Gravity Box and Other Spaces (15 page)

“You should be.” Karl clapped Mindan on the shoulder. They emerged into the yard where the mission was assembling for the journey south to Ethalic. Horses snuffled and shifted, the air rich with their close scent, as retainers secured baggage to pack animals.

“I'll speak to Cestic for you. He's head of the mission, chief emissary.” He clasped hands with Mindan. “I wish you a safe journey, but—”

“But?”

“For the life of me I hope you fail to find what he's sent you after.”

Mindan watched the first minister cross the paving stones to where several men in well-made travel gear talked among themselves. He considered himself a loyal subject, a patriot, but Karl's worries made him uneasy. Try as he might to ignore the doubt, he wondered if the king might be wrong.

He could not imagine a king permitting his daughter to misuse herself and risk an alliance like this. Success in his mission would assuage all doubts. He sympathized with Karl, but decided he was needlessly worried.

Best way to find out is the einhyrn. Now if only they still exist—

They turned east up a ridge that was part of the series of ripples that formed the foothills along a section of the Githiran range. Mindan knew that the Tripass Inn was not far, although they would not be able to see it until nearly at its door. He remembered the place fondly from prior journeys, especially the last one he had taken with his father not long before his death. All who traveled along this way stayed at least one night to enjoy its comforts, food, and ale. It was a place for travelers from many countries to meet and exchange gossip, broker new deals, and relax from the strain of the open road. By longstanding agreement, no one attacked or robbed this inn. It was as safe as being at home, sometimes safer. Mindan was glad to lay eyes on its broad door after the day's long ride.

Once his horse was taken to stable, he entered the great hall. It was filled with the odors of various smokes and liquors mixed with the aroma of roast pork and stew and the laughter from throats unaccustomed to easy mirth. Mindan felt the tensions of the day begin to fade, leaving him with only a road-weariness that nothing but a meal and bed would cure. He found a seat at the far end of a long table and took his ample stew with a dark brew thick as bread.

When he was finished, he pushed his plate aside and lifted his mug towards the girl as she approached him. Instead of filling his mug, she sat down opposite him and propped her elbows on table, face between her palms and smiled at him. He almost stood, but she drew a closer look. The first thing he noticed was an absence of any embellishment, even though her cheeks were pleasantly pink and her eyes large and very green, with long lashes and fine brows. She was not pretty but still impossible to ignore. Her bodice was simple but of fine cloth and well-made.
She was not one of the women normally at large in the inn. Mindan took in the last dreg of his ale, studying her, wishing he had more time.

“Not tonight,” he said.

One eyebrow lifted. “Then likely never. I leave in the morning.”

“My loss, then.”

“You have an early departure?”

“I do. After this,” he raised his mug, “I'm off to sleep.”

“Why?”

“Hmm?”

“You're with the mission from Catanac. None of the others are planning for an early day. In fact, some of them likely won't be awake before noon tomorrow. You're not leaving with them, then?”

Mindan came alert, glancing into the hall where the others in the party clearly were intent on the kind of night he was passing up, and wondered who had talked about him. When he looked back at the girl she was smiling, a self-satisfied expression, and he knew she had just tricked him into confirming what she had only guessed.

“You?” he said.

“My uncle is a merchant,” she said, pointing vaguely across the hall. “We're from Masady.”

“Ah.”

“Ah? You think you know something about me now because of that?”

Before he could answer, she stood.

“My name is Virith,” she said, “and I'm sad for you. We might have had a fine night, but you have your secrets to keep, and I don't have time to work them out of you.”

She strode off then, and Mindan could not stop watching her. She moved with a self-assurance that pulled
at his belly. He made a low noise, shook ideas from his imagination, and headed for the stairs. At the exit he glanced back. He saw her standing with a porter named Gath. Her hand was on his neck. His hand was slowly tugging up her skirt. He was grinning. Gath, he knew, was a cruel one. Part of Mindan thought it might do Virith good to be humbled a bit, but he despised himself for thinking so. He made his way through the crowd and took her arm.

She looked surprised.

“Hey!” Gath said, scowling and beginning to stand.

Mindan closed his free hand on Gath's shoulder and squeezed. Gath winced and sat back down. “Go throw stones at the chickens, boy. You'll enjoy that more.”

He led Virith away, toward the stairs. She let him until they were out of the hall.

“Maybe you've changed you mind,” she said, jerking free, “but—”

“What color do you like your bruises?” he said. “That one can make them in several shades.”

Her anger changed to dismay. “So you're what? Rescuing me?”

“Informing you. If that's what you like, I won't interfere, but I thought you ought to know before the door is locked and there's no leaving.” He gave her a slight bow. “Good night.”

“Wait. That's all?”

“People should do what they want, long as it doesn't hurt anyone else, but they shouldn't do it in ignorance. My way of seeing it, anyhow.”

She smiled and Mindan felt a turn in his brain like regret.

“Thank you,” she said. “Do you have any suggestion then who would be safe?”

“I—depends on what it is you like.”

“Well, I did approach you first. You don't leave bruises, do you?”

Mindan slipped away before dawn, reluctantly disentangling himself from Virith. She had sweated him for hours through the night. To his surprise she had scoffed at his lamb's gut; instead, she used a pessary. He hadn't argued. His passion wouldn't let him. Now he bore his exhaustion with a satisfaction that carried him away from the inn and a longing he did not regret. He doubted he would ever see her again and that would be a shame, but a lost night's sleep was a small price to pay for the pleasure she had brought.

Stupid, he chided himself. Been too long—a night's coupling has unhinged you—she'll likely forget you ten miles farther up the road—

As he was making his way up the ridge, into the Githiran Range, he looked back down and saw a column of troops entering the yard of the inn. The early morning light was bare, but he still recognized the bright red and white banner of Masady. He considered going back down, to see if something had changed regarding Cestic's mission, but that seemed unlikely. A messenger from Catanac would have reached them first. He waited till they began to dismount, then continued on.

He found an old, seldom-used trail up the ridge, to a pass he remembered from long ago. By the time he crossed over into Githira, the sky was brilliant blue. He would have preferred entering the country in the dark for what he had to do, but he saw no trace of sentinels, no sign that
anyone had passed this way for months. He was deep into the forest before noon.

Away from the main travel-way, light fell down golden-green through the dense forest canopy. Mindan found a copse of trees that had grown so close together they were almost one and climbed into their midst to eat. He had some dried beef from the inn and a flask of water. He took out the map he had of Githira and studied it as he ate. He was a good thirty miles from the capital to the south. The other cities were even farther south except for Halimet, about fifteen miles northeast. The map was old and lacked any locations of smaller towns or freeholds, but keeping far from the major towns appeared easily done.

Refreshed, he continued slowly east, with an eye to any spoor. After another few miles he found tracks veering south that looked about right for what he was hunting, a pack by the look of it, maybe five or six creatures. A mile along the track he stopped. Human tracks, not much fresher than the others. The pack was being followed, perhaps hunted, by others. Four of them.

He kept to the closer stands of trees as much as possible and ran a parallel path to the dual track, pausing every so often to confirm direction. About three miles along the tracks changed. The creatures had begun to run, perhaps catching the scent of their pursuers, who also picked up their pace. There was something else, something in the wind which caught his attention. It was the smell of rot. He opened his pack and took out the crossbow and the hip quiver of iron bolts. He assembled the weapon in seconds, cocked it, and inserted a shaft, then proceeded, following the odor.

He found the corpses in a shallow glen. Six animals, four adult and two adolescents. They had been laid out in a row after being taken down by several arrows, most of
which had been removed. Only the broken shafts had been left in the bodies. Mindan imagined the chaos among the frightened, assaulted creatures when missiles came out of nowhere, probably from at least three different points around the clearing. It must, he decided, have happened two days ago, three at most, judging by the smell and the clamorous whine of the flies. Carrion had been at them. Mindan reacted with revulsion to the waste. No meat had been taken. The poachers had been after one thing only.

Mindan moved around the circumference of the depression, searching the shadows, the eaves above, looking for anyone who might have lingered or returned. No one. Satisfied, he moved toward the dead animals.

They all shared one wound in common—a deep gash in the forehead where a blade had cut out the horn. One of them, the largest, nearly the size of a pony, had had its neck cut deeply, having apparently survived the arrows.

“Damn,” Mindan said quietly. He should have expected others. This was the only country left that contained these creatures, protected by the Overseer of Githira. The horns were valued everywhere else. What he had hoped would be a quick day or two, in and out, now looked to be more complicated.

He stood, turned, and felt a sharp bite on the left side of his neck. Before his hand reached it, he fell to his knee then face first onto the ground, no longer aware of the world around him.

Cold water shocked him awake. He twisted away from the chill and the sudden light banging the side of his head on a rough surface. A few moments later he realized he was seated on the ground, bound to a tree. He squeezed his eyes shut, blinked hard, and looked around.

A woman squatted in front of him. Thick black hair framed a broad face, skin the color of jeweler's brass, eyes a
pale blue. She was dressed for the forest, leather and wool in greens and browns, her feet protected in well-made boots. The hilt of a knife rested against her calf, nestled in its boot-sheath. Mindan looked past her and saw three others, all men, standing and watching. Off to his right all his possessions had been laid out on a cloak in an orderly display.

“You're a long way from Catanac,” she said. Her voice was quiet, even-toned, authoritative. “Especially for a poacher.”

Mindan's anger drowned his confusion. “I didn't do that.”

“No?”

“I was tracking the ones who did.”

“How gracious of King Prester to send us assistance in protecting our own lands. How did he know? We never asked.”

“I'm not a poacher.”

“Yet here we find you with your kill.”

She stared at him unmoving and silent. Mindan tried to meet her gaze, but he began to wonder if she ever blinked, or if perhaps she was not human. He had heard of survivors of long past wars who carried the heritage of Otherness, though he had never credited the stories. They were just fables to frighten children and add spice to a campfire gathering or banquet, tall tales to delight and caution. But he had never seen skin this color or eyes that never wavered quite like hers.