Exile's Gate by C. J. Cherryh Read Free Book Online

honorable,
perhaps, to deal with hidden weapons in the pretense of being
magnanimous; but Morgaine—she had said it—did not take pointless
chances. It was not honorable either, to tempt a frightened man to
escape, to test his intentions, where keeping him under close guard
would save his life. And other lives, it might well be.

    But the man had not
strayed—had attended his call of nature and limped his way down to
water's edge by the time Vanye had walked the distance downslope, and
he had never dared bolt from sight of them or wander behind branches.
That much was encouraging. Chei had bent down to drink, with movements
small and painful, there on the margin.

    "Wash," Vanye said, and dropped the folded blanket beside him on the grass. "I will sit here, patient as you like."

    Chei said nothing. He only
sat down, bowed his head and began with clumsy efforts to unbuckle
straps and work his way out of the filth-and weather-stiffened leather
and mail, piece after piece of the oddly fashioned gear laid aside on
the bank.

    "Lord in Heaven," Vanye
murmured then, sickened at what he saw—not least was he affected by the
quiet of the man sitting there on the grass and taking full account,
with trembling hands and tight-clamped jaw and a kind of panic about
his eyes, what toll his ordeal had taken of his body—great, deep sores
long festered and worn deep in his flesh. Wherever the armor had been
ill-fitted, there infection and poison had set in and corruption had
followed, deepening the sores, to be galled again by the armor.
Wherever small wounds had been, even what might have been insect bites,
they had festered; and as Chei pulled the padding beneath the mail
free, small bits of skin and corruption came with it.

    It was not the condition of
a man confined a day or even a few days. It bespoke something much more
terrible than he had understood had happened on that hill, and the man
sat there, trembling in deep shock, trying stolidly to deal with what a
chirurgeon or a priest should attend.

    "Man—" Vanye said, rising and coming over to him. "I will help."

    But the man turned his
shoulder and wanted, by that gesture, no enemy's hands on him, Vanye
reckoned—perhaps for fear of roughness; perhaps his customs forbade
some stranger touching him; Heaven knew. Vanye sank down on his heels,
arms on his knees, and bit his lip for self-restraint, the while Chei
continued, with the movements of some aged man, to peel the leather
breeches off, now and again pausing, seeming overwhelmed by pain as if
he could not bear the next. Then he would begin again.

    And there was nothing more
than that, that a man could do, while Vanye watched, flinching in
sympathy—Lord, in Ra-morij of his birth, a gentleman would not
countenance this sort of thing—chirurgeon's business, one would murmur,
and cover his nose and go absolve himself with a cup of wine and the
noisy talk of other men in hall. He had never had a strong stomach with
wounds gone bad.

    But the man doggedly,
patiently, worked out of the last of it, put his right leg down into
the water, and the left, and slipped off the bank, to lose his balance
and fall so suddenly that Vanye moved for the edge thinking he had gone
into some hole.

    Chei righted himself and
clawed for the bank—held on in water only chest deep as Vanye gripped
his forearm against the grass. Chei was spitting water and gasping
after air, his blond hair and beard streaming water, his teeth
chattering in what seemed more shock than cold.

    "I will pull you out," Vanye said.

    "No," Chei said, pulling
away. "No." He slipped again, and all but went under, fighting his way
to balance again, shivering and trying to pull free.

    Vanye let him go, and
watched anxiously as the prisoner ducked his head deliberately and
rubbed at ingrained dirt, scrubbing at galled shoulders and arms and
body.

    Vanye delved into his kit and found the cloth-wrapped soap. "Here," he said, offering it out over the water. "Soap."

    The