Fold Thunder

by Gregory Ashe

  Part of her mind knew she was acting foolishly, wondered why she was reacting this way. Irwa ignored that part of herself, grateful for the ability to, at least for the present moment, be free of those considerations. Considering your companion . . . companion would have caused trouble . . . considering your companion . . . companion would have caused trouble. The words whirled around her, pecking at her, as she frantically waved them away. Once, in Lajil, she had stumbled across a bear upsetting a hive of bees. She had been terrified of the bear, but, after a few moments of watching the enraged swarm, she was more terrified of the bees, and had fled without looking back. She felt like that bear now.

  She walked toward the stable, pushing those thoughts away for the hundredth time. They would be back, of course, but for another moment she could be empty. Numb. She lifted the latch with her knife blade, as she had seen Maribah do, and went into the back yard of the inn.

  The stables were dark. The stillness, the darkness, combined with what had just happened made Irwa’s heart beat faster. Shadow shapes across the yard shifted back and forth between amorphous blobs and the outlines of men. Nothing but her beating heart to keep her company. Shadows that could be more men.

  Lips twisted in distaste, Irwa opened cheiron awa and muttered a hepistys of Khaman. It made her feel dirty, forcing the chaos into form. She had thought that part of her life was over, that she had been able to leave that behind. Energy flowed into her. Suddenly she could see across the yard as though it were day. The tip of the moon, almost full but hidden by the horizon still, peaked over the buildings on the largest rise of the city, but that little sliver gave enough light for her to make out, with the aid of the enchantment, the water pump that she had mistaken for a man.

  She crossed to the stable and peered inside; Maribah crouched against the far wall, eyes fixed slightly past Irwa. It took Irwa a moment to realize the woman could not see her. “Maribah,” she whispered. “Are you in here?”

  Maribah straightened and made a short gesture, and a narrow band of flame appeared above her head. Irwa’s spell compensated automatically; one of the advantages of the spell, she had found, was that it prevented one from being blinded by sudden changes of light—a common trick among certain schools.

  “Here,” Maribah said. “Let’s saddle the horses and leave; I took care of the stable boy.”

  “You didn’t kill him, did you?” The words left Irwa’s mouth before she could stop them.

  Maribah’s face went pale again, almost as pale as it had been after she had killed that man. “No,” she said. “I sent him to buy me wine, an expensive vintage they don’t have at the inn.”

  “But the money . . .” Irwa said, passing Maribah her pack.

  “Is well spent in keeping him away; the less he knows, the easier the Fourth Corner will be with him.”

  “If he’s lucky,” Irwa said.

  “If he’s lucky,” Maribah agreed.

  They saddled the horses rapidly and Irwa led her horse to the gate and out to the alley. Before she could mount, Maribah touched her arm. Irwa drew back, just slightly, but enough that Maribah hesitated. Then the woman held out a sheathed knife. “The man at the bath-house. He was going to kill you with this,” she said. “It’s poisoned, so be careful with it. All he needed to do was nick you with it.”

  Then why didn’t he, Irwa wondered. It would have been easy enough. The question had no satisfactory answer, not unless he knew about her abilities—something that she had thought well-hidden. If the sheikh knew, though, others could know as well. Too many things that she did not know.

  “I didn’t say thank you,” Irwa said, turning the knife over in her hands. Forcing herself to meet the other woman’s eyes, she said, “Thank you.”

  Maribah gave a small smile and seemed to relax a bit. “You’re welcome. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything when I saw him in the inn; I didn’t think he was after you. I wouldn’t have let you go to the baths alone if I had thought they would—”

  “We need to ride,” Irwa said.

  Irwa tied the second sheath to her waist and mounted, and they rode to the street and back the way they had come, toward the Codense gate. People filled the main thoroughfare, making its already difficult turns even worse, and while many of the people were drinking and carousing in the torch-lit, warm summer air, others were clustered in nervous conversation. More than once Irwa caught the words “fire” and “murder” as they passed along the street, and several times guards marched by, heavy clubs waved in threat at drunks and gossipers alike. They paid no attention to the two mounted woman other than to give them an extra shake with the clubs.

  When they reached the gate, Irwa was disappointed, but unsurprised to find it closed. “What now?” she asked Maribah.

  “Let’s see,” the other woman said. Maribah dismounted and, after passing the reins to Irwa, approached the guardhouse. The door opened at her knock and, with her enchantment, Irwa could see her speaking with the same red-eyed guard who had admitted them earlier, a sack of wine in one hand. Although she could not hear their conversation, Irwa judged by the man’s angry expression that they had slim chances.

  Maribah shook his hand, her firm grip noticeable even at a distance, and the man’s expression changed slightly. As he drew back his hand he turned it slightly, as though to examine it, and Irwa caught the flash of gold in the enchanted light. Gold. The woman has gold and we’re riding these nags the length of the Codense Trail.

  The man shut the door, and Maribah returned and, taking the reins back, mounted. She turned her horse around and then down a side-street that ran parallel the wall. “There’s a smaller gate,” she said. “He’ll meet us there and let us out.”

  “How did you know he could be bribed?”

  “A lucky guess,” Maribah said drily. “The man reeked of alcohol when we came in, and he is even worse now. Next time you pray to Ishahb, pray he will send fewer drunks to protect the empire.”

  “Will you not ask him yourself?” Irwa said. The Fourth Corner, for all its political functions, was still a religious organization, and the woman’s words surprised her.

  Maribah did not respond.

  The gate, which they found easily, scarcely deserved the name; Irwa thought she would be hard-pressed to get her horse through it with the saddlebags still on. Incommensurate to its size, though, the gate looked more solid than the main entrance, almost completely covered with thick iron bands, with timbers barring it shut. The street widened somewhat as it approached the gate, and though the houses still showed signs of life and activity, the street was quiet. The single grocer’s shop, on the corner of the intersection behind them, was dark. A guardhouse sat atop the city wall, built like a tower, and Irwa could see a man leaning by a window that looked out on the city. More to keep people from opening the gate, she realized, than to watch for people outside.

  From an alley that ran along the city wall emerged the red-eyed guard, now wearing the loose white robe of Jan-as-Subh over a brilliant crimson shirt. He glanced at them briefly and hurried up the stairs to the guardhouse. After a time he came down, followed by a second man, and together they undid the bars and swung the gate open. Maribah rode through, and then Irwa. As soon as she was past the gate, the men pulled it shut, and she heard the bars fall into place as she rode away.

  “Too much time,” Maribah said, glancing over her shoulder at the city wall. “Let’s ride hard.”

  They did. The dust from the rode plastered itself to Irwa’s sweaty face and neck, and her hard work in the bath was quickly undone. They had to go slow across the uneven terrain outside the city wall, but they made good time once they were back on the well-maintained highway. The moon, low and fat in the sky, gave plenty of light as they traveled, and the cool breeze off the river tempered the last remaining heat of the day, until Irwa’s sweat dried and, eventually, she shivered underneath the thin cotton dress.

  As they rode, though, Irwa could not get the dead man out of her mind. Ishahb bless m
e, she prayed, heart pounding in time to the horse’s hooves. I left this all behind, and now they’re dragging me back into it.