The Jackal of Nar

by John Marco

  "I will tell him," said Dyana. She explained it all to the war master, who made a disgruntled face but seemed to comply, calling over one of the warriors and giving him a list of explicit instructions. Dyana smiled at Richius. "All right?"

  "I suppose," replied Richius. "Now let's find those beds."

  They followed Jarra across the grounds, careful to stay as far as possible from the war wolves still leashed in the yard. Shani gurgled as they neared the looming castle. Dyana rocked her gently to quiet her. There was a huge gate of wrought iron to greet them. They passed through it silently and entered the keep. Inside they found the same careless architecture that marked the castle's exterior. The walls bulged with uneven brickwork and a few broken chandeliers hung crookedly from the ceiling on chains of tarnished gold. What sparse furnishings there were consisted mostly of wooden chairs and tables, all plain and utilitarian, strewn haphazardly throughout the hall. The floor was irregular and tiled with cracked blue stones, and dirtied sunlight poured into the room from an odd collection of octagonal windows cut into the walls in lopsided trios.

  Yet despite all the antiquity of the place, it was not dreary. Activity sounded in the halls, and above them the warped ceiling thumped with movement on the upper floor. A coursing excitement permeated the keep and the air was fresh through the open windows. Smiling warriors pushed by them, and eager children clung to the hems of their mothers' dresses. Dogs barked and wolves howled, and it was all like a carnival to Richius, who had never guessed his nemesis capable of fostering such emotion in his people.

  Jarra led them up a small flight of stairs leading to a sunny wing of the castle decorated with tall, multipaned windows and a reasonable view of an overgrown garden. A warped wooden door stood at the end of the hall leading to a sunlit chamber. This, Jarra explained, was where Richius would be staying. It was a small room but well appointed, with a desk and some chairs and, most importantly, a thick-mattressed bed. On the desk was a tablet of writing paper and several maps, and beside these someone had placed a decanter of water and a basket of bread and fruit. Richius chose a perfectly ripe apple from the basket and handed it to Dyana, who accepted it gratefully.

  "This is fine," he said cheerfully. "Just fine. But what about you, Dyana? Where will you be?"

  "The Dumaka says that I am to stay with Voris' wife," said Dyana angrily. "I do not think the warlord trusts me."

  "Oh, he trusts you," said Richius. "It's me he wants to keep an eye on. Don't worry. You can come down here to instruct me."

  Dyana shook her head. "I cannot. Richius, we spoke of this already. We must not make others suspicious." She cocked her head slightly toward the listening Jarra. "We will find a more open place for your instructions."

  Richius smiled at her. "Of course. I'll see you later then?"

  "At the evening meal. The Dumaka says we are both to attend. It is Voris' wish. It will be at sundown."

  "I'll probably be asleep by then," said Richius. "Will you come down to get me?"

  "No. I will meet you in the hall where we came in." With her face hidden from Jarra, she flashed Richius a smile. "Sleep well. I will see you tonight."

  Richius watched them disappear down the hall, then shut the door to his chamber behind them. He went back to the basket of fruit and selected a piece for himself, a fist-sized citrus with dimpled skin and the scent of a powerfully ripe melon. A spray of juice erupted as he peeled back its pithy skin. There had been precious little good food on the long journey to the castle, and far less privacy. Now he was enjoying both with equal vigor. He sat down on the bed and leaned back against the wall, watching the trees sway outside his window as he ate.

  In less than a minute he was asleep.

  When he awoke, many hours later, the sunlight had stopped pouring in from the garden window. Richius lifted himself groggily from the mattress, surprised by the heaviness of his head. He rubbed his eyes and strained to see in the dim chamber, remembering suddenly that there was a dinner waiting for him downstairs. Hungrily he patted his stomach, eager to fill it. He was growing curiously accustomed to the odd cuisine of Lucel-Lor, and the thought of it no longer sent his insides pitching. There was a mirror on the wall farthest from the bed. He went to it, running his hands through his hair and inspecting the red creases the mattress had made on his face. It was then that he noticed the clothing.

  While he slept, someone had deposited a new outfit in his chamber. It consisted of a plain white shirt and a pair of doeskin trousers, simple Triin clothes like those worn by farmers. He picked up the shirt and admired it. It was wonderfully clean, and his own shirt was soiled beyond recognition. The trousers were well-made, too, comfortable looking, with a drawstring front that made a belt unnecessary. Eagerly he stripped off his filthy clothes and pulled on the trousers, sucking in his breath while he did up the drawstrings. It was a reasonable fit, and the soft fabric felt marvelous against his skin. Then he grabbed the shirt and put it on, too, fastening each button slowly as he watched himself in the little mirror, laughing gleefully at his reflection. In the strange outfit he looked neither like a Naren or a Triin. Rather he seemed an odd mix of both. He decided the look suited him.

  Downstairs, the main hall of the castle was almost deserted. He skirted along its perimeter looking for Dyana and hoping Voris would not find him first. Outside he could see the sky darkening through the octagonal windows. Dyana should be waiting for him. He turned a corner and started down another corridor, empty except for a man and a woman he didn't know, just beginning a passionate kiss. They both started at his appearance, and the man straightened in embarrassment as he recognized Richius. Richius smiled at him awkwardly.

  "I'm sorry," he offered. "I'm looking for someone."

  The warrior sort of shrugged. "Ja coca vin?"

  "Hmm, maybe. I don't understand a word you're saying. And you don't understand me, either, do you? Never mind. I'll find her myself."

  He left the corridor quickly, going back the way he had come, trying to find the little staircase he had descended and deciding to wait there for Dyana. But when he slipped by a small door he stopped. Behind it he heard a tiny voice talking to itself. Curiously he cracked open the door and stuck his head into the chamber. A small girl sat cross-legged on the floor, reading a book by candlelight. Reading, to Richius' great astonishment, in Naren. When she saw him she stopped and looked up, and he knew instantly that she wasn't frightened.

  "Who are you?" he asked directly. The girl seemed amused by the question. She was barely ten years old, but the face she made was decidedly adult.

  "I live here," she answered. Then she looked him up and down and said, "You do not. You are an Empire man."

  Richius grinned. Hearing his own language come from the lips of this waif was utterly fantastic.

  "Yes," he said, inching into the room. "I'm an Empire man. My name is Richius."

  "You are Kalak," she said. "Father told me you were here."

  Richius shook his head, trying to be gentle. "My name is Richius," he repeated. "Not Kalak. Who's your father?"

  "Father is warlord," replied the girl.

  "Well, you can call me Richius, anyway," said Richius, unsure if he should even continue the conversation. But the girl had entranced him. "What's your name?"

  The girl pointed to herself proudly. "I am Pris."

  "Pris? Like the goddess?"

  "Yes. Father says I am beautiful like her. Strong like her, too. She is my patroness."

  Richius squatted down beside her and pointed to the book in her hands. "You're a very good reader," he said. "What is this book?'"

  "Bhapo's book," said Pris. "He gave it to me. I learn from it."

  Bhapo, Richius knew, was a Triin term of affection. It usually meant an uncle or some male cousin. He peered into the open book lying in her lap, trying to read its upside-down print.

  "Who's Bhapo?"

  "Bhapo Tharn," replied Pris. She looked at Richius excitedly. "You know Bhapo?"

  "Oh, yes," said
Richius. "He's not my bhapo, but I know him. Did he give you this book?"

  Pris nodded. "To teach me."

  "It's a very nice book. Can I hold it?"

  Without hesitation Pris gave the book to Richius. "You read Empire words, too, yes?"

  "Yes," said Richius, thumbing through the pages. It was a book of Naren poems, very old and probably very valuable. It was plain to see why the girl cherished it.

  "You read for me?" asked Pris. "You read good?"

  "Oh, I don't think I could read these poems as well as you, Pris," said Richius with a smile. "You have such a pretty voice. How did you learn to speak Naren? Did Tharn teach you?"

  "Bhapo teach me before big war," said Pris. "He gave me book before going away. He say I best student, learn fast."

  Apparently, thought Richius. He skimmed the text of some of the poems, amazed that a child so young could comprehend such complex sentences. Even Naren children her age couldn't read at her level. Obviously Tharn had seen some genius in her and had chosen to encourage it. And clearly Voris had been indulgent.

  "Your father doesn't mind your reading about Nar?"

  "Father wanted me to learn, to be smart and strong like my patroness." Then the little girl's face darkened. "But he made me stop for Tal."

  Richius froze. "Tal, your brother," he whispered.

  Pris' gray eyes lost their twinkle. "Father says you killed Tal. Blamed Empire men for Tal dying. Made me stop reading then. But I kept book. I still read and learn."

  "Is that why you're hiding in here?" asked Richius. "So you father doesn't see you?"

  "Father would be unhappy," said Pris. "I get no more book from Bhapo." She flashed a furtive smile. "But I learn anyway You can help me. Read for me, yes?"

  Richius got up and closed the door, suddenly worried the would be discovered. "I'm sorry, Pris," he said to her gently. "I don't think I should. Your father would be very angry with both of us if he knew."

  "Just one," she implored. "You read one for me. Here, I show you."

  She grabbed the book and rifled though the pages. When she found the poem she was looking for she handed the book back to him with a grin. Richius accepted the book regretfully and glanced at the poem. Predictably, it was a love poem, the type of old-fashioned verse that had become all too rare in militaristic Nar. Pris leaned back attentively, waiting for him to begin.

  "Pris, I can't read this for you. I don't want to get your father mad."

  "I am not afraid of Father," replied Pris. "Are you?"

  "It has nothing to do with that. I'm just trying to respect his wishes, that's all."

  Pris clearly didn't believe him. "Read for me," she said sweetly. "Please."

  He was about to relent when he heard his name being called. Dyana's voice held a distinct note of concern. Pris wrinkled her nose in disappointment. Richius went to the door and opened it. He saw Dyana down the hallway, searching for him, and he called her over with a wave.

  "Dyana, over here."

  Dyana's expression went from relief to puzzlement. "Richius why are you hiding in there? I have been looking for you. It is time to see Voris."

  "I'm not hiding," said Richius. "Come in. I want you to meet someone."

  Dyana stepped inside and saw Pris sitting on the floor. The little girl smiled at her precociously. "Hello."

  "Hello," replied Dyana. She turned quickly to Richius. "Who is this?"

  "This is Voris' daughter," said Richius. "Her name is Pris. Say something to her in Naren."

  "What?"

  "Go on," Richius urged. "Anything."

  Dyana looked at Pris suspiciously, then said very softly, "Hello, Pris. My name is Dyana. How old are you?"

  "I am almost ten," replied Pris. "You are a pretty lady."

  Richius laughed. "Isn't that amazing? She speaks better than some Talistanians I know!"

  Dyana knelt down next to Pris and examined her, as if unsure she were truly Triin. "Remarkable," she whispered. The compliment made Pris sit up straight.

  "Are you Kalak's woman?" asked the girl.

  "No," said Dyana. There was a touch of sadness in her tone that Richius approved of. "I am not."

  "She is your bhapo's wife," explained Richius. "She's here to help us. Dyana, isn't she something? She learned Naren from Tharn, and from reading this book he gave her. It's just a bunch of poems, but she picked it up."

  "Here," said Pris to Dyana, patting the floor beside her. "You sit. Kalak is going to read for us."

  "Oh?" said Dyana. "How wonderful."

  Richius flushed. "It's just a poem she likes, Dyana. She wants me to read it for her." He looked at Pris. "And I never said I would."

  "Please," begged Pris.

  "Yes," chimed Dyana. "Please, Richius. Read it for us."

  Richius glanced down at the book. For some odd reason he wanted to read it for Pris, and now that Dyana was here he wanted to read it even more. They both watched him, and they were too compelling to refuse.

  "This poem doesn't seem to have a title," he began haltingly, "so I'll just start." He cleared his throat and waited for Pris and Dyana to settle down. "Ready?"

  "Yes," said Pris happily.

  But Richius had no sooner opened his mouth when a frantic cry erupted. A woman bolted into the chamber, startling them all. Pris jumped to her feet. The woman was screaming in pure panic. She rushed over to Pris and grabbed her, pulling her close and cradling her head against her legs. Her face lit with anger as she cowered in the corner of the room with the girl, speaking so quickly that her words ran together in a babbling, incoherent stream. Richius drew back.

  "Dyana, what the hell is this? Who is she?"

  "Shhh," ordered Dyana. "This is Najjir, Richius. Voris' wife. Pris was protesting through her mother's skirt, but her mother didn't hear. She continued berating Richius. Dyana stepped between them, trying to calm the woman. Richius still had the book in his hand. He stood there mute, unsure if he should stay or go, wanting to help and not knowing how.

  "Kalak!" cursed the woman, spitting at Richius. "Kalak!"

  "I didn't do anything," said Richius, backing toward the door. "Tell her, Dyana."

  "I think you should leave," said Dyana carefully. "Now."

  "Dyana, I didn't do anything wrong. Make her understand."

  "Just go, Richius," said Dyana sharply. "I will explain it to her when she calms down."

  "God damn it." Richius turned to leave and saw a shadow in the doorway. Voris was staring at him. His bald head was red with rage.

  "Nogiya asa?" asked Voris hotly, looking at his hysterical wife. The woman pointed to Richius and said the hateful word.

  "Kalak!"

  Voris' eyes bulged from their sockets. He stepped aside and gestured to the door. Obediently his wife departed, dragging Pris, who gave Richius an apologetic look before disappearing into the hall. Dyana hurried to defend Richius, firing off a flurry of explanations to the warlord. But Voris would hear none of it.

  "Kalak!" he thundered, barely controlling himself. Richius guessed easily what was the matter.

  "Tell him I didn't hurt her," he told Dyana calmly. "Tell him I only came in to talk to her."

  Dyana tried to speak, her voice all but inaudible against thi warlord's bellows.

  Richius held up his hands, finally shouting, "Enough!"

  Voris stopped yelling. He scowled at Richius.

  "Enough," said Richius again. "Voris, listen to me. I didn't do anything to your daughter. I never would." He held up Pris' little book. "Here, this is all we were doing. Just reading some poems."

  Voris snatched the book away from him, listening to Dyana's translation of his explanation. The warlord waited until she was done, nodded, then looked directly at Richius and spoke.

  "He says that Pris is not to read this language," said Dyana. "He wants to know if she told you this."

  "She told me," confessed Richius. "Tell him I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone against his wishes."

  Voris took the apology badly.<
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  "That is not good enough," said Dyana, translating Voris' furious words. "You are in my house now. You will follow my ways."

  Richius nodded. "Yes. You're right. I'm sorry."

  Voris went on, his voice still shaking with ire. He paused and waited for Dyana to translate. Dyana did not.

  "What is it?" asked Richius. "What did he say?"

  "I am sorry, Richius, I do not understand him. He says you are to stay away from his children. If he sees you near them again he will kill you. He says that you will not take another of his children away." Dyana looked at Richius questioningly. "Do you know what that means?"

  Richius nodded gravely. "I do. Tell Voris he has nothing to worry about. I will stay away from his family. Tell him also that I'm sorry about Tal."

  "Tal? Who is Tal?"

  "Just tell him."

  Dyana did as he requested, passing on the cryptic message to Voris. The warlord scowled at Richius; the pain of his loss was clearly evident. When Voris spoke again there was a slight unevenness in his tone.

  "Voris says that he hates you, Richius," said Dyana, clearly confused by the exchange. "He does not know if he can do what Tharn asks of him."

  "Tell him I understand. We must both do our best. I'll do my best to prove myself to him. And I won't go near his children again. Promise him that for me, Dyana."

  Dyana made the promise. Voris simply nodded.

  "One more thing," said Richius. "And be careful how you tell him this. I don't know if I had anything to do with Tal's death, but if I could bring him back I would. Tell him that, Dyana."

  "Richius, I do not understand any of this," said Dyana. "Who is Tal?"

  "Voris' son. I'll explain it to you later. Just tell him, Dyana. Please."

  Reluctantly, Dyana agreed. They both watched Voris for a reaction, but his face never changed. Instead he glanced down at the book of poems in his hand, shaking his head ruefully.

  "Did you tell him?" Richius whispered.

  Dyana nodded. "Everything."

  But Voris seemed disinterested. He sighed wearily and stuck the little book in his sash. He did not look at Richius again, but spoke directly to Dyana only briefly before leaving the room. Dyana raised her eyebrows in surprise.