Scatterlings

  Sand lay over the road like a fine powder, shifting and drifting under the passing feet. The road itself was a proper paved highway crumbling away at the edges. Merlin wondered who had made it.

  Her head was throbbing from the intensity of the sun long before she reached the narrow path leading into the Valley. Sweat dripped steadily from her chin and fingertips and she gasped with relief when the path curved into heavy cool shade.

  The sudden cold restored her scattered wits.

  The narrow path was bordered by solid, natural walls of stone on either side, and led steeply down and under a stone arch. From the top, there was a clear, if restricted, view of the Valley.

  Directly in front was a virtual city of tents divided into sections – clan groups, Merlin guessed. Minute puffs of bluish smoke suggested cooking fires and her stomach creaked loudly.

  On the far side of the Valley, the two hills were still yoked together by a wall of stone, making the slender path the only way in and out of the Valley. Near this wall was a great, still mirror-like pool of water. Beside this, at the back of the first mountain, a rough temple was carved into the stone cliff.

  Everywhere there were crowds of people, numerous and active as ants.

  At the very end of the path, just beyond the arch, the pass became so narrow only one could enter at a time. With a note of alarm, Merlin realised there were two people flanking the end of the pass like guards.

  Frightened, she looked behind her. No one seemed disturbed by the guards, if that was what they were, but it looked as if they were questioning each arrival. With a sinking heart, she knew that the press of people behind gave her no option but to go on.

  Her heart began to race.

  The two gate people stared silently at a painted man, then nodded after a moment and he passed through. Merlin was close enough to hear them speak – except they were silent.

  Another man came to the end of the path and the same thing happened.

  This warned her the two gate people were using telepathy. What would happen when they came to her? Her mind whirled. Ford had said he sensed her thoughts. Was it possible for her to project them? She looked like the clanpeople and she shared their immunities. Could it be that she also had telepathy? She had never tried. Trembling with fright, she tried to make her mind receptive. Marthe had said nothing of the gate-guards, but she had made it very clear that exposure meant danger.

  Merlin’s heart thundered as the last of the richly dressed jewel people went through. Then it was her turn.

  ‘Clan?’ asked the gate-man telepathically. Merlin almost wept with relief. But how was she to answer? She dared not say Fallon clan because of her rags. She savaged her memory for another name, and prayed it would suit, then she thought it as loudly as she could at the guard. If she did not have telepathy, she was about to find out.

  The gate-man winced visibly. ‘No need to scream it at me,’ he said aloud wryly. ‘I can take a mindprint without that. Nallar clan it is. Now pass and peace to you.’

  Merlin stumbled forward into the Valley on legs that felt curiously detached from her body, wondering if a mindprint was something like a voice or fingerprint. Whatever they had been looking for, Merlin’s mindprint had passed muster. She was in!

  ‘Did he say you belonged to Nallar clan?’ asked a masculine voice politely. Merlin froze. The speaker was one of the wealthy looking game-players who had gone in before her.

  ‘Nallar?’ drawled a slightly malicious masculine voice. ‘She is no more of Nallar than I.’

  There was an appalled hush from the rest of the group.

  ‘What are you saying, Delpha?’ asked one of his companions. ‘Are you calling her a liar?’

  6

  ‘Since when did Nallar dress in rags?’

  Merlin looked at her accuser. He was tall and dressed in a black, tight-fitting body suit that accentuated his extreme thinness. A brilliant scarlet silk coat fluttered from his shoulders and a jewel-encrusted belt hung low on his hips. His eyes glittered gold through heavily painted drooping eyelids.

  The red-faced man who had first spoken looked from Merlin to the man he had called Delpha. ‘Do you charge her with lying?’

  Delpha twisted his thin lips into an ambiguous smile. He moved continually as he spoke: sinuous, graceful movements of hand and hip. ‘I said nothing about lies,’ he answered after a deliberate pause. ‘But what do you say to her appearance, and her claim to be of Nallar?’

  The other frowned heavily. ‘Such an accusation is not a matter for humour, even your peculiar brand of humour, Delpha.’

  ‘Poverty is no matter for laughter. It is unfortunate that some clans are less well endowed than Fallon. Perhaps Nallar has fallen on hard times.’ The new speaker was a rather effeminately handsome golden-haired man with long, beautifully smooth curls.

  ‘I do not concern myself with the poverty of other clans,’ Delpha said langourously.

  A dazzlingly lovely young woman reached up and stroked his cheek. ‘Don’t take any notice of Delpha, Aran. He doesn’t care what he says, so long as it causes a fuss,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t see that I am expressing any outrageous ideas to upset your lady’s delicate mentality, Aran. My position is well known,’ Delpha said. ‘I ask only why we should trouble ourselves with clans stupid enough to settle themselves in inhospitable and barren terrain, yet sly enough in hindsight to come to Conclave and beg for charity? If Nallar has fallen, I will not offer aid,’ Delpha announced.

  He turned abruptly to stare at Merlin, who had been trying to edge away. ‘And, Lady Meer, perhaps you can tell me when Nallar began to cut hair.’

  ‘It was burnt.’ Merlin spoke quickly, cursing herself for not remembering how Ford and Era had reacted to her short hair.

  Delpha raised dark saturnine eyebrows. ‘Burnt? How?’

  Merlin blinked rapidly.

  ‘But I don’t understand how Nallar can have become a poor clan,’ said a girl with protruding eyes and a plaintive voice.

  ‘Your lack of understanding is no surprise, Mya.’ Aran said caustically, sounding suddenly anything but effeminate. ‘Or have you begun to study the clans in your spare hours?’

  The girl flushed unbecomingly and Delpha turned to watch her, seeming to lose interest in tormenting Merlin without an audience.

  ‘I see no reason to bother myself with studying other clans, since their business is not mine,’ Mya said loftily.

  Delpha laughed sharply, seeing a new target for his spite. ‘Unless the wardens decide to oathbind you outside Fallon . . .’

  Mya looked at him, her lower lip trembling. ‘But we . . .’

  ‘Mya. He’s teasing you,’ Aran said. ‘You should not be so ready to believe all that is said to you. Ignorance is a thing study would repair.’

  ‘A good trait for an oathmate, I should have thought,’ said Delpha.

  Mya burst into tears and ran off.

  ‘Delpha, it is cruel of you to treat her that way when you have led her to believe you offer suit,’ said the lovely young woman who seemed to be paired with Aran. ‘You know she is terrified of being sent away from Fallon. And I do not like your allusion to the requirements of a bondmate.’

  Delpha shrugged. ‘Then it is fortunate that you continue to reject my suit.’ Merlin tried not to cringe as his sardonic gaze fell on her again. ‘And what are we to make of this one? Is Nallar fallen on hard times?’

  ‘That’s enough, Delpha,’ Aran said with cool finality. ‘The gate-guardians would have exposed an exile mindprint. If you have some other accusation to make, then demand mindbond of her and be done with it. But I somehow doubt you will make such a demand whatever your suspicions, because then she would know the truth of you also.’

  Delpha gave him a look of dislike. ‘I would not call for mindbond so freely here, Aran. The practice is out of favour.’ Before Aran could respond, he turned to face Merlin. ‘Well, girl, do not think yourself too fortunate. Aran merely defends you as one of the pawns in our
game.’ He looked significantly at the Lady Meer.

  Aran flushed angrily, but his lady spoke before he could react to Delpha’s implication that the Lady Meer was another such pawn.

  ‘Perhaps we could barter her services as a maid,’ said the Lady Meer kindly. She alone of the group seemed to see Merlin as a human being.

  Aran smiled at her. ‘Why not? Bors?’

  A big man in peasant clothes stepped forward.

  ‘Bors, take her to the stalls,’ Aran ordered. ‘Arrange for her to be cleaned and dressed appropriately. And feed her. My lady will have no use for her until night falls.’

  Bors waited while Aran and the others departed, before turning to Merlin. ‘You are lucky, girl. If Aran had not intervened, Delpha would have sharpened his claws on you. Instead, you are to be taken to the stalls at Fallon’s expense. Come, I will take you to the bathing tents.’

  Merlin followed the big man beyond the clan tents to a separate area for trade and barter which had not been visible from the path. She was amazed at the way Aran and his lady had never bothered asking her if she wanted a job. They obviously meant it kindly, but they had behaved as if she had no choice.

  There were dozens of tents fronted by trestle tables laden with every kind of ware from cloth and rugs to jars of fruit and spices, and even sculptures and paintings. There was a large corral to one side, where a herd of the camel creatures milled in endless spirals. Merlin wondered if the animals were the only ones able to tolerate the long, hot journey across the Region of Sands. The smell of the pens flowed over the stalls to mingle with the odours of sweat and the perfumes of buyers.

  But above all these Merlin detected the enticing odours of cooking food. Her mouth watered at the smell of meat roasting, sweet apples dipped in brown sticky toffee, and fresh loaves of dark bread.

  ‘Could I eat first?’ she asked. Bors grinned down at her. ‘Why not?’

  After filling the gaping hole in her belly with bread and meat and sweet baked potatoes, Merlin tried some of the more exotic fare – purple crusted pies with a strong berry smell, a greenish donut with a very bitter filling, and a number of unusual fruits.

  Licking her fingers sleepily, she sighed, unable to fit in another morsel. All she wanted to do was sleep and rest her distended belly.

  Bors roared with laughter. ‘You are a person after my own heart, though your legs must be hollow. What is your name?’

  ‘Merlin,’ she answered, and her languid air vanished as Bors frowned.

  ‘That is not a name I have heard before . . .’ he said. ‘And you say you are of Nallar?’

  Merlin felt all the food she had eaten revolve uneasily in her stomach.

  ‘A word of warning,’ Bors went on. ‘Beware of Delpha. He will blame you because Aran bested him in front of the Lady Meer on your behalf. He is the sort who seeks revenge for the smallest slight, and there is bad blood between Delpha and Aran’s line.’ He did not seem to expect a response. He led her to a large white tent. ‘These are the public bathing tents.’ He looked down at her. ‘This is your first time at Conclave?’

  Merlin nodded uncomfortably. ‘I have not been here before . . .’ she said vaguely, wondering how she had exposed her ignorance. Bors nodded noncommittally and turned to a thin, pinch-mouthed woman swathed in white robes who had come out of the tent.

  ‘This girl needs a bath and . . . all the rest of it. And then she must be sent along to Fallon’s stall for clothing,’ Bors instructed in a new imperious voice that told Merlin the bathing woman was lower on the clan social scale.

  The woman appeared to recognise the big man and ushered Merlin into the tent with a servile smile.

  ‘Make sure you reach Fallon’s tents by nightfall,’ Bors called after her. ‘Someone will show you the way.’

  Merlin followed the woman through a long narrow section of the billowing tent. Flaps set all along one side led to separate enclosed areas, each containing towels and a round, flat pan. A vision of chrome taps and bath racks disappeared. Some of the sections were curtained, indicating they were occupied. A glimpse of a woman bathing guided Merlin’s behaviour when she was left in one of the rooms.

  The length of chain hanging from the collar looked incongruous against her naked body when she shed her rags. She draped a towel around her hair, taking up the chain at the same time. If she kept her head down, it was unlikely the collar would be noticed.

  Before long, a young boy appeared carrying an enormous jug of steaming water on his head. Fortunately, he did not notice her reaction to his casual invasion. Without speaking, he poured warm water from the jug into the pan. Setting down the empty jug, he solemnly handed her a small phial of what looked like oil, and departed.

  Merlin sniffed the bottle. She did not recognise the scent, but it smelled delicious. She poured it gingerly into her palm. It lathered up. Looking around to make sure no one was watching through the tent flap, she whipped off the towel, wet her hair and washed it. Massaging her scalp vigorously, she let the froth fall onto the water and slid under to her chin hiding both collar and chain with a sigh of relief. She had no idea what would be made of the collar, if anything, but Marthe had said to avoid drawing attention to herself and she had a strong feeling the collar would do exactly that, were it noticed. She had not anticipated so many minor pitfalls in passing herself off as a clanperson.

  Of course, neither had she imagined being challenged within moments of entering the Valley. Still, things had worked out well enough as long as she could manage to stay away from the Fallon clan.

  Her eyelids drooped. It was nice to be clean. And to be content. She patted her tight stomach and stifled a giggle.

  Then she sobered. She would have to be careful of the malicious Delpha. Marthe had been very explicit about the dangers of being caught in a lie. But Merlin refused to worry in advance. It would not be too difficult to disappear among the hundreds in the Valley.

  In the meantime – she stretched out luxuriously – she might as well enjoy the unexpected pampering.

  Her heart jumped when the jug boy returned. The water was very hot but she dared not sit up until he was gone.

  She wondered fleetingly if the bathing pans and all the other paraphernalia had been transported across the desert to the Valley, and what the permanent clan settlements were like if they treated themselves so lavishly during Conclave.

  The boy returned with another jug of water. This time he set the jug on the ground beside the bath. When he left, she sat up and poured the jug over herself, gasping in shock as freezing water cascaded over her.

  Shivering, she used the towels provided to dry, then donned a calico robe hanging on a stand, relieved to have the collar and chain hidden again. She was just in time because the boy returned carrying a small bowl of something that looked like milk jelly.

  She noticed the boy’s eyes linger on her hair and decided it was time to go.

  ‘You are ready for the rub?’ he enquired.

  Merlin pointed to the robe. ‘And . . . my clothes.’

  ‘Your other clothing was burnt,’ the boy answered. ‘It was not thought you would wish to keep it.’

  Merlin shrugged, feigning boredom, and wondered what was to happen next. She had not wanted to go to Fallon’s stall, but it seemed she had no choice unless she meant to walk round in a bath robe.

  The jelly proved to be a smooth, stinging substance which was rubbed into the bare skin. The boy was deft and impersonal as he smoothed it over her flesh, but Merlin only let him rub her arms and legs and even then she felt embarrassed and self-conscious. When he was finished, he produced a comb and tidied her hair.

  ‘It was burned,’ Merlin said casually. ‘The ends were trimmed for neatness.’

  ‘Your hair is a rare colour, and it will grow,’ he said commiseratingly.

  Merlin was escorted by the boy to the Fallon silk tent, where she chose a pale-golden silk tunic with a high collar, slit from knee to waist on either side, a green shawl, loose trousers and flat
sandals. The man in charge of this stall had been visited by Bors and expected her.

  ‘Very nice, though it is a pity about the hair,’ he said when she was dressed. ‘Are you to join Fallon’s pleasure tents?’

  Merlin shook her head firmly, having some notion what they might be.

  The man shook his head regretfully. ‘Perhaps when your hair grows. It is an unusual colour, like unwoven red silk.’ He reached out and stroked a curl. Merlin moved away fractionally.

  ‘I am to serve the . . . Lady Meer,’ she said.

  The man nodded and sighed. ‘Well, you had better go to her now. It grows near to dusk and she will want you to help her prepare for tonight’s feasting.’

  He led Merlin out of the silk tent and pointed out the fluttering purple banner of Fallon’s dwelling tents in the fading daylight.

  Merlin headed off briskly in the direction he had indicated. When she was safely surrounded by people, she changed direction, walking hastily back the way she had come, but skirting the silk tent. She caressed the lovely silk between finger and thumb, wondering how wealthy Fallon was to be capable of dressing casual hirelings so magnificently. Or perhaps the clothing and food were to be paid for by her services.

  This meant she was stealing, since she had no intention of presenting herself to Bors’ master. She shrugged. If she were caught, she would have more to worry about than a few stolen clothes.

  She noticed a man staring covertly at her hair and hurried away, thinking she must cover or somehow disguise it. If the Fallon clan were looking for her, they would be bound to mention her hair. She might have pulled the shawl over her head, but since no one else wore a shawl that way, she would stand out again. As well, Fallon’s silk marked her. From what she had overheard, the silk appeared to be valued highly. She wondered if it would be possible to exchange the silks for more practical and anonymous clothing.