by Ru Emerson
“The Sea-Raiders have been a problem to us, always. By the nature of our ways of life, it was inevitable we should attract them. And in the space of a year, we'd lose the best parts of four or five cargos. Of recent, however, they've increased their’ raids. Already this spring, they've taken four ships and stripped them clean. And sent one to the bottom.”
“That's worrying.”
“So it is.” Tr'Harsen mopped the last of his stew with a bit of bread. “This is excellent, by the way, but I'm not familiar with the meat.”
“Elk.”
“Ah. It's good,” he reiterated. “We now send armed-men—such as we have—with the ships. So far, we've lost none since we've begun that practice, though another was attacked not long before I started this voyage. It is a worrying change in such a fierce enemy. If they chose, they could wipe us from the face of the sea.”
“I wish we could help you,” Ylia said. She let Malaeth take her plate and cup, tucked her spoon back into her belt-pouch. “If there comes a time when we can—”
“Thanks for the thought, anyway,” the trader replied. “In truth I wouldn't mind a session or two with your Swordmaster. There are some among us who fight Nedaoan style, with sword and dagger. It's well suited to close fighting. A man could use that if his ship was boarded.”
“Yours.” She stood, shook crumbs from her lap. “Tomorrow, if you like. Marhan's teaching a beginners group, but I know he'd be glad to take the time for you.”
“If I have time,” Tr'Harsen said doubtfully. He smiled, then, bowed. Ylia held out a hand while he clasped hard. “I have papers to draft, the holds still aren't empty. I'll see you tomorrow, before I leave.”
“Please. But there's one other thing.” She started back toward the council-room and Tr'Harsen fell in beside her. Lisabetha and Annes rather self-consciously followed them. “A cousin of mine, one Vess, and a dozen men in his colors, left us, twelve days ago. There was a Chosen among them, too. I thought perhaps he'd have stopped in Nalda, that you might know something of him and where he went.”
Tr'Harsen held the curtain for them, took the chair at Ylia's right hand again. “There was a ship, the Orchys I think, left the day before I did. She was headed west, though. I seem to remember a rather ragged-looking Chosen on the decks, and—wait. Thin man, brown hair?” She nodded. “Then I think so. I didn't really pay close heed. The Orchys goes about her own business. She's Osneran, a ship the Chosen hire. She's of the few ships this side of the sea where a Chosen could call in his grey and take free passage.”
“Ah.”
“You're worried for him, perhaps?” Tr'Harsen asked. “If so, I'm sorry I can't tell you any more. I can ask, if you like.”
“Please. It's not worry, not that kind,” she added grimly. “He's ambitious, my cousin, and thinks himself better qualified than I to lead Nedao. I had difficulty persuading him otherwise, when I finally reached Aresada. And I'd like to know his whereabouts.”
“I'll find out what I can, then. They tell me,” Tr'Harsen added blandly, “there's a tale in your travels, but I know nothing of it since it was not the route your father arranged for you. Was it?”
Ylia laughed. “I thought I could be of more aid to him in Koderra.” She sobered abruptly. “I think I was. A little.”
“A little!" Malaeth snorted under her breath. She came out of Ylia's sleep-chamber, Ylia's spare shirt over her arm. She continued as the Narran turned to eye her inquiringly. “She saved my life, mine and young Lady Lisabetha's both; brought us from Koderra cool as you please, not a moment before the walls fell. And hauled us both from death more than once on the journey here! A little, indeed!”
Ylia shook her head, cast Malaeth a warning and repressive glance; the old woman ignored her, which was no more than she'd expected. Ylia winked gravely at Lisabetha, who smothered a smile. “She exaggerates, Tr'Harsen. We did come north together, the three of us, that much is true anyway. Not a journey I'd repeat willingly.”
“Understatement, from all I got of your Swordmaster,” Tr'Harsen said. His eyes fixed briefly on her face. “You didn't have that before.”
“No.” She was all too aware of Malaeth's disapproving glower, resolutely kept her fingers away from the scar. It'll fade, old woman. Leave it be. “But you're in serious trouble if you listen to Marhan; he takes advantage of his years and grey hairs, don't trust what he says, either.”
“Mmmm. Even so.” But she could see he was far from convinced and she quailed at the thought of the tale he was going to take down-river. “Well. The hour grows late, and I've your trading papers to prepare before we leave tomorrow. I'd like to pass the first rapids downstream while the sun is still on them and a man can see where he aims the boat!”
“I'll see you at morning meal, if you can face it.” Ylia rose, extended her hand. He touched it lightly to his lips before gripping it as he had her father's. “It's a hot one, a wheat and rye porridge, but like glue and there's seldom any milk for it, except for the children.”
“I'm warned then,” Tr'Harsen laughed. “But it sounds no worse than many a fast-breaker I've had running my ship before a storm. At least it won't be covered with cold salt water. I'll see you then.”
“That's a good man.” Malaeth gazed after him. She was puttering around the table, putting small things to rights, neatening Grewl's writing materials. Ylia kept a resolute silence, though she knew the long-suffering Chosen would be put to the work of resettling them to his own taste the next day.
“So he is,” Lisabetha said. She was drowsing where she sat. She forced her eyes open with an effort, shook herself. “I was up at all hours this morning, long before the sun, searching down that way we went two days ago. I think I'll rest until Brelian returns from herd-watch.”
“Wise idea. If you'd like to borrow, my bedding, go ahead. I've plenty to do, and I know the single women's area isn't too quiet at this hour.”
“No, I'm back against the wall, I've more or less a niche to myself; And right now, I could sleep through anything. But if Brel comes here, will you let him know where I went?” Annes left with her. It was quiet in the small chamber for several long minutes.
Malaeth finished her tidying. “Child's done well, hasn't she. But she needs company, she and the boy.”
Ylia grinned. “After so long in the Foessa, practically sleeping in each other's, arms, you want to—well, really Malaeth!” she added as the old woman turned a scandalized glare on her. “There's hardly a place in Aresada they could be alone, anyway. The place is simply stiff with people. You can't seriously mean to sit with them to guard the girl's virtue?”
“Some thing are important, no matter where you are,” Malaeth said primly. “It's not proper for a young girl to sit alone with her young man, and they're not even acceptably trothed. It's no more proper than those breeches of yours are without a tabard to cover your legs?”
“Which,” Ylia said repressively, “I absolutely refuse to wear. And I do not care what anyone here thinks of my legs. If they're offended, they'll have to look another direction!” Malaeth scowled at her. Ylia sighed heavily. “Malaeth, by all the Mothers at once, be sensible! If I'd worn that stupid tabard the other night, I'd probably have tripped and the Mathkkra would have cut my throat!” Silence. “I haven't argued with you about anything since we came to Aresada, though the Mothers know once or twice I've wanted to! I won't argue this, either. We won't. Because it's not open to argument or discussion.”
“It's not seemly!" Malaeth folded her arms and set her mouth in a thin line.
“Why isn't it seemly? Marhan wears breeches, Brelian does.”
“They're not maids!” Malaeth snapped.
“Aha! So we finally come to it! Malaeth, that's really stupid! I'm a swordswoman! A person who uses a sword. Persons who use swords wear breeches. That's all.”
“It's just not—”
“I know,” Ylia sighed. “Not proper.” Argument was absolutely pointless when Malaeth's mind was set.
“I
t's not! Look at you! With a body like yours! A blind man could see you're female from a league away!”
“So? I can tell by a man's beard he's male at the same distance, Malaeth!”
“That's different!” the old nurse stormed.
“No, it's not!" Silence. Stubborn silence. The air was thick with annoyance. “It doesn't matter, Malaeth. Because I'm not changing my mind, or my clothing. I have to fight in what I wear. I'll wear a tabard as I used to in Korderra if you insist. Waist or hip length only.” Fiercely angry old eyes met mildly irritated young ones. Malaeth capitulated suddenly, and with at least a glimmer of good grace.
“All right! Stubborn like your mother, aren't you? It's that cat, she did you both proud!’ Ylia merely laughed and shook her head. “But I'm going to make certain’ Betha has company tonight when Brelian comes back from guard,” she grumbled as she pushed past the curtain. She stuck her head back in for one parting remark. “It'll be hip length, not waist! Mind!”
“All right, all right! But no longer, or you'll find it hacked off like the last one was, I promise you that!” Malaeth rolled her eyes again and disappeared. The curtain flopped back into place behind her.
A gift and a burden both, the Power, have I not said so often enough? It is not always the answer, nor is it always enough. There are trades, little bargains, always, and often so simple an action as healing drains strength from the body of even the most skilled AEldra. And there are the other burdens of Power, the subtle knowledge that comes with experience and with age.
It was no great surprise to me, then, that I knew nothing of the Tehlatt prisoners until I found them by merest chance, or that my beloved Ysian was safely within the Caves before I sensed her.
10
Her dreams were formless but unpleasant, waking from them, momentarily at least, a great relief. The hair was plastered to her brow, her body chilled where she'd sweated through jerkin and shirt. She flailed at covers, caught at the arm that had shaken her. “Who—'Betha? What are you doing here, it must be middle night!”
“I was mending your shirt when I heard you. You were talking in your sleep. It didn't sound pleasant.”
“My thanks.” She shook her head. “What's the hour?”
Lisabetha shrugged. “Early. They've just built up the kitchen fires and the guard's not changed yet.” She hesitated. “What did you dream?”
Ylia pulled the cloak close to her. It was cool in her chamber, with the stream of outside air blowing through and across her covers. “I don't know. Nothing real, nothing I could see or sense. Just—fear.”
“That's not agreeable,” Lisabetha replied feelingly. “I know.”
Ylia reached between the folds of the fur-lined cloak to grip her hand. “I know you do. Thanks for waking me. I'd wager you'd like sleep, though. Why not go and get some? Whatever you're doing out there can wait that long, can't it?”
“I—” Lisabetha smothered a yawn. “I suppose it can. There's an hour before the sun's up. You'd better rest yourself.”
“I intend to.” Ylia lay back down, closed her eyes determinedly. It had been another late night, one of several in a row, and she needed all the sleep she could get. A surge of power, sudden and near to hand, brought her up onto one elbow again. Nisana leaped to her side. She was taut, nearly vibrating with the need for haste, and her ears were flat against her skull. “What's wrong, cat?”
'Shhh, don't speak aloud, your guardsman will hear. Sound carries!’
'All right, but what's wrong? We're not attacked, are we?’ Ylia began to push free of the confining cloak.
'No, not so immediate as that. Lie back down, you'll catch chill,’ the cat added tartly. ‘I found more cattle yesterday.’
'I swear, if you woke me over a cow, however necessary—!’ Ylia began warningly, but her inner sense was tingling. Not just a cow, not with that look to her.
'There are Plain-folk still alive, not far from Teshmor. The Tehlatt hold them imprisoned in a woven fence, well guarded, and I warrant by all the Nasath at once for no good purpose.’
“Black hells,” Ylia whispered. ‘How many, how large a guard. And,’ worriedly, ‘what is our chance of rescue?’
'That last, I don't know. You look!’ Nisana laid her thought open for reply.
Early afternoon. The sun came from between masses of dirty-edged rain clouds to set the Planthe shining, and across that golden ribbon stood what was left of Teshmor: blackened towers, the gate and the walls around it now piles of rubble. Rooks, crows and vultures lined the inner walls, and darkened the sky.
To the opposite direction, a Tehlatt temporary camp: of that she was certain, even from a distance and with the vision—diluted as it was by transference. Warriors camp, none of the colorful women's tents, no herd enclosures, none of the broad-shouldered hairy oxen that earned the burdens of each family from pasture to pasture. No children in sight: only two long, hayroll-shaped black warriors’ tents, and a third that by the smoke hole at its peak was a shaman's. A chief tent just beyond that—black like the others, but square-cut, flat-roofed, and before it a blue greeting-blanket. A branch-woven corral filled with sturdy white or grey hill ponies. Twenty-seven ponies. No more Tehlatt than that, then. Perhaps fewer, since some must be used for the baggage.
Across the camp there was another corral, but this was larger and higher: It towered above the guard who stood before the sole gate. It was densely woven of heavy branch, laced liberally with thorn-bush. Wicked points edged the top, all the inner walls.
And within that compound, seventeen Nedaoan men, women and children. Gaunt, haggard folk. “Gods and Mothers, cat,” she whispered, aghast as two faces stood out from the others. "It's Lord Corry and his Lady!"
'I know.’
'That you though to look at all—!’
'I seldom do; remember Lyiadd's words! When he set the Tehlatt against the Plain, he gave Power to at least one of their shamen. It is dangerous to search, it might betray us, and I do not want to discover first-hand if they could do anything about me! I am not certain why I did search, this time. Well that I did. At least,’ the cat amended dubiously, ‘well, if we are able, to rescue them. They're not in a good position for such an attempt.’
'No. Oh, no.’
'Since the Tehlatt have kept them alive, so far—why would they? They do not take slaves, do they?’
'Midsummer. Longest Day Fest,’ Ylia replied grimly. The cat eyes her curiously. ‘It's no mere contest of arms and crafters, as ours is. They make sacrifices to Chezad, their god of war and fire, to make certain that once the days dwindle down to winter, they lengthen once again. They burn folk alive.’ Nisana's eyes went wide with horror, her ears went, if possible, even flatter.
'How certain are you of this?’ she demanded.
'Certain enough. Wait, though, there's one can tell us better.’ She wrapped the cloak around her shoulders again, strode through the council-room and into the hall. Variel or one of the other very young and unpolished of her door-warders would be on duty at such an hour. It was Variel; he saw her from far down the hall and came running when she motioned to him, quietly, gods, that was good. But when he came near she saw that was only because he'd no soles left to his boots. “Variel, get Golsat for me, as quickly as you can, please. He's in the men's dormitory. I think he sleeps near the back.”
“I know where, apart from the others,” Variel began eagerly, and then realized whom he'd interrupted; he clapped a hand across his mouth.
“Nevermind, just bring him. Don't wake anyone else, if you can help.”
“I won't.” The lad set his tall spear against the wall and sprinted off toward the main entrance. Ylia drew back into the council-room, lit two of the near-gutted candles stuck to the table-top by enormous puddles of wax, and settled into her chair. She caught her fingers as they started to drum the wood, stilled them against the rough surfaces. Nisana jumped to her lap.
Variel was quick, indeed; he was back with Golsat before she could begin fretting. Golsat
mumbled something she couldn't catch as he dropped into the chair nearest hers. Sleep clouded his eyes, his loose shirt was wrong side out: Ylia handed him a mug of cold water flavored with a little of Tr'Harsen's wine.
“Danger to Aresada?” he asked, cup suspended halfway to his lips. Ylia shook her head.
“No. Drink.” Golsat drank, dipped his fingers in the icy liquid and rubbed them across his eyes. “Awake?” He nodded. “Plain-folk are still alive out there.” She gestured roughly eastward. “The Tehlatt hold them prisoner. Why?”
Golsat closed his eyes, considered briefly. Candle flame bent against the cold air flowing through the chamber, casting strange shadows across the Tehlatt planes of his dark face.
“They consider slaves useless, since they have women. Prisoners are merely something to be guarded and fed, and so a drag on a moving tribe, a drain on its supplies. You've seen them?” She nodded. “They would be keeping them for Longest Day Fest. They used to burn women accused of witchery or unclean acts, men who stole horses or other men's wives.” Or those who left the tribes to mate with non-Tehlatt, or the offspring of such women. He didn't need to add that; he and Ylia both knew the Tehlatt would have burned him before Koderra's gates, if they had had the chance. That they still would, given an opportunity. He spread his hands. Shrugged. “Any Nedaoans not killed during the attack two months ago, anyone they kept alive—they'll burn them at sunrise, Midsummer day.” Ylia gripped the edge of the table; the color drained from her face and Golsat reached for her shoulder in sudden concern.
“I'm all right; thanks, friend. It was what I feared, but it's different to hear you say it. ‘There are nearly twenty people, they re in a camp near Teshmor. Lord Corry is one of them.”