by Holly Lisle
The method would work, of course.
“What did you find?” he asked.
“My father let me loose certain that I would do what I did. Run to a Tonk ship and find passage. Only now he can’t find me. So they’re telling the Feegash friend nations that Tonk pirates sent a ransom notice. That I’m some important boy, and that you said you’d kill me if the Feegash didn’t make the Tonk …” He glanced over at Tuua. “What was the word again?”
“A favored nation.”
Aaran said, “So you heard this, too?”
Tuua nodded. “He passed what he was hearing on to me but I could only catch the parts that were said in Sinali to the whole assembly. Still, from what I got, the Feegash are claiming the boy is dead already, and a martyr. ‘Sacrificed to the barbarity of the bestial Tonk’ was the phrase they used. They’re rallying their allies to go to war against Tonk everywhere waving him as their banner. No negotiation with kidnappers.”
“Conveniently not mentioning that the boy was not kidnapped but ran away, and that they’re responsible for stealing our children to be their slaves and murdering our adults.”
Tuua smiled. “How would mentioning those things benefit them? How has telling the truth ever benefited them?”
Aaran muttered, “I think that’s what diplomacy is. Lying long enough to get the knife between the other man’s shoulder blades first. I hate diplomats.” He stared down at his chart, which showed the distance between him and Hawkspar—the distance, as he thought of it, between failure and success, or between destruction and survival.
If he couldn’t reach her or she couldn’t reach him, he could not believe the Tonk could win the war. The Feegash had stacked too many odds against them. Had made things too big, too all-encompassing. The Feegash would offer deals and bribes and treats, trade daughters or sons or gold, lie and lie and lie and lie, and in the end most of the known world would call the proud Tonk—the oldest civilization in the world—animals.
The Tonk people would be enslaved, their vast libraries burned and in the end their grand and ancient idea—that all citizens deserved a voice in their lives, the right to choose their own destinies, the right to be responsible for their futures, their successes, and their failures—would die.
Aaran knew what he and the small fleet went to battle for. He knew its worth, he believed the cause worth the sacrifice of his own life and the lives of those who fought with him, just for the chance to prevail.
But he desperately wanted to know that at least some chance of success existed.
His fingers traced the complex shoreline of Greton, sliding back and forth along the line of glossy black ink. She was out there, and she was traveling with ungodly haste to meet up with him. Was her speed because she knew the Tonk might prevail? Or was it because she knew all hope was dead, and that their best chance lay in turning tail, fleeing back to Hyre as quickly as the winds would take them, and gathering up their loved ones and whatever possessions they might save, and crawling into exile, to wait for better times?
“You’re a long way away,” Tuua observed.
“I am. My heart is with Hawkspar right now. I pray hourly that whatever force it is that moves her across the land at such speeds does not fail her.”
“I hope she can help us take our battle to the snakes’ nest. But in the meantime, have you any thought what actions we might take against all the rest of the world, who will be moving against us in this decent season, rather than debating and waiting while they lose the advantage of good weather?”
And Aaran thought, what was there to do? The betrayal of the world’s kingdoms and principalities would come as no surprise to the Tonk. They kept their spies in the world’s many courts, as did everyone else.
They would find out what they faced.
The fleet could offer nothing to help them more than what they were already doing. If Aaran and the Tonk Great Pack could crush Ba’afeegash—something that had never been done before—they could, perhaps, win over the rest of the world eventually.
But so long as the Feegash occupied their poisonous mountain nest, and so long as they yearned to remake all the world in their image, they would conspire against the Tonk, for they despised everything the Tonk held dear, and held dear everything the Tonk despised.
“We can stay our course,” Aaran said at last. “We can hold true to our mission. If there is any hope for our people at all—whether we can get Hawkspar back or not—that hope lies in our actions, and our faithfulness to this mission.”
“Then what we must do, we will do.” Tuua rose, and the boy and Waandar stood a beat after him. “As Ethebet says, ‘Men are not measured lying down, but standing.’”
Hawkspar
We had to take a slower pace. The horse that bore Weggnrad’s body was skittish, and tied though the beast was to my rescuer’s saddle, he would not gallop at speed, but kept shying away and rolling his eyes.
The slower pace allowed the courier to talk easily, however, and I quickly got the feeling that he was not a man who often found himself with a captive listener—and better yet, one who could not talk back.
“ … so then—ha, ha, I wish I had only been there to see it—my mother’s sisters brought out their sacrifice. They’d found a young man, some fool who is the sort to listen only to what he wants to hear and never to what is said—you know the sort. My own half brother was like that, as a matter of fact. Ha! I could tell you stories about him. He was forever getting his father, my mother’s second husband, riled about something that he had done that he thought was what his father wanted, but never was anything like. He gave the goat some green hay once …”
Here he burst into such laughter that he choked and gasped and had to drink water before he could resume his odious tale.
Weggnrad had been a pleasant enough companion. He hadn’t talked much, but he’d managed to start one story and finish the same story. I’d not appreciated what a gift that was until I met Heebart. It was Heebart with some long name after, and a handful of titles or badges or honors; I hadn’t been able to tell which. And all this had started because Heebart, discomfited by the presence of the dead man in the saddle behind his, and awkward about traveling with a woman made guardianless by bandits mysteriously dead, had thought he would entertain me for a while with the amusing story of how his family had come by its unusual name.
Which I still didn’t know. I couldn’t remember, at that point, if he had gotten around to telling me his last name, much less why he’d thought it was so unusual. His voice, not rich or deep or pleasant but high and nasal, had become an inescapable unpleasantness, like my aching thighs and lower back, both terribly unused to riding horses quickly over long distances. Or like the dust that got inside my clothes. He became an insect whine right up against my skull, and if I could have, I would have swatted him.
Which makes me sound ungrateful for his help, and I wasn’t. I was merely ungrateful that he was the one who had come along to help me.
And on he droned. And on. And on.
I did wish I could remember his name. Someday I would want to tell people about him, and I wanted to identify him fully, as Heebart Pigsnout, or Heebart Dullard of the Tedious People, or however his people styled their names. I wanted to say his name, and have a listener from half a world away cringe and say, God as my witness, I was waylaid by that man once and I thought I’d have to cut my own head off and toss it from my body to get out of range of his voice. Just once. Just once I wanted to know that others had suffered what I suffered.
Finally we came over a rise, and a station lay before us. I would have lifted my head and sung praises to Jostfar and Ethebet, had I not been attempting to disguise my origins.
“You’ll be wanting to stop here,” he told me. “They’ll find someone to ride with you soon enough, though they will surely wish to contact your father first to let him know of your dilemma, and the death of his son-in-law.”
Which reminded me that I was complaining about a dull man,
while a good man was dead just behind us. Instantly guilt descended upon me that I could so quickly turn to my own petty concerns when the tragedy of others rode behind.
Heebart was no doubt correct. The Association of Couriers would no doubt want to have me wait while my “father” was notified of Weggnrad’s death. I, unfortunately, did not have time to wait for all the niceties to fall into place. No matter how badly I felt about Weggnrad, and no matter how much I hurt for both Beckgert and his daughter who would soon find out she’d been widowed, I could not stay to see that all went smoothly. I had to be on my way. I could not be certain when Aaran would reach the cove I aimed for—not even by standing in the center of time itself could I tell how the winds would blow or the ocean currents run in the upcoming days. I’d lost the time to make one station of my three remaining stations for the day, but could still hope to make two more if I could avoid delay.
I wondered if I would be able to follow the Courier Road on my own. It had, so far, been a clear track most of the time. But I would not have been able to pick my way through the copse to where the track became clearer on the other side. Part of the route I suspected the couriers had memorized. Part might change depending on conditions. And to have access to the horses I had to have permission to ride the Courier Road. And to reach Aaran and the rest of the fleet before they had passed me by, I had to have access. I had to be approved. I could not play games with time, because I could move only myself against the weight of a caught moment. I could not move myself plus a horse.
But how could I, a lone outlander woman disguised as a would-be bride, forbidden to speak, win the couriers to my cause? They did not love the Tonk. They did not love the Ossalenes. They were neutral in theory, but sliding toward becoming Feegash satellites in fact, and I could not hope to find among them those who hated the Feegash as much as I had come to.
When the groom ran up and grabbed my reins, I dismounted like an old woman creeping down stairs. I made pathetic little whimpering noises, and hobbled silently into the station, leaving Heebart to deal with Weggnrad’s body and the horses and those things which we’d carried in our saddlebags. I had Weggnrad’s paperwork, his courier seal, his road pass, and his lodging chits—all things designed to make exactly the sort of thing that had happened to him that day less likely.
I hobbled up to the stationmaster’s desk and stood there, facing the stationmaster, wondering how I should do what I needed to do.
I expected Heebart to come in at any time, to pass on the information about Weggnrad to the man before me and make some sort of introductions. But instead one of the grooms banged through the door.
“Heebart dropped off that woman there and Bont Weggnrad. They were ambushed in the Biltod Wood. Heebart says he managed to kill the ten men who were attacking them and rescue her, but he didn’t get there in time to save Weggnrad. He said he’d pick up his reward for killing the bandits on his way back.”
“Heebart Frogass?” the stationmaster said. “That long-winded bastard did something besides talk? I don’t believe it.”
There. I was happy. That tedious man had inflicted his horrible pointless maunderings on someone besides me. And that someone hadn’t liked him, either.
Well, I was a bit happy, anyway. Heebart Frogass had apparently abandoned me to whatever fate I could work out for myself here in the middle of nowhere. And he’d claimed to have killed ten bandits, for which he’d also claimed a reward he hadn’t earned, and all because he figured I wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what had really happened.
“We’re going to have to send for another guardian for her,” the stationmaster continued. “Her husband-to-be will just have to wait until we can get her an appropriate escort.” And then he turned in my general direction and said, “I cannot speak to her, of course, but I know she will understand that she will have a place to stay in one of our rooms until her guardian arrives, and will have food brought up to her, and will be given the run of the baths and such during the midday hours. And I would hope she would find those arrangements suitable for the next several days.”
I didn’t. Those arrangements wouldn’t be suitable at all.
I put my head down and thought.
And sidled over to the stationmaster. “Ask the groom to leave, please.”
His head whipped around to face me, and he gasped.
“This is not a breach of etiquette, I promise.”
His head was toward me, but he said to the groom, “Go outside, Broogin. I’ve something to deal with in here.”
I waited until Broogin stomped across the floor and out the door, slamming it behind him.
And then I lifted the veil.
“I’m only the decoy for Beckgert’s real daughter,” I told him. “She is going by another route, because Beckgert feared she would be the target of … kidnappers. And assassins. So I was sent by this route, publicly, pretending to be her. And she went privately, hidden away and with no notice given. But in order for me to do my job, I must be permitted to stay publicly visible, on the road, showing up where I’m expected to be. Anything untoward could permit the attention of those who have reason to hate Beckgert to fall on her.”
“I … I … yes.” He faltered. “I understand. But … your eyes. What’s the matter with your eyes?”
“They give me certain abilities. I am the one who killed the ten bandits. Weggnrad was shot from ambush before we even reached them; I had no chance to save him. But I killed all the men who had gathered to steal Beckgert’s daughter away.”
“What kind of abilities?” His hands played with something hard and thin. A pen, a scribe—I couldn’t tell. But he ran it back and forth in his hands, and twisted it, and rolled it between his fingers. He’d not seemed a nervous man until he saw my eyes.
I shook my head. “If I showed you, then I’d have to kill you.”
Silence.
“Can you … see … with those eyes?”
I studied him. “In your back left pocket of your breeches, you have three coins and two pieces of paper. You have two more coins stuffed inside the heels of your shoes. You have metalwork done on three of your teeth, and a missing left small toe. And once, a long time ago, you broke the bones in your right hand. It looks like you might have punched a man in the face.” I turned my face toward his. “I see quite well. Just not the same.”
“I’ll have a horse readied for you.”
“Do you have anyone capable of riding with me? I don’t know the route.” I handed him Weggnrad’s papers and courier seal.
He read them silently. Scribbled something in his book. Then said, “I’ll have Broogin accompany you to the end of your journey. He’s not finished earning his seal, but he can ride under Weggnrad’s for this journey.” The stationmaster added, “We’ll have had verification of the ten bandits by now—there will have been other riders coming in from your route. Assuming all is as you’ve said, do you want your reward here, or when you get to the final station? I’ll write it up for you as a cash-on-demand note.”
I was willing to risk carrying cash. I was becoming confident of my ability to defend it. “I’ll take it now.”
“Then I’ll go check our verification. Go up to the first room on the right and I’ll have a boy bring you a meal. I’ll tell Broogin he’s riding out today, and we’ll get you back on the road. Or have you eaten?”
“No. I need a meal.”
He hurried off, and I went upstairs, pleased that I had managed to get myself back in business again.
We made the Buke Ravine station not long after darkfall. Broogin was a pleasant enough companion, much more so because he knew he could talk to me. I wasn’t a real bride-to-be. Like the stationmaster, he wanted to know all about the Eyes. I lied. I let him think they were simple weapons. That with them, I could see ways to kill men that no one else could see. It was, in its way, a true enough statement, but it didn’t make me one of the oracles, and it didn’t mark me as a member of the Ossalenes, and it didn’t put me in a position
where he wanted anything from me. I was strange and frightening and clearly dangerous, and that was enough to keep him both polite and at a distance.
With his curiosity about the Eyes appeased, he told me about himself. He had a little brother and a little sister, had never done much before he joined the Courier Service, had thought it would be a life of grand adventure, but had so far been disappointed because the well-paid couriers hung on to their jobs and the only way to advance was when one of them retired or died. The Courier Service was a new thing. Greton had only been running it for about three years, and the Feegash thought they should take it apart because it was an expensive proposition, and instead hire Feegash Communicators.
But, Broogin pointed out, it would be a little difficult to send a bride-to-be at such speed to her husband with Feegash Communicators. Or to quickly get the medicines and other physical objects people across the country had found so useful. The Feegash could send nothing more than words, and the Gretons were less than enthusiastic about turning over any portion of their communications and transport network to foreigners.
I thought them wise, and said so.
I kept my use of the Eyes to short, light bursts of the future, as I had throughout the trip, focusing only on Aaran and his progress. The physical act of riding through changeable weather drained me of energy—the same energy that I would need in abundance to fight Ossal and hold him at bay if I used the Eyes any more than I already was. In my sleep, time swirled constantly around me, and voices babbled in my head. Ossal had backed into his cage following our last encounter, but I remained aware of him, and of the spirit of the corpsewalker, and the still-living monster I had yet to confront. They were close; I did not want to bring them closer. Even awake, the waters of time sometimes brushed me at unexpected moments because of my near exhaustion, and I would suddenly find myself submerged in the life of someone not with me, or near me, or relevant to me. I could see where previous wearers of the Eyes had succumbed to madness, and I could feel how easy it would be to fall myself.
