Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (13 page)

           
"She knows Rhythamun's
face," he replied.

           
"Ochen seems confident enough
of recognizing him," Bracht countered. "And should he take another's
form . . . what use is she then? Save she warms your blankets along the way, I
say she's baggage."

           
Calandryll felt irritation grow—the
more for the accuracy of the Kern's words: with Ochen for ally, Cennaire did
seem supernumerary; but still he was loath to bid her farewell. He hid ire and
confusion behind a lathering of soap and vigorous scrubbing.

           
"Well?" Bracht insisted.

           
Forced to respond, Calandryll
shrugged soapy shoulders. "Does it not seem strange we found her there, at
the Daggan Vhe?" he asked. "And she observer to Rhythamun's taking of
another shape? Perhaps there was a design in that."

           
"Perhaps," Bracht allowed.

           
"And still all we agreed there
stands," Calandryll went on, not certain whether he spoke to convince the
Kern or himself, only that he wished Cennaire to remain. "The Jesserytes
would bring her across the Kess Imbrun, but what then? Must she cross Cuan
na'For alone?"

           
"Aye, there's that,"
admitted Bracht.

           
Calandryll pounced on the reluctance
in his friend's voice. "Think you she could make such a journey?" he
demanded. "A solitary woman? Helpless? Would you condemn her to
that?"

           
"Ahrd!" Bracht grunted.
"I concede the argument—she stays, and I'll say no more. Save"—he
chuckled lewdly—"that you, being under no vow, follow my advice."

           
"Perhaps I shall,"
Calandryll muttered, and sank beneath the water as the Kern laughed again and
said, "It would do you good ..."

           
"... like a young stallion with
..."

           
Calandryll submerged again.

           
"... mare," he heard as he
broke surface, replying more coolly than he intended, "I'd not name her
mare."

           
Bracht heard the indignation in his
voice and said, "My friend, I only jest. No, she's certainly no mare; and
do you bed her or not, that's between the two of you, and none other."

           
Mollified, Calandryll nodded.

           
"So, I'll not speak of it
again." Bracht tossed soap away and sank himself awhile. "Now, do we
drag ourselves from this cooking pot before our blood boils?"

           
Benches were set along the walls and
they rested there awhile, cooling, discussing all they had learned, all that
lay ahead.

           
"We've at least a destination
now," Calandryll remarked, "albeit an army stands betwixt it and
us."

           
"That may well delay Rhythamun
in equal measure," Bracht grunted, toweling his long hair, "and we've
allies to speed our passage."

           
Calandryll turned his head, studying
the Kern with a grin. "Your tune changes," he said. "Are the
Jesserytes no longer monsters?"

           
"It would seem not,"
Bracht answered with a shrug, a somewhat shamefaced smile._"Ahrd, but I
grew up with tales of their depravity—which now appear no more than that:
tales—and that's a hard burden to shed. But I learn, you see? I learn to trust
sorcerers, so should I not trust those who offer aid? Perhaps there
is
a design in this,- perhaps Horul sent
these Makusen to aid us."

           
"Aye, perhaps."
Calandryll's murmured response was thoughtful.

           
Bracht chuckled: "With all we
face, best hope it's so. For now, however, I hope to fill my belly. So, do we
find the dining hall?"

           
As if reminded they had eaten
nothing since the morning, Calandryll's stomach rumbled. "Aye," he
agreed.

           
Dressed, they found a man waiting
outside the bathhouse, half-armored, his manner deferential as if they now
occupied a new status, no longer captives but respected guests. He bowed,
murmuring that they should follow him, and brought them through the shadowy
corridors to their quarters, politely explaining that such outfits as were more
suitable to the company of wazir and kiriwashen were prepared for them.

           
Within his cell, Calandryll found
candles burning, lighting the simple chamber to a more, to him, normal level,
confirming his belief that the Jesserytes possessed such eyes as saw better in
the dark than his. He looked about and saw the gear he had tossed carelessly on
the bed was now neatly stowed in alcoves and locker, his sword set upright on a
stand of dark red wood. On the bed he found clothing of Jesseryte fashion—a
shirt of pale blue silk; a wide-shouldered crimson tunic embroidered with a
snarling dragon in gold and green that wound sinewy across the chest, an emblem
he assumed was that of the Makusen clan sewn in black and silver on the back;
loose white trousers; and ankle boots of soft green hide. So grand a costume
brought back memories of Secca, and for an instant he recalled that the last
time he had dressed in such finery he had hoped to win Nadama den Ecvin, and
that her rejection of his suit had sent him out, chagrined, to drown his sorrow
and thus encounter Bracht . . . that this whole long journey into the unknown
had begun there, in that instant he knew Nadama was lost to him. He smiled as
he drew on the tunic: her face was blurred now, and when he endeavored to find
it, he saw Cennaire's instead. Perhaps, he thought, he should take Bracht's
advice, or Katya's, which was to allow events to take their natural course.
Bracht's way was direct, Katya's more subtle; and she was, after all, a woman.
Therefore, he told himself as he wound a sash of iridescent gold about his
waist, Katya should know best, and he be better advised to heed her. Aye, he
would bide his time and judge the moment rather than press headlong onward.

           
He was certain that did he press
Cennaire and she reject him, he would be mightily hurt. Such pain he would not
welcome, and therefore it seemed the wiser course to wait, to hold back.
Cowardice? he wondered. Or sense? No matter—he felt some- „ what less confused,
less pressured; or, perhaps, safer. And as Bracht had said, they faced long
days together. He tied the sash and surveyed his splendid costume, deciding
that he cut a rather grand figure.

           
He moved to buckle on his sword,
thinking better of it—likely the Jesserytes would take offense did a guest come
armed to table—but instead took his dirk concealing the blade beneath the
tunic, grinning as he thought that the innocent who had fled Secca would never
so instinctively seek that protection.

           
Still grinning, he quit the room and
went to Bracht's door.

           
The Kern was dressed no less
magnificently, although he was considerably less at ease in the unfamiliar
costume. He shifted restlessly, setting the dark blue silk of his tunic to
rustling, tugging at the silver sash, glancing down at the loose jade- green
trousers.

           
"Ahrd, but I feel a
popinjay," he grumbled. "Could we not wear civilized clothes?"

           
"You look most handsome."

           
Katya emerged from her chamber and
Bracht stopped his fidgeting, jaw dropping as he gaped at the Vanu woman. She
wore a robe of glistening black, all sewn with twining silver birds, high-
collared, descending to her feet, the tips of silver slippers peeking from
beneath the hem. Her flaxen hair was unbound, falling smooth over the gown's
shoulders, dramatic contrast to the sable silk, a match to the embroidered
birds. She smiled at the Kern's expression, which remained amazed.

           
"And you ..." he mumbled.
"Ahrd, but I've never ..."

           
Katya laughed, waiting. Bracht shook
his head, helplessly. Calandryll said, "You look superb," then gaped
himself as Cennaire came into the corridor.

           
Her gown was a reflection of
Katya's, shimmering silver, the birds all black and green, her hair a spill of
blue-black, falling to the swell of her breasts. Her lips shone red and her
eyes were huge, emphasized with kohl, flickering from one to the other, fixing
longest on Calandryll.

           
He bowed, as if once more in his
dead father's court, and said, "You are lovely," hearing the words
come out hoarse from a mouth gone suddenly dry. Abruptly, he felt awkward,
grateful to the armored man who emerged from the shadows, bowing, inviting them
to follow him to the dining hall. It was hard to take his eyes from Cennaire's
face, exciting to offer her his arm, to feel her hand warm through the silk. He
struggled to remember the courtly moves, the conversation, aware of Bracht's
muffled chuckle at his back. No words came and he swallowed, cursing himself,
his mind gone blank of compliments.

           
At his side, Cennaire needed no
augmented senses to recognize arousal, or embarrassment, and deemed it wisest
to affect modesty, murmuring a demure "My thanks. You, too, are
splendid," concealing her smile as he cleared his throat, opened his mouth
to reply, thought better of it, and muttered, '"Thank you," in a near
groan.

           
To Calandryll, it was almost a
relief to enter the hall and find himself in such company as distracted him a
little from the woman.

           
The chamber, like all others in the
keep, was crepuscular, the flambeaux mounted along the dark- paneled walls
shedding no more than flickering pools of light, their smoke sweet-scented,
mingling with the odors of roasting meat and wine. There were windows, but
shuttered against the night now, so that the colorfully garbed Jesserytes who
occupied the five long tables were near ghostly figures, their dark faces lost,
as if the bright tunics themselves were animated, their conversation falling
away to a murmur as the guests were escorted to the farther end of the
low-ceilinged room.

           
There, set at a right angle to the
rest, stood a smaller table, flanked along one side by backless chairs,
allowing the diners there to survey the chamber. Chazali occupied the central
seat, Ochen and Temchen to either side, the warriors resplendent in outfits of
extravagant colors, empty places between them. Calandryll was unsure if it was
a welcome relief or a disappointment to find himself located between the wazir
and the kiriwashen, Cennaire to Ochen's right. Katya, too, he noticed, was
placed at the table's farther end, on Temchen's left, assuming it a Jesseryte
custom that the women should occupy the most remote seats.

           
"I trust your kitai suit,"
Chazali inquired. "I had feared we should find none to fit you."

           
"Excellently." Calandryll
found it easier to converse without the distraction of Cennaire's presence.
"You've our thanks for such hospitality."

           
"We are not"—Chazali
smiled, glancing at Bracht—"entirely barbarous."

           
"Indeed not," Calandryll
agreed as the kiriwashen filled his cup with pale golden wine. "Mystery
breeds phantoms, I think—folk tend to fear what they do not know."

           
Chazali nodded soberly, his face
again grave, inscrutable. "I have never met a Lyssian before," he
remarked.

           
"You do not visit Nywan?"
Calandryll sensed this was. not the time to discuss the war, their quest: the
kiriwashen appeared bent on trivial conversation, and he accepted that cue.
"Our merchants trade there."

           
"No." Chazali shook his
head. "Nywan is the province of the kembi."

           
The word, despite Ochen's magic, had
no obvious translation, though the note of contempt was clear enough.
Calandryll's face expressed his lack of understanding.

           
"I am kotu," Chazali
explained. "Of the warrior caste. Kotu do not dabble in trade, which is
the concern of the kembi."

           
Calandryll nodded, his natural
curiosity aroused— there was much to learn of this strange and isolated people.
He asked, "Are all here kotu?"

           
"Save Ochen," said
Chazali, "who is wazir."

           
"And the Shendii?"

           
"Kotu. The wisest of the kotu,
usually the oldest," Chazali explained, and laughed again. "A warrior
must survive to learn wisdom, to win the respect of his clan."

           
"Are there other castes?"
Calandryll was intrigued. "Or are all divided between warriors, mages, and
merchants?"

           
"There are the gettu—the
farmers," said Chazali, "and the artisans, who are of the machai
caste. There are others, but of no account. It is not so in Lysse?"