Back | Next

Chapter 3

Kelyn set out for Orrick, the needle tucked safely away at the bottom of her satchel—something often thought of, and never touched. Perhaps she would become used to the idea of dealing with such magic, though she would never use it the way those looters had. Rika had said to use it as a guide to find her self, but Kelyn knew well enough that she wanted to make her way through Atlia, so what was the point of consulting it before then?

Any excuse to avoid the thing.

Travel through Orrick's land was not a hard thing. She hadn't known what to expect—only that the gods shaped their lands as they would. Ketura had chosen craggy, jutting mountains and cold, sparsely vegetated foothills, and had made a strong, large people to populate them. Orrick, it seemed, favored trees, and she found the people here to be distinctly shorter than her own. And she'd heard that other gods marked their lands with stranger environs: Rema, a land of herbs, forests, and simple folk—her mother's land; and Dryden, where there was nothing but sand and snakes and lizards; and Siloga, from whence came the darkest mages, and a slight people with handsome features and nut-brown skin.

She'd heard.

Now she was going to see for herself.

She didn't have the coin to stay at the travelers' houses along the road, but no one kicked her out for quietly warming herself by the fire as she passed through. She spent time at the little inns if the keepers found work for her, usually carrying heavy loads or cleaning noxious stalls and pits—though she quickly learned the hazards of that duty if she let her concentration slip.

Pit farming, feh. Not for the occasionally clumsy.

But the woods provided plenty of shelter themselves, as well as much more kindling and game than Kelyn was used to having at her disposal. Even when the trees thinned to day-wide areas of rolling plains, Kelyn slept out under the stars, always finding enough of a hollow in the tough, stalky grasses that the wind whistled over her as she slept. The wind was never as cold as that which swept through her foothills, anyway, and she was just as content making her own fire and roasting her own kill as sharing someone else's of either.

She took her time, lingering where she had a chance to pick up the language—for almost everyone disdained to know hers—or to study the people. She practiced with the strange knives she'd taken from the looter, and soon learned to flick them into targets as she would skip a stone across a pond. By the time she neared the Atlian border, the winds were turning warm and less insistent, and she slept where she would, oiled and waxed cloak pulled over her head against the frequent, gentle spring rains.

It was in one such rain that she found herself sprawled on her stomach at the top of a slight rise, cloak hood drooping over her forehead as she chewed on the stem of one of last year's grasses and considered the town before her. The huddle of buildings rose cleanly from the cleared ground around it, and the path leading into them was wider than any of the meandering traders' roads that Kelyn had followed so far. There were even the beginnings of a stout wood wall around it.

She had the feeling that this town would teach her more—or provide her with more challenges—than had any of the little way stations and trading spots she'd hesitated in before. She also figured it would take coin if she wanted to stay there long, and so faced a decision that would only become more imperative as she moved away from Ketura: finding a way to earn that coin. The skills she had were things that anyone might be good at, but she knew she didn't want to spend much more time doing the things no one else wanted to do . . . like cleaning pits.

Kelyn made a face and spit out the grass stalk. What was the point of gathering people together in such populations that their food had to be carried in, their shelters all crammed together, and their waste carried out? Why, when the wind shifted, she could smell the town from here!

Perhaps she'd just stay out in Orrick's mild lands for a while, and walk into the town each day to learn what she could. That plan seemed most sensible. Kelyn climbed to her feet and scouted a wide circle around the town, taking note of gaps in the wall and finding an area downwind of the garbage heap where she definitely wouldn't choose to sleep. She found a spot that satisfied her just inside the nearest tree line—too close, but all right for tonight—and turned toward one of the gaps, not hesitating until she arrived at the wall. Inside, the buildings crowded close; they were square-built things of timber, wattle, daub, and whitewash, their roofs as much shingled as thatched.

Kelyn took a deep breath, noted that the wall workers weren't paying the least attention to her, and moved into the town with the same long, easy strides that had carried her across Atlia.

That was her first mistake. Fine for the outskirts of the town, such a pace was nearly impossible once she was among the people in the marketplace—to her eyes, a huge, impossibly crowded area where no person could possibly sift out and locate the specific goods they wanted, especially not amidst the bright canvas tenting the tops and sides of the stalls. After stepping on a number of heels and barely rescuing her own toes from the solid wooden wheels of an oxcart, Kelyn choked back her strides. These people must not really have anywhere to go, to meander as they did.

Then again, neither did she.

She paused to look at a vendor's collection of nuts, none of which she had ever seen before, and her grumbling stomach convinced her that when she finally earned some coin, this place would be the first at which to spend it. Why, she could try a different type every day and take half a moon going through them!

The vendor eyed her expectantly, and she spread her empty hands at him; he promptly ignored her. It was his intense gaze on something behind Kelyn that prompted her to turn. Through the stream of people passing by, she deciphered the form of a short woman and the man who was dragging her down the street by her arm. Her face was streaked with tears, and she kept tripping on her long tunic-dress, resisting him every stride.

"Why does that man drag her?" Kelyn asked the nut vendor, careful with the new language. He eyed her, assessing her accent and reassessing her appearance, and then shrugged. Kelyn tried again. "If she doesn't want to go with him, why doesn't she fight him?"

At that, he grunted, pointedly looking up and down her tall frame, her rough, untailored tunic and simple pants. "She's no savage, you. What's her strength to his?"

Kelyn traded her stare between the vendor and the altercation edging its way down the street. A particularly strong yank dragged the woman through a pile of baskets, and she shrieked, almost falling, while the owner of the baskets picked up her own cry of protest. The man shouted something back, not hesitating in his progress. And the nut vendor watched, obviously interested, but just as obviously not about to move.

"Why doesn't anyone help her?" Kelyn asked. "Is she being punished?"

He gave her a hard look. "Because we know how to mind our own business. You do the same, you want to get along in these lands."

Baffled, Kelyn just looked at him. Would she stand by and let one of her companions be mauled by a rock cat, or gored by one of the territorial mountain goats? Survival of the fittest was the rule of the mountains, but everyone got into trouble sometimes. Where would she herself be now, if Iden and Frykla hadn't come to her aid at the house? With a scowl for the nut vendor, she flicked her cloak back over her shoulder and went after the couple, going past the man to stop behind him and stand squarely in his path.

He backed right into her, gave her a startled glance, and quickly turned it into a frown. "Outta the way," he grunted, as the woman, seeing opportunity, redoubled her efforts to escape. He merely reestablished his grip and moved on—only to bounce off Kelyn again. This time he rounded on her, but with his mouth open and ready to spout rudeness; he suddenly seemed to realize that he was looking up at her.

"She doesn't want to go with you," Kelyn said. "But you probably can't see that, considering you've just walked into me twice."

"Mind yer own," the man snapped, recovered from his surprise. "She committed to me."

"No!" the woman said. "My father did that, and it was before either of us knew what a black-hearted bastard you are. My father would never hand me over to a man who beat me!"

"And I say he would," the man sneered, a quick gesture with his fist making the woman cringe. "Since he's dead, I guess we'll just have to take my word on it, won't we?"

"No, we won't." Kelyn thought she sounded quite reasonable. Of course, she couldn't help tightening the grip on her staff, wishing it was his throat, but if one didn't notice, perhaps she would look reasonable, too.

"No one's going to stop me, you can see that," the man said, his eye gleaming as he indicated the marketplace with a sweep of his arm. "I'll do as I please with this worthless trash." He gave a little laugh, and as if to prove his point, balled up his fist and turned on the woman.

Kelyn instantly tapped him on the shin with her staff, knowing from hard experience that it took little effort to create excruciating pain along the edge of the bone.

It got his attention, all right. He threw the woman against the building beside them and turned on Kelyn, aiming that same fist right at her face. But the reflexes that could handle the lightning-swift moves of a rock cat had no problem with this supposedly civilized human. She knocked his hand out of the way with the upper end of the staff and hit him on the shin again with the lower. She couldn't follow the torrent of ugly words that came from his mouth then, but she got the meaning well enough, especially when he came at her again—this time with the glint of metal in his hand, slashing for her arm. Idiot.

Without stepping back, Kelyn knocked him aside and whacked the other shin, putting some force behind it. He went down, bellowing outrage, but came right back up again, still clutching the knife. Definitely an idiot. Kelyn stepped back into guard, whirling the staff before her. While he was still evaluating his chances of getting through it, she tapped him on the shoulder, the flank, beside his knee, his elbow—the knife went flying at that one—and then, without quite the force to ruin him, brought the ironwood up between his legs.

Already staggering, he dropped with a screech and made no attempt to rise. Kelyn set the staff against the ground and regarded him with one hand on her hip, frowning. The people in the market walked around them, muttering and scowling, but doing no more to help the man than they had the woman. Kelyn had a sudden strong urge to return to Ketura, where people behaved in a reasonable manner . . . but that would end this journey before it had really started. She was not one to ignore Rika's words, besides.

She leaned over the man, impartially watching his gyrations of pain. When she couldn't get his attention, she resettled the staff from the ground to his stomach. He blinked up at her, panting, tears leaking from his eyes. She said, "Protect this woman well, cocker, or—Rema curse you—I will come for you." She looked over at the woman, who still cowered against the building, seemingly unable to comprehend how quickly the fates had turned on her tormenter. "I'll be around."

And she was, at least for a while. Oblivious of the stir her actions had caused, over the next few days Kelyn found several establishments willing to pay her for fresh meat. While dawn and dusk found her stalking game on the plains, perfecting her newly acquired skills of hunting in this environment, during the day she strolled the town, learning the ways of people outside Ketura. She discovered a small population of ragged, independent children who were as adept with their tongues as they were with their thieving fingers, and from them she learned the most. They were, she thought, much like her own hunting pack—only their territory was here in this civilized world—and she accorded them respect for it. In turn they fed her gossip, told her stories, explained who was who, and what they did for the town . . . or to it.

The oldest child's name was Aktel, and one day as she put down her coin and contemplated which of the nut vendor's wares to sample next—for he had been scrupulously polite to her since that first day—he came running to her. The vendor started at his sudden arrival and instantly snapped, "Here, you! Get away from my nuts!"

Kelyn said, "He is here to talk to me. Your nuts are safe." At her scowl, he backed up, his hands reflexively moving to protect himself. She turned to the boy. "Aktel, what?"

"The lady," Aktel said, his face serious beneath its accustomed smear of dirt. "The one you helped. Busted Balls has her in the tavern, and—"

That was enough. She tossed him a nut, one of the biggest—the man had said it came from some jungle so far south that the people there were all black, but she didn't believe it herself—and ran for the tavern on feet that no longer stepped on other people's heels nor rarely tripped over themselves, for she was accustomed to the sounds, sights, and smells of the town now, and didn't find them such a distraction.

But she would never grow accustomed to the thick smells of the tavern. She wrinkled her nose as she stepped into the already open doorway, Aktel at her heels no matter how many times she waved him off. The place was noisy, and overcrowded, and always too warm; the occupants moved in an extemporaneous dance of customers, serving wenches, and the ever-changing number of scantily clad women who were always thrusting their personal wares in some man's face.

As soon as her eyes grew used to the squat building's dim light, Kelyn saw what she was there to see. The man she'd already dealt with once, loud and laughing, sat with his back to her and his face to the half-score of friends seated around a rough round table and laughing along with him. The woman, her face bruised, one arm cradled protectively close to her side, sat on the filthy, ale-and-worse soaked floor by his feet, where she'd evidently been commanded to stay.

Busted Balls, Aktel had called him—she ought to have, too. But that would still have left him the ability to hit this woman and any other. . . .

Kelyn stalked through the tavern, half aware of the hasty shifting and dodging that cleared her path. The expression on his friends' faces must have warned the man, for he turned to see Kelyn coming, his hands on the table to steady himself after who knew how many tankers of the thick ale this place served.

"I told you," Kelyn said, and brought her staff down hard on both his hands.

Kelyn sat on a stool in the corner of the small, dim office, not bothering to hide her impatience. The windows were high and much too small for a body to fit through, even if the shutters weren't in the way. The door was thick, solid wood—and locked. There was a fireplace, but the tiny chimney offered no escape. Kelyn drew her cloak closed and scowled around the room.

Finally, the lock made a few grating noises and the wiry little man who had escorted her here came in. Evidently he wasn't too worried about her, for he didn't bother to lock the door when he closed it. He dumped a roll of parchment on the rickety little desk up against the wall and fumbled for the inkwell, finding the proper place in the roll at the same time. "What's yer name again?"

"Kelyn. And I want my staff back."

"Not so fast, not so fast," he muttered, carefully scratching a notation on the roll. "From Ketura, I take it? I've seen yer like before. Not all that often, no, the savages stay where it suits their ways, but I know what I see. . . ." Mumble, scratch, mumble. Kelyn, unseen, rolled her eyes.

A huge man barged through the door, talking even before it was all the way open. "Gort, there's one dead down in the pit, dammit, I told ya that scrawny one wouldn't last—" On catching sight of Kelyn, he stopped short, and Kelyn found herself slowly rising to her feet, almost as if accepting a challenge.

"Eh, leave off," the wiry man grumbled, still not looking up. "She ain't given me any trouble."

"Knew she'd end up here sooner or later," the big man grunted. "Fer what?"

"Broke a fellow's hands to bits," the other said shortly. "Whole tavern of witnesses, unprovoked assault." He finished his notations and set the quill and ink aside, holding the parchment open with one hand so it could dry. For the first time since returning, he glanced at Kelyn, but she couldn't read him at all.

"He deserved it," she said, shifting warily, unhappy to be caught in the corner with both of them in this small room. "He's lucky I left him his—"

"Keep your silence," the big man snarled at her.

Gort waved an imprecise hand in the air. "Neh, neh, none of that."

But Kelyn's temper, once ignited, only grew hotter. "What about that woman he beat? How can you protect him, and not her?"

"That were personal," Gort said. "It sure weren't yours to bust into. As it happens, she's got cousins from south a ways, and word is they're on their way. It'd've been handled, private like. Just can't let folks—that's you—go around bustin' other people up 'cause they've took offense."

Kelyn glowered at him and the big man both. "And if she hadn't had family?"

No one said anything, until the big man grunted, "Can't go around bustin' people up in this town, Keturan trash. It'll be the pit fer you."

"The pit?" Kelyn repeated. She hadn't liked the sound of the place the first time she heard of it, and now—

"The pit," Gort affirmed. "So just hand over yer cloak, now, you wouldn't want it spoilt down there."

Kelyn crossed her arms over her chest and glared at them. She'd never have simply followed him to this place if she'd had any idea what it was all about, and she had no intention of staying here. Gort shrugged, and gestured to the big man. "Take her, then. You've got a hand of days coming to you, Keturan. You best take those days to think about yer life. I seen more'n my share of you come down from the hills, and them that don't scurry on back spend most their days in pits one place or another, never turnin' away from trouble when it steps out in front of them. You're headed for the same, you don't wise up."

Kelyn snorted at him. "I'm not afraid of trouble," she said, and what she didn't say sounded just as loud through the room. Not like you are.

"Neh," Gort said, finally letting the parchment curl back into its roll. "None of ye are. Just look at that Thainn fellow. But ye got any brains to speak of, ye'll change yer mind. Be a shame to waste one such as you."

And what was that supposed to mean? Kelyn opened her mouth to cut through all these words and demand her staff again, but Gort had nodded at the big man, and his hand closed around her arm, fingers digging in at her initial resistance. As if she would let these two bullies throw her in some pit for doing the very thing they ought to have done themselves!

Looking at the big man's bulk filling the door, at the tiny window high on the wall, Kelyn abruptly squelched her first impulse to fight. This was not the place. She let herself be led out the door—not missing a syllable of Gort's whispered, Get that cloak before she goes down—and into a corridor so tiny the man had to drag her behind him, for they didn't fit abreast. They went past a series of doors, one of which was open far enough for Kelyn to get a glimpse of weapons and satchels and an odd saddle or two; she craned to see if her staff was there, but the man unheedingly jerked her onward—toward a growing stink which far outmatched that of the tavern.

Civilization.

The corridor dead-ended and there in the floor there was a rusty iron grate. The pit. From within came weak, pleading cries for water and freedom, and the most incredible stench. . . . Kelyn stared into the darkness beyond the grate, her face wrinkled into an expression of utter disgust. Beside her, the man rumbled in mean laughter and yanked the heavy grating up, leaning it against the wall. "Gimme the cloak now, sister, we've got better use for it than you."

Kelyn's eyes narrowed. As strong as she was, she had no doubt the man was stronger, and she had no staff to use on him—but there was something to be said for quickness and leverage. The floor between the other side of the pit and the wall was a mere hand and a half wide, but Kelyn had gripped narrower ledges than that with the same toes on which she now balanced. Slowly, she undid the ties to her cloak, and handed the fur over to him.

As soon as his hand closed over it, she leapt, whirling to face him, her feet landing solidly in the narrow space available and the cloak stretched between them over the stench of the pit. He was already off balance, surprised and even confused, though the confusion vanished as Kelyn gave the cloak a yank, putting all her strength into it—and he teetered forward over the gaping hole. Snatching another handful of fur, she gave another, sharper tug—and over he went, dropping the cloak in favor of grabbing the edge of the pit.

Kelyn leapt over him, snatching at the grate as soon as her feet hit the floor, tipping it back where it belonged. It hit the man's head first, settling crookedly into place on top of one of his hands. Bellowing protest and pain, he yanked the hand loose and fell.

He made a squishing noise as he landed in the filth and sprawled amidst the stunned silence of the prisoners. Then they seemed to realize their opportunity, and a rally cry of anger rang out.

Kelyn didn't wait around to hear the blows that surely followed. She turned and ran, thinking of her staff, and of freedom.

Staff by her side, Kelyn sprawled on her stomach at the top of a slight rise, cloak puddled beside her as she chewed on the stem of one of this year's new, sweet green grasses and again considered the town before her. It had taught her as much as she'd expected and more—especially that wiry little man called Gort.

When you find your father, you will find you, Rika had said. And of the needle, follow it to your self. Kelyn smiled grimly. All the needle could do was point her at trouble, to places where people were in shock and grieving. Maybe even to scenes like the first time she'd dealt with Busted Balls, when any good looter could have made use of the distraction to snatch things from the vendors.

Never turnin' away from trouble, Gort had said about Keturans—because, like Kelyn, they didn't fear it. Thainn the Keturan, Kelyn thought, lifting the needle on its thong to twirl it lazily in the sun, trusting Rika's words to her. If I follow this trouble dowser long enough, I'll find you.

Back | Next
Framed