“Eggs?”
“Eggs.” Askander turned and strode toward the empty mounds.
Leviathus stared at the shovel in his hands for a long moment, and his stomach roiled. He had a sudden, wild desire to throw the shovel after the blue-robed figure and run screaming all the way back to Atualon. When he got there, he would light candles to Bohica, the patroness divine of soldiers. For surely he had offended one of the divines, to have gained such fell luck.
A thin plume of yellow sand marked Askander’s digging. Leviathus sighed and trudged up the hill.
It did not take long to find the eggs, and they had each filled several of Askander’s big leather bags with the sticky, yellowish, eyeball-sized eggs full of translucent spiderlings. Indeed, they probably would have collected more before the spiders returned, except that Leviathus had to stop more than once as his gorge rose. If only, he thought desperately, they did not wriggle so.
It did not help that Askander kept smacking his lips and describing the taste of spiders’ eggs in great detail. Never again would he tease the old men of the Third Circle for their stinky cheeses.
They abandoned their efforts as the russet ridgebacks began to return. Leviathus had never been so happy to clamber up into the churra’s saddle, and he noticed that the beast moved with some alacrity away from the nests and the growing, chittering flood of pissed-off spiders.
He shot Askander a sideways look, and got an innocent, blank stare in return.
“Harmless, are they?” he asked again.
The warden shrugged.
So much for the romantic notion of hunting in the Zeera, he thought. Next time I will head to the Dibris and go fishing, river-beasts or no.
* * *
As they neared camp, he saw one of the bare-chested Ja’Akari break away from the others and run toward them shouting and waving a scrap of black cloth. Leviathus turned to ask Askander what this meant, but stopped short.
All merriment had fled from the man’s face, his mouth had flattened into a grim line, and his skin had flushed. Leviathus had not really noticed before now how scarred the old stallion’s skin really was. Leviathus reached for his arrows, but Askander shook his head tightly, and brought his mount to a halt.
“No,” he said. “Put your bow down. Hands on your knees. Now. Make no sudden moves.”
“Askander?”
“First Warden,” came the terse reply, “as you value your life.” A host of unfamiliar warriors poured forth from the camp, much as the spiders had poured forth from the earth, silent and swift. They wore no headdresses. Rather, their hair was chopped short, bleached and stiffened until they looked like vash’ai manes. They wore no bells on their clothing, and neither had they donned vests in order to spare the outlanders’ sensibilities. Not a peaceable party, then. Faster than sunset, the two men were surrounded by a group of hard-faced women bristling with weapons.
His churra trumpeted, stood half on its hind legs, and bolted, but not before one of the warriors grabbed Leviathus by the ankle and hauled him unceremoniously to the ground. He fell hard, jarring half-healed wounds and sending splinters of red agony into his face. He licked his lips, tasted blood, and looked up to see the round-cheeked face of a lass of no more than thirteen or fourteen years smirking at him. Lass or no, her sword was sharp, and she held the blade of it against his throat.
“Antualleh,” she urged him with a sweet smile and cold eyes. “Try it.”
He held very still, even as Askander’s churra lowered itself nervously to the ground near him, and Askander—the First Warden, he reminded himself—dismounted.
“Ja’Akari.” Askander came to stand beside him, face-to-face with the sweet-faced girl. “Ja’Akari! This man is a guest. We have shared salt, and bread, and water with him. Would you dishonor the people?”
“First Warden.” She spat to one side. “You dishonor our blood when you share salt with this… shara’haram. It is khutlani. Khutlani!” Her sword shook with her fury.
“Now, Valri, that is hardly the Way.” A pair of long, shapely legs came into view, a loincloth swaying between them in the style of ancient warriors. A strikingly handsome woman smiled down at Leviathus, showing too many teeth for his comfort, and then she held out a hand to him. Her hair stood short and stiff about her face like a black-and-gold mane, and her dark eyes were ringed with kohl. “It is not mete that a son of Ka Atu should sprawl on the ground like a vanquished enemy, now, is it?”
Leviathus took her hand—she had a grip like a blacksmith’s— and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. The younger Ja’Akari pulled back, mouth sullen, eyes promising retribution.
“You know me,” he said to the woman. A quick glance at Askander’s wooden face showed him nothing. “Yet you are unknown to me.”
Her full lips quirked into a malicious smile.
“You shall know me hereafter,” she assured him. “I am Mariza, daughter of Akari. Come with me, king’s son, and let us discuss your possible futures. Or shall we say, the possibility of your future.”
“He is a guest,” Askander growled. “He is not to be harmed.”
“Of course, First Warden.” The woman purred, so close to Leviathus’s ear that chillflesh raised along the backs of his arms, as well as… other places. “He is not to be… harmed.” All around them, Ja’Akari laughed like a murder of crows.
“I have his churra, Mariza,” called one of the other women. “Oh! They have russet eggs!”
Mariza drew him by the hand into the dubious shelter of the tents. “How nice,” she said, and laughed. “They must have known we were coming. Tonight, we shall have a feast!”
Leviathus allowed himself to be led, not that he had much choice in the matter. Sweet Bohica, he prayed silently, get me out of this in one piece and I promise never to mock the divines again.
Their camp was swollen and overrun with warriors, and these women—Mah’zula, they called themselves—seemed to share neither Ani’s rough humor nor even Askander’s air of quiet authority. The air about them boiled with barely suppressed anger, dry and brittle as the grasslands just before a storm and as ready to burst into violent flames at the slightest spark. It boiled with activity, as well. The salt merchants and their guards were packing the carts with sullen haste, and the Ja’Akari who had so recently laughed and even flirted with him watched on with faces hard as flint.
The face of Youthmistress Ani was dark and thunderous as a coming storm. She swept from the tents and across the sands toward them, every movement expressing her intent to do harm. Jaw clenched, fists clenched, she marched a straight and furious line to Mariza and stopped with their faces a hand’s width apart.
“What do you think you are doing?” Her voice was as close to a shout as Leviathus had heard from any of the Zeeranim. “These jars are my responsibility. This man is my guest! What kind of goatfuckery do you think to pull here, you titless cub? Under the sun, you cannot do this thing. It is a crime against the people.”
“Under the sun, I commit no crime against the people.” Mariza raised her empty hands, and Leviathus saw the youthmistress’s sword hand twitch at the insult. “Song in the wind is that there are slavers and pirates between Eid Kalmut and the villages. These pots belong to the people, and it would be… unfortunate if they fell into the wrong hands. We Mah’zula will see them home safely, ehuani, where your outlanders cannot.”
“You milk-faced spawn of a maggot-riddled snake, you dare…”
Askander shook his head, the barest gesture, and a flicker of uncertainty crossed Ani’s face. She relaxed the grip on her sword. “By whose word? You are Kha’Akari, Mariza. Your words hold no song.”
“Kha’Akari no more, Istaza. I ride with the Mah’zula now, a true daughter of Akari.” The other woman smiled, and her smile held victory. “If I am committing a crime against the people, why do the vash’ai hold their silence?” She waved a hand toward Inna’hael and Duq’aan, who sat near the tents and watched the events unfold as if the humans’ doings
were of no account.
“There are no Kha’Akari here, only warriors and outlanders. You travel with these shara’haram, allowing them to bear their weapons in our lands, against all tradition. You share salt and water with a son of the ancient enemy—and ride with a wild vash’ai.” She clucked her tongue, dark eyes mocking, daring. “On which side of the river do you pitch your tent, I wonder… Bonesinger?”
Strangely, Ani relaxed at the younger woman’s words, and even smiled.
“You go too far, Mariza. I will feed those words to you, ehuani.”
“As you will, Istaza. My duty is clear, and my warriors will see this treasure through Eid Kalmut to Aish Kalumm. You are welcome to accompany the salt jars, of course, you and First Warden both, as you please. Or if you would prefer, you may accompany us to Min Yaarif with this prisoner. Five of one, a fist of the other.”
“Min Yaarif?” The youthmistress frowned. “Why would you take him to Min Yaarif?”
Mariza grinned. “Have you not heard? The old king is dying, and the buzzards are circling, ready to grab a mouthful of warm meat from his corpse. War is expensive. The son of a dying king is worth more than salt jars, would you not agree?”
Leviathus felt sick. “You mean to sell me?”
“Sell you, barter you, ransom your worthless hide back to the loving arms of your worthless father.” She eyed him in a way that had his skin crawling. “Or perhaps the Sindanese emperor will buy you for his comfort houses. I hear his daeborn soldiers have exotic tastes.”
“You cannot sell a guest as a slave.” Ani’s knuckles were white as she gripped the pommel of her sword. “It is khutlani!”
Mariza was taller than the older woman by a head, and her stiffened hair made her seem taller still. As they faced off, Leviathus thought that Ani seemed small, and weak, with her sand-colored tunic and gray in her hair. The younger woman knew it, too. She shook her head and clucked her tongue.
“Khutlani?” she mocked. “So easily you use the words of my people to further your own ends… Dzirani.”
It cannot be, Leviathus thought. The Dziranim are all dead.
“Enough.”
Askander never moved, nor did he raise his voice, but every eye turned to him. His face was smooth, his eyes troubled. “The Zeera will run red with the blood of the people, but not on this day. I will take the merchants and the salt jars to Aish Kalumm. We will take the road through Eid Kalmut. The price for traversing the Valley of Death will be steep, but it is a safer way and shorter than the river roads. Ani, you accompany Mariza to Min Yaarif, and negotiate this boy’s return to Atualon.” He faced Mariza directly. “You will ransom the boy back to his father. This is allowed. Any other way is khutlani. Under the sun you know me, Mariza. Who am I?”
“You are First Warden.” She bowed, but looked as if she had bitten into a pie and found maggots.
“Who is this?” He placed a hand on Ani’s shoulder. She glared daggers at him.
“Istaza of the Shahadrim.”
“You and I will have words over this. But not on this day.” He turned as if to leave. “Bretan!”
Ani reached out and took Askander’s arm. Leviathus hoped never to see such a dark look directed his way.
“I do not need you to fight my battles for me, First Warden.”
“No,” he agreed, with a slight smile. “But you should allow me to, just this once. It makes me feel like a young stallion, and not an old fool.” He brought her hand to his lips, and kissed the warrior’s fingertips.
“You will pay for this, Askander.”
“I am counting on it, lovely girl.”
He let her hand go. Their fingertips touched a moment longer, and then he walked away. One of the great cats rose and followed him.
Ani turned to face Leviathus. “Pray to your false gods that he does not die,” she told him.
Leviathus frowned. “Of course. I like the man. But—”
“Because if he does,” she continued as if he had not spoken, “I will gut you myself. Your life for his is a very poor trade. For Sulema’s sake I will help you as I can, boy, but do not expect me to pull the moons from the sky and string them on a necklace for you.”
* * *
That night, long after the dust of the departed wagons had settled but before the salted-glue taste and wriggling crunch of raw spiders’ eggs had faded from his mouth, Leviathus was dragged into the circle of firelight by a pair of strapping young women.
He caught a brief glimpse of Ani seated with her vash’ai on the far side of the fire. She was flanked by a fist of the Mah’zula, and kept her eyes averted. Hers was the only familiar face. They pushed him down onto his knees in front of Mariza. He heard himself grunt as pain flared in his mending ribs, and clenched his fists.
Do not fight.
Leviathus blinked, and Ani’s vash’ai blinked its round golden eyes as well.
She says to tell you not to fight. That they will kill you. Then she will fight, and they will kill her as well. Inna’hael yawned, showing tusks as long as his forearm. You may thank me for speaking to you now.
Ani met his eyes, briefly, and nodded.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Why, you are welcome, boy,” laughed Mariza. “I am pleased to note that the Dragon King has taught you to respect your betters.”
She smiled, and Leviathus felt as if the spiderlings had hatched in his belly and were trying to crawl back out.
“You have a pretty mouth, boy. And pretty hair.” She reached out to stroke his head, and Leviathus could barely suppress a shudder as she looked at him. There was something very wrong with the woman’s eyes. “Is the rest of you as pretty? Let us find out.”
Istaza Ani shifted uncomfortably. “Mariza…”
“Shut your hole, Dzirani spawn.” Mariza curled her lips back from her teeth. “We are many, and you are one.”
Ani stood, and her sword flashed golden in the firelight as Inna’hael came to his feet. The vash’ai was growling, a sound so deep it was felt rather than heard. “I am not alone.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Mariza did not look worried. “But how many of us will you—my apologies, the two of you—take down before I slit this pretty boy’s throat?” She shook her head and sighed. “His father will be so disappointed. Sit down, Dzirani, before I send this pretty thing back to Atualon in pretty pieces.”
Ani sank to the ground, her face pale. Inna’hael sat as well, though his black-and-white mane stood stiff with outrage and Leviathus could still feel the cat’s rumbling through the ground as he knelt.
“Now then, pretty boy, tell me—are you going to fight? I love it when they fight.” Mariza took a fist full of his hair, and snarled at the women who held him down. “Strip him.”
Leviathus felt her hand twist in his hair and she yanked a handful out by the roots, surprising a yell of pain from him. He heard Ani shout something in Zeerani, but her voice was quickly muffled. Hands were on him, pushing, pulling, and he heard fabric rip as his clothing gave way.
He fought.
He lost.
FORTY - ONE
Hafsa Azeina had missed her meeting with the parens at the Grinning Mymyc in Bayyid Eidtein. She had sent youngsters with messages to Matteira and Mattu, but only one of those messages reached its destination. The second child had dawdled in a kitchen doorway, ensnared by the scent of cinnamon, and waiting for a reply had caused the dreamshifter to be late. But for the rumbling belly of a small child, events might have unfolded in a very different manner.
“I pulled some of the bodies out myself,” Imperator General Davidian said as they looked at the row of corpses laid out before them. “Many of the dead appear to be parens, though what business they had here in Bayyid Eidtein is not clear. The rest of the victims were women. Children. Sweet little children.” His voice broke, and he shifted the dragon’s-head helm under one arm as he dashed tears from his begrimed face.
“Some of them were Mer, some may have been merchants, or tra
velers. Do I dump them into an unmarked grave far from their homes, and leave their families to wonder at their fate?” The soot had settled into the deep creases on either side of his mouth, painting his face into a mask of grief. The Imperator General had aged well—certainly he had kept more of his hair than Wyvernus had—but this day, he looked as if he was feeling his age.
The dawn sky was a pale, pearly gray, streaked with delicate pink and the last hazy trails of night; too gentle a canvas for such a stark scene as was laid out before them. A dozen bodies, men, women, and yes, little children, laid out in a row upon blankets, as if such things could be any comfort to them now. Their deaths had been hard, one could see it in the contorted limbs like charred wood, in the silent shrieks begging for a release from pain. One more image of horror forever burned into her dreams, layer upon layer of pain and grief.
Sometimes, not even death comes easy.
It had been a hard lesson for Saskia. The girl’s face was as pale as an outlander’s, and she had been noisily sick.
“Eleni was a sweet girl,” Davidian went on, still staring at the bodies. “She loved horses. The men would laugh that if you wanted Eleni to dance with you, you had better show up with hay in your hair. I have a daughter the same age, and a grandson. Tell me, how am I to explain this to her mother?”
“We had best find a way.” An imperator unfamiliar to Hafsa Azeina shook his head and frowned at the blackened bodies. “The Grinning Mymyc is a Mer family stronghold. Was a Mer family stronghold. When Ninianne finds out about this… The woman is fierce when it comes to her family, and her private army outnumbers the king’s troops two to one.”
“More like four to one.”
They all turned to find a heavily tattooed man standing there. Despite his apparent youth, a hairless face and gangly body hinting that he had not yet grown into himself, something in his eyes and the stillness that gathered about him like a cape told Hafsa Azeina that this was no mere boy.
The Dragon's Legacy Page 47
