In the Skin of a Nunqua (2 page)

2

Gray Streak, Flat Face, and the Weevil

S
hanti leaned with
some other women against a split-rail fence and watched the Willovian soldiers attempt to impress their giggling spectators. No spots were visible on her skin, and she dressed in the attire of her youth: long sleeves, skirt, and vest appropriate for the weather. Her sword was secured in a back scabbard.

Soldiers marched with spears in the open field, and horses galloped along the fence line in the distance. Archers shot arrows at gourds. Two men had taken off their shirts and were wrestling, sweat shining on their spotless, sun-pinked backs. In a pit lined with timbers, another pair fought with swords, hacking at each other without any real skill or purpose. Shanti laughed loud enough for them to hear.

“Look at the girlie with the sword,” one of them said.

“Who does she think she is? Want to fight, girlie?”

“I doubt she could even lift that steel.”

“It’s a short sword, jackass,” the soldier said. “Made for weaklings.”

“You should know.”

Their banter made her smile, but these boys didn’t have the clout to help her achieve her goal. No women practiced on the field, and Shanti realized that working her way into the Willovian military would be harder than she had thought.

“Bet you a gold coin she could beat you in a sword fight,” the soldier said to the other man. They shook hands and climbed out of the pit.

“I’ll split the take if you win,” the young man said to Shanti. “On my honor.”

The other soldier craned his neck. “You’re a tall one.”

“Afraid?” his friend said.

“She can’t beat me. All right, girlie, let’s see if you know how to use that scrap of tin on your back.”

They were cute, really they were, but she had no time for games. Other soldiers joined in the fun and taunted her. Even some of the women catcalled, goading her to fight. She shook her head.

“Who the hell are you?” a deep voice behind her said.

She turned to see a man in a brown uniform, arms crossed, with a gray streak in his beard. Next to him was another soldier whose face appeared as if a mule had kicked it in long ago. Both had age and an air of authority on their side.

“Are you mute?” Gray Streak said. “I asked you a question.”

“Shanti.”

“Miss Shanti, you need to leave before I have you jailed for creating a disturbance. And you other women, go back to your knitting and leave these men to their work.”

Shanti snorted. “Work?”

“Get out of my sight,” Gray Streak said.

“I didn’t start this. Your soldiers were making bets about who could beat me in a sword fight.”

“Gambling?
My
men? Not only are you an instigator, you’re also a liar.”

Shanti had expected better of the leadership of the Willovian military. She stepped away from him, her chin held high.

Gray Streak left, and Flat Face moved closer. He spat a wad of tobacco next to her boot. “What is it ya want? I can see it in your eyes.”

“A job.”

He scrutinized her. “Leanna’s been asking for help in the medical section. Ever use that thing on your back?”

“On occasion.”

“Come on, Chief.” A soldier pounded on the fencepost. “Let’s see her fight.”

Flat Face spat another brown cud onto the ground. “Tell ya what I’ll do. Let me talk it over with the commander. I’m sure I can persuade him to see reason. An extra pair of hands ’round here comes in handy. Be here in the morning, Shanti, and you’ll fight. If you win, you’ll work with the other women in the medical section. Hell, I may even let you train with the men once in a while. The spirits know they need a dose of humility. If you lose, you’ll be shoveling shit until next summer. Either way, you’ll have a job.”

“And the commander?” Shanti said.

“Is for me to worry about.” Flat Face held out his hand, coarse hair covering the knuckles.

Success
. Shanti shook his hand.

“Got a horse?” he said.

“Yes. Boarded at the stables.”

“Bring her by tomorrow. We got plenty of stalls at the camp.” He left, and a new round of betting enlivened the soldiers.

Ugly Chief Flat Face, with his vulgar habit of spitting brown crud where people walked, was now her best friend.

*

Mist obscured the sun rising in the field, and the hum of crickets filled the air. Shanti tied her horse to a fencepost. She wore pants under a skirt slit up both sides—not the best attire for fighting, but not the worst. Flies buzzed around piles of dung left by the horses during yesterday’s activities. The lack of a crowd made her tense. Where were the men who had gambled on her? The townspeople?

Four horses, mounted by soldiers, clip-clopped down the road. Commander Gray Streak, Chief Flat Face, and two unfamiliar men tied their horses to a hitching post, then headed to the patch of dirt surrounded by timbers. Shanti joined them.

“Change of plans,” Flat Face said. “You’ll fight a soldier of the commander’s choosing.”

The black-skinned soldier was quiet and serious and solid as a stone wall. The other was wiry and so spastic, Shanti wondered whether he had been dropped on his head as a baby.

Flat Face gave her a thick leather vest to put on. “First one to contact his opponent’s vest with their sword three times wins. No blows to the head, and stepping out of the pit is an immediate loss.”

Gray Streak handed a protective vest to the spastic man.

Shanti twisted from side to side and jumped lightly up and down to loosen up. “I’d rather fight the dark one. He makes a bigger target.”

“Toulley there’s an honest man,” Flat Face said. “Don’t gamble; don’t drink. He’s here as a witness. Commander wants you to fight the Weevil. Listen, you ain’t gonna tire the Weevil out, so don’t try. He’s got freakish arms with a long reach. Piss him off, and he’ll go feral on ya.”

Shanti unsheathed her sword and entered the pit with her opponent.

Flat Face chopped the air with his hand. “Begin.”

“Here, chick, chick, chick.” The Weevil crouched low, weapon at the ready. Acne scars pitted his face, and his hazel eyes were open far too wide. He advanced, then jerked backward, wiping away drool with his sleeve. “Here, chickie.”

He jabbed at her knees in a style both unsightly and annoying, forcing her to defend her legs. She moved to strike his back. He parried, then slashed her vest, leaving a mark in the leather.
Damn,
he was quick.

“Point to Weevil,” Flat Face said.

They continued to spar, and she studied the Weevil’s technique: balanced, cocky, annoying. Despite his spastic movements, the man had training. His head twitched, but the rest of his body was relaxed. It was a manipulation, an act. Well, she could act, too.

Caravey’s instructions dominated her thoughts.
Head over heart, brain over body
. Sword fighting entailed more than prowess with a weapon.

No women trained with these men. Perhaps she could use chivalry to her advantage. The sun hovered over the horizon. She took the defensive, countering his assault and conserving her energy while tracking the sun’s position, careful not to squint and give away her tactic. When the sun’s rays burst over them, her feet crossed and her shoulder dropped. His sword struck her side. Shanti cried out and forced herself to stumble.

“Point to Weevil,” Flat Face said. “Ready, Shanti?”

She returned to the start position, elbows in, sword vertical, one foot in front of the other—and nodded.

The Weevil advanced. Their swords clashed, but his attack lost the aggressiveness it once had. Shanti breathed through her mouth and slumped as if in fatigue. She steered him around until the sun lit his face, and then overextended her reach. Her arm came in contact with the feeble swing of his blade. Shanti cried out and doubled over, pressing her arm against her chest and dropping her sword. A deliberate risk. The Weevil moved closer, weapon down by his side. Unguarded.

Caravey’s voice echoed in her head:
surprise is a potent ally
. She clamped her hands onto his arm and turned. Using the strength of her legs, she flipped the Weevil over her shoulder and onto his back. His feet landed outside the pit.

“Ye’re out of bounds,” Flat Face said. “Shanti wins.”

The Weevil jumped up and shrieked, “She cheated! This is a sword fight, not a grappling match. Commander, I protest.”

Gray Streak closed in on Shanti. “Do you have anything to say?”

“I was given three guidelines: no head shots, three strikes on the
vest
wins, and stepping out of the pit is a loss.”

“I didn’t step out of the pit,” The Weevil said. “I was thrown out.”

“Did you lose those two points on purpose?” Gray Streak asked Shanti.

“The first point, no. The second, yes.”

“How’s your arm?”

She looked down and saw no blood, her sleeve intact.

“You’re lucky,” Gray Streak said. “A trick like that could have cost you your hand. You have no respect for the weapon and what it can do. You’re reckless. But you do have skills. Who trained you?”

Caravey had warned her to conceal her association with the Nunqua from the Willovians, but she was no longer under his control. She lifted her sleeves, the parallel scars visible across the skin of her forearm. Gray Streak’s brow furrowed. The others gathered closer for a better look.

“What happened to her?” the Weevil said.

“Nunqua.” Flat Face’s head bobbed as he counted the scars. “Seven. Seven losses. How? You’re Willovian.”

“What do you mean, ‘seven losses’?” the Weevil said, his twitching less pronounced but still present.

“Seven losses in sword fights,” Flat Face said. “The scars are a permanent reminder. A humiliation.”

“No,” she said. “The scars are the mark of a warrior, to be worn with pride. To win, a warrior must first know what it means to lose. Pain is our teacher, sacrifice our duty. And, Commander, I respect the weapon, though I do not fear it.”

“If you have seven losses,” Gray Streak said, “how many wins do you have?”

She crossed her arms. “Counting today?”

“I haven’t given my verdict on today’s match.”

She had lost track of how many fights she won, so she made up a number. “Twelve.”

“If the Nunqua trained you, why are you here and not with them?”

“Didn’t fit in.”

“And you want to work with us?” Gray Streak said.

“Yes.”

Flat Face cleared his throat.

“Yes
sir.
”

“Shanti wins,” Gray Streak said. “You’ll report to Chief Emmins. And the less I hear of you, the better.”

“I understand, sir.”

Chief Flat Face planted a quid of tobacco in his cheek and walked with Shanti to her horse. “We’ll get you a uniform and a place to stay. You’ll work in the medical section with the women. How long you been with the Nunqua?”

“Five years.”

“Ever married?”

“No.”

“Any children?”

“No.”

He inspected her horse’s hooves, bridle, and saddle. “You’ll maintain your own gear and train with the men when there’s time.”

“Thank you, Chief.”

“Don’t go thanking me yet, girlie.”

3

A Hidden Agenda

B
eds, with blankets
and pillows folded on top, lined the infirmary. Open windows let in a breeze. Shanti wore a brown uniform. Made for a man, it bagged at the crotch and drooped about the waist. She perused the contents of a shelf: empty bottles, chipped mortar and pestle, dog-eared pages of a handwritten book.

I need supplies,” Leanna said to Chief Flat Face, “not another worker.”

“She can saw through a bone, restrain your rowdy patients. Give her a chance.”

“Can she distill her own alcohol, make bandages out of nothing, forage in the woods for medicine?”

Flat Face sighed. “Commander Mossgail can give you your supplies.”

“But he doesn’t”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Talking doesn’t do any good.” Leanna showed him a sheet of parchment. “I’ve documented his continued refusals—”

“Put that away, Leanna. You know I can’t read.”

“Then tell the camp commander,” she said. “He can do something.”

“I’ve never seen a commander accuse another of wrongdoing. I’m sorry, but you must deal with this yourself.” Flat Face left.

“Men!” Leanna grumbled. “Out of my hands. Nothing I can do. You’re on your own. Commanders protect their own and forget about the soldiers they’re in charge of. Someone’s going to die because we can’t get the supplies we need, and they’ll blame me.” She pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Dimples highlighted her cheeks, and she smelled faintly of perfume. “You, show me your fingernails.”

Shanti did as instructed.

“Good. Keep your nails clean and your appearance neat. Can you read and write?”

“Yes.”

“Chief would have been a commander by now if he could read. Are you here to find a husband?”

Odd question
. “No.”

“Most women are. No weapons in the infirmary. Lock your sword in the armory. You can get something to eat on the way back.” Leanna stuffed the parchment into a box.

Shanti secured her sword in the armory, then hiked around camp. Smoke billowed out of a chimney connected to a kitchen. She got some food and went to an unoccupied table.

The bread was hard enough to chip a tooth, and sauce drenched the unknown meat. She took a bite and spat it out. Subdued laughter from the nearby tables reached her ears. Were they watching her? The men’s plates contained the same fare. Shanti took another bite, swallowed, then swished water around her mouth to wash away the taste. She threw away the rest of her food and returned to find chaos inside the infirmary.

The black soldier, Toulley, hollered. He shoved the Weevil, who stumbled into a bed. Leanna raised her palms in an attempt to calm Toulley. “Let us give you the medicine to dull the pain. Settle down, please.” She pointed to Shanti, and her tone changed. “You, get the nicidem, there in the bottle.”

Shanti poured liquid into a cup and brought it to them.

Toulley smacked it out of her hand. “No tricks.”

The Weevil moved next to Shanti. “Dislocated shoulder,” he said. “The obstacle course.”

“Why didn’t you fix it there?”

“He wouldn’t let anyone help him.” The Weevil’s head twitched. “Figured the situation needed a woman’s touch.”

“You have to let us help you,” Leanna pleaded with Toulley.

These women had no understanding of military discipline. Perhaps they weren’t given the authority they needed to do their job. The pain was making Toulley unreasonable. Time for action. Shanti rolled a bedsheet. “Weevil, take out his legs. Get him on the ground. I’ll reposition his shoulder.”

Leanna scowled at the sheet in Shanti’s hands.

“Now,” Shanti said.

The Weevil seized Toulley’s thighs and wrestled him off his feet. Toulley hit the floor and writhed about.

Shanti shoved the sheet beneath his armpit. With his uninjured limb, he tugged at her hair, and strands pulled free from the warrior’s knot on the back of her head.

“Someone hold his arm!” Shanti yelled.

“Your idea,” Leanna said, sitting atop Toulley’s knees while another woman sprawled across his feet. “Do it yourself.”

Shanti wiggled the sheet into place and felt the abnormal lump near the collarbone. It must hurt like hell. “Take the pain, Toulley.”

“Hurry up!” Leanna shouted.

Shanti pushed her boot on his uninjured shoulder for leverage and heaved on the sheet. “Stop squirming.” She tightened her grip and used her body weight to pull. Toulley yelled. With a muffled
thunk,
the top of his arm reseated into its socket. Toulley wilted on the floor.

Shanti rolled away from him, breathing as if she had just run a footrace. Toulley’s biceps was as thick as her calf. He could have crushed her. Good thing she hadn’t realized that until after reseating his shoulder.

Weevil and the women helped Toulley into a bed as Leanna headed in the opposite direction. Shanti went over to her.

“Nicidem.” Leanna held the bottle. “‘Medicine’ spelled backwards without the ‘e.’ It’s sugar water. Damn that Mossgail.” She handed Shanti a broom. “Fix your hair, and clean up.”

You’re welcome
. Perhaps joining the Willovian military had been a mistake. She didn’t want to end up like these women: disrespected, disregarded, desperate. Shanti straightened the beds and wiped up the sugar water with a rag.

*

After treating a bloody nose, wrapping a sprained ankle, and nursing a mysterious stomach ailment, Shanti left the infirmary. She bypassed the camp’s kitchen and went to town for a real meal and sewing supplies. On the way back, she saw lamplight burning in the infirmary and heard voices.

She entered to find Leanna in a chair next to Toulley, who was sitting up in bed, his back leaning against two pillows and his arm secured in a sling and swathe.

“Come here.” Leanna took a drink from a brown bottle. “Toulley tells me you were with the Nunqua.”

“Show her your arms,” he said.

Shanti lifted her sleeves, exposing the parallel scars.

“I knew there was something different about you.” Leanna offered Toulley a drink, which he declined. “I bought this to help you with the pain,” she said.

“You know I don’t drink,” he said. “Besides, the pain’s not so bad now.”

Leanna pointed to the small bundle in Shanti’s hand. “What’s that?”

“Needle and thread. My uniform needs to be taken in.”

“She can sew
and
use a sword.” Leanna chuckled, her eyes glassy. “How will I get anyone to notice me, with her around?”

“My name . . . is Shanti.”

“I don’t bother with names,” Leanna said. “Most women aren’t here too long.”

“Don’t pay attention to her, Shanti.” Toulley repositioned the pillow with his free arm. “She’s drunk.”

“I
deserve
a drink after today,” she said.

Toulley pointed to his shoulder. “Think
you’ve
had a bad day?”

“Sorry. It’s just that bastard Mossgail.”

“Talk to chief about it,” Toulley said.

“I did.”

“Everyone knows what Commander Mossgail’s doing with the supplies.”

“But no one will speak against him,” Leanna said.

Shanti left them to their conversation. Working in the infirmary might be a thankless job, but watching Leanna keep Toulley company made her realize it was also an important one.

*

“She’s the one, sir,” Chief Emmins said. “Shanti speaks her mind, knows how to fight, and the men take to her. You saw the way she bluffed the Weevil. Hell, even
I
was ready to stop the fight.”

Commander Edwyn sat behind a desk flanked by two flags. Three ceremonial swords hung on the wall behind him, tassels dangling from the grips. “As impressive as her skills are, I have concerns,” he said. “She seems antisocial.”

“Nah, Shanti’s got friends—she just acts like she don’t. Send a letter to High Commander Gy. Tell him we found someone to train Rega Bayla.”

“How old is the heiress?”

“Seventeen,” the chief said. “Maybe eighteen. She’ll be ready for the test in a year or two.”

The commander set one of the ceremonial swords on his desk and buffed it with a cloth. “I had Shanti’s room searched while she was working at the infirmary. We found a wristlet and darts under her mattress. The darts have hollow points filled with a greenish-gold substance. She’s been trained by the Nunqua, who poison their enemies and—”

“She’s as Willovian as you or I, sir. And what if she were a Nunqua, spots and all? Wouldn’t that be better for the Guardians’ plans? Scare the piss out of the princess.”

“This isn’t a joke. She knows how to use a sword, knows how to kill.”

“Isn’t that what we’re teaching these men, sir: how to kill? You’re better with a sword than anybody I’ve met; you have battle experience. Does that make you a murderer?”

“Why would the Nunqua trust a Willovian woman?” the commander said.

“Because they saw something in her. Look me in the eye and tell me Shanti ain’t perfect for the job. It’s fate, I tell ya.”

“It’s risky.”

“So you’ll send a letter to Commander Gy?” the chief said.

Commander Edwyn pushed the sword aside and took a quill and jar of ink out of the desk drawer.

“You’re a good man, sir,” the chief said.

“Yes, I know. Now, get out of here before I change my mind.”

*

Rain pattered on the infirmary window, lulling Shanti to sleep in her chair. Her head bobbed, and she awoke with a start. Leanna was absorbed in writing at a table. Shanti stood and shadow boxed. Leanna glowered at her.

“Want to play cards?” Shanti said.

“No.”

“Dice?”

“No.”

“Arm wrestle?”

“I’m trying to finish a letter.”

Shanti lifted one leg off the floor, raising both arms to shoulder height.

Leanna put down the quill and rubbed her eyes. “Do you mind?”

She closed her eyes, fought to keep her balance, switched legs, then leaned forward while grasping her ankle in the flowing exercise that Caravey had taught her. She repeated his instructions out loud: “Balance is the key to sword fighting. The wind is my offense, the rock my defense.”

“And faking injury is your fallback, from what I hear,” Leanna said.

She wobbled and lowered her foot to the floor. “Who are you writing to?”

Chief Flat Face entered with two other soldiers. They took off their hats, water dripping from their clothing. “Ready, Shanti?”

She had no idea what he was talking about, but hurried to the exit anyway, happy to escape the boredom of the infirmary.

“Do
I
have a say in the matter?” Leanna said.

Flat Face scanned the empty beds. “You can have her back in ten days or so. Get your sword, girlie, and saddle your horse. Someone needs to take Toulley’s place and ride as a guard with the supply cart to the Outer Boundaries. His shoulder needs time to heal properly.”

“Speaking of supplies,” Leanna said, “Commander Mossgail still hasn’t given us any.”

“I already told ya,” Flat Face said, “it’s out of my hands.”

Leanna huffed and returned to writing.

Shanti went to her room to pack, putting on a poncho and donning her wristlet of poisonous darts. Sleeping arrangements would be close and, most likely, out in the open. Wearing the darts would deter any overfriendly soldiers. Flat Face might not approve, but as the only female guard, she had to protect more than the supplies—she had to protect herself.

She rummaged around a sack for her comb and items used to secure her hair in the warrior’s knot. Her hand came in contact with a velvet bag. Inside was the lock of hair attached to a necklace. The hair belonged to the Nunqua warrior she had killed on the night she was taken away from Willovia.

Defend yourself or be raped
. Truth be told, it was a lucky swing of a blade, which surprised even her. She had forgotten many of the details of that night, but she did remember Caravey giving her the necklace made from a lock of the dead warrior’s hair. He had put it around her neck and told her it would protect her from the dead man’s spirit. Superstitious nonsense. The hair was a trophy, nothing more. Caravey could have healed the man but didn’t. He sacrificed one warrior to train another: her.

She was the product of the unlawful union between the great warrior Shintar and his Willovian woman and could change her appearance from a spotted Nunqua to a monotone-skinned Willovian at will. Caravey had found out about her, kidnapped her, trained her, ridiculed her, cut her, stabbed her, burned her, loved her, and told her she was important.

The necklace was a Nunqua symbol of pride, meant to induce fear. That part of her life was over now. She was with the Willovians. Shanti returned the necklace to its bag.

*

High Commander Gy, his stomach distended from the previous three courses, forced down the last bite of bread pudding out of courtesy. He dined with other guests at a long, polished table in Commander Edwyn’s manor house. Even though Gy outranked his host, Edwyn was wealthier due to an inheritance and an auspicious marriage. The house belonged to Edwyn’s plump wife.

“Commander Gy,” Edwyn said, “it’s time for us to take our leave and retire to the study. We don’t want to bore our dinner companions with business.”

Gy excused himself and followed Edwyn to an oak-paneled room. The glow from the hearth illuminated statues of statesmen and athletes. The opulence of the room made him uncomfortable. Edwyn came from wealth, whereas Gy had worked his way through the ranks to become a high commander. He was the son of a farmer, who had left to find glory in the foolishness of his youth. Glory—how fast that concept had faded! More rank meant more work, more responsibility, more worry. Was this woman Commander Edwyn had written him about after glory? Or were her motives nobler?

“Tell me about this Shanti,” Gy said. “What’s she like?”

Edwyn sat in a chair and crossed his legs. “She’s different.”

“Is she pretty?” Men outnumbered women at the camps by a hundred to one. Most women were married and gone within a year. It would be a waste to include Shanti in the Guardians’ plans if she would be busy with a family at the time of Rega Bayla’s training as a soldier.