Echoes of the Great Song (13 page)

Sofarita stood very still. “Shame?” she enquired. “What shame? I did what you told me.”

“A decent woman would have crept away to hide,” he said, not looking at her. “Not … not danced through the streets like a whore!”

A sense of unreality settled on her, as if she was walking through a dream. She could make no sense of the reaction. Instinctively she ran his words through her mind, seeking understanding. Then she realized. He had called her a whore. A cold anger settled on Sofarita. Bekar had always been a hard man, but until now he had been a fair one. “A whore, am I?” she said, her voice trembling. “You come to my home. You beg me
to rut with him. You plead about the safety of the village. And when I reluctantly agree, and do this vile thing, you call me a whore? Well, what does that make you, father? The whoremaster. The pimp! The procurer!”

With a savage roar he surged to his feet. Sofarita stood her ground and his fist cracked into her cheekbone, hurling her back into the wall. She hit hard, and struggled to regain her balance. But dizziness swamped her and she slid to the floor, unconscious.

When she opened her eyes the men had gone. She was lying on Aunt Kiaru’s bed. Her head throbbed with pain. “There, there, child,” said Kiaru, her fat face, normally so jolly, looking drawn and worried. She was dabbing Sofarita’s face with a wet cloth. “There, there!” she cooed.

Sofarita groaned as she sat up. Instantly her mother rose from a nearby chair and moved to her side. “How are you feeling, Tia?” she asked. “Is there much pain?”

Sofarita shook her head. Who could describe the pain she was feeling inside? Bekar was a cold man sometimes, but he had never before struck her, or any of his children. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed Sofarita tried to stand. Giddiness made her stumble, and she sat down swiftly.

“It’ll pass,” said Kiaru soothingly. “All this anger will pass and then your father will forgive you.”

“He will forgive me?” said Sofarita, the tone hard-edged. Kiaru did not seem to notice.

“Of course he will, dear, of course he will. Everything will be all right.”

Sofarita turned to her mother. “He made me do it,” she said. “How could he insult me so?”

“You weren’t expected to enjoy it, Tia. That’s what hurt him.”

Sofarita looked into her mother’s careworn face,
seeking some secret sign that would say: I don’t mean it the way it sounded, but I have to say it. There was none.

Sofarita struggled to her feet once more. The giddiness had passed and she moved slowly to the bedside chest, upon which was a small oval mirror. Lifting it she looked at her face. Her right eye was bruised and swollen shut and her cheek showed two purple bruises where Bekar’s knuckles had struck her. Replacing the mirror she walked into the main room and then out onto the street, crossing it swiftly to the small home she had made with Veris.

From a chest at the back of the bedroom she took her savings. Twenty-six silver pieces in a canvas pouch. She hung it around her neck, hiding it in the folds of her white dress. From a cupboard she took a small shoulder sack and stuffed her second dress into it. Veris had owned a black pony and it was stabled behind the house. Sofarita filled a sack with what food she had to hand: a fresh-baked loaf, a chunk of honey-roasted ham and a wedge of cheese wrapped in muslin. Then she walked to the stable and saddled the pony. It took her some time to ease the bridle bit into place, but at last she managed it.

It was a 30-mile ride to the city of Egaru. She would not make it before dark.

Moving back to the kitchen she found Veris’ hunting knife, a long curved blade set in a hilt of deer horn. Belting the sheath at her waist she threw a black hooded cloak around her shoulders and returned to the pony.

Veris had taught her to ride and she mounted smoothly. Then she rode along the side of the house and out into the main street, heading for the gate.

Bekar came running from his new house, shouting for her to wait. Sofarita swung the pony.

“Where do you think you are going?” he thundered. A crowd began to gather.

“I am going where no decent woman is ever forced to rut with strangers,” she said, her voice loud, almost strident. “I am going to a place where fathers do not give their daughters to every swordsman who happens by.”

His fat face reddened. “Get off that pony now,” he ordered her, “or I will drag you from it.”

Without haste she drew the hunting knife from its sheath. “Come near me again and I will kill you,” she told him. He stood, blinking in the fading light, the eyes of the villagers upon him. She felt no pity for him.

He stood very still, his huge arms falling to his side. All the strength seemed to flow from him. “I am sorry, Tia,” he said at last, his voice breaking.

“So am I,” she told him.

“Stay with us. I will make it up to you. We will be friends again.”

“We will never be friends,” she said coldly. “For I never intend to see you again.”

With that she rode the pony out through the gate, heading west toward the setting sun.

Viruk followed the line of the Luan River for several hours, hoping for sign of more raiders. But there was none, and he was growing bored. Across the wide river he could see Mud People settlements, huts of mud-caked wattle, and poorly constructed paddocks. The tribes bred like lice and if Viruk had his way he would bring an army down on them, wiping them from the face of the earth. There were just too many people now in this land and a cull was needed.

The Questors spoke of the migration of the tribes, caused by the ice and floods that now covered more than half the planet. To survive, the northern tribes
moved south to this fertile land, while the tribes far to the south were pushing north.

Soon there would not be enough corn to feed them all.

Viruk’s pony was tiring as dusk approached and he stumbled as Viruk forced him up the last hill before the old stone bridge. The river narrowed here. Viruk dismounted and gazed down at the crossing. This had been his last hope of making a good kill. But there were no soldiers to be seen.

An old man came into sight, leading two oxen pulling a heavily laden wagon. A small golden-haired child sat upon the wagon. Viruk heard the rumbling of the wheels on the stone of the bridge. There would be little satisfaction in killing the man, he knew, but then a little satisfaction was better than nothing. Mounting his weary pony Viruk rode down the hillside.

The old man did not see him at first, and when he did he waved and gave a cheerful smile.

“Good evening, lord,” he said.

“Good evening to you,” said Viruk. The old man was dressed in a long robe of dark blue velvet, and his white hair was drawn back from his brow by a circlet of gold studded with amber. “Be so kind as to tell me,” said Viruk pleasantly, “why you are encroaching upon Avatar land.”

“Not encroaching, lord, trading,” said the man. “I have ten barrels of fine wine for the Questor General, and a note, with his personal seal, giving me authority to bring them to his home. I must say I am pleased to see you for I feared making this journey. These are troubled times.”

Viruk dismounted. “Show me this paper,” he said. The man drew a parchment from within his robe. Viruk scanned it. It was irritatingly correct in every detail.

“Your pony is very tired, lord,” pointed out the old
man. “Perhaps you would like to travel for a while upon the wagon? The seats are not uncomfortable, and I have a flagon of wine beneath it. I am sure you will find it to your taste.”

Viruk gazed at the man and pictured his smile freezing as a dagger opened his scrawny throat. He toyed with the idea of butchering the trader, but held back. If he killed him then he would be forced to drive the wagon all the way to the city, sitting behind the large arses of two oxen. Even as the thought occurred to him one of the beasts defecated. The stench was appalling.

“Move on,” said Viruk. Taking the reins the old man led the team along the road. Viruk tied his pony’s reins to the rear of the wagon and climbed aboard. The golden-haired child, a girl of around seven, smiled at him as he sat alongside her.

“Your hair is turning blue,” she said.

“Annoy me, child, and I shall tear off your leg and beat you to death with the wet end.”

She laughed happily. “That’s a terrible thing to say,” she chided him. Viruk leaned down and found the flagon of wine.

“There are some copper goblets in the box beside the seat,” the old man called back.

Viruk found one, broke the wax seal on the clay flagon and poured the wine. He was expecting little, and was pleasantly surprised to find the taste rich and mellow. His mood lightened.

“Why is your hair blue?” asked the child.

“Because I am a god,” he said.

“Are you? Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Can you do miracles? Can you make a blind man see? Can you bring the dead to life? Do you know why the ox doesn’t need to clean its bottom?”

Viruk drained his wine and refilled the goblet. The
old man scrambled up to the driving seat beside the child. “Have to lead them over the bridge, lord,” he said. “They don’t like the sound of the water.”

“He says he’s a god, father,” said the child. “But he doesn’t know about oxes’ bottoms.”

“Hush, child, the lord does not need to hear you prattling.”

“I give up,” said Viruk. “Why does an ox not need to clean its bottom?”

“It has two bowels,” said the girl. “One inner, one outer. The inner one pushes out and … and …”

“Deposits,” said the old man.

“Yes, that’s it. Deposits the droppings. Then it draws back inside. So there is no mess.”

“A fact I shall carry with me to eternity,” said Viruk.

“So,” continued the child, “can you bring the dead to life?”

“My talent is rather the reverse,” he said, sipping the wine, and enjoying the taste upon his tongue.

“What is reverse, father?” she asked.

“The lord is a warrior, Shori. He protects us from bad people,” said the old man. “And it is best you stay quiet now. Climb into the back of the wagon and play with your toys.” The child scrambled over the back of the seat.

“Aren’t you a little old to be siring children?” Viruk asked the old man.

“It would certainly appear so, lord,” replied the man.

“Where have you travelled from?” asked Viruk.

“Ren-el-gan, lord. My vineyards are close by.”

“I have heard of the place. Which tribe are you?”

“Banis-baya, lord. There are not many of us left now. Perhaps fifty. But we are no longer persecuted. The Avatar Lords have forgiven us, I think.”

Tribal history had never been of interest to Viruk. The sub-humans were always warring on one another.
And the wine was making him drowsy. Climbing to the rear of the wagon he pushed aside the child’s dolls and lay down.

The sun was setting and, as he fell asleep, he felt the girl’s warm body snuggle down alongside him.

Children liked him. They always had. Which was strange, considering he loathed them.

With the sun setting, Boru angled the wagon down a shallow slope and hauled the team to a halt beside a narrow stream which flowed into the Luan River. Kicking the brake into position he climbed into the back of the wagon and gazed down on the sleeping Avatar.

How easy it would be to cut your throat, he thought.

His daughter Shori was cuddled in close to the Avatar and she was sleeping deeply, her right thumb in her mouth. Had the Avatar been alone Boru would have killed him, but he was frightened that Shori would wake, and then the blood nightmares would begin again. Taking a blanket he covered Shori. This meant covering also the hated man who slept beside her. Boru swallowed back his hatred and moved past the sleepers, gathering two feed sacks of grain. These he took to the oxen and fed them.

Then he built a small fire within a group of boulders and sat watching the sunset.

“Aren’t you a little old to be siring children?”

Boru stroked his white beard, and felt the gnawing ache of arthritis in his bones. Shori was seven. He would not live to see her grow into a young woman, would not be there as she tossed the grain and swung the veil. Bitterness touched him then, but he pushed it aside.

He had been twenty-three years of age when the Avatars captured him, following the revolt. He and 200 others had been taken in chains to Pagaru, the second city. There they were put on trial. Boru had never been inside a city, and the scale of the buildings had, for a brief moment, swamped his fears for his life. There were wide paved streets and columned temples. There was a marketplace, with shops and taverns, and at the center an intricately fashioned fountain, with a jet of water rising thirty feet. Boru was from the desert where water was revered, and he gazed from the prison cart with reverence at the gushing fountain.

The courtroom was also impressive, and two Avatar magistrates sat high upon a carved dais looking down at the prisoners, who were brought in ten at a time. Boru found himself standing next to Fyal the Baker’s son. The two had been friends since childhood and they exchanged glances. Boru whispered, “What will they do?” Fyal shrugged.

One of the magistrates, a slender man with shoulder-length blue hair, leaned forward. He was wearing a gown of shimmering crimson and upon his head was a skull-cap of silver inset with runes.

“You men,” he said, his voice somber, “have been accused of crimes against the empire, to wit”—he glanced down at a scroll on the desk before him—“taking part in an unlawful gathering, being in possession of swords and other weapons, and of making an assault on a government building in the village of Asep.” His pale eyes fastened on the men in chains. “One of you will speak in answer to these charges. You!” His skinny finger pointed at Boru. “You will speak for yourself and your comrades.”

“What would you have me say?” asked Boru. “We do not accept your laws. You sent armed men into our
ancestral lands and declared them under your control. We resisted. We continue to resist. We will always resist. How could we be men otherwise?”

“This then is your defense?” asked the second magistrate, a bald man with a forked blue beard. “You claim your rights are superior to those of the Avatar? We have brought you learning and law. We have supplied the means by which you can avoid starvation. And you repay these gifts with acts of savagery and attempted murder.”