Forging the Sword (The Farsala Trilogy) (32 page)

“If the Hrum aren’t marking their spies anymore, they could be anywhere,” said Soraya, thinking it through. “We can’t trust anyone.”

“That’s not entirely true,” said Kavi. “Mazad’s been closed off by the siege, so there can’t be any spies here. But in the countryside …”

There was no way to know, he realized. Any peasants he dealt with, even if they were honest, might have friends, or neighbors, or cousins who had decided that the Hrum were here to stay and they
might as well profit from it. Some of them might even work for the Hrum because they preferred them! Kavi had made that choice himself, not so long ago. And he couldn’t expect others to see, as he had, that the Farsalan peasants might get a chance out of this to rule themselves. There could be spies anywhere.

“I wouldn’t put it past Garren to use the committee sent to investigate him as bait to trap us,” Jiaan went on. “In fact, from what I’ve heard about him, that’s exactly the kind of thing he’d come up with.”

That was true. The lady Soraya, who’d also dealt with the governor, nodded agreement.

“If he guesses you’ve pulled your army out of the desert to attack the committee,” said Kavi, “the first thing he’ll do is bring in a large force to take Mazad. He’s probably going to do that soon anyway, but I know Siddas is counting on your help when they come for that final attack.”

“He is,” said Jiaan. “We’ve spoken of it. So I can’t pull my army out of position. I’m sorry, Lady Soraya. It’s a good idea, but I don’t see how we can manage it.”

The girl’s shoulders slumped. Not for the first time, Kavi was struck by their strange relationship. These two were half brother and sister, but they had grown up as lady of the house and bastard page, and it was clear that that was how they still regarded each other—even though Soraya’s only surviving family had vanished
into the vast Hrum empire, and, as far as Kavi knew, she and her missing brother were the only kin Jiaan had left. They didn’t look alike, but Kavi could see their father in both of them—not in their hair, or eyes, or the cast of their features, but in their straight spines and the way their minds worked. They thought alike. And in fact the girls idea was a good one. If only …

“Why do we have to do it?” he asked softly.

“What do you mean?” said Soraya.

“Why does the army have to capture the committee? I mean, your soldiers are wonderful and all, but they’re not the only men in Farsala.”

Jiaan frowned. “You’re talking of the villagers? The senate committee will have a huge guard, and most of the villagers who are willing to fight are with me already. Besides, there’s even more chance of spies—”

“I’m not talking about the villagers,” said Kavi, though he thought they might be more effective than Commander Jiaan believed, if they were properly organized. “I’m talking about a group of people even less likely to have spies in their midst than we do at Mazad, for in a way they’re even more isolated. And more willing to fight than any men left in Farsala. I’m talking about those mad bandits in the Dugaz swamps. Let them capture the committee for you. They’re even landing there!”

The committee hadn’t much choice, coming by ship; Dugaz was
Farsala’s only deepwater harbor. It was perfect! Kavi wondered why he hadn’t thought of it the moment he’d learned of the committee’s existence.

Jiaan’s frown deepened to a scowl. “They’re not interested in helping Farsala. They don’t care about anything but—”

“They don’t have to want to help Farsala,” Kavi interrupted impatiently. “They’ll be helping themselves. Or don’t you remember how much gold that committee’s bringing with them?” Jiaan’s expression brightened, and the girl nodded. “I’d rather we got the gold,” she said. “But I’d rather see the bandits take it than see Garren get his hands on it.”

“But who will tell them about it?” Jiaan asked. “I have to stay here with the army because … in case Garren moves faster than we expect.”

That wasn’t what he’d started to say, but Kavi knew better than to press him.

“Well, I can’t go,” said Kavi. “Last time I saw Shir—he’s their leader,” he added, noticing the girl’s puzzled expression. “Last time I saw him, he wanted to kill me.”

“He probably hasn’t changed his mind, either.” Jiaan smiled. It was the first time he’d ever smiled at Kavi, and Kavi hoped it would be the last.

“I’ll go,” said Soraya. “I’m no use here. Not anymore.”

“I’m not sure you’d be safe,” said Jiaan. “In fact, I’m sure you
wouldn’t be. Not alone. And with you gone, who’d watch
him
?” He didn’t even glance at Kavi, but his tone made his meaning clear.

“I’ll take him with me,” said the lady Soraya with a bit of her old arrogance. She didn’t look at Kavi as she spoke either. “He can protect me if it’s necessary, but I’m pretty good at looking after myself these days. Do you really think they’d put a higher value on raping me than getting their hands on Garren’s gold?”

“But they’ll kill me,” said Kavi.

“Maybe not,” Jiaan answered Soraya, “if you use knowledge of the gold to protect you. But—”

“But they’ll
kill
me!” Kavi repeated, his voice rising.

“So?” said Jiaan. “That will save me the trouble. Are you certain about this, Lady?”

“Yes,” said Soraya, though to Kavi’s ear she didn’t sound certain. “If the committee is captured and held to ransom, it will be the best possible proof that the land isn’t conquered—or at least that it’s not under Garren’s control. And that’s important. We’re running out of time.”

Kavi looked from her determined face to Jiaan’s troubled one and updated his list for the next four months: Survive Dugaz, defend Mazad, free Farsala, and then escape from Jiaan. Even at the top of the Wheel’s turning, the Tree of Life wasn’t likely to produce that much good fortune. Kavi sighed.

A
MESSENGER ON
A fleet horse, on dry roads, could go from Mazad to Dugaz in six days. Traveling on their own two feet, in the midst of winter’s mud and rain, it took Soraya and the peddler almost three weeks to reach the edge of the great marshes, and another day to reach what the peddler claimed was the best path in.

“I was here in the summer,” he told Soraya, eyeing the shimmering sheet of water that covered most of the path and all the rest of the land between the thick clumps of leafless mull bushes. “It was drier then.”

“If we’d taken horses we’d have been here faster,” Soraya grumbled. They’d both wanted to avoid the extra notice the Hrum gave people who were mounted. Though after passing through the
countryside, listening to the tales people told about the harassment the understrength Hrum garrisons had suffered, she wasn’t sure they’d have bothered with a pair of harmless-looking travelers. The Hrum had too many real troubles to attend to.

Soraya pulled her sheepskin vest tighter. They were near enough to the sea for her to catch its scent on the whipping wind, and it was cold, too. Soraya looked at the wet, muddy path and sighed.

“It wouldn’t have been any drier a week ago,” the peddler pointed out. “And it’s not like we’ve never been wet before. I don’t suppose …” He gestured to the ranks of dark clouds streaming in from the sea. Clearly most of Farsala was going to get rain today, and from the look of things Soraya and the peddler would be joining them. At least she had been able to wear her warm, comfortable boy’s clothes for this venture.

Despite the frequent rain and muddy roads, Soraya had enjoyed being outside the walls of Mazad. She hadn’t realized how restricted she’d felt, surrounded by those narrow, stone streets, until she was out in the grassland, with nothing to contain her except the horizon and the low clouds that filled the sky.

She could see that the peddler enjoyed it too, striding out in his wet boots as if the simple act of moving through the world allowed him to possess it. He had greeted Duckie, after months of separation, like a long-lost love.

Which didn’t mean he had enjoyed being rained on almost every day anymore than she had.

“No,” said Soraya shortly. “I told you that before, remember? I haven’t a clue how to stop it from raining.”

He sighed. “It’ll be a mess in the swamp, then, but I doubt it will be any drier tomorrow, so there’s no use putting it off.”

He had accepted her denial of ability to change the weather without pressure or protest, for which Soraya was grateful.

They’d been traveling through the farmland outside Mazad for several days, giving news-hungry peasants the town’s version of the battle. In return they heard the country folk’s tale of the “miraculous” storm Sorahb had summoned, which by now had gathered out of a clear blue sky and dropped so much rain—only on the Hrum, mind, none in the city at all—that the whole Hrum army had been washed away.

That was an exaggeration, though not by much. The Hrum’s official explanation for the storm that had mired their troops, collapsed their tents, and almost drowned some of their wounded in its mud was “bad luck.”

That same bad luck, she’d later learned, had destroyed Governor Nehar’s whole fortune. Rain had soaked clear through the bundled packets of expensive dyes he had purchased in the beleaguered city for so much less than their true value. All of it, ruined in the storm.

Mitra still has her jewelry,
Soraya told herself firmly. And the
Hrum would continue to protect even a failed traitor, if he had committed his treason in their cause. But protection and work were all they had offered him. When she thought of the haughty Lady Mitra as the wife—and Nayani as the daughter—of a low-paid army clerk, remorse tugged at Soraya’s heart.

I had no choice.

“It sure would be nice,” the peddler had said, on the fourth morning of their journey, “if Sorahb Storm-bringer could do something about the rain that’s about to fall on our heads. It would save us time, not to mention the soaking.”

Since he was the one who had found her deep in the shilshadu trance, she could hardly deny the title. Memory of that awakening, covered and warm, softened her impulse to snap at him. “No, thank you. Sorahb Storm-bringer doesn’t know how to stop the rain. In truth he doesn’t dare use that magic outside of dire emergencies. It’s dangerous.”

Her sudden shiver had nothing to do with the damp wind, and she thought he understood that. His voice was easy as he went on, “According to the Suud, only the best, the strongest of their All Speakers, can be working the weather. It’s a gift they prize in that dry land of theirs. But I don’t remember them saying it was dangerous. Perhaps you’ve just tackled it too soon.”

“Perhaps,” said Soraya. “And perhaps I should never have ‘tackled it’ at all.”

“Hmm,” said the peddler, declining to commit himself. “The thing that’s surprising me is that no one’s trying to attribute it to the Suud. Folks know they’ve in the town, helping the smiths deal with the ‘new ore’ but we’re not hearing any rumors of Suud sorcerers or Suud demons. It’s Sorahb getting the credit.”

“All the better for the Suud,” said Soraya. “I know that Maok didn’t want their magic to become common knowledge. I think … I think people don’t want the Suud to have magic. If they had a power we didn’t, if they weren’t simple barbarians, we’d have to stop looking down on them and start fearing them.”

“Maok’s right,” said the peddler. “That would be bad. But you could be claiming the credit yourself, if you want it.”

“I don’t need people fearing me, either,” said Soraya. “Let Sorahb have it. Besides …”

If people knew that she had brought the storm, they might expect her to do it again.

“… besides,” she went on, “I don’t see you claiming to have commanded the battle that saved the gate. Sorahb’s getting credit for that, too.”

“Ah, but Sorahb, poor fellow, is made of nothing but words and moonshine, so he needs all the rumors he can get. I’ve got flesh, so I don’t need words to hold me together,” said the peddler cheerfully as the rain began to fall. “Even wet flesh is better than none.”

Now Soraya watched him stepping down the muddy path, letting
the mule take the lead, she noticed, and sighed. But he was right—they’d both been wet and muddy before.

She didn’t like the swamp, she soon discovered. The bare twigs were still thick enough to block her view, almost as if she were wandering through a maze, and the mud that clung to her boots was as heavy and far more smelly than the mud of the road. The only saving grace was that it washed away whenever the deep, somewhat clearer water covered their path. Her feet were soaked before they’d gone a hundred yards, and the water was now creeping up the legs of her britches. “This is awful,” Soraya complained. “How are we going to find anyone? Are we even on the path?”

As far as she could tell, the path, such as it was, had vanished less than a quarter league into the swamp, although the mule acted as if she knew where she was going. Having traveled with the quirky beast several times, Soraya was fond of Duckie—but she wasn’t sure the mule was a qualified trail guide.

On the other hand, she enjoyed watching the ducks. A flotilla of more than twenty surrounded them at the moment, paddling around the mule and quacking companionably.