The Legend of El Shashi (3 page)

So that is what I was doing with the little girl’s pet parakeet when the Honoria Telmak happened by in her violet-liveried takibuge.

“Arlak Sorlakson!” shrilled a familiar voice. “Halt, driver!”

My head jerked. I took in the driver’s colours, and almost lost my grip on the bird. A silent curse, ‘Oh, larathi!’ What awful timing!

The takibuge crunched to a stop. The door creaked, the footman muttering obsequiously as he adjusted the alighting-step. I drew myself up, careful to keep my gaze modest and low. The Honoria Telmak
–Rubiny’s mother, no less–was a commanding woman, rumoured to keep her husband in strict tow.

I soothed the iridescent red-feathered head with a fingertip. “Hush, little one.”

The lady stepped down, doubtless surveying the scene–my trader’s cart with its great ironbound wheels, drawn to the wayside behind a smaller family wain, and a family of six children and their mother enjoying a picnic lunch beneath the pungent wattle trees whilst I attended their pet.

“Honoria Telmak,” said I, paying homage the traditional way. This involved holding a fluid and deep bow, with the left hand clasping the parakeet behind my back and the right burshingling just above her turquoise, sequined slippers, which were back-stitched in the Zeasi style, fifteen ukals
a pair or I was no trader. “I’m indescribably honoured by your–”

“Huh!” she sniffed. “Empty pleasantries, Arlak Sorlakson!”

I held the bow stiffly, waiting her approval before rising. My fingers were growing tired with all that stupid wriggling burshingling demanded, and I could hear the family behind me–all girls, mark my words–whispering and giggling together. The Honoria’s glare burned a hole to eternity in the nape of my neck, while a thumping hangover, carefully cultivated over three days of most enjoyable carousing at Yuthalia, Elaki Fountain’s premier pleasure house, did my cause little aid.

Her right slipper tapped away fiercely. But why this barely-concealed
rage–unless it concerned my last altercation at Telmak Lodge? In which case she should instead be gloating at how Rubiny had dealt with me!

“R
ise!”

I raised my aching skull to a precise degree, and extended my hand. “Master Telmak.”

“Never mind that!” snapped the Honoria, slapping her husband’s hand down. “What have you done to my daughter, you wastrel whelp of a sow?”

A wordless squeak passed my throat.

She spat, “What. Have. You. Done? Speak!”

“Done, me? Nothing, of course, nothing
–”

“Nothing? Is that all you have to say? Nothing?”

“B-But … I have not laid a finger upon the daughter of the House–”

“If you had dared lay a finger
upon her person, I’d have it chopped off in a trice!” The Honoria Telmak shook her head so violently that a bejewelled hairclip flew past my nose to lance into the soft sward. “What did you say to her Rushday last, you … you stinking sodbuster? I checked the records. You were there that very day, you cannot deny it! Why, she came to me in tears! My own daughter, in tears over a useless, philandering male!”

“Rubiny was
–”

“Silence, husband!” she roared. “If I wanted an opinion I would ask those good women, who this rake is doubtless terrorising with his lecherous, stinking panting as he plots how best to despoil them all
–why, even down to this little one, who in Mata’s precious name must be barely five anna if she’s a day!”

Her insults were leaves snatched away by a rushing stream. I
reeled at the notion that Rubiny had been crying over me! She didn’t care a whit … did she? My feet itched to dance a rowdy jig! But I was forced to straighten my lips, especially when the little girl piped up:

“Mummy,
I’m nearly seven, aren’t I? Why’s the rich lady so cross? What’s a rake?”

“What are you grinning at?” the Honoria demanded,
her chin a-quiver in wrath. My lips compressed themselves instantly into a thin white line. “When I learn what you did to my daughter, Arlak Sorlakson, you’d better wish all of Ulim’s demonic Hunt were loose on your trail! I’ll ruin you and your miserable little enterprise, mark me! Fancy, the gall, upsetting my Rubiny! Now, what have you to say for yourself?”

How could I respond? I
tried from my height not to appear as though I towered above her; I schooled my eyes from straying to the provocative cut of her gown–for she was Rubiny’s mother, after all, and the daughter had clearly inherited her mother’s charms–and deliberately imagined tumbling her in a hay barn. Inappropriate? Shallow? Ay to both marks. But this silent rebellion was proof against my humiliation, an act of revenge confined to my thoughts alone.

“Huh! I thought as much!”

“I swear, I’ve done nothing to–”

“Nothing again? Be silent! I’ll be the judge of your nothings!”

Judge and executioner both, thought I.

Now the Honoria Telmak called to the family, “Has he been harassing you?”

“No, I–”

“One more word out of you!”

“He was looking after Jewel!” The little girl came running up. “See?”

“Who is
… Jewel?”

“Her parakeet,” explained the mother in a flustered rush.

“Jewel hurt her wing and the nice man made it better! Look, see, he’s stitched her wing with magic string!”

The Master Telmak interjected, “Indeed, with silk of Gethamadi.”

“Gethamadi silk? What does a
vegetable
farmer know of Gethamadi silk?”

“He sewed Jewel’s wing better!”

The Honoria seemed taken aback. Clearly, my little champion was doing far better than I at mastering the situation. I opted for a careful nod. “It is a hobby, Honoria Telmak. Eventide in the mountains can be lonely.”

“And a fine job you’ve made of it,” the Master of Telmak Lodge added, scratching the parakeet’s head
with an expert touch. “You’ve healing hands, Arlak Sorlakson.”

His eyes twinkle
d conspiratorially as he stole back into the Honoria’s shadow, the very picture of a demure and dutiful husband. He moved oddly, I noticed, like a man twice his anna. But I knew I held his sympathy. And he had provided a graceful exit for the Honoria, which after a pause to regain her poise, she duly assumed.

“I remain extremely dissatisfied with your conduct, young Arlak,” she huffed, squaring up to me again. “Just because you’ve a pretty face does not permit you to entertain ideas above your station. Rubiny o’Telmak is the fairest flower of a fine and rising
House, with wonderful prospects and a future that expressly excludes Matabond vows with a man of your spendthrift reputation and lowly occupation!”

“Yes,
Honoria.” I had long since given up on Rubiny, so what loss this? Nonetheless, sweat trickled down my nape.

I might even escape lightly, I had begun to hope, when she tittered, “You have
my permission to apologise to my daughter, Arlak Sorlakson. Next time you sojourn at Telmak Lodge, you will grovel in the dirt in the forecourt as the wicked wastrel you are and thrice declare to the heavens the depths of your wrongdoing. You will beg Rubiny’s forgiveness. If fortune smiles upon you, she may grant you the slipper’s toe to kiss.”

Thus leaving me aghast and ga
ping, the Honoria Telmak swept back to her takibuge, alighted with the aid of her husband’s arm, and snapped a command to proceed. In the dust-clouds of her passing, all six girls raced up to me, jabbering excitedly:

“Who was that?”

“Who’s Rubiny? Tell us about Rubiny!”

“Ooh, this is so exciting!”

“Mummy, what’s a wastrel?”

“Girls, now girls, please! Let the man breathe!”

“Ooh, he is pretty, mother, don’t you agree? I thought so the moment I saw him! Look, his ears are turning bright pink!”

Ay, in such disgrace did I begin my return journey to Yarabi Vale.

No blade cuts keener than the knife-edge of betrayal.

Old Roymerian Proverb

Foul clouds scudded toward me on a capricious easterly wind like slate roof-tiles flung by an irate giant. The chill was unseasonable. From the clouds, tendrils of mist seeped down to brush the barren cart-track with clammy tentacle-tips, obscuring what was ordinarily a fine view from the crest of Hadla’s Pass
down the length of Yarabi Vale to my home. A few dozen farmholds were sprinkled along its loam-rich floor, and a tiny clutch of mountain croftholds lay buried beneath the pass.

The village was named after the rare yarabi bird, whose flaming plumage had once graced the finery of Hassutls and nobles. The vale had enjoyed
a fleeting notoriety, attracting fortune-hunters from as far afield as Lorimere, Sulikarn and the eastern isles of the Aenkal Archipelago. They wiped out the gorgeous birds within seven anna. Many a yarn did the ulules spin, claiming renewed sightings and good-luck feathers. Janos himself was a believer.

Liars, I fumed. Twenty silver ukals could not purchase an honest woman among
ulules. Was this not foolishness, fireside fables, and verbal flummery? As for Janos–why, I expected better of him.

I tugged my left ear, keenly regretting the incident
six days past. Bright pink indeed, and worse afore eventide. Considering my reputation, that parakeet might just be the most expensive bird in Umarik history. How would I ever bring myself to grovel in the forecourt of Telmak Lodge? Whatever had possessed the Honoria to dream up such a grotesque form of apology–oh! I gritted my teeth. One guess: “Rubiny!”

I could strangle
the wench! If only she weren’t so comely, so vivacious, so … everything!

A difficult trick,
too, considering my fingers were frozen to the trace-handles. As usual, I had forgotten to pack my gennet-hide gloves and burnoose. I could no longer feel my nose and lips. I burrowed my chin into my collar, grumbling, “Ulim’s breath!” Bone-weary. Sick and cold. Those three days of revelry seemed a lifetime away. And they had not helped me forget Jyla. Not a jot.

Best
to drag myself back to home and hearth. Stoke the fire, kick off my half-boots, mull a measure or two of that nutty Salkuri red wine I’d been hoarding, and count the spoils of my trip. The trader’s grephe
must
have been satisfied.

I slapped the foremost jatha irritably with the traces. “Ge’on, you!”

Janos would crow in delight. My ten percent I could offset against the cart’s repair, with plenty to spare. Ten whole Reals! That opened new vistas. For the first time, I would have solid capital to my name. Enough to lift me from the mire? I could not imagine farming herbs and vegetables all my life. Farming was regular, dependable, and dull. I was destined for greater things.

Kne
w I more of my destiny than other men? Nay. But I knew what I wanted–or at least, what I didn’t want. There were hardships graven upon the care-worn faces in the village, marks of a life and a future that frankly, frightened me. My parents’ murder had forced me to face my fears. Escape beckoned. And I had given it thought, oh sweet Mata, anna of thought. Schemes I counted by the bushel, and dreams by the cartload.

So what inhibited me still?

The sky spoke of a squall brewing. Given the blustering, ice-fingered wind, eventide had closed in fast and early. The narrow streets were deserted. The watch would have howled at my clattering haste, had they not slipped indoors makh ago.

Golden lanterns winked behind guarded shutters.

The blocky houses of Yarabi village were built from a pale sandstone, quarried locally, and fashioned with slate roof tiles and window-boxes brimming with gay bluebells, phuletips, and old-mother’s wisp. This dusk, the sodden sandstone seemed sallow and unwelcoming, rather than warm and homely. The flowers, blighted by the cold, drooped as though weeping at a sudden misfortune. The villagers were huddled indoors, enjoying hearth and fire, sipping their limmerwort tea or nibbling at those foul lurg nuts they held so dear.

I felt transient, surreal, a living intruder in
a silent spirit-world, a moth fluttering against the windowpane of reality.

Beyond the village, my sense of isolation grew. Coniferous woods of brazen, stinge
, and dwarf pine hemmed in the familiar track, providing sanctuary from the rising breeze. Low branches became unseen veils rustling against the cart’s sides. Though I must have driven this way a thousand times, this night I felt a thrill of apprehension that made me revel in a dangerous speed, the trees and branches whipping by, and at the sight of the first welcome lantern lighting the path to Sothi’s farm just ahead. Two more, then Janos’, and then mine a rabbit’s hop thereafter.

Nearly home.

The flat log bridge came as a shock of thunder, oily black waters flying by amidst a bruising rattletrap jouncing that well-nigh pitched me upon the hindmost jatha’s back. Wild laughter burbled from my lips.

I was scaring myself. Muttering between clenched teeth, I hauled the jatha back to a sensible pace for the climb to the bluff above the river. One had to be careful on the switchbacks or a nasty accident could ensue. I gathered the traces in my fists and leaned over the animals to deliver my commands.

With the ascent safely behind me, I let the cart rumble on past the turnoff for Farmer Lyat’s, with its lantern hanging from the familiar knotted pine, and hunkered down as best I could for the quarter makh or so it would take to reach Janos’ place. Usually, on this stretch, one could see his welcome lantern. I hunched deeper into my jerkin, beyond shivering now. O for the simple comforts …

Odd! Squinting against the wind’s bitter knife-edge, I
made out one welcome lantern, but not two. Roymerians make a point of never letting the welcome lantern snuff out, even in the foulest weather. A lit lantern signifies friendship, peace, and hospitality. It says, ‘Be welcome at my hearth, be you friend or stranger.’

Perhaps he had forgotten to top up the oil?

Pressed argan oil brought by slow coastal lugger from the faraway city of Mara-Udal in Damantia, I reminded myself, yielding profit of no less than eight ukals to the barrel. I had in my cart twenty barrels, which made … where was that accursed lantern? I marked it not. Mine always swung freely from a dwarf pine hard by my gate, buffeted by any breeze, whereas Janos’ stood firm upon the squat stump of an ulinbarb tree. The light out there swayed perceptibly.

I worried at a fingernail.

This was completely out of character. In Janos’ foundry, every tool had its place. The floor was swept each evening. He laid his table for dinner regardless of whether or not he had company. He sliced flatbread with short, definite strokes of his cutter, before spearing each square with the tine and raising it to his mouth with excruciating precision. Janos was a fastidious man, mark my words. Lanterns did not go out on his watch.

By the time I reached the turning, I had imagined a dozen mishaps that could have befallen
him since my departure. My thumb bled freely. How to tell the difference between fear and a real grephe, I wondered? I turned the jatha with a low bark, telling myself that under the guise of sharing the good news, I should look in on him. Just … in case.

I checked the jatha and leaped down to check the lantern. Touched it. Still warm, I felt, and heard a sloshing of aromatic oil that indicated a good supply. It could not have blown out, for the shutter was latched shut, and the wick neatly trimmed. Of course. Pernickety Janos would have it no other way.
I scratched my stubble. Then, why?

Suddenly, as if bitten by a torfly, I leaped after the still-moving cart and sprang up to the footrest. In one movement I scooped up the traces and hissed the jatha on.

I could smell the forge already, a distinctive blend of burnt umber and darkwood mixed with tangy alloys fired furnace-hot. Janos must be home, working. Doubly strange then the lantern had gone out …

Janos’ low, neat bungalow
appeared dark and still, so I did not bother with the front door. Heaving the cart to a standstill, I flung the traces over the nearest staypole and rushed up the path past the kitchen, taking the familiar stone cut steps three at a time. The forge was built back into the hillside behind the house, in what must once have been a small cave for barkdeer or rock lynx. Both had been mercilessly hunted in the heyday of Yarabi village, but now they were slowly returning as large tracts of the valley floor fell back to their natural state.

Sight of the forge doors dashed these thoughts from my mind.
The right stood ajar, the left was shut fast. Twice the height of a man, they dwarfed the slight figure that moved between them, backlit in orange flame by the open furnace.

She was as startled to see me, as I
was to see her. Our exclamations sparred midway:

“Clear off, stranger!”

“Who are you?”

“Ah
…” she hissed, and the syllable stuck a hot poker into my gullet. “The trader from the marketplace!”

Her! Jyla! A thousand thoughts,
every last one of them ill, jammed into my head at once. I tried to push myself onward, to square my shoulders, but my boots seemed nailed to the top step. I rasped, “What are you doing here? Where’s Janos?”

“I might ask you the same question, boy,” she smiled coolly, “but I would rather thank you first.” Jyla made a half-buskal, a mocking perversion of the common gesture of appreciation. “For leading us hence
–thank you.”

My
hands knotted into fists.

“After all, our Janos has proved most elusive over the anna. And resourceful.” Her laughter tinkled
as if tiny icicles were dropping to the ground. “That is, until you betrayed him. You have my … heartfelt gratitude.”

“Where is Janos?” My voice
belonged to a stranger. “Where is he?”

“Such touching concern,” Jyla tittered. Her black-in-black eyes glitter
ed like hideous diamonds, and her voice flicked in an instant from honey to iron. “Would you see your precious Janos? Tortha! Stop fooling about. Bring him out.”

There was a low moan that I mistook at first for the cry of poorly oiled hinges.
But when Tortha banged the forge door open, the moaning soared into a raw, lingering scream. I have never since heard a living creature utter such a sound. I wish I never had. It tore an unspeakable wound in my innermost quoph.

I squinted against the forge’s brutal
, shimmering heat. There was a figure nailed to the door. Great, thick iron nails at shoulder, hip, lower thigh, and left ankle, pinned a man cruelly to the heat-scarred wood. Blood crusted his torso. Where his nose had been lay a smoking ruin, a gaping sore in the flesh. His left ear hung by a thread. He had bitten through his lower lip. Only his eyes were familiar, grey as flint, and thus I knew him for Janos.

Tortha kicked the door. He sho
ok it violently with both hands. Janos shrieked again and again as his body flopped about upon its pinions; Tortha’s perverse mirth spilled forth into the night.

The man roared, “Give greeting, Janos! Your apprentice is come.”

Despair creased Janos’ expression before he forced a smile–more a grimace–to his lips and sighed, “Arlak.” He mouthed,
solûm tï mik
, which means ‘son of my hearth’ in Dusky Fahric. An endearment, and a secret signal between us.

But before I could think upon it, Jyla said sharply, “Boy! Have you used nails before?”

“Nails?”

“Like this.” Suddenly, one of the thick iron nails floated in the air between us. “A simple tool,” she noted, studying my reaction, “and singularly effective, would
n’t you agree? Once driven home, they are nigh impossible to extract.”

I had the impression this statement was meant for a test. I glanced
at Janos for guidance, but he watched Jyla with neither malice nor anger, but with a quietude of spirit that given the situation, seemed utterly misplaced.

“Iron nails. Sharp enough to pierce flesh. Blunt enough to make it interesting.” Jyla raised her hand and the nail
drifted through the air toward Janos. “Where shall I place this one? Your choice. Neck?”

The leaping forge flames made a brazen s
tatue of her flawless features, as if she were chiselled of cold, unfeeling marble. “What about an eye? Left or right?” How could this be, I thought dully. A vine of such beauty; its fruit nought but evil? “Maybe his arm will suffice.”

Jyla flicked her fingers. The nail shot forward to impale Janos’ left wrist
, and pinned it upright as if she had calculated to trap him in the act of asking a question.

Janos cried out,
a thin and distant sound swallowed in the hot vomit spewing from my mouth; in my retching, gagging, and coughing; kneeling helplessly in the dirt, still heaving long after my stomach had nought left to expel. Then, by force of will, I staggered upright, shouting in my mind, ‘Surely no man alive can endure this agony?’ His wounds, his face … what could Jyla possibly want from him? I knew Janos kept secrets–but this? Unthinkable! Nothing, nothing could ever justify the torture of Mata’s own.