Karavans

by Jennifer Roberson

  Brodhi removed his boots and stretched out on the pallet, arms thrust beneath his head. He contemplated the oilcloth roof, letting tension seep out of his body. He could feel it going, could feel the muscles loosening one by one. It was bothersome that the concerns of humans could become his own. He longed for the heat and indolence of a high summer’s day, yearned to strip down, strip away every shred of human clothing, and stand beneath the light of the sun, letting it clothe his flesh. Wanted nothing more than to take the light and heat into himself to run through his veins, with no thought at all about humans or patrons or tests.

  He closed his eyes and began in silence, lips moving, to tell over the Names of the Thousand Gods, following the strands of mnemonic memory in order to forget no one. They took time, such devotions; he had learned that among humans, the best he could hope for was fits and starts.

  He had not gotten very far when a hand pulled back the door flap and a body slipped in.

  “Oh.” Her tone was startled.

  He stopped telling over the Names. He stopped even thinking about them.

  Bethid went to her pallet, dropping her cloak in a pool of rich blue fabric at the foot of the bedding. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  He saw no reason to reply.

  “I had a talk with Mikal.” She sat down and began to pull her boots off. “He said he’d spoken with you.” Shed, the boots were set at the foot of her pallet. Stocking-footed, she crossed her legs and looked at him. She waited for a comment; when none was forthcoming she continued. “It could work, Brodhi. Couriers can go far more places than others can, and we’re trusted. Do you realize what an advantage that is?”

  He gave up ignoring her. “It’s an advantage only as long as we can prevent the Hecari from finding out.”

  “Well, that’s a brilliant observation.”

  Brodhi opened his eyes. Sarcasm was not Bethid’s usual weapon. “When planning something of this magnitude, something with so much danger attached, only a fool dismisses all probabilities.”

  “Of course it will be dangerous, Brodhi! We’re not dismissing that.” She ran a coal-grimed hand through upstanding hair, scratching at her scalp. “Timmon and Alorn are still there with Mikal, discussing things. But we all of us believe it could work. It will take time, of course—”

  “Years,” he put in.

  “—but it’s still a worthwhile task,” Bethid finished pointedly. “And yes, you’re undoubtedly correct: years. But we must begin sometime, somewhere, and this place, so lately the victim of more Hecari atrocities, will serve very well.”

  He hitched himself up on one elbow and stared at her. “You intend to make this settlement the breeding ground of a newly hatched rebellion?”

  Bethid nodded. Brass ear-hoops glinted. “Everything that makes it a good place for the karavans to gather makes it a good place to stage a rebellion.”

  He could not mask his incredulity. “One decimation was not enough to prove this place is known to the Hecari? It will be watched, Bethid! Another culling party—or even the same one—might return tomorrow. In fact, they’d be wise to do so; how better to convince everyone that the warlord won’t countenance Sancorrans gathering in numbers?”

  She shrugged narrow shoulders. “Then this will be the first battleground.”

  “They could very well decide to kill more than one in ten.”

  “All of us,” Bethid said promptly, nodding. “We do know that. Which is why it’s imperative that we prepare the people here for an effective resistance, in case the Hecari come again.”

  “This place hosts people who have only today lost kin to a decimation,” he declared. “Do you truly believe they will agree to fight against the Hecari should they return? These people know what will happen. I can’t believe they would attempt to resist.”

  Bethid smiled grimly. “That’s because you’re not human. You don’t understand us. When faced with a true test, most humans rise to it. These folk will, too.” There was neither amusement nor fear in her eyes, only conviction and a powerful commitment. “It’s time, Brodhi. They’ve beaten us down too often. Sancorra loses more people every day, either to a Hecari culling or to those in karavans who leave the province to begin again elsewhere.” She drew in a breath. “Are you with us?”

  “To do what?”

  “Initially, only to carry word throughout Sancorra that resistance, though dangerous, is not impossible. Actual organization will come later.”

  “Three couriers.”

  “Four, if you join us.”

  “And you believe this is enough?”

  “No. We believe informing as many couriers as possible is the first order of business.”

  Instinct prompted a sharp response. “Be wary of that.”

  Bethid blinked. “Why?”

  He was surprised she did not see it for herself. “It may well be that not every courier will join with you, and then secrecy is diminished, if not lost outright. Or that a courier might be seen to join, only to carry the news to the warlord in hopes of reward.”

  “We all swore an oath! You know that!”

  “But not an oath to rebel,” he pointed out. “In any resistance, any organized rebellion, there are factions. If they cannot be brought together and bound by an oath all of them will honor, there will always exist a risk of someone betraying you to the warlord.”

  She was vehement. “But we must get word to the people of Sancorra that there is hope. The only way we can do that without the Hecari finding out is for couriers to carry word.”

  Brodhi lay down again. “We’re not untouchable, Bethid. We’re allowed to carry out our tasks because the warlord permits it, for now. He sees value in our duty and neutrality. One day he may not. We as couriers are as vulnerable to his whim as anyone else.”

  “Then there’s no time to waste, is there?”

  “Are you proposing to leave in the morning on this fool’s quest?”

  “No. There’s much more to be discussed.” She paused. “We would be grateful if you discussed it with us, even if you elected not to join us.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because you’ll tell us we’re fools. That this can never work. That the Hecari are impossible to defeat. That all of us could be killed.”

  It was baffling. “And you find that of value?”

  Bethid laughed, ear-hoops flashing. “You’ll make us think, Brodhi! You’ll make us devise better plans. You will keep us from letting emotion carry us when what we need to succeed is to be as cold-hearted and calculating as they say the warlord is.” She paused. “And of us all here in this place, you have that capacity.”

  Brodhi, rather than taking offense, agreed with the assessment. It indicated strength, not weakness. And humans were weak.

  He closed his eyes. “I told Mikal he’ll have my answer in the morning. You might as well be there to hear it.” He turned on his side then, giving her his back; an eloquent and final way to end the conversation.

  Bethid, for once, did not attempt to continue.

  Chapter 31

  JORDA WAS NOTHING if not discreet; all everyone in the karavan knew, save for himself, Ilona, and his guides, was that the man named Vencik had been killed the night before by a beast of some sort. Said beast had also eaten most of a milch cow that had somehow broken her tether and wandered into jeopardy. And so the dawn rites were attended by karavaners respectful of the wife’s grief, and, in their ignorance, of her husband’s memory.

  Rhuan, standing with Ilona at an edge of the gathering, heard no hint of irony in the voices of Branca and Melior, the two male diviners who performed the rites; clearly, they didn’t know the truth. And while custom dictated that all three karavan diviners should take part in the proceedings, Jorda, pointedly avoiding eye contact with Rhuan and Ilona, briefly explained to all that Ilona had come down with a malady that affected her voice and would not be able to participate.

  Rhuan glanced at her sidelong. Nothing in her hazel eyes gave away
her thoughts, but her lean face was taut. He had suggested she not attend, but she insisted in a voice that by morning was nearly normal. He wondered if now she wished she had decided otherwise.

  He had seen human death rituals several times because now and again people died on a karavan journey. The night before, Vencik’s wife and her mother, with help from Branca and Melior, would have accorded him the ritual cleansing, washing his body carefully with a costly priest-blessed soap kept against such need. Next would come the head-to-toe oiling, followed by the careful wrapping of the body in clean, gauzy muslin. The swathed body that resembled, Rhuan decided, prey spun into spider silk, now lay upon matting to keep it from touching the earth; after the rituals were completed, the wrapped body would be placed into the hole Rhuan and Darmuth had dug the night before and covered with soil as the diviners once again invoked the blessing of Vencik’s god. The activity put Rhuan in mind of the same service done for the Hecari warriors he had killed, save there had been no ritual; privately, he thought it would be fitting if Vencik were thrown into the pit containing the dead Hecari. But he held his peace, and kept his place beside Ilona.

  Branca was a tall, excessively thin man of nondescript features, lackluster ash-blond hair, and somewhat protruding pale blue eyes. His counterpart, Melior, was of medium height with brown hair and eyes, his face overshadowed by a prominent nose. They wore clean, undyed robes of fine-carded wool, unpacked for the purpose, exuding the scent of herbs. Neither man was a priest, but diviners, in lieu of a priest’s presence, were fully empowered to conduct such services.

  Melior stood at the wrapped body’s head, while Branca stationed himself at the foot. One at a time, using a call-and-response format involving attendees, they blessed the dead man and appealed to the god his wife said he worshipped to grant him an easy voyage across the river. During pauses in the invocation, only the quiet sobbing of his wife, standing shawl-wrapped with her mother, was audible, and the occasional fretting child.

  Rhuan frowned. No, the sobbing and fretting were not the only things audible. There was a faint humming, a thrumming vibration in the air. The pitch was such that it seemed to work its way through the outer surface of his flesh, through the muscle, and into the bones below.

  He looked first at Melior and Branca. They appeared to notice nothing unusual, nothing that might affect the rites. They took turns speaking quietly the words intended to guide the dead man on his final journey. A quick glance at Ilona elicited no response that marked her awareness of anything untoward.

  Then he looked at Darmuth, standing beside Jorda. The demon’s eyes were fixed on Rhuan’s. There. He felt something, or sensed it. Or even, knowing Darmuth, scented it, like a hound upon a trail.

  Carefully, Rhuan lifted his chin and brows in subtle inquiry. Darmuth’s response was just as subtle, and left no doubt.

  The rites for the dead man were attracting the attention of something best left blind to such prey as humans.

  No, Rhuan said inwardly. No, not now. Leave them be. Leave all of us be.

  But his bones were invaded, muscles frayed, ears annoyed by the vibration. No sound existed; at least, no sound humans could hear. But Rhuan heard it. It set his teeth on edge. Imprisoned by flesh, his muscles jumped and twitched. He could not stay still, could not stand there a moment longer. He had to move; to walk, to jog, to run. To do anything other than stand in one place.

  Rhuan knew he should be self-disciplined enough to govern his own body, but he was incapable of it. His bones seemed to vibrate in time with the humming. Even his teeth resonated with it, no matter how hard he clenched them. Deep inside, his ears itched.

  He turned abruptly and walked away from Ilona, away from the karavaners, away from the rites. He moved without haste, but purposefully, closing his hand over the hilt of his knife. And as he rounded Jorda’s wagon at the head of the fractured karavan column, he drew the weapon and bared the long blade.

  Hidden from all, he lifted his left hand, fingers spread. With a deft twist of the knife he cut into his flesh, opening a deep slice from the ball of his thumb to the outer heel of his left hand. Then he turned the hand palm down over the earth.

  “Not now,” he said aloud. “Let them be.”

  Blood fell from his hand to the soil beneath. The lush sod crisped into twisted, charred scraps.

  He let the blood run. He let the sod burn.

  HE MADE NO sound, no movement, but Ilona felt it, felt something take hold of Rhuan, something that stripped him of habitual grace and good humor. He was like a startled dog frozen in place, hackles rising slowly from the nape of his neck to the root of his tail. She sensed it so strongly that she could not keep her head from snapping around to look at him, could not keep her mouth from opening to ask him sharply what was wrong. But before she completed either motion he had left her side, had retreated, though she had never thought to couple that word with Rhuan. He flowed away with grace regained, but it was grace with a precision and purposefulness in his movements that spoke of sheer instinct, not rational decision making. Rhuan could be impulsive, but he was not a man who disrespected the rites and rituals of others. She could not fathom what would drive him away from a burial ceremony when it was custom, when it was required in karavan employee covenants, that everyone would attend dawn rites for a man killed on Jorda’s watch.

  Or was it on Rhuan’s watch?

  That might send him away. That might drive him away, to know he had failed in protecting the man.

  And another alternative presented itself, despite his disavowals: Would it drive Rhuan away if he had murdered the man?

  Ilona considered following. Every muscle in her body tensed to do so. But with effort she held herself back; Rhuan did nothing without purpose, even if what kindled that purpose was unknown to others. She had learned that much of him. Had learned, too, that there were gaps in their friendship, personal interstices that disallowed her presence.

  She trusted herself to know when he needed someone to ask of him how he fared. She had done so before, and only rarely had he rebuffed her. But this time, now, she thought he might again.

  Ilona held her place. She did not go. She put her mind on Branca and Melior and continued witnessing the ritual for a man who had assaulted her. She supposed his god might understand if she did not add her voice to requests for peace in death.

  It mattered less than nothing to her if his god did not.

  THEY WERE ONE family among many, gathered at the rites. When Torvic had protested getting up so early just to witness some old dead man getting buried, Audrun and Davyn simultanously chided him for disrespect, nearly word for word. That was enough to silence the sleep-sullen boy, and his attention was further distracted by his younger sister’s glee at his chastisement. Megritte made certain he saw how quickly she was washed, dressed, and ready, whereupon she grinned at him in triumph. That prodded him into accelerated motion, and Audrun directed their little troop out of the wagon and up the slight hill to a lone tree, where everyone else gathered to witness the rites.

  There, in hushed tones, Audrun directed her two youngest children to watch closely so they might understand the gravity of what had happened, and how absolutely vital it was that they stay close to the wagon rather than wandering away. But even as she said it, Audrun found her own recalcitrant gaze wandering away from the two diviners conducting the rites to the other karavaners. Though seeing off the dead was not the sort of activity that elicited happiness, she nonetheless noted that expressions were far more strained than sorrowful. Audrun supposed the dead man might have been a stranger to most of them, depending on when he and his family had joined the karavan, but the strain in every face was profound.

  But then all of them, those folk, were to turn back when the rites were done. The plans painstakingly arrived at over weeks and months of careful thought were now as dead, as wasted, as the cleansed and oiled body wrapped in cloth.

  It crossed Audrun’s mind that if Davyn approached some of the other men, thos
e most upset by the change in plan, perhaps they might yet gather up a makeshift karavan even without a master, for safety on the road. She allowed herself hope for a moment, and extrapolation, until she recalled with an anxious, painful pinching in her burdened belly that none of Jorda’s people were bound for Atalanda. None but her family were to take the shortcut that ran so close to Alisanos.

  In the background of her thoughts, she heard the murmuring of the diviners carrying out the rite. She was aware of spare dawn light, of coolness, of the rising of the sun out of darkness into day. But she was aware, too, of tension seeping into her muscles.

  She could not escape the acknowledgment that their family, too, had the opportunity to turn back to the settlement. There they could wait out the season, as Jorda suggested; it would not be impossible. There were crops to plant and to till, gardens to tend, water in plenty, and fodder. And other adults with whom to share the days while the children made new friends.

  They could start anew at the settlement. Remain in Sancorra, remain of Sancorra, despite the depredations of Hecari.

  What does it make of us, to run from the enemy?

  Well, not run … she wasn’t sure the oxen could manage such a gait.

  But. They weren’t turning back.

  She felt Davyn’s hand on her shoulder and looked up, becoming aware that everyone at the gravesite was taking part in the call-and-response led by the diviners. Even Davyn’s mouth moved to shape the words, but his eyes were concerned. Questioning.

  He deserves better.

  With effort Audrun threw off the thoughts of such things as crops and gardens and friends, and joined her husband in the portion of the rite they all were a part of.

  But a stray thought implanted itself nonetheless: Let the guide decide to come with us.

  Even as she thought it, even as she mouthed the responses, Audrun looked for the guide. But he was no longer with the hand-reader. No longer among the group. He was absent from a ritual all were required to view.