Children of Earth and Sky (17 page)

“Serdar, is that just?” It was Damaz's commander, his first words. “Our trainee acted with honour and upon counsel. The other—”

“We are soldiers, commander. Not judges or holy men. The other one persuaded three to join him. He is a leader and willing to kill. I can use such men.”

“You say one is promoted to the ranks, serdar.” It was Kasim. “And the other?”

The serdar looked surprised. “The other will be dead, Teacher Kasim. They fight with knives. Make a space and bring more light.”

—

IT TOOK LESS TIME
than you might have expected to clear a fighting ground, bring more lanterns, have a large number of men ring the gravel path, define an area with their excited presence.

Wagers, Damaz saw, were already being made. You could find women and wine in the city any night. Two boys fighting, with a death to come, was memorable.

He stood at one end of the oval space and listened to the sounds of men waiting happily for someone to be killed. The serdar had taken a position midway, with the two commanders beside him. Koçi stood opposite Damaz. He looked calm and assured, shifting rhythmically back and forth, weight on one foot and then the other.

Damaz stared at him through flame and smoke and realized something: the other boy
wasn't
assured. Damaz had a memory of Koçi before training battles, one regiment against another. He stood very still at such times, bigger than most, quicker than almost all, and with only wooden weapons used, where the worst you would likely suffer was a cracked bone.

They had each been given a soldier's dagger. They didn't train often with these. Damaz wondered if the serdar had chosen the weapons for that reason. Probably not. More likely the limited space here, he thought. Or maybe because knife battles were savage, and therefore exciting. Diversion was a part of what this was.

He shouldn't be thinking this way, he told himself. He should be thinking that his death might be here right now, waiting, that he needed to account for his days beneath the stars and be prepared to die. Or kill. He had never killed anyone. But he'd wanted to be moved into the ranks, hadn't he? To be a true djanni of the khalif. Killing men and women (and children?) was what that meant, didn't it?

He stared at Koçi and kept still.

“Serdar!” he heard. It was Kasim, who had betrayed his confidence and brought them all here. Kasim was standing behind Damaz. He hadn't seen him there. He didn't look back.

The serdar turned. Kasim said, “The boy of the third regiment will be carrying a second knife, because of what they were going out to do.”

By lamplight Damaz saw the serdar's thin smile. “Then this one knows it. Combat in war is not about balancing weapons, is it?”

“It is not,” said Kasim. “In which event, may I show the trainee of the third regiment that I am handing a second blade to this one?”

The voices around them had subsided, now they rose again. Damaz watched the serdar. Kasim was beside him. He didn't reach for the new knife yet.

They heard the serdar's laughter. “Someone ought to cut off your nose, Kasim!” he said, and those gathered—hundreds by now—roared approval. Their serdar had made a jest!

The serdar nodded his head. Damaz took the knife, smaller than the one he already held, and slid it into his belt. Some knew how to fight with a blade in each hand. He didn't.

“My thanks, teacher,” he said.

“Don't thank me,” said Kasim. “I didn't think it would happen this way.”

“What man controls the world as it passes? Didn't you teach us that, from the Trakesians?”

He saw that his teacher was moved. “I shall be sorry if you die,” Kasim said.

“I won't die,” said Damaz, and stepped forward at the serdar's gesture, a blade in his hand, another in his belt, into the ring of men.

—

“HOW DID YOU KNOW TO
DO THAT?
”

Damaz looked at the teacher by wavering lamplight in wind. He didn't answer. He didn't know the answer. Everything was extremely difficult, even more than before, during the fight. Black smoke was blowing from torches. He was afraid he might be sick.

Men were carrying Koçi's body away.

Four of them bore him, two went with torches beside. The crowd was dispersing, most of the djannis continuing loudly out through the gate, as they had been before this distraction occurred.
The night was young, the white moon still to rise, the city waited for them beyond the compound walls. So little time had passed.

The serdar and the two commanders had already left. Damaz's of the fifth had stopped to lay a hand on his shoulder approvingly. It would be noticed, that was the point. It seemed he had brought honour and triumph to their regiment. The commander had never acknowledged Damaz's existence before.

It also seemed he was no longer a trainee. The serdar had proclaimed as much before departing. Damaz was now one of the beloved djannis of Grand Khalif Gurçu, ruling in Asharias by the grace of Ashar and the holy stars.

He had been preparing for this from the time they'd decided he showed promise and chose not to geld him.

They never trained formally with knives. Knives were not a true weapon for the djannis, though they all carried one, for mealtimes, cutting ropes.

But approaching the other boy in a ring of shouting men, beginning to circle each other, a thought had come to Damaz. A thought about the torch smoke now blowing from behind him (not planned, it was only chance that he'd been motioned to one side and had circled to the other), and about the fact that he had two blades now.

And so . . . so he had thrown the first knife he'd been given, the one in his hand, just as a curtain of black smoke blew from behind him, passing between, as he and Koçi drew near to each other.

Everyone played with knives. You threw at tree trunks and hanging fruit. You threw at birds on branches (and rarely hit them). You wagered in games against other boys. The loser cleaned the latrines.

Or died.

They weren't armoured in any way tonight. He'd thrown at Koçi's chest, and had been only a few paces away as they closed with each other, preparing to defend and slash. A big youngster,
Koçi, headed towards being a bigger man. He'd been an easy target. Much easier than a bird in a poplar tree. And the smoke meant he didn't see Damaz's movement—arm going back and up instead of forward—until it was too late (forever too late) to do anything again at all.

Except clutch at his chest, his own weapon dropped, a high, strange sound escaping his lips. A sound Damaz wondered if he might now hear for the rest of his own days.

In a way, they had disappointed those gathered. It was over so abruptly, one swift throw. Damaz had grabbed for his second knife—Kasim's—and rushed forward, thinking to seize an advantage from wounding the other.

No need. He'd already killed the other.

He'd stood there, suddenly uncertain, lost, over the body of a boy whose life he had ended between torches and lanterns and under the blue moon. And abruptly, shockingly, he remembered in that moment that his name as a small child in the west had been Neven, and that he'd had a sister whom he'd loved.

A
re you awake?

Her grandfather did that sometimes. Danica would hear his voice in her head and wake frightened. She was seldom afraid during the day; the nights could be different, and much had changed now. Since she'd killed Kukar Miho.

I am now, zadek. Was I shouting again?

No. No.

Then what . . . ?

They were still at sea on the
Blessed Ingacia
, would be reaching Dubrava today, the captain had said. More changes when they did that, and it was possible she'd be killed.

But what she'd said earlier remained true: she'd have surely died had she gone home. There were too many in the Miho clan, an angry, vengeful family. Senjan was locked to her. Like a tower, or a sanctuary gate.

It felt as if the night might be over, sunrise soon, but it was hard to tell down below.

She was sharing a cabin with the other woman now, the one whose husband had died by Kukar's sword. She'd tried to decline
this, to leave the other one alone, sleep on deck with Tico beside her, but the captain wouldn't let her do that. A woman didn't spend the night in the open. Even a Senjani raider, he'd said.

The other woman had said nothing when Danica first came in to the cabin, nor after. She'd extended a hand to Tico, who had licked her fingers. A woman who knew dogs. She hadn't spoken to anyone since the doctor died three days ago. Had barely come out of the cabin at all.

Zadek, what is it?

Her grandfather made no reply.

Zadek, you woke me, what is it?

She was aware of him, she always was, unless she blocked his presence. He didn't reply. But now she was wide awake, and frightened. She didn't like it.

Zadek . . .

Your brother is alive
, he said.

And her heart was pounding so hard.

What? We . . . truly? Zadek, we always thought he might be. They raise the children they capture, we know that!

Dani, I was with him. Last evening. It
had
to be him, or . . . how else could I be there?

I don't understand! Where? Where were you?

He was fighting. I could see it. Not clearly, but I could see.

Zadek, you are scaring me.

I know. I am sorry. But . . . he's alive.

And this fight?

He killed the other man.

Man? Neven is fourteen, zadek!

Other boy, I think. They had knives. I could
see
it. There was smoke behind Neven, and they were very close.

She said,
You made him throw a knife?

Silence.

Zadek!

I couldn't make him, I can't make
you
do anything. I . . . pushed a thought to him.

And he threw it?

Dani, he did.

Oh, dear Jad. Where? Where is he?

I don't know where we were! Men were watching. If he had weapons I think this means . . .

It means he's a djanni! Or becoming one? And you saved his life!

Maybe. Maybe. Dani, I have no idea if he heard me, or felt me. I can't see him now. It was only for the fighting, then I was . . . gone. I was back here with you.

But you did see . . . ?

I saw him throw, yes. But . . . it was like looking through smoke. And there was real smoke.

But you know it was Neven?

Oh, surely it was. It had to be, girl.

“Oh, dear Jad,” she said again, but aloud this time, and opened her eyes. He had been four years old. She had loved him with the unbruised heart she had carried within her then.

He was still lost, but it seemed he wasn't dead.

Her grandfather was dead, and talking to her. The world the god had chosen to make for them was a strange, frightening place. How did you even grasp what was possible, permitted?

Her brother might have killed another boy last night if this was true. She needed it to be true. It meant he was alive, even if it also meant he was in Osmanli lands, worshipping like them, becoming one of the khalif's infantry. The soldiers who came each spring to burn and kill. And sometimes take Jaddite children from the burning homes to become what he was becoming.

Her own worst dreams, always, were of fires.

“Oh, Jad, indeed,” the other woman said, from her cot across the cabin. “I agree.”

Danica looked over. It was very dark, black, really. Only because
her eyesight was good could she make out the other woman's shape, lying there. Tico was scratching at the door now, he'd have heard her voice.

“I'm sorry. I woke you.”

“I wasn't asleep.”

“They tell me I talk in my sleep.”

“You shout. Warnings.”

“I know. I dream about raiders sometimes.”

The ship rose and fell gently, creaking. It seemed to be a calm morning, if it was morning.

“Aren't you the raiders?”

What? Damn her for ignorant!

No, zadek.

She said aloud, “I grew up in a village that was burned by hadjuks. We fled to Senjan, three of us.”

“I don't know what hadjuks are.”

It was odd, but Danica was pleased the other woman was speaking, finally. It shouldn't have mattered, but they
had
killed her husband.

“Osmanli brigands. From the mountains, mostly. They come down and attack farms or villages, sometimes a long way west. They take people for ransom, steal livestock. Children are carried away.”

“Ransom? How terrible,” the other said, and the irony was unmissable.

Damn her!

She didn't reply to him this time. Aloud, she said, “We were starving in Senjan, signora. Winter is always hard, and you blocked the sea channels and forbade even ordinary trade with the islands. It was intended to kill us. Did you know?”

A silence. She went on. “You didn't, did you? Why should you know? Why should a Seressini woman care about children dying in Senjan? Or in some village in the borderlands?”

“I'm not from Seressa.”

“So you said. Is that an answer? Or does everyone in Batiara just picture savages in Senjan and their women drinking blood?”

“I didn't know you drank blood.”

First, faint hint of something else in her voice. You might call it wryness, even amusement. Danica realized she wanted to call it that.

“Eat severed arms, too.”

“Just Osmanli arms, I dare hope.” No missing the tone this time.

“Of course. Mylasians, down your coast, taste very bitter, or so I've heard.”

“We do?”

Danica hesitated. “I meant what I said before, signora. So did our leader, Bunic. He should not have killed your husband, our man.”

“Doesn't help much, knowing that. He's still dead.”

“Even if we killed one of our own?”

“You did that—just your own decision.”

“No. I did it for Senjan. For all of us.”

“Truly?”

“Truly, signora.”

“Then why are you here now, alone?”

Danica got up. She went to the door and opened it. Tico bustled in, large, shaggy, tail going fast. He pushed his head into her, then turned politely to greet the other woman, who was sitting up now. There was some light, coming down the near hatchway.

Danica said, “You may have heard us talking about it? Someone needs to explain in Dubrava. Apologize. We don't need to be hated even more. Your husband should not have died.”

“But why is it you?”

A hard question, that one.

She said, “They all knew I did the right thing, there would have been bloodshed. The ship's owner was drawing his sword to fight Kukar. Everything would have become bad. That needs to be said in Dubrava.”

“But that doesn't answer me. Your leaders know you did the right thing. Very well. But you are here, not going home. Dubrava might hand you over to Seressa. Or hang you themselves. Are you being sacrificed?”

A clever woman. More than expected. Did it even matter? This one would be on the next ship back to Seressa, probably with compensation paid by both cities for the dead husband. They might even be on the same ship, Danica in irons.

She said, “I couldn't go back. The man I killed has a large family. I do not. Doing the right thing doesn't always save you.”

—

THE SENJAN
I, LEONORA THOUGHT
, was more intelligent than expected. It occurred to her that she'd made some too-quick guesses about the other woman. It also occurred to her that if she was to deal with the world unprotected (and she was utterly unprotected), she'd have to be more careful about that.

She extended a hand to the dog again and had her fingers licked. She'd grown up with hunting dogs. This wasn't the largest she'd seen—her father had prided himself on his pack—but it was big. She had little doubt it would rip someone's throat out defending the Senjani woman. That assumption she felt safe making.

Her father had prided himself on his daughter in much the same way as his dogs, the thought came to her. Not a grief. Not any more. She was past that sorrow. There were newer ones.

Someone was shouting up above, then they heard cheering. In the muted light the two women looked at each other.

“That will be land sighted,” the Senjani said. “We've crossed. They will pray on deck now, having survived the sea.”

“Some survived,” Leonora said, then regretted it. She didn't like that tone in her voice.

The other woman only shrugged. “Do you want to go up? Pray with them?”

She didn't, but she was tired of being in this close darkness. It would be morning above. She looked at the woman across from her. She said, “I have been unfair to you, I think. What happened to Jacopo wasn't your fault, and you did act, after.”

“I acted for all of us.”

“Yes, yes,” Leonora said, feeling impatient. “So you said. But no one else did, did they?”

The Senjani woman smiled a little. “I had the bow.”

Leonora found herself smiling back. “I suppose that's true. May I know your name?”

“I am Danica Gradek. I don't think you'll know me long.”

“I have no idea. I'm Leonora Miucci. I
am
from Mylasia, not Seressa.”

“I believed you. Why would you have lied?”

Later, she would try to understand what that simple question had done to her, why she said what she said. There was no easy answer. This was a young woman, as she was, among strangers and far from home, that was part of it. We don't, Leonora would eventually decide, always do what we do for obvious reasons—or a life might be very different from what it became.

“I didn't lie about that,” she said. “But I've been lying since we came on board.”

The other woman just looked at her, waiting. The dog turned from one to the other, tail still wagging, but uncertainly now. Something in the changed feeling.

“I am not . . . I was sent . . .”

Danica Gradek said calmly, “You were sent to spy for Seressa.”

Leonora stared at her. “It is so obvious?”

“They do that. There was a spy in Senjan. There will be another soon enough. There will be Seressini-paid observers on the dock waiting for us in Dubrava. You are likely meant to report to them.”

“No. Yes, I mean. But . . .”

Leonora stood up. She took a breath. She said, “I was never married to him. To Miucci. There are reasons why I agreed. But I will not, I
cannot
go back to Seressa. I am alone.”

Danica Gradek was a tall woman. With the dog beside her it made for a crowded chamber. She smiled at Leonora, then she laughed.

“Alone? That's two of us, then. Shall we see what we can do?”

—

DRAGO OSTAJA WAS
N'T HAPPY
with
any
of what had happened on his ship from the time they'd left Seressa and headed for home.

He hated pirates with a fierce intensity. Those raiders had been on his deck, down in his holds, taking goods entrusted to him. And he couldn't stop it.

It had happened to ships he'd captained before, and the sense of helplessness had left him feeling unmanned for a long time after. But they simply could not battle raiders, nor avoid them all the time.

Senjan existed as a kind of additional tax on trading ships, Marin had once said. They liked to call themselves the heroes of the border, Drago knew. He refused to allow them that in his own mind. And then one of them had killed a passenger on Drago's ship. He'd seen Marin draw his sword, start across the deck, and Drago had known he'd have to unsheath his own, and that they were likely to die on the
Blessed Ingacia
.

The woman had averted all of that with an arrow. She wasn't going to survive that in Senjan, Drago remembered thinking, even in the moment.

Then the other woman, the one Marin told him was a spy, had moved across the deck to the ship's rail, and Drago, turning too late,
knew
she was going into the sea, and he'd cried out and then . . . she didn't.

Something had happened there, by the railing.

The memory of it left him unhappy and afraid, days after. He kept thinking of his mother, and the wisewoman in the village
where he'd been raised, and how no one could honestly say he understood all (or even most) of what happened in the world.

Leonora Miucci had not stopped at that railing entirely by her own choice, Drago believed. She had been going into the sea. He couldn't say why he was so sure, couldn't speak of it to Marin or any mariner or cleric he knew. He could have told his mother, but she'd been gone for years. He still missed her.

And now, to add to the cup of his distress, the women came up on deck, just as the ship approached the coast—and pretty much every mariner alive believed two women on a ship's deck could bring bad luck.