The only thing that hadn’t been real was the strengi-saat’s voice. The creatures had never talked to her, never spoken in her mind.
She had a sudden worry that the creatures still hunted for her. She had escaped, but she worried that it was only for a time.
She wondered even if it was more than a dream. Could it have been a message? Were the strengi-saats capable of Sendings? Could they force messages upon her in her sleep?
She had no idea what the answer might be. Until a week ago, she’d never seen a strengi-saat.
Yet they showed a certain kind of cruel intelligence. They hunted cooperatively, and watched one another’s charges. They attacked only when it was safe.
But there was something else that bothered Rhianna: the strengi-saats talked to one another, growling and grunting and snarling throughout the day—not like birds that rise in the morning to sing in their trees, warning others from their realm. No, this was more like human speech, a near constant banter, exchanges of information. They were teaching one another, Rhianna had felt sure, plotting their conquests, considering their options in ways that other animals could not match.
Rhianna got up, peered about by the light of a single candle. Everyone was asleep, even Myrrima, who hardly ever slept. The Borenson family was lucky. They had a cabin in the hold, the only one set aside for travelers. The other refugee families were forced to huddle among crates, camping on blankets.
Humfrey saw that Rhianna was awake, and the ferrin leapt on her feet, gave a soft whistle, and looked toward the door. He wanted out. Ferrins were nocturnal, and the ratlike creature was wide awake.
Rhianna didn’t think that she would be able to sleep anyway, so she crept from under her blanket, tiptoed to the door, and pushed. It swung silently on leather hinges. She lifted Humfrey and climbed up to the open hatch, under the starlight.
She set the ferrin down, and he scampered off over the deck, peering behind balls of shot, a tiny shadow that weaved in and out of the deeper shadows thrown by the railing, by barrels, and by lifeboats. Rhianna thought that she heard a rat squeak, and then the ferrin shot ahead, hot on its trail, a killer in the night.
She strolled along casually, letting Humfrey have his fun, just looking up at the stars and breathing. She rounded the corner at the back of the boat and heard the thud of a boot and the crackling of bones, followed by a horrible squeal.
“Got ya,” a deep voice snarled, and Rhianna’s heart sank as she realized that someone had hurt the ferrin, probably thinking that it was wild.
She raced a couple of steps, rounded the aftercastle, and saw a lanky young man standing on the deck in the starlight. He had the ferrin in his hands, struggling and squeaking, and as she watched, he gripped it hard, twisting it as if to wring water from a rag.
There was a crackling, and Humfrey struggled no more.
In shock, Rhianna looked up, realized that Streben loomed above her.
He grinned at the ferrin, teeth flashing white in the moonlight, and said, “‘Ere now. Cap’n says I’m not to hurt your friend, but he didn’t say nothin’ ’bout you.”
He dropped the ferrin to the deck, stood peering down.
Rhianna didn’t have time for reason. She knew how devastated Fallion would be at the loss of Humfrey. Fallion’s mother and father were both gone within a week, and now this?
And the worst of it was the fear that she felt of Streben. It was cold, unreasoning.
In her mind, he loomed like a great shadow.
Rhianna gave a strangled cry of horror, and Streben turned. He grinned at her, his white teeth suddenly flashing in the starlight.
“Oh, now,” he whispered dangerously. “You shouldn’t ’ave seen that.”
He reached out to grab Rhianna.
A white-hot rage took her. Rhianna did not think about what to do. She didn’t even realize that she had her dirk. It was tucked into the belt behind her back. Her hand found it there.
It was like an extension of her body, and the hard calluses inside her thumb and along her palms gave mute testimony that she was well practiced in its use.
As Streben roughly grabbed her shoulder and pulled her toward him, she lunged, the knife flashing up toward his ribs, piercing through a kidney, sinking so far that she heard the blade click against his backbone.
Streben opened his mouth in surprise. “What? What did you?”
He reached down and felt the blade in his side, and suddenly grappled for her shoulders, as if begging for support.
Rhianna stared in shock at what she’d done as his eyes bulged and his mouth worked soundlessly.
He’s got a locus in him, she thought. He might have killed me.
Her hand grabbed the dirk, again, and she twisted the blade. Hot blood spilled down the runnel over her fingers and onto the deck.
The tall man was losing his battle to stay alive. Rhianna could feel his weight beginning to sag as his legs gave way. With a fury that she didn’t know that she had, Rhianna shoved him. He tried to keep his feet, staggering backward, and hit the railing, then went tumbling over the side and splashed into the water.
Rhianna stood looking down in a daze, watching the V of the backwash behind the ship for signs of movement, but Streben didn’t thrash about or cry for help.
He was gone.
Rhianna had a sudden fear that she might be caught and punished, so she raced to the galley, where she spent more than an hour trying to wash the blood from her hand, and from her blade.
In her mind, she replayed the events, tried to understand what had happened.
She’d been afraid. She was used to fear. Her mother had been running for as long as Rhianna could remember, terrified that her husband might catch her. From the time that Rhianna was born, she’d been warned of Celinor Anders.
And then he had come and brought the strengi-saats. “My pets require a sacrifice,” her father had said. “And you’re it.”
She had never imagined that the heart of a man could be so dark, that his conscience could be so dead.
So he’d given her to his pets, left her for dead.
It was Fallion who had given Rhianna her life back, even as her father tried to take it once again.
Her flight from the castle, her days of hiding in the inn—both had left her sick with fear. And when Streben had grabbed her, she’d just wanted it to end. Not just for her sake, but for Fallion’s, too.
She was confused by what she was beginning to feel for him. Was it love? They were only children, and weren’t supposed to be able to fall in love yet. But she was turning into a woman now, and she felt something that she thought was love. Or was it just gratitude so fierce that it seemed to melt the very marrow of her bones?
Adults don’t believe that children can fall in love, Rhianna knew. They disapprove. But Rhianna knew that her own feelings were just as fierce as any that an adult might feel.
It’s love, she told herself. That’s why I killed Streben. And I’ll not be sorry for it, even if they hang me from the yardarms.
And it seemed to Rhianna that they certainly would hang her. Streben was the captain’s nephew. He had friends on the ship, and she was a stranger. From what she had seen, strangers tended to get little in the way of justice in an unfamiliar town.
But they’ll have to catch me first, Rhianna decided.
There was nowhere to run. If she’d been in a town, it would have been nothing to steal a fast horse and race miles away before dawn.
There in the galley she cleaned herself by candlelight, washed her hands in a bucket of salt water, washed drops of telltale blood from her pants and boots. In the light of a single wavering candle, it was hard to find them all, and she looked again and again. Each time that she thought that she was clean, she found a new dab somewhere.
And she had to hurry, fearful that someone would come in, catch her washing. Daylight was coming. The cooks would be here soon. Twice she heard footfalls as some sailor rushed to the poop deck to relieve himself.
; Even getting back down to the hold unnoticed might be impossible. There were chickens down in the hold, and if it got any lighter, when she opened the hatch the roosters would begin to crow. Little Sage had been making a game of it for days, closing the hatch and then opening just to hear the roosters crow. Rhianna needed to leave now.
Worst of all she imagined that Myrrima would be awake when she got back to the cabin. Myrrima, with her endowments of stamina, rarely needed sleep. Not like Borenson, who kept folks awake with his loud snoring.
It was a long, long hour before she finally crept back down to her cabin, stealthily opening the hatch and sneaking to her room, only to find Myrrima sound asleep; it was many hours before Rhianna finally slept herself.
22
THE JUDGMENT
Prudence demands that a lord condemn a man only for the crimes that he can prove, not for crimes that he suspects were committed. But the Earth King can see into the heart of a man and condemn him on that basis alone. I would that we were all Earth Kings.
—Wuqaz Faharaqin
It was early morning when Captain Stalker realized that Streben was missing.
A deckhand found the dead ferrin on the poop deck and was about to throw it over when he saw a pool of blood, more than a ferrin could account for. It wasn’t uncommon for a sailor to cut himself or get a bloody nose, but this was a lot of blood, and so the deckhand searched the ship, looking to see if anyone was hurt.
It took a long time before he realized that Streben was missing and reported the news to Stalker.
Stalker blew the whistle for an assembly, and all hands reported for the count. Streben was definitely missing; Stalker went to the bloody pool and studied it.
Humfrey’s spear lay on the deck still. It had rolled against the railing. A little blood on the point revealed that the ferrin had died trying to defend himself.
The rounded end of the blood spatter was like a comet, pointing the direction that Streben had been traveling at his last, backpedaling toward the railing.
“Think the ferrin got ’im?” the sailor asked. “Maybe ’it ’im in the eye?” Stalker was an imaginative man, but such a scenario stretched his credulity. Too much blood, he reasoned silently. No, what we have here is murder. Streben’s mother would demand vengeance. Of course Stalker could always cover it up. Men fell from the rigging every day, or took too much rum and stumbled overboard.
Yes, he thought, why not? Why not tell his sister that a ferrin had killed her son?
It was ludicrous. It sounded so much like a lie that she’d think that it had to be the truth.
“I don’t think a ferrin did this,” Stalker admitted.
“The ferrin belongs to that boy,” the sailor said, “the one that fought yesterday. Maybe ’e came up in the night to lighten ’is load, and the ferrin came with. So the kid …”
Stalker gave the sailor a sidelong look. “He’s just a kid. And kids that age don’t murder.”
“’E’s good with a blade,” the sailor muttered.
And it was true. But in his heart, Stalker doubted that it was murder. Streben would have terrorized the boy if he’d found him alone at night. Streben might even have tried to cut the kid’s throat. It was self-defense, if it was anything.
Maybe one of Streben’s victims had finally turned the tables on him.
His mother would still want vengeance, but it would be hard to get.
“Go down to the guest cabin,” Stalker said. “Ask Borenson … and his son, to come meet me for breakfast.”
Stalker went to the galley and took a seat. The rest of the crew had taken breakfast at sunrise, and so the galley was empty. He had Cook fry up some sausages and cut up some oranges to go with their hard bread, then sat at the table trying to compose his thoughts.
When Borenson and young Fallion arrived, they both looked tired, stiff from sleep. Their blood wasn’t flowing, and indeed, Fallion was a tad green. Stalker had become accustomed to the pitch and roll of a ship long ago, and he hadn’t even noticed that the seas had grown heavier this morning. But Fallion was taking it badly.
“’Ave some breakfast?” the captain asked, letting Borenson and Fallion find their own seats.
Fallion just stared at the platter of sausages, hard rolls, and fruit, going greener by the moment, while Stalker and Borenson loaded their plates.
“Go ahead, lad,” the captain ordered. “Nothin’ will come up so long as you’ve got somethin’ ’eadin’ down.”
At that, Fallion grabbed a roll and ripped off a piece with his teeth, swallowing it as if it might save his life.
Borenson and Stalker both chuckled, and took a few perfunctory bites. Borenson ate silently, waiting for Stalker to state his business, but in Landesfallen, men didn’t mix food and business, and so they ate through the meal in silence.
When everyone was full, Stalker leaned back in his chair and came straight to the point. “Thing is, see, Streben is dead. Got ’isself killed last night.”
Both Borenson and the boy looked surprised.
Neither of them squirmed at those words, but then again, Stalker hadn’t expected them to. They could have taken turns hacking the man to death with axes, and he suspected that they still wouldn’t have shown any guilt.
“So, gentlemen,” Stalker said, “it’s your blades I’m wantin’ to see.”
Borenson raised a brow. “Why, sir, I protest: I haven’t killed a man in … three days.”
From the glittering in Borenson’s eyes, Stalker knew that he spoke the truth. He hadn’t killed a man in three days. But who would he have killed three days ago?
Not my business, Stalker told himself. Yet he inspected Borenson’s blade anyway. Good metal, Sylvarresta spring steel, the kind that would hold an edge for ages and wouldn’t rust for a century. It was so clean it might never have been used, and the blade was sharper than a razor. But then Stalker expected that a warrior of Borenson’s stature would keep his blade in such condition. First thing after a kill, he’d have wiped it, honed it. Wouldn’t have slept or eaten until that blade looked as polished as new.
Stalker returned it.
Fallion presented his own blade, and Stalker whistled in appreciation. Though the haft was a simple thing wrapped in leather, the metal had a dull grayish cast that Stalker had rarely seen. Thurivan metal, maybe six hundred years old, forged by master weapon-smiths who believed that they imbued the blade with Power from the elements. It was a princely weapon, and Stalker, who had done more than his fair share of weapons trade, was duly impressed.
But even more impressive was the blood wedged up in the cracks where the blade met the finger guard.
“Where’d this blood come from?” Stalker asked, peering down at the boy.
Fallion looked up at the captain and struggled to think where it had come from. The strengi-saat, of course! Fallion had stabbed it deeply four days ago, and worrying that others might strike at any moment, he had not cleaned the blade proper.
But he dared not tell the truth. He was, after all, still supposed to be in hiding.
“I cut myself,” Fallion said, raising his still-bandaged left hand. The bandage was dirty and gray now.
Stalker shook his head. “Blood only gets in the ’ilt like this when you stab something deep, when it bubbles out all in a frenzy.”
Fallion dared not come up with another lie, for that would only hurt his credibility.
Borenson came to his rescue. “He cut himself, like he said. It made a damned mess.”
He said it with resolve. That was the lie, and they were both going to stick to it.
Damn, Stalker told himself, Streben’s mother is going to be mad.
“Right,” Stalker said, rising from his chair with a grunt. “Right. Streben was a rascal. No one will be sheddin’ tears for him. Got what he deserved, most like.” He forced a smile, peered hard at Fallion. The boy didn’t squirm or look away.
Damn, he’s a saucy one, Stalker thought. Nine years old, and he draws his own blood when t
he time comes, like a true warrior.
Stalker’s appreciation for the boy ratcheted up a couple of notches.
“Still want that job?” Stalker asked. “I could use a cabin boy of your … demeanor.”
Fallion nodded, but Borenson shot Fallion a worried look. “A job?”
“I asked if I could be a cabin boy,” Fallion said. “I was hoping to learn how to run a ship.”
Right now, Stalker imagined, Borenson was trying to understand why he’d be rewarding the lad for killing his nephew. Stalker had to wonder himself.
Because I like cunning and courage, Stalker realized. If I still had kids myself, I’d like ’em feral.
23
INVISIBLE CHILDREN
It is often said that children are invisible. But I think that it’s not so much that they are invisible, as it is that we tend to see children not as they are, but as we expect them to be. And when we expect nothing from them, we learn not to see them.
—Hearthmaster Waggit
Rhianna lay in bed for much of the morning. As the other children rose and climbed up the ladder to eat, she just lay wrapped in her blanket. Myrrima cleaned the room for the day, folding clothes, making beds. She studied Rhianna and asked, “Hey, you, ready for breakfast?”
Rhianna shook her head. “Not hungry. I feel sick.”
“Seasick or sick sick?”
“Seasick.” It was a handy lie, and wouldn’t require her to hold a lamp to her head to produce a fever.
“The whole Ainslee family is down with it,” Myrrima said, referring to a refugee family that slept in the hold, near the pens of chickens and ducks and pigs. “Want a bucket, or can you make it topside when the time comes?”
Rhianna’s stomach was in a jumble. Murder didn’t sit well with her. “A bucket.”
Myrrima produced a wooden bucket from under one of the bunks, apparently left for just such an emergency, and Rhianna lay abed.
Borenson and Fallion came back down to the cabin; Borenson told Myrrima, “Streben is dead.”
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