The Wild Road (14 page)

“Doing whatever it is neither of you would discuss in front of everyone?”

“Doing exactly that.” Rhuan leaned close for a quick kiss, then scooted back his stool as he rose. “I'm wanted at Jorda's wagon. I'll come to you after.”

Ilona propped her chin against the heel of her hand and smiled lazily. “Do.”

BETHID SAT WITH
Timmon and Alorn as they finished their ale and chewed at her bottom lip as she thought. She looked first at Timmon, then Alorn, with great intensity. “We have to do this.”

“Do what?” Timmon inquired.

“What we said we'd do. We're going back to the Guildhall. We must discover how many of us are trustworthy . . . and who might betray us.” She played a quiet tattoo against the tabletop with her fingertips. “So long as the Guildmaster doesn't immediately send us back out, we could sort out those in the Guildhall who would support us.” She frowned thoughtfully. “But I guess even if we are sent back out, we could test those couriers we meet on the road or at settlements. It's vital, I think, to let the people know there is a safe place available.”

“Against Hecari?” Alorn asked. “What safe place?”

“Here.”

Timmon's brows shot up. “Here?”

“You heard the discussion. The terrain now favors us. We could either provide directions for folk to come here, or lead them here ourselves.”

“
You
heard the discussion, Beth.” Alorn shook his head. “It would invite a culling party.”

“This is still a much safer place than out on the plains, wouldn't you say?”

Alorn's mouth twisted. “I suppose.”

“And the Mother knows there is plenty of room for more folk.”

“For now,” Timmon agreed. “But at some point there will be too many for this settlement to sustain. How do you propose to choose who comes here and who doesn't?”

“Hmmm,” Bethid murmured. “That does bear some thought.”

Alorn said, with a mix of fond amusement and exasperation, “That is your abiding fault, Beth.”

It startled her. “What abiding fault?”

“You throw yourself wholeheartedly into one project or another, committing yourself—and, in this case, us—before you've thought your way through.”

“But we
talked
about this! You agreed we should do whatever we can to keep people from harm, to lay down the first planks of rebellion.”

“Yes,” Timmon said. “But that was before you said anything about bringing people here.”

“They'll come anyway, some of them. Everyone wants to leave Sancorra because of the Hecari.”

“You know,” Alorn said thoughtfully, “there may be another way. If we are very selective and only send men here who would be in deadly earnest about undertaking this rebellion, it could work.”

Bethid frowned. “You mean build our own army?”

“In a way,” Alorn replied. “Certainly we overcame the four warriors Brodhi brought back with him; and yes, I understand that four hardly constitutes a major victory, but the point is that we all of us were organized. That's critical. If we can build on that, smaller numbers may prove more effective than one might think.”

Timmon looked doubtful. “Even against the Hecari?”

Bethid understood Alorn's intent and pounced upon it. “We train as many Sancorrans as we can, then send them back out to find others willing to fight. And then—” she sat up straight upon her stool. “And then we can begin killing Hecari patrols. Possibly even culling parties. We could meet the Hecari on their own ground.” She waved Timmon into silence as he opened his mouth to speak. “Yes, we would have to be certain of our numbers in those circumstances. We must be judicious about this.” She chewed briefly at a hangnail. “Brodhi could keep Hecari numbers down, perhaps. At first.”

“Exactly: but only at first,” Timmon said. “And if the warlord sends a thousand warriors? What then?”

“Brodhi said the passageway is narrow, like the neck of a bottle,” Bethid replied. “That means a thousand warriors couldn't all squeeze through at the same time. It gives us an advantage. And if they try to push through, all of them, well . . .” She grinned. “A fair number would likely run smack into Alisanos. To them, it would be a forest. Nothing more, until it was too late.”

Alorn shook his head. “I agree some would be lost as you describe, and that others might be killed by us, but we couldn't account for the deaths of a thousand warriors. We may have men, but we can't truly assemble an army. Not to withstand the numbers the warlord will throw against us. Can we kill a few? Kill a culling party? Probably, once we've trained a fair number of men. But we'll never have enough to defeat the warlord's armies.”

Bethid considered for a moment, then looked at both men. “If Hecari keep disappearing here, specifically
here
, I'd think the warlord himself might decide to take a personal interest.”

“Sweet Mother, Beth, you're out of your mind!” Timmon shook his head vigorously. “If he comes here, we might as well kill ourselves rather than die beneath the warclubs!”

“Maybe,” Bethid agreed, “and maybe not.” She gave herself the luxury of a big, back-cracking stretch, thrusting both arms in the air. “In the meantime, I think we'd better go raise our tent.”

“In the rain,” Alorn said gloomily.

Bethid rose. “When I left it, everything we had in the tent was covered by the canvas when it fell down. I suspect it won't be as wet as you might be inclined to think. We may very well sleep dry tonight. And besides—we're going to Cardatha. They have
buildings
there.”

THE CHILD CRIED
in a thin, wailing voice. Demon cradled her in its—no, in
her
—arms, wishing peace to the infant. She had fed, and fed well. Still, she cried.

Demon had made a small nest of tattered blankets. The baby had slept there for some time but awoke with a demanding cry. Demon at first felt completely helpless, but she took the child up into her arms, head resting in the crook of her left elbow, and began to rock the infant in small arcs. It came easily, the action. It
fit
. Empty arms were empty no longer.

Woman. Woman. She had been.

Was.

As yet it was alien to Demon. The child's cries did not quicken her breasts. She had borne no baby and her body knew it. But she had called milk from her breasts nonetheless. Thin, watery milk. There was something of a woman left in her, deep inside. That woman longed for the baby, longed to hold and comfort, to ease her own heart that had been stone for so long. Longer than she could count.

“Tha tha,” she said, then corrected herself once again. “There, there.”

The alteration from human into demon had been lengthy and painful. At first she understood what she had been and what had happened to her, trapped in Alisanos. But in time memory died. Even as scales formed from breastbone to genitals, as the nubs erupted from bone through flesh on either side of her spine. The pain of it had nearly driven her mad. She had no knowledge of what was happening to her, of what she was becoming. She knew pain, and nothing more. And when she had tried to rub her back against a tree, searching for relief, the pain of that had dwarfed all other discomfort. She had not tried again, but bore it. Bore it.

Eventually she had twisted her arms behind her back to just barely reach to her spine, and found more than nubs. There was thick s
kin
, and none of it her own. She felt where layer upon layer of muscle had spread, knitting itself from her body into what was growing upon her. The substance was leathery. But she could reach so little of it, even twisting her arms behind her back; she knew only that she was changing. She was not the woman she had been the day Alisanos took her.

Claws, black and curved. Eyes that fed her richer colors, brighter sunlight. Too bright, as it could be in a world with double suns, and she felt something in her eyes, a brief stab of . . .
otherness
.

Still the infant cried, and it came to Demon that babies required more than food. She set the child down into the nest of tattered blankets and undid the clout. Very wet. The odor was astringent. At first all she could do was crouch down over the newborn, wishing her to be well. She was puzzled. Her mind felt empty of what she should do. And then something inside her, something buried human years before, guided her.

The child was wet and should be dry.

Demon smiled broadly. She
knew
what to do. And as her mouth opened, as her mouth stretched, fangs appeared.

Yes. She knew what to do.

Chapter 11

R
HUAN DUCKED OUT
of the ale-tent into rain. The day remained gray and depressing. Puddles had begun to fill in the low spots where no grass grew, where livestock and humans had pressed the grass and weeds out of life into packed dirt. For now, wet ground was an inconvenience but within a matter of days the surface would soak up so much water that no more could be assimilated, and the top layer would become slop running with rain. The only choice was to build a boardwalk, as Jorda suggested, unless people wished to fight the bog-like mud every time they attempted to go anywhere.

With the young grove destroyed, the grandfather grove now offered the only exterior shelter for the karavaners against the rain. Tent-folk were already under cover, save for those few whose tents had fallen during the latest incursion of Alisanos's birth pangs; all worked in haste to get in and escape the rain. Wagons were scattered throughout the grove, parked under thick-bolled, wide-canopied trees. The karavaners had begun to set up awnings from the sides of their wagons, tying the oiled canvas to wagon ribbing, then stretching it out to full length. Staves were driven into the ground, and the loose ends of the awning were roped into place and knotted, providing rough but effective cover so long as someone kept an eye on the awning and tipped off the water before the canvas grew too heavy. In addition to general shelter, awnings provided a place where cook fires could be built and survive the rain, where families could eat a meal together.

As Rhuan headed into the grove, here and there he saw some folk donning weather garb, oiled clothing-weight canvas, seams sealed with wax. Rough trousers were cuffed at the hems with drawstrings to keep the mud out, and the upper body was clothed in coat-shaped, belted garments with hoods, and sleeve cuffs also pulled tight with drawstrings. While the weather gear rendered the rain less of a bother, it also rendered the karavaners into identical human shapes with no distinguishing characteristics. Children were obvious because of their size, but a tall woman could easily be mistaken for a man. Some womenfolk, however, had nothing but knitted shawls; the karavaners had not expected to be at the settlement during monsoon and hadn't prepared for it. The majority of people Rhuan saw had nothing to ward their bodies against the rain. He reflected that the Sister of the Road had a sound idea in mind when she offered her hands and those of her fellow Sisters to make up weather garb.

Striding through on his way to Jorda's wagon, he was recognized. Some karavaners raised their hands in greeting, and a few asked him to blossoming fires for food and drink. It was nearing midday now and flatbread would be baked in treasured iron skillets, tea set to heat on the stone fire rings, and sweet beans flavored with molasses would go into pots that also sat on the stones. Each wagon carried in its gear a clay pot into which folk put coals and small dried twigs, kindling for when they stopped upon the road. Usually a child was designated to keep the coals alive by carefully adding twigs during the journey. Flint and steel might start a fire without need of the coal pot, but in the wet, no. The flat stones ringing cookfires, as had the coals, traveled with each wagon. One could never be certain of suitable rocks out on the plains, and yet setting a fire without them could be dangerous. So each time the ring was built, the fire-blackened stones were fitted together like masonry, lacking only mortar.

Rhuan saw that children had already been sent out to gather up wood and bring it back beneath awnings to dry. While some complained, others foraged bravely without comment. Rhuan could clearly see the image of Ilona marching through rain, sleet, or snow to gather wood. When the rain stopped later in the day, the men would set up chopping blocks near the wagons and cut dying limbs into managable pieces. Wood was one thing they did not need to ration with the young grove down, but it was vital to dry the limbs.

A pack of dogs ran through very close to him, yipping, barking, growling, and leaping joyously at one another in vociferous play-fighting. The smaller dogs hung off the ruffs or even the lip flews of larger dogs. In a matter of minutes they had taken their play-fight right into Rhuan, who stood still as the dogs leaped upon one another or rolled on the wet ground. His knees were slightly bent and legs were spread to hold his balance, which he very nearly lost when one of the larger dogs ducked between them.

Rhuan swore, flailing to recover balance and decorum. Leather leggings were smeared with mud and whipping saliva. “All right,” he said. Then, raising his voice over the growling and barking, “All
right,
I said . . . I am not one of of your brethren! Can't a man walk where he wishes without being inundated by canines?” He waded through the dogs, pushing some aside with his legs and hands as he sought footing. In a matter of moments the pack was off again, tearing madly through the grove. In its wake was raised a child's high voice trying to call back one of the dogs. Rhuan grinned wryly; it would be hours before the dogs returned to their respective wagons, worn out but hungry.

By the time he arrived at Jorda's wagon, his boots were caked with mud, and he was wet from head to toe. The door stood open above the rough wooden steps that, as did Ilona's, folded away when it was time to move on. The wagon sat on big axles and high wheels, and was large enough to house a family such as Audrun's.

The exterior of Jorda's wagon was much plainer than Ilona's with its yellow-painted wheels and the canopy bearing diviner runes. Jorda's was as efficient, plain, and practical as its owner.

Rhuan could hear the karavan-master moving around inside. The wagon creaked. He drew in a deep breath, held it a moment, then blew it out into the drizzling rain. It was time for truths and frankness, an explanation that would illuminate, not frighten. But Ilona had taken the truth quite well; perhaps Jorda would do the same.

Like so many others, Jorda had put up an awning off the side of his big wagon. Though the rain fell steadily, the thick canopies of the elder grove offered a measure of shelter, keeping the worst of the rain off the awning. Jorda stood slightly bent in the doorway in stocking feet, gripping either side to avoid knocking his head against the roof-ribs. “Boots off.”

Rhuan nodded. Removing footwear was usual during monsoon. He worked off his boots, set them side by side on the bottom step, next to Jorda's. The karavan-master frowned. “Perhaps I should ask you to strip down—all of you is muddy.”

“Yes, a pack of dogs decided to include me in their play, which was not my intent.” He slipped the curved horn fastener from a loop in his belt. “I'll strip down, of course, if that's what you want.” And he meant it. Nudity, public or otherwise, did not bother him. But he knew Jorda was different.

And indeed, disgruntled, he waved the offer away. “Come in, then—but sit on the floor.”

As Jorda moved back, Rhuan ducked down to avoid the canopy rib, brushing his head against a string of dangling charms. Another thong of charms depended from the Mother Rib. A third was strung around Jorda's thick neck. The bedding arrangements were different than those in Davyn and Audrun's wagon. Several planks ran the length of the wagon, covered by blankets, to form a man-sized bed. It was a very spare wagon with few possessions, as unlike Ilona's as could be.

The interior of the wagon, because of the rain, offered poor light that leeched through oiled canvas. A lantern hung from the front end of the wagon, but was as yet unlighted. Jorda resumed his seat on his bed; next to him lay the square plank he used as backing for numbering and supply lists. Rhuan could see marks on the rough paper pinned to the board, but not well enough to read them. He folded his legs and sat down in the aisle, atop a thin woven rug.

Even seated, Jorda was a big man. His tunic sleeves were rolled back to display thick, red-fuzzed arms. Hands and forearms were scarred from the hardships of the road. His entire face Rhuan had never seen; Jorda wore a heavy, wiry beard that reached high on his cheekbones and inches below his chin. Russet hair streaked with silver was drawn back into a thick, doubled-over braid. Green eyes were fixed upon Rhuan. No patience lived in them, only a command for the truth. Now.

To stall the inevitible Rhuan pulled the binding thong out of his hair and let the curtain of it fall in front of both shoulders, hanging to his waist. He raked fingers through it, splitting sections, so it would begin to dry. Perhaps that night he and Ilona might see to the braiding. Well, unless other tasks made it impossible. Or Jorda did.

“Start at the beginning,” Jorda said, so calmly that it moved Rhuan to try for levity.

“I don't think we have the time to explain all of it before dinner.”

“Then we'll have none.” Jorda's eyes were steady; no levity, there. “The beginning, if you please. Or even if you don't please.”

The beginning. The night he had died, only to awaken with a slim young woman bending over him in an alley behind Mikal's tent. It was Ilona who had taken him to Jorda, saying the stranger who named himself Shoia was fit to take on a guide's job, to replace a guide killed by Hecari. A man who had been Ilona's lover.

But that beginning was not what Jorda desired.

“Well,” Rhuan said, diving into the conversational whitewater, “what would you say if I told you I wasn't Shoia?”

Jorda considered him darkly, brows lowered, and did not respond to the bait.

Rhuan smiled crookedly. “I'm not Shoia.”

After another long moment of contemplation, Jorda shrugged. “I'd never seen a Shoia before you and that courier came here. I believed you when you explained your race and multiple lives. Why should I assume you were telling a falsehood? Ilona brought you to me—”

Rhuan broke in hastily before Jorda might jump to the wrong conclusion. “She didn't know, then, what I am. She made assumptions also. That was what I wished from you both. Assumptions. No questions asked, that way.”

Jorda studied him again. Rhuan knew very well what kind of picture he presented: very human
like,
but when one looked hard, somehow a little . . .
other
.

Jorda looked hard. Rhuan saw the faint shift in the eyes, the almost infinitessimal flicker of eyelids. Jorda looked. Jorda saw. He just didn't know what to name it.

Rhuan was careful to control the reddish scrim that, when dropped, sheltered his eyes against the ravages of the deepwood's double suns. It also appeared when he was angry. But a stinging in his flesh was not so well controlled, and the faint warm flush intensified the hue of his skin. With effort, he maintained and displayed a wide and cheerful smile and put into it a certain amount of charm. His nature tended that way anyhow, but he also relied on the smile to draw attention away from that which was not like them. That which was not human.

Rhuan could see the tension tightening the skin around the karavan-master's eyes. “Very well. You're not Shoia.” Jorda smoothed his mustache. “Then if you're not Shoia, what in the Mother's world are you? Some other legendary tribe no one knows much about?”

And now it arrived, the time to confess all. To alter forever Jorda's opinion of his guide.

“Well, yes—as a matter of fact.” Rhuan drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. In a steady voice that did not give away how much Jorda's opinion mattered, he said with great clarity, “And what if I told you I'm not fully human?”