The Paladin

Chapter Twelve

The sky cast a faint glow into the narrows, over a flat, rocky expanse littered with hewn bodies, bits and pieces. Not a wholesome place for the sun to come up on—the stink of death all around them and the day getting just enough to see what a longsword could do to a body, armor and all.

Not a good sight for a girl, Shoka thought, and then thought: but it's what she's chosen.

He rubbed dried blood from his hands, rubbed the stubble on his face and found the same. Saw Taizu waking, or never sleeping at all, her eyes dark, liquid slits in the shadow, her face dappled with filth like his own. Jiro stood still drowsing, close to them, in the same sheltering rocks.

They had not washed last night. They had armored up and stayed close to the rocks, and slept turn and turn about—if she had slept.

Scared, maybe. He hoped that she was. He hoped it was that simple, that natural a thing.

He reached out and tousled her bangs. "Better move," he said. "Early. Before our enemies want to get stirring."

He got up. She did, and looked around her, and got her sword and walked out among the dead, poked one body and walked on—stopped to pick up a dagger and sheath and thrust it through her own belt, simple, pragmatic looting of their enemies.

A grim face, stolid. It sent a chill through him.

But it was also practical, what she did. He shrugged and rubbed the blood off his fingers and walked through the bodies and pieces of bodies, looking for things of value.

A good dagger for her, a leather belt and silk cord—neither was to pass by: tack got worn and cords got cut. A couple of serviceable steel helmets. He had lost his in the fracas ten years ago and she had never had one. A gold locket. "Here," he said, tossing it at her. "But wear it inside. Stuff like this can get your throat cut—in more than one way."

She looked at what she had caught in her fist, open-mouthed in amazement. She did not put it on. She stuffed it in a bag she had taken from one of the dead.

A little silver. A little copper. A silver hair-clip. A silk scarf. That was the rest of their pilferage.

Nine bodies, in the faint light. He counted. Probably Taizu did.

"We've done no little service for travelers on this road," he said as he saddled Jiro and Taizu gathered up her load. "That's likely a good part of the bandits in Hoisan."

"Huh," she said.

At least she did not say—it was nothing. At least she did not say—she enjoyed what she did. He had seen both in boys in their first fight. But she was different. Like the wisest, maybe, who did what they did and kept their balance: that was what he had taught her—Your soul has a center, girl, the same as your body has. Let nothing you do take you from that center.

Where are you this morning, girl?

Or have you seen enough such sights in Hua?

Taizu walking among the dead. Taizu stripping weapons from corpses, coldly turning this and that bloody bit of a man to see if there was something to be scavenged—

Gods, what has Chiyaden come to, to breed a girl like this?

The road ahead by earliest dawn was an unpleasant ground of tumbled rocks, twisted pine, scrub and undergrowth giving way to tall trees as the gap widened.

A little forest, a little thicket, a great deal of rock, through which the road had to wind, taking much more time than Shoka liked, past rocks large enough to hide three and four men. "Don't talk," he said. "Jiro's ears and Jiro's nose is the best defense we have through this."

She nodded once. That was all, except when the road widened again and they went under daylight, beside the river.

Not the way Taizu had argued—with her out to the fore. The bandits knew there were two of them. They well knew it; and Shoka kept scanning the heights within bowcast of them, with his own bow strung, with an arrow held crook-fingered to the string and two more in his hand.

"I think they want easier pickings," he said finally.

"Maybe there never were that many of them," Taizu said.

He felt a prickle at his nape, strong enough that he turned in the saddle to look.

But there was nothing but trees and rock and the narrow clear area of the road.

He looked to the fore again, and wished with all his heart that he could put Jiro to a faster gait.

But there was no possibility of that. His weight, Taizu's, both in armor—their gear and the tack: Jiro could carry it, but no faster than he was walking; or run with it and kill himself.

So they walked, at a better pace than Taizu had yet managed. "Give me the pack," he said, and when she opened her mouth: "Hand it up."

She slipped her arm out of one rope, changed bow-hands, and freed the other, keeping only the quiver as she handed it up to him.

"Go," he said, then. "Move, girl. Run!"

She moved, took a steady jogging pace, and Jiro snorted and broke into a faster gait with never a touch of his heel—the old chase game.

That was the way they passed the heights, between rests in which they rested close against the rocks.

That was the way they came to the wider valley, by the waterside. Taizu came to a panting halt, the sweat and the dirt and the day-old blood streaked with runnels of sweat, her hair stuck about her face.

He felt as if they had passed a door—one without returning. And he gave a twitch of his shoulders.

"I'll carry the gear a while," he said. "We're not resting here. Keep going."

She looked at him open-mouthed, as if she thought this was some kind of revenge.

"Go!" he said.

She seemed to understand then. She gasped a breath and turned and ran.

They had to rest more often now—whenever they came to a rock that offered shelter. Taizu's breath came harsh and hard, and sweat drenched her. At the last she walked close by Jiro's side and held onto his saddle skirts, partly because she could hardly keep herself on her feet, partly to shield Jiro's chest from the vulnerable side as they passed the last of the heights.

Beyond that, with the land open again, she was stumbling with exhaustion, and when they were in a broad, clear space with their river again, she said, in a croak of a voice: "Master Shoka, can we rest a while down there?"

"Rest we will," he said, and got down from Jiro's back and made her climb up, and walked, himself, with Taizu sitting and swaying in the saddle—too prideful to collapse, he thought.

But he insisted to make a fire when they reached the ford and a little gravelly stretch where the river brought wood and the sun dried it. He took off his armor and washed with handfuls of the icy water, and she did, some distance from him, and not looking at him.

He looked at her—squatting peasant-style as she poured handfuls of water over her hair and her shoulders, managing to stir his interest even in that ungainly pose—and he felt a moment of disquietude even then—that she was so small, so set on her foolishness, and she had grown so important to him. But that she would be appalled at death and killing—he gave up that illusion for good, and continued to be appalled in his own turn, that she was so matter of fact about it.

Maiden-modest by daylight. And conscienceless as a camp-follower. He thought he should be disgusted. But that was not what he felt. What he felt was—

—attraction. And a thought that if she were a boy he would think her extraordinary for that calm, and that skill, and know here was that rare student too self-possessed to do foolish things. A student well-set in the Way.

As I've taught her, was one thought.

And the other—that it was feminine cruelty, of the sort he had seen in whores of all classes.

One he respected; one he abhorred. He was not sure what he was dealing with, or what he had taught; and his body said he loved her, which disturbed him the more—You're off your center, master Saukendar. . . .

Damn the girl.

He wanted to believe the best of her. He wanted it; and yet—

Believing the best meant believing that she was capable of the Way; and that meant taking her in a completely different understanding than he had had with any woman; believing the worst meant he was a fool, lending his art to a student who would pervert it, even for a just revenge—and who all along had not been what a lonely man's vulnerable mind had wanted to make out of her.

Considerably off your center, master Saukendar. . . .

Demons he doubted. But that he might have bound himself up with a woman as destructive of him—he could not entirely rid himself of that thought. He had very little left but his reputation. And he had more than lent it to her. He had given it completely to her, to go into the world with, and to do good or ill with—

Perhaps he could take the age-old cure for demons and strike off her head where she sat, unawares, and go home, with his reputation intact: the village would make legends of his narrow escape from her bewitching.

But he had no wish to cut off her head. No wish to take her home by force, and no wish to wait on the mountain any longer, because now he would know what he was waiting for, and if there was never her again—then there was nothing, nothing, nothing for the rest of his years.

So here he sat freezing himself with cold water and wanting a woman who was the equal of any young fighter he had ever known—a thing which seemed vaguely to him like being attracted to some unusually comely boy—and she was simultaneously a saint who could be corrupted by his lust—or a conscienceless woman who would inevitably attach to his name, and be the end of all the reputation he had—

Not, he told himself, that it ought to matter to him. But, dammit, he had never asked to be a saint or a hero, and if the gods had cast his lot that way, and if he had tried to keep his name clean and not betray what people expected of him, then it was a damned shabby trick on the gods' part to send him a temptation like this one at the last—

Maybe he was supposed to do like the saints in the stories and cut her head off, and ride back to virtuous solitude.

But that was not what his flesh wanted to do and that was not what he had the fortitude to do and not what he had the conviction to do, not if she suddenly turned into the demon the village thought she was—if she suddenly turned about with fangs and staring eyes he would temporize with her and hope she would turn back again to Taizu. That was how bad it was with him.

He began to believe in demons after all, that she was one, come to carry off his soul and ruin him.

And he kept seeing her walking among the dead in the sunrise, cold as a devil's heart, prodding one and the other, turning a corpse to look for valuables—

No crime in that. It was only practical.

But she should have shown some remorse. Some fear. Something as maidenly as her modesty.

Damn, if she came to his bed with fangs and all he would want her. He could not understand how he had come to this state of affairs, or why living or dying would not matter to him, without her.

Possibly because it had not mattered for a long time before that.

That was a grim thought. But it seemed true.

He sighed, and splashed himself with cold water to wash the blood off from the night before and the sweat and the dirt off from today.

Damned mess, indeed.

They shared a little smoked venison, and a bit of sausage; Taizu hoped for a proper supper tonight, and she would, she said, cook up a bit of rice they could roll in leaves and have on the trail tomorrow when they got hungry.

"We're through the worst," he said, "till we get to Ygotai."

"Maybe," she said hoarsely, "bandits will give up on us."

"Don't count on it," he said. "But we might have convinced them to think twice about us."

"You always worry."

"I always worry. I served the Emperor. It's a habit."

She cut off a piece of sausage, and nodded soberly. "I worried. That's how I got this far. I thought you'd teach me so I wouldn't have to. That was stupid to think."

"It was a kid's way to think. You're doing much less of that."

She looked at him a long moment. Finally: "Those men weren't much."

"Did you expect them to be?"

"What about Gitu?"

"Much better than that. Much better than that. Gitu's studied. He's also ten years older than I knew him. He might have gone soft. But, I've told you, you can trust his guards haven't. Much better than those fellows back there with master Yi. Much better than the bandits. Don't expect otherwise. —Are you ready? Are you fit for more walking?"

"Yes," she said, and wrapped up their lunch; and gathered up their gear.

The land flattened out again and the road crossed over the little river at a shallow spot, up to Taizu's hips: she took her armor off and led Jiro across, using her bare feet to test the soundness of the bottom, while Shoka, astride, carried everything.

She went in up to her waist at one point, slipped and went in over her head. Jiro snorted and threw his head as Shoka kept him tight-reined and knew a heart-stopped moment till the river spat her up again soaked and outraged.

"Damn!" She still had Jiro's reins. And she added mildly: "Slick."

She led Jiro around. Shoka came across dry-shod, feet tucked up at the deepest part, and the girth wet. But Taizu was a mess.

Interesting view, too. He gave her the appreciative stare it deserved as she passed him up Jiro's reins; she looked down and pulled her wet shirt away from her body.

"Don't you ever think about anything else?"

He grinned. "Not with a sight like that in front of me."

She thought it was funny, then. A grin spread slowly, bright as sunrise and disquietingly wicked, before she laughed and swaggered up the bank to the flat of the road.

With a decided sway of her hips.

Like she had just found out her sex had a certain power—

—with a certain self-restrained and honorable fool.

The world would teach you otherwise, girl.

No, the world's already tried, dammit. She's not fragile.

Memory of her naked, pale dancer and bright steel, beset by shadows. Of her armored and blood-spattered, plundering the dead.

Of her arms and her body around him—

Of her going tense and panicked at the damnedest times—

And she walked now in her wet clothes with a deliberate twitch of very visible hips.

A girl trying out womanhood, trying out a sense of amusement about the mysteries and the to-do people made of it— Of course. With Taizu things were grimly serious—or not. Honesty—was grimly serious. And she would not, he thought, not deliberately cheat him.

I'm not your wife, it's because I'm scared and I don't like being scared, so I do it until I'm not. . . .

Fool. The girl warned you what she's doing. What does it take?

This morning she was a demon, Now she's a—

—damned tart.

She's—

—a kid. A scared kid who trusts me to treat her decently.

—Master Shoka—

He hurt. That was what. He had better sense than she did. He saw where they were going and he foresaw her lying dead on the road, foresaw himself giving a fair account of himself against whatever nest of trouble they had met. But himself lying on the road thereafter. And the farmers nearby saying: Well, there goes a fool. And the nobles in Chiyaden sighing and saying: With a peasant girl. Whatever can he have intended to do?

And others saying: Maybe he went a little crazy, living off on that mountain.

Boiled rice for supper, a decent fire, a good dinner. And Taizu fell asleep afterward, just—nodded off sitting there, her back against the rock, her rice-bowl empty in her lap.

It wouldn't be much good, Shoka thought; she had walked so far and run so hard; and she looked so damned innocent like that—

He put their mats by her, he said: "Taizu," and waked her before he took her in his arms—safest. "Lie down, you'll get a stiff back," he said, slipping his arms around her. She put her arms around him and muttered something, and nodded off against his shoulder.

Damn.

"Mmm," she said later, stirred and shifted over. He was not asleep, not quite. He had not dared in this place.

"My turn to sleep," he said muzzily. "Can you stay awake awhile?"

She brushed her fingers through his hair.

"If you do that," he said, "you're going to wake me up."

"I'm sorry," she snapped and shoved at him. "Go to sleep, then."

He blinked, rolled onto an arm, rubbed his eyes. "Don't ask profound philosophy of a man in the middle of the night, out of a sound sleep. What are we doing?"

Perhaps he embarrassed her. There was a long silence.

Damn, she had thought she was being seductive.

He fumbled down her arm and found her hand. "Sorry." She let him do that, so he reached further and rested his hand on her shirt, on her stomach, just friendly.

She took his hand in hers and put it up under, against her heart.

Which was all right for a while. Then the shirt went; and his did; and the breeches.

He took his time. And when he slumped down close to her ear and said, with all the deliberate timing of a courtesan: "Be my wife."

"O gods—" she breathed. And eventually, shortly: "No."

He muttered an army obscenity and sank off to the side, disappointed, discouraged, but not defeated.

A few more breaths. "You say I'm your wife. I sleep with you. What more do you want?"

He knew the answer. It was plain to him as day and night. But it was hard to say to a hostile woman. So he said nothing.

"What would your wife have to do?"

"I suppose what you do now. I've had no luck stopping you."

"Then why do you want me to marry you?"

"Because," he retorted, "if you don't they can cut your damn hand off for carrying that sword!"

"Well, you lie about it all right! I don't know why you couldn't lie to a magistrate!"

Caught, he said: "I suppose I could."

"So you don't need to marry me."

"I don't need to marry you."

"Then why? What would be different? That you'd tell me what to do?"

He asked himself that, not for the first time. "I wouldn't stop you."

"Well, why, then?"

He traced a line down her shoulder. And did not find it any easier for being down to his last excuses. "Because it'd please me. Because—" Because after two Emperors and someone else's wife, I'd like to know someone loyal to me, as well as the other way around.

She said, angrily: "It's stupid! You've gone crazy!"

She had her own hurts. He allowed that. His own pained him at the moment, sharp as the old wound when it ached, and he was not willing to get into an argument.

"Master Shoka?"

That hurt.

He turned his back to her. But she grabbed him by the shoulder and leaned over his arm. He was angry enough to have thrown her clear to the riverside.

But she said: "I just want to know."

It took forty years worth of self-control to be very calm and say: "Because it's decent."

"What does decent have to do with it?" she hissed. "Because master Saukendar doesn't like to be sleeping with his student, but his wife is all right?"

He took several careful breaths. He did not hit her.

"I just want to know why," she said.

"It's decent for people to make promises to each other, and keep them. I want—" Once to have someone promise me something, and mean it. "—to go to sleep. You wear me out, girl."

"Wear you out! I'm the one carrying the baggage!"

There was no romantic instinct in the girl. None.

She threw her arms around his neck, knelt there and rested her head against his shoulder. "I'm a peasant," she said. "The first time you see the ladies in Chiyaden you'll hate the sight of me."

"Damn if I will." He turned over and clipped her chin by accident. "Taizu, for the gods' sake—" He touched the offended chin.

"You will."

He was pushing too hard, trying to compel her. That was no good. It had nothing to do with the loyalty he wanted. "No," he said. "No." And sighed and gathered her into his arms, determined to go to sleep. "Let it be. Let it be. You don't believe me. And that's the end of it."

"What would I have to do? Do what you say?"

"Hush, go to sleep."

"Why do you want me to marry you?"

"Because I love you," he said. It was more complicated than that. But it shut her up for a while. Maybe she was thinking. Everything Taizu did was tangled.

Finally she said: "Are you going to say I have to do what you say?"

"No," he said, weary of this endless dicing of the matter; but patient. It took that, with Taizu. He knew her mind. They would be arguing when they got to Hua.

She was quiet a long time. He was half-asleep when she said, her head pillowed on his chest: "Can I think about it?"

He tousled her hair. "Do that." And tenderly combed it, since it had gotten leaves in it. "Don't sleep without waking me. Understand?"

"Mmnn," she said.

But he waked with the crack of a branch in his ears and the sun on his face.

"Dammit!" he said, and rolled over with his heart pounding, grabbing after his sword.

But she was there in the dawn breaking twigs for the fire.

He let his head down on his arms and got his breath.

"I didn't go to sleep," she said. "I couldn't sleep."

"Well, a hell of a lot of time we're going to make today." He got up and went off to the bushes, and came back and washed and shaved at the riverside.

She had breakfast ready when he sat down at the fire.

So he ate, watching the riverside and watching the light on the water and thinking on as little as he had thought about in mornings at the cabin.

Except he missed the cabin. He wished he was there. With her.

He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. And patiently combed it and put it up before he set to putting his shin-guards on.

Taizu came and squatted in front of him, in shirt and armor-breeches, arms between her knees.

"Do you remember what you said last night?" she asked.

"What do you mean, what I said last night?"

She bit her lip, ready to take offense.

"I mean," he said, "I damn well remember what I said last night! What do you expect?" Damn, he had upset her. He was not his most diplomatic in the mornings. He threw the second shin-guard down and looked at her, at a very off-put Taizu, who had her jaw clamped. "Oh, hell!" Cross-purposes again. "It's not two merchants haggling over a load of salt, girl. It's not a financial arrangement. I've got nothing to give you—" He thought then, as he had not thought—what would happen to her if he were the one killed, and she were left, his wife, with his enemies, and that was enough to upset his stomach. "Not a damn thing I haven't already given."

"Can't you not swear at me?"

"I don't want to swear at you. Gods know I don't. All right, don't. Dont promise me anything." He picked up the shin-guard again and fitted it, beginning the ties. "It's all getting too complicated. I'm not trying to stop you."

"Then why are you trying to marry me?"

"O—gods." He rested his head against his hand. Looked up again with all the calm and patience he could muster, into two puzzled, earnest eyes.

"I want to know! You're asking me to do something, I want to know!"

Not surprising he made no sense to her, he thought. He made none to himself, nothing he wanted to bring into the light.

"What do you want out of me?" she asked.

He made the ties. He worked his arms into the armor-sleeves and tied the cords across his chest.

And she never said a thing to him. She just waited, arms on knees. Peasant-like.

So master Saukendar could get the lump out of his throat and get his balance back and manage some dignity. He hated being coddled.

Which was, he thought, close to what he was asking. Once in his life.

"I'm used to people loving me, girl. The whole world loved me. Love's damn cheap. You can buy it in the market and the court, two a penny."

She looked shocked.

"I'm too old for you," he said. "I was too old when you were born." He got up and felt the old pain, the way he felt it at every such move, always there. I'm not coming back, he thought again. Not from this one. Why all this thought of permanency?

"Master Shoka—"

Plaintively. Sharp as a knife.

He picked up the body armor and fitted it on, walking over to fetch Jiro.

"You're not old!" she yelled at his back.

And ran and grabbed at his arm, but he interposed a hand and a foul look, at which she was wise enough and respectful enough to stop.

So they took the road again, no different than they had begun.