Misery

Jezal frowned. Ardee was taking her time. She never took her time. She was always there when he arrived, at whatever spot had been arranged. He didn’t like having to wait for her one bit. He always had to wait for her letters, and that rankled as it was. Standing here like an idiot, it made him feel even more of a slave than he did already.

He frowned up at the grey skies. There were a few spots of rain falling, just to match his mood. He felt one from time to time, a tiny pinprick on his face. He could see the drops making circles in the grey surface of the lake, making pale streaks against the green of the trees, the grey of the buildings. The dark shape of the House of the Maker was rendered hazy by them. He frowned at that building with particular displeasure.

He hardly knew what to make of it now. The whole thing had been like some feverish nightmare and, like a nightmare, he had decided simply to ignore it, and pretend it never happened. He might have succeeded too, except that the bloody thing was always looming on the edge of his vision, whenever he stepped out of the door, reminding him the world was full of mysteries he did not understand, seething just below the surface.

“Damn it,” he muttered, “and damn that lunatic, Bayaz, as well.”

He frowned across the damp lawns. The rain was keeping people away from the park, and it was emptier than he had seen it in a long time. A couple of sad-looking men sat listlessly on benches, nursing their own personal tragedies, and there were passers-by on the paths, hurrying from somewhere to wherever. One was coming towards him now, wrapped up in a long cloak.

Jezal’s frown vanished. It was her, he could tell. She had her hood pulled right down over her face. He knew it was a cold day, but this seemed a touch dramatic. He had never thought she was the type to be put off by a few spots of rain. Still, he was glad to see her. Ridiculously glad. He smiled and hastened forward. Then, when they were a couple of paces apart, she pushed the hood back.

Jezal gasped with horror. There was a great purple bruise across her cheek, around her eye, the corner of her mouth! He stood there frozen for a moment, wishing, stupidly, that he was hurt instead of her. The pain would have been less. He realised he’d clamped one hand over his mouth, eyes bulging like a nervous little girl at a spider in the bath, but he couldn’t stop himself.

Ardee only scowled. “What? Did you never see a bruise before?”

“Well, yes, but… are you alright?”

“Of course I am.” She stepped around him and started walking off down the path. He had to hurry to catch her up. “It’s nothing. I fell is all. I’m a clumsy fool. Always have been. All my life.” She said it with some bitterness, it seemed to him.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“What could you do? Kiss it better?” If they’d been alone he wouldn’t have minded trying, but her frown showed him what she thought of that idea. It was strange: the bruises should have repelled him, but they didn’t. Not at all. Rather, he had an almost overpowering urge to take her in his arms, to stroke her hair, to murmur soothing words. Pathetic. Probably she would slap him if he tried. Probably he would deserve it. She didn’t need his help. Besides, he couldn’t touch her. There were people around, damn them, eyes everywhere. You never knew who might be watching. The thought made him more than a little nervous.

“Ardee… aren’t we taking a risk? I mean, what if your brother were to—”

She snorted. “Forget about him. He won’t do anything. I’ve told him to keep his nose out of my business.” Jezal had to smile. He imagined that must have been quite an amusing scene. “Besides, I hear that you’re all leaving for Angland on the next tide, and I could hardly let you go without saying goodbye, now could I?”

“I wouldn’t have done that!” he said, horrified again. It hurt just hearing her say the word goodbye. “I mean, well, I’d have let them sail without me before I would’ve done that!”

“Huh.”

They walked along in silence for a moment, skirting the lake, both with their eyes on the gravel. It was hardly the bitter-sweet farewell that he had pictured so far. Just bitter. They passed among the trunks of some willow trees, their branches trailing in the water below. It was a secluded spot, screened from prying eyes. Jezal reckoned he was unlikely to find one better for what he had to say. He glanced sideways at her, and took a deep breath.

“Ardee, er, I don’t know how long we’ll be away. I mean, I suppose it could be months…” He chewed at his top lip. It was not coming out at all as he had hoped. He had practised this speech twenty times at least, staring in his mirror until he got just the right expression: serious, confident, slightly wheedling. Now, though, the words came out in a foolish rush. “I hope that, I mean, perhaps, I hope that you’ll wait for me?”

“I daresay I’ll still be here. I’ve nothing else to do. But don’t worry, you’ll have a lot to think about in Angland—war, honour, glory and all that. You’ll soon forget about me.”

“No!” he shouted, catching hold of her arm. “No I won’t!” He pulled his hand away quickly, worried someone might see. At least she was looking at him now, somewhat surprised, maybe, at how fierce his denial had been—though not half as surprised as he was.

Jezal blinked down at her. A pretty girl certainly, but too dark, too tanned, too clever by half, simply dressed with no jewels, and with a great ugly bruise across her face. She would hardly have excited much comment in the officer’s mess. How was it that she seemed to him the most beautiful woman in the world? The Princess Terez was an unwashed dog beside her. The clever words leaked out of his mind and he spoke without thinking, looking her straight in the eye. Maybe this was what honesty felt like.

“Look, Ardee, I know you think I’m an ass and, well, I daresay I am, but I don’t plan always to be one. I don’t know why you even look at me, and I don’t know much about this sort of thing but, well… I think about you all the time. I hardly think about anything else any more.” He took another deep breath. “I think…” He glanced around again, just to check that no one was watching. “I think I love you!”

She spluttered with laughter. “You really are an ass,” she said. Despair. He was utterly crushed. He couldn’t breathe for disappointment. His face screwed up, his head drooped and he stared down at the ground. There were tears in his eyes. Actual tears. Pitiful. “But I’ll wait.” Joy. It swelled in his chest and burst out in a little girlish sob. He was helpless. It was ridiculous the power she had over him. The difference between misery and happiness was the right word from her. She laughed again. “Look at you, you fool.”

She reached up and touched his face, rubbed a tear from his cheek with her thumb. “I’ll wait,” she said, and she smiled at him. That crooked smile.

The people had faded, the park, the city, the world. Jezal stared down at Ardee, for how long he could not have said, trying to stamp every detail of her face into his mind. He had a feeling, for some reason, that the memory of that smile might have to get him through a lot.

The docks were heaving with activity, even for the docks. The wharves boiled with people, the air shook and rattled with their din. Soldiers and supplies poured endlessly up the slippery gangways and onto the ships. Crates were hauled, barrels were rolled, hundreds of horses were dragged and pushed and kicked aboard, eyes bulging, mouths frothing. Men grunted and groaned, heaved at wet ropes, strained at wet beams, sweating and shouting in the spitting rain, slipping around on the slick decks, running here and there in epic confusion.

Everywhere people embraced, kissed, waved to each other. Wives saying goodbye to husbands, mothers to sons, children to fathers, all equally bedraggled. Some put a brave face on it, some wept and wailed. Others did not care: spectators come simply to witness the madness.

It all meant nothing to Jezal, leaning on the weathered rail of the ship that would carry him to Angland. He was sunk in a terrible gloom, nose running, hair plastered to his scalp with wet. Ardee was not there, and yet she was everywhere. He would hear her voice above the din, calling his name. He would glimpse her out of the corner of his eye, looking at him, and his breath would catch in his throat. He would smile, half-raise his hand to wave, then he would see it was not her. Some other dark-haired woman, smiling at some other soldier. His shoulders would slump again. Each time the disappointment was sharper.

He realised now that he had made a terrible mistake. Why the hell had he asked her to wait for him? Wait for what? He could not marry her, that was a fact. Impossible. But the thought of her even looking at another man made him feel sick. He was wretched.

Love. He hated to admit it, but it had to be. He had always regarded the whole notion with contempt. A stupid word. A word for bad poets to harp on, and foolish women to chatter about. A thing found in childish stories and with no relevance to the real world, where relationships between men and women were simple matters of fucking and money. Yet here he was, mired in a horrible bog of fear and guilt, lust and confusion, loss and pain. Love. What a curse.

“I’d like to see Ardee,” murmured Kaspa, wistfully.

Jezal turned to stare at him. “What? What did you say?”

“It’s quite a sight to see,” said the Lieutenant, holding his hands up, “that’s all.” Everyone was a little careful around him since that card game, as if he might blow up at any moment.

Jezal turned sullenly back to the crowds. There was some kind of a commotion down below them. A single horseman was forcing his way through the chaos, spurring a well-lathered horse with frequent shouts of “Move!” Even in the rain, the wings on the rider’s helmet glittered. A Knight Herald.

“Bad news for someone,” murmured Kaspa.

Jezal nodded. “Looks like us.” He was indeed making directly for their ship, leaving a trail of bemused and angry soldiers and workmen behind him. He swung out of the saddle and strode purposefully up the gangplank towards them, face grim, bright-polished armour covered with moisture and jingling with every step.

“Captain Luthar?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Jezal, “I’ll fetch the Colonel.”

“No need. My message is for you.”

“It is?”

“High Justice Marovia requires your presence at his offices. Immediately. It would be best if you took my mount.”

Jezal frowned. He did not like the taste of this at all. There was no reason that he could see for a Knight Herald to be bringing messages to him, except that he had been inside the House of the Maker. He wanted nothing more to do with that. He wanted it in the past, forgotten, along with Bayaz, and his Northman, and that disgusting cripple.

“The High Justice is waiting, Captain.”

“Yes, of course.” It seemed there was nothing to be done.

“Ah, Captain Luthar! An honour to see you again!” Jezal was hardly surprised to run into the madman Sulfur, even here outside the offices of the High Justice. He no longer even seemed a madman, just another part of a world gone entirely mad. “An absolute honour!” he frothed.

“Likewise,” said Jezal numbly.

“I’m so lucky I caught you, what with both of us leaving so soon! My master has all manner of errands for me.” He gave a deep sigh. “Never the slightest peace, eh?”

“No, I know what you mean.”

“Still, an honour indeed to see you, and victorious at the Contest! I saw the whole thing, you know, it was a privilege to bear witness.” He smiled broadly, different coloured eyes glittering. “And to think, you were set on giving it up. Hah! But you stuck at it, just as I said you would! Yes you did, and now you reap the rewards! The edge of the World,” he whispered softly, as though to say the words out loud was to invite disaster. “The edge of the World. Can you imagine? I envy you, indeed I do!”

Jezal blinked. “What?”

“What! Hah! ‘What’, he says! You are dauntless, sir! Dauntless!” And Sulfur strode off across the wet Square of Marshals, chuckling to himself. Jezal was so bemused that he had not even the presence of mind to call him a damn idiot once he was out of earshot.

One of Marovia’s many clerks ushered him through an empty, echoing hallway towards a pair of enormous doors. He stopped before them, knocked. At an answering cry he turned the handle and pulled one of the doors back, standing aside politely for Jezal to pass through.

“You may go in,” he said quietly, after they had been stood there for a while.

“Yes, yes, of course.”

The cavernous chamber beyond was eerily silent. Furniture was strangely sparse in that huge, panelled space, and what there was seemed oversized, as though for the use of people much bigger than Jezal. It gave him the distinct feeling that he was arriving at his own trial.

High Justice Marovia sat behind an enormous table, its surface polished to mirror brightness, smiling at Jezal with a kindly, if slightly pitying expression. Marshal Varuz was seated to his left, staring down guiltily at his own blurry reflection. Jezal had not thought he could feel more depressed, but on seeing the third member of the group he realised he had been wrong. Bayaz, wearing a self-satisfied smirk. He felt a mild surge of panic as the door shut behind him: the clicking of the latch felt like the clank of the heavy bolt on a prison cell.

Bayaz started up from his chair and came round the table. “Captain Luthar, I am so glad you could join us.” The old man took Jezal’s damp hand in both of his and squeezed it firmly, leading him forward into the room. “Thank you for coming. Thank you indeed.”

“Er, of course.” As if he had been given a choice.

“Well now, you’re probably wondering what this is all about. Allow me to explain.” He stepped back and perched on the edge of the table, like a kindly uncle holding forth to a child. “I and a few brave companions—chosen people, you understand, people of quality—are engaging on a great journey! An epic voyage! A grand adventure! I have little doubt that, should we be successful, there will be stories told of this for years to come. Very many years.” Bayaz’ forehead crinkled as he raised his white eyebrows. “Well? What do you think?”

“Er…” Jezal glanced nervously over at Marovia and Varuz, but they were giving no clues as to what was going on. “If I may?”

“Of course, Jezal—I may call you Jezal, may I?”

“Yes, er, well, yes, I suppose. Er, the thing is… I was wondering what all this has to do with me?”

Bayaz smiled. “We are short a man.”

There was a long, heavy silence. A drop of water trickled down Jezal’s scalp, dripped from his hair, ran down his nose and pattered against the tiles beneath his feet. Horror crept slowly through his body, from his gut to the very tips of his fingers. “Me?” he croaked.

“The road will be a long and difficult one, most likely beset with dangers. We have enemies out there, you and I. More enemies than you would believe. Who could be more useful than a proven swordsman, such as yourself? The winner of the Contest, no less!”

Jezal swallowed. “I appreciate the offer, really I do, but I am afraid I must decline. My place is with the army, you understand.” He took a hesitant step back towards the door. “I must go north. My ship will soon be sailing and—”

“I am afraid it has sailed already, Captain,” said Marovia, his warm voice stopping Jezal dead in his tracks. “You need not concern yourself with that any longer. You will not be going to Angland.”

“But, your Worship, my company—”

“Will find another commander,” smiled the High Justice: understanding, sympathetic, but horribly firm. “I appreciate your feelings, indeed I do, but we consider this more urgent. It is important that the Union be represented in this matter.”

“Terribly important,” murmured Varuz, half-heartedly. Jezal blinked at the three old men. There was no escape. So this was his reward for winning the Contest? Some crackpot voyage to who-knew-where in the company of a demented old man and a pack of savages? How he wished now that he had never started fencing! That he had never even seen a steel in his life! But wishing was useless. There was no way back.

“I need to serve my country—” mumbled Jezal.

Bayaz laughed. “There are other ways to serve your country, my boy, than being one corpse in a pile, up there in the frozen North. We leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? But my things are—”

“Don’t worry, Captain,” and the old man slipped off the table and clapped him enthusiastically on the shoulder, “everything is arranged. Your boxes were brought off the ship before it left. You have this evening to pick out some things for our journey, but we must travel light. Weapons, of course, and stout clothes for travelling. Make sure you pack a good pair of boots, eh? No uniforms, I’m afraid, they might attract the wrong kind of attention where we’re going.”

“No, of course,” said Jezal miserably. “Might I ask… where are we going?”

“The edge of the World, my boy, the edge of the World!” Bayaz’ eyes twinkled. “And back, of course… I hope.”