The Windsingers

For the first time, Ki realized that this imperious old woman was not the owner of the mansion, but only the chief servant. The woman’s attitude annoyed her, but she put it down to her age and post. Such as she must expect idleness from the lesser servants. Still, it irked Ki not a little to have the woman take that tone with her, let alone voice such an opinion.

‘I repeat, I have not said that I’ll accept the cargo.’ Ki took pleasure in being perverse now. ‘I conduct my business a bit differently from other teamsters you may have dealt with. I limit the weight of what my team will haul, and I talk half payment in advance for any trip.’ She kept her words cool, but already she was thinking of the hill route that would let her make the journey to Bitters in three days or less.

‘I know your terms, girl!’ snapped Bird-eyes. ‘Do I look like some silly little maid who would hire a teamster sight unseen, with no knowledge of the rates and customs? No, Teamster Ki, you were selected, though, now that I look at you, I cannot say why! The freight will not be heavier than your usual load, and all will be packed securely for you ahead of time. The family wishes you to take the greatest care with this load, to avoid breakage. They will precede you to Bitters, so that they may receive it from you, and inspect the seals to be sure that none are broken.’

Ki raised her brows appraisingly. ‘What do I carry to rate all this caution and mistrust? I’ll warn you, my rates go higher for illegal cargo.’

‘I’ll wager they do, and often, too. Not that it’s any of your business, magpie, but the cargo is household goods; old family items of small value to any save blood relations. You need not fret about them. All will be packed securely. The city gates will not halt you. Your only task is to haul them to their destination, and there receive the rest of your pay. Now, what will you have for a trip to Bitters?’

‘This time of year, thirty dru. In winter it would be a full two tallies. But the year is still mild and the roads unrutted. So thirty dru it shall be, and a bargain to you at that.’ Ki folded her arms sternly and braced herself for the counter-offer.

‘La, a bargain, she says! I warned the old Master, but no, you he would have on the word of one of his beggar friends. What’s his name to come to with the company he keeps, I don’t know. Well, he told me to pay your price. You’ll get your thirty dru advance, but mind, if even a one of those seals be but scratched at, not a copper shard shall you get at Bitters…’

‘I’ll be here for my load at first light tomorrow,’ Ki interrupted. She had expected fifteen dru advance and another fifteen at the end of the haul. But to receive thirty now, and another thirty at Bitters…well, as the old matron had said, that was small bargain to them, but one Ki would not sniff at.

‘Wait,’ Bird-eyes said. Ki had used that tone earlier, when she had directed her team to stand. The matron whirled with a swishing of skirts and was out the door before Ki could utter a word. She listened for the tapping of her feet down the corridor, but heard nothing. The temptation to go to the door and peer out was great, but Ki conquered it. She walked once around the room, but found nothing that she had not seen in her first glance. The ridiculously high windows were a puzzle without clues.

A chink of coins spun her around. The old matron stood beside the table. On it were two fifteen-coin stacks of dru atop a larger square of creamy parchment. Bird-eyes tapped a yellowed fingernail on the edge of the table, then gestured to the items on it.

‘Your advance. And the contract the old Master drew up for its delivery, safe and sound, four nights hence. I will read it to you, and you must make your mark upon it, to show you understand and agree.’

Ki advanced, boots clicking on the black flagging. She silently placed one hand flat on the parchment. With the other she scooped up the stacked coins and transferred them to the worn pouch at her belt. Moving her hand so that she could read the parchment while still pinning it to the table, Ki leaned over it.

The grey light was uncertain. The contract had been written by a strong hand, firm dark strokes across the smoothed surface, in the T’cherian characters. It was brief, but tightly written. Ki must deliver her cargo to the door of Karn Hall, in Bitters, in four days. The cargo must be perfectly intact, no seals broken, and all pieces accounted for. She agreed to make every possible effort to see to its safe arrival. Should she fail to do so, she forfeited the rest of the payment, and must return six dru of the advance. She scowled to herself. If misfortune plagued her, she might finish the trip to Bitters with only twenty-four dru. Possible, but not likely, she told herself. And twenty-four dru was still an ample fee for such a leisurely trip as the hill route would provide. Twenty-four dru were much better than the one copper shard her purse had held this morning.

Ki drew the parchment closer to her and glanced about for a writing tool. The house matron coldly interpreted her look, and drew a small case from a voluminous pocket. Within were brushes and a vial of ink. Ki accepted them just as coldly, dipped the brush, and stroked her name in T’cherian characters. Watching the matron from the corner of her eye, she rashly added the character for a freeborn, and another for one of no political allegiance. The matron covered her amazement well. If anything, she treated Ki more haughtily than before.

‘You should be on your way now.’

‘I intend to take on supplies first,’ Ki informed her.

‘As you will. But, remember, you have only four days for your trip.’

‘Woman, look you. You have seen to your duty. Now let me tend to mine. I’ll return at first light to load the cargo, but I’d like to see it now, to judge the weight. Where is it?’

‘On your wagon.’ The matron turned on her heel. Without a backward glance, she strode from the room. As before, her footsteps made no sound. Ki snorted at the doorway. She waited for a short time by the table, and then paced the room twice. With growing anger, she realized at last that the matron did not intend to return and show her out. She had not gone to fetch the traditional ale that bargains were sealed with. Never before had Ki encountered such rudeness.

She found her own way through the bare and chill hallways, emerging to blink in the brightness of the day. Bird-eyes had spoken the truth. Seven boxes (Ki counted carefully) had been stowed on her wagon. They were of varying sizes, and made of rough yellow wood. Their seals were no more than lumps of lead crimped below the knots of the coarse rope that bound them. It was packing more fit for salt fish than family treasures. Ki sent a glare around the dusty courtyard, but there was no sign of whoever had loaded it. Only the black walls festooned with long dead vines received her scowl.

She swung up onto the wagon and climbed over the boxes, trying to find fault with the way it had been loaded. But it was balanced and steady. An inspection of the ropes lashing it to the wagon revealed knots she would have sworn were her own. It was uncanny. There was the added sting that someone had made so free with her wagon, and she had heard not a sound from her team. It disturbed her. She stood atop the load, frowning down on it. With a shrug, she climbed down and mounted the seat of the wagon. She had thirty dru to spend before she left Dyal.

By nightfall, less than two dru remained to her. The cupboards of her wagon cuddy were comfortably replenished. Ki took a deep breath, savoring the smells of plenty. Strings of dried cara root and spicy sausages swung from the central joist. Bins held chunks of pink salt, yellow-brown flour and brown beans. Strips of dried meat and fish rested on a shelf, wrapped in clean sacking. The earthenware pot of honey and the rosy Cinmeth in its flask were luxuries, but she had salved her conscience by buying squares of leather to sew new boots for herself. A final extravagance had been a small vial of oil of Vanilly.

Ki wrapped the vial in a small cloth and tucked it into a drawer. She rose from her crouch to glance about her cuddy. It was a small and tidy space, made up of only the front half of her wagon. No space in the tiny room was wasted. The sleeping platform across one end of it was supported by cupboards. Shelves and bins, hooks and drawers lined the interior of the cuddy, except for one small window, shuttered now against road dust. A cover of shag deer hide had been thrown across the wool blankets on the bed. In one corner of the cuddy, the worn hilt of Vandien’s rapier winked at Ki.

He would be in Bitters by now. Ki wondered if he had found a team yet, and what kind of bargain he would wrangle. That he would get a team she doubted not at all. He had a tongue that could persuade a Dene to eat meat. If his wheedling could not win them over, he would resort to using his personal trinkets as collateral. If that did not work…Ki shut the thought out of her mind. Vandien took care of himself. He wove his life in and out of hers in a random pattern. He did not fear commitment; he simply saw no need for it. He was an impulsive, reckless, and totally loyal friend, and she refused to sigh over him. He’d be back soon enough, dragging disorder and self-indulgence through her tidy life. It was all so much simpler when he wasn’t around. The worst part of it was that he was becoming a habit with her. Damn.

She crawled out of the cuddy, sliding the door closed behind her. Settling on the wagon seat, she picked up the reins. A kick freed the wheel brake and a shake of the reins roused the team. Dusk was settling, bringing with it a small coolness. The moon had begun to claim the sky when she rolled out of the city gates, past guards singularly disinterested in her cargo. Tonight she would sleep on green grass beside her wagon, and let the team graze free. She was weary of shutting herself tight within the stuffy cuddy and listening to her beasts stomp and shuffle all night. It was good to be working again.

THREE

The mart at Bitters was little different from that in Dyal. Except for the stink of fish. Vandien had not thought that shipments of fresh fish would stay edible over the two-day haul from False Harbor, yet folk here were buying them, and smiling at the fishmonger as he wrapped his noisome wares in sacking for them. Vandien leaned forward past a customer to prod a silver fish with a firm finger. The indentation of his touch remained. Vandien gave the fishmonger a different sort of smile, and edged away from his booth, wiping his finger on his breeches.

The aroma of fresh breads wafted past him. He swallowed as he pushed his way past the booth where an expressionless Dene was listlessly hawking breads and pastries. Dark brown high-topped loaves vied with the shining flat cakes of greenish hue that the T’cheria favored. Vandien’s hand went to the fat pouch at his belt. The thin leather disguised the small stones that kept company with two small coins. A carter had given him a ride from Dyal to Bitters, feeding him and giving him the coins in exchange for Vandien’s assistance in unloading the bundled raw hides. The coins were not much, but were a generous payment for the small amount of work Vandien had actually done. He suspected she had paid him more for the stories he had spun on the long drive than for any real labor.

He strode resolutely past the bread stall. He was hungry, but that could wait. He had business to conduct. He hurried past the farmers’ section, past the chickens and piglets and chattering glibs, on past T’cherian stalls festooned with strands and streamers of slickly shining greens. A glowering Brurjan presided over a hot meat stall, with a private chamber in back for devouring the kill. The dying squeal of a glib, cut short, told Vandien that a meal was in progress. To a Brurjan, ‘hot meat’ steamed with body heat.

He slowed as he passed the crafters’ stalls. Beads and boots, armor and amorous potions all vied for his attention. A T’cherian merchant was politely curious about this Human browser who looked but did not buy. Vandien smiled at him, and pointed to a pale yellow crystal. ‘Two tallies,’ the merchant lisped in Common. Vandien touched his purse and gave a shrug of resignation. But the smile did not leave his face as he strode away. Now he sought the hiring end of the market. He didn’t pause to look at any other stalls.

Only three teams were awaiting hire. A scarred Brurjan stood at the heads of two monstrous horses. Their restive hooves were scarlet. Their harness was heavy with studs and spikes. Manes were clipped and tails bobbed short. No farming horses these, but coursers, trained to pull a hunter’s chariot over the brushy river plains. Those horses would follow the cries of the questing hounds with no guidance from the driver. Vandien veered to avoid the hooves that helped strike down prey for their masters.

A dozing Human sat in the shade of his big plowhorse. Vandien gave this beast only one look before discarding him. Huge he was, but his age showed in his greying muzzle and threadbare tail. There was no gloss to his coat, and one fetlock was swollen.

Two mules in harness were next in the lineup. A young Human boy stood at their heads. He had oiled their hooves and braided their manes as if for a festival. The gawky creatures tossed their heads, flirting their long ears at every shout in the market. Vandien looked down into the scrubbed face looking up into his so eagerly. ‘I’m sorry, lad,’ he said regretfully. ‘They just aren’t big enough for what I must do.’

‘They’ll pull their hearts out for me,’ the boy countered. His eyes pleaded with Vandien.

‘I’m sure they would,’ Vandien replied gravely. ‘Perhaps another time, boy. They’re a fine-looking team.’

And that was all. He had come to the end of the teams for hire. Vandien strolled on a bit farther, considering his dilemma. He must get his team here, and drive it into False Harbor as his own, born and trained. So much depended upon first impressions. False Harbor would be expecting a teamster of skill and determination. He could not let them see him as a trickster, come to live off their hospitality and make a mockery of their customs. Ki had said that the task would border on the impossible. Let them doubt him, and he would be certain to fail. Vandien did not intend to fail.

But there was another team. The last team was stretched flat on the street, their flat feet burrowed under the sun-warmed dust. Their tails were coiled on their rumps like fat grey snakes getting ready to strike. Small eyes were closed above piggy snouts. Gouts of dust rose with their rhythmic breathing. There were four of them, their thick hairless hides mottled from grey to black. Each was as long as a horse, but there the resemblance ended. ‘Are you pigs, or lizards?’ Vandien asked the beasts. They ignored him. Their legs were squat but thick with muscle. The four harnesses fanned out from a single large ring set over a peg hammered into the ground. Vandien glanced about for their owner, only to discover him right beside the team.

The T’cherian had decided to follow his team’s example. He was mostly withdrawn into his carapace. Some passing cart had coated him thickly with the fine deep dust of the street. But for his drooping eye stalks he resembled a rock. Vandien cleared his throat and the eye stalks began to stir. Perhaps the team was not exactly what he had sought, but the owner was perfect.

The T’cherian’s dark red eyes regarded Vandien solemnly for a moment. Then, in deference to Human customs, he raised his body on his jointed legs until his ‘face’ was on a level with Vandien’s. Carefully he lowered his eye stalks until his visual orbs were on nearly the same level as his mandibles. Vandien dipped his head to the T’cherian gravely, already impressed with his manners. He knew of no other race in the world who went to such lengths to put others at ease. Shrewd bargainers they were, and as callous in business as a Brurjan, but all their inflexibility was gloved with velvet courtesy.

‘I wish to hire a team to pull a heavy load,’ were Vandien’s opening words.

‘My team will do so. Humans seldom use skeel. You may judge them poor beasts to look at, accustomed as you are to your long-legged horses. No doubt you find my skeel ugly beasts.’ The T’cherian paused in his lisping, clicking sales pitch to allow Vandien to disagree. Vandien knew that many Humans were reluctant to do business with T’cheria, claiming that their strong accents made their Common barely intelligible. But Vandien had developed an ear for the way they turned and sharpened the consonants of Common, and found dealing with them no task. Now he strove to match the creature in courtesy.

‘I would not propose to judge a beast by its appearance. If you tell me they can pull, I am sure that they can, however foreign they may be to me. May I ask if they drive in the same manner as horses, or is a special skill involved?’

‘A special skill to driving such as these? You honor and flatter a poor farmer like myself. No, they are the mildest creatures, so easy to control that one of your egglings would find it as play. With a driver behind them with my turns of experience, you will find that there is little we cannot do. Even the heaviest of loads will yield to our tenacity. Would you have a field freed of rocks? Pull logs down from a hillside? They are equal to the task. And no thrifty person could hope for a better team. Having fed three days ago, they will not hunger for two more spans of days.’

Vandien worked the math swiftly in his head. The beasts went for nineteen days between feedings, a particularly useful trait in his situation. Delicately, he broached the touchy part of his bargaining.

‘I doubt not that your years of experience make your team the fine one that they are. But for the task I face, I would be the driver, and must be assured that they would obey a stranger. For ten days you must trust them to my care. Would you agree to such a bargain?’

The T’cherian’s eye stalks moved slowly from side to side in a learned pantomime of the Human gesture for ‘no.’

‘I regret that I must refuse. My team are my children to me, and the sole means of my livelihood in these days of dry weather and Windsinger animosity. I dare not entrust them to a stranger, no matter how sincere of countenance and noble of carapace. Yet happy would I be to join you in any task you might propose. You, too, would be gladdened to see how the difficulty of any labor would be dissipated by my experienced handling of the team. Beasts always pull better for the master they know and trust. Cannot we still find a bargain here?’

Vandien heaved a tremendous sigh. He let his hands rise to shoulder height, and then fall away in a mimicry of a T’cherian’s drooping eye stalks when saddened. ‘I must respect your reservations. My respect honors the one who feels the responsibilities ownership puts upon one. I understand the concern of the wise master for his beasts. Sure I am that no coin could dissuade you from your views. For no amount of coin would you entrust these worthy creatures to a stranger.’

‘No coin could buy my honor,’ the T’cherian repeated. He and Vandien both knew that the stage was being set for the bargain. The T’cherian waited.

‘Nor would I demean your sensibilities by even offering such coins to you. What do you know of me? How can I gain the trust and thus the service I seek from you? These questions I have asked myself as we have stood here, in this unpleasantly noisy place, seeking to make a bargain like civilized folk in the midst of this most uncivilized din, in this whorl of disruptive movement and unharmonized noises. In this blatting of beasts, this heat, this caking of dust upon our countenances, in these body smells of those who pass disrespectfully close to us, how can I prove myself to you? How can I show you that I, though a Human and not endowed with those superior sensitivities that are the racial treasure of the T’cheria, am not totally without sensitivities myself?’

As Vandien slowly catalogued the discomforts that he knew annoyed the T’cherian to a far greater degree than he could imagine, he could almost see the creature shrinking back within its carapace. He shared the T’cherian preferences for coolness, dim lights, and muted sound. But in a town dominated by Human and Brurjan populations, this T’cherian must brave all discomfort to earn his algae for the day. That discomfort would turn this bargain for Vandien.

‘For no coin?’ the T’cherian mumbled. A T’cherian mumble consisted of aspirating the words, with almost no vocalization. But Vandien picked them out. It was the perfect opening.

A brown sash belted Vandien’s short tunic and supported his purse. Vandien’s hand went to it now, but he did not touch the purse itself. What he sought could not be bumped about with coins. He carefully spread the rolled cloth of the sash, until a small object wrapped in a soft grey cloth dropped into his waiting hand. The T’cherian had followed his every move. At first, his eye stalks had lengthened and begun to track Vandien’s hand, until he recalled himself to Human courtesy and retracted them. But Vandien was sure of his interest, and played his moment for maximum suspense.

Carefully he readjusted the sash that had cradled the fragile object. That done, he allowed himself a moment to straighten his tunic, and to wipe each hand in turn down his breeches. Only then did he begin to unfold the soft thin grey cloth. Slowly he unwound the wrapping, using both hands to remove the cloth as if fearful the object within would be lost. Vandien’s fingers gave the cloth a final twitch. The T’cherian gave a sudden rattle of its mandibles. Neither spoke.

Revealed on Vandien’s palm was an orange crystal, about the same length and diameter as his ring finger. With gentle fingers he held it to the light, as if the delicate thing would crumble at a touch. Held to the sun, the light touched the individual facets that made up the many crystals joined into one structure.

Vandien made a show of lifting the crystal to his nose and sniffing it delicately. To his nostrils, it gave off almost no odor. The T’cherian remained desperately silent. His agitation was betrayed by a bare tremble in the fingerlike pincers of his primary limbs. The clatter of the market went on, but Vandien let the T’cherian listen to the silence that had fallen between them. When he finally spoke, he whispered.

‘For no coin.’

‘What do you propose?’ the T’cherian hissed. ‘It is a very small crystal,’ he added hesitantly.

But Vandien was not to be fooled by the size of his ware. ‘Yes. It is. And of the deepest color. A crystal such as this would be an ornament to the richest of queens, small enough to be carried about with one, to be enjoyed whenever the turmoil of this workaday world threatened the inner peace so vital to any civilized creature. I have been in the home caves of wealthy T’cheria, who graced their walls with crystals, and hung them in ranks from their food grids, but seldom have I seen a crystal to match this one for color or bouquet. Long have I treasured its comforts upon the open road. To see its blinking light, to draw in its sweet odor of drowsy peace; these have solaced me in many trials. By this sign, I show you that I am a civilized creature, just as you are yourself. I am to be trusted, even when I come to rent your team away from you, and am forced by commercial convention to offer despised coin to you.’

Vandien’s brown eyes met the T’cherian’s stalked ones, radiating open sincerity. He casually began to wind the grey wrapping around the crystal again. The tremor of one T’cherian eye stalk betrayed him. He followed every shifting of the crystal. His mandibles rattled briefly before he recalled himself to Common.

‘Your sign impresses me, Human. Never before have I seen one of your kind with a sopor crystal, other than as a trade item. My name is [a hissing rattle here], called by your kind Web Shell, for my carapace markings.’

‘I am Vandien.’ Together they bowed gravely at this formal introduction that marked the true beginning of all T’cherian bargaining. What had gone before was but a prelude, an arranging of forces. ‘Then, Web Shell, you find out today that not all Humans are barbarians. Some of us treasure peace as dearly as yourselves.’