Voice of Crow (29 page)

He said nothing.

“You may speak.”

He said nothing.

“By the gods, don’t be so sullen.” She trailed a finger down his arm, and he wanted to bite it off. “I only see light in your eyes anymore when you’re holding Nilik.” Her nails tickled the palm of his hand. “Or holding me, but that’s a different sort of light, isn’t it?”

He heard her raise herself on one elbow. “Look at me.” She leaned in closer and turned his chin to face her. Her eyes sparked with fear and she let go of him. “On second thought, don’t look at me.”

Marek expected to be dismissed, but Basha spoke again. “I’d rather you not dislike me too mightily. It makes me feel like a tyrant. Just because I own you doesn’t mean I don’t respect you.”

Marek laughed out loud, then covered his mouth. He’d be punished for sure.

“Respect your people, that is.” Basha went on as if he’d had no reaction to her last statement. “I find your culture fascinating. It’s so different from ours, I doubt you’ll ever be assimilated the way our other conquests have. Not by force, at least. I keep telling my colleagues that, but they won’t listen to a woman, not even me.”

He felt the Fox inside him prick its ears, and he realized his opportunity. Self-pity would paralyze him. If he was to survive and escape one day, he needed information.

“If not by force,” he said, “how will you conquer us?”

She bit her bottom lip as she smiled. “Ah, you can form words after all. I thought perhaps my body had rendered you speechless.”

He waited for her to answer the question. She stretched and turned onto her back. “Some want to mount another invasion, but I suspect that’s to save face. They lost so pitifully at Asermos, they want to avenge that humiliation. But such a deployment would be futile and expensive, especially when the tensions among the cities are so high.”

“There’s internal strife?” His own lands had experienced it more than once, which partly explained his village’s historic mutual hostility with Asermos. Kalindos had never been foolish enough to wage outright war against the larger village, but skirmishes had occurred, causing bad blood to simmer down through the generations.

Basha’s expression grew guarded. “Nothing Leukos can’t handle.”

He turned to her, which made her face light up in surprise.

“You say my people fascinate you,” he said. “Is that why you wanted Nilik? To have a piece of that culture?”

“You’re half right. Nilik’s a baby. He has no culture. He’ll be raised as an Ilion citizen, as a Leukon, and he’ll have my dead husband’s name. As far as anyone, including him, is concerned, he’s my son.”

Marek tried to keep his voice steady. “Then he’ll never know who he really is?”

“You see, that’s the mystery.” She rolled over to face him and whispered conspiratorially, “We want to see if your people will gain magic when they come of age, if any Spirits will take them on, and if so, which ones. We have our theories.”

“What theories?”

“That the Spirits’ real power lies in the wilderness. People like you, whose animals need lots of space and have no tolerance for human interference, your powers fade in the city. But others, we’ve noticed, do not.”

“Which others?”

“Those with animals that can live alongside humans, who survive in the city, even if it’s in the park. Horses, Goats, Spiders. Bats and Foxes, to a lesser extent.”

He shuddered at the last Animal—was that why it felt as if Fox had taken over his soul in the absence of Wolf? Was She even now helping him find a way to escape? If anyone was a survivor, it was Fox.

Basha counted off on her fingers. “What else? Rats, of course. Several birds—Swans, Sparrows, Mockingbirds.”

Crows? he wondered. Of course. They were everywhere.

“You see, Marek, that’s why you’re half correct. I wanted Nilik because he was Asermon, but not to add him to my collection of quaint, rustic works of art. It’s to find out if I’m right.”

“Right about what?”

“That your people can be conquered without force. To do that we need to know everything about your powers. These children, especially the newborns, are a perfect experiment.” She smoothed his hair back from his face and curled her finger around the ends. “You will all fall before us, be assured. Everyone does in time. But I’d prefer to do it later and overwhelmingly, rather than sooner and sloppily. It’s much more humane that way, don’t you agree?”

Marek felt as if his head were caught in a vise.

“Perhaps you don’t agree,” she said. “So I’ll tell you there was a third reason for wanting Nilik.” Her gaze dropped to the space between their bodies. “I was lonely. I had lost so much.”

And gained only a Senate seat, he thought.

“I know you mourn your wife,” she said. “I understand, because I think of my husband every night and every morning. That’s why I ask others to share my bed.”

Ask? She must be joking.

Her eyes turned pensive. “I wonder sometimes when I look at Nilik, if my son would have done the same things he does. Like the way he stretches out the fingers of his right hand when he yawns, as though he’s drawing in breath through them.” She imitated the motion. “Do other babies do that?”

“They each have their own gestures, like older people.”

She smiled sheepishly. “Obviously I haven’t much experience with infants. I was the youngest child in my family. I preferred playing with anything other than dolls—toy animals, even my older brothers’ little soldiers, when I could steal them. Until I was pregnant, the idea of being a mother never appealed to me.” Her smile faded. “But when the baby died, it was all I could think about.” She brushed his cheek with the back of her fingertips. “You lost one, too. You understand me.”

Marek did not answer. He hoped he’d never understand her, never understand how she could treat him this way and pretend it was nothing remarkable, how she could plot to use Nilik’s powers against his own people. Even if she released them both tomorrow and put them on a ship to Asermos, he’d never forgive her.

“I should go.” He sat up. “With your permission, that is, Your Honor. It’s getting late.”

“Stay.” She put a hand on his chest. “I want you again.”

He froze. “I don’t think I can.”

“It’s a challenge I’d like to accept.” She drew him down beside her. “Kiss me.”

He withheld a sigh of disgust, seized her shoulders and pulled her into a hard, brutal kiss. After a moment, she pushed him away.

“Not like that this time,” she whispered, her eyes wet. “Kiss me like you don’t hate me.”

He hesitated. How could he?

A voice whispered in the back of his mind.
You have her.

Basha’s eyes screamed her need for something to fill the space her loss had left behind. If he gave it to her, she could be influenced, even by a mere slave.

Whatever it takes.

He lowered his head to brush his lips against hers, softly. She moaned.

“Yes.” Basha took his hand and drew it up her waist, over her breast. “Touch me like you don’t hate me.”

Though Marek thought his hands would burn her with loathing, he obeyed, banishing his soul where it couldn’t crumple in her hands like a sheet of discarded paper. Without it, his body could do what it had to do, could respond to her touch as if it didn’t repulse him.

When he was ready to enter her, she stopped him. “One more thing.” She gazed up at him. “Tell me you love me.”

He rolled off her as tears swelled his chest and eyes. “I can’t do that. It’s the one thing I can never do.”

“Please.” Her voice stopped short, as she must have realized she’d never spoken that word to him before. “I’m so alone.”

“I don’t love you.”

“Of course you don’t. Just let me pretend.”

Pretend, he thought, and it came to him, the secret he’d been missing. He would pretend Basha was Rhia. Though her hands, legs, voice and scent were different, maybe his mind could fool his senses long enough to fulfill this task. If he could give Basha this, she would be his, and he could find a way to escape.

He turned back to her, and it was Rhia’s skin he touched and kissed, Rhia’s mouth on his neck and shoulders, Rhia’s hands stroking him back to readiness.

It was in Rhia’s ears he whispered, “I love you,” but as soon as the words left his mouth, they lost all meaning.

He placed his begging bowl on the white stone pavement and waited. Everything about this endeavor felt wrong, down to his core, but he told himself his unease came from the preconceptions of his youth.

Soon dawn leaked blue around the buildings and over the white courtyard. The war monument stood as a dark void, a reminder to all who passed of their countrymen’s sacrifices.

They would get a few more reminders soon. Adrek, Arcas and Lycas had spaced themselves around the square, along with about a dozen regular Leukon beggars.

The clear sky blushed pink and orange, and the tops of the buildings glowed. He watched as his city came to life. Soon the streets bustled like anthills. Senate staffers in blue uniforms, most a few years older than Filip, hurried through a side courtyard to his left, ready to prepare the building for another session.

He spotted the first senator crossing the street from the market, a few hundred paces away. He was dressed in the goldenrod robe of his office, a red sash at his waist, and looked to be in his late fifties. He used a wooden cane, favoring his right side.

Filip sat with his back to the wall, his half leg extended before him, with the empty part of the trouser tucked under his stump so that there could be no mistaking what had happened to him.

His mouth went dry at the thought of his countrymen seeing him like this. They would wish he’d hide himself like a proper man. No, a proper man would have died in battle or ended his own life rather than continue this way.

The senator hobbled across the courtyard, on a path that would take him past Filip. Surely this man would understand what infirmity meant. Upon closer look, he looked more like sixty or sixty-five years old. Lines etched his face like a map of the Four Rivers region. The metal tip of his cane clicked against the stones as he approached the building. Then Filip saw a blue patch on the man’s shoulder, signifying that his wounds had been garnered in victory. He leaned around the small shrub to get a better glimpse.

The senator stopped at the foot of the steps and looked straight at Filip, who stared back. For one moment, they were brothers-in-arms.

Suddenly the older man roared and waved his cane at him. Filip’s stomach twisted. After telling his friends, “Don’t look at them,” he’d forgotten the rule himself. He dropped his gaze to the pavement in front of him.

“I ought to have you arrested.” The tapping came closer, louder. “It’s bad enough we have to see human garbage like you every tenth day, but to have one of them look at us, judging us?”

“Forgive me,” Filip whispered, “I meant no—”

“Do not speak to me!” The cane whistled through the air, missing his left shoulder by less than a handspan. “If there weren’t laws against beating you myself, I’d bash in your skull. Think I’m too old and feeble to do it?”

Filip trembled with rage at having to beg for the chance to beg. He imagined the surprise that would paint the senator’s face if he grabbed the cane, turned it around and plunged it into his gut. Then the man would see that a warrior lived in him still.

His imagination would have to suffice. He kept his gaze on the ground. An ant wandered in the mortared crack between the flat stones.

“Spaneas, what’s the matter?” Another man approached on lighter footsteps—another senator, judging by his yellow hem, the only part Filip dared to regard.

Spaneas snorted. “This hoodlum had the temerity to look at my face, even speak to me. We should fetch the police.”

“Later. Come, the chairman needs to speak with you before the meeting.” He tossed a coin into Filip’s bowl before taking the older man away. Filip was so surprised, he forgot to nod his gratitude.

As the sunlight on the buildings changed from orange to yellow, other senators filed past, ignoring Filip in their hurry to get inside before the session started. Though he wasn’t watching their eyes, he sensed their indifference and understood what it was like to be invisible.

A bell gonged, and the courtyard fell empty and silent. Filip looked across at Adrek, Arcas and Lycas, each at other corners of the square. None of them signaled success.

Perhaps this plan was idiotic, he thought, as the late-morning sun grew hot and merciless. He’d overheard nothing before session besides the ramblings over political minutiae. A new bridge in Thalassia, a law forbidding the sale of slaves under a certain value on holidays, the trading of votes on various issues.

At one time it would have fascinated him. He’d hoped to run for office when he was older, be elected by the people, unlike his plodding bureaucrat of a father, slavering at the feet of politicians.

The Spirits had other plans for Filip, as did the gods, if they existed.

When the sun had reached its zenith, another higher-pitched bell sounded, and within moments the enormous front doors of the Senate building swung outward. Senators, staffers and other officials streamed out, each trying to be the first across the street so he or she wouldn’t have to stand in line at the market stalls.

To Filip’s left was an area of shade, provided by a large canvas awning. It soon filled with those returning from the market with their meals. A few tables and chairs sat there, but most people mingled on their feet, cradling their food and drink as they moved from one high-powered acquaintance to the next. Filip’s father had told him that more government work was accomplished in this one hour than in the entire remainder of the day.

Several of the senators and their staff made the rounds of beggars, tossing coins into each one’s bowl as if throwing bread crumbs to pigeons. They chattered about political and social gossip, but nothing that seemed relevant to Marek or Nilik.

Suddenly a familiar voice came from his right. His breath seized. It couldn’t be.

“My testimony wasn’t terribly pedantic, was it?” the man asked his companion.

“Certainly not. Everyone enjoys a detailed account of the sewage system.”

They passed in front of him, discussing the merits of a public-works bill, and Filip was certain. The skin on his nape seemed to crinkle and crawl.

His own father was within arm’s reach.

“One moment.” Filip’s father turned and walked back toward him, his footsteps slowing. He stopped a few paces away, then dropped several large coins in Filip’s bowl, murmuring a prayer to Rovas, the war god. In a moment the other man joined him. Together they cast a shadow over Filip, whose neck cramped with the effort to keep his head down, his gaze on the ground where it belonged.

“Feeling generous today, Kaloyero?”

Without moving away, Filip’s father spoke solemnly. “My two sons died almost a year ago in Asermos.”

“Ah.” The other man tossed in a coin of his own. “I am very sorry.”

“My family—my wife, my daughters and I—we miss them horribly. We feel like we’d do anything to see them once more.”

Filip’s fingers tightened on the fabric of his trousers. His throat ached. If he looked up, his father would know his eyes, would see through the beard and the mud to his son beneath. He would take him home, hold a celebration feast in his honor, maybe give him money to buy Marek’s and Nilik’s freedom. The relief and joy would overcome his shame at his son’s condition.

Filip began to raise his eyes.

“But now I remember,” his father said, “it could be worse. My boys could have ended up like him.”

Filip’s gaze stopped, having risen as far as the monument. He dropped his chin, eyes burning.

“True,” the senator said. “To have both sons’ names engraved on the memorial—such a loss brings pain but also great honor. There are fates worse than death.”

They spoke as if he had the ears of a potted plant. Did they think he couldn’t hear them?

His father scoffed. “Honor, yes. If only honor could banish the silence of an empty home.”

Filip turned his face away, wrenching his mind from the images of his family. Derina would be sixteen now, ready to choose a man brave enough to spend his life listening to bad jokes. Little Kiniska, only twelve—Filip wondered if she’d outgrown her bug collection yet. And his mother…he couldn’t think of her at all.

A woman with a low, strong voice passed by, speaking to her companion. “It’s a waste of money and lives,” she said, “all to satisfy men’s sense of revenge.”

“Arvano, who is
that?
” Filip’s father asked.

“Senator Basha Mylosa. Myloso’s widow.”

“I hadn’t known she was so young and…”

“Pretty? Don’t be fooled. She’s as shrewd and cutthroat as any of us. Has a predilection for the Asermons, though. She wants to conquer them without force.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“She puts forward innovative arguments. I, for one, will be sorry when her term ends. We need fresh ideas in this staid old building, not to mention a voice of moderation against the rise of the military.” Arvano’s shadow moved, and he lowered his voice. “Some say her baby is actually an Asermon boy, not the son of her late husband.”

Filip dragged his mind out of its pool of misery to listen.

“They say she miscarried Myloso’s child and found this one to replace it.”

Filip’s father laughed. “Who are ‘they’ who say such things, Arvano? Is it the voices in your head?”

“You know how it is. Slaves talk to other slaves. Information is the one commodity they have to sell. I admire her audacity, if it’s true.”

“It can’t be true.”

“She never went in public during her time of mourning, which was proper. There was time to make the substitution. It sounds far-fetched, but if you could hear the way she speaks of Asermos on the Senate floor, you’d change your mind.”

Filip heard his father clap his companion on the back. “This has been an edifying and, er, entertaining respite, but I must be back to work. I trust my testimony will prove useful.”

“Certainly. You’ll find a token of our appreciation in your next payroll.”

“I’ll look for it. Thank you.”

They moved away, but Filip’s father stopped and turned back after a few paces. “Be well, young man,” he said to Filip in a low voice. “I shall pray for you, today and always.”

His footsteps receded. Filip sat for a long moment, then scratched a shallow hole in the sandy soil beneath the shrub. He took the red-and-yellow ribbon from his pocket, pressed it into the hole, then covered it with soil until it vanished.

At sunset, Rhia joined Alanka and Bolan to meet Filip at the rendezvous point in an alleyway several blocks from the Senate courtyard.

“Did you hear anything?” Rhia asked him, her stomach roiling.

“Perhaps.”

Alanka and Bolan eased him to sit on an empty crate. He glanced toward the street, then spoke in a hushed voice.

“A senator named Basha Mylosa has a child. Rumor says he’s an Asermon baby she’s passing off as her own son.”

“Her own son?” The news was what Rhia had most hoped and feared. “And what about Marek?”

“Adrek and Koli are following her to see where she lives. Maybe they’ll find signs of Marek. Lycas and Arcas are following them for protection.” He wiped the sweat from his ruddy face and glared at his crutches. “I did all I could.”

“You did plenty.” Alanka handed him a water skin and smoothed the damp hair from his brow. “You might have saved Marek and Nilik.”

He took a long gulp, then shook his head. “We still have to get them out of there. Senator Mylosa will have a well-guarded house. We’ll know how well guarded after the others return.”

Alanka opened the long bag she’d been carrying. “I thought you might want this.” She handed Filip his prosthetic leg. “So you wouldn’t have to crutch all the way back to the inn.”

“Thank you.” He took the leg. “Very much.”

Rhia walked with Alanka and Bolan to the end of the alley, giving Filip privacy and blocking the view from the street.

“Don’t worry,” Alanka said. “We’ve slipped Marek out from under armed guards before. We can do it again.”

Rhia thought about how she and Lycas and Alanka had crept into the Descendant camp to extract Marek. It had been a trap, though, set by the Descendant colonel to obtain a more valuable prisoner—namely, Rhia. Marek’s powers of invisibility had saved them, along with the speed and grace of Colonel Baleb’s horse, Keleos.

The key, though, had been Baleb’s arrogance in allowing them to enter the camp. Perhaps Basha had a similar weakness.

Filip joined them, and they headed back toward the inn. Rhia heard him speak quietly to Alanka as they walked side-by-side behind her and Bolan.

“With the money I made today,” he said, “I can purchase a room for the two of us for a night. If you want.”

Rhia could hear Alanka’s smile in her voice. “I’d like that.”

When they returned to the inn, Filip washed the grime from his face and hair, then went in search of the proprietor to rent a room.

Alanka watched him stride down the hallway, then closed the door and turned to Rhia. She seemed to be trying to restrain the joy in her eyes.