They all paused at another courtyard, to peer at the furnace beyond some guarded gates. Within, shirtless men in leather smocks fed wood and coal into a narrow mouth of flames, and the heat was so intense, Sasha could nearly feel her eyebrows singe from twenty paces away. About the other side of the furnace, men would be pouring steel, but she’d never seen it before. Very few had, for these were the great furnaces of serrin steel, or “the folding,” as the serrin called it. Serrin had perfected the art in Saalshen hundreds of years before, and now guarded their secret carefully.
The Mahl’rhen, when they came to it, was a surprise. A lane ran to a courtyard, where arts were displayed at a huge market, and the laneways were alive to the chip and clang of sculptors and metal workers.
The lads finally dragged her onward, where an arch at the courtyard’s far side announced in typically understated serrin style the entrance to the Mahl’rhen. Four serrin stood guard there, and gave the Nasi-Keth lads and Sasha curious looks, but made no move to stop them entering.
They entered a courtyard garden that Sasha thought looked something like a Torovan noble garden. But the square angles of human inspiration were infused with a serrin randomness, little tangles of natural greenery, and the sinewy twist of an artificial stream tumbling over small, smoothed stones.
About the garden walked mostly serrin, some in the flowing robes that they preferred in their own quarters, others in the more practical garb of city folk. Some nodded and smiled at the Nasi-Keth in passing, and the lads quietened their exuberance a little, showing respect in the house of the serrin.
Paths led past more courtyards, amidst which rose stone buildings that an eye trained in human structures could not precisely place. These were residences, and often kitchens, with underground storages—Errollyn had already given her the tour, though he still knew barely a fraction of the Mahl’rhen’s intricacies. Tracato’s ever-present water courses ran through the complex, taking advantage of the gradual slope to fashion little streams. They passed a grand pool in which naked serrin children splashed and yelled, supervised by several adults with one eye on a board game, the other on the children. Sasha had never seen serrin children before. Amusingly, they were just as noisy and troublesome as human children, proving, perhaps, that serrin sophistication was more a question of nurture than nature.
Sasha recalled her way from her two previous visits, yet at an intersection where she knew to turn right, several serrin came past running the other way. Sasha heard a distant commotion, other nearby serrin stopping to look. She headed that way herself, the lads following.
Soon they came to another entrance to the Mahl’rhen, but this one filled with armed figures, mostly serrin. From outside came a lot of shouting. Daish approached an older serrin lady, and asked what was happening.
“There’s been trouble at this gate for months,” she told them. “The Civid Sein have been camping here, displacing the farmers’ stalls and causing quarrels. I hear some have complained to the Blackboots, requesting the squatters be removed.”
Sasha and the Nasi-Keth lads edged through the wall of cautious serrin at the gate, to observe the scene beyond. It was a courtyard like the one they’d entered through, yet this was a market of farmers selling produce. Amidst the stalls, makeshift tents had been erected, tanned hides over poles and rickety wooden frames. Defending the tents from perhaps thirty armed Blackboots was a mob of raggedly dressed rural folk, armed with hoes, scythes and other tools. So far it was merely pushing and shouting, as the Blackboots appeared to demand the makeshift settlements be taken down.
“Perhaps we should try to intervene?” one of the lads suggested.
“With this lot?” Daish said dubiously.
“We are the Nasi-Keth,” said another, stubbornly. “It is our duty to maintain the peace.”
Sasha shook her head. “Svaalverd is a sharp tool, only good for offence. We can kill whomever we choose, but we can’t keep two sides apart who’d rather fight.”
The Nasi-Keth boy ignored her and strode forward. Sasha watched, as he and two others joined the shouting. The Blackboots did not seem pleased to see them. Soon the three Nasi-Keth lads were arguing firmly in favour of the squatters, as stall owners guarded their produce and looked displeased with everyone.
Sasha was displeased too. “We’re supposed to be impartial,” she said crossly to Daish, who gave her a wary look.
At the courtyard’s edge, Sasha saw a Blackboot lieutenant astride a horse, watching proceedings with a small personal guard. He looked angry.
She strode to him. His personal guard moved forward, hands on hilts, but Sasha simply extended her hand to them. Their distrust faded a little, and one accepted her handshake, then another. Sasha beckoned to the lieutenant on his horse. The lieutenant thought about it, then dismounted. Sasha shook his hand too.
“Sashandra Lenayin,” she introduced herself in Torovan, hoping he spoke the same. “Uma to Kessligh Cronenverdt.”
“Lieutenant Muline,” said the Blackboot. He stood a great deal taller than her in his high leather boots, yet his eyes flicked warily to the sword hilt at Sasha’s shoulder. Sasha had met men who disbelieved her martial prowess until it was demonstrated to them. Clearly this man had seen enough serrin women use the svaalverd that he was not one of those. “What brings the Nasi-Keth to this gate in force?”
Sasha repressed a smile. She could hear Kessligh’s voice in her ear, chiding her to be polite. “It’s my fault,” she admitted. “I came to visit, and some new friends accompanied me. Purely a coincidence. What brings the Blackboots here?”
“Complaints from the farmers,” said Lieutenant Muline, with irritation. He meant the stall owners, Sasha realised, not the Civid Sein. “This courtyard is for the selling of goods, yet the Civid Sein think they have a perfect right to camp here and disrupt the livelihood of hard-working country folk.”
“The Civid Sein argue they are hard-working country folk,” Sasha replied.
“I was raised in Varne,” Muline said. “It’s a little town in the east, not far from the Saalshen border. My father is a miller, my uncles farmers and tradesmen, and none of them loves the Civid Sein.” Sasha was coming to suspect as much. “They are from the countryside, yet they take advantage of that status, as though it gives them special rights. They claim support of the farmers in this courtyard, and probably they did have some support a month or two ago when they first arrived. But now that support runs short, and the farmers ask us to come and clean up the mess…only for the Nasi-Keth to intervene on the Civid Sein’s side, without asking questions.”
He glowered at her. Sasha sighed. “I apologise for my friends,” she said. “I’m new to Tracato. I’d like the Nasi-Keth to be more thoughtful about this than I’ve seen. But they dislike the nobility, and so assume the Civid Sein are their friends.”
“Because they’re poor and downtrodden,” the lieutenant said sarcastically. “I was born as poor and downtrodden as any of this lot, yet I rose to this station because I believe in law, justice and the security of Rhodaan. Ask this lot what they believe in, they’ll give you only complaints.”
Sasha glanced back at the courtyard. The stall owners looked as displeased with the Civid Sein as with the Blackboots, perhaps more. And now, her Nasi-Keth lads were taking sides, perhaps the wrong one.
“I can’t promise I can help much,” Sasha told the lieutenant, “but I can get the boys out of it.”
She walked toward the confusion, beckoning to Daish, who darted between stalls to reach her. “The tall lad is Palis, the younger Torine…who’s the darker one?”
“Alfone,” said Daish.
“Hey!” Sasha yelled. The squabbling was mostly about the Civid Sein’s makeshift tents, which the Blackboots were attempting to take down. No one listened. Nearby was a wagon, doubling as a stall for sacks of grain. Sasha climbed up onto the sacks. “Hey! Palis, Torine and Alfone! Nasi-Keth!”
In amongst it, on the Civid Sein side, the three lads looked up at her.<
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“You get the hells out of there!” she yelled at them. And when they hesitated, “Now!”
Two of them moved. A third, Palis, stayed where he was, pushing Blackboots away from the tents.
Sasha leaped from the wagon and pushed through the crowd. She came up near Palis and grabbed him by the arm.
“If you won’t use your ears,” she snarled, “I’ll cut them off and grant them to someone in need!” He moved, but several Civid Sein men saw and grabbed him back. Another grabbed Sasha. She twisted, and in the blink of an eye had a knife at the man’s throat. He froze, and the others backed off. The nearby Blackboots also stopped.
“No grabbing!” Sasha insisted.
“You’d draw steel against sons of the soil?” exclaimed a Civid Sein man.
“These are the sons and daughters of the soil!” Sasha retorted, pointing angrily at the stall owners looking on. “They’re the ones who asked for the Blackboots to come, to get you off their damn market so they can make a living!”
“Lies!” shouted the Civid Sein man. “The nobility are scum! They’ve been trying to get rid of us for weeks.” The shouting and shoving along other parts of the line was lessening as attention turned to this new confrontation.
“What makes you think you have the right to camp before the Mahl’rhen gate for weeks anyhow?” Sasha replied. “Harass the serrin, deprive country folk of their livelihood and locals of their peace?”
“We come to appeal to Saalshen!” shouted the man. “To resist the snivelling demands of the nobility! General Zulmaher, even now, marches at the head of our army in Elisse, befriending the noble families there rather than defeating them—”
“Have you talked to the serrin?” Sasha cut him off.
“They don’t talk to us, they’re bought and paid for by the nobility.” There were angry shouts of agreement from other Civid Sein.
“Let me tell you one thing about the serrin, friend!” Sasha said firmly. “No man or woman, ever, has bought and paid for their opinions. I’ll get you in.” The man stared at her. The commotion had nearly stopped. “Don’t just stand there, choose three men from amongst you, and I’ll take you to see someone senior.”
The man still stared at her, not knowing what to say. Sasha clapped her hands impatiently, and he jumped to choose his men. Sasha pointed firmly at the line of Blackboots, indicating that they should stay. They stayed. She turned on her heel and strode back to the Mahl’rhen gate.
“The commotion will stop if they get to speak to someone,” she said to one of the serrin there. “I said I’ll bring three of them inside.”
“Must we?” said the serrin, drily. “Speak to them?”
Sasha was astonished. She’d finally found a group of people the serrinim found too tedious to muster any enthusiasm for debating. They had, she guessed, been putting up with this for years. Decades, even.
“Would you rather have blood spilt on the courtyard?”
The serrin actually appeared to think about it, and be uncertain of the answer. Then he sighed. “Bring your men. I shall select the lucky interlocutor.”
Someone else edged through the wall of armed serrin. It was Errollyn. He came to her side and looked out at the courtyard. “What happened?”
“Civid Sein trouble,” Sasha explained. “I settled them down. I’m escorting three inside for talks.”
Errollyn stared at her. “You!” he said with astonishment. “You broke up a commotion? You’re certain you didn’t cause this?”
Sasha punched at his arm. Errollyn dodged and laughed.
R HILLIAN TORE ACROSS NEWLY PLOUGHED FIELDS, skirted a vegetable patch bordered by several peasant hovels, and leaped a fence. Ahead, the last of the bandits were galloping for the forest. No matter, she thought, leaning low in the saddle. That way was not a good way for them.
She pulled back on the reins to stop the grey mare from charging too far ahead of those riders fanning on her left. To the right, more riders formed their position by looking to her. Another fence, which she jumped, and then they were slowing further to ride amongst the trees.
She allowed the mare her head, weaving between trunks, supplying only a general direction while ducking the branches. The mare was not as large as some lowlands warhorses—she was elur’uhd, a Saalshen breed of stamina and swiftness combined. The talmaad did not fight as humans would, and had little use for animals built like battering rams of muscle and hide. It was dark under the canopy of leaves, and the gloom and speed combined to play tricks on her eyes…but if it was difficult for her, it would be doubly so for the bandits.
Rhillian tore through undergrowth, skirted an impenetrable tangle of roots and brush, and dug in her heels as the mare showed uncertainty, tossing her head. She turned onto what she decided was the straighter course, and heard a scream from ahead. Suddenly there was a horse and rider before her, a brown tunic and hood of smallfolk’s dress over mail, a sword in hand. Left-handed, Rhillian saw, swinging her mare to the left and cutting past his weakside before he could adjust. Her backhand tore through mail on his back, and he fell with a scream, crashing into tree roots.
Now there were more horses ahead, plunging through the trees, rearing, wheeling in desperation. One man held a shield with two arrows in it, even as a third took his companion in the eye. Rhillian reined past another rider, slumped with a shaft in his throat, and galloped toward another yet unfeathered. He saw her and raised his shield and blade to greet her with a cry, and was promptly cut from the saddle by a third rider who flashed past his side. Rhillian paused and circled to look around, but it seemed to be over, the few remaining bandits yielding with desperate cries for mercy, throwing aside their blades. Rhillian did not need to give orders. Her talmaad knew what to do, and closed in on all sides to take prisoners.
She urged the mare to the side of the rider who had flashed by and deprived her of another victim. Aisha sat astride near where the prisoners were being herded and searched for weapons. Her naked blade remained in hand, ready to ride down any others who tried to run or fight. None looked likely to try. Clearly these understood the nature of their opposition, for there was terror in their eyes and cringing obedience in every posture.
“That was a lovely cut,” Rhillian complimented her friend. “Your horsemanship remains superior to mine, despite my practice.”
“City girl,” Aisha said, which explained everything. “You’ll not rid yourself of me that easily.”
“More’s the pity.” Aisha had completed her journey from Enora to Elisse barely ten days ago, to retake her accustomed place at Rhillian’s side. Rhillian was delighted to see her again, and even more delighted that her wounds suffered in Petrodor had healed so completely. But, in part, she still wished that Aisha had remained safely in Enora with her family, and had not come here to Rhodaani-occupied Elisse, and the newest front in the latest chapter of the never-ending series of wars that was the Bacosh.
Arendelle arrived at Rhillian’s other side, his bow in hand. “Three escaped,” he told her. “Gian and Leshelle are after them, I don’t expect they’ll get far.”
“No,” Rhillian agreed. Gian was the second-best archer Rhillian had ever seen. He alone would probably have done. “A good ambush.”
Arendelle shrugged. “They rode straight into us. If all irregulars are this clueless, we shall be done with them in weeks.”
Rhillian did not reply, lips pursed, watching her talmaad disarming the terrified prisoners. Men-at-arms in smallfolk clothes, she thought. Their armour gave them away, and their horse skills. Cavalry fighting was a rich man’s sport in the Bacosh, or the sport of those in their pay. Someone was trying to scare the true smallfolk into not helping the invaders, again. It was a predictable horror, and she was growing thoroughly sick of it.
They escorted the prisoners the short distance back to the village, not bothering to tie more than their hands behind their backs. It was almost an invitation to any who might think to try to run. Prisoners were useful, but not essential,
and Rhillian was certain she could do without whichever of their number might think to try the accuracy of mounted serrin archers. Half a year ago, such thinking might have disturbed her. That was before Petrodor, and the War of the King. Now, the fate of a few murdering bandit prisoners barely troubled her at all.
The countryside in spring was beautiful, with hills and pasture slopes alive with wildflowers. Ploughed fields made a patchwork of brown against the green, with little huts for shepherds and farmers clinging to the rickety fencelines, beneath the shade of grand oaks.
The village itself was not so beautiful. Little more than a huddled mass of tumbledown shanties, small mud walls clustered as if for warmth, thatched roofs in various states of disrepair. Some goats, roped to a stake, made a meal of garden refuse, and geese honked and waddled away from the massed hooves approaching. Even the village dogs looked dispirited, running away with tails low and without so much as a bark. This was the land of a certain Lord Crashuren, Rhillian had learned, and these villagers owned nothing. Not even their pathetic little homes.
Further along the main “street,” muddy with recent rain, they came upon the scene of the bandits’ work, before Rhillian’s party had arrived. Truthfully, there wasn’t much to destroy. But there were doors and window shutters broken, precious clay pots smashed on the ground, and equally precious white flour strewn across the mud. And other, equally senseless destruction.
In a small, muddy square fronting a little stone temple lay five human bodies. Three were men of fighting age, but one was a lad of perhaps twelve, and the other a girl several years older. About the little square, doors were opening, fearful folk peering out to see the strange, wild-haired serrin dismounting about a cluster of eight human prisoners. Ahead, the temple door was guarded by a rough, balding man with a hoe. But others were seeing it safe, and two women pushed the man aside, and rushed to the square to resume their sobbing over the bodies of the dead. More joined them, and suddenly there were perhaps fifty gathering about, some men armed with makeshift weapons.
Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Three Page 8