by Angus Wells
“What good would money do?”
Davyd winked and told her, “Guards can be bribed—to give you extra food, light work, that kind of thing.”
Flysse nodded, thinking not for the first time that she was an innocent in such matters.
“But I reckon not,” Davyd continued. “A toff like that—why, if he had any coin, he’d surely have bought himself a barbering, likely had his boots polished …”
There was a hint of regret in his voice, and Flysse gave him all her attention. “And if he had?” she asked. “What good to you?”
“To us,” Davyd corrected her, and waved expressive fingers.
“You’d pick his pockets?” Flysse was shocked.
Davyd grinned and shrugged, quite unabashed. “Likely not,” he said ruefully, “while I’ve got these cuffs on. But are they removed …”
“You’d steal his money?” Now Flysse frowned, prompting Davyd to a perplexed expression.
“I’d make our journey as easy as possible,” he declared. “What’s wrong with that?”
“It would be stealing,” Flysse said.
“That’s what I do,” Davyd replied. “I’m a thief.”
“And see where it’s got you.” Flysse was stern now.
“Aye.” Davyd glanced around. “Here—where I’ve not much to lose. Except”—he turned his gaze back to the stranger—“perhaps my life.”
“No!” Flysse was suddenly afraid: she’d not lose this new-won friend. “You mustn’t. Promise me!”
Davyd was still watching the man. He shook his head absently and said, “I doubt I’ll have the chance, even if he does have coin. Look at him. See how he moves?”
Flysse obeyed: he seemed to her most graceful. In her ear she heard Davyd whisper: “I’d wager he’s a duelist. He’s that look about him.”
Flysse had no idea what a duelist looked like.
Davyd said, “Am I right, he’d make a good friend. And we could use a friend.”
Flysse thought it unlikely so gentlemanly a fellow would have much inclination to befriend an urchin thief and a tavern girl, but before she had time to voice such pessimism, Davyd was calling to the man.
“Hey, ’sieur! We’ve room aplenty here.”
The man looked toward them. As his eyes met hers, Flysse blushed anew and lowered her head.
“A smile would help,” Davyd whispered.
She refused to look up or answer, and the next thing she knew the boots halted before her and a deep voice said, “Madam, may I join you?” as if she sat not in this dingy hall all filled with branded prisoners but in a salon, free.
She heard Davyd say, “Of course, ’sieur, and welcome. I’m called Davyd, Davyd Furth. This is Flysse Cobal.”
There was a movement. Flysse looked up from under lowered lashes and saw the man bow. Along the hall someone laughed.
“I am Arcole Blayke. With your permission?”
She nodded and managed to mumble an affirmative. Arcole Blayke said, “Thank you,” and settled himself beside her.
“So,” asked Davyd, “what brings you here, ’sieur Blayke?”
“I killed a man in a duel,” Arcole replied, and chuckled bitterly. “Unfortunately, he had a powerful father.”
“I thought as much.” Davyd sounded triumphant. “You’re a duelist.”
Arcole nodded gravely. “And you?”
“A thief,” Davyd said.
Arcole frowned as if this news did not please him and looked to Flysse. “And what was your crime, Mistress Cobal?”
“She struck a lieutenant in the God’s Militia,” Davyd answered for her. “He tried to seduce her and she broke his nose, and most of his teeth.”
Flysse saw Arcole duck his head approvingly, then turn a bright smile on her. “Then you’ve my congratulations, mistress. Such an act deserves applause.”
Flysse could not help but smile back, even as she felt her cheeks grow warm.
“You’re not from Evander,” Davyd said.
“No, I come from the Levan,” Arcole replied.
“And,” Davyd began, then halted as the doors opened again and Militiamen appeared, framed in afternoon sunlight, a captain at their head.
“On your feet!” the captain shouted. “You’re Salvation-bound.”
9 The Die Is Cast
Throughout the Council, Morrhyn felt a niggling doubt tug at his mind. He wondered at Chakthi’s expression: it seemed to him sly, and he did not understand why the Tachyn akaman drew out the debate. Surely the vital question was the People’s response to Colun’s alarming news, not the trivial matters Chakthi brought up. What could grazing rights and disputed boundaries count against the possibility of impending invasion? It was as if the Tachyn would have the Council sit longer than any there cared for. And why was Vachyr not in his usual position, behind his father? He sensed the rest growing wearied with the seemingly endless procession of petty matters, but—conscious of the delicate balance of allegiances—said nothing.
It was plump Yazte, in the end, who said what was in all their minds. He raised a hand as Chakthi waxed loquacious on the subject of a stream that boundaried the Tachyn grass and asked bluntly, “Can this not wait? The Maker knows, but we’ve larger decisions to take, and much to ponder.”
Chakthi said, “I’d have these smaller matters settled that they not trouble us when we come to these greater things.”
To which Yazte replied, “And I’d find my bed. My ears ache with all this talking, and I’d speak privately with Kahteney. Remember, the wakanishas would sit in Dream Council on the morrow.”
“Yes, I remember.” Chakthi nodded, his smile unctuous. “So surely better no little troubles disturb their concentration.”
Yazte snorted, shaking his round head, and looked to Racharran for support.
The Commacht akaman shrugged, diplomatic, not wishing to offend Chakthi.
Yazte frowned and turned to Juh. “How say you, brother? Do you not grow weary?”
Juh smiled his ancient smile and lowered his head. “It is not for me to bid my brother silent,” he said, “but I think we might set aside these lesser things.”
“Do we vote on it?” asked Tahdase.
Yazte said, “I vote for sleep. I say we leave all lesser matters for another day.”
Juh nodded and raised a hand in agreement, soon followed by Tahdase. Racharran raised his hand. Hadduth whispered in Chakthi’s ear and the Tachyn akaman smiled and said, “So be it.” Morrhyn hid a frown: he sensed something went on here that he could not interpret.
He quit the Council at Racharran’s side. Lhyn emerged from the crowd to join her husband, and Colun walked with them.
The Grannach was grumpy. “My belly aches for want of sustenance,” he complained. “And a pitcher of tiswin would not go amiss.”
Lhyn laughed and promised him both. Racharran said, “Chakthi does not usually speak so much. I wonder what oiled his tongue this night.”
“There was something about him.” Morrhyn shook his head, perplexed. “As if he and Hadduth shared some secret. Nor was Vachyr present.”
“No.” Racharran’s eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion and he looked to his wife. “Rannach quit the fires soon after Colun spoke. Have you seen him?”
She said, “I suspect our son was eager to return to his bride. Like any new-wed young man.”
“Perhaps.” Racharran nodded. They came amongst the Commacht tents and he looked to where Rannach’s lodge was pitched. The moon was bright, the tent a shadow on the grass, faint firelight visible at the entrance. A grunt escaped his lips and he said, “His horse is gone, and Arrhyna’s.”
Morrhyn suddenly felt all his doubts knot tight in his belly.
Lhyn said, “Likely they ride under the moon,” and jabbed an elbow against her husband’s ribs. “Once you had such romantic notions.”
Racharran frowned, ignoring the sally.
Mournfully, Colun asked, “Does this mean I go hungry?”
“No.” Lhyn favored her
husband with a disapproving glance. “Do you and I go on, and I’ll see that belly of yours filled. My suspicious husband will meanwhile go skulk about our son’s lodge—and we’ll laugh at his blushes when he returns.”
“And tiswin?” Colun demanded.
“And tiswin,” Lhyn confirmed. She pushed Racharran forward. “Shall you embarrass yourself, husband? Or shall you leave them be?”
Racharran, not looking at her, said, “Feed Colun; all well, I’ll join you soon. Morrhyn?”
Akaman and wakanisha crossed the open ground to the lodge. As he saw the unlaced entry flap, Morrhyn groaned. Racharran cursed, shouldering the flap aside to enter. The interior elicited a louder, fiercer oath.
This, Morrhyn though with dreadful realization, is why Chakthi delayed us so long. To give his Maker-cursed son time. Damn them both! He snatched at Racharran’s arm as the akaman moved away.
“No, you cannot! Think on it—even is Vachyr gone, what proof have we he’d anything to do with this? Shall you accuse Chakthi without clear proof?”
“Think you this is not his work?” Racharran demanded.
“I think it is.” Morrhyn set himself before his akaman like a man facing an angry bull buffalo, he thought. He set his hands against Racharran’s shoulders. “But even so, we’ve no proof.”
“What proof do we need?” Racharran pushed against the wakanisha. “Shall we wait for Rannach to bring him back across his saddle?”
“Is he alive, then yes,” Morrhyn cried. “Pray for that. Do you go storming through the Tachyn lodges now, you only give Chakthi cause for greater insult, and legitimate!”
For a while Racharran stood rigid, straining against Morrhyn. Then he slumped, the tension leaving his frame. He nodded wearily. “We’re caught, no?” He raised his face to the moonlit sky as if in supplication. “Oh, by the Maker! Had Rannach only listened, found some other bride …”
“But he did not,” Morrhyn said. “He found Arrhyna and wed her, with the blessing of the Council. Has Vachyr stolen her, then he stands condemned before all the Matakwa.”
“Does he live to be condemned.” Planed by the moonlight, Racharran’s face was haggard. “But does Rannach slay him within the boundaries of the Meeting Ground, then it shall be my son who stands condemned.”
Morrhyn said, “He gave his word.”
A barking laugh escaped Racharran’s tight-drawn mouth. “Did some wife-stealer take Lhyn, think you I’d remember such a promise when I faced him? Would you?”
Almost, Morrhyn said no, but he held that back and instead said, “Then the Maker grant Rannach remembers.”
They were blooded warriors, accustomed to the hunt and—sometimes—clan warfare. They could read a trail and, with the Maker’s blessing, outguess their quarry. But those skills were also Vachyr’s, and he could ride hard and fast, thinking only of escape and the obscuration of his spoor, while they must seek out his tracks by night, and ensure which were his and which those of other riders. With all the People come to Matakwa, the country around the Meeting Ground was busy with trails: they must ride slower, and carefully, lest they lose the sign.
“Ach!” Bakaan rose from his examination of the trampled grass and swept out an arm, indicating the profusion of tracks. “I’d guess a party of Tachyn came to meet him, then scattered two by two.”
Hadustan leaned from his saddle, scanning the ground. “All two by two,” he murmured. “And look.” He pointed to the dung piles littering the area. “They waited for him.”
“Chakthi’s hand!” Rannach said it like a curse. “His father must have aided him, sent warriors out to hide his trail.”
“Then,” said Zhy, “it was all planned in advance. And it might be,” he surveyed the tracks, “they join later, and we face … what? Two hands of warriors?”
Bakaan asked, “Do you say we turn back?”
“No.” Zhy shook his head. “Only that we ride cautious.”
“Ten warriors are too many.” Rannach held the stallion in check as the animal pranced, sensing his urgency. “The absence of ten warriors from the Council would be noticed.”
“How so,” Zhy asked, “amongst so many?”
Rannach thought a moment, then: “Chakthi would not give such a task to any save his most trusted men. And I saw none of those absent from the Council fires.”
Bakaan asked, “What do you tell us?”
Under the moon’s light it was hard to decide whether Rannach snarled or frowned. Perhaps it was both; he said, “That earlier this day Chakthi sent men out to hide his son’s tracks. They gathered here, as if meeting Vachyr, then rode out in pairs in different directions. Vachyr came here and rode on, thinking to confuse any pursuit.”
He dropped from the saddle, tossing the stallion’s rein to Bakaan as he walked an impatient circle around the hoof-marked ground.
“See? These are older; harder.” He stooped, fingers delicate as they probed the prints. He checked them all, then: “These, they’re more recent. And one animal has smaller hooves—like Arrhyna’s mare.” He pointed northward. “Vachyr goes that way.”
Bakaan asked, “You’re sure?”
Rannach said, “I pray the Maker I am.”
He leapt astride the stallion and heeled the big horse into the night.
Lhyn was unhappy with Racharran’s decision, and her displeasure encompassed Morrhyn. He cringed under her frown.
“Alone?” She expressed her anger with the spoon, ladling stew into their bowls hard enough they must clutch the platters two-handed, lest gravy splatter them. “You send no senior warriors after him? To … protect him? Or prevent him from slaying Vachyr?”
Colun, already emptying his second bowl and his second pitcher of tiswin, beamed and said, “He’s a warrior, no? He’s my old friend’s son—he’ll come to no harm.”
“Be quiet!” Lhyn withered the Grannach leader with a single furious glance. “Eat, and drink your tiswin, and hold your tongue. This is my son we speak of.”
Colun belched and shrugged. “Forgive me,” he said, and filled his cup.
“I’ve explained it, no?” Racharran looked to the wakanisha for support. “It’s as Morrhyn says—do I send riders out, then Chakthi can claim I took a hand in whatever happens.”
“And is Rannach slain?” Lhyn asked. “Or he slays Vachyr? What then?”
“Does he slay Vachyr,” Racharran said, “then likely we shall have war with the Tachyn when we need peace, alliance against these invaders. I think that Chakthi planned this well.”
Lhyn settled by the fire, and when she spoke her voice was no cooler than the flames. “And is our son killed?”
Morrhyn ventured an opinion. “He is not alone,” he said. “Those comrades of his ride with him—Bakaan and the other two, Hadustan and Zhy.”
“And has Chakthi sent warriors to halt them?”
Was this, Morrhyn wondered, what marriage was like? Was it this furious exchange of views? Did the presence of children bring forth such differences? He thought how difficult it must be for Racharran: father and akaman of the clan, both.
He said, “I doubt Chakthi risks that.”
Lhyn stared at him and he thought of lions.
He said, “I think that Chakthi agreed this with Vachyr, but would not risk sending others. I think that Vachyr rides alone, whilst Rannach has his companions.”
“And shall likely slay Vachyr,” Lhyn said, granting him no release. “And stand condemned for breaking the Matakwa truce.”
Morrhyn lowered his face: it was hard to meet the burning of her eyes.
Racharran said, “Does it come to that, then surely the Council will understand. By the Maker, Vachyr stole our son’s bride! He must be condemned.”
“And we Commacht,” Lhyn said coldly, “then find ourselves at war with the Tachyn. Which you, my husband, and you”—her icy gaze took in Morrhyn—“say that is what we must avoid at all costs.”
“There is no other way.” Racharran’s voice sounded empty, bereft. “It’s
as we say—Chakthi’s tied our hands.”
“Oh, Chakthi’s clever.” Her answer was a snort of contempt that gathered in her husband and Morrhyn and Chakthi in one maternal basket. “He’s tied your hands, eh? And does Vachyr slay our son?”
Morrhyn sympathized with Racharran even as he felt grateful that question was directed at the akaman. He knew what he wished his answer should be, and what it must be. He fixed his eyes on the fire as Racharran spoke. He thought he could not bear to look at either face, the father’s or the mother’s.
“Then I must go before the Council and demand Vachyr be condemned as a bride-thief and a murderer.” Racharran’s voice reminded Morrhyn that they were none of them any longer young: it was the voice of years, weighted with responsibility. “But I must also remember that I am akaman of the Commacht; and that our clan—and all the people—face an unknown threat.”
“And our son?” Lhyn asked.
“Is one man,” Racharran said. “The Maker help me, but does it come to it, I must sacrifice him.”
“Our son?” she demanded.
Her husband ducked his head. As if, Morrhyn thought, a terrible dread hand pressed it down in rueful acceptance.
As Racharran said “Yes,” Colun belched noisily and pitched sideways over the furs, spilling the dregs of his tiswin.
The tracks went north into the stones of the foothills. The moon bleached the pinnacle of the Maker’s Mountain the color of old bone. The timber spanning the long legs of rock disgorged owls that hooted soft protest at their passage. The needles the trees dropped were soft and resilient, not given to the holding of tracks—the bride-thief was not stupid.
Nor were the hunters.
There were always signs to be read: a twisted branch, a scarred root, a place where water oozed and held the spoor. They followed: up into the wide spurs where the rock shone white under the moon and only the gravel drift below afforded mark of hoof-passage. Along ravines where turned stones guided them, lit blue and black by the silent moon. Up and around, along a wide circle that as dawn came on fell into a line moving south and east, skirting the Meeting Ground; likely to traverse the boundary of the Commacht and the Tachyn grass before moving onto the safer ground of Vachyr’s own clan.