The Scar (12 page)

The young Ol and Bonifor laughed far too loudly for the quality of the joke.

“I swear by my spurs, he must have been writing a novel in letters,” proposed Dron. “Sometimes, I’d pass by on patrol and see that his rooms were lit until morning.”

“Really?” marveled Karver, but the others just clicked their tongues.

“I’d like to know if there’s some beauty to whom Egert devotes these vigils,” drawled one of the guards in a faux romantic voice.

Egert sat in the middle of the joyful din, smiling sourly and uncertainly. Karver’s intent gaze was discomforting him.

“Dilia sends her regards,” Karver remarked carelessly. “She stopped by the tilting yard and, among other things, inquired why the fights were taking place without Egert.”

“By the way, what should we tell the captain?” Dron asked suddenly.

Egert gritted his teeth. More than anything else, he wanted to disappear from this place, but to leave now would be an insult to the general merriment and the guards’ benevolent attitude toward him.

“Wine!” he yelled out to the landlady.

In the course of the next two hours, Egert Soll made the most important discovery of his life: Alcohol, if drunk in sufficient quantities, can suppress both spiritual unrest and fear.

Toward dusk, the crowd of guards, fairly thinned out by this time, spilled out onto the streets and stumbled away from the Faithful Shield. Egert hollered and laughed no less than the others. From time to time he caught the alert glances of Karver from the corner of his eye, but the inebriated Egert no longer cared: he was enjoying the long-awaited awareness, however false, of his own strength, freedom, and daring.

All the townsfolk who came across this gloriously drunken company shrank back toward the curbs, not at all desirous of crossing paths with the gentlemen of the guards. On the embankment, a lamplighter was kindling the streetlights: the revelers nearly knocked his ladder out from under him. Egert roared with laughter. The streetlamps danced in front of his eyes; they circled in a waltz, bowing and curtseying. The thick air of late spring was full of smells, and Egert gathered them in with his nose and mouth, experiencing with every swallow the fragrance of the sun-warmed river, the freshness of grass, wet stone, pitch, someone’s perfume, and even warm manure. Embracing Karver with his left arm and, one by one, all the other guards with his right, he unquestioningly accepted that his illness had left him, and that like any cured invalid, he had the right to an especially intense joy for life.

Opposite the entrance to the Faithful Shield, not far from the place where the student and his fiancée, Toria, had first alighted from their carriage, there was a puddle standing in a pothole. The puddle was as deep as regret and as greasy as a feast day broth. Neither the wind nor the sun had dried up this puddle; though it had shrunk slightly, it had preserved itself from the early spring until the very threshold of summer, and it could be expected that such unusual persistence would help it remain there until the fall.

The puddle caught the fading, evening sky on its black, oily surface. A drunken tailor wobbled on its edge.

That this man was indeed a tailor was clear from the very first glance: a well-thumbed measuring tape was draped around his slender neck in a loose knot, and he was wearing a large canvas apron smeared with chalk. His flaxen hair was mussed into two tufts that sprang up behind his ears. Too young to be a master, the apprentice tailor peered at the puddle and hiccuped quietly.

Karver laughed out loud. The others joined in his laughter, but with that the matter should have ended. The apprentice raised his cloudy eyes and said nothing, and the guards, passing to the side of the puddle, walked toward the doors of the tavern.

Of course, just as Egert was walking by the befuddled tailor, the apprentice lost his balance and took a sweeping step forward. His heavy wooden clog crashed down into the very middle of the puddle, raising a violent fountain of fetid muck, a large part of which landed on Lieutenant Egert Soll.

Egert was doused nearly from head to toe; the dirty grime splattered over his coat and his shirt, his neck and his face. Feeling large, cold globs of mud slither down his cheeks, Egert froze on the spot, unable to take his glassy gaze from the soused apprentice.

The guards surrounded the tailor in a dense ring; while they watched Egert warily, they regarded the lad with curiousity and interest. However, the journeyman was far drunker than Lieutenant Soll and thus far more daring: he was not at all afraid of the gentlemen of the guards, though it is possible that he simply did not notice them. With purely scientific interest, he examined his clog, which had disturbed the surface of the puddle and flung mud at Egert.

“Shove him in, the pig,” Dron advised good-naturedly. Young Bonifor darted forward, anticipating the amusement this entertainment would bring.

“May I do it?”

“This is Egert’s man,” Karver commented dispassionately.

Lieutenant Soll grinned fiercely, took a step toward the tailor, and immediately sobered up. Reality descended upon him, grinding down the spring, freedom, and his newborn courage; Egert faltered from the sudden thought that he would once again exhibit his fear. And indeed, as soon as he thought about fear, a dreary weakness burrowed into his belly. All he had to do was simply extend his hand and seize the lad by the collar, but his hand was drenched in sweat and had no intention of complying.

Great Khars, help me!

Shaking all over from the effort, Egert reached out for the scruff of the apprentice. He grasped the collar of the tailor’s jacket with his damp palm, but at that very second the boy roused himself, throwing off Egert’s hand.

The guards were silent. Egert felt rivulets of cold sweat chasing one another down his back.

“What a pity,” he forced out with great difficulty. “He’s just an idiot, a drunk who accidentally…”

The guards exchanged glances. The apprentice, meanwhile, if not wishing to contradict Egert’s words, then simply desiring to continue his scientific inquiry, deliberately raised his wooden clog over the puddle.

The guards sprang back in time; only Egert, who stood as if transfixed, was inundated with the next, even more plentiful helping of greasy mud. The tailor reeled, maintaining his balance with difficulty. Feasting his eyes on the result of his act, gratified, he smiled like a brewer’s horse.

“He’ll kill him,” observed Dron in an undertone. “Damn!”

Egert’s face, ears, and neck burned under the layer of black slurry. Strike! His reason, his experience, and all his common sense insisted on it. Beat him, teach him a lesson, let them pry you off his unresponsive body! What is wrong with you, Egert? This is past endurance, this is the end, the end of everything, kill him!

The guards were silent. The apprentice smiled drunkenly.

Egert fumbled at the hilt of his sword with a wooden hand. Not this! screamed his better judgment. How can you swing your sword at a defenseless man, at a commoner?

… at a defenseless man, at a defenseless man …

The apprentice raised his foot a third time, now looking Egert straight in the eyes. Apparently, he was so drunk that, regardless of the armed guards surrounding him, he was able to recognize only the pleasure he received from this distinct action: the journey of the muck from the puddle to the face and clothes of a certain gentleman.

The apprentice was still raising his foot a third time, but Lieutenant Dron could no longer contain himself. He darted forward with an inarticulate growl and smashed his fist into the tailor’s chin. The astonished apprentice fell backwards without a single sound, and there he remained, stretched out on the ground, sniveling.

Egert took a deep breath. He stood, covered in mud from head to toe, and ten stunned pairs of eyes watched as the mess dripped from the gold braid of his coat.

Dron was the first to break the silence. “You might have killed him, Egert,” Dron said, by way of excuse. “You’re all wound up. He probably should be killed, but not here, not now. He’s beyond drunk, the moron, but you were about to draw on him, a commoner! Egert, can you hear me?”

Egert stood, staring into the puddle just as the apprentice had when they first encountered him. Thank Heaven, Dron had decided that Egert was paralyzed by a fit of rage!

They were pawing at his wet sleeve.

“Egert, are you out of your mind? Dron is right, you shouldn’t kill him. If you kill them all, there would be no craftsmen left, right? Let’s go, Egert, eh?”

Ol and Bonifor were already waiting at the doors to the tavern, impatiently looking back at the others. Someone took Egert by the arm.

“Just a minute,” muttered Karver.

They all looked at him in surprise.

“Just a minute,” he repeated, louder this time. “Dron, and you, gentlemen—in your opinion, did Lieutenant Soll behave correctly?”

One of them snorted, “What is this nonsense, what are you doing, talking like this about your superior, asking if it was correct or incorrect? If he had acted, this dolt wouldn’t be alive.”

“It would have been improper, had he brutalized the lad,” remarked Dron in a conciliatory manner. “That’s enough, Karver, let it go.”

Then something odd happened. Slipping between the guards, Karver suddenly appeared right in that same spot where the now prostrate tailor had stood before. Bending his knees slightly, Karver struck the puddle with his boot.

It became as quiet as a long-forgotten tomb. A convulsion passed through Egert’s body as fresh grime adhered to his coat, slicking his scarred cheek with new drops and cementing his blond hair into icy tufts.

“But!” one of the guards said stupidly. “Uh, but what…”

“Egert,” Karver asked quietly, “are you just going to stand there?”

His voice seemed at once very near and very far away: it was as if Egert’s ears were stuffed with cotton.

“He is just going to stand there, gentlemen,” Karver promised just as quietly, and once again he doused Egert with stinking slime.

Lagan and Dron grabbed Karver from either side. Without resisting, he allowed them to drag him away from the puddle.

“Don’t take on so, gentlemen! Take a look at Egert. He’s not trembling with rage. He’s ill, after all, and what do you suppose the name of his illness might be?”

Egert could scarcely pry open his lips to force out a pitiful, “Shut up.”

Karver was heartened. “Well, well. You’re blind, gentlemen. I beg your pardon, but you are as blind as a bunch of moles.”

Taking advantage of the fact that Lagan and Dron, perplexed, had released his arms, Karver rushed over and drenched Egert yet again, almost emptying the puddle.

The heads of the curious sprouted out of the windows and doors of the Faithful Shield like mushrooms sticking out of a basket.

“Oh, but he’s drunk!” Bonifor cried out in a panic. “How can you? He’s a guard!”

“Egert is no longer a guard!” snapped Karver. “His honor is as besmirched as his coat.”

Egert then raised his eyes and met Karver’s glare.

He was so impossibly observant, this friend and vassal of his. The long years of taking second place had taught him to watch and bide his time.

Now, having guessed, he hit the target squarely. He won, he was victorious, and in his severe eyes, fixed on Egert, Egert read the entire long history of their faithful friendship.

You were always braver than me, said Karver’s eyes. You were always stronger and more fortunate, and how was I repaid for my faithfulness and patience? Remember, I tolerated the most caustic and wicked jests; I endured them by rights; I practically rejoiced in your mockery! Life is fickle; now I am braver than you, Egert, and it is only right that now you should …

“What? Are you out of your mind, Karver?” several voices cried out at once.

… It is only right that now you, Egert, should occupy that place to which your cowardice has committed you.

“This means a duel, Egert!” Dron enunciated the words hoarsely. “You must challenge him!”

Egert saw his friend blink. Somewhere in the depths of his consciousness, a stray thought flew past: What if he had miscalculated after all? What if Egert did challenge him? What if there was a duel?

“This means a duel.… A duel, Egert … Challenge…” Voices floated in the air around Egert’s head. “Call him out. This hour or tomorrow, whatever you want. At dawn by the bridge … Duel … duel … duel…”

And then Egert experienced that symptom of fear about which Feta had been silent during their conversation: His fear increased at every mention of the word
duel.

Karver saw this and understood. His eyes, fastened on Egert, flared with an awareness of his complete and utter safety.

Duel … Duel … Duel …

Somewhere deep in Egert’s soul, the former Lieutenant Soll thrashed about, ranting with impotent rage, commanding him to draw his sword and trace a line in the dirt in front of Karver’s legs, but fear had already mastered the onetime lieutenant; it had broken him, paralyzed him, and was now forcing him into the most shameful of all crimes for a man: the refusal to fight.

Egert took a step backwards. The gloomy sky spun over his head like an insane carousel. Someone gasped, someone gave a warning shout, and then Lieutenant Egert Soll turned around and ran away.

That very same evening, leaving his coat, which was caked in mud, at his ancestral home, and taking with him only a small traveling bag, Egert abandoned his hometown, persecuted by an intolerable terror and an even more oppressive shame.

*   *   *

Far from Kavarren, a merry party took place in the square of a large city.

In the middle of the square stood the statue of a man in a hooded robe, with his face half-hidden by a rocky hood.
Sacred Spirit Lash
was carved on the pedestal; until recently the people of this city approached the sculpture only to bow in respect or—especially in the old times—to place presents at the statue’s feet.

But times change and, apparently, change swiftly. The world gets weaker; people become impudent. A half dozen young people, undoubtedly students, had managed to put a colorful female skirt on the statue, and now the most insolent of these puny adolescents had attached a jaunty frilled cap on the head of the Sacred Spirit. Even worse, a mustache was painted on the upper lip of the sculpture with a piece of coal. A man in a gray hooded robe stood in the shade, in a narrow passage between two walls, unnoticed. It was too late to prevent the disgrace, the blasphemy taking place; he could only observe it now.