by Jaine Fenn
When Dej went out for water that morning, she loitered and watched Mar and her escort leave the big hut. After a quick look around she scampered up, slinging the empty waterskin over her shoulder. She peered in. The fire was low and the curtains on one of the three sleeping alcoves were closed.
If Vas-or-Ryt woke up and asked why she was there she’d say she’d come to speak to Mar. She’d ask Mar the same question her fight-tutors had refused to answer, about what, aside from small prey, she was being trained to fight. Possibly a stupid question, probably not one Mar would answer, but an excuse for a visit.
That low rasp sounded like snoring. Dej crept over to the wooden cabinet she’d noticed on restday. It had a solid door but no lock. When she raised the latch and opened it a delicious smell wafted out. The fruit was piled high on the top shelf with dozens of the odd cakes, referred to as “rice cakes” on the bottom. She’d palmed a cloth before leaving the hut, and used it to wrap two rice cakes and a handful of dried apple; more than that and someone would notice.
A sound behind her. She jumped, then turned, poised to run or make some excuse, but she was still alone. Just a fart from the sleeping oaf. She grinned to herself and sauntered out.
She went back to the pool and filled the waterskin. As the water trickled in, rather than humming she ate one of the rice cakes and a piece of apple. The treat tasted even better than on restday.
On a previous visit to the pool she’d found a mat of knotted green-grey tendrils which could be lifted like a flap to expose a hand-sized crevice in the rocks. Not a great hiding-place, and she wasn’t sure how edible her spoils would be once they’d been in there a day or two, but better than nothing.
On the way back to the hut she tried not to smile.
On the first day after she stole the food, a herb foraging party left, heading east. Kir didn’t go with it; instead the clanless’s other pathfinder, Gel, acted as their guide. Dej avoided Kir. Kir acted likewise. Dej should have expected that; after all, Min had betrayed her. She’d thought, for a while that Kir might be a friend, but she should have known better.
She ate most of the remaining fruit that day. The second rice cake had gone soggy but that wasn’t the point; she ate that too. She left one piece of apple, to prolong the pleasure.
The following day started like any other: fetch water, keep out the way of her hut-mates, go to fight practice. Cal turned up to watch her combat moves halfway through the morning. Dej ignored him.
When they broke for lunch Dej willed Cal to go away, walk off, just leave her the fuck alone. He didn’t. He came over, nodding to the fight tutors. They moved off, leaving him with Dej. Dej stared at the hills behind him.
“So then,” said Cal, “did you steal from us?”
Dej looked down and met his eyes, putting as much venom as she could into the tiny word, “No.”
But the change in Cal’s expression – a softening of the mouth, half-closed eyes, the hint of a nod – told her he knew she was lying. Part of her expected that. Part of her wanted it. But now it’d happened, she wanted to run. Except there was nowhere to run to.
Cal’s hand shot out and grabbed her arm. “Come with me.”
He dragged her to the big hut. She wanted to hit him, bite him, resist in some way, but it wouldn’t do any good. The last part of her was undone.
Inside, Mar sat on her seat while one of her boys tended the fire.
Cal thrust her forward. “Yes, it was her.” He sounded more irritated than angry.
Dej looked at Mar, cultivating her best look of innocent confusion. “What was me? What’s happened?”
Mar levered herself up to stand and looked Dej in the face. “Do you really think Cal would be our seer if he couldn’t smell lies, child? Though it’s a talent I’ve some of too.” Her eyes still on Dej’s, she pointed to one side, towards the food cabinet. “Did you take food?”
Mam Gerisa had wanted to believe the best of people. These two didn’t. And they could sense the truth. Dej met Mar’s gaze. “Yes. Yes, I did.”
“How incredibly stupid,” commented Cal, like this was just one more thing she’d done to disappoint him.
Dej kept looking at Mar. “Took you a while to notice though, didn’t it?”
“What?”
“You wanted to know what I’m good at. I’m good at stealing.” She hadn’t expected to boast about her light fingers but she had nothing left to lose. Perhaps it might even save her skin.
“That’s nothing to be proud of,” muttered Cal from behind her.
“So where does this food come from, then? I mean, the shadowkin don’t just give it to you, do they, so presumably someone who can take things without–”
“Enough!”
Dej shut up at Mar’s bark. More quietly, the elder continued, “How we get what we need from the shadowkin is no concern of yours. But even if we were thieves, we’d never steal from each other. I should have my boys take you onto the high plateau, break both your legs and leave you for the nightwings.”
Dej’s breathing quickened and her throat closed. I will not show fear, I will not show fear.
Mar cleared her throat. “But that’s not what I’m going to do.” She stepped to one side and pointed to her seat. “Kneel behind that.”
Dej forced one leg to move, then the other. Without looking at Cal she walked round the seat and knelt. Someone shoved her forward, so her upper body lay across the seat. She looked at the ground and tried to breathe.
A pause, then–
She cried out at the first blow from the leather strap, head jerking up. Cal smiled across the fire at her. She closed her eyes and let her head droop. At the next blow she squealed, then bit off the sound. She closed her eyes tighter, locked her jaw, and dug her nails into her palms. Tears leaked over her cheeks but she didn’t look up. And she didn’t make another sound.
Chapter 37
On the morning of the caliarch’s birthday, Lekem climbed out the window of the soldiers’ room onto the narrow plank-bound ledge around the islet. Rhia left with Sorne and Breen by the front door. As the three of them passed the commons, Mam Jekrey bustled out. When she frowned to see one of their number missing, Sorne said, “My nephew is unwell, and hopes to join us later.” Their hostess nodded, her good eye on him.
The soldiers led her to a jetty on the landward side of the islet. Here they found a single punt, with its steersman waiting, pole in hand. If she hadn’t known better Rhia would not have recognized Lekem in the Zekti disguise. Their bundled possessions waited in the bottom of the boat, along with a short wooden ladder.
Rhia had no idea where the boat, or the ladder, had come from, though the punt already had garlands of white flowers and dark green foliage tied across the front and down the sides. The other punts they passed were similarly decorated. Another good reason for choosing this day, as Zekti punts had distinctive painted designs on them, stylized fish and waterweed and pairs of eyes. The garland would hide any markings that might identify the boat to its rightful owner. Assuming its rightful owner was still in a position to make such an identification.
Sorne and Breen sat on the bench at Lekem’s feet facing forwards, Rhia opposite them facing back. Just a trio of visitors from Shen off to the regatta. Lekem did not look at his passengers as he planted and raised his pole. After some initial jolts and splashes, he got a feel for the motion, and stopped leaving the pole in too long or pulling it up too soon.
Slow swirls of sediment rose and settled in the brown water. When they passed over a bed of sinuous weed it undulated and spread out like strands of hair. Rhia looked away.
Most boats they saw were heading for the Eternal Isle, where the procession of barges would begin. People in other boats shouted “Joy of the First,” to them, a greeting Sorne returned heartily. Aside from that the party was silent.
They passed the next islet. Cheers and faint music drifted across the water. Lekem steered to the left.
“Sir?” Breen broke the silence with a whisp
er.
Sorne said, “Yes?”
“I think we need to go between those two islets there, just to our right, to get to the priory. That’s the most direct route.”
“You hear that, boatman?” Sorne sounded almost jolly. Lekem dragged the pole, slowing the punt. His face was flushed and his forehead shone with sweat.
They passed more punts. They were heading against the flow now, earning odd looks. After the third time a group turned to stare at them Sorne said, loudly enough to make Rhia jump, “I told you this wasn’t the way!”
“But, Da,” said Breen, a mischievous smile on his face, “the girl I was talking to last night said this is a shortcut!”
The locals turned away, embarrassed at the foreigners’ antics.
They rounded the back of the priory to find themselves in a narrow, deserted stretch of water.
Lekem brought the punt up alongside the islet about a third of the way along. Though the windows were small and high, the ledge was wide enough for a ladder.
While Lekem pulled himself onto the islet Rhia undid her skirt and pushed it down her legs; the pair of breeches she had packed had finally come in useful.
Sorne passed Lekem the ladder while Breen pulled out weapon bundles from packs. The soldiers worked fast, but Rhia still expected a punt to come round the corner at any moment.
When the ladder was in place Lekem held it steady while Sorne climbed. The captain paused to look in the window, then turned and nodded to show the way was clear.
Before starting up the ladder Breen leaned down to help Rhia out of the boat. She let him grasp her arm and pull her up. Once on the ledge she pressed herself against the wall while Breen climbed, then followed him up. After so long cooped up at the guesthouse, she was enjoying the adventure. She half climbed, half slid through the narrow window and dropped to the floor of a small, warm room. Behind her, she heard the ladder moving and looked at Sorne. “Lekem’s staying with the boat,” he murmured. That made sense: someone had to ensure it was still there when they got back.
This was a drying room, with clean sheets and tunics draped on wooden frames and a stone hearth in one corner putting out enough heat to keep the damp at bay.
Sorne and Breen unwrapped their weapons. Each had a short stave and ironwood punch-dagger; the glint along the edge of their staves showed they were diamond-dusted. Sorne offered her a flint-edged dagger, sheathed and belted.
“I don’t know how to use this.”
“And hopefully you won’t have to,” the captain whispered, “but it may come in useful.”
Rhia nodded and strapped the dagger on. It was heavier than she expected.
Sorne went to the door, listened, then opened it a crack. After a brief look round, he opened it fully. Breen followed. Rhia trailed behind.
Sorne led them left, past several closed doors. The hallway was silent and empty. Rhia listened so hard her ears ached. Though the corridor was not warm, sweat ran down between her shoulder blades. She wished Sorne had not given her a weapon. She had been thinking of herself as a detached observer. Now she was a third of their forces.
They came to steps, going up.
The steps led to another windowless wooden corridor, shadowy in the lamplight. As soon as Sorne turned into it he tensed. Rhia looked past him. Something lay on the floor just up the corridor. The obstruction was the right size and shape for a body. Breen moved to stand beside his captain. Rhia hung back.
Closer, and she could see how the man lay face down, outstretched arm still holding a staff. He wore a leather jerkin like those of the city guard, though he was bare-headed. Sorne and Breen approached, slow and silent. The man did not move. Sorne extended a foot and prodded the body; it gave, rolled a little, settled back.
The door nearest the fallen man was ajar. Sorne thrust it open, dagger in hand. He strode in, then paused and turned to murmur to Breen, “All clear in here. Check him.” Breen knelt by the prone figure, allowing Rhia to see into the room, where a second body lay. Please no, don’t let that be…
But it was another local, though without weaponry or armour. He lay on his side, facing away from the door, a pool of blood spreading out behind him.
Relief that it wasn’t Etyan combined with nauseous shame, because this man had had a life and lost it. She looked away to see beds down either wall, and various stands and cupboards. A nightstand had been knocked over and herb-infused water ran into the blood. One bed had the covers dragged half off it. Aside from the man on the floor, there was no one here.
“This one’s dead – neck broken,” called Breen softly from the corridor. “Wait, got a footprint.”
Rhia swallowed bile and turned her back on the carnage. She stepped aside to let Sorne make his exit. Breen was bending over a sandal-shaped damp mark on the scrubbed wooden floor.
“This way,” Sorne said, spotting a second print. The two soldiers set off side-by-side, weapons at the ready, at a fast walk. Rhia trailed behind, wondering if she should draw her dagger. Someone else had been here, another intruder – or intruders – and they had taken Etyan. And killed at least two people. She wished she hadn’t come.
They reached a set of stairs. Sorne and Breen exchanged nods, then started down, delicate as dancers.
At the bottom they hesitated, leaning out to look both ways along the corridor. A momentary meeting of glances and they set off left, at speed.
Three men were moving away up the corridor, no more than a dozen yards ahead. The one at the back was heavily built and had someone slung over his shoulder, someone slight with fair hair, dressed in a night-robe. Rhia bit down on a cry.
Sorne called out, “Hey, you there.”
As the other men turned, Rhia cursed the normally professional captain for giving them away. Then the two unencumbered men stalked back past the one carrying Etyan and Rhia saw Sorne’s logic: if the soldiers had attacked from behind they would have had the advantage of surprise, but Etyan might have been hurt.
Without another word, the four men closed.
Rhia enjoyed fencing matches at court, fought by sporting nobles using slender, un-dusted swords. This was something else.
One of Etyan’s abductors had a club and shield, the other a shortsword and dagger. Sorne went for the swordsman. Breen stepped up to the club-wielder.
The corridor erupted into violence.
The soldiers leapt forward together, forcing the two abductors back. Beyond the whirl of limbs Rhia saw the third man bending over. Her heart skipped. She couldn’t see Etyan. Was he all right?
The other two recovered from their initial surprise. Each side had the measure of the other now. Rhia wondered if she could get past the men to Etyan, but could see no safe way of doing so.
Breen fought laconically, almost playfully. While his opponent swung his club in wide arcs the militiaman dodged and parried, light on his feet, a half smile on his face.
Sorne’s moves were faster, dirtier. He pressed forward, then fell back, only to lash out when his opponent came at him again. Both men’s punch-daggers had knuckle-guards to parry with. Sorne’s stave was longer than his opponent’s sword, but the ironwood sword had jagged obsidian teeth set into it. The swordsman’s first blow on Sorne was just a touch, yet cloth parted and blood welled above the captain’s elbow. Sorne appeared not to notice.
Breen was giving ground. Sorne glanced at his companion, then retreated to stand alongside him.
Sorne stepped back again. Rhia was in his way. She scurried backwards, her mixture of fascination with the silent, intense battle and concern over her brother giving way to stark fear. One step threatened to become desperate flight.
But she could not abandon Etyan. The man who had been carrying him was standing up again. He had a club in his hand and was moving to join the fray.
Rhia almost missed Sorne’s next feint. Forward, then back, then forward again. But his opponent wasn’t fooled, and they were suddenly toe-to-toe. They whirled round each other, barely avoiding the wall. Anoth
er touch, this time on Sorne’s flank. Another red line. And the third man was getting in position, behind Sorne. Had the captain noticed?
Rhia opened her mouth to warn Sorne as his first opponent lunged again. Rhia saw Sorne’s dire fate in her mind’s eye.
Sorne’s stave came round from a parry, sweeping down.
His opponent raised his sword, ready to swing.
This was it, the end.
Sorne’s stave changed direction, tip bouncing up from the floor too fast to see. Up, inside his opponent’s guard. It connected with the man’s groin – the man’s huffing breath became a squeal – and he jerked forward. Sorne punched up with his dagger hand, pinning the man briefly to the wall. Blood spurted from a chest wound. Even as the swordsman went limp and slid off Sorne’s dagger the captain was turning, completing his dirty, crazy move to come round and face his new opponent.
Breen and the club-wielder paused at this decisive stroke. For a moment the only movement in the corridor was the man Sorne had just stabbed, twitching on the floor.
Time, Rhia realized, was at its most mutable in moments like this. When the mind processes this much, reality is at its sharpest.
Sorne faced off against his new opponent. She could see Etyan now, lying at the side of the corridor, but it still wasn’t safe to go to him. She waited for Breen to lay into his man again.
Instead, Breen looked his opponent in the eye and turned on his heel. Suddenly, he was behind her. Before she could react his stave came round and across her chest; she gasped as Breen pulled her close, diamond-dust rough through the fabric of her shirt. Something pricked her side.
“Still now,” he murmured.
This had to be a ploy. The soldiers had not told her everything, so this must be part of their plan. They hadn’t told her in case she couldn’t fake the terror she was feeling right now.
More loudly Breen said, “Drop your weapons.”