Calling Up the Fire

by Lori Martin

  “How are they looking?” he called to Jensin, the overseer of the estate, who was leaning over the high fence to peer at the hooves of the horses. “The bay’s caught it, I can see from here.” He swung down. Jensin walked over, nodding his grizzled head.

  “Afraid so, young master. That’s two more since last week. Haven’t seen an outbreak like this since you were no higher than a fetlock. Of course, the flighter stock was weaker then. Master Nichos was thinking we’d lose them all.”

  Two kinds of horses were raised on the estate, haulers and flighters. The haulers were used for heavy work, and were chiefly purchased by farmers or trade caravans. Though this stock was good, the estate had become known for its flighters, the long-legged horses built and bred for speed. They were graceful and powerful, even dangerous in unskilled hands. Paither preferred them.

  “We should be passing the worst now,” Jensin continued. “It only runs the six weeks, maybe, and if we’ve only lost ten – well, eleven now if the bay dies too – we haven’t been hit too hard. It was the quarantine that kept it in hand.”

  “If you hadn’t spotted the first case so quickly I daresay we’d have had more trouble. I hear the breeding estates to the south of us lost half their stock. I don’t know how I’d manage without you, and my father says the same.”

  “Ah, well. It takes a good master, like your father. Will he be coming home to us soon?”

  “I don’t know. He’s overdue already. He’s been at the Assembly for nearly two moons.”

  “He misses some of our best work, away so much,” Jensin said regretfully. “Still, he’s got to follow his duty.” He looked quizzically at Paither for a moment, wondering again why he never accompanied Master Nichos on his trips to the capital. Jensin, who understood horses better than people, supposed that the young master was more interested in breeder work than in government.

  The mare nuzzled at Paither’s shoulder. He felt in an inner pocket of his robe for the sweets, and obediently held them out. The mare’s flapping lips swarmed over his palms. “Will we have to quarantine all of this group, too?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t think so, young master. Their hooves are clean, that’s the main thing, that’s where the lesions start up. Just the bay’s got it, I think.”

  Paither handed the mare’s bridle to him and walked up closer to the pen. The bay horse was far along, with a telltale spread of rash across the strong neck; he stood stamping and blowing, thick with foamy sweat. The estate workers moved softly around the animal, separating him slowly from the others, leading the healthy horses away through the gate. They nodded respectfully to Paither, keeping their voices low because of the bay. In the later stages the disease sometimes made its victims vicious.

  “Look out, young master,” Jensin suddenly called, and the next moment something soft and heavy slammed into his knees.

  “There you are,” Paither said, reaching down to scratch the dog’s ears. The dog wagged his tail in triumph, panting. His back right leg was broken, and Paither had just that morning adjusted the splint. The dog was his father Nichos’s favorite, named Hayseed because it followed him everywhere around the stables. Whenever Nichos was away the animal seemed at a loss; lately he had hobbled at Paither’s heels. When Paither had saddled up, Hayseed had tried gamely to run alongside the mare, and had soon been left behind. Now he had finally caught up, and wanted recognition of his achievement. “Good dog, good dog,” Paither said generously.

  “Young master,” Jensin called again, in warning.

  “Yes, I know. Come away here, Hayseed, you’ll bother the horse.” He tried to lead the dog back a little; already the bay, catching a new smell, had let out a shrill whinny.

  The last of the healthy flighters was being led out of the gate by a stable boy. “I’ll take the bay over to the isolated stable myself,” Paither told him. “Just take my mare along and rub her down with the others, will you?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” the boy said gratefully. He was young; the sick horses made him nervous; he was glad to leave the bay to someone else. He reached back to pull the gate shut behind him, loosening his hold by mistake on the bridle of the healthy flighter. The horse, feeling his advantage, danced sideways. Paither had to step back. The dog at his feet saw giant legs looming up. He had been injured by one of the horses, and remembered. Hayseed yelped, squirmed between the stable boy’s knees, and shot into the holding pen.

  The boy fell backwards into the snow and mud of the pen. Jensin shouted something. The other workers came running. Paither, grabbing at the freed horse’s reins, heard the bay whinny again, so loudly it was almost a trumpet; he knew what that meant. He released the other horse and turned to go through the gate, but the boy’s boots were tangled beneath it. He swung himself over the fence.

  The bay was a tall horse, young and of high mettle, a fine match of spirit and power when healthy. The long tapered legs, covered now with nervous sweat and the lesions of the disease, still held unexpected strength. The delicate wary ears were back. One wild eye was cocked on the dog, scrambling awkwardly around the pen. When Paither landed with a soft thud, the horse started and skittered around to face him as a new enemy.

  Paither clucked reassuringly. The danger came from the poor creature’s terror. At this stage everything came as a threat to them, as if an ancient memory of the wild, of night wolves and blood fights, was stirred to shivering life. The bay whinnied again, pawed at the ground, made a sudden dart forward, then quivered and backed up.

  The workers leaned over the fence. Someone was helping the floundering stable boy to his feet. Paither stood between them and the stricken horse until both were safely past the gate. The men were all in silent motion; even the confused stable boy knew to keep still.

  Then Hayseed barked. The horse’s turning had trapped him in a far corner of the pen. The slats of the fence hung too low for the large dog to slide under; he gathered himself together to jump over the top, pushed with his hurt leg, yelped in pain, and barked again.

  Paither ran forward. The bay had trotted to the left, tossing his head. White lather droplets sprayed the air from his mouth. But before Paither could reach the dog, the horse had bounded back between them.

  “Young master,” Jensin said behind him from the fence, as loudly as he dared. “The boy’s safe. You come out of there now, sir, please.” Paither glanced back. One of the men was readying a rope.

  “Just tell me when you’re ready to throw,” Paither murmured to him out of the side of his mouth.

  “Master Paither,” Jensin protested. “Please now. It’s only a dog. You come out of there and let us take care of this.”

  Between the legs of the horse Paither could see Hayseed’s paws, scratching hopelessly at the ground. His father had had Hayseed from a pup, and trained him himself; the dog was even allowed in the main house, where he spent his evenings with his head in Nichos’s lap, being petted. Paither pictured himself explaining the dog’s death to his father, and felt a terrible pang, as if it were already happening. The bay pawed the ground again, flicking his tail. Hayseed snarled.

  The horse bared its teeth and reared. “Young master!” Jensin shouted. Paither shoved forcefully at the horse’s flanks, pushing the animal away from the dog. The bay turned and reared again, striking this time for him, the larger enemy, aiming heavy hooves at his head.

  On the fence Jensin thought in agony, I should have known. Just like the other time, and he’s still wearing it on his face, you’d think he’d remember, but he’ll dare anything, anything... Jensin waved his arm, signaling the man with the rope, who was being too slow. Released from silence, the others whistled, hooted, and clapped their hands, trying to drive the horse back.

  As the bay reared up once more Paither ducked directly beneath the flailing hooves and grabbed Hayseed by the scruff of the neck. He tossed the dog over the fence. He had one leg up on the top slat when the whirling rope fell across him, missing the horse completely. The agitated groom had thrown badly. Jensin sho
uted.

  All at once the bay started to buck violently, as if a hated rider were clinging to his back; perhaps, in his inflamed mind, one was. Paither swept the rope away and vaulted the fence.

  He came down nearly into Jensin’s arms; the elderly man had run huffing around the pen to him. The relieved workers cheered. The stable boy came up with meek thanks; Jensin, brushing at Paither’s dirtied robe, ordered the boy off to catch the other horse, which had trotted off unnoticed. The furious bay was still pounding about inside the fence. They would go in with four or five ropes and medicine when he had exhausted himself. Hayseed limped in circles, barking. Paither looked cheerfully from one to the other, and smiled into Jensin’s rebuking eyes.

  “No call to get killed for a dog, Master Paither. Your father may be fond of this one, I don’t deny, but he’s fonder of you, and he won’t like hearing of this.”

  Paither raised an eyebrow. “And who,” he asked deliberately, “is going to find it necessary to worry him with it?”

  For the first time in many years, Jensin looked straight into his face. The angry splattered scar ruined his looks, smearing down from the left cheekbone to just above the chin. The wound, mercifully, had spared the eye and nose, but it had happened in his childhood; the damaged muscles had never fully recovered, and as he had grown the skin below his eyelid and at the corner of his mouth had been stretched down, too taut and lopsided. The cool grey eyes waited for his answer. Jensin sighed. “Ah, well,” he said, and turned back to the holding pen. Paither hoisted Hayseed into his arms and joined him. Soon they were conferring on the proper capture and medicine dosing of the bay.

  He returned to the main house several hours later, sweaty and mud-smeared, ready for a bath. At the top of the broad front stairs, a blonde woman was attempting to coax a toddler into the house. Paither came up lightly behind, lifted the child in his arms, and leaned to kiss the woman. She looked too young to be his mother, but he had called her so from before his memory.

  “I just had a messenger,” she began. The front doors opened. A serving girl said timidly, “Mistress Pillyn?”

  “Yes?”

  “Cook says when will you be wanting dinner?”

  “Right away, please. Or no –” She looked at Paither’s grimy clothes. “In about an hour, please.” The girl bobbed her knee and shut the door.

  The little girl in his arms, his sister Calli, said, “You’re dirty.”

  “I’m afraid so. I’ve been at the stables all day.”

  As if reminded, Pillyn asked a few desultory questions about the horses, paying little attention to the answers. He said, “Mother. You said a messenger came? Is that a letter?”

  “Yes, from your father. He’ll be away another week at least.”

  “So long? Why?”

  “It’s happened again.”

  “Another –?”

  “This time it was two Assembly members.”

  He blew air from his cheeks. “The Defiers are getting braver.”

  “Yes? Your father thinks it’s a type of cowardice. Maybe he’s right.” Pillyn glanced at the house, considering, but the servants would all be bustling about. Mendale servants.

  She sat down on the top stair. Paither settled beside her. “Calli, maybe you’d better go inside now.”

  “No,” the child said decisively. She arranged herself beside them, copying their attitudes, and catching the worried tilt of her mother’s head. After a moment Paither asked, “How were they killed?”

  She opened a scroll. “Here... ‘with knives in the back. Berrold and Dissus were only three streets away from the Assemblage, and they must not have even heard their murderers approach. As far as we have been able to discover, no one else was near. I think they must have been followed right from the Assembly session. They’re both well known, of course, always demanding the floor, speaking out against Lindahnes. I had no love for either of them, but –’ Well, he goes on. The whole Assembly’s in an uproar, he says.”

  They looked at each other. Paither, who had read speeches by both the murdered Assembly members, felt a surge of admiration for the unknown hands which had stilled their vicious hatred, but he knew this was base, and disloyal to his father.

  The Defiers were revered in their homeland of Lindahne and cursed in Mendale. No one knew how many years the group had existed. They had begun slowly, with bloodless disruptions and resistance: burning Oversettle government buildings, stealing shipments intended for Mendale use, supporting the religious practices the Mendales had forbidden. But over two years ago, they had turned to meeting force with force. Rumors of swordfights in the foothills, of trade caravans set on, of unwary Mendales caught and left hanging in trees, had reached them even here on the estate; there was no telling how much was true. It was clear at least that the Oversettle government was unable to flush the Defiers from hiding: the average Lindahne was too frightened to join the group, but too proud to help the Mendale solders. No threats or beatings had given the Mendales useful information. The Defiers were protected by their people.

  This autumn the Defiers had carried the killing into the heart of the enemy’s strength – into MenDas, the capital. Members of the ruling Assembly had become their targets.

  “I wonder what their real aim is,” Paither said, trying to sound unconcerned, as if it were just another political question. He looked again at his mother. She was a full Lindahne, and though she had lived here eighteen years she still stubbornly wore the colors of her ancient noble family, cranberry and white. In this he had always followed her; his robe was dyed in the same colors. The little girl beside them was dressed in rose, a shade that meant nothing to her; Mendales gave colors no significance. Calli was already all Mendale like their father. She would be at home here all her life, he knew. Only he had been caught somehow in the middle.

  Pillyn said, “Your father thinks the Defiers may be trying to free Queen Ayenna. Oh yes, she’s a rallying point for them. Well, for every Lindahne, I suppose. The strange part is that even if Lindahne were free, even if we could follow our own laws, the queen wouldn’t really be entitled to rule in Chair again. Not alone, not with the king dead. He was the blood heir. She reminded me of that herself, when I saw her last summer.”

  The last queen of Lindahne was living under permanent house imprisonment just outside of MenDas. Pillyn had sometimes been allowed to visit her; on occasion even Paither had received permission. The house was small, comfortable, and heavily guarded; the woman was often sad but faithful to the gods. He had liked and respected her. Now, however, it seemed doubtful if either of them would see her again. Once the Defiers had become a cause for concern, the Mendale Assembly had prohibited any further visits.

  “Who would be the real heir, then? The relas died too, didn’t she?”

  “Yes.” She shifted her position as the cold crept through her cloak. He knew this history, but often asked to be told it again. “Yes, the relas died. The king had a brother, of course, but he was killed in the War, too. So was his son.”

  “In other words, the royal line is wiped out. So it’s no wonder if the Defiers want to put Queen Ayenna back in the chair. Blood heir or not, she was a true ruler of Lindahne for many years.”

  “The king’s brother had a daughter,” she said fretfully. “But it doesn’t matter...”

  “Why not?”

  She said nothing.

  “You mean, because the Mendales are in power anyway?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s what I meant. Calli, stop that, you’re going to trip.” The child, bored, had started jumping from one stair down to the next, flat-footed.

  “Mother? Don’t repeat this, but –” he meant, please don’t tell Father. Pillyn tilted her chin. “Sometimes I can’t help wishing I hadn’t been born in Mendale. You know they still call me a ‘halfer’ in Fiyas-town, half Mendale, half Lindahne. It would have been better, I think it would have been better, if you had given me life on Lindahne earth.”

  A small sound that he could not
identify escaped her. At that moment, Calli succeeded in losing her balance and tumbled across the bottom step. She burst into loud wails.

  He jumped down and held her against his chest, murmuring soothing noises, still waiting for his mother’s reaction.

  She beckoned him up. She tugged at the sleeve of his robe, trying to expose his left shoulder. Calli, feeling ignored, cried harder.

  “Mother?”

  Her fingers traced the blue mark on his fair skin, as if reading a message through the tips. Paither thought the mark was another scar, another reminder of the stable fire that had ruined his face and nearly killed him. But she was not his mother, and she knew better.

  “Tell me,” he said, annoyed. He felt left out of a secret. “What is it? What are you thinking?”

  “Give Calli to me. All right, dearest, let’s go back in the house and get you cleaned up. There now, that doesn’t hurt so much, does it? You’d better bathe, too, Paither.”

  “Mother.”

  Without another word she left him. He trailed her to the door, pausing in perplexity on the threshold. Then he kicked the doorjamb.

  Chapter 2

  Scayna had no difficulty in receiving permission to visit her parents in their camp for supper. The chilhi avoided her now, when she could, and rarely turned down her requests. She

  would not be missing much in her own Band; the young women were learning how to brew poisons, in which they would dip their arrows for battle, and the talk at table had centered on this for days; even so, her parents’ conversation was not likely to be an improvement. But she had news to tell. They had a right to hear it from her first, instead of camp rumor.