FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  This time there were no images in response at all. The flames burned clear and empty.

  Taya swallowed, her throat parched, her body boiling with sweat. Great Mother, you hunger for the flesh of the unworthy. Grant me this vision. I will find his killer and satisfy your craving.

  Instantly an image appeared in the flames, and Taya had the disconcerting feeling that Isatis had been waiting for her to name exactly that bargain. She peered at the image. A young woman and a young man quarreled in the middle of an empty mud plain that could be the very place she now stood. The young man could be the murder victim. She wasn’t sure, but he was about the right age, and of similar coloration to Kalbi, the magistrate’s living son.

  The woman was visibly upset—frightened of the man, Taya thought, but also angry. The young man was angry too. Words were exchanged, though Taya could not hear them, since fire visions were soundless. The quarrel seemed to be the woman’s, because twice the man tried to walk away and the woman grabbed his arm and turned him back around. Taya watched closely, observing and memorizing details—what the couple were wearing, their size and age, the color of their hair and eyes. Isatis would never show her a vision a second time.

  The man walked away again and then, without warning, burst into flame. Taya had been half expecting it, but it took her by surprise all the same, and it took the woman in the vision by surprise too. Her screams looked so real, and her eyes were so wide and horrified that Taya instantly wrote off the possibility that the woman herself was the jackal. Hunabi fell to the wet ground and rolled to suffocate the flames, and as his frame dropped from the middle of the scene, he revealed a third figure, another young woman, who had been standing behind him in the distance.

  Taya estimated this new woman’s age at seventeen or eighteen. She was dressed in peasant’s clothes—homespun cotton, undyed, with an indigo belt. Her dusty brown hair would look pretty if cleaned up, Taya thought, but it didn’t appear she’d looked after herself, or been looked after, for some time. The girl was too far away in the vision for Taya to judge her eye color or register any identifying marks.

  Hunabi dug himself into the mud, trying to extinguish the flames, but the flames reignited, again and again. Meanwhile, the woman Hunabi had been arguing with ran away. The mother goddess showed Taya Hunabi’s entire death, which lasted a long time. The teenaged girl stayed for all of it, stone-faced. Then the vision faded.

  May your greatness endure forever, Mother. Taya let her fire walls drop. Exhausted and sweating, she staggered out of the field to her black mare. Rasik and Mandir stared. She knew she must look a fright. Striking bargains with Isatis was hot work. She pulled her copper cup from where it was tied to the saddle pad and swirled it gently. She called to the invisible water droplets in the air. The droplets materialized and began, slowly, to fill the cup.

  “So,” said Mandir. “Was Isatis in a talkative mood?”

  “She was,” said Taya. He would have to wait until later to hear what she’d seen. It was Coalition policy not to reveal the contents of visions to people outside the Coalition, and Rasik was present.

  A few swallows of water had gathered in her cup. She gulped them greedily and began to call more.

  Mandir appeared at her shoulder and poured some water from his own cup into hers, apparently having called it himself.

  “How do you do that?” asked Rasik. “Make water out of thin air.”

  Taya leaned against Pepper and closed her eyes, too tired to answer the question. It was funny how people not accustomed to Coalition ilittu were impressed by the simplest tricks. Calling water was a second-year talent.

  “As initiates at the temple, we learn some interesting things,” said Mandir. “One of them is that there is water in the air all the time, even on dry days like today.”

  “Nonsense,” said Rasik.

  “On damp days you can almost feel it,” said Mandir. “The heaviness in the air, that’s water. But on dry days it’s there too, just not as much. We merely call it out of the air and into our cups.”

  Her eyes were closed, but she could feel the heat of Mandir’s body nearby, and his arm moving in counterpoint to hers as he swirled his cup. He stopped her hand for a moment and added his water to hers. She opened her eyes and drank. She was beginning to feel less parched.

  “Should we head back for now?” asked Mandir. “Perhaps stop by the public baths?”

  “Yes,” said Taya. A bath sounded delicious. Then, like it or not, she’d have to discuss with Mandir what she’d seen, write it up—her least favorite part of Coalition work—and figure out how to track down an adolescent murderess in a town the size of Hrappa.

  Chapter VI

  Mohenjo Temple, Nine Years Ago

  THE FOOD AT MOHENJO TEMPLE was weird. Sitting alone at a table in the dining hall, Taya picked through it, searching for something appetizing. The flaky white stuff was probably fish, just not a variety she’d eaten before. And the barley she recognized, though it was mixed with unfamiliar yellow and green vegetables. But what were those little brown things that looked like fungus? What were those red round things on the side of her plate?

  Her stomach churned in warning. Maybe she’d made a mistake coming to Mohenjo Temple. She couldn’t imagine taking the kimat and leaving, but nobody wanted her here, and everything was so different and strange. Would she ever adjust to this new way of life?

  Perhaps she just needed to take the newness in small doses. She decided she would eat the fish and the barley, no matter how bad they tasted, and leave the fungus things where they were. As for the red round things, she’d try one and see what she thought of it. She’d never eaten anything red before.

  She popped one in her mouth and started to chew. Instantly she regretted it. The fruit—if it was a fruit—was tough and bitter. Her eyes watered, and she glanced around the hall to see if anyone was watching. Could she remove it from her mouth without being seen?

  “Flood and fire!” A boy sat down across from her. “Do you not know how to eat lirry fruit?”

  Taya shook her head. Apparently not.

  “Spit it out, dummy!”

  Red-faced but too well-mannered to spit, Taya fished the fruit out of her mouth.

  “This is how you eat a lirry fruit.” The boy picked up a fruit from her tray. He pulled a knife from his belt, sliced a gash in the fruit, and squeezed the pulp into his mouth. “See? You don’t eat the rind. It’s not edible.”

  “Oh. Thanks. I’ve never seen one of these before.” Taya picked up a lirry fruit and imitated him, squeezing the pulp into her mouth, careful not to spill any droplets of juice. It was surprisingly tasty—sweet and almost creamy, with no bitterness at all. She looked shyly up at the boy. He was one of the new initiates, like herself, only he had facial tattoos, which meant he was ruling caste. She felt flattered by his attention.

  The boy smiled. “Where are you from? Your accent’s funny.”

  “Downriver,” said Taya.

  “Swamp country?” asked the boy.

  “Almost. North of the delta—banana country.”

  “My name’s Mandir,” said the boy. “Mandir isu Sarrum.”

  Taya froze. Isu Sarrum? This boy was not only from the ruling caste, but the royal family. What was he doing here at Mohenjo Temple? She stared at him, studying his features. He was young, around her age or a bit older. But he was tall for his age, well-built, darkly handsome. His eyes were strange. Was that cruelty she saw in them?

  “Now you’re supposed to tell me your name,” said Mandir isu Sarrum.

  “Taya.”

  “Taya isu what?”

  She hesitated. What was a royal going to think of someone like her? “Taya isu Ikkarum.”

  “Ikkarum?” Mandir laughed. “You’re farmer caste? I noticed your hair, but I figured they just cut it shorter where you come from.”

  “I’m farmer caste,” she said softly. Now he knew why she’d never eaten lirry fruit.

  “You lie,” said Mandir, taki
ng another fruit from her plate. “Farmers never have the Gift.”

  “But they do,” said Taya. “Sometimes.” The Coalition representative who’d brought her here had tried to explain to her why farmers rarely—but sometimes—possessed the Gift. Something about how the Gift traveled in bloodlines, often disappearing for generations and suddenly popping up again. Something about how the nonmagical sons and daughters of Coalition ilittu were released into the artisan and ruling castes. She’d smiled and nodded and pretended to understand.

  “Even if you were a farmer with the Gift,” he said, “the Coalition couldn’t teach you anything. Do you even know how to read?”

  “They will teach me to read,” said Taya.

  “That’s stupid,” said Mandir. “You’ll be years behind, and you have an entire language to learn, not to mention history and numbers and things.”

  “I’ll work extra hard.” She did not say out loud what the representative had told her in confidence, that while farmer-caste initiates were at an early disadvantage at the Temple, they often did well in the long run because they were accustomed to hard work, unlike initiates from the ruling class, who’d grown up indolent and lazy.

  A line appeared in Mandir’s forehead, as if he couldn’t figure out what to make of her, when three other ruling-caste initiates sauntered into the hall.

  “Hey, little prince!” called one of them. “That your sweetheart?”

  Little prince? Taya knew he was from the royal family, but she’d assumed he was a distant cousin or a nephew or something. Could Mandir be the get of the king or prince of the valley?

  “No,” said Mandir, scrambling up from the table. He joined the boys and walked away, but after a moment, he glanced back at Taya with a half-smile and said, “Bye, banana girl.”

  Chapter VII

  Hrappa

  AFTER A REFRESHING AND MUCH-needed stop at the public baths under the Citadel, Taya reined up in front of the guesthouse. She hopped off Pepper and handed the mare’s reins to Rasik.

  After Rasik rode off with their horses, Mandir asked, “Your house or mine?”

  Taya sighed. “This is business, Mandir.”

  He grinned. “Look where your mind goes—straight into the sewers.”

  “You’re not funny,” said Taya. “My place, to talk about the vision from Isatis and nothing else.”

  “Let me fix your headdress.”

  “No,” said Taya.

  “It’s crooked.”

  “I don’t care.” Allowing him to put his hands on her would send entirely the wrong message. Not only that, but Mandir was way too physically attractive. She didn’t want her body responding to what her head and heart knew would lead to disaster.

  “Yes, but it bothers me.”

  “Good,” said Taya, opening the door to her guesthouse.

  She sat down at the little table and waited for Mandir to join her, hoping they could get this over with quickly. Mandir barred the front door and moved about the house, inspecting each nook and checking the outdoor courtyard, which struck Taya as silly until she recalled the old man with the knife. Finally Mandir sat down with her at the table. “What did Isatis show you?” he asked.

  “Everything,” said Taya. “I saw Hunabi’s death, and I saw our jackal.”

  “Isatis showed you the jackal?” Mandir straightened. “We’ll be done here before the cotton blooms. Who is he?”

  “She. A young woman, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Farmer caste, I would guess, by the way she was dressed.” Taya related what she’d seen in the vision.

  Mandir rubbed his chin. “A man and a woman arguing. Then another woman shows up and murders the man. Lovers’ quarrel?”

  Taya frowned. “I don’t know. I think if two women were fighting over the same man, the jackal would have killed the other woman. Killing the man defeats her purpose.”

  “Depends on the purpose,” said Mandir. “And she might have killed both of them. There were two more murder victims after this one, both women. One of them could have been the one from your vision.”

  “That’s possible,” said Taya, nodding. “We’ll call that woman who saw what happened the witness. She must know who the murderer is.”

  “Or knew,” said Mandir. “If you were a murderer, would you leave a witness alive?”

  Someone rapped at the door. Taya jumped in her seat, but Mandir laid a hand over hers. “It’s probably the attendant with lunch.” Taya yanked her hand away, but Mandir was already on his feet, heading for the door. He answered it and spoke to the attendant. “Send for Rasik. We need to speak with him.” Then he returned with two plates, each heavy with flatbread, barley, and strips of lamb.

  “Why Rasik?” Taya asked.

  “I want the details on Hunabi’s and Kalbi’s marriage contract, the one that was under negotiation before the murder happened,” said Mandir. “It might explain what we saw in your vision.”

  Taya nodded, cutting a pocket in her flatbread and loading it with the barley and lamb. They ate in silence until Rasik arrived. Mandir asked him about the marriage contract.

  “There are no details,” said Rasik. “No agreement had been drawn up.”

  “Who was the girl?” asked Mandir.

  “Kana isu Kasirum, the daughter of Bodhan isu Kasirum.”

  “What?” said Taya. “I’ve heard that name—Bodhan. Was this girl one of the murder victims?”

  “You’re thinking of Kana’s sister,” said Rasik. “She was murdered. Kana is still alive.”

  “Thanks, Rasik, that’s all we need for now,” said Mandir. Rasik departed, and Mandir barred the door again. “It’s clear where we should go next,” he said, sitting back down at the table. “We need to speak to Bodhan and his daughter.”

  Taya nodded eagerly. “If there was a love triangle going on, Kana might be the jackal. Or the witness. And even if she’s not, the trip won’t be wasted. We need to talk to Bodhan anyway, to investigate his daughter’s murder.”

  “Isu Kasirum,” mused Mandir. “Bodhan is a cloth merchant. Why would the magistrate, the highest ranking man in the entire city of Hrappa, marry his sons into a lower caste?”

  “How should I know?” said Taya. “I’ve no experience with the customs of the ruling caste.”

  “The most common reason is money,” said Mandir. “Perhaps the magistrate has a financial problem. Or the girl might be an extraordinary beauty, or there might be a lack of suitable marriage partners in the ruling caste. But nine times out of ten, it’s money.”

  “Rasik said a lot of the farmers have contracts to grow cotton for a Hrappan cloth merchant. I’ll bet this Bodhan is the merchant he was speaking of. What about the nature of the marriage? Could that have something to do with the murders?” Ruling-caste polyandrous marriages seemed, to her, foreign and strange. The farmer and artisan castes did not practice that sort of marriage. It was forbidden to their castes by law, though it was said to produce stronger children.

  “You mean the fact that the artisan-caste girl, who probably grew up thinking she’d marry one man in a single marriage, suddenly found out she was going to be marrying two brothers? And maybe didn’t like the idea?”

  “Well,” said Taya, “I hadn’t got that far in my thinking. But I don’t know much about it. How do ruling-caste women feel about marrying two or more men?”

  Mandir shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not a ruling-caste woman.”

  “But you’re a ruling-caste man. You’ve spent time in that kind of household.”

  “Not in that kind of household, no,” said Mandir.

  “You’re the son of Tufan isu Sarrum. He’s in a multiple marriage with his brothers, to the princess Danitia. I know she’s not your mother, and Tufan had multiple households, but surely you had some exposure to...your father’s legitimate marriage.” She winced inwardly, realizing she might be touching on a sensitive subject.

  “I never so much as set foot in the palace,” snapped Mandir. “You’re the woman, so you should be an
swering this question. Before your Gift was discovered, you probably expected to be contracted in marriage. Didn’t you?”

  “Of course. Negotiations were already in progress.”

  “And how did you feel about it?”

  Taya hesitated. “It’s not relevant. Farmer-caste marriages are different. A farmer’s wife must keep house, spin thread, mend clothes, join her husband in the fields at harvest time—”

  “Forget that, it’s not what I’m talking about,” said Mandir. “How did you feel about the prospect of sleeping with a man who was chosen for you and who you barely knew?”

  “Well, no woman looks forward to that part,” said Taya. “Unless she just happens to be married off to a man she’s fond of, which is rare.”

  “All right, so imagine you’re being married off to two men, and you’ll be expected to sleep with both of them.”

  “At the same time?”

  Mandir rolled his eyes. “What sort of perverts do you imagine my people are? Alternating nights, Taya.”

  Her cheeks warmed. The ribald jokes she’d heard in her old farming village had implied a truly shared bed for polyandrous families; it had never occurred to her that those jokes weren’t based on reality. “Well, it’s unlikely I’d be in love with even one of them, let alone both. But it’s said that the more fathers, the stronger the seed, and the stronger the child.”

  “See, it’s complicated,” said Mandir. “It could be the daughter was in love with one brother and not the other, and murdered the one she didn’t like. But she’d be taking an enormous risk in doing so, and would she really sacrifice the well-being of her future children?”

  Taya shrugged. “There are some women who care about nothing but their own happiness. Never mind the children, or anyone else who gets in the way.”