A/N: A word in advance...
I am well aware that a fantasy version of North & South is so not what you've all signed up for. Therefore, many thanks to all of you who made it past the summary and are prepared to give this story a chance despite the unusual setting!
Disclaimer: While The Tribes is more or less following the storyline of North & South, albeit with a reduced and modified 'cast', the fantasy part is not a known world, but a wild hotchpotch of my own invention. However, I liberally borrowed ideas from many sources, just not from the—in hindsight—obvious one, Dune (which btw wasn't much of an issue when I wrote this story last year). 'Spice' happened entirely by accident.
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The Tribes | A Fantasy Story Inspired by North & South
Lately, during my travels, I have become acquainted with the concept of history.
Preserving the heroic deeds and lineages of people for posterity
—by means of putting them down in written documents—
has been, until recently, an endeavour quite alien to me.
We, the Tribes of the Plain, have no history,
not for lack of a written language, but because we have no names.
What we have is stories.
Let me tell you a story...
01 | The White City
I knew better than to look for any telltale signs of his intentions, for a widening of his eyes, perhaps, or a flaring of the nostrils the instant before he would make his move. He stood with his sword poised to attack, his reach so much greater than mine. With my spear gone I only had my dagger left.
Things weren't going according to plan. Obviously.
My one chance was to anticipate his impulse to strike. To move the moment the sword came slashing down at me. I would much rather not have faced the odds, but as of this moment I had run out of options.
I felt the swish of his blade, its thin curved edge grazing the fabric of my sleeve, as I dodged the blow. Other than that I had no awareness of my own movements—but surely there were no more than two long strides following the smooth sideways shift—before I stood behind him, pressing the knife point against his carotid.
"Beaten by the misfit," I hissed into his ear. My breath was ragged. The disparity of exhaustion and exertion never ceased to amaze me, considering how little movement had actually been involved. I felt the rigid muscles of his neck, the impulse to strain away from the blade, the slight tremor. Then I lowered my dagger.
I couldn't quite suppress a grin. "That was none too bad," I said and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder.
He was a good sport, I had to give him that. Sheathing his sword he chuckled good-naturedly. "Next time I'll be prepared for this trick of yours," he said, extending a hand. He was a tall, slim youth much my own age, and like me he wore his light-blonde hair in a long plait.
"Next time I'll come up with a new one," I promised, still grinning, as I gripped his hand. "But who knows when we'll get another chance." I stooped to pick up the spear I had lost earlier in our fight. Then we slowly trudged to the side of the drill ground.
"When will you be off?" he asked, lowering himself onto a low crate with a grunt. We had been engaged in weapons practice since the early hours of the afternoon, but now the sun was low behind the Mound, and the silhouette of the Citadel cast long jagged shadows across the furrowed grit.
I took my time before replying; I picked up the wineskin that lay in the shade next to the crate and drank. The wine was tepid and weak, and too cloying to quench my thirst. I grimaced and handed it to my companion. "Three days' time," I finally said.
"It could be worse," he said. "Your brother's a good man and his task is an important one. He deserves the best—You!"
"And how very handy that he not only gets protection but also a nursemaid—two for the price of one," I replied, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
"The two of you also get to spend time together—and that should please you both. When was the last time you have seen him?" he said. "Besides, it wasn't his idea." The voice of reason—but right then I was in no mood to abide by reason. My grudge was all I had left at this point.
"I do care about him," I replied gruffly, "but there goes my one chance... And I still don't understand why I wasn't considered." I kicked at the gravelly ground, raising a cloud of dust. By the Creator, I was acting like a child!
"I envy your deployment," I eventually admitted in a low voice. "What wouldn't I give to go with you to the north."
He held out the wineskin to me. "I daresay it is greatly overrated... We'll probably get bored out of our wits all through summer and freeze our butts off for the rest of the time." His voice was casual, but there was a glint in his eyes.
Guarding the north was the one assignment every young Guardian aspired to. The Mountains in the north had been our homeland until we had lost it to the Ice Giants and had fled south to live on the Mound. These days only a handful of Guardian settlements remained on the nether slopes of the Mountains, and three garrisons. I had dreamt of serving in the north ever since I was a small child and held my brother's practice sword for the first time.
Duty in the Mountains meant good hunting in summer and actual, real combat in winter—and ultimately it was the route to success and promotion. Whereas all other deployments, like manning the coastal vessels or safeguarding the trade routes, were inferior to it and brought less honour and opportunities...
...and the most menial of tasks was personal guard duty. There was no distinction in it, and by its very nature it lacked all the camaraderie that made the other deployments worthwhile. It was cloak and daggers, rather than sword and shield. This was where the troublemakers and misfits ended up. And me.
"So, the east, is it?" he said after a long pause.
"Ultimately, yes," I replied and sighed. "But first I'll go join him in the Valley. My brother's going to be busy at least until the new moon because the flood came late this year. But after tonight's banquet there's not much reason for me to stay."
The toll of a distant bell indicated the end of the workday. Around us people stopped in their tracks for a moment and then, quickly gathering their belongings, made for the gates.
"Time to get changed," he remarked.
"I'll see you at the banquet," I replied. As I slowly rose my muscles were screaming in protest. Out of the corner of my eyes I saw that he was watching me.
"Good to know that I won't be the only one aching tonight," he grinned. "Bodes well for the dancing—" Of course, he knew how much I hated dancing, and that I would be hardly able to avoid it that night.
I made a rude gesture and turned to leave, looking for the master of the drill ground in order to return the blunted practice weapons and retrieve my own; all except my spear which would remain stored in the rack at the drill ground, as usual. The large weapon, considerably exceeding my own height, iron-tipped and with a flexible shaft, would cause unnecessary attention within the city walls.
The sun was low as I made my way back to my uncle's house. The narrow cobbled streets flanked by high bare walls still retained some of this mild spring day's warmth. They were busy with people heading home, and I felt the curious looks of passers-by on my skin.
Some people called me proud. This puzzled me because I didn't set great store by my appearances. I was always more aware of my skills than my looks.
My looks... Too late it dawned on me how I must appear to them—dishevelled, bruised, and with my left shirtsleeve half torn from the seam—and that I should better have changed at the drill ground or gone to the women's bathhouse by the River before heading home.
Oh well.
I loved the excitement of the fight; a battle of wits as much as of skills and speed. But when it was over the exhaustion was bone-deep, and all I could do was not to drag my feet as I slowly walked up the last steep slope to my uncle's house right underneath the forbidding walls of the Citadel.
My uncle's manservant must have been waiting by the porch, maybe on the lookout for deliveries or early guests, because the door was opened the moment I raised my fist to knock. Behind him, the cobbled patio lay deserted. A cluttering of dishes and cutlery could be heard from the distant kitchen quarters.
"There's hot water waiting for you, lady," he said. "Would you like me to clean your leather mail?"
I never wore iron-clad armour, not even chain mail, just tough leather strips joined by links of metal. I needed to be nimble on my feet, so weight was of the essence.
"Yes, please. And if you could oil it afterwards—" I replied, feeling guilty. He would have plenty of other tasks on a day like this, and usually I tended to my own gear, but this evening I didn't have the time. My uncle's guests would be arriving shortly. I twisted to open the clasps at one side, then pulled it over my head, undoing what remained of my braid in the process and finally making my hair look like a rat's nest.
The servant just bowed and withdrew, mail shirt in hand.
Crossing the yard I went to the washhouse and bolted the door behind me. My uncle's house was large—as the Keeper of Secrets he was an important member of the Council—but somewhat lacking in amenities.
The washhouse, sitting right beside a cistern for rainwater collected from the rooftops, was used both for ablutions and for washing clothes. A pitcher of water stood on a raised slab next to a washing bowl and a small stack of cloths topped by a bar of soap. The pitcher was appallingly small—this far up on the Mound houses didn't have wells, and water was managed with prudence—but its contents were at least hot.
I shivered when the rapidly cooling evening air touched my sweaty, gritty skin as I undressed and combed with my fingers through my hair to find the leather strap that had bound it together. Then I poured half of the water from the pitcher into the bowl and started to wash my face and neck. I wetted and washed my hair, and rinsed it into the bowl with the remainder of the water from the jug.
A shallow wooden tub leant against the wall, and I placed it on the floor and upended some of the water from the bowl into it. Squatting down I tried to wash my body as best I could with a coarse cloth, wincing as it grazed my bruises and as the soap bit into the cuts on my knuckles. Eventually I rinsed away the suds with the rest of the water from the bowl. When I dried myself the towel still didn't come away entirely clean. I grimaced.
I emptied the tub into a pail, wrung the cloth I had used and, after wiping away some splatters from my shins, dressed in the plain linen tunic that hung from a hook by the door. Then I slipped into the straw sandals that were waiting for bathers on the doorstep.
My room was on the second floor, overlooking the inner courtyard. It was as I had left it in the morning, with my gown for the evening already laid out on my bed. The long flowing tunic was in a light shade of lavender—like the shadows on a snowfield—and was accompanied by dainty sandals.
As I fastened the silver belt I had borrowed from my cousin, its owner entered the room. Looking into the mirror I watched her approach. I was not above middling in height. She, however, had the willowy stature prized in a Guardian. Not that she was one of the warriors; she was a priestess, and she wore the deep azure—of bright winter skies—in claim of her calling.
"Let me help you with your hair," she said, and without waiting for my reply she reached for the comb and started to part and plait. She worked with swift practiced fingers, having done my hair ever since we both had been children. We were the same age and, seen side by side in the mirror, were not unalike in looks. We both had the lithe pleasing form, pearly pale skin, amethyst eyes, and straight flaxen hair of our kind. But our expressions couldn't have been more different. My cousin's open countenance spoke of the self-assurance of a favourite child, whereas my own appearance could best be described as wary.
"There you go," she said at last. "I believe I've managed to cover up most of that bruise at the nape of your neck... Looks like someone gave you a rough time."
"You haven't seen the other guy, cousin," I replied, grinning again at the thought of my daring final move.
"Who was it?—and will he be here tonight?"
"The captain of the gate's younger son."
"Oh... You are seeing him a lot lately," she remarked, raising her eyebrows. "Is there any particular reason for it?"
"None other than that he's the only swordsman willing to practice with me."
"Oh." Her voice sounded disappointed. "I thought... well, I hoped that you... and he—"
"There's only one understanding between this family and theirs... and that's between you and his brother." She was standing behind me, and I turned to give her a knowing smile. "Though, I daresay, it may finally be more than a mere understanding after tonight..."
"Shush, cousin." Flustered by my insinuations the serene priestess was turning into a blushing girl. "Nothing's spoken yet."
"What are you still waiting for?" Their 'understanding' had been going on for more than a year. Like me, my cousin was in her twentieth year and therefore of age. Besides, both she and her lover were in good standing and, by all appearances, very much in love. I didn't quite see their problem.
"My father still doesn't approve of him... though what on earth his reservations are I fail to understand—and he isn't telling me!"
"But I can tell that your mind is made up," I said, getting up from my stool. I gave her a peck on the cheek. "Don't you worry, pet. You shall be a bride soon!"
"Don't!" she said reproachfully. Don't call me names, was what she meant. These days, there was only so much teasing she would accept, even from me; and while terms of endearment were acceptable for young children, they were not common among adults—not after the Naming—and they were most certainly not to be used for a priestess.
Our culture was obsessed with names.
So much so that none existed in our day-to-day lives. The river was just the River, the city the City, and the plain that surrounded it was known as no other than the Plain. The Tribes of the Plain had no names but were defined by their primary tasks. As were the people themselves; everyone was identified by what they were rather than by who they were.
There was power in a name, and therefore using names was taboo.
"Why is this so?" I had once asked my cousin, then a newly ordained priestess.
"To remind us that we mustn't crave for personal glory. We don't exist by ourselves but only in context with others and with the world around us."
Needless to say that, as divine commandments went, this one was supremely impractical in everyday life.
The banquet was an annual event, and it was a grand occasion. As a rule Guardians were not meant to strive for aggrandisement, but we were a sociable lot. Besides, my uncle had his own way of doing things; and while some of the guests that night would indeed be people of rank, they were—first and foremost—friends. He just happened to know all the important people in the City.
When I came down to the hall arm-in-arm with my cousin, the first guests were already arriving. The master of the house stood alone by the fireplace and greeted them one after another. The ceiling of the lofty entrance hall was adorned by branches laden with fragrant spring blossoms, As the evening progressed, their white petals would gradually flutter down like snow. We Guardians had a thing about winter, snow, and all that came with the season.
The door to the dining room stood ajar, and I caught a glimpse of the long table, decked out with silver tableware and elaborate white flower arrangements.
In terms of actual years my uncle, the Keeper of Secrets, was an old man and his hair was pure white, but he held himself erect and still stood to an impressive height. He wore a slim pair of reading glasses—a contraption rarely encountered even in the City—perched on the tip of his aquiline nose. He had a way of peeking over them that, depending on the situation, could either be perceived as piercing or mischievous.
"Blessings be upon this house, my father's brother," I greeted him when it was my turn to step forward. It was the formal salutation as befitted the Passing of the Cup.
"Good evening, niece," he replied with a warm smile as he handed me the chalice. He didn't much hold with decorum. "Enjoy the evening... It may be a while before you'll be with so many friends again."
The cup in question was an ornamental goblet, filled to the brim, and it contained not wine but a concoction brewed with a powder commonly known as Spice. Spice had many properties, some of them deemed mythical, and it was fiendishly expensive. To offer it was a traditional part in welcoming honoured guests.
It was one of our few ancient traditions, and I loved it for the generosity of spirit it implied.
I reverently took the goblet with both my hands and, as my lips touched its rim, I closed my eyes for a moment to inhale the distinctive aroma. It was impossible to describe, and no-one could say whether the powder was of animal, vegetal, or mineral provenience. Only that it came from far away, from the western lands beyond the Desert.
I took a sip from the cup and handed it back to make room for my cousin and all the other guests who were lining up behind us to greet their host. Amongst the newly arrived I recognised my sparring partner from earlier in the day. He was standing by the entrance with his parents and his elder brother, and when he caught my eye his smile broadened.
Waiting for my cousin under the archway that ran the length of the hall, I returned his smile and raised my hand.
Within moments she rejoined me and I pointed out her lover. "There he is," I said. "He seems impatient to see you."
"You mustn't tease me," she coyly replied, a smile dimpling her cheeks. From the moment the brothers had stepped forward to greet their host until the instant they joined us under the archway, her eyes never left him.
Although I was happy for her, it gave me a small pang. I doubted that I could ever be so unreservedly in love with anyone. Certainly not with the younger one of the brothers, no matter how ardently my cousin wished for things to be different. We were friends... and I had no wish—or desire—to change anything about it.
Within moments the lovebirds had sneaked to the side engrossed in each other's company, leaving me and my sparring partner to resume our conversation of earlier in the day.
"So, how long before you'll depart for the north?" I asked him. The mere thought of it jarred, but I was determined not to let my own disappointment taint his excitement in his posting.
"Fifteen days from now," he said. "I'll be heading out north just as you are going to leave the Valley for the Hills. My brother's going to be made a lieutenant before we'll leave, and he's coming to show us the ropes until autumn—which is when he'll return to the City. I suppose, their wedding—" He winked, nodding in the direction of the engrossed couple. "—will take place then. With any luck we'll both get some leave of absence on the occasion—"
"It's a long way back from the Hills," I said cautiously, "and, depending on my brother's work, I may not be able to make it."
"Your cousin would be sorely disappointed, I daresay... and so would I."
I looked up sharply, trying to grasp his meaning. If he meant what his words implied, then this would be a first—and taking things to another level.
"How about some added incentive?" he insisted.
"Wh-what do you mean?" I started to feel ill at ease. This was getting stranger by the moment.
"Well, you beat me today... I've been thinking that I owe you a prize."
I was looking at him, aghast. What does he think I am?—a child?—to be tempted by a treat? How could he—astute as he was at other occasions—be so insensitive and... well, puppyish... at this?
Oblivious of my disdain he blathered on. "How about the first fleece I'll be hunting?" He meant the soft pure-white fleece of some elusive mountain creature that customarily adorned the attire of Guardians posted it the north. Didn't he realise that he was adding insult to injury?
"Made into a nice fur collar?" I asked scathingly. "Mind you, you shall give me nothing of the kind—we are not on such terms! I might, however, take it from you the next time I'll wipe the floor with you."
He laughed, but he checked his mirth when he realised—by finally reading my dour expression correctly—that he had offended me. "Well, it seems that this is our next engagement taken care of," he said, suddenly cautious. Searching for another, more inoffensive, topic to broach, he noticed the musicians tune their instruments. The dancing was about to begin. "Will you join in the dance?" he asked, offering his hand.
I sighed inwardly. That night he had a rare talent of putting his foot in it. "I haven't had a sudden change of mind since this afternoon—and therefore I still only dance under sufferance... But do feel free to ask somebody else."
For a moment he stood irresolute, then he bowed. "If you'll excuse me," he said. As he turned away, I felt both exasperated and disappointed. Why does he have to spoil everything?
I watched him approach a girl dressed in pale turquoise—the daughter of a councillor if I was not mistaken—when my cousin softly nudged me. "What's the matter?" she asked. "Did you two fall out with each other?"
"Possibly," I said with a slight shrug. "He'll get over it... However, I'm simply not in the mood for an exchange of niceties tonight."
She gave me a shrewd look. "When have you last eaten?—I suppose, you may feel less grumpy after the banquet... And, until then, try not to discourage any more prospective suitors," she added with a wink.
I scoffed. What would I need a suitor for? was on the tip of my tongue to reply. But she was right about the food. Going without regular meals did indeed make me crabby. I liked my creature comforts. Living in the City had made me soft... About time this is going to change!
During the banquet I was seated between an almost deaf scholarly friend of my uncle's and a middle-aged soldier who was telling a longwinded story about a campaign in the south—with no cues from me required. Immediately afterwards, the dreaded dancing was to commence.
It was to open with a traditional dance by the women. Every girl and woman present was expected to join in, therefore there was no excuse for me but to resign to the inevitable, ill grace or not.
I took my place in the long line of women. It wasn't for fear of missteps that I resented dancing; I had participated in this particular dance ever since my Naming, and I knew the motions by heart. I was also quite alone with my resentment. All around me I could feel the excitement of the women as they took their places, surreptitiously arranging their dresses and hair.
The music started. It was a simple repetitious tune, and to begin with it was very slow. Our movements were smooth and sensuous as we wove our way through intricate arabesques. As the pace of the music increased there was no more time to think about steps, just move with the flow. Step forward, back, twirl, raise arms, grasp hands in passing... On and on we danced, to an ever more stirring rhythm. Soon I felt flushed, and my head spun. This, exactly this, was what I hated so much about dancing; the moment I was losing myself and became an anonymous part of a huge swaying mass...
After the dance I quickly left the crowded room and slipped out of the back door into the patio. Thankfully, it lay deserted. With the cool night air fanning my heated cheeks, I leant against the old tree and looked up to the stars, all the while muted music and laughter floated out from the nearby hall.
I felt deflated. Unbeknownst to myself I had already stopped being a part of the life in the City, and I felt like a guest in my uncle's household.
This was when I realised that there was still a faint light glowing in the turret.
I stepped forward. Rather than return to the festivities, I would go and see my mother.
My mother had withdrawn from us the day after my Naming. With her youngest daughter leaving childhood behind, she had felt that she had fulfilled her obligations towards her family.
She was a priestess, and while ordination didn't necessarily require to remove oneself from society—in fact, most priests and priestesses were married and had families—a few of them chose to become recluses.
And so, while everyone had languidly sat around the table at a late breakfast after the extended celebrations of my Naming, she had announced that she would move into the turret and entirely focus on her studies, henceforth. Then, with everyone still gaping at her open-mouthed, she had ordered the servants to take her belongings, mostly books on the medical properties of plants and a few simple pieces of furniture, to the little tower that sat in the far corner of the yard. Facing outwards and overlooking the Plain, it was quite apart from life at my uncle's house.
The turret had been my mother's home for more than five years now, and during this time her presence in our day-to-day lives had become marginalised. She rarely visited the main house, and when she did she seldom participated in our conversations.
She lived entirely according to her own schedule; she was out on the Plain at all times of the day, gathering ingredients for her medicines, and once every few days she went to the square in front of the Citadel and offered her services as a healer for free, to Guardians and Farmers alike. The simple folks venerated her and considered her a wise woman.
For a long time I had railed against my mother's decision; at fourteen years old I had felt too young to do without a mother, even though, in a physical sense, she had still been there. But the woman herself had quickly become a stranger—and, these days, I sometimes had to remind myself that she was the woman who had actually given birth to me.
The door at ground level was unlocked, as usual. Inside, all walls were lined with shelves and small drawers, neatly labelled, and the ceiling was thick with bunches of herbs suspended from the rafters, except for the place where a rickety wooden staircase led to the upper floors of the circular turret. I slowly climbed upstairs in the dim light, feeling each step with my toes. I knocked at the trap door then slowly pushed it upwards.
"Come in, daughter," her lively voice greeted me even before I had emerged from behind the flap. Not for the first time I wondered if the inhabitant of the turret had developed second sight. "I recognised your step across the courtyard," she said in reply of my unspoken question. "You seem tired."
"Weary," I replied with a sigh. "I've not yet left, but I'm already feeling like a stranger tonight."
"You were never cut out for this life, but for a time I thought that you might have found your place in the world, regardless. What happened?"
"I was not chosen to go to the north. That's what happened—and it still rankles. I thought... well, at least I had great hopes, that I would." I sighed again.
The room was dark, only dimly lit by a brazier standing in the middle of the room on a metal stand. Bookshelves lined most of the walls, except for the place behind the wide bench where my mother sat. There the masonry was covered by a colourful tapestry; the room, while simple, wasn't austere.
My mother wordlessly handed me a steaming cup from the table next to her where, on a small tray, stood also a pot and another steaming cup. I hadn't seen her pour either of them. The infusion was freshly brewed, so she had clearly anticipated my arrival.
I cautiously sniffed at the cup in my hand. It smelt sweet, soothing—but at its core there was a hint of bitterness. "What is it?" I asked.
"I was thinking of you earlier today when I mixed the herbs, thinking that you would soon be leaving—and this is what became of it." She watched me as I still sniffed suspiciously at my cup. "Don't worry," she chuckled. " I'm fairly certain that it won't poison you."
Those sudden flashes of my mother's mischievous humour always caught me by surprise; as did the fact that, despite being a recluse and being well into middle-age, she was still a very lovely woman.
"Sit beside me," she said, invitingly patting the place next to her on the bench. I obliged, and then, on impulse, leant against her shoulder. She drew her shawl and arm around me and held me close. Even at almost twenty years old, I was still half a head smaller.
The runt of the litter. And yet, for a time, I had hoped to be the one to redeem my family.
"Lately, I've been thinking that my life is grinding to a halt before it has had a chance to start properly." I looked up and saw her smile. "This miserable posting is not what I've deserved!" I added fiercely. "I had a chance—I was good!"
She shushed me, and I was quiet for a moment. More subdued I continued, "Truth is, I'm feeling betrayed... cheated out of my destiny. And especially after what happened to my brothers—one drowning, the other mutilated—I felt that we, as a family, were finally owed some distinction—"
"And what, daughter, makes you think that you know your own destiny?" My mother's voice was still kind, but there was steel in it, and a marked unwillingness to indulge me in my self-pity. "Warrior or bodyguard—what's the difference when, in the fullness of time, none of them are your destiny... Drink up your tea now, and then I'll need to give you some medicines to take to your brother."
She was all priestess again, and it was not for me to question her decisions.
It was only when I left the turret, tightly wrapped packets in hand, that I remembered her words, '... when, in the fullness of time, none of them are your destiny'.
When, not if.
It all started with a letter.
I hadn't been aware of its existence until a couple of moons after its arrival, shortly after I was chosen to become a bodyguard. Addressed to the Council it had been sent by one of the communities in the Hills, far in the east. It was uncommon that the Miners approached the Council of Guardians, and it was even more unusual that they came forward with a request.
Said request was for the services of a surveyor to mark out the route of a conduit, intended to bring water from the far side of the Hills to the arid west-facing slopes; and when the Council had finally agreed to grant the request, the surveyor in question was none other than my brother—and I would accompany him for protection.
As usual in spring, my brother was working in the Valley.
Ever since we Guardians had first settled on the Mound, our relationship with our neighbouring tribe in the Valley had been a benign one, aided by the fact that the Farmers were peaceful to the point of meekness; and in time the Farmers had become the only other tribe allowed to move freely within our City walls.
Therefore, to work as a surveyor in the Valley required no bodyguard, even though, when it came to redistributing farmland, unpopular decisions had to be made at times...
... but the Miners, my brother's next assignment, would be a different matter altogether.
The morning after the banquet I was woken by the soft creaking of door hinges.
Grudgingly resigned to my forthcoming mission, I had started to try out a number of ruses and routines that might come in handy in my new clandestine existence. To carefully remove all the oil from the hinges had been one of them, a small precaution against getting caught by surprise. When I opened my eyes I saw that it was my cousin slipping into my room.
"He proposed," she whispered excitedly, "and Father finally gave his consent!" She flopped on the edge of my bed and shook me, even though my eyes were open.
I sat up, nonchalantly shoving the dagger I had grasped at the first sound from the door back between mattress and bed frame. A stray low sunbeam from the window blinded me, and I blinked owlishly.
She cuffed my shoulder, and there was a hint of reproach in her voice as she said, "I wished to tell you last night, but you were gone from the hall and I couldn't find you anywhere."
"I am sorry," I answered, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, so that I came to sit next to her. I kissed her cheek. "But I am here now and you can tell me everything."
"We are to be married in autumn!... The wedding will take place just before the Vigils begin. What a shame that you won't be here in the meantime to help me prepare... But you will be here for the Handfasting. You must!"
I made some vague noise in the affirmative, though without actually promising, all too aware that by that time I would be at someone else's beg and call, even if that someone was my own elder brother—and that he wouldn't be inclined to attend any wedding, not even our cousin's.
"Have you told him your name?" I asked instead. It was a thrilling thought; yet I gathered that this would be the natural thing to do for two people so very much in love, and who were about to get married.
Strangely, her gaze shifted towards the window, avoiding me. For a moment her lips moved, but no actual words came out.
"Not yet," she admitted at last. "I-I simply don't know... I thought that I should know by now... I've been so happy when he proposed. It's been a dream come true!... But when he didn't tell me his name last night, I felt so unsettled... After all, what would he have to fear from me?—So, I don't know what to do!"
This was not going as expected! However, saying 'I love you' would be the easy part compared with revealing one's name. To tell it was to give power to another person; the power of knowledge of one's true self. It meant laying bare one's strengths and weaknesses, and it was the latter that made it so hard. While some names only hinted at this inner truth—like my own—others were supposed to be more obvious...
"Hush, cousin," I said, trying to reassure her even though I felt badly equipped for the task. "It's still early days... Now that you are betrothed and everything is out in the open, you'll have a chance to really get to know each other until autumn... I'm sure it will all come to pass eventually."
"But he'll be away in the north for most of the time... What if it doesn't happen before the wedding?"
Then what, indeed?
There were things to be done before my departure from the City—things besides the obvious leave-taking—and one of them was to get my weapons back in good repair. I wouldn't come across another armourer before we were to reach the eastern Hills, and who knew if their inhabitants were inclined to offer a Guardian good service. They were not renowned for their amiability, or even their cooperation.
The other day the hilt of my dagger had shifted under my grip, and upon unwinding the strip of leather that covered it, I had found that one of the two slim lengths of the wood that doubled the metal grip on either side had split full length. It had to be replaced and, while at it, the armourer could also see to the notch in the blade of my spear. At other times I might have fixed that myself with whetstone and patience, but under the circumstances it seemed prudent to have my gear checked and mended by an expert prior to departing.
Which left the slight matter of the cost... My brother had sent me money both to cover my journey into the Valley and for a particular errand. It was a reasonable amount, but with not enough to spare to pay for the luxury of employing a Guardian armourer. I was reluctant to beg my uncle to help me out; asking around, I heard about a wandering armourer who might be willing to get paid in Spice which, as it happened, tied in with my special errand.
If you had the funds—and if you were a Guardian—Spice was easy enough to purchase within the City. It was, however, notoriously hard to come by in other parts of the Plain, and especially the further east one got. Therefore my brother had instructed me to acquire a generous supply and, as it was traded with its weight several times in silver in some far-off places, it was a lot easier to carry than hard currency.
The marketplace, where I would find both wandering traders and craftsmen, was on the southern flood plains outside the city walls, not far from the drill ground. It sloped all the way down to the River where the more unsavoury local businesses like tanneries and slaughterhouses were located. The permanent buildings down there were on stilts to outlast the Flooding. Others were temporary huts, not yet reassembled as the last of the high waters were still receding.
On the upper end, just above the flood mark, the marketplace was flanked by the walls of the compound, a tangle of buildings surrounding a yard that, on its ground floor, offered shelter for the traders' mounts and pack animals. There were simple living quarters on the upper floor. Backing up against the outer walls of the compound stood several small inns and workshops. It was in one of the latter where the foreign armourer I was looking for was supposed to have taken up temporary residence.
Having no part in the purchase of groceries or household goods at my uncle's home, I rarely came to the marketplace, but whenever I went there I was both surprised and taken aback by the noise and bustle. This place had little resemblance with the tranquil walled City I knew and loved.
There were the Nomads, a group of them just arriving from the western Plain, their camels laden with rare goods. The market goers gave them a wide berth; with their towering height and haughty demeanour, their heads wrapped in turbans that only left bare a small strip of ebony skin around the glowing eyes, they were an imposing sight. Their irises were supposed to be a bright red, but it would take a special kind of recklessness to stare and check. The Nomads moved through the crowd like sleek feline predators, one hand resting casually on the hilt of their elaborate scimitars.
But mostly the market was frequented by Farmers. They came from the nearby Valley to sell their crops. Easily distinguished by their compact build and weathered skin the colour and texture of baked soil, they also made up the bulk of our servants.
The Fishermen, on the other hand, coming to the market to sell salted and pickled sea fish, were never allowed inside the City walls on their own. They were slim and agile, with skin covered in smooth pale scales, and they had the slit pupils common in reptiles and cats. They were our allies in the south; albeit an ally treated with caution, and never entirely trusted. But, as one of my weapons instructors had once remarked, adversity made strange bedfellows. He had spat in the sand as he said it.
And then there were the Miners; and it happened that the armourer I was looking for was one of them. He stood in the door of his smithy, clad in boots and breeches, but with his arms and chest bare except for a sturdy leather apron. Miners were a rare sight in the City, and I regarded him with curiosity as I approached. After all, he was a specimen of the people I was to live amongst in less than a moon.
He was youngish—though, as was the case with Miners, his actual age was hard to tell—and of average height. Average for a Guardian, that was, but powerfully built. His hair was thick and dark, held together at the nape of his neck by a leather strap, and his dusky skin was dull. When I was but a few paces away from him, he turned towards me with an unhurried movement, by all appearances indifferent to the fact that he was facing an armed Guardian.
"How can I help?" he asked, looking me squarely in the eye. His were a light hazel, lighter than the colour of his skin, and oddly penetrating.
"I need some repairs done," I replied just as curtly.
Wordlessly he beckoned me to step inside.
I hesitated. Behind the narrow doorway all lay in darkness, and if I stepped across the threshold I would be outlined against the bright daylight. A perfect target.
For a moment none of us moved. Eventually he huffed and led the way. There was no one else inside, not even a boy to work the bellows.
"Show me," he said.
I laid the dagger with the broken hilt on the workbench and showed him the notch in the blade of my spear. "How much?" I asked.
He took his time before he answered, examining both spear and dagger. "This is good craftsmanship," he said at last, pointing at the knife blade.
"It's a family heirloom."
"Do you also want me to sharpen it?"
"No need," I replied. "I see to it that my blades are always sharp."
He shrugged. "Eight Silvers," he said. Eight of the small silver coins that were the City's currency, along with the much more common Coppers, was still a lot to pay.
I opened the pouch at my belt and drew out a small leather bag from which I took a dark lump. I held it up in front of his face so that he could have a good look at it. It gave off a resinous whiff, underlain with something different, more pungent. It was Spice, but with the powder bound in resin—thus sealing off most of its distinctive smell—for safe transport.
"Eight seeds," I said. Weighed to the measure of eight carob seeds, this meant.
He raised an eyebrow. "Depends on the quality," he slowly replied.
With my dagger I scraped off a tiny sliver and handed it to him on the flat blade. Carefully he took the sample between forefinger and thumb and touched it with the tip of his tongue, closing his eyes for a moment.
"Potent stuff," he finally acknowledged. "It's a deal." He took my spear and held it up against the light coming from the door. "Care to wait for it?" he asked.
When I nodded he took it over to the grindstone with him. For a while nothing could be heard but the jarring grating noise of stone on metal. Next he went to the forge and pumped the bellows, and for a moment, while the embers flared up, the skin on his bare arms and chest glimmered like the sparkle of ore, and his eyes turned a brilliant gold. He pushed the blade into the white-hot centre and waited for a moment before he withdrew it again to dip the spear tip, glowing a dull red at the edges, into the waiting water bucket. Then he worked the edges with a whetstone.
"There you go," he said at last. "Tempered and sharpened. Check it." He thrust the spear into my hand. I ran an experimental fingertip over it. The notch was gone and the blade was honed to a fine point.
"Good work," I acknowledged.
He scoffed and picked up the dagger from the workbench. "Left or right?"
"Right," I replied in answer to his question as to which hand. It was a longish blade, used in combat after the loss of a spear, and I wore it in a scabbard at my waist, unlike the other two small slim knives I had concealed about my person.
"Hold it," he demanded, pressing the hilt into my hand. Minus the leather band the grip was too small. He twisted my hand this way and that, and at one point asked me to open my palm a little. His nearness made me uncomfortable; he gave off a whiff of leather, sweat, and charcoal that, at such close quarters, was almost overpowering. At last he seemed satisfied and went to the anvil where two sharp twangs took care of the rivets. Then he produced two lasts of fine-grained hardwood and, after measuring them for length, he withdrew to the workbench to tackle them with carving knife, file and drill, checking them every once in a while against the bare blade.
From where I stood I saw his profile. It wasn't a handsome one—not by Guardian standards—but with its sharp angles and deep-set eyes it was intriguing, as if hewn from granite, and I found myself scrutinising him in fascination. He was absorbed in his work, his heavy brow furrowed in concentration—until, suddenly, he turned and gave me a wordless penetrating stare.
I felt caught out—flustered—and I resented that someone like him would unsettle me. I turned away and pointedly stared at the open door, feigning boredom.
The rasping sound of sanding told me that, eventually, he seemed satisfied with his work and about to get finished. He went to the anvil to rivet the lasts to the blade, and again, as he passed the forge and the draught flared up the embers, his skin was suffused with the glimmer of ore. Savage, but oddly striking.
He wound the grip with leather, smoothing it with his broad hand and fixing it with a small nail. Then he came over and held out the hilt towards my right hand. I wordlessly grabbed it.
The fit was good. No, it was in fact perfect—much better than before the hilt had been broken. At other times I would have given praise where praise was due. But I was still annoyed, both with him and with myself, and so I only muttered, "It'll do."
He produced a set of small scales along with a number of carob seeds and, after I had inspected the seeds and found them genuine, we measured out the amount of Spice I owed him for his work. Then I quickly stowed away the rest of the lump, grabbed my weapons and left.
Already in the doorway I halted.
What was the matter with me? I shouldn't let a stranger get under my skin like this, let alone make him aware that he could! "I wish you a good day," I coolly said over my shoulder before I finally stepped outside.
In my mind I had a sudden image of his smirk as he replied, "Your servant, lady."
—