[ Table of contents ]
 

NOBLE

Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER FIVE

Firmin had swung round to the south at the first sound of the horns. For a moment I feared that he would abandon me and flee. But he simply asked in a cool voice, "Where will they search?"

"The stream, assuredly. That's where the hunting will be greatest, aside from the road—" I stopped, not because of Firmin's hand suddenly clamping down on my arm, but because I too had heard the hoofbeats. I tried to slow my nervous heart, telling myself that it was just an illusion that the horses were charging toward us. They were actually following the Valley Road, which was not many yards from us but which was screened by the trees.

The horses raced past us with the quickness of an execution dagger plunging down. Under their receding pounding, I said, "They're heading for the northern end of the road. Half the soldiers will block the entrance into Truce Valley; the other half will begin walking upstream, so as to keep us from escaping that way from the solders searching at the other end of the stream."

"Splendid," said Firmin with acidity. "I don't suppose that you know a safe way for us to get to Truce Valley from here."

"None that the hunters don't know. I trained them myself."

I was silent a minute, listening to the continued thunder of hooves as another storm of horsemen passed us on the road. Faintly to the southeast I could hear horsemen setting out on a little-used track that eventually wound its way around the southern feet of the hills bordering Truce Valley. There was no way now for us to reach Truce Valley before the hunters did, and I knew that hunters were being sent to the east and west as well, to prevent the fugitives from fleeing in those directions.

Firmin was very still beside me, except that he was continuing to shiver under the frigid breath of the northern wind; his wet clothes were starting to grow stiff with ice. Then he began to curse in an oddly detached manner, as though carrying out some duty that was alien to his nature.

"What is it?" I asked. "Are they headed this way?"

"Oh, yes. I can see their torches now – they're coming on foot, swiftly. And I don't like the thought of trying to make our way through this dark forest."

"We can't escape them that way. They'll hear our progress." I was finding it hard to concentrate on the danger from the hunting party. My thoughts kept drifting away to consider Firmin's shivering. I brushed my hand briefly against his and discovered that his skin, rather than being night-cold like mine, was as hot as a rock on a summer's day. I said slowly, "I know one place we can go. It's the last place that the hunters will search, and perhaps Varick will call them back before then. Have we passed a white log stretched across the stream?"

"It's just a few minutes back. Where does it lead to?"

"The King's leman's cottage."

Firmin gave a soft laugh. The nearer that the sound of the hunting party came, the lower his voice fell. "How will she feel about hiding us?"

"I don't think Varick has a leman at the moment, and if he did, he would bring her to the royal residence. He told me that he had learned a double lesson from our father and me about the importance of being well guarded when one is with a woman."

Firmin laughed again. I had expected that he would, and had braced myself for his derision beforehand. Then he said, "You didn't train your soldiers very well if you told them to check the cottage last. It sounds like a perfect hiding place."

"It is; the trouble is that it's also the perfect place to interrupt the King when he's enjoying himself with his leman. That happened during my father's reign, and my father nearly executed the entire hunting party, alderman and all. No hunting party has been eager to visit the cottage since then, even upon the King's own command."

"To the leman's cottage for us, then," said Firmin. "But I hope that it is well out of the way of the hunters, for I don't think—"

He stopped, and at the same moment, rising suddenly through the quiet like a fish breaking to the surface of a dark pool, came shouts and the sound of a horn – the hunters' horn, used to summon liege lords when the hunted is found. Firmin's grip on my arm increased.

"Are we seen?" I asked, barely daring to breathe the question.

"They're not near enough." Firmin's voice remained light. "No, at a guess, I would say that they have found the scout – a clear trail-marker as to where we have been."

"They may not attribute the death to us," I said, listening with half an ear to the low rumble of horses coming from the south. "After all, why would you kill a Fossenvite scout?"

"'Why indeed?' I ask myself now. The scout might have been of more use to me alive. As it is, the search party won't know that he's a Fossenvite. We left him— How long ago? One hour? Two?"

"His face will be gone," I said, understanding.

"His face and most of his skin. If I'd left him his boots, that might have identified him as a soldier, but by now he'll appear as nothing more than a petty villager. And of course these wretched petty clothes all look alike. No, the soldiers will assume that I met a villager, silenced him in the most effective manner, and then continued on my way – kidnapping you while I was about my business. You are becoming an exceedingly inconvenient travelling companion, Princeling."

He was continuing to shake like rock-tumbled waters. The thundering hooves were coming nearer. I said, in as even a voice as I could manage, "You go ahead to the leman's cottage. I'll meet the soldiers and lead them astray. I'll tell them that you're already beyond—"

Firmin's hand clamped down on my arm again as the beat of hooves began to slow. His fingers pressed against my bone. "Mounted torchbearers," he said softly. "The King himself has come to inspect the body."

"The cottage—"

"Not yet. You can't trick an enemy until you know how his thoughts travel – York taught me that. I'm interested in seeing how your brother commands his hunters."

The shouting had subsided now, like the diminishing calls of the dying on a battlefield. Standing still as we were, I became conscious of the winter air touching us like a cold blade. I raised my hands to my mouth and blew on them, feeling them ache as though I had been duelling for too many hours. My feet were numb, though I had retained my soldierly boots when I changed into petty clothes; the ground below my feet was beginning to grow hard with ice. I heard the whisper of the wind and felt Firmin standing shoulder to shoulder with me, shaking like a storm-troubled tree.

Breaking through the silence came a series of notes like rapid goose-cries. Firmin gave a quiet chuckle. "Did I say that you Tascanians were soft? I revise my judgment: you are spineless."

Through the dullness of my cold skin, I felt my fingernails bite into my palms, but I contented myself with saying, "The stripping fish must have done their job well. Varick must think that the petty is so long dead that we're beyond his reach now."

"And so we will be, in a short—" Firmin broke off into a fit of coughing, then smothered the sound as we heard the hoofbeat of horses returning along the road to the camp, their riders called back from the search by the horns.

I waited till they were past before saying, "Even so, it would be wise to wait in that cottage until we can be sure we're safe. An overenthusiastic soldier might decide to do some searching on his own."

"I told you, I can deal with any soldier—" Firmin's words were shattered again as he began coughing. I made no comment on this, and after a moment, Firmin said with irritation, "Well, let's get out of the wind before we hold a lengthy conversation on our escape plans. How far is this cottage?"

It was not far, in fact. We made our way back over the tangle of tree roots that hid our footprints but threatened to trip us into the stream, stepped across the fallen trunk whose top was worn level by the passage of many travellers, and then wove our way between branches and bushes until we reached a cottage whose rough wooden walls seemed a natural feature of the forest.

It was built village-style – hastily, with no attempt to fashion beauty for a structure that might be burned in the next raid – but like most village houses, it was well sealed against the winds; when Firmin opened the door, a small puff of warmth met us. I stood in the doorway, my nose tingling from the familiar smell of pinewood walls and earthen floor and dust. Firmin impatiently pushed me inside and slammed the door shut against the cutting wind.

"Your father must have had a greater capacity for bed-warming than his reputation suggested," Firmin said in an irritable voice. "He chose the coldest house in Tascania for his leman."

I took several steps forward and deliberately bumped into him. His clothes were as cold as snow. "We could start a fire."

"A smoke signal to tell your brother where we are? No, thank you."

I took several more steps forward and stubbed my toe against the bed. It was a good bed, probably the best in the kingdom: neither an army cot nor a villager's pallet for the floor, but a mattress on an actual bedframe, like the ones that used to be made in the old days. The bed must have been specially commissioned from a Partition craftsman by my great-grandfather, who first claimed this cottage, for the wood was only now beginning to grow smooth with age. Atop the feather mattress were the blankets that had been there when I last visited.

"Look," I said, "I'm not sure whether I can go any further without some rest and warmth. I didn't get any sleep last night, and I'm chilled to the bone. Surely it won't matter if we leave for the valley a few hours from now. That way, we can be sure that no hunters are lingering at the pass entrance, and I can try to stave off this cold I'm developing."

"All petties are weaklings," said Firmin, but underneath his contempt I could read the relief in his voice. "Very well, I'll coddle you for a short while. Come to think of it, I didn't get any sleep last night either, and if I know the Wolf, his manner of welcoming me home will be to make me stand on my feet for three hours, giving him my report. I don't suppose you'd be willing to assist me by telling me the timing of your army's patrols and other such matters he'll expect me to have noticed."

I made no reply. I was on my knees next to the cedarwood chest by the bed, pulling open its lid to bring out the extra blankets inside. Behind me, a rustle of cloth told me that Firmin was stripping himself of his clothes. A bit of ice from them showered onto me. This was followed by a sneeze and a prolonged series of hoarse coughs. The last cough was punctuated by a curse; then the mattress next to me shifted as Firmin slid under the blankets.

I pulled the extra blankets on top of him. His noble-chain was cold against his bare chest; above it, something tickled my hand.

"You've grown a beard," I commented.

Firmin gave a snort as he pulled the tasselled edge of the blanket away from my hand. "How can you be sure that I wasn't wearing one when we last met, Princeling? You never saw me."

"I saw you." I sank down onto the dirt ground beside the bed, suddenly weary from the killing and the chase and the continued fighting. I laid my cheek down upon the scratchy wool blanket and said softly, "You're the last thing I saw."

There was no response. Firmin's breathing was low and even, though somewhat clogged and accompanied by a whistle from his nose. I hesitantly raised my hand up, groped my way over the linen-wrapped pillow, and located his forehead. It was as hot as a forge-iron. Carefully, I pulled my hand away and went over to the chest.

One piece of cloth remained in the chest: a thin coverlet, little more than a sheet. I folded this double and curled up on the ground beside the bed, pulling the coverlet over me. There was room in the bed for two, but I could imagine what Firmin would say – and do – if he awoke to find himself sharing his sleeping space with a petty. The floor was cold and hard. For a long time I lay listening to Firmin's whistle sigh through the air like the rhythmic splash of stream-waves. Finally, the darkness of my waking was replaced by the darkness of sleep.

I awoke to the sound of wind howling, and birds singing, and someone vomiting.

I pulled myself from the floor with effort. I felt as though I had bruises on every inch of my skin, and my left arm was flaming anew. Nearby, the vomiting had stopped. I walked over to the side of the bed and nearly slipped on the newly thrown liquid soaking into the cottage floor.

"I think your brother poisoned me," Firmin said faintly.

"How are you feeling?" I asked, trying to place my hand on his forehead. He jerked away under my touch.

"I'm a soldier; I've felt worse," replied Firmin in a voice that belied his words. "I don't suppose this primitive hut has anything so sophisticated as a bucket."

I turned, took two steps away from the bed, and felt myself grabbed. As his fingers pinned my wrist as though they were pincers, Firmin said, "Where are you going?"

"Outside. I think there's a bucket there."

Firmin laughed softly as he released my wrist. "Have you forgotten who you are, Princeling? Petties ask permission before they leave the presence of their betters."

The blood throbbed through my wrist as though Firmin's fingers were still clamped there. I turned stiffly to face Firmin. The cottage seemed to have grown warm suddenly, and I could feel the tips of my ears burning.

Firmin gave a sharp laugh. "I suppose that you were overcome by eagerness to serve me quickly. I'll forgive you this once, if you find the bucket."

Still I stood where I was, my feet planted apart in the position I had never been able to train myself out of, since I had imitated my father in that manner since the day we first met. I tilted my head so that it was pointed down toward Firmin. The blankets rustled as Firmin shifted in position.

"Don't be so stubborn, Princeling," Firmin said lightly. "If you don't fetch the bucket, then I'll have to, and I'll probably die of pneumonia from the wind, and you'll have no one to guide you to Truce Valley. Is that reason enough for you to go?"

The wind was indeed howling like a hungry wolf; the air in the cottage stirred from the gusts creeping through the wall cracks. I said quietly, "Yes," and then turned and walked to the door, uncertain whether the horn that had just sounded the retreat had been Firmin's or mine.

As I lifted the latch of the cottage door and pressed the door back against the insistent wind, a chorus of birds thundered down upon my ears. I had heard them already from inside the cottage, but there the sound had been muffled by the window shutters holding back the cold. Here on the outside they cried out with as much vigor as men challenging each other in battle. Their sound was checked only by the howl of the wind and the hiss of the swift-rushing stream.

I found the bucket in its usual spot, next to the alder tree, and inside it the long dipper. After that, I made my way carefully through the woods until the shadow of the trees' presence ceased to brush me, and I was standing beside the water.

I stood a while with my face upturned. The air smelled crisp and cold. The shadow of clouds ran swiftly over me, turning my face colder when they passed between me and the sun. The wind was coming from the north. Faintly from the south – very faintly, for the wind was pushing the sound back – came the noise of whinnying horses and shouting men. I turned quickly and made my way back to the cottage.

I nearly missed it – the wind pushed me off course – and so I had a moment when something hard as a forge-stone weighed down my chest as I wondered whether I would be able to find the cottage again. But I made my way back inside with most of the water still quivering inside the dipper.

Firmin's comment as he took the dipper from my hands was, "You shouldn't have gone as far as the stream. You might have been seen."

"No one ever comes this way," I replied. I had placed the bucket beside the bed and was now on my hands and knees, using my handkerchief to try to clean up the worst of the earlier mess. "Varick and I used to come here to fish when we were journeymen. It's a good place to talk—"

I stopped, and Firmin gripped my shoulder in the same moment. The thud of hooves came so softly from the south that the sound might have been nothing more than a brushing of snowflakes against the snow, but both Firmin and I had been trained for defense work, and defense soldiers live for the beat of hooves: that slight tapping on the ground that says an enemy alderman and his petties are crossing the border to make a raid.

After a moment, Firmin's hand slipped from my shoulder, and I heard the hiss of a blade being unsheathed. Rumor had it that York, not trusting to his royal privilege, slept with a dagger under his pillow. It appeared that Firmin was of the same mind.

I said, "He's coming too fast. He'll pass us."

We could hear the hoofbeats clearly enough now to know that the horse was galloping over cobblestone; the paved road between the Tascanian camp and Truce Valley was one of the few in the world that was kept in good repair. Firmin waited until the horseman had passed us before sheathing his blade and saying, "A messenger, I suppose. I heard another go by earlier, coming from the north."

"York heard about your escape, I suppose?"

"We do have more than one scout in this area, Princeling." The edge of Firmin's mocking was blunted as he stopped to cough. A minute passed before he was able to say, "York was probably demanding an immediate report about me from Varick – a good way to keep Varick occupied while the hunt was on. Except, of course, that your indolent brother had given up the hunt already. I suppose that York will be wondering by now where I am. Hand me my clothes."

I remained where I was, still kneeling on the floor beside the bucket with the filthy rag in my hand. "The birds are singing. It's daylight now."

"Do tell. I figured that out by opening my eyes."

"Also, there's snow on the way. I could smell it in the air."

"All the more reason to leave now. Hand me my clothes, Princeling, before I teach you—"

His arm brushed past me, but I had already moved, snatching his clothes off of the bed. They were still cold with ice.

Firmin's virulent curses stopped abruptly. I silently handed him the bucket, then explored the air until I found his shoulder. He slapped my hand away, continued his retching, and then let the bucket fall to the floor, splattering its contents upon me. I ignored the mess and reached toward Firmin again. This time I was able to touch his burning hand briefly before he pushed me away.

"It's two miles to the border and nearly ten miles to your camp," I said. "Don't you think that it would be better to wait till nightfall before we leave?"

"Don't defy me, Princeling," Firmin replied in a dark voice.

"I'm not defying you."

"You're defying me now, and you defied me earlier. What do I have to do, carve you with my blade to show you what happens to defiant petties?"

My hand fell from the bed to the sodden mess on my breeches, which had already soaked through to my skin and was beginning to chill. Despite my best efforts, my fingers curled inward toward my palm, and my breath rasped heavy and hard under the trill of the birds.

Firmin rolled forward on the mattress and said in a low voice, "Look, Princeling, I'm just trying to help you. The first time you act that way around a noble who doesn't recognize you, you'll be killed. I'm teaching you what it's like to be a petty."

I uncurled my fingers and groped around the floor until I found my handkerchief, then began wiping the worst of the mess off of me. "Yes, I see. Thank you."

Firmin gave a sharp, high laugh like that of a crow as he flung himself back against the mattress. "Really, Princeling, you Tascanians are so gullible. Do you believe everything that you're told?"

"No," I said. "But sometimes a man may speak the truth without meaning to."

Firmin drew in his breath, then held it. My head swivelled toward the south automatically, and my hand tightened on the handkerchief.

"Horses," Firmin breathed. "Many of them. They're headed this way."

"They're on the road. Don't worry; nobody ever comes here except—"

"Except you and Varick – I remember. What kind of trap have you set for me, Princeling?" His hand closed around my collar, jerking me toward him. My belly hit the hard frame of the bed.

His other hand, I realized, must be close to his dagger. I said rapidly, "Don't be a fool. Think about it: a messenger from the north, then a messenger from the south, then horses headed toward Truce Valley. What does that tell you?"

I waited breathlessly – the collar was tight around my throat now, half-choking me – as the soldiers approached. We could hear the jingle of the horses' unmuffled bits, the steady rhythm of hooves, the growing tramp of men's feet, the murmur of voices. It wasn't the sound of a quick-moving hunting party, nor that of a silent and secretive foraging party.

"Ah," said Firmin, with relief shining clear in his voice. He released me and pushed me carelessly away from the bed. "York's work. He's keeping your army occupied in order to give me the opportunity to reach the border. What's the nearest way to the border that won't take us through the valley?"

"Around the west side of Wolf Hill – there's a track that leads to Refuge Road. But, Firmin—"

"Address me by my title, Princeling; I'm not your fellow petty. I sense a defiance coming."

"No, a statement of fact. We can't reach the track without crossing the road to the valley, and we can't cross the road till the army is past. That will take an hour or more. Why don't we rest in the meantime?"

"Do you think I'm an apprentice who needs mid-morning naps?" But Firmin's voice was languid as he spoke, and the blankets shifted next to me as he drew them higher.

I did not speak. The army had come abreast of us, and through the cracks in the shutters, through the shield of the trees, came the cry of the horns, warning some villager to clear the road quickly lest he be trampled into the mud. The King was riding just behind the heralds, and he was leading his soldiers into battle.

I listened until I could hear the horns no more, and then I turned back to Firmin, but by that point he had fallen asleep.

At my back was crackling flames and warmth and the biting smell of smoke; in front of me was cold wind and battle sounds and the faint bite of snowflakes on bare skin; and all through my naked body ran fear and pain and exhilaration. I was free. I still did not know what I would do with my freedom.

I leaned my head against the doorpost, feeling the wet snow flutter against the blanket wrapped over my shoulders, and listening to the cries and clashes arising faintly from the valley to the north of me. Every so often, horns would call out: the deep, arrogant bellow of the Fossenvite horns or the thin, bell-like song of the Tascanian horns. Each time, the pattern of notes would be different, and sometimes the horn call would be answered by another call, but more often it would not.

The door was pulling at my hand now, trying to escape my grasp under the pressure of the wind. I stepped further back into the cottage and used a rock to hold the door open a crack, thus allowing in news from the battlefield and allowing out smoke from the open hearth at the center of the cottage.

I found my way back to the hearth by listening to the flutter of the flames struggling against the chill breeze that was slipping into the cottage. When I had come close enough, I reached out cautiously with my cloth-wrapped right hand and located the blazing hot cauldron sitting on the iron cradle over the peat-fed fire. Sliding my hand around the lip till I reached the handle of the dipper, I cautiously pulled up a dipperful of liquid and blew on it for several seconds before sampling my cooking. The broth burned its way down my throat, but it was edible, and it gave some satisfaction to my growling stomach.

The blanket slipped from my shoulders as I leaned forward, leaving my front warm with fire-heat and my back cold with snow-wind. Hastily, I reached up and groped the air until I located the clothes I had hung on the rafter above the fire. Mine were nearly dry, and so I pulled on my rough breeches.

"Are you mad? They'll see the smoke and come looking for us!"

I was reaching forward to pull my shirt from the rafter and nearly fell into the fire as Firmin's voice unexpectedly rang out, ragged but imperious. It took me a moment to orient myself toward the sound; then I went over to the bed, trying to walk steadily and purposefully. As a result, I brought my shin hard up against the bedframe. Abandoning all pretense of honor, I knelt by the bed and said, "Everyone's in the valley. How do you feel?"

A pause ensued before Firmin said in a dragging voice, "As though you should have murdered me last night after all. Did you spread Mountain Poison over me during the night?"

"If I did, you won't die for another year or two." I put my hand up, and this time Firmin did not move as I felt his moist, baking forehead. "How is your stomach feeling? Do you want something to eat?"

"Yes," Firmin said with stoic shortness. He was struggling to raise himself up against the headframe of the bed when I returned from the hearth. He made no comment as I sat down beside him on the bed, but simply took the dipper from my hand.

I leaned my naked back against the smooth, carved wood, listening with half an ear to the sounds drifting into the cottage like mist. A horn called out – several high notes – and I tensed; then I heard an answering call come from the Fossenvite horns. I waited, barely breathing, as Firmin unconcernedly sipped from the dipper.

He gave a shuddering sigh as he finally handed the dipper back to me. "Well, that probably won't stay inside me for long, the way I feel. Where did you get it from?"

"It's fish broth," I replied.

"Yes, Princeling, I do know what fish broth tastes like. What I meant was, how did you get the fish?"

I reached over and took up from the floor the cup of water I had placed by the bed several hours before. Sipping from it, I said, "I found an old fishing net Varick and I used to use."

"Ah," said Firmin, his voice suddenly dry with malicious satisfaction. "I wondered about the bandage on your hand. So it's not quite as easy to catch stripping fish as it was in the old days?"

"I got that while cleaning our clothes in the stream. Do you want to put yours on now?"

"There's no point. It's clear I'm not going to be going anywhere for a while yet. It's just as well I brought you along, Princeling; you appear to be of some use to me after all. Bring me some water."

I walked over and poured him a cupful from the pitcher I had filled earlier, taking the opportunity, while I was up, to retrieve my shirt from the rafter. As I pulled it on, Firmin asked, "What's that other bandage for?"

"Arm wound," I said briefly.

"Oh, yes." The bright maliciousness returned. "York wrote his name in your flesh, didn't he? He told me he was going to do that. Is that why you're wearing petty clothes? I thought it was because you had decided to run away."

"No, I made my decision to leave after last night's council meeting, and I went straight from that to you." I barely attended to what I was saying as I tied the knots in my shirt. I was trying to calculate in my mind how long the battlefield duel had been going on, and whose turn it was to attack.

As though reading my thoughts, Firmin said, "It's quiet in the valley right now."

"Granville challenged Marlin." I sat down beside Firmin again as I handed him his water. His arm brushed against mine as he took the cup; I could feel that his muscles were relaxed.

His voice was also at ease as he said, "Well, just as long as Marlin doesn't attack York again—"

Water spilled on my newly dried breeches. It came from Firmin's cup, which he had jerked suddenly as a deep, single note rang from the Fossenvite horns: it was the royal herald. For several strained moments, I held my breath. Then an answering challenge came from the Tascanian horns.

Slowly, deliberately, Firmin raised the cup to his lips. I could feel the shifting of his arm, and I could also feel that his muscles were now hard with tension . We both sat without speaking, listening to the silence belling out of Truce Valley as the two armies of the world stopped fighting in order to watch Firmin's father duel my brother.

For several lifetimes, it seemed, we both sat as motionless as two corpses on the field, while the bitter smoke choked the air, and the wind screamed through the doorway, and the fire slowly gave up its struggle to stay alive. Then came a single note, repeated over and over and over. And with it came the renewed sound of shouting, this time in the form of orders given by princes and aldermen.

Firmin had relaxed from the moment that the first note blew; it was the Tascanian horns that had called the retreat. He said with mild curiosity, "I wonder whether it was a wounding or a disarming."

"It hardly matters," I said as I collected the cup from his hand. I tried to match the lightness of his tone with my own. "It's your victory in any case."

"Not necessarily," Firmin replied. "We had to pay a heavy compensation during this battle because we killed too many of your aldermen in the last battle. If York only disarmed Varick, you still may have won."

"It hardly matters," I repeated as I knelt by the fire and began to fling ground-dirt on the last toiling flames.

"You're not interested in who won the battle?"

"Not really."

The bucket screeched on the floor as Firmin dragged it closer to him. In a voice that sounded as though he were struggling to retain his normal tone, he said, "Dear me, Princeling, you're beginning to talk more and more like a petty, and not even like a petty soldier. It's just as well that our paths will part at the border. You'll undoubtedly make a boring travelling companion from this point on."

I opened my mouth, then carefully closed it again. Behind me, the sound of retching had begun once more. I went over to the door, closed it against the knife edge of the wind, and went over to hold Firmin's head as the royal noble choked out the last of his fish broth.

Five days later, I sat on the ground next to the cold hearthstone, playing King or Commander with the gold from my belt-purse.

Spread on the ground next to me were the ashes of the last fire I had lit, two days before, when Firmin's fever had been at its worst and he had been too ill to argue with me. Since then his fever had broken and the weather had turned warm. The cottage floor was wet with mud from the melting snow that had dripped under the door. I was sitting cross-legged, with my mud-caked boots standing like sentinels beside me, as I twisted the coin in my hand.

It spun away from me, chiming as it hit the rough cracks in the stones that composed the hearth, finally finishing its dance with a rapid peal. I felt my way past the neat stack of gold coins in front of me and found the coin I had twisted, at the far end of the upraised hearth, hanging perilously over the edge like the head of a condemned petty who had been granted the mercy of the chopping block. I felt the top of the ridges on the upturned face of the coin. Under my exploring fingers was the figure of a blade, representing the Commander's sword or dagger.

Not liking the answer I had received, I picked up the gold and gave it a second twist. This time the coin landed with a sighing thud on the floor, and I had to grope amidst the flaky ashes till I found it again. On its face was a circle representing the ring or noble-chain of the King.

I struggled with myself for a moment, then gave in to my conscience, and spun the coin a third time to decide the matter. The coin twisted away from me eagerly, as though longing to free itself from my hands, and I heard it land again on the hearth. I had no opportunity, though, to discover whether it had landed King or Commander. At the moment that its chiming stopped, the cold edge of a blade touched my throat, and a voice said lightly, "Thank for your gentle care of me during the past few days, Princeling. Now will you kindly explain why you're carrying enough gold to buy supplies from the Partition for three years?"

My hand was still outstretched. I set it slowly and carefully on the hearth before saying, "It's my own money."

"I know it's your money; only a royal noble would possess that much gold. I also know that this isn't the sort of money you would carry around with you routinely. You told me that you went immediately to my cell after you decided to run away – and like a fool I believed you. Is this part of a plot you and Varick planned together, or are you acting on your own initiative?"

His blade pressed closer against my windpipe as he calmly reached the end of his recital. I resisted the impulse to swallow – it didn't seem wise to make any strong movements in my throat – and instead said, "You try to be like York, don't you?"

After a moment, the blade withdrew, but I could still feel Firmin's body pressed against my back as he knelt behind me and pinned me to his chest with his free arm. "I am like York, Princeling – I would have thought you'd have realized that by now. What brings this unoriginal observation to your mind?"

"Because I've never known York to trust anyone, not even his kin. I suppose that if you spend your life tricking people, you reach the point where you're sure that everyone is devoting their lives to tricking you. It's the only thing that has ever made me feel sorry for York."

I waited, feeling the sweat trickle down my face in the chill room. The blade touched my throat again. "When I'm in a philosophical mood, I'll consider what you said," Firmin said coolly. "Right now, I wish you to answer my question."

"I'll tell you if you take that dagger away. You're making me nervous."

I tried to speak in a composed manner, but my voice must have betrayed me, for Firmin gave a low chuckle. After a moment, he withdrew the blade, and this time he released me. His body whispered along the ground as he pulled himself over to the side of the hearth.

"It's not as though you can escape, I suppose," he said. "What's the gold for?"

I raised my hand slowly and deliberately – I still didn't wish to make any quick movements – in order to wipe the moisture from my forehead before Firmin noticed it. "I was going to offer it to Varick as compensation."

After a moment's pause, Firmin hooted with laughter. "For your own blinding?"

"It might have worked. I knew that one of the reasons Varick wanted to blind you was to retain our honor in the sight of the Fossenvites. I thought that if I gave him the money in secret, he could swear in public that he had received compensation from a noble. Everyone would assume that he meant a Fossenvite noble, of course. You wouldn't be blinded, our honor would be saved, and Varick would have the added pleasure of watching York go mad trying to figure out which of his nobles had paid the compensation."

"But it didn't work."

"I didn't have the chance to offer the money. Varick got angry at the meeting and swore that he'd blind you."

"Kings' oaths are troublesome that way." Firmin's voice was just as light as before, but I heard the hiss of metal as he sheathed his dagger. The coins clinked as he reached over to finger them. "What were you doing – figuring out how many years you could survive on this without working?"

"I was playing King or Commander to figure out which route we should take to the Partition."

This time Firmin's silence was longer. Through the half-opened door I could hear clearly the softening call of evening birds and the weary sigh of the wind; the camp to the south of us had been abnormally quiet for several days. Then Firmin said in a voice so bright and unsurprised that I knew it had been deliberately forced, "So you've decided to become a refuge-walker after all? Well, I suppose it's the one place where your brother won't be able to find you. But what is this nonsense about 'we'? Why should I want to visit the Petty Partition?"

"I thought you might want some time away from the Wolf of Fossenvita."

I held my breath in the moment after I spoke, then felt my breath knocked out of me as my head hit the floor. Ashes floated onto my face, Firmin's hand and knees pressed me against the floor, and his blade touched my heart as he said with quiet hardness, "I can call York anything I want, Princeling – that's my privilege. But if you insult York again, you'll taste blood in your mouth. Understand?"

"Yes," I said breathlessly. "I'm sorry."

Firmin's hand and knees and dagger slowly drew away. After another minute, I picked myself up and brushed the ashes off of my cheeks and nose and mouth and out of the hollows below my forehead. Firmin was silent all the while; he was scraping his blade against the hearthstone as though whetting it. Finally he said, "You know, York wanted to send me to the Partition once as a scout."

I paused from wiping my hair clean. "His heir's heir? A scout?"

"His heir's heir's heir – this was several years back. Almost no one had seen me at that point; York always kept me hidden away. I don't know why I speak in the past tense. He still does. York trained me in private, so I didn't do proper journeyman work. I've only ever spoken to the princes and to my raiding party, and my face isn't memorable. York thought I'd be the perfect scout – nobody would recognize me as a noble, and I could bring back information about the Partition."

"But he didn't send you."

"No, this was when you were King, and York became more worried about losing the final victory to Tascania than about what the Partitioners were doing. But now . . . It might be amusing, you know, to go missing for a few months and have everyone wonder where I am. Then I could turn up suddenly with the information York wanted. And you would be my way into the Partition. The Partitioners might not believe I'm a petty, but they'd know that you are, and you could vouch for me. Yes, I like your idea, Princeling. What's the best route to the Partition?"

"I thought of taking the Refuge Road," I said. I nearly stammered my reply, so stunned was I by the ease of the victory I had won in a battle I had been planning all week. "Even if Varick thought to search for me there, he would expect me to be further ahead on my journey than I am. It's the straightest route to the Partition, and the safest."

"Safest for you, perhaps. I don't have any need to take the neutral border route, though – I'd rather go by the Fossenvite roads."

"I'm not crossing the border."

Firmin gave a short laugh. He had stopped playing with his dagger and was now idly spinning the coins. The gold sang across the hearthstone like a sword ringing in battle. "What's the matter, Princeling? Don't you trust me?"

"I trust you. I don't trust York. He wants me as his hostage too badly."

"That's your problem, Princeling. We go by way of Fossenvita."

"No."

My voice was quiet and flat. The last of the singing coins came to rest, and no more travelled forward. I wondered whether Firmin was reaching again for his blade. Then he said, "King or Commander?"

I released my breath slowly. "King."

The coin sang out from his twist. I followed its progress with my ear and had my hand ready when at last it sank to its death. I touched the face: under my fingers was the circle.

"King it is," said Firmin. "Well, it's of no great importance, but I hope this conversation isn't a shadow of our upcoming journey. I warn you, Princeling: If you keep making yourself difficult, I'll simply shove you off the side of the road and leave you to make the rest of the journey on your own. And I won't care which side of the border you find yourself on."

I reached forward and began gathering the coins into the purse I had laid aside. As I scraped the cold metal along the colder hearthstone, Firmin asked, "Aren't you worried by what I just said, Princeling?"

"Not particularly," I said, willing my heartbeat not to reveal the falsehood of my words. "If you wanted to betray me to York, you could have done so long before this."

"Oh, yes," said Firmin with a smile in his voice. "But then it wouldn't have been amusing, you see – it would have been too simple a betrayal. That was the first lesson York taught me: betrayals must be amusing. I'll have to think of a good one for you."

And his laughter rang in the air like the singing of the King's coins.
 

CHAPTER SIX

Refuge Road was the oldest high way in the world, marking as it did the boundary between the ancient kingdoms of Tascania and Fossenvita. Like Truce Valley, it was neutral territory, and by custom it was treated as an extension of the Petty Partition: any petty walking on the road was supposed to be free from interference by nobles. In reality, of course, hunting parties always searched the road when a petty committed a grave crime against nobles, but during the rest of the year the road served as the quickest route to the Partition. On it could be found traders, rule-breaking petties, or petties who were simply weary of the war and desperate enough to seek refuge in the death-laden Partition.

The track that Firmin and I followed the next day would eventually end at Refuge Road. First, though, the track wound its way aimlessly through forests and meadows and past a single village clung to by petties too foolish to move from homes located in ideal raiding territory. It took considerable amounts of discussion, and another twist of a coin, before I was able to persuade Firmin that we should stop at this village for the supplies we would need for our journey.

"You're not likely to be recognized there," I said as we trudged our way up the narrow track in the early dawn.

"No, but you are," said Firmin, brushing aside branches, then allowing them to fling back against me. "You haven't been hidden from public view the way I have."

"I've never been to this village – I only know about it because I had to memorize the geography of Marlin's princedom when I was a journeyman. I doubt that the descriptions of me which circulate amongst villagers are accurate enough to identify me."

"Your voice will reveal you. Blades of wood, Princeling, even ignorant petties know what you and Varick sound like. I've heard my own petties do imitations of you."

"So I'll let you do all the talking." I ducked my head automatically to avoid a thick branch I was about to walk into. I felt Firmin shift beside me as I did so, but he asked no questions. He had received night patrol training, and no doubt he knew as well as I did what a blind man could sense.

"That would be revealing in itself."

"Firmin, the villagers are going to know—"

"Call me 'prince.' Or 'my lord prince,' since you're following me these days."

I ignored his caustic interruption. "It's going to be obvious to the villagers that we're refuge-walkers. It doesn't matter – it's unlikely they'll break the petty code. Petties who aren't soldiers rarely do."

"Petty code? What is that?"

It took me a moment to reply. I was trying to still the feeling of growing panic in me as we left the boundaries of my old patrolling area and entered into territory in which I had not the least idea where I was going. My unease was increased by the fact that Firmin pulled me impatiently along the path at his own rapid pace, leaving me to stumble over roots and embedded rock and fallen branches. Even Selig's guidance had never plummeted me this deep into miserable helplessness.

"You really don't know what the petty code is?" I said. Firmin's muscles grew hard under my hand, and I quickly added, "It's the custom that has developed among petties of never revealing facts to nobles which would put another petty in danger."

"Oh, yes, of course – you mean the petties' stubbornness when they're being tormented for information. I didn't know that they ennobled their famed obstinacy with a name; I thought they just liked to prevent nobles from finding murderers and other such rule-breakers. But, of course, you no longer care whether a certain murderer is found, do you, Princeling? You'd probably consider such a man your loving companion in refuge if you ever met him."

"No," I said with such brevity that Firmin cut his laughter short. We proceeded the rest of the way in silence.

We encountered no other travellers on the way – nor the hunting parties we feared – and so we reached the village at late morning. It was located in a clearing filled with saplings that nobody had bothered to cut down. At one point, I stumbled over the out-flung walls of a house which had been destroyed in a previous raid and which no one had rebuilt or even cleared away. No doubt a village in this location often found itself short of able-bodied men, and indeed the women and children far outnumbered the men. Weariness hung in the voices of the villagers we spoke with.

The villagers greeted us courteously, though there was a sudden questioning stillness when Firmin brought out the King's coins that were generally used only by nobles, Partitioners, or the petties in the western princedoms who harvested crops for the rest of the world. Firmin had taken charge of the purse from the start of the trip, pointing out reasonably that he had the dagger with which to protect our money. Once in the village, he proceeded into such a fiery and protracted negotiation for supplies that it was evening before we had settled the deal. We were therefore forced to accept the villagers' hospitality for the night. It did not take much intelligence for me to realize that Firmin had prolonged his negotiations for precisely that reason.

Mealtime in the village turned out to be a communal affair, held in the largest house of the village, the only dwelling that smelled fresh and well-kept. The owner of the house was a middle-aged woman by the name of Dorcas, who served us our meals herself. I could not discern the reason for her relative wealth until, as she was taking back my empty gruel bowl, I felt my hand touch something cold at her wrist.

I leaned over and murmured into Firmin's ear. He laughed in response and explained to Dorcas, "My companion noticed your wrist-chain and is wondering who the owner of your property is."

Dorcas, who had turned aside to instruct the children scampering around the house to play outside, gave an embarrassed laugh before saying, "I must admit that Prince Marlin is kind enough to care for me and our children. We have been together now for thirty years."

She ended on a note of quiet pride, as well she might. Firmin was suddenly choking on his water. I pounded his back, and after a moment he got his breath back enough to say, "Swords and daggers, that is certainly an accomplishment. And you say that you have children together – any sons?"

"Three sons, two of them acknowledged. My lord prince asked King Reynard whether he could make our youngest son his heir's heir's heir, but Reynard wouldn't allow it. In fact . . ." Dorcas hesitated, as though unsure whether she should reveal more of her tale to strangers, then was apparently reassured enough by our watchful silence to say, "In fact, he even asked Reynard whether he could marry me. The King said no, of course, but Marlin said that it didn't matter in any case. He tells me that I'm the wife of his heart."

For the first time since I had met him, Firmin was rendered speechless. I took the cup and bowl from his hands and handed them with a smile to Dorcas, who laughed in understanding before leaving with our dishes in hand.

Firmin was already tugging at my sleeve. I got up, and we pushed our way past the close-jammed bodies of the villagers who had completed their meals and were now debating, with a remarkable lack of interest, whether life for them would be better or worse if York were their King. Then we were outside in the evening coolness, surrounded by the silence of the deserted village streets.

"Did you know about this before we arrived here?" Firmin demanded in a low voice as he pulled me along. "Is that why you chose this village?"

"Why would I pick a village where a prince's leman lived? I didn't even know that Marlin had a leman."

"He has kept her for thirty years, and you didn't know that your right-hand prince had a leman? Tell me a more believable tale."

"Well, we never talked about each other's love lives," I said, trying to ease my elbow out of Firmin's bone-binding grasp. "Marlin does have a reputation for spending a lot of time in his villages, but he doesn't neglect his duties. I've met his heirs, of course, and they never so much as hinted that they were full brothers."

"Well, they wouldn't, would they?" said Firmin, finally allowing me to slip free as we reached the edge of the forest. "That their father would keep a leman for so long is shocking enough. I wonder whether Marlin told Reynard the full story."

"I doubt it – I'm sure my father would have forbidden Marlin from keeping her any longer if he'd known. Marlin is essentially breaking the rule against noble marriages."

"Oh, yes – 'the wife of my heart.'" Firmin's voice, as he spoke Marlin's words, was mocking. "I'll have to remember to use that line on my next leman."

We had entered the forest by now. I could feel the shadows of the trees as we passed them, rigid like upright tent-stakes in a summer camp. I waited until my hand was brushing the broad trunk of a tree beside me; then I grabbed Firmin by his shirt and thrust him against the tree.

He made no attempt to resist me; the only movement came from his hand, which rose to his belt. It was this as much as his silence that alerted me to what I had done. I released him immediately and stood where I was, feeling my rank bind me as though I were Firmin's prisoner.

After a moment, he said softly, "I hate to kill too many petties in one week, Princeling, so I'll treat that as a momentary lapse in memory. Just be sure to remember in the future which of us wears the noble-chain."

"I'll remember."

My reply, hollow and precise, was followed by a silence broken only by the muffled sound of children shouting at each other nearby. I could feel Firmin's body close to mine, and I wondered whether his hand was still on his dagger hilt. Finally he replied, "You say that as though, the next time I insult a friend of yours, you'll slip a blade through my heart rather than give me the opportunity to invoke the Second Rule. Well, I'll remember that too." He brushed past me, and I heard the sound of his rapid retreat toward the village. I remained where I was, surrounded by darkness and silence.

An evening breeze touched my face like a raid-woman's hand, bringing me back into awareness of my surroundings some time later. I was somewhere in the forest surrounding the village, but I did not know which way to turn. I strained to hear voices from the house we had just left, but the villagers had been speaking in soft, exhausted voices that did not carry this far. At last, I turned and began making my way toward the children's voices I had heard.

There were two of them, a boy and a girl. The boy sounded as though he was about Garrick's age; I had a harder time judging the age of the girl, for I had not heard any girls' voices since I was a child, except when they were upraised in screams. This girl's voice was raised, not in fear but in anger, and as I came near to where the children were quarrelling, she cut sharply into the boy's words, like a blade entering into bone.

"He's never going to come for you," she said flatly. "You ought to know that by now. You're too old, and besides, he already has two heirs."

"Princes can take three heirs if the King gives them permission." The boy sounded close to tears. "And I'm not too old – Prince Firmin was the same age as me when he was acknowledged."

"But you're just a raid-child – he wouldn't be interested in a raid-child."

"He'll be interested in me if he remembers my mother, and I know he must remember her. She was the most beautiful woman in the world. He has just been too busy to cross the border – otherwise he would have come for me before this. You'll see."

He ended on a defiant, wavering note. The girl was silent a moment; then she shouted in words that awoke the rooks in the trees above and sent them scattering, "He's not going to come! You should accept it, like I've accepted it!"

There was another pause before the boy said awkwardly, "That's different."

"No, it isn't." The girl's voice was muffled now. "My father's never going to come for me, and I know it. You should stop making up these stories and accept what your life is really like. You'll always be a petty."

The boy said something under his breath, and a crack sliced through the air as he hit something with a branch. A second crack came, and a third, and presently I realized that the girl had left the boy alone with his misery.

I took a step forward and was brought up short by a bush. The boy's breath travelled swiftly inward at the noise of rustling. Then he apparently sighted me, for he said, "Oh! Good evening, pettyman."

"Good evening," I replied, disentangling myself from the bush. "I seem to have gone astray and have been wandering in endless circles trying to find my way back to the village. I don't suppose that there's a log near you where I could rest for a moment."

"Yes, of course. There's one right here." The boy's polite voice had turned solicitous. His hand slipped into mine, and he guided me across a clearing to where a lichen-covered tree trunk lay. The wood crumbled beneath my hands as I eased myself down, leaving damp wood-dust on my fingers. The ground beneath my boots was soft with melted snow.

The boy sat down beside me, and we remained in companionable silence for a while before I asked, "What's your name?"

"Petty," he replied. Then, swiftly: "I won't ask your name. We're not supposed to ask refuge-walkers their names. In fact, Dorcas told us . . ."

He hesitated, and I said, "Is Dorcas your mother?"

"No, my mother's dead. Dorcas takes care of me – she takes in children who need homes. She told us that we shouldn't speak to you because you were keeping your voice hooded."

"Indeed I am," I said. "It's a voice that's easy to remember, as you can tell. But you won't give away my secret, will you?"

"Of course not," replied Petty with a touch of pride. "Everyone in the village keeps the petty code, even Dorcas. Anyway, Prince Marlin never asks her to break it."

"Have you ever had a chance to speak with Prince Marlin?"

"Oh, yes; he visits here a lot. He gave me a sword for my birthday last spring – a real blade – and he takes me with him sometimes when he goes to visit the other villages. He taught me how to ride a horse, just in case—"

He stopped abruptly, and I heard him swallow. He had been swishing the stick in the air, his arm brushing against mine, but now he lowered the stick, and I felt the jarring along his arm as he began to poke the end of the stick against the mud underneath us. I said, "Dorcas told me that Prince Marlin had acknowledged two of their sons. I hadn't realized that he could do that. But, then, I suppose I'm not very clear on how nobles acknowledge their sons."

Petty's arm grew still. "But I would have thought you'd know. I mean, you were a soldier—"

I filled his sudden silence by saying easily, "My boots give that away, I suppose. But you see, petty soldiers don't receive any formal training in the Rules of War. They just gradually learn the parts that apply to them."

"Oh, I see." Petty began to cut through the air again. Now he was moving the stick forward as well as back and forth, thrusting and guarding against an invisible opponent. "Well, it's rather complicated, actually. You see, a noble isn't allowed to marry except with special permission from the King, because he needs to devote all his time to protecting the petties. If he was married, he might make war decisions based on what would benefit his family rather than on what would be best for all the petties of his princedom. But of course a noble needs a boy to inherit his title."

"I see." I linked my hands around one knee and drew my leg up toward me, resting my mud-soaked boot against the curve of the log. With the boot came the smell of damp earth and leaves, which mingled with the scent of smoke drifting into the forest from the village. "But if a noble never marries, how does he find a boy to take his title?"

Petty began to speak, stopped himself, and then said carefully, "Usually he goes to one of his lemans. A noble is allowed to take a leman when he isn't busy raiding, you see, and so he goes to a leman who has had a son by him, and he decides whether the boy would make a good noble. Or if the noble doesn't have a son, he might take a boy who is another noble's son. And sometimes . . ." Petty struggled with himself once more, then allowed truth to be the victor as he said, "On very rare occasions, if a noble really enjoyed a woman he took in a raid, he might go back to her village and see whether she'd given birth to his son."

"Ah." The dampness of the log was beginning to seep through my clothing, and the wind had turned as cold as a corpse, but I remained where I was, saying, "So that's how he acknowledges his son?"

"Yes, but first he takes the boy to his liege lord, and he says, 'Sire—' That is, if the noble is a prince, he takes his son to the King and says, 'Sire, I acknowledge this boy as the son of my flesh, and I ask that he be made heir to my title.' Or if the boy is someone else's son, the noble will call him 'the son of my spirit.' And if the noble has already taken a boy before this time, he'll ask that his younger son be made heir to his heir until the older son has chosen his own heir. And sometimes . . ." Petty struggled with his conscience once more before saying, "On very rare occasions, if he's a King or a prince, a noble might take an heir to his heir to his heir, just in case one of his heirs dies by accident."

"Yes, I see." I pulled my other leg up toward my body, trying to shield myself against the wind's cold, stinging palm. Above us, the day birds had fallen asleep; only one lone snow owl called out his mournful presence. "That helps me to understand. So I suppose that all of the boys who live in the camp barracks are the acknowledged sons of nobles."

"But they don't live there all the time," Petty said eagerly. "Only while they're apprentices. Usually, a noble acknowledges a boy when he's five or six – though he could be older – and then the boy goes and lives in the apprentice barracks year-round until he's ten. And then he becomes a journeyman and learns during the summers how to raid or how to defend against raiders. If he's the son of a prince or a King, he learns defense work. He patrols the border and tries to detect raiding parties crossing the border, and he helps capture or kill the raiders so that they don't harm the petty villagers. That's what being a noble means: you protect the petties."

I drew in my breath, but Petty had reached the climax of his dream, and I could no more stop him now than a liege alderman could stop a King intent on blood.

"And when he reaches journeyman age, he's old enough to inherit a title," Petty said. "So then he wears a noble-chain – if he's a prince's son he wears a silver and gold chain, silver because that's the metal that princes wear and gold to show that he's under the special protection of the King. So no one can attack you after that except a King or a prince or one of their heirs, and if anyone attacks you, your King will defend you. And even if you're not the prince's first heir, you'll be a noble all your life, because if your older brother takes a boy as his heir, the King will give you the title of any alderman who dies without naming an heir. So you'll be safe for the rest of your life, and you can spend your entire life helping the petties who are under your protection."

Petty had finished his speech with such rapidity that for the minute following he could do nothing except pant. I remained as I was, with my legs tight against my chest and my head bowed over them, teetering precariously on the round surface of the log. Nearby, a fluttering sound was followed by a scream from some small animal as the owl made its kill.

I deliberately loosened my hands, stretched out my cramped legs, and said, "Let me see if I understand. If you're a prince's son, your liege lord is your father's King – I suppose that means that, if you're a Tascanian raid-child, your liege lord becomes King York, and you fight against the Tascanian soldiers."

"Well, yes." Petty's voice was barely raised above the murmur of the wind. "But you still protect petties. You protect the Fossenvite petties against raiders."

"That's what I don't understand. You said that a prince's son does defense work. But surely even Kings and princes and their heirs do raids on occasion – isn't that how Prince Corbin was taken hostage? And if that's the case, then a prince's son who was a raid-child would have to attack the petties of his own birth-kingdom. He might even end up punishing the petties in his own birth-village."

A dead leaf shaken loose by the wind brushed past my cheek. I caught it with one hand, and it crumbled at my touch, turning to dust and scattering in the wind. Petty was still now, his hand no longer swinging the stick back and forth.

"But—" He stopped, suddenly thrust the stick away from him, and said in a wavering voice, "Prince Ridley is my father, and I thought that if I became a noble like him, I could defend the pettywomen under my protection so that none of them would be hurt by raiders like my mother was hurt."

I was silent, not only because I had no reply for him, but also because I was meditating for the first time on the irony of a world where a boy's greatest hope lay in being acknowledged by the man who had raped his mother. Beside me, Petty gave a small sigh and then was silent and motionless again.

"There's another way you could protect them."

Petty and I jerked round in unison as the voice spoke. From behind us, the eavesdropper said, "You could become a petty soldier and request defense duties. More soldiers want to be raiders than want defense work, so you'd probably be granted your request. Then you could defend the petties in this princedom."

"Do you think so?" Petty was cautious in response to Firmin's suggestion. No doubt he had encountered many lost hopes in his life already.

"It would depend on your bladesmanship," Firmin replied in a cool voice as he came over to stand by us. "You say that Prince Marlin taught you to ride – did he also teach you how to duel?"

"Only petty-style."

"That's good enough for a petty soldier. Show me what you can do."

The log rocked as Petty stood up. "I don't have my sword here."

"Neither do I. Show me with your stick."

Petty's shoes squished through the mud, and for a moment more I heard nothing except the wind weaving its way through the dead winter branches and voices coming from the direction of the village. Then a stick cracked against another as the duel began.

I stayed where I was, off the battlefield, trying futilely to tell from the sound of the sticks how the duel was progressing. The only sound I could interpret was the quickness of the stick-clashes – these came far more rapidly than I had ever been taught to fight. Mud splattered onto me as the duellers came near me, and I drew my feet back onto the log. Then there was a sudden silence.

In a carefully neutral voice, Firmin said, "Well, you're good enough to disarm me, anyway. I imagine that you'd have a fair chance of being accepted into one of Marlin's units."

Petty said, "It wasn't a fair fight, really – you kept holding back from attacking me."

"Did I? Well, don't imitate me if you want to live long as a petty soldier." As Firmin finished speaking, he took hold of my elbow and pulled me peremptorily to my feet. I began to slip in the mud, but Petty was at my other side, and he grabbed hold of me.

The boy said, "That last move you did, the slow curve inwards . . ."

Firmin's fingers tightened on my arm, but he replied calmly, "The royal thrust. That's a King's move – I only added that to show you the difference between royal-style duelling and petty-style."

"Could you show me that again?"

"Perhaps, if you'll do one thing for me."

"What?" said Petty, again cautious.

"Don't tell anyone what my companion's voice sounds like."

Petty's hand had remained on my other arm, holding me steady. Now it slipped away as he said quietly, "I already told your friend that I wouldn't."

"I heard you, but I thought that you ought to have a reward for your silence – otherwise, you might forget your promise. Do I have your word?"

Petty did not reply immediately. The voices in the village were growing louder, breaking through the winter stillness like sunlight breaking through dark clouds. Petty's voice, though, was as stiff and lifeless as the log we had been sitting on as he said, "I don't think I want you to show me that move after all, pettyman."

Firmin's breath drew swiftly in, and he let go of my arm. Grabbing Firmin's hand before it could reach his dagger, I said to the boy, "I apologize for my friend's behavior. He has been around nobles for so long that he has come to believe that petties have no honor."

"I don't need a bribe to keep silent."

"I know that. Now my friend knows that as well, don't you?"

My question was purely for form's sake; I had already felt Firmin's hand relax under mine as Petty spoke. He said, with a certain dark courtesy that pulled me into the chill of memory, "Yes, indeed . I imagine that being a prince's son has brought some honor into your blood. I think that it would be appropriate if I taught you the royal thrust after all."

"No, thank you," Petty replied with cool politeness. He was already beginning to step away. As he did so, a voice rang out from nearby.

"Petty, come quick! Nial is back!" The words came from the girl who had argued with Petty before. So dramatic was this announcement that Petty took barely enough time out to mumble a short farewell to us before he began flying toward the village, his feet thudding softly on the ground as though he were a charging colt.

I waited until Petty's footsteps had faded into the distance, and then, to save myself from a more dangerous discussion of my behavior, I asked, "Where did you learn how to fight like a petty?"

"Guard your mouth, Princeling." Firmin shoved my hand onto his arm and began pulling me forward at his usual rapid pace.

"Like an alderman, then."

"I was the heir's heir's heir when I became a soldier. It seemed unlikely that I would inherit the royal ring, so I was trained as an alderman until Guilford died."

This was the most civil response I had ever received from Firmin, and it caused me to wonder what was on his mind. We were weaving our pathless way through the trees, scraping against underbrush and moss-covered trunks as we travelled over the cold, sludgy ground of the forest. I could hear more clearly now the voices: they sounded excited, enlivened, like a hearth-fire that has been newly stirred.

Firmin said, "Well, I nearly caused trouble back there, didn't I? Who would have thought that a petty boy would be so concerned with his honor?"

"He won't tell," I said. "Anybody could have seen that, even—"

I stopped abruptly as we passed out of the shadow of the trees. Firmin said with dangerous lightness, "'Even a blind man' – that's how the phrase finishes. What are you trying to say about me, Princeling?"

It was not a question I wanted to answer, at least not yet. Fortunately, I was saved from a reply as Firmin tensed beneath my hand. "Here comes our visitor," he said. "He must be the local hero – everyone appears eager to greet him."

"It isn't Marlin, is it?" I murmured.

"No, it's a petty. I can't quite see— Blades of wood."

Firmin cursed softly under his breath for a moment as my chest tightened. He cut off his curses to say, "It's no good – he's seen us. We'll have to brazen this out."

"Who is it?" I asked.

"One of your soldiers."

Petty clothes and a week-old beard are an effective disguise for a former King – or so I concluded that evening after being introduced to the petty soldier. Nial was about my age, and though I did not recognize his name or voice, our paths had undoubtedly crossed on many occasions since I took the royal ring. Yet he greeted Firmin and me with civil indifference, being more interested, it seemed, in Petty's latest addition to his knowledge of blade moves. Petty was careful not to mention where he had learned the royal thrust.

It was taken for granted by the villagers that we would be eager to hear Nial's account of why he had arrived home with his blade-arm in bandages. We were accordingly placed at the front of the group that gathered next to the hearth-fire in Dorcas's home to listen to the tale. Near us were the village children, though only three were bold enough to sit in the front row beside us: Petty, the girl he had been speaking with earlier, and a soft-spoken older girl who was apparently sister to the younger girl.

Nial, ignoring the adults who were seated on benches around the edge of the room, appeared more anxious to explain the Rules of War to his youngest audience than to give an account of his own battle-bravery.

"You can only duel one man at a time, you see," he told the children. "Your alderman gives you the orders beforehand of which unit you're to attack, and after that it's up to you to kill as many enemy petties as you can before you're wounded out of the battle. But at this battle, I was nearly wounded out of life altogether."

He stopped to allow time for the sympathetic groans from the surrounding audience. I had my head bowed as though I was staring at the floor. Beside me, I could feel that Firmin was sitting pole-straight, intent on all the details.

"It wasn't a bad cut, but it was on my blade-arm," said Nial. "Ordinarily, if I'm wounded, I retreat off the battlefield. It's better to retreat when you're wounded than risk being killed and added as a payment to our King's debt. I'd lost my sword, though, when the Fossenvite petty wounded me, and I had no room behind me to retreat. The Fossenvite petty was raising his sword again, and I was just thinking, 'Well, here's where I fulfill my oath of allegiance,' when suddenly I hear a shout, and up rides Hazen, charging to my rescue."

"How does an alderman decide which of his petties to defend?" Petty asked. "There are dozens of you duelling – it must be hard for him to choose between all of you."

"It's partly due to the battle plan our prince gives him, and partly due to how valuable the alderman thinks you are, and mainly due to luck. If you get in trouble while your alderman's looking the other way, you could be the most valuable petty on the field and it wouldn't make any difference. You'd still be fodder for the rooks. Well, the Fossenvite petty turns a nice shade of grey – can't blame him for that – and starts looking back to see if he has room to retreat, but he's trapped like I was. So I think, 'At least I'm not going to be the one to die today.'"

"I don't understand," said the younger girl. "If the Fossenvite petty wasn't wounded, why couldn't he just fight the alderman?"

There was a collective groan from all the children present, and the adults clucked their tongues. Nial said patiently, "You can't fight someone above your rank, sweetheart."

"I know that. What I mean is, Why aren't you allowed to?"

"It's just not allowed – the Second Rule forbids it. Kings can fight Kings and princes and aldermen and petties, princes can fight princes and aldermen and petties, and so on, down the line. Petties can only fight petties. The most you can do if someone higher in honor attacks you is try to guard yourself against his thrusts, but even that is risky. Look what happened when our lord prince tried to defend himself against King York last month."

For a moment, I felt Firmin's body vibrating in what might have been silent laughter. He sobered himself, though, and said briskly, "So your alderman killed the Fossenvite petty and escorted you off the battlefield?"

"Oh, no – I wish it had been that easy. My lord Hazen had only just reined to a halt and was raising his sword over the Fossenvite petty's head when his alderman came galloping up, shouting a challenge."

Once more, he had to pause, this time to accommodate the admiring groans that arose from his audience. Petty, apparently anxious that the less knowledgeable children should understand, said, "So then the aldermen duelled each other to decide whether you would be killed."

"That's right – and it's exciting to watch nobles duel, because they usually do it on horseback. I think that alderman-style fighting must be twice as hard to learn as petty-style because it's so quick."

"What's alderman-style fighting?" asked the older girl. She was sitting beside me, and I could feel the rigidity of her stance whenever I accidentally brushed against her. She had reacted to Firmin's caustic greeting by mumbling something unintelligible; apparently she was not fond of speaking with strangers.

"Each rank has its own way of fighting," Nial explained. "If you're a petty, you just want to kill your opponent – it's as simple as that. Aldermen are allowed to kill each other, but they try not to do so, because the Rules of War don't encourage it. In fact, if our side kills too many Fossenvite aldermen, our King has to pay a penalty. So aldermen try only to wound each other, but they can wound each other severely, so their fighting is fierce, believe me."

The children behind me were exchanging whispers. One of them leaned over my shoulder to whisper something in the older girl's ear. She promptly asked, "What about princes and Kings?"

"They fight in what's called royal-style – but I'll explain about that in a minute. Or would you rather not hear who won the aldermen's duel?"

There was a grin in Nial's voice as he spoke. His question was greeted by an immediate chorus of denials. Several of the mothers could be heard chiding their children for asking too many questions, though only Petty and the two girls had spoken so far. Firmin shifted beside me; I could sense that he was impatiently waiting for Nial to finish explaining elementary facts about warfare.

"It was a close duel," said Nial. "I could see that. Me and the Fossenvite petty were standing next to each other, and the Fossenvite had his hand on my arm, and his sword held high to show that I was his prisoner. You see, I was the petty who was originally in danger, so it was my fate that was being decided. I was watching the duel with my breath at a standstill, especially as Hazen was beginning to get the worst of the duel. And then, all of the sudden, a horn sounded across the battlefield."

"Marlin!" Petty cried with triumph. "Prince Marlin came to your rescue!"

"Ah," said Firmin softly, and I knew that he, like I, now recognized which story this was, and that he too remembered the end of the story. He leaned forward and said dryly, "How privileged you must have felt."

"Yes, indeed." Nial fortunately ignored Firmin's tone and accepted the words as spoken. "It's an honor that had never come my way before – to have my lord prince fighting on my behalf."

"But wasn't he entering the fight in order to protect his alderman?" the younger girl asked.

"In a direct way, yes, because Hazen is his liege man, just as I'm Hazen's liege man. The noble you swear your oath of loyalty to becomes your liege lord – petties swear their loyalty to their aldermen, and aldermen swear it to their princes, and princes swear it to their King. But, you see, by defending Hazen, our lord prince was also defending me, since my fate was being decided. Think of what that's like: having a prince charge forward to defend you."

There was an appreciative silence, and for a moment all that could be heard was the whistle of wind outside and the crackle of hearth-fire. Then Petty said tentatively, "But why wouldn't he want to defend you? You're his son."

"Yes, but I'm not his acknowledged son. Prince Marlin has to treat me the way he treats any of his other petty soldiers. Otherwise, he'll be marked for punishment by the King."

"But you were going to die!"

I could read behind Petty's wail more than concern for one prince's unacknowledged son. Apparently, Nial could interpret Petty's protest as well, for his voice grew gentle as he said, "Well, Prince Marlin did come to my rescue, and at risk to himself, for he had no sooner rode forward than Prince Granville had his horn sounded, and he rode forward to challenge Prince Marlin."

"Prince Granville didn't have to do that, did he?" asked the younger girl.

"No, princes don't challenge each other very often in battle; usually they stay at the edge of the battlefield, giving orders to their aldermen. Princes are governed by the First Rule, you see, which states that princes and Kings can't be seriously wounded or killed. That makes their fighting very difficult – they train all their lives to fight royal-style. I don't see how they can manage to fight with blades as keen as my own, and yet never do more than scrape each other's skin."

"They fight slowly," said Petty. "Prince Marlin showed me. They can move their horses quickly, but they're not allowed to move their blades quickly, whether they're attacking or defending. Even so, Prince Marlin says it's painful when you get wounded. You're in less danger of losing your life, but it still hurts."

"Oh, I can believe that. I've seen Prince Marlin after he has been wounded in battle, and it's not a pretty sight, all that blood. That's why I was puzzled. It wasn't strange that Marlin would have charged out to fight for Hazen and me – he's always quick to defend his men – but why would Granville challenge him? Of course, you never know what overall battle plan the King and his princes have decided on, but usually princes won't challenge each other unless someone important is at risk. Granville's alderman wasn't at risk, and why should he care what happened to his petty?"

"Why, indeed?" said Firmin in a cool voice. "But, then, it wasn't just any prince he was challenging, was it?"

"You're spoiling my story by anticipating me, pettyman," Nial protested mildly. "I hadn't reached that point in the story yet."

"What point?" asked Petty, his voice rising high in eagerness.

"The point at which—" Nial waited for all the whispering to die down before he finished slowly and dramatically, "The point at which King York's horn sounded."

There was a black pause; then the younger girl said in disbelief, "Because of you? King York wanted you dead?"

Laughter broke the tension of the moment – a roar of laughter coming from the adults. Nial, though, restrained himself and replied seriously, "Not because of me, no. As our visiting pettyman just guessed, it was because of Prince Marlin. York sent his prince in to fight Marlin, and then entered the battle himself when Granville wasn't able to win the duel, because York was eager to punish Marlin."

"But why?" the younger girl asked in a defensive voice; the laughter around us was just dying down.

"Because Prince Marlin wounded York's heir in last month's battle," Petty explained. "York wanted him killed as compensation for that."

"That was the thought that was on my mind as York charged forward, of course," said Nial quietly. "I'd forgotten all about my own approaching death – I was simply dreading what would happen if York reached Marlin in time. I reckoned that Prince Marlin wouldn't try to defend himself this time and risk wounding York again. All that he could do was retreat, and I was praying that he would do so. It would mean my death if my lord prince retreated, of course, but there was nothing he could do for me now, and he would at least save himself a wounding. It was even possible that York would kill him and claim he had done so accidentally; princes have died that way before. And yet – this is what confirms to me that we have the best prince in the entire world – Marlin didn't retreat. I suppose he was hoping that he could hold York off until the end of the battle, and save me from death that way."

All around me, the villagers were murmuring their surprise and praise. Firmin leaned back, as though deliberately refusing to approve Marlin's actions, and said, "I take it that the best prince in the world is still alive? York didn't kill him?"

"He didn't have the chance to." The smile was back in Nial's voice. "King Varick challenged him."

This time there was no whispering, no murmuring, simply a silence that embraced the furthest corners of the room. Though I was sitting close to the fire, I felt a chill fall upon me, and I deliberately placed my hands flat on the hard-packed earthen floor to keep myself from balling the hands into revealing fists. Then the significance of my gesture reached me, and I snatched my hands away from the ground, as though I had placed them on the burning hearth-stone.

The room was still silent. Finally, Petty asked in a hushed voice, "Had you ever seen the Kings duel each other before?"

"Oh, yes – it's not as rare as all that. The Kings usually duel each other on three or four occasions every winter. It used to be even more than that back when Corbin was King; he and York were always eager to fight each other. Varick's a more cautious King than Corbin, but he came flying forward this time with fire fairly sparking from his eyes – I was close enough to see this. He was cursing York, too. I didn't need to be close to hear him, because of course the entire battle had stopped the moment Varick sounded his challenge. The whole battle would now be decided by the Kings' duel."

"And he won, didn't he?" the older girl said, her voice suddenly rising out of softness. "Prince Marlin's life was in danger, and yours, so King Varick must have won."

"Oh, Marlin's life wouldn't have been in danger if Varick lost. The way the Rules of War work, it's always the lowest man in rank who receives the wounding or killing when a chain of duels is over. No, I was the only Tascanian whose life was being fought for— Swords and daggers! To think that the King was actually fighting for me! I'm not ashamed to admit I was trembling all over. It's a magnificent thing to watch, two Kings duelling each other. The slow sweep of the arms, the wheeling horses, the flash of the swords under the evening sun—"

"But who won?" the older girl persisted.

"York did," Nial said flatly. "He disarmed Varick and won the battle."

I waited for the groans to follow, but none came. I felt Firmin stiffen beside me, also noticing the odd silence. I puzzled it out in my mind: the petties here offered sympathy for the petty soldier – who was their fellow villager – and sympathy for their prince – who was also their fellow villager – but it appeared that the petties had no sympathy for their King, nor any strong interest in the outcome of the battle. Understanding was slowly awakening in me.

It was the younger girl who voiced the unspoken thoughts of the villagers by saying, "I don't understand. If the whole battle could be decided by the Kings' duel, why didn't they just fight each other at the start? Then all those petty soldiers wouldn't have had to die."

There was laughter again from the adults, but this time I thought it had an edge of bitterness to it. Beside me, Firmin still sat rigid. He said in a cool voice, "It's not that simple, is it, pettyman? York couldn't have won the battle simply by disarming Varick. Either he had to wound Varick, or the battle was decided by some other factor, such as how many petties died."

There was a pause, and I could envision Nial eyeing Firmin's boots, but he only said, "It was determined by the manner of King Varick's retreat, actually. Varick was in danger of being wounded in the moments after he was disarmed, so he had to leave the battlefield rapidly. One of his liege aldermen interposed himself between the two Kings to protect Varick, and he was run through by York."

My breath rushed sharp as an arrow into my body. Fortunately, its sound was covered by the younger girl asking, "What's a liege alderman?"

"He's a special kind of alderman, one who takes the King rather than his prince as his liege lord," Nial replied. "His job is to protect the King if he's in danger. Of course, that's the job of every liege man, if you think about it. We all swear to sacrifice our bodies and lives for our liege lords, just as our liege lords swear to protect us. But most soldiers would be fools if they interfered in a duel that their liege lord was taking part in. Not a liege alderman, though. He receives special training in how to disarm a prince or a King without wounding him, and so a King never goes into battle or on a raid without a liege alderman beside him, in case at any point the King is in danger of being wounded or captured."

"It sounds like a dangerous job," said the younger girl. "Why would anyone want to do it?"

"Oh, but liege aldermen are under the special protection of the King – that means that the King is sworn to defend them against any enemy, even a prince. Besides, it's a great honor to be chosen as a liege alderman, and you're trained to be as skilled at fighting as the Kings themselves. I've actually seen a liege alderman disarm York, which is quite an accomplishment. This alderman – a man by the name of Eimund – didn't manage to protect himself against the Wolf, but he delayed York long enough that Varick was able to leave the battlefield unscathed."

I leaned over, located Firmin's head with the touch of my hand, and whispered in his ear. He jerked away from me, and for a moment I feared that he would say nothing. Then he asked in an indifferent voice, "What happened to the liege alderman?"

"York put his sword straight through him; I suppose he died. I didn't wait to see. I was too busy following the order to retreat."

"But shouldn't you be dead?" the younger girl asked with puzzlement. Then, reacting with anger to the renewed laughter, she said, "But you should. You said that if King Varick lost the duel, you'd die."

"You're quite right," said Nial in a mollifying tone. "The Fossenvite petty could have killed me – but when the Tascanian horns sounded the retreat, he just grinned and let me go. It didn't make any difference whether he killed me, as far as the battle was concerned, and I suppose that we petties have to look out for each other whenever we can. The nobles didn't care whether I lived or died."

"Prince Marlin cared." From the adults' benches, Dorcas spoke for the first time.

"I know that, Mother. The first thing he did after the battle was visit my unit – purportedly to check Hazen's wounds, but actually, I think, to discover whether I was still alive. Arkwright and Orson came by to see me as well, and that's not something they do very often."

"No, I don't suppose they do." Dorcas's voice was flat, colorless, but in it I could read the judgment on her two noble sons. As she spoke, I was transported suddenly back to the apprentice barracks, and the days when petty boys were transformed into nobles. There had been a boy two years younger than myself, who cried at night for the loss of his mother and his petty brothers and sisters. I remembered the teasing he had endured; I remembered also which boy had led the teasing, fearing that the younger boy's pain would infect us all, like poison blackening the happiness of our new lives.

The house had grown colder with the night. Someone threw a log onto the fire, causing it to send out puffs of smoke that mingled with the smell of the herbs and meat drying above us. My head had been bowed for several minutes, this time not to hide my identity but to hide the expression I knew my face must be holding. I felt numb throughout my body, as though I were plunged into winter-cold water. I began to move my hand toward Firmin in order to signal him my wish to depart.

At that moment, though, the younger girl asked, "But why did King Varick enter into battle? Was it to save Prince Marlin?"

"That was part of it, I'm sure," said Nial halfway through a yawn. "But people were saying afterwards that the real reason was that the King wanted to punish York for the death of his brother."

My hand, halfway to Firmin, halted in mid-air, and my head jerked up for a moment before I quickly lowered it again.

Firmin had recovered faster than I had. He remarked in an idle voice, "Prince Corbin is dead? How did this happen?"

"You hadn't heard?" Nial said with puzzlement. No murmurs arose behind us; seemingly this was old news to the village.

"We've been refuge-walking," Firmin replied laconically.

"Ah." Nial paused a moment as the mothers came forward to lead their children to bed now that the entertainment was over. The older girl remained beside me, though, and I could hear the younger girl and Petty exchanging whispers on her other side. Firmin began to drum his fingers, but stopped as Nial said, "You won't have heard, then, that Prince Firmin was taken hostage after York tried one of his tricks at the truce ground. King Varick was all set to blind Firmin in payment for what York did to his brother, but it seems that Corbin had a soft heart about the matter – you know what a gentle ruler he was back in the old days. He helped Prince Firmin to escape, and then Firmin, being his father's son, proceeded to murder Corbin."

"Dear me." Firmin's voice was dead level, but I could read the strain in it, and his muscles were tight. "That seems a risky thing for him to have done. I mean, on account of the First Rule."

"No doubt he thought he could get away with the murder," said Nial in an easy voice. Corbin's death, it appeared, was a matter of no great sorrow to him. "The heir's heir is a shadow of his father in every way, and everyone knows what York tried to do to Corbin three years ago. This time, Firmin tried to hide the evidence by dumping Corbin's body into the Stripping Stream. Fortunately, the body was found before the fish had completely stripped the flesh."

"And they're sure the body belonged to Corbin?" said Firmin. I heard an ominous whisper of metal as he took out his dagger, then a scratching on the hard earth as he began to draw lines in the floor, as though playing idly with his blade.

"As sure as they could be with most of the skin gone and Prince Corbin dressed in petty clothes at the time for some reason. Oh, Firmin had tried to hide the fact that the body was that of a soldier by stealing the boots, but a hunting party found Corbin's noble-chain nestled into the stream-bed nearby. Yes, poor Prince Corbin is dead."

"I'm glad he's dead!" said the younger girl suddenly. "Prince Corbin killed petties. He killed—"

Her words were cut off by a sudden shushing that the older girl emitted as rapidly as though she were a defense soldier who had just sighted a raiding party. She whispered, so softly that I could barely hear her, "We're not supposed to talk about that."

An awkward silence followed, eventually filled by Petty saying eagerly, "But that means we've won the final victory, doesn't it? If a Fossenvite breaks the First Rule, York has to surrender the rule-breaker's corpse upon demand or else cede his royal ring. York won't kill his own son, so we've won the war!"

"York won't give up his ring." Firmin's words were dry and exact, like that of a King giving orders for the beginning of an execution by exposure. His voice was quiet, but I heard the thud as he drove his dagger into the ground.

Nial cleared his throat over the sound of the villagers departing from Dorcas's house. "Well, there's a complication, actually. You see, York had a couple of scouts working together in the area at the time. One of them hasn't returned – presumably he's on the track of the murderer – but the other one is supposed to have followed Corbin and Firmin out of our camp. York claims— Not that you can believe anything the Wolf of Fossenvita says, but he claims that this scout overheard Corbin threaten Firmin. York says that Corbin threw his own noble-chain into the stream as a trick, and that Corbin murdered Firmin."

After an instant of silence, a roar of laughter rose to the rafters. Firmin's arm jerked as he snatched his blade out of the ground; the rest of his body was quivering with mirth like a horse shaken by battle-fatigue. The villagers chatting by the doorway fell silent in the face of this wolf's howl. Nial said in a puzzled voice, "Well, yes, it's amusing to think of poor, blind Prince Corbin being able to kill a man, but still . . ." His sentence drifted to a halt.

Firmin was tugging at my sleeve now, drawing me up to my feet. I let him pull me to the door; the villagers parted to allow through the strange, hysterical petty and his companion. Once through the door, Firmin loosed me, but it was easy enough to follow the trail of his laughter through the forest, as I had once followed the trail of hoofprints to locate raiding parties.

By the time I reached Firmin, his laughter was beginning to subside into something close to a sob. He had his arm crooked against a tree trunk, and he was hiding his face in his arm. I learned all this by touch; then I let my hand drop as he turned to face me, saying in a light, half-frenzied voice, "Well, now we know why your brother let me go, don't we? He knew that it would make no difference if I reached the border – he knew that York would hand over my corpse."

"Except that York is demanding my corpse instead."

"Yes, it's amusing, isn't it?" There was a bright, hard edge to Firmin's words which did not sound as though it belonged to a man who was amused. "I'm really stuck with you now, Princeling. If I'm found without you before we reach the Partition, York will be counting out four daggers for me before I have a chance to draw breath. You're my proof of innocence."

"And you're mine."

"Yes, I am, aren't I?" And now there entered into Firmin's voice a sound I knew well: a dark, dangerous lightness that echoed in my memories and haunted my nightmares.

"I wonder," he said reflectively, "what your brother would do if you were found without me? Isn't that an amusing thought?"
 

CHAPTER SEVEN

The villagers lodged us that night in an empty bachelor's cottage. Even Firmin had enough tact not to ask what had happened to the previous occupant.

With Firmin as my lodge-mate, I was not able to muster enough nerve to stumble my way round the cottage, getting to know my surroundings by touch, so my impression of the small house was confined to what I encountered on my way in: the flaking daub wall, the weather-splintered door-frame, the central hearth-fire built generously high, and the blanket-covered reed pallet against the wall opposite the door, an improvement over my previous sleeping accommodations.

I could hear Firmin sitting on his own floor-pallet nearby, coughing away the last of his illness while softly cursing the quality of the razor he was using. I had not grown a beard for the purpose of disguise – I had simply been unwilling to attempt the face-shaving that Selig had undertaken for me during the past three years – but Firmin had treated my action as a valuable hint. He had bought from the villagers a hat that covered his telltale hair and was now in the process of shaving off the beard in which he had made most of his public appearances.

I was hunched over my boots, trying to rub them clean of mud – soldiers' habits die hard – when Firmin suddenly said, "You're as quiet as a thieving petty, Princeling. What are you thinking?"

What I was actually thinking about was Eimund, and I was feeling grief and guilt flay me open like a royal thrust as I thought of what I ought to have said to him at our last meeting. But this was not a matter of which I could speak to my mocking companion, so I returned to an earlier thought. "I was thinking about that boy, Petty. I was wondering whether I have any sons out there who have been waiting for me to acknowledge them."

Pottery chinked as Firmin reached forward to draw more grease out of a bowl. "Did you spend your childhood waiting for your father to come?" he asked.

"No." I laid my boots to one side and began untying the knots in my shirt. After a while, feeling the silence stretch, I said, "I never expected to meet him. I was born in the Partition."

"Ah." Firmin paused in the soft scraping of his grease-laden face. "So you're returning to your birth-kingdom – that's amusing. How did your mother end up there? Is that where Reynard sent his lemans after he grew bored with them?"

I shook my head as I reached inside my shirt to ascertain that my arm bandage was still in place before I removed my clothes. The wound had scabbed over a few days before, but I continued to wear the bandage for occasions such as this. "My mother wasn't the King's leman," I said. "She was a raid-woman."

The bowl clinked again, this time as Firmin tossed the razor into it, and then water chimed in another bowl as Firmin began to wash his face free of the grease and cut hair. "So your mother was Fossenvite – this grows more and more interesting. What made her move to the Partition, raid-child?"

I pulled the shirt back from my shoulders and down my arms. Some of the skin on my left forearm was smooth and free of hair – a gift from York during our first battle together. It was the worst flaying I had ever received in my life, and one that taught me a serviceable lesson. The other battle-scars on my body were much smaller, and I had never again been forced to retreat in battle because of a wounding.

I said, "My mother wasn't yet married when my father took her, and she thought that it would be difficult for her to find a husband in a Fossenvite village where everyone knew that she was carrying the child of the King of Tascania. So she moved to the Partition to start a new life. She didn't find a husband there, for she was shy and never got to know her neighbors well, but she found work and kept the two of us alive that way."

"So how did you meet your father?" Firmin asked, reaching over and tossing me the wet rag I was groping for. "Did Reynard make secret visits to the Partition?"

"My mother died from the poison when I was six," I said, wiping my back clean of sweat. "She didn't know anyone well enough to ask them to take me in, so she gave a trader the last of her money so that he would take me to my father."

"That was bold of her. Did she really expect the King of Tascania to acknowledge a raid-child?"

"No, I think the most she hoped for was that he would give me over to one of his lemans. It was an act of desperation, really – I would have starved to death otherwise. But as it chanced, the King was seeking an heir at that time. He had just about decided to take Varick, whose mother was his favorite leman, but he liked the look of me, so he acknowledged both of us. I was the elder boy by a year, so I became the heir."

I laid the rag to one side and pulled off my breeches. There, on the inside of my right thigh, was the scar from the deepest wound I had ever received, one which had nearly taken my life. It had come from a married Fossenvite alderman who was so excited to be at home to defend his village when it was raided that he had attacked me before he had time to notice that the leader of the raiding party was not a fellow alderman but the King of Tascania. He had wisely taken his own life after he discovered his mistake, and though York had offered his entire village to me – the Fossenvite King was always generous in his compensations when one of his subjects broke the Rules of War – I had contented myself with having the alderman's petty son blinded. My mercy had surprised my fellow nobles.

"A touching story, Princeling," said Firmin, moving over toward the fire. "Raid-child Partitioner becomes the King and Commander of Tascania – and then becomes a Partitioner again. Tell me, do you remember much about the Petty Partition? I freely confess that I was not schooled in knowledge of the hooded petties' customs."

I stretched out my legs, feeling the fire-warmth burn against my skin as the flames roared like a northern wind. "I only remember a little, mainly from what surprised me about the outer world when I left the Partition. I remember how odd it was to meet people who would tell me their real names, and how long it took me to get used to looking at the naked faces of adults. The only adults I'd ever seen unhooded before then were my mother and the traders."

"Children aren't hooded?"

"Not till they're apprentice-age. My mother had planned to hood me on my seventh birthday, and I was looking forward to learning what my hood-name would be – but then she sickened, so I never learned what it was going to be."

My back, facing the wattle-and-daub wall, was beginning to grow cold. I pulled a blanket out from under me and threw it over my shoulders, saying, "I remember how frightened I was when I met the King. Partition-born as I was, I'd heard stories all my life about how evil and cruel the nobles were. It was a relief when I met my father and discovered that he was really a kind and gentle man."

Firmin said nothing. He had stopped poking the fire, and I could not hear where he was over the sound of the air-gulping flames. I pulled the blanket closer to shield the front of my body and said, "Firmin. . . . Did York order that petty to kill my father?"

"If he had, do you think I'd tell you?" Firmin's reply was as quick and cutting as a whip. He had returned to his pallet, and I heard him unsheathe his dagger as though in response to a danger signal. I pulled my legs up against my chest and draped the blanket over my knees, resting my chin upon them. After a while, Firmin asked abruptly, "Do you remember your mother?"

"Not very well. I don't know how it is in Fossenvita, but the first thing they tell you when you become an apprentice in Tascania is to forget your petty kin. I wanted to forget her anyway, since she was dead. . . . You were nine when you were acknowledged – I suppose you remember your mother?"

"Oh, yes." Firmin's voice was light, twisted with irony. "I remember both my parents."

I raised my head and turned it in his direction, trying to read his expression from his voice. "You mean that you remember your mother's husband?"

"I meant what I said, Princeling." The air shivered with the sound of bright metal as Firmin began to sharpen his dagger with a whetstone. The cottage air was beginning to thicken with smoke; the smoke-hole above was unable to cope with the broad fire that had been lit. Sweat started to trickle down my back again, so I pulled the blanket open to the cool air.

"I was a proper leman's child," Firmin said in a detached voice as he ran the stone along his blade. "York took my mother one summer when he was bored with his raiding successes against your father. He kept her for about a month. She was already married, but she didn't dare refuse York – York told me this himself. He likes to boast about it. My parents never told me that I was York's son. The entire village must have known, what with my coloring, but they all pretended that I was my parents' child.

"Then one day York passed through our village. My mother tried to hide me in our house, but I sneaked out. I was always a troublemaker. Of course, she was being overprotective; York already had two heirs. At any rate, when York saw me, he guessed that I was his, and he made a trifling joke about naming me his heir's heir's heir.

"It took me a while to understand what he was talking about, and even then I wouldn't have believed him if I hadn't seen the look on my parents' faces. I was so horrified that I yelled at York that I'd never be his son, whether or not he acknowledged me. Even then, the joke might have ended there, but my mother was fool enough to burst into tears, and my father began pleading with York.

"Well, it was too much for York to resist. The next thing I knew, he'd swept me up onto his horse and was riding away with me. He took me to his residence, and I ran away the first chance I got. It was a long journey home. When I finally arrived home, my parents told me to go back to York."

He paused. The fire was dwindling, and cold air began to stroke me like a newly-whetted blade, but I remained motionless. "York had already compensated them?"

"Oh, it wasn't that. They'd have rather had me than the money. It was just that they knew what York would do to them if they tried to keep me. They explained it all to me, and so I returned to the royal residence. York hadn't even bothered to send out a hunting party for me. He knew I'd come back."

Up to this point, Firmin's voice had been dry and unrevealing; now it burst open into bitterness like an over-ripe fruit being discarded by a foraging party. After a while, I said, "I wondered why you never call York your father."

"Now you know."

From the other side of the room came the whisper of a blade being sheathed. The fire blazed up once more as Firmin stepped forward and poked it. I felt its warmth fall upon me like a protective cloak as I said, "I knew a journeyman who planned to go see his petty family when he came of age. Did you ever do that?"

Firmin replied with a dark laugh, and thrust his iron so vigorously into the fire that a spark fell on the front of my hand. As I quickly covered the fire eating at my palm, I remembered Eimund's return from the trip, and the young woman he had brought back from his home village. That had been my only meeting with Eimund's wife. Soon afterwards, my father had died, and I had had no time left in which to concern myself with trivial love matters. I wondered suddenly whether anyone in the army would bother to inform Eimund's family of what had happened at the battle.

Beside me, Firmin said, "I decided on the journey back that if I was going to be the King's son, then I'd become the best soldier in Fossenvita. And I am." A log crumbled as Firmin pounded it. He added, "Now you're supposed to say, 'Really?' in a disbelieving voice."

"How can I? I've never seen you fight before today—"

"Seen?"

"Heard, then. For all I know, you might be right."

Firmin let the iron drop to the ground with a thud and stepped back toward his pallet. "Oh, I'm a poor dueller. Everyone knows that. I've been taught to fight in three different ways – petty-style, alderman-style, and royal-style – and so I get confused over which moves to make, and that keeps me from fighting well. But there's more to being a good soldier than winning duels, Princeling."

I folded my arms on my knees and rested my head on it, turning it in Firmin's direction. "Such as?"

"Such as raiding. Do you remember York's raids last summer?"

"They're hard to forget. Tascania lost last year's victory because of them alone."

"I planned them."

I raised my head, feeling the blood thrum through my body suddenly. I had to remind myself forcefully that I no longer cared about raiding victories. "I'm surprised. I thought they had York's mark on them."

"Of course they did. York trained me. I plan about half of Fossenvita's raids these days, and I'm as good at them as York is. Better, in certain ways – York's sense of humor interferes with his war skills sometimes. Of course, he can't acknowledge my work publicly since I'm not a duke."

The fire was beginning to die down again. Rather than wait for the cold to arrive, I began slipping down under the pallet blankets, propping myself up on one elbow so that I would still be facing Firmin.

Firmin said in a hard voice, "You don't believe me, do you?"

"Actually, I do."

"But I've no proof for what I say."

"That doesn't matter. I trust you."

Firmin gave a sharp laugh like a wild dog's bark. "Fool that you are. You'd trust the Wolf's son?"

"I thought that you didn't regard yourself as his son."

"Well, I lied. You can't be trained by York for nine years without becoming like him. I hate him, and he despises me, but we're still useful to each other. I give him good raiding plans, and he gives me . . ."

"Gives you what?" I asked when the silence had extended long enough.

"Power," Firmin replied in a whisper. "Power of a sort you'll never understand, Princeling. You wouldn't even have understood when you were King and Commander. Power consists of making men fear you. York is the most feared man in the world – my brother Lenwood can't even come close to what York's like. But I can. Some day, whether or not I'm King, people will fear me like they fear York, and then I'll have more power than anyone else in world. Oh, I'm my father's son, all right. You'd best not forget that, Princeling."

I trailed my finger in the dirt beside the pallet, scraping the earth up under one nail. "And what will you do with this power?"

"Keep myself safe," Firmin said in a matter-of-fact tone. "What else is power good for? You should know that, former royal noble. I can't be killed, I can't be severely wounded, but that's not enough. Nobody can hurt York, not only because of his royal privilege, not only because he's too strong for anyone to fight, but also because everyone's afraid of him. He can do anything he wants, and no one dares to touch him. He's the most powerful man in the world and he's the safest man in the world. He has everything – everything. I want that, Princeling. I don't care whether I inherit York's title, but I want to see the world the way the most powerful man does."

His voice was as eager as young Petty's had been when the boy spoke of his noble ambitions. I tilted my head so that it was bowed toward the earth. "It's too dark."

"What?"

"It's too dark in York's world. He appears to like it – I suppose he has been that way all his life – but you'd know the difference. You wouldn't like it once you'd trapped yourself in his darkness."

For a moment, the only sound was wood crumbling in the fire; then Firmin hooted with laughter. Blankets rustled as he drew himself into his bed. "A blind man lectures me on what it's like to be in the dark," he said when he had collected his breath again. "Dear me, you know all about what it's like to go from light to darkness, don't you? I suppose it gives you satisfaction to think that York and I lead darker lives than your own. You could even offer me your services as a guide, couldn't you? A blind guide – that's a desperate attempt at ambition by a man who has lost his title, thrown away his honor, and will die young even if he reaches the Partition. By the way, Princeling, how long does it take to die of the mountain poison? You have six years' head start over any other refuge-walker arriving at the Partition gates."

I tried to re-gather my words to throw them back into battle, but I could hear the horn of retreat sounding in my head, and I knew that, like Varick, I would face too great a punishment if I tried to fight without a blade in hand. Besides, what Firmin had said was true. I was a blind man, blind not only in the flesh but in the spirit, and I had spent my life lost in darkness. How could I offer myself as a guide to Firmin? The least petty knew more than I did about the light.

With that thought in mind, I curled myself into a ball and waited for the darkness of sleep to come.

The fire had died down by the time I came to myself again, lying on a petty sleeping pallet with sweat running down my back. The fire had been a pathetic pyre to begin with, since my skills did not run to fire-making. I was used to having petties do that for me. But I had not needed the flames in any case: I was hot enough as it was, from the blankets and my blazing blood and the woman underneath me, warm and eager.

I had barely regained my breath and was still moaning lightly into the hollow of her shoulder when she said, "Again."

I raised my head, laughing, and looked down at her. She had been golden when I first saw her under the torches, golden like the autumn leaves at her feet, but now in the moonlight her hair looked bone-white. She was twice my age, but her skin was as smooth as the flat of a blade. She smiled up at me with that entrancing curl of the lip which had caught me from the moment I had seen her and had broken my two-year resolve against taking such women.

"Who do you think I am, the Wolf?" I said. "My potency isn't so great that I can begin again when I've barely finished."

"I think you're the King of Tascania," she said, curling her arms around my back as though holding me prisoner, "and I think that Kings are not like ordinary men."

"Too true," I said, suddenly sobered. "Kings have duties, and my first duty tonight is to get my men safely home before your King's defense soldiers detect our presence. It was foolish of me to let you lure me here again."

"But you're not here again," she replied, trailing her finger down my earlobe. "You're not in my village tonight; you're in a country house."

"It's close enough to your village," I replied, trying gently to break her grasp on me so that I could reach for my clothes. "Defense-trained though I am, even I know how mad it is to raid the same area two nights in a row. My men were not at all happy about stopping here on the way back from tonight's raid. The least I can do for them is make our stay short."

She wrapped her legs around my back once more and held me in her double binding. "Ah, King, would you break my heart? You've already broken my greatest desire, that you should take me back over the border with you."

"Glydia, I can't!" I momentarily stopped my struggle to release myself in order to place my hand on her cheek and smile at her. "You know I'd take you with me in an instant if I could, but it's against the Rules of War for me to steal a raid-woman. Wait two months – no, three; then the summer raiding will be over. Come see me at my winter camp, and I promise, I'll make you my leman. It's not a long journey, and I'll leave you travel money."

"To be the King's leman!" Glydia sighed and looked beyond me to the door, as though eager to leave at this moment. "It's hard to believe."

"Trust me, my love; I'm telling the truth." I kissed the hollow in her neck and began to raise myself. "Now I must go. I'll be thinking of you until then."

She halted me with her hands, drawing me back down to her. "Will you not give me a farewell kiss so that I can remember you till then?"

Her hands were exploring my body again, tracing their way up the curve of an old wound. Despite myself, I felt my blood throb and my desire quicken. Drawing a long breath, as though I were about to dive into deep water, I lowered myself onto her mouth and pressed my body against hers.

Because of this, I am not sure how long the noise had been occurring before I noticed. My head jerked back from hers, and without need for thought I rolled myself to one side, only to find myself still trapped in her arms.

The sword clashes were close, the shouting more so. "I must go," I said curtly, trying to reach toward where I had abandoned my clothes and weapons.

Glydia smiled at me, her eyes fastened on my face, and drew her arms tighter around me. "Don't be silly. We have all night to enjoy each other."

"Blades of wood, Glydia—" I tried to push her arms gently apart once more, but she had a grip on me as tight as a liege alderman capturing a noble. Her smile was fixed on her lips, and her skeleton-white hair was tangled in my swinging noble-chain.

There was a sudden hammering on the door, which Glydia had bolted when we first arrived. "Quickly, sire!" said a voice. "You must come! It's—" He stopped suddenly, and there was a pregnant silence.

I heard another voice, low and courteous, make a dark request. The new voice was too quiet for me to identify it immediately, but a shadow of knowledge fell upon me, and my back puckered cold. I heard the answer from the first voice: a firm "No." Then there was a series of clashes – it took no more than three – and then silence once more.

I whispered to Glydia, "Hide in the corner. He probably won't see you, and if he does, I'll tell him I forced you—"

But Glydia had already slipped from my arms, risen to her feet, and scooped up my sword and dagger with as much ease as though she were a journeyman. Holding the hilts of both blades in one hand, she ran lightly across the room, threw back the door-bolt, and opened the door wide.

The Wolf of Fossenvita stood at the threshold, with a smile on his face, blood on his sword, and my liege alderman dead at his feet.

The smile, in its initial moments, was not directed at me, but at the naked woman holding my weapons up for his inspection. He murmured, "Thank you, my dear," pushed her outside with casual intimacy to where a petty soldier stood with a cloak already open for her, and then looked over at me. His smile deepened.

I was still lying where Glydia had left me, naked of clothes and arms, listening to the cries as the last of my petty soldiers were killed by York's men. I willed myself to move into a position more worthy of the King and Commander of Tascania, but my honor felt shredded by those cries. Perhaps York guessed this; at any rate, he chose that moment to turn to another of his petty soldiers and take from him the bundle in his arms. "Get up," he said to me, as abruptly as a noble giving orders to a petty. "Put these on." He flung the bundle into my face.

I had just enough time to identify the brown bundle before my vision drowned in blackness, and my breath was stifled by the cloth. Gasping as I freed myself, I clawed my way out of the cloth but still could see nothing. York had shut the door, the moon had gone under a cloud, and the clashes and cries of battle continued outside the cottage.

"What?" I said, trying to break out of the paralysis that held me in place.

A voice, unlike York's yet reminding me of it somehow, said, "Get up. Put your clothes on. We're leaving."

The cloth was rough under my hands; the blade clashes were diminishing in force; from elsewhere in the room came the sound of flickering flames and rustling cloth. Gradually, I realized that I had woken from my dream of the past.

"What is it?" I asked, fumbling with my clothes as I drew myself out of bed. "Is it a foraging party gone astray?"

"No, a raid," Firmin replied, his noble-chain making muffled clinks under his shirt as he hurried around the room, gathering together the supplies we had bought during the previous day. "Trust you to pick a village that's about to be raided."

"Well, they're your soldiers," I said, tying my breeches hastily closed with one hand as I reached for my boots with another. "What are they doing, raiding at this time of year?"

"What are your soldiers doing?" Firmin countered, pulling me to my feet while my shirt and boots were still in hand. "We're only five miles from your winter camp. They ought to be here by now, defending us."

I had no time to appreciate the irony of this statement, for as Firmin pulled me stumbling across the cottage floor toward the supply bags, the door flew open with a bang. A man said, "All right, petties – you can stop skulking inside here. Line up with the others."

It was the voice of a noble, accustomed to being obeyed. Firmin had been pulling me along with his right hand; now his hand dropped, and for a moment it hovered next to his dagger hilt. Then it moved quickly back to me. Dressed as he was in petty clothes, if Firmin drew his blade now, he would be cut down in an instant.

His breath was rapid. I wondered for a moment whether he would pull out his noble-chain and declare our identities. If he did, I would be in Tascanian territory and therefore immune from being taken hostage – or would I? I no longer wore my noble-chain, and petties had no place of refuge outside the Partition.

All that happened, though, was that Firmin's grip tightened on my arm, and he began to draw me forward once more, this time toward where the captured village men were lined up, awaiting their punishment.

The blade clashes had ended, but I could hear the wailing of women and children as the Fossenvite soldiers escorted them past us. All around me were familiar sounds: easy-going shouts from the soldiers exchanging information with each other, the clang of metal as the pack-horse was unloaded, the soft whinny elsewhere of a noble's horse. Only the village men were utterly silent as the noble shoved us onto the end of their line – but that too was familiar. The only unfamiliarity for me was being amidst the brown-clothed petties rather than being the noble who was standing nearby, taking reports.

"No sign of the Tascanians, my lord alderman," a soldier was saying to the noble. "It looks as though this is a clean raid."

"It's too soon to decide that," said the alderman. "Keep lookouts posted on all sides of the village. Tavis! How are matters at your end?"

"We've got all the women, my lord," said another soldier, somewhat breathlessly; subduing women was as energetic an activity as subduing the men, since the women could not be wounded. "I don't think any escaped us. One woman is wearing a noble's wrist-chain – we've separated her from the rest."

"An alderman's leman?" the alderman said hopefully.

"No, a prince's. The chain is silver."

"Ah," said the alderman. "I'll leave her for the next prince who raids this village, then. I suppose that we ought to find out which house is hers so that we don't torch it by mistake."

"I've already checked, my lord. It's the large house; we've put her in there with the children."

"Good petty. Any problems with the children?"

"None, my lord. They all came quietly except the children who were too young to know better. Will you be taking a woman tonight?"

"I don't think so, Tavis. We're too close to the Tascanian camp; I want to keep on the alert. You can go ahead and draw the lots."

"How many women are we taking on this raid, my lord?"

"Hold a minute and I'll be able to tell you. Zeeman! Do you have that equipment unloaded yet?"

"Nearly, my lord!" shouted a soldier from the direction of the clanging metal. "Shall we start the fire?"

"Check the houses; someone's sure to have a hearth-fire going on a night like this. —Swords and daggers, but it's cold! Now I know why we usually stop raiding during the winter." The alderman made these last remarks in an undertone, apparently to Tavis, for the bootfalls and chattering suggested that all the other soldiers were darting to and fro, going about their business in an efficient manner. I was standing stiffly with Firmin on one side of me and a sapling on the other; I could not tell which of the village men were present, because they were all as silent as corpses. I strained my ears, but could hear no sign that a Tascanian defense unit was on its way to rescue us. The loudest sound was of the women weeping at the other end of the village.

"Weston! Where are you, boy?" called out the alderman suddenly.

"Here, my lord!" The half-broken voice of a journeyman vibrated as he ran forward to join the alderman. "I was just checking to see which houses we might want to burn. There's one over there that has supplies and a whole purse of gold in it we could take."

Firmin had until this time been relaxed next to me – secure, no doubt, in the knowledge that he could reveal our identities at any time. Now he grew as stiff as the sapling at my other side.

"More likely you were checking out the women," said Tavis, and the nearby soldiers laughed somewhat uneasily, evidently uncertain whether the alderman would think well of such a joke.

The alderman said impatiently, "Don't undertake duties I haven't assigned you, Weston. Do you have the tablets?"

"Yes, my lord. Which one do you want?"

During the pause that followed, I distracted myself from the knowledge of what was to come by wondering how long Tavis was likely to live. A petty soldier who cannot resist teasing a half-trained noble is likely to find his tongue slipping toward his liege lord one day. And what followed could be easily imagined.

The journeyman's bag rustled as he drew the wax tablets out. Beside me, the line of men remained silent. Not far behind me, a soldier loosened his sword in its sheath in case we offered any last-minute resistance.

The alderman said, "Lytle. How much trouble did we have with the capture?"

"Hardly any, my lord," said the soldier behind me. "Most of the men surrendered quickly."

"That was wise. Very well, we'll reward them by making their punishment small. We'll use the short list, Weston."

"We used that during last night's raid, my lord."

"The next shortest list, then. What does it say?"

The wood-edged tablets scraped against each other as the journeyman shuffled through them. Then he said, "Two houses burned; one well demolished . . ."

"We'll leave the property for later. How many killings?"

For the first time, I thought I heard the edge of a sound from the village men; a collective intake of breath. Then all was still again.

"Only three killings," the journeyman replied.

"We already killed four during the capture, my lord," contributed Lytle.

"Good, good; then we won't have to kill anyone else. Make a note, Weston. The Tascanians owe us one killing. Now for the payment of punishments— No, hold; Tavis has been waiting quite patiently here. How many women?"

"Five," the journeyman replied with a promptness which suggested that this was the first piece of information he had sought.

"Only five?" the alderman said.

"That's what it says. Shall I use one of the longer lists, my lord?"

Amidst the alderman's pondering silence, I could hear the sound of flames as a fire was started nearby. The clang of metal had finished; no doubt the equipment was ready now. Still no sound of rescue came from the surrounding countryside.

"No, we'll stay with this list," the alderman said finally. "Five women, Tavis – and make sure that the lucky men keep on the alert. If a defense unit arrives here, I don't want them to be captured with their breeches off, Corbin-wise."

Again the soldiers around us laughed, this time heartily, and I heard something suggestive of a snicker from Firmin. Then he quickly rejoined the terrible silence of the village men.

"Punishments," said the alderman briefly.

"One blinding," said the journeyman. "One hamstringing. One removal of the— I can't read the handwriting. It could be hands or it could be forearms."

"Let me see." The alderman perused the tablet for a moment, then said, "Our lord prince's writing gets worse every year. Well, since I'm not sure either, let's say that it's hands. Did you hear that, Zeeman?" He raised his voice to be heard over the renewed sound of metal clanging.

"Yes, my lord!" the tormenter shouted back. "We'll have all the equipment ready in two flicks of your horse's tail."

"Now I make my usual useless speech," said the alderman in so low a tone that it must have been directed purely at the journeyman standing next to him. He took several steps forward and said, "Tascanian petties! We are here to exact payment for a raid that was undertaken on a village in the Princedom of the Black Forest last autumn, and also to renew our debt to your King – but since you have been submissive to us, we will make that debt small. We begin with the payment first. You have heard what the punishments will be. Does any man here wish to volunteer his body in order that one of his fellow petties may be saved from punishment?"

The silence this time was tangible, like a cloak thrown over a fire to smother it. Firmin brushed against me, sighing restlessly, and I noticed that the alderman had not taken his blade from him. This was an old trick, to leave the village men armed and see which ones lost control of themselves at this point. Then the punishment could be administered to such deserving petties.

None of the villagers here were such fools. After a moment, the alderman added with irritation creeping into his throat, "Come, petties. Does none of you wish to sacrifice yourself for the others? Is it indeed true that there is no honor in petties?"

Silence again. The alderman stepped back to the journeyman's side and said, in a voice he did not bother to lower this time, "I don't know why I even bother to ask. All right, Lytle – are there any men here who are deserving of punishment?"

"That one over there gave us considerable trouble, my lord," Lytle replied promptly. "He nearly killed Tavis; I'd be happy to see his hands cut off so he won't attack the next raiders."

"Let's do this in order," the alderman said stolidly. "Blinding first – he still won't be able to use a blade after this. Bring him out."

I heard then a very small sound, one which was not quite a protest, not quite a whimper, but simply a human sound breaking past the binding of silence in which the villagers had placed themselves. I did not know who the sound came from, nor even whether it came from the condemned man or from one of his kin, but that single, small sound served to pull me out of the paralysis I had been fighting for several minutes. With the stiffness of a soldier striding forth into battle, I stepped forward.

"Ah, Tavis, you're back," the alderman was saying. "You're just in time to help me. Did any of the women give you trouble when you were subduing them? If they did, we'll find out who their husbands are and— What is it, boy? Oh, a volunteer." The alderman's voice grew bright, like the flash from a newly polished blade. "Well, this is something new. Hold a minute, Zeeman! We have a volunteer! You are volunteering in place of the other petty, I take it?"

The last remark was addressed in my direction. I opened my mouth to reply and found myself bound once more by the silence and stillness that had been holding me before. And then, for the first time, I understood from whence that silence arose. It was not from fear, though fear was running frantically through my body like the pain from a deep wound. It was from an unwillingness to help the noble in any way with his sickening task.

The journeyman, distressed that his liege lord should be so unobservant, forgot his formality and whispered loudly, "Father, he's already blind."

"Oh! So he is. Which would you prefer, then, the hand removal or the hamstringing? Volunteers get their choice. . . . Speak up, petty! You're lucky to have any choice at all."

"Noble alderman!"

The voice belonged to Firmin, but for a moment I did not recognize it, so successful was he in duplicating the obsequious, pleading voice of a helpless petty. His arm brushed mine as he stepped forward and said, "Alderman, I have a question. May I ask it?"

I felt my wrists drip blood and my leg muscles snap apart in the moment that it took the alderman to reply curtly, "Ask."

"When my cousin here was blinded last spring, the raiders who did it told us that our village wouldn't be raided again for at least two years. Did we misunderstand them? Is this something we should ask our prince about?"

There was another silence. The wailing of the women had ended now that the raid-women had been chosen. Nearby, several children were still crying. No sound came from the village men, nor from the area of the tormenting where the condemned petty stood, awaiting his blinding.

"Weston, check our raiding list again," said the alderman. "What directions were we following tonight?"

The journeyman shuffled through the tablets and said, "'Southwest of Wolf Hill, the first village past the border.' Do you suppose that we could have missed another village on our way in?"

"It's a trick," Lytle said confidently. "This man is trying to fool us. He'd be a good candidate for the hamstringing."

"But it's true, Alderman!" This time it was Nial who spoke; he too had adopted an obsequious tone. "And I remember that when we told our lord prince about the raid on his next visit, he told us to be sure to inform him if we were raided before the end of our two years of grace, so that King Varick could demand compensation for us."

This statement had a ring of truth to it; I knew that Malise kept his petties well informed of their rights under the Rules of War. Tavis said rapidly, "My lord, if King York has to pay compensation for a twice-raided village, it will be a high one, and he won't be at all pleased with us."

I heard metal slide against metal, and for a moment I feared that the alderman would deal with the matter in the simplest manner possible, by killing Nial, Firmin, and me. That, of course, would not solve the problem, but angry nobles could not always be counted on to act in a rational manner.

It appeared, though, that the alderman was simply using his unsheathing as a convenient way to assert his authority and warn his men to remain silent, for after a minute's reflection, he sheathed his sword and said, "Well, it's not worth taking the chance. We have time enough to raid the next village on our list before dawn. Tavis, go back and extract tonight's lovers from their beds. Zeeman, you can let that petty go and pack up your equipment. Weston, hand me my purse."

Metal clinked as the alderman said, "Four men dead and— How many women taken?"

"Five," said the journeyman.

"Four men and five women. . . . That comes to— Well, near enough to one gold coin as makes no difference. Who's the head petty here?"

It was a question no villager would have been mad enough to answer. The nobles had long since made it clear that they would not tolerate any leaders arising in the petty community, since the last leaders had led a rebellion. The alderman sighed and said, "You take charge of the money, then. This is our compensation for the damage done, and you may offer your prince our apologies for our mistake the next time you see him. If he has any questions, I am Alderman Maitland, serving under Prince Houghton."

He took my hand and peeled the fingers open to reveal my palm, which was bleeding from where my fingernails had driven through. He closed my hand over the coin, shouted orders to half a dozen soldiers, and turned away, leaving me sweat-wet and shaking, like an ice-laden leaf being plucked free from its branch by a winter wind.

"Brilliant!" said Firmin a while later, as we made our hasty way to the border by a lesser-used track. "I don't mind saying that, Princeling – I always admired your war skills when you were King. It's nice to see them put to use one last time, though you were certainly placing unwonted trust in me that I would follow up on your hint."

"I need to sit down," I said.

"Wait till we reach the road. Leaving aside the danger of our encountering those soldiers, I can just envision those villagers rushing down this track to thank us again. That was a disgusting display of gratitude they gave us just now, but I suppose they had to hide from themselves the knowledge of their own cowardice. Well, you saved our money and supplies, and that's all that matters—"

"I need to sit down right now," I said, and managed to catch hold of a tree trunk to keep myself from pitching forward onto my face.

I dropped my bag and slid down into the mud as the ground rolled under my feet. Hanging my head between my knees , I swallowed back the sickness in my mouth.

Above me, Firmin crowed with laughter.

"I can't believe it," he said. "You were really going to do it, weren't you? You were going to let those soldiers punish you. I should have known that you weren't being brilliant, but quite the opposite. What made you do such an idiotic thing?"

Between gulps of air, I said, "It was the only thing I could do for the villagers. I'm sworn to defend them."

"You're taking your royal oath awfully seriously, aren't you?" Firmin said, pulling me roughly to my feet and shoving my bag into my hand. "Have you forgotten that you're a petty now? Petties have no honor – we saw that tonight."

"Don't they?" I said, feeling the cold mud cling against me as I stumbled down the track behind Firmin.

"Of course they don't. Which villager tried to help us? One of your soldiers, who has been around nobles long enough to have some idea of what honor is. Everyone else there was going to let you, a refuge-walking blind man, be punished in their place. You should have seen their faces when you stepped forward – they thought you were mad. Petties will never know what it means to be protectors. You may as well become used to living amongst men with no honor."

My head was beginning to clear. The cold stillness of the winter night ran through me like new wine. "Wearing a noble-chain is no guarantee of honor."

Firmin grabbed my arm and held me tight, as though I were a condemned man on the point of being tormented. In a low voice like the growl of a wolf, he said, "Are you referring to me, Princeling? Are you seriously suggesting that I should have raised my blade in defense of a group of enemy petties?"

"I don't know. I hadn't thought about it. I was referring to York, actually."

I had gone too far, I knew, and I expected in the next moment to feel Firmin's dagger against my heart. I had forgotten, though, that the young prince's most dangerous weapon was not his blade. He released me, and in a voice so sweet and courteous that it might have come from the Wolf himself, he said, "York has battle scars all over his body. He has defended his subjects all his life, and will do so until the day he dies. You, on the other hand, have chosen to run away from your army, to deprive your brother of what small help you might have given him, and to go hide in the Partition, all because you feel sorry for yourself and don't want anyone to know that you were once the King and Commander of Tascania. Whatever you might have been trying to prove to yourself tonight, Princeling, you were an honorless petty long before you threw your chain in the stream."

The silence which followed was so familiar that I realized that its origins lay further back than I had thought. The stillness of the village men when faced with their punishments . . . that was not where I had first learned this silence. I had learned it while bound in an isolated cell, where my only weapon of defense had been my refusal to speak.

Firmin was right: I already knew more about being a petty than I had thought, and though he could not have understood this, I felt joy go through me at the realization. Already I had taken one step back on my journey to my childhood home.

I let Firmin push me forward again, and the noble and the petty walked in silence until we reached the dusty track of Refuge Road, where we turned our faces west toward the Partition of death.
 

¶ Back Matter

This story is part of the Darkling Plain series. To receive notice of book publications and free online fiction, subscribe to one of Dusk Peterson's e-mail lists or blogs.

Post a comment about this story at one of Dusk Peterson's blogs: Dreamwidth | InsaneJournal | LiveJournal.

[ HOME ] [ Princeling ] [ E-mail ]

This text, or a variation on it, was originally published at duskpeterson.com as part of the series Princeling. Copyright © 2008-2009 Dusk Peterson. Some rights reserved. The text is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Noncommercial License (creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/3.0). You may freely print, post, e-mail, share, or otherwise distribute the text for noncommercial purposes, provided that you include this paragraph. The author's policies on derivative works and fan works are available online (duskpeterson.com/copyright.htm).