The Dew of Flesh

by Gregory Ashe

  Chapter 9

  “Khi’ilan is just ahead,” Ticar said, his voice startling over the silence of the forest and the creak of the wagon wheels.

  Ilahe glanced up at him; even seated on the wagon, he was not far above eye level. “What makes you so sure?”

  “The forest is ending,” Ticar said. He picked at the stitching of his shirt and glanced back under the wagon cover. Each day of travel had made him more and more nervous, even though the threat of bandits or liberators had gotten smaller with the passing miles.

  Smuggling the cloth that she had seen in his wagon, Ilahe suspected. Many goods moved through Dus su, and those crates could hold anything from Celan silks to Cenarbasin weapons. She glanced at the massive trees, the grasses and wildflowers that crowded between the trunks, defying the shadows and the brush. If the forest was ending, the change was unnoticeable to her, unless there was a bit more sunlight now. Ilahe shook her head; under the impenetrable green canopy, she had almost been able to convince herself she was still within the Iris. Not under the too-open expanse of blue that fell away forever. Not under that harsh, flaming, foreign sun.

  With one hand, Ilahe wiped her forehead, then shook free her braids. They no longer clacked soothingly when she did, and it made her all the more irritated. Knots of black mourning cloth filled the spaces where glass and silver beads had once hung. Mourning for her dead child. Mourning for herself. She did not want to think about that, and so she found herself opening her mouth without realizing it.

  “By the solars,” she swore. “If this is winter, how hot is it here in summer?”

  “My girl,” Ticar said, and let out a laugh, “there is no winter in the Paths. It is not summer either, though—it is spring and summer and fall all rolled into one. We plant and harvest all year round.”

  Ilahe cursed herself; her tutors had taught her that. What kind of an ambassador would she have made if she couldn’t even remember such bizarre weather? Until now, she had thought it a child’s tale, but the first frosts had already settled on Osmir when she left, and the capital of Cenarbasi was far to the south of the Danma. The weather had grown colder as she traveled north, until she crossed those colorless mountains.

  “What will you do in Khi’ilan, my girl?” Ticar said. She had refused to give him her name; there was no need to help either the priests who followed or the god-made-flesh who awaited her. Ticar had not seemed to mind.

  “Work,” Ilahe said.

  “Ah, tair bless you Cenarbasin,” Ticar said. “I forget how skilled you are. Tell me, what will you do?”

  “Skilled?” Ilahe said. “Perhaps the women. You must not have met many of our men.”

  “But they are great merchants,” Ticar said, a slight flush mounting his pale cheeks. “And even greater warriors. Why, at the last High Harvest in Dus su, Bekir Zeka, who brings in more steel than any other two men combined, fought three men in the harvest-frenzy and won. He had two swords, too—just like you. I’ve never seen anything like it. Almost a pity we weren’t attacked along the way.”

  Ilahe glared at him.

  Ticar shrank back and said, “Almost.”

  “Killing is not a skill,” Ilahe said. She blinked and realized she was squinting; the trees were thinning, although the tall, waving grass made it hard to tell where the forest actually ended. Sunlight, brighter than her eyes were used to, flooded the path. It rippled along the tall grasses in long, shifting lines of light and shadow. That faint undulation, the gentle play of light and dark, reminded Ilahe of home, where the light and dark mixed under the solars. It reminded her too much of home, and Ticar’s comment made her angry. “I’m going on ahead; you’ll be safe from here.”

  “Wait, my girl,” Ticar said. “There could still be bandits, you know, and I’ve yet to give you your pay. We’re so close.”

  His reminder of pay stopped her. “I’m going to scout ahead, then,” she said. “Just give a shout if something goes wrong.”

  Ticar’s normally pleasant nature vanished, and he let out a string of obscenities. “Stop! What if you don’t hear me when I need help?”

  Ilahe ran lightly across the packed earth of the highway, ignoring his shouts. The man was extremely nervous about his safety, and about his cargo, though she would expect little else from a smuggler. If that’s what he was. Ilahe ran until the tall grasses and the curve in the road hid her from the wagon, but not so far that she couldn’t hear the jingle of the harness and the slow creak of the wheels.

  She settled into a walk, grateful for the solitude. Ever since the priests had taken her, she had preferred solitude. Six months ago, she would have not dreamed of traveling alone, of ever wanting to be alone. Parties and luncheons and extravagant dinners had filled her time, and when she was free of those, there was always women’s work to be done—tutors and studying, learning the skills that every Cenarbasin woman was expected to know. The thought of sitting in a room, quietly listening to a spinster drone on about the price of trade goods, or foreign customs, made Ilahe smile grimly. She knew exactly how much those lessons had been worth when it came down to defending herself. To defending her unborn child.

  A change in her surroundings broke the dark train of thought that had taken hold. The forest dropped away abruptly, as though obeying some long-forgotten command, and even the grasses were shorter. Fields and orchards, long stretches of land with grazing cattle, homes small and large—all these checked the land before her, the first sign of civilization that Ilahe had seen since crossing the Danma.

  The harsh sun brought more sweat to Ilahe’s face, and it threatened to burn her dark skin even darker—if that were even possible. She paid it little heed; the land in front of her captured her attention. Even from a distance, she could see the differences from her home. The houses that dotted the land were all of wood—not a single stone visible in their construction. If her tutors had been correct, not a stone would have been used, not even in the foundation. Ilahe was not sure why; she remembered it had something to do with religion, and that brought another sour twist to her mouth.

  Ahead, the city of Khi’ilan spread out across land that looked unnaturally even, as though leveled with a blade. From a distance, two things caught Ilahe’s eye. The first was a massive complex on the western side of the city, but on the only hill within sight. If Ilahe were any judge, that would be the tair’s palace, although it did not look like much. Nothing suitable for a god. The other thing that stood out was the breathtaking buildings that jutted up, seemingly at random, throughout the city. Normal buildings looked like dollhouses next to them. Ilahe gave a shiver, even in the heat of the blasting sun. She understood so little about this place and these people.

  As she drew closer to the city, Ilahe let out a curse. A low wall, set out a good distance from the city, marked a barrier that she had not planned on. And further in, a larger wall. Stone. All accounts had told her that the cities of the Thirteen Paths did not have walls; what need for walls when a god-made-flesh dwelt among the people? The outer wall was of recent construction—wood—and poorly built, if she could judge at that distance.

  Ilahe walked to the edge of the nearest field, pulled herself up onto a fence rail, and sat to think. So much of her plan had changed already. Her coming was anticipated; Cenarbasins were hunted in parts of the Paths, and while she hoped Khi’ilan would be different, there was no guarantee; and now the walls. Clearing them would be easy, especially with a cam-ad, but she would be seen—and worse, she might reveal the cam-adeh and her advantage. If she were seen, doubtless there would be a search, and while she might be able to handle a single sarkomancer, she did not want to face an entire city devoted to the god-made-flesh. Better that she enter unobserved—something that would allow her some initial movement undetected, until she could establish a base within the city itself.

  But how? Hiding in Ticar’s covered wagon might work, but not if it was searched, and she doubted a city fearing a siege would let a wagon pass uninspected, no matter how loud T
icar’s obscenities. Ilahe stretched back, cursing the insufferable heat of the sun on her skin, and wishing again for the rainbow shimmer of the Iris—enclosed, safe. Trapped, she reminded herself. Watched. Even if this vast sky threatened to consume the world, at least it did not watch.

  From her spot on the fence, Ilahe watched as a woman with straw-colored hair moved through a nearby orchard, stretching up to reach low-hanging fruit. She wore trousers like a man, although her shape showed her to be a woman. Another woman emerged from behind a tree, this one wearing a skirt. Ilahe shook her head. She would never understand Khacens. Women worked in Cenarbasi when necessary, but in this land of abundance, where life suffused everything, it irked Ilahe to see a woman working when she could be learning skills. Women were different everywhere, though. Customs were different.

  Ilahe shot up and scrambled off the fence. A grimace of distaste on her face, she darted back toward Ticar and his wagons. She had an idea, but not one that she particularly liked. If she still worshipped the solars, she would pray to them that her guess about Ticar was right. And, as an afterthought, that he had not been robbed during her absence.