Whistler said something, but I didn’t hear it. His wound was bleeding a lot more than I expected.
“Whistler, the artery is cut.”
After a pause, he said, “Aw, hell.”
“What does that mean?” Bea demanded.
“It means Bib could wrap a thousand shirts around my leg, and it wouldn’t do any good. I’m going to die lying right here.”
Bea pointed at Pil. “Why can’t Bib save you the way he saved her? Ask Bib to save you.”
Whistler blew a couple of breaths. “He will if he wants. I won’t die begging.”
I had just told myself I couldn’t spend even a thousandth of a square of power saving Whistler. But now that he was acting so brave, I felt kind of miserly.
Bea turned her squashed-up face to me. “Please save him!”
Pil didn’t join in but looked as if she’d like to.
I shook my head. “Sorry, ladies, I can’t spend power I might need later. Maybe to save one of you.” I had retained just a sliver for emergencies, and saving Whistler from death would eat almost half of it.
Pil frowned at me. “How many people have you killed these past days? You should save one now so the gods don’t get bored watching you do nothing but kill.”
“Pil . . . the gods never get tired of watching people get killed. What did Dixon teach you?”
Pil jumped to her feet so fast she almost slipped. “Well, would it just offend the gods to no end for you to change your mind and save somebody today? Save him and then not kill anybody for a while? Would that be acceptable? Or would Harik get mad?”
Harik probably would get mad.
And that by itself was a damn fine reason to do it. Without any more conversation, I lifted myself to trade, calling on Harik.
Harik did not answer. I called out to several other gods who I thought might stoop to speaking with me. None of them answered, either.
Discouraged, I returned to the exact moment I had left. I wanted to save Whistler, although it probably was a wicked thing to do, considering what a rascal he was. It would be a foolish act.
Although, how foolish would it be compared to hunting down some mysterious, snotty being of vast power? Or letting Bindle’s children get stolen? Or working on a ruined house hoping a dead woman would come home? Or murdering a little girl? Hell, my life had been a bucketful of foolish acts.
Saving Whistler would fit right in.
None of that sloppy logic meant anything, of course. I just wanted to save him and was searching for a reason.
I didn’t consider for an instant explaining my situation and asking everybody what they thought or telling them what it might mean. It was none of their business, not even Whistler’s. My acts of sorcery were beyond their judgment. That may have seemed damned arrogant of me, but if they couldn’t judge me, then they also couldn’t be blamed for anything horrible I might do.
I knelt beside Whistler’s leg and pressed my palm against the wound. “I’m healing you just enough to keep you from dying, and not a speck more. When we march out of here, you’ll have to keep up. Although these devoted ladies might be pleased to carry you on their shoulders.”
When I was done, I felt happier about saving him than I had expected. It surprised me, since I figured I’d be aggravated with myself for doing it.
Bea hugged me, and Pil smiled before she walked back up the trail. Then I found an almost-dry spot away from people doing things and lay down to sleep without asking anybody’s leave.
I lay awake listening to every grunting, chirping, farting, death-crying creature within half a mile. I considered whether I had wasted my effort on Whistler, since he might get killed by something else before nightfall. I wondered what the prisoners might know and how terrified they were of Halla by now. I remembered how Manon had sounded when she was pissed off at me, and I thought up a few nasty names to call Harik the next time we spoke. I finally fell asleep not much before noon.
Sometime in the afternoon, I woke up because Halla was kicking my boot. When I peered up at her, she said, “I want to kill the prisoner, but I do not want to listen to you complain about it for a year. So, you kill her.”
I dislike killing prisoners, although I won’t hesitate to kill a man who has surrendered in combat. I admit that the distinction is vague, but a shackled prisoner is no threat to me. On the other hand, an enemy who tries to kill me and drops his weapon could try again if my attention drifts.
When I bind a prisoner, I’m responsible for his life. If the trees start burning, I can’t leave him tied to one. But if a man does his best to kill me and then throws down his weapon, my only responsibility is making sure he’ll never try again.
It almost makes sense. However, it’s just some shit I tell people. In truth, I have found that I need a line between the people I will murder and the ones I won’t. If I wanted, I could accept a man’s surrender with one word, or even a nod, and then he’d be safe from me. So, the distinction is faint. But it’s a reason to let people live.
That’s a lie too, of course, one I often tell myself about my morality. In the end, my reasons for deciding who to kill and whom to let live won’t withstand harsh examination.
Despite all that, I have killed prisoners now and then. After twenty seconds with this woman bandit, I yearned to murder her. I felt ambivalent about the man her gang had tied to a
