by Bell, Hilari
If that was true, then teaching this man to sense the spirit of the steel he could never shape might be a cruel punishment instead of a gift. Maok was right—she had to learn to think about the effect of magic on people, and the world, instead of just using it.
“Well, right now your peddler is getting bored with waiting.” Maok rose to her feet, though she had to bend under the hutch’s low ceiling. “Get out of bed, girl. You’ll waste all the moonlight!”
For Soraya that was a serious consideration, and she scrambled out of her blankets and went to wash. The Suud, with their eerie, wide-dilating pupils, could see well enough by starlight, but after the moon set, Soraya would be all but blind outside the firelit camp.
Fortunately the moon was waxing now, and would set about four marks before sunrise. That would give her plenty of time, for Proud Walking’s current camp wasn’t far from the bottom of the twisted trail.
As they ate breakfast Soraya tried to convince the clan council that they didn’t need to send an escort of warriors with her and Maok. “I don’t know what he wants,” she admitted. “But I’ve never seen him do anything violent. He’s the kind who thinks his way out of things. And the trail watchers say he’s alone, so even if I’m wrong, the four of them will be more than enough to come to our aid.”
Soraya knew the council’s concern was for the safety of their best All Speaker, not for a mediocre hunter and a Speaker just beginning to learn magic. But the council had also learned the futility of trying to coddle Maok, and in the end, Soraya and her teacher went to meet the peddler alone, though Maok did insist they talk to one of the watchers first.
“He’s just been waiting,” the watcher confirmed. “Patient as can be, though he calls out every now and then. I like the beast that’s with him. It has a mind of its own.”
Soraya, who had helped drag the reluctant mule out of several duck ponds on the road north from Setesafon, grinned. “You don’t know the half of it.”
IN FACT, IT WAS DUCKIE who noticed their presence, picking up Soraya’s scent and whickering a greeting.
The peddler followed the mule’s gaze and his bored expression brightened. “You made good time.”
They actually hadn’t hurried, but he didn’t know how close the camp was, and Soraya wasn’t about to tell him.
“This is Maok,” she said instead. “My . . . my . . .” Teacher, counselor . . . mother? “My sponsor among the Suud. Maok, this is the peddler Kavi, whom I told you about.”
The peddler grinned. “Nothing too bad I hope,” he said confidently.
“Maybe yes, maybe no.” Maok’s serene smile made Soraya wince—her teacher loved cutting the overconfident down to size. “Depends on how you think of bad, but mostly you’re not big enough for bad.”
Even her rough Faran got the point across. The peddler stopped grinning. “Ah, um . . .”
Soraya took pity on him—anyone fool enough to cross swords with Maok needed all the help he could get. “Why are you looking for me now?”
“Ah . . . After I left you, I . . . did some things.”
“You poisoned the Hrum garrison and took food into Mazad,” said Soraya impatiently. The Suud had a surprising number of contacts in the villages near the foothills. They traded foodstuffs and knives for Suud baskets, and added gossip into the bargain for free.
“Yes.” He had almost adapted to the level Maok played on. Though Maok had abandoned the conversation to make Duckie’s acquaintance, stroking the mule’s soft nose and whispering in her ears. Duckie didn’t make a sound, but Soraya had the unnerving impression that the mule was whispering back.
“Anyway,” the peddler continued, “I learned that the Hrum are making siege towers to use against Mazad, in a hidden camp somewhere. I wondered if you’d overheard anything that might give us a clue where the camp was.”
“Siege towers? I never heard anything about—no, wait a moment.” Soraya thought carefully. “I do remember one comment. It was almost two months ago. A couple of men in the meal tent were talking about how the camp for ‘the project’ would have to be located where there was timber readily available. That means somewhere in the mountains, doesn’t it?”
“That it does,” said the peddler. “And in the higher mountains, where the straight pines are, not the scrub around Mazad.”
“I’m sorry,” said Soraya. “I can’t think of anything else. It wasn’t long after that that I got caught, and people started watching what they said in front of me. It doesn’t help much, does it?”
“It helps some,” said the peddler thoughtfully. “Assuming this project is the siege towers—and even if it’s not, they’ll still need timber—then we should start looking in the mountains near Mazad. They won’t want to ship something that big very far, even if they aren’t completely assembled. But more important, if they hadn’t even set up the camp two months ago, then they likely won’t be finished for a while yet, even if Garren does send more men. We have time to find them.”
“How do you plan to search all the mountains around Mazad?” Soraya asked. “And what will you do if you find them?”
At one time, even a few weeks ago, that question would have been sarcastic, but not anymore. Even allowing for the exaggeration that plagued all rumors, what she’d heard about his raid on the Hrum garrison was impressive.
“Yes, well, that’s the next thing I wanted to ask you about. I have a few ideas what we can do about those towers, assuming we find them in time.”
“How will you find them?” she asked again. “Those are big mountains.”
“Oh, I won’t go searching up and down the hills myself.” He sounded almost shocked at the prospect. “Duckie prefers roads. I’ll just talk to the men in the mining camps. No one could establish a base in the mountains without the locals knowing about it—though they likely don’t know what the Hrum are doing there, or they’d have passed the word on already.”
“One man established an army in the mountains, without anyone noticing.” Soraya felt a bit smug, knowing something he didn’t.
“If you mean Commander Jiaan,” said the peddler, “the local folk knew all about it—they just didn’t tell the Hrum. But that’s the other thing I’ll need when the time comes, the help of some first-rate archers. And the young commander has the only archers I know of who aren’t Hrum. But I’m afraid he might have heard I’ve traded with the Hrum, and not be knowing the real reason. According to the local folk, he’s packed up his army and vanished, so I was wondering if you know where they are, and if you’d be willing to introduce me, you being . . . um . . .”
Jiaan was known to be her father’s bastard, though no one had ever been so rude as to say it in Soraya’s presence. She stood silent, watching him fumble with it.
Perhaps fortunately, Maok came to his rescue. “I don’t know if the stubborn girl will speak for you,” she said, turning away from Duckie. “But the army is here.”
“Here?” the peddler asked, looking around as if he expected them to spring out of the rocks.
“In the desert,” Maok went on. Soraya wondered what her teacher had sensed, that she spilled that secret so easily. “They began making their camp several weeks past, and just came there. We will send for the commander to meet you.”
THE ESCORT MAOK HAD SENT to fetch Jiaan whistled to warn the camp of their return.
Soraya went to the mouth of the canyon where she knew they’d emerge. The rocks were a black-and-silver sculpture under the light of the near-full moon. Her father’s bastard son had come into his household as a page at the age of ten, but Soraya had never known him well. It was beneath a deghass’ dignity to befriend servants. But the boy had grown to look startlingly like her father—she’d have to brace herself for that.
The peddler came up to join her, along with the spouses and children of the Suud who’d gone to find Jiaan.
The last time all three of them had been together—
The peddler noticed her sudden, indrawn breath. “What?”
The last time all three of them had been together, her father had been alive.
But he was dead now, Soraya told herself firmly. And he’d had small patience with people who wept and moaned forever, instead of getting on with their lives.
So get on with it.
The small party came around the bend in the canyon, Jiaan walking with them. He hadn’t brought any of his own men—a sign of his trust in the Suud, in Maok, who had summoned him, without telling him why.
His eyes widened as he caught sight of her. She found she didn’t mind his resemblance to her—their—father as much as she’d expected. She had, after all, known him for most of her life.
“Lady Soraya!” he exclaimed, stepping forward. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d gone with . . .”
The peddler had stepped up beside her, and Jiaan’s gaze fixed on him. Color drained from his face, then surged into his cheeks in a feverish flush. What—
She hadn’t even time to complete the thought. Jiaan took three running steps and hurtled into the peddler, knocking him flat, pounding his fists into the peddler’s body, his face.
“What are you doing?” Soraya shouted. “Stop this! Stop it at once!”
But Gorahz, the djinn of rage, had fully possessed Jiaan—he didn’t even seem to hear her.
The peddler tried to defend himself, to fight back. But few of his blows landed, and Soraya could see that he was already losing.
The Suud from the camp were running toward them, but Soraya ran the other way, to the stream where she snatched up an iron kettle, which earlier that morning she’d scrubbed out with sand. It took several long moments to fill it in the shallow water, but the shouts of the Suud, and the thud of blows, told her the fight still went on.
With muscles made strong by a summer of hard work, she hauled up the heavy kettle and staggered back to the fight. By now she’d had so much practice changing water that it took only a moment of connection, of disciplined yielding, to reach its shilshadu, to remind it of melting snow, icicles, and cold running streams. A part of her heart shared its joy in changing, even as she ran up to the struggling men and hurled the icy water over the two of them.
The peddler had stopped fighting and had raised both arms to protect himself, so some of the water was deflected onto his chest and the ground. But the freezing cascade caught Jiaan full in the face, and he swore and lifted both hands to wipe his eyes.
Three Suud hunters, two of them the biggest men in the tribe, and the last the reckless Abab, caught Jiaan’s arms and shoulders and dragged him away. A fence of spears lowered between him and his victim. They also pointed spears at the peddler, but he showed no sign of leaping to the attack. In fact, as battered as he looked, getting to his feet might be beyond him for a while. His mouth and nose were both bleeding.
Soraya turned to Jiaan. “What was that about?” Her voice held an arrogant command that would have made both her mother and her father proud.
Jiaan staggered to his feet, still staring at the peddler. He started forward, only stopping when half a dozen spears pricked his chest and abdomen. He finally looked at Soraya.
“What are you doing here? With him? He killed our father! He’s a Hrum spy!”
“Are you mad? Our father died fighting the Hrum.” He had to be mad, or possessed, or at least mistaken, for Jiaan had fought in the same battle.
“Oh, he didn’t do it personally.” How had the peasant boy she remembered learned to put so much contempt into his voice? “He’s too cowardly to fight face-to-face. He kills by sneaking, and spying, and lying. And betrayal. You don’t believe me? I can prove it. The Hrum mark their spies, just like they do with slaves. Watch.”
He started toward the peddler, who had risen to his knees, but the spears stopped Jiaan. He looked past Soraya’s shoulder, and she turned in time to see Maok nod consent.
The spears withdrew and Jiaan stalked forward, drawing his knife.
Soraya opened her mouth to protest, but Maok’s hand on her shoulder stopped her, and she subsided, watching. Watching, and dropping the mental shield that blocked her people sense. She had to know what was happening here, invasion of privacy or not.
Jiaan’s knife reached toward the peddler’s neck and Soraya stiffened, but he only slid the blade into the collar of the peddler’s tunic, and slit the fabric over the shoulder and down the sleeve.
Cloth fell away, showing a series of black diamonds running around the peddler’s upper arm, like half of a bracelet.
“There!” Triumph laced the seething fury she sensed from Jiaan. “That’s the mark of a Hrum spy. And that . . .” His knife flicked toward a thin, pink scar at the top of the peddler’s shoulder. It barely missed cutting the skin, and Soraya sensed the peddler’s flash of fear. He was harder to read than Jiaan, but she knew he was afraid. Afraid and angry.
“That,” Jiaan went on, “is the scar left by an arrow I fired at a Farsalan traitor who we saw passing information to the Hrum. He escaped then.”
The sudden flare of guilt and grief didn’t show in Jiaan’s face, but Soraya felt them.
“It was later that I realized I’d seen the traitor start to reach for his payment with his right hand, and then switch to his left. And I remembered whose mannerism that was, and I remembered that this peddler had been snooping around the camp, all curious and innocent. He’s the reason the Hrum knew our plans! He’s the reason they were able to ambush our archers!”
The peddler, still on his knees, drew a breath. “That’s true,” he admitted. “Well, the bit about the archers. The Hrum’s long lances would have destroyed that army, and your father would still be dead, even if I’d never met the Hrum. But I don’t expect a deghan to let a little thing like truth stand in the way of beating a peasant!”
His anger was different from Jiaan’s, sullen and slow burning as a forge fire, and perhaps the hotter for it. But if what Jiaan said was true . . .
“You don’t deny you’re a Hrum spy!” Jiaan shot back. “You don’t deny that you gave them Farsalan battle plans. You don’t deny that you scouted the Dugaz rebels’ camp for them, and probably other things as well!”
“Wait,” said Soraya. She had to come at the truth of this—and there were some things she knew that Jiaan didn’t. “That can’t be right. He’s been working against the Hrum! He’s the one who poisoned the garrison, and smuggled food into Mazad. And he helped me escape from their camp.”
Where he’d been welcome . . . and trusted. She faced the peddler, who was wiping blood off his chin with his sleeve, and opened her sensing as wide as she could. “Explain,” she demanded.
The peddler snorted, splattering fresh blood onto his face. “What for? Yes, I sold Farsalan battle plans to the Hrum. And yes, I’ve been working against them since.” He was telling the truth. He had sold her father’s battle plan to the Hrum. A chill began to grow in Soraya’s heart. Hatred, but cold rather than hot. Cold as steel.
The peddler wiped his face again. “But deghans never care why a peasant does anything. So instead, I’ll tell you something you might care about—you can’t beat the Hrum without my help. The country folk trust me, and they won’t trust you. Not with their lives. You can’t find the camp without them. You can’t sabotage the siege towers without them. You can’t—”
“Siege towers?” Jiaan interrupted. “What siege towers?”
“The ones the Hrum are building in a hidden camp, to take Mazad,” said the peddler. “The siege towers you wouldn’t have known about till they rolled up to the walls, if I wasn’t spying on the Hrum for your Flame-begotten cause. But you won’t care about that, either,” he finished bitterly.
It was true, Soraya realized over the cold boil of her own anger. If it hadn’t been for him, they wouldn’t have known about the siege towers. If it hadn’t been for him, she might still be looking for a way to get word of Nehar’s treachery to Mazad. If it wasn’t for him, she w
ould still be a Hrum slave, with scars on her back, and perhaps a broken spirit to go with them.
And compared to the fact that he’d had a hand in losing the battle that killed her father, none of it mattered at all. She wanted to kill him, to smash him with her fists like Jiaan had, to go on and on until he was obliterated, and her father’s death was obliterated, and the whole nightmare was gone, and she was home and safe.
But killing him wouldn’t bring her father back.
“I don’t believe you,” said Jiaan. “You’re playing a double game—winning Mazad’s trust so you can betray them too!”
“That’s not true.” The peddler’s voice was almost calm.
“He is telling the truth,” said Soraya. How could she sound so remote, so dispassionate, when she hated so much?
“How do you know that?” Jiaan demanded.
A reasonable question. Soraya shrugged.
“Whether I’m telling the truth about that doesn’t matter,” said the peddler. “Because I am telling the truth when I say you can’t get the Hrum siege towers without me. You can’t even find them.”
And that was also true. Even Jiaan knew it, but he covered his sudden doubt with bluster and anger. “I don’t care. We’ll find them somehow, and destroy them somehow. When they’re being taken to Mazad! We can attack them on the road!”
“Now, there’s a deghan’s answer if ever I heard one,” said the peddler. “You’ll sacrifice half your army—maybe more, since every man Garren can spare and some he can’t will be guarding those towers by then. But they’re just peasants, after all. What are their lives, compared to a deghan’s vengeance? And you’ll likely lose, and those towers will bring down Mazad, and all its folk will be shipped off as slaves. But what’s that, compared to a deghan’s vengeance?”
Even Jiaan fell silent.
If her father had had scant patience with weeping and moaning, he’d had nothing but contempt for those who wasted life in vengeance. Unlike Jiaan, she could sense the emotions behind the peddler’s words. His hatred, his bitterness. His own outraged anger, as deep as hers. As justified? No.
