Umbertouched

by Livia Blackburne

  It’s light when I wake. My bedroll lies between several craggy bushes with waxy gray leaves. Scrawny is poking his beak into a hole in the dirt, and Sarsine’s nowhere in sight. Groaning, I stand and dust myself off. We’re on a hill overlooking the strait. Occasionally, I smell salt water on the breeze. I’ve just folded up my bedroll and settled down to chew on some dry bread when Sarsine comes over the hill.

  “Pretty impressive sunrises around here. Almost purple at first, and then the gold reflects off the dew,” she says by way of greeting. “I’ve scouted the area and there aren’t many people around. Traveling this stretch shouldn’t be hard.”

  We head south at a brisk but much more relaxed pace than yesterday. I soon find that Sarsine’s considerably chattier on this continent.

  “Healer turned spy, huh?” Sarsine asks at one point. “Did you get bored or something?” She catches a glimpse of my stunned expression. “Oh, you like being a healer? Might be interesting in its own way.” Though it sounds as if she doesn’t think it very possible.

  “I enjoyed my work as a healer,” I say. “But I couldn’t do much once I became rosemarked, and we needed a way to get Dineas into the capital.”

  “Ah, rose plague.” Sarsine reaches up with an umbermarked hand to brush the hair away from her eye. “I’d much rather face an army than rose plague.”

  It’s strangely refreshing that she doesn’t shrink away from the subject. “But you’ve faced the disease and won. How did you fall ill?”

  She shrugs. “I snuck off to a harbor town because I was bored, and struck up a conversation with a merchant who manifested rosemarks the next day. She died. I didn’t. Coincidence or arm of the gods, who knows?”

  I can’t help but compare this journey to my first trip to Ampara. Dineas and I hardly spoke to each other as we made our way south, we’d despised each other so much. It’s hard to fathom that less than a year later, I’d travel the same path and wish he were here with me.

  Other than a few days when I’m feeling unwell, Sarsine and I make good time. Both of us are eager to complete our quest and get back to Monyar. Though we’re careful to avoid notice—staying off the roads and keeping my skin covered—Sarsine seems to genuinely enjoy the journey. She discusses the sunrise with me every morning and stops often to watch an unfamiliar bird fly by. When we pass by one village, she runs out to “scout” and returns with a bag full of breads and cakes—half of which have bites taken out of them.

  “I had to know which ones were worth taking,” she says with a shrug.

  I’m relieved when the village disappears behind us and there’s no sign of an angry baker in pursuit.

  It takes us a week to reach the grasslands. Once there, we steer clear of Khaygal outpost to avoid the troops marching by on the way to Monyar. Instead, we head east. A league from the outpost, crumbling mud-straw walls come into view. The brick work is uneven, and what buildings I can see on the other side have moldy roofs. There’s no mistaking a rosemarked compound. The area enclosed by these walls is much smaller than Sehmar’s compound—I’m guessing it holds perhaps three hundred people—but it has the same dilapidated conditions, the same sense of a place that’s abandoned.

  Of the four umbertouched guards watching the gate, two of them appear to be leaning against the wall. “Not going to be much of a challenge to sneak in, is it?” asks Sarsine.

  I survey the scene, trying to figure out how we’ll find this mysterious Kione. Three hundred people is too large a colony to simply walk in and hope we run into her. At the same time, the colony is small enough that I’d be recognized for an outsider if I go in and start asking questions.

  “You’ll have challenge enough,” I say. “You have to walk in the front gate and convince the guards to tell you where Kione is.”

  “Shouldn’t you go in? You’re the one with rosemarks.”

  “I can’t pose as a new resident without an escort of priestesses. But umbertouched people are allowed into these compounds as private messengers. Only the rich can afford them, but we’ll have to hope the guards don’t think that hard about it. Can you do it?”

  She sticks her tongue into her cheek. “More interesting than climbing that wall, at least.”

  I look her over for anything distinctly Shidadi. “Your swords have to go if you’re to look the part,” I say.

  Sarsine makes a face as she reluctantly hands them to me.

  “You carry two swords like Dineas,” I say. “Is that how you like to fight?”

  “I can best almost anyone on dual swords. People have trouble with them because they think of their arms as two separate limbs. You really have to think of them as two ends of one long arm.”

  I confiscate Sarsine’s bow too, though I let her keep her knives. After we’re done, she looks like nothing more than an umbertouched girl turning her marks into extra income.

  “Do I look the part now?” she asks.

  “Close enough. I’ll climb the wall on the easternmost end of the compound and meet you inside.”

  She tones down her usual saunter as she approaches the gate. The guards leaning against the wall don’t even bother to straighten. I can’t hear what she says to them, but they wave her through—they’ve always cared more about keeping people in than out. I wait a little longer to make sure there’s no trouble, and then whistle for Scrawny to follow me to the eastern end.

  Once we’re at the right place, Scrawny takes off, circles, and then lands back on my shoulder. All clear. I jump and catch the top of the wall—it’s gotten easier with practice these past months—and drop down on the other side. Sarsine’s already waiting for me with a self-satisfied smirk. “She lives in the northwest corner.”

  This rosemarked compound is not as crowded as the one near Sehmar City. The houses there had been pushed up against each other, with makeshift dwellings erected in every conceivable space. Here, light actually falls between adjacent rooftops. All around us, people go about their day—sweeping doorsteps, running errands, relaxing in the shade. We get a few curious looks, but nobody stops us.

  Eventually we come to a long rectangular building with a thatched roof. Sarsine looks to me for permission, and then raps sharply on the door. An elderly woman answers.

  “I’m here carrying a message for Kione,” says Sarsine. “I’m a private messenger from Sehmar City.”

  The woman squints at her, then looks at me. “Kione!”

  A middle-aged Mishikan woman comes to the door. Her long black hair is tied into a bun, and she wears the same type of rough homespun tunic I’d seen on Baruva’s slaves.

  “Are you Kione?” asks Sarsine.

  The woman gives us a curious look. “I am called Kione, yes.” She speaks slowly, though I get the impression that it’s a sign of thoughtfulness.

  “I’m a private messenger—” says Sarsine, but I stop her with a hand on her shoulder. We need to be honest with Kione, if I want her to be honest with us.

  “My name is Zivah. I’m looking for information about a man named Baruva.”

  Kione looks at me sharply. “Not really messengers, are you? How did you hear about me?”

  “From the Rovenni.”

  Her eyes are shrewd. “Dara, rosemarked, and asking questions. You’re the healer from the capital. The one stirring up trouble in the north.”

  I wonder, if she decides to call guards on us, how soon they would appear. “How do you know of me?”

  Kione gives an amused smile. “Slaves are loyal friends, you’ll find. I have friends with more freedom than I who bring me news from time to time. When you’ve suffered together as much as we have, you don’t let something like the rose plague separate you.” Without warning, she takes my hand and rubs at my rosemarks. “Verina, is she a real healer?”

  The woman who’d answered the door sizes me up. “What are the three major organ systems?” she asks.

  “I’m a Dara healer,” I say. “We don’t follow Ampara principles. But I believe them to be gut, blood, and sense
.”

  “How would you treat a milk infection?”

  “I’d engulf the breast in a steam bath infused with nadat root, and give vel tea to drink.”

  Verina looks at Kione and nods, then walks away.

  Kione’s posture softens the slightest bit, but not by much. “Why do you want to know about Baruva?” she asks.

  “I suspect that he’s wronged a great many people. I want to bring about justice.”

  “There is no justice in this world,” she says calmly, “but I will tell you what I know.” She motions us in. It’s dim inside, and dust floats in the shafts of light coming through the small windows. Six beds line the interior walls. Besides the woman who answered the door and Kione, there are three other women of various ages.

  “Zivah wants to talk to us,” Kione says.

  Us? I open my mouth to correct her, but Kione interrupts. “All of us were at Khaygal. All of us worked with Baruva. That’s what you want to know about, isn’t it?”

  She’s not really asking, so I simply follow. All the beds in the house leave little room for much else. Kione leads us to the far wall, where bags of dry goods are stacked. She sits on one and bids us sit as well. The bag feels like it’s filled with beans. A seal on the cloth catches my eye.

  “This is General Arxa’s family seal, isn’t it?” I ask.

  “I don’t know his seal, but these beans were brought here by his daughter,” says Kione.

  “Lady Mehtap?”

  “That’s the one. She’s been traveling from compound to compound, delivering supplies. She passed through a fortnight ago on her way to the northern coast.”

  That must have been what she was doing at Taof when we hid in her wagon. “But how is she allowed to travel?”

  Kione shrugs. “Permission from her father, special favors, who knows? Food is food.”

  “Are these paid for by Arxa’s family?”

  “Certainly not by the emperor.”

  I suppose what Kione says is possible. Mehtap had already been interested in the governing of Sehmar City’s rosemarked colony before I left. Perhaps this was the next logical step.

  The other women gather around, taking seats on the sacks and the floor around us. They seem to defer to Kione, which surprises me because she’s not the oldest.

  Kione indicates three of the women. “Verina, Ali, and Ilia were hands for Baruva.”

  “Hands?”

  “Assistants,” says Verina. “He didn’t like to touch the sick himself. I worked three years for him before I fell ill five years ago. Ilia came in last year, and Ali moved in half a year later.”

  I look to the last woman, who’s tall and young, with strong shoulders. “And you?”

  “Baruva didn’t find me good enough to be his hands. I wasn’t careful enough with the patients, so after a while I was put to work clearing out bodies.”

  The image of slaves wheeling bodies out of an outbreak makes me ill. It makes no sense to me how a man who cares so little for his slaves would be so concerned for his patients. “I’m sorry.”

  “We’re the lucky ones.” Verina’s voice has a bitter edge to it. “Most of the others died.”

  “It’s the greatness of the empire,” says Kione. “Its vast reserves of knowledge. All of Ampara’s glory is built on the backs of those like us.”

  I tally up the women so far. Three had been hands. One did menial labor. That left Kione.

  “I worked in the kitchens,” Kione says when I meet her eye. “We cooked mostly for the guards and for soldiers who passed through. Emperor Kiran, who was Prince Kiran back then, visited the outpost quite often. Baruva did as well. That’s why Baruva had dedicated slaves here, so he wouldn’t have to bring his hands from the capital.

  “In the last few years of my service, Baruva and Kiran started showing interest in the kitchens. They came through and asked us questions. Kiran himself inspected our stores and supplies.

  “One day we received a command to prepare supplies for a battalion. Fat cakes, dry bread, standard rations. But they gave us special flour to use. Said they were for the emperor’s favored troops.” She pauses and looks me in the eye. “Five of us in the kitchen fell ill with the rose plague a fortnight later.”

  A shiver dances across my skin. “Do you think it was the flour?”

  Kione digs her palms into her makeshift chair. “That’s what we thought, but what did it matter what we thought?” She pauses. “There was one more thing that was strange. The supplies were meant for a battalion headed to the northern swamplands. But Neju’s Guard passed through the next day and the steward gave them the special rations, thinking that they were most favored by the emperor. I remember Baruva coming through the day after. Never had I seen a man so furious as Baruva when he learned of the mistake, furious and terrified. We all expected to be punished, but he did nothing. Later, I found out that the battalion headed to the swamplands had a commander who was very critical of Kiran. Said he involved himself too much in the army.”

  “Are you certain it was Baruva and Kiran working together? It wasn’t just Baruva alone?”

  “I see no other reason why Kiran would have been in the kitchen.”

  Sarsine and I exchange a look. “Do you know if there is any evidence we can find against him? Did Kiran give Baruva any written orders? Did either keep records of their meetings?” The word of a slave would carry precious little weight in Ampara.

  Verina speaks up. “If Baruva keeps anything, it would be in his home.”

  “In Sehmar City?” My heart sinks at the thought of that long journey.

  “No, Sehmar has too many prying eyes. Baruva has a summer home an hour northwest of Khaygal where he relaxes and entertains official guests. If he has any secrets, they would be there.”

  Every day brings the Amparan bridge closer to our shores. Crows and messenger pigeons crisscross the sky with news from our scouts.

  Three more ships added to the bridge.

  One more battalion spotted on the far shore.

  The damage we did in the last raid disappears within days. It’s clear to everyone now that another attack would simply be a waste of lives. So we wait, and we watch. And we prepare.

  The order is given to empty the village. The paths fill with men, women, and children, bearing their most treasured belongings on their backs. It doesn’t all go smoothly. Possessions go missing; squabbles break out over supplies. A Dara youth picks a fight with one of Vidarna’s fighters over some insult I don’t even understand, holding his own remarkably well before people finally pull them apart.

  Still, the migration proceeds. I make sure Zivah’s family gets out safely. In the mountains, we prepare hiding places and stockpile goods.

  Every time a crow flies over my head, I think it’s Scrawny with news of Zivah, but I know I’m being foolish. Zivah and Sarsine will be traveling as fast as possible. They wouldn’t waste time waiting for Scrawny to fly to me and then return to them. There’s nothing I can do but push thoughts of them to the back of my mind. The worry is still there, though, lodged like a stone in my gut.

  Gatha, true to her word, has removed me from scouting duties and assigned me to digging ditches around the village instead. It could be worse. Ditches, at least, don’t try to shoot you full of arrows. But I don’t exactly get a warm welcome from my fellow workers. The Shidadi from Karu’s tribe don’t even look at me, which makes me wonder how much has gotten out about what happened. To my surprise, it’s the Dara who are more welcoming. After one long morning of labor, a tall man named Nuri hands me a waterskin.

  “You’re the first person who’s looked at me straight on all day,” I say, accepting a drink.

  Nuri takes a swig himself. “I grew up with Zivah. We played together as children. I appreciate what you did for her.”

  “I wonder if you’ll still think that once Ampara overruns your village.”

  He purses his lips as if I’ve made an excellent point. “Me too,” he says, and finishes the rest of the w
ater.

  By now, we’ve dug pits and traps all around the village. We’ve excavated ditches with carved spikes underneath, and others with sharp rocks. Beyond those, there are also fire ditches to be filled with kindling. Dried bamboo explodes if set aflame with the compartments intact, which makes it bad for firewood but good for our purposes. The fire ditches were an idea of the Dara, actually, who’ve proven surprisingly good at adapting their knowledge to war. Their builders have several techniques that have proved useful—better ways to lash together bamboo spikes, closer weaves for mats to camouflage our ditches, ways to fill in wells so they aren’t easily excavated again.

  Today, we dig a ditch to be filled with rocks. “You know,” says Nuri, looking down at his shovel, “brownhead serpents like to burrow in holes with plenty of dried leaves. They’re very poisonous.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “They don’t give you Dara enough credit. You have quite the devious mind.” As we throw handfuls of leaves into the pit, I wonder if Zivah ever had a brownhead in her menagerie.

  Soon, the village is emptied of most people, leaving only a few to set the trap. Some of this rear guard are Dara, but most are Shidadi veterans, milling around in houses not our own. The reports continue to come.

  The final ships are lashed into place.

  The bridge is complete.

  A group of us watch from atop a cliff as the army starts to march. They lead with their infantry, pouring onto the bridge like black ink. The first segments of the bridge bob in the water, sending waves radiating out on either side, but the bridge holds.

  We don’t wait to see any more. Back in the village, the first wells are filled in.

  With the passing hours come more reports.

  They’ve arrived on Monyar.

  Slowly moving north, widening the paths as they go.

  They are close.

  Two days after the Amparans cross the strait, the signal is given. Everyone rushes into position.

  “Shoot well,” Nuri tells me as I pick up my bow and head south.

  “Neju give you strength,” I say. “You know what to do?”