Implied Spaces (3 page)

“Bitsy,” she repeated, idly scratching. The cat looked up at her and purred.

“You neglected to tell me your name,” Aristide reminded.

A soft smile fluttered at the corners of her lips.

“My name is Ashtra,” she said.

“And you travel alone?”

She glanced down at the water. “My husband is in Gundapur. He’s sent for me.”

Aristide looked at her closely. “At the mention of your husband I detect a strain of melancholy.”

“I haven’t seen him for seven years. He’s been on a long trading journey with an uncle.” She gazed sadly across the placid water as she scratched the purring cat. “He’s very rich now, or so his letter said.”

“And he sent for you without providing an escort? That bespeaks a level of carelessness.”

“He sent two swordsmen,” Ashtra said. “But they heard of a war in Coël, and went to join the army instead of taking me to Gundapur.”

“I think somewhat better of your husband, then, but not as much as if he’d come himself. Or at least sent money.”

“Perhaps he did, but if so the swordsmen took it.” Her blue eyes turned to him. “I don’t even remember what he looks like. I was twelve when my family had me marry. He was only a few years older. “

Despite the efforts of the sultan and other rulers to set up timekeepers with sandglasses regulated by the Ministry of Standards, days and years were necessarily approximate in a land where the sun did not move.

Aristide took her hand and kissed it. “You will delight him,” he said, “have no doubt.”

She blushed, bowed her head. “Only if I survive the bandits.”

He kissed her hand again. “Do not fear the bandits, Ashtra of the Sapphire Eyes. The caravan guards make a formidable force, and—come to that—I am rather formidable myself.”

She looked away. He could see the pulse throb in her throat. “But the stories—what the bandits are supposed to do to captives—The stories are chilling.”

“Stories. Nothing more.” He stroked her hand. “You will pass through the gates of Gundapur, and live in halls of cool marble, where servants will rush to bring you sherbets and white raisins, and music and laughter will ring from the arches. But for now—” He reached for the strap of her water bag, and raised it dripping from the spring. “Allow me to bear this for you. For I believe there is a bank of green grasses yonder, shaded by the graceful willow, where we may recline and watch the dance of the butterfly and the stately glide of the heron, and enjoy the sweetness of wildflowers. There the wind will sing its languorous melody, and we may partake of such other pleasures as the time may offer.”

He helped her rise, and kissed her gravely on the lips. Her eyes widened. Aristide drew her by the hand into the shade of the trees, and there they bode together on the carpet of grass, for the space of a few hours on that long, endless afternoon of the world.

02

Aristide slept a few hours, the tail of his headdress drawn across his eyes. When he woke, he found Ashtra seated near him, contemplating the silver ripples of the water through the trailing leaves of the willows. He paused for a moment to regard the woman sitting next to him on the bank—Ashtra, raised in a preliterate world blind even to its own possibilities, brought up in a society founded by swashbucklers, warriors, and gamesters all for their own glorious benefit, but who condemned their descendants to an existence bereft of choice. Married at twelve to a youth who was a relative stranger, now traveling at nineteen to meet a husband who was even more a stranger than that youth. To live in what Gundapur considered luxury, and bear her husband, and bear him children, as many as possible until childbirth broke her health.

“Come with me, Ashtra,” he said.

For a moment he didn’t know whether she had heard. Then she said, “Where would you take me?”

“Wherever you desire. Eventually to the Womb of the World.”

“You belong to the College?” She turned to look at him in alarm, and shifted slightly away from him.

People often feared the magic of the College and its missionaries.

“I’m not of the College,” Aristide said, and watched as she relaxed slightly. “Still, one does not have to be of the College to travel to the Womb.”

“There are said to be sorcerers of great power at the Womb of the World. And monsters.”

“There are monsters
here
.”

She turned away, and for a long moment regarded the lake.

“I have a family,” she said finally.

“What do you owe to this husband who you barely know?”

“It’s what my family owes him. If they had to refund my bride-price, they would be destitute.”

“I could pay the price myself.”

Ashtra turned to him, amusement in her blue eyes. “You do not travel as a prince travels. Are you a prince in disguise?”

“I travel simply because simplicity appeals to me. And though I am not a prince, I have resources.”

Again she turned to face the waters. “I have a husband. And what you offer me are fantasies.”

For a moment the swordsman contemplated the many ironies of this last statement, and then he sat up and crossed his legs.

He was not without experience. He knew when he had been dismissed.

Some people remember virtue and a spouse rather late, when it no longer really matters.

“It’s extremely unlikely there will be a child,” he said, “but if there is, I desire you to send it to the College. Give them my name.”

Again she turned, again alarm widened her eyes. “I thought you said—”

“I’m not of the College,” he said, “but I have done them service, and they know me. You may request this in my name.” His tone took on a degree of urgency. “Particularly if it is a girl.”

“I hope there is not a child.” Ashtra rose. “I want to remember this as a beautiful fantasy, not as a burden I will bear for the rest of my life.” She picked up the strap of her water bag and shouldered it.

“I’d prefer not to be the subject of gossip by those in my caravan,” she said. “If you would wait half a glass before following, I would thank you.”

“As you like, my lady,” said Aristide. “Though I would gladly carry your burden.”

Ashtra made no reply. Swaying beneath the weight of the water bag, she made her way from the glade.

Aristide stretched again on the grass and watched the willow branches moving against the dim sky. Gusting wind brought him the scent of flowers. There was a rustle in the grass, and he turned to see the black-and-white cat moving toward him.

“Your attempt at chivalry is duly noted,” Bitsy said.

“Sentimentality more than chivalry,” said the swordsman. “I liked her.” He rubbed his unshaven chin. “You know, she’s braver than she thinks she is.”

“Brave or not, did you really mean to take that bewildered child to the Womb?”

“If she desired it. Why not?” He sat up. The cat hopped onto his lap. Her upright tail drew itself across his chin.

“I hope you appreciate my help in getting you laid,” Bitsy said.

He sighed. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He stroked Bitsy for a few idle moments, then tipped her out of his lap and rose.

“Perhaps I’ll ensure my next incarnation,” he said.

Bitsy gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Is there so much on this journey,” she asked, “that you wish to remember?”

Aristide shrugged. “Ants and spiders. And a pleasant interlude on a grassy bank.”

As the swordsman passed through the camp, he saw the people had been stirred, like those selfsame ants with a stick. People were stowing tents and rugs, mending harness, sharpening weapons. Towering over everyone, Nadeer walked about giving orders. Voice booming, bells tinkling.

Inside the caravanserai, the pool of life had a crowd of visitors. Some chanted, some prayed, others meditated. Some, men and women both, waded naked into the pool, their lips murmuring devotions. Aristide removed his clothes, handed the clothing and Tecmessa to an attendant, and walked into the pool.

He followed broad steps downward until the silver liquid rose to his chest. His skin tingled at its touch. There were bodies at the bottom of the pool, and he felt for these with his feet to avoid treading on them. He waded between the devotees and touched the black menhir with one hand. The smooth surface felt prickly, as if a thousand tiny needles had pierced his fingertips.

He eased himself backward into the fluid. It was the temperature of blood. The silver liquid lapped over his ears, his throat. He closed his eyes.

In his ears he heard a deep throbbing. The throbbing was regular, hypnotic. His breathing shifted to match the rhythm of the throbbing.

He slept. He sank, the silver fluid of the pool of life filling his mouth and nose.

A few forlorn bubbles rose, and that was all.

The glass turned twice before Aristide rose to the surface. He opened his eyes, took a breath of humid air. Slowly he swam to the rim of the pool, found a step beneath his feet, and rose.

As he stepped from the pool the silver liquid poured off him in a single cascade, the last rivulets draining from his legs onto the flags, then slipping into the pool like some covert boneless sea creature seeking shelter beneath a coral ledge. Not a drop was left behind. There was a salty taste in his mouth. Aristide accepted his clothes from the attendant and donned them. He slipped Tecmessa’s baldric over one shoulder, shouldered his pack, and tipped the attendant.

“May the pool give you many lives, warrior,” the attendant said.

“And you.”

He stepped out into a courtyard filled with dust and noise. A turbulent circle of gesturing travelers had formed around the towering figures of Nadeer and Captain Grax, both of whom were gesturing for order.

Nadeer’s patience was exhausted. “
Silennnce!”
he bellowed, each hand drawing a curved sword that sang from the scabbard.

The crowd was struck dumb by sheer force of character. In the sudden hush Aristide shouldered his way through the crowd, and laid eyes on a bruised, bleeding young man kneeling before Nadeer, surrounded by Free Companions brandishing arms. The seneschal stood by, watching in silence.

Grax looked at Aristide and grinned with his huge yellow teeth. “Your advice was good, stranger. We caught this spy riding from camp to alert the bandits.”

The young man began what was obviously a protest, but Grax kicked him casually in the midsection, and the man bent over, choking.

“Confess!” roared Nadeer, brandishing both swords close over his head. The prisoner sought for resolve, and somewhere found it.

“You but threaten to send me to my next incarnation,” he said through broken lips. “I welcome such an escape.”

Nadeer snarled around his tusks, then replied in his booming lisp.

“You miss the point, spy. We don’t threaten to send you to the next incarnation, we threaten to make
this
incarnation an extremely painful one.”

With a flick of the wrist, he flashed out one sword, and the flat of it snapped the prisoner’s elbow like a twig. The prisoner screamed, clutched his arm, turned white. Sweat dripped slowly from his nose as he moaned.

The seneschal watched this in silence, his expression interested.

“Who are you?” Grax asked. “Who sent you? What are your orders?”

The captive’s breath hissed between clenched teeth. “It won’t make any difference,” he said. “I may as well talk.” He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to his audience.

Though speak to the others he did. His name was Onos. He was a younger son from the Green Mazes, his only inheritance a sword, a horse, and a few bits of silver. In a spirit of adventure, he and some friends joined the army of Calixha. At this point the horse disappeared from the narrative. Finding service during the siege of Natto not to his taste, he and his friends stole horses, deserted, and became caravan guards. Finding this tedious as well, they became robbers.

“He isn’t good even at that,” Grax remarked. “What the lad needs is discipline.” He looked down at the captive. “If he were in
my
company, I would make a proper soldier out of him.”

Onos bled quietly onto the flagstones. “I thought a life of adventure would be more fun,” he muttered.

Grax kicked him once more in the midsection. “It’s fun for
me,
” he said. “Perhaps you lack the proper attitude.”

The captive gasped, spat, and swore. Nadeer looked down at him. “You have my leave to continue,” he said.

Onos wiped blood from his mouth with the back of a grubby hand. “Our gang joined another gang,” he said. “We weren’t given a choice. So now we’re servitors of the Brothers of the Vengeful One.”

“Never heard of them,” said the seneschal, the first words he had spoken.

“Neither had we,” said Onos. “Neither had anyone, until a few months ago, and then
all
the freebooters heard of them.” He grimaced and put a hand to his ribs. “We joined them or we died.”

“Who are they?” Grax asked.

“Priests. Monsters. Monsters and priests.”

“Monsters how?” asked Aristide.

“They’re—” Grimacing. “Another species. Ones I’d never heard of, or seen. Blue skin, eyes like fire. And they sacrifice captives, and anyone else who disappoints them.”

There were gasps from the listeners as this terrifying rumor was confirmed.

“Your mission?” Grax asked in the sudden silence.

“We knew the caravans were delayed here for fear of us. I was told to travel to the caravanserai and report on your plans—whether you’d come on, or try to retreat.”

“Would you attack us either way?”

“That wouldn’t be for me to decide.” Grax raised a foot. “
Probably!”
Onos said quickly. “
Probably we’d attack!”

The questions turned to the bandits’ strength, and where they would most likely strike at the caravan. The bandits were said to have two hundred riders, though not all of them would be available at any one time, since they raided not just the caravan routes but the plain of Gundapur, below the great desert plateau. The route down from the plateau, through the Vale of Cashdan, was the usual ambush site.

Aristide stepped forward. “I would like to ask some questions of the prisoner, if I may.”