Rise of a Hero (The Farsala Trilogy) (5 page)

K
AVI REACHED
Setesafon just before the Hrum’s new curfew took effect. It was dusk but he had till full dark to get off the street—and if he could show the tattoo on his shoulder, no curfew sentry would be hauling him in. But the house he sought was only a laundry in the suburbs, not some grand manor in the heart of the city. He could get there before dark.

It was the closest thing to a home he had, and part of him dreaded to arrive. If anything had happened to Nadi’s family, he’d never be able to forgive himself. He was having a hard enough time with forgiveness, anyway.

But there was little sign of fighting around the
small shops and homes he passed. Nothing burned. No blood stains in the gutters. Most of the blood had been shed over a month ago, in a faraway field, and even if it hadn’t been his folks doing the bleeding, it still haunted Kavi’s dreams. The thought of the survivors, taken off to be slaves in foreign lands, bothered him even in the daylight. But the Hrum didn’t treat their slaves badly, not like the Kadeshi. There was time to redeem himself—to make things right.

And the Hrum hadn’t lied about being merciful where there was no resistance. A few broken shutters, already replaced, were the worst damage he’d seen. That, and the wariness in the shopkeepers’ eyes as they pulled in their wares and closed up. Everyone still in the streets was seeking refuge now.

No, the Hrum hadn’t lied when they promised that his folk would survive, mostly unscathed. Mind, they hadn’t mentioned they’d be imposing curfews, but that was supposed to be a “temporary measure.”

What was it his old master, Tebin, used to say? “There’s nothing as permanent as a temporary tax.” But it was the deghans who’d imposed those
taxes, who’d broken their own laws with impunity, who had stolen a man’s trade and left him to rebuild from nothing. Kavi flexed his scarred right hand as far as he could, not quite fully open, not quite fully closed. The deghans were gone, and he couldn’t be too sorry for having had a hand in that.

The laundry was already dark. It usually closed a bit early—and Nadi was the kind who’d let her workers go even earlier, to be certain they made it home by curfew. The house beside the laundry, built by master stonemasons, showed no light around the well-fitted door, but a faint glow around the shutters revealed human presence within.

Kavi took a deep breath, stepped up to the door, and knocked. It was built of heavy planks, and he could hear nothing beyond it—he almost jumped when the door opened, revealing Nadi’s worried face.

“Who in the . . . Kavi!”

“Is everything all right?” they both asked simultaneously, and Nadi snorted.

“Get in before the patrol comes by. Don’t you know about the curfew? Or are you being reckless enough not to care? Where’s Duckie?”

She stood aside to admit him—a plain, middle-aged woman, worn by work and care. She was the linchpin of the small family that Kavi had unofficially adopted. She was his partner in their scheme to sell gold-covered bronze for the price of solid goods. She was the closest thing to a mother that he had.

“I left Duckie in one of the farms outside the city, along with my wares, for I’m not here to sell or buy,” Kavi assured her. “Are you all right, and the children? Sim and Hama?”

“We’re all fine, lad, and the young ones too. Though we were worried about you, with those Hrum roaming the—”

“Kavi!” It was a shrill, childish shriek, but there was nothing childish about the stout staff Sim cast aside as he hurtled forward to embrace his friend.

“Quiet, imp, you’ll wake the little ones.” Hama paused to sheathe the knife she held before she followed her brother into Kavi’s arms. If anything, she was thinner and more gangly-awkward than she’d been when he’d seen her last. He was the one who had taught her how to hide a knife under her vest like that. And many of the other skills
she’d used, selling the gold-bronze pieces Kavi had forged.

“Hama’s working in the laundry now,” Nadi told him. “They’re far too lawful, these Hrum. If anyone has succeeded in bribing any of ’em, I haven’t heard about it.”

“Well, that’s being a good thing, isn’t it?” Kavi asked. “In the long run at least.”

“True enough,” Nadi concurred, but her eyes were worried.

And if Nadi was arming the older children before she’d open the door, there must be more tension in the city than he’d thought.

“They’re teaching me to fight!” Sim exclaimed.

Kavi froze, then said casually, “I’d heard they were drafting every man, mule, and dog into the army, but aren’t you a bit young?” Sim was eleven, no, twelve now, if he was remembering rightly.

“They’re not drafting him yet,” said Nadi, laying a hand on her son’s shoulder. He was taller than when Kavi had seen him last. “Just starting to train him up for the future.” She sounded calm too, but Kavi saw fear in her eyes.

Anger flared. “In Desafon they said they only
drafted men fit to fight, between the ages of eighteen and twenty-three, to serve for five years,” said Kavi. In all fairness, that was exactly what Patrius had told Kavi before the Hrum invaded—all men fit to fight. After the battle Strategus Garren—Governor Garren, he was now—had announced the draft to all the people of Desafon and given them three months to set their lives in order before reporting. Patrius had been astonished when Kavi burst into his tent and accused him of lying. But Kavi had
told
him that Farsalan peasants
never
fought, that that was a deghan’s job.

He should have realized that an army like the Hrum’s, that admitted women into its ranks, would also consider peasants fit to fight. It was Kavi who had assumed that the Hrum wouldn’t consider making peasants into warriors, any more than the deghans had.

When the Hrum patrol had captured him, Kavi’s one intention had been to lie fast enough to survive and escape. It was only after the long, rainy night he’d spent talking to Patrius, that he had come to believe that the Hrum would be better masters than the deghans. And they were, in many ways. But now that the invasion was upon
them, the few ways the Hrum weren’t better seemed to be mattering more.

“Is it safe for you to be here?” Nadi asked quietly. “You’re nineteen. I’d think you’d want to stay as far from the Hrum as possible. In fact, I wondered . . . We were worried about you.”

“Near twenty now,” Kavi told her. “But you needn’t fear for me.” He held up his scarred hand. “This isn’t holding a sword any better than it will a hammer.” The relief in Nadi’s face lightened his heart. There weren’t many in this world who worried about him. “But what’s this about Sim being drafted at twelve?”

“It’s only for two marks each morning,” said Sim, with a slightly guilty glance at his mother. “And for now it’s just building strength and endurance. They make us lift things over and over, and run forever. But when we get strong enough, we get to start with a sword. Just a wooden one at first, but . . .”

He babbled on, as Nadi went to get a bowl of bean-and-sweet-potato porridge left over from the family’s supper, and Hama made up a pallet for Kavi in front of the fire. Hama even managed to push in a few sentences. It seemed working in
the laundry was boring after stealing gold and selling fake pots, but her mother was giving her more and more responsibility, and some of the little ones were becoming old enough to help. And the business was doing well, Sim chimed in. Well enough they could spare him for a few marks in the morning. The fighting had shut things down for several days, for folk were afraid to go out. But now, with the Hrum patrols about, it was actually safer on the streets than it had been under the old, corrupt city guard.

The rule of law, just as Patrius had promised. And better for his folks than the deghans’ rule, just as Kavi himself had promised. He hadn’t been wholly wrong.

Still, he wasn’t surprised the next morning, that after Sim went to his training, Nadi sent Hama and the young ones to open the laundry without her.

Nor did Hama seem surprised, though Kavi could tell that her mother’s trust pleased her. He waited as Nadi cleared up the breakfast dishes, wrapped the leftover bread in a tight-woven cloth, and finally brought the kettle over to refill their mugs.

“I hesitate to ask for more help, after all you’ve done for us.” She put the kettle down on the hearth and sat on the bench opposite Kavi as she spoke. “No, that’s a lie. I don’t like it, but it doesn’t look like I’m going to hesitate for a moment, does it now?”

Kavi grinned. “I’d be insulted if you hesitated, and you know it too. But what’s the problem? The business is doing well, all the children are well and happy—even Hama, for all she says she’s bored.”

“It’s Sim. No, it’s not him, it’s those Flame-begot Hrum and their draft. I’m not having Sim go off to die in some war. I lost my husband to the accident. I’m not sending Sim off to fight—nor Pesh when he’s older. He’s already tagging at Sim’s heels, trying to fight him with the laundry paddles.”

Kavi turned his mug in circles on the table. “They aren’t always fighting. They tell me it’s the Hrum army that built those stone roads they brag on so much, and other things as well. A stonemason’s son should fit right in.”

“But they do fight,” said Nadi. Her hands, reddened with soap and rough cloth, were clenched so hard the knuckles were white. “I tell you, Kavi, I will not have it. Not my sons.”

“The Hrum are pretty firm about drafting all who are able,” said Kavi quietly. “Pat—Someone told me it’s their way of making a new-conquered land truly a part of the empire. That serving in the army makes the men feel like citizens, in their hearts.”

“I don’t care what’s in his heart,” said Nadi. “I’m trying to keep his body safe. The Hrum are saying a lot in your presence, aren’t they?” Her gaze was shrewd and curious. Kavi felt as if the needles that had tattooed his shoulder, marking him as a Hrum agent, still pricked. But Nadi hadn’t seen that mark, and only Hrum officers knew what it signified, anyway.

“I went to Desafon after it fell,” Kavi told her. “I wanted to see what kind of conquerors the Hrum were likely to be.” To see if Patrius’ word held good—which it had, for the most part. “For the most part, I think they’d be better than the deghans, if it wasn’t for the draft.”

He remembered the shocked dismay on the faces of Desafon’s folk. The way the women had clutched their husbands, fathers their sons. Five years of service. Citizens of the Hrum empire grew up with the notion, planned their lives
around it. For the Farsalan peasants, it was almost as great a shock as it had been for Kavi. Because peasants didn’t fight. That was a deghan’s . . .

“Deghans,”
Nadi hissed. “At least they’ll be small loss. I used to think you were too harsh, talking about them, but they surely failed their end of the bargain.”

The ancient bargain: Peasants farm; deghans fight and rule. Still . . .

“They tried,” Kavi told her. “They died almost to a man in the trying. You have to give them credit for that.”

Nadi’s brows lifted. “You almost sound sorry for them!”

“Why not. They died. I’d think you’d be sorry for them, tenderhearted like you are.”

“And I wouldn’t expect you to be sorry for them, hating them like you do. Or is it ‘did’?” Her voice had gone very soft.

“Do,” said Kavi firmly. “But . . . I went to that battlefield afterward. Not right after. The bodies were all buried and gone. But so much blood had been spilled, you could still see the stains in the grass.”

“Why did you go then?” Nadi asked reasonably.

“I wanted to get a close look at one of the Hrum swords,” Kavi admitted. “I told you about that other piece of watersteel I saw?” A stolen dagger that a stranger had brought to show off to Kavi’s master. It had to be stolen, for the Hrum never let their steel out of the hands of their own people. “The Hrum’s watersteel broke our Farsalan blades like green sticks, but I figured there had to be a few broken Hrum swords on that field as well.”

He’d groped for marks through the churned grass, and gotten sick when he realized that the dark flecks clinging to his fingers were dried blood. But after he’d emptied his stomach, he’d gone right on searching. It wasn’t just curiosity, either. He wasn’t quite sure of his plan yet, but if the weapon-smiths of Mazad could make a steel that could stand up to the Hrum’s, it would certainly help.

He’d found a piece eventually—small, which was probably why the Hrum hadn’t picked it up along with the bodies. Just a large chip, really, snapped out of a blade that had struck something hard at a bad angle. A razor-edged half circle, about a quarter the size of his palm. But in its
thick edge Kavi could see the layers that created the rippling pattern on the surface, hundreds upon hundreds of layers, dark steel and light. And what was that dark steel, and how in creation had the Hrum smiths made the layers so thin, and welded them so tightly that they made a solid piece of steel with no flaw? Perhaps Tebin would know—this was master smiths’ work for a certainty. But it might be some time before Kavi could show it to his old master, for there were other things he had sworn to do. And he knew the folk of Mazad well enough to be sure they would hold out for a good long time, even without outside help.

Nadi had been watching his face. “Seeing where so many died finally made you stop hating them?”

“No,” said Kavi. “It was seeing their families and survivors in the slave pens did that.”

Nadi’s mouth tightened. “I’d heard that the Hrum kept slaves. I’d been hoping it wasn’t true.”

“It’s not our folk they’ll take,” said Kavi. “Only those who fight against them. And you said yourself that the deghans were no loss.”

“No loss as rulers. But no one deserves to be a slave.”

“The Hrum aren’t like the Kadeshi,” Kavi protested. “They treat their slaves better—better than the Kadeshi treat their peasants.”

“They’re still not free,” said Nadi.

Kavi couldn’t meet her eyes. She was right. And he only hoped that the Wheel would never turn in such a way that she would learn that
he’d
had a hand in putting them there. At least, not till he’d had a chance to make it right.