Fire Logic (30 page)

“Let’s get some food in you.”

Emil could not bear to leave the manuscript unattended, so they took it with them. At the inn, Medric asked for bread and vegetables, causing the cook to look at him askance, but Emil accepted roast capon and a pie of fresh peaches. Over food, their conversation turned from somber to hilarious, and Emil laughed until his ribs hurt, wondering if that lightness in his chest could possibly be his heart. If it was his heart, it was on holiday.

After supper, he purchased a wagon and a sturdy dray horse, using almost all the money he had taken with him. Haprin had a ferry that would take him across the river; from there he would go to the western border where he could store the books with his friend the shepherd. After that, well, he supposed some plan would come to him.

It was nearly dark when they returned to the storehouse. Medric showed Emil the other rare books in his collection. He had found them one by one through dreams, he said, stored at the bottom of one or another soldier’s footlocker. He had collected a couple of hundred books by the time he finally got the one he was looking for,
The Way of the Seer
, and each book had its own adventure story of unlikely survival in a hostile world. They talked about the books until the lamp oil ran out and left them sitting shoulder to shoulder in a sudden darkness.

Medric said, “Sometimes this summer I have envisioned myself in another place: a stone cottage in a lonely land, with sleet tapping on the shutters and a warm fire burning. And I’m not alone there. I ask a question, and you come and sit down next to me. You tell me how the past became the present. You get a book down from the shelf and read it to me.”

Emil said, “It’s still a long time before sleet taps on the shutters, but tomorrow is close by. I hope you’ll be traveling with me.”

“I will,” Medric said. “Don’t go.”

Emil could feel Medric’s warm breath stirring the air between them. He found Medric’s face by feel and carefully took off his spectacles and put them safely atop the trunk. Then, in a bed that was made of as much book as blanket, he made love to a son of the enemy. It occurred to him later that even his oldest and most loyal friends would not forgive him this transgression, or even worse, they’d misunderstand and pity him. He lay in the rustling darkness of the warehouse with Medric asleep in his arms, and could not bring himself to care what anyone thought of him. He had broken with the past, and the future was a book he could hardly wait to read.

Chapter 20

After a day or two of travel, Zanja stopped expecting the upbraiding she deserved. In fact, Norina accorded Zanja a certain kindness, though from outside it might have looked more like indifference. She had looked after Zanja’s injuries, patiently soaking loose the bandage from the wound, and re-bandaging it every day after that with an expertise that she must have acquired from J’han. She insisted that Zanja rest even though she could not sleep, and hounded her into eating. She and the man took turns riding, while Zanja rode all the time, and she would not permit Zanja to do any of the work at all, except small things she could do while sitting down. It was easier to acquiesce to her iron will than it was to resist, and so, in spite of the circumstances, Zanja’s injuries began to heal.

Other than insisting brusquely that Zanja obey her, Norina left her alone. Zanja rode blindly behind her companions, carried forward only by the momentum of the journey. She did not know where she was, or in what direction she traveled. She did not care that she lived, and took no interest in what might happen to her next. Days passed, and she did not even speak. She wept without noticing her own tears.

One morning, she raised her head and noted that they were traveling northward. They followed a rutted, unmarked track through rugged, mountainous country. Some time passed, and she looked down and noticed Norina walking at her stirrup, breathless, putting a hand occasionally to the horse’s side for balance. “You’ll miscarry,” Zanja said.

“I’m as likely to miscarry as you are to die from sepsis,” Norina said.

Some time later, Zanja said, “I feel I could die from sorrow first.”

But Norina said, quite sensibly and with surprising kindness, “You’ll start feeling better soon. The first year is over.”

A long time later, Zanja asked, “Will Willis get control of South Hill Company?”

Norina laughed. “That man? Not even in his dreams.”

That night, Zanja plunged into a deep and restful sleep, from which she wok as if rousing from a summer fever. She bathed in a cold stream, washed and mended her shirt, and took out her blades to check and clean them. The small knife in her boot was blood-crusted. She fingered the scab on her neck, remembering what she had done, amazed that her crazed logic had brought aid after all.

“The raven is gone?” she asked Norina, as they ate camp porridge by the fire. The man at arms was already saddling the horses.

“Naturally, I sent him with a message to Karis that you are all right.”

“I want to send Karis an apology. I must have startled her when I wrote that message on the knife blade.”

Norina ate a few mouthfuls of her porridge before commenting, rather wryly, “I have to say, your methods are ingenious.”

One night they were kindly welcomed and generously fed in a woodcutter’s camp, where the people were desperate for news and stories of any kind at all. Zanja lay gazing at the stars, which had not been so close since she left the mountains of her people.

Soon, they climbed down out of the mountains and followed a river to the northwest, and slept one night at a farmstead, in the hay. The farmers fed them even though they were respectively too injured, tired, and pregnant to work; they would not hear of a pregnant woman going hungry; and they nearly convinced her to sleep in a bed instead of the barn. Norina was not tireless, and when Zanja turned to look at her that night she caught her off guard, and just for a moment could see how worried she was. Then Norina turned her head, and her face was stone again.

At midday, they entered a village at a crossroads, which Norina said was called Strongbridge. The bridge was indeed impressive, and was frequently crossed by heavy wagons. The innyard they entered served as a kind of depot where huge dray horses stood harnessed while the drivers paced the cobbles, stretching their stiff legs, eating the meat and bread hauled out to them in baskets, and swigging tankards of ale against the oppressive heat. The inn itself was of startling size, recently painted red and green, with flowers cascading over its roof from an enterprising vine. Among the flowers a raven stalked. In the rectangular gap of a second floor window a very tall woman was intricately folded, nearly invisible in shadow. She looked as though she might be trapped there.

“Zanja,” Norina said sharply, to call her attention to the girl who waited for Zanja to hand her the reins.

Zanja dismounted, and left horse and companions standing in the yard. She could not run yet on her injured leg, and the front door jerked open before she had reached it.

She had half forgotten how big Karis was. She filled the doorway, her shoulders almost wide enough to touch both doorframes, head bowed to fit below the lintel, big hands clasping the timber frame as though she might simply collapse it, and make the inside out, and the outside in. And then it was as though the earth itself had clasped Zanja in a bruising embrace and lifted her half off her feet, and made as though to completely encompass and engulf her.

Her ear was against Karis’s heart. She gripped her with all her strength. She would not let Karis go again. All the forces of the Universe might range themselves against her, but she would not let Karis go.

“Just leave us alone, Nori,” Karis said after a while.

A long time later, Zanja lifted her head a little, and realized that Karis had practically folded herself around her, and seemed not at all inclined to release her, though she did raise her cheek somewhat from the top of Zanja’s head when she felt her move. Zanja said, “I’m making a mess of your shirt.”

“How would anyone know the difference?” But Karis produced a sweaty handkerchief from somewhere, and Zanja used it to wipe the remaining tears and dirt from her face. “We’re making spectacles of ourselves,” Karis said.

Around the bulge of Karis’s bicep Zanja could see into the public room, where a couple of hardened drinkers stared at them. “Surely there’s a path by the river,” Zanja said.

Zanja’s limp gave them as good a reason as any to walk arm in arm despite the sweltering heat. She felt dazed, in a strange land, with no familiar landmarks. Dear gods, she thought, what boundary did I just cross? As they walked through the town, Karis stopped to buy some steamed buns from a stall, which did a desultory business. The streets were largely deserted, dogs lay panting in what shade they could find, and every window was propped open. On a day like this, the entire population of Asha Valley could have been found in or near the river, and so it was here. The shady shoreline was crowded with lounging or dozing adults, and still more swam along the banks, keeping an eye on the shrieking children. They found a solitary place at last, where the current was probably too swift for swimming, and they sat side by side upon the damp earth. Damsel flies covered a branch over the water like jewels on a rich man’s jerkin. Karis gave Zanja a dumpling. Its meat filling was so spicy it made Zanja’s eyes tear up again.

“Now stop that,” Karis said.

“It’s really spicy. Gods know I’ll cry at anything lately, but this time it’s not sadness.”

Karis took a bite, and closed her eyes in concentration, chewing. “I guess maybe I can taste something,” she said finally.

“It’s like eating coals from a fire,” Zanja said.

“Is that good? It certainly sounds interesting.”

“In a painful kind of way.”

Zanja had not quite remembered the utter chaos of Karis’s hair, which grew in every direction and was twisted into vinelike tendrils and looked impossible to comb or tame. She had not quite remembered the intense blue color of her eyes, or the fine lines that radiated out from them like the splines of a fan. She had remembered that Karis’s physical presence was a kind of a shock, like a stone tossed into water or a live voice penetrating a dream, but when they last met Zanja had been unable to truly feel the impact of it. Now, with every breath that lifted Karis’s shoulders, every pulse in her throat, Zanja felt her own heart turn over. When Karis turned to her, she did not know what to do. Should she confess? Should she look away?

Karis said, “I’ve thought about you constantly.”

Zanja opened her mouth, but didn’t trust whatever might have come out of it. “How is it possible that you can act like this without desiring me?” she might have said.

Karis said, “Take off your pants.”

Zanja felt a disorientation, then got a grip on herself and said with difficulty, “My leg is healing.”

“Please, Zanja, I beg you. The trajectory of the pistol ball has torn up the muscles of your thigh, and even if it heals you’ll have scarring inside your leg, and the muscle won’t work right because of it, and I’ll never be at peace if I don’t fix it.”

Zanja unbuttoned and pulled down her breeches and lay upon her side while Karis cut the bandage from her thigh. She would turn this experience into a test of discipline, for she seemed to be sorely in need of such an exercise. “Can you leave the scar?”

“For bragging rights?” Karis sounded amused.

“I was abandoned by my fellows in the middle of a firefight because they wanted me dead. That hardly seems a thing to brag about. But I’d rather not have to explain why I don’t have a scar to show for it.”

“All right. I’ll try to restrain myself.”

The violence of metalsmithing had not spoiled Karis for more gentle crafts. She almost made the healing seem as if it were not work at all, except that occasionally a drop of her sweat fell and landed on Zanja’s skin. Zanja worked to keep her breathing steady and her muscles relaxed; her old trainers would have been proud of her. When Karis’s warm hands lifted from her thigh it was a relief but also a loss.

“That’s better,” Karis said.

Zanja pulled up the bloodstained remains of her pants. “How do you do it?” she asked shakily, “Without being able to feel?”

“I feel a little. It’s not much, but it’s all I have.”

“When I think of what you could do…”

“Don’t think about it.”

“The man that got you addicted to smoke—”

“He’s dead already, not that it does me any good.”

“I’d like to kill him again.”

“You’d have to wait your turn.”

Behind the clear eyes, the powerful, passive muscles, the soot ground into her skin and the quiet, waiting expression of her face, lay a deep anger. Zanja said, “Karis, you are not tame, merely caged.”

Karis made a sound as if she had accidentally sliced a finger. “You know, talking to you is a bit like chewing on hot coals.”

Zanja broke into a startled laugh.

“My raven said you were in a black despair.”

Zanja said grudgingly, “Norina has been as kind as I would tolerate, and I guess it’s done me some good. You must have done something dramatic, to force her to treat me so gently.”

Karis showed her teeth. “Oh, I did.”

“Did you threaten to come get me yourself?”

“Threaten? No, she is immune to threats. I started to South Hill moments after I’d gotten your message, and I challenged Nori to give me a reason to turn back and let her go in my place.”

Karis lay upon her back and gazed up into a sky as blue as her eyes. Her shirt collar was unbuttoned and sweat collected in the hollow of her throat. Zanja shut her eyes and begged the hot afternoon to anaesthetize her. After a long time she said, “But Norina seems desperately worried, and much as I don’t like her I must respect her. I wish I understood what she understands.”

“Mmm. This is what you sound like when you’re being diplomatic. It’s not chewing coals anymore, it’s more like—oh, I’m no good at metaphors. You tell me one.”