Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 Read online

  Kellin grinned up at him. "A man as tall as you need only stretch out prodigious legs, and he is in Ellas."

  Rogan smiled faintly. "So I have often been told," he looked beyond Kellin to the wagon. "Suhoqla it is, then- Though how your belly can abide it . .." He shook his head in despair. "You will have none left by the time you are my great age."

  "It isn't my belly I care about, it's my mouth."

  Kellin edged his way more slowly through the throng with Rogan and the watchdogs following closely. "By the time it gets to my belly, it's tamed."

  "Ah. Well, here you are."

  Here he was. Kellin stared at the three women kneeling around the bowl-shaped frying surface.

  They had dug a hollow in the sand, placed heated stones in the bottom, then the clay plank atop the stones. The curling links of sausage were cooked slowly in their own grease, absorbing spiced oil-The women were black-haired and black-eyed, with skins the color of old ivory. Two of them were little more than crones, but the third was much younger. Her eyes, tilted in an oval face, were bright and curious as she flicked a quick assessive glance across the crowd, but only rarely did she look anyone in the eye. She and her companions wore shapeless dark robes and bone jewelry—necklaces, earrings, and bracelets. The old women wore cloth head-coverings; the youngest had pulled her hair up high on the back of her head, tying it so that it hung down her back in a series of tight braids. Two yellow feathers fluttered from one braid as she moved-

  "A harsh place, the Steppes," Rogan murmured.

  "You can see it in their faces."

  "Not in hers," Kellin declared.

  "She is young," Rogan said sadly. "In time, she'll grow to look like the others."

  Kellin didn't like to think so, but filling his mouth was more important than concerning himself with a woman's vanishing youth. "Buy me some, Rogan, if you please."

  Obligingly Rogan fished a coin out of the purse provided by the Mujhar, and handed it to one of the old women. The young one speared two links with a sharpened stick, then held it out to Kellin.

  "Ah," Rogan said, looking beyond. "It isn't merely the women, after all, that attract so many . .. Kellin, do you see the warrior?"

  Tentatively testing the heat of the spiced sausages, Kellin peered beyond the women and saw the man Rogan indicated. He forgot his suhoqla almost at once; Steppes warriors only rarely showed themselves in Mujhara, preferring to watch their womenfolk from the wagons. This one had altered custom to present himself in the flesh.

  The warrior was nearly naked, clad only in a brief leather loin-kilt, an abundance of knives, and scars. He was not tall, but compactly muscled.

  Black hair was clubbed back and greased, with a straight fringe cut across his brow. He wore a plug of ivory on one nostril, and twin scars bisected each cheek, ridged and black, standing up like ropes from butter-smooth flesh,

  Kellin lost count of the scars on the warrior's body; by their patterns and numbers, he began to wonder if perhaps they were to the Steppes warriors as much a badge of honor and manhood as lir-gold to a Cheysuli.

  At the warrior's waist were belted three knives of differing lengths, and he wore another on his right forearm while yet another was hung about his throat. It depended from a narrow leather thong, sheathed, its greenish hilt glinting oddly in the sunlight of a Homanan summer. The warrior stood spread-legged, arms folded, seemingly deaf and blind to those who gaped and commented, but Kellin knew instinctively the Steppesman was prepared to defend the women—the young one, perhaps?—at a moment's notice.

  Kellin looked up at his tutor. "Homana has never fought the Steppes, has she?"

  Rogan sighed. "You recall your history, I see-No, Kellin, she has not. Homana has nothing to do with the Steppes, no treaties, no alliances, nothing at all. A few warriors and woman come occasionally to Summerfair, that is all."

  "But—I remember something—"

  "That speaks well of your learning," Rogan said dryly. "What you recall, I believe, is that one of your ancestors, exiled from Homana, went into the service of Caledon and fought against Steppes border raiders."

  "Carillon." Kellin nodded. "And Finn, his Cheysuli liege man." He grinned. "I am kin to both."

  "So you are." Rogan looked again at the scarred warrior. "A formidable foe, but then Carillon himself was a gifted soldier—"

  "—and Finn was Cheysuli." Kellin's tone was definitive; nothing more need be said.

  "Aye." Rogan was resigned. "Finn was indeed Cheysuli."

  Kellin stared hard at the Steppes warrior. The forgotten suhoqla dripped spiced grease down the front of his jerkin. It was in his mind to make the warrior acknowledge the preeminence of the Cheysuli, to mark the presence of superiority; he wanted badly for the fierceness of the scarred man to pale to insignificance beside the power of his own race, men—and some women—who could assume the shape of animals at will. It was important that the man be made to look at him, to see him, to know he was Cheysuli, as was Finn, who had battled Steppes raiders a hundred years before.

  At last the black, slanting eyes deigned to glance in his direction. Instinctively, Kellin raised his chin in challenge. "I am Cheysuli."

  Rogan grunted. "I doubt he speaks Homanan."

  "Then how does he know what anyone says?"

  The young woman moved slightly, eyes downcast. "I speak." Her voice was very soft, the Homanan words heavily accented. "I speak, tell Tuqhoc what is said, Tuqhoc decides if speaker lives."

  Kellin stared at her in astonishment. "He decides!"

  "If insult is given, speaker must die." The young woman glanced at the warrior, Tuqhoc, whose eyes had lost their impassivity, and spoke rapidly in a strange tongue.

  Kellin felt a foolhardy courage fill up his chest, driving him to further challenge. "Is he going to kill me now?"

  The young woman's eyes remained downcast. "I told him you understand the custom."

  "And if I insulted you?"

  "Kellin," Rogan warned. "Play at no semantics with these people; such folly promises danger."

  The young woman was matter-of-fact. "He would choose a knife, and you would die."

  Kellin stared at the array of knives strapped against scarred flesh. "Which one?"

  She considered it seriously a moment. "The king-knife. That one, one around his neck."

  "That one?" Kellin looked at it. "Why?"

  Her smile was fleeting, and aimed at the ground.

  "A king-knife for a king—or a king's son."

  It was utterly unexpected. Heat filled Kellin's face. Everyone else knew; he was no longer required to explain. He had set aside such explanations years before. But now the young woman had stirred up the emotions again, and he found the words difficult. "My father is not a king."

  "You walk with dogs."

  "Dogs?" Baffled, Kellin glanced up at Rogan.

  "He is my tutor, not a dog. He teaches me things."

  "I try to," Rogan remarked dryly.

  She was undeterred by the irony. "Them," Her glance indicated the alerted Mujharan Guard, moving closer now that their charge conversed with strangers from the Steppes.

  Kellin saw her gaze, saw her expression, and imagined what she thought. It diminished him. In her eyes, he was a boy guarded by dogs; in his, the son of a man who had renounced his rank and legacy, as well as the seed of his loins. In that moment Kellin lost his identity, stripped of it by foreigners, and it infuriated him.

  He stared a challenge at the warrior. "Show me."

  Rogan's hand came down on Kellin's shoulder.

  Fingers gripped firmly, pressing him to turn. "This is quite enough."

  Kellin was wholly focused on the warrior as he twisted free of the tutor's grip. "Show me."

  Rogan's voice was clipped. "Kellin, I said it was enough."

  The watchdogs were there, right there, so close they blocked the sun. But Kellin ignored them. He stared at the young woman. "Tell him to show me. Now!"

  The ivory-dark faced paled. "Tuqhoc never sh
ows—Tuqhoc does."

  Kellin did not so much as blink even as the watchdogs crowded him. He pulled free of a hand: Rogan's. "Tell him what I said."

  Tuqhoc, clearly disturbed by the change in tone and stance—and the free use of his own name—barked out a clipped question. The young woman answered reluctantly. Tuqhoc repeated himself, as if disbelieving, then laughed. For the first time emotion glinted in his eyes. Tuqhoc smiled at Kellin and made a declaration in the Steppes tongue.

  Rogan's hands closed on both shoulders decisively. "We are leaving. I warned you, my lord."

  "No," Kellin declared. To the young woman;

  "What did he say?"

  "Tuqhoc says, if he shows, you die."

  "Only a fool taunts a Steppes warrior—I thought you knew better." Rogan's hands forced Kellin to turn. "Away. Now."

  Kellin tore free. "Show me!" Even as Rogan blurted an order, the watchdogs closed on the warrior, drawing swords. Kellin ducked around one man, then slid through two others. The dark Steppes eyes were fixed on the approaching men in fierce challenge. Kellin desperately wanted to regain that attention for himself. "Show me!" he shouted.

  Tuqhoc slipped the guard easily, so easily—even as the challenge was accepted. In one quick, effortless motion Tuqhoc plucked the knife from the thong around his neck and threw.

  For Kellin, the knife was all. He was only peripherally aware of the women crying out, the guttural invective of the warrior as the watchdogs pressed steel against his flesh.

  Rogan reached for him—

  Too late. The knife was in the air. And even as Rogan twisted, intending to protect his charge by using his own body as shield, Kellin stepped nimbly aside. For ME—

  He saw the blade, watched it, judged its arc, its angle, anticipated its path. Then he reached out and slapped the blade to the ground.

  "By the gods—" Rogan caught his shoulders and jerked him aside. "Have you any idea—?"

  Kellin did. He could not help it. He stared at the warrior, at the Steppes women, at the knife in the street. He knew precisely what he had done, and why.

  He wanted to shout his exultation, but knew better. He looked at the watchdogs and saw the fixed, almost feral set of jaws; the grimness in their faces; the acknowledgment in their eyes as they caged the Steppesman with steel.

  It was not his place to gloat; Cheysuli warriors did not lower themselves to such unnecessary displays.

  Kellin bent and picked up the knife. He noted the odd greenish color and oily texture of the blade. He looked at Rogan, then at the young woman whose eyes were astonished.

  As much as for his tutor's benefit as for hers, Kellin said: "Tell Tuqhoc that I am Cheysuli."

  Two

  Rogan's hand shut more firmly on Kellin's shoulder and guided him away despite his burgeoning protest. Kellin was aware of the Mujharan Guard speaking to Tuqhoc and the young woman, of the tension in Rogan's body, and of the startled murmuring of the crowd.

  "Wait—" He wanted to twist away from Rogan's grasp, to confront Tuqhoc of the Steppes and see the acknowledgment in his eyes, as it was in the woman's, that a Cheysuli, regardless of youth and size, was someone to be respected. But Rogan permitted no movement save that engineered by himself. Doesn't he understand? Doesn't he know?

  Unerringly—-and unsparing of his firmness—the Homanan guided Kellin away from the wagons to a quieter pocket in the square some distance away. His tone was flat, as if he squeezed out all emotion for fear of showing too much. "Let me see your hand."

  Now that the moment had passed and he could no longer see the Steppes warrior, Kellin's elation died. He felt listless, robbed of his victory. Sullenly he extended his hand, allowing Rogan to see the slice across the fleshy part of three fingers and the blood running down his palm.

  Tight-mouthed, Rogan muttered something

  about childish fancies; Kellin promptly snatched back his bleeding hand and pressed it against the sausage-stained jerkin. The uneaten suhoqla grasped in his ether hand grew colder by the moment.

  Rogan said crisply, "I will find something with which to bind these cuts."

  Blood mingled with sausage grease as Kellin pressed the fingers against his jerkin. It stung badly enough to make the comers of his mouth crimp, but he would not speak of it. He would give away nothing. "Leave it be. It has already stopped." He fisted his hand so hard the knuckles turned white, then displayed it to Rogan. "You see.”

  The tutor shook his head slowly, but he gave the hand only the merest contemplation; he looked mostly at Kellin's face, as if judging him.

  I won't let him know, Kellin put up his chin. "I am a warrior. Such things do not trouble warriors."

  Rogan shook his head again. Something broke in his eyes: an odd, twisted anguish. His breath hissed between white teeth. "While you are fixed wholly on comporting yourself as a warrior, neglecting to recall you are still but a boy—I realize it will do little if any good to point out that the knife could have killed you." The teeth clamped themselves shut. "But I'll wager that was part of the reason you challenged him. Yet you should know that such folly could result in serious repercussions."

  "But I could see—"

  Rogan cut off the protest. "If not for yourself, for me and the guard! Do you realize what would become of us if you came to harm?"

  Kellin had not considered that. He looked at Rogan more closely and saw the very real fear in his tutor's eyes. Shame goaded. "No," he admitted, then anxiousness usurped it, and the need to explain. "But I needed him to see. To know—"

  "Know what? That you are a boy too accustomed to having his own way?"

  "That I am Cheysuli." Kellin squeezed his cut hand more tightly closed. "I want them all to know. They have to know—they have to understand that I am not he—"

  "Kellin—"

  "Don't you see? I have to prove I am a true man, not a coward—that I will not turn my back on duty and my people—and—and—" he swallowed painfully, finishing his explanation quickly, un-evenly, "—any sons I might sire."

  Rogan's mouth loosened. After a moment it tightened again, and the muscles of his jaw rolled briefly. Quietly, he said, "Promise me never to do such a thoughtless thing again."

  Feeling small, Kellin nodded, then essayed a final attempt at explanation. "I watched his eyes.

  Tuqhoc's. I knew when he would throw, and how, and what the knife would do. I had only to put out my hand, and the knife was there," He shrugged self-consciously, seeing the-arrested expression in Rogan's eyes. "I just knew. I saw." Dismayed, he observed his congealing sausage as Rogan fixed him with a more penetrating assessment. Kellin extended the stick with its weight of greasy suhoqla. "Do you want this?"

  The Homanan grimaced. "I cannot abide the foul taste of those things. You wanted it—eat it."

  But Kellin's appetite was banished by aftermath. "It's cold." He glanced around, spied a likely looking dog, and approached to offer the sausage. The mongrel investigated the meat, wrinkled its nose and sneezed, then departed speedily.

  "That says something for your taste," Rogan remarked dryly. He drew his own knife, cut a strip of fabric from the hem of his tunic, motioned a passing water-seller over and bought a cup. He dipped the cloth into the water and began to wipe the cut clean. "By the gods, the Queen will have my hide for this .. . you are covered with grease and blood."

  Rogan's ministrations hurt. No longer hungry, Kellin discarded the suhoqla. He bit into his lip as the watchdogs came up and resumed their places, though the distance between their charge and their persons was much smaller now.

  Humiliation scorched his face; warriors did not, he believed, submit so easily to public nursing. "I want to see the market."

  Rogan looped the fabric around the fingers and palm to make a bandage, then tied it off. "We are in the market; look around, and you will see it."

  He tightened the knot- "There. It will do until we return to the palace."

  Kellin's mind was no longer on the stinging cut or its makeshift bandage. He f
rowned as a young boy passed by, calling out in singsong Homanan.

  "A fortune-teller!"

  "No," Rogan said promptly.

  "But Rogan—"

  "Such things are a waste of good coin." Rogan shrugged. "You are Cheysuli. You already know your tahlmorra."

  "But you don't yet know yours," Grinning anticipation, Kellin locked his bandaged hand over Rogan's wrist. "Don't you want to find out if you'll share your bed with Melora or Belinda?"

  Rogan coughed a laugh, glancing sidelong at the guards. "No mere fortune-teller can predict that.

  Women do what they choose to do; they do not depend on fate."

  Kellin tugged his tutor in the direction the passing boy had indicated. "Let us go, Rogan. That boy says the fortune-teller can predict what becomes of me."

  "That boy is a shill. He says what he's told to say, and the fortune-teller says what he's paid to say."

  "Rogan!”

  Rogan sighed. "If you desire it so much—"

  "Aye!" Kellin tugged him on until they stood before a tent slumped halfheartedly against a wall. A black cat, small version of the Mujhar's lir, Sleeta, lay stretched out on a faded rug before the entrance, idly licking one paw; beside him curled a half-grown fawn-hued dog who barely lifted an eyelid. The tent itself was small, its once-glorious stripes faded gold against pale brown, so that it merged into the wall. "My grandsire gave you coin for such things," Kellin reminded his tutor. "Surely he could not count it ill-spent if we enjoyed it!"

  Graying eyebrows arched. "A sound point. That much you have mastered, if not your history."

  Rogan gestured for the guardsmen to precede them into the tent.

  "No!" Kellin cried.

  "They must, Kellin. The Mujhar has given orders. And after what you provoked in the Steppes warrior, I should take you home immediately."

  Kellin compromised immediately. "They may come wait here." His gesture encompassed the rug and entrance. "But not inside the tent. A fortune is a private thing."

  "I cannot allow the Prince of—"

  "Say nothing of titles!" Ketlin cried. "How will the fortune-teller give me the truth otherwise? If he knows what I am, it cheats the game."