Women of War (40 page)

“My uncle Louks!” Andrasta gasped.

“The description sounds very much like him,” Narjin said with deceptive placidity. “But you need not take my grandchildren's word. You could confirm Louks' involvement for yourself.”

“How?”

“We can tell you in which direction the work gang went. You could track them, spy upon them, confirm the tale Dmaalyn has told you. “

“I could track them,” Andrasta said, “but unlike Beru I am not going to be able to blend with the members of the gang. I am not likely to see tattoos or overhear foreign speech.”

“But you would know the mannerisms of warriors,” Narjin pressed.

“True,” Andrasta agreed, “and if my father and uncle are as deeply involved as you think, I may even recognize some friend of theirs. It is worth trying—but only after two things are done.”

“Two?”

“I am not yet strong enough to ride, much less to creep about.”

“And?”

“And I have promised you my testimony as a shield against my grandfather's wrath—or that of his generals. That testimony I must stay to give.”

Narjin looked relieved. “Utberu said that this evening as the sun was setting he saw a rising of dust in the direction where Warlord Cescu last followed his herds. If Utberu is correct, then a second patrol has come to find what happened to the first. They will probably arrive here to question us as to what we might have seen soon after dawn.”

Andrasta nodded. “And me? When would you say I will be well enough to ride?”

“Tomorrow or the next day.”

Andrasta pressed her lips together as she considered her multifaceted problem. She could not testify for these Ootoi's innocence without gathering evidence for herself that what Narjin said was true. That must be confirmed first. The rest could come after.

Thus far Andrasta had risen with assistance and walked only as far as the pot in a curtained corner of tent. Now she forced herself to stand unassisted. Though her head swam, soon it steadied.

“It is night now, Narjin?”

“Full dark.”

“And your clan?”

“In their tents.”

“Good. I will go among them.”

Narjin hesitated, and Dmaalyn made as if to leave the tent.

“No!” Andrasta commanded, and the two slaves froze in place. “Do not leave, Dmaalyn. Do not give warning. I go now, without warning. If what Narjin has said is true, I will see nothing that I should not, and I will not expect perfect polish and readiness.”

Dmaalyn bent her head in acknowledgment. Andrasta was pleased to see the other woman did not look unduly nervous. Narjin brought Andrasta clothing suitable for outside wear and a heavy cloak to cover the whole.

“Harvest-time nights can be chilly,” Narjin explained, “and you are not yet strong.”

Andrasta did not protest, nor, though her legs were sound, did she refuse the long staff Narjin gave her to lean upon. Moving stiffly, the staff thumping like a third leg, she ducked out of the tent and into the night. The clean air, untainted by enclosed smoke, tasted very good in her mouth, and she breathed deeply several times while assessing the layout of the community by the light of lanterns Narjin and Dmaalyn carried.

Although it was, as Dmaalyn had explained, a settled camp, the majority of the structures remained the domed tents used by Gharebi and Ootoi alike. Wood was not plentiful out on the plains, for big trees were only found near the mountains. Even so there was one timber building amid the tents. When Andrasta's gaze rested upon it, Narjin explained without being asked.

“A storage building, for grain and such. It is quite full now. By spring it will be empty of all but dust and chaff.”

Andrasta nodded then made her stiff way to the nearest tent. It was separated from Narjin's by several horse-lengths, and the area in between used for storage or small gardens. A few of the big dogs the Ootoi used for hauling, since they were not permitted to own horses, rose. One growled. Narjin hushed it with a word.

Neither Dmaalyn nor Narjin tried to stop Andrasta from going where she would, nor did either leave her side. Encouraged, Andrasta chose a tent at random, then ducked inside without announcing herself. The interior was dark but for a candle lantern burning in a holder on the center pole, the residents having gone to bed with the coming of full dark.

Andrasta motioned in her lantern bearers. After ordering silence, she inspected the inhabitants closely. It was a family group: man, woman, a few small children, an elderly man. None bore signs of having been in battle—no bandaged wounds, no healing bruises. They seemed completely surprised to see Andrasta, and from this Andrasta took confirmation that Narjin had kept her presence secret.

All the other tents were inspected in this fashion, and though by the last the camp was wakeful and surprise could no longer be maintained, still Andrasta was fairly certain no one had slipped away. She found no evidence of battle injuries, nor saw any greater fear or apprehension than would be normal. Once the last tent had been inspected, Andrasta thumped outside and turned to Narjin and Dmaalyn.

“Good. Now I can speak for you with some confidence. One more thing, then rest. I must inspect the storage building and assure myself no one hides in there.”

Narjin nodded. “We bar the building from the outside each night, and fasten the bar with an iron lock.”

She produced the key, a heavy thing as long as Andrasta's hand. “Here.”

The storage shed was packed nearly to the roof beams with sacked and baled goods: grain, dried fruit and meat, even some hay. Andrasta took the lantern from Narjin and held it high as she turned one way, then the other. She thought about how much the Gharebi had come to depend on caches such as this, not only for trade, but for survival. No matter what Grandfather Cescu said, the days in which the Gharebi had survived on horse milk and meat had not been better—especially not in the winter.

“Where did the seasonal laborers stay?”

Narjin replied, “They had their own tents pitched near the fields. They took them down that morning.”

Andrasta nodded, aware that her head had begun to hurt again, and that her side throbbed. She left the storage building without further comment, and waited while Narjin clamped closed the lock. Then she made her way back to her pallet by the fire. In the smoky darkness, she thought for a long while before falling asleep. Then, her plans laid, she slept well and long, waking only when the sound of dogs barking and ringing of metal announced the arrival of the Gharebi patrol.

It was led by Andrasta's uncle, Louks, her father's older brother, and, if Andrasta's mother, Telari, was to be believed, the source of much misery in Andrasta's life.

Louks was not Cescu's eldest son, nor his favorite, but all agreed he was the bravest—or at least the most foolhardy. Now a man in his late thirties, Louks was seamed and scarred, both by weather and by weapons. He was missing an ear, though the helmet he now wore hid this. He rode a dark chestnut with white stockings. Many times those stocking had been stained red with blood, for Trampler shared his master's fierceness in battle.

Narjin hastened into the tent as Andrasta was finishing dressing herself.

“My apologies, mistress,” the clan mother said. “I would have been here sooner, but a child had fallen ill and ...”

“No matter,” Andrasta said. “It may be better that I come before Louks without evident warning.”

Andrasta almost eschewed the support of the staff this morning, but remembering her plans grabbed it as she headed out. Indeed, she leaned on it rather more heavily than she had the night before.

An armed patrol milled in the open center of the encircling tents. Louks, still mounted on Trampler, was shouting at the old man Andrasta had seen the night before, demanding explanations.

“That old slave is not clan leader,” Andrasta said loudly. “This woman is. She came to get me, knowing you would not wish to question Ootoi if Gharebi could be found.”

Louks' seamed face could be almost impossible to read, but Andrasta thought that pleasure was the latest expression to cross it when he saw his niece limping forward.

“Andrasta,” Louks said flatly. “Alive? Horses fled into Cescu's camp last night. They were recognized as being the mounts of the patrol with which you had ridden. We mourned you.”

“I am alive,” Andrasta said, keeping her voice weak and gasping just a little, “though wounded. I am ready to report on what happened.”

She pulled herself straight with apparent effort and gave her report, speaking the slightly edited version of the truth that she had planned the night before. She did not dare change much, for she knew Louks had been watching, but she could make it seem as if her wounds had been more grievous than indeed they were.

Louks and his patrol listened intently, but Andrasta had the feeling that Louks, at least, was listening more for what he did not hear, than to what she said. When Andrasta finished, Louks grunted and frowned.

“So you say this particular clan of Ootoi were not among those who attacked your patrol—that the damage was done by a harvest gang who then fled?”

“I would swear it on my honor and before my grandfather Cescu.” Andrasta turned slightly as she spoke, making sure the famous griffin tattoo was visible to all.

The reminder that Andrasta was not just any young warrior went straight as an arrow from a bow. There were satisfied murmurs from most of the patrol. If Louks and a few others continued to look suspicious, Andrasta wondered if it was because they had reason to wish for an excuse to wipe out Narjin's clan.

Andrasta leaned there upon her staff, a seemingly frail shield between the two groups, aware she did possess the power of reputation and influence.

Even if he trusted every man in his patrol—and Andrasta was certain that every member could not be part of Louks' conspiracy—Louks must know that news of her survival could yet reach Cescu. Killing her was no longer an option—but as she realized this, Andrasta realized for the first time that it had not been chance that her patrol had been attacked. Her presence on the patrol had made it a target. If Louks wished to work against great Cescu, he must eliminate those who could rally the clans to the old warlord's side. Andrasta might be young, but already legend followed her. A wise tactician would eliminate her as a matter of course—and Louks was renowned as a schemer as well as a fighter.

Silently, Andrasta thanked Rangest and all the other gods for preserving her, even as she fought against displaying any sign of the fury that filled her when she considered how many brave men and women had died for no other crime than for being her companions.

“We shall ride after the rebels,” Louks said at last. “Niece, do you ride with us?”

He failed to sound welcoming, and Andrasta was glad. Her plans would have failed had Louks insisted she come.

“I am still spitting blood,” she said apologetically. “Best if I wait for my ribs to heal a day or so more.”

Louks did not push her. Injuries to lungs—as to the gut—were almost impossible to recover from. Andrasta wondered if her uncle had been cheered by her lie.

The patrol was eager to ride out, though Andrasta was willing to bet not all were eager for the same reason. Some would want vengeance, but Louks and a few of his cronies ... What did they want? She resolved to learn for herself.

Andrasta waited several hours, cleaning her weapons, making sure she had arrows and sound strings for her bow. There was no replacing her spear, but spear work was not what she was about. She also attended to Flame, and found the mare had been well kept, and was restless to move on.

When Andrasta was sure Louks had sufficient lead on her, she saddled Flame and prepared to leave. Narjin checked the bindings on her wounds, and supplied her with water and food.

“What will you do if you are seen?” the clan mother asked.

“I will present myself as a young fool, determined to prove myself before my uncle,” Andrasta said. “It will be readily believed.”

Narjin's smile agreed, though she was too aware of her place to say so.

“Thank you,” Andrasta said, raising her voice to include all who clustered around. “For the second time I owe my life to Narjin's clan. I will not forget.”

There were pleased murmurs at these words. Dmaalyn stepped forward and held up a carved token strung on a leather thong: a roughly shaped circle in which a griffin, a horse, and a pair of human figures were intertwined. Dabs of paint made the horse a bay, gave the griffin yellow feathers, and made the human figures male and female warriors.

“My son Utberu made this for you. Carry it with our blessing and our wish for luck.”

Andrasta accepted it and her gaze found the awkward figure of the husky boy in the crowd.

“It will bring me luck,” she said. Without further words, Andrasta pressed her heels into Flame's sides and they were away.

Outside the farm area, Andrasta easily picked up the patrol's trail. Later, she found where the group split into smaller units. Trampler's hoof marks were easily isolated from the rest.

“ ‘We must separate,'” Andrasta said to Flame. “I'd bet my bow that's what Uncle Louks said. ‘We must separate and scout.' Then Louks and at least one other whom he trusted went where Louks knew in advance the killers would be. I would have enough evidence here, I think, were this any but Grandfather Cescu's son.”

She rode on, following Louks' trail, but not so intently that she forgot to watch for signs that would warn her she was coming upon a human gathering. She found these in the line drawn by a nearly smokeless fire and the tang of dreamweed in the breeze.