The Book of Forbidden Wisdom

by Gillian Murray Kendall

  Jesse had saved my sister.

  Silky ran to me through the crowd of men. She didn’t weep or cower. She just took my crossbow and fit a bolt to it.

  “Get back, Niamh, Angel,” she said. The no-­faces were among the horses now, and Silky had no easy target. I could tell that these men had no experience with the animals, though, and that was to our advantage. Jasmine snorted and whinnied, and then all of the horses were blowing and snorting and stamping their hooves. The moonlight was tricky, and the attacking men were weaving among the animals, but then I saw, all too vividly, one of them reach up with a curved knife and slice into the neck of Niamh’s little coarse pony. Next to me, Silky aimed carefully. A moment later, the man with the knife fell backward. The wounded pony reared and shook his head, and blood scattered everywhere, further pushing the horses into frenzy. Another man grabbed Jasmine by her lead rope; Silky didn’t hurry. As the man tried to control Jasmine, she carefully fit a new bolt to the crossbow and then dropped him.

  Renn was on his feet fighting side by side with Trey. I had lost sight of Jesse. A man outside the circle of firelight raised a crossbow and took careful aim at Trey.

  I nudged Silky and pointed. A second later, her bolt hit his crossbow and drove it into his body.

  “Give me a bolt,” Silky cried. “Give me a bolt!” She fumbled in her bag and had one in her hand, when I pushed the crossbow down.

  “Wait,” I said. “They’re leaving.”

  The faceless ones screamed with frustration as they backed away. The one who was nearest Trey spat in his face. Then they were gone.

  The horses were still restless; the little coarse pony was on the ground, and its eye was cloudy. Blood pooled around its neck and head. Silky went among the horses and calmed them.

  She turned her back as we began to butcher the pony. We were in such a hurry that I almost made a mess of it by puncturing the ropy intestine. Luckily Jesse pulled back my hand before the meat was polluted and useless. We wrapped huge chunks of flesh in oilskin and put them in the saddlebags. We had to leave a lot behind. The faceless ones would have their feast anyway.

  I looked at Silky. She had killed three men in the attack; I had seen the battle frenzy on her at the end. My little sister, who was charming and loyal and intelligent and beautiful, was also marred by bloodguilt—­which she had incurred in order to save all of us. My precious, feckless sister was friends with death.

  We made camp that next night miles from the gully and Parlay. There was nothing left of the rock hyrax, so we ate some dried fruit and as much of the dead pony as we could. The meat wouldn’t keep for long. Even Silky ate her share.

  It was there that Niamh told us she was going back to her work in Shibbeth.

  “You can’t go,” said Silky. “Alone? Bad things will happen.”

  “I’ve traveled here before. There’s a village an hour this side of Parlay,” she said. “Jesse can get me there. Then I’ll reach home with a convoy of women.”

  “Jesse will go with you?” asked Silky.

  “In fact, “ she said, “I’m hoping you’ll give us half a day—­so he can return. I’m hoping you’ll take Jesse with you. Shibbeth shouldn’t be his home forever. And eventually I’ll make my way to Arcadia too.”

  “Of course, Niamh,” I said. “We owe you a great debt.”

  “We’ll miss you,” said Silky, but she was looking at Jesse. I thought, perhaps gracelessly, that our debt to Niamh only went so far. I didn’t owe her my sister.

  “We’ll meet again,” said Niamh, and she gave me a small smile as if, perhaps, she could read my mind and found what was there amusing.

  I slept fitfully the night before Niamh’s departure. I woke up, wide awake, in the late night or early morning. The fire was only coals. I could hear the breathing of the sleepers. Trey was lying by the fire, and he seemed to be rubbing at his face. For one shocked moment I thought he might be crying, but then he gave a low sigh and began breathing deeply.

  Renn, ever since we had left Parlay, had been sleeping by the fire as well. Only Jesse steadfastly remained modestly at the perimeter. Now I saw that Renn was sitting outside the circle of light. He was holding his lyre and silently testing the tautness of the strings.

  “Renn?” I spoke softly.

  “Angel.” He didn’t look up.

  “Are you still in pain?”

  “Mostly wakeful.”

  “Me too.”

  “I know. I heard you stirring. Come over, Lady Angel.”

  I considered. I thought that perhaps I should wake Silky to chaperone, but she needed her sleep.

  It was important she get her sleep.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll join you.”

  I pulled on my overcoat, walked to the other side of the fire and sat next to Renn. Even as I sat, I realized that I had misjudged the distance between us. I was close, very close. But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by moving away—­now, though, I wished I had woken Silky.

  “You know,” he said, “you’re far different from that almost-­bride I saw in Arcadia. I misjudged you.”

  “I misjudged you too.”

  “Maybe.” He put down his lute. “You look cold.”

  “I am cold.”

  He moved his arm and put a blanket around me, and, in so doing, his arm brushed my shoulders. It couldn’t have been for more than a part of a second, but I was very aware of his touch.

  “Renn,” I said. “I wish you were my brother.” But I was saying something that wasn’t true.

  “You have enough men who are brothers to you,” he said.

  In the bright dawn, Niamh left us with Jesse by her side.

  When he returned, he looked tired and sad, and I wondered what it must be like to say good-­bye to a mother.

  “He needs someone to talk to,” said Silky. “I’m going to comfort him.”

  “No,” I said. “You’re not.”

  We packed up camp and mounted. Silky and I rode bareback together on Jasmine. The wind was brisk, and I tied back my hair with some string.

  “I still don’t understand,” said Jesse, “what we’re going to do with this Book of Forbidden Wisdom.”

  “Anything we want,” I said. “Anything at all.”

  As we rode, Trey kept rubbing at his cheeks and forehead, the way he had when I awoke in the night. At one moment, as we were in an extended trot, he dropped the reins and pulled at his face. Bran halted immediately, as a well-­bred horse would, and Trey almost went over his horse’s shoulder.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Did something sting you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Is there a swelling?”

  “No.”

  I looked at him sharply. We were all halted, and Silky, who had been lagging behind and chattering with Jesse, came up on us abruptly.

  “Trey,” she exclaimed. “Your face is so red.”

  It looked as if he had a touch of sunburn. Or was overheated.

  “Have some water,” I said. “Sprinkle it on your face.”

  At midday we came to an enormous well-­known Shibbeth market, where we had planned to buy more supplies. There was a livery at the entrance of the market where, for a few coins, we could keep our horses while we looked around and made our purchases. A small, wiry man with a cast eye and long, dirty hair came to take them. I remembered the stories I had heard about those who carried the cast eye—­it could see beyond; it could mean evil; it could be luck. But this man just looked the horses over appraisingly and raised his eyebrows as he examined Jasmine. When he saw Bran, he exhaled slowly, in deep appreciation.

  “How much for the bay?” he asked.

  “He’s not for sale,” said Trey.

  “Everything here is for sale,” said the man.

  “Not my horse,” said Trey. “But we mig
ht be in the market for one.”

  “What kind?” asked the man, “well-­bred or grade?”

  “Grade,” said Trey.

  “Riding horse or pack?”

  “Ready for either and able on long distances.”

  “I have what you need,” said the man. He led the horses away.

  “Can we trust him?” asked Silky. “Look at his hair.”

  “We’ll pay him after,” I said. “And give him a good price for the new horse. Besides,” I added, “your hair could do with a wash too.”

  We walked into the market, and I was suddenly in an ocean of smells and sounds. I was assailed by the stink of rotting cabbage, which was replaced by the pale fragrance of violets as a cart went by. We walked by huge overflowing bags of a rainbow of spices—­yellow, red, orange, green. We saw mounds of vegetables and, where the butchers worked, carcasses of cows and goats. No sheep. The ‘Lidans kept their sheep for their famous blue wool. In the fish stall, live eels slithered over tilapia and bass; there were, too, small fried fingerlings to be eaten by the handful.

  “We need cured meat,” said Renn. “Dried fruit as well. And some fresh vegetables for the next few days. We can get part of a goat for tonight.”

  We were in a hurry, so we split up. Trey and Jesse went to the fruit and vegetable stalls, Renn, Silky and I to the butchers.

  We were dickering over the haunch of a goat when I sensed restlessness in the market. A big woman in a red apron with a trout under her arm careened right into me and then was gone. The butcher stopped negotiations. He put the goat haunch in a hamper and began taking down carcasses and dragging them to the back.

  “Come back later,” he said. “After.”

  “After what?” Silky asked. Renn grabbed the butcher by the wrist.

  “What’s going on?”

  The butcher pulled his hand away. “Raid, of course,” he said. “Where are you from? It’ll pass, if this is just a tithing. Come back.” He lifted his eyes, looked startled and turned, disappearing into the darkness of his shop.

  Silky and Renn and I looked behind us to see what had spooked the butcher.

  I had feared I would see troops pulling down stalls or burning and killing, but instead I saw just three soldiers, one leading a packhorse, striding down the main path of the market. The men stopped now and again to take goods on display. They took their time at the spice stall, wrapping up handfuls of yellow saffron and red turmeric. One tucked a live chicken under his arm. Another grabbed a brace of ducks. Eventually they came to the end of the stalls, and although they upturned some of them, they did no lasting damage.

  The market now looked deserted, and I wondered where so many ­people could go so quickly.

  The soldiers scanned the area and then started toward the butcher’s stall. The one in front who was leading the packhorse narrowed his eyes when he looked at Renn. He came closer. Then his eyes flicked from Renn to me and then to Silky.

  That mass of golden hair. Distinctive, even though streaked and dirty.

  “Get Silky out of here,” I said softly to Renn, and he turned so that she was shielded from view.

  “Hey!” I yelled. I overturned the butcher’s stall, sending a stream of calves’ heads, tongues and livers—­the delicacies—­onto the ground. Renn was alarmed, but I didn’t have time to say anything—­he had Silky; I had to distract the soldier. I jumped behind the fallen stall and ran back into the store, hoping there was an exit.

  There was. The butcher had backed into a corner, a knife dangling halfheartedly from his hand. In Shibbeth, after all, using a weapon could mean death.

  I relieved him of the knife.

  Behind me the soldier came crashing through the shop, the other two trailing him.

  “Stop her,” he shouted. “She’s an assassin.”

  “What?” The butcher sounded bewildered. I realized they were Garth’s soldiers searching for their Lord’s killer, not Kalo’s men.

  I was already out of the shop and into one of the smaller ways through the market, running for any kind of shelter. I turned my head just enough to see the lead guard pull bags from the packhorse and then mount.

  He was going to hunt me down on horseback. The animal didn’t look fast, but I was on foot.

  I ran. Suddenly I was among the vegetable carts. I overturned a barrel of sand potatoes into the street, hoping to slow the horse. I looked for help, or a place to hide. I knew what was waiting for me in Shibbeth for killing Garth.

  The horseman had made his way through the sand potatoes and was bearing down on me.

  I couldn’t outrun the horse. As horse and soldier came even with me, the man leapt from the animal and pushed me to the ground, where we became a confused tangle of limbs and bodies—­and a knife.

  Immediately blood was everywhere. The soldier released me, and for a moment we both looked down at the blood spurting out of his arm. It did so rhythmically, grotesquely, in time to the beating of his heart. Blood sprayed my face.

  His face was greying, and his breath came in short pants. I pressed on the wound with one hand, and with the other I tore off the string that was tying back my hair. He saw what I was doing, and with one hand, my teeth and his good arm, we tied a tourniquet.

  He held my arm for a moment, and I flinched at the touch.

  “We’ve been following you, Lady Angel,” he said. He released my arm.

  There was something odd about his words. Who was following us? Garth’s heir? Kalo? Leth?

  This was no time for questions.

  The packhorse had run on for a few more paces and then stopped. I did a running mount and was on the horse in a moment. For one second I looked back at the man who was down.

  His face was paper white and his eyes dark. But he would probably live.

  I looked up and scanned the market. The other two soldiers, seeing that their comrade hadn’t taken me, were running in my direction. But the packhorse didn’t seem to pick up on my anxiety. He was a patient mount. I turned him in a tight circle to see where the various lanes led—­I had to get back to the others.

  I thought of Dirty-­Hair-­Cast-­Eye at the livery in the front of the market.

  If the others thought about it at all, they would realize it was the one place where we might meet up—­where we had to meet up to get the horses.

  “Come on, horse,” I said, and I gave a few low clucks. I noticed that more ­people had emerged from wherever they had been hiding.

  I glanced back at the soldiers. They were bent over their fallen comrade.

  I hoped they would loosen and then tighten the tourniquet. Otherwise, it was a good way to lose an arm.

  We cantered. A woman appeared next to me, materializing out of nowhere. She must have been hiding among the boxes that held up her eggplant stall. In a moment the horse and I had passed her, but not before I heard her speak.

  “Go, girl,” she said.

  I went.

  The two soldiers were after me now, and they did not look as if they were going to let me escape. I galloped down a narrow lane, always aware that I needed to circle around the market in order to reach the livery and Dirty-­Hair.

  My chance came. I saw a place where a large wheelbarrow of carrots was overturned. It blocked the narrow lane.

  I took my chance.

  I knew nothing about this big old shambling packhorse I was riding, except that he was accepting of my presence on his back, and all his reactions had shown him to be a good-­natured sort of a horse. So I asked him for a favor.

  Never command a horse if you really want to get what you want.

  Ask.

  We turned and trotted back toward the soldiers. I could see the surprise on their faces. Then we turned again.

  To say we flew down the lane would be exaggerating the horse’s ability, but we were moving fast, and the wheelb
arrow loomed large. I felt the big animal’s hesitation; his ears flicked back and forth as he looked ahead and listened to my reassurances at the same time. As far as I knew, this big, clumsy horse had never jumped over anything in his life.

  We were three strides away from the wheelbarrow, and now we were committed. There were only two ways to go.

  Over.

  Through.

  If the horse didn’t make it, if we went crashing into the obstacle, we would both go down.

  There are all kinds of bardsongs about the hearts of champions. About the deep reserves that a truly well-­bred horse can call on. I didn’t know of any bardsongs about a workhorse having the heart of a champion.

  One stride. I felt the horse gather himself. I urged him once more with my legs, and then we were in the air over the spilled carrots and the overturned wheelbarrow.

  He cleared the wreckage with a foot of air beneath him.

  It would be nice if I could say he landed as lightly as a feather, but it was more like riding a potential disaster in the making. I don’t know how that horse got a foot down clear of the wheelbarrow, but he did, and when he did, we were in a flat-­out gallop, and nobody was going to catch us.

  Renn was going to have to write a new horse bardsong.

  The lane I was on led to a shed. We galloped behind it, and three roads opened in front of me. I almost hesitated, but I was suddenly deep in the world where the future opened like a flower, and we didn’t slow as we hurtled down the third.

  Seconds later I was trying to pull up the horse, who had a mouth about as sensitive as an anvil. Then Dirty-­Hair was there. He stood in front of the oncoming horse—­where he mustered the courage, I don’t know—­and the animal stopped at his feet. He raised a hand and stroked the horse’s mane up and down. No pat pat on the face or good-­hearted slap on the neck. He stroked the horse the way mares lick newborn foals.

  I’ll never forget Dirty-­Hair.

  “Your friends are in the barn,” he said. “Looks like you got that extra horse you was wanting.”

  “Yes—­I—­they’re in the barn?”

  “Waiting. The little girl’s not happy.”