Karavans

by Jennifer Roberson

  Chapter 28

  “HELLO.” THE WORD was hoarse, breaking in the middle. “Hello?” Not much improvement, little more than a rusty croak that tailed off into a raspy whisper. But it was sound. She was no longer mute.

  Clean now of body, tea at hand as she sat upon her cot, Ilona wore a soft-woven ankle-length night tunic with a patchwork shawl cocooning shoulders and upper torso. Leather buskins lined with felt encased her feet. Her hair remained in need of washing, merely wound and anchored untidily against her head, but she planned to avail herself of the public bathing tent once they returned to the settlement, where she could wash it and let it dry in the bright daylight.

  But she broke off the thought abruptly. She would do so if the bathing tent remained whole, and if the attendant hadn’t been one of those culled by the Hecari.

  A sharp and sudden rapping at her latched wagon door startled so her badly she jumped. “Ilona?”

  Ah, Jorda. She patted her heart to reassure it and rose to go to the door.

  Ilona stopped halfway there, struck by realization. She stood in the center of her wagon beneath the Mother Rib, elaborate runes invoking the protection of Sibetha, the god of hand-readers.

  She could not help the flicker of resentment. Where was Sibetha when the stranger came with his silencing charm and his lust?

  “Ilona!” Jorda was clearly worried now, pounding so hard she feared he might break the door off its leather hinges.

  Which meant he knew what had happened. Which meant Rhuan had told him.

  Ilona desired no visitors, not even the karavan-master whose duty it was to make certain all was well with his employees as much as with the folk who trusted—and paid—him to get them safely to their myriad destinations. She very much preferred to be left alone at least until morning.

  But Jorda will break the door.

  “Wait—” Barely a croak, the word failed to carry. Ilona moved hastily to the door and lifted the latch. “Jorda, wait—”

  The karavan-master’s anxious face and posture, fully displayed in the opening door, convinced her that had she waited one moment longer, Rhuan would be repairing more than her bottom step.

  She watched Jorda’s green eyes flick the length of her body, then back to her face. In the wan glow of the lantern hanging from the lintel hook, she saw color stain the skin above his beard. Ilona knew without reading his hand exactly what was in his mind: how was a man to ask a woman assaulted by another man if she were all right?

  She told him she was, in her broken voice. And that broken voice, such irrefutable proof of the assault that in flesh was otherwise shielded against the naked eye by enveloping fabric, kindled Jorda’s outrage. She saw it come into his face, saw it rise into his eyes; watched it make him taller, broader, larger, like a wild beast gone to hackles from head to tail.

  “I’m all right,” she repeated hastily, forcing her ragged voice because she realized what he believed. “It was a silencing charm, Jorda—he didn’t try to strangle me.”

  His voice was thick, deepened by anger. “Just rape you.”

  She wanted to answer him lightly, casually, deflecting the force of his emotion, but she had very little left, now, of what small amount of her shredded voice had returned. Instead she merely rasped, “Didn’t.”

  “Because of Rhuan.”

  She nodded.

  “Who is now ‘in search’ of a body that very likely became a body by his hand.” Jorda shook his head. “In this case, I find it difficult to begrudge him that, though I might have preferred to do it myself. In fact, I told him so. But Rhuan is very choosy about which orders he follows and which he ignores.”

  She had never heard him speak so forcefully, or with such venom in his tone. But her mind moved swiftly to what else he had said regarding Rhuan: he had, apparently, killed the man. Precisely as he said he would.

  Ilona closed her eyes.

  Jorda’s voice altered from anger into awkward compassion. “Would you rather come into another wagon for the night? Not mine,” he added hastily as her eyes popped open in startlement. “That is, you could stay in my wagon if you wished, but of course I would sleep outside on the ground. Or, if you like, I could sleep here on the ground. But surely there’s a wagon with a woman or two in it who would be willing to share, if that would be more comfortable.”

  She realized this offer was all he could think of to ease the situation. Poor Jorda had never considered contingencies should his woman diviner be assaulted. Such a thing was incomprehensible in a world where true diviners were considered extensions of the gods.

  Ilona shook her head and attempted speech again. “I’ll be fine, thank you.” And she would be. The incident was an aberration, not an ongoing threat. And Rhuan had killed the man. To her shame, there was less regret in the knowledge than she expected.

  She heard it before she felt it. The wagon creaked. The animals of the karavan lifted voices in clear distress. Pots hanging together rubbed and clanked softly. Loose objects rattled.

  And then the earth shivered.

  Startled, Ilona caught hold of the doorjamb. Jorda actually staggered against the motion, lurching forward to grab at her wagon to steady himself. The rolling shiver passed before they could even speak, but left behind was a queasiness in her belly and a hot apprehension that prickled her flesh. The livestock quieted, but the dogs scattered throughout the karavan continued to bark.

  “Mother of Moons,” Jorda murmured, eyes on the residual swinging of her door lantern.

  She forced her voice yet again; this time, because she had to. “What was that?” And then she saw movement in the darkness: A man walking out of shadow into the wavering glow of her lantern. Braid ornamentation glinted.

  Rhuan’s expression was odd, as if he too felt unsettled; rather, Ilona decided, like a cat desiring to retain innate dignity and grace yet not quite able to do so. “That,” he said, “was Alisanos. A greeting, you might say.” He looked at Jorda. “I’ve found the body.”

  Jorda was distracted. “Good. Now, tell me about this ‘greeting’ from Alisanos.”

  Rhuan shrugged. “It was what it was. As I’ve said, Alisanos is on the brink of going active. It’s pulling up roots, you might say. Until that last root is pulled and Alisanos is free to change locales, these sorts of things are going to happen.”

  Ilona noted Jorda studied Rhuan intently, brows pulled inward to the bridge of his nose. “How is it you know such things?”

  Rhuan shrugged offhandedly. “Shoia are sensitive to Alisanos. I don’t know why.” He grinned briefly. “Maybe we’re more akin to the animals than you are. But I feel it, in here.” He pressed a hand over his breast.

  Despite the quick grin and the flash of dimples, there was a pinched look around his mouth. His color, Ilona noted, was not quite normal. She thought perhaps he felt Alisanos somewhere else in addition to his heart. “You look as if you might lose your dinner any moment.”

  His smile was crooked. “There’s nothing left in my belly to lose.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking beyond the lantern light into the darkness. “It’s coming. And there’s nothing any of us can do to prevent it.”

  The karavan-master’s eyes sharpened. “If Shoia are so sensitive—do you know when?”

  “No. That much even I can’t tell.” He changed topics abruptly, looking at Ilona. “The man is dead. Someone opened his throat.”

  “Someone.” Jorda’s tone was laden with heavy irony, but he went no farther with the implication. “Then I had better go tell his woman.” His expression was strained; Ilona knew he hated this duty above all others. “Perhaps you and Darmuth might do her the courtesy of wrapping the body in oilcloth and bringing him to her wagon. She’ll want dawn rites, I’m sure, before we head back to the settlement.”

  “Darmuth hasn’t returned yet,” Rhuan said, “but yes, I can do that. I’ll get the cloth from the supply wagon.”

  Grimly, Jorda said, “I suppose I had best come up with an explanation for his death
other than murder … a predator, I suspect, which will frighten everyone, but we’re bound for the settlement anyway.” He thought further. “But where were you, they’ll wonder? Your job was to keep him safe.”

  “I,” Rhuan declared, “was nowhere near him.”

  “A predator, then,” Jorda decided. “And you were some distance away and too late to save him.”

  The master departed, but Rhuan lingered. Ilona met his eyes. Her voice, for the moment, steadied. “I know what Jorda believes. But I’d like to hear confirmation from you. Was he dead before you found him?”

  His gaze was unwavering. “Yes.”

  And yet she needed a more specific answer. “Did you kill him?”

  He replied without the slightest change in inflection. “No.”

  She could not help herself; the line of her gaze dropped to the horn hilt of his long-bladed knife, sheathed slantwise on his left hip, and marked also the line of slender throwing knives safed in loops along his baldric.

  Rhuan said, “It wasn’t done with a knife.”

  Her eyes flicked up. “You said his throat was cut.”

  “I said his throat was opened.”

  “But—oh. Rhuan—”

  He overrode her failing voice. “Let be, ’Lona. No more is needed, save to know he’s dead.”

  Perhaps in truth no more was needed. But Ilona could not avoid seeing the man’s face before her, the charm in his hand, the terrible intent in his eyes. She could still hear his voice invoking the charm, still feel the closing of her own throat.

  Closed. Not opened, as the man’s was.

  But she let it be, just as Rhuan suggested.

  WITH A MOTHER’S sense of such things, Audrun became aware of furtive glances exchanged between Ellica and Gillan when they believed no one was looking. At other times, when she was looking, both assumed what she considered to be rather imbecilic expressions of innocence. Audrun knew better; her children were not imbeciles, and such behavior was completely alien to them. Eventually she managed to quietly call both of them to her as Davyn went off to check the oxen prior to bedtime, while the two youngest were washing plates, pots, and utensils with much slopping of water.

  “All right,” she said crisply, as they gathered at the back of the wagon in the glow of a battered tin lantern, “tell me.”

  Ellica avoided eye contact, ducking her head to study the ground. Gillan did not mimic her, but the rush of color into his face sang its own song.

  “You went for a walk after dinner,” Audrun said dryly, “which isn’t a habit either of you have cultivated on this journey. Where was it you went, and what did you do or see?”

  Her two eldest exchanged glances. Ellica chewed her bottom lip.

  “I’m not giving in,” Audrun warned them. “We can stand here all night if you like, which means at some point your father is going to become suspicious, or you can tell me now.”

  Both children were clearly uncomfortable, but Gillan, thus prodded, finally answered. “We talked to the guide. The one with the braids.” He raised his chin and his tentative voice firmed. “We asked if he’d come with us.”

  Audrun blinked. “Come with us?”

  “We know,” Ellica said quietly. “Da wants to go on to Atalanda instead of turning around like everyone else.”

  That took Audrun aback. She and Davyn had certainly made that decision, but all of the children had been away from the wagon when they had done so. The intention was to tell them just before bedtime. Were she and Davyn truly so easy to read?

  “If the karavan goes back to the settlement, there’s nothing for the guide to do,” Ellica continued.

  Her brother nodded. “So we asked if he’d come with us.”

  “He said he’d give us his answer in the morning,” Ellica finished.

  Audrun, struck dumb, considered several different answers, and eventually found one she felt was most appropriate. “Your father got us this far, did he not? He should be trusted to do as well for us on the rest of the journey.”

  Gillan averted his eyes and dug holes in the turf with the toe of his boot.

  “He killed all those Hecari,” Ellica declared, “and died, and came back to life. If Da were to be killed, he’d stay dead.”

  Well, yes. They had grasped the very thing that had already occurred to Audrun. If Davyn were killed, they’d be left alone on a strange road skirting the dangerous borderlands of Alisanos. Davyn had only one life to lose. The guide, who knew the route and its dangers, could possibly spare two or three.

  But I’m a parent, and must act as one. “This is business for adults,” she chided. “It’s a decision for your da to make. You should not have gone to the guide. He isn’t family.”

  Gillan and Ellica simultaneously opened their mouths to speak. But in that moment every dog in the karavan began to bark frenziedly. Beneath their feet the earth rippled.

  Clanking pots fell off their hooks underneath the wagon. Something inside tumbled and thumped onto the floorboards.

  Audrun grabbed the wagon to steady herself even as she called out to her children. “Into the wagon!” It seemed safest; it offered cover where the open sky did not. She lifted her voice to call the youngest. “Torvic! Megritte! Come into the wagon!”

  But the earth stilled itself as abruptly as it had moved, and she found herself clinging to the wagon’s tailgate surrounded by four big-eyed children demanding to know what had happened and how it had happened; what it meant, and would it happen again, loudly and all at once. But Audrun had no answer for them. Not even one of false reassurance. No such thing had ever ocurred in her lifetime.

  The earth had moved.

  The guide, she thought, would know precisely what to say. He would give her children the truth, not prevarication. No matter how well-intended that prevarication was.

  She followed that envisioned route. “I don’t know what that was.” She flicked a glance at Gillan and Ellica. “But we’ll ask the guide in the morning. He’ll know.”

  That satisfied her eldest children. And she realized, with no little amount of surprise, that it satisfied her as well.

  Chapter 29

  HAVING RETRIEVED A roll of oilcloth from the supply wagon, Rhuan carried it out to the body, hidden from the karavan by distance and darkness, and dropped it to the ground. The dead man lay on his back, head puddled in congealing blood, and the gaping wound in his throat showed black in the thin light save for a pearlescent glint of vertebrae. His mouth was frozen in a rictus of terror. Open eyes stared into the sky. He stank of urine and feces.

  The man had made it some distance from the wagon. At Rhuan’s arrival various insects stilled, but soon began their songs again. The night was filled with chirps and buzzing.

  Awareness flickered through Rhuan’s body. All the hairs on his arms stood up. “All right,” he said, “you made this mess. You can help me clean it up.”

  Darmuth, leaving behind swathing shadows as he assumed human shape, laughed. The gemstone in his tooth sparkled. “What, no questions as to whether I ate any part of the body?”

  “Well?”

  “No. Though not for lack of an appetite. I stole a milch cow and ate most of her. They’ll assume a predator took both cow and man.”

  “And they would be correct, wouldn’t they?” Rhuan unrolled the oilcloth with a practiced flip of his hands. “Just once, it would be nice if you accepted responsibility for the various people you murder. I’m the one they always blame!”

  “It’s best that way. With you blamed, I am in better position to keep you from harm. Were our roles reversed, I’m certain I’d end up being killed in revenge.”

  “You don’t believe I could keep you from harm?”

  Darmuth shrugged, leaning to take up the body’s feet as Rhuan bent to its arms. “It’s better if they wonder what you’re capable of.” They swung the body onto the oilcloth. “And anyway, I’ve never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it. Human or otherwise.”

  “Did you kill that man
in Hezriah’s tent?”

  “What man?”

  Rhuan draped fabric over the dead man’s feet and head, then turned to the longer portions on either side to do the same, enveloping the body. “Hezriah. The bonedealer. The one who’s ever hopeful he’ll come across Shoia bones to sell for exorbitant prices.”

  “I know who Hezriah is. What dead man are you talking about? Other than this dead man, that is.”

  Rhuan looked up. Darmuth’s pupils were slitted, catlike. Demonlike. “The one who somehow managed to find his way out of Alisanos.”

  “Ah. How much of him was still human?”

  “Most of him.”

  “Well, I haven’t killed any humans save for this one for quite some time now. I didn’t kill that one.”

  “He looked at me,” Rhuan said, “and he knew me. Or thought he did.”

  “And that bothers you?” Darmuth shrugged. “If Alisanos had begun its work on him, no sanity was left.”

  “I really would prefer not to be lumped in with demons. I’m not one.” Rhuan paused, then politely added, “No insult intended.”

  Darmuth assumed an expression of exaggerated hurt. “We’re not so bad as all that.”

  “You eat people.”

  “Only a few of them. Now and again.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Your preferred main course is demon-flesh.”

  Rhuan winced. “Let’s get this man to his wagon. Jorda’s there telling the wife.” And as Darmuth picked up one end of the wrapped body and he the other, he added casually, “The farmsteaders are going on to Atalanda by way of the shortcut. I’ve been asked to guide them, and have pointedly been reminded that I have no employment until next season.”

  Darmuth considered it as they carried the body between them, heading back to the wagons. “Dangerous.”

  “That’s why they asked me to accompany them.”

  “Dangerous for you.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Probably. For many reasons.”

  “Possibly probable.”

  “But of course you’ll do it.”