The King's Justice (2 page)

He is a veteran of what he calls the Balance Wars, the conflict of shapers hungry for power. That contest cost the lives of all his former comrades. More often than Black chooses to remember, it came close to killing him. Indeed, it would have reduced the known world to rubble if the King, a shaper himself, had not forsaken warfare to become a focus of balance, the human mediator between the unknowing, unthinking, and uncaring forces of bright and dark.

For good reason, Black distrusts temples. He fears that a preference for one god or the other will encourage the ambitions of shapers. In themselves, bright and dark are not fearsome. They
are merely necessary. They are, after all, the elemental energies that enable the world—life and death, growth and decay—when they are balanced against each other. The danger is that taking strength from one makes the other comparatively stronger. Then the balance tilts. And it is imbalance that generates true power, the power of shapers to remake themselves and their allies and their desires.

Without the King—

Black does not think about such things. He knows too well what they entail. He does not wish to recall old horrors. The reek of a present atrocity is more than enough to resurrect wrath and fear from their graves deep in his soul.

The folk of Settle's Crossways want the King's Justice. No doubt they have tried to summon it. No doubt their congregations pray for it daily. But they do not know what it means. They have no idea what the King's Justice is.

When Black has secured a stable for his mount, he makes his way along the porches to the nearest tavern. It stands conveniently near the crossroads and the temples. The townspeople he passes stare at him, or make studious efforts not to stare. He has that effect, but he does not ignore it, despite its familiarity. He touches the brim of his hat to everyone, a greeting to assure men, women, and children that he is harmless.

Between him and the tavern, a mother and her young daughter approach. They have come from a milliner and are walking homeward. To them, also, Black touches his hat. But when he has passed them, the girl says, “Ma, that man has holes.”

She is too young to understand caution.

Black halts as though a hand has been placed on his shoulder. While the mother tells her daughter, “Hush, child. Be polite. He is a stranger,” Black turns to look more closely at the girl.

“But Ma,” she insists. “He has holes in his
soul
.”

The woman takes her daughter's hand, intending to urge the girl away. But she pauses when Black lowers himself to one knee in front of the child. Surprised, the mother stands still.

Black studies the girl, a child of no more than five or six years. She is clean and well-dressed, from a comfortable family, but he ignores such details. He ignores her blond ringlets and her open face and her unbruised knees. Instead he concentrates on the fact that she is not afraid. He concentrates on the kindness in her eyes. It suggests concern for him.

“Holes?” he asks gently. “In my soul?”

He knows too well that the girl is right. He has spent pieces of himself in more battles than he cares to remember.

The mother is anxious now. “Forgive her, sir,” she says. “She will learn courtesy when she is older.”

At the same time, the girl says, “I see them.” She points at his chest. “They are there and there”—she points repeatedly—“and there and there.”

Still gently, Black says, “You surprise me, child. There are few who see me. Even fewer see me clearly.”

His manner encourages boldness. “Ma can't see what I see,” she proclaims. “She thinks I make it up. But it is all true.

“Your holes hurt you. If they get bigger, you will die.”

Black frowns, considering her words. After a moment, he admits, “That is certainly true.”

The girl extends her hand. She means to touch him. “I can make them go away.” Then she becomes less sure of herself. “They are too big. I can make one of them go away. When I am older, I can do more.”

Before her hand reaches him, Black rises to his feet. Now he faces the mother, who is beginning to pull on her daughter's arm. “You are wise, madam,” he tells her with less of gentleness, more of warning. “You have a gifted child. A precious child. You do well to protect her. She will have time enough for her gifts when she is a woman.”

He knows now that this child
can
heal him. But he also knows that doing so will blight her childhood. She is a seer, one who sees. True seers are more rare than shapers. They do not cause imbalance. Rather they draw strength from within themselves. The girl is indeed precious. But she is too young to suffer the cost of what she can see and do.

The mother feels sudden tears in her eyes. She has been troubled for her daughter, disturbed by a child who pretends to see things which do not exist. But the stranger believes that such sight is not a pretense. This both comforts and frightens the woman. She casts one more glance at the man to confirm that he is serious. Then she hurries her daughter away.

Black
is
serious. However, he does not consider the child's presence dangerous, except to herself. Certainly he craves her healing. He aches for it when she is gone. Yet her gift has no
bearing on his purpose. Her scent is as clean as her person. He does not regret sparing her.

Touching his hat to all who pass by, he continues toward the tavern.

Like the town itself, the tavern is much as he expects it to be. It has a wooden floor strewn with sawdust, a long bar with ale-taps along its inner edge and shelves of bottles and flasks behind it, a number of round tables with chairs for four or six, and an increasing count of patrons, some of whom have settled themselves for a night of drink. All this is indistinguishable from other taverns around the kingdom. The only differences here are the general affluence of the patrons, the consequent comeliness of the barmaids, and the room's air of unresolved distress. These men and their few women take comfort in drink rather than in each other. Comradeship, jests, roistering, and songs do not numb their fears.

Many of them look at Black as he enters, and of those many stare. But he touches his hat to them and leaves them alone. He already knows that the cause of the town's alarm is not present. If it were, he would smell it.

Its absence, also, he does not regret. He is patient. And he has been taught by blood and pain that no good comes of confronting his foes before he has prepared himself.

To begin his preparations, he seats himself at the bar one stool away from a man who is already dedicated to drowning his concerns in ale. Black does not remove his cloak, though his arms are covered by the heavy sleeves of his calfskin shirt. His
hat he wears to cover the scars on his scalp. From the barkeep, a large man too well fed and lubricated by his own wares to contain his sweat, Black requests ale. He asks a bowl of stew, and bread with it. And when his desires are met, he concentrates on eating and drinking like a man who has no other purpose, though in truth he does not relish the stew, and the pungent ale does not ease his mind.

The barkeep's name is Bailey. His nature is friendly, but the town's alarm makes him wary. Also he is both interested in and suspicious of the stranger. He hovers nearby while Black eats and drinks.

After a time, Black asks with an air of indifference, “You are not troubled by brigands?” He knows this by the lack of walls and gates, and by the inexperience of the guards. “I am surprised. The forest can hide any number of evil men, and your crossroads surely offers many opportunities for plunder.” He appears to address the barkeep, but in truth he is speaking to the drinker near him. “How does it happen that you are spared?”

“Trouble we had, sir,” Bailey answers in his most pleasant tone. “In my Da's time, that was. Lives and goods were lost, fearsome quantities. My Da kept an axe here, under the bar, to defend himself. But the old wars have been good for us. Caravans now come with squadrons of men-at-arms, and even lone wagons are guarded by archers and pikes. No brigands trouble us now. They attack only in the deep forest, where they can be sure of escape.”

Black is doubtful, but he puts the matter aside for a later time.
“You are fortunate, then,” he observes. “Other regions of the kingdom are not so blessed.”

“We are, sir,” Bailey replies. “We are.” He means to say, We
were
, but caution stops him. He knows, as all the town now knows, that strangers must be distrusted. Striving for still greater pleasantness, he asks, “You know the kingdom, then, sir? You are much traveled?”

Black has not met the barkeep's gaze. He does not now. “Much traveled,” he assents, “yes.” Then he deflects Bailey's prying. “Enough to observe that in favorable times the Temple of Bright Eternal attracts many good folk. It is Dark Enduring that responds to woe and hardship. Is his Temple well attended?”

He believes it is. The Temple of Dark Enduring is as large and well-maintained as its neighbor.

Bailey thinks to offer some dismissive response, but politely, pleasantly. Before he can choose his words, however, the man seated one stool away mutters with his mouth in his flagon, “Lately.”

Anxious now, Bailey tries to say, Not so lately, sir. Dark Enduring has always been much respected in Settle's Crossways. But Black rubs at his left forearm, and words flounder in Bailey's mind. He does not intervene as Black asks without turning to regard the speaker, “Lately?” Black's manner suggests no particular interest.

The speaker is lean as a stick. His bare arms have the rope-like muscles and deep brown of a farmhand. He carries no weight on his frame, and his features droop like a hound's as he
drinks. To Black he smells of sweat and grievance. His name is Trait, and if he is asked, he will say that he is bitter because the town's prosperity has passed him by. But that is not Black's question. Trait takes a long pull at his flagon, then says, “Since the murder.”

Now Bailey intends to intervene in earnest. Several of his patrons have heard Trait, and a stillness comes over the room. Soon everyone will be listening. But Black continues to rub his forearm, and Bailey scowls because he cannot remember what he wants to say.

Black does not ask about the murder. He will learn what he needs to know soon enough. Instead he asks, “And that encourages attendance at the Temple of Dark Enduring? How so?”

Bailey contrives to blurt, “You are a religious man, sir?” But Black and Trait ignore him.

“That priest,” Trait says. He frowns. “What is his name?” Then he remembers. “Father Tenderson. He says what we want to hear.”

Black lifts his hand to Bailey, points at Trait's flagon. Bailey understands. He refills the flagon at an ale-tap and replaces it in front of Trait.

Still revealing no great interest, Black asks, “What do you want to hear?”

Trait gulps at his drink for a moment. Then he says with satisfaction, “Revenge. Retribution.

“That other priest. Father Whorry. He promises glory. He preaches that poor Jon Marker's boy is with Bright Eternal, all
light and happiness. He says if we have faith what we lose will not grieve us. Who takes comfort in slop like that? Father Tenderson speaks truth.”

From somewhere behind Black, a man calls out, “Enough, Trait. He is a stranger. He has his own concerns. Jon Marker's loss means nothing to him.”

Trait grins sourly. He enjoys the reprimand. It makes him more substantial in his own eyes. “Father Tenderson,” he tells Black more distinctly, “demands punishment. He prays every day for the King's Justice. He wants the man who butchered that boy burned alive.” He knocks his flagon on the bar. “We all do. We pray for the same thing.” Again he claps the bar with his flagon. “Revenge will comfort us.”

Then he snorts more quietly, “Glory will not.”

Black does not say, The King's Justice is not what that priest thinks it is. Instead he remarks, “Father Whorry sounds judicious. He values peace.” Then he asks, “Can a stranger meet with him? I, too, value peace.” His tone is noncommittal. “Does he frequent a tavern of an evening?”

The man behind Black responds loudly, “The good Father will be at his prayers. Settle's Crossways is his concern. Wait for the morrow, stranger. Your desire to accost him at such a time is unseemly.”

Black does not apologize. While he considers his reply, Trait mutters into his flagon, “At his prayers, aye—if they belong in a common house. If not, he labors for peace by other means.”

“
Enough
, Trait,” commands the man behind Black again. He
approaches the bar. “Is this a fit occasion for your spite?” He slaps a heavy hand on Trait's shoulder. “Show respect, man, for Jon Marker if you have none for the priest.”

Trait smirks into his flagon, but does not retort.

The man rounds on Black. “Do you mean to mock us, sir?” he demands. He is large, granite-browed, and muscular. His apparel suggests wealth by its fineness, and indeed he owns a well-stocked general store. Others consider him a bully, but he believes himself a man often justly offended—and able to act against insult. “Our concerns are none of yours.”

Knowing the man, Bailey hastens to placate him. “Be easy, Ing Hardiston,” he says in his most soothing voice. “This is a trying time at its best. A stranger might well give offense without the intent to do so.”

Black ignores the barkeep. He faces Hardiston's anger. Still disinterested in his manner, he says, “Father Tenderson, then. Is
he
a drinking man?”

Trait stifles a guffaw with ale.

Ing Hardiston bristles. He has blows in mind. Like many another man, he fears for his sons, and his fear incenses him. He desires to deny that he is afraid. But Black's lightless gaze weakens him. Though he clenches his fist, he does not swing.

Casting a glare at Bailey, the storekeeper then returns to Black. “Ask him yourself, sir,” he says with knotted jaws, “when you see him on the morrow. You will not trouble the folk of this town at night.”