by Bell, Hilari
“Perhaps,” said Soraya. “And perhaps I should never have ‘tackled it’ at all.”
“Hmm,” said the peddler, declining to commit himself. “The thing that’s surprising me is that no one’s trying to attribute it to the Suud. Folks know they’ve in the town, helping the smiths deal with the ‘new ore’ but we’re not hearing any rumors of Suud sorcerers or Suud demons. It’s Sorahb getting the credit.”
“All the better for the Suud,” said Soraya. “I know that Maok didn’t want their magic to become common knowledge. I think … I think people don’t want the Suud to have magic. If they had a power we didn’t, if they weren’t simple barbarians, we’d have to stop looking down on them and start fearing them.”
“Maok’s right,” said the peddler. “That would be bad. But you could be claiming the credit yourself, if you want it.”
“I don’t need people fearing me, either,” said Soraya. “Let Sorahb have it. Besides …”
If people knew that she had brought the storm, they might expect her to do it again.
“… besides,” she went on, “I don’t see you claiming to have commanded the battle that saved the gate. Sorahb’s getting credit for that, too.”
“Ah, but Sorahb, poor fellow, is made of nothing but words and moonshine, so he needs all the rumors he can get. I’ve got flesh, so I don’t need words to hold me together,” said the peddler cheerfully as the rain began to fall. “Even wet flesh is better than none.”
Now Soraya watched him stepping down the muddy path, letting the mule take the lead, she noticed, and sighed. But he was right—they’d both been wet and muddy before.
She didn’t like the swamp, she soon discovered. The bare twigs were still thick enough to block her view, almost as if she were wandering through a maze, and the mud that clung to her boots was as heavy and far more smelly than the mud of the road. The only saving grace was that it washed away whenever the deep, somewhat clearer water covered their path. Her feet were soaked before they’d gone a hundred yards, and the water was now creeping up the legs of her britches. “This is awful,” Soraya complained. “How are we going to find anyone? Are we even on the path?”
As far as she could tell, the path, such as it was, had vanished less than a quarter league into the swamp, although the mule acted as if she knew where she was going. Having traveled with the quirky beast several times, Soraya was fond of Duckie—but she wasn’t sure the mule was a qualified trail guide.
On the other hand, she enjoyed watching the ducks. A flotilla of more than twenty surrounded them at the moment, paddling around the mule and quacking companionably.
“It’s better now than when it’s hot and full of bugs,” said the peddler. “Trust me on that. The risk of fever’s down in the winter too. As for finding anyone, we’re just giving them a chance to find us.”
Soraya stopped for a moment to unfasten her vest from a twig and then hurried to catch up, splashing in the ankle-deep mud. One of the ducks muttered, as if it were commenting on her performance—and the comments weren’t flattering.
“What if they don’t want to find us?”
“Then we try again tomorrow, and maybe the next day to make certain, then we give up and go back,” said the peddler. “No one finds the men who work this swamp when they don’t want to be found. But don’t worry,” he added gloomily. “I’m sure we won’t be that lucky.”
Soraya had her doubts. If she’d been a swamp bandit, making her money picking silk cocoons from these bushes when there were no travelers on the road worth robbing, she’d have seen no reason to deal in any way with the impoverished peasants she and the peddler appeared to be. Now that she was splashing through the swamp, she completely understood why the Hrum had failed to find the bandits’ camp—it was a wonder they hadn’t all drowned. She’d already skidded into one shallow sinkhole, straying off the trail the mule chose, and she knew there must be deeper ones.
But the peddler proved correct again. Several marks later, just as Soraya was deciding that she’d had enough of the Dugaz swamps to last several lifetimes, the ducks started quacking and skittered away like flower petals in a sudden gust of wind.
Soraya stared after them in bafflement, but the peddler stopped in his tracks and held his hands out from his sides, away from his knife.
“We’ve come to see Shir,” he said, a little too loudly for the calm he was trying to project. “We’ve information hell be wanting. Information for which he might reward the men who bring the messengers.”
A muddy, bearded man came from behind one of the bushes. Soraya supposed she couldn’t blame him for the mud—she and the peddler were splashed from head to thigh, and solid mud from the thighs down—but this man looked as if it had been years since he’d been clean. On the other hand, when you looked that tough, you probably didn’t hear critical comments about other aspects of your appearance. Soraya decided to let the peddler do the talking, but it was the man who spoke next.
“Oh, Shir’ll be rewarding me, peddler-who-carries-messagesfrom-Sorahb. He’s been wanting to see you again for quite some time.”
To COMPLETE THEIR misery it started to rain before they reached the bandit camp, so Soraya was soaked and shivering as well as filthy and exhausted when the bandits pushed them through the tent flaps and into the presence of their leader. At least the floor, a wooden platform raised above the mud, was dry, and several braziers made the big tent almost warm. But the rain pattering on the oiled-silk roof brought a damp chill with it, and the sight of the lean man lounging in the great chair made Soraya feel no safer, though he was both clean-shaven and relatively clean. He looked at her and the peddler with the analytical gaze of a cook selecting the plumpest chickens for the pot.
“Peddler! You’ve a rude young man, you know. You enjoyed our hospitality last time and departed without so much as a by-your-leave. If you hadn’t left gold”—the bandit leader gestured to the thick buckle that adorned his belt—‘I’d have been so disappointed in you, I don’t know what I’d have done. And you’ve not carrying gold today—you or your girl.”
He would know that they had nothing. His guards had searched them for weapons and wealth with a chilly efficiency that had discovered Soraya’s gender but hadn’t taken time to exploit it, not even with rude comments. That was probably a good thing, but she found it frightening, too—almost unnatural.
“I’m not carrying gold today,” the peddler said. “But we’ve news of a fortune to make you rich. Rich enough to leave this swamp, if you so choose, and take up a life elsewhere.”
Looking at the ruby that hung from the man’s ear, the bright silk of the cushions on which he lounged, and the expensive glaze under the soot on the braziers, Soraya knew he was already rich enough to leave the swamp. If he’d gotten it from the peddler, she had her doubts about the big gold buckle, but most of his jewelry appeared to be real.
“I’m always interested in money,” said Shir, leaning back in his chair and crossing his ankles. But he wasn’t, Soraya realized. Not today. Today he was frightened.
“They’re pressing you, aren’t they?” she asked. “The Hrum troops. You may have fought off one force, but you know it’s just a matter of time.”
The bandit chieftain’s face froze. He rose from his chair like a panther and slapped her face, once. The blow was so quick, Soraya barely saw it coming and had no time to dodge. She was sitting on the floor with her ears ringing when Shir resumed his seat.
The peddler, ungallantly, had made no move to stop him—though in fairness the man with the drawn knife who stood behind him might have had something to do with that.
“The Hrum will never take us,” said Shir. “I allow no one to doubt that. No one.”
The tension in the tent did not come only from the bandit leader, Soraya realized; the guards were stretched tight with it too. If the Hrum really were pressing him, if his men were leaving him because of it—and why wouldn’t they? The Hrum had a short way with bandits—then she’d probably go
tten off lightly with just a slap. She had misjudged this situation. Badly. Still …
“I’m quite certain that no one could find you if you didn’t choose to be found,” said the peddler, with the smooth flattery that seemed to come naturally to him, especially in emergencies. “But it would be better for all of us if the Hrum were gone, now wouldn’t it?”
His easy, soothing voice had its effect. The bandit leaned back in his chair.
“I’ll certainly admit that,” he said. “I don’t know anyone who’d deny it. Except, perhaps, a man who is marked as a Hrum spy.”
The peddler didn’t flinch, though Soraya thought he wanted to.
“That’s old news to everyone now,” he said. “All the Hrum’s enemies know it. You might—might—get a few brass foals from the Hrum for confirming their suspicions. Assuming you dare get near enough to a Hrum officer to hand me over.” He shrugged, suddenly impatient, and reached down to help Soraya to her feet, ignoring the way their guards twitched around them.
“He’s right,” Soraya told Shir. “You can’t make much from turning him over to anyone, or from killing him. But alive he and I can provide you with information that will not only make you rich, it might help get the Hrum out of Farsala!”
Her cheek stung and throbbed.
“And what of you, lady?” Shir asked softly. “Perhaps the lad’s worth no more than a few foals, but surely the family of such a lovely deghass would pay well to get her back, whole and unharmed.”
Soraya snorted. “How many rich deghan families do you think Farsala has left? If I belonged to one of the families that are serving the Hrum—and they’re the only ones with money, I promise you—would I be here trying to talk you into fighting them? My father died at the Sendar Wall, and my mother and brother are slaves somewhere in the empire. I’ve been working as a kitchen servant and hiding among the Suud for most of the last year. Do you think I’d do that if my family had a fortune to spend in ransom?”
Shir scowled. He rose from his chair again—not quite as pantherlike this time—reached out, and took her hand, running his thumb over the roughened skin, the calluses that still lingered despite the softer weeks in Mazad. It was no longer a lady’s hand. Shir dropped it and sat down.
“You’ve talking about the gold the senate committee is escorting, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
Despite her resolve to reveal nothing, Soraya felt her eyes widen. “You know about the committee?”
“And the gold,” Shir confirmed. “I have spies too, you know.”
“Then you must see how much you could accomplish if you take them! It would prove better than anything else that Garren hasn’t conquered Farsala!”
“And that being the case,” said Shir, “he’d send all his troops to hunt us down and crush us, to be getting his precious committee back. Or hadn’t you thought of that?”
“But you’d only have to hold them for three months—less than that now,” said Soraya. “I didn’t think you were …” The aching bruise brought caution. “I’d think a few months’ effort would be worthwhile, if it rid you of the Hrum forever. And there is the gold.”
“So there is.” Shir sighed. “Or so there was, I should say, for that cursed committee landed in Dugaz over two weeks ago.”
“They’re here?” Soraya exclaimed. “Already?”
“Here and gone, sweetheart. I gallantly anticipated your commands and tried to capture them too—not to mention their gold—but their guard was too strong. They left the swamp, putting themselves out of our reach, over a week ago. So you can hardly blame me for trying to find out what sort of profit remains to be made from the two of you.”
Soraya barely heard him. “Over a week? They’ll almost have reached Setesafon by now. Why didn’t we pass them on the road?”
“Because they’ll have taken the river,” said Kavi. “Barge up to the Trade Road, then cart into Setesafon. It’s by far the easiest way, especially carrying a heavy cargo in winter mud. That will slow them, by the by. They’ll not be in Setesafon yet, though they’ll arrive before we can get there.”
“Well, at least they were attacked on the way,” said Soraya. “That should help convince them Farsala’s not completely subdued, don’t you think?”
“Excuse me,” said Shir, “but—”
“Not as much as relieving them of all that gold would have,” said the peddler ruefully. “I wonder if they came early on purpose, to take Garren by surprise. I know he wasn’t expecting them this soon.”
“Excuse me,” said Shir, “but we were discussing the small matter of your ransoms. Which is closely related, I might add, to the even smaller matter of keeping the two of you alive.”
Soraya didn’t understand how he managed to sound both sinister and amused at the same time, but he did.
“If you ever want to be rid of the Hrum, then you shouldn’t take him out of the fight,” she said, gesturing at the peddler. “He’s Sorahb’s liaison to the peasants who support the rebellion. He’s arranged help for Mazad, gained recruits for the army, fostered acts of sabotage … If you want to be rid of the Hrum, you don’t even want to delay him. We’ve wasted too much time on this already!”
Furious frustration leached into her voice, giving her last statement the unmistakable ring of truth. But everything she’d said was true, she realized. If the Hrum were defeated, it would be in large part because of the peddler. It didn’t, it couldn’t, excuse what he had done at the Sendar Wall, to her father, to her family. But he had done as much to make up for his betrayal as any man could have. She could never forgive him, but all his actions since then had to count for something, didn’t they?
She shook her head slowly, her thoughts spinning. Could you hate someone and respect him at the same time?
“Then that leaves you as my only source of profit,” said Shir, looking her up and down. “Unless you’re the one who’s going to be taking on the Hrum army single-handed? Or are you working for Sorahb too? His liaison to kitchen maids? A band of deghass warriors in silk skirts?”
“She’s your liaison to the Suud,” said the peddler, before Soraya could think of a reply. “If she’s being harmed, or even held, they’ll leave you to rot. But if you do all you can against the Hrum, which it sounds like you already have, the Suud’s healers will try to find a cure for the swamp fever. They say they’ll try, mind—no promises of success. But it’s a better hope than you’ve got now, which is no hope at all if the fever takes you.”
Shir frowned. “Suud healers? What makes you think they could cure anything? The Suud are so primitive, they can’t even make knives!”
“That’s changing,” said the peddler. “And you’re not fool enough to think it matters. The desert is full of medicinal plants, and the folk who live there know how to use them.”
“He’s right,” said Soraya. “Their healers are very skilled.” Even when they didn’t use Speaking to enhance their medicines. “But they can’t guarantee anything—they’ve never seen a case of swamp fever. The best they could do is try.”
Had the peddler spoken to the Suud about curing swamp fever, or was this a lie crafted out of invention and need? Not that it mattered—Soraya had known enough Suud healers to know they’d try if she asked them.
“So you want me to give up whatever profit I might be making, on the slim chance that he can help Sorahb defeat the Hrum, and the even slimmer chance that some Suud herb-picker can cure swamp fever?” Shir asked. “That’s not much, friends.”
“You’d not be getting much of a ransom for us either,” said the peddler apologetically. “So that’s probably fair.”
“So you say, but… ah, Flame take you, get out of my sight. If there’s no profit in you, then you’re wasting my time.”
“You want us to let them go?” one of the guards asked incredulously.
“Unless you can think of a way to get more money out of them than I can. We might get a little work out of the one, and a little pleasure out of the other, but that’s hard
ly worth the trouble of keeping them prisoner,” said Shir. “And dead we’d have the labor of burying them. Their claim that they might be getting the Hrum off our backs, or curing the fever, is probably moonshine, but it costs us nothing. Let them go.”
“I’ll ask them,” said Soraya impulsively. “The Suud healers. But I can’t make you any promises.”
“If you’d promised,” said Shir, “I’d have known you were lying. And if you annoy the Hrum half as much as you’ve annoyed me, that’s almost as much profit as a decent ransom right there. At least it will make me feel better, and these days, that’s something.”
• • •
“THE HRUM MUST BE pressing him hard,” said the peddler, following the mule’s round hindquarters between the muddy hummocks of grass and brush. “Time was, he wouldn’t have let us go half that easily.”
“You call that easy?”
It was still raining, and Soraya struggled to keep her teeth from chattering, though she suspected half her shivering was born of relief. Until she had left their camp, until the ducks’ return had told them that their invisible escort had finally abandoned them, Soraya hadn’t dared to admit how frightened she had been. “Did you really ask the Suud healers about a cure for swamp fever?”
“Not the healers,” said the peddler. “How could I? None of the lads in Mazad are healers, though they have friends who are, and they said they’d likely try. If healers didn’t like curing folk they wouldn’t become healers in the first place.”
“So you prepared that tale in advance? To get us out?”
The peddler shrugged. “I’ve met Shir before. I knew I’d be needing all the bribes I could get.”
But he hadn’t used his lie to ransom himself—he’d used it for her. Despite the cold rain running under her collar and soaking her shirt, despite her frozen hands and feet, something hard and cold in Soraya’s heart began to thaw—as if the peddler’s lie carried sunlight inside it.
