P. Hodgell - Honor's Paradox

“Huh. Since the Council meeting, yes, not that he didn’t deserve what he got.”

The Caineron Lordan was setting his boar spears in order, his armor with its cuirass and skirt of braided leather nearby ready to be donned.

“I’m not about to waste a good hunting day playing silly buggers with a bunch of retarded brats,” he said, seeing her glance at his gear. “Twizzle stays here, though. For one thing, it’s too dangerous. For another, he makes tracking almost too easy.”

“I was just about to ask if I could borrow him.”

She explained.

Gorbel grunted. “So that’s why you’re wearing the Randir’s snake like a damned torque. What, no note tied to her neck, or should that be to her tail?”

“I’m serious, Gorbel. Something is wrong.”

“There always is, when you’re around. All right. Take Twizzle. He can’t follow a normal trail worth scat, but if you fix your mind on what you want, he should take you to it sooner or later.”

He dumped the pook into her arms. She reversed him. Dog and snake regarded each other with what seemed like wary recognition.

On the way down, Jame made the mistake of taking the stairs. On the landing, she met Higbert.

“Just the person Fash wants to see,” he said and made a grab for her scarf, only to recoil as Addy reared back to hiss at him.

“All right, all right, go! We’ll catch up with you soon enough and that precious Brier of yours, too.”

Jame wondered, on the way down, what the Caineron had in mind for her five-commander. Few escaped Caldane’s clutches, but Brier had, to take service with her brother. Gorbel might not mind; clearly others did. However, Brier was also a seasoned warrior who had come up through the ranks. Surely she could take care of herself.

On the arcade, she was almost knocked over by the master-ten compelled to the punishment run and saw that it was Reef of the Randir.

“Run, run , RUN!” shouted her cadets.

Not popular, huh? thought Jame, watching her go. Surprise, surprise .

Two more approaching cadets made her hesitate, but they were only Gari of the Coman and Mouse of the Edirr, both students in the Falconer’s class.

“We aren’t after you,” they assured her, “just out to see the fun. What are you doing with Addy? Where’s Shade?”

“I don’t know. In trouble somewhere. I’ve got to find her.”

The two exchanged looks. “Then we’ll round up the rest of the Falconeers to help.”

“Here.” Mouse detached one of the twin albino mice from her hair and handed it to Jame. “If you find Shade first, tell Mick and Mack will tell me. If we find her before you do, Mick will start squeaking. Just follow the direction in which he’s loudest.”

Jame accepted the mouse and let it nestle on the crown of her head, tiny pink paws nervously gripping her braids. A rap on the nose diverted Addy from what would normally have been her dinner.

Gari eyed the diminutive Twizzle. “Maybe he’s a great tracker, maybe not. We’ll see if we can find Tarn and Torvi.”

They left.

Jame checked that Addy wasn’t about to have Mick for a snack, put Twizzle down, and followed his flouncing progress along the arcade.

In the great hall, cadets had stretched a rope from one second-story balcony to the other and were making a captured randon cross it. Jame recognized Bran from her special weapons’ class. He wobbled wildly, causing her to catch her breath. Then he noted her in the shadows and winked, or seemed to—with only one good eye, it was hard to tell.

The pook led her down the stairs into the subterranean stable where she found the horse-master mucking out stalls.

“Some fool cadet thought it would be funny to set me at this work,” he said, pausing to wipe his bald head with a sleeve. “As if I didn’t do it every day anyway, assistants notwithstanding. Have I seen Shade? No. She comes here as little as possible; the horses don’t like her pet—which I see that you’ve got. Also a mouse, also a pook. What is this, a field day at the zoo?”

“Sort of.”

“Well, you’re to go on down. One of your cadets passed by and asked that I send you on if you followed her.”

Now what? wondered Jame, descending into the sullen light and steaming heat of the fire timber hall.

Damson stood near the edge of a fire pit. Jame came up beside her.

“This is where Vant fell?”

“Yes, lady.”

“And that was your doing. How?”

“I can make small changes in people’s heads. Make them dizzy. Make them stumble. Make them feel what it’s like to be fat and clumsy.”

“Now I remember. When Timmon, Gorbel and I were standing at attention in the snow, something made me fall over.”

Damson shuffled, not meeting her eyes. “Vant kept whispering in my ear: ‘Do it, do it, do it, you fat little sow.’ And so I did.”

Jame reflected that she had been lucky only to have lost her balance, and that into nothing worse than snow. A few small changes in the head . . . ! How much did it take to cause seizures or even death? Damson appeared to be a Shanir linked to That-Which-Destroys, her power an inversion of a healer’s in that it allowed her to hurt without touching, apparently without even much thought. God’s claws, how dangerous.

“Don’t do it again,” she told the cadet. “If you strike me, I may strike you back. Hard.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t hurt you. You’re nothing like Vant. I like you. There. Do you see him?”

The hall with its smoldering timbers cast few shadows, but one seemed to stand against the charred bark of an ancient tree on the far side of the pit. Fire laced its flaking skin and its eyes glowed . . . or was that only a trick of the light?

Damson snickered. “How he glares! Where’s his high and mighty pride now?”

By the smirk on the cadet’s plump face, Jame suddenly realized that Damson didn’t regret her deed. On the contrary, she had come back because the memory of it gave her pleasure.

“Now see here: you can’t kill people just because they’re unpleasant to you.”

“No?” Damson seemed puzzled. “Why do I have this ability, if not to use it?”

Trinity. Was the girl ignorant or insane? Jame herself tended to take responsibility for things genuinely not her fault, like Vant, hence the Burning Ones and the Dark Judge who came sniffing after her—or was it Damson they were after? But this cadet seemed to have no sense of responsibility at all, and precious little conscience. Was she like a hole in the air to them? How did one judge such an anomaly as a Kencyr with no inborn sense of honor?

“Think,” she said, a little desperately. “There has to be a balance. What Vant did to you was nasty, but was it worth his life?”

Damson pouted. “You almost killed him yourself after Anise died.”

“But I didn’t. The Commandant brought me to my senses in time. Do you trust his judgment? Yes? Then consider before you act: would he approve?”

“I’ll . . . try.” A bit resentfully she added, “You do make things hard.”

Jame sighed. “They often are. The easy thing isn’t always the right thing. We Shanir have to use the Old Blood responsibly or we risk becoming the monsters that some of the lords think us.”

“You mean, like your brother.”

“Tori does have that tendency, which is another reason not to abuse your gifts while in his service.”

With that, Damson trudged off, looking thoughtful and somewhat huffy.

Jame scanned the dark across the pit, but no one was there. Perhaps there never had been.

“Why are so many of us monsters?” she asked no one in particular.

Receiving no answer, she followed Damson back into the cooler, upper air.