by Martha Wells
Giliead stared past Herias, his eyes on the heavy shadows among the tree branches. “The god isn’t here,” he said, a faint frown line appearing between his brows. It was the first sign of distress he had shown. It would be better if he showed his emotions, Tremaine realized suddenly. If he revealed how anxious he was for the god’s reaction, how worried he was for what might happen to himself and Ilias. That what had happened might change his family’s feelings toward him. If he showed that this frightened him as much as it did everyone else. But she knew she and Giliead were alike in that; the worse things got, the more likely they were to hide behind a blank façade. Or in her case, a sarcastic one.
“I don’t know where your god is,” Herias replied quietly. “I haven’t seen it for two days.”
A tremor ran through the crowd. It wasn’t quite an audible murmur of alarm, but Tremaine could sense fear replacing the confusion and uncertainty. These people knew gods could simply vanish, leaving their territory at the mercy of wizards and curselings and whatever other supernatural terror might choose to move in. They knew when it happened that it was always someone’s fault. Ilias had told her about a city whose people had killed their Chosen Vessel, and how their god had abandoned them. But if the god was already gone… Tremaine realized she was gritting her teeth so hard her jaw ached.
Giliead just stood there for a moment, then started to turn away. “Where are you going?” Herias demanded sharply, stepping forward.
Giliead paused, eyeing him. The other man’s stance had changed from wary to aggressive. He said quietly, “I’m going to the god’s cave.”
Herias regarded him narrowly. “Why?”
Giliead snorted in derision, a flicker of contempt in his expression. “Why do you think? I want this over with.”
Herias drew his sword, a broad flat horn-handled blade like the ones Ilias and Giliead carried. Tremaine put a hand on her revolver, her throat tight, and felt the crowd behind her tense in startled anticipation. But Herias just rested the flat of the blade on his shoulder. Giliead watched him, his eyes narrowing. Herias said, “I think I don’t want you out of my sight until I find out where the god is.”
Ilias swore, shaking his head and looking up at the sky, apparently making a tremendous effort to keep his mouth shut. Giliead faced Herias squarely. “What are you saying?”
“Yes, just what the hell are you saying?” Tremaine echoed under her breath.
“I don’t know what you’ve done to the god, if it’s fled because of you or not. But you’re not going anywhere until I find out.” Herias spoke in what Tremaine thought was a deceptively even tone.
Ilias couldn’t contain himself anymore. He burst out, “That’s ridiculous! We just got back. Ask Halian, ask the waterpeople. We were on the Isle of Storms, and we didn’t even get there until yesterday. That’s past the god’s reach.” He stepped forward impulsively, putting himself between Herias and Giliead. “If you don’t—”
Herias stepped forward as if he was going to speak, then suddenly swung his sword. Tremaine saw it strike Ilias, saw him stagger sideways and fall in a heap. She shoved forward but someone grabbed her arm. She swung her hand, backhanding him, not aware until he staggered away that she had the revolver in her hand and had struck him with it across the forehead. Peripherally she saw Giliead leap on Herias, slamming the sword out of the other man’s hand and seizing his throat. Giliead was utterly silent. It was Halian who shouted in rage, suddenly surging out of the crowd to fling himself on the man who had grabbed Tremaine. Someone else grabbed Halian, Dannor hauled him off, and in the next instant the entire plaza had exploded into a brawl.
Tremaine plunged forward, reaching Ilias just as he made a dizzy effort to stand and collapsed over on his side, lying in the dirt.
She grabbed his shoulder and rolled him over, sick with fear. But while there was blood running freely from his nose, the huge gaping wound she had dreaded to see wasn’t there. She put a hand on his face and felt that he was breathing. He flinched away from her without waking. Herias hit him with the flat of the blade, she realized, so dizzy with relief she almost fell over on top of him. Not the edge. She looked up to see Herias bowl Giliead over backward, slamming him into the trunk of the oak. Giliead doesn’t know that. She drew breath to shout at him but gave it up. Everyone else was shouting and he would never hear her.
She looked around as the fighting, yelling mob surged closer. Andrien supporters attacking Pella supporters and vice versa, moderates trying to separate them and an undecided faction attacking all the others indiscriminately. It was mostly fists and makeshift clubs but it could turn deadly any instant. And if someone had a bow he could pick them off from the edge of the plaza before anyone could make a move to stop him. The revolver was still in her hand, but she couldn’t shoot these people.
Shouting, Cletia hauled away one of the men trying to attack Cimarus. Another man, staggered by a blow to the head, barreled blindly into her, knocking her back a few paces and nearly into Tremaine. The man threw an apologetic look at Cletia and Tremaine realized that though there were women in the crowd, some angrily shouting, trying to separate combatants, others punching and kicking right along with them, the men were trying to avoid them. Suddenly inspired, she let go of Ilias, pushed to her feet and grabbed Cletia, wrapping a forearm around the other woman’s neck.
Cletia caught her arm and swore in surprise, snarling, “I’m trying to help—”
“Then shut up and help,” Tremaine said through gritted teeth. She fired twice into the air, two explosive blasts that brought the fighting to a startled halt. She shoved the pistol into Cletia’s side, surprising a gasp out of her, and shouted, “Stop or I’ll kill her!”
Everyone stared. Cimarus, on the ground a few paces away, his arm wrapped around another man’s throat, looked vastly confused.
“Better do as she says!” Cletia called out, adding under her breath to Tremaine, “You are completely mad.”
“I know that,” Tremaine snapped at her. She became aware that someone was behind her, his back to her and Ilias. He was holding a fallen branch as a club and was obviously helping her because he hadn’t hit her yet. She couldn’t see much of him out of the corner of her eye and didn’t dare turn her head, but he was too short to be Giliead. Must be one of Halian’s crew, she thought, watching the mostly baffled crowd.
Halian, his nose bloody and his shirt torn, dropped the man he had been pummeling and lifted his hands. “Wait! Just wait, we need to stop this—”
Suddenly the crowd surged again as men and women were shoved from behind, stumbling out of the way as Herias slammed through them, heading right for Tremaine and Cletia.
Tremaine tensed to shove Cletia at him, hoping the other woman would have the sense to fling herself at him and slow him down at least. Then Giliead flung himself on Herias from behind, dragging him back and slamming a punch into his face.
Herias staggered but ducked the next blow and tackled Giliead to the ground.
A thunderclap rattled Tremaine’s teeth and she winced away from a bright flash of light. Cletia stumbled back against her, and Tremaine was suddenly supporting her rather than pretending to restrain her. The other woman’s hair in her face, Tremaine blinked hard, shaking her head, trying to clear her dazzled vision.
A cloud of bright lights hovered not far in front of her, like a swarm of unusually angry fireflies on a summer evening. The nearest people gasped, swore and scrambled hastily away. Herias and Giliead froze, staring at it.
“It’s the god,” Cletia said, regaining her feet. Tremaine released her, watching the lights warily. She had seen the god in its cave, and when it had come out to the Ravenna to explore the ship and Ixion’s prison. Whatever the god meant to do, if the situation went against Giliead, she needed to get Ilias out of here. She shoved the gun into her belt and knelt on the dusty ground beside him, keeping one wary eye on the god.
Ilias lay still, crumpled up on the oak roots. She felt anxiously through his hair, s
udden fear that the sword blow had broken his skull making her stomach nearly turn. Gerard was only as far away as the harbor but there was only so much even sorcerous healing could do in those circumstances.
The man who had guarded her back was crouched over them, asking, “Is he all right?”
“I think so.” She couldn’t feel anything but firm bone. Ilias flinched away from her again but still didn’t wake. She focused on her ally for the first time. He was stocky and blond and looked vaguely familiar. “Who are you?” she demanded.
He jerked his chin at Ilias. “I’m Castor, his brother.”
The crowd murmured, shifting back in alarm. Tremaine looked up to see the god’s cloud swirl, giving an impression of agitation and anger. It drifted sideways, settling inside the goat skull, making the empty eye sockets glow. Giliead pulled away from Herias, pushing to his feet, his eyes on those lights as if nothing else existed.
Herias staggered up, standing next to him. Both their faces were intent as they listened to something no one else present could hear. Tremaine held her breath.
It was Herias who reacted first. He threw a startled look at Giliead, his tense posture shifting into something that conveyed apology and confusion. He put a hand on Giliead’s arm. “I—”
Giliead stepped away from him. Still breathing hard, he said thickly, “Get out of here. We don’t need your help.” He pushed through the crowd and people made way for him, falling back in silence.
Herias shook his head, shoved his tangled braids back, saying in urgent appeal, “Giliead, I’m sorry. You have to understand—” He started to follow and the god lifted off the skull suddenly, expanding, that humming buzz rising again.
Looking hurt, Herias backed away and the god reluctantly settled again. It was angry and the message was clear; it wanted Herias gone as well.
Giliead dropped to his knees beside Tremaine, looking down at Ilias, his face ashen and etched with fear. “He’s all right,” Tremaine told him hastily. “He just got knocked out.”
Giliead nodded, but she wasn’t sure he had heard her. Herias turned away, disappearing into the thinning crowd. Guilt and fear of the god’s obvious anger had caused much of the opposition to depart rapidly, though she could see a shoving match had broken out somewhere in the back. Halian was standing over them now, with Cletia and Cimarus, Dannor and others she recognized from the Swift.
More people scattered and suddenly Visolela was there, holding a rich purple stole wrapped around her shoulders, her dark hair disordered. “What is going on here? Have you all gone right out of your motherless minds?” she demanded. Raising her voice to a shout, she added, “Anyone else who fights in the plaza today will be fined four days of harvest labor and they can explain themselves in front of the council!” The shoving match abruptly broke up.
She turned to them, stopping abruptly when she saw Giliead, the expression on his face giving her pause. “What’s happened?” she said more softly, looking down at Ilias uncertainly.
“He’s hurt,” Halian told her. “Can we take him into the lawgiver’s house?”
“Yes, yes.” Visolela gestured impatiently.
Halian stepped around Tremaine, leaning down to pick up Ilias. Giliead moved abruptly, knocking aside his arm.
“Hey!” Tremaine caught his chin and turned his head to face her. His eyes were flat with anger; it was a look Tremaine had seen in the mirror often enough. “It’s over,” she said sharply. “Now let’s take Ilias into your sister-in-law’s house and calm down. All right?”
He blinked, seemed to see her for the first time. He nodded and she pushed back out of his way as he carefully lifted Ilias.
Giliead carried him over to the lawgiver’s house and Tremaine hurried to hold the door open. They passed into the dark foyer and out onto the wide portico that surrounded the central atrium. It had a square reflecting pool down the center of the open space, surrounded by cyprus trees and bright flower beds; it was quiet and cool and seemed a completely different world from the confusion and turmoil of the dusty plaza outside.
Visolela stopped Tremaine on the portico, demanding, “Tell me what happened.”
“What, I—” She looked around, but Giliead was taking Ilias farther into the house, Castor had faded away somewhere outside and Halian brushed past her, hurrying after Giliead, followed by Cletia. Cimarus was the only one who stayed on the portico with her, nursing an already swelling jaw from the fight, and Visolela demonstrated her desire for his opinion by waving him off after the others.
“Right.” Tremaine rubbed the bridge of her nose, gathering her thoughts. This was a chance to tell the whole story, including their side, before Pasima could; it was an opportunity not to be wasted.
Giliead carried Ilias into the house, finding a smaller room off the portico sitting area that had a couch and laying him down on it. He sat next to him, watching until he made sure Ilias was really breathing, that his eyelids flickered in a sign he was near to consciousness. He realized he was holding his own breath and let it out, feeling the tightness around his heart ease. Ilias is alive, and the god didn’t refuse you. It would take a little time to really believe it. He could feel the god now, still out in the plaza, disturbed and angry that Herias had attacked him, as baffled by human violence as it always was. It had accepted the knowledge that he had done curses with hardly a ripple in the familiar waters of its mind.
One of Visolela’s younger cousins brought a bowl and cloths, setting it on the table beside his knee, and Giliead looked up to realize Halian was standing over him. He looked gray and tired, someone else’s blood smeared on the shoulder of his shirt. He said, “I’m sorry I doubted you. I should have known.”
Giliead just nodded. It wasn’t until just this moment that he realized what he had to say, what he had to do. “There’re some things…. My copies of the Journals, and Ranior’s sword. Both Priases’s colts belong to Ilias. I don’t know what else. I’ll send for it when I know where we’ll be.”
Halian took his meaning, his face going still. Peripherally Giliead was aware of Cletia slipping out of the room, the cousin hurriedly withdrawing. But after a moment, Halian said nothing; he simply nodded and left.
Tremaine stood out on the portico and told Visolela the whole story. The last thing the woman had heard had been that Halian had gotten a message from the waterpeople to go to the island to pick up Giliead and Ilias. To her credit Visolela listened without interruption, the lines on her face deepening as she frowned, one hand half buried in her dark hair as if trying to suppress a headache. Partway through the story, Cletia came to join them, hovering a little uneasily.
When Tremaine told Visolela that Arites had been killed by the Gardier, the woman winced, but didn’t add the recriminations Tremaine felt she deserved. Visolela only asked, “But the others were well when you left them?”
“Until we were separated, yes.”
When Tremaine finished, Visolela said with grim finality, “So the riot was started by the Chosen Vessel of Tyros and my father-in-law, during which you held my cousin hostage.”
Tremaine shrugged; the riot was the least of her worries. “That’s pretty much the case.”
Cletia folded her arms, her face set in stubborn lines. “She’s a ranking woman in my house, she can hold me hostage if she likes.”
Visolela eyed her skeptically. “You’ve changed your tone.”
Cletia looked away, uncomfortable. “I changed my mind.”
It was Tremaine’s turn to eye her skeptically, wishing Cletia would also change her present location. “Could you go to the harbor and tell Gerard we all survived?” she asked.
Cletia nodded sharply, as if grateful to escape Visolela’s scrutiny, and headed for the door.
Visolela watched her go, her lips thinning. She said, “When she was still a child, she told her mother she wanted Ilias for her first husband. We told her no, that there were better prospects.”
Tremaine felt a distinct stabbing sensation in the gut but
didn’t let her face change. She said evenly, “I didn’t know.”
Still looking after Cletia, Visolela shrugged. “Few know. She has always kept her feelings close. Perhaps too close.” Grimacing, she shook her head, as if she already regretted the confidence. “All this…The god obviously has no objection to it. For the rest, Karima was coming to town this evening anyway, to meet your ship. She can deal with you all.”
“Fine.” Tremaine took this as the dismissal it was meant to be and went down the portico. Cletia’s feelings hadn’t changed, she had just grown up and become independent enough of Pasima’s influence that she was venturing to show them.
And Visolela did nothing by accident. She had definitely been giving Tremaine a hint of warning. Maybe after the continued harassment by the Gardier remaining in the area, Visolela’s feeling about the Rienish alliance had changed. Maybe the marriage being a fait accompli, she felt it was her duty to support it whatever her personal feelings on the matter.
Still deep in thought, Tremaine went through the room that opened onto the portico, past columns painted with red and black bands. The mosaic floor had stylized waves along the border and flowers and vines entwining through the center panel. She found the small room off the sitting area, where Ilias lay curled on a low couch, Giliead sitting next to him. The floor was still a mosaic, a repeat of the pattern of flowers and vines and waves from the larger room, and the walls were painted a dark blue.
Tremaine couldn’t see Ilias’s face for all the bloody hair but he was starting to twitch and make groaning noises, a sure sign that he was coming around. Giliead had one hand on his shoulder to keep him still. She sat on the cool tile floor beside the couch, asking quietly, “So what happened out there? Did Herias really think you kidnapped the god or something? How would that work?”
He shook his head a little helplessly. “I don’t know. He must have worried because it had been gone so long. It had been out at sea, that’s all I could tell. It doesn’t usually go that far away. It might have been looking for me, or maybe the Ravenna, it was hard to tell.” He gestured in annoyance, seeming more like himself. “Gods don’t get mad often, but when they do they make even less sense than usual.”