Amasa was waiting nervously in the main receiving room when Tristan arrived. Thin and bedraggled, the boy looked sorely out of place in this abode of opulence. A fire had been lit and was already starting to warm the room. Two guards stood close to the youth, making sure that his fingers did not grow too light near the valuable trinkets that adorned the mantlepiece and small tables.
“Won’t you sit, Amasa?” Tristan invited, easing himself into a comfortable, velvet-covered chair near the fire. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small copper coin.
“What are you going to do to me?” Amasa demanded, ignoring the invitation.
“That all depends. Why have you honored me with a visit?” The boy stayed silent. “Amasa, I knew it was you,” Tristan continued more gently, absently tossing the coin. The gesture appeared to be, as Tristan wanted it to seem, little more than a nervous habit. In actuality, Tristan had enabled a spell that told him if a man was lying. “I’m not going to hurt you, lad,” he continued. “Why did you come? To kill me?”
Genuine horror filled the boy’s black eyes. “No! I only—because of your punishment, my family would suffer. I was going to take enough from you to make up for what you had cost them. That was all.”
Tristan nodded slowly. The coin had remained cool to the touch—a sure sign that the boy had told the truth. He returned the copper to his pocket. “I can tell when a man lies, even a Vistana. I believe you. Let me first, in my own defense, say that I didn’t know what Othmar was going to decree until the words left his lips. I urged mercy; I suppose Othmar considered letting you live was merciful enough. If your family is suffering, all you need to do is come to me. You’re right, Amasa. I have enough here to feed your entire tribe for years. If your people wished to settle in the towns, they could earn a very good liv—”
“Never!” cried the boy. “We are free people! No land will ever claim us as ‘theirs,’ not even yours, Sir Tristan. And it is a mistake for anyone to try.”
Tristan held up a hand in mock horror. “Enough!” he laughed. “I think we understand each other.”
A small smile touched the corner of Amasa’s mouth. “I think we do.”
“You’ll have to spend the night here as my prisoner. I’d have preferred you as a guest, but you did trespass onto my lands, after all. It will be an easy captivity,” said Tristan, rising. “You’ll stay in the Tower of Isolation, with a good dinner now and a hearty breakfast in the morning. Tomorrow I will escort you back to your people.” He turned his attention to the guards. “What did you confiscate from him?”
The first guard held out a sack. Tristan sorted through it. Inside were two small but sharp daggers, a few coins, and a whetstone.
Tristan’s eye fell to the length of rope that served the boy for a belt. It was intricately knotted, with horsehair, beads, feathers, and other items woven into the knots. “I’ll need your ra, as well.”
The boy’s hand’s flew protectively to his belt. Tristan knew what he was asking. The ra was precious to the Vistani. It translated literally as “life” in the Vistana tongue. Each gypsy was given a plain length of rope at birth. As momentous events happened in his life, intricately tied knots were added. Each knot was a symbol. For instance, Tristan could tell from Amasa’s ra which clan he belonged to and that he had broken his first horse. As Amasa grew older, a wife and children would be added, and the good and evil that came their way duly noted by the appropriate knot.
The ra, for all its superstitious power, could also be used as an effective garrotte on an unwary guard, or a noose for a desperate captive. Tristan nodded to the guards. One fumbled with the complicated knots while the other one held Amasa’s arms securely. At last the guard shook his head; his thick fingers couldn’t manage the delicate work.
“Amasa,” said Tristan reluctantly, “unless you want your ra cut off you, you’ll have to untie it for us.”
It was a dreadful, insulting threat, and Amasa frowned angrily. Ras were only cut when a death in the family occurred; to have one’s ra cut off one was a terrible humiliation. Still, Tristan had the upper hand, and there was really no choice. Angrily, Amasa obeyed, untying the rope and handing it to Tristan. He took it with care, coiling it respectfully into a neat loop.
“Good night, Amasa,” he said. The boy, back stiff, did not answer. Tristan gestured to the guards. Politely but firmly, they bore the boy out. Tristan regarded the rope in his hand, the knots and feathers crowding one end and the smooth, untouched length that remained. When he returned to his room, he laid the coiled rope on the trunk at the foot of his bed, updated his journal, and went to sleep.
He awoke early, with a vague sense that something was wrong. Out of the corner of his eye, as he reached for his robe, he saw Amasa’s ra.
It had fallen off the chest during the night and lay in a huddled heap on the multicolored carpet that covered the stone floor. Something about the rope bothered Tristan, and in another second he knew what it was. He rushed to the ra and snatched it up, staring at it with horror.
Someone had been in the room with him last night. Who it was, how he had gotten in, and why Luath had permitted the intrusion was of secondary importance. What gripped Tristan with cold fear was that the trespasser had completed Amasa’s rope—“finished” it in the most frightening sense of the word. An intricate series of knots twisted along its length now, and Tristan knew what they meant.
Death.
The guard who had been appointed to keep watch over the youthful prisoner lay facedown on the stone. Taking the keys from the corpse’s waist, Tristan opened the heavy wooden door to the cell, knowing what he would find inside.
He gazed down upon a small, colorfully garbed heap that lay sprawled in the center of the cell. Gently, he turned Amasa over. He drew back in startled alarm.
The face that stared up at him bore an expression of such horror that it would have unnerved even the strongest of men. Amasa had bitten through his lower lip, and his face was crusted with dried, dark brown blood. Brown eyes bulged with fright. He had clenched his hands tightly as he died, forming small fists, some vestige of courage coming even as terror stole his life.
Tristan mastered himself quickly. In the thick of battle, he had seen brutalized corpses, but none had held the horror in their eyes that Amasa’s did. He examined the body efficiently, finding no wounds other than the bloodied lower lip. Gentle fingers explored the skull; there were no telltale lumps to indicate a head blow.
Another guard had likewise examined his fallen compatriot. “Just like the boy, sir,” the man reported. He was shaken, though he tried not to show it. “No injuries, nothing taken.”
“Any indication of a struggle?”
“His sword wasn’t even drawn, sir.”
Tristan nodded. Rising, he glanced around. Nothing was disturbed. The bed had been slept in, the dinner Tristan had sent eaten. Had the boy been frightened to death? If so, of what—or whom? Tristan knew all of his servants and guards personally. Many had been with him for decades. None was the sort to try to murder even a deadly foe if proper imprisonment could be provided, and Amasa had done little enough real harm. Why kill him?
“He was afraid, Father,” came Ivaar’s voice. Tristan turned to find his son staring accusingly at him. “He was terrified of spending the night alone in a cold, lonely cell. Look at his face!”
“He did die of fear, I think,” Tristan said slowly, “but not of his imprisonment. Come now, Ivaar, take a look at this cell.” He indicated the soft, well-blanketed bed, the tray of eaten food. “It’s hardly a torture chamber, and he knew he would be going home in the morning. No, something else frightened him; frightened the life right out of him, and of the guard, too. What, I have no idea.”
Stepping back into the room, Tristan nodded to the guards. He gestured to the corpse on the floor. “Notify Perryn’s kin. Give them my deepest sympathies. He died in service to me, and I would be grateful if they would permit me to bury him in the family graveyard here at Faerhaav
en.” He glanced down at Amasa, then knelt and retied the boy’s ra around his waist. “As for my unfortunate young prisoner, I must take him back to his people. I don’t know what they will do to me, but I must face them. I’m going to send a message to Captain Skolsson. I don’t want to go into that camp alone.”
Tristan and Sigfrid rode in a small wagon, sitting together in the front seat while Tristan drove the horses. Behind them, Amasa’s body lay covered by white cloth.
“I should warn you, Tristan,” Sigfrid commented, “that if they try to kill you, I’m going to take a few of them with me.”
Tristan smiled a little. “Thank you, Sig, but I want you to promise me that you won’t question their decree.”
Sigfrid’s jaw clenched, but he kept his face expressionless. “I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t hear that order.” Tristan knew better than to insist. Sigfrid would stubbornly refuse to acknowledge him. He tried another approach.
“I’ve spent my life trying to build trust between people, heal wounds,” Tristan said. “Yes, I’ve certainly killed a few as well, but only when there was no alternative and under my liege’s command. The Vistani live very well in our midst; they’ve learned to work with us and cooperate with us. As a result, we’ve become a rather rich little country.
“If we go in there with swords waving this afternoon, that relationship will be damaged beyond repair. We’ll lose our horses and consequently our wealth. No one life is worth that; not even mine.”
“But you didn’t kill the boy!” Sigfrid protested.
“I know that. You know that. We have to hope that the Vistani know it, too.”
“What do you think they’ll do to you?”
“They may try to use their magic to determine my guilt. Or they may just stab us on sight.” He grinned mischievously at his companion. “We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”
Sigfrid swore angrily, quite unable to see the macabre humor in the situation. A moment later, both men were startled by the sudden loud chirping of a bird. Tristan glanced up as a small gray-and-white bird dived about the wagon before flitting away.
“Those little birds are called vista chiri,” said Tristan. “The Vistani say they are the souls of long-dead ancestors. Whether or not that’s true, they’re a sure sign of a Vistana encampment in the vicinity.”
“So we’re nearly there,” Sigfrid said glumly. Tristan did not respond, but blue eyes met brown.
The vista chiri grew more numerous and visible, almost as if acting in escort. Within a few moments, at least two dozen of the brightly colored caravans that were the gypsies’ homes came into view. Children scampered to and fro, shrieking joyfully, playing with the dogs, cats, and fowl that wandered freely about. In the center of the encampment was a low-burning fire; smaller cookfires burned near individual vardos. The smoke hung as a dirty haze to the air. In the distance, a large group of horses cropped contentedly.
Speaking quickly and in a low voice, Tristan told his friend, “I don’t expect this to go well. The Vistani love their children.”
“Of course they do,” responded Sigfrid, confused.
“You don’t understand. All Vistani love all their children—desperately.” No sooner had he finished speaking than two men, wearing bright-colored garments and distinctly unfriendly expressions, rose up from behind a large stone to block their path. Their daggers were drawn.
“We have refused you before, Sir Tristan,” growled one of them. “How many times must we send you on your way before you realize there is no welcome for you here, hey?”
Tristan regarded him sadly. “I have business before your tribe, Orlan. I bear the body of Amasa, son of Konstantin.” He did not try to explain the circumstances; these men would not have listened.
Orlan sucked in his breath through clenched teeth. Then, to Sigfrid’s astonishment, he threw back his kerchiefed head and let loose a high, keening wail. It was picked up and immediately echoed by everyone in the encampment. Sigfrid reached for his sword as a wave of Vistani rushed them, but Tristan’s strong hand stayed the move. And indeed, the mourning tribe was headed not toward them, but toward the body of their fallen child.
Dark hands reached to gently lift the corpse and carry it to the encampment. Tristan and Sigfrid exited the wagon, leaving the care of the horses to a waiting Vistana, and followed the mourners. For the time being, they were paid no attention, but Tristan knew that if he and Sigfrid had tried to flee, the gypsies would have been on them at once.
Using tables and cloths, the Vistani erected a bier in the center of the clearing, near where the main fire burned. The white-swathed form of Amasa was lain out reverently.
Although he’d had no part in Amasa’s tragic death, Tristan still felt a stab of guilt as he saw the pained, poised face of Konstantin. His wife Nata stood beside him, a woman with a large, round body and a heartbreakingly beautiful face. Tears spilled from her almond-shaped eyes. Beside the bereaved parents stood their two remaining children. The little boy, about eleven, was Nikos, he recalled. The daughter, a lithe, sensuous young woman with her mother’s fine features, was Rozalia. As Tristan watched, she turned her dark, angry gaze upon him. They had crossed verbal blades before. Unlike her father, Rozalia had been opposed to making a treaty with the “damned giorgios,” and had been quite outspoken about her opinions. With hands that trembled, Konstantin and Nata unwrapped their son’s body.
Now it begins, thought Tristan.
Gasps arose at the sight of the fear on their dead kin’s face. Harsh murmuring followed, and hostile black eyes were turned on Tristan and Sigfrid. Slowly, with a menacing air, several men and women moved toward them.
Coolly, Tristan drew his sword and embedded it in the rain-softened earth. “I yield my weapon and demand the right to trial!” he shouted.
The Vistani paused. “You are a giorgio!” Orlan snarled contemptuously, spitting. “You are not entitled to any of the privileges of our kind!”
“Stay your anger,” came a voice harsh with age. The Vistani all turned to watch as a withered old woman, leaning heavily on a staff, hobbled toward them. Her white hair was braided and piled atop her skull, a hairstyle better suited a girl than a woman, but on this woman, it only served to give her a strangely youthful air. In contrast to the bright hues of typical Vistana clothing, the crone was dressed all in black. One eye fixed Tristan with the mental acuity of a woman decades younger. The right eye was obliterated by three giant scars that ran the length of her face.
“He is a giorgio, yes, but he knows enough to ask for trial.” She chuckled raspingly. “That gives him the right. Sir Tristan Hiregaard, you have asked for the privileges afforded our kind. Do you also agree to abide by what we decide in trial?”
Tristan bowed. “Yes, Madame Terza.”
The Vistana seer fixed her eye on Sigfrid. “He’s brought you here to stand as witness. Do you also agree to abide by our decisions?” Madame Terza chuckled, reaching out a bony hand to touch Sigfrid’s curly hair. “Hair like fire, temper like fire, so they say.”
Sigfrid glanced at Tristan, who nodded. “I agree,” he said, wondering what exactly he had agreed to.
The old woman nodded, satisfied. “Watch what grief you have brought to us, you two giorgios. Then wait until nightfall, and the trial will begin.”
Tristan and Sigfrid turned their attention to Konstantin and his family. Gently, the mother undid the ra from the dead boy’s waist. She stretched it taut between her hands, presenting it to her husband. With a cry, Konstantin sliced the rope in two with his dagger, signifying a life abruptly and unnaturally cut short. Then he did the same to his own ra and those of his wife and children, showing that they, too, felt the loss. Amasa’s ra would be buried with him. Those of his surviving family members would be retied and worn again the following day; damaged, but not destroyed, just as the lives of their wearers had been.
Strong hands fell upon Tristan and Sigfrid. The two men were firmly steered to one of the nearby caravans. Sigfrid
stumbled on the stairs, catching himself, then both were rudely shoved inside and the door bolted shut behind them.
It was hot and dark inside the vardo. It smelled of straw and excrement, and Sig swore in disgust. “What’s going on, Tris? Who was that old woman?”
“I have asked for a trial according to Vistana law,” Tristan explained. “That old woman; as you put it, is Madame Terza, leader of the tribe. She got those scars when she was a girl, attacked by a bear. It was then that she developed the gift of Sight—you know, visions, fortune-telling, that sort of thing. They say it was in compensation for her lost eye.”
“Come on, you can’t tell me you believe in all that nonsense!”
“I’d better.” Tristan laughed a little. “I’ve just flung myself on its mercy. I must say, though, that there are some among the Vistani who do have uncanny insight. Their mysticism is not quite like my magic, which is much more logical. But I’ve learned to respect it.” In the darkness, Tristan heard Sigfrid snort. “Two Vistani will be selected—one to defend me to their ancestors, the other to accuse me. Madame Terza will then consult the cards, and decide my innocence or guilt.”
“You can’t expect any of these barbarians to defend you!” Sigfrid exclaimed.
“They dishonor their ancestors if they don’t do their best,” countered the knight. “It was the only hope I had.”
“What’s my part in all this?”
“You’re my witness. If you’re asked questions, you must answer them truthfully. Madame Terza has a way of seeing through lies, and that wouldn’t go over well at all.” He sighed, fidgeting in the filthy straw. “We’ve got a good four or five hours before things get underway. Make yourself comfortable.”
The hours passed slowly. Sounds and scents from the outside filtered in through the wood: directions from mothers to children in the strange Vistana tongue, the clanking of metal utensils used for cooking and serving the meals, the fragrance of cooking meat. In the distance, faint but unceasing, came a sad keening sound, uttered by the bereaved mother. Gradually the heat lessened. A hard-faced Vistana opened the door, and cool, sweet air hit the giorgios’ faces.
The Enemy Within Page 3