But he wasn’t a slave of Mirror Town. He’d tracked deer on the plains and wolves in the mountains. He could follow fifty men through a crowded city.
He took back ways, parallel to their course but mostly hidden from it. They weren’t bothering to disguise their direction. If it had been him, he would have weaved through the streets, left, right, up, down, anything to throw off observers. He would have taken a different route every time.
But then, he wouldn’t have used slaves to fetch and carry the stuff that enslaved them. He wasn’t sure what annoyed him more: that the mages were so confident of their power, or that the slaves had proven them right.
He followed them all the way to the edge of Mirror Town. There he thought he might have a problem, but they led him through a tall field of corn, its swollen heads ripe with a crop not yet picked, and it couldn’t have been easier to hide between the stalks. They carried on through that field and into an orchard, where green oranges waited for the sun to turn them the right colour. After that it was apples and then a fruit Dae Hyo had never seen, plump and pink.
When they reached their destination, he waited a while, just to be sure. Then he headed back to Mirror Town and the inn with the free wine. He felt like celebrating.
The next day, Krish finally left his room. Dae Hyo took that as a good sign. He found his brother in the central square, beneath the pillar where that murderer Marvan was trapped. That was less good, but he didn’t let it discourage him. He’d give Krish something better to think about.
‘I’ve found it,’ he said, walking towards him with the dust swirling at his feet.
Krish looked at him, incurious.
‘The bliss,’ Dae Hyo explained. ‘I’ve found where they hide it. Well, to be fair, it’s barely hidden: a house made of glass-stone out by the pinkfruit orchard. There’s a key the Chukwus keep to themselves, but that’s a small matter. The important thing is that we know where it is.’
Krish shifted his eyes back to the tall pillar. Far above, the brown oval of Marvan’s face looked down. ‘Important?’ he asked.
‘Of course, brother. There are ten, twenty times as many slaves here as mages. What does it matter if the masters won’t fight if the slaves will? If you’ve got your bliss, you’ve got your army.’
He had Krish’s full attention now, but Krish wasn’t smiling.
‘I tell you what,’ Dae Hyo said, ‘this is happy news. You could try looking happy about it.’
‘Dinesh,’ Krish said, still looking at Dae Hyo.
The slave was close by, as he often was. He drifted forward with that vacant smile that frequently made Dae Hyo think about hitting him, until he remembered how defenceless the slave was and felt ashamed.
Still, he wasn’t expecting Krish to say, ‘Punch him,’ to Dinesh.
Dinesh stared at Krish, puzzled.
‘Punch Dae Hyo,’ Krish said again. ‘I command it.’
But Dinesh still didn’t move.
‘Do it!’ Krish snapped and finally the slave’s arm moved, a feeble slap like a man swatting a fly he secretly hoped would escape him. Dae Hyo barely felt it. It was Dinesh who looked as if he was in pain.
‘You did well,’ Krish said to the boy. ‘That’s enough. You’ve done well.’
Dinesh dropped his arm with clear relief and Dae Hyo frowned at him.
‘They can’t fight,’ Krish said. ‘There’s no anger in them. It’s one of the things bliss takes from them, along with their freedom.’
‘But if we gave them weapons—’
‘They’ll never be an army. I could only send them to die.’
‘Well, we’ll keep working on it,’ Dae Hyo insisted.
‘Thank you,’ Krish said, and Dae Hyo was shocked to hear that his brother’s voice sounded a little choked.
‘No need for thanks, I’ve done nothing to help you yet.’
‘You tried.’ Krish clasped his arm, his fingers bruising. There was far more strength in that thin body now. ‘Listen, I want you to know. Before you, I never had a brother. I never even had a friend. It’s been … since I left the mountains … there hasn’t been much good. I haven’t made many good choices. But becoming Dae was the best thing that I did. And I’m glad, now. I’m glad …’ He swallowed, clearly fighting back tears.
Dae Hyo punched him lightly on the shoulder, as a brother should when another man was loosing tears when he should be loosing his sword. ‘I’m glad too, but no need to write a grave-speech on it yet. We’ve desert all around us, strong walls, and most of all my blades and your brains. We aren’t finished yet.’
‘No. You’ve done enough, brother. I won’t take you down with me.’
He beckoned to Dinesh and moved away and Dae Hyo didn’t try to stop him. He’d never been good with words. But he wouldn’t let Krish die, whatever Krish seemed to think was right. His brother had honour, and that was good. Now Dae Hyo just needed to force some sense into him.
29
Wingard and Wine moved to flank Cwen when she strode out of the moot tent. They knew her well enough to recognise her mood. But then, they also knew her well enough not to care.
‘Well?’ Wingard asked when they were far enough away not to be overheard.
‘The same,’ she told him.
‘Maybe—’ Wine said and snapped his mouth shut when she turned her head to glare at him.
‘Don’t say it.’
‘May I think it?’ he asked with a grin.
She couldn’t smile back. ‘More war? And for what? So that Uin can spill still more of his own people’s blood?’
‘So that we can find this Krishanjit,’ Wingard said. ‘Uin has said he’ll help us capture him, hasn’t he? And Uin’s enemies are Krishanjit’s people, the moon’s people – you can’t argue with that.’
‘Krishanjit’s gone from Rah lands. Uin told me so himself. Enough, now. Enough. I’ve heard the arguments from him. I amn’t ready to hear them again from you.’
They knew what that tone meant too, and this time they honoured her desires, dropping back to let her stride on alone. She wouldn’t get peace to think, though. Alfreda was ahead, waiting in the growing gloom of twilight with the tents of the resting army shadows all around.
‘Anything?’ the smith asked. She was speaking now, but to Cwen only the barest she needed. It was Jinn who got the greater gift of her words. At least she wasn’t asking about the council meeting. She didn’t seem to care much for their war. She meant Vordanna.
‘No word,’ Cwen said. ‘I’ve sent scouts to every compass direction there is. I’d send them up into the sky if I could, but his mother isn’t to be found. No doubt she took one look at Uin’s face and ran as fast as she could in the opposite direction.’ Uin, the father of her child, her owner and her rapist. And this was the man whose alliance Cwen must make. Whose war she must fight, if she couldn’t think of a better plan.
She pictured him, the smug look on his face when she told him that yes, she would fight for him. This man who sat at dinner every night beside his wife and two daughters, one distant and the other shy. Jin had tried to talk to the girls when he’d realised they were his sisters and Uin had driven him away. He’d told Cwen she must keep the boy away from them. His own son!
She came to the edge of the joint encampment, where the prison cages had been built. There were hundreds of the Brotherband in them, those the arrows hadn’t finished or her own people killed. She wouldn’t have minded if they’d taken knives to all those butchers, but they’d sickened of the slaughter before they’d run out of men to kill. The tribesmen didn’t look glad of the reprieve. They’d mostly stopped their weeping but few of them bothered to eat. She could see two lying still, flies buzzing around their eyes. She’d order the bodies taken out tomorrow. Let the rest live with the corpses a while.
The second cage was different, its occupants angry or fearful but still holding tight to life. These were Uin’s captured enemies, leaders of the rebellion against him. He meant to trade them for his own c
aptives back in Rah lands, else they’d all have been as dead as the rest. But she could see another use for them. She’d seen it the first day she’d learned of them and she’d thought of it and rejected it every day since.
One man stood at the cage’s edge, thin hands gripping the wooden bars as he glared out at Cwen. One half of his face was a bruise, the ear half torn off and festering beneath ragged grey hair. That wound would kill him if it stayed untreated, and Uin wouldn’t treat it. What harm could it do, set against the possible good?
There were Rah guards on the cages. They sat in a circle to one side, playing a game with dice that she didn’t know and swigging wine from a nearly empty skin.
‘You,’ she said, to the one who seemed most sober. ‘Get this man out for me.’
‘Why?’ he asked, not moving.
‘Because I say so.’
‘And who the fuck are you?’ His hand rested on his sword hilt.
She shrugged and whistled, an imitation of the blue lark’s call. The man sneered at her and she sneered back until, only a moment later, two dozen of her hawks came running.
‘I’m the woman who outnumbers you five to one,’ she said. ‘And we’re all sober enough to hold our blades. Uin’s given me leave for this’ – he hadn’t, but he needed her too much to complain – ‘now bring him out for me.’
The old man said nothing as he was released, nor all the way through the camp as she led him to her tent. She couldn’t think where else to bring him. She should have taken time to prepare, but she knew if she did she might lose her nerve.
When she got to the tent, she waved all but two of her hawks away. It wasn’t an accident that one of them was Hilda, tongueless and unable to tell of what went on here. The other was a boy whose name she didn’t know. She didn’t choose to ask.
‘Strip him,’ she said.
The boy looked doubtful, frowning beneath curly, honey-coloured hair. He had a young face as pretty as a girl’s and she wondered if she should send him away. The old Rah man hadn’t the strength to resist. But Hilda was already ripping his clothes from him and the boy went to assist.
The body they revealed had once been strong, but hunger had wasted it to little more than bone and skin. The bruises spread downward, over his chest and stomach and thighs. Uin had told her he’d already questioned the captives. If this man’s tongue could be loosened, it would take more than a beating to do it. Her stomach clenched and she urgently wanted to take a shit.
‘Tie him to the chair,’ she said.
The boy had begun to realise what this was about. His freckles looked like a rash across his too-pale face. But he obeyed, and when the man was bound Cwen had to either begin or not.
‘I need to know where Krishanjit has gone,’ she told the old man, using the trade Ashane she’d learned as a child.
She guessed that he understood it, although his mouth didn’t move and his face showed nothing but contempt.
Hilda drew her knife. She knew what they were doing here, and she pressed the knife against the old man’s face, blade flat, but Cwen said, ‘No.’ Bachur had given her the leadership. This was hers to do and to bear.
She drew her own blade and went to kneel between the old man’s splayed-open legs. ‘Just Krishanjit,’ she said. ‘That’s all I care about. Give me his hiding place and me and my army go after him. I amn’t interested in your war and from what I hear, your side has won it. Tell me where Krishanjit is and I’ll leave you to Uin. He means to exchange you for his own people. You can enjoy your victory and your freedom.’
‘And if I don’t tell you?’
‘Then I’ll join my army to Uin’s and we’ll take back the Rah lands for him. You can’t resist us – you’re too few and we’re too fresh. Everything you fought for will be lost.’
He swallowed hard. ‘I’d tell you if I knew. The moon’s heir left us without a word.’
It might be true. It sounded convincing, but the fact that she wanted to believe him made her doubt her own judgement. She raised her knife and rested it flat against his cheek where Hilda’s had been. The point was very close to his eye. ‘Are you sure about that?’
His eye flickered, as if he wanted to close it but couldn’t bear to look away.
‘Last chance,’ she said.
He said nothing and she knew she’d have to do it. It was the only way to be sure. She was shaking so hard, she could see the tremors in the knife. Its edge shivered and nicked the skin of his cheek so that a thin thread of blood fell from it. She firmed her grip, turned the blade until its sharpest edge was against the skin and sliced.
For a moment, the cut was nothing but a line. Then it split, gaping open to show the flesh beneath and he screamed. The sound was high and thin and horrible.
Cwen jerked back, shocked. ‘Tell me,’ she said, when his screaming had reduced to a whimper, but he only glared.
There was a commotion outside and the tent flap was thrown back. Faces peered in, drawn by the scream, but Hilda waved them away. Cwen didn’t look at them. She couldn’t stand to see their expressions as they realised what she was doing.
She couldn’t bring herself to touch the old man’s cheek again. She looked at his bruised chest and her eyes fell on his nipple. The thought that came to her then horrified her, and she knew for that exact reason it was the thing she needed to do. She pressed her blade into the flesh above his nipple. ‘Tell me,’ she said again, and when he didn’t answer she cut swiftly downward.
Bile rose in her throat as the little peaked scrap of skin fell away. It landed on the groundsheet of her tent, a firm red blob. The old man was crying now and she pressed her blade against the other nipple. He said nothing and she gritted her teeth and took that one off too. The wounds beneath the symmetrical cuts looked like meat. People were only meat on the inside, after all. It made it easier to do, if she thought of it that way. If she didn’t look at his face, she could almost pretend he was a moon beast.
He’d lost the energy to scream. His whimpers sounded like a small child. ‘Tell me where Krishanjit is,’ she said. Her voice wasn’t as firm as she would have liked. She sounded as if she was begging.
‘I don’t know,’ he sobbed. ‘I don’t know!’
She wanted to believe him. How could she ever be sure? She lowered her knife until it was pressed against the root of his cock. ‘Tell me,’ she said, her own voice choked.
‘Please no, please, please,’ he babbled through snot and tears, but it wasn’t an answer and she tightened her hand and cut.
She wasn’t prepared for the gout of blood. It hit her in the face and made her gag. She heard the sound of vomiting as the young hawk emptied his stomach. Even Hilda looked pale.
But the old man still wasn’t speaking. His mouth was open, gasping, his eyes wide and appalled. She was appalled too. They both watched as his heart pumped the blood out of the stump of his manhood, long spurts and then shorter as it drained out of him. She saw the moment when he died. There was something behind his eyes looking out, and then there was nothing.
The boy had finished emptying his stomach. He came up and pressed himself against Cwen, his head against her neck. He kissed it as his hand fumbled for her breast and she knew what he wanted. She should give it to him, the comfort of rutting. A part of her wanted it as well. Clutch-mates fucked after a hunt, that was the hawk way. This boy wasn’t from her clutch but no one would care. She held him for a moment, but then she felt the hardness of his cock against her and she couldn’t. She just couldn’t, so she pushed him away.
His face was wounded. He looked desperate and she made herself be gentle as she took his hand and pressed it against Hilda’s body. ‘Get rid of the body when you’re done,’ she said. ‘The blood too.’
But there was blood on her as well. She walked to the river, stripped and dived into the muddy water. It left her coated in a brown film, not clean but feeling less filthy. She let the warm air dry her and then pulled on her clothes. They were caked in drying gore too and she n
eeded to change them, but that would mean returning to her tent. She shuddered and sat on a rock by the river, trying to think of nothing for a while.
It was impossible. The images of the morning refused to be banished. The worst was that there were more prisoners, a dozen at least, and there was no use stopping at one. His death would be pointless unless she questioned them all. She stood, stiffened her resolve and walked back towards the cages.
People turned to stare at her when she passed, hawks and Jorlith and Rah alike. She felt as if they all knew what she’d done and were judging her for it. When she passed Alfreda’s wagon, the smith paused at her forge to watch Cwen too. Cwen flinched away from her eyes but found herself dawdling to a halt, head lowered. She could stop here for a while. Alfreda had tea brewing.
Alfreda took the kettle from her hearth to pour them both their tea. They sat on the lip of the wagon to drink it. Alfreda’s silence had often made Cwen uncomfortable but she welcomed it now. She was surprised when the other woman spoke.
‘You didn’t learn where Krishanjit is?’
Cwen shook her head.
‘Do you think you will if you question the rest?’
She shrugged.
‘But you’re going to try.’
Cwen looked at her, to see if there was criticism hidden in the words, but they seemed to mean just what they said. ‘I have to try. It’s that or fight Uin’s war for him.’
The smith’s mouth twisted and her massive shoulders hunched. She hated the Rah leader more passionately even than Cwen. ‘You don’t have to do it, though.’
‘I can’t ask others to do what I won’t do myself.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ Alfreda said and Cwen stared at her, taken aback by her sharpness. These were already more words than the smith had ever spoken to her.
‘It’s duty,’ she said.
‘It’s foolish,’ Alfreda insisted. ‘There’s tools for each job. If you were carving a joint, I wouldn’t hand you a peeling knife.’
‘What I did today didn’t take much skill,’ Cwen said bitterly. ‘Any knife would have done.’
The Hunter's Kind: Book II of The Hollow Gods Page 31
