Web of wind s-2

by J F Rivkin

  “I’m not,” said Corson. “Frightened, I mean. Or satisfied either, for that matter. I don’t want the bones of idiot wizards, or the scrawls of lunatics-it’s treasure I’m after. Let’s quit this place and try the other tunnel. These lanterns are good yet for a while.”

  They began to retrace their steps, but just before they reached the main passageway, Corson stopped in her tracks and looked back. “Nyc, you don’t think the treasure’s buried back there, in one of those graves?”

  Nyctasia hesitated. “I confess, the idea did occur to me, but I don’t think it would have occurred to the Cymvelans. They had more respect for the dead than that. I think that burial chamber was a sacred place to them, not just a convenient spot to use as a treasury. And nothing in the riddles suggests it.

  But even if I thought it likely, nothing would induce me to open those tombs and look. You can do as you like, of course.”

  “Thanks,” said Corson drily, “but you’re probably right. Let’s go on.” They entered the narrower branch of the corridor, with Corson in the lead. Here they had to walk single-file. “Still, they wouldn’t be the first, you know,” Corson continued. “During the Battle of Aylrhui, they looted the tomb of one of the old kings. There were riches in there beyond anyone’s belief. Plates of gold, chains of silver, jewels, all sorts of rich things.” She ticked them off on her fingers like a householder’s marketing.

  “All part of the spoils of war, I suppose?”

  “No. The robbers were caught and buried alive, as a sign of goodwill. That war was settled by truce, you see, since neither side looked like winning. It was all for nothing. A minor skirmish, they called it.” She shook her head. “Scores of us were killed. But I’ve no right to complain. I was well-paid… You probably think it’s wrong to rob the dead, but what harm could it do them, answer me that.”

  “It could not harm them,” said Nyctasia seriously, “but perhaps it could harm you.”

  “Ghosts, do you mean?” said Corson, frowning. Had she heard something in the tunnel, just ahead of them? Not listening to Nyctasia’s answer, she peered into the dark corridor, trying to pierce the shadows, but there was nothing to be seen. She stopped and slowly drew her sword, motioning for Nyctasia to do the same. “I think there’s someone ahead of us,” she whispered, no louder than a sigh. “I hear breathing.”

  Nyctasia heard nothing at first, but as they both held their breath to listen, the sound of heavily drawn breathing came to her out of the darkness. “Shall we go back?” she asked softly.

  “No. I think I know who’s skulking down here, and I want to meet them face to face,” Corson said, with an almost wolfish grin, “This is no crew of whispers and shadows. Ghosts don’t breathe.” She blew out her lantern. “There’ll be light ahead, I wager. Stay behind me.”

  As she strode eagerly up the passageway, all her fears seemed to drop away from her. For an instant, Nyctasia lost sight of her in the gloom. As she hurried to catch up, she heard Corson’s shout and the unmistakable clang of blade against blade. Someone screamed.

  Corson was framed by the entrance to a large cavern lit by wall-torches. A body lay sprawled at her feet, and she was fighting with a squat, strongly built man.

  Nyctasia could only stop and watch in fascinated horror. She knew who would win this battle, and so did Corson’s opponent. He had the face of one who sees his own death plainly before him and knows there is no escape. Corson’s back was to Nyctasia, but she had no doubt that Corson was smiling.

  There was a flicker of steel, and the man’s sword struck sparks from the stone as it dropped to the floor. He seemed to Nyctasia to take an impossibly long time to fall.

  Corson stooped over him. “Take the sword from the other one, Nyc,” she said, without turning around. She was removing a ring of keys from the dead man’s belt. “Here’s the mystery of these ruins-it’s a slavers’ den. No wonder folk have disappeared here. Disappeared right into the slave markets of Celys, that’s my guess.” Swinging the keys jauntily at her side, she walked into the large cave.

  Nyctasia followed, marveling at the mystery that was Corson herself. One moment she was trembling because she’d found a few graves, and the next moment she was putting other folk in their graves as carelessly as a cat killing mice. She was obviously reluctant to plunder the tombs, despite her bravado, but she stripped the bodies of her own prey without a qualm.

  “See for yourself,” she said to Nyctasia, sounding very pleased with herself.

  The cavern was large and cold, and the roof was very high-beyond the reach of the guttering torches. Another passageway entered it at the left. The chamber could easily have held fifty people, but there were only five, three men and two women, manacled to the wall. All of them were looking back at Corson and Nyctasia with frightened, apprehensive eyes.

  Corson raised the keys and smiled. “Don’t worry, those vermin are dead. We’ll set you free.”

  The prisoners twisted their necks to look at each other. A woman said something to them in a language Nyctasia couldn’t understand, but Corson’s years in the Imperial Army had made her familiar with more than one eastern dialect. Much to Nyctasia’s surprise, and rather to her annoyance, Corson answered the woman fluently, and the two began talking rapidly to each other. The others listened avidly, and one of the men started to cry. Nyctasia grabbed the keys and hastened to unlock their chains.

  A slight, fair-haired man, shorter than the others, said to her, “I thank you, mistress Edonaris. How did you come to find us?” He rubbed his wrists slowly.

  “By chance,” said Nyctasia shortly, busy with the clumsy locks.

  He followed her. “But what are they saying?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” she admitted.

  Corson, looking more pleased than ever, told her, “They’re from beyond the Spine. Can’t you understand anything of what they say? With all your learning, I thought you’d surely be easy with their tongue.”

  “I have, of course, studied both Ancient and Modem Liruvathe from texts, but one learns only the literary forms that way,” Nyctasia said, in obvious frustration.

  “If they wrote down their words, I believe I could read them, but it’s not likely that they can write.”

  “That’s not much use, then,” said Corson smugly. “Now this lass tells me that all of this group except him”-she jerked her thumb at the man who’d spoken to Nyctasia-“are from Mount Eilas, in Liruvath. They were on their way to Amron Therain when they were ambushed and brought here. Probably they’d have been smuggled to Osela and sold.”

  One of the men broke in, gesturing wildly and shouting. The others seemed to agree with whatever it was he was saying.

  Corson translated, “There’s at least three more of the bastards about. He also says that they’re dung-caters, the spawn of scrofulous pigs, and that they rut with dogs in the gutter.”

  Nyctasia shook her head, smiling. “Even if he did write that down, I don’t think I could follow it. Unquestionably the vernacular, and probably a corrupt dialect. Let’s get these people out of here before the rest of the misbegotten offspring of unhealthy swine return.”

  Her words made no impression on Corson. “They want to kill them,” she said simply, handing out the weapons that had belonged to the dead guards. “Let’s wipe out this rat’s nest now. Why not?” The four easterners took down the torches and gathered a few large rocks.

  “I can think of any number of good reasons why not, but surely-”

  “Nyc, these folk want vengeance, not reasons.”

  “I don’t,” said the fair-haired man tensely. “I want to leave, and if you’ve any sense you’ll tell them to do the same.”

  “He’s right, Corson. Why take the risk?”

  “Because if we don’t catch those scum now they might get away!”

  “Yes, but so might we. We’re probably outnumbered. They’ll be better armed than we are, and they know these tunnels.” She pointed at the knot of haggard, grim-faced prisoner
s. “They must be weak, they’re in no shape to fight. Tell them to come away now, and we’ll send others to hunt down the slavers.”

  Corson translated her advice to the Liruvathid, but she did not need to translate their answer. One woman spoke for all of them, and Nyctasia understood her well enough. They all clutched at their weapons and stood firm. Nyctasia sighed and drew her shortsword. The woman smiled.

  “Fools!” exclaimed the other man. “You’ve no right-”

  “Go, if you want, no one’s keeping you here,” Corson told him sharply, but a moment later they all knew it was too late for that. There were heavy footsteps approaching down the tunnel on the left.

  Barking a few curt orders to the prisoners, Corson grouped them on either side of the opening. The fair-haired man caught Nyctasia’s eye, and she shrugged.

  They joined the others and waited.

  “We should have gone while we had the chance,” he muttered.

  “If you don’t mean to fight, stay out of the way,” Corson said softly, “or you may find a knife in your gut by mischance. Now keep still.”

  They listened, barely breathing, as the footsteps came closer.

  Despite herself, Nyctasia began to feel the same eagerness to strike that inflamed the others. She recognized the thrill of waiting, with an arrow on the string, for the great eagle to swoop lower, waiting for the perfect moment to loose the arrow and bring down the bird that would harry her flocks no longer

  …

  But it was people they waited to slaughter here, she reminded herself. For, although she had urged caution, Nyctasia did not really doubt the outcome of this fight. Yet the bird of prey carried off a lamb only to feed its young, while the human raptors they were hunting preyed on their own kind, for gain. If it had been her duty to kill the one, why should these be spared? Were such people fit to live?

  It had seemed to Nyctasia from the beginning that these caverns somehow called forth thoughts of death and destruction, nourished them, fostered them… But, right or wrong, her choice had been made, and she was determined to see it through.

  Then the first of the slavers entered the cave. Instantly, one of the foreigners clubbed him over the head, and the others fell on him. Nyctasia turned her head-clearly, they didn’t need her help. It was soon over.

  She looked up to see four more of the bandits at the tunnel’s mouth, and for a moment her eyes met theirs. They were heavily armed, but to Nyctasia’s surprise they suddenly turned and fled back up the passage. Corson and some of the others gave chase, but they soon returned. The one large tunnel had split up into a maze of smaller ones, Corson reported, and their quarry had scattered and quickly disappeared. “Rutting cowards!” she spat. She hated to let the slavers escape, but she knew better than to run blindly into those twisting tunnels.

  “It was the sight of an Edonaris that chased them off,” the fair-haired man explained. “They know their game’s up if the Edonaris have found them out.”

  “That’s why they turned tail so quickly the morning they attacked us, Nyc. They saw you. And I thought it was my mighty prowess that drove them away!”

  Nyctasia nodded slowly. “The Edonaris would search the ruins stone by stone if one of their own disappeared. No wonder the ghosts have never troubled them.”

  She began to laugh and could hardly stop, despite the puzzled looks the others turned upon her. The fight was over, and she’d not had to do a thing. Nothing at all!

  22

  a cursory search of the tunnels did not reveal the Cymvelan treasure, but gold and goods belonging to the slavers were discovered, including copies of the slave-brands used by all the major and minor municipalities of the Midlands.

  Diastor gave orders to have them taken at once to the smithy and destroyed.

  “It’s not lawful for anyone but the City Magistrates to possess them.”

  “I repent that I doubted Aunt Mesthelde,” said Raphe grimly. “Small wonder if screams have been heard at the temple.”

  For the time, the Liruvathid captives were quartered in an encampment of their own, provided with tents and clothing and food. Nyctasia was surprised at first to find that all of them were in sound health, suffering neither from starvation nor ill-treatment. But she soon realized that this was simple common sense on the part of the slave-traders; weakness or injury would only have lowered the value of their merchandise.

  “I must take this opportunity to learn how Liruvathe is really spoken,” she said to the others, after the new guests had been settled. “The rift between theory and practice has been the undoing of more than one scholar.”

  “If that means that you don’t know anything useful, it’s the truth,” said Corson. “I’ve told you as much myself.”

  “That’s what it means,” Nyctasia admitted.

  “It’s well for us that you’re here, Corson,” said Diastor. “My wife and her brother know enough Liruvathe to deal with the eastern traders at Amron Therain, but they won’t be back from Osela for a fortnight.”

  “Do you ever travel to the imperial markets yourselves?” asked Nyctasia.

  He shook his head. “It would be quite an undertaking to transport the casks so far as that. We can’t spare that many people for so long.”

  “It might be a saving, though, in the end,” said Mesthelde thoughtfully. “We’d get a better price from purchasers than we do from other merchants. We should give some thought to it, perhaps.”

  “A splendid idea!” urged Jenisorn. “Now if you sent me to the Imperial University, I could find out all about the markets at the capital-”

  “Or me!” said Tepicacia, who was a year or two older than Jenisorn.

  “We should send you both back to the nursery,” said Mesthelde. “Get along with you!”

  Nyctasia smiled. “I wanted to go to the university too, when I was a girl, and my family wouldn’t hear of it either. Perhaps it’s not too late.” In truth, the idea appealed to her a good deal, and she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before. She would be sorry to leave her new kin, but the pursuit of her studies would be work far more satisfying to her than grape-farming and winemaking.

  “You won’t learn anything useful there either,” Corson scoffed. “Of all the feckless good-for-nothings born of woman, students are the worst of the lot.”

  “There’s good sense speaking,” said Diastor warmly, and even Mesthelde looked at Corson with approval. “Don’t be stirring up the youngsters to long for Liruvath, Nyctasia,” he cautioned. “It’s only the tidings of Rhostshyl that’s turned their thoughts from running off across the mountains to study a lot of nonsense-”

  “And live like wild swine,” put in Mesthelde. “Students! As if philosophy ever put bread on the table!”

  Nyctasia winked at Jenisorn. “Admittedly, scholarship is a luxury for the few,” she said mildly, “but consider what valuable connections your young folk could make at the university. Children of wealthy and noble families-the very patrons for fine and costly wines.”

  This possibility had not occurred to Mesthelde, and for a moment she weighed the commercial advantages of a university education, but they were not sufficiently tempting to change her mind. “More likely they’d fall in with a lot of tosspots and troublemakers, and take to gambling and Hlann knows what mischief. Even if they did mix with scholars of good family, they’d only pick up extravagant ways and come home in debt-if they came home at all.”

  ’Deisha resented her elders’ remarks, on Nyctasia’s behalf, far more than Nyctasia did herself. “Well then,” she snapped, “why not send Jen and ’Cacia and

  ’Corin into the Imperial Army instead? They could have a practical education like Corson’s, all at the crown’s expense. Only think of the savings!”

  Diastor began to remonstrate with her, but Mesthelde cut his words short. If she was perturbed by her niece’s insolence, she nevertheless had the grace to laugh.

  “That’s a very good idea, my dear-it would satisfy their restlessness and teach th
em some discipline into the bargain. And now that we’ve settled what’s to be done with them, it’s time we decided what to do about our unfortunate guests.

  What’s to become of them?”

  It did not occur to any of the Edonaris that they were not responsible for the welfare of the hapless foreigners. Their position clearly made it their duty to assist the victims of the slavers. “I don’t see any great difficulty,” said Diastor. “The money that was found probably belonged to them-the vahn knows they’ve a right to it. Divided among them, it will be enough to see them home.”

  Nesanye nodded. “They can travel with Leclairin and Aldri-chas as far as Amron Therain, after Harvest Festival, and they’re sure to find their own people there. There’s always a party of merchants bound for the Spine.”

  “I’ll be going to Amron Therain soon, to take a riverboat,” Corson said. “I can see them safe that far.”

  “But you’re not leaving yet,” said Raphe, dismayed. “Not before harvest-fest, surely!”

  The others laughed. “Well, not before I’ve had a chance to explore those tunnels more carefully,” Corson assured him. “We’ve not yet found a lock to fit that Cymvelan key, you know.”

  The fair-haired man among the prisoners was himself a Midlander, who introduced himself as Garast brenn Vale. “I’ve lived most of my life downriver, but I was born in these parts,” he explained. “My people deal in silk and Igkosian tapestry. We were on the way back from Osela fair, and when we passed through Vale I left the others, to have a look at the ruins. I had some schooling among the Cymvelans as a child, and I-”

  “You must understand Liruvathe well, then, if you trade in imperial goods,” said Raphe, who’d been talking to Corson.

  “Well, no, not really, but my wife…”

  “It’s strange your folk didn’t make inquiry for you when you failed to return,”