by Kirby Crow
“What’s this?” Liall flowed down to one knee and took the pedlar’s chin in his hand, just barely retrieving his fingers before the pedlar snarled and snapped. He contemplated his whole digits, and then the boy, more thoughtfully and with less humor.
“You have the temper of a Minh,” he said, which was more of an insult among Byzans. “Perhaps they should call you the wolf instead of me. Speaking of which.” He reached for the boy more swiftly this time, dodging his dangerous teeth and seizing his smooth jaw in his hand. “You did not give me your name before, though I gave you mine. I will have it now.”
The pedlar only narrowed his eyes at him and closed his mouth more firmly.
“You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that,” Liall said, greatly impressed. “And you have courage, if not the brains to back it up. Did you not know we would patrol the forest?”
“I knew.”
“Hark, he speaks at last.” Liall released him. Standing up, he motioned for Peysho to slash the bindings on the boy’s hands. “So you thought you could slip past the Kasiri, did you? Whence comes such confidence?”
The pedlar stood and stripped the severed-leather laces from his hands before he angrily kicked them toward Liall with the toe of his boot. “I’m not confident. I have to get to the other side of this mountain and you won’t let me by. That’s all.”
“Ah, but I will... for a price.”
“I don’t like your stinkin’ mucked price,” he snapped. Behind him, Peysho chuckled, then prudently coughed and looked away.
Liall dropped his voice and moved a little closer to the irate youth. “The price, or me?”
The pedlar met his eyes unflinchingly but did not answer immediately, and Liall saw that he was struggling with his answer. He fought down a surge of irritation. Princes had knelt at his feet once. Who was this illiterate merchant to refuse him? Who did he think he was?
“Come now,” he coaxed. “You will not injure my feelings. I am no charming prince, this I know. But still, am I an ogre?”
“No,” the pedlar judged after a moment, studying him. “You’re a wolf.”
“And you do not like wolves?”
“I like wolves fine, so long as they stay clear of my path. Wolves and men don’t mix.”
Or men and men, Liall supposed he would have liked to say. Peysho had shooed the tribesmen off and taken himself away with them, leaving Liall with the pedlar, the campfire, and the soft-snowing night around them.
“What about wolves and pedlars?” Liall asked softly, daring another step.
“I don’t...” the pedlar began. He stopped and swallowed hard, looking up at Liall. There was no fear in his eyes. “I don’t see why you’re vexin’ yourself, is all.”
“Vexin’?” Local dialects often threw Liall. He waited for the boy to explain.
“Why are you going to so much trouble on my account? I can’t be worth this much bother.”
Liall began to suspect that this one was not terribly experienced with the desires of men. “Are there no mirrors in Lysia? Give me your name,” he urged.
“I...” The boy closed his mouth. “Let me pass.”
Liall shook his head slowly. It made the pedlar angry again.
“Damn you, why not?”
“Because I’m not through vexin’ myself, I suppose.”
Snowflakes drifted slowly down and settled on the pedlar’s black hair as he glared at Liall in loathing. Then, he abruptly dropped his gaze to his boots and his shoulders slumped. “All right,” he muttered.
“What?”
The boy clenched his hands into fists and yelled it at him in a rush: “I said all right, I’ll meet your gods-be-buggered price!”
Liall cocked his head as he regarded the pedlar. This capitulation was unexpected. Now that the youth had consented, Liall discovered that he had not asked enough. The pedlar would scrub the kiss from his mouth and walk away; still hating him, still believing himself superior, and Liall would have won a hollow victory.
Liall noted the stance of the pedlar’s feet and the position of his fists before he spoke his next words. After all, this one had already mortgaged his precious pride. He would not enjoy what he heard next.
“The price has changed, red-coat.”
The pedlar gaped. “What?”
“Today, it was a kiss. Tonight, since you have disturbed my sleep crashing about in the woods, it is one hour.”
“An hour... what?”
He would have to be blunt. “One hour,” he said with a smile he hoped was gentle. “With me. Alone.”
The pedlar’s eyes widened. “If you think I’m going to... just to cross your stupid...” he sputtered.
“Peace, I am a fair man. If my price has gone up then so must your reward.”
“Reward?”
“One hour with me, and in return you will use the road freely for one-half turn of the season.”
“You’re a bastard!”
Liall nodded. “There are many bastards where I come from, figuratively and literally. And it’s not always an insult in my homeland to be called such.”
The boy mouthed an earthier epithet at him in Bizye, one that involved his mother and stables and a probable liaison with a diseased horse. There was a limit to how much insult Liall would endure, even from such an alluring mouth. He stepped forward and the pedlar gulped and withdrew hastily.
“Have a care, pretty one.”
“Don’t call me—”
“I will call you whatever I please, since you deny me your name. Amend your lapse in manners and I’ll amend mine. Our business is done here.” He snapped his fingers and Peysho, who had only retreated behind a nearby wagon, came into the firelight.
“Return his weapons and pack to him and escort him down the path to Lysia,” Liall commanded, his eyes still locked with the pedlar’s, sky-topaz meeting midnight.
The pedlar opened his mouth to answer, but Peysho put a hand on his am. The boy jerked away from him.
“Come, lad,” Peysho soothed. “Well-played, but enough fer one night.”
The pedlar left, sending a final, furious glower in Liall’s direction. Liall winked slyly, which did nothing to ingratiate him further. Then the pedlar was gone with Peysho, their soft footfalls muted by the crackle of the fire, his crimson coat swallowed by the night. Only then did Liall realize that he still had not gotten the red-coat’s name.
“Damn,” he swore softly, standing alone in the firelight. He had won the round again, with no more pleasure than the last time.
Soldier of the Vine
THIS WOLF IS PUTTING me off balance, Scarlet fumed. He had never seen a man so tall, so pale of hair and dark of skin, and with such long, large hands. The atya dressed like a lord in silver and black, his speech was learned and fine, but his behavior was more suited to a bhoros house than a bargaining table. Scarlet trudged down the mountain path in the dark, so livid he could barely think, but cautious not to tread too close to the edges of the path and to keep his ears open for prowlers in the evergreen forest.
First he charges me a toll to a road that I’ve been crossing for free since I was fourteen, now he denies me fair passage at all! What gives him the right? Of course I tried to sneak by!
He had thought the soot on his face—applied from an abandoned hearth as he waited for dark on the edge of the village—was a nice touch, but he had felt silly for it after he was caught, and fully expected the Kasiri to beat him, or worse. The atya’s reaction confused him. Liall had been amused instead of angry, and had mocked him instead of setting his men on him, calling him pretty one as if he were a girl.
Thinking on that left him flushed and furious all the way back to Lysia. Scaja was awake and tending the fire when he crept back into the house. His father watched him enter without comment, taking in the sight of his smudged face and shamed expression. He then went to the cupboard and came back holding a pewter flask and mug.
“You look frozen. And you’re filthy.”
Scarlet h
ung his head. He would have to get water from the well and heat it if he did not want Linhona to scold him for the soot on his sheets.
Scaja read his mind. “Go and get the water,” he advised, “and I’ll pour us one.”
Scarlet hauled in a bucket of water, icy-cold from the well and set it on the iron plate above the fire to heat. He thought about using his Gift to whisper the water to be just a tad warmer, or dropping a withy-thought into the fireplace to brighten the coals, but Scaja disapproved of using Deva’s Gift so casually. The water would heat in its own time.
“Tried to sneak by him, did you?” Scaja asked in an offhand manner.
Scarlet nodded shortly.
“Didn’t work?”
“What does it look like?”
Scaja paused for a long moment. “He didn’t hurt you, did he? If he—”
“No,” Scarlet responded quickly. “I was hurt more by the thorns in the forest.”
“Ah.” Scaja subsided.
They lapsed into silence as they waited for the water to heat.
“Have you thought that just paying his toll might be the easiest way to get through?” Scaja asked, handing him a mug half-full of pale green anguisange. Scarlet was surprised, for anguisange, or serpent’s blood, as it was called commonly, was Scaja’s favorite. The price was dear, so Scaja almost never had any. He must have been saving it.
“I can’t,” Scarlet hedged, taking a drink. The potent wine burned him all the way to his toes.
Scaja shrugged. “I don’t approve of tolling, but the man’s been fair enough from the talk I’ve heard. He’s never taken more than a body can afford and there’s not been anyone hurt or killed, although a few wore shredded pride when they stumbled back. Like you.”
Scarlet took off his shirt, knelt by the fire to lift the bucket off the plate, and set it on the well-scrubbed stone hearth. He cupped his hands and splashed water on his face. It was still cold, but anything was better than facing Scaja when he told him the rest.
“He doesn’t want goods or coin from me.”
Scaja frowned. “No?”
“No.”
A moment passed. “Well, are you going to tell me?”
“First, he wanted a kiss,” Scarlet stuttered, and Scaja’s brow clouded with anger. “And now he wants me for an hour.”
Scaja’s jaw dropped and they avoided looking at each other for a moment. “Oh.” He cleared his throat. Shock was evident on his face. “Well.” He coughed. “I see.”
“I’d have given him his damned kiss tonight,” Scarlet blurted, reaching for a cloth to wipe his face. “But he changed his damned price.”
Scaja coughed again. “A man does not sell himself to anyone,” he cautioned firmly. “Lying with another for pleasure or love is one thing; this is quite another. I’ll put my fist to yon Wolf if he ever stirs from his mountain, and to you if you ever let such fish-rot get to you.” His black brows knitted together until there was a deep, angry groove in his forehead. “We’ll see if he acts the rapist after I set his boots on fire. I can send a withy to kindle a fire in Jerivet’s hearth all the way from here, you know. ”
Scarlet knew. He was afraid his father was angered enough to go out seeking Liall, but Scaja shook his head.
“I’m too old to go picking fights. I don’t blame him for his desire; only that he sought to force it on you.” He chewed his lip for a moment. “He hasn’t threatened you, has he?”
Scarlet thought back. “No. Not seriously.”
Scaja nodded. “You take after your birth-mother, you know. She was a beauty, like you.”
Scarlet scowled and splashed water as he washed his arms, not wanting to be reminded of what the Wolf had called him, even if Scaja meant to compliment. His pride had taken enough of a beating for one day.
“Perhaps it would be best if you took the Salt Road for a while until his fancy lessens. He’ll find someone else to catch his eye and you’ll see he’s no longer interested.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“If that doesn’t work, then maybe his fancy isn’t a passing thing,” Scaja mused, stoking the fire with another split of wood. “Do you think him handsome, this Wolf?”
Scarlet was beginning to think he was in the wrong house. Scaja had never been so plain with him before. His heart sped up a little. “Why would that matter to me?”
Scaja shrugged. “Beauty always matters to youth, and I no longer know what interests you in a mate. You don’t talk to me anymore.” Hurt bled into his words. “Scarlet, I’ve been wanting to ask you if—”
“No.” The denial was out before he could stop it.
“It is not common among Hilurin men,” Scaja went on, “but no one would take it ill if you—”
“I said no!” Scarlet exclaimed, shocked and frightened for no reason that he could name. I can’t tell him, he thought as his heart slammed against his ribs in sudden panic. I can’t!
“Shush!” Scaja scolded. “You’ll wake the house.” He pushed at the embers with the poker and waited a minute before speaking again. “I’m not accusing you, and I’m not suggesting you give in to him. No such thing,” he said low and forcefully. “I’m just... I’ve noted that no girl has ever caught your eye in Lysia. Not since you were old enough to think about such things.”
Scarlet waited, feeling very cold, as if dread was ice and it was seeping into his marrow. After a long moment, Scaja poked the fire a bit more and looked briefly at his son. Scarlet looked away. His heart felt like a lump of glass in his chest.
“Well, then,” Scaja said cheerlessly, taking his silence for meaning. “I’d hoped we could talk about this like men, but I see you’re not keen on it. You’re grown now and master of your own life, I suppose.”
They sat in silence for a long moment. “I’m worried about you,” Scaja confessed. “Your spirit isn’t here in Lysia and it never has been. When you took to wandering, I was happy for you. I thought you’d found what you were looking for, because every time you came back, you were so eager to be off again. I guess I thought you must have been hurrying back to someone you loved, though why you’d hide that from me...” his words trailed off and he shook his head as if clearing it of evil thoughts. “Now I know there’s no one, and I begin to think your travels are less about wanderlust than just plain being lost.”
“I’m not lost,” Scarlet finally got out, wondering what spell was on his tongue that he could not talk about this with Scaja, when they could talk about everything else. This odd, tangled thing that would not allow his blood to warm when a pretty girl gave him an admiring eye, but made him feel jumpy and sick and turned his belly to knots of confusion when it was a handsome man. He had seen the slender youths for sale in the Morturii souks. Unfortunate, underfed young men with painted lips and cheeks patted with red powder, stripped to the skin and wriggling to show off their bodies to the crowd, hoping some rich jeweler or lonely widower would buy them. More often than not it was a rough soldier from some encampment, or a silk-clad Minh trader who did not haggle, but only inspected their bodies as if they were cattle, making them turn and pose for his probing fingers. The boys made doe-eyes at the prosperous buyers, lowering their eyelashes and pursing their mouths into pouts, but at the soldiers and the rogues they showed contempt and subtle defiance and generally tried to make it known, by silences and ill-looks and other ways that were not openly rebellious, that they would not make for a good purchase. Often, when a particularly pretty, high-priced youth was being offered, there would be a public display of his talents to entice the crowd and drive up the cost.
Scarlet thought of the cheers and catcalls rising from the crowd when the slave knelt before some hired actor or handsome servant, and how sick he felt to realize that he shared an affinity with those sweating men who watched the most avidly.
I’m not like that, he thought fiercely. I have to be in the souk, I’m a pedlar! And I wouldn’t do any of those... things.
“I’m just not sure where I’m supposed
to be,” he confessed, skirting the other issue. That much was true. It was what drove his wandering feet: the desire to find out where he belonged and, honestly, with whom. He loved his family, but ever since his childhood, he knew there was someone out in the world waiting to be found. Someone meant for him. He just had to keep looking.
“Well, either road, it won’t hurt you to cool your heels at home for a bit,” Scaja said heavily, putting the poker away and facing him. “Until you know what it is you’re looking for, don’t be in such a hurry to run off and find it. Sometimes the answer’s right in front of us. We’re just moving too fast to see it.”
Scarlet nodded. It was only good sense his father was talking. He finished washing and dried off before taking up his drink again.
SCARLET WAS STILL EDGY when he went to bed, and sleep was a long time finding him. Linhona was glad to see him in the morning, which dawned cold but crystal clear. The mild winter season was nearly upon them and it seemed wisest, if he must take the longer Salt Road, to stay until the weather shifted again. It would snow most heavily in the mountain and high passes anyway, but the copper weather-witch on the roof promised it would come down hard and nothing was guaranteed in Nemerl, so he stayed in Lysia.
True to prediction, the snow came and lingered for four days. There was not much in the house to occupy his time, and Scaja’s workshop was only big enough for one craftsman. Two days of a young, energetic man underfoot—one who was used to being busy from dawn to sunset—and Scaja started growling, so Scarlet spent some time visiting Shansi, the blacksmith’s apprentice who was to marry Annaya. Shansi seemed a likely enough lad: solemn, not overly handsome, and serious about his trade. The apprentice spent a good hour showing his potential brother-in-law around his uncle’s smithy before Scarlet began yawning and bid him good night. It was dark when he stopped by Rufa’s for bitterbeer and a smoke.