by Jo Clayton
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.
Rane made a face at her, then solemnly intoned, “Blessed be Soдreh for the food he has provided.” There was a quaver in her voice that Tuli hoped the clothhead outside the door would take for age and not for a struggle against laughter. She managed to quaver the response. “Soдreh be blessed.”
They ate in silence after that even when they heard the floorboards groan and creak under the lumbering feet of their spy.
The Intii Vann came with the dark; he sat in the taproom drinking and grousing with Coperic about the ingratitude of relatives, the miserable fishing, wives and their whims, saying nothing that would trigger any interest in enemy ears. Coperic served him and saw to it that his wine was heavily watered so he could give the impression of drunkenness without acquiring the real thing; the repeated refillings of his tankard also gave him all the excuse he needed for spending hours at that table. Sometime after midnight, he wobbled out, the key to the alley door in his pocket and with instructions to knock on Rane’s door, then go on to Coperic’s room and wait for him.
When enough time had passed after Vann’s departure so the two things would not appear connected, Coperic shooed out the last drunks, locked up, watched Haqtar bumble off to his cellar room, waited until he was sure the man was shut into his den, then went wearily up the stairs and down the hall to his room.
Tuli was sitting on the bed stroking her invisible pet, Rane silent beside her. Vann was standing with his shoulders braced against a wall, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on the floor; he looked up when Coperic came in.
Coperic swung a chair about, sat in it. “What’s the problem?”
Rane lifted a hand, let it fall. “He’s been like that since we got here.”
“Vann?”
The. Intii began stroking his beard. “’Tis not them. ’Tis I’ve a notion what you’re wanting of me, and it can’t be. ’Tis I’ve been ordered to my village with a trax on my tail to make sure I go straight there.” He nodded at Rane. “Knowing what that one has in her head is life-and-death for Biserica and maybe me and mine. ’Tis knowing too that the army has marched and we got Kapperim thick as lice on a posser’s back and a shaman like as not going to gut the bunch of us if we sneeze wrong.”
Coperic nodded toward the other chair. “Sit, old friend. I been doing some thinking about that since last we met. I don’t mind talking about them now they’re out and not going back. I put a couple plants in the Plaz. Picked up an impression of the lock on the Guard Armory. ’S afternoon a bunch of us, we got in, cleared out what was left there. Not much, damn the bitch, but some bolts and a few crossbows, a bundle of lances and a good pile of knives. We keeping some, getting some ready for you to take.”
Vann came away from the wall, his usual containment vanished. He said nothing but threw himself into the chair; it creaked precariously and seemed about to come apart beneath him. He ignored that, drew a huge breath. “How?” A moment later he added, “The trax.”
“Packing them in water casks and a flour barrel-with a bit of flour too, courtesy of the Plaz.” He rubbed his nose, glanced at the time candle burning on its stand next to his bed. “Should be finished hauling the barrels soon. When you come in, I got word to Bella; she’s going to leave men on the wharf, guards. You grab ’em, tell, ’em to help you load the barrels. My folk and me, we figure the next couple days things going to be looser than before, agli keeping one eye looking south instead of both on us.”
Vann stroked his beard. “Can’t take the barrels through the village gate. Kappra shaman got a nose for edged steel.” His hand smoothed repeatedly down the oiled plaits of his beard. The oil had gone a trifle rancid and the plaits were frayed, some of them coming undone, an outward sign of the disorder in mind and spirit. “Stinking Kapperim, got half the women ’n children shut up in my hall. Shaman’s got it set to burn, we give him any trouble. Saw Vlam and Vessey.” He glanced at Rane, smiled. “My sons,” he said. “We figured to go after Kapperim barehanded. Save part anyway. Them outside the hall.” He leaned forward, cupped large hands over his knees. “Cut more throats than we can choke with those knives you got, ’n half a chance we maybe can take out the shaman and stop the burning. We owe you, Coperic old friend.”
Coperic grinned at him. “We talk about that a passage from now.’
Rane broke in. “Be easier if you could catch the Kapperim asleep,” she said. “Especially the shaman.”
“That viper?” Vann ran his tongue over his teeth, his upper lip bulging under the bristly moustache. “Evelly, that’s my wife, she tells Vlam he set wards that wake him if anyone even think too hard about him.”
“Who cooks for the Kapperim?”
“Our women. But they make them taste everything before they eat.” He scowled. “Children too; keep the women honest, they say.”
“Seems to me a nice long sleep wouldn’t hurt your women and children and your men could dump one meal.”
“Drug the trash?”
“Right. There’s a couple drugs I know could do it, probably lots I don’t know, put them to sleep without hurting them so your women and children would be safe.” She grinned. “I figure you and your men can do all the hurting the Kapperim are very likely to need.”
The Intii’s lips moved back and forth as if he were tasting the idea, then spread into a grin. “Yah.” he said. Then he sobered. “Always that Maiden-cursed shaman. He suspect his dam if he weren’t hatched.”
“I ate a kind of fish stew in a fisher village once when I was a lot younger and tougher. Called tuz-zegel, if I remember. I see you follow me.” Rane chuckled. “The inside of my mouth still remembers. You couldn’t taste stinkweed through that. If you showed up with a collection of the right spices, a little present for your wife, wouldn’t it be the most ordinary thing if she fixed up a batch of tuz-zegel for the whole village? You could warn the men you trust to dump theirs.” Vann sighed and Rane chuckled again. “I suppose it’s your favorite dish; well, a little sacrifice won’t hurt.” Vann snorted, his eyes gleaming, the sag in his spirit banished. Rane ran her hands through her hair. “First thing, get those spices; you give Coperic a list. I suspect he won’t have too much trouble filling it. Next, what drug. I’m a long time out of my training, but there’s a healwoman in the hanguol rookery. ‘
Tuli’s eyes opened wide. Ajjin was right, she thought. Trust Rane to remember after all that’s happened and fit it right in with her plans.
“Healwoman? Never heard of any. Not there.” Coperic scowled past her. “Healwoman, mmm, she’d disappear into the House of Repentance soon’s an Agli got a sniff of her.”
“This one hasn’t got the name since she didn’t finish the last bit of training. Debrahn the midwife.”
“Oh, her. Yah, I know her.”
“You can find her?”
“Rane.”
“Yeah, I know. Silly question. She’d know about herbs, have a good mix tucked away somewhere. One of those sleepytime drugs I was thinking of, a lot of midwives use with difficult deliveries, doesn’t hurt the baby, but puts the woman’s head to sleep. There should be at least one woman ready to birth in your village.”
“My middle daughter.” He smoothed a forefinger along his moustache. “M’ wife would have my ears for bringing a stranger in.”
“Would the Kapperim know that?”
“Don’t see how.”
“Would your wife make a fuss?”
“Front of that trash? Never.”
“Good enough. Ajjin Turriy asked me to coax Debrahn out of the rookery. This is a better excuse than most.”
Coperic nodded. “Be a good idea for any lone female to get out of the rookery before it turns into a rat pit. I owe the Ajjin a favor or two myself. Give them a tenday in there’n they’ll start cutting each other up for stew.” He frowned at Rane. “Best I fetch her now. Morning might be too late.�
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Rane shook her head. “We.”
Coperic raised a hand, pushed it away from him. “Bad enough for a man to be out this hour, if some Follower sees you…”
“I’ll get my other clothes. He’ll see two men, that’s all. Good thing I was never voluptuous.” Rane chuckled. “What she knows of you, old friend, wouldn’t persuade a rat into a granary.”
Coperic grinned. “Hard to argue with you when you’re right. Meet me in the taproom.” He glanced at Tuli. “Alone.” He turned to the Intii. “Write me up that list of spices, Vann. I’ll put my people to scratching up what you need.”
“Come on, Moth.” Rane touched Tuli’s shoulder. “You need sleep.”
Back in their room, Tuli stripped off the hateful dress while Rane changed into her tunic and trousers. Neither spoke. Tuli crawled into the bed wondering how she could possibly sleep with so much to worry over.
Rane crossed the room and stood beside the bed. She slapped her swordbelt around her lean middle and buckled it as she looked down at Tuli. “Don’t fret, Moth. With his knives Coperic could split a zuzz-fly on the wing and I’m not so bad with this.” She tapped the hilt of the sword. “I’ll wake you in good time; you won’t miss the boat.”
Tuli found she’d made up her mind without knowing it. “Rane…”
“What is it?”
“I’m not going with you. You were right, you’ve got a better chance traveling alone. And I…” She paused. “I don’t want to be herded in with a bunch of giggling girls, you know that’s what Da would do. I’m going to stay with Coperic if he’ll have me. If not, well, Ildas and me, we’ll go after the wagons, do as much hurt as we can, maybe tie up with Teras again. He ’n a bunch from the Haven are sure to be out against the army.”
“I promised your father…”
“This is more important. Me and Ildas, we can hurt ’em a lot more ’n a bunch of men who the norits will stomp on before they get close. You know that.”
Rane sighed. “I’ll talk to Coperic. Mind if I tell him about Ildas?”
“Course not.”
Rane looked down at her. The silence became overcharged. Tuli felt tears gathering in her eyes. She wanted to turn her head away but she didn’t. Rane bent over her, touched her cheek. “It’s too bad you weren’t a few years older,” she said, her voice husky, uncertain. She bent lower, kissed Tuli lightly on the lips, straightened and went quickly out of the room.
Tuli lay still a moment, then she sniffed and scrubbed her hands across her eyes and sat up. “Sleep,” she said to the empty room. “Maiden bless.” She blew out the candle, wriggled back down under the covers, Ildas humming against her side, a spot of warmth that spread rapidly through her whole body. She yawned, worked her lips, thought about wanting a glass of water but stayed where she was, too comfortable to move. “What do you think of that?” she asked Ildas. He crooned to her, his meaningless silent sounds soothing her jagged unreliable emotions, beating in her blood, singing her to sleep.
Ildas scampering before her, Tuli ran from tree to tree, meaning to get as close to the Highroad as she could, a task made easier because the Nor had swept a wide swath of land free of snow. The army was camped on the grassy slopes of the Earth’s Teeth at the Well of the Blasted Narlim, but the Warwagons were sitting on the Highroad, sticking up there like wanja nuts on a harvest cake, a tempting target Tuli wasn’t prepared to pass up. Coperic had made a half-hearted protest, then got down to planning her attack and his. He and his people were on the far side of the army, ready to hit the majilarni when she provided a diversion to take the attention of the norits off the army.
She only came across two sentries prowling through the grove, though there were quite a few traxim roosting in the upper branches. Ildas and nightsight were enough to keep her away from either. She fled through the grove like a ghost and crawled into the space beneath the desiccated air-roots of a dead spikul. While she looked over the ground ahead, Ildas trotted busily about the roots, spinning fine lines of light out of his substance, weaving them into a web of protection about her. When he was finished, he nosed against her, wriggled with pleasure when she rubbed her fingers behind his ears, then he trotted off. She settled to watch.
The bare ground between her and the last of the Warwagons was thick with norits. Some sat in close groups talking quietly, some were rolled into blankets, asleep, some had gone slightly apart and into themselves, meditating or searching about with their longsight, Tuli didn’t know which but suspected the second and was very glad of Ildas’s web. There were a few traxim still aloft but most were roosting in the trees or perched on the Warwagons; they didn’t seem to like night flying much. Tuli suspected from what she’d seen of them that their eyes weren’t all that good in daytime, let alone night.
Ildas trotted toward the last of the huge wagons, circling unseen about sleeping forms, norits or the mercenaries that rode the wagon, about meditators and talkers, coming close to them, almost brushing against them, his leisurely progress a teasing, mocking dance. Then Tuli was part of that dance and it was a small piece of the Great Dance she’d wheeled in when Ildas came to her. She knew she was lying in dark and dirt, but she was also locked into the Dance; she laughed to herself; Ildas laughed with her, their joined laughter was the music of the Great Cycle of death and birth and death, the endings that were also and always beginnings.
Then Ildas was leaping onto the warwagon, fastidiously avoiding the hunched forms of the sleeping traxim. He pottered about, pushing his nose into the load, searching out a place that suited him. The traxim stirred uneasily as if they felt a wind sneaking through their fur, but they didn’t wake. Somewhere near the center of the wagon, Ildas lifted his leg and urinated a stream of fire into the load.
There is an oil distilled from the flesh of the vuurvis, a deep-sea fish the size of a small whale; the secret of preparing it belongs to the mercenaries of Ogogehia, it is their most fearsome weapon, used in clay melons that shatter and splatter fire. The burning oil clings to flesh, it can’t be wiped away, water won’t put it out, it can’t be smothered. It keeps eating into the flesh until the last trace of the oil is consumed. Ildas had sniffed out barrels of that oil and used it as his target.
Flames exploded into the air five times a man’s height and splashed outward much the same distance, landing on norit and mercenary alike; the sleepers writhed and rolled about on the ground, living torches that filled the night with screams of an agony beyond comprehension: those on their feet howled and ran until their hearts quit and they crashed to the ground, some of them into snow that did nothing to put out the fire. Burning traxim leaped shrieking into the air, came spiraling down to crash among the trees or into the army, spreading the chaos. The few that escaped were those near the ends of the wagon that had time to flip from this world into that place the Nor had fetched them from. Most of the sleepers were dead or dying. More than half the nearby norits had escaped though they spent some minutes in frantic efforts to shield themselves from the flying oil. Tuli gaped at the damage Ildas had done with one well-placed squirt.
He came prancing back, wriggled round her, bumped against her, rolled onto his back so she could scratch his belly. “You’re a one soredak army, Didi,” she whispered to him. She continued to stroke him as she watched the surviving norits go from body to body, cutting throats of any who still lived. The noise diminished here by the Highroad, but she heard screams and shouts and curses drifting from the army, the protesting hoots of macain and the high angry squeals of rambuts. Coperic, she thought. No, can’t be. He and his folk must have been in and out already; they wouldn’t make that much noise. Should be getting out myself before they start hunting. She began inching backward out of the shelter of the roots. Ildas walked beside her, snapping the web of light back into himself. When she was clear of the roots but still deep in shadow, she sat on her heels, looking about. The traxim in the trees had whipped into the air with the explosion of the Warwagon and hadn’t yet settled back to their ro
osts; any sentries close at hand had rushed into the open, looking vainly for some way to help the dying, or joining other men to roll the next Warwagon farther from the fire and save that one from burning also. Soon someone out there would start thinking instead of reacting and send searchers into the trees to sniff out whoever had set the fire. But not yet. She got to her feet and fled through the trees, leaving the seething turmoil behind, heading for the rendezvous with Coperic. He was probably there already, waiting with the others for her to show up. She slowed and began to relax.
A norit stepped from behind a tree, hands raised and filled with fire, eyes glaring, mouth opening in a long ululating scream that tore from his throat and assaulted her ears. He flung the fire at her.
Tuli swerved so sharply she had to scramble to keep on her feet; arms waving, kicking herself in the ankle, she plunged for the shelter of the nearest tree, a spindly brellim, knowing she couldn’t reach it in time, suspecting its shelter was no shelter at all from the magic fire.
He screamed again, outrage in every hoarse syllable of those unintelligible words.
She looked back, saw Ildas leap between her and the fireballs, bat them down, the norit not seeing him but seeing his fire fail; she sucked in a breath to laugh her triumph-and crashed into the tree.
She was stunned for an instant, then got shakily to her feet. From the corner of her eye she saw Ildas play with the fireballs, jump on them and eat them. The norit stared, open-mouthed, as his fire vanished, bite by bite. For the moment he’d forgotten her.
Tuli whipped around the still shivering tree and fled into the dark, her head clearing as she moved, her first panic settling into a mix of terror and rage. She ran furiously twisting and turning through the trees. And Ildas kept the fireballs as well as the rest of the norit’s magic away from her. But she couldn’t outrun him and he was an adult male, so much stronger than her, he didn’t need magic to deal with her; it was only his rigid mind-set that kept him stopping to use that magic. Not that she thought all that out; fragments of it came to her while she ran, coalescing into a sense of what was happening, adding pinches of hope and contempt to the mixture seething within her. She forced herself to slow a little and use her nightsight to plot her route, diving beneath low-hanging limbs, bounding over root tangles that were traps for unwary feet. Several times she heard him flounder and curse, felt a fleeting satisfaction that vanished into the chill realization that she couldn’t get away from him no matter how hard she ran. Twice more he stopped and tried his magic on her, twice more Ildas slapped fireballs down, ate them and set himself between her and other manifestations of the norit’s magic that made her hair and skin tingle but had no other effect on her.