Karavans (35 page)

“Ferize, it makes no sense.”

“When it does, then perhaps you’ll be ready to go on,” she told him. “To move from this place, this life, to the place and life you desire so very badly.”

And then the shielding was gone, and he sensed her.
Felt
her, in all places and all ways. Her loss would indeed affect and alter his life. But losing her was no risk, here; losing her would not happen, here. Because it
could
not, here.

“Look again,” Ferize said in the voice of a child, in the voice of a human child, though her tone was ancient. “Best to keep looking each day, and each night, and every moment, until it makes sense. It is required, Brodhi, that it make sense. That you
understand
.”

“Ferize—” But he broke it off, because he doubted she could hear him. Not when she so decisively, so suddenly, absented herself from his company.

Somewhere nearby, perhaps around the next turn, a child was crying.

“Ferize!”

The quality of her absence verged upon desertion, not mere departure.

“
Ferize
!”

“What are you shouting about?”

A woman’s voice. He spun.

Bethid.

No one save Ferize, or possibly Darmuth, could take him unaware. But he’d been distracted, and she had. He’d been shouting, and she had.

Shouting. Where humans would hear him. Where humans would
see
him, as Bethid had and did.

“That was not necessary,” he snapped. “It was wholly unnecessary.”

She stared at him blankly.

“Sending the girl,” he growled. “What did you hope to accomplish?”

Bethid shook her head slowly, with grave deliberation. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

And Brodhi realized that she probably didn’t. That it was all too likely Ferize had lied to him. She certainly needed no directions from Bethid or anyone else to find him in Mikal’s tent, either in the guise of a little girl or another entirely.

Between his teeth, he cursed.

“They’ve found Kendic’s body,” Bethid said. “They’re pulling the dead aside and setting them together, so that people may have better luck in finding those they’ve lost. In the morning it will be easier, but the kin for now are using lanterns and torches … I think they don’t want to wait until daylight.”

Kendic’s body. One of those Ferize had indicated. One of those he had seen, but not recognized. Because it hadn’t mattered. And it made no sense to him that it should.

Ferize had told him it was
required
that such things matter.

He had not known by name the Kantic priest, the bonedealer, the fat woman. They served only to take up space in this settlement, in this world, if not in his life. But Kendic he had known.

Did it matter? Had Kendic, alive, mattered to him? Should Kendic, dead, matter more, or any less?

“They’ll begin the rites at dawn,” Bethid continued. “I’ll be there with Timmon and Alorn. Will you go?”

“I imagine it’s self-evident that the Kantic priest should be given Kantic rites,” Brodhi replied ironically, “but how will anyone know which gods the other dead folk worshipped in order to
give
the rites?”

And then he recalled, with abrupt and unexpected clarity, how he had knelt beside an old woman, a dead human woman, and wished her well of her journey out of life into death.

“Is that what you want?” He raised his voice, turning his face to the sky. “
Is this what you want, Ferize
?”

“Brodhi. Brodhi?” And again, with more emphasis, “
Brodhi
!”

He looked from the night sky to the small woman. Irritation sharpened his words. “What is it?”

“Who are you talking to?”

Frustration bubbled up. “Why does it matter? Why should you care? Why should it possibly be any of your concern?”

She had washed her face at some point, but the overlay of shadows hollowed cheeks and eyes. Only the muted glow of ear-hoops touched by firelight lent color to her face. “Because whether you like it or not, whether you
want
it or not, I care about you. We are couriers, we two, and owe one another loyalty because of that, but we are friends, too. In general I like you, Brodhi, even though there are many times when you make it difficult. More than many times when you are insufferable.”

Imprecision again. Why could no human truly grasp the details of his or her own language? Bethid in particular was difficult to follow at times, to parse through the thickets of emotion-laden words to find the heart tree. “‘More than many times,’” he quoted, “would mean all of the time.”

“Why, yes,” she said in an ingenuous tone. “Yes, I do grasp that, Brodhi. Why do you think I said it?”

Bethid sounded, in that moment, using that tone, very like Ferize. He scowled at her, trying to see beneath the shell that was Bethid to the demon beneath, just in case she
actually was Ferize in yet another form. Another
shielded
form.

“Why?” he asked cautiously. “Why does liking matter?”

She blinked. Eventually she offered, “Because it just does.”

That was a Bethid answer. He relaxed. So, Ferize desired him to learn. He would learn. “Why does it matter? Why should it?”

“Brodhi!” She stared at him in perplexed. “Here we stand in the midst of a half-destroyed settlement, of a decimated people, and you want to debate why it matters that I should like you?”

“Yes.”

She raised a stiff hand, palm facing him. The gesture was unmistakable. “Stop,” she said. “No,” she said. “There are bodies to find and identify, kin to console, rites to be conducted, belongings to be sorted. I will
not
have this conversation with you. Not here, and certainly not now. And if nothing else, you have reminded me just how
in
-human you are.” Bethid shook her head as she lowered her hand. “If Rhuan were not as he is, I would begin to believe that all Shoia are like you. And then it would be a very good thing that no others have appeared.”

“Rhuan?” He laughed in disbelief. “Rhuan is a fool.”

“Rhuan is a good man, Brodhi. He understands us. He
likes
us. He cares about us. And for all that he can be wholly irresponsible on the one hand, on the other I have never known him to turn his back on a human when that human requires aid. And if he were here now, I know he would be carrying off and identifying the bodies, because he cares enough about us to learn our names.”

“Bethid,” he said curtly, with exaggerated clarity. “Timmon. Alorn. Mikal.” His mouth was a grim line. “Names.”

A muscle leaped in her jaw. “But
not very many.
”

He would have continued, but as she turned sharply and presented him with her back, it was abundantly clear she considered the conversation finished. Irritating, that she
should take that initiative from him. Just as Ferize had. He glared after her.

When Bethid had disappeared into darkness, Brodhi looked again at the sky. He could not keep the incredulity from his tone. “Is this
really
what you want, Ferize?”

“
H
ELLO.” THE WORD was hoarse, breaking in the middle. “Hello?” Not much improvement, little more than a rusty croak that tailed off into a raspy whisper. But it was sound. She was no longer mute.

Clean now of body, tea at hand as she sat upon her cot, Ilona wore a soft-woven ankle-length night tunic with a patchwork shawl cocooning shoulders and upper torso. Leather buskins lined with felt encased her feet. Her hair remained in need of washing, merely wound and anchored untidily against her head, but she planned to avail herself of the public bathing tent once they returned to the settlement, where she could wash it and let it dry in the bright daylight.

But she broke off the thought abruptly. She would do so
if
the bathing tent remained whole, and
if
the attendant hadn’t been one of those culled by the Hecari.

A sharp and sudden rapping at her latched wagon door startled so her badly she jumped. “Ilona?”

Ah, Jorda. She patted her heart to reassure it and rose to go to the door.

Ilona stopped halfway there, struck by realization. She stood in the center of her wagon beneath the Mother Rib, elaborate runes invoking the protection of Sibetha, the god of hand-readers.

She could not help the flicker of resentment.
Where was Sibetha when the stranger came with his silencing charm and his lust?

“Ilona!” Jorda was clearly worried now, pounding so hard she feared he might break the door off its leather hinges.

Which meant he knew what had happened. Which meant Rhuan had told him.

Ilona desired no visitors, not even the karavan-master whose duty it was to make certain all was well with his employees as much as with the folk who trusted—and paid—him to get them safely to their myriad destinations. She very much preferred to be left alone at least until morning.

But Jorda will break the door.

“Wait—” Barely a croak, the word failed to carry. Ilona moved hastily to the door and lifted the latch. “Jorda, wait—”

The karavan-master’s anxious face and posture, fully displayed in the opening door, convinced her that had she waited one moment longer, Rhuan would be repairing more than her bottom step.

She watched Jorda’s green eyes flick the length of her body, then back to her face. In the wan glow of the lantern hanging from the lintel hook, she saw color stain the skin above his beard. Ilona knew without reading his hand exactly what was in his mind: how was a man to ask a woman assaulted by another man if she were all right?

She told him she was, in her broken voice. And that broken voice, such irrefutable proof of the assault that in flesh was otherwise shielded against the naked eye by enveloping fabric, kindled Jorda’s outrage. She saw it come into his face, saw it rise into his eyes; watched it make him taller, broader,
larger
, like a wild beast gone to hackles from head to tail.

“I’m all right,” she repeated hastily, forcing her ragged voice because she realized what he believed. “It was a silencing charm, Jorda—he didn’t try to strangle me.”

His
voice was thick, deepened by anger. “Just rape you.”

She wanted to answer him lightly, casually, deflecting the
force of his emotion, but she had very little left, now, of what small amount of her shredded voice had returned. Instead she merely rasped, “Didn’t.”

“Because of Rhuan.”

She nodded.

“Who is now ‘in search’ of a body that very likely
became
a body by his hand.” Jorda shook his head. “In this case, I find it difficult to begrudge him that, though I might have preferred to do it myself. In fact, I told him so. But Rhuan is very choosy about which orders he follows and which he ignores.”

She had never heard him speak so forcefully, or with such venom in his tone. But her mind moved swiftly to what else he had said regarding Rhuan: he had, apparently, killed the man. Precisely as he said he would.

Ilona closed her eyes.

Jorda’s voice altered from anger into awkward compassion. “Would you rather come into another wagon for the night? Not
mine
,” he added hastily as her eyes popped open in startlement. “That is, you could stay in my wagon if you wished, but of course I would sleep outside on the ground. Or, if you like, I could sleep
here
on the ground. But surely there’s a wagon with a woman or two in it who would be willing to share, if that would be more comfortable.”

She realized this offer was all he could think of to ease the situation. Poor Jorda had never considered contingencies should his woman diviner be assaulted. Such a thing was incomprehensible in a world where true diviners were considered extensions of the gods.

Ilona shook her head and attempted speech again. “I’ll be fine, thank you.” And she would be. The incident was an aberration, not an ongoing threat. And Rhuan had killed the man. To her shame, there was less regret in the knowledge than she expected.

She heard it before she felt it. The wagon creaked. The animals of the karavan lifted voices in clear distress. Pots hanging together rubbed and clanked softly. Loose objects rattled.

And then the earth
shivered.

Startled, Ilona caught hold of the doorjamb. Jorda actually staggered against the motion, lurching forward to grab at her wagon to steady himself. The rolling shiver passed before they could even speak, but left behind was a queasiness in her belly and a hot apprehension that prickled her flesh. The livestock quieted, but the dogs scattered throughout the karavan continued to bark.

“Mother of Moons,” Jorda murmured, eyes on the residual swinging of her door lantern.

She forced her voice yet again; this time, because she had to. “What was that?” And then she saw movement in the darkness: A man walking out of shadow into the wavering glow of her lantern. Braid ornamentation glinted.

Rhuan’s expression was odd, as if he too felt unsettled; rather, Ilona decided, like a cat desiring to retain innate dignity and grace yet not quite able to do so. “That,” he said, “was Alisanos. A greeting, you might say.” He looked at Jorda. “I’ve found the body.”

Jorda was distracted. “Good. Now, tell me about this ‘greeting’ from Alisanos.”

Rhuan shrugged. “It was what it was. As I’ve said, Alisanos is on the brink of going active. It’s pulling up roots, you might say. Until that last root is pulled and Alisanos is free to change locales, these sorts of things are going to happen.”

Ilona noted Jorda studied Rhuan intently, brows pulled inward to the bridge of his nose. “How is it you know such things?”

Rhuan shrugged offhandedly. “Shoia are sensitive to Alisanos. I don’t know why.” He grinned briefly. “Maybe we’re more akin to the animals than you are. But I feel it, in here.” He pressed a hand over his breast.

Despite the quick grin and the flash of dimples, there was a pinched look around his mouth. His color, Ilona noted, was not quite normal. She thought perhaps he felt Alisanos somewhere else in addition to his heart. “You look as if you might lose your dinner any moment.”