by Davis Ashura
As a result, crime was very rare in Ashoka.
To Mira’s way to thinking, it was also exactly what the degenerate lawbreakers deserved. The city lacked the resources to coddle the criminal.
She nodded to the patrol and set her horse to a trot. Soon enough, she came upon the massive Inner Wall that protected Ashoka proper. The crenelated battlements soared fifty feet, and the evenly spaced towers reached up another twenty. The wall was thick enough to allow troops to march five abreast. Even now, warriors of the Ashokan Guard paced the wall, keeping watch over the fields and looking toward the distant outer wall. The protection of Ashoka was a duty shared by the High Army and the Guard. While the Guard was a reserve unit, it was also highly professional, which wasn’t a surprise since most of the ranks were filled by every able-bodied Kumma male who had completed the Trials. The rest of their approximately 23,000 warriors were veterans from Castes Muran and Rahail with a smattering of Duriahs thrown in as well. And though they only trained four days a month, there was little difference in quality between the Ashokan Guard and the High Army.
Mira passed into the cool shadow of the Kubar Gate, one of the three gates of the Inner Wall. Each gate was forty feet thick and wide enough for two large wagons to pass one another with room to spare on either side. The gatehouse loomed above as a menacing presence with murder holes all along its length, and the heavy portcullis, made of thick ironwood, was always kept ready to crash down at a moment’s notice.
The traffic was light with only a few wagons and pedestrians traveling through the gate. Mira would have been quickly through the Kubar, but everyone had to pause and step aside for a returning Ashokan Guard patrol. From their camouflage clothing, tired demeanor, and grimy faces, Mira guessed they must have been out in the field, scouting beyond Ashoka’s borders. Regular reconnaissance for up to a three days journey into the Wildness was standard procedure for the Guard and the Army. Mira studied the returning warriors and recognized a few of them from Houses Suzay and Shektan. It was Fifth Platoon – 23 men – of Third Company, Second Brigade, Third Legion. Their commander, Lieutenant Rector Bryce, saw her and saluted.
Mira waved back, more out of courtesy rather than any real feeling of affection. The lieutenant was someone Nanna had mentioned as a potential husband. She wasn’t sure what she thought of the man given how little she knew him, even though, like herself, he was of House Shektan. He’d only recently returned from his fourth and final Trial – a respectable number – choosing to settle down while he still had his health. From what she remembered of him when she had been a young girl and before he had left Ashoka, Rector had seemed warm, generous, and lively. Not so much now. The lieutenant was ruggedly handsome, but his time in the Wildness had returned him weather-worn and grim.
Her Nanna wasn’t like that. While he might have been similarly worn down by his time outside Ashoka, Nanna was still bright and cheerful. Even with over twenty years of marriage behind them, Nanna could still make Amma smile with just a word and a glance; implying a hidden meaning only the two of them understood. Mira wanted the kind of closeness her parents shared, and she doubted she would have it with someone like Rector Bryce.
After the Guard patrol passed by, Mira was able to quickly make her way through the Kubar, exiting back into the warm sunlight. In the hazy distance, she saw the thin line representing the Outer Wall: the even more massive fortification bordering the very edge of Ashoka’s Oasis. The Kubar Road continued on past the Inner Wall, still wide and true, and Mira continued on it for another few miles. By then, most of the other travelers had already dispersed, and when she took a turnoff onto a narrow track, a path paved in gravel and barely wide enough for a single wagon, she traveled alone.
She was out amongst Ashoka’s farms. They took up all the space between the city’s two walls and were already verdant under the influence of the warm, spring weather. The air was filled with the pungent smell of turned earth, manure, and hay. Gentle, rolling hills were etched in straight rows of green: wheat and soybeans, the first crops of the season, though it would still be a few months before they were ready for harvest. The temperate climate of Ashoka allowed for three growing seasons. One of the most important crops, though, wouldn’t be planted until well into the heat of the summer: the city’s famed spidergrass.
Since metals of any kind were scarce in all the Oases, and any ore mines were inaccessible thanks to the Queen, people had to rely on other materials with which to make products requiring strength and hardness. For the most part, they had turned to ironwood and spidergrass, a thin, reedy type of grass with a green blade so dark as to be almost black in color. Despite its slender appearance it was tough and grew to over six feet in height, capped by a brilliant orange, feathery tassel. Over time, the Muran farmers had developed several different strains of spidergrass, each one useful in a different way. The mericene cultivar was used for tools such as wagon axles, nails, and hammers whereas the japchin was shaped into spears and arrows – shaft and tip – as well as armor.
A very special and rare variety, the sathana, was used for swords.
Mira had once seen the making of such a blade.
It had been the work of a Duriah smith, which was only to be expected given their Talent. Just as no other Caste could compare to Kummas when it came to battle, Duriahs were experts in their own fields: they were unmatchable artisans. Through their ability to Cohese, Duriahs could work with various objects and substances, transforming them into something more useful. They had developed an innate understanding of materials and manufacturing and had become experts in the creation of everything from wagons to fine furniture to retaining walls. Even the alchemy needed in the careful mixing of various ingredients within a glass vase until it glowed like a firefly – the eponymously named firefly lamp and the most common means of lighting throughout the world – was a skill only the Duriahs possessed.
In the case of the sathana sword, the Duriah smith had Cohesed hundreds of strands of spidergrass into a thick block, a spibar. Afterward, he had hammered the spibar flat and folded it onto itself before gently heating it, using Jivatma to make sure it didn’t burn. Then came more hammering and heating. More hammering and heating. The Duriah had kept at it for hours, forcing out all air, water, and other impurities from within the spibar. When he was done and had forged the spidergrass block into the shape of a blade, he had then carefully glazed it with a thin, translucent layer of black ink made from the sap of the cerumen tree, which grew best in Arjun. Next came the kiln, and when the blade came out of the oven seven days later, it had a matte black finish and in Mira’s imagination, oozed menace.
The resultant sathana sword, according to the Duriahs, had properties similar to those of the finest steel: hard and flexible, yet able to accept an edge sharp enough to slice a feather in mid-air. Of course, how a spidergrass blade would really compare to a steel weapon was a question never likely to be answered. After all, very little of that famed metal still existed, and the few remaining pieces were all priceless family heirlooms, not to be broken and wasted on foolish stress tests.
Mira pulled the mare to halt in sudden realization. She’d never actually seen steel. She shook her head in bemusement.
She gently heeled the mare back into motion, glancing about at the surrounding fields and their low-lying crops. Every so often she crossed a wooden bridge spanning a stone-lined and arrow-straight stream. The brooks were irrigation canals sourced from the Gaunt River. They spread like veins or arteries throughout the wide area between Ashoka’s Walls and brought needed water to the farms. The Gaunt River coursed into Ashoka’s Oasis as a powerful flood, carving a deep canyon through the heart of Mount Creolite north of the city proper before emptying into the Sickle Sea. But with the need for water from both the surrounding fields and the city itself, the river was but a rivulet by the time it reached its delta.
Mira crossed another bridge, entering a familiar village. The buildings were of tan stucco and wood with roofs of yellow tile or
thatch. Most were two or three stories tall, both wide and deep with short alleys paved in brick passing between a few of the structures. The road Mira travelled grew finer and wider, paved in crushed stone and mortar and Cohesed by a Duriah. It became the main thoroughfare for the small but lively village.
This was a place peopled entirely by Murans, who were tall, well-built with golden-brown skin and dark hair. Their clothing was generally severe, dark and full length. In addition, the men wore wide-brimmed hats and if married, grew full, thick beards. They would have appeared grim or imposing if not for their generous smiles and their bright, lively emerald green eyes, a hallmark of their Caste.
Most Murans lived in ten such villages, each between two and five thousand, scattered throughout the land between the Inner and Outer Walls. Where they chose to live wasn’t surprising since their Talent was the ability to bring life to most any kind of ground. As such, most Murans were farmers, with the men and women sharing equally in the work. Those who didn’t live a life in the fields went on Trial, joined the High Army, or became private gardeners. But the glory of Caste Muran was borne by those who could sing. The finest singers were always Muran, and a Clan was highly honored if one of their own was chosen for the Larina, Ashoka’s School of Song.
Mira nodded greeting but didn’t slow or stop, and she soon left the village behind her. Once more, the road became gravel, her horse’s hooves crunching loudly. She passed a field where a small herd of cows munched contentedly. Further in the distance, she saw men and women walking the fields, examining the crops for pests or blight.
The road rose into a series of low, rolling hills, which let her know she was nearing her destination: a sathana spidergrass plantation, co-owned by House Suzay and Clan Weathervine of Caste Muran. Several Suzays had recently graduated from the Fort and Sword, the Martial school favored by their House and all of them required an Insufi blade – the sword given during the Upanayana ceremony. It was the religious rite which represented the transformation of a boy into a man and consecrated a young Kumma to his duties. It was a holy ritual, sacred to Devesh, and even though most members of her Caste weren’t religious – unlike the Murans who, along with the Shiyens, were the most devout of all of them – the Upanayana was a ceremony no Kumma would think to disregard.
She pulled her attention back to the road when she saw the turnoff, kneeing the mare onto a gravel drive. The small lane was lined with thick, lush azaleas in bloom; pink, red, and white, and Mira breathed in their seductive fragrance. The drive continued toward a large barn in the distance, but a brick footpath also curled to the left, ending in front of a large, two-story house with yellow clapboard siding and a large, wraparound porch. The roof was shingled with cedar shakes, and a set of chimes gently jingled in the mild breeze. It was a typical Muran dwelling, in which several generations of a Clan shared the same home.
Mira dismounted and tied her mare to a nearby rail before passing through a small gate into the fenced yard. Within, chickens roamed, clucking as they ran alongside her. Mira walked up the stairs, onto the large, neat and tidy front porch. Near the door, several green rocking chairs were arranged around a small, round ironwood table upon which a glass of tea gathered condensation. From inside, a sweet contralto voice sang a song of glory to the sun and rain.
Mira knocked on the door.
A woman in her mid-sixties answered. Like all Muran, she had emerald green-eyes and golden-brown skin. Her once dark hair was mostly gray now and her face was lined with wrinkles, a reflection of a life spent outdoors. She still stood straight and tall, almost able to look Mira in the eyes.
“Mistress Shull,” Mira said with a nod. “It is good to see you again.”
“And you,” Mistress Shull Weathervine said, throwing open the door and letting the pleasant aroma of some sort of stew waft out. “Please come in. It’s been too long.” She glanced upward. “I hope you don’t mind, but Trellis is practicing. We pray she might be accepted into the Larina next year.”
Mira smiled. “Not at all,” she said. “A glorious voice raised in song is never to be condemned.” In fact, hearing Shull’s granddaughter sing so beautifully raised a lump in Mira’s throat. She wished she had a Talent so lovely, but she was Kumma. Though women of her Caste were taught to fight, there was little beauty in killing.
She stifled a wistful sigh. To each their own.
Mistress Shull led Mira through the foyer, a small wood-paneled space with a large firefly lantern hanging from the ceiling, and on into the kitchen in the rear of the house from whence the delicious aroma arose. Several shelves hung from the knotty pine walls, holding well-used pots and pans as well as ceramic dishware. A small window gave a view out over the fields and the barn, while the back door was thrown open, allowing a fitful breeze to help cool the room. Mistress Terras, Shull’s mother, stood next to the sink, methodically chopping vegetables – onions and potatoes likely from last year’s harvest – and tossed them into a simmering pot. Mistress Lace, one of Shull’s daughters and but a few years older than Mira, glanced up from her work at a large, butcher-block table where she was de-boning a chicken. A slop bucket rested on the floor between the two women, and they were preparing a hearty dinner for later in the day. And this wasn’t the entirety of their Clan. The rest of the Weathervines were likely out in the fields.
Mistress Terras glanced up and her heavily wrinkled face broke into a smile. She set aside her knife and wiped her hands on her apron before straightening as much as she could, a dowager’s hump bending a once proud woman. “It’s been a long time since you last visited us,” she said. “What brings you out to the plantations after all this time?”
“The fortunes of House Suzay,” Mira said. “We need spidergrass for several Insufi blades,” Mira answered.
Mistress Lace’s face broke into a smile. “Congratulations,” she said. “Your apprenticed House is blessed to have more than one candidate ready to take his place as a man.”
Mira smiled acknowledgement. “Thank you. Do you think we’ll have enough sathana for them?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” Mistress Shull answered. “We had an excellent harvest three years ago, and the spidergrass from that season was quite healthy. It should do.”
“Then we only need to negotiate a price,” Mira said.
Mistress Terras stared Mira in the eyes. “You’ve grown child, but know this: we bargain hard.”
Mira felt the corners of her lips turn up in a faint smile. “Then let’s get started,” she suggested. Kumma women couldn’t engage in battle – they were too valuable to waste in such a manner – but it didn’t mean they didn’t enjoy a good fight.
It took some haggling, but eventually they settled on a price, one Mira believed Tol’El would be pleased with.
“Will you stay for tea and some food?” Mistress Lace asked.
Mira was tempted, but there was one final task to complete. If she finished quickly enough, the evening would be hers, and she had plans. A new production of an old play she had loved as a child was opening tonight. Bree had promised that Jaresh could get them tickets.
“Thank you, but I can’t. I have one last task still to complete,” Mira said, adding a regretful note.
“Tol’El wants to make sure he gets the most out of you before you return to House Shektan, eh?” Mistress Terras asked with a twinkle in her eye.
“He has been pushing hard lately,” Mira said before making ready to leave as she said her goodbyes.
“You did well,” Mistress Shull said with a smile as she walked Mira to the door.
“Thank you,” Mira replied, relieved to hear the older woman’s good opinion. “Can you have it ready for delivery in a month?”
“We have it ready now,” Mistress Shull said. “Why wait so long?”
“The caravan from Arjun is late,” Mira said with a grimace.
The sap of the cerumen tree, which grew best in Arjun, was the key ingredient in the final glazing of a sathana blade before it was plac
ed in a kiln. A Duriah could make do with something else, but for an Insufi sword, nothing else was acceptable.
Mistress Shull frowned. “A pity,” she said. “Arjun is rumored to have a Sentya who they claim is the second coming of Kubar. I looked forward to hearing his compositions.”
“As did I,” Mira said. “Hopefully, the caravan will arrive shortly, and we can both hear the truth of Arjun’s boasts.” With that, Mira said her goodbyes and headed back to Ashoka proper.
Can a man offer compassion to one for whom he holds nothing but contempt? It seems unlikely.
~Sooths and Small Sayings by Tramed Billow, AF1387
Jaresh Shektan waded his way through the heavy traffic of Martyr Hall, the southernmost road marking the border of Semaphore Walk, Ashoka’s theater and performing arts district. He cursed under his breath as he bumped into a clumsy, heavy-set Rahail and offered a half-hearted apology. The thick crowds weren’t a surprise. The Semaphore was a popular destination on most evenings for couples and families, or a group of friends wanting to go out for a night of entertainment by seeing a play or listening to some new music.
He glanced at his sister with bemused envy. Bree wasn’t having any trouble. There she was, walking alongside him without a care in the world. He rolled his eyes. Of course not. She didn’t have to worry herself with such mundane concerns as moving to avoid others or mumbling apologies as one tried to slip through the crowd. Her beauty and Kumma heritage allowed her to live without the need for such simple courtesies. Men stepped aside at her approach as did women, although rather than favoring her with an admiring glance, the latter were more likely to give her one of judgmental jealousy.
Jaresh sent an angry glare at one particular Cherid, a young man who was staring at Bree with a bit too much appreciation. He was happy to see the man’s wife or escort slap him for the almost rapacious expression he had worn. The man was a Cherid. Bree was a Kumma. An admiring glance was relatively benign, but the open look of lust on the man’s face was disgusting. The Cherid needed to be taught the limits of what was considered proper behavior.