by E D Ebeling
***
A week went by without a single call from Leva. Sarid was at her fire pit, brewing a tincture of mullein and elm for Gryka, who had somehow contracted the wheezes. It was late afternoon. Sun slanted in long streaks through her open windows.
“Sarid Hyeda?” came a man’s voice through her fireplace.
She crawled through and stood to face him. “What is it?”
He was in a soldier’s brigandine; muscles moved under his sleeves. His chest was heaving and he had blood on his hands. “There’s some trouble. You’ve been reque––you may be able to help.”
“Oh. Am I being dragged to stand trial again?”
He wiped his wrist across his forehead, smearing blood there. “Prince Savvel––”
“What about him? I’m not allowed near him.”
“That to the rules.” He made a rude gesture. “He’s bloodying himself. Even in bonds, he’s hurting his head, his back. We can’t watch him every minute.”
“No,” said Sarid, her mood now thoroughly sour. “That would be wearisome.”
“He won’t stop, he says, but only for you. Get me the little witch Hyeda, he says.”
“All right.” She wiped a wet leaf from her arm, and sighed. “All right, let’s go.” And because the man didn’t move, just looked around as though lost, she grabbed his arm and tugged him along.
When they finally reached Savvel’s rooms (he was tied to a chair, banging his head against the back of it and biting the hands of anyone stupid enough to reach close enough) Sarid planted herself in front of him and said: “What are you doing? What’s going on––?”
“Do you know what they’re singing in Dirlan?” He opened and closed his hands and grinned. She saw how dark his eyes were, and her heart sank. “In the slums of Dagona? In Miryev where the wheat’s already shooting up? Would you like to hear it, Ida?”
“No.”
He sang it anyway, rocking the chair in time.
“Grand Duke Eliav has fallen out with fate.
He’s sick abed with poison and his boys are reprobate.
The elder’s dancing naked to the charm song of a snake.
The younger hides up ladies’ skirts for fear of Leva Haek.
But Gavorian Eliav is finished hopping beds.
He’s moving on to bigger game, he wants his elders’ heads––
First his crimson-pissing uncle, then his father desperate ill,
Then he’ll push his addled elder brother down a hill.”
“That’s sick,” said Sarid.
“Who’s sick?” He sat still for a moment, looking at her. He had red slashes up and down his arms. His palms were seared and blistering. She eyed the fire grate: the wet embers were still smoking.
“Why are you hurting yourself?” she said.
He clicked his tongue and smiled with all his teeth. “I’m sticking a needle through a canker.”
“Someone get a medic,” she said to the soldiers. One of them left the room, and she said to Savvel, “It’s just a song. People say all sorts of stupid things to amuse themselves.”
He closed his mouth and nodded his head, and cried until his cheeks shone like a stone in a waterfall. “I didn’t want this. Didn’t choose to be the spotted cat nailed to the back of the door, the lynx, the elva who gnawed through his own flesh to escape his bonds.”
“I think,” Sarid said to herself, “the lynx will escape his bonds soon enough.”
An old, bearded man in a medic’s robe bustled in with bowls and bandages. He was followed by Count Pash and the chamberlain, both puffing and looking irritated.
“Give me the Hyeda witch,” Savvel said, and Pash hung back, his flaccid skin gone almost translucent. The medic cut Savvel from his bonds and put his hands in a bowl of water.
“Is that a good idea?” said the chamberlain, and as if to prove him a wise man, Savvel leapt from the chair and knocked the water to the ground.
“Give me the Hyeda witch.”
“Sit down,” said Sarid. She forced him back into the chair, and the medic refilled the bowl and began dressing his cuts. And all the while Savvel didn’t let go of Sarid’s hand but submerged it with his own in the water.
“Give me the––”
“Very well,” said Pash. “You can have her.”
“My lord,” the chamberlain said. “Prince Gavorian said––”
“He’s not here.” Pash looked furiously at Sarid. “And I daresay she can explain it all to him herself.”
“Explain what?” Sarid said. “I haven’t agreed.”
“What’s agreeing got to do with it?” said Pash. “It’s my hall.”
“It’s my power.”
Pash’s face went purple. Savvel’s hand shook so hard water slopped over the bowl.
“I’ll stay,” said Sarid, “if you let me do as I please.”
“His guard has to stay, too,” said Pash.
“They’re welcome to him,” said Sarid.
“And a lady’s maid.”
“Why should I need a lady’s maid?” said Sarid.
“I won’t have you living alone with a bunch of men,” said Pash.
“I doubt an army of men could do anything.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about.”
The medic finished his ministrations and left, along with Pash and his chamberlain. Sarid noticed for the first time the half-eaten meal on the sideboard. She withdrew her hand from Savvel’s, and walked over to it. She pushed aside a chicken bone, and a piece of mushroom stared back at her, mottled over with tiny whirls.
Savvel was in no state to discuss it, so she decided to leave it for the time being. She suppressed her anger and left Savvel for a while in the care of his guard.
***
Sarid packed a few belongings and prepared to move into one of Savvel’s rooms. Count Pash, who had insisted a lady’s maid was a necessary accoutrement to her new living arrangements, could find no volunteers, and so he sought the help of a Rileldine family down in the village.
The girl they sent arrived the next day. She said she was sixteen. She looked twelve, thought Sarid, thirteen if you felt generous.
“Tell me again,” said Savvel to the girl, “what your name is. I didn’t quite catch it the first time.” He was sitting on the floor in his room, playing a game of numbers with Yoffin.
“Dredarika Garevnena,” said the girl. She’d come in the door behind Sarid, and stood trembling with her bag in her hands.
“Good heavens!” He put down his chalk. “Are all your names as long as rivers?”
“Some of them.” The girl blushed down her front. She dropped her belongings, and worried a crochet rose on her sleeve so keenly Sarid though she might take it off. “You can call me Dreida, if you want.”
“The honeybee? Buzz around as you please.”
Sarid pointed to a room on the left. “That’s our room. You can have the bed in the alcove. It’s due for an airing though.”
“Indeed,” said Yoffin, drawing a pig on his slate. “Master Savvel only sleeps in that one when he’s soiled the other two.”
“You’re sore because you lost,” said Savvel. “Yoffin got the short end of the stick when it came to numbers.”
“And you just got the short stick.”
“Go turn out the bed, Yoffin,’ said Savvel. “Stop drawing likenesses of yourself.” Yoffin leapt up and wiped his slate clean on Savvel’s back.
“Unbelievable,” said Sarid, walking into the guestroom, and Dreida picked up her belongings and followed her. Sarid showed her the little maid’s bed, and the girl unwrapped her bundle.
“Where are they? The lord and lady?” said Dreida quietly. “Shall I change? Is this dress fit?”
“Lord Savvel’s picky about dresses,” called Savvel into the room. “Best to go naked.”
Sarid closed the door. “How many dresses do you have?”
The girl reddened again. “Just the two.”
“I see nothing wrong with the
one you’re wearing and you only have me to answer to.”
“But the lady––”
“Do you mean the Countess? Or me? I’m Sarid Hyeda and the cockawhoop on the floor is Savvel. I suppose the people in the village give us the honorific? It’s not worth the spit in your mouth. And while you’re here you’d better refrain from telling people whom you serve, if you want to avoid unpleasantness.”
Dreida’s eyes were huge, like copper coins. “Him? I thought he was––” Her voice shrank to nothing.
“He can turn nasty.”
Just then behind the closed door came a loud scrabble of claws, a crunch of broken earthenware, Savvel’s sharp, jumping laughter, and terror-stricken yelps from Gryka, who’d been contentedly grubbing with her bone in the corner.
Sarid thrust open the door. “What are you doing to my dog––” She stopped and swung the door closed right as something––a scythe––flew through the air toward her. It thumped on the wood. She opened the door a crack.
There was a saebel riding Gryka, tying her fur into knots. At first she thought it was Lob the wolf-girl. But this was a more reddish tinge––more of a fox-girl.
Sarid stormed out and the wind stormed in front of her, throwing the saebel into a corner. The saebel gave a honking laugh. The scythe dislodged from the door and flung itself at Sarid. She seized it from the air. It leapt in her hands and nicked her breast, and she dropped it.
But Dreida caught it up and tied it with the belt to the handle of a chest, where it jerked against the leather and threw sunlight around with a murderous glint.
“I hate them,” Dreida said, backing away, her eyes bright. “In the village they sweet you up with your lover’s voice and folk let them in. They’re bad, tearing the hair off girls, hanging gaffers by their beards. But you can chase them off with whatever they’re scared of––for a fox, it’ll be fire.” She looked at Savvel and blushed.
He was still laughing, and Yoffin was clenching his tufts of red hair, and Gryka had sallied into a round of barks so dense she scarcely had room to breathe between them.
“You’ve found yourself a hedge-witch apprentice,” said Savvel.
Sarid reached out and swept the will from the sickle. The metal slumped against the trunk.
“Who sent you?” said Sarid to the saebel, because no saebel could have got inside the hall without an invitation.
Can’t say, can’t say, was part of the bargain.
“What’d it say?” yelled Savvel over Gryka’s barking.
“Hush,” Sarid snapped at her dog. Gryka looked at her quizzically, but her barks tapered to a throbbing growl. “Why are you here?” she said to the saebel.
To kill you, warm heart.
Sarid grabbed the fox-girl’s neck. She felt the creature trying to dissolve, felt its flesh shrinking in surprise. “That’s right. No escaping. Who bribed you?” She slammed it against the wall and the reek of urine washed over her face.
Can’t tell, can’t–– The thing gave a mew––Sarid had twisted its neck past the point any normal fox could endure.
“Tell me or I’ll trap you in a candlewick and we’ll see if you aren’t burned down within the first week.”
The big white polecat.
Sarid let go. The thing slobbered, and its red tongue flicked between fangs.
“What?” said Savvel.
“Something about a big polecat,” said Sarid.
“The old word for polecat is paske,” said Savvel.
“Yes,” said Sarid. “And this Pash is going to be skinned alive.” She’d no idea how Vanli had managed this. Her heart hammered, and she said to the saebel, “What did he offer you?”
A roll with twelve stallions.
“Ugh,” said Sarid. It was nigh impossible to kill a saebel. The thing would just remake itself from the dog hair and dust, and keep trying, creeping beneath her bed and hiding in the walls, and there was little she could do about it. Except outbribe the bribe.
“Stop trying to kill me and you can eat them afterwards,” she said. They would’ve all gone feral, anyway. A danger and no use to anyone. Sarid wiped her stinking hands on her skirts and wondered if she wasn’t becoming as ruthless as Yelse.
The fox-girl snapped her teeth. They are not yours to give.
But Sarid wasn’t going to be routed by an idiot like Vanli. “I’m Sarid Hyeda,” she said. “Everything on this estate belongs to my family.” She held her breath. She, Vanli, and Leva were all kin by a saebel’s reckoning, and Sarid came first in the family, discounting her father and sister. ‘Disinherited’ was a human idea.
We must taste some of your blood, Hyeda.
“All right.” Sarid took a pin from her hair and pricked her finger with it. A drop of blood fell to the floor. The creature bent and its tongue flicked. Its yellow eyes blinked.
We will hold to our word, if you hold to yours, Hyeda. It smiled a horrible smile and began shuffling away.
“Wait,” said Sarid. “I want you to do one more thing for all that horseflesh.”
***
There came such a racket in the night Sarid couldn’t sleep. Gryka paced around the floor, whimpering at the baying of hounds outside, and the shouting of men. And under it all the smell of terror and frost curled like blood through water.
She heard later about the matted straw and fetid air. The other beasts were ruined in the head and put to death.
But she was too angry to feel guilty about twelve dead horses, and first thing after morning tea she went to the infirmary. Vanli was there, as she suspected he would be. He stood calmly enough at a table where a nurse was bandaging his hands. Sarid waited, and then stood in his way when he walked out the door. “I’ve declawed you,” she said.
“Do with my body what you will, witch.”
He moved against the wall and tried to tighten away his trembling, but Sarid could still see it. “Will you listen to sense, Vanli?”
“I’ll always have a resisting mind. I shan’t be mentally whipped, not like Savvel. You might have the whole hall in thrall, you might have me crippled, tortured past endurance, but I will always know your wicked nature, your inhuman soul.”
“I see that sense still eludes you. Let’s try fear.” She stood very close to him. “Did you scream when the monster pried off your nails? Did it hurt?” He blanched. “Next time,” she said, drawing it out, fighting down her disgust, “it will skin you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would. My grandfather is one of the Nine. The Rilelden consider him a god. I’m far more powerful than any saebel stupid enough to try killing me.” She was lying through her teeth. She considered crossing her fingers. “And how did you learn your trick? Who taught you how to do that with a saebel?”
She looked into his mind for the answer. His eyelids lowered, but he jerked away from her. “None of that! I won’t be hypnotized by a gargoyle. I wouldn’t tell you. Gods save the lady if I did!”
“Well,” said Sarid, who had got what she wanted, “perhaps you ought to treat this lady’s advice with more caution. She only gives you half of what you need to do a thing properly.”
***
Yelse was sitting next to a pond in the lower gardens, her hands clasped in her lap, her skirts spread over the bank. She appeared to be deep in pleasurable contemplation. Sarid looked into the pond. The three koi left alive fanned ragged fins through the water, taking great bites out of each other and their dead brothers.
“What a way to amuse yourself,” Sarid said.
“It’s only a fishpond.” She didn’t look up.
“What were you thinking? Telling him how to bribe a saebel.”
“He was so keen. And I know you can take care of yourself.”
“You’re an idiot. He’ll find out what you are.”
“I’m in no danger. My bribes will far outweigh the little Count Pash’s.”
“Because you come before him in the family? That doesn’t mean much––he’ll just find another saeb
el.”
“It’s nothing to do with that,” she said patiently. “Millions of hectares of Lorilan land are currently held in trust by vassals. It really all belongs to the Eliavs. They’re clever about it, keeping the serfs chained to the land and the lords fat and happy. But not too happy. Think what happened to us. If a lord gives the Eliavs trouble, gets a bit uppity, they plant a letter, make his fellows hate him, convict him of treason, and take the land back. This way they keep the peerage fearful and dependent. Did you know that even as the younger son of a younger son Rischa Eliav owns three-fourths of Anefeln? That’s a lot of cattle, pigs and chickens. And Rilelden. He’d never say it, not him. But he wouldn’t think of freeing them. He knows the economy, his family’s wealth––it’s all dependent on slaves. So there it is. Lorila is a vast tract of land: cows, wheat, children. I should have plenty to bargain with.”
Sarid clicked her tongue and smoothed the hair at her temples. “You think you’ll own the whole of Lorila if you marry into the Eliav family?”
“The saebelen were never interested in the finer points. Don’t worry so, Sarid.” She turned and showed a dimple. “If you’re still feeling anxious you can always kill Vanli.”
***
“I hear Vanli Pash is missing his fingernails,” said Savvel that evening. He stirred a lump of butter into a decanter of rum. “I don’t half like it.”
She looked up from the book of annals she was reading. “It was a preemptive strike.”
“But fingernails?” He thumped a glass of the stuff on the table next to her. “Bit twisted, wasn’t it?”
She closed her book with a fierce snap. She leaned forward in her chair. “If you were Ravyir, Savvel––”
“Oh, good, I adore this game.”
“Would you free the Rilelden?”
He stared at her. “How do you free people who aren’t enslaved?” Dreida, mending one of his jackets in the corner, stopped moving her needle.
