Cordimancy (7 page)

Oji tore a piece of bread in half, chewed fast, cleared his mouth, and shrugged. “What should I make of a clan chief’s son, riding through the night? You carry little food, and no heavy gear, so Bakar must be your final destination. You hold a staff of authority, which puzzles me. You’ve no trade goods, and you’re not sneaking to a rendezvous with a woman if you’re taking a page.” He sniffed and smiled. “Although I can tell you were near a woman not long ago. I smell the perfume.”

Toril felt a flash of envy. He’d spent most of the night remembering the sensation of Malena’s lips yielding to his own; how would it be to capture her scent with such ease?

He eyed Oji. “Somehow I think there’s more to your guess than shrewd observation.”

There was a long silence, broken by the chatter of birds and the crackle of the fire. When Oji ran out of food, he sighed. “I know something of this council. You will see the rest of my band there. They will be Gorumim’s prisoners.”

“I thought you said they came at his request.”

“They did. But Gorumim will claim they were captured. He will invent some mischief to blame on them, and use it to inflame the clan chiefs.”

“Why would osipi consent to such a thing?” Toril said. “Surely you don’t want war.”

“
I
don’t, but Luim seems willing to act out the charade. I think his pact with Gorumim involves some quick end to whatever conflict arises, but when I demanded details, he got angry. Luim will not tolerate any challenge to his leadership.”

Luim?
The man was a powerful osipi cacique; Toril had heard his name often. If he was among the band in custody, something big was afoot.

“I came thinking we were going to negotiate about the turmoil to the west. After we entered the pass, Luim announced our true purpose. I could not see how deceit would serve our cause, especially if we allowed ourselves to be blamed for violence we did not commit. I pled with him to reconsider—and when that failed, I appealed to the others. But they were dreams-caught. They want reward and glory, and Luim promised it to them in abundance. He said our people would see a permanent end to hunger and want if we’d just trust him.”

“If the southern clans go to war, thousands of osipi women and children will feel the sting. They are migrating back to Merukesh now that summer is ending.”

“I know. It’s madness. But when I said as much, Luim called me a traitor and told the others to shut me up. We fought. That’s how my arm broke. They tree-tied me to starve or freeze to death.”

6

sisters ~ Malena

Malena
sat up, her half-finished yawn vanishing. Her eyelids, cracked the moment before, now stretched wide. What were these strange shutters streaming dawn?

Memories of the wedding feast flooded back. She caught sight of the daisy she had laid atop the chest beside her new bed, and sighed. Beyond the shutters, a pigeon cooed. She heard a flutter of wings as it dropped away from the roof.

Her fingers traced a seam in the muslin of her pillow while she waited for her heartbeat to slow. She felt like a stranger here. That would have to change.

Her eyes wandered across the tidy room. Last night, it had been yellowed by lamps; this morning, it was brighter, with gentler and bluer shadows. Yet the sense of—what? wholeness, blunt comfort?—remained. Her parents’ chambers at home—former home—abounded with embroidery and silk and expertly carved woodwork. Somehow, she liked the afghan and rocker better.

A man who lived in a space like this was the sort of man she could like.

Was that wishful thinking?

She padded barefoot across stone and knelt at the window to offer prayers. A dish in a corner of the sill held char from incense sticks; apparently she was not the only one who faced east each morning.

As she straightened a moment later, a soft clap sounded beyond the door.

Still in the gown she’d worn for sleep, she puffed some errant hair away from her forehead and cracked the door.

“Is he awake?” her younger sister hissed.

Malena found herself grinning. Of course Tupa wouldn’t have known that Toril was away on business. The audacity of the girl…

“He was called to a meeting,” she said. “He won’t be back all day.” She swung the door wide.

Tupa bounced in.

“What’s he like?” she asked
sotto voce
, as if soliciting scandalous gossip.

“He seems like a good person,” Malena said blandly. “But really, I’ve only had a few moments to talk to him.” Out of habit, she motioned her sister to a chair and reached for a brush. Tupa’s hair was always scraggly unless Malena attended to it.

Her fingers smoothed and straightened, adjusting as her sister’s head swiveled to study the room in each direction.

“He’s not messy,” Tupa observed.

“No.”

“But that’s just the servants,” Tupa said, trying to sound knowing.

“Maybe.”

After a long silence, Tupa cleared her throat. “I’m scared.”

“Scared? Of what?”

Tupa stared at the floor.

“What do you have to be scared of?” Malena prodded, keeping her voice as gentle as she could manage. “The trip home?”

Tupa shook her head. Malena waited.

“I’m going to be the only one at home now,” Tupa finally said. “I won’t have anyone to talk to.”

“We can still talk by Voice.”

Tupa hesitated. “And it won’t be long before I’m going to Erim’s.”

Malena stopped fussing with hair and put her hands on her sister’s shoulders. “Is that what’s got you worried? The fosterage?”

Tupa nodded.

“It is a bit of an adjustment to live in a home that’s different from where you grew up,” Malena acknowledged. “I remember being homesick for the first couple weeks. But it’s part of what got me ready to move here, I suppose. I’d be more timid if I hadn’t already learned some independence.”

“I don’t know anybody in Erim’s household,” Tupa said, her voice acquiring a quaver at the end of the sentence.

Malena sighed. “Do you trust Father to send you somewhere that you can be happy? Do you trust Mam?”

Tupa’s face grew even more troubled.

“All right,” Malena said, putting her palms on Tupa’s cheeks and resting her chin on the crown of her sister’s head. “Do you trust me?”

In the looking glass beside the bed, Malena watched her sister’s lip quiver. She bent down and gave her sister a long, heartfelt hug. “It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

Tupa sniffled. “I’m going to be so lonely. Even before I leave, home will be empty without you. And once I leave, I don’t know if I can stand it. I won’t have anybody.”

“Maybe I can visit you,” Malena suggested.

As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. How could she offer something like that, when she had no idea if it would be possible? Three months from now, these mountains would have snow, and travel would be hard. Three months from now, she might be consumed with caring for an ailing father-in-law while her husband spent his days attending to clan business or fighting battles on the border. Three months from now, she might be morning sick. Besides, for all she knew, Toril would be as controlling of her travels as Father had been of Mam’s. She wasn’t in a position to make plans right now.

“When could you visit?” Tupa asked, a note of hope creeping into her voice.

“The truth is, I’m not sure,” Malena admitted. “How about I contact you by Voice in a few weeks, and we can talk about what would be practical?”

Tupa’s expression slumped.

Malena kissed the top of her sister’s head. “I know that’s not much of a promise. But it’s the best I can do right now. I promise we’ll talk.”

“Soon?” Tupa asked.

7

war council ~ Toril

When
Toril reached the Royal Guard’s headquarters in Bakar, he saw that he was interrupting. He’d ridden hard and arrived at the appointed time, despite his encounter at the pass. He felt his face flush. Why had they started without him?

A dozen men crowded around the table, with the shimsal presiding as Gorumim’s stand-in at the head. She wore the traditional robes, and her head was shaved in accordance with her unique function.

Shimsals were particularly gifted Voices, capable of non-stop proxying rather than just periodic messages. Sometimes they could even relay visual impressions in addition to what they heard. They worked in pairs—one at either end of a connection—and usually the pairs were twins, for maximum congruence.

All Voices knew enough secrets to be dangerous, though they took stringent vows of discretion. But as representatives of the most wealthy and powerful, shimsals got extra respect; they relayed attitude to their clients, not just words.

“Where is Hasha?” the shimsal demanded, speaking in a low parody of the words Gorumim was no doubt uttering far away. “A lieutenant has no standing here.”

“I am Toril ur Hasha, chief of Kelun Clan, my Lord,” Toril responded, trying to keep his voice matter-of-fact. He held out the staff he was carrying so it could be seen clearly.

The shimsal’s face blanked as she concentrated on relaying what she saw, but the men around the table stirred in surprise. “He had no right to appoint you!” one exclaimed.

“I was not appointed,” Toril said. “I took the staff by challenge.”

A long pause followed as this news sank in.

“Hasha was clan chief when I reached him last night,” the shimsal snapped, rejoining the conversation. “What nonsense is this about succession? Have you killed your own father, boy?”

Toril gritted his teeth. He was no “boy,” and internal clan business required no justification to outsiders. But Malena and his father had both urged restraint...

“
The
hakufu won’t go home like the treaty requires. They say there’s no food, after the disastrous weather in their homeland. They’re planning to spend the winter rains here,” one man said. “They’ve built tent villages on the outskirts of some of our towns, and it’s making my people nervous. Women don’t want to travel the road if they’re going to be surrounded by yolk suckers. Even some of the merchants are reluctant to approach with their caravans.”

That claim seemed a little far-fetched to Toril. “We have not seen much difference,” he observed.

“You wouldn’t. The half lives are more interested in lowland crops and game than timber and copper mines. They feed off our bounty while they work in our fields. You have less that’s edible.”

A ripple of snide laughter ran around the table. Toril knew that the speaker was a poor manager of his farmland, burdened with debt and chronically irresponsible—but he settled for a mild blink instead of the comeback that leapt to his tongue.

The shimsal cleared her throat. “Enough talk.” she said. “I have kept the peace at the border since your great grandfathers were babes. Sometimes I have negotiated with our southern neighbors. Sometimes I have enticed. But I fear that this crisis demands more decisive action. I have information that I need to share.”

The table grew quiet.

The shimsal snapped her fingers at the guards stationed by the door. “Bring in the prisoners,” she said.

They saluted and turned on their heels.

“I told you to arrive without fuss,” the shimsal said. “This prevents ordinary folk from becoming alarmed. But more importantly, it hides our meeting from certain factions within the osipi leadership—factions that are planning a full-blown invasion of Zufa.”

A low whistle and a buzz of whispers shot around the table.

“Two days ago a tale came to my ears. A border scout sent word that he’d seen osipi patrols approaching the pass. They were heavily armed, and instead of fighting one another, they appeared intent on crossing into our own territory.

“I sent a company to intercept them. Last night they ambushed one of the patrols that was on its way here, to Bakar.”

The door to the room opened, and a string of golden prisoners filed in. Their wrists and ankles were manacled, and they were chained together to limit mobility. Each wore an ivona, and despite the constraints, they moved with the rapid fluidity that characterized their race.

Several men around the table lurched to their feet. Others cursed.

Toril, who had been expecting this revelation, analyzed the warriors more objectively. Three limped, one quite badly. Several were bruised or scratched. One held his fingers gingerly, as if his hand were injured.

“You took them all alive?” he asked.

“Yes,” the shimsal confirmed. “We surrounded them with archers. They knew better than to fight.”

Toril wondered if others would match his own surmise. They hadn’t fought with sword or spear, but these warriors had certainly been in a scuffle recently. He visualized Oji’s broken arm.

“I recognize this one,” accused the Pavilshani chief, pointing to the first man in the line. “He’s Luim.”

“Indeed he is,” said the shimsal. “The senior warrior of the eastern tribes.”

The diminutive leader stared back with no apparent fear. Like most adult osipi, his age was difficult to judge, but his ivona was full of beads—more so than any of his peers. Each represented another warrior he’d bested in ritual combat; he’d been a dangerous man for years.

“Ahu are not supposed to cross the border at all,” another clan chief snarled at him. “Let alone as a group. What were you doing here?”

The osipi did not respond.

“He hasn’t been willing to talk,” the shimsal said.

“We can change that,” said one of the guards.

The shimsal shook her head. “You have not negotiated and travelled among our southern neighbors as I have, so you may not know as much of Luim as I do. This one is not just ahu. He is aiki ahu.”

The clan chiefs all flinched.

Despite their size, the reflexes of osipi made even their ordinary warriors fearsome; the Guard considered them the equal of two normal men. Those who wore the ivona—the ahu—were far more dangerous. But aiki ahu—they were the stuff of legend.

Osipi were incapable of manipulating magic directly; it ran in their veins and defied conscious intent. But sometimes an osipi so mastered the rhythm and flow of his body that he could deepen the magical effects of his heritage for a brief time.

By pushing himself into an aiki trance, an ahu became faster, more coordinated,
more osipi
than his fellows. That was why the council chamber suddenly reeked of fear; unchained and focused, Luim could probably kill everyone in the room with his bare hands.

By good fortune, aiki ahu were exceedingly rare. Aiki was difficult to learn and came at a terrible price. It burned up the practitioner, erasing weeks or months of vitality from an already short life, and causing profound agony. An aiki ahu would not yield to torture; he’d already mastered worse.

“We have a whole patrol,” one of the chiefs said. “Even if the leader won’t talk, someone will.”

“I told my men nothing,” Luim said calmly. “They cannot answer your questions.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the shimsal said. “Their plan is obvious. Their harvest was flooded out, and now they are desperate. They cross the border because they mean to seize the southern part of Zufa. They’re sending their best warriors.”

“What do you mean, ‘seize’?” demanded the man at Toril’s left.

“I mean they will abrogate the treaty and simply sweep you out of your cities and durgas. They’ll kill anyone who stands in their way.”

“That makes no sense,” Toril said. “Moving fast, they might be able to take a city or two, or even much of the border. But they could never hold it.”

“Once they’ve got a stronghold, many more soldiers will come,” the shimsal responded.

“But starting a war with winter on the horizon cripples them,” Toril objected. “We all know how they’re affected by the cold and wet. And they cannot expect to feed themselves in the spring, if the whole land’s embroiled in battle. They’re guaranteeing their own starvation.”

The shimsal shrugged. “There’s logic in what you’re saying, Kelun, but my spies are quite sure. When there’s a choice between starving now and starving later, I have no trouble believing they’d delay the inevitable.”

“Walk us through your plan, then,” said the chief of Navala Clan. “You’ve had some time to ponder.”

Toril
blinked, willing his eyes to stay open. He’d been awake for far too long, and his body and mind were sluggish. He fought a yawn.

“I have a basic question to ask,” he said. “Suppose we proceed with the general’s proposal, and we are able to push the osipi across the border. What then?”

“What do you mean?” asked one of his peers.

“Well, if the osipi are truly facing starvation, their troubles won’t end when they get home.” As soon as the sentence left his mouth, he regretted the sarcasm that he heard in his voice.

“That’s their problem.”

“Is it? If we push them south and pay no attention to their pleas for help, we become the cause of their suffering—at least in their minds. Do we expect them not to take drastic measures? What if they attack in full force? What if they join forces with the brigands that we can’t seem to eradicate?”

Toril turned to the shimsal. “How many troops do you need from us? A thousand? Ten times that number? It seems to me that all-out war must follow any enforced migration. How long before you’re back asking for more men?”

The woman stared at him, and Toril sensed Gorumim’s unexpressed fury behind her eyes. He remembered Malena’s warning about the general.

“Your question is irrelevant,” the shimsal said crisply. “We fight as long as it takes. Or we surrender your land. Those are the options. Let us vote now on a strategy, and be done with this useless argument.”

“I respectfully disagree, my Lord,” said Toril. “Maybe we approach the osipi leadership with a demand that they migrate, coupled with an offer of food. I doubt a little generosity would cost us more than a war. Or maybe we invite them to stay, but in a place of our choosing and under conditions we control. Maybe we trade some land in Merukesh for land of our own.”

Again the shimsal’s eyes bored into him. A slight smile played on her lips.

“I wish we had the luxury of indulging such idealism,” she said. “But those of us with more battle scars know better. Power is the coin that buys safety, and power is a slippery thing; if we relinquish some to our opponent, they use it against us. If we run from our fears of conflict now, Zufa will mourn our cowardice.”

Toril opened his mouth to give an angry retort, then saw a warning glance from one of his peers, and swallowed hard.

“I beg you to be patient, my lord. If my ideas are naïve, teach me, so I can benefit from your wisdom.”

“Enough,” the shimsal said flatly. “This is a war council, not a remedial strategy class. I’ve carried four rajas’ banners on this border, and I claim a threat is imminent. Will you unite to protect yourselves and your raja?”

Toril closed his eyes against the faces around the table. What would his father do?

“I’m ready to vote,” said one man.

“Yes, let’s get this over with,” agreed another.

“Who will heed my call?” the shimsal asked.

One by one, Toril heard men stab knives into the spruce.

“Kelun?” the shimsal said.

When the silence became deafening, Toril opened his eyes. No one had kept their dagger sheathed. They were all staring at him.

Toril swallowed. “My answer is no,” he said, a faint unsteadiness in his voice. “Kelun might muster men for other plans, but not this one. In a crisis, pre-emptive harshness will just deepen the misery of our neighbors and make them permanent enemies.”

The chief of Navala clan leaned forward. “Think, Toril! How will you feel if the osipi attack and you’ve done nothing?”

“I didn’t say we should do nothing.”

“You fool no one!” sneered another man. “You talk nice, but in reality you’re just a boy who’s too cowardly to make tough decisions or ride into battle yourself. You want
us
to spill
our
blood while
Kelun
hides.”

Toril pounded his staff on the granite beneath his boots, producing a crack that made everyone jump. “I am no boy!” he said through clenched teeth. “I am chief of Kelun clan. I have a right to be heard and to vote in this council. None of you has given my ideas serious consideration; do not complain if I disagree with yours.”

“Navala is wise,” the shimsal said, her voice growing soft. “Remember that although a clan can refuse the raja’s call, such choices have repercussions.”

“I understand,” Toril said. “If the clans and the raja find my vote offensive, Kelun can be punished.”

“
If
we find your vote offensive? You are a poor judge of character, indeed, to wonder how your vote is received,” the shimsal said, her voice becoming still quieter. “We can implement this plan without your help, but it places more burden on others at this table. And you defy my express counsel as the commander of the Royal Guard.”