Shadow Gate (16 page)

They fetched up at a dead end, facing a pair of sliding doors. A narrow corridor extended to either side, ending in gates. The gate on the left had its top half slid open; beyond, lamps glimmered in the courtyard where she and Miravia had just walked. The gate to the right was
latched shut, but evidently it opened into the men's court. Miravia's mother slid open one of the doors, and they mounted six steps into a narrow chamber lit by a single oil lamp. Polished wood planks gleamed, smooth and dark. The whitewashed walls bore no decoration save for a ceiling strip minutely carved with vines.

“This way.”

This narrow room opened into another. Nearby, male voices rose in argument. In an alcove, a set of peepholes looked out over a bright chamber where men were talking and, by the sudden outbreak of laughter, not arguing but conversing in the intense manner Mai had always associated with arguments. She stepped inside the alcove and raised up on her toes, hoping to see, but Miravia's mother pulled her back and led her on. They passed a second alcove fitted with a bench and a series of openings like arrow slits in a fortification, and at the end of this series of small rooms found themselves in the vestibule to a square chamber fitted with mats, a wide sleeping pallet, a low desk, and a lit lamp hanging from a tripod. The chamber had a musty smell, and the merest twinge of sweet mold festering.

The woman sniffed audibly. “Eh, that mildew will have to be found and cleaned, wherever it's hiding. I'll be back in a moment. Remove your slippers before you go in.”

She left, her footfalls ringing away. Mai fidgeted. She wanted to go back to the peepholes, to see if she could see Anji, but she dared not insult her hosts by eavesdropping on a conversation she had no right to overhear. The vestibule contained an empty table and a stand with hooks opposite, suitable for hanging articles of clothing.

Muted sounds drifted: more male laughter, and a burst of speech as several men spoke at once. Laughter again, after which a voice spun its tale uninterrupted. Was that Anji speaking? She pressed a palm to her chest, breath tight and heart pounding.

The soft slap of feet startled her, and she patted the creases and folds and twists of her hair, wondering if she looked worn or weary, but it was only Miravia's mother, bearing a tray with a pot of steaming khaif, a pot of warmed cordial, a pitcher of water, four small cups, a washing bowl, and a tiny bowl containing mint leaves. She set this tray on the vestibule table, laid out squares of folded cloth, and pressed Mai's hand between her own in a gesture meant to comfort.

“There, now.”

She left.

Mai chewed on mint as the doors slid shut, and the quiet settled like dust, undisturbed but for the hearty festivities in the men's hall and, once or twice, a childish shout from farther afield. After a while, she crept back to the alcove, but even standing on tiptoe she could not see through the lowest slit. In the dim light she prowled the rooms until she found a pair of bricks, likely warmed in cool weather to place within the bed, and stacked them beneath the lowest peephole. She balanced carefully atop this, hands splayed against the wall to steady herself.

Ah! She peered into a high beamed hall. Mostly she saw the aura of light spilling from lit lamps, tangling with the darkness that pooled in the rafters. The mingled scents of burning oil and spiced cordial made her wrinkle her nose. The fierce conversation had died down. She saw a few turbaned heads, one crossing the hall and others lower, as if seated, swaying a little. Did that black hair belong to Anji? She pushed as high as she could, craning her neck—

“
What
are you doing?”

She shrieked, lost her balance, toppled back to be caught in strong arms.

“Anji!”

He was whole and unmarked, clean and smiling, perfectly handsome and entirely here, right here. She embraced him, pressing her face against his warm neck. He
smelled of horses—he always did—and sweat and dust, the best scent imaginable. She knew she was crying, so she held on until she could draw up calmness and let it suffuse her. He talked in a voice as mellow as if their lives had not been turned entirely upside down, as if they had not been tossed into exile and then thrown into battle against an implacable enemy whose strength ought to have battered them into surrender but had not, because he was cleverer than they were. He was indomitable.

“My informants tell me that you are eating well, sleeping well, and have been out into the market despite their concern that I might find this behavior inappropriate in my wife. Which I do not. Our own endeavors have gone smoothly so far. The remnants of the invading army are fleeing north, but we're keeping on them, killing as many as we can although unfortunately some will escape and take news of our victory to their commanders. We can't know how long it will take the retreating soldiers to reach their base, or how their commanders will react. All these matters must be discussed and considered. I left Tohon and Chief Deze and most of the men on the hunt, with orders to drop back if our force gets too strung out. Reeve Joss has been named marshal at Argent Hall, which is excellent news. Meanwhile the Olossi council wishes to meet with me tomorrow on military matters. Isar has his sources, so I get advance notice of their complaints and fears and demands. It seems they want me to coordinate the entire regional militia, since the militia they have now is worthless.”

She found her voice, still a little frail. She hadn't used to be so easily overset, but she remembered how the women in her father's house got irritable and weepy in early pregnancy. “Our soldiers need wives.”

“Isn't it too early to be thinking of that?”

She could not hold him tightly enough. “If we wish to settle here and be accepted, the men must marry local
wives. And the women they marry should have connections with local clans.”

“Why would they not have such connections?”

“Many women will come who are destitute or without family, because their suspicion of outlanders will be overcome by their desperation. Such women will be grateful, and will work hard, but if there are too many kinless women, without clan support, then the rest of Olo'osson will not feel connected to us.” He seemed perfectly able to understand her despite that she was speaking into his neck. She could not bear to release him, as if he would vanish if she let go. But even so, she had been thinking about these things for days and days, having little else to do. “We don't want to be seen as outlanders for generation after generation. We want to be seen as Hundred folk.”

“Mmmm,” he agreed, kissing her hair.

“Anyway, it will take months, perhaps years, to find fitting wives for all the men. Once children are born, then a transformation begins, the children become woven into the land, so it is less easy if the locals decide we have served our useful purpose.”

“What do you mean?”

“To start agitating for us to leave, to feel we are not a part of the land, that they can't eat with us, to fear us or want to drive us out . . .” She pushed back, so by looking into her face he could see how serious the matter was.

Unlike every male in her family, he nodded to show he had heard her, that he considered her opinion worthwhile. “I do not think peace will come quickly, but you are of course correct in your assessment of the situation. You are in charge of the strongbox in any case. Do what you need to do, and I will do what I need to do.”

“I want a house, a compound, of our own. A place Miravia can come visit me. An altar to the Merciful One where Priya and I can pray. I want—”

“Mai,” he said softly. “Can this wait?”

There is a moment in every one of the thrilling story-songs she had grown up with and loved when the bandit prince clasps the young maid close against him, and devours her with his brooding gaze because he, never caught by those who pursue him, has fallen captive to her innocent charm. How foolish and naive are those who believe in such tales, none of which are true. That's what everyone always told her.

“Anji,” she murmured, leaning forward to kiss him. “I missed you so badly.”

He swept her up in his arms, carried her past the vestibule, and brought her to bed.

According to Siras, one hundred and two people hoping to be chosen as reeves had checked in at the gate over the last twelve days. Eighty-three remained when Joss called them to silence. Most sat cross-legged on the dirt of the parade ground; a few stood, apparently too anxious to sit. The majority were young men, a number of whom he recognized from Olossi's militia. A few young women and older men had made the trek as well, and he was surprised to see one stocky woman not much younger than he was standing in the back with arms folded and chin up. In the cloud-patched sky, eagles circled. That they appeared so tiny to the naked eye meant they were sailing very high indeed.

“I don't know why any one of you came to Argent Hall,” he said. “Maybe you've always watched the reeves and wanted to be one of us. Maybe you want to know what it's like to fly. Maybe you're angry about what you see around you: injustice, crime gone unpunished, corruption in your village council or temple conclave with no other authority to appeal to. Maybe you watched that army march down on Olossi, burn villages and homes
along West Track, and do worse besides, and you want to do something, anything, about it. Maybe you just want a baton of your own—” He brandished his baton. “—to whack people with.”

The comment elicited a few chuckles, an elbow to the ribs, a snort of laughter.

“Most of you will go home disappointed. You can help us with our chores, you can share sex with any one of us, remind us that your uncle knows our aunt or your clan made a deal with one of ours years ago. You can share apprenticeship stories—I rode my year as a messenger for Ilu, by the way—but none of that will matter. The eagles choose. We don't. How they make their choice we've never known. Even with as many eagles as we have here now looking for new reeves, I can't even say that one of you waiting here will be marked and chosen by an eagle. You may all end up walking home. You may ask to stay on as assistant to one of our fawkners, who take on the difficult job of caring for the eagles and the lofts. You may hire on as one of the stewards and hirelings who do the day-to-day work of running the hall. Even if you do become a reeve, you'll discover that the training process is arduous and dangerous.”

Restless murmurs began to rise. He raised a hand to quiet them. “Is there a question?”

An older man rose respectfully. “Marshal, thanks for hearing me. How long have you been a reeve?”

“Twenty-two years.”

“And how long a marshal?”

“Twelve days.” That got a laugh.

A younger voice called from the crowd. “Is it true that eagles sometimes kill their reeves?”

“It's very rare, but it happens. If you don't like that answer, then leave now.” He waited, but no one moved, nor did he expect any person to walk out while everyone else watched. “Hall eagles aren't as territorial as eagles in the wild. Perhaps the gods bred it out of them. But they are territorial, and they will tangle, and the routines
of patrol and hall rest and mating cycles are carefully calibrated so the halls can function smoothly. Eagles are our partners, not our servants. Their needs come first. There's one other thing you may not fully understand. Once chosen, you cannot change your mind. You are a reeve for life. You can't leave. And if your eagle dies, you will die with them.”

“Do you regret it?” called the older woman suddenly. “Do you regret being chosen as a reeve by your eagle?”

Joss grinned. “Never.”

He put his bone whistle to his lips and blew a note no human ear could hear. From elsewhere in the compound, dogs barked. Scar appeared, huge body seeming monstrous as he flew in low over the walls. Folk shrieked in alarm. The big eagle braked with talons forward and wings wide, and whumped down onto one of the big perches. Most flinched, or jumped back. A few, to their credit, did not. Scar dipped his head and turned it upside down to stare at the assembly, making many laugh nervously. Joss walked in under the cruel beak, within reach of the killing talons.

“You'll need the courage to stand here, knowing your eagle can kill you. You'll need the courage to imp her feathers, cope her beak and talons, and a hundred more things besides. You'll need patience to build the trust that jesses the bond between you.”

Scar opened his wings like great sails. He flirted. He squawked with that funny chirp the big eagles had, so at odds with their size and magnificent beauty.

“We're bringing a training master down from Clan Hall, by the name of Arda. The senior fawkners are Askar, Verena, and Geddi. Now, Steward Govard will assign work duties and sleeping billets to those of you who wish to try your luck.”

He stepped from under Scar's shade, and whistled. The eagle thrust and with a hammer of vast wings beat aloft, caught the wisp of a current, rode it to a better thermal, and shot up into the sky. Govard took his place,
and Joss retreated to the marshal's cote. Askar had left for the city, but others filed in with a thousand tasks left undone that needed his sanction. The morning wore on and on. He downed another two cups of rice wine, poured a third, but set it aside untouched.

Siras stuck his head in. “Marshal? The bell rang for meal. Will you want to eat in the hall or have me bring you a tray here?”

“Gods!” He stared longingly at the third cup of wine. “Can someone clear out these writing things? Who is meant to straighten this chamber?”

Siras shrugged, looking embarrassed. “I'm assigned to you for the moment, Marshal.”

“Surely you should be patrolling, Siras. Don't you have a young eagle?”

“Fortune is his name. He vanished just after you and the outlanders drove out Yordenas and his crew. The fawkners told me Fortune's overdue for nesting, so they think he's flown to Heaven's Ridge.” He wore the optimistic vigor of youth easily, but when he thought of his eagle, the line of his mouth cut downward and his gaze tightened. “Wouldn't I know if he was dead?”