Wind Over Bone

by E D Ebeling

  ***

  They took rooms at the same inn they’d stayed at earlier that year. Savvel wrote Rischa a long, persuasive, fawning letter, asking him to come and talk with him in Ningrav, just the two of them. He sealed it with his ring, and they went to post it.

  The day was early and the weather warm; the mountains hung like a bank of purple clouds to the north. “He’s sure to get it in half a day at least,” said Sarid, dropping it in the bag at the posting station “He’ll think it’s been in circulation a while. We’ll waylay him when he’s a little way from Charevost.”

  “What if he brings along his five hundred men?” said Savvel.

  “And leaves Yelse all alone?”

  “He’ll bring some with him.”

  “Not enough to slow him down.”

  “Even five is a bit of a wall to break through.”

  “Five, ten, twenty––people get stupider the more of them there are. We’ll think of something.”

  ***

  Sarid did think of something: She remembered how easily she’d been mistaken for a scullion at Charevost.

  She left the others at the posting station, and went alone to an apothecary’s shop. She searched among the salves and powders for a certain salt prized by the Aindelden of the Daynen mountains. It allowed, when ingested, long hours of work at high altitudes. It also turned the skin soft and the cheeks pink, and had been developed in Lorila as a cosmetic.

  She found it, poured a scoop into a little satchel, and thought of how absurd was the business of beauty. In moderate doses the salt upset the stomach and caused convulsions. In high doses it was lethal.

  Back at the inn, she found a stained sarafan in a back room, and put it in her saddlebag.

  And then the three of them rode toward Charevost, staying within sight of the dust from the courier horse. The day was sunny, and Sarid smelled the heady, mossy smell of the mountains. It didn’t put her at ease.

  They came to the woods below Charevost and settled in a hollow with a brook at the bottom. Sarid donned the sarafan; she had no blouse, and her skinny arms poked out of it like bones. She bound her hair up in a dirty scarf, and Leva helped her rub dirt and flour over her face and arms. After she was filthy enough to be unrecognizable, she put the pouch of salt in her pocket, and she and her horse continued on alone.

  The sun was low overhead. A girl driving a flock of geese over a field stared at her as she passed. Thinking Leva might have patted on too much flour, Sarid scraped most of it off.

  The hall came into view, sitting on its goose-grey lake, unchanged, its many eyes looking out at the foothills. The western roofs flashed in the sunset. She led her horse behind a jut of rock and tied the leads to a birch in a grassy spot, and then entered a southwest wicket as easily as if she had never left.

  Keeping her head down, she walked through a courtyard and down a flight of steps to the kitchens, where she blended with the workers.

  After a half-hour of kneading, chopping, and subtle questioning, she learned a caravan was being prepared––they were gathering supplies and packing baskets in the front courtyard. The party was planning on leaving the next day, in the early dawn. She was thinking sadly of how the Rischa of last year would’ve scorned an escort, when a cook pinched her arm and called her a lazybones. She climbed the stairs with a side of cured beef and came outside.

  A dog barked hysterically. She blinked in the light, looking round. A big, white hound pushed through the people preparing the bags and slobbered all over Sarid’s arms.

  “Hush.” She pressed Gryka’s head against her skirt. The dog wiggled under her hands and looked at her with adoring eyes.

  A girl said something apologetically in Rileldine, and Sarid, preparing an answer, lifted her head and found herself face to face with Dreida.

  The girl looked so horrified that Sarid wondered if her skin had fallen off.

  She shook her head and put a finger to her mouth. Dreida backed away, slipped through the workers, and stared at Sarid from the other side of the pile of baggage.

  Sarid shrugged––there was no accounting for it. She soon lost sight of Dreida and decided to get the thing over with, before the girl had time to talk. Gryka wiggled round her still, but the behavior wasn’t unwarranted; Sarid still had her side of beef.

  She went over to the food bags and took out the little satchel of salt from the apothecary. It looked just like the salt covering the meat.

  She crouched so her sarafan hid the basket, and made a show of packing her beef inside it, so no one could see her rub the salt over all the meat. It wasn’t enough to kill anyone—just make them sick for a while.

  She had moved on to the bread when Dreida said behind her: “My lady?”

  Gryka circled round both of them, making little moaning noises. Sarid hid the salt. “What?”

  “Are you yourself?”

  “So far as I know.”

  “You weren’t last time we met.”

  Sarid stood up. “You met me when I was mad?”

  “I cared for Gryka while you were gone.”

  “I’m pleased you’re alive.”

  “I knew you’d come back. Are you going to help?”

  “Yes.”

  Dreida didn’t say more, but backed away again and went about her business with a slight smile.

  After gathering a few things, Sarid left quietly, before anyone else could recognize her. She went out the wicket, but before she could close it, Gryka had slid past and was sitting in front of her, grinning like an idiot. “Stay,” Sarid said. “You can’t follow. Not today.” She doubted the dog would listen.

  ***

  “How’d it go?” said Savvel, as she looped her horse’s leads over a pine branch. Moisture fell down over her hair.

  “Rischa’s leaving at dawn tomorrow,” she said. “We’d better collect him that evening––he’ll have eaten by then.”

  “Will he be very sick?” asked Leva.

  “Depends on how much he eats.” She wiped water off her forehead. “Let’s darken Savvel’s skin, shall we?”

  Savvel produced from his bags a bottle of dye for leathers––they’d bought it back in Amarstad. Sarid took up a pan and stepped over some broken rocks to the brook, which was deep and the color of brandy. She filled the pan and watered the dye. Then they sat by the fire, for it had got dark, and she and Leva rubbed the stuff all over Savvel’s skin. Half an hour later he looked like he had come from southern Dirlan, or Garada.

  He wiped a trickle off his lips. “How long d’you suppose it’ll stay––?”

  “A while, probably,” said Sarid. He seemed more excited than dismayed.

  Twenty-Three

  The next morning Savvel put on a green cloak. Leva, who was handy with a brush, had painted onto it earlier a mortar with a tree rising from it––the sign of the medic. Savvel gathered together the pliers and picks and knives and other things Sarid had stolen yesterday from the hall, and put them all in a big black purse.

  “You look very young,” said Leva to him.

  “Even with this beard?” He pulled at the patchy crop he’d cultivated the past three weeks.

  “Scarcely older than Sarid. Rub some mud round your eyes and squint. It’ll make wrinkles.”

  He did so, and it improved him some, and Sarid belted a ragged coat around her sarafan.

  “What shall we do about Leva?” Savvel said to her.

  “She can stay here,” said Sarid. “She’d be a worry.”

  “She’d prefer you to speak to her directly,” said Leva.

  “Someone has to stay with the baggage, Leva,” said Sarid.

  “Someone has to man the keep,” said Savvel. “Make it warm and inviting for your erstwhile betrothed. Give it a woman’s touch.”

  “Just go,” said Leva. “May take all damn day to find the damn boy.”

  ***

  When they came to the road it was clear the party had passed through––the dirt was written over with boot and hoof, and dust
hung in the air and on the bushes along the road. Sarid and Savvel clipped along on their mounts, keeping to the ditches in case they were come upon suddenly. In the distance they heard the whinny of horses and the jingle of harnesses.

  Either Rischa and his escort had iron stomachs or they’d had a frugal midday meal.

  Near sunset they heard the drumbeat of a horse galloping their way. They watched behind a stand of pines as the man rode by—he’d Charevost livery, blonde hair, and a very white face.

  “You think—?” said Savvel.

  “Yes.” Sarid spotted smoke curling beyond a rise in front of them.

  She and Savvel circled wide around the place, so they might approach it from the north. It was just chilly enough that they could put cowls up without seeming furtive. Sarid’s horse made restless movements under her, ears pricked. A whinny sounded from the camp. Savvel’s horse threw back his head and answered.

  There were about ten men altogether. They’d unloaded under a stand of dead oaks, but hadn’t got round to hobbling the horses, some of which were grazing on the other side of the road.

  Sarid was pleased to see that most of the men were down, lying on pallets, blankets and coats.

  “What’s this?” A man looked up from filling a bucket with water. Obviously he hadn’t taken sick. He put his big skin bag down, stepped up next to them and peered suspiciously up at Savvel. “Who are you?”

  “Where is His Grace?” said Savvel, deepening his voice a notch.

  “Tell me who you are.”

  “A doctor,” said Savvel. “Torgdan Adan of Ningrav. Someone found me on the road. Middling height, blonde hair. Had a grey horse. He said everyone’s down with cramps.”

  “Mikal found a doctor? Who’s she?” the man grunted, gesturing to Sarid. She kept her eyes down.

  “My apprentice.”

  Savvel and Sarid got down off the horses. Savvel unbuckled his bag of supplies from the saddle, and gave it to her to carry. In the twilight the sign on his cloak looked dim and travel-worn.

  “His Grace?” said Savvel.

  “Over there.” The man pointed toward the nearest oak.

  “Come, Dreida,” said Savvel to Sarid, and she walked after him, pulling her cowl lower. The man followed them. Savvel said to him, “Are you the only one not sick?”

  “Wouldn’t say that,” mumbled the man. “We think it’s the wine.”

  “The wine?”

  “Aye, I only had half a skin."

  “Tell me, when did you eat?”

  “Just now. Was fetching water earlier, for the horses.” Sarid saw that the man’s hands were shaking. They hadn’t been before.

  They stepped over groaning men and wet blankets, and came to Rischa, who lay curled on a pallet, hands in a knot at his stomach. The man bent over him and said, “Your Grace?”

  “Where’s Peitr?” said Rischa. His hair stuck to his neck, and he shook under his blanket.

  “Vomiting.”

  “Oh.” He leaned over his pallet and heaved. Nothing came up. There was a bucket next to him, filled to the brim. Sarid looked away, her stomach squeezing.

  Savvel donned a look of sympathy. “Your Grace,” he said, bending over his brother, “we’re going to set you on my horse and bring you to Ningrav.”

  Rischa didn’t reply. His eyes were glazed; he seemed barely conscious. Together Savvel and the man lifted him and put him on Savvel’s horse, and Sarid climbed up behind to steady him. Savvel took the leads, turning so that his face was next to Rischa’s. Sarid felt the startled movement, the change in Rischa’s posture.

  Savvel noticed, too. He drew his knife under his cloak, put it against Rischa’s armpit. “You’re right,” he whispered in Rischa’s ear, “we’re both mad. And if you make a noise other than vomiting I’ll dig to see if I can find a heart anywhere in you. Which is a pity, because I’d rather kill the lady.”

  Savvel patted Rischa on the shoulder, and said loudly to Sarid, “Put wet cloths around his head. It will ease the fever.” He still had his knife against Rischa’s neck, and Sarid wrapped a wide cloth around Rischa’s head, making sure it fit snuggly against his mouth.

  Savvel took his knife away, and nodded at the man. “We’d better get him to town.”

  “I am sorry, Your Grace,” said the man. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. “I don’t think I can walk with you.” He sat on a fallen log and took a few heaving breaths. “Don’t think poorly of me.”

  “He’s scarcely in a state to think anything,” said Savvel. “I’ll send men with medicine. You should probably lie down.” He mounted Sarid’s horse, and the three of them rode out of the camp.

  Soon there were no noises behind them except the night birds and the wind rushing through the pines.

  “I feel awful,” said Sarid to Savvel. They went west at the fastest speed they could. Rischa was convulsing in Sarid’s arms, his shirt soaked through with sour-smelling sweat.

  Savvel looked at his brother. “Take the gag off.”

  Sarid untied the cloth from Rischa’s head. He spat out the rag and asked for water. She took a waterskin from the bags and gave it to him, and he pulled at it hungrily. His hands shook. He dropped it, and it fell onto the road.

  “There’s more.” Sarid gave him the other one, and he squeezed it dry.

  It was all for nothing, though. Five minutes later he leaned over the horse and threw it all up.

  “Oh, well,” said Sarid. “There’s water where we’re going.”

  ***

  Leva had lit a snapping fire in the hollow and boiled some water from the brook. There was a bowl of greenish paste set on a stone nearby––Sarid had made it before leaving that morning.

  “Thank you, Leva,” said Sarid, sliding from the horse. Savvel jumped down and helped her ease Rischa to the ground.

  Leva took the horses’ leads. “You’ve scared him senseless. We’re not going to kill you, Rischa,” she said.

  “It’s not fear,” said Sarid. She and Savvel dragged Rischa over to the fire. They put him on a bedroll, and Sarid reached for a sack of oats and used it to prop up his head. “Go get some water,” she said to Savvel, and she scooped the green paste into the pan of hot water, and stirred it with a stick.

  Savvel came back with a filled waterskin, and they watched as Rischa drank from it very slowly.

  “Now this,” said Sarid. She handed him a tin of the hot water with the paste dissolved in it.

  He peered inside at the green-tinted stuff. “What’s this?” he said hoarsely.

  “A solution of charcoal, algae, and rust.”

  Rischa looked over at his brother. “She’s trying to poison me.”

  “No,” said Savvel, “she’s already poisoned you. You’re suffering from the whore’s blush.” He pointed at Rischa’s flushed shoulder, which was sticking out of his unlaced shirt. “Or the orpiment poop, or whatever you want to call it. And Sarid knows her antidotes, so if you would please drink the fucking tea. Because a healthy, bright-eyed Rischa in full possession of his faculties is conducive to our success tonight.”

  Rischa drank it more slowly than he had drunk the water. Sarid took the tin, refilled it.

  “Another?” His voice was quavering less.

  “Yes.”

  He drank it without argument. Then he rolled over onto his stomach and rose to his knees. He rested his head on the ground and panted heavily. Sarid recognized the symptoms and ordered him behind a bush.

  He got up on trembling legs and tottered behind some hawthorns to do his business.

  When he came back he sat on the bedroll and drew his legs up to his chest. “What are you doing?”

  “Feel better?” said Sarid.

  “A bit.”

  “How much did you eat?”

  “Not a lot.”

  “Good. This is how it’s going to go. We’ll wait an hour or two, until you’re able to walk properly. Then you can come with us freely or we can knock you unconscious and carry you.”
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br />   “I’ll come,” he said.

  “Where are we going?” said Leva. She seemed folded in, half her usual size.

  “Away from the road,” said Sarid. “Up into the mountains.”

  ***

  They waited. Rischa drank a lot of water, and lay down for a bit. Then they left the horses in the hollow, and walked north, through groves of pine and oak, over streams, around ravines, until they reached a glade on the side of a wide, low mountain: a slash of dead grass surrounded by oaks and firs, with a flat, dark stone sunk in the middle. The place had a sad feeling, especially near the stone, as though something terrible had happened there a long time ago.

  Sarid dropped her bag. It made a hollow noise on the turf. She pulled from it a few coils of rope.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to Rischa. “We have to tie you up.”

  “Why?” He looked over toward the dark stone. “What’re you going to do?”

  “Nothing to you,” said Savvel.

  “Where should we hide him?” asked Sarid, looking round the clearing.

  “Under a fir tree.” Leva pointed. “There. The boughs go straight to the ground.”

  The three of them led Rischa beneath the tree.

  They tied his hands and sat him against the trunk, and Sarid asked him if he could see out the branches.

  “What are you doing?” he said again. Sarid knelt and saw that he had a good view of the clearing. Savvel lashed him securely to the trunk, Leva tied his ankles, and Sarid, apologizing again, gagged him. His eyes looked at her, asking the question.