by Kirby Crow
So that was it. According to krait law, any man could be deposed from his position if he was not strong enough to hold it. Promoting Peysho to enforcer had been a risky move, but the man had acquitted himself well and earned great respect among the Kasiri. Putting Kio in as captain over the fighters had not yet caused any great amount of trouble, but Liall suspected this was because most of the men were afraid of Peysho and knew of the bond the two men shared.
Liall took a sip of wine to stall. This would want a delicate hand. “And you're aware that it's not so much you they object to as Kio?” Liall had heard the pointed grumblings about Kio and ignored them, for his word was law in the krait, but only so far. The Kasiri could like his choice or not, but if any man decided to challenge Kio, that would be Kio's business alone.
So that is why he looked so alarmed when I ordered him to come alone, Liall thought. He assumed I wanted to spare him the shame of being banished from the krait in front of Kio.
"Forgive me,” Liall said slowly. “Even after all these years, I sometimes forget that I am not in my own country.” He set his wine cup down and chose his words carefully. “A man's bed is his concern and no one else's. Where you love is your own business. In my land, no one would give your choice a second thought."
The enforcer brightened a little. “Fer true?"
"Truly."
Peysho looked deep into his cup for a long moment and then drank thoughtfully. The fire popped lazily and the smell of wood smoke grew stronger before the vent carried it away. Liall knew that Peysho must have been rethinking the future plans he had been making all afternoon. He was saddened that he had put his friend through misery without need. At last, Peysho sighed and set his drink aside.
"We ent got it so easy in Morturii. Things are different there. I could almost envy yer land, cold an’ all."
"Is this,” Liall made a vague gesture, “why you had to leave Morturii?"
"Not me, but Kio. He was a soldier once, same as me. I was his commandin’ officer. Fool lad got caught on his knees in the barracks one night. Civilians are one thing, and what's done in town ent spoken of in the field, but soldiers are forbidden to know each other like that. Morale and all that, they say. The generals believe it weakens the ranks.” He snorted to show his disdain of that notion and went on: “Well, they sent the other lad to a floggin', but Kio's from a good family, poor but thought well of, so they sent word up t’ the headquarters, askin’ what should be done about him. We waited two days to hear back, and in that time the other lad took fever in his wounds and died of it. Kio was scared to death, thinkin’ he was bound for the same fate, and me ... I was too close to the matter to see clear."
Peysho shrugged his broad shoulders uncomfortably, and Liall recalled he had scars there; old ones faded almost silver with long age.
"We got the word back, and it was bad. Not only floggin', but a brand as well. Right ‘ere.” Peysho touched the center of his forehead. “Turned out Kio's family has an enemy in the army, and they saw their opportunity and took it. I went straight to his cell and knocked his guards out with a stone. Broke one o’ their pates, I found out later, and he died from it, so I was a marked man, too, after that. No matter, we were both done for. The Morturii army takes a dim view of sekeche."
It was a crude insult, taken from the lowest of brothels; a word for a man who puts his mouth on another man.
"Do not say such things."
"Oh, I claim the title,” Peysho said, showing Liall his rough grin, “if not the shame. Kio's a good man. He's a devil with a knife, he is, but when we're alone he's so ... he's gentle and true and ... and t'think someone would punish him for...” He broke off in disgust and reached for his cup again. His other big hand rested on his knee, clenched into a tight fist. Liall was quiet in respect, filling Peysho's cup as he calmed himself. Liall refilled his own cup and took a long drink before he spoke again.
"Listen to me, Peysho. I have had news from the north."
That perked him up. “Yer own people? Deva's hells!"
Liall reminded him of the Minh messenger and the box he had carried over so many leagues. “There was a swan feather inside. Among my people, this is a message to return at once."
"But ye ent heard from yer family for years,” he scoffed. “Ye don't mean to desert the krait?"
There was fear there, the wolf cub's dread that the pack was not strong enough to meet its enemies on even ground, or the soldier's worry for a missing general.
"I do not mean to abandon them right away,” Liall assured. “Yet, I must go eventually. I have no choice. And so, I plan to leave the krait in your care, Peysho. You will be atya in my place."
Peysho set his wine down quickly before he spilled it. "Me?"
"It is my right under krait law, is it not? The men will not be shocked, even if you are. As for Kio, well, we all have our hurdles. There will be words, I'm sure, and some of the men may challenge you or him or both, so think carefully before you agree."
Peysho was a seasoned soldier and accustomed to abrupt shifts in fortune. Liall saw him absorb the facts and weigh them soundlessly in his head.
"When will ye come back?"
Liall shrugged and wondered at the feel of his own body, the weight of it, like one millstone had been shifted off him and another put on.
"It is doubtful I will even reach Norl Udur alive, much less be able to return,” he said, switching the true name of his land for the more common one his country was known by in Morturii. “A single journey there and straight back would take almost a year, and I have many old and powerful enemies who will try very hard to make sure that I never set foot on my own soil. Also, if I am fortunate enough to survive, I do not know how long I will be required to stay. It could be years before I return to Byzantur. Most likely, it will be never."
Peysho nodded slowly, accepting that truth as well. His rugged face was pinched with sadness. “Ye have my blessing, and the blessin’ of any gods I've ever prayed to. Ye're the best man I've ever known, Wolf. The fairest and the most noble."
Liall pushed his arm. “Stop that. You'll have me wailing like an old grandfather in his cups."
He grinned. “Want some salt t’ go with those tears?"
Crying in the beer, he meant. They laughed together and then wandered out onto the platform outside, both to escape the smoky interior of the yurt and to watch the jeweled stars emerge from the red curtain of dusk.
There was much to do, many plans to be made. Liall rested his palm on the ball of Peysho's shoulder as they silently watched the changeable sky shift hues into night.
6.
Grandma Goes Up the Mountain
Scaja opted to spare his feelings and said nothing when Scarlet showed up on the doorstep, slapping snow from his boots. Linhona quietly set another plate at the table and went to hang out laundry. Scarlet was too unsettled to dwell on what anyone else thought, being consumed with thoughts of his own.
Liall might be a wolf, but he was not the common bandit Scarlet had taken him for. There was something strange about him and his Kasiri, something strange in all of them, even in Peysho, who looked as fearsome as a Bled warrior but carried crockery without complaint. Or perhaps, he thought sullenly, you just never knew a Kasiri before.
Scarlet could not help remembering how Liall had looked when he was hauled out of the wagon to face the atya: tall and imposing and clearly expecting even the trees to bow down to him, and the sun and moon to rise and set at his orders. Despite Liall's accent, his speech was cultured and clear. Even when he was behaving like a villain, he draped that veil of manners over the whole lot, just like the court dandies at Rusa were trained to do. Not for the first time, Scarlet wondered where Liall was from. Nemerl was a large world, he knew, and Byzantur only a small part of it, but what people had such dark coloring of skin and such dead-white hair? None he had ever heard of. He marveled that such a strange man had decided to dwell in Byzantur.
He put his questions to Scaja that night as they br
ought in the wood before supper. “You've seen him. What did you think?"
Scaja gave his son a sharp look, then shook his head and stacked another split onto the armload Scarlet held. “Think? You mean with my head, or with my Gift?"
Scarlet looked at his boots. “Your Gift, if you please.” Scaja could see much about men that was hidden.
"I'm not sure you want to go down this path, son."
"I'm just—"
"Wondering. So you've said. Well, you're old enough to pay the price for your curiosity. This Wolf is not a simple man; I'll say that for him. There's a shadow and a secret on his heart, and he guards it well. Even my grandmother couldn't have seen into it; it's that closed and locked. Like an iron gate hung with chains.” Scaja paused in his work and squeezed his eyes shut. When he spoke next, it was in the formal, stilted words of prophecy. “An old pain, but still red and raw as the day it was made. He would savage the one who breached his fortress to approach that wound, or kill him dead."
Scaja opened his eyes and sighed, dropping the High Speech for common Bizye. “I'm sorry, lad, but your Wolf is a killer. Whatever he's told you, whatever he's filled your head with, he's got blood on his hands. Keep away from him. Go back to Ankar or Patra even to Volstland, if you're so sweet on danger, but stay clear of the Nerit until he's long gone."
"Is he proud?” Scarlet asked. It occurred to him that perhaps he had wounded Liall's pride when he refused him so bluntly, and maybe he could apologize and so settle matters that way. He was still thinking of ways to get around Liall, unwilling to see what his father was plainly telling him.
"Is snow cold?” Scaja countered gruffly. He obviously considered the matter closed. “Why ask what you already know?"
He pondered that as he carried his burden in and knelt before the firebox to arrange the wood splits in a pattern, a deep frown digging a furrow between his brows.
"Scarlet," Scaja snapped. “Stop mooning and get the wood stacked."
Mooning! He ducked his head and obeyed. Linhona said something to Scaja, too softly for him to hear.
"What?” Scarlet demanded.
Scaja shook his head, gently pushing Linhona into the kitchen. “Naught, boy. Go. Get your work done."
Scarlet sighed and went back for another armful of wood, trying to dismiss all the wondering from his brain.
It did not stay gone for long, and when it came back, it irritated him greatly. After brooding around the house for a full day, he spent the next afternoon working with Scaja to repair a wagon wheel at Tradepoint. He wore his fine new Morturii long-knives at his waist, and that put Scaja in a bad temper.
"What Hilurin goes armed to a friend's house?” Scaja demanded.
"A pedlar,” he answered back smartly.
Scaja continued to mumble darkly under his breath as they worked in the cold air with Deni and Zsu looking on, casting pointed looks between his son and Zsu before shaking his head and muttering about cats and curiosity and the world-wild. Scarlet shook hands with Deni and promised Zsu a set of ribbons from Khurelen, whenever he managed to get there, which prompted another round of black looks. When night fell, Scarlet wandered over to the taberna rather than stay home and confront Scaja about what was bothering him.
Scarlet sipped bitterbeer in the comfy noise of Rufa's place and thought dark things into his cup. There had to be a way to win this Kasiri chieftain over without losing more pride than he had left. However, even the idea of paying Liall's price made him angry. And besides, he found himself thinking, he'd know I was not granting him his demand out of desire. I'd be giving him what he wanted to get what I wanted in return, like a whore.
That thought made him livid and embarrassed all over again, so he paid for another beer to wash it out of his head and was drinking it too quickly when the soldier of the vine appeared beside him. The soldier helped himself to a chair at Scarlet's table and flicked him a mocking smile.
"I hear they caught you again!” he crowed. His scars wrinkled.
Scarlet silently wished him away. “My own doing,” he retorted, wiping foam from his lip. “At least they didn't punish Jerivet."
"That must have been a pretty moment,” the soldier laughed. “I'm surprised you still have your head on your shoulders. The Wolf isn't known to be forgiving."
He shrugged irritably, conveniently forgetting that this echoed, more or less, what Scaja had told him about Liall. “What do you know of him? You've been in the army for some time, by the look of your uniform. When have you faced him?"
The soldier eased back and studied his face. “Oh, I haven't,” he said casually. “But I've heard tales. Women raped and strangled, men branded or beheaded."
Despite the soldier's words and even Scaja's warning, Scarlet found that difficult to believe. The first day he had seen Liall, he had witnessed him ordering his tribesman to unhand a woman. It had been easier ordered than done, for the woman was beating the Kasiri boy about his skull.
He had me in his camp, he thought, alone, at night, with armed men all around, and he let me go. Would a murderer spare a woman who defied him? Would he dicker over crockery and the price of tolls, or would he just take what he wanted, no excuses?
Scarlet eyed the solider. What was his aim? Was he here to assess the threat of the krait before reporting back to the Flower Prince, or was he just an idle soldier on his rounds of the villages, looking for a bit of company on the road? The kind of company that one pays for, he thought sourly, and was glad there were no bhoros houses in Lysia. He decided the soldier was a liar and a gossip, and that the Gift had whispered false to Scaja. Liall could not be a killer.
"Well, he's left my head alone."
"You must have a charming tongue in your head, despite your lack of cunning. Or perhaps he's heard of your pretty sister and hopes to curry favor with you and your father.” He leaned forward and Scarlet's nose wrinkled. The soldier's humid breath was musty with stale bitterbeer. “Perhaps that's what you should do, boy. Dress in your sister's clothes and let him steal a kiss or two and he'll let you cross over."
"Keep your own tongue in your head before I cut it out,” he warned as calmly as he could, resisting the urge to throw his mug at the soldier's face. He was unsettled by how wide the soldier's shot had gone and yet how close it had come. “And don't speak of my sister."
"Oh, of a certainty, young sir. I beg your pardon.” The soldier shrugged the threat off. “The name's Cadan,” he informed. “Lately of Patra. I'm newly assigned there, you might say."
"Scarlet,” he replied brusquely, rising. He left his mug on the table and left Rufa's, not looking back to see if Cadan was watching him.
Scarlet thought a walk in the night air might cool his temper, but his hands ached with the need to hit something. Reaching the stone well—named Second Well, the first being near the village gate—in the center of the village square, he crossed his arms and stood shivering as a light, dusty snow began to fall. The snow was little more than a mist and nearly magical in the moonlight. He sighed deeply and allowed the feathery snowfall to calm him.
Why did I defend Liall? he asked himself. It's stupid to be attracted to him, naïve beyond excuse. The man has no honor and can offer me nothing beyond a single night of pleasure, bought at a shameful price.
Even Scaja knew that, and Scarlet ruefully thought that his father would be more accepting even of the loud and uncouth soldier, rather than a Kasiri robber wolf. At least the soldier was partially Hilurin.
He was quiet coming in, not wanting to wake anyone. As he took off his wet gloves and laid them near the smoldering hearth, he caught sight of his face in the little mirror above the mantle, and it stopped him cold.
The light snow was threaded through his hair like cobwebs, dusting it with white. The snowflakes were melting rapidly, but he saw the plan then as clearly and whole as if sent by a dream. Not his sister's clothing, but his mother's: flour in his hair, padding underneath to give him a matronly figure, and one of Linhona's gowns. He spared a momen
t to wish his Gift extended to illusion, as his grandmother had been said to be able to do. No one he knew had ever been able to use their Gift like that, or at least, none would admit to it. Linhona would have his ears when she found out, but oh, it was a splendid idea!
He grinned into the mirror. So, a bandit thought he could keep a pedlar from traveling the roads, did he? The Wolf was about to be proved very wrong. No one penned him in.
* * * *
He woke with a start in the small hours of morning, sticky with sweat from the lingering images of a smoky dream. Scarlet pushed his damp hair back from his face with a shaking hand. There were horses; that much he remembered. Not like Byzan horses. These were huge beasts with short tails and curling, wooly coats. He had never seen such creatures, not even in his travels to Taim and Merkit that had taken him dangerously close to the borders of Minh. Much of the dream had been hazy, like looking through fogged glass, but he was unnerved to remember that Liall had been there, and he had not been a gaudy Kasiri in the dream, but clothed in rich fabrics and sitting astride a silver-caparisoned horse. He, too, had been clad in rich furs and velvet, and he remembered his dream-self shouting and spurring his horse to Liall's side, and all the while he was filled with a sinking, awful feeling in the pit of his stomach that he was too late.
He fumbled to light a candle and then washed his face at the basin before sliding back under the covers. Even with the candle out, it was hard to sleep again. Liall would not leave his thoughts. Who was he, anyway? Was he truly from Norl Udur, the northern kingdom so far away that no Byzan in living memory had taken the journey? Why did he dream about him? He truly did not like the man or what he was trying to force him to do at all. There was nothing alluring about Liall's methods, nothing noble about his krait. The whole source of fascination was the man himself, his long hands, his lofty height, his strange, pale hair, and the knowing looks that felt like intimate caresses.