by Kirby Crow
He ate a little more of the apple, his brow furrowing as he chewed. This job was getting almost too dangerous, though once he would have insisted otherwise. His love for the pedlar’s life was as strong as ever, but even he had to admit that he had been extremely lucky thus far. Numerous hazards had brushed past him, death and rape among them, but he had always managed to escape. He recalled Masdren’s offer and toyed with the idea of settling in Ankar or Sondek, or perhaps even far south in Rusa, the colorful capital of Byzantur, where there were Hilurin who actually lived in walled cities instead of rustic, undefended villages.
Finishing the apple, Scarlet looked around at the dry, yellow country surrounding the road. He chose a likely spot: a little mound of earth out of the shade of a stand of wind-blasted oaks, and dug a shallow hole to drop the apple core into. That done, he glanced quickly around him to make certain no eyes would witness, scraped a little dirt over the gnawed core, and laid his palm over the earth. Warmth crawled up his wrist as he closed his dark eyes and chanted the short verse, and then he was up and walking down the road to the ferry, dusting off his hands.
Behind him, a thin, fragile, tendril of green curled out of the mound and tested the air.
THE BOAT WAS A SKIFF, the waters choppy, and the captain was roaring drunk. Not the best way to navigate the Iron River from Patra to Lysia, but it had to do. The deck heaved under Scarlet like a wild mare from the Bledlands, the captain stank like a distillery, and Scarlet was vastly relieved to finally see the lowland dock of Skeld’s Ferry with the usual loiterers hanging around. He waved at a figure seated on the shore just as the skiff’s bow slammed into the dock and landed him on his rump.
One of the old men smoking his pipe in the sun grinned and raised a hand to him as he was getting to his feet. “High time you returned, Scarlet-lad.”
He squinted to make out the man’s features and waved. It was Old Kev, the village Watch and Teff Ferryman’s uncle, who knew his father’s father when he was a boy and never let him forget it. Lysia was a small village and everybody knew Scarlet and knew he was too restless to stay long in one place. Yet, his feet always seemed to find their way back.
“What do you hear, Kev?” he asked, stretching stiff muscles and trying to rub the soreness out of his backside. Teff and his son Keril were seated beside Kev in wide broomstick chairs, each with a smoldering pipe in their hands.
Kev gave Scarlet a dour look and dragged a puff from his pipe. “News is what happens somewhere else,” he drawled, disapproval coloring his tone. Kev had made no secret of his dislike of Scarlet since he had turned fourteen, and wondered loudly and often in Scarlet’s presence how in Deva’s name any proper Hilurin man could choose a wandering life over home and hearth. Though he was invariably civil to Scarlet for his father’s sake, Scarlet was painfully aware that Kev himself represented every reason he had left Lysia in the first place.
“Nothing much changes here,” Kev went on.
“Steady as the Nerit,” Scarlet agreed, nodding his head to the south, where the shadow of Nerit Mountain sketched a black and white hump across the sky behind Kev.
“True, true.” Kev nodded lazily, smoke flowing from his mouth. “But as it happens, there is something new these days.”
Scarlet pretended disinterest. “Oh?”
“There’s a snot-nosed Kasiri king. Liall, he calls himself. A Northman, I gather. Some even say he’s from frozen Norl Udur itself, and he’s squatting on the mountain athwart Whetstone Pass. He was here a day or three ago, the Wolf himself: tall as a frost giant, hair like snow and pale blue eyes like a cat. Never seen the like. If you’re going to sell your wares in Khurelen or the Bledlands, you’ll have to pay his toll.”
Scarlet smirked, unconvinced that a Kasiri could be from Norl Udur. Kasiri were generally from Chrj, the vast, arid desert east of the Iron River. Saying one was from Norl Udur was like saying he was from the moon. Still, he was glad of the chance to take Kev down a peg for once.
“You call that news? Since when is a gypsy rare, even one as strange as that? There’s a thousand other Kasiri on the roads between here and Morturii.”
“This Kasiri has got a well-armed krait at his back, and they’ve held the Snakepath to Khurelen for three months.”
Scarlet blinked. Kasiri chieftain generally did not allow their people to make camp in one place for any amount of time. To do so was to invite disaster, for no civilized place tolerated Kasiri for long. A sly Kasiri atya had more sense and kept his krait on the move.
“Why hasn’t the army garrison in Patra ridden out to remove him?”
Kev tilted his head to blow out a thick stream of fragrant smoke. “As it happens, the Wolf does his squatting too near the Bledlands side of the pass, and the Flower Prince—bless his name—does not look to brew trouble with the proud Bled lords.”
Once every thirty years or so, the priests of Deva chose a Hilurin youth who would be known as yeva bilan, the Flower Prince, until he reached middle age. He was destined to be the Consort of the goddess Deva, she who threw down the cruel Shining Ones and freed the Hilurin people. The Flower Prince would be a living embodiment of her love for as long as he ruled, and would be treated almost as a god himself. In good time, he would step down and a new prince would be chosen. After that, no one knew what happened to him.
The news about Kasiri holding the pass was irksome. Scarlet had planned to spend a few days in Lysia before he ascended the path to Nerit Mountain. From there, he would take the Snakepath down the other side to skirt the eastern borders of the Bledlands, passing many homes and farms on the way, where the folk living there would buy his wares. The other road, the dangerous and deserted Salt Road, went around the mountain and the Bledlands entirely and took six or seven days longer in good weather. That fact was not only trying, it was costly.
He scowled. “Wolf or no, I won’t be penned up in my own land. Perhaps I’ll just take a walk up to the pass and meet this Wolf.”
Kev gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Now that would be unwise. Didn’t your mum and dad ever tell you to not to talk to strangers?”
Scarlet hefted his wide leather satchel meaningfully, shaking it at Kev a little to remind the old man that his entire livelihood depended on talking to strangers. He bid Keril and Teff a grumpy farewell before heading toward the Owl’s Road, which would take him straight into Lysia.
He passed Tradepoint an hour later, a large and efficient supply outpost for river traffic and the army, but only Deni and his father were there, mending a fence to keep their goats from getting into the grain stock. He waved at Deni as he walked past and Zsu, Deni’s younger sister, came out onto the porch. Her apron was dusted with flour and she was holding a wooden bowl.
“Hullo, Scarlet.”
He waved at her, suddenly sorry that he had only brought back a present for his own sister. Zsu’s black hair, always in a tangle from climbing trees or chasing goats, would have looked pretty with new ribbons. She had been Annaya’s best friend since they were in diapers, and had now grown into a petite young lady with a pert nose and large, inquisitive eyes.
“Hello, pretty Zsu.” He winked at her and she giggled and hid her smile behind her hand.
“There’s dinner soon, if you’re in a mind to stay,” she offered, shy and eager at the same time. Annaya said Zsu wanted to marry him one day, but he put that down to a girl’s foolishness and paid no attention to her.
“Ask me next time,” he said cheerily. He waved again and kept walking. “Linhona will skin me alive if she doesn’t get to feed me herself tonight.”
Zsu waved at him from the porch. He looked back when he was further up the road and she was still there, a small figure in a long blue smudge of a dress, her face a pale oval turned in his direction. When Scarlet raised his hand to wave a last time, she turned and went quickly into the house.
HILURIN HOUSES WERE multi-roomed domes covered with white plaster inside and out and then overlaid with bright paints in many colors. Walking through a
Hilurin village was like walking through a Sondek carnivale, some said. Their love for colors and for detailed, intricate bits of art was known everywhere, and their embroidery and rugs were famous for their delicate stitching, bright dyes, and the incredible detail crafted into each design. Nowhere else could one find such workmanship, and the Aralyrin majority of Byzantur had contempt for little Hilurin people who made no weapons and could not read or write and never journeyed far from their homes, yet who could coax such astonishing skill from their hands.
Lysia was a Hilurin village. As such, it had no street of doves and flowers; a surprising omission for any settlement in the Southern Continent. Even Patra, a smallish city by Morturii standards, had several such districts where men and women went to relieve their lusts. Any township that did not have a street marked thus or that was not riddled with bhoros or ghilan houses was invariably a Hilurin village, filled with First People: Byzans who were proud of their pure heritage and their undiluted bloodlines that went back to Deva herself.
Nemerl was a licentious world where sex could be bought, bartered, traded, or thieved from any street corner. Yet, the Hilurin believed they were descended from Deva and scrupulously kept her few and simple commandments: honor to self, chastity until marriage, fidelity to one mate, honesty in trade, charity to strangers, generosity to travelers, kindness to children, and respect for all beasts. Hilurin commoners managed to keep apart from the corruption of civilization by settling in remote villages with poor farming land that no one else would want. Hilurin nobles and primes—those above the commoners and slaves but far short of nobility—lived in Rusa and the greater cities of the south, where they wielded much power.
Lysia would never see much progress or commerce, but after the raucous flesh markets of Morturii, a quiet tradesman village was a relief for Scarlet to come home to. Even now, he could see the familiar outlines of his father’s small, domed house on the lane. Linhona, lean and strong, was outside taking down the last of the wash in the late afternoon sun.
It had taken Scarlet three hours to walk up the steep Owl’s Road from Tradepoint. When Linhona saw him, she took off her bright scarf and waved it with a shriek of joy, her gray-streaked black hair tumbling around her shoulders.
“Scarlet!” He could hear her all the way down the lane. “Scarlet's home!”
She turned and ran around the side of the house to get Scaja from his workshop, dragging him by the arm as he laughed and slapped sawdust from his hands.
Scarlet dropped his pack and stick in the lane to clasp Scaja’s hands, and then bowed his neck to touch his forehead to his before hugging his father so hard that his bones creaked. Laughing, Scaja begged him to stop before he broke his spine.
Annaya shrieked, too, but it was over the costly ribbons and silk. Like Scarlet, she had pale skin that stubbornly refused to darken in the sun, and her hair was so black it shone blue in the sunlight.
Linhona took charge, gathering up her son’s fallen gear and shooing her family inside, while Scarlet lingered on the threshold, looking at the front yard and the sky. Winter was nearly upon them, but in late spring, Linhona’s wild roses would again burst into disorganized, riotous bloom, filling the yard with vivid colors and evening scent. He missed them and had to settle for bloomless, pale-leafed honeysuckle winding its creepers around every section of the wooden fence, vying for space with hardy lavender and leathery-green ivy. The very last of the mums bloomed in a bed near the kitchen door, yellow as butter.
“Scarlet?” Linhona sang out.
“Coming,” he called back. He took a last look at the yard. How long had he been away this time? Three months? It seemed like more. He closed his eyes and breathed deep of the familiar smells of hearth and home, vowing silently that this time he would stay longer and come back sooner. He never kept his promise, but thinking about it brought comfort, of a kind.
“SO,” SCAJA SAID AS they sat down to dinner, “how did you fare this time out?”
It was as close as Scaja ever got to asking him for an accounting. Scarlet believed he hated to ask him at all, but business was business, and he would have felt like a baby if Scaja had not.
“It was a good run. No trouble, or little enough,” he replied. Linhona looked sharp at this, and before she could open her mouth, he told her the rest: “I ran into a Bledlander on the road south from Sondek. Thought he had a mind to rob me, but he mustn’t have been that desperate.”
Annaya was listening intently. “Did he have a long beard?” she asked excitedly. “And were there horse-tails hanging from his helmet?”
“Annaya!” Linhona scolded.
Scarlet chuckled. “He had a beard, but more than that I didn’t see. I was too busy running away. I did manage to work for Masdren in the souk for four weeks this time. I would have stayed longer, but with winter coming on I thought I should come back one more time before the snow falls.” He planned to weather the short winter in Khurelen this year, where it was warmer and where the souk was almost as prosperous as Ankar, but he did not mention that just yet.
Annaya stomped off to see to the dishes, disappointed that he had no more tales of bloodthirsty Bled.
“How is Masdren?” Linhona asked.
“His wife has run off with a scarf merchant.”
Annaya hooted from the kitchen and Linhona shushed her. Scaja looked startled. It was not every day a Hilurin wife ran away. Family was greatly important to them.
“This proves what city-life does to family,” Scaja harrumphed. “Do see you send Masdren my good wishes the next time you meet up with him. Did he pay you well?”
“Better than Mekit, and he doesn’t stink up the stall with his drinking, either.” At Scaja’s gesture, Scarlet slid a grimed leather pouch over the table.
Scaja picked it up and hefted it, though he did not tug the laces apart and look inside. His eyebrows went up. “It feels like a goodly weight,” he judged, voice tinged with admiration.
Scarlet ducked his head at the praise and helped Linhona settle the iron pot on the table. Scaja and Linhona and even Annaya contributed the work of their hands to his pedlar’s wares. Scarlet took a percentage for himself and sold it at what profit he could, spent a little for the road, worked when there was work, and brought the rest home to Scaja to hold against the lean years that always came, sooner or later.
“In fact,” Scaja said doubtfully, again hefting the pouch that contained eleven sellivar, “perhaps too goodly.”
“But—” Scarlet began. Scaja always was proud, but Scarlet knew his father needed the money. How not, with so many raiders and bandits and Kasiri about? People were becoming afraid to risk a costly wagon on the highways, and no broken wagons or carts meant nothing for Scaja to repair.
Scaja held up his hand. “Not over dinner. Wait until the che.” The pouch vanished into his shirt as Linhona lifted the lid on the stew with a flourish.
The argument averted, Scarlet smiled at her and looked into the pot. Thick chunks of pale meat floated in a crimson soup, surrounded by spiky bits of fragrant black rice. Stewed chicken with persa, his favorite dish.
“Thank you,” he said with a grateful sigh. “It couldn’t have been easy to get spices this time of year.”
“I had to trade a good apron and an iron ladle for it, but I got plenty in the bargain,” she said briskly, wiping her hands on a towel. “Well, dig in! I’ll bring the biscuits.”
She vanished back into the kitchen and Scaja watched his son with fond eyes as he dipped out a portion that would have fed two, well-grown men. “Thin foraging on the road, I gather?”
Scarlet shrugged and dug his spoon in, ignoring the heat from the fiery seeds of the persa. He usually ate well on the road, if plainly, and still managed to look hungry enough that he was invariably offered a meal at whatever farm or steading he wound up at near suppertime. Rabbits were a staple, as were wild hens and quail, berries and furled apples, and fish and mollusks from the river.
“Thinner than last year,” he answere
d around a mouthful. “There was less growing by the wayside than usual. Less game, too. There are so many travelers on foot this year. They eat it before I can get to it.” He fanned the air in front of his face and stuck out his burning tongue to cool it off. “It’s good!”
Linhona slid a pan of biscuits in front of him and he filched two with a big spoon of butter on the side. “Thanks, Mum.”
Oh, she liked to be called that, he could see. As was the custom, Scarlet had called his parents by their right names since he was eight years old. Linhona had seemed sad at the change and never corrected him when he lapsed, but not Scaja. Scaja was a proper Hilurin and chivvied his growing son at every turn to be equally proper and correct, yet when Scarlet’s feet took another path, he had not objected. His father could have been angry at him for not learning to be a wainwright and not wishing to spend his life in Lysia, but all he had ever done was sigh now and then and talk in a roundabout way of which daughters of Lysia were marrying this year or next. Scarlet ate while Annaya fiddled with one of her ribbons and nattered at him with questions about the road. Scaja ate his supper and occasionally cast a twinkling eye at his wife.
Scarlet finally pushed his bowl away with a sigh. “No more!” he laughed when Linhona would have put dessert—a raisin and apple pudding sprinkled with walnuts—in front of him. “I’ll eat it later. Annaya, love, go help our mother. I want to talk to Scaja for a bit.”
Annaya rolled her eyes as she got up and began to clear away the dishes, but winked at him as she brought the little ceramic pot of green che. Scaja filled a second pipe and handed it to Scarlet as he poured a cup.
Scarlet flicked a glance to the kitchen, making certain that Annaya was engrossed in conversation with Linhona before he spoke. “There was a new farm on the Iron Path when I went to Patra last time, near the abandoned mines,” he said very lowly, leaning his head closer. “They were Hilurin folk from Nantua. When I came back, they were gone. Burned out.”
Scaja’s eyes went stony. He passed his hand above the surface of the table as if brushing sand away, a gesture of negation. “Say nothing to your mother or sister.”