by Don McQuinn
* * *
The Chair was on his throne. The Harvester walked the length of the room with her firm, self-assured stride. Inside a flowing sleeve, she picked at a loose thread, rolling it between her fingers.
Stopping at the dais, she nodded greeting. It was far short of the effusiveness normally afforded the Chair. The faintest suggestion of a frown touched his brow.
The Harvester said, “She’s in the courtyard with the bearer. We can speak.”
“Everything went as we planned. As you predicted, to be fair. You know Sylah remarkably well.”
“I know what she needs, what she wants to see and hear. The work is yours.”
He laughed easily. “Pleasant work. She’s quite beautiful. It’s a shame to waste her.”
The Harvester’s patrician features hardened, the thin lips drooped at the corners. “We are agreed to a plan.”
“Did I suggest a change? You’re an invaluable ally, but it’s not pleasing to question my every comment. Or interpret what I say. Have I deceived you in any way?”
“No. You’ve been scrupulously honest. I’m concerned, though. I worry that you may be enjoying your games too much. Sylah’s no fool. The antislavery plot is very real, very dangerous.”
His look was pitying. “Dear Harvester. Look at me; product of generations of plots, coups, intrigues, rebellions. My ancestors rode earthquakes and tidal waves to supremacy because we’re as ruthless as nature. Our power helped Church to her highest glories. We crushed her when it suited us. You suggest this raving Priestess and her noisy followers are a great, terrible danger. Consider, please. Two make noise; they kill some scum of no consequence. One is a monk, a brave, stupid warrior, who helps the first two, and whose greatest ambition is to die with glory. One’s a woman who pretends to see the future, and refuses to do so. The leader of this fearsome band has a vision of a secret that died generations ago. If she’s simply a misguided fanatic, she’s a lovely one, and it’ll entertain me to sample whatever amusement she can provide. Men use women. Church uses belief. The Chair uses you all.”
Dryly, the Harvester said, “Thus Kos prospers.”
“Exactly.” Raw malice made the Harvester yearn to look away. He said, “You babble of truth and moral determination and integrity. In the name of Church, you condemn your own. In the name of honesty, you betray. This Sylah is no more than a drink of cold water for my thirst. I will have her, this Flower of your Church. I will have the killing magic possessed by her companions. You’re so proud of seeing and reading all our human gestures. Hear this from birth, I was taught to hide within myself. Expressions? Reactions? You see what the Chair wants you to see. As a child, I was beaten for crying when hurt, or hungry, or afraid. Even for showing pleasure. To me, your incontrovertible signals are merely techniques.”
Shining pearls of sweat traced the paled curve of the Harvester’s upper lip. “I pride myself on reading people. You’ve deceived me. It’s a frightening realization.”
“Honesty is your protection. Our agreement was made in good faith; Kos and Church will be as one. Let Sylah know you as her indomitable enemy. Already she thinks of me as one who can be made to understand, even to help.”
“And Yasmaleeya? How does blaming Sylah for her death force Sylah closer to you?”
The Chair’s rugged, square face was disingenuous. “Everything can be turned to advantage, if one will only think. Yasmaleeya is mindless. To my chagrin, it took me several days to discover that. Certain attractions clouded my thinking. The Chair’s son must have an intelligent bearer, so when you said the midwife expected Yasmaleeya to die in childbirth, I determined to use the fact. When Yasmaleeya dies, those who would see me beached will reveal themselves. Bos will see to it that Sylah is named a witch; the blame will be hers. My enemies will stand exposed to me, and Sylah will be driven to me for protection. Along with her friends. We’ll have their complete confidence and cooperation. Now, isn’t that better than having some clumsy torturer slice little snippets of information off them?”
“Yasmaleeya and the child may survive.”
“Your determination to underestimate me is becoming very irritating. If childbirth doesn’t finish the useless bitch, other arrangements are in place. Nevertheless, you said childbirth would kill her. It better.”
The force of his sudden, growing anger was like a fist against the Harvester’s chest. She took a half step backward.
Instantly, her face flamed, warmth flowing down her throat, under the high collar of her robe. She deliberately reclaimed the lost ground. “Rumor says sailors nearly captured one of the lightning weapons. Perhaps we’re preoccupied with Sylah.”
“Sylah and all her forces will come to us. My methods are subtle, but they’ll produce the best results.”
The Harvester put a hand on the edge of the dais. “Subtle? Your lust screams aloud. You risk the loss of people and weapons capable of defeating armies because you want her body. She isn’t worth our goals.”
The Chair swept upright to step forward. He dropped dramatically to his knees and put his face close to the Harvester’s. “I will have whatever I want. Obey!”
Blotches of color swirled across his contorted features. For one terrifying instant the Harvester’s imagination pictured ferocious evil boiling under the flesh. White-hot rage mocked his bragging claim of control over all his responses. Madness choked the air around him with a thick, soured-milk stink.
Thoroughly frightened the Harvester wasted no time on goodbyes. She backed away quickly, awkwardly, turning to dash for the door to the hallway. Out there was safety. The gleaming, hungry ovals of the shark maws were symbols, nothing more.
Chapter 17
Yasmaleeya extended a lazy arm beyond the sedan chair to flick open her folding fan. Bits of glass set into the tips of the wooden blades caught sunbeams, tossed the light. Wan, eyes closed, she reclined in the roofed, ornate chair, carried by eight sturdy slaves. The men wore sweat-stained coarse shirts and loincloths; more sweat dripped from their noses, squished in their crude sandals. Lounging, shaded, laved by the soft air of her passage, Yasmaleeya’s flowing chiffonlike layers remained clean and fresh.
Sylah and Lanta rode horses alongside. When Yasmaleeya unleashed a sigh and let the fan drop to her breast, Sylah rolled her eyes and grimaced. Lanta turned away to giggle.
Sylah wasn’t terribly surprised that the drama of Yasmaleeya’s decline coincided with the slaves’ turning off the road. At the end of a graveled approach sat a large sprawling house. Flowers, shrubs, and shade trees crowded spacious grounds inside a rail fence. Between the fence and the road, cattle kept the meadow cropped. From the roof and several windows, servants cried welcome and sympathy. Heroically, Yasmaleeya waved. The strain exhausted her. The hand flowed back to her breast. Her eyes closed. Her head lolled.
The wailing from the house doubled in volume.
Through clenched teeth, Lanta muttered, “You don’t suppose we’re going to have to put up with a whole family as silly as her, do you?”
Sylah didn’t reply. Her worried look was answer enough.
Passing through the gate, they were met by an older woman dressed in a gleaming blue robe of simple elegance that reached to her feet. Smiling a welcome at the two Priestesses, she reached to take a fold of flesh at Yasmaleeya’s upper arm between her thumb and the first joint of her index finger. Still smiling, she pinched like a demon. Yasmaleeya was instantly rejuvenated. Immense belly notwithstanding, she vaulted out of the sedan chair with a shrieking agility that left Sylah and Lanta slackjawed. The poor slaves, unexpectedly relieved of their load, practically skipped several steps before staggering to a halt.
Yasmaleeya hopped about, rubbing her injury and shouting indignation. Smiling benignly, the older woman stalked her, fingers poised like a pudgy little crab claw. Yasmaleeya squalled and retreated.
Sylah tore her eyes from the blue-clad woman’s implacable advance. To Lanta, she said, “What in the name of holiness have we stumbled into?”
Am
azingly, the older woman heard her over Yasmaleeya’s yowling. Abandoning her prey, she turned her smile on Sylah. “You’re the Sylah one. You’re the Seer, Lanta. I recognize a certain inevitability about Yasmaleeya being serviced by a War Healer. I’m her mother. My name’s Jeslaya.”
Sylah said, “I know you, Jeslaya. I’m Sylah, Rose Priestess of the Iris Abbey. This is my companion, Lanta, Violet Priestess of the Violet Abbey.”
Jeslaya frowned, “Of course you know me. I just told you who I am. How could you not know me? Are all unpeople so foolish? I’ve never met one.”
Sylah ignored the questions. “The Chair asked us to help Yasmaleeya because he fears for her. Is there a history of difficult births in your family?”
Jeslaya shook her head. “Difficult, yes, but not until Yasmaleeya’s sister has one of us been lost to childbirth. You knew the baby died, too?”
Lanta leaned forward. “We know. Why did it happen?”
Jeslaya’s features collapsed. Grief scarred them, was quickly chased away by the return of determined control. Still, her hands wadded the soft cotton of her dress at her sides. “My daughter was healthy. As strong as Yasmaleeya, just as pretty. She was solid-minded, too, not full of sighs and songs, like this one. She had an easy pregnancy, Priestess, but the last weeks the baby grew. So fast. The midwife tried everything.”
Yasmaleeya took a few tentative steps toward her mother. “I’m lots stronger than my sister.” She faced Sylah and Lanta. “My sister was always the favorite. Now I’m the bearer, and they’re all jealous. My baby’s going to be the next Chair, and I’m going to be the most important woman of Kos.” She rounded on Jeslaya. “You always loved her best. All of you.” Then, without any warning, she fell into Jeslaya’s arms, begging forgiveness, blaming pregnancy for unsettling her mind.
Gazing over her daughter’s shoulder as she absently patted a back shaking with sobs, Jeslaya raised her eyebrows in an expression of fond surrender. “She’s my child. I love her.”
“I love you, too!” It was more blubber than declaration. Yasmaleeya stepped back, hands on the shorter woman’s shoulders. Holding back more tears, she said, “I’m fine, Mother, I really am. Sylah says I eat too much and there’s too much water, but that’s just because she’s unpeople, never treated a Kossiar before. I need my strength. Everything’s going to be all right. I haven’t gained all that much weight. See?” She spun around. The stomach lagged, caught up. Momentum carried it several degrees before it swung back to a jiggling halt. Yasmaleeya smiled as if it were all an acrobatic accomplishment.
Sylah controlled herself. To Jeslaya, she said, “What was the sister’s name?”
Jeslaya’s chin rose. Emotions cut the expressive features into confused disarray. “Family mustn’t speak the name of a woman who died in childbirth. Family is shamed. Children are women’s purpose, and women mustn’t fail their mission. Isn't it the same among unpeople?”
The sense of the last question was hope, a plea that pulled Sylah to the older woman’s side. She linked arms with her. “Not exactly the same, but little better. Where we live, however, change is coming. Slowly. We grow stronger.”
Yasmaleeya interrupted. “Woman’s place and duty is to live to serve.”
Jeslaya sneered. “She’s so proud of her new position she doesn’t care what happens to the rest of us. Ever since Bos selected her to bear that monstrous fool’s get, she’s been so female-proper it makes you sick.”
Moving to place herself between the house and her mother, Yasmaleeya looked genuinely ill. “Stop! What if a servant heard you? Or worse, a slave? Even I couldn’t help you.”
Nervously, Jeslaya fell back on bravado. “If anyone asks, I meant ‘big’ when I called him a monster. He’d be happy about that.”
Lanta said, “What of your husband, Jeslaya? And your father? Large men?”
“Large men, large boy babies. We scream, they boast. Family tradition.”
“Mo-ther!”
They all ignored Yasmaleeya’s plaint. Lanta said, “I must ask: you’re sure there weren’t other deaths? Perhaps close relatives?”
Jeslaya made a three-sign. “Never. We’ve been very fortunate. That’s why Bos chose my daughters, you know; the big babies thing. It’s important that the Chair’s son be grand and impressive.” She glared at Yasmaleeya, daring a response.
In an uncharacteristic show of intelligence, the daughter pretended to have discovered a hangnail. A moment later, she shouted at the house for a slave to bring water, amending that to fruit juice. “Raisins, too. Lots.”
Jaw set, anger steeling her expression, Jeslaya said, “Many believe Yasmaleeya’s midwife and her family were poisoned because she brought bad news to the Chair. They believe an innocent slave was blamed for it.”
“Why would she be killed?” Lanta’s high-pitched question reflected her shock.
“The Chair is not to be disappointed. All Kos knows that.”
The group fell silent as a young woman in a shapeless yellow smock ran from the house with a tray holding a pitcher, four mugs, and a large bowl of raisins. When the woman put her burden down and left, they all settled to the ground beside it. Yasmaleeya grabbed the raisins. Pouring grape juice, Jeslaya went on, “I tried to make Yasmaleeya understand when Bos’ men started asking questions. Being the bearer is no honor. Having a large child is a dangerous thing.”
“My son will lead all of Kos to ever greater glory.”
Jeslaya looked at her daughter as if she’d just discovered this exotic creature on her grass. Slowly turning to Sylah, she said, “The best midwife in Harbor. Probably in Kos.” Suddenly, her eyes were wet, glistening. “Why couldn’t she save my little girl? They say the other Church woman, the tall one with the silver hair, talked to the midwife. Now the Church one says my Yasmaleeya will die, too. They say you have magic. More than that Harvester? More than the midwife?” The older woman, her dignity all but shattered, tore her gaze from Sylah. She lunged forward and grabbed her daughter’s wrists. “Listen to me. If the midwife said anything to you, or if the Harvester did, tell these women. They’re trying to save your life.”
Gently, but determinedly, Yasmaleeya disengaged a hand, then used it to pop a handful of raisins through an arch, superior smile. Talking, chewing, she said, “The old woman was a fraud. I happen to know that my Chair was going to send her far away, inland, because she didn’t save my sister. It was just bad luck that slave poisoned them all. He was a rebel and a thief. If the Chair had the midwife killed, why would he kill her whole family? Do you believe every rumor you hear?”
Jeslaya’s voice admitted defeat. “You’re too foolish to be afraid. It’s unimaginable.”
Yasmaleeya laughed merrily. “I’m smart enough to make the Chair think I’m afraid. He’ll be all the more grateful when his son’s born strong and healthy.”
Sylah and Lanta exchanged glances. “Have you ever spoken to the Harvester about the midwife?” Sylah asked Yasmaleeya.
“No. They talked together. All huddled and secretive. Like you and Lanta do sometimes.”
Sylah stilled Lanta’s angry twitching with a warning look that gradually turned thoughtful as she watched Yasmaleeya simultaneously squirm about in search of a comfortable position and pour the last of the grape juice into her mug. The raisins were gone.
Abruptly, Sylah rose. “Get up, Yasmaleeya. We’re going to examine you.”
“What, again? You did that just four or five days ago.”
“Five. And we’re doing it again. Now.” To Jeslaya, Sylah said, “Is there a room where we’ll have privacy?”
“Of course. Come.” Regaining her composure, the older woman moved with swift grace, clearly pleased by Sylah’s sudden decisiveness. “You’ve thought of something. Anyone would see that. I’m glad you’re trying. Someone has to; Yasmaleeya certainly won’t. How could I have raised such a vain stonebrain?” She stopped, pulled Sylah to her side so she could whisper. “She’s not witched, is she? Like my other poor girl?”
Sylah said, “Church won’t accept witches. I believe they’re just talk.”
Jeslaya blanched and made a quick three-sign. “You just don’t know what to look for, because you think Church is the only truth. Church didn’t save my other girl.”
“Church is trying very hard to save this one. And if we find any witch interfering, Church will tend to her, as well.”
Sylah regretted saying it as soon as the words were formed. The image of the Harvester, her harsh features split in a triumphant laugh, filled her mind.
It took all of Sylah’s will to dispel it.
By then they were entering the house. The architecture was unlike anything Sylah had ever seen. Massive wooden posts supported equally heavy crosstimbers. The latter, with square surfaces, provided the base for roofstruts. There were no load-bearing interior walls, although where wings branched off, those corners were double-posted. Examining the interior, she remembered that the exterior was a sheath of lightweight boards; so were the inner walls, although the latter were polished. When she asked about it, Jeslaya told her, “Terrible stuff if there’s a fire, but much safer when we have an earthquake. The support posts move alarmingly, but they don’t often fall.”
They entered a small room with its own fireplace and a window much like the Chair’s. Unfinished sewing projects lay on the table at the room’s center, and two cabinets overflowed with cloth, thread, and sewing paraphernalia.
A protesting Yasmaleeya was soon stripped and on the table. She continued to complain while Sylah and Lanta poked and prodded. All that was as nothing, however, when Sylah asked for a brass basin, and demanded that Yasmaleeya urinate in it. Only Jeslaya’s powers of persuasion and sacred oaths got the matter accomplished.
Sylah signaled Jeslaya they were finished, and indicated the door with a covert nod. Jeslaya hurried her daughter off with promises of mint-and-honey tea while the latter was still rearranging clothing.
Peering outside, assuring they were unheard, Sylah said, “Your observations?”
Lanta was grim. “Just as Jeslaya said: the child grows faster as each day of its due time approaches. Also, the uterine fluid’s excessive. I’m a poor Healer.”
