The Grass King’s Concubine (12 page)

“What for?” Aude thrust her handful of reins at him. “Here, take the ponies.”

He frowned. He was far from certain she understood how far they were from any support or help. From clean fresh water. Aude was all too good at ignoring things that did not suit her. He said, “I’m not sure that’s sensible. We should think of turning back.”

“Not before we’ve found out what’s here,” she said, briskly. “Take the reins. I want to have a look at that lock.”

“All right, but quickly. It’ll be dark in a couple of hours..”

She shoved the reins into his hand. “We have to do something.”

That was true. He pulled up his scarf and fell silent. Aude stood still for long moments, staring at the lock. Then she took off both outer gloves.

He said, “The metal’s freezing.”

“Umm.” She did not look at him. Reaching into the breast of her outermost robe, she wriggled briefly. The locket she always wore slipped loose; she pushed it back and drew out something else. He stepped to one side, trying to watch. She glanced across at him and said, “I used to use a hatpin. But the lock on my old bedroom was a lot smaller than this one.” In her hand was the small stiletto she kept in her bodice. She waved it at him. “I think this should do.”

“But…” Jehan said. And then, “How?” There was always something new with her. Something else to startle him.

She smiled, ignoring the “but.” “My uncle used to lock me in when I annoyed him. So I learned how to let myself out. It was a lot safer than climbing down the ivy.”

“Oh.” His sisters would never have done such a thing. He thought they wouldn’t, anyway. One of the ponies stamped a hoof, puffing up extra dust. Another rested its jaw on his hip. He leaned into it, grateful for the warmth.

He had never come across cold like this. It chastised, leaving desolation in its wake and coating bone with a chill that never quite eased. All around them, the land bore testimony to its lash: wide and endless and open, a vast floor of thin gray grass under a sky too wide to grasp. The soil was friable, blowing up in dirty clouds to expose pallid, tough grass roots. Mile upon mile, the steppe swept around the bounds of the compound with its stout woven fence like two great crushing arms. To the southwest, shadows hinted at mountains, gray shapes hazed by dust. Aside from a distant clump of tents, they had seen no sign of habitation for three days.

There should have been villages. There should have been humped up fields of green rice or grain, fed by dykes. That was what Aude had described over their long journey west. He had seen traces of the dykes, sudden drops in the face of the plain, flowing only with more of the endless dust. The air that should be moist and sticky grazed his skin with its cold. And water. The only water they had seen for a day and a half was the frozen specks in dust and packed earth. The supplies in their big canteens were running low, and he was certain the ponies, hardy thought they were, derived scant moisture from the thin grass. He had been able to gather a little water overnight on an outspread oilcloth, but such a method could not supply them properly, and he did not know how to unlock water from earth that was frozen to the condition of stone. He must be firm with Aude. If this house proved deserted and waterless, they must turn back.

It was his fault they were here at all. If he had only held his tongue when he first met her…But he had not, and this was the consequence. If he had not meddled, she would have lived out her life in her privileged bubble, never thinking to question why she was rich and others poor. But he had had to meddle; he had had to rub her nose in her rank. He had hoped at first to drive her away. Instead, he had woken this hunger in her, this burning need to know, and she had dragged him in her wake.

He supposed he deserved that, really. She was infuriating and headstrong and endearing all in one. He would not be without her, even if being with her meant being here in the middle of this dried-up wasteland.

There was a snick. He started. “There,” Aude said. Her voice smiled. “We can go in.”

He said, “Do you think…”

“It’s my house.”

One of your houses. One among many that you have never troubled with. But he did not say that, either. They had had that conversation over and over on the road. There was no shaking her from her purpose. She would find out where her family had begun and why, or die trying. She was obsessed with it, with her fantasies of the gods and her need to understand herself, and her ancient family story of the steppe and a bargain.

Freed of their restraints, the gates grumbled and shuddered in the wind. Disquieted, a pony flung up its head; he busied himself with quieting it, avoiding looking at Aude.

She said, “Come on, then.”

“Yes.” He rubbed the pony’s nose. Its anxiety was oddly comforting.

Beyond the gates, the compound was little different from the plain. Dry grass and thin soil, flayed by wind and cold. A few scrubby bushes had tried to take root; their scrawny bones still huddled here and there. The ground sloped a little; the house stood on its highest point, as gray as the rest. To Jehan, it looked flimsy, balanced upon stilt legs, woven sides buckled and creaking. Bundled straw
covered low roof, ragged ends flapping in the wind. The space beneath the house was dark and congested with dry furze and broken grass bales. Such a structure seemed scant sanctuary from wind and chill. He could barely imagine it housing the meanest peasant family, let alone this willful Lady Aude.

He said, “There’s nothing here.”

She looked back at him. Her right foot was already on the lowest tread of the staircase that led to the door. She said, “We don’t know that for certain.”

“They would have seen us.” But the windows were covered with woven screens. “They’d have heard us at the gate.” But the wind curved creaking through the walls. He put up his chin. “There can’t be anyone. What would they live on?”

She made no answer. Instead, she climbed the steps. He hesitated, hanging on to the three sets of reins. He wanted to stop her. He did not think he could. He said, “Be careful,” and felt the wind dance the words away.

She laid her hand on the door and pushed. It opened. She said, “They left it open. But they locked the gate.” She turned to look at him. “I don’t want to go in alone.”

“Wait.” He looped the ponies’ reins about the nearest of the house’s stumpy legs. If they were to stay here for long, he would have to rummage out the picket ropes from the bundles tied on the pack pony. He did not want to stay here longer. This frail building was no shelter from the weight of the sky. He wanted to turn back. He climbed the steps two at a time, making himself breathe deep and slow. The cold air rasped his throat. Aude stood before the partly opened door; as he joined her, she placed a hand on his arm. Through her layers, her hand trembled. His irritation with her faded. She was so very young, so sheltered. And she trusted him. He dropped a muffled kiss on the top of her head and asked, “Shall we?”

“Jehan…” Her fingers tightened in his sleeve.

He patted her fingers. “Your house, Madame.”

Inside, it was dim. Gray dust coated every surface. Two
or three tall earthenware jars stood open: over them was a long shelf littered with bowls and cooking tools. A wide-bellied jug stood on the floor. Under one window was a semicircular construction of mud brick, the top layer baked black. An iron skillet sat on its top, surface gritty with neglect. There was no table, but two stools were tucked beneath a bare section of shelf. Opposite the stove, another door led into the rest of the house. Overhead, the roof sloped, foul-smelling and ragged. Its lowest part easily brushed the top of Jehan’s head. Wind shivered at the walls, keeping the dust restless.

Leaving Aude in the doorway, he circled the room cautiously. One of the jars was empty, one was perhaps a quarter filled with dirty rice. In the bottom of the third were a few inches of water. He bent to sniff it: stale. He had hoped for better. Even so, they would need it. He pulled his scarf loose and tugged off the double glove from his right hand. Aude asked, “What are you doing?”

“I want to check this water.”

“Oh.”

He took a bowl down from the shelf and blew out the dust. He had to reach down almost to the top of his arm to dip it in those precious dregs of water. For a smaller person, the reach would have been too far. When he lifted the bowl back into the light, the water within was dusty, but fairly clear. He smelled it again. Not too bad. Boiled, it would probably do. He had drunk as bad on campaign and in the alleyways of the Brass City. His shoulders dropped.

“Did you hear that?” Aude asked.

“The wind?”

“No. Something else.”

“The ponies, then.”

“It was a shuffling.”

“It must be the wind. Maybe one of the wind covers is loose.” He dipped a careful finger into the water and touched its tip to his tongue. He could taste nothing odd. Not that that proved anything. If it was poisoned or
polluted, he would no doubt turn blue and drop dead. He spat, then rubbed his tongue vigorously with his scarf.

She said, “What are you doing?”

“Wondering why sometimes I’m stupid.”

She giggled. He added, “Though if I
do
die messily, you’ll know not to feed this stuff to the ponies.”

“Silly.”

He shrugged. “My eldest brother always said so.” Bumpkin had been the preferred word. But he did not want to tell her that. He had given her more than enough grounds to reach that conclusion unaided. He pushed the thought away. If they were to stay here overnight, he’d need a fire to boil the water. And some heavy stones, to hold down the oilcloth when he set it out. And the ponies needed grain to supplement the grass…

“Jehan…”

“Umm?” The bowl forgotten in his left hand, he turned back to her. She was not looking at him. Puzzled, he followed her gaze.

There was someone moving toward the inner door. A skinny figure, uncertain in the gloom. It moved with a strange dragging gait. Jehan’s right hand went to his hip, where his sword should be. His fingers closed on air: the sword was outside, strapped to his saddle, along with his carbine. Burn it. With the same hand, he groped for the shelf, seeking some kind of knife. Nothing but dust. He did not want to turn; he needed to watch that form. Of course, there was no reason to consider it hostile…

There was no reason not to. Something in that struggling advance troubled him. Something was not as it should be.

Aude said, “Good day?” Her voice was thin.

The figure reached the doorway. A man. Once, a man. His skin had retracted to wrap bone and sinew in a dirty film. Beneath his cheekbones, muscle shreds showed. On one side, a rib poked through his rags of clothing. Twists of tissues dragged behind him, ripped from his soles by the floor. His eyes were hard and unblinking and gray as dust.

Not someone. Something. Jehan swallowed and let his exploring hand fall. Whoever this had been, it was no one now. It was dead.

And he had no idea how to fight the dead.

It was slow. That was something. Easy, then, to put himself between it and his wife. All the layers of quilted jacket and warm robes were going to impede him considerably. He reached for strategy, thoughts somehow held to the creature’s slow measure.
Think, Jehan
. He realized he had crossed to stand in the center of the room. Of course, perhaps this…this
thing
would prove harmless. Perhaps the whole thing was a mirage, a construct of wind and dust and cold. And perhaps Jehan was the lost heir to the Seven White Keys of the Ice Palace.

He said, “Aude. Go fetch my sword.” He did not hear her move. He said “Now, Aude,” in his army voice, and he heard her steps move away.

The thing was looking at him, if stone eyes could see. It advanced, step by dragging step. It lifted a brown, knotted hand. Powdered flesh sifted floorward. Jehan stepped back, realized he was still clutching the bowl. The creature pressed forward. He could taste must and mold, the gritty scent of rotting wood. He swallowed, took another step backward. Wind shook the woven walls, stirring up more dust and desiccated tissue. Another step. He held a distance of perhaps three paces between himself and the thing. Perhaps if he halted, it would pass him by. He had been too long a soldier. Perhaps he should stop.

He did not want to. Repulsion gripped him, requiring flight. He could easily outrun the thing. He did not want to turn his back to it. He did not know enough about it. The flaking fingers reached out for him, yellow bone peeking through. Another step. His heel came up short. The wall. His path backward must have curved. Where was Aude? She would have had to strip off gloves and fight tightly knotted bindings to free the sword. And surely she had not been gone more than a handful of moments. He was still thinking in slow time. At his back, the wall shuddered:
no comfort there. Dry talons snagged in his sleeve; stone eyes fixed him from the center of the crumbling face. He could count the teeth, black and foul. Two missing from the lower front, more gone at the sides. How did it know he was here? He could not bear to have it any closer. Shoulders to the wall, he shoved the thing one-handed. Water slopped and splashed from the bowl. The fingers clawed at it, dull and slow. A black tongue protruded. Jehan held his breath.

Noise cracked; dust exploded about him, choking. Water sloshed over his hand. He coughed, blinked hard. A sour taste coated his mouth. The air had turned ocher. Through streaming eyes, he could see the far wall of the room, veiled in a cloud of broken flakes. He could not see the creature. He turned, and there was Aude in the door, his carbine in her hands.

She said, “It just flew apart.” Her voice shook.

She was a lousy shot. She might easily have hit him. He had told her to bring the sword. None of that mattered. He began to inhale, stopped. The air was full of dry death. Chunks of body littered the floor. Two talons still gripped the shards of the bowl, turning dark with the water. A thick layer of tissue debris covered Jehan’s outer garments. He shook himself violently. He needed to breathe. Dust swirled as he bolted for the door. The wind hit him like a benediction, scouring away the decay with its icy fists. He inhaled deep, freezing lungfuls.