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 – 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 passing 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 – he's our newest member – 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 – in this case, blatant disobedience to orders – 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 amusement and respect. "I was wondering when that diffidence of yours would begin to peel away."
"Oh. Well." I scraped 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 assign 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 pass 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 – 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
GOD 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 – only half a day's walk – 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 assured 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 – not just the mountain patrol, but all of the border guards of the empire. And the Division of Disclosure – 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 – 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 clustered 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 gods 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 – 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-lusting gods.
o—o—o
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 passed 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 pass 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 passed 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 – about his weaknesses especially – for I'm dreadfully afraid of doing something that will hurt him and build a wall between us.