Joel Shepherd - Tracato

“I do confess to being somewhat astonished,” Prince Balthaar continued, “that such formidably masculine peoples as the Lenays should accept a woman with a sword into their midst on the road to war.”

“The warriors of Lenayin respect skill with a sword,” Sasha replied. She extended a hand to ruffle the hair of the kneeling woman’s little boy in passing, but the woman drew him fearfully back from the nobility’s path. The little boy stared, his face dirty, fingers in his mouth. “There is a saying in Valhanan, that should the mouse best the wolf, then give the mouse a chieftain’s staff and let him rule in the land of wolves.”

“It is not common though, surely, for the mouse to best the wolf?”

“Not common, no,” said Sasha. “But should it occur, then should the wolves not show respect?”

“There is a tale of mice chasing cats in the Bacosh,” said Balthaar. His manner was so languid and airy, it was difficult to tell what, if anything, he was truly thinking. “Not the same thing, but close enough, for the purposes of tales. This occurred following the murder of a king by a commoner. The natural order was upset, and the mice chased the cats, and the cats chased the dogs, and the women beat the men.”

“Is it then an established order of the Bacosh that the men should beat the women?” Sasha asked coolly.

“Not the good men, dear sister. Be assured that you should never fear for your Sofy, I do love her most dearly.”

“I have heard so,” said Sasha. Jaryd, Sasha knew, spoke reasonable Torovan. She did not look at him, and he remained silent.

“Perhaps it would be wise of you, sister, to not wear your blade so prominently upon your back,” Balthaar said then. “I fear that there are some in these lands who might take it ill.”

“Where then should I wear it?”

“A hip would suffice,” said Balthaar, with certainty.

“I do not like the scabbard to bang against my leg,” said Sasha, nervelessly. “I have never seen a swordbelt that well fits a woman’s hips. And I have always drawn over the shoulder. One does not toy with ingrained reflexes.”

“I fear you miss my point,” said Balthaar. “To wear a blade as such is to announce one’s self Nasi-Keth. For centuries in these lands, the Nasi-Keth have been put to the sword.”

“I am Nasi-Keth,” said Sasha. “And if any would like to put me to the sword, they’ll find that mine is sharper.”

“M’Lady,” said Balthaar, with the first trace of temper, “you are a guest in these lands.”

“I’m not,” said Sasha. “I’m an ally, and family to you by marriage. A guest is one who requires hospitality. Lenayin requires nothing from you, Prince Balthaar. You require us . We come to fight and die at your request, and we shall not now demean ourselves in bowing to your sense of decorum.”

To Sasha’s surprise, Balthaar raised his eyebrows and fought back a smile. “The tales I hear of you are true. You will not bow to anyone.”

“You’ll find it a common trait amongst Lenays,” Sasha said.

Balthaar laughed. “That must be why you’re always fighting and killing each other.”

“Not nearly so much as here,” Sasha replied. Balthaar’s amusement faded. “Furthermore, Your Highness, if we fight and kill those who attempt to make us bow on this ride, it will not be other Lenays who do the dying. One should not invite the Army of Lenayin into one’s lands if one does not understand that.”

In the centre of the village there was a small temple in a courtyard. About it crowded many lords of Lenayin and the Bacosh. They milled in small discrete groups, and conversed as though waiting for something. Men saw Balthaar at the head of his party and bowed at his approach. Before the temple’s steps, men in odd robes had gathered. Sasha left Balthaar’s side to step through the throng of armed and armoured men, to catch a closer look.

From the edge of the crowd she could see the gathered formation, of men in black robes emblazoned with green, Verenthane stars. The men wore tall and pointed hoods, their faces covered with holes cut for the eyes. Several carried tall Verenthane stars on poles. To their side, prominent among the surrounding men, stood King Torvaal Lenayin, and Regent Arosh, side by side. All were waiting, and men stood clear of the path before them. Someone, or something, was coming.

Jaryd and Yasmyn pushed in at Sasha’s sides. “Looks like the oddest wedding I’ve ever seen,” Jaryd joked.

“They do more than marry people in the temples around here,” Yasmyn said grimly. Sasha looked about, and found that they were alone amongst Bacosh lords and knights, many of whom gave them long looks. A moment later she saw Sofy, standing with Balthaar, her hand in his as he guided her behind the line of hooded men to stand by his father’s side.

“Who are these idiots?” Sasha asked, confident that none immediately surrounding would be able to understand Lenay.

“The elwon vaar ,” said Yasmyn. “It means ‘Black Order,’ in Larosan.”

“Original,” Sasha said. She did not like the look of them. She had not heard of the Black Order, but she knew of the extremes to which some in the Bacosh took their beliefs. Any group so assembled, in uniform costume, beneath Verenthane symbols, would arouse her wariness. “Who are they?”

“Men,” said Yasmyn. “All sorts of men. High men, low men, city men and country men. No peasants, but all other sorts of men. The priesthood selects them, but they do not say who they are. They are the silent arm of the priesthood.”

Sasha thought she understood. “Informants.”

“Yes. They tell the priests of blasphemy, witchcraft, all those things. Much better for the priests if no one knows who they are. So they wear hoods.”

“Sofy says Lenayin has too many stupid old traditions,” Jaryd muttered. “I’m quite certain I prefer our stupid old traditions to these.”

“Not an old tradition,” said Yasmyn, shaking her head. “Less than fifty years old.”

“About the time the priesthood became impatient with the lords’ failure to reclaim the Saalshen Bacosh, and set about turning it into a holy crusade,” Sasha surmised.

“Yes. Here, faith is politics.” Yasmyn sounded disgusted. “The priests make new beliefs, to suit their king. The king lets them, as it suits his interest. They make a travesty of the gods, and priests and king rule the land together, two hands about the peoples’ throat.”

“He’s not a king, he’s a regent,” said Jaryd.

“Bah,” said Yasmyn. “A king is a king. He only says ‘regent’ to make it impossible for anyone to disagree that he should attack the Saalshen Bacosh. That’s new too. The last regent, Elrude, started that by saying no one could call themselves ‘king’ until the Saalshen Bacosh was reclaimed. They call it ‘Elrude’s Oath.’ His son was killed in battle against serrin scouts, and he vowed no one could call themselves king until all serrin were driven from the Bacosh. Until then it was just more squabbling Bacosh kings, even with the Saalshen Bacosh in serrin hands.”

Sasha looked at the Isfayen girl’s grim expression. “You know a lot.”

“Princess Sofy, she knows language better than me, she learns a people’s ways, and listens to the music of their soul. I leave that to her. My father taught me blood, knives and politics. I try to keep her alive.”

“And do so with my thanks,” said Sasha.

“Thank me or not, it is my duty. My father told me a woman could defend her best, because a woman can go places and ask things a man cannot. Prince Damon agreed.”

“Damon’s quite smart,” Sasha agreed. “For a man.”

“Hey,” said Jaryd.

“You have studied under Kessligh Cronenverdt,” said Yasmyn, her dark, slanted eyes on Sasha.