“Practice, practice, practice,” Lionsmane said in a comfortable voice. “And yet it was I who saved Dhulyn Wolfshead from death at Arcosa, the day we met.”
Mar turned her eyes away from the motionless Wolfshead, relaxing into the warm rumble of Parno’s voice. She looked again at the expression on his face as he watched Dhulyn. That’s why I’m safe withhim, she thought with a sense of awakening even further. That’s why he says I’m too young. Because he can look at her like that. Mar took her bottom lip between her teeth. If Ysdrell had ever shown her such a look, she thought, she might have ignored her Tenebro letters, and none of them would be here-or would Wolfshead and Lionsmane be on their way to Imrion just the same? As if he could feel her eyes on him, the Lionsmane shook himself and looked back at her.
“You’ve never seen the Shora practiced?”
“I’ve seen the City Watch.” She glanced back. The Wolfshead had lowered her blades and was automatically wiping them clean, though there was no blood on them. “But it wasn’t like that, exactly.”
“The difference you cannot explain is the difference between Mercenaries and ordinary soldiers. I know,” he added as she turned to him, “because in my time I have been both. The word Shora means patterns in the old tongue, the tongue of the Caids, as our friend there would be the first to tell you, and there are eighty-one of them. Each with at least three, but some with up to one hundred and eight separate moves. Shora for the sword-single-or double-handed-Shora for the knife, the dagger, the razor, the club, the stick, and the stone. Shora for the hands, feet, and head. For anything held in the hand, as well as for the hands alone. Shora for breathing, for smell and sight and hearing. I know the basic twenty-seven that all Mercenaries must know to be considered Schooled.” Parno Lionsmane shrugged. “Maybe a few others. The Wolfshead knows over fifty. If she lives, she will know them all, and she will School others.”
If she lives. Mar shivered, watching Dhulyn sheathe her weapons. The morning was colder than she’d thought.
Four
IN THE AFTERNOON of the twelfth day, with the pass two days behind them, Parno stopped on a small rise and let the two women ride past him. Dhulyn pulled up her horse and halted Mar with a gesture when he did not follow them.
“What?” she called.
“Look at those clouds,” he said. Dhulyn turned in her saddle to follow the direction of his gaze. The sky was dark and heavy. “If that’s not snow, and soon, I’m a blind man.”
Dhulyn nodded, sighted back along the trail and bit her lower lip. Earlier that morning they had seen what might have been a herder’s hut off to the south of the trail, but Dhulyn had decided it was far too early to stop. They might pay dearly for that decision now. It wasn’t often she laid out the tiles and lost the game.
She looked around at the uneven landscape, rocky and full of pines, pockets of old snow drifted into spots the sun did not reach. “This part of the hills, we should be able to find some reasonably sheltered place,” she said, sighing. They were Mercenaries; they didn’t expect either rain or snow to kill them. If the weather were better, the long-lost Tenebro cousin would be traveling in the company of a merchant’s caravan, and she and Parno would be lucky to get guard’s wages for the same journey they were making now.
“As well we’re not twenty or thirty people,” was all Parno said.
The sky was turning ominously black when the tiles came up swords after all. What looked like a shoulder of hillside jutting out from among a small grouping of firs proved to be two enormous boulders, one partially leaning on the other to form a shallow cave where they touched.
“Plenty of shelter in those trees for the horses,” Parno said.
“And we can cut branches, layer them across the top, extend the shelter right out to here.” She indicated the point where the rocks were farthest apart. “With a fire close to the opening, we’ll stay snug and dry.”
“What odd shapes.” Mar edged the packhorse closer. “I’ve never seen rocks like this.”
“They are not rocks, little Dove.”
“What then?” Mar dismounted and, holding the packhorse’s lead, stepped closer.
Dhulyn brushed off a piece of dried lichen, revealing a remarkably smooth section of whitish stone. “Remnants of a wall, I’d say. Relics of the Caids.”
“The Caids.” Mar stepped back, putting her horse between her and the wall. “I thought they were spirits.”
Dhulyn looked sideways at the girl. “They may be, now. People do swear by them, it’s true. But the Scholars say that they’re an ancient people, long gone. Ancestors to us all, they say. It’s sure that everywhere I’ve journeyed I’ve seen their traces-bits of statues, places too flat for nature that must have been roads, odd formations of rock like these. There are even bits of books left from those times, though all I’ve ever seen were translated copies.” Dhulyn smiled, pushed Mar a little with her fingertips. “Don’t worry, my Dove, the place isn’t haunted.”
Mar nodded, but not as though she was reassured.
“Get the packs stowed,” Dhulyn told her, “then go and collect fire-wood while Parno and I cut branches.”
Snow began to fall as the two Mercenaries placed the last of the branches across the opening and Mar carefully laid and lit the fire as Dhulyn had shown her. Large flakes and fluffy, the snow fell quiet and soft, and at first melted as it hit the ground. But long before they were ready for their suppers, it began to accumulate, thick and light as down.
“No point in setting watch,” Parno said. He crawled past Dhulyn deeper into the cave. “We’d neither see nor hear anyone coming.”
“Any sign of wind?”
“No, thank the Caids.” Parno grinned, touched his forehead with the tips of his fingers in the Mercenary salute. “That would be all we’d need.”
Dhulyn tucked Mar into the warmest corner, from where the girl watched with wide eyes as, after they had eaten their supper rations, the two Mercenaries took it in turns to unpack, testing and examining each item of their clothing, and each piece of metal, checking for signs of dampness or rust. Their bedding was already toasting in the warmth from the fire, and now cloaks and damp hoods were spread out as well.
Parno unwrapped and was assembling the pipes that gave him his nickname “Chanter” as Dhulyn checked over her book, and the few writing materials she carried. There’d been precious little playing-or reading for that matter-since they’d left that last inn, and Dhulyn had noticed that Mar had taken to calling them Wolfshead and Lionsmane, dropping their other nicknames entirely. She supposed it was hard for a town-bred girl to watch them at their daily Shora and think of them as anything but Mercenaries.
As Dhulyn stowed away the last of her belongings she gestured to Mar. “Come, my Dove, your turn. The damp will spoil your things if you don’t take care.”
Mar unpacked slowly, and it seemed to Dhulyn that the girl was shamed to display how little she owned, even to two of a Brotherhood known for traveling light. Her few pieces of clothing were well made of good, if plain, cloth, befitting the foster child of weavers. There was also a very fine pair of bright yellow trousers that Dhulyn eyed covetously, knowing they would never fit her. And a single glass bead on a strand of copper wire, more a child’s plaything than a piece of jewelry.
The girl’s writing supplies were the goods of a professional, not a hobbyist like Dhulyn. Four good pens, their nibs fresh and ready for trimming, and two bottles of differently colored inks, stoppered and sealed with wax. Instead of Dhulyn’s few scraps, Mar had several large sheets of parchment, not new, but carefully scraped clean. Shuffled in among these Dhulyn saw the green-sealed letters Mar had picked up from her friend in the market at Navra. Information from her House, it seemed, that Mar didn’t want to share.
Dhulyn flicked a glance at Parno, and he nodded with the barest inclination of his head.
“How much neater you keep your things than I do mine,” Dhulyn said, reaching out to touch the parchments Mar was shuffling back
together. “Are you sure none of these have taken any damp?”
“Oh, yes,” the girl said, thrusting all the pages into the bottom of her pack before picking up the pens and inks with more care.
“I’m glad to see you take such care of the tools of your trade,” Parno said, solemn and sincere. “They’re proof to any who need to know it that you have the means to earn your own living. You have relative wealth and independence even without your noble House, don’t forget it.”
“What’s this last thing?”
Once again, Dhulyn reached out, and this time Mar did nothing to stop her from unwrapping an old cloak, worn, but still showing something of a vivid rose dye in its folds. When there were only a few layers of cloth left, Dhulyn pulled back her hands and let Mar, almost ceremoniously, finish unrolling what was clearly her greatest possession. A bowl, shallow, perhaps as wide as two narrow hands, its exterior intricately patterned and glazed, colors glowing like jewels in the fire’s light. Dhulyn met Mar’s gaze and smiled, her own delight mirrored in the younger woman’s eyes.
“It is beautiful,” Dhulyn said simply. “May I?” Mar passed it carefully into the older woman’s hands. Dhulyn turned it over a few times in her long fingers, measuring and weighing it unconsciously as she examined the patterns. Along the narrow base there were geometric shapes-lines, triangles, circles and squares-but on the upper edge… “I know these designs,” she said softly, “Look! Am I wrong? What’s this along the edge?” She held out the bowl at an angle, so the light fell clearly along its green-bordered rim.
“It’s forest creeper,” Parno said.
“No it isn’t.” Mar’s voice was quiet, matching her smile. “It’s a chain of people dancing. Isn’t it?” she added, looking across at Dhulyn.
The older woman nodded. “I believe so,” she said. “And in that case…” she turned the bowl upside down, the better to study its patterns. Squinting in the changeable light of the fire, she could see how the chain of dancers along the rim crossed over itself, as if in a country dance, and turned down, forming garlands around the body of the bowl and framing spaces which had been filled with small scenes. “Yes,” she said. “See here, there’s a woman, noble from her gown, laying out the vera tiles for a solitary game.” Dhulyn glanced up at Parno. “You’ve seen that posture a thousand times, my soul. And look at this old fisherman,” she turned the bowl slightly, “hanging up his nets, checking for tears and snags. Look how his muscles stand out as he lifts them. And here’s a young boy walking back and forth along the rows in a vineyard, no doubt keeping the foxes out!”
“This one’s a man,” Mar said, tapping an image on the side of the bowl closest to her. “It must be a father,” she added, “he’s tossing up a small child and catching him again.” She looked up, a catch in her voice. “There’s a woman watching them, smiling.”
“What’s the last one,” Parno said. “I can’t make it out.”
“It’s a young woman again-no, a young man, and he seems to be holding a harp.” No amount of squinting brought out further detail. “Do you know, Mar?”
Mar shook her head. “I’ve always thought it was a mirror.” She took the bowl completely into her own hands and tilted it to catch the dying light of the fire on the final scene. “It’s been a long time since I really looked at this. I didn’t like to bring it out at the Weavers.”
“It’s a beautiful thing,” Dhulyn said. “Worth another look and then another. Do you know what you have here, my Dove?”
“I thought I did,” faltered Mar. “Now I begin to doubt.” Dhulyn’s heart warmed. It was easy for her to find a look tinged with fear on someone’s face. Only when people saw the Scholar and not the Wolf did she ever see this kind of warmth.
“It comes from my mother,” Mar said, “and her mother before that. The property of the eldest daughter of my Household. It’s my proof, if I need it, that I am Mar-eMar Tenebro.”
“Making it valuable enough,” Dhulyn said. “But it has other significance. A bowl like this is described in Tarlyn’s First Book of the Mark.”
“It would bring a good price,” Parno said putting his hand on Dhulyn’s wrist. “I marvel the good Weaver left it to you.”
“You mean she might have taken it?” The girl’s genuine astonishment caused the two elders to glance at each other and quickly away.
“Nay, child, she’s been proven an honest woman, even without this.” Parno put a comforting hand on the young girl’s shoulder. He ventured a glance sideways at Dhulyn. “You don’t think it could be…?”
“What? Tarlyn’s bowl? Oh, Sun and Moon, no! The Book of the Mark, like these designs, goes back to the time of the Caids.” Dhulyn returned to her scrutiny of the bowl. The silence made her look up into Mar’s stricken face. “Oh, it is real, little Dove. A Scholar’s artifact. But,” she shrugged. “It could not be Tarlyn’s bowl, is all. The designs are the true ancient ones, but the colors, see how sharp the blues and greens?” She traced her finger along the line of dancers. “These have been no more than five generations in use.”
“And that’s not ancient?” Mar’s eyes were wide with surprise. “My grandmother’s grandmother’s mother?”
“Ancient for people, assuredly,” Dhulyn said. “But a mere five generations is nothing as artifacts are judged. The roads and other objects the Caids have left,” she gestured around her at the walls that sheltered them, “are much older even than our oldest writings. Still,” Dhulyn caught Parno’s eye again. “Valuable as it is to anyone, it has a meaning for you and your House that it cannot have for any other.”
Mar took the bowl from the Mercenary’s outstretched hands and lowered it back into its wrappings. She did not see the Brothers share another glance over her head.
“Are you happy to leave them, then, the Weavers?” Dhulyn watched the girl’s face closely. This would make twice the girl had lost the only family she had ever known. Once upon the death of her own parents, and now again at this parting from her foster family. That she went to her own House, her own people, would be no great comfort, considering she had never seen any of them before.
“I think I would have had to leave anyway,” Mar said.
“How’s that,” Parno asked from where he sprawled. “There seemed to be enough business to need you.”
“Oh, yes,” Mar said. “They’ll have to hire another now, and someone not as well trained in their ways. But I think it would have come to that anyway.” She looked between their interested faces. “You see, the younger son asked for me.”
“Not in itself unheard of,” Dhulyn said dryly.
“No,” Mar agreed. “His father was not against it. He was willing to apply to House Tenebro for permission and dowry, but Guillor Weaver felt it might offend them.” The girl shrugged. “If he marries elsewhere, Ysdrell can bring money to the business and the family with his marriage. Until my letters came I was no one, with nothing. After that I was too much a someone.”
Dhulyn carefully ignored Mar’s slip. It remained to be seen what importance the number of letters had. It crossed her mind, however, to wonder whether the male Weaver had, in secret from his wife, contacted the girl’s House, and if this “urgent” summons to Gotterang was the result. “At least you do not sound brokenhearted, my Dove.”
“Oh, no. You see, for me, that was the real problem. I did not want Ysdrell.” She added another stick to the fire and looked up again. “That’s why I would have had to leave.”
“A good enough reason,” Dhulyn said, feeling a knot of tension release. “So this is as good a way as any, and better than most.” And it explained why the girl was so ready to go to Gotterang.
“How do you get your names?” Mar asked as she knotted the ties on her pack.
Dhulyn laughed. It appeared it was a night to ask questions, and not for Parno to play while she and Mar sang. “Oh, different reasons at different times. Parno, for example-”
“I have the strength, the lordliness, and the beauty of a lion,” he cu
t in.
“And the smell,” said Dhulyn, and smiled as Mar laughed.
“What about you? You explained Scholar, but why Wolfshead? Is it because of… because of…”
“Because of the scar? Because of this?” Dhulyn smiled her wolf’s smile, lips curling back off her teeth in a snarl, but she made sure the eyes above it were smiling, too, and Mar grinned back at her, not in the least afraid. “Quite right, exactly because of that.”
Mar frowned, her head on one side, as if she was trying to picture Dhulyn without the scar.
“Do you mind it?” she asked finally.
To her own surprise, Dhulyn Wolfshead began to laugh. There was something about the young woman that made it easy to tell her. “Mind it? Why, it was my salvation. If I’d thought of it, I would have done it myself.”
“You’re just confusing the girl, Dhulyn, my heart,” Parno said. “Tell her what you mean.”
“Ah well, it was long ago, and the story means nothing to anyone but me,” Dhulyn said, drawing down her brows. “It’s the tip of a whip, not sword or dagger, that gave me this mark. The metal-coated tip of a whip clumsily applied that flicked ’round me and caught me on the face. That was enough to ruin me in my master’s eyes, so to the auction block I went. And from there to the slave trader’s ship, and from the slave ship to Dorian the Black Traveler. And from his hands, to this moment. And from this moment… to a new subject,” she said, seeing Mar’s stricken face. “Tell me, little Dove, do you know a child’s game called Weeping Lad, or Weeping Maid?”
“I know one called Sweeping Man,” Mar said.
“Do you know other variations?” Dhulyn said. “We sang one when I was very young and I’ve been trying to remember the words.”
Late in the night, while Mar slept, Parno and Dhulyn lay wrapped in their bedrolls. They spoke so softly, lips to ear, that had Mar been awake, she would have been ready to swear they made no sound.
The Sleeping God Page 7
