Oathen (2 page)

“Where am I?”

“Our village is South Point, on Agmana. In the
Scattersea Isles,” Gara answered.

“Ah,” the woman said, nodding. “Does anyone
have any food? I’d not say no to some of this
garrim
;
turnabout’s always fair. Feels like I haven’t eaten in—” Fear
shadowed her face, and she looked up at Gara, suddenly intent.
“What year is it?”

Anjoya
Meseer glided through the busy afternoon crowds that thronged the
Market Quarter of Greater Salience, trying not to spill the tears
that edged her dark eyes. They might streak the kohl she’d lined
them with, and no hostess, not even one forced to live and work in
Lesser Salience, would let herself appear as anything less than
poised and calm at all times.

Her feet still remembered the path from her
half-sister’s residence to the elevator shaft nearest Anjoya’s
home. She let the sights and smells of the city that had introduced
her to Kemsil soothe her anger.

But that didn’t last long. Kemsil, too, was
being unreasonable. He’d proclaimed that he owed his life to the
four easterners who had saved him from slavers, and from Clan
Swordfish, in the aftermath of a massive quake ripple—the same one
that demolished the subterranean harbor a thousand feet below
Greater Salience. He made no secret of his plans to accompany them
in search of their lost companion, Meena, should the diminutive
Archivist Sanych ever locate her again.

He’d accompany them back onto the sea, where
there prowled not only the vicious slaver pirates of Clan
Swordfish, but his own Jualan people, who would likely kill him on
sight for not showing up at his arranged marriage—which he had
missed because he had been kidnapped by slaver pirates!

Anjoya found her fingernails digging into her
long silk sleeves and forced herself to relax before she damaged
the fabric. He was safe in the city, at least, under his pseudonym,
Gryme. And she knew that he truly cared about her. Her sister
Ethari had nothing but hidden agendas and a decades-old pipe full
of the dark, bitter ashes of jealousy.

Please do me the honor of attending my
luncheon in two days’ time
, Ethari’s note had read.
My
guests will benefit from your presence, and I will be happy to
share half of the hostess fee with you.

Despite her misgivings, Anjoya had gone up to
Ethari’s home, dressed in her best silks, having spent hours
braiding her long, dark hair and tucking it through an open-topped
turban in order to blend in with the Citizenry. It never hurt to
advertise oneself in her line of work, and her sister knew it,
since she was a hostess as well. What she didn’t know was that
Anjoya was hurting for money, having turned away several
well-paying clients in order to clear time to instruct Kemsil’s
eastern friends—Prince Geret Branbrey Valan of Vint and his
bodyguard, Lord Salvor Thelios—in the Hyndi tongue.

Only after she arrived had she discovered that
her sister was hosting six Byarran friars who had come to make use
of the Great Library of Hynd. They had taken one look at her bare
midriff and the books of poetry she carried, and quickly lowered
their eyes.

Anjoya had not missed Ethari’s smug expression
before the Greater Salience hostess smoothed it away. The shorter,
lighter-haired woman had chosen simple, conservative attire that
made Anjoya look like a ruby mynah, ready to squawk forth horrible,
progressive ideas that would lead to the downfall of civilization
everywhere. Or so the Byarrans surely thought.

Most of the luncheon had been full of awkward
pauses and shifting glances. Anjoya knew that the small coastal
realm of Byar did not favor its women with respect to formal
education, so all her favorite topics like philosophy, politics and
poetry were off the table. She did manage to engage the friars in
conversation regarding gardening and cloth-dying, and counted it a
major victory against Ethari’s scheme to embarrass her.

But Ethari managed to have the last word, as
usual.

“Thank you for your stimulating
entertainment,” Ethari had said to her in the cool stone entryway,
as the friars were putting their worn sandals back on. As the men
looked over, she tossed a money pouch to Anjoya, who caught it
against her chest. “You may go.”

Anjoya’s eyes slid to the shocked friars, then
pinned Ethari with a hot glare. “I am not a common whore,” she
hissed, “to be paid before the eyes of guests!”

“Then give it back.” Ethari held out a smooth
hand.

There it was: the trap. Perhaps Ethari knew
more about her finances than Anjoya realized. Nostrils flaring,
Anjoya took her sister’s hand and slapped the little red pouch into
it. Turning to leave, she wove her way through the friars, who drew
back from her skirt, not wanting her clothing to touch
them.

As she descended Ethari’s pale, broad steps
and passed between twin urns overflowing with flowering vines, she
heard, “My apologies, gentlemen. Her mother was a thief with lax
morals, and despite my decades of trying to show her a better path,
as you see, my half-sister has done little better.”

There went any chance of having a Byarran
client, ever again. The gathering of hostesses in Greater
Salience—not quite a guild, but more powerful than some—had already
barred her from hosting in the upper city, and now Ethari was
trying to drive her out of the business completely.

It had worked, too. Anjoya had made plans to
sail home with the Vintens if they could not find their missing
friend.

Her eyes were dry by the time Anjoya reached
the large, gilded elevator. She entered with several others who
wished to descend to Lesser Salience, the underground section of
the city, which buffered the Citizenry above from the raucous
harbor below. As the light faded in the narrow shaft, she felt
tension leave her shoulders. She was glad she’d be leaving
Salience. Perhaps she could even manage a tan once she reached
Vint. Sanych had warned her that it was often cloudy there due to
surrounding mountains, and Anjoya trusted the Archivist’s perfect
recall, but in Anjoya’s estimation, clouds overhead were still far
better than rock.

She crossed the streets of Lesser Salience,
lit from above by the ever-present glowing fungus that provided
public light, and entered her stone-carved home, greeting her women
as they went about their daily tasks. Two of them helped her
unbraid her hair once more, and within the hour, she was dressed in
a loose flowing gown, curly hair down to her waist, entertaining
the assistants to an emissary from Kauna’kana, whose employer was
visiting the caliph.

Just as the cross-cultural joking was in full
swing, a pounding at the door forced her to excuse herself from her
illustrious company. The First Assistant waved his heavy goblet and
smiled in good humor, his dark braid of office gleaming across his
forehead. It was times like these that made the Hyndi hostess
regret that part of her job involved answering her own
door.

She set her expression into interested
politeness and pulled open the thick wooden door, hoping Ethari had
not followed her, nor the friars either, trying to convince her to
stop reading books. The man on the other side was panting, carrying
a pack over his shoulder, and grinning like a fool.

“Geret?” she queried of the tall, dark-eyed
Vinten prince. “What has happened?”

“I don’t have long, Anjoya,” he puffed,
catching his breath. “Please tell Count Runcan that Sanych, Salvor,
Gryme and I will be parting ways with him here. He’s to return to
Vint and report to my uncle the Magister on the progress our
expedition has made. You’re still accompanying him on the next
available ship?”

“I am…but I thought we were all going.” She
eyed his pack. “What progress is he to report? Has Sanych located
your missing friend?”

“Not yet,” Geret said, chuckling.

Anjoya frowned in confusion. “I’m not
following, Geret,” she said.

Geret met her eyes with a grin and explained
his plan to her.

“What? You can’t take Gryme west! The Jualans
will kill him!” the hostess argued, cutting a fearful, angry arm
toward Kemsil’s homeland.

“That’s the problem, Anjoya,” Geret said,
sobering. “I’ve begged him to reconsider, but he won’t. He says he
owes us his life, and he won’t let us leave without him.” He looked
over his shoulder. “I need to hurry before they leave without
me
.”

Anjoya made an exasperated noise. “What ship
would dare take you to Shanal? These waters are Sea Clan territory!
And how can you go on, when you don’t know the way?”

Geret stepped back a couple of paces,
beginning to leave. “Because we have a guide again. Thank you for
all the Hyndi lessons, Anjoya. Runcan’s a good man; he’ll get you
safely to Vint.” He gave her a deep nod of respect, then started
jogging down the street, calling, “I’ll see you in a year or
two!”

~~~

Sanych elTiera stared at the wall map she’d
constructed over the weeks she’d had her own room in the massive
Salience library. She had been granted the use of it by the
mystical Silver Hand women from the Navel of the World compound
next door. Every detail— Eirant to the south, the Archipelago of
Juala to the west, and the Scattersea Isles to the north; sea
current lines; little grey pins marking Deep One sightings—was
already burned into her brain, but it comforted her to look at it.
She felt like Wisdom herself, high over the earth, looking down on
the real Middle Sea.

“I’ll find you,” she murmured, fingering a pin
on the side of the map, which she had marked with a streamer of
paper that read
Shanallar
. She only lacked a spot to pin it.
“But first, lunch, or Cheriya says she will unbind my braids and
traipse me through the streets, calling me a harlot. I know you’ll
understand.”

Some while later, stomach full of spicy
Byarran vegetables and delicate bits of seafood, Sanych entered the
library again, the dusky-skinned Cheriya at her side in her usual
silvery dress. Four other Silver Hands were waiting for them in the
rotunda, also clad in silver; they descended on the pair
immediately, all talking at once.

“Shashei, the Archivist has a visitor; she
called herself the Unbroken, of all things—”

“Archivist! Archivist!”

“—
and may the moon witness,
Shashei—”

“—
walked right in, just now! I
didn’t know she was
real
—”

Shashei Cheriya tried to calm the excited
women and begin to sort out what they were jabbering about. Sanych
frowned. Her mind began piecing bits together from the Hyndi
histories she’d been perusing.
The Unbroken…a Hyndi heroine from
two generations ago…a woman fell from the top of the Night Beacon,
taking with her an assassin. Though the other woman was crushed,
the Unbroken survived, alive and whole. Oh, Wisdom
… Sanych bit
her lip and grinned, feeling a radiant lightness spread through her
body.

One of the Hands pointed in the direction of
Sanych’s map room. Sanych turned and ran down the marble corridor,
sliding on her silk slippers when she tried to stop at the doorway.
Flinging the door open, she jogged inside and was soon crowded from
behind by all the other women. Her eyes scanned the stacks of
books, the tables piled with scrolls and small maps.

The room appeared empty, save for
them.

Her eyes found one detail out of place,
however. Sanych strode to her wall map and stood before it while
the women at the doorway waited. She reached out a tentative finger
and caressed a tiny paper streamer on a pin jammed into the dot
that represented Salience.

It read
Shanallar
.

“Meena,” she breathed, her heart
thudding.

“Sanych.” The Shanallar’s laconic tone hadn’t
altered during her many weeks of absence. But after four hundred
years, Sanych doubted anything could change the stubborn, cynical
heroine anymore—not even being eaten alive by two sea monsters in
the same evening.

The Hands murmured excitedly as Meena stepped
forward from a shadowed alcove and uncrossed her arms. Sanych
hesitated a moment, eyes closed, then opened them and turned
around.

The Shanallar looked unchanged, except that
her hair was entirely covered by a green headscarf. She wore a
burnished breastplate that gleamed in the lamplight, and the
knurled pommel of her short Clan sword winked with silvery gleams.
Her clothing spoke of battle-readiness, and she smelled of the open
sea. Her eyes held a warm welcome.

Sanych breathed deeply, excitement and relief
vying for control of her features. When she spoke, her voice
trembled. “I knew I’d find you.”

Meena tilted her head toward the map. “Bet you
didn’t think it would be this easy.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“I know.” Meena quirked a corner of her mouth.
“Are you ready to go?”

Sanych didn’t look away, didn’t even blink.
“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s get your things. The harbor
militia are none too pleased with our entrance, and the sooner
we’re away, the better.”

“‘
Our’? Who did you arrive
with?”