by Jane Baskin
Nayan: “Is he alive?”
“We don’t know. Or much care.”
Dar-agan: “What’s important here is how the people won. Our messenger brings news of a bombing platform.”
Noar: “A what?”
“A bombing platform. A rig they use to throw gunpowder bombs at the enemy. They captured it, and used it against the lords. Took the day.”
Nayan: “Rifles … I think we’re overlooking something. The weapons we have – they’re so inaccurate, you may as well throw rocks. They fire a scattering of pellets – ineffective from more than a few meters away. Our explosives have long fuses – the enemy can just cut the fuses or toss them back. Whenever the South does decide to raid again, we’ll be terribly out-armed. We need weapons like theirs. That would make victory in battle more certain. With fewer casualties.” And besides, I know we’re going to make new rifles. I don’t know how I know, but we will. I know.
An odd stare from his mother. A meeting of eyes – terrible – just for a moment. A word flung into his head: No. Then: “Exactly what your father and I were thinking. Because, you see, I had tea with our messenger’s wife and daughter just an hour ago. And guess what their duties were, back at Lord Vel’s stronghold?”
Noar, smiling. “Stop teasing, Mother. Just tell us.”
“They worked – night and day – in a weapons factory. They know how to make the new rifles. And bombs, without fuses. That just explode on impact.”
Oh.
Finally, Noar: “Do you suppose they could help us set up such a factory?”
Ilia-te: “They’ve already offered.”
That night: a party. Another of the wild winterfests. Hearty food of every variety, breakfast meat rolls served for supper, all manner of foods that could be grabbed in one hand, leaving the other free for a mug of warm ale.
Musicians playing horns and stringed instruments, often wildly. People dancing to the tunes. A new instrument unveiled: a big, complicated thing with strings on one side and keys on the other, that struck the strings with soft hammers. The inventor, one of the castle/village’s chief musicians, still trying to think of what to call it. Wondered if it should be a “tinkler” because of the tinkling sounds brought forth from the high registers … sounds that made people want to do fancy footwork in their dances. Despite the seemingly appropriate name, many people: no. It’s too big. Needs a more dignified name.
A contest held, to see who could properly name the new machine. Knowing the name must come from emotion over thought, it was decided: those who would offer names had to be confirmed drunk. Meaning: a contestant would have to prove that he or she had thrown up at least once during the evening.
Noar won. Of course. Belched loudly. Pointed to the new instrument in a grandiose fashion. “I call you … a piano.”
Silence for a moment. Then Che: “What in the hells does that mean, Noar?”
“You moron. The old word ‘pia’ means strong in battle. And ‘no’ just makes it sound more musical.”
A pause. Silence. Then … suddenly a great cheer, going up from the crowd. Noar, taking a bow.
Ilia-te, shaking her head. “That young man is going to choke on self-love one of these days.”
Dar-agan: “If he doesn’t shoot himself first.”
“Ah. That must mean you have faith in our soon-to-be made new weapons.”
“Absolutely, my love.” A fond wink.
Nayan, not very sober himself. Enjoying dancing with the girl with the long blond braids. One of Noar’s winter companions.
Not unnoticed by Noar, of course. Watching Nayan spin the girl in circles at the end of his hand, then pull her close, then bend her backward, forcing their hips close together.
Noar: approaching. Walking right into the middle of their dance. “Drunk yet, big brother?”
Nayan, laughing. “Not as drunk as you.”
Noar’s irritation, rising. “Yes. Well, at least I was clear enough to name the new instrument.”
Nayan, still laughing. “Indeed you were, brother. Good name, that. Congratulations.” Nayan, turning away, then. Back to his blond partner.
Noar: no. Got between them again. Put his arm around the girl’s waist. Glared at his brother.
Nayan: “Are you kidding?”
Noar, a growl. “Not at all.” Tightened his arm around the girl’s waist, steered her away; still glaring over his shoulder at his brother. The girl, tittering as they went. Still young enough to be flattered by men fighting over her.
Nayan, then left by himself in the middle of the dance floor. Shrugged, headed for the ale table. To his surprise, there: the hostage. Pouring herself a mug of warm ale.
Nayan: “I’m surprised to see you here.”
The girl, whirling. Not dropping her ale this time, though. Met his dark eyes for a moment. “Why would that surprise you?”
“You’re – uh – not usually very social.”
“How do you know?”
“I guess I don’t, really. But usually, you seem to keep to yourself.”
“I’m a prisoner, remember?”
Awkward, oh. Nayan, filling his mug. Smiling and nodding at her. Backing away, then turning back to the party.
Looking over at her, from time to time. Once, observed her talking with another young woman. Other times, watching the party alone. Like a wallflower.
No one that pretty can be a wallflower. Gods alive, why did I just think that? But … why is no one asking her to dance?
They fear her. She’s so tightly wound, look at that ramrod back. She’s unapproachable.
Aristocrat.
Oh. Did I just think that? Aristocrat: almost an archaic word in the far North. No real purpose to it any more, apart from the increasingly rare marriage alliances. Clan leaders; advisors; serving alongside elected representatives of People … why did I think of that?
Nayan, turning away. Focusing on another blond girl, Zia-ye – probably another of Noar’s winter conquests. But not caring. A small part of himself: hoping it were so. Huh? Dancing on. Whirling his partner until she became dizzy.
At one point, very close to the ale table. His partner: one mug and one twirl too many. Fell over into the table. Toppling dirty ale mugs and full ones alike. The girl, sliding to the floor, giggling.
Then looking up at the hostage. Getting to her feet, grinning. “Zoren! You’re here. How wonderful!” Giving the hostage a sisterly hug. “Nayan, do you know this lady?” Burped, laughed at herself. “This is Zoren-te, our … uh … guest. Oh that’s right, you brought her here.”
“Noar brought her here.”
Another burp. “Oh, yes. I forgot. Well one of you brought her here. Listen, if I dance with you another minute, I’m going to pass out. Zoren, will you take this beast? Please? Nayan, dance with her.” Then stumbling off to a chair under the balcony. Asleep in seconds.
Uh oh. Nayan and the girl, facing each other. Awkward.
Nayan, finding courage at the bottom of his ale mug. “Zoren, would you like to dance?”
The girl, stiffening. “Of course not.”
Nayan, suddenly finding the situation funny. Laughing. “Well it’s true we can’t stand each other. But Zia asked, so I’m asking. Come on, loosen up.” Reached out, offered his hand.
Zoren-te, staring at his hand. Looking around her, as if wondering if others were noticing. But: no one.
Finally, took his hand. As he led her away from the ale table: “I don’t know how to do these dances.”
Nayan, trying to belch with his mouth closed. “Tell the truth, neither do I. No one does. You just move to the music.”
“What?”
“Oh that’s right. You Southerners do those fancy step dances. Complicated. Kind of regimented, if you ask me.”
“You Northerners dance like wild animals.”
Nayan, a sudden grin. “Works when you’re drunk.”
I’m not.”
“Then we’ll have to fix that.” Suddenly moved so the girl’s ar
m was around his waist, pulled her closer – clearly – than she would have liked. Started in a formal dancing position, what she might be used to. When the music rose louder and faster, pushed her off, still holding her hand. Using her hand as a pivot, began twirling her in circles, before and behind him.
Surprised at her grace. The girl could move in a fight, and apparently, in a dance as well. Held her head high in the twirls, seeming to focus on a point in the distance. Pretty, how she whipped her head around to catch up to her body. Nayan, recognizing this as a maneuver to keep from getting dizzy. Understanding: her training had been comprehensive. She: trained as a dancer as well as a warrior.
And in music as well, apparently. The girl could pick out the predominant rhythms, even sub lines of music as they merged and diverged. Her body, moving as if she had no bones.
Oh. Look at that.
Nayan, not the only one noticing the girl’s expertise. And way of moving that was almost seductive. So smooth. Others, nodding and smiling to her as they passed.
Nayan, feeling oddly uncomfortable. Steered her toward the ale table. Stopped dancing, let go her hand. Poured them both mugs of ale. “I’ll make a bet with you. I bet I can drink this mug of ale in half the time it takes you to drink yours.”
Of course, had the intended effect. The girl chugged her ale with commendable speed. Nayan: “Again.” Could see her ire, clearly rising. Again, she kept pace with him. Another mug. This time, she chugged; he sipped. Laughed when she put her mug down.
“You should start feeling that pretty soon.”
“Your ale here is very strong.”
“Good.”
“Why?” Annoyed, her.
“You need to loosen up a little. You stand so straight. I’ve never seen you smile.”
“I stand straight because that’s how I stand. And as for smiling, what do I have to smile about? Especially around you.”
Nayan, a sigh. “Yes, you’re a prisoner. Who can go anywhere she wants.”
“Except home.”
“No one goes anywhere in winter. But even winter doesn’t last forever. You’ll be going home soon enough. Until then, why not let yourself have some fun? Would it kill you?”
Now the girl, sighing. Her shoulders, slumping slightly.
Did she just shake her head? Nayan, wondering meanly if the three quick mugs of ale had done their work. Yes, there. She just shook her head.
“You dizzy?”
“No.”
“Drunk?” A grin.
A glare. “Maybe.”
Steered her back to the dance floor. By now, the musical inventor was wailing away on the piano. Laughing and punching the keys in the high registers, causing people to try to match the clinking sounds with fancy footwork. Many of the dancers, tripping over their own feet, falling. Collapsing on the floor, laughing.
I wonder what she can do.
I can do anything you can do.
What!?What just happened?
Nothing more. Just her glare. Forget it foget it forget it
Started moving his feet to the fast rhythm of the piano … as best he could. Stood to the side of her, holding her one hand. For a moment she: looking blank. Then, her feet moving. Nayan realizing: she had been listening carefully to the rhythms. Now, there. Her feet, as nimble as the keys. Matching beat for beat. Nayan, noticing: even in winter boots, her feet: small. Dainty. Like a dancer’s feet.
Moved to face her. Twirled her.
She didn’t miss a beat.
The girl, able to twirl and glide, while not missing a single step.
Others, noticing. Then a circle forming around them. Nayan: far too inebriated to even attempt to keep up with her. Concentrated on partnering her. Taking her through twirls and glides, behind and in front of himself. The piano inventor, noticing. Stepped up his playing. While the girl, minimally guided by Nayan, twirled and stepped like a butterfly on fire.
When the music stopped: a round of applause from observers. The girl, suddenly embarrassed. Heading for the ale table. Nayan, following.
Stood by her, not drinking, as she chugged another mug of ale. Poured herself another. Nayan, at first, puzzled. Then grinning at her.
“Is something wrong?”
Silence.
“Something’s wrong. Tell me.”
“Go to all hells.”
Met with a laugh from Nayan. “I know what’s wrong.”
“Do you, now?”
“You were having fun. For one moment, maybe two, you forgot yourself. You’re a wonderful dancer, by the way.”
“You’re insufferable.” Slammed her now empty mug down onto the table, turned, fled the room.
Nayan, watching her go. Debated having another mug of ale. Decided against it. His head, already spinning.
Then he: overtaken by a crazy impulse.
Started after the girl.
Caught up to her just outside her rooms. “Wait, Zoren.”
Whirled on him. “Why!?”
Caught himself. “Uh … I don’t know.”
The girl, making a gesture of extreme irritation. Opened her door. Nayan, moving quickly, cat-like. Caught the edge of the door, pulled it back.
At first, she: pushing against his hold. But he: so much bigger, would always win a smple contest of strength. “Are you going to let me go into my room?”
“Of course. But … just wait a minute.”
Turning back to him in exasperation. “What is it?”
“There’s something I want to show you.”
“What?”
“Come.”
Took her hand, to lead her. She, falling into step with him. Yanked her hand out of his grasp.
Nayan, not knowing and yet knowing where he was going. Impossible. But – yes. Had to be done, yes?
Led her down a hallway, down to the main level, through the library annex, then … outside. To the secret garden. Where they had fought. Where he had almost killed her. The place: frigid. But both of them, overheated from the dancing. Soft mists of steam rising from their faces.
The girl, blinking. Almost not recognizing the place at first. Then …
His voice behind her, soft. “This is where I almost killed you.”
She: spinning to face him for one awful moment. Her eyes: moist? Then turned away, crossed the garden, looked away. Looked at the tunnel. “Where does that go?”
“To the cliff.”
Shook her head. Walked over to the wall where he had pinned her, that miserable day.
Stood, facing it, silent.
Eventually, Nayan, crossing over to her. Stopped. Not too close.
She spoke to him, without turning to face him. “Why did you bring me here?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
Both of them, forced inside by the cold. Into the library annex, shivering.
More silence. Finally she: turning to face him. Tears on her face, now. “This … that is a terrible place.”
Nayan, looking at his feet. “It’s pretty in summer.” Feeling stupid at once.
“I don’t care if it’s pretty. I almost died here. I had to fight for my life when I was so fevered I couldn’t focus my eyes. I wasn’t sure if there was one of you or two.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That it? You’re sorry, and that makes it okay?”
“No. Of course not.” Still staring at his feet.
“What, then?”
Nayan, looking up to meet her eyes. Just looking at her. She really was rather small. Not short, exactly … but finely built. For a moment, couldn’t believe he had ever tried to fight her. Shame.
Shook his head. His hair, moving on its own to curtain his face. Looked down. Could not meet her eyes.
Then … did something he would never understand so long as he lived.
Moved closer to her. Put his hand on the wall behind her. His other hand took her chin. Before she could whip her head away, leaned forward … kissed her. A long kiss, like a sigh of confusion and unknowing and wh
atever it is that makes us do things we wish we hadn’t.
Took her a moment to push him away. When she did: a sob. Quickly caught, wrestled down. Into whatever secret place she kept her rage and sorrow.
Nayan, feeling like a wretched fool. Convinced he would never be able to understand his own behavior. Or control it. Suddenly ashamed – again – for feeling superior to his younger brother. I’m just as out of control as he is. Just not as focused. With me, it’s worse.
Stood back, looked down at his feet again. “I’ll take you back now.”
Again, yes?
Again. You know why she’s here.
(Smile) It’s not because of a silly brother.
No.
Do you suppose she’ll hasten the development?
That’s why she’s here, now, isn’t it?
8.Weapons of War and Other Things
Had been decided, by the lords and leaders, that they would start manufacturing the gunpowder weapons. Only remained to be decided: where.
And who would do the work.
Of course, the newcomer’s wife and daughter – named Norara-te and Luisa-te – would supervise. But the project would take dozens of people. Maybe hundreds.
Ilia-te to Dar-agan: “I know we need these new weapons. But in the middle of winter? You don’t seriously think the South will come raiding, with all that’s going on, do you?”
“I think winter won’t last forever, and by springtime, having that girl here will put us in a precarious position. Her father’s not a fool.”
“Unless we can make a match with Nayan.”
“Come now, love. You know we won’t force him into a match he doesn’t want. And all I’ve seen so far is his loathing, his resentment of her. And she – it’d be like trying to crack an iceberg. Would you wish that on your son?”
“Of course not. But there’s time. And they’re both young.”
“I never see them together.”
“Are you blind? What about that dance at the winterfest?”
“I saw. But I also a little drinking contest at the ale table beforehand. I won’t mistake drunken yearnings for love.”