by Kate Elliott
He smiled. “We are all hiding something.”
“I am hiding nothing!”
“Your true price. Your father sold you cheaply.”
She colored, not liking to think of herself as merchandise bought and sold, like almonds and peaches, but it was true, and anyway she was happy her father had neglected to drive a harder bargain. Not that she would tell Anji that. “That’s not what I mean. You asked me to use my market eyes and my market ears, and now I am telling you that man—he’s called Keshad—is hiding something.”
He looked back over his shoulder at the cart, then back at her. “What makes you think he’s hiding something? Besides the obvious fact that he is a merchant.”
“The closer we come to Olossi the weaker and more nervous he becomes. The whiteness around his eyes betrays fear, and his eyes are inflamed by shed tears.”
“Many men suffer the traveling sickness—exhaustion, loose bowels, sick stomach, sore feet.”
“I thought so too. But in the days we’ve traveled from the border, his pace has remained steady, and he eats at night.”
“You have been watching him?”
Was that a sharp note in his voice? She chose to ignore it. “I am curious about the two girls in his wagon. They eat enough for three or four. Maybe they’re just very hungry. But a prickling between my shoulder blades alerts me.”
He grunted thoughtfully, surveying their surroundings.
The carts and wagons of the caravan proceeded along the middle portion of the road, with its paving stones, but she and Anji rode on the margin paths, against the main flow of traffic, crushed stone crunching under their horses’ hooves. Farther out a skein of footpaths paralleled the road, and along this walked various locals. Some carried burdens: a grandmother limped along with a baby in a sling at her hip; a girl balanced a bulging reed basket atop her head; a trio of women easily handled massive sheaves of grain that obscured their faces and torsos. A pair of sweating, half-naked men hauled a cart piled with rocks. Other men and women ambled or hurried toward distant fields and orchards with hoes and shovels and rakes in hand. A pair of boys ran, giggling, with what appeared to be a writhing snake in the hands of one.
They had such a different look here, a different shape of skull, a rich, golden-brown complexion in a variety of shades nothing like the folk she had grown up among in Kartu Town. Yet here and there among them walked an old woman with a brown-black complexion and round features like Priya’s, or a young man with the bronze-red coloring of the eastern desert towns along the Golden Road. These foreigners always wore bronze bracelets. On the whole, the Hundred folk were taller and more robust than the outlanders who had washed up in their lands, although some among the Hundred kind wore slave marks, just like in Kartu Town: brands, belled anklets, iron collars.
“Good silk,” she commented, indicating the bright clothing worn by women moving along the paths. Now and again someone passed by wearing a coarser weave of silk that made the quality of the other stand out in contrast.
“They’re wearing a lot of Sirniakan silk,” said Anji. “I would wager that the homespun is local silk. Nothing as good as the Sirni silk. It’s no wonder they prefer silk out of the south. Yet it makes me wonder how far the sword of the emperor reaches.”
Her heart beat faster as she thought of the burning town they had left behind together with three men and nine slaves. “Will we be safe here?”
“We will find out.” He pointed. “Look there. A troop of acrobats.”
Beyond the foot trails lay cleared ground where lithe athletes, some quite young and others remarkably old, juggled balls and balanced on rope, turned cartwheels and flips, and then did it all again. A woman of middle years strode among them, hectoring and gesturing. Mai tried but could not quite hear what she was saying. The troupers, male and female alike, were dressed in short kilts and tight sleeveless jerkins; some of the men wore no top at all. It was shocking to see so much smooth and handsome skin displayed right out in public. At the roped-off edge of the dirt field, a group of children had gathered to watch. There was even a quartet of small dogs who stood on their hind legs and turned in circles, like a dance.
She turned half around in the saddle as the field fell behind. “I wonder if they’ll perform here. If we can attend a show.”
When he didn’t answer, she turned back. They rode up to the cluster of Qin soldiers who surrounded the wagon in which the prisoner was confined. Chief Tuvi nodded as his captain fell in beside him.
“All is quiet?” asked Anji.
The chief nodded. “It is.”
Tuvi called to one of the men riding next to the wagon. The wagon had a scaffolding built over it on which planks had been nailed to form a crude shelter, with a canvas ceiling stretched over the top. The soldier leaned out to release the catch on a plank and lowered it, revealing a window into the inside. Through that gap, Mai saw a slice of the dim interior and a man’s face. In that first moment, his gaze was direct, defiant, unashamed, but then he flinched and raised a hand against the light. Tuvi nodded, and the soldier raised the plank and latched it back into place.
“He eats,” said Tuvi. “He wishes to keep up his strength.”
“I wonder what manner of justice he expects from these assizes,” said Anji. “I have spoken with the caravan masters. It seems a court is assembled of men or women from the town who have a certain respectable standing. They hear evidence, and then make a judgment by casting lots.”
Tuvi tugged at an ear. “Women? Huh.”
“Women listen and observe better than men do,” said Mai.
“I dare not argue,” said Anji in a way that irritated her.
Chief Tuvi gave her a long, careful look as he scratched at his chin and the straggle of beard growing there. “Maybe so. In the tribe, women rule on women’s matters, which are a thing men cannot judge.”
In Kartu Town, the bureaucrats of the law courts ruled on all matters brought to their attention, but these were public disputes. Within the family, of course, Father Mei was the arbiter of all decisions and the executor of all punishments. His word was the only law.
“I think I will like to see these assizes,” said Mai, “where women sit together with men on the court. And cast lots. And pass judgment.”
But she had lost them. The gazes of both men, and indeed those of all of the soldiers riding on this side of the road, had strayed to follow a thread unwinding through the foot traffic. It was almost funny to see men up and down the caravan become distracted at the sight of a tall young woman striding along one of the paths toward town, not more than fifteen paces out from the road. She had a man’s casual confidence but a woman’s eye-catching sway and shift. She wore white, a stark color compared with all the bright oranges, reds, yellows, spring greens, and jewel blues that ornamented the many women out and about their business. The hem of her white kilted skirt did not brush her knees; her white sleeveless jacket was so short that her belly button was exposed. Even the locals glanced at her with interest, the men with that lift of the chin, that pause of a gaze, that measures a woman’s attributes. Her hair was pulled back into a single braid falling halfway down her back. One of her cheeks had a purple bruise high along the cheekbone, a smear that almost reached the fine perfect shell of an ear. She was barefoot, just as all those acrobats in the field had been. Oblivious of the world, intent on her own thoughts, she was holding a reed pipe to her mouth. Her fingers pressed patterns on that slim surface, but Mai heard no tune whistling from the pipe above the rumble and creak made by the caravan’s passage.
A crack splintered the silence. A shout rose from the last third of the cavalcade. Anji turned around at once and pressed his mount forward with Mai following close behind. Men’s voices rose in tones of anger, sharp and ugly. Staffs cracked against wood and steel as blows were traded.
“Chief!” called Anji.
Qin soldiers peeled off to follow their captain. Some lengths back, the steady current had broken into an eddy. A wagon
listed to one side. Two barrels had tumbled off. One had caught in the wheels of a handcart. A man sat on the ground holding his foot. Men scuffled like wrestlers, arms to shoulders, straining and kicking, and a length of green silk was twisted in the dust.
The chief drove his horse into the middle of this, and the size and weight of the beast was enough to send men scrambling. A youth grabbed the arm of an older man just before he could punch a retreating merchant. Here were men only; as far as she had seen, no women traveled in the caravans that went down to Sirniaka.
“What! What!” cried Tuvi as Anji waited at an intimidating distance with ten soldiers fanned out to support their chief. “What trouble is this?”
They cursed at each other, shaking fists as they called out their grievances.
The first man was fat, energetic, and ready to throw blows again. “This man’s wagon has rammed into my cart and damaged my goods and my cart. He should be fined for not keeping his wagon in good repair.”
A lean man, puffing and panting, answered him in a breathless voice. “My axle pin—gone missing—you see how the other is double-looped so it won’t slip free. I’ve been sabotaged!”
Both were overtaken by a merchant splendid in gold and brown robes who clutched a supple leather pouch the size of two fists and shook it furiously. “Look here! This is my pouch of saffron. The jewel of spices and most valuable! Where do I find it? In the cart of this thief! He’s lifted it right out of my wagon, the criminal!”
The man accused of thievery was young. He gaped like a fish tossed out of the water, too dumbfounded to respond to this charge. But others were eager to voice their protests; and many more crowded forward to watch as Anji commanded a boy to run, run, and fetch the caravan master.
“My best bolt of silk, ruined by these blind oafs! Could you not watch where you are going?”
“Aui! The vessel is broken! That is finest oil of naya. Water-white. How am I to be repaid for my loss?”
“What about—my wheel—can’t fix—here on the road.”
“I want this thief taken before the assizes. This is an outrage! My saffron!”
The forward portion of the caravan rolled on, heading for Olossi. A gap opened between the forward wagons and this last third held up by the damaged wagon and the gathering crowd. Those stuck behind the breakdown were beginning to raise a clamor, and it seemed some of the merchants were ready to branch off the main road onto the secondary paths and tracks but were hesitant to move because of the presence of the dour Qin soldiers.
She felt cold, and then hot, and not only because of the cloudless sky and glaring sun. She pushed her mount through the soldiers, who reined aside to allow her to move up beside Anji. He had dismounted beside the man transporting the oil. Wiping his fingers along the crack in the sealed clay vessel, he sniffed at the oily liquid, then licked his fingers to taste it.
“Where does this come from?” he asked the merchant.
“The best seeps rise along the west shore of the Olo’o Sea, ver. Right up against the mountains, where the land cracks into fissures and ravines. In the empire, they call it ‘king’s oil.’ ”
“So they do.” Seeing Mai, Anji walked to her horse. “What disturbs you?” he asked.
She bent, to speak softly. “There is something amiss here, but I can’t explain it. It’s only a feeling I have. I’m uneasy.”
He nodded, and whistled to get Tuvi’s attention. “Take Mai and these soldiers and return to the prisoner. Send Tarn to bring up the rear guard to support me. I’ll remain here until the caravan master arrives.” He walked back to the merchant.
Mai knew an order when she heard it. She had long since learned when there is a crack and when the gate is firmly shut. She rode away with Chief Tuvi, but after all no further altercations disrupted the journey. They had almost reached the outer wall and a wide gate where all the traffic converged when Anji and the caravan master returned.
“Crow’s Gate is for merchants and goods and laborers,” the caravan master was saying. “Because you have a prisoner bound for the assizes, you’ll have to enter at Harrier’s Gate. They’ll want to quarter your soldiers outside the town as well.”
“I see,” said Anji. “Do the council members fear we’ll cause them trouble?”
Tuvi coughed.
The caravan master shrugged. “I’ll speak in your favor, certainly. You’ve met your obligation, and been true to your promise. But you have to look at it from their way of seeing. You’ve a strong force, over two hundred armed men. That’s always a threat. And you admit that you spun us a false tale, to get out of Sarida.”
“After all this, I would hate to find my faithful men taken as enemies,” said Anji.
“I’ll escort you. My journeyman can shepherd the caravan through, and I’ll meet him once you are settled.”
“I thank you for the courtesy,” said Anji gravely.
The caravan master nodded with equal solemnity.
This, Mai saw, would be the first test. They would soon learn whether foreigners like themselves had any hope of a future in the Hundred, or whether they would have to turn tail and run, knowing there was nowhere to run. But because Anji appeared collected and calm, she found her market manners and her market face, and gathered her wagon and her slaves and followed as the Qin company and their prisoner split off from the caravan now filtering wagon by wagon through Crow’s Gate.
Shai turned his mount in beside hers, since Anji had ridden ahead. “Do you think after all we’ll find no sanctuary here?” he asked nervously.
“We must wait and see.”
“You’ve a cold heart, Mai, not to be sweating!”
“Anji will pull us through.”
That made him fall silent, thank goodness!
A secondary road ran parallel to the outer walls, which were to Mai’s eye an unimpressive collection of log palisades and barriers crudely stitched together. They rode in the direction of the sea and came at length to the river’s shore. Here stood a closed gate, framed by stone and capped by a thick black beam. Two guard towers rose, one on either side, manned by archers who leaned on the rail and examined them with the intense and easygoing interest of men who have been bored beyond measure.
“What’s this?” asked the younger.
“Call Captain Waras!” called the older to unseen men behind the wall.
“I’m Master lad,” called the caravan master. “Well known here, although my family home lies in Olo Crossing. I lodge at the Seven Chukars in town, here. Any of your merchants along Stone Field will vouch for me.”
“You must speak to Captain Waras,” said the older.
The younger nudged him and pointed at Mai, and the older pursed his lips as if to whistle, thought better of it, and looked away.
They waited.
“I don’t like this,” Shai muttered.
“Hush.”
He gave her a bitter look, dismounted, and led his horse toward the river. She followed his progress with her gaze.
The field before Harrier’s Gate had most recently been used, it appeared, as pasture, cropped short and still sprinkled here and there with sheep pellets although no sheep grazed within view. Reeds and tall grass marked the course of the river, now a broad gray-blue flow spreading and slowing as it frayed into the dozen estuarine channels of the delta. Huts stood on the far bank, and a woman in bright blue silk poled a skiff into those distant reeds. The sun baked them; in patches, where bare earth showed through heavily cropped grass, the soil showed fine cracks.
Mai twitched her shawl forward to give more shade for her face.
A man came to the rail up on the river-side tower. He waved a hand. “I know you, Master lad,” he said. “You are well come back to Olossi Town!”
“Captain Waras! Well met!”
“What are these wolves you’ve brought to my gate?”
Hearing conversation, Shai hurriedly turned back.
“This company of soldiers has guarded us along the Kandaran Pass most
loyally,” Master lad continued cheerfully, although there was an edge of anxiety in his tone. “Led by this man, Captain Anji.”
“A good number,” said Captain Waras. “And foreigners, besides.” The older guard was, laboriously and rather obviously, trying to count them all, although he had to start over several times. “Do they mean to camp outside the walls tonight and depart in the morning after they’re paid? I hear there’s a caravan pointed south, ready to depart in the morning, although it’s hot to be out on the road.”
“Not at all. They hope for a further hire here in the Hundred. I’ll lay their proposal out in front of the council as soon as the council meets.”
“It’s a good number,” repeated Captain Waras. “That’s a lot of men, there.”
“They’ve done us a service—every one of us, you and me and all Olossi—when we were attacked by ospreys up in Dast Korumbos. Killed them who meant to rob and kill us. The worst kind of knaves. The ringleader was taken prisoner, an ordinand by the rank of captain and the name of Beron. We’ve brought him to stand trial at the assizes.”
Captain Waras was a considering man, the kind who wasted your time examining each and every peach before he decided that the one you had placed so carefully on top after all was the one he wanted. “We’ve had word of some trouble up West Spur. But we heard that the man in question—named Beron—was murdered.”
“Murdered! Not so. We have him right here.”
Waras gestured, and a guard tossed a rope ladder over the railing. Down this the militia captain descended. He wore a heavy leather jacket cut to hang to his knees, and its stiffness made his descent awkward. Otherwise he wore no armor except a leather cap with a pair of red ribbons laced around the rim and his hair tucked up underneath and, at his belt, a short sword. When he reached the ground, a guard, from above, tossed down a stout stick no longer than elbow to hand; it was painted in alternate stripes of red and black and weighted at one end with a shiny metal ball, like a club.
Anji dismounted. The two men surveyed each other, taking their measure.
“You’ve a strong force,” said the militia captain. “Two hundred disciplined, armed soldiers, strangers to our land. You can see we are reluctant to allow you to enter town without some surety that you’ll cause no trouble.”
