Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1

by Daniel J. Rothery

  Gallord-Smit cleaned and dressed himself, then stood for a moment before the door to his quarters, organizing his mind. His official duty of the day—or however long the negotiations lasted—was overseeing the Lordsguard in protecting Lord Perrile, but he knew that his responsibilities extended much further. The lord was a capable administrator, but the air of superiority he exuded was not an illusion; he truly saw himself as the better of most men. Certainly he would show proper respect if confronted with the Overlord, or perhaps even the High Chancellor, but Sherzi? In Lord Perrile’s eyes, he was a military man, and therefore his inferior. It was Gallord-Smit’s obligation—no, challenge—to prevent the lord from insulting the Commander-General and starting a war.

  All of this, of course, assumed that Sherzi didn’t want a war anyway, or that the High Chancellor was prepared to intervene to prevent one.

  Nodding to himself, Gallord-Smit opened the door decisively and stepped into the hall. Two Lordsguard were outside his door, one facing him and the other standing beside the door, as they should be.

  “Good morning, Front-Captain!” they said in unison, straightening sharply.

  “Good morning, men,” he replied, then he marched down the hallway toward Lord Perrile’s guest chambers, absently noting the two Lordsguard falling in behind him. The lord was no doubt waiting impatiently, having already finished a decadent morning meal provided him by the Overlord’s kitchens. It was expected that visiting dignitaries be treated with respect equal to the highest ranking members of the host society; excepting Yalcin Rex himself, of course. Gallord-Smit had been offered luxurious chambers as well but had declined, insisting on simpler officer’s quarters; he expected to have enough trouble sleeping without having to be surrounded by ridiculous opulence and be constantly harried by servants.

  Gallord-Smit rounded the corner of the hallway nearest Lord Perrile’s chambers, and a chill ran up his spine—the Lordsguard were not in the hall outside the lord chambers.

  Lordsguard did not leave their posts unless commanded to by their ranking officer—Gallord-Smit—or if their charge was in danger.

  The Lordsguard behind him had already, to their credit, realized the situation; they were passing him, heading for the door. When they reached it, drawing their short, wide-bladed lakat, they glanced back at him.

  “Door,” Gallord-Smit commanded calmly, drawing his own sword.

  The two Lordsguard knew their strengths; the man on the left, larger and broader of the two, stepped back and slammed forward with all his weight, pulling down the latch as he did. The other man, of average height and lean of musculature, lunged and thrust his sword over the first soldier’s shoulder as the door broke open.

  The sound of crossbows snapping would have come too late to save Gallord-Smit, had he been the target. He dropped and dove forward into a shoulder roll nonetheless, training ingrained.

  The best defense against missile fire at close range was to charge; crossbows took time to load, assuming they weren’t revolvers. Smoothly emerging from his roll, Gallord-Smit located his first target precisely where he anticipated; three paces from the door, one pace left. He extended a narrow posture and ran the man through—a Somrian soldier—just as he realized with chagrin that the enemy’s weapon was indeed a revolver.

  The impaled man’s second shot went wide; the very reason narrow thrusting postures were taught against a missile weapon. Gallord-Smit didn’t have time to enjoy his perfect execution, though. He heard the second revolver fire in the same instant he felt the bolt enter his right side.

  A veteran of mortal hand-to-hand combat didn’t feel pain while fighting; he evaluated his injuries and chose the most viable response—pain came later. The bolt had struck his right side; that was lucky, with his spine having been exposed. He could probably counter, but striking with the right hand was out.

  Gallord-Smit screamed in partly-feigned agony, twisting to his right and dropping his sword. He had enough time for a glance at the second attacker, who was just starting to smile, when he caught the sword with his left hand, grip reversed, and continued the move—the sword master who taught it to him called it turning like a river lizard. It was a last-ditch technique, he had been taught, best used only when one expected to die anyway.

  There would be no look of surprise until the blow struck home, his body blocking the enemy’s view of his lakat. He came fully around—no halting the move, either, with no view of his opponent as he turned—and felt the sword bite.

  The man dropped, Gallord-Smit’s sword jammed in his neck.

  He looked around, holding his right elbow tight against the bolt in his side to stay the bleeding, a bit at least.

  “Well fought,” a tall, dark man said. His aura of authority was immediately evident to Gallord-Smit, who had served under such men all his life, and a vague resemblance to Arad identified him. The sword at his hip, undrawn, demonstrated his trust in the men at either of his sides.

  They held unadorned metal clubs. If Gallord-Smit’s sword had not been buried in the marksman’s neck, and if he hadn’t a bolt in his right side, he judged he could have taken them, assuming the Commander-General himself did not draw. That seemed unlikely, regardless—the man was clearly a fighting officer, like himself.

  Why clubs?

  “You will surrender or die,” Sherzi said calmly.

  Gallord-Smit was raging inside, but his head was also fuzzy. “Lord Perrile?” he asked, matching Sherzi’s demeanour.

  The Commander-General betrayed the slightest smile; appreciation for an officer intent on his duty at all costs. “Alive,” he replied. “He will be ransomed.”

  Gallord-Smit nodded. “Surrender,” he said, straightening as best he could.

  The exhilaration of combat slipping from him, his vision was already beginning to go red when the Somrian guard stepped toward him.

  A light flashed, and the pain was gone.

  14 SAYRI

  Arad was up first; he always was. During the perilous time of her flight Sayri had slept and risen with the sun, but since being freed she had taken to the habit of sleeping in as much as she could. It was, she knew, a simple luxury that she demanded of herself, a sort of compensation for the many moons she had lived with stress and fear as constant companions.

  Rolling over on the sleeping platform, she saw Arad standing at the window looking out on the city, which no doubt was already awake and bustling; in fact, she could now hear the crowds on the street, a constant buzz that had filled the air since their arrival, only dying down for the night well after dark.

  Arad was wearing a skirt over his loin cloth. He had adopted the strange local style immediately upon arrival, to Sayri’s amusement. He rolled his eyes at her giggling, but actually she liked the skirt; it afforded her a clear view of his muscular legs, which was worth having him don the strange outfit. Still, the previous day she had often found herself looking away from men wearing skirts to hide her involuntarily smirk, even from Arad when he first he put one on.

  Sayri stood, smoothing down her shift, and went silently over to Arad. His head twitched as she drew near (like most city-dwellers his awareness was horrible, and he was constantly startled to find Sayri unexpectedly near him). Giggling softly at her own mischievousness, she wrapped her arms around his chest and pressed her cheek to his shoulder.

  “Are you soaking in the warmth of your home crowds, young man?” she asked, playfully adopting a formal tone. His back was warm, and Sayri nuzzled it.

  “It is so, young lady,” he replied in his strange accent.

  No, I’m the one with the strange accent, she corrected herself. She would have to make an effort to remember that, and speak clearly to help the locals understand her. Arad had told her that her inflections had been particularly difficult for him to understand at first; the countryside habit of dropping diphthongs was, apparently, nearly impossible for foreigners to follow. Even in Benn’s Harbour Sayri had occasionally encountered locals who had trouble comprehending her, and
she had begun to emulate the local modes of speech when she became paranoid that her accent would identify her as from the Lower Valley.

  “I have an idea, my beautiful young wrestler,” she said.

  Arad laughed. “Krakari,” he corrected, as he always did.

  “Krakari,” Sayri agreed, smiling into the back of his shoulder. He was very proud of his training and accomplishments, and quick to point out the differences between the two words. Sayri still used the incorrect term, just to tease him.

  “What is your idea, my love?” Arad asked.

  Sayri breathed into his back, a wave of warmth flushing through her when she heard the words. Arad had started occasionally calling her that after the first tenday on the boat, and it never failed to curl her toes with joy. She caught herself making a little squeak and squeezed him tighter; he chuckled.

  “I have concluded that the negotiations today will do well without you, and we should head up into the hills and make our escape,” she announced.

  Arad laughed, pulling her hands apart and turning to face her. He took her around the waist and lifted her into the air, her body pressed against his chest. “That’s a better idea than you know,” he replied, kissing her neck.

  “Well then,” Sayri said. Arad put her down, and she took his face on her hands and studied him. “My beautiful man,” she repeated, then closed her eyes and kissed him softly on the lips.

  Arad began to flex his back muscles as he kissed her; he did that when she kissed him passionately, and she knew it meant that he was holding back his intense desire. He was a man, she knew, of severe passions. There had been ample opportunity for him to attempt to seduce her on their journey, and she was not entirely certain she would have succeeded in resisting if he had. She wasn’t aware of the traditions in Somria, but Arad had been completely respectful when Sayri explained the necessity of introducing him to her parents for approval before being intimate, and he demonstrated that respect with his restraint.

  She was about to toy with that restraint when a knock sounded at the door.

  “I guess it is time to prepare,” Arad said, disengaging from her.

  “So early?” Sayri asked, frowning. “I thought they were to wait until mid morning.”

  “No doubt they have come to inform me of the day’s schedule.” He strode to the door, taking his vest off the table beside the sleeping platform and pulling it on as he went. Fastening the hooks, he glanced back at Sayri, still standing at the window in her shift, her arms across her chest.

  He smiled, shaking his head; Sayri knew it was due to her lack of inhibition wearing her shift. For some reason, though the local women wore dresses and shirts that displayed their bosoms almost to the point of bursting out, they were deathly embarrassed to be seen in their sleeping wear. Sayri didn’t understand why, since her sleeping shift covered much more than their midday clothing. It was a local custom she refused to adopt. She shrugged at Arad, grinning.

  His smile grew to a laugh, as he pushed down the latch and opened the door.

  There were two Somrian warders at the door; Arad frowned on seeing them instead of the two Lordsguard that had been assigned to him. “What’s this about?” he asked.

  The warders stepped aside for their officer, he was an older man, thick in the middle and balding, with a smoothly shaved squarish chin, cleft down the middle. “Kirizal Sherzi El, Arad, I am Precept Farhad Sarnum El, Karth. I am here to escort you to the North Garrison.”

  “North Garrison? Why? Has the meeting been moved?” Arad glanced quickly back at Sayri; his face registered alarm.

  Sayri moved to the sleeping platform, picked up her dress, and began to pull it on.

  “You are under orders of the Commander-General, soldier,” the Precept said. “Prepare your kit.”

  “I am no longer a soldier of the Somrian army,” Arad answered cautiously, backing away.

  Sayri had her dress on, and began to unconsciously attach the leather straps that snugged her legs into makeshift breeches. She hadn’t worn her dress that way since the time of her flight, even before arriving at Benn’s Harbour, but for some reason it seemed the right thing to do.

  “Command-General’s orders,” the Precept repeated flatly.

  “I am an envoy of the Lords’ Lands, here as personal aide to Lord Perrile,” Arad said slowly. “You have no authority over me unless I violate Somrian law.”

  “Your Captain has been placed under arrest for attempted assassination, and Lord Perrile for espionage,” the Precept said, as though he was reciting a speech before the Overlord’s tribunal. “You are suspected as an accomplice, but the Commander-General would deal with you personally.”

  “Arad—” Sayri began, but he waved her silent with a hand behind his back.

  “If I refuse to cooperate?” Arad asked. Sayri noticed that his cautious retreat had taken him within two paces of a bronze lamp that stood on a long wooden pole near the wall. It would make an effective weapon in skilled hands.

  The Precept motioned with his left hand, and two more warders stepped into view, holding some sort of mechanical crossbows in their hands, pointed at Arad.

  “The girl could be caught in accidental fire,” the Precept replied, staring Arad down. Sayri caught his implication; it was undeniably a threat.

  Arad nodded slowly. He turned to Sayri. “Sayri, take the coin and find passage to the North Garrison. In the barracks you’ll find an unarmed instructor named Win Wal; his wife is Ooji. Tell them what happened,” he said.

  The Somrian warders entered the room, and came up behind Arad, taking him by the upper arms. He didn’t resist.

  “Arad,” Sayri said desperately; she was pleading him, but she knew it was out of his control.

  “It’s all right, Sayri,” he reassured. They were turning him toward the door. “My father has no use for me. He just wants to flex his authority and show me who is in charge.”

  Sayri wanted to run to him, but they were escorting him out the door before she could move. Instead she just stood by the sleeping platform, her hands at her sides, powerless. “I will be there, Arad,” she said finally.

  “Win Wal and Ooji,” Arad called from the hallway. She couldn’t see him anymore. “Don’t forget, Sayri. Find them!”

  They pulled him down the corridor, the two men with crossbows leaving last. One of them winked at her before turning way with a smile. She heard them tromping down the stairway, then the heavy door at the base of the stairs slammed shut.

  She was alone again.

  ・

  Sayri stood there for a long time, waiting for her heart to stop pounding in her ears. It had happened so quickly, and had been so close to erupting into a battle. She had been standing there trying to recompose herself for a hundred heartbeats before she even realized that her knife was in her hand. When she did, she looked down at it with dismay; surely the warders had noticed the knife, but it hadn’t even concerned them. It made her feel even more powerless.

  She placed the knife back in her belt sheath. It snapped into place with the reassuring click that had taken her a moon to achieve before arriving at Benn’s Harbour; even in the city she had kept it available at all times, if hidden. Arad had told her she wouldn’t need it anymore, that her troubled times were over, but she had kept it anyway. Somehow, however safe she felt in his arms, a part of her didn’t believe it was over; now she knew that her intuition had been accurate.

  She had her knife, and her dress was tied up as breeches. She dug to the bottom of the trunk that Gallord-Smit had provided for their personal items, and pulled out her leather vest. She hadn’t worn that since being on the run, either; it had been cleaned, but was so sun-bleached that the green colour was nearly lost. She put it on and laced it, then quietly closed the trunk.

  There was no doubt in her mind what she intended to do. Arad had given her the names of people she could trust. She would not abandon him. She would go to the North Garrison, find Win Wal and Ooji, and figure out how to get Arad bac
k.

  The first step is to get out of here and find a caravan, she thought as she took the purse from the table, counted out the coins it held, then replaced them and tucked the purse safely inside her vest between her breasts.

  She had steeled herself for the crowds on the street, but her preparations were not adequate. Making her way out of the visitor apartments of the Overlord’s palace had been a harrowing experience in itself; with the possibility of being arrested, she didn’t dare ask for directions. Instead, she quietly found her way, ending up at dead ends several times before arriving at an exit and crossing to the main gate. She had not seen any Lordsguard along the way; that concerned her as well. There was a moment of panic at the front gate when a guardsman asked her what business she was off to, but in a moment she had realized that he didn’t wish to arrest her, but rather flirt with her. A quick shake of the head with averted eyes and a shy smile, and she was out the gate.

  Now she stood on the side of the street with a constant flow of traffic before her; people, carts, wagons, beasts . . . before Arad had taken her up in the cart, she had been unable to move for fear of being trampled. How could she make her way through this torrent alone?

  Just go, she told herself in a decisive moment, and stepped away from the gate.

  She bumped into a man immediately, tall, bald, and fat bellied, with a short skirt revealing thick thighs covered in hair. He seems more surprised than she was. She muttered an apology and stepped back to allow him to pass, then lunged out again on his heels, and she was in the flow.

  Walking with the crowd, she realized that it was far simpler than she had imagined; move with the flow, not against, and match their speed. Occasionally someone bumped her from behind as they moved past, walking faster than her. No apology was uttered; it was as if she had been an obstacle rather than a person. Once, she came upon a wagon carrying a heavy load of brown sacks, probably grain, being pulled by a single beast. It was very slow, and everyone else swept around it, but Sayri didn’t see it in time and became trapped behind it. With one hand on the corner of the wagon, she waited until there was a break in the crowd—a tiny break, but she was getting the hang of this—then lunged back out and joined the faster movers.