Gareth nodded, his throat too full to speak. He had braced himself for a lecture on his immature, irresponsible behavior; he had hoped for but not expected grudging acceptance. He had not anticipated the depth of the other man’s understanding.
“I see that we understand one another,” Cyrillon concluded. “Tomorrow I will speed my preparations, and we will depart for Shainsa on the day after.”
Gareth closed his eyes, exhaling in relief.
“I have one condition, however. You are to tell no one who you are or your real objective in Shainsa. You will travel as Garrin, agent and apprentice to a Thendaran lens grinder. You will do nothing to expose yourself or any of my people to suspicion. Do I have your sworn word on this?”
“I will not reveal my identity or purpose.”
“Then,” Cyrillon said, “I presume we may dine together as friends?”
Gareth clambered to his feet and bowed, the full formal bow of a Comyn lord to an equal. “As friends.”
Gareth and his host took their places on the cushions in the central chamber. Neither spoke much. Gareth had no heart for casual conversation, and Carthon itself had lost its romantic allure. He no longer imagined himself as Race Cargill, Terran Secret Agent. He felt like a bumbling imbecile confronted with a task beyond his capacity yet without any choice in the matter.
Cyrillon’s wife and daughter glided into the room, bearing platters containing the same variety of little dishes as before. They set down the meal with the same silent grace. The daughter rose and, without a word, departed.
Gareth glanced at the shadowed arch of the doorway where she had disappeared. “I’m afraid I’ve offended your daughter, mestre. I saw her in the town today. She railed at Alric, but she held me responsible for his behavior. I don’t understand what I did wrong.”
Cyrillon’s wife stirred on her cushion, and Gareth sensed her flicker of amusement. “Be kind, my dear,” Cyrillon said, patting her knee. “He does not know our Rahelle as we do.” He turned back to Gareth. “If you are distressed, you must by all means speak with her. Resolve the issue to your own satisfaction. Go, I give you leave!”
Gareth unfolded his legs and got to his feet. As he passed through the doorway, he heard a soft, feminine voice saying, “Are you sure that is wise, my husband?”
Gareth found Rahelle in the garden courtyard, sitting on one of the low benches under a trellised vine of delicate, moon-pale blossoms. She was playing a flute. He had heard that melody before, although he could not recall where. It must be a street tune or one of the songs the drovers had sung on the trail.
“Rahelle?”
She finished the phrase of music and lowered the flute. In the twilight, her veil glimmered like translucent silver. “You’ve found me. My father’s doing, no doubt.”
“I want to apologize.”
The veiled face tilted, a gesture of consideration. “I am not so much offended by you as I am angry at myself. Alric wishes he had my freedom, although he does not understand how hard was the winning of it or how brief it will be. He sees only that I go places he wishes he might. He is so young, so willing to believe in the goodness of the world. To him, danger is an exciting tale, full of glory and flowery language. I hoped the ambush on the trail might have taught him otherwise. But to have taken an honored guest there—!”
“I saw no risk, save to a Lowland fool who does not know better than to address himself to a beautiful woman. Alric did no such thing, and the square was half-empty.”
“That place was once the slave market of Carthon, when there was one. Slave-merchants from Ardcarran still come there to watch for pretty boys, who have not even a woman’s means of protection.”
“Protection?” Gareth echoed, taken aback by her casually spoken words. “How can you say that, you who go veiled and chained? The woman I was so foolish to speak to had three armed guards, but you had no one!”
“The retribution of a Dry Towns lord whose woman has been insulted need not be immediate to be a powerful deterrent.”
Gareth thought again of his grandmother, of Domna Marguerida, of the leronis Illona Rider, and he wondered what they would say. “How can any woman allow herself to be treated as chattel?”
“So speaks the man who knows nothing of our ways!” she shot back.
“I think your mother grew up that way, so she cannot or dare not walk about as any free woman. But there are no laws, no Lord of a Great House, to enforce such things upon you. Surely your father does not demand it.”
He was cut off by a ripple of laughter. “Do you think I wear chains?”
Rahelle rose and crossed the distance between them. Her hands came up so fast he could not see exactly what she did, only a flick of the wrists and then, in the dim light, a flash of metal. He felt the weight of the chain around his neck, the links digging into his flesh, pulling him forward and off his balance. In her hands, the edges of the cuffs gleamed. They were no longer locked upon her wrists but free in her hands. If she took another step, she could slash across his eyes before he could reach his own blade in defense.
Rahelle had spoken the truth. She did not wear chains. She wore a weapon as deadly as any dagger.
With a flick of the chain, he found himself free. Rahelle was already clicking the cuffs back into place and the chain into its loop on her belt.
“Lord of Light, can all Dry Towns women do that?”
“You forget, vai dom. I am no Dry Towns woman.”
In the gathering dark, he saluted her. “So I see.”
She was silent for a moment. “When I am in town, I go about my business in this manner without fear. I run errands for my mother. I visit my friends. I do all that is necessary. Except in this case,” she added with a trace of self-censure, “watching out for my little brother.”
“Your brother? I had not realized—”
“And when I am not in Carthon . . .” Rahelle folded back her veil.
Gareth stared down at her, the honey-gold hair tucked into a net of plaited ribbons, smooth skin over strong bones, full dark lips, eyes lowered. Then she lifted her eyes, and in the light of the torch, he saw they were blue, clear and unflinching, each ringed like a starstone set in gold.
Rakhal! What a fool he’d been, asking if she was Cyrillon’s son!
“I am an idiot.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “you are. But it is not a fatal flaw, so let us go in and eat together. Perhaps my mother will relent enough in her disapproval to speak to you.”
11
They left the wagons behind in Carthon, for the trail to Shainsa was too rough for wheeled vehicles. Just outside the city, Cyrillon’s caravan joined with two other parties for protection. The caravan master set about organizing the laden horses and oudrakhi, great lumbering beasts with broadly padded feet and slit nostrils, well suited to desert travel. They had vile tempers, too, as Gareth found out when he led the brown mare past them, headed for the position Cyrillon had assigned him, and absentmindedly brushed up against the shoulder of a fawn-colored female.
Rahelle grabbed his arm and jerked him away just as the oudrakhi swung her long-jawed head around, her eyes glinting yellow. Enormous flat teeth snapped together just inches from Gareth’s shoulder.
“They’re not horses,” Rahelle said.
“So I see.”
The brown mare laid her ears flat against her neck and hunched her back, swinging her hindquarters in the direction of the oudrakhi. Recognizing the danger, Gareth tightened his grip on the reins and turned her sharply.
Rahelle fixed him with a quick, sideways glare, then went to scold the drover whose business it was to mind the oudrakhi. Gareth overheard a little of that lecture, the man grumbling a protest and Rahelle insisting that if his negligence endangered the charrat lens merchant—meaning Gareth—Cyrillon would hear of it.
By the third or fourth day, when the carava
n had settled into a routine, Gareth had learned to avoid the oudrakhi. Rahelle gave him lessons in improving his Dry Towns dialect, although he would never be able to pass as a native speaker. Of the original crew, only the cook, Korllen, had come with them. Alric had stayed behind in Carthon. The other men kept to themselves.
Each day, Cyrillon called a halt for the noontime meal, and they rested in what shade could be found while their animals grazed or dozed. At night they pushed on, traveling from one watering place to the next. They carried water in skins slung across the packs of the oudrakhi, which could go a long distance without drinking. Even so, it would be hard going if they were to miss even a single oasis.
Gareth, wiping the sweat from his face, remembered the old tale. When Zandru made the Drylands, the very bones of the world rebelled, refusing to be covered under the sand. He wrapped his scarf around his face, leaving only his eyes uncovered.
The low, rolling hills with their cover of thorn trees and feathery spicebush eventually flattened out. Barren sands stretched to the horizon. Here and there, clusters of desert bracken dotted the dunes, and outcroppings of black rock, like massive burned bones, thrust upward. When they stopped to rest in the shadow of those black, uncompromising rocks, Gareth copied the posture of the other men, resting his head on his folded arms, and quickly fell into a light slumber. After a time, they went on.
Gareth rode side by side with Rahelle along a flat stretch where the soil was as white and crumbly as chalk. Dust caked the scrub. A faint alkali tang arose from the earth, scouring the inside of Gareth’s nose and throat. He had not seen a living creature for the last hour, except for a bird of some sort, a desert kyorebni he thought, hovering high on the thermal air currents.
“You thought he was some street child my father had taken in out of charity?” Rahelle said when Gareth asked about Alric. “Or the fourth son of an impoverished family? Oh yes, he is my father’s son, although not my mother’s. He cannot inherit under the laws of either the Domains or the Dry Towns. I suppose that in your country, he might be legitimized, but even then, the house and business would not come to him. My father strives to make a place for him in the trade that will belong to my husband, when I acquire one.”
Gareth’s stomach gave a curious lurch. “You do not seem in any great hurry.”
“Nor you, I might say, although I imagine that is not for want of matchmaking on the part of your people.”
Gareth almost replied, “Yes, I am considered a great catch, although for the same reasons I could not endure being caught.” To her, he was no more than a tradesman’s apprentice. As such, he could expect to work hard, earn a decent living, but never aspire to anything more. He wished it were true.
“I am hardly in a position to consider marriage,” he said.
“Mmmm. Your future employment would be enough of an attraction, even if your personal appearance were revolting to the eye, which it is not.”
Gods, was she flirting with him? No, her expression was perfectly serious.
“The same is true for me,” she said with a trace of wistfulness. “And so,” rousing herself, “I am no more enamored of the prospect than you are. We both have indulgent families, but in the end, we will do our duty.”
In the end, I will have no choice.
“So your husband will help your father with the caravan, learn the business, and then manage it on his own?” Gareth said.
“And my brother will have a place and useful work.”
At last, they came over a low rise of dunes and looked down over the bed of a long-dried ocean. Nothing had prepared Gareth for his first sight of that plain of shimmering white, rising to pallid cliffs, or for Shainsa itself, like an incrustation of bleached and crumbling bones. The houses were tall, spreading buildings made of salt stone from the cliffs that rose behind the city. From this distance, the city had the appearance of immense age, but not the vigorous, ever-changing age of Comyn Castle and the Old Town. This was a brooding, sullen age, one that sank ever deeper into its own poisoned dreams.
He blinked, and the feeling lifted. The city below was ancient, certainly, and exotic, filled with strange and dangerous people, but it was not malevolent. Surely there must be many within those walls who lived with honor and decency.
They went down, through the outskirts and shanties inhabited by wretches too poor to pay the city gate fees, past pens and picket lines of livestock, and pans of sulfur and salt. Men moved about them, as sunbaked and colorless as the land itself. Alkali-tinged dust hung in the midday heat, tainting every breath. Gareth’s lungs ached with it.
Inside the gates, they parted company with their traveling companions and set up camp on a broad unpaved square surrounding a common well. The well was very old, its stones crumbling into powder around the edges. The water tasted strongly metallic, but it was cool. Here they unsaddled their horses, unloaded the pack animals, and pitched tents for sleeping and shelters to protect their horses against the glare of noon.
A group of Dry Towners stood loafing by the common watering trough, watching the proceedings. They behaved as if the arrival of traders were an entertainment arranged for their own amusement, offering comments that in the Domains would have been outright rude. Gareth struggled to keep his expression bland, and Rahelle said in a low voice, “Such words break no bones and dishonor no one but he who utters them.”
After a time, one of the onlookers strolled over to the camp. Cyrillon, who had been attending to the stowing of the baggage, went to meet him. Gareth caught only a little of their conversation, enough to understand that in an hour, half the city would know what goods Cyrillon had to sell.
Finally, the camp was arranged and the animals watered and given a ration of grain. Rahelle suggested to Gareth that they find a wine shop to quench their thirst, “and something to eat besides trail fodder. Come on, I’ll show you something of the city.”
They made their way through a series of merchant districts, past metal forges and dealers in rubies and other precious gems, and down streets lined by walls of sandstone and dried mud brick. Finally they emerged into an open, windswept square bounded on one side by a building of salt-pale stone. It was far larger than the Great House at Carthon, but it had no windows or beds of dusty flowers. It looked for all the world like a fortress. Four massive, sun-dark guards in livery of purple and gold stood beside the double doors.
“What place is that?” Gareth asked.
“The Great House of Shainsa, and do not inspect it too closely or you will arouse suspicion. The guards see threats everywhere.”
A pair of fighting men could hold the front entrance for a long time, even against a direct attack.
“Lord Dayan, who now rules,” Rahelle went on, “is said to be no worse than the rest, and certainly he is no fool. But they all have enemies, whether by blood feud or ancient quarrel, or simply the temptation of all desperate men to enhance their kihar by bringing down such a lord.”
She led the way into a wine shop where red lanterns burned in the open windows. Gareth was used to Thendaran taverns, a bar and tables where men might sit to drink. This small, close room was lined with battered wooden benches. Cushions, many of them dingy with grime, were scattered over the stained, worn carpets.
“Here?”
“It doesn’t look like much, I know,” she said, “but this place has the best tortugas in Shainsa. Just don’t use the green sauce if you’re not used to spicy food.”
Following Rahelle’s example, Gareth lowered himself to one of the cushions. A few moments later, a girl with a tangled rope of hair down her back brought them two mugs, a pitcher of wine, and a plate of cakes dotted with seeds and salt crystals. Her chains clanked softly as she moved about, gathering up empty mugs and refilling pitchers. Rahelle gestured to the girl, who returned a few moments later with a wooden bowl laden with fist-sized fried pastries and a smaller ceramic cup of poison-green slime.
Gareth bent over his wine, which was surprisingly good, if a little sweet for his taste. The pastries turned out to be savory, not sweet, stuffed with spicy onions and beans. His eyes burned with the first bite, but the sensation of heat soon faded, replaced with a melting succulence.
As Rahelle did not seem interested in talk, Gareth contented himself with observing and listening as unobtrusively as possible. Perhaps in another day or two, he might feel confident enough to initiate a conversation with men like these, get them talking about the latest wild tales. Perhaps that might even lead to someone who knew more than rumor. For now, he must go slowly until he learned more of this city and its ways.
The following morning, when shadows still stretched long, a market sprang up in the brief coolness. Vegetables, dried fruits, pots of spices and sweet oil, and buckets of grain were laid out on blankets under coarse-woven awnings. Drovers clustered at the common well, watering their animals and gossiping. Servants in brightly hued liveries carried baskets of the day’s purchases, rolled carpets, harness, pottery jugs, and bundles of precious wood.
A tall man wearing an elaborately plumed helmet approached their encampment. Twin baldrics crossed his ornate tunic, and he carried two swords and five visible knives. Cyrillon executed a formal Dry Towns bow, fist to belly, heart, and forehead. Gareth moved closer, curious.
“I am the one you seek, and these are my servants and apprentice,” Cyrillon said, gesturing in Gareth’s direction, “except for this one, who travels in these lands under my countenance.”
The Children of Kings Page 12
