A Cast of Stones

by Patrick W. Carr

  Eck’s head bobbed like a cork.

  Ru nodded. “Excellent. Is it a caravan known to me?”

  Eck’s head shook from side to side. Sweat dripped from his nose.

  Rokha stepped in front of Ru. “Was it a caravan master?”

  Eck shook his head.

  The questions poured from Ru and Rokha, but thirty minutes later they were no closer to the identity of their ultimate attacker than before.

  Ru swore in disgust. “Take him to Skorik. He’ll know what to do.”

  Rokha pulled her sword and cut the rope that bound Eck to the chair, but left his hands tied. Whimpers faded into the darkness beyond the tent flap.

  With Eck gone, Errol became the object of Ru’s attention. He gripped his staff, unsure of the other’s intentions. To his surprise Ru extended his hand. Errol took it.

  “My thanks, Errol. Your warning proved timely.”

  Errol shook his employer’s hand, dumbfounded.

  “Perhaps I should explain. I had Rokha warn the first of an attack while you were unconscious.”

  Errol nodded. Of course. Eck’s men had counted on surprising the caravan. Even a few moments’ notice was all Skorik had needed to turn the odds.

  “But I have more to thank you for,” Ru continued. “You managed to capture Eck alive for me. Now I’m going to find out who ordered this attack.”

  “How?”

  Ru smiled. “You’re a reader. Cast lots.”

  The threat in his voice was subtle but unmistakable. If Errol refused to cast lots for Ru, there would be a confrontation, and at the end of it Skorik would be waiting. His stomach lurched. A drink. He wanted a drink.

  “The lots about the attack were the first ones I’ve ever cast. I don’t know if I can do it again. I’m not even sure how I managed to make those. It just kind of . . . happened.”

  Naaman Ru grew still, still enough to be made from stone, before he spoke again. “I need to know who’s after us, Errol. I must know. Rokha is, as you have heard, half Merakhi. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

  Errol shook his head.

  Ru sighed. His eyes misted and he gazed across the tent. “It’s a rare thing for a Merakhi woman to consort with a man from the kingdom. I was young and stupid with the flush of youth. My father was a noble in Basquon.” The caravan master gave a bitter laugh. “I say was, but he may yet live. I’ve had no contact with him in nearly twenty-five years. Well, no matter. I grew up hearing tales of the might of the Merakhi, fierce warriors of the river kingdom who lived across the strait.” He tapped his sword. “None in Talia or Basquon could best me. Every waking hour I possessed, I spent fighting, perfecting my skill. On my twenty-fifth birthday I fought the three best men in the region at the same time, men good enough to join the watch.

  “I bested them all. Not one of them touched me. I thought myself the greatest swordsman of the day, maybe ever.” He sighed. “I bribed one of my father’s captains to ferry me across the Forbidden Strait.” Ru chuckled. “The sea proved to be a crafty opponent. The greatest swordsman of the age spent two days puking over the rail, but at last we made the shore of Merakh. I joined a spice caravan on its way to the interior.

  “I challenged at each village. Their men moved like leaves on the wind, yet each time I prevailed. Each time I would ask after their best, and each time the answer came back Amun Bes of Andria.

  “Andria. You’ve never seen such a place. The white spires shine in the sun like a gift of light. I left the caravan to seek out Amun Bes’s home. His guards almost shot me before I had a chance to issue my challenge. Then they laughed and opened the gates for the foolish kingdom man. Their master made a wager; told me he’d give me his daughter if I defeated him. If I lost, my life would be forfeit. I said I wanted no part of a Merakhi woman. I only wanted to match myself against the greatest fighter the world knew. Surprisingly, this gained me some measure of respect. He took me into his home and made me his honored guest. We fought the next day.”

  Ru stopped, his eyes looking through the fabric of the tent, remembering.

  Errol leaned forward, caught in the tale. “You won.”

  The caravan master’s brows rose at the question. “Did I? Yes, I suppose I did. What words can I use? You fight with a different weapon. Imagine your staff moving faster than thought, striking as though it lived, yet fighting an opponent whose skill matched yours in every way. Amun Bes of Andria matched me in skill and speed. I could not strike him, nor he me.”

  “Then how did you win?”

  Ru looked him full in the face. “I was younger. Back and forth we moved, like a man dueling his shadow, but I had been fighting every day for years proving myself. Amun Bes hadn’t faced a serious challenge in a decade. He tired. At last, knowing that he would lose through fatigue, he dropped his sword.

  “The greatest fighter in Merakh bowed to me. I won without ever landing a blow. That night I saw his daughter. Such beauty and fierceness I’d never seen. I took her to be my wife.”

  “He broke the law of both kingdoms.”

  Errol spun to find Rokha back in the tent.

  Ru nodded, tears tracked down his cheeks. “It is unlawful for people of Merakh and Illustra to intermarry. It took time for their ruling council to find us—almost a year. They killed Amun Bes and my wife. I escaped back across the strait, changed my name, and became a merchant.”

  Errol turned to Rokha. “You’re his daughter.”

  She nodded. “The council swore to get me back.”

  “Why?”

  “A trace of Akhen blood flows in my veins. I can sense the presence of compulsion. The council uses those born with the talent to search out kingdom spies.”

  Ru drew his sword. Its point centered on Errol’s heart without wavering. “I have spent twenty-five years making sure they never take her. Now, reader, cast your lots.”

  Rokha put her hand on Ru’s blade, pushed down. “Lower your sword, Father. He fought with us, remember?”

  “I’m sorry,” the caravan master said, sheathing his weapon. “I’ve forgotten my manners. Will you help us?”

  Errol nodded. “I’ll try, but I told you the truth before. I’ve only cast lots once. Luis didn’t have a chance to teach me much.”

  Rokha stepped forward, put her carving knife and two cubes of wood in his hand. Blood filled the wood grain of one block.

  “Norad’s,” she said. “He won’t miss it.”

  “What do you want me to cast?” Errol asked.

  “Find out who’s after us,” Ru said. “Cast for the church or the Merakhi. Can you do that?”

  He shrugged. “Luis said that casting works best if the reader is familiar with the things or people he’s casting.” A chuckle escaped him as he thought of Antil. “I’m all too familiar with the church, but I’ve only met two Merakhi—Rokha and the one you called a ghost-walker.”

  “Rokha carries noble blood in her veins. That should be enough,” Ru said.

  For a moment, Errol couldn’t seem to clear his mind. The fight, Ru’s tale, Rokha’s kiss all fought for his attention, yammering at him from everywhere inside his head. He took a deep breath, the kind he would take before a leap into the waters of the Sprata, and let it out. He fixed a picture of the abbot of Windridge and his cathedral in his head along with Antil and Martin.

  The knife moved.

  Minutes later, he stopped. The first lot rested in his hand. Errol lifted it to the light, turning it until he saw the word Church on it. All the blood had been carved away. He picked up the next block, felt the rough texture of the grain beneath his fingers, smelled the wood scent.

  Karma sprang to his mind, her face twisted by the malus. It required no effort to hold her image. He feared he wouldn’t be able to release it. A shaving of wood curled away from the block. Moments later the second lot was done.

  “Which one’s which?” Ru asked. “They look the same.”

  “They have to look the same,” Errol said. “Luis says they’re suppose
d to be as identical as humanly possible.” He looked at Rokha. After hearing Ru’s tale he could make out the resemblance to her father. “I used my cloak last time, but I think it’s better if we use a bag.”

  She nodded, left, and returned a moment later with a gray sack that smelled of potatoes.

  Errol put his hand in the bag and opened it. The lots clacked and he backed away. “You’re supposed to shake it up.”

  “Who draws?” Ru asked. He stood on the balls of his feet, as if he were about to fight.

  Errol shrugged. “Luis said it doesn’t really matter. Once the lots are made by a reader you just have to make sure to pick at random.”

  Rokha shook the bag and held it above her head. Ru thrust his hand into the sack and pulled out one of the spheres. He looked at it, turning it over and over in the light before handing it to Errol. “What does it say?”

  In the warm glow of the brazier a word became visible on one side. A thrill of success coursed through him at what he’d done. His mind boggled at the possibilities open to a reader. He rubbed the wood with affection. Now he understood why Luis considered those white stone lots his crowning achievement.

  “It says Church.”

  Ru’s sigh of relief filled the tent. “Better that no one was hunting us, but at least it’s not the Merakhi.”

  With a small twinge of regret, Errol placed the lot back in the bag. “We’re supposed to keep drawing until we’re sure about the choice.”

  “Have you ever seen a lot drawn wrong on the first try?” Rokha asked.

  Errol shook his head. “No, but Luis said not to take anything for granted.”

  She shook the bag and held it up for Ru once more. From the moment the caravan master put the lot in Errol’s hand, something felt different. The grain caressed the ridges of his fingers as before. The ball possessed the same heft. Yet some instinct or intuition warned him.

  When he held it up to the light, Merakhi glittered into view before disappearing. He rotated the lot twice more just to make sure.

  “It says Merakhi.”

  Ru’s brows drew together, his eyes wide. “I thought we were supposed to pull the same lot.”

  “Not every time,” Errol said. But at the back of his mind a seed of doubt began to grow. He put the lot back in the bag. The sphere smelled like pine and potato now. “We’re going to have to keep trying until one of them comes up more often than the other.”

  “How much more often?” Rokha asked.

  “I don’t know,” Errol said. “Luis didn’t get a chance to teach me that much. I think we’ll know when we see it.” He said this with as much confidence as he could muster, but his throat tightened as he released the lot into the bag.

  Ru’s next choice was Church. He relaxed a fraction, only to tense once more when the lot after that came up Merakhi.

  “Maybe it’s me,” Ru said. He chewed his lower lip, his anxiety plain. “Someone else should draw.”

  Errol shrugged. According to Luis, the person drawing made no difference, but Errol didn’t say so aloud. He’d never seen lots so evenly split, but his experience consisted of exactly two sets of choosing and a few more observing. He just didn’t know what was possible and what wasn’t.

  By mutual agreement, Ru held the bag, and Rokha selected the lots.

  Ten draws later, they knew no more than before. Each lot had been selected the same number of times and never twice in a row.

  Even without Luis there to tell him so, Errol knew the pattern meant something.

  But what?

  “What does it mean, boy?” Ru asked. Tension vibrated through the timbre of his voice. Errol couldn’t tell if the question held threats or not. Ru looked like he needed to fight something. Errol hoped it wouldn’t be him.

  “I don’t know.” He cudgeled his brain for any scrap of information Luis had given him that might help. There wasn’t any.

  “Are they both after us?” Rokha asked. Her hand gripped her sword, but she paled at her own suggestion.

  Errol could only shrug. How many ways were there to say he didn’t know? “That might explain it, but it also might mean that neither of them is after you.”

  Ru snorted. “That doesn’t make sense. Someone put that compulsion on Eck, and only the church and the Akhen have the power.” He leaned into his words, pushed them at Errol like a sword thrust. “Maybe you put a flaw into the lots, boy.”

  “What are you saying, Father?” Rokha asked.

  “I’m saying our troubles started when this boy showed up.” Ru’s sword leapt into his hand.

  Errol held up his hands. His staff fell to the ground.

  “If you think killing an unarmed man will trouble me, boy, you’re wrong.”

  Rokha stepped to her father’s side but didn’t touch his sword arm. “How close was Stone’s fight against Eck?”

  Ru’s eyes narrowed.

  Errol tried not to imagine that length of steel sliding between his ribs.

  At last the caravan master nodded. “Too close to be a deception.” Metal rasped as he slid his sword in its sheath. “We’re not done with this, boy.” He turned on one heel and left the tent. His yells for Skorik came back through the flap.

  Rokha bent, then handed Errol his staff. “I didn’t tell him Eck wasn’t the only one in the camp under a compulsion. Father is unpredictable, especially when he’s angry.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “When you challenged Eck, I could see how scared you were, but you fought him anyway. I respect that. Besides, I told Father not to let you fight. Twice. He ignored me.”

  “Thank you.” The feel of his staff back in his hands steadied him. “I don’t know what went wrong with the lots I cast. Maybe we’re asking the wrong question.”

  The sixth nodded. Her head tilted as she gave him a considering glance. “Who put the compulsion on you, Errol?”

  “Luis, the reader who lived in my village. When he found out I had the talent, he told me I would have to go to Erinon. If I stay in one place too long, it takes over.”

  The tent flap fluttered, and Skorik appeared, filling the opening. “We’re moving the caravan.”

  “At night?” Rokha asked.

  The first nodded once, a quick jerk of his head. “Ru’s orders.” He pointed at Errol. “He says you’re to take the point.”

  18

  NIGHT MOVES

  ERROL KNEW why Ru had positioned him as the vanguard—the master didn’t trust him anywhere else. Not that he cared. If he ignored the sounds of the wagon wheels creaking behind him, he could almost believe he rode alone. That would have been nice. Trouble followed him and came to anyone around him.

  He feared the attackers had come for him, not Rokha, and two men were dead, buried in unmarked graves along an anonymous stretch of road, because of him. Almost, he decided to turn Midnight around and tell Ru his suspicions.

  The merchant would kill him before he could blink twice.

  He had to get away from the caravan. Another attack would come—he knew it—and having been beaten once, the attackers would come in greater numbers the next time. Errol and everyone with him would be swarmed under.

  Including Rokha.

  He turned in his saddle, knowing he wouldn’t be able to see her but searching anyway. Errol held no illusions about her feelings toward him. Her kiss had been more a victory celebration than anything personal, to be bestowed on the nearest ally.

  He was glad it had been him.

  Wood. He needed more wood. At the next opportunity he would cast lots to find out when the next attack would be. Rokha had gathered Norad’s possessions. He would ask her for his blanks and carving knife. He would whittle until his hands bled to get an answer, even if it took all night.

  And the moment he discovered an attack was coming, he would leave.

  The caravan crept, feeling its way along the road, until the sun rose the next morning. When they stopped, Rokha gave Errol the knife and blocks w
ithout question. Ru eyed him with suspicion but only nodded when he volunteered to be on the first watch. The rest of the guards dropped to the ground where they stood, and soon soft snores came from the blanketed mounds that dotted their site.

  His eyes burned with the need for rest, but he banished the thought of sleep as he held the first block of wood and concentrated on holding the answer to his question in his mind. Yes, he thought to himself, they will attack in the next day.

  His strategy was simple. He would create lots to determine when the next assault on the caravan would arrive. If no attack was coming the next day, he would create lots to ask about the day after. And the day after that. As long as it took. His watch would last for six hours. If he worked steadily, he should be able to cast the entire week.

  When Conger came to relieve him, the lots were tucked away in the large pocket inside his cloak. Roll after roll had given the same answer. No attack would be coming the next day or any day following for a week. He pulled the late-morning air into his lungs and staggered to his bedroll. Fatigue and relief pulled him into dreamless sleep, like a rock sinking into a pool.

  The toe of Skorik’s boot flipped him over and he started awake. The sun glowed red above the western horizon, bathing the trees with a ruddy glow. His heart pounded, and for the space of three breaths he struggled to place himself, fighting his disorientation. He looked up at the first.

  “Your watch is in an hour,” Skorik said. “You’ve slept through two meals and most of the day. Go see Grub.”

  Errol nodded and sat up. A single lot, of the same pine as the rest he’d fashioned, rolled from underneath him. He looked at the sphere and then turned to see Skorik watching the ball of wood as it came to rest against a clump of grass.

  Their eyes locked, Errol held his breath as the pounding of his heart shook him.

  “That almost looks like a lot,” the first said at last. “But it can’t be, because if it was I’d be required to turn you over to the nearest priest. The entire kingdom knows the law against any man, no matter his position, having a reader in his employ.” Skorik grinned wolfishly and drew one finger across his throat. “The church guards keep their swords sharp just in case they come across anyone wishing to test their resolve on the matter.” He bent and picked up the evidence of Errol’s crime, and tossed it to him with a casual flip. “It’s a good thing this isn’t a lot. Of course, there’s no crime against having a ball of wood that looks like a lot.”