by Gregory Ashe
Chapter 15
Ilahe glowered at the inside of the veil. The translucent green cloth hung far enough from her face that she could make out the shapes of the guards as they reached the wooden wall, but nothing else. The wagon creaked to a halt under her, and Ilahe felt her heart start pounding. It would just take one glance at her skin to reveal she was not an Istbyan at all, and if the guards did not like Cenarbasins already, they would most certainly not like one in disguise.
“Halt,” said a deep voice. “What do we have here?”
Ticar shifted next to her. The merchant had cleaned up surprisingly well, and the richly brocaded shirt and trousers he had produced from the wagon showed that he was far from any common smuggler. The man reeked of wealth now. “Move aside,” he snapped. His affectation of the guttural Istbyan accent was far from perfect, but then, he had not had Cenarbasin training.
“Your name, sir?” A different voice, with guarded respect. Ilahe resisted the urge to wipe sweat from her brow. Aside from the blasted foreign sun that beat down on the layers of cloth, her racing heart and nerves made her sweat so that she thought she must look like she had fallen in a river. Having her swords hidden under the wagon seat did nothing to relieve her anxiety; it left her far too vulnerable.
“I am nothing,” Ticar said, his voice falling. “A moth drawn to a flame, a bug beneath the feet of a god. A humble servant to the lady—”
As they had planned, Ilahe cut him off. “Silence. I will speak my own name. You are not worthy to say it.” She turned her head to face the more respectful voice and prayed she was looking at him, and not staring off into space. Ilahe could not imagine how Istbyan women did this for their whole lives. “I am the Lady Orodna Tseta Atiatla, wife of the governor of Everoz. Have the men of the Thirteen Paths become indurate? Are they now insensible to the plight of women? Are you fallen from the Thousand Suffering Breaths?”
Silence followed her question. Ilahe let a faint smile reach her face; foreign nations had almost been her specialty, and it was easy to imitate the speech patterns and language of an Istbyan highborn.
“Milady,” said the first voice, deep and husky, “we had no idea. Me and Qimal here, we’ve never seen a real Istbyan woman before.”
“Lady Tseta,” the second voice said, “we must ask you to dismount while we search your . . . carriage.” His voice was dubious, and Ilahe did not blame him. The carriage in question was no more than their covered wagon. “And your person as well.”
Ticar played his role to perfection. “Mongrel ingrate,” he spat. “The Lady Tseta Atiatla,” he laid scorn on the correction, “is a goddess, a creature of incomparable beauty. The sight of her would drive you mad, burn you to ash. You seek to rise above your station. Bring your commander, or I will slay you myself this instant for your presumption.”
A real smile—the first one in too long—reached Ilahe’s face as she heard Ticar jump to the ground, as she imagined the little man strutting toward the guards.
“Stop,” Ilahe said. “I have been the cause of enough bloodshed. Return to my side.”
The second guard, the more dangerous one, said, “Lady, I meant no disrespect, but surely you can understand—”
Ilahe cut him off in her most imperious tone. “What I understand, sir, is that by the laws of the Thousand Suffering Breaths, any man of true honor will aid a lady, to his own detriment even. I find myself far from home, pursued by men of violent, terrible passion. Men who would take from me my virtue. My beauty has been the cause of this, and so I must flee my home and my dear husband, accompanied only by a faithful servant.”
“I told you that’s why Istbyan women are always veiled,” the first guard said.
“That’s what the stories say,” the second whispered, although he sounded less certain.
Carefully—she had practiced, but with very little time—Ilahe climbed down from the wagon, ignoring Ticar’s feigned protests. She moved with the slow, graceful steps that she had practiced all those years in Cenarbasi. The familiar movement, the sway to her hips, brought a tightness to her throat, and she had no need to feign distress when she dropped to her knees in front of the guards. That world of beauty and ease, of skills, where she had been treasured, was so distant. She could never return there, never be beautiful again. Never be loved again.
“Please,” Ilahe said, her voice breaking, even as she struggled to stay focused. “I am a poor woman, far from home, and without protector. Will you not take pity on such a lowly creature as I?” She stretched out both hands in supplication, grateful that Ticar had happened to have a pair of gloves. The long, billowing sleeves of the velvet dress hid the rest of her arms.
Silence stretched out between them. Finally, through the veil, she saw one of the guards elbow the other. “My apologies, Lady Tseta Atiatla,” he stumbled over the Istbyan name. “You can go in, of course.”
Ilahe remained on her knees, hands stretched out in the air. After another awkward pause, which Ilahe enjoyed with a vicious smile behind the veil, the guard took one of her hands to lift her to her feet. Ilahe clutched at his fingers and pressed her thumb delicately to the back of his hand. As she stood, she silently thanked the guard; the dress was heavy, and she had gotten out of practice at moving about in the folds of cloth.
The guard led her to the wagon seat with faltering steps, and Ilahe altered her pace to make him stumble, still keeping hold of his hand, her thumb like a breath against his skin. She wished she could see his face; the blind-fool man was probably blushing like a maid. Ilahe’s smile faded; she found herself enjoying this role too much. Her own time to be beautiful had long since passed. And she had learned the hard way, the night they took her child, that beauty was no match for a sword.
As she raised her foot to the narrow step below the wagon seat, the guard placed his free hand lightly on her back. With a frenzy that surprised even Ilahe, Ticar threw himself to the ground and raced around the wagon toward the guard, shouting as he ran.
“Remove your hand from the Lady Tseta Atiatla,” he said, hand going to the dagger at his belt. “Lest I remove your hand, and your tongue as well, you insolent cur.” The flash of the blade coming free was visible even through the veil.
Ilahe could feel the guard’s tension in his hand for a moment, before he jerked it away. Before Ticar’s overacting could get them into trouble, Ilahe whirled and placed a hand on the small man’s chest.
“You mistake yourself,” Ilahe said. “Remember your place.” Turning back to the guard, she dipped her head and curtsied. “I grant this gentleman the favor of helping me into our carriage. A reward, sir, for your generosity to a woman in distress. You may one day tell your children that you laid hands on Orodna Tseta Atiatla, the Frost Rose of Everoz.”
The guard hesitated, and Ilahe wondered if she had overplayed her part. She felt his hand resume its place against her back, more firmly now, and assist her up. As she reached the wagon seat, the guard’s hand slid down to linger on Ilahe’s backside. For a moment, desire washed over Ilahe; it had been a long time since anyone had touched her like that, even in jest, and she longed for the touch of her husband again—of any man, to tell the truth. Shame and anger brought a flush to her face, and sweat streamed from her forehead.
I belong to no man, she reminded herself. I am free.
Trying to maintain her gracious posture, she nodded once to the guard, and then again to Ticar. He shook the reins, and the horse moved forward, oblivious to the pageantry around him, to carry them into the city. The wooden wall passed by them, a long blur through the veil. Ilahe cursed the heat and wondered whether sweat or tears rolled down her cheeks. To have a man touch her like that—she shook her head, reminded herself of the priests, with their cold, invasive hands, the colored light that fell on her body like rainbow snowflakes. Never again.
The wagon rolled forward, and the familiar—almost comforting—creak of wheels resumed, polluted now by the guards’ laughter behind them. Someone trotted past them, a
boy, Ilahe thought, although she could not be sure with the veil obscuring her vision. Ilahe kept her hands at her side, resisting the urge to tear the veil from her face, the rip off the elaborate, heavy dress, and to face the guards as herself. To make them swallow the ribald jokes she imagined them telling.
They had barely gone a hundred paces when a shout reached them.
“Stop,” a familiar, deep voice, came. The first guard.
Terror replaced shame. Ilahe bent down, fingers racing along the wood of the seat, searching for her swords. She would not let them take her; she still had the cam-adeh, although she would have to abandon Ticar.
The merchant’s small hand closed over her wrist, barely felt through the thick cloth. “Stop,” he whispered. “It’s nothing.”
Ilahe froze, his hand still on her wrist. She could untie the swords, but it would take time. And if it was nothing? The other guard coming to get a feel, perhaps? Or insisting that she at least show them her face? What then? Her heart hammered inside her.
The clomp of boots came to a stop a few feet away. “My apologies, Lady,” the deep voice said. “Qimal, he’s an idiot, thinks with his sword, if you know what I mean. I wouldn’t want you to think we overlooked anything either.”
The clink of coins accompanied Ticar’s voice as he said, “The lady is grateful for your aid.”
“Oh no,” the guard said. “I ain’t going to take coin from a lady in distress. But we, that is, Qimal and me, we didn’t want you to think we were uncivilized; I didn’t want you to tell the ambassador we’d overlooked anything.”
Ilahe’s heart slowed; the man had the good grace to apologize? His phrasing was strange, but that was to be expected from such a credulous, ignorant, blind man. Suddenly the dress didn’t seem as constricting as it had. Ilahe relaxed slightly and nodded toward the guard’s shape.
“See,” the guard continued, “that’s why we sent word ahead to the Istbyan ambassador. Just a boy who hangs around at the gate, but he’s a good one, and he’ll deliver the message sure as the harvest. Thought you should know, maybe put in a good word for us with the ambassador. Just give him Qimal’s name, that’s all, tair bless you both.”
Ilahe barely heard his farewell. They had advised the Istbyan ambassador. It was already done; the boy had run past them. Even in the veil, she had seen him go. Her throat was dry when she spoke.
“Go.”
Ticar flipped the reins and they lurched forward, faster than they had traveled during the trip. Once again, Ticar showed himself not as blind as she had imagined.
“You have a safe place to store your goods while you conduct your business?” Ilahe asked.
“Not as of yet,” Ticar said, his cheerful voice subdued.
“The ambassador will seek me out. With guards truly sworn to the Thousand Suffering Breaths. Blackness and blindness take me.”
“It was a good enough plan as it went,” Ticar said. “Can’t say I care for this part of it, though.”
“Take me to the most respectable inn you know,” Ilahe said. “And then keep driving and don’t look back. I will do what I can to throw them off, but you must not be found.”
Ticar nodded. The motion, visible through the veil, was so grim, and in such contrast to his usual cheerfulness, that Ilahe felt her heart sink even further. He was a man, true, but he did not deserve to be drawn into some blind challenge from the Thousand Suffering Breaths, and she did not fancy explaining to the ambassador, or to the tair’s priest-guards—the eses—why a Cenarbasin was impersonating an Istbyan noblewoman.
Another blind-fool man would now be looking for her—and, if he found her, it would be as bad as if the eses found her. As bad as if she had let the tair’s agents in the Danma kill her before she reached Khi’ilan. The buildings swelled up around them as they reached the city proper, great black shapes against the fabric of the veil. As she tried to plan her next move, screams interrupted her thoughts.