But none of the Shainsa party, not even Merach, understood what they faced. They themselves had in all likelihood raided and burned, taken slaves or destroyed whole villages. The smoking ruins of Nuriya and the desolation of its inhabitants were not beyond their experience. Confident of victory, they would go up against blasters with swords.
The gathering dispersed, with the villagers salvaging what they could and tending to the injured. Two of Hayat’s men erected a pavilion, and the rest went about commandeering the best of the remaining huts. Gareth stayed out of their way. He felt torn between his outrage at the burning of the village, his own desire to see Poulos and his forces suffer for what they had done, and the foolishness of any assault on the base. He reminded himself that there was more at stake here than simple retaliation. If by some twist of fate, Hayat prevailed, that would place the blasters in the hands of the enemies of the Domains.
As horrific as their burning of the village had been, the off-worlders were not the worst threat to the Domains. The real danger came from those same weapons in the hands of men such as Hayat. Gareth had no real hope of dissuading Hayat from making an effort to obtain blasters, whether by force or persuasion, yet he had to try. Failing that, as he most likely would, he must do whatever was necessary to prevent an alliance between Poulos and Hayat. Perhaps he could sow suspicion, create a rift, but he had no idea how he might accomplish that.
Carrying himself like a man treading a path between two looming catastrophes, he approached the pavilion. The cloth roof provided shade, and the flaps on two sides had been drawn up to admit what little breeze there was. A pile of blankets, wool woven in distinctive Shainsan patterns, covered the floor. Hayat had stretched out on the blankets, head propped on one hand, a cup held in his other.
The Dry Towner on guard outside blocked Gareth’s path. He was one of the riders who carried his sword across his back, hilt just behind his left shoulder. A bandolier holding an array of knives crossed his chest. “Get lost, sand-rat. Unless you’re looking for a beating.”
“Please . . .” Gareth insinuated a fawning tone into his voice, as he had heard so many times from those seeking favors from him at court. “I beg a word with the great lord . . .”
The guard scowled, clearly skeptical that a villager could have anything of interest to say.
“Let him approach, Ward,” Hayat called. “He’ll furnish a moment’s amusement, if nothing else.”
In the shade of the pavilion, Gareth dropped to his knees. It surprised him how naturally he prostrated himself, he who had never before been required to bow to a superior.
“Well?” Hayat’s eyes glinted as he drawled the question. “I hardly think you’re here for more punishment, so what’s this about?”
Gareth took a breath, reminding himself that it was best to stick to the truth as much as possible. “These off-worlders, the ones the headman spoke of . . . they will not welcome a native emissary. You will be leading your men to certain death if you try. Yes, once they were willing to bargain—a few of their weapons in exchange for a secret base. But that pact is broken now. They insulted Cuinn’s honor and in return, he poisoned the well from which they drew their water.”
By Hayat’s reaction, Cuinn had not revealed that part of the story.
“Two of the off-worlders died, and others sickened. Their leader ordered this attack—” Gareth gestured to the smoke still rising from the smoldering remains of wooden structures. “They have weapons much more powerful than blasters, and they will not hesitate to use them. If they destroyed a village to prevent Cuinn from revealing their presence, do you think they’ll hesitate to eliminate anyone else who might tell the tale?”
Gareth stumbled to a halt. He’d already said more than was prudent. His tongue had run away with him.
Hayat did not dismiss Gareth but studied him for a long moment. One corner of his mouth twitched. Merach stepped out from behind one of the tent sides. Hayat’s gaze flickered to his adviser and then back to Gareth. “How exactly do you know all this?”
“I’ve been—I’ve seen the base.”
“More than just seen.”
Gareth hung his head. “As you say, great lord.”
“Humpf! Merach, what do you think? Is it worth whipping the truth out of this one?”
“His story does explain what we’ve seen here. It would do no harm to approach this base as friends and allies, rather than as conquerors, just in case the rest is true. If this one has had dealings with these off-worlders, he might be useful to you, lord.”
“And best remain unwhipped?”
Merach inclined his head in acknowledgment. “For the time being.”
“I don’t trust him,” Hayat continued. “He’s not like the others. He has eyes in his head and a tongue in his mouth.” He looked as if he’d like to change that but did not want to cripple a useful tool.
“He looks familiar, this Garrin,” Merach said. “I’ve seen him before . . .”
Gareth bowed again, this time to Merach, carefully keeping his face averted. “In Carthon, my lord. I believe we passed in the plaza when I was about business for my master.”
“Carthon,” Merach repeated, a trace too smoothly. “Yes, it must have been. A trader, as I recall.”
“You’re a long way from home,” said Hayat.
Gareth hung his head deeper.
“In Carthon, he might have had dealings with the Hali’imyn,” Merach said. “Perhaps even learned their tongue, what is it called? Chasta?”
“I have often spoken that language,” Gareth murmured. “I know a little off-worlder talk, as well. That is how I know what I just related to Your Magnificence.”
Hayat grunted again. Then, after a moment’s reflection: “He might serve as a translator. Yes, that’s it! Merach, you’re worth your weight in rubies! Take the sand-rat away and make sure he doesn’t run off. Find out what else he knows. We’ll take him with us tomorrow and see if he’s telling the truth. If not, he’ll make a good example to show these off-worlders I mean business.”
Merach laid one hand on Gareth’s shoulder and propelled him, firmly but not too roughly, in the direction of Cuinn’s hut. When they were out of earshot of the pavilion, Merach said, “I would let you go in payment of my honor debt, but that would ensure your death. Hayat would think you guilty of deceiving him and would not rest until he placed your severed head on a stick. He enjoys the hunt.”
Gareth lifted his head to meet the other man’s gaze. “I did not do what I did in order to extract payment at a later date. You owe me nothing. What I said to Hayat was true, all of it. If he tries to threaten the off-worlders or even if he doesn’t, if they even think he does, they’ll eliminate you all. You have no idea how powerful their weapons are.”
“Demon-fire.”
“Not demons. Off-world technology.”
Merach made a dismissive gesture, as if the origin of the weapons did not matter, but his expression remained serious.
“Hayat’s used to having his own way with his father’s warriors to back him up,” Gareth blurted. “He’ll go riding into the Terranan camp, not caring who he offends, acting as if he’s entitled to whatever he wants. Swords are useless against the weapons down there. He’ll get himself and everyone who follows him killed.” At this, Merach’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Gareth knew his point had hit home. “Look, I may not have said this in the best way. Hayat won’t listen to me, but he does listen to you.”
“A man’s sword is but one tool in the service of his kihar,” Merach said, in the manner of one reciting an oft-heard aphorism.
No man of honor is ever truly disarmed.
They had reached Cuinn’s hut. Someone had replaced the charred wooden door with a blanket. “Remain inside,” Merach said, sounding genuinely regretful. “It’s for your own safety. If Lord Hayat sees you wandering about the village, he’ll be certain yo
u are up to no good.” Then not even I can save you.
“I won’t run off.” Gareth grasped the edge of the blanket, creating an opening wide enough to slip through sideways. The smells of burned wood and sweat, of pain and grief, flowed from the darkened interior. He turned back to Merach. “I will go with you tomorrow. To do what I can to prevent another slaughter. I meant what I said about the dangers of having anything to do with the off-worlders.”
“What is Hayat to you, that you would commit yourself to his service?”
“I would not see him—or any man—slaughtered for no reason other than his own ignorance,” Gareth replied. “The killing would not stop with his own death. Lord Dayan would retaliate. He would be bound by honor and kin bond to do so.”
Merach inclined his head, his eyes hooded. “Indeed. He would send an army to avenge the death of his son and heir.”
“He’d stand as little chance as Hayat. The violence would escalate until nothing could stop it. Look at this village! Would you see all of Shainsa reduced to this?” Gareth broke off, his mind filled with images of wildfires ravening across the Hellers, of the fertile Plains of Valeron a vast reach of ashes, of Thendara itself a splintered ruin—
Without waiting for Merach’s response, Gareth strode into the hut. The darkness blinded him until his eyes adjusted. His heart, which had been hammering against his ribs, slowed.
A figure in a long dark robe and headscarf crouched beside the bed where Cuinn lay. For a moment, Gareth thought he looked upon Avarra, the Dark Lady who ushered the dying into the peace of death, but she was only an old woman in widow’s black. She dipped a cloth into a basin of water, wrung it out, and wiped Cuinn’s forehead.
The woman looked up, her eyes like blots of night in the pale oval of her face, and returned to her nursing. The headman rolled his head from side to side, murmuring incoherently. Gareth leaned against the wall beside the door and slowly slid to the floor.
There was nothing to do except wait. Wait and hope that Rahelle had had the sense to get to her horse, wherever she had hidden it, and escape to Duruhl-ya.
His own chances for survival were almost nonexistent. If he could, he would make another attempt to dissuade Hayat, but he didn’t think he’d be any more successful. Merach was a man of sense and intelligence, but even he would not overtly defy his master’s son.
The old woman finished her task and left. Hours passed. From time to time, Gareth got up and stretched. He slept fitfully, rousing when the woman returned. She brought not only a basin with fresh water but a jug and a plate of smoke-smelling boiled grain for Gareth. She repeated her bathing, but this time Cuinn lay as one already dead. For a time afterward, Gareth heard the sound of Cuinn’s breathing, and then he did not hear it.
When the woman came back the third time, it was night. She halted just inside the blanket curtain, sniffed twice, and withdrew. A few minutes later, two of the older village boys took away Cuinn’s body.
Alone, Gareth lost all sense of the passing of night. He could not bring himself to lie down on Cuinn’s empty bed. His mind, which had been so full of doubts and questions, went blank. He did not feel calm, he felt empty, empty of purpose, empty of grief.
Eventually, he slept.
The next morning, one of Hayat’s men—Ward, Gareth thought—came to tell him to prepare to leave. Gareth was given a few broken fragments of bread, probably from the Shainsans’ own supplies, and was allowed to drink and to wash his face and hands at the well. A sort of altar had been set up beside the well, a few pieces of partly burned wood on which someone had drawn a crude picture of a toad in charcoal. One of Hayat’s men knelt there. His eyes were closed, and his lips moved soundlessly. He’d placed a piece of dried fruit beside the dried flowers on the altar.
Without thinking, Gareth raised one hand to his amulet. If he pretended to be a devotee of Nebran, but failed to offer even a single prayer for protection, someone might well take notice. He still had a few coins tucked in the folds of his belt; Hayat’s men might be rough, but they were not thieves. He placed a small copper piece beside the other offerings and settled on his knees in imitation of the other man. He had no idea what the proper prayers might be, but no one questioned him. Perhaps there was no set procedure and men simply offered up their hopes and worries. Kneeling there, moving his lips, his eyes closed against the ruin of the village and the flat, uncompromising light, Gareth felt an unexpected sense of calm creep over him.
He startled alert at the sounds of horses, of men calling to one another, and shouted orders to mount up. He clambered to his feet and shuffled over to the knot of riders. Someone had caught a couple of the village horses and was leading them back . . . Rahelle!
Headstrong, stubborn woman! Gareth was too furious to look directly at her. He’d sent her away—she was supposed to be safe! Instead, she’d wheedled herself into becoming Hayat’s horse boy.
Hayat himself was in a fine, fiery mood. He laughed loudly as he made his white horse prance and spin on its hindquarters. A handful of village children watched, silent and round-eyed. Merach sat quietly on his neat bay, wasting neither his breath nor his horse’s strength on idle show. He looked over at Gareth, his gray eyes somber.
He knows this is no holiday parade. Perhaps there was hope if Merach had believed the warning.
Ward indicated that Gareth should mount a speckled gray mare. There was no saddle or pad, only a rope halter. The lead line had been looped under the noseband, through the beast’s mouth, and then tied into reins. They started off and soon were climbing into the soot-dark hills.
Gareth struggled to maintain his seat. He’d ridden bareback on a few occasions, but always on a horse with a smooth, round back. The mare’s spine stuck out like a ridge of knives. As the trail became more steep, Gareth took hold of her mane to keep from sliding. By contrast, the saddles used by Hayat’s men had thickly padded seats for comfort. As they neared the crest of the hill, it occurred to Gareth that going down would be much worse, with nothing between his tender parts and the mare’s bony withers. Rahelle, Gareth noticed, perched on her horse with apparent ease. At least she kept to herself in her horse boy disguise. None of Hayat’s men looked twice at her.
Merach, in the lead, raised one arm to signal a halt. Hayat nudged his horse beside the bay. Gareth tried to imagine what the base must look like to men who had never seen a spaceport before. The sight clearly excited Hayat even further, although he had sense not to gallop downhill the rest of the way.
“Lord Hayat, if we can see them, can they not also see us?” Merach said.
Gareth caught Hayat’s expression, a glint of frustration quickly smoothed away by reason. He was intelligent enough to realize that a measured advance was his best hope of a friendly welcome.
He’d probably prefer an open fight, Gareth thought. He couldn’t see men moving in the camp below, but he had not the slightest doubt that Poulos knew the riders were there, as well as their numbers and weapons. Poulos was not such a fool as to dismiss the possibility of retaliation from the village.
Hayat started once more down the hill. He kept the white horse to a measured pace, with Merach next. The trail forced the riders to go single file. The horses dipped their heads, picking their way on the uneven surface. No one attempted to converse. The only sounds were the clopping of the hooves, the skitter of dislodged pebbles, and an occasional snort or whisk of a tail.
It was just as well for Gareth that they descended slowly. He kept sliding on to the mare’s withers, and then, when he could stand the pressure no longer, he would grip the thin ribcage with his knees until his thigh muscles burned. Before long, he was alternately bruised and aching. His hips felt twisted half out of their sockets.
They were about two-thirds down the hill, with the base camp in plain sight, when Merach cried out a warning and pointed. Hayat came to a stop. The horses crowded together. For a moment, Gareth could not make
out what was happening, but then a gap opened between the rider in front of him and Merach’s horse. He saw a commotion at the base of the shuttle. There seemed to be too many men, even assuming Taz and Viss had recovered.
One of the men, Offenbach most likely, ran for the office building. A mass of glowing brilliance, whiter than any natural flame, ignited below the shuttle. Rumbling, hard-edged thunder rolled out from the valley. The rock beneath Gareth’s horse shook. Pebbles and dust tumbled downhill. The white horse whickered in terror. Behind Gareth, another horse tried to turn around. It slipped on the rock, and only the skill of its rider kept it from falling. Gareth’s mount stood, head down, placidly oblivious to anything but a chance to rest.
The sound increased, quickly rising to deafening loudness. The shuttle no longer rested on the ground; there was a distinct gap beneath it. Then it rose, at first slowly but gathering speed with each passing moment. Within moments, it had cleared the crater on its way into space.
25
“Hai!” Hayat exclaimed. “Victory is mine! See how the cowards flee before me!”
Hardly fleeing, Gareth thought.
He struggled to make sense of the scene below. Surely the smugglers had not abandoned their base, not with the buildings intact, the lights burning, the crates in their stacks . . . no, there were gaps here and there. He might not have noticed, had he not hauled them into place himself.
Two men emerged from the headquarters. One he would have recognized anywhere—Poulos.
With the massive guard at his back, Poulos took up a position facing the trail. By the angle of his upper body, he was staring at the Dry Towners. Both he and the guard held unfamiliar weapons, forearm-long cylinders with handgrips like elaborate basket hilts. Gareth’s skin prickled, although he did not think the off-worlder knew he was among them. He hoped Nebran or whatever god these Shainsans prayed to was listening. He wished there were some way he could make Rahelle leave, although that was impossible now.