Reap the Whirlwind

by C. J. Cherryh

  As they neared the white stone wall and the dark, arched hole of the outer gate, Zorsha craned his head around a little and could see Boitan waiting for them.

  "Stop a bit, children." Boitan's voice was unusually gentle; when they paused, he put his wrist against the boy's forehead, then pried up one of the boy's eyelids and smiled at what he read there. Zorsha nearly dropped his end of the cot; Boitan never smiled!

  "No fever, no sign of permanent brain injury, and healing faster than any of you ever had the grace to do," the physician said with satisfaction. "The boy's a credit to his physicians. Where are you putting him? Novices usually go in the room next to their mentor, and you can hardly split him in two."

  Zorsha actually had a solution to that—involving sharing a room, and presumably, a bed—but one look at Kasha's face convinced him that it would not be politic to voice that solution.

  "Well, Kasha thought he might be frightened if he was too closed in, so we thought maybe we'd put him in the Master's Folly," he said instead.

  Boitan considered this for a moment, then nodded. "If we did that, then Shenshu could take the room next to that; it's empty since I don't know when. That would put him between Felaras and his own healer. I'll meet you there, all right? The herbalist has the boy's things with him, so we'll bring them. It seems the Master has given me the duty of getting the adults settled in, and I thought since I don't currently have a novice I could pack that herbalist and the Shaman together in my novice's room."

  Zorsha raised an eyebrow at that, and the look Boitan gave him said that the physician had also considered the possible unfriendly actions of his fellows, and had decided to deal with them before they happened.

  "Fine," he replied, as the expectant silence on Boitan's part seemed to indicate that the physician was waiting for his approval. "I doubt Felaras will disagree with you. Now if you don't mind, this boy is not getting any lighter, nor the staircase shorter."

  Boitan stepped gracefully out of the way, and Zorsha could see that the other three nomads had been—not concealed, not exactly, but certainly arranged so as not to be terribly visible—behind him.

  There were plenty of curious gawkers on the way to the room they'd chosen for the boy. A few even looked sympathetic, and those few included Kitri and Ardun.

  Which should make anybody think twice about trying anything, Zorsha thought.

  Kitri even walked with them down the corridor once they told her where they were taking him. "Poor little lad. Gods, at an age where our youngsters are just thinking about their final choice of mentor, this child was out fighting wars. It doesn't bear thinking about."

  "I think the Master has some notion of sparing this one that fate, Leader," Kasha said without turning her head. "She assigned both me and Zorsha as the boy's mentors, and she means it. She said to that Clan Chief of theirs that he was to be treated like one of our own, and told Zorsha and me to teach him until his real aptitudes show up."

  Kitri looked like a cat who has just been presented with a particularly delicious cheese-rind. Surprised, then smug, then extremely acquisitive.

  "Now, now, lady," Zorsha admonished her, laughing. "Felaras gave him to us. If you want any little nomads to drag into education, you'll have to go find your own!"

  "Go on with you—" she objected, then smiled sheepishly. "That obvious, was I?"

  "Leader, I could have predicted the expression on your face," Kasha giggled. "We know you."

  Kitri chose that moment to get ahead of them and open the door to the boys new room. "Well . . . if he shows any signs of aptitude as a pure scholar—"

  "We'll let you know," Zorsha promised, and they stepped through the door and gratefully put their burden down.

  The room called "the Master's Folly" had once been the large and airy bedchamber reserved for the Master's use. Then some unnamed Master had decided that it wasn't quite airy enough, or else decided that he or she wanted an unobstructed view of the northern mountains. The tales said both, and whoever had been chronicler at the time had tactfully "forgotten" to memorialize this particular piece of bad judgment. Whatever the reason was, the past Master had ordered the north wall of the chamber knocked out and made almost entirely window.

  So it was done; the Hands being what they were, metal supports were crafted that took the place of the absent wall, the stone was removed piece by careful piece, and it was accomplished without fanfare or fuss, right down to heavy shutters to be closed against the worst weather. The view was virtually unobstructed, and the Fortress retained its structural integrity at that point.

  The Master was pleased through spring, through summer; then came the fall.

  The shutters were so heavy and so hard to get in place that when the first autumn rainstorm moved in, the entire contents of the room were soaked before those shutters could be closed.

  But that was not the worst.

  Winter brought the usual snow and icy cold—and the Master learned that shutters do not take the place of a solid stone wall the night of the first real blizzard.

  The Master, so it was said, had to abandon the room that night. And in the morning the snow that had been driven in through the cracks and seams of the shutters had to be shoveled out.

  The Master moved out of the room that very day, into the novice's room. And no Master had used it since.

  Kasha was already putting the shutters aside, letting in light, a playful little breeze, and the most spectacular view obtainable short of standing on top of the walls or the roof.

  "Should we get him into bed, do you think?" Zorsha asked, looking down at the boy and wishing vaguely that he could do something to make him get well faster. Poor little fellow. I think I'm going to like him.

  Kasha shook her head. "No, I don't think we should. The bedding hasn't been changed or aired in ages, for one thing. For another, if he wakes up and finds himself in one of our beds, it might confuse or frighten him. That cot will do for now." She pulled back the coverlet on the bed, and wrinkled her nose at the musty odor. "Hladyr knows there's enough room in here for three beds and twenty cots without crowding anything."

  The room did seem rather empty, with only the bed and a wardrobe and a couple of chests. They'd set the cot down against the eastern wall, between the two chests. It seemed as good a place as any to leave the boy. Kasha stood at the enormous window, looking out on the mountains.

  The boy was still quite thoroughly asleep. And Zorsha was effectively alone with Kasha—as he had not been for months.

  His throat tightened. Say something, anything. Now, before the moment gets away. Teo's going out of the Fortress, and now, if ever, is going to be your chance.

  "Kasha," he said softly. "I'd like to talk about us. And Teo—"

  "Don't say it," she replied tightly, staying exactly as she was. There was controlled anger in her voice, and he knew he'd made a mistake. "He's not going out of reach. He's only down at the base of the mountain. No matter what you think, nothing's changed."

  "Except—" He groped for words, desperately. As long as I've put my foot in it, I might as well put it in good. Besides, what do I have to lose? She's already pledged that she'll never break the Trinity. "—things might change. I just want to know . . . if they do change for Teo, could—could they change for us, too?"

  "Zorsha, things could change for you, too. Did that ever occur to you?" she asked sharply. "A hundred things could change. The point is that one of the two of you is going to have to make a decision, if you want a change in the relationship between the three of us. It won't be me. I won't change things. And you and Teo are too good friends to pick a fight—especially when you know both the winner and the loser would lose. You won't force me into making a choice between you. You know that, you know that very well."

  He looked down at his feet. His chest felt tight, his throat choked—

  —and yet, there was a little relief there too. Relief that the change wouldn't be coming; not yet, anyway. I want Kasha—but not at the cost of losing Te
o. There's changes enough right now. Maybe Teo will fall in love with a little almond-eyed archer-girl down there, and the problem will solve itself. If there's got to be a change, I'd like it to be for the Trinity to turn into a Quartet.

  "Sorry," he said to his feet. "I—never mind."

  "Besides," she said briskly, turning away from the window. "You are going to have some more pressing problems on your hands when this boy wakes up. I believe you asked about housebreaking?"

  If he hadn't heard the anger in her voice a moment before, he'd never have known she'd been close to the point of rage at him. Certainly the expression of wry humor she wore now wouldn't have told him.

  "Housebreaking?" he said stupidly. "What on . . . oh." The back of his neck and his ears grew hot—hotter still when her wry expression broadened into one of pure, malicious enjoyment.

  "Exactly," she said. "You are dealing with a young man who likely never saw a privy in his life, much less one of ours. And I think he would be most profoundly embarrassed if I tried to show him. This is assuming he's healed up enough to take the walk across the room—if he isn't, you'll have to show him how to use the chamber pot."

  She was grinning fiendishly, and he had the distinct feeling that she was enjoying his embarrassment. "I can't say that I envy you—and I hope he speaks Trade-tongue."

  "But—" he began, feeling no little panicked, when Boitan and the nomad healer came bustling in like they had been blown in the door by a gust of the boisterous breeze.

  "Well! Here—" Boitan began, then looked at the two of them sharply. "Am I interrupting anything?"

  * * *

  And to think I volunteered for this, Halun mused ruefully, surveying his accommodations. He had been allotted the felt tent of a now-deceased unmarried warrior; it was scarcely the size of his laboratory storage closet. And no furniture except a pallet and a couple of low tables with folding legs.

  He was very glad he'd yielded to impulse and exchanged his long robes for more utilitarian tunics and breeches. Sitting cross-legged on the tent floor in a robe would have been nearly impossible.

  The Khene and Teo had shown him how to raise the sides of the tent a little to allow cool air to flow in, and had shown him the sanitary arrangements. . . .

  Or lack of them. Bathing in the brook, and eliminating in slit-trenches. He shuddered. It was one thing to be living like this during the haying holidays when one was a novice, and quite another when one was on the downside of fifty.

  It was a good thing he'd brought his own bedding. Granted, what they'd given him seemed clean enough, but still—furs, sheepskins tanned with the wool still on, and undyed wool blankets still oily with lanolin—it all seemed the perfect haven for fleas and other less savory things.

  He'd used it all to augment the thin pallet, which was of clean cotton. Furs and sheepskins and all going beneath the pallet. Sleeping on the ground. My bones are going to wonder what my head has done to them.

  He wondered if he was being a fool.

  Tonight he was to meet with the father of that injured boy. Teo had said that the man's title translated as "Clan Singer" but that what he actually did seemed to be to act as a combination of Archivist and chronicler. Since the man was the only person in the entire Clan to speak Trade-tongue fluently, he was the logical choice as Halun's "guide" in this place.

  No, I'm not being a fool. There's too much to learn here. I couldn't trust anyone else in the Hand to get it right except Zorsha, and he will go only where Felaras wants him to go. The writing's in the scroll therefor all to read. She's made up her mind—it's very likely that Teo will not be her successor. Somehow I doubt that'll break his heart. But that's why he's down here with the Khene, instead of up there at the Fortress, learning to be Master.

  Halun already had a hundred questions; the construction of the nomad's bows, for instance. He could understand the patchwork construction. These folk came from a nearly treeless plain, after all. But when he'd had one of the bows in his hands, he'd been amazed at the flawless mating of materials, and even more surprised at the strength of the tiny bow. Some of the materials had not been wood; there were bone plates, but some of the rest of the laminates hadn't been immediately identifiable. He wanted to know what they were, how they were put together to obtain that incredible strength and toughness.

  Then there had been some body armor he'd seen, like boiled-leather scale, but made of horn or similar substance. It looked tough, yet lightweight; an immense improvement over both the Yazkirn boiled-leather and the Ancas metal plate-mail.

  In fact, the uses these people put leather to, and wood, replacing pottery—which would be broken the first time they packed up and moved, he reflected—was amazing. He'd seen leather made absolutely waterproof, virtually flame-proof, soft as fabric and as hard and tough as horn. And always the question of how they had done this nagged at him.

  Their smiths, however, were not up to even the standards of the Ancas, much less the things the Order could do. Their swords and knives were mostly bronze, with a few that were obviously family heirlooms of inferior steel.

  Halun supposed with a sigh that he would be expected to teach them that.

  At least Felaras isn't fool enough to give them the secrets of explosives, he thought soberly, trying to find a way to sit comfortably on the floor of the tent. Hladyr bless—I can just see it now—the slaughter these people would wreak if they had mortars and mines. Even walled cities wouldn't be safe. These barbarians would send the world floating into oblivion in its own blood, and the blame would be all ours.

  He opened his writing chest and took out his notes on the language, hoping to be a little more fluent by evening. There were some concepts that simply didn't translate well into Trade-tongue. But his mind kept circling in on Felaras, this near-alliance of hers, and his own ambitions.

  Zorsha wasn't haring off on a tangent at the Convocation, he thought after a bit. That was not a bad idea; allying with these barbarians, then declaring the Vale an independent entity. Knowing we had cavalry to enforce our sovereignty, not even Yazkirn or Ancas would dispute it. Gods above and below—no more taxes sent off to those crowned fools! Hm . . . we've gotten the nomads tied in closely enough with us so that we could use them—we could control not only the Vale, but the entire region.

  He took that line of reasoning one step further. If we were to educate whoever is Khene just enough so that he depended on what we could manufacture for him and came to rely on us for our advice, but realized that without us the things he had come to depend on would no longer be appearing—we could be the real power behind the throne. Whoever was Master could dictate and the Khene would obey.

  He sighed, and finally stretched himself full length on the pallet. Felaras would never agree to that; never. A fool, a fool, we have a fool for our Master. The first chance we've ever seen to come back into civilized lands with a power-base of our own, and she'll throw that chance away because she refuses to use people.

  He ground his teeth together in frustration. Damn it all, I should be Master here! I know how to use these barbarian children, and do so in such a way that they would never know they were being used. If only Felaras would have the grace to die, or become ill! Damned woman was always too damned healthy. Not even pneumonia at the height of snow-season killed her! She's maneuvered so that virtually everyone in the Order is going to be supporting her on this alliance, so there's no way I'm going to get her unseated. And with whoever it is protecting her, I can't even ill-wish her.

  He'd tried, especially during the truce-talk. Nothing had happened; the ill-wish had just bounced. Where it had gone, Halun had no real idea, although he'd had a suspicion. Dosti, and Dosti's novice Urval, had had a spectacularly bad day. On every loom they tried to string, either the warp threads had tangled, or they'd broken. The cats had gotten into the punched cards for the pattern-looms, and had made a few holes of their own, which meant Urval would have to repunch all those cards again from the archived patterns. When they decided to tur
n their hands to just plain weaving for the Order, it turned out that the only yarn they had in sufficient quantities to make anything in the way of garment-lengths was dyed in particularly hideous, muddy shades of green, yellow, and dun. Checking the records, they discovered that those stored skeins had been dyed in muted, but pleasant, usable colors—but proximity to the bleaching vats had leeched the color out of the yarn-skeins, turning them ugly. They would all have to be redyed. And just moments before Halun had given up his ill-wishing, Urval had fallen into a (thankfully cool) vat of ochre dye. He now was ochre, brightly ochre, from top to toe. He looked like a bad case of liver disease, and it wouldn't wash off, it would have to wear off.

  If only Felaras had some truly virulent enemy . . .

  Then the thought occurred that made him sit straight up.

  After that business on the walls—she does. I would be willing to bet my life that Zetren is so unbalanced now that he'd be child's play to tip! He never was all that well wrapped to begin with, and he holds a grudge like a badger holds its brock. I can't ill-wish her directly, but I can certainly work on Zetren. . . .

  He contemplated the best way to set the mind-spell. I'll have to aim this at Zetren rather than her—but—the worst thing Zetren could do at this point would be to start taking this thing from a grudge to an open vendetta. That would destroy him, because no matter how it came out, he'd be cast out of the Order. Yes. Yes. At the very worst, she'll be distracted and unable to give her whole attention to what's going on down here, which will give me a free hand to work. And at the best—

  He found himself smiling.

  At the best—the Order will require a new Master. And with neither boy trained or seasoned enough to take it—I become the only logical candidate.

  Yes, indeed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Kasha leaned forward in her chair and shook her head in pure wonder. "You're how old?" she asked the nomad boy.