“Well. On to your bigger half.” Shkai’ra had been watching, cat-smiling, working her fingers and wrists; she’d let the loose sleeves of her coat fall back, to show the tendons rippling in her forearms.
“My part is a little more difficult to demonstrate,” she said. “Leading cavalry is what I was raised to do. I had five thousand lances under me in the Minztan War, before I was exiled and outlawed in Stonefort.” She smiled reminiscently. “We won, too. Hmmm. You’re getting a lot of odds-and-sods without unit organization? I’ve fought in a lot of mercenary armies, some of which had as much discipline to start with as a pack of jackals around a dead sheep. As to personal skills—”
A damselfly had been flitting around the lantern; Fishhook made a tentative snap at it from Chevenga’s shoulder, and the insect darted for the door. Shkai’ra, resting her hands on her thighs, let it zip past her ear before she moved. Rising, drawing, the saber moving in a blurring slash that left a dazzling streak of silver in the air, the ripping-silk sound of it parting mingling with the slight huff of her breath. Turning in the same motion, kneeling again, the saber sheathed with a snap while the severed body of the damselfly was still fluttering toward the earth, not two heartbeats from her hand’s first motion toward swordhilt.
“Good, very good,” he said, with the same smile, but evenly. “I want to see what you can do against another warrior, though, and what you and that beast of yours can do together. That’ll have to wait till morning, early, before we move out.” So much for enough sleep, Megan grumbled inwardly. “We can haggle now—I’m willing to risk a guess—or after that, whichever you prefer. You want to know what standard joiner’s rate is, these days? Board, and an equal share of the spoils. We don’t even have to equip them, and they still join in droves ...
“But what you have, I’d never take for so little. Not asking as much of you as I plan to. Here’s my offer: for Megan, board, mercenary’s share of spoils, and thirty ankaryel a month; for Shkai’ra, board, mount-board—you understand providing Hotblood’s keep is going to be difficult, since I understand he eats horse and human meat—and twenty ankaryel a month, raised commensurate with promotion.”
Starting low, Megan thought, translating the amounts into Dragonclaws, the haggling-mind locking in. Damn low. Hard bargainer; I wouldn’t have thought it. But he’s full of surprises. “It seems we should wait till Shkai’ra shows more,” she said, coldly polite. “Your average Schvait mercenary earns one ankarye a day, or thirty or so a month. Your average,”—she drew the word out and let it hang in the air for a beat—“Schvait.”
“No, no,” Chevenga said. “That’s silver ankaryel. I should have specified, sorry: gold.”
Megan blinked before she could stop herself. Gold was ten times silver, for Yeoli ankaryel. Koru, we’re haggling, but it’s the wrong way round. With a slight motion Shkai’ra dug a sharp elbow into her ribs. No, we shouldn’t wait till tomorrow. That’s what she’s thinking, too. He might come to his senses and change his mind. “Done,” she said.
“I’ll send word to Peraila,” he said. “Megan, you’ll work under me, no one else; and not a soul’s to know anything of your gift. You Zak are used to that anyhow, aren’t you?”
“Dah. Understood, kras.”
He held out his hands again, outlining the oath for going on the strength. Swear by our own faiths, Megan inwardly repeated his words. Yes, he knows how to run an allied army.
Shkai’ra drew a dagger, pricked her thumb and let a drop fall on the steel, “By Zaik Victory-Begetter and World-Devourer, by Baiwun and Jaiwun and the Steel Spirit and the souls of the Ancestors, my will is yours, Fourth Zh’ven’ghkua, may the Refought Godwar burn the world and the Ztrateke ahKommanz spurn me if I forswear.”
Megan shielded her eyes as if from a bright light. “By the Lady and the Lord’s Shadow, may I freeze and roast in Halya, Great Bear devour my soul if I swear false.”
Chevenga gripped his crystal. What, he’s swearing an oath too? That’s different. “All-spirit hear me: I shall not fail or hold cheap the lives and good of those who have relinquished their wills to me, Megan Whitlock and Shkai’ra Mek Kermak’s Kin, Second Fire come if I lie.”
Then he flashed a grin like a boy who’d just sworn a friendship oath. “Right. Beer?”
“Zilk, linen, azorted other useful zupplies. Highest kvality, very reasonable price. I understand you haf much need of rubber here—spring-black? Substance dat stretch, bounce? Never mind, I talk to storemaster. Sorry I zo late, vanted to make it in tonight because owf deh rain, here’s deh inventory, you read Enshian?”
The sentry didn’t. Matthas had to go down the whole list with him, in his best Thanish accent, using his mantle to shield it from the rain driving down out of a pitch-black midnight sky, while letting in enough light from the man’s torch-hook to see without setting the mantle on fire. “Dere iss name, Goonter Frahnzsson, of Neubonn, dat’s, in Enshian, high g-o-o-n-t ...” He spoke in a non-stop monotone. “Neubonn, dat’s Neubonn, high n-e-u, you’ve never heard owf? Vere you from? Never mind, no offense, high n-e-u-b-o-n-n, iss off Vechaslaf, tributary owf Brezhan ...” Soon enough the man cleared him, giving him the storemaster’s name. “Yo-oh! For-vard!” The caravan lumbered into the section on the edge of the allied camp designated for hucksters.
Und now I vind dose two—Celestialis, I’m fikken thinking in it. To the better, really, that he thought and felt his part as well as spoke it; he’d more likely react in character in a crisis. But it’s damned irritating after this long. Almost a month, to catch the fikken Yeolis and their allies, now stabbing deep into the Empire along the Eastern Wing highway; long enough both to get used to going without gloves and acquire a fair tan on the backs of his hands. Like eating mutton instead of beef, so he didn’t smell Arkan; they hadn’t thought of teaching that in spy-school, but to his mind it was a basic precaution.
The trip had been happily uneventful, the one rough spot coming when one of the hirelings had turned out to be Thanish of all things, her face lighting up when she’d found out, or thought she’d found out, his nationality. Her tongue had launched into a great long string of fast non-stop Thanish, of which he could understand not a syllable. “Ve not speak dat in de new country, only in olt,” he snapped back. She’d bought it, but for a time his heart had beat at a speed he really was too old for. From then on he’d avoided her.
And I find those two, he continued his thought. And do what I have to. Whatever it takes. Next order of business, make some contact with the Arkan army, if he could find one, that opposed this circus of sixty-thousand, for a source of aid and an escape route already paved in case of trouble. Hopefully he could find someone of high rank who wasn’t a complete moron, though the Yeolis had been cutting the smart ones down—one of his favorite tactics, that brilliant lunatic ex-gladiator barbarian whoreson, because he knows damn well smart Arkan generals are rare. They wouldn’t know he was out of favor with his superior, with orders to work alone; one thing he’d learned to count on, dealing with the Empire’s lumbering mastodon of an administration, was that the left hand never knew what the right hand was doing unless it read it in the Pages, which would solemnly report that it had eight fingers.
* * *
VII
Megan woke up with Fishhook hopping over her face, velvet wings flapping. She pulled the blanket up and tried to ignore the fact that she wasn’t asleep anymore. She never slept well anyway while they were on the road; Shkai’ra snored. Fish-guts—it’s still dark.
The Kommanza wiggled out of the covers and got up. It was still overcast out, though it had stopped raining. Megan told herself she must be asleep, because she’d heard Sova. I must be drea—
“ZAIK DAMNED YOUR MAGGOT-EATEN SOUL, YOU SHEEPRAPING STEERFUCKING LITTLE BITCHCOLT, WHAT THE ZOWEITZUM ARE YOU DOING HERE? I’M GOING TO KICK YOUR UNPADDED ASS ALL THE WAY BACK HOME THEN WALLOP IT UNTIL YOU RIDE STANDING THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!”
Oh. Sova is here. Resignedly Megan threw back the cove
rs and clambered out. Nobody’s going to get any sleep around here now. From other tents all around, she could hear angry mutters, curses and yells to shut up.
Fishhook yawned sleepsleep and crawled under the pillow.
Shkai’ra spoke in something more like words. “And how did you get here?”
Megan slid out of the tent in time to hear the Thane-girl answer, “I followed you, khyd-hird. Zhymata said I could sail on any ship of the house, so I did and waited until you came down to Brahvniki. I knew you’d go to the Worm. I borrowed some of the money from the petty-cash box and left a note for Shyll, and came with a caravan to be safe.”
Shkai’ra reacted calmly, burying her hands in her hair and trying to tear out pieces. “Sheepshit, girl, that’s nearly a thousand kylickz overland—you could have been raped, robbed, killed, skinned and eaten fifteen times. We said it was too risky with us and you did it by yourself?”
Sova stood straight, hands on hips. “Yep.”
Shkai’ra stopped, as if she were hearing her own words. “Hai, you did do it. You all right, girl?”
“Yes, I am all right. You said you were thrown out into the snow with nothing but a bow and a knife at fourteen; I had money and things, and something almost happened once, but I only had to break his elbow and then he left me alone and I made it here and I’m fine.”
“Baiwun hammer me flat, you did.” Suddenly Shkai’ra started laughing, dropping down into a crouch. “Megan, look who’s here: our daughter.” She laughed harder and pushed herself up with her hands on her knees. “Gods witness, I’m glad you did, daughter.”
“Sova—” Megan started, then closed her mouth. What was there to say? She touched the girl’s shoulder, then hugged her, hard, thinking of all that could have happened. So much easier going into danger yourself, than watching someone you love do it. She’d noticed that, over and over, since she’d let herself love again.
“Sova.” Shkai’ra stood with her hands on her hips. “Three things. This—” she grabbed her and gave her a hug, “—is congratulations for making it here. That took guts and smarts. I’ll show you how to make warrior braids tomorrow. This—” she hugged her again and planted a smacking kiss on her forehead, “—is because I’m so fucking relieved you’re all right, and because I missed you. And this—” she turned the girl around and kicked her behind, medium hard, enough to make her jump, “—is for disobeying orders and frightening the shit out of your mothers!”
She was grinning when Sova turned around. “Your turn, co-mother.”
The Thane-girl seemed more apprehensive facing Megan. She knows who was in favor of her being here and who wasn’t. “Come on,” said the Zak. “I’ll talk to you while we get a fire going and breakfast started.” Shkai’ra rolled her eyes with that “here comes the lecture” look, then shrugged and rooted into the tent for a pan. Just then reveille sounded, the gong-beat and the call relayed over the camp in fluid Yeoli, “Rise and wi-i-i-i-in!”
“I’ll get some water,” Shkai’ra said. “Back in a minute.”
“You know what could have happened?” Megan said. Sova nodded, shrugging, just like Shkai’ra. She doesn’t; thank Koru, she didn’t find out. “You understand why we’re both angry?”
“I figured you would be,” the girl said, shrugging again.
“Do you understand why?” Megan leaned forward, fixing her with a stare. “We thought you’d be better off at home. What would Shyll and Rilla have told us when we came back, if you’d disappeared somewhere on the way here? It would be worse than what happened to my son; at least I knew where to start looking. We might never have known what happened to you, whether you were dead, alive or in chains somewhere, some pederast’s slave ...”
Sova drew up, with a hardness Megan had never seen before; the girl had acquired it, it seemed, on this trip.
“It would have been my choice. You’re angry because you don’t like me making my own choices. Besides, nothing did happen to me. I did far riskier things to help you in the fight up the river, and you didn’t mind.”
Megan closed her lips on a sharp answer. “Your choice to risk your life and health, when I and your other parents have before law agreed to protect you to the best of our ability till your age of adulthood?” she said levelly. “I could hit you, but that wouldn’t be fair. I’d be hitting you because I was scared and angry. But I want you to promise me something.”
“What’s that?” Sova said, more amenably. Shkai’ra came back with a bucket and plunked it down next to their hearthrocks, took out her tinderbox and struck sparks on the shavings, listening.
“Think of what might happen. No one can stop you if you really decide to do something, but if you get into trouble, I’d like to be in a position to help you.”
“All right,” Sova said breezily.
“And first thing, you are going to write a letter home to Rilla and Shyu, apologizing. I’ll put it in the packet I’m sending home.”
“I already wrote, I told you. I wrote, ‘Sorry but it’s something I have to do.’”
Megan pursed her lips. “All right. But you’re going to write to them saying you got here safely.” To that the girl agreed. “Come on then, there’s work to do before we march. Whatever possessed you to come at this hour?”
“I only heard where you were when Sinanayi came in. She was on duty until now and I didn’t want to have to try and find you on the march.”
“Good enough,” said Megan, wondering who in Halya Sinanayi was. Shkai’ra had dug out the frying pan, a flitch of smoked bacon, some eggs they’d bought from a farmer yesterday but hadn’t had time to cook; most of them were unbroken. Another disciplined thing in this army: no stripping the country if you could pay.
She started blowing at the kindling, then looked up.
“Two hours to dawn,” she said, then looked at Sova. “Megan said it better than I could,” she said. “Nobody your age thinks they can get hurt until they do. A burned hand teaches more caution than a thousand words. You’re going to see war here, look carefully.”
She shoved the stone a little closer to the fire, putting the pan across their surface, dropped in some lard from the jar and began slicing onions into it. “The way you managed was part luck, Sova; you only get so much good luck, don’t use it when you don’t have to. I want you to outlive me, and to see your children before I die. This is a war-camp, under discipline. If you break orders again, I will hit you, perhaps even flog you; that’s the customary punishment here. For the same reason I’ve walloped you at weapons drill now and then, because you’ll die if you don’t learn. Understand that?”
“You’ve only told me a thousand times, khyd-hird, about armies. I knew I was coming to one. And you hitting me is no big news.” Sova smiled, tapped the edge of the pan with a nail. “The onions are burning.”
“Shit!” Shkai’ra stirred them with her knife. “Go get your gear, colt; I want it all here and laid out in half an hour. Jump!” The girl ran off.
Megan slid into her tunic from yesterday. Well, another to worry about. Shkai’ra, Sova, Hotblood, Fishhook ... They might as well be a circus.
“Gods-damned gang of strolling players, aren’t we,” Shkai’ra said, yawning and scratching as she stirred the bacon strips into the onions.
“Just what I was thinking.” Megan started rolling the bedding. “So, what did you think of the Gold-dipped Wonder?”
Shkai’ra winked. “Well, at first I was nervous. But then I said to myself, ‘He’s just another conquering hero-king. So what? Fuck Zh’ven’gkua,’ I said to myself!”
“Intending to be a woman of your word, too, no doubt—pass the knife?”
“We’ll see.” Shkai’ra smiled wickedly and reached the cooking knife to her. Dull. Weapons always ready to split hairs, and her camp knife can’t spread butter, Megan thought.
“Well, we’d best not be late for your little demonstration, even if the army isn’t marching today.”
“Ia. I think he’s more interested in what
Hotblood can do to the Arkans than my tits—damnitall.”
“Ivahn was certainly right, that you’d like him on sight,” Megan said snidely. Shkai’ra snorted.
Last shot. The shield set up as a target on the other end of the cleared practice-ground receded as Hotblood galloped flat out away from it. Shkai’ra twisted and drew, the pulleys of the wheelbow silent as oil, aimed, angled to arch the shot. All around was motion, the Ri’s surging body, the grass blurring beneath his feet, the rushing wind, the distance to the target, changing every moment; but the one point of her intent, guiding eyes, head, breath and hands, as her body flowed to the Ri’s, was as still as a motionless pond, a moment frozen in time like glass.
Loose. The arrow was too fast to be visible, the first sign of it a flash of sunlight caught on the shaft, at the top of its three-hundred metre arch; then it was invisible again, until it appeared, sunk halfway into the shield and the wood pell under it, the deep thump seeming an afterthought. The spectators, a solid rank of them all around, whistled and clashed wristlets.
It was the final trial all Kommanzas had to perform, to become full warriors, requiring many apparently impossible shots and maneuvers, including picking up a kerchief from the ground in her teeth, at a full gallop. The deal was done, but Chevenga had wanted to see what she could do. It couldn’t hurt, to give him, and everyone else here, soon to be comrades-in-arms, or underlings, her measure.
On her silent command Hotblood wheeled, carrying her towards where the semanakraseye’s desk was set up under his tent-flap, at the edge of the ground. The misty early-morning light had started the grass steaming dry; sun struggled through thinning clouds. He was wearing a black satin shirt, bordered with white, the collar square with a “v” cut into it, just under his throat. The effect was dashingly official, making the scar on his cheek, clearer in sunlight, seem out-of-place. She dismounted with a graceful leap, Hotblood frisking and blowing.
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