The Silence of Medair

Chapter Five

Waking to a thump and a headache, Medair squinted across the sunlit room. The White Snake had collapsed near the window and was attempting to lever himself to his feet with as much success as a turtle flipped on its back. Hating that this stranger had been moving about while she slept, she watched his silently determined attempts until the pain in her head intensified.

Sitting up allowed her to fully appreciate her bruises, but it was the geas which was punishing her with a headache. It must be nearing lunch, and the innkeep would probably be on the verge of throwing them out or demanding more money. This was not so bad a thing as the memory of five men in pursuit, who by now would doubtless have found transportation.

First she pulled the Ibisian to his feet and dropped him back on his bed, noticing that he’d successfully used the chamber pot before collapsing. Despite herself she felt a brief sympathy for his situation. It did not succeed in making her forget her headache, the geas, or her reasons to hate his kind, but did keep her tactfully silent in face of his weakness. Ignoring his attempt to steady himself upright, she splashed some water on her face, then sat down to push her feet into her boots and run a comb through her hair.

The Ibisian managed to prop himself against the wall while she cleaned up. When she next glanced at him, he was studying her. Grey eyes. Ieskar’s had been an icy blue, but the different colour did not mar the resemblance. She had no doubt that he could, like the Kier, make a person incredibly uncomfortable simply by watching out of eyes which seemed to take in everything and give nothing back.

Resentment swelled, and she decided to put off conversation. Flipping the comb onto his tumbled blankets, she slung her satchel across her shoulder and went out to order them breakfast. A handful of the Decians' coins stopped the innkeep’s complaints, and a few more were sufficient to arrange for the Ibisian to be carried down later.

In a foul mood which seemed likely to only get blacker, Medair checked the sparse midday crowd for potential trouble, then took up a tray to the Ibisian. He was sorting his tangled hair into a slightly less haphazard braid, but there was far too much of it for him to hope for more. She certainly wasn’t going to groom him.

Putting the tray within his reach, Medair retired to her own bed, taking up a bowl containing steamed grain and slivers of meat. Chewing a brown shred, she watched him pick a long string of dark green out of the snarled braid and drop it to the floor.

"Water weed," he said, the soft voice neutral rather than wry this time. That only made it worse, even more like Ieskar’s. "I am sure there is a reason for that." He gave up on his hair and took up the second bowl in a hand which shook, his every action exuding a fragile dignity.

"Horse trough," Medair explained, and found herself abruptly amused. Already she could see that the man was used to command and comfort both. Most adepts were, and this one – there were surely few people who could manage to be at so bedraggled a disadvantage and still appear in charge of his situation. Those grey eyes flashed up to meet hers, then he returned his attention to eating, apparently requiring all his concentration to not drop the bowl. The bruise she had given him stood out shockingly against that white skin.

A part of her wanted to fling out of the room again, to get away, to not have to deal with this at all. But the geas removed running away from her choices. Trying to force herself out of her sullen temper, Medair finished her own bowl while he was still only halfway through his. She had only once been spell shocked, and had been among friends while she recovered. That weakling helplessness would be hard to bear for an Ibisian adept, especially when health and safety depended on a total stranger who had no reason to be kind about things like dropped bowls of stew or the necessity of relieving neglected bladders. She was almost as glad as he must have been that she’d slept while he attended the chamber pot.

And he would only have had a few disjointed moments of consciousness since the fire. Waking to be fed and to geas her, and next on the road when she’d hit him. Now here. She wondered if he was surprised to still be alive.

Two men from the stables had been given the job of carrying him down, and she was relieved to see them before the Ibisian had quite finished his meal. She hardly felt inclined to small talk. The stablemen were no more enthusiastic and made little concession to Ibisian dignity as they got him to his horse. All that loosely braided hair swung as he struggled to remain in the saddle, and his face was particularly expressionless. Not at all used to being heaved about like a sack of rotted potatoes, or being unable to fend for himself. She kept a sharp eye on him as they rode out of the town, wondering how long it would be before he fell off.

"Ebbsy," he said, correctly identifying the town as they left it. It hadn’t been a question, so she didn’t bother to reply, only just controlling her reaction to that damnable voice. "We will need to press hard to reach Thrence today," he added.

Medair slowed her dun and looked at him. Grey eyes swung to meet hers and she noted that he was ready for an argument. And here she had been wondering how far she dared press him for speed, her mind on five men in leather.

"We’ll get there well after dark on these nags," she replied, rigidly keeping an indifferent note in her own voice. "Would you like me to tie you to your saddle now, or after you’ve been flung into the mud a few times?"

Lashes momentarily veiled the pale eyes, then he smiled, throwing her completely off balance. She’d never seen Ieskar smile. The Kier’s voice had changed inflection at times, but his face had been a stone mask which she had thought might crack rather than alter in any way. This man’s slight, very natural smile was like waking up to a lime-green sky.

"Now," he said, in that unfortunate soft voice.

He was not Ieskar. Medair told herself that over and over again as she obediently stopped and, much to the interest of a passing farmer, tied the Ibisian’s legs firmly in place. Accepting his statement that this was all which was needed, she took the reins of the grey, lengthened them and tied them to her own saddle. Then she looked up at him, feeling a pang of conscience. He was a White Snake, and he had geased her, and there were the Decians to worry about, but–

"Isn’t two days to Thrence better than pushing yourself to the point where you might be bedridden for days?"

He studied her. Definitely used to command. Even though she was long-practiced at shrugging off that Ibisian air of superiority, she suddenly felt like an errant serving-maid who had asked her emperor why he had directed his last war so badly. She would wager her satchel that this man wore tiger’s eye.

"I knew complete obedience without question was too good to be true," he said. The tone was perfectly grave, and Medair tried to decide if he was truly that arrogant, or if the White Snake was actually making a joke.

"Very unlikely, at least," she replied. "Though trying to interrogate someone when I’ve a geas-inspired headache would make me snappish, at the least."

"A necessary evil," he said, without any hint of apology. "I do not have time to be established in any villages. As for today – I have people I hope to catch in Thrence. They were meant to leave there this morning, if I did not communicate with them, but I suspect that they will have lingered. They, too, have their problems with unquestioning obedience." He paused. "It will be a bad day for me, yes. I might not be particularly lucid by nightfall. If I am not, go to an inn called the Caraway Seed, which is near the centre of Thrence. Ask for Jedda las Theomain and tell her the nest was robbed. Repeat that back to me."

"Caraway Seed, Jedda las Theomain, nest was robbed," Medair repeated impatiently. She eyed him without favour. "There were Kyledran guards among the others. Could you be recognised and linked to whatever all that death was about?" She, too, could be sparing with the information she chose to give. So he thought someone else had made off with the rahlstones, did he? Well, they could bide a time in her satchel.

He started to shake his head, and stopped, holding himself still. The refusal to wince was typically Ibisian.

"There is no reason I would be connected with what happened in the forest," he said, subdued, she diagnosed, by a spinning headache. "But I could well be recognised and my condition would give rise to a good deal of unhealthy speculation. It cannot be helped."

Medair made a noise in her throat, then turned away. It was pointless questioning him. White Snakes never told you more than they wanted you to know.

"We’ll buy you a hooded cloak somewhere," she said as she climbed back into the saddle. She didn’t know who this man might be, how many might be chasing him, her, or the rahlstones, let alone what she could do to prevent the Decians from catching up to her. Her bag of tricks, unfortunately, did not contain anything to foil a trace spell. Well, that she knew. There was a great deal she’d left untouched, but now was not the moment to experiment.

Digging her heels into her mount’s sides, Medair set them off at a slow canter towards the city which had risen from the ashes of her birthplace.

Medair’s headache vanished as soon as they started out, but she was soon thoroughly sick of the chafing saddle. Her charge was unconscious by mid-afternoon and caused considerable interest among passers-by, even after she’d covered him with a hooded cloak. And the gates had been closed for the night long before they reached Thrence.

Banging on heavy wood only produced an exhortation to come back in the morning. Centuries ago, Medair would have called back: "Open in the name of the Emperor!" and the gatekeeper would have seen her Herald’s garb and hastily let her in, but she now resorted to a small bribe to crack the gate. Money was an authority never overthrown, and she was glad to own it on arriving at The Caraway Seed, which proved to be a very large inn in the wealthiest section of town. When she rode into the well-lit yard, the stares of the ostler and attendant stable boys immediately made her aware of her much-neglected appearance. Not to mention the clod-hopping animal she was riding. She acted as if she hadn’t noticed, sliding off the dun and handing the reins to the nearest stable boy.

"I’ll be a moment, finding out whether this is the right place. If it is, they’ll need oats and warm mash. It’s been a long day."

The foyer was warm and clean, with stairs straight ahead and a dining room to the right. For a moment the squat, burly man who emerged from a back room looked inclined to send her straight back out the door. "May I help you?"

"I hope so," Medair replied. "I have a message – and a delivery – for a woman called Jedda las Theomain, who has been staying here. Is she still here?"

The man seemed puzzled by her voice, which was neither coarse nor uneducated. In fact, the faintly outdated way she had of speaking gave her a certain air of aristocracy. Or so she’d been told by a young man with bed on his mind. The accents of the highest nobility, he had assured her, not knowing that she had been on nodding terms with half the ruling families of the Empire, even before she became a Herald. And that she’d practically had to relearn Parlance on her return, because people insisted on pronouncing words in the strangest ways, besides mixing it freely with Ibis-laran. She’d found him trying to cut open her satchel the next morning and had thereafter not attempted to find oblivion in the arms of attractive men.

"Keris las Theomain does indeed extend us her patronage," said the innkeep briskly, apparently marking her down as a messenger. "I will pass on any deliveries."

"I’m afraid I have to talk to her myself. And her package is still out tied to the horse. She’ll probably want to look at it before accepting delivery." She smiled, feeling quixotic. "I’ll need a room for a couple of nights, by the way," she added, catching sight of a pale, silk-clad woman watching her from the stair. There would not be many White Snakes in Kyledra, so the odds were good that this woman was Jedda las Theomain herself.

"Ah…" She waited while he decided whether or not he wanted to have her lingering any longer than necessary. "Of course, madam," he said, apparently preferring to err on the side of caution. "One gold half-nedra per day for a three-room suite."

Dropping two gold coins in his palm, she informed him she’d be seeing to her horses. "And Keris las Theomain’s package," she added, and told herself the situation wasn’t funny. It felt so very strange to be dealing with people again. To be arranging meetings with White Snakes who didn’t have the least idea who she was.

"–it is!" she heard a boy’s voice insisting as she returned to the yard. She found the ostler and stable boys gathered around the grey mare. They all started and looked towards her with wide wary eyes, then towards the unconscious Ibisian. The hood was partly drawn back from his face.

"You can put the dun to," she told the ostler. This was beginning to turn into a farce. "We’ll have to get him off before the grey can be stabled. Do you have a knife?"

Medair reached up and checked the adept’s pulse, finding it faint but steady. She rubbed her fingers on her trousers, frowned at herself for feeling a need to wipe the Ibisian off, then looked toward her audience. "Did I not tell you to stable the dun?"

Two of the boys hastily led her mount away, but the ostler’s fumbling for a knife was interrupted by movement at the doorway of the inn. Medair turned to face three people: a pair of Ibisian women, and one sandy-haired Farakkian man. Two of them had their hands on the hilts of swords, the third was the woman Medair had seen on the stair. The White Snake had apparently thought it best to muster reinforcements before joining Medair in the yard.

"I am Jedda Seht las Theomain," the woman said, jade in her ear and disdain in her eyes. "What is your message?"

Irritated, but not anxious to deliver even silly cryptic offerings before an audience, Medair settled for stepping to one side so that the group at the door could see the adept more clearly. The response was quite satisfactory.

"'Lukar!" gasped the second woman, who was in her early twenties, her hair white-blonde and her skin tinted with too much colour to be pure Ibisian.

In an instant they were clustered about him, cutting him down. Medair waited patiently, keeping her nervous desire to flee under control as Jedda las Theomain had her escorted upstairs.

The White Snakes had engaged half the second floor. Inside the main suite were four other people, three Ibisian. Two were obviously servants. The third, an elegant youth in white silk, stared intently at the adept’s still figure, then withdrew to stand near the window. He also wore jade in his ear, a tear-drop depending from a thin chain so long it almost brushed his shoulder. The last in the suite was a Farakkian woman, her flaming hair as startling as her clothing was subdued. A sword rested at one hip and she touched the hilt lightly, then stayed in the background, watching Medair.

The adept was taken away to the depths of the suite, while Medair was directed to a chair in the well-appointed sitting room, and set there to listen to people moving about behind closed doors. Travel-grimed and tired, stomach beginning to rumble audibly, Medair wondered just who "Lukar" was. These people were acting as if they’d found Farak herself tied to the back of the grey.

Eventually, Jedda las Theomain returned. She did not take a seat but stood examining Medair minutely. Medair compensated by staring back just as directly. Full-blood, as Medair guessed Lukar and the youth by the window were. There weren’t that many full-blood Ibisians left, she had found. You could usually tell mix-breed by the blond hair or the skin, which lost the precise paleness of a full Ibisian. This woman’s eyes were blue, the jade in her left ear proclaimed nobility, a single silver in her right meant she was an adept, unmarried. Lady las Theomain – or, more correctly, Keris las Theomain. Keris for lady, Kerin for lord.

"Tell me your message now," said the woman, not even clothing the order in the stark Ibisian courtesy which had made the invaders seem so bloodless.

"He said to say the nest was robbed," Medair replied, stifling her resentment. Perhaps she might be released from the geas now that the Ibisian had a whole group of people to run after him. Behind her, someone cursed, but neither Medair nor Jedda las Theomain reacted.

"That was all? You are certain?"

Medair nodded slowly.

"Where did you find him?" asked the younger Ibisian woman, seating herself on a brocaded couch to Medair’s left. Medair shifted her gaze, and found concern instead of hauteur. Part of this White Snake was Farakkian.

"Bariback Forest," she said, keeping herself factual. She’d known she’d be interrogated, and it was no good glowering at them. "I saw some smoke and went to investigate and found…a lot of dead people. A couple of different mercenary groups, Kyledrans, Decians, merchants. A blast of fire had taken out about a hundred feet of the forest. It looked like they’d been fighting before that, though, because I found bodies at the edge with battle injuries. Your adept was in the circle but unburnt. Spell shocked and wearing the form of a Kyledran boy. The shape-change wore off yesterday and he…obliged me to bring him here and tell you that."

"Your mishandling of him may cost him his life," las Theomain informed her in a cold yet absentminded voice. "He is not fit to travel."

Sweet, Medair thought, lifting a shoulder. "He wanted the speed. Something about people being due to leave this morning but having problems with obedience."

"Indeed?" Jedda las Theomain asked, her full attention shifting back to Medair. She lifted a hand and began speaking words for truth and binding. Medair hesitated, her fingers closing over the arm of the chair, but she didn’t move. The spell could not force honesty from her, only indicate when she lied. And protesting might prompt them to lock her up somewhere.

"Did Co – did the Kerin say anything else of what had happened?" las Theomain asked.

"No."

"The nest was robbed – those are the only words he said?"

"That was the only message," Medair replied, putting all her effort into a display of being helpful. "Do you want me to repeat everything he said about going to Thrence and things like that?"

"No. He did not give anything to you? You spoke of a package."

"I meant the Kerin," Medair replied. "He didn’t give me any packages. He didn’t have anything on him to give, only the clothes he wore and they were shredded when he changed shape."

"I see." The woman produced a small purse, which she tossed to Medair. Catching it automatically, Medair felt the weight of metal. "Your word, if you please, that you will not speak of these events to anyone." When Medair did not immediately respond, the Keris made a small gesture of impatience. "Come, that is more, I am certain, than anything the Kerin promised you. Your word."

Medair lifted the corner of her mouth in an awry approximation of a smile. She hoped her fury didn’t show. "Yes, it is certainly much more than anything the Kerin promised me," she said truthfully, and stood. "You have my word, Keris las Theomain, that I will not mention these events again unless you or the Kerin bids me otherwise. Good night, gracious ladies, kind sirs." After a painfully controlled bow, Medair walked out of the room. No-one tried to stop her. Apparently they thought her adequately dealt with.

It had been a long day. She was tired, her back ached abominably, and all she wanted was a bath, food and bed. And to shred Keris las Theomain to quivering gobbets of flesh for the insult she’d just dealt. Medair’s jaw was clenched so tight it ached, and she found that her hand trembled when she opened the door of her room.

The White Snakes had judged her small indeed, she thought, standing before a mirror in her room. There were circles under her eyes, muddying the light tan she’d cultivated during the Spring. Her hair was tangled and needed a wash as much as a trim. Her clothes declared their heavy use and she supposed she must smell of sweat and trail-dirt. She’d never been a beauty, but she was tall and slender with delicate bones and pleasant features. As Herald, she’d always been particularly careful of her appearance, to the point her sister had claimed she’d grown vain, conceited. It was odd to see how dull and plain she looked after a Winter’s neglect, and she forced herself to see what the White Snakes had: a scruffy little vagabond. Someone who might place gold over anything.

Medair sat down on the invitingly soft mattress and emptied the purse onto the coverlet. Fifteen gold coins. Not an incredibly large sum by today’s costs. A fortune only to a dirt-scratcher. Why hadn’t she thrown them back in Jedda las Theomain’s face?

Because I wanted to leave, she told herself, and if I hadn’t gone then, there would have been more questions, more truth spells.

Perhaps because I was too surprised.

With slow movements she pulled her satchel onto her lap, sent a questing hand inside, fingers closing briefly around the rahlstones before seeking another prize.

One of the satchel’s many virtues was that you did not have to search about for things. If you knew what you wanted, it would come to hand as obediently as a well-trained falcon. Medair drew out two bulging leather purses and a small velvet bag.

From the largest purse she spilled out gold Imperiums. There were about four hundred and fifty coins. This was her unspent wage for the years she had served. Born to a wealthy family, she had never needed to draw on it. She selected a coin imprinted with the profile and crest of her Emperor, the man to whom she had given Oath, who had made her Herald. He had died from wounds before Athere had surrendered.

The second purse contained gemstones. These had been a gift from her mother, compensation of sorts for the fact that her elder sister would inherit the Rynstar lands and title. They were worth a great deal more than the coins. Not nearly so much as twelve rahlstones.

With delicate fingers Medair drew a badge from the velvet bag and touched its shining silver as reverently as she would the cheek of a new-born babe. The insignia of an Imperial Herald, once more precious to her than gold and jewels combined. Two crossed crescent moons: one etched with the same scroll which decorated her satchel, the other with the Corminevar triple crown.

Suddenly impatient with herself, Medair packed everything away, ordered a bath and scrubbed herself shiny clean. Dirt was an easy problem. Returning to the mirror, she inspected the bruises on her back. There were only eight, not thousands: small and dark purple. The bruise on her hip probably came from the Ibisian’s knee. Another grudge to hold against him, along with her shoddy treatment here.

She needed to decide what to do with the rahlstones. There were certainly enough who appeared to want them, but who actually owned them? The Ibisians? The Kyledrans? The Decians? It seemed that the best thing she could do was work out who they belonged to and give them back. Not because her pride had been wounded when someone had paid her coin for aid freely given then forced from her. Not because of the geas, or her bruises, or because a White Snake had looked at her and seen the smallest thing she could construe. Just – because.

She could, Medair reckoned, safely leave the adept and his offensive friends alone for a day or so. Whoever he was, he could not possibly travel for at least that long without really risking his health, so the geas would surely not bother her. It would give her a chance to try and find out if anyone in Thrence was missing twelve rahlstones.

Tomorrow, she told herself, she would go shopping.