9780981988238

by Leona Wisoker

“Politics,” the ishrait said. “You are, as I understand it, in a unique position: King's Emissary, proxy holder to Scratha lands, and sent with a hask and a sheth-hinn as advisor and protector. You own two ugren slaves, one of whom may upset a very delicate balance in the southlands. You're under the protection of a thass, but the teyanain are hunting you in defiance of that protection.”

  “Pardon, ishrait,” Alyea said, “I don't know most of those terms. I can't fully understand what you're saying.”

  “Sheth-hinn is an assassin,” the ishrait said.

  That had to be Micru. “What about—”

  “Thass,” the woman said, cutting her off, “is a person with great status, beyond even noble rank. It is not your king,” she added, seeing the expression on Alyea's face. “Your king has little status in the southlands. I have been asked not to tell you the name of your thass just yet.” Alyea reflexively began sorting through names that might suit. Chac? But Juric had spoken of him with utter contempt. Or had it been Chac Juric referred to, after all? What if one of her guards was actually the mysterious hask?

  The ishrait smiled, as though sensing Alyea's confusion, then went on, “When your thass asked to bring you here to be tested, it alarmed me deeply. The involvement of the teyanain only makes matters worse. You put us all in danger, s'a Alyea. This is not a good place for you to be.” She glanced at the pool with a frown and seemed to hold herself back from saying more.

  Alyea shook her head slowly, then stopped, afraid the ishrait would see it as rejection. A question finally came clear, and Alyea worded it with care: “Will shorter tests be open to political challenges?”

  The ishrait sighed. “No,” she said. “That's part of my concern, s'a. The reason the tests take so long is that they involve instruction to prepare the supplicant for the trial. You are having the trials without any preparation. You cannot imagine how dangerous that is, especially for the trial of Ishrai. I am astounded that Juric granted you the mark of Comos. I know Juric; he would not have granted you more than one mistake. Most supplicants are given three, even after months of preparation, but Juric is a very hard man.”

  Alyea felt a sharp chill run down her spine. “He told me that by giving me a second chance he was giving more than most Callen,” she said. “Were those his exact words?”

  Alyea thought back. “ 'I will give you a second chance, which others would not.' "

  “Callen are allowed to lie during the blood trials,” the ishrait said. “But he must like you. He only twisted his words. It would have been kinder for him to say 'I will only grant you one mistake, where most give three; be warned.' But that is not Juric's way, especially with a woman. He has served Comos for many years, and he does try to be fair, but he was raised Shakain and has not totally lost that bias.”

  “Or his love for cactus peppers?”

  The ishrait's smile returned. “Every time I see him, we hold a contest to see who can eat the most cactus pepper before reaching for tea. I am not Shakain, but I come from a village near the Haunted Lands, and their spices are far bolder than in Shakai. Juric was not always a Callen, and neither was I; we traveled together for many years, and he still comes by whenever he can. It is very likely he volunteered to test you so that he could come see me.”

  “I thought. . . .” Alyea started, then bit her tongue.

  The woman seemed to understand. “Eunuch? Of course,” she said. “But that does not stop a friendship, does it?”

  “I'm sorry, ishrait,” Alyea said. “That was rude.”

  “It's a common reaction from northerns,” the ishrait said. “We believe the choice to give up that part of life is a powerful decision. Anyone strong enough to do that, for whatever reason, should be respected and honored, not mocked as a weakling as northerns do.”

  Alyea thought of the fat, sour old eunuchs she'd seen in the courts all her life, and the spare, vibrant energy of Juric, and had to agree a vast difference lay between the two.

  The ishrait drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, closing her eyes while she exhaled. “S'a Alyea, Juric no doubt told you that once you begin the blood trials, you cannot stop. That was truth. I should not tell you this, because the decision should come from the soul, not the mind, but there are two exceptions he would not have mentioned. One, you may break from the trials by swearing service to one of the three gods as a Callen. Callen renounce all claims in the world; family, status, bloodline, political power . . . slaves . . . lovers. We are removed from all debts and dishonors, and nobody can lay hand on us for past actions. Once we go into the world again, of course, we are held accountable for actions from that point on; but anything prior to the oath is gone as if it never happened. Not even the teyanain would dare breach that beginning neutrality.”

  Acana paused, watching Alyea's face closely, then went on, “The other option is to volunteer to participate in another supplicant's blood trial. That is considered a holy service and frees the volunteer from all previous commitments and challenges, wiping your past clean just like the first option. But the decision to accept a volunteer rests with the Callen administering the trial, and you may only volunteer once in your entire life; so if the Callen rejects your offered service you cannot try elsewhere. I do not recommend you take that option. But it is your life, and your choice. I cannot advise you further on the matter.”

  The ishrait dropped her gaze to her linked hands, a faint crease across her forehead, and waited for a reply.

  Alyea considered, looking at the issue from as many angles as she could think of. Distilled to bluntness, what the woman had said was: You're racing against death. I don't think you're going to win. Here's a way out.

  Juric's words came back to her: The test of Comos is a test to see if you can set your own welfare aside for the larger good. What would happen to Halla, Sela, and Gria if she abandoned her responsibility to them because she feared for her own life? What about the trust placed in her by the king? What would happen to Scratha Fortress and lands, if the representative sent to hold them walked away from that position?

  “I thank you, ishrait,” Alyea said finally, “but I won't do that. I won't turn away from the people that are looking to me to carry this through. I won't turn away from myself. If I die through the trials or through the teyanain, at least I'll die with honor.”

  The ishrait looked up again, a broad smile appearing. “Now I do believe you passed Juric's test without flinching,” she said. “I will allow you to take the blood trial of Ishrai.”

  Alyea hadn't expected that; but looking back over what Juric had said, and untangling his words, she understood. Not all supplicants are accepted. But he hadn't told her, directly, that each and every Callen had to accept her individually.

  She shut her eyes and swallowed hard, realizing what a fine edge she'd been walking; then wondered how many lies the woman had just told her.

  Callen are allowed to lie during the blood trials.

  She'd have to watch the ishrait very carefully.

  “Come,” the ishrait said, swinging her legs off the bench and standing. “I will prepare you for the trial.”

  * * *

  Chapter Fifteen

  The house with the blue roof had a matching blue door, and the small yard around it looked neat and tidily kept. Several large pots of herbs and vegetables stood in the sunniest parts of the yard. For some reason, Red frowned when he saw that, and checked his step.

  “The rose bush is gone,” he said under his breath, looking around. The door opened just then, and a tall, heavy-set woman came out, carrying a small bowl and a knife.

  “Good day,” she said amiably, then squinted at Red. “Do I know you, s'e?”

  Afraid the man was about to bolt, Idisio elbowed him lightly in the side. It seemed to break Red out of his paralysis.

  “Ah . . . I'm looking for Yhaine,” he said hoarsely.

  The woman's stillness warned Idisio of trouble before she spoke.

  “I'm sorry, s'e,” she said. “Yhaine died year
s ago.”

  “And . . . and her son?” Red said in a near-whisper. “The boy?”

  The woman came a few steps closer, studying him. “I remember you now. You're that sailor she was fond of for a time. I'm her older sister Filhane.”

  Red nodded. His expression held a heartbreaking mix of dread and hope. “The boy, s'a?”

  “Why do you ask?” the woman said, cocking her head to one side, a hard light in her eyes now. “You think you're the father? Bit late in the day to come knocking, isn't it?”

  Red began to shift his weight back, as if readying himself to retreat. Idisio kicked his ankle and said loudly, “He only just found out, s'a. Have some mercy, would you?”

  The sailor looked lost and bewildered at the unexpected support. Filhane transferred her hard-eyed stare to Idisio, who glared back with every ounce of street-thief gall he could muster.

  “He only just found out,” Idisio repeated, more softly. “Look at his face, s'a, if you doubt his sincerity.”

  Filhane took a long look at Red, then sighed. “I'm sorry,” she said. “Listen to me then, sailor: you may have bedded my sister, but I doubt you knew her. Let go of the romantic memory I can see in your eyes. She wasn't like that at all.”

  Red frowned and opened his mouth to speak; Filhane held up a hand and went on. “She was sweet, when she wanted something. And mean as a roused micru when she was denied. She actually did like you; that's why I remember you. But I'll bet you never saw her mean streak, or the esthit she used.”

  “That must have been after. . . .” Red began.

  “No,” Filhane said. “She started using esthit when she was ten. I couldn't stop her. Nobody could. Our father beat her time after time after time and couldn't make her stop. I begged and pleaded and screamed at her. Nothing worked. I'll guarantee that every time you saw her, she was lost on dream-dust.”

  Red began to look angry now, sullen, as if he wanted to argue. Filhane didn't give him a chance.

  “Here's something else for you, to take the shine off that romantic memory of yours: you weren't the only man she was bedding back then,” she went on remorselessly. “Don't look like that. Did you hold faithful to her, when you were in another port?”

  Red opened his mouth, shut it again, then looked at the ground, a deep flush beginning to crawl up his neck.

  “I didn't think so,” Filhane said. “Believe me, sailor, as much as you don't want to hear this, I wish I didn't have to say it more. But my sister was a whore, and addicted to esthit, and no amount of wishing will make it different.”

  Red took a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck with one large hand. “Thank you, s'a. That's a good hard lesson you've handed me. I'll leave you in peace.”

  “Wait,” Idisio said, grabbing the man's arm hard, just below the elbow, as Red began to turn away. “The boy. What about her son?”

  “He's likely not even mine,” Red said bleakly. “I was a fool to think that.”

  “Now that I don't know,” Filhane said. “What made you think he was yours in the first place?”

  Idisio tightened his grip; after a moment, Red said, thickly, “The man who told me of the boy said the child had red hair.”

  “Red hair?” The woman's eyebrows rose. “He's seen the child, then. I never did. Yhaine was out of the house and living with another man by the time her pregnancy was showing. There was enough bad feeling between us by then that we never saw the child; it took me months to get word of her death. I always thought the child must have died stillborn, as there was no word of it to be found.”

  Red stood very still. Idisio, glancing up at the sailor, saw a mad glitter surfacing in the blue eyes.

  “He's seen the child,” Red repeated softly under his breath. Idisio doubted the man had heard much past that point. “Living with another man.”

  “If the child has red hair,” Filhane said, “it may well be yours, after all. There aren't many redheaded sailors come through this port, and you're the only one I can remember my sister taking up with during that time. I'd track down that man she was living with, to find out what happened.”

  “I'll do that,” Red said. “Do you know his name?”

  Filhane frowned, thinking for a moment. “Something like Ikle or Itckl.”

  “Iticali?” Red said.

  “Yes, that was the name,” Filhane said. “You know him?”

  “That,” Red said through his teeth, “is the old friend who told me about the boy.” His hands clenched into fists.

  Filhane retreated a cautious step. “I don't know much else,” she said. “I think Iticali was in the service of some desert lord at the time. Perhaps he placed the child with his lord's family.”

  “Which lord?” Red said.

  “I don't know, sailor,” Filhane said. “I have no more answers for you, but I do have work to do. Please, take your righteous anger elsewhere; I've no time or help for it. I gave up on being angry about my sister years ago.”

  Red turned without a word and walked out of the small yard; and this time, Idisio made no move to stop him.

  “Boy,” Filhane called as he turned to follow the sailor.

  Idisio paused, casting an inquiring look over his shoulder.

  “If you do find the child . . . send me word?”

  Idisio nodded, not trusting his voice, and ran to catch up with the fastmoving sailor.

  “Not our problem,” Cafad Scratha said, some hours later. “Absolutely not. Don't even think about it this time, Idisio. We've enough problems as it is. Don't add a randy northern sailor to the pile.”

  “But—” Idisio started.

  “No,” Scratha said. “He'll have to find his own answers.” “You're a desert lord, though,” Idisio said, persistent against Scratha's gathering scowl. “You could get answers he couldn't.”

  “I swore I wouldn't hit you again,” Scratha said through his teeth.

  “Don't make me break that promise. Let it go, Idisio. You don't know what you're asking.”

  “Then tell me,” Idisio said. “How am I any good to you if you have to protect me from my ignorance?”

  They matched glares; then Scratha sighed.

  “I should have left you in the streets,” he said, without any real force. “Asking for anything, whether it be favors, goods, or information, carries

  a price in the southlands. I don't want to be indebted to someone for the sake of a foolish northern sailor.”

  Idisio breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The strangeness had left his lord for the moment, the dark track of his thoughts diverted to something less important. And this language he understood; the street thieves of Bright Bay operated in much the same way.

  “I'll pay it,” he said.

  Scratha stared at him. “You can't. You have nothing to pay with, Idisio. It's a generous offer, but it's not possible.”

  “I can,” Idisio said, sure of himself now. “What kind of things would another lord ask for?”

  “It could be anything,” Scratha said. “And it's not the lords that you need to worry about; it's the hirelings and mercenaries. Some of them are. . . not kind. Idisio, no. Let this northern find his own answers.” “What's the worst thing they could ask for?” Idisio pressed. “What's the worst you've ever heard of being asked in exchange for this kind of information? It's pretty trivial, isn't it, asking after a lost child?” Scratha drew a deep breath and shut his eyes. “You don't want to know.”

  “I do.”

  “You don't,” Scratha said without opening his eyes. “It's foul.” Idisio waited, not speaking, until his lord finally looked at him, then said, in as emotionless a voice as he could, “I've probably done it already, whatever it is. That's part of growing up in the streets.”

  Scratha stared at him, looking horrified.

  “The people that raised me didn't give free handouts,” Idisio said. “They wanted a profit out of their effort. That's how it is. That's why I jumped at the chance to go with you.” He paused, drew a deep breath, and fo
rced his tone to become flat and hard. “If you don't help Red, I'll go asking myself.”

  “No,” Scratha said, and it was an order, carrying an unspoken threat that Idisio would be lucky to escape with bruises if he disobeyed. Idisio swallowed hard and threw his last die, praying his hunch about Scratha's one vulnerability turned out to be right. “I used to dream, at night, that my father would come find me,” he

  said. His voice wouldn't obey him; it wavered and stuck. At least he wasn't crying. “I used to think one day, everything would be all right, it would all turn out to be a bad dream or a mistake. Someone would rescue me. But nobody ever did, my lord; I pulled myself out on your tail, and you were kind enough to let me. Not everyone is that lucky.” Scratha started to speak, stopped, swallowed hard, and said, “There's nothing saying he's on the streets, Idisio.”