The White Dragon (11 page)

After a pause, the man said, "So am I, come to think of it."

Tansen switched to the mountain dialect again. "Then why don't you speak
shallah
?"

"I do, but not very... well." This time the reply was in
shallah
, though the stranger had hesitated over a word.

"Why not?"

There was a longer pause. Finally he answered, "I was born in the mountains, as was my father. But I was not raised there, I don't remember him, and my mother spoke only common Silerian with me. You are..." The man gave up and switched to Silerian again. "You are the first
shallah
I've spoken to in years."

"That's strange," Tansen said rudely. Strange for someone born to a
shallah
clan, certainly. Blood ties were everything among the
shallaheen
. A man was no one without his clan.

"Yes, I suppose it does seem strange." When Tansen didn't reply, the man added, "The Outlookers are after me."

"Why?"

"It's not for smuggling." The voice sounded dry, despite the pain. The stranger obviously knew why a lone
shallah
would be creeping around the coast in the middle of the night.

Tansen didn't bother to ask again why the Outlookers were hunting for him. Any reason—or no reason at all—could suffice. Tansen was starting to suspect this was just some stupid
toren
who'd gotten himself into trouble, because, after all, what assassin didn't know any
shallaheen
? However, a
toren
was bound to have wealth or influence of some kind. Anyhow, it would be bad manners to leave him dying here now that they had spoken.
 

So Tansen said politely, "I will help you."

"Good." The voice was even dryer as it said, "Because I didn't come all this way to die on the beach."

Tansen knelt down, close enough now to discover the stranger was soaking wet. "What's happened to you?"

"I was on a smuggling ship that—"

"Whose ship?" Tansen interrupted, already dreading the answer.

"Ah. You were waiting for Aljuna?"

"What's happened to him?"

"You're the smugglers he had to deliver some cargo to?"
 

"Yes."

"Weren't there supposed to be two of you?"

"The other one couldn't come."

"I'm sorry," the stranger said, his breath still harsh and labored. "Aljuna's dead by now. I suppose everyone on board died, unless someone else jumped overboard, too, and made it this far."

"Why would they be d—"

"The Valdani burned Aljuna's ship."

"They
burned
it?" That must have been the light he'd seen hovering on the dark horizon a while ago. "They burned a smuggling ship? Why didn't they just arrest Aljuna's crew and confisca—"

"They weren't after his cargo."

"What were they after?" Tansen asked, bewildered.
Poor Aljuna.

The man gasped as a new wave of pain assaulted him. "We've got to get off this beach."

"The Outlookers. Of course. Will they be searching for survivors?"

"They'll be searching for
me
."
 

"I have two donkeys hidden in a cave in the cliffs. The Outlookers won't find us there."

"How far?"

"Not far, but the way is very steep. It'll be a hard trek for you, if you're badly hurt." When there was no answer, he prodded, "How badly are you hurt?"

"I'm not sure."

"How did you get hurt? When they attacked the ship?"

"No. After I jumped overboard. A dragonfish."

"Fires of Dar," Tansen whispered.

Like most
shallaheen
, he was secretly afraid of the sea and terrified of dragonfish. The sea-born folk might be strange, ignorant, and smelly, but no one could deny their courage. They risked death from the dragonfish every day of their lives, and once a year they openly confronted dragonfish in deadly combat during
Bharata Ma-al
. Tansen was thankful they didn't hold the
bharata
during the dark-moon, since the shore was awash with purple dragonfish blood throughout the Time of Slaughter, and he wouldn't relish sloshing around in it while he and Aljuna...
Dead,
he realized with sorrow. The colorful pirate was dead.

He asked the stranger, "Where did the dragonfish get you?"

"I'm not sure. I got banged against some rocks, too, and right now, I can't tell what parts of me have been mauled by the dragonfish and what parts have been smashed against the rocks."

"May I..." Tansen put his hand on the stranger. His back was soaking wet. It was too dark to tell if it was water or blood. And he was cold, terribly cold.
 

This isn't good.

"I don't think anything's broken," the man said. "I made it this far, after all."

Not just through the water and onto the beach, Tansen realized, but away from the exposed shoreline and into the rocky crevices below the cliffs. It must have taken tremendous will.

"But if I leave a trail of blood," the stranger added wearily, "the Outlookers will see it as soon as the sun rises."

If this was indeed a
toren
, then he was tough, Tansen thought. As tough as any assassin.

"I must find the wounds," Tansen said decisively, "and bind them. But since I won't be able to see if we're leaving a trail of blood..." He took a breath and broke the news. "I'm sorry, we'll have to leave a false trail. That will mean a longer journey to reach the cave."

"But it's a good idea." The man tried to move, then gasped in pain. "It got my leg.
Now
I feel it."

Tansen felt for the stranger's leg. He heard the sharp intake of breath when his fingers found the wound. He stripped off his worn tunic, used his teeth to tear it, and bound the man's wounded leg. The wound he found on the stranger's shoulder was worse and took longer to bind. By then, his hands were coated with blood, and he realized the stranger might die before they reached the safety of the cave.

Outlookers passed their hiding place in the shadows once. Tansen and the stranger froze, scarcely daring to breathe.
 

If they catch me now, with him....
Tansen decided not to finish the thought. Instead, he strained his ears to hear what they were saying.
 

Unlike many
shallaheen
, he understood Valdan, the official language of Sileria for two hundred years. His grandfather had insisted he learn it, saying that a shrewd man understood his enemies, and so Tansen had dutifully spent a year of his childhood at the Valdani school in the largest town of his native district. However, he couldn't make out the Outlookers' hushed words now. He heard the urgency in their voices, though. After they passed by, he asked the stranger again, "Who are you,
roshah
?"

"
Roshah...
That means... outsider in
shallah
, doesn't it?"

"Outsider, stranger, foreigner. All of these things." Tansen shrugged, then realized the
roshah
couldn't see the gesture in the dark. "I didn't mean it as an insult," he assured the man. It often
was
meant as an insult, since few things were worse to a
shallah
than being an outsider, unknown and distrusted. "But without knowing your name..." He paused and waited, then finally repeated, "Who are you?"

"Help me up," was the only reply.

He was a big man, and heavy with muscle. Whoever he was, Tansen realized, he was in the prime of life and honed for combat and endurance. When Tansen slung the stranger's arm over his shoulder and supported his sagging weight as best he could, the man froze for a moment.

"By all the gods above and below," he said, his voice sharp with surprise as he uttered the strange phrase. "You're just a boy. I thought from your voice—"

"I am man enough," Tansen said flatly.

"Yes." There was both humor and apology in the man's voice as he added, "Yes, I've already noticed that."

"And Dar will shield us."

"Really? Why will She do that?"

Tansen heard the amusement and wondered at it. "Because they are Valdani," he said simply, "and we are
shallaheen."

"She hasn't done such a good job of shielding you, so far."

"Me?"

"All of you. Everyone sweeps through Sileria: Moorlanders, Kints, Valdani. And Dar does nothing—"

"Shh..." Tansen pretended to hear more Outlookers coming, but really he was just trying to save the
roshah
from sacrilege. He didn't think it was wise to speak disrespectfully of Dar, especially not tonight when they so needed Her favor.

They proceeded in silence, moving carefully. The
roshah
tried not to be a burden, tried to carry his own weight, but he was growing steadily weaker. Tansen was strong and used to long treks over rough terrain, but he was drained by bearing more and more of his companion's weight as dawn chased them along the rocky cliffs and steep smuggling trails.

The sun was rising by the time they reached the cave, which was rich with the smell of Tansen's bored donkeys. Tansen left the man in the cave, barely pausing long enough to hand him the waterskin before he left to double back alone and cover their trail as best he could. Only when he was satisfied that no one could follow them did he return to the cave.

The
roshah
was lying where Tansen had left him, deep inside the cave, in a second chamber whose entrance was hard to find unless you knew it was there. Tansen spoke to him, received no reply, and realized he must be asleep or unconscious. So he fed and watered his two donkeys, ate and drank a little himself, and then took his lantern to the stranger's side to better examine his wounds in the dark cave.

It was his first real opportunity to study the man. His clothes were foreign, strange styles made of good materials.
Very
nice boots, Tansen noted with envy. Yet the stranger looked Silerian, albeit a little big for a Silerian—olive-skinned, dark-haired, strong-boned. He even wore a
jashar
around his waist, though it was now grubby with sand and red with his own blood.

At least it will tell me who he is.

Like most of his people, Tansen could neither read nor write. But the
shallaheen
communicated messages and information with
jashareen
—elaborately knotted and woven ropes, strands, and cords dotted with colored beads. The
jashar
a man wore around his waist—like the one a woman wore as a headdress on special occasions—identified him and his history. More elaborate ones covered doorways and walls, identifying merchants and craftsmen, codifying religious creeds, commemorating special events, and even relating
shallah
history and legends.

As Tansen started to untie the
jashar
from the unconscious man's waist so he could get a better look at it, he suddenly realized that it wasn't red from blood—it was just
red
, made that way to begin with.

Darfire, he
is
an assassin
!
 

No one who wasn't would dare to wear the traditional red
jashar
of the Honored Society.

Thank You, Dar, thank You for placing him in my path.

Surely this was a sign that Tansen's destiny was at hand, that the time had come for his ambitions to bear fruit.

He tugged more insistently at the tangled fastening of the
jashar
, then pulled it away from the stranger's body and held it closer to the lantern light to study it.
 

Yes, he was right, some of the beads were yellow—the yellow beads which only an assassin or his family members wore on a
jashar
. He fingered the woven strands and knots, looking for the man's name, his clan, the identity of the waterlord he served...

He stopped breathing when he saw it. His blood ran hot and cold at once. Not all the beads were yellow, were they? He grabbed the waterskin and spilled water over the beads, wasting the precious substance in his haste. He washed away the dried blood and wiped the beads on his leggings, then held them up to the light again. Yes, now he was sure of it: Some of the beads were clear, made of water crystallized by sorcery.

Clear beads on a red
jashar
.

A waterlord?

No, not quite a waterlord. Son of a waterlord, heir to one, according to the way the knots were tied around the beads.