Kirian rose and looked out the front of the shop, past the eunuchs who guarded the entrance. A line of cloaked and veiled women, many with children, snaked past the other shopfronts. “It is not always like this? I thought the women of Las’ash came here because they could get no treatment elsewhere.”
“There are midwives. Most women see them, for most complaints. We do our best. But you have a different touch. I learn from you every day.”
Kirian could feel her face heating. “I’m—thank you, Hon Jhan’ko. I am honored.”
Jhan’ko lowered her voice. “You came here with a ku’an, didn’t you?”
“Uh—Lord Callo, yes.”
“And he does not forbid you to come to the hospital?”
Kirian smiled. “He encouraged me to come here.”
Jhan’ko paused. Kirian looked up to see an odd look about the woman’s eyes. “You are fortunate,” the midwife said. “But the ku’an are a capricious lot. If he changes his mind, do not feel obligated.”
“I make my own decisions,” Kirian said.
“I have never heard of a lady from the palace being out in public, in such close contact with ordinary people. I hope it does not come to the Queen’s ears.”
“Let us hope it does not,” Kirian said lightly, and rose to go back to her treatment room. She was eager to see that line in front of the hospital start moving again.
Jhan’ko’s chaperone began sending patients in as soon as Kirian returned to her room. The first one was a veiled mother drawing her son behind her. The boy was probably ten, really too old to be permitted in the hospital, but Jhan’ko had admitted him. The boy slumped in his chair and stared at the floor. When she spoke to him, he did not reply, and when she lifted his head to look at his eyes, they were dull and unfocused.
“What happened?” Kirian asked the mother, frowning. The reply shocked her.
“It was a ku’an,” the woman said. “From up at the castle. The lord ku’an was in the city on business, and told my son to hold his horse. My boy—well, he is not always very responsible, always looking at the birds, or drawing in the dirt, or daydreaming . . .” The woman stopped, cleared her throat, and then resumed. “Well, he was the gods’ gift, but not good at staying with a task, you understand, Healer?”
Kirian nodded. The boy’s eyes were looking at the canvas wall but were unfocused, paying no attention to anything going on in the room.
“Me’lar—that’s my boy—wasn’t paying attention. The horse was taken, and Me’lar couldn’t catch up to the thief. The ku’an came out of the building where he was, and . . .”
“Did this?”
“My husband says the ku’an was just punishing the boy. Using his magery, making Me’lar feel guilty, just for a while, to teach him a lesson. My husband says the lord ku’an would never do this on purpose, that he was just too heavy handed.”
“Where is the lord ku’an?”
“Gone. He took another horse from the stables and went back—to the palace, I suppose.”
“Does he know about this?”
“No! No, we would never dare try to tell him.”
Kirian looked at the boy, sitting slack and empty on the chair. She looked in his eyes, checked his reflexes, and gave him some simple directions which the boy did not respond to. “Who was this ku’an, then?”
The woman shrank into herself and said nothing.
“You know his name,” Kirian said, sure of that from the mother’s reaction.
“No. Can you help him or not?”
Kirian sighed. “I wish I could. Illnesses of the mind and of emotions are not simple to treat. There is nothing I can do. As time passes, maybe he will come out of it.”
“Time! It has been a season already. The ku’an burned out his mind.”
“Who was it, then?” Kirian demanded.
The woman rose and grasped her son’s limp arm, drawing him to his feet. “Things are bad enough for us already, Healer. We do not need to go accusing a ku’an. Gods, he would destroy all of us. Leave it alone. I am sorry I came.”
“As you wish. Look, if anything occurs to me, I will tell the midwife here. You know Jhan’ko.”
The woman paused a moment. Her voice was softer when she spoke again. “Yes. I will check back. I thank you, Healer.”
Kirian saw the woman out, her mind whirling. A ku’an had abused his talent so as to destroy a boy’s mind, and nothing was done? It fit in with what she had begun to learn about the ku’an—that they were corrupt, and above the law. In this way they were no better than the Collared Lords of Righar. She wished Callo did not have this psychic magery that seemed to corrupt those who used it. Although, remembering Callo with the injured boy back in Seagard village, she could not imagine him doing anything like this.
Her next patient was a single woman. Her veil was an uncommon affair that covered her down to her knees. A row of beads weighted its hem. The veil, draped over the woman’s floor-length robe, disguised everything about her except the woman’s ease of movement, which led Kirian to think that she was young.
“What may I help you with?” Kirian asked. She looked into the woman’s eyes through the veil and was surprised to see them sharp and bright, staring back at her with none of the timidity she sometimes saw from these women, who knew she was a foreigner of strange beliefs.
“You are the Healer who came to Las’ash City with the foreign ku’an?” the woman asked.
“Yes.”
The woman lowered her voice to a level that would not be overheard in the adjoining areas. “Then you have been here long enough to know that the ku’an are evil.”
Kirian started to reply, but the woman waved her to silence.
“They are corrupt, all of them. For the first time in memory—in several lifetimes—their numbers are few. There are not enough of them to rule. Only a dozen ku’an hold this land in their fists; did you know that?”
“That’s all?”
“They cling to power. They are afraid. That is why they are becoming more brutal, to keep the people down through fear. Not that they aren’t always self-serving bastards.”
“I am no supporter of the ku’an. But . . .”
“Help us, then. This foreign ku’an—bring him to us.”
Kirian wondered why they wanted Callo. Would they kill him? Use him for bait of some sort, to draw in other ku’an? She said, “He is not like the rest.”
“Oh, no?” The other woman laughed. “He will be. The more time he spends here, the more they will teach him to be like them. He will use his magery to force people to his will, no matter how trivial a matter it is. He is not a priest, is he, to resist that? Is he not what they call a
righ,
a man of noble birth in his own country?”
Kirian rose. “You know, I think you’d better go.”
“I will tell you where to bring him. There will be no blame for you – we’ll arrange it that way.”
They’ll kill him, and then the ku’an here will kill me,
she thought.
“Go, please,” she said.
The woman walked toward the door. “I will see you again,” she said. “Look around you, until I come again. Watch him—watch all of the cursed ku’an. You will see what I mean.”
Chapter Eleven
The surface of the practice ring was dirt, worn smooth and hard with the pressure of many feet. It was surrounded by a rail where observers leaned to encourage the participants—or sometimes to howl their derision at an ill-done maneuver. Callo had heard both, in the season he had been at Las’ash, but neither was ever directed toward him. He was usually unobserved; when men did watch his forms, they were silent, gauging his skill with eyes that gave back nothing of their reactions.
Today, he had come to the ring before breakfast. He waited his turn behind a clump of armed guardsmen and warriors waiting for their chance to hone their skills. He stood there only a portion of a candlemark before the waiting group dissolved, men moving away here and there in so casual a manner that, if he hadn’t been watching for it, he might not have realized their disappearance was because of him.
Interestingly, he had seen only a few ku’an since his arrival, yet everyone seemed to know what a ku’an looked like, and no one seemed to trust one. The power of this land was crammed into the fists of the ku’an. They were feared, so Callo thought they had used their power to ensure their wills were followed many times before. He despised the boy King, with his lust for women regardless of whether they were willing. He thought the Queen valued her comfort and her status above any natural feeling of affection for her son. He had met the First Warlord, a brutal man who mistreated his servants. And then there was Si’lan, lord of the psychic mages. He could not make up his mind about the ku’an’an.
Looking at Si’lan, he could not help but notice the fair hair turned silver, the amber eyes. There was a certain structure to the face that seemed familiar, the body type that seemed an echo of his own. Si’lan was complex, sometimes malicious, and unwilling to provide much information about the capabilities of the ku’an. In spite of this, Callo had never seen in him the overt misuse of power common to the other ku’an. He hoped that Si’lan had honor, because he thought Si’lan might be important to him.
Now the ring was empty. There were still contestants in the smaller rings, but this one stretched smooth and dusty before him as if to welcome him. Callo lifted his sword in the traditional salute to Jashan, god of light and war, and began the form with slow fluidity, stretching, welcoming the contracting and loosening of his muscles.
Long ago Chiss had found the Jashanite sword instructor, and he had seen to it that Callo had been taught the forms. “Focus on this,” he had said. “Learn what the master has to teach you, and the god will help you keep your anger to yourself.”
Even then, Chiss had known he was ku’an.
Now everyone knew. He had not had a decent match since he had been here. No one would contend against a ku’an.
Just as the prescribed motions of the first form drew to a close, Callo heard the clang of the bell at the entrance to his ring. Someone craved a contest.
Callo saw a lean, brown man of middle years. His face was seamed with a scar under his eye, another along his jaw. The man carried a huge sword and a scarred shield.
“I am Ha’star, newly back from the front. I wish a match.”
“Welcome,” Callo said, and meant it. The prospect of a match against a man honed by battle pleased him. It could be a good match, a challenging one. He remembered when he and Arias had returned from duty on Righar’s fronts, tired but sharp and strong, dangerous to those who were soft from life in Sugetre. This man might be equally dangerous.
They took their positions in the ring. Ha’star leaned his shield up against the wooden rail support. He and Callo exchanged their weapons for blunted training swords which were resting against the rail.
Callo measured the other man as he took his stance. Ha’star weighed the training sword, gauging its feel. He handled the weapon as if it were the real thing, and Callo thought Ha’star would fight in deadly earnest, training match or no. Callo found himself grinning in anticipation as he lifted his own sword. He nodded at Ha’star.
The other man gave the order—“Hai!”—and they swung into motion. Callo found himself at an immediate disadvantage, blocking a surprisingly fast cut to his left shoulder. He stepped inside Ha’star’s reach, blocked the blow arm against arm, wishing he had a shield. Ha’star leaped back. Callo turned on his heel and struck back, and Ha’star’s sword knocked the move aside. The blow was so strong, the sword with Ha’star’s strength behind it so powerful, that Callo staggered a little.
Callo’s arm tingled with the shock of Ha’star’s block. The man was as strong as a horse. He focused tight as they circled each other for a moment. Even these training swords were capable of delivering a powerful blow when wielded with strength, and although blunted, could break bones.
They moved back and forth across the ring, slowly weighing each other’s skill. Packed earth slipped under Callo’s feet. His sword scraped against Ha’star’s as his opponent blocked another cut. Ha’star moved faster than he thought possible, his sword blocking Callo’s like a wall. Used to depending upon a shield or even a left-hand dagger, Callo found himself leaving his side open too often. He was sweating, and the air around him seemed hot.
Ha’star sliced at his arm, and Callo moved sideways, aiming for an opening at Ha’star’s chest. He thought for a moment he would succeed, but at the last moment, Ha’star evaded the thrust, awkward as he twisted away. From the corner of his eyes, Callo saw a flash, and then Ha’star’s sword was there, brought out of nowhere to point like a splinter of steel at Callo’s unprotected throat. At that moment Ha’star looked into Callo’s eyes and grinned—a real smile, without antagonism. Callo stepped two paces back, wiped his forehead with the back of his arm, and bowed.
“Your contest,” he said, out of breath, grinning with the pleasure of the battle.
“An even match, I’d say, my lord,” Ha’star allowed. He was breathing hard, too, and his brown cheeks were flushed with heat.
Callo nodded. He was regaining his even breath. “Thank you for the match. None other has given me one.”
“No, they wouldn’t. I’m the only one who don’t care, being as how I’ve got no kin. I must say, you fought fair, ku’an, and didn’t use those yellow eyes to foul my arm.”
Callo looked into Ha’star’s brown eyes. “And is that what the others said I would do?”
“No need to say. It’s what ku’an do.” Ha’star looked around and Callo realized there was a silent line of men, hanging on the rails. They had been watching the contest of arms in complete silence. “You’ll get a match next time you want one, I’ll warrant.”
Callo walked out of the ring. There, a starry-eyed boy of about ten years galloped up to Ha’star and begged to take his sword, and get him a drink. Ha’star ruffled the boy’s hair, growling at him in an affectionate way not to treat him like a weakling. Watching them walk together into the arms room, Callo jogged to catch up to Ha’star.
“Ha’star.”
The brown man turned.
“You seem like someone who would be willing to talk to me about the ku’an.”
Ha’star spat off to the side. “Beggin’ your pardon. I’ve got no wish to talk about the fiends. Ask the ku’an’an—you’re one yourself, after all.”