On Sil’s side of the border, it would have been gentlemanly to help the two ladies with the box they carried between them. But this was as far from his side of the border as he’d ever been, and he would not be caught presuming anything about their status as ladies, much less his role as a gentleman, and even if he did, he absolutely did not want to get anywhere within ten feet of that ripe, ruined coffin. It looked like it had been beaten half to pieces, and it smelled like...
... well, like him.
Its bearers set it down at the foot of the dais: an egregious, unmissable Exhibit A. Then the athletic-looking older woman went to flank the other side of the door – a neat, haughty counterpart to Vuchak’s bedraggled glower. The other remained with the box.
Sil didn’t need to be told who that was. One look at her fierce, haggard features – her hard-set mouth, the tear-streaked white makeup running down her face, and the naked hate in her eyes – told him everything he needed to know.
In another time, in another life, Sil had once stood on the streets of Sixes, confidently assuring himself that the pearls in his pocket would buy him the understanding of half a dozen grieving mothers. As it turned out, he couldn’t even meet the eyes of one.
Weisei squeezed his hand, and let it go.
“Our children are present,” Penten said, his – her – voice as calm as its register was confusing. “Our witnesses have gathered. Where is the offender?”
No-one moved.
Sil glanced over at Weisei, who gave a suggestive lift of his chin at the door.
Well, all right, then.
Sil had entered the temple expecting to lead the defense. He left it as a delinquent jailer, with no more authority or plan than to fetch Elim inside for what might be his last hour of life. And for all his lately-manifested perfection, Sil had no faith in the miracle it would take to get his partner out of there alive.
YOU ARE LATE, U’ru, came the voice of an old, cold soul hidden somewhere in the teeming mass of crows. Perhaps too late.
Or maybe it was coming from all of them. Shea didn’t think it was supposed to work that way, but what did she know? There was a living god kneeling beside her and another one probably leering at her from some shit-stained perch up above, and apparently a third one stuck in Hakai’s craw, however that had happened. Who knew anything anymore?
I fixed him, U’ru said, her homely face lined with anxiety as her eyes darted from point to point around the chamber’s living contours. You said I would have my son if I fixed him.
Let us be clear now, came the admonishing reply. We said you would SEE your son, whole and alive – and so you have. We shall regard that bargain as complete, and turn our thoughts now to –
No! she cried, realizing the trick far too late. He is mine, he is mine – give him back to me, he is mine!
Shea cringed. U’ru could never have matched wits with Marhuk, not even at the height of her power. And here, now, when she was nothing but a dim, struggling flicker of her former self... oh, he was going to humiliate her.
And what have you done to deserve him?
But she was already riled by his deceit, and snarled with flat-edged teeth. I have done EVERYTHING –
You have wrecked everything,came the deathless rebuke. You have betrayed your allies. You have slaughtered innocents. And now you have truly forgotten yourself.
I have not forgotten! she cried, shoulders stiffening under imaginary hackles. I am U’ru the mother! I am good! I am love!
Something small and dark fell into the midden ahead, but Shea couldn’t see well enough to guess what it was.
You were good, the crows replied, and then their voice was as soft and grave as a terminal diagnosis. You were love. But in your loss, you stopped being loving. And soon, perhaps, you will be nothing at all.
Shea flinched, gut-checked by the implications. She glanced back up at the simmering hot walls, at the thousand glittering eyes perched like an executioner’s axe over their heads, and for the first time, it occurred to her that this conversation might not be about Yashu-Diiwa or even Hakai. U’ru might be answering for her own life.
The great lady quailed at the thought. Grandfather, you wouldn’t...
He could, though. He might. Marhuk was one of the Old Ones, if you believed the stories – one of the gods who had climbed up from the wreckage of the old world, who had shaped the new one into a place where life could flourish. U’ru and Ten-Maia and the rest were infants by comparison, lately-born children of a soft, earthly nursery... and Shea imagined precious little paternal affection coming from a creature who measured his thoughts in geologic time.
Hakai groaned, and Shea lay a hand at his throat. His pulse was weak and thready.
We are not discussing what I will do, came the loveless reply. We are discussing whether I am your grandfather.
Whether all those thousands of crows should recognize her, in other words. Whether there was any reason they should not swarm this foreign irritant and finish her on the spot.
And even then – even with her own life on the line – U’ru could not resist a nervous backwards glance at the tunnel leading back to the world of human concerns. But my baby...
Shea cringed at this fatal inattention – but no feathered hurricane descended.
Instead, the chamber rippled with wry amusement. Condescension. Pity. Now you see, U’ru, this was always your trouble. Always a nursemaid to daisies and mayflies. Even here, with our own sister-spirit in agonies before you, you have no thought for anything but your own trivial offspring. He is nothing –
HE IS MY SON! she cried with a tongueless howl of outrage.
He is MORTAL, replied the great consensus. He is disposable, replaceable: you had a thousand others before him and can have a thousand more after, and he will age and weaken and die regardless.
Another small, dark something fell to land a stone’s throw away, and this time there was no mistaking it. That was a dying crow, its wings flopping in erratic, soft-bodied convulsions. Soon it was still.
Shea could feel the retort brewing in U’ru’s mind long before it was formed enough to voice. Is that what you will tell your grieving daughter?
It is what she already knows, said the great black mass. We will kill or let die any of our children before we hazard their shared purpose. Your thrall there understood that. It tried to prevent you from martyring yourself for the sake of that one foolishly-begotten boy, and spirited him away for your own good. How awful it must have felt to see you squander its sacrifice by gutting your alliances, plundering your future, hurling yourself at enemy spears for nothing – for a mere morsel of life.
For the record, Shea was not a thrall or an ‘it’.
She was also not about to say anything of the sort. She kept her mouth shut and her eyes down.
So you destroyed your own people, the merciless reckoner continued, and thereby reduced yourself to a mere dumb animal, which is what you will become again – for good, this time – if we decide to let our daughter have her way, and put an end to the last son of the Ara-Naure.
But U’ru had already found the bottom of her fear, and now there was nothing left but defiance.
Then do it! She hauled herself violently to her feet, her blazing eyes alighting on one indifferent bird after another. I would rather be a mindless dog than a childless mother!
The silence in Shea’s mind grew all the more terrible when it finally ended.
Then certainly we can oblige you.
IT BEGAN SIMPLY enough. Penten lifted her chin to recognize each of the three foreigners in turn, and Sil made a mental note not to point at anything.
“Who is here and why?”
Día went first, with a graceful wrist-turning bow. “My name is Día, Eldest. I’m an ambassador for the First Man of Island Town, who has sent this man here for your judgment.”
Penten nodded, and switched her gaze to Sil.
“I’m Sil Halfwick,” he said, because he could at least manage that much, “his
partner and friend. And his name is –”
“May it please you, Eldest,” Día interrupted, with a sidelong glance at Sil. “He wishes to speak to you himself.”
Taken aback by this brazen interruption, Sil’s temper flared: as if he needed any help looking like a superfluous idiot in front of this lot!
But he shut up and gestured graciously – and was amazed when Elim took it upon himself to speak in Marín.
“My name is Appaloosa Elim,” he said, his accent atrocious but his voice unfaltering. “And I am here because I killed Dulei Marhuk.”
Día must have taught him that while they were waiting out front. He couldn’t string three words together by himself.
Then again, at this time last week, Sil would have bet money that Elim couldn’t have done this without buckling like a trick knee. And here he was: standing front and center in a foul, crowded little room, bearing up under the stares of half a dozen angry strangers intent on his death.
Penten tilted her head in acknowledgment – her, Sil confirmed to himself – and translated for To’taka.
Día used the time to give Sil a nod, which he returned: yes, actually, that had been a good opening gambit. It was important for Elim to make a good first impression.
“And what was the reason for his death?” Penten asked then.
Día began to translate for Elim, and Sil resisted the urge to spring forward with an answer. It was bloody difficult, doing nothing – hard not to feel like the third wheel Vuchak had called him. He had to contribute something, but what?
“I don’t rightly know,” Elim said, apparently unclear on whether to say it to Día or the a’Krah judges. “I was drunk, and I can’t recollect anything about it. I think he must have – I think I must have mistook him for a rustler coming to plug me. I’m awfully sorry.”
“‘I don’t know,’” Día faithfully rendered. “‘I was drunk, and I don’t remember it. I believe I thought he was a thief who had come to kill me. I’m so very sorry.’”
Even Día’s translation beat out anything Sil could have done, with a natural eloquence that he envied.
All right, so he wouldn’t play interpreter. He would study the people instead.
“And what fate do you believe you deserve?” Penten’s voice was soft and fluid, her heavy jaw relaxed. Her makeup made it harder to read her eyes, but Sil privately commended Weisei for bringing in an extra voice of reason. Elim needed all the help he could get.
“Well, I know – I know by rights I should die,” he was saying, his composure flaking just a little. “But I was hoping you might let me live.”
To’taka sat impassive and silent while this was expressed to him, as he had for the entirety of the interview. He kept his arms folded across his chest – a bad sign for someone Sil hoped to persuade – and yet his aura of disapproval seemed to have no focus. Was he just exasperated at having to sit through this? Could it be that he was more vexed at being called away from the chaos outside to arbitrate some trivial execution? Just how exceptional was all this, anyway? It was enough to make Sil wonder just how often demigods dropped dead around here.
One glance at Winshin was enough to stop that thought cold.
“Why should we?” Penten asked – a reasonable, dangerous question.
“I, uh...” Elim’s hands made an anxious wad of the front of his poncho; the sole of his bare foot pressed itself over the top of his moccasined one, and he looked for all the world like a child about to embarrass himself at the blackboard.
Then he looked to Sil. “Sil, will you tell them for me? Explain to them about Boss and Lady Jane and... you know, and the rest of it.”
That was a terrible idea, and Sil opened his mouth to tell him so. These a’Krah weren’t like the people back home: Elim wasn’t going to legitimize himself by hiding behind a respectable white name, and any sympathy anyone might have had for his family particulars was going to be swallowed up and spat back as pure venom by the mourning mother right there in the room.
Then again, it was Elim’s life – and if he were going to lose it, he’d better do it on his own terms. Sil shut his mouth and stepped forward into a wash of déjà vu. He had done this before, on a hot morning in Sixes, readying himself to answer Twoblood’s mistrustful glower before a circle of two hundred gawking Sundowners.
This time, though, he would get it right. This time, it wouldn’t matter whether he was appealing to a wolf in trousers or a crow in a dress or to the Sibyl herself. This time, Sil would be Elim’s advocate.
Sil made the wrist-turning bow before he spoke, and shared his attention equally between Penten and To’taka. “He wishes for you to know that he is not asking for mercy for his own sake. He belongs to an older man and his wife, citizens of good standing in our town. Their daughters are gone, and they have no other family to help them in their work, or to care for them as they age. If it pleases you, he would ask to be allowed to return to them, because although by the law he is their slave...” Sil cringed in anticipation of the last words, but one look at Elim’s earnest dirt-streaked face guaranteed that no, damn it all, there was really no other way to end it: “... by their usage, he is their son.”
There was just time enough for Elim to recognize that last word, eho, and for Sil to savor the appreciation in the big man’s face. Then came the inevitable reaction.
“And what of MY son?” Winshin cried, pushing forward. “What of MY child? Why –”
“A very good question,” Penten smoothly interrupted. “Let’s ask him. What do you think, Dulei? You’ve traveled all this way with him. Shall we spare this man’s life?”
Every eye in the room locked on to the dilapidated box at the foot of the dais. Even Winshin held silent, waiting – but for what? The boy had been dead for a fortnight. How was he going to think anything, let alone say it?
And if Sil was wrong about that, he went utterly uncorrected. The coffin sat motionless on the ground, and the only sound in the room was Weisei’s dismayed sigh.
“Then we will offer the decision to a higher power,” Penten said. “Ene vitsa nihani, Taivape?” She directed the question to the decrepit woman serenely decomposing up above.
But the Last Word elected not to live up to her title: she made neither sound nor sign, and after a suitably respectful waiting-time, Penten began to confer with To’taka.
Sil didn’t need to understand the words to know how to take that: Winshin’s satisfied silence and Weisei’s grim anxiety said it all. The evidence was all in, the witnesses had declined to testify, and the judge was about to render his verdict.
It would come as no surprise – at least, not if Sil had been paying attention. The man-price is at the election of the family, Twoblood had told him at the crossroads. This family will accept only blood. Why, even lying, treacherous Faro had said as much, as he blithely poured the coffee that Sil would drink to commission his own murder. There was no chance of appealing to mercy. There never had been.
And Penten’s vaguely-regretful expression confirmed it even before she opened her mouth. “We appreciate your candor, Appaloosa Elim, and salute your courage. We believe that you did not intend the death of our dear child. We are sorry for you, and for your family. However –”
Sil’s restraint snapped. “Wait!” he said – before realizing how rude that was, and hastily making a bow. “I mean, please forgive me – please, just hear me out.”
That got him a collage of shocked and dirty looks – but nobody stopped him, and Sil didn’t wait for someone to try. He’d known all along that Elim’s tack was the wrong one: the a’Krah believed in taking an eye for an eye, and if that was the case... why, if that was the case, then you simply had to offer a superior eye.
That was it. That was what Sil had been brought here to do. His body had been restored, so that it would make an attractive offer. His life had been returned, so that he could give it away.
“I just – I wanted to say,” he began, struggling to polish his egregiously tardy mom
ent of inspiration, “that if your wish is to honor Dulei with a life-gift, there is none more suitable than mine. I belong to one of the great houses of the Northmen; I have many exceptional talents, and – and I have earned special favor with my god, as Weisei will be glad to tell you. Please consider it, respected elders: I am the last of my line, the son of an old and noble family, and far better suited to answer for the death of a beloved prince” – this with a deferential nod to Winshin’s scowl, and a gesture at Elim’s dirty bulk – “than any poor horseman’s son.”
As he said it, Sil’s gaze lingered on the brown spot over Elim’s eye. Too late, he remembered that the Calverts’ mule was someone else’s son too – and he hadn’t accounted for her at all.
Well, someone else was going to have to take up that mantle: Sil didn’t have the first idea about any of it, and he’d probably ventured too much already.
Still, it was gratifying to see interest, or at least hesitation, from the people who had been perfectly resolved a minute ago.
“Excuse us, please,” Penten said. “We will discuss it. Winshin, Weisei, kui’ hagat ne.”
And as the two younger royals approached to confer with their elders, Sil let out a nervy breath, and tried to temper his expectations. There were no guarantees. It still might not work. But if it didn’t, he would spend the rest of his life – however long that was meant to be now – glad for having tried. And yes, he might have phrased that last bit better, but –
Then Elim accosted him. “WHAT DID YOU DO?”
He was pale under his spots, suggesting that this was a rhetorical question – that Día had already translated.
“Don’t worry, Elim,” he said in his most soothing undertone. “I’ve got a plan to –”
“Yeah?” Elim retorted, with a disturbing absence of gratitude. “You had a plan last time too, and it got you killed!”
Oh, for pity’s sake. Sil threw up his arms, gesturing expansively down at himself. “Yes, and then I got over it! Look, just –”
“No, YOU look,” Elim snarled, grabbing Sil up by his bloodstained shirt-front. “I have spent this whole god-awful trip thinking you were dead and beheaded, or sick as a whiskey-shitting pig, or dropped off a cliff, or I don’t even know what anymore. And if you make me spend even one more second wondering if I gotta go home and tell Will and Nillie how I let their baby brother get himself beefed out here, so help you God, Sil Halfwick, I will knock the resurrected snot out of you.”
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