A Wizard and a Warlord

16

You persuaded them to let you go into the library already? Gar thought, amazed.

Oh, they’re all in favor of people learning to read, Alea told him. They just didn’t know that I already could, thanks to Herkimer and his teaching program.

They use our alphabet, then?

Our alphabet, and our language, Alea confirmed. In fact, the writings are Terran Standard, much closer to your speech than to their descendants’.

At least they left a record, Gar thought. What were they trying to do here, anyway?

Abolish war and exploitation, Alea told him. They wanted to give their children and grandchildren a world of peace and prosperity in which everyone respected everyone else’s rights and liberties.

Utopia, Gar interpreted. Well, they weren’t the first to try to set up an ideal society. How did they go about it?

By setting up a matriarchy, Alea explained. They thought that patriarchal cultures were much more warlike and oppressive than matriarchal cultures, so that if you never let the male-governed cultures start, the world would be peaceful.

Very idealistic, Gar said slowly. How well did it work? As you’ve seen, Alea replied with a mental shrug. The men have taken an equal place in the villages here, but they haven’t become dictators, and they don’t treat their wives as belongings.

They don’t have wives, properly speaking, Gar answered, his tone thoughtful. I take it the founders thought that marriage was a form of exploitation?

Yes. Here, if a woman doesn’t like the way a man treats her, she can simply put him out of her house and out of her life.

And he goes back to the bachelors’ house, Gar said, musing. And the whole village will support her and her children—though of course she, like everyone else, will have to do her fair share of the work. Of course, we haven’t really seen any cases of that.

Alea bridled. The youth villagers were busily exchanging partners!

Yes, Gar thought, but none of the others seemed to be managing on their own. Everyone seemed to be bonded and part of a family, except for the priests and priestesses.

Well, of course, Alea thought. That’s natural.

Yes, it is, Gar answered musing. The important point is that neither spouse is locked into a partnership they don’t want. Even Shuba was only asked to support his baby daughter, not forced to marry Agneli when she wasn’t in love with him.

They didn’t force her to marry him, either, Alea snapped. I wonder how long each will live without another partner? Gar’s thoughts made an abrupt turn. Why Neolithic, though? Did they believe in Rousseau’s idea of the noble savage?

They did, Alea confirmed. I even ran into that phrase. They thought he was right in thinking that civilization corrupted people, so they set up their society in early agricultural villages and built in a custom of starting new villages instead of letting the old ones grow.

Except for trade towns, Gar noted. They did make sure people would be able to send food to others who needed it—and they cheated on medicine and agriculture, too.

When technology developed to the point at which we could go back to tribal villages, Alea argued, why shouldn’t we?

Mostly because tribes tend to make war on each other, Gar answered, but if you’ve managed to set up a culture that limits battles to large-scale sporting events with only accidental deaths, why not indeed? Yes, it’s a very seductive notion.

You don’t sound convinced, Alea thought darkly.

I’ve seen retrograde colonies before, Gar explained with a mental shrug. Greed always disrupted the idyllic life.

That’s where the Scarlet Company comes in, Alea thought triumphantly.

What about it? Gar’s interest sharpened to an intensity that almost frightened her—almost. She knew him too well by now to suspect anything other than hunger for knowledge.

The book didn’t mention them by name, Alea told him, but it did give two pages describing how it would be set up. It was supposed to be a secret society, its members recruited from ordinary people and going on to live ordinary lives. They would work under the cell system and never meet as a group unless they had to mass to fight an army.

Each cell being three people and the leader only knowing one other person in one other cell who passed on orders? That’s right. Alea was somewhat nettled that he already knew it.

So before any one of them does anything dangerous that’s likely to see him captured and interrogated, they can make sure that everybody he knows disappears, Gar thought. Yes, I’ve heard of that.

So it would seem, Alea thought dryly.

What does it say this secret society is supposed to do to prevent tyrants from conquering? Gar asked.

It doesn’t, Alea confessed, only that the secret society is to do whatever is necessary to stop any would-be conquerors and tyrants.

Well, the Scarlet Company isn’t doing too well at the moment, Gar thought in exasperation. What’s the matter? Is Malachi the first after all? Though I don’t see how he could be.

He isn’t, Alea answered. The book covered the first hundred years, and I found other books covering the rest of the history up till twenty years ago.

How many tyrants tried and failed?

Alea hesitated a moment, then said, Forty-two. Almost every ten years? Gar thought, aghast. How did the Scarlet Company stop them?

Assassination, Alea said grimly, then hurried on. There were two times when the Company had to muster half its members in one place, though—once to ambush the warlord and his army in a mountain pass, throwing down rocks. A century later, they had to pick off another warlord’s soldiers one by one as they marched through a huge forest.

That must have required top-notch woodcraft, Gar thought. How did they train so many so fast?

Alea didn’t answer, letting him work it out for himself.

They had agents among the bandits, Gar thought, thunderstruck. A lot of agents!

The book said something along that line, Alea admitted. What a horrible life to condemn someone to, Gar thought slowly, in danger of discovery and death every minute.

People who had suffered enough might be willing to do it, Alea thought, and according to the books, there are always some of those. Even without a warlord, the bandits cause grief.

It seems there are always bandits, Gar replied. Was that part of the ancestors’ plan?

They thought exile was kinder than imprisonment, Alea answered, and were absolutely opposed to the death penalty, no matter what the crime. They did recognize, though, that there would always be a few men and women who managed to alienate everyone and would be cast out, that some might even be unhappy in their village society and decide to leave of their own free will.

But they didn’t realize that the outcasts would turn criminal?

The founders thought they would simply go off and establish villages of their own, Alea told him. I guess they just didn’t realize that the exiles would rob instead of hunting or farming.

Instead, they’ve become a constant danger, Gar said grimly. I wonder what happened to the women who went into exile?

The books say the bandits found them, or they found the bandits, Alea’s tone was bleak. Beyond that, the entries only said the women were enslaved.

I think we can assume the worst. So the people just live with the problem?

The chronicles do say that every now and then, when a particular gang had become too much of a menace, three or four villages would band together and give them a beating, Alea admitted. Not capital punishment, really, but people would be killed in the fighting.

As they were when a bandit chieftain decided to try to become king, Gar thought darkly. Do the founders say how the Scarlet Company was supposed to stop them?

No—only that its whole purpose was to prevent anyone from establishing a government over everyone else. They didn’t say to use assassins.

Stated in those terms, eh? That the Scarlet Company isn’t supposed to stop bullies or conquerors—it’s to stop government?

Before they begin, Alea confirmed. Yes.

How, though? Gar thought, more to himself than to Alea. If it’s an army itself, where is it? How does it work? More to the point, what’s to keep some power-hungry citizen from working his way up in the Scarlet Company and using it to take over? Did the founders say anything about that?

Not that I’ve read, Alea answered, but I have three more volumes to go. I’ll tell you what I find tomorrow night. That next night, however, they would have more immediate problems to discuss.

Alea spent the next morning in the library, scanning the rest of the chronicles and reading in depth anything that looked promising. In the afternoon, she accompanied her patron on her rounds. They were called to help at a difficult birth, then with a child whose fever was very high, and finally with an old man who’d had a stroke. The priestess couldn’t do much for him but to help make him comfortable and leave directions for exercises in hopes that he would recover some use of the affected muscles. He tried to thank her but only succeeded in making a gargling sound.

Alea thought she recognized him, but couldn’t have said from where. She read his thoughts, though, and told the priestess, “He thanks you for your kindness.”

Her mentor stared. “Can you understand his cawings, then?”

“Barely,” Alea said, “but I can make some sense out of them, yes.” She turned back to the patient. “Am I wrong?”

The old man shook his head.

“Rest, then.” Alea laid her hand on his head. “Enjoy what life has left for you—you’ve earned it.” But the old man shook his head again, gabbling, and she heard his thought: I know when I’m dying.

“You are surrounded by love,” Alea said firmly. “You have reason to live.”

Reason, but not enough life, said the old man’s thoughts as he cawed. I have watched you since you tried to warn me against General Malachi, or had friends watch you. You spent a whole day sounding an alarm to which no one listened. When you gave up that, you went to join the priestesses. Did you think to help General Malachi’s victims when he conquered the town?

Alea stared. Now she recognized him—the first person she had warned to defend himself and his town! The stroke had come suddenly and aged him tremendously. “I try to help everyone wherever I find them.”

I knew you had a good heart, the old man said and thought. You truly wish to save the people from General Malachi, do you not?

“Well, of course,” Alea answered.

The old man caught her hand, though, and his words seemed to explode in her mind: You are devoted to other people, but you are not yet a priestess. Leave the temple. Fill my place in the Scarlet Company.

Alea stared at him, unable to move. Then she tried to wrest her hand away, but he held it with a death grip, mouthing the words, Say you will!

“I…will do as you ask,” Alea said slowly, “if it will ease your passing.”

Bless you. The old man let go of her hand and closed his eyes. Talk to Kethro the Tailor. I can leave this world now.

Don’t you dare! Alea thought, but he had already fallen asleep. She freed her hand from his grip and looked up at the old man’s wife and daughter through swimming eyes. “Care for him well,” she advised. “Do not let him be alone for a second.”

“Lady, we shall not,” the daughter said, eyes round. The priestess watched her, gaze speculative, but said nothing until they were out in the street again. There, though, she asked, “What did he say to you?”

“That he is dying.” Alea caught her breath on a sob, bowing her head. “Reverend Lady, I-I cannot bear this.”

“Can you not, then?” the priestess’s gaze was probing but sympathetic.

“No! It will be bad enough in my life to watch a few people die—but to see it every day, perhaps several times in one day … I-I have not the strength.”

“It is well you have learned that so soon.” The priestess laid a hand on her shoulder. “You may still be devoted to the goddess, child, and may enter the temple to worship as much as you wish—but it would seem she has another role in life for you than that of priestess.”

“I-I fear so,” Alea said, head bowed still.

“Then go to discover how you must serve.” The priestess touched Alea’s forehead, lips, then breastbone as she said, “May the goddess grant you wisdom, kind words for all you meet, and a tender heart.” She withdrew her hand with a gentle smile. “Live well, my child, and happily. Farewell.”

“Farewell,” Alea whispered as the other woman turned away. Alea watched her go and wondered whether she was sad or relieved to be so easily out of her new career.

She was sure, though, that she had done it well: Head still bowed, she turned away—to seek out the booth of Kethro the Tailor.

When she sat down to meditate in the common room of an inn that night, though, she wasn’t at all sure whether or not to tell Gar what had happened. Kethro had been very insistent about secrecy.

She need not have worried. As soon as she made contact with him, the problem was solved. Gar was tense as a fiddle string.

What happened? Alea demanded, appalled.

For answer, Gar’s memories of the day flooded her mind.

The rider burst out of the woods, following the deer track, and slewed to a halt in the center of the camp, waving and shouting, “Attention! All of you, listen!”

Looking up, Gar saw it was one of their scouts, stationed well outside of camp to see anything that happened in the wood around them. With the rest of the rankers and recruits, he snapped straight, standing still, but the sergeants and officers only came walking over, alert and wary.

“General Malachi’s coming!” the sentry called. “Police the camp! Polish your leather and brass!” The captain exchanged a glance with his lieutenant. “Not that much to police,” the younger man said. “We’ve been keeping things in shape.”

“I hope your sergeants have been inspecting their men’s gear,” the captain said. “Get them busy!” There followed a hectic hour while everything that had been overlooked was swept and scoured and everything clean was cleaned again. Gar hauled water and scrubbed where he was told like a beast of burden, wondering if it was time to disappear again—but he remembered the ashes of the youth village and his anger began to burn again. He had burst away from the bandit general’s men before and he could do it again if he had to. Meanwhile, what could he say to bamboozle the man into keeping him near?

Then General Malachi rode into the camp surrounded by his bodyguards. The first soldier to see him shouted, “General!” and everyone ran to their places in line.

They snapped to attention as the general dismounted and swaggered along their rows, enjoying the panic he’d created. He looked up and down soldier after soldier, snapping out a criticism here, a nitpick there—leather not polished mirror bright, spear-edge not honed to razor sharpness. Gar watched him come, surprised that the general hadn’t picked him out already, tense for a fight but sure of what he was going to say, the proof he could offer that he wasn’t a danger. Crel was next; after him, General Malachi would be looking up into Gar’s face…

Crel stood at attention, spear slanted outward. Malachi stopped in front of him, holding his hands open for the spear. “Present arms!”

“Sir!” Crel said, and presented the weapon point first, straight into Malachi’s ribs.

Malachi’s scream broke into a gurgle even as his bodyguard shouted and fell upon Crel. The young man went down under a wave of men while the captains ran to cradle the general in their arms, arguing furiously about whether or not to pull out the spear. They closed around him, hiding him from view, and Gar stood paralyzed, hearing the thoughts of a dying man and his last guttural words: Kill him!

Then the captains stood, moving away from the corpse, and Major Ivack came over to the soldiers who had yanked Crel to his feet. The youth was bruised and bleeding but still alive enough to spit in Ivack’s face.

The major backhanded him casually, then caught his hair and yanked his head back, demanding, “Why?”

“Because you burned my village and slew my friends,” Crel gasped.

Ivack digested that, holding the youth’s head still, then snarled, “Who put you up to it?”

“The Scarlet Company!” Crel shouted.

Furious, Ivack backhanded him again, then said to his captors, “Torture him until he tells their names.”

“Quince the Potter in Cellin Village,” Crel said through swollen lips. “Ivor the Cooper of Cellin. Joco Smith of Cellin.”

“You won’t escape the torture that way,” Ivack snarled, then called out to all his men, “What kind of loyalty is this? He names his cohorts in an instant just to save himself a little pain!”

None of the soldiers answered, none breathed even a word. All knew that the pain would not be little and knew the legend even better—that the Scarlet Company’s people always gave names readily.

Ivack swung back to Crel. “You’ll die in agony for this, laddie.”

“Stopping Malachi is worth my life,” Crel retorted. Ivack backhanded him across the mouth yet again. “We’ll see if you still say that when we’ve used you for a threshing floor.” He turned to Crel’s captors. “Throw him down and beat him with flails.” Doom-faced, the soldiers hustled Crel away.

Ivack turned to a captain. “Send twenty riders to Cellin and bring those men.”

The captain turned away to shout orders. The rankers stood frozen, faces expressionless, all with sinking spirits. They knew that the riders would find the potter, the cooper, and the smith fled, all gone on sudden errands. In fact, given the reputation of Malachi and his band, they might find the whole village deserted. They might burn it for revenge, but no one would die.

Except Crel.

Major Ivack came back from the interrogation in the middle of the day, his face thunderous. The soldiers gravitated to the men who had given the beatings, who were swilling ale after their hot work and more than willing to talk about the horror they had visited.

“We beat him to pudding,” said the one Gar found, a stocky bandit named Gorbo. “He told us his name right off—Crel, it is—but we beat him for it. Then Ivack asked him what else he knew about the Scarlet Company. He told us that the cooper, the potter, and the smith had all taught him ways to kill with one blow, but that he’d only needed the smith’s way—one short stab with every ounce of his strength behind it. Major told us to beat him after the answer, since we hadn’t needed to beat him before it.”

“Who gave the orders to the potter, the cooper, and the smith?” someone asked.

“That we could beat him for,” Gorbo said, “because he didn’t know.”

“They never do,” another soldier muttered.

“He told us he had joined the Scarlet Company only for the privilege of killing the general,” Gorbo went on. “That’s what he called it—a privilege—and he didn’t know nor care who’d guv the three their orders. We gave him a privilege of another halfdozen blows, we did.”

“Who told him how to get in among us?” a soldier asked.

“The cooper, he said,” Gorbo answered. “The cooper told Crel that the Scarlet Company had known some young man would come along with a lot of hatred and nothing to lose, that he would be the one to slay the bandit chief. We beat him another dozen blows for that one, too.” He took a swig of ale, stared off into the distance, then delivered his judgment of the ordeal: “That didn’t make him know nothing more about the Scarlet Company, though.”

“There anything left of him?” Gar asked, already planning a rescue.

“There’s some life,” Gorbo allowed, “and we didn’t break his legs. Major Ivack wants to hang him fancy. Something about drawing him and quartering. Don’t know how he means to do that.”

“We’ll find out tomorrow,” another soldier said. Gorbo shook his head. “Before sunset. The major wants to chop him while General Malachi’s ghost is still around to see.”

The men shuddered, looking around them, and making signs against evil.

Then you had no time to save him, Alea thought, her heart breaking.

I didn’t need to, Gar said, and let her remember the rest with him.

Major Ivack had taken command. He didn’t seem to be aware of any increase in status, didn’t puff himself up or strut, only strode angrily about the camp looking for objects on which to vent his wrath, giving orders in short, clipped phrases. Nonetheless, Gar had the feeling he was about to promote himself to general.

The most pronounced order had been to throw a rope over a tree limb and lay a workbench before it. Gar wondered where the man had heard about drawing and quartering but realized that this was the sort of gruesome tale that passed down from generation to generation without any planning—and resisted efforts to weed it out. Major Ivack looked like the sort who would have listened to such tales with avid attention. Gar didn’t like him.

He liked him even less when Ivack took up station before the table, surrounded by the bodyguards who had been General Malachi’s. The sergeants bawled orders and marched their men into place around the ancient oak with the noose hanging from its limb. The soldiers stood at ease, glowering and somber, as Gorbo and another ranker frog-marched Crel out of a tent, face dark and swollen with bruises. Up to the oak they hauled him, hands tied behind his back, and stood him with his back to the trunk, facing Ivack. They set the noose about his neck, then snugged it up. “Do you have any last words?” Ivack snarled.

Crel managed to cough the words out of a swollen mouth. “Death to the brutes who kill the innocent!”

“Hoist him up!” Ivack roared, and the bodyguard nearest him pivoted, jamming his dagger into the major’s heart.