Changer’s Moon

7

Julia woke to well-being and thought for a moment she’d died, but the familiar smells chased that idea off. The blackness around her was thick and still. She was alone. It felt very late, how late she had no way of knowing or even guessing. She felt a stab of fear, a flash of illogical anger. Illogical because she’d meant to tell them to leave her. Anger because they hadn’t given her the chance to make the gesture. That anger like the death-illusion lasted only a few seconds. She sat up, clutched at the pallet as dizziness sent the dark wheeling. She took a deep breath, another. No pain. Weak as a wet noodle, but no pain. And she was hungry. Not just hungry, but ravenous. I could eat one of Angel’s horses. What happened? Did I snatch my shaman out of dream? Nonsense. More likely the visitors did something. Some kind of drug. Miracle drug. That’s the only kind of miracle that happens here. Where is everyone? She threw off the blanket, rolled onto her hands and knees and levered herself onto her feet. Lyn, she thought, I could use you now. After this new dizziness passed she pulled off the sweaty nightgown, dropped it on the blankets and stumbled to the end of the pallet, stopping when she kicked into the battered suitcase there. She lowered herself onto her knees, opened the case and began feeling around in it. Her fingers caught in a loop of leather, sandal strap, her old sandals, worn but more comfortable now than her boots would be. She lifted them out and set them beside her, poked about some more. Something folded. Heavy zipper, snap, double-sewed seams. A pair of jeans. Soft powdery dust lay deep in the folds, whispered from the worn denim when she shook the jeans out. A shirt folded under the jeans. She didn’t bother looking farther, enough to cover herself, that’s all she wanted. Getting onto her feet again showed her how weak she still was. All those weeks lying on her back, her muscles rotting. Stopping to rest every third breath, she got the jeans pulled up and zipped; they rode precariously on her withered hips, would have slid off but for the jut of her pelvic bones. She pulled the shirt on without bothering to unbutton it, rolled up the sleeves and let the tail hang, slipped into her sandals and wobbled to the door slit. Another stab of fear, hastily suppressed, then she laughed at herself and pushed through.

The moon was a feeble glow through the cloud fleece and the camouflage netting, but enough light came through to show her the disruption around her, shelter sides without their canvas tops, the edge of an empty corral-but over the noise of the wind she could hear a muted mutter of voices. She took a few steps and leaned against a tree, shaking with relief. She wasn’t abandoned. After her heart slowed and her breathing settled, she started toward the sounds.

Lyn came rushing around a bushy young pine and nearly slammed into Julia. “Oh!” Her eyes lit and she grinned with delight. “Jule, you’re up. You’re looking lots better.” She looked over her shoulder, looked quickly back. “Dr. Grenier wanted you to sleep as long as you could, but we’re ’bout ready to jump and he said go wake you and bring you. Bring the blankets and your clothes, it’s winter where we’re going.”

Julia laughed. “Going? Slow down, Lyn. You’ve lost me.”

Lyn pulled her hand over her hair. “Don’t you remember what I told you?”

Julia leaned against a tree and closed her eyes. “Umm… a little. The man and the little green woman.” She opened her eyes, stared into the darkness. “Offered… what? A refuge. Is that what you’re talking about?”

“Uh-huh. You go on and find Dr. Grenier. I’ll collect the blankets and things. Get him to find a place on a truck for you, if he hasn’t already; you’re not ready for a long march.” She clasped her arms across her narrow chest as if she were holding herself down, muting the excitement that made her want to fly. “Henny and Bert, they’re coming for the tent. We leaving nothing behind for the creeps.” A frown. She reached out and touched Julia’s arm. “You need a prop? I can go with you, come back later.”

“I’m fine if I take it slow. Any chance of getting something to eat?”

Lyn drooped. “I doubt it. Everything’s packed. Maybe Serroi saved you something; Jule, she healed everybody, not just you, Anoike’s shoulder, Ram, even old Anya’s rotten tooth, she puts her hands on you and they go transparent and shine and when she takes them away, well, that’s it.” She hesitated a minute longer, then with a wave of her hand she darted away.

Julia started shakily toward the meeting meadow. Before she reached it, Lyn trotted past her, blanket roll over her shoulder, suitcase bumping against her leg. She flashed Julia a grin and vanished into the darkness ahead. Julia kept moving along, stopping at a tree here, a tree there, catching her breath. After a while she started giggling softly. Magic healer. I did it. Missed one little detail though, she not he. Was right, after all. ’M dead and dreaming. Fantastic. Out of thin air. Don’t believe it. Not quite moral, is it. Too easy. Magic, it’s a cop-out, friends, you got to earn your salvation, slog along or it ain’t worth it, it’s smoke in the hand, squirting out the fingers if you try to hold it, the fish that got away… She reached the edge of the clearing and stood gaping at the organized chaos before her.

Several military vehicles in the middle of the meadow, crammed to the canvas with cargo, motorcycles crowded around them. She recognized all but the largest, having been in on the raids that took them. More vans and a pair of pickups. Off to one side Angel and his band squatted beside a large horse herd. She looked up but couldn’t make out any stars through the net. Must be getting close to morning, she thought. It was obvious that Georgia and Angel had taken their people out on raids to gather up as much as they could before the what did Lyn call it? the jump. Some folk were bustling about, though what they were doing she couldn’t tell, some were sitting in groups, waiting, the adults with stuffed backpacks, the children with smaller loads. In spite of the crowding and the constant swirling movement, the meadow was surprisingly quiet, though there was an explosive excitement trapped beneath the net. Most faces were grave, some were sad. An old woman reached out and touched the trampled grass, stroked it as she would a cat or a dog, something loved.

Unnoticed in the shadows Julia began circling round the meadow, looking for the doctor, expecting to find him with the other council members somewhere near the uphill point of the meadow, the visitors with them. When her legs, began to shake, she stopped and caught hold of a tree; even that gentle slope was almost too much for her. She hung on a minute, then eased herself to the ground. Some of the trembling passed off after a few minutes: she pulled herself together and opened her eyes.

Samuel Braddock came strolling around one of the trucks and stopped to chat with a knot of boys working up to a fight, driven to the point of exploding by the tension and excitement that seemed to build without release. He got them laughing with a few words and sent them off in different directions; he passed on to exchange a few words with a glum-looking man, left him relaxed, still not smiling but looking around with interest. Another group was struggling with an awkward roll of canvas, on the point of spitting at each other as they tried to get it on top of the load in the back of a pickup. He did little but say a few words, yet in a few minutes the roll was being roped into place and he was strolling on. She watched him, smiling. Last year, when she’d followed Georgia and Anoike to this place, she’d been surprised to find a prosperous small community hidden under the trees, a printing press powered by a water-wheel, gardens growing everywhere, schools outdoors under the trees and a thousand other small details that added up to a placidly working society that was also very effective at attacking the monster growing below. It’d taken her less than a day to understand who was responsible for the shape and continuation of the community. She pulled herself back onto her feet. This isn’t getting me fed.

Three shadow shapes stood apart at the high edge of the meadow, watching the confusion, talking now and then, a few words only, Dr. Grenier, the alien woman and the man. They shifted position a bit and saw there was a fourth with them. A quick hand, a flash of stiff gray hair, a bit of leg. Not enough to recognize.

Lou Grenier saw her first. “Julia.” He came toward her, his hands out. When he, reached her, he gripped her upper arms, searched her face. “How are you?’

“Hungry.”

A quiet chuckle. The little woman Serroi came up to them. “Here.” She held out a packet. “I thought you might be hungry when you woke. A woman named Cordelia Gudon made some sandwiches for you in between rounding up a herd of children and getting them started collecting their possessions and fixing their packs. I’m afraid it’s water if you’re thirsty.”

“Del. She would.” She held the packet in both hands and gazed at Serroi across a chasm greater than the chasm between their two worlds, a chasm whose name was magic. She could begin to accept and perhaps comprehend it as a sort of alien technology with rules to its manipulation like those that governed the physical sciences here. Yet she was dimly aware that there was something more, something numinous and luminous and sorrowfully shut away from her that existed within the delicate porcelain figure before her. She opened her mouth, closed it again. Words were her profession but she was robbed of them here. Everything she thought to say seemed banal or impertinent. Since banality seemed the least offensive, she said, “Thank you for my life.” She lifted the packet. “Twice.”

A quick brushing gesture swept the words away. “If I could choose to heal and did, then I could accept your thanks, but no. You owe me nothing. The same would have happened were you my worst enemy and threatening what I hold most dear.” She grinned suddenly, an impish, urchin’s grin that banished magic and mystery and made Julia want to hug her. “I will take credit for the sandwiches.”

Lou touched her arm. “And you’d better find a place to sit and eat. Before you keel over and Serroi has to work on you some more. No way to treat a work of art, you should know that, Jule.” He was half-serious, half laboriously joking, missing what she was missing though he wasn’t aware of it, yet something was provoking him into caricaturing himself. She patted his arm though he was making her more uncomfortable than Serroi had, started to turn away. The shifting of the others let her see the fourth person more clearly. “Magic Man, they chase you out too?”

He grinned at her, his pointed nose twitching as it always did when he was amused.

Serroi looked from him to her. “You know the Changer?”

“Since I was a little girl. He used to work on my father’s farm.”

Serroi looked amazed, then skeptical. “Work?”

“Uh-huh, helped with the planting, milked the cows, mowed, raked, ran the baler; we used to hoe weeds together and he’d tell me stories to make the rows pass faster… stories…” Her voice trailed off. “You called him Changer?”

“I know him as Coyote or Changer. He’s the one who brought us here, Hern and me.”

Magic Man winked at Julia. “Didn’t I tell you that you’d be all right, Little Gem?”

She smiled at him, feeling the old warmth come flooding back when she heard his pet name for her, then blinked at the sudden thought that all this might be only his scheming to bring the healer to her. She dismissed that at once as obvious nonsense, but there was still this little niggling question that wouldn’t go away.

Braddock came sauntering up the slope, a canteen dangling from one finger. “Julia,” he said, smiling his startling, youthening smile. “Here. You might want something to wash those sandwiches down with. Anoike’s saving you a place on one of the trucks. Better go find her, we’re about ready to jump.” He turned to Magic-Man-Coyote-Changer. “Anything special we need to do? If not, let’s move.

Priestess

She wanders about the shrine unable to settle at anything. At first she thinks it is the residue of excitement from the Turnfкte. It had been a subdued celebration, yet filled with joy and hope as it was meant to be. The Turn toward light and warmth. In the heart of winter a reminder of spring’s promise. A promise too, that the winter will one day be gone from their hearts.

Mardian is working on the painted pavement. He has shoveled out the snow and is scraping away at the black paint, wholly content with this tedious occupation as she had been when she cleaned the interior. She watches him awhile. He should have looked absurd, big tough male on his knees like a tie scrub-maid, but there is nothing ridiculous about him. Nor anything particularly different from before. As a soldier he’d committed his whole being to his profession in exactly this way. He doesn’t notice her. He wouldn’t have noticed a raging hauhau bull unless it started trampling him.

She goes back into the shrine, mops the kitchen floor, rearranges the things on the closet shelves. She cleans the grates and carries out the ashes, lays new fires. It is cold in the shrine, but she and the decsel have agreed that they should conserve the wood. On still, sunny days like this they will not light the fires until late afternoon. She washes her hands, takes the canvas she is working on into the Maiden chamber and sits on a cushion before the Maiden Face.

There is peace for her in this room, coming from many sources, her pleasure in the work of her hands, the smell of the aromatic oil in the votive lamps Mardian has installed on either side of the Face, the memory of the times She had touched her here and, above all, the comforting silence that surrounds her in here. The needle dances in and out of the canvas, drawing her after it, in and out; the slow growth of the design slows her into a tranquility much like Mardian’s as he scrapes at the paint. After a while she notices nothing but the growing of the pattern; she has forgotten everything else. The hours pass. The images take shape under her hands. The light dims until she is squinting, then brightens but she notices neither event; the chill in the room begins to warm away. A spark snaps out of the fire. She starts, looks around.

Mardian is sitting beside her,, waiting until she is ready to notice him. He has lit the fire and fetched a pair of candlelamps for her. She smiles at him.

He looks grave, uneasy-as if her itch has passed to him. “Word has come…” He coughs, looks away. “Floarin’s army is moving south. The Guards are summoned to join it.”

“All of them?”

“All but the Agli’s bodyguard.”

She drops the canvas. It lies in stiff folds over her knees. There is a pain in her like a long needle through her heart. She must do something, but for the moment she doesn’t know what. She looks down at the tapestry, the bright colors flash at her without shape or meaning. Slowly, automatically, she tucks the needle into the work, begins folding the canvas.

A fleeting scent of herbs and flowers.

She sets the tapestry aside, reaches out to Mardian. He takes her hand in his. Words come welling up in her: the summoning chant that is usually just a formality, opening each major fest. The words swell out of her, then out of him, his deeper voice supporting and reinforcing hers. They chant the words once-tentative, exploring. Twice-reaching out and out, asking. A third time-a demand that throbs out of them into earth and air.

Nilis falls silent, her throat raw with the force of that last repetition; Mardian sits silent, waiting. She withdraws her hand from his and gets clumsily to her feet. He stands beside her, again waiting. He is angry and disturbed, worse than she was earlier. She has an idea about what is bothering him and feels a great sadness for him.

They come. One by one, in pairs, in groups they come, Cymbankers and ties in from the tars for one reason or another. They fill the room, silent, made uneasy by the power that had drawn them here.

The candlelamps at her feet cutting her out of the darkness, touching Mardian, the Maiden face over her head, Nilis stands waiting for the words to come. She knows they will come. She is the Maiden’s tool for shaping this small bit of the Biserica’s defense. The scent of herbs and flowers fills the room. And the words come. She sings them out into the room’s waiting silence.

“Floarin’s army marches.”

A groan like a wind sweeping from man to woman to man:

“Floarin’s army marches to raze the Biserica, to ravage stone from stone, to gut the servants of the Maiden.”

A spreading silence broken suddenly by a woman’s sob:

“What is there for you, here or anywhere, if the Biserica falls? What is there for your daughters or your sons? Flogging, starving, misery, nothing. That is what waits them if the Biserica falls. You know it, each of you has tasted it.”

yes yes I have tasted it The words fly from man to woman to man yes yes I have tasted it

Mardian steps past Nilis, his face hard with the decision that will tear him from his deep contentment in this place. “I go south come morning, walking. Those who wish to join me should be in the Maiden Court at sunup with what food and weapons they can bring, be it sling or scythe. Those of you who know others of like mind, send word to them.” He moves back into the shadows.

As quietly as they had come, the summoned leave, one by one, in pairs, in groups.

When the Maiden Chamber is empty again, Nilis puts her hand on Mardian’s arm, wanting to comfort him, but not knowing how.

He starts when he feels the touch, looks at Nilis as if he is surprised to see her there, twists around to look up at the Face. “She gives and she takes away.”

The Magic Child

They stood on the city wall with much of the rest of Oras, merchant and beggar alike, watching the army move out-Coperic, small and inconspicuous in his dusty black tunic, and trousers, Rane and Tuli in the black dresses Rane stole from the Center south of here, their hair hidden under stiff white kerchiefs Coperic had given them.

The snow cleared suddenly from the rocky plain where the army was camped and off the Highroad as far as Tuli could see, as if some great unseen hand had scraped the plain clear, then drawn its forefinger along the road. Tuli shivered but not from the cold morning air. She’d seen snatches of norit power and seen it overcome, had seen scattered examples of the effect of Floarin’s acts, but it suddenly began to come clear to her what it was the Biserica faced, what it meant if the Biserica fell. No wonder Rane hadn’t bothered playing adventure games with her.

A great dark blotch against the lighter earth, the army stirred and began unreeling onto the Highroad.

The Minarks, their knots of ribbon fluttering, came by first, mounted on spirited rambuts, the gems and bangles braided into the beasts’ red manes glinting with each caracole, their red stripes gleaming like bands of copper, their short, slim horns sharp spikes of polished jet. Attendants rode before them, playing raucous music on curl horns. Attendants rode beside and behind them with embroidered silken banners-whipping from the ends of long poles. The sun glittered on the gilt spikes of their elaborate armor. They were at once absurd and formidable. They cantered up the bank and onto the resilient black-topping, moving south totally unconcerned for what followed them.

Sleykynin began to pour up the slope onto the Highroad. Riding in pairs and groups, no Minark display about these fighters, nor any sign of military discipline, they went south as casually as they might if it were just coincidence such a mighty mix of men went with them. They weren’t soldiers and made no pretense of being soldiers. Deadly, sly, determined to survive at all costs. They were more usually employed as assassins or torturers, occasionally as harriers and threats; the only reason they were here in these numbers and under these constraints was their obsessive hatred of all meien. Coperic sucked at his teeth, his face grim as he counted the adversaries. Five hundred, and more to be picked up along the way. He’d known his estimate of their numbers was likely to be off, but hadn’t suspected-how far off it was. He could almost smell the malice and hatred as they rode past. He glanced at Rane, wondering what she was thinking.

They rode the finest macain Rane had ever seen, sleek, spirited beasts. That brought her a measure of comfort in her anger. There would be Stenda on the Biserica walls because of those beasts. Floarin must have sent men and norits to take them because all the gold in Oras wouldn’t buy that many. It looked as if she’d depleted a dozen herds. Stenda would rather sell their sons than reduce their herds to a few culls and ancient sires.

Two norits rode beside the Sleykynin, ignoring them and being ignored.

A black mass of footsoldiers accompanied by more mounted norits shouting to one another, but as the departure went on and on, into the third hour, many of them fell heavily silent or gave up watching and made their way, along the walls to the narrow stairflights and climbed back down to the streets, hurrying for their homes before the jackals came out. Tuli stroked Ildas and swallowed the lump in her throat. She glanced at Rane, saw the ex-meie’s hands tightened on the stone until her knuckles shone white.

The river of men went on and on. The Highroad was clogged with men and riders as far as she could see, even at her height above the ground. Yet the blotch of the army on the plain seemed scarcely diminished. An hour passed. The sun was close to zenith and breakfast was a distant memory. Tuli was hungry but the thought of food made her feel sick.

A break.

Surrounded by mounted norits, the tithe wagons began rolling up onto the road three abreast, heaped high with barrels of meat and flour, sacks of grain and sacks of tubers, each wagon pulled by six sleek draft hauhaus, splendid beasts gathered from tars all over the Plain. Tuli watched over a score of the wagons rumble past and turn south and saw superimposed on them the faces of men, women and children gaunt with hunger, pinched with fear. Before she could control it, rage flashed through her, shaking her, blinding her, strangling her-she fought the rage with her last shreds of sanity, afraid of betraying them all, until she was sufficiently in control of herself to open her eyes. She wanted to see it all. She had to know the worst.

The wagons were so distant already-she could barely hear; the rumble of their wheels and while she’d been immersed in her struggle, another, smaller band of mercenary footsoldiers had mounted onto the road.

A break.

Floarin rode past in her traveling carriage, the canvas top folded back so her blonde hair shone bright gold in the glare of the nooning sun. The team of six rambuts that pulled the carriage were specially bred so their stripes were a rich gold rather than the ruddy copper of the more common kind. Tuli looked down on her and wished she dared whirl her sling. Floarin was at the edge of her range but she knew she could make the woman uncomfortable if nothing more. Later, she told herself, get my chance at you later. She stared at the woman, fascinated by her awfulness. How could any human being cause so much suffering and not be touched by it? Impossible to see the expression of Floarin’s face from this high up, but the set of her body spoke eloquently of her satisfaction and implied her expectation of defeating all opposition.

Mounted mercenaries rode, six abreast, onto the Highroad. Like the Sleykynin, they rode Stenda macain, but their mounts were the smaller, more fractious racers.

Coperic heard the air hiss between Rane’s teeth and remembered that she was Stenda. Knowing how Stenda felt about their racers, he put his hand on her arm, intending both to warn and comfort. Her head jerked around. He winced at the blind fury in her eyes. Then she forced a smile. “I owe you one, my friend,” she murmured.

The long massive warwagons started onto the Highroad, pulled by twelve of the draft hauhaus, piled high with war gear and the parts of siege engines. Mercenaries-miners, sappers and engineers-rode with their machines and mounted norits swarmed about the three lumbering monsters.

Another band of mounted mercenaries, lighter armed than the first mounted fighters, short bows, coils of weighted rope, grapples. And passare rode perches grafted onto their saddles, strange flyers Tuli had never seen before with bands of black and white fur; they swayed with the motion of the macain, preening their fur with long leathery beaks edged with rows of needle teeth.

“Moardats,” Coperic breathed. Tuli started to ask about them, looked around at the Orasi standing beside them and changed her mind. He caught the small sound she made, raised a brow, but said, “Trained to attack eyes and throat. Claws usually have steel sheaths, sometimes dipped in poison when their handlers take them into a fight.”

“Oh.”

Nekaz Kole and his personal guard were the last off the field. It was early afternoon before he galloped slowly past and mounted the Highroad. Riding his gold rambut at an easy lope, he began moving up the side of his army, the sunlight glinting off his utilitarian helmet, his heavy gold cloak rippling behind him; he acknowledged salutes with easy waves of his hand.

Tuli gasped; Coperic swung around, followed her eyes. A flood of traxim came winging in from the sea. They spread out over the army, a web of flying eyes looking for anything that might mean trouble. He watched a moment longer, then grunted and turned away, walking heavy-footed toward the nearest stairflight. Rane came out of her reverie and followed him. Tuli stared a moment longer at the soaring traxim, then, silent and unhappy, she started after the others.

Coperic paced back and forth across the dusty floor. Abruptly he turned to confront Rane who straddled a reversed chair, her arms crossed on its back, the black dress bunched up about her knees. “I got to open up. What you going to do?”

“That rather depends on the Intii, doesn’t it?”

Coperic scowled. “He should’ve been in already. If norit come back with him from Sankoy. If.”

“Lot of ifs.”

“Yah.” He glanced at Tuli who sat on the bed stroking Ildas and gazing vaguely at the wall across from her. “Yeah. I go and kick Yiros off his butt, get him to fix you something to eat. Mmm. Be a good idea to send Haqtar up with the tray; he been sniffing around trying to find out dirt about you two; he reports to the Agli on me. Still enough guards left to drop on me ’fore I’m ready to get out.” Once again he looked from Tuli to Rane. “You keep the black on, be doing something female when he come in. That ought to take the gas outta him.”

Rane passed her hand over her tangled hair, grimaced. “Been a long time since I spent so much time in a skirt.”

He grinned at her, his eyes narrowing to slits, sinking into nests of wrinkles. With a chuckle he turned and went out.

Rane poked absently about the room, finally took up the old charcoal sack the Bakuur had dropped off at the tavern before they left the city. She dumped it out on the bed, rummaged through the odds and ends and found her small leather sewing kit. She set that aside and took up an old tunic. With a quick jerk of her hand, she ripped out a short length of the hem, tossed the tunic onto the bed beside Tuli. “Your camouflage.”

Tuli blinked. “Huh? Oh.” She tapped Ildas on his round behind. “Move over, bйbй.” She shook the tunic out, held it up. “Why’d you bother bringing this along? I’d say it was one giant patch except it’s about a hundred.” She tilted her head, put on a coaxing smile. “Thread my needle for me?”

“Flah!” Rane tossed her a reel of thread. “Watch it. There’s a needle in there.”

Tuli yelped, sucked at the base of her forefinger, took her hand away and sniffed when she saw the tiny bead of red. “Little late telling me.” She pulled the needle loose from the reel, shook out a length of thread. “From the look of that thing a little blood would liven it up.”

“Maybe,” Rane said absently. She took one of the wobbly chairs, set it by the shuttered window, stepped back, eyed it, then set a stool beside the chair. With her own bit of sewing she settled herself in the chair, smoothed the wrinkled skirt down over her boots, straightened it as much as she could. She looked up. “Come over here, Moth. Proper young ladies don’t sit on beds.”

Tuli snorted but she wadded the ancient tunic about the reel, twitched the coverlet smooth, then she settled herself at Rane’s knee. She threaded the needle without fuss. “At least some things go right.” She began sewing the hem back in, taking small stitches to make the job last because she didn’t want Rane thinking up something worse for her to do. “Mama would faint if she could see me now.”

“Mmm.”

Tuli lifted her head, looked round at Rane. The light seeping through the rotten shutters slid along the spare lines of the ex-meie’s face, pitilessly aging her. Rane’s hands lay still in her lap. Her mind was obviously elsewhere. Certainly she wasn’t listening to Tuli. Tuli went back to the sewing, setting the small neat stitches her mother had tried to teach her, surprising herself with the pleasure she got out of the work. She thought about that for a while and decided the pleasure came partly from the realization that this wasn’t the only thing she had to look forward to the rest of her life.

She glanced now and then at the door, expectation wearing into irritation as the minutes crept past. She was hungry and rapidly getting hungrier. “He doesn’t get here soon, I’ll eat him.” She slanted a glance at Rane, sighed and went on sewing, finishing the ripped part. With a glare at the door she began double-sewing the rest of the hem. The minutes still crept. Rane was still brooding over whatever it was. Tuli lifted her head. “You’re wondering what to do about me?”

“What?”

“It was all right up to now.” Tuli cleared her throat, not sure she wanted to go on with this. Her stomach rumbled suddenly; she went red with embarrassment. That idiotic little sound sucked all the drama out of her, leaving only her curiosity and her pride in her ability to reason. “I was insurance,” she said. “In case you got snagged. Now you figure you can move faster and safer without me, but you promised Da you’d take care of me, so you’re trying to convince yourself I’ll get along all right by myself. I will, you know; you don’t have to worry about me.”

Rane pulled her hand down over her face. When she took it away, her mouth was twisted into a wry half-smile. “Hard lessons,” she said. “You’ve had to grow up too fast, Moth. You’re right. Well, partly right. What I do depends on the Intii. If he’s able to lend me his boat, we can scoot down the coast with no problems. If we have to run… I don’t want to speculate on what might be, Moth. It makes for sour stomachs.”

Tuli nodded, frowned down at the hem without really seeing it. She was more than a little uncertain about what she wanted to do. The sight of the army had shaken her more than she wanted to admit to herself or anyone else. She couldn’t see herself going to sit tamely behind the Biserica wall waiting for that army to roll over her, just one more mouth to feed, contributing little besides a pair of hands not particularly skilled, her greatest gifts wasted, her nightsight and Ildas. Well, if not wasted, certainly underused. She brooded over just where her responsibilities lay until there was a loud thumping on the door. With more eagerness than grace, Tuli dropped her sewing and went to open it.

Haqtar came stumping in with a two-handled tray. Grunting, he, slammed the tray down on the table, his eyes sliding with sly malice from Tuli to Rane and back to Tuli. Tuli retreated to Rane, dropped her hand on the ex-meie’s shoulder, the look in those bulging eyes, the greed in the doughy face frightening her. After a minute, though, he turned and shuffled out.

“Whew.” Tuli shuddered. “What a…”

Rane caught hold of her arm and squeezed. A warning. After he slammed the door there should have been the sound of his retreating footsteps, especially over those yielding groaning floorboards. There was only silence, which meant he had an ear pressed against the door. “Help me up, daughter,” Rane said.

Swallowing a nervous giggle, Tuli said demurely, “Yes, mama.”

Rane dragged the chair noisily to the table while Tuli fetched the stool and made a lot of fuss over getting her “mama” properly seated.

Rane made a face at her, then solemnly intoned, “Blessed be Soдreh for the food he has provided.” There was a quaver in her voice that Tuli hoped the clothhead outside the door would take for age and not for a struggle against laughter. She managed to quaver the response. “Soдreh be blessed.”

They ate in silence after that even when they heard the floorboards groan and creak under the lumbering feet of their spy.

The Intii Vann came with the dark; he sat in the taproom drinking and grousing with Coperic about the ingratitude of relatives, the miserable fishing, wives and their whims, saying nothing that would trigger any interest in enemy ears. Coperic served him and saw to it that his wine was heavily watered so he could give the impression of drunkenness without acquiring the real thing; the repeated refillings of his tankard also gave him all the excuse he needed for spending hours at that table. Sometime after midnight, he wobbled out, the key to the alley door in his pocket and with instructions to knock on Rane’s door, then go on to Coperic’s room and wait for him.

When enough time had passed after Vann’s departure so the two things would not appear connected, Coperic shooed out the last drunks, locked up, watched Haqtar bumble off to his cellar room, waited until he was sure the man was shut into his den, then went wearily up the stairs and down the hall to his room.

Tuli was sitting on the bed stroking her invisible pet, Rane silent beside her. Vann was standing with his shoulders braced against a wall, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on the floor; he looked up when Coperic came in.

Coperic swung a chair about, sat in it. “What’s the problem?”

Rane lifted a hand, let it fall. “He’s been like that since we got here.”

“Vann?”

The. Intii began stroking his beard. “’Tis not them. ’Tis I’ve a notion what you’re wanting of me, and it can’t be. ’Tis I’ve been ordered to my village with a trax on my tail to make sure I go straight there.” He nodded at Rane. “Knowing what that one has in her head is life-and-death for Biserica and maybe me and mine. ’Tis knowing too that the army has marched and we got Kapperim thick as lice on a posser’s back and a shaman like as not going to gut the bunch of us if we sneeze wrong.”

Coperic nodded toward the other chair. “Sit, old friend. I been doing some thinking about that since last we met. I don’t mind talking about them now they’re out and not going back. I put a couple plants in the Plaz. Picked up an impression of the lock on the Guard Armory. ’S afternoon a bunch of us, we got in, cleared out what was left there. Not much, damn the bitch, but some bolts and a few crossbows, a bundle of lances and a good pile of knives. We keeping some, getting some ready for you to take.”

Vann came away from the wall, his usual containment vanished. He said nothing but threw himself into the chair; it creaked precariously and seemed about to come apart beneath him. He ignored that, drew a huge breath. “How?” A moment later he added, “The trax.”

“Packing them in water casks and a flour barrel-with a bit of flour too, courtesy of the Plaz.” He rubbed his nose, glanced at the time candle burning on its stand next to his bed. “Should be finished hauling the barrels soon. When you come in, I got word to Bella; she’s going to leave men on the wharf, guards. You grab ’em, tell, ’em to help you load the barrels. My folk and me, we figure the next couple days things going to be looser than before, agli keeping one eye looking south instead of both on us.”

Vann stroked his beard. “Can’t take the barrels through the village gate. Kappra shaman got a nose for edged steel.” His hand smoothed repeatedly down the oiled plaits of his beard. The oil had gone a trifle rancid and the plaits were frayed, some of them coming undone, an outward sign of the disorder in mind and spirit. “Stinking Kapperim, got half the women ’n children shut up in my hall. Shaman’s got it set to burn, we give him any trouble. Saw Vlam and Vessey.” He glanced at Rane, smiled. “My sons,” he said. “We figured to go after Kapperim barehanded. Save part anyway. Them outside the hall.” He leaned forward, cupped large hands over his knees. “Cut more throats than we can choke with those knives you got, ’n half a chance we maybe can take out the shaman and stop the burning. We owe you, Coperic old friend.”

Coperic grinned at him. “We talk about that a passage from now.’

Rane broke in. “Be easier if you could catch the Kapperim asleep,” she said. “Especially the shaman.”

“That viper?” Vann ran his tongue over his teeth, his upper lip bulging under the bristly moustache. “Evelly, that’s my wife, she tells Vlam he set wards that wake him if anyone even think too hard about him.”

“Who cooks for the Kapperim?”

“Our women. But they make them taste everything before they eat.” He scowled. “Children too; keep the women honest, they say.”

“Seems to me a nice long sleep wouldn’t hurt your women and children and your men could dump one meal.”

“Drug the trash?”

“Right. There’s a couple drugs I know could do it, probably lots I don’t know, put them to sleep without hurting them so your women and children would be safe.” She grinned. “I figure you and your men can do all the hurting the Kapperim are very likely to need.”

The Intii’s lips moved back and forth as if he were tasting the idea, then spread into a grin. “Yah.” he said. Then he sobered. “Always that Maiden-cursed shaman. He suspect his dam if he weren’t hatched.”

“I ate a kind of fish stew in a fisher village once when I was a lot younger and tougher. Called tuz-zegel, if I remember. I see you follow me.” Rane chuckled. “The inside of my mouth still remembers. You couldn’t taste stinkweed through that. If you showed up with a collection of the right spices, a little present for your wife, wouldn’t it be the most ordinary thing if she fixed up a batch of tuz-zegel for the whole village? You could warn the men you trust to dump theirs.” Vann sighed and Rane chuckled again. “I suppose it’s your favorite dish; well, a little sacrifice won’t hurt.” Vann snorted, his eyes gleaming, the sag in his spirit banished. Rane ran her hands through her hair. “First thing, get those spices; you give Coperic a list. I suspect he won’t have too much trouble filling it. Next, what drug. I’m a long time out of my training, but there’s a healwoman in the hanguol rookery. ‘

Tuli’s eyes opened wide. Ajjin was right, she thought. Trust Rane to remember after all that’s happened and fit it right in with her plans.

“Healwoman? Never heard of any. Not there.” Coperic scowled past her. “Healwoman, mmm, she’d disappear into the House of Repentance soon’s an Agli got a sniff of her.”

“This one hasn’t got the name since she didn’t finish the last bit of training. Debrahn the midwife.”

“Oh, her. Yah, I know her.”

“You can find her?”

“Rane.”

“Yeah, I know. Silly question. She’d know about herbs, have a good mix tucked away somewhere. One of those sleepytime drugs I was thinking of, a lot of midwives use with difficult deliveries, doesn’t hurt the baby, but puts the woman’s head to sleep. There should be at least one woman ready to birth in your village.”

“My middle daughter.” He smoothed a forefinger along his moustache. “M’ wife would have my ears for bringing a stranger in.”

“Would the Kapperim know that?”

“Don’t see how.”

“Would your wife make a fuss?”

“Front of that trash? Never.”

“Good enough. Ajjin Turriy asked me to coax Debrahn out of the rookery. This is a better excuse than most.”

Coperic nodded. “Be a good idea for any lone female to get out of the rookery before it turns into a rat pit. I owe the Ajjin a favor or two myself. Give them a tenday in there’n they’ll start cutting each other up for stew.” He frowned at Rane. “Best I fetch her now. Morning might be too late.”

Rane shook her head. “We.”

Coperic raised a hand, pushed it away from him. “Bad enough for a man to be out this hour, if some Follower sees you…”

“I’ll get my other clothes. He’ll see two men, that’s all. Good thing I was never voluptuous.” Rane chuckled. “What she knows of you, old friend, wouldn’t persuade a rat into a granary.”

Coperic grinned. “Hard to argue with you when you’re right. Meet me in the taproom.” He glanced at Tuli. “Alone.” He turned to the Intii. “Write me up that list of spices, Vann. I’ll put my people to scratching up what you need.”

“Come on, Moth.” Rane touched Tuli’s shoulder. “You need sleep.”

Back in their room, Tuli stripped off the hateful dress while Rane changed into her tunic and trousers. Neither spoke. Tuli crawled into the bed wondering how she could possibly sleep with so much to worry over.

Rane crossed the room and stood beside the bed. She slapped her swordbelt around her lean middle and buckled it as she looked down at Tuli. “Don’t fret, Moth. With his knives Coperic could split a zuzz-fly on the wing and I’m not so bad with this.” She tapped the hilt of the sword. “I’ll wake you in good time; you won’t miss the boat.”

Tuli found she’d made up her mind without knowing it. “Rane…”

“What is it?”

“I’m not going with you. You were right, you’ve got a better chance traveling alone. And I…” She paused. “I don’t want to be herded in with a bunch of giggling girls, you know that’s what Da would do. I’m going to stay with Coperic if he’ll have me. If not, well, Ildas and me, we’ll go after the wagons, do as much hurt as we can, maybe tie up with Teras again. He ’n a bunch from the Haven are sure to be out against the army.”

“I promised your father…”

“This is more important. Me and Ildas, we can hurt ’em a lot more ’n a bunch of men who the norits will stomp on before they get close. You know that.”

Rane sighed. “I’ll talk to Coperic. Mind if I tell him about Ildas?”

“Course not.”

Rane looked down at her. The silence became overcharged. Tuli felt tears gathering in her eyes. She wanted to turn her head away but she didn’t. Rane bent over her, touched her cheek. “It’s too bad you weren’t a few years older,” she said, her voice husky, uncertain. She bent lower, kissed Tuli lightly on the lips, straightened and went quickly out of the room.

Tuli lay still a moment, then she sniffed and scrubbed her hands across her eyes and sat up. “Sleep,” she said to the empty room. “Maiden bless.” She blew out the candle, wriggled back down under the covers, Ildas humming against her side, a spot of warmth that spread rapidly through her whole body. She yawned, worked her lips, thought about wanting a glass of water but stayed where she was, too comfortable to move. “What do you think of that?” she asked Ildas. He crooned to her, his meaningless silent sounds soothing her jagged unreliable emotions, beating in her blood, singing her to sleep.

Ildas scampering before her, Tuli ran from tree to tree, meaning to get as close to the Highroad as she could, a task made easier because the Nor had swept a wide swath of land free of snow. The army was camped on the grassy slopes of the Earth’s Teeth at the Well of the Blasted Narlim, but the Warwagons were sitting on the Highroad, sticking up there like wanja nuts on a harvest cake, a tempting target Tuli wasn’t prepared to pass up. Coperic had made a half-hearted protest, then got down to planning her attack and his. He and his people were on the far side of the army, ready to hit the majilarni when she provided a diversion to take the attention of the norits off the army.

She only came across two sentries prowling through the grove, though there were quite a few traxim roosting in the upper branches. Ildas and nightsight were enough to keep her away from either. She fled through the grove like a ghost and crawled into the space beneath the desiccated air-roots of a dead spikul. While she looked over the ground ahead, Ildas trotted busily about the roots, spinning fine lines of light out of his substance, weaving them into a web of protection about her. When he was finished, he nosed against her, wriggled with pleasure when she rubbed her fingers behind his ears, then he trotted off. She settled to watch.

The bare ground between her and the last of the Warwagons was thick with norits. Some sat in close groups talking quietly, some were rolled into blankets, asleep, some had gone slightly apart and into themselves, meditating or searching about with their longsight, Tuli didn’t know which but suspected the second and was very glad of Ildas’s web. There were a few traxim still aloft but most were roosting in the trees or perched on the Warwagons; they didn’t seem to like night flying much. Tuli suspected from what she’d seen of them that their eyes weren’t all that good in daytime, let alone night.

Ildas trotted toward the last of the huge wagons, circling unseen about sleeping forms, norits or the mercenaries that rode the wagon, about meditators and talkers, coming close to them, almost brushing against them, his leisurely progress a teasing, mocking dance. Then Tuli was part of that dance and it was a small piece of the Great Dance she’d wheeled in when Ildas came to her. She knew she was lying in dark and dirt, but she was also locked into the Dance; she laughed to herself; Ildas laughed with her, their joined laughter was the music of the Great Cycle of death and birth and death, the endings that were also and always beginnings.

Then Ildas was leaping onto the warwagon, fastidiously avoiding the hunched forms of the sleeping traxim. He pottered about, pushing his nose into the load, searching out a place that suited him. The traxim stirred uneasily as if they felt a wind sneaking through their fur, but they didn’t wake. Somewhere near the center of the wagon, Ildas lifted his leg and urinated a stream of fire into the load.

There is an oil distilled from the flesh of the vuurvis, a deep-sea fish the size of a small whale; the secret of preparing it belongs to the mercenaries of Ogogehia, it is their most fearsome weapon, used in clay melons that shatter and splatter fire. The burning oil clings to flesh, it can’t be wiped away, water won’t put it out, it can’t be smothered. It keeps eating into the flesh until the last trace of the oil is consumed. Ildas had sniffed out barrels of that oil and used it as his target.

Flames exploded into the air five times a man’s height and splashed outward much the same distance, landing on norit and mercenary alike; the sleepers writhed and rolled about on the ground, living torches that filled the night with screams of an agony beyond comprehension: those on their feet howled and ran until their hearts quit and they crashed to the ground, some of them into snow that did nothing to put out the fire. Burning traxim leaped shrieking into the air, came spiraling down to crash among the trees or into the army, spreading the chaos. The few that escaped were those near the ends of the wagon that had time to flip from this world into that place the Nor had fetched them from. Most of the sleepers were dead or dying. More than half the nearby norits had escaped though they spent some minutes in frantic efforts to shield themselves from the flying oil. Tuli gaped at the damage Ildas had done with one well-placed squirt.

He came prancing back, wriggled round her, bumped against her, rolled onto his back so she could scratch his belly. “You’re a one soredak army, Didi,” she whispered to him. She continued to stroke him as she watched the surviving norits go from body to body, cutting throats of any who still lived. The noise diminished here by the Highroad, but she heard screams and shouts and curses drifting from the army, the protesting hoots of macain and the high angry squeals of rambuts. Coperic, she thought. No, can’t be. He and his folk must have been in and out already; they wouldn’t make that much noise. Should be getting out myself before they start hunting. She began inching backward out of the shelter of the roots. Ildas walked beside her, snapping the web of light back into himself. When she was clear of the roots but still deep in shadow, she sat on her heels, looking about. The traxim in the trees had whipped into the air with the explosion of the Warwagon and hadn’t yet settled back to their roosts; any sentries close at hand had rushed into the open, looking vainly for some way to help the dying, or joining other men to roll the next Warwagon farther from the fire and save that one from burning also. Soon someone out there would start thinking instead of reacting and send searchers into the trees to sniff out whoever had set the fire. But not yet. She got to her feet and fled through the trees, leaving the seething turmoil behind, heading for the rendezvous with Coperic. He was probably there already, waiting with the others for her to show up. She slowed and began to relax.

A norit stepped from behind a tree, hands raised and filled with fire, eyes glaring, mouth opening in a long ululating scream that tore from his throat and assaulted her ears. He flung the fire at her.

Tuli swerved so sharply she had to scramble to keep on her feet; arms waving, kicking herself in the ankle, she plunged for the shelter of the nearest tree, a spindly brellim, knowing she couldn’t reach it in time, suspecting its shelter was no shelter at all from the magic fire.

He screamed again, outrage in every hoarse syllable of those unintelligible words.

She looked back, saw Ildas leap between her and the fireballs, bat them down, the norit not seeing him but seeing his fire fail; she sucked in a breath to laugh her triumph-and crashed into the tree.

She was stunned for an instant, then got shakily to her feet. From the corner of her eye she saw Ildas play with the fireballs, jump on them and eat them. The norit stared, open-mouthed, as his fire vanished, bite by bite. For the moment he’d forgotten her.

Tuli whipped around the still shivering tree and fled into the dark, her head clearing as she moved, her first panic settling into a mix of terror and rage. She ran furiously twisting and turning through the trees. And Ildas kept the fireballs as well as the rest of the norit’s magic away from her. But she couldn’t outrun him and he was an adult male, so much stronger than her, he didn’t need magic to deal with her; it was only his rigid mind-set that kept him stopping to use that magic. Not that she thought all that out; fragments of it came to her while she ran, coalescing into a sense of what was happening, adding pinches of hope and contempt to the mixture seething within her. She forced herself to slow a little and use her nightsight to plot her route, diving beneath low-hanging limbs, bounding over root tangles that were traps for unwary feet. Several times she heard him flounder and curse, felt a fleeting satisfaction that vanished into the chill realization that she couldn’t get away from him no matter how hard she ran. Twice more he stopped and tried his magic on her, twice more Ildas slapped fireballs down, ate them and set himself between her and other manifestations of the norit’s magic that made her hair and skin tingle but had no other effect on her.

Before she was ready, she was out of the trees, running into moonlight that nearly blinded her, through grass that whipped about her flying feet and threatened to trip her. She was getting tired, her legs were stone-heavy, the breath burned her mouth and throat, but she drove herself on. She could almost feel his hands reaching for her, his breath hot on her neck. He was so close, so desperately close. She zigged and zagged like a startled lappet, trying to get back into the thin fringe of woodland along the Highroad beyond the grove of Blasted Narlim camp.

His fingers scrabbled at her arm. With a small sobbing cry she flung herself around and away, cutting perilously close to him, trusting in the agility that had saved her so far. Again and again she managed a swerve, a dodge, a lunge at the last moment, avoiding the clutch of those long pale fingers; once she threw herself into a rolling fall past him and managed to bound onto her feet before he could bring himself around. That time she nearly made it to the trees, but in a straightaway run she was no match for him and she had to swerve again to escape him. As she had in the hallway in Sel-ma-Carth, she wanted fiercely and uselessly to know knife work, to have Coperic’s skills in her hands and mind. It might have given her a chance, at least a chance. This chase had only one end, but she refused to think about that. While she had breath in her body, until her legs folded under her, she would fight him, she would struggle to get away. Ildas brushed against him, drained his strength, brushed against her, gifting her with that strength so she could keep on long after she should have dropped, exhausted. The image of the charred agli came to her. Burn him, she screamed silently at the fireborn, burn him like you did the agli. But the norit must have had stronger defenses than an agli; he and Ildas balanced each other. Neither could harm the other. And it seemed to her Ildas shrugged and told her in his wordless way that he was doing all he could.

The norit’s fingers were lines of fire on her shoulder, but her tunic burned away from under them and she threw herself to one side, rolling up onto her feet and darting away. Ildas, she thought, ashing the cloth. Her legs were timber baulks, as weighty and stiff as the beams in the watchtower, her breath came in great gulps, she was beyond pain now, knew the end was near. Ildas brushed her leg, and fire jolted through her. Again the norit’s hand closed on her, catching the cloth of her sleeve, again the cloth ashed as soon as he grasped it, but this time instead of rolling away from him, she dived past him only inches from his body, too soon and too fast for him to change his lunge. As he came around, his boot caught in the grass and he fell on his face. Hardly believing her luck; she forced her body into a sprint toward the trees.

And was forced to swerve away again; a straight run was impossible. He didn’t quite touch her but she felt him like a torch at her back.

She heard a gasp, quickly hushed, a slithery thump, felt a coolness in the night about her as if a fire were suddenly smothered. She chanced a look over her shoulder, stumbled to a shaking stop; her legs folded beneath her and she went down on the grass with a slithery thump of her own.

Coperic knelt beside the body of the norit, wiping his knife on the black wool robe. He got to his feet and waited as Tuli wobbled onto her feet and stumbled over to him. Without asking questions or saying anything, he gave her his hand and led her toward the lane between the hedges, walking slowly, letting her catch her breath and gather her strength. Ildas trotted beside her for a few strides, then leaped onto her shoulder, draped himself about her neck, bleeding energy into her.

“I feel. Like a puppet. With its strings cut,” she said.

“Takes some like that.”

“Good thing you came.”

“Got worried when you didn’t show up, so I come looking.”

“Lot of noise back there. After the fire started.”

“Not us.”

“Didn’t think so. You see who?”

“Stenda after the racing macain. Saw a boy going back into the mountains driving half a dozen of them in front of him, he’ll make it, enough left still attacking to cover him. Probably other Stenda hitting for the mountains soon as they busted racers loose.”

“Still going on.”

“Tar-folk and outcasts trying to get off with a tithewagon. Won’t make it, those that don’t get killed’ll have traxim and norits on their tails. Dead, all of ’em.”

“No,” she said. Not arguing with him, but trying to interpose that lack of belief between her twin and danger. “Teras,” she said. “Could he be there?”

“Too far north. Saw some of ’em. Didn’t see him.”

“You wouldn’t know him.”

“Didn’t see no one looks like you.”

“Ah.” Though they were fraternal twins she and Teras did look very much alike. Her knees gave way, but he hauled her up and supported her until she had herself together again. “Your folk?”

“Slit some throats, sliced some girths.” He grinned. “Have to do some sewing before they can ride. Bella swears she got herself a shaman while he was gaping at the fire. Got out. All of us. Got loose easy with all the other stuff going on.” He pushed through a flimsy place in the left-hand hedge; pulled her after him into the field. “Maiden give them luck, but most those others they dead. Too much noise, trying for too much.”

“Won’t be so easy for us next time.”

“Do something different next time.”

Tuli nodded. She was suddenly as tired in mind as she was in body. She yawned, leaned more heavily on him. “Gonna have to tie me in the saddle.” She yawned again, blinked slowly at the riders waiting for them under the moonglow with its load of dangling moth cocoons. “Teach me ’bout knives.”

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Time enough.”

“Yeah.” She giggled. “Cut off a toe, I try anything tonight.”

Poet-Warrior/Kingfisher