Haydn of Mars (13 page)

He looked up at me with a kind of pleading in his eyes.
 
“The Mighty never understood that the world is changing.
 
It is a different place now than it was only a few months ago.
 
The F'rar have changed everything...”

“And this is what you do to a man who loved and trusted you?”

“These F'rar are not bound by honor!
 
I had no choice!
”

“There is always a choice.
 
Good-bye, Hermes.
 
If you had told the Mighty, he would have knocked down heaven to free your family.
 
Instead you betrayed him.”

I left him there, weeping.

I expected that the door might be watched, but this was not the case.
 
There was a back stairway which led to a storage room and a door into an alley, and, as luck was with me, I was able to mount Hermes's laden but stronger horse, leaving my poor mare for the traitor, without being seen.
 
I made sure to transfer my things to the larger animal, including my precious book.

After riding slowly through the market square and under the unwatchful eye of the tower sentry, whose snores could be heard from the ground, I kicked the horse into full gallop, already afraid at what I would find at the other end of my short journey.

No one was left alive.

They had been caught in the middle of the Meridiani pass, just as the fat cook had promised.
  
I wished at that moment that I had slit his throat.
 
From a distance the bodies looked like a string of beads laid out between the wagons, which had been undamaged.
 
The Mighty had not even had time to draw the caravan into a circle.
 
I soon found out why: the F'rar had taken a page from the Mighty's own book, and hidden themselves in ground traps.
 
A line of these crossed the path of the front of the caravan, and the Mighty's body lay here, punctured by many bullets and arrows.
 
Myra's body lay next to him, similarly violated.
  
The rest had been attacked from the sides and from above.
 
Little One had died at the feet of his master.

It must have been over very quickly, and signs of the overwhelming force the F'rar had brought on the little caravan were evident.
 
The rest of the dogs had also been slain.

As the sun lowered itself, I cradled the Mighty's head and said some of his own prayers, trusting that his gods would forgive me for using Noon ceremony ablations at evening.
 

I then buried his body with Myra beside him, and tended to the burial of the others as best I could.
 

It was a long night, and I spent it toiling by the light of Phobos, which kept me company in my labors.
 
I recited one of the Moon ceremony prayers as I worked:

O mighty son of the sky,

Fierce night warrior,

Guardian of the dark ways,

Help me in my pursuits

If they be worthy ones,

And let me not stray

From the path of righteousness,

From the road of good deeds,

And from the way which leads

To the well being of my people.

I had tears in my eyes as the sun rose, and I mounted my laden horse, turned my back on the circle of graves, and left that place.

At first I had sought to travel south, to look for Kerl and the remains of my people.
 
But the way was blocked at every turn.
 
There was a massive F'rar presence near the equator, and the news was that what had been my people, who were now called rebels, had been scattered to the four winds and were being systematically hunted.
 
I concluded that even if I reached the spot where I had last seen them, would they be anywhere nearby after these many months?
 
The best thing seemed to be to find my way safely to one of the smaller cities in the north and try to ferret out the resistance from there.
 

Hermes's maps were as good as he had claimed, and I had no trouble getting to my goal.
 
And, somehow, the fat cook had done his job well.
 
When I rode into the city of Shklovskii three weeks later there was, to my surprise, much F'rar presence, and much commotion among the populace.
 
But none of it was over me, because I soon discovered that I had been declared dead, and was therefore no longer a threat.

 
The F'rar had moved on to other things.

I was dead, which in many ways was a good thing.

Shklovskii was not much of a city, and neither was its twin Sagan, but I soon learned that, as with any place, there were layers to the onion that could be peeled away, revealing more beneath than was apparent on the surface.
 
My bedouin garb immediately attracted attention, not all of it good, and I was nearly detained at the city gates until I produced a packet of Takkra root, a bribe which gained me instant admission.

“So you are a spice trader?” the guard, suddenly civil, asked.

I nodded.
 

“Then you will be staying at the
House of the Fox
?”

“Of course,” I answered, having no idea what he was talking about.

He lowered his voice.
 
“You might not find it as congenial as in the past.
 
There are” – and here he lowered his voice even more, forcing me to bend my head toward him – “
F'rar
in residence.
 
You might find the
Eagle
to be more to your liking.”
 
He straightened.
 
“Even though my brother-in-law runs it, and is a dolt, it is better than the
Fox
these days.
 
And the ale is superb.”

“Volcano ale?” I asked, failing to keep the sarcasm from my voice.

He spat.
 
“Swill from the midlands.
 
I wouldn't wash my horse's arse with it.”

I smiled, thanked him, and handed over another packet of spice.

He bowed.
 
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
 
He looked me up and down.
 
“The best places to eat?
 
New places of business?”
 
He studied me again.
 
“Consorts?”

I employed his advice on the first two, and went on my way.
 
For a brief moment I thought of soliciting his thoughts on the rebels, but was sure that information would quickly find its way to unhealthy places for me.

I did follow his advice and avoided the
Fox
.
 
The
Eagle
was a rodent hole, but a serviceable one.
 
Its very disrepute had kept the F'rar away.
 
After paying the innkeeper extra to watch my horse and its wares, and warning him in a civil way (which I'm sure he was used to) that if anything untoward happened to either of them I would cut his throat, I ventured into the sunlight to get my bearings.

It wasn't long before I saw a column of red-shirted F'rar leading a feline down the street.
 
The citizenry made a wide path, and avoided the eyes of the fellow, who knew some of them by name and shouted to them for support which was not forthcoming.

When this episode was over I asked a citizen standing next to me, who had looked away as this went on, what it meant.

“Are you kidding?
 
They will never see him again.
 
No doubt the F'rar wanted his business, so they took it.
 
It is the same all over.”
 

He stopped to study me more closely, but I quickly said, “I have been on the road a long time.”

“Well, if you're a trader hide your wares, because sooner or later the F'rar will confiscate them.

I bowed in thanks, and ate a meal in one of the places recommended to me.
 
I avoided the ale, which was just as well because the food was worthy of a trough, the atmosphere uncongenial.
 
Also, I continued to draw attention because of my garb.

When I returned to the
Eagle
I found the innkeeper rifling through my horse's bundles.
 
Stealthily, I drew my blade and lay it against the back of his neck.

He jumped nearly a foot, and fell to the ground stammering his innocence.

I told him to get up.

“What were you looking for?” I asked.

“It was...apparent to me that you carried more than just spices.
 
There are men in Sagan who would pay dearly for some of these materials.”

Though I had no idea what he was talking about, I encouraged him to continue talking.
 

Still cowering, he reached toward one bundle, and then another.
 
“These chemicals, for instance...”

“Yes?”

“It's just that, as I said...”

“Point me toward these men.
 
They are not friends of the F'rar, are they?”

“
No!
”
 
Realizing that he had spoken too quickly and with too much enthusiasm he lowered his voice.

“Come have a drink with me and I'll tell you more.”

“I think not.”
 
I hefted my blade.
 
“We'll talk here.
 
What's your name?”

“Pavin.”

“Talk then, Pavin.”

He told me of a place in Sagan in which I would find a fellow who would lead me to another place, and so on.
 
When he was finished I asked, keeping my voice level, “Are these men of the rebellion?”

His eyes widened with sudden fear.
 
“I know nothing about that!
 
Nothing!”

I paid him in spice, offering more if he stayed away from my belongings, the edge of my blade for certain if he did not.
 
I was learning that most people listen to you if you offer to end their lives if they do not.

It was late in the day now, and I had one more task before the shops closed.
 
There was a milliner down two streets and over one, and after asking advice of passersby, determined that it was the best in the area.
 
I entered, and exited a half hour later dressed more in line with the local population and carrying my robes in a parcel under my arm.
 
It felt strange to be wearing cultivated things again, a skirt, blouse with leather jerkin, some costume jewelry, and at first I felt awkward and out of place.
 
But I soon noticed that I was drawing attention no longer, and became at ease.

I returned to the
Eagle
, and inspected my room which was nearly absent of light, smelled dank and sported nothing worse than a peephole, which I covered.
 
Then I went out again.
 
It was already dark, and street lamps were lit, something else I hadn't seen in a long while.

I had another wretched meal, drawing some attention now not for my dress but for the fact that I was female (this bar, it turned out, served mostly working men) and then went back to my poor room and slept.

Or rather tried to sleep, because my dreams were bad ones, filled with all of the treachery and death I had recently seen.

For the first time in a long time I felt very alone.

It was not a feeling that would last long.

I was awakened by loud knocking on the door.
 
It was late.
 
A single shaft of light beamed through the tiny window onto the floor.
 
I had meant to get up at dawn.

The banging continued, and I yelled, churlishly, “Leave off that!
 
I'll be there in a minute!”

A sudden thought struck me that it might be the F'rar – but this was instantly dispelled by the certainty that they would never have knocked except to knock down the door itself.

“Who is it?” I shouted.

“It's me! Pavin!
 
The innkeeper!”

Hearing that, I lay curled back into the surely tick-ridden bedding.
 
“Leave me be!
 
I'll be down presently!”

“Then you'll surely lose your chance, miss!
 
I'm detaining him as it is!”

“Who?”

“Someone you should meet!
 
He's in the tap room!”