Warautumn

by Tom Deitz

  Which was why Tyrill was “praying,” but not what she was doing while she “prayed.”

  No indeed! What she was doing, overtly, was studying the aftereffects of her latest … indiscretion.

  The fane was small and out of the way; set, as it was, halfway up a high, steep hill, to which an equally steep set of steps spiraled up from the road—all of which tended to discourage passersby from casual visitations. Which also made it a perfect vantage point from which to observe—if she positioned herself so as to peer through the surrounding pierced-stone half screen—a set of granaries that stood at the foot of the path, across the road from a large wheatfield. Two days ago, there had been four of them. Now there were three—and the occasionally still-smoking stub of the other one.

  That one—a largely empty one, by deliberate design—had been torched the previous evening by person or persons unknown, shortly after the last harvesters had departed. And only the intercession of Fate—or Life, since one of Life’s fanes was conveniently nearby—had prevented all four from being consumed.

  The result, of course, was that the remaining granaries were now under guard by members of Priest-Clan or their lackeys. More to Tyrill’s point, however, that guard should be changing any moment. She watched closely, there in the light of the setting sun: watched the last laborers—all of them Common Clan or clanless, where before there would have been a handful of High Clan involved—empty their baskets into the middle granary and amble away. The guards—two of them—watched them go, then spared a moment for a drink and to greet their replacements when they came riding up. At Tyrill’s range—a quarter shot up the hill—she couldn’t hear more than an occasional laugh or comradely shout. But Tyrill was not about hearing. She was about waiting … just a little longer.

  The day guard was leaving now: had mounted their horses and were pounding away, leaving fresh replacements to sit watch through the night.

  Tyrill waited until the old guards showed only as spots of dirty white rising above clouds of dust only slightly darker, and then she moved.

  Carefully.

  Just enough to be seen by one of the guards below.

  A shout ensued, but she chose to ignore it, intent on her false piety.

  Another, then a pause that probably masked a muttered comment or an exasperated sigh, followed by the pounding of footsteps on the spiral path. Two pairs, she was pleased to note.

  Getting closer.

  Closer.

  “Who’s there?” a young female voice called sharply, the tones tense with alarm.

  “What?” Tyrill coughed, as though startled. She twisted around in place, timing her movement to coincide precisely with the arrival at the entrance arch of a breathless, flush-faced young woman. “I’m sorry,” she continued, blinking in exaggerated confusion. “I fell asleep at prayer, and it made me groggy, and I … I can’t quite seem to stand.”

  “It’s late,” the guard said stiffly, though she was obviously trying to be polite. Beyond her, Tyrill could see the guard’s male companion pacing about, looking impatient.

  “I’m sorry,” Tyrill repeated, reaching for her cane, then raising her hand to cough once more.

  But she didn’t cough. Remaining on her knees gave Tyrill an excellent angle on the guard’s unprotected throat. And that close—no more than a span away—even in the rapidly gathering twilight, there was no way she could miss. Not as practiced as she had now become.

  The girl looked startled, then grabbed her throat—and started to fall. Tyrill caught her as she rose—and almost fell herself, before she got the two of them stabilized.

  “Help!” she called, in what was not entirely feigned panic.

  “What?” the second guard cried, arriving at the door. And halting—Just long enough for another dart to find the back of his neck, from where Tyrill’s more mobile and sharper-sighted accomplice had waited behind a piled stone wall farther up the hill.

  The man collapsed as neatly as Tyrill had ever seen a man fall: simply folded himself down at each of his joints, like a puppet whose strings had been severed. Still struggling with her own burden, she had to watch him fall and pray no one else saw what had transpired.

  By the time she had freed herself of the unfortunate guardswoman, a new figure stood in the entrance arch: a man as disheveled and shabbily dressed as she, though younger. He stepped carefully around the fallen guard and helped Tyrill find her feet, moving with a grace she would have envied half a lifetime ago.

  “Good work—for a pair of flute players,” Ilfon laughed, brandishing the blowgun he had made when Tyrill had shown him hers—which he had painted (as he had painted hers) to resemble the flutes street musicians used, down to false finger holes. It wouldn’t stand close scrutiny, but no one who’d got close enough to discover their deception was alive. With a flourish, Ilfon removed the glass darts from both necks and ground them against the dusty marble beneath his feet, into which they disappeared as though they had never existed. And swatted at something that buzzed his face.

  “Good luck, this,” he chuckled. “Mosquitoes, I mean. Mosquito bites look a lot like the marks of blowgun darts. And this time of year, this close to the river …”

  Tyrill nodded sourly. “Whoever finds them will see what they expect to see.”

  Ilfon’s brow quirked up. “Two guards dead in one of Life’s shrines? That may be pushing it, even so. But we won’t need to come this way again. Not until they’ve relaxed their vigilance.”

  Another nod, as Tyrill slumped down on the rail of the shrine itself. “It was a good plan, though: lure them south, then ambush them. But we have to be careful not to fall into a pattern. And not to deflect blame where blame doesn’t belong. We don’t need innocents accused of crimes they didn’t commit.”

  Ilfon scowled a warning. “It is going to happen—eventually. You know that.”

  “But hopefully not yet,” a husky female voice inserted, in what was obviously an Ixtian accent.

  Tyrill whirled around in place, even as Ilfon went instantly on guard.

  “No need for that,” that same lower voice advised. “I’m coming to the entrance now—that’s how much I trust you.”

  And with that, a dark, cloaked shape did indeed melt into view just beyond the archway. Tyrill couldn’t see the face for the angle of the waning sun and the overhang of the woman’s hood.

  “Lady Tyrill, Lord Ilfon,” that unknown woman continued, dipping her head in formal acknowledgment, “I see that you have become well acquainted with the … flute. Therefore, allow me to introduce myself: the … flute-maker.” And with that she swept back her hood.

  “Elvix,” Tyrill gasped. “I should’ve known.”

  “Elvix mahn Aroni mahr Sheer at your service—Chiefs,” Elvix grinned through another bow. “Ambassador at large from Ixti, and now at the service of you, who represent, if I may say, Eron’s only legal government.”

  Ilfon looked anxiously toward the door, as if expecting other intrusions. “I’m alone,” Elvix assured him. “No one knows I’m in this part of the country except Tozri—and maybe King Kraxxi, if word has reached Ixti by now. In any case, I’d suggest we retire to a less … controversial location. I feel confident that we have all got a great deal to tell each other.”

  Ilfon nodded sagely and extended his arm to Tyrill. “We’ve a caravan—if you can call it that—over the next rise.”

  “That will do nicely,” Elvix assured them, with another grin. “I have wine.”

  And until the last moon set at midnight, the three of them drank and plotted and planned.

  CHAPTER XVI:

  RAFTING

  (SOUTHWEST OF ERON–HIGH SUMMER: DAY LXXXIV–AFTERNOON)

  They hadn’t reckoned on rain …

  Three days of the wretched stuff—without letup, and sometimes so heavy they could see nothing but an endless curtain of liquid silver shimmering down from the cave opening’s upper rim to where it disappeared a quarter span beyond the ledge that terminated what passe
d for a floor.

  At least there was no dearth of drinking water—but that was the only surplus of water that was good, since the rain meant that progress on the raft, which had been running well ahead of schedule, was now running badly behind.

  Never mind the effect the incessant downpour was having on their hunting, which was to render it impossible; fishing, which was only barely viable; or gathering firewood, which was the real problem in the long run. Hindsight told them they should have laid in a supply of dry wood against such an eventuality as they now confronted. Instead, they had blithely harvested the closest kindling first, with the result that not only was all the remaining nearby wood too green to burn easily, but they had to go ever-farther afield to find the shrinking portion of the remainder that wasn’t. And return soaked themselves, to sit around what little flame they could coax into being, nibble fish and mushrooms, and drink increasingly watered-down cauf—after “drying off” on blankets that got damper and damper while they waited for sodden clothes to dry.

  At least it was summer, so cold was not a problem. But even so, an unpleasant clamminess pervaded their sanctuary, in very unwelcome contrast to the crisp warmth that had greeted their arrival. The scent of mildew was beginning to tickle the air, too, and with the soap supply all but exhausted, blankets and rug alike were starting to stink of sheep. They staved off some of the problem by going barefoot and shirtless most of the time, and leaving as many garments as they could as close to the fire as they dared. But while common bathing was something they had all indulged in without thought, the cave was not a bath-chamber in a hold, and long-ingrained rules of decorum haunted extended casual “indoor” undress, adding to the pervasive edginess.

  To fill the time, they made rope from the inner bark of a tree that grew in groves a quarter shot down the path; made arrows from reeds and shoots of thick-cane; and flaked points from fire-glass, which was abundant thereabouts—or helped Kylin with the flute he was making. Sometimes they sang, too; but no one but Kylin had more than a passable voice.

  They also played games: notably question games or dare games, and engaged in every sort of athletic contest a hard floor and cramped quarters allowed—which was mostly variations on wrestling. And they groomed each other: trimming long-neglected hair and shaving off sparse beards. Finally, they mended everything they could find that needed mending until they looked set to run out of thread and Lykkon made them stop.

  Mostly, however, they simply talked—about the war, at first, but increasingly about what would be required to turn this remarkable location into a viable hold—either here on the island, or in the cliffs that ringed it.

  And by all those means, the bonds between them grew stronger. Already comprised of two sets of bond-mates and another set of natural half brothers, with Kylin the only odd lot, they all discovered things about each other none of the rest had known. There was even a little love play—discreet and under covers, with Lykkon and Kylin being the most frequent participants, simply because, without bond-mates themselves, they had endured longest without physical affection. Bingg was an awkwardness in that regard, because he was Avall’s cousin, Lykkon’s actual half brother—and too young for even courtesy attention from the rest. He needed a bond-mate his own age—which was one thing he would not find here in the Wild. If they remained in the Wild.

  Which brought them back to that.

  Avall was absolutely convinced that he had been shown this place for a reason, and brought there for one as well—though what those reasons might be, he had no idea.

  He turned back from the cave’s front rim, where he had been standing for at least a half hand, staring out at the sheeting rain. The cliffs that were their goal were out there somewhere, but he couldn’t see them. Scowling, he padded back to the fire and asked the question he had posed at least once a day since work on the raft began. “Assuming the thing actually floats, how long do you think it will take to reach the mainland?”

  “How fast can you paddle?” Rann retorted, voicing his standard reply.

  “As fast as you can,” Avall replied sourly. “It’s just that we really don’t have that much left to do on the thing, and if the rain were to break, we could make the first trip this afternoon.”

  “Enough ‘ifs’ to choke a geen,” Myx grumbled. “We’d still have to carry the first load down there—and we don’t know what shape the trail is in.”

  “We don’t know the raft’s still there,” Riff put in grimly. “If the level of the lake has risen much, it might not be.”

  “We had it lashed down,” Lykkon opined from the corner. “There hasn’t been that much wind.”

  “Only rain,” Avall spat. “And rain. And rain.”

  “Don’t forget rain,” Bingg chuckled from nearest the fire, where he was pounding tubers in hopes of making something resembling bread meal.

  Avall glared at him, then eased closer to Myx and Riff, pitching his voice for them alone. “There never seems to have been a good time to ask this,” he began, “and it’s not really a good time now, but … forgive me if this seems rude, but … are you lads happy here? You seem to be, but you’re both betrothed, correct? To women now at War-Hold? If we were to stay—not now, maybe, but someday—”

  Myx exchanged glances with Riff. “You’re asking would we rather be here or with them.”

  “We’d rather be here with them,” Riff inserted. “But that said, you’re right: We like it here. We think they’d like it here—or my lady would, anyway; since she’s from Wood, and The Eight know there’s plenty of wood around here.”

  “Do these mysterious women have names?” Bingg inquired, likewise easing closer. “I don’t think I’ve actually heard you say them.”

  “Navayn—she’s mine—and Tavera,” Myx murmured. “Navayn’s got a brother about your age. I suspect he’d be up for a trip west as well.”

  “All of which is ultimately supposition,” Avall sighed, leaning back on his elbows. “But I had to know—well, wanted to know, anyway—in case we did decide to come back here on a more … permanent basis.”

  “After the war, you mean?” From Myx.

  “After some kind of resolution,” Avall corrected. “The Eight know precious little can be resolved from here. That’s why getting to the mainland is so important. Once we get there—”

  “You can be King again,” Myx finished for him.

  “Avall doesn’t like being King,” Bingg countered, too loud.

  “I just wanted to know where you stood on the matter of going versus staying.” Avall replied. “I didn’t want you to do anything you didn’t want to do. Getting to know you two has been one of the joys of the last half year, but I never wanted to take over your lives.”

  “You haven’t,” Riff assured him.

  “Where you go, we go,” Myx added “—allowing for the Fateing, if it ever starts up again.”

  “And as for Navayn and Tavera, they’re more likely to force us to go with you than to try to hold us back.”

  “Well, that’s as much as I could hope for, I guess,” Avall concluded. And with that, he rose and ambled back to the front of the cave.

  Something had changed out there, he realized. Perhaps the rain wasn’t falling so hard, or the drops weren’t quite so large. Certainly he could see farther into what was still mostly a sheet of mist. But for the first time that day, he could also distinguish two shades of gray where the opposing cliffs were supposed to be, so that reality had regained a horizon. And even as he watched, the whole world brightened abruptly and one pure beam of sunlight lanced down.

  Rain swallowed it at once, evoking a disappointment in Avall so bitter he almost wept. But another beam appeared a finger later, and that one not only remained but expanded, so that by the time another hand had elapsed—it was still barely past noon—the sky was all but clear. A hand after that, they had spread three days’ worth of damp clothing on rocks to dry and were all, save Kylin, on their way to the cove to see how much damage the raft had sustained.


  Not much, as it evolved. At some point the lake had risen high enough to lap under it and shift it—but in such a way that it had pivoted around one corner, so that the bulk of it was now two spans closer to shore than heretofore. As for actual damage, one section of railing had torn loose, but would be no problem to resecure.

  For the rest—it was mostly a matter of checking bindings, adding some new ones from the rope of which they suddenly had a near surplus, and rigging a mounting for the sail they had decided would make a useful supplement to oar power.

  “If we stay here,” Lykkon mused, gazing at the now-visible shore that was so near and yet so inaccessible, “we should rig a ferry system. It would take a lot of rope, but it could be done, and the first crossing would be the hard one. Once we had one rope stretched across the lake, we could walk either end to the best locations. That would make going back and forth a whole order easier.”

  “Assuming we stay here,” Myx stressed with exaggerated emphasis.

  “Right,” Lykkon agreed, with a grin. “Assuming.”

  “Tomorrow?” Avall inquired, dipping his head toward the raft. Sweat glistened on his bare torso, but he looked absurdly happy.

  Riff nodded solemnly. “Tomorrow. But it won’t be fun, whatever you think. And it could still be deadly, for all we’ve seen no more water-beasts.”

  “I’ve been thinking about them,” Lykkon murmured through a thoughtful scowl, as he surveyed the lake. “I think they may only be here part of the time. They could be like salmon: They live in the sea but come inland to breed, and maybe the young ones stay here until they’re big enough to dare open water.”

  “The one we killed was big enough, thank you,” Bingg growled.

  “Agreed.”

  “That also assumes we’re near the sea,” Avall observed. “We’ve no proof of that, except that we’ve seen seabirds—but we’ve seen them as far inland as Gem-Hold, so that’s no indicator.”

  “But there is a trace of salt in the water sometimes,” Lykkon countered. “That implies some level of physical connection.”