by Zoe Marriott
I realized I was cradling the left side of my face in my hand, as if it were a fresh wound that caused me pain. I whipped my fingers away angrily and pressed my forehead against the rough wall.
Why had Fareed reacted like that? It couldn’t have been the first time he’d seen a scar, not if he worked in the resistance. Yet a look at me had been enough to make him go white. And Surya had done it to him – to me – deliberately. She’d known he would react like that. Why?
This was awful. I should have stayed in the House of God, where I belonged. It was always this way. I hated the curious looks, the faces of strangers as they turned away. I had days when I cursed the scar myself, and others when I never even thought about it. Either way, how I felt about my face was my own decision. Why did other people have to impose their pity and revulsion on me?
I heaved a sigh and pushed away from the wall. The purse in my hand clunked dully. I looked at it blankly for a moment and then untied the drawstrings. Surya had given me a handful of copper pinch tokens, and another of silver half-moon coins. A small fortune. I retied the drawstrings hurriedly, pulled up the hem of my short red over-robe – a novice’s that I had borrowed to look the part – and tucked the purse into the pouch of my belt. The belt also held my long knife, its scabbard arranged cunningly to the front of my thigh so that it did not produce the telltale bulge.
Rua were not supposed to carry weapons of any kind without specific permission from a Sedorne lord; but no Rua in their right mind would ever leave their home unarmed. Not with the gourdin wandering around just looking for an excuse to beat them.
I tugged the over-robe down again, made sure my hood was in place, and emerged from the shelter of the alley, resolved. Surya owed me for what she had done back there. This was my first free day for months, I had a purse full of money and there was a market to explore. I intended to enjoy myself.
I was immediately caught in the stream of bodies heading uphill towards the richer part of town. I allowed them to sweep me along. I had never visited Mesgao before so I wasn’t sure of direction; besides, this way I avoided the bumps and collisions I had suffered earlier, moving against the flow.
The road broadened as it climbed steeply. I passed outcrops of dun rock where tiny houses built of white stones and straw clung to the hillside, their roofs jutting between the spiny trees. I managed a quick glance back and saw lower Mesgao spread out below, the long curves of the terraced fields edged with brightly painted houses and flowering vines. Below that was the base of the valley, with the River Mesgao rushing through a golden channel of stones.
The hills were so green here – it was like another world. The House of God was only a day’s travel further into the mountains, but it was surrounded by a landscape of blue and copper rock, deep gorges, icy tumbling water and distant white peaks. Vegetation was sparse, and more often beige or purple than true green. They couldn’t have been more different, yet I found both landscapes beautiful.
The noise and crowds increased as the road widened. I dodged out of the path of a bellowing ox and its cart – and bumped into a gourdin. The man had inches on me in height and breadth, and I almost bounced off the wall of his red and black lacquered chest. To my astonishment he grabbed me before I could fall, his fingers hard but not painful round my upper arm. I looked up at the face under the spiked helmet and long, intricately braided copper hair, bracing myself for anger – and telling myself to act the part of a cowed Rua subject.
“Watch out there,” he said as he steadied me on my feet, his words flattened by the queer Sedorne accent. He released my arm, nodded politely – Sedorne didn’t bow, so a nod was the best you could expect – and stepped past me without another word.
I blinked incredulously as he strode away. The gourdin I had come across in Aroha last year would have spent ten minutes yelling at me for the affront of touching them, if I was lucky. I looked down at my red over-robe. He must have thought I was a namoa, I decided. I just hoped he didn’t take his temper out on someone else later on.
“You all right?” The man driving the ox had stopped it – forcing the other pedestrians to make their way round the cart as best they could, with much muttering – and was leaning over, his face creased with concern.
“Um … yes,” I mumbled, pulling my hood further forward. “I – he…”
He nodded, his face smoothing out so I could see the rearing horse design on his left cheek. “You were expecting a beating? Never been to Mesgao before then, sister?”
I realized he thought I was a namoa too. I saw no point in correcting him, so only shrugged. “No. Why?”
“Ah, the gourdin be all right around here,” he told me comfortably. “None of that rough stuff they get away with in other places. Lord Mesgao don’t let’em.”
“Lord Mesgao?” Now I was thoroughly confused. “I thought the lord here was called Sorin?”
“Aye – Sorin Mesgao. He took our name for his own,” the man said, nodding proudly. “He’s not bad, as Sedorne go. He lets us alone and we let him alone. Could be a measure worse. Good day to you, sister.” He bowed, slightly awkwardly because of his position, and I returned the courtesy before he cracked the switch over the ox’s ears and set it on again.
As the corridor of space opened by the ox and cart closed, I was pushed forward again by the people behind me, and I carried on blindly. I was remembering the little girl I had taught the day before yesterday, with her shorn-off hair and frightened eyes. Where had she come from… That was right, Madha, not Mesgao. In fact, I didn’t think we’d had any refugees from Mesgao. Interesting.
A breeze washed over my face and my attention was caught by the sweet, smoky scent of cooking. I hadn’t broken my fast that morning, and I was more than ready to spend some of Surya’s coins. I followed my nose, leaving the main track for a smaller, paved one. The way was less crowded here, but there were still multitudes of brightly coloured stalls and customers heaving around them.
Many of the people were familiar to me, though I did not know them – fellow Rua, with their dark skin and short, muscular bodies. They dressed in colourful, functional robes and trousers and their hair was cut short more often than not. There were a few travellers here from Thessalie in the south, buying and selling exotic goods. They were taller and darker skinned than the Rua, with beautiful pointed faces and slender bones.
Then there were the Sedorne, tallest of all, with skin ranging from pinkish white to olive, and hair of every colour from white to coppery red. Their faces tended to be long, with high cheekbones, their noses thin and blade-like, and their eyes were pale. They walked proudly through the crowds, wearing dark embroidered leather and fine linen. The women in particular were fascinating. They tottered along in tight slippers and wide multilayered skirts, their hair all knotted up under lacy transparent veils. And they were always in twos or threes, since their men did not trust them to go out on their own. I knew that if any man tried to make me wear such things – or told me I could not leave my house alone – I would hit him. Hard.
I passed an open-fronted tent loaded with fine glass jars, each one containing something different – jams, preserves, olives, anchovies, vine leaves stuffed with meat, artichokes and aubergines in oil. Another stall was selling huge bunches of dried flowers, their fragrance making me sneeze as I passed. There were pyramids of creamy jasmine and propolis soap, pumice stones, and yellow sponges from the sea.
I was tempted momentarily by a pastry seller, offering me bubbly golden honey cake or bird’s-nest-shaped delicacies filled with cream, pistachios and saffron. But the price was exorbitant and I resisted, moving on again, past candied dates, lemon peel and cherries and glowing green angelica with hordes of wasps buzzing around them. The iridescent plumes of peacock feathers appealed to me powerfully, but again the price was scandalous – and what would I do with feathers anyway?
I stopped abruptly at the next stall when I saw it offered soapstone sculptures in the shape of the heathen gods that the Sedorne worsh
ipped. The things had been well carved, showing fire and earth as beautiful women with flowing hair, and water and air as wellmuscled men. The statues even had tiny gems for eyes. They were very pretty. But for a Rua to be selling them… I glared at the woman behind the counter. She looked at my red robe, blushed, and turned away.
Shaking my head, I walked on. A glint of light caught my eye, and I noticed a stall that sold silver wind chimes. The delicately wrought chimes sang gently in the breeze, each voice unique, some high and laughing, others deeper and more mysterious. One had tiny leaping fish made of bone and mother-of-pearl; another was decorated with flames shaped from slices of carnelian and garnet. They were so beautiful that my fingers were reaching for Surya’s purse before I realized what I was doing.
Then I noticed something else and slid past a giggling pair of Sedorne girls to the wide, stone-paved road that continued up the hill. I had walked across the edge of the town and was now at the opposite end. Fifty feet above me, built into the hillside, was the place where the road ended. The fort of the lord who ruled Mesgao.
The building loomed against the emptiness of the sky, a square pile of cloud-coloured rock that must certainly have been imported from Thessalie. It was three storeys tall, dotted with ugly little slit windows, and each corner had a squat, square tower with a pointed wooden roof. Long green pennants snapped from the top of the towers, and I knew what was on them, though I was not close enough to see. The image of a golden hawk, claws outstretched to strike, its beak already tipped with gore. The emblem of the Sedorne.
How very appropriate.
My eyes, used to graceful, asymmetrical Rua architecture, found the whole structure odd. Deo had told me that all Sedorne buildings were constructed with one thing in mind: warfare. He’d added that this particular fort had taken six years to build. Looking at it, I could believe him on both counts.
I turned away from the oddly disturbing sight of the foreign structure imposed on a familiar landscape, and found at last the source of the savoury aroma that had been teasing me. It was a hut, built of the same sort of painted wooden slats as the merchant’s house. There was no wall at the front; instead a large blue canopy was extended over raised wooden decking where grass mats, low tables and cushions had been scattered. At the back of the building I could see a Rua man and two women enveloped in clouds of steam as they cooked, while another woman served the people already seated within. My stomach rumbled loudly. I licked my lips and stepped up onto the decking.
Then chaos broke out behind me.
CHAPTER
FOUR
The noises of collision, the shriek and clash of metal and screaming voices, seemed to explode behind me. I spun so quickly that I lost my bearings for a moment. Then another scream – the high-pitched whinny of a horse in pain – pierced the other sounds, and I took off, instinctively heading towards the commotion. I had to push through clots of people blocking my path before I reached the verge of the road again and had a clear view of what was happening.
A Sedorne-style two-horse carriage had crashed into a stall, sending barrels and crates of fruit flying everywhere. The carriage lay half on its side in the middle of the road, surrounded by debris. No one appeared to be injured. The more serious problem was why the coach had crashed in the first place.
It was under attack.
Three Sedorne men had managed to put a rod through one of the wheels as it passed. The axle at the front of the vehicle had buckled and was obviously ruined. Two of the Sedorne were trying to reach the door of the carriage, but were being forced back by the plunging hooves of the panicked horses, rearing and bucking amid the wreckage. One of the men was tall and athletic-looking, with a handsome young face. The other was older, darker and running to fat, but with massively muscled arms. Both had the ragged short hair and mismatched armour that identified them as outlaws. The third man – with better armour, but a badly pockmarked face and longish greasy hair – was attempting to cut away the horses, hindered by the coach’s driver. The driver was Rua, standing precariously on the edge of his seat and laying about him with a horsewhip.
The youngest Sedorne, ducking away from the lash of the whip, managed to cut free one of the horses. The terrified animal bolted towards us, forcing the people in front of me to leap out of its path. I was swept back in the ensuing confusion and briefly lost sight of what was happening. When I managed to push my way forward again, the fat outlaw had climbed over the remains of the stall to the other side of the coach – out of range of the Rua driver – and swiftly freed the second horse. The animal, its heaving sides streaked with blood and foam, crashed through the debris and followed its companion, galloping up towards the stone fort. I stepped back just in time, and it narrowly missed me.
Without the horses in the way, the outlaws converged on the carriage, the young and fat pair making for the door again. Instead of trying to force it open as I’d expected, one pulled a mallet from his belt and began whacking the hinges, while the other heaped heavy pieces of wreckage over it.
They weren’t trying to get in at all. They were trying to keep whoever was inside from getting out.
The occupant of the carriage obviously realized this at the same time as I did. There was a hollow booming from inside as whoever was in there banged hard on the door, but the makeshift barricade held. The young Sedorne tossed the hammer aside and took a leather canteen from his belt; the fat man produced a clay bottle. They leaped up onto the coach and started pouring a liquid on and around the carriage. It was oil.
With a sick lurch of my stomach, I understood. They were going to burn the coach – and whoever was inside. Horror froze me in place as if solid ice had encased my limbs.
Then there was a shout and my gaze went to the third Sedorne. Without the horses for protection, the Rua driver’s whip was little use. As I watched, the pockmarked outlaw caught the driver’s whip hand and pulled him down. The driver landed on the road with a heavy thud and lay motionless, dazed. The outlaw raised his sword.
I didn’t even realize I was moving until I hurdled a pile of spilled oranges and heard the gasp go up from the spectators. Oh God, what am I doing… I must be insane… It was too late to change my mind. I sped up, jumped, and went into a two-footed kick.
My full weight hit the Sedorne directly in his fleshy midsection and we went down together, me scrabbling under my tunic for my knife. I hit the ground, rolled and came up on one knee, the blade ready in my hand. The man was curled into a ball on the ground, vomiting violently. Ha! Deo was right about aiming for the stomach.
I looked up to find the other two Sedorne staring at their fallen friend. Their expressions were not happy. As the pounding from inside the carriage intensified, the fat one turned towards me, reaching for the straight sword that hung at his waist as he jumped down. I scrambled hurriedly to my feet.
There was an almighty crash from the carriage and the barricaded door exploded open, sending the outlaw who had been stood on it flying. A man vaulted out and landed lightly on the paving on front of me.
He was tall even for a Sedorne, probably in his mid twenties, and dressed in a blue linen shirt and breeches tucked into battered leather boots. Long silver-blond hair was pulled back from his forehead, displaying a nasty bruise, presumably gained when the carriage had hit the stall. His eyes – the same golden blue as the peacock feathers I had admired earlier – fixed on me. He took in the fallen Sedorne groaning at my feet, the injured coachman, the dagger in my hand.
Then his eyes widened at something over my shoulder. I ducked just in time and the lethal slice of the sword passed over my head. I twisted and dodged away, my body falling smoothly into the familiar rhythm. The fat outlaw lunged at me again. I waited a split second, until his greasy, unwashed scent filled my nostrils, and then I slid sideways and brought my dagger down into his sword arm.
Blood sprayed up, glittering horribly in the sun as I wrenched the knife free. The outlaw screamed, his sword clattering to the ground as he clutched
at his wounded arm. I brought the bony point of my elbow around hard into the back of his neck. He folded with an incongruously gentle sigh, joining his friend at my feet.
I looked round to see the blue-eyed survivor of the carriage wreck engaging the third outlaw. He had a sword and the blue-eyed man held only a long chunk of wood – more debris from the stall – but it was obvious that this was no real fight. Even as I watched, the club connected solidly with the outlaw’s head and he went down.
The blue-eyed man turned away before his opponent even hit the ground, his gaze seeking me out. The chunk of wood dropped from his hand as our eyes met. He stepped forward. I found myself doing the same. There was something about his face – the high cheekbones, the shape of his eyes, the way the sun reflected off the paleness of his hair. Almost as if … as if I recognized him.
Then the outlaw whom I had left vomiting on the ground lurched to his knees. I saw the knife in his hand an instant before he lashed out, slashing the blue-eyed man across the back of the thigh. He cursed foully as his leg gave way and he crashed to the paving stones.
I reached the outlaw a second later and stamped on his knife hand. I cut off his cry of pain with a hard smack to the temple using the hilt of my dagger, followed by a kick to the jaw. I retrieved his knife and flung it into the open door of the carriage, shoving my own dagger back into its sheath.
I turned back to the blue-eyed man, who was trying to rip off the sleeve of his shirt with one hand while clutching the wound on his leg with the other. His face had gone white with pain. Kneeling beside him, I grabbed the stubborn fabric of the sleeve and yanked, shredding the seams.
“Let me see,” I said curtly, prising his hands away from the cut. The wound was long and bleeding profusely, but it seemed superficial. “Can you move your foot? Wiggle your toes,” I instructed, turning my head to watch his foot move. “Good. He didn’t hit anything vital. Stay still.”
