Saber and Shadow

by S. M. Stirling

The warm air smelled pleasantly of hot stone, soap and the screens of woven cedarwood strips between the tubs; the others were all full, to judge by the splashings and low sounds of conversation, but nobody had disputed her possession of a tub large enough for three-four, if they were Fehinnans. There were some advantages to being a foreigner here. Relaxing into the heat, she considered reaching for the wine cup on the floor beside her, then settled for reaching her hand down to Ten-Knife-Foot. A furred head butted against the fingertips; she rubbed and was rewarded with a deep rumbling purr.

  Ahi-a, she thought. What to do? Feasting, fornication and fighting were the choices....

  Feet stepped into her field of vision. Woman’s feet, small, well-formed but battered and callused, with half-healed circular scars around the ankles. Long legs ... no, only in proportion. Good build; she noted the way the buttocks curved at the back but flattened even with the thighs at the sides—hard exercise. An old scar angling up along the muscles of her belly, breasts high and rounded, strong neck, shoulders sloping from the deltoids. Scars: knife fighter’s scars. A good knife fighter, to have lived a score of years with a disadvantage in reach.

  The face was alien here in Fehinna. It would have been more so in the bleak stone keeps and huddled villages of the watcher’s northwestern home. Triangular, the eyes enormous and as black as the hair that tumbled almost to her calves. Strange, she thought. And beautiful.

  “Mo’kta moi-trutka azhyt,” Shkai’ra said suddenly, in her own language: “Well, dip me in dung. I’ve seen you before.”

  The small woman tensed slightly. Shkai’ra smiled, lying back with her arms along the edge of the tub and reaching for the carved hickory wine cup.

  “Don’t worry; if I saw that shipload of bandits dying of thirst in a desert, I wouldn’t spit on them. It might give them the strength to crawl to water. Very nice, the way you took out that kinless fishfucker’s throat. Fast.” She eyed the other woman. “I don’t think you’d make a very good slave, anyway. Can’t see you lying down peacefully for the master’s horny teenaged offspring, somehow.” She sipped, continuing in a slightly different tone: “Room for two.”

  Pretty, she thought idly. Interesting. One of the compensations of exile was meeting odd types. Everything came to Illizbuah if you waited, went the saying. Although it was very odd that they should meet again; it smelled of luck. Two sheep, Glitch, she added mentally.

  “I thank you,” the other said, in Fehinnan still more heavily accented. She laid a fingertip to the white strand of hair at her temple and inclined her head slightly. “I hight ... pardon, am Megan. Called ... Byeliy-skayishka, ah, ‘White-Hair-Bit?’” She indicated the silver strand in her hair.

  “Whitlock,” Shkai’ra said, pronouncing the word carefully. “I think. Godsdamned Fehinnan always sounds like they’ve got porridge in their mouths.” She shrugged. “I’m being rude. Speed to your horse, strength to your lance, a straight shaft to your bow. Shkai’ra Mek-Kermak’s-Kin, I am called: late Senior in Stonefort, in the Kommanz of Granfor. On the Sea of Grass, six months’ travel north and west.”

  Megan examined her speculatively. The copper-blond hair was darker wet and she hadn’t recognized the woman at first. Tall, eyes of a pale smoke-grey, startling against the dark-tanned face. A thin high-cheeked face ... a saber must have caused that scar arcing from the corner of an eye down the cheek; there were other white marks on right arm and left leg, below where the shield would cover. A cavalry fighter, then. That would accord with the greeting; and a plains dweller, like those at home.

  The appraisal flickered through her mind in the instant it took to slide into the water, submerge, and resurface, slicking hair back from her face. A few suds floated free, from the preliminary cleaning; the swamps took more than one rinsing to wash out of her memory, even if the mud was off her skin.

  “A titled one ... The only rank I claim is Riverguild Master, out of F’talezon in Zakos, and owner/captain of my own ship. Over the Great Sea—the Lannic, it is called here, and in the eastern end of the Mitvald.” No need to tell her any more than that. The company, ships, warehouses and all, may be down to rags before I get back.

  “Nice to hear someone who speaks Fehinnan with a worse accent than mine,” Shkai’ra said, grinning. She was actually fluent, but the sounds were difficult for her after the staccato gutturals of Kommanzanu.

  Resentful at being ignored, the cat stood on his hind legs, stretching up. She smiled, an odd closed curve of the lips, and scratched expertly behind his ears. The yellow eyes closed to slits.

  “As for titles, ‘penniless exile’ would be better, here. Or ‘sellsword,’ as the Fehinnans say.” She ripped more of the jug into her cup. “Just back from a long voyage south; little profit, damnably sober and chaste, and several shipwrecks. Seawater holds no luck for me.”

  “We have that in common, then. Hello, little shadow brother,” Megan said, regarding the cat. It returned her gaze and yawned, pink and white and cavernous.

  “I picked him up two seasons ago, on the western border.”

  The arrows had come out of the scrub oak along the mountain trail at dusk.

  “We didn’t do too well.”

  She had shot her quiver empty: the Kommanz wheel-bow hit harder than anything east of the Great River, but none of the others were horse archers....

  “I woke up with a broken arm; my horse lying across one leg.”

  Crusted blood on her eyelids. Yelling laughter from the tribesfolk as they took their pick of heads and melted back into the forest.

  “Ten-Knife was sitting on my chest, the next time I woke up.”

  The sound the wounded made, when the scavengers found them.

  “Wine?” she said, raising her cup and admiring the sheen on the swirling grain.

  Megan reached over to stretch out a hand to Ten-Knife, carefully. He sniffed, twice, then turned and inclined his head, purring as she rubbed the indicated cheek. “I’ve passed his first test, it seems,” she said lightly, lying back again and letting her hair drift free in the soothing water.

  Good, to feel clean again, she thought. Very good. Though there had been plenty of water in the swamp, all of it had left her feeling greasy.

  She opened her eyes to the ceiling, glass skylights and mosaics of colored stone showing seaweed and fish, thinking that she never wanted to see grey moss hanging over her again. It went with the smell.

  They lounged in silence for minutes, comfortably. “I’m starting to wrinkle,” Shkai’ra said. “Odd habits they have here in the southlands, soaking the whole body in warm water. Nice, in limited amounts.”

  “In so warm a climate, I can ynerstun ... understand it,” Megan said. “Fehinnans seem offended by smells. The wine smells good, but not on an empty stomach.”

  She’d eaten several small meals over the day already, not wanting to gorge and make herself sick, but was hungry again.

  “I could eat,” Shkai’ra said. “After all that hardtack, I could eat half a roasted pig. Gods and demons, I got sick of coconut and pineapple down south.”

  Megan found herself wanting company. I’ve always been comfortable alone, she thought. But that’s always been in a familiar place or surrounded by my own people.

  Shkai’ra rose and wrapped herself in the cool fluffy towel held out by an inn servant. “The Weary Wayfarer sets a good table,” she said, stretching with unselfconscious pleasure. “Among its other virtues. Neutrality is one; freelances stay here, from the City and the world.” She looked down to the smaller woman; standing, the other’s head just reached her breastbone. “We are not unfriends.” There was a speculative look in her eyes, just for an instant. “Perhaps we may become friends.” The narrow face lit for a moment in an oddly charming smile. “It would be dangerous for both of us if we were enemies, I think.”

  Megan looked up and imagined that face over a blade, all angles and planes, with not a soft line in it. “You’d have the weight and reach on me,” she said casually as they proceeded through
to the changing room. Flattery. What does she want? Attendants handed them long linen robes and cloth sandals. “But I’d be willing to wager on speed, if only for the first pass,” she continued, tying the sash of the robe herself, forestalling the servant who tried to do it for her. She knows this city, even if she’s not native. We’ll see.

  There was an outdoor dining area, tucked into the angle between two roofs at second-story level. Seaward, the masts of ships showed forest-thick over the warehouses. Harbor smells were overborne by roasting meat and garlic.

  “Ach, that smells good,” Megan said, looking around at the low tables and cushions. Like home. The table bore candles in glass bubbles, salt, spices, a platter of cornbread, a tall beaker, and cups of cool brown stoneware. The breeze blew crisp and strong, damp from the river but cool against skins still heated from the baths. The wind was rising before rain.

  Shkai’ra shook herself and tucked her feet beneath her on the cushions. “Fish stew?” she said to Megan inquiringly.

  “It sounds better than what I’ve been eating lately.” No need to mention slave gruel. “But I have wished for good red meat.”

  “I was raised on steak myself,” Shkai’ra said. “Well, then. Hmmm.”

  A rotund woman climbed puffing out onto the rooftop terrace, followed by several servers with trays. She presented them at a neighboring table, whisking off the ceramic covers to a round of applause as blue flames danced over the dish. Then she waddled over to Shkai’ra’s table, mopping at her face with one end of the towel that lay around her neck.

  “Ah! Shkai’ra! she said. “So thin, so thin!” A sausage-like finger prodded at muscle that lay like smooth armor over the Kommanza’s ribs. “You will starve without Annulu to cook for you.” The fat woman’s Fehinnan held a slight trace of a singsong accent, and she was paler than the run of lowlanders. She turned to Megan. “I tell her often, to be thin is a temptation to wickedness—only we fat people are to be trusted. We are too heavy to be wicked—not quick enough. She should eat!”

  Shkai’ra sank a friendly elbow into the cook’s side. “We’d decided we both want meat,” she said. “What’s good?”

  “Everything out of Glaaghi’s kitchen is good ... especially when I do a special hire—then it is my kitchen! Annulu said in mock anger. “But for you and your friend, it will be especially good. Wait. It will be a surprise.” She nudged Shkai’ra with her foot. “Manners, outland barbarian.”

  “Ah.” Shkai’ra started slightly, then made the introduction.

  “I greet you and your family and look forward to your art,” Megan said.

  “More than art. Magic!” Annulu said, retreating to the stairwell.

  At Megan’s raised eyebrow, Shkai’ra spoke. “Old friends,” she said. “I lent her part of the money to buy herself, back when.” A reminiscent grin. “Long story. The price kept going up because she’s the best cook in the New City ... and she couldn’t bear to do a bad meal.”

  A plate of pickled appetizers appeared; then red bean soup with prawns, not in both meanings of the word, with a salad of greens; then roast of pork, honey-glazed and stuffed with truffles and onions; steamed seaweed; baked sweet potatoes on a bed of scented rice. The wine had a strange musky tang to Megan’s palate, but it was pleasing.

  They both ate with the slow enjoyment of those who have gone hungry often. At last Shkai’ra sighed, mopped up a corner of her plate with a heel of bread, and belched comfortably. Swift, efficient hands removed the soiled dishes and replaced them with platters of cheese and flatbread, more wine, and a pot suspended in a porcelain frame over an open flame. Megan discretely laid a clip of metal under the edge of me plate and never saw it disappear. In her estimation, it was enough to pay for good service; especially since she’d found she’d stolen quite a lot the evening before, not knowing the value of the metal. Servers in inns are always underpaid anyway.

  Shkai’ra paused, considered, and poured herself a cup of the tea rather than more wine, “Ahi-a, at home I’d be eating jerked meat in the saddle, while we fought to keep the nomads off the crops. Exile can have its compensations.” She smiled and glanced upward. Now the long twilight of summer was fading, and clouds rolled black along the western horizon. A small storm rolling in, one of the hurricane’s children. “Exile?” Megan began, raising an eyebrow.

  “But for all the striving and slaying,” Shkai’ra said, an hour later, “I’ve only what I arrived with: my sword and my wits.” They had been exchanging bits of their life stories; suitably edited, Megan was sure—her own certainly had been, by omission. It was unusual that she felt as talkative as she did.

  Shkai’ra linked her fingers and rested her chin on them; her smile was oddly charming on the long harsh face, and her eyelids drooped slightly.

  “Since you’re going to be in town for a while,” she went on, “perhaps we could get to know one another better?”

  Megan leaned back away from Shkai’ra and stretched. Lamplight glittered in her eyes, sheened off hair and the bright inlays of the low table. She’s interested in me for more than just company. For an instant, she remembered Serkai. They had initiated each other into the first mysteries of sex when they were children. But that was before—the River Lady. Her face hardened a little. But this one isn’t being pushy. Women don’t tend to be. She couldn’t bear the thought of being with a male and hadn’t for the last eight years. Not since Sarngeld bought her from her aunt. But with a woman?

  She swallowed and forced herself to lean forward casually. Somehow during the talk, she’d gotten closer to Shkai’ra than anyone else at home for years. It was a strange, cracking sort of feeling, like scraping ash off a log and finding it was still glowing underneath, however faintly.

  “That might be—possible,” she said. Pondering, she tapped one nail against the table with an oddly metallic sound.

  Their fingers touched; Megan opened her mouth to speak. A fat drop of water fell on their hands, and with a blaze of multiforked lightning the storm broke over their heads. They blinked away the dazzle and rushed for shelter, reaching the arcade just as the rain became a hissing downpour.

  Megan’s face smoothed into a mask, pale in the blue flaring light, carefully not showing emotion. “I hate storms,” she said.

  “Eh’mex mekagro nai,” Shkai’ra replied, and shivered slightly. “Baiwun Avenger rides the Plains of Sky tonight. Over kilometers of darkened cityscape the flame of the Sun Temple twisted, lashing the sky.”

  She turned to Megan. “See you tomorrow?” she said.

  Megan nodded. The weariness of days settled on her shoulders. “Goddess ward your sleep,” she said.

  It was after midnight, and Baiwun’s hammer still rumbled in the distance. Shkai’ra sat cross-legged on the round bed that dominated her room. Hands rested on thighs, and the grey eyes were sightless as she meditated, unable to sleep. No Kommanza was easy in a thunderstorm; it was the most frightening of natural things to dwellers on the empty plains. In thunder the Avenger sought out lawbreakers.

  A harsh scream broke the silence and the sound of dripping waters. It came from the next room—a long despairing wail of agony and terror.

  Chapter III

  Yeva Haacha’s-kin, a master of the Guild of the Wise, sat before a silver bowl in a garden that whispered and rustled as rain pattered down, on vine and leaf and carved stone pergola. The rain somehow avoided the space where she sat. Long black hair fell in a curtain as she leaned forward over the bowl and passed a hand over the water; eyes the color of milk From corner to corner gazed into it.

  With a chime the metal chilled suddenly as the water froze; frost-fog tumbling over the smooth edge, drifting down over embossed figures thick with hoar, to puddle and dissipate in the rain outside the circle of protection.

  Thunder cracked overhead. The figures rising out of the ice wavered for a moment, then firmed as her concentration took hold. The symbol was the thing; she reached to hold firm the sympathetic linkage between the here and the there. Ah,
General-Commander Smyna, and the High Priest—unmistakable. Their voices rang insect-thin from the images of frost, speaking of war; dates, places, strategies. Yeva’s lips thinned. Smooth conversation in a quiet room; the lives and homes of others wrecked by papers dropped across a table.

  She touched the bowl with a finger, and the metal glowed white for an instant: time present. Then another image rose unbidden, flickering. She concentrated to firm it, for the unasked Sight was always valuable. A woman—no, two women—sat at a low table, a candle between them. Red hair inclining toward dark, a finger tracing on the table. A gust of ... not-wind, and the scene vanished. She touched her finger again to the bowl, and this time the glow was red: time past. Earlier this evening.

  The blind woman raised her eyes to the garden and thought for long minutes. The unsought omen is always to be heeded. No vision of the future was complete, for the future was not one path but many. Every living soul helped shape it, with every decision they made. Here were two more to play the game, two who had become crucial.

  Faces called up in answer to her question. How were they to deal with Illizbuah? She smiled suddenly and gestured. The cold-formed fog billowed up, obscuring her from sight. Lightning flashed, reflecting a million shining droplets of frozen air as the rain fell freely everywhere. It puddled in the bowl, with the melting ice.

  Cubilano, Reflection of the Everlasting Light, High Priest of the Sun in Illizbuah, Chancellor of Fehinna’s God-King, sat in the silence he preferred. Such undiscipline, he thought, noting a slight movement of an acolyte’s eyes. He made an almost imperceptible sign with one finger, and the acolyte moved forward, covered his eyes with his hands, and bowed deeply.

  “Young one,” Cubilano said quietly, “strength of will can overcome the need to move injudiciously. My child, go from here to the Great Altar; there you may assume the posture of submission and remain, contemplating what virtue lies in stillness, for as long as it would take the Sun to pass through the width of two hands.”