When the Black Rigante bastard Call Jace had come to the farm his father had greeted him cordially, offering refreshment. Persis had sat quietly in the corner. Only thirteen years old, he had not fully understood the nature of their conversation. It was something to do with tribute payments. His father had told Jace he saw no reason to pay for a service he did not need, and pointed out that his farm was too poor to suffer attacks from raiders. Jace seemed to accept this, but urged his father to reconsider his position. These are dangerous times,’ he said.
When Jace had gone Persis asked his father about the conversation, but the old man had merely smiled and shrugged it off. The following day their stud bull was found with its throat cut.
Father had wept at the sight, for he could not afford to replace such a fine animal. Then he had visited the barracks to tell the then colonel of the incident, and how it had followed his refusal to pay Jace. Two weeks later his father’s body had been discovered. His throat had also been cut.
A good and a kind man had been murdered on the orders of the Rigante leader. Even at thirteen Persis knew this. All thoughts of apothecary training fled his mind – though even if they hadn’t the farm could no longer support such dreams. His uncle, Mathys, took over the farm, and Persis worked like a slave to help keep it going. They had managed to survive for four years, but in the end the enterprise had failed. Mathys sold the property to the farmer whose lands adjoined theirs. The price was not high and Mathys had stayed on to manage the farm for the new owner, while Persis had taken work in Black Mountain as a storeman-loader for Arus Grassman.
Through Grassman he had come to know the new officer of the beetlebacks, Captain Ranaud. He had told him of the murder of his father. Ranaud had been most sympathetic. ‘It is a disgrace that men like Jace should be allowed to exist,’ he said. ‘But that is the way of the world, I am afraid. The problem was created by weak officers years ago, and has only been exacerbated since.’
Then, last month, Ranaud had come to see him in his meagre lodgings behind the warehouse. He had spoken of a plan to bring Jace to justice. ‘Not,’ he said, ‘the justice of the courts, sadly, but justice nevertheless.’ He told Persis of Jace’s lust for a lewd woman who lived in the high hills close to Rigante country. ‘A few good men could end this bandit’s evil for ever,’ he said.
Persis Roebuck would have paid with his soul for the opportunity of avenging his father. He begged Ranaud to allow him to be part of the hunt. Killing Jace would mean that no other boy would have to go through the torment he had suffered. Ranaud had agreed.
Now Persis Roebuck sat on the porch of the whore’s home, wiping the nostrils of the hunting dog with a damp cloth. Four men were dead. Four remained. The deaths had not dampened the young man’s fervour. If Jace killed all the other men Persis would still go after him. Evil had to be countered wherever it was found. His father had taught him that.
Killers had to be punished.
Persis glanced across at the body of Keets. Jace had pierced his body with his sabre and the man had died in agony. He and Brace should not have killed the woman, thought Persis. That, too, was evil. ‘She’s a whore – and she has seen us,’ said Keets. Barley the dog handler and Persis had argued with him, and Keets had seemed to concede. Then he and Brace had gone back into the house. When they emerged there was blood on Keets’s hands.
‘Oh, no,’ said Barley, the dog handler. ‘What in hell’s name have you done?’
‘I’m the leader here,’ said Keets, ‘and I have done what was necessary. But don’t worry, your hands are spotless.’
Brace had chuckled. ‘I can see why Jace came here,’ he said. ‘She drained us dry to save her life. Damn, but her pleading made it all the sweeter.’