The Seer - eARC

by Sonia Lyris

  The girl’s cheekbones had three lines painted on one side and two on the other. She gazed back at Amarta with a pointed, unfriendly expression. She addressed Jolon and Mara. “You bring strangers here? Do our lives mean so little to you?”

  “They seek a haven,” Jolon said. “We thought you might understand this.”

  “That’s a reassurance, then,” Nidem said nastily. “What do they bring us? Supplies? News of our beloveds in the cities? Or do they only take, like Arunkin do?”

  “Nidem,” said Astru, in what might have been a quiet rebuke.

  “We bring them,” Jolon said to her. “As we bring you bags of grain and salt and nuts, bottles of spice and oil—the many things you cannot get for yourselves, even in your out-trips.”

  “And in turn,” Vatti said to him, her voice mild, a contrast to Nidem’s venomous tone, “we supply you with water and hidden shelter for your people and your horses on your journeys north and south.”

  “Yes, and we are grateful to you—” Jolon began.

  Vatti held up her hand to silence him, a firm gesture, and continued. “And you bring us coin when we need it. News of the world outside. Your counsel and knowledge.”

  Astru spoke. “Hear us clearly: the Teva are valued partners to the Emendi. You are welcome here.” He looked at Nidem. “Nidem is a child and does not speak for us.”

  “We will help however we can,” Dirina said quietly, respectfully.

  “We will work hard,” Amarta added quickly, looking between the elders and Nidem.

  “You had better,” Nidem said.

  A sigh from Astru. “You gift us with your companionship as well as your trade, Teva,” Astru said. “And now Nidem will gift us with her silence until she is told otherwise.”

  At that Nidem made a series of gestures with her hands and fingers. A clear signal, judging by the sharp reactions of those around her; Vatti pressed her lips together in what might have been annoyed forbearance, and Ksava suppressed a smile as she moved her baby to her shoulder. Astru looked long at Nidem, his eyes flickering back and forth.

  Nidem scowled and stamped out of the room.

  Astru made a gesture with both hands, a brushing of the air, somehow conveying a cleaning of the unpleasantness that had preceded. Vatti put her hands together at her chest, then reached out to Mara and Jolon in turn, fingers out. They met her fingers with their own.

  “We honor your presence here. Your friends are welcome in Kusan,” Vatti said.

  “Our gratitude to you,” Mara said.

  “Come,” Astru said, “show us what you have brought us.” Then, to Amarta and Dirina: “Ksava will show you how to conduct yourselves here. We will see you at the meal.”

  As they left, Jolon paused, put his arms lightly around Dirina and Amarta’s shoulders, head tipped downward, and said quietly: “Their forebears were enslaved by Arunkin. They can perhaps be forgiven for mistaking you for the enemy. Be patient with them.”

  * * *

  “We have our meals here,” Ksava said, motioning to the large room. From the low, round tables scattered around the room, pale-headed adults and children watched them with expressions from curiosity to looks rather similar to Nidem’s. Amarta looked at Ksava rather than meet their eyes. “We eat two meals together each day. If you are hungry another time, go the kitchens back there. Someone is always present to help you find what you might like to eat.”

  What she might like to eat? This was wealth, to always have food, to be invited to have a preference. Her mouth watered, and she wondered if it was too soon to ask.

  She would wait.

  Ksava took a lamp from a nearby table. With Darad trailing behind, she led them down one of many bewildering cave tunnels. They passed numerous doorways, and she was soon lost, though she noticed letters carved into the stone at every juncture. As she stared at one of the signs, trying to sound it out, she noticed Nidem had joined Darad behind them.

  A hand sign from Darad brought a smirk to Nidem’s face that vanished when Amarta looked. Nidem gave her another hard glare.

  “There are those among us,” Ksava said, “who believe all Arunkin are slavers and not to be trusted. You are the first to visit Kusan in quite some time.”

  At this, Amarta moved a little closer to Dirina, wondering how long until they would be leaving.

  Ksava gestured to a door much like the last handful they had passed. “I sleep here with my family. You are welcome to join us, or stay with the Teva.” The room had six thick pallets across the floor, cabinets, and the soft sound of running water. Ksava motioned with her lamp toward the back of the room. “The water in the sleeping rooms is for drinking, not toilet or bath or clothes. I’ll show you that next.”

  They descended wide stairs that Pas insisted on taking himself. Amarta was glad for this slowing; as they walked, her foot hurt more. She was resolved not to limp.

  “The city descends many levels. Even we do not know the extent of the tunnels. Go nowhere on your own until you have learned all the ways. If ever you are lost, do this.”

  She sang out in a loud, clear, high tone that then dropped low, then climbed again. “Repeat that until you are found, yes?”

  They nodded.

  Motion at the floor of the corridor caught Amarta’s attention. Darad knelt to the ground, and a long, thin creature with a ratlike face ran to him, then up his arm and onto his shoulder, nose twitching, sniffing his ear. Pas was reaching upward and making wordless sounds of longing. Darad dropped down and let Pas pet the creature on his shoulder.

  “The ferrets are our companions,” Ksava said. “They find misplaced objects in dark corners. They bring us home when we are lost. They know the tunnels better than we ever will. Be good to them.”

  Darad let the animal back to the ground. It ran to the wall and then paused, standing up on back legs. Ksava brought out a piece of something and tossed it to the ferret, who caught it between handlike paws and transferred it to its mouth. In a twitch it was gone again, back into the dark.

  They descended another flight of stairs to a room with many holes, under which were the sounds of a rushing waterway.

  “These are the toilets.”

  “Oh!” said Pas, tugging on his mother’s hand.

  “Don’t drop anything in there,” Darad said with a grin. “It goes all the way out to the ocean. You’ll never see it again.”

  This was a toilet? Amarta looked around. Something was missing. “It doesn’t smell,” she said wonderingly.

  “The shiny areas around the holes are mage-made. Nothing sticks. This helps.”

  “Mage-made?” Amarta said. “But that’s . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Isn’t that . . . doesn’t it bring death and bad fortune?”

  Ksava chuckled, handed her baby to Dirina. She took Pas’s hand, walking him to the edge of the hole, holding him while he peed into the hole. Pas laughed in delight.

  When she returned, she said, “My people were brought into the worst of bad fortune when we were abducted from our homeland and taken in chains across the sea and made into slaves. Kusan has been a sanctuary for a thousand years and more, older than the Arun Empire. The gifts that mages have left for us here have been far more welcoming than anything the Arunkin have done. Who brings death and bad fortune, Amarta?”

  To that Amarta had no answer.

  “Are there other mage-makings in Kusan?” Dirina asked.

  “Perhaps the waterways, but they may be simply cleverly made. It is hard to know.” Ksava returned Pas to his mother and led them out of the toilet room. “We Emendi have been here only some hundred years.”

  “Do you ever leave?” Amarta asked.

  “We visit the hidden gardens up top,” Darad said. “To see the sun, when the keepers allow.”

  Nidem tapped Darad and signed at him.

  “And,” Darad added, “the out-trips.”

  Ksava spoke: “We travel to nearby towns to buy those things we cannot make, grow, or hunt. Darad
might do so. Even Nidem, in a few months, if they study the ways of the outside well enough.”

  “I’ll be in the trade wagon by year’s end, sister. Watch and see.”

  She reached over to him and rubbed his head affectionately, laughing a little. “We’ll see how your hair likes the walnut dye. Take Amarta to see if Nakaccha can look at why she’s limping.”

  “I’m fine,” Amarta said quickly. “It’s nothing, really.”

  “Then it won’t take long,” Ksava answered. “I’ll show Dirina and her young one the baths.”

  “She’s good at seeing things that you don’t want seen,” Darad said to Amarta as they made their slow way up the stairs.

  “But I’m fine.” Amarta glanced back to see if Nidem was following, felt relief that she was not.

  “Not me you need to convince. Oh, here,” he said, pausing at the door of a room and bringing out from the darkness a flat, hand-sized rock, which he handed to her. “A pillow for you to sleep on tonight.”

  “This? A pillow? What?”

  “Well, after it’s been softened, of course.”

  “What?” Amarta said, bewildered, examining the rock more closely.

  “Yes,” he said, taking the rock back, knocking his fist lightly against it, then knocking his own head. “Our blond hair, you see. It’s magic. It softens the rocks until they become so soft they’re pillows. Tell you what: I’ll give you my already-softened pillow for tonight and sleep on this one until it’s ready.”

  Amarta’s mouth hung open for a long moment.

  He grinned wider.

  “You’re fooling me?” she asked, stunned.

  He laughed. “Of course.” At her expression, he sobered, adding, “I’m playing. Don’t you play, sometimes?”

  She wasn’t sure how to answer that.

  “Perhaps later,” he said, giving her an odd expression. “Down this way to the hot springs. The soaking baths. Clothes washing. When was the last time you had a bath?”

  “You mean to be submerged in water?”

  “Warm water. You’ll like it. Now here, see this huge opening?” He waved his lantern so she could see over the lip of the opening, which dropped down sharply some ten feet. “This is the lesser canyon, which opens way back there into the greater one. We hunt in there, but only in large groups. Don’t go in here alone.”

  She peered into the darkness, for a moment thinking she saw distant movement, black on black.

  “What is that, back there?”

  “The ruins of old Kusan, now taken over by the night forest. It goes a long, long ways. There’s a lake back there. Cavewillows and white trout. On the hills we harvest mushrooms and nightberries. That’s where we hunt nightswine.”

  “Nightswine?”

  “You must have heard. No? Ah. Pigs. They get fat on cave-truffles, white thistle, the fruit of spider trees. They taste better than any pig in the world.”

  “You’re toying with me again.”

  “No, no. This is true. The Teva take our salted nightswine to the great markets in Munasee and Garaya. Sell it for us.”

  In the lamplight she gave him a suspicious look. “Truly?”

  “Ask the elders.” At that, his face broke into a grin. “You can ask them about the pillows, too.”

  At the meal, Amarta realized she had never before seen so many people gathered together in one place. Hundreds, it must be, all sitting around the large, low, circular tables.

  Ksava directed them to a table where the Teva and Darad and Nidem sat. The remaining open spaces were bounded on one side by Nidem, on the other by the Teva.

  Well, Nidem already hated her; no sense in putting Dirina in her path as well. So she chose the seat nearest to the other girl, letting Dirina sit by the Teva.

  They had come from visiting the woman named Nakaccha, who had taken Amarta’s ankle in her lap. She’d pressed gently in places, turned it a little, and told her that it would be fine in a day or two. To Amarta’s surprise, it felt better immediately.

  When she had thanked her, Nakaccha had responded: “It is what I am called to do, girl. That is the best any of us can hope for, to be called to our work. What is it you are called to do?”

  Amarta had mumbled that she didn’t know. The encounter left her unsettled. Whatever it was that she did, she must make sure to do it very quietly here. She felt watched keenly.

  Despite the hundreds gathered here in this cavernous room, there was no noise other than the soft sounds of wooden spoons against bowls, the brush of leather-clad or bare feet on stone floors. No one spoke.

  Nidem pushed a large, full bowl of something that smelled wonderful in front of her, somehow making the gesture convey no warmth.

  Mara crouched down behind her, hand on her shoulder. She said softly: “The Emendi are silent at meals, using only hands and eyes to speak.”

  “What should we do?” Dirina asked her in a whisper.

  Now that Amarta looked, she saw the fluttering, flickering motion of hands and eyes across the room. Silent, perhaps, but there was plenty of talk.

  “Speak if you wish,” Mara whispered, “but they will not, here at the meal. As slaves they were forced to hide voice and thought, and this practice honors their ancestors who gave their lives in silence and obedience. After dinner there will be other rooms, where there will be plenty of voices and singing.”

  At her side, Nidem was laughing voicelessly at something Darad had signed to her. Amarta felt a twinge of envy.

  * * *

  After dinner, after the clearing and cleaning, the Emendi left in groups in various directions. Ksava invited the three of them into another, smaller room, while the Teva went with the elders.

  The Emendi began to array themselves across the floor on blankets. With a laugh, Darad offered her a pillow, a real one. A kind laugh, as if they shared a joke between them, not as if he mocked her. She smiled back, feeling herself warm.

  A woman with hair in loose curls around her face put a long, thin, stringed wooden box across her lap and began to pluck out a tune. A young man about Dirina’s age brought out a small drum and began to lightly tap it with his fingers in time. Nidem sat in a corner, watching.

  “Do you come from Yarpin?” asked another girl, not quite Amarta’s age.

  “No,” Dirina answered, looking as ill at ease as Amarta felt, with the Emendi all watching them. Pas climbed off her lap, found a thick pile of blankets, and curled up there, asleep in minutes. At least one of the three of them was relaxed here.

  “My uncle is still there. At House Helata,” an older boy said. “Do you know it?”

  Dirina and Amarta shook their heads.

  Another spoke. “My mother escaped from transport when I was still in her belly.” His voice dropped. “My cousins didn’t. I hope they’re still alive.”

  “We’ve never been to Yarpin,” Amarta said again.

  “How about Munasee?” asked another eagerly, a boy, perhaps nine. “We had to leave my sister there. At the governor’s palace. She was young then, like your boy. She’d be eight now. If she—if she . . .” He fell silent.

  “We have never been to Munasee, either,” Amarta said, feeling oddly as if she should apologize.

  The room was quiet a moment.

  “Perripur, then? Sometimes they take us down there; some of the merchants there own us. They—”

  “They say they don’t,” said a young man with a scraggly, pale beard. “It’s a lie.”

  “They lie. They all lie. All Arunkin lie. What do you expect?” asked another.

  “No,” Amarta said. “We have never even been to Perripur—”

  “Yes, yes,” Nidem cut in from across the room. “We know now. You’ve never been anywhere. Why are you here?”

  Amarta started to blush, saw Darad watching her curiously. It was his look that decided her. Guests they might be, but Nidem was treating them as if they had enslaved all her people singlehandedly.

  Well, they were only here with the Emendi, whom she had
never seen before, until they left with the Teva.

  “Why do you have marks on your face?” she asked Nidem. “With all the water you have running through Kusan, don’t you ever wash?”

  “Ama,” Dirina said, shocked, a hand on her arm, but it was Darad’s amused smirk at her response that she sought, that gave her some satisfaction.

  Nidem held up an index finger to the right side of her face. “Two generations free from my mother’s side.” She moved the finger to the other side. “Three from my father’s. How many lines of freedom would you have, Arunkin?”

  Anger flashed through Amarta as she struggled and failed to come up with a clever reply. She pulled her arm out of Dirina’s tightening, warning grip.

  “You have an odd way of welcoming strangers, Nidem,” said a man standing in the doorway, one of his arms ending in a stump above the elbow.

  “I don’t welcome them at all. Who knows what they will say once they leave? To trust the Teva is one thing. To trust Arunkin is folly. We should know this by now.”

  “It’s a little late to curse the door for letting in the wind,” Ksava observed mildly from where she sat, her baby at her breast.

  “Why would we say anything at all about you?” Amarta asked.

  The room fell silent, looks exchanged.

  The one-armed man sat down next to the young woman with the lap-harp. She handed it to him. Closer now, Amarta saw that his arm ended in a sort of crater, out of which poked a thumb’s width of yellowed bone. She struggled not to stare.

  He began to strum with his one hand, then stopped, meeting her look squarely. “Because we’re worth a fortune, girl.”

  “Oh,” Amarta responded, trying yet again not to stare at his arm. “But we would never do that.”

  “We know how to keep secrets,” Dirina added earnestly.

  “Go on, look at it.” He held up his stump for her to see. “The king’s law and justice, girl. Take a good long look.”

  Amarta was tired of being attacked, tired of being polite. “What did you do to earn it?” she found herself saying.