Women of War

by Alexander Potter

  Dmaalyn nodded. “As I said, these last ten years our clan has been largely settled. As trade with the road builders has increased, there has been greater demand for grain and other agricultural products.”

  “I had heard that,” Andrasta said. “My grandfather Cescu is opposed to this increased trade, saying it makes us weak and dependent on foreign luxuries. He says fermented mare’s milk is a man’s drink, not wine or beer. Also,” she made her voice deeper, “‘What does a warrior need gold and silver ornaments for when skin can declare his deeds?”

  Andrasta smiled a touch ruefully and tapped her own tattooed arm, “Thus I earned this, though Grandfather can reward freely with gold or silver when he chooses.”

  “As I said,” Narjin said with a gentle smile, “we knew you by those marks, knew both you and the story of how you earned them seeking a cure for your desperately ill younger brother, though you were but nine years old. There is some value in marking the skin, rather than rewarding with gold and silver.”

  “Only nine, though,” Dmaalyn marveled aloud. “You were so young, and yet went into great danger out of love of your brother.”

  Andrasta nodded. “Nine, but not so greatly in love with young Cu. My little brother had all the father’s and grandfather’s love that I had been denied. Still, I realized I didn’t want Cu to die—if for no other reason than his death would break my mother’s heart, and she had been given enough grief.”

  “However,” Andrasta continued, “this diversion into my pitiful history interrupts your much more important report. I beg your apology. Tell on.”

  Dmaalyn looked surprised at such courtesy from free to slave. Honestly, Andrasta was a little surprised, as well. She found she was having trouble thinking of these Ootoi as slaves. They seemed too much like people. Then, too, she was remembering her own history and when she remembered what role slaves had played in that she knew not whether to feel gratitude or bitterness.

  “Tell on,” Andrasta repeated. “You were speaking of being settled.”

  Dmaalyn nodded. “Yes. Our clan had long been trusted with early plantings and such, and when the wisdom of settled farm communities began to be seen, Mother Narjin saw that we were honored with one such.”

  Andrasta heard herself interrupting again. “You consider a settled life an honor?”

  Dmaalyn gave her a curious look. “When one lacks horses and wagons to ease the road, yes, the settled life is preferable.”

  Andrasta nodded, then willed herself to listening silence.

  “Even though we are a large clan,” Dmaalyn went on, “there are times when our community has not enough hands to work our fields. Planting is one such time, as is immediately after when the seedlings are young and tender. Harvest—like now—is another, for we must get the grain in before the autumn rains. When extra help is needed, gangs of laborers, mostly men, go from farm to farm. It was one of these gangs that raised the question of rebellion.”

  Convenient that there be outsiders to blame, Andrasta thought.

  “Beru may be big,” Dmaalyn went on, her voice ringing with pride in her husband, “but he is not stupid. He realized something quickly. Some of these who said they were Ootoi were not Ootoi. They showed too much familiarity with horses. A few let slip from things that they said that they knew how to ride—little things, nothing obvious. One man stripped to bathe and Beru saw a small tattoo. Others managed to bathe only in each other’s company. For most of the workers this behavior roused only ribald jests, but Beru wondered if these men, too, had marks to hide. Moreover, there were two he overheard speaking to each other in a language he had heard before—and that when as a boy his family had been attached as servants to a family that lived near some road builders.”

  It was all making impossible sense. Andrasta had wondered how her patrol, armed, lightly armored, and mounted could have been overwhelmed by mere slave farmers, no matter how enraged, but this ... If warriors had been slipped in to foment rebellion. Yes. It would explain much.

  “Why?” she said.

  “You yourself have said it,” Narjin said gently. “Warlord Cescu does not like these recent changes. He would have the old ways stay. He is no longer a young man, true, but he is far from elderly. He could continue to lead his allied Gharebi for many years. The road builders are impatient people, and the only ones more impatient than road builders are younger sons.”

  “My father, Feneki,” Andrasta said stiffly, “is among Cescu’s younger sons.”

  “I know,” Narjin said. “I have met him—him and his elder brother, Louks.”

  “When?” It was more a demand than a question.

  “Sixteen winters past, as winter was turning into spring. You have already mentioned the circumstances, mistress. I met Louks, Feneki, and Telari all on the night you were born, for you were born in this very tent.”

  Andrasta had known the truth, suspected it, at least, from the moment Narjin had let drop that she knew Andrasta’s mother. The recollection of the ostracism that had followed her inauspicious birth awoke in Andrasta a moment of unexpected, indeed, unwanted sympathy for the Ootoi. What had they done to deserve their state other than being born in a slave tent? The Ootoi and the Gharebi looked enough alike—the same straight, jet-black hair; the same deep brown, almond-shaped eyes; the same ivory skin that darkened to golden brown in the sun—that Gharebi warriors could conceal themselves among Ootoi slaves and only be given away by marks acquired in the years following birth.

  Even their languages and religious traditions were much alike, so that Rangest, Andrasta’s favorite among the gods, became Rangen, in the Ootoi tongue. She wondered if the Ootoi also told the story about how Rangest had stolen fire from the sun and if in their version of the story he had given it to the Ootoi.

  But when at last Andrasta spoke, she did not mention gods or cultural similarities. She spoke from another part of her heart.

  “That birth night has been a blight on my life,” Andrasta said bitterly. “Yet I am not so poor spirited as to blame you. Indeed, I owe you thanks. My mother’s health has been fragile from that time forward. I think without your care she would have died and I with her.”

  It was an ungracious thanks, and Andrasta knew it, but Narjin only nodded with deep understanding.

  “Yes. I have kept an ear open for news of the child I midwifed that night. I heard how, though Telari could be the least blamed for being abroad that night, she and her daughter bore the brunt of Cescu’s wrath. It is odd how blind a father may be to rottenness in his sons. Cescu chose to overlook the signs then. In time, Louks redeemed his father’s opinion of him through deeds of war, Feneki through abject obedience to Cescu’s every whim. Yet Cescu might have been wiser to judge his sons based on their earlier ventures, rather than their later actions.”

  Dmaalyn asked hesitantly, “Begging your pardon, Dawn Rider, but why did your grandfather resent you and your mother when the transgression committed at the time of your birth was instigated entirely by your father and his brother? You were a babe unborn, your mother a heavily pregnant woman, surely unable to resist her husband’s will.”

  “As my father,” Andrasta said sadly, “could not resist that of his brother. Their plan was simple—to play upon my grandfather’s pride of family by having me born among my grandfather’s herds at the season when the mares were foaling. Uncle Louks encouraged my father to believe that I—and therefore in reality my father—would be given every foal dropped that same night. You know the Gharebi’s pride in horses. In one night my father would have been transformed from a lesser son to a man of wealth—and with that wealth would come influence that otherwise he might not earn for a dozen or more years.”

  “And Louks thought to share in this newly gained fortune and influence,” Narjin said, her understanding of the intrigues of her betters uncomfortably acute. “Younger sons, as Louks and Feneki both are, must often find odd ways to gain power.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Dmaalyn repeated, “why were
you and your mother blamed?”

  Andrasta sighed. “I think even if Cescu was fully aware he was being manipulated, he would have rewarded Feneki and Louks for their boldness. What forced Cescu to acknowledge his sons’ attempt to effectively steal a fortune from him was the failure of their plan. What caused that plan to fail was my being born that stormy night. It was not so much that I was born among slaves that caused my shame, but that had my mother and I held on a little longer Cescu would have had a reason to brag about his younger sons and those younger sons would have gained a fortune.”

  “It doesn’t seem right,” Dmaalyn said fiercely. Then her gaze dropped in fear. “I am sorry, mistress. I have spoken out of turn.”

  “You have only spoken what I have often thought,” Andrasta said. “Narjin, something you said troubles me. You mentioned having met Louks—surely you did not say this merely to brag that you midwifed at my birth. I have not known you long, but already I know you are not the type of woman who grovels for a few coins. Does this tie into your daughter’s tale?”

  “Truly the Dawn Rider is perceptive,” Narjin said, sounding for a moment the very type of the groveling slave. “I am certain she would not be surprised to know that some of my clan’s younger members hid and watched the apparent slave uprising from a distance. When it had ended, they came home and reported what they had seen.

  “Just as I have kept a listening ear for tales of your growing years, so I have kept alert for stories of your father and uncle. It seemed to me that the ambitions that led them to bring a heavily pregnant woman abroad on a stormy night would not have died for being thwarted, only taken other shapes.”

  “And ...” Andrasta said when Narjin paused.

  “It is only hearsay,” Narjin said, “but my grandchildren said that they were not the only ones who watched the battle. They said a man with one ear mounted astride a chestnut horse with white stockings observed the fighting from a copse where he could not be seen by those who fought.”

  “My uncle Louks!” Andrasta gasped.

  “The description sounds very much like him,” Narjin said with deceptive placidity. “But you need not take my grandchildren’s word. You could confirm Louks’ involvement for yourself.”

  “How?”

  “We can tell you in which direction the work gang went. You could track them, spy upon them, confirm the tale Dmaalyn has told you. “

  “I could track them,” Andrasta said, “but unlike Beru I am not going to be able to blend with the members of the gang. I am not likely to see tattoos or overhear foreign speech.”

  “But you would know the mannerisms of warriors,” Narjin pressed.

  “True,” Andrasta agreed, “and if my father and uncle are as deeply involved as you think, I may even recognize some friend of theirs. It is worth trying—but only after two things are done.”

  “Two?”

  “I am not yet strong enough to ride, much less to creep about.”

  “And?”

  “And I have promised you my testimony as a shield against my grandfather’s wrath—or that of his generals. That testimony I must stay to give.”

  Narjin looked relieved. “Utberu said that this evening as the sun was setting he saw a rising of dust in the direction where Warlord Cescu last followed his herds. If Utberu is correct, then a second patrol has come to find what happened to the first. They will probably arrive here to question us as to what we might have seen soon after dawn.”

  Andrasta nodded. “And me? When would you say I will be well enough to ride?”

  “Tomorrow or the next day.”

  Andrasta pressed her lips together as she considered her multifaceted problem. She could not testify for these Ootoi’s innocence without gathering evidence for herself that what Narjin said was true. That must be confirmed first. The rest could come after.

  Thus far Andrasta had risen with assistance and walked only as far as the pot in a curtained corner of tent. Now she forced herself to stand unassisted. Though her head swam, soon it steadied.

  “It is night now, Narjin?”

  “Full dark.”

  “And your clan?”

  “In their tents.”

  “Good. I will go among them.”

  Narjin hesitated, and Dmaalyn made as if to leave the tent.

  “No!” Andrasta commanded, and the two slaves froze in place. “Do not leave, Dmaalyn. Do not give warning. I go now, without warning. If what Narjin has said is true, I will see nothing that I should not, and I will not expect perfect polish and readiness.”

  Dmaalyn bent her head in acknowledgment. Andrasta was pleased to see the other woman did not look unduly nervous. Narjin brought Andrasta clothing suitable for outside wear and a heavy cloak to cover the whole.

  “Harvest-time nights can be chilly,” Narjin explained, “and you are not yet strong.”

  Andrasta did not protest, nor, though her legs were sound, did she refuse the long staff Narjin gave her to lean upon. Moving stiffly, the staff thumping like a third leg, she ducked out of the tent and into the night. The clean air, untainted by enclosed smoke, tasted very good in her mouth, and she breathed deeply several times while assessing the layout of the community by the light of lanterns Narjin and Dmaalyn carried.

  Although it was, as Dmaalyn had explained, a settled camp, the majority of the structures remained the domed tents used by Gharebi and Ootoi alike. Wood was not plentiful out on the plains, for big trees were only found near the mountains. Even so there was one timber building amid the tents. When Andrasta’s gaze rested upon it, Narjin explained without being asked.

  “A storage building, for grain and such. It is quite full now. By spring it will be empty of all but dust and chaff.”

  Andrasta nodded then made her stiff way to the nearest tent. It was separated from Narjin’s by several horse-lengths, and the area in between used for storage or small gardens. A few of the big dogs the Ootoi used for hauling, since they were not permitted to own horses, rose. One growled. Narjin hushed it with a word.

  Neither Dmaalyn nor Narjin tried to stop Andrasta from going where she would, nor did either leave her side. Encouraged, Andrasta chose a tent at random, then ducked inside without announcing herself. The interior was dark but for a candle lantern burning in a holder on the center pole, the residents having gone to bed with the coming of full dark.

  Andrasta motioned in her lantern bearers. After ordering silence, she inspected the inhabitants closely. It was a family group: man, woman, a few small children, an elderly man. None bore signs of having been in battle—no bandaged wounds, no healing bruises. They seemed completely surprised to see Andrasta, and from this Andrasta took confirmation that Narjin had kept her presence secret.

  All the other tents were inspected in this fashion, and though by the last the camp was wakeful and surprise could no longer be maintained, still Andrasta was fairly certain no one had slipped away. She found no evidence of battle injuries, nor saw any greater fear or apprehension than would be normal. Once the last tent had been inspected, Andrasta thumped outside and turned to Narjin and Dmaalyn.

  “Good. Now I can speak for you with some confidence. One more thing, then rest. I must inspect the storage building and assure myself no one hides in there.”

  Narjin nodded. “We bar the building from the outside each night, and fasten the bar with an iron lock.”

  She produced the key, a heavy thing as long as Andrasta’s hand. “Here.”

  The storage shed was packed nearly to the roof beams with sacked and baled goods: grain, dried fruit and meat, even some hay. Andrasta took the lantern from Narjin and held it high as she turned one way, then the other. She thought about how much the Gharebi had come to depend on caches such as this, not only for trade, but for survival. No matter what Grandfather Cescu said, the days in which the Gharebi had survived on horse milk and meat had not been better—especially not in the winter.

  “Where did the seasonal laborers stay?”

  Narjin replied,
“They had their own tents pitched near the fields. They took them down that morning.”

  Andrasta nodded, aware that her head had begun to hurt again, and that her side throbbed. She left the storage building without further comment, and waited while Narjin clamped closed the lock. Then she made her way back to her pallet by the fire. In the smoky darkness, she thought for a long while before falling asleep. Then, her plans laid, she slept well and long, waking only when the sound of dogs barking and ringing of metal announced the arrival of the Gharebi patrol.

  It was led by Andrasta’s uncle, Louks, her father’s older brother, and, if Andrasta’s mother, Telari, was to be believed, the source of much misery in Andrasta’s life.

  Louks was not Cescu’s eldest son, nor his favorite, but all agreed he was the bravest—or at least the most foolhardy. Now a man in his late thirties, Louks was seamed and scarred, both by weather and by weapons. He was missing an ear, though the helmet he now wore hid this. He rode a dark chestnut with white stockings. Many times those stocking had been stained red with blood, for Trampler shared his master’s fierceness in battle.

  Narjin hastened into the tent as Andrasta was finishing dressing herself.

  “My apologies, mistress,” the clan mother said. “I would have been here sooner, but a child had fallen ill and ...”

  “No matter,” Andrasta said. “It may be better that I come before Louks without evident warning.”

  Andrasta almost eschewed the support of the staff this morning, but remembering her plans grabbed it as she headed out. Indeed, she leaned on it rather more heavily than she had the night before.

  An armed patrol milled in the open center of the encircling tents. Louks, still mounted on Trampler, was shouting at the old man Andrasta had seen the night before, demanding explanations.

  “That old slave is not clan leader,” Andrasta said loudly. “This woman is. She came to get me, knowing you would not wish to question Ootoi if Gharebi could be found.”

  Louks’ seamed face could be almost impossible to read, but Andrasta thought that pleasure was the latest expression to cross it when he saw his niece limping forward.