Days."
Else pretended to look around for eavesdroppers. "You didn't hear this from me.
Prince Aderble is an idiot. Literally. He doesn't care about anything but his
own vices. The priests use him as a figurehead while they line their purses.
Your real reaction should be amazement that we got there in time for the
fight-He was retailing nothing that was not common knowledge. Triamolin's
company had been devoured by Indala al-Sul Halaladin. The rest of the crusader
force had not fared much better. Which led to the inevitable question.
"How did you survive the Well of Days?"
"I was clever enough to be laid up recovering from a poisoned arrow I took in a
skirmish with bandits from Dreanger." He had a scar he could show if necessary.
"There is a God."
"You wouldn't think much of Him if you ever took one of those arrows. They
stings a bit."
"Where you from?" Scolora asked. "Originally."
"LaTriobe. In Tramaine. I know. You never heard of it. I've been in the Holy
Lands since I was fifteen. Why?"
"You've got a funny accent."
"I talk Peqaad or Melhaic most of the time."
The old soldier made a sudden warning gesture. The table fell silent. The rest
of the hall had done so already.
Two members of the Brotherhood of War had entered the mess. One was a grizzled,
scarred fellow in his fifties. The other was under thirty. Both were lean, hard
men, very clean and well-groomed. They looked enough alike to be family, though
the Brothers took vows of chastity when they took orders.
The older man said, "Continue your conversation." He took a seat at Else's
table. The younger man did the same.
Both wore Brotherhood black with a red hourglass and crossed white swords
embroidered over their hearts, on their overshirts. The same symbol was repeated
on their backs, much larger.
"Are you traveling?" Else asked. No one else seemed inclined to speak, let alone
make introductions.
Most crusaders did not like the Brothers. They were fanatics, much too
humorless, grim, and in a hurry to get to Heaven. Good to have on your side when
you were in deep shit and needed somebody to save your ass, though.
Trenchers arrived for the newcomers. The older man said, "We're bound for
Dateon. Sometime tonight." His stare was piercing. It reminded Else of Gordimer
at his most intense. "You were talking about your adventures in the Holy Lands."
"I didn't have many. My father sent my uncle and me to Triamolin because his
uncle told him that young men could make their names and fortunes there. He
didn't understand the reality."
The younger Brother grunted, swallowed a chunk of pork he had not yet chewed.
"The Carpets are a waste of flesh as warriors or nobles."
The elder said, "Except for Ansel, who founded the Triamolin state."
"A pity the Patriarch back then didn't check the Carpet offspring out before
he put a crown on the old man's head."
The elder Brother let that slide. He addressed Else. "So you finally had enough,
eh? You could become part of something with real meaning, here. The Brotherhood
of War always has room for men who want to do the Lord's work."
Else did not observe that, to his recollection, the Chaldarean god was a
pacifist. "That isn't it. I've been called home. I'm the last daSkees. The rest
died when the Duke of Harmonachy invaded Tramaine. His Grolsacher mercenaries
killed anybody who got in their way when they were running away from Themes."
"You said an uncle went east with you?"
"Reafer. Yes. Dysentery got him."
"It's a harsh world. Disease claims more good men than the efforts of any
enemy."
That was true on the other side, too, where the medical and surgical arts were
more advanced and ideas about prevention and containment of disease were more
practical. Else grunted agreement. He continued to down bites of pork
mechanically.
The younger brother observed, "You aren't afraid of us. The rest of these are."
"No. Should I be? Are you demons wearing the skins of men?"
"They all think
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