Karavans (37 page)

“Not even a taste.”

“I’m not saying he didn’t
deserve
to be eaten by a demon, mind you, but I suspect it might upset his wife a great deal.”

“Of course he deserved it.” Darmuth’s tone was matter-of-fact. “I was back in time to see you on the way into Ilona’s wagon, and him on the way out. Since you had taken charge of her, I followed him.”

“And now two people I like and admire believe I’m a murderer.”

“Well,” he said, “you are. Just not in this instance.”

Rhuan bared his teeth at Darmuth.

The demon bared his far more impressive dentition. “I win.”

Darmuth always won when it came to comparing such things. Rhuan, retreating into a sulk, carried his end of the body without another word.

FERIZE HAD GONE. Bethid had gone. At what remained of the settlement, Brodhi stood alone in the darkness, listening to the nightsong of insects, the low murmuring of the men carrying out and laying down bodies in the chosen area, and the muffled sobbing of wives and husbands, mothers and children. Damp ash scented the air, with an undertone of oil and woodsmoke and meat. Human meat.

Rites at dawn, Bethid had said, for those among the decimated, the humans culled from life. It was nothing he had not seen before, or Bethid, or likely any courier, whose job it was to carry news. He supposed an argument could be made that he should return at once to Cardatha, the capital city of Sancorra province, to report to the Hecari warlord in residence there. But as the culling had been ordered by the selfsame warlord, Brodhi also supposed it wasn’t necessary to bring him the news. The culling party would do it for him.

Meanwhile, if he remained, there were no announcements or messages to carry. He was free of his duties for a while.

But, alas, not free of grieving humans.

The bulk of a large man loomed out of the darkness into thin light shed by lanterns hanging on crooks. A one-eyed man whose visage was a strained combination of weariness and grief. He carried a shovel in one hand.

“We’ve dug the common grave. Nothing more to be done until dawn,” Mikal said hoarsely. “I’m for a tankard or five of ale. Will you join me?”

Brodhi thought of the tankard he’d already downed. He owed Mikal payment for that.

He was inclined to say no, to take himself off to the couriers’ common tent, but found himself nodding. Found himself accompanying Mikal to the ale tent. And found
himself sitting down at a table with Mikal, once the man had poured foaming golden ale to the rim of two battered tankards.

A question issued from Brodhi’s mouth of its own accord, without thought beforehand: “Will you stay, or go, now that the Hecari have found this place?”

Mikal lowered the tankard from his mouth and displayed a line of foam edging his mustache. “This place is as much a home as I’ve ever had. I’ll stay.”

“And if the Hecari return? They might, you know. To cull the numbers again.”

Mikal winced and closed one big hand around his neck-let of charms. “We’ll pray they do not, but yes, even if they do come, I’ll stay.” He shrugged heavy shoulders. “I have no place else to go.”

“Another settlement.”

The ale-keep shook his head. “One settlement is much like another, and the very number of humans will attract culling parties. But I know people here.” He shifted on his stool, wide hands cupping his head as he massaged scalp and forehead. “I just wish there were a way to fight back … a way to break free of the Hecari …”

Brodhi’s mouth jerked briefly in an ironic smile. “Not possible.”

“Just—if there were something we could
do.
” Mikal raised his face and settled folded forearms on the table top. His features were a mask of grime, exhaustion, and raw appeal. “I can’t help but think that if enough of us prepared in advance for a culling visit, we might overcome the Hecari.”

Brodhi said again, “Not possible.”

But Mikal was undeterred as he did his thinking aloud. “No one here, save Kendic, attempted to stop the warriors; we simply accepted that it was happening and tried to avoid being noticed. But perhaps if more of us attempted to stop them, we could.”

“And more of you would be killed, as Kendic was.”

But Mikal ignored that. His single eye took on a thoughtful, shining intensity. “Maybe that’s the key,
Brodhi. Numbers. If we could gather enough of us—not just from Sancorra, but from other overrun provinces—and if we united against the Hecari, it might just
be
possible.”

Brodhi, who had seen the prowess and brutality of Hecari warriors more times than he cared to count, shook his head. “They have swept across the province like an endless swarm of locusts,” he said. “Do you truly believe it’s possible to assemble thousands—or even mere hundreds—of Sancorrans and devise a plan without the warlord learning of it? Without risking a culling?”

Mikal wiped foam from his mustache. An idle thought had transformed itself to a cause within a matter of moments. He was afire with it. “To take back Sancorra from the Hecari is worth that risk. Worth the deaths.”

“Three provinces have fallen to them.”

Mikal nodded. “Yes, don’t you see? That makes for three provinces of potential rebels.”

“And how would you unite them?” Brodhi asked pointedly. “The warlord has thousands upon thousands of experienced and loyal warriors under his banner. Their entire culture is based on making war. And Sancorra is not so large. She has fewer men. The same can be said of Korith and Ixtapa.”

Mikal’s single eye was bright but steady. “The key is organization and communication, so no one acts alone. It would require couriers carrying messages from one province to another. To as many as might join us. The warlord won’t be satisfied with three provinces. He has the men, the means, and the hunger to take more.” He leaned forward on his stool. “Don’t you see, Brodhi? You and your fellow couriers have leave to travel anywhere. Your cloak and badge buys you more freedom than any of us have under the Hecari. Bethid would do it, I know, and probably Timmon and Alorn. And there are other couriers, too. If all of you joined us, we would have a real chance at organizing a resistance!”

Brodhi shrugged. “I have no stake in this. I’m Shoia, not Sancorran, Korithi, or Ixtapan.”

“And that’s precisely why you’d be so effective.”
Mikal’s eye shone. “I’m not a fool, Brodhi—it would take time. Probably years. But I believe it could be done.” He nodded. “I’ll pose it to Bethid tonight. She can talk to Alorn and Timmon.” He grinned slowly. “Don’t you see? You could take false information to the warlord. He wouldn’t know how many we are, where we are, or what we plan.”

Brodhi didn’t bother to explain that once the false information was uncovered, as it would be at some point, all the couriers would be executed and the invaluable method of communication would evaporate. “And are you prepared to watch an entire settlement wiped out, not just a one in ten culling? Because should any hint of this plan make its way to the warlord, that’s what would happen.” He drank down a fair portion of ale, then set the tankard on the table with a quiet thump of emphasis. “You’ve seen Kendic killed, and—” Brodhi recalled the names Ferize had mentioned, “—Hezriah, Dardannus, and Lavetta. All people known to you. Could you watch all the others known to you be killed?”

Mikal slapped the flat of one hand down upon the table with a meaty thwack. “It’s because people known to me
were
killed that I’m considering this, Brodhi! The Hecari must be stopped. And if it means more of us must die, at least it’s worthwhile losing a life in a fight for freedom than by being randomly executed as the unlucky one in ten.” Mikal’s expression was grim. “Come to the dawn rites, Brodhi, and see the people who’ve lost kin today. Ask everyone who lost someone if they wouldn’t prefer to rise up against the Hecari than to be put into a line and counted out for culling. Then tell me it’s not worth the risk.”

Brodhi said, “Thousands of you could die.”

Mikal nodded. “I do understand that.”

But he didn’t, Brodhi knew. No one here but couriers understood. No one who had not seen the cairns of skulls piled up by the Hecari across miles and miles of the plains as markers of their presence could possibly understand.

“We have to do something,” Mikal declared. “Are you willing to help?”

Brodhi rose and set a coin ring on the table. “I’ll attend the dawn rites.” He met the ale-keep’s eye. “You’ll have my answer then.”

T
HE CHILDREN WERE in their beds. Audrun and Davyd made theirs beside the wagon, spreading a thin mat as groundcover with folds of blankets atop it and rough, goosedown pillows. Davyn settled the oxen for the night even as Audrun settled the cookfire; then they removed shoes and crawled beneath the blankets. As always, Audrun took comfort in his nearness, in his maleness, in the certainty that he would do all within his power to keep her and the children safe.

That thought spasmed briefly in her belly as she recalled what her two eldest had done. She weighed not telling Davyn they had approached the Shoia guide against telling him the details now, on the verge of sleep. Then she put herself in his place, and knew the proper course.

“They meant well of it, Davvy,” she said softly. “Keep that in your mind.”

They lay facing one another no more than a handspan apart. His eyes opened. His tone was dry. “I always worry whenever you preface a statement with those words. Well, what is it?”

Audrun drew in a breath and told him what little she knew about shortcuts to Atalanda and guides now out of work, about children old enough to understand the need for help, and about the dangers facing them as they trav-
eled the shortcut. She told him also that it would lift some of the burden of protection from him.

He was far less resigned, as she might have expected, than matter of fact. “It isn’t a burden, Audrun. It’s simply life. It’s what must be done.”

“Would it not be easier if he rode with us?”

A breath exhaled sharply informed her of a self-conscious amusement. “Very likely.”

“And you told me you wanted to join a karavan for the protection of numbers.”

“So I did.”

“Is this so very different?”

“Of course it’s different.” Patience remained in his tone, but she also heard strain. “It’s much more costly to hire a personal guide for one wagon. We haven’t the coin rings for it. Gillan and Elli should have thought of that before they approached him, because now I have no choice but to turn him down, should he be amenable to the duty.”

Audrun could smell the ash and coals of the nearby cookfire. In darkness, insects sang. Overhead the Maiden’s acoloytes spread black robes rich with sparkling, star–spangled light. “They wanted to help,” she said softly.

“I do know that.” A smile crimped the night-shadowed lines at the corners of his eyes. One wide hand slid out from under blankets to smooth her hair against her skull. “It wasn’t a
bad
thing, what they did. But they should think such things through before speaking of them to strangers.”

“And if he comes in the morning and says he’ll go with us?”

Davyn was quiet a long moment. “What kind of man would I be if I couldn’t look after my own family?”

Audrun drew in a breath and spoke without censure, merely simple observation. “That’s pride speaking.”

“So it is. Yet it changes nothing. For sixteen years I have kept this family safe. I shall continue to do so.”

She moistened her lips. “He killed five Hecari warriors.”

“And put a knife in my shoulder.”

Well, yes, but … “What if more Hecari come?”

He heaved a great, weary sigh. “If they come, they come.
We will behave as the guide told us to behave, and pray they will only be interested in our belongings.”

Audrun could think of no additional arguments or questions that might change his mind. Part of her was relieved; she, too, felt capable of looking after her family. But another part, a smaller but distinct part, could not help but think the guide’s presence might go far toward providing additional protection.

“Go to sleep,” he said softly, his hand falling away from her hair, “and think about a new beginning for all of us in Atalanda.”

Oh, she would do that; she
had
done that. Nearly every night. But this night, having seen Hecari warriors, having felt one warrior’s touch, she could not dismiss the memories of the day, nor the realization that no matter what Davyn said, she wanted the Shoia to accompany them.

ILONA AWOKE IN the middle of the night. She could not say what—if anything—had roused her out of sleep, be it noise or movement. She was simply wide awake with no residual grogginess.