Markswoman Read online

  “You aren’t going to tell us what your plan is?” asked Felda through gritted teeth.

  “Don’t worry about it, my dear Felda,” said Tamsyn sweetly. “Concentrate on those equations of yours—so critical to the well-being of our Order.”

  “You can hardly expect our cooperation if you do not tell us what you intend,” said Chintil tightly.

  Tamsyn laughed. “On the contrary, Chintil, I know you will cooperate fully with your Mahimata. As will the rest of you.” Her voice was laced with the Inner Speech. Her dark eyes were filled with amusement. They rested on each of the four elders, one by one. When they came to Navroz they lingered a bit longer than on the others. Navroz stiffened, refusing to let slip the slightest emotion under that intrusive gaze.

  Finally Tamsyn nodded, as if satisfied with what she had seen. “You may go,” she said.

  * * *

  No one spoke until they were outside the caves. A cool breeze had sprung up, and Navroz inhaled the fresh air gratefully. An encounter with Tamsyn always left her breathless and with a pounding headache. She rubbed her temples, hoping the others wouldn’t notice.

  “Well, she certainly put us in our place,” said Chintil.

  Chintil Maya was younger than most of them, though not as young as Tamsyn, of course—and the best Hatha-kala teacher the Order had seen in generations. At one time, some fifteen years ago, Tamsyn had been her favorite pupil. That had been before Tamsyn overtook them all in both Hatha-kala and the Mental Arts, becoming second to none but Shirin Mam herself.

  It was not only Tamsyn’s talent, of course, that had prompted Navroz to announce her as the new Mahimata. In the shock and confusion surrounding Shirin Mam’s death, it had seemed the right thing to do. Tamsyn was the Hand of Kali, the natural successor to Shirin Mam.

  Now, however, Navroz was not sure that she had acted wisely. During the ceremony to initiate Tamsyn as the Mahimata, all the torches had flickered out, plunging them into darkness and dismay. It was an ill omen, a harbinger of the bleak times to come.

  It was not only the debacle with Kyra, unfortunate as that was. It was the fact that Navroz was no closer to the truth of Shirin Mam’s death than she had been that first night, when she saw the twisted shape of Shirin’s body lying on the floor of her cell. In that moment she had the insight that nothing was as it seemed, that Shirin herself had arranged to be found like this by Kyra. But as time passed she was no closer to understanding why, or even how.

  Navroz studied the faces of the other three. Gentle Mumuksu with her motherly ways, gruff Felda, who would be chagrined to know that even a novice could see past her rough exterior to the soft heart within, and capable Chintil, strong and unwavering in her convictions. How much did they know? How much did they guess?

  “I have a bad feeling about the clan meeting,” said Mumuksu, sitting down on the dry grass and fanning herself with a leaf despite the cool breeze. “She can undo in one day what it has taken Shirin Mam a lifetime to build. What are we going to do, Eldest?”

  They all looked at Navroz expectantly.

  “We do the only thing we can,” said Navroz. “We wait.”

  The other three nodded as if she had said something of surpassing wisdom.

  * * *

  Nineth had been expecting the summons since yesterday evening. Still, when it came, her stomach seized. Tamsyn wanted her in her cell.

  “Right away, apprentice,” said Baliya. “Don’t try to run away again, or I expect she will kill you.”

  “I wasn’t trying to run away,” said Nineth, scanning the cavern and the passages leading off from it. But there was no sign of Elena; perhaps she was helping Navroz with her healing work.

  “Trying to find your friend?” said Baliya, catching her glance. “I wouldn’t bother. She’s in solitary meditation—a small penance for her terrible performance in Mental Arts today.”

  Nineth’s heart sank. She followed Baliya down the corridor to the Mahimata’s cell. What penance would she get?

  They entered the Mahimata’s cell and Baliya bowed. “Here she is, Mother.”

  “Thank you, Baliya,” said Tamsyn. “You may leave. I will take care of our little runaway.”

  Baliya simpered and left, throwing a malignant glance in Nineth’s direction.

  Nineth stood in front of Tamsyn’s desk, trying to slow her racing pulse. She didn’t want to betray her fear. Tamsyn fed on fear, lapped it up like a cat slurping milk.

  The Mahimata tapped an elongated nail on her desk. “Why were you at the paddocks yesterday evening, saddling Kyra’s mare?”

  Nineth licked her lips. “I wanted to exercise Rinna, Mother. No one rides her anymore.”

  “Indeed,” said Tamsyn. “How thoughtful of you. And yet, that doesn’t explain why you were carrying a sack of provisions.”

  Oh no. She’d forgotten about the food. “Provisions?” Nineth pretended confusion. “Oh, I asked Tarshana for some food because I had missed the midday meal. I thought I’d have a little picnic.”

  “You must have been very hungry, Nineth,” said Tamsyn, “and planning a very large picnic, to need six pies and a whole loaf of walnut bread. You look surprised. Did you think anything would escape my notice? I have eyes and ears everywhere.”

  Of course you do, thought Nineth. Baliya and Akassa and Selene, your spying toadies. But she did not reply; it was better not to say anything. Tamsyn was going to punish her—the only question was how.

  Tamsyn leaned back and laced her hands behind her head. She said, with a hint of the Inner Speech, “Give me your blade, Nineth.”

  It was the one thing Nineth had not expected. She struggled to resist the command, her mind crying in protest. But the katari slid out of her sheath and dropped onto the Mahimata’s desk. She stared at it, bereft, a sob welling up in her throat.

  Tamsyn smiled and picked up the blade. Nineth began to shake. Hot tears coursed down her cheeks. In that moment she hated herself. She wished she were strong, strong enough to snatch the blade and stab Tamsyn with it.

  “My dear Nineth, do not be distressed,” said Tamsyn. “I have only your best interests at heart. Your katari will be restored to you in due course. First, there is the small matter of penance. Running away, you see, is simply not allowed. The penalty is death. Perhaps you did not know that, having been here only five or six years? No matter. You are fortunate that Baliya prevented you from actually riding away.”

  “I’m sorry,” whispered Nineth, her eyes on the deep blue blade in Tamsyn’s hand. So close, and yet so immeasurably far from her.

  “Of course you are,” said Tamsyn gently. “You have been disrespectful to your Mahimata and disobeyed the most fundamental rules of the Order. Don’t look anxious. There is a way to remedy your situation. An apprentice can be forgiven anything. You need not share the fate that awaits your friend Kyra. This is what I want you to do as a penance . . .”

  Nineth leaned forward and tried to listen, but it was hard, with Tamsyn dangling her blade like that, just out of reach. She did the only thing she could, which was to agree with everything Tamsyn was saying. The full import of it did not hit her until she had left the caves of Kali.

  Chapter 21

  In the Grove

  The two kataris slashed and whirled in a lethal dance of colors. There was no need for guards, not with kalishium blades, and Kyra gave it all she had, trying to close in for the decisive thrust that would end this particular bout. But Rustan evaded her with his usual speed and grace, blocking every stab with a counter of his own. Despite the cold, sweat poured down her face and neck. They had been sparring since dawn and it was now midmorning. Kyra was hungry and thirsty and covered in cuts and bruises—all minor, of course, but they did nothing to help her mood.

  Finally she lost her temper and rushed at him with her katari raised for an obvious overhead strike. Rustan blocked her with his own katari, pushed her weapon hand sharply to the right, pivoted, and secured her elbow in an armpit lock, forcing her to bend doubl
e and loosen her grip on her weapon. She hung there, gasping for breath, until he released her.

  “You lost control there for a minute, but overall you’re improving,” said Rustan, examining his own blade before sheathing it.

  Kyra glared at him and mopped the sweat from her eyes with a torn and dusty sleeve. “You’re joking,” she muttered, wiping her palms on robes that were much the worse for wear after almost a month in the desert. “I have only been able to disarm you a few times.”

  “Yes,” said Rustan. “But you make it more difficult for me all the time. If only you would anticipate me instead of reacting to me.” He grinned, his teeth flashing white against his tan face.

  Kyra threw up her hands in frustration. What did he think she was—a mind reader? “You keep saying that! But I cannot anticipate you. I don’t know you. I don’t know what you think or feel or dream. There is some small chance I could predict Tamsyn, but you—you are a stranger to me, even after all this time we have spent together.”

  A curious lump came in her throat. She swallowed hard and bent down as if to dust her robes so that he would not see her expression. When she straightened up, she was composed once more. But Rustan was frowning.

  “I wish I could say the same about you,” he said, his voice cool and hard. “After all, one does not care overmuch if a stranger lives or dies. But I do care about you. I care very much.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Kyra, her face heating up.

  “What did you mean, Kyra Veer? What is it you wish to know about me?” He folded his arms across his chest and stared at her out of his deep blue eyes. Eyes you could fall into, if you weren’t careful.

  “I don’t even know your clan,” said Kyra after a moment, wishing fervently she had just kept her silence to begin with.

  “Neither do I,” said Rustan. “But I was adopted by the clan of Pusht. Barkav brought me here fourteen years ago, when I had seen but seven summers.”

  “Was it . . .” Kyra hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Was it hard for you? Leaving your adopted family and coming here?”

  “Not as hard as it must have been for you,” said Rustan, and his face softened in sympathy. “Barkav told me a little of what happened to the clan of Veer.”

  Here it was, the perfect moment to probe Rustan about Kai Tau. Kyra doubted he would be able to answer her questions; he would have been an infant when Kai turned renegade. But she had to try. “Do you know anything of Kai Tau?” she asked. “He’s the one who killed my family. Astinsai told me he was once a Marksman.” And there is a small chance he might be my father, she did not say—did not even want to think.

  Rustan shook his head. “I don’t know much. He left long before I joined the Order. I’ve heard that Maheshva, who was the Maji-khan of Khur at the time, recruited him from a street gang in Peking. Kai Tau was a skilled Marksman—probably still is. His blade, though . . .” He paused and considered. “Kataris are not meant for hands that have held a death-stick. It may have turned against him.”

  Kyra had not given a thought to the fact that a katari may have been present in the Tau camp when she took down her first mark. Because, of course, she hadn’t known that Kai Tau had been a Marksman. Shirin Mam had not seen fit to share this information with her. “Maybe that’s why it didn’t alert Kai Tau to my presence,” she said. She found herself telling Rustan about her first mark, and how close she had come to being killed herself, opening up completely for the first time in months.

  “You’d think, wouldn’t you, that it would make me happy to kill the eldest son of the man who murdered my family?” she concluded. “Instead, I could not even strike him until his hands were wrapped around my neck, squeezing the breath from my body. I wish I wasn’t so weak!” Her voice was full of the frustration she’d been carrying for months, but she felt lighter after she had said that, as if confessing the doubt would make it go away.

  “It’s not weakness to care about a human life,” said Rustan quietly. The intensity in his voice surprised her. “We are the protectors of the people, the upholders of the law. But far better to let a dozen murderers walk free than take a single innocent life.” An expression of agony crossed his face as he spoke.

  What are you not telling me, she thought, studying him. Aloud she said, “That doesn’t make sense. Those dozen murderers could go on to kill hundreds more. You have to weigh that very real possibility against the small chance of error.”

  “Can you place a value on an innocent life?” he demanded, his eyes flashing.

  “No,” she said. The question made her uncomfortable, but she answered honestly. “But I would rather take that chance than let a murderer escape.”

  Rustan frowned. “That is immoral,” he said.

  “That is my vow,” she shot back. “Both to my Order and to the memory of my clan. Perhaps if you had lived through what I did, you would feel differently.”

  “Perhaps if you had done what I did, you would feel differently,” he countered.

  Kyra longed to ask what he had done, but kept her mouth shut, knowing she was on the brink of an insight, or a confession from him—something that would expand her understanding of the man who stood before her, if only he would speak. She could not push him, not now.

  But the moment passed and Rustan’s face closed. “We can argue till we’re out of words, and it makes not one whit of difference,” he said. “First you need to win that duel with Tamsyn.”

  “You really think I’ve improved enough to defeat her?” The words were out before Kyra could stop them. She hadn’t meant to ask him that; she didn’t want him to guess the depth of her own doubts and fears.

  “I have never seen the Hand of Kali fight, so I cannot answer that,” said Rustan. “But you’ve improved enough to take on any Marksman in our Order, except Ishtul, our blademaster, and the Maji-khan himself. I think you stand a good chance, as long as you stay calm and controlled.”

  Kyra felt a stab of irritation. That was easy for him to say. She’d never seen him lose control, not once.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, noticing her expression.

  “Nothing,” said Kyra. “Just wishing calmness and control came to me as easily as they do to you.”

  Rustan laughed outright at that, a genuine laugh that made her smile despite herself. “Of course they don’t come easy. It’s hard work. I’ve just had a bit more practice than you. And you’re doing better than you were a month ago, both in temper and in technique.”

  “When I—if I manage to return to my Order, I’ll have some new techniques to share with the others,” said Kyra.

  “You’ll go back to your Order after the duel,” said Rustan.

  “If I win,” said Kyra. “If I can anticipate my own teacher better than she anticipates me.” She shook her head. “When I say it out loud, it seems impossible.”

  Rustan took a step toward her and grasped her shoulders, his touch warm even through her robe. “You have changed in the last month,” he said, his eyes fierce. “You have learned new ways to fight, and she has not. You have the advantage, and don’t forget it. Better you hide the remaining days of your life than walk into that hall thinking you’re going to lose. Do you hear me, Kyra?”

  His face was so close to hers, his expression so intense. Kyra had a sudden, inexplicable desire to reach out and touch his stubbled cheek with her fingertips.

  Stupid, stupid. What was she thinking?

  She said, fighting to keep her voice level, “I hear you, Rustan.”

  “Good.” He released her after a moment. Was it her imagination, or was his breath slightly uneven? “Let’s continue practicing after the midday meal.”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She lingered in the grove, waiting until he had gone before she settled down to practice Sheetali, the Cooling Breath.

  Chapter 22

  A Girl with Many Questions

  A delicious aroma of vegetable stew and fresh baked bread rose from the cook tent, but Kyra hu
rried past it. She went straight to her own tent; mercifully, no one called out to her or asked her to join them for the midday meal. Perhaps Shurik had already started eating. She hoped so, anyway. He usually waited for her, but today her appetite was gone, for food or for company.

  She ducked into the shade of her tent and drank some of the ice-cold water that she always kept in a covered pitcher beside the stove. The rest she splashed over her face and arms. She was dirty and tired and tense. There was sand in everything: hair, robes, boots, rugs. She began to comb her hair, yanking it with her fingers to get the tangles out. If by some miracle she got back to the Ferghana alive, she’d kiss the sweet grass and never leave again. Certainly she wouldn’t be fool enough to end up in the company of men. What was wrong with her? Sheetali had done little to quell the tumult in her heart.

  Just as she finished tying her hair, a voice called from outside, “Kyra, are you there? Astinsai wants you.”

  It was Jeev, one of the novices. Kyra almost growled in reply. She had avoided Astinsai since that first night—not a difficult task, since the Old One kept largely to her own tent. What did the crone want with her now?

  “Jeev, please give Astinsai my deepest apologies,” she said. “But I am . . .” She paused to swallow the awful taste of lying to the last living katari mistress. “I am not feeling well.”

  There was silence, and she could picture Jeev scratching his head. No one refused a summons from Astinsai, not even Barkav.

  Finally a hesitant voice said, “Please, Kyra, I don’t understand. Astinsai said to hurry up and fetch you, or she’d make me drink her bitter spineroot brew. Do come.”

  “In my opinion, you all need regular doses of bitter spineroot brew,” muttered Kyra.

  “What? Did you say something?”

  Kyra sighed. “I’m coming.”

  She pushed aside the tent flap and stretched in the sun, trying to relax her limbs.