The man’s got the guts of a lake-quarter rat, Megan thought. Either that, or he’s just plain crazy.
“It would add something to the illusion, wouldn’t it,” Chevenga was saying, “if some of the Chevengal—Chevengas, I mean—traipsing about the Arkan camp happened to be real, seya?”
She knew the stories. He’d assassinated a brilliant Lakan general by creeping through their camp at night, sneaking over the wall to open the gate of a city the Yeolis were besieging, at sixteen, and so on and on ... On his collar he wore two Serpent Incarnadines, the only person in camp who could wear such openly. So, he has a name. But he has a few other things now, too, that he didn’t then. Like a position. She’d heard rumors of arguments with his command council over his taking personal risks. No matter how good you are, someday someone will catch you ... She was very conscious of the ache in her leg, where the wound still twinged.
And yet ... She kept her face as carefully neutral as if she were dealing with a Rand Jade Button, Third Rank. Lixand. If he got killed I wouldn’t have to kill him. If I could make that rokatzk believe I arranged it ... I should argue, though, since it would be unlike me not to.
She cocked her head. “With all due respect, semanakraseye: you are First General First of this army, said to be one of the finest generals in the last century, and the only one capable of keeping this fractious bunch of nationalities together. That makes you a little more valuable than your average Ikal agent.” She rubbed her wounded leg significantly.
Chevenga shrugged, shoulders lifting in the relaxed Yeoli way. “I know.” In that impossibly-innocent-of-conceit tone; it could be irritating. “But this sort of thing is my worth. They’ve just brought reinforcements in who haven’t seen our visions yet; we haven’t won so far that I’m not going to keep using every advantage that comes even near my hands, not yet. If I may indulge in sounding immodest: for nearly ten years people have thought I was headstrong or over-confident because of what I would try. But I pulled it off often enough that people don’t put it down to luck anymore. Did I or anyone ever mention, I have a gift? You’d call it manrauq.”
She tapped at the edge of the waxboard, thoughtfully. “Weapon-sense. Ivahn did.”
“It makes darkness my advantage. In light the enemy and I each know where the other is; in the dark he doesn’t know where I am but I know where he is ... well, I’ll tell more later. So, I’m in the Arkan camp, sauntering around, looking like this,”—he struck a casual pose, with a dark little smile—“vanishing, appearing, sometimes an illusion, sometimes real and carving out the guts of anyone who laughs at me for being an illusion.”
“And sometimes in the Imperial regalia,” said Megan, the thought coming out of nowhere.
The black eyebrows flashed up for a moment; then the scheming look with the dark grin came back. “Yes! Foreknowledge ... something to make them take it as foreknowledge. Inevitable destiny.” He chortled. “You’re a fiend; I’d hate to have you against me.”
“I’d have to know what the regalia looks like,” she said. “Do you know? Crown, scepter, royal sword or what?”
“Oh yes, I know. He always wears the seals, a bracelet attached by a chain to a ring, one on each hand, all gold but the four seals, the Eagle on the right bracelet, the Sun his talons are clasping on the left, on the right ring crossed Arkan swords, on the left, a wooden ship with a house-shaped cabin. Ceremonially he wears the robe, floor-length, jewels from collar to hem, sunbursts, swirls. Nothing on the head but hair long as it will grow.” She conjured up a brief flash of image for him to correct. I like the idea of a Yeoli Imperator, she thought, tired, afterwards. Arko would be less obnoxious.
If they win, she thought. If he doesn’t get killed. If I don’t kill him.
“Those things,” she found herself saying. “You’ve seen them far too close, too often, haven’t you?” The moment the words were out she regretted them. Familiar, she thought, as if he were a friend, not a semanakraseye; just because he knows my scars doesn’t mean I can ask him about his. “Excuse me, kras,” she added quickly. “Perhaps that’s too prying.”
“No, not at all. And that’s Chevenga to you. Of all that passed in Arko, I have nothing to hide. Yes, I’ve seen it all close. The robe not so much as the seals.” She raised an eyebrow, then nodded. Hands. Arkans considered them a private part, to be covered in public; obscene.
I’ve got to be crazy, too, she thought. He’d talked her into it.
It was pitch dark; so much the better. Megan parted the branches of low, scrubby—willow?—bush, whatever, with her hands. I don’t know what the Koru-forsaken thing is. I do this sort of thing a Halya of a lot better in a nice orderly city. This time I won’t end up with an arrow in me. Careful. Gently over this rotten log. There were sentries ahead, about twenty-five paces, almost close enough together to scratch each other’s backs, as the Ikal report said they were, in pairs. She could hear them talking, some singing, trying to keep up their nerve. The dark was so thick it seemed as if it would bleed if you cut it. Ouch. Damn thorn-bush. She crawled under a deadfall.
Chevenga was ahead some ten paces, to her left, but she couldn’t hear him move; she only knew by the bird calls they exchanged. He is stinking good at creeping around in the dark, for a warrior, she thought. Especially a semanakraseye. It’s one thing to take to the field with the army ... He’d put on dark clothes, like a thief, quite happily, without any apparent thought for his dignity: a Yeoli thing.
Nightjars called. Through a hole in the canopy of trees, against a sky as black as the inside of a leather bag, she saw a flicker of soot momentarily snuff a star. Maybe an owl; maybe a Niah. She’d heard a rumor that the mysterious dark people, whose purpose no one knew, were secretly using flying machines for scouting, breaking sieges, and so on. Supposedly they’d kept the knowledge of how to make and fly the things from before the Fire, hiding it from all others for three millennia. “This army will go down in history just for the number of preposterous tales about it,” she’d said jokingly to Chevenga during their planning session.
“Probably,” he’d answered. “But that one’s true. I’ll show you a wing, later.” The Arkans would have a fit, she thought now, chuckling inwardly, if they knew that such a so-called primitive tribe had a flying machine. She wished she could see them fly in daylight, learn how the thing was built, learn how to soar herself. After this war I am going to learn how. Meantime it’s Shae-Arano-e, Whitlock and A-niah—Nightmares to Order.
If they caught her, they’d think she was a demon, and smother or burn her. Easy, she thought. Just don’t get caught.
An owl-call, from Chevenga: “closer to me,” that meant. He was some ten paces ahead, now, to her left. To slip through the sentries and—
Then there was an ungodly loud ssshhh-spung, followed by rustling and crackling of leaves and twigs so loud they were deafening in the silence of the night. High off the ground, halfway to the treetops, some ten paces ahead to her left.
The Arkans all went silent for a moment, then she heard their alarm call, “Itzen!” from several places, the nearest seeming within spitting distance.
“Kyash.” His soft voice: it had been too much to hope, she knew, that some other night-wanderer, animal or human, had made the noise. O Koru. Why do I get the feeling the dung-cart is about to tip over? Armor clanked, feet crashed through the brush; she heard an Arkan sword rasp out of a scabbard. An odd thing about the word he’d spoken—aside from the fact that he didn’t swear easily—twinged awfully at her awareness. Why did it seem to come from so high?
She kept moving, to get a view, while the first blinding pin-pricks of Arkan torches through the trees appeared.
By a patch of the lesser black sky through velvet black leaves, she sensed a clearing and motion above, smooth like a pendulum’s. She heard a sound she knew well from ships: the creak of a rope pulled taut. From far above came his hissing whisper: “I tripped a kyashin snare.” The moving black shape resolved itself; Fourth Chevenga Shae-Ar
ano-e, semanakraseye, the Invincible, the Immortal, the Infallible, was dangling upside-down by one ankle, twice her height off the ground.
Fish-guts. They’d never used traps before. The price of their nervousness ... Goddess and little demons, why didn’t we think of it? Why didn’t he, who’s so brilliant, think of it?
“Stay hidden,” he whispered, curling his body up to climb or cut the rope. “You can do more unseen ...” What did you think I was going to do, dance around in the shrubbery waving flags? But he wasn’t Shkai’ra, didn’t know her; she acknowledged and crouched low. The torches came in, faster than he could free himself. By wavering flamelight she saw him, twisting now to turn facing them, with the faint glearn of steel in his hands, short sword in his right, dagger in his left. A flash showed his face, still handsome-lined, even inverted: but the lips were stone-hard thin, and the eyes ... she’d heard tales of a stare that could stop a platoon of Arkans dead in its tracks with sheer fear, that had made one veteran officer fall over, dead, his heart stopped. I’m a storyteller’s daughter, she’d thought at the time. Now all she could think was, I’m glad that’s on my side. She’d never seen such a pure expression of not only anger—at himself, it must be, but turned on them—but will, utter will, inhuman certainty. Only when it vanished into shadow again did she remember he was swinging upside-down, mostly helpless; his eyes had burned it away while they were visible.
The Arkans, six, came in fast. A knife throw would never cut the rope, which was probably wet with dew, she knew; she’d more likely hit him. Closer. She drew her neck-sheath knife, twitched the two wrist-sheathed blades into her hands quick as thought. Her hands were sweating. He was going to have to fight fikken well. Damn you, why didn’t you listen to me? Why didn’t you listen to your command council?
Just don’t be stupid, she said, to herself this time, don’t do anything dumb. I’ve got to get him out of this. It’s up to me, and has been ever since he put his foot in it.
Or ... The thought came slowly, unfolding cold and pure and practical. Or I could leave him. I could leave him for them to kill, tell the rokatzk I knew where the snare was from checking before and led him into it. And have Lixand.
The Arkans rattled to a clash-kettle stop, just out of his reach. No one had run for an archer or to alert the camp, as far as she knew.
“Well, well, well.” They relaxed, straightening, their crouching stances turning into swaggering. As only Arkans can, she thought. Always so manly when your opponent is chained. “Looks like we’ve caught ourselves an assassin. Why don’t you just drop those sharp, dangerous objects, my boy, and we’ll let you down. Hmm?”
Fish-guts—because he’s not dripping with gold six chilioi behind the line—where he should be—they don’t recognize him. The Arkan voice was young and haughty for a solas, some half-lordling getting his training; she saw him, beardless, nose high in the air. By habit she crouched with knife cocked, waiting for the first flash of Arkan flesh not covered with steel.
But Lixand ... They’d truth-drug her if she came back without the semanakraseye, no matter what her story, no matter how trusted she had been. So I can’t not help him. I have to. Yet if she sneaked back into camp, immediately gathered up Sova and the animals and got like stink out ...
Swinging only slightly now, he didn’t answer the threat, wanting to give nothing away by his voice, which was known, but kept his blades. His hands were ready, poised on guard, as if he always fought upside down; the stare was gone from his eyes now, replaced by calm, but she could see it underneath, biding its time, held back to be let out when the moment was right. Dead leaves itched her sooted ankles; they’d rattle if she moved.
“Very well, backstabber,” the half-lordling said, boredom dripping in every word. “Have it your way. Illikren, stun him.”
One of the other Arkans moved in, swung his spear-butt carefully. Chevenga’s short sword came out for what looked like an easy parry, almost slowly, wood crack-ringing on metal, the blow setting him swinging. Blond brows rose, in surprise; the Arkan circled to get behind his back, swung again, into another casual block. And another, and another ... The easy victory kept not happening, the Yeoli short sword or dagger or wristlet hidden under black shirt-sleeve somehow happening to be in the way each time, as if by astonishing luck. It didn’t matter which way Chevenga was facing, or whether he was looking or not. Weapon-sense. The solas began to grunt with amazed frustration each time he was thwarted; he hawked, spat, tried harder, to no avail. “Shen, sir,” he said finally, panting, “I can’t hit the fikken guy! Can someone else take a crack at him, please? I’m getting tired.”
“Certainly,” the lordling said coldly. “But you stay. Both of you should have no trouble.”
Koru. Chevenga could only defend; they made sure to keep their heads low, out of his steel’s reach, though he took a vicious swipe whenever one came near. No matter how brilliant his moves—parrying, twisting, playing them against each other so they got in each other’s way somehow; making another part of her-think Koru I’ve never seen anything like this, what a story it would be—it was a matter of time; no matter how great, he would tire. Like children at a Nayanta party, the Arhans were, striking blindfolded with sticks; but the children always hit in the end, and the treasure spilled on the ground.
He could only defend, waiting for her, trusting her ... He must be wondering why I haven’t done anything yet. One blow finally ended with a deep muffled thump instead of a sharp one, a hit on flesh, not metal; she heard his breath catch, saw them redouble, encouraged, grinning; saw him pick up again as if nothing had happened, and go on fighting coolly, without desperation, in what, without her, was a hopeless battle. He could force my hand, by calling me ... but he’s not. He showed no trace of doubt that she would help him, every move as smooth and confident as if he had a whole company hiding in the woods, and just had to hold out until they arrived, thinking she was waiting for the perfect chance, or preparing herself, or something. Making my excuses for me ...
Koru, such a fight. And only a handful of witnesses. The watching Arkan faces had changed from sneering to marvelling, except for the lordling, who through much effort was maintaining his bored look. She swallowed; another blow got through, Chevenga’s breath catching again. It could all be over in a moment, my decision made for me, if they find his head. Then it came sickeningly to her, what would happen then. They were trying to take him alive; they’d truth-drug him, find out who he was, and send him back—to Kurkas.
No. The thought was cold and pure and certain. I won’t do that. I’ll put my own steel through his heart before I’ll let him go to that. Lixand-mi—I can’t. Not yet. Lixand, forgive me.
She reached for the metal in Chevenga’s hands with her thought, skimming part of her concentration off to swim in the manrauq, shining motes locked in shimmering, hard-edged form; for a moment she was almost sucked in, losing herself in wonder, then steadied, centered. She set a hook of power into the metal, as she had already with her own knives, making them sensitive to her, and shoved the thought into the back of her head where it could maintain without her effort, like breathing.
She drew a deep breath, and started the lowest hum she was capable of, filling the clearing with a sound like a kicked hive of bees, or the rumble after a distant lightning stroke. Directionless; but they were occupied, entertained, and didn’t hear. She made it louder, lungs and diaphragm shaking to the sound. Hold on, Chevenga.
“Come on, come on,” the half-lordling chided. “We haven’t got all night; this isn’t where we’re all supposed to be, you know.” Nervous, she thought. Somewhere deep inside, Arkan, you can hear me.
“We’re trying, we’re trying, sir! Fikket, this is ridiculous. Illikren keeps hitting me.”
“You’ve hit me three times, shithead!”
Chevenga gave a dark cruel chuckle.
“Fikket,” said the half-lordling. “Another, Imikas, get in there!”
“With all due respect, sir,” said one of the
watchers, with a little fear in his tone, “why don’t we just kill him?” Two others had heard the hum, and knew it; they were glancing over their shoulders when they thought their commander wasn’t looking, shifting grips on torches, making them dip and quiver. This is only the beginning, Arkan rokatzk.
“Are you out of your peasant mind, shit-for-brains?” She saw two square thumb-lengths of skin clear on the closest one, just under his jaw, and the strap of his helm. Kill-target. Risk it. “Have you ever seen a barbarian fight like that in your life? Do you know how much he’d fetch, if we can get anyone to believe this, in the Mezem?”
Something made her check the throw, and watch Chevenga’s eyes. There it was: the stare.
“Oh, no.” His voice was like that of the Dark One, whispering life loose. “Forty-nine chains is quite enough, thank you.”
They all froze, understanding. Knowing who he was. In the stretching moment of stillness, it seemed he was the only one capable of motion, and knew it; he grinned, and winked, and carefully, leisurely, almost lazily, threw his dagger, a cast as if he’d played cniffta all his life, used to impossible throws. And with his weak hand, too, she thought, even the thought seeming slow. The dagger floated out, trailing her hook like a silken line, and buried itself in the half-lordling’s eye. He went down like a wooden doll, crumpling to one knee, then falling sideways in a sweep of arms that waved life away like a bad bottle of wine.
“Celestialis-shit-fucking-dog-mother ... !” Megan threw then, while her target stood flat-footed. She watched her hand point the path the dagger had followed, to stand up bright under the second man’s ear until his head tilted sideways and he sank, torch falling to smolder in the damp loam. “Ohhhhhhh, fik!”
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