There's reward—and as much joy as I'm capable of—in doing that which I do well. Every once in a while, though, it's useful for me to be reminded that I'm not nearly as good at any of it as I would wish, and sometimes even believe.
—Gray
There was a wizard at the bow.
Not that he looked particularly like a wizard, Gray thought. Sigerson was tall and slender—even skinny—but utterly healthy looking. Most wizards, at least most that Gray had met, looked like they were about to collapse at any moment, some from consumption and some from, well, overconsumption.
Not Eric Sigerson. Clear of skin, clean-shaven and almost dainty in appearance, his hair was slicked back, neatly combed into place, and remained so, despite the wind. He wore a distinctly unwizardlike but apparently genuine smile that seemed to be an almost permanent fixture on his long face.
His clothes were almost entirely conventional and, except for the boots—none of it looked, well, wizardly. While he had his formal robes aboard—Sigerson's taciturn manservant had commandeered the tailor's quarters to iron them—this morning he was dressed in a blindingly white blousy cotton shirt under his white linen jacket and matching waistcoat, and the ends of his trousers were neatly bloused into a pair of thick-soled boots that looked to be more suitable for the woods than anything else.
Expensive, Gray thought, although he had little experience with the cost of clothes; the Order provided for him. But the buttons on Sigerson's jacket and waistcoat appeared to be ivory, and not just bone, and the shoulders didn't bunch up as Sigerson moved, which spoke of good—and therefore expensive—tailoring.
Save for the massive silver ring on the index finger of his right hand and the slim ivory wand that, at least when aboard ship, was always looped about his neck on a thin and delicate-looking silver chain, it would have been easy to think of him as some wealthy Londinium merchant with noble pretensions, and Gray tried to think of him that way; it made it all the easier to dislike him.
"And a good morning to you, Sir Joshua," Sigerson called out, although Gray hadn't greeted him at all.
"Good morning, Mr. Sigerson," Gray said. "Did you rest well?"
Sigerson smiled, his knees automatically giving and recovering as the bow bounced up and down. "Not one whit, in fact—I spent most of the night heaving up what little I ate last night. Crawling about belowdecks doesn't agree with me." He seemed positively cheerful about it, which was strange, as was his apparent comfort at the bow.
Then again, there wasn't much about Sigerson that wasn't strange, at least from Gray's point of view. Even his ordinariness was discomfiting.
"Your morning coffee, Mr. Sigerson?" Midshipman Reifer already had a steaming mug in his hand, and Sigerson climbed down from the bow to the foredeck to accept it.
"Thank you, Mr. Reifer," he said, accepting the mug but not immediately drinking it.
The boy beamed as he walked away, not seeming to notice Gray.
Sigerson waited until the midshipman had disappeared down the forward hatch, took a sniff of it, made a face, and flung the contents overboard, noting with manifest irritation that the wind had splattered his sleeve with a few stray drops.
"Never did acquire a taste for the stuff," he said, "but I'd rather waste it than hurt the boy's feelings—he seems to have rather taken a shine to me, eh?"
"Yes. I believe most of the crew has, in fact." Which was understandable.
"Understandable," Sigerson said, echoing Gray's thoughts so closely that Gray looked twice to see that Sigerson's hands were nowhere near his wand, "under the circumstances, I suspect."
Sigerson had spent much of the previous two days in the lower hold with his bag, supplies—and manservant, who apparently functioned as his assistant, as well as his valet.
"Not that the Wellesley has what I'd call a bad case of shipworm," he said, "but the best case is none at all, and I think that I've made a good start on that." He cast a glance over his shoulder. "Be willing to take a turn in the Winfrew and Cooperman, particularly if we're going to be in port for some time. Best done in drydock, of course, but . . ." He shrugged. "Messier and less effective this way, but the mess cleans off." He frowned as he considered the fingernails of his free hand. "Eventually."
"I don't know how long we'll be there," Gray said. "Not long, I'm hoping. Depends on what the news is, I suppose."
"Yes, it would at that."
Off in the distance, a point or so off the port bow, the ancient lighthouse that marked the entrance to the port of Pironesia stood watching, as it had for centuries, and beyond that, Gray could make out two sets of sails, although little more than that.
He looked astern. Both of the two miserable sloops that were all that DuPuy had let him have had fallen far behind. He could barely see the pennants atop the Winfrew's mainmast, and the other ship, was, he devoutly hoped, simply too far behind that, rather than lying at the bottom of the sea. He forced himself not to shake his head in disgust. The old admiral was as stubborn as a Lancaster mule, and had spent hours—literally hours, hours that Gray didn't have to spare—over maps, showing what he knew of the deployment of Dar warships, and emphasizing the miserably few ships that the Malta Fleet had to hold them at bay.
It was true, Gray was sure, but it was also unimportant in the larger scheme of things, and he was every bit as unsurprised as he was furious at DuPuy's refusal to see it that way. Gray had enough authority to get DuPuy to hear him out, but not to make him listen. The same orders that had had Halloran in Pironesia jumping at Gray's command had been met with little more than an upraised eyebrow by the Malta Admiral.
And this time, there was no jitney trip across town with the King at the other end of it to threaten with. Even if he had been able to make that threat, Gray had the definite impression that he would have had to follow through, and that it would have taken the King himself to pry a decent squadron from the Admiral.
The Abbot General would, of course, lodge a protest with the Admiralty, but if DuPuy gave a tinker's dam about that, it didn't show—he seemed to almost relish the idea.
Gray had had to accept what he could—a wretched two ships, crewed mainly by landsmen and beached officers, and a detachment of marines so few that calling them a company was a sad joke.
And then there was the wizard, who wasn't, strictly speaking, under the Admiral's orders, which was why he had come along. DuPuy had watched with cold eyes as Sigerson's man had loaded his trunks into the jollyboat for the trip to the Wellesley's mooring.
Not that the Admiral had been openly combatitive, or even utterly uncooperative—the courier ship to Gibraltar had been dispatched a day early for the asking, even though DuPuy knew that it carried Gray's protest to the Abbot General, as well as his other letters.
There was another way to handle it. I had the definite impression that Throckmorton would have been more sensible. Rolling the Admiral's head across the table would likely have persuaded him. I had one of my men do that at a peace conference with the Tien'shen, once.
And how well did that work out for you? Did they make peace?
It worked out perfectly well; I conquered Tien'shen, didn't I?
"If you let me know what you're thinking, Sir Joshua, I might be able to be of help."
Gray shook his head. "I wasn't thinking about much," he said, not caring to share the Khan's thoughts with anybody, Sigerson in particular. "Just enjoying the morning, such as it is."
He never slept well on a ship, and there had been too many shipboard nights of late. Far too many; a minor thing to resent Cully for.
Bear, on the other hand, was still snoring below, his broad face in his usual sleeping smile. It didn't bother Gray that Bear would bear up under discomfort with more equanimity than Gray could manage—but to find the rocking of a ship to be an aid to sleep was almost an insult.
Sigerson nodded. "If you don't mind a personal comment, Sir Joshua . . . ?"
The Khan seemed to brighten at his side. I don't mind him making a personal comment, if I can kill him for it.
Shh.
"Not at all, of course."
"You don't seem to be much for enjoying things," he said. "Me, I've spent most of my time in Malta crawling through the bellies of more ships than I care to count, in pursuit of the repellent but crafty shipworm, and there's nothing at all pleasant about that, I can assure you. Deucedly filthy work—necessary work, of course, but, nonetheless disgusting for all of that . . ." He shook his head and looked down at his sleeve again. "A moment, if you please?"
He reached into his short jacket with his free hand, and pulled a pinch of some powder out of somewhere and quickly rubbed it against his sleeve, thoroughly smearing the coffee stain into a larger, dirtier one. He unlooped his wand from around his neck, careful not to muss his hair and, muttering something under his breath, lightly tapped the wand against the stain, then blew on his sleeve.
The stain vanished, as though it had never been there.
"There," he said, smiling as looped his wand's chain back of his head with a practiced flip, then tucked the wand away into his jacket. "That's better—as I was saying, it seems to me to be sensible to enjoy what one can, when one can, even if it's something as trivial as having one's favorite jacket clean, eh? You should enjoy yourself more, perhaps?"
"You have some suggestion, maybe? My sleeve is perfectly clean."
"Well . . . since you ask, I fancy myself a decent singlestick player, and I'd expect that a Knight of the Order of the Crown, Shield, and Dragon would be a better one—could I persuade you into going a few rounds with me before we get into port?" He gestured toward the open space on the main deck that Gray and Bear did their daily practices on. "There seems to be ample room, and I can have Bigglesworth chalk the lines while we dress?" He had an affectation of sometimes making a simple declarative sentence a question, and used it just often enough that each time it was an annoying surprise rather than a reliable irritation.
"You have your pads aboard?"
"Of course," Sigerson said. "And my sticks, and my slippers, and a spare set of slippers and sticks, if you don't have such handy."
His smile was insulting, somehow, although Gray couldn't quite put his finger on how. He wished he could. Surely Gray couldn't dislike the man for no reason?
Do it. I'd like to see you beat him until he pisses blood.
Well, there was something in the young wizard's manner that just cried for a beating, and Gray had, like all Order novices, mastered the sticks before being given even his first practice sword.
Gray wouldn't hurt him too badly. The padding minimized damage, but couldn't prevent it, and Gray would have to be careful not to finesse past the padding at the juncture of gauntlet and tunic, as he had made a habit of back in his youth, when irritated, as he could easily break Sigerson's wrist without half trying.
But it would do him good to hurt somebody, at least a little, and if that meant he had been carrying the Khan too long, well, he had, in fact, been carrying the Khan too long.
"I'll see if I remember how." Gray smiled.
"It will, I'm sure, come back to you." Sigerson smiled back. "Probably more quickly than I'll care for, but what of that, eh? So, have we a match?"
"Well, as you say, it's a fine morning, and let's enjoy it, shall we?"
"After you, Sir Joshua."
The cut over Gray's right eye had closed up nicely, and his left wrist had stopped throbbing by the time he was ready to climb down the ladder and into the jollyboat for the trip into the dock.
Too many of the sailors were grinning, although none of them met his eyes.
Kill one or two, then. That will establish that you're not to be taken lightly.
Gray ignored the Khan. Truth was, Sigerson was simply better with a pair of sticks than Gray was, and being a poor loser wouldn't make that fact any better, but worse.
Still, he was seriously considering inviting Sigerson to join him and Bear in their daily workouts. Under those less restrictive sparring rules, he could return the injuries with what Sigerson would be likely to decide was usurious interest.
Did he want to do that because he had to maintain his status with the Navy men, or because he resented being beaten by a skinny, ascetic wizard?
"Sir Joshua?" Captain Johansen called out from the quarterdeck, where he stood, alone, sipping a cup of coffee and leaning against the rail. "Might I have a moment?"
Oh, what was it now?
You know what it is.
"Any orders in particular, Sir Joshua?" Johansen asked, straightening as Gray mounted the steps. "Other than my keeping the crew aboard?"
That again.
Gray shrugged. "I didn't tell you to keep the whole crew aboard," he said slowly, patiently. "I said that just an anchor watch won't do—I don't know when we'll be leaving, or for where. I want you to be prepared to raise sail the moment the jollyboat puts me back on that ladder. Same for the other two ships," he said, with a jerk of the thumb skyward to where a commodore's pennant floated from the mainmast, as he couldn't point toward the Winfrew or the Cooperman, neither of which had rounded the lighthouse yet.
DuPuy hadn't been agreeable about much, but he had gone along with the necessity of the brevet promotion, since the lieutenant in command of the Winfrew was senior to Johansen, even though half his career had been spent on the beach, and probably deservedly so.
"In the Navy, Sir Joshua, we say 'aye, aye,' when given an order, and then we carry it out, whether or not it makes much sense."
"Which you don't think this does."
"No, sir; I don't. I can't see how, say, a two-hour recall is likely to make much of a difference, one way or the other, on the other end—wherever the other end is. And while the crew of the Wellesley, sir, can raise sail and get the old girl moving as fast as any ship in the Navy, I wouldn't want to claim that for . . . other ships, necessarily." His eyes hardened. "I'll do what I'm ordered, sir, so will every officer and man aboard—but I don't much like denying my men anything they've earned, not without necessity, and they've earned a good drunk, and—and other recreations that can't be afforded aboard."
Well, you could always haul a boatload of whores for the men from shore, Gray thought, but didn't say. It was just his irritation. No, Johansen couldn't do any such thing, even more than he couldn't increase the rum ration for the men on the ship. Bad for discipline, and a master who started to let discipline slack would find it hard to take up the slack later.
They were being watched, of course, by every officer and man on deck, although Johansen kept his voice low, as did Gray.
Gray sighed. Part of it wanted to punish every man and officer for seeing him humiliated by Sigerson, and while it would have been easy to blame such pettiness on the Khan, it was entirely his own, and it disgusted him. That didn't mean that it had to rule him, one way or the other.
You think too much, Gray. You can hardly empty your bowels without meditating over whether it's the morally correct thing to do.
He yanked his hand from the Khan, then put it back. No; he would handle this as he wished that he would have had the decency to do by instinct, the way Bear would have.
"You could have them back on board in two hours?" he asked. "Have your mates chase them down wherever they've gone to ground, all over the entire port?"
Gray expected Johansen to admit the absurdity of it, but the captain just smiled and nodded.
"Yes, more or less." Johansen took a puff on his pipe, then went on: "Not that it's difficult. Port section is first up. Finch has a preferred dive just off the docks, and he and Bartlesby tend to hang together ashore, anyway. I'll just have them stay there—even with Finch's, err, stamina, he won't be able to work his way through all the whores for a couple of days. It's just a matter of ordering the leave crew that they're to be within a whistle of that place. Fifteen minutes after I get your signal, sir, there'd be mates blowing pipes all around there, and we'd not lose more than a man or two, if that. Captain Henslow's got a good sergeant—he can do the same sort of thing with the marines. If we're here for a few days, it's just a matter of rotating the mates and corporals on, err, whore duty."
"And the other ships? When they stagger in?"
"I'll tell their masters to restrict leave to Dog Street, half a section at a time. Can't swear I'd get the same compliance that I can promise for the Wellies, but we'll get most of them, and either of them could sail with a section and a half if they had to."
"And if they're late?"
"Adjustments can be made." Any lapse would give Johansen an obvious excuse to put one of his lieutenants on board as commander, something he was probably aching to do. "But you give me two hours warning, sir, and I'll have your squadron anchors up, and heading out the harbor with sails flying from mainmast royales down to the spanker. You have my word on that."
There it was—Johansen had made it a matter of his word. Gray should just have refused to let the captain engage him in conversation at all, but . . .
"Very well, Commodore. Make it so."
Johansen's eyes twinkled, just a little. "Aye, aye, sir. Where are you staying in the city?"
Gray shrugged. He didn't much care where he slept. "Probably at the Governor's palace, in the guest quarters."
"I'll have a sailor on duty at the gate, around the clock. One word from you, and you'll have no cause to regret the two hours. Thank you for hearing me out." He gestured with his pipe toward the ladder. "I'll not delay you any longer. Best of luck ashore, sir."
"Thank you, Commodore," Gray said, not meaning it for a moment, as he headed for the ladder.
Had Gray been first down, he would have held on to the ladder so that the boat wouldn't rock when Bear got in, but Bear just sat primly on the bench next to Sigerson, trusting to the sailors to keep it all steady, and surely enough they did.
"Going ashore, Mr. Sigerson?"
"Thought I might, if you don't have any objection," Sigerson said. "A good meal on solid land would suit me well. And perhaps, I thought, you might find me of some use, one way or another." He patted at his bag. "And if not, well, I don't know much about whistles and signals and suchlike, but Bigglesworth does—eh, Biggles?"
Sigerson's man had just sat still, not speaking. He didn't talk much. "Yes, sir," he said. "I finished with my twenty some years ago, but I think I can remember Recall All Hands. If you want to stay with the Wellesley, I'll have you aboard well before she lifts anchor, Mr. Sigerson, and no worries on that score."
He was speaking to Sigerson, but the message was for Gray, and Gray nodded.
"So be it, then. I'll be glad of the company." Gray forced a smile. "Although I don't think we'll have occasion for another lesson in the sticks, not right away."
He had lost, and was sore, but he wouldn't be a sore loser, and he carefully took no notice of what appeared to be a hint of a ghost of a smile on Bigglesworth's face.
The Khan was strangely quiet at his side; Gray guessed that his loss had embarrassed the old warrior. The Khan had only lost once, after all, at anything.
The boat pulled away from the Wellesley's broad side, accompanied by comments from Finch about the slaggardliness of the shorebound oarsmen, whose strokes seemed to Gray to be deep and well-coordinated enough, and it was only a few minutes later that they were climbing up to the solid wood of the dock.
Bear seemed to be wobbly on his feet, as did Sigerson and Finch, something Gray didn't understand. Returning to land was such a natural thing that he didn't have to try to balance himself against the no-longer-rolling motion of the wood beneath his boots, thankfully.
"Governor's palace, I think," he said, hefting his bag to his shoulder. Probably the best place to look for some word of Cully. Cully, of course, would be off somewhere, counting on Gray to follow—and, of course, he would have to do just that—if only to retrieve the boy's live sword, and the boy, Niko, for that matter. He might be hard to find, but it wouldn't be difficult for Gray to set himself on his trail.
Gray hoped that Cully at least had left a trail of breadcrumbs behind him. Bodies would be more likely, under the circumstances, he thought, and for a moment had to glance down to be sure that he hadn't fastened his hand on the Khan.
"Excuse me for interrupting," Sigerson said, "but I think we've already found what you're seeking."
Two knights stood at the far end of the dock, waiting patiently.
Well, two knights of a sort—it was Cully and that Niko boy, hardly a real knight.
That said, he didn't have a bad look about him: he stood easily on the rough wood, if a bit stiffly, the hilts of two scabbarded swords stuck through his sash within easy reach of his hands, and at their approach, his right hand dropped to the hilt of the uppermost of the two swords in a gesture that Gray well recognized, and found himself duplicating, even though the last thing he wanted at the moment was to hear from the Khan, and he snatched his hand away.
The clothes that Cully had stolen from Gray fit the boy well enough, in fact. The only question in Gray's mind was whether he would be sensible and just have them washed and rewashed when this was all over, or burn them.
I would bet on the burning, myself.
Cully gave a knowing smile. "Sir Joshua," he said, as they clasped hands. "Good of you to join us, finally. We've been waiting. You know Sir Niko, I believe, but I've not met your companion."
So that was the way Cully wanted to play it?
Very well; Gray could go along, for the moment. Airing a dispute with a brother knight wasn't something he would want to do out in the open, for that matter, even if—particularly if that knight was Cully.
Bear didn't hesitate; he stepped forward. "Sir Cully," he said, enfolding Cully's hands in his larger ones, "it's good to see you. I was . . . concerned." He released Cully's hands and bowed toward the boy. "Sir Niko."
"Sir David." Niko returned the bow properly, then accepted Bear's hand-clasp as though he had done it a thousand times before.
Dammit, he carried himself well, looking much more knight than fisherboy.
Sigerson stepped forward. "Eric Sigerson," he said, offering a hand instead of bowing. "Fellow of the College."
"Cully of Cully's Woode, of the Order."
"The Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon, I take it?" Sigerson arched an eyebrow.
"Yes, of course. And when you say the College, you mean His Majesty's College of Wizardry, I take it?"
"Indeed." Sigerson smiled. "And while I'd love to chat with you further, unless I'm missing something—always a possibility—I would think that the four of you have some catching up to do. Would it suit you if I meet you at the Governor's palace in a few hours?"
Gray nodded, but Cully shook his head.
"No," Cully said. "I think it would be best if you accompanied us there now. There have been a few developments."
He gave Gray a long look as though to say that it wouldn't hurt to trust him, just for a while.
You can always kill him later.
It wouldn't come to that.
We'll see.
The old sergeant seemed to find it difficult to relax into his chair; he seemed to have himself at a permanent posture of attention.
He probably sleeps that way, the Khan murmured.
Shh.
"You're sure it was darklings?" Gray asked.
"No, shir. I'm not sure of anything, except what I said. Never shaw a darkling before."
And I hope to never see one again, Fotheringay didn't have to add.
Bear looked up. Bear, with Niko at his side, was bent over Langahan's desk, with maps and charts spread out, going over the report from Rafferty of the Serenity, probably for the twentieth time. Gray hadn't been able to draw anything useful out of it, or from the charts, but maybe Bear would, and at least it kept the boy out of Gray's way, for the time being.
"Brought their own soil?" Bear asked.
"Well, whoever dispatched them did," Gray said.
"No." Sigerson shook his head. "That's a common superstition—confusion with the vampire myth, I think. The unholy don't need the soil of their burial place. I doubt that darklings are ever actually buried, in any case, and certainly not in a conventional way. Anything cursed will do to maintain their strength."
"Cursed how?" Niko asked, clearly regretting the question after a quick, irritated look from Cully shut him up.
Sigerson's fingers twitched in his lap. "Any of a number of ways—sprinkling the blood of somebody murdered unshriven is the classic way to deconsecrate soil, but it's not difficult. The Hezmoni used to rape Christian women with bottles of sacramental wine, then drink the wine and piss it out. It's not like there's actual magic involved—just a defilement of holiness. You could probably just burn a cross and do it well enough, if you were of a mind to." He shook his head. "Not something I much like thinking or talking about, not under such pleasant circumstances, eh?" He gestured at their surroundings. "Much better than what was available shipboard."
Cully had commandeered Langahan's office, the one just across the inlaid marble hall from Halloran's, and while, he said, Langahan occasionally popped in to retrieve something from his own files, he didn't make a habit of it.
What Gray really wanted to do was get Cully alone—in private—but Cully had carefully avoided that, although why, Gray didn't know. It wasn't as though he was afraid of the sharpness of Gray's tongue.
That would have to wait, Cully had said.
No, we'll do it now, Gray had wanted to say, but he kept his tongue under control.
"Took half of the company down with them," Fotheringay said. "Can't say how much of it was these darklings, or the fire, or the sea—we held them off as long as we could, so the Serry could break away, and then every man, marine and sailor, went over the side just as fast as we could."
Cully nodded. "Understandable."
"Understandable?" Fotheringay's lips tightened. "To flaming hell with your 'understandable,' sir." There would have been something comical about his lisp, under other circumstances. "It was me orders, sir. Lieutenant—Captain Tucker gave me them orders, just before he slammed the door in my face. Open the seacocks, push her away and abandon ship, he said, so we did."
Bear started to say something, but desisted at a gesture from Gray. The bandages on the sergeant's right hand were fresh, granted, but he had been badly burned all along the right arm, and his face seemed flushed.
"A trace of the fever, I think," Sigerson said. "Are you feeling well, Sergeant?"
"I'll do, sir."
"I'd rather have an honest answer, all in all."
"Yes, sir. I been leeched from crotch to throat, sir, and it don't seem to help much. Seems to make it worse, all in all. But I'll do, sir."
Was it the burns, or the encounter with the darklings? They hadn't quite touched the sergeant, he had said. Of a certainty they hadn't gotten their hands on him, but . . .
"You saw no sign of swords?"
"Saw plenty of swords, and most of them felt like they were pointed right at me and my captain," Fotheringay said. "But nothing cursed, far as I could tell. The company might have had some more difficulty taking the pirate if there'd been that sort of thing aboard."
Some difficulty? Does he really think that a bunch of marines could stand up to the likes of me?
Of course not, any more than they could have beaten the darklings. But they would have tried.
"Sergeant—"
"If I may, Sir Joshua?" Sigerson leaned forward. "The sergeant has told us at least most of what he knows, I think, and it's probably better that he get some rest before any further interview."
"I can manage. Sir."
"Yes, I'm sure you can," Bear said, after a quick look toward Gray, and Gray's answering nod, "but you can probably manage better with some rest. Burns are nasty things. If I have any more questions about Captain Rafferty's account, I'll come see you later."
Gray kept silent. On the field of battle, a deck of a ship, or in a governor's aide's office, they divided the work so automatically that it only occasionally occurred to Gray that that was just what they were doing. Bear's gentle manner could probably get the sergeant to talk more throughly and certainly less reservedly than Gray could. People tended to relax in Bear's presence in a way that they never seemed to be able to in Gray's, although Gray certainly tried hard enough to force them to relax, when the situation required it.
"Yes, sir." The sergeant struggled to his feet. "But can I see the report, sir?"
"You haven't been shown it yet?"
"No, sir. Not my place. Mr. Rafferty—the Serry's captain, came down to the galley and talked to me, but he didn't show me nothing."
"Do you think he misrepresented something, Sergeant?"
There it was. If Gray had asked just that question, in just that way, Fotheringay would have drawn himself up to a stiff brace, focused his eyes on a distant nothing, and grunted a quick "no, sir," but with the same words from Bear, he just shrugged, even though the movement clearly caused him pain.
"No, sir," he said. "I got no complaints about Mr. Rafferty. But I was a little out of my head when he come down to talk to me—got bunged up a little, along with the burn. I just want to be sure that he got—that I got Captain Tucker's last words right. My cap'n died a hero, sir, doing his duty—wouldn't be right if an old sergeant's mumblings made the record wrong."
Gray would have just told him to go away, but Bear nodded, and leafed through the pages. "Ah. Captain Rafferty says his last words were 'For King and country,' just like Lieutenant Finnerty's."
"Shit. Then I got it wrong. Can you—can you do something about it, sir?"
"We can't tamper with a Navy report," Bear said. "That's just a copy that one of the clerks made. But I can ask the Governor to submit a supplement, if you'd like."
"I'm sure Governor Halloran will be happy to comply," Cully said. "What did the captain say?"
"You tell him," the sergeant said, breathing heavily, "you tell him that after Captain Tucker told me to see to the seacocks, and stepped between those things and them women, he shouted, 'Not while I breathe.' "
The sergeant's jaw was clenched so tightly that it was a minor miracle he could speak at all. " 'Not while I breathe,' he said. You tell them that, sir. You tell them all that."
"As you wish, Sergeant." Cully's voice sounded too calm, too mild.
He drew himself up to attention, gave a stiff nod in Cully's direction, and marched out of the office and into the hall, the regular slap-slap-slap of his boots quickly becoming uneven and ragged.
Bear started to rise, but desisted at a motion from Gray. The sergeant didn't need any help, or, if he did, the stiff-necked prig could damn well ask for it himself.
"Sentimental man, the sergeant," Cully said, lightly.
"You don't—"
"Of course not. Only a pompous fool would say something like that." Cully grinned. He rose and walked to the desk and tapped a forefinger against the report. "This Tucker doesn't seem to have been a pompous fool. Sergeant Fotheringay's just trying to motivate us a little more."
"Well, he's motivated his way aboard one of the ships, when we leave," Gray said. He wasn't at all happy with the marines aboard the two slopships DuPuy had given them. Whatever you could say about this Fotheringay, he had a proper military manner, and it might be infectious. Then again, so might any fever he had. Something to think about.
But when they were leaving was a more important subject than whether or not they added one damaged marine sergeant to the company. He turned to Cully. "As to when we leave, and for where, that's something that—"
"It's something that I'd just as soon keep between you and me, at least for the moment. With all due respect to Mr. Sigerson, this is an Order matter. And, for all I know, there may be be other reasons for some discretion," he said, tapping a finger against his ear, "and I know for a fact I could use some fresh air, and maybe a simple meal."
"Eminently sensible, I'd say." Sigerson didn't seem to take offense. "If you don't mind, I'm going to take a look at that report, and at the maps. It's not utterly impossible I'll come up with some useful insight."
"Very well." Gray nodded. He rose, adjusting his swords in his sash. "Let's walk down toward the plaza. Bear? Niko, you should probably stay with Mr. Sigerson, or, better just turn in for the night—"
"Sir Niko should definitely come with us." Cully said. "It is, as you say, an Order matter."
Gray drew in a deep breath of the cool night air, then let it out slowly. It was supposed to relax him, although it wasn't doing much good at the moment.
Night had snuck into the city, exposed in its daily stealth by the half-moon that had fully risen, casting everything below in silver and gray.
Beneath the sputtering of lamps, shops along the Street of Sails had long since been closed and barred, and the only things that remained of the market day along the docks were a few scraps of discarded vegetables here and the odd pile of donkey turds there, waiting to be swept into the sewers and dumped into the harbor by the next rain.
Off in the distance, where the hills rose, blackness upon darkness, a distant wolf howled, whether in triumph or frustration Gray didn't know, and didn't much care.
The Street of Sails was set high enough in the city that Gray could look over the low buildings and see the ships lying at anchor in the harbor. Two others were berthed near the Wellesley; the stragglers had, finally, made it in, and he had no doubt that firm orders had been given to keep them readied for a quick departure, although he had less confidence than Johansen did that a quick departure would actually happen.
Although to where? If Cully knew, he wasn't saying.
Maybe it would be best to simply take up residence in Pironesia for the weeks it would be before relief would arrive from England. A Knight of the Order, of course, was expected to handle many things by himself, and Gray had no cause to fault himself for his willingness to take matters into his own hands—although he didn't fault himself for not overreaching, the way Cully always did.
But what to do? A live sword, and threats of others about; darklings in the Mediterranean, being conveyed by pirates and God-knows-who-else?
That was more important than Cully having overreached himself, yes, but Gray didn't know what to do about that. Either.
The Plaza of the Order was quiet, save for the quiet sussuration of the fountain. Gray half expected more darklings to move out of the shadows at them, and the Khan, at his waist, almost vibrated with eagerness, but . . .
But nothing. The evening wind caught the spray from the fountain and turned it into a light misting that, annoyingly, more refreshed than chilled Gray. It should have made him uncomfortable.
Cully threw a hip over the lip of the fountain and folded his arms across his chest.
"Well, that's about as I should have expected. Nothing." His voice was pitched low. "Too obvious, I expect."
"Obvious?"
"Well, yes. Niko and I have made it a point to stop and pray here the last three nights, before the fountain. I'd have dragged along a chain and anchored myself here like a goat, but I thought that would be, well, a little much. If they're out there, whatever they are, they're patient and cautious, I hope."
"You hope?"
Cully gave Gray a look that made him feel like a clumsy first-former again, and Gray didn't know why that didn't bother him as much as it should have.
"Well, the other explanation is that they're gone—along with any clue or hint as to what they are, where this sword came from, and what this is all about. We're short of leads—we don't have any of those pirates to question, and I doubt that we would be able to make darklings talk, even if we had any captive, which we don't.
"Niko and I have been . . . chatting with merchant captains, and going over berthing reports; nothing of any use that I can see. There's a couple ships that regularly call out in the islands that are just enough off-schedule to be of some interest—including that Captain Andros's Kalends—but if he stopped off in the outer islands on his regular circuit, he might well have decided that Pironesia is a trifle too hot for his tastes, at least for the time being, for reasons having more to do with his little swindling being exposed than anything else.
"All we have is darklings where there shouldn't be; a fragment of a song, a song that could come from anywhere; a hint of a curved knife—and God knows that curved knives aren't unusual—and a sword that has nothing exceptional about it, save for the soul trapped inside." He spread his hands. "Am I missing something?"
"Yes," Gray said. "A plan to do something about it. Something useful."
"My first notion was to already be out chasing after the source of the sword—of the swords." He frowned. "You were supposed to be chasing after me, bringing along a heavily manned squadron, and not just the Welly and two ships that ought to be in drydock."
"I wasn't supposed to catch you in Pironesia?"
"Catch me? I've had the Marienios tied up at the dock, waiting for you as confidently as I knew how to wait. I'd rather be off on the trail, but I don't have a trail, dammit."
"And now I've arrived, and—"
"What I can do, I've already done," Cully said. "I've given Ralph a swift kick in the ass, which should get things moving, although I'm sure that he doesn't know any more than do you or I about what the threat is, or where it comes from. Word of pirates carrying darklings about the Med should get Admiral DuPuy some more ships, perhaps . . ."
"Just as likely to get the Gibraltar fleet to inspect things more closely in the Straits," Bear said.
"A lot of good that would do." Gray shook his head. "What are they going to do? Open every box? Wade through every ballast-hold?"
"Regardless, all of that will take some time." Cully rapped his stick against the stones. "But they're here—at least some of them. I can feel it."
"And how reliable is your intuition, Father?" Bear asked, as gently as such a question could be asked.
"It was reliable when I knew that you and Gray would end up kneeling before His Majesty to rise as knights, just as it was unreliable about Alexander, and many other things. But I think the darklings—the ones that attacked us—is more evidence than mere intuition." He turned to Niko. "You don't seem to be saying much, Sir Niko."
"I . . . I don't really have anything to say, Sir Cully," he said.
He still sounded hesitant, and tentative, but at least he had stopped cringing every time anybody so much as looked at him. That probably had something to do with his grip on the hilt of his sword—the live sword, of course, although Gray couldn't tell by looking.
"Well, does your sword have anything to say?" Bear asked. "Anything at all?"
"No." Niko shook his head. "She just wants me to sing to her. I don't think she understands much of this, much of anything."
"Sing?" Gray's forehead wrinkled. Why would a sword want him to sing?
"Sing," Cully said, firmly. "Lullabyes. The sword is a baby."
Bear scowled, an unusual expression on his face. "A baby. You said that the sword wasn't old, but I thought that you meant it was newly created."
"I did." Cully shook his head. "At least, I think I did." He shrugged. "I'm not sure what exactly I meant, or how much of it was me, and how much the sword—and if you're expecting me to apologize for not taking it in hand, you'll have a long wait. Niko, how long does she think that her soul has been locked into that sword?"
Niko gripped the sword even more tightly. "She doesn't know, and she doesn't like me asking about that. It reminds her of the Big—of the man with the knife. She . . . she doesn't seem to think much about time. She knows that she should be hungry, but she isn't . . . and that's about all, I think."
"Can you describe him?" Gray asked. "The man with the knife?"
Cully held up a hand. "I've already asked him that, and he's—"
"And he can damn well answer the question again, Sir Cully." Maybe there was something that Cully had missed. That was at least possible, wasn't it?
Cully's nod was cold. "That may well be," he said, as though answering Gray's thought rather than responding to what he had said. "Try asking her again, Niko."
Gray nodded to himself. At least the boy was well disciplined, if utterly untrained. Niko clearly wanted to protest, but he just settled himself more firmly on the lip of the fountain, and, again, clenched his hand over the hilt of the sword.
"Large . . . sweaty, and the knife, shiny, shiny, shiny, shiny," the boy went on, his eyes tightly closed, his voice high pitched and thick, and trailed off into whimpering, and pleas to bring the baby her mother or something equally pointless.
Cully wasn't watching Niko; he had his eyes on the edge of the plaza, as did Bear. Gray started to turn, but desisted at a quick, be-still movement from Cully's hand.
Did that mean that they saw something? That—
Cully shook his head. No. They didn't see anything. They were just staying alert, as they should be.
Of course there wouldn't be something. It would be nice if a bunch of the conspirators were to march themselves into the plaza, right about now, but it wouldn't happen. Life didn't work that way—that would be too bloody useful, much more so than listening to a Pironesian boy's mumblings.
" . . . and where is the One Who Smells Like Food? She should be here; she loves me . . ." The words trailed off into a series of whimpers, and cries, that sounded for all the world like a baby's. It was just as well they were alone; shameful for somebody presenting himself as a Knight of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon to be crying like a baby at all, much less in public.
It's a baby, Gray, the Khan whispered to him. And it cries like a baby; that's all. Don't blame the boy, and don't blame the baby. Babies cry.
Gray wasn't at all sure that he liked being lectured on patience and tolerance by the Khan.
Then show some without my reminder, the Khan said. I've heard many a young baby cry. Send for the women to see to it if you're not man enough to endure it yourself.
"Shh . . ." Niko whispered, in his own voice. "Shh . . . yes, yes, Nadide, I'll sing you the lullabye, again, just like she used to . . .
Into the garden the calves did stray.
Gardener quickly turn them away.
They'll eat the cabbages without delay,
Eh-e nini, eh-e nini,
Eh-e nini, nini,
Nini nini nini
Eh-e, eh-e nini eh!
Eh-e, eh-e nini eh!
Eh-e, ninni, ninni, ninni,
Eh-e, ninni, ninni, eh!
"Eh-e, ninni," it went, and continued on, ever more softly, as the boy's body swayed in time, ever slower, the nonsense syllables of lullabye growing every quieter, until Gray could barely hear him.
Cully rose from his seat and walked carefully, quietly, over to Gray. "Does that sound familiar to you?" he whispered.
"No," Gray said, lowering his voice at Cully's glare, and switched to a whisper. "I don't know much about lullabyes." Gray's childhood hadn't been filled with that sort of thing.
Other than the nonsense syllables, the boy was singing in Hellenic, of course, but there wasn't anything unusual about the accent, or much of anything different from the way that Niko usually spoke.
"Mmph. Doesn't sound familiar to anybody else, either, far as I can tell. Had Niko do it on board the Marienios, the other night, and none of the crew said it sounded familiar." He grinned. "I just smiled and looked secretive."
"So what happened?"
"Well, Salim Abdullah trotted out a lullabye that the women of his clan sing to their babies, and more of the Abdullahs joined in—nice voices, that lot—and some of the new-hired sailors did the same, and we had a nice little sing-along on the dock. A very pleasant time, all in all, but I don't see as it accomplished much."
His smile was more than a little irritating, and Gray was about to say something to that effect when Cully gave him a look. "Yes, this is very serious; certainly, it's important, but if I've taught you anything, I hope I've taught you to enjoy the moment, when you can." He patted Gray's arm. "You were always too serious a boy, and you've not shed that as a man. Tending to your duty doesn't need to mean that you walk through every step of your life with a gravedigger's expression on your face, Joshua." Cully cocked his head to one side. "Lots of curiosities about the sword, though. Paste a curious expression on your face, and we can talk about them."
"Well, if you insist, I'll—"
At a sound behind him, Gray spun around, the Khan in his hand, only realizing that he had drawn it at the clatter of the Khan's scabbard on the stones.
Yes.
The world changed about him.
It always did, in much the same way, but each time more intense, sharper, brighter, darker, than it had been the time before, as the two of them came alive once more.
Yes, alive. He was more fully alive than he ever had been, as Gray or Khan.
It was one thing to rest his hand on the Khan's steel, and another to remove it from its scabbard, and hold the slim blade, as familiar to him as his own hands, raised high above his head, ready to slice not just through flesh and bone, not only to part boiled leather and welded steel with an effort that was no effort at all but the purest of joy, but to cleave through life and not-life.
His skin tingled and stung, as though he had been set upon by a million angry but impotent wasps whose stingers somehow hurt without hurting; as always, he felt like he was growing, becoming taller, larger, something more than merely human. The distant aches of his wrist and head didn't quite vanish. If anything they became more intense, but they were utterly unimportant and irrelevant.
The strangest part was his sight. After, he always described it even to himself as though it felt like he was an observer behind his own eyes, and again, he knew that that was wrong, just as he always forgot about it, somehow, between the times that he held the Khan in the dark—Gray-as-Gray always thought of the night as dark and colorless.
But, again, he was reminded that he was wrong—there had been the subtle, inky blue-black of the sky, and the moon had been the blue of steel heated in the hottest forge. The fish-oil lamps dimly flickering on their poles had held just the barest of flames, yes, but while they had been but a dim echo of the rich orange and red of the sun, they had shared their color generously, even lovingly with the night.
Had . . .
That was all gone.
Now, just as it would have been in the brightest of daylight, the world was painted only in black and white, with no shades of gray to divide the two, no true color at all save for the fiery orange and red of the Khan that he held out and over his head.
The sky overhead had become a solid black, marked with pinpricks of oppressive whiteness that should have blinded him, but didn't, any more than the simple round whiteness of the moon did, or the sun would have.
Cully's face, eyes wide and mouth open, was like a moving sketch, his features bright white drawn against a background of the blackest of charcoal.
And, as always, the world slowed down, capturing the moment like a fly frozen into a block of slowly melting ice. He could hear the agonizingly slow beat of his heart speed up, he could even feel it try to beat faster than mere flesh possibly could—but still, it pulsed so slowly, too slowly, and he gasped for the breath that could fill his burning lungs but never quite satisfy them.
The worst or best of it—he was never quite sure, at such times which, although he would later have no doubt—was the Khan. The Khan was no more just speaking to him—it was him, and he was the Khan.
He was the one-who-had-been-two, who had ridden his pony down from the grassy steppes that the effete, weak Westerners called Nova Monglia, taking first the Xi Xia, and then the Qin, and then the Na-Chung. The world thought that he would stop there, on the shores of the Nipponese sea, or, if not strike across the sea for Nippon, defying the holy wind that had drowned the others who had tried to do the same. Caution and cowardice wouldn't stop him—of course he would head east.
So he had turned west, across the rocky desert, far colder and inhospitable than the mild, sandy ones of the weak south, sewing destruction and reaping the harvest of it, knowing that nothing could stop him until he reached the sea to the west, just as he had to the east.
Yes, he had been a conqueror, and there was nothing greater than that. But he had been more than that—not greater, of course—but more. He had been a father, who had loved his sons—and, in a lesser way, as was only proper, his daughters—although undoubtedly he had sired a legion of bastards on his slow, inexorable march toward the true western sea, over the Khwarizm, barely slowed by the pitiful Uzbi and all the others, as with each mile of land he took, his strength grew, and it was no shame or hindrance that it grew just a little, with every day's ride, with every village and every plot of tilled soil where his whim became law, and his word became real.
It had been wonderful.
No, it was wonderful, and it was always with him, not just as a vague generality, but with all the little details: the way that his favorite pony would whicker and shy in the morning, as though from eagerness to be on with today's ride; the comfortable feel of the well-worn saddle beneath his ass; the fear in the eyes of the women and the taste of their trembling lips, the sounds of their groans as he mounted them; and how he could look before and behind him, at the ponies and horses and wagons and campfires, and never see the end of them, as though he was a boat floating always in the center of the sea of conquest, as though it was his very manhood that grew with every clop-clop-clop, stiffening beneath him from sea to its final destination in the far sea.
No, that hadn't happened.
He had been infuriated by his defeat and capture on the shores of the Black Sea. He had always been able to divide his enemies, and play them off against each other, not for a moment pausing in his inexorable, unstoppable advance.
Until this one time, this one defeat, this one and final humiliation—or so he thought.
Then there had been another: to be strapped to that upright post, while a bearded wizard and one of their hideous priests murmured spells—it was wrong that he should, that he could end like that, in the hands of his enemies. Being ripped apart by horses, or his skin flayed off by sharp knives, or even dropped from a height to be stopped by a rope around his neck—he had expected that, but not this.
And, of course, he hadn't ended like that, or ended at all. He had simply traded his failing flesh for shiny, enduring steel, and the sharing of the flesh of the score of others who had held that steel in his time pleased him even more than the taste of the blood and souls that he drank.
And of all of them, of all who had joined themselves with him, Gray was most the kindred soul—deny it as he would, when he would.
He wouldn't now. Not when they were now one, not when the blood-turned-to-fire coursed too slowly but still powerfully through their shared veins, carrying with it a power that grew with every year, every use, and could shatter now walls and perhaps, one day, make the heavens themselves fall, to scatter before his feet, where they belonged.
The Gray-Khan towered above Gray's companions, although he couldn't say quite how, as he could look them in their black-and-white faces, rather than on them from a height, as though he were seated on the back of his horse and they were but the men of a dozen races who had spent their entire lives waiting to die beneath his sword, as was only proper.
But they were nothing beside him. A flick of the wrist would send Cully tumbling through the air, shattering him against the fountain, and Niko would take less than that.
The only danger was Shanley—him and that idiotic White one, still sleeping in his scabbard, who didn't understand what power was, what it was for, who—
"Gray, no," Cully said, his mouth and voice working so slowly it was an effort to make out his words, and only the trace of him that was still Gray was willing to make the effort. "It was nothing. No danger. Look—"
Cully tried to grab the Gray Khan's free hand, and while it would have been easy to avoid the old man's honey-slow motion, the Khan let him grip it, then used that grip to toss Cully aside, barely capable of admiring the way that the old man was able to turn the throw into a tumble and roll that carried him halfway across the plaza.
He was in no danger from this Cully, not now, not with Cully armed with nothing but ordinary steel, trapped in slowtime—it was best to save his strength for that meddling Nameless, although had no doubt that he had strength enough. Save Cully for later.
For now, there was Shanley.
And still there was time, for the lumbering fool who carried the bumbling saint stood anchored in time, like all the rest.
The Gray-Khan turned to face the retreating backs of the man and women fleeing the plaza, running in such leaden panic that they had left their donkey behind, the woman barely taking the moment it took to pull the squealing infant from the animal's back.
It should have run, too, but it stood as though anchored, braying loudly as it voided itself and—
Then the three of them faced him, moving more quickly than they should have been able to in slowtime, but not as fast as the Gray-Khan.
Shanley slowly, too slowly, was drawing the Nameless from its sheath. It would have been easy to blast him to ashes before he finished the draw, but—
Yes, he had better do that. Without Bear, the Nameless was no threat at all.
"No." The boy stood before him, that absurd little girl-sword in his hands. Clumsy stance, with the legs spread too far apart, as though he was anchoring himself in place, refusing to consider the possibility that he would have to retreat.
Of course he wouldn't retreat. He and she would die right then and there. Her soul glowed through the metal, yes, but it was a dull, dim glow, the orange-red of an autumn leaf, nothing that pierced the white and black like a needle through an eyeball; it was a soul that had known nothing of life beyond the taste of the sweet milk it had sucked from its mother's breasts—nothing like the white fire of the Nameless, or the beautiful, blazing, burning red and orange of his own.
Kill the boy, kill the Nameless, and then Cully, and—
No.
Yes, yes, it was yes, now was the time. Start with them, and work his way outward, through the city, through—
No. Let go, Khan. There's nothing here.
Nothing? How could there be nothing? There were stone statues—they were something. There were three men, bearing weapons—that was something. There was a city filled with people, and there was the countryside beyond, and the ships, and there were stars in the sky that needed to be—
No. We're damned, you and me, and that's as it should be. But we'll not worsen it. Not now. Not ever, I hope. But not now.
Yes; there must come a time; on that they were in accord. Let that time be now.
Yes.
But somehow, for just a moment, the Gray-Khan hesitated. Not even for a quickened but too-slow heartbeat, perhaps, but long enough.
"No!" Gray shouted, and he flung the sword away from him as though it had burned his hand.
And then he was just Gray again, standing in the darkness whose warm colors had returned, with the Khan lying lifeless, for the moment, on the hard stones before him.
His heart pounded fast and hard in his chest, and his lungs burned as he tried to get enough air, but couldn't. His knees threatened to buckle beneath him.
No; he locked them into place. No.
Nothing but his own will would ever bring him to his knees again.
They were smiling at him. Cully didn't seem to notice the trickle of blood that ran down through his thinning hair and onto his cheek.
Bear reached out a hand. "Gray—"
"Be still, Bear," Cully said, catching Bear's sleeve. "He's back, but . . ."
Nothing but his own will would ever bring him to his knees, he swore. He had sworn that before, and he would again.
So it was by his own will that Joshua Grayling knelt, the cobblestones cold and hard beneath his knees, and bowed his head, clasping his trembling hands together before him.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," Gray said. "I almost—I would have killed you, Father, all of you. I would have. I almost . . ."
He wept and wept, his chest heaving, his body shaking. He wept as though he was a child who had been beaten too much, and could stand no more.
Bear shook his head and sighed.
Gray was sleeping, finally, the Khan, now scabbarded, lying on the bed beside him, its hilt scant inches from Gray's right hand.
Gray was shivering in his sleep, although it wasn't cold in the room, so Bear pulled the blankets up around Gray's neck, moving as slowly and gently as he could, so as not to wake him.
Bear considered, for a moment, removing the Khan, despite how improper that would be. You simply didn't ever so much as lay a finger on another knight's weapons or armor without permission—and a Red Sword? That wasn't just hideously impolite, but dangerous.
But if Gray touched it in his sleep . . .
That would be bad. Bear didn't have to take it from the room; the guards outside would see. He could just lay it on the floor beside the bed.
No. That would be wrong, and it would tell Gray that Bear didn't trust him.
He straightened himself and walked to the door, closing it gently behind him, then turned to the two marines who had been set on guard, at Cully's insistence. "If he wakes, send for me—don't go in. Don't let anybody in."
"Aye, aye, sir," the senior private said. "And if he wants to go out?"
It was only because he was so shocked that he didn't slap the man across his face. "Then come to a stiff brace, Private, and you hold the door for him while you ask if there's anything you can do to be of assistance," he said, regretting the anger. It was just ignorance, not disrespect.
But he couldn't help adding, "Suicide is a mortal sin, Private. If you were so foolish as to lay an unwanted hand on Sir Joshua, Red Sword or no Red Sword, you'd not have time to repent of it."
The younger one, who couldn't have been all that much older than Niko, looked as though he was going to say something, but desisted at a quick glance from the older. It wouldn't do any harm to bide a moment longer, and for a fact, Bear was not eager to go back down the hall to the others, reconvened in Langahan's office over a bottle of wine—and a pipe for Sigerson.
And, besides, while he had not been as harsh with the private as he had been tempted, he had been harsh, and while it had been only necessary and proper, Bear nevertheless regretted it.
"Go ahead," he said, gently. "It's always best to ask questions, I think, even if you may not get a good answer."
"No, sir, I just . . ."
"You just don't know your place, Platt," the other private said. "I'm sorry, sir."
Bear smiled. "Not knowing one's place seems to be a common enough ailment, Private, but it's rarely a fatal one, at least around me. Go ahead, Platt—out with it, please."
"Well, sir, I was just wondering—word around the docks is that Sir Joshua actually drew his sword tonight. The live one, sir."
"The rumors are true. There was a minor disturbance in the Plaza of Heroes. Sir Joshua . . . responded, but it wasn't necessary for him to actually use the Khan."
That was true enough, but it was only part of the story. It left out how Gray had had no real reason to draw the Khan in the first place—some farmers, heading home late from a market day, were hardly any sort of threat that called for the display of naked mundane steel, much less so much more than that.
And it left out how Bear and the Nameless had been prepared to at least try to do what was necessary, and Bear's uncertainty that they would have been able to stop Gray, even though he thought that duty would have moved him to try to do what was necessary.
No, it was only part. But the part would have to do, at least for now. There was something in Bear that rejected the notion that a knight should seem to be above it all: untouchable, even inhuman. For his own part, Bear tried to strike a balance between the necessity of maintaining the dignity and the authority of the Order with his own sense that all were equally sinners before God and in some sense, therefore equal, despite the natural differences of race and class, though he was never sure that he struck quite the right balance.
But Gray was different; the cross he bore through life was heavier. Gray thought that he was required to embody the Order in himself, openly and always, and a sign of weakness before outsiders would not just embarrass him—although it would—but it would make Gray feel that he had failed in his duty.
Bear would have had him otherwise in many ways.
Still, he would not share the image, burned into his brain, of Gray kneeling in the plaza, begging and pleading for forgiveness for another's sins. Bear hoped that that was mainly because doing so would have embarrassed Gray, rather than the Order, but it was certainly much of both.
It was hard going through life thinking that you were damned, and perhaps Gray was. That was in God's hands, where it would have to stay. There was only a little that Bear could do about the matter, but . . .
Later. Gray was not the only knight who could do his duty, and right now, Bear's duty called for him to join the others. "Good night, Privates," he said, and walked down the hall.
All eyes were on him as he entered the room: Cully, Sigerson, and the boy. The night had been warm, but perhaps the stones of the residence held more cold than was usual; Bear found himself squatting in front of the fireplace, rubbing his hands together in the heat.
"I did that, too." Cully nodded, and seemed to relax. "Seems to be more of a chill in the air than, well, the chill in the air."
Bear had to nod.
"Well, he's sleeping peacefully," Cully said.
"Yes."
"Oh, go ahead, Sir Niko; don't fidget about. Just come out and ask me why I know that Gray's sleeping peacefully." Cully grinned.
"I . . ." Again, the boy's hand fell to the hilt of the sword that lay across his lap, in a reflex that Bear had seen—and done—far more times than he cared to count. "Very well, Sir Cully—how do you know?"
"Mr. Sigerson?" Cully raised an eyebrow. "You don't seem curious—are you uninterested?"
Sigerson leaned back in his chair and puffed on his pipe. "I'm interested, certainly enough, but I think it's obvious—Sir David's expression suggests that he's not overly concerned, and more than that: he's here, in fact, joining us rather than summoning you."
"I'd hardly leave him if I was needed," Bear said.
"Well, yes—I believe, in fact, that was my point." Sigerson leaned back in his chair, his feet still propped up on the low table, careless of what minor damage his slippers were doing to it. He was in a robe, yes—but not wizard's robes, just an utterly conventional striped cotton night-robe over his sleeping shirt, the only unusual thing about it the half-dozen pockets scattered, seemingly randomly, across the breast and skirt. He drew a small metal tool from one of the pockets, and manipulated the contents of his pipe, a homey gesture that reminded Bear of how Father used to do much the same thing, as the family would sit in front of the roaring hearth on a cold night.
"I wish I'd been there to see it," Sigerson said. "Heard much about what happens when a knight takes a live sword in hand, but, of course, I've never seen it."
Bear found himself irritated, but Cully just smiled. "Well, you may have the opportunity to learn better of such eagerness. I do hope you survive it."
"As of course, do I." Sigerson stretched and yawned. "And with that hope, I think I'll bid you all a good night; I expect that tomorrow will be a busy day, and I'm curious to see just how."
"Good night, Mr. Sigerson," Cully said, and waited silently until the door had closed behind him.
He touched a finger gingerly to his forehead, then gave Bear a questioning look. "Is it just that I'm slowing down with old age, or is Gray even faster than I remember him being?"
"He's faster." Bear lowered himself into a chair. "Much faster, I think, Father." He shook his head. "Not quite as much so as Big John with the Goatboy in hand, perhaps, but close to it. More than the Nameless and me, of a certainty—the Nameless doesn't seem to do that at all, at least not for me."
"Didn't do it for Sir Edward, either." Cully shrugged. "I'd say it had something to do with the Khan's redness—just like it is with the Sandoval's—but then there's the matter of Big John and the Goatboy, although I can't think of any other Whites that confer that attribute. Jenn certainly doesn't. Didn't."
Niko spoke up—without asking permission, even with a look. "Does that mean you couldn't have . . . stopped him?"
Unfortunate that he had shown such impudence at the same time he was showing self-confidence. "That is not a proper question. Gray is—"
"—human, and therefore imperfect, and he's carrying the Khan, David," Cully said. "That's an entirely proper question to be asked, privately, among Knights of the Order. I'd like to hear your answer—and his, for that matter. You may take a moment to think it over, if you like. It's perhaps not unimportant."
Bear had already taken the Nameless's hilt in hand, of course, and that had immediately extinguished his anger at Niko. He was, after all, just a boy, and it was better for as humble and reserved a boy as Niko was to come out of his shell than to cower in it, peering out like a frightened turtle.
It's a matter of balance, the Nameless whispered, amused, and moderation. Moderation is a virtue, when it is taken in moderation.
"I don't know, Niko," Bear said. "It's said that the White drives out the Dark, and that's true in general, in the long run. All the Nameless knows is what will be, will be, and I'm certainly no wiser than he is."
"But with that speed—"
"Speed isn't everything. The Nameless and I don't have the Khan's speed, or his fury, but . . . the Nameless is not just a decent man imprisoned in a sword; he's something more.
"Who would win? I don't know. 'The race is not always won by the swiftest, the battle not always by the strongest; prosperity does not always belong to those who are the wisest, wealth does not always belong to those who are the most discerning, nor does success always come to those with the most knowledge, for time and chance may overcome them all.' "
Niko looked puzzled.
"You don't recognize Ecclesiastes?"
"My—my grandfather read to us from the One—from the Bible, but I don't remember that part."
Bear gave Cully as stern a look as he could manage. "You said you were training him."
"Yes, I said so, and I am—and I've had to set my priorities. For right now, him learning to walk and talk and carry himself like a knight is more important than anything else. I've had scant enough time for that, and no time at all for Bible study, Bear, and—"
"Father, if you'll excuse me, there is always time for such."
"Fine," Cully said, with more than usual heat. "You tell me—should we engage in a little planning, right now, or spend the shank of the evening delving into the mysteries of Ecclesiates? I wouldn't have any objection to some of the latter, if we'd decided on the former. Which we would have—if Gray hadn't interrupted our discussion with his little fit."
Bear started to object, but Cully silenced him with a quick, chopping motion in the air.
"Yes, it was a fit—there was no need for it, and Gray above all should know that you never draw a live sword without need. That boy—he's always been that way, keeping himself under control for days, weeks, months on end, and then he lets it drop, for just a moment. Bad enough for any man, worse for a knight, and much worse for a Knight of the Red Sword." Cully shook his head. "He never should have been given a Red Sword, David—he's not nearly as strong as everybody thinks he is, and I've known him longer and better than any man alive, you included."
"You've not known him a day of his life for the past ten years, until very recently, Father," Bear said, wondering to himself why was saying any such thing. Just because something was true doesn't mean that it needed to be said here and now, or ever.
Cully was on his feet. "Yes, yes, I've abandoned you all," he whispered, visibly straining with the effort of keeping his voice low. "I'm just a miserable old man, undeserving of any of the honors ever placed upon my head or belted about my waist."
"Father—"
"But I'm right about this, Bear, and you know I am, and while I've always loved you for your loyalty, boy, as much as for your gentleness, there is a time and a place for everything, and . . ." He threw up his hands. "And this is hardly the time or the place for an old man to be preaching to you or ranting at you, even if you'd listen."
This was, after all, Father Cully; Bear didn't need the Nameless's help to answer him gently.
"Always, Father," he said, "always I will hear you out, just as I'll always want your blessing. You're quite right, though, this is not the time or the place for such discussions, and I humbly beg your pardon for suggesting otherwise. You have some ideas?"
"Since you asked, yes." Cully regained control of himself seemingly without effort. Had his outburst been a show, a lesson? "Take a look at this chart," he said, beckoning Bear over to the desk. "Niko's island is here," he said, indicating a spot on the map, "and, if I read Mr. Rafferty's report right, they first spotted the pirate right about here, almost due east. Yes, and if you drew the line straight, it would lead through Seeproosh, and to al-Qabilyah, and probably beyond."
"You think the source is Seeproosh? And they simply load these swords in ships and ship them east?"
"No, of course not—and keep your voice down. Not that I'm saying it couldn't be Seeproosh, mind you, although why they'd come all the way to Pironesia to grab a baby girl when they could raid for such much closer is something that doesn't make much sense. No. I am saying, though, that it certainly appears that the origin is somewhere to the east, and that while we know we don't know where that is, They—whoever They are—might suspect otherwise. They might worry about what we know, what we suspect. What I'm suggesting is that we set out, to the east, as soon as possible, making it clear to everybody in the port that we have a definite plan, a definite destination, and intend to proceed somewhat indirectly toward it, for our own reasons." His mouth quirked. "Although, of course, we need to make it clear without making it clear, if you catch my meaning."
"And then hope somebody tries to stop us." Bear shook his head. It didn't seem likely, but—
But possible. It was possible. The one thing you could be sure of about anybody involved in such a filthy business was that they would live in fear of being discovered. Perhaps they could be panicked into doing something overt, something—
And, besides, Bear had no better idea.
"And what do you need from me?"
"A few hours ago, I'd have said I need you to talk to Gray, and try to persuade him. He'll listen to you." Cully grinned. "And, just maybe, he'd listen to that damned Khan, who would never sit still for a moment, not when there was a chance of murder and mayhem." He shrugged. "As for now, I need for you to decide."
"Father—"
"It's not much of a plan, but perhaps by the time the others show up, we'll have discovered something of use? Possibly?
"Or would you rather we just sit in these admittedly comfortable surroundings and wait? We could spend the time in Bible study, which I know would please you. Go ahead, take your time and think on it, but don't take too long. If we delay in port much longer than overnight, just long enough for you to resupply your ships and give a quick leave to your crews, there's no point in doing anything but just sitting here."
That was true enough. If Cully had been waiting for them, with some destination in mind, why would he wait any longer than that?
"Gray should decide that," he finally said.
"Gray is all-in; what he needs now is rest. And besides," Cully added before Bear could decide whether or not to point it out, "he might not be so flexible, but if you've signaled for recall, and ordered this ragtag fleet of ours to sail at first light, he may not like it, but he won't try to stop it. The trick with Joshua is to present him with a fait accompli— that's 'a thing accomplished,' Niko—let him complain about it, then force him to make it work." Cully nodded, as though he was trying to persuade himself.
"Is that why you put guards on his door?"
Cully gave him a disgusted look. "I put guards on his door because it seems to me to be safe to assume that whoever is behind all this has noted that I was waiting in Pironesia for him, and sure enough, he's well worth waiting for, as he demonstrated tonight.
"Word has gone out in the city about the Khan being brandished tonight, and will soon be echoing across the countryside. Not altogether a bad thing, although it could easily have turned out worse than merely badly. No," he said, forestalling Bear's question, "I don't have any reason to distrust anybody in the Governor's mansion, not in particular. But I don't have any reason to trust each and every one of them, either." He gestured at the food remaining on the tray. "Which is why, when he wakes, he eats from that—and if you see me peering into corners and think me mad, you may be right, but it's not without reason that I've been driven so." Cully folded his hands over his chest. "So, Sir David, decide: stay? Do we go, on your say-so? Do you wake Gray, or wait until he wakes himself?"
"We go," Bear said immediately, thinking how unlike himself it was to take matters into his own hands, when Gray was just down the hall. "We'll sail at first light. Get what sleep you can, the both of you." He rose. "I'd best go notify the sailor at the gate; I'm sure Captain Johansen will be glad of six hours notice instead of his promised two."
Cully stretched broadly. "That sounds sensible. I'll be glad of some sleep myself," he said, rubbing at his eyes. He looked around. "I think I saw a bottle somewhere—a drink would go down well. Bear?"
"Thank you, no," he said. "I recall what happened the last time I accepted a drink from you, Father."
Cully grinned. "Well, it did help you sleep. Would you take my word that this bottle contains only Mr. Langahan's presumably excellent whiskey?"
"I would, of course, but I think I'll take a short walk instead. That will probably help me sleep more than whiskey would."
That was true, but it was incomplete. There was something he should do, and no need to discuss it even with Cully.
But Cully just nodded, and Bear gathered up his swords and left the room.
He walked down the hall—past the marines who were still stiffly on duty—and walked down the broad, curving steps to the front arch, and then down the walk to the gate, gravel crunching beneath his boots.
Unsurprisingly, Johansen had been as good as his word—a sailor, his red-and-gold brassard proclaiming that he was on alone-duty ashore, and not to be bothered by the Watch, was waiting for him, standing rigidly at attention just beyond the gate. He had, no doubt, been leaning against the bole of one of the two ancient oaks that stood like a pair of ancient watchmen just beyond the gate, but Bear wouldn't have corrected him. He was there; that was enough.
"Sir David?"
"We sail at first light," he said. "Please have the commodore inform the other two ships, and Mr. Abdullah on the Marienios, as well. It's a matter of some urgency."
"Aye, aye, sir. Sail at first light; Captain to pass the word to both Winfrew and Cooperman, and to Abdullah on the Marienios. On my way, sir."
The sailor broke into a run that quickly carried him down the street and out of Bear's sight, only the echoes of his footsteps left behind.
He should, of course, have gotten some sleep himself. And he would try, of course, although there wasn't much point; he could sleep better with the rocking of the ship cradling him like a baby, and once they were on their way, he'd get as much sleep as he could, while he could.
But there was another matter to attend to, first. It had been too long, and he'd not had a private moment in an appropriate place.
Bear quickened his steps as he walked down the street, turned down another one, a steeper street that led down toward the shore.
The city was quiet at night, although it didn't have the feel of a Londinium street, where decent people shuttered their windows and barred their doors, where only those with the most urgent of reasons came out at night at all, rushing through the darkness from lamppost to lamppost, as though the wan overhead glow could somehow protect them.
Here, it just felt quiet. Oh, if he listened carefully, the sounds of raucous laughter and drunken singing carried across the water, but he didn't listen carefully, as that made him feel strangely lonely, and that was an unaccustomed and uncomfortable emotion, so he quickened his pace.
At a seven-note blast on a distant whistle, Bear allowed himself a smile; Captain Johansen appeared to be a man of his word in this, as well.
Whistles were piping Recall All Hands dockside before Bear found what he had been looking for, although it didn't take long, and he hadn't expected it to.
But he did want to finish quickly. Not for the sake of sleep. If he took too long, questions might be asked that he would not wish to answer honestly, and therefore wouldn't answer at all.
He hadn't been here before, but he had marked the location in his mind. Just a few short weeks ago, when they had sailed into the port, Bear and had taken note of the red-slate-topped cupola, adorned with nothing more than a simple stone cross.
The church had been built by the Romans, he decided, and whatever else you could say of the Romans, they built well, and while from the look of it the chapterhouse had been added sometime later, the builders had the good sense or good taste—or both—to duplicate the style as best they could.
Not nearly as ornate as what he had grown up with, granted. Bear always thought that the intricate windows of glass, metal and stone that flowered into a rainbow of colors in the sun were somehow a call to prayer and contemplation themselves, just as the vaulted ceilings high above were a reminder of the presence of Heaven.
But this was much plainer, and there was virtue in that, too; that it was different didn't make it wrong. There was something very pleasant about the way that the two smooth columns of the entry, adorned only at floor and ceiling, gracefully supported a triple archway, and as he climbed the few steps he noted with approval that they had been freshly swept.
Both of the massive oaken doors stood open, as though the very presence of the stone cross beyond them could and would frighten away thieves. As might be so—the earthquake, twenty years ago, that had shaken most of the city to the ground had spared the church. It was possible that thieves would be deterred, as well, although Bear would have been more reassured by somebody watching; it was impious, he had always thought, to depend on God to do what man should do for himself.
Bear walked inside, and, as always, felt both peace and dread descend upon him, as was proper. While God was everywhere, it was right and proper that one should be reminded of both His love and His sternness when one entered His house.
No candles were burning on the altar, although lanterns set into the walls of the nave cast a flickering light; the nave was not allowed to go dark.
Feeling a little like a thief himself, he walked past the altar into the apse. Perhaps he could find what he was looking for by himself, although there should be some—
"Excuse me?" The fluid Hellenic voice held a trace of fear, and Bear forced himself to turn slowly for fear of adding to the fright.
It was just the priest—or one of them, probably the most junior, given the hour—and he doubted that the vicar or prelate would have appreciated one of their juniors taking up his crook of office more as a weapon than anything else.
But the priest lowered the stick, his eyes wide. "Who—are you? Are you really—"
"I'm sorry to disturb your sleep, Father . . . ?"
"Brother." The Pironesian visibly relaxed. The sight of an Order Knight's distinctive garments sometimes had that effect, although often it was the opposite one. "Brother Michael. I'm of the Anglian brotherhood; we wear the same caftan as the priests, and—"
"I'm David Shanley, Brother Michael, and I'm more than vaguely familiar with the rule of the Anglians. I'm sorry to have woken you, and sorrier to have alarmed you."
Whether he was impressed by being in the presence of a Knight of the Order, or just relieved that the man who had entered the church in the middle of the night was not a thief, Brother Michael's smile was warming, nonetheless.
Bear dug into his pouch for a coin, and pulled it out. "I need a candle, please, Brother." He placed the coin in the monk's palm, and Brother Michael's fingers closed around it immediately.
"Yes, Father David, of course—I'll bring you our largest; it's back in the—"
"No, please. Whatever this would normally buy."
The monk looked down into his hand, and his eyes widened. "But that's a silver crown—I don't think we have anything big enough—"
"Anything. Please. A candle. Just a candle." It was hard to talk. "Any candle."
"Yes, Father, of course, of course."
With the unreliable, occasional Pironesian economy of motion, a foot-long candle, thick around as a strong man's arm, was quickly produced, and brought to the altar, where wax drippings told of hundreds and thousands that had been placed before, testimony to wishes, if not always to piety.
"Will this do? I know we have some larger, but they're in the curate's office, I think. I could get the key—there's a huge one, took three days to pour—"
"This one is splendid," Bear said.
The candle was quickly set into the votary altar, and even more quickly the monk produced a taper, lit it from one of the lanterns, and presented it to him.
"Thank you, Brother Michael."
He didn't have to ask for privacy; the monk quickly disappeared behind the altar before the taper had burned much at all. Bear lit the candle, blew out the taper, and knelt before the altar.
He didn't bow his head right away. The Nameless was unusually silent, and that bothered him. He usually said something at these times. Nothing inappropriate, not really, except in the sense that the Nameless's gentle humor usually had a trace of self-mockery in it.
No comment? he asked. Nothing about how I've often said that God does not need to be nagged?
I don't know, David. I've never claimed to know much or little about the divine.
You've mocked me before.
Oh, never. I've mocked myself, certainly, and perhaps some others, from time to time. I don't recall that I've mocked you, and I've certainly heard of worse pretentiousness than yours. I've heard tell that there are stories told of a supposedly holy man who swore that he would not enter heaven until all humanity could go before him, the Nameless said.
I'm not that holy.
Or that pretentious? Bear didn't answer, and the Nameless went on, Well, they are just stories. I wouldn't believe them, myself, were I you.
I believe them, about that man.
And I would do nothing to try to shake your faith, David. I've little hunger for the futile. But your candle is burning, and the night gets no younger, eh?
True enough.
David Shanley bowed his head, and once again, as he had so many times before, more begged than prayed that God spare the soul of Joshua Grayling, if He could, in His infinite mercy, see fit to do so.
And if not . . .
If not . . . there was an alternative.
And it was far more Bear's demand than his prayer that, if God would not spare Gray, He would send Sir David Shanley, sworn and sealed Knight, Brother, and Priest of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon, to burn alongside his brother in Hell.
Somebody had to watch out for Gray, after all.