Scarlet and the White Wolf, #1

by Kirby Crow

As always, his memories prodded the dark places inside him that he habitually left undisturbed, and he was troubled and unaccountably annoyed at the innocent pedlar.

  Elden, who used to be Lina’s husband until she got fed up with him and joined another camp to the east in Chrj, moved to stand behind the handsome pedlar and looked him up and down like he was a piece of meat he had a mind to purchase, leering in a suggestive manner. Liall found this distasteful and he gave Elden a scowl until the man retreated.

  “Well, red-coat, and what does a pedlar have for the Wolf?” Liall asked, giving the pedlar a warm look that was rewarded with a frown of suspicion and dislike.

  “It’s been a lean year, atya,” the pedlar began, dropping into the customary speech of a born haggler. Despite the frown, the lad addressed him respectfully enough and gave him his proper chieftain’s title. His voice was low and pleasant to the ear.

  More than pleasant, Liall admitted privately, to look at as well as to hear. He studied the pedlar’s face and decided the Hilurin was exceptionally attractive, despite the smallness.

  “So I hear, but luckily we have had good trade this week,” Liall said. “My krait is fed and warmed by city garments, and my needs are not what they were a month ago. Otherwise, you would not get through for less than everything you carry and what is on your back besides.”

  “And then I’d freeze in the snow,” the pedlar said resentfully. “A real wolf wouldn’t be that cruel. He’d kill me quickly and be done with it.”

  Liall did not care for his tone, too haughty for a mere pedlar and clever besides, and the young man was staring at him with frank scorn. Though Liall was used to sensing the ever-present disdain from village folk, most took more care to hide it than this one. Byzans were coldly disapproving, but passive and distant. This one before him was different. He was fire to their water.

  “There are wolves and then there are wolves,” Liall said. “Either way, fast or slow, you would be just as dead. Do you really want that?”

  The pedlar’s eyes flickered a little. It might have been fear. Liall waved his hand and laughed. He did not enjoy frightening youngsters, even youngsters who disliked him. “My fangs are whetted enough for one day. Let me see your wares.”

  The pedlar slipped the ratty, well-padded pack off his shoulder and carefully emptied its contents onto the stone as a few more of the krait, having gleaned what they could from the Sea Road, gathered round to watch. Liall waited as the young man neatly stacked all the items and made a tidy pile of them.

  “Is this all?”

  “All, bandit-wolf.”

  Liall gazed at him evenly. It was on the tip of his tongue to inform the pedlar that the Kasiri had an ancient claim to this pass that made the toll legal in their eyes, but he closed his mouth firmly. Why was he contemplating explaining himself to a mere peasant boy? Being a thief had never bothered him before.

  “I ask you again: is this all?”

  The pedlar would not meet his eyes.

  “I could have you searched.”

  The pedlar shrugged, apparently unaffected.

  “Searched like a Minh would,” Liall added. “In places no gentleman would think to look.”

  The pedlar hesitated before he reached down and produced a little gilded bottle of perfume from his boot, placing it like a crown on the pile. Liall saw then that the pedlar’s left glove looked strange, too narrow in some way, and he realized that this one carried a rare genetic marker of the Hilurin: a four-fingered hand. The young man saw the direction of his gaze and looked uncomfortable, but made no move to hide his deformity.

  Liall picked up the scent and sniffed it. Blue poppy and probably the best item he had. Beside it was placed a little metal and glass compass, which was another trademark of the pedlar’s profession. Few traveled without at least a compass and a hand-map of Byzantur. Kio moved to stand behind Liall and fixed the pedlar with his aureate gaze, his delicate features turning down in disapproval.

  “I see you’ve met the Minh,” Liall said wryly, which provoked a volley of fresh laughter. He looked resigned. “Take what you will, I can’t stop you.”

  “Just so, you cannot.”

  Liall’s long fingers dug through his little pile of cheap wares and tin silver-plate, splaying them over the stone. It was not much. There was little to provoke desire or greed on the part of anyone but the most desperate of thieves. In the Byzantur tradition, this pedlar traveled light and poor. Probably a wise habit, since he also traveled alone, unarmed, and was young and pretty enough to tempt men to acts other than thievery. Perhaps that was his true profession? But no, Lysia was a Hilurin village and there would be no street of doves and flowers there, no ivory-walled bhoros or ghilan houses to tempt a virtuous people to carnal lust. Dira the whoremaster had hoped this would mean more traffic for his trade, but alas, most Hilurin males seemed to be prudes.

  The pedlar caught him staring at him and met his eyes boldly.

  “Perhaps we could make a trade,” Liall offered. He slowly dropped his gaze to rake across the lithe body before him, and the high color rose in the pedlar’s cheeks. Not so innocent after all, he thought. He takes my meaning quickly enough.

  The pedlar backed up a step, alarm crossing his features.

  Kio frowned. “These stuffy, milk-faced Hilurin,” he sneered. “They should all wear masks so a man isn’t tempted to waste his time courting cold stone.”

  Liall threw Kio an annoyed glance, and the Morturii’s face went sheepish. “Sorry, Atya,” he muttered.

  Liall shrugged and gave the anxious pedlar a rueful smile. “Relax, boy. The nights are long in these mountains, but I am not yet reduced to forcing my bedmates.”

  The pedlar bared his teeth as if he were the wolf and not Liall. “I’m not your boy.”

  There goes that bit of folly, Liall thought. He realized that this young man did not fear him; he loathed him. Not having much experience with Hilurin, Liall had had a passing thought to delay the handsome pedlar, to coax him alone among the yurts and wagons and perhaps ply him with a drink or five until his muscles lost that tense set of danger. The way the pedlar refused him outright, as if Liall were beneath his notice, offended Liall gravely. The atya was a man who often claimed to have no pride and no honor, yet, when the pedlar snarled and showed him his pretty teeth, Liall’s pride was goaded.

  “And you are as close to Khurelen as you will get by this road.”

  “Then I’ll go by the Salt Road, damn you.”

  “Go right ahead. I suppose your folk will see you once or twice by next spring, but don’t expect to make much of a living when you spend half your working days traveling an empty road. You know,” he lowered his voice and leaned forward, folding his hands on the stone, “despite my good manners, I could just take what I want.”

  The pedlar stared right back, black eyes as merciless as a snow bear’s. “Yes, but you'd have to kill me to get it, and that wouldn’t be very good for business, would it? The army doesn’t like Hilurin, but they like Kasiri even less. They could send in troops, burn you out. Rape is still a hanging crime in Byzantur.”

  All true, but Liall meant none of what he threatened and was oddly confounded and insulted when the pedlar believed him capable of it anyway. He settled back in the chair, his mood soured. Around him the air turned colder and he smelled snow skirling down from the heights. There would be a storm before morning. He motioned to Peysho.

  “Batten the wagons down and get the supplies inside,” he said in Falx, assuming that the pedlar would not understand him. “There’s wind and snow headed our way.”

  “Aye, Wolf.”

  The pedlar looked up at the sky, and Liall realized that the boy understood him quite well. So, he mused, he is quick of mind as well as brave.

  Few Byzan pedlars, Hilurin or Aralyrin, cared to journey outside of their own country, but this one had obviously been to Morturii enough times to necessitate learning the language.

  The boy made a noticeable attempt to calm him
self. “Take what you want,” he offered, pointing at the pile of wares. He was visibly eager to have this unpleasant exchange with ruffians over and be well below the snow line while the light lasted.

  Liall regarded him narrowly, taking in the shabby, red-dyed coat, the patched shirt, and the boots that would need mending before the month was out. He felt a familiar but unpleasant stirring beneath his skin: pride, his old enemy. Once, years ago, he would have disdained even to exchange words with this commoner. Who did he think he was? An illiterate country chapman with patches on his elbows and his hair freshly cut with his mother’s kitchen scissors, a seller of cheap cloth and soaps, and he thought himself superior. This one sneered and looked away as if Liall were an offense to his eyes, a sick dog or town drunk, an object of scorn or pity.

  He felt a familiar heat rising in his chest, and he forced it away in haste, shocked at his reaction. The volatile and unpredictable tempers of northern warriors had long been an asset in battle, and their enemies feared it even as they derided it, calling it berserker rage. But why would arguing with a mere pedlar ignite his temper so?

  Liall shook his head slowly. “I’m not interested in perfume and sewing needles. I want something else from you.”

  The pedlar’s red mouth grew tight and pinched like a pursed rose, and he glared. Far from fueling Liall’s anger, the look stirred him. He had always liked fire in his women. In men, he liked it even more.

  The pedlar made a noise of impatience. “I am prepared to pay you a fair price, you... what is your name?”

  “Liall.”

  “Li-all,” he grated, getting the pronunciation wrong.

  “Lee-all.”

  He said it aright. “Liall, I’m willing to pay you fairly, but there are some things I will not trade.”

  The Wolf suddenly rose from his chair, watching with amusement at how quickly the pedlar retreated from him. His smile was predatory. “You may find, little redbird, that there are many wicked things a man will do, just as soon as he realizes he has no other choice. Now take your buttons and go back to chaste Lysia, for you won’t take this road today, or any other day, so long as the White Wolf holds this pass. Not until you pay my toll.”

  “Which is what, exactly?” the pedlar asked tightly, his hands curling into fists.

  Liall leaned forward, resting one palm on the cold stone, and motioned for him to come closer. After a moment, the pedlar took a few cautious steps forward so that Liall could whisper in his ear. Just as quickly, the pedlar recoiled and shook his head.

  “No,” he vowed, one word with a weight of scorn behind it.

  Liall shrugged. “Then have a safe trip home, pedlar.” He motioned to the armed Kasiri and they pressed forward, smirking, with their arms crossed over their chests.

  After a moment of hard silence, the pedlar gathered his wares and shoved them into his pack. All the while, Liall watched him. Without a word, the pedlar turned and trudged back to the edge of the camp. Liall saw him pull up his hood and draw his long red coat closer about him before starting down the path. The wind was growing teeth by then, but it was not a long journey back to Lysia, perhaps two leagues, and the pedlar would be sheltered from the wind by the trees lining the high banks on either side of the path. The Kasiri would have no such protection on the first promontory that spanned the Nerit, and his men knew it. He could see it in the way they scrambled to get the animals and their own possessions, including their women, into safe shelter.

  Liall sighed. The pedlar was just a dot of red on the path now. He dispensed with the last of the travelers and signaled to Kio to follow him.

  Peysho’s loyal companion was scrappy as a gutter rat and quick with his hands. The serpent-worshipping Morturii were famous for two things: the making of weapons and the making of magic. The latter Liall discounted, having no belief in magic and having seen too many charlatans in Morturii passing themselves off as sorcerers, but he had seen the truth of the former. Morturii had the knack of handling blades, even their females, and Kio was an artist with them. Liall had seen him launch a dagger at an insect with casual ease and hit a target he might have made once in a lifetime. In Kio’s hands, a kitchen knife became a whirling circle of death. The housewife had not known her peril.

  Peysho’s yurt was warm, and his women—two Minh half-bloods and an ample-bosomed, tattooed Chrj—were busy arranging furs and serving him wine and hot soup. When Kio entered behind Liall, the women finished their work quickly and left, knowing Peysho was in good hands and probably relieved of the fact. Truly, there was not much more for women to do in a Kasiri camp than cook and clean and please a man in other ways. As atya, Liall would have welcomed the chance to increase the Longspur krait’s number by taking in a woman or two from Lysia, but Hilurin women tended not to stray far from either home or convention, which was a pity.

  He settled down on a heap of furs and Kio poured a mug of bitterbeer for Liall and one of wine for Peysho. Kio shivered as he threw off his cloak and gloves and huddled near the iron brazier, rubbing his hands over the small flames. Liall caught Peysho watching his lover, and noted with some interest how Kio’s eyes were glittering gold in the light, and how the fire pulled reddish sparks from his oak-leaf hair.

  “Take a cup for yerself,” Peysho scolded Kio. “Get some heat in yer blood ’fore yer lungs take a chill.”

  Kio, never a man of many words, rolled his eyes and reached to help himself to Peysho’s own cup. Peysho grinned at the familiarity, for though the two had shared a yurt for as long as Liall had known them, Kio was invariably aloof to Peysho in public: a matter of upbringing, perhaps. Morturii held strange notions regarding men and their habits. There was little shame attached to physical affection between Morturii males, but for the one who took on the passive role in that relationship, the man who allowed himself to be penetrated and otherwise treated as a woman, there could be grave consequences. They had never spoken of it, but Liall was shrewd enough to recognize that Peysho and Kio were fleeing from something in their shared past.

  Ah well, matters were different everywhere. As in Byzantur, so in Morturii, and in Minh, and in the north continent where he had been born and which common men still believed was a fairy tale, for no land could be locked in ice and darkness for half the year and its people still survive. Surely only beasts lived there and not men, if it was real at all.

  Kio handed him a mug of soup. It was a thick broth with chunks of meat and tubers, savory with some expensive spice, probably taken in trade for a toll. Peysho’s six women, who he dubbed his ehgli, or wives, were diligent with the quality of his food and often lavishly extravagant of Peysho’s care. They would do well to, since he was a generous husband as far as Kasiri went, and he treated them with detached kindness. His demands were few and he had no other use for them. Morturii men took only one wife at a time, but Kasiri had no such law, and Peysho seemed to take delight in seeing how far he could stretch the privilege.

  Liall sipped at his mug and mused how it was ill that the approaching storm would keep his camp indoors and separate. Not that he had ever been especially sociable with his nomads, but he liked to watch them drink around the campfire until they were cross-eyed, laughing their fool heads off at whatever filthy song was being roared to the scraping of a poorly-tuned tal vielle or a warped box harp. It was a matter of endless amusement to him that he would finally find some measure of comfort in the company of illiterate peasants, escaped convicts, felons, mercenaries, horse-thieves, and pickpockets.

  After such an evening, the remainder of his night would be highly predictable: he would recline in his bed in his chieftain’s yurt, watching the brazier cast patterns and shadows on the walls until sleep claimed him. Occasionally, Dira would send him a woman. Less frequently, there would be a beardless, silken dove or a rough-handed soldier fresh to the krait, and he enjoyed their company and their eager touches more than the women, for his tastes ran that way. He never allowed them to sleep in his bed, though, and he rarely sought the same bod
y twice. To do so would be to invite intimacy, and above all, Liall guarded his heart. Like most cynics who had been shattered by love, he openly scoffed the concept of it while often finding himself in profound awe at the power it could wield over people. There was no place for love in his life. Barring everything else—his fear, his past, and his uncertain future—he was certain he did not deserve it.

  After his bedmates were dismissed, his thoughts would invariably turn to home. Even though it brought him pain, he could not stop thinking about it, like a man who kept poking a sore tooth with his tongue to see if it still hurt. He would think about his family left behind and wonder how they fared, and whether or not there had been famine or plague in his land, or if they had gone again to war. Sometimes he longed only to hear the sound of his own language, and then he would speak words in his native tongue to the walls of his yurt: snatches of poetry, bits of song, or jokes he had learned as a boy.

  He knew that it was not wise to dwell too long on home. Byzans had a saying that the gods loved to play tricks on mortals, and eavesdropped on human wishes and daydreams to plot their pranks. Perhaps they were right.

  One morning about three weeks ago, it had snowed early and he had gone out to take his post watching the Sea Road. Snow usually fell only on the heights in that land of amber and gold, on mountaintops and the high passes of the Zun mountain range between Minh and Morturii, in the Nerit, and of course in Lysia, which was in the mountain foothills itself and higher up than most villages. As he stood watch among the swirling white flakes, Liall spied a tall, cloaked man trudging through the camp, escorted by Kio. The traveler’s head was uncovered, and Liall saw that his hair was pure white. His heart beat faster at the sight, but it was only a well-traveled old man in good health, a tinker returning to his home in Arbyss, and not one of his own northern people at all. He was bitterly disappointed and let the man pass down to the Sea Road for a copper and a row of tin buttons in the shape of beetles, and he shouted at Kio for no reason. Peysho watched Liall shrewdly and would have spoken, but Liall growled and Peysho pulled Kio away. No, it was not wise to remember too much.