Grudging (8 page)

Anger evaporated like fog under the sun. Claire milked in silence. She could no more disobey her mother than she could cut off her own arm. Too much love existed between them to cause her mother any additional hurt. Mother had lost her own mother—­she'd never survive losing her daughter.

“Tell me about your trip to the village yesterday.”

“What's to tell?” her mother said. “It was just like every other trip. I've described it to you a thousand times. It's muddy and smelly. I traded for what I could, but they don't have much. They tolerate us but give no welcome. Always the same.”

“Then tell me something that happened yesterday. Something that was new.”

Milk zinged into the pail as her mother seemed to consider. Finally, she smiled. “The village children are getting braver. I caught one peeking at me from behind a barrel. They stalked me down the street, hiding behind corners and rotting stumps.” Her mother laughed. “Not very effectively. I heard them giggling and whispering the whole time.”

“What do they look like?”

“Small and brown—­exactly like they looked the last time you asked.”

“Are there any my age?”

“Their women don't come near me. Only the village leader, but I did see a girl through a shutter. She hid about as well as the smaller children, only quieter.”

“Did she look like me?”

Her mother paused in her milking. “You know they don't.” Then she relented. “She wore her hair up as they do in the cities.”

“Hair up,” Claire said. She grabbed her long braid and piled it on the top of her head.

Her mother laughed. “More toward the back. Not on the top.”

Claire stretched her neck and lifted her chin, holding the braid against her skull. “How do I look?”

“Silly.”

Dolly tried to take a bite out of Claire's dress. She sighed and released her hair to push the goat away. “If I wore it that way, would they like me?”

The smile slid from her mother's face. “The villagers would hide from you. The city men would try to kill you. Women of the Song aren't welcome in the cities. You'll never go near another human because I love you too much to risk it.”

“But you lived there.”

“I kept my hair covered and my eyes down. It was necessary.” Her mother's smile returned. “I was better at hiding than those children yesterday.”

“Don't the cities have thousands of streets?” Claire asked. “Easier to hide. I wish I could see one. Or at least the village. Maybe that girl would talk to me.” She stared into her half-­empty bucket. Her mother had never been in a city, but she had seen them from afar. And her grandmother had ventured inside one. Maybe someday she'd be like her grandmother.

To see other ­people. To see a city. To make a friend. Her throat burned. “It's necessary,” she whispered, so her mother couldn't hear.

Her mother drew the last milk from Jorga and stood. “You've been quiet a great deal lately. Get the berry baskets and change into walking clothes. The blueberries should be ripe. We're taking a holiday.”

A
lcalde
Julian sat at the head of the council table. Without a ruler or king, they had no throne room to welcome an ambassador or a herald from a conquering nation. But the council room had tall brass candelabra in each corner to shed light over any gloom. A crystal chandelier, large enough to hold twenty candles, hung in the center of the ceiling directly over the glossy mahogany table. Table legs carved in fantastic shapes by expert craftsmen matched the carving on the padded chairs. A plush carpet and murals of the saints on the wainscot walls completed the picture.

He'd had the citadel scoured for silver or gold statuary to set about the room. A mantel clock ticked above the tile fireplace. An empty chair waited at the far end of the table. If the room failed to impress the Northerners, then they had nothing better. Displaying wealth was risky before such greedy invaders, but it might also convince them that the city had power and strength as well. It was a delicate balance.

Julian's bodyguard waited behind him, standing silently against the wall. To his left and right sat the oldest and most venerated members of the council. Tall and straight,
Concejal
Adulfo had sparse white hairs on his bald head and a wild bramble of thick beard.
Concejal
Diego, on the other hand, had thick gray hair and a meager beard. He seemed to fade into his chair, his belly being the most obvious part of him as it strained against his waistcoat. A vote among the seven members had picked these two to provide support through the meeting. He was glad to have the support of their presence today.

Julian stared at the dark wood of the closed doors and fingered his beard. They had no idea what to expect from their soon-­to-­arrive visitor, in either his appearance or his message. If they were young men, they would have let words express their nervousness and trepidation. Being old men, they sat in silence and kept their thoughts to themselves. No need to express doubts and worries that could cease to exist in moments. Time had taught them that dwelling on speculation solved nothing. One merely had to wait, and answers would come. Young men lived in the future, but old men lived in the present.

A knock boomed from the doors, and they swung inward. Two soldiers of the council
pelotón
escorted a single person, hidden between them. A person who, no doubt, had her own share of confidence to beard the lion in its den—­and alone at that.

“Santabe, priestess of the Children of Dal,” one of the soldiers announced. The soldiers stepped aside with a click of their boots, dropping back and standing by the chamber door.

Julian sat taller in his chair, sensing Adulfo and Diego stir at his sides. Indeed, they couldn't have predicted this outcome. Matters just got more interesting—­and potentially more to their favor.

The Northern ambassador was a woman.

The woman was tall, easily over six feet, the height of a soldier. Judging by her face, she was not quite young enough to be one of Julian's children, but not much older, either. The pale blemishes—­freckles—­adorned her cheeks and nose, and her yellow-­tinted barbarian hair dangled in a braid instead of being properly coiled about her head. Gold chains circled tight to her long neck, while a large gold earring in the shape of a sun hung from her left ear, drawing down the lobe with its weight. She wore a simple robe of white that could have been a long flour sack with sleeves sewn at the shoulder. It hung straight until tapering at the bottom, except where it lay over her breasts. Her only adornment was a small knife at her hip. He found her both exotic and intimidating.

Julian stood, as was proper. One did not offer a woman a seat at the council table, not because he personally found a woman any less intelligent or capable but because it was the law. He found this law old-­fashioned and outdated, but today it worked in his favor. He must take command of this situation and use everything the Northerners gave him if the city was to have any hope.

“I am
Alcalde
Julian Alvarado, elected official of Colina Hermosa. These gentlemen are representatives of our council.” Adulfo and Diego dipped their heads. As honored elders, they need not rise. “You bring the terms of your ­people?”

“I do,” she said in a ringing voice though with an odd accent.

“Then let us see them.”

Her head lifted, strange green eyes meeting his. “They are memorized, to be given orally.”

Julian shook his head. Had he heard her correctly, the accent made it difficult. “Spoken word can be misspoken, especially when given in an unfamiliar language. Do you rule over the Northerners that your word can be taken for their will?”

“I am a high priestess of Dal. I speak the word of Dal, but I am not one of your kings.”

“The word of Dal, however great His might, is not accepted here. We want the word of the one who rules you, or a written presentation of your terms.” He gave her the look he bestowed on his sons when they were young and had broken something valuable. “Moreover, according to our law, a woman cannot act in matters of politics.”

Anger flared in her face. Julian blessed the Northerners' fair skin, so ill equipped to hide their emotions. This one was not used to being questioned or invalidated.

“You insult us,” she said, voice ringing.

“Not at all,” he said quickly. His gut said he'd pushed enough. Time now to withdraw and placate without conceding. “You misunderstand my purpose. I wish only what is best for the survival of Colina Hermosa. We are most anxious to settle these conditions, but this city is governed, not by divine will but by a council. All must be carried forward in the law. To overset that law, the council must first confer and find agreement.

“We would willingly discuss and accept a woman as ambassador from your ­people, but that will take time. You may, of course, speak the terms now, but we'd need them in writing also. Bringing us your terms in writing makes it easier to share with all the council members so we might best consider those provisions. It only speeds matters to do so.”

She lifted her chin. “Bring all your council here now, and they may all hear Dal's terms.”

“They are elderly and would be slow to comply. Scribes would have to be gathered to take down the conditions. It would be faster to go and return with written terms that may be shared before our ­people. Written terms are a better guarantee to us that they will not change upon a whim.”

“
Alcalde
Alvarado speaks wisely,” Diego added. “As elder of the council, I back his words.”

“And I,” Adulfo said.

“The will of Dal is that all bend before us.” She put her hand on the small gold knife she wore at her hip. “Or be broken.”

Julian nodded. This priestess saw in terms of black-­and-­white; with her there was no gray. “Colina Hermosa is the largest of the
ciudades-­estado
. We are not so easily broken. You'll find us no easy meat. To do so will cost your Dal more time and many lives. Does your Dal wish us to hear the terms? Does he prefer we are gathered to
his
cause? Then we must act within our laws to have our decisions accepted by our ­people.”

He saw by her reaction that he had guessed correctly. Their god was after living converts. Probably in order to gather more wealth at the least cost.

He moved around the table to stand before her. “We are the ones asked to bend; we ask only that we be allowed to consider with dignity—­by our laws. Bring us your terms in writing, give us a day to change law and accept a woman as ambassador, or send your king to confer with us directly.” He gave her a bow, keeping his eyes cold. “Or, of course, you can always attack instead. But, I promise, such actions will cost Dal many followers. You can speak your terms now, but it will get you nothing if the law is not followed.”

“You are full of tricks, old fox, but they will not avail you.” She glared. “I shall enjoy watching your city burn.” She turned crisply on her heel and marched out.

Julian's strength ebbed as she withdrew. He sat in the empty chair. She had great force of will, but sometimes a gamble paid off best.

“Was that wise?” Adulfo asked. “You've antagonized them more.”

“We're at war—­I don't think we
can
antagonize them more. We never intended to concede to their terms,” Diego countered. “Does it really matter how we answered them?”

Julian touched mind, heart, liver, and spleen. “What matters is we've gained another day.”

 

CHAPTER 10

B
arefoot and shirtless, the village boy hopped from one hillock of grass to another before dodging between bushes with thin, pointed leaves of a type Ramiro had never seen before. The plants he was used to all had thorns.

The boy moved nimbly as a goat down the narrow but well-­defined path. They'd left the village and the road behind hours ago. The scenery alternated quickly and often between soggy grasslands and scrubby woodlands with stagnant water. Ramiro shook his head. Knowing such standing water existed and actually seeing it were two different things.

The shirtless boy stopped and waited for Salvador astride his packhorse to reach him. He pointed across a short rise to a lone tree of dead branches in the distance. “Follow the trail to there, and I'll meet you.”

Salvador gave the boy a stare of equal parts distrust and warning, then he proceeded silently up the trail. He appeared flushed and sweaty, his eyes red, but he rode upright and under control. Single file in his wake, Alvito and Teresa followed, with Gomez close behind. Ramiro clicked to his packhorse and set Sancha in motion.

The boy fell in beside him, walking among the grasses. He grinned to show missing teeth on top and bottom. Ramiro refrained from rolling his eyes. They entrusted their mission to a child who didn't even have all his adult teeth.

“Your leader is sick, eh?” the boy said.

Ramiro tried to mix fierceness and suspicion in his gaze, as Salvador had done, but he felt sure he failed miserably because the boy continued to grin. “Alvito traded for willow powder and honey at your village. Salvador will be well soon.”

“Alvito?” The boy laid a finger vertically under his lower lip to mimic Alvito's beard. “The one all the women looked at?”

“Apparently,” Ramiro said, and this time he did roll his eyes.

The boy laughed. “Some of them looked at you, too. My older sister said you have pretty eyes, and you're still young enough to be changed to fit in at our village.”

“Marvelous,” he scoffed but pulled himself taller in his saddle. “The hairy one is Gomez, and I'm Ramiro. The woman is Teresa.”

The boy nodded. “Call me Bromisto.”

“Trickster?” Ramiro laughed. “That's not a real name, and I wouldn't advise sharing that hoax with my brother.” He pointed ahead. “Salvador, I mean. He won't like it. What's your real name?”

“Ermegildo.” The boy's chin sunk to his bare chest. “My sister says it reminds her of a flower. Do you have sisters?”

“I have a fussy mother. Does that count? Let's stick with Bromisto.”

“Thanks.” Bromisto snapped off a round, ball-­like blossom from a shrub before flinging it over his shoulder. “I'm ten. How old are you?”

Ramiro blinked at the swift change of subject. Besides being nimble like a goat, his new friend was as capricious as one. “Seventeen.”

“Then you are the perfect age for my sister, Elo. She's studying to be a healer. Do you have a wife already? Are you looking for one? You could pick her and take her
far away
to your city.”

“I'm afraid my mother might have other ideas. I'm sure she plans to be the one who picks my wife.”

Bromisto shrugged. “Maybe one of the others will take her. Are all city men so stupid?”

“Stupid?” Ramiro silently cursed at speaking his surprise aloud. He'd encouraged the boy enough.

“Wearing all that metal into the swamp.” He pointed at Ramiro's breastplate, while standing on a hillock of grass to make himself taller. “You do know about quicksand? You plan to sink faster? It will certainly rust fast enough with all the water around. We've already had to take the longer route because of your horses.”

Ramiro leaned forward, and Sancha stopped at his unintentional signal. “Longer route? How much longer?”

“How should I know? A day or more. I don't go to the
sirena's
house to visit. Too dangerous.”

“Then why were you chosen as our guide,” Ramiro asked, angrily.

“Because I know how to get through the swamp at all—­you'd be dead without me. And I have been there once—­on a dare.” The young boy grinned, then glanced ahead. “Your sick friend has reached the sycamore. He'd better wait unless you want trouble.”

“Quicksand?” Ramiro asked.

“Not here.” Bromisto kicked at a tuft of long grass. “It's too dry here. But there are panthers and snakes and poisonous plants. Not to mention the
sirenas
. Enough to trouble city men. Besides, the path ends there. He'll go the wrong way. I'd better stop him.”

“Wait,” Ramiro said. “Tell me about the
sirenas
. Are you sure you can find them? Why do you call them that? Are they more dangerous than the quicksand?”

“Ugh, I don't want to talk about them.” He gave a mock shiver. “Not even in the daytime. Hurry up. You have a horse, and you're still slower than my
abuela
.” The boy scrambled off at a trot toward Salvador.

When they stopped for a meal several hours later, Ramiro helped Gomez settle the horses with feedbags full of oats and other grain, while Alvito tended to his brother's wound. Salvador's gash looked less angry and red, and the swelling had gone down. Even more encouraging, the tightness had gone from Alvito's face as he wrapped Salvador's torso with a clean bandage smeared with the fresh honey, then went to check on Teresa's collarbone. The boy trotted eagerly at Alvito's heels, poking his nose into everything.

As Bromisto had promised, the trail had ended at the dead tree, forcing them to wind in a meandering fashion around pools of stagnant water and clumps of thick brush. The smell of rot had done nothing for their appetite, while the footing had grown ever more treacherous and damp. Mud became thick muck, creeping up to the horses' knees, though the boy's light frame managed to stay clean of it. Ramiro found it the stuff of nightmares and was sure, at the very least, the overpowering smell would find its way to his dreams.

As the horses munched, Ramiro joined his brother, grateful for some quiet after a morning of Bromisto's constant chatter. Their garrulous guide seemed to have picked him out for a companion, sharing every detail of village life and gossip. He'd learned more names in one ride than a census taker. His boots sank an inch or more with each step on his way over to the high patch of ground Salvador had chosen.

“The boy told me a squad of Northerners came up the road toward the village,” Salvador said, looking worried. “Apparently, they didn't actually explore far enough to reach it yet. But if the Northerners have been here once, they'll return. We'd be wise to keep weapons close and armor on.”

Troubled, Ramiro stretched out his legs, layering one muddy boot atop the other. “The Northerners would cut through the villagers like ripe cheese. They need to get out of there, go to a city.”

“Aye.” Salvador wiped his forehead and took a bite of cold sausage. “Though they'd take the advice better from the boy. I doubt they'll listen to a city man. We'll let Bromisto carry the message. He seems to have taken to you. He say anything useful?”

“Not much, but he did mention we're taking a longer route because of the horses.” He waited for Salvador's nod. The calm way his brother took the news showed clearly he'd either expected it or already heard the same from Bromisto. “He also said that there are a lot of dangerous things here besides the witches.”

“Undesirables are often pushed to live in the most uninhabitable spots.”

“You learn that from Cousin Teresa?” Ramiro joked.

“From observation.” Salvador handed him a slice of bread spread with the same honey they used for wounds. “Did he tell you anything about the witches?”

“He won't talk about them, but he has told me exactly how many goats he shepherds and the best spot to find spring mushrooms. I can name every type of tree in this waterlogged place. And I believe he wouldn't be shy about selling his sister to the highest bidder—­or the lowest. I'm keeping a count on my coin pouch, and you should, too.”

Salvador laughed. “Just be careful, little brother. And I don't mean of our guide. Remember your training. Mother would kill me if I failed to bring you home.”

“Saints forbid Mother be disappointed.” Ramiro touched the sword he always kept close. “But I'll remember—­no fear of that. Speaking of Mother, though, I can't help think she gave in awfully easy. Is there something more going on? Father acted strange, too, and you seem to be keeping se—­”

Bromisto came bounding across the small clearing to their spot. “Can I see your sword?”

Little nuisance.
Ramiro sighed for his lost peace and crammed the slice of bread in his mouth, holding up his spread fingers covered with honey and mumbling excuses. Salvador shook his head and drew his own weapon.

“You can see mine as my brother is too busy . . . and sticky.”

The boy gasped and bent close to inspect it, reaching out a tentative finger. “I thought it would be longer.”

Salvador turned the double-­edged blade to allow the boy to touch it. “You're thinking of a broadsword. Those are for infantry. You'll find them worn by the men who guard Colina Hermosa's walls. On horseback, we wear shorter blades. They're more maneuverable, more useful than those oversized giants of the foot soldiers.”

Bromisto nodded. “I saw broadswords on the guards who came with the tax collectors.”

Salvador looked up. “Then your village is part of Colina Hermosa. You are our ­people. We are responsible for you.”

“Tax collectors come from Aveston, too. We don't pay any of them. No coin.” The boy skipped away to investigate Gomez's meal, calling over his shoulder. “We belong to ourselves, city man.”

“Well, I guess he told you,” Ramiro said, wiping his fingers on some grass. “They belong to themselves.”

“He can claim what he wishes, but if our tax collectors visit, then they are our responsibility.” Salvador gave him a nudge. “And be more patient, little brother.”

Ramiro glanced up sharply. Was Salvador referring to the boy or whatever other instructions their father had given? His brother's silence made him anxious.

“You'll be teaching the likes of him for the
pelotón
soon enough. If I wasn't tolerant with you and your hero worship, you'd still be cleaning stables.”

“You try listening to him all day,” Ramiro said.

“You have a beard now. Act the part.”

“Ramiro,” Teresa called from atop a grouping of rocks she'd claimed with the others. “Your promotion is safe. We found a replacement mascot.”

“I believe he's an improvement,” Alvito said. “He eats less and smells better than you.”

Gomez handed the boy a chunk of sausage. “And he's tame, too.”

“Very funny,” Ramiro called, letting the annoyance slip into his voice.

“Calm,” Salvador whispered. “A good soldier must have calm.”

Ramiro reined back the frustration. “I beg pardon for acting ungrateful. This delay and this place . . . Plus, worry for home and how Father is faring with the Northerners has me on edge.”

“We are all on edge. Father instructed me to clear the path and make sure there were no Northerners between home and the swamp. Lucky for you, there were no groups we couldn't handle, or you'd have been sent back with the warning.”

“That's the secret? Why?” Ramiro asked. “Unless . . .”

“Evacuation,” his brother confirmed. “Father is sending out the children. If we find no witches, we are to remain with them instead.”

“By the saints . . .” That was what Salvador was hiding from him. His father would push things so far. To desert the city. He had trouble finishing the thought in his mind but eventually found his words.

“Why keep that secret from me? From us?” Ramiro corrected, indicating their group. “Why didn't Father just tell all of us? Wouldn't that be easier? I think we need to know. And why not take it to the
concejales
? There are laws. Father will be in serious trouble when this is found out.”

Salvador frowned. “Perhaps he feared to disappoint you. Perhaps he wanted to worry as few ­people as possible. Certainly he didn't believe the
concejales
would support him.

“Perhaps we should give him our trust.”

“To take the risk, though. He could be arrested. Thrown from office.”

Yes,” Salvador said calmly.

“But that must mean that Father finds the situation—­”

Salvador grunted. “Dire, indeed. I very much wish we had news.”

A
lcalde
Julian stood in the road that circled the outside of Colina Hermosa's walls, letting dust settle onto his pristine boots. He stood because no horses had been allowed. He'd gotten the delay of one more day added to the negotiations, but in turn he had to forfeit setting the conditions of their second meeting.

The Northerners had demanded an appointment outside the city to the south, on foot, and with no more than five delegates. It made little sense to drag five old and infirm men outside the walls to wilt in the heat. Julian smiled. One would have to suffice.

Instead of wisdom, Julian had brought might; four heavily armed soldiers of his
pelotón
were arranged in a semicircle at his back. Here, they were out of bowshot of the city guard and miles away from the rescue of Colina Hermosa's gate. With the bulk of the Northern army camped a mere three hundred yards away, they could never cross the distance to the gate before being captured or killed.

Surprisingly, curiosity about the terms almost outweighed the jabbering fear that was turning his guts to water. If self-­pride abandoned him, though, he had a stronger incentive to stay firm. The saints preserve him, he could not panic and give in to the rising terror without proving that Beatriz's worries were right and his bravado wrong. Never would he give the love of his heart the ability to say “I told you so.” Not even to his corpse.