No—only that its whole purpose was to prevent anyone from establishing a government over everyone else. They didn’t say to use assassins.
Stated in those terms, eh? That the Scarlet Company isn’t supposed to stop bullies or conquerors—it’s to stop government?
Before they begin, Alea confirmed. Yes.
How, though? Gar thought, more to himself than to Alea. If it’s an army itself, where is it? How does it work? More to the point, what’s to keep some power-hungry citizen from working his way up in the Scarlet Company and using it to take over? Did the founders say anything about that?
Not that I’ve read, Alea answered, but I have three more volumes to go. I’ll tell you what I find tomorrow night. That next night, however, they would have more immediate problems to discuss.
Alea spent the next morning in the library, scanning the rest of the chronicles and reading in depth anything that looked promising. In the afternoon, she accompanied her patron on her rounds. They were called to help at a difficult birth, then with a child whose fever was very high, and finally with an old man who’d had a stroke. The priestess couldn’t do much for him but to help make him comfortable and leave directions for exercises in hopes that he would recover some use of the affected muscles. He tried to thank her but only succeeded in making a gargling sound.
Alea thought she recognized him, but couldn’t have said from where. She read his thoughts, though, and told the priestess, “He thanks you for your kindness.”
Her mentor stared. “Can you understand his cawings, then?”
“Barely,” Alea said, “but I can make some sense out of them, yes.” She turned back to the patient. “Am I wrong?”
The old man shook his head.
“Rest, then.” Alea laid her hand on his head. “Enjoy what life has left for you—you’ve earned it.” But the old man shook his head again, gabbling, and she heard his thought: I know when I’m dying.
“You are surrounded by love,” Alea said firmly. “You have reason to live.”
Reason, but not enough life, said the old man’s thoughts as he cawed. I have watched you since you tried to warn me against General Malachi, or had friends watch you. You spent a whole day sounding an alarm to which no one listened. When you gave up that, you went to join the priestesses. Did you think to help General Malachi’s victims when he conquered the town?
Alea stared. Now she recognized him—the first person she had warned to defend himself and his town! The stroke had come suddenly and aged him tremendously. “I try to help everyone wherever I find them.”
I knew you had a good heart, the old man said and thought. You truly wish to save the people from General Malachi, do you not?
“Well, of course,” Alea answered.
The old man caught her hand, though, and his words seemed to explode in her mind: You are devoted to other people, but you are not yet a priestess. Leave the temple. Fill my place in the Scarlet Company.
Alea stared at him, unable to move. Then she tried to wrest her hand away, but he held it with a death grip, mouthing the words, Say you will!
“I…will do as you ask,” Alea said slowly, “if it will ease your passing.”
Bless you. The old man let go of her hand and closed his eyes. Talk to Kethro the Tailor. I can leave this world now.
Don’t you dare! Alea thought, but he had already fallen asleep. She freed her hand from his grip and looked up at the old man’s wife and daughter through swimming eyes. “Care for him well,” she advised. “Do not let him be alone for a second.”
“Lady, we shall not,” the daughter said, eyes round. The priestess watched her, gaze speculative, but said nothing until they were out in the street again. There, though, she asked, “What did he say to you?”
“That he is dying.” Alea caught her breath on a sob, bowing her head. “Reverend Lady, I-I cannot bear this.”
“Can you not, then?” the priestess’s gaze was probing but sympathetic.
“No! It will be bad enough in my life to watch a few people die—but to see it every day, perhaps several times in one day … I-I have not the strength.”
“It is well you have learned that so soon.” The priestess laid a hand on her shoulder. “You may still be devoted to the goddess, child, and may enter the temple to worship as much as you wish—but it would seem she has another role in life for you than that of priestess.”
“I-I fear so,” Alea said, head bowed still.
“Then go to discover how you must serve.” The priestess touched Alea’s forehead, lips, then breastbone as she said, “May the goddess grant you wisdom, kind words for all you meet, and a tender heart.” She withdrew her hand with a gentle smile. “Live well, my child, and happily. Farewell.”
“Farewell,” Alea whispered as the other woman turned away. Alea watched her go and wondered whether she was sad or relieved to be so easily out of her new career.
She was sure, though, that she had done it welclass="underline" Head still bowed, she turned away—to seek out the booth of Kethro the Tailor.
When she sat down to meditate in the common room of an inn that night, though, she wasn’t at all sure whether or not to tell Gar what had happened. Kethro had been very insistent about secrecy.
She need not have worried. As soon as she made contact with him, the problem was solved. Gar was tense as a fiddle string.
What happened? Alea demanded, appalled.
For answer, Gar’s memories of the day flooded her mind.
The rider burst out of the woods, following the deer track, and slewed to a halt in the center of the camp, waving and shouting, “Attention! All of you, listen!”
Looking up, Gar saw it was one of their scouts, stationed well outside of camp to see anything that happened in the wood around them. With the rest of the rankers and recruits, he snapped straight, standing still, but the sergeants and officers only came walking over, alert and wary.
“General Malachi’s coming!” the sentry called. “Police the camp! Polish your leather and brass!” The captain exchanged a glance with his lieutenant. “Not that much to police,” the younger man said. “We’ve been keeping things in shape.”
“I hope your sergeants have been inspecting their men’s gear,” the captain said. “Get them busy!” There followed a hectic hour while everything that had been overlooked was swept and scoured and everything clean was cleaned again. Gar hauled water and scrubbed where he was told like a beast of burden, wondering if it was time to disappear again—but he remembered the ashes of the youth village and his anger began to burn again. He had burst away from the bandit general’s men before and he could do it again if he had to. Meanwhile, what could he say to bamboozle the man into keeping him near?
Then General Malachi rode into the camp surrounded by his bodyguards. The first soldier to see him shouted, “General!” and everyone ran to their places in line.
They snapped to attention as the general dismounted and swaggered along their rows, enjoying the panic he’d created. He looked up and down soldier after soldier, snapping out a criticism here, a nitpick there—leather not polished mirror bright, spear-edge not honed to razor sharpness. Gar watched him come, surprised that the general hadn’t picked him out already, tense for a fight but sure of what he was going to say, the proof he could offer that he wasn’t a danger. Crel was next; after him, General Malachi would be looking up into Gar’s face…