The Black Wolves

by Kate Elliott

  “It is understandable things seem strange in a new place, verea.” At a signal from her aunt, Iadit tugged a large rolled-up mattress from the shelves, unrolled it, and briskly dressed it with linen as Welo continued speaking. “Private stairs behind this screen lead down to a washroom and a sand toilet that a man rakes clean every day. If you need us, Iadit and I will be down the stairs in the kitchen wing. Do not hesitate to disturb us, verea.”

  “My thanks.”

  They left. She set down the bag and cast the shawl onto the bed. Barefoot she crept down the back steps, so narrow her shoulders almost brushed either wall, and at the base discovered sandals woven from reeds for her to slip on so she could relieve herself. Afterward she washed in a separate chamber with a brass washtub and cold water piped through bamboo. She pulled on a gauzy nightshift conveniently left beside the towels.

  Upstairs, she ventured onto the private enclosed balcony, where she discovered rice wine, pear juice enlivened with ginger, and a tray of food: sweetened bean curd wrapped in a woven latticework of noodles, thin slices of beef, grilled fish, melon carved into the shape of a bird.

  The sound of a stark gasp jolted her.

  She raised the lamp to reveal a young man seated in the shadowed corner.

  “I have servants here,” she said as calmly as she could manage past her racing heart. “I can scream. I will throw the lamp at you. Hot oil scalds.”

  A shallow saucer-like wine cup rested in his upraised palm. His eyes were wide with astonishment.

  “How in the hells did you get that scar?” he asked in the friendly tone of a man who is happily drunk and therefore not yet maudlin or cruel. He had an attractive face, long black hair bound up in the topknot worn by military men, and the look of a person not at all concerned that he is sitting where he ought not be.

  “I will consider telling you the answer to your boringly obvious question if you will tell me who you are … No. Wait. Perhaps I would rather not know.”

  He grinned, egging her on.

  She raised her free hand to brush her left cheek. “Is it that frightful?”

  “Not at all. It’s a striking white curve, as delicate as the most perfect brushwork on a masterfully glazed bowl. It has the flare of a crescent moon, as if you were kissed by the old goddess Atiratu the Huntress, not that I mean any insult since I know you have your own gods and my people worship at the shrine of Beltak but that’s really only for political reasons if you see what I mean. But what kind of cut would leave such a scar as that? That’s what I can’t figure.”

  Her anger had drained away at the mention of moons and flares and kisses and perfection, and she was growing increasingly more curious. “Are you drunk or do you always talk like this?”

  He saluted her with the cup. “Drunk with your beauty.”

  She stifled a giggle, for the gesture was both theatrical and somehow sweet. “Yet I note you have not yet drunk from the cup, not in my seeing. So I must conclude you are a criminal about some complicated fraud. Or a reckless ne’er-do-well with more hair than wit sneaking about where he is not wanted. Or you are Gilaras Herelian.”

  He gestured again with the cup to acknowledge her accuracy but by his tone he sounded a trifle disappointed. “Can I not be all three?”

  “I forgot the fourth possibility.”

  His grin flashed with such brilliance that it hit her like a blow. She caught in her breath.

  He leaned forward. “Please do tell me.”

  “A reeve warned me I would be a swan among feral dogs.”

  “She must have seen your beautiful face.”

  She shook her head to warn him off his nonsense. “Do you honestly expect me to believe you think my face is beautiful?”

  “It is beautiful to me.”

  She wanted to make him smile again, and wanting anything from him made her speak tartly. “My face? Or my treasury?”

  He rocked back, spilling a few drops of wine. “My dearest … May I call you Sarai-ya? I have been at some pains to ascertain what the correct form might be and no one seems to know.”

  Sarai-ya was the form of her name used as an endearment. For a moment she could not speak and could scarcely breathe, not knowing what the bright laughter in his eyes meant.

  He had already gone on, taking her silence for assent. “Treasury used in that way is a poet’s allusion to a woman’s…” He essayed a tight oval with his cupless hand.

  Perhaps she ought to have blushed but instead she laughed. “Do you really think my face is beautiful and hope my treasury may be likewise, or are you most struck by the beauty of my abundant chests of coin, which are meant to restore your family’s fortunes and, it appears, your own? For if the story I hear is accurate, then you are an irresponsible troublemaker whose only value to your clan is that you are the last man among them who carries a treasury of his own.”

  “No, no, a man doesn’t have a treasury.” There blazed the smile again. “He has eggs or sacks and a … Do I need to go on?”

  She raised the lamp. “Are you blushing?”

  “No more than you are!”

  He set down the cup on a side table whose wood was inlaid with a mosaic of flowers and vines, astonishing work that distracted her briefly. The steadiness of his hand gave him away.

  “You’re just pretending to be drunk to give yourself an excuse to have crept up here where you are not meant to be. In case I objected, or someone caught you.”

  He studied her in silence for long enough that she quirked an eyebrow.

  He shrugged. “We are meant to meet tomorrow when the contract is sealed and your abundant chests of coin handed over into my family’s coffers. I wanted to see and speak to you before the rest get their claws in. They’re lilu, all of them.”

  “Lilu are demons who suck the juice and life out of their prey. I’m surprised you would compare your family to demons.”

  “You won’t be once you meet them. Never trust them, no matter how pleasantly they greet you. They connived over what hirelings to insinuate into the household so they could spy on us. I arranged for these hirelings myself. Welo and I are old friends from back when she cooked at the wrestling guild I briefly attended. Iadit was my first lover although that was some years ago…” He paused, taking in the expression that pinched her face.

  It seemed odd for him to so casually remark on the fact. She wondered if he thought it such a commonplace admission that she would find it of no significance. “Your first lover?”

  “Yes, we were both sixteen and eager to try it out. It was enjoyable enough but she isn’t really my type. She’s not got enough flesh on her. Anyway she was already sure she preferred women. She needed a trusted friend to see if men held any interest.”

  She spoke more sharply than she intended. “If you were her only male lover how could she know if it was men in the entirety or just you she found unexciting?”

  “A point I long worried over as a dog worries over a bone, you can be sure! But I tell you all this so you know I trust Iadit more than I trust my own sister, which I admit is not saying much. Iadit is the one who kicks me when I’m an idiot and an ass.”

  “Are you often an idiot and ass?”

  “As often as possible. I hate my life.”

  “Does she trust you?”

  He slapped a hand to his gut as at a hit. “There’s the blade wielded against me. I like to think she does but I’m not sure I can be trusted. I like you, and you being a sensible, calm, attractive, and clever woman is far more than I expected.”

  “Is that what you came to tell me?”

  At last he took the cup, sipped, and offered it to her as if sharing a cup of warm rice wine between them meant something to him that she did not understand, a pledge or an oath. Cautiously she took it and sipped in turn. The wine had a soft flavor, not too sweet or too dry.

  “I don’t know what I meant to say when I first saw you come in,” he admitted, watching her set down the cup beside the lacquered tray of food as if the
shape of her hand fascinated him. “It’s the scar. Not that it’s ugly, not at all. It’s just so visible and large and unexpected that it startled me. Having said such a rude thing to start I suppose I feel I can say anything and it won’t offend you.”

  “You haven’t tried very hard to offend me.”

  His gaze brushed up to her uncovered hair. “Do you have horns?”

  She threw the wine into his face.

  The dimpling smile and merry wit vanished as wine dribbled down his skin. Bitterness creased his eyes, a glimpse into the feral dog. “I saw horns on a dead Silver man. No longer than my thumb.”

  Shaking, she stood. “Please stop. I liked you until just now.”

  He rose and retreated to the balcony’s lattice screen. “My apologies, Sarai-ya. I’m accustomed to saying whatever I want, and the more crass the better.”

  “To speak of such matters is forbidden.” All the years the taboo had been hammered in fell like a bolt on her tongue: Men may never witness women’s magic. No woman may speak of men’s horns. If she could have scoured out her ears and unheard his words, she would have.

  He wiped wine from his cheeks like tears. “I truly did not hope to offend. Best if I go.”

  “Why did you say it if you didn’t hope to offend?”

  He watched her cautiously. “Because I’m curious. Wouldn’t you be?”

  If he was angry at her for throwing the wine she saw no sign of it. “I would be curious, too. You shouldn’t have said it. But I’m sorry about the wine.”

  “No, it was the right thing to do. I thought it was charming.”

  “Charming? To toss wine in your face?”

  He smiled. “I truly am sorry. Please forgive my rudeness. I will see you tomorrow.”

  He unlatched a section of the lattice although to her eyes it looked like a single piece.

  “Are there hidden hooks? A secret ladder?”

  “There are hooks but no ladder. The vines are strong enough to hold my weight if you know where to put your hands and feet. Do you want me to show you?”

  “In my nightshift?”

  “I had noticed you’ve nothing on beneath it, because the fabric is thin and the light is behind you. Not that there’s any reason you should have anything on beneath. I usually sleep naked. Which is something you may discover for yourself. If you wish.”

  She ought to have been embarrassed but she was going to marry this man tomorrow.

  She took the chance to look him over: The way his mouth could smile or sulk. The scuffed and worn knees of his leather trousers, cut like those worn by reeves and meant for climbing and running. His dimple peeping out as he watched her peruse him from top to bottom and up again as if he guessed she was measuring what he might look like without clothes.

  He came here to be honest, she thought. He came here to defy them.

  “It’s a sword cut,” she said.

  He whistled, taken aback. “The scar is a sword cut. How did you survive it?”

  She touched the scar on her cheek. “My mother was cut down by soldiers while she was holding me. The sword cut peeled away a flap of skin on my cheek. Exposed down to the bone, I am told. My clan calls it the mark of my shame.”

  “The hells!” Unexpectedly he took her hand in his and kissed the tips of her fingers, each one in turn. His lips were cool and dry. “We will make you the prize of court, Sarai-ya. Women will paint scars on their faces and hope to look like you.”

  Lamplight made his skin glow. His nose was slightly crooked as if it had been broken. It was charming. He was charming.

  Perhaps she leaned closer or perhaps he did. His breath misted her scarred cheek. Lifting her chin brought her mouth up. They kissed lightly the first time like a brush testing paper, then a second time more deeply with a thrill that flowed down her skin and into her genitals.

  A shrill whistle penetrated the quiet of the space. Breaking off, they both blinked. It took her a moment to remember where she was and why she was here.

  “The hells,” he said, releasing her hand. “That’s the watch. I have to go before the gates close at midnight. Tomorrow then, Sarai-ya.”

  He swung open the secret door and climbed down into the dark pool of the garden. The scratch and creak of his passage on the vines made a kind of music as she breathed through the pounding of her heart. When he was gone, she paced herself back to stillness.

  But the calm was a lie.

  Years ago she had made a journey in the back of a wagon through no volition of her own, an abandoned infant born in shame, irrevocably tainted. For so long she had believed she had no choice but to make herself content with scraps. Now she had fetched up on a new shore at her own choosing. The curse of longing she had spent all her life crushing into silence burst so hard in her heart that it hurt, but this time the pain made her smile.

  25

  Gil found his friends in a riverside tavern called the Drunken Fish.

  “What took you so long?” Tyras made an effort to get up and decided against it when he couldn’t keep his legs under him. “Did you get into the lower palace?”

  “I told you he couldn’t.” For once Kasad looked less drunk than Ty.

  “Did you see your betrothed? Does she have horns?”

  “I’m tired,” Gil snapped, suddenly bored. “I’m going home.”

  Kasad began to sing “He Climbed Up to Her Open Window.”

  Something about Kasad’s smirk spiked the mellow pleasure Gil had taken in his secret expedition. His temper had been sleeping but it all went sour before Kasad got to the lewd chorus.

  His hands went to fists.

  Tyras passed out, slumping over the table.

  Kasad broke off the tune, and for an instant Gil thought he meant to apologize.

  “My father the king knows about your betrothal, Gil. Beware. He’s going to ask to have her brought to his audience hall to make her obeisance before him.”

  He drawled out the word obeisance. Gil hauled Kasad to his feet, jostling the low table. Rice wine spilled in streams. Tyras sprawled limply, an arm flopping to the floor.

  “I will put my fist in your face or possibly up your fucking ass. Shut the hells up.”

  Kasad was drunk enough to laugh. Seeing how many people in the tavern had turned to look, Gil dropped him. Kasad sat heavily.

  Everyone knew them here. Over in one corner a group of young men who nipped at his and Kas’s and Ty’s heels like hopeful suitors were watching. A young Silver man who was trying to graze his way into the inner court circles sat with a number of younger sons and junior military captains. Curse it! Wasn’t this fawning Silver a cousin to Sarai-ya?

  Gil righted the table, picked up all the fallen cups, adjusted Tyras’s head so that if he threw up he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit, and tossed a pair of leya to the man tending the counter to pay for the mess.

  “I was just joking!” said Kasad as he rubbed a smear of blood from his bleeding nose.

  Gil did not even recall punching him.

  “You should be the last one to joke about your father the king lusting after women. One of my brothers died because of a war your father fought so he could kidnap your mother.”

  Kasad boiled up and punched Gil so hard in the chest that he staggered back, coughing, and slammed into the men seated behind them.

  The men nervously righted him and shoved him back toward Kasad.

  The prince faced him, both fists raised. “The king fought the war to save the Hundred from outlaws, bandits, and raiders, you ass. Your brothers lost their balls because of your father’s treachery. Don’t blame the king for that.”

  The entire tavern had gone quiet.

  Gil was still trying to catch his breath from the force of Kasad’s punch.

  Kasad closed the gap between them as the men they had disturbed scrambled to get out of the way. He leaned close, his wine-soaked breath flying like a lover’s chance-met promise along Gil’s cheek. “Leave my mother out of this or any public dispute.”
<
br />   Gil sucked in air. “Leave my wife out of this or any public dispute. I’ll kill your father if he tries to touch her just to add her as a prize curiosity to his warehouse of conquests.”

  Kasad laughed and, putting an arm around Gil, whispered into his ear. “If you do kill him, give me warning so I can hide before Farihosh becomes king and Queen Chorannah finally succeeds in having me murdered the way they do in the empire to less powerful sons.”

  The words froze Gil to the bone. “Fuck your brothers and their mother, too! I’ll not let anyone murder you. Unless I kill you.”

  Kasad broke off the embrace with a kiss and shook free. “My loyal Gilaras! You did sneak into the lower palace, didn’t you? You saw her. That’s what’s put you in this raw felting.”

  When in the hells had Kasad gotten so observant? Gil turned away before Kasad could scrutinize his expression. “I have to go. Take Ty home, will you? Before he chokes on himself.”

  From across the room the young Silver was gazing at him as though hopeful of gaining his notice, so Gil made the gesture called hail, my friend commonly used in the staged plays adapted from the talking stories: When two characters first met, the audience would know without needing any further explanation that the two people already knew and trusted each other. The lad brightened as if a hundred lamps had just been lit around him. His companions slapped his back.

  Chatter started up again as Gil went out onto the porch and squinted for his sandals. Weariness dragged at his limbs. He hailed a pair of men in charge of a drab litter and let them convey him through Flag Quarter to the large compound facing Banner Square that was Clan Herelia. The gate guards paid the litter-bearers. It was still early enough that the family audience hall and the evening parlor were lit, many voices rising as the family celebrated their triumph. He hugged the shadows and made it to the tiny cubicle where he rarely slept. No one had replenished the water in the washing pitcher, curse them. They never bothered to take care of him or notice where he was or what he was doing unless he got into trouble. After he pulled the lumpy bedding out of the closest and unrolled it, he took the pitcher to the well in the back courtyard, did his business, and went to sleep.