The Jackal of Nar (83 page)

“Utumbo toobay isa, Kalak,” he said to Richius. “Do toobay bis.” Then he turned and walked back toward the castle. Richius looked inquisitively at Dyana.

“Voris says that he has done his part,” Dyana explained. “You must now do yours.”

The congregation started to disperse, and a small man stepped up to Richius and Dyana. From his dress and serious features Richius knew he was one of Voris’ lieutenants. Older than Voris by far, he reminded Richius at once of Jojustin. He bowed to
Richius courteously, and then to Dyana, careful not to stare at either of them. When he spoke his voice was rough but polite.

“His name is Jarra,” said Dyana. “He is Voris’
Dumaka.
”

“Dumaka?” asked Richius. “What’s that?”

Dyana puzzled over the question for a moment. “I do not think there is a word for it in your language, Richius. He is like a teacher. He schools the other warriors. You might call him a war master.”

“A war master, huh?” said Richius, openly impressed. “I’ll have to remember that. So what’s he want with us?”

“He says he has been ordered to take care of us.”

Richius laughed. “Just like Jojustin. Very well then. Please tell the war master I’m very tired. I would like a bed.”

Dyana made the request and the Dumaka nodded, walking away and beckoning them to follow. But when he noticed Richius leading Lightning, he stopped and pointed at the animal.

“He wants you to leave the horse, Richius,” said Dyana.

“Leave him? Where?”

Jarra explained some more.

“The Dumaka says your horse will be looked after with the others. Please, Richius, leave him.”

Richius frowned.

“This is about trust, Richius,” said Dyana. “If you cannot trust them with your horse, how can they trust you with their valley?”

The war master stared at Richius inquisitively, waiting for his reply. At last Richius shrugged.

“Tell him to be careful. Lightning has breeding. He’s not like these other bone-bags.”

“I will tell him,” said Dyana. She explained it all to the war master, who made a disgruntled face but seemed to comply, calling over one of the warriors and giving him a list of explicit instructions. Dyana smiled at Richius. “All right?”

“I suppose,” replied Richius. “Now let’s find those beds.”

They followed Jarra across the grounds, careful to stay as far as possible from the war wolves still leashed in the yard. Shani gurgled as they neared the looming castle. Dyana rocked her gently to quiet her. There was a huge gate of wrought iron to greet them. They passed through it silently and entered the keep. Inside they found the same careless architecture that marked the
castle’s exterior. The walls bulged with uneven brickwork and a few broken chandeliers hung crookedly from the ceiling on chains of tarnished gold. What sparse furnishings there were consisted mostly of wooden chairs and tables, all plain and utilitarian, strewn haphazardly throughout the hall. The floor was irregular and tiled with cracked blue stones, and dirtied sunlight poured into the room from an odd collection of octagonal windows cut into the walls in lopsided trios.

Yet despite all the antiquity of the place, it was not dreary. Activity sounded in the halls, and above them the warped ceiling thumped with movement on the upper floor. A coursing excitement permeated the keep and the air was fresh through the open windows. Smiling warriors pushed by them, and eager children clung to the hems of their mothers’ dresses. Dogs barked and wolves howled, and it was all like a carnival to Richius, who had never guessed his nemesis capable of fostering such emotion in his people.

Jarra led them up a small flight of stairs leading to a sunny wing of the castle decorated with tall, multipaned windows and a reasonable view of an overgrown garden. A warped wooden door stood at the end of the hall leading to a sunlit chamber. This, Jarra explained, was where Richius would be staying. It was a small room but well appointed, with a desk and some chairs and, most importantly, a thick-mattressed bed. On the desk was a tablet of writing paper and several maps, and beside these someone had placed a decanter of water and a basket of bread and fruit. Richius chose a perfectly ripe apple from the basket and handed it to Dyana, who accepted it gratefully.

“This is fine,” he said cheerfully. “Just fine. But what about you, Dyana? Where will you be?”

“The Dumaka says that I am to stay with Voris’ wife,” said Dyana angrily. “I do not think the warlord trusts me.”

“Oh, he trusts you,” said Richius. “It’s
me
he wants to keep an eye on. Don’t worry. You can come down here to instruct me.”

Dyana shook her head. “I cannot. Richius, we spoke of this already. We must not make others suspicious.” She cocked her head slightly toward the listening Jarra. “We will find a more open place for your instructions.”

Richius smiled at her. “Of course. I’ll see you later then?”

“At the evening meal. The Dumaka says we are both to attend. It is Voris’ wish. It will be at sundown.”

“I’ll probably be asleep by then,” said Richius. “Will you come down to get me?”

“No. I will meet you in the hall where we came in.” With her face hidden from Jarra, she flashed Richius a smile. “Sleep well. I will see you tonight.”

Richius watched them disappear down the hall, then shut the door to his chamber behind them. He went back to the basket of fruit and selected a piece for himself, a fist-sized citrus with dimpled skin and the scent of a powerfully ripe melon. A spray of juice erupted as he peeled back its pithy skin. There had been precious little good food on the long journey to the castle, and far less privacy. Now he was enjoying both with equal vigor. He sat down on the bed and leaned back against the wall, watching the trees sway outside his window as he ate.

In less than a minute he was asleep.

When he awoke, many hours later, the sunlight had stopped pouring in from the garden window. Richius lifted himself groggily from the mattress, surprised by the heaviness of his head. He rubbed his eyes and strained to see in the dim chamber, remembering suddenly that there was a dinner waiting for him downstairs. Hungrily he patted his stomach, eager to fill it. He was growing curiously accustomed to the odd cuisine of Lucel-Lor, and the thought of it no longer sent his insides pitching. There was a mirror on the wall farthest from the bed. He went to it, running his hands through his hair and inspecting the red creases the mattress had made on his face. It was then that he noticed the clothing.

While he slept, someone had deposited a new outfit in his chamber. It consisted of a plain white shirt and a pair of doeskin trousers, simple Triin clothes like those worn by farmers. He picked up the shirt and admired it. It was wonderfully clean, and his own shirt was soiled beyond recognition. The trousers were well-made, too, comfortable looking, with a drawstring front that made a belt unnecessary. Eagerly he stripped off his filthy clothes and pulled on the trousers, sucking in his breath while he did up the drawstrings. It was a reasonable fit, and the soft fabric felt marvelous against his skin. Then he grabbed the shirt and put it on, too, fastening each button slowly as he watched himself
in the little mirror, laughing gleefully at his reflection. In the strange outfit he looked neither like a Naren or a Triin. Rather he seemed an odd mix of both. He decided the look suited him.

Downstairs, the main hall of the castle was almost deserted. He skirted along its perimeter looking for Dyana and hoping Voris would not find him first. Outside he could see the sky darkening through the octagonal windows. Dyana should be waiting for him. He turned a corner and started down another corridor, empty except for a man and a woman he didn’t know, just beginning a passionate kiss. They both started at his appearance, and the man straightened in embarrassment as he recognized Richius. Richius smiled at him awkwardly.

“I’m sorry,” he offered. “I’m looking for someone.”

The warrior sort of shrugged. “Ja coca vin?”

“Hmm, maybe. I don’t understand a word you’re saying. And you don’t understand me, either, do you? Never mind. I’ll find her myself.”

He left the corridor quickly, going back the way he had come, trying to find the little staircase he had descended and deciding to wait there for Dyana. But when he slipped by a small door he stopped. Behind it he heard a tiny voice talking to itself. Curiously he cracked open the door and stuck his head into the chamber. A small girl sat cross-legged on the floor, reading a book by candlelight. Reading, to Richius’ great astonishment, in Naren. When she saw him she stopped and looked up, and he knew instantly that she wasn’t frightened.

“Who are you?” he asked directly. The girl seemed amused by the question. She was barely ten years old, but the face she made was decidedly adult.

“I live here,” she answered. Then she looked him up and down and said, “You do not. You are an Empire man.”

Richius grinned. Hearing his own language come from the lips of this waif was utterly fantastic.

“Yes,” he said, inching into the room. “I’m an Empire man. My name is Richius.”

“You are Kalak,” she said. “Father told me you were here.”

Richius shook his head, trying to be gentle. “My name is Richius,” he repeated. “Not Kalak. Who’s your father?”

“Father is warlord,” replied the girl.

“Well, you can call me Richius, anyway,” said Richius, unsure
if he should even continue the conversation. But the girl had entranced him. “What’s your name?”

The girl pointed to herself proudly. “I am Pris.”

“Pris? Like the goddess?”

“Yes. Father says I am beautiful like her. Strong like her, too. She is my patroness.”

Richius squatted down beside her and pointed to the book in her hands. “You’re a very good reader,” he said. “What is this book?”

“Bhapo’s book,” said Pris. “He gave it to me. I learn from it.”

Bhapo, Richius knew, was a Triin term of affection. It usually meant an uncle or some male cousin. He peered into the open book lying in her lap, trying to read its upside-down print.

“Who’s Bhapo?”

“Bhapo Tharn,” replied Pris. She looked at Richius excitedly. “You know Bhapo?”

“Oh, yes,” said Richius. “He’s not my bhapo, but I know him. Did he give you this book?”

Pris nodded. “To teach me.”

“It’s a very nice book. Can I hold it?”

Without hesitation Pris gave the book to Richius. “You read Empire words, too, yes?”

“Yes,” said Richius, thumbing through the pages. It was a book of Naren poems, very old and probably very valuable. It was plain to see why the girl cherished it.

“You read for me?” asked Pris. “You read good?”

“Oh, I don’t think I could read these poems as well as you, Pris,” said Richius with a smile. “You have such a pretty voice. How did you learn to speak Naren? Did Tharn teach you?”

“Bhapo teach me before big war,” said Pris. “He gave me book before going away. He say I best student, learn fast.”

Apparently,
thought Richius. He skimmed the text of some of the poems, amazed that a child so young could comprehend such complex sentences. Even Naren children her age couldn’t read at her level. Obviously Tharn had seen some genius in her and had chosen to encourage it. And clearly Voris had been indulgent.

“Your father doesn’t mind your reading about Nar?”

“Father wanted me to learn, to be smart and strong like my
patroness.” Then the little girl’s face darkened. “But he made me stop for Tal.”

Richius froze. “Tal, your brother,” he whispered.

Pris’ gray eyes lost their twinkle. “Father says you killed Tal. Blamed Empire men for Tal dying. Made me stop reading then. But I kept book. I still read and learn.”

“Is that why you’re hiding in here?” asked Richius. “So your father doesn’t see you?”

“Father would be unhappy,” said Pris. “I get no more books from Bhapo.” She flashed a furtive smile. “But I learn anyway. You can help me. Read for me, yes?”

Richius got up and closed the door, suddenly worried they would be discovered. “I’m sorry, Pris,” he said to her gently. “I don’t think I should. Your father would be very angry with both of us if he knew.”

“Just one,” she implored. “You read one for me. Here, I show you.”

She grabbed the book and rifled though the pages. When she found the poem she was looking for she handed the book back to him with a grin. Richius accepted the book regretfully and glanced at the poem. Predictably, it was a love poem, the type of old-fashioned verse that had become all too rare in militaristic Nar. Pris leaned back attentively, waiting for him to begin.

“Pris, I can’t read this for you. I don’t want to get your father mad.”

“I am not afraid of Father,” replied Pris. “Are you?”

“It has nothing to do with that. I’m just trying to respect his wishes, that’s all.”

Pris clearly didn’t believe him. “Read for me,” she said sweetly. “Please.”

He was about to relent when he heard his name being called. Dyana’s voice held a distinct note of concern. Pris wrinkled her nose in disappointment. Richius went to the door and opened it. He saw Dyana down the hallway, searching for him, and he called her over with a wave.

“Dyana, over here.”

Dyana’s expression went from relief to puzzlement. “Richius, why are you hiding in there? I have been looking for you. It is time to see Voris.”

“I’m not hiding,” said Richius. “Come in. I want you to meet someone.”

Dyana stepped inside and saw Pris sitting on the floor. The little girl smiled at her precociously. “Hello.”

“Hello,” replied Dyana. She turned quickly to Richius. “Who is this?”

“This is Voris’ daughter,” said Richius. “Her name is Pris. Say something to her in Naren.”

“What?”

“Go on,” Richius urged. “Anything.”

Dyana looked at Pris suspiciously, then said very softly, “Hello, Pris. My name is Dyana. How old are you?”

“I am almost ten,” replied Pris. “You are a pretty lady.”

Richius laughed. “Isn’t that amazing? She speaks better than some Talistanians I know!”

Dyana knelt down next to Pris and examined her, as if unsure she were truly Triin. “Remarkable,” she whispered. The compliment made Pris sit up straight.