'I could kill it,' she said conversationally, above the splash. 'If I had the strength, the speed, the skill, whatever it takes, the knowledge - I could kill that spirit, and feel not a moment's guilt.'
Julianne smiled gently. 'Of course you could. And you do have what it takes. It's never said so, but I think a blessed weapon will kill a djinni as easily as an 'ifrit.'
Elisande touched the knife in her belt, in a moment's pure startlement; then she scowled and said, 'You call that easy? You want to go up against those monsters with just a dagger in your hand, blessed or not, you're welcome to it. I'll stand back and applaud.'
'Of course you will, what else? But we won't be going up against anything, 'ifrit or djinni or plain bad man, so long as we're stuck here on our own. We need them to come to us for slaughter. How can we best arrange that, do you think?'
'With Esren it's supposed to be easy, it's meant to come when I call it. And stop humouring me, or I'll wind up killing you instead.'
'What, after you showed off all that wonderful patience? Shame to spoil the effect now, don't you think?'
'Ah, maybe so. All right, you're reprieved. Not pardoned, mind. You win pardon by telling me why in hell that creature deposited us here.'
'I'd need to be a djinni myself to know that, sweet. There must be something, though - something to find, or something to wait for.'
'What do we do, then? Wait, or look?' 'Look while we're waiting, don't you think? It passes time or saves it, and either one is useful.'
Such light-hearted talk, instinctive and almost meaningless, sliding with a feather's touch over what was dark and turbulent, darker and more turbulent even than the water that scoured the sides of their small island - that talk was useful also, only that they could neither one of them keep it up. They did look around while they waited, and they lapsed into silence while they looked; and the looking couldn't do what the talking did, it couldn't even seem to buoy them up. They looked, and saw, and dark waters closed above their heads.
What they saw was a broad, flat stretch of meadow grasses, studded with boulders and meadow flowers, rising to a peak of rock at the easterly end. With a bridge to either bank, the island would surely have been given over to pasture as the banks were; its isolation had kept it wild, and beautiful in a way that those tamed acres never could be.
Beauty had no use today. There was grass, there were rocks and flowers; no matter how careful her inspection or how free her imagination, Julianne could find nothing more nor any value in that grass, those rocks, those flowers.
She looked and thought, and watched her friend; and when Elisande flung herself down on her back, full-length in the deep sweet grasses, she said, 'Secret tunnels? Hidden caves, long-lost treasures of the family?'
Elisande snorted. 'With magical properties, no doubt, that will drive all enemies back beyond our borders and ensure peace for ever? Sorry, no. We don't have legends in Surayon, only the knowledge that we found or worked out for ourselves. Some of that, most of that we've hidden from the world, but not from ourselves; we don't bury secrets. This place is called Bridge Island, because it's just downstream from the bridge. Where the bridge used to be,' her finger stabbing blindly above and behind her head, where she lay staring up at the pale sky. 'We used to invent fanciful ways to get here, when we were kids - my favourite was being carried on the wings of eagles, which is a little ironic, don't you think? - but we never tried any of them, it was only a game we played because it was impossible. And it was only impossible because there was never any point. You could graze a couple of cattle on it, but why bother, when we've got all this?' Her arms spread wide, to encompass all the broad miles of pastureland on both banks of the river. 'Land is short here, but not that short, to make it worth building a bridge to a patch of grass half the size of my grandfather's terrace.'
'So why did Esren bring us here, and why leave us?'
'Julianne, I still do not know. I have looked, and not seen; I have thought, and found no answers. Now I am waiting, as you told me to. There must be a reason. There must. Mustn't there ... ?'
And for a moment she almost broke on the question, almost cracked her calm facade against the brutal truth of her ignorance; but did not, and Julianne wanted to applaud her for that recovery and could not, for fear of seeing her lose it all again.
At times when it is simply impossible to move, there is no need to have a reason to be still.
Marron knew this of old. So surely did Elisande's djinni, it must be ancient news to all the djinn. Why then had it troubled itself - and dealing with mortal men, fleshly creatures was truly a trouble to the spirit, it had made that abundantly clear many times - to come to him unsummoned, to tell him he should stay within the palace? It must have known that he would do exactly that, without needing to be told. If he could not stay with Sieur Anton, he could not go to Jemel; if he could not ride with Jemel, he could not go to Sieur Anton. He had nothing to do, then, but remain where he was. There was nowhere else for him to go, no one else to run to. He had seen insects trapped in spilt honey, but this was not that; honey was too warm, too fresh and sweet, too life-affirming and full of hope. He had also seen insects trapped in amber, and that was this entirely: honey-gold and honey-clear, a rank pretence at being something other than it was, while it was hard as stone and dead as stone and so too was the insect that it held.
Something must happen, he supposed, eventually. While he waited - for a Sharai raiding-party or vengeful Patrics, perhaps an onslaught of 'ifrit from the sky above the valley or the rocks below, it didn't really seem to matter - he found that he was unexpectedly hungry. Seeking a breakfast would pass a little time, at least.
The cold had numbed his fingers to all feeling, the long time standing had stiffened his knees. He stamped his feet against the tingle of sluggish blood, reminding himself that he was all too human once again, he didn't have the Daughter to cover his negligence now. As witness his hunger, sudden and urgent now that he had given a name to it.
Cramped and awkward legs were slow to hurry, down the narrow turning stair; his body was swifter, above and ahead of them. He leaned his shoulder to the wall and slid as much as stepped, swiftly felt the slide run away with him and could not catch it, could find nothing to grab hold of to catch himself and so found himself descending in a rush that was almost a fall each time his feet hit stone, only saved himself with another reckless stumble forward every time.
When there were no more steps, when there was no more curving wall to support his weight and guide his shoulder round, he was going to fall truly, entirely, there was no way to avoid that. He couldn't slow his hurtling progress, all he could do was keep moving and hope not to hit too hard when he did hit, hope not to bleed too badly or hurt too much. Even as he hurtled, there was a part of his mind that snagged against the thought, that had to be reminded that pain mattered now where bleeding did not, when for all this recent time it had been almost entirely the other way around...
He could not stop himself, but someone else could stop him. He came charging out of the stairwell and into the passage below, almost flying, arms whirling in search of an impossible balance even as he felt himself lose it altogether -and his lowered head plunged suddenly into something resilient just as he heard a bark, a yelp, the strangled rush of a breath forced out by violence.
So rather than sprawling full-length on the boards and matting of the passage floor, he fell in the tangle of another man's fall. An elbow caught him above the ear, just payment for the stomach-butt; otherwise he came to ground more softly than he might have done, cushioned by the others body and the stiff embroidery of his robe.
Lying with that embroidery against his cheek, feeling the quality of it even while his eyes were still too dazed to see, Marron had a moment's time to take it in, that he had pitched over a man of rank. He had time even to wonder who it could be, when he'd thought that all the knights and lords of Surayon had ridden out to defend their country.
Below the robe below his ch
eek, he felt the man's chest stir and heave. Not dead, then - perhaps only winded, nothing worse than that. "Winded and half-crushed beneath the weight of the idiot who had brought him down, who was still lying at his ease there on the body of this his important victim...
Marron scrambled up, already stammering nonsense syllables, half a dozen beginnings to an apology he couldn't begin to shape deep enough however deep he dug. Then, seeing who it was who lay like a broken poppet on the floor at his feet there, he fell abrupdy and entirely mute.
'Marron.' The voice was cautious, on a breath that laboured for comfort and had not found it yet. 'Was there some reason for your, uh, urgency - something seen from the roof, that will not have been seen from the terrace?'
'No, sir.' There was nothing, he thought, that could be seen from the roof that would not have been seen from the terrace. But confession at least came easily to him, he'd been trained to it all his life, and it was good to tell a simple truth for once. 'Only I was hungry, so I went too fast on the stairs; and my legs were stiff with too long standing in the cold, so I lost balance, and—'
‘—And found your landing in me. I understand you perfectly. It may be that some mystical power impelled me to walk along this corridor at precisely this moment, purely in order that I might save you a cracked head. Don't you think?'
Marron thought that this was a strange morning to be making jokes. If the man was joking. It was almost impossible to tell.
'Still,' Coren went on, 'I'm relieved to hear that you've recovered one normal human appetite, at least. It grew wearing, watching Elisande and Jemel between them take note of every mouthful they could inveigle you to eat. I don't suppose that sword you wear at your belt signifies that you've also recovered a willingness to use it?'
Marron shook his head mutely. Dard was his, a gift, and so he wore it; but what it signified was another gift that he had, a gift for killing, with or without the Daughter. He wore it as a reminder, not to use it. And lacked the words to explain, and could only hope that he would be understood without. Of all men, he thought, the King's Shadow should understand; wasn't the King the same in this at least, that he kept the Kingdom as a reminder not to rule it?
'No. I could wish that you were more surprising, but then I suppose you would be less Marron, and that might be a greater pity. It's all a pity today, this is no time for nice feelings and I hate to see a great skill wasted - but more than one person has said that it's the right choice for you, so perhaps there's a purpose to it. A warrior who will not fight, a sword that's never bloodied: it sounds like a figure from a heroic tale, or one of Rudel's ballads. I admit that my own preference would be for something more down-to-earth this morning, but perhaps you should look on that as a challenge. Find a way to surprise me, Marron - other than barrelling into me, I mean, in your pursuit of breakfast. It might be best if you attended to that first, though, for fear of causing further damage to the defences of the house. I was myself heading towards the kitchens, to see what a man might glean after a long nights plotting. Shall we go together? We could pause by my daughter’s room on our way, and ask if the girls have any appetite for food.'
Among the general slipperiness of words that seemed always to mean something more than what they actually said, Marron was almost glad for the chance to seize onto a single, solid fact. Almost.
'Uh, sir, the girls .. .'
A soft thread of a sigh, anticipating unwelcome news, and, 'Yes, Marron? What of the girls, what have they done this time?'
'I don't know, sir, but — well, they're not there.' 'Ah. Again, I'm afraid you don't surprise me. Where are they?'
'I don't know,' again, and surely no surprise again. 'The djinni took them, but I don't think they knew where. I just heard them, down on the terrace ...'
'Tell me what you heard,' crisply, no slipperiness now. 'As exactly as you can, please.'
Which he did; and then there was another sigh, which carried another wealth of meaning. 'Very well. If the djinni has taken them, no doubt it will find some way to set trouble stirring around them. Though either one of those two is capable of stirring up trouble enough on her own account, let alone the two of them together.'
'Sir, I don't believe the djinni means them any harm.'
'Do you not? Well, no. Neither do I, in fact. That does not mean that harm will not result. The djinn have their own interests, which seldom coincide with ours. Witness how that one plays with Elisande, and with the oath it swore. I could wish that my daughter were more reluctant to be played with - but I trained her to be a piece in a wider game. If it is wider than I had imagined, or if she chooses to be played by rules other than my own, I suppose I can have little to complain of. I set her loose on the world, entirely as she is; my fault, then, if she wreaks havoc where she passes. But it's hard to be philosophical after a long night and before breakfast. With me, Marron, if you please.'
'Sir, I can bring you what you want, in the solar, or—'
'—Or anywhere I can be cold and alone while I eat, as befits my station? Thank you, Marron, but no. We are soldiers and comrades today, you and I: as we were before, but perhaps more so, as there's nothing in you now to confuse us. Comrades eat together, soldiers always seek the warm; which in a great house like this must always mean the kitchen. If you don't know that lesson, learn it now.'
Marron did know it, of course he did. He was a little surprised that his companion knew it first, until he remembered that the King's Shadow had earned that tide by fighting all through Outremer beside the King. Coren might have been a lordling once and become a diplomat later, but he was truly a soldier between the two. Marron had always had an eye for a good sword, and far the more so since Dard was first given to him; the broad blade that Coren wore today was no courtly ceremonial weapon, all jewels and inlay, show without strength. Rather it was a plain man’s sword, the scabbard stained and the hilt rebound with wire, the form and weight of it a generation out of fashion. No smith would make such a blade today, but any smith would respect it, any soldier recognise it: if Coren had fought his way from Tallis to Ascariel, then this was the weapon he had fought with.
Clearly, he intended to fight with it again today. Only Marron wore a sword and would not use it.
Well, let them be warriors who chose to. It was easier far to be a servant — except that the Kings Shadow would not allow it. Even when they came down the last stairs into the cavernous, low-arched spaces that were the cooks' domain, and found no cooks; found no women, no pages or scullions or anyone at all except for a group of men-at-arms with bandages, bruises, bloody scabs to show why they clustered round a table's end in their lord's palace rather than a fire in the field; even then, Coren would not allow Marron to fetch him bowl and spoon and beaker.
'I said, boy, we stand on equal terms today. As we did in the desert - which is what this palace and this valley will become, if the various passions of the various men out there come together this day. They will make a conflagration between them, and it will be generations before anything good grows again in Surayonnaise soil.'
'Does the King not support his own armies, then?' Marron demanded, stooping before a fireplace vast enough to roast an ox unbutchered and ladling two bowls of a boiling porridge of grains from where it hung in a cauldron above a bank of smoking turves. He drew a dipper of molten mutton-fat from a copper pan beside the fire and added a glistening aromatic stream to each bowl - there were herbs in the pot there with the fat, though he could not identify them - while Coren used the same time to fill two beakers with beer from a keg. 'Or his own priests?'
'They are the God's priests, not the King's.'
'They fight for the Kingdom. The Ransomers do.'
'They do — but few of the Ransomers are priests, and those who are were mosdy soldiers first. I can't answer your questions, Marron, I'm not a djinni. The King gives his support where he deems that it is needed or desirable, or so I assume. He does not explain himself, to me or any man.'
'No, but you speak for
him. I thought it was your job to explain him to other men,' to me...
A soft laugh, and, 'Would you ask me to explain what I do not myself understand? Well, yes, you might; but the King is kinder, or simply not so young. No, no, Marron. My task is to speak for him the way your mouth and tongue speak for you, no more than that. Without thought, without argument. I am more of a servant than you have ever tried to be. And a better one, I think, at least I've never run away from my master; but that's beside the point. The King is the King, Marron, and this is his Kingdom; you have simply to accept that, and not to question.'
Another day, Marron might have choked on his porridge. Without thought, without argument? This man, of all men? This morning, even a smile eluded him. Nor would he be eluded. 'You have not run from your master, but you deal with his enemies.'
'Do I?' It sounded like a genuine question, which was unfair. Marron took a breath, and spelled out his confusions.
'You are known and welcome here in Surayon, which has sealed itself off from Outremer in rebellion; and I met you in
Rhabat, where the Sharai were planning war against the Kingdom...'
'And where I was arguing as best I could against it. All of Outremer deals with the Sharai, Marron. And the Sharai deal with Outremer, for exactly the same reason. Trade with the left hand and battle with the right, its an old pattern; its old because it works. I know men who will tell you that warfare is just another form of trade. In fact, I know two girls who will tell you the same thing: one because I taught her so, the other because she's always known, by instinct, except that she believes that it's better expressed the other way around, that trade is just another form of warfare. And as for Surayon, it has never rebelled against the King; neither has he ever turned his face against it. He has always tolerated squabbles between the states.'
'This is more than a squabble, sir!'
Hand of the King's Evil - Outremer 04 Page 48
