by Lori Martin
Of course it had to wait; for an hour they clung to the topic of her changed appearance. “Can’t say that hair chopping’s done you any good,” her father Quienos said, slopping bread into his plate and wolfing down a chuck of meat. He was an “Oldtimer,” meaning a veteran of the War, and entitled to a private tent, but they had chosen to sit outside around the cooking pot. Her mother Daana liked to watch the comings and goings of the other families.
“You shouldn’t have let the chilhi see your hair in the first place,” Daana said, for perhaps the third time. Her mouth puckered when she spoke. “There’s no need to be showing yourself off. You’re not a beauty, you know. And now with it all hacked up, well –”
“I didn’t let her,” Scayna repeated. “She ordered me. She grabbed my hair and then she insisted on looking at my shoulder.”
“Seems to me person’s got a right to his own skin,” Quienos put in. His heavily veined hands rattled the pot’s ladle as he took more food. “Think they own the earth, the Valtah, and the unending Sea, these chilhis. Stand up for yourself, girl. Why do you let yourself be ordered around?”
“I suppose I thought I was in the army, Father,” she said innocently. Without thinking she added, “Someone’s coming.”
Daana glanced at her, then peered down the open stretch before the line of tents. They heard nothing. A few moments later torchlight waved; voices were soon calling.
Daana shouted to a burly man who stood in front of the next tent. “What is it?”
“Some traders in. From MenDas.”
Daana rose to her feet, pushing down the dirty skirt of her robe.
“Wait, Mother.”
“Bring ‘em over!” Quienos waved his hands.
People from the surrounding tents drifted over to their fire, chattering. “Says there’s news.” “Army or political?” “From MenDas? Just more wind blowing from the Assembly.” “Nothing new there –”
“This time there is,” a different voice said.
The circle admitted three traders. The first, a middle-aged woman in a shabby cloak, smiled and repeated it. “Good even’, friends. This time there is news.”
Quienos kicked over a log in invitation. The second trader nodded in thanks, put down his pack cases, and settled himself on his haunches. The third sat down beside him.
“Well, what is it?” someone demanded.
“Supper for news,” the female trader offered.
Scayna suppressed a laugh. Her father, too lazy to stir, had brought the crowd to him; now he would have to provide the means.
“If you must. Serve yourselves,” he said.
The second trader reached for the cooking pot and shared out the portions. The gathered army people waited respectfully, patiently, as the plates were filled and then emptied. When the men reached for second servings, the woman began the story. “It’s those murdering lins,” she said. “Those Defiers, right in MenDas.”
The Mendales exclaimed in anger as the story of the assassinations went on. There was nothing unsaid among them, as there had been between Paither and his mother. They were all in accord; the “lins” had gotten above themselves for certain, and needed to be shown what was what. And as army people, it seemed likely some of them would be a part of any retaliation.
“Ought to burn them out of the foothills, that’s all,” one said. “Never mind that. Burn them in their own homes, I say,” another answered.
“I’ve heard of one of those Assembly members,” Scayna said suddenly. “Don’t you remember, Mother? We heard a newscrier tell about her. She was a judge at the Hall of Merits, besides being in the Assembly. She’d had a lin hanged that day for petty thievery.”
“What of it?” Quienos demanded.
“Well, from the Defiers’ point of view, they chose their target well: someone who was persecuting their people. It makes sense.”
“Sense? Knifing people in the back?”
“And not a trace,” the second trader put in. “No one knows where the lins went off to, neither.”
Quienos snorted. “But you can smell a lin anywhere. You mean to say the guards and the Assembly and the MenDas solders all together can’t catch a couple of murdering lins?”
“Oh, but they arrested two men and had them up in the Hall of Merits for it two days ago,” the second trader said, and was gratified by their astonishment. “Oh yes, saw it myself. Started at high-sun and before even’ the two of them were hanging by their necks for everybody to see.”
“That’s the end of it, then,” Quienos said.
A woman added, “That will show those lins.”
The first trader laughed. She wiped her soiled fingers on her cloak and accepted another cup of wine from Scayna. “Said they arrested and hanged two men. Didn’t say they hanged the murderers.”
“What riddle’s this, friend?”
“Ah, the Defiers aren’t halfwits. The two men who were hanged, I saw them, too. Said they were in MenDas to bring a case before the Hall of Merits, because somebody in the Oversettle stole their land in Lindahne. They had the file scrolls to prove it, too, and they’d only been in MenDas a few days.”
“So?”
“So they were old. Grandpappas, both of them, and one of ‘em was gone lame and had a cough that could crack open your chest. Like to see how he could’ve sneaked up behind somebody with a knife in a quiet street. Besides, I’ve seen real Defiers – the ones they’ve caught in the foothills. And let me tell you, friends, the Defiers are all young folk. Real young. Like this one here.” She jerked her chin at Scayna.
They were silent. The third trader, eating silently and steadily, crunched yet another hunk of bread between his teeth. Quienos glared.
Scayna said, “So they executed these old men just to have scapegoats. They did it for show, for vengeance, because they couldn’t catch the real killers.”
Her father shrugged. “Well, it’s a few less lins cluttering up the country, that’s all.”
Heads nodded. “More should go that way –” “Come on, Lea, let’s to bed.” “They ought to get the real Defiers though, or they’ll keep trying it.”
“Thanks for the supper,” the second trader said, as the crowd broke up. “Good wine.”
“Guess you had enough to tell,” Quienos retorted.
Scayna scraped out the bottom of the cooking pot, dribbling grease on the ground. The dwindling firelight caught, here and there, a hint of the remaining glimmers at the roots of her shorn hair. Her own news, she saw now, was connected to this. It was rather pathetic of the lins, trying to strike back – or win their freedom? – with a handful of people no older, apparently, than she; yet you had to respect it in some way. At least it showed backbone. She’d always heard how the lins, crying out to their primitive little gods, had been nothing in battle. Cowards, her father had always said, and hadn’t he fought them himself? But she had learned early to distrust his assertions. “Father, I came over tonight to tell you, my Band’s been reassigned.”
Her mother looked up. Quienos belched, waiting, and finally said impatiently, “Well? Where they sending you?”
“To MenDas.”
“What? What kind of assignment is that?”
“Apparently the Assembly members don’t feel very safe these days,” she said dryly. “They’re bringing in the Tenth Band, too, the foot soldiers. We’re going to be headquartered in the Assemblage House.”
Quienos banged down his cup. “You mean to say you’re going to be living under the same roof as the Trio? What for?”
“Protection, I suppose. A show of force to the Defiers. I really wouldn’t know, Father, the Trio hasn’t consulted my opinion.”
“But the Assemblage House has its own guards, they don’t need army folk.”
“Don’t they?” Daana snorted. “Oh, never mind the cooking things, girl. Seems like they’ve got the wind up for certain. Now they need their own Archery Band.”
“I suppose you’ll enjoy yourself.”
“Well, I
’ve never been to the capital, Father. And it’s better than being sent to Lindahne.”
“That’s true enough, I’ll give you.”
“Then what’s wrong?” She looked from one to the other. “Mother?”
“You’re sure to make a show of yourself there,” Daana said. Berating her daughter was her main occupation; she hardly asked herself what she would be missing with Scayna gone. “Don’t be getting yourself into any more trouble with your chilhi, that’s all.”
“Ah, leave her be,” Quienos said unexpectedly. He had thought about it, and decided that having a daughter serving in MenDas itself would sound very well. He’d be sure to mention it to his ranking tomorrow.
Scayna gathered up their scattered plates and took them into the tent. Their voices dropped immediately, murmuring at each other, but she was too angry to care what they said. In all their travels, looking for work in the Guilds, her father had always avoided MenDas; she’d long ago assumed he was simply not good enough for the capital’s Pottery Guild, and knew it. She’d be interested to see the city, and glad to get away.
Her mother’s voice, momentarily raised, said, “Not to mention sounding like she belongs there,” and Scayna nearly grinned. That old argument again.
During her scattered education, caught at piecemeal in various towns, she had picked up the speech accents of nobleborn children, who often recited aloud in the sunlit rooms above those reserved for the children of commoners. Scayna and the town children worked at their letters or sums – the only education they were deemed to need
– while above their puzzled heads the enchanted voices went on, raised in song, laughter, or discussion. She was a natural mimic; she first caught the smooth rhythms by accident; they sounded lovely in her ears, like a promise of beauty. When she saw that it annoyed her mother, she had kept it up deliberately. Now it was natural to her and, dulled to the distinction, she no longer recognized when it cost her a townsperson’s trust or a fellow archer’s confidence.
She finished tidying up and prepared to return to her own camp. The walk in the clear and open air would do her good. Another few phrases hissed through the tent flap (“She’ll be too close to him!” her mother sizzled, and her father answered, “No one will remember”) but they made no sense; she could connect them to nothing. She ran a hand through the ragged ends of her hair and coughed loudly, to tell them she was coming. Then she went out to say good evens’, and take her leave.
Pillyn frowned over the accounts. The glowing afternoon sun fell across the back of her neck, lighting the closely marked columns of numbers on the books before her. Her husband Nichos would be returning home soon, and she wanted the supplies list to be up to date for him.
The room was a small study at the back of the house, off of the main hall. It was still furnished in a style from the days of Nichos’s parents. The chairs were large and heavy, intricately carved; a balance of easy grace was provided by the pale accents of the upholstery. The desk where Pillyn sat was made of dark lekah, a wood native to Mendale. The room’s hanging tapestries depicted scenes from the lives of illustrious ancestors in Nichos’s family.
On the wall behind her, beside the window, the one trace of Lindahne influence could be found. It was a portrait she had painted herself, in another country and another life. The young man’s face looked out confidently, smiling. A green jewel shone at his throat.
The work had wearied her. Her scratching pen slowed and hesitated. Without her own knowledge, her eyes closed. The blonde head drooped.
“Pilla?” She jerked upright. In the confusion of her sudden waking, she lost her bearings for a moment. Her beginning dream had taken her to her girlhood at home; even now, with her eyes open but unfocused, she thought she was there. Her brother was calling her...
“Pilla?”
“Ah,” she said, and passed a small hand across her forehead. “Temhas? I’m in here.” Her older brother came in, with the dog Hayseed padding at his heels. At thirty-six he retained the lean, restless body of his youth. His dark hair brushed forward over watchful eyes. “Thunder’s better,” he said, referring to one of their best stallions. Jensin says he’ll make it. By Nialia, it’s cold in here.”
“Start the fire. Shuri should have been in to do it an hour ago.” “She’s gossiping down by the mares’ stables.” Temhas squatted before the fireplace and reached for the poker. The dog nuzzled beneath his arm. “When will Nichos be back among us?”
“I’m expecting him in a few days. I’m glad you’ve been keeping the stables in hand.” She was as yet unaware that in fact Paither had taken on most of the estate responsibilities; Temhas worked, but only when he wished to. “We could never run this place without you, with Nichos gone so often. It’s all I can do to keep up with these accounts.”
“I’m indispensable,” Temhas told the dog, who licked at his chin in response. He added sarcastically, “This is my place, here lies my home.” It was a Lindahne saying.
She was immediately irritated. “Where else would you go?” she demanded, and then wished she had not uttered the words.
Temhas cocked an eye at her. “Where indeed?” His eyes were shot with blood; she knew he could either have been drinking or sitting up late with the sick stallion. There was no way to tell which was the cause.
A serving girl tapped on the door. “Mistress, there are a couple of traders here from Fiyas-town.”
“Oh? What do they want?”
“I told them the master’s from home, mistress, but they say they’d rather speak with you.”
“Male or female?” Temhas asked.
“It’s a young man and a young woman, sir.”
“A young woman,” he repeated thoughtfully.
Pillyn suppressed another stir of annoyance with him. After all, it wasn’t as if they were surrounded by Lindahne nobles. He would probably never be able to marry; even if he wanted a local noble woman, what Mendale family would accept him? And at least he left the serving girls in peace. If he looked for occasional companionship among the passing traders and craftswomen – people who in these confused days might be Lindahne or Mendale, nobleborn or common – she had no right to complain. “All right, send them in. And Shuri, please be back at the house on time from now on.”
“Yes, mistress. I’m sorry.”
Although the girl had said they were young, Pillyn was still surprised at their ages; they could scarcely be older than Paither. The first, a tall young man with his cloak wrapped tightly around him, stepped aside for his companion. She came confidently to the center of the room and bowed.
“Good day, mistress. I am Mejalna, a trader from Fiyas and many other towns. This is my fellow caravan traveler, Renasi.”
The dog came and sniffed at their boots.
“Good day to both of you. How may I help you?”
The trader cast back her hood. Pillyn was astonished. Lush shining hair, the radiant color of a dying sunset, fell almost to her waist. Deep blue forceful eyes, fringed with dark lashes, met Pillyn’s own. Her complexion was flawless; her features as finely chiseled as the famed marble statue of Rena, goddess of Love, which Pillyn had seen as a child in Lindahne.
There was a stir from the rug. The woman Mejalna turned in surprise; neither of the traders had seen him.
“Well,” Temhas said, smiling up at her startled look. “Good day to you.” He felt a pain, almost of bereavement, when she withdrew her rich eyes from him.
“We wished to speak with you alone, please, Mistress Pillyn.”
“But if you’re here about horses or estate business, you really should be speaking to my brother. This is Temhas.”
“Your brother?” she repeated.
Her companion, Renasi, looked at her, as if considering a question. Mejalna asked, “He’s your full brother?”
“Yes,” Pillyn answered, but she was affronted. “I ask you again, how may I help you?”
Mejalna appeared to be thinking it over. Renasi whispered audibly, “If he’s a Lin
dahne too –” She waved him to silence, but Pillyn had already risen to her feet.
“I see you’re aware of my background,” she said. “I know this is called a ‘lin-loving’ estate, and worse, by many people, but I don’t intend to be insulted in my own home by strangers.”
“Indeed, mistress, we meant no offense. Perhaps if I might explain –”
“If you would.”
“We’re traders, as I said. We’ve worked mostly with leather makers and potterers. Just lately we’ve heard of an opportunity in Lindahne – they have excellent fish off the coast there, as you must know, and we’d like to bring the catches to Mendale, but it’s difficult to buy into a caravan at this time of year. We thought to finance and equip our own.”
Pillyn smiled, a little tightly. Even this far away it was common knowledge that the Lindahne fishers – the men and women on the shores of the Sea – earned little beyond their bare keep from their heavy work. It was Mendale traders, backed by the Oversettle government, who took in the profits.
Renasi said, “We heard there were good flighters to be had near here, and when we came to Fiyas-town everyone said your horses were the best.”
“Flighters are for speed,” Temhas said from the floor. He gestured lazily. “Why not sit down? As I was saying, we breed them for speed, for use by messengers, mostly, or nobles who need them for fast traveling. But they’re not good for your purposes, not for making long or heavy hauls, because –”
“Yes, but we’re not here just for horses,” Mejalna cut in. She had chosen a heavy chair and settled into it. Renasi perched uneasily on the one beside her.
“Well?” Pillyn demanded. “I have a household to run.”
“You know Lindahne, mistress. We would appreciate your help. You could... advise us.”
Pillyn felt herself under scrutiny. More and more confused, she tried to laugh. “I haven’t been in my own country for many years. Not since you yourself were an infant, I would guess. And I’m not a trader. I can’t see how we could be of any use to one another.”
“We hear you’re loyal to your homeland.” Mejalna leaned closer. “You and your brother are both wearing family colors. Yes, we recognize them. And your husband, Master Nichos, often speaks in the Assembly, calling for less restrictions on Lindahne.”
