by Dave Smeds
And alone.
Back in Garthmorron, supper would be over. Lerina would be back in the cottage. She would have found his note, and the one paltry gift he could leave. Keron felt a lump rising in his throat.
He could still turn back. But his enemies would come for him, sooner or later, and find Lerina. Perhaps he could leave behind old duties and loyalties, but he couldn't risk her safety. Moreover, he had a specific job to do.
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
He sat down to wait in the dark and wet.
* * * *
Admiral Warnyre paced the poop deck, staring out at the foggy night. His plans had gone awry, and he didn't like it. Furthermore, he was rapidly running out of time to do anything about it.
A man climbed the steps and approached. Warnyre turned.
“Yes, Ensign?” It was Enret, one of the last people he had cared to see. The junior officer had always been one of Keron's staunch aides.
“It's time to send the boat to the rendezvous, sir. Bhaukom and I request permission to man it."
Warnyre frowned. “I had planned to send Robbern and Nals."
“I know, sir. But the captain and me—we go back a ways. I'd like to do this for him."
Still another wrinkle, Warnyre thought. But he made his mind up quickly. “Very well, Ensign. Proceed."
Warnyre watched the dinghy being lowered. As he expected, Nals soon joined him on the poop.
“Change of plan, sir?” the midshipman asked meaningfully.
“Yes,” the admiral replied. “Lay low for a while. Don't do anything unless I tell you."
Nals left. Soon the dinghy was lost in the fog. Warnyre went to his cabin to get out of the weather. In a way, he was glad Enret had volunteered to take the boat. It was known that Warnyre favored Robbern and Nals. If anything happened to Keron while in the company of those two, suspicion would fall on him. Additionally, Robbern and Nals might have failed, just as the Claw had done. The passive route was safest. There was no reason to think that Keron would connect him with the ambush. He would play the innocent, until another opportunity arrived.
* * * *
It was long after those aboard King's Ransom could hear the plop of the oars that they could make out the dinghy. Many of the crew leaned over the railing, straining to see. Yes, there were three men aboard. A cheer went up—quietly, for they were still in Dragon's waters. A rope ladder went over the side. Warnyre saw Keron seize it.
He climbed alone, Enret and Bhaukom staying with the boat to help secure the winches to raise it to its berth. The large party waiting on the main deck surged forward to greet their returning captain. Warnyre remained at his vantage point near the stern. He lost sight of Keron in the press of bodies.
Then the crowd parted. Keron stood in the center, staring at the entrance to the staterooms. Nanth had just emerged and waited for him there. Keron seemed to pause in his approach, Warnyre thought, but then the captain gave his wife a long embrace, enduring much good-hearted teasing from the crew in the process. Warnyre stifled his jealousy and started to climb down from the poop.
“Oh, my love,” the admiral heard Nanth say, “thank blue sky and sea that you've come back safe and living."
Keron touched her cheek gently and turned to the man who had just appeared from the doorway. “We have Obo's talents to thank for that."
The wizard bowed slightly. “I slept for a week after the crisis passed. I should hope you're grateful."
Warnyre cleared his throat.
Keron faced him, no longer smiling.
“At your service, Admiral Warnyre,” Keron said, and saluted, palm to chest.
The admiral nodded stiffly. “You're a hard man to kill, Captain. The news from Eruth was not optimistic. It seems a miracle you made it back."
“It was. A case of luck, really."
“You must tell me more."
“Not just yet,” Keron said amiably. He waved an arm toward the crew. “Well? Where's the rum?"
The liquor appeared instantly. Keron and Nanth were led back into the throng. Soon someone thrust a stein in Warnyre's hand. To his annoyance, he was called on to make the toast.
The admiral had not forgotten how to be charming when the occasion demanded it. “To Captain Keron Olendim, of the House of Alemar,” the admiral stated heartily. “Welcome home."
The crew applauded, and the celebration began. Warnyre, however, retreated to a spot on the poop deck, where he could sip his rum in peace. The men ignored him. They had surrounded Keron and were plying him with questions. Warnyre was patient. He'd find out sooner or later how the man had slipped the trap.
Obo retreated below, disdaining the rowdiness. The crew didn't forget that they were in enemy territory. The lookout and night watch remained sober, and as before, the running lights were left unlit. Nevertheless, the party was boisterous. Keron was a popular officer, Warnyre had to admit. It was one of the reasons he hated him.
Robbern briefly joined the admiral. “Stay close at hand tonight,” Warnyre told him. The man nodded and disappeared below.
It was some time later that he noticed the captain and his wife begging their leave and heading for their quarters. Warnyre did not share the knowing smiles of the crew. What would she tell him? he wondered. Nothing. Warnyre had not touched her. The admiral had learned early to be a cautious man. He had wanted to be sure Keron was out of the way before he actively pursued Nanth. He would find a way soon.
* * * *
The drinking was still going strong when Warnyre made his way back to his stateroom. He opened the door, stepped in, and tapped the striker of his lamp. The wick caught.
“Good evening, Admiral."
Warnyre jumped. Keron was leaning back lazily on his bed. The admiral recovered quickly. “To what do I owe the honor, Captain?"
“I thought you might want a report on my mission,” Keron said matter-of-factly.
Warnyre closed the door. “I had thought tomorrow morning would be more appropriate."
Keron reached in a pocket, withdrew something, and threw it to the admiral. “I found something in Eruth. I thought you might be interested in it."
Warnyre held what he had caught in his open palm. It was an amath pearl.
“Have you ever seen that before?” Keron asked.
“I've seen many amath pearls."
“Notice the flaw. It's quite distinctive. The last time I saw that pearl, it was in the sea chest of this very ship."
Suddenly Warnyre whistled sharply.
“We seem to be upset, Admiral."
“You won't live to bear witness against me,” Warnyre swore, and drew his rapier.
The door opened. Enret stuck his head in. “Did someone whistle?"
“What?!” Warnyre yelled.
Enret lifted the head of an unconscious man into view. “If you wanted Nals here, he seems to have fallen suddenly asleep. Poor Robbern isn't doing much better.” Behind Enret, Bhaukom waved cheerfully.
Warnyre spun toward Keron, who simply raised a blowgun to his lips and fired. Warnyre clutched at the pin in his chest. His rapier fell, then his body, battering the floor with an ignominious thud. He wiggled there, awake and struggling, but unable to stand.
Keron came forward, picked Warnyre up by the front of his clothing and hoisted him above his head. “I used Mother's Breath. You can try moving your muscles all you want, but they won't work in coordination. Unfortunately it won't kill you."
Warnyre goggled at the single arm holding him toward the ceiling. Suddenly everything made sense. “You—you have the belt of Alemar!” The words were garbled by the effect of the poison, but understandable.
“Yes. Had you known that earlier, your ambush would no doubt have been successful. The belt doesn't do much, you know; just makes me strong. I see now that I need something to make me stab-proof."
Enret, with Bhaukom immediately behind, dragged in the limp bodies of Warnyre's henchmen. “What do we do with these, Cap'n?"
“Pu
t them in the brig. I want them alive."
He dropped Warnyre, leaning the man's back against one of his sea chests. “I want all of you alive. There are others like you out there, and you can tell about them."
“Never,” Warnyre mumbled, but he failed even to convince himself.
“Think again. Send Obo to me,” Keron called after his departing mates.
“No need,” the old wizard said, and stepped into the room. He stooped over the admiral. Warnyre looked into the frightening depth of the sorcerer's eyes and choked.
“We will find the truth,” Keron reiterated. “It's no trivial thing, a navy man defying the authority of his superior officer. For my sake I have to make sure my case is thorough. We will set sail for Firsthold before the night is out. The king himself will be the judge of your guilt."
Warnyre groaned.
“Lady Nanth has been pining for the children. She will be pleased to return to the capital,” Obo said.
“I imagine she would be,” Keron said in a reserved tone. Obo shot him a puzzled look. As Warnyre drifted off into a drugged haze, he felt Keron lift his head by the hair. The expression on the captain's face seemed more melancholy than victorious, and his voice was vengeful.
“You owe me more than you will ever know,” he said.
* * *
XVI
AN OLD PRIEST NAMED Gerat led Alemar and Elenya more than a league from the T'krt camp in the central reach of the Ahloorm Basin, alone and in silence, and stopped in the middle of open desert. The place was a curious mixture of terrain. Several outcroppings of brittle, volcanic rock pockmarked the landscape, the sands varying from miniature, fine-grained dunes to patches of coarse material. Silt from prehistoric flows of the Ahloorm could be found in the areas where the sage was thickest. Gerat reached down and broke off a chunk of ancient lava, his grip stronger than one would expect of a priest.
“What is this called?” he asked.
Alemar sighed. "Seti'i."
The old man made no overt acknowledgment of the correct answer, merely stepped over to a ridge of sand and picked up a handful of its grains. “This?” he asked Elenya.
"Mah," she replied.
Gerat was an aged, gaunt Ah-no-ken rarely possessed of either enthusiasm or impatience. His expressions and manner were etched into him as deeply as the lines on his face. Dour and owning a monotone voice, something in his speech nevertheless caused his words to remain in the memories of those he instructed.
Gerat pointed to the coarsest sand. "Choo," Alemar answered.
Gerat nodded slightly. Soon he picked up another handful from a dark section of earth where a pool had been not long before, a remnant of the sudden, thunderous rain earlier in the week. He stared at Elenya.
“Mud,” she snapped.
The Ah-no-ken waited with his infuriating calm. He never criticized, never complimented. He also never allowed his pupils surcease from his lessons. Alemar opened his mouth to word the answer, but Gerat said, “No. I asked him."
She sighed. "Leism," she said curtly.
Gerat looked at the mud in his palm. “What is the significance of leism?” he asked.
She could think of several uses for that particular handful, but she held her tongue. The past four months had taught her that spite washed completely past Gerat. She cited the passage: “After God created the world, He took the mud of its shores and made from it the first men, that there should be physical containers for the souls that He took from His being. Man's original substance is recalled each time he spits, or bleeds, or urinates, creating mud again from earth and the fluid of his body."
“And the lesson that leism gives us?"
“That man should guard his fluids—drink water only to the extent of his actual requirement, spill his seed only into a female, and let blood only as ritual and war demand. There is power within the liquid of the body, which devils and sorcerers may twist to their own ends."
Gerat nodded. “Good,” he said. “You are ready."
“Ready for what?” Alemar asked presently.
“Next week, the youth of the T'krt journey to the oasis of Shom, to perform the rite of pulstrall, as do all boys in their thirteenth year, if, as have you, they have absorbed the teachings required of them. The other Ah-no-ken have decreed that you will go. My vote is the last."
Gerat began walking back toward camp, drawing the twins with him as he spoke. “You have been trained very hard. You have been with us four months—hardly long enough to learn what a man must know. But the pulstrall comes only once a year, and it is not appropriate that you, who are grown, should be as children. We had no concern for you in the physical tests, but a man who knows nothing of language and law is not a man. You have done well."
It seemed odd to finally hear his judgment. Gerat had early been given the responsibility for the twins’ education. He had drowned them in Zyraii. During the first few weeks, Fumlok had been allowed to explain the difficult concepts and points of grammar, but as the twins’ fluency in the desert language reached a proficiency equivalent with Fumlok's weak command of the High Speech, the lame man appeared less and less often, and finally, not at all.
“This ceremony—we've heard it mentioned often. What's involved?” Alemar asked.
“It lasts eight days. A small party of Ah-no-ken and Po-no-pha will take you to Shom, a place used only for the pulstrall, and you will be put through tests to prove that you are ready to become men. You'll find out the rest when you get there."
“What happens if we fail to pass the tests?” Elenya said.
Gerat shook his head. “How can a boy not become a man? That is God's design. The pulstrall does not create manhood; it celebrates it."
“Stranger things have happened,” she said to herself.
Sometime later, Gerat asked, “Is it true that you do not have circumcision in your homeland?"
* * * *
A false dusk fell as they returned to camp. Motherworld, full and swollen on the eastern horizon, held off darkness. Elenya paced off her restlessness, waiting for dinner. The tents and people beamed back the ochre and beige of the great planet, the illumination so altering appearances that she scarcely recognized Lonal as she passed by him. She started at the sound of his voice.
“Good evening,” he said.
“What's good about it?” She used the High Speech, knowing that however comfortable Lonal might seem speaking it, it required effort on his part.
Unruffled, he replied in the same language. “I have heard that you will go to Shom. Congratulations."
“So I'll have my adulthood back. That's half a recovery,” she said sarcastically.
Lonal pursed his lips. “I suppose I could persuade the Ah-no-ken to reconsider. You could always go through the pulstrall next year."
She decided to drop the banter. She knew Lonal could keep it up as long as she. Instead, she asked, “Am I really to participate?"
“Of course. Why shouldn't you?"
She glared and turned away. “May you be reincarnated as a sand tick,” she said as she walked away. It was a powerful slur.
“Don't be angry,” he said, and caught up with her.
“I thought you might be the one person here who would give me an honest answer."
“I gave the appropriate answer."
She stopped. “Is it that hard to think of me as a woman?"
“It has been decreed that you are a man. Even I am not above the law. Otherwise the matter of your gender would never have become as complicated as it is."
“So—you admit it's complicated. I had begun to think the whole tribe considered it nonexistent."
Some of Elenya's neighbors were watching. Here, deep within T'lil territory, the tents were spaced widely by Zyraii standards, but still closer than Elenya liked. She led them around her own tent, managing at least to cut off the view of Omi and Peyri.
Lonal sighed. “I can't understand someone who fails to acknowledge good fortune. Be glad that you're participating. Never
mind the talking I had to do with the elders to beat down resistance to the idea. Women are not allowed at Shom—ever. But according to the decision, you must be. Some of the tribe want to use your ‘manhood’ as an issue to displace Toltac and myself."
“I'm sorry for any inconvenience,” she cooed.
He found a date pit on the ground and picked it up. “It mystifies me. I would have thought that having your adulthood denied for four months must have been the worst insult, but you act as if you'd prefer not to have a soul."
“I happen to like being female. And I don't believe in souls. Do you?"
He squeezed the date pit. “Of course."
She smiled. “No, you don't. I can tell. You believe whatever furthers your goals."
“I believe I see why you became a warrior. No man would put up with such a wife."
She paused. It was strange how she and Lonal always ended up baiting each other. For a moment, she almost admitted that she was intrigued by a Zyraii who didn't swallow his people's gospel whole. Despite his attempts to make her obey, he himself seemed the most understanding of her urge to sway tradition.
“You're not like the others, Lonal. Why is that?"
He avoided her eyes. Had she embarrassed him? It occurred to her that a nonconformist here would be a lonely individual. It surprised her when he answered seriously, “It's my father's doing. In order that I learn the High Speech, he sent me to the cities. I used to feel it was unfair that I could not be taught the same lessons as any Zyraii boy. Now I am glad. I can see God's plan. It was done to help me fulfill my destiny."
“You have a destiny, too,” she said softly. “What is it?"
“To become opsha."
“What's that?"
“The military ruler of all the Zyraii people."
The thought captured her interest. She pictured one man ruling all of the steppes, an authority over all its bickering factions. “Why haven't I heard this title before?"
