by Allan Cole
“Here, now,” Pip said. “Tha’s no way to talk to me poor muvver.”
“I’ll talk anyways I likes t’ anyones I likes,” the guard snarled. “Especially to rubbish like yer two.”
I snatched at his hand again. “Half a copper, then, dearie,” I quavered. “Tell yer if yer sweetheart’s pissin’ in strange pots fer half a copper.”
This was too much for the guard’s brutish feelings. He shouted for us to begone and barred us from the city.
“And don’t ever try and come this way again,” he shouted as we hurried off, me hobbling as fast as I could. “I’ll break yer heads if you do!”
I looked back and saw him shaking his fist at us. Framed in the arch of the big main gate.
Behind him was the Palace Of The Evocators, windows glowing in the new light.
I saw a rich carriage roll up to the gate, footmen clubbing the crowd back to make a path. The guards all bowed and scraped as the carriage swept through without delay.
“It’s always been like that, hasn’t it Pip?” I said. “Even in the old days. Before Novari and Kato.”
“That it has, Cap’n,” Pip said. “Rich man prizes his special treatment maybe ev’n more’n his gold. Likes t’ see the poor man at his feet. Likes t’ see the poor woman on her back. Makes him feel bigger, somehow. Maybe ev’n bigger’n death.”
“Garla’s right,” I said. “Things need to change.
“But first we have to set this current lot straight.”
And off we went to Galana, heroes bold. A crooked old market witch and her doltish son.
I was a fortune teller who couldn’t read her own palm and see the future.
I didn’t know if I’d win or fail. And if I won, what was in store for Orissa. The rich do not easily share their wealth. The powerful, their power.
I had one consolation, though.
Before I left the city I went on an orgy of spell casting.
For two days I churned out magical weapons and spells and potions and amulets of every variety a thief could dream of.
I made enough for them to continue the fight after I left. And I made more after that, just in case, filling several large chambers.
And it sits there still. Enough to last for many years of knavery.
It was my way of making things just a little bit more... equal.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE ROAD TO GALANA
We struck east for several leagues, then north on the Great Harvest Road that meanders through the belly of Orissa’s finest farmlands and vineyards. It was the longest route to Galana but for most of the distance it would keep us away from the river where the heaviest patrols would be.
It would take us nearly two weeks to cover what could be done in four or five days on horseback using a more direct route. I’d chafed at the delay when Pip’d suggested it.
But he’d tapped his sharp little nose, saying, “Sometimes yer gotter go slow, Cap’n. ‘N sometimes yer gotter go fast. Howsomever yer go, it’s th’ gettin’ there that’s the point. Be it Galana or th’ Far Kingdoms.”
The Harvest Road was also one of several key routes Pip’s smugglers used to get crucial supplies to the defenders of Galana. There were rebel supporters spread out along it, although thinly, who could help us along the way.
We spent our first night with one such family. They were servants at a crossroads inn that catered to rich landowners traveling from their Orissan mansions to inspect their farms. We slept in one of the inn’s stables on fresh fragrant hay meant for their high-bred horses. We supped on delicacies, scraps from their table. And shared a fine wine with the servant family that’d been stolen from the room of a lord who’d been on a drunk for days and would never miss it.
We were disturbed once during the night when the ample-waisted barwoman crept up to our loft to warn us that some men were coming.
“They’re friends,” she whispered, “so’s ya needn’t fear. They’ll be in ‘n out’a here quick. ‘N ya’ll soon be puffin’ at the rafters agin.”
We watched from our loft as men in dark cloaks and dimmed lanterns entered the stable. Horses were moved, hay pushed aside and floorboards lifted. Hidden below were spears and swords and boxes of arrow heads. They quickly gathered the booty up and hauled it away, returning everything to normal when they were done.
One of the men raised a fist to us in a silent salute, then they were gone.
Pip said the weapons would be divided up and taken to local farms where they’d await transport to Galana.
“Come outter an armory in Orissa on’y yestiddy,” Pip said. “Seems on’y fittin’ ter use this place fer our first hidey-hole. Kato’s darlin’s are sleepin’ upstairs, whilst we scheme on ‘em down in th’ stables.”
We didn’t always have such commodious accommodations in our journey. Most of the time we slept rough in a field or wood. Once we were quartered over a sty. The cornhusk mattresses were comfortable enough but the smells and sounds of the pigs did not make for pleasant dreams. And when I awoke the smell was so awful that for a moment I thought I was in long ago Pisidia, when the flies and fumes from the great tanneries still poisoned the air.
We plodded along the road for many a day. At first there was much traffic - wagons and herdsman and barefooted lads and maids driving flocks of geese or milk cows to market. They tied their shoes and boots with string and carried them draped about their necks so they wouldn’t be ruined by the rough dusty road. And if there was a fair in progress at one of the large villages, the young people would all stop outside to put on their shoes and their best go-to-market clothing.
I got a lot of unintended practice being a market witch with those young people.
“Will he be true, granny?” a blushing maid might ask, pressing a copper into my hand.
“Does she love me?” a shambling farm lad would plead, shuffling from foot to foot or digging his toes into the dust.
I’d mutter and spit and scratch around the false wart on my nose as I considered, studying their palm and weighing the answer with much cronish concern. The palm studying was only for effect, for with my ethereye I could see such things quite clear in the aura that hovers about us all.
In my answers, however, I was mindful of Garla’s instructions.
“No one wants the truth if the news is bad, Captain Antero” he’d said. “Please them with a lying present and let the future work itself out the best it can.”
Pip had similar advice. “Talk sweet,” he said, “‘n no one’ll note we passed. Talk hard ‘n ever’ one’ll mark us. Tell all’a their friends and family ‘bout the witch tha’ glimmed dark days ahead. ‘Sides. Whatsomever you say, bein’ young they’ll ignore yer advice ‘n jump whichever way their private parts lead ‘em.”
Wizards don’t mind lies but they do have pride in their reputations. Even if that reputation is going about in disguise. So although I took their advice I couldn’t help but hedge my responses.
If the answer to both of those all too typical questions about true love, faithfully kept, was yes I’d make a big show in my delivery.
“Aye, yer a lucky one, dearie,” I’d say, sniffling and blubbering as if my old crone’s heart had been touched from being in the presence of so much youthful romance. “Yer’ll have nothin’ but love from that one. An’ yer can mark this granny’s word on that. ‘N if yer keep yer bed willin’ an’ never let a harsh word rest between yer ov’rnight, that love’ll be true fer the rest of yer life.”
I’d had similar advice from grannies in my wild youth and it still seemed sound enough. If not, it was harmless.
If the answer was no I’d make less of a fuss. And I’d hedge my answer. “Oh, I see love there, dearie, I do. ‘N it’s faithful enough, I reckon. Only mind tha’ it’s yer heart I’m seein’. Not yer intended’s. Yer’d have to bring ‘em by fer me to be certain.”
This satisfied most. And for those it didn’t, Pip and I would be long gone before they brought their false lover around for a secon
d casting.
But the questions weren’t always so easy to skirt and sometimes the necessary lies were too bitter for my tongue.
One day about halfway through our journey we tarried at a fair. We were waiting to meet a supporter whom Pip said would know what difficulties we’d face along the road just ahead.
The man never turned up and along about dusk Pip was packing our things in the dray to leave when a stocky farmwoman of some forty summers approached. She had a tall skinny lad gripped tightly by the hand and was dragging him along like a stubborn yearling horse.
She shoved him in front of me, saying, “I want’cher to put my young Natt straight, granny.”
And she slapped two silver pieces onto the dray’s gate with such force that it startled the horse.
I twisted my face and scratched my nose and hawked and spit in the dust. I’d slipped thoroughly into my role as a market witch by then. And was even beginning to enjoy it.
“Put him straight abou’ what, dearie?” I cackled.
The woman gave me a look like I was the most ignorant mortal the world has known. “About solderin’, is what!” she snapped. “War and solderin’ and gettin’ tucked inta his grave ‘afore his time. Me and me dear husban’ - may he be restin’ easy with the gods, bless his soul - fed him ‘n clothed him ‘n raised him to be a good boy ‘n mind his manners.”
The woman pointed at the silver coins.
“I wants a special casting, granny,” she said. “And I know such a thing is dear. Can’t get it fer a copper, yer can’t. But I’m willin’ to pay whatever it takes to keep this lad home.”
“Muvver, please!” young Natt protested. “I’m growed, now. A man. You gotta let me be.”
She swatted his arm and he yelped. “Sure, I’ll let ya be! Soon’s ya come to yase senses, I will.” She swatted him again, producing another howl. “Ya may be the death of yase old muvver first. But I’d rather be dead ‘n cold than see a son of mine throw his life away!”
And then she burst into tears, shaking and bawling like an old cow past bearing age who’s just lost her last calf to the wolves.
Young Natt squirmed in embarrassment. He tried putting a hand on his mother’s shoulder but she shook it off, crying all the harder.
Pip strolled over, quite casual like.
“What’s up, lad?” he asked. “What’cha do to make yer muvver cry so?”
“Nothin’ but what’s natural,” young Natt said, stubborn jaw thrust forward. “Director Kato and the Goddess Novari are askin’ the help of all’a lads of Orissa.”
He pointed north. “They needs more soldiers to fight the rebels at Galana,” he said. “Offerin’ a good bonus too. One gold piece fer ever’ volunteer.”
Young Natt turned to his mother. “A gold piece, muvver!” he exclaimed. “Think’a all yase can do wi’ so much money!”
But she only wailed more.
The lad sighed and addressed Pip and me. “Time’s been hard since me favver died,” he said. “Hearth’s so old it’s all choked up. Smoke’s somethin’ fierce. Hadda sell off too much land. Now we can’t grow ‘nough to feed ourselfs. Much less buy seed fer next year. But that gold piece they’re offerin’ will set things right. I’m young. Can’t farm. But I can soldier. And that’s what they wants.”
“Yer must admire Kato ‘n Novari somethin’ fierce,” Pip said, “to break yer muvver’s heart like this.”
Young Natt shrugged. “Don’t know much about ‘em,” he said. “What’s the difference?”
“There’s people dyin’ at Galana on th’ other side,” Pip said, “tha’ must think there’s a difference. A mos’ remarkable difference, from what Pip hears.”
Young Natt glared at Pip. “Ya wouldn’t be one a them, would’ja?” he asked accusingly. “Or maybe a symperthizer.”
“Only person I’m symperthizin’ with jus’ now,” Pip said, “is yer poor muvver. Cryin’ her eyes out fer fear of losin’ one’a her sons.”
“My only son!” the woman bawled. “Ain’t gotta daughter, either. ‘N the gods know I would’na be grievin’ like this if I’d a been blessed with a daughter.”
“Muvver, please!” Young Natt protested again. “Not in front a ever’body. Yer embarrassin’ me!”
I picked up the two silver coins. “Lotta’ shine to this money, dearie,” I said to his mother, “fer a poor widder woman.”
“It’s all I got,” she said, sniffling and drying her eyes. “We was savin’ it fer really bad times. Which finally come when my young Natt, here, gets it in his thick skull that he’s gonna go fight some villains’ war.
“I tells ya, I’d sell this fat old body a mine at the local brothel if it’d stop him. If anybody could stomach me, that is.”
“Ya can’t know somethin’s gonna happen to me, muvver,” young Natt said. “I’ll be fine. You’ll see. There’s lots of other lads fightin’. It’ll be some’a them what gets it, not your young Natt who loves ya.”
Naturally all this produced was another tearful gale.
So I cackled my best witchy cackle, flipped the coins to Pip and clutched at young Natt’s hand.
“Give us a peek then, dearie,” I croaked. “See if there’s graves ahead or babes ahead fer th’ likes a young Natt.”
He tried to pull back but I dug my long nails into his palm, trapping him.
“Don’t fret, laddie child,” I said. “Granny won’t hurt’cha. Sweet little thing like you. Make a girl’s heart melt like honey, Granny bets you do.”
He struggled more but his mother swatted the back of his head. “Stay still,” she commanded. “Let her look. See what’ll happen if ya goes soldierin’ over yase poor muvver’s wishes.”
“What if she don’t see nuffin’?” Natt asked, suddenly sharp. “Will yase let me go?”
The woman hesitated. She looked at me and while she looked Pip slipped the silver pieces into her apron pocket. She wouldn’t find them there until she got home.
Finally she said, “Will yase give us th’ truth, granny? Will yase at least promise me that? If yase don’t have th’ Second Sight will yase tell me now? Keep the money, gods love yase. Jus’ tell me true. Can yase do it, granny? Can yase really see Natt’s future?”
I felt a tear well in my own eye. I coughed and spit into the dust.
“Granny can see, dearie,” I assured her. “She can see quite clear.” I pulled aside my hood, showing my eyepatch. “She’s got Second Sight. And Third Sight as well...”
I spread young Natt’s palm open and chanted:
One eye t’ see outward.
One t’ see inward.
And one t’ see all around and around.
I can see Natt’s birth -
Still tied t’ his muvver.
See th’ cord cut -
Knife t’ his favver.
Bury it deep.
So th’ ghosts can’t find it.
Whippoorwill.
And the crickets call.
Will Natt live?
Or will Natt fall?
The vision descended on me like the Dark Seeker’s cloak. It was night and there was fire on the hilltops. I was astride a horse shouting my battle cry and charging through a wall of enemy pikes. Men and women were screaming and dying all around me and I was wounded and I hurt and I flailed about with my sword, turning pain into strength.
Faces jumped up and I cut them down. Hands grabbed for my legs and I slashed them away. Then the pikeline wavered and broke and I shouted in victory as my horse plunged through. Charging for those fiery hilltops where Quatervals waited.
Someone jumped up in front of me, jabbing with a long pike. The moment froze and I could see him clear. He was tall and so painfully thin that his rusted breastplate would barely stay on.
It was young Natt with a thin black streak for a mustache and there was fear in his eyes and he was bawling for his “muvver” but he kept coming with that pike - sure he’d die if he didn’t kill me first.
I tried to rein in, tried to st
op the course of my blade, but then the moment unstuck and my horse was rushing forward, my sword was cutting down and there was a bump and a wail and then I heard young Natt screaming his last as my horse ran over him.
The vision passed as suddenly and violently as it came and I was gasping in clean air without the taint of death and battle. I was still clutching young Natt’s hands and his mother was saying, “Go on, Granny. Tell us what’cha see.”
I dropped the lad’s hand, breathing in deeply to get my weather anchor set.