The Water Road (28 page)

The younger members of the clan
were more confused than anything else. The warriors, especially those who were
young enough to have avoided battle in their short lives, at first saw the
opportunity for glory and advancement taken away from them. They had, after
all, been prepared to battle other Neldathi all their lives. Now came this
outsider who was telling them to put all that training to one side, forgive the
feuds, and focus on a different enemy, one that could potentially be much more
difficult to defeat. They were more open about their concerns, at least. As
with the others, Antrey was willing to let them vent their fear at this point.

One morning, the third day of the
column’s encampment on a broad plain covered with melting snow, Antrey and
Goshen were walking out along the southern edge of the camp. On this particular
morning, as with most mornings, Goshen was explaining to Antrey something or
other about the Maker of Worlds and her role in everything. Antrey was unsure
if Goshen thought this was education or an attempt at conversion. She had no
real inclination towards belief in the gods, or even just one, and nothing
Goshen would say was likely to change her mind. In that way, she was
undoubtedly more Altrerian than she was Neldathi. But she humored Goshen, if
only because he had done so much for her already. Besides, his words might yet
prove useful in the conflicts to come.

Goshen was on a particularly long
and rambling jaunt when something caught Antrey’s attention. She stopped and
clasped him on the shoulder. “What is this about?” she asked, pointing.

About a hundred yards away there
was a clearing, a circle carved out from the various tents and other small
structures. In the circle there were three men. Two stood on the snowy ground
facing a third, who stood on a small raised platform of some kind. In his hand
was a staff of the sort that a Speaker of Time might carry, although it was
much less ornate. Over his layers of skins and furs, he wore a pair of long red
sashes, one draped over each shoulder. On the ground between the other two men,
on her knees, was a young woman, whose body convulsed as if she was weeping. A
dozen others stood around the outer edge of the circle, looking on.

Goshen glanced over at the setting and
shrugged it off quickly. “That is a circle of justice, jeyn,” he said as he
began to walk away.

Antrey ran to catch up and stepped
in front of him. “What is a circle of justice? What are they doing to that
girl?”

Goshen stopped and looked over his
shoulder. “A circle of justice is the way in which a clan deals with its
violators, its lawbreakers. It is a routine part of life, jeyn. There is no
need to concern yourself with such things.”

Antrey shot him a cold glance. “My
entire claim to any kind of leadership is based on concepts of justice, isn’t
it?”

Goshen nodded reluctantly.

“Then shouldn’t I see how justice
is carried out amongst my people?”

The energy drained from Goshen’s
body, as if he had no will to fight her about it. “There is wisdom in your words,”
he said, turning to lead her towards the circle.

They stopped a few feet away from
the edge of the circle, close enough to see and hear what was happening, but
not so close as to draw attention to themselves. The man on the platform was
speaking. “What’s he saying?” Antrey asked Goshen.

Goshen listened for a moment, then
shook his head. “It is not possible to fully understand what he is saying now
without having heard the beginning,” he said.

“Do the best you can,” Antrey said,
rolling her eyes at him.

Goshen sighed. “The one with the
staff and the vestments is the kel, the giver of justice,” he said. “The young
woman on her knees is called Olmo. I believe that she was caught taking some
item or other from someone else, named Ildik. This, apparently, occurred a few
days ago while the clan was on the move.” He paused, then turned to her. “In
situations like this, the accused is often held in close custody until the clan
makes camp. Then they are dealt with in this fashion.”

“Does Olmo admit that she did
this?” Antrey said.

Goshen shrugged. “I cannot
determine that from what the kel is saying. Her guilt has already been
established.”

Antrey knew a little of the courts
in Tolenor, but could not explain to anyone how they actually worked. However
slight that knowledge was, it was worlds beyond her understanding of what was
happening in front of her. “How do they get to that point?” she asked. Before
waiting for an answer, she continued, “Who decides she is guilty? What evidence
is presented? Is there any higher authority to which she can appeal?”

“If you wish, I can find one of the
kels later this afternoon who may be able to answer your questions,” Goshen
said.

“You don’t know?”

He shook his head. “Justice in this
world is not my concern, jeyn.”

Antrey turned back to the circle.
The kel had finished making his speech, the conclusion of which she missed
while talking with Goshen. Olmo was clearly weeping, however. Antrey could see
the tears dripping off her cheeks into the slushy snow below. On the other side
of the circle from where they stood, Antrey saw an older woman, standing with a
small boy in front of her, her arms draped around him protectively. She was
looking away from Olmo and the kel, but was having trouble doing it. Antrey
watched as the woman’s eyes drifted slowly back towards the center of the
circle, only to see her head snap sideways, her eyes clamp shut, and her hands
cover the boy’s face.

In the circle, the kel had come
down off his platform. In his right hand he held a short sword, drawn from
where, Antrey could not tell. His two assistants stood on either side of Olmo,
each with one arm locked in their hands. Olmo continued to weep, but did not
otherwise struggle or fight to get away.

“What’s going on?” Antrey said to
Goshen in a voice loud enough that some others in the circle turned and looked
at her.

“This is justice, jeyn,” he said.
“You wanted to see it.”

The kel walked slowly,
ceremonially, around the three others, until he was directly behind Olmo. He
knelt behind her and pulled back her head with the braid of her hair.

“No,” Antrey said, shaking her
head. She started towards the center of the circle, only to find Goshen in
front of her, holding her back with all of his advantageous Neldathi might.
“No,” she said again, “I can’t let this happen.”

“You must,” Goshen said, trying to
keep his voice down. “You know nothing of this girl, nor of her crime. You know
nothing of the laws of the clan that she had violated. If you do this now, step
in to stop the clan from working as it always has, what are the people to
think? That you are one who would unite them against common enemies? Or that
you are a person who does not look like them, does not speak like them, and
came from the North to tell them their ways are wrong?”

Antrey knew he was right, but could
not bring herself to admit it. She leaned around him to see the kel and watched
as he quickly and decisively drew the sword across Olmo’s neck. The woman on
the other side of the circle now cried out, unable to control her emotions any
longer. The snow underneath Olmo quickly turned red and her body went limp and
lifeless between the two men holding her.

After a moment where all seemed
perfectly still, the kel’s two assistants took Olmo’s body away. The circle
broke up and the people returned to the regular routines of their day. The kel
slipped the sword back in a scabbard strapped to his right leg and sat down on
the stool that had been his podium.

Goshen slowly relaxed his grip on
Antrey’s shoulders and backed away from her. “We can speak to the kel now, if
you wish, jeyn. He will be waiting for some time for his acolytes to return.”

Antrey shook her head. “No, not
now,” she said. “Some other time.” She thought about when she might be able to
process all this and decided it would not be any time soon. “Come on, Goshen,”
she said, turning to walk away. “Tell me more about the Maker of Worlds.”

Quantstown was a thin city that
clung to the west coast of Altreria like an amorous snake. The city extended only
a few miles inland from the coast, but it wound its way nearly twenty miles
from north to south, snout to tail. There was a high bluff on the northern edge
of the city. It provided a panoramic view of the city spread out underneath, as
well as the rolling breakers coming in from the sea and crashing on the rocks
below.

The hall of the Guild of Writers
was perched on top of the bluff. Strefer had grown up there and that was where
she became attached to wide, open places. All the sky seemed to hang just above
the hall, so much higher than the city beneath. She missed that openness.
Tolenor was flat and crowded, with people milling all around you, in a way that
often wore her down, but at least there was the open sky overhead. And it was
an island, which made it easy to get to the coast and look out over the ocean
and feel like she was standing on the edge of the world.

By this point, Strefer longed for
the relative openness of the Tolenor streets. She and Rurek were picking their
way, slowly but surely, through the claustrophobic trails of the Arbor, and she
was uncertain when or if she might see open sky again. There were wide,
well-trodden paths that Rurek generously called roads, as well as tight,
tangled pathways that looked like trails used by animals. The roads were pocked
and rutted by the years of horse and wagon traffic, but at least there was
enough space that some sunlight could filter through. Huge trees lined either
side of the roads, as if constructed as an arboreal temple. But at least there
was some sunlight. The further they went, however, the farther the distance
between the roads became.

Either that or Rurek had become
more determined to avoid them. As they picked their way through particularly
dense underbrush on a trail, Strefer asked him, “Explain to me why we can’t at
least stay on the main roads anymore?”

“It’s better off if we don’t,” he
said, pushing back thick ropes of intertwined plants with his pikti.

“The guys at the ferry?” she asked,
knowing the answer.

“Not them particularly,” he said,
slashing at a low-hanging vine, “but others like them. I wish we could have
taken the time to question them, see where they came from. Without that, it’s
hard to tell why any particular person could be looking for us.”

“Or where they might come looking
for us,” Strefer said.

“Exactly,” he said. After they made
it a few more hundred feet up the trail, Rurek said, “Besides, you’re not
missing much.”

“Oh, really?” Strefer asked.

“Most of the roads just run between
the Confederation cities. Even those haven’t been around very long. There are
no roads to Oberton, so we’d have to get off them eventually.”

“Fair enough,” she said, dodging a
branch that had bent back as Rurek passed and then swished back towards her
face.

The next day, the narrow trails were
flooded with rain, making them slick with mud and debris. They pushed on, but
Strefer was increasingly concerned. “Are you certain that we’re going in the
right direction?”

“What do you mean?” Rurek said. He
stopped and turned to look at her, a wounded expression on his face. “You think
I would get us lost?”

She shook her head. “Of course not.
Not on purpose, anyway. But I haven’t seen you look at a map or anything like
it since we left Innisport. It’s not like there are signs along these trails.
They all look the same to me.”

Rain dripped off Rurek’s nose as he
composed his response. “Look, Strefer. The road we were on, the main road? It
runs between Durlandala and Kerkondala, my home. Before I left to become a
Sentinel I ran in these woods all the time. I hunted here, chased animals
here,” he said, pausing. “Chased girls, too,” he said, flashing a grin. “I know
this land.”

“Sorry,” Strefer said, gesturing
for him to start up again. “I didn’t know you had been to Oberton before.”

“Oh, I haven’t,” he said over his
shoulder. “But I’m pretty sure I can get us there.”

~~~~~

They stopped that night near a
bubbling spring that appeared out of nowhere. It was late, they were both
tired, and Rurek declared it as good a place as any other. Aside from the
spring, it looked just like any other wide spot on the trail they followed that
day. Strefer saw nothing to distinguish it from the acres of green forest all
around them.

After some overly demonstrative consideration,
Rurek left Strefer by the spring to find something for them to eat, building a
small campfire before he left. He left Strefer his pikti in case something
unexpected happened, having appropriated her knife to deal with dinner. Strefer
wasn’t sure it was a fair trade, but Rurek convinced her that, for all that it
was, one of the things a pikti was not was a hunting weapon.

She sat by the spring and, for a
long time, rolled the pikti around in the palm of her hands. This was the first
time she had really examined the weapon of a Sentinel in detail. It was taller
than she was, nearly as tall as Rurek. It was made of wood but it was
impossibly smooth except for the ornately carved spot around the leather grip
in the center. It was covered in some kind of black lacquer, blacker than
anything else Strefer had ever seen, even the clear night sky. It was polished
to such a degree that, even after weeks of abuse on their journey, she could
see her reflection in it.

She thought about the scene in Alban’s
office back in Tolenor. The pikti in his office was not this pure, this clean.
One end was caked in shades of red, his blood and brain staining the wood.
Rurek’s pikti seemed so light in her hand, she wondered how Antrey managed to
do so much damage with one. Obviously, given her heritage, she was larger and
stronger than Strefer. And, most likely, she was fueled by an exploding rage
that Strefer could still not quite measure. She was beginning to understand it,
however.

Strefer stood up by the fire and
gripped the pikti in the middle, the soft leather giving just a bit under her
fingers. She tried to twirl it about, like she had seen Sentinels do, but
merely wound up flinging the staff to the ground. Only dumb luck kept her from
being smacked in the face as it spun out of her hands. It sprawled onto the
ground, one end just barely resting in the fire. Strefer quickly bent down and
grabbed the other end with both hands. She held it like a club and swung it a
few times towards the fire, trying to get a sense of how Antrey might have done
it. It was no use. It still felt so slight in her hands that Strefer had a hard
time seeing how Antrey had imploded the skull of a healthy full-grown man. She
wondered, too, about how it had done so much damage to one of their attackers
back in Innisport.

She turned and swung again, hard,
at a clump of limbs hanging down from a tree. It was too hard, and the smooth
staff slipped out of her hands again, flying away from her until it came to a
stop, cracking loudly against the side of a rock. If she didn’t know better,
Strefer would have thought someone had been shot.

As did Rurek, apparently.
“Strefer!” she heard him yell out behind her, his voice ragged from exhaustion.
“Strefer!” He burst out into the clearing, a fairly large and very dead rodent
of some kind hanging by the tail in his left hand. In his right was her knife,
covered in blood. “Are you all right?” He dropped the dead animal and rushed
towards her, head on a swivel as his eyes scanned the forest for others.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” she said,
embarrassed at the attention caused by her own clumsiness.

“What was that noise then?” he
asked, catching his breath. “I thought…”

She cut him off, pointing towards
the pikti on the ground.

“Ah,” he said, walking over to where
it lay. He stopped to wash the blood off the knife in the spring, then slipped
it into his belt. He picked up the pikti and examined it for damage as he
walked back to where she stood.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It slipped
out of my hands. Did I break it?”

Rurek laughed. “Break it? Strefer,
if you tried your hardest and marshaled all your strength, you couldn’t chip
it, much less break it. Nor could I, for that matter. See for yourself.” He
handed it back to her.

She quickly looked over the pikti.
It was as smooth and solid as it had been before. The only evidence of
misadventure were a few specks of dirt that had clung to the leather grip. She
brushed it off and handed it back to him.

“Don’t feel bad,” he said. As if to
emphasize the point, he tossed the staff down beside the fire. “Hungry?” he
asked, picking up the dead animal and displaying it with mock pride.

“I was, until I saw what dinner was
going to be,” she said.

“Now, now,” he said, walking over
to the fire. “Do you think those hunks in the stew at the Broken Pikti look any
better at this point in the process?”

“Good point,” she said. “Gods, what
I wouldn’t give for a couple of bowls of that foul stuff right about now.”

He nodded while kneeling down and
cleaning his catch. “I’m sorry about that. I thought it would be easier to live
off the land. It always looked easier, anyway.”

“Wait a second, I thought you grew
up in these woods?” Strefer asked.

“I did,” he said, as if it was a
point of honor. “But I always went home at the end of the day. Or back to some
kind of camp with my family or friends. I was never really out in the
wilderness, left to fend for myself.”

Strefer snorted. “You were spending
all your time memorizing these trails, weren’t you?”

“I suppose so,” he said, chuckling.
He finished cleaning the animal, fashioned a crude spit out of some branches
and limbs, and began to roast it over the fire.

Strefer sat down across from him
and picked the pikti up again and began to roll it around in her hand.

“You’re really fascinated by that
thing, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Can you blame me?” she said, then
returned to her study. “Can you blame anybody, really? It has no kind of blade.
It can neither slash nor cut nor pierce, like a sword or a spear. It’s not a
throwing weapon, so you have a disadvantage at range. A bow can kill from far
away and almost silently. And a gun, well, it’s not as quiet but it’s equally
effective. So how come the Sentinels, who engage in some of the most dangerous
work in Altreria, from intelligence gathering to policing the streets of
Tolenor, still carry them around?”

After ensuring that the skinned
beast was properly perched over the fire, Rurek sat down and took the pikti
from her. “Well, for one thing, there’s the history. Before there were ever
Sentinels, the pikti was used by the Telebrian Royal Guards. They were less
obviously deadly than swords or pikes. More elegant, but still effective
weapons. When the King appears at ceremonial events today, he’s still flanked
by a pair of guards with piktis.”

“But don’t the actual royal guards
these days carry swords and muskets?” asked Strefer. “In case they, you know,
have to actually kill or subdue someone?”

“Fair enough,” Rurek conceded. “I
was just pointing out that there is a pedigree here.”

“But there’s more to it than that,
right?”

“Sure,” he said. “This is actually
a very functional and effective weapon. No moving parts and no ammunition, so
it will never jam. It will never become waterlogged. It doesn’t even need to be
sharpened or cleaned on a regular basis, although cleaning it is part of the
Sentinel training. The only thing that wears out or goes bad is this,” he said,
touching the leather grip. “You have to replace those once in a while. So while
this pikti may have limited range or power, it is always able to operate at its
limits.”

“All right, I’ll give you that
point,” Strefer said. “Then how does it get that way? And how can it do so much
damage if it’s so light?”

Rurek gripped the pikti on either side
of the leather and took a deep breath. “There is a tree—it’s more of a bush
than a tree, actually—that grows only in one marsh, in the far north of
Telebria near the source of the River Adon. It has a hollow core that runs up
the length of the trunk. When the tree dies, the pulp around that core
collapses in on the core, leaving a solid, if mushy, center of the trunk.” He
looked like he had told this story, or been told it, many times before.

“Centuries ago, an acolyte of some
sort from Beckton was wandering in that marsh, as penance or some other kind of
spiritual task, when he discovered this tree. He took several examples of the
dead tree back to Beckton and began experimenting with them. He discovered that
when the soft core of the trunk was removed, treated with a mixture made from
the tree’s roots and a select group of local herbs, then subjected to repeated
cycles of heating and cooling, it became increasingly solid and strong. The
result was a long staff, black as night and smooth as glass. Light, and yet
stronger than steel.” At that, he twirled the pikti like a little girl with a
baton and smiled.

“That’s amazing,” Strefer said.
“But why weren’t piktis used all over Altreria, then?”