by K V Johansen
Heart in mouth, Attavaia hesitated. She had become a competent rider of the little mountain ponies over the past couple of years, and as a novice had taken her turn with the lay-sisters who managed the temple’s herd of yaks, but even the yearling heifers scared her once their horns began to grow. Which was ridiculous in a warrior, a sister of Attalissa, the leader of the free temple. Ridiculous, to fear mere animals minding their own business, grass-eaters, when she had faced humans intent on killing.
These camels were taller than a tall man at the shoulder, as tall as the bulls of the giant wild yaks, and long…they just took up so much space. They seemed to float in the dust they raised, demons riding dry waves of smoke. They wore halters with a rope threading them together, and a thin rein to a carved wooden peg in the side of one nostril, far too fragile a control, she thought, for all those pounds of muscle. Enneas, a hand gripping her shoulder, seemed to feel the same. She squeaked as one turned its head to stare down at them, giving a horrible sort of gurgling groan.
“Don’t act like a silly girl,” Attavaia muttered, and did as the Serakallashi had done, striding in front of a ridden camel, towing Enneas with her. The beast, or its rider, didn’t slow or turn aside, serene in its massive right. They scrambled.
The woman was waiting for them, nervously backed into a doorway further along the street.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” she said reprovingly as they joined her. “Don’t tell me the camels scared you.”
“So?” asked Enneas.
“You use those bloody great black cows up there, and you’re scared of camels? I’ve seen the skull of one of those things. If you told me it was a demon I’d believe you.” Her smile was honest, this time. “Tell me you’re village women and I won’t, though. You act like townsfolk. Come on.”
Enneas muttered under her breath, “Do we look like farmers?”
Attavaia thumped her with an elbow.
“Ah, right. We do.”
The Serakallashi led them down another twisting alley and out through another moving caravan, or maybe it was the same one. Once it had passed, Attavaia blinked grit from her eyes and saw that they were on the caravanserai ridge, where the large compounds, which contained hostel and stabling and warehouses and corrals all within a single inward-facing square, lay at odd angles to one another, making the one broad street twist and bend like a storm-snapped tree.
“Here.” With a quick look around, the woman tugged them down another alley, this one so narrow Attavaia thought a man’s shoulders might brush either side. Another look, up and down, and their guide unlocked a narrow wooden door with a heavy key. “Back door,” she explained. “Inside.”
Hand on her own dagger within her skirt, Attavaia led the way into a dark, musty-smelling space. Enneas and the Serakallashi followed, and the guide locked and barred the door behind them. It was a small room or a corridor, but her eyes were too blinded by the change from light to darkness to make out any details. The woman pulled aside a red striped curtain in another narrow doorway.
“The sisters,” she said, announcing them to someone unseen. A snigger. “They’re afraid of camels.”
“Don’t be rude, ‘Rusha. Show them in.”
The woman waved them through. They emerged blinking into a room lit by a deep window high in the wall, a long horizontal slit. It was a pleasant room with thick Pirakuli carpets on the floor and fat cushions to sit on, a brass pot of tea and a tray of cakes on a low table in the midst of the semicircle of cushions. Two older Serakallashi men sat cradling small cups in their hands, with the air of people delaying the start of some business.
“Sit, Sisters,” said one of the men, who had the same thin face and hooked nose as the woman. “’Rusha, water for our guests.”
’Rusha—his daughter?—waved them to cushions and went away, returning after a few moments looking damp and dust-free herself, coat and scarf discarded to reveal black cotton trousers and clean white caftan, not a cameleer’s garb. Attavaia took note; the coat did hide what a person was. ‘Rusha bore a basin of water and soft towels.
They washed in silence, took seats amid the cushions. If these Serakallashi were allies of Tamghat’s, it was already too late.
’Rusha poured tea and offered it to them, thick and murky, milk already in it, or perhaps it had been brewed that way. Attavaia sipped cautiously. Spices she couldn’t name. And the men just watched her.
“Why were you following us?” she asked ‘Rusha. Direct, but friendly, she hoped.
’Rusha looked up at the ceiling. “At first, only because someone felt we should know that one of Tamghat’s folk was trying to find swords. We wondered why. Swords, iron…things the Lord of the Lake takes too great an interest in, that are none of his business in Serakallash.”
“I thought your sept-chiefs had agreed to collect a toll on most goods going through here. Some portion of the goods.”
“The chiefs of the Rostvadim and the Sevani,” the thin-faced man interrupted. “They’ve got no right to think they speak for all the septs or all Serakallash. Or for the merchants whose goods they’re pilfering.”
“The Rostvadim and Sevani are two of the three septs whose strength is in the town,” the other man explained.
“We’re not interested in Tamghat’s tolls,” Attavaia said carefully. “We’re—”
“Sisters,” ‘Rusha interrupted. “We should stop trying to avoid saying anything…incriminating. We’re all here, we can all see one another’s faces, we’re all damned. You want weapons, you’re not the Lake-Lord’s folk, and you’re lucky I found you again when I did, because the Sevani chiefs had sent their retainers to capture a pair of mountain women, thinking Tamghat’s vassal, who’s come down to nursemaid Siyd, might be interested in these mountain women buying weapons. The whole town has probably seen through your pitiful disguise by now. You’re priestesses of Attalissa and you’re trying to rearm what’s left of your order, yes?”
“We’re just—” Enneas began.
“Yes,” Attavaia said.
“Good. They’re idiots, the ones who thought this morning that you might be mercenaries or conscripts of his, searching for smugglers. You’re not half arrogant enough.”
“Look who’s talking,” murmured the thin-faced man. ‘Rusha ignored him, as of long custom.
“We might be willing to help.”
“Help how?”
The older man, a wealthy one to judge by the patterned weave of his caftan, which had the sheen of silk blended in it, silenced ‘Rusha with a raised finger.
“What do you need?” he asked. “Swords? Bows? Horses? Grain? Meat? Warriors?”
“I…probably not horses,” Attavaia said, in astonishment. “Not in the mountains.”
“Why do you want to know?” asked Enneas. “And who are you, anyway?”
“And how do you know we’re not Tamghat’s tame chiefs?” ‘Rusha murmured.
“Yes,” Enneas said, with not quite a frown at her. “That too.”
“Treyan Battu’um,” the older man said, with a hint of a sitting bow. “A chief of the Battu’um—not,” he added with a smile, “one of the town septs, but from the east.”
“And you just happened to be here when we were?” Enneas persisted.
“Yes, exactly. Visiting my friend to talk of this and that, concluding a deal for fodder in the coming year…” He shrugged. “Luckily for you, or you’d be in chains before evening.”
Attavaia was embarrassed to think he and ‘Rusha were probably right. Pitiful disguise, yes. But as for Treyan Battu’um claiming he was here on business—more likely it was conspiracy against the chiefs who favoured Tamghat. A sept-chief surely had factors to handle such routine matters as the sale of fodder. So. A useful ally to cultivate, Treyan Battu’um.
“Mooshka Rostvadim,” the other man said, rather more reluctantly. “My daughter Jerusha.”
“You said it was the Rostvadim who were collecting tolls for Tamghat.”
“I don’
t like what my chiefs have done. It’s not a decision they had the right to make. Anyway, my wife was of the Battu’um.”
“It’s bad for trade,” muttered ‘Rusha.
“It’s an offence to Sera,” her father said. “Serakallash serves no overlord.”
“Nor does Lissavakail.” Attavaia repeated Enneas’s question. “Why offer help to us? What does helping us get you?”
“We would hope, someone to get rid of Tamghat before he digs himself in deeper up above. Someone to get rid of him before he does more than buy the Rostvadim and Sevani chiefs.”
“Who are fools and cheaply bought,” added ‘Rusha.
“So we do your fighting for you?” Enneas asked.
Treyan shook his head. “No. I’m offering an alliance.”
“On behalf of Serakallash?” asked Attavaia warily. “Do you speak for the sept-chiefs’ council, then?”
“I’m sorry. No. I don’t even speak for all the Battu’um in this. Well, they don’t know you’re here, do they? We thought there was no resistance to the Lake-Lord left in the mountains. We’d heard of none. But now that we know there is…I think it’s safe to say most of the septs would like to see any rebellion against him succeed. I’ll put it to them as soon as I can send riders out. And I can speak for my folk and my wife’s, and together that’s over half the Battu’um. That alliance, I can promise you.”
“It isn’t so easy,” Attavaia said.
Enneas set down her cup with a sharp crack on the table. “No. Don’t, ’Vaia.”
“We have to trust them if we’re going to accept their help.”
“All they’ve offered is words, so far. We don’t know…” Enneas stopped, helpless.
Mooshka Rostvadim cleared his throat. “We’ve always been good neighbours, your folk and ours. There’s times neighbours have to stand together. If there’s a fire, say. Stand together, or lose the whole neighbourhood.”
“We can’t act yet,” Attavaia said slowly, while Enneas frowned at her teacup. “You’ll have heard—Attalissa is gone.”
“We’ve heard all sorts of things,” said ‘Rusha. “Gone, dead, lost, carried off by a demon.”
“A demon?”
“She called Tamghat to her, to save her from a demon, but he came too late and she was carried off to serve the demon’s evil lusts.”
“Jerusha, show the sisters some respect,” her father snapped. “No one believes that tale.”
“We haven’t heard that, in the mountains.” Attavaia swallowed hot, bitter anger at such a twisting of her uncle’s rescue of the girl. “No. It’s only that Attalissa is a child. She’s safe away, guarded.” All she did was founded on that trust. “She’d be ten now. When she’s a woman, she’ll return. We’ll rise then, and she’ll lead us to destroy this wizard. But for now, all we do is prepare.”
That was not what the men wanted to hear, she saw it in their faces. They thought they had gotten hold of an imminent uprising.
“I’m sorry,” she added. “You’ll have to deal with your chiefs yourselves. I think it’s a mistake that they’ve let Tamghat get even a toehold here. He won’t stop at that.”
Treyan Battu’um rubbed a hand through his hair and gave her a smile. A handsome man, with a square, dependable face and a full dark beard, beginning to be streaked with white. She really should not be paying attention to such things. Enni made jokes all the time, but the truth was her vows never seemed to trouble her. Enneas’s jokes and ironic needling of the blandly faithful hid a rock-solid certainty of Attalissa’s grace that Attavaia envied.
He was old enough to be her father, anyway.
“I see. I won’t withdraw the offer, Sisters. When the time comes—come to me. I can’t speak for the whole of the Battu’um, but I can argue for an alliance with you, and I don’t think you’ll be turned away.”
They would have to offer something in return, that went without saying. But Attalissa would honour any agreements made by her priestesses in such an hour, Attavaia had no doubt of that.
“Thank you.”
“Who will be sending word to us?” Treyan asked. “So we know it is the free sisters and not Tamghat’s tame priestesses, in any future dealings, if you don’t come yourselves?”
“Sister Vakail,” Attavaia said, with a bit of a smile.
“Hah. Yes, good enough.”
Sister Lake, it meant.
“There’s still the matter of buying metals. We need to arm, to be ready when Attalissa does come.”
“We have good swordsmiths among the Battu’um. Something could be arranged.”
“We can pay.” She stood up. “Excuse me a moment.” She retreated to the dark back entryway, hoisted her skirt and petticoat up, and began unlacing the tightly bound bundle.
’Rusha followed to keep an eye on her. The Serakallashi chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “Oh, Sister. I did wonder what you had under there. What with your vows and all.”
“Turquoise,” she muttered. “It can be mined—secretly. Tamghat’s folk watch the gold-washing villages more jealously, so we can’t come by gold. Do you mind giving me a hand? I think there’s a knot.”
Treyan Battu’um’s brows lifted when Attavaia unrolled the bundle of unworked turquoise on the carpet, and Mooshka Rostvadim sucked in his breath.
“Swords, arrowheads, spearpoints,” she said. The man had offered the work of his smiths, after all, and there was far less risk of discovery if they could take and hide finished weapons rather than having to furtively make them themselves. “Those are most vital. A token of further payment, on delivery.”
“That right there’s worth a good few blades, I should think, the making and the packing them up to the mountains,” Mooshka said. “We’ll want camels for that, or asses, depending on the trails. Treyan?”
“What weight?” the Battu’um chief asked practically, taking a stone and holding it up in the light. “I’ve never seen finer.”
“Father? I’m sorry, but…” A girl’s voice called from beyond another curtained door, and then a man’s:
“Treyan? I’m sorry, my lord, but you’d better come. There’s trouble in town.”
Another man didn’t bother calling, but twitched the curtain aside.
“Master Mooshka? I’ve barred the gate. There’s fighting in the market and Lady Davim here says there’s mercenaries in the thick of it, the Lake-Lord’s men, alongside Siyd Rostvadim’s folk.”
’Rusha flipped a fold of the cloth over the chunks of sky-blue stone. “Out,” she ordered. “We’re coming.”
Mooshka nodded to her and followed his servant, flapping his hands as if shooing out a hen.
“This doesn’t sound good. Jerusha, record the weight and quality of the turquoise, and we’ll work out the details later. That is…?” Treyan was already rising to his feet. “Will you trust us to hold the stone for now, and deal with you honestly? Tell me where to send word, so we can arrange another meeting?”
Attavaia hesitated, looked at Enneas, who only shrugged.
They all looked to her, as if being Otokas’s niece gave her some inner knowledge of the goddess’s will. When her uncle came back…he would laugh at her, for that. But she hoped he would be a little proud, too.
“There’s no path, but if you turn off the mountain track to the east just past a place where there’s walnuts on one side and bamboo on the west…” Attavaia gave him directions to an isolated hut, where an old woman and her four grandchildren scraped by, a family of simpletons herding a few goats and tending a weedy garden. The two supposed grandsons, like the bustier granddaughters, had been novices when the temple fell. So far none of Tamghat’s patrols had chanced on the place, and they hoped the general dim-wittedness they presented, when a hunter or other traveller did wander by, would deflect any interest. It was a useful knot in the web of communications she had built, and a vulnerability, from which threads led off to too many others. But she needed some means by which others could get in touch with herself and Enneas, a
nd they moved around too often to have any fixed base. “Call her Auntie Orillias, and tell her the message is for her Cousin ‘Vaia.”
Attavaia offered her hand, and the sept-chief took it. “As Sera is my witness, I’ll not cheat you. I’ll give you the fair worth in arms and labour of whatever you can pay in stone or gold, and if the sept won’t honour that, I’ll see the deal’s kept by my own folk. And we’ll ride against Tamghat when you need us, for friendship’s sake. My word, given in the hearing of Sera and the Old Great Gods.”
“Attalissa and the Old Great Gods witness it,” Attavaia said formally. “And our thanks. Attalissa’s thanks, when she comes again. Attalissa’s friendship to the Battu’um sept, unending.”
Treyan followed Master Mooshka out, and ‘Rusha bundled up the turquoise, “With your leave, Sisters, Treyan, I’ll get this out of sight?” She whisked away, out into that back corridor again. They could hear her feet running up stairs.
“Do you trust them?” Enneas asked. “If we lose that—”
“We have to trust someone, if we’re to deal with the lowlands. If they were going to turn us over to Tamghat, they’ve certainly got the numbers here to do it without leading us on like this.”
In a moment Jerusha was back, her arms clutching a large bundle of cloth.
“Whatever the fighting in the market’s about may distract people from looking for you, but just to be safe—change your clothes.”
“What, here?” Enneas asked. “What if your father and the chief come back?”
“It won’t be anything they haven’t seen before, will it? Hurry up. Don’t worry, everything’s clean,” she added. “I shook the camel-fleas out myself.”
The clothes, which smelt strongly of soap and some herb, were an odd assortment. Trousers, which though meant to be loose were tight at the hip on both of them, boots with the soles worn almost through, too large, shirts also too large, obviously not ‘Rusha’s, and mended old coats that came almost to their boot-tops. They traded amused grimaces with one another and transferred their belongings to the coat pockets.
