‘Said the woman who has slaughtered children in the forest!’
She said nothing for a long moment, her flat eyes fixed upon him, and for an instant Sagander believed he saw what those children and elders must have seen, even as the sword swung down to take their lives. Suddenly chilled by terror, he stared up at the captain.
‘In the name of duty,’ Infayen said, ‘one must, at times, set honour aside. Were you not once tutor to a bastard whelp?’
‘The duty of which saw my honour betrayed,’ Sagander replied shakily. He shook his head. ‘I never abused her trust, captain. Ask her. I sought to save her from her mother.’
‘You would have failed.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Even the temple will fail,’ Infayen said.
‘Then you deem this pointless?’
‘It is not the coin in hand that makes the whore, tutor. It is making a commodity of one’s own body that makes a woman a whore. The flaw lies in the spirit. Sheltatha and her mother are the same in this regard, no different from Renarr. If you believe salvation is possible, then why in the next breath speak against the elevation of us soldiers?’
‘By your argument, captain, you oppose Hunn Raal’s desire, and indeed that of Urusander himself.’ Sagander leaned forward. ‘Is that a wise admission?’
‘In the name of duty one must at times set aside honour,’ Infayen repeated.
A moment later she was gone, the flap settling back down. Much of the brazier’s heat had been lost, and Sagander shivered, reaching for his furs. He settled on to the bed. The ghost moaned out its ache. These soldiers, he was coming to understand, were not all alike. Their uniforms deceived with the illusion of conformity, and as time stretched on – as this miserable winter persisted – the inherent weaknesses of the military system began to show.
Put a sword in every person’s hand, and they discover an edge to their opinions, but such opinions, no matter how inane and ignorant, twist to ambition, until each wielder draws blood upon every side. There can be no congress among the witless and the avaricious. Betrayal waits in the wings, and all that is won must then be carved into pieces, and should inequity appear, the slaying begins anew.
The creation of an army invites poison into the realm. I am well placed to observe this, and I will make it central to the thesis of my last great work. The stations of society are natural creations, governed by natural laws. This civil war, it is nothing but hubris.
Only from the temples will we find salvation. Syntara must be made to understand this. The balance of faiths she espouses must give guidance to the balance of classes in Kurald Galain. A few to rule, and many to follow.
Urusander is useless. But perhaps he will serve as a figurehead. No, we who possess the necessary intelligence, and talents, we shall be the true rulers of this realm. Let the god and goddess drift away into their private worlds. One step down from the dais is where real power is worked, and there is where you will find me.
I must write to Rise Herat. An overture would not be amiss. He surely understands the necessity of our respective roles in what is to come. But I will address him as an equal, to make certain that he understands our new relationship. Meted in wisdom, we shall conspire to save Kurald Galain.
An end to soldiers. The rise of scholars. I see a renaissance in the offing.
The plain woman who fed the brazier now returned, eyes averted, a bucket of dung in each hand.
He watched as she knelt at the iron brazier and began feeding chips into it. An all too modest skill, maintaining such a fire, requiring little more than small measures of brawn, discipline, and a few sparks of wit. It was well that she possessed a task to suit her, he reflected. This is civilization’s gift. Finding a task to match the capability of each and every citizen of the realm. But make it plain that limits exist, for the good of all. And, if necessary, a mailed fist to prove the point.
The highborn have it right. Houseblades to police their holdings. A city constabulary. An army? Disband it, and put an end to its unruly nest, lest the vermin breed discontent.
‘When you’re done there,’ Sagander croaked to the servant, ‘attend me here. The night is cold, and I have need of your warmth.’
‘Yes sir,’ the woman replied, dusting her hands.
Syntara was generous, and generosity among the powerful was truly a virtue.
* * *
‘She would gather the whores into a single room,’ Renarr said, smiling, ‘and name it a temple of disrepute, no doubt.’
Sheltatha Lore stood before her, still heavily cloaked from her march up from the camp. She seemed neither discomfited nor confused by the new arrangements.
‘So, it was Syntara who sent you to me?’
Shrugging, Sheltatha said, ‘Hunn Raal decided this. Infayen delivered me. Syntara thought to interpose her will, but in the end she rejected me for the temple, noting my misused flesh and so on.’ She paused and looked around. ‘Have you the use of an adjoining room? My needs are modest. Presumably, my clothes and the rest will be sent up from the camp, eventually. I assume the food is better here, to make up for the duller company.’
Renarr held her smile. ‘First, you will need to cultivate your contempt, Sheltatha Lore. If your words would cut, sharpen your guile,