The Crow (9 page)

It was the first time Hem had been to the markets since Turbansk had begun to evacuate its population. Only two weeks earlier, they had been the bustling heart of Turbansk. The markets were where Hem most often went when he was feeling unhappy at the School; here he could lose himself in the crowds of people, wandering fascinated from stall to stall.

Closest to the School were the flower markets, an ancient cloistered hall of stone that was always cool, even in the harshest midday heat, because the stone was kept wet so the flowers would stay fresh. Next to them were the food markets, with their marble counters where stallholders displayed freshwater trout and bream and crayfish caught by the fishers of the Lamarsan Sea, or carefully piled mounds of luscious fruits and piles of greenery.

But now the markets were desolate and melancholy. The flower markets were completely closed, the stone tables empty, the windows shuttered and barred, and the noon sun struck back harshly from the suddenly naked walls. A few stray dogs nosed down the gutters of the alleys looking for scraps, and those people who walked through them mostly wore armor and strode purposefully, instead of sauntering, as the Turbansk people generally preferred, prepared always to be waylaid by an invitation to gossip over a cup of strong, sweet coffee.

Hem realized properly for the first time that those who remained in Turbansk did not expect it to withstand the coming attack. A small hope he had been nurturing in his heart shriveled and died; despite Saliman's bleak words, despite what he had seen and heard from the survivors of Baladh in the Healing Houses, despite yesterday's conference at the Ernan, Hem had continued to believe that perhaps all those who stayed in Turbansk did so because they thought they could defeat the forces of the Nameless One now marching against them. But the empty markets told him more eloquently than any words that this was a fool's hope; the thousands of people who now prepared to defend Turbansk did not do so because they thought they would win.

Why did they stay, then? Hem continued his glum meandering, preoccupied with the question. Why had he stayed? That one was easy: he did not want to be parted from Saliman. But why did Saliman stay?

Hem paused in the Street of Coffee Sellers and absent-mindedly bought a coffee from the single stall that remained open. As he handed over the copper coin, the stallholder said, in good Annaren, "So you are the young Bard in the Healing Houses?"

Startled out of his musings, Hem studied the man with interest. He was thickset, with the black skin of a Turbanskian. Deep laughter lines creased his eyes, and his teeth were very white and strong. A shortsword hung from his waistband. Why was he staying? "Yes," Hem said. "How did you know?"

The stallholder laughed. "Word gets around," he said. "And everyone has heard of your bird. We do not like to use our children in war, and so I know of no others as young as you who will remain here. My daughter, Amira, was very angry when she heard about you. 'Father,' she said to me, 'you send me away, against my will – although I can fight, although I would give my life to save the city that I love – and yet there remains in Turbansk a foreign boy from Annar who is younger even than me.'"

Hem smiled, and the stallholder continued.

"I told her, it is the law, but it is also the law of my heart. And I told her that perhaps she will fight anyway in Amdridh, if things go ill here. It did not please her." He laughed, but Hem heard with surprise that there was no bitterness in his laughter.

"But you are staying," said Hem.

"Yes," he answered.

"And do you think we will save Turbansk?"

At first the stallholder didn't answer. Instead, he pressed a little honeyed sweetmeat into Hem's hand, waving off Hem's offer to pay. Hem put it in his pocket for later. Then the stallholder said, "All who remain here are afraid that we see the last days of our houses. The Bards and the Ernani do not feed us false hopes: they say, the Black Army is very great, and our forces cannot defeat them. Send all that is precious to you – your children, your valuables – to Car Amdridh, where they can be better defended. But they have called for all who can to stay and defend our city, to buy some time for those who flee, and to allow Amdridh to ready its defense and muster all its forces. We will not simply abandon Turbansk, the jewel of the Suderain, to the carrionfowl of the Dark. And perhaps we can deplete the army, so those behind us will have less work to do." He smiled grimly.

Hem studied the stallholder, wondering at his bravery. "What is your name?" he asked at last.

"Boran," said the stallholder. "And yours?"

"Hem."

"A thousand blessings on your cup, Hem," said Boran, giving him the traditional benediction before drinking.

"And on yours, Boran," said Hem. He said it in Suderain, as he had at least mastered that phrase, finished the coffee, and handed the cup back to Boran. Then, thanking him, he continued his moody wandering, kicking a stone before his foot so it rattled on the cobbles.

IV

Z
ELIKA

Hem wasn't taking much notice of his surroundings, so when someone shot out of one of the side alleys and crashed into him he was taken completely by surprise. Ire flapped into the air, cawing in protest, and Hem was sent sprawling onto the ground. His first feeling was rage, and he grabbed blindly for his assailant, catching part of a cloak and holding it fast, even when a hard little fist hit him in the eye. He grabbed one arm and then another, and, panting with effort, wrestled his attacker to the ground.

He was sitting astride his foe, about to take revenge for what he thought would probably be a black eye, when he realized he was fighting a girl. She was glaring at him murderously, still struggling and spitting out imprecations. Hem's command of the Suderain language had improved considerably in his time in the Healing Houses, although it was still uncertain. Nevertheless, he understood enough to know that he was being called some very unflattering names.

He flushed, and would have responded in kind if he had not simultaneously noticed the ragged state of the girl's clothes and that she had been hurt; quite recently her lip had been split, and there was a nasty infected cut underneath her right eye. He swallowed his retort.

"I'm very sorry," he said, in careful Suderain. "I did not see you..."

The girl paused in her struggle to free herself and stared at him balefully.

"You should be more careful," Hem said.

"Let me go," said the girl.

Hem studied her curiously. She had the light-brown skin of those who came from the eastern parts of the Suderain, and spoke with the accent of Baladh. She must have arrived late in Turbansk, and somehow missed the last wagons that had carried the children to Car Amdridh. He thought she must be about his own age. She had tangled black hair, which spilled in loose curls around her face, and delicate features, which were somewhat mitigated by the anger of her expression. She was filthy; her tattered cloak was so stained it was almost impossible to tell its original color, and she carried a battered leather bag that clearly held all her few possessions.

"Please promise not to run away," Hem said. "I'm sorry, it was – " He didn't know the Suderain word for
accident.
"I won't hurt you..."

The girl paused, and nodded. Hem, normally so distrustful of strangers, did not doubt for a moment that she would keep her word. He carefully got off her, and she sat up, brushing herself down. Ire returned to Hem's shoulder and leaned forward, his head cocked, examining the girl with unalloyed curiosity. She would not look at Hem, and sat next to him with an air of affronted dignity. Hem groped around in his mind for something to say, cursing his lack of Suderain.

He suddenly remembered the honey cake that Boran had given him, and he pulled it out of his pocket and offered it to her. It was a little crushed, but still mainly whole. The girl stared at him doubtfully, and then snatched the cake from his hand and devoured it in two bites. She was clearly starving.

"What are you doing here?" asked Hem, watching as she wiped her mouth. "You should be on your way to Car Amdridh."

"I hid," said the girl. She seemed a little mollified after his offering. "I want to fight the Black Ones." She drew a knife from a sheath at her belt and pointed it at Hem; he could see that it was a cooking knife, sharp enough to cut bone, but not a fighting weapon. "I'll kill anyone who tries to stop me."

Such was the expression in her eyes, Hem had no difficulty in believing her; he was glad that she had not been able to reach her knife in their struggle. He felt a strange mixture of astonishment, admiration, and pity.

"No one can stop you," he said. "It's too late. The Black Army – " He waved his hands around, hunting for the words. "The Black Army comes very soon." He pushed the point of the knife aside, and she slowly put it back in its sheath. "So – your name? I am Hem."

"Zelika," she said slowly. "Zelika of the House of II Aran." She looked at Ire curiously. "What is that bird? It is not a falcon."

"He's my friend," said Hem. "His name is Ire." He looked at the girl again; now he could see the gauntness of her features, and he wondered when she had last had a good meal. "Are you hungry, Zelika?"

She paused, and then nodded.

"Come with me. I'll get you food."

Hem saw distrust and desire warring in Zelika's face, but hunger won. When she stood up, he saw that she was slight, but she carried herself with a pride that added a little illusory height.

He began to lead her through the streets toward the School buttery. Perhaps she could stay at Saliman's house: there were plenty of spare rooms, and he thought that Saliman would not mind. She could get some new clothes and have a wash, and Hem could see to the wound on her cheek, which was festering; he had some balm in his chamber.

"You are not from Turbansk," said the girl flatly, interrupting his thoughts.

"No, from Annar," answered Hem. "My Suderain not so good."

"My Annaren not so good, as well." Zelika spoke in Annaren, with an atrocious accent, and smiled. For a brief moment Hem saw two dimples in her cheeks, and a mischievous light danced in her eyes, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. He glanced at her curiously.

"So why do you stay here?" he asked. "Everyone says Turbansk is – we can't..." Stumped again by his lack of vocabulary, he trailed to a halt.

"I don't care if I die," said Zelika. "I want to kill as many of the Black Ones as I can before I do." Hem looked at her again, at the strange, utterly focused determination in her face; it was almost madness. He had never heard a human being say anything with more conviction, and something like fear constricted his heart.

"Why?" he asked, although he thought he knew the answer.

She gave him an unreadable glance, as if measuring his capacity to understand. "My mother, my father, my brothers, my sisters, my aunts, my cousins, my uncles, my grandmother – " She drew her finger brutally across her throat, and her eyes blazed with hatred and grief, although her voice was flat and unemotional. "I saw it. My home was burned to the ground. I will avenge the House of II Aren."