But they began to strike him and to kick him, and they tried to hold him. He had never dealt with men like this, and he had no notion what to do but run: he swept himself a clear space, swept up his Book and fled for the door, trying to throw the bar up.
A heavy weight hit him across the neck and shoulders and smashed his forehead into the door. He came about with a sweep of his arm to make the man stop, but in the same instant arms wrapped around his knees, hands seized his belt, and the weight of two men dragged him down to the floor. A third landed on his side and, setting an arm across his throat, choked him, while the other struck him across the head.
The dark went across his sight. He fought to breathe and to escape, he had no idea where or to what, or even how. But blows across his shoulders and across his head kept on, making the dark across his eyes flash red.
One man ripped the Book from his hand. The other kept sitting on his legs, not hitting him, and the third man had given up hitting him, and rummaged all over him, continuing his search. He was too stunned and too breathless to protest. He was willing to lie still in the dark and catch his breath if they would only cease the blows.
The dark, meanwhile, began to be dim light and his head hurt, the more so when the man above his head seized him by the hair and hauled him not to his feet nor quite as far as his knees.
Can ye make aught of it? asked the man holding him, and the man in charge, turning the Book this way and that:
Iʼm no Scribe. Norʼs he, by the look of ʼim. A thief, Iʼd say.
Thief. Stealing. Theft. Crime. Gallows. Hanging.
Dreadful images. Terrifying images, from his position, in pain and unbalanced the man had a knee in his back, and his eyes were watering with the pull on his hair.
Well? the man asked him, shaking him. Where did ye come by it, thief?
The Book is mine, Tristen said. I am no thief, sir.
It ainʼt like honest writing to me, the grim man said.
And the other, holding it out in front of his eyes: Whatʼs it say? Eh?
I canʼt read it.
Ye canʼt read it, eh? So you are a thief. A brigand. A robber. Who did you kill to get them fine clothes, eh?
From Stealing to Killing. He shook his head. No, sir, I killed no one.
Another lurking after the Marhanen, one said to his fellows.
He might be, the third man said. He might, that, but do they send a fool?
I am no thief, Tristen said. The very word was strange to his mouth. He fought to get a foot and a knee beneath him, and the man let him, but no more. It is my Book, sirs. Please let me up.
And what would you do wiʼ a book, hey, if you canʼt read it?
A novice priest, by ʼis talk, Iʼd say, said the man at his head. Stole a book anʼ run, by me. Killt somebody for the clothes.
No, sirs, Tristen said desperately. It belongs to me. Iʼm not to lose it.
Not to lose it, the man in charge said. And who said?
My master, sir.
Ah. Now His Lordship has finally owned a master. And who would that be?
My master said He knew dangerous questions by some experience now; and not to name Names carelessly. My master said I should follow the Road.
And who said this?
My master, sir. He truly did not want to answer that question. He feared that they had their minds made up that he was in the wrong, and the men in the woods had liked least of all where he had come from. He was light-headed from hunger and from exhaustion, and he began to fear they would hit him again. Please give me the Book, sir.
Heʼs mad, the man on his feet said.
And never will answer the question. Who is this master, man? Answer, or Iʼll become angry with you.
He feared to answer. He feared not to. He had no knowledge how to lie.
Mauryl, he said, and by the look on the manʼs face once he said that Name, he feared it would have been far better for him to have kept still, no matter what they did.
CHAPTER 9
The assizes were done, the evening headache, promoted by a boundary dispute and a squabbling lot of voices, had given way to a pleasant warmth of wine, and a wind from the west stirred the air from the open window-panels above a candlelit tumble in the silken sheets. Orien and Tarien were a red-haired bedful, a welcome diversion on this night when Cefwyn felt the need to forget the dayʼs necessities. Together the twins had the wit of half the council combined, a more astute judgment, a keener humor; and their perfumed oil, Orienʼs hands and Tarienʼs lips were a potent, delirious persuasion to think of nothing else at all and hold himself as long as he could manage
Which he could do, thinking of the water rights of Assurn-brook and two border lords at each otherʼs throats. He could distract himself quite effectively for perhaps a breath or two, asking himself whether bribery, diversion, or main force was the appropriate answer to fools a mandated marriage, perhaps: Esryddʼs light-of-wit son, the thane of Assurn-Hawasyr, and Durellʼs plump wayward daughter, both with ambitions, both lascivious, both
Was it through the female line the lands of Payny could descend? The earlʼs daughter by a second wifethat could pose a problem.
The intricacies of Amefin titles were another source of headache, the thane of this and the earl of that, and the province of Amefel as a whole ruled over by the Aswydds, ducal in the Guelen court at Guelemara in Guelessar, and styling themselves aethelings, though discreetly, in their own provincial and very luxurious court
Gods, he moaned, the vixen proving she had teeth. The other threatened Tarien with the pillow, and he took the game for what it was, rolled Tarien under and suffered a buffeting of feathers and a flank attack, Orien complaining she was slighted. Or was it, after all, Tarien?
He let himself be wrestled onto his back, and a furious battle ensued between the twins, in which he was the disputed territory, and in which he had an enchanting view of both well-bred ladies, before they smothered him in unison, and not with pillows.
He was taking random choice, then, perilous decision, when came one thump at the inner door, and a second.
And a third. Which roused his temper, which defeated other processes in midcourse, and left him utterly confused between the twins, who wanted him to continue, and his door, at which some fool continued a hammering assault.
Gods damn you! he cried, flat on the battlefield, overwhelmed and unhorsed. Gods damn your knocking and battering, what do you want thatʼs worth your neck?
Mʼlord, came from the other side of the doors. Forgive me
Not damned likely!
but thereʼs a stranger in hall. Master Emuin said you should hear this.
Master Emuin has no natural impulses, he muttered, and drew a pillow over his face, momentary refuge. Master Emuin has no
Thump. My lord?
He groaned and tossed the pillow aside. Orien or was it Tarien? kissed him on the mouth and clung to his arm. Her twin tossed a wealth of red-gold hair over a sullen shoulder and gathered the wine-stained sheet about her, rising.
He rolled to the doorward end of the bed, sighed as his feet found the fleece rug, searched blindly down the bed for remnants of his clothing.
My lord?
Idrys, he said to the batterer, Idrys, damn you, go down, tell them Iʼm aware, awake, bothered, duly alarmed, and duty-bound, I shall be there in a gods-cursed moment I can dress myself, I learned at my lady motherʼs knee, curse you all