The Plains of Kallanash (8 page)

Mia sat a little apart, a book spread out on the table, a sweet romantic story quite at odds with her current mood. She stared unseeingly at the words in front of her. She had not expected her encounter with Jonnor to be as romantic as the books she read since he was so deep in grief, but the abruptness of it had shaken her. She felt numb and disoriented, as if she were not quite connected to the women around her. Even the room seemed grey, as if shrouded in fog.

She jumped when Morsha patted her hand. “Time to go.”

They were ready in good time, escorted up the stairs by a troop of silent servants and shown where to stand. The sky ships ran to a strict timetable, and if they failed to board their assigned cabin at the correct time, they would be left behind. There would be severe consequences if they missed their first interviews.

The waiting platform was a miserable place, with no shelter from the weather at all. The Plains of Kallanash were never free of wind, but up here they were fully exposed and their heaviest woollen headscarves were tightly wound to cover all but their eyes. The air was bitter cold, but at least it was clear. The warmer northern Karnings had many advantages, but there the air was always laden with dust blown down from the desert.

From where they stood, the full length of the sky ship way was visible in both directions, with the huge chains which pulled the ships gliding along in their grooves, and the long line of windmills stretching off into the distance. Before too long, the chains started shaking with a great clanking noise, and in a little while their sky ship came into view, the great metal sails above each cabin angled to slow it down. Between boarding stops the ships moved under their own power, but occasionally the wind was adverse and then the windmills along the way powered the chains and pulled the ship along.

As the ship drew near, a long snake of connected cabins, it hitched itself to the smaller chains which pulled it slowly through the bay of the boarding platform. As soon as their appointed cabin drew alongside, their little gaggle of servants sprang into action, throwing open the double doors, sliding their travelling boxes under the seats and assisting the women inside as the wagon crept past. Within moments the doors closed again behind them, and almost at once there was a little jerk as they picked up speed.

The four women leaned back against the cushions and laughed in relief. It was always a tense moment, boarding the sky ship, and its successful accomplishment was occasion for celebration. Morsha scrabbled on the floor to access her box, and drew forth a flask of apple wine and four beakers. Mia liked it better than regular wine, and drank her share as they flew along, giggling as much as any of them at Mista’s jokes.

Then it was a matter of watching the world go by as they sped along, covering as much ground in an hour as a horse would take all day to accomplish, slowing only occasionally to take on more passengers. Sometimes they were surrounded by the tops of trees, almost leafless now, but mostly they had a clear view of the endless plains
– a village here, an orchard there, a Karninghold, then a watchtower away in the distance as they crossed a boundary line between Karnings. Several times they saw Godstowers, small towers standing alone, unused and purposeless, without even a door. Then the emptiness of the barrens, treeless and deserted, left as a reminder of how the whole Plains of Kallanash used to be before the Petty Kings and later the Word of the Gods brought order. Beyond that were the game-filled forests which helped to feed the Ring.

Mia’s Companions had no interest in views they had seen many times before. Marna fell asleep, and Morsha and Mista began playing a simple guessing game. Mia gazed unseeing through the windows. Usually she loved this journey, skimming the treetops like a bird, or speeding along high above the plains grasses that rippled and waved in the wind. The sky ships were thrilling, her excitement tempered only by apprehension for the forthcoming interview. But not today. Today her thoughts were elsewhere, and the views flew past unnoticed.

After the tumult of two nights before, she felt strangely calm. However unpleasant it had been, it was over now and the next time would be better. There would be a next time, she was sure of that. She would be better prepared for it, too. And one thing she was determined on – she would get rid of all Tella’s things from her bedroom. Then at least there would be nothing to remind Jonnor of his dead wife.

She dared not think beyond that. She could never replace Tella in his affections; she was too different from her sister. Tella was a dazzling adventuress who might have stepped out of the pages of a book. Mia was a mouse by comparison. But Jonnor was not quite the hero she’d imagined him, either. Still, they had time to get used to each other, to be comfortable together. She could carve out her own place in the marriage and make Jonnor happy.

Hurst hated the winter quiet. Two months without skirmishes, and even the Vahsi beyond the border withdrew to their caves and left the Karnings in peace. When he had first gone to the Ring as a boy of ten, he had delighted in trying to circumvent the rules. Sneaking away from the scholars’ hall, exploring the wide streets and covered markets, creeping through the bushes fringing the Glass Lake and peering through any windows low enough to reach. He had few brothers of similar age, but enough cousins to form an unruly pack, egging each other on. Eventually one of them had been caught by the guards on one of their adventures. That had sobered them all up quick enough. He would never forget seeing Crannor’s still, limp body, weeks later, when the Slaves had finished with him. The Gods were unforgiving.

After that, he had hurled himself into the tournament, determined to overcome the handicap of his bad leg. Training all the hours he could, studying the opposition’s every move, falling asleep with the moves of the last match still in his mind, waking up with the strategy of the next. But once he’d won everything he could, many times, even the tournament lost its lustre, and he and Gantor had agreed to leave it to younger men.

Nowadays, the winter quiet was just dull. He missed the routine of home, the times with his beloved Mia, and he chafed at the endless hours in the temples. There was nothing for him there. He had come to an understanding with the Gods years ago in his own mind, having seen too much injustice in their names. Until one of the Nine showed up and started giving orders in person, he would continue to wonder if perhaps Those who Served the Gods had no direct contact either and made up the Word of the Nine as it suited them.

Then there was the tedium of the journey, two days of sitting around in wagons and sky ships with his Companions. It was a great trial for four men used to constant physical activity.

But as they drew nearer to the Ring itself, his interest picked up a little. At first the mountain range was no more than a hazy smudge on the horizon, then a darker jagged line, and at last the monstrous towering peaks of the Ring of Bonnegar, rising five thousand feet from the plain below. It always amazed him that the sky ship way made no deviation as it approached, no last minute jink to find an easier route, but plunged straight into the side of the mountain and on through, with a deafening roar of machinery in the echoing tunnel. Occasionally the tunnel widened abruptly as their route bisected an old dragon cave, and the noise subsided and then crashed back over them as the tunnel narrowed again. There were lights at intervals, mysterious lamps that burned without flickering, but they raced past so fast that each one was no more than an instant’s lightning flash in the interminable darkness.

The brilliance of daylight dazzled him as they emerged from the mountain. There before him was the incomparable vista of Kashinor. Mia had told Hurst once that the Ring was a natural formation. She had paid more attention to the scholars than he ever had, so he supposed it must be right. Even so, he found it hard to believe. It was too precise, too regular, an almost perfect circle of peaks like the crown worn by a king of old. Close to ten miles across, the inner bowl was dominated by the Glass Lake, mirror-smooth and blue as a summer sky, where floated the ethereal golden tower of Those who Served the Gods.

Once Kashinor had held their entire civilisation, a series of low stone buildings clustering along the edge of the lake in a dozen little settlements, scratching a living from the poor soil, fishing in the lake and raising cattle and goats. Not the most productive land, but peaceful, because that perfect ring of mountains made an unbreachable defensive wall. Two easily defended passes to the northwest and a cave system to the south were the only ways in or out before the sky ship way was built.

Hurst could well understand why Kashinor had never been conquered by force, but had grown peacefully into a great civilisation. Beyond the Ring, the Vahsi had swept back and forth across the plains. Later, the Petty Kings had carved out their domains and feuded endlessly. Neither had ever taken Kashinor. Only the Word of the Gods had penetrated the mountains in its subtle way, and begun the great expansion. Now there were more than three hundred Karnings, neatly laid out in regular squares, and both barbarians and wilderness had been pushed back and ever back, taming the plains and making them productive.

At the centre of it all still lay this circle of calm and order, Kashinor. Within the protective ring of the mountains, the lake was fringed with a necklace of slender towers and domes and pleasure gardens and spires, looking impossibly fragile at first sight. Out in the Karnings, buildings were squat and solid and square, grey and sensible affairs, huddled low against the wind. Here, however, all was ethereal lightness, curves and points and elegance, reaching for the stars. There was something insubstantial about it, as if the softest breeze would swirl everything into dust, but some part of Hurst responded to the beauty of it.

Before long, the view was lost again as the sky ship entered the transfer station and slowed almost to walking pace. There was a great clanking and jerking as the train of wagons was broken up, and one by one each was dispatched onto the circleway towards its final destination. Hurst’s wagon was third in line, so there was not long to wait before they pulled in outside the Arrakas men's house, and the confining journey was over at last. Hurst and his Companions strode across the narrow arched bridge to the house, a little troop of liveried servants puffing behind them with their travel boxes on handcarts.

They had the same sparsely furnished room as last year, divided by partitions into four cubicles. Their large boxes, filled with tournament fighting gear and surplus clothes, had been sent ahead. Trimon and Walst grabbed some gear and raced off to the training grounds below. Gantor and Hurst methodically unpacked.

There was a scratching at the door and a young man’s face appeared round it.

“Hey! You’re here at last! Thank the Gods, I hate being the first.”

“Roonast! Good to see you.” Hurst crossed the room in three strides and wrapped his arms round his fifteen year old brother. “So… how are you? Enjoying being married?”

“Yeah, it’s good. Not that Klemmast lets me do much yet. I’ve only had two skirmishes to myself, so far. Won one, lost one. But I know what I did wrong. S’fun, though. Better than training.”

“Well, of course!”

Hurst smiled at him. Roonast was the child of one of the Companions of his father’s marriage, and his looks were all from his mother. Where Hurst and most of the Arrakas men were dark and stocky, Roonast was fair, lithe and slender. He was an excellent archer and horseman, however, even if he lacked the strength for heavy weapons. He had just joined the marriage of two other brothers after they moved to the fourth line. Hurst thought it a good move for him, rather than waiting in the hope of getting his own Karning.

“I was sorry to hear about… erm…” Roonast said.

“Tella.”

“What happened? Klemmast said there was some mystery about it.”

“Mystery? No, not really. She must have fallen from her horse, that’s what everyone thinks. The Slave Healers thought so, anyway. She always rode too fast.”

“But no one knows?”

“Well, no, but… what else could it be? She was out riding alone, she was just found dead.”

“But… no injuries?”

“There’s not much to see with a broken neck.” Hurst’s voice was sharper than he’d intended and Roonast flushed a little, and avoided his eye. It was easy to forget how young he was, sometimes. At least he hadn’t asked about blue arrows. Hurst supposed there was a lot of speculation going on about that. “But let’s not talk about it,” Hurst added in gentler tones. “Tell me about you. Have you got an arrangement worked out that you’re comfortable with?”

“Oh yeah, it’s fine. Well… it’s all still settling down, really. As third husband, I’m s’posed to be with Shanya, the third wife
– eventually, you know – but she wanted to start with Klemmast, and at the moment she’s with Jallinast. But it’s fine. She’s older than me, she thinks I’m too young for her still. But the wives have nine Companions between them, and they’ve been – very friendly. I’ve hardly spent a night alone, it’s brilliant.” He smiled, a boyish grin that made him look even younger than his fifteen years.

Hurst smiled too, but he wondered just how wise such a free-spirited marriage was. Of course, he could see the attraction for the lead and second husbands when a third wife was added, young and fresh and tempting, and the third husband dazzled by having his own skirmishes and an array of Companions to choose from. At fifteen, he would have been quite happy with such a situation, too. But were the other wives happy with it? It was hardly a stable arrangement for the longer term.

Not that his own position was anything to boast about. Ten years of uncomplaining subservience with nothing to show for it. He had been an idiot to put up with it. So stupid. He should have protested years ago.

Now Jonnor had Mia and he had nothing at all, nothing but the right to lie in the dark listening to their pleasure. He had lost her now, lost her for ever. Assuming Jonnor had worked up his courage, of course. What was wrong with the man? How difficult could it be? And if he hadn’t… Well, he would find out soon enough.

~~~

The next morning brought relief from that anxiety, but in turn created another. A brief message from Mia, sent on from the sky ship station and brought to the Ring overnight, contained the reassuring words: ‘Situation resolved’. And that set him worrying all over again. Such unemotional words
– what did they really mean?

The morning also brought his first interview. He put on his formal clothes for the first time in almost a year, feeling, as always, half-naked in the thin silks which floated and clung with the slightest movement. It was fortunate that practicality dictated a heavy outer cloak as well, for whatever the origins of the traditional costume, it was anything but appropriate winter wear.

“It’s the fucking stupid headband that upsets me most,” muttered Walst, as they gathered to leave their room. “And who ever thought all this trailing material is flattering for a Skirmisher anyway?”

Hurst laughed, but he had to agree. Walst was even more muscular than he was, and the skimpy silks looked quite ridiculous on his bulky frame.

“At least we all go for interview at the same time,” he said, “so we can all look silly together.”

They had too much energy to wait around for a sky ship, so they walked along the broad corridor beneath the circleway, as everyone else stood aside for them and bowed, all conversation suspended while they passed by. This was no more than the respect due to interviewees, but there was sympathy too.

Walst muttered under his breath the whole way there. The interviews were a trial to everyone, but he always went to pieces before them. He was fearless with a sword in his hand, but the Voices reduced him to incoherence.

“What the fuck am I going to say?” he moaned. “What am I supposed to tell them? I never know what they fucking want from me.”

“They want the truth,” Hurst said, made blunt by his own apprehension.

“But what does that mean?”

“Just what it says. Whatever they ask, answer with complete honesty.”

“If you think Hurst’s a wanker, just say so,” said Trimon, grinning. “If you hate Gantor, say so.”

“How can you make a fucking joke of it!”

“He’s right, though,” Hurst said. “So long as you tell the truth, whatever it may be, you have nothing to fear from them.”

Gantor grunted. “There’s always something to fear from the Voices.”

“Perhaps. But it has to be done. Just be honest, Walst, and you can ask for the Blessing afterwards in good conscience.”

The interview hall was an unobtrusive building, a simple low dome with a door standing open. Inside was a place to leave their cloaks, and a small waiting area with a neat line of chairs and a brazier. Within minutes they were summoned by a grey-clad Voice, following her through a couple of doors and into the interior of the dome itself, a vast sphere, the larger part of which was underground. Within the structure were suspended scores of small spherical pods, reached by a series of precarious looking reed bridges. More Voices waited for them, and they were led away separately to their assigned pods.

Entering the pod was always an uneasy moment for Hurst. They were so small, so dimly lit, so confined that he felt as if he were wrapped from head to toe in a stifling blanket. Yet it should all be familiar enough now. He had been attending interviews since he was ten years old, he knew every part of it
– the spherical pod itself, the short bridge to the circular platform supported by wooden struts, the little round table in the centre with chairs squeezed around it.

Ducking his head to step through the round door, he saw no fewer than five Voices waiting for him. Five! He had never been interviewed by more than four at once before, and that only in the first year after his marriage. Since then it had dwindled to three and then only two for several years now. But naturally there was more interest since Tella had gone. They would want to question him closely about Mia and Jonnor. Still, he felt a sudden spike of apprehension.

Head brushing the roof, he crossed the bridge to his chair and bowed with deep formality before sitting. They made no response, as always. They sat in a semi-circle on the other side of the table, rather squashed in, huddled in their pale grey gowns and hoods, so that only their faces showed, skeletal in the gloom. One he recognised, for he saw him every year, but the rest he thought were strangers, although it was hard to be sure.