Two or three days passed. Crim and the others had been driven to the ragged edge of endurance. That morning two of them had gone cold; there was no strength left to dig graves. They had dragged the bodies from the lean shelter and laid them to one side, and left them there.
Silence settled on them like a weightstone. Crim felt it press into his ribs; madness moved through the company in a slow, noiseless tide, and he feared it might swallow him as well.
Why had it not been Tusk who died?
The thought startled him. Tusk was no gentle man, and had stood with him when few else would; if Crim wished the man gone because he was feared or troublesome, then he and Tusk would be no different — two beasts scratching at the same scrap. He shook his head hard, covered his face with his hands, and drew breath as if to steady a fever.
"There is but one way left for us to live," he said finally. "We take."
They looked at one another, and none answered.
No one in the company needed reminding that the talk of robbery had come up before. Crim had stopped it then, for a thousand small reasons. Most of them were ordinary folk pressed into service by lies and iron: men who wished not to become robbers, if they could help it.
Tusk, who had never much loved the law and had loved his belly more, smacked his thigh and spat, "Gods damn it. Are you lot ready to starve in this godforsaken place? I'll go now."
When a man called, a few were quick to follow, but Crim checked them with a raised hand.
"Wait. There will be rules," he said. "If you will not keep them, you may not go. First: only houses with windows. Those folk have stores; take a little and they will not starve. Do not touch the huts of straw and mud—there you kill. Second: do not harm, and do not kill. We take food to live. We are not to become true brigands. Is that agreed?"
No one spoke. Hunger eats at conscience faster than any blade; even those who had once been upright found it hard to answer when survival thundered at the door.
Tusk snorted. "If we do not show steel, no one will hand us bread."
Crim's eyes were tired but clear. "Then frighten them. We are all human; none of us want to harm our neighbors if we can help it. Besides: the magistrates are not watching because the empire is in disorder now. Rob a little and you draw no guards. Kill, and you bring the law down on us all. That is far worse."
He paused, counting the truth in the dry air. "Those are the two rules. Who disagrees, step forward now."
No feet moved. Even Tusk turned his head away. Crim nodded once as if to himself and set his jaw.
"Then it is settled. Again: do not rob the poor. Do not kill. I say this plainly: these are absolute rules. Should any man break them, I will put an end to him."
He said it because he had to. He meant it because he feared what a breach would bring. Tusk was a man used to giving orders; Crim repeated the warning until even that man could not pretend he had not heard.
They came down from the hill and found a rich man's farmstead at the valley's rim. Tusk drew his blade and stepped forward like a judge, voices rough as gravel as he threatened the master of the house—an able-bodied man—and an old man who crouched by the hearth.
Dobby, the youngest of them all and not yet of the age the law demanded for service, stumbled out clutching a great sack of grain. He was a child still, legs uneven beneath him, and the others—Tituss among them—waited at the gate to take what he brought and cry for a swift retreat.
A hen cried from the yard. Tusk turned, thinking to snatch two fowls as well, then his eyes caught something at the edge of the coop—a young woman, her face smudged with soot from the stove, and for a beat he stood stunned.
From behind Tusk a man stepped out and raised an axe.
"Watch out!" Dobby shouted, hurling himself between them. He parried the blow with his small blade, but the man rammed him aside with his shoulder and swung again at Tusk. Tusk, large and prepared, slipped aside, and drove his foot into the man's belly. The fellow stumbled and fell, crashing before Dobby with a startled gasp. In the instant of reflex the boy lifted his blade—and it went home. The man's belly opened to the sky; he twitched twice and lay still.
Dobby pulled the short sword free, his face as white as the inside of a bone.
"I—I have killed… I have killed someone?" he cried, voice thin and reeling.
The woman saw the blade, the red that stained it, screamed and fled, dust and fear streaking her face. The men had no time for her—fear and hunger propelled them. They seized Dobby and ran.
Halfway down the track the child stopped as if rooted to the earth. No force could make him step forward.
"What now? Still thinking of what happened?" Tituss called, looking back.
"You saved Tusk—that wasn't killing, was it?" Tituss added, hoping to steer the mind of the frightened boy.
Tusk came back and seized Dobby's hand to drag him along. "It was an accident," he said loud enough for all to hear. "We all saw it. That's the truth, right?"
They murmured assent. Dobby was young, true-hearted, liked by most; none believed he had meant murder.
But Dobby tore his hand free and stared at Tusk. He shook his head slowly.
"Kill me," he said in a voice thin with terror. "Or we cannot face Crim."
Tusk stamped in fury and jabbed a finger at the boy's face. "You stubborn little fool. Listen to me—there's nothing to worry about. Come on."
Tituss wore a pained look. "Dobby has a point," he said. "Crim hates wickedness more than any. And he's set rules. If he learns of this, he will not let it pass."
Tusk roared back, "But Dobby did it to save me! If Crim insists on blood, let him take mine!"
Dobby's voice broke. "No. Every man must face what he has done. This is my guilt. Not yours."
Tituss hurried to the boy and patted his back to calm him, then said in a low, strained voice: "Back to camp—and nobody speaks of this. We are comrades; let it be as if nothing happened. Dobby, there's the stream we drink from—go wash the blood from your hands and sword. Your clothes are hardly stained."
Tusk swept his gaze around the ring of faces and spat, "Hear me—if any one of you breathes a word of this, I'll kill you."
They returned up into the hills. The campfire had been raked up and the faces around it brightened at the sight of them. A pot had been set over the fire, and barley porridge steamed within—a vile mess Crim had once despised, and now found his mouth watering for.
He came up grinning and clapped Tusk on the shoulder.
"Good work. With the grain you brought, we may last a while yet. What else? Let me see."
Tusk laughed and handed the cloth sack he had set aside. Crim took it by the bottom—and his hand slid on something wet. He brought the bag closer. Red, bloody red.
"What is this?" he demanded.
Tusk's grin froze. He and Tituss exchanged a look. Crim lifted the sack to his nose: iron and copper, the rank scent of blood; his fingers came away red. He pushed the bag to the ground and pointed at Tusk with a fury that made the others draw back.
"Ah, so it's you again. Joe, Buzz—bind him."
Tusk said nothing. He did not struggle.
Dobby came forward and threw himself between Crim and Tusk. "Wait, Crim—" he cried, voice thin. "I killed the man."
Tituss rushed to explain: "Crim, it was forced—Dobby had no choice—"
"Do not explain for him!" Crim snapped. He swung his gaze to Dobby. "You killed someone? How could you—"
The boy's look was not the wildness of a murderer but the blank, stunned stare of a child who has seen more than he should. "I did," he said. "But it was not on purpose."
Crim's face folded in pain. His arm felt as if bound with lead, but he waved his hand. Joe and Buzz—two men who had not joined the raid—stepped forward and lashed ropes about the boy's wrists.
The others flooded forward with a babble of halting explanation—accident, defense, saving Tusk. They spoke as if their words might weave a net to catch what had broken.
"Accident?" Crim said, voice low and terrible. "There's been a death. The magistrates will send men up the hills to seek us. No village will harbor those who leave a corpse behind. Dobby, you have damned us all."
Tusk snapped back, loud and hard. "Dobby did it to save me! Had he not struck, I would have been the one cut down. I know you have resentment towards me. If you kill to punish him, kill me instead."
Crim looked at Tusk's face and shook his head slowly. "We kill for the rule," he said. "We are men, not beasts. If we are men, we must have laws."
Tusk and Tituss began to plead again, but Dobby cried, "Don't speak!" Then he turned to Crim and asked, voice small and steady, "Crim—one question. In your eyes, am I a man, or am I a beast?"
Crim's lips trembled. "Dobby… you are a man. You are our companion."
A faint smile touched the boy's face. "That is enough," he whispered. "Do as you must."
Crim's face folded with pain. He called, "Joe!"
Joe's answer was a thin thing. "Could anyone else—?"
"Buzz!" Crim snapped.
Buzz answered without falter: "No."
Crim cast his gaze about the circle. "Who will do it?"
No voice rose. Every eye rested on him like a verdict.
He nodded once, as if to conclude some dreadful calculation. "Then so be it. Dobby—come with me."
He led the boy away, to a place out of sight of the others. After a little, the child halted. "Here," he said. "This will do."
Crim faced him, the sword heavy in his hand, its point trembling against the child's throat. For a long moment he did not strike.
Men said often that the first killing is the hardest; Crim had thought so once. His first had been a blind thing of necessity—a thrust to save lives when there was no thinking to be done. He had not the time then to weigh mercy or guilt. That wound had turned him into a leader, and into a hunted man.
Now he had every second to question his deed. He knew Dobby's small, true heart; he knew how the child had loved them, how no cruelty lived in him. And yet if the rule held no weight here, what bond would stop the others from unmaking the law? A single pardon might loosen every oath; terror was not the only teacher—examples were.
"…Dobby," Crim said at last, his voice raw, "go. Do not come back. I will count you as dead."
The boy smiled, and it was the smile of a child who had already decided. "I have thought on it," he said softly. He did not flee. "If you spare me, no one will keep the rules."
Crim drove the hilt of his sword into the earth and turned his face away. "If you were not so damned clever," he muttered, voice breaking.
Behind him he heard the soft scrape of steel drawn from the ground. Dobby's laugh was thin in the dusk. "You called me clever, Crim. You said I was a man, not a beast."
Crim nodded once, eyes stinging. "You are a man."
"Then bury me," the boy said. "I do not wish to lie for carrion to peck at."
"You will not," Crim said.
"Crim," Dobby added, with a small, sorry smile, "you did so much for me. I am sorry I cannot repay you."
Warm blood slicked across Crim's back. He turned and saw the child bent over, the blade at his breast. The light left Dobby's face like a candle snuffed; he fell backward as if into sleep.
Crim stooped and closed the boy's eyes with hands that trembled.
He came back to the camp with the sword in his hand and the boy's blood upon him. The porridge was ready; a pot of barley steamed over the coals and the others stood about it with bowls cupped in both hands. At the sight of him they fell silent, as if some sudden winter had crossed the firelight.
Crim tossed the sword aside without a word. He took a bowl, moved to the pot, ladled the thin porridge, and drank slowly. Around him the rest set their bowls down, their hunger submerged by a heavier thing; they protested with silence.
He paused and spoke. His voice was even and grave as a gavel.
"I did not want Dobby to die. Nor did I want this. But he should die—he had to. If to live we set fire and take life at will, then we are no better than beasts. You may hide this from me, and I may pretend I do not know. Perhaps for a few days we can live so. But what of ten days, twenty? A hundred? Two hundred? If the villagers hate us, they will rise as one and drive us out—or worse. If the magistrates hunt us, if the common folk inch by inch turn against us, where then will we hide?"
The fire threw their faces in and out of shadow. Each man looked at Crim; each found that in that instant none had the courage to challenge him.
"I will not force you," he said. "Those are my rules. Those who will keep them—take up your bowls and eat. Those who will not—go."
A silence like stone. Then Buzz reached for his bowl. "I will eat," he said, and filled a bowl and ate as if he had not known how to hold a spoon before. Joe followed without a word. One by one they took up their spoons and filled their bellies.
Tusk moved more slowly to the pot. He took two bowls and, holding one aloft to the dim sky as if lifting a cup to a fallen comrade, said, "This bowl is for Dobby. The grain in our bowls was bought with his life."
A rough thing it was to see him so: the man's face streaked with tears that found their way down the creases of his cheeks. "I, Tusk," he swore in that hoarse voice that had known no softness, "here swear it—so long as I have a single bowl, another shall sit beside it for Dobby."
He set the spare bowl at his elbow, lifted his own, and ate until the porridge was gone, the tears still running.
Crim turned away then and walked into the dark, a solitary figure outlined against the dying embers. The camp remained, and within it the rules they had made: harsh as they were, they were theirs.