Deepwood: Karavans # 2 (22 page)

Ah. Yes. Ilona’s wagon. She had spent the night with the hand-reader, aware of when Ilona was awake and when she slept, while she, a mere courier, turned over plans for rebellion in her head.

Bethid sat upright, pushing aside the blanket. She rubbed absently at her hair, felt for brass ear-hoops, yawned, then looked at the hand-reader. Ilona’s cot was atop the many-drawered cabinet, and she was a rumpled mound. Long, loose hair was a tangle of dark ringlets, untamed by the hair sticks Ilona usually wore
to anchor a twisted, heavy coil of hair against her skull. Bethid assumed Ilona’s hair and scalp bore a weight of dust and grit just as her own had before its haphazard washing. She thought longingly for a moment of descending to the river to bathe, but reflected too much required her attention before she could afford the luxury of a bath. She stretched again, then climbed off her pallet on the floorboards. Ilona was still asleep; that gave Bethid time to fix a new pot of tea. She also needed to talk to Jorda or Mikal about who could tend Ilona while she was gone.

That thought made her smile as she climbed down the wagon steps. It was amazing to her how various people had stepped forward to take leadership roles. Jorda had always been master of his karavan while Mikal’s responsibilities had been solely to his ale tent and customers. Now he, as Jorda, worked to guide the karavan- and tent-folk into a sustainable future, regardless of where Alisanos lay. Undoubtedly at some point they would reestablish a Watch, now that Kendic was dead in the Hecari culling. Bethid was well aware that not every individual survivor in the settlement would necessarily work toward the common good; in all settlements, villages, and cities, people stole from others, injured or murdered others, looked solely for their personal gain regardless of potential repercussions for others and the community. Perhaps for a while those bent on thievery would lie low, simply because no one knew if anyone retained anything of worth following the settlement’s destruction, but at
some point stealing, drunkenness, fighting, raping, and death would occur. They always did. Meanwhile,
she
was making suggestions to Mikal and Jorda, and also to Brodhi, when such had never before occured to her.

Bethid knelt beside the modest cookfire, scraping aside ash with a stick to uncover dully glowing coals. Her thoughts ran on: Jorda and Mikal would assign Watch tasks to those they believed most reliable, while she spoke further of rebellion with Timmon and Alorn. Courier duties would not resume before Brodhi’s return from Cardatha, so there was time to discuss those plans. In the meantime, their responsibility lay in assisting the survivors and preparing for potential visitations from Hecari. She wasn’t certain enough people remained to trigger a formal culling, but it would be best to make it appear as though the settlement was but a shadow of its true self. They needed to plan a defense against the Hecari, even if it meant stationing people at various points to pass the word of a party’s approach. Surprise had been a very effective strategy when the culling party had arrived. Now it was the task of the survivors to make sure surprise no longer played a role. Preparedness was required, along with a plan everyone knew.

And there it was again: she was thinking about the welfare of the settlement and its folk. Bethid shook her head, smiling wryly.

Two mugs sat beside the fire ring. The ground now was dry, or at least the surface was, so that Bethid could sit without having her trews soaked through. She
noted that the grass beaten flat in the storm was springing upright again. The smaller karavan grove nearest the road hosted little grass because of constant wagon, hoof, and foot traffic, but this grove, older and larger, had not suffered months of such activity. Here the grass grew thickly, though the various karavan draft animals picketed throughout the grove would soon graze it down. In the meantime, the grass provided an emerald carpet that brought a sense of peace to Bethid.

She was in mid-stretch, yawning prodigiously, when the hand-reader appeared in the doorway of her wagon. She wore the storm-tattered clothing she’d slept in, and tangled dark hair fell to her waist. She supported her splinted left forearm with her right hand, pressing it against her chest. Color stood high in her face, and the pupils of hazel eyes were huge.

“Ilona, wait—” Bethid thrust herself to her feet as the hand-reader climbed shakily down the steps. “Stay in bed; I’m brewing tea.”

But Ilona, now standing on the ground, stared at Bethid blankly.

“Come.” Bethid gestured. “Let’s get you back in bed, and I’ll bring tea. Then I’ll see about something to eat.”

Ilona resisted, and Bethid was afraid to put hands on her lest she jar the broken arm. The hand-reader just stood at the bottom of her steps, gazing around the grove. Eventually her eyes tracked upward through the bare-branched trees. A confused frown drew her brows together. “Where am I?”

O Mother
. Bethid made her voice cheerful. “Come,
Ilona. Let’s have you back in bed.” Carefully, she touched one shoulder. “I suspect the fever’s upon you again. Rest is what you need.”

Ilona’s eyes stared through her. “I’m being called.”

Bethid was startled. “You’re what?”

“They’re calling me.”

“Who’s calling you?”

Ilona’s expression was perplexed. “I don’t know.”

Bethid gently touched the hand-reader’s brow. “As I thought—you’re on fire. Come, Ilona. Back to bed with you.”

“I’m to go to them.”

“Well, you can’t. We need you here.” Bethid placed a hand on Ilona’s back and urged her to turn toward the wagon. “We need you badly, Ilona … you’re apparently the only diviner the storm left us.”

Hazel eyes sharpened. “Let me read your hand.”

And if she failed again? Bethid didn’t wish to risk it. Not now, while the fever was on her. “Later. Right now you need to go back to bed, and I’ll bring tea.” Bethid pressed a littler harder, aiming Ilona toward the bottom step. “Up you go.” Ilona obliged this time, climbing into the wagon. Bethid followed to make certain she put herself back to bed, and was relieved when she did so. “Rest,” she said. “I’ll see to tea and food. Let others tend you, Ilona. No need to do any tasks for a few days.” A thought crossed Bethid’s mind. “Do you need the nightcrock?”

Ilona, lying against piled cushions, shook her head. She seemed dazed. Distant.

“Very well. Rest here. I’ll return in a moment.”

When Bethid climbed down the steps, she found a woman standing near the fire. She wore fine-woven but stained russet skirts and a honey-colored tunic belted with a wide gold-studded leather belt that wrapped a narrow waist. Her tunic was slit to the tops of her breasts, edged with russet-colored embroidery. Propriety demanded a cover of some sort, and she wore a moss-hued light shawl around her shoulders, but the weave was openwork, and its sheerness provided little coverage.

Bethid, attuned to women she found attractive, saw the piquant features, the large brown eyes beneath heavy lids, and a mass of tangled honey-colored hair tied at the back of an elegant neck. Beauty coupled with fine but suggestive clothing told her precisely what the woman was. Resentment rose, resentment and a small anger, that a woman would demean herself by lying with men for coin.
Better she should lie with me
—But Bethid cut that thought off at once. Briskly, she said, “She’s injured and fevered, and can’t read any hands.”

“That’s not why I’m here.” The woman had a low, husky voice. “Nor am I here for what you’re thinking.”

“Unless you’re a diviner, which you’re not, you have no idea what I’m thinking.”

The woman tilted her head slightly, as if listening beneath the words. A very small smile touched her lips. “You’re thinking a whore has no business bothering you. Yes, I am a whore—indeed, a Sister of the
Road—but I’ve come for something else. To offer my help.”

“How can you help?” Bethid’s mouth hooked wryly. “Yes, I prefer women, but I don’t pay for it.”

“The hand-reader is ill,” the Sister said, ignoring Bethid’s comment. “I came to tend her, if you’ll allow it. You’re a courier; you may have other duties.”

So she did, though they had, at the moment, nothing to do with carrying messages. “Why?”

“Why am I here?” The woman lifted one shoulder in a small, elegant shrug. “The hand-reader and the karavan-master took pains to urge all of us to go east, to escape the storm. And so we did, and so we survived, my Sisters and I. The least we can do is to help her now, when she needs it.” She turned slightly, gesturing. “Our wagon is just there. My Sisters and I can take turns tending the hand-reader. She won’t be alone. And then you can do whatever requires doing, in
your
line of work.”

Bethid sighed internally. It was a boon the woman offered, and there was no room in the post-storm world for bias. She, Bethid, had chosen a different road, but her life was no more conventional than that experienced by Sisters of the Road. “Then I thank you for it,” she said. “There is tea ready.”

The woman nodded. “My name,” she said, “is Naiya. That is a true name, the name I was given at birth, not something men whisper to me in bed. It will stand surety for my intentions.”

Bethid impulsively reached out a hand. Naiya
clasped it, palm to palm. “My thanks,” Bethid said, “and now I must go. Churri and I have a long ride ahead of us.”

Naiya nodded. “May the Mother keep you safe.”

So even whores prayed to the Mother of Moons. Bethid smiled briefly, then turned away. Churri was picketed nearby; it was time to pack food and bedding, saddle up, and ride him down to the river for watering. Then they could go hunting for the missing Shoia.

GILLAN ROUSED TO excruciating pain in his left leg. He discovered someone had silenced him with a tight gag over his mouth, had stilled his arms by binding his wrists, and that he lay on a pallet that crackled as he moved, poking into his back. Leaves, he realized, and branches. But the pain in his leg was so bad that such thoughts only flitted briefly through his head. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he writhed, trying to cry out through the gag but managing only a keening moan. He blinked tears away, trying to clear his vision, and saw Darmuth bending over his leg. The man’s—no,
demon’s
—hands were massaging some kind of ointment or grease into his leg.

“Among us again?” Darmuth asked. “Well, I believe that won’t last. Best to sleep, or swoon.” He smiled. “You’re gagged, yes, and tied. Quite often silence is necessary in Alisanos, if one is to survive. If you cry out in pain, or interfere with your hands, you will
bring trouble down upon us.” He paused. “Well, trouble down upon
you
.”

Gillan levered himself up awkwardly with tied hands, balancing on one elbow. The flesh below his knee was raw as skinned meat, and weeping. It looked wasted, lacking the firm roundness of muscle and skin. This time his moan through the gag was not of pain so much as it was of grief and disbelief.

“You’ll keep it,” Darmuth said. “The bone is whole, as I told you. When this is healed, we can pad and brace the leg from knee to ankle for support. You’ll walk.” His fingers moved all the while he spoke. “But it’s very unlikely you’ll ever run again. Accept it.”

Accept that he was a cripple? When the few cripples he’d seen in villages and hamlets were derided for their state, teased ruthlessly by children and mostly ignored by adults? Accept that?

Ah, but he was no longer in the world where villages and hamlets existed, where humans lived. He was in Alisanos, and a demon tended him.

Gillan fell back onto the leafy pallet, pressing the heels of his bound hands against his eyes. He wished not to cry, to moan, to writhe and twist in response to the pain, but he was helpless. His body acted of its own accord. Pain was paramount.

“You should be grateful,” the demon said, “that I don’t treat this leg as meat. It’s quite tantalizing, you do realize, here in my hands, begging to be eaten. It makes my mouth water.” Gillan removed his hands and his eyes popped open, staring; the gray eyes looking
back at him appeared human despite the words. “But Rhuan would find that very upsetting, and no doubt you would as well.”

Gillan nodded vigorously, making a sound of vehement agreement through the gag.

“And I do have my own journey, after all. So, I will tend this limb instead of dining upon it, and one day you will rise and walk. Perhaps at that point you will understand that all in Alisanos are not the same. Not even demons.” Now the black pupils slitted. “Do you understand? You live here, now, in the deepwood. If you are to survive, you’ll have to learn that which threatens, and that which doesn’t. It’s not a matter of black and white. This is your home. You’ll spend the rest of your life here. There is no escape—well, only rarely. And then the humans kill you anyway, or send you from their home places. Because you won’t be as they are anymore. You won’t be human. Possibly—Alisanos does take some this way—you’ll even end up a demon.” He grinned, displaying his fanged canines, one of which bore a glinting green gem. “Just like me.”