Athyra (2 page)

“That must have been what they served the last place I ate, too, half a day east of here.”

“That would be Whiterock. I’ve been there twice.”

Vlad nodded. “I didn’t really notice the taste in the stew, but it made the salad interesting.”

Savn thought he detected a hint of irony in the other’s tone but he wasn’t certain.

“Some types of flax are used for cooking, some we use to make linen.”

“Linen?”

“Yes.”

“You cook with the same stuff you make clothes out of?”

“No, not the same. It’s different.”

“They probably made a mistake, then,” said Vlad. “That would account for the salad.”

Savn glanced back at him, but still wasn’t certain if he were joking. “It’s easy to tell the difference,” he said. “When you make the seedblocks and leave them in the coolhouse in barrels, the true, true salad flax will melt—”

“Never mind,” said Vlad. “I’m certain you can tell.”

A pair of jhereg flew from a tree and were lost in the woods before them. Savn wondered if they might be the same pair he had seen earlier. They came to the last hill before Tern’s house. Savn said, “You never answered my question.”

“Question?”

“Are you wandering to something, or away from something?”

“It’s been so long, I’m not certain anymore.”

“Oh. May I ask you something?”

“Certainly. I might not answer.”

“If you don’t tell stories, what do you do?”

“You mean, everyone must do something?”

“Well, yes.”

“I’m not too bad a hunter.”

“Oh.”

“And I have a few pieces of gold, which I show around when I have to.”

“You just show them around?”

“That’s right.”

“What does that do?”

“Makes people want to take them away from me.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“And when they try, I end up with whatever they’re carrying, which is usually enough for my humble needs.”

Savn looked at him, again trying to decide if he were joking, but the Easterner’s mouth was all but hidden beneath the black hair that grew above his lip. Savn tore his eyes away, lest he be thought rude. “That’s it below, sir,” he said, wondering if he ought to say “sir” to an Easterner.

“Call me Vlad.”

“All right. I hope the house is to your liking.”

“I’m certain it will be fine,” he said. “Spend a few weeks in the jungles and it’s amazing how little it takes to feel like luxury. May I give you something?”

Savn frowned, taken by a sudden suspicion he couldn’t explain. “What do you mean?”

“It is the custom of my people to give a gift to the first person we meet in a new land. It is supposed to bring luck. I don’t know that I believe it, but I’ve taken to following the old customs anyway.”

“What—?”

“Here.” He reached into his pouch, found something, and held it out.

“What is it?” said Savn.

“A polished stone I picked up in my wanderings.”

Savn stared at it, torn between fear and excitement. “Is it magical?”

“It’s just a stone.”

“Oh,” said Savn. “It’s a very nice green.”

“Yes. Please keep it.”

“Well, thank you,” said Savn, still staring at it It had been polished until it gleamed. Savn wondered how one might polish a stone, and why one would bother. He took it and put it into his pocket. “Maybe I’ll see you again.”

“Maybe you will,” said Vlad, and entered the house. Savn wished he could go in with him, just to see the look on Tern’s face when an Easterner walked through the door, but it was already dark and his family would be waiting for him, and Paener always got grumpy when he didn’t get home to eat on time.

As Savn walked home, which was more than another league, he wondered about the Easterner—what he was doing here, whence he had come, whither he would go, and whether he was telling the truth about how he lived. Savn had no trouble believing that he hunted—(although how could he find game? Easterners couldn’t be sorcerers, could they?), but the other was curious, as well as exciting. Savn found himself doubting it, and by the time he reached the twinkling light visible through the oiled window of home, he had convinced himself that the Easterner had been making it up.

At dinner that night Savn was silent and distracted, although neither Paener nor Maener noticed, being too tired to make small talk. His sister kept up a stream of chatter, and if she was aware of Savn’s failure to contribute, she didn’t say anything about it. The only time he was spoken to, when Mae asked him what he had learned that day from Master Wag, he just shrugged and muttered that he had been setting bones, after which his sister went off on another commentary about how stupid all the girls she knew were, and how annoying it was that she had to associate with them. After dinner he helped with some of the work—the little that could be done by Paener’s feeble light-spell. There was wood to be broken up into kindling (Paener and Maener chopped the big stuff—they said Savn wasn’t old enough yet), there was clearing leftover feed from the kethna pens so scavengers wouldn’t be attracted, and there was cleaning the tools for the next day’s harvest.

When he was finished, he went out behind the small barn, sat down on one of the cutting stumps, and listened to the copperdove sing her night song from somewhere behind him. The copperdove would be leaving soon, going south until spring, taking with her the sparrow and the whiteback, the redbird and the daythief. But for the first time, Savn wondered where they went, and what it was like there. It must be too hot for them in the summer, or they’d remain there, but other than that, what was it like? Did any people live there? If so, what were they like? Was there a Savn who watched the birds and wondered what happened when they flew back north? He had a sudden image of another Savn, a Savn naked to the waist and damp with sweat, staring back.

I could just go, he thought. Not go back inside, not stop to get anything, just walk away. Find out where the copperdove goes, and who lives there, and what they’re like. I could do it now. But he knew he wouldn’t. He’d stay here, and—

And what?

He suddenly thought of the jhereg he’d seen on Tern’s roof. The flying reptiles were scavengers, just as, in another sense, were those of the House of the Jhereg. Savn had seen many of the animals, but none of the nobles of that House. What would it be like to encounter one?

Why am I suddenly thinking about these things?

And, What is happening to me? There was a sudden vertigo, so that he almost sat down, but he was afraid to move, for the instant was as wonderful as it was terrifying. He didn’t want to breathe, yet he was keenly aware of doing so, of the air moving in and out of his lungs, and even filling his whole body, which was impossible. And in front of him was a great road with brick walls and a sky that was horribly black. The road went on forever, and he knew that up ahead somewhere were branches that could lead anywhere. And looming over them was the face of the Easterner he had just met, and somehow the Easterner was opening up some paths and closing others. His heart was filled with the joy of loss and the pain of opportunity. With some part of his consciousness, he knew what was happening; some had called it Touching the Gods, and there were supposed to be Athyra mystics who spent their lives in this state. He had heard of such experiences from friends, but had never more than half-believed them. “It’s like you’re touching the whole world at once,”

said Coral. “It’s like you can see all around yourself, and inside everything,” said someone he couldn’t remember. And it was all of these things, but that was only a small part of it.

What did it mean? Would it leave him changed? In what way? Who would he be when it was over?

And then it was over; gone as quickly as it had come. Around him the copperdove still sang, and the cricket harmonized. He took deep breaths and closed his eyes, trying to burn the experience into his memory so he’d be able to taste it again. What would Mae and Pae say? And Coral? Polyi wouldn’t believe him, but that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if anyone believed him. In fact, he wouldn’t tell them; he wouldn’t even tell Master Wag. This was his own, and he’d keep it that way, because he understood one thing—he could leave if he wanted to.

Although he’d never thought about it before, he understood it with every sense of his body; he had the choice of the life of a physicker in Smallcliff, or something unknown in the world outside. Which would he choose? And when? He sat and wondered. Presently, the chill of early autumn made him shiver, and he went back inside.

Her name was Rocza, and sometimes she even answered to it. As she flew upward, broke through the overcast, and began to breathe again, the sky turned blue—a full, livid, dancing blue, spotted with white and grey, as on the ground below were spots of other colors, and to her there was little to choose among them. The dots above were pushed about by the wind; those below by, no doubt, something much like the wind but perhaps more difficult to recognize. She was not pushed by the wind, and neither did it carry her; rather, she slipped around it, and through it. It is said that sailors never mock the sea, yet she mocked the winds.

Her lover was calling to her from below, and it was that strange call, the call that in all the years she had never understood. It was not food, nor danger, nor mating, although it bore a similarity to all of these; it was another call entirely, a call that meant her lover wanted them to do something for the Provider. She didn’t understand what bound her lover to the Provider, but bound he was, and he seemed to want it that way. It made no sense to her.

But she responded, because he had called, and because he always responded when she called. The concept of fair play did not enter her brain, yet something very much akin whispered through her thoughts as she spun, held her breath, and sliced back through the overcast, sneering at an updraft and a swirl that she did not need. Her lover waited, and his eyes gleamed in that secret way.

She saw the Provider before she scented him, but she wasn’t aware of seeing, hearing, or smelling her lover; she simply knew where he was, and so they matched, and descended, and cupped the air together to land near the short, stubby, soft neck of the Provider, and await his wishes, to which they would give full attention and at least some consideration.

Chapter Two

I will not many a serving man,

I will not marry a serving man.

All that work I could not stand.

Hi-dee hi-dee ho-la!

Step on out ...

The next day was Endweek, which Savn spent at home, making soap and using it up, as he wryly put it to himself, but he took a certain satisfaction in seeing that the win-dowsill and the kitchen jars sparkled in the blaze of the open stove, and the castiron pump over the sink gave off its dull gleam. As he cleaned, his thoughts kept returning to the experience of the night before; yet the more he thought of it, the more it slipped away from him. Something had certainly happened. Why didn’t he feel different?

He gradually realized that he did—that, as he cleaned, he kept thinking, This may be one of the last times I do this. These thoughts both excited and frightened him, until he realized that he was becoming too distracted to do a good job, whereupon he did his best to put it entirely out of his mind and just concentrate on his work. By the time he was finished, the entire cold-cellar had new ratkill and bugkill spells on it, the newer meal in the larder had been shuffled to the back, the new preserves in their pots had been stacked beneath the old, and everything was ready for the storebought they’d be returning with in the evening. His sister worked on the hearthroom, while Mae did the outside of the house and Pae cleaned the sleeping room and the loft.

His work was done by the fourteenth hour of the morning, and everyone else’s within half an hour thereafter, so that shortly before noon they had a quick lunch of maize-bread and yellow pepper soup, after which they hitched Gleena and Ticky up to the wagon and set off for town. They always made the necessary stops in the same order, generally spiraling in toward Tern’s house where they would have the one bought meal of the week, along with ale for Mae, Pae, and, lately, Savn, and beetwater for Polyi while they listened to the farmers argue about whether the slight dry spell would mean lower yields and poorer crops, or would, in fact, tend to make the flax hardier in the long run. Those of Savn’s age would join in, listen, and occasionally make jokes calculated to make them appear clever to their elders or to those their own age of the desired sex, except for those who were apprenticed to trade, who would sit by themselves in a corner exchanging stories of what their Masters had put them through that week. Savn had his friends among this group. The first two stops (the livery stable for the feed supplements, and the yarner for fresh bolts of linen) went as usual—they bought the feed supplements and didn’t buy any linen, although Savn fingered a yarn-dyed pattern of sharply angled red and white lines against a dark green fabric, while Mae and Pae chatted with Threader about how His Lordship was staying in his manor house near Smallcliff, and Polyi looked bored. Savn knew without asking that the fabric would be too expensive to buy, and after a while they left, Mae complimenting Threader on the linen and saying they’d maybe buy something if His Lordship left them enough of the harvest. They skipped the ceramics shop, which they often did, though as usual they drove by; Savn wasn’t sure if it was from habit or just to wave at Pots, and he never thought to ask. By the time they pulled away from Hider’s place, where they got a piece of leather for Gleena’s girth-strap, which was wearing out, it was past the third hour after noon and they were in sight of both the dry goods store and Tern’s house. There was a large crowd outside Tern’s.

Mae, who was driving, stopped the cart and frowned. “Should we see what it is?”

“They seem to be gathered around a cart,” said Pae.

Mae stared for a moment longer, then clicked the team closer.

“There’s Master Wag,” said Polyi, glancing at Savn as if he would be able to provide an explanation.

They got a little closer, finally stopping some twenty feet down the narrow street from the crowd and the cart. Savn and Polyi stood up and craned their necks.

“It’s a dead man,” said Savn in an awed whisper.

“He’s right,” said Pae.

“Come along,” said Mae. “We don’t need to be here.”

“But, Mae—” said Polyi.

“Hush now,” said Pae. “Your mother is right. There’s nothing we can do for the poor fellow, anyway.”

Polyi said, “Don’t you want to know—”

“We’ll hear everything later, no doubt,” said Mae. “More than we want to or need to, I’m sure. Now we need to pick up some nails.”

As they began to move, Master Wag’s eyes fell on them like a lance. “Wait a moment, Mae,” said Savn. “Master Wag—”

“I see him,” said his mother, frowning. “He wants you to go to him.” She didn’t sound happy.

Savn, for his part, felt both excited and nervous to suddenly discover himself the center of attention of everyone gathered in the street, which seemed to be nearly everyone who lived nearby.

Master Wag did not, however, leave him time to feel much of anything. His deeply lined face was even more grim than usual, and his protruding jaw was clenching at regular intervals, which Savn had learned meant that he was concentrating. The Master said, “It is time you learned how to examine the remains of a dead man. Come along.”

Savn swallowed and followed him to the horse-cart, with a roan gelding still standing patiently nearby, as if unaware that anything was wrong. On the wagon’s bed was a body, on its back as if lying down to take a rest, head toward the back. The knees were bent quite naturally, both palms were open and facing up, the head—

“I know him!” said Savn. “It’s Reins!”

Master Wag grunted as if to say, “I know that already.” Then he said, “Among the sadder duties which befall us is the necessity to determine how someone came to die. We must discover this to learn, first, if he died by some disease that could be spread to others, and second, if he was killed by some person or animal against whom we must alert the people. Now, tell me what you see.”

Before Savn could answer, however, the Master turned to the crowd and said,

“Stand back, all of you! We have work to do here. Either go about your business, or stay well back. We’ll tell you what we find.”

One of the more interesting things about Master Wag was how his grating manner would instantly transform when he was in the presence of a patient. The corpse evidently did not qualify as a patient, however, and the Master scowled at those assembled around the wagon until they had all backed off several feet. Savn took a deep breath, proud that Master Wag had said, “We,” and he had to fight down the urge to rub his hands together as if it were actually he who had “work to do.” He hoped Firi was watching.

“Now, Savn,” said the Master. ‘Tell me what you see.”

“Well, I see Reins. I mean, his body.”

“You aren’t looking at him. Try again.”

Savn became conscious once more that he was being watched, and he tried to ignore the feeling, with some success. He looked carefully at the way the hands lay, palms up, and the position of the feet and legs, sticking out at funny angles. No one would lie down like that on purpose. Both knees were slightly bent, and—

“You aren’t looking at his face,” said Master Wag. Savn gulped. He hadn’t wanted to look at the face. The Master continued, “Look at the face first, always. What do you see?”

Savn made himself look. The eyes were lightly closed, and the mouth was set in a straight line. He said, “It just looks like Reins, Master.”

“And what does that tell you?”

Savn tried to think, and at last he ventured, “That he died in his sleep?”

The Master grunted. “No, but that was a better guess than many you could have made. We don’t know yet that he died in his sleep, although that is possible, but we know two important things. One is that he was not surprised by death, or else that he was so surprised he had no time to register shock, and, two, that he did not die in pain.”

“Oh. Yes, I see.”

“Good. What else?”

Savn looked again, and said, hesitantly, “There is blood by the back of his head.”

“How much?”

“Very little.”

“And how much do head wounds bleed?”

“A lot.”

“So, what can you tell?”

“Uh, I don’t know.”

“Think! When will a head wound fail to bleed?”

“When ... oh. He was dead before he hurt his head?”

“Exactly. Very good. And do you see blood anywhere else?”

“Ummm ... no.”

“Therefore?”

“He died, then fell backward, cutting open his head on the bottom of the cart, so very little blood escaped.”

The Master grunted. “Not bad, but not quite right, either. Look at the bottom of the cart. Touch it.” Savn did so. “Well?”

“It’s wood.”

“What kind of wood?”

Savn studied it and felt stupid. “I can’t tell, Master. A fir tree of some kind.”

“Is it hard or soft?”

“Oh, it’s very soft.”

“Therefore he must have struck it quite hard in order to cut his head open, yes?”

“Oh, that’s true. But how?”

“How indeed? I have been informed that the horse came into town at a walk, with the body exactly as you see it. One explanation that would account for the facts would be if he were driving along, and he died suddenly, and, at the same time or shortly thereafter, the horse was startled, throwing the already dead body into the back, where it would fall just as you see it, and with enough force to break the skin over the skull, and perhaps the skull as well. If that were the case, what would you expect to see?”

Savn was actually beginning to enjoy this—to see it as a puzzle, rather than as the body of someone he had once known. He said, “A depression in the skull, and a matching one on the cart beneath his head.”

“He would have had to hit very hard indeed to make a depression in the wood. But, yes, there should be one on the back of his head. And what else?”

“What else?”

“Yes. Think. Picture the scene as it may have happened.”

Savn felt his eyes widen. “Oh!” He looked at the horse. “Yes,” he said. “He has run hard.”

“Excellent!” said the Master, smiling for the first time. “Now we can use our knowledge of Reins. What did he do?”

“Well, he used to be a driver, but since he left town I don’t know.”

“That is sufficient. Would Reins ever have driven a horse into a sweat?”

“Oh, no! Not unless he was desperate.”

“Correct. So either he was in some great trouble, or he was not driving the horse. You will note that this fits well with our theory that death came to him suddenly and also frightened the horse. Now, there is not enough evidence to conclude that we are correct, but it is worthwhile to make our version a tentative assumption while we look for more information.”

“I understand, Master.”

“I see that you do. Excellent. Now touch the body.”

“Touch it?”

“Yes.”

“Master ...”

“Do it!”

Savn swallowed, reached out and laid his hand lightly on the arm nearest him, then drew back. Master Wag snorted. “Touch the skin.”

He touched Reins’s hand with his forefinger, then pulled away as if burned. “It’s cold!” he said.

“Yes, bodies cool when dead. It would have been remarkable if it were not cold.”

“But then—”

“Touch it again.”

Savn did so. It was easier the second time. He said, “It is very hard.”

“Yes. This condition lasts several hours, then gradually fades away. In this heat we may say that he has been dead at least four or five hours, yet not more than half a day, unless he died from the Cold Fever, which would leave him in such a condition for much longer. If that had been the cause of death, however, his features would exhibit signs of the discomfort he felt before his death. Now, let us move him.”

“Move him? How?”

“Let’s see his back.”

“All right.” Savn found that bile rose in his throat as he took a grip on the body and turned it over.

“As we suspected,” said the Master. “There is the small bloodstain on the wood, and no depression, and you see the blood on the back of his head.”

“Yes, Master.”

“The next step is to bring him back home, where we may examine him thoroughly. We must look for marks and abrasions on his body; we must test for sorcery, we must look at the contents of his stomach, his bowels, his kidneys, and his bladder; and test for diseases and poisons; and—” He stopped, looking at Savn closely, then smiled. “Never mind,” he said. “I see that your Maener and Paener are still waiting for you. This will be sufficient for a lesson; we will give you some time to become used to the idea before it comes up again.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“Go on, go on. Tomorrow I will tell you what I learned. Or, rather, how I learned it. You will hear everything there is to hear tonight, no doubt, when you return to Tern’s house, because the gossips will be full of the news. Oh, and clean your hands carefully and fully with dirt, and then water, for you have touched death, and death calls to his own.”