by Karen Miller
If I tell them my truth they might seek my life for it. Nor do I know what the god requires. I do not know if it wants me to tell them or if it wants me to hold my tongue.
Why it still mattered, he could not say. If the god had abandoned him why should he care for its desires? Why should he strive to work its will in the world? The god had his mother. The god had Dimmi. It had thrown away Zandakar. Why should he care?
It is something to care for. Without it I have nothing. I will be a clay man forever, with nothing inside me.
The breeze swirled around him. As well as pitchy smoke he smelled standing water and unknown flowers and something dead and decaying, some animal in the undergrowth. The breeze jinked into his face and he smelled something else.
Men. Unwashed men. They stink of danger. They stand in the shadows and wait for prey.
As he spun around, shouting, “Dexterity! Stop!” a rock soared out of the lowering gloom and took the horse Priddy hard in its face. The horse screamed and reared, throwing its harness-mate Star into panic. “Dexterity! Down! Down!” he shouted, and ran towards them.
Aieee, the god see me! No snakeblade, no slingshot, no bow and arrow of my own!
But Dexterity was clutching a stout wooden club. Where had it come from? “What is it? What’s happening, Zandakar? Good God, are they footpads?”
Footpads? Not a word he knew. That did not matter. He snatched a torch from the corner of the wagon and held out his hand. “Dexterity. Give!”
Dexterity looked at the wooden club, hesitated, then handed it over. “But Zandakar, there’s only one of you! Oh dear—” He pointed. “We’ll have to try running!”
Zandakar spun round again. Six men on foot, four held flaming torches, each one armed with a knife or sword. The two without torches held knives in both hands. Rough men, walking swiftly. Greed in their eyes.
Death in my eyes. They will not touch the god’s knife-dancer.
He heard Rhian say, “What is it? What—oh, Rollin save us!”
They will not touch Rhian. They will not touch anyone. These sinning wicked men will die.
“Zandakar, no! Zandakar, what are you—Jones, don’t just stand there, stop him!”
And of course that was Ursa, tumbled out of the van to tell everyone what to do. He paid no heed to her. Light on his feet he danced towards the rough men, the footpads, torch in one hand, club raised in the other. He did not say a word to them, he did not warn them or tell them to leave. They laughed to see him dance towards them. He was one man and they were six, why would they fear him?
You will fear me soon enough.
Without breaking stride he threw the club hard overarm, and the strongest man in the warband collapsed to the ground, his face bloody and pulped. The first one dead, he would not be the last. For three pounding heartbeats his five living enemies stared in shock. Three heartbeats was long enough to dance the dead man’s knife into his free hand, then into the throats of two more rough men.
Three dead … three to die.
They ran at him, howling. He dropped his own torch and showed them the striking falcon, the spinning blade, the stinging scorpion. He lost himself in the glory of the dance, he bathed himself in the blood of wicked men.
I am made flesh again! I am full of killing!
Hot blood dripped down his face, from his hands, soaked his arms and the front of his brown cotton shirt. Blood slathered the blades of the knives he held. At his feet sprawled the bodies of his defeated enemies, slashed and sundered. None of them breathing. Every godspark sent to hell.
He threw back his head and screamed to the godmoon and the godmoon’s shy wife, screamed to the strange stars they strode among.
“Aieee, the god see me! I am Zandakar, its warlord! I have slain its enemies. The god see me in its eye!”
Dear God. There’s so much blood …
Staring at the slaughtered robbers, Rhian felt her empty belly turn over. She’d never enjoyed the killing part of hunting. Fast riding cross-country on a good horse, that was exhilarating. But the actual blood and death of it? No, she’d hated that. Wrenching her sickened gaze from the gaping wounds, the tangle of entrails, the bloody gleam of shattered bone, she looked at Zandakar instead.
Zandakar, who did this.
He wasn’t even breathing heavily. And he was calm again now, after that savage cry of triumph. He stood in the road so self-contained, with a blood-clotted knife in each bloodsoaked hand. Completely and supremely self-possessed. He’d killed them so fast . They hadn’t stood a chance. Simple, stupid footpads thinking to prey on unsuspecting peddlers.
Prey on my people and take their safety from them.
She realised then, with a cold stab of surprise, she wasn’t sorry the men were dead. Not knowing who she was they would have stolen from her. Maybe raped her. Maybe even killed her, and Dexterity and Ursa and Helfred.
What is Rudi of Arbat doing with his time and soldiery, that men like this can wander the byways of his duchy in freedom? My duchy, for he only holds it in trust for me … and my people. A trust that’s been shattered if this is allowed.
“Thank you, Zandakar,” she said. “You’ve done the Crown a great service.”
“A service?” Helfred’s voice behind her sounded thin and frightened. “Are you mad? This is murder .”
She turned. “Don’t be ridiculous. Murder was doubtless what they had in mind. This was justice. Rough. I’ll grant you. But if they’d not raised their hands to us they’d still be breathing.”
The sight of so much blood had leached the colour from Helfred’s face. In dying, the footpads had soiled themselves. The stink of it hung on the cool evening air.
“I am not ridiculous,” he protested. “Zandakar could have saved us without killing them! Without spilling their insides over the road!”
“Could he?” Her nerves still thrummed from what she’d witnessed. His speed … his pure mastery … the perfection of his violence … “I’m afraid I don’t see how, given he was outnumbered six to one. Perhaps you could instruct him, Helfred. Give him a few pointers from your vast store of experience.”
Helfred closed his mouth with a snap.
“Well,” said Ursa, breaking the tense silence, “at least we know now what his hotas are for.”
They certainly did. If I study them for long enough will I be able to do this too? She looked at Helfred again.
“Chaplain, I don’t revel in bloodshed any more than you. But these men had no good intentions. If they had not attacked us they would’ve attacked someone else. Perhaps they already have. We were lucky, we had Zandakar to defend us. Other peddlers, other innocent travellers, they’re not so fortunate. These footpads had to be stopped.”
“As you say,” said Helfred woodenly.
She turned away from him, afraid her temper would get the better of prudence. “Mr Jones? Dexterity?”
He’d not said a word, just stood with the frightened horses, his kerchief pressed to Priddy’s stone-wound. His gaze was fixed on Zandakar as though he’d never seen him before.
In a way he hasn’t. None of us have. And now that he’s revealed to us … what does it mean?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
As though waking from a dream, Dexterity stirred. Tucked the bloodied kerchief into his pocket and left the horses, walking towards Zandakar as though they were alone.
“Jones!” said Ursa.
Rhian took the physick’s arm. “No. It’s all right. Dexterity is safe, I’m sure of it.”
“Really? I’m not!”
“Ursa,” she said, and tightened her fingers. “He’s safe.”
“And if he’s not,” said Helfred under his breath, “how do you imagine you’ll be able to help him?”
Zandakar was watching Dexterity approach, his face as calm now as it had been while he was killing. “Dexterity. Priddy all right?”
Halting in front of him, Dexterity stared up into his peaceful blue eyes. “Priddy is fine. Are you? Were you hurt?”
“Good. Zandakar, I don’t see—did you have to kill all of them?”
Now Zandakar looked baffled. He said something in his own tongue, then frowned. “Tcha. Wei words.” He nodded at the corpses strewn at his feet. “Bad men. Zho? ”
“ Zho . They were bad.”
Zandakar shrugged. “Bad men die.”
“Perhaps where you come from,” said Dexterity. His voice sounded ragged. “Wherever that is. But in Ethrea, Zandakar, we have a rule of law. We don’t kill bad men out of hand. We give them to the duke’s soldiers and they are put in prison. They’re not—not butchered like hogs. They were bad, but they were men.”
Zandakar was looking at Dexterity so intently. “You are angry.”
“No!” said Dexterity, and pressed a hand to his head. “Not angry. Not exactly. But Zandakar …”
Rhian stepped forward. Time to remember who is queen, I think . “No one is angry, Zandakar. You did the right thing.” She swept the others with a cold hard look. “No more complaints or criticisms, thank you. If you must say anything, make it a grateful prayer that Zandakar was here. We’d be dead in the ditch, else.”
“Prayer is a good idea,” said Helfred, subdued. “I must speak for the souls of these poor misguided—”
“Not now,” she said. “We have to put some distance between us and this place before we settle for the night.”
“You mean to leave them?” said Helfred. “Lying in their gore, unsanctified?”
“I suppose you’d like to put them in the van?”
“No, but we should bury them at least! They may have been wicked but—”
“We can’t bury them, Chaplain,” said Ursa, tiredly. “Someone will have to see their faces. They may have families needing to be told. And we can’t take them with us.”
“She’s right,” Rhian said flatly. “Let someone local find them and send word to this district’s sheriff. We can’t get involved. We have to go.”
Helfred looked close to tears. “Your Highness—”
She touched his shoulder. “I’ve made my decision. Abide by it, Chaplain.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” he whispered.
Against her will she felt a wave of compassion for him. Poor Helfred. You should’ve stayed in the clerica. Or better yet in Kingseat. See what you get for meddling in my life?
“Please allow me a moment, Your Highness,” he added. “A few words … it won’t take long. I cannot leave these poor souls without—”
“Yes, yes, all right. But quickly!”
“Ursa—” Dexterity turned to the physick. “Do you have some ointment for Priddy’s face? It’s a nasty cut, that rock caught him just below the eye.”
As Helfred prayed over the bodies and Dexterity and Ursa saw to the injured horse, Zandakar retrieved the rest of the slain footpads’ weapons and wiped the worst of the blood off them on the damp grass beside the road. The last dusklight had faded completely. The glow from the torches burnished his dark skin and gleamed on the scarlet splashes on his face, arms and clothes.
Watching him, Rhian shook her head. He doesn’t even notice. If I had that much blood on me I’d be screaming for a bathtub .
Zandakar finished cleaning the knives and swords. One of each he set aside for himself. Then he selected a second knife, a wickedly sharp dagger, and held it out to her.
“Take. For hotas . Rhian is ready to dance with a knife.”
She hesitated, staring at it. The dead sprawled around them, rebuked in their sin. Ready to do this? Oh Zandakar, I don’t think so …
She’d held fencing foils before and, laughing, tried to stab her father through the heart. But that was frivolous swordplay. That was exercise, it wasn’t war. A heart touch meant winning a contest, not washing yourself free of someone else’s blood. Not watching them die because you’d killed them.
“Rhian,” said Zandakar. His pale blue eyes were serious. “Take knife. For hotas .”
She took the dagger. Her hand was shaking. “I’ve never thought of killing anyone,” she whispered. “I’ve never had to. There are no warriors in Ethrea, Zandakar. We have no wars. We’re a kingdom of peace.”
Now his eyes were derisive. “Tcha. Zho warriors. Rhian warrior. Rhian dance hotas .”
If I keep this dagger … if I learn to dance his hotas with it … will I stay the person I am now? I’m not a warrior queen. I’m not any kind of queen, not yet. Not ever if Marlan has his way. How far must I travel from myself, to put a crown on my head? Must I kill to make myself queen? Oh, Papa. What would you say? What would you do?
Her fingers closed tight around the dagger’s bone hilt. Staring at its clean, sharp edge she took a deep breath, and another. Then she looked at the dead men lying at her feet.
“Zandakar … how many men have you killed like this?”
He shook his head. “ Wei remember. Yatzhay .”
Yatzhay, yatzhay . Always yatzhay . She thought he was lying. She thought he didn’t want to say. All right. Let him keep that secret, for now. But I’ll ask him again. I will have an answer. I must have an answer. I need to know .
Helfred, his prayers done with, joined them. He wouldn’t look at Zandakar. “Highness, he should bathe and change his clothes before we go. He can’t sit around covered in blood like that.”
She nodded. “He will. And you can help me with these weapons.”
“What?” Helfred stepped back. “You mean to keep —”
“We’ve a distance to travel yet before we reach duchy Linfoi!” Rollin give her patience, the man could rile her like no-one else. “And we can’t assume these are the only footpads we’ll meet. Perhaps we can avoid further bloodshed if we show the world we’re not to be trifled with!”
“Oh,” said Helfred. “I see. Perhaps that’s not an unreasonable viewpoint.”
“Well thank you, Chaplain. I’m sure I’ll sleep perfectly tonight knowing you approve.”
“Highness—”
She stabbed him with a look, not a dagger, even though the thought was wickedly tempting. “Oh, no more, Helfred! I’ve endured enough for one night!”
Wisely he held his tongue after that, even when she slid her new dagger through her belt. Leaving Zandakar to wash in water from the supply barrel, she and Helfred carried the booty of weapons back to the van. He left her alone, then, to take clean clothes to Zandakar, and she stowed the knives and swords safely out of sight.
“There you are,” said Ursa, and closed the hinged door behind her. “You all right?”
“I’m fine. How’s Priddy?”
“He’s a horse. He’ll live,” said Ursa, perching on the bench. “You’re quite certain you’re all right? That’s a lot of blood to see in one place if you’re not used to it.”
Rhian retreated to her sleeping-shelf. Slid the dagger out of her belt, to avoid an accident, and pretended to be terribly interested in its hilt. “And you are?”
“I’ve patched up my share of brawls down at the harbour. Foreign sailors don’t always play nice.”
“I’m sure they don’t.” She waited for Ursa to say something about the dagger. When she didn’t, she held it up. “Zandakar says I should start training with this.”
“And what do you say?”
She slid the dagger under her pillow. “I say he’s probably right. There might be more footpads between here and duchy Linfoi.”
“And that’s what you’re upset about, isn’t it? Bad men in your realm,” said Ursa. She settled herself more comfortably on the bench. “You’re wondering if it’s your fault. If they only dare to attack innocent folk because there’s no king in Ethrea. Because instead of marrying to make one you’ve decided to crown yourself queen.”
Yes, but how does she know that? Can she read minds as well as pick herbs and dry liverberries? “You think I shouldn’t concern myself?”
Ursa snorted. “Of course you should. That’s what being queen means, girl. Always wondering. Always worr
ying. You accuse Helfred of being sheltered and maybe he is. Was. But the same thing can be said of you. Growing up in your castle. Spoilt darling of a king and two princes.”
That hurt. “I’m not spoilt! If you want to see spoilt I’ll introduce you to some of the court ladies! Vacuous, empty-headed, caring for nothing but their jewels and their sweeties and giving orders to servants! Violetta Dester, and the rest of her ilk! All right, it’s true, I never wanted for anything, but that doesn’t make me spoilt . I’ll have you know I worked hard to be educated. I hosted important dinners and parties for the king three times a week at least! I—”
“I’m not saying you never lifted a finger,” said Ursa. “I’m sure you worked very hard to be a princess your father and brothers could be proud of. But it’s not the same.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” she demanded, still stinging. “Do you think I don’t know how ignorant I am of the world? I’ve never left Ethrea. Of course I’m ignorant. And I tried to remedy that, I begged to be let go with Ranald and Simon!”
“Then it’s a good thing your papa said no, isn’t it?” said Ursa quietly. “Or you’d likely be buried beside him and your brothers, and what kind of a pickle would Ethrea be in then?”
Suddenly exhausted, Rhian lay down. “What kind are we in now?” She stifled a shiver. “Those footpads …”
“Made their choices,” said Ursa, shrugging. “Just like you’ve made yours. Rhian, Ethrea’s our home and we love it and that’s proper. But that’s not to say the place is perfect. It’s got good folk and bad folk like everywhere else. And the only reason the bad folk don’t get the upper hand is because the good folk don’t let them. They see a weed, they pluck it out. They don’t let it grow and seed and spread itself further till all the flowers are choked and dead.”