Senrid

by Sherwood Smith

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  FIVE

  “Now.”

  Christoph was only a silhouette in the weak moonlight.

  “The last one is snoring,” he whispered.

  “I’ll take that,” Senrid said, pointing to the commander’s tent, from which loud snores emerged. “I want a crack at the maps.”

  “If you happen to see Lordsnordsword—” Puddlenose began.

  “What?” Senrid’s voice was breathy with laughter. “What’s that?”

  “My blade. I stole it from a pompous gasbag named Snord, and he was a lord, so what name could be better?”

  “What indeed,” Senrid echoed—and it was clear that in his country, though they had plenty of weapons they didn’t name them. “I do remember seeing it in there.”

  Puddlenose shrugged. “Well, let’s get busy.”

  While they’d worked, they’d learned everything there was to know about the camp, so it didn’t take long to upend all the tent poles, let the horses all go, and get rid of the banner and attach to its pole one of the commander’s undergarments that had been drying on a bush after having been laundered in the stream earlier—by the boys.

  The guardians of the coast snored oblivious, all having Partaken liberally of the ale one had brought in with the latest supply wagon, and into which Christoph had thoughtfully added a packet of powdered sleepweed, found in the cook tent.

  As Puddlenose worked away at thrashing the camp, he kept looking over at the main tent, half-expecting to hear a roar for guards, but no sounds emerged until Senrid himself came out, his pale head gleaming in the weak light, with his arms full.

  “Got ‘em,” Senrid said.

  “Any trouble?” Puddlenose asked.

  “I know how to be quiet,” Senrid said. He lit a candle, spread a map out on the grass, and studied it intently.

  Christoph came up then, lugging three woven waterbags. “I think that business about Everon being a desert has to be true,” he said. “Look what I found in the horse tack, for the messengers. I filled ‘em, one each.”

  “Good thinking,” Puddlenose said. “Let’s raid the cook tent, and get moving.”

  Not long after, they were on their way to the northwest, directed by Senrid.

  Despite the promising beginning, the remainder of the episode scarcely constituted an adventure. It was a journey, one that soon was hot, dry, and arduous.

  Exactly as Captain Heraford predicted, Everon soon became a desert, only not of sand, like the Senyavin west of Mearsies Heili, but like farmland and forest denuded of growth—of life.

  Travel was difficult, not because anyone interfered with them, but because of the unremitting heat. Blue sky curved from horizon to horizon like a bell, cloudless and bright by day, but curiously starless at night; a haze manifested between ground and sky each evening at sunset.

  They did see a few other travelers, none of whom spoke to them. Once an old woman walked in the opposite direction, her face hooded. When they drew even, Puddlenose looked into her face, saw observant eyes, set amid the wrinkles of humor and of patient endurance, but she passed on by.

  And once, horsemen. Thinking of their victims back in the camp, the three at first wanted to hide, but there was no hiding here. It soon became obvious that these were not the border riders, but something else indeed, for they rode white steeds that made Senrid stare in admiration, and they wore white livery edged with silver and purple.

  None of the boys knew it at the time, but they were seeing the legendary Knights of Dei, sworn to execute the King or Queen’s bidding. The King and Queen were enchanted, and so the Knights rode, silent for the duration of the enchantment, existing in an arid, dream-like half-world.

  They did not stop or speak.

  Puddlenose had the feeling they’d been seen, though—and assessed. When the three had galloped by, dust obscuring them, Christoph scratched his head and whistled a long, low note expressive of amazement. Senrid said nothing, but he seemed bemused for a long while after.

  Most of their sporadic conversation (which dwindled over the successive days of hiking in that relentless sun) was between Christoph and Puddlenose, Senrid listening to their quick, easy, sometimes laughing exchanges. They had been friends for a long time, and shared humor as well as stories. They understood one another so well that they sometimes spoke in cryptic metonymy.

  So that’s what it was like to have a friend.

  Senrid asked about some of their past adventures, which they were very ready to relate—especially the funny ones. Senrid also asked about the Chwahir, and it was Christoph who answered. Puddlenose’s comments were largely restricted to pungent observations on Shnit Sonscarna’s more disgusting traits.

  Senrid enjoyed those as well, but some of his questions hinted at a background that, if it wasn’t similar in all points, was similar enough to cause Puddlenose to speculate on who might have landed the kid with them—and why.

  There was one important conversation on the evening they sighted the hills beyond the capital.

  “Do you know who it is we are giving the news of this crackdown to?” Senrid asked.

  “Nope,” Puddlenose said. “I didn’t catch any names, did you?” he asked Christoph.

  Christoph shrugged. “Nary a one.”

  “Then…why are you doing it?” Senrid asked. “For the chance to score off the Norsundrians? A worthwhile goal,” he added, not hiding his dislike.

  “I guess,” Puddlenose said, thinking, Because it’s the right thing to do.

  And Senrid said, in an edgy voice, “You’re not about to inform me, most self-righteously, that it’s the right thing to do?”

  “If you already know it is, why ask?” Christoph bent to pick up a stone, which he skimmed ahead on the trail. He shaded his eyes as he watched it land, spinning, on the road ahead.

  “Because I’m not convinced there’s any such thing as the ‘right’ thing to do—outside of self interest,” Senrid said.

  “So opposing, say, Norsunder every chance one can get isn’t right?” Puddlenose asked.

  “Pure self-interest.” Senrid looked sardonic. “From anyone on any ‘side’ if they have half a brain.”

  “True,” Puddlenose said, shrugging.

  He’d learned during his days as Shnit’s prisoner, when the warped mage-king would force Kwenz’s heir, Jilo, and Puddlenose into adversarial positions, that talking of right and wrong was worthless from the perspective of one raised to calculate human interactions in terms of degrees of power.

  Puddlenose and Jilo had had to form a truce of sorts, to survive. They’d talked expedience, never ethics.

  From what little Senrid would say of his own background, there were some startling similarities.

  So Puddlenose added, “The chance for action. To snap our fingers, so to speak, under this Detlev’s nose—even though I’ve never met him and hope never to have the pleasure. I don’t know. It seemed the thing to do. If that’s ‘right’ I can live with it. Why are you still here with us? Is staying right, or wrong?”

  “Because I don’t know if I’m still being watched,” Senrid said, too hot and tired for anything but bluntness. “If I am, by whom. And why. Someone put me here with you for a reason, and I thought if I stayed I’d find out the reason.”

  Christoph said, “You must have an almighty sense of self if you think someone is watching us now.” He looked around the empty landscape and above, which was even emptier. His grin, usually so friendly, was sardonic.

  Senrid snorted a laugh.

  Puddlenose said, “You can always test it. What did that spirit-thing call herself?” He tipped his head back. “Erdrael? Erdrael! Send us on a magic carpet? Not that I’ve ever heard of one existing, but CJ tells stories with ‘em,” he added. “What I can’t figure is, why a carpet? Wouldn’t you fall off? A magic raft sounds more sensible. Erdrael, hear that? One magic raft, please.”

  Nothing happened.

  “Here, you try,” Puddlenose
invited.

  Senrid said once, in a goading voice, “Erdrael, we’ll take that magic raft now—and a feast on top of it.”

  Nothing.

  They walked on.

  Puddlenose said finally, “Everywhere I go, you learn that there are different kinds of awareness, some extending outside of time. Those people that Dhana—that’s one of Clair’s gang—comes from, they live in certain waters, and they all seem to know of each other, but if they know anything about land life I’d be surprised. And if you ask Dhana about her life in non-human form, she’ll first say What do you mean by ‘know?”‘

  Christoph said, “Some of those magic races apparently extend outside of time, or at least time passes differently for them than for us.”

  Senrid opened his hand, acknowledging the possibility.

  Christoph kicked at a pebble, watching the puffs of dust it raised, light brown and fine as flour. “You must have done some kind of magic to catch the attention of some big blade, right?”

  Senrid tipped his head back, wiped his sleeve over his forehead, then shrugged. “True. My magic and—someone else’s clashed and we ended up thrown off the world.”

  “Off the world?” Puddlenose and Christoph said together.

  “Yes. I told you that.”

  “I thought you were kidding,” Puddlenose said. “Landed yourself in one of our oceans.” He whistled. “Well, you definitely did come to someone’s attention.”

  “Who plucked us away from that world when we finished, and then stuck me with you.”

  “Hoo. Well, I can’t answer that one,” Christoph said. He grinned. “And anyway it would suggest someone might be watching us too, from time to time, eh?” He looked upward and simpered. “Yoo hoo? How about some shade?”

  Puddlenose thought, So you know magic, huh? You didn’t say what kind.

  He didn’t speak, though; whatever kind of magic it was, Senrid didn’t seem to have access to it at present.

  Christoph bent and picked up another flat stone, shying it ahead and listening to the dry rattle and clatter.

  Puddlenose felt Senrid’s assessing gaze, but he watched Christoph’s throw, then picked up a stone and tried skipping it. He sensed that the real subject was yet to be broached.

  And sure enough, out it came.

  “So,” Senrid said. “Supposing you’ve a custom with which you might disagree, but if you don’t perform it, at best you will be perceived as weak. At worst, someone else uses it as an excuse to get rid of you.”

  “Easy,” Puddlenose said, chortling. “First, I’d have to find a reason to give this—” He showed the back of his hand. “—for what a bunch of rats think of me. And if I don’t—and I am sure I wouldn’t—I’m out so fast all they see are my heels.”

  “Suppose you have a stake in staying,” Senrid persisted.

  Christoph sighed. “I hate this kind of thing. What kind of custom are you talking about? Whether or not you button or lace your shirts? If you belch after drinking? And what happens if you don’t behave according to custom—does someone paint your nose purple, or does someone come in the night and stab you?”

  “The latter.” Senrid’s face was bland, but Puddlenose saw his hands flex once or twice.

  “I’d skip out,” Puddlenose said firmly. “Nothing is going to make me stay under those circs. I’ve had a bellyful of life-and-death game playing with the Chwahir, and none of it I chose. But if you were to ask my cousin Clair, she’d want to know first thing your stake in staying. Are you protecting someone, or are you merely playing life-and-death games for your own fun and profit?”

  “Let’s say that you see corruption and senseless misuse of power and know how to fix it, but you not only can’t flout custom, you have to be perceived as strong or you won’t be able to control those who will resist you.”

  Christoph whistled. “I’d say you have a big mess on your hands, and better get some allies who are awfully good—either that or start sleeping sitting up, with your eyes open and a sword in your hand.”

  Puddlenose shook his head. “I wouldn’t do it. Clair would, though. If she believed it was for the greater good of those who can’t protect themselves. Except then,” he shied another stone, “you’re not being logical. In the worldview where what matters is power and expedience, who cares about the weak?”

  Flex. Senrid’s hands betrayed a hit. He didn’t speak.

  A long silence ensued, the only sound their feet shuffling through the dry dirt. Senrid walked with his head down. Puddlenose watched, wondering if he was ever going to find out what had prompted the questions—and where they would lead.

  Then Christoph tipped back his head, and let out an exclamation. “Are those our hills?” he asked, pointing.

  On the western horizon, in the purplish haze of the ending day, they made out shapes like uneven knuckles.

  “Hope so,” Puddlenose said. “I don’t know about you, but I only have enough water left maybe for tomorrow. Ditto the wen-cakes and fruit.”

  Senrid sloshed his waterbag, and Christoph groaned as he hefted his, which seemed as light as the others’.

  “Why don’t we camp now, and start as soon as we have light to walk?” Puddlenose suggested.

  The others agreed, and so they did.

  Morning was cold. They woke stiff and chilled, and ate the last of their food.

  Another day’s hike brought them much closer to the hills, which were now plain even in the shimmering heat waves of day. They discussed what to do when they got to the capital, but when they reached the first of the rocky hills, they encountered two standing stones, and Senrid halted them.

  “There’s magic here,” he said.

  Neither of the others asked how he knew.

  “I’ve read about this kind of access. If you want to test them out, we walk between them from the north.”

  “Should we?” Puddlenose asked. “What kind of magic?”

  “White.”

  “Which isn’t always used for good purposes,” Christoph put in comfortingly. “Now, for real evil it isn’t much use. Obscure, though, does work.”

  Senrid looked over. “What does that mean?”

  Puddlenose said, “It means though it’s a white magic spell we still might be in trouble.”

  “I’m hungry—” Christoph began.

  “Naturally,” Puddlenose put in. “As always.”

  “—so I say, let’s see what we find between the stones. We already know we’ve got desert and nothing else here. Whatever awaits in the hills might be swords and knives. Because our hosts on the coast made it clear their orders came from Ferdrian, the capital, lying there beyond the hills.”

  Puddlenose shrugged and circled around one of the stones. The other two followed.

  Puddlenose felt the weird vertigo of transfer magic, but his feet kept moving forward on solid ground, and within an eyeblink he discovered he was in darkness. Darkness, but his next breath drew in the complex richness of young and old trees, of flowering shrubs, herbs, and loam, and underneath it all, the sweetness of flowing water. A second breath drove out the memory of the dusty, arid air they’d endured on their long walk.

  His eyes adjusted rapidly.

  He was surrounded by forestland.

  “Whoo, this is weird,” he said, gulping in the good air, as the other two emerged.

  Christoph snorted in lungfuls. Senrid stayed quiet.

  Puddlenose glanced behind them. The two stones were mere shadows, and the space between dark.

  “Path.” Senrid pointed.

  “That’s so,” Christoph said, hands on hips. “Me, I’m glad to be out of that sun. It really was dead out there, wasn’t it? Not just arid, but dead. No living things at all. I didn’t notice until I stepped here—wherever ‘here’ might be—and smelled life again. Shall we see if this path leads to food?”

  Puddlenose peered into the undergrowth, but the darkness defeated him. He nodded. “Path it is.”

  They trod cautiously; Puddlenose n
oticed at one point that Senrid had his dagger in his hand, but when they saw peacefully twinkling lights shining like lacework between the foliage of the trees, and heard cheery dance music rising on the soft evening air, the dagger vanished up the shirt cuff again.

  The pool of golden light revealed a circle of travelers’ wagons, brightly painted, some with wind chimes hanging in the rounded openings. In the midst of this camp burned a great fire, around which a dozen or so people of all ages danced, amid them a girl about Christoph’s age and height, her golden hair swinging against her skirts. Her coloring, the way she moved, made it clear she was at least related to the forest-dwelling maulons.

  Christoph minced forward, parodying dance. Puddlenose stuck out a foot and tripped him. Christoph fell down with a foof! that made the other two laugh.

  The sound attracted attention; two men materialized out of the shadows between a couple of wagons. Both carried steel.

  Senrid’s hands were together, but he stood silently.

  “Who are you?” one man called.

  “Ourselves,” Christoph called. “Wait! Check that!” He scrambled to his feet, dusted off his clothes. Then he bowed absurdly. “Christoph Uhlemann, heavenly fiend at your service—that’s only a figure of speech, that service part. I’m too lazy to work.”

  “Clam up, you numbskull,” Puddlenose said, noticing the stances of the men ease at Christoph’s foolishness. “Do you want them to think we’re insane?”

  “But we are!” Christoph protested.

  “Who are you?” the man asked again, in a considerably less belligerent tone.

  Puddlenose decided it was time to at least pretend to be serious. “Travelers, come to warn you that your border riders have been ordered to move in for some kind of search. We didn’t find out for what, but we figured it was worthwhile warning someone, since this land—that is, if we are still in Everon—is reputed to be under Norsunder’s shadow.”

  One of the men drew his breath in audibly. The other said, “We’re in Everon, yes. The right part. Out there is the wrong part. Come along. We’ll talk inside camp, where we can see one another.”