What use was a beating heart, when the one for whom her heart beat had turned his back on her?
Human, Inna’hael chided, you bore me.
I bore myself, she admitted, shaking off her self-indulgent mood as Talieso might shake off dried mud. She had come to find Sulema. All roads led to Min Yaarif, and the bones had told her that the girl had ridden this way. She would give Sulema what aid she could, but from a distance. The girl would not know her now, and Ani would not burden her with the curse of forbidden magic. It was the duty of every warrior to slay a bonesinger, and Ani had no wish to force the daughter of her heart to choose between duty and love.
You do not wish to know which way her blade would fall, Inna’hael observed.
It was not a lie.
The form Ani wore did not draw a second glance, save from the vendors who lined either side of the road. A nondescript Zeerani warrior leading an old gray stallion, this was nothing new or exotic, though she might prove an easy mark for a merchant’s apprentice. Indeed, a young girl approached her now, bowing and smiling and offering spiced meats on a stick, sizzling hot from the fire. The scent reached Ani’s nostrils, and her stomach began to gnaw at her. When was the last time she had eaten?
She could not recall.
Smiling at the waif she reached for the pouch at her waist. It was heavy with coins and salt tablets. Several of those whose bones she had worn in Atualon had been wealthy, and her needs had been few.
A young man walked by, dark-skinned and dark-eyed, and his smile was pure mischief, reminding her strongly of a young Askander. A different hunger rose in her and she smiled back, a baring of the teeth that sent the young man scurrying away from her in alarm, as any prey will which scents a greater predator.
The worst part of wearing another person’s bones was how much they hungered.
She melted beneath the old woman’s hands, delighted to be wearing her own shape for a change, though her own body had grown so young and strong and free of scars that Ani hardly recognized it. Her belly was full of meat and cheese and bread, her head full of usca, and she had chosen this bath-house because the woman who gave massages was as stringy as an old goat and half as attractive, therefore unlikely to arouse a bonesinger’s more dangerous hungers. Warm oil and honey poured across her skin, warm and fragrant steams rose from the hot rocks near her feet, and she was for the moment content.
“What do you do here, Meissati?” the old woman asked as she kneaded two lifetimes’ worth of anger from the flesh. Her voice was gorgeous, deep and sweet, giving lie to her frail features. “The Zeeranim do not deal in flesh, so your visit is unusual. Not unwelcome, mind you—desert warriors are always welcome in my house, so clean and so courteous— but unusual.”
“Mmmmmf.” Ani did not open her eyes. “I am come to make sure none of the asil are being sold by outsiders.” A plausible lie. The prides’ horses were valued above salt or rubies, and it was forbidden for any but the Zeeranim to own one—indeed, to touch one. For certain kinds of people, this was oftentimes more of a draw than a deterrent. Warriors had made asil raids on places such as Min Yaarif, and would do so again. “Have you heard of any such a one offered by the traders?”
There came a long pause, so long that Ani found herself holding her breath in anticipation of the woman’s answer. Perhaps her lie had contained more truth in it than she had known. The idea of one of these outlanders riding an asil made her blood hot.
“I have,” the woman whispered, leaning close to Ani’s ear. “I will tell you what none other will—perhaps, though it is not a secret. One of your horses is to be awarded to the winner of a championship pit fight, three days from now.”
Ani grunted and opened her eyes. The old woman drew back, hands held up in supplication.
“I only tell you what everyone knows!”
“I will not hurt you.” Ani sat up and rolled her head from side to side. Blessed Atu, that feels good. “You are sure the horse is asil?”
“Yes, a golden mare, and the most beautiful I have ever seen. Though your own white stallion is very pretty,” she added hastily.
Guts and goatfuckery; if the prides hear of this, Min Yaarif will be overrun with screaming warriors. “Tell me about this fight.”
“It will be spectacular,” the old woman breathed. Despite her fear, her eyes lit with anticipation, and she smiled a near-toothless smile. “Our own champion, Kishah, is to face one of your Zeerani warriors. They say she is Zeerani, anyhow, though I rather doubt it myself. Whoever has heard of a desert barbarian with hair like the setting sun? No doubt she is some Atualonian slave, bought and trained for the pits. Still, the whole city will be there to watch the fight, and not just because of the prize. Sharmutai only lets her pet fight the most exotic battles, and only the wealthiest will be able to afford seats near the front. Rumor has it that the pirate king himself will attend, the one who talks to river serpents! I will be there myself…”
The voice went on, but Ani stopped paying attention. A Zeerani warrior with hair like the setting sun? It could be no other.
“I will go see this fight,” she said. “If the mare is indeed asil, as you have said, honor demands that I bring her home. I will buy her—”
“They will not sell her to you, Meissati,” the woman said. Her smile dropped, and she wrung her hands. “Neither will they allow you to attend this fight. Oh! I should not have said anything.”
“Well then,” Ani said, “at least tell me of this champion of yours, this… Kishah.” She smiled the gentlest smile she could manage and averted her eyes so that the old woman would not see her intent. She lowered herself back to the table, indicating that the massage should continue. “If I cannot watch the fight myself, perhaps I can imagine it through your words.”
A long moment passed, and then the hands returned to Ani’s shoulders. The touch was hesitant now, stiff, as if the woman was ready to flee at the slightest hint of danger.
“Kishah Two-Blades,” she began, “Sharmutai’s champion of champions, is the fiercest and deadliest fighter to enter the pits, at least in my lifetime. They say she has no tongue. Certainly she has no pity. They say that Sharmutai feeds her the flesh of those she has killed…”
Ani made a show of relaxing, of breathing deeply and murmuring at appropriate times. She only half-listened to the older woman’s stories, though, waiting for her guard to drop. She already knew what she needed to know—
“I will be there myself—”
And the old woman had lived a full life, after all.
The very worst part of wearing another person’s bones was the price she had to pay to obtain them.
* * *
The old woman passed between the gate-guards without challenge. They knew her as a woman who had been a famous courtesan in her youth, a whoremistress in middle age, and who now supplemented her retirement hoard by selling the skills and knowledge of a lifetime, serving the human body and all its needs. Doubtless they assumed that she had been hired to soothe the hurts of some favored pit fighter, or to limber tight muscles for an oncoming fight. She nodded at the guards over her herb basket, stopping only to pet a blue-crested raptorling on a golden chain.
“Pretty girl,” she said, and offered it a dried fish from her basket. The young raptor hissed softly but accepted the bribe. It was not fooled by her stolen bones but felt no real loyalty to these men who had chained it for a life of servitude, and so did not screech an alarm.
Straightening, the bonesinger-in-disguise made her slow way down a smooth-cobbled path between rows of stone and salt-brick houses, past fountains and gardens and pools filled with colored fish. The bright moonslight cast sharp shadows. Some of the houses were lit from within. From a few came the sounds of merriment, or lovemaking, or fighting. Ani had noted more than once the similarity between those last two. Other houses were dark, brooding over their inhabitants’ suffering, perhaps.
There was beauty here, the kind of beauty which could be purchased with gold or salt or bl
ood, but there was little joy. This small fortress-like estate was a home for pit fighters, and the fighting pits of Min Yaarif—though the source of dark pleasure—was the death of all hope.
This one, she thought as an especially large and well-appointed house caught her eye. It was an elegant dwelling meant to house a single fighter, not one of the long dormitory types meant for those whose blood was more cheaply spilt. Though the dwelling was silent, a warm glow of candlelight came from within. How does Vengeance spend her free time? Ani wondered. Drinking? Whoring? Reading a book, perhaps? What would she do if her life was not otherwise occupied with dealing death?
What do you do, indeed, Bonesinger? Inna’hael asked. He was nearby—not within the walls of Min Yaarif, but not far, either. Mostly you spend your waking hours mewling for your lost mate like a cub cries for its mother.
Ani stiffened at this but masked her reaction with an old woman’s naturally halting walk as she started up the steps to the salt-brick mansion.
That was not necessary, she answered.
None of this is necessary, Inna’hael sent. We should just kill all your kind and be done with it.
“Halt!”
Ani jumped half out of the old woman’s skin, and it was not an act. So preoccupied had she been with her own thoughts and the kahanna’s that she had not noticed the guards as they stood in the shadows. Foolish, foolish. The warriors she had raised would have laughed in astonishment to see their old teacher caught out in such ignominious fashion.
“You scared me!” she accused in a tremulous voice. It was not her own, any more than this face, this body, these bones were her own.
“Where do you think you are going?” The woman stepped forward into the moonslight. She was tall, dark as the shadowmancer Aasah and his little apprentice, though there were no stars in her skin and her eyes were dark and natural-looking.
“Where does it look like I am going?” she snapped, a wealthy old woman irritated by the presence of ignorant youth. “I am come to make Kishah ready for her forthcoming fight. Unless you would like to explain to your mistress why her pet was not given the services she paid for? I am very expensive.” She sniffed, tottered the last few steps up to the door, and stood staring belligerently up at the young woman.
“Let her through.” A second guard, this one a man, stepped forward and touched the first guard’s shoulder. “It is only old Ulseth, and she is expensive. Excuse this one, Meissati, she is new.”
Ani sniffed. “Very well—”
“No.” The young woman shook off her companion’s hand and shot him a hard glare. “Not until I see what you have in your basket, Meissati.”
“Teatha—”
“Orders from Rehaza Entanye, Kaneh. Unless you would like to explain to her and to the mistress”—here she lowered her voice—“how we let an assassin walk past us? Every visitor is to be searched. No exceptions.”
Kaneh sighed, but shrugged. “You are right. Hand over the basket, Grandmother.”
Ani huffed but handed them the basket. The guards removed her bottles and bundles of herbs, treating them with respect. The former youthmistress found herself grudgingly approving of young Teatha, especially as she so carefully examined each bottle and bundle, sniffing and pinching and frowning in concentration.
“This is catbane,” Teatha said at one point. “It can cause the kidneys to bleed and fail.”
“It can,” Ani agreed, “but only when given in great quantities, and fresh. A small amount of dried leaf, such as this, can help to purify and strengthen the blood. It is also useful for forcing water from a body—”
“A trick to help a fighter make weight.” Kaneh chuckled. “Are you satisfied, Teatha?”
“I suppose.” Yet the warrior still eyed Ani suspiciously.
“I cannot fault you for your diligence,” Ani grumbled, repacking her herbs and bottles with contrived irritation, and returning Teatha’s glare with one of her own. “It is the mark of a good guard, after all. And you know your herbs. Perhaps if you tire of working for Sharmutai, you could come work for me.”
Teatha nodded but did not answer. Ani covered her basket once again and waited as the guards opened the doors for her.
“Thank you,” she said, then, “you may leave us. This is private business.” She shut the door in their faces and turned.
She found herself standing at one end of a wide, warm room. The walls and floors were honey-colored. There were only two small windows, set high and too small to allow entry to much more than an evening breeze and a little bit of light, though the far end of the chamber was taken up by a wide hearth, in which blazed a merry fire. It was sparsely furnished, nearly bare. In the center of this room was a low wooden table surrounded by cushions, desert-style, and a single figure reclined upon these. She was hooded, brown-skinned hands turning the pages of a book.
Ani waited. Though the pit fighter did not speak— perhaps she had no tongue, after all—or so much as move to acknowledge her presence, Ani could feel heat and fury rolling from the supine form, hotter than the fire upon the hearth. And deadlier. The bonesinger was reminded of a wild vash’ai, crouched and ready for the kill.
“Your mistress hired me,” Ani said at last, “to bring potions and salves which will help ready you for the champion’s fight.” She reached into the basket for an ordinary-looking glass bottle, full of death. Death for the champion of Min Yaarif, and more likely than not death for the guards, as well. But why stop at a few more murders when she had come so far already?
Why, indeed? Inna’hael asked softly. When have your kind ever stopped at murder?
As if she had heard the vash’ai, the figure sat up abruptly. The silk hood fell back, exposing her face, and Ani gasped, dropping the bottle back into her basket.
Hannei, she thought, oh my Hannei, oh my girl, what have they done to you?
But she could not, dared not reveal herself, not even to this girl she loved. Hannei was Kishah now, Kishah Two-Blades, whose name was vengeance. And she—
I am no one, Ani thought, reaching for a different bottle. I am a bonesinger—my bones are no longer my own, and my life is forfeit.
The worst part of wearing another person’s bones was… everything.
FOURTEEN
The Pit of Min Yaarif was neither as grand as the newmade Sulemnium in Atualon, nor as steeped in honor and tradition as the Madraj in Aish Kalumm. This was a simple hole in the ground, with one ramp leading down, and another on the far side leading back out for any who might survive the day’s entertainments. The walls were red brick, made not with red salt, she had been told, but fashioned from the mud and sweat and tears of countless slaves sent here to die.
Sulema stood at the precipice and found herself smiling. She had been unable to grasp the politics of Atualon, unable to fight the dragonstone walls of Atukos. This she understood. This she could overcome. This was her world…
“Come on, girl, what are you waiting for?” One of the slave handlers put a hand in the middle of her back and shoved. Sulema sidestepped the pressure easily, turned and grabbed the man by the front of his robes. She dragged him so near she could have bitten his nose.
“Touch me again,” she growled, “and I will kill you.” She gave his face a light, contemptuous slap and tossed him aside. “I am no slave,” she said, glaring at the gathering crowd. “I am Ja’Akari. Touch me at your peril.” She brushed the sand from her vest, straightened her spine, and took her time walking to the down ramp. The people before her parted to let her through, many of them smiling or nodding their approval.
“Good, good,” Rehaza Entanye murmured, close behind her. “Give the people a show before the show, whet their appetites.”
“What show?” Sulema asked, dismissing the outlander woman as casually as she had thrown the man. “If any of you touch me, you will die. I am done being civilized.” Leaving them all behind she walked down the wide ramp.
It was a fine day, bright and hot under the eyes of Akari, and the path w
as smooth and easy, having been pounded flat and hard by the feet of those who had gone before her. Some of them had died—perhaps most of them had died— some had lived, and Sulema thought in that moment that it did not matter. In the end, all would be bones bleached in the sunlight, pounded into sand and trodden under the feet of new generations of fools come to try their luck in the game of life.
It was a fine day to die.
It was a fine day to live.
It was a fine day to be a warrior. Sulema stopped halfway down the ramp, tilted her face up to the sun, raised both arms above her head, and laughed for the sheer joy of saghaani, of the beauty in youth. The people who clustered thickly about the mouth of the pit, come to watch her die, raised their own voices in a ragged cheer.
“Ja’Akari!” someone shouted. “True warrior!”
“Ehuani!” shouted another. “Ehuani!”
And the crowd took up this chant.
“Ehuani!”
“Ehuani!”
“EHUANI!”
Though they were outlanders, doubtless ignorant of the meaning of the word, Sulema grinned and waved at them and danced to the roar of their approbation as she ran the rest of the way.
Two male slaves stood in the middle of the pit, hooded but otherwise naked. Between them they held a rack of weapons for her consideration. These were of crude make, with the pointy ends wrapped in tarred rags, as if a weapon made for killing might be dissuaded from that purpose.
Stupid. Sulema snorted. The halberds and maces she dismissed outright, and a short sword in the Atualonian style drew a scowl. There were three blunted shamsi of indifferent make—those blades had been stolen by raiders, no doubt, ground dull and pressed into slavery along with their former owners. At last she chose a blackthorn staff. It was of better make than the rest of these weapons, smooth and unadorned, capped with black iron at either end.
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