No response.
He cocked a questioning eyebrow at Birdie. There was a fair chance this fellow spoke only the desert tongue and Ky was just making a fool of himself.
But Birdie just nodded at the stranger. “Ky, this is Nah Obasi of the Sigzal tribe.”
“No.” The stranger—Obasi—had a deep, resonating voice that reminded Ky of a heavy wind whipping across an open tunnel shaft. “I am of the Sigzal tribe no longer. Not a Saari. Not a warrior. Nothing but a slave. The traitor saw to that.”
“You were a slave.”
The man stiffened at Birdie’s words, but Ky couldn’t help pressing the point. “She’s right. You’re free now. The slavekeepers are dead and their hounds with them. They won’t trouble you anymore. We can even get rid of that collar for you.”
Slowly, Obasi lifted a scarred hand to the collar fastened around his neck. He didn’t speak, and he didn’t need to. His eyes said more than enough.
“Gull.” Ky raised his voice without breaking eye contact. “See if we haven’t got a rasp or a file somewhere in our supplies. If not, fetch the sturdiest knife you can find.” He waited for a response and caught only the stifled sounds of whispering. He glanced over his shoulder. “Gull!”
“Right-o.” Gull broke away, snapped a salute, and whipped around on his heels.
Ky resisted the urge to roll his eyes and turned back to Obasi instead. “Where did you escape from? Were you at one of the slave camps?” He stopped before more questions could spill out. And it was a good thing too. A shudder had seized the Saari, and a wild look came into his eyes, like a beast cornered in the hunt. It made Ky’s fingers itch for his sling. Though at such close quarters, even a sling-bullet wouldn’t do him a lick of good if the man decided to attack.
Fear so often made folks do mindless things.
Birdie rose abruptly, breaking the moment’s tension, and dusted the ashes from her hands onto her ragged, bloodstained leggings. “Let me fetch you something to eat.”
The runners parted to let her pass, almost tripping over themselves in their haste to get out of her way. They acted as if she had the white fever and could doom them with a touch.
Or as if they thought she truly was a witch.
“Here.” Gull dropped a file at his feet. It landed with a dull thump. Rust scored the metal, and the tip had broken off, but it would still do the trick. “As requested.”
Ky nodded absently and motioned for Gull to get to work, attention still claimed by the murmur growing through the ranks of the Underground. The ripple of unease he had felt upon waking was strengthening, becoming a tide that threatened to shatter the balance of the camp. Within the mutterings he caught the words “witch,” “dangerous,” “mad girl,” and he knew he should speak up in her defense. But he didn’t know what to say, and a part of him—the small, cowardly part—hoped that just maybe it would all blow over.
As usual, Gull brought the matter to a head. He broke off from filing the collar and shouted across the gathered runners to Birdie, who had just exited the cave with a bark bowl of food. “Oi, Birdie! Why not put that witchery of yours to good use? Don’t reckon you could’ve just magicked the collar off him while you were busy magickin’ his injuries away last night?”
Heat flared across the back of Ky’s neck. His gaze snapped to Birdie. She stood, frozen, eyes fixed unblinking on Gull like a cornered dune rabbit. After a moment’s dead silence, the muttering started up again.
And grew louder.
“Now see here.” Ky rose. “Birdie is no witch, and I won’t have you calling her such.” It was some satisfaction to hear his own voice ringing out in the gathering quiet as the muttering dwindled. They listened. Maybe not for long. But for now, it was enough. “You lot welcomed her song well enough after the battle of the Underground. Some of you were even healed. I was.”
No one spoke up in agreement, but the muttering had ended, so that was something. Slack snorted, but even she didn’t speak, and Ky was willing to count that as a victory.
With an audible snap, the iron collar split. Obasi reached up and wrenched the split ends apart with his bare hands, muscles standing out like knots in his arms. He eased it from his neck and lowered the twisted metal to his knees. How long had he worn it? Ky swallowed at the thought of how near he had come to bearing such a collar himself . . . and how Paddy most likely wore one now.
Clearing his throat, he turned back to the others and the matter at hand. “She is gifted, yes. But no different than the rest of us.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Obasi chuckled, and an unhinged, drunken sound it was. Ky recoiled from the feverish gleam in his eyes. “‘No different’? She is everything different. She is the Songkeeper.”
Murmuring broke out again among the runners, and Ky could sense his feeble grip on the crowd slipping. He was losing them. Had probably already lost them. His chance to question Obasi about the slave camps had certainly already been shot down. Managing this lot was turning out to be far more challenging than he had expected. How had Cade managed it?
His gaze drifted over the clusters of runners to the cave mouth where abandoned bedding sprawled in heaps beside discarded weapons, then beyond to the dwindling pile of firewood and kindling, and then above to the still empty lookout posts. The answer suddenly seemed ridiculously clear.
Cade had ruled the Underground through fear, yes, but also through order. The Ring for enforcement. The raids for provision. The assigned brothers and sisters for some sense of unity. And the rules—the cold, heartless rules that Ky never could get right—for survival.
Order. Work. Discipline.
That was what the Underground needed.
He cleared his throat. “Right, folks, it’s full morning already, and there’s work aplenty to do today, so let’s have a lot less tongue wagging and a whole lot more action. We had a fight yesterday. Let’s get those weapons out now and see that they’re cleaned and properly stowed. Replace any broken arrows, gather more slingstones. You know the drill.”
“Cade’s drill.” Slack spoke up from the center of the crowd. Somehow she always managed to position herself so it seemed like all the others had her back.
Maybe they did.
“Yeah.” Ky refused to rise to the bait. “Cade’s drill. It’s a good plan of action. No reason to stop caring for our weapons just because he’s not around to command it anymore. We’ve seen the danger out here. If we hope to survive, we have to be ready, and the only way to stay ready is to practice.” Out of the corner of one eye, he watched Birdie approach and offer the bowl of food to Obasi. The Saari fell on the food like a famished wolf, and Birdie melted into the background again.
“Practice.” Gull drew the word out. “You mean like in the Ring?”
Ky grimaced at the recollection of the many hard knocks, cut knuckles, and bruised ribs he had received from Cade’s training in the Ring. “Not quite. But from now on we will have weapons training first thing in the morning. Starting today. Fetch your weapons.” He met Slack’s narrowed-eyed gaze head on. “Let’s move.”
•••
The runners didn’t exactly jump to obey him, not like they would have done for Cade. Gull was the first to leave. The others drifted away in twos and threes and trickled back again with their weapons. Grumbling beneath her breath, Dor elbowed past the seated Saari and plunked a cookpot over the fire. Within minutes the smell of sizzling meat set Ky’s stomach rumbling. So long as Dor was willing to serve as cook, he didn’t mind exempting her from weapon practice. And so long as she kept cooking up meals like the one the night before, he was even willing to put up with her sharp tongue and sour attitude.
After all, wasn’t it said that an army marched on its stomach?
The thought jolted him. Not only did it sound like something Migdon might have said—and that was sobering in itself—but since when had he treated the Underground like an army?
It nagged at him as he dispatched two runners to the lookout posts and then
strode through the clearing, watching as the rest cleaned and repaired their arms, pausing here and there to lend a helping hand with replacing torn fletching or honing a nicked blade. He could feel the eyes on his back at each step, but whenever he turned the runners bent over their work, pointedly avoiding his gaze. And he couldn’t blame them. This was a new world for the Underground. Forced away from the streets. Exiled from the cavern. Decimated by disease and war. Abandoned by Cade. No wonder they struggled to make sense of it.
To make sense of him.
No pressure.
He blew a long breath through his lips and palmed a sling-bullet from his pouch before taking his stand beside the central fire and calling the runners to attention. Slack was noticeably absent. But the rest of the runners came together more quickly this time, so quickly that he had to scramble to gather his thoughts in order to speak. “Right. Here’s how this is going to work: divide into groups by weapons. Older runners each pair up with a younger runner to show them the ropes.”
“You ain’t assignin’ brothers and sisters, are you?” Gull demanded.
It was an unusually antagonistic tone for him. Ky took in his crossed arms and forced his mind back to Kerby. Gull’s older brother had been Rab—a runner killed in the raid to steal Artair’s sword from the Khelari. That could explain his hostility toward the idea and anything that hearkened to Cade and his way of doing things. He shook his head. “We’re all family here. You’ll each have a new training partner tomorrow. If we’re going to last out here, we’re going to all have to learn to work together.”
That earned him a half-hearted mumble of assent.
“Gull, you take the archers and set up targets against the trees on the far side of the clearing. Try not to shoot the lookouts.” A laugh. Muffled. Maybe he was getting better at this whole speech-giving thing. “Slingers, you can practice knocking zoar cobs off the top of that big boulder to the left of the entrance.”
“The one that looks like your ugly mug?” Gull’s voice rang out, followed by a spattering of laughter.
Ky hid a grin. “Use slingstones only. Don’t waste any sling-bullets. Can’t afford to lose them without lodging them in Khelari skulls first. Swordsmen . . .” He cast one last glance around before giving in and submitting to the demands of leadership. “You’re with me.”
Quickly this time, the Underground dispersed into their groups. Within moments, Ky found himself staring at a disheveled row of runners, all gripping battered swords as a drowning man seizes a lifeline, all awaiting his instructions. Ky took his time selecting a short sword for himself from the weapon stash, trying first one, then another, then discarding both and moving on to a third. Finally, he had to admit that he was stalling. It was high time he chose a sword, knuckled down, and got to work.
Many of the older runners had been taken by both the white fever and the battle for Siranos, leaving few experienced swordsmen. There were one or two among his group he remembered as being decent fighters. It wasn’t difficult to pick them out of the crowd. They stood easily in a ready stance, holding their swords firmly but not in a white-knuckled grip like the others. He paired those off with a handful of younger runners each and then led them through the basic guard and strike positions, racking his brain to recall everything Cade had taught over the years.
The sword really was not his weapon. But someone had to do it.
“Well, well, well.” Slack sidled up beside him, hatchet in hand. He was in the middle of correcting one runner’s footwork, so he glanced over at her but did not stop. If anything, he was grateful for an excuse to stay busy. It seemed like every time he saw her, the furrow between her brows was deeper. “Hard at work, are we? What, you think we’re your army now?”
“I think that we all want to survive. Best way to do that is to keep training.”
“But you’re too coward to bring back the Ring? Afraid you might be challenged?” Their eyes met, and her face split into an unpleasant grin. “Thought as much. Ring or no Ring, still doesn’t mean you can’t issue challenges. Or have them issued to you.” She swung her hatchet in lazy loops and narrowly missed nicking Ky’s shoulder. “There’s unfinished business between us. What say you we put it to rest?”
Ky wheeled to face her. It was high time he put this nonsense to rest. “Enough, Slack. The challenge is finished. There are more important things to worry about . . . like surviving.”
He moved on to the next runner to adjust his grip, but Slack’s voice chased after him. “Cade proved himself against all the runners in the Ring. Proved he was the best. Proved he deserved to lead. Why should we follow you if you aren’t willing to do the same?”
He bit back the denial that rose to his tongue, but it wasn’t so easy to squelch the frustration. Why not fight her? Why not end the matter once and for all? Sure, there was a chance that she would beat him. Challenges rarely seemed to go his way. But at least then it would be settled, one way or another. In his mind’s eye he watched the conflict unfold: the two of them circling, runners crowding in on all sides, tension rising to a feverish pitch, and then a blinding flurry of blows that knocked her flat, leaving him standing victorious.
Just like Cade.
That thought soured his appetite for the fight. This was one area where he had to stand firm. He might have realized the practicality of adopting some of Cade’s methods, but he wasn’t about to start ruling through force or fear.
Just wasn’t his way.
Or the way of the new Underground.
“Oi!” Slack lunged past him, and he jerked back, groping for his sling. Just because he wasn’t going to challenge her didn’t mean he wouldn’t defend himself.
But she wasn’t attacking him. She seized the wrists of the runner he was helping and adjusted his grip on the hilt, first prying his fingers loose and then repositioning them. “It’s not a club, Jaq! You don’t beat the air with it. If you’re going to call yourself a swordsman, you got to learn to hold your weapon right. Like this.” Still gripping his wrists, she maneuvered his blade through the basic guard and attack positions, moving with a level of skill and ease that Ky envied and somehow making Jaq appear to be doing the same, despite his clumsiness. By the time she finished, the rest of the runners had paused to watch, and Jaq was grinning from ear to ear. He tried a few hesitant strokes on his own, and even Ky could spot the difference.
“See?” Slack clapped him on the shoulder. “It isn’t that hard.” Her eyes flickered to Ky and she pulled away, gruffness seeping back into her voice. “Eh, a little work here and there, and you might be able to avoid looking like an idjit behind a blade. Maybe even survive a challenge of your own.”
No mistaking the pointed gaze that time.
Ky weighed the sword in his hand, silently cursing his own clumsiness. He felt an idjit behind a blade. Felt an idjit pretty much anytime Slack was around. But that was beside the point. Clearly her skill with a sword surpassed his. Cade must have trained her well, whereas little of his time in the Ring with the Underground leader or Dizzier had been spent actually training. With Cade it had been mostly discipline, while Dizzier had always been more interested in seeing how many times he could knock him to the ground. If it came to a challenge with blades, he might be able to win on sheer determination alone . . .
But he wouldn’t let it come to that.
Slack let out a sniff of disgust and spun on her heel. Turn it to an advantage. He groaned at the nagging thought and then broke off, struck by an idea. He turned to his training group, to the folks who mattered—his runners—and addressed them. “That’s all I’ve got time for today, but we all know Slack is a fine hand with a blade. I reckon she’ll do a good job leading you through the rest of the practice session.”
Surprise flitted across the faces of the runners, but they didn’t speak. Still, it was startling how much could be said by silence. Theirs. And Slack’s. Ky’s pride wouldn’t allow him to turn and see if she had stopped, but it didn’t keep his ears from perking up for the s
ound of retreating footsteps.
Nothing.
No snort of derision. No cutting response. No hatchet sinking between his shoulder blades. But the longer Slack dallied, the less sure he was about his move. Yet another throw of the Fool’s Dice. Seemed like he was gambling more and more these days.
Slack cleared her throat.
He swung around and found her standing with her hands on her hips, feet planted, lips pressed in a scowl. “Slack. What say you we work together for a change?”
He had pitched his voice to reach only her ears, but the rest of the runners were close enough that he was sure the story would be passed along in no time. If Slack treated his move as weakness, the others would too. And he would be done for. But the tilt of her head, the tightening of her lips, even the drumming of her free hand on the haft of her hatchet all spoke to unease. He had thrown her a bone. She didn’t know how to take it. And if he recalled anything about wild critters, it was that they were just as likely to bite the hand as take the bone.
“Together. You and I.” Begging didn’t sit well with him. Soured his stomach. But this too he was willing to endure for a cause. “For the good of the Underground.”
She stared down at him, eyes cold and expressionless, like those of the dead fish that had littered the fishmonger’s stall in Kerby. Then she blinked and glanced away. “Curse you.”
•••
Slack was a bully, no doubt about that—both Ky and his ego had the bruises to prove it. He rocked back on his heels, watching as she drove the runners to repeat the drill again. They fumbled from time to time, and Ky readied himself to interfere if she came down like a hammer on anyone’s head. But it seemed that when it came to teaching, she could be surprisingly patient. Still blunt, of course. Painfully so. If a fellow wanted encouragement, he had to earn it. But even when Jaq overswung and nearly scalped the next runner, she simply knocked the blade from his fist with a neat backswing and went on as if nothing had happened. Made him wonder if there were two sides to her and she reserved the prickly one for dealings with him.
Song of Leira Page 9