by Kate Elliott
“Are we going home, Kiri?”
“You are going home, Kontas. Now I need you to listen to me, very close and very hard. Any boys there were kind to you? Any were mean? Any who admitted they were orphans? Point them out to me.”
So many faces stared at her, confused, calculating, frightened, tearful, dejected. Some called, asking what was going on. Most remained silent, for those who were traded away by the tribes and handed over to foreigners knew by this token that no one wanted them, or that their own kin could not save them. To be marched into the demon lands was to be damned. You might as well already be dead.
Older boys might turn on Kontas, steal the horses, and run. Younger boys would be a burden to feed until they could do more work themselves. Did Mariya want nine more boys? How would she get them wives? Could Orphan mold them into a war band that could protect the Moroshya tribe?
Did it matter? For one year she would walk into demon land in servitude; she could churn their milk and grease their wagon’s axles and scrape their hides and carry buckets of their stinking night soil if indeed they bothered to keep clean. She could eat their leavings and sleep under a wagon instead of in a tent. In exchange, Kontas and nine boys would not lose their souls.
She searched the young faces who turned to look at her, a woman of the tribes like their own sisters and mothers and aunts and cousins. That one was scratch-eyed, that one was snot-nosed, and that youth had too much anger in the set of his shoulders and ugly fresh whip scars on his face to show he got into trouble frequently. There, a hopeful one, begging pitiably with his stare. There, two little blond boys holding hands, like brothers, looking helpless and frightened. Beside them, a bigger boy, maybe Kirya’s age, rested a protective hand on the shoulder of a younger one. The younger was an especially pretty child no older than Danya, one of the few with dark hair.
“Those two were kind to me,” Kontas said suddenly, pointing at the mismatched pair, blond and dark. “They’re orphaned cousins. The Vidrini captured them months ago when they raided the remnants of their tribe. They were traded at the same time as me.”
Those two, then, and the two little blond brothers, who upon being brought across told Kirya that the angry youth had been beaten five times by the guards for helping boys who were faltering, which is why he had those scars. So she must indicate him as well, and he wasn’t eager to come until she spoke to him in a low voice and told him what she hoped for, and then he didn’t want to believe her because it is fearful to hope for the very thing that is about to be ripped from your hand, but she was a woman of the tribes after all, willing to walk into demon land to free her brother. Once started, he told her a great deal quickly: He had walked with the merchants for many days; he had watched them bargaining for horses and hides and flesh; he had seen them desperately trying to coax girls, especially blond girls, out of the tribes, but of course not even the Vidrini would hand females over to foreigners.
“Swear to me that you and this other youth will help my brother sneak past the Vidrini and reach my cousin,” she said to him. “That you’ll obey Orphan, who is the war leader of our tribe. Swear to me that you’ll become Moroshya.”
“I’m an orphan,” he said. “I’m ill-fortuned. The gods cursed me and left me alive when my kin died. No one wants an orphan except the demons, and they are cruel, and they hate us.”
“You’re not an orphan. You are Moroshya.”
He was a fierce boy, with bright eyes and so much anger, which she saw now was strength, not a bully’s weakness. “I am Moroshya, then. I swear this oath: Your tribe will never die, because you are our mother, and gave us life.”
“What is your name?”
“Ilia. What is yours?” He had a western twang to his speech, but he was as human as she was. He was a lad she might marry.
“I am named Kirya. Four more boys I can choose. Hurry.”
Hurry.
Too quickly she assembled the little war band. The fat man brought saddlebags crammed with provisions, dried meat and also slabs and balls of tasteless grain that the boys assured her were edible. She approved three horses; with five all together, the ten boys might ride doubled-up. With some coaxing and after one frustrated kick, the gelding agreed to accept Kontas and Ilia. In an odd exuberance of generosity, the old merchant gave them leather bottles filled with foreign drink, which anyway could be used for water later.
“There, now,” he said, “give the boy back his weapons and let them go.”
What was this demon yammering about? “The boy has no weapons. He is too young to be a rider.”
“You carry his bow and quiver.”
“They are mine.”
The young merchant laughed. “How can a woman say so?”
She did not see what was so funny, but the old merchant looked thoughtful.
“Servants cannot carry weapons. We take, or you give to the boy. Your choice.”
“No woman gives up her bow!”
“No man touch you,” said the old man.
What a strange thing to say! What man would dare to touch a woman of the tribes without her permission? None would! Once a tribe was marked by such a shameful act, they were condemned to death and every neighboring tribe would certainly do their part to make sure their name was nevermore spoken and all their goods and innocent children taken into a tribe whose people obeyed the laws of the gods.
Yet if she wanted to save Kontas, what choice did she have? She handed quiver and bow to him.
“And the knife,” said the old man.
And the knife. “Remember everything I told you, Kontas,” she said in a choked voice. “Now go. Be quick.”
He was an obedient boy. He wept, but he rode away nonetheless with the band moving tightly behind him as the angry youth turned to shout, “We will keep them safely for you. I swear it.”
The old merchant cackled, and the younger merchant smirked. The Qin soldiers trotted over. When they were up on their horses and she was standing down on the ground, she trembled. This fear had a sharp tang that ran through her entire body and into her groin and made her shudder as if with desire only it was more like having a knife at your throat.
The old man stopped laughing abruptly, patted his hands a few times as though wiping off dust, and said, “Good, good.” The young one burst into a passionate demand in demon language, and the old one stepped right up into his face and slapped him so hard it made his dark cheek red. The fat man bawled out orders, and the caravan by stages jolted into forward motion until the entire sluggish beast shambled eastward. The younger man sulked to his horse; the soldiers trotted away to oversee the rear guard.
The old man snapped his fingers, and the fat man rode away and returned with a pretty mare already saddled and caparisoned, a handsome horse fit for a head-woman’s daughter.
The old man indicated the horse, to show she should mount.
She would stay strong. She could hold on to her soul for one year. Careful to show no emotion, she took the reins and mounted.
25
“Forbidden you talk to these ones,” the old man said, taking hold of her mare’s reins and drawing her away from the herd of captive boys before she could question them about their names, their tribes, their circumstances.
He set strict rules. She must ride in the front beside the old man and his younger associate all day as they plodded through the flat lands of the old lake bed. What grass there was snapped clean, and the vegetation bristled with thorns. The soggy swales where they watered stank of mildew and sour breath. Mostly the old man did not speak to her, letting her ride in silence, which suited her bleak mood. He made cursory attempts to teach her words of demon language, although she wondered what the use of that was, since he could speak human speech.
Each evening when the caravan laid up for the night, he had his servants heat water in a copper tub—a most remarkable and luxurious item—which was set into a corner of his traveling tent and concealed by curtains. There, she must strip naked and wash herself by
lantern light. That wasn’t so bad, since dust settled everywhere and she liked to be clean.
The third night, hearing soft, grunting noises, she realized someone was watching her through a gap in the curtains. She splashed out of the tub and yanked the curtain aside.
There sat the old man, sitting relaxed on a stool with a look of calm appraisal on his face, and the young one, who was disheveled with trousers down by his knees and his left hand clutched tightly around his hard red member. Which spurted its milk, just then, as he groaned and gasped and grimaced, staring at her with a bold gaze that made her skin creep.
So stunned was she by this bizarre behavior that she stood there and gaped until the fat man, who was fussing with a pot by the entrance, gave a deep sigh and hurried over to push her back into the little alcove.
“Don’t touch me!”
He snorted, a curt laugh. “I am cut. No man parts.” He gestured to his groin. “I not touch you. No love desire. Now, be good girl, be quiet. Be finish. Or the old master hit you.”
THE NEXT NIGHT, she was led again to the curtained tub.
“I won’t do it! It’s demeaning.”
The old man slapped her so hard it staggered her. “You my servant. You do it.”
Shaking, she stripped off her jacket, then halted, because he still stood there. “Go.”
He said, “No. You do what thing I say.” He raised the hand he had hit her with, showed her the reddened palm.
The Orzhekov girl had been right to warn her. In demon land, anything could happen, the laws of the gods turned onto their heads, made mock of, stripped and demeaned. How had she been so stupid as to believe it would be otherwise?
As she took off her clothes, he watched her not with sexual desire but with a different and no less intense desire, one she saw on the faces of small-minded women who saw their rivals wearing more golden jewelry than what they themselves possessed. When she was naked, he studied her as if she were horseflesh. He examined her rump, sidled around to scrutinize her flower, and frowned, and smiled, and rose, all without touching her.
“Now you bathe.” When he parted the curtain to go into the other section of the tent, she saw the younger one waiting there, already untying his trousers, and two other men beside him, their eager faces greasy with lust.
Furious, she stood in the tub and bathed herself, and this time she heard the grunts and their release clearly, as if the men had nothing to hide.
THAT NIGHT, she scraped away dirt to open a gap under the taut hem of the staked tent. She rolled off the pallet on which she slept, pulled what gear was left her against her torso, and squeezed into the open air. She squirmed on her stomach between tents and under wagons to the horse lines. It was easy to pick out the pretty mare. She whispered and coaxed her way along the lines without disturbing the other horses, and whispered and coaxed her way beyond the lines with the mare trusting her enough to come along after. The guards had fires lit at the van and rear, but the center remained murky. She led the mare out without being noticed, and for a long time they walked. Even out of the sight of camp they walked slowly because there wasn’t much more than a quarter moon shining over the pale earth. The mare was uncomfortable walking in such poor light, but she trusted Kirya enough to attempt the journey. Anyway the ground was so flat that mostly they had only to avoid the occasional snackling stand of thorny brush and the seams and cracks that rutted the earth.
She heard the horns before dawn. There was, of course, nowhere to hide, so as soon as the landscape turned from night to gray she swung up on the mare and pushed westward. Dust soon coated her face and her tongue. The mare had a strong disposition and an eager heart, and for a while Kirya thought she might manage her escape, but the old man sent the Qin soldiers after her with spare mounts, and if anyone could ride as well as a tribeswoman, it was their old enemy, the Qin.
In the end, when they caught up and surrounded her, she was too proud to weep or struggle. They did not laugh or show any sign of triumph. They kept their distance and offered her some dignity, that she might ride the blown mare slowly back to the caravan.
When they rode up to the tail of the caravan, every man there who could, turned to watch as the old man rode out to meet them. He had a whip in his hand. He slashed her across the shoulders so hard she screamed from the shock as pain cut deep. But even dizzied and stunned, she did not fall from the mare’s back.
Not until he brought the whip down a second time, and a third and fourth and fifth and more. The pain of lashing washed her entire body and her hands went numb and her legs lost all feeling. She tumbled to the ground, and struck her head.
A silver mist, sparkling with bright flecks of burning ash, swallowed her in its pale wings. She blacked out.
VOMITING, SHE CAME to, the vile liquid spilling down her chin. She was splayed on her stomach on the hard floorboards of one of the wagons. Sun shone in her eyes, making her gag and retch.
The young man was yelling at the old man. “Yah yah yah! Yah yah yah!”
The old one shouted back. “Yah yah yah! Yah yah yah!”
The wagon shifted as the young man clambered up and tugged at her felt jacket, then grabbed the waistband of her trousers and yanked.
She kicked. The old man connected with the whip, and the crack made her wheeze with fear and pain, only it hadn’t hit her. The young one shrieked, gabbling, and the old man yahhed furiously. The curtain dropped, cutting off the painful light, and she was left alone. Her head throbbed so badly. Men yelled in the distance, echoing and buzzing.
The wagon lurched forward. She coughed and spat, and her insides clenched. Bile spewed. Ashamed of her weakness, she wept.
SHE SLIPPED OUT of sleep in a drowsy half-awareness. A wagon rocked beneath her with the comforting rhythm of home. Except the air smelled wrong, too dusty, too bitter. Iron braces shackled her wrists. Tugging, she came up short like a hobbled horse. What nightmare was this?
When she opened her eyes, a sea of cloth billowed around her. Her stomach roiled. Dizzy, she retched until nothing was left to bring up, and then kept retching because her body would not stop trying to cast up its leavings. Or its heart. Or its soul.
She was trapped in demon land.
SHE SMELLED THE place before they reached it. The air stank of manure and urine, of an overhanging mildew and the rotting sweet corruption of garbage left in the sun. The dust tasted as if it had been crushed too many times beneath the haunches of dogs and the thighs of dirt-stained women who never were allowed to wash.
She heard such a clamor beyond the accustomed tromping and scraping of the caravan that she wondered what battle they had wandered into, but from within her cage she could see through only a slit in the canvas that widened and narrowed as the wagon jounced. A tent wall. A child’s dirty face. More tents, oddly textured and aligned, not proper tents at all. A woman walking with a basket balanced atop her head. A flowering tree splendidly clothed in stark white blooms, a thing of rare beauty that made her close her eyes because it hurt to see beautiful things in demon land.
They rattled to a stop. Men shouted in tough, argumentative voices. A whip cracked. She flinched, but no cord struck her.
She tested the limits of her chains, pushing with her feet, pulling and tugging while careful not to make the sores at her wrists worse than they already were, for they were raw and weeping. The peg fixing one chain shifted, like a breath let out. She jerked with all her might.
The wagon lurched forward, pitching her onto the floorboards. She tasted blood on her lip, licked it, savoring the flavor. What lives, bleeds. As long as she bled, she had not lost her soul.
She counted back days, so she would not forget. Probably the eastern merchant meant to cheat her; he could not be trusted. One year held eighteen passages of the moon, and each passage of the moon held twenty-four dawns. She had been careful to keep count as the caravan rumbled east out of the lake bed and up into new country.
Twenty days she had been chained in the wagon, allowed out a
t dusk to walk around under heavy guard. Three days before that she had watched her brother ride away. Today was a new day, the end of her first month of being a servant. If she had survived this, she could survive another seventeen months.
They passed into shadow, as though night had fallen. Then they emerged into light, and through the slit she saw they were in a confluence more crowded than the assembly at the Targit River. Stiff tents raised out of wood were packed one up against another. Truly, who ever thought there was so much wood in the world? Other tents were built of stone, just as it said in the tales, or of a clay-red rock with squared corners. No one raised proper tents here.
Folk moved along the open spaces, thoroughfares packed with people trudging and carrying and pushing wheeled carts and barking dogs and crying children until her head hurt. The howl never let up, only muted when they came around several corners and thence past a wall and into a quieter enclosure. The wagon halted. The dray beasts were unhitched; they crunched away over dirt to slobber at a trough. The smell of water was like sweetest honey on her tongue, for she’d had nothing to drink that day.
She set to work on the peg, bracing her feet against the wagon, straining, pulling, until she was sweating and in a rage with frustration. Her left wrist had begun to bleed.
Blood means life.
She heard the old man’s voice, answered by that of a woman. She swung around to face the approaching threat. The entrance flap was untied and swept back.
An old woman with a commanding bearing stared belligerently in at her. She was dressed in such an astounding wealth of silk that Kirya knew she must be a headwoman of great consequence. The old one grunted with displeasure, and another woman clambered into the wagon to unlock the chains. Cautiously, Kirya crawled out of the wagon. She stood in a space surrounded on all sides by high walls. Dusty green trees shaded the trough at which dray beasts watered. A boy swept fresh droppings into a pan, but when he saw her, he stopped working to stare with mouth dropped open. Grooms turned, pointing and whispering. A girl half hidden in a doorway stepped out into the sun to squint at her.
