“No outlander may touch our asil,” she informed the brat. “You will walk beside us. Tell me, have others of our people arrived recently? Warriors, and an injured girl, and a woman with golden eyes?”
The boy stopped and stared at them. “You are with the barbarian sorceress? I cannot go with you,” he said. “I am sorry, I am most abjectly sorry, but I cannot. A dreamshifter, and ne Atu, and that… that girl…” He backed away, eyes huge.
Ani showed her teeth. “Did I ask whether you wanted to come with us? You will walk, or we will tether you like a goat and you will drag behind. But you are coming with us.” She turned to Askander. “Did you bring rope?”
“Did I bring rope?” He clucked his tongue. “Did I bring rope. Did I bring water? Food? A bedroll, perhaps?”
“Smartass.”
“I will come.”
“Excellent choice. Talieso does not like dragging people, and often shits on their heads in protest. What is your name?”
“Soutan Mer.” His voice was sullen.
Mer, she thought. Why is that name familiar to me?
“Mer?” Askander’s brows rose at that. “Of the salt merchants?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting. Tell us, Son of the Salt, you know of the people we seek. When did they arrive in Bayyid Eidtein? Are they still there?”
“Four days ago. And no, they have gone on to Atualon.” He looked up at them speculatively. “Is it true that the queen consort has been living among the desert barbarians as a dreamshifter? Why has she come? Why is she with the children of Ka Atu? Are they her prisoners? Does she hope to take his throne? They say he is ill. Is that girl really his daughter?”
Askander pursed his mouth and looked at her from the corner of his eyes. “This was your idea.”
“Za fik,” she swore softly. “I told you males are a pain in my ass. Het het!”
Ani laid her leg along her stallion’s side and urged him to a walk fast enough to keep the boy from asking more questions. She schooled her face to stillness, schooled her heart not to fly, to sing, forced herself not to urge Talieso into a headlong and heedless gallop.
She had heard the fear in the boy’s voice, had seen the look in his eye at the mention of Hafsa Azeina, and these things were not to be ignored. The winds of fear might fan the embers of war to flame. But right now, in this moment, Ani could not bring herself to care about such things. For the youth had carried the words she was most desperate to hear.
Sulema was alive.
TWENTY - FIVE
The tintinnabulation which at first seemed to echo so musically from the blacksmiths’ tents had become a cacophony of pain that lodged itself between his ears and throbbed in time to the constant ringing of hammer against metal.
Worse, the air was thick with the smell of meat from the smoke-tents, and him with a belly full of pemmican, journey-bread, and flat water. His first journey into adulthood was three times cursed— word had come through the vash’ai that slavers’ ships had been seen in the waters near Aish Kalumm, so the First Warrior had taken her warriors and left the Ja’Sajani, the craftmasters, and the disgracefully young new-bonded Zeeravashani bereft of female companionship.
A shamsi hung from a belt at Ismai’s waist, a sword of the Sun Dragon forged of red steel from the Seared Lands. His mother had handed him this sword with her own two hands, had kissed him upon both cheeks and called him the child of her heart in front of Tammas and half the pride. The blue veils of a Ja’Sajani’s touar slapped at his face and got in his mouth when he tried to talk, but in that moment Ismai had been glad of them, for they had hidden his tears.
That was then. Now, the blue robes and headdress of the Ja’Sajani seemed to gather all the heat and stink of the day and hold it close to his body, and the veils wrapped so closely around his head likewise held in every unhappy and sleep-deprived thought. His shamsi, the sun-forged and salt-quenched Quarabalese blade that marked him out as his mother’s favorite son, was heaviest of all. It was not an especially heavy blade, but as Istaz Aadl ran them through the first three forms over and over and over and over again, Ismai’s shoulders burned hotter than the forges at midsun, and his arms trembled like grass in the wind.
“Enough!” the youthmaster bellowed. He never spoke to the boys in his normal voice—if he had a normal voice—and he never spoke to Ismai at all except to threaten or demean him.
Jasin groaned and dropped his sword in the sand. “Why do the rest of us have to suffer just because this majdoube does not know his forms?”
The youthmaster closed the distance between himself and the boys and backhanded Jasin across the mouth. “Pick up your sword, you limp gewad. Go on. Now you will hold your sword in Catching the Cat stance until I tell you otherwise.”
Jasin looked as if he had bitten into horse shit, but bowed to his Istaz and did as he had been told.
Catching the Cat was a more advanced stance than Ismai had yet managed. One foot was meant to be tucked behind the other, a body’s weight carried on the ball of the forward foot, with a twist at the waist and hands upraised as if to catch a cat that had been springing at one’s back. Add the weight of a sword and Ismai winced in sympathy. Not that it would win him any friends. His ineptitude among the youths, most of whom would become wardens this summer, stuck out nearly as much as the blue robes that marked him out as a full Ja’Sajani.
The elders had not known what to do with such a young Zeeravashani. He had not trained with the younglings who hoped to become wardens, but they could not turn out a bonded man in the white robes of a child. This was their compromise—that he should have the outward trappings and some of the responsibilities of a warden, while attempting to catch up in his training like a newly tapped youngster. This explanation did nothing to appease his new pridemates, who had trained together for years and resented both his unearned status and the extra work his clumsiness earned them.
“And you!” Istaz Aadl thrust a beefy index finger toward Ismai. “You park your ass right here until you can perform Sun Burns the Flower without fucking it up, or I am going to burn your ass with the flat of my sword.” His gaze raked across the other boys. “The rest of you goat-fathered idiots go find something productive to do. Now!”
The students scattered with scarcely a backward glance. Ismai had made no friends among the other boys, nor was likely to as long as his robes and his bond with Ruh’ayya set him apart. Neither had he made friends among the Ja’Sajani proper, men twice his age or more with whom he had little in common, and whose scars suggested they were not likely to be impressed by his new status. Tammas and Dairuz had gone back to Aish Kalumm with the Ja’Akari almost as soon as they had arrived. His brother was likely in the City of Mothers even now, dining on flaky whitefish wrapped in sweetgrass, and washing it down with a horn full of mead.
Ismai sighed and flowed as best he could into Flower Stance, wobbling a little as he brought his feet close together. He was hot, and tired, and hungry, and he felt more foolish than flowery. He ignored Jasin’s derisive snort, and brought his rear leg forward into an exaggerated step while raising his arms up to his sides, wrists toward the sun, right fingers curled lightly about the hilt of his sword. On the first day, he had nearly chopped off his own toes so many times that Istaz Aadl had forbidden him to practice with his own blade until just this morning.
Ismai put his weight on the front foot and attempted a pivot, a move that ended with him ass-up in the sand.
This is impossible, he thought.
Not impossible. Ruh’ayya rumbled merrily in the back of his head. Merely improbable. You look like a newborn tarbok trying to stand for the first time. That reminds me… I am hungry.
Ismai picked himself up and brushed off most of the sand, wishing he dared remove the heavy touar. But the last time he had attempted to tie the headdress without assistance, he had nearly hanged himself.
“You are such a child,” Jasin spat. “The Ja’Sajani probably have to wipe your ass… now that your m
other is not here to do it for you.”
Ismai spun, mouth hanging open. The other boy had not moved. He held Catching the Cat as if the human body had been intended to twist just so, and his blade shone against the midsun sky. It was a plain blade, new-forged, identical to any number of blades meant for Ja’Sajani who had mastered the Twenty. Ismai felt his lip curl, and his stomach growled.
Shall I eat him for you? I really am hungry.
No, thank you. I do not need you to wipe my ass, either. He picked up his sword. “Your mouth is too small to speak of my mother.” He stared at the other boy deliberately, and smiled. “And far too pretty.”
Jasin hissed between his teeth and snapped upright. “Would you draw steel against me, then?”
Ismai held out his shamsi, still staring at the other boy, and dropped it contemptuously upon the sand. “You are not worth my steel… you limp gewad.”
Jasin howled at that and tossed his own blade aside. The boys flew at each other headfirst.
Like hill goats in rut, Ruh’ayya noted with approval. Bang your brains out, then. I hear human brains are delicious.
Jasin had trained among the Ja’Sajani for years, but Ismai was a younger sibling in a family of warriors. He might not yet be able to hold Fish Stance without falling over, but his opponent had never had to wrestle an older brother and sisters, and had never learned to fight dirty.
Ismai ducked aside from a punch as if his little sister Rudya had thrown it, and came up swinging with a hook that took Jasin full in the face. He was horrified—and gratified—to feel the larger boy’s nose crunch beneath his knuckles.
Now you have done it, Ruh’ayya observed. She padded into view just as Jasin sank to his knees, yelling and clutching at his face. Blood spurted and dripped from between his fingers. You broke one of them. I do not think the sires will be pleased with you.
Once again, Ruh’ayya showed herself to have an excellent grasp of human nature. An enormous hand grabbed Ismai by the back of the neck. He was lifted high into the air and then shaken like a girl’s rag dolly.
“Enough!” The voice was loud enough to set his ears ringing. “If your hands are idle enough to be at one another’s throats, I will give you something to fill them with. You.” He pointed at Jasin. “The privy pits want work.”
“He broge by dode!” wailed Jasin, hands still cupping his face.
“With a face as ugly as yours, it can only be an improvement. Stop by the healer’s tent on your way to the privies. I said go!”
Jasin retrieved his sword and hurried off, shooting Ismai a look of pure loathing as he passed.
“And you!” The smith glowered. “I expected better than this from you. You should expect better than this of yourself. Fighting in the dirt like some outlander urchin. Spilling your cousin’s blood! Were you half again as big, I would beat some sense into you. Were you half again as smart, I should not have to.”
Ismai felt a sulk welling from his chest, try though he might to hold it back. “He started it.”
“He started it? Did you just tell me ‘he started it’? You, the favored son of Umm Nurati, the brother of one of our finest wardens?” Mastersmith Hadid hawked and spat. “Little cousin, it is high time you let go of your mother’s teats and grew a pair of your own.”
Grow your own teats? I did not know human males could do this.
Ismai bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Are you trying to get me killed?
Mastersmith Hadid turned his face and stared straight at Ruh’ayya until the vash’ai turned her head away and began licking dust from between her toes. “And you! Whatever you were thinking to bond this one so young, he is yours now. You are not to encourage this type of behavior, do you understand?”
Ruh’ayya stuck her leg up into the air and began cleaning her nether parts. The big man snorted.
“Hopeless, the pair of you. Do you at least understand what you have done here, son of Nurati?”
“I defended myself from an attacker.” Ismai scowled at the way his words rang in the air, hollow and without conviction. “It is my right.”
“Perhaps when you had milk teeth and women washing your bottom when you soiled your clothes, but no longer.” He stepped close, and Ismai only flinched a bit as the big man took a big fistful of his blue robes. “What do you see when you look at this? What do you see when you look into the water?”
Ismai stared at him uncertainly. “I see… touar?”
“Yes. You see touar, the robes of a Ja’Sajani.” Mastersmith Hadid released him, and sighed deeply. “What do you think young Jasin sees?”
Ismai shrugged.
“He sees a boy who has been given everything in life, everything he might hope to ever win through sweat and blood, and a great deal more besides. You are the son of Umm Nurati, the most powerful woman in the prides, a mother of six living children. Six! Brother to Tammas Ja’Sajani besides.”
“Oh, yes, Tammas.” Ismai hated the sound of his own voice, even as he said the words. How could he explain to this man how it was, growing up in the shadows of the handsomest and most talented man in the pride? What mother would not wish her youngest to be more like the oldest? Even as he thought this, Ismai caught sight of his red sword lying in the sand and felt a moment of shame.
“Yes, Tammas, whom you favor more than you know. Such a family you boast… while most women cannot bear one child to term, your mother births six. Two of your sisters fertile, as well—and young Tammas, himself a father thrice over, ehuani. It can be expected that you will sire at least one child in your lifetime, if not many. You have this pretty beast—” he jerked his chin toward Ruh’ayya, who lifted her head from her important business and showed a bit of fang “—though you are too young to have earned the bond.
“You have a fancy sword which you have never learned to use, you have the blue robes that Jasin has worked to earn since he was five years old, and already the women’s eyes follow you about the camp. You have everything, and you leave the rest of them nothing.”
Ismai hung his head, willing the tears to go back where they had come from. “I did not think…”
Ruh’ayya heaved herself up from the sand and came to stand by him, nudging his shoulder with the top of her head.
I still love you.
“You did not think. I know this, having been young and bone-headed myself.” Mastersmith Hadid reached up to rub his smooth scalp, and tug at his Master’s lock. “But you are a man grown now, whether any of us likes it or not, with a man’s responsibilities. It is time to set the idiocy of youth aside. We are too few, little cousin, to allow you the comforts of childhood any longer. Do you understand how few we are? Nine smiths for all the prides. Nine, when there used to be hundreds. Less than ten thousand Ja’Sajani, perhaps half again as many Ja’Akari and that only because so few of our women are fertile. Do you remember the words? ‘I fight against my brother…’”
“…but I fight with my brother against my cousin…” Ismai continued.
“…and I fight with my brother and my cousin against outlanders,” Mastersmith Hadid finished. “Precisely. Here is the thing, young Ismai. We Zeeranim are so few in number now that every drop of blood is precious to us. Every man among us is a brother. Do you know why we are so few?”
“The Sundering.”
“The Sundering, yes. Wars and earthquakes and worse, and do you know how the Sundering started?”
Ismai had not really paid much attention to his history lessons. “A wicked sorcerer?” he half-remembered, half-guessed. “He brought down the fury of Akari Sun Dragon upon the world, or… or something like that. There are many stories of the Sundering.” He could only remember half of the stories he had been told, and understood fewer than half of those.
Mastersmith Hadid rubbed his face. He did not look angry now so much as he looked tired. Tired and sad. “Many stories, yes, but they are all the same at the heart. There was a sorcerer in Atualon, and he called himself Ka Atu, the Dragon King. During
a war with Sindan, this king used the magic they call atulfah, he used too much of it, sucked the world dry like you would suck an egg… and the magic fought him. The battle between this Dragon King and his unnatural magic raged across the land, searing Quarabala and freezing the northern wastes, causing the seas to rise so that they covered the land in some places, where in others the water disappeared altogether.”
“But that was so long ago,” Ismai protested. “The people survived, and we are stronger now.”
“The people survived, but are we any stronger now than we were a hundred years ago? Two hundred?” The older man shook his head. “In my grandmother’s mother’s time, one in every three women gave birth. Now, perhaps one in every four or five women bears a living child. This is what we ward against, Ja’Sajani, my youngest brother. As you take census, year after year, you will come to see that we are failing as a people. We are dying.”
This is true. Ruh’ayya’s voice in his mind was slow and sad. Among the vash’ai as well. Among the kith, and the kin, and even the lesser beasts… the world is dying.
Ismai stared at Ruh’ayya. “But… what can we do?”
“Do? We can do as we have always done. Serve and protect. Take census, make note of the fertile men and the fertile women, and suggest pairings so that we may build another generation. It has been enough, or almost enough, until now.” Mastersmith Hadid laid a heavy hand upon Ismai’s shoulder, and stared into his eyes with such profound pity that Ismai took a step back, alarmed.
“Why now? What has happened?”
“It is not what has happened, it is what will happen… if it is not happening already. Ismai Ja’Sajani, everyone knows of your… fondness… for Sulema Ja’Akari, the daughter of Hafsa Azeina.”
“Yes…” Everyone knows? he thought, dismayed.
“Sulema has been wounded. Perhaps she will die.” He held up a hand to forestall Ismai’s protest. “Yes, I know you will her to live, but she may die on the road to Atualon, or she may die once they reach the city. If she does not die, if she survives… what then? What then, Ismai, warden of the people?”
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