by Clayton, Jo;
Mardian is sitting beside her, waiting until she is ready to notice him. He has lit the fire and fetched a pair of candlelamps for her. She smiles at him.
He looks grave, uneasy—as if her itch has passed to him. “Word has come …” He coughs, looks away. “Floarin’s army is moving south. The Guards are summoned to join it.”
“All of them?”
“All but the Agli’s bodyguard.”
She drops the canvas. It lies in stiff folds over her knees. There is a pain in her like a long needle through her heart. She must do something, but for the moment she doesn’t know what. She looks down at the tapestry, the bright colors flash at her without shape or meaning. Slowly, automatically, she tucks the needle into the work, begins folding the canvas.
A fleeting scent of herbs and flowers.
She sets the tapestry aside, reaches out to Mardian. He takes her hand in his. Words come welling up in her: the summoning chant that is usually just a formality, opening each major fest. The words swell out of her, then out of him, his deeper voice supporting and reinforcing hers. They chant the words once—tentative, exploring. Twice—reaching out and out, asking. A third time—a demand that throbs out of them into earth and air.
Nilis falls silent, her throat raw with the force of that last repetition; Mardian sits silent, waiting. She withdraws her hand from his and gets clumsily to her feet. He stands beside her, again waiting. He is angry and disturbed, worse than she was earlier. She has an idea about what is bothering him and feels a great sadness for him.
They come. One by one, in pairs, in groups they come, Cymbankers and ties in from the tars for one reason or another. They fill the room, silent, made uneasy by the power that had drawn them here.
The candlelamps at her feet cutting her out of the darkness, touching Mardian, the Maiden face over her head, Nilis stands waiting for the words to come. She knows they will come. She is the Maiden’s tool for shaping this small bit of the Biserica’s defense. The scent of herbs and flowers fills the room. And the words come. She sings them out into the room’s waiting silence.
“Floarin’s army marches.”
A groan like a wind sweeping from man to woman to man:
“Floarin’s army marches to raze the Biserica, to ravage stone from stone, to gut the servants of the Maiden.”
A spreading silence broken suddenly by a woman’s sob:
“What is there for you, here or anythwere, if the Biserica falls? What is there for your daughters or your sons? Flogging, starving, misery, nothing. That is what waits them if the Biserica falls. You know it, each of you has tasted it.”
yes yes I have tasted it The words fly from man to woman to man yes yes I have tasted it
Mardian steps past Nilis, his face hard with the decision that will tear him from his deep contentment in this place. “I go south come morning, walking. Those who wish to join me should be in the Maiden Court at sunup with what food and weapons they can bring, be it sling or scythe. Those of you who know others of like mind, send word to them.” He moves back into the shadows.
As quietly as they had come, the summoned leave, one by one, in pairs, in groups.
When the Maiden Chamber is empty again, Nilis puts her hand on Mardian’s arm, wanting to comfort him, but not knowing how.
He starts when he feels the touch, looks at Nilis as if he is surprised to see her there, twists around to look up at the Face. “She gives and she takes away.”
THE MAGIC CHILD
They stood on the city wall with much of the rest of Oras, merchant and beggar alike, watching the army move out—Coperic, small and inconspicuous in his dusty black tunic, and trousers, Rane and Tuli in the black dresses Rane stole from the Center south of here, their hair hidden under stiff white kerchiefs Coperic had given them.
The snow cleared suddenly from the rocky plain where the army was camped and off the Highroad as far as Tuli could see, as if some great unseen hand had scraped the plain clear, then drawn its forefinger along the road. Tuli shivered but not from the cold morning air. She’d seen snatches of norit power and seen it overcome, had seen scattered examples of the effect of Floarin’s acts, but it suddenly began to come clear to her what it was the Biserica faced, what it meant if the Biserica fell. No wonder Rane hadn’t bothered playing adventure games with her.
A great dark blotch against the lighter earth, the army stirred and began unreeling onto the Highroad.
The Minarks, their knots of ribbon fluttering, came by first, mounted on spirited rambuts, the gems and bangles braided into the beasts’ red manes glinting with each caracole, their red stripes gleaming like bands of copper, their short, slim horns sharp spikes of polished jet. Attendants rode before them, playing raucous music on curl horns. Attendants rode beside and behind them with embroidered silken banners whipping from the ends of long poles. The sun glittered on the gilt spikes of their elaborate armor. They were at once absurd and formidable. They cantered up the bank and onto the resilient black-topping, moving south totally unconcerned for what followed them.
Sleykynin began to pour up the slope onto the Highroad. Riding in pairs and groups, no Minark display about these fighters, nor any sign of military discipline, they went south as casually as they might if it were just coincidence such a mighty mix of men went with them. They weren’t soldiers and made no pretense of being soldiers. Deadly, sly, determined to survive at all costs. They were more usually employed as assassins or torturers, occasionally as harriers and threats; the only reason they were here in these numbers and under these constraints was their obsessive hatred of all meien. Coperic sucked at his teeth, his face grim as he counted the adversaries. Five hundred, and more to be picked up along the way. He’d known his estimate of their numbers was likely to be off, but hadn’t suspected how far off it was. He could almost smell the malice and hatred as they rode past. He glanced at Rane, wondering what she was thinking.
They rode the finest macain Rane had ever seen, sleek, spirited beasts. That brought her a measure of comfort in her anger. There would be Stenda on the Biserica walls because of those beasts. Floarin must have sent men and norits to take them because all the gold in Oras wouldn’t buy that many. It looked as if she’d depleted a dozen herds. Stenda would rather sell their sons than reduce their herds to a few culls and ancient sires.
Two norits rode beside the Sleykynin, ignoring them and being ignored.
A black mass of footsoldiers accompanied by more mounted norits shouting to one another, but as the departure went on and on, into the third hour, many of them fell heavily silent or gave up watching and made their way along the walls to the narrow stairflights and climbed back down to the streets, hurrying for their homes before the jackals came out. Tuli stroked Ildas and swallowed the lump in her throat. She glanced at Rane, saw the ex-meie’s hands tightened on the stone until her knuckles shone white.
The river of men went on and on. The Highroad was clogged with men and riders as far as she could see, even at her height above the ground. Yet the blotch of the army on the plain seemed scarcely diminished. An hour passed. The sun was close to zenith and breakfast was a distant memory. Tuli was hungry but the thought of food made her feel sick.
A break.
Surrounded by mounted norits, the tithe wagons began rolling up onto the road three abreast, heaped high with barrels of meat and flour, sacks of grain and sacks of tubers, each wagon pulled by six sleek draft hauhaus, splendid beasts gathered from tars all over the Plain. Tuli watched over a score of the wagons rumble past and turn south and saw superimposed on them the faces of men, women and children gaunt with hunger, pinched with fear. Before she could control it, rage flashed through her, shaking her, blinding her, strangling her—she fought the rage with her last shreds of sanity, afraid of betraying them all, until she was sufficiently in control of herself to open her eyes. She wanted to see it all. She had to know the worst.
The wagons were so distant already she could barely hear the rumble of their wheels and w
hile she’d been immersed in her struggle, another, smaller band of mercenary footsoldiers had mounted onto the road.
A break.
Floarin rode past in her traveling carriage, the canvas top folded back so her blonde hair shone bright gold in the glare of the nooning sun. The team of six rambuts that pulled the carriage were specially bred so their stripes were a rich gold rather than the ruddy copper of the more common kind. Tuli looked down on her and wished she dared whirl her sling. Floarin was at the edge of her range but she knew she could make the woman uncomfortable if nothing more. Later, she told herself, I’ll get my chance at you later. She stared at the woman, fascinated by her awfulness. How could any human being cause so much suffering and not be touched by it? Impossible to see the expression of Floarin’s face from this high up, but the set of her body spoke eloquently of her satisfaction and implied her expectation of defeating all opposition.
Mounted mercenaries rode, six abreast, onto the Highroad. Like the Sleykynin, they rode Stenda macain, but their mounts were the smaller, more fractious racers.
Coperic heard the air hiss between Rane’s teeth and remembered that she was Stenda. Knowing how Stenda felt about their racers, he put his hand on her arm, intending both to warn and comfort. Her head jerked around. He winced at the blind fury in her eyes. Then she forced a smile. “I owe you one, my friend,” she murmured.
The long massive warwagons started onto the Highroad, pulled by twelve of the draft hauhaus, piled high with war gear and the parts of siege engines. Mercenaries—miners, sappers and engineers—rode with their machines and mounted norits swarmed about the three lumbering monsters.
Another band of mounted mercenaries, lighter armed than the first mounted fighters, short bows, coils of weighted rope, grapples. And passare rode perches grafted onto their saddles, strange flyers Tuli had never seen before with bands of black and white fur; they swayed with the motion of the macain, preening their fur with long leathery beaks edged with rows of needle teeth.
“Moardats,” Coperic breathed. Tuli started to ask about them, looked around at the Orasi standing beside them and changed her mind. He caught the small sound she made, raised a brow, but said, “Trained to attack eyes and throat. Claws usually have steel sheaths, sometimes dipped in poison when their handlers take them into a fight.”
“Oh.”
Nekaz Kole and his personal guard were the last off the field. It was early afternoon before he galloped slowly past and mounted the Highroad. Riding his gold rambut at an easy lope, he began moving up the side of his army, the sunlight glinting off his utilitarian helmet, his heavy gold cloak rippling behind him; he acknowledged salutes with easy waves of his hand.
Tuli gasped; Coperic swung around, followed her eyes. A flood of traxim came winging in from the sea. They spread out over the army, a web of flying eyes looking for anything that might mean trouble. He watched a a moment longer, then grunted and turned away, walking heavy-footed toward the nearest stairflight. Rane came out of her reverie and followed him. Tuli stared a moment longer at the soaring traxim, then, silent and unhappy, she started after the others.
Coperic paced back and forth across the dusty floor. Abruptly he turned to confront Rane who straddled a reversed chair, her arms crossed on its back, the black dress bunched up about her knees. “I got to open up. What you going to do?”
“That rather depends on the Intii, doesn’t it?”
Coperic scowled. “He should’ve been in already. If norit come back with him from Sankoy. If.”
“Lot of ifs.”
“Yah.” He glanced at Tuli who sat on the bed stroking Ildas and gazing vaguely at the wall across from her. “Yeah. I go and kick Yiros off his butt, get him to fix you something to eat. Mmm. Be a good idea to send Haqtar up with the tray; he been sniffing around trying to find out dirt about you two; he reports to the Agli on me. Still enough guards left to drop on me ’fore I’m ready to get out.” Once again he looked from Tuli to Rane. “You keep the black on, be doing something female when he come in. That ought to take the gas outta him.”
Rane passed her hand over her tangled hair, grimaced. “Been a long time since I spent so much time in a skirt.”
He grinned at her, his eyes narrowing to slits, sinking into nests of wrinkles. With a chuckle he turned and went out.
Rane poked absently about the room, finally took up the old charcoal sack the Bakuur had dropped off at the tavern before they left the city. She dumped it out on the bed, rummaged through the odds and ends and found her small leather sewing kit. She set that aside and took up an old tunic. With a quick jerk of her hand, she ripped out a short length of the hem, tossed the tunic onto the bed beside Tuli. “Your camouflage.”
Tuli blinked. “Huh? Oh.” She tapped Ildas on his round behind. “Move over, bebé.” She shook the tunic out, held it up. “Why’d you bother bringing this along? I’d say it was one giant patch except it’s about a hundred.” She tilted her head, put on a coaxing smile. “Thread my needle for me?”
“Hah!” Rane tossed her a reel of thread. “Watch it. There’s a needle in there.”
Tuli yelped, sucked at the base of her forefinger, took her hand away and sniffed when she saw the tiny bead of red. “Little late telling me.” She pulled the needle loose from the reel, shook out a length of thread. “From the look of that thing a little blood would liven it up.”
“Maybe,” Rane said absently. She took one of the wobbly chairs, set it by the shuttered window, stepped back, eyed it, then set a stool beside the chair. With her own bit of sewing she settled herself in the chair, smoothed the wrinkled skirt down over her boots, straightened it as much as she could. She looked up. “Come over here, Moth. Proper young ladies don’t sit on beds.”
Tuli snorted but she wadded the ancient tunic about the reel, twitched the coverlet smooth, then she settled herself at Rane’s knee. She threaded the needle without fuss. “At least some things go right.” She began sewing the hem back in, taking small stitches to make the job last because she didn’t want Rane thinking up something worse for her to do. “Mama would faint if she could see me now.”
“Mmm.”
Tuli lifted her head, looked round at Rane. The light seeping through the rotten shutters slid along the spare lines of the ex-meie’s face, pitilessly aging her. Rane’s hands lay still in her lap. Her mind was obviously elsewhere. Certainly she wasn’t listening to Tuli. Tuli went back to the sewing, setting the small neat stitches her mother had tried to teach her, surprising herself with the pleasure she got out of the work. She thought about that for a while and decided the pleasure came partly from the realization that this wasn’t the only thing she had to look forward to the rest of her life.
She glanced now and then at the door, expectation wearing into irritation as the minutes crept past. She was hungry and rapidly getting hungrier. “He doesn’t get here soon, I’ll eat him.” She slanted a glance at Rane, sighed and went on sewing, finishing the ripped part. With a glare at the door she began double-sewing the rest of the hem. The minutes still crept. Rane was still brooding over whatever it was. Tuli lifted her head. “You’re wondering what to do about me?”
“What?”
“It was all right up to now.” Tuli cleared her throat, not sure she wanted to go on with this. Her stomach rumbled suddenly; she went red with embarrassment. That idiotic little sound sucked all the drama out of her, leaving only her curiosity and her pride in her ability to reason. “I was insurance,” she said. In case you got snagged. Now you figure you can move faster and safer without me, but you promised Da you’d take care of me, so you’re trying to convince yourself I’ll get along all right by myself. I will, you know; you don’t have to worry about me.”
Rane pulled her hand down over her face. When she took it away, her mouth was twisted into a wry half-smile. “Hard lessons,” she said. “You’ve had to grow up too fast, Moth. You’re right. Well, partly right. What I do depends on the Intii. If he’s able to lend me his boat, we ca
n scoot down the coast with no problems. If we have to run.… I don’t want to speculate on what might be, Moth. It makes for sour stomachs.”
Tuli nodded, frowned down at the hem without really seeing it. She was more than a little uncertain about what she wanted to do. The sight of the army had shaken her more than she wanted to admit to herself or anyone else. She couldn’t see herself going to sit tamely behind the Biserica wall waiting for that army to roll over her, just one more mouth to feed, contributing little besides a pair of hands not particularly skilled, her greatest gifts wasted, her nightsight and Ildas. Well, if not wasted, certainly underused. She brooded over just where her responsibilities lay until there was a loud thumping on the door. With more eagerness than grace, Tuli dropped her sewing and went to open it.
Haqtar came stumping in with a two-handled tray. Grunting, he slammed the tray down on the table, his eyes sliding with sly malice from Tuli to Rane and back to Tuli. Tuli retreated to Rane, dropped her hand on the ex-meie’s shoulder, the look in those bulging eyes, the greed in the doughy face frightening her. After a minute, though, he turned and shuffled out.
“Whew.” Tuli shuddered. “What a.…”
Rane caught hold of her arm and squeezed. A warning. After he slammed the door there should have been the sound of his retreating footsteps, especially over those yielding groaning floorboards. There was only silence, which meant he had an ear pressed against the door. “Help me up, daughter,” Rane said.
Swallowing a nervous giggle, Tuli said demurely, “Yes, mama.”
Rane dragged the chair noisily to the table while Tuli fetched the stool and made a lot of fuss over getting her “mama” properly seated.