She snorted. “Twenty-three? That is a cub. I thought I’d lived hard—you’ve got scars on scars.” She traced a few of them, drawing happy sounds from deep in his throat. “And you’ve done all you’ve done ... Baiwun, you’re not even really in your prime yet.”
“Early start, tight scheduling, and I only get to see my kids when the world feels like letting me—rarely, that is.” That was rattled off, obviously practiced. “By the time my prime comes, I hope, there’ll be peace and I’ll be able to sit by the fire.”
“Well, it’s as I was saying,” Shkai’ra said thoughtfully. “When I was nineteen, I’d ride a week’s journey for a fight. But you grow out of it ... if you live, true. Then it’s enough fighting just to sword the ones that run up to you with a mean look in their eyes. Fun enough when duty calls, and I’ll listen to a bard lie about somebody else’s adventures. Hero-king Zh’ven’ghka’s, maybe.”
“I hope the songs can do me enough credit without lies. Shefen-kas, J’vengka, Sievenka, Shchewenga, Tse-fenga ...” The mispronunciations of enemy and prominent allies alike he imitated perfectly, from long practice hearing them, it seemed. “You know, I have no trouble saying Chevenga correctly. I don’t know what’s wrong with everyone else.”
She turned on her side and nuzzled his throat. “Repeat after me. Shkai’ra.” She pronounced it proper Kommanzanu-style, exaggerating the throaty ftgggg sound on the first syllable, and the clicking took on the last.
“If you can pronounce my name right, I’ll do yours,” he shot back. A contest followed which sounded not unlike two drunken tigers arguing over a kill, and which they agreed afterwards they’d both lost. “Mmmm,” she said then, feeling. “You are a man of tireless strength.”
“Flatterer ... ohhhh.”
“Because you’re such a cub, I guess. Shall we?”
“No. There are others. You’re hogging me.”
“Hmph. Kiss a little more then?”
“Semana Ara-ahhhh, I suppose I could bear immph.”
“Mmmm. This is even more fun than killing people. Learn from experience, mmmmm ... Never thought I’d get sedate.”
“Shkai’ra,” he whispered after a while, “does it bring you pure pleasure, killing? No revulsion afterwards?”
She cuddled closer. “The pleasure isn’t as much as it used to be. Sort of a hot thrill, but with an aftertaste, as you say, like bad liquor. Hard to decide what’s the pleasure of fighting—the moves, you know, getting it right?”
“The pleasure of skill.”
“Ia, and what’s from killing itself. Been weaning myself off zh’ivutrayzh, murder-joy, for my wives and husband’s sake; the Zak sort of frown on it, and I’m a settled married type now. Although,” she added, “Ranion, the Dragon Lord back home,”—it was odd to refer to F’talezon like that, but the Zak city was far more home than Stonefort in the Kommanz of Granfor, now—“pursues it with a passion. These tyrants seem to like it; maybe it’s a proof of their tyrantness, you know. “Look, I can kill people nastily and get away with it.” Where Kurkas is a mural painter of tyranny, Ranion is a miniaturist. They’ll need a bureaucracy to handle the queue, time comes to cut his throat.”
“Sounds like it ought to be soon,” Chevenga said, rising to one elbow, his other hand absently tender on her middle. “Tell me; I’ve got an insider’s sense of it from Megan; how does it look to a foreigner’s eyes?” In a moment Shkai’ra regretted bringing politics up with a politician; grilling her, he stopped feather-stroking her. But soon enough he dropped the subject, and they lay silent in each other’s warmth.
“Murder-joy,” he said, after a while. “What an odd way of putting it. And so casual ... A snake in the grass.”
“What, where? I know of only one around here.” She gripped, drawing a pleasure-yelp out of him.
“Yeoli saying. For something’s being hidden under something else. You only gave it up for your spouses’ sake, you say. Not your own—as if that were weakness. If the joy of the other’s death comes of the continuation of one’s own life, I doubt there is a warrior alive who’s never felt it. You talk most casually speaking of the two most personal things there are between two people, did you know that?”
Shkai’ra shrugged. “Either casual or crying, nia? Life’s too short to be that serious about anything, especially sex and dying.”
He chuckled. “O Aged One, who knows all. Sex and fighting, I meant; dying doesn’t have to be between two people. And there’s the third one, I forgot, the mix of the first two, rape. Is there no way somewhere between casual and crying? Or must you be casual not only about your own death, but all others’, to save yourself those tears?”
“Save myself tears? They’re dead and I’m alive, and that’s all that’s important, nia? Rape—it’s like a wound, you get over it.” She laughed. “Alive, to do this.”
Chevenga refused to be distracted. That’s the trouble with these extraordinary people, she thought. They’re so damnably single-minded.
“Then you consider your own life precious, and spit on theirs?”
She shrugged. “Call me barbarian, if you want; many have. But I’m in of a kind with most of the world, I think. Who doesn’t care for their own life—or their love’s—more than anyone else’s?”
“Granted—though I’ve met some who don’t. Haian healers spring to mind. Perhaps barbarism is a matter of how much less one cares about other lives than one’s own, then. Shkai’ra, imagine this. You see a rockslide starting, that will grow big enough, to crush the town below where live ten thousand people—unless you throw yourself in its path and stop it now, at the cost of your own life. You have no obligation elsewhere except what anyone has, to family, friends and so forth. No punishment will come your way if you don’t do it, nor accolades if you do, because no one will ever know. Those ten thousand people are neither friends nor enemies to you, just strangers; you’ve never even walked through the town. Would you do it?”
Shkai’ra propped herself up on both elbows, scratched between her breasts. “Do you lie awake at night thinking these things up?”
He chuckled, stroking her shoulder. “Not anymore. Debate training. Now I lie awake at night thinking up battle-plans.” His eyes flicked up to hers, a single bright spot in each twinkling in the moonlight; the stroke turned snake-curvy as it continued down her upper arm.
Shkai’ra shrugged. “No. I wouldn’t. Zaik take them. Megan and the family need me.”
“And you wouldn’t regret afterwards?”
“No. I do or I don’t. Regret is dithering.”
“That’s good. Perhaps. Would you tell Megan about it?”
She stared at him puzzled. “Ia—why not? She’d do the same. I hope.”
“That’s very good. Maybe. Wouldn’t it bother you at all, having the blood of ten thousand people on your hands, even to save yourself?”
“I didn’t kill them—a rockslide did. There’s a difference between killing and not preventing death.”
“Ah-hah—I knew we disagreed somewhere. You didn’t start the rockslide, yes; but their blood is still on your hands, because you could have stopped it. You being too far away to reach the rockslide in time, hence having no choice, would be different again. In Yeoli the word for choice, kra, means power and responsibility both, because for a moment you held power over the town’s fate, and hence responsibility. Whatever the cost to you; it’s still power, and responsibility.
“Don’t get me wrong: I don’t necessarily think your choice is bad. Ten thousand people or better die somewhere every day anyway, and I can understand not wanting to commit suicide and bereave those you love for the sake of strangers. But it is wrong, to my mind, to pretend you didn’t choose, that there was no forking path before you, no matter how unpleasant, no matter now unfair that one should be forced to take such a bitter choice. We all get stuck with them. I’d rather have the pain than delude myself.”
Shkai’ra sat up. “Choose, don’t choose, forking paths, this thread and that ... I t
ake this man into the bushes and fuck him until he’s half passed-out with joy, and he starts giving me a Zaik-damned rhetoric course. Maybe I should carry you back.”
Chevenga flicked her nipple with his tongue. “Don’t tell me I didn’t give as good as I got. But I have reason to raise these things, aside from being Yeoli—stop that and listen. I like to know my warriors, my officers most of all. You’re all sworn to do whatever I command; but to my mind everything works best if I have people do as they are inclined. I know this about you, now: if I need someone to sacrifice to save many, you’re a bad choice. If I need someone to do something that would be easy only for one who cares little for strangers, or can be casual about sex, fighting and rape—doing or being done to—you are.”
Shkai’ra laughed. “Well, I can’t protest that; I’m always delighted to do what I’m naturally inclined, mmm.”
“Exactly.” He pushed her hands away. “You cavaliers, you’re all the same. Single-minded horse-mounters.”
She fixed his eyes with hers. “Yet you, Zhven’ghka ... I’ve heard much, but I can’t believe you’re so pure and noble that in all the fighting you’ve seen, you’ve never taken pleasure on a defeated enemy.” She made the snake-gesture down his arm. “You asked truth out of me, hmm?”
His brows flew up, and his voice turned serious. “You doubt I would give it?”
He’s touchy about that, she thought. “I didn’t mean you’d lie.”
“You just wouldn’t believe me, if I said I never had, because you think it’s impossible for anyone to forgo that. Are you trying to tell me we don’t choose these things, then? Is human nature so limited? Suppose one had sworn an oath, or believed one would be punished by one’s gods, or would corrupt oneself ... or had suffered the same and didn’t want to inflict it?”
Shkai’ra shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible. Odd, though.”
“Then you will believe me, if I say I haven’t? I can’t make you. If you won’t believe me I won’t bother answering.”
“You have a name for honesty. All right, all right, I’ll believe you.”
“Well ...” Chevenga laced his hands behind his head, a smile quirking his lips. “I have, actually. My people asked it of me. You recall the name Abatzas Kallen?”
Shkai’ra leaned forward on her elbows beside him.
“The Arkan general who was a great asset to an army—yours.”
“Yes,” he chuckled. “That’s the one. Well, at Siriha we captured him, and it was suggested to me I do the Arkan thing—do you know what I mean by that?”
What Arkans did to enemy leaders they captured, he meant. Sexual humiliation, in front of the assembled army and prisoners, if there were any. She’d never seen it; since she’d joined, Arko had never captured an enemy leader.
“My command council argued it was what my warriors wanted. I wasn’t sure. So I called them to Assembly, and put it to a vote, which went very strongly chalk. So I did it.”
“Don’t tell me,” Shkai’ra said drily. “You hated every moment.”
He gave a sardonic chuckle. “Hardly. Else it wouldn’t have been what they asked, would it? Semana kra ... the people wills. And—before you accuse me of not telling the whole truth—the body will feel what it will feel.”
“Of course. I’ve used that principle a time or two myself,” she added, “when I was less civilized. It was my right, after all, as I thought then.”
“I didn’t feel it was my right. My people did, though ...” For a moment he seemed troubled, despite the stillness of his eyes; then he shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t matter, as long as I remember not to let you loose among prisoners I don’t want abused. I should go back to the fire. I seem to recall saying quite a while ago, that you were hogging me.”
Shkai’ra mock-sighed and chuckled. “Right.”
“They’ll think you never put me down!”
She giggled, as she heaved him up onto her shoulder.
Megan sat by the breakfast fire, listening to Shkai’ra’s account of the night before, thinking of her own last time with Shyll. She’d got so sensitive he couldn’t do more than just cuddle her. Goddess, I’m tired of being oversensitive.
“You had him writhing on the moss?” The Zak raised an eyebrow. “Probably squeezed him dry.” She smiled sweetly. “Going to have his baby?”
“Sheepshit—!” Shkai’ra started up counting on her fingers, then stuck out a bare foot to finish counting on her toes. “Don’t scare me like that!” she said, rummaging in the saddlebags for the birth-herb and the special tea-pot, grimacing as she set the round brown clay by the fire, throwing in a double pinch of herb and adding the water. “Jaiwun, I hate the way this tastes. Better safe than sorry, though. Oh, well, men have to have some advantage to make up for being stiff and crotch-kick-able.” She broke the eggs into the pan and stirred them around with a stick. “I’m getting too old for this sort of thing.”
“News from the machine-scribed Pages; wrinkled granny takes advantage of young, good-looking commander ...” Megan ducked the stick. “He is handsome.” I’m attracted and scared shitless all at the same time, she thought, as usual.
Shkai’ra smiled more seriously. “Actually, I was thinking of bearing one when we get back.” She sighed. “I miss Shyll and Rilla and even the brat.” She reached out to touch Megan on the cheek. “I never thought I’d say that about my family, my family were all good Kommanza, easy to hate.” Her eyes were full of ghosts for a moment. “Glad you’re here, love.”
“Where else would I be?” She’s actually not that bad with a child, Megan thought, as long as it’s in the walking, talking phase and she can give it to someone else, and as long as someone reminds her not to tease too far. “Love you, Shkai’ra.”
“Love you, Megan.” Softly. “More than my heart’s blood. It’d be better for Sova if she were back home; better for the mission, more convenient all round. I’m still glad she’s here; someone else we can trust. I must be going soft in my old age.”
Reveille gongs sounded, and the call: “Rise and shine and sma-a-a-a-ash Aa-a-a-a-a-ar-ko-o-o-o-o-oh!” Megan frowned down at her cup of fish oil. Sometimes these claws are more trouble than they’re worth. “Shit,” she said, standing up. “Sova’s not back yet.”
“Yes, she is, there she comes.” Shkai’ra pointed. “Jaiwun All-mate, I think ... do you?”
“No, love, I don’t think. I’m sure.” The look on the girl’s face was unmistakable.
Matthas had found a half-decent contact in the retreating Arkan army. Manajas Sennen, an infantry commander who was high enough to authorize what he needed. That was as high as he cared to go. Manajas had been the only one in the command awake when Matthas had come in the first night, using overheard passwords to pass the first barriers, stony looks and the bark of “Irefas” to get through the deeper.
“Yes, Nerasas, old pal,” Manajas had said sympathetically—no sense for Matthas to use his real name, let it be thought a code name—when he gave a heavily edited explanation of his plight. “I understand all too well; I’ve received orders to buy the town and two copper chains to do it with often enough myself. Cutbacks. Back in my day it wasn’t this way ... I’ll help you out.” A good egg, his only fault having got too entwined in the vine. Maybe it was cutbacks killing off his soldiers that drove him to drink. Well, disadvantages were to turn into advantages; Matthas had got Manajas to sign for a thing or two while too sozzled to read.
Now they sat together, Matthas having decided to allow himself a few as well. “Here’s the answer, Manajas, old pal, see? They’ve done it.” The note was concise, as pigeon-post required:
Friend of our youth; mission accomplished as instructed. For best results mention the four moles on a square on the right shoulder-blade.
—Entrepreneurs.
It had come nineteen days after his missive to which it was a reply.
“I know those old sods,” he said laughing. “Dangle enough money in front of them and they d storm Hayel itself.
Same as everyone, I guess. All right, all right, now I’ll tell you what it’s all about. Heh, why not?”
He did, without mentioning any names, except one.
Manajas’s guffawing burst out deafening in the quiet of the night.
“You’re right! You’re right, Nerashas, my friend, sh’worth it for thish! Yeh, yeh, all the pigeons and boxshes and that, sh’worth every ssshain-link! Here’s to ...”
They raised fancy pure-glass cups together. “Shefen-kash in Hayel!”
“Shefen-kash in Hayel!”
* * *
XI
Shkai’ra raised her binoculars, a good pair she had taken off an Arkan’s corpse. She squinted a little; it was noon, the skirmishing had taken most of the day, with the enemy trying to break contact behind their cavalry screens, mercenary Moghiur horse-archers. Broad swatches had been trampled through nearly-ripe wheat that only birds and insects would harvest now. The bodies of humans and horses lay unmoving. Cursed good horse-archers, Shkai’ra thought. The Slaughterers had lost four, dead and wounded; the enemy a little less, probably.
There were hills to the west, gently rounded, with green pasture on the heights and a strip of dense oak-wood at their feet; the highway ran up the valley between cleared fields that were a lake of grain-gold, rising just enough to make an ox-team lean into the traces, through the forest, then zigzagging up through a notch in the hills, beautifully maintained. And there was a unit of Arkan infantry deployed where road met woods, a straight bar across the V of the woods, flanks securely anchored.
She turned the focusing screw, and the banner at the center of the formation sprang out; the Eagle clasping the sun at the head of the staff, a flag emblazoned with a wild boar below. The soldiers stood with pikes set in the ground, crossbowmen to each side with mostly single-shot crossbows, thank Zaik, not those nasty Fehinnan seven-round models that had been turning up lately. Not an elite unit, okas-caste soldiers under solas officers, but there was a stolid steadiness to their ranks.
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