Petrodor: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 2 (61 page)

“Crazy,” Sasha summarised once the men had left, leaving her and Kessligh to observe the preparations on the road below. “We're about to be overrun by a bloodthirsty mob of murderers, and we're arguing faith and philosophy.”

“It's not so crazy,” Kessligh said mildly. “They need to be certain who the enemy is. If they question the need to fight now, morale could suffer.”

“Hard to imagine anyone not seeing a need to fight,” said Sasha, gazing at the smoke plumes on the slope.

“So far, they've only attacked serrin. Some have doubted the mobs will come down this far. They don't believe the reports of crowds chanting for the Shereldin Star.”

Sasha sighed. “Even now, they cling to their Holy Father. They can't bear to see him as an enemy.”

“There will be another archbishop one day. Perhaps he will be more amenable.”

“You're defending them?” Sasha raised an eyebrow at him. “Kessligh the disparager of all that is not rational and proper?”

Kessligh gazed up at the slope, his hands on the wet stone of the wall. “The problem, Sasha, is not what a person believes in. Verenthane, pagan, Lisan Skyworship, the Kazeri desert mystics—it's all the same, all have the potential to be equally good or bad. The problem is not what things are believed, the problem is how people choose to believe them.”

“Aye,” said Sasha, leaning on the wall beside him. Somewhere in the conversation, they'd begun speaking Lenay. It was a reflex of comfort. Of home. From below drifted the hubbub of foreign voices, the clatter of weapons, the banging of barred doors. From the slope, the smell of acrid smoke. “Serrin are so moderate. They never do anything to excess. But even a mountain mystic preaching peace, love and happiness could take it too far, couldn't he?”

Kessligh nodded. “On his own, the mystic is harmless. He holds no power, and so his ideals remain just ideals. But say he converts the king to his beliefs. The king says peace, love and happiness are now his command. What does he do to those who refuse to be happy? Burn them?”

“
Val'er aie to'sho maal
,” Sasha agreed. In Saalsi, “the attraction of opposites.” Or nearly. “Ideals are figurative. Politics are literal. Ideals expressed through politics become political, and lose their idealism. Or become the very opposite of what was intended.”

“Exactly.” Kessligh nodded, once and firmly. “They
are
opposites. That's why idealistic leaders are so dangerous. An ideal in a debate is a curiosity. Wielding a sword, it can become a nightmare. The literal and the figurative, the ideal and the practical, they negate each other, sometimes violently. To combine them is to mix serrin oils with fire.”

“But humans are most attracted to idealistic leaders,” Sasha said with a frown.

Kessligh smiled. “Another eternal question,” he said. “We believe in utopias. We think in absolutes. We should stop.”

“So much simpler to just fight the stupid fight,” Sasha muttered.

“Aye, but why fight at all, if you don't know why you're fighting?” Sasha made a face. “You understand more now than you did,” Kessligh said approvingly.

“All this time amongst serrin,” Sasha replied. “Errollyn's helped a lot. He and Rhillian are the only two serrin I've met who can say what they think without tying their tongues in knots.”

“Where
is
Errollyn?”

“Down at South End, helping their archers prepare.” She stared grimly at nothing. “Gerrold and his supporters have gone to help the
talmaad
. Errollyn feels guilty he does not do the same. He doesn't admit it, but I can tell.”

“We can't spare the people, Sasha,” Kessligh said sombrely. He stared at
the fire of Palopy House, high on the ridgeline above. “It's a long climb up there. We could lose people on the way up and back. Only our best fighters would be useful fighting in the open streets and if we had losses, or became entangled or cut off by the mobs, Dockside would be vulnerable. Rhillian knew that when she embarked on her present course.”

“You…” Sasha blinked at him. “You didn't know this would happen, though?”

“Saalshen has always been vulnerable to human enemies in Petrodor,” said Kessligh. “Steiner or Maerler, or some combination of smaller houses, could always have wiped them out if they tried. Their main protection has never been their swords, Sasha, but their trade. Even now, all the reports are that Steiner and their allies remain firmly locked up behind their gates, despite some in the mobs calling on them to come out and fight the serrin. The Saalshen trade is too valuable. Steiner is now caught between offending Saalshen, and offending the archbishop.

“Rhillian did not count on the mobs, Sasha. Inside Petrodor, most of the populace are more or less controlled by those who owe some gratitude to Saalshen. But on the fringes, in the slums, and in Riverside in particular, the patachis have little sway. The archbishop himself has always been constrained by the divided loyalties of his lower priests, but now that balance too has swung. I never thought it would happen exactly like this. But I have warned Rhillian many times that this control that the patachis exert upon the people is merely a temporary illusion, and that it's only the wealthy, and the Nasi-Keth, who feel they owe Saalshen anything. This is not about faith, Sasha, it's all about power—faith is merely the tool by which power is attained. Like you said, faith may indeed be good, but the nature of power is ever unchanging. It corrupts any goodness faith may have had. Rhillian was always too clever for her own good, she always saw the complications, but missed the simplicities. Amongst humans, power rules all. Only now, perhaps, does she grasp what that means.”

“I'm scared for her,” Sasha said quietly. “She's my friend.”

“I know. I fear for her too. But Errollyn was right, she should have left the games of power to humans. If she'd joined with me, this wouldn't have happened. But she thought she knew better. She was wrong.”

“She's not a bad person,” Sasha said stubbornly, fighting the pain in her throat.

“No,” Kessligh said quietly. “They never are.” He straightened and wiped back his lank, wet hair. “Best you get back down there. Try to get some semblance of basic formation behind those barricades, they need to know what happens
after
the first wave hits.”

“Pandemonium,” Sasha said drily.

“Yes. Tell them that. That's why the formations are so critical.”

“This is formation fighting,” Sasha complained. The thought of going back downstairs made her slightly dizzy. All those people, all rushing around. “Lenays rarely fight like this and, with all respect, you never taught it.”

“No, this is street fighting,” Kessligh corrected. “These streets make for small formations, and Lenays fight in small groups all the time. Remember the training hall drills, five against five.”

“I never took part in those,” she said doubtfully. “Too much pushing.”

“Yes, but you watched them. Just the basics, Sasha—these men have basic drill, some of them are quite good. Just make sure they know when to move and where. I'm not sure they all understand the concept of a reserve yet.”

Sasha sighed. “All right. I know that much.” She looked at him. “You're confident?”

“I have no preconceptions,” Kessligh said grimly. “That's why I win.” He gazed across the cramped and cluttered docks, the squared brick and stone, the crumbling walls, all wet and grey beneath cloud and smoke. The place where he had been born, and had abandoned. Gerrold had abandoned the docks to defend his beloved serrin. Alaine held no appeal for people facing the prospect of war. Kessligh Cronenverdt had returned. He ruled here now.

Sasha ran back down the tower steps, onto the battlements where some archers were inspecting their arrows, and down the long steps inside the wall to the keep floor below. Within the shelter of buildings that had until recently served as stables, women now gathered piles of linen, water and medicines, ready to tend the wounded. Through a doorway, Sasha could see at least one Nasi-Keth woman amongst them, giving directions. She thought of Yulia, who had thought to become a medicine woman. She would still be alive had she done so. Sasha shook off unhelpful thoughts and strode to the main gate in the wall.

Near the docks was a straggly group of twenty men, in roughspun pants and sodden shirts, their hair plastered wet. Some grasped proper halberds and spears, and a few carried swords. There were quite a few axes and hammers, and most had fish knives in their belts. None had any more armour than the odd leather jacket. Dear spirits. But Kessligh was right, they drilled better than their appearances might have led her to expect, and all the long weapons were well placed at the formation's front.

Along the dockfront, numerous other groups had similarly gathered. Outside of Lenayin, this was what it meant to be militia—working men, of various trades, who occasionally fought. It offended her highland sensibilities. Men who went to war should at least know what they were doing. To
send unskilled mobs of fishermen and paupers at each other's throats with improvised tools was not civilised. And to think the lowlanders called Lenays barbarians…

Before she could intercede, Sasha glimpsed someone striding hurriedly up the docks, holding what appeared to be a sleeping child in his arms. It was Errollyn—she'd have recognised that lithe, muscular stride anywhere. She ran to him, noting the hard concern on his face…and saw that he carried not a child, but a small woman. Her light blonde hair was wet not only with rain, but with blood, and there was the unmistakable shape of a crossbow bolt through her left calf.

“Aisha!” Sasha gasped as she arrived at Errollyn's side. He kept walking, as fast as he could without jolting the bundle in his arms. Sasha struggled to keep up, half jogging, noting that Aisha seemed unconscious. “What happened?”

“She was found near Sharptooth, the girl who found her said she murmured something about Maerler and treachery, then fell unconscious.” Sasha had never seen Errollyn so upset, it radiated from his every tense muscle.

“Is she hurt besides the leg?”

“She's taken a blow on the head, her hand is cut and her shoulder seems damaged. Her head worries me most.”

They strode past the drilling men, past piles of refuse from which children ran to and fro, lugging whatever they could carry down the lanes to the barricades.

They turned down Fishnet Alley, and soon into the Gianna house courtyard. Tashyna sat up abruptly where she was leashed to the courtyard tree, tail wagging warily. Her coat was a little wet, otherwise the rain seemed not to bother her at all. Sasha ran to push open the door into little Elra Halmady's room, and Errollyn carried Aisha to the neighbouring bed. The little girl was awake, her left arm above the covers and wrapped in wet, pungent cloth. She watched as Errollyn placed Aisha carefully down and began cutting away her pants from around the protruding bolt. One of the Gianna sisters came in, saw Aisha and dashed off, yelling for medicines and bandages.

Errollyn inspected the bolt, now thick with congealed blood where it stuck from Aisha's flesh. Then he felt at her throat, seeking a pulse. He began gently feeling her head around where the blood seemed thickest. He murmured something to himself in a Saalsi dialect that Sasha could not recognise. It sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

“Is she a serrin?” asked Elra from the neighbouring bed.

“Yes, she is,” said Sasha.

“Is she going to be all right?”

“She's going to be fine.” Sasha placed a hand on Errollyn's shoulder.
“Errollyn. She rode with us in battle against the Hadryn heavy cavalry, she can survive a little blow on the head. She'll limp for a while once you take the bolt out, but I've seen your medicines work miracles. She'll be fine.”

“I should be with them.” There was a strain in Errollyn's voice. Sasha saw the tears in his eyes. “I should be with them. Even if I can't feel it, I should be there.”

“Errollyn…” Sasha shook her head in disbelief. “Can't feel what? What are you talking about?”

“It's a curse.” He stood abruptly, fists clenched. For a brief moment, Sasha thought he might strike something. “It's said all that is strange is a blessing, but it feels like a curse.”

“Errollyn.” She touched his arm gently. “Aisha needs you here. She always respected your choices. Don't regret what she does not.”

He looked down at her, his green eyes struggling. “I wanted to feel it, Sasha. I wanted to believe in Rhillian, and I wanted to believe in Saalshen, and I didn't want to doubt. But I've always been different. Ever since I was a child, I couldn't feel it, however hard I tried. Rhillian didn't understand that, and she made me so angry because she was the one who wanted a
du'janah
in this
talmaad
in the first place. A balance of truth, she said. She refused to understand, and she made me so angry, and now I've betrayed them all…”

“No!” Sasha grasped his arms firmly. “No. Rhillian made her own decisions, Errollyn. You were right, damn it. Kessligh tells me just now this proves you were right—”

“And you think this makes it any easier!”

Sasha gazed up at him. The pain in his eyes echoed the one in her heart. She took a risk, and reached to wipe away his tears. A Lenay man might have struck her for such an insulting gesture. Errollyn did not flinch. His gaze was almost…longing. Something occurred to her. “Errollyn. You've never told me your age.” Aisha looked barely sixteen, yet she had more than thirty summers. Rhillian had even more. She'd always assumed that Errollyn must also be considerably older than herself. But something in his eyes now made her wonder.

“I'm twenty-three,” he said. Sasha was almost shocked.

She managed a crooked smile at him. “Finally a serrin who looks his age.” And acts it, she nearly added, but didn't.

Errollyn stared at her desperately. And kissed her full on the lips. The kiss lingered, deeper and deeper, and suddenly her heart was hammering and her arms were about him, and she wanted nothing more than to melt into that warm intoxication and never emerge…He pulled back, hands firm on her shoulders. His stare at this range was paralysing. Deep green, like the deepest ocean. “Don't die,” he whispered. “You're all I have left.”