by Bell, Hilari
Blinking, Jiaan gazed around and discovered that he was standing on a road, though the surface was so rutted and rocky it was hardly smoother than the rough ground. To the left of the tree was a pile of rocks that looked like a crouching dog, from the right angle. From any other angle it looked like a pile of rocks, but Jiaan took the time to memorize them, and the tree, and the shape of the hills that cupped the road. He would need to be able to find this place again.
The hollow, when he finally stepped onto a gnarled root to climb up and look for it, was just a cavity formed where a branch had fallen away and the wood behind it rotted. Nothing to distinguish it.
Jiaan walked down the road to the south, making note of its twists and turns. After only a few hundred yards he found the horses, tied neatly to a tree that looked very like the message tree. Hadn’t Siddas said someone would be holding the horses?
Wait, there was someone—but he wasn’t holding the horses, he was lying on top of the low rise, looking south. He wore a subtly colored shirt that blended with the grass, but his straight, black hair contrasted sharply with the pale sky. Even before he turned, revealing his face, Jiaan’s heart had started to sink toward his boots. It was Fasal.
Jiaan set his teeth and began scrambling up the slope. “What in the name of all djinn are you doing here? I told you to stay in the city!”
Fasal’s dark brows rose. “Markhan and Kaluud will be enough to keep an eye on the governor.” And I don’t acknowledge your right to give me orders. He didn’t say it aloud; he didn’t have to.
“I went to check on the horses last night,” Fasal went on. “When I found out that the Hrum would arrive today, I realized that if I stayed I’d be caught in the siege, so I left with the horses. One of the guardsmen told me I could meet you here. I’ve been watching the Hrum all morning.”
Jiaan reached the top of the slope and sank down beside him, acrimony forgotten. “What are they doing?”
But he could see that for himself. They were burning the suburbs.
“I don’t think they intended to do it, when they first arrived,” said Fasal.
Looking down, Jiaan realized he was in the hills north of the city, just where he’d expected to be. The view, looking over Mazad’s rooftops and the walls, to the flaming buildings in the south, was magnificent and terrible. The Hrum had clearly started the fire on the outskirts of the main road, where Jiaan had ridden in . . . only yesterday? But the wind was blowing it west toward the river. The first few blocks of the southern suburbs were already a charred wasteland, with thin wisps of smoke rising from them. Looking down on the city from the other side, Jiaan could see the bright-clad townsfolk crowding the parapet, watching their homes and businesses burn.
“The first thing the Hrum did was to begin setting up camp,” Fasal went on. “In those fields by the river. But soon they sent a few score of men marching on up the road. When they came into arrow range, they stopped, all but one unarmed officer who went on, almost up to the gate—probably demanding surrender.”
“Evidently the governor didn’t oblige,” said Jiaan.
“He won’t surrender,” said Fasal. “Especially once the first few attacks have been beaten off, and he sees that it can be done.”
“What makes you certain he’ll hold on long enough to figure that out?” Jiaan demanded. “You should have stayed to help prop him up.”
“Kaluud and Markhan will do that. After all, the army they want to fight is here, not—”
“Skulking in the hills, like rabbits,” Jiaan finished. “You really think they can keep the governor’s nerve steady?”
“Without difficulty,” said Fasal. “After you left the dinner table, Markhan reminded the governor that all the high houses are gone. If Mazad holds for a year, there won’t be anyone for the Hrum to negotiate with, except Governor Nehar.”
The fire was already thrusting greedy fingers into the thick suburbs that surrounded the river. It might not cross the water, but the buildings between the river and the wall were clearly doomed.
“Markhan didn’t come right out and say it,” Fasal continued. “But Nehar could easily end up gahn—by Hrum decree, Arzhang take him.”
The djinn of treacherous ambition would have no trouble claiming that one. “You’re right,” said Jiaan. “If anything could put steel into Nehar’s soul, the hope of becoming gahn would do it.” And trust another deghan to figure that out. He really might become gahn, with Markhan and Kaluud as his right and left hands. It was a prospect so dismaying that Jiaan began to laugh—it was that, or cry. But Fasal was looking at him oddly. “Sorry. Anyway, the governor refused to surrender—then what?”
“Well, I don’t know what he said,” Fasal went on, “but it was evidently . . . firm. The officer marched back to his men, all stiff spined, and a few moments later they sent a flight of arrows at the walls. I think it was mostly meant as a gesture, but the wind was with them and a few of the arrows made it. So our people fired back, and even with the wind against them the extra height told in their favor, so some of their arrows reached the Hrum as well. Those people can raise their shields into formation unbelievably fast.”
Jiaan laughed, with real humor this time.
“Aren’t you upset about this?” Fasal gestured to the burning town. “They set the fires as soon as their own people marched out. Weren’t you the one who was so concerned about saving peasants’ livelihoods?”
“The suburbs couldn’t have survived,” said Jiaan. “And it’s not like there’s anyone left there. So, far from being upset, I’m delighted. This is the first stupid thing I’ve seen the Hrum do.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid,” said Fasal. “I think seeing their homes burn will make these people frightened, and hopeless, and they’ll be more likely to yield.”
“And I think it will make them angry,” said Jiaan, “and more likely to fight to the death. But what really matters is that once the fires have died, the ground around the walls will be clear of all but rubble. Any approaching force will be visible. If the Hrum hadn’t burned those buildings, Commander Siddas would have had to, but that wouldn’t have been a popular move, so he maneuvered the Hrum into making it for him. And if the Hrum commander is that foolish . . . Well, let’s just say that I’m feeling very good about Mazad. Especially if we can give them some support. But we’d better go. Eventually, even that commander is going to stop watching the bonfires and send out some patrols.”
Fasal followed him down the hill and mounted in thoughtful silence. He even took Markhan’s horse’s lead before Jiaan asked him to.
“Why didn’t you stay behind?” Jiaan inquired. Markhan and Kaluud stood a good chance of becoming the new gahn’s right and left hands; Fasal could have been the new gahn’s brain.
“I want to fight for Farsala,” said Fasal, “not Governor Nehar. Not even if he’s the only one left to become gahn.”
“That’s a horrible thought, isn’t it?”
Fasal stiffened. “The gahn is the gahn.”
Jiaan suppressed a sigh. “So why didn’t you stay? The fight for Farsala is the fight for Mazad.”
“I know,” said Fasal. “But they don’t need me, and you . . . the army does.”
And you need all the help you can get. At least he hadn’t said it aloud. Jiaan sighed.
CHAPTER FIVE
SORAYA
PLEASE, SIR, I’M NEEDING work.” Soraya had never tried to speak with a peasant accent before—Sudaba would have skinned her alive if she had—but she’d been practicing on the road for several weeks. She feared she was overdoing it, but hopefully the Hrum wouldn’t be able to tell. And she prayed there would be no real Farsalan peasants in the Hrum camp to give her away.
In the months she had dwelled with the Suud, Soraya had learned that despite their primitive technology they had a strong code of personal honor—stronger than that of many deghans. Farsalan peasants were another matter. Soraya had no idea whether she could trust them, but she wasn’t about to bet
on it.
It had taken weeks for Soraya to catch up with the Hrum’s main army, and if they hadn’t stopped to make a permanent camp outside Setesafon, she might not have reached them still. She’d been surprised that they hadn’t occupied the gahn’s palace. The Hrum commander—“Governor” Garren, he called himself, as if all Farsala was no more than a city!—claimed that he wouldn’t take possession of “his” palace till his right to do so was established beyond all doubt.
The country folk, from whom Soraya had heard the story, said it was more likely that the palace had been so damaged in the fighting that tents made a better lodging—that Garren would be moving himself in the moment there was enough of a roof to keep him dry, right or no right.
When she approached the sentries at the perimeter of the Hrum encampment, Soraya had feared she would have to meet with the new governor, but instead a young soldier had taken her to the camp’s ordnancer.
“What work have you had before . . . Sani, is it?”
“Yes, sir.” She bobbed her head awkwardly, swinging her hair even farther over her face. The ordnancer was in his forties, a balding man, with a face she’d have thought kind if he hadn’t been a Hrum officer—and if his gaze, taking in the ragged, too-large skirt and blouse she’d bought from a used-clothing barrel, hadn’t been so shrewd.
“I’ve mostly worked as a kitchen girl,” said Soraya. “I can peel and chop, and fetch and carry.” In truth she had very little idea what went on in kitchens, but surely they peeled and chopped things.
“Why did you leave your old job?”
Soraya blinked. Why should he care? Wasn’t it enough that she needed a new job now? But she sensed no suspicion in the emotions that reached her—just a hint of patience. “The family I worked for, they were . . .” She was about to say “burned out,” when she remembered that the Hrum had burned very little. “They weren’t a high house, you understand, not one of the twelve, but they had money. Some city property. They feared they’d be losing it all when the army came, so they sold up and fled to Kadesh. But they only took the upper servants with them. They said they could hire Kadeshi, probably cheaper than us.”
If Sudaba had had the sense to flee, that was what she would have done, so it should ring true. Soraya herself would never have given a thought to the plight of undergrooms and kitchen girls. She ran her hands down the shabby skirt. There were patches where her knees hit the fabric, and the over-large garments made her look as if she’d lost even more weight than the weeks on the road had actually cost her.
“I see,” said the ordnancer thoughtfully. “You’re not afraid of the army?”
“I need work, sir. And I heard . . . I heard that the army’s been leaving our women alone.” It was true, and Soraya thanked Azura for it—had she heard otherwise her resolve might have failed. This was frightening enough as it was.
“Very well.” The ordnancer sounded like a man who has just made up his mind. “As it happens, we’re short of kitchen help. As the army spreads out, we usually hire from the local populace, but very few Farsalans have approached us for work.”
Good. Soraya managed not to say it aloud.
“So I’ve . . . I’m being hired?” Curse this ridiculous accent! Where was Ahriman, the djinn of lies, when you needed him?
“We’ll try you for a month,” the ordnancer corrected her. “If you’ve worked well during that period, then we’ll hire you.”
“I’m to work a month without pay?” Soraya asked in confusion. Surely that couldn’t be right.
“No, no, we’ll pay you, and provide food and shelter, but you won’t receive a ranking till you’ve earned it.”
“Ranking? But I just want kitchen work!” And that didn’t sound at all humble. “Sir,” she added quickly.
The ordnancer laughed. “You’ve got a great deal to learn about us, Sani, but for a start, I’m Ordnancer Reevus. I know it’s a mouthful, but we’re fussy about rank here, and ‘sir’ is for regular officers.”
“Yes, si—Ordnancer Reevus.” Her tongue stumbled on the unfamiliar word. She had already noted that the sentries had spoken good Faran; the ordnancer barely had an accent.
Hopefully she could learn what she needed and depart before the fact that she didn’t sound like a Farsalan peasant became obvious. Should she have claimed to come from some distant village, with a different accent? Too late now. Soraya bit her lip.
“Don’t worry, girl,” said Ordnancer Reevus, mistaking the cause of her concern. “We’ll teach you. For now, all you need to do is work hard and obey the cooks. You’ll be paid three of your Farsalan iron coins—mares, is it?—a week.”
Only three mares? But Reevus was smiling, as if he’d offered a very good wage.
“That’ll be . . . being fine, sir, um, Ordnancer Reevus.”
“Come with me, then, and I’ll introduce you to the kitchen master.”
Reevus talked about the Hrum army camp as they walked through it, explaining that each unit was organized by tens, hundreds, and then into a tacti, a thousand men, which was the largest unit of the army. Soraya cared nothing about the Hrum, but she was surprised by the camp, then reluctantly impressed, and finally amazed. It was so big! She’d known the Hrum army was large, but just walking from the perimeter to the central square where the kitchen tents were located seemed to take forever. It was bigger than most Farsalan towns, though no town she’d ever seen was laid out in such neat squares, with wide, flat roads between them. Even some of the soldier’s tents had wooden walls built halfway up their sides, and the entire square, when they finally reached it, was surrounded by buildings, bright with the glow of new timber. Accustomed to seeing even peasant homes built of stone, the wooden walls looked somehow unfinished. Impermanent. But still, they were buildings, and the Hrum army had been here less than two months!
Soraya was walking backward, gawking at a man who was driving a flock of ducks across the square, when Reevus reached out and yanked her out of the way of a lumbering oxcart.
The driver was speaking Hrum, so Soraya couldn’t tell exactly what he said, but she thought the gist was, “Keep your half-witted servant girls off the road.” Reevus replied in the same language, defending her, to judge by the carter’s scowl.
“I’m sorry,” Soraya mumbled, looking down so her hair hid her face.
“It’s no matter,” said Reevus calmly, taking her arm to steer her onward. “It’s natural you should be curious—our camp is new to you. But keep an eye on where you’re going. This is a busy place.”
He kept hold of her arm to assure that she would. Given her recent behavior, Soraya could hardly blame him—and if keeping hold of her like that was intolerably rude by deghan standards, well, he didn’t know she was a deghass. And the square was surprisingly busy.
“Is . . . is this a market day?” she asked. Sounding like a credulous country girl came easily now.
Reevus laughed. “No, we don’t hold markets. But we’re doing a bit of building, so it’s busier than usual.”
A bit of building. By the summer’s end they’d have a town. But they would need a town, Soraya realized. They were here to stay. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. There was nothing she could do about the Hrum. She was here to learn where Merdas and Sudaba had been sent, so she could follow and free them, and then take them to live safely with the Suud. If it took time, then she’d have patience. And courage, and endurance, and anything else it took.
The kitchens, and the meal tent where the soldiers ate, took up the whole south side of the square. And if the square had been chaos, the largest kitchen was bedlam. Men and women raced back and forth with baskets and trays, cleavers thudded into cutting boards and everyone seemed to be shouting—in Hrum, of course.
Reevus wove through the mob, still gripping her arm, until he came to a stop before a short man with curly dark hair, who was inspecting a barrel of cabbages. At the sight of Reevus, he burst into furious speech—in Hrum.
Reevus had let go of her
elbow, and Soraya fought down a shameful impulse to burrow against his side.
“I’ve brought you some help,” he said cheerfully, in Faran. “Unless you frighten her to death. Stop ranting, man. This is Sani. She’s worked as a kitchen girl—midsized household, from the sound of it. I’ve taken her on for a month’s probation. Sani, this is Kitchen Master Hennic.”
“Ha!” The short man looked her up and down. Soraya felt her cheeks grow warm and looked away. “She is . . . What is the word? Scrawny. She is scrawny. You sorry for her.”
Soraya glared.
Reevus laughed and said something in Hrum. The cook snorted and eyed her sharply. “So, kitchen girl. Can you cook? Or is it just rough work?”
Rough work? “I can’t cook,” Soraya admitted.
“Humph. Hands are hands. If no other choice, I take what is given. Here, girl, you will start with pots.”
He grabbed her elbow and led her off. She looked over her shoulder at Reevus, who smiled and made shooing gestures.
Pots? The kitchen master led her through an open doorway in the back of the building, and into a dirty-looking, fenced yard, turning toward one corner. She’d already admitted she couldn’t cook, so what could she be doing with . . . Pots. A pile, a mountain, of huge iron kettles, filthy with the remains of various porridges, stews, and shit, for all Soraya knew. She flinched.
“Scrape into the midden troughs first,” said Hennic briskly. “Then get hot water from the fur—the big tanks. Over there.” He gestured to the west. “The man there will give you soap. Scrub with that brush, rinse, and rinse again—with hot water—and pour into that trench.” He pointed to a small ditch with a trickle of water running along the bottom. From five yards away she could smell it. And she didn’t even want to touch those pots.
“I do not . . .” No. Merdas, just three years old. Soraya took a deep breath. She had seen Golnar wash dishes. She had curried horses. How bad could it be? “I don’t know what to scrape them with.”
