Wolf Captured (39 page)

She nodded.

“But you live there and do work for them … . Can you see why I would be confused?”

He was so pleasant, almost sweet, that Rahniseeta couldn’t hold on to her anger.

“I understand. It is this way. My brother and I were without parents when he was accepted into the temple for his education. He wished to bring me with him so I would be cared for, and the temple—eager to have one of his abilities—agreed. Now I have reached my majority, but I have not left. I make myself useful, and since Harjeedian has not married and we occupy quarters that would be his right if he did …”

She trailed off with a sigh.

“I am neither one thing or another. From time to time I consider what I could do elsewhere, but then something happens—there is an illness and hands are needed for nursing, or a conclave is happening and there are letters to be written, or a great festival is coming and …”

“And,” Barnet said gently, “someone says, ‘Let Rahniseeta help. She’s very good at many things.’”

“That’s right,” she said, “and I look into the sky and see the moon has changed her face or even the seasons their colors, and I am still there, sharing a suite with Harjeedian.”

“Don’t be so despondent,” Barnet said, suddenly laughing. “This can’t have been going on for too long. You’re young yet.”

“I am twenty-one,” she said stiffly.

“In my land,” Barnet replied, “you would have only been considered an adult for a year. What is the age of majority here?”

“Seventeen for women and men both,” Rahniseeta said, “but if the girl wishes to marry and her parents agree she can be granted her majority at a younger age. Both men and women must be twenty in order to be ordained either kidisdu or aridisdu, but the training begins at a much younger age.”

They had reached the road where they must turn inland to reach u-Bishinti while they were talking, and at the next turn the complex became visible before them. After that, Rahniseeta was kept busy telling what she could about the place, but she did so with some satisfaction. Bamet had not heard of the maimalodalum, but he had not rejected the idea that Lady Blysse might be one—that was someplace to start.

Now, for Rahniseeta to win the acclaim she so desired, she must find how best to continue.

“HOW ARE YOU DOING with Waln Endbrook?” The Master asked Shivadtmon.

He would have preferred to handle this matter without employing Shivadtmon, but given the situation, that was impossible, so Shivadtmon was who it must be.

There was much good about Shivadtmon. The aridisdu was smart enough to keep silence when ordered to do so, unimaginative enough not to think too hard about why he was given the orders he received.

Indeed, if anything puzzled Shivadtmon, he was likely to think that his own lack of understanding indicated that he was being given some sort of test. Shivadtmon was the kind of man who secretly, probably even unconsciously, longed for a return to the classroom, to days when tests were given and value judged on knowledge of theory, not performance in reality.

So Shivadtmon only asked those questions he thought would lead him to deducing the larger picture. He never asked directly: “Why are we doing this? What purpose will it serve?”

That reticence suited the master perfectly.

“Fairly well,” Shivadtmon replied. “At an early meeting I made certain Wain Endbrook knew that Lady Blysse had been permitted to go to Misheemnekuru. I also attempted to indicate that I did not completely approve either of this or of the islands’ continued isolation from the mainland.”

“Very good.”

“I am pleased and proud to be of service, Master.”

“It is very important,” the master said, “that Wain not realize that he is being guided. You do realize this?”

Shivadtmon nodded and, with a trace of the inflection of a student reciting for a teacher, said, “Wain Endbrook has been used for other people’s gain at least twice before—that we know. In each case, his personal ambitions were employed to steer him. Therefore, it is reasonable to believe that we can steer him a third time.”

The master raised an admonitory finger, but he kept his tones gentle and kind.

“However,” he said, “it is very important that Wain Endbrook not realize he is being steered. He is a clever man, and his past failures in the service of others will certainly make him hesitant about being used again. Therefore, you must do your best to make certain that Wain believes he is manipulating you, rather than the truth.”

Shivadtmon nodded. “I understand. I will let myself be led. I will grant him favors—but only after he asks me for them. I will make certain information comes his way through various channels, so he does not realize how interested I am in his actions.”

“Very good,” the master repeated. “Very, very good.”

IN THE END, DERIAN HAD DECIDED on a mare—a magnificent three-year-old bay paint. Her markings reminded him somewhat of the exuberance of Eshinarvash, the Wise Horse, though in reality she was nothing like him. She was mostly brown on her head, neck, and lower body, with long dark points on each leg. Her left foreleg was dark to the hoof, but the right was marked with a white pastern. Her hind legs had nearly matching white stockings. White spread rather like an uneven blanket across her middle and rear quarters. Her face bore a long white blaze that shaded into a white muzzle. Her mane and tail were a striking blend of both black and white, and on the right side of her neck was an uneven patch that reminded Derian of an island.

The name that had been divined for the mare when she was a year old was Prahini, which meant “Rainbow” in Liglimosh. Derian liked the sound of it well enough in both languages that he decided not to change it, though he decided that in deference to her birth land the mare would be called Prahini rather than Rainbow.

Prahini appeared delicately boned at first glance, but she showed considerable endurance when Derian took her out for a day trip. Despite her apparent delicacy, Prahini had height enough to carry Derian without seeming dwarfed, and good endurance. Her flaws were those of a young horse, recently trained, and Derian looked forward to working with her.

She wasn’t Roanne. No other horse would ever be Roanne. As Prahini shied at blown leaves in genuine astonishment, rather than in temperamental play as Roanne would have done, Derian felt his loss deep inside. Prahini was going to be fun, but not even the gift of her would make him forget Harjeedian’s callous slaying of Roanne and the pack pony. He reminded himself daily that for all the pleasant welcome he had been given, at least some of the Liglimom were capable of very practical brutality.

Derian was putting Prahini through her paces in a largely uninhabited pasture, imagining how it would be when he rode his new mount to the doorway of the Temple of the Cold Bloods, when he saw a light carriage with two passengers coming down the sea road from the city. At first his attention was mostly for the slightly dumpy black gelding who pulled the rig; then his heart skipped a beat as he recognized the driver.

“Rahniseeta!” he said aloud, drawing rein. He didn’t shout, but Prahini swiveled an ear around in his direction as if wondering what this new command might be.

Derian nudged the mare into a walk and cut across toward the road. His initial delight that Rahniseeta had come to visit was quelled when he saw that her passenger was Barnet, but seeing Barnet’s face light in welcome as Derian drew near made Derian realize he was glad to see the minstrel, too.

He opened the gate from the saddle, Prahini standing perfectly still as she had been trained, then waiting while Derian leaned down to close it. The black gelding gave a rather bored look their way as he continued plodding down the road toward u-Bishinti, but the humans were much more communicative.

“Derian!” Rahniseeta said, her Liglimosh accent giving the three syllables unwonted music. “We have come to see you, and now you come to see us. Is that your horse?”

Derian patted Prahini on the neck as he drew the mare into a walk alongside the still-moving carriage.

“Yes. This is Prahini. I chose her yesterday and planned to come up to the city to see you—and fulfill my promise to act as teacher—as soon as we knew each other a little better.”

Barnet gave a gusty sigh. “And you wouldn’t be a moment too soon. Rahniseeta rescued me today. It seems that learning Pellish is the fashion of the moment. I’m not quite sure why, since no one seems particularly eager to talk about the practical side of things—trade goods or markets or even the dangers of piracy.”

“It is a way,” Rahniseeta said seriously, “of demonstrating agreement with Fire’s daring in sending
Fayonejunjal
north earlier this season. In learning Pellish, the disdum are in effect saying ‘This was good. We are preparing for the next step.’”

“What they are saying,” Barnet said with a broad grin, “is, ‘Hello, Your Majesty. How are you? My name is Whatever, and I am a servant of the deities.’ Over and over again with very little sense for anything but memorizing the sounds. When I try to explain that learning the language involves more than memorizing a few phrases, most of them don’t want to hear it. More and more I appreciate what a good student Harjeedian was.”

“My brother does have a gift for languages,” Rahniseeta said, rather smugly.

Derian felt nettled.

“How would you know about languages?” he asked. “From what I’ve been told, you folks are pretty isolated here. There’s that inlet to the north that cuts you off from there, the ocean to the east, and I haven’t heard much mention of neighbors on your other flanks.”

“True,” Rahniseeta replied. “It seems that we did once have a neighboring nation, or colony, to the south, but that they did not survive the aftereffects of the Divine Retribution—not in any systematic fashion. There are small, independent settlements there, not even necessarily allied with each other, much less with us. I believe there is some trade, but on a small scale.”

“So,” Derian persisted, cutting in before Barnet could ask about these southern peoples, “how do you know Harjeedian is good with languages?”

“Well,” Rahniseeta replied tartly, “there is the evidence of his experience with Pellish.”

“You spoke,” Derian persisted, “as if you had prior experience.”

Rahniseeta looked at him as if wondering why he was belaboring such a minor point. Derian couldn’t tell her that Prahini’s warmth beneath him was creating a guilty surge of anger at Harjeedian—and with that anger an unwillingness to hear the aridisdu praised.

“Well,” Rahniseeta said, “although we are one people, we have two languages. The documents related to the disdum—holy stories, guidelines for auguries, ceremonial incantations—are all kept in the older form of our language. The two have diverged a great deal over time.”

Barnet leaned forward to get her attention.

“Had the languages begun to separate before the Divine Retribution or is this something that has occurred since?”

Rahniseeta pursed her lips thoughtfully, an expression that made Derian think irresistibly about kissing her.

“The separation began a long time ago,” she said, “but Harjeedian says that the language we speak now is becoming different than what was spoken at the time of the Divine Retribution. He says that it is likely we would have no problem communicating with peoples of the Plague time, but that we would tell ourselves apart by how we used words and structured sentences. My understanding is that the old form of the language is markedly different, and that even at the time of the Divine Retribution it took a scholar to be able to speak and read it.”

“Well, that explains something that had been bothering me,” Barnet said. “I’ve been trying to learn to read your language, and some texts were pretty simple to piece through—especially after one of my more diligent students made me a copy of the dictionary he’d been keeping for himself. Other texts might as well have been written in New Kelvinese for all I could make out.”

They had come up to the central hub where visitors customarily left their carriages and checked in with the resident officials regarding their business. Derian gave Prahini to one of the stable girls, promising to come check on the mare later.

“I don’t really have a place of my own,” he said. “I’m staying up the hill with Varjuna and his family, and it’s a fair walk. There is a public eating house where even at this hour I think we could get something to drink.”

He looked at Barnet, offering a bit more explanation. “It isn’t quite a pub, more like a guild house or a society meeting hall—members are welcome without a fee, but I’m not sure how they handle guests.”

Rahniseeta smiled. “If it is anything like the Temple of the Cold Bloods, no one will begrudge us a cup of something, but they might question if we ordered a banquet. May we go there? I would very much like to rinse the dust of the road out of my mouth.”

Again she worked those lovely full lips and Derian found himself imagining taking the road dust out of her mouth in an entirely different fashion. Shaking himself slightly, he led the way to what he couldn’t help but think of as the local tavern.

At this point in the day, it was nearly deserted, but Derian managed to secure drinks for them all without having to ask either Rahniseeta or Barnet to translate. The woman who had been drowsing in the kitchen area supplied a chunk of soft cheese and some bread of her own accord. She didn’t ask for money, and Derian simply resolved to check the correct procedure with Varjuna or Zira. Meanwhile, his red hair proclaimed who and what he was, and he hoped any slips would be forgiven.

Derian looked over at Barnet.

“So, minstrel, how goes your turn as teacher?”

“Not so bad,” Barnet said, “though I could do with a smaller class or a bit more pay.”

This last was a sore point with him—one he’d already mentioned to Derian. Initially, like all his shipwrecked mates, Barnet had been glad enough simply to be alive and among kind—if odd—people. Now, however, with a voyage behind him, as well as countless hours of language lesson, Barnet was growing impatient.