by Allan Cole
"They would never consider dishonoring the Kether family, no matter how tenuous my claim to the name - by making one of them serve in a unit like the Frontier Scouts that actually might have to smell blood or wave a sword in anger. Which was my initial request. Instead, I'm a captain with the Magistrates' Own. An intellectually stimulating post if ever there was one. Did you know that it's against the social graces to discuss war, the unit's policies, religion or women at mess? Horses, dogs and hunting, around and around, around and around. If I hear one more tale of how someone's pack of hounds exhibits almost oracular abilities at finding game, I may be forced to tell the tale of how I once lived on dog for a month when I was manning a watchtower for the Lycanthians in the south. Not bad, actually, larded with bacon and baked with yams," he said meditatively. "Oh well. There's never been a soldier who didn't cry woe and doom at every opportunity. It's his right, issued with his practice sword and brass-polishing cloth."
The Magistrates' Own mess was splendorous: the plates were silver, as was the service; the goblets were crystal; and each table was covered with fine linen. In the center of the tables were the regimental trophies, and the honors of war hung from the high rafters and lined the walls.
Janos excused himself, and returned in full dress - short soft leather boots, shoulder-cloak and brocaded skirt and tunic. Over it he wore a sleeveless jerkin, padded and worked to look as if it were armor. Instead of his usual sword, slung over his shoulder, Janos wore a belt with a shoulder harness. A conventional short sword and dagger hung from it. He carried a highly-polished open-face helmet with a great, waving plume atop it. The other officers wore similar garb.
Stewards with wineglass-laden trays passed through the crowd. One of them stopped in front of Janos. He hesitated, then shook his head. "I'll have water with my meal."
I heard a low, knowing laugh. I puzzled... Janos was hardly an ascetic. Then I recollected something my father had told me when I was in the depths of adolescent despair, vowing to cut myself off without a coin and join the army. He'd chuckled kindly, and asked what unit I would be joining. Perhaps the Magistrates' Own? At that time, enamored of their dash and splendor, I'd sulked out a possibly. He'd told me what it cost to be in the regiment: a young subaltern's wages would barely suffice to cover his mess bill - his wine, his brandy, and the levies for special dinners. The Magistrates' Own was only for the wealthy; it took, by some estimates, as much as ten thousand silver pieces a year to maintain the proper standing, when one considered the dozen or more different styles of uniforms required, the half a dozen chargers, the personal servants even beyond those allocated, and so forth. I remembered that Janos had mentioned poverty twice today.
I understood his plight: once I had joined a boys' fencing team, made up of other merchants', Evocators', and magistrates' sons. No one thought of coins; but there was one boy, a year younger than myself, whose father had made some bad investments; so the young man's tunic was not new at every occasion; and he had but one foil, and that one second hand. It was embarrassing, although I don't remember either my friends or myself saying anything. The boy was competent, I remembered, and then tried to think what had happened to him? I couldn't recall - one day he'd just not been there.
Janos could not afford wine. Very well. I called the steward over and made certain there would be no offense to the customs. In a few moments the head steward announced to the room their wine this evening was a humble offering from Amalric Antero, in honor of being a guest of such noble soldiers. Goblets were filled and I was toasted. I caught a sidelong glance from Janos, but only a momentary one.
We ate after another round, far better than I thought soldiers ever dined. I thought of the sergeants and spearmen in the barracks outside, and remembered that once before I'd bought viands for the regiment. A dish of meat for the common soldiery, which suggested that normally they ate as commoners did. This was wrong - Father told me a trader either ate what his clerks did, or else dined privately at home. No one loved ostentation from a rich man - or military officer - unless it was shared with all.
Meal complete, the high officers excused themselves. Now the evening would belong to the lower ranks, grain and grape. More wine was drunk. Wine and brandy. The evening promised nothing but boring befuddlement and a thick head on the morrow. I was trying to pace myself, not wishing to shame my family by crashing nose-first into the sweet tray. Others, however, were taking no precautions. Voices were getting louder, jests were growing cruder, laughter was more boisterous. Then I heard, in a momentary lull, the clear statement: "Of course, halfbreeds aren't completely worthless. Their women are sometimes spectacular, like mongrels can be. And their soldiers can be brave, although I suspect they run just as fast from a battle as to it."
There was the silence of the crypt. Everyone looked at Janos: his face was pale against his waxed, curled beard, a hard death mask. The officer who had spoken wore the stylized shoulder cops of a captain. Someone tried to break the silence with the beginnings of a jest; three words from his mouth and he stopped.
Janos beckoned to a servitor. He took the silver serving tray from the man's hands, and drew his dagger. He put it on the tray so that its hilt faced out. Then he beckoned to a subaltern. "Convey this to Captain Herron. Tell him that it has a sister, which belongs to Captain Janos Kether Greycloak, of Kostroma and Orissa. They belong together. In one hour, at the butts."
I knew this challenge would not result in a duel to the pinking, as had mine. There would be at least one corpse in the sand this night. The young officer, as pale as Janos, walked to the other captain, extended the plate holding the dagger and repeated Janos's words. Herron did not take the dagger. Instead, he flushed, and, staring down at the ground, muttered, "It was but a joke."
"Inform the honorable captain I failed to see its humor. Perhaps our meeting outside will educate me. Or perhaps the captain would like to apologize," Janos said, slightly bending the protocol of an affair of honor by speaking to, no matter if indirectly, the offending party.
Again, leaden stillness. Finally, Herron spoke, still mumbling, "I wish to apologize for any offense my chance remark may have caused Captain Greycloak."
Janos took three deep breaths. "I accept," he said. "And the matter is forgotten. The invitation is withdrawn, Herron." I noticed, as did everyone else in the room as the dagger was returned and sheathed, that Janos had deliberately neglected to call Herron by his rank, or to refer to him as a brother in arms, equal, or whatever term would suggest true forgiveness. Herron's cowardice would be remembered for a long time. Or so I thought his behavior to be back then, when my blood ran as red as my hair. Now I know what grounds a man fights on and what soil a fool can blithely choose for his own killing floor.
Janos began to reach for another wine goblet, then caught my eye. "Perhaps," he said, his voice low, "you would care to walk out with me? The air here has become thick." Without waiting for a response he moved toward the cloakroom. I followed. Outside, he pulled his cloak over his shoulders and looked off, down at the lighted barracks windows below us.
"You see how it is," he said, as much to himself as me. "If I continue in this cage, pacing, snarling and measuring the strength of my bars, sooner or later there will be a death. Perhaps that of a boor like Herron, perhaps my own. This city and this parade ground emptiness cannot hold me much longer. Come on!" He started down the hill, and I went after him.
"Where are we going?"
"Who knows," Janos said. "I need the company of men, not popinjays. Men... and women. Perhaps the river front." I shrugged. Why not? I too had been bored by the formalities in the mess, and thought them just as empty as any of my fathers' guild banquets.
Our path led us past one of the city's gates. As usual, except in times of great danger, the reinforced portals of ironwood were open; only the elaborately-wrought iron of the twin gates of the outer sallyport were barred. Through them we could see, not far off in a field, the roar of flames from a fire reflecting off the canvas of many
tents. We could hear shouts, laughter, the whine of flutes and the thudding of drums.
"Guard," Janos challenged one of the sentries. "Who lies beyond?"
"A tribe of Ifora, Captain. They cannot enter the city at night because--"
"I am aware of the reasons, soldier. Open the gates. Their company suits me well tonight."
I knew why the tribesmen were not permitted into the city as well as Janos. They were one of the many dangers a trader must accept, and so my father had explained their barbaric culture quite thoroughly. The Ifora were nomads, wandering tribesmen from the southern deserts. They were known as cunning thieves able to slip beyond the guards of any caravan that entered their territory and remove what they willed. Or, if their numbers were great or the caravan's masters stupid, they would massacre all of the men, and absorb the women into their own tribes. They were also noted for bravery, implacability to their enemies, and for rare talents as torturers. They came north into civilized grounds infrequently, and then only to trade their elaborately-woven rugs, fine woolen cloth from their goats and exotically-worked silver jewelry. No city would allow them inside its gates: the Ifora considered it their sacred duty to relieve people like us, whom they considered sickly weaklings, of whatever possessions they desired, and by whatever means - be it by stealth or by sword - and with no regard for subsequent events such as arrest and trial.
I thought of saying something to Janos: so he'd missed his chance to risk his neck in a duel; did he have to find another opportunity for a severed weasand? But being young and too timid to chance anything that might smack of that very timidity, I said nothing. Besides, all these tales of piled skulls and screaming women being carried off into the bowels of the desert - I was curious as to exactly what monsters the Ifora were. I loosened my rapier in its sheath, sorry that I hadn't brought a dagger and a mail shirt under my formal garb to accompany it. I also wished I'd reminded Janos when he strode forth that he was only carrying the traditional short sword of his unit, instead of the double-edged razor he preferred.
A great bulk of a man loomed out of the shadows as we drew near the encampment. "Orissans... no. Not come. Not welcome. Be hurt. Get kill." Janos spoke to him, in a fluid torrent of words. The hulk growled and answered him in what sounded to be the same tongue. So this was another of Janos's accomplishments - and he was familiar with the Ifora. I should have guessed - although somehow I sensed this night he might have been just as willing to walk into their den if they'd been deadly strangers. They rattled back and forth. The monster laughed, as a bear might. Janos turned, indicating me. More words. A grunt. Janos frowned. Spoke again. The brute laughed once more.
"Take out your sword," Janos said. "Press it to your forehead and give it to him." I hesitated, but obeyed. The man accepted the weapon, turned and bellowed something into the encampment. A moment later, a tall, imposing man wearing rich robes came toward us. His skin gleamed in the firelight, as black as the night. Flanking him were two sword-bearing guards, both fair skinned, as was the mountain that’d stopped us.
"This," Janos said quietly, "will be their Ham'u. Chief. The Ifora believe that the darker a man's skin, the more blessed by the gods he is. Since they are predominantly light-complected, a black man is automatically considered noble. If he or she can lead, that man or woman will be destined to rule the tribe. The belief comes from long ago, when the Ifora were what they call barbaric. Their slaves revolted and took over, showing them how to conquer the desert. That was the beginning of their greatness." I blinked, the jeopardy forgotten for a moment. None of this had been told me by my father, nor had I heard any of this in the grotesque tales from other merchants of their encounters with the tribesmen.
The black man greeted Janos, who bowed. I took the hint and did the same. Janos drew his sword, touched it to his forehead, and gave it to the chief - the Ham'u. The black repeated the motion and returned it. Janos spoke once more, indicating me. The Ham'u took my rapier from the guard, did as he'd done with Janos's blade, and gave it back. We bowed once more and the Ham'u stepped aside, beckoning us into the camp.
"We are now the honored guests of the Ifora. From now until dawn three days hence we are their blood kin. During that time they will offer us their best and, if we have been pursued by enemies, they will ravage them as if one of their own had been wronged."
"What happens if we're still here after the three days?"
"Eh," Janos said, moving his hand from side to side, in the universal signal for perhaps this/perhaps that. "We would have to talk some more. And at least they would give us a running start."
We were led into the center of the camp where the fire roared. The ground was paved with rugs and pillows were high-piled for seats and backrests. Behind them large barrel-vaulted tents stood, made of some red-dyed animal skin. There were fifty or sixty men and women lying around the fire. I was presented to a man, who bowed as if he had just met the king of the world, and found me a seat. He waved his hand and a maid a few years younger than myself came out of the shadows. They spoke, she giggled, and bowed to me. Then she went into one of the tents and came out with a wide-mouthed bowl. I took it, looked to Janos for guidance. He was already sprawled on a pillow nearby, a pair of young women were nestled beside him.
"Drink it."
"What is it?"
"Just drink. I'll tell you afterward. Drink deeply, or you will offend." I obeyed, and the back of my head exploded. The world shimmered around me. My stomach rose up, protesting. But somehow the drink, stayed down and spread warmth, warmth becoming fire, fire becoming a hot rainbow, and I thought it best if I sat down. Rapidly. The girl took the bowl from me as I collapsed.
"The drink is depsh'," Janos said. "Fermented milk from their mares, fermented blood from their cattle. This is then combined with certain shrub blossoms their Ham'u takes to ensure the clarity of his vision. You might think they know distillation, given the impact. But instead the Ham'u recites an incantation over the mixture, and it takes on its present form. I have as yet been unable to persuade one of them to teach me the chant," he said. "If I could learn that, I would have no need of an army, a sword, or someone to sponsor me in the travels I want to make."
One of the two women next to him held out an identical bowl to Janos. He drained it and cast it over his shoulder. "One of the great commodities the Ifora have is their daughters. Even though they despise the weaklings of the watered lands - as they call everyone but another Ifora - they think it a great blessing for their young women to become courtesans for a time. They return laden with silver, which is used to purchase goats or horses, and they marry, greatly honored. How rich a marriage they make depends on their success in their previous profession. This is a young woman's destiny, unless the auspices read when she is a year old indicates she will be either a chief or a councilor, which is a supreme blessing; or a woman of the camp, which they consider somewhat of a disappointment. The woman beside you is, by the way, the daughter of the man who the Ham'u chose as worthy of the honor of being your host. Her name is Tepon."
It may have been the depsh', or perhaps I was becoming acclimatized to unsettling events here, beyond Orissa's walls, but instead of frowning at what most Orissans would consider the deepest depravity, I turned and smiled at the girl, who, encouraged, moved closer, allowed a bit of her robe to slip open and I smelled roses and musk.
Tepon smiled: her lips were rouged; her breath sweet; and her teeth were filed into pretty needle points that added exotic spice to her looks. I took another drink of depsh'. The girl spoke to me, her voice soft and musical. I shook my head. I didn't understand.
"She thinks the color of your hair is beautiful. Like a desert sunrise," Janos translated.
I made some inane response. Then the reality of the situation struck. "Janos, my friend. I assume that the Ifora are human?"
"Indeed."
"Then this guesting must have a price. Unless they are entranced by my hair and your vocabulary."
"There is a price," Janos s
tarted, and then a man stood, tapping on a elaborately-carved clapper. A flute piped, then another. Thumb-cymbals tinkled. A great drum boomed rhythmically. "Ah," Janos said. "I know this one. The price is low."
He stood, unpeeling one of the girls who'd become curious about what was under his tunic, and drew his short sword. He cast it up, spinning, caught it by the handle. "No," he said, "I need a real sword, not an ornament," and threw the blade, burying it to its hilt in the ground. He shouted in Ifora, and from out the darkness a great curved scimitar was pitched to him. Janos cast, caught, cast again, the blade spinning, catching firelight, sending sparkles into my eyes. The Ham'u rose and began a rhythmic chant. It may have been the herbs in the drink, or it may have been my imagining, but I understood, most clearly, the story he was telling, the story Janos was enacting as he danced, slowly, then faster, and now he was wearing only the kilt.
It was the story of a great warrior who was defeated by evil and sorcery, forced to flee from his tents into the depths of the desert, where not even the bones of the wild ass could be found. He wandered for a time. There were evil beings of the dry salt marsh who attempted to slay him... and here Janos's blade flashed in a series of arabesques... but he defeated them. He was lost, abandoned, staggering, about to die, and the god of the desert wind took pity. The two maidens who'd been with Janos were beside him, now' their bodies moving, firelight and silk, next to him, touching him. He gained strength and the tale went on: And the spirit of the wind fed him and nourished him and bore him back across the trackless sands to the tents of his enemy.
Suddenly Janos danced alone, his sword a blur, as if he were fighting an invisible foe. Finally, the warrior triumphed, and his opponent lay dead before him. All the riches of the man belonged to him now. But instead, the warrior chose another path. He chose to return to the desert. And the embrace of the desert wind.
Janos stopped as the chant ended. There was nothing but the crackle of the flames. Then a thumb-cymbal tinkled once, twice, three times. A sudden wind gusted through the camp. Janos bowed. To the Ifora? To the wind? To the dance? I knew not. The two women approached him and took him by the hand. They led him away into one of the tents.