Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXVI

by Unknown

  Yama knew better than to protest. If she disobeyed the Banjooli-Mistress, she'd be sent home in disgrace. Instead of bringing honor to father, she'd be adding to his burden. She fetched her travel bundle without complaint. Dara, though, refused to cooperate, sidestepping away from the leather saddle pad and crying "Kee-ya! Kee-ya!"

  "Sit down, you silly bird! Of all days to be naughty!"

  Mistress Binata watched without comment. Safara rolled her eyes. "You've indulged that runt too much. Now it's spoiled and undisciplined, and you'll have to resort to Command Words."

  Yama set her lips tight and gave a hand signal for Down. Her bird obediently folded its long legs and sat.

  "Actually, it's so clever it doesn't even need regular words to understand me."

  Safara snorted and kicked her own mount into a walk, not waiting for Yama to catch up.

  * * * *

  Yama felt Safara's disapproving presence even while she slept. The Yellow Rider criticized Yama's posture, her riding speed, the way she cared for her banjooli, even her snoring. But that was better than the second day, when Safara rode alongside all morning, telling Yama horrific tales about how the Soul-Sweepers created the banjooli.

  "…after they strip you they paint white stripes on your body, for cowardice. Then they beat the heart-drum…"

  "Keela Safara, stop! You're making the banjooli nervous."

  "It's not the banjooli that's losing her nerve. If you can't face me, how will you face a pack of thorn-dogs, or worse, enemy raiders?" Safara's messenger-bird loped along smoothly, never swerving to peck at insects or shiny rocks the way Dara did. Safara didn't look stiff and sore, just smug. Yama's stomach growled, and Safara laughed.

  "You need to stop for dinner already, farm-girl?"

  Yama surveyed the hills and thorn-trees and broke into a smile. "Not yet. I'm heading for that village just ahead."

  Safara raised an eyebrow. "I didn't think you'd take advantage of Rider's Right to make the farmers feed you, Keela Yama."

  Yama just smiled and kept riding.

  * * * *

  "Yama! Yama's come home!" Yama's father and three brothers came running from the groundnut field. The twins, Baaku and Baayu, tried to grab her banjooli's harness.

  Yama gasped. "Taxa!" she shouted- the Command-word for Stop. The banjooli froze in mid-kick, and the twins gaped at its clawed foot.

  "Boys! Are your heads cracked? Never run up to a Rider like that," said their father, his face ashen. "Show respect."

  "It's just Yama," Baaku pouted.

  "But the banjooli could still kick you to death," Yama pointed out. She released Dara from the spell and walked the stunned banjooli in circles until it calmed down. Safara looked on in consternation.

  "I wish I could be a Rider," said Abdou.

  "You're a boy. You'd get too big and heavy," Yama teased.

  "Your banjooli just stood there until you let it move," said Baayu in awe.

  Yama grinned. "Keela trick. I wonder if it works on little brothers?" Her grin vanished when she saw her father's expression; the courteous, formal expression he always showed to visiting messengers. She wasn't his little daughter now. She was Keela Yama, riding to prove herself worthy to be trusted with the Sweepers' correspondence. And Safara was watching.

  Her father bowed to them both, more mindful of Yama's position than she was. "May I offer you food for your journey, Keelas?" he asked, and Yama felt tears sting her eyes. "Yes, please," she said.

  Had she been anyone but a Keela, even a stranger, she would have been welcomed with warm greetings and embraces, and invited into her childhood home for groundnut stew and tea. For the first time she felt like she shared her messenger-bird's punishment.

  "Can't you come inside?" said Abdou. Yama shook her head.

  "Tell her it's all right, Keela," said Baayu to Safara, pleading.

  "It's not, little boy. Keela Yama's jeopardizing her chance at the Yellow Rank with this familiarity. A Keela's duty is to the Soul Sweepers."

  "A Keela doesn't have to be stone-hearted," Yama retorted. "Don't worry, Baayu. My banjooli and I are fast. This isn't slowing us down much."

  Still, she got back into the saddle before she accepted her father's offered bread, plus hot stew and tea in travelers' gourds.

  "You have fine sons," she said. That was an acceptable compliment in return for hospitality, and the closest a Keela could come to expressing affection for anyone outside of the Riders' Compound.

  "I have a fine daughter too," her father said softly. Yama blinked hard and rode on, urging Dara to the fastest pace possible without using Command Words. Only when she was out of sight of her family, her home and even her village did she stop for her meal.

  "Even a Keela-in-training should know better than to associate with villagers," Safara chided her, reluctantly accepting a share of the food. She wrinkled her nose as though the rich aromas of cumin and roasted goat were toxic.

  "They're not just any villagers. They're my family."

  "A Keela's only family are her fellow Riders. Why are you doing this, Yama? Why not stay home with the other farmers and raise babies?"

  "Someone has to raise the future Riders and Sweepers. And if it weren't for us farmers, everyone else would starve," Yama retorted. "Why are you doing this, Keela Safara? A grand lady like you could be a headman's wife, or even a Sweeper's…"

  "Sweepers don't marry!" Safara's disdain flared into anger. "If you don't stop this fraternizing and devote yourself to the Riders, you'll learn what the Sweepers are like when…"

  A cry from the banjooli made them both turn. A lean thorn-dog was sniffing around the remnants of their dinner.

  "Don't be afraid, banjooli," Yama said. "It's just a thorn-dog. Hello there, boy! Are you hungry?"

  The wild dog gave her a long, appraising look, and turned to Safara.

  "Keela Yama, get on your banjooli and run," she said. Her voice shook.

  "Why? It's just a dog, and I don't think it's rabid. Although it might have fleas."

  "Rrrrun," said the dog. Yama's jaw dropped. She scrambled into the saddle. Safara was already mounted and fleeing toward New Town.

  Dara needed no urging to break into a long-legged run, but the thorn-dog kept pace beside them, white teeth showing in a canine grin.

  "Aca!" Yama shouted. The Command Word spurred the banjooli into magically enhanced, muscle-straining effort. Hot wind blew past Yama's face, scouring her with dust. She rode with her head down and her eyes half-closed, and when Dara came to an abrupt halt she looked around dazed and blinking.

  They'd reached the outskirts of New Town. The Drylands had given way to irrigated fields of groundnuts, beans and millet surrounding whitewashed buildings like the ones back at the Riders' compound. Keela Safara stood with her back against one wall, disheveled and haggard, without her banjooli. And the thorn-dog stood in front of Yama, still showing those bright teeth.

  "Thorn-dogs just don't run that fast," Yama panted.

  The dog growled and stood on its hind legs. Yama watched in horror as it stretched and lengthened, fur changing to skin, canine muzzle changing to human face. The air around the figure reddened and clung, becoming a Sweeper's scarlet robe.

  "Astute observation, Keela Yama," said the man.

  "Sweeper…" Yama breathed again. "We made it!"

  "Eventually." The Sweeper turned to Safara. "Did you enjoy your little picnic, my beauty? I would have thought you'd be in more of a hurry to get here."

  "Kee-ya-ya-ya!" shrieked Dara. The messenger-bird was drooping from its ensorcelled run, but backed away as the Soul-Sweeper approached.

  "Don't take Dara!" Yama exclaimed, and at the shapechanger's sharp glance she added "I'm sorry, Sweeper. But this banjooli and I work well together. If it needs to rest before we go back to Mistress Binata, I'll wait."

  "What did you call him?" the Sweeper demanded.

  "Dara. I meant no disrespect. I wanted to give my banjooli a name, but Mistress Binata said we must call t
he banjooli nothing…"

  "So you did. Literally." Some of the sternness in the Sweeper's face dissipated, and he chuckled. "I am Sweeper Suluwo. You came closer than you knew, Keela Yama. His name is Daraja. Dignity, not Nothing."

  Safara gasped. "The runt? But you told me my banjooli…"

  "Be quiet, Safara," said the man in the red robe. He spoke in a normal voice, but Yama felt a strange echo to the words. Safara didn't speak again. A tear rolled down her cheek, and a chill whispered over Yama's skin. That had been a Command.

  The Sweeper was giving her a suspicious look. "I thought the banjooli weren't allowed to have names or gender, sir," she stammered.

  "Ah, that's what's bothering you. You've all had a hard ride, and need to refresh yourselves. Come; I'll explain. Bring the banjooli with you."

  * * * *

  Sweeper Suluwo's house felt like Paradise after the hot, dusty Drylands. Although she was still wary of a Sweeper who would use Command Words on a human being, Yama couldn't help appreciating the chance to rinse the dust from her face and hands and enjoy a drink of cool hibiscus punch. Dara followed her into the tiled inner courtyard and sat pressed against her side. Sweeper Suluwo didn't object to the ungainly messenger-bird's presence. He just watched them with both an intensity that made Yama want to squirm. Safara knelt on the cushion beside him, expressionless, her drink untouched.

  "Daraja seems quite attached to you, Keela Yama."

  "He was hurt when I found him, Sweeper. He wouldn't go to the Compound without me."

  "Surely the wise Mistress Binata has given you her lecture on Duty Before All Else?" said the Sweeper, without correcting Yama for calling the banjooli "he" instead of "it." "Before family, before friends or lovers, before anything that can divide a Rider's heart—even one's banjooli?"

  "If I'm a Rider, than he is my duty, Sweeper."

  "And have you never wondered who he used to be? What he did to deserve his current state?"

  Safara was shaking and sobbing now. Dara squawked and tried to hide his head in the crook of Yama's elbow.

  "He did nothing," the Sweeper went on. "Absolutely nothing—except to be an embarrassment to a Soul-Sweeper. Which is unforgivable."

  "I don't understand," said Yama, bewildered, trying to calm the agitated banjooli.

  "Watch."

  Sweeper Suluwo called, and Dara came, standing before him and meeping plaintively. Seemingly without a thought for the power of the banjooli's deadly kicks, the Sweeper ran a hand along one wing and plucked out a feather.

  "You're about to witness something that usually takes a heart-drum and multiple Sweepers to do, Keela Yama. Now, the faster I do this, the harder it will be on him, but the less distressing it will be for you to watch. I would hate to distress a guest…"

  He spoke a string of Command Words, and Dara screamed. Yama ran to the bird's side. The scream turned to harsh cawing cries. Sweeper Suluwo raised his voice just slightly to carry over the sound.

  "Many years ago, perhaps twelve or so, lived a Rider not much older than you, Keela Yama. She was a pretty girl, and praise turned her head."

  Safara turned away, still mute. Dara hunched in on himself, seeming to shrink. Yama put her arms around the bird's skinny neck.

  "Shh, it's all right. There's a good boy."

  "Kee-ya. Kee-ya-ya-ya."

  Sweeper Suluwo looked startled, but went on. "She found a young man as foolish as herself, and neglected her duty."

  Safara glared at him. Suluwo ignored her. Yama's attention was all on Dara. The banjooli was writhing as though he'd gone boneless, shrinking, his neck and legs shortening…

  "The Rider produced a child, which might have been convenient if the boy had been willing to put the skills he'd learned as a Sweeper's… apprentice… to good use. Alas, he was not."

  Dara's head enlarged. His cries became sobs. He was smaller than Yama now, shedding feathers. He clutched Yama's arm with a wing that looked more and more like a hand streaked with white paint…

  "A banjooli is more useful than a disobedient boy," Sweeper Suluwo declared. Yama stared, aghast, at the child weeping in her lap.

  "Dara? Are you all right? Does it hurt?"

  "Kee-ya-ya-ya," he whimpered.

  Yama choked, but kept her voice steady. "I think you could say it the right way now if you tried, Dara. Yama. See? Yaa-mmmma. Yama.

  "Eeyaa-mmaa. YaaMmaa. Mama." He tipped his head to one side and repeated the word. "Mama?"

  Safara cried out and reached for the boy. He screamed and clutched at Yama, nearly knocking her over. "Kee-ya! "Kee-ya Yama!"

  "Give him back to me," Safara wailed. The boy shrank from her reaching hands.

  "Daraja's old enough to make his own choices now, don't you think?" said Suluwo. Daraja's head snapped toward that calm voice. He'd looked at Safara without recognition, just bewilderment. Now his expression combined terror and remembered awe.

  "You turned him into a mindless messenger-bird! He can't even talk, let alone make choices," said Safara.

  "The way he's clinging to Keela Yama speaks clearly enough," said Suluwo. He draped his scarlet outer robe over the shivering child. "Say something," he Commanded.

  Daraja looked about to panic. "Kee-ya Yama!" he shrieked.

  Sweeper Suluwo frowned. "Say something else."

  Daraja's face contorted with effort, but no other words came out. He shrugged off the robe, leapt up and started pacing in circles.

  "So; that's all he can say," said Suluwo, his voice flat.

  Yama halted Daraja's agitated circling and draped the robe over him.

  "Let's go outside and walk, Daraja. In straight lines."

  "Don't wander off!" Suluwo warned. "Any other thorn-dogs around here are not Sweepers."

  * * * *

  A fountain played a short distance from the house. Daraja ran straight to the basin and scrubbed the paint from his arms.

  "I'm sorry," said Yama softly. "I didn't know who my banjooli was."

  He stopped, turned to her with a puzzled expression, and said "You the only sorry one, Keeya Yama."

  "You really can talk, besides my name? But Sweeper Suluwo Commanded you!"

  Daraja scowled. "I am not doing anything Papa says, not after he make me banjooli. He teached me how that works, so I not listen. But it hurts!"

  "Papa? Sweeper Suluwo is your father? And he did this to you? I thought all the Sweepers had to vote to condemn someone—and for things like murder! What was he thinking?"

  Daraja shrugged. "Papa says I serve Sweepers one way or other, and I will not make more banjooli for him, so…" He searched for words and paced, frustrated, in a tight circle. "Sorry, Keey… KeeLA Yama. Things are still crooked in my head."

  Things felt crooked in Yama's head too. And the sight she found behind the house gave her already-unsettled thoughts a cruel twist.

  Banjooli. At least a dozen of them, smaller than Daraja had been, milled about inside a thorny pen, pecking bugs from the red dirt. Daraja gave a cry of dismay.

  "He do it anyway, without me. And so many!"

  "Daraja, who were those banjooli?" she asked, dreading the answer.

  "Boys and girls," he said in a near-whisper. "With no Mama or Papa. The alone ones, the hungry ones. So Papa will outrun Riders. Let them out, Keela Yama!"

  She longed to, but she remembered Dara the banjooli, torn and bleeding in her father's beanfield. "No. They'd panic and get lost, and starve or be killed. Unless… Could you make them human again?"

  "I could!" His face fell. "But would take very long time, and Papa would catch us."

  Yama edged away from the corral, back toward the courtyard. "Mistress Binata could stop this, but we'll never get back without a banjooli. One who can handle a rider. I don't think these can." She eyed the Sweeper's son, thinking.

  "Please, Keela Yama, don't make me be banjooli again!"

  "I wouldn't do that, Daraja! Besides, I haven't trained as a Sweeper. I wouldn't even know how. But you do, don't you?"


  He looked away.

  "Daraja?"

  "I won't do that to you, Keela Yama!"

  They'd reached the house. Sounds of conversation carried from inside.

  "Why, Safara!" Sweeper Suluwo was saying. "I never realized you were so sentimental. Or do you just need something to keep you occupied once you get too old to ride?"

  "He's my son! Give him to me. Take Yama instead."

  Yama stiffened. Daraja clutched her hand.

  "It's a poor trade." said Suluwo. "She's a puny, undersized thing, no substitute for a Sweeper's offspring."

  "An offspring you've damaged with your bullying! She has three brothers. I know where to find them. You could have them too."

  "Four for one? The flock would rival Binata's. I'll consider it."

  "Daraja," Yama whispered, "You have to do this. Change me now, as quickly as you can."

  "I don't want to, Keela Yama! And it hurt you terrible."

  "Then silence me with a Command Word, like Suluwo did to Safara, so I don't scream and bring them running. But hurry up and do it!"

  * * * *

  Yama was running. There had been pain behind her. She was running away from the pain. She could run faster if there weren't a weight on her back…

  "Keela Yama!" said a voice behind her head. The voice spoke a Word, and something in her throat relaxed. "Talk to me."

  She hissed at the voice, and then remembered. Daraja. She tried to answer him, but produced only inarticulate squawks.

  "Talk anyway. I need practice, and you must remember Yama, not banjooli. If you were not always talking to me I would forgot."

  Yama remembered why she'd started running, and twisted her neck to look behind her. Two thorn-dogs were chasing them, running low to the ground. "Awgs!" she croaked.

  Daraja looked, and whimpered. "Papa only becomes dog when he is angry. So he can bite and kill."

  "Fasssher!" Yama cried.

  "The Fast word! I forget it. Help me, Keela Yama."

  "Aca," she croaked, focusing the Command Word on herself. It spurred her muscles into effort she would have thought impossible. Red dust flew, obscuring the pursuing dogs. The walls of the Riders' compound rose up ahead of her. She halted outside the gates and screamed—the scream of a wounded banjooli.