It had always been a quiet village. Hill people kept themselves to themselves. Perhaps it was market day in the town by the river.
Morning Star reached the last house, which was her own house and was set apart from the rest, its back to the stream. Barely a trickle was flowing between the brown and yellow grasses. The neat verge in front of the house was bald. No rain here, either.
The door stood open.
Morning Star half expected Amik to come bounding out to greet her, or little Lamb. Not so little any more. Lamb must be fully grown.
"Is this it?" said Libbet.
"This is my home."
"Just so long as there's something to eat."
Morning Star called ahead into the house, not wanting to arrive entirely unannounced.
"Papa! Mama!"
No sound from within.
She entered. The main room was empty. Her father's papers and pen and ink were neatly laid out before an open book. Everything was as it had always been, but the occupants were gone.
The children came crowding in after her. Practiced thieves, they soon found the food store and started snatching for the victuals.
"No! Put it down!" she ordered them. "You can't just grab what you like."
"Why not?"
"Because we have to share. That way it's fair."
Under their suspicious gaze she divided up the sheep cheese and the bread and honey.
"Libbet got more than me!"
"I didn't!"
But they were hungry and would rather eat than argue. The food was soon gone. Before Morning Star could stop them, the children had run out of the house and into a neighboring house, scavenging for more to eat. She followed behind.
"Creepy place," said Hem. "Ghost village."
"It's not a ghost village," said Morning Star.
"So where's everybody?"
"Out. Working."
"Children, too?"
He was right. It had never been like this. Every house the children raided was deserted; but everywhere there were signs of recent life. The people seemed to have left, but there was no evidence of any struggle. In one house there was even a meal laid for two, complete with a full bottle of apple brandy that had been uncorked but not poured. Somewhere between the drawing of the cork and the raising of the bottle something had happened, and the meal had been abandoned.
In the smallest and poorest of the cottages, tucked away behind the bakehouse, lived a crippled lady known as Nanna. She had never left her single room in all the years Morning Star had known her—receiving charity and companionship from those villagers who chose to call on her at her home. Surely Nanna could not have left.
Morning Star sought out her cottage and found the door open here, too. But as soon as she stepped inside she knew the house was not empty.
"Nanna?"
She peered into the gloom of the interior. A rustling came from the box bed. A white face rose up from the pillows to peer at her.
"It's me. Morning Star."
"They've gone," said Nanna in a thin trembly voice. "They said to go with them. But I have my trouble, you see."
"Where have they gone, Nanna?"
"Oh, I don't know where, dear. They've gone with the happy people."
4 Death on Horseback
CARESSA WATCHED FROM THE DOORWAY OF THE FARMhouse as the horsemen made their way up the track. This time she counted twelve of them. This time, she knew, they would not leave until they had got what they wanted.
She took up a short sword and strapped it into her belt on her left side. On her right side she fixed a quiver of slender throwing spikes. She had no plan, no certainty that she would use the weapons. She only knew that she would not stand by and do nothing while they humiliated a helpless man.
The riders were nearer now. In the lead was Sasha Jahan, the eldest of Amroth Jahan's three sons. He glared from side to side as he rode, as if the sight of the abandoned farm was a personal affront: the gates of the pens swinging on broken hinges, the doors to the outbuildings kicked in by looters, the giant weeds standing like sentries across the cracked earth.
Caressa had brought the Great Jahan here as the fierce short spring had driven out the last of winter, and here she had watched over him as he had aged and sickened before her eyes. He laughed as loudly as ever, and shouted as much, but his body dwindled day by day. They never spoke of it. They made no plans for the future. When his sons had come to him before and asked him to name one of them as his successor, he had burst into a mighty rage and slashed at them with his whip; the same silver-handled whip that must be passed on to the next Great Jahan of the Orlan nation.
And now he was weaker still; and they were back.
The horsemen stopped at the broken fence and dismounted. They spoke together briefly, in low voices. Then the three sons approached Caressa in the farmhouse door.
"We've come to talk with my father," said Sasha Jahan. He spoke abruptly and did not meet Caressa's eyes.
"He doesn't want to see you," Caressa replied.
"We'll see him," said Sasha grimly. "Whether he wants it or not."
Caressa's black eyes flashed with anger.
"Who are you to give orders to the Jahan of jahans?"
"Who are you to stand in my way? What business is this of yours? You're no Orlan. What is it you want with a feeble old man?"
Caressa stared at him with contempt.
"I saw your father when he was the leader of ten thousand men. I saw him take on each one of you and drag you down into the dirt. And you call him a feeble old man! Have you forgotten so soon?"
"No," said Sasha Jahan bitterly. "I've not forgotten. I've not forgotten how he laughed at me, and called me a lumpish fool, and rolled his eyes when I spoke. I've not forgotten how he beat me when I offended him, and made me fear him, and made me hate him. No, I've not forgotten."
A silence followed this outburst. Then Alva Jahan spoke.
"What my brother says is true."
Caressa looked from one to the other.
"So now that he can no longer defend himself, you come for your revenge?"
"No," said Sabin, the youngest brother. "We come to ask him to name his successor. The Orlan nation must have a leader again."
"And if he refuses?"
"What's it to you?" exclaimed Sasha. "He's twice your age, and always drunk, and no beauty, and sick. What's he got left to give you?"
"He gives me nothing," said Caressa proudly. "But he has honored me with his love. I saw him when he was great. I would rather have nothing and the love of a great man than all the world and the company of little men like you."
Sasha blushed an angry red and turned aside.
"Let's search him out," he said. "He's here somewhere."
As he spoke there came a deep roar of laughter from one of the barns.
"That's him. Drunk in the hay!"
The three sons strode across the yard to the hay barn. There, in a broad hollow in the haystack, they found their father, Amroth Jahan. Round him and over him there wriggled and squealed a litter of six-week-old piglets.
"Piggy, piggy, piggy!" he was crying, scrabbling with his great hands to take hold of one of the piglets.
His sons stared at him in shock. Their father, once so explosively powerful, had become an old man. His cheeks had sunk and his hair was gray. His laugh was the same as ever, but his eyes when he looked up and discovered them were cloudy and pale.
"Go away!" he shouted at them. "Don't need you any more. Got new sons—much pinker—much more wriggly!"
He managed now to grasp one of the piglets. He held it up and kissed its nose.
"You shall rule after me," he crooned. "Piggy Jahan!"
The piglet wriggled from his hands and burrowed into the hay. From somewhere out of sight came the deep grunts of the mother sow.
"Father," said Sasha. "You know why we're here."
"Piggy, piggy, piggy," said Amroth Jahan. "Where did you go?"
"Father! Listen to me!"<
br />
"Listen to you?" The Jahan goggled at Sasha as if this was an incomprehensible request. "Why should I listen to you? You're my son Sasha, the lump head. You've never said anything worth listening to in all your lump-headed life." His withered face cracked into a wide grin. "I'd rather listen to my piggies squealing. Piggy, piggy, piggy!"
He roared with laughter.
It was the laughter that snapped Sasha's self-control. He drew his blade and jabbed it in the air and burst into a stream of violent abuse.
"You're drunk!" he screamed. "You're a joke! Everyone laughs at you! I laugh at you! Ha-ha! The Great Jahan! Only you're not so great any more; you're sick and old and a joke! You shame the whole Orlan nation! You've bullied me all your life and now it's over, it's over, it's over! And I'm laughing, I'm happy, because I've always hated you, I've always wished you were dead, so hurry up and die, old man! Everyone wants you dead!"
Amroth Jahan was not laughing any more.
"You want me dead?"
Sasha struggled to regain his dignity.
"I want you to name me as the Jahan of Jahans."
"While I still live?"
"It's over, Father. We all know it. The Orlan nation must have a new leader."
Amroth Jahan heaved himself slowly to his feet and fumbled at his waistband for the silver-handled whip. His sons watched him, unsure what he meant to do. If he gave Sasha the whip, he would be handing over his title and his power. Instead he held it up before them.
"You want this," he growled, "you'll have to kill me for it."
"If I have to," said Sasha, raising his blade once more.
"Stop this!"
A commanding voice cried out from behind him. Amroth Jahan smiled.
"Meet Caressa, boys."
Caressa had a spike in one hand and a blade in the other and a look about her that said she was ready to use both.
"Back away!"
"Then you make him see sense," said Sasha. "It's over. He's a joke."
"What's the joke?" said Caressa, never dropping her guard. "Tell me, so that I can laugh, too."
All three of the Jahan's sons were struck by the fierce cutting edge to her voice, but it had not yet occurred to them to fear her.
"He's sick and old and sleeps with the pigs," said Sasha. "Look at him."
Caressa looked.
"I see the man who conquered the world," she said.
"Oh, beauty!" cried Amroth Jahan. "What a woman!"
"Have him!" said Sasha. "Keep him! But I must have the whip!"
He made a grab for the whip and caught the cord and wound it tight round his right arm. Amroth Jahan had a firm grip on the handle, but he was far weaker than he had once been and Sasha knew it. He pulled on the cord and dragged his father towards him.
Caressa's cool, clear voice sliced the air.
"Let go or die!"
The threat stopped Sasha only for a moment.
"I'm not afraid of a woman," he said.
"Mistake, son," said Amroth Jahan. "You're not half the man she is."
He roared with laughter.
"Don't laugh at me!" screamed Sasha. He pulled on the whip's cord, yanking his father close, and in the same movement thrust into him with his sword. Caressa saw and struck.
The spike hissed through the air and buried itself deep between Sasha's shoulder blades. Sasha uttered a single grunt and dropped to his knees. Amroth Jahan stood motionless before him, his eyes on Caressa.
"Oh, you beauty!" he said.
Sasha's sword was protruding from his belly, where it had been plunged halfway to the hilt. The Jahan now grasped the sword with both hands and pulled it out. Blood gushed from the wound. Caressa ran to him and caught him as he fell.
"Help me here!" she shouted. Alva and Sabin, too shocked to know what else to do, came to her aid.
Together they laid the Jahan on the hay and bound his wound as tightly as they could, to staunch the flow of blood. They looked to Sasha too, but he was beyond help. That one awesome blow had killed him instantaneously.
The rest of the band of Orlan officers, having heard the fracas, came running to the barn and stared at the scene. Sasha Jahan dead. The Great Jahan dying before their eyes. Alva and Sabin white-faced by his side. And the beautiful dark-haired woman commanding them all.
The Orlans dropped to their knees in grief and respect. Amroth Jahan looked at them and nodded.
"Nearly over," he said. "Bring me Malook. Bring me my horse."
"You can't ride," said Caressa.
"Do as you're told, woman!"
The exclamation cost him more strength than he had. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.
"It's the Orlan way," said Alva. "Orlans die on horseback."
So Malook was found and led into the barn. The Caspian bent his head low and snuffled at his master's face, and the touch gave the Jahan renewed strength.
"Here, beauty," he said to Caressa.
She knelt by his side. He took her hand and pressed it to Malook's brow.
"I give him to you. But Malook must carry me one last time."
Together they heaved the Jahan up onto Malook's back. The blood was streaming from his wound and down his thigh. Once mounted he pulled himself upright and looked down at the ring of faces round him. He raised his silver-handled whip, which had never left his grasp.
"I name my successor," he said. He reached the whip down. Alva stepped forward. "Not you, baboon," said his father. "Here is your leader." He handed the whip to Caressa. "I give you your new Jahan of Jahans. Obey her as you have obeyed me."
Caressa took the whip in her hand and heard the dying Jahan's words with perfect amazement. She had neither sought this honor nor expected it. She saw bitter fury on Alva's face, and sheer bewilderment on Sabin's, but neither spoke a word. Their father was not dead yet.
His strength was failing fast. He lowered his body so that he was lying on Malook's back. Caressa kissed him for the last time. His ugly face, pale from loss of blood, cracked into a last grin.
"Always wanted to die young," he said.
He murmured softly to Malook and the Caspian moved away, stepping carefully across the farm to the open gates. From there he picked up speed until he was cantering steadily westward over the parched land. Caressa and the Orlans watched in silence, knowing this was his last ride. They saw the Great Jahan rise up from his slumped position and sit tall on Malook's back. They saw him reach out his arms on either side in the Orlan victory charge. They saw him hold this proud pose for a few moments in the sun, and at last they saw him fall.
They dug him a grave on the spot where he fell, according to the Orlan fashion. They dug a second grave by his side for his eldest son. While the men were engaged in the slow labor of digging the dry ground, Caressa sat by the dead man and stroked his hair and thought long and hard about his crazy final gift.
They lowered the Jahan of Jahans into the ground, and Sasha Jahan too, and covered them with earth, and left no marker where they lay. This too was the Orlan way.
"An Orlan lives on in his sons," they said. "He needs no headstone."
Alva Jahan never spoke. His eyes were on the silver-handled whip, which Caressa now wore in her belt.
They returned together to the abandoned farm, where there was brandy to drink to the memory of the dead men. Then after due honor had been done, Alva spoke at last—in a low bitter voice.
"My father was not in his right mind before he died," he said. "The words he spoke were madness."
"You think so?" said Caressa.
"What he said—it's impossible. You're a woman. You're not an Orlan. You could never be the Jahan."
"So who's to take your father's place?"
"I am," said Alva. "I'm his son."
"So am I," said Sabin.
"I'm the elder," retorted Alva.
"Why does that give you the better right?" said Sabin. "Younger sons have been chosen before."
"Our father is no longer here to choose." Alva was struggling to
contain his fury. "It must be me."
"Where does it say that the older man is always the better? I know of no such law."
"Then," said Alva, his eyes flashing, "perhaps we had better decide this the Orlan way."
"I'm ready," said Sabin.
"You mean to fight each other?" asked Caressa.
Alva stared angrily round the watching Orlans.
"I'll fight any man who stands in my way!" he said.
"If it's the best fighter you want," said Caressa, "why not open the contest to all comers?" She too turned to the Orlan captains. "One of these may win."
"Let them try," growled Alva.
"We can't have everyone fighting everyone," exclaimed Sabin.
"How has this decision been made before?" said Caressa. "What's the Orlan way?"
"The Great Jahan always names his successor before he dies. That way the Orlan nation remains united."
Caressa pulled out the silver-handled whip and held it up before them.
"Then hear me now," she said. "Amroth Jahan did name his successor. He named a woman and a stranger. You can fight each other and go on fighting until the biggest brute among you is left standing on the corpses of your own people. Or you can say, better a woman if she has true claim. Better a stranger if she unites the Orlan nation."
A silence followed this speech. Alva looked round and saw that his brother and his fellow Orlans were looking at one another, each waiting for the first to give a lead.
"What!" he cried, his voice charged with contempt. "You'd grovel to a girl?" He drew his sword. "Not I!"
Caressa held up the silver-handled whip. She took two steps forward to stand before Alva, whip outreached. Alva stared, and then he smiled, believing that she offered him his rightful inheritance in fear of his rage. He sheathed his sword and raised his right hand to take the whip. As he did so, Caressa's left hand flashed and her blade sliced down and across in a long shallow cut, leaving a stripe of blood across Alva's chest.
Noman Page 4
