The Plains of Kallanash (9 page)

They sat in silence, waiting for him. Why did he hesitate? He was the same every year, overcome with an odd spasm of fear. He knew why; it was the globe. It sat quiescent now, just a glass ball, set on the table so that it was in the exact centre of the pod. He stretched out his hand and rested it on the top of the globe, and at once it filled with light
– first a vivid yellow, then red, then green, then a swirling orangey red before finally settling to a pale creamy blue. One of the Voices nodded at him and Hurst removed his hand.

“Most High Hurst dos Arrakas, Second Husband of Karning Dranish Turs Kan-forst.”

“Most Humble.”

They talked first about Tella. How had he felt about her, how grief-stricken was he, how much would he miss her? Then an odd question
– had Hurst talked to her about her interview at the Ring?

“No, not really. Naturally, we asked how it went, but she wouldn’t say. She didn’t even tell Jonnor.”

“How did she seem to you? Her mood.”

He shrugged. Tella’s moods had always been hard to pin down, like smoke. “Nothing out of the ordinary, for her.”

“And how did she die?”

Hurst frowned. “Surely you know that?”

“We want to know what you know, Most High.”

“Oh. Of course. Well, she fell from her horse
– I suppose.” For an instant the globe flared a brighter blue. Perhaps Roonast’s questions had raised doubt in his mind. That would never do. He refocused. “I mean – I don’t know exactly, she was just found dead, with her horse nearby. It seems most likely that she just fell.” To his relief, the globe was dormant again; the Voices nodded and moved on.

After some discussion of Tella’s Companions, they came to the most difficult part
– the change in the marriage. It was always the same two questions – what arrangement was in place? Was he happy with it? For years he had answered with confidence. Could he do that now? He had rehearsed his answers but still he wasn’t sure.

“Jonnor is to have Mia exclusively.”

“And you?”

“I shall make my own arrangements, as I have always done.”

“And are you happy with that?”

There was no option but honesty. “For my own personal happiness, I would like access to Mia, of course. But I believe this is the best arrangement for all three of us, and I don’t want to be disruptive by insisting.”

The globe flickered very slightly. There was silence for a moment.

“Again, with the orb, if you please, Most High.”

A spurt of fear, but that was reflex. He had nothing to worry about, for it was true enough. He rested his hand on the globe, trying to imbue his voice with confidence, and repeated his statement.

The globe remained unchanged this time. After a moment, the Voice nodded and he removed his hand. After a few more questions about Mia and Jonnor, they moved on to the skirmishes and his own Companions, and here he could answer without hesitation. He had always been very forthright about Jonnor’s deficiencies, and the disastrous last two or three years supported his opinions. He could also now point to his own very recent successes. At least here there was a change he could report without reservation
– Jonnor was to give him equal access to the lines. And he admitted the real reason why – they had a deal. Jonnor was to get Mia, and he would get more line work. He began to relax, seeing the end of the interview in sight.

And then one of the Voices, a woman who had not spoken before, said, “So you will not be asking for the blue arrows?”

Gods, he’d forgotten about that. He’d been so absorbed in the arrangement with Mia and Jonnor, and finally returning to proper skirmishing, that the whole idea had receded in his mind. But of course they would want to know.

“I have no intention of asking for the blue arrows.” No hesitation at all, that was good.

“Not at present, perhaps, but you have three years. Things may change. Should you ever find the situation intolerable, for any reason, you may ask for the arrows.” She half-smiled at him as she spoke. That surprised him – a Voice smiling? “There are many tales and rumours about the arrows. We want to be sure you are not misled by any misinformation you might have acquired. So we will go over the details for you.”

Well, that was all right. He had been taught all about it during his time with the scholars, of course, but that was many years ago now. And in an interview, listening was a great deal better than answering questions.

The female Voice reached under the table, and produced a small capped quiver. She popped open the lid and tipped three arrows onto the table, and pushed them across to Hurst. He picked one up. It looked like any other arrow, except that the shaft and fletching were both blue. The head was odd, a very thin, sharp point, but bulbous behind.

“This is what you will receive,” she said, waving a hand over the quiver. “Three arrows, like so. You are an archer yourself?”

“I have no more than average skill, but one of my Companions is an excellent shot.”

“Yes, he may shoot for you. You have only three attempts, so you must choose your moment carefully. The objective is not to pierce the skin, necessarily, but to get a solid shot at the body or arms, so that the point hits square on and, with luck, catches in the fabric of the overtunic. The point is delicate and will break off, releasing a paralysing miasma. The target will be rendered unconscious for a time
– a few minutes or up to two to three hours, depending on how close to the face the point is when it breaks. So, the first consideration is to ensure that the target is not too close to other people.”

“It doesn’t kill?” Hurst was bewildered.

“No, no. The arrow itself doesn’t kill. It is the Gods who choose whether to take the target, Most High.”

“Yes, but… I don’t quite see the distinction.”

The Voices exchanged glances. It was hard to tell, but Hurst thought they were amused.

“The arrow merely designates the target, Most High,” said one of the male Voices. “It draws the attention of the Gods, so that they may decide whether he may live or die.”

“And that brings me to the second consideration,” the female continued. “The Gods have many calls on their notice, so you must do everything possible to ensure that they are paying attention when the arrow is used. If there is a Slave nearby, the Gods will certainly be watching, so you should choose a time and place when a Slave is to hand. Not the village Slaves, of course, but a Karning Slave or one of the Healing Slaves. During a skirmish, for instance, or during training. Not indoors, because the miasma may affect a number of people and the Gods would not be able to distinguish between them, but out in the open, with a Slave nearby. Do you understand?”

“In the open. Not too close to other people. Slave nearby,” Hurst muttered. “But I don’t intend to…”

“No, no, no,” she said, almost smiling again. “But it’s as well to be prepared. Just in case.”

“Just in case,” he echoed, bemused.

“Now then.” She reached down again. “This is what the target will receive. Or you, should he decide to ask for the arrows.” She placed a small glass vial on the table. “This is poison. This will kill, so it must be kept locked away, you understand?”

“But…?”

“So that the target can kill himself, of course. If he finds that the best way out.” Again she smiled.

Hurst took a deep breath. “I have no intention of doing this,” he said, as firmly as he could. “I am quite content with matters as they are.” The globe flickered a little. “Content enough,” he added, annoyed.

“Things may change, Most High,” she said silkily. “You may be content now, but who knows what may happen in the future? A marriage of three is inherently unstable. The blue arrows are for when you find your situation intolerable.”

“I know it isn’t a perfect arrangement, but… so long as Mia is happy…”

“And if she isn’t, Most High? What then?”

The Amontis women’s house made Mia feel like a child again. Even after ten years with her own Karning, as a wife with her own family, being back here amongst her sisters and cousins made her feel very small and insignificant. It made her very emotional too, not at all her usual calm self. There was always someone in tears over some imagined grievance, and then Mia was upset too. Or perhaps excited about a new baby or a move to a new Karning or a forthcoming marriage, and Mia would find herself bubbling with the same joy. Today one of her sisters was anxious about a child with a bad spirit left behind at the Karning, and Mia was flooded with the same sick fear. She couldn’t understand why her blood kin made her so volatile, but since she hated being emotional, she avoided them as much as she could. Instead, she looked forward to the two or three hours every evening when she could see her real family.

Mia dressed with unusual care that first day at the Ring. She would not see Jonnor again for some days, but there was Hurst to consider, too. She wanted to convince him that all was well, so she set aside her practical tunic and trousers in favour of one of her most elegant gowns, fine wool in a rich wine colour. She bound her hair in some of Tella’s vivid silk scarves, and added a small silver brooch she’d found at the back of a drawer. Then she wrapped herself in a thick winter cloak for the walk to their pavilion.

“I wish we could have got a sky ship,” Mista said, as they made their way along the crowded lamp-lit walkways, broad paved paths lined with aromatic shrubs and whispering ferns. Beyond, brightly lit walls of painted glass shone in the darkness, the pavilions of other families.

“It’s just as quick to walk,” Morsha said. “At least it’s not raining. Come on, keep up, Marna.”

“Slow down a bit, will you? Not everyone has long legs like you.”

“It’s so
cold
,” Mista said.

“Almost there.” Mia smiled at the familiar grumbles. The Companions were always jumpy when they first arrived at the Ring. Once tomorrow’s interview was over, they would relax.

The pavilion was positioned midway between the Amontis house and the Arrakas house, where Jonnor and Hurst stayed. All the pavilions followed the same pattern; twelve sides, each filled with a great arched window of coloured glass, and the whole covered with a matching glass dome. A massive fire burned in the centre of the tiled floor, with tables and chairs set out around the perimeter. Above, a narrow balcony ran all round, set with smaller tables for those playing crowns, and comfortable chairs for those who wished to read or chat.

They had been assigned this pavilion when they first married, and would keep it until they broke, but it was over large for their small family. Even when Jonnor arrived, there would only be twelve of them, in a space designed to hold perhaps a hundred people. In time the older children would join them, but it would be years before it would be full.

Mia paused for a moment as she entered the chamber. She was struck afresh with grief for Tella, for this would be the first winter quiet without her. But it was comforting to see the Companions greet each other with affection, and there was Hurst smiling at her.

She crossed the room to stand alongside him, both turning to gaze out of the window nearest to the Glass Lake. The water shimmered slightly, reflecting the lights of hundreds of pavilions lining its shores. Away across the water, seeming to float on the surface, was the Tower of Reception, gleaming like a golden finger pointing to the sky. There were no windows visible except for the very top, and the walls glowed with a strange light of their own, by the power of the Nine.

“No, still in the same place,” Hurst said. “It hasn’t moved at all.”

She laughed at the joke, as she always did.
It was a game they played every year, to pretend the tower had moved. There were those who believed such things, but although the tower was a strange place, the oldest building on the plains, it was not quite that strange.

“You look well,” Hurst said, still watching the lake. “Did you have a good journey?”

“As good as it ever is,” she replied, the familiar greetings a comfort.

Then he turned to face her. “And Jonnor? He took care of things?”

His tone was casual, but she caught something deeper, some tension perhaps, in his voice, although his face was impassive, and that made her anxious. She wanted to answer lightly, to deflect any more questions so the moment would pass quickly, but somehow there was a thickening in her throat and she couldn’t quite look him in the eye.

“He did,” she said, but she knew he would notice her hesitation and gruff tone. She flushed, annoyed with herself, but he said nothing, and after a few moments the Slaves came in to lead the family communion. In the flurry of activity that followed she was able to compose herself.

Later, when they were setting up a game of crowns, he said in a low voice, “I shall be at the library tomorrow morning if you want to talk about things. An hour before noon, in the Old Murthian poetry room.”

“Oh! I didn’t know you were familiar with Old Murthian.”

“I don’t speak a word of it, but neither does anyone else, so we won’t be disturbed. You can tell me all about it. If you want to, of course. Would you like to play red this time?”

~~~

The library was a vast seven-storey pile built half into a straggling arm of the mountains on the far side of the lake from the Amontis house. It was too far for her to walk and the sky ships were busy bringing in more Karningholders for the winter quiet, so she sent for a push cart, a small wheeled vehicle propelled by two servants, which dropped her at the foot of the crumbling stone steps leading up to the entrance. Usually her visits to the library were a delightful respite from the bustle and lengthy rituals of the winter quiet, but today she was unaccountably nervous about talking to Hurst. She didn’t want him to think badly of Jonnor, and as for herself, she’d just as soon put all thoughts about that night out of her mind. It didn’t help to trawl over such experiences. It was more important to look to the future.

Despite her nerves, entering the library again after almost a year lifted her spirits. The ground floor was one huge open space, completely filled with walls of book hangers. Narrow balconies allowed access to the higher books. This level was almost entirely taken up with works of the imagination, and a few works of reality, such as certain histories.

There were no librarians about for her to hand over the books she was returning, so she hung them on the correct hooks herself, and quickly chose three more. It was many years since she had ventured beyond the familiar areas where she found all her own reading, and she could not remember where the Old Murthian poetry section was. She looked around for someone who might know, but the only person nearby was a Slave.

“Excuse me, Most Humble…” she began, but the Slave turned frightened eyes towards her and darted away. A wash of fear swept over Mia, leaving her heart thumping. Why would a Slave react that way? Had she offended in some way? But the Slave was gone, and although Mia waited a while, no one came to reprimand her or, worse, to take her away for investigation.

There was no one to ask for directions, but she knew every corner of this floor, and there was no poetry of any kind. The Old Murthian poetry room must be on one of the upper levels. She hadn’t explored up there for years, and the prospect distracted her thoughts from the forthcoming meeting.

She made her way to the stairs, broad and echoing. There were large niches on either side, but they were all empty. The centre of the stairs was carpeted, but it raised choking dust, so she walked carefully up the stone edges, avoiding the cracks. On the second floor, a large engraved marble slab told her the level was devoted to more histories, mostly battles and skirmish theory, and a lot of dull reality books - astronomy, geography, animal life and the like. No poetry.

The stairs to the third floor were free of carpet, but were even more dusty, with great spiders’ webs in the corners. The marble slab here was filled with unfamiliar topics: culture, anthropology, spiritualism, catastrophe theory, ritual studies… she had no idea what most of them were, but there was nothing about Old Murthian and no one around to ask, so she went up again.

The stairs now were covered with what looked like dead leaves, brown and dry, which crunched under her feet. Her curiosity at this decrepit state put everything else out of her head. This was not how she remembered these upper floors.

The slab on the fourth level had numerous entries hidden with strips of board, or painted out. But at last there were some languages – Elder Kashinorian, Later Kashinorian, Grivordian, Kannick Old Script, Kannick Revised Script, Herramish and Old Murthian, as well as many others she had never heard of.

This level was not open like the ground floor, and she followed the signs along endless corridors, past closed doors and a few which stood ajar, revealing walls lined with empty hooks. Even some of the passageways featured lines of hooks, but there were no books, and no people to be seen either. However, she could see footprints in the dust ahead of her, so she knew this part of the library was not entirely abandoned.

At last she reached a pair of doors, one labelled ‘Old Murthian, Language, Literature, History’ and the other ‘Poetry, Messhantian, Trithordinish, Old Murthian’. She took a deep breath, opened the latter and went in.

Hurst was already there, a book spread out on a marble bench in the middle of the room. He looked up at her, smiling, and she was filled with affection for him. Whatever happened, surely he would always be her friend.

“Well,” she said, gazing around in amazement at the rows of books filling every wall, “I had forgotten this room. I have not been up here for years. It was a lot cleaner then.”

“You’ve been here before? Whatever for? Did you get lost?”

“Not at all. One of my uncles – the fourth, I think – or maybe fifth – grew up in the area that used to be Old Murthius and spoke the language fluently. He showed me all round this section when I first came to the scholars. But there were books everywhere then. I remember the corridors were lined with them. I wonder where they all went to.”

But Hurst only shrugged.

“I had no idea you had a taste for poetry,” she teased, pointing at the book he had open.

“In Old Murthian? Not my style. I was just trying to work out whether I’d got it the right way up.”

“You have, actually. Oh!” She felt herself blushing. “Actually, I think it’s very much your style.”

“Really? Why?”

“It’s erotica. You could add it to your collection.”

“Well, what’s the point when there are no pictures? So, you can read this stuff, can you? All these squiggles mean something to you?”

“I can read a bit, but it’s not hard, it’s only the same as the Elder Kashinorian script. If you want a difficult one, try Kannick Old Script – all those tiny dots!”

“No thanks! But here… have a seat. I’ve cleaned off the worst of the dirt.” He folded the book up neatly, secured the clasp and hung it back on a hook. With a cluck of mock annoyance, she scooped it up again, and rehung it in the proper section. Then, giving the bench a final wipe with a gloved hand, she sat down. It was fortunate she wore dark clothing, or she might have been tempted to remain standing.

He settled himself beside her. “Well, it rather dents my opinion of my own cleverness if you already know of this place, but you must agree it’s very private.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So. Do you want to tell me how things went with Jonnor? I rather imagined you would be dancing for joy afterwards, so should I assume it was a disappointment?”

They had always talked very openly, so she was neither surprised nor embarrassed by his frankness. But still she couldn’t quite look him in the eye.

“It was… not quite what I expected,” she answered in a low voice. “It hurt…”

And then, to her dismay, her eyes filled with warm tears which trickled slowly down her face. Hurst said nothing, but put his arms around her and held her in a tight clasp as she sobbed into his shoulder, his face pressed against her hair. It was a comfort to be held in his strong arms, which rocked her very gently, as if she were a child with a scraped knee. After a while she was able to tell him something of the rest of it between sobs.

Still he said nothing, and eventually she felt strong enough to pull away and wipe her eyes. When she looked at him, she saw such a fierce expression on his face that she was a little frightened.

“Hurst? Are you… angry with me?”

“Not with you, Mia. Never with you.”

“You mustn’t be angry with Jonnor either,” she said, alarmed now. “It wasn’t… I mean, he did the best he could. But he’s still grieving for Tella, he misses her so much…”

“No excuse,” he said. “He really shouldn’t… but never mind that. He’s an odd one altogether, Jonnor is. At least it’s done. Are you all right, really?”

“Better for talking to you,” she said, with a tremulous smile. “You’re such a good friend to me, Hurst.”

He grunted, an odd twist to his mouth. “Well, I know you won’t let this come between you and Jonnor.”

“Oh no! Of course not. I understand. He just… found it difficult. I’m not Tella, after all.”

“Indeed you’re not.”

“And it will be better next time.”