by Bell, Hilari
Their arrival at the camp distracted Jiaan from his whirling, half-panicked thoughts. There were more Suud here, more women, and tiny, shrill-voiced children. He had never seen tents like these, round, and arching over bent poles. Their tops were made of stitched hides, but their sides seemed to be made of Farsalan silk. They were scattered like bubbles across a flat crescent, nestled in a wide bend of the stream. Fires glowed in front of most of them, and a huge firepit, with an iron cauldron hanging above it, marked the rough center of the camp.
Jiaan had no time to see more. He and Fasal were thrust into one of the tents—the door was so low he had to shuffle through on his knees, bending his head. Two guards followed them inside, making the small, hutlike tent very crowded, even after they pitched out several baskets and bedrolls to make room. Firelight flickered through the silk walls, but the light was dim. The guards pushed Jiaan down, and then rolled him over to untie his wrists. The ache in his shoulders intensified as he moved his arms. Jiaan murmured, “Thank you,” and was cuffed for his pains.
And he’d spoken too soon, for the guards pulled his wrists in front of him and bound them to one of the sturdy poles that supported the tent. It would be more comfortable, but Jiaan feared that only meant he was going to be there for some time.
“I need to talk to some—” Another cuff, harder this time. Fasal hadn’t even tried to speak. In another man, Jiaan would have taken that for common sense; with Fasal, it made Jiaan fear that his head injury was worse than he was letting on.
Jiaan lay on his side, gazing at the tent pole to which his wrists were tied. After a time, he tried to loosen it. He took care to move slowly, but a spear butt nudged him immediately and he subsided. The pole hadn’t shifted at all, as far as he could tell—it must be driven deep into the sand. More time passed. An old man entered the tent, carrying a bowl. Jiaan had to twist his neck, but his eyes had adapted enough for him to watch as the man bathed Fasal’s head.
“What’s in that water?” Fasal demanded suddenly. “My headache’s better.”
The cuff was aimed at his head, but the old man intercepted it and said something sharp in Suud. The guard shrugged and rapped Fasal’s hip with his spear butt instead.
As his fear of being slaughtered wore off, captivity proved to be a cursed bore. Just before dawn the guards took them to relieve themselves, and drink from the stream, but then they were returned to the tent.
Jiaan hoped their guards would leave them, and sleep during the day, but of course the Suud weren’t that foolish. They came and went in three shifts, carefully robed to protect them from the blazing sun.
At least Jiaan discovered why the tents were built as they were, for the leather roof made a solid patch of shade, and the silk sides could be rolled up, to admit the breezes that blew off the creek, or rolled down to block the sunlight. If he’d been lying on a bedroll instead of the gravelly sand, and if his hands had been unbound, Jiaan would have been as comfortable as it was possible to be in the heat of the desert day.
As it was, he dozed fitfully, waking when the guards’ shift changed, or when Fasal, who was making up for his earlier silence, was cuffed for talking.
Jiaan was never so grateful to see the sun set. Since his side of the tent had been raised, he was free to watch the tribespeople emerge from their tents, yawning and stretching in the gathering dusk.
He and Fasal were taken, one at a time, to wash in the stream and eat several pieces of flat bread spread with some sort of vegetable paste. It was sweetish, and oddly seasoned, but by now Jiaan was hungry enough to eat anything.
He hoped to be allowed some freedom—or at least that they would keep the tent side rolled up so he could watch the camp, but after he ate, he was returned to the same place and bound there, and the silk was rolled down again. He considered protesting but Fasal beat him to it, and Jiaan winced at the thud of wood on flesh. The guards seemed to be getting tired of Fasal.
More time passed. Jiaan alternated between dozing and wondering if it would be worth being beaten to get some attention.
He was on the point of deciding that it might be, when he heard a disturbance in the camp. As the night passed, he had become accustomed to the rise and fall of Suud voices. Now there were many voices, all babbling at once, and though the discussion started in the distance, it seemed to be moving closer. They didn’t sound frightened or angry, so the Farsalan army hadn’t miraculously come to the rescue. The Suud sounded . . . welcoming? Excited?
The crowd stopped not far from the tent, and Jiaan heard a woman’s voice, both sharp and amused. Then a series of rapid steps, and the tent flaps few open.
Jiaan twisted his neck and saw the wrinkled face of an old Suud woman peering within.
“I’m sorry,” she said in accented Faran. “You will be uncomfortable. It takes time to bring me here. Things will be better soon.”
Jiaan turned his face back to the tent wall, hiding the tears of relief until he could blink them back. But true deghans were evidently made of sterner stuff.
“Release us this instant!” Fasal demanded.
“Ah. Maybe. But not the instant.” The old woman began speaking in Suud and the guards untied Jiaan’s wrists, allowing him to crawl from the tent. He hoped never to enter it again. The moonlit night was gloriously cool, and he’d have felt free if he hadn’t been surrounded by a fence of spear points.
The old woman followed Fasal out. “Better?”
“Much better,” said Jiaan, smiling at her. “But there’s no need for this.” He gestured at the spears, taking care to move slowly. It wouldn’t do to get himself skewered when the translator had finally arrived.
“Maybe,” said the woman. “Maybe not. If you did not wear your father’s face, you would not be here now.”
“My fath—These people knew my father?”
“This was the . . . group? clan? where he stayed,” said the woman. “But the ones who speak Faran are gone now.”
Gone as in absent, or gone as in dead? Jiaan couldn’t think of a tactful way to ask, but Fasal had no such qualms.
“If the high commander was treated as rudely as we’ve been, it’s a wonder you’re not all ‘gone,’” he said stiffly. “Bring us to the person in charge—we require the Suud to assist the Farsalan army.”
Jiaan winced, but the woman grinned. “Always need ‘assistance,’ you people.” Why did that make her face soften? But the gentle expression soon vanished. “So, you come to ask for help. What help?”
“We’re forming an army to fight the Hrum,” said Jiaan hastily, before Fasal could say something even worse. “They have . . . How much do you know about the Hrum?”
“Not much.” The woman’s gaze seemed casual, but Jiaan could feel the intensity beneath it. “Hard to know a people who do not teach their language.”
“They don’t . . . teach their language?” asked Jiaan, puzzled.
“Do not allow army people to teach it to Farsalans,” the woman confirmed. “They think it is safer, to speak and Farsalans not understand. But all learn Farsalan themselves. Not stupid.”
“No,” said Jiaan slowly. “Not stupid at all. That’s why we need your help. Our army is small, and hidden, but soon it will grow, and we’ll start using it against the Hrum. When that happens, I fear they will discover where we’re hidden—and we will still have a smaller force than theirs.” The Farsalan army would always be smaller than the Hrum’s, he feared. “So we need another place to hide. A secure base where the Hrum can’t reach us, where they couldn’t even find us . . . unless you guided them.”
Even the old woman’s formidable composure was shaken. “You want to bring your army here? Your father promised never to come back with anyone, though he could not stop others.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Jiaan. Why had his father promised such a thing? “My father is dead, but even if I’d known of his promise, I would have come. We need to build a base in the desert. But we came to ask your permission, not to act without it.”
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Fasal snorted. “We can build—”
Jiaan hastily stepped on his foot, despite the shifting spears.
The woman frowned. “I must speak with others.” She turned away, and the spear points prevented Jiaan from following.
“Maybe we’ll finally get to talk to someone with authority,” said Fasal. “Why did you stop me? We can build a base here, with or without their permission. If they knew that, maybe they’d leave us alone.”
Jiaan looked at their guards’ wary, white faces. A moment ago he would have sworn that none of them spoke Faran—now he wasn’t so sure.
“You’re an idiot,” he murmured, smiling at the guards. If they understood, their expressions didn’t show it. “We came to ask these people’s help. And we can’t do it without them. Suppose we don’t return to the croft, then what?”
Half a dozen older men and women had gathered around the translator. They spoke with animation, using their hands for emphasis. It seemed to Jiaan that they were arguing, though he couldn’t tell who disagreed with whom about what.
“Then the army sends a squad to find us,” said Fasal impatiently. “They knew where we were going, and the miners will tell them when we left their camp.”
Several of the people arguing with the woman were looking in their direction now. It made Jiaan nervous. Had Fasal somehow missed the fact that the Suud had captured the two of them with no trouble at all?
“And suppose the squad doesn’t come back, then what? Miners have been sending expeditions—squadrons of men—into this desert for centuries, and they never return. Do you really think they all got lost and died of starvation?”
Fasal scowled. “But the Suud don’t kill people—they’re supposed to be timid!”
The argument seemed to be over; several Suud were grinning now, and one was coming toward them.
“Of course they don’t kill people when they come to trade baskets in the market,” said Jiaan. “But careful isn’t the same as timid. And even if it was, it doesn’t matter—all they’d have to do to get rid of us is provide the Hrum with a few guides.”
Fasal’s mouth snapped shut, but Jiaan took little satisfaction in winning the debate. Something in the expression of the man who approached them made him brace himself, though he didn’t know why. A flurry of orders were issued to the guards, and he and Fasal were taken over to the main firepit, where four men were driving a pair of tall, sharpened stakes into the ground. Their purpose became clear when Jiaan and Fasal were pushed down to sit with their backs to the stakes, their wrists bound together on the other side.
Jiaan sighed. Freedom had been good while it lasted, and leaning against the stake wasn’t too uncomfortable. Yet.
A man came up, humming under his breath, and laid an iron fire rod down, with its tip in the coals. He looked at them, grinned, and walked away. Jiaan’s stomach knotted. Surely not! They didn’t have any information the Suud might want!
At least Fasal had finally fallen silent.
After a few moments the old woman approached. Touching the handle carefully, she lifted the rod and examined the blackened tip. “Not for a time,” she announced.
“What . . .” Jiaan’s throat was dry. “What have you decided?”
“We do not know you well enough to decide,” said the woman. “So we must know. You will take our warrior’s test, for courage, and”—her hands groped for a missing word—“for good, strong spirit. Then we will know better if we can trust you.”
Looking at the rod, now nestled back in the coals, Jiaan found his voice was quite gone.
“We will take your test.” Fasal spoke proudly, but his voice held a hint of a tremor.
Jiaan swallowed.
The old woman smiled. “Your father passed the warrior’s test, and he asked for less than you.”
Jiaan tried frantically to remember any burn scars on his father’s body—but his father had been fighting the Kadeshi since he was younger than Jiaan. He’d had dozens of scars.
“We ask a great deal, I know,” he said. “But what will it prove if we pass your test, or if we fail for that matter? Surely you don’t . . . Do all your warriors have to do this?”
And if they did, how bad could it be?
“Not all,” said the woman. “Hardly any.”
Very bad.
“But the last . . . warrior who approached us brought a gift, and she asked very little.” The woman settled herself cross-legged, a careful distance from the fire. “And she asked politely—a wondrous thing, that was.” She laughed softly, curse her.
“We could bring a gift,” said Jiaan. “A big gift.”
“Don’t sound so craven,” hissed Fasal. “It’s a warrior’s test.”
The woman laughed again. “Not a gift to buy what you want. And it is not a matter of price, though that question comes. Why should we help you? These Hrum do not trouble us.”
“They will,” said Fasal. “They are evil—djinn in human form! Once they’ve defeated us, they will burn your camps, kill your men, and rape your women. And those they don’t kill, they take as slaves.”
Was the rod’s tip beginning to glow? “That’s not true,” said Jiaan absently. “They don’t rape, and they only burn and take slaves when people resist them. But their nature is to conquer. And they will draft your young men into their army for five years.”
“That’s a problem,” the woman admitted. “We need our young men. But we have always kept alone, and the desert is ours. It will be hard to get anyone to change that.”
The iron tip was definitely beginning to glow, but something in her voice drew Jiaan’s gaze. “You’ll have to change,” he said. “Whether you help us or not. The world has changed.”
“So it has,” the woman sighed. “The omm shilshadu, the creation spirit, must be very bored, to have kicked the world so hard this time.”
Jiaan found he would rather watch her wrinkled face than the glowing iron. “Kicked it?”
“Yes. This is why the world changes.” She leaned forward, as if she was sharing a secret. “The spirit of creation walked through the darkness, making small lights, but when it had made many and many, it grew bored with them. So here, in the middle of things, it sat down and made the world and all the life and people in it. And it liked the world, and went off to make others. But after long and long, it grew bored with making worlds, so it came back to see if the first one it made had done anything interesting while it was gone.
“But when it reached here the world was just the same. The omm shilshadu was angry, so it kicked the world, and water went over the land, and grass places became swamps, and . . . well, many things happened. That was the first time the world changed. It has changed two more times since, and I am afraid this is time four. It’s hard to live with a great spirit who gets bored.”
Her ancient eyes danced. Despite the sinking dread in his heart, Jiaan smiled. “Yes, it is. May I ask your name? I’m Jiaan, and my friend is Fasal.”
“Better than the last one,” the woman said. “I had to tell her to ask. My name is Maok.”
She rose and picked up the iron rod—the tip glowed cherry red. But before Jiaan had time to do anything more embarrassing than flinch, she thrust the glowing point into the sand.
“What are . . . I don’t understand.”
“You passed the test,” said Maok. “As your father did. You told the truth, even afraid, even not thinking about it. As your father did.”
What had his father told the truth about? Jiaan’s thoughts tumbled like a stone in a flooding stream, but it seemed he wasn’t going to be burned with hot iron. He drew a deep breath and tried to stop shaking. “Does that mean you’ll let us bring our army here? And hide us from the Hrum?”
“That I cannot say,” said Maok. “I must speak with many people before we answer that. It is hard to know what to do.”
“You can change a little for us,” said Jiaan. “Or you can change a lot for the Hrum. I’m sorry, but those are your only choices.”
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“Few choices? Maybe. But not few questions. A big question: Will you win over the Hrum, or will the Hrum win over you?”
“We will win,” said Fasal instantly. He sounded more confident himself, now that the rod’s glowing point was cooling in the sand. “By Azura’s hand, I swear it.”
As if the people who knew that the Hrum refused to teach conquered people their language wouldn’t know that the Hrum had beaten the Farsalans in every battle to date.
“We’re going to try,” said Jiaan. “I think we have a chance. A better one with your help.”
Her shrewd gaze searched his face. “They said you are his son,” said Maok. She looked at Fasal, and then at the rod buried in the sand and sighed. “I will meet you at the top of the canyon where you come from the desert, at the night of moon bright. Full moon, you would say. I will answer then. But I cannot say what it will be. When the world is kicked, it is hard to trust. Hard to remember old debts, even shilshadu debts. Even big ones.”
What did my father do for these people?
“I’m not my father,” said Jiaan. “You owe nothing to me.”
“We know that,” said Maok. “We will soon learn what you are.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
KAVI
THE CART LURCHED DOWN the road in the golden light of sunset. The barrels lurched on the cart, and inside the barrel, Kavi banged the back of his head against the unyielding wood and suppressed a curse. He knew that the creaks of cart and ox yoke, and the rattle of the barrels against the sides of the cart and one another, would hide an occasional soft thump—but it might not cover a furious diatribe about the reality of the Hrum’s much vaunted roads.
Of course, the Hrum had constructed the track that led from Desafon to their huge, new supply depot in a bit of a hurry.
