The Dog and the Wolf (53 page)

A soldier cursed. Philippus called on God. Nagon reddened and whitened with fury. “Are you mad?” he choked. “We’re agents of the state.”

“Has she summoned a demon to possess you?” quavered the exorcist.

Nemeta reached resolve. She took a pair of steps from her captors toward the mariner, stopped, and said almost quietly, “Evirion, don’t. Go. You can’t help me this time.”

Death was on his countenance. “The hell I can’t. Come here, woman. You others stay back. The first of you that moves, I’ll drop.”

Nagon grinned his hatred. “And what about the next?” he challenged.

“Please, Evirion,” Nemeta begged. “I don’t want you beheaded too.”

“It could be worse than that, from what I’ve heard,” the big man said.
“Come here.
”

She shook her head.

“All right,” Evirion snarled. “I’m coming after you.”

He sprang from his horse and advanced on her.

“Get him!” Nagon screamed.

The cavalrymen drew blade. A charger neighed. Both boomed past the prisoner and down on the seaman.

Evirion pulled trigger. The bow rang and thumped, the bolt whistled through the wind. The man on the left let go of his sword and toppled. He struck soddenly and lay still in an outwelling of blood. Lightning made his mail shimmer. His horse galloped on, crashed into the brush, was gone.

The second was already at Evirion. A stout crossbow could put a shaft through armor, but took time to load and
set. Even to a trained infantryman, a mounted attack was a terrifying sight. Evirion barely dodged aside. He threw his bow. The heavy stock struck in the midriff. The rider did not fall. For a moment, though, he lost control. Instead of taking the chance to run, Evirion darted in. His sword hissed free. A hoof nearly smote him. He got behind and swung.

Hamstrung, the horse screamed, kicked air, plunged and scrabbled. “You swine!” its master shrieked, and threw himself off to the ground. The horse reeled aside, fell, lay thrashing and screaming. Its rider had kept hold of his sword. Evirion pounced like a cat before his opponent was afoot. They went down together. The heel of Evirion’s left hand smashed the soldier’s nose from beneath. Suddenly that face was a red ruin. The man jerked once and died.

Evirion bounced to a crouch. The encounter had passed in a whirl. The priest clung to the neck of his panicky, rearing mount. Nagon was in little better case. His eyes darted, found Nemeta still frozen. He writhed from the saddle, thumped to earth in a heap, was immediately up and on the run, toward the woman. His knife gleamed forth.

“Nemeta!” Evirion roared, and plunged toward her. She came aware and leaped. Nagon was almost there. He meant to take her hostage or kill her, Evirion knew; no matter which. Nagon’s left hand snatched out and caught her by the hair. She jerked to a halt. With a whoop, he pulled her into stabbing distance. She caught that wrist in the crook of her left arm and her teeth. She fell, dragged it down. Her skeleton right arm flopped at his ankles.

Evirion arrived. His sword sang below the lightning. It thwacked as it bit into the neck. Blood spouted. Nagon went to his knees. “Oh, Lydris,” bubbled from his mouth—the name of his wife. He crumpled on his face and scrabbled weakly for a while. Blood flowed from him slower and slower, out into an enormous puddle whose red caught the lightning-light.

Evirion knelt and held Nemeta close. The blood that had gushed over her smeared across him. “Fare you well?” he asked frantically in Ysan. “Are you hale, my darling?”

“Aye.” The answer came faint. “Not hurt. But you?” Her eyes found his.

“I was the quickest of them.” He helped her to rise. She leaned on him, tottered, and sank down once they were out of the pool.

“I’m well, but—but my head swims—” She lowered it between her knees.

The exorcist’s horse had thrown him. Dazed more by horror than impact, he groped backward from the red-painted man who turned his way. He lifted his arms as if in prayer. “Please, no,” he begged. “I belong to the Church.”

Evirion pointed. “Go,” he said. “Upstream. Don’t turn around till… till sundown.”

“No, not alone at night in the wilderness!”

“’Twon’t hurt you. Use this house if you like.” Evirion’s laugh clanked. “You shouldn’t fear witchcraft, should you, priest? But I don’t want you here before dark. Tomorrow, if you can’t remember the trails, follow the river to Confluentes. Go!” He made one threatening stride. Philippus whimpered and scuttled off.

Evirion went about securing things. His jade had stood numbly throughout. He cut the throat of the crippled charger. The priest’s gelding and the remount were still close by, somewhat calmed. They shied from him, but he caught the reins of first one, then the other, as thickets slowed their escape, and they let him tie them to branches. He collected weapons, washed them in the river, bundled everything in his cloak. The wind blew still stronger and louder. Lightning went in flares and sheets, thunder crashed, a deeper rushing noise told of rain oncoming.

By the time he was through, Nemeta had recovered. She went to him and laid her cheek against his breast. His arms enclosed her. “Evirion, what now?” Her tone still shook. “My father—”

“He’s gone on one of his trips,” the man told her. “I’d guess Nagon knew he would be, and timed himself for it.”

A ghost of joy lilted. “Well do the Gods stand by us! Nobody can accuse my father of aught.”

“They’ll be after you and me. Let’s begone. Here we’ve two good steeds.”

“Whither?”

“I know not. The forest?”

She looked up. A steadiness to match his came into her. “Nay, not at once. We needn’t blindly bolt. In Confluentes may be some help. At least, he—my father has the need and right to learn what truly happened.”

“Hm—Aye. A sound thought. Well, come, then. ’Tis a long ride, and the earlier we begin, the better.”

She disengaged from him, moved toward the horses, stopped. “My cats!”

He blinked. “What?”

“I cannot leave my three cats behind. Who’d care for them?”

Laughter cataracted from him. When its wildness was past, he knuckled his eyes and said, “Very well, fetch them along. I should in honor return this Pegasus I hired, too.”

She went to her dwelling. “I’ll take them in a basket, to shield them from the rain.”

“What about us?”

At her door, she looked back, across the sprawled dead men. “It will wash us clean.”

5

The storm passed over. Eventide rested mellow. It tinted the battlements of Confluentes with gold. Swallows darted along the Odita.

Having brought them to Gratillonius’s private room, Verania regarded her two drenched, hollow-eyed visitors and asked softly, “What is this?”

“A terrible story,” Evirion said. “Best we tell your brother Salomon.”

“It happens he’s here. I’ll go for him if you like. But—Nemeta, dear, we haven’t seen you in years. Be welcome. We’ll have a bath and a bed for you—oh, and supper, of course. Can you stay till your father returns? He’ll be so happy.”

Nemeta shook her head. “I must be off.” Her glance went fearfully to the window. Low light made its glass shine sea-green. “Never can I spend a night here.” The
cats she had released from the basket ceased sniffing about the room and sought her. “But can you take these from me?” she requested. “They’re housebroken and sweet.”

“If you wish it, certainly. I’ll call Salomon.” Skirts rustled as Verania went out Nemeta squatted down to stroke and reassure her pets. Evirion prowled.

Verania re-entered. “He’ll be here shortly,” she explained. “He was asleep. He stays with me when my husband is away. Not that I need be afraid of anything. Gratillonius wants to mark him out as—an heir to leadership. Our mother agrees.” Proudly: “People have started bringing disputes before him, and he’s active in the guard. But today he went hunting, the weather caught him, he came back exhausted.”

“Thank you, my lady,” said Evirion. “Maybe you’d best withdraw.”

Verania looked at him. “Nemeta will stay, won’t she?” When he nodded: “Then it shouldn’t be talk unfit for a woman to hear.”

“It’s dangerous to know.”

She flushed. “Do you suppose I won’t share any danger that touches my man? We’re close, he and I. Let me stay.”

“Or she’ll have to get it from her brother,” Nemeta divined. “I’m sorry, Verania. We can certainly use your counsel.”

Salomon appeared, hastily tunicked, hair uncombed and fuzz on his cheeks. But his youth had shrugged fatigue off and he was alert. “Nemeta! Evirion!” he cheered. “Why, this is splendid.” He paused. “No, it isn’t, is it?”

“Close the door,” his sister told him.

They heard the story. Never did they call the deed a crime.

“Holy Georgios, help us,” Salomon prayed.

“That horrible creature, Nagon,” sighed Verania. “Sick with his own venom.”

“He was that, I suppose,” Evirion said. “He should have escaped while he could. But he went after Nemeta, and naturally I chopped him.”

“God help me, I don’t think I can pray for him.”

Salomon folded his arms and stared downward. “Never mind that now,” he said. “What should
we
do?”

“We, Nemeta and I, we won’t stay,” Evirion promised. “Whether or not that fool priest makes it back, and he will, they’ll soon have a pretty good idea in Turonum of what went awry. We mustn’t get you fouled in their net. Give us a rest, a bite to eat, dry clothes, some provisions we can carry, and we’ll be off as soon as it’s dark.”

“Nobody will know we were here,” Nemeta added. “We were two more wet people among the few in the streets. Your doorkeeper didn’t get a good look at me, and never met me before anyway.” She had, after all, brought a cloak for herself, and used the cowl to screen her face and distinctive hair. “Who’ll think to question him? I suppose he knows Evirion a little, but why should he remember what day he last saw him?”

“Besides, he’s loyal,” Verania said. “My family’s treated its slaves like fellow children of God. … But into the wildwood, you two?”

Salomon lifted his head. “Give Gratillonius time, and he may be able to negotiate a pardon,” he declared. “In any case, you’ve got shelter where the state can never find you.’

“Where?” coughed Evirion.

“With one of our brotherhoods. Rufinus’s old Bacaudae. They’ll be glad to take you in.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I’ve been among them enough. Gratillonius wants everybody to get to know me, and me to know them. Come night, I’ll guide you.”

1

“You know why I’m here,” said Gratillonius. “Let’s get on with it.”

“By all means,” replied Bacca cordially.

They sat alone in his room of erotic books in Turonum.
Outside, wind blustered. Glass panes flickered with cloud shadows.

“My daughter—”

“And her murderous accomplice.”

Gratillonius’s eyes stung. “It never had to happen. She harmed nobody. I think she helped many. The country’s full of good little witches like her.”

Bacca’s gaunt visage assumed sternness. “Your duty is to put a stop to that.”

“Then every Roman official is derelict,” Gratillonius retorted. “I could find witches within five miles of here. So could you, if you’d take the trouble.”

“We have more pressing concerns.”

“Me too. I thought you wanted my goodwill.”

“We did. I still do.” Bacca sighed. “Let me give you the background. Nagon was clever. He waited till I was out of the city, then approached the governor. Glabrio has never liked or trusted you.”

How true, thought Gratillonius. That was why he had sought audience with the procurator instead. Not that Bacca was a friend either, but he seemed reasonable in his rascality.

“He was quite willing to be persuaded,” the smooth voice continued. “One can imagine Nagon’s exhortation. ‘End the scandal of paganism and sorcery in the very family of a Roman tribune. It’s not only his flouting of law and religion, it’s his intransigence. Give him a sharp reminder that he must mend his ways. Humble him. Undermine him.’

“They didn’t tell me about the decision. Glabrio says he wanted to avoid a futile dispute when his mind was made up. Confidentially, I suspect he was afraid I’d change it for him.”

That also sounded true, Gratillonius thought. Glabrio had spite of his own to vent. Weak men are often vicious.

“Once Nagon brought her back, publicly accused, it would be too late,” Bacca finished. “We would have no choice but to proceed against her. It was a poor return Nagon made me for my protection, I grant you.”

Gratillonius’s heart thumped. “Well, how about repairing the damage?” he pressed. “Issue a civil pardon. Bishop Corentinus is ready to give absolution.”

Bacca’s lips pinched together before he answered, “Impossible. That man murdered two soldiers and an officer of the state.”

“She was innocent, helpless.” Heavily: “Let him stay outlawed.” It hurt Gratillonius to the point of nausea, but he had cherished no real hope for Evirion.

“You have not been precisely zealous in organizing pursuit of him,” said Bacca.

“How can I ransack the wilderness?”

“You have men who live in it.”

Gratillonius shook his head. “No, I don’t,” he declared with a slight, malicious pleasure. “I’m not allowed to, remember? I have been given no authority over those squatters.”

“Very good!” laughed Bacca. “Then why are you so sure the girl is even alive?”

“Let’s say I’m confident of God’s mercy and justice.”

Gaze met gaze. Gratillonius knew that Bacca knew he got word from the forest. For the procurator to state it forthrightly would mean scrapping the policy he had been at pains to get adopted.

Bacca’s wry smile faded. “Corentinus cannot reconcile a pagan with Him,” he pointed out.

“She would accept baptism.”

“I suppose she would, as a matter of expediency. Later—who knows?—His grace might touch her. But it cannot be. She would have to appear in public. Otherwise, what practical difference would these maneuvers make? When she did, we would have to seize her. The case is that notorious. There is much rebelliousness in Armorican hearts these days. Sparing her would feed it like nothing else. No, reprieve is a political impossibility.”