Liavek 4 Page 4

  "We do! We do!" L'Fertti assured him frantically. He turned and vanished through the inn doors like a rabbit darting into its burrow. The dark look T'nar gave Kaloo frightened her, but Daril only gripped her more tightly.

  "She's mine, T'Nar. Mine. And it's going to be all right. You'll see."

  "What have I done to you?" he asked in a stricken voice, and slammed his way into the kitchen.

  Kaloo wondered which of them he had been speaking to. Daril gave a ragged sigh and wiped her hand across her face. She freed herself from Kaloo awkwardly and glanced about the inn as she shook out her skirts and patted at her dangling hair. "Yes," she said, her voice still unsteady. "New hangings will make a world of difference in here."

  "Perhaps blue," Kaloo said, clearing her voice to cover the break in it.

  "Yes, blue would be lovely," Daril immediately agreed. She tried to meet Kaloo's eyes, but it was too soon. "Don't worry about T'nar," she spoke softly to the old hangings. "He'll come around. It's harder for men to see their daughters grow up. Makes them feel old and useless. Well," she added in a suddenly brisk voice. "Will you look at me? I'd best get upstairs and fix myself. You'd think I'd been through a war!"

  "Grown up," Kaloo muttered to herself. The empty room made no reply. Well, she'd won. Daril knew she was old enough to make her own decisions now. She was going to study with L'Fertti and invest her luck. The pot-boil was safe, and the inn was going to have new blue hangings. She should be happy; everything had turned out so well.

  "He's never going to take me fishing again," she said softly. She stared at the dead embers in the fireplace and hugged herself against the chill.

  "Show of faith" by Gregory Frost

  THE CATTLE HAD appeared on the Farmer's Road near dusk, precisely as Jolesha had heard one of the granary guards predict. By then a harsh wind had risen from the direction of the Sea of Luck, a briny, gritty wind. It snatched away the sounds of the men she watched below, erased the clamor of the approaching cattle. In the last light of day, she peered into the cul-de-sac and watched the guards and the herdsmen work the pulley system that opened the gates on the chutes and let a river of grain pour into the feed troughs. One of the guards jumped up to straddle the trough and began raking the grain along it. Jolesha looked across the ridge and saw Urgelian waving, his signal that now they could be about their business. As she scurried across the open space to the nearest of the three wells, she silently gave thanks to Roashushe, god of the surf, for sending the wind; surely, when their work was done, the guards would remain down in the cul-de-sac, where the stinging wind could not bite.

  Wide capstones marked the three subterranean silos like three dolmens. Once there had been silos above the ground here, but those had been burned down in the Saltigan Wars as, very nearly, the city of Liavek had been; so, in a very real sense, the capstones were markers of another time.

  Jolesha crouched in the shadow of the capstone, her eyes alone marking her position, glittering like two new stars in that nocturnal face. She watched Urgelian come boldly across the flat toward her while her other companion, Klefti, appeared silently from the next capstone along. Urgelian had a rope slung over his shoulder. As he crouched into the shadow beside her, he shrugged and the rope slid down his arm.

  "Loop it around one of the supports before you tie it to yourself," he whispered to her.

  "I know," she replied peevishly. Urgelian always tried to dominate his two comrades. It was his single characteristic that irritated her; otherwise she loved him very dearly in secret. But because of his need to be first, her pride would not allow her to say so, while his pride would have made him reject her advances in any case.

  She tied the rope securely around her middle and tugged on it to satisfy herself that the knot would hold. Her hands were sweating. For a moment the wind shifted, buffeting them with the sound of lowing cattle. Klefti handed her the two sets of saddlebags she was to fill. He touched the base of his palm to his forehead, then drew his hand down with the fingers curled—his way of telling her to have strength against her fear of heights. Klefti, who could not speak, never doubted she would triumph. After all, the silo lay underground.

  Jolesha reached up and pulled herself over the edge of the storage well. Balanced on it, she patted the dark in search of the second wall, called the spoilage wall, that kept the earth's moisture from reaching the precious grain. The distance between the two walls was a matter of inches, but enough that she could imagine herself accidentally slipping between the two and dying there, wedged in place. Angry at herself, she banished the image and recklessly swung her legs toward the middle of the wide well. For a second the rope failed to support her and she almost screamed. Then it jerked tight at her waist. She gritted her teeth and let go of the lip of the inner wall.

  Klefti and Urgelian played the rope out slowly as she descended into utter darkness. Earlier she had looked into the silo, and she knew that somewhere below her lay a walkway where the farmers stood while emptying their sacks into the well. She tried to guess how near she was to the walkway and stretched her toes to touch it. Finally, her feet brushed the boards. She realized then that she had been squeezing her eyes shut and opened them. The difference was negligible.

  She groped for the railing on the walkway, found it, and climbed over, then let the rope take her again, down into the pit. This final descent seemed to expand into hours. Then quite abruptly her feet crunched into the top layer of grain and the rope began to go slack. She sank up to her knees before the kernels compressed enough to buoy her. Refusing to give in to her fears, she made herself let go of the rope: she sank no further. Quickly, she unslung the saddlebags and opened them, then began scooping grain into the bags. She kept her thoughts on the plan, the plan to make money. This grain would do that for them. Klefti knew the secrets of making Dragonsmoke. All it would take was one more trip down, four more bags of grain. It would not be the best Dragonsmoke perhaps, but how often did anyone on the way to Ombaya get any kind of potent drink? Herdsmen, just paid for delivering their cattle, would be freewheeling with their money if approached properly. This plan, this glorious plan, had been most carefully considered. None of them were thieves by nature, only by circumstances. And who would miss a few small bags of cattle feed?

  She drew the bags closed, then tugged on the rope. She was jerked out of the pile, loose grain hissing off her clothes. Some kernels trickled into her boots. Jolesha began to rock back and forth and had to keep one hand out for the walkway. She bumped up against it sooner than she had expected. but climbed the rail easily. She pushed herself off from the railing with a bit too much zealousness, as she discovered a moment later when she smacked against the wall. After that, she merely clung to the rope and let the other two do the work.

  At the top. she stretched herself across the two walls and heaved the bags over to Klefti. UrgeIian remained holding the rope. The bags had cut into her shoulders with their weight. Klefti took them and gave her two more sets of empty ones. She realized suddenly that the wind had shifted again, that she could hear the mooing cattle and the shouts from the men. They seemed angry, but she knew she was nervous and not given to reason at this point. Klefti vanished almost silently. The rope tautened as he rejoined Urgelian beside the capstone. Jolesha took a breath, then pushed herself backward into the well.

  Down she went for a second time into the pit. The smell was cloying now and the dust tickled her throat. She went off the railing like an experienced climber, soon settling into the grain again. She filled the bags and strapped them on, twisting the strap of one and cursing as she fiddled with it in the dark. Her collarbone hurt. One good tug and she ascended—for the last time, she told herself. It was all well and fine to pretend bravery but quite another to perform so boldly. Next time Urgelian insisted on showing his skill, she would let—

  The rope went slack. Jolesha found herself holding onto nothing. She turned, clutching for something to support her, cried out. and shot headlong back into the grain. She hit
with a smack. Tiny kernels poured into her nose and mouth, crackled in her ears. She kicked and flailed like a Kil in a whirlpool, clawing through the grain. Its dust gagged her and she thought she would suffocate. She could not tell if she were digging out or burrowing in and realized in a panic that she might be burying herself. Wildly, she pushed up out of the grain into darkness, spitting and choking on the noise she made. Air filled her greedy lungs and she began to calm down, to consider what had happened.

  Had the rope broken? She tugged hard and found it still strung up in the air. Something scuffled above. A misty light appeared, illuminating a face—a dark face encircled by a white cowl. It was the cowl that somehow glowed, creating light. The face saw her but instead of registering surprise it cracked a smile, then threw something down into the grain beside her. Instinctively, she dug her fingers into the kernels until she felt the softness of leather. She pulled out a small but heavy bundle. As she fondled its shape, her rope came spilling down on top of her. The light vanished.

  Voices echoed in the well, phrases strangely warped by the wind. Jolesha heard anger in the voices. She crawled her way across the grain until she lay against the cold stone wall. She lay very still and tried to understand the shouting. Light suddenly appeared overhead, above the walkway, which both blocked her view and hid her in its shadow. A voice said, "This is the one he ducked into. He must have thrown it down here, Count Dashif."

  "I should do the same to you," answered a much deeper voice, "for allowing him so much freedom in his escape. I suppose your men have killed him?"

  "Well, I..." The voice faltered. The light retreated.

  Something unforeseeable had occurred, Jolesha knew, and Urgelian and Klefti had been forced to flee. She understood that. The problem was how to get out of here before the grain did suck her down. She banished the image of ghoulish hands reaching up from the depths.

  Flickering light appeared above the walkway again. The same voice that had addressed Count Dashif spoke again. "He says it's our fault the priest is dead."

  "'Course he does," came a reply, followed by a grunting, wheezing, then the creak of wood, and, shortly, a thump. "You don't think he's going to tell the likes of Resh that he bunged the beggar, now do you?" The voice was getting louder; Jolesha realized with horror that the man had lowered a ladder and was descending. She wriggled down into the grain, all but her head. "Hey, what's that rope doing down there?" Footsteps tread the boards above her. The torchlight pushed the shadows toward her.

  "How should I know? Probably some sod of a farmer dropped it. You couldn't pay me to go down there and get it. Probably full of rats. "

  "Well, you won't have to, will you? You know what he said? He said that he doesn't care if we have to empty all three wells and how dare we put the importance of cattle feed above the Regent's satisfaction. That snooty bastard."

  "Better not say that around him. There's a rumor he killed a girlfriend for crossin' him. And I know he killed a camel once that annoyed him."

  "I'd believe anything about Dashif. Anyway, we might as well go down the other end and watch it pour out the chute. There's no artifact lying around down here. If that nasty priest threw it in, it's going to be halfway to the bottom. Did you see the muscles on him?"

  "Yeah. But, look, Habig, it's not even Fog—you any idea how many herds are going to come needing this between now and Flowers?"

  "Plenty," replied Habig on his way back up. "But none of them needs it like Dashif needs that stupid artifact. Tell you, I hope it's right at the bottom, 'cause I don't care to freeze my arse off kicking through this grain."

  "Got worms in it."

  "Bugger!"

  The voices and light faded away but Jolesha had learned all that she needed to escape. Around the wall above her, struts hammered in between the stones supported the walkway. She scooped her way to the nearest one, then pressed herself up the wall until her fingers touched the wooden beam. She shook off the bags, then hung from the beam and walked one leg up the wall and over the strut. Ignoring the splinters that stabbed her hands and legs, she inched up the strut like a caterpillar, gripping it with both thighs while she got a hold on the edge of the walkway. Finally, she dared to let go of the strut and swung herself up by degrees onto the boards. They creaked with her weight as they had with Habig's. She lay flat, ready to drop out of sight again if necessary. Nobody came. The wind skirled in under the capstone. She got to her feet and stood poised, listening intently, but nothing could be heard above that wind.

  Jolesha felt her way step by step around the walkway until she bumped up against the ladder they had lowered. Emptying the silo would take hours; she hoped they would not be back for their ladder before then. Cautiously, she climbed up to the lip of the well. From there she scanned the plateau outside. It seemed utterly stark. There were no trees there to capture the wind, nothing for anyone to hide behind except rocks. No one moved out there, no torchlights could be seen, and she could see in every direction. Not too far away a pale shape lay on the ground. She saw movement there and, with a sick premonition, climbed over the lip and then scurried low across to it.

  The face lay in shadow, but the cowled robe proved that this was the same man who had smiled down upon her in the well. He had been a priest of the White Faith, the ones who called themselves the Church of Truth, denying all empyrean promises of all other faiths, just as all other faiths denied everyone else's. He was dead, however—the motion she had seen had been the wind picking at his robe. A flower of blood decorated the center of it, just above the sash. He might well know the truth about the afterlife now, she considered, but he would not be passing it on. Her fingers traced the heavy object tucked into her tunic.

  She moved away from the priest, her attention on the edge of the hill where at any moment she anticipated a torch would appear. In looking away she did not see the second body, and she stumbled and sprawled across it. Her head hit the ground beside his. The marksmen had been less decorative in targeting Urgelian. They had shot off half his face.

  Jolesha crawled, then ran, then fled from the horror of what they had done, but it pursued her like a ghost through the dust devils.

  •

  Two cords bound the leather pouch. They unknotted easily and Jolesha rolled the artifact into her hand: a cylinder, twice the width of her palm. The surface looked like highly polished gold worked into interlocking strips, a gridwork pattern, around the central core. She held it up to the morning light but the black glass or gem beneath the gold remained absolutely opaque. Why was it so heavy? She could not figure it out.

  Klefti tugged on her shoulder.

  "Oh, I'm sorry. Here, see it for yourself." She handed over the artifact. He turned it over and around, his fingers following the weave of the gold. He looked at each end, where the cylinder was slightly larger in circumference. His dark face screwed up in perplexity. Finally, he shook his head and gave the cylinder back to her. She was about to wrap it up again when she noticed the iridescence of the inner leather surface. She rubbed her fingertips on it, felt its waxiness. None of this made the purpose of the object any clearer. Magic was something she had little knowledge of; she considered it a dangerous subject and stayed as far away from it as she did from the roofs of tall buildings. "I think we should take it to the Levar," she told Klefti. "If it is magic, she'll know what to do with it better than we will."

  Klefti shook his head and pointed to his temple to indicate madness.

  "Perhaps, I don't know. But maybe we can get money, Klefti. "

  He brooded on that, nodded with the greatest reluctance. She pressed her hand to his cheek. He had pursued her from the silos and held her while she cried. She had fallen asleep crying, not needing to tell him what she felt. Klefti knew her so well. He knew a great many things that no one would have suspected of him, like the process for making Dragonsmoke.

  She got up and pulled Klefti to his feet. Here they were, two homeless thieves who would gladly have been anything else had the world offere
d alternatives. Orphans held little hope for better things.

  They set off walking to the city, to Liavek, and Jolesha let herself fantasize about riches and opulence as she tucked the wrapped cylinder back inside her heavy tunic and rubbed her arms against the morning's chill.

  Once there had been a better life for her. Until she was six, she had parents she thought were in love and loved her.

  Then her father showed her how wrong she was by assaulting, killing her mother, then turning on Jolesha. By then the noise had brought neighbors and soldiers. Her father was prevented from harming her, was beaten and dragged away. She remembered people standing over her like trees, recalled the twisted way her mother lay in death beside her, and one of her father's teeth where it lay on the dirty floor. Someone in that towering crowd told her that her mother had taken a lover and her father had killed him first and now would have to go live on Crab Isle. She supposed that he, too, must be dead by now. No one lasted long on Crab Isle.

  Independence had been forced upon her after that. By the time she was nine she had the self-reliance of an adult. At the Hrothvek orphanage, she met Urgelian and Klefti. Urgelian's parents had died when their tavern burned. Klefti, like her, had been orphaned by his parents, specifically by his mother, who had gone mad from some addictive drug. They became an inseparable trio at Hrothvek, capable of protecting themselves because they were three. Finally, they escaped together.

  That was three years ago; they had lived on their wits ever since. Winters were the hardest, even along the warm coast. She remembered a night last Snow, when the temperature had suddenly plummeted, catching the beggars who slept outside unawares; she could still see the soldiers carrying away all the stiff, frozen bodies the next morning. So many drunks and addled beggars had perished that, for a time, things had been easier in Hrothvek, hardly any competition. But more always came. Equality, like everything else in the world, belonged to those who had money to buy it.