4: Witches' Blood (6 page)

In front of John, under the shade of a dull yellow tent, three women sang as they patted flatbread between their hands. Two of the women were older, their white hair partially hidden under red widows’ veils. Doubtless, they had both lost the same husband. The third woman was younger, the daughter-in-law of the older two, John guessed. She, like most of the married women at the Harvest Festival, was obviously too poor to afford silver wedding rings. Instead, her fingers were banded with black tattoos.

Her voice rose in a pure clarity, striking notes as if she were ringing bells. Beneath her song came the constant, rhythmic slap of the flatbread cakes striking against palms. The three women worked in harmony, singing and pounding out the cakes, tossing them easily onto a thin sheet of heated metal and then flipping them up to the narrow counter where the vendor stood.

They sang of the Samsira River and the spring floods that fertilized the fields of Amura’milaun. John found the song beautiful despite its simplicity.

“Yellow honey cakes!” the man called out. “Fresh and sweet!”

His voice hardly carried over all the other vendors’ cries. Countless tents, wagons, and stalls wound around each other, creating their own billowing bright streets. The Harvest Fair grew up like a second brighter, louder city outside the gates of Amura’taye. Crowds of people had come from all across the north to sell, buy, and gawk at the exotic goods of the farthest lands.

Hundreds of strangers moved around John like a living liquid, surging forward, rocking back, spilling into narrow spaces between wagons, then flowing back into the constant push and brush of bodies. Every human and animal odor washed over him and seeped through the scents of flowers, perfumes, fruits, and foods. The voices of hawkers cut through one another, only to be lost under the constant roar of the crowd. Children’s squeals and screams split the air, as did the shrieks of caged birds and the bleats of agitated goats.

And yet, the music somehow carried through it all. It became a delicate stream of order flowing through the rolling chaos. As John walked further into the din of shouts and murmurs, he could still pick out the voices of the three women.

Only when John left the avenue of food and flower vendors did he lose the thread of their song.

He stood in a new maze of merchants that appeared to be dedicated to textiles and jewelry. Bolts of embroidered cloth and long swathes of delicate lace hung from racks. Strings of glass beads and beaten metal charms lay in heaps on tables. He wondered if he was getting any closer to where he should have been: Binders’ Row.

None of the ushvun’im were supposed to travel outside the monastery alone, particularly not when they would be exposed to the delights and temptations of gambling tables and dancing girls. Before any of them had been excused to attend the Harvest Fair, they had been assigned partners. John had known better than to hope that Ravishan would be his. Ravishan’s earlier transgression and his recent disappearance had inspired Dayyid to designate himself as Ravishan’s partner for all three days that the priests were allowed to attend the Harvest Fair.

Hann’yu had requested John’s company and Dayyid had agreed offhandedly. However, the moment they had reached Amura’taye, Hann’yu had simply wandered off, saying he would meet John in the Binders’ Row after fifth bell. John hadn’t minded at first. He could keep himself entertained easily enough. But soon he realized that without Hann’yu, he couldn’t let Dayyid see him, and that meant that he couldn’t see Ravishan either.

Twice already he’d been forced to duck into a tent to avoid Dayyid. And there were other ushiri’im, ushman’im, and ushvun’im at the fair as well. John didn’t know any of them well enough to assume that they wouldn’t report him to Dayyid. So John had spent the whole morning and most of the afternoon cagily scanning the gaudy crowds for dull gray Payshmura cassocks. Every time he glimpsed an approaching pair of his fellow priests, he was forced to plunge deeper into the crowds or hide in random tents. The situation had infused John’s entire morning with a paranoid and furtive feeling of criminality.

Now, with fifth bell finally approaching, he could not find the rendezvous point. Sighing, he pushed his way forward through the throng of packed bodies. He watched enviously as two barefooted children darted between a bearded man and his wives. They dashed ahead and ducked through the flaps of a tent. His own progress had to be slower and more gentle. He was too big to easily slip between people unobtrusively. Though, he had noted that people tended to move aside the moment they noticed his gray cassock and holy braid. Among the poorer population, the deference was most notable. The women bowed their heads and drew back beside their husbands or brothers. The men often averted their eyes or held up their hands in the Payshmura symbol of peace. John returned the gesture and passed on.

As a family of raggedly dressed herders pulled quickly aside for him, John caught a glimpse of a party of silk-clad women moving through the crowd. Their skirts were all made from the same shimmering swathes of green silk—the vivid color worn only by the Bousim family. John quickened his pace. He guessed that he looked particularly intimidating moving fast and with obvious intent. Young mothers jerked their children out of his way and men stepped aside. Only a few seconds later, he had caught up to Lady Bousim’s entourage.

Pivan and his commander, Tashtu, both strode at the head of the large group. Their deep green uniforms looked crisp and the silver emblems of their rank and honors gleamed from the straight collars of their jackets. Polished pistols hung from dark leather holsters at their hips. Their black riding boots shone with the luster of oil and snakeskin.

Behind them, Lady Bousim walked slowly, seeming hardly aware of the crowds of awed farmers and herders. Her black hair was strewn with silver, emeralds, and pieces of polished jade. Her long flowing dress shimmered like nothing worn by any of the surrounding throng. The silver rings on her fingers and the silver chains linking them swung and chimed like precious bells.

Even as tall and blonde as he was, John realized that he was not as out of place as Lady Bousim. Among the poor herders and farmers of Amura’taye, Lady Bousim’s wealth and noble rank placed her absolutely beyond their grasp. One glance at her smooth skin, her deeply curved breasts and hips, her luxurious clothing and lustrous hair informed any onlooker that she had never toiled in a field nor gone hungry through a hard winter.

She was lovely and unobtainable. Even standing among common men and women, walking the same tight confines, she was distant. Her armed guards kept people away with just a glance. Her maids encircled her, smiling and talking, moving constantly, so that the lady herself could only be seen in brief glimpses.

 
Beside Lady Bousim, both Inholima and Ohbi wore their glossy black hair in long twisting masses of braids and tiny silver beads. Pale, translucent green veils floated over the long straight lines of their dresses. Laurie stood nearest to Lady Bousim, dressed just as Ohbi and Inholima were, but her platinum hair and pale skin lent her a radiance. The silver beads adorning her hair were nearly as long as Lady Bousim’s. Strings of polished jade cascaded from her necklace down over her thin chest and shoulders.

Behind the women, John recognized Bati’kohl’s round face and the Rashan Mou’pin’s startlingly vicious smile. Then there came another young rashan in a dark green uniform and beside him, Bill.

Bill looked out of place with the other men. His pale skin appeared almost blue beside the tanned arms and faces of the rashan’im. His blue eyes looked like cut stones and his black hair spiked out from his face like strokes of ink. His slim body appeared delicate, almost girlish, in comparison to the thickly corded muscle of the rashan walking beside him.

 
At first, John thought that the rashan had slowed his pace to accommodate Bill, but then he noticed the limp in the man’s step. The rashan laughed quietly at something Bill said and nodded.

Bill glanced up and immediately picked John out of the surrounding throng of onlookers and waved him over.

“Jahn,” Bill said, “this is Alidas. Do you remember him?”

John regarded the rashan. He was younger than Bill but stood taller. His brown hair fell around his face, softening the sharpness of his jaw. He returned John’s gaze with a knowing intensity.

“I don’t think...” John said softly and then cut himself off as the man’s features and his limp made a sudden connection. This was the rashan he had ridden behind that night on the Holy Road—the young man whose leg had been crushed beneath his fallen mount. He had looked so pale that night, like a corpse.

“You were to be Fikiri’s attendant?” John asked, though he was sure of the answer.

The rashan smiled and nodded. “I didn’t know if you would remember me. It was so dark when we met and so long ago.”

“I saw you a few times after that, but you weren’t well. I think you were sleeping most of the time,” John said.

“I told you he’d remember,” Bill said to Alidas. “Jahn doesn’t forget much.”

John didn’t say anything to that. In truth, he had tried to forget as much about that night as he could. Before then, he had never seen men struggle, beat, and kill each other. He had never been responsible for a single life or death before that night. Involuntarily, he recalled the dirty face of the Fai’daum youth he had hidden. He had scrupulously avoided thinking of the entire matter, and yet he could still remember the boy’s name. Saimura.

“I never had the chance to thank you,” Alidas said. “Pivan says you saved my life.”

“I don’t know that I did that much—” John cut himself short, realizing that his words could seem insulting. It was Alidas’ life after all. “I’m glad that you were all right and that you’ve recovered,” he added quickly.

“Recovered is a kind word for it,” Alidas replied. “But near enough.”

“We’re going with the ladies to pick up some bolts of cloth for winter,” Bill said. “Then we’ll head back to the Bousim tents for a meal. I’m sure it would be fine if you joined us.”

“I know Rashan Pivan would like to see you,” Alidas added.

“And Fikiri should be meeting us there as well.” Bill peered over his shoulder at the retreating backs of the rest of the Bousim entourage.

“I have to go to Binders’ Row,” John said. He didn’t particularly want to see Fikiri. And he doubted that Fikiri wanted to see him. Still, it would be nice to talk with Bill and Laurie. “But after I’m done there, I should be free to come by. Seven bells?”

“That would be great.” Bill took a half step back and bumped into a woman. She wheeled around about to hiss something at him and then went silent as her eyes fell on John. Immediately, she bowed her head and scurried deeper into the moving crowd.

Bill frowned after the woman and then eyed John. “Were you just declared scariest man at the fair, or did I miss something there?”

“It was probably just the Payshmura robes,” Alidas remarked before John could explain. “You know what they say: the woman who crosses a priest steps straight into a fire.”

“Sounds like something Rasho Tashtu would say.” Bill gave a disgusted scowl and Alidas, too, displayed clear antipathy at the mention of his own commander. Then he glanced back through the clusters of people pushing past them. The Bousim entourage was nearly out of sight.

Alidas said, “We had better get going, or we’ll never catch up.”

Bill nodded. “But we’ll see you later, Jahn?”

“Seven bells. I’ll be there.” John started to step away from them, but then paused. “You don’t happen to know where Binders’ Row is, do you?”

“Keep following this street south.” Alidas pointed along the rows of cloth vendors. “You’ll pass the leather tanners, then the binders.”

“Thanks,” John said.

“Tell me if you find any good books,” Alidas commented. “I haven’t had a chance to look yet.”

“I will.” John watched them go. It was strange to see Alidas, as tanned and muscular as he was, gripping Bill’s slim shoulder for balance as they walked. An instant later, strangers closed in around them and John continued on his way.

He reached Binders’ Row in a little under half an hour. Distantly, he could hear the city bells of Amura’taye ringing out the fifth bell. The sun was slipping from its blazing summer zenith. This far north it would still be a while before darkness, but at least the heat was beginning to relent.

The smell of leather hung over the two short corridors of wagons and wooden stalls that made up Binders’ Row. Booksellers sat or leaned under the shade of their stalls, most of them quietly reading passages from their own merchandise. It wasn’t a busy area. Only a few men and boys passed by John. None of them made eye contact with him or each other. John didn’t see any women. It reminded him a little of his walk through Candle Alley.

“And a thousand bulls were tithed by the Lisam gaunsho to the Black Tower,” an old man read slowly and solemnly as John walked past. “And the lands of the south were blessed a thousand times over by Parfir. In blossoms and fruit, in boundless fields of white taye and red, Parfir gave his holy blessings.”

John leaned into the stall, peeking over the narrow shelves of books to search for Hann’yu. There was no one inside, so he walked on.

As he wandered farther along Binders’ Row, the readings began to stray from purely religious works. He overheard passages that sounded more historical in nature, then those of technical works. John caught the partial descriptions of a miraculous steam engine, new printing presses, and the brilliant street lamps of Nurjima. Then he began to pick out hushed murmurs of ‘bare fingers, full breasts’ and ‘red lips, sweet as nectar.’ Just once John caught a whisper of the word, ‘Fai’daum.’