by DAVID B. COE
"It's late," Tirnya said, standing and stretching. Despite all the sword-work she did every day, during the tournament she always seemed to exercise muscles she had forgotten since the previous year. She'd be sore come morning. "We have training at first bells."
The others stood as well. "Yes, Captain," Oliban said.
"We also have patrol two nights hence," she said. "I want the assignments set by tomorrow evening."
Oliban nodded. "They will be."
"Good night, Oliban."
He grinned and nodded. "G'night, Captain."
She watched her men leave before draining her cup-her fifth ale of the night-and starting toward the door herself.
"Captain Onjaef."
She turned. Maisaak was watching her, and, she now realized, Stri Balkett was standing with him.
"A word please."
She crossed to where he stood and nodded to Stri. "Yes, Your Lordship."
Enly looked up from his conversation and immediately joined them. Maisaak raised an eyebrow, but he didn't order his son away.
"Captain Balkett was just telling me that there's been trouble on the roads south of the city. Brigands from the sound of it. Groups of them, disciplined and clever. They've been striking at peddlers making their way toward the Ofirean and the lower sovereignties. Have your men heard anything?"
"Not that I know of, Your Lordship," Tirnya said. "But I'll ask them about it first thing in the morning."
Maisaak nodded. "Yes, do. And I want patrols doubled until further notice." His eyes flicked toward Enly. "All patrols. Even those in the north. I don't want anything interfering with Harvest trade. There's also talk of the pestilence to the west. Much of it seems to be in white-hair lands; the Fal'Borna mostly. But all it takes is a single peddler to bring it across the Silverwater into our lands."
"Yes, Your Lordship."
"Tournament's over now. It's time we got back to more serious matters." Ile seemed to direct this at his son, but he hardly looked at Enly at all. "I'm off to bed. I'd suggest the rest of you do the same."
"Good night, Your Lordship," Stri said.
Maisaak left the tavern with Enly in tow, but Tirnya hardly noticed. Pestilence in white-hair lands…
"You fought well today."
Tirnya looked up. Stri still stood beside her, his eyes shining in the lamplight.
"Thank you."
"Your father was pleased, as much by what you didn't do as by what you did, if you follow."
"I do," she said. "Thank you."
Stri was usually quiet. So much so, that many of the men in her command thought him proud and superior. She knew better. He simply was not given to idle chatter. But since becoming one of Jenoe's captains, he had become a fixture in the Onjaef home, where he was as garrulous as Tirnya's younger brothers. He was a large man, with a broad, plain face and dark eyes. His light brown hair was long and straight, and though he was muscular, he looked soft, his shoulders rounded, his head slightly bowed, as if he were afraid of humping it on the top of every doorway. Early on, he had doted on Tirnya, as if taken with her. But as time went on, and he came to accept that she didn't return his affection, the two of them settled into a comfortable friendship. He was now more like a big brother than a friend, and she trusted him as she did few other people.
"You probably don't want to talk about the matches anymore, do you?"
She smiled and shook her head. "Not really, no."
"Fair enough." He gestured at the door with a large hand. "I'll walk you home."
Tirnya nodded, but didn't move. "What do you know about this pestilence His Lordship mentioned?"
"Not a lot," he said. "A peddler mentioned it to me two or three days ago. Three, it was. And then I heard talk of it again today from one of the other combatants. A swordsman from western Stelpana."
"Do you know where it's struck?"
"Well east of the Horn, it sounds like. Not near Deraqor, not yet at least, if that's what you're wondering."
It was. The Qirsi had renamed Deraqor D'Raqor, as was their way. Tirnya had never seen the city, though to this day it was said to be one of the most beautiful and impressive of all the cities on the northern rivers. But like her father, and his father before him, Tirnya still thought of Deraqor as her family's home. Though she knew no one who lived there, and cared not a whit if every Qirsi on the plain died tomorrow, she was oddly relieved to know that the pestilence had not struck there. She was tied to the place, as were all Onjaefs. One day, she had sworn long ago, the Onjaefs would take back Deraqor for the Eandi. Yes, there was peace between the races, and no one wished to return to the terrible days of the Blood Wars. But by the same token, Deraqor was theirs; it belonged to the Eandi and it was meant to be ruled by her family.
"Did they know people who were sickened by it?" Tirnya finally asked.
"Who?"
"The peddler you mentioned, and the swordsman."
He shook his head. "Not that I know of. It seems from what they told me that it's mostly white-hairs who've been getting sick."
She tried to muster some sympathy for them. They were people after all, and she knew, mostly from tales told to her by her father and by other soldiers, how horrible the pestilence could be. No one should have had to endure such suffering. But her heart seemed suddenly to have turned to stone. What did it say about her that she couldn't bring herself to feel anything?
"I guess that's too had for them," she said, feeling that she had to say something.
"You hate them very much, don't you?"
She looked at him, hearing something in his voice. "Don't you?"
"Not really."
"But the wars…" Tirnya trailed off, not quite certain what she had intended to say.
"I never fought in the wars."
She frowned, then shook her head. "No, of course not." She started to say more, but stopped herself. She felt herself growing angry with him, and for the life of her she didn't know why. Unlike so many men under her father's command, Stri had no ties to Deraqor. He had come to Qalsyn from the south, near the Ofirean; his family had never lived in the western lands now held by the Fal'Borna. Deraqor probably meant nothing to him. It was just one of many cities taken by the white-hairs.
But for Tirnya, who had been brought up on tales of her family's former glory, and for others whose ancestors fought and died in the battles for the I Torn, Deraqor was both a wound that never healed, and a name that carried within it the promise of redemption.
Stri should have known that. Or was she being unreasonable?
"Come along, Captain," he said, starting toward the door. "It's late and this has been a long day for all of us."
She followed him out of the tavern, lost in thought. Stri didn't say much as they walked. He might have commented on how clear a night it was, and how fine the crop fields outside the city looked, but that was all. He seemed to understand that Tirnya was barely listening. When they reached the home she still shared with her family, however, he turned to face her.
"Did I say something wrong?" he asked. "You've been very quiet."
She made herself smile. "No, I'm just… I'm tired."
"You're certain?" He was frowning, the light of the two moons shining on his face.
"Yes." She touched his arm lightly. "Thank you, Stri. I'll see you in the morning."
"All right." He started to walk away. "You fought well today. Your father was very proud."
She nodded and forced another smile. But the cut on her cheek burned like a brand.
Chapter 3
S'VRALNA, NEAR THE THRAEDES RIVER
The cold winds of the Harvest had come early to the plain, carrying with them steel grey skies and bands of hard rain that could soak through the thickest woolen wraps in mere moments. Even during the warmest, most pleasant days of the Growing, when soft breezes stirred the grasses and wildflowers bloomed on the hillsides in more shades of red, purple, orange, and yellow than one could imagine, these were inhospitable lands. Few trees
grew among the boulders and grasses, and when the days turned hot, travelers found little shelter from the Growing sun. The Growing storms, when they struck, were harsh, violent affairs: hail, wind, lightning that seemed to make the air crackle, and thunder that could cause the mightiest warriors to cringe.
But only when those warm days gave way to the Harvest, with its drenching rains and merciless gales, did the weather on the plain begin to bare its teeth. And yet even the Harvest was mild when compared with the cruelty of the Snows. Judging from this year's rains, it seemed that the cold turns ahead would be truly monstrous.
For Lariqenne Glyse, these lands were doubly dangerous. Apart from the climate and the terrain, she had to contend with the hostility of nearly every man and woman she encountered. Such was the fate of an Eandi merchant looking to make her gold in Fal'Borna lands. The Qirsi warriors of the plain were among the most fearsome of all the white-hairs of the Southlands, and they were second to none in their hatred of the Eandi. Yes, Lariqenne-Lark, as she was known-was a merchant, and of all the people of the sovereignties, traders were most accepted by the sorcerer race. But still, her arrival in a Fal'Borna sept never failed to cause a stir. It didn't help matters that she was a woman. The Fal'Borna of the plain were strictly patriarchal-women were expected to serve their men in all ways imaginable. This made haggling with Qirsi men over the price of her wares interesting, to say the least.
Yet Lark had survived, even prospered. There were times when she had to endure cold glares and insults. Men who found her too unyielding in striking a bargain often walked away bitter, their pride wounded. Over the years, some had called her a whore. A few had threatened to kill her and one, a young warrior in a village near the Fallow Downs, had tried to make good on his threats. Only the timely intervention of an older Fal'Borna who knew her from her previous visits had kept him from succeeding. She still bore a scar on her breast from the first thrust of his blade.
Over the years, she had learned the ways of the Fal'Borna. She always sought out the a'laq-the sept leader-sometime on the day of her arrival in any settlement. She suffered the tales of men who thought it amusing to recount their romantic conquests in vivid detail, and on those occasions when she found herself haggling with Qirsi men, she always did so in even, respectful tones. On the other hand, she no longer lowered her eyes when dealing with Fal'Borna men. Early on, she had done so as a matter of course, thinking it safest to appear respectful, lest the men think that she was challenging them. She had learned, however, that the warriors often took this as a sign of weakness, as license to treat her as they would a Fal'Borna woman. By meeting their gazes straight on, by letting them see the dark brown of her eyes, she reminded them of who and what she was. You may not like me, she told them with her directness, but you will not take advantage of me.
Perhaps as a result, she had earned something of a reputation among the septs of the Central Plain, not only for the quality of her wares, but also for her courage. Her friends among the other Eandi peddlers might have called her Lark, but to the Fal'Borna she was K'Lahm, so named for the small, wild dog of the highlands known for its fearlessness.
On those few occasions when she returned to her native Stelpana to visit with family and old friends, her conversations turned invariably to the difficulties of trading with the Qirsi.
"Why would you want to do business with the white-hairs," her father often asked her, "when you can just as easily trade here, with your own kind?"
She always responded the same way. "There's more gold to be made on the plain than in any Eandi city."
This was true in a sense. Certainly there were riches to be made in the large cities of Stelpana, but there were also far more merchants there, competing for their share of the gold. Out here, on the plain, she was one of only a small number of Eandi merchants bringing Eandi goods-Qosantian blankets, Tordjanni wines, smoked fish from the shores of the Ofirean-to the Qirsi clanfolk. She would have to work harder, travel farther, endure hardships unknown to the merchants of the sovereignties, but she would grow rich more quickly here than she could anywhere else.
Her father could only shrug when she argued thus, because he knew she was right. But this wasn't the real reason she returned to the plain again and again. The truth was, she liked the challenge, the danger. She enjoyed returning to her home village with tales that left her father and brothers wide-eyed, wondering that their little Lariqenne should see and say and do such things. The scar she still bore high on her breast had been enough to win her brothers' unwavering admiration. Trading in the cities of Stelpana would have bored her to death, so instead she risked her life trading with the Fal'Borna.
Her goods were always of decent quality; not to the level of Torgan Plye, or even Brint HedFarren, Young Red, as he was known in their circle, but good enough that she was now known as a merchant who could be trusted, no small thing among the clans.
Today, though, she was carrying in her cart items of such quality that she didn't quite know how to trade them. When she first saw Young Red's baskets at the bend in the river, where she often gathered with her fellow merchants to share food and wine and good conversation, she had been overwhelmed. Never had she seen baskets of any sort, Mettai, Aelean, or B'Qahr, that could match these in both color and tightness of weave. Usually Lark wasn't one to carry items that would fetch too high a price. She preferred to turn over her stock with some frequency, as opposed to someone like Torgan, the one-eyed Eandi trader, who was willing to hold on to goods for several turns, even as long as a year, until he got the price he wanted. But these baskets had called to her, and she had purchased sixteen of them from Young Red, at a price of one and a half sovereigns apiece.
It had been an extravagance, one she had regretted ever since. Such baskets made the rest of her wares appear coarse by comparison, and if she were to make any profit at all, she'd have to charge at least two sovereigns for them, making them easily the dearest items in her cart. And so, she'd kept them packed away in the first two settlements she visited. Better to save them for the proper setting, she told herself. But really she was afraid, though she couldn't say why. Maybe she feared that she'd been duped by young HedFarren, though she knew the man better than to think that he'd take advantage of his friends in such a way. But what if she had made an error in buying them? What if she had squandered her twenty-four sovereigns on baskets that looked pretty, but were worth only a fraction as much? Or what if they were just as fine as Brint and the others had said, and she sold them for too little? What if she got her two sovereigns for each, only to learn later the Stam Corfej had sold his dozen for twice that amount?
She kept them hidden away, pretending she didn't have them, only taking the time to look at them again when she was alone on the plain. In truth, she would have liked to keep them all. Regardless of what they were really worth, she thought them beautiful.
At last, though, she resolved to sell them, or at least to try. She was close enough to the Thraedes that she could venture all the way to its banks and stop in some of the larger established settlements there. Selling such finery in the septs might have proven difficult, but the men and women of the Qirsi cities were every bit as willing to spend their gold as those who lived in the largest cities of the Eandi sovereignties.
On this morning, the third of the waxing, she had come within sight of S'Vralna, one of the more hospitable cities in Fal'Borna lands. It seemed as good a place as any to try to sell the baskets.
Like so many of the fortified settlements in the central plain, S'Vralna had once been an Eandi stronghold. Silvralna, the Eandi had called it, until it was taken from them during the last of the Blood Wars. As with most other cities lost by the Eandi-Ubrundai, Deraqor, Raetel-Silvralna had been renamed by its Fal'Borna conquerors. Not drastically, but rather just enough to be familiar and yet clearly Qirsi. It almost seemed that the white-hairs sought to taunt the former denizens of the settlements. "It was yours once," these new names said, "but now it belongs to us."
&
nbsp; S'Vralna, or Silvralna, as Lark preferred to think of it, sat at the elbow of a small bend in the Thraedes, its stark white walls ghostlike against the dark clouds that hung overhead. Gates along the north, south, and east walls, six in all, were guarded by armed Fal'Borna warriors, though no army had threatened the city in more than a century. Towers rose above each gate and also above each of the four corners of the city walls. Two archers stood in every parapet. Lark couldn't help feeling that all these guards and weapons were merely for show, and yet she also couldn't deny that she was impressed by the Fal'Borna's continued vigilance, even in the face of more than a hundred years of peace. It bespoke a strength and discipline that her own people would have been hard-pressed to match. And the thought came to her with the power of a revelation: This is why we lost.
As she approached the east gate, Lark noticed that the guards were stopping peddlers' carts and searching them and for a moment she thought about passing the city by and continuing on to the south, toward Deraqor. But the guards appeared to be making quick work of their searches, and she had already come a long way in the past few days. She needed food and wanted to find a bit of wine as well, something other than the pale Qosantian honey wine she was selling. Best just to remain here.
Before long, she had reached the front of the column. One of the guards approached her, his eyes so pale they appeared white, just like his hair, which was tied back from his face.
"What are you selling today, dark-eye?" the man asked, sounding bored.
"My usual wares," Lark told him, refusing to flinch away from that wraithlike gaze. "Blankets, cloth, a few blades, some smoked fish, wine-"
"Any baskets?" the guard demanded.
Lark blinked. "Yes. Several."
Instantly, the man's entire bearing changed. "Where did you get them?" he asked, his tone crisp. Had his hand strayed to the hilt of his sword?
"From another merchant," she said. "What's this about?"
"The merchant's name?"
"I won't tell you that until I know why you're asking."