Through the Darkness

“Aye, it’s pretty tough,” Istvan agreed. “But are you sure it’s mutton? I think it tastes more like beef.”

“I used to think all your taste was in your mouth, Sergeant,” Kun said, planting his barb with relish. “Now I see you haven’t got any there, either.”

“Go ahead and argue, you two,” one of the ordinary troopers said. “I don’t care if it’s mountain ape, by the stars. Whatever it is, it’s a lot better than empty.” He took another mouthful.

Istvan could hardly quarrel with that. His own mess tin had emptied with astonishing speed. He was working his way through a second helping when Benczur came out of the woods, Captain Tivadar right behind him. Istvan sprang to his feet and saluted. Tivadar spied the corpses at the edge of the firelight and nodded. “Nicely done,” he said. “And that stew does smell good.”

“Have some, sir,” Istvan said. “Maybe you can tell us what’s in it. I say it’s beef, Kun here thinks it’s mutton.”

“What I think is, you fellows can’t be very sharp if you don’t know what goes into a stew,” the company commander said. He held out his mess kit. “Give me some and I’ll tell you what I think.”

After Istvan had filled the tin with stew, Tivadar sniffed it, eyed it, and poked at the pieces of meat with the tip of his knife. He speared on, started to bring it to his mouth, and then hesitated. Kun said, “Don’t be shy, Captain. The way you’re playing with it, anybody’d say you thought it was goat, or sometliing.”

Tivadar wasn’t smiling any more. He put the chunk of meat back in the mess tin, then set the tin down. “Corporal, I’m afraid I do think that--or I think it may be, anyhow. You know the Unkerlanters eat goat. This isn’t beef--I’d take oath on that--and I don’t think it’s mutton, either.”

Behind his spectacle lenses, Kun’s eyes went wide. Istvan’s stomach lurched like a ship in a storm. “Goat?” he said in a small, sick voice. The horror that filled the word was on the face of every other soldier in the squad. Istvan wouldn’t have eaten goat meat if he were starving and set down in the middle of a herd of the beasts. No Gyongyosian would have. Goats ate filth and were lecherous beasts, which made them unfit for a warrior race to touch. Only perverts and criminals proved what they were by touching goatflesh and sealing themselves away from all their countrymen.

And now he had, or he might have. And he’d eaten it with enjoyment, too. He gulped. Then he wasn’t gulping any more. He was running for the edge of the clearing the squad had taken from the Unkerlanters. He fell to his knees, leaned forward, and stuck a finger down his throat. Up came the stew, all of it, in a great spasm of sickness that left him dizzy and weak.

Kun knelt beside him, puking his guts up, too. Benczur spewed a few feet away. Everyone in the squad vomited up the tasty but forbidden flesh.

But that wasn’t enough. Tears in his eyes, the inside of his nose burning and full of the sour stink of vomit--the same nasty sourness that filled his mouth-- Istvan knew it wasn’t enough. He got to his feet and staggered toward Captain Tivadar. “Make me pure again, sir,” he croaked--his throat burned, too.

“And me.” Again, Kun was right behind him. “Make me clean again. I polluted myself, and I stand filthy below the stars.” The rest of the troopers echoed them.

Tivadar’s face was grave. He would have been within his rights to turn his back and walk away. He could have left the squad outcast, to wander the trackless wood without any further aid till the Unkerlanters or their own righteous countrymen slew them. But he didn’t. Slowly, he said, “You did not kill the goat yourselves, nor did you knowingly eat of it.”

Istvan and his comrades nodded with pathetic eagerness. All that was true. It might not be enough, but it was true. “Make me pure again, sir,” he whispered. “Please make me pure.” Szonyi and the other sentry came out of the woods, begging as he and the rest of the squad were begging.

Captain Tivadar drew his knife again. “Give me your hand,” he told Istvan. “Your left--it will hinder you less.” Istvan did. Tivadar gashed his palm. Istvan stood silent and unflinching, welcoming the bright pain. Only when Tivadar said, “Bind it up now,” did he move. Had Tivadar ordered him to let the wound bleed, he would have done that, too.

One by one, Tivadar purified the rest of the soldiers. None of them jerked or cried out. As he bandaged himself, Istvan knew he would wear the scar the rest of his days. He didn’t care. He might lose the worse scar on his soul. That mattered far, far more.

Marquis Balastro made himself comfortable on the cushions that did duty for furniture in Hajjaj’s office. “Well, your Excellency,” said the Algarvian minister to Zuwayza, “aren’t you proud of yourself for taking in a pack of ragged Kaunians?”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Hajjaj answered coldly. “I thought it was quite clear that my king’s views on the subject of these refugees are very different from those of your sovereign.”