“Excuse me,” Scratha said, moving people firmly out of his way as he advanced through the crowd. Unlike the others around him, he was fully dressed, even to the boots, giving him an undeniable air of authority. The babble of voices fell silent and people moved out of his way.
“Idisio? What's going on?”
“He's lured my daughter into the swamp and done something foul with her!” the gerho merchant cried, lunging forward to grab at Idisio's shirt. With a swift movement, Scratha held the man back.
“Let the boy speak, please,” Scratha said, forcefully enough to quiet even the furious merchant. “Idisio?”
“I heard a noise, and I went looking for what caused the noise, and I found her,” Idisio said, all in a rush. “It's the blonde girl, the merchant's daughter, I don't know her name, she's in the swamp, she's dead, someone's killed her and it wasn't me!”
By the time the arguing had died out and the relevant people—most of the village, it seemed—had gotten dressed and ready to trek across damp muddy ground, the sky had greyed towards dawn. The gerho merchant had wanted to rush straight out to see for himself what had happened, dragging Idisio by the ear if need be, but more sensible people held him back.
“It's too dark yet,” said some, “we'll be sure to step on marsh asps and stinger beetles. Wait until there are more of us, with more light.”
“He made it out and back, a stranger to the marshes yet,” the merchant replied sourly. Only Scratha's flat refusal to allow Idisio to move from his side turned the issue. Lashnar stormed away to dress and didn't return for some time.
Scratha and Idisio went back into the taproom of the inn, followed by a suspicious crowd that seemed intent on keeping them in plain sight. Scratha said little as they sat and waited; Idisio said nothing. Nobody spoke to them.
Asti Lashnar's face had a tinge as grey as the sky, and his breath shared the same wine-stink that Karic's had borne, as they finally trooped across the open ground, following Idisio's directions.
“See,” Idisio said as the ground began to soften underfoot, “see, the tracks. . . .” He stopped, staring in dismay.
The soft ground had been thoroughly trampled by someone or something; the tracks had been completely overridden.
“Convenient,” Scratha said in Idisio's ear. The boy nodded glumly.
“So much for your proof,” the merchant snorted, looking at the muddy chaos, then gestured imperiously to Idisio. “Show me my daughter, boy.”
Scratha laid a hand on Idisio's shoulder and propelled him forward. Idisio stopped at the edge of the swamp, searching doubtfully in the muddy ground for the path he'd used before.
“Having second thoughts, boy?” the old watchman sneered, pushing close. “Feeling that rope around your neck?”
“Watchman,” Scratha said, “another word and my hands will be around your neck. Be still.”
“Here,” Idisio said hastily, stepping forward and prodding at the ground with a toe. “Yes. Here.” He glanced at the gerho merchant. “It's a narrow path; I don't think two aside can walk it. Follow me, please, s'e, and step where I step only.”
“The whole village need not attend,” Scratha added. “S'e Lashnar is the only one involved out of your village, and I will go as the boy is my servant. The rest of you, stay here.”
Something in his voice drowned, stillborn, any protests.
As they picked their way through the swamp, the back of Idisio's neck kept prickling. Visions of the enraged gerho merchant's hands wrapping around his neck kept distracting him. He wouldn't dare, Idisio kept telling himself. Even so, he took great care to stand well out of Lashnar's reach when they reached the small clearing.
Lashnar moved forward like a man in a dream, kneeling beside his daughter, and stared for some time without touching the body. Scratha moved forward as well, just as slowly; but his attention stayed fixed on the ground, and he walked all the way around the edge of the clearing before turning his attention to the girl.
“Don't touch that,” he said sharply, as the merchant reached forward towards something on the body that Idisio couldn't see.
The merchant looked up, all belligerence gone, a sick and dreadfully pale look to his face. “Why not?”
“Let me look first,” Scratha said. He urged the merchant to his feet and nudged him aside before squatting to examine the body himself.
The grey light of the sky now flushed towards true dawn, and the chirping of the crickets gave way to the wake-up calls of swamp birds. Rat flies, bite-bugs, and tiny flying roahas stirred their translucent wings and flitted about. Idisio, standing still, numb and exhausted, felt as if he had stepped into a timeless moment of unreality. The merchant stood with a blank look on his face, hands hanging limp at his sides, staring at his daughter's body.
Finally breaking his motionless examination, Scratha stretched out a slow hand and removed a dagger from the girl's stomach. After wiping the blade clean on the dew-damp ground beside him, he stood and turned a bleak look on the two watching him.
“Her neck might be broken, from the punch that laid her to the ground,” he said, “but what probably killed her was this.”
He held up the dagger. Even in the dim light, Idisio could see the ebony handle and slim blade of one of his lord's throwing knives.
* * *
Chapter Six
“You told me not to make him angry,” Alyea said reasonably. “You did worse,” Chac said, his jaw hardening further. “You intrigued him. Now he'll tag our heels to find out what we're up to.”
Alyea sighed and resisted the impulse to look over her shoulder. That morning, Deiq of Stass had sauntered up with a broad grin to announce he would be traveling with them. He'd bowed with perfect grace, smiling amiably in the face of Chac's glower, and had taken himself to the back of Alyea's group. So far, he'd stayed there, showing no interest in speaking with anyone.
“At least I have a maid now,” she said, hoping to divert Chac's annoyance. They'd given Halla one of the pack mules and redistributed the load, ignoring the woman's protests that she'd be fine walking. “Aren't you happy about that?”
“I was,” he said, “until I found out you'd more or less invited him along as well.”
“What makes him so dangerous that you're frothing over him being at our tail?” she demanded.
He slanted a hard frown at her. “Sometimes a bit of silk would go better than salt, you know,” he said.
“Just answer the question.”
He grunted and shook his head, then said, “Deiq of Stass is a little bit of everything: merchant, socialite, explorer. He's been to every port, east and west, even Terhe and Sand.”
“Terhe?” Alyea said, impressed. “That's a dangerous voyage.”
The old man stared straight ahead, his face grim again. “Deiq uses his wealth to buy land. That's not such an easy thing, past the Horn. You have to get agreement from every village master and desert lord within a hundred land miles of the edges of the land you've chosen. That's expensive, and damned difficult.”
“How much land has he bought?” she asked.
“One estimate I heard,” the old man said, “is that overall it works out to a little over twice the size of Bright Bay.”
Alyea had stood on the highest tower of the palace and surveyed the vast, sprawling city beneath her; twice that size was a staggering amount of land for one man to own.
“What does he do with the land?” she said. “How was he ever allowed to own so much?”
“He turns it into farms,” Chac said. “If you've eaten fresh fruit or vegetables over the last few years, it's likely they've come from Deiq's land. How he was allowed—he's a persuasive man, and held out a benefit that everyone could appreciate: money. And a few other things, I think.”
She wasn't about to let him leave it there. “Like what?”
“Possibly drugs; there are rumors he has connections to Darden and F'Heing. But I think he uses physical charms to enthrall people into giving him what he w
ants. He's seduced at least two village masters into granting him land rights that I'm sure of, and he's not picky; one was male.”
Alyea raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I don't believe a man can play that game.”
Chac shook his head. “Women aren't the only ones who know the art. He's quiet about it, but I'm fairly sure he's bedded his way through noble ranks from Bright Bay to Terhe. If he were a woman I'd call him a whore.”
“Sounds like he'd give the northern s'iopes a heart attack,” Alyea said, a sour taste in her mouth, then remembered the comment the big man had made at dinner the night before. “He names himself a whore; says that's what neutrality means.”
“Does he,” Chac said, unsurprised. “He's as neutral as it gets, then. Here's something for you to think on: the wife of Sessin's new Head of Family, Lord Antouin Sessin, just happens to be Pieas's mother. Her eye wanders when her husband's out of sight, and there's rumor she was pregnant before marrying Antouin. I have to think Lord Sessin knows about his lady's indiscretions; it seems no secret. But for some reason there's no open notice made of it. Deiq's been a visitor there for years, and there's some quiet speculation as to who Pieas's father really is—but it's risking your life to say that openly.”
Alyea felt her stomach roll unpleasantly. “Gods.”
“Indeed,” the old man said. “You've caught the eye of a desert asp, Alyea. If Pieas is Deiq's son—well. You could find yourself strung up as a witch, called out as a whore, or sold off as a slave. The king's authority is thin, down here, and by the time he even heard of your troubles it would be far too late.”
Alyea glanced back nervously, looking for Micru. He was still walking with the guards.
“We'll protect you,” Chac said, following her gaze, “best we can, but we can't ward you from yourself, Alyea. If you ever find yourself alone with Deiq of Stass, you can be sure it's not from lack of attention on our part.”
Alyea swallowed hard, her face flaming. “I'm not that much a fool, Chac.”
“You've been acting it,” he said. “I'm glad you're starting to see sense finally. Find a way to lose Deiq's interest. Fast.”
The setting sun gilded the buildings as the traveling party entered the second way-stop between Bright Bay and Water's End. This one was larger, and the public space sprawled along a relatively flat stretch of land with a stable, an inn, a separate tavern, and a few small shops. All the long, low buildings were built of a chunky, dull red-grey brick that could only have come from brickroot fields.
The tiny, wide-leafed brickroot plant had a tenacious root system that dug through the harshest clay soil, binding it so tightly that one could literally slice chunks from such ground, remove the surface part of the plant, set the hard dirt in the hot sun to cure, and a week later, use them for bricks. Constituting a major—and profitable—Horn industry, any flat surface was generally farmed to support the stubby little plant. Alyea had heard that there were villages whose overall elevation had dropped several feet over the years, from the constant brickroot farming.
This way-stop seemed no exception. They passed several wide, carefully fenced-off areas filled with brickroot plants. The buildings stood notably higher than the brickroot fields; some had ramps or stairs leading up to their front doors. The ground around those buildings looked as if it had been carved away over the years for brick. It gave the community a ragged, poverty-stricken appearance that the worst parts of Bright Bay would have been hard pressed to beat.
The stench of a garbage pit greeted them as they rode past the first outbuildings. By the time they reached the inn, Alyea's mood had gone as sour as the air. She wasn't cheered by the discovery that she'd be sharing a room, not only with Halla, but with strangers as well; far less selective than the first rest stop, this one mixed nobles and commoners in its small rooms without hesitation. Alyea's room held four narrow, low beds, which were little more than straw-stuffed sacks on brick bases.
Halla had insisted on taking care of Alyea's horse as well as her own, and Alyea put up little argument over the matter, too tired to even think clearly. She dropped both packs on an empty bed and looked around, meeting the gaze of a thin young woman perched on the edge of another bed.
Remembering Chacerly's admonition that anyone here could be important, she pushed aside her foul mood and offered pleasant greetings to the young woman, who wore northern clothes and a petulant frown.
To her surprise, the girl responded, in a distinctly northern accent, “Oh, good gods, I'm glad someone's talking to me at last! I'd always thought southerners were polite, but nobody's said a word to me in days. Sorry, I'm chattering. No offense intended.”
“None taken,” Alyea said cautiously, studying the young girl. Probably not above fifteen; and her northern accent absolutely didn't fit a face and body that a desert lord's by-blow would have been proud of.
“I'm Gria,” the girl said with a wide smile; then, as if guessing Alyea's thoughts: “From Isata. Cousin to the Marq; second, third, I'm not entirely sure. My mother could probably tell you to the last drop of Isatain blood, but I'm lousy with bloodlines.”
Alyea found herself smiling at young Lady Gria's brash cheer. “Alyea of Bright Bay. Cousin at some remove to one of the royal bloodlines. Second, third, maybe eighth; I can never remember. What brings you to the Horn, if it isn't too rude to ask?”
“Not at all,” Gria said. “I'm getting married. Or at least, that's what my mother hopes. There's a desert lord looking for a wife to his son and contacts into a northern family of rank, and my mother loves the idea of the influence and bragging rights she'd gain through that, so we set out to be part of the grand auction. I've been harangued every step of the way so far on the proper way to throw myself at the feet of a desert lord. Tell me, is it anything like groveling before a s'iope?”
“Nothing at all like that,” Alyea said, frowning.
“I was afraid of that,” Gria said with a mock sigh. “Well, maybe it won't be a complete disaster. Then again, maybe I should pray that it is. I don't know that I'm ready for marriage just yet.”
“Don't you get a choice in the matter? I thought Isata was fairly liberal.”
“Oh, it is,” Gria said. “But my mother isn't. She's devoted to the Northern Church, follows their every whim. My father was more reasonable, but he died a few years back, and it's just not worth the strain to fight her on most things. At least marrying will get me away from her.”
Alyea glanced at the last bed, which showed no signs of even having been sat on, although two carry-bags sat neatly beside it.
“She's off praying,” Gria said. “She prays for an hour before every meal, and an hour after the meal, and every other time she can get on her knees. I refuse to do that, which drives her wild, but that is a battle I'm willing to fight. My knees just won't take it.” She drew a breath. “I was forbidden to leave the room without her, but I think she'd make an exception if I had a cousin to the royal family at my side. We don't need to mention the word 'distant,' do we?” She grinned hopefully, dark eyes wide.
Alyea laughed. “They'll be ringing the gong for dinner soon,” she said. “Let's go get some decent seats.”
“Not even a proper shrine to the Four. It's a disgrace, after all the s'iopes have done for the southlands. I actually had to kneel on bare dirt, can you believe it? Dirt! Like some heathen.”
Alyea tried not to roll her eyes. Sela, a small, bony woman with wideset, prominent eyes and high cheekbones prone to flush with emotion, had descended upon them moments after the gong. She'd sputtered furiously at Gria for leaving the room until Alyea was introduced, then spent a few moments almost fawning before dropping into a seat and a diatribe at roughly the same time.
Her voice had been steadily rising. Heads turned, frowns appeared. “My lady,” Alyea said, very aware that she didn't want her face connected with this kind of talk, “it's not wise to speak like that here. Please, keep your voice down, at the very least; better not to speak of religion at all.”
“I'm on kingdom soil,” the woman declared, “and protected by kingdom law.”
“Kingdom law needs kingdom guards to enforce,” Alyea said brutally. “You see any here? I don't. Please, let's speak of something else.”
The woman looked around for a moment, seeming rather startled.
“They wouldn't dare,” she said, more quietly.
“My lady,” Alyea said, “trust me. You're a long way from kingdom law right now, whatever the boundary maps may say. And moving further every day.” She paused, then decided to risk voicing the question. “If you disapprove of the southlands so much, why accept an offer of marriage to a southerner?”
“Oh, he follows the Four,” she said. “He's a good man, an honest man, I was told.”
“Who told you that?” Alyea said. The notion of any desert lord following the gods of the Northern Church was beyond absurd. “And what is this desert lord's name?”
Secrets of the Sands Page 12