Markswoman Page 16

  Derla exhaled slowly. “It is as Faran suspected. The Markswoman Kyra is allowed to take revenge for a past tragedy, and the Order of Valavan is left to handle the bloody aftermath. This is not what we expected of Shirin Mam.”

  “Shirin Mam rarely did what was expected,” said Navroz. “Rest assured that you understand her even less than we did.” She frowned. “That said, we will certainly not leave you to ‘handle the bloody aftermath’ alone. When I said that we have moral jurisdiction, I meant it.”

  “And what will you do?” said Derla. “Engage them in open battle? That is the surest way to die. Kalashiks can kill over a distance of several hundred meters. For us to use our weapons, we must be able to get close to the outlaws.”

  “Is that why the Taus still live?” said Felda. “Because the Markswomen of Valavan are afraid?”

  “Felda!” Navroz’s voice was cold, carrying every bit of authority she possessed as the eldest of the elders.

  Felda colored, mumbled something that could have been mistaken as an apology by someone a little hard of hearing, and glared into the distance with folded arms.

  Navroz said quietly, “I think we all know why the Taus still live.”

  The three were silent. They did know, and it was nothing to be proud of. It was the massacre of Veer, after all, that had silenced the voices that complained of the tithe they gave to the Orders, the voices that had insinuated that Markswomen belonged to an era that was dead and gone.

  Yes, they had played an important role once. For many years after the Great War, people struggled to survive, to find clean water and grow food to feed themselves and their diminished families. But everything was tainted by the toxic remains of the decades-long conflict. People sickened and died in large numbers—more even than had been killed during the war itself.

  But among them were always one or two who led the rest, who never sickened, who defended the weak and fought off marauders, human and animal alike. They were the descendents of the followers of Ture-asa, the last king of Asiana. Under their protection, small groups managed to survive here and there. And in time, as the poison leeched out of the fields and villages grew into more than just a few wretched huts, from among their number was born the first child who would fashion a blade from kalishium and call herself Markswoman: Lin Maya, the founder of the Order of Kali.

  But as the Orders grew in power and strength, so too did the clans of Asiana, until now hundreds of thousands of people lived and farmed on communal land, secure in the belief that they were safe. The dark years were over, the light of the Kanun shone in almost every corner of Asiana, and the towns and villages were well able to deal with the infractions of their local populace. It had been decades since outlaws had dared to attack a major settlement. Clan leaders began to chaff at the authority of the Orders. Why didn’t Markswomen restrict themselves to hunting wyr-wolves and leave the rest to the clan councils?

  Then along came the Taus and slaughtered every man, woman, and child in the peaceful little village of Veer. As the terrible news filtered through to the far-flung settlements of Asiana, the clans reacted with horror and fear. In the rumors and retellings that spread, the twelve death-sticks became a hundred, and the number of those killed multiplied to several thousand. The towns tripled their guard; the villages built trenches for self-defense. After all, it could have been any one of them. And it could be their turn next.

  The killings at Veer accomplished what decades of diplomacy had not. The clans once again turned to the Orders, begging for help and acknowledging their supremacy.

  The Orders moved fast, isolating the remaining known death-sticks in Asiana, and trapping the Taus in the sandy wastes of the Thar Desert. The outlaws would be disarmed and punished eventually, once a proper defense could be mustered. Meanwhile, the clan leaders would not question the continued reign of the Orders of Asiana.

  “Fourteen years is long enough for the outlaws to have walked free,” said Navroz. “Don’t forget, there is another Order that can help us.”

  Derla threw up her hands. “The Order of Khur?” A note of disbelief crept into her voice. “Don’t tell me you wish to involve those—men—in what is happening in the Thar. Kai is one of theirs. The elders of Khur were his compatriots.”

  “You know about that?” said Navroz. “It is something known only to elders. What else has Faran told you?” When Derla made no response, Navroz continued, “The elders of Khur do not like to talk about Kai, but this is precisely why they must be involved. They feel responsible for him and what he has done. Besides, Shirin Mam always believed that the Order of Khur should be treated as equal to the other Orders. She had cordial relations with Barkav.”

  “And your new Mahimata?” said Derla slyly. “What does she think?”

  Navroz hesitated. Tamsyn’s views on men and their place were rather well known. “The new Mahimata will do what she must, as will we,” she said finally. “Tell Faran we will meet in Sikandra.”

  Derla rose to leave, declining their offers of more tea or a hot meal. The day was getting on, she said, and she had a village meeting to attend before sunset. Sandi Meersil was summoned to escort the visitor back to the Ferghana Hub.

  When she was out of earshot, Felda said, “We have two problems, Eldest. First, how are we going to deal with the murderous outlaws in the Thar? Second, how are we going to deal with Tamsyn?”

  “Pit them against each other,” suggested Navroz, “and hope that Kai Tau wins.”

  The two giggled like novices. “She is too strong for us, Felda,” said Navroz at last. “We cannot confront her. We will have to be indirect if we are to find out the truth of what happened the day Shirin Mam died.” She recounted her unsettling encounter with Tamsyn in the Mahimata’s cell.

  “You did well not to try to open that package, Eldest,” said Felda. “If it is sealed by a word of power, then only the person it is intended for can safely access the contents. I wonder what’s in it. Perhaps I will make some discreet inquiries.”

  A hint of steel entered Navroz’s voice. “You’ll do no such thing. Be careful, Felda. You are sometimes almost as obvious as Kyra was.”

  Felda bristled. “I most certainly am not!” she snapped. Her face clouded. “Where is that dratted girl? Those wyr-wolves . . .”

  “Led us a merry dance through the woods, didn’t they?” said Navroz. “Yet Akhtar was found coming from the opposite direction, from the hills of Gonur.”

  “You think she found a Hub?” said Felda. “It’s the only logical explanation. I hope she hasn’t taken it into her head to go off to the Thar and attempt vengeance on the Taus all by herself.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her,” said Navroz. “All the more reason for us to act fast. Yes, child, what is it?”

  It was Tonar Kalam, hovering at the edge of the red-brown carpet of leaves. She bowed and said, “To remind you, Eldest, that the petitioners are waiting. There are eleven today, six of them from quite far away. At least four require healing.”

  Navroz sighed, and both elders rose. Shirin Mam’s death had done nothing to decrease the flow of petitioners. If anything, there seemed even more of them than usual these days, perhaps because Tamsyn did not deign to meet them. That work fell to Navroz.

  She groaned inwardly as she surveyed the group of village folk squatting on the grass beneath the trees in the apple grove. There they were, waiting for their miracles, when all she had to offer was a combination of sensible advice, herbs, and a bit of thought-shaping.

  Felda was already mumbling some excuse about a set of derivations and backing away. Happily, Navroz caught sight of Elena going toward the kitchen with her friend Nineth, and hailed the apprentice.

  “I need your help, Elena,” she called, and the girl came willingly enough, though Nineth fled into the kitchen as if wyr-wolves were after her—no doubt trying to wheedle food out of Tarshana, the wretch.

  Thank the Goddess for Elena with her nimble hands and eager mind. If not for her, Navroz would have
been hard put finding anyone to train as her eventual replacement. Not that she planned on dying just yet. Still, she was seventy-seven years old, and of late she had been feeling every one of them.

  If only Shirin hadn’t died . . .

  But there was no use thinking that. Shirin was gone, but Kyra was still alive, somewhere out there. And one day she would return to the caves of Kali. Navroz held on to that thought like a talisman as she approached the petitioners, Elena in tow.

  Part III

  From The Weapons of the Great War, recounted by a historian of the clan of Arikken to Navroz Lan of the Order of Kali

  The Great War was fought many ages ago. The kings and queens who battled for supremacy are long since dust. Not even their graves exist; so many died that they were burned or buried in vast, shallow pits. Some drowned, throwing themselves in the water to escape the burning metal poison that flowed over the earth and hung in the air, dark and suffocating to those who breathed its noxious fumes.

  No structures remain of the golden time before the war, save the Fort of Sikandra—and no written tablets survive to tell us what the world looked like then. Everything burned, and what didn’t burn was looted by survivors, and what wasn’t looted succumbed to the wind and rain of the centuries that followed. We have no monument to these men and women of long ago.

  Except their guns. Kalashiks do not erode with time. They glow darkly, as if new. Dust will not settle on their smooth flanks. They sit in our underground chamber in a gleaming row, waiting to be picked up and used again.

  But we will never commit that sin. This is the injunction that our forefathers laid upon us: guard them well, but do not touch them. Do not even look upon them, or you will be in their thrall.

  This is what we know: a kalashik can fire fifty rounds per second. It does not need to be reloaded. There is a replicating mechanism within the chambers of the weapon that constantly replenishes the ammunition, drawing energy for this task from its surroundings, or perhaps from its handler. A drawing made a hundred and twenty years ago by one of the more gifted elders of our clan partially reveals its inner structure.

  This is what we guess: the metal of the kalashik is telepathic, like kalishium, but in a deformed way. The metal was made with evil intent and that evil lives on in the machines, twisting the minds of all but the strongest who attempt to wield their power. It is said that the machines are haunted, that they carry the memory of all the men and women they have killed.

  Perhaps the truth is even stranger than that. Perhaps the machines are living beings, immortals that will outlast the human race. Or maybe they are just artifacts, and their power exists only in our imagination.

  The fact of their perpetual existence remains, a bane to our peaceful way of life, a threat to the balance we have established in the long years after the war. It is said that a time will come when these weapons will leave the world forever, at the hands of one who commands the destiny of the human race. But even the wisest cannot see how or when that will happen.

  Chapter 18

  Night in Khur

  The wind screamed and battered the tent. Kyra’s teeth chattered as she tried to dig herself deeper into the layers of rugs that made up her bed. The stove was burning and she wore every scrap of clothing that she had, but she was still cold.

  How did the Marksmen sleep every night with the wind wailing in their ears and the cold seeping into their bones? For that matter, how did they live in what must surely be the most desolate place in Asiana? There was nothing but sand and rock, sun and wind, for miles around. The little grove and the shrubs planted on the dune only emphasized the barrenness of the desert, and the absurdity of trying to grow anything in it. The vast emptiness hurt the eyes and you wanted to look anywhere but there, at that distant horizon, the towering dunes and pale sky. You wanted to consider anything but this, that you were stuck in a freezing desert and your only hope of returning home was to defeat the most feared Markswoman of Asiana in single combat.

  Kyra closed her eyes and moaned. Ten days of lessons with Rustan and all she had to show for it was a scattering of bruises in all sorts of interesting hues. She had yet to last more than a few minutes on her feet sparring with her reluctant teacher. Toward the end of the first week, Rustan had thrown up his hands in exasperation and said that he hoped she was better at wielding a katari than her hands as a weapon, otherwise he didn’t see her surviving long enough against Tamsyn for it to even be called a duel.

  It was galling. Kyra was not among the best at Hatha-kala in the Order of Kali, not by a long shot, but she had thought she knew how to fight. That was before she saw how Rustan moved, the way his limbs seemed to blur with speed as he attacked, evaded, or parried her blows. Of course, she knew that he was Ishtul’s assistant and was exceptionally talented in combat, but she still didn’t understand how it was possible for him to be so young and yet so skilled. It normally took several years of dedication to reach a level of proficiency in dueling. But not even the elders of Khur—save Ishtul and Barkav—could have stood against Rustan.

  Ten days in this hellish place, and Kyra longed for the wooded slopes and tumbling streams of Ferghana with an ache that was almost physical. She missed Elena’s gentle voice and Nineth’s cheerful grin. She missed the vast, womb-like silence of the caves at night. She missed the ancient mulberry tree outside the caves of Kali, and the small pool surrounded by cherry trees not far off, where she used to bathe. Washing in half a bucket of freezing well water was not the same thing.

  Most of all, Kyra missed riding Rinna, letting the mare gallop across the valley, fast as the wind, light as a leaf.

  Was Rinna being looked after? Did she miss Kyra? What about Akhtar, had he made it back to the caves safely? Of course, thinking of Akhtar reminded her of Shirin Mam, and what she had seen in the secret Hub—how she had lost time. A familiar nausea welled up in her. She longed to confide in someone, to tell them what she had experienced.

  Still more did she long to unburden herself of what Astinsai had revealed about her mother and Kai Tau. Now that some days had passed since that first, terrible night, she had begun to disbelieve the story, even though she knew the katari mistress would not tell an outright lie. Perhaps Astinsai was mistaken in some crucial way that would change the whole story. She wished Shirin Mam were still alive so she could demand the details from her.

  There were times when she had almost confided in Rustan. Exacting and stern he might be, but there was something about him that made her feel she could trust him with her innermost fears and secrets. Perhaps because it appeared that he was troubled by secrets of his own. He rarely joined the others during mealtimes, and she’d noticed the way his mouth hardened and his dark gaze turned inward, in those quiet moments when he had given her a set of moves to practice, and settled down to meditate. These were the moments when she found herself on the verge of opening up to him. And might he not have knowledge of his own to share, especially about Kai Tau?

  That Kai had once been a Marksman of Khur was almost as unbelievable as the claim that he had been her mother’s lover, but it would explain what Astinsai had said about something being “owed” to her. Was this why the elders had allowed her to stay with them, and assigned one of their best to help her train for the duel with Tamsyn? Did they think they had some sort of debt to her, and it would be so easily repaid?

  The tent flap seemed to untie itself. Kyra leaped up, heart pounding, as a cold rush of wind gusted through the small space, sending the stove flame dancing.

  A tousled head ducked inside and a familiar voice said, “Good evening, gorgeous one.”

  Kyra lay back and groaned. “Shurik, you gave me such a fright! What are you doing here?”

  Shurik crawled in and tied the flailing tent flap closed with practiced ease. He sat down and cocked his head, grinning at her.

  “Seeing if you’re all right. This is the first night since you arrived that we have a bit of wind, and I thought you might be awake.”

 
; “A bit of wind,” repeated Kyra in disbelief. “I’m thankful it hasn’t blown the tent away and me with it.”

  “That happens sometimes in spring and early summer,” said Shurik. “Eight years ago we had such a storm that we had to take shelter in Akal-shin. We hid in a crevice while the wind screamed around us. It took everything we had: tents, windbreaks, shrubs, even some of the camels. But this hardly ever happens later in the year. There’s no need to worry.”

  “Well, thank you for the words of comfort,” said Kyra drily. “Now if you have satisfied yourself that I am alive and well, perhaps you will leave? I don’t know what the elders would do if they found you in my tent at night, but I wouldn’t want to be around to watch it happen.”

  Shurik put a hand on his heart. “For you I will risk the wrath of all the elders of Khur, dead and alive.”

  He tried to say this in a dramatic whisper, but the effect was somewhat spoiled by his having to shout to be heard above a particularly loud screech of wind.

  Kyra looked at him with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. It had taken Shurik all of three days to convince himself that he was in love with her, the Kanun be damned. She liked him, of course, and he was a good-looking boy with his curly brown hair and merry smile. But she had been as discouraging as it was possible to be without hurting his feelings. The rules about chastity and obedience might be in place only to lend weight to the text of the Kanun, but she had not made her vows to Shirin Mam lightly. Besides, he was young—the youngest Marksman in the Order of Khur. He had taken down his first mark with Rustan while rescuing a caravan bound for Kashgar from a band of nomadic outlaws, but he’d confessed Barkav hadn’t assigned him any marks since then—a fact that clearly rankled.

  “Tell me what’s troubling you.” Shurik stretched out next to her and leaned his head on his arms, gazing at her out of warm brown eyes.