Sing the Four Quarters

by Tanya Huff

  “Pjerin was going to sell them out. They hate him. If he was anti-Cemandia, they’re for it.”

  “But he was going to sell them out to Cemandia.”

  “You’re forgetting that in an emotional response rational thought has no place. If you can manage to invoke two or three conflicting emotional responses, rational thought has no chance. Those who aren’t convinced to help the invasion will either be so confused that they won’t hinder it or easy enough to remove.” She reached up and pulled out the pins holding the weight of her hair. It cascaded down over her shoulders like a fall of night. “Come here.”

  He stood and wet lips gone suddenly dry. It was a long walk to her side and his past walked with him, murmuring in his ear, anxious for the release she could offer.

  Strong fingers reached out and snaked through golden curls, pulling him forward over the last couple of feet. “It’s time Cemandia showed me some return on my investment.”

  Later, much later, Olina took the edge of his ear in her teeth and murmured, “Many of them fear the bards, fear the Singing of the kigh.”

  He twisted under her grip, unable to remain still. “No one Sings the kigh in Cemandia.”

  “Yet another convincing reason to for them to switch allegiance.” The nails of one hand scored the inside of his thigh. “Half of them already believe there are things that should not be allowed in the Circle. After all …” She smiled as he cried out. “… who knows what fell powers these bards can exert if they so desire.”

  * * * *

  “Annice, what are we doing here?”

  “We’re traders, remember?” She stepped over a small, foul-smelling pile she had no wish to investigate too closely and turned down a narrow street that led toward the center of town. “We’re going to trade.”

  Pjerin grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop. “We are not traders,” he snarled after glancing around to make certain he wouldn’t be overheard. “And we’re going to Ohrid.”

  She glared at him until he removed his hand, then she asked, “If we aren’t traders, what are we?”

  “We’re just telling people we’re traders.” His nostrils above the dark bristle of incipient mustache were pinched almost shut. The six days’ travel up River Road, afraid to open his mouth for fear he’d be recognized and dragged back to Elbasan, had rubbed his nerves raw and he’d had as much as he was going to take. “I’m tired of pretending to be something I’m not.”

  “And you think I’m not tired of it?” she demanded incredulously. “The bards have a corner in every inn along River Road. I could’ve slept warm and dry and well fed inside. Instead, because we’re traders, I slept under a cart and worked at not being seen by people who might know me. I had to constantly keep reinforcing our story. I couldn’t relax. I couldn’t sing. I couldn’t play.”

  Pjerin had no intention of dispensing sympathy. From the moment he’d faced Command in his own ancestral hall to the moment just past when they’d left the carter’s yard, he’d been swept along by events beyond his control. It seemed he was as helpless to affect his destiny now as he had been when beaten and bound by the King’s Guard and there was nothing he hated more than feeling helpless. “At least,” he spat, “you had a choice!”

  “A choice?” Annice stared up at him in astonishment. “Oh, sure I had a choice; I could’ve chosen to let you die!” She spun away from him and started walking again, not caring at that moment whether he followed or not.

  He watched her go, remembered the kigh, swore, and hurried to catch up. The worst of it was, he’d heard the genuine sorrow in her voice when she’d said she couldn’t sing or play. “Annice? I’m sorry.”

  Oh, no, you’re not. You’re angry because you’ve got to depend on me, can’t be His high-and-mighty Grace the Duc of Ohrid standing alone on his mountaintop. Well, tough shit. Half-turning, she glared up at him. “If we don’t act like traders, no one will believe we are traders. They’ll start asking questions. Questions we don’t want. Ohrid is on the other side of Vidor so, since we have to go through town anyway, we’re going to get rid of some of the expensive luxury items we’ve been packing from Elbasan and pick up things that’ll be of more value where we’re going. If we make enough of a profit, we can pick up a pack mule.”

  Pjerin’s glower shifted into astonishment. “A what?”

  “Well, I personally would prefer a good-sized caravan,” she said sarcastically, shifting her weight from foot to foot as the baby started to kick, “but as the whole idea is to disappear into the wilderness after Vidor, I’m willing to compromise.”

  “What’s wrong with horses?”

  Annice sighed dramatically and took a certain satisfaction from Pjerin’s reaction to it. “I have walked from one end of this country to the other in all kinds of weather, carrying everything I needed on my back and in my voice. I’m willing to walk beside you to Ohrid carrying this baby, but I’ll be unenclosed if I carry a pack as well. I realize,” she held up a hand as he tried to interrupt, “that you’d rather gallop off in a cloud of dust, but you’re stuck with me and I’m not putting this body, in this condition, on a horse. Even if we could afford one—let alone two—which we can’t. While you’re thinking about it, and realizing I’m right, I’m going to go find a privy.”

  He caught up to her again in four paces. She thought she could hear his teeth grinding.

  “If you weren’t carrying my child,” he growled. “I’d take my chances with the kigh.”

  “Your child?” Annice turned to face him again. Their conversations traveling River Road had been nearly nonexistent; they’d never really been alone. The carter hadn’t exactly been intrusive, but he’d always been a presence they’d had to account for. “Let me tell you something, Your Grace …” Almost biting her tongue with the effort, she broke off as a chattering cluster of teenagers pushed past them. Overhead, a pair of neighbors leaned out third-floor windows and discussed the weather. “Never mind. This isn’t the place. But when we get on the road again and it’s just you and I, we’re going to have a little chat.”

  “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

  “I wouldn’t,” she advised tightly.

  * * * *

  “How do you know about all this trading stuff?”

  They were the first words he’d spoken to her in hours and, although he still sounded more annoyed than interested, Annice found she was actually glad he’d finally broken the silence. They might as well make an effort, if only a superficial one, to get along.

  “Bards and traders often travel together for short distances,” she told him as they circled around the perimeter of Vidor’s smaller permanent market, trusting the babble of voices buying and selling to cover hers. They had almost everything they needed—their packs lighter by a considerable amount of trade goods and their purse heavier by a reasonable amount of coin—and as soon as she found some halfway decent jerky, they could get the mule and get out of town. “I can recall most of what I’ve been told over the … Oh, shit!”

  Pjerin froze, his hand dropping to the hilt of the long, heavy dagger now hanging at his side. It wasn’t a sword, but traders didn’t carry swords and he wouldn’t carry any of the twisted timber they called bows in the lowlands. “What is it?”

  “Crier. There’s a Bardic Hall in Vidor and there’s always someone there who can Sing air. They’ve probably got your description from the captain and given it to him. Don’t run.” Her voice teetered on the edge of Command as he tensed for flight. “The last thing you want to do is attract attention.”

  “Fine.” A muscle jumped in his jaw but he stood where he was. “What’s the first thing I want to do?”

  “Keep your head down and try not to look like yourself.” Fingers wrapped around his, Annice guided him slowly between the two outside rows of stalls and toward the nearest exit from the square. It only took a moment for her to realize they weren’t going to be away in time. Passing a meat pie vendor, she paused long enough to hand over a half-gull and s
hove one of two pies at Pjerin. “Eat this.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You don’t have to be, it’ll distort your face.”

  Even with six days’ growth of beard, clothes that didn’t quite fit, and dirty hair clubbed back at the nape of his neck, Pjerin’s looks attracted attention. It didn’t help that a disproportionately high number of the crowd seemed to be Riverfolk and he towered over them.

  Maybe we should’ve gone around Vidor. Hiding him out in plain sight is one thing, but maybe this was an unnecessary risk. Annice fought for calm as the baby reacted to the turmoil, twisting and pushing against the flesh that confined it. And it’s a fine time to think of unnecessary risk now.

  “Oy-yay! Oy-YAY!” The ambient noise of the market dropped slightly as the crier began. Trained at the Bardic Hall in memory technique and voice projection, the criers kept the largely illiterate public informed and Annice had completely forgotten about their existence in Vidor.

  How could I be so stupid? She couldn’t hope to Command a crowd this large.

  But the crier never mentioned the escaped Duc of Ohrid.

  “I don’t understand,” Annice muttered, tossing the remains of the pie at an emaciated orange cat.

  “He must’ve already done it.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “It should be called every day until you’re caught.”

  Pjerin stepped aside as a burly server, his basket loaded with fernheads and frostpeas, pushed past them. The mix of meat and pastry had congealed into a fist-sized lump just under his ribs. “A trap, then.” It was the only answer. “To lull us into a false sense of security.”

  “Too complicated. Why would they bother when …” She frowned as she caught a floating scrap of conversation.

  “Annice?”

  Still frowning, she lifted a hand to silence him and cocked her head toward the babble of voices rising out of the center of the market.

  Pjerin was getting more than a little tired of her imperious attitude. He opened his mouth to tell her so. He never got the chance.

  “Wait here.” Sliding out of her pack, she shoved it into his hands with enough force that he took a step backward between two tottering piles of willow baskets and could only watch, fuming, as she pushed her way into the crowd.

  Although he never actually lost sight of her, by the time she returned a few moments later he’d worked an edge up on his temper. “You walk off on me again like that,” he snarled, “and I won’t be there when you get back.”

  Annice shot a glance at the basket seller. Deep in a spirited defense of his bottom-weave with a less than satisfied customer, he wasn’t likely to overhear anything she said. Shoving her hair back off her face, she glared up at Pjerin. “Maybe you won’t be. The fishmonger said a troop of King’s Guard rode into Vidor about mid-morning.”

  Pjerin’s fingers closed around the upper edge of Annice’s pack with enough force to buckle the frame. “They must’ve been right behind us. We should’ve kept going!”

  “No!” She took a step forward and winced as the baby objected to her vehemence by drumming its heels on her bladder. “They’re looking for the escaped Duc of Ohrid and we’ve spent the day convincing the city we’re traders. I’m telling you, we’re safe.”

  “Fine.” His smile was tight. “Tell that to the six guards who’ve just come into the market.”

  “What?” She whirled around, careening off the surrounding stacks of baskets. Ignoring the muffled yell of protest from the basket seller, out of sight behind his dangerously swaying stock, she could see no farther than a cluster of people grouped around the egg seller’s stall.

  From his advantage of height, Pjerin had no difficulty following their progress. “Someone just sent the corporal to the fishmonger’s.”

  Annice heaved her bulk up onto her toes. She thought she might be able to see the sun glinting off the upper edge of a helm, but she wasn’t certain.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Enough was enough, Pjerin reached forward and grabbed her shoulder. “Now!”

  She shook him off. “The fishmonger never saw you.”

  “Then why is he pointing this way?”

  Eyes wide, she turned to stare up into his face. “Are you sure?”

  “No! I’m kidding! Center it, Annice! How could I be unsure about something like that!” This time when he grabbed her shoulder, he actually managed to get her moving. “I’ll carry your pack, just go!”

  Too late.

  “There they are!”

  The crowd, in the way of crowds, parted and Pjerin found himself staring down a wide and unobstructed aisle at the corporal. She was young, with a wide mouth and legs too long for her body. He could take her down, get her sword, sell his freedom dearly. They weren’t taking him back to Elbasan. They’d have to kill him first.

  A cascade of baskets broke the tableau.

  And the crowd, in the way of crowds, closed in to see what was going on.

  “This way!” Annice grabbed his arm and dragged him to the right. “There’s an alley!”

  Over the shrill shrieks of the basket seller and the swarm of rising speculation, they could hear the corporal demanding that they stop in the king’s name. Although Annice was running as fast as she could, even laden with both packs, Pjerin reached the mouth of the alley first.

  Not quite as wide as even Annice was tall, the cobbles of the market square cut off abruptly at its mouth. From wall to crumbling wall and as far as he could see down its length, the footing was a treacherous mix of churned mud and garbage. One of the clay pipes intended to carry rain from the roof to a cistern dribbled water into the mess and from the stench, it appeared that chamberpots were emptied out of upper windows more often than into the honey wagons. Pjerin doubted a rat could keep its footing.

  “We can’t go down there,” he barked as Annice caught up, stopping her before she could step off the cobblestones. “We’ll have to go around.”

  “Not us,” Annice panted. “Them. Take them ages. Follow right behind me and stay close.”

  Holding her belly with both hands, she took a deep breath and Sang. Then she jogged forward, still Singing.

  Pjerin stared in horror at the ground. It looked, just for a moment, as though she were moving over the bent backs of squat, earth-colored … things. And then it was just a path, displaced flies buzzing agitatedly above it. Not very wide and not very dry but infinitely preferable to the surrounding alley.

  It formed beneath her as she advanced and stretched back behind her—as he watched, the solid ground farthest from her feet dissolved back into mud. Her reason for telling him to stay close all at once became obvious. Teeth clenched, he leaped forward and landed on the disintegrating edge of the path. He felt himself begin to sink, the stench of rot becoming infinitely worse as his boot heels broke through the thin greenish-gray crust. Leg muscles trembling with the effort, he somehow contrived to propel himself and both packs up onto solid footing, then, trying not to inhale, he hurried after Annice.

  He reached the end of the alley one step behind her, and, well aware that he shouldn’t, he turned and looked back the way they’d come just as the half dozen guards were arriving at the other end. It was the first really funny thing he could remember happening in over a quarter and he felt he deserved a moment to appreciate the variety of profanity that rose as three of them charged forward and sank almost to their knees.

  Annice finished Singing the gratitude and clutched at a fold of Pjerin’s jacket, suddenly dizzy. She wouldn’t have made it down the alley if she hadn’t been pulling strength from the earth, but now the kigh were gone, she wanted nothing so much as a chance to collapse. Unfortunately, she wasn’t going to get that chance for a while. “Pjerin, come on.” She tugged on the jacket. “We haven’t gained that much time.”

  “I’m not so worried about them.” Pjerin turned away as one of the three managed to struggle back to firm footing. “But your fishmonger said a troop of King’s Guard rode into town. The
re’re twenty-one guards in a troop.” He was intimately familiar with the number. “Where are the rest of them?”

  “Not here.” At the moment, that was all Annice had the energy to worry about. Breathing heavily, she led the way through a maze of back streets and alleys, all of them damp and stinking of rot but none as bad as the first. Twice they narrowly missed being drenched with the contents of chamberpots and once skirted a shower coming straight from the source. The middle-aged man blew a kiss to Annice as she looked up and then another at Pjerin. At one point, a group of ragged children dogged their heels, screaming insults until a shrill voice from a shadowed doorway brought their game to a sullen stop.

  Finally they reached a narrow opening between two buildings in better shape than most they’d been passing and Annice wedged herself into it. Pjerin had to slide out of his pack to follow.

  “Watch for the dead cat,” Annice hissed as, arms trembling, he set the packs down.

  “Dead cats,” he growled back, leaning sideways to see over her head, “are the least of our worries. Where are we?”

  “One street away from the Center,” she told him, moving enough for him to get a look at the slice of the city defined by the buildings tight on either side of them. In the near distance loomed the round bulk of the Center of Vidor, a nearly new and smaller copy of one in Elbasan. “I don’t see any of the guards. Let’s go.”

  “Wait a minute. Go where?”

  “I can’t run if they catch up to us again, Pjerin. We’ll have to hide and slip out of town after dark.”

  He stared out at the wide, tree-lined boulevard that led to the Center. “I think we’ve gone past the possibility of hiding in plain sight,” he said dryly.

  “Don’t worry.” She reached behind her and gripped his forearm for an instant. “I know a place.”

  Because he had no better option, he picked up both packs, stepped over the dead cat, and followed her out onto the street. “Why,” he asked, “am I not surprised?”

  “Just stroll,” she told him quietly as he fell into step beside her. “Act like we have every right in the world to be here.”