by Don McQuinn
Sylah said, “You won’t keep your people isolated forever.”
“Yes we will. We have everything we need. We trade for whatever else we want. We use you un—you foreigners. When it suits us.” He spurred his horse into a fast trot, signaling his troops to follow.
When the escort had resumed its lead position, Tate said, “Everyone else noticed the little mistake?”
Lanta said, “He started to call us un-something.”
Nalatan answered Lanta; he looked at Tate. “The word they use for the rest of us is unpeople.”
By then, the group was passing through Harbor to the sound of horse hooves clopping on the packed-earth street. Mournful music brought the riders’ heads up, seeking. Bos signaled the escort. The rear warmen closed up, while the lead element dropped back. With Sylah’s group more tightly enclosed, they moved forward at a quicker pace.
The singing voices multiplied, coming from all around. Tate looked to Sylah. She spoke in awe. “Harmony. Where are they?”
Conway overheard. “They’re everywhere. Women’s voices. And children. It’s lovely. Heartbreaking.”
A voice rose in harsh anger from a building beside them. The whistle and slash of a whip cut across the minor-key melody. Defiant, the scream of pain that followed struck a perfect blend with the tightly bound voices of the invisible chorus. Stark, pure, it hung in the air.
The whip cracked again. The note crumbled. Throughout the town, the song staggered, faded away.
Karda howled.
Conway reined to a stop, glaring at the warmen, daring them. Twice the hound sent his own song across the silence of the town. With a look at his master, the dog appeared to signal his satisfaction.
The rest of the ride back to the fort was carried out in thoughtful silence.
With the horses stabled and the dogs unhappily confined to the communal sleeping room, the group wandered into the courtyard. A sharp line of shade cut across the enclosed area, irresistibly shaving away the day. While the adults continued to speculate about departure, Dodoy found himself a playmate. Smaller and younger, the other boy was amusing himself with a top. In minutes, Dodoy learned how to wrap the string and hurl the top to make it spin. Their laughter was ironic background to the adults’ conversation.
Sylah said, “The Harvester debased Church as well as herself in order to gain the Chair’s favor. I intend to tell him we’ll leave the day after tomorrow.”
Tate said, “Why not in the morning? The sooner the better, Sylah.”
Nalatan said, “Supplies. No one’s going to sell us anything until we’re clear of Kos. And I need a good smith; I’m sick of this clumsy sword. I may need more than two days.”
“I want out of here.” A muscle twitched in Tate’s jaw. “You can make do with your sword.”
Stubbornly, Nalatan shook his head. “Without the right equipment, I may not do so well in my next fight. I stay here until my needs are met.”
“We’ll miss you.” Tate sent him a flashing look of dismissal, then turned her back.
Before anyone could respond, Bos’ strange whistle shrilled. Dodoy spotted him on the third-floor balcony and pointed, shouting. When the piping notes trailed off, Bos shouted down. “Hear this! The Chair requires his guests lay up to flagplot. The Chair requires his guests lay up to flagplot.” He disappeared through the door behind him.
Sylah blinked, round-eyed. “What’s he mean? ‘Lay up’? ‘Flagplot’?”
With a nervous look for Conway, Tate said, “I think I know what he means. I think we’re supposed to go up to that room where we were yesterday.”
Sylah nodded. “What strange words. What etiquette allows a host to ‘require’ anything of his ‘guests’?”
Conway grinned at Tate. “‘Curiouser and curiouser,’” he muttered, as Tate signaled Dodoy to hurry. To Conway, she said, “You recognized the old Navy jargon? Flag plot was where the admiral ran things, and only swabbies talked about laying up, laying aft, and all that stuff. Whoever this Skipper was, he made a mark. Must have been a good man.”
Conway affected shock. “Coming from a Marine, that’s akin to sainthood. Saint Skipper. That’ll ring bells at Church Home.”
Tate jabbed him in the ribs and was rewarded with an anguished yelp. She was still smug when they caught up to the others.
Standing spread-legged against the trembling intensity of the multicolored shards, the Chair was still garbed in tight scarlet. He appeared to hover, flamelike.
Conway noted Bos, Gatro, and a squad of warmen at the far end of the room.
Slaves placed seats in a semicircle facing the raised dais. Each one, before leaving, paused in front of the Chair, pulling open his jacket and baring his chest before hurrying to the door. Once there, each faced the Chair again, dropped to all fours, and inched backward. Only when out did they stand and trot off.
The group waited in rigid silence until the last footsteps slapped down the hall.
Dodoy shattered the air of smothered outrage with a loud giggle. Pointing at the emptied door, he said, “That was funny. What if someone was standing outside there with a spear pointed at their bottoms? Why’d they do like that?”
Patiently, the Chair answered, “A slave bares his chest to show his life belongs to me. They fall to the floor when they leave to show thanks because I let them live.”
Dodoy frowned. “I was a slave. I didn’t like it.”
“Not being free is terrible.”
“Do you have many slaves? Are you going to make us slaves?”
The Chair’s laughter was deep, pleasant. “Never. Nor will anyone else as long as I can prevent it. You’re my guests.” He sobered then, turning to the adults. “Today you approached some of my people, a family. Gatro warned you long ago; if they’d spoken to you, my warmen would have been forced to report it. My duty is to order the execution of any who speak to you. None of us want that.”
Sylah said, “You executed a man today.”
“A poisoner who slaughtered a family? He deserved to die.”
“Did he deserve to be a slave?”
Beads of sweat lifted on the Chair’s forehead. Leftover traces of the red face paint caught in them, shining pink, like the residue of washed blood. Rasping, he said, “Fate decrees who is free and who is not. Not even your little Seer knows all tomorrows. The man wasn’t executed for struggling to be free. He was punished for murdering innocents.”
“And if he’d only murdered his owner, and not the others?”
Shaking, fists clenched, the Chair battled with himself. Bunched muscles strained against the red-glowing cloth. He closed his eyes, raised his head slowly, teeth clenched.
It was an image of violent death, and Sylah leaned forward, wanting to rush to him. Lanta held her arm, but she, too, was bent forward, prepared to help.
The Chair bellowed, a sound that was half shout, half scream. It tumbled over itself in hammering echoes. Bos, Gatro, and the warmen ran forward.
When the Chair quieted, he dropped his chin almost to his chest, glaring out at the group from beneath brows locked in a black, exhausted frown. A gesture sent his men back where they’d come from. The Chair’s rough breathing scraped across bleak silence. Painfully, he turned his head to focus on each of them, a wooden, nonhuman motion. He returned to Sylah.
“You.” He said it as disbelief, as accusation.
And as something more.
So soft the sound, Sylah wondered if she’d truly heard a word, or if that penetrating look forced her to know it existed.
Inappropriately, she had a sudden memory of repairing a broken skull, lifting shattered bone and torn membrane to reveal the pulsing, living brain.
The vision melted as the Chair said, “I can’t excuse my people from their laws or me from my duty. In order to protect all of us, I’ve decided the Church women will stay here in the castle. You’ll be restricted as Church is traditionally restricted.” He straightened as he spoke, color and control returning to normal. “The others w
ill go to Trader Island. The Priestesses may visit back and forth, but must never leave the island or the fort.”
Conway shrugged the wipe free of his shoulder, letting it drop to waiting hands. With the muzzle pointed up at the juncture of the Chair’s throat and jaw, he said, “We won’t be prisoners.”
Tate and Nalatan whirled to face the onrushing Bos and the warmen guards. The wipe clattered menace as Tate jacked a round into the chamber and slipped the safety. Nalatan’s bare sword swayed from side to side.
“Stop!” Sylah reached to depress Conway’s weapon. For a long moment he resisted, eyes locked on the Chair’s. The sound of the advancing guards slowed, stopped. Conway let Sylah push the weapon down.
Sylah said, “We came to Kos to build a friendship. I saw the Harvester prostitute Church by participating in your pagan ceremony. Next, because of my innocent, if foolish, impulse, you seek to divide us, make us prisoners. Let us go. If you don’t, I won’t overrule my friends. We’ll fight for our freedom.”
The Chair whirled, presenting his back, unprotected. He took the two steps to his throne and sat down. When he raised his face to look at them all again, he was unspeakably weary. Where his voice had been like rending metal before, now it was sere, a broken branch wearing itself away against stone. “Even the child speaks of freedom as if it had substance, as if it were a matter of color, for instance, as she’s black and we’re white.” Intent on his point, he failed to notice Tate’s dangerous tensing. He went on, addressing Sylah. “The man executed today wasn’t alone; other slaves died, as well. Not so ceremoniously, but they’re just as dead. If I’m not harsh, if I fail to stop what’s happening, we’ll have revolt, blood beyond measure. I must restore balance and order to gradually eliminate all slave ownership. If I move too hastily, I destroy our entire society. The Empty Lands to the north are lush, ripe for settlement. But the colonization must be done in an orderly manner. I need time.”
Sylah nodded. “You’ve said nothing about treating us as prisoners.”
“Not prisoners. Restricted. It’s our way, applicable to all un—strangers. Also, the Enemy Mountains have become a refuge for many escaped slaves. They have no fear of Church’s mortality edict, no fear of dying. I can’t afford a sufficient escort to assure your safety.”
“None of that’s your concern. I seek the Door. We will go where that search takes us.”
“You.” Once more, the single word, so gently soft, so arrow-sure into the deepest center of her being.
“Bos!” The Chair barked the name. “Send the others out. You go to the far wall. There’s no danger.”
When the foot-dragging departure was complete, the Chair said, “Will you send your friends away? I have something to say to you. Alone.”
“Forget it.” Conway raised the muzzle of the wipe. The Chair watched Sylah. A muscle jerked at his jawline, but his eyes never wavered.
Sylah touched Conway’s arm. She raised her voice, that the others would hear. “Please. I trust him.”
Once her friends were at the opposite end of the room, the Chair stepped down from the dais. He still towered over Sylah. He said, “You claw my pride like a she-leopard, and I feel only admiration for you. Can’t you understand that my reasons for trying to keep you here are more than political?” At her attempted protest, he held up a peremptory hand, continuing. “There’s a far more vital reason for you to stay. For just a while longer.”
Warily, Sylah waited.
The Chair inclined almost imperceptibly closer. “I must show you.” He raised his head to nod at Bos, then turned away from her. For some reason, Sylah saw the Chair’s return to the throne as a retreat.
At the sound of footsteps, Sylah half turned. Bos led a quartet of young women through the central door of the long room. The woman immediately behind him wore a full-sleeved flowing one-piece gown. The pattern was of green triangles on a white background, the widest figures at the bottom, rising in decreasing sizes to mere points at the neckline. The effect, when she walked, was of shimmering ice and water. Her hair was piled high on her head.
She was beautiful. And very pregnant.
The women behind her wore similar dress, but theirs lacked the length of train.
Facing the Chair once more, Sylah raised her eyebrows in silent question.
The Chair said, “My wife, Yasmaleeya. As you can see, she’s expecting. Very soon. There are difficulties.” By that time, the woman was beside Sylah. After a sidelong glance and tentative smile for Sylah, Yasmaleeya looked up to her husband. Slowly, awkwardly, she sank to her knees, bent forward to place her palms on the floor. Grunting and puffing, she leaned to touch her forehead between her hands. Sylah moved to help, but a warning hiss from Bos stopped her. Yasmaleeya completed her supplication and rose, red-faced. A sheen of perspiration coated her forehead and upper lip.
After nodding absently to his wife, the Chair spoke to Sylah. “The Harvester tells me you have secrets to maintain woman and child. My wife requires you. She was selected to bear my son and heir, as was her sister before her. The sister died in childbirth. The child died, as well. Fortunately, it was a girl.”
Overriding the Chair’s wanton disregard for innocent lives lost, Sylah’s mind seized on what was being required of her. Midwifery was part of her learning, but there were no secrets. What was known to one Healer was shared by all. It was a primary law of Church. This was the Harvester’s hand, subtly accusing a sister of magic. That alone was deadly. But this was worse. Now the Chair would blame no one but Sylah if the delivery was a failure; he’d believe magic failed, not Church.
The Harvester had stripped her enemy’s armor.
Sylah mentally phrased protest, then reconsidered. Denial would be seen as evasion, and gain nothing. A glance at the girl reaffirmed Sylah’s first impression, Yasmaleeya was healthy. Sturdy, in fact. Now, however, she stood with hands clasped on her swollen stomach, huge blue eyes fastened on her husband with a worshipful awe that made Sylah’s skin crawl.
Sylah heard the words again: What must be borne, grasp.
“I have no secrets. I have knowledge and caring. Yasmaleeya will be my patient and I will be her friend. Her child, male or female, will receive every care.”
The Chair bent forward. “Bos, tell her our custom.” He continued to stare into Sylah’s eyes as Bos’ insinuating voice came from behind. “The bearer of the Chair’s son is chosen by the Crew. If the bearer fails to produce a male child, a second bearer will be selected. Children must be correct in all regards. Two incorrect children will be considered grounds for beaching the Chair.”
“‘Incorrect’? ‘Beaching’? What are these words?” Sylah demanded.
Bos said, “Incorrect means what it says, Priestess. Bring me an acceptable child. Pray to the One in All that you do, and that this bearer lives.”
When Sylah rounded on the Chair, he was gone. Seeking Bos, she spun again. He was waiting, grinning. “Mighty Priestess, whose ‘orders’ are no whim. This woman has no chance. Her child will never breathe. You’ll personally learn about beaching.” Pushing his way past the other three women, he left, sneering, waving jauntily at Sylah’s friends.
Sylah lifted Yasmaleeya’s chin and looked into the teary blue eyes. The girl said, “He should have told you about the witch-wife.”
Sylah said, “A non-Church midwife? You have one? I can talk to her?”
Yasmaleeya turned away, looked skyward, gusted a whistling, exaggerated sigh. “She and her family were poisoned. You saw the slave who did it executed.” Suddenly Yasmaleeya turned, clutched Sylah’s shoulders. “Everyone says my baby’s cursed. The Harvester says you have magic.”
Sylah tried to deny this blasphemy, to ask the myriad questions demanding answers. Forestalling her, Yasmaleeya fell into Sylah’s arms, sobbing aloud. “The witch-wife said I’ll die, Priestess. I don’t want to die, I don’t want my child to die. If you don’t save us, you’ll die, too.”
Chapter 10
Standing on the dock,
soothing the horses, Conway, Tate, and Nalatan exchanged speculative stares with the idlers watching from the landward end. The handlers of the cargo boat that landed them on the island were already casting off mooring lines. Among themselves, the three adult passengers easily agreed that the boat’s crew were the shabbiest Kossiars they’d ever seen. Even so, the boatmen openly scorned the inhabitants of the island. The attitude couldn’t completely hide the taint of fear Dodoy crowded against Tate’s back, peering around her nervously. She kept a hand on his head. To her two companions, she said, “Talk about jumping to conclusions,” and when they turned to her for explanation, she jerked her chin at the men ashore. “All morning I was feeling sorry for Sylah and Lanta, but look at this mess of cutthroat slugs we’ve got to deal with.”
Nalatan said, “My master once told me that for every honest ship that comes here, ten others are pirates. The worst are the Skan.”
Tate said, “We know the Skan. We didn’t get along.”
Dodoy said, “I want to go back to the castle. These are bad men. They’ll steal me. I’m afraid.”
Tate squatted beside him. “Stay close to one of us all the time, you hear? No one’s going to bother you.”
“Let’s go,” Conway said. “I’m tired of being entertainment. I’m hungry, too.”
Tate laughed. “I thought the ride on the cargo boat ruined your appetite forever.”
“Don’t be cute.” Conway made a sour face and started off the dock. The adults each led a riding horse and a packhorse. Dodoy led Sylah’s Copper. The dogs trooped along beside their masters.
The loungers watched them come, exchanging comments, pointing. Tate was an item. Conway started to drop back to be closer, then noticed Nalatan already beside her. Conway smothered a smile at the contrast between Tate’s affected nonchalance and Nalatan’s almost eager truculence.
Taking the initiative, Conway spoke to the men. “We need a place to stay, where we can stable our horses.” The man he addressed sat on a large keg, his back against a stack of baled wildcow hides. He wore full, homespun wool trousers, gathered at the ankle, and a quilted shirt. The shirt had been bright once. Now it was faded and torn. Like his companions, he wore a small copper hand dangling from a greasy neckband. His most striking item of adornment was a leather belt about four inches wide that ran diagonally from left shoulder to right hip. The buckle was a massive brass square. Two brass and leather scabbards above it held bone-handled knives. If the blades actually filled the scabbards, Conway decided, they’d qualify as short swords.
