The Godspeaker Trilogy (70 page)

He’d done the same thing himself after Hettie died.

“But you can’t sleep forever,” he told the blanket-covered man. “If you don’t die you must live. That’s all there is to it.”

He closed the door quietly and went back to his lists.

M
antled in a fading twilight, Zandakar danced his hotas for the first time since Vortka banished him from Mijak. Tears stung his eyes.

I have lost my snakeblade but I am still a warrior. I am naked, without godbraids, but I am still a warrior. The god has abandoned me but I am still a warrior. The god is blind to me, I do not dance for the god. I dance for Lilit and our son who is dead.

It was a good thing his warhost could not see him, the great and gifted warlord of Mijak, creaking and stumbling his way through the set patterns of the knifedance. How they would point and stare as he forced his thin, protesting body into the pose of the striking falcon, the leaping sandcat, the patient lizard on its rock.

How fortunate I am, they will never see this.

His many wounds were healed, and the hot sickness coursing through him, thanks to the fierce woman who had bullied him back to life even though she had no godgiven powers or a crystal to use them. Her name was Ursa and she rarely smiled or spoke. Not like the man Dexterity. He smiled and smiled and hardly ever stopped talking.

Yuma would have cut his tongue out long ago.

It was a mistake to think of his mother. His bare feet faltered on the uncut grass, his aching muscles refused to support him. He fell, his bones rattling, and breathed in the rich aroma of foreign soil.

“Zandakar!” shouted the man Dexterity. And then something else, some incomprehensible string of words, as he dropped his knife and half-carved piece of wood and left his chair to help Zandakar where he sprawled on the ground.

“Aieee, do not touch me! I am clumsy, I am not hurt!”

But Dexterity could not understand him any more than he could understand the flow of gibberish that fell from the man’s lips. He suffered himself to be helped back to his feet. Though he never stopped talking, Dexterity meant well.

Aieee, he is the least cruel man I have met in many godmoons.

His body was full of pain again but it was bearable. Even desirable. This was the clean pain of training, not the filthy miseries of misuse and disease. So long since he’d felt it. He’d been exercising for eight highsuns now, since the woman Ursa had urged him from his bed. First walking in his chamber then walking in the house. Walking, at last, beneath the open sky in the garden. Every highsun getting a little stronger. This was the first time he’d felt strong enough to knifedance.

I asked the god to let me die but the god does not hear me. I still live.

Strangely, he did not mind so much now. The desire to die had burned out with his fever, leaving him hollow. Devoid of desires. Emptied of purpose. He was alive and so he would live. Live in this strange land. Live without Lilit. Live with the memory of his murdered son. His murdering mother. His brother the hammer, who had killed his Lilit and twice tried to kill him.

Aieee, how I am punished. My life is a scorpion wheel. I am tasked with every breath.

Dexterity touched his shoulder. “Zandakar. Dinner. Sleep.”

When the hairy-faced man spoke slowly it was possible to understand him. Possible to make himself understood, if he spoke slowly, too, the handful of words he’d learned in this new tongue Ethrean . A difficult language, with so many strange sounds.

He nodded. “ Zho, Dexterity. Dinner.”

Dexterity smiled. “Yes! Yes! Zho! ”

He gets so excited when I manage a word or three of his speech. It would be funny, if I could laugh.

But he would never laugh again. Laughter was a dead thing, drowned in hot blood.

With the last of the light drained out of the sky and the unfamiliar stars piercing the dark, Dexterity picked up his knife and half-carved wood and they went into the house.

There were lamps already lit, and dinner cooking. The house smelled good. Closing the door behind them, Dexterity pointed with his blunt knife. “What is that, Zandakar?”

“Chair, Dexterity,” he said obediently, because this was their nightly ritual. Repeating the words he’d already learned. Learning new words. Struggling to understand how they all fit together, to understand this kind man’s godless world.

If I were still the hammer I would smite this place to ruin. Dexterity has been kind to me. It is good I am not the hammer.

He looked around the room. The kitchen . Did the pointing for himself. “Window. Curtain. Wall. Door. Floor. Table. Sink. Hob. Tap.”

Dexterity nodded, smiling, as he put away his knife and carving. His teeth were very white in the middle of all that face hair. “Very good. Now. You set the table.”

Aieee! Yes. He knew those words. Set the table . That meant collecting two plates, two knives, two forks, two spoons, two cups . He set the table and Dexterity served the meal.

Dinner was stew tonight, chunks of meat and vegetable in a thick gravy. It was bland compared to what he was used to, but far better than the maggot-ridden muck he’d eaten on the slave ship. And the drink, the ale . Nothing like sadsa but it was bearable. On the slave ship, and before, there’d been little but tainted, brackish water.

He ate because his belly grumbled. He ate because it was something to do.

Soon Dexterity pushed his empty plate aside. He ate quickly, but never belched. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Dexterity Jones.”

Aieee, back to words again. A greeting. A way of making yourself known to a stranger. It was very odd. All his life he had been known by others. First because he rode with his mother and the warlord, then because he rode as himself. The idea of living without being known, still it took some getting used to. He sighed. Ate the last mouthfuls of stew and sat back in his chair . “Hello. My name is Zandakar.”

“Good!” said Dexterity. “Very good. Zandakar, where are we?”

A question. He must answer. “We are in kitchen.”

“ The kitchen,” said Dexterity. “Yes. And?”

And meant Dexterity wanted more words. What words? He was tired. He wanted to sleep. His body ached with the effort of hotas . His head ached with the effort of words. “Ethrea.”

Dexterity shook his head. “ Wei . No. Say it properly.”

Aieee, he knew what that meant. His answer was wrong. He thought for a moment, then tried again. “We are in the Ethrea.”

“No,” said Dexterity. “Almost. We are in Ethrea. No the .”

Aieee, tcha. First it was the, then it was no the. This was a stupid, stupid language. He growled.

“We are in Ethrea.”

“Yes! Zho ! Good!”

The praise warmed him. Dexterity’s smile warmed him.

So long since I have been warmed by words.

Dexterity sat back and considered him carefully. “Zandakar. Outside.” He pointed at the closed door . “In the garden.”

Yes. He knew that word. The garden . A rambling place full of untidy trees and flowers, bounded by a sagging fence made of wood, not stone. No garden in the palace would ever be so unkempt.

“Zandakar, in the garden,” said Dexterity. And then some other words.

He recognised what, and you, but that was all. Dexterity was asking a question, he had no idea what it might be. He shrugged, a gesture common to both their peoples. “ Wei understand.”

Dexterity made an impatient sound, pushed back his chair and stood, then lifted one knee and hopped up and down. “You, Zandakar. In the garden. What?” He pointed to himself as he continued to hop. “What?”

Now he understood. “Hotas.”

Puffing a little, Dexterity stopped his stupid hopping. “ Hotas? What are hotas ?”

How could he make the man understand? He could not. There were no Ethrean words he knew that could explain. He shrugged again. “Hotas.”

Defeated, Dexterity sat down. “ Zho, Zandakar. Hotas .” Then he said something else, it sounded like complaining. On his hairy face, an expression of complaining. It looked as though he spoke to someone who wasn’t there. It wasn’t the first time. And he said a word that was now familiar, Hettie, in a way that suggested it could be a name.

“Dexterity,” he said, when the man stopped complaining. “Hettie?” He thought hard, wanting to make sure the words were right. “What is Hettie?”

Dexterity stared. “ Who is Hettie,” he said, after a moment. Now he looked shocked. “Say who, Zandakar. Not what .”

There was a difference? He wished he knew why. “ Zho, Dexterity. Who is Hettie?”

Dexterity got up and left the kitchen . When he returned he was carrying something. He held it up. “This is Hettie. My wife.”

A painting of a woman. Young. White skin. Yellow hair. Brown eyes. Green tunic. Smiling. Happy. She was not beautiful, not to him, but this woman was Ethrean. Wife . What was that? A godpromised woman, like Lilit had been?

Dexterity turned the painting to look at it. No more smiling, his face was sad. His fingertips touched the painted woman’s cheek, her lips, his eyes were bright in the warm lamplight.

The woman was named Hettie and Dexterity loved her. It was in his sad face, how much he loved her. But she did not live here and she was much younger than him. The painting looked old. Did that mean she was dead?

“Dexterity,” he said. “Where Hettie?”

“Where is Hettie,” said Dexterity, still staring at the painting. He shook his head. “Gone. Hettie is gone.”

Gone . Was that the Ethrean word for dead? He felt a tightness in his chest, Dexterity’s face was so full of hurt. He knew that look. He knew the feeling that made it. This Hettie was dead, he knew it in his bones.

“ Yatzhay, Dexterity. Yatzhay Hettie is gone.” He took a deep breath. Let it out slowly, through the pain in his throat. “Lilit is gone. Zho? You understand?”

Dexterity nodded. “ Zho, Zandakar. I understand. Yatzhay Lilit is gone.”

They had both loved a woman, they both grieved for their loss. It was hard to believe that he and this strange man could have anything in common. Hard to believe he was here in this strange land, so far from his home.

How did this Dexterity know my name on the slave ship? Why did he buy a half-dead slave? Why does he hide me here, in his house and garden? Why are his eyes afraid when he thinks I do not see him looking? What am I doing here? What is my purpose?

Dexterity frowned. “Zandakar? What is it? Are you in pain?” He made a face, to show hurting.

He knew those words. “ Wei, Dexterity. Wei pain.” Not the kind of pain he meant, at least.

“Good. That’s good. But you look tired. You should go to bed.”

No. If he went to bed he would sleep, if he slept he would dream. He was tired of dreams. He was tired of weeping.

“Wei.” He pointed to the chest in the corner, where Dexterity had put his blunt knife and carved wood.

Dexterity stared. “What? You want to try your hand at whittling?”

“Whittling?”

“Yes!” Dexterity mimed carving wood. “Whittling.”

Whittling. It was a stupid word. “Aieee! Zho . Whittling.”

“Well—yes. All right. Why not?” said Dexterity. “I suppose it is too early for bed. We’ll clear the table and do the dishes, and then we’ll whittle. And while we’re whittling we’ll talk. I’ve something to tell you, about a little trip we’ll soon be taking.”

Zandakar nodded, understanding enough to understand he had his way. Not that he cared very much about whittling . But, like eating, it was something to do.

On her knees in the clerica’s small privy chapel, hands clasped before the Living Flame, Rhian struggled to empty her tired mind of thought. She failed. Snatches of conversations whirled like autumn leaves in a windstorm, flashing and twisting and scraping her nerves.

Duke Kyrin’s brother-in-law has the admiration of many fine ladies, Your Highness.

And yet not one of them had married him. Perhaps she should take the hint.

“My lord the Duke of Arbat bids me tell you how deeply he holds you in affection, Your Highness. His son Adric is a fine, upstanding man—”

With bow legs. Though that wasn’t his fault.

“Highness, there is no handsomer man in Meercheq than my duke’s cousin Lord Rutger. True, he is a trifle older than Your Highness—”

A trifle? Try fifteen years. Almost as ancient as Marlan’s Lord Rulf.

“The proud lineage of my duke of Morvell is beyond dispute, Princess Rhian. Can you even consider these other pretenders when my duke’s youthful nephew Shimon—”

Youthful? At eight years her junior he was practically an infant.

“I must be truthful, Highness, in Ethrea you will find wittier men than Lord Rulf. But how much wit is needed to support a crown? Indeed, too much wit can be counted a fault, for—”

And as for Helfred … If the dukes and their representatives knew he dared to speak on behalf of the prolate. If only she dared to make a complaint … but that would only incur Marlan’s gross displeasure and jeopardise her chance of escaping this place.

“Why yes, Highness, it is true that Shimon is not quite bearded yet, but what is a beard? It is no true badge of manhood. I would not be indelicate but—”

Oh, why stumble over scruples now?

“As far as I’m concerned my duke’s cousin is a man without fault, but if you insist upon a shortcoming let me say Lord Rutger lacks height and tends toward corpulence, which I hasten to point out is no impediment to—”

Not for Porpont, perhaps, but it surely was for her.

Round and round in her head their voices scurried, deafening her to everything but the scream she held inside.

Of all the voices Helfred’s was the worst. She couldn’t escape it. She couldn’t escape him . She’d protested against him being sent to Todding with her but she might as well have saved her breath. He was her personal chaplain. Of course he would go with her. In truth he was her shadow. Marlan’s today. Marlan’s spy.

“You bear a grave responsibility, Highness. In your hands rest many thousands of souls. These dukes and their candidates, they think only of worldly advantage. They think of their own greatness. You must think of God. You must open your heart to hear God’s desires. Lord Rulf is not a man of frivolity, he does not waste good coin on vain show. He is a serious man, a Godly man, in all things he is obedient to God. He knows how far the people of Ethrea have strayed. He knows that a king’s first duty is to God. He knows—”