Heartland

by Lucy Hounsom

  ‘Black,’ the iarl confirmed with a nasty glance at Alder, who stood aghast. Even the girls had ceased their struggles to watch.

  Mutters stirred the crowd like a wind over loose sand. ‘A bluff,’ one man said loudly. ‘No one has that kind of ken to spend on slaves.’

  In answer, the iarl reached into a bag held by his companion and pulled out a small canvas sack. Untying the string that bound its neck, he tipped out a few small stones. Necks craned for a better look and there was a collective intake of breath. Through gritted teeth and watering eyes, Char stared at the little stones that lay like pieces of night on the iarl’s palm.

  Genge finally found his voice. ‘Iarl Alder,’ he called, ‘do you stand by your bid?’

  Alder’s face had paled at the sight of the sack and he was sweating. ‘I do,’ he declared after a moment. ‘Eight hundred and fifty red ken is my final offer.’

  ‘And you, sir?’ Genge asked the other iarl.

  ‘My bid stands,’ the man answered, shifting the stones on his palm. ‘One hundred black ken.’

  ‘If you fail to produce the full hundred, the auction goes to Iarl Alder,’ Genge said and the man acknowledged the words with a flippant gesture.

  ‘Going once …’

  Ma’s face was as cold as the desert night. Char gazed at her dark, chiselled features, willing that serenity into himself. The iarl with the black ken licked his lips and Char couldn’t help but glance at the girls again. They were both openly sobbing now and the rage was a red-hot fire inside him.

  ‘Going twice …’

  No one interrupted and Genge opened his mouth to declare the sale, but at that moment, the iarl’s sack split, spilling its black bounty over the sand. The distraction punctured the growing tension like an overfull water skin and Char found the rage seeping out of him. As it went, it left his insides stinging like slapped flesh. Ma was no longer in his line of sight. After a few seconds of searching, he spotted her on the other side of the crowd, towards the back. How had she managed to get over there so quickly?

  The slave master paused as the iarl bent down and hurriedly began scooping up handfuls of ken. One had rolled a little distance away from the others. As the iarl reached for it, the sun came out from behind the cloud, turning the sands white under its glare.

  A hush fell over the scene. Half of the stray stone gleamed red.

  The iarl ought to have used a better dye, Char thought, as furious shouts erupted from the crowd. ‘A trick!’ one man cried unnecessarily for they’d all seen the stone. The iarl straightened and began to back away, but the crowd closed up around him. Those who lived in the Black Bazaar might be the dregs of Acre, but they had their own kind of honour.

  The iarl’s companion was busy arranging his face into an expression of incredulity, but he needn’t have bothered; the crowd only had eyes for the cheating iarl. As the atmosphere grew uglier, Char watched the man slip away. It seemed friendship only went so far.

  When the screams began, Char averted his eyes. Na Sung Aro justice. His own silent fight had left him feeling weak and his hand trembled as he wiped the sweat from his face. A smiling Iarl Alder, he saw, was now counting out a deposit for the girls.

  Ma had disappeared again. Char picked her out eventually, half-concealed in the shadow of the stage. She leaned against a supporting post, arms wrapped around her middle. Even from this distance, he could see the relief on her face. Or was it weariness?

  As he watched, Ma pushed herself away from the wooden post and climbed the steps to the stage. She went to the two girls, who stood quietly now, perhaps stunned by the murder of the iarl, or the fact that they were now property, bought and paid for. Char had seen the same expression hundreds of times on hundreds of faces. It took a while for the truth to sink in and when it did, that shock would become anger, terror, uncertainty, even relief … Humans were strange creatures. From this distance, Char couldn’t hear what Ma said to the girls as she unhooked their chains from the rings in the stage.

  Genge had saved the sisters for the auction’s finale and Char was glad it was over. His skin felt hot to the touch and a headache was building behind his eyes. He fiddled with the bracer that hid his bandaged forearm and the wound Ren had given him. It didn’t seem to be healing well.

  He would have to speak to Ma about the rage – how close it had come to sweeping everything he was aside. This time, she had to listen. Char took off his lenses and wiped the smears from the smoky glass. They were useful in the desert where sand and sun could blind a man, but that wasn’t why he wore them. The force he thought of as the ‘rage’ had appeared three years ago, around the time he’d turned seventeen. At first he’d ignored it, but the volatile feeling had only grown stronger. It was like the wild northern reaches where fire rumbled beneath the earth, every so often roaring to the surface. At those times, he’d have to fight to push the rage back down, to control it. So far, he’d succeeded. For three years he’d held it in check and only his eyes betrayed the struggle. That was why he wore the lenses – to hide the rage that narrowed his pupils to slits and turned his yellow eyes fiery.

  Ma avoided talking about it. Like her past, it was something she preferred to ignore. But Char could not ignore it. He knew that one day his will would fail and the rage would break through, and the thought of what it could do – what he could do – terrified him.

  ‘Not a bad day for you boys.’

  Rogan’s voice made him jump. Char hurriedly pushed the lenses over his eyes and hid his shaking hands behind his back. ‘If Master Genge’s expression is anything to go by,’ Rogan nudged him, ‘you’re in for a nice bonus.’

  Char made a sound of agreement. He hoped Genge was in a good enough mood to pay them their share upfront. He and Ma would need it.

  ‘Are you all right, Char?’

  Why couldn’t Rogan leave him alone? Char forced politeness into his voice. ‘A little too much sun, Iarl. And it’s been … an interesting day.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Rogan barked a laugh. ‘Yes. I’m sure our friend over there had no idea just how interesting today would turn out to be.’

  Char followed his gaze to the torn lump of flesh that was all that was left of the iarl. His screams had long ceased and the bloodstained men and women around him began to disperse. A couple remained to dispose of the body in the usual way. Char watched as they each seized one of the iarl’s legs and dragged him off through the sand, leaving a bloody trail. The iarl’s face was a clawed ruin, unrecognizable, but the mysha wouldn’t care. The men took the body outside the gate to the fringes of the desert, flung it down and then returned, chatting and laughing. It had been a good afternoon.

  ‘I like ‘Aro,’ Rogan said mildly, watching the iarl’s killers wandering unconcernedly back into town. ‘Things are simpler here.’ He raised an eyebrow at Char. ‘Cymenza is still under the jurisdiction of the empire. Murder carries the death penalty there.’

  ‘Imperial justice makes no sense,’ Char said with a shake of his head. ‘Punishing murder with murder? If the authorities are as guilty as the criminal, how is any sort of moral order maintained?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Rogan said. ‘The Beaches might be full of utter shits – no offence, Char – but you all have a keener understanding of life.’

  Char grinned humourlessly. ‘Which is why you and Alder like to trot down here three times a year for a roll in the dirt and to spend what’s left of your ken on slaves to do your jobs for you.’

  While Rogan tried to work out whether he felt insulted or not, Ma called, ‘Boy, come over here.’ She stood with Genge and the rest of the slavers, poised for what looked like a postsale discussion.

  As Char turned to go, Rogan hissed, ‘I’m not giving up on her. Put in a good word for me, won’t you.’

  Char ignored him and jogged over to where Ma and the others waited. The last of the spectators had returned to Na Sung Aro and now the stage needed dismantling and the cages cleaning before nightfall. Char felt weary at the thought. He a
nd Ma hadn’t planned on telling Genge they were leaving, which meant waiting until past midnight to make their move. They’d head into Na Sung Aro first; lose themselves in its serpentine streets until Genge gave up on them. Then they’d find a caravan heading north. It was too risky to travel the Beaches alone.

  Genge, luckily, was celebrating. He clutched a bottle in one hand and even had a smile for Char. ‘Well, what a day,’ he said jovially. ‘All the stock sold and not to mention that iarl and his black ken – I’m almost sorry he’s dead.’ He showed his teeth. ‘Gave us quite a show.’

  ‘The man was foolish,’ Ma said coolly. ‘He got what was coming to him.’

  ‘That he did,’ Genge agreed, ‘but what luck, eh? That sack was decent leather – it’s almost as if someone was on to him and sliced through it on the sly.’

  Ren and Tunser grunted, but Ma’s face remained inscrutable. Char looked at her suspiciously.

  ‘Let’s get this packed away and then we can celebrate in true ‘Aro fashion.’ Genge smiled beatifically at them all, turned, and made his way to his tent, leaving them to do the actual work. No doubt he wanted to count his new fortune, Char thought.

  After he’d removed the pins that attached the struts to the small stage and packed the lot away in a wagon, he found himself working next to Ma as they both took sand and scrubbing brushes to the cages. ‘Are you happy that the sisters went to Alder?’ he asked her. An unwelcome image of the elder girl’s blue eyes assailed him and he pushed it coldly away.

  A few moments passed before she replied. ‘Everything worked out as it was supposed to.’

  ‘Only by luck,’ he answered, using the abrasive sand to remove dirt from the floor of the cage. ‘If the bag hadn’t split—’

  ‘But it did,’ Ma said.

  ‘I only meant to say it was a fortunate turn of events,’ he replied.

  ‘Fortunate.’

  Ma was never very talkative, but the retorts were sharp even for her. Something was bothering her. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said and Char sighed. Talking to Ma was exhausting.

  He opened his mouth to tell her about his struggle with the rage when she threw down her brush abruptly. ‘I should give you a lesson tonight,’ she said.

  ‘Can’t it wait?’ He stifled a yawn. ‘It’s been a long day and –’ he lowered his voice – ‘we’ve still got things to pack.’

  ‘You should be able to fight at a moment’s notice.’

  Char was about to respond with a snipe, but paused. ‘This is about the assassin,’ he said.

  Ma looked at him, her eyes glinting in the last of the light. ‘I won’t always be around to protect you.’

  ‘He didn’t hurt me,’ Char said before he could stop himself. ‘He only fought because you attacked him.’

  ‘He would have,’ Ma said with dark conviction. She straightened and shut the door of the empty cage. ‘I’m going to change. Fetch your sticks. I want you ready in ten minutes.’

  Char considered refusing, but some emotion in Ma’s face kept him silent. It was like the fear he had seen on the night she’d stopped him from killing Genge. And it was like the panic in her eyes when the Khronostian had tried to talk to her. He watched her walk away, his brow furrowed.

  After he’d swapped his tunic for a fresh one, Char strolled over to Ma’s tent. No matter her secrets, they were leaving tonight. Finally, they’d be able to put these years behind them. He was about to push aside the flap when a sound came from within. Char went still, listening. He heard words – Ma, muttering under her breath. A chink of light shone through the opening where the tent’s sides didn’t quite meet and he put his eye to it.

  Ma crouched on the floor, her back to him, a lamp shedding its oily glow over the leather tunic she wore. She was cradling something in her lap and one of her gloves lay on the floor beside her. Char stopped breathing. He’d never seen Ma without her gloves. They were leather, too, and skin tight, as if they were a part of her body. She fought in them, she ate in them and – when Char was small and they’d shared a tent – she’d slept in them. He stared at the discarded glove and his heart hammered in his ears. For the first time in years he thought of the question which he’d long ago given up on. Why did Ma wear the gloves and what did she want to hide?

  As if Ma heard him, she snatched up the glove and, still with her back to him, drew it on. When she stood, the leather once again covered both hands and forearms. Char walked confidently into the tent, hoping it looked as if he’d only just arrived. He watched as Ma pulled on bracers and laced them tightly over her wrists.

  ‘Ready?’ she asked him.

  He drew the kali sticks from his belt and made to go outside.

  ‘No,’ Ma said behind him. ‘We’ll practise in here.’

  Char frowned. ‘There’s not enough space.’

  ‘Enough to rehearse the forms.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Tonight,’ she answered after a pause, ‘I’d prefer to have walls around me.’

  Char thought of the way the assassin had simply stepped out of the air and found himself in agreement. He let himself fall into stance, standing with feet spread, one in front of the other, his knees slightly bent. Then he sought the calm, still centre of concentration that Ma so insisted upon. He thought he finally had it when his injured arm gave a throb of pain. His left hand opened convulsively and the kali stick tumbled to the mat.

  Curse Ren and his dirty knife – the gash was probably infected. Char had wrapped the wound in a rag and concealed it beneath a bracer, hoping Ma wouldn’t notice, but he couldn’t deny that the pain was growing worse.

  ‘What’s wrong with your arm?’ Ma said as he bent and scooped up the fallen stick.

  ‘Ren cut me,’ Char admitted. ‘The other day.’

  Ma hissed through her teeth. ‘Stupid boy, why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I’m not a child,’ he retorted. ‘It was only small.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Without waiting for his response, Ma seized his arm, unlaced the bracer and peeled off the rag beneath. Char sucked in a breath at the sight of it. The wound oozed a thick, yellowish fluid and the flesh around it was swollen and red. He wrinkled his nose at the smell.

  Ma stared at his arm, her face unreadable. ‘This could kill you,’ she said hollowly.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Char pulled his arm out of her grip. ‘It’ll heal.’

  ‘Not without help.’ Her eyes narrowed on his face. ‘Do you feel well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No headache, fever?’

  Char ignored the tightness behind his eyes. ‘Everything’s fine,’ he said.

  ‘Well, it needs cleansing.’ Ma turned to fetch the pouch with her medicines and that was when the Khronostians walked in.

  ‘Hold! We have no wish to fight you.’

  The voice was an old man’s. These two wore the same bandages as the Khronostian Ma had killed, so that only their eyes showed, glinting out at Char between the greyish wrappings. They were somehow more monstrous in the domestic yellow lamplight than their companion had seemed under the stars.

  Ma’s lips curled back like a wolf’s; she gripped her kali sticks and stepped between Char and the Khronostians. ‘Dualakat,’ she snarled. ‘You shall not take him!’ Ignoring the fact that the assassins hadn’t drawn their weapons, she drove her kali stick with wicked speed into the nearest figure’s head. The Khronostian ducked, but tripped over a crate and went down. Before Ma could finish it, the other leapt, kali sticks a lethal blur, and she was forced to counter a blow that would have shattered her kneecap had it hit her.

  Again Char found himself standing frozen, stunned at the pace of the fight. The way the Khronostians moved wasn’t human. The man on the ground regained his feet in one effortless twist and brought his stick around to strike Ma’s forearm. She gasped, but didn’t drop her weapon. Instead she jumped back, putting the large rattan chest between them.

  ‘Run, Bo
y!’ she screamed.

  ‘No,’ Char said and, though his arm throbbed a protest, he gripped his own kali sticks and raised them in readiness.

  ‘Where is Rani?’ the man asked. ‘We came because we had not heard from him.’

  ‘Be still,’ his companion hissed and this voice was female. Who – or what – did the bandages conceal?

  ‘I killed him,’ Ma said. ‘As I’ll kill you and anyone else who tries to take the boy away.’ She swung into action, kicking the rattan chest and leaping to the side as the female Khronostian aimed a blow at her.

  The chest struck the bandaged man across the knees, but it was light and he kicked it aside. Ma was ready for him. She jabbed both sticks at his face in a move that echoed her fight the night before. The man blocked one stick, but Ma’s second slipped through and cracked across his cheekbone. He leapt back, gasping, and the bandages came loose, falling about his neck.

  The tent was suddenly still. Char gazed in horror at the Khronostian, revealed in the yellow light. His face was a patchwork of ages, as if someone had captured him at every decade of his life, sliced off a nose or an eye and then rearranged them in a gruesome collage. The old voice issued from a baby’s fat lips above a bearded chin. Lines crept down over the forehead and around the eyes of a boy before fading into the shaggy cheeks of a man in his prime. It was a terrible face, a sad face, and Char couldn’t stop staring and wondering how a person could look all ages and none.

  Even Ma had paused at the sight, her lips pressed together as if to swallow a scream. The same fear was there again, heavy in her eyes. Her fists clenched inside her gloves, tightening around the sticks. Then – ‘Go!’ she yelled at Char and launched a flurry of blows at the female Khronostian, who parried them all.

  ‘I can’t leave you,’ Char said, and as both Khronostians converged on Ma, he ran at the bandaged woman.

  ‘No!’ he heard Ma shriek, but he ignored her, swinging his stick at the Khronostian’s neck. Quicker than he thought possible, she blocked him, smacked the stick out of his hand and shoved him backwards. Char staggered and, as he strove to keep his feet, his flailing left arm hit the tent’s pole.