Restoration

by Carol Berg

  For the first time in five days, W‘Assani was at a loss for words. I didn’t think it a common occurrence. Nor did I think it clever to let her see my enjoyment of the scene. While Malver hitched the donkeys and tied the horse to the wagon, Aleksander threw his crutches into the wagon bed and hoisted himself in after them. I pulled off my haffai and hurried down to the well. Nodding respectfully to Kavel, who was supervising the watering of his chastou, I soaked the robe, careful not to get the blood from my hands into the water. The wagon was already pulling away when I ran up the path and threw myself headlong into it. “We can at least clean up a bit,” I said, dropping the sopping wad into Aleksander’s lap. I sorely regretted the lost chance to wash with the bountiful waters of Taíne Dabu.

  We traveled through the dreadful noonday and all through that scorching afternoon, watering the donkeys generously from our filled barrels and taking turns sitting in the sun to drive the wagon. Actually, the other three shared the wagon seat, while I sat on the very back, behind the shade canopy, and spoke the wind. Softly. Just enough to shift the sand and erase our tracks across the dunes. Malver sighted our direction by the sun, conferring constantly with Aleksander, who knew more details about the geography of his Empire than a Thrycian mapmaker. W‘Assani took her turn driving, then spent the rest of the time sorting through her stock, stuffing the ruined fabrics into one basket and carefully folding and rolling the rest.

  “So, are you shy of driving donkeys?” She stuck her head through the trailing curtain, and before I could answer she had stepped between the wooden struts onto the rim of the wagon box. The desert light had changed from the flat sheen of afternoon into the shifting purple and gold of evening. To the east, the sky had already deepened. Behind us stretched the sculpted dunes... a smooth, unbroken sweep of sand.

  “I had other things to do.” I moved a little to the side, and she sat down beside me, dangling her legs off the back as I was doing.

  For a while, she sat in companionable silence, gazing into the desert behind us. Her body moved as we rode, translating the harsh jostle of the wagon into easy grace. As the hour passed I glanced sideways and saw a small frown settle on her brow. I smiled to myself and continued my work. A few minutes more and she opened her mouth, but no words followed. She closed her eyes, then looked again. Finally, just when I thought the question would come, she leaned back against a pile of boxes and propped her feet up against one of the canopy struts, settled, as if she could ride that way to the end of the earth.

  “You’re not afraid?” I said.

  “Do I need to be?”

  I shook my head. “Not of me.”

  “And the one who sleeps?” Inside the wagon, Aleksander was snoring vigorously.

  “Nor him.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t want to have my life turned inside out by evil spirits or villain princes.”

  The stars began to come out. We rode for a long while without saying much of anything.

  Later, after W‘Assani moved inside to sleep, I decided I had done enough. We were leaving the srif for higher ground—grasslands and wheat country. No one could track us from Taíne Dabu. I stepped over the sleeping Aleksander and W’Assani to the wagon seat and offered to take a turn driving. Malver yielded me the traces, but stayed beside me, sighting the stars to keep us on course for Tanzire.

  “Is she your sister or your cousin, M‘Alver?” I said softly, pronouncing his name in the Thrid way.

  “Mother of earth . . .” The soldier stared at me. Terrified.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I won’t say anything. Not that it would make any difference after all you’ve done.”

  Thrid were hired soldiers, mercenaries paid to die in Derzhi wars, skilled at arms, but never trusted. Never honored. Never noticed, except to judge whether they were worth their fee. Never, ever, did Thrid serve in a Derzhi troop, much less command Derzhi warriors. Popular wisdom said that the lowest born man of Derzhi blood would rise to be emperor before such a thing could happen. Except that it had.

  “My duty. That’s all I’ve done.”

  “Why? To hide what you are all these years . . . to serve the Derzhi conquerors . . .” His skin was dark, but not the telltale color of his people. Ordinarily, Thrid were the only race easier to recognize than Ezzarians.

  He shrugged and kept his eyes fixed on the rising barrens ahead. “I’m good at fighting. At leading men. And I value my life. Why would I want to leave it in the hands of some Derzhi jackanape who thinks he can pay me enough to go where he daren’t poke his spear? I decided to determine my own fate as far as a man can do it.”

  “But this... now... this is something more..

  He glanced sideways at me. “Aye. A barbarian Thrid might not see so much as an Ezzarian sorcerer can, but I’ve eyes in my head. Someday I may have sons who want to fight for something worthy.”

  I nodded and returned my attention to the donkeys. “He is worthy. If we can just keep him alive long enough that he can see his way. I promise you, he is.”

  We rode on, Malver nudging me back on course as we skirted the last of the towering dunes. After a while I shivered and handed over the traces, saying I was going to retrieve my haffai and bring him a waterskin. As I crawled toward the back, Malver spoke over his shoulder. “Half sister.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Thanks to the water we had taken from Taíne Dabu, W‘Assani’s donkeys stayed alive long enough to get us to Tanzire, a moderately sized, walled town surrounded by wheat fields and tiny villages, one of which was Vanko’s home of Eleuthra. The northern gates of Tanzire stood open, their lower edges buried in weed-choked sand. The thick wooden gates had not been closed for a hundred and thirty years, not since the last remnant of the Manganar royal line had been crushed. A mud-brick tower stood across the broad marketplace from the gate, the remnant of a primitive fortress that had once occupied this site.

  As soon as W‘Assani had bullied her way past three nosy guards at the gates, Malver jumped off the wagon and slipped into the dim side lanes in search of Sovari. Aleksander and I stayed under W’Assani’s canopy while the woman guided her donkeys through the wide dirt street into the town market. We passed at least six mounted Derzhi warriors, all of them of the Rhyzka heged. I thought the Prince would spew steam at the sight of them.

  In the way of many towns in the desert regions, the market was a large square, surrounded by two-story houses of mud brick. The upper floors of the houses protruded into the market, supported on brick pillars, so that all around the edges were shady cloisters where sellers could spread their wares. Wagons and carts stopped haphazardly in the open space, where the owners could set up small fences for stock, hammer steel posts into the ground for tethering valuable horses or slaves, or spread canvas canopies to make shade. Ten or more streets led off the market, deeper into the town.

  W‘Assani hurried off to the town offices to make application to the redyikka—the magistrate who oversaw the market and who would most certainly notice if a merchant failed to register upon entry to the city. Aleksander retrieved his sword and ring from the false-bottomed basket and hid them under his haffai. I sat in the shadows and listened to the gossip among nearby tradesmen sitting together in the shade drinking nazrheel. Much of it was the usual business of family and caravan traveling: news of mutual acquaintances, weather, roads, tariffs, and hardship. But after a while they lowered their voices to where I could catch only some of the words.

  ... Unsettled... these new rules from Zhagad ... How can a man survive, much less make a profit? Monstrous levies... on the Suzain road imperial soldiers take half the goods from every caravan... whole villages taken for slaves if their taxes fall short... all of us in Nyabozzi chains soon enough. Perhaps . . . perhaps not . . . I heard rumor, a name not heard in a year . . .

  The voices dropped below my level of hearing, even heightened as it was by skill and melydda. Yet I thought I heard one more word, or perhaps my own mind added it to the whisperings because I recalled the rum
ors of bandits in Karn‘Hegeth. But I could have sworn they said “lukash.” Yvor Lukash ... the sword of light ... Blaise. Was the outlaw band riding again, their truce with the Empire broken by Aleksander’s fall? I was on the verge of leaving the wagon to persuade the gossiping men to tell me, when Malver returned with Sovari.

  “All praise to Athos, my lord, to see you well.” Sovari’s words did not reflect his dismay at Aleksander’s wretched appearance, but his face spoke volumes.

  “Yes, I need some clothes fit to put on before I see anyone, and if you don’t have a pot or a puddle or a seep where I can wash this vile stink off of me, I’ll strangle you.”

  “Of course, I’ll arrange something. But, my lord, the Bek . . .” Sovari had clearly been away from court long enough to lose the impenetrable mask of courtiers, the polite, incurious veneer that could cover every emotion from murderous rage to driving lust. The good captain did not want to continue. And, of course, Aleksander, skilled at penetrating even the courtier’s mask, saw it.

  He sighed broadly. “Tell me, Sovari. I’m scarcely expecting heralds or a rose-petal canopy.”

  “The First Lord will not see you, my lord, nor will he allow a meeting at the Bek stronghold.”

  “Go on.”

  “They’ve told me of a tavern . . .”

  Sovari had taken a room at a bedraggled little inn that was crammed between a tannery and a saddle-maker’s shop, its cracked mud walls and weedy stable yard so miserable it didn’t even have a name. The copper lantern that hung outside its arched gate was the only way to know that a weary traveler could find a mug of lukewarm ale or a bowl of barley soup or a pallet of straw within. W‘Assani planned to stay with the wagon in the marketplace, conduct her business, and protect her goods. Malver stayed to help her with the donkey team before joining us at the tavern. In the back of my mind was the thought to visit W’Assani later after our business was done. Talk a bit. Learn more of her.

  We had not been followed to the inn, but I didn’t like the room—only the one door and a single, small barred window. I peered out at the waste heaps behind the tannery and decided that the stink was not going to improve very much, even if Aleksander and I were able to wash.

  “Sereg, the Fourth Lord of the Bek,” grumbled the Prince as he lowered himself to the pallet in the airless room. “What does a Bek fourth do? Probably sharpens harrows for plowmen. Or he’s the second lord’s idiot nephew. All this cursed way here to meet with a fourth.”

  Sovari stood by the door, his arms folded, worry lines creasing his rugged face. “Not to excuse their discourtesy, my lord, but I’ve been here three days, and every morning has seen a new imperial messenger ride in. The Bek—anyone with a grievance against the new... against Lord Edik—are likely being watched. They know you’re moving.”

  “Any messenger birds?” I asked. “Any word from Karn‘Hegeth?” My hackles had been raised from the moment we rode into the town. The safety of the empty desert seemed far away.

  “I’ve not seen them. But likely any birds would go to the castle at Gan Hyffir, which is still held by the Bek. The Rhyzka have taken over several large houses in town for now; they’ve at least twenty warriors in the garrison, some with imperial credentials. That’s why I brought you such a roundabout way here. Word is the Rhyzka are trying to persuade Lord Edik to give them Gan Hyffir for their sixth. With that they could hold all of northern Manganar.”

  “I know exactly what they want,” snapped Aleksander. “So when is this meeting?”

  “Lord Sereg will be in the common room tonight at fifth watch. I’ll send the confirmation, then have hot water and food brought.” He pointed to folded piles of clothes and two pairs of boots. “My apologies for the clothes, my lord. They’re the best I could have made in so short a time. I’ve four fresh horses in the stable, and I’ll be off to set your meeting with the Fozhet as soon as I’ve given your orders.”

  “Then we’ll see you at Khoura in two days, Captain.”

  “Two days. I’ll be waiting for you, my lord.”

  Aleksander leaned against the wall. “You’ve done well, Sovari.”

  The captain flushed and bowed deeply. “It is and has ever been my honor to serve you, Your Majesty.”

  “Majesty ...” said Aleksander softly, after Sovari left us. From the pocket of his filthy haffai, he pulled out his ring and stared at it unspeaking until two serving girls arrived at our door with hot water and food enough for five men. Sovari had done very well indeed.

  Once reasonably clean, shaved, trimmed, braided, and dressed in clothes that, though plain, were neither ragged nor bloodstained, Aleksander regained a bit of fire. As soon as Malver arrived, he sent the soldier to retrieve his riding boot, and when the time came for the meeting with the Fourth Lord of the Bek, Malver informed the nervous noble that his rightful Emperor would meet him, not in the tavern common room like a skulking thief, but in the yard behind the tavern, mounted, as was fitting for a Derzhi warrior on the front lines of a battle. I was uneasy at the choice of venue, but the yard was dark, tucked away from the street, and had no windows looking over it but our own. And, indeed, Aleksander was more mobile on a horse.

  The posturing did little but service Aleksander’s pride, for the Bek fourth lord, neither idiot nor tool sharpener, but the first lord’s scholarly youngest son, offered nothing more than had Lord Vassile of the Mardek. The Bek would honor the wishes of their late Emperor and see Aleksander crowned, but they would not fight for him unless he brought evidence that they would not stand alone. Though his family would neither harbor Aleksander nor give him men, horses, or supplies, Lord Sereg himself seemed intrigued with Aleksander’s promise to restructure the order of the Derzhi hegeds.

  “Did you hear him?” said Aleksander. “The owl-eyed twit said my actions of the past two years as my father’s surrogate had given him ideas on how the Empire might be governed differently, split into regions, each with a powerful prince to counterbalance the strength of the Twenty.” We were walking slowly back to the tavern from the stable, the Prince’s face tight as he deliberately put weight on his booted leg. “I couldn’t even make one son,” he added bitterly. “What makes him think I could breed five full grown?”

  “Did he say anything of bandit raids?” I asked. I had listened to the meeting with only half an ear, trying to watch the street, the yard, and the maze of dark alleyways for anyone who might be looking for a red-haired Derzhi with an imperial ring and a riding boot.

  “Bandits . . . no. He said only that matters were getting worse by the hour for the minor houses. New horse levies on top of doubled taxes and conscription of half their heged troops for the borders, right when Edik gave their land—my land—to the cursed Rhyzka. It would serve Edik right if the Yvor—Holy Druya, have you heard something of your outlaw friend?”

  “Just gossip.” But I wondered. I had induced Blaise to halt his raids as a concession to Aleksander. But if slave taking and the other cruel burdens of the common people were getting worse, Blaise would not sit still for long. My steps slowed, and as I watched Aleksander hobble through the back door of the shabby tavern, I began to consider defeat.

  I could not stay with the Prince forever. Was it foolish for me to continue this journey, when what strength I had left might better be saved for a more serious struggle that I alone could face? Was I staying for Aleksander, for the elusive promise of his feadnach, or was I just too cowardly to face my own future?

  Distracted, worried, I wasn’t paying enough attention to the night. But because I lingered at the edge of the dark stable yard weighing possibilities, I heard the whispers from the shadows by the tannery wall and the light footsteps running away. Two pairs of them. Damn! I dodged a stack of empty ale barrels, knocking them tumbling, and leaped over the broken cart frame and rusted stovepipe that were piled at the edge of the yard. I turned left by the tanner’s wall, stepping lightly over scrap heaps, only to trip over a wooden staff thrust across the narrow alley right where it entered t
he street. The one who held the staff tried to bring it down on my head, but I rolled, leaped up, and was on his back before he could raise it high enough. My scrawny assailant wriggled and poked and bit my arm, but I held him tight and dragged him back into the dark alley, casting a futile enchantment toward his escaping companion. I had not seen or touched the runner, and so my working would do little more than slow his steps as he ran to tell what he had seen.

  “Where is he going?” I said, snarling at the sullen boy pressed hard against the tannery wall with my arm across his throat. “Who will your friend tell?”

  “I won‘t—”

  “Don’t think you can lie to me or hold back what I want to know,” I said harshly, letting my eyes flare blue. I could imagine how strange and fearsome my eyes would look. Of course the boy, who was no more than thirteen, could not realize that my anger was directed more at myself than at him.

  “The first m-magistrate is his uncle,” squeaked the boy, spittle leaking from the side of his gaping mouth.

  “And who is the magistrate’s lord?” No hope that he was Bek’s man.

  “Lord M-Miron.”

  “Rhyzka?”

  The boy nodded and slumped to the ground, shaking fiercely, tears streaking his dirty face as my knife pricked his belly. I could have threatened him with all manner of torments to force his silence or to counter his friend’s tale, but he was already blubber ing.

  So I ran back to the tavern and burst into the room, catching Aleksander just as he was pulling out his braid. He frowned. “Where have you—?”