The Summer of the Swordsman

Chapter XII

  LEAVING ESLU

We awaited the Swordsman and Quinquius that afternoon in our hastily erected camp outside the city. The portable forge had been set up and Sored was tending the horses and making any repairs to weapons and armor that seemed necessary. We had taken Kenui with us; Prince Esrik had released him from the pigsty in which he had spent the night, and marched him to our camp and thrown him in through the main entrance. Kenui had taken himself off somewhere, and I hadn't seen him since the morning.

Anakreon was sitting inside his tent frowning at a map of Danskagge and peering out at the sky from time to time. I was gloomily making a list of provisions I would take with me if I ever went on a journey to the snow‑lands far to the north. I was having difficulty spelling the word 'snowshoe' and was feeling a little nauseated as well. I set down my pen. The rest of the troop were amusing themselves in whatever ways they felt like pursuing: card games, rolling dice, sleeping.

Kenui came into the tent after a time, perfectly sober and close to tears. Anakreon looked up and his expression hardened, but he said nothing.

Kenui cleared his throat. "In...in Shangkyin, such a thing...such as last evening..." he shot a desperate glance at Anakreon, who had folded his hands and was scowling straight at him. "Such a thing would not‑‑would not have happened... I am sorry."

I nearly fell over, queasy as I was. Kenui had never apologized in all his seven years with the troop, no matter what he had done, even after he had killed the King of Masar that time. It was as though he were unaware of such things as apologies, as though they were beneath his dignity. That he should apologize so humbly now was an indication of the depth of his shame.

But Anakreon was too angry to be any judge of shame or contrition. "I should think not!" he snapped. "You weren't a drunken sot in Shangkyin, though I'd guess it was a near thing! You might almost have been a man there, and not the swinish drunkard you are now!" And then, as Kenui was drawing himself up to his full height with a stricken expression, "No, I want none of your bluster! I've lived through enough of your scenes and I'm tired of tiptoeing around you just because you lacked the moral courage ten years ago to ride to a king and say, 'I led troops into an ambush, and only I escaped.' You've wallowed in self‑pity too long. In Shangkyin you were a man of high birth. You aren't even a man now but a drunken, blustering swine! You spent the night in a pigsty, and that's where you belong! Pah! Get out of here, Kenui! I'm sick of you!"  

Kenui got out, moving backwards, his face ashen, like someone who has just received a sword‑stroke to the gut. He turned and stumbled through the doorway.

I was furious. "And do you kick puppies when they come crawling to you?" I asked.

Anakreon's crystal eye flashed blue sparks as he turned his face toward me. "I kick things that crawl when they should be walking," he said. "Sometimes I step on them! Don't waste your pity on him, Oristides. He's past deserving it. He's dug his own grave‑‑"

"And you're toppling him into it," I retorted. I was remembering Kenui's face, and I was angry enough to forget what I was saying. I looked Anakreon over and said, "Theracritus was right: you ARE a bastard!"

Anakreon raised his eyebrows, and I wished that the words were safely back in my mouth. If Anakreon was a scoundrel for kicking a puppy, then so was I for resorting to insult.

But he only laughed. "Give it up, Oristides," he said. "You lack the cutting edge, and I'm no sentimental sot. I was declared bastard years ago, before all the nobles of Thrason, with my mother weeping with rage beside me. And then I saw my mother's clan put to the sword for protesting the annulment of the marriage, and I had to admit my own bastardy. At the age of eight. I survived it. Kenui can survive his own tragedy, if he will only let himself."

I started to tell Anakreon that it wasn't that easy, but we heard the sounds of hooves outside and all discussion was forgotten. Mourner and Quinquius were returning. I caught Anakreon's eye and went to the doorway.

People were running forward to take Quinquius' bridle. Mourner had already dismounted, and I saw that they had been successful by the faint smile in his eyes.

"Here you are, Prince!" Quinquius said. "You have this one to thank for your money!" He put an arm about the Swordsman's shoulders, bestowed an approving squeeze, and released him. "Paid in full, with an apology thrown in."

I looked at Mourner. He was smiling, almost laughing. As I watched, though, the smile faded and he stiffened like a hunting dog that has caught a scent. His eyes moved to the edge of the crowd and fastened on Kenui, who for once was apart from the rest. Then he frowned.

The frown was smoothed from his forehead; he nodded to Quinquius, slapped him on the shoulder, said something to Anakreon, and passed through the crowd, which parted to make way for him and then closed up again around Quinquius, who was telling of the interview with Esrik and doing an excellent job of making a good tale better. I saw the Swordsman approach Kenui; they spoke briefly, then turned away into the shadows beside the camp. Mourner's hand was on Kenui's shoulder, and Kenui was speaking.