Chapter 12

It took three days to make their preparations for the journey, and Josan spent most of that time fearing arrest and discovery. If not for his promise to Myles, Josan would have fled. That his flight would no doubt have raised the finger of suspicion that they had so far avoided was a truth he acknowledged, but better to be followed by mere suspicion than arrested and executed for murder.

But so far, luck had been with them. The bodies had not been discovered until late on the afternoon of the next day, when a servant at the taverna opened the back door to throw out slops. By that time the bodies had been heavily gnawed by rats, disguising the precision of Myles’s sword work. Josan heard of the gruesome discovery from the laundrywoman as she dropped off Myles’s freshly cleaned linens. She seemed convinced that the men had brought their fates on themselves, as foolish strangers who did not know better than to venture into the rough quarters at night.

If they had been residents of Utika, it might have been different, but there was no pity to be spared for two humble travelers, nor were there any signs that the magistrate was investigating their deaths.

The bloodstained clothes and blankets had been hidden deep in the pile of straw that Josan had carted out to the side yard and burned. The tunic he had worn that night had been burned as well, for the lump on the side of his head had bled freely. If any asked, he planned to explain the bruise as the result of a blow Myles had given him when he had discovered the moldy straw. But none questioned his injury, as the signs of a master beating his servant were too ordinary to be worthy of comment.

Displaying a shrewd grasp of tactics, Myles went about his normal routine, settling his monthly accounts in person with the grain merchant, the farrier, and the victualer. At each, almost idly, he remarked upon his growing boredom with life in Utika, though naturally since the livery stable was making a fine profit, he could not contemplate leaving. His musings reached the ears of Florek, as he had intended they would, and the next day Florek sent an intermediary to make an offer for the business.

This was not the first offer that Florek had made, nor even the twelfth. It was, however, the first time that Florek had offered to pay Myles more than he had paid for the business, so that he could turn a small profit on the deal. Having failed at his attempts to drive Myles out of business, or to ensure that he lacked the help needed to service the imperial contracts, it seemed Florek had grown tired of their endless battles. Or perhaps Florek feared that Myles’s vocal dissatisfaction was merely the voice of melancholy that came with the winter rains, and if he waited till spring, he would lose this opportunity.

Myles allowed himself to be persuaded, and after some haggling struck a deal with his former nemesis. He took his payment in coins, then converted half of them into imperial scrip, which was easier to carry and could be exchanged for coins in any provincial capital.

While Myles made his preparations, Josan was busy as well. He had always known that he might have to flee at an instant, and thus his pack already held spare clothes, a flask for water, and his knife. His carefully hoarded wages were enough to purchase sandals, a cloak that was nearly new, and three pairs of thick socks to cushion his feet.

It would take at least a fortnight to cross the border into the heart of the empire, the province of Karystos, which took its name from the imperial capital. And then it would be another three weeks—four if the weather was unkind—before they could hope to reach the city of Karystos. They would have to carry what provisions they could with them, though as they approached the capital there would be few chances for camping alongside the road, and hunting or foraging for food would result in swift arrest. Instead they would have to beg hospitality from farmers or stay in the hostels that catered to poorer travelers.

Myles, however, had other ideas.

“Bring Ugly and Crop Ear to the farrier, and have him put heavy shoes on both,” he ordered.

Ugly was a rawboned gelding with a particularly unfortunately shaped head that belied his supposedly noble bloodline. Myles claimed his former owner had gelded the beast in sheer horror at the prospect that one such as he should spawn foals in his likeness. Crop Ear was a mild-mannered mare who had been savaged by a stable mate. Of the half dozen horses that he rented out to any who could muster enough coins, these two were the most reliable, willing to work hard with little fuss.

“Why pay for shoeing them if Florek is going to get the benefit?” Josan asked.

“He’s not. These two weren’t part of the sale. I had enough walking in my days in the empress’s service, and I’ve no mind to wear my feet down to bones and blisters again.”

Josan paused. It had never occurred to him that they would ride, which seemed foolish when he considered that his master owned a livery stable. Horses were Myles’s world. Of course he would not want to plod along like a common peasant.

On his own, Josan could not have afforded to buy a horse. It would have taken all his remaining coin to rent one for even a few days’ journey. A part of him wanted to protest this generosity, but then was it fair that Myles be forced to walk simply because Josan could not afford to ride?

“I’ll see to it at once,” he said.

It was another evidence of Myles’s kindness, though by then Josan knew better than to thank him. Being reminded of his generosity merely made his master angry. And indeed, compared to what Myles had already done for him, the loan of a horse to ride was a small thing.

Josan did not understand Myles. He knew that the man had his own secrets, and indeed the cold-blooded way in which he had dealt with the kidnappers spoke of a dark side. For all the weeks that he had spent with Myles, Josan knew little more than that he was a fair master and was skilled with both horses and a sword. Beyond that, Myles could have been anything. An assassin, a murderer, a mercenary who had improbably survived long enough to retire with his booty. Or he could indeed be the former soldier that he claimed to be. And the alacrity with which Myles offered to accompany Josan on his journey would have raised suspicions in a far less wary man.

But his instincts were telling him that he could trust Myles. The same instincts that had warned him that the two strangers intended harm told him that Myles genuinely wanted to help.

Once again there was someone who called him friend, and Josan could not help thinking of Renzo. Would this newfound friendship with Myles be strong enough to bear the weight of Josan’s secrets? Or would Myles one day turn on him and call him a madman and a murderer?

Only time would tell.

 

They left Utika at dawn, on a morning so cold that the guards at the gates merely waved them through, loath to leave the warmth of the gatehouse. Josan felt neither triumph nor relief as the town slowly dwindled behind them. He had slept little since the attack, for each time he had closed his eyes he had jerked back to wakefulness, remembering how he had been taken unawares. Exhaustion had dulled his wits and blunted his emotions until he felt only a strange fatalism. If he were to be arrested, so be it.

As the morning wore on, the sun slowly broke through the clouds, warming his numb hands and face. There were no signs of pursuit by irate guards, nor did assassins spring out from behind the tidy villas and surrounding orchards.

If Myles shared Josan’s fear of pursuit he gave no sign, though the fact that he had chosen openly to wear his sword belt and leather armor showed that he was mindful of the dangers they might face. Still, as each mile disappeared under the steady gait of their horses, it seemed more and more likely that they were not being pursued.

Which meant nothing, a cynical voice in his head reminded him. His enemies had no need to pursue Josan, for Josan was delivering himself to them. Willingly entering the place where they held power, in search of truths that could only be found in Karystos. His only hope was that he would find the answers he sought before his enemies discovered him.

And what if the truth was something he could not face? What if he was indeed a madman, a killer, exiled from Karystos so that he could not inflict his madness upon others? What would he do then? What would the brethren do when they discovered that their wayward brother had returned?

Josan pushed such thoughts from his mind. It did no good to dwell on disquieting speculations. And until he had facts, that was all they were. The fears of a restless mind, making him no better than an ignorant peasant jumping at every shadow. A disgrace to his training, which had taught him to value cool reason and logical arguments built upon verifiable truths.

He turned his mind outward, but the passing countryside held little of interest. Carefully spaced villas, their white plaster gleaming in the dull sun, lined either side of the road, each with its own orchards or vineyards. Few workers were to be seen, for there was little to be done in the winter, and there were even fewer travelers on the road. His horse, Crop Ear, required little guidance, having settled into a steady pace that matched that of her stable mate.

At midday they paused to unwrap the bread and cheese they had packed that morning, washing it down with chill water. By late afternoon his thighs and backside were complaining over the hours spent in the saddle, and from the way that Myles shifted back and forth, it seemed he, too, was feeling the pain of one unaccustomed to riding all day. By unspoken consent, they turned their horses into the yard of a hostel, even though there were still at least two hours of daylight left.

Myles’s coins bought them space in the stables for their horses and a room they had to share with only two others—a father taking his young son to be apprenticed to a cousin in Utika. Dinner was a quiet affair, with six sharing a single long table in a room that could easily hold three dozen. There was no chance to talk privately, and for that Josan was grateful, though he knew he was only delaying the inevitable.

He passed a restless night, unused to hearing the sounds of others as he slept. Long ago he had shared a dormitory with the other novice monks, but like much of his past, this was a skill that he had forgotten. Rising the next morning, every muscle in his body protested as he swung himself into the saddle. But he ignored his body’s complaints, and after a while the sharp pains had settled down into a dull ache.

Once they had left the hostel behind them, Myles put an end to his reprieve.

“Is Josan your true name? Or is there something else I should call you?”

“Josan it is,” he said. “Of the collegium of the Learned Brethren in Karystos.”

Myles frowned, as if he had been expecting a different answer. Perhaps he had assumed that anyone pursued by assassins would have had the wit to change his name, to avoid detection. Or perhaps Josan was misreading him. It was difficult to hold a conversation on horseback, when he could only see Myles’s expression through sideways glances.

“And what do you remember of the time before?” Myles prompted him.

“I am told that I was left on the steps of the collegium as a newborn babe for the brethren to raise as one of their own. I remember my childhood among them and studying with the other boys in their care. After I made my final vows I traveled the great sea, studying with the brethren in Xandropol, then later traveling to Anamur and Seddon.”

Strangely enough, his earliest memories were the clearest. He remembered the faces of his tutors, the long vigil on the night before his final vows. The wonder of his first journey outside of Karystos, and even how the great library of Xandropol smelled, the unique combination of musty parchments underlain with a faint sweetness from the beeswax tablets.

Once past his youth, his memories were fragmented. His mind held knowledge presumably gained from his studies, but he did not remember the books he had read, nor where he had found them. And as for his own history, he did not know whether these were true memories or merely what he had been told by the brethren as he was recovering from the fever.

If indeed a fever it had been. Even this he now doubted, though he was not ready to share those doubts with Myles.

“The ship that brought me back to Karystos was stricken with the breakbone fever, and all aboard fell ill. The brethren nursed me back to health, and when I recovered they sent me to Txomin’s Island to tend the lighthouse. There I lived a quiet life, until the day a stranger tried to kill me. The rest you know.”

Myles growled. “The brethren are Nerissa’s lapdogs. If they are involved in your troubles, it means no good.”

“But I am one of them,” Josan insisted.

“Are you? And did the brethren teach you how to ride? Or how to handle a sword?”

He had asked himself the same questions a dozen times before, but it cut him to the quick to hear his doubts voiced by another.

“I know I am of the brethren,” he insisted. “They would not harm me.”

“When we get to Karystos you will find out who your true friends are.”

If his words were meant to be comforting, they fell far short of the mark. There was more than one way to define friendship. After all, it was possible that the brethren had acted as true friends while Josan was the one who had betrayed them.

But regardless of what he might find, he knew he had to press onward. Even the possibility of learning that his worst fears were true was better than living in the veil of ignorance. Truth, no matter how harsh, was valued above all else. That was the sacred principle of the brethren who had guided his days. And if the truths he sought meant the end of his life, well so be it. At least he would die with integrity.

Josan wondered if he should tell Myles about the Other, but the moment when such a confession could have been made passed in silence. He was conscious of the Other, in a way he had not been before. His attempts to meditate during the journey were often interrupted by a mocking inner voice that derided him as a coward clinging to archaic rituals best suited to beardless boys and shriveled-up men. And at night, his dreams were filled with strange images of people and places that he had never known.

But for all his unease, he was able to maintain his control. Perhaps it was the strength of his will or the focus of the hours of meditation. Or maybe it was as simple as the company of Myles, whose mere presence kept Josan focused on the here and now. Whatever the reason, while the Other hovered on the fringes of his mind, he had yet to seize control, and for that Josan was grateful.

He knew better than to hope that the Other would sleep forever, but for however long it lasted, he would be grateful for the respite.

 

The first days of their journey were hard, as Myles was no longer used to spending days on the road in good weather and bad. Riding horseback was a mixed blessing, for while it spared feet that had lost the toughness of his infantry days, he more than paid the price with aching backside and chafed thighs. Yet these were petty annoyances, and as the first days passed, his body adapted and Myles settled into the routine of travel.

It should have been harder to leave Utika. To abandon the dream that had kept him from despair during his long years in the army. He had grown from boy to man, enduring Empress Nerissa’s wars and the tedium of garrison duty, all with one thought in mind: to carve a new life for himself as a man of property. Not a mere farmer, pensioned off onto state-owned land, but a man of substance, with his own business and the respect of his peers.

Utika had been the place where his dreams would come true. His store of coins, carefully hoarded over the years of soldiering, had been enough to buy a prospering business, with some left over to see him through lean times.

He had not counted on Florek’s enmity, which had ensured that the townspeople firmly closed ranks against him. But even this he could have overcome, given enough time. Florek was stubborn but no fool. In time he would have seen the virtue of partnering with Myles rather than making an enemy out of him.

Yet from the moment that the man who called himself Josan had come into his life, Myles had known that the future he had sought for himself was not to be. Myles had done his best to put the past behind him, but old loyalties could not be so easily forgotten. Still, he had been cautious. He had worked to gain Josan’s trust and waited patiently for him to confide in him.

But weeks had passed, and Josan remained an enigma despite all Myles’s attempts to draw him out. It had taken the failed kidnapping to convince Josan that he could not hide from his past, and the perceived life debt that lay between them for Josan to trust Myles enough to let him help.

And even there he had taken a huge gamble. He had arrived at the stable in time to witness Josan defeating the last of his attackers, then collapsing to the ground. For one horrifying moment Myles had thought him dead, but he was only unconscious. When Josan had woken with no memory of what had happened, Myles had instinctively protected him by claiming the killings as his own.

Their relationship had changed on that night, as the roles of master and man were left behind, and they became coconspirators instead. Now they traveled as equals. The coins might be Myles’s, but he did not fool himself into thinking that his purse gave him any authority over Josan. All he had on his side were the bonds of friendship and the simple logic that a solitary traveler was more vulnerable than two. Slim threads indeed, but so far Josan had shown himself willing to follow his lead.

It was strange that Josan trusted him with his life but did not trust him enough to share his true name or lineage. Myles had been angered when Josan clung to his lies in spite of the evidence that proved he was not who he claimed to be.

But as the days wore on, Myles came to realize that Josan might be telling the truth. Or at least the truth as he knew it. If the Learned Brethren were responsible for his exile, as Josan claimed, then who knew what they had done to him before setting him loose in the world? His head might have been filled with poisonous half-truths, designed to conceal Josan’s identity from himself as well as from strangers.

Josan might not be able to tell his friends from his enemies, in which case it would do more harm than good for Myles to challenge his carefully held delusions. Instead it was up to Myles to protect him until they reached Karystos and the members of the alliance. The brethren might be powerful, but the alliance had its own strengths, and surely they knew of someone who would be able to heal Josan.

Myles had sent word ahead, informing those few he still trusted that he was returning to Karystos and would need their aid. But he had dared not reveal too much in his letters, lest they fall into unfriendly hands. And there was no guarantee that the letters would arrive in Karystos before he did, or that those who received the letters would take action. For now he was on his own.

“I believe we are near Sarna, is that not so?” Josan asked, breaking into Myles’s musings.

Myles looked to the west, where the orderly farms on the flat plains gave way to rolling hills. He searched his mind for a moment, remembering the map that they had viewed at the hostel the night before.

“Yes, though we will not pass that way. There is an imperial crossroads up ahead, where you would turn east for Sarna, while we will go west, on the main road to Karystos.”

Josan nodded. “I thought as much. I recognized these hills, and I see the provincials still follow their quaint custom of using orange tiles for their roofs.”

He fell silent for several moments.

“I spent summers here as a boy. The villa wasn’t large or fashionable, but there were horses and a lake that was bone-chilling cold even in the height of summer. It was a good place, though when I grew older I hated every moment spent away from the city and my friends there.”

Even his accent was different, the consonants sharper as he spoke of his youth.

Myles made a noncommittal noise that could be taken for interest, but Josan once more fell silent. Still it had been a telling lapse. Myles knew full well that the brethren did not send their young novices off to summer in the hills, safely away from the fevers that swept through Karystos during the hottest part of the year.

It was the confirmation he had long sought, but he did not rejoice. Gratitude would come later, when they were safe. For the time being Myles had to remain vigilant. They were still days away from Karystos, and until then Josan was his sole charge. He had to be protected, from both his enemies and himself. Myles had been given a second chance, and this time he did not intend to fail.