Master of Crows (25 page)

He stepped back abruptly, and Martise stopped short of reaching out to bring him back to her.  “Go.  You’ve much to do before we leave.”

Flustered by his caress and the words he almost said, Martise bowed formally and turned away to help Gurn clean up the remnants of lunch.  She took a few minutes in the kitchen to eat before running upstairs.

She was curious about the Kurmans.  A semi-nomadic people, they lived most of the year in the high passes of the Dramorin Mountains, descending down to the plains to trade during harvest season and when the weather grew too harsh in the mountain passes.  Asher’s cook had been an exiled Kurman woman, though her outcast status never seemed to bother her.  She’d kept those customs that benefited her and discarded those that didn’t.  Martise had her to thank for teaching her some of the language.

She folded and stuffed her heaviest tunic and skirts in her satchel, along with her shawl and woolen stockings she hadn’t worn since her first day at Neith.  She wished for a heavier wrap and hoped Gurn would pack plenty of blankets.

An odd silence broke her concentration.  The endless jabber and screeching of the crows perched in the orange trees had become such a regular facet of life at Neith, she no longer noticed the noise.  Now she noticed its absence.  Afternoon sunlight streamed in through her open window, and she shielded her eyes from the glare with her hand.  At first glance, the grove looked as it did any other day, green and full and basking in the heat.  A second closer look, and Martise’s heart leapt into her throat.

The ground ran red with blood.  Scarlet rivers flowed down the trunks of the orange trees and pooled at their bases.  Meandering streams trickled in curving patterns over the earth, drawing macabre patterns that widened and stretched to the house.  It looked as if a massacre had taken place in the grove.

“Bursin’s wings.”  She raced out of the room and nearly ran Gurn down as she tore through the kitchen.  “Gurn, is Silhara in the stillroom with the Kurmans?”

She was through the door and halfway across the bailey before he could nod.  The stillroom was dim and cool, redolent with the scent of orange flower and the tobacco smoke lingering on the men’s clothing.

Silhara eyed her in surprise.  She gave a clumsy bow.

“Martise?”  His tone was more concerned than annoyed.

“Master,” she nearly panted.  “The grove.  You’d best come now.”

She flattened against the doorway as Silhara strode past her, face set in grim lines.  The Kurmans stared at each other and then at Silhara’s back in surprise.  Martise addressed them in slow Kurmanji, careful not to look at either of them directly.

“If you will follow me, I will take you where the master has gone.”

They followed without question.  Outside, Silhara and Gurn stood together, surveying the grove weeping blood.  Behind Martise, the Kurmans gasped and chattered in Kurmanji.  Silhara turned, arms akimbo.  A cold fire burned in his narrowed eyes.  He addressed the Kurmans through clenched teeth.

“I look forward to seeing what Karduk has so I may destroy this vermin.”

As they crowded back into the hall, Gurn motioned to Silhara.  Silhara slammed the door behind him.

“There’s nothing to do about it.  The trees are undamaged.  The god is simply making his presence known.  He’s frightened off the birds, which isn’t a bad thing in itself.  Unfortunately, the smell will draw every predator for miles.  I’ll lay a spell over the grove to dampen the scent, but keep Cael inside tonight.  I don’t want him fighting every scavenger that manages to scale the walls looking for a carcass.  Put the livestock in the great hall.  We’ll deal with the mess later.”

He ushered the Kurmans through the kitchen to the stillroom, falling back into the guttural mountain tongue to discuss additional trade for his perfumes.  Even with the god ravaging the grove, there were still negotiations to be made.

Martise returned to her room to finish packing.  Unnerved by the sight and odor wafting off the grove, she lit a lantern and closed the shutters on her view of the bleeding trees.  She returned to the bailey and helped Gurn load Gnat with supplies, including Silhara’s new crossbow.  Between the two of them, they were ready by the time Silhara wanted to leave.

The grand avenue’s gloom hemmed them in as they trod the path to Neith’s entrance.  Martise sympathized with the Kurmans.  Like her, they were uneasy beneath the gnarled canopy of Solaris oaks, and constantly peered into the forest for a better look at the sinuous shapes lurking there.  She almost heard Silhara’s faint smile when she and the tribesmen breathed a collective sigh of relief at the end of the road.

Two sturdy ponies with shaggy coats grazed freely nearby.  Mezdar or Peyan—she still didn’t know who was who—whistled, and the ponies trotted to where they waited.  Next to Gnat, they looked like toys, and she marveled at how easily they carried grown men through winding mountain paths.

They set off for the Dramorins with Martise riding silent behind Silhara on Gnat.  She was content to remain quiet and listen to the men talk.  She’d spent much of her life in such a role and learned a great deal.  Silhara, grim and distracted by the god’s cryptic message in the grove, became more affable as he chatted with the Kurmans.  He was familiar with those they spoke of—who was cousin to whom, who fathered another child, whose parent died of some illness, who married a woman from another tribe.

At dusk, they made camp near the base of the mountains.  The younger Kurman disappeared into the brush with his quarrels and crossbow.  Martise helped Silhara and the remaining Kurman prepare camp.  She gathered wood from the surrounding area, and at one point came upon Silhara hobbling Gnat amidst a patch of tender grass shoots.

“Where did the younger one go?”

Silhara peered into the brush.  “Peyan?  To hunt.  If he doesn’t come back with anything, I’ll try my hand at it, but I suspect we’ll eat well tonight.”

She loaded more sticks onto the pile and gasped when Silhara scooped half the firewood out of her arms.

She tried to snatch it back.  “Wait!  Don’t the Kurman think gathering wood is woman’s work?”

He snagged two more pieces of wood from her load for good measure.  “Martise, bearing children is woman’s work.  Gurn and I would be sitting in the dark every night if we waited for some wandering female to pick up sticks for us.”

“But…”

“Do you truly think those two men will challenge me over how I deal with my woman?”

His woman.  She liked the sound of that too much.  “I thought we were supposed to follow their custom.”

“We are, and we will.  But I’ll be happy to point out their idiocy if they’d rather wait and freeze their balls off while you get enough wood for a decent fire.”

He had a point, and he was more familiar with these people than she.  “Thank you, Master.”

“We’re alone here, Martise.”

“Thank you, Silhara.”

He nodded his approval and motioned her to follow him.  They returned to camp to find Peyan dressing a brace of rabbits for cooking.  They soon had a fire going, with the rabbits spitted and roasting over the flame.  Mezdar built a small side fire, letting it burn low until the coals glowed.  He set a small sheet of metal over the coals and made flat cakes from a grainy mush he’d stirred in a nearby bowl.

Sitting beside Silhara, Martise’s mouth watered.  Enjita bread.  She’d watched Bendewin make enjita many times in Asher’s kitchens.  The servants lined up eagerly, plates in hand when the Kurman woman made her bread.

Silhara leaned closer.  “When you drink your tea, place your hand over the cup so that others don’t see you drink.”

“I didn’t see you do that earlier at Neith.”

“Only the women cover their cups.”

Eat last, drink on the sly, don’t speak often.  Martise was familiar with some of those strictures in her role as a slave.  Being a Kurman woman didn’t seem all that different from what she could tell.

In many ways, their dinner reminded her of the ones at Asher.  This one was nothing like the lavish meals Cumbria held for his fellow priests or visiting dignitaries, but she occupied a similar spot.  She stayed silent, listened and learned.  She might have even gone unnoticed as she had at Asher save for the steady stroke of Silhara’s fingers on the tip of her braid as he conversed, ate and drank tea with his companions.  She was grateful they didn’t linger at their meal.  The smell of the roasted meat and warm bread had her stomach gnawing on her backbone, and she forced herself to go slowly once she could eat.

Mezdar stoked the fire, and all three men prepared pipes for an evening smoke.  She hid a yawn behind her hand and huddled in her shawl.  Despite the fire’s warmth, the air had grown chilly.  Silhara, at ease in the Kurmans’ company didn’t look up from packing his pipe bowl.

“Find your bed, Martise.  I’ll be up for some time.  This is bandit country, and we’ll each take a watch.  Put your blankets with mine.  We’ll stay warmer that way.  And keep your shoes on.  I’ll join you soon.”

She’d grown used to him curled against her in sleep.  Even the light snores purred into her ear comforted her, and there was always the possibility that when he awakened, he’d want her beneath him.  Or atop him.  Martise blushed at the sensual images playing in her mind.

She prepared their bed as he instructed, crawled under the blankets—with her shoes on—and fell asleep.  She woke when Silhara slid beneath the blankets and spooned against her.  He laid his arm across her waist and wedged his leg between hers through her heavy skirts.  His sigh tickled her ear.

“Far better if you were bare, but this will do.”

They rose before dawn.  Peyan, who’d taken the last watch, had already brewed tea and reheated the leftover enjita for their breakfast.   The sun was just peeping over the horizon when they set off for the Kurman village.

The air grew colder and thinner as they rode through the mountain passes.  The sun was high and bright, but Martise wrapped her shawl tightly around her and pressed against Silhara’s back.  Gnat kept a steady pace, breathing harder in the thin air.  Unlike him, the mountain ponies suffered no effects from the rising elevation and clipped ahead at a swift pace.  Patches of snow spilled from embankments onto the rutted paths.  A brisk wind moaned a soft dirge as it whipped through the towering evergreens cloaking the mountainside.

Silhara called a sudden halt.  Martise peered around his arm, expecting to see some obstacle in their path.  The way was clear, with only the Kurmans watching them curiously.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re quaking hard enough to make
my
teeth rattle.”  He moved his leg back and untied one of the packs strapped to the saddle.  “Get down.”

She slid off Gnat’s back.  Silhara followed and pulled one of their blankets from the packet.  “Here.  Wrap this around you.”

She had only pulled the blanket over her shoulders when he picked her up and tossed her onto Gnat’s back once more, this time in the front of the flat saddle.  She clutched the horse’s mane with one hand and held on to her blanket with the other.  Silhara vaulted up behind her, scooted her back against him and took up the reins.

“Better,” he said and whistled to the waiting Kurmans he was ready.

Martise couldn’t agree more.  The blanket’s warmth and Silhara’s body heat soaked through her clothing and into her bones.  She leaned into his chest.  “This is nice.”

An amused rumble vibrated near her ear.  “So glad you approve.”  His hand slipped under the blanket, wandered over her belly and cupped her breast.  Martise sucked in a breath as his fingers teased her nipple through her shawl and tunic.  The heat surrounding her turned scorching.  “I agree,” he murmured in her ear.  “This is nice.”

He stopped his teasing when she squirmed hard enough in the saddle to nearly unseat them both, but left his hand on her breast, content to just hold her.  Martise was ready to toss off the blanket and her shawl.  Silhara’s touch had left her with a throbbing ache between her thighs.  She smiled a little at the feel of him hard against her back.  She wasn’t the only one affected by his teasing.

He rubbed the top of her head with his chin.  “There will be a feast tonight.  Kurmans look for any reason to have a celebration.  Visitors to their camp is as good as any.  The men eat separate from the women, so you won’t sit with me.

Again, a separation of not only roles but proximity.  “Are Kurman women such pariahs among their own people?”

“Don’t be so quick to judge.  It may seem that way to an outsider, but Kurman women are well-respected.  They own property independent of their husbands.  A man’s dower-gift for a new bride is bought from his mother and given to the bride’s mother.  She owns the flocks, the carpets, even the houses.  The women also elect the
sarsin
.”

Martise, stunned by his revelations, twisted in the saddle to look at him.  “I’ve never heard of such a thing.  They own property?”  She didn’t bother to hide her envy.  What was eating second compared to having something of your own, not tied to either a father or a husband?”

Silhara’s tone was sardonic.  “The plains folk could learn something from these mountain savages, wouldn’t you say?”

She faced forward and stared at the Kurmans riding ahead of them.  Even the most elevated aristo woman couldn’t lay claim to land or holdings.  Ownership always passed to the closest living male relative.  Maybe, she thought, it would be a fine thing to be Kurman.

“Who will serve you since we’ll sit separately?”

“If I were a tribesman, one of my wives would serve.  Since I’m a guest, one of the matriarchs will.  You’re a guest as well.  While a matriarch won’t tend you, you aren’t expected to serve in the festivities.”

“I’m more comfortable with attending, not being attended to.”

Lingering amusement colored his voice.  “Spoken like a servant born.”  His voice was more guarded when he next spoke.  “These are my father’s kinsmen.”

Martise stared down at his hands.  They held the reins in a tight grip.  “I thought they might be.  When I first met you, I wondered if you had Kurman blood in your veins.  Will he be here?”