The Unfortunate, стр. 50
The words paid and freedom had enticed some of the men who had initially been reluctant, and to an extent that caused Gildas to feel less guilty but not entirely absolved. It was he after all who had agreed to sell the fighters and place them in situations of uncertainty. But such was expected of life. Everyone had to contend with what Fate delivered.
“Whatever destiny has been selected for each of you,” Gildas concluded, “I pray for the best.”
✽ ✽ ✽
The owner of the academy had returned to his guest chambers in Caberton Keep, but Gildas’ intention was not to rest. He yet had business that required his attention, but he first had to dismiss the thoughts that continued to plague his mind. A guilt remained, and he recalled what had been expressed in the final speech to those who called themselves the Unfortunate. There had been no reason for him to visit the fighters, but he had deemed it necessary. Although the men were former criminals turned slaves, Gildas had always thought more highly of them. They had always been significant to his life but not as objects of monetary value. To Gildas coin was not what he had implied when he had spoken of the fighters’ worth.
Although value and worth were similar, Gildas recognized a difference. There were two methods to determine a man’s importance. Whereas he associated value with coin, worth was something that could not be bought. It had to be earned. Strip a man of all his belongings and cast him among the poor, he would have no value. Such ruthlessness, however, could never deprive him of his skills and knowledge, his worth.
Gildas’ thoughts were soon interrupted by rapid knocking, and a guard slowly opened the door and nodded, but then there was no other movement.
“Send him in.”
But no one entered, and after a prolonged silence, the owner of the academy repeated that the visitor could enter, but time still passed before Molan finally stepped into the room. Gildas dismissed the guard and waited until he had gone before looking at the undersized Drunishman. “Sit.”
Molan clenched his jaw, did as instructed, and continued to glare with mounting hatred.
“I am sorry about your cousin,” Gildas offered. “He was a superb fighter.”
“Is this why you asked me here? You wanted to speak? To offer your sympathy? Your words mean nothing to me!”
Gildas sighed with frustration. He had expected such a reaction, but he knew it was better for him to remain calm. In his experience little could be achieved when dealing with one raving fool, and nothing was ever completed by two. Before he could speak, however, the Drunishman added, “Do you wish me dead, too?”
“I had no part in Gruagh’s death—”
“You lying bastard!” The man yelled in his native language. “It should have been your life! You are nothing—”
“ENOUGH!” Gildas returned the interruption in Drunish before reverting to the common tongue. “My words are not false.”
Molan’s expression altered from a hate-filled grimace, to shock, to realization, and ultimately to fear in a matter of seconds.
Gildas chuckled to himself. He had waited for this moment since the Drunishman had first arrived at his academy. Oh, what a pleasure it was to witness one’s reactions betray him and to see the guilty individual realize the strings of his virtuous mask had been untied. The former master of fighters concluded his thoughts and coolly explained, “Yes, I can speak your tongue. Your cousin insulted me many times, and you provided a different translation, words you knew I wanted to hear. Do you recall the day you were brought to my academy?”
Molan nodded like a scolded child.
“And what did your cousin ask?”
“He wanted to know if he would be a fighter.”
“And what was my reply?”
“It was a choice, you said. If he proved himself, he would join your company of fighters.”
“And what was Gruagh’s answer? Do you remember?”
Molan remained silent.
“You claimed he would be honored to serve me. But how did he truly respond?”
Still nothing.
“His words were, ‘I would rather die than fight for this shit!’” Gildas paused briefly to observe the undersized man’s reaction before adding, “I find it difficult to ignore such hypocrisy. You call me a liar when you are no better. Even for a spy, I thought you more honorable.” It was a lie. Gildas had never sensed honor being a trait of either Drunishman. He simply wanted to establish as much guilt as possible, and it had been effective.
Even after the realization had been made apparent, Molan still offered the impression of being dumbfounded, and his thoughts were more than apparent.
“Other than your lies, you and Gruagh caused me no harm. It was King Wyman you insulted.” Gildas paused, stood, and walked to the other side of the desk before he resumed. “You were to be executed for spying, but I saved you from Fate’s wrath. And what is my thanks? Nothing. Your cousin proved himself worthy enough to be matched against a champion, and he nearly defeated Awiergan. His defeat was the will of Fate, no more, no less.”
“I am sorry,” the Drunishman eventually replied with a meek tone. “My words were spoken without thinking.”
Gildas nodded and waited several moments before adding, “I know we have caused hardships for one another, but I want those to be forgotten. The reason I asked for you is because I have an offer.” He turned and retrieved a sheet of parchment. “What can you tell me about this?”
5-2-1, 1-2-1, 2-4-4—2-5-3, 1-1-1, 3-2-2, 5-2-5, 1-5-3, 2-4-4, 2-3-3, 2-3-3—1-2-3, 5-2-1—1-2-3, 2-3-3—1-1-1,