"All right." Calistin finally stood up straight. "You may try."
Howall's brows shot up. He seemed more curious and uncertain than angry. "Very well." He reached for his hilt and started to draw.
Faster, Calistin whipped his blade out and slammed it against Howall's hilt, pinning it. A foot sweep sent Howall toppling, with Calistin's sword at his throat.
The crowd gasped, shrinking from the violence.
Calistin sheathed his sword in one fluid motion, exasperated by the ease of his victory.
Howall clambered to his feet. The light had gone out of his eyes, replaced by a flicker of fear.
"Would you like to try again?" Calistin suggested.
Howall set his jaw, then grabbed for his hilt. This time, he got it free before Calistin's blade licked through, chopping it from his grip.
Calistin could have caught it but did not respect his opponent enough to do so. Howall's sword crashed to the cobbles as Calistin sheathed his own weapon. He looked askance at the self-proclaimed peacekeeper. "Is that the best you can do?"
Howall's gaze went to his weapon on the ground. He started to reach for it, watching Calistin as he did so. Clearly, he did not wish to make himself any more vulnerable.
Calistin stepped away, less in a show of good faith than to denigrate. He did not need any advantage to destroy this pitiful excuse for a town guardian.
Howall picked up his sword but made no move toward Calistin. Nor did he look at the crowd behind him.
It was all too easy, and that bothered Calistin more than anything. This man, this best Sheaton had to offer, was not worth the time it had taken to talk to him. He addressed the crowd. "You deserve better." With that, he lunged in again.
Howall attempted to parry. Once more Calistin cut the sword from his hand, and then bore in for a power stroke that would claim the man's head.
"No!" Treysind leaped between them, forcing Calistin to harmlessly redirect his attack or skewer a friend.
Calistin chose the former, reluctantly. At the moment, it seemed more satisfying to cut through boy and man alike.
Howall tumbled to the dirt, Treysind flopped on top of him. "Don't kill 'im!" the boy shouted, scrambling for a better position. "He's jus' doin' his job."
"Fine." Though he would have preferred a clean beheading, Calistin sheathed his weapon. "Not worth cleaning his coward's blood off my sword." He stomped on the grounded weapon, the ultimate Renshai insult, then turned toward the farm fields. "Let's go."
Treysind sprang to his feet with a muttered apology. Grabbing his pack and waterskins, he scrambled after Calistin.
Not a word passed between the two until they had left the farm fields of Sheaton far behind and settled into a clearing beneath a thick overhang of trees. Though they prematurely darkened the area, the interwoven roof of branches also kept the ground free of underbrush. Calistin crouched, glancing around for kindling.
Treysind walked to the opposite side of the clearing, his back to the Renshai.
For several moments they remained in this awkward position. Calistin finally broke the silence. "I'll build the fire again, if you'll catch the food."
Treysind muttered an answer Calistin could not hear.
Calistin rose and walked to Treysind. "I said-"
"I heared ya," Treysind said, his words muffled by the hands he placed over his mouth and chin. "An' I sayed 'no.' "
"No?" Calistin repeated, puzzled. "You want to make the fire and brave eating what I find?"
"I's leavin', Cali… Cali-Stan.Ya ain't my hero no more."
"I… ain't?" Calistin did not know whether to question further or celebrate. He found himself laughing.
Treysind's arms slammed against his own chest. "Shouldn't figger ya'd care."
Calistin considered, surprised to find he did care. After trying so hard, so long, to lose the boy, he had finally come to grips with the realization that it would never happen. In the last day, he had even come to appreciate Treysind's wit and company. It seemed impossible he would lose it now. "I do care."
Treysind turned, as shocked by the sentiment as Calistin. "Ya cares?"
Now that he had spoken the words, Calistin realized they were true. "Of course, I care. If I didn't, I'd have killed you a long time ago."
"Then why's ya always laughin' at me?"
"I don't-" Calistin started, but Treysind interrupted.
"Ya do. Ya never laughs at nothin' funny. Only… only mean stuff."
"Mean?" Taken aback, Calistin did not know what to say. No one had ever spoken to him in this manner. His first instinct, to dismember the boy, passed swiftly. Calistin had spoken honestly; if he was going to kill Treysind, he would have done it long ago. "What do you mean by… mean?"
"Mean! Mean!" Treysind unfolded his arms. "Ya know, not nice."
Calistin shook his head. He did not need the word defined. He simply did not understand the concept. "You're saying I laugh at mean things?"
Treysind cocked his head, and his brilliant orange hair slid across one ear. "When someones trips an' looks silly, tha's funny. If they breaks they leg, it ain't funny."
Calistin shook his head. "I wouldn't find either of those things funny." Still, he considered Treysind's point beyond the poorly worded explanation. He did tend to find himself silent when others laughed with great amusement. He also frequently laughed alone, like just moments earlier when he belittled Treysind about his decision to leave. Clearly, denouncing his hero had meant a lot more to the boy than to Calistin.
Treysind turned away. "Ya's right. It prob'ly wouldn't be funny ta ya till ya breaks they's other leg, then kills 'em."
"What?" That went way beyond the explanation, and it seemed utterly unfair. "Treysind, what's actually bothering you? I'm not good at riddles."
Treysind's eyes became blurry puddles of white and blue. "When they's telled me ya killed that guy in the streets fo' no reason, I dint belief 'em. Then I seed what ya nearly done in Sheaton… y'ain't my hero no more."
Calistin rolled his eyes but did not dare to laugh. "Treysind, you've seen me kill before.You know it's what I do."
"I seed ya kill men what attacked ya, men what woulda kilt ya if they could. But I ain't seed ya torture no ones bafore. I ain't likin' bullies what kills fo' no reason."
Suddenly, the whole situation gained clarity. Calistin remembered how he had rescued Treysind from street toughs and understood how the boy might liken what had happened in Sheaton to the day they met in Erythane. Only now I'm the one hurting a helpless innocent; and he's the one who swooped in, at great risk to himself, to save the victim.
Calistin found himself desperately uncomfortable. He had never bothered to consider the world from another's viewpoint before. Many times, in conflicts with his brothers, his father had asked him to consider how Saviar or Subikahn might feel. Always, he had dismissed the idea, focused on his own innocence, his own needs and desires. He would say whatever it took to extract himself from the situation.
Nothing mattered but his swords, his practices, and becoming the consummate Renshai. Other people were merely props to use in his quest to become quicker, faster, more deadly. Anyone who could not significantly exercise his sword arm was unworthy of his attention, or even of life itself. They deserved nothing but derision and ridicule. Laughter. A band seemed to abruptly circle Calistin's heart, tightening and squeezing painfully. "Ya never laughs at nothin'funny.Only… only mean stuff."The little ganim is right.
Treysind was still talking. "… prob'ly gots a wife an' chillen.They dint do nothin' ta deserve losin' they's Papa. An' all's he did was try ta keep tha law-'s not like he was tryin' ta hurt ya…"
"You're right," Calistin said softly, expecting his concession to please his companion.
But it merely sent Treysind off on another track. "Ya's a killer, Cali-Stan, but I's never belief thems what sayed ya's jus' a killin' device without a-"
"-soul," Calistin finished. It explained so much.