Windhaven - Страница 32

When she saw by the sun that it was nearly noon, Maris finally banked and swept around in a long, graceful arc to begin the flight back to Skulny.

Maris was resting alone in her cabin late that afternoon when she was startled by loud, insistent pounding at the door.

Her visitor was a stranger, a short, slight, hollow-cheeked man with graying hair pulled back hard and tied in a knot at the back of his head. An Easterner: his hairstyle and fur-trimmed clothes told her that. He wore an iron ring on one finger and silver on another, testimonials to his wealth.

“My name is Arak,” he said. “I have flown for South Arren these past thirty years.”

Maris opened the door wider and let him in, gesturing him toward the one chair. She sat on a bed. “You are from Val’s home island.”

He grimaced. “Indeed. It is Val One-Wing I would speak to you about. Some of us have been talking—”

“Us?”

“Flyers.”

“Which flyers?” His self-centered intensity made her hostile; she did not like his presumption or his tone.

“That doesn’t matter,” Arak said. “I was sent to talk with you because it is generally felt that you are a flyer at heart, even if not flyer-born. You would not help Val One-Wing if you knew the sort of man he is.”

“I know him,” Maris said. “I do not like him, and I have not forgotten Ari’s death, but still he deserves his chance.”

“He has had more chances than he ever deserved,” Arak said angrily. “Do you know the stock he springs from? His parents were vicious, dirty, ignorant. From Lomarron, not South Arren at all. Do you know Lomarron?”

Maris nodded, remembering the time she had flown to Lomarron three years before. A large, mountainous island, soil-poor but metal-rich. Because of that wealth, warfare was endemic. Most of the land-bound there worked in the mines. “His parents were miners,” she guessed.

But Arak shook his head. “Landsguard,” he said. “Professional killers. His father was a knife-fighter, his mother a sling.”

“Many islands have landsguard forces,” Maris said uneasily.

Arak seemed to be enjoying this. “On Lomarron they get more practice than on other islands,” he said. “Too much, finally. His mother had her sling hand lopped off in an engagement, severed clean at the wrist. Not long after that there was a truce. But Val’s family didn’t take to truces. His father killed a man anyway, and then the three of them had to flee Lomarron in a fishing boat they stole. That was how they came to South Arren. The mother was a useless one-handed cripple, but the father joined the landsguard again. Only for a short time, though. One night he got too drunk and told a mate who he was, and word reached the Landsman, and then Lomarron. He was hanged as a thief and a murderer.”

Maris sat silent, feeling numb.

“I know all this,” Arak went on, “because I took pity on the poor widow. I took her in as housekeeper and cook, never mind that she was clumsy and slow with the one hand. I gave them a place to live, plenty to eat, and raised Val with my own son. With his father gone, he should have looked up to me. I set him a good example; I gave him the discipline he lacked. But it was wasted—his blood was bad. The kindness was wasted on both of them, and anything you do for him is going to be wasted as well. His mother was lazy and shiftless, always whining and complaining about how she felt, never getting her work done on time, but expecting to be paid for it all the same. Val used to play at being a knife-fighter, and killing people. Even tried to drag my own boy into his sick games, but I stopped that soon enough. He was a terrible influence. Both of them stole, you know, him and his mother. There was always something missing. I had to keep my iron under lock and key. I even caught him handling my wings once, in the middle of the night, when he thought I was asleep.

“Give him a chance to win wings fairly, and what does he do? Attacks poor Ari, who hadn’t a chance, and as good as kills her. He has no morals, no code. I couldn’t beat it into him when he was a boy, and now—”

Maris rose, suddenly remembering the scars on Val’s back. “You beat him?”

“Eh?” Arak looked up at her in surprise. “Of course I beat him. The only way to lick some sense into him. A blackwood stick when he was small, a touch of the whip now and then when he was older. Same as I gave my own.”

“Same as you gave your own. How about the other things you gave your own—did Val and his mother eat at table with you?”

Arak stood up, his sharp face twisted in dismay. Even standing, he was a small figure, and had to look up at Maris. “Of course not,” he snapped. “They were help, hired land-bound. Servants don’t eat with their masters. I gave them all they needed—don’t you imply that I starved them.”

“You gave them scraps,” Maris said with angry certainty. “Scraps and refuse, the garbage you didn’t want.”

“I was a wealthy flyer when you were a land-bound brat digging for your dinner. Don’t try to tell me how to feed my household.”

Maris stepped closer, looming above him. “Raised him with your own son, did you? And what did you say when you were training your son, and Val asked if he might try on the wings?”

Arak gave a choking snort of laughter. “I whipped that idea out of him fast enough,” he said. “That was before you came along with your damned academies and put notions in the heads of the land-bound.”

She shoved him.

Maris had scarcely ever touched another person in anger, but now she shoved him hard, with both hands, wanting to hurt him, and Arak staggered backward, the laughter dying in his throat. She shoved him again and he stumbled and fell. She stood over him, seeing the nervous disbelief in his eyes. “Get up,” she said. “Get up and get out, you filthy little man. If I could I’d rip the wings from your back. You foul the sky.”

Arak rose and moved quickly to the door. Outside, he was brave again. “Blood will tell,” he said, glaring through the doorway at Maris. “I knew it. I told them all. Land-bound is land-bound. The academies will close. We should have taken your wings early, but we’ll take them late, just the same.”

Maris, shaking, slammed the door.

Suddenly a terrible suspicion hit her, and she wrenched the door open again and ran out after him. Arak, seeing her coming, began to run, but she soon caught up with him, and knocked him flat on the sand. Several astonished flyers watched, but no one moved to interfere.

Arak cringed beneath her. “You’re mad,” he shouted. “Leave me alone!”

“Where was Val’s father executed?” Maris demanded.

Arak got clumsily to his feet.

“On Lomarron or South Arren?”

“On Arren, of course. No sense shipping him back,” he said, stepping away from her. “Our rope was just as good.”

“But the crime was committed on Lomarron, so the Landsman of Lomarron had to order the execution,” Maris said. “How did that order get to your Landsman? You flew it, didn’t you? You flew the messages both ways’.”

Arak glared at her and broke and ran again. Maris did not go after him this time.

The look on his face had been all the admission she needed.

The wind off the sea was brisk and cold that night, but Maris walked slowly, not eager to leave the solitude of the sea road for a conference with Val. She wanted to speak with Val—she felt she had to—but she wasn’t certain what she would say. For the first time, she felt she understood him. And her sympathy disturbed her.

She was angry with Arak; she had responded to him emotionally and, she now thought, irrationally. She had no right to that anger, even if Val did. A flyer could not be blamed for the message he or she flew—that was common sense, as well as the stuff of legend. Maris herself had never flown a message leading directly to anyone’s death, but she had carried information once that had resulted in the imprisonment of a woman accused of theft—did that woman bear a grudge against Maris as well as against the Landsman who sentenced her?

Maris shoved her hands into her pockets and hunched her shoulders against the bite of the wind, scowling as she turned the problem over in her mind. Arak was an unpleasant person, and he might well have taken pleasure in the idea of being the instrument of revenge against a murderer, and there was no doubt that he had taken advantage of the situation. Val and his mother had been cheap labor to him, however sanctimoniously he might speak of his generosity.

As she neared the tavern where Val was lodged, Maris still argued with herself. Arak was a flyer, and flyers could not refuse to carry messages, no matter how unwelcome or unfair they might sound. She couldn’t let her dislike of the man trick her into blaming him for the execution (deserved or not) of Val’s father. And that was something that Val, if he was ever to be more than One-Wing, would have to understand, too.

The tavern was a shabby place, its interior dark and cold and smelling faintly of mold. The fire was too small to heat the main room properly, and the candles on the table burned smokily. Val was dicing with three dark-haired, heavy women in landsguard brown—and-green, but he came away when Maris asked him to, a wine glass in his hand.

He nursed his wine as she spoke, his face closed and silent. When she had finished, his smile was faint and fast-fading. “Warmth and generosity,” he said. “Arak has them both in abundance.” After that he said nothing.

The silence was lengthy and awkward. “Is that all you’re going to say?” Maris asked finally.

Val’s expression changed just a little, the lines around his mouth tightening, eyes narrowing; he looked harder than ever. “What did you expect me to say, flyer? Did you think I’d embrace you, bed you, sing a song in praise of your understanding? What?”