The nice thing about service in His Own is how simple it is. The rules are plain, and straightforward, and irrelevant of all the machinations that go on around the Court itself, and in Parliament, and anywhere else.
The real problem with it is that once you've done a tour with His Own, others—even those on the Council, who should know better—think that means you should be able to handle less important matters than protecting His Majesty.
They're wrong in their major assumption—as His Majesty himself has said, on more than one occasion.—Gray
The inn became very quiet.
It had been anything but quiet before they walked inside. The noise trailed into silence when they did.
The chatter trailed off as though all had gone suddenly mute, and the musicians in the far corner ground to a clumsy halt, the tamboura player giving a few tentative pats to on the drumhead, while the gaida gave out a wheezing sound that sounded halfway between a whine and the passing of wind.
Cully gave Niko a reassuring smile, but then just let his own gaze sweep across the low-ceilinged room, resting for a moment on one man, and then another and yet another, all of whom avoided his gaze. Niko didn't blame him; he didn't much like meeting Cully's eyes, not at the moment.
The Crossroads of the World didn't seem to cater to any particular nationality, unlike the two other taverns they had already visited that night. The Hellenes-Only—that was what the sign said, in Hellenic and in the awkward letters of the trading language, as well as several other kinds of writing that Niko couldn't begin to guess at—unsurprisingly, had been filled with Hellenes only; the Laughing Turk had, equally unsurprisingly, been host to Antalyans, Izmiri, and Balakaziri.
At least, that's what Cully said. Niko couldn't have told the difference between any of the three nationalities, but he had no problem taking Cully's word that he could. Cully seemed to know everything. He had even been right about this horse-riding thing. By the time they had left the Cyclades, Niko had probably spent the better part of a week on the backs of several hired horses, and it didn't make him sore anymore. Much.
He still didn't like it, mind, although it was preferable to walking into yet another room filled with strange-looking strangers. Then again, most things were.
As usual, Niko couldn't begin to guess at the nationalities of most of the men, but the long, flowing robes of a half dozen in the corner spoke of their Musselmen origin, as did their unusually long beards. He was sure that Cully could have told him which country they were from, but had no way to guess, any more than he could guess what they had been doing with the immensely fat, completely bald man with the strange, slanted-looking eyes—how did he see?—and the sallow complexion.
What they were doing wasn't necessarily disreputable, but one of the Musselmen put his hand on another's arm, and then all heads at the table bent toward each other, engaging in some whispered discussion just as soon as the music started up again, which it did only after the skinny man in the strange-looking overlarge trousers clapped his hands and gestured urgently at them.
The proprietor scurried over, wiping his hands on a none-too-clean piece of cloth, a weak smile pasted on his face. "Good evening to you, Excellencies," he said. "And welcome, welcome to the Crossroads of the World—"
"Your name," Cully said, flatly. If his usually expressive face held any trace of emotion, Niko couldn't make it out.
"Zeferino, Excellency." If anything, the smile became wider and weaker.
"My name is Cully. I'm addressed as 'Sir Cully,' not 'Excellency.' This is Sir Niko."
"Of course, Sir Cully. I beg your pardon."
"It's granted. 'Zeferino,' you say? Do you mean to tell me that you are the only Zeferino on this whole island? Have you no other name?"
"No, Sir Cully—I mean yes, Sir Cully. I was christened Zeferino Marianious by the One True Church, and am known all across the island as Zeferino Erasmus, due to my easy and gentle disposition."
"Wine," Cully said. "Three cups. A table."
"Yes, of course, Excellency—I mean, 'Sir Cully', of course."
Niko felt embarrassed for the way the man almost groveled before the knights, as he shooed three men away from one table and ushered them to it. It took a moment for Niko to recall that he himself had used almost the same words in almost the same tone when he had first met Gray and Cully and Bear, and that made him feel more embarrassed, although he wasn't quite sure who for.
Then again, Cully had said almost the same words to Niko that he had said to Zeferino. It wasn't the words that were different; it was the way he said them, and perhaps Bear's presence then and absence now, as well.
It felt like all eyes were on the two of them, although as Niko looked around, none seemed willing to settle on his, with the exception of the strikingly beautiful woman who had, again, started puffing away at her gaida. Her eyes seemed to lock on his, and made him even more uncomfortable than he already was. There was something about the combination of raven-black hair and the sea-blue of her eyes that made his stomach turn over, even though he avoided staring at the wisp of cloth that bound her ample breasts, somehow more drawing his eye to them than they would had they simply been hanging free.
The tambouri player next to her gave her a glare and picked up the beat, although he quickly let his gaze slide by Niko's, for some reason or other.
Zeferino returned with a clay bottle and three glasses—blown glass, not just the clay mugs that everybody else was drinking out of. "May I pour for both of you, or—"
"Pour for three." Cully dropped a copper coin on the table. "Sit."
Zeferino sat, and Cully's boot came down twice on Niko's.
Niko tugged gently on Cully's sleeve. "Sir Cully, with respect, I think the word 'please' is missing from your vocabulary this evening," he said, frowning, as Zeferino seated himself.
Cully started to protest, then nodded. "Yes, yes, as you wish, Sir Niko," Cully said. "Please sit, Zeferino Erasmus—but you're already sitting. Then, please, remain seated, please." He gave an irritated look at Niko. "To your health, Zeferino Erasmus, please." He pushed the glass that had been in front of Niko over to Zeferino, and gestured at him to drink.
"My pleasure, of course, Excellency—Sir Cully, that is." The innkeeper downed the wine with one quick swallow and no sign of hesitation. "Is there anything else I can be of help with?"
"We're looking for the town's mayor."
"Mayor? We have no mayor in Lindos, Sir Cully."
"The town bailiff, then. Surely there's a bailiff."
"Again, my apologies—but no, not at the moment." He held himself still, as though he expected some outburst, then went on. "Old Andros was the bailiff, but died last year, and his Excellency the Governor has yet to appoint another. We're an open port, Sir Cully—we've little need of such, all in all. Rodhos is the crossroads of the world, Excellency, and Lindos the crossroads of Rodhos, and my establishment the crossroads of Lindos."
"Yes, I noticed the roads."
"If you need a mayor, Sir Cully I know you'll find one in Rodhos—the city, that is—and I believe he has several bailiffs, as well. We don't have—we manage to get by without such, hereabouts. It's a quiet town, for all that it's the crossroads of the world."
"Which is why those Sebiani?" Gray jerked his thumb toward four very large men sitting over in the far corner. "To help with the quiet?"
"Oh, they're old friends of mine, and large as they are, it's worthwhile letting them hang about, as they tend to help settle the small sorts of disputes that one has, from time to time." Zeferino gave a small shrug. "You know; if you mix men of difference races, and drinks of different preferences—even if it's just the thick coffee that's all that the True Be—that's all that the cursed Musselmen drink, and, well, every now and then—"
"Send for one."
"A Musselman—? As you wish, of course—"
"No. One of your Sebiani."
"Why, of course, Excellency. Filikos—that's what I call him, Excellency; I doubt anybody not bred to it could pronounce what he claims to be his name—Filikos, over here, please."
One of the men rose and walked over, slowly.
"Sit," Cully said. Filikos sat.
Niko turned to Zeferino. "Thank you for your help, Zeferino—we'll not keep you any longer."
Cully waited until Zeferino had walked a few steps away, then turned back, seen Cully's eyes on his, and had chosen to disappear into the back room.
The music was apparently too quiet for Cully's preference, he caught the eye of the tamboura player, made a bring-it-up gesture with his hands, and both the speed and volume picked up.
Niko didn't recognize the tune, although heads throughout the room were swaying and feet tapping to the rhythm, and some of the Hellenes were singing in such low voices that he couldn't make out the words.
Obedient to his instructions, Niko tried to avoid looking around the room, but out of the corner of his eye he could tell that several of the tables had been emptied, the men at them apparently having decided to seek a less stressful place for their evening's recreation. He didn't blame them; Cully, with his present mask, frightened him, too, and he knew—or at least thought that he knew—that it was just an act.
Cully had let Filikos sit long enough. "We're looking for some information," he said, quietly.
"I don't know much," Filikos said. He had a deep, gravelly voice, and his thick beard didn't quite cover an old scar on his throat. "I do know that I haven't had a taste of the good wine in longer'n I care to think about, though. Zeferino doesn't believe in pampering us."
Cully nodded, and filled the glass that Zeferino had used; Filikos sipped at it, and smiled. It wasn't a very pleasant smile, between the absent teeth and the battered lips. One ear was mostly missing, as were, also mostly, two fingers of the right hand, and a deep cut over his left eye hadn't quite healed. It didn't take long experience as a knight to conclude that Zeferino's "occasional disputes" more than occasionally required somebody beating on somebody else, and that while he might have been good at it, he was just as capable of being injured in a fight as anybody else might be.
"You might think on telling me what exactly it is that you're looking for, you know?"
"I've thought about that. I've also thought that if I did, the moment after we left, Zeferino and everybody else with a pair of ears might hear about it, as well."
"That's possible, I guess." Filikos sipped more wine, and shrugged. "You'll never know unless you try."
"If I did tell you something, it would be a very bad idea if it got back to me that you'd bandied it about."
"Yes, it probably would," Filikos said, gesturing at Cully's swords. "I don't think I could take on a man who's actually drawn a sword." He grinned. "Then again, when we have problems in here, me and the rest don't wait until the swords or knives actually come out."
"You think you could take on a Knight of the Order, even a weaponless one?" Cully seemed very interested.
"Oh, I'd probably have some trouble with the boy; he carries himself well enough. Nothing I couldn't handle, mind you, but I'd be more worried about your marines or the bailiff over in the city coming looking for me after than I would about the likes of you." He touched a blunt finger to his forehead. "All respect intended, surely."
"Surely." Cully nodded. "And if you were promised that there'd be no marines, no bailiff looking for you, no sword drawn? On the word of a Knight of the Order."
"Then I wouldn't worry at all," Filikos said.
"Anytime, then. Anytime at all, if you'd rather fight than talk."
"I don't mind either. I just don't know what you're looking for, and you're not telling me." His fist lay on the table, the thumb pointing in the general direction of the Musselmen. "We don't get a lot of Syrians in Lindos—they tend to do their business in the city, and then leave. If I had to guess, I'd guess that they and the Balak are working out some deal for slaves from Kizmir."
"And doing it here to keep Seeproosh out of it?" Cully nodded. "It's possible, I guess."
"Well, when Zeferino buys the barrels of his sorry excuse for wine, he goes upland to Dimilia and buys it there, rather at the port. Probably not the only man ever to skip around a go-between." He eyed Cully levelly. "I wouldn't want you to think I'm afraid of you, though, just because I pointed them out. I wouldn't want people to think I'm afraid of anybody, or I'd have to prove that there's reason for me not to be more often."
"I wouldn't want you to think that any Knight of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon is someone for a swaggering Hellenic turd to take lightly," Cully said, then sipped at his wine.
"Hmmm . . ." Filikos shrugged. "I've got a suggestion, if you're of a mind for one. How about you and I each decide that we're each the most dangerous man in the room—in all of Rodhos, and just leave it at that?"
"If you prefer." Cully rose, slowly, and Niko did the same. "I think we're done here."
He didn't say any more until they were outside.
"Well, that was probably useless," Cully said, sighing. "Let's see if the good sergeant has had any better luck."
Niko was impressed with how well Cully had handled himself. For a moment, he had almost believed that the old man could have fought that huge man, and won.
He had likely persuaded Filikos that there was a chance, at least, although perhaps Filikos had been more worried about Niko? Probably not, but it was a nice thought, although Niko didn't know anything about fighting, with a sword or bare hands, that he hadn't learned over the past weeks from Cully, and not much of it at that.
Down at the foot of the street, the marines had half a dozen men sitting on the hard ground under the oil lamp. Niko only recognized a couple of them from the Crossroads of the World, but he hadn't been trying to memorize faces, after all.
"Swept 'em up nice, Sir Cully," Fotheringay called out. "That lot we caught coming over the back fence—these others tried to make it down the street."
Fotheringay and Mr. Sigerson had each taken one man aside, and each was listening patiently to his own man's quiet but urgent protestations. For some reason that Niko couldn't imagine, Sigerson was taking down notes for himself, while his manservant, Bigglesworth, was doing the same for Fotheringay.
Fotheringay gave Cully a quizzical look, and Cully made a shooing-away motion with his hands.
"On your way, then," Fotheringay said, gruffly, and the man gave a quick look at Cully and Niko, as though he was deciding whether to say anything, then clearly thought better of it, and took off down the street, walking at first, then breaking into a run, the slap-slap-slap of his sandals diminishing as he vanished into the dark.
Fotheringay started to beckon to another of the men, but gestured at the marines to keep him in place, and walked over to Cully, drawing himself up to attention.
"Nothing of interest, sir," he said, quietly. "Wouldn't be surprised if that last one was a deserter, but I wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't. If you ask me, it'd make sense to tattoo landsmen, just like they do indents before they haul them over to New England."
"More sense, if anything—but I don't recall His Majesty ever asking me about that, and we're not looking for deserters."
"I know that, sir, God's truth I do—it's what we are looking for I don't know."
"Well, two ways to look at it, sergeant. One way is that we're looking for something that's not right. 'The wicked flee when no man pursueth: but the righteous are bold as a lion.' If you find one that seems, well, more not-right than he should be, hang on to him. Otherwise, just let him go, along with the righteous."
"Damn few righteous, in this life." For whatever reason, the sergeant had . . . loosened up around Cully, although not the other knights.
Then again, so had Niko.
"True enough. But if you were somehow involved in whatever this is—whatever's behind the swords and the darklings—and you saw the likes of the two of us show up in town, what would you do?"
"I'd sit tight, sir, I would."
"Yes, you would. But you know that we know damnall—and I'm hoping that somebody hereabouts doesn't. 'Course, that means we've put every deserter, smuggler, and outlaw on the run, except maybe for a few smart ones, with a level enough head to stay put." His mouth quirked into a smile. "Rather have stayed with the Wellesley, Sergeant?"
The Wellesley had been left out at sea, close enough to cut off any escape to the east from the main port at the eastern point of the island, at least, and far enough away that it would be invisible from the shoreline, and would have to trust the two sailors stationed at the harbor lighthouse to signal that there was a ship trying to sneak out at night.
The entry to the harbor was heavily shoaled. Niko wouldn't have wanted to sail it at all with anything of a deeper draft than the skiff, and even the locals didn't come in or out at night—not without dire need.
"Yes, sir, when you beat the bushes, whatever's in them is going to fly out, even if it's not what you're looking for. And you might just frighten what's in the next bush, too, sir."
"True enough. Let's be on our way, Niko—Private Weatherall must be getting tired of the horses' company by now, and if Sir Joshua and Sir David have joined him, he'll be even happier to see the last of their company for a while. Gray tends to make people uncomfortable, as you may have noticed." He turned back to Fotheringay. "Just be sure you don't get bit by whatever jumps out of the bush."
"Yes, sir." Fotheringay came to attention, then relaxed. "You do the same, sir."
"Well," Cully asked, "who has spotted the spy?"
Niko looked up, startled. Bear's forehead wrinkled, and Gray just scowled.
A spy?
Niko looked behind him. Below, beneath the silver of moon, the road twisted down to the dim lights of Lindos, and while he was no more comfortable on the back of the hired pony than he had been on Pantelleria, at least they seemed to be less than an hour's ride from Lindos, as nearly as Niko could guess, which seemed reasonable, as they had definitely ridden for less than an hour.
He didn't have to guess where they were—Cully had said that this hill was called the Agios Stefanos, the Mountain of the Smith, as though that should have meant something to him, as well as Gray and Bear. It hadn't, but they had gone along with as little protest as Niko had.
To what purpose, he couldn't guess.
It was far too slow a pace to have been of any use in chasing any of the men who had been questioned, although it did give the three knights a chance to talk.
Gray and Bear had reported a similar haul of scared men to be questioned and released on the other side of town, and the silence of bosuns' whistles spoke loudly of a lack of anything important found by those that they had left behind.
The road grew ever steeper, and Niko had trouble holding on, despite the promised sure-footedness of the horses, and the ease with which the three knights stayed in their saddles, without any apparent effort.
"Well, of course there are spies here," Gray said. "I think it's damnably foolish to make every landing on the island a free port, without so much as a squadron stationed here, and no government to speak of, but I don't recall the Governor asking me, or you, if he should change that."
" 'Rodhos is the crossroads of the world,' eh?" Cully smiled.
"Damn near everywhere is the crossroads of the world," Gray said. "If you ask the locals." He sighed. "But they've got a point here—I counted two Guild ships, half a dozen Western and Eastern Caliphate feluccas in the harbor, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if that sleek bark flying the Izmiri pennant is really from Seeproosh."
"The Izmiri are far more victims than traders, these days; I'd be surprised if it wasn't." Cully shook his head. "But no, I wasn't talking about a spy here—but on the Marienios. Or the Navy ships, possibly."
Gray just scowled, and Bear seemed puzzled.
"Niko?" Cully asked. "You?"
Niko shrugged. "I don't . . . I don't have any idea, Sir Cully. What makes you think there's a spy on board, and for whom?"
"Them, whoever they are. If I was them—whoever they are—and I knew that we were headed their way, I'd certainly try to put one of my own people aboard. My guess would be it's one of the hired-on seamen. Which one, I couldn't say. I doubt that he'd be whispering to himself in dark corners of the ship, as convenient as that would be. But I think he's there—I certainly hope so."
"Which is why you insisted that the Abdullahs rent you the ship with just a skeleton of a crew?" Bear nodded. "I should have wondered about that."
"It seemed reasonable. All is fish that comes to the net, or whatever the Hellenes say. I haven't noticed anybody showing any . . . unusual curiosity over exactly where we're going, have you, Niko?"
Niko wrestled with trying to keep his feet in the stirrups while he thought about it for a moment. "Everybody seems to be curious about where we're going next."
"But that's not unusual, under the circumstances. I haven't noticed any of the sailors trying to engage you in conversation about it. Have you?"
He shook his head. They were all treating him distantly, the way that strangers should—although it had even spread to the Abdullahs. Milos's resentment was almost palpable—not that Niko had complained, or taken advantage of it. When this was all over, he would have to go back to the islands, after all, and while he would go back a rich man, he would not wish go back to become a man whose neighbors took a view that he thought himself better than they were. "I don't know," he said. "I'm not fond of Milos, true—"
"The girl?" Gray asked.
"Kela," Bear said. "She seemed . . . very pleasant. Quite pretty."
"Do I detect a note of lust, O saintly one?" Gray asked, but there was a smile in his voice.
"I'm not saintly, Gray, though I do try. And it's hardly sinful lust to note that a girl is pretty." He sobered. "It's best not to speak of it, all things considered. Do you think there's some spy for this Them aboard?"
Gray fiddled with the hilt of the Khan, and shook his head. "The Khan doesn't think so. He thinks that's too subtle for a bunch of Westerners."
Cully laughed. "Well, thank him for me."
"Thank him yourself," Gray said.
"Oh, what is it, Joshua? If I've offended you yet again, tell me how, and I'll consider apologizing."
Niko could more feel than see Gray scowl in the dark, but he didn't say anything. Other than the quiet whisper of the wind through the brush, the only sound was the shuffling of the horses' hooves and grunts—these ponies seemed to grunt a lot, for some reason or other.
"Perhaps, Father Cully," Bear finally said, "you could tell us where we're going now?"
"I wanted to keep you alert," Cully said. "I was rather hoping that we'd scared up something that would try to put a stop to us." He pointed to the right. "Twenty years ago, there was a foot trail over that way, and somebody with enough motivation could have gotten ahead of us along it." He shook his head. "But even these ancient ears would have heard something."
"In the future, if you wish me to remain alert, Father, could I ask that you just ask me?" Bear said, gently. "I've been listening, mind you, but I've not heard anything."
"I have." Cully pointed a thumb to their right. "Something moved in the brush back there a few yards. Something small—perhaps a rabbit."
"If you wanted bait for some trap, you might as well have dragged a goat along behind us," Gray said, interrupting himself to swear at his pony when it stumbled.
"I don't have a goat handy, Gray, and, somehow or other, I don't think it would be the right bait in any case. On the other hand, four knights—"
"Hold up, please. I'm going to walk this poor excuse for a horse—"
"Very gentle of you."
"—rather than breaking my legs underneath it when it falls on top of me," Gray finished.
"We're almost there," Cully said, and pulled his pony to a halt. "I think, and—yes; there's the path."
They tied the horses' leads to brush by the side of the road, and followed Cully up the steep path that led over a heavily grown saddle.
Niko let go an involuntary gasp. The ruins seemed to glow from an inner light, or perhaps it was just the moonlight.
Whatever it was—whatever it had been—had been settled into the top of the hill, the huge stones moved from who-knew-where, who-knew-how.
"Welcome to the Acropolis of Lindos," Cully said. He pointed toward where what looked like it had been a series of perhaps twenty curved, massive steps rimmed the side of the hill. But they weren't the sorts of steps a person could have used; they were far too large, and too wide.
He caught himself moving to make the sign of the Trident, and stopped himself, but Cully caught the move and just grinned. "No, Niko, there's no need to cross yourself—although they do look like steps that one of the, err, one of the local false gods would have used, eh? It's nothing quite that grand, although it was grand enough, I'm sure. See that flat space below? That was, I think, the stage, and those were the seats of the theater, I believe, where plays were performed for the pleasure of the gods—and the local populace, perhaps, as well, who sat there."
"False gods," Bear said, his hand dropping from the Nameless, as though it had rejected the hand.
"Well, that would depend on your opinion, David," Cully said. "The locals didn't think so, and perhaps some still don't. I've heard tell that there's occasional homage paid to the old gods all over the islands, here and there."
Bear turned to him. "Niko? Could that be true?"
Niko didn't know what to say. Well, that wasn't true.
Niko-the-fisherboy knew what to say: Of course not, perhaps. Or I've never heard of such a thing, Excellency—we all worship the One God at the One True Church throughout the islands.
But—but the three of them, Bear and Cully in particular, had treated him well, better than one of his station in life had any right to expect.
He owed them at least some honesty, and he ought to pay it. A strange feeling for a fisherboy to have, although maybe he wasn't just a fisherman, not anymore.
But here? Here where, so Cully said, the gods had actually been worshiped? That idea chilled him thoroughly, and he had to clamp his jaws together to keep his teeth from chattering, despite what had been the only pleasant coolness of the night air.
"Niko."
His hand fell to Nadide's hilt, and it warmed him.
Niko? Niko, I'm scared.
Me, too, Little One.
Sing to me?
"Niko, I asked you—"
"Easy, Gray. Just give him a moment."
Later, he thought. I—I. Shhh. Just go back to sleep.
I'm scared, Niko.
Shh.
It had been wrong to wake her; his fear was infectious. He put his free hand to his ear, as Cully had taught him, and listened to the slowing beat of his heart until he could breathe slowly again, and in his mind he sang her the lullabye.
Slowly, at first with protest, Nadide drifted off into her own warm darkness, thinking of her thickfinger and, as always, her mother.
He let his hand drop.
All three of them were looking at him, and he felt his own fear return. "I'm . . . I'm sorry—I let my hand rest wrong, and I had to—"
"Easy, boy." Gray, for once, sounded amused. "We've all done that." He actually chuckled. "Well, at least I'm willing to bet that Nadide didn't try to persuade you that killing all three of us was the right thing to do."
"No," he said. "She didn't." But the distraction had given him a moment to gather his thoughts. Cully knew about the worship of the Old Ones, and Niko didn't like the idea of lying in front of Cully almost as much as he didn't like the idea of Cully knowing that he was lying.
It just didn't seem right.
"As to what you asked me—"
"Please, Niko, hold for a moment," Cully said, shaking his head. "Sir David, I think you owe Sir Niko an apology. If Niko had seen such a performance on his island, he would have mentioned it, and surely would have if they'd made sacrifices to the local gods."
"Father, I—"
"You implied that Sir Niko is some sort of heretic, is what you did. At the very least, you implied that he'd tolerate heresy, pagan rites, and the like. If that's not an unknightly way to treat a brother of the Order, David, it certainly ought to be."
Gray scowled, but Bear nodded. "You are, of course, entirely correct, Father." He turned to Niko, and bowed stiffly. "Sir and brother," he said, "I have given offense, and must apologize."
"Now wait one bloody moment." Gray took a step forward. "Bear—"
Bear straightened and faced him. "Yes, Gray, I must." He held up a hand. "As for you, sir and brother Joshua, I must ask you to hold your peace."
"He's only a knight because—"
"He's a knight, by God, because I made him one," Cully said, "with the authority you forced on me."
"The authority you tricked me out of."
"But it's real nonetheless, and his knighthood is, at this moment, every bit as real as is yours and mine," Bear said, gently, then raised a hand to forestall Gray's objection. "Yes, that can be changed, and perhaps shall be changed, by order of the Abbot General and Council, or perhaps His Majesty himself. Perhaps, at some point, it should. But, right here and now, he is Sir Niko Christofolous, Knight and Brother of the Order, and I did neither the Order nor myself any honor by implying that he would behave so."
Their eyes locked.
Niko started to say something—what, he didn't know—but Cully gripped his arm with unusual strength, and shook his head. "No," Cully whispered. "Let them be."
"Yes, let us be." Gray looked away and sighed. "Ah, very well, Bear. You win, as usual. Have it your way," he said, and turned to Niko. "And you may have my apologies, too, Sir Niko," he said. "If you'll accept them."
"Of course he will," Cully said. "Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, Gray, the plays were a city thing, although every bit as much a worship of their ancient false gods as sacrifices were." He beckoned to them. "But follow me."
He led them down the path, past the steps of the gods—the seats of the theater, down a dip in the path and then up to the top of a low ridge.
"Now, here, here's something more interesting," he said, leading them single-file through a natural path through the thick scrub. "Those blocks over there, I think are what's left of the columns that used to support the temple."
"A temple to these false gods?"
"Oh, don't sound so indignant, Bear—the Inquisition did the dirty work, a hundred or more years ago. Happened all over the islands—the local populace, under the watchful eyes of 1he priests, tore down all the altars to the local false gods, just like they did to the Musselman mosques, when they didn't just remake them as churches, like in Pironesia."
"That—church was—"
"Yes, of course. And it was properly purified, properly consecrated, although why you'd be bothered by such things escapes me. Hmmm . . . none of you would happen to have a lantern in your kit, by any chance? I thought not," he said, digging in his pouch.
In a few minutes, he had fashioned a torch from a rag and stick, and doused the rag in some oil from a bottle from his kit. For some reason, Gray insisted on lighting it with the flint and steel from his own pouch.
The torch burned with a loud crackling, casting dark and ever-moving shadows from the stones. "This may take a while, and more than one—Bear? Would you mind improvising a few more?"
"Not at all."
While Bear sat down on one of the benches with his sticks and rags, Cully led Niko and Gray past the stunted uprights of what had been columns toward the altar.
Cully held the torch over the smooth, even surface of the altar. Niko didn't know what to expect, but he found himself relieved when the surface gleamed back, spotless and unstained. There were no markings of any sort on it. It was just a rectangular slab of marble, vaguely convex. There were chips along the edges of the surface, and the sides had been left rough and unpolished.
But it was just a piece of stone, just an ordinary altar, like the one that was—that had been atop Niko's island. The locals, here, certainly worshiped the old gods, just as Niko's family did—had. But they had been careful, too, and that was more than just as well.
Gray's shoulders seemed to ease, too, and he let out a loud sigh. "You were beginning to frighten me, Sir Cully. I'd half-expected that the altar would be stained with blood, or that we'd find some child's body open to the sky."
"Don't be more of a fool than you have to, Gray."
"I'll endeavor to try," Gray said. "But it's difficult at times."
"Try harder." Cully held the torch's flame near the smooth stone surface, and leaned over as though he was looking for something, although Niko couldn't have said what. "The Hellenes no more engaged in human sacrifice than the Hebrews did—the story of Abraham and Isaac aside. And if you want to condemn human sacrifice, then consult the Khan, and ask him how he died—"
"That was different."
"It always is," Cully said. "Everything's always different." He rose and shook his head, then walked over to one of the stone benches rimming the cleared area around the altar, and rubbed his hand along it, then stood, one hand on a hip. "Now, that is interesting—the bench is dusty, as it should be. But the altar itself is clean, as though it's been recently washed—scrubbed clean, perhaps?"
"Perhaps." Gray sounded grim again, all trace of the light tone in his voice vanished into the dark. "What do we do now?"
"Well, we look. It's worth bringing back a party of marines in the daylight, but . . ." he said, as he walked off, the torch still in hand, " . . . my guess is that the refuse pit would be nearby."
"Refuse pit?"
"Certainly. No matter what you do with a sacrifice, there'll be . . . spare parts left over. If they burn the sacrifices, there'll be charred bones, and if they don't think that the old gods actually want to eat the meat, they have to dispose of it some way, so let us look."
Niko relaxed; he knew what they would find, if the rituals here were anything like they had been at home: nothing.
Zeus and Demeter, so he had been taught, had no use for most of the meat—beyond the heart, the seat of the soul of a goat, or a bull—any more than the Good and Kindly Ones did.
Poseidon himself wanted only blood and viscera—nothing of even the fattest of fat tunnyfish, nothing save the acknowledgment that the bounty of the sea was his to grant or withhold, an admission that any fisherman would be a fool to deny.
There would be nothing to find, so it was best to get to finding that nothing, and be done with it.
Bear had finished the torches, and handed them out. Niko, like the other two, touched his to Cully's lit one, and started to search the ground, although he didn't know what he was supposed to be looking for. The local people surely wouldn't leave the viscera here, any more than Grandfather had. Hides were always useful, and separating them from the meat could be done later—and bone was useful for hundreds of different things.
"Well, look here," Gray said, as he planted his torch in the ground. "Loose soil—I think there's some sort of pit here."
Cully smiled. "Ah—sharp eyes. I was hoping so." He knelt, digging in the soft dirt with his bare hands. "Niko, would you mind helping me?"
There was no way to object, although Niko wished that there was, so he knelt.
An insect whizzed by Niko's ear, making it itch. He reached up to scratch at it, and his hand came away wet—with blood?
Something large and dark came out of the night and struck him, knocking him over, and he started to struggle as well as he could, but strong hands battered his own away, and he found himself pressed hard into the ground, stones sharp against his back.
"Easy, Niko," Bear's voice whispered in his ear. "Stay down."
Cully and Gray were already gone, off somewhere in the dark, having disappeared without a word.
Bear didn't wait for Niko's response before he too was gone in the dark, leaving Niko cowering behind the altar, awfully and terribly alone.
He had been, Gray decided, a fool. A blind, clumsy fool who had lost his focus, just for a moment, too eager to see what was in front of him to pay attention to what was going on all around him, too distracted over his anger at the humiliation of Bear in having to apologize to that—to Sir Niko to focus on the moment.
Enough of that.
At the sound of the bowstring, he had flung his torch high into the night, in the general direction of where he had heard the twang, and launched himself in a flat dive in the other direction, onto the loose gravel surrounding the pagan altar, rolling as he did, so that his shoulders would take most of the damage, and got his scabbards in hand then rolled some more, half pulling, half crawling until he was just over the crest of the mound, the heavy scrub clawing at face, trying for his closed eyes.
Seeing could wait—it was important to get off into the dark, and if at all possible to steal a few moments to lose the cursed torchlight that persisted behind his eyes.
The Khan was silent; Gray wouldn't need his advice at the moment, and, besides, he didn't have a free hand.
He took a moment to rest, yes, but mainly to listen. The boy was whimpering quietly in the direction Gray had come from, but Bear and Cully had moved off quickly and quietly enough that he didn't know where they were, just that they had been moving away from him, the three of them reflexively spreading out into the night to wreak their own damage separately.
Gray dimly remembered feeling a tug of some sort, on his left side, and when he reached down he felt a hole torn in his robes—but the flesh underneath was unhurt.
It had been close, and that was bad enough, but . . .
The first thing was to check on the others, and then deal with the attackers. It couldn't be many of them—even a distracted fool like Gray wouldn't have been able to ignore more than a few. He grinned for just a moment. He was angrier at himself than at the men who had just tried to kill him. That was reasonable, perhaps, but it was strange that it seemed so reasonable.
His mouth was dry as dust, and it took him several tries licking his lips before he could give off a single low whistle. No need to add any tongue-clicks—he had a dozen bruises and cuts on his back, and a deep scrape along his left arm, but he was, at the moment, unwounded.
Two whistles a dozen or so yards to to his right told of Cully having continued in the same direction he had taken off, and of having reached the other side of the mound, and it was a long moment before Bear's own low triple whistle sounded, followed by a scrabbling through the brush to Gray's left. Moving quietly had never been one of Bear's strengths.
Gray wanted, as badly as he wanted anything, to draw the Khan—to shatter these murderous idolaters into flaming little pieces was an image so enticing that his mouth belatedly watered.
And—no.
One didn't draw the Khan out of anger, but of necessity, with a mind purged of the fury and emotion that could so easily go further than where calm, iron control should let it. He had been, he knew, wrong, horribly wrong to draw the Khan in Pironesia, and that his nerves had been as taught as a crossbow's string had been no excuse then.
If he did it now, he would do so out of cold necessity, which could be, which would be more than bad enough.
Neither Cully nor Bear had said anything, beyond whistling their condition, but low voices cursing to the north and east told of idolators who weren't well trained at all, although they certainly had come upon the knights quietly enough; Gray had to give them that. Idiots—if they had just had the sense and self-control to fire in a volley, they would have nailed all three—all four of them.
The temptation was to take them lightly because of that, and Gray had to restrain himself, but not too long—the others would be waiting for him to take the lead.
He slung the Khan diagonally over his shoulder, and tied it in place with the strings from his robes. He could still reach over his shoulder and draw it, if need be, but it would stay out of the way in the interim.
His scabbarded mundane sword in his left hand, he whistled for Bear and Cully to hold in place—implicitly meaning "in a safe place, if possible."
Gray already had a target. One of their thrown torches had lit a patch of brush on fire, and one of the attackers had started trying to put it out, his crossbow held to the side, while he stooped to throw dirt and sand on the blaze.
A stupid thing to do, yes, but the world was full of stupidity, and Gray never minded taking full advantage of it, particularly since he had contributed more than his share to the pool.
Drawing his mundane sword, Gray rose to a crouch and ran at the man, allowing a deep-throated shout to push its way out of his throat.
The idiot turned, his broad face greasy with sweat in the firelight, bringing his crossbow up, but Gray kicked it to one side with a booted foot, the bolt discharging harmlessly into dirt. Gray took the moment to bring his saber around, slashing down across the Hellene's face as Gray barely broke stride in his run past into the darkness beyond the ragged circle of torchlight.
The man's scream was warming in the dark, but Gray didn't stop to enjoy it as he continued to run. Something had moved in the bushes beyond him, to the left, and he broke in that direction, his sword held out to one side, ready to slash.
Slash, rather than thrust, was the way of it—injure if not kill the man in front of you, then on to another, until they were all down, and could be finished off at leisure.
A dark shape rose from the bushes slowly, far too slowly, something cradled in its arms. Gray slashed again, this time kicking the man's legs out from under him, unwillingly giving him a precious half-second to make his peace with God before Gray cut his throat.
It was all distant, but sharp, the way it usually was, as though he wasn't involved; Gray felt like he was outside himself, like a puppeteer at a children's show, pulling the strings and watching Gray-as-toy-puppet wreaking death and destruction on other puppets, and if the screams and grunts and particularly the smells should have made him feel otherwise, they didn't.
"How many?" he called out. "I've got two down."
He should have whistled—it was much more difficult, particularly for an untrained man, to make out the exact direction of a whistle, even if he understood it to be a signal, and none of the enemy would know what the signal meant—but Gray wanted to draw them toward him, to him.
A quick series of five-then-three notes to his right told of Bear having counted five, and having added another one to Gray's count of the downed, but the querying three-note theme after that said that Bear wasn't entirely sure about the number, not that Gray would have or should have relied on his count as anything but a minimum, anyway.
The man who had been foolish enough to try to put out the fire was still screaming as he knelt on the ground, his face in his hands, and Gray listened hard, trying to sort out the sounds in the brush and along the gravel.
There.
There were the sounds of running feet—at least two pairs of them, perhaps three—down the path that led past the amphitheater. Two or more of the idolaters had had enough—unless the boy had taken off, and was among them.
There were distant sounds of a scuffle from that direction, three truncated cries of agony, and a few moments later, the All-Clear whistle from Cully.
Well, there would be ample time to worry about the boy later. Cully, soft-hearted Cully, wouldn't have killed the boy for fleeing, any more than Bear would have. Gray—Gray wasn't sure what he would have done, and it didn't matter at the moment. What was more important was the obvious question: had Cully miscounted? Had Gray? Was one of the attackers waiting, silently, out in the dark? If one or more of them had been smart and self-controlled enough to go to ground—
"I think we can do without lighting more torches," Bear said, his voice coming from behind and to Gray's right, "but that's all of them, I believe."
Probably.
Cully wouldn't have whistled All-Clear if he hadn't been sure, Gray decided, and he got to his feet slowly.
The man Gray had wounded was still screaming, which was just fine with Gray. If he could scream, he could talk, and from the sounds of it, Cully had been somewhat rushed with the two he had taken down, and this one was the only survivor.
Bear brushed himself off as he walked toward toward the altar where the boy had been hiding. "You can come out now, Niko, everything is fine," he said, and started to say something more, but his voice caught in his throat.
No.
Niko rose from behind the moonlit stone altar, Nadide held high over his head, glowing with a deep crimson fire that dazzled the mind far more than it did the eyes.
It was the screaming that had done it, finally.
He had heard the whistles, and at least at first the movement of bodies through the dark, although Gray and Bear and Cully moved so quickly and quietly that Niko lost track of them almost immediately.
Something slapped against the other side of the altar, and for some reason he reached up and felt at his ear.
It was only then that it started hurting; his hand came away all wet and even stickier, and it felt like his ear was going to come off in his hands. He clapped his hand over the ear, his other arm around his belly, trying to keep the cries inside. If he made any noise, Gray would probably kill him outright, if these others didn't.
It hurt so much.
He was supposed to be able to ignore pain; a fisherman's life wasn't one for some weakling who would cry out at every little cut and bruise that life had to offer. But his heart was pounding so loud and hard in his chest that he was sure that everyone around him could hear the boom-boom-boom of it, and he found himself unable to move from where he lay, curled up on the ground against the rough, cold stone, cradling Nadide's sheath in his arms, as though that could somehow protect him, and he could somehow protect her.
And then the screaming started, loud, echoing from hill to hill, and even more in his head, until he found his tearing eyes jammed shut, and both of his hands on his ears, trying to keep the sound out.
But he couldn't. He didn't know who it was, but whoever it was was hurting badly, more than the agony in Niko's right ear, as bad as that was. It was probably as much as Lena and Mara had screamed when—
His hand fell to Nadide's hilt.
He's hurting, like that horrible one hurt me.
I know, but—
Make him stop hurting, Niko. Please.
I can't—
Yes, you can, you can, we can, I can, you can . . .
The sword slid smoothly and silently from the sheath. He was never sure whether he had drawn Nadide, or she had drawn him. There wasn't a him or her anymore, not really, but something else, something that was not merely a combination of a scared fisherboy and a soul locked in metal, but something more, something simpler.
His own aches became distant, even more distant than Nadide's ancient fear of the horrible man with the more-horrible knife.
That should have frightened him, and it should have frightened her, but it didn't frighten them, as they could not feel fright, any more than they could feel pain.
Were they beyond any pain, past any reason to fear? They didn't know; the one person that was Niko-Nadide didn't know, but somehow it didn't matter at all.
Ruddy light coursed through their shared muscles and veins, and their tendons sang like the plucked wires of the lavta that Nadide's mother used to play, before the Ugly Ones took them all away, before—
But that didn't matter. Not here and now.
What did matter was the man screaming in pain before them, writhing on the ground as he held his face in his hands, sucking in air in great, liquid gasps, only to release it in screams that reminded them of their own.
It was a wrongness. Nobody should hurt like that. Worse: nobody should fear in a way that they could smell with their joined soul far more than with Niko's nostrils that flared and contracted in time with his distant, ragged gasping.
Gray rose to block them, his own lifeless sword naked in his hands, and Bear, gentle, loving Bear, was running toward them, his arms and fingers spread wide, his head moving slowly, laboriously from side to side as his mouth moved—but he was moving slowly, so slowly, that it would have been hard to pay attention long enough to make out his words, and far too much trouble to try. They were just words, after all.
Bear wouldn't want the man to hurt, and neither did they. Gray was built of harsher stuff, yes, but his relentlessness couldn't rule them, not here and now, not with the screaming man's mind no longer hot with anger nor boiling with hate, but filled to overflowing with the fear and the pain from the blazing, agonizing darkness that had taken his eyes, and now threatened to take his all.
It had to stop, but even though he was moving with exquisite slowness, Gray had managed to plant himself, legs spread wide, between them and the hurt man, and that was a wrongness in and of itself. Gray shouldn't try to stop them. Nobody should. And Gray was the one who had hurt the screaming man.
Part of him wanted to burn Gray where he stood, but he wasn't an evil man, not really, despite the harshness of his manner and his core—just a scared one, and that was not only understandable, and forgivable, but necessary. Everybody was scared, just as everyone was scarred; life etched wounds into every soul in a myriad of ways, day by day.
Gray's soul lay open before them, battered and scarred, razor-sharp at the edges and dangerous to the touch, but not wrong, just . . . misshapen. For her to burn that soul was entirely possible, of course—the heat from her fire burned more than hot enough, high over his head—but that would have been a wrongness in itself.
So he lowered her point, and he lowered his shoulder, and ran at Gray, swinging her out to one side to avoid Gray's body, so that the point of his shoulder rather than the point of the sword caught Gray in the pit of his stomach, knocking the slim man to one side, out of the way, barely slowing Niko and Nadide at all.
Behind them, Bear was still saying something, and for just a moment, Niko turned, and looked up.
The brightness of the stars dazzled him, but the silver of moon had somehow dimmed. He had never before noticed that the stars were not just white lights in the sky, but had a richness of color and tone; fiery reds, cool blues, and somehow cooler oranges spread across the sky.
But they didn't let the glorious wonder of the dome of sky slow them down, any more than they had permitted the leaden movements of Gray, or those of Bear to do so.
They stood over the hurting, screaming man, cowering with his face in his hands.
The part of them that was Niko lowered the part of them that was Nadide, and they touched him with fire and ice, with warmth from the cold of his fear just as much as with coolness from the heat of pain, and most of all with a dark and loving peace, and in the brief moments before his soul flickered into a dark fog that rose to join with its brothers in the sky, they knew that they had done right, and it was with a sense of overwhelming peace and joy that they themselves drifted off into a blanket of warmth that covered them from all the pain and fear and coldness of the world.
"Shit," Cully said.
Bear looked up from where he was attending to Cully. That exclamation wasn't very much like Cully at all, but Bear bent back to his work, rather than saying anything. It was probably just the hurt, and loss of blood. Bear didn't think he had hurt Cully, at least not any more than was necessary.
"I could wake him," Gray said, looking down at the boy's prostrate form, sprawled out on the ground beyond the still-smouldering ashes.
Niko still held the Red Sword, but the glow had faded to the dullest of reds, barely discernible in the moonlight; it wouldn't have been visible in daytime, he decided, although he didn't know what to make of that. Every live sword was different, just as every person was.
"Don't," Cully said.
"I could just poke him with my scabbard," Gray said, "or a stick. It might wake him up, and he might let go." His voice was too loud, as though he hoped that it might wake Niko.
"Yes," Cully said, "it might. And it might startle the both of them, and I don't want to know what happens then, not with his—their—speed." He gestured with his free hand toward the smoking remains of where the man Gray had injured lay. "Let him be, please."
Niko was alive, no question of that, and in no apparent danger, although even in the moonlight, Bear could still see the slow ooze of blood from the cut on his ear. But it was slow, and slowing, and Niko's chest rose and fell slowly and regularly. If he wasn't lying so straight and still, Bear would have thought him only asleep.
Niko wasn't the worst hurt of the three of them; Cully was. Gray had only taken a few cuts and scrapes, and Bear had only come off a little worse, where a headlong slide along the sharp stones had flayed his forearm and right leg, but Cully had taken a bolt through the fleshy part of his left arm.
Hand pressure had stopped the blood from flowing, and Bear had torn strips of cloth from Cully's tunic to bind the wound closed; Cully's sash had been improvised into a sling. That should hold until it could be properly washed and rebandaged.
"Wiggle your fingers, please," Bear said.
"If I can't wiggle my fingers, what do you propose to do about it?"
It was a reasonable objection, granted; poor old Sir Thomas had lost most of the use of both of his arms from wounds, and little of it had ever come back, despite the attention of the best surgeons.
But it was best to know. "Please," he said.
Cully shook his head and muttered something Bear didn't want to make out under his breath, but he obliged, and surely enough the fingers moved, although Cully winced with each twitch. "Are you satisfied?"
"Yes, Father. I'm sorry, but—"
"Oh, be still, Bear, and stop apologizing at every turn. I'm just an old man, with an injury that hurts more than such a thing would have even a dozen years ago, and that among other things puts me in less than the best of moods; nothing to worry about, and certainly nothing that's your fault." He looked over to where the boy lay. "I don't think you should touch him, Gray, not with the sword still in his hand," he said. "You saw how fast he moved—and more than saw it, eh?"
"Yes, I did see it." Gray took a step toward the boy, then stopped himself before Bear or Cully could say anything. "Idiots."
"Who?"
"Us. Them. Us, for getting so involved in what we were looking at that we didn't see them coming up from, from wherever they came from. Them, for whichever one of them panicked, and let fly too early. Some discipline, and they would have had us all for the taking."
Bear nodded. Gray was, of course, correct, and while he didn't quite say so, Bear knew that he was blaming himself more than anybody else.
"Gray," Cully asked, "how does the three of us being idiots make touching the boy any wiser? Just leave him be; he'll wake soon enough, I hope."
"I'll go see to the horses," Gray said. "Don't light any more torches." The only reason Bear wouldn't have described his movement as stomping away is that Gray moved smoothly and quietly, as usual.
The aftermath of a battle, even as small a one as this had been, was always much the same: crumpled bodies lying on the cold ground in whatever pose death had left them.
None of them had yet drawn flies, but come sunrise, they would, of course.
"Gray," Cully called out, "I'm going to light a torch—I want to take a look at that pit."
There was no answer. He cocked his head to one side. "Quitacet consentire videtur, no?"
Bear knew that latin, and he nodded, regretfully. Gray wouldn't like it.
"And it's auto de to sigan homologountos esti sou, in Hellenic," Cully went on, and 'silence gives consent' in any language, eh?"
"I don't know why you're asking me, Father—you're going to do it anyway."
"Well, that's true enough." Cully grimaced as he moved. "But I do have a very good reason for asking you: I want you to light the torch, and do the digging." He patted, gently, at his slung arm. "My part will be to just stand over you and try to look wise, eh?" He gestured over to where Niko lay. "We can keep an eye on him while we do it."
Well, Gray hadn't actually forbidden it—he must have heard Cully, after all, and hadn't said anything—and they were, all three of them, knights, and while even Gray had stopped haranguing him about his habit of leaping to Cully's every command as though he was still a shaved-headed novice, it was a reasonable thing to do.
What had these idolaters been trying to conceal? Did Cully know more than he was saying?
Well, there was one way to find out.
Bear pulled his battered old fire-making kit from his pouch and fumbled around on the ground for one of the torches that they had made before. Wet dirt from the ground had stuck itself to the oiled cloth, and it spat and hissed as he struck flint to steel, but it did catch, and he planted it in the ground next to to the pit, surprised at how vulnerable and naked his back felt.
For a moment he regretted that all of their armor was aboard the Wellesley, and faulted himself for that regret. A crossbow bolt could pierce armor, after all, just as King William had long ago proved at Crecy, and while the craft of armor-making had gotten better over the years, so had bow-making.
"What's bothering you?" Cully asked. "Other than the obvious, I mean."
"Oh, I'm just being foolish, Father—I was thinking that if we had armor, I'd not be feeling so naked at the moment. No point in worrying about that now."
"And what's so foolish about that?" Cully asked. "I haven't looked for one of their crossbows, not yet; I think the one over by the . . . ashes was burned by Niko and Nadide, and I don't feel like thrashing around the bushes in the dark. We can do that when it's light. I doubt that they're windlass-driven; they reloaded and fired too quickly for that. Perhaps they used a belt claw; more likely, they finger-nocked the bolts. Men certainly grow strong enough hereabouts, but I doubt that their hand-drawn bows will put a quarrel through good Sheffield plate, although it probably would through leather.
"Still, all in all, even at my age, under most circumstances I'd rather rely on being able to move around than being slowed in heavy, hot armor—and hello, there. Hand me that."
That was, of course, the end of a bone, exposed by Bear's digging. Bear locked his fingers around it, and pulled. At first it resisted, but he pulled harder, and with a tearing sound, it came loose.
A few rotted bits of flesh and tendon still clung to it as he pulled it from the dirt; he brushed as much as he could off with his sleeve.
"Damn—ow!" Cully held up his good hand. "Never mind—I just moved my arm. All the excitement, and then the disappointment."
Cully took the bone in his unwounded hand. "It's a leg bone—from a sheep. I've certainly seen enough of those." Cully flipped it end-over-end into the night, and shook his head. "Well, keep digging—there may be something more interesting there, but I doubt it. My guess is that we've just discovered just what it appears to be: a coven of worshipers of Apollo, or maybe Demeter or Zeus; nothing more."
"You thought it might be more than that?"
"I hoped, at least, it was more than that. It would have been deucedly convenient if we'd found the source of these new swords here on Rodhos, and I thought that our stirring things up in Lindos would have flushed that game. And it occurred to me that since there seems to be . . . a very horrible kind of sacrifice involved, it might well take place here.
"If it was here. Which, alas, it appears not to be." He sighed. "Life is, alas, rarely arranged for the convenience of the likes of you and me, Brother Bear. Still: dig. Perhaps we'll come up with something more interesting, although I doubt it."
Bear dug.
Niko came awake slowly, the dawn sun prying his eyes open.
He tried to go back to sleep, but the ground was hard beneath him. It was good to rest, to sleep, to wrap himself in a dark warm and dreamless dream, where there was no pain, no fear—nothing except him and Nadide, sleeping under the watchful gaze of Grandfather, and Father, and Mother, and Mara and Lina, just as much as under the gentle rocking and singing of the One Who Smelled Like—of Nadide's mother.
It was with a sense of loss that he let himself swim back up to the light, to find himself lying on—on a blanket?
He reached for Nadide, and—
"Easy, boy." Cully's lined face was leaning over him. "She's just to your right—and safely in her sheath, although I'd ask that you hold off from making contact with her until your head clears." He tapped his leather gloves against Niko's chest. "Are you able to get up by yourself?" He raised his head. "Bear? Gray? He's awake."
Cully grunted as he straightened. He had been injured, somehow or other; his bare right arm, wrapped with a bloody cloth, was strapped against his side, and his robes had been tied in a strange-looking way that tucked them under his injured arm, leaving it mostly exposed.
Niko stood, and for a moment the world swum about him, and he thought he would fall over, but the dizziness passed, and he retrieved Nadide in her scabbard, as well as the Navy sword that had been laid beside her.
He kept his hand from her hilt as he adjusted his clothing and put the swords away. Cully was right; that would be for later.
He very much didn't want to think about the night, and he certainly couldn't talk about it, not now. Particularly not with Nadide.
They were no longer alone. A group—no, a squad of very tired-looking marines was busy digging up the waste pit, under the supervision of an even more tired-looking Sergeant Fotheringay. While they couldn't have been at it terribly long—how long had Niko been sleeping?—the pile of dirt had grown large enough to hide the altar beyond it.
The pinch-faced wizard, Sigerson, walked from around the dirt pile, his manservant beside him. His gray robes were stained.
"Well?" Cully asked.
"Well, no." Sigerson shook his head. "Well, if there's any magic involved, it's beyond me," he said, directing his words to Cully, rather than Niko.
"Holiness? Or its opposite?"
Sigerson shrugged. "I'm color-blind to that, I blush to admit; most wizards admit they are, and the others, I think, lie." He produced a small bone from somewhere. "If there's some necromancy involved in these bones—these goat bones or those sheep bones—it's too subtle for the likes of me, and I flatter myself to be a subtle enough man." He tossed the bone to one side. "Still, it was worth looking into it."
"I'm so glad you approve," Gray said from behind him.
Niko started—he hadn't seen Gray walk up.
"It would be a shame to have gone to all this trouble," Gray went on, "if you thought it wasn't worthwhile."
Sigerson's lips made a thin line. "Apparently, I've given offense, and for that, of course, I apologize, Sir Joshua," he said.
He turned to Cully. "If there's nothing further you need from me, I'm of a mind to return to Lindos, and see about bathing myself—at the moment, I smell, I think, rather too much like a dead goat, and I'll confess it's not my preference in a gentleman's cologne."
Cully's face was pale, almost colorless, and the dark circles under his eyes spoke of exhaustion almost as much as did the unusual stoop of his shoulders. "A good idea, Mr. Sigerson," he said, quietly, "a bath, that is—I could use one myself. And thank you for your help."
"You're welcome, of course." He gave Niko a brief smile and Gray the slightest of nods before walking off, his manservant's eyes sweeping across all three of them as though they weren't there.
Cully shook his head, wincing at the movement. "Now that you're done antagonizing the wizard, Joshua, what do you think we ought to be about next?"
"I don't know why you're asking." Gray eyed him levelly. "I think that's obvious. We've got the bodies—most of the bodies of the men who attacked us. They can't be the only idolators around here—we need to find out what village they came from, and—"
"And what? And burn the village from post to thatch? And kill everyone who might be an idolater, any child whose father or mother might be? Perhaps they came from Lindos itself, or several villages—do you want to set every house on the east coast of the island on fire from post to thatch?" Cully asked. "I don't see how that would be a good idea, or even possible—have you even seen any thatched roofs in the islands? They've plenty of slate, and wood, and—"
"Cully. Stop."
"No." Cully shook his head. "No, I think it's you who should stop—you and that cursed Khan. Please, please, stop and think, Joshua. What we have here is just a bunch of local idolaters, that's all. It's not that important."
"Idolaters who tried to murder three knights of the Order? That's not important?"
"Four knights of the Order, Sir Joshua, and all who tried to kill us are dead; you have no need to worry about some savage bragging that he managed to bag a Knight of the Order. If you want to hang the bodies by the ankles from tree branches, with signs around their necks, you go right ahead; there's trees and branches aplenty.
"But if you do, do it quickly, man, and be done with it. As to the worship of the old gods, there's much of that all through the islands, and if His Majesty determines to start a Crown and Church inquisition to wipe it out, that's for him to decide, and not for you to start, no matter how much your bloodlust is upon you now and always, Joshua."
"Father, I—"
"You're angry, and you're tired, and you're letting your weariness and that damned Khan rule your thinking, is what you're doing. And perhaps you're a little embarrassed, having been knocked off your feet by a boy less than half your age, with no training worth speaking of, and—"
"That was just the sword," Niko said, before he realized that he was interrupting Cully. "I mean, it was me and the sword. I'm not blaming Nadide, Sir Cully, Sir Gray, really I'm not, and I'll take whatever punishment is due to me without complaint, but I couldn't have, I wouldn't have . . ." He let his voice trail off.
He wouldn't have what? He wouldn't have been able to knock Gray down without that? Of course not; he had seen the three of them move through the night, fast as fish in water, and as surefooted as wild goats.
He wouldn't have killed the man?
It hit him then. His knees shook, and threatened to buckle beneath him; it was all he could do to keep to his feet.
They had killed the screaming man, he and Nadide.
He had killed a man.
"What are you crying for, boy?" Gray asked, his voice utterly scornful. "I've had worse than your pitiful few scratches. Perhaps, since Sir Cully is avoiding doing the necessary, we should take time for a little sparring to show you how—"
"Oh, be still, Gray," Cully said. "Just because you and the Khan kill more willingly than I'll step on ants doesn't mean that it's that way for everybody—that's what's bothering him."
Gray took a long breath, and let it out. "True enough," he said. "I'm a red-handed killer carrying a Red Sword, and nothing more than that, nothing at all—but I'm hardly the only one in the world, and perhaps, Father Cully, you could let me beat myself for it without your help?"
"And the idolaters in this part of Rodhos are hardly the only ones in Pironesia, or in the Med, or in the world, for that matter, eh?"
"But they're here, and we're here."
Cully didn't say anything. He just gave Gray a long look, his head cocked to one side.
After a moment, Gray sighed, and nodded. "Yes, Father, I know: only an idiot would be chasing after a bunch of local idolaters when there's far more important matters to be handled, eh?"
"Well, yes," Cully said.
"And while I'll confess myself a fool in more ways than one, Father Cully, I'm not so much of a fool that I'll delay us any further; as usual, you may have things your own way." He bowed, and turned to Niko. "Sir Niko."
Gray walked toward where the marine sergeant was supervising the digging. "Fotheringay—get those bodies into the trees. By the ankles."
"Aye, aye, sir."
"And then load them up—we're done here."
He walked off.
"Well, he's close to the edge," Cully said, as he shook his head. "But in most ways, he's got a good heart, that boy, I think."
Niko didn't say anything.
"I wouldn't mind seeing you actually move your lazy ass, Lowrey," Fotheringay shouted. "Once we finish here, we've a nice little march to Rody-city, you know, and I can arrange to make it the most god-awful miserable day marching that you've ever spent since your mother squatted behind the plow she was pulling to push you out."
Cully smiled, and nodded. "Fotheringay, too, I think." He patted Niko's arm. "You think I have a strange notion of what constitutes a good heart, don't you?"
Niko shrugged. "It's not my place to say."
"Perhaps not. Then again, I think you've got one, too. And with that, Sir Niko, let's be going—we've got a long day ahead."