by Glen Cook
Marika was about to admit that that might be possible when someone scratched at the door. She gestured. “It is not time to eat. The drought must be over.”
Barlog opened the door.
There stood a silth older than any Marika had encountered before. She hobbled in, leaning on a cane of some gnarled dark wood. She halted in the center of the room, surveyed the three of them with rheumy cataracted eyes. Her half-blind gaze came to rest upon Marika. “I am Moragan. I have been assigned as your teacher and as your guide upon the Reugge Path.” She spoke the Reugge low speech with an intriguing, elusive accent. Or was it a natural lisp? “You are the Marika who stirred so much controversy and chaos at our northern fastness.” Not a question. A statement.
“Yes.” Marika had a feeling this was no time to quibble about her role at Akard.
“You may go,” Moragan told Grauel and Barlog.
The huntresses did not move. They did not look to Marika for her opinion. Already they had positioned themselves so that Moragan stood at the heart of a perilous triangle.
“You are safe here,” Moragan told Marika when no one moved.
“Indeed? I have your sworn word?”
“You do.”
“And the word of a silth sister is worth the metal on which it is graven.” She had been studying the apparel of the old sister and could not make out the significance of its decorations. “As we who were under the sworn guardianship of the Reugge discovered. Our packsteads were overrun without aid coming. And when we fled to the Akard packfast for safety, that too was allowed to be destroyed.”
“You question decisions of policy about which you know nothing, pup.”
“Not at all, mistress. I simply refuse to allow policy to snare and crush me in coils of deceit and broken oaths.”
“They said you were a bold one. I see they spoke the truth. Very well. We will do it your way. For now.” Moragan hobbled to a wooden chair, settled slowly, slapped her cane down atop a table nearby. She seemed to go to sleep.
“Who are you besides Moragan?” Marika asked. “I cannot read your decorations.”
“Just a worn-out old silth so far gone she is past being what you would call Wise. We are not here to discuss me, though. Tell me your story. I have heard and read a few things. Now I will assess your version of events.”
Marika talked, but to no point. A few minutes later Moragan’s head dropped to her chest and she began to snore.
And so it went, day after day, with Moragan doing more asking and snoring than teaching. That day of her first appearance, she had been in one of her more lucid periods. Sometimes she could not recall the date or even Marika’s name. Most of the time she was of little value except as a reference guide to the cloister’s more arcane customs. Always she asked more questions than she answered, many of them irritatingly personal.
Her role, though, provided Marika with a role of her own. As a student she occupied a recognized place in cloister society and was answerable principally to Moragan for her conduct. Safely knit into the cultural fabric, Marika felt more comfortable teaching herself by exploring and observing.
Marika liked little of what she did learn.
Within the cloister the least of workers lived well. Outside, in the city, meth lived in abject want, suffering through brief lives of hunger, disease, and backbreaking labor. Everyone and everything in Maksche belonged to the Reugge silth Community, to the tradermale brotherhood calling itself the Brown Paw Bond, or to the two in concert. The Brown Paw Bond maintained its holdings by Reugge license, under complicated and extended lease arrangements. Residents of Maksche who were neither tradermale nor silth were bound to their professions or land for life.
Marika was bewildered. The Reugge possessed meth as though they were domestic animals? She interrogated Moragan. The teacher just looked at her strangely, evidently unable to comprehend the point of her questions.
“Grauel,” Marika said one evening, “have you figured this place out? Do you understand it at all? That old carque Moragan cannot or will not explain anything so it makes any sense.”
“Take care with her, Marika. She is more than she seems.”
“She is as All-touched as my granddam was.”
“She may be senile and mad, but she is not harmless. Perhaps the more dangerous for it. It is whispered that she was not set to teach you but to study you. It is also whispered that she was once very important in the order, and that she still has the favor of some who are very high up. Fear her, Marika.”
“I should fear someone I could break?”
“As strength goes? This is not the upper Ponath, Marika. It is not the strength of the arm that counts. It is the strength of the alliances one forms.”
Marika made a sound of derision. Grauel ignored her.
“Marika, suppose that some of them hope you try your strength. Suppose some of them want to prove something to themselves.”
“What?”
“Our ears are sharp from many years of hunting the forests of the upper Ponath. When we go among the huntresses of this place — and sorrier huntresses you will never see — we sometimes overhear whispers never meant for our ears. They talk about us and they talk about you and they talk about the thinking of those around Senior Zertan. In a way, you are on trial. They suspect — maybe even know — about Gorry.”
“Gorry? What about Gorry?”
“Something happened to Gorry in the final hours of the siege. There was much speculation, overheard by everyone. We said nothing to anyone about that, but we are not the only survivors brought out of the ruins of Akard.”
Marika’s heart fluttered as she thought of her one-time instructress. But she felt no remorse. Gorry had deserved the torment she had suffered, and more. All Marika felt was a heightened apprehension about being ignored. It had not occurred to her that it was that sort of deliberateness. She would have to be careful. She was in no position of strength.
Grauel watched expectantly while Marika wrapped her mind around the implications.
“Why are you looking at me that way?”
“I thought you might have some regrets.”
“Why?”
“She was —”
“She was a carque of an old nuisance, Grauel. She would have done it to me if she could have. She tried often enough. She got what she asked for. I do not want to hear her mentioned again.”
“As you wish, mistress.”
“Have you found Braydic yet?”
“She was assigned to the communications center here, as you might expect. Students are not permitted entry there. And technicians are not allowed out.”
“Why not?”
“I do not know. This is a different world. We are still feeling our way. They never tell you what is permitted, only what is not.”
Marika realized that Grauel was upset with her. When Grauel was distressed, she insisted on using the formal mode of speech. But Marika had given up trying to interpret the huntress’s moods. She was exercised about something most of the time.
“I want to go out into the city, Grauel.”
“Why?”
“To explore.”
“That is not permitted.”
“Why not?”
“I do not know. Rules are not explained here. They are enforced. Ignorance is no excuse.”
What was the penalty for disobedience?
Marika banished the thought. It was too early to challenge constraints. Still, she felt compelled to say, “If this is life in the fabulous Maksche cloister, Grauel, I may go over the wall.”
“Barlog and I have very little to do either, Marika. They think we are too backward.”
III
The absolute, enduring stone of the cloister became a hated enemy. It crushed in upon Marika with the weight of massively accumulated time and alien tradition. Enforced inactivity made it almost intolerable. Each day she spent more time in her towertop away place. Each day meditation did less to ease her spiritual malaise.
He
r place overlooked nothing but the courtyard, the city, and the works of meth. There was a constant wind, a north wind, but it did not speak to her as had the winds at Akard. It carried the wrong smells, the wrong tastes. It was heavy with the sweat of industry. It was a foreign, indifferent wind. That wind of the north had been her friend and ally.
Often she did not leave her cell at all, but lay on her pallet and used a finger to draw stick figures in the sweat on the cold wall.
Sometimes she went down through her loophole into the realm of ghosts, but she found little comfort there. Ghosts were scarce where so many silth were gathered. She sensed a few great monsters way high above, especially in the night, but she could not touch them. She might as well reach for Biter.
There was a change in atmosphere in the cloister around the end of Marika’s sixth week there. It puzzled her till Barlog showed up to announce, “Most Senior Gradwohl is coming here.” Most Senior Gradwohl ruled the entire Reugge Community, which spanned the continent. “They are frantic trying to get ready.”
“Why is she coming?” Marika asked.
“To take personal charge of the effort to control the nomads. Two days ago nomads were seen from the wall of the packfast at Motchen. That is only a hundred miles north of Maksche, Marika. They are catching up with us already.” In a lower voice Barlog confided, “These Maksche silth are frightened. They have a contract with the tradermales that obligates them to protect traders anytime they are in Reugge territory. They have been unable to do that. Critza is just one of three tradermale packfasts that were overrun. There is a rumor that some tradermales want to register an open petition for the Serke sisterhood to intercede in Reugge territories because the Reugge can no longer maintain order.”
“So?” Marika asked indifferently.
“That would affect us, Marika.”
“How? We have no part in anything. We are tolerated for some reason. Barely. We are fed. And otherwise we are ignored. What do we have to fear? If no ones sees us, who can harm us?”
“Do not talk that way, Marika.”
“Why not?”
“These sisters can go around unseen. One of them might hear you.”
“Don’t be silly. That’s nonsense.”
“I heard it from...” Barlog did not finish for fear of compromising her source.
“How much longer can you tolerate this imprisonment, Barlog? What does Grauel think? I won’t endure it much longer, I promise you that.”
“We can’t leave.”
“Says who?”
“It’s not permitted.”
“By whom? Why not?”
“That’s just the way it is.”
“For those who accept it.”
“Marika, please...”
“Go away, Barlog. I don’t want to hear you whine.” As Barlog was about to leave, she added, “They’ve tamed you, Barlog. Made a two-legged rheum-greater out of a once fine huntress.” Use of the familiar mode made Marika’s words all the more cutting.
Barlog’s lips parted in a snarl of fury. But she restrained herself and even closed the door gently.
Marika went to her tower to observe the most senior’s arrival. Gradwohl came in on one of the flying crosses, standing at its axis. Marika watched it drop past the tower, the silth at the tips of its arms standing rigidly with their eyes closed. There was a thrumming rhythm between them that Marika had missed during her flight south. But then she had been exhausted physically, drained mentally and emotionally, and had been interested in little but leaving a shattered fortress and life behind.
She went down inside herself and through her loophole and was astonished to find the cross surrounded by a roiling fog of ghosts, great ghosts similar to the dark killing ghosts she had ridden in the north. The sister at the tip of the longer arm controlled them. They moved the ship. The other sisters provided reservoirs of talent from which the senior sister drew. The most senior did nothing. She was but a passenger.
This, finally, was something about which Marika could get excited. How did they manage it? Was it something she could learn to do? It would be fantastic to ride above the world by night upon one of those great daggers. She studied the silth. What they were doing was different from killing, but it did not appear difficult. She touched the senior sister, trying to read what was happening, as the cross neared the ground.
Her touch distracted the silth. The cross dropped the last foot. Marika recoiled quickly. A countertouch brushed her, but was not specific. It did not return.
A great deal of pomp and ceremony followed the most senior’s landing. Marika remained where she was. The most senior, her party, and those who welcomed her, vanished into the labyrinthine cloister. Marika gazed over the red rooftops at the horizon. For once the wind carried a hint of the north. That chill breath of home worsened her feeling of alienation.
Grauel found her still there near midnight, chin on arms on stone, eyes vacant, staring at the far fields of moon-frosted snow as if awaiting a message. “Marika. They sent me to bring you.”
Grauel seemed badly shaken. There was something in her voice that stirred the dangerous flight-fight response within her. “Who sent you?”
“Senior Zertan. On behalf of the most senior. Gradwohl herself wants to talk to you. That Moragan was with them. I warned you to watch yourself with her.”
Marika bared her teeth. Grauel was terrified. Probably of the possibility that they would get thrown out of the cloister. “Why does she want me?”
“I don’t know. Probably about what happened at Akard.”
“Now? They’re interested now? After almost two months?”
“Marika. Restrain yourself.”
“Am I not perfectly behaved before our hosts?”
Grauel did not deny that. Marika even treated Moragan with absolute respect. She made a point of giving no one cause to take offense — most of the time.
Nevertheless, she was not liked by the few sisters who crossed her path. Grauel and Barlog claimed the Maksche sisters feared her. Just as had the sisters at Akard.
“All right. Show me the way. I’ll try to mind my manners.”
They made Grauel stop at the door to the inner cloister, the big central structure opened only for high ceremonies and days of obligation. Marika touched Grauel’s elbow lightly, restraining her. Grauel responded with a massive shrug of resignation — and, Marika thought, just the faintest hint of amusement in the tilt of her ears. It was a hint only one who knew Grauel well would have caught.
What was she up to? And where was Grauel’s rifle? She had not been parted from the weapon since she had received it from Bagnel. She slept with it, it was so precious. Her carrying it all the time had to be cause for consternation and comment.
Almost, Marika looked back. Almost. Native guile stopped her.
Two silth led her to a vast, ill-lighted chamber. No electricity there, just tapers shuddering in chilly drafts. As must be in a place where silth worked their magics. Electromagnetic energies interfered with their talents.
This was the chamber where the most important Reugge rites were observed. Marika had been there before only as a dark-walker. Other than in its symbolic value, the place was nothing special.
Two dozen ranking silth waited, perched silently upon tall stools. Only the occasional flick of an inadvertently exposed tail betrayed the fact that anything was happening behind their cold obsidian-flake eyes. Every one of those eyes was fixed upon Marika.
She was less intimidated than she expected.
Several worker-servants moved among the silth, managing wants and refreshments. One with a tray approached Marika. She was an ancient whose fur had fallen in patches, leaving only ugly bare spots. She dragged her right leg in a stiff limp. As Marika waved her away, she was startled by the meth’s scent. Something familiar...
In a low voice the servant said, “Mind your manners, pup.” She hitch-stepped off to the sideboard that seemed to be her station.
Barlog!
Barlo
g. With a limp. And Grauel’s treasure was missing.
With that rifle Barlog could cut down half the silth in the room before any even thought of employing their witchery.
Marika was pleased by the resourcefulness of Grauel and Barlog. But she felt no more confident of her ability to handle the subtleties of the coming interview.
Of the silth in that room, Marika recognized only two. Zertan and Moragan. Marika faced the senior and performed the appropriate ceremonial greeting to perfection. She would show Barlog who could mind her manners.
“This is the one from Akard?” a gravelly voice asked.
“Yes, mistress.”
The most senior, Marika assumed. Younger than she had expected. She was a hard, chunky, grizzled female with slightly wild eyes. Like a Gorry still sane. A sister who was as much huntress as silth, and a hungry huntress at that.
“I thought she would be older. And bigger,” the most senior said, echoing Marika’s own thoughts.
“She is young,” Moragan said, and Marika noted that she was completely awake and vibrant and alive. Moragan’s stool stood between those of Zertan and the most senior, an inch nearer that of the latter, subtly proclaiming her most important tie.
Senior Zertan said, “We do not know what to do with her. Her history is repellent at best. She is an astoundingly strong feral detected accidentally four years ago. Akard took her in. That was soon after the first nomadic incursions into the upper Ponath. Her hamlet was one of the first overrun. It seems that, with no training whatsoever, purely instinctively she drew to the dark and slew several savages. Her latent ability in that respect so disturbed some of our sisters that they labeled her Jiana, after the mythological and archetypal doomstalker Jiana. A sister, Gorry, who had a Community-wide reputation before the necessity for her rustification arose —”
A revenant shrieked in Marika’s mind. Jiana! Doomstalker!
“Zertan.” Most Senior Gradwohl’s voice was coldly cautionary.
Zertan shifted her emphasis slightly. “Gorry had very strong, very negative feelings about the pup. In one way of seeing, Gorry was correct. She has twice been almost the only survivor of monstrous disasters that befell those who nurtured her. Gorry was very much afraid of her, but was her teacher. Thus her training there was haphazard at best. Reliable reports do indicate that she achieved a commanding ability to reach and command the darkest of those-who-dwell.”
