The First Binding, page 90
“Don’t do that. One bump and you’re tipped off good as thrown. Or your head will smack against the wagon, and hard as that thing seems, I don’t want to be replacing the wood this time of year with rains still about.”
I turned and glowered at the man, but he didn’t care for it.
“And, no. They’re more like things you’d say altogether. Like a full telling. Maybe not the whole of it, but like what I’m doing now. It’s like if you’re giving someone directions and you tell them how to get from one building to another several down. It’s more than a word, but it’s not telling someone how to get all the way to where they want. Make sense?”
“So it’s like a sentence?”
“Hm.” Pathar took one hand off the reins, rubbing his chin as he thought on it. “Not sure about that. Don’t know much in the way of languages. It’s just what it is, and they mean more than just, ‘Over there,’ or, ‘thataway,’ see?”
I think I did. They functioned like complete thoughts, leaving little if nothing to interpretation, but that raised another question. “How do you know what they say, though? They all look the same.”
“Oh, the color, metal, and arrangement. They don’t mean anything by themselves. The knobs, you see, they tell you the idea of what the bars mean that come after.”
Like primers then. The knobs gave you the subject and the bars would fill in part of the conversation. “And the spacing and change of knobs change the flow of conversation and the ideas you’re talking about?”
He nodded.
And so we passed the first few candlemarks discussing the intricacies of the Travelers’ Tongue. By our first stop, Pathar let me try my hand at rearranging some of the knobs and strips. Each had a peg or groove and slot they could be fastened into place with. It took a few tries, but I eventually managed to get the first row of the wagon side to read: Travel—coming from east, heading west. Business—good coins made behind.
It was true after a fashion, though I’d learned I was really most of the profitable business Pathar had done.
Radi rested content as a cat by a warm stone inside the wagon and didn’t bother to emerge when we came to a village from which Pathar wanted to collect and maybe do a spot of quick business. He told me to remain quiet as he did and not interfere with his dealings. I could listen. I could hand him things. But one was to never cut a tinker off in speech when they bartered.
I took that piece to mind.
He never shared the place’s name with me, and lived up to his word, trading with an efficiency that must have come from a lifetime of haggling and reading people’s wants from their faces. He happened to pull exactly what would set a man’s or woman’s eyes wide with wonder or need. I admired the considerable skill that took.
A group of children played near us while this trade took place. They chased each other in a small ring and sang all the while.
“When the chimney smoke goes red as blood,
Ashura. Ashura.
When comes the storm that brings the flood,
Ashura. Ashura.
Time to pray. Do not stay.
Run away! Run away!
“When the birds and beasts all go mad,
your heart drums loud and pains sudden bad,
take to flight. Stay out of sight.
“Ashura. Ashura.
Thinkin’, plottin’, evil // schemin’,
Time to cry. Time to fly.
Demon! Demon!”
Several of the children laughed as the three who played as the monsters caught a few of the group.
I stiffened as they finished the rhyme, but no one else seemed to mind. Just a game to every youngling and something to twist the ears of every parent with a sense of worry. To that, one woman hitched up her skirt so the hem wouldn’t track against the snow, and she marched over to the boy who’d begun the chant.
She reached out and, with motherly skill, took hold of his ear between a thumb and forefinger, twisting sharp and tight to haul him away from the others. I couldn’t make out what she said, but heard enough of the sharp warnings she hissed into his ear. One quick cuff to the side of his head and a last command to never speak of the Ashura aloud.
The boy, to his credit, looked properly ashamed and had the grace not to utter whatever words he’d clearly held in his mouth. The other children watched in silence, then decided maybe they’d had enough fun for the day and were better off leaving before their own parents came to teach them a similar lesson.
Pathar finished his business and handed me a separate pouch to tally what he’d earned. He told me that a tinker never counted coin where people could see. To customers, the transaction always ended with a newly bought piece of precious or wonder. It wasn’t for them to see money that was better off vanished once spent. All it did was remind them of what they’d lost.
We returned to our seats and I did the simple sums. He’d made four copper rounds and even a full iron bunt. I didn’t know being a tinker could lead to money like that. When taking into account that their whole lives were spent on wagon-back, it must have left him with a considerable sum of money.
Pathar told me more of the tinker’s life, at least what it was like over the course of a season. He had the sort of freedom only heroes and wanderers out of stories did.
Which we decided was a fitting topic to discuss that evening. We traded what stories we each knew of the legends of the world, and when I ran out, I gave thanks that Pathar knew more than I could have dreamt of.
He told me all he could in the hours before night.
And it was a good thing I’d kept them in mind, because I would need to remember the heroes of old to help me face what was to come.
EIGHTY-TWO
WHAT WE CAN AFFORD
The journey passed in the time Pathar had said. A day so far, with only half left to reach Ampur, all peppered with stops to ease our backs and bottoms from the nonstop riding. When we needed rest, we took shelter in a tent that Pathar carried along, leaving Radi to enjoy the comforts of the wagon.
Sathvan’s terrain brought with it every difficulty one could imagine, and I realized why the trip would have been impossible on horseback. Narrow sloping roads that wound through mountain passes, still slick with snow and ice. Even the most level-footed beasts would struggle, yet Pathar’s oxen managed just fine.
I attributed it to their frequent travels through the world and a likely well-honed sense of how to find their footing on whatever surface they traveled.
Snow fell harder here, blanketing everything to an almost white curtain before vanishing just as fast. Soft powder caked the ground and glimmered under the sun like diamond dust, only to thin and take to the air again when harsh winds kicked up. It felt like icy teeth gnawing at my skin until they’d left me raw.
The air felt thin and at times more like it pulled at the insides of my lungs than it filled them.
Pathar had told me to not talk or think too hard, and just to let myself breathe. That I would acclimate in a few hours as we climbed in altitude. And if I didn’t, well, at least he’d gotten three doles out of me.
My head spun the higher we went up the mountain paths and I spent the time it took to reach the first village with my eyes closed and cursing every god I could think to name. Being raised in the theater, I could remember quite a few. I think I managed to burn the ears of at least seven that afternoon.
The jostling set my head hurting worse, and I nearly uttered another half dozen strings of profanity at the gods, but Pathar brought the cart to a merciful halt.
“We’re stopping here before the last leg to Ampur. Little village called Volthi. Folk here still speak Brahmthi, as well as Trader’s Tongue, but they’re none too keen on people from the Empire proper. Don’t talk too much, your accent will set folk’s teeth grinding. Can’t afford to have people riled before doing business.”
I nodded.
“We’ll let the boys rest for a bit”—Pathar reached out and patted Bathum’s rear—“and I’ll fetch them feed. They eat three times as much this high up, and you’ll be feeling it soon enough too. Rest.” He rubbed my shoulder and eased off the cart.
I heeded his advice, taking in the mountain village of Volthi. The wagon offered a good perch for me to make out most of our surroundings. Every home I could spot was much the same. All formed from snugly fit stone that did not betray a hint of open space to the cold air. That in itself was a work of art and admirable craftsmanship.
The people here didn’t build too high, keeping the buildings to two floors at most. Sharp canted roofs that reached a singular peak, all to break up snowfall and keep it from accumulating. Chimneys were fixed to the sides of homes rather than coming straight through the main body. The smoke burned as gray as ashes.
Most of the buildings were built down at the base of the mountain, snaking along the winding riverway. The rest dotted the incline, all keeping close to the twisting paths that ran nearly to the crest of the mountain. As the land rose, the number of homes thinned.
The people here dressed heavier with thicker furs and layers than anyone in Ghal despite being so close to the city. Their skin was fair enough that they all held a touch of rose in their cheeks, and many of them shared the color of their hair with the snow. Some of their eyes weren’t as deep-set and held distinct curves to them I’d rarely seen.
Streamers were fixed to many of the roofs, some no more than lengths of brightly dyed fabric. Others were more distinct—rows of fine line all carrying triangles of varying colors and spaced apart. When the wind picked up, they undulated like serpents in the air. The movements entranced me until Radi let out a low long groan from his place in the wagon.
The double panels leading to the bed and the rest of Pathar’s goods opened. A bedraggled Radi shambled halfway through the doorway, letting most of his body hang against the frame. “Are we there yet?” He squinted at me like he’d spent the night drinking, then turned his gaze toward the sun. His eyes narrowed further. “Cursed hateful thing, that.” His stare intensified at the light before he gave up and slumped his head. “I’m starving.”
I snorted, then regretted it immediately as a rush of cold air sent needles up my nostrils. I coughed and cleared the pain best I could. “Pathar’s gone to get us some more food. We still have some of the smoked goat strips.”
Radi spat. “I hate that stuff. Dried, chewy, tough, spiced to hell.”
“It’s what we have.” To that, I reached into the leather pouch Pathar had left next to me and pulled free a few lengths of the traveling meat. It tasted exactly as Radi had described, and I loved every bite of it.
Much as Pathar had warned us, most people avoided Radi and me, giving the wagon a wide berth. A few stared long and hard before turning back to their own business. But one man approached us. Even under the multiple layers of hide and furs, his muscles clearly made up more of his bulk than his clothing. His nose was blunted, and his eyes looked like they’d been pressed tight and thin from the harsh winds and blinding light across the snow-swept terrain.
“You with the tinker?” His voice had a guttural nature like he’d swallowed something hot and harsh. Every word sounded hard and forced.
I didn’t answer immediately, chewing my dried goat.
Radi hooked a thumb in my direction. “I’m with him who’s with the tinker.”
The man ignored Radi’s comment and settled his attention on me, stroking his mustache. It reminded me of two thin tails hanging from his face rather than facial hair. “Got news for that man. What’ll he trade me for it?”
I shrugged, knowing enough that I shouldn’t have been bartering on Pathar’s behalf. “You’ll have to wait to find out. He’s gone down the slope there to buy some things. Said he’ll be doing business when he gets back.” I worked to keep my words simple, closer to clipped in speech after hearing how the man spoke.
Some may think it crass to match someone’s accent and cadence—that I might mock them in doing it, but that wasn’t why I did it. There is something to giving people the comfort of what they’re used to hearing to help set them at ease. And we were strangers here. I didn’t need to put people any more at guard than they already were.
The man grunted. “Then he can hear it from me when he gets back. But you might want to know.” The man removed a woolen mitten, reached into a pouch at his belt, and retrieved something that resembled the goat strips I’d been snacking on, only their color had all the brightness of a peach. He bit into it and talked around his chewing. “Was fishing up farther north, going to deeper waters, stiller ones. Where the pink parthi fish spawn. Good catches there. Got cut off by another fisherman up from Ampur. Was about to come to spear and fists if he wasn’t gonna let me past. Then he tells me things that’s got me thinking he’s been trading in that cotton juice people down south deal in.
“Crazy things. I look in his eyes and see whatever it is, it’s got him true scared. So I listen. He tells me the village is mostly gone. Burned. Fires still going strong … in the snow. We’re still getting falls every set. And he says fires burning. Tells me something foul and nasty woke up, a monster, a demon. Something that fills the river and can swallow homes whole. I tell him he’s crazy. I tell him so. And you know what he does?”
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.
“He laughs. Tells me to go upriver myself if I want to die. Then he tells me to bring the spear and hold it close, because I’ll need it. But not for any monster. Tells me it’ll be for me. That better to take my own life than see what he’s seen or be left with what’s there. Man laughs harder. Then…” He stopped talking, chewing another mouthful of what I figured to be dried fish. “He tells me if I go upriver, I’ll die. I’ll go mad and die. Just like everyone else.
“Though, s’pose odder things have happened up there. Heard not that long back stone fell from the sky. Slab of it big enough to have come from a wall. Landed in the snow and didn’t break. Folk just left it there. God’s wrath or something.”
I found my voice and asked everything I could think of. “What did you see? What colors were the fires? Smoke. Did you see the smoke? What kind of beast—”
The man raised a hand, silencing me with the gesture. “Whoa, boy. I didn’t go up there. I’m not one for being told what to do, but if you’d’ve seen that man, you’d know there wasn’t no good in going up that way. I’m no fool. He may have been touched, but…” The man bit his lip and let the words die in the air.
I didn’t need him to explain. Sometimes the idea of something fearful is more than enough to stay a man’s feet and his heart. It’s worse when you don’t know. In fact, it’s often that way. When you know what to expect, you can prepare for it. But when all you have is the terror in another man’s eyes and voice, that’s enough to make you think twice and spare yourself a similar fate. That is the nature of fear.
“I’m no coward,” said the fisherman. He puffed his chest but deflated just as fast. “It’s a hard life. And few things’re harder than being out there on the water year-round. Don’t think otherwise. The folk that live that life know it to be a hard thing. Hard.” He made his stare as firm and strong as the word itself. “So seeing one like that all out of sorts.” He shook his head and said something under his breath I didn’t catch. “Least I could do was listen to the man, no?”
I nodded, knowing he didn’t want me pressing him on the matter. He needed a moment’s comfort and his pride assuaged. Maybe even the guilt at leaving the man up there on the river. “Of course. All you could do. Ain’t no shame in it. He asked you to leave, you did. You gave a man what he wanted when he’d probably lost a good bit. Was proper kind of you.”
The man muttered something again, still too soft to reach my ears. His gaze grew distant and fell on the mountain peaks. “Yeah. That’s it. I did him a kindness.” He didn’t sound like he believed it but wanted to convince himself of it. Something changed in his face. The color drained further and the gray of his eyes looked to pale more than possible in the moment. Maybe a trick of the light, maybe just as much due to the cold. He shook his head and spoke in a tongue I didn’t understand.
Radi and I exchanged a look in silence.
“Changed my mind, boy. Tell the tinker what I said. Don’t feel keen on retelling the story myself. And if you’re going up that way, maybe think not to. Be better for you. Either the man’s mad and whatever did it to ’em is out there, and you’ll find it, or you’ll find everything he said’s true. I don’t right know what’s worse. Not sure I can afford to find out, neither.” The fisherman pulled up a hood lined in dark fur, cinching the ties tight to pull the edges of his clothes closer to his face. “Tell the tinker.” He muttered again and walked off.
Radi watched him go before turning to me. “Maybe he’s just as mad as the man he met.”
I said nothing.
“And … Ampur is where we’re heading, yeah?”
I kept my tongue between my teeth.
“Blood and ashes, Ari. What are you getting us into?”
“I told you I was going alone.”
Radi vanished behind the doors, reappearing the next instant. “Damn cold.” He fiddled with something I couldn’t see, then two notes rang out from the mandolin. They seemed to say stupid, foolish.
I glowered at him.
“You’re madder than the man in his story if you think I’m letting you go into this alone. Besides, think of the stories. Whatever is happening is the sort of thing I can turn into a song. The sort that’ll make women swoon. But I’d very much like to come out of it alive.” Another few notes. Together, they said, doubtful.
Did I tell him I was hunting the Ashura? That I’d brought my friend to chase down children’s tales and nightmares the educated world consigned to fables? That I was set on revenge, and somehow meant to kill The Nine out on the frozen peaks beyond Ghal where no one would find us should things go wrong? Should I have told him we were going to challenge timeless beings from when the world was young, who had all the powers of binders out of legend?
