Into This Wild Abyss, page 20
part #1 of Vermilion Archives Series
“I’ll show you the room,” he said.
The room was dark and bare. The only window was a handbreadth wide and covered in grimy canvas. Savani tested the bed and reconciled herself to a sleepless night. The mattress was stuffed with prickly straw and she felt fleas already jumping on her skin.
“You said two jet a night?”
“Yes, payable now,” he said, his arms crossed. Savani studied his face and felt her coins in her pocket.
“Do you charge everyone so much?” she asked.
“Just you.”
“Me? Why me?” The man unfolded his arms, put his thumbs in his belt and leaned forward until Savani smelt the garlic on his breath.
“You come here, all fancy-like, with a posh accent and square shoulders, but wearing common gear. What am I to make of it? You just walk in, a single woman, not a working girl, with some story about meeting her husband, and I’m supposed to believe it?”
“It’s true,” Savani said. “And how do you know I’m not a working girl?” The man snorted.
“Two jet for the room, and five for my silence.” He stuck out his hand. Savani reluctantly paid.
“There you go. I told you there was something to hide.”
“You misunderstand,” Savani said. The weeks of hiding were getting to her. She was making mistakes. Stupid mistakes.
“Sure I do, sweetie,” he said with a wink. “You want me to bring anything up to you?”
“I’m fine,” Savani said. “Thank you.”
As soon as the door closed, Savani’s head fell into her hands and she choked back a sob. She lay down on the bed, too tired and emotional to remove her clothes. In the corner, a rat squeaked and scuttled under the bed.
Some time passed with Savani falling in and out of sleep. The walls were thin and her room was adjacent to the stairwell. People came and went, thumping up and down the stairs, calling hello and goodnight and fumbling for their keys. As the sun outside slowly set, music from downstairs drifted up, and a headboard down the corridor pounded rhythmically against the wall. Savani promised herself she would leave Tavana in the morning.
A key jiggled in the lock. Savani tensed and sat up, but whoever was outside stopped, burped, and moved on to another door. She lay back down again. The evening wore on and the music began to slow and then stopped with the last bell. Patrons were rounded up and kicked out to the street, with drinking and singing continuing outside Savani’s window. Sometime later guards moved them along.
When she woke again, it was dark and silent. Not even night workers made their customary cries. The stairs creaked. A rat squealed. Savani was too tired to worry anymore. She cupped her head in her hands on the pillow and rolled over. A fist pounded on her door.
“Open up.”
Savani stumbled from the bed, her blanket tangled about her legs. She checked the window but it was too small. A voice outside called for the owner to bring his keys. Savani glanced up at the ceiling. She wondered how secure the boards were. Climbing on the bed she gave them a shove. Dust spilled down, stinging her eyes, but the wood moved. She pushed again and a hole opened up. Desperate now, she began to work furiously at the other beams. The door slammed open, banging against the wall. Savani stood frozen in the lamplight. Hands grabbed her and a hooded figure yanked her wrist into the light. He spat on it and rubbed his thumb over her skin. The tattoo, subtly changed with makeup and ink, became clear.
“It’s her,” the voice said. A bag was pulled over her head.
⁂
A door slammed, and a servant crossed the alley with a bucket of slops. Ashara sat in the shadows, counting the footsteps. He saw her and paused.
“What time is it?” Ashara asked. The servant glanced over his shoulder as if he suspected an ambush, then relaxed.
“Just after fifth bell,” he said. “You slept here all night?” Ashara nodded. The servant dumped the slops and returned to the house. Ashara got up and dusted herself off. It had been months since she had slept rough and her body was no longer used to it. Her back ached and her arm had gone numb. She noticed the dried blood still on her skin and clothes. Ashara poked her fingers into the cracks between paving stones and the wall of the building she slept against and scooped up tiny amounts of sand and dirt. She rubbed it on her skin until her hands were raw and red, but the blood was gone. The worst of it was on her sleeve, but without water she could do little about it.
The door to the inn opened and the same servant returned. He put a bowl of water on the ground with a few mint leaves sprinkled on top. Ashara pointed to herself in confusion, and then drank the offering.
“Now you best be going before my master wakes,” the servant warned, retrieving the bowel.
Ashara thanked him for the kind gesture and wandered down to a street of shuttered shops. It took time to get her orientation, but as the city bells struck six, Ashara came into view of Jan Moga. She suspected the front gate would be locked, so she traipsed around the back and found a monk by the kitchen door with a bucket of water and a brush, scrubbing paint off the bricks.
“What does it say?” she asked, not wanting to startle the monk. He flinched and looked about cautiously, but said nothing. “You’re scrubbing words off the wall,” Ashara continued. “What do they say?”
“Ba’re go home,” said the monk.
“Not very imaginative.”
“I guess not. We’re all born in the Empire.” The monk returned to his work as if the conversation was over. Ashara waited awkwardly until he glanced her way again.
“Can I see Master Dugen? Is he about?”
“You know Master Dugen?” He looked her up and down. “It’s a bit early, but he might be up.” Ashara offered to scrub the wall while the monk went to fetch the master. He gave her the bucket and brush and shut the kitchen door behind him. The bolt clicked from the other side. It took a while, but the monk returned with Master Dugen in tow. Dugen removed his glasses and rubbed bloodshot eyes. His jaw was dark with stubble and nothing in his manner indicated pleasure in seeing Ashara.
“Ashara,” he said.
“Master Dugen,” she replied. He took out a small leather pouch and tossed it to her. It landed in her hands with a chink.
“That should be enough,” he said. Ashara did not need to count it. Her eyes widened.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m leaving today. Can’t stay around here for long.” She dared not tell him why. “Can you say farewell to Po for me?”
“No,” Dugen said. “He’s no longer here.”
“Gone?” Ashara said, surprised. “But — where is he?”
“I don’t believe I’m at liberty to say,” Dugen said. “Now, excuse me as I have the day to prepare for.” Dugen scratched his stomach and yawned. “I wish you safety on your journey. Brother Bidovi, I’m done. See you at breakfast.” He ambled off to the hall. Ashara was left holding the bucket and brush. Brother Bidovi appeared again and took them off her.
“You’re looking for Po?” he asked. Ashara nodded. “They left by the south gate about half an hour ago. If you hurry you might catch up.”
There was a commotion at the south gate. Ashara approached with caution. Guards scrambled over a bullock cart and were busy tossing boxes and bags off the back. A Solari ecclesiastic stood nearby in his sky blue robes and yellow cylindrical box-hat, ranting angrily at them.
“You have no right!” he raged. “Get off my cart.”
A guard stood on the back of the cart and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
“This is temple property,” he said. “You know full well you can’t take this out of Pao’an while the tax is being counted.”
“It is my property,” the man said. A guard opened a sack and removed a gold ceremonial instrument.
“Hey, look what we have here,” he called. “Goddess of Mercy this is a lot.”
“Nice try priest. I think you should come talk to us.” Ashara slipped past them as the Solari ecclesiastic was pulled off to the side. No one seemed interested in bothering with her.
“Hey, wasn’t it a Solari who murdered the priest of Nulagia two days ago?”
“So it was,” another said. Ashara quickened her pace. She shuddered to think what treatment awaited the Solari priest when he got to the guard house.
Outside the city, the road continued on due south over rolling desolation. What once was farmland was now spoiled and turned to weeds. A village half a mile up the road was a shell. The bricks still stood, mostly, but all the timber frames and thatch had been burnt away. Further on, desolation turned to scrub and scrub turned to woodland with a scattering of villages. Farmers worked in the fields and smoke drifted from the chimneys of the cottages. It was a familiar setting for Ashara.
After two hours with the fields steaming in the sun, Ashara turned a bend in the road. Three figures walked ahead side by side, their heads shaved and their sandals slapping. They looked just like children going off to catechism. She could not help but laugh.
“Po!” she called.
The middle figure spun about, bewilderment on his face.
“Ashara?” His two companions looked to him, but Po ignored them and ran for her. They stopped ten paces apart.
“What are you doing here?” Po asked.
“Going home,” she said. “A monk said you’d gone this way.”
“Did Master Dugen give you the money?” Ashara tossed the leather pouch in the air and caught it again, the money making the appropriate noise. “So you’re going alone? You should wait for a convoy or sign up with an escort. It’s not safe.”
“No,” Ashara said. “I killed a man.” Po’s mouth dropped. “He attacked me,” Ashara added. “It was self-defense. A soldier.”
“Are they looking for you?” Po stammered. “Are you okay? Is... is that your blood?” He stepped forward to check her. She put up a hand to stop him.
“I’m fine. But I have to assume they’re looking for me.” Po did not seem convinced, so she rolled up her sleeve to show him her arm was unhurt. “We’re taught to fight as soon as we can walk. The Vu didn’t stand a chance.”
“I’m sorry,” Po said. “I was forbidden to see you again. Maybe if I helped you earlier this wouldn’t have happened.”
“It’s okay. Dugen explained it to me. You didn’t make the rules.” You just follow the silly religion. “And you, why are you leaving? I thought you had a permanent home at the monastery.”
“Nothing’s permanent,” Po said with a shrug. “You’re not angry?”
“Not at you,” Ashara said.
“Friends?” he asked, offering a hand. Ashara paused, noting the significance of the gesture.
“Friends,” Ashara said, accepting the hand.
Po’s two companions approached. The taller monk in burgundy put a hand on Po’s shoulder. Po jumped.
“What’s going on?” asked the monk. “You’re full of surprises.” Po introduced her, then in turn she was introduced to Anjan in the cream robes, and Dovo in the burgundy. Anjan was about the same age as Po, thin and boney but with a cute, almost childish, face full of freckles. Dovo was considerably older, perhaps in his forties with worry lines and ruddy cheeks.
“We’re going to Jan’a,” Po said after introductions were made.
“Jan’a?” Ashara asked. She had never heard the name before. Brother Dovo unfolded a hand-drawn map. It was very simple, but it had major landmarks and roads. She studied it.
“Those mountains are the Tashik Sha,” she said. “Right on the border with Kh’areen.”
“We call them the Graytalons,” Po said. “Right on the frontier.”
“Do you know them?” Dovo asked.
“No,” Ashara said. “Only stories. They’re about as far from Baki as we are now.” As she spoke she noticed Po moving his weight from one leg to the other.
“Can you come with us?” Po blurted once she stopped talking. Anjan and Dovo looked shocked and Dovo apologised for the outburst. He took Po by the shoulder and led him off the road for a talk. Ashara and Anjan exchanged glances. He shrugged.
“No one tells me anything,” he said. “So, don’t ask me. Anyone would think we’re on a secret mission.” Anjan had such a boyish charm that Ashara could not help but giggle. “Sounds fun,” she said. “Us against the world.”
“Rescuing a damsel in distress,” Anjan said. “But I guess you'd insist on being the damsel and you're here.”
“I could be here to save you,” she suggested. Anjan gave a self-deprecating bow and pretended to doff an imaginary hat.
“That, my lady, is more than possible. Indeed, I'd say it's probable.” Then he whispered behind his hand as if revealing a great secret. “Po can't even light a fire by himself.” Dovo and Po returned to the road.
“Did you want to join us?” Dovo asked. “Po explained to me — nevermind. That’s behind us. This isn’t the monastery. It would be nice to have someone familiar with the ways of the road.”
“It’ll mean a longer journey for you,” Po warned. “But we’re safer in numbers.”
“You can leave any time,” Dovo added. “But I’d suggest we go to Danma. You can then cut south of the Badlands to Baki. In your situation, they’re less likely to watch for you there.”
Ashara felt three pairs of eyes looking to her for her answer.
“I'd love to,” she said.
CHAPTER 15
Natan gripped the edge of a well and looked down into the murky blackness. A chunk of mortar crumbled under his fingers and fell with a splash.
“Water,” he gasped through cracked lips. The very act of speaking hurt his throat. There was no bucket to draw the water. Natan sank down with his back against the stone. His vision swam and his head throbbed. For days he had wandered the wilderness heading, he hoped, in the vague direction of home. He had lived off nothing but his witsq and had made it this far. Don’t give up, he told himself.
Through the haze Nimi approached. Natan was unsure if it was a dream or reality. On some level he did not care. She knelt down beside him and kissed his forehead, running her hands over his body and settling her fingers on his crotch. Nimi, he whispered in his heart.
A sharp pain jolted him awake. An old man stood at his feet, jabbing him with a walking stick. Natan pulled his one good leg in and covered his vulnerability with his hands. The old man pulled back the walking stick and rested both hands on it, content now it seemed he had Natan’s attention. He watched Natan, and Natan watched back. The man was bald, with liver spots. He wore a blue apron and mustard tunic in the peasant style, with leather sandals on his feet.
“Vu’tai or Mamot?” he asked through thin purple lips. Natan took a moment to grasp his meaning, and the man repeated his question.
“Vu’tai,” Natan whispered. “Please help me, I can pay.”
“Seventh Army?” he asked, ignoring Natan’s request for help.
“37th Auxiliary, 14th Banner,” Natan answered. “Seventh Army.” If the man was an enemy, Natan had no way to escape. The man nodded and walked away, leaning heavily on his stick.
“Come back,” Natan gasped. “I can pay… I can pay…” A woman appeared. She was easily as old as the man, though she carried a certain energy about with her. Her clothes were simple but bright, and her gray hair was combed and braided. Yellowing eyes regarded Natan, and then the woman was at his side. The ceramic edge of a jar pressed against Natan’s teeth and a sickly, sweet mixture poured into his mouth and down his chin. He gagged and the woman pulled it away.
“More,” Natan said instinctively, chasing after the jar with his hands.
“No, no,” the woman said. “Not now.” Instead she put a chunk of peppery sausage on his tongue and told him to chew.
“Where am I?” Natan asked, finally gathering the strength to sit up and look around. The man stood over his shoulder, watching him.
“Ido village,” the old man said.
“Mamot’s men are coming,” Natan said. “An army.”
“We know,” said the woman. “His outriders have been here a few times. Most recently last night. They say we’re liberated. Foolish men.”
“I thought the war was over,” Natan said.
“There’s no end to war,” the woman said, clicking her tongue. “Now, let’s get you inside.” The woman lent Natan a hand and Natan rose with the help of his crutch. For the first time he was able to fully appreciate his surroundings. He was at the base of a shallow valley. Woodland extended up on either side, but this was broken by terraced farms and fenced-off orchards. Ahead, past a grove of katsura trees, appeared a gathering of a dozen cottages in the country style, each cottage being attached to a walled courtyard. The woman led Natan towards the closest of these, and through the open gate. The man hovered behind, keeping an eye on their guest.
Inside the cottage, Natan was offered a seat by the brick stove, and while vegetable stew was heated up for him, the couple plied him with questions, wanting to know everything about the battle and how Natan had come to be by their well, and what he had seen and knew about the new threat of the Third Army. Natan told them what he knew, and was glad to stop answering their questions when a steaming bowl was placed before him.
“We’ve had a few stragglers through here,” the old man said, watching Natan eat. “But few offered money.”
“I’m serious,” Natan said, looking up with a spoon before his lips. He did not want to be a burden on anyone. “I can pay.”
“No,” the man said, a wave of his hand dismissing the idea. “That isn’t the Vu way. But it is nice to think you didn’t demand it. Mamot’s soldiers last night wanted a goat slaughtered, and a keg of beer breached.”
“And did you give it to them?”
“Of course,” the man said with a satisfied grin. “But we put tavu’na berries in the beer so they’ll get the shits later today. That won’t be pleasant on horseback.”
Natan stopped chewing and looked down at the mixture in his bowl.
“Don’t worry,” the woman said, pouring three cups of kaja from a boiled kettle. “We don’t do that to those who ask nicely.”
