Patrik had stopped, and now stared at Yohan curiously. “What are you about, Yohan?”
“I was thinking about the man. The prisoner. Who is he?”
“Someone important. A nobleman, judging by his outfit. Does it matter?”
“What are they planning to do to them?”
Patrik found a rock on which to sit, set the sword aside, and rummaged through a pocket. “Twoscar told us the Chekik—the Archon, he called him—intended them for ritual sacrifice.”
“He also told us they were going west. How much can we believe, harpa? How much was truth, and how much lies?”
“It was all truth to him.” Patrik had worked up an appetite, so he bit off a chunk of jerky with the kind of enthusiasm Yohan recalled from his own early days in the army. He continued to speak while he chewed. “The directions he was told. The sacrifice, he may have witnessed. I believe him.”
Yohan nodded. “He said the Chekiks use valued prisoners for their ceremonies. The others they eat.” So shunned was the loathsome act that he felt shame simply from speaking of it. The next thought was even more difficult to say aloud. “So why is Summer still alive? I understand Jena, for she’s a princess—”
“So is Summer,” Patrik said. He bit off another large chunk before swallowing the first.
The idea made so little sense that Yohan was not sure he had heard correctly, or that his companion understood. “What’s that you say?” But the caravaneer continued chewing as if he had not heard.
Is he making game of me? That seemed unlikely. “She told me nothing of this,” Yohan said.
“Nay, she wouldn’t. It’s not her way.”
“You speak in earnest, then?”
Patrik swallowed at last, then sighed. He put down the jerky. “We don’t like talking of such things with outsiders. The empire has never respected our ways. Has seldom shown any curiosity, in fact.”
Yohan could not deny the long, tragic history of the harpa people. The mistreatment, and the misunderstandings. Nor would he deny his own complicity in their plight, for ignorance and neglect were no excuse.
Patrik looked at the setting sun. “I told you before that our people value girls more than boys, women than men. Our people trace family through the women, and family is everything to us. We are all one great family in community, but the blood bonds run even stronger.
“In its wisdom, your empire took everything from us but family and trade. We have no role to play in your politics, no voice in choosing your emperors. We are allowed no weapons—though you see what we think of that rule—and cannot serve in your armies, should we be so naive to so desire. We cannot even own land, and so are forced to spend our lives wandering.
“Yet if forced to the road, why not make the most of it? And so we began to carry goods, from one end of the empire to the other. Indeed, we are better at this than any other people I know of. The kingdoms rely on us, and hand their riches over to us, though we have little on which to spend those riches. But you Imperials do. Your need for wealth is as incessant as our need for music. And so, having no use for it ourselves, we lend this money out to your artisans, your armies, even your kings. I believe it can be said that the blood of the empire could not flow without harpa coin.
“It became too bothersome for Imperials to keep track of the caravans. Wanting a convenient way to keep the money close, it only made sense to establish permanent homes in the cities for the wealthiest harpa. Not homes that we could own ourselves, of course…but great houses nonetheless, complete with housethralls and silken sheets so that Imperial guests might be made comfortable. And so the oldest, most prominent families of harpa live in luxury, a conduit between the true citizens of the empire and the harpa of the road.
“Each of the large capitals has one such family, but the four greatest are in the richest four cities of the empire: Chissenhall, Neublusten, Darleaux, and Valos.
“In one of these was Summersong born. The daughter of one of our wealthiest matriarchs…perhaps the wealthiest, such distinctions are unimportant to us. Most of her class enjoy their status, seldom leaving the cities. But of course that life never held any appeal for her. The road is home to the harpa, and no one is more harpa than Summer.
“It was my great fortune to accompany her first caravan. I fell in love with her immediately, of course. I know not how it happened, but she deigned to love me, also. I…” His voice trailed off suddenly. “I believe I have answered your question, Soldier Yohan.”
“She never said so. She never so much as hinted.”
“Nay, she wouldn’t. Nor did she lord her status over the rest of us. It’s one of the things I love about her. One of the many.” He studied Yohan for a moment. “What vexes you?”
“I’m just surprised she didn’t tell me.”
Patrik’s eyes narrowed. “Why would she tell you, Soldier Yohan?” His tone had shifted from remembrance to suspicion.
Through fog and confusion, Yohan’s mind told him he was treading in dangerous waters. Yet his heart was aching again, as painfully as ever. It needed an outlet.
“Soldier Yohan? You wish to say something, I think.”
“I do. A favor to ask, actually.”
Patrik raised an eyebrow. “A favor, from the caravaneer?”
“From the musician. The mbe.” His voice choked.
The harpa frowned. “You request music? Here? Now?”
“Your story reminded me of my own lessons. To celebrate life while we can.”
Patrik nodded. “And to mourn our fallen. The two are the same, to us.”
“Will you play?”
The man looked down without answering, and Yohan feared he had overstepped their connection. They may not be friends, but he had no desire to upset the only companion he had.
“I am humbled, Soldier Yohan, that you had to remind me of my own beliefs.”
“You’ll play, then?”
“I could not refuse, had I wished to.”
The fiddle was the only instrument they were able to carry on this march, and Yohan had long considered it a waste of space and weight. He had lost sight of the importance of music to the harpa. Now he thanked the gods that Patrik had not.
Sunset bathed the fiddler in a curious light as he stood, poised, bow across strings. His eyes were closed, his focus on summoning whatever unfathomable reserves that allowed him to play with the magical amalgam of precision and emotion that had caused Yohan and all the other soldiers to fall in love with caravan eves, when music and dancing had driven away worry and hardship for a few brief hours, night after night.
The first note held in the air for countless seconds, a lone arrow to the heart, then was joined by a second and a third. Then the notes quickly lost individual distinction, blurring into a harmonious whole.
The women were not here to perform in body, but Yohan saw their spirits in the colorful horizon, moving together and apart, black silhouettes in impossible motion.
Summer and Meadow, and behind them the apparition of Silvo clapped his hands. Yohan looked left, seeing Brody’s smiling face, full of love for one of the dancers. Then right, where all the other soldiers appeared one by one. The last was Corporal Mercer, scowling even as his foot tapped to the rhythm.
Yohan closed his eyes so he could simply listen. This was the first song he had danced to with Summer. He thought of it as her song. Summer’s song.
The music was a salve, carrying away worry and pain, if only for a time. When it stopped, he remembered all the problems that plagued him once more. But the haze had been lifted, his mind freed of endless torment.
That night, he dreamed of his mother, his father, and a little village called Parca. Twoscar was not there.
In the morn, Yohan felt he could think clearly for the first time in a month. And by the afternoon, he was as distressed as ever.
As they returned from their scouting expedition, Patrik voiced the only question that mattered. “Where are they?”
The prison camp was still th
ere, though only half the number of tribesmen remained. It was difficult to get an accurate count, because the barbarians traveled back and forth from camp to town with increasing frequency.
“I know not. Perhaps into Threefork.”
“And perhaps not.”
“Aye.”
“Do we stay, or do we move?”
“I know not.”
“No decision is still a decision. It’s just a bad one.”
“The wrong one could be even worse, and only a fool plans based on a guess.”
“We should have freed them when we had the chance.”
Yohan did not argue. Instead, he prayed for the panic to fade sufficiently for his wits to return.
Throughout the afternoon, he worked on formulating a plan to get all his questions answered. By that eve, he was ready to share the plan with his companion.
“I think it’s worth the risk. I go into town.”
“You mean we go.”
“It will be dangerous.”
“You don’t seem to understand yet. There is no danger that would stop me.”
“What of the danger to the prisoners, harpa? What if I can succeed better on my own?”
“Are we speaking of the morrow, or everything? You cannot be rid of me so easily, soldier.” Patrik glared back with a hostility not seen in recent days. “You speak of nothing I have not considered a hundred times already. If I truly endanger our task, tell me now. But I will not be easy to convince. Do you wish to try?”
“I do not, and I knew your answer already. I simply do not like to send a man to his doom without giving him the chance to avoid it.
“Very well, we go together. It shouldn’t be difficult to obtain disguises. A few furs from a patrol ought to do. We already look and smell bad enough to pass for tribesmen.”
That night, the heavy rain emptied the streets of Threefork. Most citizens supped inside their homes and went to bed early. The weather was also an excuse, for the locals had not yet become accustomed to so many savages wandering in their midst with such brazen impunity, visiting tavern and brothel, carousing with civilized folk as though they belonged.
A few of the barbarians even went so far as the town hall, where the interim magistrate allowed their visitations with more frequency than even his own kinsmen. One of the tribesmen, in particular, entered the seat of administration so regularly that he was whispered to be the real voice of authority.
This rumor did not particularly bother the inhabitants, however, for the new magistrate was widely viewed as a contemptible lout. And the barbarian—a man with distinctive features, a bushy red beard, and humorous temperament—was one of the few well-liked by those who had gotten to know him over a drink or four.
Had anyone been watching that night, they would have seen two different savages make their way to the same building. Covered in long furs, though the rain did nothing to lessen the heat, the two quietly walked from gate to town center without so much as a nod or a glance to anyone else.
The remaining tribesmen were drunk, fornicating, or well on their way to one or the other as the two men disappeared inside. The restless civilians were hiding, the restful asleep. Everyone but the participants themselves would find out the events of that night only at dawn the following morn.
“I tell you, Redjack, your people cannot continue to take our food as if it were their own. The caravans have stopped delivering, and our farms do poorly. We need everything we have left.”
“I appreciate your concern, Magistrate.” The last word received an emphasis of derision. “I will relay your demand to the Chekiks—”
“Not a demand, Redjack,” simpered a man Yohan did not recognize, though his position and status were clear enough from the few minutes of eavesdropping. “Not a demand. A request. One of many factors the Chekiks should consider in their calculations.”
Yohan could not see the second man from where he stood, peeking through the slivered aperture of a cracked door. But he knew the voice well enough to visualize the distinctive face with its amiable, disarming features. The wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“Their calculations?” Redjack laughed. “Where do you think the people of Threefork fit into their calculations? Or one troublesome magistrate, for that matter?”
“Why, I…” The high voice found no basis to continue.
“Let me remind you, Kazmir, that you now serve the Communion first, Gothenberg second. Your good king Deniger agreed to that when he surrendered his kingdom at the first sign of raiders.”
“He did not know you would be starving his citizens.”
“You mean he did not care. His concern was only that the invasion hit Vilnia instead.”
“But our food—”
“What do you think was meant when he agreed to supply our raiders? That we would be discreet? Polite? Docile?
“Nay, he knew what he was doing…sacrificing one insignificant town in exchange for the destruction of his rival.” Redjack’s mirth increased with each laugh. “I thought the fighting between my people was shameful, but we’ve got nothing on you Imperials.”
Yohan had heard enough. It was difficult enough to restrain his rage at the first sound of the traitor, but he had done so for the sake of the mission. He had come for answers, and now had more than he wanted.
He had spent the last few minutes half-listening, half-remembering the betrayal and destruction of Captain Marek’s company. Of Jena’s squad. Of Summer’s caravan. And countless others, unknown but not forgotten. Not forgiven.
Yet the betrayal of an entire kingdom—nay, of the empire entire—was too much to bear.
Redjack was still speaking as Yohan pushed the door open the rest of the way. “…think your king has abandoned you, Kazmir. You should put your faith in the Communion, in Sulja, and in me. For the empire is not long for... What is it, brothers?”
Both men turned to face the newcomers. Neither showed recognition in that first instant. Instead, one showed irritation and the other anxiety. Then the second face turned to shock, the gaze lowering to the sword thrust through his ribcage.
Yohan withdrew the blade and let the magistrate collapse. It would not do to allow the enemy even an instant of opportunity, so he crossed the five feet separating him from the tribesman in the time it took for those small black eyes to squint, then widen. Then it was too late, and both of them knew it.
Redjack smiled. “Brother Yohan. I’ve been wondering when you would show.”
“Now. Now is when I show.”
“I knew you would—”
“Don’t waste my time. You know I’m in a hurry. You know my questions.”
“Why?”
Yohan shook his head. “There is no time for why. What, where, and when.”
The room was lit by a single candle, and its flickering glow made Redjack’s dark eyes seem to dance. Heavy rain pounding the wooden building was the only sound for one long moment.
The tribesman paid no attention to Patrik, who stood just inside the door, keeping an eye on the main entrance to the building. The only things in the world just then were Yohan, his sword, Redjack, and his scheming mind.
“Lower your sword first, brother.”
Yohan raised it threateningly. “They’ve not been eaten. What, then?”
He disliked the hopeful expression that appeared on the other man’s face. “You think I’m a monster, don’t you? Nay, brother. These Chekiks are true monsters. Their demons are true monsters. And now, many of my kinsmen are monsters.”
“Tell me.” He focused on the lips, as if he could discern truth from lies by watching the words emerge.
The smile became a frown. “I am telling, you aren’t hearing. The Communion makes monsters of us all. You can accept their blessing, as they call it, or you can resist. And wind up like him.” He kicked the body on the floor. “Dead in poxing Threefork.”
“Ironic.” Yohan jerked the blade forward a few inches, and even unflappable Redjack recoiled.
His eyes
shifted from sword to wielder then back again. Then, strangely, he gave a mirthless laugh. “I’m a mean bastard, I know. But I didn’t know what they were like. Not at first. I could watch the rituals, the meals, so long as all I had to do was watch. Why not? There was nothing I could do. Nothing but get away from them as soon as I could. That’s why I’m here.
“Unlike the others. The ones still with your women. They’ve crossed the line, brother. Gone over. There’s no saving them, but I thought I could—”
“You’re stalling. Stop.”
“I don’t know much. You know they eat us, but there are other ceremonies. Things that use blood. The nobler, the better, from what I was told. And pain. Their gods feed on that. But most of all, life. That’s the worst part, watching the life drained from a man, or a woman. Not ripped, not quickly, but wrung out slowly like water from a rag.”
Redjack’s eyes became distant, looking inward rather than out. “You can see it on the faces… Not only that, you can see it come out…” He shuddered, then refocused on Yohan.
“I hope you stop them, brother, I really do. I have no love for Imperials, but no one should have to—”
“Where?”
“One of their shrines. A place for sacrifice.” He looked down once more at the sword. “Lower that, brother, and I’ll say.”
He paused expectantly. No one moved.
Redjack did not seem perturbed. “I always had a fondness for you, brother. Neither of us belonged with the Vilnians, and they never let you forget. I often asked myself why you stayed. I had a reason to remain. What was yours?”
Yohan lowered his arm. “Where, brother?”
Redjack almost managed to suppress his grin. Almost. “Sea’s Pass. But you—”
The lips continued moving, but since the head was no longer attached to the rest of the body, they no longer produced sound. Yohan turned away, feeling no satisfaction. Wiping his blade before sheathing it, he led his silent companion back out of the chamber.
Empire Asunder BoxSet Page 61