by Vale Aida
Just then Savonn’s head and shoulders broke the rockline on the far side of the road, and his clear, ringing voice called, “Fancy seeing you here, ugly!”
Isemain brought his arm down. The horsemen swerved, cantering towards Savonn in a sudden burst of speed. A hail of arrows peppered the rocks. Hiraen swore. “Loose!”
Hiraen had already marked the Marshal, so Emaris aimed at the man behind Isemain and released his arrow with a thrum. He thought he saw the fellow fall. Hiraen’s orange arrow sunk into the flank of the Marshal’s horse, and it reared up on its hind legs, yowling like a cat in labour. Isemain let go of the reins and bailed neatly, landing on his feet. The host, now in disarray, continued to advance. The front ranks were dismounting, the better to get among the rocks. Emaris got off two more shots and ducked down behind his boulder as an arrow hissed over his head. Then the Saraians were on them, and the battle was joined.
He jettisoned his bow and drew his sword. The soldier who leapt over the boulder to engage him was a woman, or at least he thought it was; he could see very little besides her shiny bell-shaped helm and big bronze shield, both of which kept reflecting the sun into his eyes. Half blind, he rained futile blows on the shield, dancing away from the Saraian’s sword and spewing a constant stream of curses. Then good sense kicked in, or perhaps the bruise-laden memory of the long afternoons he had spent being battered by Shandei. He dropped to a crouch, and slashed at the soldier’s leg above the greave. Blood frothed. She staggered, shouting. Emaris seized the chance to steal round her flank and hew at her shield-arm, and then her neck. She collapsed at his feet, still burbling.
Thereafter, it was chaos. The Saraians overran the rock outcropping, and Emaris’s world narrowed down to the slash and parry of blades and the burn of fatigue spreading up his tired arms. He lost his sword in someone’s collarbone and found a longaxe instead. Then he misplaced that too, and acquired a dagger. Hiraen was at his side, a blur of limbs and steel, fighting off several assailants at once. And yet, for every soldier that fell, another sprang up fresh to fill the gap in the line. The Saraians were a near-solid wall around them, impenetrable in their mail, and the dead littered the ground like puppets with their strings cut.
Emaris was done. His breath came in harsh, ragged sobs, the air rattling in his chest on every inhale, and pain lanced down his back every time he lifted his arm. If he was going to die, it seemed better to go sooner rather than later. But Hiraen was there, fighting back to back with him, and he could not very well collapse like a craven when his friend needed him—
Hiraen yelled and darted forward, making for the road.
He must have seen something that Emaris had not. A pair of Saraians advanced, but Hiraen dodged around them without bothering to engage. Moving on reflex alone, Emaris followed him. He had forgotten that theirs was only half the skirmish. Across the road, the rest of their patrol had nearly been overwhelmed by the fighting, and he could not see Savonn. The Marshal had found another horse and was swinging one foot into a stirrup, calling orders over the clangour of steel. Hiraen was shouting, too. He bent, caught up a spear from the ground, and hurled it at Isemain.
The Marshal ducked at the last moment. The spear struck him in the left shoulder, piercing the gap between rondel and breastplate. He bellowed, yanked it out in a swift, brusque motion, and turned on Hiraen.
Emaris ran to help. He was not sure what, exactly, he was going to do. All his strength was gone, and he could barely lift even his dagger. But if Savonn was dead already, and Hiraen about to join him, then he could by no means hang back. Shandei would have been ashamed. And loyalty was the highest of all virtues, or so his father had always said—even if it got one killed—
He was still thinking along these lines when something moved on the periphery of his vision, and there was a sharp whistling in his ear.
He felt only indistinct curiosity, and a dim, nebulous urgency that told him he probably ought to move aside. Before he could make up his mind, the moving thing connected with the back of his skull with a crack like a the snap of a branch. Even the pain was slow and half-hearted. His vision clung to a crisp final image: Hiraen and Isemain exchanging a flurry of blows, while in the distance a great many riders receded. Then blackness enveloped him, and that, too, was gone.
19
Under the command of Lucien Safin, who was not a general, the Council of Cassarah marched its army into the highlands. And unbeknownst to them, Shandei, who was not a soldier, marched in their midst.
It was unexpectedly entertaining. She fit quite well into Emaris’s old cuirass once the straps were adjusted, and with a helm over her face she made a passable adolescent squire. The Betronett bow drew too much attention, so she left it at home and took her father’s sword instead, with the ivory dagger in her belt. She would have liked to follow the army into the Farfallens once she concluded her own mission, and kill a Saraian or two at Emaris’s side. But there was too much of a risk that one of Lord Lucien’s lieutenants would recognise her. There were three: Bonner Efren, Willon’s middle son, newly summoned from the country estate to command his father’s forces; Daron Sydell, Oriane’s nephew; and a Saraian-born freedman called Zarin, the leader of Josit’s squadron. All they ever did was argue, and she was almost pleased to slip away at Terinea to run Iyone’s errand.
The township of the Cayns was an ancient settlement, older than Cassarah and nearly as sprawling. It was arrayed in a series of concentric circles, radiating outward from the thirty-foot brick tower from which Lord Jehan governed his people. Coming in through the gate, one encountered first the district of the commoners, shops and houses crammed ten or twelve to a street, the air rank with the mingling smells of sweat and horseflesh and wet market goods. In the next circle were the public buildings, granaries and archives and libraries and barracks. Then came the manors of the rich, each with its own garden and complement of outbuildings; and finally, in the shadow of Jehan’s tower in the heart of the town, were the temples and convents. In one of these, a long time ago, the errant Danei Cayn had taken up residence, accompanied by her Saraian slave and confidante. Josit.
Here, Shandei trod carefully. The soldiers were encamped beyond the walls, but Lord Lucien and his lieutenants had gone to pay their respects to the Cayns, and the officers of the army had been given leave to explore the town that night. Taking care not to cross paths with any of them, she ducked into a barn to strip off her armour and change into the modest grey dress she had packed for this purpose. Then she set out in search of Danei’s convent.
It was not difficult to find. There were three convents of the Mother Alakyne in town, but only one looked fit to have played host to Jehan’s daughter during her turbulent pregnancy: a rambling three-storey building with whitewashed walls vined with ivy, all its windows lit up against the fast-darkening sky. Shandei was greeted at the door by an acolyte, who took her to a priestess, who, at her insistent request, brought her to the solar of the Governess of the Convent.
This was a brown-haired, brown-skinned woman who introduced herself as Persis. At first glance it was obvious that she was far too young to have been in charge here during Danei’s stay. She was only about thirty, and the harried way she glanced at Shandei over the ledgers on her desk made it clear that she had better things to do than gossip about the past. “Got yourself into a spot of trouble, girl?”
On the way here, Shandei had planned and rehearsed an elaborate subterfuge. My mother’s name is Serenisa, she would say, gazing beseechingly into the kindly eyes of an elderly priestess. She gave birth to me twenty-three years ago, right here in this convent. If she put up her hair, she could look a couple years older than she was. I thought perhaps—if there was some record of her—I might be able to find her and take her to the grave of my father, who has been m-murdered.
At this point her eyes would well up, and after stuffing a handkerchief into her palm, the priestess would hurry to the archival vault. I’m terribly sorry, my dear, but there were only two women
who gave birth here that month, and they were…
But Governess Persis was not the sort of person one could cry to. Shandei scowled. “I’m not pregnant.”
“What a pleasant change,” said Persis, shuffling her papers into a thick stack. “On the run, then? Stole something? Killed someone? Oh, don’t look so scandalised. All we ever do is take in girls in trouble. Yours must be dire indeed, if you’ve come all the way here for help. You’re from the city?”
Her accent must have given her away. Her plan fled, and in its wake her mind was stubbornly blank. When she opened her mouth, what limped forth was the truth, warts and welts and all. “Yes. My name is Shandei. I’m looking for a child that was born here the summer of 1512.”
Already losing interest, Persis turned away, rummaging through a drawer with the stack of ledgers in her free hand. “If you haven’t noticed,” she said, “there’s a war brewing. I barely even have time to pray for the children born this summer, let alone—”
“It was Josit Ansa’s,” said Shandei. “The councillor.”
Persis paused.
“She was still a slave at the time,” said Shandei. Her palms were damp. “So she hid the child. But now she wants to find it again.”
Persis frowned, turning back to the desk. “She sent you? Why now, after so long?”
Shandei drew a short breath. Iyone had protected her, even lifted the burden of Vesmer’s death from her shoulders. She was not, as it turned out, a murderer; the relief had brought her to tears at least twice since that strange evening in her backyard. After all that, it seemed shameful to invoke Iyone’s name out of fear. Pressed hard, the truth transmogrified and acquired a disguise. “It was—it was Lord Kedris’s dying wish. He thought the child might have been his. Lady Josit wanted to honour his request.”
The frown deepened. “That was a long time ago. If there was a child, it would be grown by now, and impossible to find.” Persis got up. “Look, if you’ll excuse me, I really have to—”
“Of course,” said Shandei briskly, rising as well. “I’m sure her ladyship will understand.” She pulled out the pouch of gold Iyone had given her and laid it with a loud clink on the desk. “Thirty drochii for all your trouble, Governess. Her ladyship was willing to pay a good deal more for news of the child itself, but oh, well, even a rich woman’s life comes with its fair share of disappointments.”
Persis hesitated, her fingers going still on the sheaf of ledgers. It was hard to tell what sort of priestess she was, whether she was at all susceptible to bribery, but no one could easily turn down that much money. In a convent like this, there were always stray mouths to feed. Presently she said, “How much more?”
“Sixty drochii,” said Shandei. Unabating silence. She said, “Ninety.”
“I can’t make any promises,” said Persis. “That was long before my time. I don’t know if the last Governess bothered to keep any sort of record—”
“A hundred.”
“—but,” said Persis, “I could send an acolyte to take a look, if it will be of any help.”
“It will,” said Shandei quickly. She was perspiring. The prospect of failing Iyone had been unbearable. “Thank you, milady.”
* * *
A girl was summoned, given instructions, and dismissed again. Another led Shandei out to an antechamber and offered her mulled wine, which she declined, and buttered scones, which she devoured. Her heart was still palpitating. She had not even invented a false identity. If Josit ever found out…
Two hours passed before she was summoned back to the Governess’s solar. It was fully dark now, and a fire had been lit. Persis was standing by the hearth, frowning over a heavy leather-bound book. The paper was yellowing, and the ink had begun to fade. Curious, Shandei went over and peered over her shoulder without waiting to be invited. “Is that the record?”
“It ought to be,” said Persis. “July 1512. But…”
“But?”
“There was only one guest that summer,” said Persis, tracing the spidery script with a forefinger. “And only one recorded birth. Lady Josit’s name is not mentioned.”
Shandei leaned closer to read the writing. Danei Cayn, eldest daughter of Lord Jehan, with child by Kedris Andalle of Cassarah. Sought sanctuary because of disagreements with her family. In poor health and spirits throughout her stay. Refused doctors and midwives; attended only by handmaids of her own household.
Shandei hesitated. “It makes sense, Governess. Josit would have been a slave in Danei’s entourage. There was no reason for her name to be recorded.”
“True enough,” said Persis. “But if she had given birth, it would certainly have been noted. Our laws mandate it.”
Shandei took a deep breath. “Even if the child was stillborn?”
“Even if,” said Persis. “Every new life, slave or free, is beloved by Mother Alakyne, and would never have gone unmarked. Even those that end before they begin.” A thin smile crossed her face. “Even the abortions. The elders used to perform a fair few of those every year for slaves who didn’t want to bring forth a child into bondage.”
Shandei glanced at the final line of Danei’s entry. Son delivered in good health 21 July. Named Savonn Andalle. Nothing more.
“All right,” she said. A premature resolution to the mystery, or perhaps another clue. Only Iyone would know which. “Thank you, Governess. I will tell her ladyship so.”
20
Against all his wishes, Savonn was awake.
He had been stabbed with some sort of blowdart, or hit on the head, or both. Memory was uncooperative on that point. Then he had been carried a long way on the back of a horse, jouncing up and down like a shot deer. Several times he had woken, found oblivion more welcoming, and induced his captors through various means to knock him back out. But now awareness was returning with vengeful finality, and he was becoming irrevocably conscious of one thing at a time, as if squinting at the world through a pinprick in a worn tapestry.
He was sitting more or less upright, strapped into some sort of device with his hands tied behind his back. His shoulders were sore, his blood pulsing in an insistent staccato throb at his temples. All his knives were gone. Voices were conversing in Saraian, none of them familiar. “—report no disturbances in the night,” one said. A nice soprano. “But another host is coming up the highway to Medrai. Four hundred strong, they say. If we don’t stop them, they’ll be here within the week.”
“I’ve sent for another detachment of cavalry,” said another voice. Male. Baritone. Grating. “Otherwise we’re not getting back home, with or without this bastard. The passes are crawling with Betronett men.”
The voices made echoes unique to small, round rooms. The stillness of the air meant few open windows. There was probably a wall behind him. His mouth felt lined with sawdust, his lips barnacle-encrusted. If he moved his head he might pass out again. It was an appealing idea.
Having arrived at this conclusion, Savonn Silvertongue opened his eyes and sat up straight, tossing back his curls with a flick of his head. “Friends,” he said in stubborn Falwynian, favouring the room at large with a benign smile. “How lovely to meet you. And in my own fort, too.”
Disappointingly, he did not faint. His swimming vision gave him what his equally wobbly mind had already guessed. Bare room. Panelled walls, swarming with mildew. One bright window, high and narrow, covered with a lattice. A tower cell. Onaressi. Unsurprising. It was the largest holdfast, and the only one fit for the Marshal of Sarei. For there he sat, the owner of the baritone, with his short ragged hair and his armpit swathed in linen wrappings, frowning at Savonn from a chair across the room. There were four others with him. Two men, two women. Swords, daggers, muddy boots, mail. A great many visible bandages. No other prisoners. He wanted to laugh.
“Lord Silvertongue,” said the Marshal. He was still using Saraian. “We have never been formally introduced. I am Isemain of Daliss, Marshal of Sarei.”
Savonn took another moment to establish his
own position. What he had taken for a torture device was, in fact, an ordinary chair. With his wrists bound fast, he could not feel his fingers. He was not confident he still had any. “I’m afraid, my lord,” he said, “that we may need an interpreter.”
Incomprehension greeted him, accompanied by a flurry of uncertain looks. His intuition had not failed him. The man was helplessly monolingual. What befell next depended on how much the Empath had told him.
The Empath, who knew Savonn in all the myriad uses of the word.
“We were informed,” said Isemain at last, “that you understood Saraian.”
He spoke slowly and clearly, as if he thought that might help. Savonn arranged his face into a look of baffled concern. “Oh, well,” he said. “Your attentions are very flattering, I am certain. I would blush if I had any blood left…”
The soprano stepped forward and clouted him with a gauntleted fist. As it transpired, he did have blood left. It trickled from his split lip down his chin and onto his shirt, already ripped and stained in several other places. The world tipped perilously onto its side. He heard Isemain say, “You can stop pretending. Unlike your friend the Empath, I don’t play games.”
His mind clung mulishly to consciousness, the same involuntary, accursed instinct that kept him awake most nights. Perhaps a few more blows would do the trick. “Oh, really,” he said, peering reproachfully at the Marshal. “I would’ve thought so great a general would have better manners.”
The woman hit him again. “I thought,” he said, through a flitting haze of white stars and black blobs, “I thought we were going to talk”—wham—“like civilised people. I thought you would offer me”— wham—“tea, maybe a castle somewhere in Sarei, while you awaited my exorbitant ransom.” Wham. “Not that I could afford it.”
