Three Hands for Scorpio (19 page)

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Authors: Andre Norton

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R
ide we did not, until shortly after dawn. Zolan and Climber had brought in the remainder of the horses and ponies. Three more of the mounts had saddles improvised with materials from the bags as well as bridles woven by Zolan, doubtless products of his day apart.
He drew us, one by one, to a horse and obviously Sent some introduction or order to the animal, giving us also a name he must have selected for each beast.
I was glad that I had chosen not to wear skirts, as we must ride astride on such unfamiliar and surely untrained steeds, and women's garb made a knee grip difficult. The horse he had apportioned to me was a mare, certainly not of high breeding and rather the worse for her wild life, as well. Her rough coat was gray, and her ragged mane held a sprinkling of burrs.
We had already packed what gear we had onto the stoutest-looking ponies. Those impromptu pack-beasts were roped together in a long string and led by each of us, turn and turn about.
Our first goal was the pond Bina had discovered. There we made sure that the water bags were well filled and that the animals drank. No food remained on which we might break our fasting, and we knew we must acquire provisions of some sort as early and as well as we could.
It was a good morning, somewhat warmer than we had experienced since leaving the Dismals. Our way south led not directly to the mountains ahead but rather towards a point to our right, but for a while our path paralleled the clifftop. There Climber disappeared. We were passing a stand of trees at the time, and that copse was well behind us when he returned. In his jaws was clamped a game bird of the breed often served on the table at Grosper. Though one fowl would not go far for four of us, Zolan dismounted to solemnly receive this gift, which he proceeded to secure by tying its feet to the pack-roping on the nearest pony. He made much of Climber, pulling his small ears gently and running fingers through the thick fur.
I do not know how Zolan was able to measure time, but at intervals he would bring the whole party to a halt, have us dismount and breathe the animals. I took the chance at each of these stops to work upon what I had started earlier. From my shorn hair I had at last netted a miniature sack into which I could fit the gem out of the ruins. To that talisman bag I added a small braid by way of chain, so that the packet might hang about my neck. The stone was dull; I might have exhausted whatever power it had by overuse. Still it was truly a treasure—one Mother must see and examine.
Dusk had not yet fallen when Zolan called an end to the day's journeying. We had angled even farther from the mountains, though the land was not very flat. During the afternoon, Climber had added to our larder another bird and a plump ground leaper unwise in venturing far from its burrow.
We did not string a rope to tie the horses, as was the custom for travelers. Instead, as each mount and pony was relieved of its burden, it was allowed to simply move off, Zolan giving no heed to its straying.
We found water at the campsite, a wide and shallow brook into which our animals waded as they drank. We washed our faces, scrubbing our hands with leaves pulled from waterside plants. Bina gave a little cry of recognition and harvested a small growth of cress, sharing the leaves out carefully with us all.
We had eaten, not enough to satisfy but at least better fare than the day before. Since we were far less tired than we had been the previous evening, we lingered by the fire Zolan had started, oddly, with the rubbing of a stick by a small stone—or was that only a gesture to conceal some use of his Talent?
At the same time, it became evident that our companion out of the Dismals wanted something from us: information. He began with a series of questions; he might have been compiling the list for some while.
The inquiries he made were intended to give him some idea of the Upper Land and those dwelling there. We answered each in turn carefully, trying to be as usefully informative as we could. The unhappy situation along the Border was fairly easy to outline; after all, we had lived with the results of that conflict for years. Our father's wardship we made plain, along with the influence he wielded, both in the North and at home. Lastly, we explained to our best ability the disturbed state of Gurlyon, ending with the story of the lost young king.
Bina it was who faced him squarely when the tale was ended, with a question from us all:
“Are
you
Gerrit?”
He said nothing for a moment but simply stared at us where we sat across the fire from him in our usual position.
“Well, are you?” Cilla finally demanded.
He did not lower his eyes. “No!” he said sharply.
I entered the game. “If you are, then you may expect double danger ahead. He who now sits upon the throne is in the process of striving to overthrow the rule of the older clan chiefs. It is he who welcomed this priest from the Yakins, whom you say is no Speaker for the Light but a force of Evil. Mother has warned that Gurlyon is in a state of war—not against the South this time but clan against clan, even as was so in the far-back time of Munstrater when Lasseran and Borkley made a pact and brought Gurlyon to heel. The royal line has been broken twice since then, always to the harm of Gurlyon and its people.”
Zolan's face had become masklike, as we had seen it before when he was not minded to share his thoughts. He stood up, and the ill-fitting clothing he wore seemed transformed into a regal robe as he delivered a true courtier's bow.
“My thanks to you, ladies. At least I have new facts to think upon which may help me in the future. Rest you well; I go to check on the mounts.” He bowed again and left us.
“Is he, or is he not, the lost king?” mused Bina.
“He has courtly manners,” suggested Cilla.
“Which he could,” I replied, “have learned elsewhere than at court. It
may well be that he was young enough to forget his life in the Upper World but that Pharsali's training readied him instead to be a king of Gurlyon.”
As I lay in the nest of grass I had pulled for a bed and tugged my cloak over me, I wondered what snarl would tangle this skein of the World-Weavers ere we all reached our journey's end. I fully expected to dream, but I brought no memory of night-visions back with me into wakefulness when we roused in the morning.
I sat up, still yawning, to see Zolan a little away from our camp. With sword in hand, he was striving to follow a pattern of attack—at least, I
thought
it was attack—and making a very poor show of armsmanship.
He might resent any word from me; however, if one wears a sword, one must be prepared to use it. Gurlys, who were trained from the time they could stand and hold a hilt tightly, might not all be masters of the blade, but the poorest of instruction exceeded none at all. Was it now my duty to offer a child's weapon-training? To any of my own people, such an offer would have been insulting, but then they would have no need of it. I could not let our host be butchered just because words from me might injure his pride.
Glad that I had no skirts to impede me, I stepped fully into his sight, my own sword in my hand. As I thought he would do, he stopped short in his awkward posturing and stood panting, set-faced and offering me no welcome.
Planting my swordpoint in the earth, I set both hands on the hilt. The stance I copied from Markand, who had given me training. It was a posture of his I had come to dread, since such attention always meant he was going to speak of some error of mine with blistering heat. Perhaps I assumed my role too well, for Zolan retreated and started to return his weapon to the sheath he had fashioned to hold it. Still, I knew I must warn him that ignorance of his weapon might mean speedy death. Unless he summoned up Talent—a tactic that would lead to cries of witchcraft and perhaps fiery death at the stake.
“I was lessoned young,” I said. “My father ordered that we be taught to use weapons when we were still children. The folk whom you must meet to fulfill your promise to Pharsali, those of gentle blood, and others, are so instructed as well. The Gurlys are quick to take offense, especially when they are drunk—a common state for many of them. When the ‘lifewater' flows freely, they pick quarrels, which can only be settled by bloodletting.”
I paused. He had halted in his withdrawal and seemed to be listening thoughtfully. Send touched me.
“
Show, do not tell
,
sister.”
Cilla stepped up beside me.
She had never shown any pleasure in martial art, but now she did something I never thought to see—she unfastened the cumbersome dress, let it fall to the ground, and overstepped its folds. I did not need another mind-touch to know what she planned.
“By favor,” I asked him carefully, “give your blade to Cilia. Let us show how such weapon work is done.”
He visibly hesitated, but my concern had evidently made its point. Advancing, he gripped the blade of the old weapon, then held out its hilt to Cilla. Following her example, I shed my disguise also.
We sketched the grave and graceful salute of those who would meet blade to blade. Then we set to. The clothes from the Dismals were much akin to our usual practice garments and, after a few moments of limbering up, we were at our mock conflict in earnest.
This play-war was akin to returning to some long-loved but nighforgotten place for me. The ring of blades was sweeter in my ears than the finest court music, and my feet moved as they might serve me in one of the formal dances there.
Cilia was good—she could not help but be, after the training she had. But her lessons had never become a real part of her as they had with me. At length I tried a thrust I had proudly learned only a short time before this whole strange adventure had begun, and her blade was neatly out of her hand.
“Well done!”
I swung around then to face Zolan yet again. He stared at me, at Cilla's sword lying on the ground, then back to me, before he said: “Such mastery takes time to acquire.”
“Yes. But if you will wear a sword, you can be readily forced to use it.” Frankly, at that moment I had no idea how we were to solve this problem. Even if we could meet with those whom Mother had said were on their way to us, the distance they must cover might mean days of travel ahead. More troubling still was the plan for Zolan to seek out the Gurlyon court, where the king prided himself on his knowledge of military art, and those wishing to curry favor with him must be apt with the sword. If by chance the Gurly ruler showed interest in Zolan, he would find faults aplenty in
the newcomer. Somehow I had not foreseen this problem when I had so quickly accepted the Jug Woman's mission.
Zolan stepped past me and picked up the weapon Cilla had dropped, to stand looking at the discolored blade as if he wished to imprint the sight of it deeply in his memory. As he slipped it back into its makeshift sheath, his lips were a tight line. Then he looked up.
“My ignorance being so great, what is left to me?” His question held no note of self-pity but showed a bald acceptance of fact. “This?” He held up his hand, palm out and fingertips well separated in the manner we used when readying ourselves to call on Power.
I shook my head, but before I could answer, Bina did it for me.
“Such Power is also a danger,” she replied as she helped Cilla fasten her dress once more. “Dark magic leads its user straight into the fire. And these Gurlys, for the most part, fear any with the Talent. Your quarry would be quick to name you Dark One and raise the land against you.”
He folded his arms. “Do you tell me, then, that my sworn journey is fruitless?”
“No, for are we not sworn also to the same? Scorpy word is not broken,” I said, knowing that I spoke the truth. We were as pent in his difficulties as he was.
“We”—Bina spoke slowly, as if not quite sure which word would be the next one out of her lips—“must play the game of a Misrule.”
Zolan looked blank, as well he might, but we fastened at once on her meaning. In Alsonia at Midwinter Day, there was always feasting, and for that day all rank and rule was forgot. One of the waiting-maids became queen when she plucked a silver ring from the morn-cake; servants became masters until the coming of night. And all revelers used imagination to the full in inventing a disguise of strange clothing. One person might be an animal, another a character from some story, but, whatever the mask and costume chosen, during those hours each was required to act as he, she—or it—appeared. Sometimes overzealous playacting led to trouble; however, our gracious queen had done much to refine manners since coming to the throne.
“What would you devise?” Bina looked to Cilla, who had always been the most creative one of us. Several times in the past she had taken prizes for costumes for the Midwinter Day festivals.
Wiping sweat from her forehead with her sleeve, she moved to stand
directly in front of Zolan, surveying him from head to foot and back again with an intense scrutiny.
“Can you mask?” she asked at last.
“Mask?” he echoed.
“Thus.” Again we must instruct our onetime teacher with “show,” not “tell.”

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