that I was here, I couldn’t. They knew too much. The cross pendant weighed heavy around my neck, tugging at my conscience. Heavy as the croonie-stone, straining against my own desires. I sighed and removed it, laying it on the table. The fire in the hearth crackled. The cheap gilding on the cross glinted dully, its colors muted. I felt lighter without it.

“Where is he?” I asked simply.

“Berlik said you would come.” Ethan gazed at the cross. “The avenging angel.” The muscles in his lean throat worked as he swallowed. “I know you’re not, not really. We’re Flatlanders, we know D’Angelines. And yet, a thing may be true and not true. Have you not found it to be so?”

“Yes,” I said. “I have.”

His eyes were bright with tears. “There is a place . . . we learned of it along the pilgrims’ route. It lies east, toward the Narodin Mountains. Miroslas. A yeshiva of sorts, a quiet place, where men go to think and be silent. It is said that the Rebbe there is a very holy man. He contemplates ways in which the Children of Yisra-el and Vralia may serve Yeshua’s purpose alike. That is where Berlik went when he parted ways with us, to think and be silent.

“Miroslas,” I said quietly. “My thanks.”

Ethan shook his head. “He told us, he told me, that I was to tell you where he went. You, and you alone. I promised. I wish I had not.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. The fire crackled. On the far side of the hearth, I could make out the figure of Galia, still and listening, her sewing unattended in her hands. Adam sat quiet in his bunk, occupied with some child’s toy. “Why do you think he did it?”

“I think there is a part of him that wishes to die,” he said.

It crossed my mind that I would gladly have obliged him in Alba, but I kept my mouth shut on that thought, too. “Can I reach Miroslas by river?”

“No.” Ethan rubbed his eyes. “Over land.”

“The tanner’s wife said you had horses.” I felt at my purse. “Will you sell me one?”

He gave a short laugh. “We sold them to buy this house, and they have already been sold again. No one in Kargad has a horse to spare. If you want to buy a horse, go to Tarkov. There is a road leading east. It is only three days’ walk. I would offer you our hospitality, but . . .” He glanced at Galia and his voice faded. “I am sorry.”

“Three days.” I nodded and stood. “All right.”

“Will you kill him?” Ethan asked in a low tone.

I hoisted my pack and shouldered it. “Berlik never told you what he did, did he?” Ethan shook his head again. I gazed past the hearth, watching Galia with her head bent over her sewing, the boy Adam playing in his bunk. “No, I didn’t think so. If he had, you wouldn’t ask me that question.”

“Killing him won’t change anything,” he said.

“It will for me,” I said.

F
IFTY-THREE

A
LONE AND ON FOOT
, I made my way to Tarkov.

For the first day, the road Ethan had mentioned—which wasn’t more than a faint path, really—followed the Ulsk River. There, at least, I had the solace of seeing other people. But the second day, it veered eastward, into dense pine forest.

I went the whole of the second day without seeing another living soul, walking and walking. My boots, my old pair rescued from the shipwreck, chafed my feet. My scars ached with the strain of carrying my saddlebags. I shifted them from shoulder to shoulder and kept walking. The air was cold, cold enough to see one’s breath. At least the effort of walking kept me warm.

I made camp that night alone under the pine canopy. Wrapped in a blanket, I sat beside the brisk little fire I’d built. I ate salt beef and drank sparingly from my waterskin. Beyond the campfire, I could see a pair of bright eyes reflecting light. Badger? Fox? Lynx? I fumbled for a branch to throw at them. The eyes vanished.

It occurred to me that I could die out here.

I pushed the thought away.

I found Hugues’ flute in my bags. A foolish thing to bring, mayhap; an indulgence. I hadn’t played it since the night Dorelei died. I wasn’t sure if it would play true after its immersion in saltwater. But my pack had been one of the first items salvaged. When I set the flute to my lips and blew, it rang out clear and true.

I played mindlessly, melodies without a tune, my thoughts wandering. Berlik, the savior of a small boy. Justice. Mercy. Repentance. Men of Alba, men of Clunderry, slain in the pursuit. Was it worth the price? My fingers wandered over the holes. The last time I’d played alone in a wilderness, I’d been a goatherd. Soft and low, I played the song that all the children of the sanctuary knew, the song about the little brown goat.

Dorelei, laughing.

Dorelei dead.

“Yes,” I said aloud, setting down the flute. “It’s worth it.”

I rolled myself in my blanket and slept, waking in the morning stiff with cold. There was a layer of hoarfroast sparkling on the ground, and my fire had burned down to a few banked embers. I blew them to life, warmed my hands, ate a stale biscuit. And then I stashed my gear, shouldered my pack, and started walking again.

It wasn’t until the morning of the fourth day that I reached Tarkov, limping and footsore, and beginning to worry about the lack of water I carried. It was a glorious thing to see the dense forest suddenly give way to open fields surrounding a town large and prosperous enough to warrant being surrounded by a wooden stockade.

I limped gratefully to the gate, thinking less about vengeance than a hot bath and a warm meal, hoping I might find both here. There was a guard at the gate; Vralian, not Habiru. He gave me a long, puzzled look, but when I offered him one of Tadeuz Vral’s copper coins, he shrugged and admitted me.

“Food?” I asked, miming. After three days in the woods, I was uncertain of my Rus. “Bath?”

He laughed and pointed.

I found my way to an inn by following my nose, which led me first to a good many private homes. At last I found a rangy timber building where a fellow with a formidable beard served me brown bread smeared thickly with butter, sizzling sausages, and a sharp dish of stewed cabbage, all of which I ate while he watched.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Terre d’Ange,” I said. The innkeeper shook his head. “Far, very far.” I pointed to the ceiling. “Buy room? Bed? One night?”

“Da, da.”
He continued to watch me. “Why are you here?”

“Buy . . .” Elua help me, I didn’t know the word for “horse” in Rus. “Do you speak Habiru?” I asked, switching. He shook his head. I slapped my thighs, mimicking the sound of trotting hooves, blew air through my lips. “A horse,” I finished in D’Angeline.

The innkeeper grinned into his beard.
“Lózhat?”
he suggested, setting his legs astraddle and miming a man riding.

“Da,”
I said gratefully, filing the word in memory. “You know where?”

He gave me a lengthy reply, speaking slowly and carefully as if to a child. I tried to recall if Phèdre had ever had this much difficulty communicating in her travels. Somehow I didn’t think so. She soaked up language like a sponge. When I was younger, I had, too. It seemed harder now.

At any rate, if I understood the innkeeper aright, Tarkov was in the midst of an autumn fair, with the last buying and selling of livestock before the snow fell. It was held in paddocks near the eastern verge of town.

When he was done, he showed me to my room, a long, narrow, windowless chamber lined with straw pallets. Several appeared to be claimed already. I set my pack down on an empty one. “Bath?” I asked hopefully.

The innkeeper shook his head. Another lengthy reply led me to understand that there was a public bath-house in Tarkov.

“I’ll find it,” I said.

The men’s bath-house wasn’t an elaborate affair like those in Tiberium. It was a squat, windowless affair with thick stone walls to keep in the heat, a true luxury in a cold clime. Inside, there was a chilly outer chamber in which to disrobe, and then an inner chamber that was much like the one in the palace at Vralgrad, except the tubs were made of wood.

I didn’t care. The room was thick with steam. There were other men there, some soaking in tubs, others sitting naked on stone benches, relishing the steamy heat. Vralians, staring curiously at me. At my face. At my scars. I didn’t care about that, either. I’d been stared at a lot in my life. I eased my aching body into the hot water, feeling stiff muscles unknot, blisters and raw patches on my feet and ankles stinging.

I lingered there until the water grew tepid, then dragged myself reluctantly from the tub. No fine linens here; only a length of coarse burlap. I scoured myself dry, then dressed hastily in the antechamber. More stares and low murmurs. I ignored them.

By the time I left the bath-house, I felt immeasureably better. The cold air seemed bracing. Dorelei would have laughed, I thought, remembering how she had known somewhat was amiss when I went straight to the
ollamh
’s without bathing after my bindings had broken during the cattle-raid. Afterward, when my bindings were restored, she’d washed the cow-dung from my hair and told me about her dream of me feeding her honeycomb. The memory made me smile.

And Sidonie at the hunting manor . . .

Elua.

I’d kept those memories locked away in my heart. I hadn’t let myself think about her. My girl. I did now. Only for a moment. The look of grave concentration as she unwound my bandages. Her skin, slick with scented oil; then, and later. It made me shiver with desire and longing. I missed her. It hurt.

Just come home
.

I sighed, put the memory away, and went to buy a horse.

There were a number of them available for purchase, as well as cattle and a strange breed of long-haired oxen in separate paddocks. I leaned on the railing and eyed the horses. Most of them looked to be farm stock, broad-backed and platter-hooved, suitable for the plow. There was a shaggy pony I considered, remembering how Phèdre had told me of the pony they’d had in Skaldia, that had fared better than its longer-legged brethren. But then there were several others, with fine heads and alert eyes, that tempted me. I lingered longer than I should, trying to decide which to choose and how much I was willing to pay.

I was still trying to decide when the Tatars struck.

There was a guard posted outside the eastern gate. I was near enough to hear him shout. Near enough that when his disembodied head sailed over the stockade, I flinched. Near enough to see the young Tatar who vaulted over the stockade, launching himself from the saddle. To see his ankle twist on landing, sending him to his knees. Near enough that he actually caught my sword-belt, hauling himself upright with a grimace, while I stood frozen with shock. He let go of me, hobbling to unlatch the gate. Tatars on horseback poured through the opening, some of them riding two to a horse.

It happened so fast.

I stared, gape-mouthed and paralyzed, as they opened the paddocks. Ignored the cattle, stole the horses. It was so swift. If it had been an Alban cattle-raid, it couldn’t have been planned better. More guards came, pelting on foot. The Tatars wheeled, shooting arrows with short bows. The guards dodged. One of the Tatars extended his arm to the young man who’d opened the gates. The young man hopped on one foot, missed his grip. The Tatar rider shrugged, shouting somewhat in his own tongue.

And then, in a flurry of pounding hooves, they were gone.

The guards swarmed the injured Tatar, bearing him to the ground and seizing his weapons. I was still staring when a man pointed at me, shouting somewhat. Six or seven guards turned toward me.

“No.” I put up my hands, palms outward.
“Nyet, nyet!”

The man was still shouting. I recognized him from the bath-house. Other onlookers offered hostile comments in Rus. My mind was a blank. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. All I could think, with a dull, sick realization, is that they’d seen me loitering, seen the Tatar grab my belt and haul himself to his feet.

I shook my head. “I don’t know him!”

The head guard pointed at my midsection and said somewhat.

“My sword-belt?” I asked, bewildered. “All right.” I unbuckled it and handed it over. “Friend,
da
?
Druk
.”

He took the belt and pointed at my breeches.

I backed away. “Oh, no. No.”

When they swarmed me, I panicked and fought. It was stupid. There were a half a dozen guards, and dozens of onlookers willing to help. I was unarmed. My vambraces were in my pack at the inn. I was lucky they didn’t kill me out of hand. They wrestled me to the ground outside the paddock, punching and kicking. Someone shoved my face into the cold mire, someone else wrenched my arms behind my back. Someone sat on my legs. Hands tugged at me, undoing my breeches.

All the horror of Daršanga, all the hurt and humiliation I’d managed to carry more lightly, came crashing down on me. I struggled, my body convulsing. It didn’t matter. There were too many of them, men jumping in to help. They pinned my arms, put a booted foot in the small of my back. Dragged my breeches down.

A hard finger jabbed at me.

At the scar branded on my left buttock, marking me as the property of Jagun of the Kereyit Tatar tribe.

I closed my eyes. “Blessed Elua have mercy on me.”

They dragged me to my feet, filthy and besmirched, my breeches around my knees. There was a sword-point poking my back, another aimed at my breast. I stood without fighting, two men holding my arms.

“I am not Tatar,” I said in Rus.

There was a woman wailing somewhere. The widow of the beheaded guardsman, I guessed. The guard captain thrust his face close to mine. “You help them.”

“No,” I said wearily. “Ask. Micah ben Ximon. Friend,
druk
.”

A shadow of doubt crossed his face. “Ben Ximon?”

I nodded. “Go to Vralgrad. Ask.”

He didn’t say aught else, but he gestured with his sword to the men holding my arms. They let go, although the sword-point pressed against my spine didn’t move. I showed my empty hands, then stooped carefully to pull up my breeches. He let me lace them. My fingers were trembling.

“Come,” the captain said.

“Where?” I asked. He said a word I didn’t know. I learned it soon enough: prison.

They walked us both, me and the Tatar, through town; the Tatar hobbling in silence. He looked worse for the wear, with a split lip and a thin trickle of blood running down his neck from a lump on his skull. I daresay I looked much the same. I could feel my right eye swelling closed from a blow I didn’t remember taking.

Tarkov must have been a peaceable enough place most of the time. There was a single gaol cell attached to the guardhouse, which was located in the center of town. Squinting through my left eye, I caught a glimpse of other buildings there. A freshly whitewashed temple, sporting a cross atop a single spire. A modest manor, which I guessed belonged to the local governor, whoever he might be.

And then I saw no more, as they ushered us into the guardhouse. The main chamber looked like guardrooms everywhere, with gear and half-eaten food strewn about, evidence of abandoned dice games. Warm braziers with stools drawn up around them, bedrolls tucked into corners.

The single gaol cell had a heavy wooden door. It was set with one small window, high and barred with iron. The lead guard unlocked the door. Three men shoved the stumbling Tatar past it. Prodded at sword-point, I balked.

“I not with him!” I said in frustrated Rus. “Ask ben Ximon!”

“We will,” the captain said dourly.

The sharp tip prodded harder. I whirled in anger, slapping at the flat of the blade with my palm, trapping it against the door-jamb. The guard’s eyes widened. I hooked his left leg with my right and jerked, hitting him hard beneath the chin with the heel of my left palm. He staggered backward, letting go his hilt. I seized his trapped sword. Behind me, the Tatar hooted and clapped.

“Shut
up
!” I shouted at him, wielding the sword in a two-handed grip.

“Friend.” The captain shouldered past the man I’d disarmed. He opened his own arms, although he still held his sword. So did the dozen men standing behind him. Like the innkeeper, he spoke slowly to me, choosing simple words. “You come, Tatars come. You help him. You have a Tatar mark. War comes again. What do we think? Maybe you help Fedor Vral.” He shrugged. “Wait. We send to Vralgrad and ask ben Ximon. Maybe you go free.”

I hissed through my teeth. “I do not want be here with
him
.”

The captain glanced past me. “Scared?”

“I do not like Tatars!” I said fiercely.

He shrugged again. “He cannot hurt you. Wait, or try to kill us all.”

Elua knows, I wanted to. And Elua knows, I couldn’t. Mayhap Joscelin could have. I couldn’t. I hesitated for a moment, then threw down the sword. It skittered over the flagstones. The guard I’d taken it from scurried after it.