Haven: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Four

by Shepherd, Joel

  Sasha left Father Belgride's temple along a series of rear plankways upon the shore of Lake Andal. Rhillian and Aisha were with her, the three women keeping their feet dry past the walls of lakefront buildings, and across the rampways and piers to which boats were tethered.

  Above pointed rooftops the sky was bright and blue, though the altitude made the air only warm rather than hot. As the road turned, mountains appeared in the gaps between buildings. The peaks had Andal and its lake surrounded, happy prisoners of a beautiful land.

  People were plentiful on the streets, neatly dressed and handsome, as it seemed in all of Ilduur. There were more blond people here than Sasha had ever seen before, and Aisha assured her it had been so long before the arrival of serrin. They went about their daily business unarmed and carefree. To walk amongst them, Sasha wondered if they'd even heard that there was a war. Yet for all there was to like about the picturesque surroundings, the mood on the streets was of nervous tension.

  Sasha had her own discomfort. To fit in with the local folk, the women had to dress like them. That meant dresses. They were neat and simple, of pleated dark cloth and white blouses with loose sleeves and tight cuffs. Sasha would much rather have walked the streets naked. Without her sword, that was how she felt anyway.

  Rhillian knocked Sasha's hand down as she tugged in frustration at one hip as they walked. Rhillian, of course, made her dress look wonderful. She'd even braided her hair into twin tails like the local women, that odd diagonal cut finally dressed straight, and her white hair was similar enough to the frequent blond that she did not stand out here as much as she had in other cities. Her eyes, though, and that fine, angled cut of jaw and cheeks, could not be disguised. She wore the red brooch of an eight-pointed Verenthane star upon her breast, as did Aisha, who might have passed for straight human had she tried. But Father Belgride had insisted that it was not worth the risk. The star was a sign that a priest had vouched for a serrin, knew personally of his or her family, and their origins in Ilduur over many years. It signified that a serrin was a local Ilduuri, and not a foreigner. Without the brooch, it would not be safe for any serrin or part-serrin to walk in public.

  Even so, they had barely walked three full blocks before someone spat on them.

  “Sasha, don't glare,” Rhillian said calmly, wiping the offence from her sleeve with a handkerchief she'd brought for the purpose. “Don't Lenays say you should not pick a fight you can't finish?”

  “I'm remembering faces,” Sasha muttered. The offender was a portly lady, whose pleasant features were contorted with disgust at the sight of one serrin, one half-serrin, and their human friend.

  “Don't be concerned for us, Sasha,” Aisha reassured her quietly. “We have more important matters afoot than dignity.”

  “There is nothing more important,” Sasha seethed. “A people without dignity and honour deserve to be left to die.”

  “You sound like Kiel,” said Rhillian. They spoke Saalsi, which though foreign, was common enough amongst Ilduuri serrin, and even some Ilduuri humans.

  Sasha also wore a hat, broad-brimmed yet stylish enough for Andal's ladies, to hide her tri-braid, and the unfashionably short cut of her hair.

  Their first stop was a market stall, which thrived upon a courtyard overlooking Lake Andal. They shopped to fill the baskets they'd brought, purchasing from several stalls to avoid suspicion, then stopping for a lingering chat with a particular fruit seller Father Belgride had recommended to them. The moustachioed man made an effort not to seem too friendly, but his eyes twinkled at them as he talked, before darting about the market to see who was looking. Sasha did not understand a word, but Aisha was fluent, and Rhillian somewhat, and both seemed to like him instantly.

  “Poor fellow,” Aisha explained to Sasha as they walked on. “His son has an affliction: strange fits and seizures. Serrin treatments help, but now the Stamentaast have stopped his serrin healer from treating non-serrin Ilduuri. His son's condition grows worse, and many of the healer's patients have appealed to the Remischtuul directly, but nothing happens.”

  “So many cowards,” said Sasha. “I'll bet many of them feel as he does, and if they all spoke out together, their voice would be powerful. But their fear keeps them divided and weak.”

  “Most Ilduuri are not warriors,” Aisha cautioned. “They have the Steel, but ordinary folk are not armed as Lenays are. Speaking out is dangerous for such people.”

  “Sheep,” said Sasha, fingering the knife she'd strapped to her thigh beneath the dress. “If not a shepherd then always a sheep, that is the way of it.”

  Several passersby said rude things to them in Ilduuri that Aisha did not translate. Most of them seemed more angry at Sasha than the serrin. To be friends with the foreigner, it seemed, was worse than being the foreigner.

  Then came a pair of Stamentaast, in green vests with swords at their belts. They stopped the women, and asked questions, but Sasha was not particularly alarmed—it had happened many times in the past few days. Aisha did most of the talking, and Rhillian gave curt, short answers, and her accent was good enough that the two men did not seem to suspect her. Sasha they did not bother to question. She was human, and they assumed her an angry local who did not like Stamentaast. That was common enough, and not punishable. Or not yet.

  “It's insane,” Sasha muttered as they were allowed to move on. “Serrin made this place so wealthy. Now being serrin is nearly a crime.”

  “Not as much of a crime as being Lenay,” Rhillian cautioned. “Serrin have many friends and ties to the population. Of us three, if they knew our true identities, it would be you in worst danger.”

  “Even with a knife I'd take a half-dozen with me,” Sasha snorted.

  In the next square, they found a different scene. Two men were hanging by the neck from a pole and gantry. A town crier stood beneath them and shouted to the passing crowd, some of whom regarded the hanged men with curiosity, some with contempt, and others with fear.

  “He says that these two men were guilty of conspiring with foreigners to force Ilduur into a foreign war,” Aisha translated as they walked on. “He says to be wary of all who would force the peaceful people of Ilduur into terrible conflicts that shall bring them only suffering and death.”

  “Who could possibly imagine that such conspirators exist,” Rhillian said mildly. “Honestly, the paranoia of these people.”

  Sasha left Rhillian and Aisha at their meeting with senior Ilduuri serrin. She did not want to sit in their furtive gatherings and listen to their puzzled questions and fearful astonishment that the lovely country that had been their home for so long could turn on them so suddenly. Sasha could defend many of humanity's faces from serrin question, but she could not defend this. This was inexcusable.

  She seethed on it as she walked back to Father Belgride's lakeside temple. It wasn't as though the Ilduuri even had the excuse of religious stupidity. Indeed, the priests here were amongst the loudest in calling for the Steel to march, to save their brothers to the north. The Ilduuri priesthood had gained a measure of independence from Petrodor and Sherdaine over the last two centuries, and had grown to enjoy it. The faith had moved on, to become inclusive and philosophical in a way that the haters and howlers of the Regent's army would never understand. Father Belgride sheltered serrin families whose houses had been burned, and took great personal risks to assist those who opposed the Remischtuul. But the hold of the priesthood over the minds of ordinary Ilduuri was limited.

  Ilduuri saw themselves as separate. As a single race whose language and customs were more different from their neighbours' than any other of the Bacosh peoples. Even in the good times, when serrin had ruled Ilduur and the Ilduuri had come to see that serrin ways were wise, intermarriage had been frowned upon. Many Ilduuri were friendly, but most simply did not wish to share their lives with the strange and foreign serrin.

  Now, many Ilduuri felt that they owed Saalshen nothing. Some even felt slighted, as though the past two centuries had been a terrib
le endurance of occupation and humiliation, and all its benefits were somehow the miraculous achievements of the Ilduuri themselves. Sasha could not empathise, and felt in no mood to even try. In Ilduur, the people had been shown the most outstanding merit of serrin, and had tossed it aside in favour of the familiar, the safe, and the ordinary.

  Sasha paused to look at some knives on sale, and glanced behind her. Was the man in the long jacket following her? She'd acquired some instinct for crowds from Petrodor and Tracato, but she still did not trust that instinct.

  She took a side road, to see if he followed her. Ahead, where several streets joined, she heard a commotion. An elderly serrin, walking with a stick, was surrounded by three young men. The young men were taunting him. The old serrin stood with reserve and dignity, and made no effort to defend himself. He tried to walk on, but the men blocked his path and laughed, and knocked the hat off his head.

  Sasha did not understand what they called him in Ilduuri, but she did not need to. She was almost pleased, in fact, to have stumbled upon this scene. It suited her mood entirely. Several passing Ilduuri walked on, ignoring the old man's plight.

  One of the Ilduuri men snatched the serrin's cane away. He raised it, as though about to hit him with it, expecting the old man to be frightened. The old man simply stood, with weary resignation. The three Ilduuri men laughed.

  Sasha headed for the man with the cane. His friend saw her coming and stepped into her path. He leered, predictably, looking her up and down. Sasha punched him in the mouth.

  He stumbled, and his friends stared, all frozen in shock. Sasha would rather have had the cane, something swordlike that she could swing. It would be a short fight then. As a brawler, she was more limited, especially with the dress preventing her from kicking. But she could see from the build of these men, from the way they stood and reacted with hesitation and shock, that they were not fighters. She was.

  The man with the cane swung it at her. Sasha ducked and drove her shoulder into him, knocking him backwards. His balance gone, she laid into him, left and right fists with no great style, but the ones that connected were painful enough.

  The man she'd punched first now kicked at her, a feeble effort, too far out of range. She took the blow, caught his foot, and tried to nail him with a right, only for him to scamper out of range, trip, and fall on his backside. The other two came at her pushing and swinging. Sasha ducked and covered as best she could, took several hits on the body, then blocked and caught one man's arms as Errollyn had taught her, pulling him forward and off balance as she stepped back, and dropped an elbow on his head. It only glanced, but stunned, so she hit him again with a crosswise elbow. He fell, blood pouring.

  The last man tackled her down, and they hit the road together, him on top, trying to pin her. Sasha pinned one arm, fighting for leverage, then simply overpowered him, to his utter astonishment. She rolled on top, sat up, then began to beat his head into the road with her fists until he stopped moving.

  She got up, and the last man grabbed his bleeding friend and dragged him stumbling away. Sasha examined her knuckles. One was raw and bleeding. She'd hit her head on the road when she'd fallen, and that stung. A bruise to her ribs throbbed. Overall, she felt wonderful.

  The elderly serrin man was looking at her with more curiosity than gratitude. Sasha picked up his cane from where it had fallen, and handed it to him.

  “Hmm,” said the old man. “Not from around here, are you?” Sasha blinked. He'd spoken in Lenay. Then she realised her hat had fallen off, and her tri-braid was free. She scampered to her hat, beside the groaning man she'd beaten, and put it back on, tucking the tri-braid into place.

  “There,” she said cheerfully in Saalsi. “That better?”

  The old man sighed. “I think you'd better come with me.”

  The old serrin's name was Tershin. He'd been talmaad in his day, and had served Saalshen in all the Saalshen Bacosh provinces, as well as Torovan, Telesia, and Lenayin. When his talmaad service was ended, he'd returned to Saalshen, had two children with the same serrin woman, then moved to Andal. It had always been the prettiest place he'd been to, he said, and the mother of his children (“wife” had no equivalent word in Saalsi) had accompanied him, and enjoyed the clean air. She was dead now, but Tershin had old serrin friends here, and a few human ones.

  “I did warn them,” he said, as Sasha sat at his table and sipped fragrant tea. “There was not enough debate within the Remischtuul. Maldereld never paid Ilduur the attention she did Rhodaan and Enora, and the Ilduuri will always cling together like mud when threatened. Maldereld no doubt thought that useful, compared to the bickering in other human lands. Serrin value cohesiveness too much; only too late have we learned of its dangers amongst humans.”

  “I do wish that everyone today would stop blaming everything on Maldereld,” said Sasha, sipping her tea. “I think she did a wonderful job for the most part. But she was only one woman, and whatever mistakes she made were made by all of those who helped her. She was no tyrant, and serrin make no decisions alone.”

  “True,” said Tershin, eyeing her curiously. He placed some fruit and cheese on the table. “My old uman knew Maldereld. He'd met her several times as a boy, when she was an old woman.”

  “Truly?” Sasha was impressed. “What was she like?”

  “An unusual serrin,” said Tershin, easing himself slowly into his chair. “She loved to ride, even in her old age. She liked to be alone, more than was typical for serrin. She was no great linguist, very unusual for a leading talmaad. And she had little patience with the long debates more typical of our people.”

  Sasha smiled, thinking of Rhillian. “That sounds like someone I know.”

  “Those three boys today. You did not need to beat them up on my account.”

  “Who said I did?” Sasha retorted. “I enjoyed it enough just for me.”

  “You are Sashandra Lenayin, aren't you.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I might be.”

  “It takes no great genius to see it. Though fortunately for you, even many seniors of the Remischtuul will not have heard the name. Only we who care about the world outside have cause to find interest in such names. Why do you not fight with the Army of Lenayin?”

  “I do,” said Sasha. “The Army of Lenayin defected. Or most of it did. We fight now with Saalshen.”

  Tershin stared at her. They did not know. She had travelled in this direction as fast as any news could, and was the first here to spread the knowledge. To Sasha's surprise, Tershin's eyes filled with tears. He wiped at them.

  “Oh, Lenayin,” he sighed. “Such a strange attraction we serrin have for your land. We have never been a warlike people, yet we are all astonished to find that the one land in all Rhodia that understands us best, has the most warlike people imaginable. It is a conundrum that has kept serrin returning to Lenayin for centuries.”

  “The north still fights with the Regent,” Sasha added, lest he get too romantic about it.

  Tershin made a dismissive gesture. “Hardly surprising—ask three Lenays for their thoughts, and you'll get ten different opinions.”

  “Just like serrin,” said Sasha with a smile. “As you said.”

  “And so you come here. With friends, I suppose.” Sasha nodded. “To talk the Remischtuul into fighting? It cannot be done, my girl. Their minds are decided, and most of the people agree with them.”

  “The Steel don't.”

  “And so you must convince the Steel to break with the Remischtuul. To do that, you must discredit the Remischtuul.”

  Sasha shrugged, not truly wishing to divulge more detail to an old ex-talmaad. Tershin seemed a good man, but Rhillian and Aisha were meeting with many of those more significant Ilduuri serrin. If Tershin was not one of them, then he must have removed himself from that circle on purpose—serrin were too sociable for there to be any other explanation.

  “I never told you what I did for a trade, once my talmaad days were over,” said Tershin. �
��I was a moneylender.”

  Sasha frowned, and looked about at his house. It was clean and simple, but without the grand view or ornamental expense that she might have guessed of one in that trade.

  Tershin smiled. “You have a preconception of the trade. Serrin break the preconception, and this explains our success. We are fair, and charge only a small percentage for ourselves.”

  “Don't tell me there are no serrin with expensive tastes. You're not all saints.”

  Tershin's smile grew broader. “True, but we share. I have enjoyed the acquisitions of wealthy friends as much as I have enjoyed a few of my own. But listen to me. Humans do not trust each other with money, the powerful in particular, as money amongst humans is power. But they know that money, though valued, does not mean the same thing to serrin. The powerful in Ilduur have often preferred to use serrin moneylenders, and serrin bookkeepers to manage their accounts.”

  Sasha had heard the same thing in Rhodaan and Ilduur. “They trust you because they know serrin will not steal, or reveal their secrets to their competitors.”

  “And a misguided trust it sometimes is,” said Tershin, “because though we will not sell them to their enemies, neither will most serrin tolerate corruption or theft from those who employ us. It is fuin'is, disruptive of the great balance.”

  “A fuin'as tal,” Sasha agreed. A disharmony.

  Tershin smiled at her grasp of the tongue. “But it does mean that we serrin are often wound tightly into the finances of the powerful, in cities like Andal. Even those amongst the powerful who dislike us discover that they like the safe management of their accounts more. As it so happens, my latest employment was to manage the books and accounts of the Steelwrights' Guild.”

  Sasha frowned. “Aren't they allied to the Steel itself?”

  “Certainly, certainly. They are distrusted within the Remischtuul. Understand that the Remischtuul is comprised of guilds, primarily. It brings them all together, and they discuss, and vote. Now, a little over a month ago, there appeared in the Steelwrights' Guild's books an entry for nearly ten thousand silver talons.” Sasha shook her head, not knowing that currency. “Those are used in Meraine, issued by the Chansul of Meraine himself. My task as keeper of the books was to convert those talons into Ilduuri gold marks—understand that talons are commonly converted in Ilduur, but are prohibited from general exchange.”