by Karen Miller
Does that make me a gullible fool? I hope not, for all our sakes.
“Ursa…” he said, gentling his voice. “I confess, when I first learned what he'd done I wanted to hate him. I wanted to leave him to starve to death, or worse. But Hettie says we need him. And doesn't Rollin expect us to find forgiveness in our hearts?”
“ Rollin ?” Now Ursa was almost spitting. “You'd quote Rollin to me, you , a man who refused to set foot in a church for twenty years? Jones, you're perilous close to hypocrisy!”
“You're complaining ?” He straightened, offended. “After twenty years of nagging me about not going to church you're complaining because I've reacquainted myself with Rollin?”
“No, Jones!” Ursa roared. “I'm complaining because when that bloodthirsty heathen does bolt like a rabbit it's your head Rhian'll have shoved on a chopping block!”
“Well, I'm sure I'm touched by your concern, Ursa, but seeing as how Zandakar won't be bolting you're wasting your time worrying about me and—”
“ Wei , Dexterity. Wei , Ursa,” said Zandakar, standing in the kitchen doorway. “ Wei fight for me.”
Dexterity threw up his hands. “See, Ursa? Now look what you've done!”
Instead of answering, she watched as Zandakar came into the kitchen, opened a drawer in the dresser and took out a carving knife. Gasping, she took a step back.
“ Wei ,” Zandakar said, and held out the knife. “ Wei be afraid, Ursa.”
“Jones?” Her voice quavered. “Jones, what is he doing?”
“I don't know. Zandakar—”
Zandakar held up a hand, demanding quiet. Taking a step closer to Ursa, again he tried to give her the knife. Not violent, but insistent. “You take.”
Eyebrows pinched she took it, reluctant. “Now what?”
His answer was to wrap his fingers round hers on the knife's old hilt, drop to his knees and press the blade's point against the hollow in the base of his throat.
“Zandakar, stop this,” said Dexterity nervously. “It won't solve anything. Violence rarely does.”
Zandakar ignored him, instead fixing his gaze on Ursa's alarmed face. His expression was almost tender in its concern. “You wei trust? You think Zandakar hurt Dexterity, hurt Rhian, hurt Ethrea?” His fingers tightened. The knife-point sank into his flesh, releasing a bright red bead of blood. “Kill now, Ursa.”
“Jones, is this some kind of trick?” said Ursa.
Dexterity hesitated, then shook his head. “No, I think this is the only way he can think of to make you believe him.”
“Well, it's ridiculous!” she retorted. “I'm a physick, I don't kill people. Not even when they're as wicked as Zandakar.”
Oh dear . “This is silly. Ursa spoke harshly, it's true, but Zandakar – you know she's got a tart tongue. You've heard her sharpening it on my hide often enough. She didn't mean what she said. Did you, Ursa?”
“I meant every word, Jones,” said Ursa. Frightened but stubborn, clinging to her principles no matter what.
“I kill, zho ,” said Zandakar, his hands and voice steady. “For Mijak. Is done. I blood oath for Rhian now.”
“Which only goes to show you're fickle!” said Ursa, rallying. “Who's to say you won't change your mind again?”
“Ursa!” Dexterity protested. “He turned against Mijak because he realised the slaughter was wrong! You can't have it both ways! How can he be wrong for killing and for refusing to kill any more?”
“He can be wrong a dozen ways between now and Rollin's Day, Jones! Your problem is you're a soft-hearted ninny.”
Her words stung, but he pushed the pain aside. “Ursa, our queen accepts him. How can you do any less?”
“ Tcha !” said Ursa, and blew a strand of silver hair out of her eyes. “Who's our queen, Jones? A young girl not even at her majority, dragged way past her depth and scared into desperation. And with her head turned by this handsome troublemaker. A bit of fancy footwork with a knife and her judgement's gone to blazes.”
“But what about Hettie, Ursa? You know what she told me. What about God?”
Ursa snorted. “What about his god? His chalava ? What if it starts whispering in his ear again, commanding him to kill all us heathens – starting with you!”
Zandakar's fingers tightened on the knife again. “ Wei , Ursa. Wei hurt Dexterity. Wei hurt Rhian.”
“That's what you say now, but how can I believe it?” said Ursa, a storm of conflict in her face. “You're dangerous , Zandakar.”
Zandakar nodded. “ Zho. Yatzhay .”
“Oh, yatzhay, yatzhay ,” she said, bitterly scornful. “You throw that word around like rice. But do you mean it, Zandakar? Are you really sorry? For all of it?”
Slowly, so slowly, Zandakar's eyes filled with tears. “ Zho .”
Still racked with indecision, Ursa looked up. “Jones?”
He nodded. “ Zho .”
A riot of thoughts chased across her face. “I wonder which is worse?” she said at last. “To murder thousands of innocents and feel no remorse…or to murder thousands and then realise you were wrong.”
“I don't know,” he replied. “You'd have to ask Helfred.”
Ursa sighed heavily. “ Helfred . I suppose he's on your side?”
“Mostly he's on God's side. But he sees we need Zandakar.”
“Yes, we do, Jones, but do we need him in your kitchen?”
“Ursa…” Dexterity tugged at his beard. “Zandakar needed to get out of the castle. It's only for a few days. And nothing will go wrong.”
She shook her head. “You'd better hope not, Jones, for all our sakes.” She glared down at Zandakar. “Oh, do get up. You look ridiculous, and my fingers have got cramp. If I sneeze accidentally I will kill you. Go on! Get up!”
Zandakar let go of the knife and stood. After tossing it in the sink, Ursa examined the small cut at the base of his throat.
“It's nothing,” she muttered. “Dab some phorbia sap on it, you'll never know the skin was breached.” Then she turned. “Well, since you're set on ignoring good advice and keeping him here, Jones, how are you going to amuse yourselves?”
He exchanged glances with Zandakar. “Well, today we're selling toys in the harbour market. And tomorrow I thought we'd take the donkey cart and trundle for a looksee round the home districts. Fresh air and sunshine, that's what he needs.”
“That may be what he needs,” she said. “As for what ails you , Jones, I'd say there's no cure!”
“See?” he said, grinning at Zandakar. “Didn't I tell you she sharpens her tongue on my hide?”
Ursa rolled her eyes. “For all the good it does me. Jones, I've got to go. Walk me to the front gate.”
As they meandered down the path she said, “Well, Jones, if you're determined to take him romping in public you'd best shave his head again. That blue hair's a beacon for trouble.”
Dexterity swung the gate open for her. “There's no need. Last night I made him a headwrap, like they wear in Dev'karesh. Nobody'll look twice.”
“Jones, you're a cock-eyed happy hoper,” said Ursa, exasperated. “Just you keep a close eye on him, d'you hear?”
He kissed her cheek. “I do. Come for dinner tonight.”
“Can't. I'm spoken for.”
“Tomorrow night, then. I'll make mutton stew,” he promised. It was her favourite.
“All right,” she said, pretending reluctance, and stomped away.
Dexterity watched her go. He still hadn't told her of Hettie's return. He'd have told her this morning, if they'd not been sidetracked by Zandakar.
But that news can wait. She's enough to feel scratchy about as it is.
He went back inside. It was time to get ready to take his last toys to the market.
A half hour later, seated beside Zandakar on the donkey cart as they trundled their way down to the harbour, he looked the warrior over again. Zandakar's head was wrapped in a tightly-tied square of black and yellow cotton. Not a single strand of blue hair could be s
een. And he'd exchanged his linen shirt and leather leggings for the roughspun working clothes he'd worn on the road and in his prison cell. Clean but tatty, he appeared to be nothing more than a common hired hand.
“Zandakar,” he said, suddenly curious, “what clothing do you wear in Mijak?”
“Horse hide,” said Zandakar. “Leggings.” He patted his arm. “ Wei sleeves. Mijak hot. Much desert.”
“You lived in a desert?” It was hard to imagine. No grass. How horrible…
Zandakar shook his head. “ Wei . Et-Raklion wei desert. Et-Raklion like Ethrea.” His voice had fallen to a whisper. “Et-Raklion beautiful.”
Otto had fallen back to a dawdle. Dexterity slapped the reins against the donkey's rump, stirring him up, then glanced sidelong. “Do you miss Mijak?”
After a long pause, Zandakar nodded. “ Zho . Is home, Dexterity. You leave Ethrea you miss home, zho ?”
“And your mother? Your brother? You miss them, too?”
An even longer pause this time. Zandakar stared at his folded bands. “Before Lilit, Yuma – Yuma—” His clenched fist struck his breast. He seemed lost for more words.
He sighed. “She's your mother, Zandakar. No matter what she's done…that bond is hard to break.”
“ Zho ,” said Zandakar softly.
“And what of your brother?”
“Dmitrak,” said Zandakar. His expression remained baffled. He punched his chest again. “Dimmi – Dimmi—” He unclenched his fist and instead knotted his fingers, turning them into something gnarled and twisted. “Like this, zho ? Heart like this.”
“Why? Why is he like that?”
“Yuma wei want,” said Zandakar, shrugging. “Yuma birth Dimmi, hurt body. She hate. Always hard to Dimmi, zho? Wei smile. Dimmi try, always fail. From a baby, zho ? From small sent to chalava-chaka , beat him for chalava .” He sighed again. “Dimmi angry boy.”
As a way to raise children it was abhorrent. “And you?” he said, staring. “When you were a child, were you beaten for your god?”
Zandakar nodded. “ Zho . And as man.”
“As a man?” If he didn't know better he'd have thought Zandakar was lying, or trying to see if he was indeed gullible. “Why would you permit it? You're more than capable of defending yourself. Are you saying you wanted them to beat you?”
A glimmer of resigned amusement in Zandakar's face. “Want? Tcha. Wei . It is for chalava .”
“I don't understand, Zandakar. Explain it to me. I mean, was it just you and your brother, or is everyone in Mijak so severely treated?” Mistreated. Abused .
“Me. Dimmi. Raklion chotzu. Chalava-hagra . Wicked people,” said Zandakar. “Pain for chalava . Show chalava yatzhay . Show chalava love.”
Love? “Well, I'm sorry, but it sounds utterly barbaric,” he retorted. “Barbaric, uncivilised and downright cruel.” Which summed up Mijak quite neatly, really, now that he thought of it. “Zandakar, surely there must be better ways to worship. Ways that don't involve blood and pain?”
Zandakar didn't answer. As Otto's hooves tit-tupped along the stone-paved road leading down to Kingseat, Dexterity nodded to a few folk he knew, early risers passing on foot or in their own carts and carriages. In the distance Kingseat harbour sparkled beneath the morning sun and flashed it on the rooftops of the township. Now there was a hint of salt in the air.
In a blinding instant he saw scarlet-haired Dmitrak and his warriors running wild in the streets, hacking and slashing the people of Kingseat with their long sharp blades…and Zandakar's brother with his gauntlet of power, unstoppable fire lancing from his fist, smashing Ethrea's jewel of a capital to rubble and blood.
No. No. I can't let that happen…
“Zandakar?” he persisted, feeling the sweat of fear trickle down his spine and slick his hands on Otto's reins. “Isn't there another way?”
Zandakar stirred and looked at him. “Ethrea way, Dexterity?” He shrugged. “Ethrea way strange. Ethrea god strange. Ethrea people wei worship, they wei suffer. Ethrea god wei care. Chalava care. Chalava want all men worship and obey.”
He had to clamp his lips together and grit his teeth to stop himself from blurting out the truth. Chalava isn't a god, Zandakar! Mijak has no god, all it's got is mad priests drunk on human blood and dark power! He cleared his throat, swallowed the words he wasn't allowed to say.
“Yes, well, I'm sure there's something strange to be found in every man's religion: if you look hard enough. I suppose all I'm saying is it's possible your brother Dmitrak might be a different soul today if it hadn't been for all that beating. The angry boy grew into an angry man. And now that angry man leads an army against us.”
“ Yatzhay , Dexterity,” said Zandakar, his expression turned from baffled to sorrowful. “ Yatzhay .”
“Gracious, Zandakar, it's not your fault,” he said briskly.
Zandakar shook his head. “I think… zho . Raklion father. Dimmi born, he die. Dimmi born, Yuma nearly die. I am brother. I am gajka . Friend. Wei gajka but me, zho ? I am brother, I am like father. Then I love Lilit, Dimmi think wei love him. Aieee, tcha . Dimmi hurt. I hurt him.”
So families were families no matter what language they spoke. A pity it's not more comforting to learn Mijak and Ethrea have that much in common . “I'm sure it sounds like he had a miserable childhood but I still say that's not your fault. And whatever choices he makes as a grown man, well, they're his choices, Zandakar. Not yours.”
“Choice?” Zandakar considered that. “ Wei choice Mijak, Dexterity. Wei choice. Only chalava .”
The resigned acceptance in his voice was as horrible as any revelation he'd made. Dexterity shifted on his donkey cart's hard wooden seat, deftly guiding Otto through the gradually increasing traffic as he tried to make sense of the strange man beside him.
“Zandakar, your brother murdered your wife. That was his choice, surely, a choice made out of spite and childish jealousy. Do you forgive him for it?”
“I think… zho ,” said Zandakar slowly. “He is Dimmi.”
Dexterity felt his guts tighten. Oh dear. If he can forgive his brother for killing his wife, if he can still love his mother after all that she's done…can we trust him to stay on our side? Is Ursa right, and Rhian wrong? “And what does that mean for Ethrea, Zandakar?”
Zandakar looked at him, his pale eyes clear and unconflicted. “I fight for Ethrea, Dexterity. I fight for Rhian. Chalava say wei Mijak kill. Chalava is chalava .”
Dexterity swallowed. What is it like, I wonder, to feel faith like bedrock, to believe in a god as though it were the sun in the sky? I can hardly imagine .
“Good,” he said, and smiled, though inside he was shaking. “That's good to hear.”
They reached the heart of Kingseat township soon after that, and conversation was abandoned in the tricky business of winding through the crowded streets, dodging carts and carriages and butchers' boys with trays of meat and girls with their little flower barrows and the foreign sailors taking in the sights and too much ale, even at this early hour, and the sober respectable men and women of Kingseat conducting their lives and the guards chivvying those who weren't quite so respectable.
Zandakar stared at the townsfolk and the sailors and the shopfronts and the paved streets, his dark face alight with curiosity. The smell of the harbour was stronger here. Between this building and that one, tantalising glimpses of the water and the moored trading vessels and Kingseat's fishing fleet. Masts poked above the lower roofs, romantic hints of far-flung lands.
Dexterity guided Otto down the sloping cobbled street to the harbour market gates and took his place in the long line of stall-holders waiting to be admitted. Memory stirred again, of that other lifetime. The morning he'd found Zandakar chained and dying on the Slyntian slave ship, and bought him.
If anyone had told me what that one act would unleash…would I have done it? Would I have dared?
Perhaps not. Perhaps that was why Hettie had kept so many secrets from him.
An
d now here's me keeping secrets. Are secrets contagious then, like plagues from distant shores?
It seemed they must be.
At last they were cleared to drive through to the marketplace. It was located on the far right hand side of the harbour, well away from the mooring places of the ambassadorial vessels and foreign trading ships in its middle section, and the fishing boats on the far left. As a rule, the general public weren't permitted to wander around the harbour docks for fear of accidents or unfortunate misunderstandings. There'd been plenty of both, in the old days, before the rules were changed. Any brash young men thinking to flout authority soon found themselves in a different kind of deep water…or, even these days if they were monstrous unlucky, the actual harbour, face-down and floating.
And if I fail there'll be a lot of Ethreans following suit…
Breath caught in his throat, heart beating too fast for comfort, he squeezed his eyes tight shut and willed that kind of nightmare to leave him be.
As they meandered their way in line to the market place he couldn't help looking back over his shoulder at Emperor Han's splendid vessel, still dominating the harbour. Admiring its sleek lines, its bold colours, he heard again Hettie's warning.
“Emperor Han is a mystery, Dex. His heart is a locked box and only he has the key to it…The witch-men of Tzhung-tzhungchai serve the emperor first and last and always. Remember that in your dealings with them.”
How he wished Rhian weren't mixed up with Han. How he wished Ethrea had no need of Tzhung-tzhungchai.
“Dexterity?” said Zandakar. “Something is wrong?”
Indeed something was: he couldn't seem to stop this plague of calamitous forebodings. He banged a fist on his knee, then made himself smile. “No. No. Just wool-gathering, Zandakar.”
A few minutes later he was too busy for frightening himself with imagined horrors, because it was time to set up his market stall. Pointed to their allotted space by a harbour official, they unloaded the wicker toy baskets – so much easier with two pairs of hands! – and saw Otto settled in his temporary stall. Then it was a matter of unpacking the toys, arranging them in a beguiling fashion…and waiting for the customers to arrive.