IN THE AFTERNOON of the twelfth day, with the pass two days behind them, Parno stopped on a small rise and let the two women ride past him. Dhulyn pulled up her horse and halted Mar with a gesture when he did not follow them.
“What?” she called.
“Look at those clouds,” he said. Dhulyn turned in her saddle to follow the direction of his gaze. The sky was dark and heavy. “If that’s not snow, and soon, I’m a blind man.”
Dhulyn nodded, sighted back along the trail and bit her lower lip. Earlier that morning they had seen what might have been a herder’s hut off to the south of the trail, but Dhulyn had decided it was far too early to stop. They might pay dearly for that decision now. It wasn’t often she laid out the tiles and lost the game.
She looked around at the uneven landscape, rocky and full of pines, pockets of old snow drifted into spots the sun did not reach. “This part of the hills, we should be able to find some reasonably sheltered place,” she said, sighing. They were Mercenaries; they didn’t expect either rain or snow to kill them. If the weather were better, the long-lost Tenebro cousin would be traveling in the company of a merchant’s caravan, and she and Parno would be lucky to get guard’s wages for the same journey they were making now.
“As well we’re not twenty or thirty people,” was all Parno said.
The sky was turning ominously black when the tiles came up swords after all. What looked like a shoulder of hillside jutting out from among a small grouping of firs proved to be two enormous boulders, one partially leaning on the other to form a shallow cave where they touched.
“Plenty of shelter in those trees for the horses,” Parno said.
“And we can cut branches, layer them across the top, extend the shelter right out to here.” She indicated the point where the rocks were farthest apart. “With a fire close to the opening, we’ll stay snug and dry.”
“What odd shapes.” Mar edged the packhorse closer. “I’ve never seen rocks like this.”
“They are not rocks, little Dove.”
“What then?” Mar dismounted and, holding the packhorse’s lead, stepped closer.
Dhulyn brushed off a piece of dried lichen, revealing a remarkably smooth section of whitish stone. “Remnants of a wall, I’d say. Relics of the Caids.”
“The Caids.” Mar stepped back, putting her horse between her and the wall. “I thought they were spirits.”
Dhulyn looked sideways at the girl. “They may be, now. People do swear by them, it’s true. But the Scholars say that they’re an ancient people, long gone. Ancestors to us all, they say. It’s sure that everywhere I’ve journeyed I’ve seen their traces-bits of statues, places too flat for nature that must have been roads, odd formations of rock like these. There are even bits of books left from those times, though all I’ve ever seen were translated copies.” Dhulyn smiled, pushed Mar a little with her fingertips. “Don’t worry, my Dove, the place isn’t haunted.”
Mar nodded, but not as though she was reassured.
“Get the packs stowed,” Dhulyn told her, “then go and collect fire-wood while Parno and I cut branches.”
Snow began to fall as the two Mercenaries placed the last of the branches across the opening and Mar carefully laid and lit the fire as Dhulyn had shown her. Large flakes and fluffy, the snow fell quiet and soft, and at first melted as it hit the ground. But long before they were ready for their suppers, it began to accumulate, thick and light as down.
“No point in setting watch,” Parno said. He crawled past Dhulyn deeper into the cave. “We’d neither see nor hear anyone coming.”
“Any sign of wind?”
“No, thank the Caids.” Parno grinned, touched his forehead with the tips of his fingers in the Mercenary salute. “That would be all we’d need.”
Dhulyn tucked Mar into the warmest corner, from where the girl watched with wide eyes as, after they had eaten their supper rations, the two Mercenaries took it in turns to unpack, testing and examining each item of their clothing, and each piece of metal, checking for signs of dampness or rust. Their bedding was already toasting in the warmth from the fire, and now cloaks and damp hoods were spread out as well.
Parno unwrapped and was assembling the pipes that gave him his nickname “Chanter” as Dhulyn checked over her book, and the few writing materials she carried. There’d been precious little playing-or reading for that matter-since they’d left that last inn, and Dhulyn had noticed that Mar had taken to calling them Wolfshead and Lionsmane, dropping their other nicknames entirely. She supposed it was hard for a town-bred girl to watch them at their daily Shora and think of them as anything but Mercenaries.
As Dhulyn stowed away the last of her belongings she gestured to Mar. “Come, my Dove, your turn. The damp will spoil your things if you don’t take care.”
Mar unpacked slowly, and it seemed to Dhulyn that the girl was shamed to display how little she owned, even to two of a Brotherhood known for traveling light. Her few pieces of clothing were well made of good, if plain, cloth, befitting the foster child of weavers. There was also a very fine pair of bright yellow trousers that Dhulyn eyed covetously, knowing they would never fit her. And a single glass bead on a strand of copper wire, more a child’s plaything than a piece of jewelry.
The girl’s writing supplies were the goods of a professional, not a hobbyist like Dhulyn. Four good pens, their nibs fresh and ready for trimming, and two bottles of differently colored inks, stoppered and sealed with wax. Instead of Dhulyn’s few scraps, Mar had several large sheets of parchment, not new, but carefully scraped clean. Shuffled in among these Dhulyn saw the green-sealed letters Mar had picked up from her friend in the market at Navra. Information from her House, it seemed, that Mar didn’t want to share.
Dhulyn flicked a glance at Parno, and he nodded with the barest inclination of his head.
“How much neater you keep your things than I do mine,” Dhulyn said, reaching out to touch the parchments Mar was shuffling back together. “Are you sure none of these have taken any damp?”
“Oh, yes,” the girl said, thrusting all the pages into the bottom of her pack before picking up the pens and inks with more care.
“I’m glad to see you take such care of the tools of your trade,” Parno said, solemn and sincere. “They’re proof to any who need to know it that you have the means to earn your own living. You have relative wealth and independence even without your noble House, don’t forget it.”
“What’s this last thing?”
Once again, Dhulyn reached out, and this time Mar did nothing to stop her from unwrapping an old cloak, worn, but still showing something of a vivid rose dye in its folds. When there were only a few layers of cloth left, Dhulyn pulled back her hands and let Mar, almost ceremoniously, finish unrolling what was clearly her greatest possession. A bowl, shallow, perhaps as wide as two narrow hands, its exterior intricately patterned and glazed, colors glowing like jewels in the fire’s light. Dhulyn met Mar’s gaze and smiled, her own delight mirrored in the younger woman’s eyes.
“It is beautiful,” Dhulyn said simply. “May I?” Mar passed it carefully into the older woman’s hands. Dhulyn turned it over a few times in her long fingers, measuring and weighing it unconsciously as she examined the patterns. Along the narrow base there were geometric shapes-lines, triangles, circles and squares-but on the upper edge… “I know these designs,” she said softly, “Look! Am I wrong? What’s this along the edge?” She held out the bowl at an angle, so the light fell clearly along its green-bordered rim.
“It’s forest creeper,” Parno said.
“No it isn’t.” Mar’s voice was quiet, matching her smile. “It’s a chain of people dancing. Isn’t it?” she added, looking across at Dhulyn.
The older woman nodded. “I believe so,” she said. “And in that case…” she turned the bowl upside down, the better to study its patterns. Squinting in the changeable light of the fire, she could see how the chain of dancers along the rim crossed over itself, as if in a country dance, and turned down, forming garlands around the body of the bowl and framing spaces which had been filled with small scenes. “Yes,” she said. “See here, there’s a woman, noble from her gown, laying out the vera tiles for a solitary game.” Dhulyn glanced up at Parno. “You’ve seen that posture a thousand times, my soul. And look at this old fisherman,” she turned the bowl slightly, “hanging up his nets, checking for tears and snags. Look how his muscles stand out as he lifts them. And here’s a young boy walking back and forth along the rows in a vineyard, no doubt keeping the foxes out!”
“This one’s a man,” Mar said, tapping an image on the side of the bowl closest to her. “It must be a father,” she added, “he’s tossing up a small child and catching him again.” She looked up, a catch in her voice. “There’s a woman watching them, smiling.”
“What’s the last one,” Parno said. “I can’t make it out.”
“It’s a young woman again-no, a young man, and he seems to be holding a harp.” No amount of squinting brought out further detail. “Do you know, Mar?”
Mar shook her head. “I’ve always thought it was a mirror.” She took the bowl completely into her own hands and tilted it to catch the dying light of the fire on the final scene. “It’s been a long time since I really looked at this. I didn’t like to bring it out at the Weavers.”
“It’s a beautiful thing,” Dhulyn said. “Worth another look and then another. Do you know what you have here, my Dove?”
“I thought I did,” faltered Mar. “Now I begin to doubt.” Dhulyn’s heart warmed. It was easy for her to find a look tinged with fear on someone’s face. Only when people saw the Scholar and not the Wolf did she ever see this kind of warmth.
“It comes from my mother,” Mar said, “and her mother before that. The property of the eldest daughter of my Household. It’s my proof, if I need it, that I am Mar-eMar Tenebro.”
“Making it valuable enough,” Dhulyn said. “But it has other significance. A bowl like this is described in Tarlyn’s First Book of the Mark.”
“It would bring a good price,” Parno said putting his hand on Dhulyn’s wrist. “I marvel the good Weaver left it to you.”
“You mean she might have taken it?” The girl’s genuine astonishment caused the two elders to glance at each other and quickly away.
“Nay, child, she’s been proven an honest woman, even without this.” Parno put a comforting hand on the young girl’s shoulder. He ventured a glance sideways at Dhulyn. “You don’t think it could be…?”
“What? Tarlyn’s bowl? Oh, Sun and Moon, no! The Book of the Mark, like these designs, goes back to the time of the Caids.” Dhulyn returned to her scrutiny of the bowl. The silence made her look up into Mar’s stricken face. “Oh, it is real, little Dove. A Scholar’s artifact. But,” she shrugged. “It could not be Tarlyn’s bowl, is all. The designs are the true ancient ones, but the colors, see how sharp the blues and greens?” She traced her finger along the line of dancers. “These have been no more than five generations in use.”
“And that’s not ancient?” Mar’s eyes were wide with surprise. “My grandmother’s grandmother’s mother?”
“Ancient for people, assuredly,” Dhulyn said. “But a mere five generations is nothing as artifacts are judged. The roads and other objects the Caids have left,” she gestured around her at the walls that sheltered them, “are much older even than our oldest writings. Still,” Dhulyn caught Parno’s eye again. “Valuable as it is to anyone, it has a meaning for you and your House that it cannot have for any other.”
Mar took the bowl from the Mercenary’s outstretched hands and lowered it back into its wrappings. She did not see the Brothers share another glance over her head.
“Are you happy to leave them, then, the Weavers?” Dhulyn watched the girl’s face closely. This would make twice the girl had lost the only family she had ever known. Once upon the death of her own parents, and now again at this parting from her foster family. That she went to her own House, her own people, would be no great comfort, considering she had never seen any of them before.
“I think I would have had to leave anyway,” Mar said.
“How’s that,” Parno asked from where he sprawled. “There seemed to be enough business to need you.”
“Oh, yes,” Mar said. “They’ll have to hire another now, and someone not as well trained in their ways. But I think it would have come to that anyway.” She looked between their interested faces. “You see, the younger son asked for me.”
“Not in itself unheard of,” Dhulyn said dryly.
“No,” Mar agreed. “His father was not against it. He was willing to apply to House Tenebro for permission and dowry, but Guillor Weaver felt it might offend them.” The girl shrugged. “If he marries elsewhere, Ysdrell can bring money to the business and the family with his marriage. Until my letters came I was no one, with nothing. After that I was too much a someone.”
Dhulyn carefully ignored Mar’s slip. It remained to be seen what importance the number of letters had. It crossed her mind, however, to wonder whether the male Weaver had, in secret from his wife, contacted the girl’s House, and if this “urgent” summons to Gotterang was the result. “At least you do not sound brokenhearted, my Dove.”
“Oh, no. You see, for me, that was the real problem. I did not want Ysdrell.” She added another stick to the fire and looked up again. “That’s why I would have had to leave.”
“A good enough reason,” Dhulyn said, feeling a knot of tension release. “So this is as good a way as any, and better than most.” And it explained why the girl was so ready to go to Gotterang.
“How do you get your names?” Mar asked as she knotted the ties on her pack.
Dhulyn laughed. It appeared it was a night to ask questions, and not for Parno to play while she and Mar sang. “Oh, different reasons at different times. Parno, for example-”
“I have the strength, the lordliness, and the beauty of a lion,” he cut in.
“And the smell,” said Dhulyn, and smiled as Mar laughed.
“What about you? You explained Scholar, but why Wolfshead? Is it because of… because of…”
“Because of the scar? Because of this?” Dhulyn smiled her wolf’s smile, lips curling back off her teeth in a snarl, but she made sure the eyes above it were smiling, too, and Mar grinned back at her, not in the least afraid. “Quite right, exactly because of that.”
Mar frowned, her head on one side, as if she was trying to picture Dhulyn without the scar.
“Do you mind it?” she asked finally.
To her own surprise, Dhulyn Wolfshead began to laugh. There was something about the young woman that made it easy to tell her. “Mind it? Why, it was my salvation. If I’d thought of it, I would have done it myself.”
“You’re just confusing the girl, Dhulyn, my heart,” Parno said. “Tell her what you mean.”
“Ah well, it was long ago, and the story means nothing to anyone but me,” Dhulyn said, drawing down her brows. “It’s the tip of a whip, not sword or dagger, that gave me this mark. The metal-coated tip of a whip clumsily applied that flicked ’round me and caught me on the face. That was enough to ruin me in my master’s eyes, so to the auction block I went. And from there to the slave trader’s ship, and from the slave ship to Dorian the Black Traveler. And from his hands, to this moment. And from this moment… to a new subject,” she said, seeing Mar’s stricken face. “Tell me, little Dove, do you know a child’s game called Weeping Lad, or Weeping Maid?”
“I know one called Sweeping Man,” Mar said.
“Do you know other variations?” Dhulyn said. “We sang one when I was very young and I’ve been trying to remember the words.”
Late in the night, while Mar slept, Parno and Dhulyn lay wrapped in their bedrolls. They spoke so softly, lips to ear, that had Mar been awake, she would have been ready to swear they made no sound.
“It is a scrying bowl,” Dhulyn breathed into Parno’s ear.
“To See?” Parno asked.
“More likely to Find,” she said. “Did you not see how, though the outside is patterned with people and scenes, the inside of the bowl is a plain pure white? Like the bowl Grenwen Finder used in Navra? Only this one is much more costly.”
“Does the little one know?” Thus Parno avoided even the chance that Mar’s sleeping ears might hear and register her own name.
“There have been Marked in the family, Finders most likely, and someone knew it, for it to have passed so carefully, mother to daughter.”
“The Dove herself?”
“Not likely. She lost her parents early, but she would have noticed the signs when she grew old enough, as I did myself.”
Parno drew in a cautious breath. “Do we tell her or no? With things the way they are, it may be dangerous for her to have it. You won’t be the only one who can recognize it.”
“She’ll need it to show her family, if what she says of proof is true.”
Dhulyn felt Parno’s muscles tighten and then relax once more. “We might do her a great favor if we broke it for her,” he said finally.
Dhulyn pressed her forehead against his shoulder.
“But it’s so beautiful,” she finally said.
THESE ARE HER OWN HANDS. THERE’S THE PUCKER OF SCAR ON THE BACK OF THE RIGHT HAND, WHERE A SMOOTH TARGET ARROW WENT THROUGH DURING TRAINING. SHE IS NOT STANDING OFF TO ONE SIDE, A WATCHER. SHE SEES HER HANDS AS IF SHE WERE SITTING AT A TABLE LOOKING DOWN AT THEM, LAYING OUT A GAME OF VERA, THE TILES SMOOTH AND COLD IN HER FINGERS. THIS IS NOT THE USUAL SOLITARY HAND SHE LIKES, COMPLICATED AND DIFFICULT TO WIN. THIS ARRANGEMENT IS QUITE SIMPLE, A CROSS, WITH A COLUMN DOWN ONE SIDE. “WHAT DO YOU SEE?” A VOICE SAYS AND WHEN SHE LOOKS UP, SHE SEES A MAN WITH A LONG FACE, DARK HAIR, AND ONE EYE. NO, TWO EYES. NO, ONLY ONE. “WHAT DO YOU SEE?” HE SAYS AGAIN, AND SHE LOOKS BACK AT THE TILES.
“I SEE A FIRE,” SHE TELLS HIM. “SEAS AND MOUNTAINS ARE BURNING, SHORES AND RIVERS… ”
A BOY CHILD RUNS ACROSS THE COBBLES OF A COURTYARD IN THE AFTERNOON SUN, A PRACTICE SWORD IN HIS HANDS. SHE KNOWS THE SHAPE OF HIS SMILE, AND HIS EYES. HE’S GOLD BLOND ALL OVER, EVEN HIS EYES ARE AMBER, WARM. HE TURNS AND PACES OUT A REASONABLE VERSION OF THE STRIKING CAT SHORA, GIVEN HIS YOUTH AND SIZE. HE LOOKS UP, SEEMINGLY INTO HER EYES, AND SMILES AGAIN…
Dhulyn blinked awake, lying on her left side, her right arm around Mar, Parno’s right arm around her. The banked fire was hardly a glow in the darkness. What had she Seen? A golden child with Parno’s familiar smile and eyes. Was this Parno’s child? Is that where traveling to Imrion would lead? Was this Parno’s future?
Dhulyn squeezed her eyes shut, tried to slow her breathing before it woke the others. Where was the courtyard? And who the child’s mother?
The next day’s warmth brought on a fog so thick that Dhulyn decided they should stay where they were until it cleared, using the time to rest and pamper themselves a little more. The horses could be left to luxuriate in the absence of riders and packs. The fog was a good sign, she judged; the weather would be getting warmer from now on.
That morning she and Parno practiced the lengthy Bear Cub Shora while Mar watched wide-eyed from the entrance of their shelter. By midmorning the fog lifted enough that their campsite seemed to be in the midst of a clearing in the clouds. The midday meal, eaten outside of the shelter, where an outcropping-no doubt another piece of wall-provided dry seats, was accompanied by debate on whether it was worth continuing their journey, trusting to find another good shelter before nightfall, or to wait until the following day.
“It’s only been seven days since we left the inn at the crossroads,” Dhulyn was saying. “We won’t lose any time by waiting until tomorrow.”
“I didn’t say we should go on,” Parno said, sitting up to better make his point. “I only said that it’s been eight-”
Dhulyn held up her hand, the gesture sharply cutting through the Lionsmane’s lazy iteration of his point of view. He put his hand on the sword resting by his right side, and without the slightest sound drew it from its scabbard.
Mar opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Dhulyn efficiently gagged her with the hand that did not have a sword in it.
“Can’t shoot at us if they can’t see us or hear us,” Parno mouthed in a voice that barely carried to Mar’s ears. “Stay between.” Both Mercenaries stood now, facing away into the fog, crouched slightly forward, knees flexed. Mar slowly stood and looked between them, clearly not knowing what to do.
“Dhulyn?” Parno bared his teeth though his murmur could not support a snarl. “What say you, my heart?”
Dhulyn glanced over her shoulder at him. “Cloud People,” she said. “Victory or death, I’ll wager. And the choice won’t be ours.” She reached behind her, pulled a knife out of the back of her vest, and held it out to Mar; watched the Dove take it gingerly in her hand, and then grip it with more determination. Dhulyn gave the girl an encouraging nod.
“We’ll earn our pay. Don’t you worry, Dove.”
Parno had his own long dagger in his right hand, sword in his left. Dhulyn pulled her short sword from where her harness sat draped over a rock and, straightening, held it ready. Back to back with Mar between them they began to circle, Dhulyn twirling her two blades at random intervals. The silence was thick and so complete that she began to wonder whether her ears still worked, or indeed, whether there was anything out there that could make a sound.
And then movement-a shadow in the surrounding fog, became an arrow knocked aside by Parno’s sword, startling Mar into dropping her dagger.
A woman’s voice rang out. “Hold. Put up your swords. You wear the Mercenary badge. Tell your history.”
Dhulyn stopped circling, though her swords stayed poised. “I am Dhulyn Wolfshead. Called the Scholar. I was Schooled by Dorian the Black Traveler. I have fought with my Brothers at sea in the battle of Sadron, at Arcosa in Imrion, and at Bhexyllia in the far west with the Great King.”
Parno called out, “I am Parno Lionsmane. Called the Chanter. Schooled by Nerysa of Tourin the Warhammer. I, too, have fought at Arcosa, and at Bhexyllia, and I fight with my Brother, Dhulyn Wolfshead.” Parno’s history would tell their questioner that he was junior to Dhulyn, Arcosa being his first battle as a Brother, and that since he fought with her specifically, they were Partnered. Would the Cloudwoman understand?
The voice called out again. “I have heard of you, Dhulyn Wolfshead, daughter of the Red Horsemen. I am Yaro of Trevel, once called Hawkwing. I, too, have fought with my Brothers. Now I fight with my Clan.” Parno glanced at Dhulyn and she gave him the smallest of nods. Both Mercenaries lowered their weapons.
Dhulyn remained alert as a handful of people, most carrying spears or bows, but with a few swordsmen to season them, stepped into the clearing. It was hard to tell exactly how many there were, and many seemed to have no heads, no faces, until Dhulyn realized they were wearing scarves or strips of cloth wrapped around their heads. Thick leather vests, worn with the fur or wool side next to the skin, left either arms bare to the foggy chill, or long-sleeved tunics of undyed homespun. Dhulyn grinned. She had learned the art of camouflage from an expert, but this impressed her.
One of the anonymous forms laid its spear on the ground and stepped forward, unwrapping its head covering as it neared them. From the quality of the voice which had spoken to them out of the fog Dhulyn expected an older woman, and she was right. Yaro was short and thickset, her dark brown hair liberally salted with gray. The gold-and-green colors of the Mercenary’s tattooed badge had faded, but were still clear enough to be recognized in the misted light.
These were not Yaro’s only tattoos, Dhulyn saw, her eyebrows raising in surprise. On the left side of the Cloudwoman’s face was a tattoo of two feathers, the second partially overlapping the first, like the feathers of the Racha bird it symbolized. These were so old and faded that only a sharp eye would see them. Much clearer, and obviously much more recent, was the complete set of seven feathers on the right side of her face.
Dhulyn’s lips formed a soundless whistle as, glancing around for the Racha bird itself, she touched her fingertips to her forehead to echo Yaro of Trevel’s Mercenary salute. What could possibly be the meaning of the Cloudwoman’s Racha tattoos?
She glanced at Parno, but her Partner’s face showed no expression. Rare as it was for a Mercenary Brother to live long enough to retire, Yaro of Trevel, once Yaro Hawkwing, had clearly not simply retired. She had left the Brotherhood and returned to her own Clan. Dhulyn would not have thought such a thing possible, and her teeth clenched as she forced herself to pay attention, and to show no sign of the chill that squeezed her heart.
“Brothers, I greet you,” the tattooed woman was saying. “We are Clan Trevel. And the land where you stand, and for many days’ travel around us, is also Clan Trevel.” Dhulyn nodded. Like Imrion’s Noble Houses, the Cloud People used the same words to identify both the relationship of blood and the relationship of land. The group of people surrounding her made gestures of assent, and a few murmured. Yaro glanced quickly to each side and the murmurs died down. Several of the group followed their leader’s example and, downing their weapons, began to unwrap their own coverings. They were mostly young people, Dhulyn saw, with only two others nearing Yaro’s age.
“We are on the Life Passage of our young people, or I would welcome you to the shelter of our homes. However, for the sake of our Brotherhood, if not the Tarkin’s treaty,” here her words called out a few grins, “we give you safe passage.”
“No tribute?” one young man blurted out. His astonishment was clear in the squeak of his voice.
Yaro turned to the youngster, staring at him long enough that his wide shoulders squirmed under her scrutiny. “Tribute?” she said. “These are still my Brothers. You’ll be asking me for tribute next, Clarys.” Several of the others smiled, their teeth flashing white. The young man shifted his gaze, silenced but not satisfied.
“What about her?” he said, pointing at Mar with his chin. “She’s no Brother of yours.” This time all the people of Clan Trevel turned to look at Mar.
“She is in our care, Brother.” Dhulyn spoke only to Yaro. “We ask that you extend your courtesy over her as well.”
“I am content.” Yaro nodded.
“Well, I am not. And I see no reason to be. They trespass. You say we must let your Brothers pass-well and good. But this person who hires them can pay us for her passage.”
“And if she has nothing of value?” Parno said.
“Let us see this for ourselves,” suggested a more reasonable voice.
Dhulyn stood still, eyes locked on the young man who had started the trouble. She knew the type. Not so much younger than Mar herself the way time was counted, ready to be a man among his people, as his presence on this Life Passage demonstrated-but still a child in many important ways. Tall, broad-shouldered, and with the long arms so helpful to a fighter. But a little sullenness around his pretty mouth. A little poutiness to the bottom lip, and a top lip too ready to curl. A boy who thought well of himself and thought others should do the same. Trouble, in other words.
Parno touched Mar on the shoulder and then stood back, sweeping a mocking bow in the direction of her pack. Mar tried to nod at him curtly, but trembling spoiled the girl’s performance. Once more Dhulyn watched as the little Dove untied her pack. Again the scanty belongings were exposed, looking even more meager and ordinary without the magical glow of firelight to give them life. Even the bowl, when her hands, slowed by reluctance, were able to uncover it, showed its colors dully in the foggy light.
“Why should we not take that bowl,” Clarys said immediately.
He ignored Mar’s cry of protest, but Dhulyn did not.
“It is the only thing of her family that she has,” Dhulyn said. “Would you take from her the symbol of her Clan?” She tried to sound as reasonable as she could. As much as it soured her mouth to let people under her protection be robbed, she disliked unnecessary killing-a sentiment many of her Brothers found ironic. “This comes from the mother of her mother’s mother, and is not hers to give away. It can bring no good to any who takes it from her by force.” The two older people in the group exchanged nods and murmurs of agreement.
But the boy Clarys also had his fellow, a stocky boy with a dark widow’s peak, to murmur in his ear.
“No good?” said Clarys mockingly, as Widow’s Peak nodded. “Why it would feed a family for a season, that bowl of no value.” More murmurs of agreement, but this time only from a handful of youngsters Dhulyn marked as the rest of Clarys’ admirers. If it came to a fight, would these others stand back? Dhulyn marked in her mind the position of the archer, and the three who still had spears in their hands.
And whose side would Yaro of Trevel be on?
Dhulyn turned to Mar. The girl stared fixedly at her prized possession. “Mar?” Dhulyn said, and waited until the girl looked at her. “How say you? Will you trade the bowl for your passage?”
“Is there some other way? Some of my other things? If I come to my House without it,” the girl said, tears filling both eyes and voice, “they may deny my claim.”
Dhulyn looked at Clarys, but the boy set his mouth firmly and folded his arms. “Idiots,” she said, under her breath. Time to put an end to this. She looked at Parno. The Lionsmane tilted his head to the right, as she’d know he would. The Wolfshead nodded.
“You are refused,” she said, looking directly at Clarys. “Thus far, this has cost you nothing but a wasted hour. I advise you to renounce your claim before it becomes more costly.”
“If she will not pay, then she is herself forfeit. We will take her.” Both Parno and Dhulyn moved to stand between Mar and the Clouds. Clarys stopped with his hands already reaching out for the girl.
A short, sharp silence as all waited. Dhulyn nodded again. “You’ll take nothing but my fist in your teeth,” she said evenly. “She is in our charge. Renounce your claim.”
Widow’s Peak nudged him and the young man cocked his head, his eyebrows raised. “Will you fight?” he challenged.
“I will.”
Several of the younger element in the group exchanged looks of triumph. The older ones looked on grim-faced, shaking their heads.
“Wait,” Yaro said, the authority of a Racha woman giving weight to her words. “Clarys, think what you do. This is a Mercenary Brother, not one of your cub pack. She has skills beyond what you can imagine.”
“No one can best me with sword or spear. You have said this yourself,” he said. “This is my Life Passage, my Hunt. This is the proof I choose.”
With her eyes shut, Yaro blew out a disgusted sigh. Not even a Racha woman could step between a young Cloud and his chosen Hunt.
Dhulyn shrugged. “First blood, then?” she said.
“No-” Clarys was silenced by Yaro’s upright hand.
“First blood is sufficient for a Passage Duel,” the older woman said.
“She insults me by suggesting it.”
“Don’t be stupid, boy,” Parno cut in. “In the Brotherhood we don’t maim. For us, it’s cut or kill.”
Clarys’ lips curled back from his teeth. “Then kill it will be, flatlander.”
Dhulyn was careful to address only Yaro-and to keep her voice businesslike. “He renounced his claim on the bowl when he offered to take Mar instead. It’s now his life for hers, are we agreed?”
Yaro cast a look around the group assembled in a shallow arc behind her. There were nods, a couple of shrugs, but none shook their heads. One or two even looked speculatively between Clarys and Dhulyn. Either the young man wasn’t as well liked as he thought, or these people didn’t know much about Mercenaries, Yaro’s presence notwithstanding.
“Agreed,” Yaro said finally. “You kill Clarys, you and the girl go free.”
“And if I kill the Brother, the girl is mine.” Clarys said.
Yaro didn’t bother to answer, cuffing a couple of the youngsters who had crowded close into clearing away packs and people to leave a space for the duel.
Dhulyn was already stripping off her outer clothing. Parno stepped in closer. “Give him every chance.”
“I’ve given him two chances already. Should I let him kill me?”
“Would you prefer that I fight him?”
“I’m Senior.” Dhulyn looked at him sidewise as she kicked off her boots. On this uneven ground, bare feet were best. “And I thank you, my Brother, for your confidence in me.”
Parno rolled his eyes upward, calling upon the Caids to witness his frustration. “That is not what I meant, and you know it, my most stubborn heart. You’ll mind killing him, and I won’t. Rudeness and stupidity should be properly rewarded.”
Dhulyn shook her head and turned from Parno, indicating Clarys with the tip of her sword. “Ready,” she said.
Clarys stood already stripped and grinning, his friend Widow’s Peak still whispering in his ear. Dhulyn nodded and lifted her sword. The boy fell into his stance, and her heart sank. His weight was too evenly balanced for this rough terrain, she saw, and his right elbow stuck out too far from his body. If no one in his clan could best him, it was because the boy had been making do with strength and length of reach, not skill.
Now that she saw him stripped for fighting, Dhulyn could more easily gauge the width of his shoulders and the size of his wrists. He carried the longest possible sword, and that alone could have told her both of his strength and of his vanity. She saw his eyes flick toward her own blade, and the way his full lips spread in a smile. She, too, carried a very long sword, though not so long as his, and he probably thought it too long for her. And so it would have been, had not years of practice made her wrists very nearly as steellike as the blade itself. The length and the weight would not tire her. Many had already died from making that mistake.
As she lifted the point of her own blade in salute, Dhulyn fell automatically into the familiar calm of the Crab Shora for the right-handed sword and uneven ground. Her heartbeat slowed, her breathing changed to match it.
Clarys began to circle her, and Dhulyn turned to follow him, her sword swaying lazily, almost as an afterthought. She looked not at his blade, or his eyes, but the center of his chest. A movement of his shoulders signaled Clarys’ lunge at her unprotected side; Dhulyn knocked his blade up with a negligent tap and stepped half a pace to the left. She sighed and parried two more cuts with casual flicks of her sword. As she thought, the boy was going for showy high strikes only, counting on his strength and reach, and forgetting the lower half of the body completely. As they continued to circle, Dhulyn kept track of Parno, Yaro, Mar, and especially Widow’s Peak in her peripheral vision. She saw several of the Cloud People shaking their heads and felt like shaking her own. What were they about, letting her kill this boy?
“Cry mercy, boy,” Parno coolly advised, in an echo of Dhulyn’s thought. “The Wolfshead will kill you like her namesake kills a lamb.”
“She could not kill a-” Thinking to surprise her, Clarys broke off his circling and attacked without finishing his sentence, coming at her from the side. But Dhulyn was not where he expected her to be. She had stepped inside the reach of his sword and, mindful of Parno’s request, did not gut the boy immediately, but cut him neatly on the left cheek with the tip of her blade. Too bad. Using the minor distraction of the conversation might have worked too, Dhulyn thought as she cut him again on the right cheek-on someone who was not a Mercenary.
Dhulyn parried two more blows-both to her head-before Clarys began to breath more heavily. He was used to the fight being over by now. A few murmurs from among his followers indicated that they thought so, too. Yaro had already turned away and was looking up into the clearing fog. Her Racha bird was coming.
“I have cut you twice,” Dhulyn said, fixing the boy’s eyes with her own. “I am satisfied. I ask you for the last time to renounce your claim.” Pray Sun and Moon, she thought, he’ll notice he’s tiring and hasn’t killed me yet. Many men will learn caution if you give them a chance.
But not this one. She grimaced as Clarys swung at her again, stopping the blow easily with her upraised sword. Time to end this. “I salute your courage, Clarys of Trevel, if not your wisdom.” A twist of the wrist and Dhulyn Wolfshead sent the tip of her spinning sword through the front of Clarys’ throat. He cried out then, the sound flying outward with a spray of blood, though his mouth did not move. Dhulyn heard the meaty sound of his body as it fell to the ground. Watched as his heart pumped its blood onto the stones.
The entire clearing was as silent as the fog.
“Are you content?” Dhulyn said, her breathing even, her sword still raised. She spun around as Parno’s dagger flew past her, and pinned the sword hand of Widow’s Peak to his left side.
The boy went white, and looked down at his hand, mouth trembling, as Parno approached him and took hold of the dagger’s hilt.
“We cut, or we kill,” Parno said, slowly drawing the blade free. There was, as Dhulyn expected, very little blood. “You’ve been cut. Shall I go on?”
Widow’s Peak shook his head, squinting at the thin wound where the dagger’s blade had sliced between the bones of his palm. He touched his side with the fingers of his left hand and drew them back lightly stained with blood. The point of the dagger had barely nicked him. The boy looked from his hand to Parno, to the body of his friend. To Dhulyn.
“We fight every day,” he said. “Clarys trained his whole life.”
“On the day your lives began,” Dhulyn said. “I had already killed.”
Yaro gestured, and two of her men stepped forward to pull the body away from Dhulyn’s feet. “Clarys of Trevel,” the Racha woman called out in a voice of proclamation, “has died during the trial of his Life Passage. His soul will rest content until the Sleeping God awakens and has need of him.”
“Not if the New Believers have any say in the matter,” Parno said, almost under his breath.
Yaro made a face and spit, carefully avoiding the blood on the grass. She turned to Dhulyn, a look of sheepish sympathy on her face. “He beat me once in practice,” the older woman said. She shrugged at Dhulyn’s raised eyebrows. “He wasn’t so much the rooster as he became.” She turned to watch Clarys’ body as it was carried off into the mist. The Cloud People would bear it away and bury it that night. “Still, he never seemed to notice that he never beat me again. Some won’t learn that there’s a difference between practice and killing.”
Dhulyn turned to look at her young noblewoman and smiled, her lip curling back, knowing her face was marked by Clarys’ fountaining blood. Mar turned away and was abruptly sick in the grass.