“What lesson?” someone called across the commonroom.
Redfist’s grin could not be wider, his teeth flashing through his beard and his flagon quivering slightly. “Never, ever, let go of an arsehole, until you know he willna spray you!”
The entire commonroom exploded with laughter. Fresh drinks were called for—Thanourt would be happy of the extra custom. Now Gavrin, licking his fingers afresh, settled a little closer to the fire and began to play, softly at first, running up and down hills of notes to test the lute’s voice. Redfist downed another hefty swallow of ale and let out a mannerly belch.
Mannerly by his standards, at least, since it did not rattle every bit of crockery in the room.
Darik leaned close, his lips at my ear, warm breath touching my cheek. “I am sorry,” he murmured, in G’mai. The inflection—s’tarei to adai, quiet and intimate—and his breath sent a scalding through me. “I should not have said such things.”
No. You should not have. But my own tone was just as hesitant. “Forgiven, Dragaemir Darikaan. Think no more upon it.” Very formal, but I used the answering inflection to his—the weight on the first syllable and the lilt at the end we call ad’aila, the lover’s tongue. The songs written for such speech are not sung at gatherings or festivals, only given voice in small private settings.
I had never thought I would speak to another in such a way. Gavrin struck the strings in a fan of melody, a rolling sea-rhythm of what had to be a new song.
“I do.” D’ri ignored the sound. “You were not the only one walking alone.”
It was like a shallow slice from a fresh-whetted blade, so sharp the blood does not begin to flow for some moments, as if the body does not comprehend its injury. I dropped my gaze to my plate, my eating-picks set neatly to the side of its wooden face, and a cracked fowl-bone I had stripped the marrow from with relish. A sellsword’s habit, to consume everything that could be eaten. Some even gnaw the bones, believing it makes their teeth stronger.
Gavrin’s large hands, too big for the rest of him, plucked and strummed and beat, and when the crowd had quieted enough, he began to sing.
“Oh, the Steelflower took ship a-to the Lan’ai, With an elvish prince and a little boy, A man of red and a witch besides, And a long-faced elvish monk in stride, hey ho, hey la, we’ve all gone to sea—”
I pushed my chair back, rising swiftly. The commonroom went back to its regular surf-roar. Another Iron Flower song, they had heard them all. He would have better luck with a story of Kruk the Merciless or a lay of the Khana Alhari, or even a simple drinking song. Other sellswords had proper minstrels, I was saddled with a Pesh lutebanger with less sense than a sack of wet rocks. Not enough sense to stay belowdecks during a battle, even, and I perhaps owed him Darik’s life.
A heavy debt, as the G’mai counted things. So I made for the stairs, and when D’ri fell into step behind me, I did not look back. The Night of Honey was approaching, I needed to find a suitable villa—and a better agent to purchase one, since the first had been a dismal piece of greased soap. Thanourt was abashed—he had sent me to that office without realizing his favored agent had moved to the Street of Blue Cloth.
Head down, I navigated the stairs, reached my own door, and half-turned as if to bid D’ri a good night.
His expression stopped me. Had his gaze been fixed on my nape the entire way? Now it fastened on my mouth. His hair had shaken loose from laughter, and it suited him very much. He stepped forward, crossing the invisible border between me and the outside world, and I might have stepped back, but the door was there.
I froze. Like a rabbit under a hawk’s claws, or a sellsword in her first brush with violence, immobilized until the body begins to move as it has been trained to. The rabbit dies, the sellsword—if she is lucky, and has not shirked her practice—may live to fight another battle, and have only scarring to show for it.
It is the blood rising, Kaia. That is all. The twin-bond is intensely physical, too. Neither of us had a choice, I told myself, even as a thin thread of baffled anger lit inside me. I was no Gullah holy-singer, barred from fleshly pleasures—but I was no Rijiin courtesan either. Oh, it is not unknown for two adai to be...close, and sometimes two s’tarei as well. Affection is never to be wasted.
And yet.
Nose to nose, we stared at each other. His beautiful eyes, iris and pupil blending, the faint wrinkles at the corners shouting he was well past the age we are normally twinned at. I sipped at his breath, coura spices and the wine’s fruity exhalation mingling between us.
“What do you see?” I whispered.
I could even feel his lips move. Was he closer? “My adai.” Silent words bloomed, tentatively, in the voice-within’s warmth. What else is there?
Still, I hesitated. I was not fine enough for him, and well I knew it.
You were not the only one who walked alone. However cruel my own flaws were, how much worse could it have been for a s’tarei, trammeled as he was by the Queen and perhaps...perhaps he had worried that his twin would take ill and die, if he lingered. It is the terror of a s’tarei, to allow injury to his twin.
I felt for the doorlatch at my hip, lifted it. The knob turned easily, and Darik straightened. A flash of hurt sparked, deep in those so-dark eyes, and I gathered myself.
“Come in.” My mouth had gone dry and the wine-fumes ignited in my head. “S’tarei’mi.”
It was only the blood-heat. He had told me he would not touch me until I wished it, and I was not sure I did. But I did not say no, and I thought I could well endure it, if it would make him...happy.
A Long Afternoon
Darik turned aside to examine a knife-seller’s wares, so Redfist and I cast about for a place to wait. Even in Antai, the presence of a Skaialan giant gives one some elbow-room in a market crowd. I juggled the paper-wrapped pasty from hand to hand, waiting for it to cool. “You are a piece of luck, my friend.”
Redfist did the same with his own greasy-wrapped bundle of meat and flaky golden crust, the same boyish, wide, white smile splitting his beard. “Thought you would never admit it, lass.”
My answering grin, for once, did not feel strange or strained at all. I caught sight of a tiny flickering motion and warned the pickpocket—a Pesh with hair the color of dirty straw and a red-striped jerkin—away with a small answering motion of my own. She faded aside into the crowd. I wished her good pickings, just not from my purse. In great cities, the thieves are more determined, and later in winter they might be harder to dissuade. After the Sunreturn it’s best not to venture into certain alleys alone, even if you have faith in your steel and your wits.
None of that mattered at the moment, for the sun was bright and a cool breeze carried the stink across the bay into the Lan’ai’s throat, replacing the steam-reek with mountain-fragrance and tinges of smoke that said harvest, festival, plenty. To judge by the merriness in the Ketle-jua Market, there was no drought in Antai’s hinterlands. Already the farmers had come forth, their waggons loaded high with first fruits they would sell for a handsome profit, keeping the bulk of their ripening crops for later in the season when the cold began to bite. Every lutebanger at every corner or jammed between stalls was singing a threshing-song, or a scything-chants, accompanied by pipe or stringed instruments of every description. Stone and timber buildings crowded each other as well, taverns with doors thrown open and inns with criers shouting the number of rooms and the start-bargain price, outdoing each other to bring in the weary or sullen. The stall owners, mostly round women with kerchiefs, most with the wide copper faces of Antai’s melding-pot and the chestnut tinge to their dark hair that bespoke some diluted Pensari ancestry, sang their wares too.
The din was titanic, horrifying, and marvelous. There is a solace in that noise, especially if one has received a little training to keep the borders of body and mind inviolate. With the taih’adai’s help, I no longer felt buffeted by waves of confusion from every quarter. I had never thought much of it—there is a word in every ton
gue for those who dislike crowds—because I thought I had no Power, so my distaste for large gatherings was normal. When you do not know the alternative, almost any feature of a life can seem inevitable. Gods-decreed, even.
Even the acrobats dancing through the crowd, whisking around a basket for copper bits, did not trouble me as they used to.
Plenty of reasons to feel merry, not the least of which was our ruddy barbarian’s size making negotiating for the villa we would winter in much easier. He knew a fair bit about leases, too, which surprised me—he asked one or two questions about terms and agreements that magically reduced the price by increments, which left more of the redgold Shainakh Rams with their mellow shine for winter’s food and clothing. In spring I would have to make decisions, but between Redfist’s pointed questions and Darik’s air of nobility, we had secured much better quarters than I thought likely. Janaire was supervising the move of our luggage, having shooed us away for the afternoon. You’ll only be underfoot. Leave me the boy and my s’tarei, ‘tis all, and stay out of trouble. A hen too young to mother, pecking and practicing.
I shook away the nipping worry of next year’s food and shelter, watched a knot of Kmeri plainsdwellers come to trade horses and leather. They gawped openly at the sights, and their high-crested hair gave me a faint unease.
The Danhai wear their hair shaved at the sides and crested at the top as well, greasing it into stiffness and tying colored thread into the tufts to denote clan, family, and other allegiances. The Kmeri prize blue for their skygod, and streak clay dyed with a noisome root that produces a bright, bold cobalt through their hair. The shadow of a crested head at the edge of sight can send your hand twitching for a blade, if you have survived even a few days of that bloody morass the Shainakh emperor was so set on grinding through.
We set our backs to a patch of sun-warmed wall and ate our meatpies with goodwill and almost-burned tongues. I restrained the urge to lick greasy paper, a remnant of hungrier times. Redfist had finished his before I was half done, and I sensed he might have a dry throat afterward. D’ri leaned closer to the knife-seller, listening intently, and if I focused, I could probably hear what the merchant was saying to my s’tarei.
I did not, glancing instead at Redfist. He gazed over the market with obvious delight, and I was hard-put to suppress another smile.
When he glanced down at me, blue eyes twinkling, his expression changed a bit. “So. Trouble with your Darrak, then?” His broad accent flattened the first syllable of the name, instead of caressing the a, and further turned the middle consonant into a harsh burr.
Not precisely. We had accorded each other the very strictest of courtesy since he had awakened to find me already dressed and intending to leave the inn. I shrugged, folding the paper several times. They make it from rice, like the Hain, and during some famines the poor would chew it into a sludge, hoping for some nutriment. Even in good times ragpickers collected these shreds; bales of them were turned into fresh paper, but no doubt more than a few ended in a hungry belly. “When is there not?”
“Ye’ve a sharp mind, and a tongue to match. Ye may find he does as well.”
Thank you, my giant red friend. How would I think of such things without you to say them aloud? “There are complexities, Redfist. And...” The words trembled in the back of my throat. He had been with Diyan, Gavrin, and the other G’mai during the battle, he only knew what D’ri had told them. They had called me honorable.
Were they fools, or was I? All of us, perhaps.
“And?” A gentle prodding. I would not have expected it from a burly, flour-skinned barbarian nearly thrice my size with blunt sausage-fingers.
“My luck will turn against me, Rikyat said.” I squeezed the paper, my knuckles turning white. “And it did. I left him to die.”
“Was he your cor’jhan too, then?” Redfist’s brow furrowed.
It had taken some time before I thought I understood just what that Skaialan word meant, but when I did, it was no surprise. Men were always knotting the same string, the one stuffed in their trews. “I am not a courtesan, Redfist. He was my friend.”
“Seems a funny bit of friendship, to try to kill ye. Not once but twice.”
“Thrice if you count the battle.” It came sharper than I meant it, but something tight-wound in me eased. He had a point.
“Once would be more than enough, lass. Ye feel a duthnning, then?”
“A doo-vrong?” I could not fit my mouth around the word. At that time, I did not know much Skaialan, and there is a trick to that language. More than one, indeed.
“Duthnning. A debt repaid but still...there.” He spread his hands. “We have words for it, trade-talk doesnae satisfy.”
“Indeed it does not. There are terms in G’mai that—”
I might have said more, but a shadow fell over me, and I had my hand upon a knifehilt before Redfist gave a pleased grunt, straightening from the wall and pushing past me. “As I live and breathe! Corran!”
It was another Skaialan giant, this one not so ruddy but Clau-fair instead, with only a tinge of russet to his beard. The rest of him was so filthy it was difficult to tell much more. He lacked a half-head of Redfist’s height, but his shoulders were just as wide, and he was just as white-skinned and full-bearded. He smelled ripe as a fish barrel left in the sun for three days, and his eyes were a much paler blue. Along the Lanai Shairukh coast such a color might be a held in caution, just as my own golden gaze had been.
“Rainak!” the new arrival bellowed, and they threw their arms about each other, Redfist pounding the man on the back and being threshed in return. I watched this, my head tilted in wonderment, and finally their greetings subsided to a low rumble instead of thunder. Darik, catching wind of the commotion, glanced up, and began making his way through the crowd.
“Kaia!” Redfist outright beamed, his fine large teeth peeking through his beard. “Tis Corran Ninefinger, of the Riverled Gannot! Corran, ye bastard, meet the finest sellsword in this part of the world, Kaahai Ironflower!”
I would have bowed, but was instead enveloped in a rib-cracking, reeking embrace. “Proud to meet ye, lass!” Corran boomed, and I was beginning to feel a little faint by the time he turned me loose. Darik arrived just in time, and I laid a hand on his arm with a meaningful look.
A s’tarei does not allow another to touch his adai, unless she wishes it. This new giant was foul, but he meant no harm.
Or at least, I did not think he did. Not then.
“Be careful,” Redfist bellowed. “She picks pockets, she does! Come, come, we need ale!”
Dear gods. I was the one with the coin, so, dragged along in their wake, D’ri and I followed the two giants through the Market and into a close, dark, overly warm hole of a tavern, where a round of dry sweet Hinterland hop-brew began what promised to be a very long afternoon.
A Fine Distinction
I woke with a pounding head, my dotani clearing the sheath with its familiar whisper. For a moment I was back in Hain, too much mead the night before and the Guards approaching with the hush that meant bloodshed dogged their steps. Steel sparked, honed edges sliding, and I went over backward, kicking the table leg to drive the entire wooden edifice into my opponent. Gained my feet with a lurch, and heard hurried, stealthy movement. Bars of dust-laden sunlight pierced the shutters, mornlight robbed of its vigor by the gloom in the corners.
He moved to my left, gracefully avoiding the table, and I halted my lunge just in time. Darik, however, slapped my blade aside with his right-hand dotani as if he expected me not to halt, and I sank back on my heel, bracing myself for the next move, which would be his own thrust.
My head pounded, I probably had ale in my braids, and my mouth tasted like the bottom of a byre the stable-boys are too busy to clean in summer.
I straightened, retreating another step to take me from the semicircle of his range.
His face hardened slightly—of course, no true adai would greet morning in a tavern still soused from the night be
fore. There was a hazy memory of Redfist challenging me cup for cup, and him and his friend Corran sliding under the table while I triumphantly finished a measure of hanta.
Mother Moon, had I really called for hanta? I winced at the thought. The colorless, fiery Shainakh liquor could poison you if not treated with a modicum of respect.
I suspected I had been less than careful or respectful last night. Where had Darik been? I had lost track after the second round of the mead-battle. I did remember his dark gaze, at various points, but it had not seemed very important.
D’ri’s dotanii flashed, ending their complicated spin secured to his back. He straightened too, combat-stance fading. I finally glanced about. A few shapeless lumps face down on tables; it was no doubt very early. No sign of the giant and his friend.
I could believe my life had slipped back into its well-worn ruts, if not for the Dragaemir princeling standing, straight and iron-faced, looking not quite at me but at some point past my shoulder. My dotani slid back into its sheath, with a rasping whisper. My hands were perhaps not quite steady.
Finally, he broke the silence, in pure lilting G’mai. “The large red one returned to the inn with his new friend. You seemed disposed to stay.”
My head gave a heatless twinge of pain. It served me right, drinking the afternoon with giants is all but guaranteed to end badly. My own words came with only a hint of slur. “I have not been this drunk since Hain.” Tradetongue, its hills and valleys suddenly betraying me, because through them, like rocks thrusting through topsoil, were the cadences of my birthtongue.
Darik took a step forward, I retreated once more, a light shuffling move learned in many a tavern brawl. It was instinctive, but perhaps it gave the wrong impression.
His expression darkened further. “Have I given you any reason to fear me?” His hands tensed, I sensed them wanting to curl onto themselves, knuckles wanting to whiten. “Any at all?”
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