The Pariah Page 8

Todman and Baker duly came forward to haul Erchel to his feet. After ripping off his clothes they dragged him to the twin lines formed by the rest of the band. They all held cudgels or staffs ready, some eager, some indifferent, but all fully willing and able to do Deckin’s bidding.

  Todman delivered a hard kick to Erchel’s bared arse, propelling him into the lane between the lines. The first blow landed before he took a step, Baker delivering a hefty thwack to his legs with a leather strap he liked to keep for such occasions. To his credit, Erchel contrived to keep upright as he made his stumbling progress through the gauntlet and the blows rained down. His increasingly piteous cries and sobs were not so creditable, loud despite the new rasping quality to his voice. However, my attention was mostly captured by Deckin’s lingering stare. I had suffered a few punishments during my years with the band, a few beatings and a caning when my pilfering or acerbic tongue drew Deckin’s notice. But I hadn’t yet been forced to run the gauntlet, a trial I had seen take the life from others more than once.

  Finally, Deckin’s small eyes blinked again and he turned to Lorine. “Don’t let them kill him,” he said, jerking his head at the ongoing spectacle. “Little shit’s got his uses, and his uncle’s still owed a favour.”

  She nodded, favouring me with a small curve of her lips as she strode off, calling out in her strident but pleasing tones, “All right, that’ll do!” Even in the midst of my fear I couldn’t help but take note of the sway of her hips before Deckin’s mutter snapped my gaze back to him.

  “Let’s take a walk, young Alwyn. I would hear more of the duke’s courageous end.”

  I followed Deckin to the fallen, moss-shrouded trunk of a tall birch a good distance clear of the camp. Walking in his wake, my eyes continually flicking from his broad back to the surrounding forest, I entertained wild and very brief thoughts of simply fleeing into the trees. Perhaps he wanted to deal with me in private, a secluded murder away from the rest of the band, some of whom actually liked me. Or he may have been intent on a maiming, taking an ear or an eye, which the others would say was in fact a kindness, for hadn’t we witnessed him sever a man’s cock and balls not so long ago?

  But I didn’t flee, partly due to the simple fact that I had no refuge to flee to, save the dubious solace of cold and lonely starvation. Dumb loyalty also played its part, for such is the way with boys taken in by rogues; the largesse of the strong breeds a particular form of attachment that doesn’t break so easily. But I prefer to think that what kept me trudging along after him like an obedient hound was the recognition that the will to murder had seeped from him now. He walked with a slump to his back and a bow to his head that told of sombre disappointment, a mood that generally stirred him to reflection rather than violence.

  His breath blossomed in a cloud as he let out a sigh, sinking down to perch on the fallen birch, nodding for me to do the same before holding up an expectant hand. “Coin.”

  I quickly handed over the purse I had purloined from Hawker’s corpse. Normally he would take half and return the rest, but not today. “That all?” he enquired, tucking the purse into his belt.

  “Got these,” I said, fumbling for the knives I had looted, which he also took. “And this.” I grasped the chain about my neck but Deckin let out a derisive snort when he caught sight of the rough-hewn copper disc it held.

  “Hersephone, eh? Keep the bitch. A man makes his own fortune in this world.”

  I let the chain fall and watched him shift his gaze to the forest. “Why didn’t you kill Erchel?” he asked, his voice betraying only a slight note of interest.

  “Didn’t know if you’d have wanted it. Felt like it though.”

  “Balls. You didn’t do it ’cause you didn’t want to. ’Cause you’re not like him. Killing’s not a pleasure for you, just a chore. All born killers are outlaws but not all outlaws are born killers.” His beard bunched as he smiled at his own wit. “For Erchel, killing’s as sweet as fucking. You know this; you’ve seen it. With these.” He rested one hand on my head and raised the other, tracing two large, rough fingers over my brows, forcing my eyelids shut.

  “These, Alwyn.” The fingers exerted a small amount of pressure, just enough to hurt and remind me that he possessed more than enough strength to push them all the way into my brain if he chose. “These are your principal asset to this band, to me. I pegged it right away all those years ago when we found you wandering, a bundle of rag, skin and bone barely hours from the grave, but with such bright eyes. Eyes that saw so much, with a big brain behind them to store it all up in. Lorine’s my counsel, Raith my guide to the unseen, Todman my punisher, but you, you’re my spy, the one that sees what needs seeing. And I know you see that one day Erchel will need to be put down, and when the time comes it’ll be your hand that does it.”

  The fingers pressed against my eyes once more, fractionally harder this time before he released me with a sigh. “That’s your punishment, Alwyn, for not acting on what your eyes showed you. Got any objections, voice them now.”

  I blinked away tears, not allowing myself a pause before replying, the tremor stripped from my voice. “No objections, Deckin.”

  “That’s good, then. It’ll be a few weeks yet so don’t dwell on it too much. Erchel’s got some blood ties that mean I’ll need to do a little bargaining first.” He fell to silence, unfocused gaze returning to the trees where it seemed to linger for a long time.

  “So,” he grunted finally, “you see the duke’s end?”

  “No, it had been done that morning. We heard how he spoke to the Ascendant for a good while, though. Ascendant Durehl. Seems he wasn’t happy about the whole business. Nor…” I coughed. “Nor the King’s Champion, so we heard.”

  “Still did his duty though, didn’t he? Still swung the sword and took the bastard traitor’s head for the king.”

  I said nothing, wondering if Deckin truly wanted a full description of the tormented remnant now resting on a spike on the wall of Castle Ambris. Fortunately, Deckin spoke on before I could fumble out a response.

  “Except he wasn’t the bastard,” Deckin muttered. “I was. One of many. Do you know, I’ve no real notion how many brothers and sisters I’ve got running around this duchy? There’s four I know of for sure, a few others with an uncanny resemblance glimpsed over the years. All unacknowledged issue of the duke’s loins and poor as dirt, just like I was.”

  He let the words sit, a secret that wasn’t truly a secret since the truth of Deckin’s parentage had long been rumoured, if not openly discussed. The resemblance was there for any who cared to see, and he had never denied it, but neither did he want to talk of it. We all knew that speaking of Duke Rouphon in Deckin’s presence could have unpredictable consequences.

  “If I remember right, you never knew your father, did you?” he asked when I began to wonder if I should say something more.

  “No, Deckin.” I forced a laugh as I often did when the subject of my childhood came up. “Could’ve been any one of a thousand wayward cocks trooping through the whorehouse that month.”

  “Then consider yourself lucky, for I’ve found fathers are usually a great disappointment to their sons. Who else was there to witness the execution?”

  “Besides the Champion and the Ascendant, the lord constable was the only man of note we heard tell of. Just them, Crown Company and a bundle of soldiers from other duchies. I think they were expecting trouble from the townsfolk.”

  “But there wasn’t none, was there?” I saw his lips form a grin under his beard. “They might have tolerated their lord, even liked him a little, but they never loved him. There were few who did.”

  He angled his head to regard me, voice and gaze sharper now. “What did you learn? Assuming you managed to get something out of those poor sods before you killed them.”

  I replied promptly, relieved to have shifted to another topic. “The new duke, Elbyn Blousset, they said he’s called. The old duke’s second cousin twice removed—”

  “First cousin,”
Deckin corrected. “The son of my grandfather’s sister. What else?”

  “The soldiers said they had been billeted in Blousset’s castle for a time. Sir Ehlbert was there. They overheard them talking. Seems Blousset was too cowardly to fight his cousin.”

  “Cowardice and good sense are often the same thing. What else?”

  “That’s it, more or less. A whole bundle of tall tales about the battles they’d seen, some gossip about sergeants they hated or captains they liked, usual thing. Couldn’t get the name of the castle.”

  “I know its name. Castle Shelfine, seat of the Blousset family for three generations. A shitpile it may be, but its walls are thick and not easily scaled. But, fortunately, I doubt he’ll be in residence much longer.” He lapsed into silence once again, though only briefly before inclining his head towards the main camp. “Go eat. Tell Lorine I’ll be along shortly. And Alwyn,” he added as I got to my feet, “don’t tell her any of this.” He gave me a thin smile that didn’t alter the hard instruction in his gaze. “No matter how sweetly she asks.”

  “I won’t, Deckin.”

  He turned back to contemplate the forest as I hurried off, compelled by a mingling of fear and relief to seek out a more pleasant diversion.

  “That’s not even worth my hand, never mind my nethers,” Gerthe said, squinting at the proffered medallion in amused contempt.

  “It’s a gift.” I gave her the full measure of my winning smile. I had been practising it for a while, along with what I imagined to be a roguishly charming tone. “A token of my esteem.”

  “Can’t eat your esteem, can I?” Gerthe laughed in professional disdain. “And I ain’t gobbling nothing else of yours unless you come up with something better than a pissy little Martyr trinket. Do I strike you as a girl of devout inclination, Alwyn?”

  “You have always struck me as a lady of discerning wit, not to mention ineffable beauty.”

  “Oh, fuck off.” She laughed again, and I felt a small surge of optimism at the genuine humour it held. “Ineffable. Collecting words again, eh? Hear that one in Ambriside did you?”

  She raised an eyebrow, the healthy sheen of her dimpled cheeks sending a hungry thrill through my lust-ridden body. Deckin had found Gerthe wandering the southern woods a year ago, having been turfed out of her whorehouse when the pimp discovered her light-fingered habits with the customers’ coin. Skills like hers, both linguistic and carnal, were always valuable in the band. But Deckin was a fair employer and insisted she receive commensurate reward for her services, usually at prices I found well beyond my reach.

  “That merchant we held for ransom last spring talked a lot,” I admitted with a shrug.

  “That so? Pity you didn’t keep hold of your share. Then you wouldn’t be wasting my time with a pointless haggle. Now, sod you off, young fellow. I’ve cooking to do.” She returned to the business I had interrupted, stirring a pot of steaming rabbit stew.

  “I’ll take a bowl of that, if it’s all that’s on offer,” I said, fishing out two sheks, the last of my fortune. Every shek I earned in the band had a tendency to slip through my fingers with annoying alacrity. While I may flatter myself in having acquired numerous skills in life, keeping hold of coin has never been one of them.

  She wanted three sheks but on this, at least, was willing to be bargained down. I took the bowl she filled and wandered off. One bite of stew was enough to rekindle my hunger and I was soon gulping it down. I exchanged nods and quiet greetings as I progressed through the camp. Voices were rarely raised in the woods where betraying sounds could echo longer than seemed natural, perhaps drawing unwelcome attention in the process.

  Licker, called such on account of his missing tongue, greeted me with his toothless grin, Hulbeth with a saucy wink of her wrinkled, pox-addled face. The inseparable Justan and Yelk waved from the shadowed interior of the shelter where, I assumed, they had spent some time in blissful, enviable intimacy. Todman, Baker and Twine briefly glanced up from their game of sevens. Baker and Twine each gave me a nod while Todman’s gaze lingered a mite longer.

  “Stew but no fucking, eh?” he asked with a satisfied grin. “Even Gerthe’s got standards.”

  I should have just offered a bland smile and passed by without comment. Instead, I paused, returning his stare in full measure while I ate another spoonful of stew, taking my time over it. Usually, finding myself in this man’s company provoked a good deal of fear to match the hatred, but not today. By my reckoning I had probably killed just as many men as Todman by now and, while he was certainly stronger, I felt sure I was faster.

  “Something I can help you with, boy?” he asked, stepping closer. He exhibited his contempt and lack of concern by folding his arms, hands well clear of the knife at his belt. In that instant, I knew killing him was definitely within the scope of my skills. He was too incautious, too attached to his displays of superiority. A dangerous fellow by any measure, but still just a bully at heart. Throw the stew in his face, one quick flick of the knife while he wasted time sputtering and raging. No more Todman.

  I suppressed the urge, aware that killing so useful a member of the band after such a recent debacle would test Deckin’s forgiveness beyond its limits. But neither did I look away. If Todman struck first, I couldn’t be blamed for what came next.

  But, to my considerable surprise, he didn’t.

  Instead, he watched me eat my stew as I watched his nostrils flare and skin redden in impotent rage. As I had taken my measure of him, it appeared he had done the same of me. This, I knew, was a man deeply regretting the fact that he hadn’t killed me years before.

  “Things change, boy,” he grated, the words hissed through clenched teeth. “His favour fades every time you fuck things up. And she won’t be around for ever.”

  His lips clamped shut as soon as the words were out, his pallor shifting from red to the paleness of fear. In this company, one word out of place could mean death, and he had just said several. Speaking ill of Lorine was just as dangerous as voicing criticism of Deckin’s leadership, perhaps more so given her uncanny facility for ferreting out dissent.

  I raised an eyebrow in unspoken invitation for Todman to continue, which of course he didn’t. “Go and gawp elsewhere,” he muttered, turning his back. “This is a game for men.” Crouching, he tossed a shek into the circle and promptly lost it with a clumsy, hurried throw of the dice.

  I made sure he heard my laugh before moving on.

  By the time I’d finished the stew my wanderings had brought me close to Hostler’s fire. As was typical, he had established a den for himself a decent remove from the rest of the band. It was a mostly unspoken but mutual agreement that he not inflict his endless prattle on us in return for being spared the sight of our endlessly sinful ways. In consequence, he generally kept to himself until Deckin decided he was needed. Not that solitude ever seemed to staunch the flow of his invective.

  “As with sacrifice so with compassion,” he was saying as I rounded a broad elm to see him wandering around a small fire near the entrance to his den. His eyes were closed and his head tilted back as he summoned words from the depthless well of his memory. “As with compassion so with courage. With these words did Martyr Lemtuel suffer the arrows of his tormentors, heathens all with black hearts, but one among them was not so black—”

  “Wasn’t Lemtuel whipped to death?” I enquired, bringing the recitation to an abrupt halt.

  Hostler’s brows drew into a glower as he opened his eyes and turned their harsh, judgemental gleam upon me. “Whipped with a hundred strokes,” he said. “Then pierced with a hundred arrows, all of which failed to kill him, and it fell to the one heathen his words had reached to end his suffering. As with sacrifice, so with compassion.”

  “Oh, right,” I said with a grin that failed to dim the judgement in his gaze.

  “You recall me saying I was done with you, ingrate?”

  “I do. I also recall not giving much of a stinky shit.” Baiting him wasn’t smart, for Hostle
r was probably a good deal more dangerous than Todman. Yet, being in his presence never failed to stir my tongue to taunts.

  However, instead of the expected threats or resort to fists, this time Hostler laughed. It was a short, harsh sound, made odd by its sheer rarity. “You think I don’t see your soul, ingrate?” he enquired, voice rich in righteous satisfaction. “I see the truth of you. You think yourself clever and yet you are even more stupid than the rest of these scum. They are blind to their fate yet you have the wit to see yours, and choose not to in your indolence and fear. What do you imagine your life will be? You will rise one day to lead this band, be the Outlaw King? No, the Scourge will claim you long before that.”

  I let out a weary groan and walked on. Hostler’s preaching about the Martyrs was tedious but when he started on about the Scourge, he became unbearable. “It draws near, ingrate,” he called after me, his passion for his subject making him abandon the outlaw’s ingrained tendency towards quiet. “Called forth by the sin and vice of this world of hypocrites! It will not spare you! All will be fire! All will be pain! As it was before, so shall it be again when the Seraphile’s grace is denied us once more…”

  At this juncture, dear reader, you may be expecting an account of my oft-reported Revelation. Was this the very moment of my epiphany? Did the preaching of this addle-brained fanatic open my eyes to the truth of the Covenant and set me on the path to eventual redemption?

  In short: no. I didn’t believe a word of it, not then as I waved a hand in sardonic farewell and walked away, his voice pursuing me through the trees. All my belief came later, a gift I never wanted nor was grateful to have received. If there is one principal lesson to be garnered from the wayward often chaotic path of my life it’s the knowledge that true faith – not the rote hypocrisy of desperate, fearful curs like Hostler – is as more a curse than a blessing. Not that he would ever know that, poor fool that he was. Strangely, I never hated him, and pity vies with contempt when I think of him now, for it is hard to hate a man who has saved your life.