“I know that one!” one of the guards said, sounding startled and angry all at once.
Idisio stood very still, drawing in a long breath. A mixture of nausea and resignation surged through his stomach.
“Lord Scratha called justice-right on him. Said he was a pick-thief.”
Idisio’s breath let out in a nearly inaudible hiss, drowned out under the sound of Alyea’s own shocked inhalation.
Oh, gods, nobody’s told her anything about my past? He glanced at Deiq, who moved his head in the tiniest of negations. Frantically, Idisio sorted through possible responses: Yes, I was, but I’m reformed now had almost no chance of success. Neither did You’re mistaking me for someone else.
Swallowing hard, he straightened. I’m honorary Scratha. I’m ha’ra’hain. They can’t hurt me. “Lord Scratha decided to take me on as a servant,” he said. “Would he have done that for a thief?”
Why wasn’t Deiq speaking up? Surely he had a way out of this. The southern gates weren’t all that stringent these days; the guards were probably grumpy at the end of a long day and looking to take out their temper on the last arrivals.
Alyea wants to be in the lead, Deiq said. Let her damn well lead us through the gates into her precious city, then, and let her speak up for you.
Idisio bit his tongue against his first, second, and third responses to that.
After a few more attempts to win the guards over, it was clear their bad moods were only worsening, and Deiq’s eyes were taking on a dangerous glint. At last, desperate to get through the gates—he’d heard stories from other street thieves about the outside inns, and had no intention of spending a night in one—Idisio stepped forward, gathering all attention to himself with the movement.
Before he could think overmuch—or overloud—about what he was doing, he said, “S’es, we would appreciate your courtesy in letting us pass. Syrta bless your boots.”
The guards all stared at him; three with dawning awareness, one with complete bafflement. The phrase hadn’t been used in years, and only ever in one specific section of the city, to indicate that the speaker was seeking a young male prostitute.
One not picky about how he was handled.
Idisio set his teeth and tried to project utter serenity. It’s the past, he thought, keeping as tight a rein on his thoughts as on his emotions this time. It’s over. Think about being tired. I’m tired. I want a bath. I just want to walk on by. I’m a different person now.
“Ehh,” the red-haired guard said, assessing. He exchanged glances with the others, their expressions rapidly fading to an unusual blankness.
When all three flicked uneasy glances at the fourth, who seemed to be the one in charge, Idisio let out a quiet breath, knowing he’d won. They understood the situation perfectly.
The change in kings had brought along with it a sharp change in common morality; King Oruen had laid down severe edicts about various street trades. Under current law, those three might well be headed for the hangman’s noose if their past—and probably present, as men like these didn’t change because of a law—became known to the right people.
Idisio knew the king had overreacted. Whoring was a profitable trade, far more so than thieving; and no matter what laws were laid down regarding ages and abuses, nothing would really change. But he wasn’t likely to ever get the chance to say so, and the king was even less likely to listen.
“Go on already, then,” the red-haired guard said, moving aside. As the still-bewildered leader opened his mouth to protest, an elbow accidentally landed in his ribs, and another guard trod heavily on his foot.
“We’ll explain later,” one of the others muttered. “Let ‘em go, damnit.”
Idisio kept his back straight and his gaze ahead as he went by. He could feel Deiq’s temper beginning to simmer again as his own confusion cleared. “Syrta bless your boots?” Deiq muttered, his tone verging on a growl.
“Not something you want to know about,” Idisio said, staring straight ahead. He didn’t want to see Deiq’s expression just at the moment. It was going to be hard enough to deflect the elder ha’ra’ha without the added strain of seeing that murderous glare in his eyes again—and the fear that his fury might turn on Idisio at any moment, for no known reason. It seemed entirely possible that Deiq would consider whoring such a despicable trade for a ha’ra’ha that he’d lay the blame to Idisio’s shoulders and punish him for disgracing his heritage.
Thankfully, Deiq’s reaction seemed to focus on the outrage perpetrated by the guards, which was a relief; but all the same, he wouldn’t let it go. Wouldn’t stop arguing it. Kept switching to mindspeech for his questions, which brought with it a harsh pressure against the edges of Idisio’s mind, a silent demand that Idisio talk about something he truly wanted to forget. Alyea kept walking, drawing them farther and farther from the southern gates, away from the danger zone. Idisio knew perfectly well that Deiq could be back there in two bounds and a spit, but the increasing distance felt tremendously reassuring all the same.
Finally, Idisio just shut his mind, blocking out Deiq’s persistent, nagging questions; not caring that it might incense his elder past all bearing. An open fight might be a relief, compared to the razor-edged suasion Deiq was employing.
Deiq snorted and moved up to walk beside Alyea. Idisio let out a low sigh of relief. He knew Deiq wouldn’t ever be able to let the incident and the associated questions go entirely, and that was—that was all right, really. Now that the strain of fighting off Deiq’s intense inquiry was gone, Idisio could relax and reflect that it had actually, been sort of nice to see Deiq get so angry. It had felt almost like having a real friend, real family. Someone who cared.
But if Idisio had been an ordinary human, Deiq wouldn’t have given two bent bits on the matter. That realization took all of the charm from the moment.
I will never get that cold, Idisio promised himself. Never.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The last rays of the sun melted across the edges and lines of tall buildings. Ellemoa stared at the light for as long as she could, then shut her watering eyes and retreated a few steps into the cool darkness of the nest she’d made. It was a better shelter than the one her poor son had built, and well hidden in an abandoned barn near the southeastern edge of the city. There were several exits, not one, and she’d warded them all. Only she could enter the barn. Strangers would find themselves turning away to other locations, muddle-minded; persisting would bring actual pain.
So far, nobody had tested her wards. A few drunks and fools had wandered by and gone on without questioning their decision to move away from the crumbling structure. The few surviving families of snakes, rats, and lizards had learned to steer clear, themselves; Ellemoa would have to range farther to find sustenance tonight.
Without teyhataerth’s support, the need for physical food had returned; and hunting humans, while they were a far more satisfying prey than lizards, was too dangerous. It would draw attention, and her nightly forays in search of her son were already being noticed. There were humans with sight in the city—they called themselves desert lords—and they would soon begin hunting her, if they hadn’t already. They could hurt her, if they caught her. They knew how to hurt ha’ra’hain. Some of the ones moving through the city now had been involved in killing teyhataerth.
She had to be careful. She had to avoid them. She had to find her son and get him out of the city before the desert lords found her.
How old is my son? How long was I in that prison? How long have I been free? It was so hard to track human time. So hard to remember that a day meant something to them. She walked through nightmare, never quite sure if what she saw was real-now or vision-then, or some muddling of everything at once.
She might have hurt some of the humans during the worst of the walking nightmares. She wasn’t entirely certain.
Humans are to be left alone, the Elders had said. They are not our prey. We have an Agreement with them. We do not harm these humans. We protect
these humans.
But Rosin had said that the Elders’ restriction only applied to humans in Arason; in Bright Bay, teyhataerth was the sole Elder. Teyhataerth held the authority over who to protect and who to harm.
And Rosin told teyhataerth what to do... had told... They were both dead now, and she was alone without guidance in a strange place, trying to find her son.
She wiped her eyes clear and went back to the doorway of the barn. The sun had nearly set; the streets hung in streamers of deepening grey. She could endure what stripes of light remained. She had to keep pushing herself until sunlight was once more pleasant to stand in. It was time to begin her nightly search for some hint of her son, and hunt food for another night.
Perhaps she’d find another stray asp-jacau. That would be far preferable to lizards. She hated their swampy, muddy taste and how little real meat lay on their skinny bodies. The bones had a distressing tendency to catch in the gaps between her remaining teeth.
Her son had probably eaten lizards to survive. As she ghosted through the streets, easily turning aside the attention of any humans she encountered, she wondered if he liked them.
I must remember that question. Questions like that are important. Her son had been raised as a human, and humans always needed to talk about trivial matters; once she won his trust with small questions, she could teach him about proper ha’ra’hain behavior.
The wind shifted, bringing in scents from the west: a late blooming of white daffodils and a lush fennel plant somewhere nearby. Ellemoa raised her head, sniffing the air, and moved towards that intoxicating combination. She’d always loved fennel. The smell brought back memories of good things: mainly that of her mother’s cooking on visiting nights.
The elders had come to visit regularly. Never affectionate, by human standards, but present. They never took so much as a sip of tea or a nibble of bread, but seemed to appreciate the rich aromas lacing the cottage. They had spoken, quietly, of local events; asked after Ellemoa and her mother’s well-being; protected them from the harassment of the human community.
After Ellemoa’s mother died, the visits had continued with the same grave courtesy, even though Ellemoa’s cooking efforts fell far short of the standard her mother had set. They’d been polite enough not to be critical in any way—about anything—right up until she began spending time with Kolan. They hadn’t liked her spending time with Kolan. Not one bit.
I should have known they were right about him, she thought vaguely. He didn’t like fennel.
Evening stretched grey fingers across the world around her, and the night-crickets began their strutting arguments as she walked slowly towards that strong scent. Drawing shadow round her was a simple trick. Humans scurried past without a glance, too preoccupied with their own small lives to notice the bewitching aromas around them.
Cloud gathered nearby, and moisture hung heavy and dank in the air: there would be rain soon. She liked that idea. She might stand outside in the rain, let water untouched by human hands rinse her clean of all pain and fear for a little while. She’d loved standing out in the rain as a child.
Did her son like the rain? I’ll find out one day, she thought. That will be one of the questions I will remember to ask him. She had so many questions to ask him, and so much to tell him; so many years of absence to make up for.
Does he even know how to feed? Have the humans taught him anything useful or true, or only a pile of lies? More probably the latter. But she could fix that. She would fix that.
My son is alive. Nothing else really mattered.
The smell of fennel edged into her thoughts again, distracting her back to the moment’s truth. It was close now, but the darkening air made it impossible to make out more than faint outlines. She paused and moved to stand up near a building, out of the way of careless passerby; not that there were many here, nor torches to light the streets. She liked this section of town. It was quiet, but in a good way, a healthy way, with a sense that people were nearby, living their small, meaningless human lives with no notion of her presence.
She liked being the invisible one, ghosting past them. She liked sensing the still-ragged edges of their fear, the scars they hadn’t quite healed yet. They’d learned about what real evil was. They would understand her, if she ever stepped out of hiding. They would help her, if she asked, because they would understand.
Nobody will ever understand you, Ellemoa, Rosin’s voice echoed in her memory. I’m the only one who understands you. Everyone else will run from you... Everyone else will hate you. I’m the only one who cares enough to help you....
The people of Arason hadn’t helped. They hadn’t raised a hand to save her from Captain Kullag. They hadn’t stopped him. They hadn’t stopped Solian, either, although they had to know he was a threat. The elders had warned the humans, after the first time Solian came by her cottage.
Arason had some lessons to learn about the nature and consequences of evil. Her son had suffered as much as she herself; she’d let him deliver part of the lesson. Once she found him. It wouldn’t be long now. She could almost taste his scent in the air. It wouldn’t be long at all.
A small cottage blocked her sight: the fennel was planted on the far side of it. She moved forward, vaguely impatient now, and stepped over a low-hanging metal chain without really noticing it. A few steps later, she stopped, catching a new, disturbing smell in the air, and looked around more carefully.
A great slab of stone lay ahead and to her left. Smaller ones were spaced further away. Great piles of wood and baskets with conical metal lids stood near each slab. The air here smelled of ash and carbon, of burnt flesh and a strange, bitter unguent.
Burning slabs. This was a graveyard.
Who plants fennel in a graveyard? she thought, deeply offended. Such a beautiful smell didn’t belong around death. It verged on obscenity.
She edged away from the slabs, towards the small cottage which lay ahead and to her right. That must be where the gravekeeper lived. Another obscenity, that humans assigned a person to live a life performing such a horrible duty: handling the dead bodies of their own kind, burning them, sweeping up the ashes.
She shuddered, revolted at the concept, then circled around the back of the cottage and found the fennel plant at last. The rich aroma filled her senses. She reached out and gently stroked one of the feathery leaves, releasing a new cloud of intoxicating scent. Glancing down, she saw the daffodils, all in shades of amber and pale grey, rather than the vibrant white and yellow she’d so often dreamed of seeing again.
I will have to come back in the daytime, she thought. As soon as my eyes can tolerate the light. I will come back here and look at the daffodils. And once she was able to tolerate full daylight, she’d never again willingly hide away while the sun shone outside. She would live in the light from now on, and be a person her son would be proud to call Mother.
Kolan would be proud of me, she thought with a distant sense of grief, and wished he was still alive. He would have enjoyed meeting her son. Did I kill him? She couldn’t remember, and that troubled her for a moment. Then she went back to stroking the fennel plant, inhaling the licorice aroma contentedly.
The front door of the cottage opened.
Ellemoa wrapped shadow tighter round, anxious to avoid discovery; she wasn’t quite ready to deal directly with humans yet.
A plump woman in a long, shapeless dress walked slowly around the corner of the cottage. She stopped a few paces from where Ellemoa stood, cocked her head to one side, and sniffed the air thoughtfully.
“Hello,” she said, very calmly. “Would you like to come inside and have a cup of tea?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“You still haven’t said,” Tank said, keeping his voice low, “how you came to be in Bright Bay, signed with Venepe.”
Midafternoon heat glared down from a sparsely clouded sky. The thucking of hooves and creaking of the wagon blended into the oppressively humid air.
A few horse-lengths ahead, Rat gl
ared up at the sky and said, “Ta-neka of a storm building.” His deep voice carried effortlessly.
“Freak heat’s telling me that,” Frenn answered. “From all pissy and cold yesterday? This ain’t right.” Tank didn’t think either one of them knew how to talk quietly; they were accustomed to shouting over the sounds of a crowded caravan yard or other similarly noisy obstacles.
“You didn’t ask,” Dasin said, from much closer to hand. Tank tore his attention from the mercenaries ahead and looked to his right. Dasin’s face was pale and strained, dark smudges marking the fair skin under his eyes. He didn’t look at Tank, his gaze fixed somewhere vague.
“So I’m asking,” Tank said.
“Storm ought to bring the temperature crashing back down,” Frenn said. “Gonna be ugly.”
“Hope it waits until we’re in Sandsplit,” Rat said.
Just visible ahead of the wagon, Breek rode point, his back straight and his attention sweeping the area. By contrast, Rat and Frenn almost slouched in their saddles, reins held casually across their laps, and seemed more inclined to talk than watch their surroundings.
Frenn said something Tank couldn’t quite make out, and Rat laughed. They both glanced over their shoulders at Tank and Dasin, grinning, then looked at one another and laughed again.
Tank bit his tongue and told himself to mind his temper. You fight when you have to. Allonin and Captain Ash had both warned him to expect a certain amount of hazing when he joined any mercenary group. They’d stop soon enough.
“I learned as much as I could without going on the road myself,” Dasin said. Tank blinked and looked at him, bewildered for a moment. He’d almost forgotten having asked a question. Dasin, still staring ahead with an abstracted expression, went on without pause. “I asked to start out of Bright Bay. I look too northern to be any use in the southlands, and I’d heard you’d decided to base out of Bright Bay as a mercenary; I hoped we’d cross paths again.” He shot a sideways, frowning glance at Tank. “You might have sent word, you know. That you weren’t coming back. Might have been nice, not hearing that from gossip.”
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