Reave the Just and Other Tales (7 page)

An inarticulate howl rose in Kelven’s throat. He snatched up the first heavy object he could find, a brass paperweight thick enough to crush a man’s skull, and hurled it at Reave.

It struck Reave at the base of his neck so hard that he stumbled to his knees.

At once, Kelven flung himself past his desk and attacked his visitor. Catching one fist in Reave’s hair, he jerked Reave upright: with the other, he gave Reave a blow which might have killed any lesser man.

Blood burst from Reave’s mouth. He staggered away on legs that appeared spongy, too weak to hold him. His arms dangled at his sides as though he had no muscle or sinew with which to defend himself.

Transported by triumph and rage and stark terror, the Divestulata pursued his attack.

Blow after blow he rained upon Reave’s head: blow after blow he drove into Reave’s body. Pinned against one of the great bookcases which Rudolph Huchette had lovingly provided for the study, Reave flopped and lurched whenever he was struck, but he could not escape. He did not fight back; he made no effort to ward Kelven away. In moments, his face became a bleeding mass; his ribs cracked; his heart must surely have faltered.

But he did not fall.

The utter darkness in his eyes never wavered. It held Kelven and compromised nothing.

In the end, Reave’s undamaged and undaunted gaze seemed to drive Kelven past rage into madness. Immersed in ecstasy or delirium, he did not hear the door of the study slam open.

His victims were beyond stealth. In truth, neither the widow Huchette nor Jillet could have opened the door quietly. They lacked the strength. Every measure of will and force she possessed, she used to support him, to bear him forward when he clearly could not move or stand on his own. And every bit of resolve and desire that remained to him, he used to hold aloft the decorative halberd which was the only weapon he and the widow had been able to find in the halls of the manor house.

As weak as cripples, nearly dying from the strain of their exertions, they crossed the study behind Kelven’s back.

They were slow, desperate, and unsteady in their approach. Nevertheless, Reave stood patiently and let his antagonist hammer him until Jillet brought the halberd down upon Kelven Divestulata’s skull and killed him.

Then through the blood which drenched his face from a dozen wounds, Reave the Just smiled.

Unceremoniously, both Jillet and the widow collapsed.

Reave stooped and pulled a handkerchief from Kelven’s sleeve. Dabbing at his face, he went to the desk, where he found Kelven’s glass and the decanter of brandy. When he had discovered another glass, he filled it as well; then he carried the glasses to the man and woman who had rescued him. First one and then the other, he raised their heads and helped them to drink until they were able to sit and clutch the glasses and swallow without his support.

After that, he located a bellpull and rang for the Divestulata’s steward.

When the man arrived—flustered by the late summons, and astonished by the scene in the study—Reave announced, “I am Reave the Just. Before his death, Kelven Divestulata confessed his crimes to me, in particular that he obtained possession of this house by false means, that he exercised his lusts in violent and unlawful fashion upon the person of the widow Huchette, and that he imprisoned and tortured my kinsman, Jillet of Forebridge, without cause. I will state before the magistrates that I heard the Divestulata’s confession, and that he was slain in my aid, while he was attempting to kill me. From this moment, the widow is once again mistress of her house, with all its possessions and retainers. If you and all those under you do not serve her honorably, you will answer both to the magistrates and to me.

“Do you understand me?”

The steward understood. Kelven’s servants were silent and crafty men, and perhaps some of them were despicable; but none were stupid. When Reave left the widow and Jillet there in the study, they were safe.

They never saw him again.

As he had promised, he spoke to the magistrates. When they arrived at the manor house shortly after dawn, supported by a platoon of County pikemen and any number of writs, they confirmed that they had received Reave’s testimony. Their subsequent researches into Kelven’s ledgers enabled them to validate much of what Reave had said; Jillet and the widow confirmed the rest. But Reave himself did not appear again in Forebridge. Like the story that brought him, he was gone. A new story took his place.

This also was entirely characteristic.

Once the researches and hearings of the magistrates were done, the widow Huchette passed out of Jillet’s life as well. She had released him from his bonds and the chamber where he was imprisoned; she had half carried him to the one clear deed he had ever performed. But after Rudolph Huchette she had never wanted another husband; and after Kelven Divestulata she never wanted another man. She did one thing to express her gratitude toward Jillet: she repaid his debt to the usurer. Then she closed her doors to him, just as she did to all other men with love potions and aspirations for her. In time, the manor house became a kind of nunnery, where lost or damaged women could go for succor, and no one else was welcome.

Jillet himself, who probably believed that he would love the widow Huchette to the end of his days, found he did not miss her. Nor, in all candor, did he miss Reave. After all, he had nothing in common with them: she was too wealthy; he was too stringent. No, Jillet was quite content without such things. And he had gained something which he prized more highly—the story; the idea.

The story that he had struck the blow which brought down Kelven Divestulata.

The idea that he was kinsman to Reave the Just.

F
etim of the al-Hetal made a serious mistake when he allowed himself to be caught in the bed of Selmet Abulbul’s youngest and most delectable wife. The mistake was not instantly obvious, however. Selmet was old and infirm: there was nothing physical he could do to Fetim, who was at least as strong as he was handsome. Furthermore, Selmet was unpopular, being a usurer: he had no friends he could call on to fight for him. Public opinion, in fact, would have applauded Fetim’s choice of cuckolds. And, sadly, the Abulbul clan was in decline. Selmet had no relations or children who might be persuaded to view Fetim’s action as a matter of honor. In short, he did not appear to be a man who could avenge insults.

But Selmet Abulbul the usurer knew how to curse.

While Fetim preened himself beside the bed, lacking even sufficient decency to be frightened, and the young wife pretended to cower among the sheets, Selmet called upon a few names which I am not permitted to record. He uttered several phrases which it would be sacrilege for me to repeat. Then, his voice quaking with rage, he explained what he wished the powers whose attention he had invoked to do to Fetim of the al-Hetal.

“In the name of the great father of djinn, let all those he loves be killed. Let him be readily loved—and let all those who love him die in anguish. Let all his seed and all his blood be brought to ruin. Let horror cover the heads of all who befriend him. Let his friendship be a surer sign of death than any plague-spot.

“And let the djinn who watches over the accursed protect him, so that his sufferings cannot end.”

From such a curse, Selmet’s youngest wife was safe: she loved no one but herself. But the clan of the al-Hetal was prosperous in that town. Hearing his doom, Fetim should have found it in his heart to be frightened.

He did not. “Are you done?” he asked politely. “We are taught that it is rude to leave a room while our elders are speaking.”

Selmet’s youngest wife also did not understand curses. A snicker at her husband’s expense escaped from the sheets.

“Go!” Selmet shouted as well as he was able. “From this day forward, you will never forget that you would be happier dead.”

Bowing with sardonic grace, Fetim left the house of Selmet Abulbul. Although his sport with the woman had been interrupted, his spirits were gay. It was gratifying that others knew of his successes. And the vengeance which Selmet might take upon his youngest wife was amusing to contemplate. In such benign good humor, Fetim turned his steps toward the high mansion where he lived with his mother, who thought him flawless, his father, who doted upon him, and his brothers, who worked harder than he did.

To his vast astonishment, he saw over the intervening rooftops that the mansion was in flames.

Fetim of the al-Hetal was not a notably selfless young man. Nevertheless, he had a warm place in his heart for anyone who loved him as much as he loved himself. In a frenzy which resembled concern for his parents and family—and which did indeed include some concern among its other considerations—he tore his hair and ran to see what was happening to his home.

Turmoil gripped the neighborhood. Men, women, and children raced in all directions, wailing. For some reason, the thought of water did not enter their heads, despite the fact that a history of fire had taught the town to respond promptly and efficiently. No one fought the blaze which tore at the walls and flailed from the windows of the fine mansion.

The destruction of Fetim’s house was not a pleasant sight; but it was more pleasant than some of its details. He heard his mother scream and saw her in flames on the rooftop. Two of his nephews fell like stones to the street when one of the brothers’ wives in desperation threw them out a window. A favorite servant who had cared for Fetim and taught him a great deal of fun as a boy died trying to descend the outer wall.

“Where is the fire brigade?” roared Fetim. But no one answered him. Everyone in the street was too busy running and yelling.

Then Akbar of the al-Hetal, Fetim’s father, appeared before him. Akbar’s clothes were still afire, and his eyes were mad. Inspired by the curse, he cried, “This is your doing!”

Fetim was so surprised that he did not defend himself when his father swung a cudgel at his head.

I deflected the blow, and he was no more than stunned. He recovered his wits in time to see Akbar die in front of him.

On this signal, the neighborhood commenced shouting:

“There he is!”

“He started the fire!”

“He killed his own family!”

“Stone him!”

Stones began to fly. None of them struck him seriously—although I was confident that he would not soon forget the bruises they left on his body—but they were enough to make him flee.

Led only by a desire to get away from the stones, he left the neighborhood and soon found himself at the gates of the town with a howling mob on his heels. The gates were open, as was customary on occasions of fire, in case the flames spread. The mob needed only a moment to drive Fetim out of the town where he had lived all his life—out onto the bare road which led into the desert.

There it became clear to me that he would not be able to run much farther. His life of self-indulgence had not prepared him for these exertions. And the mob would surely tear him limb from limb when he faltered. Therefore I caused his pursuers to lose sight of him. Shortly, they retraced their steps and set to work quelling the fire.

In the aftermath of the blaze, the neighborhood discovered that the damage had been confined to the clan of the al-Hetal, its dependents and friends. But of that sizable group of people, Fetim was the only survivor.

Because he did not know what else to do, he continued trudging along the road until nightfall. Then he threw himself down in order to bemoan his lot.

“It is unjust,” he protested. “I am blameless. Any man would have accepted the invitation that woman gave me. Am I to be punished because she gave the invitation to me rather than to another? Selmet should not have married that heartless trollop. Yet his folly is inflicted upon me.

“Has there ever been a man as unfortunate as I am?”

“Actually,” I replied, “it seems to me your family and friends are considerably more unfortunate.” I spoke thus to provoke him. “You’re merely accursed. They’re all dead.”

Apparently, he had believed himself alone. He gaped foolishly about him, as though I might be visible. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Think about it. You’ll figure it out.”

Who I was did not yet interest him, however. “You are wrong,” he said. “Their deaths were painful, perhaps, but swift. And I will be blamed for it, although I am blameless. Also, they are free from misery. I must die slowly, alone and lost. I have neither food nor water. I have no camel. I know not where to go. I am entirely pitiable, and my sorrows are greater than any man has ever suffered.”

“If you keep talking like that,” I said, “I’m going to get bored in a real hurry.”

“You cannot fault me! It was not I who pronounced the curse. It was Selmet Abulbul, punishing me for his own errors.”

“‘His own errors,’ indeed. Do you want me to believe he forced you into his wife’s bed against your will?”

“She invited me!”

“You accepted.”

“It is not my fault!”

“So you keep saying.”

Pretending to ignore me, Fetim of the now-defunct al-Hetal wept for a while to prove how miserable he was. Then, instead of dying, he slept.

The next day, he continued down the road. After all, he was young and handsome. Surely the world loved him too well to prolong his travail. And, in fact, this seemed to be true. Before midmorning, an entire caravan caught up with him. By that time, he was dirty and tired, and in no good humor; but the caravan master chanced to like handsome young men with a thick sweat on them, and he offered Fetim a ride to the city of Niswan.

If Fetim had bothered to think about his circumstances, he might have believed that I had arranged this fortuitous offer for him. He would have been mistaken, however.

He did not find the caravan master’s attentions especially pleasant, but he endured them. On the one hand, he preferred women personally. On the other, he could not be surprised by the fact that he had been found attractive. And he had no money—as well as no taste for work. How else was he to travel in comfort? It was only a journey of some few days to Niswan, he had been assured. Then the unpleasantness would be over, and he would have the whole city before him in which to make his fortune. The prospect excited him boyishly.

Unfortunately, some few days were all the caravan master required to conceive intentions of his own concerning Fetim. His name, when he chose to use it, was Rashid, and a number of years had passed since he had last shared a bed with a young man whom he considered as succulent as Fetim. Being neither shortsighted nor weak-minded, he grew jealous well in advance of Fetim’s opportunities to merit such a reaction. First he began to plot ways to keep the young man with him when Niswan was reached. Then he began to consider how he might keep other men away.

The outcome was that, after the caravan had wound its dusty way past the gates and the guards of Niswan deep into the city’s teeming bazaar, and the camels were at last stopped for unloading and profit, Rashid knocked Fetim on the head and sequestered him.

At first, this was a highly successful arrangement from Rashid’s point of view—less so from Fetim’s. The caravan master now had at his whim a handsome young man made even more tasty by the occasional savors of truculent resistance and abject beggary. Nevertheless, Fetim’s sequestration was not long. The multitudes who thronged the bazaar naturally included many men and women of dubious virtue, individuals who reflexively coveted anything which anyone else kept hidden. One night, Rashid leaped out of bed and grabbed at his knives too late to prevent himself from being gutted like an ox in an abattoir. A remarkable amount of blood splashed onto Fetim. Then he was dragged away.

Before dawn, he found himself sold into slavery as a desirable—if temporarily blood-sotted and noxious—catamite.

His purchasers tolerated no resistance. In any case, he had little to offer, being accustomed to seek his own pleasure rather than willingly to undergo pain. Therefore he submitted. It seemed conceivable that with the right degree of complaisance and cunning his life could still be quite pleasurable. Perhaps freedom was not too high a price to pay for homage to his desirability. A few baths, a few perfumes, a few hints, and he was set to work at love in a luxurious stable of young men resembling himself.

The resemblance was only superficial, of course: the other young men had not been cursed by such a proficient as Selmet Abulbul. Rich merchants, minor sheiks, and occasional grande dames discovered in Fetim an attractiveness which plucked at their hearts. They were less aware of the fact that after a night or two with Fetim they were prone to die horribly.

For some time, this caused him no difficulty. He was more conscious that as an object of lust he found lust to be less and less interesting. He was constrained to humble himself: the practices which brought him love took on the flavor of degradation. This, he thought, was the true meaning of the old usurer’s curse.

He was mistaken, however. In the same irrational way that Akbar of the al-Hetal had pronounced his son responsible for the ruin of the clan, the family, friends, supporters, and adherents of Fetim’s butchered patrons concluded that the stable which owned him was to blame for the deaths. One night when he was especially miserable, a throng of sheiks, swordsmen, and rabble burst into the richly appointed establishment and began slaughtering everyone present.

This was naturally not an action which the owners of the stable could permit to pass unchallenged. In the bazaars of Niswan, no man or woman dared make a shekel’s profit without guarding it in some way. At once, forces which had been retained for precisely this sort of emergency were called out. The conflict quickly escalated, and in a short time the gauze-curtained cubicle where Fetim had pleased his patrons became the effective center of a fervid and bloody battle.

Maimed and dying boys and women and bystanders screamed. And Fetim screamed as well, although he was unhurt. He knew almost nothing about defending himself. In any case, he was unarmed. I was forced to work quickly to keep him from being cut apart at any moment.

When I opened a corridor for him through the bloodshed, he found his legs and ran.

As he did so, both sides of the battle turned their enmity in his direction and followed.

By this time, the entire city had been roused. The King’s forces marched to suppress the conflict—and joined Fetim’s pursuit. Brigands and looters sought to take advantage of the chaos—and found themselves chasing a young man they had never seen. In self-defense, good men and respectable families armed their servants—who immediately snatched up torches and plunged into the tumult.

The great father of djinn himself must have been listening when Selmet Abulbul had cursed Fetim of the al-Hetal. I was hard-pressed to keep my charge alive.

I accomplished it by driving him into the sewer, which an enlightened king of a previous generation had caused to be dug under the length of the city.

The stench and density of Niswan’s effluvium eventually proved to be stronger than the curse. While I dragged Fetim through the sewage—keeping his head above the surface largely without his assistance—his pursuers one by one lost interest in what they were doing and retreated. Before we passed under the wall and emerged into the fetid swamp which Niswan used as a cesspit, we had left behind everyone who wanted him dead.

Unceremoniously, I dredged him from the far end of the swamp. Then, because he still did not wish to make an effort on his own behalf, I let him fall to the dirt.

Once again, he sobbed like a girl. This time, however, his emotion was composed of revulsion and fear: his grief was for himself. After a while, he raised his head and said, “They deserved what happened to them. I wish I could have stayed to watch them die.”