“Your deer!” Garn grasped his sword hilt. “I spent the morning skinning it.”
The man rubbed his knee with the base of his bow. “I thanked you.”
Garn tensed. The little man back-stepped, raising the bow.
Afraid for Garn, Mitrian intervened. “Wait. Let’s talk.” She looked from Garn, his sword arm rigid, to the archer whose dark eyes studied Garn as if seeking a bull’s-eye. Uncertain what to say, Mitrian blurted. “Are you sure this is your deer?”
The little stranger smiled. “Quite certain, lady. I can see it from here. A perfect shot.” The last sentence was obviously for Garn’s benefit, as if to warn him the archer’s aim was unerring even at a distance and at a moving target. “On the left between neck and shoulder. A hardy beast to have traveled this far before falling.”
Garn’s stare never left the stranger. Reluctantly, Mitrian pulled her gaze from the men to examine the deer. Even as close as she stood, it took her a moment to find the entry wound. Brushing aside clinging tatters of pelt, she dug out a piece of arrow shaft chased with three rings. She rubbed off blood with her fingers to reveal the crest colors: one royal blue and the others gold, a perfect match to the one on the hunter’s string. Mitrian’s hopes fell. “He’s right. It’s his kill.”
Garn seemed unimpressed. “Go away. I cleaned it. I’ll eat it.”
The hunter plucked at his string. Garn bunched, whipping his sword from its sheath. Mitrian spoke hurriedly. “Surely, there’s enough meat for all of us.” She glanced from Garn to the stranger and back.
Still coiled, Garn nodded.
The redhead lowered his bow. “Deal,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment. I left my missy in the scrub.” He disappeared as silently as he had come.
Mitrian tossed more sticks on the fire. Garn tore the last clumps of fur from the deer, gaze straying repeatedly to the glade into which the hunter had disappeared.
Shortly, the stranger returned, leading a long-eared, horselike creature with a pack strapped to its back. He looped the lead rope around a crag near Garn’s stolen mare, and the animals sniffed noses, nostrils widely flared. Turning his back on the creature, the archer faced Garn and Mitrian, still carrying the bow and quiver. “My name’s Arduwyn.” He looked down at the mutilated carcass and winced. “Who are you that never learned the proper way to skin a deer?”
“Garn.” The ex-gladiator seemed unmiffed, not recognizing the comment as an insult.
“I’m Mitrian.” Mitrian turned the conversation back to Arduwyn. “What’s an archer doing alone in barren hills?”
“Hunter,” Arduwyn corrected. “Or woodsman.” He waved Garn away from the kill, knelt and drew an ivory-handled skinning knife shorter and thicker-bladed than Garn’s, its tip a dull semicircle. Arduwyn did not carry a sword on his person, though Mitrian could see the curved tip of a scimitar roped against his animal’s pack. “Archer implies soldier. I don’t make my living killing men.” He glanced up. “Though I’m quite capable of it,” he added quickly, apparently for Garn’s benefit. Removing his cloak and shirt to reveal a ribby, almost hairless chest, he set to work gutting and butchering the deer.
The reek of deer innards and blood radiating from Garn made Mitrian wish he had thought to remove his shirt as well. Soon enough, we’ll buy new clothes. Suddenly, she realized Arduwyn had never answered her question. She rephrased it. “All right then. What’s a hunter doing alone in these barren hills?”
Arduwyn hacked and pried at the deer with a skill that could only come from long years of practice. Yet his face twisted in concentration, an expression Mitrian attributed to her question. He looked from Garn to Mitrian thoughtfully, as if trying to decide whether they could be trusted. At length, he replied, “I stopped for a few supplies at one of the small villages at the foot of the hills.” He gestured westward. “There, I received a letter written in the trading language. Because of the poor quality of the handwriting and a series of smudges, neither I nor anyone in the village could read it. They told me there was a larger town on the other side of the hills.” He gestured eastward. “Many of its citizens read, and the trading tongue is their native language, so I thought they might do better with it.”
Aware Arduwyn was headed toward the Town of Santagithi, Mitrian sucked in her breath. The possibility of an escort home intrigued her, but small, scrawny Arduwyn hardly seemed much protection against bandits. Besides, I promised I’d get Garn supplies before leaving him, she rationalized, not daring to admit she would sorely miss him. And I need supplies of my own. She glanced toward Garn and saw his hand creeping toward his sword hilt. With alarm, she realized his concern. Anyone in the Town of Santagithi would recognize Arduwyn’s descriptions of Garn and herself, and the use of their real names could only add proof to his story.
Arduwyn swept the deer’s innards into a pile, oblivious to Garn’s threat.
Quickly, Mitrian caught Garn’s sword hand and clasped it between both of her own. “Perhaps I can save you the trip. I read the trading tongue.”
Arduwyn studied Mitrian. A doubtful frown creased his face, easing into a thoughtful smile.
Garn gently freed his fingers from Mitrian’s grip. To her relief, he did not reach for his weapon again but awaited Arduwyn’s reply.
“It can’t hurt to try,” Mitrian encouraged.
“No, I don’t suppose it could.” Arduwyn did not sound convinced by his own words. “Certainly no more dangerous than having the message read in a town.” He spoke more to himself than to Mitrian. Finally, he came to a decision. “Thank you. I’d appreciate your help. I’ve never had anyone send me a message before, and I can’t imagine why anyone would want to. Naturally, I keep thinking of all the worst possibilities.”
“Naturally,” Mitrian agreed, trying to soothe. If Arduwyn refused her and headed for the Town of Santagithi, Garn would have to try to stop the flame-haired hunter. Garn said he hated killing, but his freedom is too important to risk. He barely knows how to keep up a normal conversation, let alone talk a stranger out of going to my father’s town. Mitrian harbored little doubt. No matter his good intentions, Garn is still trained to handle his problems with violence. If Arduwyn insists on going to the town, Garn will kill him. Killing in battle is one thing. I can’t be a party to murder.
Arduwyn continued speaking, apparently unaware of Mitrian’s concerns. “All I ask is that you read the entire message aloud, no matter what it says, that you give me a chance to tell my side, and that, regardless of the contents, we’ll still share dinner.”
Garn relaxed.
Mitrian suppressed a smile at Arduwyn’s fears. What could be worse than being an escaped gladiator? “Agreed,” she said. Then, using the hunter’s expression, “Deal. Let’s get some meat on the fire, and I’ll read while it’s cooking.”
Arduwyn carved out the venison tenderloins, heart, and liver. Then he had Garn help him construct a spit and set the meat to roast. That settled, Arduwyn washed his hands and arms in one of the larger puddles, pulled his shirt and cloak back on, and trotted to his pack animal.
Garn looked up from the fire. “What is that thing?” He pointed at the pack beast.
Arduwyn removed the pack and scimitar from his animal’s back, pausing to assess the direction of Garn’s question. “Who, Stubby girl?” He patted the thick, gray flank. “She’s a donkey.”
Garn glanced at Mitrian, who shrugged. She had never seen its like before either.
Arduwyn rummaged through the pack. “She’s like a rotten-tempered pony with half the brains and twice as stubborn.” He removed a folded scrap of parchment from the pack and closed the flap. “But she’s an old friend.” He carried the note to Mitrian, frowning at the gory, foul-smelling pile of deer guts as he passed.
Guessing at his thoughts, Mitrian reached for the message. “We’ll clean up later. Let’s take care of this first.”
Reluctantly, Arduwyn surrendered the message.
Mitrian opened it. Neat rows of lettering filled her vi
sion, the only smudges from dirty fingerprints in the margins. Arduwyn said something about poor handwriting and smearing. Mitrian started to contradict him but closed her mouth before the words came out. I’ve seen it before, men too proud to admit they can’t read. Santagithi required his traders and officers to learn to read at least the common trading tongue, and he encouraged his other citizens to learn as well. Any guard hoping for promotion made the effort. Those unable to understand the complexities of written language often tried to hide their ignorance behind elaborate lies. No need to embarrass Arduwyn.
Arduwyn fidgeted at Mitrian’s delay.
Clearing her throat, Mitrian read aloud:
Dear Arduwyn:
I know how much the forests mean to you and how they call you with a passion no woman can match. I always knew you would leave us but always expected you would say “good-bye.” We’ve been friends too long for me to hold such an offense against you. I forgive you. For Bel, it’s not so easy. She misses your stories, and, I suspect, the company you were to her those days you didn’t hunt. Rusha keeps asking about her Uncle ’dune.
I hope this letter finds you well, if it finds you at all. Things are not so good for me. I’ve just discovered I have the Trembles. I’m still getting around, and I should be able to continue working for the next few months or years. Eventually, we all know it will kill me. I have no family to take in Bel, and hers lives so far away. I apologize for laying such a burden on you, but I can think of no one else I would trust with the lives and future of my family. If you can find the time, please come back. I’d like to see you one more time before I die.
* * *
Mitrian could not make out the signature. “It’s signed by someone whose name begins with K.” She glanced up at Arduwyn.
Tears blurred the hunter’s dark eyes, and he turned away.
Garn flipped the meat, the brief sizzle and plop loud in a suddenly uncomfortable silence.
Arduwyn’s sobs disarmed Mitrian. She had never seen a man cry openly before. Her townsfolk would look upon it as a sign of weakness. She imagined he was mourning the health of his dying friend, but, ignorant of the hunter’s past, she felt uncertain how to comfort him. She knelt beside him. “This person who wrote the letter. She was an old friend?”
“He. Kantar is a he.” Arduwyn avoided Mitrian’s gaze, hands clenched over his face. “We grew up together.”
“I understand,” Mitrian said. She started to rise, believing Arduwyn might prefer being alone with his sorrow.
But Arduwyn caught Mitrian’s forearm and tugged her back down beside him. He met her gaze directly, his eyes soft and brown, bewildered as a yearling lamb’s. “I need to talk to someone. May I?”
Mitrian nodded, shocked that Arduwyn would choose to confide in a stranger.
“Kantar has a wife, Bel, and three children.” Arduwyn looked away. “The one he mentioned, Rusha, she’s the youngest. I lived with them in Pudar for a time.”
Mitrian patted Arduwyn’s hand encouragingly. By the fire, Garn appeared annoyed by their closeness, but he simply listened, saying nothing.
“Bel is plump, dark-haired, strong. Not pretty by some standards, but attractive in other ways.” Arduwyn kicked at a rock outcropping, still evading Mitrian’s eyes. “She was Kantar’s wife. I wanted to like her, so I made every effort to get to know her.” He fell silent.
“And?” Mitrian prompted.
“And,” Arduwyn finished. “I liked her. I liked her a lot.” He raised his head as if to meet Mitrian’s eyes at last, but his gaze rolled beyond her to the fire. “And she liked me.”
Understanding seeped slowly into Mitrian’s brain. “You slept with her,” she guessed, not wanting to drag out the conversation any longer than necessary.
“Firfan, yes.” Arduwyn blasphemed a god unfamiliar to Mitrian, and he seemed more serene for having confessed the sin. “Bel’s a wonderful woman, and I couldn’t trust myself not to do it again. But Kantar’s wife. . . .” He choked on the words. “I had to leave.”
Now Arduwyn met and held Mitrian’s gaze, his expression pleading.
Mitrian knew he wanted advice, but she did not feel qualified to give it. She had heard enough town gossip to know the unmarried men and women often risked sex; Listar’s attempts brought the idea vividly home. Occasionally, an unexpected pregnancy preceded marriage, surrounded by whispered condemnations of the mother or speculations about the father. Mitrian had even learned to accept that the guards who accompanied Nantel to the west often cheated on their wives. But she doubted any man would forgive a friend sleeping with his woman. The only instance she could recall had resulted in one guard challenging and killing the other.
To Garn, the answer was simple. He spoke with confidence, as if he had the only solution and it was obvious. “You take care of your responsibilities. That woman needs you, and that man deserves to see his friend one more time. You owe him that courtesy. Then . . .” A snarl entered Garn’s voice. “. . . you never lie with another man’s woman again.”
Arduwyn sagged, but Garn pursued, relentless.
“Having a woman is a privilege not every man has. There’s no excuse for mistreating her. If you think you’re worthy of Bel, marry her and leave the other women alone. If you’re not, let a better man have her.” Piece finished, Garn returned to the fire.
Mitrian stared, more surprised by Garn’s words than by Arduwyn’s abashed silence. She knew his romantic ideals came from living in a cage, deprived of the simple luxuries most men looked upon as rights. Since their argument the previous night, Garn had not mentioned her decision to return home. Yet his tirade made it clear that it pained him. Unnerved, Mitrian returned her attention to Arduwyn. “Did that help?”
Arduwyn did not address Mitrian’s question directly but his words were as much answer as statement. He took the parchment from Mitrian and crumpled it in his fist. “I’m going back to Pudar.”
Pudar. Arduwyn’s words gave Mitrian an idea. As much as I need an escort home, Garn could use someone to help him adjust to freedom and the Westlands. She glanced over Arduwyn’s frail frame doubtfully. He’ll be more useful to Garn as a guide than to me as a bodyguard. “Pudar? What a coincidence. That’s where Garn’s headed.”
Garn jerked up his head, obviously displeased with Mitrian’s assertion.
Undaunted, Mitrian continued, phrasing her request to try to please both men. “Garn doesn’t speak the Western tongue, and he’s never been out of our city before. He could use a guide to lead him as far west as possible, especially one who knows how to gather food and find water.”
Garn’s face crinkled in thought, and Arduwyn’s expression became wary. “I’m used to traveling alone,” the hunter asserted. “Fast and quietly in the woods. I’m not interested.”
Mitrian frowned, gathering her thoughts. After manipulating Rache into sword lessons, Nantel into training her with a bow, and Listar into forging a sword, she had developed a certain confidence in her ability to persuade. Arduwyn’s caution and familiarity with the West and his quick and winning confidences seemed too useful to discard without a fight. She glanced at the pile of deer innards, nose bunching in disgust, and the sight gave her an idea. “Garn, your clothes are already dirty. Would you mind throwing this stuff somewhere so we don’t have to smell it while we’re eating?”
Garn nodded good-naturedly, gathered the guts, and headed into the glade.
Arduwyn was not so easily fooled. A tolerant smile formed on his features. The moment Garn stepped beyond earshot, he spoke. “What did you want to talk about?”
Time limited, Mitrian did not mince words. Opening the pouch of gems that Garn had stolen from her room, she plucked out the largest gem from the remaining collection, a fist-sized garnet, its grainy surface casting ruddy reflections on her palm.
Arduwyn’s lips parted. He pursed them quickly, but not before revealing his interest in her proposition.
“I can pay,” Mitrian said unnecessarily. “In advance.” She
offered the stone.
Arduwyn’s fingers headed for it instinctively. He stopped before touching it, and his hand retreated. He smiled at some private thought. “Why would you pay me to travel with Garn?”
Mitrian wriggled her fingers, bobbling the garnet enticingly. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.” Arduwyn looked off in the direction Garn had taken. “Very much. For all the gem’s worth, my life is worth more.” He twisted back, pointing at the garnet. “How many enemies would this buy me?”
Mitrian closed her fist over the garnet. “None necessarily.” She sighed. Arduwyn deserved as much of the truth as she could give him. He was honest with us, sharing his embarrassing secret. I’ve come too far to give up now. Another thought made her draw in her breath. Besides, I might have just gotten him interested enough to continue on to the town and see how much my father would pay him to lead the guards to Garn. “Look, the truth is that Garn’s been sheltered. He’s never left home. He’s never had to get his own food or water. He only knows one language. He’s never had to bargain or deal much with people.” Measuring her words carefully, Mitrian did not notice she had described herself nearly as well as Garn.
Arduwyn made an impatient gesture. “Garn was a slave, wasn’t he?”
Mitrian gaped, too stunned to care that her expression gave away the truth. “How could you possibly know that?”
Arduwyn combed down a spiky, red lock with his fingers. “I’ve taught myself to notice things. Those scars on Garn’s wrists looked like chain marks to me.” He shrugged. “Mind you, that doesn’t bother me. Most of the cities I consider worth living in don’t have slavery. Pudar is one, and it’s a good place to get lost in, too. The people are too used to strangers to question.” He glanced at Mitrian. Then, apparently realizing his words had completely disarmed her, he continued. “What I need to know is who Garn’s enemies are, how strong, and if they caught us, would they spare me. For that much money, I can understand a certain amount of danger. But my death’s going to have to cost you more, and I’d kill myself before I’d let anyone lock me in a cage.”
The Last of the Renshai Page 28
