been good times lately. It had been four years since they had starved. That year, they could have lived on the fish he had caught, a wearisome diet, but good enough. But the fish had to be sold for money to pay the king’s taxes, and when that was done, they had no food. That was the year his sister died.
“Stop your walking,” said his father suddenly. “You could have been at the king’s palace had you walked in a straight line.” Ilbran settled himself on a straw mat on the floor. “That is better,” Hammel said.
“Maya,” Ilbran said, “have you been outside this day to hear the news?”
“No, love,” his mother answered. “I was with your father. What news is there that touches us? Is there war? Is that what concerns you?”
“No war, only death.” He told them what he had heard that day from lord, herald, and merchant. They listened gravely. “What do you think?”
“The poor, poor people,” said his mother. “We are better off here than they were in their palace. Let us hope that Nahil Reji will be good.”
“Good? What can you mean by ‘good’ when he begins like this?”
“What your mother means,” said his father, “is that he will not raise the taxes, or wage war. What is it to us if lord kills king with every changing of the sky?”
“Truly, it should not matter, sire,” Ilbran said formally. He rose and pulled the door flap aside, a piece of sea-courser hide hung across the opening. The sun had set. Yellow light showed through cracks in the doors and windows of the houses around him. “I shall come back soon,” he said, and pulled the door flap closed behind him.
He had made his decision. Kin was more than charity. He would hide the betrayal money—use it only when necessary. Could he even call it betrayal? She had not asked for shelter, nor had he made any covenant with her.
No use to quibble and try to make his deeds seem better. But the money—how could he explain it? He could tell some tale of othermen’s money that he found on the beach. They might believe that. Stories were told of such luck, but always stories of strangers.
He walked rapidly through the streets, seeking the squares near the king’s palace, where the soldiers would be gathered. He passed patrols, walking in pairs through the streets. That was too dangerous. He would tell his story to an officer, someone high enough to be trusted not to cheat him out of the reward.
Ilbran came out in a deserted square. The starweb lit it brightly. This was no place he wished to see. His steps had led him astray, but to a grimly appropriate place. Tall stake and long chain, in a wide empty space … this was where the traitors died. “Death by pitch and fire,” the herald had cried. The pitch clung but burned slowly, so that they danced on the end of their chain for a long time, with the crowd watching and laughing.
He pushed aside his shameful and sickening memories. Even now, if someone discovered the girl hiding under his boat, his life might be forfeit, and his father’s and mother’s too, uselessly. As for the girl, it would be a quick death for her, no long-drawn-out torture. He turned his steps toward the lights and voices, the quarter where people still were gathered.
The noise grew louder, and voices harsh and angry. A man was being questioned. But by the time that Ilbran reached the place where the guards stood, all questioning had been forgotten. The man lay on the ground, doubled up, futilely trying to protect himself from their kicks.
At last, a guard left his pleasant task, and strode over to where Ilbran stood. “What are you doing, loitering here?”
Although he was the smaller man, he had a sword. Ilbran tried to disguise his contempt. “A man may walk where he pleases on Festival day.”
The other man hesitated. On Festival day, there were little enough ways to judge a man’s wealth and birth. In the dim starlight and torchlight, it was almost impossible. His thoughts were clear to be read on his face. He weighed the disgrace and demotion to be suffered if he picked a quarrel with a nobleman, against the shame he would earn if he did not punish impudence from a lesser one.
Ilbran waited, filled with rage at the soldiers, at himself. He longed for a reason to fight. Maybe the other