by Doris Egan
stance, when I was younger, that my state of mind could be so at the mercy of certain outside things. I had had no idea that something like "being in love" could change my entire point of view, making a spring of ridiculous satisfaction that lay just under the surface of everything I did. It was a totally nonsituational happiness, or situational only in that it related to proximity to Ran. Kidnappings and other such things were irrelevant to it. I'd been an Athenan rationalist and scholar; I'd felt pride in work that was well done, the pleasure of learning, of completing things I'd set out to finish. But this was something scarier, something clear outside of myself; I might as well be injected with a happiness drug.
I will tell you now that I was not pleased with it, or as not-pleased as I was capable of being while humming every morning and smiling at odd moments. But at least I learned that I was not alone in this mental vulnerability, it was part of the way we humans were wired. I labeled it an exception to normal life, and put it aside. Now under Carabinstereth's tutelage I learned new exceptions (and how many exceptions could there be, I worried, as my mental lists grew).
For one thing, there was the rollercoaster I went through at drill. Dread, dread, dread, as I waited in line, mixed with some anticipation. Then the fight itself began, and the fear was gone; there was no room for anything but an intense concentration. Then Lex or Grateth would be down and I would return to my place, feeling emotion start to seep back—in this case a blind euphoria that lasted for hours, sometimes for days. In talking with the other women afterward I found they were going through exactly the same cycle. It had never crossed my mind that humans were so predictable, that we could be turned on and off so easily. The very concept was anti-Athenan. And it bothered me a great deal.
But there was more. At supper on the third day we were waiting in line by the cookhouse for some stew when two men from another band walked past the line and went straight to the bowl. They didn't necessarily mean anything by it; there were only three of us on line, and we were behind the rope that marked off the serving table so they may not have seen us. Line jumping happened every now and then because when the supper rush was over there was
no line at all, and people got used to just walking by and taking what they wanted. When it did happen everybody waiting would look at each other, wondering if they should give up and rush for whatever was left in the bowl.
Without thinking I called, "Friends, the line's over here. If you're wanting supper." They turned, looked confused, then dissatisfied, then joined the line. When I reached the bowl, the server that night said, "I'm glad you did that, sister. I hate it when they jump the line." But as I ate I found myself thinking, why in the world did you do that? You've never done it before, you always let them past.
Understand, I spent my childhood on Pyrene, where I learned early never to volunteer, never to complain about unfair rules, and never to call attention to myself. These attributes, developed into fine talent, have stood me in good stead in my life. It's thanks to them that I could move from one culture to another and particularly that I blended in as well as I did on Ivory, where my physical characteristics were so different.
So what in heaven's name had come over me now?
I talked with the other women before the next session and many of them had done similar things. The aggression level in our class was clearly rising. One of them had picked a verbal fight with someone who'd tried to criticize her choice of tah. One had given an ultimatum to her lover about where they were living when Stereth got us pardons. I was shocked. Somehow I'd associated aggressive behavior with "the silly things men do." Clearly I'd been kidding myself—here we were, as vulnerable as anybody to it. This was frightening; were we all going to end up as Carabin-stereths?
I put the question to the other women and we looked at each other in horror. We liked Carabinstereth, but being her was another question entirely. Good god, when would you ever rest?
It was Carabinstereth who set us straight. "It'll wear off, my friends," she said, when several women told her, wide-eyed, what they'd done. She laughed. "It doesn't last very long, really it doesn't."
She was right. The pendulum swung back, although it didn't stop in exactly the same space it was in when we began. It still troubles me.. What else will I learn that can change me even if I don't want to be changed?
Chapter Thirteen
"Children," called Carabinstereth. "Mora tells us that she held back in this drill because she thought Lex's eye protectors might not be strong enough. This is not your concern! Kindly bear in mind that when he's on that mat, Lex is not our beloved instructor, he is an enemy. Our aim is to push those eyeballs right back into his squidgy little brain! If permanent damage and death occur, then joy be to us all. Anyone I catch holding back—"
I was halfway down the line that afternoon. Juvindeth, standing just behind me, pulled off a boot and shook it. A pebble dropped. She said to me, "So, you and Sokol have another wife."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your senior wife. She must be upset about not knowing where you are."
"We don't have a senior wife."
Now it was Juvindeth who looked confused. "That day in the cookhouse, when you said it was your honeymoon—"
Oh. The custom that was not followed here with principal wives. I said, "Well, I'm a foreigner, and since I'm going to be the only wife he ever has, I wanted a honeymoon."
"Oh, I'm sorry. He doesn't look that poor. I guess the sorcery business has its ups and downs."
"Poor?"
"Not to be able to afford another wife. It'll be lonely, just the two of you." She put a hand on my wrist in comfort. "You should move in with his family, if he has any. They'll be some company for you, anyway."
The Ivoran view of things was sometimes disconcerting. I said, "I don't think you quite—"
"Our time's up for today," called Carabinstereth. "You're all doing excellent work. Now gather 'round, because there
are a few things I need to tell you. —Don't worry, Sel, we'll start with you first tomorrow." She gave Selene a wicked look. "Now, I'm going to warn you about something. You've all got friends or lovers in the band, and you all talk a lot. That's fine as far as it goes—but you'll be better off not bringing up your training around the men, even if you've done something you're particularly proud of and want to share it. This is because—and I'm telling you, it's going to happen—some of them are going to want to fool around with you. They'll say, 'Show me what you've learned, sweetie,' or they'll creep up behind you, or some damn thing." She took a swallow from the waterjug. "Now, I'm not going to say that isn't from some deep-seated male urge to sabotage any woman who might be a threat, because it probably is."
Nicely done, Carabinstereth. You know how to win friends and influence people. I looked toward Lex, whose face showed no expression. Our instructor continued.
"But to be honest, that's not all it is. For one thing, they'll think it's cute as the dickens that you're learning this stuff, and they won't believe for a second you could hurt them. And well, for another—it's the way they deal with each other, too. Horseplay. You know how they throw fake punches at each other for the hell of it."
Nods from the other women, although I could not imagine Ran throwing fake punches at anybody.
"Well, we're not teaching you horseplay. We're teaching you to maim and kill. And we're teaching you not to think about it. So what happens when some guy tries to have fun with you? Either you hold back, which ruins your conditioning, or you damage him."
"So what do we do?" asked Mora.
"Try to avoid the situation," said Carabinstereth. "But if you can't, it's more important that you maintain your training. Don't ever stop and think, friends, or you'll answer to me. Strike, that's all."
We all looked at each other. Maim or kill one of our guys?
"I know," said Carabinstereth. "But don't think. Anyway," she added, "men who've been through serious training themselves—deserters and whatnot—usually won't give you
trouble. They understand how it works, you can talk
to them. It's the green apples you have to worry about, and they're less valuable as fighters."
We didn't have to wait long. That very night Paravit-Col crept up behind Juvindeth while she was doing the dishes and grabbed her. She whirled, smashing her elbow bone into his face, and managed to stop herself before she followed up with a knee to the groin. "Oh, Parry," she cried. "I'm so sorry."
Paravit-Col had his hands over his face. Blood was spurting freely from his nose, which we later learned was broken. He hadn't taken more than two steps back, however, before Komo clouted him on the ear.
"Good for her," said Komo, who'd been eating a pell-fruit nearby. "I warned you not to do that."
I was glad Komo wasn't our instructor.
Later, I wasn't sure. Carabinstereth had no criticism about not following up with the groin blow—there had been time enough after the initial reaction to register the data that it was an idiot ally instead of an enemy. But she made Juvindeth run three drills in a row with multiple attackers, as punishment for having told Paravit-Col she was sorry.
Tarniss Cord, also known as the Only Outlaw Who Uses His Birthname, had a headquarters over a day's ride north of us, and west of Dramonta's territory. Tarniss Cord had started out in Dramonta's company and eventually paid a fee to be allowed to set up on his own. Rumor had it that he still paid tribute to his old leader for the right to continue as an independent.
"Why do I have to go?" I asked Stereth. "Who am I? I'm not anybody."
"You're company for Des," he replied. "Besides, Cord has a soft spot for barbarian women, and I'm not sending Cantry."
Ran was out at that moment with a crew in the cookhouse, trying to clean it up from the major singeing it had taken when the ancient oven backed up at dinner the previous night. I wished he were there. It was reassuring to at least look at each other's helpless expressions as we were carted off on another mission for Stereth.
Des walked over and joined us. "Hey, Tymon, I hear we're running off together."
"We'll see," I said noncommittally.
Stereth smiled. "All right, children—as our Carabin would say—I'm about to tell you everything I know about Tarniss Cord's group, and what I want you to say to him."
Des sat down and crossed his legs, looking attentive. I sighed and leaned against the wall. He began, "There are thirty-two people in Cord's band. He has three lieutenants; their names are Ishal, Cabrico, and Daramin…"
Half an hour later I passed Mora Sobien Ti in the courtyard on the way to the mounts. I said, "Will you tell Sokol I've been sent off for a couple of days? I don't think it's anything dangerous." Probably. So far as I knew.
She said, "Of course, Tymon. Road-luck to you, and to Des, too, I guess. Are you going with her, Des?"
He paused near the mounting block. "Sure. Tymon and I are running off to start a new life in the territories."
She smiled. "Then road-luck to you, too, Des. Bring me back a present."
Des grinned, bent over and put one arm around Mora's back. He kissed her good-bye. I've never forgotten that picture: Des was young and tall and brimming with confidence; Mora was graying and marked by a life of endurance. For a moment there they both looked like gods, or anyway something other than human, something that transcended; something that would last. Then Des let go. He took the halter of his mount from Lex and swung into the seat. "I'll see what I can find for you," he promised Mora.
For a quarter of a second I had one of my flashes of the way all this had to end; Des and Mora's bodies thrown down from the execution block like offal.
Des pointed his mount toward the two blasted trees at the entrance to the valley. He twisted his neck around. "You coming, Tymon?"
"Right behind you, Des."
Ran emerged from the cookhouse, wiping soot and sweat from his face. He looked toward me and stopped dead.
"Ask Stereth," I called helplessly, and followed Des away.
From the look on my half-husband's face, this was going to be very difficult to explain.
* * *
There's an old Imperial fort on the Plateau called Death-well. It's a real fort, not a monastery like Stereth's hideout; a big, sprawling place, not used for the last eight or nine centuries because it was said to be a seat of bad magic and ill luck. Too many executions had taken place there, too many treacherous blows had been struck—within the ranks of the military hierarchy and without—and too many of them had left a bad sorcerous smell behind. It was a place to be avoided by any sensible person.
Tarniss Cord was a rulebreaker. Deathwell was his headquarters. I saw it first from the top of a hill, the clouds heavy above us and the cool plateau wind ruffling the fur of my mount.
"Gods, it's enormous," I said to Des.
It loomed over that part of the land like a giant black fist.
"The Imperials don't do things by halves," he said.
"This isn't my idea of a hideout. Surely everybody for leagues around must know about this place."
"They don't think anybody would be crazy enough to live there," he said, signaling his mount to go down the hill toward the trail that led up to the fort. "And if it does cross anybody's mind, they keep it to themselves. Nobody wants to have to go there in person to see."
"But Stereth thought it would be good if we went."
He grinned. "Cheer up, Tymon. If we die at Deathwell, we'll die like heroes in a play."
I lagged behind. "How dangerous is this, anyway?"
"I'm joking, Tymon, I'm joking. We have diplomatic immunity. Come on, you wouldn't let your companion-of-the-road go on alone, would you?" For Des, this was the unre-fusable question. Someday I should use it on him, I thought as I caught up to him and we started up the hill.
At closer quarters I could see the disrepair; the lost stones sitting by themselves in the grass near the wall, the place where a diverted stream had dried up long ago without Imperial engineers to maintain it. There were characters cut into the stone of the wall, graffiti left by soldiers who'd been dust for centuries. "An early death to Captain Nayle," said one. "I want to go home," said another, simply. A five-line poem was scratched at what was eye-level for me on my mount; somebody must have stood on some-
thing to do it. Not all the characters were still legible. "The breezes are warm in the capital. The [?] of my first [?] home are sweet. But my soul longs for the scouring wind of autumn and the evenings of cold rain."
We were near the main gate. A voice floated down from somewhere above us: "All right, my friends, you can wait there." We halted. Des didn't move, so I didn't either.
The voice called, "Are you the messengers?"
"We are!" yelled back Des. We searched the top of the wall, but there was no sign of life.
"Then you can give me your names."
"Des Helani and Tymon. And the acceptance was relayed by Ishal of your band."
There was silence again. We waited, and five minutes later the massive gate swung open. I looked up as we rode inside. The clouds above us were heavy and filled with the promise of cold rain.
"We've been watching you for twenty minutes," said Daramin cheerfully. Her long black braid bounced against her fanny as she preceded us into the heart of the fort, and I could see Des trying to tear his gaze away from it. "You're not fast riders, are you?"
He cleared his throat. "Uh, no. That is, we like to be careful."
"Us, too," she said.
Twisting passageways and unexpected sets of stairs went on for quite a while, and we didn't see another soul. I was beginning to consider that Tarniss Cord's thirty-odd people could live here pretty successfully even if the occasional riding party did come by and look through the fort. They seemed to disappear very well when they wanted to.
A stone fish blew a plume of water into a font at the entrance to one stairway, and Des paused to wipe his face. "Don't drink that water," said Daramin sharply.
He looked up, puzzled.
"Ou
r supply's been fouled," she explained. "That's what Cord's working on."
We passed three other fonts as we descended the staircases, all beneath each other vertically, all presumably useless. There were no windows now, not even tiny ones. Daramin took a torch from the wall. "We have a genera-
tor," she explained, "but they never bothered to lay wire down here. I guess they didn't come down too often."
We were deep inside the hill that Deathwell was built on by now. Perhaps this was where they buried the bodies of strangers who came bothering them. I glanced at Des. He walked with such confidence; thoughts like this never crossed his mind. And in any case, his attention still seemed focused on Daramin's braid as it bounced hypnotically from one buttock to the other. I wondered again about Stereth's wisdom in sending Des as an emissary.
We came out at last into a great pillared cellar. Rows of kegs covered the far wall and racks for weapons—some even with weapons in them—were stacked against another. A dozen lamps swung from the ceiling. In the corner the stones of the flooring had been broken up and a pit dug; picks and shovels were scattered nearby and some kind of pulley system rigged above the hole. A man stood there straddling the entrance. He took up a bucket and dumped a load of earth onto a growing pile near the kegs. His shirt was off, his brown skin was sweating, and he looked like a prizefighter. His hair was longer than any Ivoran male's I'd seen. He wore it in a ponytail that was plastered now to his back. He returned to the pit and called down: "How does it look?"
The reply was muffled.
Daramin brought us over, bowed, and said, "Tarniss Cord… our visitors from Stereth Tar'krim."
"Honored by this meeting," said Des formally. I bowed.
The Only Outlaw Who Used His Birthname wiped his brow. "I, too, am honored." He glanced down at the pit again, then back at us. In a less formal tone he said, "I don't suppose either of you is an engineer."
