The Patrimony (16 page)

At dinner she was seated beside the woman who had earlier shared in her instruction, Lady Rohza Ahnthro-poheethees, widow of a former shipping magnate, scioness of a house of the petty nobility and a distant relative of the one-time ruling house of Karaleenos when still it had been an independent kingdom. As big and as powerful looking as Djoy Skriffen—with broad shoulders, slender hips, flat thighs and buttocks, very small breasts and a set of craggy features—Rohza affected masculine garb, right down to jackboots, hanger and dirk. She spoke loudly and often, shouting down the length of the table in her deep contralto, frequently slapping her thigh as she guffawed at her own and at others’ witticisms.

There was something about the middle-aged woman that put Neeka’s little white teeth edge to edge; not even the evil virtually oozing from Djoy Skriffen’s very pores had so afflicted her. It was not that the brawny Rohza was cool or unkind to Neeka; indeed, the very reverse was the case—her attendance was so warm and constant that she seemed to Neeka more like a courting swain than a dinner companion. With almost every word she spoke to the girl, the woman’s big hands were placed lingeringly on shoulder or knee, neck or arm. Such uncomforting familiarity prevented Neeka from truly enjoying her dinner, and, at future dinners, she saw to it that she had other dinner companions.

Though she was, of course, not privy to the meetings or decisions of the Heritage Council, Neeka could see nothing of a practical, political nature that was accomplished by
ee Klirohnohmeea
. It seemed little more than one of those secret fraternal organizations with which noble Ehleen society abounded in the north, in Kehnooryos Mahkedohnya, save only for the religious aspect which the northerners lacked and which, she shrewdly guessed, was a part of this group’s format only because it was forbidden by law.

True, at almost every meeting of the full membership, certain hotheads loudly prated daydreams of armed uprisings against the hated Confederation, but a dream that sort of talk assuredly was, for very few of the members had had any sort of war training, and if the Heritage had any popular support in Esmithpolisport, Neeka was never able to discern it. A conversation one day with
Komees
Pehtros confirmed her suspicions.

“Engaging together in an illegal act tends to bind the membership more tightly together, Neeka. But were it entirely up to me, I’d do away with anything pertaining to the Old Faith, for I was a young ensign in the Nineteenth Infantry Regiment during the Great Rebellion and I personally witnessed the perverse extremes to which religious fanaticism can go. Faced with such, I can see why High Lord Milo had no choice but to proscribe the Ehleen Church and all its clergy. Indeed, child, I would have done the same in his place. Crucifixion, burning, even impalement was really too good for many of the black-robed animals.”

“Even Koominon?” asked Neeka.

He shook his head. “Father Ahreestos, who calls himself Koominon, is truly a devout, good and humble man. That he, who never subscribed to the perversities which condemned his faith, was tarred with the same brushstroke is a tragedy. That he insisted on remaining in direst peril here is even more of a tragedy, for he could go far, could contribute much, were he to enship for a place wherein the Faith still is legal— Kehnooryos Mahkedohnya or Greeah Ehlahs. Here, he is living on borrowed time and, soon or late, will suffer a long, agonizing, messy death. And
ee Klirohnohmeea
will be in a large part responsible, for did he not have a congregation, he might depart for more salubrious climes.”

“Then… then you must tell Master Lokos this,” insisted Neeka. “Tell him quickly, for he is Koominon’s friend. He will persuade him to leave.”

Again the
komees
shook his head. “No, Neeka, Lokos will not. Lokos is a good man, a kind man, and completely lucid in most matters, but in affairs of
ee Klirohnohmeea
, he is a deranged fanatic.” Seeing her horrified expression at hearing her master so maligned, he added, “Oh, it’s not entirely his fault, Neeka. The tortures and mutilation to which he was subjected for his very small and inconsequential role in the Great Rebellion, and the sufferings and privations of his long imprisonment, addled him a bit, as they would have addled any man.”

“Mutilation?” Neeka queried, puzzledly, for Lokos had a normal complement of fingers, toes, and ears; his face was scarred and his scalp, but so were those of most adult males, and she had naturally assumed that those scars and a limp noticeable in damp weather resulted from youthful warring or dueling.

The
komees’s
lips firmed into a grim line. “Have you never wondered why a man who loves children and young people as much as Lokos never sired any of his own, Neeka? The reason is that he cannot. After they had flogged him until the white bone shone through the bloody tatters of flesh from his neck to his buttocks, they gelded him. That he survived such treatment at all is a miracle.”

Wholly dedicated to never again being dependent upon anyone for her sustenance, Neeka applied every bit of her not inconsiderable intellect and her youthful vigor to her new craft. Within only three years’ time, Master Lokos confessed in mingled pride and consternation that she had absorbed as much as or more than any other apprentice had done in twice the time. Thereafter, Neeka did much of the workaday compounding and distilling, leaving the master free to attend customers, instruct other apprentices and do the research and experiments which were his passion.

When she had read every book in his library written in either of the two languages she had mastered—Ehleeneekos and the various regional dialects of Mehrikan—Lokos taught her to read the flowing, cursive script called Ahrapsahbos, in which most modern medical texts were written by the justly famous Zahrtohgahn physicians.

Therefore, Neeka knew immediately just what the prism dangling from those black fingers was and just what it was for. Summoning the last ounce of will, she. fought back up, back out of the beautiful, sleepy world into which the scintillating prism and the soft, soothing words of the skilled man had drawn her.

“
Sahlahmoo ahlaik
,” said Neeka, when she was certain she had regained her self-control. “
Ahlahn wah sahlahn”
When he made no reply to the greeting, she added, “
Fehemtinee?”

Master Fahreed consciously lowered his eyebrows, unconsciously raised in surprise at hearing the Zahrtohgahn language spoken by this strange, sinister woman. Not many unbelievers expended the effort to learn the difficult, guttural tongue, which was why Zahrtohgahn physicians must, in addition to being accomplished mindspeakers, learn so many languages and dialects, since the Great Council of Masters might send a given physician and his apprentice to any one of a far-flung range of posts.

Big, white teeth glittered as he smiled. “
Ywah, fehemt
.” Then he switched to fluent Ehleeneekos. “But if we wish to continue to understand each other, it were perhaps better we speak this tongue or Mehrikan, for,” he smiled again, “noble as is your effort, your accent is atrocious.”

Neeka shrugged and leaned back against the table. That is apt surprising to me, master. I have spoken your language but little, and that was years ago with one who possibly did not speak it well himself; but I have no difficulty in the reading or the writing of it”

She waved at the prism. “A
Mookahdir
, is it not? I have,
of
course, read the treatises of the Illustrious Master Wahdjeed al-Ahkisahee on the production and use of the
Mookahdir
, but this is the first one I have ever actually seen. You were attempting to send me a-journeying, were you not? May I ask why?”

Fahreed spoke bluntly, as was his wont. “I am sworn to exert my efforts toward the preservation of health and life. I was but attempting to make your death unnecessary.” He sighed. “It is certainly but the Will of Ahlah, that I should fail.”

“My death? What do you mean?” Neeka demanded a little louder than she meant to, feeling a cold prickling coursing the length of her spine.

“The rightful lord of this place, Sir Tim, feels you to be responsible for the senseless poisoning of his friend, Rai, the sergeant He is a man of action, not subtlety, and he would likely have run his broadsword through your body by now, had I not promised to neutralize the threat you present to him and to his lawful accession by other, less sanguineous, means. But now…” He sighed once more and drew from within his robes a small dagger with a thin, tapering, four inch, double-edged blade of light-blue Zahrtohgahn steel.

Neeka saw certain death in the black man’s quick, sure movements, and she felt apprehension but, oddly, no fear. She thought briefly of those instruments on the table behind her that might be utilized as a weapon, then mentally dismissed them all, for the physician was a tall man and no doubt strong and agile. The rigorous pre-apprentice training administered in the Emirate of Zahrtohgah eliminated those applicants weak or clumsy of body or slow of wit

In a friendly, conversational tone, she asked, “I thought you were sworn to preserve life and health, master? How can you justify my murder with that oath?” While speaking, Neeka realized that it was not a sham; she truly did feel a friendliness, almost a kinship, for the knife-armed man before her. That was why she did not scream or mindcall for help, for such would not save her life and might easily cost his as well. With real shock, she admitted to herself that die or no, she did not want to cost this man his life. She was tired of killing simply to stay alive; a quick, clean death seemed a pleasant prospect to her after these years of being forced to pervert and prostitute her craft and her person in virtual slavery to the cursed
ee Klirohnohmeea
.

Master Fahreed paused in his slow approach and frowned “I consider this an execution, woman, not a murder, for if you are of the guild I suspect you have violated oaths no less worthy or binding than mine own. Where do you prefer the knife—heart, throat, or brain? Fear not, there will be but a single, brief pain, if you cooperate with me.”

Neeka began to fold down the front of her garments. “I did what I did because I then felt I had no choice—if I did not do what they bid me, I feared I would be returned to a certain coastal city for trial and probable execution. During the twelve years I have lived in this hall, I have shielded my own life behind the corpses of no less than five men who never had harmed me in any manner, simply because an evil, depraved lunatic of a woman demanded their deaths. But there will be no more deaths on my conscience, for my life is no longer precious to me.”

She had bared her body to the waist, and now she lifted her left breast and leaned back again, steadying herself with an elbow on the worktable. She smiled and said, “You are doing the best and most proper thing, master, and I go willingly. Strike hard and true.”

With a nod, the tall black man stepped close, felt until he found a spot that suited him, then placed the point of the knife where his fingers had been and thrust with controlled strength. The thin, needle-pointed blade entered easily, thin lines of blood welling up about the watered steel. Neeka gritted her teeth, forced herself not to flinch and thereby complicate or lengthen the man’s job. She closed her eyes, thinking of her tragically wasted life. How different things might have been if only dear old Lokos had lived but one more year.

Tim had refused to await the Zahrtohgahn’s return. Leaving AM, Giliahna, Mairee and the apprentice physician to look out for each other, he had stalked out, snarling, “If the bitch wants blood, I’ll give her blood, though she may not like the color of the stuff I shed.” He prowled the corridors and rooms of his dead father’s hall, looking for prey.

Once divested of his porridge-caked clothing, Father Skahbros had not redressed himself, rather he had wrapped his pudgy body in a bath sheet, gathered up fresh clothing and padded down to the bath chambers in the north wing. And that was where his coldly raging nemesis found him… and dealt with him.

Tim paced back down the old, familiar hallway, his left hand on the well-worn basket hilt of his heavy broadsword. Through the pantries, into the winter kitchen. A burly cook—a
kath-ahrohs
by the cast of his dark-olive skin, black eyes and hair—gripping a big, greasy knife made at first to bar the passage of this apparent northern barbarian mercenary in patched boots and stained clothing. That was before he drew close enough to see that the stains were bright-red splashes of fresh blood, and to be chilled to his very marrow by the icy, murderous rage shining from those slitted blue eyes.

When he did not find Sir Geros in his cottage, Tim paused only long enough to tuck an antique but nicely balanced francisca—one of the old warrior’s wall decorations—into his belt, then he headed directly across the rear courtyard to the stables. A row of paddocks adjoined the larger boxstalls, and in one of these he could see a pale-gray, black-maned and-tailed bulk that could be none save Steelsheen, his own warhorse. Alerted by the familiar sound of Tim’s tread, the huge stallion turned from the manger of fragrant cloverhay and moved to the whitewashed bars. When Tim was close enough to recognize by sight, the horse whickered a greeting, stamping and nodding his scarred head in anticipation of a fondling.

As the man hugged and patted the pale cheeks, rubbing up and down the narrow stripe of glossy black hairs that bisected the animal’s face, Steelsheen almost purred. But then the stallion scented the fresh, human blood, recalled the clank of Tim’s weapons.

“Steel sheen was tired, my brother, but he is well rested now. Will we fight soon?” The horse mindspoke eagerly, unconsciously pawing at the earth of the paddock with one shod hoof.

“/ may have to fight,” replied Tim. “But it will be afoot, my brother. Are there any warhorses in this place beside you and Red honey?”

Steelsheen snorted derisively. “There is one who thinks it is such, a gelding, one Tahkoos, but it really is only a sexless hunter of furry beasts and little tuskless pigs. At the bite of blade or point, such a creature would likely buck off its rider and run away. A war-trained stallion is pastured nearby, but he is old, his two-leg brother is dead and no one now rides him.”