Blackwood was still a while, his eyes travelling over the banners showing his noble lineage. Then he seemed to recollect I was there; he beckoned to me. I went forward, while the orderly busied himself with some papers near the entrance.
"Now," said Blackwood, "tell me about your blood brother."
I went as quickly as I could through the tale of Carle's arrest. I was eager to be gone from this place before Blackwood looked too closely at my face and noticed my resemblance to certain feud enemies of his. When I was finished, the baron said, "Your blood brother Calder was arrested for suspicious behavior. He refused to give way to another man when they were both passing through the same doorway, even though the other man was burdened with heavy objects. The only excuse that your blood brother offered was that he was of higher rank than the other man."
I could have groaned then. Of
course
Carle would refuse to give way to a man who was of lower rank than Carle was supposed to be. To have given way in Emor would have been a suspicious act in itself, alerting everyone to the fact that Carle was not actually a noble.
Blackwood continued, "Some soldiers who were passing tried to reason with him. When he answered them gruffly, they took hold of him to try to pull him out of the way, since he was still blocking the doorway. At that point, he began to lecture them on the importance of showing respect toward their betters."
Blackwood raised his eyebrows, and I struggled with the odd impulse to laugh. I could envision the scene: Carle delivering his finest lecture on Emorian notions of rank, and the soldiers exchanging looks, wondering what in the names of all the gods this had to do with the civility of giving way to a burdened man.
"It all seemed very strange to the soldiers, so they brought him back here for questioning," Blackwood concluded. "Since his arrival, your blood brother has refused to answer any questions put to him, which of course has raised our curiosity as to the reason for his resistance."
The implication was delicately phrased. I took a deep breath. Thanks to his ignorance of Koretian life, Carle had steered us into a marsh as deep as any in southwest Daxis, but I had always known that something like this might happen, and I had a story prepared. "Sir, my blood brother is . . . Well, he had a hard childhood, sir, and so he sometimes acts a bit strangely."
I told the story then of Carle's imaginary background, which was the background of the real noble-boy I had once known. I finished by saying, "So you see, sir, though Calder is still a noble, he has lost the barony he might have held, and because of this, he is somewhat sensitive on matters of rank. And being arrested and imprisoned . . . well, that would merely make him too frightened to respond to questions. He's a bit simple, you see." I breathed up a silent apology for the slander I was placing upon my wine-friend's keen intelligence.
"Mm." Blackwood's eye was on the banners once more. "I seem to remember the story you tell. Borderhollow, was it?"
"No, sir, the village he came from was Borderknoll. Just a few miles east of Cold Run."
"Ah, yes. Hard to forget, that village. Well, your story is a plausible one. Are you prepared to swear an oath to its truthfulness?"
I hesitated. I knew what form a truth-swearing before a baron took, and that was not the sort of oath I wanted to take.
"Come, come," said Blackwood impatiently. "Either you are telling the truth, or you are lying. If you are lying—"
"I'm telling the truth, sir." Quickly I pulled my belt-dagger from its sheath, holding my left palm up in the peace position to show that I meant Blackwood no harm. He made no move to stop me, and so I carefully drew a line of blood across my left palm as I said, "I, Adrian, do swear unto my god and the god of the Baron of Blackpass that I will answer truthfully any questions the baron shall ask me concerning the matter I have brought before him. I bind myself with this vow until the questioning shall be completed today."
The traditional oath of truth-telling to a noble is carefully worded to prevent nobles from misusing their powers to ferret out secrets they have no right to, but even so, a clever baron could use the vow to learn about matters unrelated to the petition being presented.
I had no doubt that this was a clever baron.
Blackwood put out his hand, and I gave him the dagger so that he could inspect it and my palm. Some forswearers are clever enough that they never actually cut their palms. As he checked that the blood on my palm matched the blood on the blade, he asked, "Is your blood brother a spy?"
"Sir?" I tried to sound startled. It was the worst question imaginable, the one I had feared most.
"Is your blood brother a spy for the King or his kin?" Blackwood persisted.
I nearly exploded with a sigh of relief. "No, sir."
"Is he involved in the present feud?"
"No, sir."
"Is he in any way my enemy?"
"No, sir." The answer was true enough. The Chara was not at war with Koretia; he merely was seeking information in the traditional manner by which rulers sought information in foreign lands, namely through their spies.
Blackwood nodded, and for a moment I thought he would give back my dagger. Then he asked, "And who are you?"
My breath stopped at the back of my throat. Blackwood's gaze rose from the palm to meet mine, straight and dark. "You are clever," he said, "but you have the misfortune to have woven your tale around the wrong lineage. Griffith, baron of Cold Run, is my second cousin once removed, so I know that his blood brother's lineage was wiped out during a feud between Cold Run and the neighboring village. Emlyn son of Maddock has no remaining kin . . . except those who are kin to my enemy. Now tell me the name of your father."
I hesitated. I was not thinking of the gods; I would gladly be forsworn to the gods. And Wystan had made clear his orders in this matter. But I had vowed my blood, and Carle had considered the mixing of our blood to be as high a matter as our wine-friendship. What would he think if he knew I had forsworn yet another blood vow?
"Be careful," warned Blackwood. "If you lie – and I think I shall know if you lie – then I will know that the rest of what you said to me was a lie as well. Your blood brother's life hangs in balance."
And that, of course, decided the matter. I stared over the baron's shoulder at the banners: generation after generation of men who had fought and killed my kin. I closed my eyes and then opened them again and looked squarely at Blackwood. "I am Adrian son of Berenger," I said, "and I am – I was – heir of Mountside."
A long pause followed. The orderly, who had been trying all this while to pretend that his only interest lay in the papers he was sorting, was now staring open-mouthed at me. The baron stood very still; my blood glistened on the blade he held.
"Tabb," he said, without moving his eyes from me.
"Yes, sir?" The orderly stiffened.
"See to his blood brother's release. And Tabb . . . not a word of what you've heard to anyone."
"Certainly not, sir." The orderly sounded aggrieved that the baron should even consider that possibility.
Blackwood waited until he was gone before saying, "I know you, of course. You're the reason for this cursed feud."
"Yes, sir." I kept my voice quiet. I was wondering whether he planned to kill me himself, or whether I would be of more use to him as a hostage, to be returned to my father. Either way, my hands were bound. Until Carle was released, I could do nothing that might threaten Carle's freedom, and by the time I was sure of Carle's release, no doubt the baron would have me securely bound or dead. I only wondered that he had sent off the orderly.
Unexpectedly, the baron turned away, as though I was no threat to him. "Well," he said, "I suppose that, by this point in the feud, some of us understand a little of why you acted as you did. Your blood brother knows that you broke your blood vow?"
I hesitated, but the baron did not turn back toward me, and it was unclear which answer would be safest. So I told the truth. "Yes, sir. He hates blood feuds, so he has been protecting me from harm."
The baron nodded as he turned back. "And that explains why he refused to speak to my soldiers. He feared that he might give away information that would endanger you."
Since this must certainly be part of the truth, I nodded. My eye was still on the blade in Blackwood's hand, its tip slick with blood.
He followed my gaze. "You overheard the plans I made earlier for you?"
I swallowed. "Yes, sir."
His eyes rose slowly. "No doubt you have a poor opinion of me now."
After a minute in which I struggled for an appropriate response, I finally settled for a conventional reply: "It is not for me to judge, sir. Your god will judge your actions."
He nodded and contemplated the blade. "I think," he said quietly, "that such a thought has not been enough in my mind of late." With one swift motion, he thrust forward the dagger.
I took the proffered dagger from him slowly, wiped the blood off, and sheathed my blade. My heart was drumming in a way that it had not done when I had thought I was about to die. The baron, turning away again, went over to his table. Bending over, he began to scribble on a piece of paper.
The door opened; the orderly stood there. "Sir, did you want the prisoner brought up here?"
"Yes, of course. Why have you not done so?" The baron, turning to a second piece of paper, remained absorbed in his writing.
The orderly glanced at me uneasily, then back at the baron. "Well, sir, he can't walk."
I was not even aware that my vision had begun to swim until I felt the baron's hand hard on my arm, cutting through the sickness with its sharpness. "Steady," he said. "Stay here."
I did as he ordered, watching numbly as he walked over to the orderly and exchanged low words with him. At the end of the conversation, Blackwood returned to my side.
"It's not as bad as it sounds," he said. "I'll have a priest tend to him. Where are you staying?"
I told him in an automatic manner, and he nodded. "I'll see that he's escorted to your inn in . . . an hour?" He looked at the orderly, who shook his head. "Three hours," the baron amended. "Don't worry; nothing was done to him that won't mend in time. I will give him my apologies. To you—" He handed me the papers he had been writing. "I give these. A poor gift in compensation for the injury I have done your blood brother, but these will allow both of you free passage in my town. Should you encounter any future trouble with my soldiers, you need only show them my letters of passage."
I managed to mumble some sort of thanks, and Blackwood gestured to his orderly, who opened the door wide for me. The baron himself escorted me to the door. "As for what happened in your village's feud," he said, "the gods will judge you as well. No doubt they have keener insight into the rights and wrongs of all this than I do. I do my best, and I'm always glad to meet a man who shows me when I have been about to take the wrong path. May the gods go with you."
He gave me the free-man's greeting, and I returned it, which saved me from having to make any spoken reply. Released from his care, I hurried across the courtyard to the gate leading out to the town.
Then something made me pause. I looked back at the doorway, where the Baron of Blackpass was still in conversation with his orderly.
". . . passed the word on to his men yet?" Blackwood asked, his lips as clear to my understanding as before.
"I don't believe so, sir. He said something about discussing the matter with them after supper."
"Good. Tell the subcaptain that I am rescinding my order concerning Valouse's heir. Just because the King and most of his kin have turned their faces from the gods does not mean that we need follow their example. We'll fight a clean feud, and set an example for our heirs . . . or whatever heirs are left by the time this is all over."
At that moment, the soldiers behind the gate took notice of me and opened the entrance. I turned away from Blackwood. That was the last I saw of my kinsmen's greatest enemy.
So now I wait, and I would pray if I had any gods to pray to. Four hours have passed, and Carle is still not returned.
o—o—o
Carle arrived a short time ago; he walked into the room on his own two feet.
"It made me feel more kindly toward my father, I can tell you that," he said in answer to my question about what they had done to him. "I decided that his beatings weren't as bad as I'd always thought."
"God of Mercy, Carle . . ." We were being careful to speak Border Koretian, in keeping with what I had told Blackwood, though I had checked to be sure that Carle hadn't been followed. Carle had refused to let me examine his wounds, saying that the army priest had done as much for them as needed to be done, but he had collapsed almost immediately onto his bed, stomach-down.
Now he waved away the rest of my remark. "Actually, the fear was the worst part of it, the fear of what would happen next – especially as they were so courteous as to describe what they would do to me if I didn't talk."
"But you didn't," I said flatly.
"No, I recited to myself the Law of Vengeance, just as I'd planned – though I was beginning to wish that I'd memorized the whole thirty pages of the Justification."
I was sitting next to him on the bed, and I moved slightly to take a closer look at the back of his tunic. Despite the fact that his back had been bandaged by the priest, the tunic was soaked with blood. As I moved, he let out a gasp, then bit his lip shut.
"How many lashes did they give you?" I asked miserably.
"Enough," he replied. "I was glad that you rescued me."
That was all he would tell me about what happened, so I gave him drugged wine, and now he's sleeping, though he keeps moaning every few minutes. My mind is divided now between thoughts of Carle and thoughts of what Wystan will say when I tell him that I disobeyed his command.
o—o—o
The fifteenth day of December in the 941st year a.g.l.
We arrived back at the headquarters today, having stayed in Blackpass for two weeks, both to dull the interest of any spies that Blackwood might conceivably have set on us and to give Carle a chance to heal before the long walk back. Fortunately, the mountain pass is not yet snowbound.
I told Carle that I thought we ought to make our reports separately, and he made no protest at this. At first I thought he had guessed how it was that I was able to obtain his release – I had given him only a vague explanation – but then I realized that he must be feeling just as guilty over having been captured as I was at having disobeyed orders. So the first thing I told Wystan after I entered his tent was that I thought Carle should receive a silver honor brooch for refusing to speak under torture.