Back | Next
Contents

Chapter Thirty-Five

“So,” Ulchakh sighed, closing his eyes as the river-following breeze blew across their perch atop the high-water bank. “You have questions about trogs.”

“Yes,” Riordan answered.

“Evidently, ones that Arashk did not answer.”

“Or that I didn’t think to ask when we were traveling together.”

“Very well, Caine Riordan. And you may rest assured that there is one question which I shall not ask you.”

Caine smiled. “Why I need to ask any of these questions?”

Ulchakh opened his eyes and grinned. The sudden proliferation of creases and wrinkles revealed him to be even older than Riordan had expected. “It is always agreeable to speak with you. Ask your questions.”

“One of the trogs we took from the hovel, Bey, claims to be a truthteller.”

“She is,” Ulchakh said with certainty. “The tattoo on her forehead is not a forgery. If it was, she would be dead by now.”

“Which touches on the heart of my question: If an oathkeeper is a witness to transactions, what is a truthteller?”

“A witness to everything except contracts. That requires training. A truthteller need only stake their life upon bearing faithful witness to whatever they have seen.”

Riordan nodded. So they’re essentially a 24/7 legal observer at large. “What happens if a truthteller lies?”

Ulchakh shrugged. “What would happen to anyone who breaks an oath: punishment. Usually death. But for those who wear one of the Four Marks upon their forehead, death is the least of the penalties they would suffer.”

Caine was fairly sure he was perfectly happy not asking about what those greater punishments might be. “And is it common for women . . . eh, females to be truthtellers?”

Ulchakh’s shelflike brow rose slightly. “No. But they wear that Mark more often than they wear the others.” He smiled again. “You ask general questions, but you wish to ask if you can trust Bey. You can.”

“You know her?”

“Before this journey, I only knew of her. But from what I have seen, she is all that I heard. And do not ask me how I heard. The less you know about the black market, the better. So, before you begin the questions that you are struggling to keep behind your teeth, tell me: what do you observe of her?”

It was Riordan’s turn to shrug. “She is very competent but does not brag about it. She thinks quickly, is skilled with a number of weapons, both gives and takes orders easily, and seems to be familiar with many skills.” He frowned. “I am also impressed with how easily she adapts to rapid—and harsh—changes, without any real knowledge of what might come next.”

Ulchakh nodded. “All true, but it is the last trait—that she bends rather than breaks when the winds of fortune change quickly—that seems to puzzle you the most.” He continued before Caine was done nodding. “As with her other abilities, Bey’s gifts in this regard are greater than most, but that is not peculiar. It is a trait present in, or forced upon, all trog females. And those who would be warriors must possess a great deal of it.”

“Why is it so strong in the women?”

Ulchakh looked out over the river. “Because the filth-dwelling killspawn require it. Partly because they understand the world in their own brutish terms: that those above give orders and those below obey. Without question. Without self-respect. They expect this obedience from both males and females.

“But the x’qai expect the same division of power to be observed among the praakht. Specifically, that those who choose to be kajh hold power, and those who choose to be urldi submit to it.

“That more trog females choose to be urldi is hardly their fault. The ones with the most promise to be kajh are usually removed. Those who may grow too large? They are rarely given enough food to survive. Those who are too strong? They come to the same end. And those who remain? They are fed less, sleep in the coldest spots, and are kept busy, even when there is no needful task to be performed.” Ulchakh’s expression was not as fierce as Arashk’s had been, but it was even more disgusted.

Riordan nodded. “So it is not the same among the h’achgai.”

Ulchakh glanced sideways at him. “Can you even wonder this? Every one of us must be as strong, as swift, as clever as they may be. Any less, and we all die. So how can one be prized above any other?

“We live a hard life, and hard decisions are all too common. It is also in the nature of things that some have greater gifts than others. But we are a People, and our strength is grounded in the knowledge that every one of us is not only needful to our survival, but a child of the same mothers and fathers that bore us all.”

Riordan swallowed, wondered when more of his species would learn that lesson with the same admirable clarity. But questions remained—

Ulchakh anticipated them. “So, you understand Bey a little more, or at least, the many ways in which she and other female kajh are so very different from the urldi of their sex. Now you wonder, ‘How do they thrive?’” He shrugged. “Females that choose the way of the kajh rarely best the males in size or strength, but they often have far greater agility and stamina. And because every band gang of praakht hopes to become greater, it also needs those patient enough to become great artisans or brave enough to become truthtellers. Female warriors often serve in several of these roles. That is Bey, although she commands unusual respect among her gang.”

Ulchakh sighed. “And she knows beauty, as well; she is a fire-twirler. Her mother Qua taught her.” He studied Riordan. “Why do you frown, friend? You dislike fire art?”

Riordan shook his head. “No. I mean, I wasn’t smiling about fire art.” Whatever the heck that is. “I was noticing that even the names of the Free Tribe praakht are different. Bey, Qua, the other archer is Sho. Do they have their own language?”

“Not an entirely different language, but trogs of the city may only speak Low Praakht, which is mostly Deviltongue. And yes, the short names are from the Free Tribes and risky to keep in the city, since that calls attention to them even if their appearance does not. Anything that reminds x’qai of independent humans and their influence can result in death.

“But if a female kajh is skilled enough, an x’qai liege is likely to take them as artisans or Marks or plan-makers. And so, many female kajh thrive by serving the very being that would have killed them earlier in their lives.”

Riordan pursued the topic eagerly. “Does that mean that female kajh usually learn more about the x’qao, either to avoid or impress them?”

Ulchakh waved a long, flat hand at the midday sky. “I cannot say, but I suspect that living in Forkus, or any city, makes it unavoidable.” He turned to face Caine directly. “It is you who are the great mystery, though.”

“Me?”

“All of you who seem as harrows but are not. Even among humans, we feel your greater respect for us. You do not act as though you see us as equals. You actually do see us as equals.”

“I am sorry to hear that my species ever does otherwise.” Although I’m hardly surprised.

Ulchakh’s nod was not just serious but somber. “Give me your hands”—he paused, smiled—“your tiny human hands.” They laughed as Caine’s hands disappeared within Ulchakh’s.

The h’achga became serious again. “I could not do this in front of your companions, for I may only do this for one of your number. There are those in Achgabab that will wish I did not do it at all, but I will convince them otherwise.” He shook his head. “Actually, I suspect you will convince them otherwise simply by being as you are.

“Caine-Riordan, I give you my chogruk. You shall walk among us as one of our own kind might. My life stands as bond to your remaining worthy of that brotherhood with the h’achgai of Achgabab. Will you accept my chogruk?”

“I am honored to do so, friend Ulchakh.”

The old trader smiled. “That is well. Now let us return before the more nervous among our companions begin to fear we have been swept downriver.”

Halfway to the thoroughly intermingled humans and h’achgai, they heard laughter and lively conversation.

“Well,” Riordan observed, “at least it doesn’t sound like they’re killing each other.”

“Yet,” Ulchakh aemended with a guttering chuckle.

They were greeted with smiles, waves, and salutations. Amidst the high spirits, Yaargraukh sat impassive, looking on.

Arashk jumped to his feet as they approached. “It is decided! Yidreg shall also give of his stock of drink.”

“Also?” repeated Ulchakh.

Riordan sighed, glanced at O’Garran, who shook his head with a chortle and pointed at a different human.

Bannor rubbed the back of his head. “I might have volunteered one of the bottles of alcohol we took from the hovel.”

“You might have?”

“Didn’t want to bother the XO with minor requisitioning.”

Riordan smiled. “I see. Very thoughtful.”

Ulchakh shrugged and patted Caine on the shoulder. “And I have one measure stashed, waiting upon an occasion such as this. So there will be enough for all to celebrate our reuniting.”

“And our victory today!” Arashk cried.

Riordan worked to keep the smile on his face. “Yes, and our . . . victory.”

***

Bannor Rulaine imbibed very little during the celebration with the h’achgai. He was set to stand the first watch and was not about to be sloppy about it, either in terms of his own readiness or the example he set.

Miles, however, had the last watch and had given himself over to the festivities. He’d become the life of the party with strange ease, probably because he always found common threads with warriors and soldiers, regardless of their origins. Between his acid wit and larger-than-life storytelling, he’d transformed the gathering into the biggest, happiest, most raucous gripe fest Bannor could remember. Well, not counting his pre-mustang days as a sergeant.

About midway through, the chief even roped in the kajh, sidestepping the routine social boundaries by pouring out small drinks for them from his strategically overfilled cup . . . well, skull. Rulaine dispelled the uncomfortable associations by refocusing on the growing camaraderie around the circle. The enthusiasm of the h’achgai had infected most of the Crewe, and the trogs’ discomfort was offset by their pleased surprise at having been included. And by one of the most redoubtable human warriors, no less.

But with dusk darkening into night, the impromptu party broke up and Newton solemnly advised they should conclude the day as they always did: with a meeting among themselves.

***

Eku was, once again, the first to leave the circle. He was recovering, but the pain from marching with a twice-broken arm left him spent by nighttime.

O’Garran leaned back in fine spirits. “I do think that trog rotgut was even more powerful than meemaw’s moonshine. Tasted worse, too.”

Craig Girten looked from face to face, nodding and happy. “A very different Fireside Chat tonight, heh?”

“It is,” Yaargraukh agreed, glancing at Caine. Riordan simply nodded.

Bannor suppressed a frown. Command image notwithstanding, his friend had been unusually quiet, even reserved this evening. No, not just reserved: somber.

“I think we just turned a corner,” Duncan commented a little more loudly than he had to. “These h’achgai are pretty damned clever. Shrewd merchants, too. A partnership with them could help build up our resource base.”

Katie snickered. “And they are a bit like orangs, aren’t they? I mean, the way they act. They’re, well, calmer than the trogs . . . and some of us, too.” She grinned sideways at Miles.

His blink was pure histrionics. “You must be talking about that wild-woman Aya—er, Officer Tagawa, I mean!”

Who may have rolled her eyes. “It will be very interesting, and pivotal, to see how we are received at Achgabab: if the fellowship of a shared battle will become the welcome of a community.”

“And if it does,” O’Garran exclaimed, swaying to his feet, “then it’s high time for us to take the rest of the planet, I say! Claim it for Earth—well, the Republic. And of course,” he added, turning and bowing toward Yaargraukh, “we’ll set aside a continent for any friends we have in the Patrijuridicate.”

Bannor’s loud correction was made in the same instant that he sent an apologetic glance toward Yaargraukh. “I believe you mean, for the New Families.”

“Ah . . . yeah, sure. Them, too! Why not?”

Riordan stood slowly: an oddly deliberate motion that caused the group to go silent. “This has been a good end to an eventful day. You have every right to be proud. And you have every right to be relieved. But when it comes to talk of being a force to be reckoned with, even as a joke, I want you to stop and remember something.”

Once again, Riordan fell quiet and looked slowly around the group. “I want you to think back to the last fight we had. In Forkus. Against some of the very people we’re traveling with now. Put those pictures in your mind. Now I want you to change those images in just one way.

“I want you to add the three x’qao we defeated today. But not the way we encountered them today: on a natural rifle range that plays to all our strengths. I want you to imagine those x’qai coming at you from inside that hovel, without warning and at close range. At the range where their claws and fangs will get to you in the first few seconds. Play that out.”

He paused. “Now tell me: do we all walk away? Do half of us? And of those who do, how many are so wounded they can’t move fast enough to get clear of the pursuit?”

Riordan’s stare became very hard. “When we can all walk away from that scenario, then you go right ahead and thump your chest. But not before.”

He dumped the dregs of water from his “cup.” “We march hard, tomorrow. Square your gear and stand to your watches.” Riordan turned and walked toward the center of the camp, where the trogs were already in their several piles, huddled beneath shared furs and hair blankets.

When he was safely out of earshot, Miles rolled his eyes. “Jeeezus! What a killjoy!”

Yaargraukh’s eyes rotated to fix on the chief. “You disagree with what the commodore said?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then I suggest you consider it at greater length before complaining, Chief O’Garran. After all, he is striving to achieve what any good commander should: keep us all alive. Even you. I retire.” The Hkh’Rkh rose smoothly into his first step and was at his kit in five long strides.

Miles sputtered when the Hkh’Rkh’s silhouette became one with the ground. “He really is an officer, ain’t he? Ruining a good party like that. Why? Because he means to ‘keep us alive’?”

Bannor rose and patted his even shorter friend on the shoulder. “Yes, if you’ll let him.”

“What?” O’Garran stared. “So it’s fine that he pissed on our party? Is that why you’re all staring at me?” He turned to Bannor. “Even you, this time?”

“Even me—every time,” Bannor answered, staring. “You heard the CO, Chief O’Garran. Party’s over. Square yourself away. You need to be sharp for the last watch.”


Back | Next
Framed