Savas gave the Voice a smile that failed to thaw the lines of his face. Instead, the movement of his lips only made them more prominent and caused the long scar on his cheek to go white. “Then perhaps you should apologize, Voice Kadir.”
“Certainly,” the Voice said hurriedly. “Commander Savas, I’m sorry that I spoke so … so freely here. I should not have done that.”
From his seat, Savas gave Voice Kadir the shadow of a bow in response. “And your Hand, Voice Kadir? I think he deserves to hear from you as well.”
The Voice’s eyes narrowed, and the glance he gave Meir was poisonous. Voada felt Meir’s hand release her own as he lifted it above the table, both palms up. “Commander Savas, there’s no need … for Voice Kadir to apologize to me,” he said. Meir’s wheeze had returned; Voada could hear it in Meir’s initial inhalation, in the fact that completing the sentence required a second breath midway through.
“Ah, but I believe there is, Hand Paorach,” Savas persisted. “You’re a loyal subject of the emperor, and you’ve been beyond reproach performing your duties as Hand. That you’re of Cateni ancestry means nothing, but Voice Kadir has implied that all Cateni are suspect simply by virtue of their ancestry.” He looked again at Kadir. “Voice Kadir, have you nothing to say to Hand Paorach?”
Dilara’s arm tightened around Maki’s sleeve again, tugging hard. Savas watched, impassive. A breath later, the Voice turned to Meir again. “Hand Paorach … my good friend Meir … I’m sorry if I offended you in any way. I certainly didn’t intend that.” The words fell bitter from his mouth and were not matched by his expression. With Savas still watching, Meir bowed once to the Voice.
“Good,” Savas said. “Now, Voice Kadir, your servants wait to hear from you as well.”
“My servants …” The Voice nearly shouted the words, starting to rise, and Sub-Commander Bakir rose along with the Voice he was pledged to protect, his hand dangerously near the hilt of his belt-knife but not touching it. Dilara dragged Maki back down into his seat as Voada heard the scrape of Savas’ officers’ chairs against the marble tiles pushing back from the table. Commander Savas himself sat placidly in his seat, his hands folded before him.
“Yes, your servants and your slaves deserve your apology, since you’ve threatened them with death when it was you who spoke without thinking while they remained silent. Why, even your garrison sub-commander would agree with that, I think. Or would you prefer that I treat you as you would treat them, Voice Kadir? I assure you, the Great-Voice in Trusa as well as Emperor Pashtuk himself would understand and even approve of my actions if I did that.”
Both Voada and Meir gasped at that, but a shrill “No!” sliced the air, the objection coming from Dilara. She held on to Maki as if her grip alone could keep him safe. Sub-Commander Bakir seated himself again, but Voada felt the man glaring at her and Meir as if they were somehow responsible.
Savas’ expression softened then, if slightly. “Voice-wife,” he said, “you needn’t be frightened. This is a simple enough matter. All your husband has to do is tell your servants that he apologizes for the insult he has given them.”
Dilara shook Maki’s arm desperately. “Just say it,” she said. “Say it!”
Maki started to speak. Stopped. Then began again, looking down at the plate in front of him rather than at the servants around the hall. His whisper was barely audible, even in the hush. “I apologize,” he said, “to all Cateni here, regardless of rank. I was … thoughtless.”
“Excellent,” Savas said, clapping once loudly. “Then all is forgiven and done. Musicians, why have you stopped playing? And we could all use more of this lovely wine …”
The musicians lurched back into the tune they’d been playing; the servants hurried from their places to refill wine goblets. The guests began chattering amongst themselves, pretending, at least, that nothing of import had happened. Voada’s hand found Meir’s again, on top of the table this time. She tightened her interlaced fingers around his; he did the same.
Neither of them dared to look at Maki or Dilara.
And as soon as it was politely possible, the guests began to take their leave.
Altan Savas endured the strained and ruined shreds of the banquet, waiting until several of the other guests had made their rather hurried leave, each of them politely thanking Voice Kadir and Voice-wife Dilara for a lovely evening before scurrying away as if fleeing from a rising flood. He chuckled to himself, imagining the gossip that would spread through the town the next morning. When the Hand and Hand-wife finally rose to take their leave, Altan gestured to one of the servants to bring his cloak and those of his officers.
His officers in tow, Altan hurried out to the courtyard after thanking a still openly terrified Voice Kadir and a glowering but subservient Sub-Commander Bakir, who seemed torn between his loyalty to the Voice as the head of the local garrison and his subordinate position to Altan. The commander could see Hand Paorach and Hand-wife Voada making their way through the torch-lit garden toward the gates that opened onto the temple road. The Hand-wife’s arm was linked through her husband’s, but he noted that it was for more than simple affection; she was supporting the Hand, helping him. He could hear the Hand’s labored breathing even from this distance. He’d noticed the man’s ill health at the meeting between himself, the Voice, and the Hand prior to the banquet. He’d also quickly realized that Hand Paorach was the only competent person among the town officials.
Altan made a small gesture with his hand; his officers wordlessly stopped as he continued walking. “Hand Paorach, a moment, if you would …” he called out. The Hand and Hand-wife stopped and turned toward him as he approached. Even in the dim light of the torches, he could see that the Hand’s face was pale and that his chest rose and fell too quickly. The man’s breath was loud, whistling as it left him.
Hand-wife Voada was obviously concerned about her husband’s health. Her gaze kept moving from Altan to the Hand, and her arm gripped his tightly under his cloak. The firelight coaxed the red from her long, plaited hair. She had more of the mark of the Cateni about her than her husband: the blood-touched color of her hair, the less angular lines of her face, the nose more broad than those of home, with the Cateni’s light-colored and too-round eyes. Her skin was moon-pale and not the brown of well-steeped tea, like that of most Mundoa. She wasn’t unattractive to Altan’s eyes—or perhaps he’d been here so long that the Cateni no longer looked so foreign and odd to him. He’d noted that she was younger than the Hand, though probably past her childbearing years, but it seemed theirs was a marriage of love. He wondered what that might be like. His own wife, back on the mainland, was more than half a stranger to him, a marriage arranged by his parents. She was compliant enough to perform her wifely duties on the rare occasions he was home, but he couldn’t help but wonder if all of their five children were actually his, and as for love … Well, that was not an emotion either of them shared, nor was her gender the one that Altan preferred. They performed their duties and obligations as husband and wife, that was all.
There were no bastard children of his here on this island. While in the field, Altan found comfort and solace in his driver, Lucian, who was more “married” to Altan than his wife. Between the two of them there was love, if not one they could openly share.
Altan found himself strangely jealous of this couple. “There’s something I want to make certain you understand,” he told them, his gaze going from husband to wife. “I didn’t take any pleasure in scolding Voice Kadir. In fact, I would have preferred an evening with nothing more than pleasantries and good conversation. But …” He lifted his hands. “The man gave me little choice. He’s both vain and incompetent, and I will be relaying that opinion to the Great-Voice in my report.”
“Commander,” Meir began, but a shake of Altan’s head cut him off.
“No, Hand Paorach. You needn’t defend the man. It’s apparent to me from our meeting today that you’re quite the opposite of Pencraig’s Voice, and I look for
ward to working with you over the next few days to get my troops resupplied and ready. I’ll need your help and will be grateful to have it. Ah, there are our chariots …” He nodded to the military drivers who had brought the two war chariots, each decorated with the insignia of the First Legion and pulled by two horses, to the courtyard gate. Lucian was there in the first chariot, and Altan nodded to him. “Let me offer you transport back to your house. The Hand and his wife shouldn’t have to walk alone on such a long and dark night.”
“It’s no trouble, Commander,” the Hand protested, but Altan saw the hopeful look in the woman’s eyes, though she said nothing. “It’s not far at all.”
“Lucian, my driver, will take the two of you and myself; my officers can take the other chariot down to the river. There’s room enough for a short trip. We can talk while we ride. Please, Hand. It’s no trouble at all.”
A look passed between husband and wife, a silent communication that Altan knew. That was something he and Lucian had as well. I can say nothing in the midst of battle, and he knows where I want him to go. And at night, as well. He knows me as no one else …
“Thank you, Commander,” the Hand said finally. “I appreciate the offer and your company.”
“Good,” Altan said. He gestured to Lucian, standing with the horse’s reins in his hand, and Lucian walked the chariot forward. Altan watched as Hand-wife Voada escorted her husband. She shook her head as Altan moved toward her, stepping easily into the chariot, then reaching down to Hand Paorach to help her husband up into the two-wheeled open car. She stayed with him until he had a firm grasp on the iron rail before she moved to the other side of the car. Altan climbed in after them, and Lucian, his muscular, lithe body dressed in plain soldier’s linen, leaped up onto the traces with the reins still in his hand. Standing easily on the knotted webbing there, he flicked the reins against the backs of the twin warhorses; they started forward, the chariot bouncing softly over the wide cobbles of the road.
Altan looked toward the Hand as they moved slowly down the hill. From this vantage point, he could see the lamplights of the village and the torches along the quay, as well as the fires of the encampment across the river. “We’ve learned much about chariots from your people,” he said. “The way you hang the axle, the leather suspension, the knots you use to attach the car, the harness to yoke the horses, the iron rims for the wheels—quite honestly, those are all improvements over the old Mundoan war chariots that I first used. Much better for riding over rough terrain. Easier on the joints, and on the teeth as well.” He laughed; the Hand smiled in return, though the Hand-wife didn’t join him.
“Do you always learn so much from your enemies?” Voada asked him. Her tone held a challenge but stopped short of open insult. Even the first time he’d heard her speak, when he’d passed the Hand’s house early in the day, he’d found her voice lower than he’d expected, throaty and strong, her Mundoan touched more heavily with the Cateni inflection than that of her husband, who spoke Mundoan with very little accent. He remembered that before the banquet, Voice-wife Dilara had disparagingly whispered to him that Hand-wife Voada was “half sow and half draoi, dragging down the Hand.”
Instead, he thought that Voada supported the Hand well. Both literally and figuratively. “An officer who doesn’t appreciate the skill of his enemy is nothing more than a fool, Hand-wife, and usually dies quickly,” Altan answered Voada now. “To be honest, I admire the Cateni quite a bit, and I would never underestimate their abilities.”
“But you’ll kill …” She paused momentarily and gave heavy emphasis to the next word. “ … them while admiring them.” Altan wondered if the word she’d intended to use was “us.”
“An officer who doesn’t obey his emperor’s wishes is even more a fool.” He lowered his voice to a whisper that the sound of the wheels against the cobbles nearly obscured. “And even more quickly dead.” Then, more loudly: “I’m a soldier, Hand-wife, a mere weapon in the emperor’s hand. Nothing more. I do as I’m asked by my superiors to the best of my ability. That’s my honor-bound duty.” Lucian pulled the horses to the middle of the road as they approached the Hand’s dwelling. “But I also don’t consider all Cateni to be my enemies, regardless of the Voice’s implication. Even a soldier might prefer peace to war. Especially a soldier.”
They were both silent at that. He let the silence endure until they were at the gates of the Hand’s estate, where Lucian pulled the horses to a halt. He saw servants with lanterns hurrying toward them from the courtyard as his officers in the other chariot halted behind them. Hand-wife Voada jumped down easily from the car. He noticed that she extended no obvious hand to her husband but stood solidly beside the chariot as he eased himself down, his hand on her shoulder.
“Thank you, Commander,” the Hand said. “I hope you have a good night, and I’ll meet you in the morning to make arrangements for supplies and ships.”
Altan nodded. He inclined his head toward Lucian. “I’ll send Lucian here to pick you up three turns of the glass after dawn so we can begin.”
“You needn’t take the trouble. I’ll walk down to the quay and have someone ferry me over.”
“No,” Altan answered, then realized he sounded like he was snapping an order to one of his men. “The Hand of Pencraig shouldn’t have to exert himself when he’s doing me such a great favor with his help. I insist.”
Again that look passed between Hand and Hand-wife as their servant opened the gates for them. An old dog wandered out of the estate’s gate and sat at the Hand’s feet, and he absently ruffled the animal’s ears. “Then I’ll await Lucian in the morning.”
“Excellent. Hand, Hand-wife, I wish you a good rest, and I thank you for the evening.” Altan gave them a brief salute as they both bowed, then nodded—with a quick smile—to Lucian.
Iron clashing against stone, they rode on toward the glimmering fires across the river.
6
Passage
FOUR DAYS LATER, the encampment across the river vanished, leaving behind trampled grass, mud, and ruts in its place. The bulk of the army, according to the rumors coming back to Pencraig, was proceeding northward to the bridge over the River Meadham at Muras and into Albann Bràghad, but Commander Savas had commandeered several fishing vessels as troop-carriers. Those had sailed down the River Yarrow to its confluence with the great River Meadham, accompanied by Mundoan warships. From what Meir had told Voada in the dark quiet of their bed, Savas would sail onto the Western Sea and northward along the coast to Onglse. The land forces of the army would continue overland to the same island to surround and besiege the draoi’s island fastness from across the narrow strait that separated it from the Albann Bràghad.
Voada wondered how the draoi and the warriors of the northern clans could possibly resist a force as large as that commanded by Savas. It seemed impossible.
She had little time to worry over such distant events. Meir’s efforts to help Commander Savas over the days after the banquet had exhausted him. Archiater Boann, whom Voada had brought to the house, had ordered him to his bed, then sent Voada out of the room while she examined him. Now Voada and Boann sat in the courtyard under a sky that threatened rain at any moment. The sky matched Voada’s mood.
Boann sipped at the wine the servants had brought them, then put the goblet down on the table alongside her chair. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself and regarded Voada with solemn eyes without saying anything, though her gaze held a statement that Voada couldn’t escape.
“No …” The denial sounded more like a moan as it emerged from Voada’s mouth.
Boann’s regard softened but remained unblinking on Voada. “We all have our time,” the old woman answered. “This is his.”
“No,” Voada said again, more firmly this time. She shook her head. “I won’t allow that.”
“Even the draoi of old, for all that they could reputedly do, never had that kind of power. She”—her voice gave the word a resonant emphasis—“doesn’t permit
that. Power over death is reserved for the gods.”
“How long … ?” Voada couldn’t finish the sentence, but Boann shrugged under her cloak.
“A hand of days. Or less. A day. Tonight. Any moment. Only Goddess Elia knows.” The mention of that name made Voada look guiltily around to see if anyone had overheard her, but none of the servants could be seen.
“What will I do? Afterward?”
Boann sighed. “Only you can answer that. But his time isn’t yours; I see that much.”
“There’s nothing else you can do?” Voada pleaded. Boann remained silent, and Voada took in a breath that broke into a sob. She made herself to take in another, calmer breath, forcing down the grief that threatened her. “I thank you, Archiater, for all you’ve done. Your potion … He was breathing much better, and I thought … I hoped …”
Boann bent toward Voada, her hand closing on top of Voada’s. “Hand-wife, you know better than most that your husband’s is a journey all Cateni eventually take. One day, at the end of the sun-path, it may be that Elia will bring the two of you together again, at least until it’s your time to return. I know that what I’m saying means little at the moment, but take what comfort you can in that thought.”
“Thank you,” Voada managed to say through the emotion clogging her throat. Boann tightened her skeletal fingers against Voada’s once, then stood with a grunt.
“Go to him,” the archiater said. “He was asking for you.”
Voada nodded. With a hush of leather sandals against marble, the archiater left the courtyard, one of the servants rushing from the shadows to open the road gate for her. Voada rose with a last glance at the lowering sky and went into the house. She could feel the gazes of the house staff on her, silent and sympathetic, as she passed them. At the door of their bedroom, she paused, looking in.
A Fading Sun Page 6