Chapter 11

Myles did not consider himself a religious man. Religion was the province of barren women praying for healthy children and young recruits pissing themselves before their first battle. He had sworn allegiance to the triune gods, but this had been a matter of political expediency rather than true faith. Experience had taught him that the gods cared little for the affairs of men, and even the most fervent prayer was no match for a strong sword arm.

Yet for all his vocal disbelief over the years, it seemed the gods had not been ignoring him after all. Surely it was no mere coincidence that had led the man who called himself Josan into this very stableyard, to the one man in the town who would recognize him for what he was. The gods, or fates, or whatever name they went by, had decided to test Myles, and now he had to decide what to do with the perilous gift they had dropped in his lap.

He had come to Utika because it was a quiet town, far enough from the imperial capital to be removed from its troubles but still within the civilized provinces of the empire. The town was small to one who had lived in Karystos, but it was large enough to boast the decencies of civilization. Myles had planned on spending the rest of his life here, using his carefully hoarded savings to purchase a business that would provide him a steady stream of income.

His vision had even stretched to the idea of a companion with whom to share the years while he was still strong and vital. Children he did not want, but a bedmate who could be trusted not to knife him or rob him in his sleep would be a pleasant change.

His plans had not included a vengeful innkeeper, who was doing his best to drive Myles out.

Nor had his plans included the man who even now slept in the hayloft while Myles paced in his quarters, unable to sleep because of his churning thoughts.

It was ironic. Before Josan’s arrival, he had been giving serious thought to selling the livery stable to Florek and starting over elsewhere. It had been too much for one man to run on his own, and there had seemed no sign that any would dare cross Florek’s ban and hire on to help him. But now, with two men to share the work, he could stay as long as he wanted. All he had to do was pretend that Josan was no more than he claimed, a wanderer of no particular lineage who was content with the most menial of employment.

If all he had wanted was a helper, he could have found none better. Josan did the dirtiest and heaviest jobs in the stable without complaint. The horses liked him, and he rode with the grace of one born to the saddle. If he made himself scarce when an imperial courier passed through, he still performed his duties, even as he kept the hood of his cloak raised to obscure his features.

And he had other talents, ones that only a keen observer would pay heed to. If Josan set the horses out in the paddock, the day was bound to be dry, no matter how gray and threatening the skies appeared. If on a clear day he began bringing loose gear into the storerooms and fastening the shutters, then you could be sure that a storm was coming. Josan never spoke of his weather sense, but the evidence was there all the same.

Just as he never claimed to be a linguist, and yet when Myles had tested him, calling out a greeting in rusty Decanese, Josan had replied flawlessly in the same tongue. His years in the army had given Myles a smattering of a half dozen languages, and as he tried these, one after another, Josan had easily followed, seeming not to realize what he was doing.

When Myles spoke of his talent, Josan grew angry, giving the first hint that there was a fierce temper under his calm exterior. He had refused to speak to Myles for the rest of that day, nor did he join him for dinner. The next day Josan behaved strangely, seeming bewildered by his surroundings and having to be told each task twice. Yet after a night’s rest he was fine, and acted as if they had never quarreled.

But Myles had learned that he could not push Josan too far. Instead he had given Josan ample opportunity to confide in him, but Josan still held tightly on to his secrets. And he dared not speak his suspicions aloud and risk driving Josan away. Not until he knew the truth.

On the surface his suspicions were ludicrous. Everyone else in Utika treated Josan as a common laborer. A man of no distinction, unworthy of their interest. Were they correct? Why was he the only one who saw the truth—the noble bloodline that had been hidden under rags and grime?

Perhaps it was because the uprising had never touched this sleepy provincial town that they could not see the truths so evident to Myles.

Josan was his friend, and he did not wish to cause him harm. But Myles also had a duty to those friends he’d left behind in Karystos—both living and dead. Six years before he had pledged his life to their cause, and mere distance did not mean he could ignore his oaths.

Regardless of his wishes, Josan had a part to play, and Myles did as well. It did not matter whether Josan was truly ignorant of his past or merely feigning blindness; it was a luxury that they could not afford. Myles would have to find some way to force Josan to face the truth.

His decision was made, but it left a sour taste in his mouth. He knew that sooner or later someone was bound to recognize Josan for who he was, but that thought brought him no comfort. Josan had found sanctuary, and he would not thank Myles for thrusting him back into danger.

 

Josan knew that he could not stay in Utika forever. He had promised Myles that he would stay until spring, but it seemed increasingly likely he would have to break his vow. He knew enough to hide himself from curious travelers and the imperial messengers who regularly rode through, but he had a new worry.

From the first, Myles had treated him as a friend rather than a servant. He had thought this the result of Myles’s loneliness, but lately he suspected another motive. Often he would turn and catch a glimpse of hunger in Myles’s gaze, though his expression was always carefully neutral whenever Myles knew he was being observed.

He supposed it was flattering, in a way, to be the object of such longing. He had not shared his bed since before the fever had broken him, and his memories had no faces, merely the vague impression of slender sun-kissed limbs and bright laughter. Having broken so many vows already, the restriction on lying with one not of the brethren no longer held any weight. And certainly there was a part of him that would enjoy losing himself in the pleasure of another’s touch, even if only for a few hours.

But he could not risk such closeness. Myles had already witnessed Josan’s madness, though he had not seemed to realize the significance of Josan’s strange behavior. But the intimacies between lovers were far greater than those between master and man. He could not risk Myles falling asleep next to Josan, and waking up beside the Other.

That was how Josan thought of him, as the Other. The self that ruled his body during those days and hours he could not recall. Even to think of the Other was to risk inviting him in, so Josan seldom allowed himself to ponder the strangeness that had entered his life.

Josan was living a life of lies. He had turned his back on every precept of his order, abandoning his lifelong search for truth. He had become a hare, frozen motionless in the high grass, hoping inaction would keep him safe from the hawk circling above.

He carefully did not question his knowledge of horses, nor his talent for knowing what weather the day would bring before he had even caught a glimpse of the sky. If he needed to light a fire he used his newly purchased tinder and flint. He had thought his skill at languages was his own, but something about the game that Myles had played had awakened the Other, and when Josan had returned to awareness he had been terrified to learn that nearly two full days had passed.

He knew Myles had sensed something amiss, for his master had watched him even more closely in the days that followed. But whatever Myles thought of his servant’s odd behavior he did not speak, and for that Josan was grateful. There was no reasonable explanation he could give, and he would hate having to lie yet again to a man who had offered him only kindness.

Nor could he afford to share his fears. If he was indeed suffering from soul madness, as he suspected, then his fate was already sealed. The law required that such tormented souls be turned over to the magistrate, locked up so they could not harm others. Whether they harmed themselves was of no concern to their jailers, and such unfortunates seldom lived long once they were apprehended.

Of course, most often the soul-mad were only discovered after their madness had driven them to commit the most horrific of crimes. Monsters clothed in human flesh, their ordinary appearances masks for deeds of unspeakable foulness. Mothers who drowned their children; kindly men who lured innocents to their rooms and dismembered their bodies; bright-eyed children who slew their siblings over the theft of a toy.

He had never given them much thought, other than the reflexive horror that all felt whenever news of such a one reached the capital. Now he wished he had paid more heed to the tales. Had their madness come on them suddenly? Or had they experienced the slow descent into unreason, feeling their wits slipping away but unable to do anything to avoid their fate?

Not all the mad turned violent, but that was scant comfort, since there seemed to be no way to know if his Other carried the taint of evil.

There were those in the Learned Brethren who studied soul magic. A handful of the most senior scholars were entrusted with the rarest of knowledge that the brethren had acquired over the centuries. Such knowledge was deemed dangerous, and those who studied the ancient scrolls were aged men who never left the walls of the collegium. Few outsiders had any idea that the monks held such knowledge, and even fewer suspected that the monks not only studied soul magic but also practiced it when the occasion warranted.

It was another example of the irony that ruled his life. The one place where he could seek to understand what was happening to him, and whether it was possible to banish the Other, was also the one place where he dared not go.

The brethren’s insistence that he remain on Txomin’s Island had taken on ominous significance. Had they known of his soul madness, and was that the reason they had sent him so far from civilization? If so, then to venture into Karystos would be proof that he was no longer obedient to their will, and they would have no choice but to turn him over to the magistrates, who would condemn him to the catacombs.

Yet staying at the stable held its own risks. Each day he lingered, he knew himself for a coward. A selfless man would leave immediately and seek out an isolated wood or distant mountain, where his eventual madness would bring harm to no one but himself. A good man would not risk staying here, endangering a man who could have been his friend if they had met as equals and not as master and servant.

Josan told himself that madness was not inevitable. That he would leave this place of refuge the next time the Other returned. And yet even as he made the vow, he tasted the bitterness on his tongue and knew it for the hollow promise it was. Despite all his care to avoid strong emotions and to center himself through meditation, he knew that one day his defenses would crack, and the Other would return. And then the Other might seize his body forever, leaving Josan’s soul trapped in the unknowing grayness, as his body committed acts of unspeakable horror.

 

In the days that followed his vow, the Other remained mercifully absent. Winter was full upon them, but that did not mean there was any less work to occupy his hours. True, there were fewer travelers on the roads, but those that did travel arrived with mud-caked horses that required extensive grooming, and hard-pressed carriages that inevitably needed some type of repair. And on those days where there were neither travelers nor imperial messengers, there were still the dozen residents of the stables to be seen to, who had grown increasingly fractious as days of hard-driving rain kept them indoors.

Josan was grateful for the work and found that by concentrating on each individual task he could, at least briefly, forget about the dilemma that he faced. He took more and more upon himself, occupying even his so-called free hours by mending perfectly serviceable harness and carefully arranging and rearranging the storeroom until Myles lost all patience with him and ordered him to leave well enough alone.

Banished from the stableyard with instructions that for once he was to enjoy his half day and spend some of his hard-earned coins, at first Josan wandered the streets of Utika aimlessly. He knew the town fairly well, although he could not say the same for the townspeople. There were many he recognized by sight, and a number who knew him as Myles’s servant. But none were particularly friendly, and he could not imagine conversing with any of them. His employment barred him from associating with those who would normally have been his equals, and even other servants avoided him for fear of being tainted by association.

Which was as well, he supposed. He had too many secrets to guard to risk friendship. Even if it meant that on an afternoon such as this, he had no one to turn to, to help him pass the empty hours.

Strange how he had never felt this loneliness when he was on the island. There weeks had passed without his seeing another soul, and nonetheless Josan had been content.

Of course, back then he had had a purpose, a duty, and a firm sense of who he was. Now he had none of these things. Instead there was a vast emptiness inside him, an aching hollowness that could be filled neither by his assumed role nor by the company of others. He was a fraud, a shell of a man, and it was a wonder that others had not seen through him.

These bitter reflections were precisely what he had been trying to avoid with his frantic labors, but even that respite had been denied him. Josan’s steps slowed, and as the rain began once more to fall in earnest, he ducked inside a nearby wine shop.

Inside the taverna it was so dim he could hardly see, the low ceilings and tiny windows reinforcing the impression of a small cave. The stone floor was slick with mud tracked in by the patrons, and the air was filled with the stench of smoke, wet wool, and the faint scent of blood. The last puzzled him, until he remembered that the taverna was adjacent to the butchers’ district, and the patrons must have brought the scent of their own labors with them.

He wondered if his own clothes and boots carried the smell of horseshit, then shrugged. If they did, this was hardly a place where anyone would complain. Picking his way carefully across the floor, he made his way to an unoccupied bench. A flash of bright copper brought him a jug of red wine, along with a wine cup and a pitcher of water.

There was a ritual to wine pouring, a style that hovered at the edge of his memory and called for his attention. He ignored the thought, and instead poured the wine into the cup carelessly, letting it slop against the sides. Eschewing the water—for no doubt the shop had already watered it heavily—he took a deep gulp.

The wine was bitter, the taste so dark as to be nearly gritty. He could almost taste the crushed grape skins on his tongue and wondered what people were so barbarous that they did not think to strain the wine before storing.

The same people that sold a jug of wine for an imperial copper, to men whose taste buds could barely determine the difference between old wine and new. It was not that the wine was primitive, but rather that Josan was remembering a time when he had drunk perfectly aged wine out of crystal goblets, when each sip had been a new revelation of taste and refinement.

But even that memory rang false as he considered it. True the brethren did not drink swill, but neither were they known to indulge in worldly luxuries such as rare wines or crystal goblets. This memory, too, was not his own.

He emptied his cup and filled it again. This time he forced his mind clear of all other thoughts, almost as if he was meditating, concentrating on this cup of wine as if he had never before drunk the red wine of the northern provinces. Slowly he drank, but when his cup was empty, he conceded defeat. He could still feel the Other, roused to awareness, hovering at the edge of his thoughts.

It had been a mistake to come in here and let strong wine dull his wits. Josan stood, tossing a copper to the servingwoman, who would no doubt sell his unfinished jug of wine to the next patron. With his hood tugged over his head to protect him from the chill rain, his steps turned inevitably toward the stable. Myles had ordered him to stay away for a full afternoon, but it was better to face Myles’s wrath than to risk having the Other surface in a public setting.

When he returned he saw two men leaving the stableyard. Their high boots and long cloaks proclaimed them to be travelers, and as he drew near, he saw the vague outlines of short swords under their much-patched cloaks. He felt a faint prickle of unease, wondering what business such men could have with Myles. Their boots were made for walking, not riding, and by their appearance they could not afford to hire a horse. When he drew abreast with them, their eyes widened.

Both men were of mixed blood, with dark brown stubble on their faces from days without shaving. They were young, barely out of boyhood, but that did not make them any less dangerous.

“Greetings of the day to you,” he said.

He was not surprised when they did not respond, studiously ignoring him after that first glance. He should have felt comforted by their disregard, for clearly they had recognized him as a servant. One with nothing to steal, a man not even worth a polite greeting.

And yet his unease deepened as he paused at the paddock gate, watching as the two men continued down the street until they turned off into an alley. Only then did he turn his back on them and make his way into the stables.

Myles was standing next to his office at the front of the stables.

“I told you to stay away for the afternoon,” Myles growled. His cheeks were flushed with anger, either from this morning’s quarrel or Josan’s early return, or perhaps both. “It is still light, or had you not noticed?”

Josan shrugged. “It is dark enough, with all these clouds.”

It was a poor excuse, but he could hardly tell the truth. Perhaps if he made himself scarce, it would give Myles’s temper a chance to cool.

Removing his cloak, he ran his fingers through his short hair, flicking off the raindrops that had gathered. “What did those men want? The two who just left here?”

Myles frowned, and for a long moment Josan thought that his master was too angry to answer.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. They wanted work, but I had none to give them.”

“But—”

They had looked hungry, yes, but not the type to stoop to common labor. They had seemed more like those who turned to robbery when all else failed.

“Don’t worry, your job is safe enough for now,” Myles said, misinterpreting the source of Josan’s unease. “Though if you plague me again, I may reconsider.”

Josan drew a breath, then let it out slowly. He could not afford to quarrel with Myles, not when all he had was a vague feeling that the two men intended harm.

“If you do not need me, I will take myself off to rest. I drank more than I intended, and the wine has gone to my head.”

“Go,” Myles said, and he retreated to his office.

Thus dismissed, Josan made his way to the rear of the stables and climbed the ladder that led to his hayloft. He had not lied to Myles. In a way the wine had gone to his head, though mercifully he no longer felt the Other stirring. A few hours of sleep that afternoon would help him stay awake later. If the strangers intended mischief, they would return after dark. And Josan would be ready for them.

 

“Wake up, damn you, wake up,” a voice growled in his ear.

“’m wake,” Josan muttered.

His eyes firmly shut, he tried to roll over to grasp a few more moments of sleep, but the voice was having none of it. Strong hands grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

“Wake up,” the voice ordered.

Josan opened his eyes and sat up. He shook his head to clear it, but this proved a mistake, for a wave of nausea swept over him. The same hands that had so rudely disturbed his sleep held him steady as he squeezed his eyes shut once more against the sickness in his gut and the pounding ache of his head.

“Stay with me,” the voice ordered, and, as his wits returned to him, he recognized the speaker as Myles.

Once more he opened his eyes, blinking as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. He was on the floor of the stables, just inside the double doors. The scene was dim, illuminated only by the customary lantern that burned at night, but he could see the concern in Myles’s face and hear the horses moving restlessly in their stalls, complaining over whatever had disturbed their rest.

The bitter taste of nausea mixed with fear as he realized that his last memories were of climbing the ladder to his loft. He had intended a short rest, so he could stay on guard during the night. After that there was nothing.

If the Other had surfaced, as Josan dreaded, then there was no telling what the demon might have done while in control of Josan’s body.

“What happened?”

Seemingly convinced that Josan was not about to pass out, Myles relinquished his hold. He did not answer at once, but instead his gaze traveled to where two dim shapes lay on the floor not far away.

His legs would not support him, but Josan managed to crawl the short distance. Even before he reached them, he knew what he would find. As he approached, the unrecognizable shapes resolved themselves into the figures of two men. The strangers from earlier that day, now lying dead on the stable floor. Now the ache in his head made sense, as did the tightness in his chest that told of one or more broken ribs. His hands were sticky, and he knew if he looked at them closely, he would see blood. Blood that was not his own.

“Robbers,” Myles said, coming to stand beside him. “You must have surprised them.”

A comforting tale, but the evidence did not fit. Josan summoned his strength and climbed to his feet. Ignoring Myles, he crossed back to the front of the stable and lit the spare lantern. Holding the lantern before him, he looked around. The office door was closed, the bar on the granary door still lowered, and the stall doors firmly locked.

Returning to the two bodies, he knelt beside them. From the scuff marks on the floor he could see that they had been dragged there after they had fallen, their short swords placed neatly at their feet. Heedless of his aching ribs, he knelt once more. So close, the signs of death were hard to ignore—the stench of blood and shit and the open eyes staring at him in endless surprise.

Placing the lantern on the floor beside him, he grasped the left forearm of the first man and pushed up his sleeve. Carefully he inspected it, but there was no telltale tattoo. He repeated the procedure with the man’s right arm, then with the second man.

Neither bore the rebel’s tattoo, but that did not mean that he could accept Myles’s explanation. Robbers would have come prepared to steal one or more of the valuable horses, but there was no sign of halter or tack.

Nor did it explain their deaths. Josan had never intended to face them alone. Two armed men against an unarmed man was suicide, no matter what strange skills lay in Josan’s past. Josan had thought no further than to alert Myles to the danger and let him summon the watch.

But instead two men had died, and apparently at his hand.

“Robbers,” Josan repeated.

“So it seems. You must have annoyed them, for I heard the racket and decided to investigate. When I saw them they were dragging you out of the barn. Lucky for both of us that they had no idea how to use those swords they wore, for I was able to put them down with barely a scratch.”

“You? You killed them?”

Myles puffed out his chest. “I was a soldier, you remember?”

“Of course.”

He had not meant to offend; rather, he had been so convinced of his own guilt that he had not considered any other possibilities.

But while Myles’s explanation offered the comfort of knowing that he had not killed them, it was troubling in another way. The men who had died had not been trying to steal horses or coin. They had seized Josan. If he had interrupted their robbery, then they would have simply killed him. Instead they had knocked him unconscious, then tried to kidnap him.

Were they opportunists, seeking the bounty that must now be on the head of the so-called killer monk? Or were they somehow connected to the assassin who had tried to kill him so many long months ago? In either case, he had Myles to thank for his life.

“I am in your debt,” he said.

Myles shifted his weight on his feet, seemingly discomfited by the simple statement of truth.

“Are you strong enough to lend a hand?” Myles asked.

Josan nodded.

“Good, then go and get the manure cart from the back.”

“What?”

“The manure cart.” Myles blew out a breath. “We have to get rid of these two before the sun rises.”

“But the magistrate—”

“The magistrate is Florek’s cousin. He has been scrupulous in his observance of the law so far, but I do not want to give him an excuse to throw me in jail.” Myles looked over at him. “And I assume that you cannot afford to speak with him either. So we’ll take care of this ourselves, agreed?”

Myles knew that Josan was not who he said he was. He felt dizzy, as this latest shock piled on top of the others he had experienced this night. It was too much to take in, so Josan simply said, “I’ll get the cart.”

As he stepped outside, he saw the clear stars above him. The rain had stopped, and he knew the coming day would be fine. The horses would enjoy the chance to spend time in the paddock, and he could give their stalls the thorough cleaning they deserved.

Then he laughed as he realized the absurdity of his thoughts. Two men had been killed, and whether their deaths were justified or not, his life was once again about to change. He would not be here to clean the stalls. He had been a fool to let himself grow comfortable, for it had taken only moments for his refuge to be destroyed. Once more his life had been in danger, and he was no closer to finding out why.

He could not wait to find his answers. Caution had availed him nothing. He would have to risk Brother Nikos’s wrath and return to Karystos.

But first he had to help Myles erase the evidence of what had been done here. In helping Josan, Myles had risked far more than he knew. Myles’s hand had wielded the sword, but it seemed clear that it had been Josan’s presence that drew the men, and thus Josan bore the responsibility for their deaths.

Returning with the manure cart, he saw that Myles had already stripped the bodies. The wounds, which had looked bad enough when hidden by clothing, gaped obscenely. One man had been skewered through from front to back, apparently taken by surprise. The second had had time to fight. He had bled from cuts on his arms, and a nasty wound to his thigh, before a final stab through the belly. Even as Josan watched, the body of the second man gave a faint twitch.

He was not dead. Despite everything, the man was not dead. What would they do? What would he say if he lived long enough to talk to the magistrate?

Josan stood there, frozen in horror, but Myles had no such compunctions. He placed his large hand over the man’s mouth and nose, pressing down until the body gave one last spasm, then lay still.

This had been murder. Death done not in the heat of combat, but a cold-blooded killing. It could be argued that Myles had acted out of mercy, for the man’s wounds ensured that his future held nothing but a long, lingering death. But he knew Myles had not killed him out of mercy. Myles had killed him because he needed silence.

It seemed Myles had secrets of his own, and Josan did not know whether to be grateful or to curse the fates that had brought them together.

At Myles’s direction, he lined the cart with two old horse blankets. Then he took the arms of the victim whose body was still warm, and Myles took his legs. They loaded him in the cart, folding his body in half to make it fit. Josan steeled himself to the gruesome task, even as the nausea once more welled up inside him.

Who are you? a voice in his head demanded. Can you still maintain the pretense that you are a monk if you do these things? He ignored the voice and returned to help Myles pick up the second body. This one, too, was folded, crammed in next to his comrade. A final blanket was spread over them both to disguise their gruesome load.

It took both of them, one on each handle, to move the cart out into the alley that ran behind the stables and down its length. The creak of the wheels on the hard-packed gravel seemed impossibly loud to his ears, and with every step he waited for the inevitable discovery. But they reached their destination unmolested: a narrow track behind a taverna that was known to cater to the lowest of the low. Rats scurried away as they unloaded the two bodies facedown into the mud.

Josan wanted to argue against the disrespect, but it seemed foolish to protest. Silently they made the trip back to the stables. Only when they were once more inside, with the door barred behind them, did Myles give a sigh of relief.

“The watch will find them, or the taverna owner, and assume they were victims of a robbery or a brawl,” he said. “There will be nothing to connect them to us.”

“The blankets? Their clothes?”

“We’ll burn the lot tomorrow, along with a pile of straw that has gone moldy.”

“What straw?” He knew he had not neglected any of his tasks.

“The straw that you were too lazy to turn, and has now gone moldy from all this rain,” Myles said. “I’ll complain loudly of course, but that will be the end of it.”

Clearly Myles had given this careful thought, even as Josan’s own wits went begging. He wondered if this was the first time Myles had had to dispose of an inconvenient body but could think of no polite way to ask. You did not accuse the man who had just saved your life of being a killer.

Even if it was true.

Myles looked around. “Come. Tomorrow will be soon enough to scrub the floors.”

Josan did not move.

“Come.” There was steel in Myles’s voice, so Josan roused himself to follow. Myles led him across the stableyard to the adjacent stone house where he lived. The house was close enough so that the owner could keep an eye on the stables, but if the commotion had been loud enough to wake Myles, it was a wonder that their neighbors had not come running as well.

Once they were inside, Myles stirred up the fire. Josan had not realized he was cold, but even the rebuilt fire was not enough to warm him. He shivered, standing as close to the fire as he dared. Myles disappeared, and a moment later a blanket was dropped over his shoulders and a cup pressed into his hand.

Josan clutched the blanket around himself and raised the cup to his lips. It was wine, as he had expected, but mixed with fruit juice, which he had not. The sweet taste nearly gagged him, but he forced himself to swallow several mouthfuls, recognizing the mixture as a treatment for shock.

Myles returned with his own cup. “Sit,” he ordered.

Josan perched on the bench nearest the fire. “I have to leave. I will stay and burn the straw, or mayhaps it is better if I leave first. You can tell the others that you fired me because I was so lazy, and the straw will be seen as evidence.”

“Tell me what you were looking for on their arms,” Myles said, ignoring Josan’s words.

“Nothing.”

“Hardly nothing. You searched them both.”

Josan took refuge in another sip of the sweetened wine. The taste was foul, but it calmed his stomach.

“It would be better for us both if you did not ask these questions. Just let me leave, and I will trouble you no longer.”

“These were not robbers, were they?”

“No.”

Perhaps it was the wine, or the lateness of the hour, or the shocks he had endured. Whatever the reason, he confessed, “They were looking for me.”

“And this is not the first time, is it? You were looking for a sign, a symbol that marked them.”

Myles was too canny for his own good.

“I do not know.”

It was the truth. He did not know for certain. But he had his suspicions. Myles had been a soldier and fought against the uprising. If Josan were somehow involved with Prince Lucius’s followers, it was unlikely Myles would be willing to help him flee imperial justice.

“Who are you, that two mercenaries would try to steal you away?”

“That I do not know either.” He gave a bitter laugh.

Myles leaned forward intently, his wine cup dangling forgotten from one hand. “You do not know? You do not know who you are?”

His intellect screamed at him for silence. Myles may had saved his life, but he had no reason to trust him. Not with a secret that might cost both their lives.

But his tongue continued on its own, seemingly impervious to his commands. “I know who I am. Or rather who I thought I was. But the man I was would not be the target of assassins and kidnappers. So either they are mistaken, or I am.”

“Surely your own memories can be trusted.”

“For an ordinary man, yes. But the man in my memories never learned the intricacies of an imperial war saddle, nor how to tell a saber thrust from the cut made by a short sword. So it seems my memories are no more trustworthy than those mercenaries.”

It was a relief to share even that much of his burden with another. If Myles was silent, at least he was not questioning Josan’s story, nor calling him mad.

He wondered what Myles would say if he revealed the existence of the Other to him, but he dared not. It was enough that he had given Myles reason to suspect that Josan was demon-haunted. It would not do to provide confirmation of his fears.

“When did the false memories start?”

“In Karystos.” He had given the matter much thought, and the strangeness that had come upon him had appeared after the breakbone fever that had nearly killed him. Afterward he had journeyed to Txomin’s Island and lived the quiet life of a lighthouse keeper. There was nothing in that life to inspire an assassin to seek him out. If anything had happened, it had happened to him before he left Karystos.

“Then you must return there and seek out those you once knew. Surely they can help you unravel this mystery.”

“It is not so simple. There may well be a price on my head. This is not the first time that I have had to defend myself. And if I have enemies, then they will be in Karystos.”

“And if you have enemies, they will believe you far too wise to risk journeying to the center of their power. You can slip into the city, unnoticed, and find what you need. If there is an answer to these riddles, it will be there.”

“I will think on your counsel,” Josan said. Brother Nikos had forbidden him to return to the collegium, but he had not known the extent of Josan’s peril. Surely the monks would agree to help him. And if he could not be helped, if he was indeed demon-bound, then they could be trusted to ensure that he could not harm another innocent.

“You will do more than think on it. You will go. With me.”

“You cannot.”

“I can and I will. Before your arrival I had made my mind up to sell the stables to Florek. Now I can get a good price from him before he realizes that you are to leave. A journey shared is a journey halved, and I have friends in Karystos who will shelter us both while you seek your answers.”

The offer was beyond the simple kindness of master to man. Myles had already broken several laws this night, killing the second mercenary before he could be questioned and covering up all evidence of the attack. If he were discovered traveling with Josan, he would be treated as an accomplice.

His actions went beyond mere friendship, and Josan uneasily recalled his earlier suspicion that Myles lusted after him. Still, even that did not explain the risks he had taken by killing the two strangers. For all Myles knew, Josan was a criminal and a traitor. Or worse.

And yet he needed Myles’s help, now more than ever. One man traveling on his own was far more vulnerable than two.

“Once again I am in your debt,” he said.

Myles’s mouth twisted in a wry grin. “Be wary what you promise. When you have your answers, I may decide to hold you to your words.”

“Whatever you ask it is yours.”

“I will remember that, my lord,” he said, as if he were the servant and Josan the master. Then his face grew solemn. “Finish the wine and get some sleep. We have much to do tomorrow.”

Indeed the dawn was only a few hours away. Josan knew he should be worried over what was to come, but instead he felt comforted by the knowledge that whatever happened, he would not face his demons alone.