The man with the wounded leg hung in his chair, breath snorting through his bloodied nose. When Jaryd entered the room and saw the council's handiwork, he was not impressed.
“That's what you call an interrogation?” he exclaimed in disbelief. “That's it?” Raegyl the stonemason was unwinding strips of cloth from his knuckles and flexing his fingers. The prisoner's face was swollen, and there was blood all down his shirt, but it didn't look like Raegyl had been striking very hard. Even the ropes that tied the prisoner to his chair did not look particularly tight.
“You'll address your accusations to me,” said Jaegar, Baerlyn headman. He leaned by one window, massive arms folded, long hair tied into a single, knotted braid that fell down his back. “This interrogation shall go as far as I wish it to, and no further.”
Teriyan was there too, and Ryssin, Geldon the one-handed baker, and Byorn from the training hall. Old Cranyk sat in a chair near the fireplace, his cane between his legs, and watched the prisoner through narrowed eyes.
“Let me question him,” said Jaryd and pulled a knife from his belt.
“No,” said Jaegar, unmoving.
“He has transgressed on the honour of Baerlyn,” Jaryd said incredulously, “and now you grant him favours?”
“No man of Baerlyn will stick a blade into a defenceless opponent and consider Baerlyn's honour unsullied,” Jaegar said bluntly.
“I'm not a man of Baerlyn,” Jaryd retorted.
Jaegar's stare was flat and level within a face set like granite. One eye dark within a maze of intricate black tattoos that covered half his face. “While you live here,” he said, “you are.”
The prisoner groaned and moved his legs. Blood dripped. Raegyl's fists had made a mess, but it was a mercy compared to the fate of such a man in other parts of Lenayin. In Isfayen, Jaryd had no doubt, the man's face would have been his prettiest feature by now.
“Look at him!” Jaryd exclaimed in frustration. “He knows this is the worst you will do! He's survived this far, he probably thinks he can survive the rest!”
“Betraying the Great Lord will gain him far worse,” Cranyk agreed. “But should he hold his silence now, his reward will be even greater. Such are the moments that can make a man's life. He grasps his chance with both hands, with the honour of a whipped dog whining at his master's feet.”
“No,” Jaegar repeated, this time to Cranyk. “Not while I am headman.”
“When I was a boy,” Cranyk replied, his aged voice high and thin, “I saw Cherrovan prisoners flayed alive on the road.”
“That was revenge,” said Raegyl, still massaging his knuckles. “Revenge is different.”
“The young daylthar has claim for revenge,” said Cranyk, nodding at Jaryd. Daylthar, good gods, that was an old word. Jaryd had heard it only in recitals of Tullamayne epics, and similar old tales. It meant “stranger,” in that very Lenay sense that could mean the person from the next village, or the invading Cherrovan warlord, or the travelling serrin from Saalshen. “All the rest of the world,” in totality. Jaryd hadn't thought anyone still used the term. “If the Great Lord had any honour, he would meet the honourable challenge with a blade in his hand. Instead, he sends gold and trades favours to buy the likes of this…” with a disdainful nod at the slumped prisoner, “and a cowardly shot from a distance. All who fall outside our honour are no longer protected by it.”
“The serrin fall outside our honour too,” Jaegar replied, as unmoved as the rock his face and build resembled. “They share none of our beliefs and convictions. Should we then accord them no respect either?”
“The serrin,” Cranyk replied, “would never stoop to such an act. They have their own honour, whatever they might call it.”
“So do the nobles,” said Jaegar.
“Why are you defending them?” Jaryd demanded, folding his arms, his knife still in hand. “What have they done to make you so enamoured of them?”
“It's not a question of liking them, kid,” said Teriyan. “It's a question of law. Our laws exist because they are what we have decided is right and just. If others don't share those values, that's no reason to just ignore it all. Honour is honour. End of discussion.”
Jaryd shoved his knife back into its sheath in disgust. “This is why civilisations are destroyed,” he said darkly. “They lack the conviction to defend themselves by every means possible against those who would destroy them.”
“Aye,” Cranyk agreed, nodding slowly.
“If we must defeat dishonour by becoming dishonourable,” Jaegar replied, “then what have we won?”
Jaryd stared at the men. Teriyan looked sombre, but in general agreement with his friend Jaegar. Raegyl too, and Ryssin. Geldon looked more troubled, his round face etched with a frown. Byorn, too, looked uncertain. Jaryd gave a slight bow to Cranyk. “I thank you for your support, Yuan Cranyk,” he said.
Cranyk looked up at him shrewdly. He studied Jaryd's dripping sweat and the weariness of his posture. “You train hard, young Jaryd. Most likely this quest of yours will kill you. But I wish you an honourable death, and the blood of your enemies. Perhaps we shall sing songs of it.”
From a man such as Cranyk, Jaryd reckoned, that was great praise. He gave another slight bow, turned on his heel and departed the room.
At the ranch Jaryd went to the stables to see what needed doing, and found Parrachik there looking at some horses with the Petrodor merchants who'd attended the wedding last night.
Lynette had saddled one of the fillies-Felsy, Jaryd saw, noting the white-socked hindleg-and was showing her off to the merchants as they leaned on the enclosure fence. Jaryd stood back, unnoticed for the moment, hands on his head as he tried to stretch his aching shoulders. After watching awhile, he found he could only admire, however grudgingly, the sheer audacity of the skinny red-haired girl who commanded the men's attentions in the manly business of horses. She moved quickly and expertly around the filly, handling her with the surest touch, lifting a hoof with the easy pressure of a hand, reciting breeding and conditioning from immediate memory.
Soon Parrachik glanced back and saw him. “Jaryd!” All present turned to look. “I was hoping to find you here. Tell me, have we found that last scoundrel yet?”
Jaryd shook his head, moving wearily to the fenceline. “Not yet.” There was a party of woodsmen out looking for the escaped assassin. Such woodsmen were the reason Kessligh and Sasha had never particularly feared an attack-travelling on the roads in these parts would get you spotted, and travelling off them would get you tracked.
Jaryd exchanged greetings with the merchants and leaned on the fence to watch as Lynette held Felsy's bridle and the prospective buyer climbed astride. A nudge of heels and the buyer moved off, walking the filly at a gentle pace.
“She's a nice horse, that one,” Jaryd remarked to the men. “Quick like lightning, she'll be a racer when she's filled out. Hasn't quite the temperament for lagand, but then most mares don't.”
“There is no lagand in Petrodor,” one of the merchants assured Jaryd in a thick lowlands accent. “We race. And we hunt…ah…foxes. Big hunts, lots of dogs. We like a good horse. Very pretty, very fast, very…well-behaved, yes?”
Jaryd nodded at Felsy. “Well then, that's your girl. She's very sweet.”
The rider nudged Felsy up to a canter, and the filly responded briskly. Clearly she wanted to run and the rider obliged – they took off at a gallop, heading upslope.
“We heard the captive and the man you slew were dressed as Torovans?” Parrachik said, looking concerned.
“Aye.”
“Most alarming,” said the elder of the merchants. “Should you uncover this dishonourable person's true identity, and his employers, you must instruct us. We shall sever ties and do no more trade with these people. We will not have the goodwill between Lenays and Torovan merchants damaged in such a manner. We are appalled.”