Water Logic (19 page)

“It would be my pleasure to accept.” Zanja spoke as he did, executing the ritual of friendship that was only necessary between strangers. But through this simple exchange they had each implied a promise: I will not harm you. I will not betray you.

She picked up her candle, neatened the desk, and followed him.

Chapter 13

Zanja’s host’s lamp flame dimly revealed a room filled with the warm, soft colors of northern dyed wool: the brownish green that comes from the bark of a sturdy shrub that blooms with its roots still in snow; the reddish brown from the skin of wild onions; the black from the under-ripe nuts of a high-altitude tree; the bright green of a certain clay that in Zanja’s time had become difficult to find. Rugs, each of a different pattern, covered the walls and floor; the new piled on top of the old so that the floor was as soft and springy as the ground in a pine forest. The space was as like an Ashawala’i clan house as art could make it.

The man’s nest of blankets also were of Ashawala’i make, as was his tunic, the intricate red border of which told Zanja he was a na’Morlen, which was a fire clan like the na’Tarweins. From his belt, which was woven of deerskin strips in the same pattern, his dagger, tied in its sheath, hung at an angle across the small of his back. He had not taken the time to knot his braids, which hung loose to his waist. He knelt at the hearth to build up the fire. Noticing that Zanja still stood in the doorway, he said formally, “Enter and be welcome. Share my fire.”

There were tears in Zanja’s throat. She said hoarsely in the language of her people, “The blessings of the nine gods be upon this dwelling.” For seven years she had only spoken that language in her dreams, when she visited the land of the dead to be chided and accused by her murdered kinsmen. The first time she had visited there after her hair was shorn, the retribution-hungry ghosts had told her it was proper that she had short hair like an outcast, for she should be ashamed of her refusal to seek revenge.

She tugged her one surviving braid out of her shirt collar where she had tucked it so it would not drag in the ink.

The katrim looked at the braid, then at her face. Then he somewhat belatedly replied to her ritual greeting: “The nine gods bless your dwelling, also.”

Zanja took a seat beside the hearth. It was not proper for a guest to initiate conversation, but her host said nothing. As he certainly was the Speaker of the Ashawala’i, he also was a fire blood like herself, likely to accurately guess the answer to a puzzle, but unlikely to ask questions and demand explanations. So, as he certainly puzzled over the oddity—impossibility—of an Ashawala’i who was a stranger to him, she considered the question of why the Speaker of the Ashawala’i was here in the House of Lilterwess rather than where he should have been at this time of year, at home in the Asha Valley. Something must have delayed him in the autumn until snow closed the door of the pass.

Her presence would not be easy for him to account for. He gazed into the fireplace. Zanja shut her eyes and took a deep breath of the vegetable-dyed goatswool. It was the smell of home.

She did not want to lie to a katrim. But only to the G’deon did she dare tell the truth. How could she answer this man’s questions—the questions he wouldn’t even ask—without lying and without engaging his imagination? It was impossible. She should have allowed him to assume she was from another tribe; but, like many of her insights, this one came too late.

She took another breath of the familiar scent. When she had last stood in the Asha Valley she had smelled only blood and smoke. But this was the smell of a strong, proud, ancient people, a people whose skilled spinning and weaving allowed them to survive the harsh mountain climate. Fourteen days Zanja had wandered this alien Shaftal, but only now did it occur to her that in this Shaftal, her people were not yet lost beyond retrieval. She had not yet failed to protect them from the Sainnites—and she might finally lay down her dreadful burden of culpability.

Medric spoke in her memory: All that happened because of that massacre would not have happened at all. Karis would be a smoke-addicted metalsmith. Emil would be killed fighting Heras in South Hill, and Medric’s visions would be what killed him. And Leeba would not have been conceived.

The Speaker had turned his gaze to her. She felt his attention but did not open her eyes. The teakettle began hissing and humming. She heard the man rise to pour the water into a stone pitcher so the ambient chill would cool it to the correct temperature. She heard him measure tea into a teapot and pour a small amount of water over it. He swirled the water and tea leaves. Zanja sniffed loudly to let him know the grassy aroma had reached her. He poured and swirled, again and again. She opened her eyes as he filled two tiny cups and set them on a tray between the two of them.

She matched her movements to his, taking up her cup at the same moment he did, holding it to her nose, then slurping noisily. The tea was perfect: hot but not scalding, strong but not bitter. Their empty cups touched the wooden tray at the same moment, with the same nearly inaudible ringing of rare porcelain.

He said, “I am Arel na’Morlen, the Speaker for the Ashawala’i.”

“I am Zanja na’Tarwein. Once I also was the Speaker for the Ashawala’i, but now I am a ghost.”

He did not blink; nor did he object or seem surprised. What a gift it
was, that fire blood’s talent for absorbing and accepting the incredible!

She said, “My hair was cut in ritual, to separate me from all that bound me, so I could cross more easily between worlds. I am a wanderer but not an exile. However, it has been seven years since I saw or spoke to a kinsman.”

“Seven years!” Arel paused. “You must miss dancing the katra.”

This is a clever man, Zanja thought. A knife-dancer’s skill was impossible to feign. She stood up and waited for him to untie the holdfasts on his dagger sheath, then they drew their blades, struck a traditional opening pose, and began to dance.

Shortly after the hostile beginning of her difficult relationship with Norina, the Truthken had commented sarcastically, “You fight as though it were a courtship.” Zanja, though appalled by Norina’s efficient violence, also had learned that beauty and artfulness had no place in war. Yet she had continued to practice her solitary katra, the one that kept evolving with the changes of her body and character. And she had taught many of the traditional katra sequences to Emil during the five years they lived as a family. Thus she was not nearly as out of practice as she could have been, and she and Arel were closely matched. When she was able to cease worrying that she might cut him with her supernaturally sharp dagger, she began to enjoy herself.

They danced. The rhythmic ringing of their blades was the music they danced to.

And then the dance began to change. Arel improvised, challenging her to improvise in return. Zanja’s reactions became reflexive—and unavoidably self-revealing. And then she tripped on the edge of a carpet and fell, and Arel’s blade pressed lightly against her throat.

He was breathing heavily. His sculptured face glittered with droplets of sweat. His predator’s eyes were in shadow. She laughed out loud. “I protest! I was not defeated by you, but by the carpet!”

He grinned and sat back on his heels. They clasped left hands to left wrists and so counterbalanced each other as they rose up from the floor and slid their blades back into their sheaths.

“You’re recovering from an illness,” Zanja commented.

“You’re under an alien influence,” he replied.

“I doubt my own relatives would recognize me,” she said.

“I had an ailment of the lungs in the autumn. Would you like more tea?”

They returned to the fireplace and knelt again on either side of the tea tray, but now formality had become unnecessary. “I cannot account for you at all,” said Arel. “You call yourself a ghost, but you’re alive enough to make me bleed.” He gestured at his slashed sleeve, where some drops of blood now glowed.

“I’m afraid my blade is very sharp,” Zanja said. “I am a living ghost, alive but out of time. Half a month ago, I crossed a boundary of water into this world. I have been cold, wet, hungry, angry, and bewildered nearly every moment, and I understand no more about why I am here than I did when I first arrived.”

Arel grunted. “You are very good at replying without answering. You are indeed a Speaker.” He offered his hand—his right hand this time—and Zanja clasped it. “My sister, whatever world you are from, and whatever world you are going to, you are here now, and I am glad to welcome you. Stay with me—not as an outcast or ghost but as my guest. Perhaps I can help resolve your mystery.”

Zanja had to take a deep breath before she could reply, her heart was swelling so. “I wish I could give you an assurance that I will cause no trouble, but trouble seems to always follow me—”

“Trouble is good!” Arel’s face had come alive. “Your presence is wonderful!”

“It is?” Zanja gazed at this man, her forbear, her twin. His statement
was like the sun breaking through the gray misery of rain. “It is wonderful,” she breathed. “Yes, it truly is.”

Zanja shared Arel’s bed, as she would have shared the bed of any katrim. In the morning, with her clothing sponged and pressed, her hair combed and her boots oiled, she walked beside him through the lively hallways, where young people rushed to their classrooms or duties, Paladins passed in energetically talking groups, and a wonderful mix of vague, intent, hurried, or aimless people made their way to and from the dining rooms. Arel assured Zanja that Truthkens, being jealous of their every privilege, did not eat in the less ornate dining rooms. So she went in with him, to take a bowl of hot porridge from a harassed cook, and to sit shoulder to shoulder with people who were the stuff of legends. Those to her left were loudly discussing the relative merits of two breeds of sheep. Those across the table seemed sullen over the continuing bad weather. At her right, Arel looked over the crowd with an interest as lively as her own, until he abruptly lowered his head and muttered, “Unfortunately, the house commander is approaching.”

Zanja nonchalantly ate her apple-studded porridge with genuine enjoyment until the commander’s hand closed painfully on her shoulder.

“Good morning, Commander,” said Arel.

“How did this woman get in?”

“She climbed to the roof and entered through a window, as any mountain person could have done. Not everyone walks only on flat ground like cows and horses.”

“This time she will leave under escort.”

“She will not leave at all, Commander.”

“No one enters this house without my permission, no matter who it is!”

“My sister regrets that she was forced to violate this custom. May I ask why she was not given shelter at this deadly time of year?”

In the crowded room all conversations had ceased as people listened with undisguised curiosity to this fiercely polite conversation. The Paladin commander glared around herself, and some of the people began to make a pretense of eating, but many did not.

A Speaker’s status was ambiguous: protected rather than elevated, under no one’s command other than the G’deon’s but expected to practice
exemplary behavior. That flexible combination of expectations and independence, Zanja’s old master had said, was beneficial to everyone. Right now it was beneficial to Zanja.

Arel laid a hand on Zanja’s arm and said in their own language, “Don’t do anything that will cause me to laugh.” He looked up at the commander and said in Shaftalese, “I am explaining to my sister why I must promise you that she will behave properly.” Then he said to Zanja, “Pretend to be offended.”

“But I am a katrim!” Zanja said in Shaftalese.

“Still, you must accept my guidance in this matter,” said Arel.

Zanja made a rude gesture, which Arel pretended was a gesture of assent. He said, “Commander, I give you my word of honor that Zanja na’Tarwein will conduct herself honorably.” His expression was utterly serious, except for his eyes. The house commander abruptly lifted her hand from Zanja’s shoulder and stalked away, leaving Arel and Zanja to struggle to finish their breakfast without choking on their own laughter. And now, at last, she was free to walk in the House of Lilterwess by daylight.

Despite the malaise that commonly beset people at this time of year—a gloom, lethargy, or outright surliness of temperament—the House of Lilterwess bustled with energetic activity. Zanja felt as if she had gone from being a ghostly haunt in a nearly vacant city to being a holidaymaker caught up in a lively crowd. Everyone’s business seemed urgent, and most of it also seemed joyful. The purposeful activity was punctuated by unexpected entertainments: the intentional ones of musical performances and bits of staged dramas, and the unintentional ones of inexplicable behavior,
intriguing conversation, and angry shouting behind closed doors.

Zanja and Arel were rare indeed, not just because they were the only border people in that wonderful place, but also because they had no burden of responsibilities. Arel showed Zanja his favorite places: a fountain, a gallery, a covered walkway where they could view the hills rolling away like ripples towards the distant sea.

“I have never seen the ocean,” Zanja said.

“You haven’t? Oh, it is a marvel. And it is intoxicating, also. Anyone who lingers beside that vast water becomes either peaceful or silly. Yet it is very dangerous.”

Later they walked among the classrooms, where children of similar age, demeanor, and dress were variously learning their letters, reciting history, debating each other, practicing musical instruments and more useful tools, naming the bones of a wired-together human skeleton, and working sums on slates. Zanja was so drawn to more than one class that Arel had to pull her away.

“I myself have taken up several subjects over the years,” he admitted. “Currently I’m interested in history and mathematics.”

“Mathematics!”

“It is a mysterious and frustrating subject. But mathematicians can predict eclipses and the movements of the stars!”