Karavans (38 page)

It had taken her some while to go to sleep because an unquiet mind painted all manner of pictures of the man who had assaulted her, feeding her images that hadn’t actually happened but could have. She had arisen once to make more watery tea and rebraid her hair for bed. Neither task was necessary, but it took her mind from what caused the lack of sleep.

Now she was wide awake, and annoyed because of it.

Tea was not the answer; she had no wish to use the night-crock more than was necessary. She pushed back the covers and sat up, listening closely for the sort of noise that might account for her sudden wakefulness. But all she heard was the tinny buzzing and chirps of various insects, the occasional dog barking, the whuffling and stirring of livestock. That, she was accustomed to.

Ilona reached down to the floorboards next to her cot. She
had placed there one of the shepherd’s crook lantern hooks. Never before had she considered the need for a weapon of any sort, and while the hook was unwieldy, it remained a good weight in her hand. She believed it might do some damage.

But Rhuan had killed the man. Come dawn, rites for his passage across the river would be held. Ghosts and spirits did not exist despite the tales told to children, so she held no fear of incorporeal visitation.

Which meant, of course, that a human was outside.

Fear rose, startling her with its intensity. She had latched and locked her door before climbing into bed. It went against habit to do so, but, if nothing else, the assault had taught her to put no trust in a blithe assumption of personal safety. Now she was grateful for such meager protection.

Kneeling on her cot, Ilona set the lantern hook beside her and turned to the oilcloth side curtains. Very carefully she slipped her fingers between the side of the wagon and the lowered shadecloth. Even more carefully she began to lift the heavy fabric, hunching down so she might surreptitiously peer out the slanting slit between wagon side and oilcloth.

What she saw took her aback entirely. There was Rhuan, settling a bed made of blankets atop a woven mat. Whereas Jorda had asked if she wished him to sleep outside her wagon, Rhuan simply did so. Ilona wasn’t certain which she preferred: a man who acquiesced to her wishes, or one who simply did as he intended regardless of her preferences.

Nonetheless, she felt the safer for his presence. Relief swamped her fear and dissipated it. Ilona smiled and let the oilcloth drop down again. She leaned over the cot edge to return the lantern hook to its place, and burrowed beneath her blankets. The knowledge that Rhuan was so close, so prepared to defend her, let sleep return in a rush. She fell into it with a word of grateful welcome in her mind.

WITH FERIZE GONE, there was no reason not to seek a roof somewhat more waterproof than trees.
Brodhi returned to the couriers’ common tent. Bethid, Timmon, and Alorn had not moved any of their belongings, so he claimed the pallet he’d used before. His cloak went up on one of the long hooks dangling from the Mother Rib, and the rest of his meager belongings he arranged neatly by his bed. Though he could see well in low light, he nonetheless lighted the lantern depending from the roof rib. It smoked and guttered, casting unsteady saffron light.

For the first time in more months than he cared to count, Brodhi felt at loose ends. That he should return to Cardatha to report to the Hecari warlord went without saying, but there was no one to know he dawdled save his fellow couriers, and they clearly were in no more of a hurry to return than he was.

Brodhi removed his boots and stretched out on the pallet, arms thrust beneath his head. He contemplated the oilcloth roof, letting tension seep out of his body. He could feel it going, could feel the muscles loosening one by one. It was bothersome that the concerns of humans could become his own. He longed for the heat and indolence of a high summer’s day, yearned to strip down, strip away every shred of human clothing, and stand beneath the light of the sun, letting
it
clothe his flesh. Wanted nothing more than to take the light and heat into himself to run through his veins, with no thought at all about humans or patrons or tests.

He closed his eyes and began in silence, lips moving, to tell over the Names of the Thousand Gods, following the strands of mnemonic memory in order to forget no one. They took time, such devotions; he had learned that among humans, the best he could hope for was fits and starts.

He had not gotten very far when a hand pulled back the door flap and a body slipped in.

“Oh.” Her tone was startled.

He stopped telling over the Names. He stopped even thinking about them.

Bethid went to her pallet, dropping her cloak in a pool of
rich blue fabric at the foot of the bedding. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

He saw no reason to reply.

“I had a talk with Mikal.” She sat down and began to pull her boots off. “He said he’d spoken with you.” Shed, the boots were set at the foot of her pallet. Stocking-footed, she crossed her legs and looked at him. She waited for a comment; when none was forthcoming she continued. “It could work, Brodhi. Couriers can go far more places than others can, and we’re trusted. Do you realize what an advantage that is?”

He gave up ignoring her. “It’s an advantage only as long as we can prevent the Hecari from finding out.”

“Well,
that’s
a brilliant observation.”

Brodhi opened his eyes. Sarcasm was not Bethid’s usual weapon. “When planning something of this magnitude, something with so much danger attached, only a fool dismisses all probabilities.”

“Of course it will be dangerous, Brodhi! We’re
not
dismissing that.” She ran a coal-grimed hand through upstanding hair, scratching at her scalp. “Timmon and Alorn are still there with Mikal, discussing things. But we all of us believe it could work. It will take time, of course—”

“Years,” he put in.

“—but it’s still a worthwhile task,” Bethid finished pointedly. “And yes, you’re undoubtedly correct: years. But we must begin sometime, somewhere, and this place, so lately the victim of more Hecari atrocities, will serve very well.”

He hitched himself up on one elbow and stared at her. “You intend to make this settlement the breeding ground of a newly hatched rebellion?”

Bethid nodded. Brass ear-hoops glinted. “Everything that makes it a good place for the karavans to gather makes it a good place to stage a rebellion.”

He could not mask his incredulity. “One decimation was not enough to prove this place is known to the Hecari? It will be watched, Bethid! Another culling party—or even
the same one—might return tomorrow. In fact, they’d be wise to do so; how better to convince everyone that the warlord won’t countenance Sancorrans gathering in numbers?”

She shrugged narrow shoulders. “Then this will be the first battleground.”

“They could very well decide to kill more than one in ten.”

“All of us,” Bethid said promptly, nodding. “We do know that. Which is why it’s imperative that we prepare the people here for an effective resistance, in case the Hecari come again.”

“This place hosts people who have only today lost kin to a decimation,” he declared. “Do you truly believe they will agree to fight against the Hecari should they return? These people know what will happen. I can’t believe they would attempt to resist.”

Bethid smiled grimly. “That’s because you’re not human. You don’t understand us. When faced with a true test, most humans rise to it. These folk will, too.” There was neither amusement nor fear in her eyes, only conviction and a powerful commitment. “It’s time, Brodhi. They’ve beaten us down too often. Sancorra loses more people every day, either to a Hecari culling or to those in karavans who leave the province to begin again elsewhere.” She drew in a breath. “Are you with us?”

“To do what?”

“Initially, only to carry word throughout Sancorra that resistance, though dangerous, is not impossible. Actual organization will come later.”

“Three couriers.”

“Four, if you join us.”

“And you believe this is enough?”

“No. We believe informing as many couriers as possible is the first order of business.”

Instinct prompted a sharp response. “Be wary of that.”

Bethid blinked. “Why?”

He was surprised she did not see it for herself. “It may well be that not every courier will join with you, and then
secrecy is diminished, if not lost outright. Or that a courier might be
seen
to join, only to carry the news to the warlord in hopes of reward.”

“We all swore an oath! You know that!”

“But not an oath to rebel,” he pointed out. “In any resistance, any organized rebellion, there are factions. If they cannot be brought together and bound by an oath all of them will honor, there will always exist a risk of someone betraying you to the warlord.”

She was vehement. “But we
must
get word to the people of Sancorra that there is hope. The only way we can do that without the Hecari finding out is for couriers to carry word.”

Brodhi lay down again. “We’re not untouchable, Bethid. We’re allowed to carry out our tasks because the warlord permits it, for now. He sees value in our duty and neutrality. One day he may not. We as couriers are as vulnerable to his whim as anyone else.”

“Then there’s no time to waste, is there?”

“Are you proposing to leave in the morning on this fool’s quest?”

“No. There’s much more to be discussed.” She paused. “We would be grateful if you discussed it with us, even if you elected not to join us.”

“And why is that?”

“
Because
you’ll tell us we’re fools. That this can never work. That the Hecari are impossible to defeat. That all of us could be killed.”

It was baffling. “And you find that of value?”

Bethid laughed, ear-hoops flashing. “You’ll make us think, Brodhi! You’ll make us devise better plans. You will keep us from letting emotion carry us when what we need to succeed is to be as cold-hearted and calculating as they say the warlord is.” She paused. “And of us all here in this place, you have that capacity.”

Brodhi, rather than taking offense, agreed with the assessment. It indicated strength, not weakness. And humans were weak.

He closed his eyes. “I told Mikal he’ll have my answer in
the morning. You might as well be there to hear it.” He turned on his side then, giving her his back; an eloquent and final way to end the conversation.

Bethid, for once, did not attempt to continue.

J
ORDA WAS NOTHING if not discreet; all everyone in the karavan knew, save for himself, Ilona, and his guides, was that the man named Vencik had been killed the night before by a beast of some sort. Said beast had also eaten most of a milch cow that had somehow broken her tether and wandered into jeopardy. And so the dawn rites were attended by karavaners respectful of the wife’s grief, and, in their ignorance, of her husband’s memory.

Rhuan, standing with Ilona at an edge of the gathering, heard no hint of irony in the voices of Branca and Melior, the two male diviners who performed the rites; clearly, they didn’t know the truth. And while custom dictated that all three karavan diviners should take part in the proceedings, Jorda, pointedly avoiding eye contact with Rhuan and Ilona, briefly explained to all that Ilona had come down with a malady that affected her voice and would not be able to participate.

Rhuan glanced at her sidelong. Nothing in her hazel eyes gave away her thoughts, but her lean face was taut. He had suggested she not attend, but she insisted in a voice that by morning was nearly normal. He wondered if now she wished she had decided otherwise.

He had seen human death rituals several times because now and again people died on a karavan journey. The
night before, Vencik’s wife and her mother, with help from Branca and Melior, would have accorded him the ritual cleansing, washing his body carefully with a costly priest-blessed soap kept against such need. Next would come the head-to-toe oiling, followed by the careful wrapping of the body in clean, gauzy muslin. The swathed body that resembled, Rhuan decided, prey spun into spider silk, now lay upon matting to keep it from touching the earth; after the rituals were completed, the wrapped body would be placed into the hole Rhuan and Darmuth had dug the night before and covered with soil as the diviners once again invoked the blessing of Vencik’s god. The activity put Rhuan in mind of the same service done for the Hecari warriors he had killed, save there had been no ritual; privately, he thought it would be fitting if Vencik were thrown into the pit containing the dead Hecari. But he held his peace, and kept his place beside Ilona.

Branca was a tall, excessively thin man of nondescript features, lackluster ash-blond hair, and somewhat protruding pale blue eyes. His counterpart, Melior, was of medium height with brown hair and eyes, his face overshadowed by a prominent nose. They wore clean, undyed robes of fine-carded wool, unpacked for the purpose, exuding the scent of herbs. Neither man was a priest, but diviners, in lieu of a priest’s presence, were fully empowered to conduct such services.