4: Witches' Blood

by Ginn Hale

  Pivan and his commander, Tashtu, both strode at the head of the large group. Their deep green uniforms looked crisp and the silver emblems of their rank and honors gleamed from the straight collars of their jackets. Polished pistols hung from dark leather holsters at their hips. Their black riding boots shone with the luster of oil and snakeskin.

  Behind them, Lady Bousim walked slowly, seeming hardly aware of the crowds of awed farmers and herders. Her black hair was strewn with silver, emeralds, and pieces of polished jade. Her long flowing dress shimmered like nothing worn by any of the surrounding throng. The silver rings on her fingers and the silver chains linking them swung and chimed like precious bells.

  Even as tall and blonde as he was, John realized that he was not as out of place as Lady Bousim. Among the poor herders and farmers of Amura’taye, Lady Bousim’s wealth and noble rank placed her absolutely beyond their grasp. One glance at her smooth skin, her deeply curved breasts and hips, her luxurious clothing and lustrous hair informed any onlooker that she had never toiled in a field nor gone hungry through a hard winter.

  She was lovely and unobtainable. Even standing among common men and women, walking the same tight confines, she was distant. Her armed guards kept people away with just a glance. Her maids encircled her, smiling and talking, moving constantly, so that the lady herself could only be seen in brief glimpses.

  Beside Lady Bousim, both Inholima and Ohbi wore their glossy black hair in long twisting masses of braids and tiny silver beads. Pale, translucent green veils floated over the long straight lines of their dresses. Laurie stood nearest to Lady Bousim, dressed just as Ohbi and Inholima were, but her platinum hair and pale skin lent her a radiance. The silver beads adorning her hair were nearly as long as Lady Bousim’s. Strings of polished jade cascaded from her necklace down over her thin chest and shoulders.

  Behind the women, John recognized Bati’kohl’s round face and the Rashan Mou’pin’s startlingly vicious smile. Then there came another young rashan in a dark green uniform and beside him, Bill.

  Bill looked out of place with the other men. His pale skin appeared almost blue beside the tanned arms and faces of the rashan’im. His blue eyes looked like cut stones and his black hair spiked out from his face like strokes of ink. His slim body appeared delicate, almost girlish, in comparison to the thickly corded muscle of the rashan walking beside him.

  At first, John thought that the rashan had slowed his pace to accommodate Bill, but then he noticed the limp in the man’s step. The rashan laughed quietly at something Bill said and nodded.

  Bill glanced up and immediately picked John out of the surrounding throng of onlookers and waved him over.

  “Jahn,” Bill said, “this is Alidas. Do you remember him?”

  John regarded the rashan. He was younger than Bill but stood taller. His brown hair fell around his face, softening the sharpness of his jaw. He returned John’s gaze with a knowing intensity.

  “I don’t think...” John said softly and then cut himself off as the man’s features and his limp made a sudden connection. This was the rashan he had ridden behind that night on the Holy Road—the young man whose leg had been crushed beneath his fallen mount. He had looked so pale that night, like a corpse.

  “You were to be Fikiri’s attendant?” John asked, though he was sure of the answer.

  The rashan smiled and nodded. “I didn’t know if you would remember me. It was so dark when we met and so long ago.”

  “I saw you a few times after that, but you weren’t well. I think you were sleeping most of the time,” John said.

  “I told you he’d remember,” Bill said to Alidas. “Jahn doesn’t forget much.”

  John didn’t say anything to that. In truth, he had tried to forget as much about that night as he could. Before then, he had never seen men struggle, beat, and kill each other. He had never been responsible for a single life or death before that night. Involuntarily, he recalled the dirty face of the Fai’daum youth he had hidden. He had scrupulously avoided thinking of the entire matter, and yet he could still remember the boy’s name. Saimura.

  “I never had the chance to thank you,” Alidas said. “Pivan says you saved my life.”

  “I don’t know that I did that much—” John cut himself short, realizing that his words could seem insulting. It was Alidas’ life after all. “I’m glad that you were all right and that you’ve recovered,” he added quickly.

  “Recovered is a kind word for it,” Alidas replied. “But near enough.”

  “We’re going with the ladies to pick up some bolts of cloth for winter,” Bill said. “Then we’ll head back to the Bousim tents for a meal. I’m sure it would be fine if you joined us.”

  “I know Rashan Pivan would like to see you,” Alidas added.

  “And Fikiri should be meeting us there as well.” Bill peered over his shoulder at the retreating backs of the rest of the Bousim entourage.

  “I have to go to Binders’ Row,” John said. He didn’t particularly want to see Fikiri. And he doubted that Fikiri wanted to see him. Still, it would be nice to talk with Bill and Laurie. “But after I’m done there, I should be free to come by. Seven bells?”

  “That would be great.” Bill took a half step back and bumped into a woman. She wheeled around about to hiss something at him and then went silent as her eyes fell on John. Immediately, she bowed her head and scurried deeper into the moving crowd.

  Bill frowned after the woman and then eyed John. “Were you just declared scariest man at the fair, or did I miss something there?”

  “It was probably just the Payshmura robes,” Alidas remarked before John could explain. “You know what they say: the woman who crosses a priest steps straight into a fire.”

  “Sounds like something Rasho Tashtu would say.” Bill gave a disgusted scowl and Alidas, too, displayed clear antipathy at the mention of his own commander. Then he glanced back through the clusters of people pushing past them. The Bousim entourage was nearly out of sight.

  Alidas said, “We had better get going, or we’ll never catch up.”

  Bill nodded. “But we’ll see you later, Jahn?”

  “Seven bells. I’ll be there.” John started to step away from them, but then paused. “You don’t happen to know where Binders’ Row is, do you?”

  “Keep following this street south.” Alidas pointed along the rows of cloth vendors. “You’ll pass the leather tanners, then the binders.”

  “Thanks,” John said.

  “Tell me if you find any good books,” Alidas commented. “I haven’t had a chance to look yet.”

  “I will.” John watched them go. It was strange to see Alidas, as tanned and muscular as he was, gripping Bill’s slim shoulder for balance as they walked. An instant later, strangers closed in around them and John continued on his way.

  He reached Binders’ Row in a little under half an hour. Distantly, he could hear the city bells of Amura’taye ringing out the fifth bell. The sun was slipping from its blazing summer zenith. This far north it would still be a while before darkness, but at least the heat was beginning to relent.

  The smell of leather hung over the two short corridors of wagons and wooden stalls that made up Binders’ Row. Booksellers sat or leaned under the shade of their stalls, most of them quietly reading passages from their own merchandise. It wasn’t a busy area. Only a few men and boys passed by John. None of them made eye contact with him or each other. John didn’t see any women. It reminded him a little of his walk through Candle Alley.

  “And a thousand bulls were tithed by the Lisam gaunsho to the Black Tower,” an old man read slowly and solemnly as John walked past. “And the lands of the south were blessed a thousand times over by Parfir. In blossoms and fruit, in boundless fields of white taye and red, Parfir gave his holy blessings.”

  John leaned into the stall, peeking over the narrow shelves of books to search for Hann’yu. There was no one inside, so he walked on.

  As he wandered farther along Binders�
�� Row, the readings began to stray from purely religious works. He overheard passages that sounded more historical in nature, then those of technical works. John caught the partial descriptions of a miraculous steam engine, new printing presses, and the brilliant street lamps of Nurjima. Then he began to pick out hushed murmurs of ‘bare fingers, full breasts’ and ‘red lips, sweet as nectar.’ Just once John caught a whisper of the word, ‘Fai’daum.’

  John paused, trying to locate the man who had said the name of the Fai’daum; even after a few minutes of listening, he didn’t hear the name of the group again. Instead the air hummed with low murmurs of hushed longing and erotic desire. John continued his search.

  At last, John caught sight of Hann’yu’s gray cassock and black coat. The streaks of silver that twisted throughout Hann’yu’s eight braids were hidden by the deep shadows of a covered stall. He stood, eyes half closed between shelves of books, listening intently. His expression was gentle and appreciative, like a man hearing exquisite music.

  The bookseller looked about thirty. He sat on a tall stool with the small leather book across one of his legs. He glanced up as John stepped into the stall but didn’t stop reading.

  “As she lifted the hem of her skirt to step across the stream, I caught sight of her dainty white ankle.” The bookseller flipped the page. “I knew at once that she was no mere milkmaid as she claimed.”

  John supposed he should have predicted that he’d find Hann’yu in this section of Binders’ Row.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you,” John whispered to Hann’yu.

  “What?” Hann’yu turned and swayed, then squinted at John. “Oh, Jahn. You should listen to this. Receive the wisdom of the more worldly...world.” The thick, honey-like scent of mead poured off his breath.

  John didn’t find it unpleasant, but it struck him as too strong for so early in the day. He asked, “Are you drunk?”

  Hann’yu frowned, as if he were concentrating on a difficult algorithm, and then slowly nodded. “It’s really the only way that I get through the Purification Ceremony with Dayyid.”

  “Ceremony?” No one had mentioned a ceremony to John. “When?”

  “Tonight.” Hann’yu made a sour face and then turned his attention to the man reading. He made a quick gesture and in response the man lifted his book to display the title embossed into the leather spine. The Journey from Innocence.

  “You’d think, with such fine literature as this, that more boys would be interested in reading even in a cold, ugly wasteland like Amura’taye.” Hann’yu paused, then added, “Especially in a cold ugly wasteland like Amura’taye.”

  John waited for something more, but Hann’yu had fallen silent. He rocked back slightly and John realized that he was again listening to the reading.

  “Her pink-tipped fingers worked apart the buttons of her wet blouse,” the reader softly intoned.

  “You say Dayyid is holding a ceremony tonight?” John prompted.

  Hann’yu nodded, but said nothing more.

  “What kind of ceremony?” John asked. “Is there something special we’ll be expected to—”

  “No,” Hann’yu cut him off. “All we’ll be expected to do is remain silent. Say nothing, do nothing. Just watch like corpses.”

  It wasn’t a reassuring turn of phrase. John whispered, “But what exactly—”

  “Hush.” Hann’yu held his hand up in front of John’s mouth. “This is a sweet story. We shouldn’t ruin it. Just listen.”

  Hann’yu closed his eyes and John relented. He waited while the man on the stool read on to the end of the story.

  The milkmaid turned out to be a noble girl fleeing an abductor. The hero was revealed to be her intended husband in disguise. Everything tied up at the end and finished with the passionate couple still in perfect moral standing. It wasn’t much to John’s taste, but Hann’yu seemed to enjoy it.

  “Eloci Nass’ilem.” Hann’yu smiled fondly. “She wasn’t allowed to write nearly enough in her time.”

  “Yes, it was very nice,” John said automatically. “But what is the Purification Ceremony for?”

  Hann’yu gave John a weary look. “Don’t look so concerned, Jahn. The ceremony won’t begin until the last hour of the day at twelfth bell. There’s nothing you’ll be expected to do but chant and look holy. Don’t worry about it.”

  “If it’s nothing to worry about, then why are you getting so drunk?” John asked quietly.

  “So drunk?” Hann’yu smirked. “You have no idea. You’ll wish you had a whole vat of wine in you later tonight. It’s the only good excuse a priest can claim for a weak stomach.”

  The man who had been reading watched them for a few moments, but then looked away as John caught his gaze. He flipped through the pages of the book on his lap but didn’t begin reading again. John wondered how common it was for a pair of priests to be seen arguing in one of these bookstalls.

  Hann’yu pulled a book out from the shelf and gave it to John. He chose another for himself. John looked down at the slim volume Hann’yu had given him. A circle enclosing a tree was embossed on the cover, but there was no title. John turned it over in his hands. The spine was bare.

  “Poems from Milaun,” Hann’yu supplied the title. “Even Dayyid couldn’t complain. Well, I suppose he could, but not much.”

  Hann’yu took his book and approached the bookseller. John followed him to the front of the stall. Hann’yu passed the man two black-lacquered coins. One side was etched with the image of a tower, the other with gold sun.

  “Thank you for coming so far from civilization and reading so well,” Hann’yu said. “We will take these two.”

  The man smiled at Hann’yu and handed the coins back. “The compliment of Parfir’s blessing would be a greater payment than any other.”

  “Of course.” Hann’yu drew a small polished stone from the pocket of his cassock and placed it in the man’s palm. “May Parfir protect you in the darkness of his sleep and lavish you with joy upon his waking.”

  The man lowered his head and remained bowed until after the two of them had left his stall.

  As they worked their way through the rest of the Harvest Fair, John discovered that this was a routine interaction. Earlier in the day, he had been so focused on avoiding other priests that he hadn’t watched them make any purchases. Now, with Hann’yu, he realized that they never really paid for anything. Hann’yu either gave out blessings and polished pebbles or lacquered wooden coins. Many of the vendors’ wagons displayed large dishes of the polished stones. Others hung strings of the black coins above their entryways.

  Hann’yu paused against the side of a seed-seller’s wagon.

  “We should find a wealthy merchant or one of the city judges to invite us into one of their tents,” Hann’yu said.

  “Not necessary. I’ve already been invited to the Bousim tent.”

  “That’s right. You were Fikiri’s attendant.” Hann’yu grinned. “That’s better than I could have hoped for. We’ll drink ourselves sick and pass out.”

  “I really don’t think that would be a good idea—”

  “Don’t be so serious, Jahn.” Hann’yu rolled his eyes.

  “I wouldn’t be, but I’m not entirely sure you’re joking.”

  Hann’yu sighed. “I would never embarrass myself or you in front of such esteemed company as Lady Amha’in’Bousim.”

  Knowing the kind of man Hann’yu was, John believed him. Hann’yu’s warmth and reverence for noblewomen seemed innately ingrained in his nature. The presence of Lady Bousim would probably do more to encourage sobriety in him than anything John could do or say.

  “All right. Let’s go then,” John decided.

  It didn’t require much effort to locate the Bousim tents. They rose up in swooping emerald arcs behind the rows of flower sellers. Wealthy families of Amura’taye had erected tents for themselves as well, but none were as vast or as pleasantly placed. The natural perfume of cut blossoms and live flowers drifted over the
heavier scent of tahldi hide and human sweat.

  Rather than merely providing temporary relief from the sun, the main Bousim tent impressed John as a work of architecture. Massive, carved timbers had been driven into the earth and secured with thick viridian-dyed ropes. The huge lengths of green cloth that stretched across the timbers were reinforced with worked leather displaying a pattern of the Bousim crossed arrows. Polished jade baubles hung from the timbers and lengths of silky green cloth and silver bells were strung across the entry.

  The four rashan’im who guarded front of the great tent watched Hann’yu and John as they approached but didn’t challenge them. As they entered, the faint sound of bells announced their presence. Inside, the air was cool. The tent’s interior was suffused with an emerald glow from light passing through the cloth walls. Hann’yu’s dark skin took on a pine tone. John imagined that his own pale hair had turned the color of a lime.

  Aside from an open circle at the center of the tent, the rest of the floor was littered with low tables and embroidered cushions. Men, wearing the badges of city judges, guild fathers, and scholars, sat at the tables surrounded by their wives, unwed daughters, and favorite sons. Some glanced up as John and Hann’yu entered, but most seemed too engrossed in their conversations to take any note.

  Every table was laden with dishes piled high with fragrant cut fruit or sliced meat. As he eyed these, John became suddenly aware of the absence of the flies and bees that had filled the open fairgrounds. He surmised that the veils of cloth and strings of bells over the entry weren’t purely ornamental.

  At the far end of the tent, Lady Bousim lounged with her maids and attendants. Two younger men were seated across from her. Their clothes, like those of the guild fathers, city judges, and scholars were well made and new. They wore clean, polished shoes, instead of sewn goatskins or scuffed work boots. That alone marked them as better off than most of the people at the Harvest Fair. But compared to Lady Bousim and her entourage, they might as well have been peasants.

  Lady Bousim looked up as John and Hann’yu approached. She gave John a gentle smile, but when she took in Hann’yu’s face, her expression suddenly became radiantly happy. She stood.