Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1

by Daniel J. Rothery

  Sayri was tempted to move upstairs and determine the nature of the disturbance, but she quickly realized that with her failure to grasp the local speech she would be unable to understand in any case. Instead she listened carefully from where she sat and tried to pick out what she could from the conversation.

  It was mostly profanity, she quickly concluded. The local obscenities were different from back home, but focused on the same subjects; sex and degeneration. She often wondered why so many curses stemmed from the aging process. It was, after all, perfectly natural and inevitable. There were as many obscenities regarding old age as they were myths about peoples in ancient history living to incredible lifespans, making one wonder if there might be a connection between the two. Sayri was young enough that she hadn’t thought much on the subject, but she was still insightful enough to be curious. Sometimes she thought she might be what the superstitious called an old soul; she possessed a natural wisdom beyond her years, and a capacity to remain calm under extreme duress. There was also that . . . voice . . . in her head that seemed to speak up when she most needed it. Could that have been some sort of past life echo? If so, how could it have known what to do in the present?

  The curses were rising in volume, and most of the patrons were paying attention now. Sayri expected the proprietor to step in, but she only saw several of the serving women who were keeping a safe distance from to the disturbance. It occurred to Sayri that she had seen no warders nearby; of course there wouldn’t be any, with no town within a day’s ride. Who would keep the peace here? Warders hired by the halfway house? She hadn’t seen any. Suddenly she realized that it was entirely possible there weren’t any.

  If that man had decided to come over here and . . . there wouldn’t be anyone to stop him? Her heart began to pound, and she glanced around the room nervously, her hand dropping again to her knife.

  No seemed to be interested in her at the moment, however. The cursing had erupted into shouting, and the driver moved abruptly forward and out of sight. She heard the sounds of a struggle, then he reappeared—hurtling backward—and dropped over the railing, plummeting downwards. He struck the creature roasting on the spit, which collapsed with a crash and sent fatty juices splattering over all of the patrons seated nearby. The driver ended up in the fire pit, stunned; fortunately, a helpful bystander grabbed him by his leg and dragged him out. A few flames on his clothes were patted out quickly by other patrons—Sayri was shocked by the speed of their reactions, almost as if they expected it to happen.

  Meanwhile, a scuffle was continuing on the balcony above; apparently the fallen man wasn’t the only one interested in taking on the driver. Snarls of rage, muffled impacts and crashes of furniture could be heard, all out of Sayri’s line of sight. Several more men were heading up the stairs, and she saw some weapons being drawn, though only small clubs.

  A few patrons had decided they’d had enough and were heading out the door. Sayri agreed with their evaluation, and stood up to leave.

  Suddenly there was a man on her. He was huge, at least from her perspective, with bulging eyes and a nearly bald, wrinkled head. He seized her by the wrist and started pulling her toward the rear of the establishment, where tables were semi-separated from the main hall by wooden privacy panels.

  Sayri didn’t hesitate; she drew her belt knife and slashed at him viciously. The blow took him in the shoulder, and he cried out, releasing her. She turned and ran for the door.

  Halfway across the main room there was a hand on her shoulder turning her back. She spun and swiped with her blade again, but this time he was ready and caught her arm, stopping the blow. She saw blood running down his arm; she had cut him deeply.

  Then his fist came up in her face, and all went numb.

  Sayri woke up on her side, something pulling on her legs. A sudden jerk, and she felt cold; her dress had been pulled off. She rolled over, her head buzzing and blind in one eye. The big man was ripping at her vest now, thrashing her torso up and down and he tore the fastenings open.

  No! Not this—not again! Sayri clenched her fist and slammed it into the side of his jaw as hard as she could; she was surprised when he went suddenly limp. She tried to push him off, but she was still woozy and he was enormously heavy.

  She suddenly became aware of another person in the room, a tall, thin man with very dark skin. She reached out to implore for his help, then saw the laughter in his eyes.

  Standing over her head was a third man, older and grey, wearing a cooking apron stained with blood and animal fat. “Me think Grent ma’need some helps,” he said, his words barely comprehensible.

  The dark man laughed, and seemed about to move in. Then the weight on Sayri shifted again, and her assailant groaned, taking her by the throat. “Little boxwhore,” he swore, pulling her head up, then slamming it down on the floor. Sayri’s vision exploded in a shower of light.

  Then she was aware of hands tearing into her small clothes. Another set of cold hands was holding her wrists, and two sharp pains told her someone had stood on her ankles.

  “No,” she moaned, pointlessly, powerlessly. I’ll kill myself if this happens again. Then, as she felt his hands pulling off the last of her small clothes and exposing her completely, she spoke to her attacker. “Kill me,” she begged.

  That brought him pause, but only for a moment. “Ya offend me, boxwhore,” he said. “I na kill ya.” He was unbuckling his belt now, and pulling down his skirt. “I treat ya just well.”

  Where is the Voice now, when I most need it? Sayri thought to herself incongruously. “Where were you the last time I was raped?”

  “Wha’?” the cook laughed; he was holding her wrists. She didn’t realize she had spoken aloud, and saw disbelief in his eyes. “She gan’ crazy,” he said incredulously.

  “All tha betta’,” the man on top of her breathed into her ear. He was out of his skirt now, and pushed her legs wider apart.

  “Uhn,” the cook mumbled, and she heard him collapse on the floor. Her wrists came suddenly free, and the weight was off her ankles.

  Sayri’s lips drew back to expose her teeth in that instant, and rage enveloped her. She fiercely tore at the eyes of her assailant with her fingernails; as he pulled back, snarling and intending to strike at her, she bunched her other hand into a tight fist and slammed it into his throat as hard as she could. He rolled off her, choking, and she twisted to straddle him smoothly. One thumb went into his left eye and dug deep—he screamed in agony. She brought her other elbow up and smashed her fist down on his nose. It broke with a crunch, and she felt a sharp pain as something cut her knuckle; bone perhaps. She drew the fist back, her face slipping from rage into a wide-eyed calm, and struck again and again, her knuckles becoming bloody. Then she brought her entire weight over her right elbow and slammed it down into his throat. He stopped screaming and started gurgling.

  Sayri stood up, looking down on his mangled face between her legs. If his eyes had been open he would have witnessed her womanhood in all it’s glory, but he was incoherent now, and half conscious. She turned to her left, dropped her right knee sharply to the ground—through his neck. She felt something give way and twisted on it, then she stood back to watch him die.

  Suddenly she became aware that a battle was going on in front of her. The tall, dark man who had been standing on her feet was flailing out with frenzied punches at another man, who stood with his back to her. None of the punches were landing; the newcomer was deflecting them with what looked to be nearly effortless repositioning of his hands. Then, as the tall man paused in frustration for the briefest moment, the newcomer lashed out a kick to the inside of his knee, buckling it, and followed instantly with a hammer-like strike to the side of his face. The man crumpled.

  The cook, who had been standing on Sayri’s ankles, was now on the floor as well. He was rolling back and forth moaning and holding his shoulder, which was contorted oddly.

  The newcomer turned toward Sayri. She brought her fists up to defend herself—knowin
g full well she’d have no chance against him. He wasn’t looking at her, though, but at the ground before him; he said something that she didn’t understand, motioning at her body, and she realized that she was almost completely nude, with only her belt and torn-open vest partially concealing her upper body. She looked around but didn’t see her small clothes, though she found her dress on the floor. It was ripped in several places and would have to be replaced, but it was all she had, so she pulled it on; at least her lower half was concealed. As she did so, she felt something pulling across her neck; her coin purse. She drew it back across her chest. Somehow, in their eagerness to rape her, her attackers hadn’t noticed it.

  When her bottom half was covered, her benefactor raised his eyes to take in her exposed breasts. She blushed furiously, but pointedly did not cover herself. I won’t be a victim again, ever, she vowed, her hands held clenched at her sides, and examined the man who had assisted her.

  He was average height, and older than Arad; perhaps in his early 30’s. He was lean, and his orange sleeveless vest and black skirt revealed the bronze skin colour so common among sun-coloured Somrians. He had short, straight, black hair, with a thick nose and narrow lips that gave him a grim look, but his eyes were polite, perhaps kind, and he was not unpleasant to look upon.

  Not that Sayri noticed. She saw him only as another potential threat, and challenged him with her eyes, daring him to approach.

  He didn’t. “Ya bleedin’,” he said quietly, tapping his cheek.

  Sayri lifted her hand to her face, and it came away bloody. She felt a pain just below her eye.

  “I’d na think broke, but be wisdom na check,” he advised. “And clean,” he added.

  Sayri didn’t answer. There was commotion in the main room behind her, but it sounded as if the fight had ended. She searched the floor more diligently and located her ruined small clothes; she would have to do without. Noticing that the man was still openly enjoying the view of her exposed breasts; Sayri glared at him and attempted to do up her vest. The fastenings were mostly ruined; she managed to attach two, but would have to wear it hanging half open until she fixed the rest. Fine, she shrugged to herself. I’ll wear a torn dress and a vest that half exposes my breasts. Let any man try to point it out to me. She saw her belt knife on the floor and picked it up, placing it back into its sheath.

  Finally, she stopped moving about and stared at him. “Give me your name, young man,” she said, intending to not let her voice break; the words came out as a command.

  He raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise. “Dol Vi,” he replied with a nod of the head, touching his chest with an open hand. It sounded like two words.

  “Thank you, Dol Vi,” she said, her eyes drifting humbly downward. No! She snapped her eyes back up and held his gaze sharply. Not a victim. “Thank you helping me.” She didn’t curtsey.

  He bowed again, properly this time, but said nothing.

  “I must find my driver,” Sayri said, walking back toward the main room.

  “He was na fat man, with na mark here?” Dol Vi asked, drawing a line down his lip with his little finger.

  Sayri nodded, frowning.

  “Dead,” Dol Vi said, shaking his head.

  “Why?” she asked.

  Dol Vi shrugged. “Who’av knows? Unfinished business, na doubt.”

  She blinked uncertainly. The driver, dead? She had to know for sure. If he is dead, what do I do? Find another coach? She hadn’t seen any other coaches outside—how often would they come through here? Once a day at best, from what Koz had suggested.

  He could be mistaken; she had to check. “Well, thank you again,” Sayri repeated.

  Dol Vi watched wordlessly as she went out into the main room. Several men in the room displayed stunned expressions when she walked out in her current state of clothes, but she ignored them, only resting her hand on the handle of her knife to make a point. Don’t even try to speak to me.

  She made for the stairs. They were also painted blood red, and were heavily worn up the middle from the boots of many patrons. Absently, she found herself wondering if that particular hue was chosen to help disguise all the spatters resulting from bloody brawls.

  Mounting the stairs two at a time, she stepped onto the second floor, which was in disarray. The tables were still in place, being heavy hardwood, but several of the benches were overturned and dividers were knocked down and shattered. A half-dozen dangerous-looking men were sitting in the area where the scuffle had taken place, sipping from wooden cups and nonchalantly disregarding the two bodies on the floor. One of the men smiled predatorily as Sayri approached; she scowled and her hand tightened on her knife. Then his gaze flicked past her shoulder, and the smiled faded; he looked away.

  Sayri looked over her shoulder, startled to discover Dol Vi behind her. He was extremely light-footed; the last time person to sneak up behind her was a three-year-old in the bustling Lower Valley market, and that was only because she was distracted.

  She frowned and turned back to the bodies. One was indeed her driver. She stood there for a while, feeling lost.

  Finally, she turned and went back down the stairs. They creaked behind her as Dol Vi followed her down; how had he ascended them without making a sound?

  Halfway down the stairs, Dol Vi stopped her with a hand on her left shoulder. She spun intending to lash out with her fist, but he had already stepped back.

  “I’ve na girl’s clothes, but ya welcome ta what I have,” he said.

  “I don’t need your help,” Sayri said viciously.

  “Ya, lady. Ya do,” he answered, nodding slowly.

  She glared at him, furious.

  But she wasn’t angry at him, and he was right. He had helped her, and there was no one else who had, and she didn’t know anyone here, now. Except a couple of passengers whom she had spoken to, who hardly seemed friendly, and were also stranded. She sagged. “Yes,” she agreed finally. “Yes, I do need help. Please, yes, I’ll take your clothes.”

  He led her back upstairs, to an ornate red door in the far corner of the main room (red seemed to be a popular colour in this place, though it had not been overly common in Yalcinae). He opened it and stepped through into a hallway, the right side of which was filled with more of the heavily decorated doors. She followed him down to the end and around a corner; it seemed the hallway ran along three entire walls of the upper floor in a U-shape, with the rooms situated against outer walls.

  He opened the third door on the right; it was unlocked. Apparently here security was one’s ability to defend oneself and one’s belongings. He stepped in.

  He waited for her to enter the small room, which was windowless and contained only a large cot and a wardrobe, then closed the door behind her. For a moment her heart raced as she found herself alone with him.

  Have to trust someone, she thought, unclenching her jaw and exhaling.

  He went over to the wardrobe and opened it; inside were several sets of clothing similar to what he wore. He moved aside and gestured to them. “As lady wish,” he said.

  Sayri cautiously went to the wardrobe, mentally preparing herself to be ogled by him again as she changed. To her surprise, Dol Vi went to the door and exited the room, closing it.

  She flipped through the clothes and chose a brown vest. Her own was in worse shape than she had thought; the fastenings were nearly torn away completely. She discarded it and put on Dol Vi’s. It was a bit large, but it had buckles that were adjustable, so she was able to cinch it in. The skirts were all black, so she pulled one out indiscriminately. The one time I appreciate the silly skirts men wear here, she mused as she donned it. Tossing aside her mangled dress, she noticed several pockets hidden in the seam of the skirt, explaining how Arad had magically produced items while wearing his.

  Arad. She missed him terribly. As she tightened the skirt’s belt, she reaffirmed her vow; she would make it to the North Province garrison to find Win Wal and Ooji. They would know what to do, and Arad would be free, a
nd they would go home. Together.

  A knock sounded on the door; Sayri opened it and stepped out.

  Dol Vi was alone in the hallway, standing against the wall opposite the door. He nodded approvingly as he looked her over, and a soft smile curled the corners of his mouth.

  “Thank you, young man,” Sayri said appreciatively, and she showed him a proper curtsey. He returned the gesture with another bow, hand on chest, similar to the odd one that Arad had used when they first met. Sayri went on, “I must further intrude to inquire if you know when the next coach would pass through on its way to the North Province?”

  “Twice na tenday,” he answered.

  Sayri shook her head. More delays. “What might I offer you for these clothes?”

  He shook his head. “That be na proper.”

  “A meal then?” she offered. “And a pint of ale, at least?”

  “I do na drink,” he said. “But I say we’d wear out na welcome here, for now at least. The owner likely ta na call in more men, ta have us gone,” he added.

  “Us? But I was attacked!” Sayri exclaimed. “That makes no sense.”

  “Trouble, is trouble,” he responded casually.

  Sayri looked around the hallway as if searching for a solution. “I’ve no place to go until the next coach comes. What will they do if I stay?”

  Dol Vi shook his head. “Bad, after I na here. Or after they done for me,” he elaborated. “Ya must go. Come with me.”

  “What about buying a . . . steed? I can ride,” she added before he could ask.