Traitor's Moon

by Lynn Flewelling

  “I’m told that you have an uncommonly fine appreciation of horses,” Brythir went on, giving Klia a knowing smile. “You ride a Silmai black, I understand?”

  “The finest mount I’ve ever owned, Khirnari,” she replied. “He’s carried me through many a battle between here and Mycena.”

  “How I should like to show you the great horselands of my fai’thast. Our herds cover the hills.”

  “If my time here in Sarikali is productive, perhaps you shall,” Klia replied with a subtle smile.

  The old man recognized the unspoken implication. Offering her his frail arm, he gave her a mischievous wink that belied his years as he led her into the garden. “I believe tonight’s entertainment will be very much to your liking, my dear.”

  “I understand Nazien í Hari will be joining us,” said Klia. “Is he an ally of yours?”

  The old man patted her hand as if she were one of his granddaughters. “We are friends, he and I, and I hope to make him one of yours. This Edict has worn sorely on me over the years, much as I loved Corruth í Glamien. He was a nephew of mine, you know. No, we Silmai are travelers, sailors, the best traders in Aurénen. We don’t like being told where we may go and where we may not. How I miss lovely Rhíminee atop her high cliffs!”

  “Your garden makes me long for the western coast,” Seregil remarked as he and the others trailed along beside them. “I almost expect to see the green Zengati Sea shining beyond the rooftops.”

  Brythir clasped Seregil’s arm for a moment with one frail hand. “Life is long, child of Aura. Perhaps one day you will see it again.”

  Surprised, Seregil bowed to the old man before moving on into the garden.

  “That’s encouraging!” Alec whispered.

  “Or politic,” Seregil muttered back.

  His reception was somewhat cooler among the other guests. Datsia, Bry’kha, Ptalos, Ameni, Koramia—these clans had all supported his father’s efforts with the Zengat, and thereby lost the most through Seregil’s crime. He approached them with cautious civility and was greeted with the same by most, if only for the sake of Brythir’s hospitality, or perhaps their interest in Alec.

  If the weight of being a novelty was wearing on his companion, Alec gave no sign. Despite their long absence from the salons of Rhíminee, the lessons Alec had learned there still served him well. Modest, quiet, quick to smile, he moved among the guests as easily as water among stones. Trailing in his wake, Seregil watched with a mix of pride and amusement as various guests clasped Alec’s hand a moment too long, or let their gaze wander a little too freely.

  Stepping back, Seregil imagined seeing his friend, his talímenios, through their eyes: a slender, golden-haired young ya’shel utterly unconscious of his own appeal. It wasn’t just his looks that struck people, either. Alec had a gift for listening to people, a way of focusing on whomever he was conversing with that made them feel like they were the most interesting person in the room. It didn’t matter if that person was a tavern slopper or a lord, Alec had the touch.

  Pride gave way to a wave of sensual hunger, reminding him that they hadn’t done much more than fall asleep together since Gedre, and that it had been lean times for almost two weeks before that. Alec looked his way just then and smiled. Seregil hid his own grin behind the rim of a wine cup, suddenly glad of his full-skirted Skalan coat. Talímenios could be a tricky thing in public.

  The tenor of the gathering changed subtly with the arrival of the Haman. Keeping to the background, Seregil watched as Klia greeted Nazien í Hari and his entourage. Surprisingly, the man greeted her cordially, clasping her hands and presenting her with a ring from his own finger. She did the same, and the two fell into conversation as Brythir looked on benevolently.

  “What do you think of that?” Alec exclaimed softly, coming up behind him.

  “Interesting. Perhaps even encouraging. After all, it’s me the Haman hate, not Skala. Why don’t you wander over for a listen?”

  “Ah, there you are!” Klia smiled as Alec joined her. “Khirnari, I don’t think you’ve met my aide, Alec í Amasa?”

  “How do you do, honored sir?” Alec said with a bow.

  “I have heard of him,” Nazien replied, suddenly cool. Clearly, the man knew who he was and detested him on principle. With a single, subtle glance, the Haman dismissed him as thoroughly as if he’d ceased to exist. More amazing still, Klia seemed not to have noticed the slight.

  Alec stepped back a pace, feeling as if the breath had suddenly been sucked from his lungs. It was his Watcher training that kept him there with Klia, listening, when every instinct counseled a hasty retreat.

  So he hovered, studying the faces of the Haman beneath their yellow-and-black sen’gai as he pretended to listen to a nearby conversation. There were twelve Haman with Nazien—six men, six women, most of them close kin with the same dark, sharp eyes as their khirnari. Most chose to consider Alec invisible, though one, a broad-shouldered man with a dragon bite on his chin, spared Alec a challenging glare.

  Alec was about to go when Nazien mentioned something about the Edict.

  “It is a complex matter,” the khirnari was saying to Klia. “You must understand, there was a great deal more to it than Corruth’s disappearance. The exodus of the Hâzadriëlfaie centuries before was still fresh in the minds of our people—the terrible loss.”

  Alec inched closer; this was in line with what Adzriel had told them the night before.

  “Then, as trade grew with the Three Lands, we watched as more ’faie disappeared to northern lands, mingling their blood with the Tír,” Nazien continued. “Many of our clan mingled with yours, losing their ties with their own kind.”

  “Then you feel a ’faie belongs in Aurënen and nowhere else?” asked Klia.

  “It is a common sentiment,” Nazien replied. “Perhaps it is difficult for a Tírfaie to understand, as you find those like yourselves wherever you travel. We are a race apart, unique to this land. We are long-lived, it is true, but we are also, in Aura’s great wisdom, slow to breed. I do not say that our lives are more sacred to us than those of the Tír are to you, but our attitude toward such things as war and murder is one of greater horror. I think you will be hard-pressed to convince any khirnari to send their people off to die in your war.”

  “And yet if you would only allow those who wish to go,” Klia countered. “You must not underestimate our own love of life. Every day I am here more of my people die for want of the help you could so easily give. It is not honor we fight for, but our very lives.”

  “Be that as it may—”

  They were interrupted by a call to the banquet. The light was failing quickly now, and torches were lit around the garden and in the street below. Klia and Nazien went to join their host. Alec moved off, looking for Seregil.

  “Well?” asked Seregil as they took their seats on a couch near Klia’s.

  Alec shrugged, still smarting from the Haman’s treatment. “Just more politics.”

  The entertainment began with the feast. A horn sounded and a dozen riders on Silmai blacks appeared from around the corner of a distant building. The horses’ harnesses and girth straps were hung with tinkling gold and turquoise ornaments, and their streaming white manes and tails shone like combed milkweed silk.

  The riders, men and women both, were equally exotic. Their long hair was bound tightly back into a club at the back of their necks, and each wore a silver crescent of Aura on their brow. The men wore short kilts dyed the turquoise blue of their clan and tightly belted with gold. The women wore tunics of similar design.

  “They’re ya’shel, too, aren’t they?” Alec asked, pointing out several riders with golden-tan skin and curling black hair.

  “Yes. Some Zengati blood, I’d say,” Seregil told him.

  Riding bareback at breakneck speeds, the performers leaped from one mount to another and rode standing on their horses’ backs, their oiled limbs shining in the firelight. As one, they clapped their hands, and swirling masses of colore
d lights unfurled from their fingertips like banners, then were woven into patterns by the intricate drills they executed. The Skalans clapped and cheered. Standing guard behind Klia, Beka’s riders cheered the loudest of all.

  When the performers had finished and retired, a single rider took the field. Dressed like the others, he cantered out and saluted his audience, gripping his mount’s sides with long, lean-muscled legs. His skin was a golden tan, his hair a cascade of long black curls.

  “My youngest grandson, Täanil í Khormai,” Brythir announced, beaming at Klia.

  “And the banquet’s main course, I suspect,” murmured Seregil, nudging Alec with his elbow.

  As Täanil set off on his first circuit of the grassy riding area, the khirnari leaned closer to Klia. “The skills of my grandson are not limited to riding. He is a fearless sailor, and a student of languages. He speaks your tongue quite flawlessly, I’m told. He would welcome the opportunity to converse with you.”

  I’ll bet, thought Seregil, grinning behind his wine cup.

  Coming down the field at a gallop, Täanil gripped his mount’s girth strap and vaulted from side to side over its back, then went into a handstand, his lean body straight as a spear. The sight drew more than a few admiring sounds from the Skalan contingent.

  The young Silmai joined Klia on her couch after his ride and charmed them all with his tales of sea trade and horsemanship.

  When he left to perform again, Klia leaned over to Seregil and whispered. “Am I being courted?”

  Seregil gave her a wink. “There’s more than one way to forge an alliance. Marrying off a youngest grandson is a small price to pay for a new trade ally, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Are you saying I’m being offered second-rate goods?”

  Seregil raised an eyebrow. “I certainly wouldn’t call Täanil second rate. What I meant is that they wouldn’t be losing a potential khirnari if he left.”

  Klia chuckled at this. “I don’t think they have much to worry about on that score, but I suppose I can bear his company while we’re here.” She winked. “After all, we do need the horses.”

  13

  GUIDES

  Alec woke the following morning to find Seregil standing over him, dressed from head to foot in black: black leather breeches, black boots, long black velvet coat slashed with black silk. Above his gold badge of office, Corruth’s ruby ring glowed on its silver chain. The overall effect was rather sinister. Seregil looked grim and tired.

  “You were restless last night,” Alec complained, yawning.

  “I had that dream again, the one I had in the mountains.”

  “About going home?”

  “If that’s what it is.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and laced his fingers together around one up-drawn knee.

  Alec reached up to touch the Akhendi charm still braided into Seregil’s hair. “It must be a true one, with this to guard your dreams.”

  Seregil gave a noncommittal shrug. “I think you’ll be of more use behind the scenes today.”

  Changing the subject again, are you? Alec thought resignedly. Giving up for now, he settled back against the bolsters. “Where should I start?”

  “You should learn your way around the city. I’ve asked Kheeta to guide you until you get used to the place. It’s too easy to get lost when it’s empty like this.”

  “How very tactful of you, Lord Seregil.” Alec’s sense of direction had a disconcerting way of deserting him in cities.

  “Familiarize yourself with the area, make friends, keep your ears open.” Leaning over, he ruffled Alec’s already disheveled hair. “Look as simple and harmless as you can, even around our supporters. Sooner or later someone will let slip some interesting bit of information.”

  Alec affected a look of wide-eyed innocence and Seregil laughed.

  “Perfect! And to think you used to say I’d never make an actor of you.”

  “What about that?” Alec said, pointing at the ring.

  Glancing down in surprise, Seregil dropped it inside the neck of his coat, then headed for the door.

  “Idrilain wouldn’t have given it to you if she didn’t think you were worthy of wearing it,” Alec called after him.

  Seregil gave him a last, thoughtful look and shook his head. “Good hunting, talí. Kheeta’s waiting.”

  Alec lay back, thinking about the ring and wondering whose approval Seregil awaited. The Iia’sidra’s? Adzriel’s? The Haman’s?

  “Oh, well,” he muttered, rolling out of bed. “At least I’ve got something to do today.”

  He washed with cold water from the pitcher and dressed for riding. He left his sword belt hanging with Seregil’s over the bedpost. Most of the Aurënfaie he’d seen went unarmed except for belt knives. In the event of trouble, he always had the slender dagger in his boot. Their tool rolls were still hidden away for now, as well. According to Seregil, there were few locks in Sarikali, and most of those were magical in nature. That fact aside, it certainly wouldn’t do for erstwhile diplomats to be caught carrying such a fine collection of lock picks.

  Instead, he slung his bow and quiver over his shoulder and headed down in search of breakfast.

  A cook gave him a pocket breakfast and news that Klia and the others had already left for the Iia’sidra. In the stable yard, he found Windrunner saddled next to another Aurënfaie mount.

  “Feels like rain today, I’d say,” Rhylin observed, on duty there.

  Alec studied the hazy sky and nodded. The breeze had dropped and the clouds were already darkening ominously. “Have you seen Kheeta?”

  “He went back to his room for something. He asked that you wait here.”

  The sound of voices drew Alec into the stable, where he found one of Mercalle’s dispatch riders and her Akhendi guides trying to argue about liniments in two broken languages.

  “Heading north?” he asked Ileah.

  She patted the large pouch slung over her shoulder. “Maybe I can come by a few fancy dragon marks like yours along the way. Any letters you want carried to Rhíminee?”

  “Not today. How long do you reckon it takes to get a message back through?”

  “Less time than it took us to get here. We’ll push harder over the unguarded sections of the pass, and we’ll have fresh horses all along the way, compliments of our Akhendi friends.”

  “Good morning, Alec í Amasa!” said Kheeta, the fringed ends of his green sen’gai flying about his shoulders as he hurried in. “I’m to show you around, I’m told.”

  “Let us know if you find any decent taverns in this ghost city,” Ileah implored.

  “I wouldn’t mind finding something like that myself,” Alec admitted. “Where do we start, Kheeta?”

  The Bôkthersan grinned. “Why, at the Vhadäsoori, of course.”

  Cloud shadows scudded across their path as they set off along the turf-muted avenue leading back to the center of the city.

  It felt less deserted today. Riders galloped past, and there were people in the streets. Marketplaces had been set up at crossroads, with goods being sold on blankets or out of the backs of carts. Most of the people Alec saw looked like servants and attendants. Clearly, it took a sizable population behind the scenes to maintain the banquets and bathhouses that helped court alliances.

  “It’s difficult to believe a city like this just stands empty most of the time,” Alec remarked.

  “Not quite empty,” said Kheeta. “There are the Bash’wai, and the rhui’auros. But as you say, Sarikali belongs mostly to itself and its ghosts. We are merely occasional lodgers, coming here for festivals, or to settle clan disputes on neutral ground.”

  He pointed to a stag’s skull set on a post beside the street. It was painted red, with silvered horns. “See that. It’s a boundary marker for Bôkthersa tupa. And that white hand with the black symbol on the palm painted on the wall across the street marks the tupa of Akhendi.”

  “Are people very territorial here?” Given the chances that he’d be nightrunning here
sooner or later, it was a good idea to know the local customs.

  “It depends on who is involved, I suppose. Violence is forbidden, but trespassers can be made to feel quite unwelcome. I stay clear of Haman tupa and you and your companions will do well to do the same, especially when you’re alone. The Khatme aren’t much for visitors, either.”

  At the Vhadäsoori they left their horses outside the circle of stones and entered on foot. Alec paused beside one of the monolithic figures, pressing a palm to its rough surface. He half expected to feel some magical vibration, but the stone was silent beneath the cool morning dew.

  “You did not have a proper welcome the other day,” Kheeta said, going to the moon-shaped chalice that still stood on its pillar. “All who come to Sarikali drink from the Cup of Aura.”

  “Is it left here all the time?” Alec asked, surprised.

  “Of course.” Kheeta dipped up water from the pool and presented it to him.

  Alec took it in both hands. The narrow alabaster bowl was perfectly smooth, its silver base untarnished.

  “Is it magical?” he asked.

  The Bôkthersan shrugged. “Everything is magical in some way, even if we cannot perceive it.”

  He drank deeply, then handed it back to Kheeta. “Don’t you have any thieves here in Aurënen?”

  “In Aurënen? Of course. But not here.”

  A city without locks and without footpads and thieves? Alec thought skeptically. That would be magic indeed.

  They spent the rest of the morning exploring. There were hundreds of tupas, counting those of the lesser clans, so Alec concentrated on those of the Eleven for the moment. Kheeta was a talkative guide, pointing out clan markers and points of interest. One hulking dark structure looked very much like another until he named it as a temple or meeting place.

  Alec found himself studying his companion as well. “Does Seregil seem much changed to you?” he asked at last.