Reap the Whirlwind Page 7

  "What in hell is going on here?"

  Felaras climbed the last of the stairs two at a time, her eyes cold with anger. The Watchers had been uneasy at what lay in Zetren's eyes; they shrank desperately away from the look the Master was wearing. She hadn't worn that look often in her tenure as Master, but out of the half-dozen times she had, twice she'd killed a man with her bare hands. For good reason, admittedly; and she only hastened the sentence that would have been delivered anyway—but none of them had ever forgotten the incidents. Felaras in full wrath was not something any of them faced willingly.

  Except Zetren, who feared nothing. He drew himself up to his considerable height and stared down at her.

  She ignored him, going straight to the mortars. "What in hell have you got these set for?" she asked, with icy calm.

  "Last notch, Master," said old Amberd, the most senior.

  "Which plants our little eggs right at the mouth of the trail." She wasn't asking; she knew exactly what that setting meant, as did Kasha. "You know what my instructions were. Reset them the way I ordered."

  Zetren gave an inarticulate, angry little growl.

  Felaras turned and gave him a long, measuring look—

  Then shrugged, and turned her back on him, plainly dismissing him as something of no importance.

  Whatever he'd been expecting her to do, it wasn't that. He was left staring impotently at her back as she ordered the mortars reset by two notches so that the explosive shells would land considerably ahead of the mouth of the trail. He went red, then white; clenched his fists as if he would like to strike her. . . .

  Then did the unforgivable; made one step toward Felaras's undefended back with his hands coming up.

  That was why Kasha was there.

  Sweating with fear—for this was the first time she'd ever done this outside of lessoning—she ill-wished with all her strength. And got ready to move in case it didn't work, or Zetren was protected.

  Her vision narrowed, as if she was looking down a long tube, and things seemed far away and ill-defined, like in a dream. Well, that was fine; that meant she was directing the power correctly. And there was a sharp pain between her eyebrows which meant she was focusing right. . . .

  She put every bit of her concentration into it; her entire universe narrowed to one thing. Zetren.

  Zetren made another step.

  His foot came squarely down on a piece of round shot from the loading of the mortars that shouldn't have been there. His foot skidded, flew up and into the air, right out from under him. He flailed, both his arms windmilling wildly for a moment, wearing an expression of such amazement that Kasha almost laughed and broke her concentration.

  Then he landed on his back, hitting his head on the stone of the wall and knocking himself unconscious.

  Kasha cut off her wish.

  Sight went back to normal, although she was as tired as if she'd just gone a full ten rounds of hand-to-hand with one of the senior Watchers.

  She daren't show it, though; she took a deep breath, steadied her legs, and went to Zetren's side. She studied him for a moment, then knelt and pried open one eyelid.

  Perfect. Out like a snuffed candle.

  "He tripped over something," she said with feigned innocence, looking over her shoulder at Felaras. "I think he must have hit his head."

  Felaras sighed, as if she believed her aid. "Amberd, I think the sun must have gotten to him. Get him on his feet and back to his quarters, will you?"

  Amberd snorted, but obeyed. The others sighed with relief and went back to resetting the mortars.

  No one seemed to have an inkling as to what had really happened at that moment—which was precisely as both Kasha and Felaras wanted it.

  They got the mortars reset just in time; for a few moments later Eldon pounded up the trail driving the weary herd of horses belonging to the Order before him. They poured in through the Market Gate with a sound like distant thunder, streaming sweat that ran in muddy runnels through the dust covering their flanks, and Watchers on the gate slammed and locked it behind them. Now . . . it shouldn't be more than a few moments . . .

  Kasha strained her ears and eyes both, but it wasn't until the Watchers below got the weary horses safely away into their stabling for a deserved rest that she heard it—the drumming of more hoofbeats on the herd-trail coming up the mountain.

  It seemed to take forever; her heart was pounding in her ears, she clenched her hands on the stone of the parapet before her, and her breath came harsh and panting. Would they turn back? Would they sense the trap?

  Then, suddenly, there they were—hauling up short at the sight of the enormous structure that guarded the Pass.

  "Fire!" Felaras ordered—and the mortars spoke as one.

  The trail between the Fortress and the nomads erupted with thunder and flying debris. It was much too far away to do them any harm, but it was virtually guaranteed to make the most hardheaded of horse-nomads believe in wizards with sky-fire magic.

  When the dust cleared the nomads were nowhere to be seen.

  * * *

  The horses stood, spent, heads down, exhausted. Sweat collected on their flanks, the sweat of fear as much as of exertion; they slobbered around their bits, and their eyes still showed white around the lids. His raiders said nothing, but there was that same stark fear in their eyes, and pleading. You are Khene, said those eyes, white-rimmed in their sun-darkened faces. Think of some way to get us down off this mountain alive!

  Once his heart stopped racing with fear, Tegrai felt oddly calm. He dismounted, handed his reins to Abodai (whose face was drained nearly bloodless), and walked cautiously up the trail to peer around the side of the escarpment protecting them.

  There were three truly enormous holes in the trail.

  Whatever these wizards had, it wasn't lightning; it was worse than lightning. Lightning didn't leave huge, smoking holes in the earth. Lightning didn't reduce boulders to a pile of fragments and pebbles.

  He considered the Fortress, the trail, and the craters in it with a strange calm and detachment. They could have killed us easily, he decided after a moment. They probably could kill us now. If they can do that—there's no reason why they couldn't reach all the way to the camp if they wanted to—

  His heart began racing at that, and he sternly told it to calm itself.

  It wasn't listening. It was convinced that if the wizards cared to, they could keep them from ever getting off this damned mountain.

  And the worst of it was, Jegrai's head agreed with it.

  That had him in a panic, until he turned the thought around and looked at it from the other side. They could have killed us, and probably still could. So why didn't they?

  That thought seemed to ease the tightness in his chest, the panic that squeezed the breath from his lungs.

  Maybe they are like the Holy One, he thought in a burst of inspiration. Maybe that was a warning? Maybe—maybe this is the chance to speak with them—

  He waited for a moment more, to see if lightning was going to strike him down, either from the wizards or the Wind Lords, at the audacious thought.

  Nothing happened.

  Taking that as a sign, he turned to call the others to him.

  * * *

  "Where in Hladyr's name is Teo?" Felaras growled under her breath, watching the spot where the nomads had hidden with far-seeing glasses. "If these flea-bitten nomads make a move, I need to know what it bloody well means!"

  The Fortress sat in a kind of shallow depression split by the Pass; it was screened on the east by rocky outcroppings that rose about half as high as the Fortress walls themselves. The main road ran straight through those outcroppings, but the wilder trail the nomads had followed ran beneath them before joining the road at the point where it crossed the rocks. She could see the barest edge of a head peeking around the side of the boulder-face from time to time, then pulling back quickly. It looked like the same head each time, provided those nomads weren't all wearing identical fur hats.r />
  So they aren't running away—gods, I would give five years off my life to know what they're thinking! Are they staying put because they're afraid I'll blow them to Yazkirn if they move? That's got to be at least part of it, but that wouldn't account for that head that keeps poking around the rocks.

  The watcher was getting bolder; he put his head above the rock almost to the chin and kept it there.

  "Master?" asked one of the gunners, nervously.

  "Stay quiet," she warned. "Let's not startle them."

  "But, Master—what if they charge?"

  She took the glasses away from her eyes and turned to stare at him incredulously. "Reder, there are maybe two dozen of them. They have bows. No siege engines, no armies. And we just brought magic lightning down on their heads. Would you mind telling me just what you're worried about?"

  The Watcher looked sheepish; Felaras remembered now that this man had been one of the few Watchers who had been truly spooked by the presence of the nomads in the Vale below. Well, he'd better get over his fear of barbarians, and fast, she thought to herself. Because if this works he's going to see a lot of them.

  "Sorry, Master," he mumbled, shamefaced. "I guess I just wasn't thinking."

  Felaras snorted, and put the glasses back up to her eyes. "The gods gave you a head, Reder, and they didn't intend it only for ornamental use. You might try using it now and again."

  His fellow gunners chuckled; evidently they were a little tired of Reder's nerves. "Yes, Master Felaras," Reder said unhappily.

  "Kasha, would you see what's keeping—"

  "He's coming up the stairs," Kasha interrupted.

  "And just in time," she growled, trying to fine-focus the lenses of the far-seeing glasses. "I think we're getting something happening over there. Teo—"

  "Wait a minute, Master Felaras." She glanced over her shoulder to see that Teo had somehow pried the only other really good far-seer in the Fortress out of the hands of Diermud; this one was a single tube rather than the linked pair of tubes Felaras was using. "All right, I can see him."

  The man was making his way out of the cover of the rocks; he was a bright splash of dull scarlet paint against the dun of the boulders.

  "He's got—yes—he's wearing the right sort of hat to be a leader, Felaras!" Teo said excitedly. "I think he's either the Clan Chief or the warleader!"

  The lonely figure just stood there in the middle of the road for a long moment, and even this far away Felaras thought she could read a bowstring-tight tension in his stance.

  You do have courage, stranger, she thought wryly. I hope you have sense as well.

  "Is he waiting to see if we take another shot at him, do you think?" she asked the young Archivist at her right elbow.

  "I'd say yes—wait a moment—they're handing him something from behind the rocks—"

  That "something" was long and thin, like a spear or lance, but Felaras's glasses weren't good enough to make out any details.

  But Teo's tube was.

  Felaras looked to him for enlightenment, dropping the glasses to hang around her neck.

  "Well?" she asked, tightly.

  And as the figure raised the stick over his head, and began walking slowly and cautiously—but with evident determination—toward the Fortress, the young man let out a long sigh and took the far-seer glass away from his eye.

  "Master Felaras," he said, grinning at her so hard she thought his smile was going to meet at the back of his head. "I think you just got your wish. That's a peace-staff he's carrying. They want to talk."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "Don't get too excited," Felaras said warningly, watching the envoy with one eye, half afraid he'd vanish if she turned her back. "Just because they want to talk, that doesn't mean we're going to come to any kind of an agreement. But they made the first move; that's hopeful."

  She looked to Teokane, and reached up and tapped him on the shoulder when it was obvious that all his attention was still on the nomad. He started a little, and took the far-seer tube away from his eye.

  "All right, Teo," she said as calmly as she could. Half of her wanted to run right down onto the road. The other half was looking for hidden traps. "You're the closest thing I have to an expert. How do I answer this truce-staff?"

  He frowned, but not with anger; it was only because he was concentrating, Felaras knew him well enough after having him under her eye for the past two years to know that. "You either send somebody else out with a truce-staff, or you go out yourself," he said finally. "The staff is just a spear with the head wrapped. It'll be easy enough for us to make one to match it."

  "Which would you do?" she asked him, sensing the answer might be important. "If you were me, would you go out yourself, or send someone?"

  "Are—are you asking me for advice?" he faltered, his eyes widening with alarm. "I'm not—I mean I don't—"

  She restrained herself from sighing with exasperation. "Yes, Teo, I am asking you for advice. You know more than I do about these people. You can make an informed judgment; I can't. Should I go myself, or send a proxy?"

  He gulped, but finally gathered his scattered wits and answered her. "I—I think that's their leader out there. It would show that you consider us to be very much their superior to send a proxy. They put a very high value on 'face,' and while that might be a good thing in the short run, in the long run it could make for resentment."

  She nodded. He hadn't answered her question, but he'd given her the information she needed to answer it herself. "All right. How do I go about showing that I'm the Master here, that I'm the equivalent of their Clan Chief?"

  He shook his head. "I don't know, Felaras. Clan Chiefs usually have those foxtails on the sides of their hats, but you don't have a hat, and I don't know where we could find a pair of foxtails. . . ." He faltered, and she kept the sharp rebuke she wanted to give him behind her teeth. More and more she was coming to the conclusion that her choice between the two candidates was correct. Teo was crumbling under the first real pressures the Order had seen. Now if Zorsha responded positively under pressure . . .

  Teo finally finished his statement. "I guess—I guess you'll just have to tell them and hope they believe it. They speak Trade-tongue; at least, that's what the chronicles said."

  She thought about the risks for a moment, rubbing her aching head with her hand. This could be a trick, a trap. On the other hand, if I move now, before anyone knows what's going on, I can get the Order so firmly on the road I want that my rivals—like Zetren—won't be able to fight me as effectively. She looked out over the wall to the road, white in the bright sunlight, and the dull scarlet figure standing patiently halfway up it. Gods, what am I worried about? I'll be within bowshot of the walls!

  Then she thought of the converse. Gods. I'll also be within bowshot of his people.

  The sunlight seemed weak, and a chill went up her back.

  Oh, hell. There's no living without taking chances. Time to trust to luck-wishing and take one.

  "Kasha, go open the night-gate," she said abruptly. "I'm going out"

  * * *

  The terrible, bloodthirsty nomad came as something of a surprise.

  He's so young! Great good gods—if this is their leader, their warriors must be babes in arms.

  Felaras studied the young man standing rigidly before her, every fiber of him projecting dignity and a fierce pride. Thin, dust-covered, and shabby. Frightened, but that wouldn't be evident to anyone who didn't have her long years of experience at reading the telltale signals people's bodies showed. Not inexperienced, one could bet on it, but still very young, perhaps all of twenty or so. That was a very tender age to be a Clan Chief. Quietly handsome, in an intriguingly exotic way, with his almond-shaped eyes and dusky gold complexion. Beneath that round fur hat with foxtails falling on either side of his face, he wore his straight black hair very short, which wasn't surprising in a warrior; she wore her own nearly that short for the same reason.

  He was dusty, yes, but not dirty. H
e didn't smell of anything worse than clean sweat and horse. Points for his people; anybody who reckons being clean is important is a leg up on civilization. Bet they don't lose many people to disease.

  She grounded the butt of her truce-staff on the road at her feet, feeling very much aware that they were both within bowshot of the opposition. "I'm Master Felaras," she said in Trade-talk. "I'm the leader of the wizards, something like a Clan Chief. You have something to say to us?"

  The slight twitching of one black eyebrow was all the reaction he showed. Her words had surprised him. She couldn't tell if that indicated surprise that she was the leader and not a proxy sent out to meet him, or surprise that the leader was a woman.

  "I, Jegrai am. Khene Vredai. Master for Vredai." He regarded her for a few moments, scarcely blinking. "You, killed us could have," he replied slowly and carefully, enunciating each syllable exactly.

  Was that a question?

  He seemed to be waiting for a reply.

  "Yes," she said shortly.

  "You, killed us not."

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  She shrugged. "Dead men cannot speak." She paused. He waited patiently for more, his face as calm as a stone, his posture outwardly arrogant. "We want to know why you came here, why you raid our land-folk."

  His turn to shrug. "Need. Food, grass. Both there, we need, we take."

  "Take any more and we will grow angry," she growled. "Take more, and we will not be patient."

  His eyes widened just a trifle, and he covered a flinch, but said, "Many are we. Strong in warriors are we."

  Felaras snorted. "We have the lightnings to answer our call."

  He remained silent.

  "There may be," she said slowly, "another way."

  While he pondered this, she considered him a bit more carefully. There was a charisma, a power about this young man that made you forget his relative youth and the shabby and threadbare state of his clothing. As a fighter herself, she could evaluate the implied ability in the way he moved and stood; balanced and controlled, very like a powerful predator at rest.