Exile's Children (28 page)

He felt no pain as broken teeth cut his flesh, only a savage satisfaction as he raised the head again, and again brought it down to smash against his knee. Cartilage broke in Oster's nose, and he snorted crimson froth. Still holding him by the hair, Arcole dragged him forward, tumbling him off balance so that the larger man pitched onto his knees. He swung the head then, a fleshly metronome that ended each arc against the solid wood of a bunk. Oster no longer resisted, but Arcole went on pounding the yielding skull.

He was dimly aware of Flysse's voice, entreating him to stop, but he ignored it until she grasped his arm, her weight slowing him.

“Arcole! For God's sake, Arcole, you've killed him!”

He blinked and let loose Oster's head. It fell to the deck and he saw the ruined temple, the blood—slick and black in the moonlight—that matted the hair and oozed from the ear. Flysse pressed against him, holding him back from further violence, and without thinking he put his arms around her, wondering vaguely why she wept.

“Arcole! Oh, God, Arcole, what have you done? What will they do to you? You know the rules.”

He thought that for slaying such vermin as Oster he perhaps deserved applause, but then the import of Flysse's words sank in. He recalled Var's promise, exactly:
Do you raise hand against one another, you will be flogged
.

Surely not, when he had acted only in her defense. And Davyd's, he remembered, looking past Flysse's tearful face to where the boy stood wide-eyed with admiration. But then he thought that these were the strictures of the Autarchy, of Evander, and therefore it was likely to be so. He was not sure he could accept the indignity of a whipping—that
was such punishment as was meted out to common criminals. And then he could only chuckle at his own foolishness, for in the eyes of the Autarchy he
was
a common criminal, an exile, branded and indentured. And now likely to be flogged, his objections of no more consequence to the Evanderan marines than his dignity.

Well, was it to be, he would act the man. He held Flysse at arm's length, making his smile careless. “Mistress,” he declared, “am I to be punished, why, that it be for sake of your rescue shall make it worthwhile.”

For a long moment she stared at him as if she thought him deranged, then she came close and, somewhat to his surprise, kissed him on the lips. No less surprising was the comfort he took from her gesture. He stared at her, and she blushed and drew back, tugging her shift closer about her as if only then aware of her immodest dress.

“I'll tell them what happened,” she promised.

“And I,” said Davyd. “They'll not flog you when they know.”

“Perhaps not.” Arcole felt a wetness against his bare sole and moved aside as he realized he stood in Oster's blood. “Perhaps there's some honor left in these Evanderans yet.”

At his back someone said, “You'll find out soon enough,” and he turned to see the companionway hatch flung back, lanterns flaring there as marines with cocked muskets descended the ladder.

A voice he recognized as belonging to Tomas Var said, “What goes on here?”

It was not, for Tomas Var, an easy decision. He supposed that were he made of sterner stuff, of such temper as so many of his fellow officers, then it should have presented no problems. The regulations covering the transport of exiles were very clear. One prisoner had slain another; he had also broken a man's head and another's foot. Two indentured servants would arrive in Salvation crippled, a third not arrive at all. Var could, therefore, order Arcole Blayke's execution; he was, undoubtedly, required to administer at least a flogging. Captain Bennan recommended the full fifty lashes. Var had doubts: he could not help but think he would have acted in similar fashion, had he been in Blayke's place.

He had listened to the pleas offered by Blayke's companions—the potential victims—and accepted that the dead man and his bullies had been intent on rape. Indeed, when the two hurt men named their missing accomplice and he had been dragged from his hiding place, all three had confessed, pleading for mercy and claiming they had acted solely in
fear of Oster. Var had entertained no hesitation in ordering they each receive thirty lashes—in the case of the worst hurt, to be delivered when the ship's surgeon pronounced them fit enough to survive.

But Arcole Blayke was a problem. Var knew he must order punishment of some kind lest his authority over all the prisoners be weakened, but he was loath to accept Bennan's recommendation. He could not help but grant Blayke a grudging respect, and indeed, were he honest with himself, he felt that in other times, in other circumstances, they might even have been friends. He had checked the records of all involved, and found the thwarted rapists to be no more than he suspected—common criminals, footpads, and murderers. Davyd Furth was a thief: Var dismissed him. But the woman, Flysse Cobal, he thought honest, and—a notion he swiftly dismissed as traitorous—cruelly condemned to exile. And Arcole Blayke; well, he was a curiosity.

He was a gentleman. Of that, Var held no doubt at all: it was obvious from his speech and bearing, even had the records not revealed it. Nor had he acted from malice, but in defense of the woman. Had he not worn the brand upon his cheek, such action must have been considered honorable.

But he
did
wear the brand: he
was
an exile. And therefore Var must punish him.

He studied the man standing before him on the quarterdeck. Blayke was dressed now, in clothes of fashionable cut, but crumpled and somewhat soiled by the voyage. He wore a growing beard—the exiles were forbidden blades of any kind—but still he managed an air of elegance. He was flanked by two burly marines, ten more at attention to either side. He showed no remorse, nor any fear. Var thought of him exercising and knew that he was likely one of the few fit enough to take fifty lashes and survive. He did not want to give Blayke fifty lashes, but neither could he renege his duty or allow his authority to be questioned.

“You confess to the slaying of Karyl Oster,” Var said.

Arcole nodded. “I killed him, yes.”

“And grievously wounded Petyr Rayne.”

“Which one was that?”

“You cracked his skull.”

“Ah, him. Yes.”

“And also wounded Matrym Greene. You broke his foot and … ah, unmanned him.”

“I did. Had I my blade, I'd have slain them all. Swifter and cleaner.”

Var wished the man were less defiant, and admired him for it. “You exhibit no remorse, Blayke,” he said. “These men are—in Oster's case,
was
—the property of the Autarchy. As are you. Rayne and Greene shall likely be cripples now, and thus of lessened value. Oster is now quite worthless.”

“Oster was worthless before I slew him,” Arcole said. And hung Var from the crux of his dilemma: “Would you have done less?”

Var was not sure whether he wanted to smile or curse the man for his arrogance. He knew the answer to Blayke's question—and he could not admit it. He said, “Such theorizing is irrelevant. Have you aught to say in your defense?”

“Is it worth my speaking?” Arcole touched the brand on his cheek. “I've witnessed Evanderan justice.”

Var's face darkened. Damn the man! He pushed too hard. And yet … Var must sympathize with him. He paused, reining his temper. “I have heard the woman, Flysse Cobal, and Davyd Furth plead on your behalf. They say those men were bent on rape and you acted only in defense of them both. Was that so?”

“I could hardly stand by,” said Arcole, “and call myself a man. Much less a gentleman.”

“Then you did act to protect the woman and the youth?”

Arcole wondered why the captain did not simply pronounce his Evanderan version of justice and be done with it. Could it be that he sought some loophole? Could an Evanderan officer be so honorable?

“Well?” Var prompted.

“Well, then, yes,” Arcole said. “Oster and his bullies intended to rape Flysse and Davyd, both. No gentleman could fail to defend them and retain his honor.”

Mostly to himself, Var murmured, “No.”

At his side, Bennan snorted scornfully. Var ignored him, studying Blayke's face. Finally he said, “My orders are clear. You have damaged property of the Autarchy—raised hand against other exiles, for which the punishment is a flogging.”

He heard Bennan vent an anticipatory chuckle and decided he did not much like the captain. “But,” he continued, “I find such extenuating circumstances exist as persuade me to relax that punishment somewhat. So I hereby order that all the exiles be paraded on deck to witness administration of your punishment. Which shall be twelve lashes; to be delivered immediately.”

The full complement of marines lined the bulwarks as the exiles were summoned up from the hold. It was a little past noonday, and the sun glinted on the bayonets and polished buckles of the soldiers who stood at rigid attention. The exiles milled nervously, not sure what they should anticipate. All they knew for certain was that Karyl Oster was dead, his corpse already delivered to the sea, and that four of their number were taken by the marines. Flysse and Davyd had no better idea of Arcole's fate than any others—they had been questioned by Tomas Var and immediately returned to their quarters. Flysse smiled as she caught sight of Arcole, standing erect between two blue-coated marines, and scowled at the other prisoner, recognizing him as the man who had threatened Davyd.

For his part, Davyd was nervous. He had far less faith in—and far more experience of—the Autarchy's justice than Flysse, and when she whispered “Arcole is well, no? Surely they'll not punish him?” he could only shrug and hope she spoke aright.

When sailors were ordered forward to raise a hatch and lash the grille upright, his doubts grew.

Then Tomas Var stepped out before the assembly. He wore full-dress uniform, tricorn set straight on his fair hair, left hand on the hilt of his sword. He climbed partway up the quarterdeck ladder and halted, surveying the crowd awhile before he spoke, his voice pitched to carry to them all.

“You see before you two men sentenced for crimes against the Autarchy. Let their punishments be an example to you all! Do any of you think to perpetrate such crimes as these are guilty of, let their fate dissuade you.”

He paused as a nervous murmur ran through the crowd. Davyd felt Flysse take his hand.

“First,” Var continued when silence fell again, “know that none escape. For their part in the attempted rape, Petyr Rayne and Matrym Greene are sentenced to thirty lashes apiece, which shall be delivered immediately the ship's surgeon declares them sufficiently recovered. Meanwhile, for his part in that heinous crime, Anton Gryme shall now receive thirty lashes.”

He nodded toward Gryme, and the marines flanking the man motioned him forward toward the raised hatch. A sergeant, his tunic removed and his shirtsleeves rolled back, let fall the coils of a heavy whip. Gryme licked his lips. Davyd saw the sweat that trickled down his face, and experienced a savage satisfaction at the impending flogging.

Gryme took an unsteady step in the direction of the hatch, then shook his head as if denying the reality of his situation. A marine pushed him on, and suddenly Gryme let out a wailing cry and spun around. He ducked beneath the soldiers' outflung arms and ran screaming down the deck. For a moment Davyd wondered why the musketeers lining the rail failed to shoot, then saw the reason as Gryme flung himself wildly up the ladder to the foredeck and vaulted the rail there.

It was as though he struck a solid wall, save it was invisible: a wall of magic, set there by the hexes inlaid along the bulwarks. Gryme's leap halted in midair, his body bouncing back to crash onto the boards of the deck. He yelled anew and sprang to his feet, crossing to the farther side. This time he did not jump, but set his hands upon the rail and swung a leg upward, over the metal. He brought up his other leg—and was once more flung back. Moaning in frustration, he clambered to his feet, eyes darting madly, like an animal trapped by circumstances beyond it comprehension. Twice more he attempted to find the sea, and twice more was denied escape as the two men of his escort marched briskly toward him.

As they brought him back, Var said, “Another lesson. You shall none of you find that release—the hexes warding such escape are too strong. Now, sergeant, do you administer punishment.”

For all Davyd bore Gryme no love, he winced as the lash cut stripes over the man's pale flesh. Screams dinned against his ears and he glanced at Arcole, who stood grim-faced; Davyd thought of his friend cut by that savage whip, and smiled his sympathy.

Before it was done, Gryme had passed out. He hung limp from the hatch as a seaman doused his bloodied back, and was still unconscious as two marines dragged him away.

“Now, the case of Arcole Blayke,” Var declared. His voice rang loud in the hushed silence. “In that this man acted on behalf of others, I will not inflict such punishment as might be his. However, in that he damaged property of the Autarchy, I sentence him to twelve lashes.”

Davyd heard Flysse cry, “No! That's not fair!”

He felt her grip tighten on his hand and said, “Arcole's strong, and twelve lashes are not so bad.”

Flysse shook her head and moaned “No!” again. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she did not take her eyes from Arcole's face.

Arcole did not flinch when his escort motioned him forward, but stepped out as if taking a promenade about the deck. When he stood before the hatch, he removed his frock coat and held the jacket out to a marine as if the man were his second. The soldier stared at the garment, perplexed, not quite sure what to do.

Var called out, “Someone take it, eh?”

Before any other had chance to move, Davyd tugged his hand loose from Flysse's grip and darted to Arcole. A marine moved to halt him, but Var said, “No, leave the boy be,” and Davyd took the coat.