Toril glanced at Malena.
Paka walked over and pushed him gently between the shoulder blades.
“Go,” he said. “We’ll meet up with you soon enough.”
A ferry had just pulled away from the riverbank when Toril and Malena rounded a bend of the road and emerged from beneath the shade of sal and asna. They blinked in the sunshine.
Grassy slopes led down to the water they'd abandoned upstream, before sunrise. The current seemed as swift as before, but now the river was broader. Its surface was flat, with no turbulence or eddies, suggesting increased depth as well.
Both halves of Two Forks spread before them as they stared north. A scattering of huts and rambling trails threaded through willows and cattails along the near shore. Five or six bowshots distant, a grid of cobbled streets and stone buildings was visible across the water. Masses of people bustled, indifferent to the tragedy that impelled Toril.
A line of peaks jutted through cloud in the backdrop—the edge of the Kestrels. Beyond them, Toril knew, lay the Blood Rift—a desolate valley of rock and vapor that ran west all the way to the sea, and that slashed east nearly as far. Legend said the river had once flowed straight north, through the mountains, making a short trip to Kikal Pilar in the plain country. The mountains had been lower, then, until violent magic had torn the land and heaved the mountains up. Now the river flowed east a hundred leagues to where mountains and rift petered out, before doubling back into the lowlands and joining its original course to the capital.
Toril observed the turning winch, the taut cable at the far nose of the ferry, and the slack rope trailing into the current at its stern, and cursed under his breath. From his prior visits to Two Forks, he remembered the ferry as the only convenient means of crossing the river. It kept a lazy schedule.
"What's wrong?" Malena asked.
"Ferry won't be back for an hour or two. We need to get across now."
"Catch a ride with one of the fishermen, maybe?" Malena gestured to a cluster of boats circling in the horseshoe bend downstream, just above the split that gave the town its name.
Toril sighed. "I guess we could walk down there and try to get someone's attention," he said, not moving.
"We could swim again."
Toril glanced sideways. "I heard your teeth chattering after the river last night.”
Malena shrugged.
“You know, I think I could like being married to a woman who wants to solve problems more than she wants to stay comfortable." Toril reached a hand toward Malena's tangled hair, then hesitated when he saw her flinch.
He felt his eyes narrow, his pulse quicken.
A silence stretched out awkwardly.
"Maybe someone who lives along the shore here will have a better idea," he said, breaking into a half-trot. "C'mon."
A short while later, Toril dropped a rope over the mooring post along a dock at the busier side of Two Forks, pushed his staff ahead of him, and flopped onto damp planks. The dinghy they’d chartered had no keel and was too small for stability; his motion rocked it in the opposite direction. The girl who’d piloted them across backpaddled competently, though; in a moment she had herself sideways again, with hull kissing wood. Toril grabbed the gunwale and reached a hand to Malena.
Her grip was firm, and wedding memories flashed onto Toril's mind. He remembered how her fingers had trembled as their hands were bound by the braid of two parijans. How distant the alchemy of that moment had seemed, these past days.
They stood together as he pulled her forward onto the dock—he from a half-kneel, she from a crouch. He didn't release her hand. Instead, he leaned in, conscious of the sensation of her knee inside his own.
Malena didn't pull away, but she didn't meet his gaze, either. "Thanks for the ride, little sister," she called to the girl.
"Thanks for the coppers," the girl chirped. “I’ll look for the older couple, like you said, and bring them across when they come.”
Toril stepped back with a sigh.
"Let's go find the prefect," he said.
34
a goodbye ~ Malena
Urchins darted along the waterfront, clamoring at a game of tag as they weaved among tangled piles of fish net, bundles of canvas, and palettes of cargo.
As she walked, Malena absorbed their prattle with a sort of numb wonder. These young faces were… happy! It felt inconceivable to her that the bleakness and horror that had crushed Noemi and blighted every moment of their journey since, should not have penetrated this neighboring land as well—and yet, here there was no pall of smoke from funeral pyres, no stench of death, no buzzing of flies, no flapping of vulture’s wings. If they’d heard any news at all, they weren’t dwelling on it.
A fleeting temptation to anger vanished.
No. She could not wish true knowledge of Noemi on anyone here, young or old. Let the children laugh.
Was this how soldiers felt, returning from battle with scars upon the soul, and beholding innocence with haunted eyes?
Almost as if the thought had conjured a vision, Malena’s eyes settled on a nearby street corner, where a man knelt, embracing his young son.
The man could only be a conscript, answering an unwanted summons. He had some trappings of a soldier—a scabbarded sword hung from the scarlet slash around his waist, and a helmet of plated leather was tucked behind one elbow—but his trousers had been patched and repatched, and his boots were built for hard labor, not marching. His voice box bobbed as he smiled and tousled the boy’s hair. The expression looked forced to Malena—a brave face for the benefit of the young. Some day soon, he might be the hardened veteran she’d just considered; today, he looked nervous about impending battle.
What was this man’s real profession? Did those gauntleted hands normally knead flour, or plane shingles, or swing a hoe? Had a woman kissed them recently, wet the fingertips with tears of worry?
Malena thought of the predatory grace of the ahu they’d faced on the trail. She remembered the way her skin had crawled, her stomach flipped, when as a young girl she’d watched Gorumim on parade.
Her soul grew cold.
She glanced to her side as she stepped over a hole in the cobblestone. Her husband’s jaw was set, his face pale, his eyes fixed on the rock wall above the man’s shoulders.
Yes. He, too, had seen this soldier’s goodbye. And he didn’t like it any more than she did.
Had he imagined this, understood what Gorumim’s muster necessarily entailed, when he’d argued for Sotalio? Perhaps he’d been more than simply selfish, to plead with her that he be allowed to lead the clan out of war.
Did her sister deserve rescue more than the little boy now refusing to loose his father’s hand?
She lowered her gaze and concentrated on Toril’s steady footfall instead of the trembling of her chin.
35
millet cakes ~ Toril
The prefect, it turned out, was not available. According to the rather ancient-looking sergeant that they found at the gate of the fort, the prefect and his lieutenants were out drafting men from the lumber encampment in the hills above town. They'd been given a quota for the fighting force that Two Forks would be contributing to put down "the yolk-sucker incursion," and they were struggling to meet it.
A rush of anger warmed Toril's face. The general’s fictional war had pulled him away from home as his father and his wife were attacked; now was it going to foil his attempt to undo a kidnapping? He needed attention, help, a posse...
He realized he was clenching his jaw and his fists, and forced himself to take a deep breath.
"When will the prefect be back?" he said, through gritted teeth.
"Few hours, maybe. He'd be taking dinner here in town, so he said." The sergeant eyed Toril speculatively. "You wanna join up? Ain't seen you in town before."
“I’m Kelun, not Umora clan,” Toril said. “I’ve come to Two Forks on urgent business.”
The sergeant leaned his stool sideways to spit away from Toril’s boots.
"Well, I can’t help you much at the moment. It’s just me and a couple guards over at the jail. Everybody else is out packing gear and kissing their women goodbye. We're supposed to muster in the plaza later this afternoon for formal orders."
Malena stepped forward. “What about a Voice? You must have one in a town this size.”
“Got a shimsal, matter of fact,” the sergeant said, shifting his eyes to Malena. “But you’d need money. She asks a high price.” He looked skeptically at the pair, and Toril was reminded of his own dirty fingernails and unshaven cheeks. He’d pulled his tousled hair back with a band around his forehead, but his lips were cracked and sunburned, and the half-formed scab on his chin itched. His stomach had been rumbling. At least last night’s dunking in the river had washed most of the grime and sweat of the journey away.
Malena bore the rumpled imprint of wilderness travel as well, but her eyes were clear, her cheeks and lips smooth. Aftereffects of her supernatural healing?
“Money’s not a problem,” Toril said. “Where can we find her?”
The sergeant gestured up the hill. “The sisterhood keeps a house at the top of the street, just west of the paoro. I’ve heard she spends most of her time there.”
Toril turned to go.
“Interesting weapon, son,” said the sergeant. “Where’d you get it?”
Toril saw Malena’s eyes narrow, and wondered if his own expression mirrored her reaction. He felt his grip tighten on the staff.
“Inherited it. Been in the family for years,” he said shortly.
The sergeant pursed his lips, nodded slowly. “A Kelun staff’s gone missing,” he said. “Special staff. That’s the latest gossip, anyway.”
“What else does the gossip say?” Toril asked.
“The yolk suckers burned Noemi, killed everybody. Hasha’s son’s gone crazy with grief, or ambition, or both. He’s out in the wilderness chasing ghosts or bandits, and refusing to help Rovin defend the border.”
Toril opened his mouth to respond, but Malena beat him to it. “No osipi attacked Noemi!” she snapped. “Your imaginary border threat is just a distraction. Hasha’s son is chasing children—children kidnapped by bandits, children of the clan, children that Rovin hasn’t lifted a finger to rescue.”
The sergeant rocked back on his stool, uncomfortable with Malena’s intensity. “I was just repeating what I heard.”
“What you heard...” Toril began.
Malena cut him off again. “Next time you gossip, tell your friends that Hasha’s crazy son rode out to do battle for those who couldn’t help themselves, and he had to do it alone because Rovin was too yellow to join him. Tell them he carries the staff on an errand Kelun himself would be proud of. It can’t be missing when it’s in the hand of its rightful owner!”
Her eyes flashed. She’d taken a step forward in her heat.
Toril felt a flood of warmth and hope. Was he wrong to imagine more than dutiful loyalty in Malena’s defense? Was it possible that his wife understood, in some measure, the sacrifices he’d been making, the burdens he’d shouldered? He’d felt so lonely these past days, felt such distance and rebuff from her... Was she willing to forgive him for being gone in her hour of need, for losing his magic when the children needed it most?
His eyes were swimming.
“Let’s go,” he whispered.
Malena caught up after a few strides. “I thought the shimsal was up the hill,” she said.
Toril nodded. “We need money first.” He wiped a sleeve across his cheek, and covered by gesturing across the intersection to where a road wound parallel to the river. “I only scrounged a few coppers before we left, and that'll never be enough to pay the shimsal. Our family has an agent here in Two Forks to manage shipments we send down from the mines. He keeps a small treasury for us.”
He noticed Malena’s dubious expression.
“I don’t plan to dawdle, but we do need to stop. Besides a fee for the Voice, we need supplies, new horses, food, weapons. Perhaps I can hire myself a posse if I’m willing to pay enough.”
“I haven't had news of my parents or my sister since we left, and we don't know how close behind us Gorumim is. Couldn't we get the money after? Would the shimsal know your agent and take a pledge from him?”
“Corim is well known here in town, but I am not. Besides, folks think I’m crazy. Remember?”
Toril threaded his way through a collection of stalls clogging the street corners. Colorful pottery was for sale in one; slabs of drying fish hung from horizontal slats at another. The smell of chotra floated out of a shop window.
His stomach lurched. Their food on the trek had been sparse, especially since they'd caught a glimpse of Gorumim's party at the distant side of the valley. He'd been so consumed with worries and adrenaline since then that the fasting had scarcely registered.
His companions had said nothing.
A copper wouldn't pay the shimsal, but it would buy a pair of millet cakes…
He ducked inside the shop and emerged again a moment later to find Malena waiting, her arms folded. He offered her one of the small, flat loaves. "Just realized we hadn't eaten in a while."
Malena stared at the cake, obvious frustration on her face.
"Didn't you hear me worry that Gorumim might be close behind?" she said, making no move to accept the food.
"A few hours. We don't have lots of time, but that detour won't make any difference."
She rolled her eyes, grabbed the bread, and turned to continue walking. "If we have to stop somewhere, then let's at least hurry."
"Fine!" Toril stepped around her and began wolfing down bites as he strode forward.
He passed a donkey carrying a heavy load of blankets, and turned down a narrow street. A sightless beggar sat cross-legged on the cobblestone, a cracked wooden bowl in his hand. It was empty.
Toril hesitated, then dropped the remainder of his cake in the dish, squared his shoulders, and walked on.
36
shimsal ~ Malena
When Toril slowed, Malena saw that they had arrived at a modest-looking shop that advertised wholesale metals and jewelry in calligraphy on a sign outside its door.
Toril rapped.
In a moment, the door opened. A balding man with thigh-thick arms and an apron across his expansive belly looked them up and down.
"Ur Hasha!"
Grinning broadly, he stepped back, pulled the door wide, and gestured for them to enter. "You're looking a bit worse for the wear, but I'm most glad to see you."
"Corim. Well met."
Malena could see some of the tension leave her husband's face at the welcome, and she felt a certain easing in her own heart as well. The simple pleasure of a cheerful, friendly face lifted her spirits in a way she had not expected.
Corim ushered them over to where tools and a coil of silver wire spread across a scarred table. A magnifying glass was mounted in a brace at one corner. Worn benches ran along either side; Malena sank onto one end, grateful to take weight off her tired legs. She heard Toril sigh as he sat beside her.
"This must be Semanya Malena i Toril?" Corim said. Still standing, he thrust out a meaty palm and waited till Malena nodded and met his gesture. "That's the most beauty I've seen from the house of Hasha since your mother was young, Toril."
Toril's eyes crinkled. Malena noticed him glance at her.
A massive boarhound emerged from a curtain at the back of the shop and padded over to inspect the visitors.
Malena stiffened.
Corim laughed and slapped the dog on the shoulder. “Pay no attention to my bodyguard. He’s harmless to friends. And so is his twin, asleep in the back room.”
Toril nodded. “A lot of merchants have valuables to protect, but Corim more than most. Ingots from mines all over Kelun pass through Two Forks; Corim verifies the manifest of each barge and dispatches shipments to buyers from every corner of Zufa. The payments mean lots of hard currency.”
“I have safer places to keep the b
ulk of the money,” Corim said. “But there’s always a bit of coin here. Plus I do my metalwork on the side. The dogs are part of my insurance.”
Malena took a deep breath. The dog gazed at Corim’s face, concluded that the visit was a non-event, and turned away, uninterested.
"You've heard the gossip, I suppose?" Toril said.
"Yes. I'm so sorry to hear about your father." Corim walked to a counter and began banging doors open and shut in a bank of cupboards. "And about Noemi."
Toril said nothing. Malena saw his jaw rock back and forth.
"I'm happy to see that your wife survived. Rumors weren't clear on that point."
"Thank you," Malena finally whispered, to fill the gap left by Toril's flat silence.
Turning back to the table, Malena saw that Corim now held a platter with cheese and apples in one hand, a pitcher in the other, and large pewter mug under his arm.
"You both look pale," he said. "Toril's got crumbs on his whiskers, but I'm guessing you haven't eaten your fill in a while." He nodded at Malena's hand, and she realized that she still clutched the untouched loaf Toril had bought. Her wrist trembled.
"I'm not feeling that well, I guess," Malena said. Her stomach was roiling; it was hard to know whether the cause was simple hunger or something more.
"Start with water," Corim said, filling the mug and pushing it toward her.
She took a sip, enjoyed the sensation of liquid cooling her throat, and realized that she couldn't remember the last time she'd had anything to drink. She took a larger swallow.
"Have you heard from Sotalio?" Toril asked, breaking off a wedge of cheese.
Corim shrugged. "Rovin's busy putting an army together, same as here. That's about it. Why? Did you try to send me a message?"
Cordimancy Page 25
