SCENE XX Beacons of Honor
It doesn’t look like an ax to me,” I said, trying to sound interested.
The formalities over, and the dignitaries from Verneytha and Greycoast already on their respective ways home, the party had gathered together in a cold storage room on the ground floor of the keep. The dead assassin lay on a table, covered by a sheet. We had examined him and found nothing and, for the benefit of those who doubted my enthusiasm-like, say, Renthrette-I had led the search. The crimson cloak was of light, commonplace wool, but the weapons were more suggestive.
“It isn’t an ax,” said Garnet, touching the head of the thing with his fingertips. It was a huge blade with a broad, sweeping edge, but where it met the socket of the three-foot wooden haft, it was only a couple of inches across.
Orgos spoke, his voice low and reverential, as if he was in some dim temple surrounded by candles. “See how light it is?” he said. “Ideal for mounted men. The edge is razor-sharp, so it slices rather than hacks. You can see the lines and swirls where the steel has been beaten out and reheated, over and over again, for strength, flexibility, and a better edge than you will find on most swords: remarkable workmanship. I saw one of these in the Cherrat lands once, many years ago, an heirloom brought by a swordsmith from the west. He called it a scyax.”
“Is it
Orgos scowled at me. “Don’t be stupid, Will,” he said.
“Ah, I’m the one being stupid,” I said, as if everything was clearer now. “Your sword is magic, but this one isn’t. Obviously. They probably messed up the-what would you call it? — enchantment? Sorcery? Spell? I want to get this right,” I explained, “because I wouldn’t want to be talking crap where magic weapons are concerned.”
“What about the arrows?” said Renthrette, ignoring me pointedly.
“Finely made, but apart from the red flights, not particularly distinctive.” Orgos shrugged, still glaring at me. “Their tips are of a steel hard enough to get through all but the thickest armor. They have long barbs on both flanges. You’d never get one of those out of you without making a hell of a hole. Too nasty to be a standard purchase, so probably made specially.”
“Who stands to gain the most from these attacks?” Mithos asked.
“No one, really,” said Lisha. “Not if we restrict our view to the three immediate lands. Incidentally, don’t be deceived. They call themselves dukes and counts and governors but they owe no allegiance to any higher authority, so they are, to all intents and purposes, the kings of three small countries. They depend upon each other economically, but Shale is obviously the poor relative.
“According to the histories,” she went on, “Shale relied on income from shipping for many years, and its river estuary ports in the south were very profitable. Then the sandbars shifted and the rivers silted up. Soon, it was costing more to dredge the rivers than was being made by the commerce they brought in. The ports were closed, and now, apart from the tiny harbor where we docked and a few isolated fishing villages, coastal Shale is dead.
“Combine that,” Lisha continued, “with the poor soil and lack of significant mineral deposits, and you get a country with almost no resources. The only things they have here are a well-grounded reputation for horse breeding and a sizable army, by local standards at least. Shale is getting by at the moment on the money that the other two pay it to keep that army strong and ready to defend them all.”
“And the others?” Mithos asked.
“Verneytha is the economic success story of the area,” Lisha answered. “It is a rich nation of landowners and farmers. Growing conditions are perfect and they supply the region with the majority of its food. Closing the trade routes is hurting Verneytha, but it has also closed off Shale’s and Greycoast’s lifelines.
“Greycoast falls in the middle: better off than Shale, but not as wealthy as Verneytha. It produces its own barley and grazes a good deal of livestock, as well as exporting massive quantities of metal ores. Its seaports, though fewer than they were, are thriving, and produce enough for all three lands. Greycoast’s biggest asset, however, is the market in Hopetown, which has, for decades, been the area’s main trading site.
“So who stands to gain the most?” she said, coming back to the original question. “Nobody. They all lose, one way or another. Shale gains in that ruining the markets of its neighbors makes its own produce more valuable, and it keeps its army employed, but scarcity increases prices and Shale can hardly afford what it needs from Verneytha and Greycoast already. Shale will starve within the year. Verneytha and Greycoast are both losing badly needed trade, and no price increases will compensate for that. Economically, no one wins.”
“In any case,” said Mithos, “the attacks have been randomly distributed over all three countries and with equal savagery.” He sighed, and then said, “I didn’t want to seem unsure in front of the count, but I do think that we should move very carefully and be ready to acknowledge when the situation is beyond us. Thoughts?”
There was a moment’s pause and the group looked pensive.
“We have given our word,” Renthrette reminded us, a little defensively.
“That’s true,” I said, “and we can’t tarnish our reputation.”
Again Renthrette shot me an inquisitorial glance, searching for a sarcasm that was not apparently there.
“I admit,” I went on thoughtfully, “that I am not truly one of you and my opinion doesn’t carry much weight. But I’d like to add something. I have seen in you, all of you, something I did not believe still existed, something I’m not sure I believed had
There was a thoughtful silence and I sensed a wave of pride in the room.
“I’m not very good at expressing myself like this,” I continued, “but even at a time like this, that flame gives me courage, even if it cannot give me hope. Even as I anticipate the enemy bearing down on us in their red cloaks, I feel my strength renewed by that beacon. We will let the glow of honor illuminate the battlefield,” I went on, my voice building, “however much the merciless enemy throng about us. And when they shoot us down with their barbed arrows, we will sing our heroic defiance and the light of our beacon will shine in the blood that pours from us. However horribly they pierce our bowels with their spears, however savagely they mutilate us with their axes, we will die knowing that we fell with honor. Passersby will look at our corpses as they steam amongst the burning coal wagons from Seaholme, and they will know that we bore the torch of valor. And though the world will say we died in vain, that our arrow-riddled bodies mean nothing to the vast and brutal enemy that must eventually vanquish us all, we will know differently.”
There was a long silence. I waited.
It was-somewhat unexpectedly-Garnet who picked up the gist of the thought and took the next logical step.
“But. ” He faltered. “Don’t you think?. ”
“Garnet?” said Lisha.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he sighed, unsure of how much to say. “I mean, honor is great and all, but. It just seems sort of futile to me. I mean, Will’s right about the valor and everything, but. well, how the hell can we defend ten wagons of coal from a hundred trained soldiers?”
“We will have an armed escort-” began Renthrette, but he cut her off.
“I know that, but what is to say they won’t just hit us with more men still? They always win, you know? They’ve never been beaten yet, did you notice? Our predecessors were valiant, weren’t they? It didn’t protect them. I mean, if the valor doesn’t produce results, what’s the point?”
There was a long silence. I looked at the floor. His sister just stared at him.
“I don’t know,” he said with a gesture of his pale hands. “It just seems sort of hopeless. We have nothing to go on and we could find a hundred soldiers waiting for us as soon as we leave the castle. I say we go back to Stavis.”
Another long silence followed, cold and sharp as the ax on the table before us.
“No,” said Lisha gently but with enough conviction to show that there would be no further debate of the
