Dark Crusade (15 page)

Jarvo froze, in the next instant tried to look nonchalant. Across the street, two guardsmen in red surcoats emblazoned with the black avellan cross of Sataki--uniform of the Defenders of Sataki, the Prophet's security police. Were they only lounging there, or were they watching him?

They might wonder why the cry of "noochee" had brought him about. Feigning mild curiosity, Jarvo continued his movement and strolled over to where the children laughed and played at the mouth of the alley. Glancing from the corner of his good eye, he saw the red-coated Defenders leisurely cross toward him. For a moment Jarvo considered bolting down the alley. Two things held him back. First, that would confirm their suspicions, bring out their shrill whistles to signal a noochee chase. Second, the alley was a dead end.

Jarvo gazed into the darkened alleyway, as if curious to see what sport the children found here. For a moment the darkness hid the far end, then his eye adjusted to the gloom.

At the far end, the children had nailed together an X-shaped framework of scrap timber, in imitation of the avellan cross of Sataki. A girl--she couldn't be much past six--hung upside down from the framework, her scrawny body straining against the inexpertly hammered nails. Her face was distorted from agony and bruises, and her mindless whimpers barely carried past the alley mouth. "Noochee! Noochee!" shrilled the pack of children, squealing and darting from the mouth of the alley, pelting her with bits of offal and debris. A chance bit might provoke a new bleat of pain.

"Noochee! Noochee! Noochee!"

Jarvo started forward, felt a hand grip his shoulder. He whirled. In sick loathing he had forgotten the two Defenders.

"No problem, friend," one of them grinned. "It's a sure enough noochee brat. We arrested her family the other night, but the kids only flushed her out of hiding this morning."

"Thought they'd set up their own little Justice Square, just like the grown-ups," his comrade chuckled. "Crazy the way kids will pick things up."

"Been watching them all morning," the first guardsman added. "Gives a few of the grown-ups a start now and then. Just like it did you. But just a noochee brat."

Jarvo grinned crookedly. The Defenders were staring at him, and in a way that let him know what might be suspected of passers-by who sought to interfere with a noochee execution. He felt his belly tighten. There was a poniard hidden in his boot--in the interest of public safety, the Prophet had decreed that private citizens could not go armed except when on crusade. The Defenders wore steel helmets and hauberks, and went heavily armed. If their scrutiny penetrated Erill's paints and waxes, there was no question of fighting it out.

"What's your name, friend?" the first one asked.

"Insiemo," Jarvo answered, giving the identity Erill had coached him to assume.

"Face like yours I ought to remember. Where you from?"

"The Theatre Guild. I mostly work on sets and stuff, don't go out too much."

"Where you headed, Insiemo?"

"Got a break. Going for a drink."

"What happened to your face?"

"I was part of the first wave that went over the wall at Emleoas."

"Yeah? The west wall, huh." Casually spoken.

"No." Jarvo sensed the trap. "The west wall was the river wall--not even enough mud there to stand a ladder on. We went up over the east wall, after we'd laid down a sharp fire from the ridge there. I got to the parapet just in time to miss the flaming pitch that cleaned off the ladder beneath me. Well, I missed most of the pitch."

"One of the first bunch, huh." There was a trace of respectful sympathy. "Welt, I guess I can't blame you for not walking around in public much."

"It'd look worse without the wax and geasepaint," Jarvo volunteered.

"I'd noticed you were sort of made up."

"Got it!" The other guardsman, silent during the questioning, smacked his fist into his palm. "Jarvo!"

Jarvo froze, his face doubly a mask.

"Huh?" the first one blurted.

"Yeah, sure! Jarvo!" exclaimed his comrade, pleased with himself. "This is the guy who plays Jarvo in the new pageant the guild is putting on this month: The Invincible March of the Sword of Sataki. I caught it on three nights already."

"I haven't seen it yet."

"You'd better. It's the best one yet."

"I didn't think anyone would recognize me out of costume," Jarvo commented lamely, hoping his voice wouldn't stumble over commonplaces.

"Wouldn't have guessed it if you hadn't mentioned you were from the Theatre Guild. Guess with that scarface, you were tailored for the part. Not really tall enough though, but that don't matter much up on stage."

"Well, I'd better get that drink before I have to get back on the job," Jarvo suggested. "Give a cheer next time you're in the audience."

"Yeah, sure. It's a great pageant. The Theatre Guild may not turn out weapons or armor, but you guys still really do your part for the Crusade. I've gone back to the barracks every night after seeing this new one, thinking I ought to join up with the Sword of Sataki and share in the glory."

"Well, the Defenders of Sataki have an essential duty to perform, too," Jarvo said, edging away.

"You said it, Insiemo. Only thing is, we never get the cheers those cavalrymen do when they ride by."

Jarvo made a sympathetic grunt, escaped for the shelter of a corner tavern. It had been a bad idea, after all, to venture alone into the streets of Ingoldi. Erill would be furious with him. But after too many weeks of inaction, skulking around Erill's wagon in the Theatre Guild, Jarvo had to get out on his own, or lose his mind. Conscious that they were still watching him--the Defenders of Sataki watched everything--he ambled into the tavern.

He hadn't been thirsty before, but now his mouth felt gummy. Jarvo called for a stoup of ale, found it so expensive he wondered if he had enough money. He paid for it with bright, new-minted coins that had the sigil of Satiki stamped on one face and the profile of Orted Ak-Ceddi on the other. The coins purported to be silver, but clattered like they were mostly tin. The Prophet melted down into bullion the gold and silver his conquests brought him, ostensibly to mint his coinage--increasingly debased as the precious metals went into the vaults of Ceddi and to supply the Sword of Sataki. The taverner looked unhappy with the new coins, but the two Defenders lounged only a few yards away, and it was not wise to complain.

Carrying his ate, Jarvo crossed to a bench in the shadow of the wall, where he could look out through the open window. A taste of the ale proved it had been watered. Jarvo sipped it without protest. The commonroom was virtually deserted.

Fear. It haunted the faces of every person on the street. Serve Sataki or die, that was the law. It was written on walls and banners throughout the city, throughout Shapeli. Probably throughout what was left of the southern kingdoms, for each week brought news of yet another smashing victory for Kane and the Sword of Sataki. The Prophet said he would impose the law throughout the entire world. Maybe he would.

Jarvo sipped his tepid ale, stared at the painted mural on the tavern wall. It depicted Orted Ak-Ceddi leading his heroic followers in the first great battle of the Guild Fair. Sabres gory with the blood of the helpless townsfolk, the rat-faced thugs of the city guard cowered and tried to flee. Jarvo turned again to the window.

Fear. The Satakis either destroyed or assimilated everything in the path of the Dark Crusade. There was no middle ground. You pledged your soul to Sataki, and joined the triumphant horde. Or you defied Sataki, and joined the even greater horde of the dead. But vigilance was needed to make certain Sataki's newly pledged faithful were not secretly inuchiri. A man might lie to save his skin, thinking he could escape on another day. The Defenders of Sataki kept a constant guard against such treachery. Disloyalty to Sataki meant certain and hideous death--in Justice Square, or in the secret cellars beneath Ceddi.

Noochees hid everywhere. They plotted against the Dark Crusade. They spoke blasphemies against Sataki. They whispered treason against Orted Ak-Ceddi. When the Prophet commanded that his faithful must labor on some great project for the common good, the noochees grumbled. When the Prophet collected the booty of his conquests from the faithful to buy more soldiers and armaments for the common defense, the noochees complained. When the Prophet demanded that the faithful learn the chants and rituals of Sataki, the noochees showed no zeal. It was well that the Defenders of Sataki were so adept at ferreting out noochees.

Jarvo decided not to press his luck further. He'd proven to himself that he could walk through Ingoldi with impunity. It was time for other things now.

As he left the tavern, the hopeless moan from the alley suddenly rose to a piercing note of agony, cutting through the howls and laughter of the children. Jarvo saw smoke leaking from the alley mouth, and thought for but an instant that he only smelled burning refuse.

"Crazy damn kids!" The two Defenders pounded for the alleyway. "Burn the whole damn city down, if you aren't careful!"

"Noochee! Noochee!"

When Erill was angry, her eyes narrowed and flashed as bright and green as the band of jade beads across her brow. Right now she was angry.

"Damn you, Jarvo! I've warned you not to go out on your own yet! And what do you do but blunder into two Defenders first thing!"

She was mad. She made it her rule to call him Insiemo always--against making a slip sometime when other ears might hear and wonder.

"I've been cooped up here for months," Jarvo shot back. "Damn it, woman! I'm grateful for all you've done, but I'm not going to stay forever hidden under your bed, while Esketra suffers hell in that devil's harem!"

Erill set her jaw and squinted harder. "Damn it all, I don't care what in hell you do to risk your own bloody neck! Can't you get it through your thick skull that if you screw up, they'll trace you back to us here--and we'll all make a farewell performance on the scaffolds in Justice Square!"

That cut, because he'd realized it beforehand, and had taken the chance nonetheless.

"I'm sorry, Erill," Jarvo muttered, subsiding before her anger. "You've run a hell of a risk for my sake, and I've no right to put you and Boree and all your friends in danger. But, damn it, I can't keep hiding out here without doing anything. When I think of what Esketra has to endure..."

Erill cursed herself, scowling at him. She had been crazy as hell to let him find out his Great Love was alive, languishing in silks and furs in the Prophet's tower in Ceddi. His spirits were at such a low ebb after he'd learned that Sandotneri was no more than a city of ghosts. She'd told him of Esketra's captivity in desperate hope that he might shake off the black mood that gnawed at his soul more ravenously than any fever. It had brought Jarvo out of his melancholia well enough--and ever since he paced about restlessly, concocting mad schemes to rescue Esketra from the Prophet's fortress. While in delirium he had cried out Esketra's name again and again, and now that he was whole, he still spoke of her constantly. Erill found herself hating a woman she had never seen.

She broke her stony silence. "Look, there's some things I've got to take care of. Will you promise me to stay around the guild until I get back?"

"I won't even step out of the wagon to piss," Jarvo growled.

She left without farewells, and Jarvo didn't look up. In a foul mood, he told himself he shouldn't feel guilty. Erill was, after all, gutter-bred and gutter-raised. She had saved his life at the risk of hers, and he was grateful. But Erill was too lowborn to understand the needs and the duties that honor demanded of nobility, just as she was too coarse-natured to conceive of a love as deep and unselfish as the love he bore for Esketra. Erill and her friends had done much for him, and Jarvo felt the same lofty gratitude that any great lord extends to his loyal retainers.

It could be no more than that. It must be no more than that.

Jarvo retained only a foggy impression of those first fever-racked weeks. He had lain inside the wagon, somewhere between coma and delirium, while Erill forced him to swallow broths and eucalyptus teas and elixirs of cinchona bark and other powders that Boree procured. All the while they camped beside the waterhole, fearing to move him until his fever broke. Other stragglers from the Sataki horde passed by their camp. When any questioned, Erill explained that the stricken man was her lover, one Insiemo, sorely wounded in the great battle at Meritavano. No one questioned further. There were thousands so wounded, many with faces wrapped in bandages as was brave Insiemo's.

After several days, there were periods when Jarvo remained conscious long enough to gaze upon the wagon interior, the blonde girl who anxiously attended to him, the dark-haired older women whose pocked face always scowled. Gradually the mists of delirium lifted enough for him to understand his situation. It was then that his despair tortured him more cruelly than any fever.

Jarvo remembered the battle, the hopeless realization of defeat, the desperate attempt to rally his routed forces, the final horror when the headlong retreat was dragged down to hell in the treacherous mire below Meritavano. The memories tortured him still, waking or delirious.

Exhausted from the battle, racked with agonizing wounds beneath his dented armor, it had taken some moments before he realized the full horror of their doomed rout onto the marsh. The tall grass was suddenly high reeds; the firm sod was bottomless mud. His horse wallowed in the hidden mire, throwing Jarvo over its neck and into the clinging morass. Helpless in his heavy armor, Jarvo could not rise from the slippery muck. His struggles only dragged him deeper into the sucking depths of the bog. In a burst of panic, Jarvo knew he was going to be pulled beneath the fen by the weight of his armor--that scum and foetid slime would trickle through the vizor of his armet, drowning him in filth as he sank within his steel casket into the bottomless morass.

Then unseen hands pulled desperately at his sinking body. Frantic fingers unclasped his demon-mask helmet, flung it off his head. Troopers of his light horse, less encumbered in their mail hauberks, had crawled out to him. Loyal to death, they worked frenziedly to drag their leader out of his armored coffin. It was a tense struggle, as arrows fell upon them from the Sataki pursuers massed on the dry ground. Finally, exhausted and weak as a newborn infant, and nearly as naked, Jarvo sprawled on his belly in the churned mud, gasping for air.