by Don McQuinn
Conway said, “Cho seems completely over her injury. She looks good.”
“Where are your own dogs?”
“Back in my quarters. You know how Shara and Karda keep wanting to test each other. I’m afraid if they get into it, we may not be able to separate them.”
Gan grimaced. “The idea of stepping into a fight between those two…” He let the sentence fall away.
Emso grunted. “Forget the dogs. We’re in the middle of something lots worse. That’s why we’re here.”
Dryly, Gan said, “Maybe someday you’ll come to me with something cheerful, Emso. There’s a surprise that could kill a man.” Gan looked to the others. “What brings you up here with my croaking raven?”
“Ideas.” Leclerc spoke, glancing around uncertainly. When no one preempted his beginning, he continued. “Everyone knows Windband, the Skan, and many of the River People will attack us as soon as winter ends. The three of us have been telling Emso the Three Territories can’t withstand that pressure.”
Bristling, Gan turned back to the sea. “No one is required to stand with me. You came to me of your own will. You can leave when you choose.”
“See?” It was Tate, scolding. “Didn’t I tell you he’d be nasty as a boar hog? Didn’t I say, ‘Just tell him what we’ve got and see what he says.’ Didn’t I tell you that?”
Keeping his back turned, Gan fought a grin. He wanted desperately to watch Leclerc and Conway try to dodge Tate’s barbs.
Leclerc’s words tended to run together. “Tate’s right, of course. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Of course. The thing is, we have some ideas. Ways to offset numerical superiority.”
“That’s better.” Tate was grudgingly forgiving.
Gan faced the group again. “I was too quick to be offended.” He wanted to say more, but he decided against it. In plain fact he was never sure how much to say to these strange people who’d become so important to him. For all their fine qualities, they shared one troublesome trait in common.
Secretiveness. Whatever they did, whatever they said, there was a distance around them, an air of things known and unsaid. Gan always sensed an eerie melancholy behind their most joyous moments, as if they each understood something very unpleasant about each other.
Gan corrected the last thought. The little Seer, Lanta—there were times when he had the feeling that she knew of things inside Conway. Gan also knew Lanta’s love for Matt Conway assured no secret of his would ever pass her lips.
Right now, dressed in leather trousers and woolen shirt, with a spotted calf vest for extra warmth against the early fall chill, Conway looked exactly like any warrior from Jalail, Harbundai, or Ola. So did Leclerc, although the briefest glance assured he was no fighting man. And then there was Tate. With her catlike grace, high cheekbones, and exotically slanted eyes, she’d have been unusual in any case. Combine those qualities with black skin and a face that expressed her thoughts as clearly as clouds foretold the weather, and you had someone who defined different.
Gan admired her gaudy red short cape, embroidered with its bright yellow emblem of an eagle, wings spread, clutching an anchor. Like her, contradictory; what would an eagle want with an anchor? But the symbol drew the eye. There was strength in it. And, weren’t the colors the finest, those of his own clan? Although he himself preferred the plainest of clothes, Gan delighted in her swagger and vitality. Unpredictable; more dependable than rock. Independent; as deeply concerned about others as anyone he knew.
More than any of her companions, he liked her most. And knew her least.
Conway spoke. “The truth is, Tate and I do have to go away for a while.”
Nodding, Gan accepted the statement without comment. That wasn’t good enough for Emso. “‘Religious matters,’ they said. Maybe you can get more out of them.”
Tate grinned. “I don’t ask you about your beliefs. You don’t ask me about mine.”
Emso grumbled under his breath. Gan thought he heard something that sounded like “frog sweat.” Unmistakable concern and guilt flooded Leclerc’s face before he turned away. Gan had no time to puzzle over it. Conway was saying, “I didn’t want to go, at first. She’s right, though; it’s necessary. But now I think she should stay here to help train the Wolf recruits. Nalatan’s upset that she’s leaving. He’s mad enough to bite through steel. Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”
“I’ve got enough sense for all of you.” Tate’s widened eyes and set jaw were defiant. Her words were for Gan, but her fiery look was directed at Conway. “This is something only Conway and I can deal with. Together. Just because I’m married now, he and Nalatan think I should run off into the kitchen and knit socks for the rest of my life.”
Conway buffed his nails. “I’ve eaten your cooking. You go in the kitchen, knitting might be the safest thing for you to do.”
“Don’t smart-mouth me. I’m not letting you go back to our… out there in the mountains alone, and that’s that.” The short pause after the word “our” told Gan that Tate stopped herself because she was about to say something she shouldn’t. Reacting to Conway’s teasing, her defiance had acquired a gloss of amusement. Then came sudden reticence. Again. With the recurrent and unwelcome feeling that one of the strangers silently expressed thoughts with complete confidence they would be understood by other members of the group. It was a too-intimate knowledge. It made Gan’s neck tingle.
Oddly, it was Leclerc who spoke into the sharp silence. “Give up, Matt. In the first place, you’d be a fool to go alone. You can’t make Tate stay home. If her husband can’t convince her, what chance do you have?”
Tate accepted the victory magnanimously. To Gan, she said, “Use Nalatan in my place. He’s more like you and Clas na Bale than anyone I’ve ever seen. There’s not a better warrior in the Three Territories or anywhere else. And I’ll fight anyone who argues.”
Gan struggled with the return of the earlier smile. It escaped, cracked wide open, turned to laughter. Shocked, Tate tensed. “You laugh at my husband?”
“No, no.” Gan held up a warding hand. “I was just thinking that if you two have children, I hope they’re all sons. Pity poor Nalatan, living in the same house with more women like you.”
Tate sniffed and turned her back on the group.
Gan looked to Leclerc. “You said you wanted to talk about ideas. Like the arrow-thrower you described? I’m getting reports that you’re working with wildcow tendons. The word witchcraft has been heard.”
Leclerc made a face. “It’s giving me more trouble than I expected.”
Careful to keep concern from his voice, Gan said, “There are other reports. The Moonpriest one has catapults. More than the one he used in the battle at the Door.”
After a quick, dismissive sound, Leclerc moved forward. Unaware of the speculative look of the hounds at Gan’s feet, he became enthusiastic. His hands danced, described pictures in the air. “Moonpriest’s weapon’s an overgrown bow. It’ll wear out too fast in combat. Its bowstring won’t handle rain well. Mine uses corded sinew, drawn taut. Larger arrow, better accuracy.”
Emso interrupted. “If we ever get it. Moonpriest’s weapon is here. Now. It works.”
“Mine’ll be better.”
Gan reassured Leclerc. “Emso’s always impatient. Believe me; when you’ve perfected your weapon, he’ll be first to complain we don’t have enough of them. You’ll never satisfy him.” He laid an affectionate hand on Emso’s shoulder.
Tate said, “We have other ideas. Nothing we can talk about yet. We’ve been looking into the treasures of the Door. That’s going to save the Territories.”
Emso threw his hands in the air. “The only thing that can save us is fighting well. Murdat, we took a bunch of beaten men and untried boys and turned them into the Jalail Wolves. We didn’t jabber about Doors or cata-things or ‘ideas.’ We built a fighting unit. We can do it again.”
Tate rounded on him. “I was there, Emso. Me. Remember? Who improved the murdat all the
Wolves use now? And the shield?”
Conway put a conciliatory hand on Tate’s arm. She jerked free of it, too offended for easy mediation.
Gan addressed Emso. “As Leclerc said, we’re overwhelmingly outnumbered. We need every advantage we can find. How can you argue?”
Red-faced, Emso struggled for words. The plain, rough features managed regret. “I’m sorry I made you mad, Tate. I don’t like all these new things. Changing the look of a sword, or the way a man uses a shield is one thing. Even what Gan did with the kites was good, in a way. But the black powder. And the cat’s… cata… that other thing. And the lightning weapons. It’s things killing people. It’s not right. What are we doing? Not to the Skan, not to the idiots of Moondance or that evil scum, Moonpriest; they’ll all rot in the Land Under in due time. But what happens inside us?”
There was no quick retort. The thoughts were Gan’s own. He never saw the havoc of the lightning weapons or witnessed the crushing, blind ferocity of the black powder without feeling soiled somehow. It made his flesh crawl.
Emso put words to the heart of it, made it accusation: What happens inside us?
Searching for reaction among his companions, Gan spied the looks that passed between Conway and Tate and Leclerc. What he saw there jolted him. The three strangers, who shared a commonality that linked them intimately while separating them from all but their own, were all filled with shame.
Chapter 28
“You’re beautiful.” Sylah stood back from Lanta, fists on hips, head cocked to the side. “I’d love to see you dressed in the bright cottons the Dog women weave, or the doeskin and linen the women of Harbundai fashion. It’s the penalty we pay for being Church. Black, and more black. If we live long enough and rise high enough, we get a piece of colored trim to show off our rank.” She made a small sound of disgust, then sighed. “Now I’ll have to ask forgiveness for the sin of vanity. Followed immediately by prayers asking forgiveness for lying. Never mind; we set out to make you a robe that befits a woman trying to catch the eye of a lover, and we’ve done it to perfection. You helped a bit extra, providing such a nice figure.”
The small Seer blushed. Sylah teased further. “The poor man’s lost, of course. I expect a delightful scandal when he charges across the room tonight and throws himself at you.”
The color threatened to break into open flame. Delight wavered under the strain of apprehension. “Do you think so, Sylah? Really? He knows I love him. I thought when we got back here, everything would be all right. But he seems confused.” She ended with a weak wave.
“Why won’t you talk about it? Neither of you will admit what all your friends know; something happened between you, something dreadful. Obviously, you both want to put it behind you. Let your friends help.”
Lanta shook her head. “Whatever I say hurts us both. I thought he’d be more… more forceful, I guess. Maybe I see something that really isn’t there.”
Sylah put her hands on Lanta’s shoulders, gently turned her so they were face-to-face. “I’ve seen how he looks at you. I don’t understand what keeps you apart.” At Lanta’s sudden stricken look, Sylah pulled her friend to her for a quick embrace. Then, stepping back, she continued, conciliatory. “The important thing is that Conway holds himself responsible for what happened to Tee, as well. He’s convinced she never would have gone looking for the escaped slaves in Kos if he hadn’t goaded her into it. And, of course, if he’d been with you all along, he couldn’t have influenced her.”
Lanta gestured helplessly. “It’s so complicated. I’ve loved him from the very first. Why couldn’t he see that? What was I supposed to do?”
“Ask me to number the stars. Or explain the weather. Don’t look to me for answers about love.”
“But you and Clas are so happy.”
Too late, Sylah tried to hide her hurt. Lanta raised hands to her cheeks. “Oh, Sylah. How could I be so stupid? I make a mess of everything.”
Sylah managed a smile that felt like something twisting across her face. “We seem to say the wrong things. My remark stung you.”
“Vulnerable.” Lanta’s tiny features darkened. “That’s the word for women. We’re always so vulnerable.”
“Not all of us. We can’t forget the Harvester. After all, she’s Sister Mother now. How vulnerable is she?”
Refusing to rise to the change of subject, Lanta went on. “I worry about myself and that vulnerability. It’s natural to see men as protectors, to some extent. All those muscles should be good for something. When it goes beyond physical help, though, are we practicing vulnerability? Do we use men? If he marries me, the act makes him a Church defender. Is that honest? Do I really want him, or is some part of me luring him into marriage because I feel that terrible vulnerability for what I am as well as who I am?”
“You said you love him. If you do, exactly how much choice do you have?”
For a moment, Lanta was quite still. Then, as if relieved of a great weight, she beamed a fresh, uncomplicated smile. “None. Of course. You have to be vulnerable to fall in love, don’t you?”
“Exactly. Now, one last question on that matter, and then we talk about something else: Have you noticed the way Leclerc looks at that For girl, that Jaleeta?”
Lanta’s momentary lightness evaporated. “No, I haven’t. I’ve seen her look at other people, though. Like she’s figuring out how useful they might be. Why’s Neela so fond of her? You’d think Jaleeta’s her little sister.”
“Neela grew very lonely while we were away. There were few people for her to talk to. None she trusted as she does you, or me, or Tate. Now we’re back, but we’re all very busy. Jaleeta’s an ever-present companion. We’re not. Even if we were, Jaleeta makes Neela feel needed.”
“She’s got her baby. And Gan tells everyone how important Neela is to him. Gan asks Neela about the Barons, about negotiations, about helping the wives of Wolves who died or are wounded. He’s made her his valued partner. How many men would do that?”
“Precious few. But would you want it? At the cost of all the other questions? If Gan’s not riding off somewhere to supervise one thing or another, he’s talking to other people about their problems all day and into the night.”
Lanta touched Sylah’s sleeve with pained delicacy. “You would see that, wouldn’t you? With your Clas off to the east with the Dog People. It’s like you, to worry about others when you’ve got more trouble than all of us.”
“You give me too much credit.” Sylah squeezed Lanta’s consoling hand. “Actually, I’m just a nosy gossip, watching what everyone does. We have work, though. Not enough to keep you from your Conway, but something you mentioned before. Jaleeta. I think she can hurt Neela. Leclerc, too.”
“You think she really is a spy?”
“It’s possible. You mentioned how she watches; have you watched her?”
“Why? What should I expect?”
“Just do. Let me know what you think.”
Nodding, Lanta looked eager. Sylah glanced out at the sun. “It’s near evening meal. Kate, Janet, and Susan are making a presentation, something to do with the books from the Door and the Chosens. It’s a good time to start paying close attention to Jaleeta. Sit by me. We’ll compare what we see.”
Far away, the first streaks of sunset registered above the snow-tipped crowns of the Whale Coast mountains. Lanta appeared unaware of that beauty. “Are you going to have me use the trance, See her future, if I can?”
Anxious fingers twining, Sylah answered with a firmness she simply couldn’t make herself feel. “If I’m what Sister Mother says I am, a schismatic, I have every right to claim to represent Church and ask for your powers. I don’t believe I’m a schismatic, though. I just want to do what’s right, and we know Sister Mother’s evil. But if I ask you to See, and the Tenders of the Abbeys decide someday I did wrong, they’ll punish you. I couldn’t stand that, Lanta.”
“We won’t worry about it. Not now. Let’s go get ready for evening meal. We’ll have enoug
h there to keep us busy.”
“Especially you. Flirting with Matt Conway.” Sylah rolled her eyes. Lanta reached for her. Sylah dodged, and the two of them hurried away, forcing their way past their cares to share a few moments of carefree laughter.
Later, sitting in the dining hall, Sylah found herself remembering that lightheartedness and comparing the present with the days of Altanar. The room arrangement was the same, with a short table against one wall, where Gan sat at the center in place of the dead tyrant, and two longer tables ranging down the two flanking walls. The gathering wasn’t as large as she’d heard some of Altanar’s were. Still, there were at least sixty people present.
Large fireplaces, set into the walls, backed up each table. That illumination was augmented by a square chandelier holding three tiers of candles, as well as smaller candelabra on the tables. Small windows, little more than slits, allowed hotter air an escape near the ceiling. In spite of that ventilation, there was smoke in the air, and the light created by the flames had a roseate, muted glow.
Sylah liked it. It gave the warmth of the sprawling room a visible component that suggested snugness. She felt it as a rather familylike atmosphere. Everything was clearly visible. Expressions and animation were undisguised, colors were unsullied. Still, Sylah had a sensation of softness, of a place without edges.
Gan wore elkskin with understated stitched decoration. Beside him, Neela was lovely in a dark-blue robe that offset the gold of her hair perfectly. Jaleeta in light leather blouse and trousers, sat on Neela’s left. She kept Neela engaged in conversation, the two heads bent close. The young For woman challenged Neela’s bright, sunny loveliness with her own dark beauty. Like Neela, she wore little distracting decoration; an obsidian square, held around her neck by a silver chain, and pearl-ornamented comb to hold her rich, black hair in place. Sylah recognized it all as Neela’s. On Jaleeta’s left, Leclerc sat hunched and twisted awkwardly to keep his face to her. Sylah thought he looked like an injured heron.
On the other side of Gan, Emso held the place of honor. Like Gan, he dressed plainly. Emso’s clothes, however, seemed chosen to underscore his rough, almost crude, personal manner. The woolen shirt was undecorated; even from her place at one of the long tables, Sylah noted worn cuffs. Elbow patches were commonplace, but Emso’s were polished with wear. Sylah had to smile at his rough, shorn-sheep haircut. In a city that featured a plenty of barbers, that scraggly mane was pure affectation. Older than his Murdat by several years, he was loyal to a fault. Sylah’s mind drifted away, brought back an image of Clas na Bale. She shrugged it to oblivion, unwilling to let her husband’s absence destroy another evening. It relieved her a little to think that Gan had Emso to watch his back, even if Clas couldn’t be there for him.
