And to the disgust of the others, the Jackal threw himself forward and tried to kiss the pedagogue’s feet. But the small creature drew them into the angles of its knees and looked at the man and said, “There is nothing more that I can tell you. Go now. Leave the class. Do not be afraid. If you truly understand what I teach, you must know that you are free to do as you will.”
The Jackal raised his head. The bandage around his head was unraveling, and one end hung down by the milky, cooked eye which stared from the mess of black scabs and raw red skin. He said, “Then there is nothing I want more than to sit at your feet, your honor, and absorb your wisdom.”
“I have nothing more to teach you,” the pedagogue said. “I will not say it again, for I hope I am not mistaken about your ability to understand me. If you do not understand me then your punishment will be swift and terrible.” There had been no signal, but suddenly two guards were walking across the wide white deck toward the discussion class.
The Jackal looked at them, looked at the pedagogue. “Your honor… captain… If I have angered you in any way, then I repent of it at once.”
“You have not angered me. You have filled my heart with joy. Go now. You are free.”
Pandaras thought with a chill that it was a subtle and cruel trick. The pedagogue had trapped the Jackal with his own lies, had punished him by giving him exactly what he wanted.
The Jackal was refused food from the cauldrons because it was for the prisoners and he was a free man, and likewise the guards mocked him when he tried to beg some of their rations, crowning him king of the free men with a wreath of water-lily flowers, and then driving him away with blows from the butts of their carbines and partisans. The Jackal did not dare approach the pedagogues, and besides, it was unlikely that he could digest the fibrous pap which they sucked up. For the next two days he wandered from class to class, followed by several of the small, silvery machines, and sometime on the third night of his freedom he disappeared.
One evening, as the prisoners ate their meager ration of maize porridge salted with scraps of fish, a man of Pandaras’s bloodline, a veteran by the name of Tullus, came over and sat beside Pandaras and struck up a conversation. It seemed that they had once lived within two streets of each other in Ys, and had worked at different times in the same foundry, casting and repairing armor. They talked about people they had known and stories they shared in common, and at last Tullus reached the point of his visit.
“The guards killed the Jackal, brother. They sport with us and eventually they will kill us all.”
“You did not know Narashima, I think. He would have lain with a dog if it would have turned a penny or extended his life by a day.”
“Many join the army,” Tullus said seriously, “and every man has his reason. But all unite in a single cause. Whatever else the Jackal was, he was foremost a soldier. He was one of us and the heretics mocked him and killed him.”
“I saw little help from his fellows,” Pandaras said.
“All feared that if they aided the Jackal, then they would share his fate. The heretics divide us, brother, and one by one they will kill us.”
The two men fell silent as one of the guards went past, his clawed feet scratching the deck, his harness jingling. One of the little angular machines stalked stiff-legged after him. Pandaras thought that if the discipline of the army had been atomized, then the heretics had won. They had made their point. When it came to confronting death, there was no society of men, only individuals.
Tullus watched the guard pace away into the gloom between groups of prisoners. He whispered, “The lazaret goes slowly because the heretics wish to extend our torture as long as possible, but it goes downriver all the same. At last it will reach the end of the Marsh of the Lost Waters. There are millions of heretics in the cities beyond, and we will be given up to them for their sport.”
Pandaras had heard many fantastic stories about the tortures and obscenities which the heretics inflicted on their prisoners: trials by combat; vivisections and other experiments; forced matings between different bloodlines. He told Tullus, “The army makes up many stories about the enemy, brother, so that its soldiers will fight hard to avoid capture.”
Tullus nodded. “Well, that’s true up to a point,” he said. “But the point is that there must be a foundation to any story or song. You know that, brother. All of us know that.”
“The rumors about the heretics are founded in hatred and fear,” Pandaras said. “Much may flow from those sources, but none of it good.”
Tullus looked hard at Pandaras. He was a grizzled man of some fifteen or sixteen years, with white around his muzzle. He said, “You are not a soldier. What are you doing here?”
Pandaras crooked his left arm, thrusting the stump forward. The bandage wrapped around it was gorged on black blood and throbbed gently to Pandaras’s own heartbeat. “I have lost as much as any man here,” he said.
“Not your life,” Tullus said. “Not yet.”
“I’ve lost something as dear to me,” Pandaras said. “My master was taken by the heretics. He is a great warrior, and I am his squire. I’m going to find him and free him.”
“You were hurt when he was captured?”
“No, that was later. A flier took him away, and I have been looking for him ever since.”
“Where was this? He was a cateran, I suppose. What division was he attached to? Or was he a scout?”
“He was on his way to war—”
“And was taken before he could kill a single heretic? An unlucky man rather than a hero, Pandaras. Heroes need luck as much as they need strength. Perhaps you have misplaced your loyalty, neh?”
“He will save the world yet,” Pandaras said stubbornly. “I can say no more, but I know that he will.”
“You have a chance with us. Stay here and you have no chance at all. They will kill you, Pandaras. Have no faith in anything they promise.” Tullus looked around and whispered, “Some of us are planning to escape.”
“We are surrounded by marsh and jungle.”
“Where better place to escape? I fought here when I first joined the army. I know how to find my way. Once we are in the marshes we are safe. But first we must escape.”
“Good luck to you, but I think I will stay here. I’m a city boy. I’ve no love of parks, let alone wilderness. And perhaps you forget, but I have only one hand.”
“We will all help each other. If you love freedom you will help us. If you love the Preservers you will help us.”
“I’m not a soldier, Tullus, as you’ve pointed out. I’m only a servant who is looking for his master. How could I help you?”
“You have the hierodule. And the hierodule can help us. He can talk with the machines, and they are the real guards here. You will command him to make the machines leave this place, and we will kill the hairy ones and the little gray-skinned motherfuckers.”
“He is not mine,” Pandaras said. “Command him yourself, if you can.”
Tullus raised himself into a crouch. His black lips drew back from his teeth. Pandaras stiffened. He could smell the old soldier’s anger, and he rose to match Tullus’s posture. They glared at each other, faces a handspan apart.
Tullus said, “The hierodule refused me. That is why I am asking you, boy.”
“Perhaps you asked him the wrong question. Tell him that he is under no obligation to me. Tell him that he was freed when the ship on which he served was destroyed.”
Tullus stared hard at Pandaras, and Pandaras stared right back at him, his blood beating heavily in his head. He refused to be intimidated because he felt that it would somehow fail his master. Then Tullus smiled and turned and said, “Look! In spite of all the powers they boast of possessing, they cannot hide the truth from us.”