by Linda Nagata
“You’re not going.”
“Smoke—”
“I’ll go for you.”
She gasped, wondering if she’d heard him wrong.
“You look funny with your mouth in such a round ‘O’—but then I can think what would fit well inside it.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can! But—you’re only teasing me, aren’t you? You don’t really mean to go.”
“A long rain is coming,” Smoke said. “It’s a good time to go. Tell me what you want and I’ll buy it for you and bring it back.”
“But why have you changed your mind?”
He kissed her.
“Okay, then . . . but you’ll go without murdering anyone?”
He kissed her again. “Not if I don’t have to.”
Ketty was so excited she squealed. She broke free of his arms and danced in a circle, made wildly, absurdly happy by the thought of eating bread again and wearing a new dress.
~
The borders of the Puzzle Lands are well protected. We’ve suffered no invaders since Koráy first set her ancient defenses in place. It’s within our borders that we’re vulnerable. Once inside our defenses, a good spy could go a long way without attracting notice. In the end our security relies on the alertness and loyalty of the Koráyos people.
Nothing to Lose
As dawn’s light crept into the narrow canyon, Nedgalvin lay curled on a wedge of rock, his body bruised, fingers scabbed, knees skinned, one eye swollen almost shut, and feeling as cold as the world’s last day. He was only twenty feet above the top of the debris field that filled the canyon floor. He looked out across a jumble of broken rock, broken trees, broken horses, broken men . . . though there were mercifully few of his men to be seen. He picked out a swollen gray hand reaching skyward, a twisted leg thrust sideways from the rocks, and one man buried to his shoulders, staring at the heavens, made into a stranger by the dust that coated his crushed face. But that was all. Two hundred men had come into the canyon. Nedgalvin wanted to believe some had escaped, but the debris looked to be ten-feet deep and he knew most of them—maybe all—were crushed and buried forever under the slide. He’d only lived because he’d been able to scramble up the narrow headwall. The landslide had come from the canyon’s west side. It had swept away the trees there, leaving a livid, white scar.
“God curse the Bidden witch!” he shouted, his voice echoing down the canyon, but no one was left alive to hear him. In a softer voice he added, “And God curse me for believing I could beat her.”
He thought about trying to make his way back down the gorge, find the trail again, and escape to the south, but the Koráyos kept a sharp watch on their borders and he suspected the odds were long against him.
After a time he began to wonder why they’d left him alive.
Surely they knew he was here?
Or did they?
Could it be possible he’d come so far into the mountains that he’d passed within their magic veils? If so, it might be possible to make his way deeper into the Puzzle Lands and there find some means to avenge those who had died in the rocks.
A heavy fog crawled up the canyon, hiding the landslide from his eyes.
He eased himself over onto his back, and looked up. The cliff above him was nearly vertical, but the stone was stacked in rough layers that left pockets where brush and stunted trees had taken root. He figured he could climb it, though fog hid the summit so he didn’t know how far he’d have to go. It didn’t matter though. He had nothing left to lose.
He climbed for half an hour before reaching the top of the vertical cliff. After that the slope eased and he was able to walk. The fog was impenetrable, but he made sure to always go uphill. It wasn’t easy. The forest was thick with deadfall and despite the cold he was sweating with the effort of scrambling over fallen trunks and rotten branches.
After a time he heard voices from up ahead. He dropped to the ground. The voices drew nearer. Two men, maybe three. But the sound was distorted by the fog. He couldn’t understand what they were saying.
With all the deadfall on the ground it was impossible to go in silence, so he stayed where he was, while the voices grew louder. They didn’t speak all the time. One man would say something, then several minutes passed before another spoke. Nedgalvin still couldn’t understand them, and after a while he realized he’d heard no sound at all of footsteps or cracking twigs. That’s when he knew he’d been tricked.
Damn the Bidden and their Hauntén magic!
Nedgalvin abandoned his hiding place and pushed on. The voices immediately grew louder. They shouted garbled threats through the fog. Nedgalvin’s hair stood on end with a witchy fear, but he went on anyway, and eventually he left the voices behind.
The Bidden had so many tricks. They even had a Hauntén who fought for them. Dismay. The stupid women of the borderlands called him a god, but he was just a mad Hauntén. Nedgalvin regretted deeply not killing the little bastard. How Dismay had survived the wound Nedgalvin had given him, he couldn’t guess, but survive he had, for after a respite the creature returned to the borderlands, more bloody handed than ever . . . although he’d disappeared again after that. It had been a long while since anyone reported seeing him. Maybe Dismay had finally been killed after all.
Nedgalvin found a trickle of spring water and drank from it. Soon after, he reached the summit. He stepped over a broken spine of rocks and then the slope began to descend.
It was easier walking on the north side. There was less deadfall, but its absence made him suspicious that people came here to gather firewood. So he went cautiously, pausing every few steps to listen. Before long, he heard the bleating of sheep. Then the fog thinned and soon he saw a gleam of bright daylight below him.
The forest ended abruptly, yielding to a half-mile of green pasture studded with black sheep. At the foot of the pasture was an old stone fort with a road running from it down into the lowlands.
Nedgalvin studied the fort for several minutes. Though roofed watch posts stood at each squared corner, he could see only one sentry at duty on the walls and none at the gate, though it stood wide open, facing the empty road. After a time, Nedgalvin retreated into the trees.
His plan was simple. When night came he would cross the pasture. The fort was sparsely guarded. He’d get past whatever watch there was and get inside. If he could, he’d find Takis. Otherwise, he’d do whatever damage he could manage before the Koráyos brought him down. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was better than staying in the forest and dying of the cold.
He found a hollow, cushioned in pine needles, and there he curled up to wait. The fog drifted lower. The air was fretfully cold and soon it started to rain. Perhaps it was his shivering that attracted the dog. He looked up when it growled at him. It stood several feet away: a large, white sheepdog wearing a spiked collar to protect it from wolves. Nedgalvin had his bow on his back. He considered shooting it. But he could see this was no war dog. It was trained to guard against wolves, not enemy soldiers. So he drew a bit of dried beef from the ration bag at his hip and offered it to the dog. After an indecisive minute, it crept close enough to snatch the morsel. Nedgalvin fed it a second bite, and on the third he was able to stroke it, talking to it in a soft voice.
He removed the drawstring cord from his ration bag and tied it to the dog’s collar. Then he made it lie down, and it kept him warm through the long, cold twilight.
He waited for full darkness. Then he got up, checked his weapons by feel and, taking the dog’s makeshift leash in hand, he set out. Rain was still falling and the night was so dark Nedgalvin could see nothing of where he was walking, but the dog knew its way. It led him across the pasture. He slipped and stumbled and fell down several times. His hands reeked of sheep shit. But at least the sentry on the wall couldn’t see him, or hear him over the falling rain.
Then the dog stopped. It panted in excitement, its tail thumping against his legs. Suddenly, two more large sheep dogs were scurrying around them. One growled, b
ut Nedgalvin stood quietly, and after a minute he urged his dog on.
It wasn’t long before the sound of the rain grew louder, sharper—the sound of rain against stone walls. He knelt to untie the leash. Then he sent the dog off with its companions. After that he crawled through the grass.
His hands were icy, aching with cold by the time he found the fort’s stone wall. He listened for several minutes, but he couldn’t make out the tread of the sentry over the rain—and he hoped the sentry couldn’t hear him. He stood up and set off around the fort, one hand always on the stone wall. He went slowly. It took half an hour to reach the gate.
The gate was still open, just as it had been in the day time. He shook his head in disgust. He would never have allowed such lax security. The Koráyos were overconfident.
Moving with utmost caution, taking care to make no sound, he slipped in past the gate. Then he ducked back against the wall.
Across the open yard, a bar of light leaked from beneath a door. There was no other illumination, nothing else that he could see.
He started toward the door. He was halfway there when he heard the gate swing shut behind him, closing with a thud.
His hand went to the hilt of his sword, but he didn’t draw it. He turned around. As he did, four torches, set under shelters at the corners of the yard, flamed to life. He flinched in shock—and then the hair on the back of his neck stood up. There was no one in the yard, no one who could have lit the torches. But the torchlight picked out the silhouettes of two archers on the wall above the gate. Their bows were drawn, arrows aimed at him.
Curse the Koráyos and their Hauntén magic!
A tap of wood against stone made him turn again. Though no one tended the torches, he discovered he wasn’t entirely alone in the yard after all. Standing in front of the lighted door was a tall man, well muscled, clearly a soldier though he was dressed simply in tunic and britches. He was unarmed except for a long wooden staff. Nedgalvin thought he saw a flicker of recognition and surprise in the other man’s eyes, but in the dancing torchlight it was hard to be sure.
From the wall behind him one of the archers spoke. She was a soft-voiced girl, with the timorous accent of a southern woman. “Chieftain Helvero, he looks Lutawan to me.”
The soldier at the door—Helvero?—cocked his head as if giving this possibility due consideration. Then he spoke to Nedgalvin. “Did you know Koráy used to live here at Fort Veshitan with her children? This outpost is haunted with protective spells that no one today even knows how to make. That’s why we house your southern women here. No where safer.”
Nedgalvin silently cursed himself for thinking of the Koráyos as ordinary foes. But he still saw one chance remaining to him. Taking his hand away from his sword’s hilt, he straightened his shoulders and said, “I’ve come to see Takis.”
Helvero nodded as if he’d expected this. “You’ve missed her. She departed for the north not five hours ago.”
And still Helvero made no move against him. What was he playing at? Nedgalvin sensed an undercurrent, but he couldn’t guess its nature. He was only sure that with Takis gone, this night would not end well for him. The Koráyos didn’t take prisoners and they didn’t sell back hostages as any civilized people would do. So it would be only a matter of moments before Helvero ordered the archers to fire.
Nedgalvin decided he would not die alone. Helvero, at least, would go with him.
He set his feet in careful balance. He’d practiced the trick of throwing his sword ever since he’d heard the first tales of Dismay. That same trick would serve him now.
Moving with speed and precision he seized the hilt of his sword and swept it from its scabbard. Then he stepped forward to fling it—but as he did a searing pain shot through his palm and without conscious thought he let go of the hilt.
The blade clattered to the yard’s stone floor. Nedgalvin’s mouth opened in astonishment when he saw the hilt glowing cherry red in the night, as if it had just come from the forge. His palm was blistered.
Helvero said, “I heard how a trick like that was used on Smoke.”
With his uninjured hand Nedgalvin grabbed for his long knife, but as the blade cleared the sheath it too became red hot and he was forced to drop it beside the sword. He reached for his bow.
Helvero picked that moment to come after him with the staff. Nedgalvin dodged his first thrust, but the second caught him high on the shoulder, unbalancing him long enough for Helvero to connect a short, hard swing to the side of his head.
He woke later in a lightless room, and threw up.
~
Nefión lies beyond the border of the Puzzle Lands and beyond the reach of the Lutawan king. It’s the only large settlement within the Wild Wood. The king tried to take it once, after his soldiers were pushed out of the Puzzle Lands. But the Hauntén don’t want an empire on their doorstep. As the king’s army marched north toward the forest road they walked straight into a storm fiercer than any they had met before. Such a deluge of rain fell that men and horses were washed away, the road disappeared, and the shape of the land was changed. The Lutawan king has focused his animosities on us, since then.
Nefión
Seök had served eleven years as a Koráyos soldier, before resigning to marry his second cousin. In the two years since, he’d worked for her father as a teamster, driving a merchant wagon on a regular circuit from Braided River in the southeast corner of the Puzzle Lands, over the mountains of the East Tangle to Nefión, north on the forest road to Binthy sheep country, and south again to Samerhen.
He smelled rain coming as he drove his wagon east to Nefión. Ignoring the lowing protests of his oxen, he forced them on past dusk. The rains began as he crossed the last bridge. The sparse night watch waved him on into the city. His sister’s household was asleep when he rolled into the yard, but the barking dogs put an end to that, waking the hired boy first, who slept in the stable, and then rousing Yelena and her husband.
Yelena bubbled over with joy to see him. “Seök! Praise Koráy, the Dread Hammer, and the Trenchant! I smelled the rain coming and feared you would be trapped in a mire.”
“That was my fear too,” Seök confessed. “Better to come late at night than not at all.”
Together they stabled the oxen, secured the wagon, and then rewarded themselves with a late-night feast and a round of gossip. Yelena eventually declared that they all must rest, for there was work to be done tomorrow. She sent the hired boy back to the stable and with her husband she retired to bed. The other upstairs rooms were full of a tribe of small children, so Seök did as he was accustomed to do, and laid out his bedroll in a cozy nook among the trade goods on the floor of his sister’s mercantile.
By the time he lay down to sleep the rain was thundering against the roof. He offered up a prayer of thanks that it was not pounding down against his unsheltered head, and he slipped away into slumber. Yet he woke again before long, disturbed by a dream he could not recall. After that his sleep was uneasy, and each time he closed his eyes it seemed to him a faint spirit voice whispered to him to beware. So he was half-awake when Yelena’s footsteps creaked lightly across the floor above. All was still dark inside the mercantile, but Seök sensed that dawn was not far off. Shivering, he pulled his blanket closer around him.
Pride had finally persuaded Smoke to change his mind about the journey to Nefión. Ketty had started to look like a ragged waif. The few clothes she’d brought with her from her father’s house were spoiled with wear and made nearly useless by her expanding belly. The dress she’d stitched from a deerskin was pretty enough, but it was only one, and it was heavy and hot. She was his wife! And he’d grown up with fine things. So he resolved to do better by her.
Even so, he didn’t abandon all caution.
He waited for the approach of a great rain spirit; he weighed its presence in the weft until he was sure it would claim all of the sky from the north where the Binthy shepherd tribes lived, to the far south beyond the merchant city of Nefión. H
e told Ketty he would be going in the morning.
That evening, there was only a fine mist falling on the forest, but when he arose three hours before dawn, in the coal-lit darkness of the cottage, the rain was rattling the thatch roof.
The glimmering hearth spirit watched him as he dressed. Last of all he slung his sword over his back. Ketty was still sleeping. He spent a moment admiring her. “Watch over her,” he whispered to the hearth spirit. Then he pulled the hood of his coat up over his head, tugging it low so his face was a shadow enlivened only by glittering eyes.
That part of himself he called a man, the part Ketty saw and could touch and love—in truth that part was only a reflection of a spirit that lived among the threads. When he set his soul to glide along the weft, his reflection was lost in the speed of his passage. To the watching hearth spirit it seemed that, in a swirl of confusion, he dissolved into a column of scentless gray smoke that sped away through the wall, though there was no wind to drive it forth.
Much later, he came to Nefión.
Dawn had come, though it had not yet found a way past the storm clouds. Rain drummed in the muddy streets, hissed in the gardens, and rumbled against the roofs. Most of the houses were dark, but lamps were lit in a few merchant shops where new shipments were waiting to be tallied and sorted.
Smoke stood at a street corner, listening to the threads. Nefión was the hub linking both the Lutawan Kingdom and the Puzzle Lands to the forest road, and many merchant families kept compounds there. At first he heard only inconsequential sounds: the soft song of a mother soothing her infant, the faint murmur of lovers, the restrained cries of a woman in labor and the whispering of her midwife’s encouragements. Then after a few minutes he heard the voice of a woman counting aloud as she measured bolts of silk fabric. Smoke followed the sound of it, until he stood outside a sturdy, two-story house built of dressed stone. A sign identified Yelena’s mercantile. The gleam of an oil lamp shone through the window’s frosted glass.
