Simon Hawke - The Outcast

“Then we shall have to find the means,” said Sorak, out loud. One or two people passing by gave him a curious glance, and he realized he would have to watch the tendency to speak out loud when he was talking to the tribe. He could not expect these people to understand.

He recalled a conversation with Mistress Varanna. “Here at the convent,” she had said, “there is greater tolerance for those who are, in some significant way, different. That is because we all know what it means to be different ourselves. Yet even villichi are not immune to fear or prejudice. When you first came here, there was strong resistance to the idea of a male being accepted in the convent, and an elfling male, at that.”

“But once the sisters knew me, they were able to accept me,” Sorak had replied.

“Yes, that is true, and it may well be true for many in the outside world, as well. But you will find less tolerance there, Sorak. We villichi know what it means to be a tribe of one because it has happened before among us. Out there, people have no knowledge of it. If they knew, they would not understand, and it would frighten them. When people are frightened, they feel threatened, and when they feel threatened, they become frightening.”

“So then... am I always to keep my true nature a secret from everyone except the sisters?” he had asked.

“Perhaps not always,” Varanna had replied. “But there are things in all of us that are best kept private, at least until such time as we encounter someone from whom we would wish to hide nothing, someone whom we would not hesitate to trust with that which is our deepest and most intimate essence. And that is the sort of trust that is only built with time. It is good to value truth and pursue it, but certain truths are not meant for everyone. Remember that.”

Sorak remembered. He remembered that he was in a brand new world and that he did not know these people. And they did not know him. Outwardly, there was already enough about him that was different, and as he walked through the crowded street, people could not help but notice. They saw a tall stranger in the garb of a herdsman, dressed all in brown, with thick, shoulder-length black hair and exotic-looking features. They saw the tigone trotting by his side like a tame pet. Some met his penetrating gaze and quickly looked away, not really knowing why. They pointed at him as he passed, and whispered among themselves.

He stopped at one of the food stalls and asked the vendor for a small bowl of cooked vegetables and several large pieces of raw z’tal meat. “Raw?” asked the vendor.

“For my friend,” said Sorak, glancing down at Tigra. The vendor looked over the waist-high partition of his stall and saw the tigone lying on the ground at Sorak’s feet. He gave out a yelp and jumped back, knocking over some of his pots.

“There is no need for alarm,” Sorak reassured the vendor. “Tigra will not harm you.”

The vendor swallowed hard. “If you say so, stranger. How... how many pieces of raw meat will you require?”

Sorak selected a few choice cuts and gave them to Tigra, then paid the vendor and took his bowl of vegetables. He had taken no more than two or three mouthfuls when he heard the clinking of carapace and armor behind him and turned to see a squad of soldiers standing several feet away, their swords unsheathed. Several held pikes, which they pointed down at Tigra.

“Is that your beast?” their officer demanded. His voice was stern and forceful, but still betrayed uneasiness.

“Yes,” said Sorak.

“Wild animals are not permitted within the city,” said the officer.

Sorak continued eating. “What about all those wild animals back in the market square?” he asked.

“They are kept in pens, under control,” the officer replied.

“The inix are not kept in pens,” Sorak reminded him, “nor are the mekillots, and they are far more dangerous than my tigone.”

“They all have handlers,” said the officer.

“As does this tigone,” Sorak said. “Tigra belongs to me. I am the handler.”

“The beast poses a threat to the citizens of Tyr.”

“My tigone threatens no one,” Sorak protested. “You will note that Tigra remains calm despite your hostile attitude and the weapons you point in my direction. That sort of thing usually upsets the beast.”

The soldiers behind the officer glanced at one another nervously.

“It is illegal for the beast to be within the city walls,” the officer replied.

Sorak ducked under and allowed the Guardian to slip to the fore. She probed the soldier’s mind. “There is no law that specifically prohibits tigones in the city,” she said with Sorak’s voice.

“Are you telling me I do not know what the law is?”

“No, I have no doubt you know what the law is,” the Guardian replied. “And you also know I have not broken it. However, if you wish to take me before the Council of Advisors to clarify this matter, I have no objection. I have important information to present to them, in any case.”

The officer suddenly seemed uncertain of his ground. His eyes narrowed. “You have business with the council?”

“Yes. In fact, I was on my way there and merely stopped to have something to eat. Perhaps you would be so kind as to escort me?”

The Guardian saw doubt in the soldier’s mind. Perhaps, he was thinking, it would be wise not to antagonize this curious-looking stranger. He might be important. He hardly looks important, but he seems very sure of himself.

The Guardian decided to add to his uncertainty. “Of course,” she said, “if you have more important matters to attend to, I would not wish to keep you from them. What is your name, Captain, so I may be sure to commend you to the council for your diligence?” And as she spoke, she allowed Sorak’s cloak to fall open slightly so the officer could see the sword. His gaze flicked quickly toward the blade, noting the silver wire-wrapped hilt and the bronze cross-guards, the finely made leather scabbard and its unusual shape. His eyes met Sorak’s once again, and the expression on his face was no longer quite so stern. “The name is Captain Zalcor. And if you wish to be escorted to the council chambers, I have no other pressing business at the moment.”

“Excellent,” said the Guardian. She handed back the empty bowl to the vendor, who had listened with fascination to the entire exchange. “Thank you. Whenever you are ready, Captain Zalcor.”

Sadira slammed her ebony fist down on the long and heavy table in the small council chamber, upsetting several water goblets. “That is enough, Timor!” she said angrily, her amber eyes flaring beneath her blond hair. “I am tired of hearing the same thing over and over again! We cannot and will not go back to the way things were, however much you templars may protest!”

“With all due respect, I was not protesting,” the senior templar replied smoothly, drumming his bejeweled fingers softly on the tabletop. “I was merely pointing out that all the problems we are now experiencing are attributable directly to one thing and one thing only—the end of slavery in Tyr. You can hardly hold the templars responsible for that, as it was your idea to free the slaves, not ours.”

“Slavery will be brought back to Tyr over my dead body!” the bald mul Rikus said, rising from his chair to glare menacingly at the senior templar.

“Sit down, Rikus, please,” Sadira said. “These constant quarrels are getting us nowhere. We need solutions, not more problems.”

With a scowl, the massive former gladiator resumed his seat at the head of table, beside Sadira.

“As for accepting blame in this matter,” Sadira continued, “the blame lies not with the edict outlawing slavery in Tyr, but with the regime that instituted slavery in the first place. When the people were oppressed, they had no hope. Yet now that they are free, they have no livelihood. We may have given them their freedom, but that is not enough. We must help them find their rightful place in Tyrian society.”