The Plains of Kallanash

by Pauline M. Ross

  “But… no injuries?”

  “There’s not much to see with a broken neck.” Hurst’s voice was sharper than he’d intended and Roonast flushed a little, and avoided his eye. It was easy to forget how young he was, sometimes. At least he hadn’t asked about blue arrows. Hurst supposed there was a lot of speculation going on about that. “But let’s not talk about it,” Hurst added in gentler tones. “Tell me about you. Have you got an arrangement worked out that you’re comfortable with?”

  “Oh yeah, it’s fine. Well… it’s all still settling down, really. As third husband, I’m s’posed to be with Shanya, the third wife – eventually, you know – but she wanted to start with Klemmast, and at the moment she’s with Jallinast. But it’s fine. She’s older than me, she thinks I’m too young for her still. But the wives have nine Companions between them, and they’ve been – very friendly. I’ve hardly spent a night alone, it’s brilliant.” He smiled, a boyish grin that made him look even younger than his fifteen years.

  Hurst smiled too, but he wondered just how wise such a free-spirited marriage was. Of course, he could see the attraction for the lead and second husbands when a third wife was added, young and fresh and tempting, and the third husband dazzled by having his own skirmishes and an array of Companions to choose from. At fifteen, he would have been quite happy with such a situation, too. But were the other wives happy with it? It was hardly a stable arrangement for the longer term.

  Not that his own position was anything to boast about. Ten years of uncomplaining subservience with nothing to show for it. He had been an idiot to put up with it. So stupid. He should have protested years ago.

  Now Jonnor had Mia and he had nothing at all, nothing but the right to lie in the dark listening to their pleasure. He had lost her now, lost her for ever. Assuming Jonnor had worked up his courage, of course. What was wrong with the man? How difficult could it be? And if he hadn’t… Well, he would find out soon enough.

  ~~~

  The next morning brought relief from that anxiety, but in turn created another. A brief message from Mia, sent on from the sky ship station and brought to the Ring overnight, contained the reassuring words: ‘Situation resolved’. And that set him worrying all over again. Such unemotional words – what did they really mean?

  The morning also brought his first interview. He put on his formal clothes for the first time in almost a year, feeling, as always, half-naked in the thin silks which floated and clung with the slightest movement. It was fortunate that practicality dictated a heavy outer cloak as well, for whatever the origins of the traditional costume, it was anything but appropriate winter wear.

  “It’s the fucking stupid headband that upsets me most,” muttered Walst, as they gathered to leave their room. “And who ever thought all this trailing material is flattering for a Skirmisher anyway?”

  Hurst laughed, but he had to agree. Walst was even more muscular than he was, and the skimpy silks looked quite ridiculous on his bulky frame.

  “At least we all go for interview at the same time,” he said, “so we can all look silly together.”

  They had too much energy to wait around for a sky ship, so they walked along the broad corridor beneath the circleway, as everyone else stood aside for them and bowed, all conversation suspended while they passed by. This was no more than the respect due to interviewees, but there was sympathy too.

  Walst muttered under his breath the whole way there. The interviews were a trial to everyone, but he always went to pieces before them. He was fearless with a sword in his hand, but the Voices reduced him to incoherence.

  “What the fuck am I going to say?” he moaned. “What am I supposed to tell them? I never know what they fucking want from me.”

  “They want the truth,” Hurst said, made blunt by his own apprehension.

  “But what does that mean?”

  “Just what it says. Whatever they ask, answer with complete honesty.”

  “If you think Hurst’s a wanker, just say so,” said Trimon, grinning. “If you hate Gantor, say so.”

  “How can you make a fucking joke of it!”

  “He’s right, though,” Hurst said. “So long as you tell the truth, whatever it may be, you have nothing to fear from them.”

  Gantor grunted. “There’s always something to fear from the Voices.”

  “Perhaps. But it has to be done. Just be honest, Walst, and you can ask for the Blessing afterwards in good conscience.”

  The interview hall was an unobtrusive building, a simple low dome with a door standing open. Inside was a place to leave their cloaks, and a small waiting area with a neat line of chairs and a brazier. Within minutes they were summoned by a grey-clad Voice, following her through a couple of doors and into the interior of the dome itself, a vast sphere, the larger part of which was underground. Within the structure were suspended scores of small spherical pods, reached by a series of precarious looking reed bridges. More Voices waited for them, and they were led away separately to their assigned pods.

  Entering the pod was always an uneasy moment for Hurst. They were so small, so dimly lit, so confined that he felt as if he were wrapped from head to toe in a stifling blanket. Yet it should all be familiar enough now. He had been attending interviews since he was ten years old, he knew every part of it – the spherical pod itself, the short bridge to the circular platform supported by wooden struts, the little round table in the centre with chairs squeezed around it.

  Ducking his head to step through the round door, he saw no fewer than five Voices waiting for him. Five! He had never been interviewed by more than four at once before, and that only in the first year after his marriage. Since then it had dwindled to three and then only two for several years now. But naturally there was more interest since Tella had gone. They would want to question him closely about Mia and Jonnor. Still, he felt a sudden spike of apprehension.

  Head brushing the roof, he crossed the bridge to his chair and bowed with deep formality before sitting. They made no response, as always. They sat in a semi-circle on the other side of the table, rather squashed in, huddled in their pale grey gowns and hoods, so that only their faces showed, skeletal in the gloom. One he recognised, for he saw him every year, but the rest he thought were strangers, although it was hard to be sure.

  They sat in silence, waiting for him. Why did he hesitate? He was the same every year, overcome with an odd spasm of fear. He knew why; it was the globe. It sat quiescent now, just a glass ball, set on the table so that it was in the exact centre of the pod. He stretched out his hand and rested it on the top of the globe, and at once it filled with light – first a vivid yellow, then red, then green, then a swirling orangey red before finally settling to a pale creamy blue. One of the Voices nodded at him and Hurst removed his hand.

  “Most High Hurst dos Arrakas, Second Husband of Karning Dranish Turs Kan-forst.”

  “Most Humble.”

  They talked first about Tella. How had he felt about her, how grief-stricken was he, how much would he miss her? Then an odd question – had Hurst talked to her about her interview at the Ring?

  “No, not really. Naturally, we asked how it went, but she wouldn’t say. She didn’t even tell Jonnor.”

  “How did she seem to you? Her mood.”

  He shrugged. Tella’s moods had always been hard to pin down, like smoke. “Nothing out of the ordinary, for her.”

  “And how did she die?”

  Hurst frowned. “Surely you know that?”

  “We want to know what you know, Most High.”

  “Oh. Of course. Well, she fell from her horse – I suppose.” For an instant the globe flared a brighter blue. Perhaps Roonast’s questions had raised doubt in his mind. That would never do. He refocused. “I mean – I don’t know exactly, she was just found dead, with her horse nearby. It seems most likely that she just fell.” To his relief, the globe was dormant again; the Voices nodded and moved on.

  After some discussion of Tella’s Companions, they
came to the most difficult part – the change in the marriage. It was always the same two questions – what arrangement was in place? Was he happy with it? For years he had answered with confidence. Could he do that now? He had rehearsed his answers but still he wasn’t sure.

  “Jonnor is to have Mia exclusively.”

  “And you?”

  “I shall make my own arrangements, as I have always done.”

  “And are you happy with that?”

  There was no option but honesty. “For my own personal happiness, I would like access to Mia, of course. But I believe this is the best arrangement for all three of us, and I don’t want to be disruptive by insisting.”

  The globe flickered very slightly. There was silence for a moment.

  “Again, with the orb, if you please, Most High.”

  A spurt of fear, but that was reflex. He had nothing to worry about, for it was true enough. He rested his hand on the globe, trying to imbue his voice with confidence, and repeated his statement.

  The globe remained unchanged this time. After a moment, the Voice nodded and he removed his hand. After a few more questions about Mia and Jonnor, they moved on to the skirmishes and his own Companions, and here he could answer without hesitation. He had always been very forthright about Jonnor’s deficiencies, and the disastrous last two or three years supported his opinions. He could also now point to his own very recent successes. At least here there was a change he could report without reservation – Jonnor was to give him equal access to the lines. And he admitted the real reason why – they had a deal. Jonnor was to get Mia, and he would get more line work. He began to relax, seeing the end of the interview in sight.

  And then one of the Voices, a woman who had not spoken before, said, “So you will not be asking for the blue arrows?”

  Gods, he’d forgotten about that. He’d been so absorbed in the arrangement with Mia and Jonnor, and finally returning to proper skirmishing, that the whole idea had receded in his mind. But of course they would want to know.

  “I have no intention of asking for the blue arrows.” No hesitation at all, that was good.

  “Not at present, perhaps, but you have three years. Things may change. Should you ever find the situation intolerable, for any reason, you may ask for the arrows.” She half-smiled at him as she spoke. That surprised him – a Voice smiling? “There are many tales and rumours about the arrows. We want to be sure you are not misled by any misinformation you might have acquired. So we will go over the details for you.”

  Well, that was all right. He had been taught all about it during his time with the scholars, of course, but that was many years ago now. And in an interview, listening was a great deal better than answering questions.

  The female Voice reached under the table, and produced a small capped quiver. She popped open the lid and tipped three arrows onto the table, and pushed them across to Hurst. He picked one up. It looked like any other arrow, except that the shaft and fletching were both blue. The head was odd, a very thin, sharp point, but bulbous behind.

  “This is what you will receive,” she said, waving a hand over the quiver. “Three arrows, like so. You are an archer yourself?”

  “I have no more than average skill, but one of my Companions is an excellent shot.”

  “Yes, he may shoot for you. You have only three attempts, so you must choose your moment carefully. The objective is not to pierce the skin, necessarily, but to get a solid shot at the body or arms, so that the point hits square on and, with luck, catches in the fabric of the overtunic. The point is delicate and will break off, releasing a paralysing miasma. The target will be rendered unconscious for a time – a few minutes or up to two to three hours, depending on how close to the face the point is when it breaks. So, the first consideration is to ensure that the target is not too close to other people.”

  “It doesn’t kill?” Hurst was bewildered.

  “No, no. The arrow itself doesn’t kill. It is the Gods who choose whether to take the target, Most High.”

  “Yes, but… I don’t quite see the distinction.”

  The Voices exchanged glances. It was hard to tell, but Hurst thought they were amused.

  “The arrow merely designates the target, Most High,” said one of the male Voices. “It draws the attention of the Gods, so that they may decide whether he may live or die.”

  “And that brings me to the second consideration,” the female continued. “The Gods have many calls on their notice, so you must do everything possible to ensure that they are paying attention when the arrow is used. If there is a Slave nearby, the Gods will certainly be watching, so you should choose a time and place when a Slave is to hand. Not the village Slaves, of course, but a Karning Slave or one of the Healing Slaves. During a skirmish, for instance, or during training. Not indoors, because the miasma may affect a number of people and the Gods would not be able to distinguish between them, but out in the open, with a Slave nearby. Do you understand?”

  “In the open. Not too close to other people. Slave nearby,” Hurst muttered. “But I don’t intend to…”

  “No, no, no,” she said, almost smiling again. “But it’s as well to be prepared. Just in case.”

  “Just in case,” he echoed, bemused.

  “Now then.” She reached down again. “This is what the target will receive. Or you, should he decide to ask for the arrows.” She placed a small glass vial on the table. “This is poison. This will kill, so it must be kept locked away, you understand?”

  “But…?”

  “So that the target can kill himself, of course. If he finds that the best way out.” Again she smiled.

  Hurst took a deep breath. “I have no intention of doing this,” he said, as firmly as he could. “I am quite content with matters as they are.” The globe flickered a little. “Content enough,” he added, annoyed.

  “Things may change, Most High,” she said silkily. “You may be content now, but who knows what may happen in the future? A marriage of three is inherently unstable. The blue arrows are for when you find your situation intolerable.”

  “I know it isn’t a perfect arrangement, but… so long as Mia is happy…”

  “And if she isn’t, Most High? What then?”

  9: Library (Mia)

  The Amontis women’s house made Mia feel like a child again. Even after ten years with her own Karning, as a wife with her own family, being back here amongst her sisters and cousins made her feel very small and insignificant. It made her very emotional too, not at all her usual calm self. There was always someone in tears over some imagined grievance, and then Mia was upset too. Or perhaps excited about a new baby or a move to a new Karning or a forthcoming marriage, and Mia would find herself bubbling with the same joy. Today one of her sisters was anxious about a child with a bad spirit left behind at the Karning, and Mia was flooded with the same sick fear. She couldn’t understand why her blood kin made her so volatile, but since she hated being emotional, she avoided them as much as she could. Instead, she looked forward to the two or three hours every evening when she could see her real family.

  Mia dressed with unusual care that first day at the Ring. She would not see Jonnor again for some days, but there was Hurst to consider, too. She wanted to convince him that all was well, so she set aside her practical tunic and trousers in favour of one of her most elegant gowns, fine wool in a rich wine colour. She bound her hair in some of Tella’s vivid silk scarves, and added a small silver brooch she’d found at the back of a drawer. Then she wrapped herself in a thick winter cloak for the walk to their pavilion.

  “I wish we could have got a sky ship,” Mista said, as they made their way along the crowded lamp-lit walkways, broad paved paths lined with aromatic shrubs and whispering ferns. Beyond, brightly lit walls of painted glass shone in the darkness, the pavilions of other families.

  “It’s just as quick to walk,” Morsha said. “At least it’s not raining. Come on, keep up, Marna.”

  “Slow down a bit, w
ill you? Not everyone has long legs like you.”

  “It’s so cold,” Mista said.

  “Almost there.” Mia smiled at the familiar grumbles. The Companions were always jumpy when they first arrived at the Ring. Once tomorrow’s interview was over, they would relax.

  The pavilion was positioned midway between the Amontis house and the Arrakas house, where Jonnor and Hurst stayed. All the pavilions followed the same pattern; twelve sides, each filled with a great arched window of coloured glass, and the whole covered with a matching glass dome. A massive fire burned in the centre of the tiled floor, with tables and chairs set out around the perimeter. Above, a narrow balcony ran all round, set with smaller tables for those playing crowns, and comfortable chairs for those who wished to read or chat.

  They had been assigned this pavilion when they first married, and would keep it until they broke, but it was over large for their small family. Even when Jonnor arrived, there would only be twelve of them, in a space designed to hold perhaps a hundred people. In time the older children would join them, but it would be years before it would be full.

  Mia paused for a moment as she entered the chamber. She was struck afresh with grief for Tella, for this would be the first winter quiet without her. But it was comforting to see the Companions greet each other with affection, and there was Hurst smiling at her.

  She crossed the room to stand alongside him, both turning to gaze out of the window nearest to the Glass Lake. The water shimmered slightly, reflecting the lights of hundreds of pavilions lining its shores. Away across the water, seeming to float on the surface, was the Tower of Reception, gleaming like a golden finger pointing to the sky. There were no windows visible except for the very top, and the walls glowed with a strange light of their own, by the power of the Nine.

  “No, still in the same place,” Hurst said. “It hasn’t moved at all.”

  She laughed at the joke, as she always did. It was a game they played every year, to pretend the tower had moved. There were those who believed such things, but although the tower was a strange place, the oldest building on the plains, it was not quite that strange.