Tahn stood, dwarfed beneath the Lul’Masi. “Thank you.”
“The debt is mine,” Col’Wrent answered. “Now go. Your friend is right. I will free the others.”
Tahn and Sutter raced to the end of the tent. Sutter ducked outside, but Tahn looked back to see the Lul’Masi take the key from Alisandra’s hand and begin to open the other cages. Col’Wrent looked up and caught Tahn’s eye. A look of gratitude passed between them, and it made Tahn wonder about the nature of the Inveterae. This one, anyway. It didn’t seem to lack.
Then Sutter pulled Tahn through the tent flap and they ran back past the tenendra toward town.
* * *
They rode most of the night north out of Squim. They didn’t speak, putting leagues between themselves and the tenendra. In the waning hours of night, Tahn turned his attention east and thought about the coming of dawn, about another day of life. He imagined the rays of sunrise striking a more peaceful world, one where Wendra hummed over morning bacon. The thought of his sister ended his ritual predawn reverie. Skies, he missed her. There seemed a hole inside him. He couldn’t remember a time without her in his life. Not where he couldn’t go to her if he needed to. Or if she needed him.
And again he recalled the moment when he hesitated in releasing his draw on the Bar’dyn hovering over his sister’s birth bed. I’m so sorry, Wendra.
Those maddening words—I draw with the strength of my arms …—Tahn’s frustration returned.
Sometime later, full day lit the sky.
Near midday, Tahn spied the double mountain in the east. “That way.” He pointed.
Sutter’s brow creased. “There’s no road.”
“We’re going to Qum’rahm’se,” Tahn explained.
“Even though Vendanj said to get to Recityv,” Sutter argued.
“We might find the others there,” Tahn reasoned. “If not, we can at least collect whatever Vendanj meant to find. Papers on the Covenant Tongue. Make sure it gets to the right hands.”
“You mean if Vendanj even made it out of those nasty clouds.… What am I saying? That man’s too thorny to die by cloud.” Then, like a man remembering his own purpose—adventure—Sutter jumped from his horse. “Let’s go.”
Tahn did the same, wincing when he hit the ground—he’d forgotten his wounded foot.
“Watch those delicate toes,” Sutter ribbed. “I have it on good authority that they intend to dance a turn with a quick-footed Far. You’d better stay on the mend.”
Tahn half-smiled.
Sutter put his hand on Tahn’s arm, his smile fading. He turned to face Tahn. “Thank you.”
“What?”
“Don’t get me wrong. It’s no treat to taste the snot of a brute from the Bourne. Thing gave me the crawls.” He paused. “But you went into that cage and could’ve been its next meal. You didn’t know what it might’ve done.”
Tahn tried to dismiss it. “You’d have done the same—”
“Yeah, I would have,” Sutter cut in. “But … there’s only a few who’d take that risk for me.”
Sutter was surely thinking about the man and woman who’d raised him, and about his actual birth parents, who’d given him up. Maybe a lot of who his friend had become had to do with trying to reconcile himself with—or maybe leave behind—the choices those people had made. Maybe Sutter felt dispensable. And suddenly some of the jokes they’d shared all their lives echoed back a touch darker.
Tahn thought. “I won’t be caught on the wrong side of helping a friend, Sutter. Not ever again.”
They traveled the rest of the day, mostly walking. The ravine led to a river running south. They turned north. Near dusk, they descended a low ridge. The hum of the river rose beside them, a soothing, familiar sound. They stopped to let their mounts drink. An orange sun reflected its double in the glossy surface, river flies and other insects darting to and fro over the calm water. The ripples of fish surfacing to feed briefly interrupted the languid smoothness. Near the shore, the river bottom tapered gradually, the water clear enough to see the sands in the shallows.
Tahn looked out over the river with relief. This, at least, was good fortune—rivers meant food, water, and always met a road if you followed them far enough. He let his horse drink, and laid himself in the shallows facedown to do the same. The chill water felt good on his skin.
After a few mouthfuls, his head was forced down into the water.
A dark certainty filled him. This hand around his neck didn’t belong to his friend.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Dust on the Boards
I grind the rocks. I’ve nothing to do with who makes a stick of chalk, or dry-powder for a slave’s foot. I grind, see. That’s all. But now that you mention it, I’m not sure why we’re worried about Quiet when our own kind are selling folks.
—Investigation interview conducted by League surveyors into reports about human trade in the upper Balens
The day after the riverboat fire, Jastail led Wendra north. They left the road at midday, and traveled an hour of unmarked terrain before cresting a knoll and looking down at a makeshift town. No real roads. No stone buildings. Worry stole over her as they went slowly into Galadell.
Not a single man or woman failed to take note of them. A few nodded to Jastail, but didn’t verbally greet him. He nodded in return, an air of authority in the angle of his head. Something bothered Wendra about the place. It felt impermanent, as though it could be abandoned at a moment’s notice. She sensed no sort of commitment, or community, or tradition here.
They stopped at a ramshackle establishment near the center of town. Beside the door hung a weathered sign nailed to the wall announcing the “Overland Bed and Cup.” Jastail looked both ways along the street before entering into the dimness beyond the door. Wendra shot a glance over her shoulder at the passersby, catching one of them in a long, appraising gaze that didn’t flinch at being caught. Quickly, she followed Jastail inside.
The room stood weakly lit by a few sparsely placed candles inside glass lanterns, and by a bit of daylight that crept through cracks in the poor carpentry along the outer walls. The smell of stale bitter hung in the air, along with boiled roots and a meat odor unfamiliar to her. The tables were empty save for two nearest the back where a set of wine barrels had been fastened to the wall. Drips fell from spigots into cups placed on the floor to catch them. A man in a long leather apron sat beside the barrels with a short-brimmed hat drawn low on his brow. His chair stood tilted back against the wall and his chest rose and fell in the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.
Jastail moved soundlessly across the floor and made as though to take up one of the cups catching the spillage. The chair legs came down fast and the man’s hand latched onto Jastail’s before he could lift the glass.
“You’re slowing down, Himney,” Jastail said.
The other laughed. “I’m old. But there’s not a thief swift enough yet to take bitter from me.”
Jastail put the cup back under the drip, and pulled Himney to his feet. They clasped each other by the wrist and shook in two deliberate up and down motions.
Himney let go Jastail’s hand and nudged the cup the highwayman had put back so that drips hit its exact center.
Jastail dug into his cloak and pulled out a coin, walking it along his knuckles with deft skill. He then tossed the coin up. Before it could finish rising, Himney snatched it from the air. The little man licked the coin, running his tongue over its surface and along its edge, then rolling his eyes up as he concentrated and wagged his tongue just behind his teeth. Satisfied, he hid the coin so fast Wendra wasn’t sure where it went. He then picked up two fresh cups from a shelf between the wine barrels and filled them for Jastail and Wendra.
“Still the best nose in open land,” Jastail said with bemusement.
“Can’t run risks with the dreck that scuttles through these parts, my friend.” He led them to a table away from the few patrons and put their cups on one side, positioning himself on the other with
a clear view of his wine barrels. Once seated, he eyed Wendra with a long, hard look, making her feel like a coin held in his sweaty lips. “You’ve been busy lately, friend. The open country is treating you well.”
Jastail took a long drink. He wiped his mouth and leveled his gaze at Himney. “Must be my honest face.”
The two chuckled.
When their chuckles had faded to smiles, Jastail said, “Things haven’t been”— he looked at Wendra—“easy,” he finished. “Tell me the news, Himney, and leave the garnish for the next man. I’ve no patience for tales, and no money for lies or rumors.”
The other man raised his hands before him and waved them to shush Jastail. “I understand. Earth and dust, but you do go on. Drink your bitter and let me do some talking.” Himney leaned forward in his seat and rested his elbows on the table. One eyebrow cocked upward quizzically. His tongue lashed out in a quick motion, licking the sweat from his lips. He then drew a breath, paused dramatically, and began in a cautious voice.
“Dust is up, dust is up,” he said.
Something about Himney’s use of the word “dust” unnerved her.
“Men come into Galadell two and three a day, north out of Ringstone, south from Chol’Den’Fas, even from the east, the coast of Kuren. But you,” Himney said, pointing at Jastail, “you go to the west. What do you know that the others don’t?” He pondered for a moment, then went on. “But less than a handful know the trade like you, Jastail. Not like you.”
“Any strangers come to the lowland?” Jastail tapped the table, as though meaning Galadell.
“We haven’t seen any. Though there’s talk of a three-ring. Some say the Quiet press close.” Himney nodded dismissively. “Nothing new there. But most of the new traders have no sense of what they do, only itchy palms for coin.”
“A different breed entirely,” Jastail agreed, looking directly at Himney’s waist belt, from which hung several leather purses. “Tell me more of the Quiet.”
Himney bent forward toward them and talked so low that many of his words were nothing more than the movement of lips. “There’s talk of a full collough come across the Pall as far south as Vohnce.” Himney swallowed. “And rumors that the Velle lead them.” He stopped, seeming to think about what he’d just said.
“Anyone seen it with their own eyes?” Jastail asked.
“One,” Himney said. “The others like to prattle about it, though. As for myself, I take the talk as truth. The skies are not as friendly as they were ten … five years since.”
“Your barrels empty sooner with less coin in your purse,” Jastail said without humor.
“No!” Himney barked, immediately quieting himself. “I mean that the night holds longer. Cycles seem confused of their proper time. Winter comes early. Spring comes late. Summer falls like the bake of the smithy’s forge.”
“Dreadfully poetic for a bitter salesman in a leaky Galadell tavern,” Jastail said, the mockery still dark.
Himney made a vulgar gesture. “Fah, you asked for the recent news. This is it.” Himney pointed a finger at Jastail. “We don’t go to the Bourne. But now it comes to us.”
A grim look tugged at the lines in Jastail’s weathered face. Wendra couldn’t place it. His usual cynicism remained, but now it appeared broken, tentative. She thought about the Bar’dyn on the riverboat and their fight near the bank of the Lesule River. Jastail perhaps understood more of the truth in the rumors than he let on. And he already assumed that Wendra was keeping something back from him. Sooner or later he’d force the issue: why Bar’dyn chased a girl with nothing of apparent value.
“Has the dust gone up today?” Jastail asked.
“Not yet,” Himney said. “You’ll know when. The tables fill with men who take a cup before heading to the boards.”
Wendra finally had to ask. “What is the ‘dust’?”
Himney’s gaze shifted to her, and he retracted his head the way a turtle does when it feels threatened. Wendra met the look squarely.
“Shut her up,” Himney said emphatically. “She has no business asking.”
“Calm yourself,” Jastail replied. He returned his attention to Wendra. “My lady, this, too, is something you’ll understand when you meet the boy. I must ask you—”
“To hells with you,” Wendra said, rising from her chair. “I played your game. From the North Face to the river to this godsforsaken place. I came because of the boy. I was a token for your gambling. And I saved you from the Bar’dyn.” She glared, losing patience, feeling tones shifting in her chest. “Now take me to him! If he’s in this place, then now. If not here, then let’s go. I warn you.”
Jastail regarded her with little concern. But something did rise in his face. Something that might have heard the notes churning inside her. Even just hearing these fragments of melody in her mind made her skin tingle. The bottom of pain. She stepped closer to him.
Jastail stared back evenly. “You may be right, my lady,” he said, sounding deferential. “But haven’t you learned that chance is all that matters to me? If your threat is more than simple desperation, then maybe there are odds to play. I’d like that. And in any case…” He sat forward in his chair, so that his face was directly beneath hers. “You could be dead long before any risk presents itself.” He smiled calmly. The look of it was the most natural thing Wendra had ever seen on his rough face. “Hold your tongue and you’ll have your answers soon enough.”
Wendra’s song stirred inside her, and she shuddered under its intensity. She grasped the table’s edge to stop herself from collapsing and eased herself back into her chair.
Slowly, she blocked out the continuing conversation, focusing on the thrumming in her head, a pulse that emanated from every part of her. A pulse that felt like the sound of a musician’s bow drawn slowly across the strings of a bass fiddle.
An hour later the tables filled, just as Himney had predicted. The tavern remained quiet, with low chatter as people took one cup, drank it quickly, and left the way they’d come. When the tables emptied, Jastail stood and shook Wendra to follow. She got to her feet with the hope of finding Penit. Jastail put a coin on the table and gave Himney a watchful stare. Then out he went, not looking to be sure Wendra followed.
Into the street they strode. Men and women were running past them toward a square where all the town seemed to be gathering. Wendra could feel excitement in the air; nothing spoken, but nonetheless singing in her nerves as if everyone in town knew the same secret. The crowd didn’t jostle for position, but found places from which to see. And then they waited. Many of them held colored sticks, marked with numbers. An ominous feeling crept over her.
Jastail led her to a place near a raised wood platform. “The boards,” he said, indicating the single most finely crafted structure in the ramshackle town. Long slats of oak lay neatly fitted together to form the raised platform six feet off the ground. On either side stairs ascended to the boards, which stretched thirty feet long. A short table and chair stood near the left edge, a locked ledger and quill set there.
Moments later the crowd parted and several individuals were led toward the platform by a tall man, thick in the waist and shoulders. Wendra couldn’t see who they were, but the procession stopped at the foot of the stair. The tall man bent to do something before escorting a bound woman to the desk. A second man clasping a key fixed to a chain he wore around his neck rushed up the stairs and took a seat at the table. Quickly, he put the key to a lock that sealed the book, and opened it. Dipping the quill in a reservoir of ink, he inclined his ear as the big man said something softly to him. Then the big man ushered the bound woman to the center of the platform and turned her toward the crowd.
Looking on, Wendra now knew what “dust is up” meant. The woman’s feet had been powdered with talc or chalk, and with each step dust rose in a faint blue-white cloud.
The big man raised his hand and gestured with several fingers. Members of the crowd lifted their colored sticks with the painted numbers on them. No
one spoke, the mild breeze whistling through cracks in the poorly built structures around them. The woman stared at her feet, her bedraggled hair hanging limp from her scalp and obscuring her features. She wore a shapeless smock, drawn in at the waist with a length of rope. The man pointed to one of the many sticks, then raised his hand again, performing a complicated series of hand gestures. More sticks went up, but not as many as the first time. Again the pattern was repeated, each time fewer sticks rising into the air, until but one stick rose above the crowd. The bullish man pulled the woman to the stairs at the right, where she met the woman who had purchased her.
The officious little man at the table wrote in his ledger, dipping his quill feverishly to record the transaction. Then the large fellow descended the stair, again bent out of sight before rising and escorting a young girl to the boards. Information went into the book under the small man’s quill, and powdered feet trod the boards to the center, where frightened eyes looked out on the bidders.
Wendra’s gorge rose. This is madness! People can’t be bought and sold! But Jastail stood beside her, a living rebuttal to the notion that even Wendra was free. And something more lingered beyond her awareness, something awful, something that her mind shielded her from, wouldn’t let her see. She tried to recall a melody or lyric to give her comfort, but at the sight of the young girl her throat swelled shut. Jastail put a hand on Wendra’s arm to steady her. She didn’t shrug it away.
Again the large man lifted his hand and declared some unknown price. All sticks went up. The man smiled, showing a mouthful of bad teeth. He’d grossly underestimated her value. This time his hand fingered a simple gesticulation. Half the sticks remained up this time. The cycle repeated, and the girl on the boards watched in dawning horror at the event unfolding around her. The rounds of bidding extended further, but still only the wind talked, ruffling the girl’s downy hair and kissing her chalked feet with delicate plumes of dust over the neatly manicured lengths of wood.
The Unremembered Page 21
