Bloodstone (29 page)

“What are scribes?”

“They keep the accounts. The merchants . . . oh, it’s easier if I show you.”

She led him across the courtyard, but instead of going up the steps, she ducked into the dark passageway beside them. Light streamed in from the larger entrance at the far end. That must be the gate.

Hircha came to a halt where a long corridor intersected the passageway. A steady stream of slaves hurried past with sacks of grain, haunches of meat, bundles of fleece, and hides. The aroma of fresh-baked bread wafted toward him, along with the clamor of contending voices and the sound of something shattering on stone.

“The kitchen,” Hircha said, observing the direction of his gaze.

They darted past the slaves, but when he neared the gate, Hircha grabbed his arm. Reluctantly, he stopped, watching the long line of men and animals waiting to enter the palace.

“You see those men with the donkeys?”

“Donkeys? That’s what you call those wooden carts?”

“Nay, the animals with the sacks. If the load is very heavy, the merchants hitch the donkeys to carts. The round things on the back of the cart—those are wheels.”

Unlike the slave compound, this gate had no doors, although guards stood at attention on either side. The merchants, he noticed, did not use the kitchen corridor, but veered off into another that must parallel it.

“When a merchant unloads his goods, they’re weighed. A scribe writes down the weight of each sack or bundle. It looks like the scratches of a bird’s claws to me, but they must know what it means.”

So the Speaker had been a scribe. Imagine being able to record such information so that anyone—well, anyone who could read the bird scratches—understood. You could communicate with people hundreds of miles away.

“Is it always this busy?” he asked. The line of merchants seemed endless.

“Until midday. After that it’s too hot to do much of anything.”

“Which way is the city?” From here, he could see only a vast open expanse—fields, perhaps.

“To the south. Through the main gate.”

She turned back toward the central courtyard. After a final hungry look at the gateway, Keirith followed. “And the adder pit?” he asked.

She waved vaguely in the direction of the north wing. So the adder pit was near the throne room. And the throne room was next to the chamber where he’d met the queen. His excitement grew with each new piece of information. To hide it, he asked, “Have you always been a translator?”

“Nay. I . . . mostly, I work in the kitchen.”

“That seems a waste.”

“I’m a member of the Zheron’s household. He can use me any way he wishes.”

He’d imagined she served the Pajhit. “The Zheron has a household?”

That closed look came over her face. “It’s too hot to talk out here.”

Obediently, he followed her back toward the priests’ wing. “Do they question all the prisoners in there?”

“The hall of priests,” she said, avoiding a direct answer. “Say it in Zherosi.”

“Zala di Dozhiistos.”

“Dozhiisti. You change the ‘o’ to an ‘i’ for the plural. So if we had two halls, it would be . . .”

“Zali di Dozhiisti.” Keirith grimaced. “It twists your mouth up something awful,” he said in the tribal tongue.

“Say it in Zherosi.”

He did his best. His best provoked a giggle, which made the failure more bearable.

“You just said, ‘You tie my tongue in bad.’ ”

“Well, it does tie my tongue in bad.”

He glanced around, but no one was paying them any attention other than his two guards. So he hopped onto the first step and shouted, “Un.” Then up to the next. “Bo. Traz. Uat.” By the time he reached “Iev,” he was panting. He slapped one of the massive pillars that supported the roof and jerked his hand back. A splinter was embedded in his forefinger. Carefully, he ran his hand over the pillar. Beneath the russet-colored paint, he could feel the ridges of bark.

“They’re made from tree trunks. Can you guess why they’re wider at the top than at the bottom?”

Fine observer he was; he hadn’t even noticed.

“They sink the tops into the ground to keep them from sprouting.”

More than a hundred trees had to have been destroyed to make all the pillars he’d seen. At least these held up a roof; the ones lining the walkways were merely decorative.

He sank down on the top step, then leaped up to extend a hand to Hircha who was making her slow way up the steps. Disdaining his help, she sat down, carefully tucking her right ankle behind her left. “I was shocked, too. When I first came here.”

“When was that?”

She surprised him by answering. “I was nine.”

Gods, she was only a child when they captured her. No wonder she’d been scared. “Was that when you hurt your leg?” Appalled at blurting out the question, he stammered an apology but she interrupted him.

“That was later. I tried to escape. After they brought me back, they cut the tendon behind my right ankle.”

“Merciful Maker.” He wasn’t sure which was more appalling—the punishment or her calm description of it.

“The usual penalty for attempted escape is death. But the Zheron wouldn’t allow it. I was lucky. It healed cleanly. And it doesn’t hurt. It just . . . slows me down.”

For a long while, they sat in the shadow of the great wooden pillars. The central courtyard was nearly deserted now; no one wanted to risk the heat of the midday sun.

“Do you still think about home?” he asked.

“There’s no point. I’ll never leave Pilozhat.”

Hircha could never run far enough or fast enough to escape. But he could. He would.

I
N EVERY VILLAGE, the chief was more than happy to assist the great Darak Spirit-Hunter. For the price of a tale, they secured food and lodging for the night and, more importantly, a group of men to row two currachs to the next village.

Unfortunately, the great Darak Spirit-Hunter soon discovered he had little stomach for the sea. When he first saw the currachs that would carry them south, he eyed the sleek vessels with misgiving. True, their tapered points—prows, Urkiat called them—looked like they could easily cut through the waves, especially with the aid of the long oars. But the currachs were little wider than a coracle and so lightweight that two men could carry one on their shoulders.

Urkiat had warned him it would be “a bit rough” until they got out beyond the breakers. The men had given him a place on one of the narrow seats near the middle of the boat. Neither precaution prepared him for the wild ride that ensued.

As they fought to crest each wave, the prow reared up, dropping the back of the boat so low that Darak found himself looming above the man in the stern. Then they plunged down into the next trough, sending the stern skyward and drenching them with spray.

When Darak dared a glance at Urkiat’s currach, he found him laughing as he battled the waves. Watching the rise and fall of that triumphant face made him more conscious of his lurching stomach, so he kept his gaze on his feet and his hands on the sides of the currach.

After three mornings of vomiting up his porridge, he learned to eat nothing until they reached open water. His stomach could handle the gentle rocking. His mind had more difficulty accepting that a thin skin of hide was the only thing between him and the vast expanse of water. Beautiful and awe-inspiring from the shore, the sea transformed into a splashing, probing, gurgling creature, slapping at the hide as if determined to poke a hole in it. No wonder the men kept an amulet tied to the prow.

As Girn had promised, they reached Illait’s village on the evening of the tenth day. Darak staggered ashore and apologized to the men who had carried them from the last village, just as he apologized every evening for being such a useless passenger. As all the others had done, the men just smiled. One assured him that he’d come to love traveling by sea. Darak managed a sickly grin. Given eternity, he would never enjoy it. He only hoped a man could get around the Forever Isles on foot.

Illait strode down to the beach to welcome them. A small, wiry man with a face given to flushing red with either anger or delight, Darak remembered him mostly as a voluble speaker at the Gatherings, haranguing the northern chiefs about their negligence regarding the raiders. But his face creased in a smile when he saw his visitors.

“Darak. This is a surprise. What brings you to our village? Never mind. That’ll wait. Come inside. You look like you could use a drink.”

Illait gave him a comradely punch. Fortunately, it was his right arm; the left still ached from the raider’s arrow; ten days of stinging salt water hadn’t helped.

“Northerners aren’t much good on the sea. No shame in it. Takes a while to get used to the pitch of the boat. Up and down. Back and forth.”

Darak swallowed down his rising gorge.

“You’re lucky you had such good weather. When a storm’s brewing, the currachs are tossed about like barley husks at the threshing.”

Darak excused himself politely and strode behind the nearest hut. When he returned, he found Illait grinning with delight.

“Holly-Chief, I think I’ll have that drink now.”

He let Urkiat do most of the talking. Not daring to test his stomach with brogac or wine, he accepted a cup of water from Illait’s daughter Sariem and contented himself with nibbles of barleycake while Illait and Urkiat wolfed down fresh venison and salmon. The smell of the fish nearly undid him. Seeing his distress, Illait’s wife shooed Sariem outside with the untouched helpings and crouched beside the fire pit to stir herbs into a steaming bowl of water. The soothing fragrance of mint made him smile.

Jirra eyed him critically, but all she said was, “Husband. These men need a good day’s rest before they’ll be fit to travel.”

“What? Oh. Fine.” Illait waved a magnanimous hand. “Stay as long as you like.”

“Thank you, Holly-Chief, but we can only spare one day.” He was reluctant to spare even that, but Jirra was right. “Girn said we should seek your wisdom about the route to take from here.”

Illait’s chest swelled visibly. “You’re safe enough till you reach Ailmin’s village. That’s four days south of here. More if the weather turns foul. After that, though . . .” He frowned. “Most of the villages have been abandoned. We’ve little contact with the others. But there are rumors . . .” The fire hissed as he spat into it. “Tales of those in the far south selling off strangers to the raiders.”

“Nay!” Urkiat scrambled to his feet, breathing hard. “Pelts and hides, perhaps. But no tribesman would sell one of his own people to the Zherosi.”

“Sit down,” Darak said.

With a visible effort, Urkiat controlled his temper. “Forgive my rudeness, Holly-Chief.”

“Well.” Illait spat again. “As I said, they might only be rumors, but it pays to be cautious. This holy city where you think they’ve taken your boy—it’s to the east?”

Darak nodded.

“The passes will be open, but it’s a fair climb over the mountains.”

“We don’t have that kind of time.”

“Then keep on down the coast. If you skirt the villages by night, you should be safe enough.”

“And if we go by currach?”

Illait looked skeptical. “Could you manage a two-man vessel, do you think?”

“I put in a little time at the oars. When I wasn’t puking over the side.”

Illait took a healthy swig of brogac. “Your best bet might be to make for the big port city. Can’t remember the name. Sounds like gargling.”

“Oexiak.”

Illait gave Urkiat a sharp look. So did Darak. “Aye,” Illait said. “That’s it. Ailmin’s folk used to carry furs there before the raids got so bad.”