by Angus Wells
Not properly understanding all that had gone on, but guessing the man apologized, Davyd smiled and said, “Yes.”
Tekah nodded, and looked to Rannach. “Don’t these people have horses?”
“I don’t know,” Rannach answered. “The man and the woman can ride, so I suppose they must. But I don’t think Davyd had sat a horse before we put him up.”
“Strange.” Tekah shook his head in puzzlement. “People who don’t ride?”
Looking down from his own mount Rannach said, “The Grannach don’t ride.”
“No,” Tekah agreed. Then grinned. “But the Maker never saw fit to make horses their size, whilst these strangers”—he indicated the newcomers with a sideways turning of his eyes—“seem in most ways much like us.”
“In many ways I think they are,” Rannach answered. “And in others, not at all.”
He glanced at Morrhyn, thinking this was a thing better explained by the wakanisha; but Morrhyn sat his horse silent, only smiling calmly. Rannach quelled a frown, wondering if Morrhyn tested him in some fashion. It seemed often that way: that when a word, an explanation that would ease a situation, might readily come from Morrhyn and be accepted by all, he left it to Rannach to explain. It was as if he guided his akaman just so far, and then left Rannach to his own devices; and it was not always easy. Rannach had inherited the mantle of his slain father—was now, here in Ket-Ta-Thanne, become all unassuming the paramount chieftain, as if he took the places of both Racharran and old, dead Juh—and he knew himself young and inexperienced in the ways of leadership. He supposed Morrhyn forced that duty on him for want of other candidate, and was still unsure he welcomed it. Yazte, after all, was older than he, and—he thought—wiser. But even Yazte looked to him, likely because, he thought, Morrhyn was wakanisha of the Commacht—the Prophet—rather than because the Lakanti believed him a great leader. But there it was: They looked to him for the final word. And Morrhyn sat his paint silent and benign as an owl perched waiting for the movement of a mouse.
So Rannach said, raising his voice so that all the outcome riders should hear, “But whatever they are, they are welcome among us. They are escaped—like us! And we are pledged to welcome them, no? So, do we bring them home as honored guests?”
The answer was a great shrill shout of agreement; a waving of hands and bows; a dancing of horses. And from the women on the hillside and the folk in the camp, an answering yelling that set birds to flocking in alarm from the timber, and the dogs in the valley below to barking, the horse herd along the valley to snorting and running—as if all this new world belled a welcome that was entirely unnerving in its enthusiasm.
“God, they howl like banshees.” Arcole fought his horse alongside Flysse’s. Riders surged around them, whooping and circling, melded to their mounts.
“Yes,” Flysse answered over the din, “but are they not magnificent?”
Arcole looked at the ringing, milling horde and could only nod his agreement. He had seen the armies of the Levan face the forces of Evander. He had been an officer of cavalry, and seen the squadrons of Evander’s horsemen attack; but not like this. These people—these Matawaye—seemed at one with their mounts, as if they grew on horseback. He envied them their control, and shouted over the thunder of the hooves, “Yes! They are!” And could not resist urging his gray horse to a gallop.
Flysse matched him, stride for stride, on her roan, the two of them racing down the slope of the valley’s mouth with Rannach and Yazte and Kanseah anxious beside, fearful their refugee guests fall off and harm themselves as horsemen came like grounded thunder all around them, screaming encouragement. Arcole felt his heart beat faster and whooped in response as he and Flysse heeled their horses to greater effort, looking to outrun their escort. Which, of course, was pure ambition and quite impossible; but it seemed to earn them respect—as if the Matawaye recognized kindred spirits—and they came swift and escorted into the camp.
Davyd saw his friends go charging off and wished he might match them. Almost, he tried, but sense prevailed and he came on slower, not daring more than a trot for fear he tumble again and again become the butt of laughter. Morrhyn and Kahteney rode to either side, and the one called Tekah hovered about, nervous. Davyd guessed some reprimand had been delivered the man—and thought, as Tekah watched him solicitously, that should he slip, then Tekah would likely come charging in to catch him. He wondered if the wakanishas would have joined in that mad gallop, were he not there, and what Rannach had said to Tekah.
But it seemed as if the man appointed himself guardian, for as they came down onto the flat and halted amongst the tents, it was Tekah sprang first to the ground and took the buckskin’s bridle, holding the animal still as Davyd clambered awkwardly from off its back. He spoke—Davyd could not understand, but his tone was amiable—and Davyd smiled in answer, and then Morrhyn spoke and Tekah nodded dutifully and led the buckskin away; and then for a while all was confusion.
Folk milled around, staring, all speaking at once, with Morrhyn and Rannach and the others of the escort answering, so that the noonday was filled up with sound and Davyd felt his ears battered by the noise. Arcole and Flysse came to stand beside him, smiling and bewildered.
“What in God’s name are they saying?”
Davyd shook his head in answer to Arcole’s question. “I don’t know. I think they welcome us.”
“Like a pack of baying hounds.” Arcole grinned and shaped an elegant bow as a man tapped the scar on his cheek. “Shall I ever understand them?”
Davyd began to say, “Yes,” but then a figure wormed through the throng and stared at him with such … He was not sure; anger was the word that came to mind, or even hatred. But how could a stranger hate him, what could he have done to anger someone he had never met? He smiled tentatively and saw the other’s lips thin furiously, the dark eyes smolder.
It was a youth of about, he estimated, his own age. They were of a height and similar build, save for the slight bowing of the other’s legs. He was dressed in breeches and shirt, and his raven hair swung loose about his vexed face, backdrop to the anger there. He spoke, stabbing a dark finger at Davyd’s chest and then at his own. The only words Davyd understood were “wakanisha,” his own name, and that of … it seemed his accusor: Taza.
Taza spat on the ground between Davyd’s feet.
Kahteney and Morrhyn spoke together then, sharply, and Taza scowled and turned away, disappearing back into the crowd. Davyd noticed that he limped.
Arcole said, “I know not why, but you’ve an enemy there: best watch him.”
“How?” Davyd tried to find Taza through the crowd, through the shouting bustle of friendly greetings. “What have I done to make him an enemy?”
“Nothing that I know of.” Arcole shrugged. “But even so … Watch your back around him, eh? I’ve seen that look before, in the eyes of men who sought my death.”
Then he laughed as Davyd’s face fell, and hung an arm around the young man’s shoulders and said, “But I’m still alive, no? By God, we’re all alive—against all odds—and come amongst friends.”
Of that, save for Taza, there was no possibility of doubt: they were crowded round with cheerful faces and before long found themselves seated by a fire on which meat roasted, flasks of tiswin passing round, and they the guests of honor.
They were introduced to Arrhyna—Rannach’s wife, as they understood, and who was, Davyd thought, almost as beautiful as Flysse, with red hair like his own, save hers was darkly burnished copper and his bright as a new-picked carrot. She was sweet and gracious in her skirt and tunic of soft hide, with dark, doe eyes that swooped lovingly on her husband and were answered with glances no less adoring.
Davyd wondered if he should ever find such a union.
And then there was Lhyn, who sat between Morrhyn and Rannach, and was older, with silver in the gold of her hair and lines on her smooth cheeks and about her eyes. For all her smiling generosity, she had an air of contained sadness, and also of pride
—as if she had lost things or people but also won, and was not sure which were better. And Yazte came with his fat and beaming wife, Raize, who was plump and rounded as her husband and no less cheerful, and plied them and her husband with food and tiswin—like, Davyd thought, some busy Bantar tavern wife who’d see her customers eat and drink their fill. And also Kanseah, who seemed to have no wife, for he sat alone; and Morrhyn and Kahteney, who neither came with women. And a warrior called Dohnse, who also sat alone within the circle, and seemed shy as Kanseah.…
It was happiness and confusion, mingled. Davyd ate and drank, and wondered where the future might lead.
Morrhyn—he was sure—had spoken of dreaming together: of some oneiric union beyond his immediate understanding, which should gift him with … he could only think of revelation … some order that lay like God’s will somewhere beyond his immediate comprehension, like the light of the rising sun dispelling mist and night, promising the clarity of a sunlit day. But yet it was as if, even as he sat with succulent meat in his mouth, a cup of tiswin at his elbow, and friends all around him, there existed a dark dawn none there, not even Morrhyn, could see.
He was not sure of it, himself; only that it came: of that, somehow, he was certain. Suddenly, as he sat with these new-won friends and ate their meat and drank their tiswin he knew that he would see it, and that it was his future, and Flysse’s, and Arcole’s, and Morrhyn’s, and—he looked around the circle of smiling, laughing faces—Kanseah’s and Yazte’s: all of them.…
He had seen it in Taza’s eyes: it came. He felt it in the surety of his blood. It was in the laughter of the Matawaye and the color of Arrhyna’s hair, the shade of the sky and the lines on Lhyn’s face. But he could not name it, or—without proper comprehension of their language—explain what he felt. What he knew.
So he waited for further explanation, afraid he had it wrong and unsure what to say—even had he the words to explain it—save thanks for the food and the tent he was brought to when the feasting was done, which was his alone. Flysse and Arcole were given another, which was a kindness to them and chaos to him, for he needed to talk but was embarrassed to interrupt what they might—surely!—be doing, now they were at last alone.
And he would have gone to Morrhyn, save that the wakanisha had left the circle in company with Lhyn, and he was unsure whether they were lovers or old friends. And Rannach had surely gone eagerly with Arrhyna, so there was no one he might properly talk with.
And likely, for all what he felt, it was nothing—so he told himself. Surely if it was anything, then Morrhyn or Kahteney would have dreamed it: surely they were far greater Dreamers than he.
But still, as he lay down on the furs of his gifted bed and watched the play of firelight on the hides of the lodge, he could not forget Taza’s eyes, or the doubt he felt.
7
The Inquisitor
Tomas Var had not thought to see Salvation again.
On his return to Evander he had delivered Andru Wyme’s messages to his commanding officer and given his own report, then gone about his duties thinking he had seen the last of the New World. Grostheim and its occupants held no great attraction for him, and did he occasionally wonder what fate befell Arcole Blayke, he surely felt no desire to again cross the Sea of Sorrows. He had found himself posted to garrison duty in the Levan and assumed, with the countries conquered in the War of Restitution now pacific, that he might look forward to a slow rise through the ranks. He found himself thinking, for the first time in his life, of settling into some permanent posting. He had met a woman, Krystine d’Lavall, and contemplated engagement. Consequently, he had been surprised to find himself recalled to Bantar, where he must reiterate all he had observed in Grostheim to a committee of senior officers, Inquisitors, and officials of the Autarchy. They plied him with questions and then—to his far greater surprise—announced his immediate promotion to the rank of major. And his new commission.
An expeditionary force of two hundred and fifty marines accompanied by infantry, artillerymen, and engineers was to set sail for Salvation under the command of the Inquisitor Jared Talle. The newly appointed major was to be Talle’s second-in-command. Their immediate task was to secure the city of Grostheim, after which they would exterminate all hostiles and see a chain of forts established along the perimeter of the explored territory. Salvation then pacified, the full force would scour the wilderness and, should Inquisitor Talle deem it beneficial, extend by main force the boundaries of the known country.
It was elevation undreamed of for Var, but for all he was delighted with his promotion, still he could not deny he felt some reservations. For one thing, he doubted Krystine d’Lavall would wait for him—after all, he had no idea when he might return. But he was an officer in the God’s Militia and did not question the orders of the Autarchy, so he penned a swift letter to Krystine and prepared to leave. It occurred to him as he wrote that he might never return, and thought abruptly of Arcole—perhaps now they shared the bond of exile. For another, he realized that he was second in a line of command that effectively replaced both Governor Wyme and Major Alyx Spelt, thereby rendering him one of the most powerful men in all the New World. He felt somewhat uncomfortable with such abrupt elevation over older men: he wondered how Spelt and Wyme should take it. That they would accept, he did not doubt—neither provincial governors or military officers argued with Inquisitors—but he anticipated resentment, such as might well brook problems affecting his designated tasks.
He had said as much—cautiously—to Talle as the Wrath of God sailed westward. And Talle had coughed out his whispery laugh and dismissed Var’s reservations. Was the major not his second-in-command, he asked, and was he not an Inquisitor? Therefore who would dare argue? And did any colonials resent this imposition of Evander’s authority, then they would answer to him; so Var need not worry—only obey his orders.
So far as Talle was concerned that resolved and ended the problem; Var was less sure. There would not be open disagreement, but it should be mightily difficult to execute his orders without the full cooperation of Wyme and Spelt, or the wholehearted support of Grostheim’s garrison. And he was loath to impose his authority by recourse to the Inquisitor. Were Governor Wyme’s worst fears realized, he must fight a campaign in unfamiliar territory and knew that victory would depend on concerted effort, shared purpose rather than enforced obedience.
Worse, he could not like Jared Talle, nor respect the man. The Inquisitor enjoyed the exercise of his power too much, relished his position too much. He seemed to gloat on the prospect of usurping Andru Wyme, and seemed to expect Var to enjoy the same pleasure at thought of Spelt’s demotion; nor less at thought of exterminating whatever hostile forces existed in Salvation. Var wondered—traitorous thought—if power corrupted Talle. Also, he smelled. Which was a small thing—God knew, Var himself had often enough gone stinking into battle—but still there hung about him a sour odor of must and sweat, as if he lived in a state of perpetual excitement, galvanized by that talent that made him an Inquisitor. He bathed seldom, and for all the long crossing had not, as best Var could tell, changed his clothes. It was not easy to sit with him in the small cabin, the air heated fetid, the windows never opened, as if Talle enjoyed the inhalation of his own body odors. Var preferred to spend his time on deck, or on the other ships, which bore the infantry and the light cannon of the artillerymen, or even with the engineers. That was to him an escape—from Talle’s acrid excretions and the Inquisitor’s oppressive presence, both.
Sometimes, as the flotilla proceeded westward, Var wondered if he was a fit officer for such an enterprise.
But still it was advancement beyond his dreams, and he was ordered to the conquest of a world by an authority he had never doubted. Were they successful, he and Talle, then he knew he might well find himself promoted colonel, or even marshal—military commander of all the New World. So he hid his dubiety and played the diplomat as he smiled at Talle and endeavored not to choke on the man’s sourness, which
seemed as much spiritual as physical.
He smelled it now, as squadrons of gulls mewed raucous welcome and he leant against the forrard rail, staring into the hazy blending of summer sky and lapping sea that rendered Salvation’s coast a misty line across the horizon.
He turned as Talle approached, thankful for the breeze that did a little to subdue the man’s fetor.
“Ere noon, eh?”
Talle took station at the rail alongside Var. His long black hair seemed too weighted by oil for the breeze to shift from his sallow face, and Var could not help the impression of a carrion crow dressed in frock coat and breeches that sprang to mind. He nodded and said, “Soon after noon, I think. We’ve Deliverance Bay to cross yet.”
The Inquisitor grunted and fixed bright black eyes on Var. “You seem none too happy at the prospect, Major.”
“I’ve my orders.” Var met his stare expressionless. “My happiness is surely of no account.”
“No.” Talle smiled, exposing yellow teeth. “But better that you enjoy your work, eh?”
Var said stiffly, “I serve the Autarchy, Inquisitor. Now—with your permission—I’d see my men ready to disembark.”
“Yes, of course.” Talle waved a languid dismissal and Var turned away. As he went across the deck he felt the Inquisitor’s eyes on him, as if an overheated sun burned against his back. None of this, he thought, should be easy, and likely none too pleasant. He resisted the urge to glance back and went to his officers.
The Wrath of God reefed sail, slowing that the three accompanying vessels might take station astern. It had been Talle’s suggestion that they approach Grostheim in formal array, so as to impress those waiting ashore, and Var must admit they did make a gallant sight. He wondered what reception they should receive, and how Grostheim fared. Wyme’s reports had spoken only of hostile attacks on inland farms, and the governor’s fear that the demons grew stronger. Might they have grown strong enough to attack the city itself?