The name of all things, p.7
The Name of All Things, page 7
part #2 of A Chorus of Dragons Series
“After him!” Dedreugh screamed. “After him!”
The soldiers were quick to give chase, although some stayed to keep an eye on the prisoners.
Dedreugh crossed back over to the guard who’d lost his weapon. He grabbed the man by the jerkin and lifted him right off the ground, giving him a violent shake. “Idiot! Take these filth to the jail, and if anything goes wrong, I swear you’ll join them.”
Brother Qown rushed to Nina’s side. The woman was unconscious, which didn’t surprise him. Landing on her broken leg must have been excruciating.
Still, she was alive.
While Brother Qown looked over Nina, he heard the others debating another prisoner.
A soldier: “What about this one?”
Tamin answered, “She’s saelen, is she not? If she wants to slum with thieves, so be it. Put ‘Lady’ Ganar with her own kind.”
Saelen.3 Brother Qown remembered his Karo lessons. Lost, or a stray. A terrible insult by Joratese standards. Almost as bad as thorra, but with the implication the subject is a small child who doesn’t understand what’s in their own best interest. His heartbeat skipped. For a second, he thought Tamin referred to the count. But no. Tamin meant Gan the Miller’s Daughter, gnashing her teeth and straining to reach the baron with fingers hooked into claws. She’d have made his beautiful face much less so if her hands had been free.
Tamin had already turned to Count Janel. “I’m so sorry for this unfortunate incident.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Shoot through her?”
“My men are the best marksmen in the whole dominion,” he assured her. “I had no fear at all for your safety.” He gestured toward the main castle entrance. “Shall we? I’ll have my men deliver your gift to the kitchen for the evening meal.”
Meanwhile, two guards bent down next to Brother Qown and picked up Ninavis.
“She’s injured,” he told them. “You must be careful. Let me follow, and I’ll treat her wounds.”
They paid Brother Qown not the slightest attention.
“What happens to the other saelen?” Count Janel sounded bored, the question asked for propriety’s sake. When she saw Brother Qown approaching, she made a small motion with her hand as a warning: I will handle this.
“Oh, the usual—we’ll award them at the tournament,” Tamin said. “Kalazan’s fate is already sealed. We’ll capture him soon enough.”
A scream rang out.
Brother Qown might have thought it signaled the promised capture, except Gan the Miller’s Daughter laughed outright, and Dango, still bound, smiled.
“This Kalazan,” Janel said. “Is he familiar with the castle?”
Tamin’s expression soured. “He was the steward’s son.”
“Ah.”
Tamin scowled and gestured to Dedreugh. “Damn it. Find him and kill him. I’ll not have him live to see the sunrise, do you hear me? And then figure out which idiot made a mess of tying Kalazan’s hands and have him flogged.”
Brother Qown made sure his eyes were on the ground, lest his glance betray him. Only when the soldiers had cleared away the prisoners, and Captain Dedreugh had left to oversee the search, did he let himself look up. Qown stared at the person who had tied Kalazan’s hands.
Mare Dorna hummed a dirty song to herself, smiling.
* * *
Brother Qown followed the guards into the castle, then stopped when one, a hulking fellow with gray skin and black blotches around his eyes, turned back.
“What are you doing?” the guard demanded.
Brother Qown pointed to the trussed prisoners being carried or led farther into the building. “I need to treat them.”
“They don’t need treating,” the same man growled.
Brother Qown smiled, shaking his head. “The count gave explicit orders. I must care for their well-being.”
And prove a complication. Brother Qown had seen the looks the guards had passed between themselves the entire ride back to Mereina Castle. The prisoners would be fair game to whatever molestations the soldiers devised, as soon as anyone who might care left.
The fact this behavior was abnormal for Jorat wouldn’t stop it from happening here.
“See them in the morning,” the guard ordered.
“But what about the blood sickness?” Brother Qown asked.
The whole group, guards and prisoners both, stopped.
“What was that?” said one man.
“The Falesini blood sickness,” Brother Qown repeated, elaborating. “It’s not very contagious. Nothing requiring a full quarantine or the like, but communicable through blood or other fluids.” Qown started over. “I mean, you’ll catch it if you touch them with your bare skin. The bandits all showed the symptoms. We were planning to treat them as soon as we settled everyone in, but in all this excitement—”
The first guard blinked, then guffawed. “What nonsense is this? These people aren’t sick.” He waved a hand as if dismissing the entire tale.
Brother Qown raised a finger and pointed at Dango.
The large man had his hands tied behind his back, and he frowned at Brother Qown. But the brigands didn’t object to Brother Qown’s story, which had been his worry.
Fresh blood dripped from Dango’s nostril.
Dango didn’t have to copy panic, because the panic was real. Brother Qown hoped the giant man was smart enough not to let it get the better of him.
Dango wrinkled his nose as if fighting off a sneeze. “It’s starting again, priest.”
“Yes,” Brother Qown said, “but at least we found it before you bled from your eyes.”
The guards stepped back.
Brother Qown waved his hands. “Oh, don’t worry. There’s no danger as long as you avoid any skin-to-skin contact.”
A soldier pulled his sword.
“What the hell are you doing?” the leader barked.
“They’re sick—” the man pointed.
“Shut up and drag them downstairs. Wear your damn gloves if you must. The captain wants them alive, you understand. They’re no good to us dead.” The leader turned back to Brother Qown. “This won’t kill them, will it?”
“Oh no. It’s treatable.” He tugged on his satchel. “I need to make a tisane for them. It should clear up in a few days.”
“We don’t need a few days as long as they’re well enough to stand tomorrow.” The guard waved to his men, motioning for them to lead the outlaws down some steps. Brother Qown assumed these led to the castle dungeon. The guards who had been giving hungry looks to the prisoners looked a lot less interested now. In fact, most left at once.
Nobody made a fuss this time as Brother Qown followed them down into the prison. To be fair, it was more like a wine cellar, a cool, dark space where one might safely secure the best of the local lord’s bottles. If so, the wines had been removed, although a few stray boxes stacked up in rows suggested that using the space for storage was still an option. The basement was clearly not meant to serve for living quarters. He couldn’t imagine being imprisoned there for any length of time.
He was unsure if such was a good sign or a terrible one.
The soldiers divided the prisoners. They also traded out the prisoners’ ropes for chains, which were fastened to iron rungs set in the walls. There was a bucket for necessities and a well.
Brother Qown pulled up a pail of water while the guards remembered they’d volunteered to find Kalazan. He then set about performing procedures with herbs—ones that might look serious to anyone without medical training.4
A last guard found himself a chair and settled in by the door, which was barred from the outside. Additional guards waited in the hallway.
Brother Qown stopped at each prisoner, offering them the water.
Dango whispered, “How did you—?” He sniffed his nose for emphasis.
Brother Qown wiped the blood from the man’s face. “Trade secret. We shouldn’t talk about it here.”
Dango nodded. “Thank you. Someone was going to try something and end up with their throat ripped out. You could tell.”
Brother Qown paused. He suspected Dango wasn’t speaking in metaphor. Joratese women had a certain reputation. Qown replied, “The count won’t stand for this. We’ll be back for you.”
Brother Qown walked around the room, handing out drinks to the prisoners and pretending to treat them for a disease they didn’t have. Kay Hará seemed so genuinely terrified that Qown thought they were either taking the story at face value or had spent a considerable length of time in theater. Jem Nakijan wouldn’t even look at him. Vidan asked the priest to treat Gan instead, and acted put out when Qown insisted on seeing to everyone. Tanner said nothing, but his gaze softened into something less murderous when Brother Qown gave him water. The guards had searched the outlaw, but Qown suspected they hadn’t searched him well enough. That might have been his imagination, though. Tanner just struck him as the sort who always had knives.
He stayed the longest with Ninavis because of her injury. Her fall from Arasgon—and the unconsciousness that followed—gave him a chance to set her break. The priest would have liked to have done more, but he sensed the remaining guard’s eyes on him as he treated her. Brother Qown didn’t wish to risk the guard recognizing magic if he saw it. Anyway, everyone knew Ninavis had a broken leg. He’d be doing her no favors if she’d healed by morning.
After seeing to the others, he left to talk tactics with the count.
4: THE DEMON-CLAIMED CHILD
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Two days since the first day of Gadrith D’Lorus’s reign
“Falesini blood sickness? That truly exists?” Janel looked over at Brother Qown.
Behind her, tavern regulars organized an elaborate game throwing shaped rocks at a slanted clay board. A betting pool formed.
The priest coughed into his hand. “Oh yes, very much so. It’s a hemorrhagic fever contracted from a desert mouse’s dried urine. Just one reason cats are so popular in Khorvesh.” He added, “It’s never broken out in Jorat. Wrong climate.”
“Very sneaky,” Kihrin said. “But I’m not surprised, considering.”
The other two paused.
“Considering what?” Brother Qown said.
Kihrin waved a hand at Brother Qown’s robes. “You’re a priest of the Mysteries. I knew a devotee once. You lot are tricky.”
“I beg your pardon,” Brother Qown said. “I am not ‘tricky.’ I’m very dedicated to helping others find both physical and spiritual harmony.”
“Perhaps he’s a touch tricky,” Janel said, grinning.
Kihrin continued, “Wasn’t your order illegal?”
Brother Qown cleared his throat. “That was politics.1 All sorted out now. And our faith has always been accepted in Eamithon.” Then he brightened. “But you know someone who follows the Way? That’s wonderful! There aren’t many of us.”
“Sure. He fenced my spoils.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Brother Qown’s eyes widened.
Janel gave Kihrin a curious look as he chuckled. “You didn’t grow up in a palace, did you?” she remarked.
“And you did,” he pointed out. “Clearly.”
“It wasn’t a palace,” Janel said. “It was a castle.”
“Forgive me. That’s completely different. Still, I notice you’re not using the noble title anymore,” Kihrin said. “Why is that? And why call yourself count and not countess?”
“Isn’t countess a Quuros title for a male ruler’s wife?” Janel shrugged. “If so, I don’t qualify.”
“It’s also used for a female ruler,” Kihrin pointed out.
“What a strange thing to label. We don’t care if our rulers are male or female. We only insist they’re stallions.”
Behind her, a large gray-skinned man splashed with black achieved some victory at the rock-tossing game. He shouted and marched around the room, fists in the air. Cheers, claps, and a few boos heralded this win before the noise settled back down again.
“Did you know the Joratese native language, Karo, doesn’t even acknowledge gender?” Brother Qown said. “Only positions of authority or obligation. And in practice, I’ve found at least three distinct genders in use. Well, two genders and a third catch-all term, but still—”
As Kihrin looked wide-eyed, Janel put aside her bowl. “I’d better take a turn or this will transform into a lecture on Jorat social structures. He’s done it before.”
“Uh, right,” Kihrin said. “That might be for the best.”
Janel nodded. Then sat there.
Just when Kihrin assumed she’d changed her mind, she began speaking.
Janel’s Turn. Mereina Castle, Barsine Banner, Jorat, Quur.
No matter who we are or what our background, thief or noble, priest or witch, we always want to be our story’s hero.
No, that’s not right.
We don’t want to be.
We need to be our story’s hero.
We all imagine we must be. No one ever judges themselves a fool or a knave. I suppose if they do, they invent some plausible fiction to justify their deeds. We all see the world thus. We all interpret our every act as an epic tale’s culmination, centered on ourselves. Is it arrogance or our limited ability to perceive the universe through eyes other than our own? If ours is the only perception we can experience, does it not follow that ours is the only perception that matters?
The result is the same. We bend the rules, break them, and ignore them. We put our own needs before others. That’s what a hero does, is it not? Are we not entitled to be special exceptions? Just this once? And the next time too?
This time is different. This time it’s important.
I was reflecting on the bandits, of course. Not myself.
They deemed themselves heroes. And as I was raised to believe myself entrusted with protecting these lands, it followed I must judge them criminals, yes? Robbing strangers on the road doesn’t define courageous action.
And yet …
Kalazan’s words burned at my edges like a curse waiting to flare incandescent.
They were waiting for the demon-claimed child, he’d said.
Damn him.
Worse, how could I miss the way Tamin had stocked his troops? Soldiers who didn’t understand the language of firebloods. Soldiers who treated me as a mare despite my stallion attire. The joyful gleam in Tamin’s eyes when he’d ordered his men to shoot through me.
Baron Tamin’s plan to execute Kalazan proved the final point against him. One didn’t protect the herd by killing the saelen, the strays. And if Kalazan, his father, and others had conspired to assassinate the former baron, then it meant they had tried Censure. Tried and failed to remove an unworthy ruler.
I couldn’t believe the old baron so dishonorable that he wouldn’t have stepped down before the situation ever became so dire.
Tension stifled dinner. Under normal circumstances, I would have expected the castle to be packed to overflowing with friends and guests eager to partake in the feast. Instead, the main hall seemed nearly empty. While I was the only one who’d brought my own game (only proper by the requirements of idorrá), the baron had bought or hunted a great deal of his own. Unnecessarily, as it turned out. Most of the fresh meat slaughtered for the tournament celebration—prepared in any of the several proscribed tamarane styles—went uneaten.
I knew why.
The guards still hadn’t located Kalazan. Tamin was polite enough to me at dinner. After all, was I not an old friend? (Not to mention higher ranked.) But his temper encouraged most guests to avoid the dining hall.
One soldier swore he’d hit Kalazan in the back with a crossbow. They’d even found a blood trail, but no body. No clear proof the “traitor” had journeyed south to the Afterlife for Thaena’s final judgment.
Later, I watched, envious, as people drifted away from dinner in twos and threes. I had just come of age when Sir Oreth had shown up on my doorstep with his eviction orders and his threats. There’d been no time for adult celebrations and adult games.
However, this didn’t seem the time to make up for that lack.
I rehearsed my excuses in case Tamin, his other guests, or—gods help me—the odious Captain Dedreugh turned chest or hindquarters in my direction. “No, I’m sorry, it’s my red moon, but thank you for the compliment.” “I’m still in mourning for my grandfather and wouldn’t feel it proper to engage in bed sports.”
Or my favorite, the one I could never say to Tamin no matter how much I meant it: “No, and don’t ask again. I may be nice enough to look upon, but I’m a monster of the first rank. I’d rip you limb from limb—no matter how fondly I remember wintering here when we were children.”
Looking back, I don’t know why I worried so. As I was the highest-ranked titled noble in attendance, everyone would have waited on me to approach them. Technically speaking, rank and idorrá-thudajé relationships are kept separate from bed play, but I’m skeptical that’s ever true.
So no one approached me, and Tamin never asked. For all I knew, Tamin had decided he preferred to run with stallions, anyway.
Tamin assigned us a fine suite of rooms, though. They seemed less fine when I realized the truth. They must have belonged to Kalazan’s family and his father, the unnamed steward executed for his part in the late baron’s assassination.
I couldn’t help but wonder just how many people had been claimed as part of that “cabal.” The castle’s neglected air suggested more staff, more people, had once walked its halls. But who was I to judge? That was true of my home as well.
The last Hellmarch had been hard on everyone in Jorat.
“Am I making a mistake with the bandits?” I asked Dorna later as she unbraided and combed out my hair.
Dorna tsked under her breath. “We need the metal.”
“Not that,” I said. “They threw themselves under my idorrá, and I did nothing when those men came to collect them.”
“You’re young,” Dorna said, her most common excuse for many otherwise unforgivable sins. “I bet Ninavis and her people thought they’d sway you better than the son of the man they’d murdered. Nicer odds. Taja’s dirty luck for them the soldiers found us, before those bandits delivered the full pitch.”
