Heart Readers

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Her fingers came away dirty.

  She sat up. She’d been sleeping outdoors for too many nights. She shouldn’t be so filthy. She blinked. The air was thick, thick with smoke. Screaming was going on all around her.

  She brushed herself off and peered out through the crack between the buildings. She had found this small space near the bazaar days ago. It was too narrow to be an alley, but wide enough for her to huddle comfortably, away from prying eyes.

  Something snapped behind her and she whirled. A large piece of burning wood landed on her rug, setting it aflame. She squealed and folded the rug over, trying to smother the flame. Then she looked up. The roof was on fire—on both buildings. If she didn’t move quickly, she would be trapped.

  She squeezed out of the opening and onto the street. People poured past her, screaming, shouting, searching for loved ones. Soldiers chased one another through the crowd, while men on horseback stabbed at random. Dasis stayed near the walls, afraid that the fire would hurt her as much as the men could. She pushed her way to the bazaar. It had to be past dawn. Stashie would be there.

  Movement was difficult. People seemed to be going in a hundred different directions. More than one grabbed her hand, as if she were someone they knew, only to glare at her in surprise. She squinted at everyone who passed, looking for Stashie and not finding her.

  Finally Dasis rounded the corner into the bazaar. It looked worse than it had the day before. Layers of smoke clouded the scene, but nothing burned. The booths had been trampled, and two bodies lay across tables. She swallowed, nearly choking on the dryness in her throat. Stashie couldn’t be one of them, could she?

  Dasis used her elbows and fists to push people aside. She didn’t care who she hurt. She was running, running, until she reached the first table. The body was too big, bulky, male, but she had to be sure. She grabbed the bloodstained shirt and pulled the body over. It was the wine merchant, his grizzled face frozen in anger. She let him go and his body flopped against the table, too newly dead to be stiff.

  Food and money crunched beneath her feet. She hurried to the other table. This body was slight, slim, wearing a long skirt. It was far, too far from Stashie’s table. But Stashie talked to Ytsak—Ytsak who loved her and would never accept Stashie’s love for women. Ytsak, from a strange land where men and women spent time together and cared for each other, or so he claimed.

  Dasis’s hands were shaking as she touched the woman’s blouse. Gently, she lifted the woman’s head, saw white streaks through her black hair, the open brown eyes wide and frightened, the gash that nearly separated the head from the neck.

  Not Stashie. Not anyone Dasis recognized.

  She sighed with relief and a matching fear. If she had found Stashie here, wounded, she would have at least known where she was. Now Stashie could be anywhere in a city filled with people who were frightened and angry. Trembling rose in Dasis’s body. She was supposed to be watching Stashie, to know her every move. She should have gotten a room in the same tavern, risked being seen. She had risked it the day before to get Stashie out of the bazaar.

  The screams had all blended into a single roar. Dasis clung to the table beside her, trying to calm herself. She was dizzy from the smoke and dust. Her eyes hurt and her body ached from being jostled.

  Across the street a roof caved in with a sea of sparks. Screams grew louder for a moment, and then faded. Dasis swallowed bile. People had been inside.

  She had to think. She had to get out of the city. If she stayed too long, she would be killed. But she had to find Stashie. Stashie might be overcome by memories or old angers and try to fight back. Stashie might get herself killed.

  Think. Dasis crouched beside the table, using it as a buffer between herself and the chaos around her. Perhaps Stashie hadn’t come to the bazaar. Perhaps she had stayed in her room, unwilling to face the soldiers for a second day.

  That meant she was trapped inside one of those burning buildings, unable to escape, panicked and frightened by the scene below. Dasis uttered a small cry and ran forward, then was stopped by the crowd. That’s where Stashie was. That’s why she wasn’t in the bazaar.

  Dasis pushed through, pushed through, not caring that she shoved people into each other or caused them pain. They wouldn’t move fast enough for her. She had to find Stashie and get out of here. Didn’t they know that?

  A horseman plowed through the crowd. Dasis had to jump aside with the rest. This man wasn’t fighting, even though he clutched his sword tightly. She glanced up, saw the white tunic of a general, and then looked into his face. Tarne. And he seemed to be enjoying himself.

  The horse slipped through the crowd before she could throw herself after it and drag him from its back. Right now, she would kill him if she had to, just to stop Stashie’s obsession and get her out of the city. He veered off, away from Stashie’s tavern, and Dasis paused, uncertain whether to follow him or try to find Stashie.

  Sparks flickered around her. Another roof had collapsed. That decided her. She had to find Stashie— and she would.

  CHAPTER 51

  Vasenu’s eyes burned. He lay on his pillows, but sleep eluded him. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard a noise, a scrape, something that made him leap up, knife in hand. He would scan the room, note that it was empty, and lie back down.

  The sun had come up a short time ago. Already the room was too hot. Still, he didn’t move, preferring the comfort of the pillows to the decisions that awaited him outside.

  The double curtain pulled back. Jene came in with a breakfast tray. “Sire, your advisers wish to see you.”

  Vasenu sighed. He pushed the food aside—he wasn’t hungry—and rolled off the pillows. He took his sleeping robe off the rack and slipped it on before Jene could help him. “What do they want?”

  “There’s fighting in the city.”

  A chill ran down Vasenu’s back despite the heat. He went to the balcony and looked out. Smoke rose on the horizon. He couldn’t see the buildings of the city. He stood there, body trembling, and smelled the acrid scent of fire on the air.

  “Send them in,” he said without turning around.

  His fingers, clutching the cool rail, had turned white. He didn’t believe so many disasters could happen in such a short period of time. Half of him believed that he would wake up and discover his father laughing in the next room. Why do you believe in dreams, Vasenu? his father would chide. Because they have so much power, he would respond.

  “Sire?”

  Arenu’s voice calling his father. Vasenu willed himself out of sleep.

  “Sire?” A hand touched his shoulder lightly, hesitantly. Vasenu turned. He wasn’t dreaming. They were speaking to him. Salme, Arenu, Jene, and the general Vasenu had met the night before whose name, he had later learned, was Goddé.

  “The city’s on fire,” Vasenu said. His voice sounded raw. He wondered if it was the effect of the smoke, but decided he was probably too far away for that.

  “Your brother’s men attacked before dawn,” Goddé said. “The fighting is fierce. One of my men escaped and rode here to report. They want reinforcements.”

  Before dawn. The maneuver was too cunning for Ele. He always played war games in a straightforward by-the-book manner. But Tarne had conquered half the eastern and southern provinces and had done it using surprise as his main weapon.

  “Our men are fighting our own men.” From this distance, the burning city looked so small that Vasenu could extinguish the flames with a touch of his hand.

  “Yes, sire.”

  “And none of them really know why or who’s who.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  Vasenu leaned against the balcony railing, half wishing it would give way. Then Ele and Tarne would get their way, and the country would be at peace again. So many lives would be lost in this confusion. So many probably had been already. “What do you recommend?”

  Goddé glanced at the others. Arenu stepped forward. “We need to stop this fighting quickly,” he said
. “We need to move into the city and crush the rebellion.”

  “How would we do that?” Vasenu asked. “This isn’t a peasant revolt. These are our soldiers fighting each other.”

  “We reclothe our men,” Salme said. “Give them something so that they can recognize each other on sight. Then we send them in there.”

  “A hat, a sash, anything will do as long as a man can glimpse it through dust and smoke,” Goddé said.

  “Given that we have the time and materials to do this,” Vasenu said, “what do we do about the men already in there helping us? Kill them too?”

  Salme looked down at his hands. “Some of them.”

  “No.” The smoke rose in plumes against the blue sky. The day would be a fair one, but the smoke looked like rainy season clouds looming on the horizon. Vasenu marshaled all his reserves. He had to think clearly. “They’re fighting us with surprise and cunning because they have a smaller cadre of men than we do. In time, and if we were willing to lose a lot of lives, we could subdue them.”

  He turned. The others were watching him with the kind of polite awe that they used to reserve for his father. The looks made him pause, but then he took a deep breath and kept going.

  “I’m not willing to lose a lot of lives.”

  “I don’t see any way to fight them except on their own terms,” Goddé said.

  “I know,” Vasenu said. “And that’s what they expect. Fought that way, on their terms and losing a lot of lives, even if we win, we lose. I’ll never have the popularity my father had and I’ll never be able to sleep at night.”

  A shudder ran down his back. He could see himself, years hence, still jumping at every scrape, every nighttime noise. He didn’t want to live like that.

  “We don’t have a lot of time to come up with alternate ideas,” Arenu said.

  “I know. We don’t need them, at least not yet.” Vasenu leaned his back on the railing and wiped his hands on his robe. They felt sooty, as if he were standing in the thick of the smoke instead of miles away from it. “You said last night that they had probably gone to the caves—”

  “But the attack this morning proved me wrong,” Goddé said.

  “No, it didn’t.” Vasenu glanced again at the city. “Cunning. You’re thinking what they want you to think. My brother would never go into the thick of the fighting. It frightens him. He’s always been terrified of leading troops into battle. He is probably the backup general, the one operating out of a safe place. He’s too important to risk in a melee. So he’s stashed in the caves with a minimal force. Tarne is out leading the troops, expecting our people to swoop on the city at any time. We don’t swoop. We let the city take care of itself. We have our people there and the townspeople themselves. They will either flee or attack soldiers—any soldiers. Why send more into the fray?”

  The others seemed confused, but Goddé was with him. “We capture their King, and take their morale.”

  “Right. Once Ele is taken care of”—Vasenu couldn’t bring himself to say “dead”—”we worry about the city itself. A number of soldiers should come back to us, shouldn’t they? Tarne doesn’t have that many personal loyalists.”

  “He has quite a few,” Goddé said, “but not if they thought he was going to be king. Tarne is a brilliant general, and a cruel man. Soldiers want him to lead them into battle because they know he’ll win. They don’t want his cruelty directed against them. That’s why he had so many problems in a peacetime army. He should never have become an adviser. He should have stayed in the field.”

  Vasenu sighed. “That’s what I had hoped. Then here’s what we do. Goddé, I want you to lead a large force to those caves and capture my brother. Bring him here for me to deal with. I always want the remaining army to stay here, guarding the palace. Tarne could be even more cunning than I thought, getting our men out of here and attacking the palace. I don’t think so, but I don’t want to risk it.”

  Goddé nodded.

  “Arenu, Salme, I want you two to get the advisers together and come up with as many alternate scenarios as you can. I don’t want this fight to drag on, but if it does, we need to be prepared. Is that clear?”

  They nodded also.

  “Good. I’ll want reports as you have them.” Vasenu turned around, dismissing them. He waited until their footsteps receded off the balcony before he spoke again. “Jene?”

  “Yes, sire?”

  “Throw out that breakfast and leave me for a short time. Have the cook prepare something light for me just before the sun reaches its zenith.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  Vasenu watched through the corner of his eye as Jene left. Then he went back inside his room and lay on the pillows, unwilling to move. In some ways, Ele had already defeated him. Vasenu no longer wanted what he had. The future, no matter what the outcome of the battle, looked bleak, gray, and lonely.

  CHAPTER 52

  “We need to keep moving,” Stashie said. Her voice sounded small against the shouts and screams around her. She felt sick from lack of food and too much smoke. “We can’t stay here.”

  The heat from the building had grown intense. The streets weren’t safe. Roofs were collapsing, sparks flying. She had seen more than one person slap out flames that had sprouted on their clothing.

  “But where to?” Pare asked.

  “The bazaar.” Ytsak was looking up. He must have been thinking the same thing Stashie was. “It’s at least open there.”

  They moved forward, three as a battering ram, shoving their way past screaming people. Children ran loose, excited and frightened at the same time, as if the fighting were some kind of strange holiday. Some of the men got between the soldiers, joining without knowing the issue or the sides. Women were moving in circles, hunting for children and a way out.

  As the three neared the bazaar, a man on horseback loomed out of the smoke. For a moment, Stashie thought she was seeing an illusion. Then she froze, causing the others to stop.

  “Tarne,” she whispered.

  Ytsak followed her gaze. Pare tried to pull them forward. Stashie shook herself free, but Ytsak grabbed her arm.

  “That’s Tarne,” she shouted at him.

  “He’s on horseback. He has an advantage.”

  “I have surprise.”

  “And you’re not battle hardened. You’re leaving him alone.”

  She had left him alone once before and he had murdered her entire family. Then she left him alone when she went before the King and he had murdered Radekir. “No,” she said. “I’m going to kill him.”

  “You have no weapon, no plan. He’s on horseback.”

  “I know,” Stashie said. “Get me a sword, Pare. Ytsak, you and I will get him down.”

  Pare looked confused. “I thought we were going to the bazaar.”

  “Soon,” Stashie said. “Get me a sword.”

  Ytsak nodded at him and Pare moved through the crowd. “How’re you going to get him down?”

  “Watch me,” Stashie said. She pulled the dagger from Ytsak’s belt and shoved her way through the crowd. Her breath was coming in gasps and her chest felt heavy. She elbowed people, ignoring the screams and cries around her.

  Tarne was smiling as if the entire show were for him. She went behind him, swung the knife, and shoved the blade as deep as she could into the horse’s rear leg. The horse screamed and kicked, nearly hitting Stashie. She backed out of the way. Tarne gripped the horse, struggling to keep his seat.

  Pare came up, clutching a blood-covered sword. Ytsak was beside him, holding another sword. He had seen what Stashie had done. He hurried around the flailing horse, and chopped its remaining back leg. The horse kicked again, its squeals rising above the human cries of pain. This time when it landed, it stumbled, then toppled, taking Tarne with it.

  Stashie took the sword from Pare, startled at its weight. People had moved away from Tarne and were running in various directions. Smoke blew across the scene like a southern mist. The horse fell, landing on Tarne’s l
eg. Stashie stepped beside the horse and, using both hands, brought the sword down on Tarne’s exposed leg.

  He screamed and grabbed his dagger, his expression fierce. Stashie worked her blade free, then held it above her head, feeling the blood dripping onto her hands.

  “Remember me?” she asked.

  CHAPTER 53

  Ele was stiff. The circulation had left his hands, and his feet hurt. They had placed him in the far corner of one of the caves, against the dirt wall. The air was cool here, and he could barely see the sun through the cave’s mouth. The cave was wide and had several alcoves, as well as one long dark tunnel that led even deeper into the earth. At least five soldiers guarded the outside. He could hear their laughter rise faintly on the breeze.

  Tarne had left before dawn, and since then Ele had caught a touch of smoke on the air. He wondered what they were doing. One of the guards said it looked as if the city were burning. Perhaps Tarne was winning after all. Perhaps he had gotten Vasenu to fight Tarne’s battle.

  A soldier came through the entrance, carrying a pouch. He crouched by the rock, reached in the pouch and pulled out dried fruit and meat. Then he set a cup beside it, and poured water into it from his own canteen. He reached forward, and slit the scarves from Ele’s mouth. The man smelled of tobacco. Ele spit the scarves out. His tongue felt heavy and his lips ached.

  “Don’t feed me,” he said.

  The soldier frowned. Ele realized that the soldier didn’t understand. “Don’t feed me,” he repeated, careful to enunciate clearly. Speaking hurt too. He couldn’t get moisture into his mouth. “Let me feed myself. I’m not going to try anything. I can’t. I’m too hurt.”

  The soldier glanced over his shoulder. “Lean forward,” he said.

  Ele did so. The soldier undid the ropes from Ele’s wrists, then retied Ele’s left hand to his belt. “You can use one hand.”

  Ele twisted his wrist, wincing at the pins and needles as the feeling returned. Tentatively he reached forward and picked up the cup. The water was warm and stale, but it was wet. He had never had anything so good. He licked his lips and took another sip, pleased to have control of his mouth again. Then he took a piece of meat and chewed it. He hadn’t realized he was so hungry.