The Sleeping God Page 8

  “It is a scrying bowl,” Dhulyn breathed into Parno’s ear.

  “To See?” Parno asked.

  “More likely to Find,” she said. “Did you not see how, though the outside is patterned with people and scenes, the inside of the bowl is a plain pure white? Like the bowl Grenwen Finder used in Navra? Only this one is much more costly.”

  “Does the little one know?” Thus Parno avoided even the chance that Mar’s sleeping ears might hear and register her own name.

  “There have been Marked in the family, Finders most likely, and someone knew it, for it to have passed so carefully, mother to daughter.”

  “The Dove herself?”

  “Not likely. She lost her parents early, but she would have noticed the signs when she grew old enough, as I did myself.”

  Parno drew in a cautious breath. “Do we tell her or no? With things the way they are, it may be dangerous for her to have it. You won’t be the only one who can recognize it.”

  “She’ll need it to show her family, if what she says of proof is true.”

  Dhulyn felt Parno’s muscles tighten and then relax once more. “We might do her a great favor if we broke it for her,” he said finally.

  Dhulyn pressed her forehead against his shoulder.

  “But it’s so beautiful,” she finally said.

  THESE ARE HER OWN HANDS. THERE’S THE PUCKER OF SCAR ON THE BACK OF THE RIGHT HAND, WHERE A SMOOTH TARGET ARROW WENT THROUGH DURING TRAINING. SHE IS NOT STANDING OFF TO ONE SIDE, A WATCHER. SHE SEES HER HANDS AS IF SHE WERE SITTING AT A TABLE LOOKING DOWN AT THEM, LAYING OUT A GAME OF VERA, THE TILES SMOOTH AND COLD IN HER FINGERS. THIS IS NOT THE USUAL SOLITARY HAND SHE LIKES, COMPLICATED AND DIFFICULT TO WIN. THIS ARRANGEMENT IS QUITE SIMPLE, A CROSS, WITH A COLUMN DOWN ONE SIDE. “WHAT DO YOU SEE?” A VOICE SAYS AND WHEN SHE LOOKS UP, SHE SEES A MAN WITH A LONG FACE, DARK HAIR, AND ONE EYE. NO, TWO EYES. NO, ONLY ONE. “WHAT DO YOU SEE?” HE SAYS AGAIN, AND SHE LOOKS BACK AT THE TILES.

  “I SEE A FIRE,” SHE TELLS HIM. “SEAS AND MOUNTAINS ARE BURNING, SHORES AND RIVERS… ”

  A BOY CHILD RUNS ACROSS THE COBBLES OF A COURTYARD IN THE AFTERNOON SUN, A PRACTICE SWORD IN HIS HANDS. SHE KNOWS THE SHAPE OF HIS SMILE, AND HIS EYES. HE’S GOLD BLOND ALL OVER, EVEN HIS EYES ARE AMBER, WARM. HE TURNS AND PACES OUT A REASONABLE VERSION OF THE STRIKING CAT SHORA, GIVEN HIS YOUTH AND SIZE. HE LOOKS UP, SEEMINGLY INTO HER EYES, AND SMILES AGAIN…

  Dhulyn blinked awake, lying on her left side, her right arm around Mar, Parno’s right arm around her. The banked fire was hardly a glow in the darkness. What had she Seen? A golden child with Parno’s familiar smile and eyes. Was this Parno’s child? Is that where traveling to Imrion would lead? Was this Parno’s future?

  Dhulyn squeezed her eyes shut, tried to slow her breathing before it woke the others. Where was the courtyard? And who the child’s mother?

  The next day’s warmth brought on a fog so thick that Dhulyn decided they should stay where they were until it cleared, using the time to rest and pamper themselves a little more. The horses could be left to luxuriate in the absence of riders and packs. The fog was a good sign, she judged; the weather would be getting warmer from now on.

  That morning she and Parno practiced the lengthy Bear Cub Shora while Mar watched wide-eyed from the entrance of their shelter. By midmorning the fog lifted enough that their campsite seemed to be in the midst of a clearing in the clouds. The midday meal, eaten outside of the shelter, where an outcropping-no doubt another piece of wall-provided dry seats, was accompanied by debate on whether it was worth continuing their journey, trusting to find another good shelter before nightfall, or to wait until the following day.

  “It’s only been seven days since we left the inn at the crossroads,” Dhulyn was saying. “We won’t lose any time by waiting until tomorrow.”

  “I didn’t say we should go on,” Parno said, sitting up to better make his point. “I only said that it’s been eight-”

  Dhulyn held up her hand, the gesture sharply cutting through the Lionsmane’s lazy iteration of his point of view. He put his hand on the sword resting by his right side, and without the slightest sound drew it from its scabbard.

  Mar opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Dhulyn efficiently gagged her with the hand that did not have a sword in it.

  “Can’t shoot at us if they can’t see us or hear us,” Parno mouthed in a voice that barely carried to Mar’s ears. “Stay between.” Both Mercenaries stood now, facing away into the fog, crouched slightly forward, knees flexed. Mar slowly stood and looked between them, clearly not knowing what to do.

  “Dhulyn?” Parno bared his teeth though his murmur could not support a snarl. “What say you, my heart?”

  Dhulyn glanced over her shoulder at him. “Cloud People,” she said. “Victory or death, I’ll wager. And the choice won’t be ours.” She reached behind her, pulled a knife out of the back of her vest, and held it out to Mar; watched the Dove take it gingerly in her hand, and then grip it with more determination. Dhulyn gave the girl an encouraging nod.

  “We’ll earn our pay. Don’t you worry, Dove.”

  Parno had his own long dagger in his right hand, sword in his left. Dhulyn pulled her short sword from where her harness sat draped over a rock and, straightening, held it ready. Back to back with Mar between them they began to circle, Dhulyn twirling her two blades at random intervals. The silence was thick and so complete that she began to wonder whether her ears still worked, or indeed, whether there was anything out there that could make a sound.

  And then movement-a shadow in the surrounding fog, became an arrow knocked aside by Parno’s sword, startling Mar into dropping her dagger.

  A woman’s voice rang out. “Hold. Put up your swords. You wear the Mercenary badge. Tell your history.”

  Dhulyn stopped circling, though her swords stayed poised. “I am Dhulyn Wolfshead. Called the Scholar. I was Schooled by Dorian the Black Traveler. I have fought with my Brothers at sea in the battle of Sadron, at Arcosa in Imrion, and at Bhexyllia in the far west with the Great King.”

  Parno called out, “I am Parno Lionsmane. Called the Chanter. Schooled by Nerysa of Tourin the Warhammer. I, too, have fought at Arcosa, and at Bhexyllia, and I fight with my Brother, Dhulyn Wolfshead.” Parno’s history would tell their questioner that he was junior to Dhulyn, Arcosa being his first battle as a Brother, and that since he fought with her specifically, they were Partnered. Would the Cloudwoman understand?

  The voice called out again. “I have heard of you, Dhulyn Wolfshead, daughter of the Red Horsemen. I am Yaro of Trevel, once called Hawkwing. I, too, have fought with my Brothers. Now I fight with my Clan.” Parno glanced at Dhulyn and she gave him the smallest of nods. Both Mercenaries lowered their weapons.

  Dhulyn remained alert as a handful of people, most carrying spears or bows, but with a few swordsmen to season them, stepped into the clearing. It was hard to tell exactly how many there were, and many seemed to have no heads, no faces, until Dhulyn realized they were wearing scarves or strips of cloth wrapped around their heads. Thick leather vests, worn with the fur or wool side next to the skin, left either arms bare to the foggy chill, or long-sleeved tunics of undyed homespun. Dhulyn grinned. She had learned the art of camouflage from an expert, but this impressed her.

  One of the anonymous forms laid its spear on the ground and stepped forward, unwrapping its head covering as it neared them. From the quality of the voice which had spoken to them out of the fog Dhulyn expected an older woman, and she was right. Yaro was short and thickset, her dark brown hair liberally salted with gray. The gold-and-green colors of the Mercenary’s tattooed badge had faded, but were still clear enough to be recognized in the misted light.

  These were not Yaro’s only tattoos, Dhulyn saw, her eyebrows raising in surprise. On the left side of the Cloudwoman’s face was a tattoo of two feathers, the second partially overlapping the first, like the feathers of the Racha bird it symbolized. These were so old and faded that only a sharp
eye would see them. Much clearer, and obviously much more recent, was the complete set of seven feathers on the right side of her face.

  Dhulyn’s lips formed a soundless whistle as, glancing around for the Racha bird itself, she touched her fingertips to her forehead to echo Yaro of Trevel’s Mercenary salute. What could possibly be the meaning of the Cloudwoman’s Racha tattoos?

  She glanced at Parno, but her Partner’s face showed no expression. Rare as it was for a Mercenary Brother to live long enough to retire, Yaro of Trevel, once Yaro Hawkwing, had clearly not simply retired. She had left the Brotherhood and returned to her own Clan. Dhulyn would not have thought such a thing possible, and her teeth clenched as she forced herself to pay attention, and to show no sign of the chill that squeezed her heart.

  “Brothers, I greet you,” the tattooed woman was saying. “We are Clan Trevel. And the land where you stand, and for many days’ travel around us, is also Clan Trevel.” Dhulyn nodded. Like Imrion’s Noble Houses, the Cloud People used the same words to identify both the relationship of blood and the relationship of land. The group of people surrounding her made gestures of assent, and a few murmured. Yaro glanced quickly to each side and the murmurs died down. Several of the group followed their leader’s example and, downing their weapons, began to unwrap their own coverings. They were mostly young people, Dhulyn saw, with only two others nearing Yaro’s age.

  “We are on the Life Passage of our young people, or I would welcome you to the shelter of our homes. However, for the sake of our Brotherhood, if not the Tarkin’s treaty,” here her words called out a few grins, “we give you safe passage.”

  “No tribute?” one young man blurted out. His astonishment was clear in the squeak of his voice.

  Yaro turned to the youngster, staring at him long enough that his wide shoulders squirmed under her scrutiny. “Tribute?” she said. “These are still my Brothers. You’ll be asking me for tribute next, Clarys.” Several of the others smiled, their teeth flashing white. The young man shifted his gaze, silenced but not satisfied.

  “What about her?” he said, pointing at Mar with his chin. “She’s no Brother of yours.” This time all the people of Clan Trevel turned to look at Mar.

  “She is in our care, Brother.” Dhulyn spoke only to Yaro. “We ask that you extend your courtesy over her as well.”

  “I am content.” Yaro nodded.

  “Well, I am not. And I see no reason to be. They trespass. You say we must let your Brothers pass-well and good. But this person who hires them can pay us for her passage.”

  “And if she has nothing of value?” Parno said.

  “Let us see this for ourselves,” suggested a more reasonable voice.

  Dhulyn stood still, eyes locked on the young man who had started the trouble. She knew the type. Not so much younger than Mar herself the way time was counted, ready to be a man among his people, as his presence on this Life Passage demonstrated-but still a child in many important ways. Tall, broad-shouldered, and with the long arms so helpful to a fighter. But a little sullenness around his pretty mouth. A little poutiness to the bottom lip, and a top lip too ready to curl. A boy who thought well of himself and thought others should do the same. Trouble, in other words.

  Parno touched Mar on the shoulder and then stood back, sweeping a mocking bow in the direction of her pack. Mar tried to nod at him curtly, but trembling spoiled the girl’s performance. Once more Dhulyn watched as the little Dove untied her pack. Again the scanty belongings were exposed, looking even more meager and ordinary without the magical glow of firelight to give them life. Even the bowl, when her hands, slowed by reluctance, were able to uncover it, showed its colors dully in the foggy light.

  “Why should we not take that bowl,” Clarys said immediately.

  He ignored Mar’s cry of protest, but Dhulyn did not.

  “It is the only thing of her family that she has,” Dhulyn said. “Would you take from her the symbol of her Clan?” She tried to sound as reasonable as she could. As much as it soured her mouth to let people under her protection be robbed, she disliked unnecessary killing-a sentiment many of her Brothers found ironic. “This comes from the mother of her mother’s mother, and is not hers to give away. It can bring no good to any who takes it from her by force.” The two older people in the group exchanged nods and murmurs of agreement.

  But the boy Clarys also had his fellow, a stocky boy with a dark widow’s peak, to murmur in his ear.

  “No good?” said Clarys mockingly, as Widow’s Peak nodded. “Why it would feed a family for a season, that bowl of no value.” More murmurs of agreement, but this time only from a handful of youngsters Dhulyn marked as the rest of Clarys’ admirers. If it came to a fight, would these others stand back? Dhulyn marked in her mind the position of the archer, and the three who still had spears in their hands.

  And whose side would Yaro of Trevel be on?

  Dhulyn turned to Mar. The girl stared fixedly at her prized possession. “Mar?” Dhulyn said, and waited until the girl looked at her. “How say you? Will you trade the bowl for your passage?”

  “Is there some other way? Some of my other things? If I come to my House without it,” the girl said, tears filling both eyes and voice, “they may deny my claim.”

  Dhulyn looked at Clarys, but the boy set his mouth firmly and folded his arms. “Idiots,” she said, under her breath. Time to put an end to this. She looked at Parno. The Lionsmane tilted his head to the right, as she’d know he would. The Wolfshead nodded.

  “You are refused,” she said, looking directly at Clarys. “Thus far, this has cost you nothing but a wasted hour. I advise you to renounce your claim before it becomes more costly.”

  “If she will not pay, then she is herself forfeit. We will take her.” Both Parno and Dhulyn moved to stand between Mar and the Clouds. Clarys stopped with his hands already reaching out for the girl.

  A short, sharp silence as all waited. Dhulyn nodded again. “You’ll take nothing but my fist in your teeth,” she said evenly. “She is in our charge. Renounce your claim.”

  Widow’s Peak nudged him and the young man cocked his head, his eyebrows raised. “Will you fight?” he challenged.

  “I will.”

  Several of the younger element in the group exchanged looks of triumph. The older ones looked on grim-faced, shaking their heads.

  “Wait,” Yaro said, the authority of a Racha woman giving weight to her words. “Clarys, think what you do. This is a Mercenary Brother, not one of your cub pack. She has skills beyond what you can imagine.”

  “No one can best me with sword or spear. You have said this yourself,” he said. “This is my Life Passage, my Hunt. This is the proof I choose.”

  With her eyes shut, Yaro blew out a disgusted sigh. Not even a Racha woman could step between a young Cloud and his chosen Hunt.

  Dhulyn shrugged. “First blood, then?” she said.

  “No-” Clarys was silenced by Yaro’s upright hand.

  “First blood is sufficient for a Passage Duel,” the older woman said.

  “She insults me by suggesting it.”

  “Don’t be stupid, boy,” Parno cut in. “In the Brotherhood we don’t maim. For us, it’s cut or kill.”

  Clarys’ lips curled back from his teeth. “Then kill it will be, flatlander.”

  Dhulyn was careful to address only Yaro-and to keep her voice businesslike. “He renounced his claim on the bowl when he offered to take Mar instead. It’s now his life for hers, are we agreed?”

  Yaro cast a look around the group assembled in a shallow arc behind her. There were nods, a couple of shrugs, but none shook their heads. One or two even looked speculatively between Clarys and Dhulyn. Either the young man wasn’t as well liked as he thought, or these people didn’t know much about Mercenaries, Yaro’s presence notwithstanding.

  “Agreed,” Yaro said finally. “You kill Clarys, you and the girl go free.”

  “And if I kill the Brother, the girl is mine.” Clarys said.
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  Yaro didn’t bother to answer, cuffing a couple of the youngsters who had crowded close into clearing away packs and people to leave a space for the duel.

  Dhulyn was already stripping off her outer clothing. Parno stepped in closer. “Give him every chance.”

  “I’ve given him two chances already. Should I let him kill me?”

  “Would you prefer that I fight him?”

  “I’m Senior.” Dhulyn looked at him sidewise as she kicked off her boots. On this uneven ground, bare feet were best. “And I thank you, my Brother, for your confidence in me.”

  Parno rolled his eyes upward, calling upon the Caids to witness his frustration. “That is not what I meant, and you know it, my most stubborn heart. You’ll mind killing him, and I won’t. Rudeness and stupidity should be properly rewarded.”

  Dhulyn shook her head and turned from Parno, indicating Clarys with the tip of her sword. “Ready,” she said.

  Clarys stood already stripped and grinning, his friend Widow’s Peak still whispering in his ear. Dhulyn nodded and lifted her sword. The boy fell into his stance, and her heart sank. His weight was too evenly balanced for this rough terrain, she saw, and his right elbow stuck out too far from his body. If no one in his clan could best him, it was because the boy had been making do with strength and length of reach, not skill.

  Now that she saw him stripped for fighting, Dhulyn could more easily gauge the width of his shoulders and the size of his wrists. He carried the longest possible sword, and that alone could have told her both of his strength and of his vanity. She saw his eyes flick toward her own blade, and the way his full lips spread in a smile. She, too, carried a very long sword, though not so long as his, and he probably thought it too long for her. And so it would have been, had not years of practice made her wrists very nearly as steellike as the blade itself. The length and the weight would not tire her. Many had already died from making that mistake.

  As she lifted the point of her own blade in salute, Dhulyn fell automatically into the familiar calm of the Crab Shora for the right-handed sword and uneven ground. Her heartbeat slowed, her breathing changed to match it.