by Kate Elliott
“Miravia!”
“It’s true. You know how they talk around what they don’t want said. Hearing nothing ill means there is nothing good. If a man is rich enough, he can buy what he wants. He has a daughter fit for Eliar, an excellent match for our family, but Eliar refused the match the first time it was offered two years ago because the agreement was for him to marry the daughter and I to marry to the old man. Eliar knew I would hate living trapped in Nessumara in a house said to be much stricter than our own. So he refused to make the bargain, knowing how I would hate it.”
“How can a house be stricter than this one, with a men’s court and a women’s court?”
“Most everyone here is related, so we have more freedom of movement between the two courts than may be obvious to you. In a very strict house, all movement is regulated, and women who have married in especially are confined to the women’s court and to a private family chamber where their husband meets with them. It’s like a prison.” The last lights in the weaving hall were extinguished, and the counting rooms went dark. “Even here, it was more informal when Eliar and I were little. But in the last few years we’ve had marriages, apprentices, and fostered girls brought in to complicate matters. And we absorbed a smaller cousin house from Horn that was driven out.”
“Driven out?”
Miravia walked on to the next lamp, opened and lit it, and gravely regarded the light as it flared. “In fire and blood. Many in the Hundred still consider us outlanders although my people have lived in this land for a hundred years. We are honest merchants. Sometimes there is resentment, because we look different and don’t worship their gods. Because we are wealthy, I suppose. Anyway, our house is now large enough that it will branch soon, sons and cousins splitting off to make their own house. Not like that rich old man in Nessumara, who clutches all the generations beholden to him in his fist.”
“Maybe he found another wife when he heard you were betrothed to the scholar.”
“Maybe he did.” Miravia rose, shaking out her loose trousers and the calf-length pleated jacket worn over all. “Poor young scholar. I wonder how he died.”
“In fire and blood,” said Mai, remembering how the tents had burned outside Olossi, remembering the rising and falling whoops of men too weakened by burns for full-throated screams. She let her tears flow, knowing better than to suck them down. There was nothing shameful in sorrow.
“I’ve made you gloomy, too,” said Miravia, hugging her. “How dare I! I’m sorry.”
“It would be worse not to think about it. But we lived and won, and they lost and died.”
“Thanks to Captain Anji and his company. And that reeve my friend Jonit cannot stop talking about.”
“Marshal Joss is charming and handsome, I’ll have you know, although he is pretty old.”
Miravia laughed. In lamplight, the courtyard glowed. Mai brushed the last glistening tear from her friend’s face. She wanted to assure Miravia that all would be well, but who could ever know? It was better to be honest, and remain silent.
Several women emerged from the weaving hall, walking the length of the porch around to the living quarters, where they disappeared inside. Girls carried heavy ceramic pots on trays across the courtyard and went in after them. Miravia tipped back her head and inhaled. “Ah! Can you smell it? Warmed cordial.”
“It must be time for me to return to the guesthouse.”
“Yes, it is, just when families gather in the evenings to exchange their news of the day.” She snuffed out the taper. “I’m sorry you always have to go back to the guesthouse alone.”
“Never apologize to me, Miravia. That you are here is what makes my days tolerable.”
“A sad tale, to be sure, if listening to me complain is the best part of your day!”
Companionably, they strolled across the courtyard on one of the gravel paths, brushing against the waxy leaves and soft petals of night-blooming paradom. Fumes from the hearth fires and the lingering smells of clove-spiced meats and sharp khaif roiled out as they passed the kitchens.
“Miravia? Is that Mai, with you?” The mother of Eliar and Miravia crunched toward them down an intersecting path. “Come with me, Mai, if you will. Miravia, please fetch warmed cordial and a pot of khaif and bring it to Grandfather’s rooms.”
Miravia gave her mother a startled look, but she released Mai’s hand and hurried off.
Puzzled, Mai asked, “Isn’t Grandfather dead?”
“So he is, but his rooms will go to Eliar when he marries.”
“That’s a notable honor.”
“Eliar is Grandfather’s eldest living male grandchild, although naturally my husband and his brothers hope for more sons. However, since Eliar has not yet married, the rooms remain unoccupied and therefore available.”
Available for what? Her worst fears intruded. Barely able to speak, she choked out words. “Is there somewhat amiss?”
“Not at all. Your husband is back.”
“Anji?” The drowsy languor of falling night vanished as quickly as droplets of water steam off a hot brick.
“This way. Your hirelings have already been informed that you won’t be returning to the guesthouse tonight.”
On the porch, Mai slipped off her sandals and found cloth slippers that fit well enough. Public rooms faced the courtyard. Beyond them lay a warren of inner chambers separated by papered walls, sliding screened doors, and corridors. Some rooms lay dark and quiet, or alive with the excited whispering of children who everyone pretends are asleep. Other rooms were lit. As Mai followed Miravia’s mother, turning left and right and right again, she heard voices chatting in the companionable way of families catching up on their day.
They fetched up at a dead end, facing a pair of sliding doors. A narrow corridor extended to either side, ending in gates. The gate on the left had its top half slid open; beyond, lamps glimmered in the courtyard where she and Miravia had just walked. The gate to the right was latched shut, but evidently it opened into the men’s court. Miravia’s mother slid open one of the doors, and they mounted six steps into a narrow chamber lit by a single oil lamp. Polished wood planks gleamed, smooth and dark. The whitewashed walls bore no decoration save for a ceiling strip minutely carved with vines.
“This way.”
This narrow room opened into another. Nearby, male voices rose in argument. In an alcove, a set of peepholes looked out over a bright chamber where men were talking and, by the sudden outbreak of laughter, not arguing but conversing in the intense manner Mai had always associated with arguments. She stepped inside the alcove and raised up on her toes, hoping to see, but Miravia’s mother pulled her back and led her on. They passed a second alcove fitted with a bench and a series of openings like arrow slits in a fortification, and at the end of this series of small rooms found themselves in the vestibule to a square chamber fitted with mats, a wide sleeping pallet, a low desk, and a lit lamp hanging from a tripod. The chamber had a musty smell, and the merest twinge of sweet mold festering.
The woman sniffed audibly. “Eh, that mildew will have to be found and cleaned, wherever it’s hiding. I’ll be back in a moment. Remove your slippers before you go in.”
She left, her footfalls ringing away. Mai fidgeted. She wanted to go back to the peepholes, to see if she could see Anji, but she dared not insult her hosts by eavesdropping on a conversation she had no right to overhear. The vestibule contained an empty table and a stand with hooks opposite, suitable for hanging articles of clothing.
Muted sounds drifted: more male laughter, and a burst of speech as several men spoke at once. Laughter again, after which a voice spun its tale uninterrupted. Was that Anji speaking? She pressed a palm to her chest, breath tight and heart pounding.
The soft slap of feet startled her, and she patted the creases and folds and twists of her hair, wondering if she looked worn or weary, but it was only Miravia’s mother, bearing a tray with a pot of steaming khaif, a pot of warmed cordial, a pitcher of water, four small cups, a washin
g bowl, and a tiny bowl containing mint leaves. She set this tray on the vestibule table, laid out squares of folded cloth, and pressed Mai’s hand between her own in a gesture meant to comfort.
“There, now.”
She left.
Mai chewed on mint as the doors slid shut, and the quiet settled like dust, undisturbed but for the hearty festivities in the men’s hall and, once or twice, a childish shout from farther afield. After a while, she crept back to the alcove, but even standing on tiptoe she could not see through the lowest slit. In the dim light she prowled the rooms until she found a pair of bricks, likely warmed in cool weather to place within the bed, and stacked them beneath the lowest peephole. She balanced carefully atop this, hands splayed against the wall to steady herself.
Ah! She peered into a high beamed hall. Mostly she saw the aura of light spilling from lit lamps, tangling with the darkness that pooled in the rafters. The mingled scents of burning oil and spiced cordial made her wrinkle her nose. The fierce conversation had died down. She saw a few turbaned heads, one crossing the hall and others lower, as if seated, swaying a little. Did that black hair belong to Anji? She pushed as high as she could, craning her neck—
“What are you doing?”
She shrieked, lost her balance, toppled back to be caught in strong arms.
“Anji!”
He was whole and unmarked, clean and smiling, perfectly handsome and entirely here, right here. She embraced him, pressing her face against his warm neck. He smelled of horses—he always did—and sweat and dust, the best scent imaginable. She knew she was crying, so she held on until she could draw up calmness and let it suffuse her. He talked in a voice as mellow as if their lives had not been turned entirely upside down, as if they had not been tossed into exile and then thrown into battle against an implacable enemy whose strength ought to have battered them into surrender but had not, because he was cleverer than they were. He was indomitable.
“My informants tell me that you are eating well, sleeping well, and have been out into the market despite their concern that I might find this behavior inappropriate in my wife. Which I do not. Our own endeavors have gone smoothly so far. The remnants of the invading army are fleeing north, but we’re keeping on them, killing as many as we can although unfortunately some will escape and take news of our victory to their commanders. We can’t know how long it will take the retreating soldiers to reach their base, or how their commanders will react. All these matters must be discussed and considered. I left Tohon and Chief Deze and most of the men on the hunt, with orders to drop back if our force gets too strung out. Reeve Joss has been named marshal at Argent Hall, which is excellent news. Meanwhile the Olossi council wishes to meet with me tomorrow on military matters. Isar has his sources, so I get advance notice of their complaints and fears and demands. It seems they want me to coordinate the entire regional militia, since the militia they have now is worthless.”
She found her voice, still a little frail. She hadn’t used to be so easily overset, but she remembered how the women in her father’s house got irritable and weepy in early pregnancy. “Our soldiers need wives.”
“Isn’t it too early to be thinking of that?”
She could not hold him tightly enough. “If we wish to settle here and be accepted, the men must marry local wives. And the women they marry should have connections with local clans.”
“Why would they not have such connections?”
“Many women will come who are destitute or without family, because their suspicion of outlanders will be overcome by their desperation. Such women will be grateful, and will work hard, but if there are too many kinless women, without clan support, then the rest of Olo’osson will not feel connected to us.” He seemed perfectly able to understand her despite that she was speaking into his neck. She could not bear to release him, as if he would vanish if she let go. But even so, she had been thinking about these things for days and days, having little else to do. “We don’t want to be seen as outlanders for generation after generation. We want to be seen as Hundred folk.”
“Mmmm,” he agreed, kissing her hair.
“Anyway, it will take months, perhaps years, to find fitting wives for all the men. Once children are born, then a transformation begins, the children become woven into the land, so it is less easy if the locals decide we have served our useful purpose.”
“What do you mean?”
“To start agitating for us to leave, to feel we are not a part of the land, that they can’t eat with us, to fear us or want to drive us out . . .” She pushed back, so by looking into her face he could see how serious the matter was.
Unlike every male in her family, he nodded to show he had heard her, that he considered her opinion worthwhile. “I do not think peace will come quickly, but you are of course correct in your assessment of the situation. You are in charge of the strongbox in any case. Do what you need to do, and I will do what I need to do.”
“I want a house, a compound, of our own. A place Miravia can come visit me. An altar to the Merciful One where Priya and I can pray. I want—”
“Mai,” he said softly. “Can this wait?”
There is a moment in every one of the thrilling story-songs she had grown up with and loved when the bandit prince clasps the young maid close against him, and devours her with his brooding gaze because he, never caught by those who pursue him, has fallen captive to her innocent charm. How foolish and naive are those who believe in such tales, none of which are true. That’s what everyone always told her.
“Anji,” she murmured, leaning forward to kiss him. “I missed you so badly.”
He swept her up in his arms, carried her past the vestibule, and brought her to bed.
8
According to Siras, one hundred and two people hoping to be chosen as reeves had checked in at the gate over the last twelve days. Eighty-three remained when Joss called them to silence. Most sat cross-legged on the dirt of the parade ground; a few stood, apparently too anxious to sit. The majority were young men, a number of whom he recognized from Olossi’s militia. A few young women and older men had made the trek as well, and he was surprised to see one stocky woman not much younger than he was standing in the back with arms folded and chin up. In the cloud-patched sky, eagles circled. That they appeared so tiny to the naked eye meant they were sailing very high indeed.
“I don’t know why any one of you came to Argent Hall,” he said. “Maybe you’ve always watched the reeves and wanted to be one of us. Maybe you want to know what it’s like to fly. Maybe you’re angry about what you see around you: injustice, crime gone unpunished, corruption in your village council or temple conclave with no other authority to appeal to. Maybe you watched that army march down on Olossi, burn villages and homes along West Track, and do worse besides, and you want to do something, anything, about it. Maybe you just want a baton of your own—” He brandished his baton. “—to whack people with.”
The comment elicited a few chuckles, an elbow to the ribs, a snort of laughter.
“Most of you will go home disappointed. You can help us with our chores, you can share sex with any one of us, remind us that your uncle knows our aunt or your clan made a deal with one of ours years ago. You can share apprenticeship stories—I rode my year as a messenger for Ilu, by the way—but none of that will matter. The eagles choose. We don’t. How they make their choice we’ve never known. Even with as many eagles as we have here now looking for new reeves, I can’t even say that one of you waiting here will be marked and chosen by an eagle. You may all end up walking home. You may ask to stay on as assistant to one of our fawkners, who take on the difficult job of caring for the eagles and the lofts. You may hire on as one of the stewards and hirelings who do the day-to-day work of running the hall. Even if you do become a reeve, you’ll discover that the training process is arduous and dangerous.”
Restless murmurs began to rise. He raised a hand to quiet them. “Is there a question?”
An older ma
n rose respectfully. “Marshal, thanks for hearing me. How long have you been a reeve?”
“Twenty-two years.”
“And how long a marshal?”
“Twelve days.” That got a laugh.
A younger voice called from the crowd. “Is it true that eagles sometimes kill their reeves?”
“It’s very rare, but it happens. If you don’t like that answer, then leave now.” He waited, but no one moved, nor did he expect any person to walk out while everyone else watched. “Hall eagles aren’t as territorial as eagles in the wild. Perhaps the gods bred it out of them. But they are territorial, and they will tangle, and the routines of patrol and hall rest and mating cycles are carefully calibrated so the halls can function smoothly. Eagles are our partners, not our servants. Their needs come first. There’s one other thing you may not fully understand. Once chosen, you cannot change your mind. You are a reeve for life. You can’t leave. And if your eagle dies, you will die with them.”
“Do you regret it?” called the older woman suddenly. “Do you regret being chosen as a reeve by your eagle?”
Joss grinned. “Never.”
He put his bone whistle to his lips and blew a note no human ear could hear. From elsewhere in the compound, dogs barked. Scar appeared, huge body seeming monstrous as he flew in low over the walls. Folk shrieked in alarm. The big eagle braked with talons forward and wings wide, and whumped down onto one of the big perches. Most flinched, or jumped back. A few, to their credit, did not. Scar dipped his head and turned it upside down to stare at the assembly, making many laugh nervously. Joss walked in under the cruel beak, within reach of the killing talons.
“You’ll need the courage to stand here, knowing your eagle can kill you. You’ll need the courage to imp her feathers, cope her beak and talons, and a hundred more things besides. You’ll need patience to build the trust that jesses the bond between you.”
Scar opened his wings like great sails. He flirted. He squawked with that funny chirp the big eagles had, so at odds with their size and magnificent beauty.
