Karavans (2 page)

But she could not remember experiencing the violence of
such dreams on the day before the karavan was to leave. Usually those dreams were filled with the minutiae of departure, the nagging concerns that she might forget some chore, neglect to pack things she needed for the journey, be not quite ready when Jorda gave the order to the karavan to follow him out of the grove. It didn’t matter that she had been with Jorda for years and on numerous trips; she always worried something would be lost or forgotten in the confusion of departure.

Ilona sighed and stroked a strand of hair out of her face. Diviners were not immune to such omens as she read in hands. If she had time the next day, perhaps she could consult with a dream-reader in the tent settlement. It would do no good if one of Jorda’s three karavan diviners ignored her own future while she read those of others.

THOUGH RHUAN WAS a karavan guide, a man hired to ride out ahead of the column of wagons to scout the safety of the roads and water holes, that duty also included providing protection to the folk joining Jorda’s karavan. In the nights immediately before departure, he and Darmuth, the other guide, rode the perimeter of the grove in which more than thirty wagons had gathered. The draft animals, mostly horses and a few mules, were tied or hobbled close by; the remuda, the small herd of extra riding horses kept for Jorda and his two guides, and the draft teams used by the three karavan diviners were picketed farther away with the horse-master keeping an eye on them. It was not unheard of for thieves to sneak among the wagons, hoping to find a few items they might later sell. Rhuan and Darmuth prevented that.

He rode his favorite horse, a handsome cream gelding boasting a black-spotted rump and a splattering of larger black spots spreading across the balance of his body. In the darkness of the grove Rhuan couldn’t see Darmuth, but knew he was present. And knew also that Darmuth, because of a duty never spoken of among the humans,
would be watching
him
as much as he tended the welfare of the karavan.

Though lamps and lanterns had been blown out hours before, a ruddy glow emanated from dying cookfires scattered throughout the grove. Jorda was not the only karavan-master who camped his folk here; there were times when the wagons outnumbered the trees. But it was late in the season, and only two karavans remained. Sennet was leading his out in the morning; Jorda’s departure was set for a day later.

Without warning, Rhuan’s flesh prickled. He felt the hairs rising on his limbs, at the back of his neck. The ratcheting of the nightsingers abruptly stopped. From under one of the wagons a dog lifted its voice in a howl; neighboring dogs joined it in a wailing threnody. Within moments Rhuan heard sleepy voices testily calling out to quiet the noise, some threatening punishment, and one by one each dog fell silent.

The night felt
heavy.
Rhuan reined in. His skin itched. An accompanying shudder ran the length of his body. But he made no attempt to rub or shrug away the annoyance. Instead he slipped off his horse, dropped the reins so the spotted gelding would, as trained, remain in place, and walked to the nearest tree.

Rhuan knelt beside the gnarled roots that broke through the soil. Still the nightsingers held their silence. He placed his palm against the trunk.

Those in the settlement who knew him, or knew
of
him, also knew he wasn’t human, but Shoia, a man born of a race from a far distant province, a race never seen before in Sancorra. But though it was no secret he was Shoia, Rhuan refrained from exhibiting all of his gifts. It was one thing to be the subject of much speculation about what a Shoia could do, and quite another to be feared for his abilities. He desired the trust of the humans, not their wariness. A guide’s effectiveness would be lessened if his charges feared or distrusted him. It was important they not witness this communion between man and tree.

But it was dark beneath this tree, farthest from the fires,
and he was shielded by the horse, who dropped his head to seek out the sparse sprigs of grass that had withstood a barrage of wagon wheels and hooves. Rhuan spoke softly, using the language he’d known from birth but never spoke among the humans. Darmuth would understand it, but then he was no more human than Rhuan; and Brodhi, Rhuan’s kin-in-kind, spoke it as well. But Brodhi, mercifully, was absent. This was a private moment.

Beneath his palm Rhuan felt the roughness of bark; more deeply, the thrumming of vibrancy and life in the heart of the wood. The elderling oak was not yet on the verge of death. With grave respect Rhuan sought that life, sought the sentience, an awareness that humans could never understand.

He jerked his hand away, hissing. His palm tingled unpleasantly. It was not the oak, he knew; elderlings did no harm, but could be conduits for danger. Their roots ran deep below the surface, cognizant of things unknown among men. Rhuan felt the prickling awareness bestir the hair on his flesh again, answering the first faint precursor. Change was coming. A change so profound it would touch even earth and sky and sun. Humans would suffer. Humans would die. His body knew, even if his own sentience instantly denied the truth. Certainly Darmuth knew as well. But Darmuth had said nothing. He left it to Rhuan to discover for himself.

Alisanos was coming.

Rhuan rose. The horse raised his head, ears flicking forward like sharp-tipped sentinels. The animals sensed it. The trees knew it. And now he banished denial and allowed himself to admit the truth. Because by admitting that truth, he might be able to save human lives before Alisanos took them.

If the humans permit me.
Rhuan took up the dangling rein and swung it over the gelding’s neck.
If they
believe
me.

“
I
NEED MORE BONES,” Hezriah declared. “You must bring me another body.”

It was stifling inside the undyed, soiled oilcloth tent. He’d have rolled up the sidewalls in hope of catching a stray breeze except his job was not the kind people wanted to see on their way to market. His was the kind of job no one
needed
to see, either, because it was the prosaic and thus tedious side of the augury business. For all there was magic involved—at least, for the legitimate diviners who truly did converse with the gods—no one wanted to see how the ingredients required by the magic were assembled. Just the end result.

They want to see the flesh on the body, and breathing, not the bones underneath.
Hezriah smiled, liking the turn of phrase; most appropriate for his line of work.
I should write that one down.
“Well? Have you a body for me?”

A bead of sweat rolled down the heat-flushed cheek into the wiry beard of the other person in the tent. His hireling, Merriq. “Brought you one last week, didn’t I?”

Outside, someone shouted, hoarse-voiced; the bonedealer caught three words in ten. Something about a moonsick man. Not his business; he had no time for such folk as lacked a proper mind. Deepwood bait, such folk. Their bodies and brains were cursed, not fit for augury.

“That was a child, Merriq. Not enough bones there to fill but a partial order.” Something stung his cheek; he slapped hard, gritting his teeth. The dead insect tumbled to the hard-packed dirt floor covered by a hemmed sheet of black-dyed canvas, slightly sun-rusted. Dusty footprints marred the surface: his own, and Merriq’s bigger, booted feet. “Cursed horseflies,” he muttered. “Should all be sent to Alisanos.” Though, come to think of it, more probably they had come
from
the deepwood; all demons and devils did, be they in human form or other. Hezriah scowled anew. “Have you anything due in from the anthills?”

“Day or two,” Merriq answered stolidly. “Still too much meat on the bones.”

“Well, that will do for Dardannus.” Hezriah nodded, briefly calculating how long the Kantic diviner would tolerate the delay without reducing payment or looking elsewhere for a supplier. Practitioners of the Kantica did not count patience among their virtues. “But I need another body as soon as possible.”

“Do you want me to kill someone?”

He grunted. “No, no. Let them die on their own; I have ethics, and I respect the law—unlike some I could mention, named Eccul! But surely you can find someone crossing over the river in one of the alleys, can’t you? Or someone murdered for not paying his debts?” The latter happened frequently among bad wagerers and drunkards.

The hireling’s massive shoulders hitched. “I can poke around.”

“Good. Do so. Or Eccul will have my clients.” Hezriah sighed, aware of a sense of oppression not entirely due to the heat and close confines; there were plenty of other bonedealers who could take over when he failed. Eccul was merely one of many, if more annoying than most. “Any Shoia in danger of dying?”

Merriq shrugged. “Not many in town
to
die. Not that they ever do.”

Hezriah scowled. “There’s Rhuan. Disgustingly arrogant young man. Surely someone will kill him soon.” He brightened. “Or possibly Brodhi? I saw him earlier, come
in from the road. He was heading for Mikal’s tent. Do you think someone might kill him there? Brodhi isn’t well liked. In fact, I don’t know of
anyone
who likes him.”

“No one will kill Rhuan
or
Brodhi,” Merriq declared. “Shoia can’t die.”

“Oh, certainly they can die.” Ludicrous legends annoyed Hezriah. “You simply have to kill them seven times.”

“In a row?” The hireling snapped his thick fingers:
click-click-click.
“Like this? Seven times?”

“How should I know? I’ve never seen a Shoia die even once.” The bonedealer slapped at another bite, this one upon his neck. “Cursed horseflies!” He wouldn’t mind them so much if there were a divination denomination that used dead horseflies for augury, because then there would be profit in his misery, but he was aware of none.
Perhaps I should invent one, like the charlatans do.
“Go on, then. See what you can bring me. Find Arbath—probably drowning himself at Mikal’s or spending himself in a whore—and take him with you. Two of you will serve better than one. Just haul the body out to the anthills as soon as possible, so the ants can do their work.” Thinking, he chewed at his lip as Merriq turned away, then tacked on the ritual promise: “find me a dead Shoia, and I’ll triple your wages.”

The hireling, halfway through the tent flap, glanced back over his shoulder. Light eyes above the gray-threaded reddish beard were grimly amused. “I find me a dead Shoia in town, and you can sell
my
bones for the Kantica. Shoia look after their own.” He paused, grimacing. “If any bones are left.”

The tent flap settled behind Merriq’s departure with a melodic rattle as strings of charms were disturbed. Bird bones. Vermin bones. Rabbit. The skull of a cat. Suspended on thin, knotted twine interspersed with brass, colored glass, and clay beads, hollowed bones pierced to let the wind through. Ordinarily they made a pleasant sound to ears familiar with the song. But just now the noise reminded Hezriah that if more bodies were not to be found soon, he’d likely lose a customer or two.

“Eccul will be digging them up from the graveyard, despite the punishment for it, and cut out the rest of us entirely,” the bonedealer muttered; Eccul, after all, had no ethics. He took the easy way, rites and permissions be damned.

Shaking his head, Hezriah squatted on black canvas before the flat sheet of heavy green-gray stone—the bonedealer’s anvil, it was called in the trade—and returned to the work interrupted by Merriq’s arrival. He took up the hammer—a smooth, round, purplish river rock bound by leather onto a sweat-stained wooden haft—and began smashing the heavy thigh bone to pieces. Chips and splinters would show up against the black fabric flooring, so the attrition rate was negligible.

“Horse will do for now,” he murmured, smashing away, “but I’d rather have a Shoia.”

Shoia bones were a bonedealer’s lottery. They made the best auguries for the Kantic diviners, who found omens and portents in the bones themselves prior to burning, and in the ash after. But Shoia bones generally remained housed in Shoia
flesh
, which was, predictably, not particularly amenable to dying for anyone’s sake, let alone a bonedealer’s. Or even a Kantic diviner’s.

There was Rhuan. And there was Brodhi. Hezriah didn’t personally know of other Shoia, here in the settlement or anywhere in the world. And both were currently in residence, though as likely to leave soon. But Merriq was right. No citizen who knew what they were would attempt to kill either Rhuan or Brodhi. Not even Eccul, who had no ethics; Eccul dug up bones, but did not stoop to murder.

Hezriah glowered.
Yet.

No, only a stranger might attempt to kill a Shoia, and even if it was true they could die—after six other deaths first—no one knew how to keep count.

Except probably the Shoia themselves, who very likely wouldn’t tell.

Hezriah wondered briefly if Brodhi knew how many deaths Rhuan had left, or if Rhuan knew Brodhi’s count. He’d heard a story that Rhuan had been killed here in the
settlement before he hired on as a guide for Jorda’s karavan, but no one knew if it was true. At any rate, neither Rhuan nor Brodhi showed any signs of dropping over dead on their own.