She twirled a lock of hair around her finger. Bitsy appeared from the trees and rubbed herself against the woman’s leg. The woman scratched her behind an ear.
“Is the cat yours?”
“Her name is Bitsy.”
“Bitsy,” she repeated, idly scratching. The cat looked up at her and purred.
“You neglected to tell me your name,” Aristide reminded.
A soft smile fluttered at the corners of her lips.
“My name is Ashtra,” she said.
“And you travel alone?”
She glanced down at the water. “My husband is in Gundapur. He’s sent for me.”
Aristide looked at her closely. “I detect a strain of melancholy at the mention of your husband.”
“I haven’t seen him for seven years. He’s been on a long trading journey with an uncle.” She gazed sadly across the placid water as she scratched the purring cat. “He’s very rich now, or so his letter said.”
“And he sent for you without providing an escort? That bespeaks a level of carelessness.”
“He sent two swordsmen,” Ashtra said. “But they heard of a war in Coel and went to join the army instead of taking me to Gundapur.”
“I think somewhat better of your husband, then, but not as much as if he’d come himself. Or at least sent money.”
“Perhaps he did, but if so the swordsmen took it.” Her green eyes turned to him. “I don’t even remember what he looks like. I was twelve when my family had me marry. He was only a few years older.”
Despite the efforts of the sultan and other rulers to set up timekeepers with sandglasses regulated by the Ministry of Standards, days and years were necessarily approximate in a land where the sun did not move.
Aristide took her hand and kissed it. “You will delight him,” he said, “have no doubt.”
She blushed, bowed her head. “Only if I survive the bandits.” He kissed her hand again. “Do not fear the bandits, Ashtra of the Green Eyes. The caravan guards make a formidable force, and—come to that—I am rather formidable myself.”
She looked away. He could see the throb of the pulse in her throat. “But the stories—what the bandits are supposed to do to captives—the stories are chilling.”
“Stories. Nothing more.” He stroked her hand. “You will pass through the gates of Gundapur, and live in halls of cool marble, where servants will rush to bring you sherbets and white raisins, and music and laughter will ring from the arches. But for now”—he reached for the strap of her water bag and raised it dripping from the spring—“allow me to bear this for you. For I believe there is a bank of green grasses yonder; shaded by the graceful willow, where we may recline and watch the dance of the butterfly and the stately glide of the heron, and enjoy the sweetness of wildflowers. There the wind will sing its languorous melody, and we may partake of such other pleasures as the time may offer.”
He helped her rise, and kissed her gravely on the lips. Her eyes widened. Aristide drew her by the hand into the shade of the trees, and there they bode together on the carpet of grass, for the space of a few hours on that long, endless afternoon of the world.
Aristide slept a few hours, the tail of his headdress drawn across his eyes. When he woke, he found Ashtra seated near him, contemplating the silver ripples of the water through the trailing leaves of the willows. He paused for a moment to regard the woman sitting next to him on the bank—Ashtra, raised in a preliterate world blind even to its own possibilities, brought up in a society founded by swashbucklers, warriors, and gamesters all for their own glorious benefit, but who condemned their descendants to an existence bereft of choice. Married at twelve to a youth who was a relative stranger, now traveling at nineteen to meet a husband who was even more a stranger than that youth. To live in what Gundapur considered luxury, and bear her husband, and bear him children, as many as possible until childbirth broke her health.
“Come with me, Ashtra,” he said.
For a moment he didn’t know whether she had heard. Then she said, “Where would you take me?”
“Wherever you desire. Eventually to the Womb of the World.”
“You belong to the College?” She turned to look at him in alarm and shifted slightly away from him.
People often feared the magic of the College and its missionaries.
“I’m not of the College,” Aristide said, and watched as she relaxed slightly. “Still, one does not have to be of the College to travel to the Womb.”
“There are said to be sorcerers of great power at the Womb of the World. And monsters.”
“There are monsters here.”
She turned away and for a long moment regarded the lake.
“I have a family,” she said finally.
“What do you owe to this husband who you barely know?” “It’s what my family owes him. If they had to refund my bride-price, they would be destitute.”
“I could pay the price myself.”
Ashtra turned to him, amusement in her green eyes. “You do not travel as a prince travels. Are you a prince in disguise?”
“I travel simply because simplicity appeals to me. And though I am not a prince, I have resources.”
Again she turned to face the waters. “I have a husband. And what you offer me are fantasies.”
For a moment the swordsman contemplated the many ironies of this last statement, and then he sat up and crossed his legs.
He was not without experience. He knew when he had been dismissed.
Some people remember virtue and a spouse rather late, when it no longer really matters.
“It’s extremely unlikely there will be a child,” he said, “but if there is, I desire you to send it to the College. Give them my name.”
Again she turned. Again alarm widened her eyes. “I thought you said—”
“I’m not of the College,” he said, “but I have done them service, and they know me. You may request this in my name.” His tone took on a degree of urgency. “Particularly if it is a girl.”
“I hope there is not a child.” Ashtra rose. “I want to remember this as a beautiful fantasy, not as a burden I will bear for the rest of my life.” She picked up the strap of her water bag and shouldered it.
“I’d prefer not to be the subject of gossip by those in my caravan,” she said. “If you would wait half a glass before following, I would thank you.”
“As you like, my lady,” said Aristide. “Though I would gladly carry your burden.”
Ashtra made no reply. Swaying beneath the weight of the water bag, she made her way from the glade.
Aristide stretched again on the grass and watched the willow branches moving against the dim sky. Gusting wind brought him the scent of flowers. There was a rustle in the grass, and he turned to see the black-and-white cat moving toward him.
“Your attempt at chivalry is duly noted,” Bitsy said. “Sentimentality more than chivalry,” said the swordsman. “I liked her.” He rubbed his unshaven chin. “You know, she’s braver than she thinks she is.”
“Brave or not, did you really mean to take that bewildered child to the Womb?”
“If she desired it. Why not?” He sat up. The cat hopped onto his lap. Her upright tail drew itself across his chin.
“I hope you appreciate my help in getting you laid,” Bitsy said.
He sighed. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
He stroked Bitsy for a few idle moments, then tipped her out of his lap and rose.
“Perhaps I’ll ensure my next incarnation,” he said.
Bitsy gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Is there so much on this journey,” she asked, “that you wish to remember?”
Aristide shrugged. “Ants and spiders. And a pleasant interlude on a grassy bank.”
As the swordsman passed through the camp, he saw the people had been stirred, like those selfsame ants with a stick. People were stowing tents and rugs, mending harness, sharpening weapons. Towering over everyone, Nadeer walked about giving orde
rs. Voice booming, bells tinkling.
Inside the caravanserai, the Pool of Life had a crowd of visitors. Some chanted, some prayed, others meditated. Some, men and women both, waded naked into the pool, their lips murmuring devotions. Aristide removed his clothes, handed the clothing and Tecmessa to an attendant, and walked into the pool.
He followed broad steps downward until the silver liquid rose to his chest. His skin tingled at its touch. There were bodies at the bottom of the pool, and he felt for these with his feet to avoid treading on them. He waded between the devotees and touched the black menhir with one hand. The smooth surface felt prickly, as if a thousand tiny needles had pierced his fingertips.
He eased himself backward into the fluid. It was the temperature of blood. The silver liquid lapped over his ears, his throat. He closed his eyes.
In his ears he heard a deep throbbing. The throbbing was regular, hypnotic. His breathing shifted to match the rhythm of the throbbing.
He slept. He sank, the silver fluid of the Pool of Life filling his mouth and nose.
A few forlorn bubbles rose, and that was all.
The glass turned twice before Aristide rose to the surface. He opened his eyes, took a breath of humid air. Slowly he swam to the rim of the pool, found a step beneath his feet, and rose.
As he stepped from the pool the silver liquid poured off him in a single cascade, the last rivulets draining from his legs onto the flags, then slipping into the pool like some covert boneless sea creature seeking shelter. Not a drop was left behind. There was a salty taste in his mouth. Aristide accepted his clothes from the attendant and donned them. He slipped Tecmessa’s baldric over one shoulder, shouldered his pack, and tipped the attendant.
“May the Pool give you many lives, warrior,” the attendant said.
“And you.”
He stepped out into a courtyard filled with dust and noise. A turbulent circle of gesturing travelers had formed around the towering figures of Nadeer and Captain Grax, both of whom were gesturing for order.
Nadeer’s patience was exhausted. “Silennnce!” he bellowed, each hand drawing a curved sword that sang from the scabbard.
The crowd was struck dumb by sheer force of character. In the sudden hush Aristide shouldered his way through the crowd and laid eyes on a bruised, bleeding young man kneeling before Nadeer, surrounded by Free Companions brandishing arms. The seneschal stood by, watching in silence.
Grax looked at Aristide and grinned with his huge yellow teeth. “Your advice was good, stranger. We caught this spy riding from camp to alert the bandits.”
The young man began what was obviously a protest, but Grax kicked him casually in the midsection, and the man bent over, choking.
“Confess!” roared Nadeer, brandishing both swords close over his head. The prisoner sought for resolve, and somewhere found it.
“You but threaten to send me to my next incarnation,” he said through broken lips. “I welcome such an escape.”
Nadeer snarled around his tusks, then replied in his booming lisp. “You miss the point, spy. We don’t threaten to send you to the next incarnation, we threaten to make this incarnation a painful one.”
With a flick of the wrist, he flashed out one sword, and the flat of it snapped the prisoner’s elbow like a twig. The prisoner screamed, clutched his arm, turned white. Sweat dripped slowly from his nose as he moaned.
The seneschal watched this in silence, his expression interested.
“Who are you?” Grax asked. “Who sent you? What are your orders?”
The captive’s breath hissed between clenched teeth. “It won’t make any difference,” he said. “I may as well talk.” He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to his audience.
Though speak to the others he did. His name was Onos. He was a younger son from the Green Mazes, his only inheritance a sword, a horse, and a few bits of silver. In a spirit of adventure, he and some friends joined the army of Calixha. The horse was lost at this point. Finding service during the siege of Natto not to his taste, he and his friends stole horses, deserted, and became caravan guards. Finding this tedious as well, they became robbers.
“He isn’t good even at that,” Grax remarked. “What the lad needs is discipline.” He looked down at the captive. “If he were in my company, I would make a proper soldier out of him.”
Onos bled quietly onto the flagstones. “I thought a life of adventure would be more fun,” he muttered.
Grax kicked him once more in the midsection. “It’s been fun for me” he said, as the captive gasped, spat, and swore. “Perhaps you lack the proper attitude.”
Nadeer looked at the captive. “You have my leave to continue,” he said.
Onos wiped blood from his mouth with the back of a grubby hand. “Our gang joined another gang,” he said. “We weren’t given a choice. So now we’re servitors of the Brothers of the Vengeful One.”
“Never heard of them,” said the seneschal, the first words he had spoken.
“Neither had we,” said Onos. “Neither had anyone, until a few months ago, and then all the freebooters heard of them.” He grimaced and put a hand to his ribs. “We joined them or we died.”
“Who are they?” Grax asked.
“Priests. Monsters. Monsters and priests.”
“Monsters how?” asked Aristide.
“They’re”—grimacing—“another species. Ones I’d never heard of, or seen. Blue skin, eyes like fire. And they sacrifice captives, and anyone else who disappoints them.”
There were gasps from the listeners as this terrifying rumor was confirmed.
“Your mission?” Grax asked in the sudden silence.
“We knew the caravans were delayed here for fear of us. I was told to travel to the caravanserai and report on your plans— whether you’d come on or try to retreat.”
“Would you attack us either way?”
“That wouldn’t be for me to decide.” Grax raised a foot. “Probably!” Onos said quickly. “Probably we’d attack!”
The questions turned to the bandits’ strength and where they would most likely strike at the caravan. The bandits were said to have two hundred riders, though not all of them would be available at any one time, since they raided not just the caravan routes but the plain of Gundapui; below the great desert plateau. The route down from the plateau, through the Vale of Cashdan, was the usual ambush site.
Aristide stepped forward. “I would like to ask some questions of the prisoner, if I may.”
Nadeer looked at him. “You may proceed.”
Aristide looked at Onos. “How long have you been here at the caravanserai?”
“Fifteen or twenty days.”
“You have a mount?”
“I have a horse, yes.”
“And during that time,” Aristide said, “you could have left for Lake Toi whenever you desired. You could have abandoned your fellow bandits and those disagreeable priests and got away with your skin. And yet you remained ...” He let this thought linger in the air for a moment.
“Why?” he asked finally.
Onos swiped at his brow, leaving a dusty track on his skin. “I’m afraid of them. They’d come after me.”
“You could have asked the seneschal, or some other official, for protection.”
Onos looked at the seneschal. “He’d just hang me from the tower and announce he’d been a great success at suppressing the bandits.”
Aristide’s brief acquaintance with the seneschal had not been such as to make this seem implausible. The seneschal himself, looking on, declined to be offended, and in fact seemed amused.
“My point,” said Aristide, “is that you could have run, and you didn’t. Therefore you aren’t merely a thief whose gang was annexed by a more powerful outfit, but a willing member of the organization.”
Onos looked at Aristide with a kind of sulky resentment. The others glared at Onos with increased malevolence.
“How many caravans have you plundered?” Aristide asked. “El
even, while I’ve been with the brotherhood.”
“And the people in the caravans killed or sacrificed by the priests?”
“All those we could catch,” Onos said. “Yes.”
“What happened to the loot?”
“It’s still there. At the Venger’s Temple.”
There was a stir among the onlookers. A calculating look appeared on the faces of Grax, Nadeer, and the other caravan guards.
“The Venger’s Temple is your headquarters, I take it?”
An affirmative nod.
“The spoil is there with the other loot, from the raids onto the plains?”
“Except for that which was used to purchase supplies, yes.” Aristide looked at Nadeer. “I imagine that avarice is never far from our friend Onos’s mind,” he said. “A share of that loot would give him a comfortable life far from here, perhaps even make him rich. That is why he hasn’t fled from his monstrous priests.”
Onos, defeated, slumped on the flagstones, did not bother to deny it.
Grax turned to the seneschal. “He is convicted out of his own mouth. Shall we turn him over to you, to dispense the sultan’s justice?”
The seneschal began to walk through the crowd to his office. He waved a hand in dismissal.
“Why bother me with it?” he said. “Do what you will.”
Grax looked at Nadeer, and they both shrugged. Nadeer’s shoulders had barely returned to their normal position before one of his swords sliced out to separate the bandit’s head from his shoulders.
The body was wrapped in an old cloak and given to the Pool of Life, to feed the cthonic spirit believed to dwell in the menhir. The head was stuck on a spear in front of the caravanserai’s gate.
The head bore a disappointed look. Onos had probably expected more excitement than this.
“I wonder if his next incarnation will have learned anything?” Aristide asked, as he and Nadeer paused to view the head on its spear.
Nadeer only snorted at the swordsman’s question.
“May I have the bandit’s mount?” Aristide asked. “I would be more useful in this adventure if I were mobile.”
“It’s that barb yonder.”
Alien Crimes Page 38
