The third night, the Ultor followed Bragg out when he left.
His feet still hadn’t entirely recovered from the frostbite—he’d had to
amputate two of the toes on his left foot. Even still, and even with the child’s
tall tale, he didn’t trust Bragg to wait much longer. He didn’t trust Bragg at
all.
So he followed him, slipping quietly behind him in the dark.
He’d deliberately made noise when they came in, letting their guide think he
was clumsier than he was. Bragg must have heard about it; he never even looked
back to see if anyone was behind him.
Bragg lead him directly to the mines. The Boss hadn’t lied,
exactly, there were a few men panning the river for gold. But by far the greater
number worked, in the glow of wan torches, with pickaxes, chipping away at the
cave walls. The Ultor counted: no more than half a dozen swordsmen patrolled
the cavern and at least twenty villagers wielded sharp picks. But the Boss had
his insurance: the pickmen were all chained together at the ankle with heavy
iron chains, and judging by their withered, boney looks they got no more food
than it took to keep them swinging. Even the axes looked dull. The Ultor curled
his lip in the shadows, watching all these wretched specimens of men—the cowards
who would rather die slowly of starvation and pain than strike out at their
tormentors, and the jackals who lived off the workers’ labor and gave nothing,
neither peace nor prosperity, in return. The whole village was blighted.
The villagers rarely spoke, but the swordsmen chattered back
and forth in their own language. They seemed on edge; they kept their hands on
their swords and their eyes on the shadows. Did they know he was in the caves,
or did they just share children’s and primitives’ usual fear of the dark? The
Ultor wondered if he could safely bring the girl out to listen to them. He
would very much like to know what they were saying when they thought no one
could understand. Regardless, whether they suspected or not, they never sent
any search parties, or even patrolled the perimeter of the cavern. The Ultor
sat entirely undisturbed for hours, watching and waiting. But the scene never
varied.
When he’d finally had his fill of monotonous misery, he
returned to his own secret cavern. The girl was waiting there, sitting at a
deliberate distance from the cranny where he knew she’d been hiding some of the
food he gave her. She was very good, actually; she never gave herself away by
compulsively looking at the area, but she didn’t avoid looking at it either.
She ate slowly in a way that seemed natural, and never hid anything until well
after he fell asleep. If he weren’t such a very light sleeper, and if he hadn’t
trained for years to wake up without seeming to—keeping his eyes shut and his breathing
steady—he might never have caught her at it. She was a clearly creature of
stealth and deception, but seeing the kinds of men who ruled her life, he found
somehow he rather admired than abhorred her.
She waited until he sat and nodded a greeting to speak.
“Did you kill any of them?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You want them dead so much?”
She shrugged. “They’re going to die, aren’t they? So?”
“But do you want them to die?”
She sighed a tremendous sigh and shrugged, turning away from
him.
“You won’t answer?” he asked.
She muttered something in the swordsmen’s language. He
waited, watching her. Finally she turned back and spat, “What?”
“I’m still waiting for your answer.”
She shrugged again, but then she did answer: “They die, they
don’t die. It has nothing to do with me. I can’t make anyone live or die. So I
don’t care. I worry about me. That’s enough.”
He chuckled. “You sound like follower of Baswat.”
“What’s Baswat?”
“A philosopher.”
“I don’t know that word.”
“A person who has ideas about how life works and how best to
live it.”
She looked at him like he was a fool. “Doesn’t everybody
have those ideas?”
He laughed. “A philosopher does nothing but dream up these
kinds of ideas, and tell everyone else they ought to agree with him.”
“I know a drunk just like that.”
“He may have been that too. Baswat taught that self-interest
was the only reliable motive. The self-interested man will be charitable because
the well-fed poor give him no trouble, generous because the well-paid servant
serves well and loyally, and magnanimous because he knows that today’s shame
becomes tomorrow’s spite. The enlightened self-interested man is the best
member of society, because he understands society. He worries about himself.
That’s enough.”
She stared at him. “Hey, are you … Are you really a soldier?
You don’t sound like any soldier I know.”
“I’m the kind of soldier …” He sighed. “I used to be the
kind of soldier who had to understand the things queens and bureaucrats talked
about. Some threats are made with swords; some threats are made with literary
allusions and smiles.”
“With what and smiles?”
“Words from old poems and stories. The ruling classes all learn
the same ones as children, and they use the words they remember as a kind of
code language, meanings behind meanings. It’s like a game they play.”
She mulled that over a moment. “I thought you were one of
them. You said the warriors rule in your land.”
“I said the warrior class
ruled in my land. I’m not that kind of warrior.”
She nodded and sprawled out flat, muttering to herself. He
just caught the words she was saying: philosopher
… Baswat … literary allsions … “Allusions,” he said, “literary allusions.” Literary allusions … philosopher …
“How long can you sit perfectly still and silent?” he asked.
She cocked her head up, frowning. “I’m not a little kid. If
you want me to be quiet, just say, ‘be quiet.’”
“Sit up, be quiet, and stay perfectly still,” he said. “I’m
going to train you a little.”
She sat up. “Why?”
He felt his foot throbbing from the frostbite and the
amputated toes, his arms and legs still trembling from the exertion of crawling
through the caves in perfect, muscle-straining stealth, the lightness in his
head from too many nights without deep sleep … He needed a month of real convalescence
to recover from his trip over the mountains, but all he had left was perhaps
three, at most four more days of poor sleep and poorer food before the
villagers ran out of food to send him, or Bragg lost patience and betrayed him
for a reward. He needed an edge—reliable information, an element of surprise. He
needed—
“Ally. You know what that word means?”
“Like friend,” she answered.
“That’s right. A friend who fights with you. I’m asking you:
will you be my ally?”
She looked him up and down. “Why? Why do you need me?”
“Because you’re clever. And capable. And I have no one else.”
She laughed. “I guess that’s all true. So … OK. Allies.”
“Come here, then.” He held out his hand. She frowned at it a
moment, and seemed on the verge of bolting in the other direction, but finally
she crept toward him and reached out her own hand. He grasped her wrist. “Like
this.” She curled her tiny fingers around his wrist. “Firm grasp,” he said, and
she obeyed.
“Until this mission is done,” he said, “and you are safe and
I am free, we are allies.”
“Until I’m safe?”
“Of course.”
“OK,” she smiled, and her grip tightened. “Until that—allies.”
“Good. Now sit still and be perfectly silent.”
