She finished with a flourish whose speed shocked the Minztan, then raised the guard to her lips in the ritual gesture of respect and cleaned the blade reverently before returning it to the sheath.
"You have a sauna here?" Shkai'ra asked.
"Yes, Chiefkin," Maihu replied
. Circle unending
, she thought.
Well never have fighters to
match that
. She remembered the whip scars. The Seeker was right, we'd have to become like them to do it. But there are other ways… The door opened, and the guard entered with a bowl. Shkai'ra took the milk in her left hand and deftly broke the eggs into her mouth with the other, tossing the shells on the floor. The milk followed, and she wiped her lips with a grimace.
"Tell the warmaster I'll be with him in an hour," she said. "Have food ready. Staff meeting at noon-meal, all the bandcouncil."
The trooper ducked her head. "The Chiefkin wishes," she said formally. A Mek Kermak with a hangover was nothing to provoke.
"You do massage?" the Kommanza asked Maihu. She nodded warily. "Good, I thought so." It was a common art among the forest people. "Come along to the baths, then."
She saw Maihu's surprise and, astonishingly, grinned. "Thought we never washed, nia?"
Impatiently: "I won't hit you for telling the truth!"
"Well… yes, Cheifkin."
Shkai'ra sniffed at herself. "Doubt you'll be too fond of taking the oil off yourself on the steppe, either: too much wind and nothing to stop it. But I take a bath every month, whether I need it or not, even in winter. And scrapes heal faster if you clean them. Bring my gear, that box there."
Then: "
No
!"
She swooped and grabbed the weapon belt. "
Nobody
touches a Kommanza's weapons except her kin-mates!" She relaxed. "Well enough, you didn't know. Lead on."
Shkai'ra spent a half-hour in the steam bath, while Maihu poured water on the red-hot stones and switched her with the traditional birch twigs; the sauna was one of the few customs the two peoples shared, although the plainsfolk added a final scrubdown with snow. The warmaster met them in the eating hall. That was half the kinhall, rising three stories to the shadowed rafters above; a space not alone for meals, but for play, work, ritual, the shared life of the kinfast. Now the tables had been pushed against the walls to hold loot for tallying, their inlay of flowers and birds scarred by careless hands. The hearth was fireless, and the former owners struggled in under bundles of their own property, encouraged by steppe warriors with riding quirts. By unspoken pact they avoided each other's eyes; Maihu found herself grateful for that.
"Much?" Shkai'ra said, nodding at the growing piles of booty. Scooping fresh protective grease from a pot, she began smearing it thickly over face and neck. A platter of blood sausage and hot rye bread stood on a bale of white foxskins; she seized a handful of each and began to eat noisily. Maihu's stomach rumbled at the smell; she had not eaten since last dawn… Eh'rik gestured at the heaps on the floor. It was impressive; Maihu saw that the raiders had missed little. There was a keg of precious metal, as much as a strong man could lift, Minztan work, and Southland coins; stacks of loaf-shaped ingots of copper and iron; bolts of cloth
—
linen and wool, imported silk and cotton; bale after bale of furs and pelts; crates of tools better than any the Kommanz smiths could fashion.
The warmaster plucked a sword blade out of a bundle; it was much like the one at Shkai'ra's side, long, slightly curved, with a slanted chisel point and the waving patters that told of a weapon worked up from thousands of strands of iron and steel to give strength and suppleness. The arc of the blade was a segment of a great circle, the cutting edge hardened and polished to a mirror finish, while the thicker back was left springy and resilient; but for the elaborate knuckle guard it was the same bleakly efficient lolling tool that the warriors of ancient Nippon had called the
dai-katana
,
three thousand years before. Maihu flicked a smith's practiced eye over it: Minztan made to a Kommanz pattern for the western trade and worth . .
.
the thought trailed off in calculations of grain and cattle.
"And this is only the best," Eh'rik enthused. He opened a small wooden chest with one toe. "Resin blocks." That was a real prize; really first-class armor needed glasscloth heat-set in resin, and only the southland wizards would make it. The secret was guarded closely, and the product itself sold for as much as the market would bear. Steel-plate armor would have been even better, of course, but who could afford it save an emperor?
The shaven-skulled man cocked an eye at the Minztan. "Was told," he said slowly, with a heavy accent, "that you
eh'kafrek
had found the secret of this."
Maihu shook her head nervously. "No, Great Killer," she said, translating the Kommanz honorific
into her own tongue. "We tried, but there's more than craftskill in it."
"Shouldn't stop you," Shkai'ra said. "Minztans are known for witches as far as the Lakes and the Great River."
"I'm not an Adept," she said hastily, which was true enough. The better preparation for the lie to follow. "I know nothing of their arts." No quicker way to die than arousing their superstitions, she thought. But the truth would serve after that. "Our Wreakings… they deal with living things, the earth, the weather… not that."
"The witch lies," a soft voice said.
Maihu started and swung around at the sound. She recognized the figure of the plains shaman at once; the physical signs were unmistakable, and to an Initiate there were indications more subtle than that. Instantly the warding song began running through her mind, covering the surface of thought with an impenetrable flicker. Then she looked down to the lump of flesh he held in one hand. It was not until he raised it to his mouth and worried off a shred with pointed teeth that she recognized the shape of a human heart. She barely managed to turn away before the sour bile of an empty stomach spattered out of her mouth onto the floorboards. The sharp stink of it was heavy as she bent, heaving dryly. It cut through the other smells, of fur and cloth and food and the rank Kommanz bodies. The two warriors laughed, the shrill mocking giggle of their folk.
Not that they ate manmeat themselves; only the high plains nomads did that by choice, and shamans for the mana power. The display of Minztan weakness brought mirth; it went to show why the bark-eaters made good slaves.
Maihu wiped and spat away the last threads of vomit and struggled for control. The shaman had not joined in the laughter. His eyes stayed fixed on her… scars, stink, weird accoutrements were forgotten until there were only the eyes, like windows into nothing.
With an effort she tore her gaze away and huddled back against Shkai'ra. Outright violence was nothing next to this.
"Give her to me," the shaman said. He moved, a rustling of feathers and horns in the gloom. "This one is witchborn; give her to me, and I will brew strength from her blood."
Shkai'ra bridled. "No," she said curtly. "You've had your meat, spook-pusher: go talk to the ghosts, keep us safe. This one's mine."
The shaman scarcely seemed to hear her. "Give her to me," he repeated dreamily.
That was an error. Shkai'ra stepped forward, brought up a booted foot, planted it in his chest, and shoved; not hard, just enough to send him sprawling back to the floor. The warriors nearby stopped, shocked.
"You break custom!" the scarred man said, bouncing back to his feet. He crouched and snarled. "I am Walks-with-Demons, peaceholy!"
"I lifted no steel against you," she said. He paused, checked. That was the wording of the law. Glancing around, he saw faint smiles; the shamans were feared, but not popular.
"Luck will turn against you," he warned.
Shkai'ra made the warding sign, but stalked forward. "My steel and the gods of my foremothers are all the luck I need," she barked.
Suddenly her face went very white. Lips peeled back from teeth, and her eyes widened until the rims showed pale around the smoky gray of the iris. The usual low tone of her voice swelled, to an astonishing husky roar:
"And who are you to come between me and my victim?"
The sound of the shout echoed back from the walls, filling the great room. "
WHAT AM
I? WHAT AM I, DOG
?"
Unwillingly, the shaman went down on his haunches and stretched out a hand. His person might be peaceholy, but no law could restrain a warrior gone
ahrappan
, berserk, kill-crazy.
"You are
ofzar
," he said. "
Ofzar
, godborn."
He backed away, then turned and lurched out into the brightness that showed through the slit of the opened door. It had been many years since any had dared to put him in fear. Shkai'ra turned back to a shaken Eh'rik.
"That was reckless, Chiefkin," he said.
She shrugged. "They'd have you asking instruction on how to wipe your arse, did you let them. If he'd asked well, I might have given him the scut, but to command me—"
She paused, took deep breaths to win back calm, shaking her shoulders. Leaning close, she whispered: "Besides, come the time when the next High Senior is chosen, more will remember this well for the boldness than with fear."
She turned and prodded the huddled Minztan with her toe. "You'd better be worth the trouble."
Then Shkai'ra turned her attention to the newly gathered booty. "So, a good haul,"
Maihu heard her say. "Enough metal to give every killer in Stonefort twenty new arrowheads; ten good swords; all this caravan stuff… and as much woodwork and inlay, furs and suchlike as we care to carry back. The highsmith there gave us good redes."
"Ahi-a, for a village this small, quite a bit." She finished the last of the sausage and belched. "Hoi, Minztana, if you've such wealth, why did you come this close to the steppe?"
"We … were crowded in the deep forest, Chiefkin," Maihu said slowly, looking down at the table that ran the length of the thirty-meter room. It was inlaid with bright flower patterns in colored glass and stone; Maihu could have told the legends behind each one,
-nothing without meaning. I
must be clever
, she thought.
Answer with truth, but not all
of it
.
Eh'rik grunted skeptically. "The Minztan ranges are big enough, and they live even more scattered than we do," he said.
Shkai'ra sighed. It was exasperating, how even intelligent ones like Eh'rik did not
see
.
"What do the Minztans buy at the fairs?" she said.
"Buy?" he asked, surprised. "Wool. Hides, flax, grain, salt meat… sssssa, yes."
"Right. Piss-poor land, sour and rocky, so it takes more hectares to support a person.
Hmmmm?" She glanced at Maihu.
"Yes, Chiefkin," she replied. The politics of the New Way were a result of that basic pressure. This savage was almost perceptive. She would have to be very cautious.
"After a while, the fields have to rest, and we live as much from trade and hunting and crafts as farming; if we're too crowded it injures the
halassia
, the Harmony. Cutting more trees than grow, or hunting more beasts than are born. We had wealth, but it couldn't buy more than the land will yield."
Shkai'ra nodded. "But stupid, to try expanding into land we claim. We don't live here, can't, not enough open space and grass… but we need the timber and the trapping."
"You raid farther east anyway!" Maihu snapped. Then added, appalled at her outburst,
"Chiefkin."
To her surprise, both the Kommanza snickered. "Of course, when we want to. But on land we claim we'll
kill anyone who sets foot." Shkai'ra turned to the war-master. "How many of the prisoners are worth slaving?"
"Hmmmm, about a hundred and fifty, Chiefkin, including walking wounded and hale older children. They'll all bring good prices when the caravans come after snowmelt. We could swap a few with Ardkeep and Highbanner before then, depending on what skills they have. Best you take a look at them, Chiefkin."
She shrugged, stuffing more of the food into her mouth with her thumbs and swallowing with a grunt before buckling her coat. Not awaiting a fight, she had donned the fleece-lined trousers and long hooded coat that were standard winter wear. The coat was of snow-tiger tanned cloth-supple, with embroidery at the cuff and hem, and carved walrus-ivory latches down the front. Her belt bore the weapons no freeborn Kommanza was ever willingly without; she had added a bone flute and many-armed lucksprite. As one of the godborn
ofzar
class, the buckle of her belt was of silver, shaped in the holy sunburst.
Maihu followed silently as they left, willing herself to the invisibility of obedience.
Outside the wind bit chill but clean, and there was astonishingly little damage evident: the bodies had been cleared away, after the ritual scalping that prevented haunts. A few of the conquerors were about, seeing to the horses, that being a task too important and sacred for untrained slaves. Most of the rest would be indoors, resting or working on their gear; others would be ranging in a broad loose-meshed net of scouts around the settlement.
Shkai'ra looked back at her, then offered a hunk of bread. "Hungry?" she said.
Maihu hesitated, then accepted and began tearing at it eagerly. She had not eaten for a full day—and it was her own grain, after all.
"Ever seen the steppe, Minztana?" Shkai'ra asked.
"Yes, Chiefkin: Ardkeep for the trade fairs, and Highbanner to arrange ransoms."
"Good," she said. "Ever studied chickens?"
Warily, Maihu shook her head. "You should. In every flock, there's a lord chicken who can peck everybody—then a number two who can peck everybody but the first, and only be pecked by the first, and so on down to the last one. That one gets it from everyone and can't fight back.
"Now, normally a smith like you would be kinfast common property. Stonefort works like a chicken herd: the High Senior kicks somebody in the arse and the low chicken gets it seventeen times over at tenth remove. You're low chicken."