Misery's Child (The Cadian Chronicles) (16 page)

“Ah, calla Marta!”
Rowle laughed, his good humor quickly restored. “But I can hardly blame them.
Our people have too much work in the field to part with the older sons just for
the sake of my pride. Besides, ‘tis all for show anyhow.”

Ersala’s sharp glance
at her husband did not escape Marta.

For almost a
season now, strange images had been invading Marta’s head. At first it
frightened her; it was almost as if she were dreaming
wide
awake
. They were fragments that made no sense and she was afraid to tell
anyone for fear they’d think her mad. Then one day Tomack had been talking
about a shipment that had come into the docks. Suddenly she saw the broken bags
of grana and the bloated rats that had gnawed through the sacks, too enormous
with their gluttony to move even as Tomack stomped on them.

“You liked the way
their bones crunched, didn’t you?” she had asked, amazed and terrified at once.
She wasn’t mad. She was
tadomani
.
“The rats. You crushed the rats—”

“Who told you
that?” Tomack had demanded his voice thin and shrill.
 

“Just a lucky
guess,” she’d smiled quickly. “See how well I know you, my love?”

Now her mother’s
thoughts were in her head, confused images of shadows and someone running. An
old man, covered in blood....
And then stakes.
She did
not understand the images, but there was no mistaking the emotion. Her mother
was uneasy, maybe even afraid.
 

 
Even without peeking at her mother’s
thoughts, Marta knew her father lied when he said the soldiers were all for
show. That was mostly true, but not completely. The few bandits in Omani were a
polite breed, only interested in coin or valuables. It was almost unheard of
for an Omani bandit to injure his victims. Rowle had been waylaid by such a
rogue many summers ago; the vidor relished telling the story of how the man had
been so good-humored that they supped together at the campfire before the
robber went on his merry way with all Rowle’s coin in his pockets.

But the pilgrimage
would pass through Gezana and Bethosa, situated along the borders of Tor Abat.
Tor renegades and
robbers
were
an
entirely different breed
. They were the stuff of calla mundies, sweeping
down out of the foothills to prey on Omani and Tor alike on either side of the
mountains. Huge men, screaming and whooping on thundering horses, that stole,
pillaged and ransacked. Sometimes they roved deeper into Omani lands,
terrorizing whole villages before the Border Army drove them back.

The Torian bandits
were interested in coin and loot, yes; but they seemed just as interested in
destroying what they could not steal.
Houses, fields,
fences—vandalism large and small.
Burn a house
here,
kill a few sheep there, and perhaps cut the ear off an old man just for sport.
They always slunk away when challenged in actual combat.

Worse yet, Tors
were slave-traders. The bandits frequently kidnapped children, young boys and
women to sell in the Gra-Marte market, where an Omani slave brought great
profit for their rarity.

Pilgrims to
Shamonoza were favorite targets because of the costly gifts many carried for
the Shallan and Shallana Breda. Marta thought much of the danger could be
avoided entirely if only the Omani would alter their pilgrimage to steer clear
of the border territories. She said as much to her mother, who only shook her
head and sighed.

“Child, the
purpose of the pilgrimage is not just to get to Shamonoza. Have your lessons
with Yannamarie taught you nothing?”

Marta frowned and
tipped her nose into the air.

“I know, I know,”
she said in a bored tone. “We have to stop at every dismal rut in the road to
pray and pour wine over the rocks in Belah’s tribute. As if Belah would care. I
suppose it’s all the same to him if we all get our throat’s slit while mumbling
our prayers.”

She supposed she
must have thoroughly shocked her mother, for the woman’s lips pursed as she
flicked the reins. Marta laughed.

“Oh, muma! Aren’t
you even going to lecture me on tradition? Blasphemy? Anything at all?”

“It may come as a
great surprise to you, Marta, but I do not enjoy speaking just for the love of
my own voice. You are my daughter and as such I love you. But I don’t think I
like you very much, Mother Leah forgive me.”

“That’s the first
grown-up thing you’ve ever said to me, muma!” Marta threw an arm around a
surprised Ersala and kissed her on the cheek.

“And that pleases
you?” The older woman regarded Marta with sidelong eyes,
then
had to laugh. She shook her head. “You are the strangest child.”

“Thank you,” Marta
said, beaming. Along the road to Shamonoza, she would lay a seed in her
mother’s mind about Tomack, who rode somewhere in the dust behind them.

***

Danaus and his
entourage traveled a discreet distance behind the noble family. His wife and
children, except for Tomack, he’d left at home. He was not of noble birth, so
no tradition forced him to this pilgrimage. He came rather to cultivate and
enhance his own status as the most important merchant of Kirrisian.

The festival was
also a good time to introduce his son to the other prominent tradesmen in
attendance. Privately, he thought Tomack a bit of a fool, but the boy was his
eldest son. Perhaps the experience and
his own
close
instruction would help. He had ignored the boy’s education for too long.

His biggest
dilemma at the moment was how to make the visit he planned to Abshira, the most
sought after
bellinta
in Shallanie.
She was not the only whore who dared to run a pleasure house in the sacred city
itself, but she was the most beautiful and most desired. She claimed the
chancellor among her suitors, but Danaus wasn’t sure he believed that. Would a
man in such a high position as the chancellor visit a bellinta?

Sometimes he
thought the Tors had the right idea. They didn’t bother sneaking around
darkened alleys; no, in Pera Tek, the Torian capital, there was an entire
district devoted to pleasure where a man could go in broad daylight. A Torian
man could take as many consorts as he could support and no one thought anything
of it. On the contrary, the more concubines a Torian had the higher his status
in the community.

Perhaps he would
just take Tomack along. Danaus was well aware of his son’s whoring in
Jennymeade
. It was unlikely that Tomack would disapprove or
carry tales home to his mother. And the girls Tomack had bedded!
Peasants, all of them.
Coarse maids with
rough hands and dirty hair.
There was more than one kind of experience a
young man of his position required. One of Abshira’s girls could certainly
provide it.

He glanced in
satisfaction at the twenty hearty young men in blue and gold tunics who marched
sharply in two columns alongside him. His troops were the best professional
soldiers gold could buy. After them came the wagons: one, filled with tribute
for the Shallana, whomever she might be; the second, filled with silks and
jewelry he planned to trade along the way; and the last two burdened with his
own tents and provisions.

The amount of the
shallana’s tribute was a delicate matter. He had spent days brooding over the
selection, trying to find the right balance between his own parsimony and the
desire to be admired for extravagant largess. The tribute was voluntary and its
value was supposed to be of no consequence, but Danaus knew that powerful men
in Shamonoza would judge him by it. Six summers past, Weodjic of Gezana had
caused quite a stir with his tribute: a dozen of his finest horses, an entire
chest filled with gold coin and a stunning collection of silver goblets
emblazoned with Belah’s crest.

It galled him to
choke on Rowle’s dust. As vidor, Rowle’s place was at the head of the
pilgrimage. The vidor’s troops had no uniforms and his entourage included no
servants, not even the ugly old woman Tesla. Perhaps he would arrange an
audience with Rowle and test the waters for his proposal. The important thing
was not to appear too eager for the joining. He must negotiate as if doing the
vidor a favor. If all went well, one day his grandson would lead the Kirrisian
procession as vidor. It troubled Danaus little that Rowle’s own whelp stood
between him and his plans. Such things could be arranged, could they not?

By the end of the
second day, other groups joined the Kirrisian procession. King Tullus and his
son Scearce came under the emerald and yellow banners of Jeptalla, having
already been on the road for three days. They brought only one manservant, a
well-loaded mule and a single wagon with them. Everyone knew Tullus was quite
rich; he did not need to flaunt it. Danaus stared at the wagon and wondered
what Tullus’ tribute contained.

The vidor and
vidoress of Gezana more than made up for the Jeptallans’ economy. Weodjic and
Leodric’s troupe swelled the pilgrimage with some eighty bodies, including
eleven children, twenty-two servants and a trio of story-telling jugglers
engaged solely to entertain the children. The family occupied seven closed
coaches; even their servants rode, in a number of open carriages and wagons
fitted with silken canopies. The vidor was famous for the horses he bred and
his troops were all mounted on fine, sleek animals. In the chaos of their party
was another closed litter, which carried Iafrewn, the eldest daughter. She,
too, was
consecratia
.

The pilgrims were
by no means limited to the noble houses. All Omani made the pilgrimage at least
once in their lifetime; many that could afford it went to every festival.
Wealthy merchants like Danaus never let a pilgrimage go by. Couples seeking the
blessing of the Shallan on their joining made the journey, as did the ailing to
seek the knowledge of the most experienced cadia-apothecas.

By the end of the
fourth day, the road was thick with wagons, bodies, mules and horses for nearly
a quarter parsec. Formalities of procession blurred as people fell into
companionable groups exchanging news and gossip.

They began moving
each sunrise and only stopped when an oblong stone appeared at the roadside.
The stones were monuments to Belah, marking battlefields and campsites of the
War for Independence.

Whenever the
pilgrimage stopped, Lendenican, the blue-robed cadia-techa attached to the
House of Gezana, stepped down from her litter. She then motioned imperiously to
Yannamarie, who had to remind herself that obedience was a virtue. Lendenican
was at least twenty-five summers Yanna’s senior. Yanna, unaccustomed to the
presence of other cadia after all these summers in Kirrisian House, found her
tedious. Yanna fancied she could smell the woman’s moldering pride wavering on
the summer wind, like the scent of something long ago left to rot in a
forgotten trunk.

The two cadia
escorted their charges to the stone. First Iafrewn, then Lillitha, knelt to
kiss the gritty words inscribed there. Lendenican’s eyes rolled every time
Iafrewn stumbled on the hem of her robes. As the girls arose and stepped aside,
eyes down and hands clasped over their bellies, Lendenican motioned for the
nobles to come forward.

King Tullus, Vidor
Rowle and Vidor Weodjic each in their turn poured a draught of their best wine
over the stone. Then, Lendenican began the prayer.

“She’s
long-winded, that one,” Weodjic whispered to Rowle beside him. “I should know,
I’ve been listening to her for six summers.”

“Oman have pity on
us,” Tullus muttered. “At this rate, we’ll be lucky to see Shamonoza before the
next Single Moon.”

Finally, Lendenican lifted her palms toward the
sky, signaling that prayers were completed. There was always a well near the
monuments, and servants scurried to draw up a bucket for their master’s animals
before the procession began to move once more.

***

As his father drew
alongside, Scearce tore his eyes away from the robed figures mounting the
litters. He felt a blush creeping to his hairline as Tullus smiled.

“It is nice to see
you amused, father,” he said, unable to meet his father’s eyes. “Though I do
wish the source of that amusement was something other than myself.”

Tullus waved his
hand dismissively. “Ah, ‘tis only that you remind me of my own youthful
curiosity, once upon a time. I met Shallanoma Silsbee once but she was quite
old by that time.”

Silsbee had been
Varden's mother. Scearce shrugged away his embarrassment and instead
concentrated on his father. Tullus had not been so talkative since.... Well,
since before Alaida died. Perhaps it was one of the promised blessings of the
pilgrimage that his father seemed to be returning to the world. Scearce nodded
toward Iafrewn’s littler. “She was Gezana, wasn’t she? I’d forgotten.”

“Yes, the chubby
little one’s great grand-aunt.”

“You thought her
plump? However could you tell, under all those robes and veils?”

His father
actually laughed. Not the
roaring laugh
of Scearce’s
youth, but still a welcome sound. “My son, I’ve been
studying
women
far longer than you. Silsbee was very healthy-looking, too.”