Exile's Children (14 page)

“Lie low awhile,” Arcole advised him. “House Ferristan has a long arm, and Raymone a long memory. The old bastard,” he added.

“At least you'll thwart him,” Dom said.

“Aye.” Arcole's smile showed briefly, then: “Do you know what they do, Dom?”

Dom nodded, not wanting to say it. It seemed to him that anything was better than hanging: he was not, he knew, of Arcole's mettle.

“Exiles are branded,” Arcole said. “On the cheek, are they male; women on the shoulder.”

“But you'll be alive,” said Dom quietly. “Is that not something, at least? Surely that's preferable to the gallows.”

“Is it?” Arcole asked in a voice Dom found horribly reasonable. “They'll put their mark on me as if I were a … a common criminal! A footpad, or some highwayman. They'll put me in the hold of some stinking ship and send me over the Sea of Sorrows to Salvation—the wilderness!
And I shall never return!
Is that truly better, Dom?”

Dom swallowed, close to wishing he'd not invested such coin, such time—and both at some considerable risk to himself once word reached House Ferristan—to save his friend's life. Then Arcole took his hand and smiled and said, “Dom, I know you've acted for what you believe the best. Do I seem ungrateful, forgive me. It's that I was ready to die, not live in exile. I cannot envisage myself indentured in the wilderness.”

“It may not be so bad,” Dom said, trying hard himself to smile. “There's at least one town there. Grostheim, they name it.”

“Indeed.” Arcole affected a tone of languid interest. “And think you it's gaming salons? And I shall be allowed to play a hand or two of petanoye? Perhaps there shall be dances?”

Sorrowfully, Dom said, “I'm sorry.”

Arcole laughed with sudden humor and slapped a hand to his friend's shoulder. “Oh, Dom; Dom, it's I should apologize, not you. You risk your own safety to save my life and I reward you with curses and mockery—forgive me.” He rose, bowing. “Likely, in time I'll come to make some life there, and thank you for it. Only now put off that mournful face and accept my thanks, and my earnest apologies.”

“I do.” Dom forced his lips apart in semblance of a smile. “Not that you need to apologize.”

“So.” Arcole returned to the bench. “When do I depart on this great adventure?”

“Tomorrow, so I understand,” Dom said. “You go first to Bantar, overland; a ship from there.”

“Then this is our farewell,” Arcole said.

“Aye,” said Dom. “By the day after tomorrow Raymone will know you're not hung. But you'll be on your way by then, and he'll not have chance to stop you.”

“And you'll be bound for Tarramor. Fare well there, old friend.”

Dom nodded. There seemed little else to say, and he could hear the turnkey approaching: fifteen golden guineas bought so little time. He took Arcole's hand and then was drawn into his friend's embrace. Almost, he wept against Arcole's shoulder, but that should not do, and so he only held his friend a moment and then drew back.

“May God protect you, Arcole.”

“Better, I hope, than he's done so far,” Arcole declared, and grinned.

Dom heard the turnkey cough noisily outside the cell. He wanted to say more, but could think of nothing; and knew he
should
weep did he linger. So he bowed, as if they stood in some grand salon, and went out through the door the turnkey held for him. He heard it slam behind him and the key turn in the lock, and then tears did come, for he knew he would never see Arcole again.

In the cell, Arcole rubbed absently at his cheek, wondering what it should feel like when the red iron was pressed there. Soon enough, he thought, he would know—and that brand would mark him all his life. There'd be no hiding it from the ever-watchful eyes of the cursed Autarchy. He damned Evander then, and all its priests and Inquisitors and Militiamen, and vowed that had he ever the chance to bring them down, he would seize it and laugh as they fell.

The branding came soon enough—at dawn the next day—which suited Arcole better than waiting.

The turnkey came with four Militiamen, who took hold of Arcole even though he did not struggle, and drew his hands behind his back, locking them there with heavy cuffs that were connected to the manacles around his ankles by a length of chain. He must perforce go tottering, with a Militiaman to either side, their hands upon his arms, and two vigilant behind, to the low, dark hall where a brazier glowed red and a man clad all in scorched and greasy brown leather tended his irons.

There was a chair of wood and metal, high-backed and bolted to the floor, its purpose obvious. Before the Militiamen might prod him onward, Arcole shuffled of his own accord toward the seat.

“Master Torturer, good day.” He nodded a greeting to the leatherclad man, and had the satisfaction of seeing the fellow gape in startlement at his casual tone. “Shall I sit here?”

The man nodded dumbly and looked to the Militiamen as if for reassurance that the prisoner was secured safely. Three favored Arcole
with reluctantly admiring smiles; the fourth's was scornful. “You'll use a different voice when you feel the iron,” he said.

“Think you so?” Arcole determined he would not scream.

The Militiaman said, “Take his arms,” and two of them grasped Arcole firmly as the speaker produced the handcuff key and removed the shackles.

He was pushed down onto the chair, where bands of dark iron locked about his wrists, more around his ankles. A leather strap was bound tight around his chest, and another across his forehead, holding his head rigid against the chair's high back.

“He's secure.”

The Militiamen stepped back; the one now wore a grin of horrid anticipation, the rest watched stoically. The torturer drew on a heavy gauntlet and took an iron from the brazier. The head glowed bright in the dim light. Arcole gritted his teeth: he would not cry out.

The torturer stood before him, and he closed his eyes against the iron's heat as it was thrust close.

Such was the pain, he could not prevent the shout that burst forth. He heard it echo off the indifferent stone; his nostrils filled with the stench of burning flesh. He was grateful for the darkness that encompassed him.

He woke suddenly, unwilling to leave the soothing blankness. Cold and wet denied him that solace, however, and he spluttered indignantly as he realized a bucket of water had been thrown over him. A hand took his chin, steadying his head as another smeared some salve over the raw pain that covered one side of his face. The pain subsided to a dull throbbing, and he opened his eyes to find the same four Militiamen studying him with calm indifference.

“Not so brave now, eh?”

He recognized the speaker and forced a smile that seemed to crack his face apart. “Have you a mirror?” His voice was thick, and every word sent shafts of pain through his skull. “Perhaps I shall start a new fashion.”

The Militiaman scowled; his companions smiled. Then they hauled Arcole upright and locked the cuffs about his wrists again, this time at the front, and marched him from the hall.

He thought they might return him to his cell and that should be a small blessing, for he felt very weak and would stretch out on his bench and sleep awhile, but instead, he was led down a long corridor to a flight
of steps that rose to an arched doorway opening onto a courtyard. Blue sky showed above high walls, and somewhere a bird sang. The air smelled clean and fresh after the malodorous cellars of the prison, and rain glistened on the flags as Arcole was brought to a wagon.

It was such a vehicle as he had seen often enough in the streets of Levan: painted black, with high, solid walls and roof, a single window in the rearward door covered with a metal grille. It was such a vehicle as transported prisoners; he had never thought to ride in one himself.

A ladder granted access to the interior, and the Militiamen stood back as Arcole climbed awkwardly inside. He grimaced at the smell that succeeded in combining all the body's fluids in one overpowering fetor, then he was pushed down onto a narrow bench and the chain unlocked from his shackles and fixed to a ring set in the wall above his head. The Militiamen departed and he looked about.

Five other prisoners sat watching him with the numb indifference of lost men. All were branded, their cheeks displaying the letter
E
that was the damning mark of the exile. Arcole winced at the sight.

“None too pretty, eh?”

The speaker was a hulking fellow, his dirty black beard serving to throw the scar into vivid relief against the prison pallor of his cheek. Arcole prayed he did not look so dreadful. He said, “No. I think we'd none of us win prizes for our looks at present.”

The bearded man coughed laughter and asked, “What they got you for?”

“I killed a man,” Arcole said.

The bearded man was unimpressed. “So'd I,” he said. “In a tavern. Bastard pulled a knife on me, so I broke his neck. They'd've hanged me, save they want slaves out there in Salvation.”

“Salvation,” Arcole grunted. “Hardly our salvation.”

“Better'n hangin', no?” the giant said.

“Think you so?” Arcole replied.

The bearded man gaped at him as if he were deranged. “Livin's better'n dyin', no?”

“It depends,” said Arcole, “on the manner of one's existence.”

“You one o' them philosophers?” the giant demanded. He pronounced it
fill-oss-off-er
.

Arcole shook his head and sucked breath as the movement set his cheek to burning. “No,” he replied, “I'm”—he corrected himself—“
was
a gentleman of leisure.”

The giant guffawed. He seemed not to feel any pain. “Not no more,” he hooted. “A gentleman o'leisure, eh? Won't be much leisure
in Salvation, friend. Hard labor's what you'll get out there—same as the rest o' us. Just hard labor til you're spent, an' then you die. Gentleman o' leisure, hah!”

He leant back against the wall, grinning through his beard. Arcole closed his eyes and fervently wished he were somewhere else; he thought the gallows should have been preferable to weeks in such company.

Then the door was flung closed and the interior was abruptly dark. A key grated in the lock; the wagon rocked as the driver climbed to his seat, then lurched as he cracked his whip over the team and the horses flung themselves into the traces. Faint came the clatter of hooves as the escort of Militiamen formed about the vehicle. It began to move, across the prison yard and out through the gates Arcole could not see. The wheels rumbled over cobblestones. Someone whimpered; someone else began to hum unmelodiously. Arcole closed his eyes. He thought this should be a most unpleasant journey.

Davyd stared around the barnlike hall at his fellow exiles. They looked to him like any crowd found on the lesser thoroughfares of Bantar, save that all wore manacles, and all were branded. His own scar no longer pained him, but the cuffs about his wrists chafed. He thought that had he his picklocks, it should not be too difficult to get free; but those were long lost and, even could he use them, the brand decorating his cheek marked him for all to see. Not even Julius would offer refuge to one bearing the mark of exile.

No: he was condemned now, without hope of rescue. He sniffed noisily and tried to tell himself that he was lucky, that it could be worse—had the Autarchy discovered he was a Dreamer, he should likely have been burned by then. It failed to help: he faced a fear almost as great. Soon he would be herded out of this solid, safe,
earthbound
hall and onto a ship that floated on water. And that ship would slip its moorings and turn from the harbor toward the open sea. Its sails would fill and it would progress westward, to the Sea of Sorrows and beyond, out where there was nothing but ocean. An ocean that was filled with monsters, like the creatures in his dream.

He shivered, trying without success to drive those oneiric images from his mind, and his shivering became a trembling that set his teeth to rattling and, against his will, the tears to flowing helplessly down his cheeks. He drew up his knees, hugging himself as best he could with shackled wrists, his eyes screwed tight as he rocked back and forth, chased by the monsters he
knew
awaited him.

It was a while before he felt the hands that stroked his shaking
shoulders and heard the voice that murmured soothing words such as he'd not heard since Aunt Dory died. Unthinking, he turned toward the sound, burrowing into the consolation of the arms and the warm body that offered him temporary refuge.

“There, there. It's not so bad, eh? Don't cry; please don't cry. It's not so bad.”

“It is,” he mumbled, and almost added, I know it is, because I dreamed it. But the habit of that concealment was grained too deep, and so he only repeated: “It is.”

“I'll look after you,” the voice promised, and Davyd opened his eyes and blinked back the tears that he might see his comforter.

She was not that much older than he, and he thought she looked like an angel, one of the carved and gilded angels that decorated the churches he so seldom visited. Her face was an oval framed by golden curls, that managed even in disarray to tumble artfully as if arranged by a coiffeuse. Her eyes were big and blue as cornflowers, and her mouth was wide, the lips full and red. She was, he decided, absolutely beautiful. Suddenly he was embarrassed and drew back a little.

She smiled and said, “My name's Flysse. What's yours?”

“Davyd Furth,” he answered, sniffing. He saw that his tears had marked her blouse, which had once been white. “And it
is
bad.”

For an instant her smile faltered, became forlorn, but then she rearranged it in the shape of confidence. “The ships cross the ocean all the time,” she said. “They come and go, and they're really quite safe.”

“They sink,” he said.