by Teri Mclaren
"Some years passed. One day, when she had come of age, and the princess had become enraged that Riolla had taken her young man from under her very nose, Riolla ran away and found my house, invited herself in, and begged me to teach her more magic. I confess that I fell in love with her then and there. She was beautiful and young-all that dark red hair, those blue eyes. And she could sing. She seemed to be so interested in the songs, in how to find and channel the power, how to work the silences.
"I taught her everything I knew, and then drove myself to learn more so that I could teach her. Every day, I loved her more, risking even death if the king found out she was there. I wanted to marry her, to give her my name. It is an old and respected one, you know, whether I look like it or not.
"One morning, when I believed I had found the right words, the words that would make her love me back, I gave her the ring. It is custom to pledge a ring when you are about to give a name," he explained to Cheyne as Claria unconsciously twisted at the one on her own finger. "It was my most valuable possession, and I wanted her to know that her love was even more valuable to me, and that I would share everything I had with her. She took the ring, pretending to be honored, saying yes, she would marry me, that we would make magic together for all time. I was the happiest man under the sun. I went to fetch Bandro, who was the Mercanto Schreef at that time, to marry us."
"Well-what happened?" said Claria, frowning, refusing to be caught up in Og's romantic story.
Og looked up at her, his face bleak and pale behind his reddened nose. "When I returned, she was gone.
Everything she owned-and most of what I owned- had been packed and moved."
"So that's how Riolla got to be Schreefa!" Claria said, daggers in her words. "I knew she had to have had some kind of magic behind her. Maceo wouldn't fall in love with her otherwise."
"Oh, Maceo, yes. Well, she did use the magic, at first. She could spark a bit of a spell off the ring, but she never had the perfect pitch it required to really control the power in the four stones. Burned her house down once, changed some poor steward into a big white cockroach for bringing her the wrong drink. But in the end, she split up the ring-stones and scattered them. The first I heard about it on the street was that she had bought her freedom with one of the stones, then stole the gem back not three hours later. She gave the others out for political favor and privilege. Paid off the controllers of the caravan route."
Cheyne interrupted him. "This caravan route? Why would she need to do that?"
"Oh, well, the situation with the route is that the heads of the smaller factions of Almaaz let only Riolla's caravans go through unharmed for the price of the gems-otherwise, they would raid the caravans, and Riolla would end up with nothing soon-like the many other caravan owners she has driven out of business.
"See, this is, was, I mean, the shortest route to bring ch'mina into Sumifa. You can't grow it there, it's a mountain crop, and the main ingredient of bap-pir. Since the river dries up for six months every year, Sumifa lives off of it, actually. The longer route takes so much more time that the stuff spoils before it gets to the city. Riolla had cornered the market on it. She brought in tons and tons, converted it to a sort of meal that keeps indefinitely, and stockpiled it in those big round buildings between the Mercanto and the Citadel. Only her caravans were getting through, and so, Claria, that's how she got so rich.
"So now she doesn't actually direct all of the stones' magic. Only I could do that, it turns out," he finished, still forlorn at the memory of better times. Cheyne looked away, and even Claria had momentarily faltered in her anger at Og.
"The stone on her necklace-is that part of the ring?" asked Cheyne.
"Yes. The black pearl of Nadrum. The one she used to buy her freedom. Its magic is easier to use than any other stone in the ring-not as exact a tone is called for. By itself, depending on a lot of things, but mainly the user, it can do anything from cure to kill. Very unstable, the pearl. But when it's used with the other stones, it provides bass and adds volume, amplifies the power I guess you could say, for my songspells. Even if all the other stones were put back together, Riolla could stand off their magic by sheer force of the pearl's dark, confusing noise. But it's very draining. You have bad dreams and pains for days after using it alone. Dreams of swamps and murky, foul places. Very unpleasant," said Og, wrinkling his nose.
Cheyne sat pondering Og's story for a white. One thing he knew: Riolla's caravan route had been closed for many years now. No matter how much ch'mina she had brought to the city, treated, and stored, she had to be getting to the end of it by now.
Still deep in thought, Cheyne removed his boots and tunic and entered the cooling spring. Despite herself, Claria could not help noticing how the water and sunlight played over his well-muscled body.
"Og?" Cheyne said, his eyes distant.
"Yes."
"Og, who else has the stones?"
Smiling, the little man considered for a moment. "The last I knew…" His face rounded into an endearing smile.
"What?" said Cheyne hotly, beginning to suspect the reason for Og's choice of routes. He pushed wet blond hair out of his eyes and swatted hard at a tenacious horsefly.
"Well, the selkies have one that Drufalden once owned, and the elves-yes, the elves-have the fire-bane, but they got it through one of their own, who turned out to be a traitor. Riolia had made some kind of deal with him for monopolizing the ch'mina, and he used the stone to kill the fields that were promised to other traders and such. Shalikre, I believe, was his name, dead now, anyway, but the elves use the fire-bane only to heal.
"And… the Wyrvil overking has one, the ajada." Og grinned sheepishly. "We could go there and you could see it for yourself. The overking, Rotapan-his name means 'One-lip' in orcish, but never, never, call him that-has had it made into a staff. Never leaves his temple; quite a place, really, everyone should go there at least once. He can do one or two things with the ajada, nothing really of much import, though. Nothing that would hurt us. Oh, and seems I've heard that it even protects him from snake venom."
Claria combed at her hair with her fingers, drying it quickly in the brilliant sun. "Would it turn the poison on an orcish spear?" she asked flatly, her face rigid and white with fear.
"I don't know," replied Og.
"Why do you ask, Claria?" said Cheyne, angrily ducking under the water again to avoid the horsefly.
The answer missed his head and twanged into the striated trunk of a date palm on the other side of the pool, sending the parrots into frenzied flight and their cluster of dates raining down upon Og's unprotected head.
"Oh. Well, you could have just said," Cheyne sputtered, surfacing.
8
"This wasn't part of the deal, Og. You were to lead me to the Sarrazan forest, not straight into a war party of ores. And you were supposed to be on watch. What happened?" Cheyne muttered under his breath as he worked at the ropes.
"I was upset. All that talk about Riolia. Every time I think of her, it seems to happen all over again. Besides, if we aren't dead right now, he's probably not feeling threatened enough to kill us. The leader is Yob, a Wyrvil underking. He has a camp not far from here. The two with the heads hanging from their belts are Rotapan's boys. See the notches in their ears? The ores' ears, not the humans'. Rotapan bites them out himself when they enter his service. Yob is wearing his full battle gear; he's too dressed up for a routine hunting party. They're probably all going to the temple… quarterly payments or something. This could work very well for us, if I can remember a song or two. They can take us exactly where we need to go."
"You mean exactly where you need to go," groused Cheyne, his large fingers fumbling with the same knot for the fourth time. Og finally turned his face as directly toward Cheyne's as he could.
"Look, my friend, here's the situation. Rotapan has the ajada. I need those stones back, or you won't get to where you want to go either, plain as you please, and don't even think about turning back, because in case y
ou don't remember, someone is hunting your head, too. Be calm. Save your energy. Tying us up is just routine for Yob. Impresses the big boys and gives him a chance to think, though that could take all day. Anyway, I'm terribly sorry, you know. About deceiving you, that is." Og ended, exhausted from his tirade. It was more than Claria could bear.
"Oh, once again, a man apologizes and he thinks everything is all right," she fumed. "'I'm so sorry, Claria, for getting you into this mess.' 'I'm so sorry, Claria, for not watching better, and for demanding we take the most dangerous trail possible.' 'I'm so sorry, Claria, but it could never be. We are too far apart in all the important ways.' Hey. That's my hand you've got now."
"Sorry-er, sorry," Cheyne muttered.
Then he sat up straighter, took a deep breath, and caught hold of the stubborn knot. "That's the last time I apologize for apologizing. Claria, I'm just trying to get us free. The inconvenience of having to touch me or having me touch you is temporary, I assure you. Now if you will just hold that end-good. Thank you." Cheyne unraveled the nest of knots with a quick jerk. "Now sit still."
"We can get loose and you want us to sit here anyway?" she grated.
"Please. No disrespect to your considerable fighting talents, but think about this: they are twelve and we are three, one lame. They have their spears and our daggers now, too. Let Og talk to them. Just cooperate for now. Besides, any one of them is twice as big as you are, Claria. Perhaps you didn't see the heads hanging from the biggest one's belt? Here they come. Og, you know them, you do the talking. And keep us alive, do you hear?"
"Of course," said Og, practicing his best diplomatic tone. "Take your cue when I give it; do something showy, if you can."
The ore Cheyne had guessed to be the leader sauntered over and towered over them, sniffing the air. "Og. You have been gone so long. My daughter cries every night for you. You are the only thing she does not forget. You did not say good-bye, even. You are missing her, too, perhaps? This is why you have come back to my desert?"
The ore's heavy teeth clacked together when he spoke, and two or three flies wafted in and out of his mouth, seeming very much at home there. Cheyne could not tell if he was smiling or not. Claria, the tension too much for her, broke into nervous giggles at the mention of a lovestruck daughter, shifting her head to squelch them and avoid tbe ore's odor, unmistakably the same as the slaughterhouse on a busy day in the Barca.
"Womba is well, I presume." Og smiled engagingly. "I have thought of her often. To tell the truth, Yob, we are just passing through, and we will pay you due honor by letting you escort us to the Borderlands."
Cheyne had to admit there was a certain power in the little man's voice; the ore did not squeeze their heads from their bodies instantly, as might have been expected in the face of such a demand. All the same, he was wondering if letting Og speak had been such a good idea.
Yob scratched his head, trying to figure out the convolutions of Og's reply, what benefit it held for him, and just who was in charge here. "You always make my head hurt, Og. I had forgotten this thing. Now you must sing for us."
The others in the group raised their spears and shouted a deafening cheer.
"Looks like they like that idea, Og," Claria teased.
"They like any idea. That's why Yob is the leader. He has ideas," said Og miserably.
"I will bargain with you, Yob. A song for our release and safe conduct. And maybe do you have a flask-"
"Og!" warned Cheyne.
"Maybe later. But I will do some magic for you right now."
Og curled his lip at Cheyne and began to hum softly, a low-pitched, almost tuneless sound that immediately got under Cheyne's skin and made it itch. Claria seemed to be squirming also. Then Og jumped free, flipped twice in the air from a standing position, held up his hands, and smiled hugely.
Yob jerked back as though stung, his yellow eyes wide with amazement. Before the others could react, he began to laugh in great rolling guffaws, shaking the teeth and bone necklaces that hung across his chest, making a weird sort of music himself.
"Good one, Og. Loved that one. Ha!" He wound down to a spitting chuckle. "Do some more."
Og whistled a little and began to pirouette and leap, his blistered feet completely forgotten, turning back-flips and somersaults, pretending to slip and fall, then catching himself awkwardly at the last moment. He found the skull Cheyne had flicked into the underbrush, found another one and a couple of shin bones very near it, and began to juggle them. The ores dropped to the ground laughing and put down their spears.
"What's he doing now?" asked Claria, her shoulders aching from holding her arms behind her back.
"I don't know yet," replied Cheyne, laughing as heartily as the ores. "But he has them spellbound. He's as good with them as you were in the fight back in the city. And I meant to say it earlier: thanks for the help. Where did you learn those old juma moves?
"What do you know about the juma?" Claria shot back at him.
"Well, just what I learned at the university," said Cheyne, trying to figure out what he had said wrong.
"Then you would have learned that there are no more juma now," she said stonily. After a long silence, Cheyne tried a different subject.
"Tell me about Maceo."
"Maceo! Why do you want to know?" hissed Claria, suddenly angry again.
"Is he your lover? Check the ropes again," said Cheyne, leaning around her to follow Og's act.
"He was my fiance, if you must know. But not anymore. Since he's about to be invested as king, he has accepted a proposal of marriage from Riolla. He told me just before you came into the shop, may her complexion glow divinely… from the drinking of poison. And I'm already over it, thank you very much."
Claria felt around her hands for the cast-off bindings. She turned her head sharply into Cheyne's nose when she did not find them. "Ow. You mean he really can do magic? Why do you care about Maceo, anyway?" she whispered, her face jammed uncomfortably into his stubbled cheek.
Cheyne smiled, enjoying her spicy perfume and the softness of her skin. "I care because I like to know who my enemies are. My friends, too. Listen."
When his audience was thoroughly mesmerized, Og launched into a song. Or it could have been a song at one time, Cheyne decided, disappointed. Og seemed to do well enough when he wasn't trying to make musical sense, but his voice, like any fine instrument left to the merciless desert wind and weather, or submerged in raqa, had deteriorated and become tuneless. With every verse, and the song had twenty-two, Og fell further and further from pitch. By the end, there was little difference between his voice and the croaking of the tree frogs in the pool behind them. Cheyne ground his teeth; Claria had placed her head between her knees in an attempt to cover her ears.
The ores applauded rabidly; some were crying.
Og bowed deeply and touched his nose to the ground. "Now for the finale-" He glanced covertly at Cheyne, who nodded. "I will break the bonds of my friends before your very eyes. Truly a magical feat, since you tied them yourselves and know their incredible strength."
Og threw back his head and let loose a wild cry, the end of which was inaudible. Cheyne took the cue, grabbed Claria, and brought her to her feet in a grand, sweeping motion, twirling her around by the hand, her hair flying around them both in a glorious, dark swirl, rainbow ribbons dancing in the air. The ores loved it. They whooped and thumped the ground, spit at one another, and applauded. Cheyne brought Claria back to earth, thinking it would be a good time for them to try to make a run for it. But Og couldn't let go of the note. As Og clutched at his throat, trying to stop the unheard song, Yob sprouted mushrooms on his shoulders, then two of his troops turned blue from asphyxiation.
And Womba appeared.
The warriors in Yob's tattered company gave a universal sigh of delight at her sudden arrival, but Cheyne's reaction was a great, unexpected compassion for Og, just when he had managed to begin to really despise him.
Disoriented, taken from her sleep, Womba shook he
rself, her little yellow eyes not believing what they saw. Her huge green face was covered in flaking mud, her coarse black hair fell in chopped, uneven lengths over her eyebrow. She yawned capaciously, revealing a complete set of red-stained teeth, her upper lip catching in a delicate sneer above a crooked canine. Pointed ears, pierced along the edges and hung with teeth and bits of carved bones, framed her face. She wore a tunic of gaudy ghoma skin, its leathery scales glinting orange and purple in the bright light of day.
"Womba!" Og rasped pitifully, finally able to let go of the song. Yob's daughter perked her ears at the sound of her name, coming fully awake. Instinctively, Cheyne and Claria scrambled to push Og under a nearby bush, but Womba had already seen him. She bellowed triumphantly, ran to his side, picked him up, and clutched him to her scaly chest in a death grip.
"Put him down!" Claria shouted.
Womba blinked feebly until she could find the source of the sound. Then she turned, Og still flailing in her arms, his suffocation advancing nicely, and stomped over to Claria.
"He is mine. You cannot have him. Mine," she snorted, jabbing a grime-encrusted fingernail at the girl and shifting Og under one enormous arm.
"Put him down, my dumpling," growled Yob, raking from his arms the wilting mushrooms, perfectly nonplused at her appearance. "I think I have traded them a path across the erg to hear the song about my finest battle. I had almost lost the words from my head about how brave I was. No one sings better than Og. Besides, you are killing him. I told you to be careful, they die so easily."
