by Tim Jones
Not that a dwarf court, with its rules, procedures, and precedents, would have stooped to the informal and highly irregular proceedings that unfolded in the Pust Inn. Beneath the smoke-blackened rafters, next to the fire banked low for the day, Vulumen-sthetika presided, head cocked to one side, tail swishing thoughtfully as she listened to the claims and counter-claims. She was half judge and half inquisitor, listening dispassionately one minute, browbeating witnesses the next. Since she was backed by a fighting force large enough to swallow a Borzim battalion without blinking, she was in a position to throw her weight, and her tail, around.
She was a formidable figure, and, watching her, Kendik realized that there was a lot more to the river t'skrang than the swashbuckling pirates about whom he had heard so many tales. There was power here, and dignity.
Some facts were not hard to establish. While Duke Kendik and his group were conducting their inspection of Pust, someone had been stealing what few valuables the people possessed. When challenged by the widow Mecira, whose hoard was the small trinkets and spoils of victory her long-dead husband had brought back from his service to Throal, this Thief had knifed her and left her to die. Fortunately, her daughter arrived a few minutes later, and managed to staunch the flow of blood in time.
The old woman, though still weak, had described the Thief: small, cloaked, and not from Pust. Suspicion had at once fallen on the smaller of Duke Kendik's two guards, and, egged on by some hothead no one could quite seem to identify, a mob and a plan had been born. Those of the mob who survived were paraded before the court, clothing torn, heads down. None of them, on close questioning, could say who the instigator of the plan was. All of them said that the boy Natrass had not been involved. Kendik spared a glance for the boy's family, listening, ashen-faced, at a distant table. They were saying nothing, but all around them, he could hear the muttering of the villagers who had crowded the far end of the tavern. Kendik did not think that this would all end well.
One important witness could not be found. Krat, the peasant who had warned Kendik of the impending attack, had gone. His house was empty, his family missing. Someone had seen his wagon leaving the village at dawn.
"We saw that wagon also," said T'shifa.
"Well," said Vulumensthetika, "either you're all pulling my tail, or there's more to this than meets the eye. Hathilt!"
From behind Vulumensthetika's guards, a t'skrang shuffled forwards. He was tall and thin. His abnormally large eyes protruded from his head. But the most startling thing about him was his skin, so pale it was almost translucent. Though he had never seen one before, Kendik knew, before Atlan leaned over to tell him, that here was a fabled Pale One, a t'skrang of the race that lived deep beneath the Throal Mountains.
The Pale One seemed nervous, uncertain; or so Kendik judged from the forked tongue that flickered in and out of his mouth.
"I think we need some of what you have in your robe," said Vulumensthetika. They talked for a little in the t'skrang tongue, then Vulumensthetika said "Bring forward the boy, and fetch me the old woman who was knifed. This will not harm your son," she added for the benefit of Sakara and Lethik.
They brought Natrass before Vulumensthetika. "Drink what the magician gives you," she said to the boy, "and do not be afraid."
Natrass' eyes glistened with tears. He looked back at his family, then turned and, with a new sense of resolution, opened his mouth. From his robes, Hathilt took a small phial and a copper spoon. He poured a few drops of the clear liquid from the phial onto the spoon, then tipped it into Natrass' mouth.
"Swallow, boy," said Vulumensthetika. "I tell you again, you will not be harmed."
Natrass swallowed. There was no visible effect. Hathilt conducted him to a chair and waited a few minutes, then said something in his own tongue to Vulumensthetika.
"Very well. What is your Name, boy?"
"Natrass."
"And who are your parents?"
"My mother is Sakara, milord, and my father is Lethik."
"It is madam, not milord. But no matter. What is the worst thing you have ever done in your life, Natrass?"
"When I was six, I killed a cat that used to come to our door for milk. My brother Bronat loved the cat, and I was angry with my brother, because he hit me and stole my hammer. I hit the cat with a spade. It fell and lay still, and I buried it. My brother was very sad."
"Have you ever told anyone what happened to the cat?"
"No. They will beat me, and my brother will hate me."
"Was it hard to tell me what you did to the cat?"
"No. I wanted to tell you."
"Very well. I believe you must apologize to your brother, and ask him what you must do in restitution. But that is not my concern today. Natrass, last night, you stayed in your own house with Duke Kendik and his group when your family came to stay in this tavern. What happened after you went to sleep?"
"I dreamed for a bit, I suppose, and then I had to get up and go to the toilet. I went to the privy. It was dark and I stepped in some mud, so I stopped to wipe my foot. Then I opened the door and—"
"Thank you, Natrass. Tell me what happened when the man came to the door of your house."
"I heard a noise, and I got up. I was scared, but I wanted to know who it was, and I didn't want to wake the duke. I have never met a duke, and he talked to me! He asked what I wanted to be in my life. He talked with me just like an ordinary man! I wish my father would talk with me more. He—"
"The man at the door, Natrass."
"I had seen him in the village, but I did not know his Name. He said he had a message for the duke. I told him to go away. He said he had to come in. He pushed past me, though I tried to stop him. He said I must fetch the duke. The man was bigger than me, so I did."
"Did the man tell you why he had come?"
"No."
"Very well. Later, Natrass, the duke says that you offered to lead him and his group out of town and onto the Borzim road. You chose a route that led to the place where spare wood for your water race, as you call it, is kept. Why did you choose that route?"
"Because it was the best one I knew to get them to the Borzim Road."
"Did anyone tell you to choose that route?"
"No."
"Did anyone pay you to choose that route?"
"No."
"Why did you run away when the fighting started?"
"I didn't run away at first. But then I thought, the duke is a great swordsman and can defend himself, but I have to warn my family about these bad people. And I ran, till that one caught me." He pointed at T'shifa, who glared back at him.
"Hathilt is a great Illusionist," said Vulumensthetika. "Those under the sway of his art cannot lie. This boy is telling the truth. He is blameless, save for the death of a cat. Natrass, you may go."
And go he did, in the embrace of his family—with the exception, Kendik noted, of one of his brothers. There would need to be much talking, and perhaps a good deal of crying, before that story was over.
During the interrogation of Natrass, the old woman, frail and small, swaddled in blankets, with one eye partly closed by a nasty contusion, had been brought back to the tavern. Again, she was brought to Hathilt. Was she suspected of lying, too?
But it was a different potion Hathilt brought out from the folds of his robe. This one was dark, and it smoked a little. The old woman was just as reluctant to take her medicine as Natrass had been. It was well she was supported by her daughter, for she sagged backwards as soon as she had taken it. A chair was placed for her, and she lolled in it.
"Now," said Vulumensthetika, "think about the man who attacked you. Remember every detail of his face. I know it is hard, but concentrate, and keep thinking of him."
And she must indeed have been concentrating, because, in the air above her head, a face formed. Only part of it was showing—the part not hidden by the cloak—but it showed a man with dark eyes, a small nose, a dark moustache.
"That's not my brother!" cried Atlan.
"I agree," said Vulumensthetika, "for I have seen your brother's body, and this man is nothing like him. Of this crime, at least, your brother was not guilty. Does anyone else recognize this face?"
Somehow, Hathilt caused the face to rotate so that everyone in the room could see it. There were gasps of recognition. Voices called out. Many people, it turned, had seen this man, skulking in a street, talking with others in a corner.
"Whispering, he was, always whispering," one woman said.
"He is not in the spirit world, or we could learn more from him," said Vulumensthetika. "It seems this man is the answer to many of our questions. Should anyone see him, do not approach him, but tell my guards. They will bring him to me, and then he will feel the full force of our wrath."
Vulumensthetika stood and paced slowly. Her tail swung behind her, knocking chairs and bumping tables. Her head was down in what, in a human, Kendik would have considered to be a pose of intense concentration. Then she straightened, stopped, and addressed the gathering.
"Villagers of Pust! Today you see both the justice and the mercy of the House of the Wheel. Though one of our own accused him, you have seen that we found the boy Natrass innocent of any guilt in the recent attack on Duke Kendik of Borzim. He must answer only to his family.
"We have found, also, that this attack was instigated by a human male of unknown Name, origin, and affiliation. If this man is brought before me while we of the Ishkarat remain in Pust, he will be tried for attempted murder. Otherwise, should he ever trespass onto our territory, his life is forfeit.
"Those who attacked the duke and his servants were foolish," she continued. "Yet I do not think any good cause would be served by my deciding their fate. That is a matter for the subjects of Tesek to resolve among themselves. But there will be no attacks on the duke while he is under our protection."
"Vulumensthetika of House Ishkarat has spoken," she concluded. "This trial is over, and I thank you all for your patience. You may all go back to your normal occasions, or stay here drinking in the inn if you wish, since the innkeepers have lost no little custom by our presence."
Chairs scraped as people began to depart, Vulumensthetika came over to Kendik. "Duke, I would talk with you a little."
Kendik didn't see any point in objecting. "My lady," he said. "Shall we walk?"
So they walked, Kendik flanked by Atlan, Vulumensthetika by two of her guards, and T'shifa lagging a step or two behind. There were many things Kendik wanted to ask T'shifa, but now wasn't the time.
"I have a proposition for you," said Vulumensthetika, her tail swishing in the mud.
"You do?"
"We of the House Ishkarat would like to talk with your master Tesek. The town of Borzim is growing. We see this. Every day, your females bear more children, and so, every day, you cut down a few more trees, enclose a few more fields, take a little more from the world you share with your neighbors. This thing we are walking alongside, this water race . this ingenious thing ... it does little harm by itself, but what if ten of them are built? A hundred? Soon the Opthia will be reduced to a trickle, and after that, will you try to steal water from the Serpent? That would be a grievous folly.
"We of the Ishkarat do not want war, but we fear that war may be forced upon us. We are stronger than your master knows, Duke Kendik. Do not bring war upon yourselves by your thirst for water and your hunger for food and land. I bear a parchment written for the eyes of your master, and him alone. Take it for me. Take it and deliver it to Tesek, and stand by to bring me his reply."
"Where will I find you?"
"T'shifa will know where to find me."
"I fear I can no longer trust T'shifa. I fear her loyalties lie not with the town of Borzim, but with the House Ishkarat."
"What if they do?" said T'shifa. "You will always have someone close at hand to tell you what the Ishkarat want, and what they might do. I will be the voice of the Ishkarat in your ear."
"Do not presume too much, sister," said Vulumensthetika sharply. "Even I do not call myself the voice of the Ishkarat, though I bear this dagger"—she held it up: black, glassy, and sharp-edged—"and you do not."
"Very well. But if you will let me return to Borzim with you, Duke Kendik, I will serve you well, and keep your secrets as mine."
"Some secrets are foisted upon one," said Kendik, "and fit no better than chain mail on a windling."
"While others," T'shifa said, "though they chafe at first, can grow to fit like a second skin."
"Enough of riddles," said Vulumensthetika. "Will you return to Borzim with the message I give you?"
Kendik thought of Anarya. "Yes," he said.
"There is one other matter," said Vulumensthetika. "Though his death was not by our hand, Atlan, your brother has paid the prescribed penalty for his attempt to steal from the Ishkarat. You are free to return to Borzim with your master."
"I want to find whoever killed my brother," said Atlan. "Find him, and kill him."
"Then do it in your own time, at a place of your choosing. You are no longer welcome in the village of Pust, or in any place the House Ishkarat controls."
"Controls?" queried Kendik.
"For a time. We have no wish to tarry in this village, but someone must preserve good order here. Do not trouble yourself. If Borzim sends a force of sufficient strength to maintain order here, we will depart and cede the town to them. Unlike some others, we have no wish for expansion—and no need for it, either," she finished, her head tilted downwards.
Duke Kendik and his retinue had come to the village of Pust by horse, but their horses had been the first targets of the mob. For a fee, a cart was found, and a driver. Kendik sat in the cart, looking back at the village of Pust as it receded into the mists of late afternoon. A ten-year-old boy stood with his father, waving.
"Goodbye, Duke Kendik," said Natrass. "Goodbye!"
Chapter 6
Borzim, central square, mid-afternoon. A place of noise and constant motion. Patches of sunlight and shadow flit over the cobbles, which are still damp and steaming slightly from a recent shower. Boots ring on stone. Birds and rats hunt scraps and each other in corners.
It is a place where few pause for long. All of these citizens and visitors, permits clutched in one hand or tucked away in pocket or purse, have got somewhere to go: to the market, to the guardhouse, to shop or inn or tavern.
But not everyone is on their way to somewhere else. Take this young woman, for instance, standing almost in the shadow of Tesek's statue. She cuts a striking but piteous figure, for she is beautiful, and dressed in fine armor, and has a fine sword by her side; yet it seems the balance of her mind is disturbed. She is accosting passersby, holding up a picture she has drawn, saying: "Have you seen this woman? She is my aunt Medzhina. Have you seen ...?"
Most of those hurrying past do not even break stride. One or two change direction to put as much distance between this strange young woman and themselves as possible. Others look around, hoping that a guard will appear and rid them of the inconvenient necessity of noticing this creature. And most march past, unre-sponding.
But there is kindness even in the central square of Borzim. An obsidiman halts his long strides, takes the proffered picture in his hands, and examines it closely, soberly, for perhaps half a minute, before handing it back, giving a single shake of his massive head, and moving on. A windling, who has the whole of the airspace about Borzim in which to avoid the young woman, instead flies down to take a closer look. She, too, knows nothing of the woman in the picture, but she promises she will keep an eye out. An eye out! As if anyone could, while flying.
And here is a young human about town who surely means well. Blond hair flops over his forehead. Though he is richly dressed and accompanied by a servant—or perhaps a bodyguard, for it is an ork— he approaches the distraught young woman, listens to her plea, and studies the picture. He shakes his head at first, but then looks up, raises a finger, and smiles at her. "Yes, yes, I do believe I recognize this face.
What did you say this good woman's Name is, again?"
"Medzhina. She is a widow, and a trader. She raised me, but I cannot find her. Do you know her?"
"Well, you see, I do not know her myself, but one of my servants, Luktia by Name, has—so they tell me, for I do not consort with servants myself, you understand—an aunt of that Name, or perhaps it is a grandmother? A kindly widow, with red hair, in any case, and after all, it is not so common a Name."
"Did Luktia say how old her aunt was, or whether she is still in Borzim?"
"Not to me, she didn't, but I'm sure she will say it to you, if you ask her. Now come! You must be hungry. I will take you to my home, and we will feed you, and give you a chance to bathe. And if you are tired—"
"You are most generous, Sir, but I would not impose on your time. Only let me speak to this Luktia, and I will not trouble you any further."
"Ah, well, there's the thing, you see. Luktia is off visiting her sick mother. She lives in the country, down Vnikitak way—don't know if you've heard of it—and she's not due back until tomorrow. She's been so worried about her mother, poor thing, and I didn't have the heart to say no. So, you see, your best chance of speaking to Luktia is to come with me and Ezkrad here. I assure you, we'll take the greatest care of you, and when you wake up in the morning, Luktia will be there, and you can ask her anything you want."
Six days ago, Anarya Chezarin would have driven this persistent young nobleman off with her sword, and put flight to his ork servant as well. She would not have believed for a minute in this Luktia and her sick mother, and though she was no woman of the world, she would have recognized well enough what the young man's gaze meant, as it traveled up and down her body, missing nothing of interest, and considering what else might be revealed once that suit of armor and that sword had been parted from their young, slim, blonde owner.
But that was six days ago, six days of hopeless searching, of finding that nothing was where it should be, that the people she knew were gone, or changed beyond recognition, that even the mention of the Name Dinazhe brought her only an audience with some obsequious fool who smiled much and said nothing. That Medzhina's house was gone, replaced by an ostentatious residence of the new nobility. That Medzhina's sister's house still stood, but there was a shop there now; that the shopkeeper knew nothing of Medzhina's sister, and cared less. Six days of interrupted sleep in the most flea-bitten room of a flea-bitten tavern, six days of intermittent and repulsive meals which was all that her dwindling funds could pay for, six days of despair. How she wished, now, that she had never taken it into her head to return to Kaer Volost, despite the odd kind of peace she had felt when she was there.