“The next day, those of us who wanted to stay tore all the locks off the doors and the chain-bolts out of the floors, cut more windows in the walls, did this and that to make the place safer, and chose a manager ... ahem. Thara-e Brick-fast, established last month, building materials of premier quality at reasonable prices—we make them better for Yeola-e than we ever did for Arko! I seem to recall you saying you were a merchant, kere Megan ...”
Her mind was cast back ten years. The staple in the cabin floor of the Zingas Brezhana: tearing it out, flinging it and the oak chain overboard. Metal, she should have sold it; but it was just too good to see that black bar sink down and disappear into the blue Brezhan, a sight to remember for the rest of her life. It was the same for this Yeoli, every Yeoli here. The fighters were with the army; everyone else had been slaves of Arko.
There was only one way to answer him. “Unfortunately we have pressing business that occupies us at the moment: in Arko.” He chuckled. “And my house deals mostly in luxury goods and metals such as sword-blanks, horseshoes, iron ingots and so forth. Still ...” Shkai’ra’s face buried itself behind the wine-goblet as they swapped pitches; she was always bored to yawning by such talk. She’s never been denied it, Megan thought, as they took the names of each other’s agents.
It had been raining since last night; they had broken camp in a downpour and marched all day in a steady cold drizzle. Water soaked through Megan’s raw-wool cloak, into her breeches and tunic and loincloth, making the cloth swell and chafe. The horses plodded with dragging hooves, their heads down and wet manes plastered to their necks. The sky overhead was flat grey, dulling the green of the fields on either side of the broad road of Imperial poured-stone. On the abandoned furrows the crops were spring-young; off to one side she could see the black snags of a burnt farmhouse, with the bloated forms of dead cattle lying in the yard.
They were past the border, and through newly-freed Roskat; today they’d catch up with the army and He Whose Bottom Was Dipped in Gold, se-ma-na-kra-se-ye, Che-, not Shche-, but Che-ven-ga (they’d been practicing). Here the local people did call him Invincible and Immortal and such; in Yeola-e it was a matter of principle not to, they’d realized, in case it swelled his head.
Shkai’ra shook her head, drops flying from the drooping brim of her leather hat. “Could be worse,” she said. “Could be winter. Amazing. No stragglers, just the odd foundered horse. Discipline like iron.” Hotblood was a little bloated.
“Keep talking so loud we’ll have a good late freeze from the gods,” Megan snarled. “I can do without ice crystals in my underclothes. And I thought that rich merchants didn’t have to deal with this shit.”
The cavalry pickets had already looked them over; now they could hear the rumble of marching boots and wheels from the rearguard. Pike-points glistened through the curtains of falling mist, and lilting Yeoli voices sang a marching song—in Enchian, oddly enough. “Underneath the lamplight ...”
“I’ll bet the officers have a bitch of a time not letting the celebrations get out of hand, if they’ll sing in this stuff,” Megan said. “Hah. No one’s ever beaten Arko before.”
A mounted scout dropped back to challenge them. Megan cleared her throat, twisted in the saddle to ease her aches. “Speak Enchian? My Yeoli is lousy,” she said, making an effort to keep her tone polite.
“’Tai,” the sentry said, in a thick Yeoli accent. Yes—the shortened form of itai. “You got horse f’sale?”
“And mercenaries to join. Then, we want a hot cider.”
The rider was young; her teeth grinned under the wet greased iron of her helmet, like a sudden bright crack in stone. “Ayo, you join ahn’ sell us horrse, some plunder we haven’t drunk yet. Horsse-master farrh up, paymahster furtser; so late in tseh day, you wait till we make cahmp, seya?” She looked Megan up and down, the familiar what-are-you look of someone who’d never seen a Zak before. Wait till she sees Hotblood. “Where you from?”
“Ftalezon and Brahvniki an—” No, Megan decided, she’d never believe where Shkai’ra was from.
“Brahvnikians. I escorrt you.” She whistled a single-tune and was answered from three different places.
“Wait, sentry—” All through Megan’s explanation of how Hotblood mustn’t get near horses from up the Brezhan, the woman’s eyes and the set of her lips kept saying the same thing over and over: “Highly irrehgularrh.” They ended up between the supply train and the rearguard; the carts were for supplies and the wounded, it appeared. The last was a six wheeler double-teamed, probably carrying heavy stuff, with a phalanx of Yeolis, the rearguard, marching behind it. The pikers had their cloaks draped over their packs, and the archers’ weapons were snug in their waxed-leather cases.
The foot soldiers seemed glad of something interesting to look at; one who knew Enchian made conversation, somewhat boorishly, boasting loudly to Shkai’ra about her sexual prowess. Someone on the cart tried to haggle with Megan for a horse, but someone else argued with him, with much Yeoli arm-waving, making it clear all horse sales were supposed to go through the Horse-master. Not wanting her first impression to be under the table dealing, she politely declined. And they all walked and rode on, cold to the bones, wet clothing slapping shockingly against marginally warmer skin, cloth catching and pulling, breathing wet air that stank of wet horse, wet human, and worst of all, wet Hotblood. Curled in Shkai’ra’s hood, Fishhook kept up a continual low growling complaint, both audibly and in Megan’s mind; wetnastywetwetlicknotthirstywetwet—hisss—wet.
Through the drizzle the light dimmed, grey-silver darkening to steel grey, clouds seeming to touch the ground. “Trees ahead,” someone called between songs. Then a cry came all down the line that had a ritual sound to it; the day’s march was over, set camp here. The column flowed slowly into a fork between two rivers, breaking up into organized chaos that spread beyond sight in the falling rain.
It was the usual sort of horse deal: “You want how much for those plugs?”—“You’re asking me to give away these children of my heart, sons and daughters of the wind?” Megan resisted the urge to be too dishonest in exaggerating their quality; she’d be sticking around. Shkai’ra waited patiently through the haggling, picking her teeth with her thumbnail, holding Hotblood by the forelock to keep him from trying to eat the people around him.
“For that price, these beautiful, high-bred, loyal creatures are yours,” Megan said. She left the smelly, bad-tempered brutes with them, wiped her face clear of rain with one hand. The herdsmen from Brahvniki had been given their final pay that morning; now they went their way. If I were comfortable, I’d feel more human. And more valuable. “Done. Ready to sell yourself?”
Shkai’ra took off her hat and shook out her damp braids, dropping a kiss on Megan’s head. “Ia. I’m easy but not cheap, so you do the haggling while I look menacing, love.”
The two women walked east, leading their mounts and packbeasts. The camp bustled wetly, soldiers and camp-followers splashing through sodden turf rapidly turning to liquid mud; pitching camp, scavenging for deadwood and stones to build fires, putting up spits. Somebody had obviously stolen a herd of pigs, for she could see the wagons dropping off carcasses. It smelled—there was no way to concentrate this many people and animals without a stink—but it was somewhat better than most of the thousand war-camps the Kommanza had seen.
“These must be the mercenaries, by the road,” she said. “I’ve never seen such a collection of odds and sods.”
Megan just grunted. She hailed an Aenir with an axe across his shoulder. “Hai, where’s the paymaster?”
The Aenir looked, looked again when he saw Hotblood. “The bell-tent.” That was in the middle of an infantry regiment; mercenaries with mixed equipment, pikes, spears, axes, swords, bows.
“Shit, there are a bunch over there with threshing flails and stone-headed hammers, Baiwun pound me flat,” Shkai’ra said.
“You Peraila Shae-Keril?” Megan asked in Enchian; that name she’d made sure to rememb
er.
The man who answered was strong-looking, middle-aged but moving smoothly; a curly-haired badger with a sort of bronze-brown look that said, “Don’t mess with me and we’ll get along fine.” He looked up from the desk set under the tent-flap to keep the wet off the papers.
“Yes,” he answered in the same language, closing the book.
Talkative curly-hair, Megan thought. He looked at the Ri, curious rather than nervous, then at both of them, with the long considering glance of a man who knew fighters.
“We’d like to hire on,” Megan said coolly, ignoring the water running down her face.
He beckoned them under the flap, but didn’t offer a seat. Hotblood leaned his head on Shkai’ra’s shoulder; she slapped his muzzle away. His breath tended to take on the fragrance of rotten horsemeat.
“Answer me one question firrst,” said Peraila. “What is tsaht?”
“It’s a Ri,” Shkai’ra replied. “It runs, fights, eats and fucks; since there aren’t any female Ri around here, it fights a lot. It’ll do what I tell it.”
Peraila leaned back in his chair, unsmiling. “When—if—we sign you up,” he said, “you will call someone of higher rannk kras. Short fo’ kraseye.” So that’s how to say “sir” in Yeoli, Megan thought. I’ve always wanted to know. He demonstrated the salute, one finger to the temple. “You may prahctice on me, if you wish. Or naht—till you signed up. Well, hyere I ahm ... convince me you worth whaht you think you arrre.”
Megan made the formal introduction. “Shkai’ra is the cavalry officer and her mount is very good at night hunting. They work as a team as well.”
“Mounted archer, lance, mounted swordwork, sword-and-shield on foot. Sneak-up-and-slit-their-throats. In descending order,” Shkai’ra said.
Megan turned her hand over, nails curled in. “I work in the dark as well. I’m good with knives and ... other things. Have you heard of Zak?”
“’Tai.” His eyebrows took on an expression of intrigue, though it was only slight. Truly blase?, Megan wondered, or just feigning it? “We’ve never hahd one of you join beforrhe.” He looked around at the people bustling here and there despite the rain, stood up, and, once reassured Hotblood would stay where he was, beckoned them to the open flap of his tent.
They hung sodden coats on a peg inside. There were papers everywhere, but no sign of money; the treasury was closer to the center of camp, it seemed, and better guarded. They all knelt on the mat.
“Arrhe you good with otser things,” he asked Megan, “besides knives?”
“A few.” Megan’s hands were on her legs, fingers pointing in. She took a deep breath and drew on the manrauq, outlining her hands in yellow light. Once set, the spell needed minimal attention, letting her talk. “This sort of thing.”
Now there was a reaction on that reactionless face.
The eyes widened. “Stop right tsere,” he said. She snapped the spell in two, the light dying with it. “Show me no morrhe ... I think you two arrhe special cases. You’ll hahve to unde’go truth-drugging—strictly ahs precaution, you unde’stahnd.”
Shit, Megan thought. An Arkan technique, truth-drug for anything suspicious, truth-drug scraping—asking you what it was you least wanted them to know, while you were under the drug—if they thought you were a spy. Seemed the heroes had picked up a few of the villains’ tricks. Megan blinked once then nodded. “We’ve got nothing to hide.” Do we? A quick mental inventory. No, we really don’t this time.
The paymaster summoned a squire in fluid Yeoli, sent him ahead, rattled off an order to a clerkish-looking type near by, and rose. “Come with me. You cahn leave you’ baggage hyere, my people will guarrd it, but bring tseh ... ahnimal.”
With Hotblood at Shkai’ra’s side they went deeper into the camp, towards the center; soon there was no language in the air but Yeoli, flowing like water, full of unpronounceable sounds. Somehow the Yeolis managed to gesticulate even with both hands full. Every eye seemed to strain, puzzling out the nature of Hotblood. They passed a crowd of tiny tents of an odd grey-green color, the people in and around them dark, some almost black. In the middle of the Yeoli camp, Megan thought, not with the other mercenaries?
“Teik Paymaster,” she asked, “who are they?”
“A-niah.” That tells me a lot. But Peraila didn’t say more.
All the Yeoli tents were the same. He came to one that had an administrative sort of look. From several nondescript people, he chose a mouse-haired woman, conferring with her in whispers. He told her their names, Megan heard, but didn’t tell them hers; nor did she introduce herself, or say what part of the army she was with. The sort of person the eye would miss in a crowd, unnoticeable against a blank wall. Groups of them together give me chicken-skin on my soul, Megan thought; they looked eerily wrong, because unlike a normal crowd, no one stood out. I don’t know why I’m surprised. I guess it’s because Yeolis always seem so open and above board. She reminded herself of the name their secret service went under: Ikal.
I wonder how Peraila strips, Shkai’ra thought. Jaiwun damn, traveling by horse puts Megan out of the mood and me in ... More sword-hand marriage for me tonight.
“Come inside,” the nameless woman said in perfect Enchian, with a polite smile. “But leave all your weapons outside.” It was almost apologetic. Casting a glance at Shkai’ra’s: “Don’t worry, they’ll be well-guarded.”
“Hope so. I lugged them right across the Lannic.”
“Tseh Lahnnic?” Peraila shot her that fast horse-merchant glance; it seemed he’d be in on this questioning.
“From Almerkun. Other side of the big water outside the Mitvald. Big, and godsdamned wet.”
“No shit.” He seemed to believe right off; of course, he would have an easy way of finding out whether she was telling the truth, very soon. Probably doesn’t think I’d lie under those circumstances, Shkai’ra thought, and he’s right. “You know, tseh morrhe I know of you two, tseh morrhe interesting you get.”
Beside the tent was a small table under a canopy, spread with white linen, that the women gestured towards. For the weapons; Yeolis have a feel for them, Shkai’ra thought, as she laid her two daggers, sabre and wheelbow on it. Megan would take longer. Needle sword, wrist knives, back knives, boot knives, thigh, upper-arm, belt-buckle, hair-hidden knife ... It didn’t help, Shkai’ra knew, that doing this always made the Zak feel naked. Several Yeoli faces watched, bemused, increasingly amazed. Finally the Zak completed the pile with her hair-comb.
This was a tent where no one slept, bare to the walls but for a rug, the one candle bright. The wet sky was finally darkening, and the smell of roasting pork filled the air. Inside, two more nondescript people came alive from a stock-still stance and left, though not before carefully arranging a pair of pillows side by side on an open space of the mat, as Megan and Shkai’ra followed Peraila and the woman in. They all sat.
“You understand,” the woman said, “this is in sworn confidence, Second Fire come if I lie, Kahara be witness,”—she clasped her crystal, the Yeoli swearing-gesture, as she rattled off the highest oath, known in all nations, something she obviously did every day—“and no questions of a personal nature unless relevant to our cause will be asked.”
“I understand,” Megan said, looked to Shkai’ra for her nod.
The woman opened a small box, lifted the needle in thin deft hands. “I’ll do you both at once,” she said, her tone like a healer’s, as she filled its chamber out of a small glass vial. “When it takes effect, which won’t be for a while, you’ll have to lie down,” she said, motioning towards the pillows.
And she didn’t say a word to the minions who put them there, Shkai’ra thought. If they do everything this smoothly in this army, no wonder they’re winning.
Shit. She rolled up a sleeve of her sodden shirt and presented her arm. I hate needles. The woman’s touch was soft, cool and gentle, the liquid she touched to the inside of the crook of the elbow with a bit of lint was cold; no surprise, she found the vein
on the first try, firmly sliding the point in. It didn’t hurt, but made her skin creep. No strange feelings immediately. She wondered if Megan was all right; helplessness always struck her at least a flesh wound, inwardly. “Would you like some tea?” the woman said amicably, once it was done, as if she’d invited them over for an afternoon chat. Ezethra, Yeolis called the weak green stuff they drank; the grease that kept the wheels of Yeoli social life turning. But a little different here, she noticed, as another spook with a pot and four cups wordlessly appeared and disappeared as if summoned by manrauq.
They’re so polite, Shkai’ra thought. The woman’s being tender as if she can tell Megan’s afraid. Poor kh’eeredo, she wouldn’t like that to be showing. But they’re more than polite, they’re kind, they’re so gentle and warm. Wait a moment—Baiwun. None of these thoughts sound like my thoughts; they’re too nice. It’s the drug.
A while later, a hand gently pressed Shkai’ra’s shoulder. Yeolis were not a shy race about touching. It was time to lie down; yes, as she moved, the world about her wasn’t moving quite in the usual way. They stretched out on the rugs, side by side, as if bedding down; on a whim she winked and flashed her tongue at Megan, who sent back a dirty look. “You know, you’re gorgeous,” she said. It was true; the candlelight in this tent showed new angles and new meanings in her wife’s face that she’d somehow never seen before. “I adore you beyond words. I want to slide my hands all over you, throw my arms around you and run my tongue up inside you until you come like a plum bursting all over the—”
“Shut up!” Megan’s sharp voice seemed almost to come from inside Shkai’ra’s own skull; somehow she found it impossible to disobey. “Ah,” Peraila was saying, his voice carrying the same impossibly deep resonance, “one who truth-drug makes talkahtive.”
Gradually Shkai’ra’s thoughts slowed down, then stopped, like the moment before falling asleep, without the drowsiness, unearthly quiet. Everything went very clear, like on a high mountain with bright sun; she looked at the ceiling of the tent, hearing herself breathe, and her heart beat like a slow drum, noticing the clear weaving of the canvas and each single thread. A great web; she floated in the midst of a sea of threads, each one with an answer on the other end. Far away from the world, and yet closer than ever before, she felt, and entirely safe.
Shadow’s Son Page 6
