by Hugh Cook
The Ondrask seated himself by the fire again. Yen Olass sheathed her knife and took the horse blanket off Snut. She draped it round the Ondrask's shoulders. He shook it off.
'I never asked for that,’ he said, with anger. 'But you need it.' 'I'll get by without it.’
'Heat is strength,' said Yen Olass, quoting an old survival maxim. 'And one who weakens serves to weaken all.’
Her position was unassailable. The Ondrask yielded, allowing her to wrap the horse blanket around him. He pulled its warmth close to his body, shrouding himself in its comfort.
Yen Olass offered him pemican. He hesitated. Then spoke, loudly, harshly: 'Skak, give me food.’
'I have already offered,' said Yen Olass serenely. 'How can you demand what has been offered?’
She knew he had blundered badly. Of her own free will, she had offered to share her survival rations. The rigid survival ethic of the Yarglat gave him only two choices: to accept of decline. Acceptance would formalize their relationship, making him her guest, and placing him under obligations.
'I was tired,' said the Ondrask, by way of apology. 'I will eat.’
And he accepted her gift of pemican, which put him in a very uncomfortable position, since she was both a woman and a slave.
As the Ondrask ate, Yen Olass got a cooking pot out of her baggage and took it to the mouth of the cave. The night was now as black as hell, and every bit as cold. The wind, demented, raged across the land. Yen Olass packed the pot with snow, tamping it down to a little water. Bringing the pot back to the fire, she balanced it on two fresh logs. When she had hot water, she would reconstitute some of her dried milk curds.
The Ondrask huddled by the fire. His filthy locks were wet with melted snow; he reached behind his head and wiped away some water which was running down his neck.
'Why did you ride so light?' said Yen Olass.
'Because anger rode me all the way from Gendormargensis.’
'They would have given you food at Brantzyn, if you'd asked.’
'They offered. I told them to set tables for two.’
'You thought to eat with a woman?' said Yen Olass, mocking him ever so gently. 'To eat with a slave?’
'The tables,' said the Ondrask, 'were not going to be in the same room. But… here I've no objection.’
Though he made that concession, he could not bring himself to thank her outright for her hospitality.
Yen Olass knew they might be in bad trouble. A storm like this could last for weeks, leaving impassable snow drifts more than head high. Having got one concession from the Ondrask, she went hunting for another:
'If we have to kill a horse,' said Yen Olass, 'we kill yours first.’
'Agreed,' said the Ondrask.
'That way,' said Yen Olass, watching him carefully, 'you may lose a horse when you sought to recover one.’
The Ondrask eyed her in silence, then said: 'I'm not as impressed as you might expect me to be.’
When the Yarglat quarrelled, it was usually over horses or women. Gendormargensis was glutted with women, the spoils of recent conquests, but good horses were still hard to come by. As Yen Olass had guessed, a problem with horses had sent the Ondrask raging down the road from Gendormargensis. But why had he come to her? What made him think she could help?
'Now tell me the details,' said Yen Olass.
'No,' said the Ondrask. 'Let's see how you ride blindfolded.’
'Just one question then,' said Yen Olass, exchanging boots for luffle bag. 'How many horses?' 'Three.’
Yen Olass knew the Ondrask was an old friend of the Lord Emperor Khmar. The two were as close as brothers. Lord Alagrace, the Lawmaker of Gendormargensis, did his best to keep on the good side of Khmar, who had once come close to killing him. Alagrace would supply any horses the Ondrask needed. And, if those horses went missing, Alagrace would have no trouble replacing them. Unless…
'The horses were stolen..,' said Yen Olass slowly. 'Yes.’
'And the horses.., the horses had been consecrated for sacrifice,’
'In a public ceremony,’ said the Ondrask.
'I know how it's done,’ said Yen Olass. 'If taken anonymously, they'd be gone for good. But you didn't ride all this way for nothing. So you know who took them. And you want them back.’
'You ride well,' said the Ondrask. 'You're very close to the truth. Tell me who took them.’
Yen Olass checked the cooking pot. The snow had melted, but the water was not yet hot. She sat back, thinking, taking her time.
'You know who it is,' said Yen Olass. 'So Lord Alagrace should have the thief cut up and killed. But some people he won't dare touch.’
'But he's Lawmaker!' said the Ondrask, his rage sparking to life.
'Come on,' said Yen Olass, quietly. 'You know his position,’
Obviously some high-born Yarglat clansman had made off with the Ondrask's horses, and Lord Alagrace, always reluctant to make enemies amongst the Yarglat, was procrastinating, hoping the problem would resolve itself.
'He's Sharla vermin!' said the Ondrask. 'We should have killed them all in the Blood Purge,’
'You did kill them all,’ said Yen Olass, 'or nearly all. Lord Alagrace was one of the few survivors,’
'Yes,’ said the Ondrask. 'And who let him live? That's what I'd like to know,’
'He was away in Ashmolea,' said Yen Olass. 'Didn't you know that? No, I don't suppose you would.’
The Ondrask was known to keep very much to his yashram, which was usually somewhere in the countryside beyond the walls of Gendormargensis; she doubted if he knew half as much about the politics of the city as she did.
Who might have taken the horses?
While the water heated, Yen Olass reviewed the names of potential culprits. Yoz Doy? No, he was in the south, with Khmar. What about Ulan Ti? No, he was too old, and too sensible. Chonjara, perhaps? Chonjara was wild enough… but it could not possibly be him. Though many of the Yarglat had succumbed to the cosmopolitan trends of agnosticism or outright atheism, Chonjara remained true to the beliefs of his northern homelands. He had even suggested that the horse cult of Noth should become the state religion of the Collosnon Empire, replacing the multitude of faiths which now lay within its borders – though even the Lord Emperor Khmar had not been prepared to go that far.
When the water had boiled, and Yen Olass had heated up some milk curds, she gave her only spoon to the Ondrask, letting him eat first. She watched while he ate. He left her less than half. To let a slave witness such a breach of etiquette, he must have been very hungry indeed. When Yen Olass had finished what was left, she asked him directly:
'So what did happen to your horses?' 'Chonjara ate them,' said the Ondrask. 'I beg your pardon?' 'Chonjara ate them!’
'So you tell me,' said Yen Olass politely, knowing an impossibility when she heard one.
'Chonjara held a banquet to celebrate his father's year seventy. He was in the market for some horsemeat. Only the best for his father! Haveros sold him three horses – my horses!’
'Ah,' said Yen Olass, for now all was explained. 20
Over the protests of his father Lonth Denesk, Haveros had abandoned the worship of the horse gods, and had espoused some trivial little local religion. Chonjara had criticized him for that in public, and now Haveros had taken revenge.
'Since you can't get your horses back…’
'I want an apology. And not in private, either. I want Haveros muck-down grovelling, with the whole city watching.’
'That might be difficult,' said Yen Olass. 'But you'll arrange it.’
'My writ doesn't run that far,' said Yen Olass. 'In fact, my writ doesn't run at all.’
'Lord Alagrace said you'd help.’
'Any oracle can give you a reading,' said Yen Olass. 'There's no need to come chasing out here just for a reading.’
'I told Alagrace an oracle couldn't help me. I told him I wasn't interested in a reading. But he told me you'd do better than that. He told me you'd fix it.’
'What?' said Yen Olass.
She was genuinely shocked, and it took a lot to shock her. How old was Lord Alagrace? Sixty-five? Not old enough to be going senile, surely?
'I'm sure Lord Alagrace couldn't have said anything like that,' said Yen Olass.
'He said exactly that,' said the Ondrask. 'His very words were: she will fix it.’
The words quoted by the Ondrask were unambiguous: 'Sklo do-pla san t'lay', translating as 'Originating from her will be a fixing.' The word used for 'fixing' implied the use of money, blackmail, trickery or political influence. Or black magic. Yen Olass was furious. Was Alagrace stark staring raving mad? There was no way she could possibly help the Ondrask, who, when he discovered the truth, was going to be very, very angry.
'So what are you going to do about Haveros?' said the Ondrask.
This was very difficult.
'There are always possibilities,' said Yen Olass. 'Your knife may know at least one of them already.’
'My blade has been conscrated to a higher purpose,' said the Ondrask. 'We have to find another way.’
'And we will,' said Yen Olass.
Though her chances of solving the problem were close to zero, she could hardly tell the Ondrask to horse off backwards until he bogged himself. She had to show willing.
'Let's hear the details,' said Yen Olass. 'Start right from the very beginning.’
'The beginning,' said the Ondrask, staring into the fire. 'The beginning was… when I came south.’
'Oh, I'm sure you can start further back than that,' said Yen Olass.
The Ondrask, failing to catch the mild note of sarcasm in her voice, raised his head and looked at her. 'Where should I start then?’
'If you're really stuck for an opening,' said Yen Olass easily, 'start with the beginning of time, for all I care.’
The Ondrask closed his eyes. He was very weary. At first, she thought he was going to drift off into dreamland then and there, but after a while he opened his eyes again. When he spoke, his voice was low; she had to lean forward to hear it, because the wind was competing in the background.
'Not many people ask about the first things,' said the Ondrask, in the voice of a man who has a story to tell. 'Not many people care to know any more.’
Yen Olass began to suspect that her little joke about the beginning of time had been unwise.
'Not many people care to know, but the knowledge is there for those who wish to know. This is the way it was. In the beginning, there was a barren plain where the wind moved from itself and to itself, and the wind was dark and light in one. The wind was both horse and rider.’
Yen Olass recognised the creation myth of the Yarglat.
He really had started at the beginning. Having asked for this, she dared not complain as the Ondrask slowly worked his way through the tale of the First Things and the genealogies of the Horse who was Horse and the Rider who was Rider. It took quite some time.
As the Ondrask talked, telling now of the Last Ride of the Horse who was Horse and the Rider who was Rider, Yen Olass began to hear in his voice a measure of loss, of sorrow, of homesickness. And while she was not of the Yarglat, she was most certainly of the north, and she too began to yearn for those empty horizons, those high-hunting stars, those skies where the night veils infinity with curtains of green light, purple, red. She too yearned for the campfire where the talk goes back and forward in the long winter night, man and woman and horse and child all gathered together in the same communal warmth.
While the Ondrask talked, Yen Olass began to remember names and faces gone from her life for almost two decades. She realised now the true source of the Ondrask's rage. The high priest of the horse cult was suffering not just for the loss of his three horses, but for the loss of an entire way of life.
The Ondrask had reviewed an entire culture by the time he got to the story of his own birth.
'They named me Losh Negis. I was born in a tent on the barrens where the wind rolls forever, thinking the world downhill. I was weaned on mare's milk and boiled millet. By the time I could walk, I was learning to ride, clinging to the fleece of a sheep.’
Bit by bit, he created his world for her.
'At the age of fourteen, I was initiated into a raiding party. Six years after my spear was first blooded, I endured a vision. I knew the power then, or thought I did. What I knew was the shadow of a shadow. But I followed the Old One thereafter. I learnt of the Powers That Walk and then became them.
'My people listened to me when voices gathered. I both gave and received. For them, I endured the darkness. I talked with those who have no bones. I brought back much wisdom, and shared. In those days, my very shadow was worth more than a man. In the city here in the south, people looked on me as if I was an animal – and a poor-bred animal at that.’
The Ondrask paused. Yen Olass made no grunts of approval, no small encouraging sounds, no conversational noises. The Ondrask did not need them, and would not have welcomed them. He brooded for a long time, staring into the dying heart of the dying fire.
'The fathers of our grandfathers came south to conquer an empire,' said the Ondrask, 'but the empire conquered us. The Blood Purge changed nothing. We slaughtered real men, thinking to kill our enemy, but it was already too late for that. We were defeated by our victory, and Haveros is the measure of our defeat.’
The Ondrask said nothing more, and Yen Olass saw that his tale was at an end. He had still not answered her original question, but she knew he would no longer welcome being quizzed on the trivial details of who said what to whom and where and when. He had spoken of first and last things, and he had talked himself out.
But Yen Olass did have one question to ask before they slept. She had always wondered about it, but, till now, she had never met anyone who might know the answer. She dared her question.
'You were born in the north,' said Yen Olass, 'and so was Khmar. What does Khmar believe?’
'Khmar?' said the Ondrask, looking at her, as if seeing her for the first time. 'Khmar believes in Khmar.’
Listening to the wind, Yen Olass thought it was dying down a little, but she was now too tired to be certain.
***
Yen Olass woke to find daylight filtering into the cave. The Ondrask was huddled under the horse blanket, snoring. The two shag ponies were awake. Sometimes, on other hunting trips, she had woken in the night to find Snut sleeping standing up. She had never been able to figure out how horses could do that; whichever way she looked at it, it seemed contrary to reason. She thought it was very clever of them.
Yen Olass took her feet out of the luffle bag. They were not happy about that at all. Swiftly, she put on her foot bindings, then pulled on her boots and laced them up. Going to the mouth of the cave, she found a bright cold sun shining from a clear sky on silent snowdrifts. The drifted snow was deep enough to slow them down a bit, but too shallow to stop a determined horse and rider.
Here and there, trees showed vivid yellow wounds where branches had scabbed away. The rest of the world was white and black: white snow, black trees. So many trees. The corpses of the dead ones hulked out of the snow.
Though these woods were fairly open, and riders were seldom hindered by undergrowth, Yen Olass still felt there were far too many trees. There was something weird and unnatural about those columns of wood shafting up from the earth. Something rather evil about those gaunt grasping branches. Out riding, you always had to keep a sharp lookout in case a branch tore your head off. Then, stopping in a strange place, you could never tell whether something was hiding close by, watching. In the woods, she always felt enclosed, denied the open horizons of unlimited freedom which were her birthright.
As she stood there watching, she saw a small bird perch briefly on a bough, then fly away. In the snow there was a neat set of little paw marks: a fox had passed by that morning.
She heard the Ondrask grunt as he woke; a little later, he joined her at the cavemouth.
'Yesh-la, Ondrask,’ said Yen Olass.
>
'Darjan-kray, Yen Olass,’ he said, giving her both the formal response and the courtesy of her name.
They stood there shoulder to shoulder. Now that they
had slept out the night in the same cave, she hardly noticed his odour; his smell was hers. Though she knew she would be fearfully late in getting back to Gendormargensis, that hardly seemed to matter. She felt… she felt almost happy. She would have felt better still if they could have stayed. She hated going back to the city.
'How has the hunting been?' said the Ondrask.
'Not so good,' said Yen Olass.
Game was scarce, but Yen Olass hardly cared. She came here to be free, not to kill things.
The sun glared on the absolute white of the snow. She had better smear her cheeks and eyelids with ashes before they set out. On a day like this, a day's riding could leave an unprotected person snowblind. She had better grease her boots, too; she had meant to do it the day before, but had forgotten.
Snut came to her for an apple, and she gave him one, then gave another to the Ondrask's horse. Both horses and humans would eat properly once they reached the hunting lodge at Brantzyn. Then they would push south, heading for Gendormargensis.
CHAPTER TWO
Name: Lord Pentalon Alagrace
Birth title: sal Pentalon Sorvolosa dan Alagrace nal Swedek quen Larsh
Family: Swedek quen Larsh, one of the High Houses of Sharla. Great-grandfather was Arnak Menster, Warmaster in Gendormargensis during the Wars of Dominion in which the Sharla Alliance was defeated by the northern horse tribes
Career: graduating from the Military Academy, spent twenty years with the Battle Corps in the Eastern Marches, ultimately having command of the Grey Cohorts. Subsequent service almost exclusively in the Diplomatic Service
In the year of the Blood Purge, Khmar 15, was in the Embassy which travelled to Molothair to negotiate an exchange of hostages with the Witchlord, Onosh Gulkan. Declined to return to Tameran, going into exile in Ashmolea, but in Khmar 17 accepted an invitation to become Lawmaker in Gendormargensis
