Part 3

Meetings

           She stretched out on their pallet in a series of slow, halting movements - the first twitches of a return to consciousness. The sheets spilled around her, running in folded rivulets as she moved. And then she groaned. "S'sedrsrs, murfl, jshst…."
           Vauhya smiled. He watched her roll over and paw the straw for him as he sat on an overturned water bucket in the corner, grinding away with a rock at the sickly yellow-green paste in his new mortar, a large curved shard of some long shattered vase. The rote work was soothing; it felt good to have the rock in his hand, squelching out the lumpy inconsistencies as he drew in long strokes up the slope of the surface. It let him focus, let him concentrate - it was something he'd learned from the kitchens. And so he greeted his companion with a placated grin as she found her way out of the blankets and stared at him, bleary, fur mussed, with one ear down and the other snagged on one of the sheets. "This place is nice," she said. "But the bedding - less so. You're up very early. Couldn't sleep?" He shrugged, still with the grin.
           "Slept fine. I just woke up last night to - how shall I say it - alleviate the drought? And I had an epiphany. And so then I had to sit up in bed with you, because I knew that if I lay down I'd forget it." Atra raked a hand through her fur, tugging at her ears and trying to even out the disorder in her pelt.
           "I appreciate the sentiment, but that's a hell of a time for an epiphany."
           "I took it anyway. My imagination is notoriously fickle."
           "And so your realization was?"
           "When you're frustrated, return to basics." Atra leaned back and shook her head.
           "And?"
           He shrugged and continued grinding. "That's all."
           "Cryptic bastard," she yawned, then pushed herself to her feet, wobbled a bit, and made for the door. "Do you want me to bring you something?"
           "A bowl. And some kindling and small bits of firewood. And an infantry battalion - no, two."
           There was a laugh. "See what I can find."
           Vauhya nodded and listened to her leave. Concentration replacing contentment in his mind, he set the rock and the shard on his knee, reached his left hand out over the paste, and cut a short, shallow line into the underside of his forearm. It stung as it welled red and began dripping, but the pain was steady and quiet. The cut dripped and the red spattered with the sound of raindrops onto his makeshift mortar. It came very slowly, and so he had to knead it out with his free hand, until finally there was a thin pool of it sinking into the green of the mixture. Then he drew his arm back, picked up his rock, and began grinding it in. The pain in his arm dulled to a throbbing nuisance, soon to be gone.
          

---v---

           "An entire nation was built on this," he said quietly. They listened from a bowed-out arc in front of him, three rows deep, a few in the back leaning against a wall, but all with ears perked, all attentive. He rocked the wooden curve back and forth between his hands. "It's our history; it's our foundation; its use is in our culture and in our blood. It is the reason that nearly the entire continent has maintained a productive civility while the rest of the world rages in senseless, unceasing conflict, accomplishing nothing, and it is the reason why we have never lost a war."
           "Don't be melodramatic," Atra grumbled. "It's a curved stick with a piece of string through it." He dipped his ears and nodded.
           "Fa. But for more than four centuries it was the only weapon we used, and no small number of students of history - myself included - considered Yoichi stronger before its military tradition was disrupted by the doctrines of mixed forces.
           "A long time ago the Naman empire was shattering - breaking away at the edges because it had overextended itself, collapsing at the center under the false footing of its own corruption, splitting everywhere as a displaced citizenry lost trust in its government. I tend to think that my Yoichi ancestor was simply born at the right time, and that had he not been the revolution would have started anyway, but in any case he was and it did, and suddenly the Naman Empire became Yoichi province and a few broken, war-torn nation-states. Now, Yoichi was bordered by those nation-states - really the last dying embers of an otherwise extinguished Naman flame - which were for decades changing hands as the abandoned, suddenly-rogue Naman armies squabbled over those last scraps of the Empire. You might think, then, that with the threat of those rogue forces Yoichi would have taken his peasant following and melded it into his captured Naman armies, then bolstered those with a conscription. But instead he disbanded his armies; he sent his peasants home; he thanked his Alman'queda allies and sent them back into the desert."
           "What?" That from Skie. Ural looked back at the young nurse.
           "He didn't say they left their bows idle."
           "Exactly," Vauhya affirmed, nodding in acknowledgment, "exactly. He sent them all home and had them build town halls and archery ranges. He had them organize tournaments that reached from township to region to province, awarded the winners with land, titles of nobility, and ninety thousand other lavish prizes. He bade the victors to travel through every city in the province to teach their countrymen their new national trade. And schools of archery - thirteen of them at their peak - were born, and they raged against one another in those town halls, debating such esoterics as the proper stance of an archer drawing his arrow, and their members fought and proselytized bitterly at the contests. At first, of course, our neighbors found this baffling, ridiculous - and then they tried attacking.
           "Imagine the scene. A farmer in the country sees an army marching down the road to his city, runs back to his home, and sends his children to warn the township. They arrive and alert the town leaders; the leaders in turn alert the rest of the town. Every man, woman, and child above the age of twelve reaches for his or her bow, and they collect together in their places behind the town walls. As soon as the army is in range, arrows begin to fly. They had no less than eight defined variants of the bow and three of the crossbow in those times, each with its own distinct role, as well as innumerable archer's formations, most long since lost to history. Oftentimes the invaders would be routed even before they reached the walls, but even when a town was lost it meant nothing: there was always someone to escape to the next town, and then they could draw forces from the surrounding towns, and them from their neighbors, and so on. Impromptu armies were raised so frequently in those times that after the first century they stopped recording such rallies, and they were so effective in battle that no group of attackers ever managed to sack more than three or four cities in a single incursion."
           Ural flicked an ear. "And what does that have to do with us?"
           "That's what we're going to recreate."
           There was an expectant silence. "If we were so efficient then," Rallan mused, "why would we dare take that approach? Won't that be what our Yoichi are trained in? It'd just be a battle of expertise, and they'd slaughter us."
           "That's a problem, to be sure, but they've been trained more in employing such techniques than in defeating them, as our ancient methods were unique to us. Besides, even the best option is usually imperfect."
           "Imperfect? It seems more than imperfect - it seems foolhardy." Vauhya looked at him and smiled slowly.
           "I did not say it was all that we would do." He let the bow fall to his side. "Trust me, Rallan. I learned how to teach archery from an army general before I had a decent mane."
           "That's the same general you shot in the foot with your bow?" Atra asked mildly. The others exchanged looks and his ears folded in, flushing hotly.
           "I've had practice doing this - hai, these are methods I've drilled into palace courtesans. You'll be able to work them." He motioned to the door. "Come with me."
           Wet cool air met him at the doorway. He stepped out and walked across the crossroads at the center of town. His eyes went straight to the far edge of the crater; the slightest lightness tinged the sky in that direction - just enough to color the grey-black of night with a bit of ochre luster. It was the messy light of an arrogant camp, one that was unafraid to give notice of its presence. He knew too that there were eyes watching them all somewhere. "Go home now, but once you're there, watch your neighbors. Leave town in groups of two or four and head south out of the basin and into the forest. We'll meet far enough back that we're out of sight. Stay low to the ground and keep close to cover as you go - there are doubtless a few lookouts from the camp watching the basin, and if they notice more than a few of you they'll become suspicious. Have everyone up there in a hour." There was a small ocean of bobbing heads and then they dispersed. Atra remained at his side, watching him. "I left the quiver and arrows Ural gave me on our bed," he said. "We should retrieve it." They turned that way and started walking.
           "This is a big risk," she whispered. "What if they see us leaving?"
           "Then they fall from their perch, ride down into the basin, and take the village. That leaves the villagers with no choice but to try to escape to Norsghar, which is certainly plausible." Atra's ears fell back.
           "And what about all of the sick we'd be leaving behind?"
           "They'd die. It's not a desirable outcome, granted; it's just good enough to warrant the risk. Life is about choosing the best of several bad choices."
           "You aren't going to win with them," she warned. "You know that."
           "Of course I will."
           "They're no sort of match for-"
           "-of course not," he snorted. "Doesn't matter. All we have to do is change that." She gave him an unconfident glance, but lapsed into silence.
           Together they trudged down the dirt road to their stable and pushed through the door. His bowl was at the center of the cleared space, sitting on top of a pile of rocks with the orange-red glow of a soft, flameless fire beneath them, surrounded on all sides by swept ground. He'd covered it with a damp cloth; he bent down and lifted it off. Underneath his concoction had settled to thick amber syrup, with a pool of misty liquid floating on the surface and a pile of poorly ground sediment resting on the bottom. He touched the side of it; it had a perfect, gentle warmth.
           "The arrows?" Atra asked. Vauhya quickly replaced the cloth cover and stood, then gathered them together. His partner stared down at the bowl. "That's plague?" He feigned offense.
           "Don't be ridiculous. Out here, where could I possibly find something for which they wouldn't have a ward? And even if I could, do you really think I could incubate enough of it with something as crude as that?" She set one ear halfway back and gave him a cool gaze.
           "I know it's something like that." He shrugged.
           "Maybe I've just gone too long without a bar. But let's go." As he walked out the door Atra caught him with a cloth-covered hand. He turned around to see her with his threadbare cloak.
           "Cold out there," she said.
           "You take it." But she draped it over him anyway. He flicked his eyes up to the ghostly, faded crest of the crater. She nodded, and they moved.
           Night did not necessitate silence, but it bred it. It was a matter of the senses: one, dulled by the fall from day's garish colors to misty sunless greys, sought to find recompense in the heightening of another. Vauhya could hear that which he had not heard earlier as they moved out onto the path, slinking past buildings and into the fields: he heard the snick-snick of insects rubbing wings, and the softer rustle of the grain rubbing stalks, and the even softer shimmer of leaves clapping together, the wind's applause. The constant soft sounds, rising and ebbing, reminded him of the coast. He darted in and out of those waves, leading Atra by the hand, then found the wall and slid over it noiselessly, coming to a crouch on the other side. A moment later Atra appeared beside him, panting softly. "Do you think they've seen us?" she asked. He only got up and went on. They sprinted up and through the large stretch of open slopes, plots of scrabble and stone that looked immense and foreign in the shadowplay of the dark.
           At the tree line they slowed to a lope. Atra panted behind him; he was not quite as far gone, but breathed more heavily through his teeth. They darted deeper in, past the range of watchful eyes, then slowed still further. "Should've been more specific," he whispered ruefully. Atra made a noncommittal sound.
           "They'll all know where to go."
           "And how do you figure that?" She shrugged and pointed down.
           "Same way they will. The golden bells. You know the flowers?" She pointed out a patch of tiny buds on a vine that slithered across the forest floor. "They follow the sun every day, from sunrise in the east to sunset in the west. See how they all point in one direction?" He looked; they did. "That's due west. Which means that that," - and she pointed slightly to the right of their path - "is due south. Old tracker's trick."
           "You learn that in the desert?"
           "There're no flowers in the desert. Learned it here, same as them."
           They moved through the trees, going south, and from the shadows others joined them. Men and women, old and young, excited and resigned; some somber, all quiet; tired, proud, slumping, sickly, silent, determined. Shades of people, drab, gathered in a long line like a funeral procession that went through the hills, past the craggy glacial boulders, beyond the thick of the densest forest. The smaller moon, Usi, came out from hiding behind the clouds and shod the hills in silver and blue. They kept walking.
           When the hills finally spilled out into a small, shallow ravine, they stopped. Vauhya brought them down into the dried riverbed at the bottom - one littered with leaves and brush and worn-away bits of black-grey stone. Gnarled, water-beaten trees at the sides of the bed hooked their branches up and out, casting webbed shadows; their roots had overrun the riverbed, forcing themselves through the cracks in the bedrock on the valley floor. He waved at the villagers to spread out under the trees and they moved. All the village, all his men and women, crouched and sat in a wide arc at his back; he turned and there were scores of eyes on him, glittering in constellations against the night. He breathed softly, then bowed his head.
           "Friends. There may be a better clearing within distance, but I do not know it. We'll have to train out here, where there's no concern for being heard, if we're serious about fighting. I have a demonstration for you. It is the way Yoichi have taught Yoichi for centuries. A minute, please."
           He turned back from them and headed down the riverbed, picking up all the pieces of driftwood at least as long as his arm. Ten, thirteen, twenty-two - twenty-five pieces. Then he doubled back, wood bundled at his side, and he began driving them into the clay and silt of the old river soil, setting them upright, setting them at four paces apart. He raised a block form of sticks, the rank and file each five deep, then returned to his audience, who stared at him. He knelt at the center of their arc and pointed back at his creation. "Do you know what those are?" An elder man near the center nodded.
           "Fa. Sticks, in rows."
           "Yes, but what do they make together?"
           "A square."
           "Yes. Right. And the square is sheared into pieces by the rows and the columns - the rank and file. Imagine I had tied ropes down each line. Do you see where they would cross?"
           "At the sticks," Ural murmured.
           "Hai, yes, at the sticks. Those are the crosses, the intersections. Now memorize that square and then turn around."
           All of the villagers stood and turned, each settling back down and staring at the ravine floor behind them. Vauhya rose and walked through the arc to be at their front again, then pointed down the riverbed. It was bare. "Imagine that I have moved what was behind you to this side and expanded it so that the new square's sides are at each bank of the river. Can you see it? More importantly, can you still see the rope lines and the sticks at their crosses?" Nods. "Good.
           "When you are an archer, the battlefield is a square like this - a grid, we call it - and there are many more ranks and files, all set much more closely. At first you will want to behave as does an archer hunting for food - hunters aim directly at their prey, and take it. Archers fight one to one this way. Armies and regiments, though - they have to have something more organized. Archers of war become skilled by learning how to aim for and hit the crosses in the grid of the battlefield. Then they only need judge on which cross their target will be when their arrows reach them, and they will always hit their target. Then the commander of the archers can assign individual targets as the enemy approaches, or, even better, the archers can know by formula who to aim for next, and the group will never waste its arrows.
           "I don't have twenty-five arrows with me, I'm afraid, but I do have nine. That is enough for two sides of my square. I'll show you, then. Watch."
           He moved far back, then brought his bow up to level with his eyes and drew an arrow. Inwardly he groaned; with the imaginary crosses only a few dozen paces away, he'd be firing nearly straight up. The cold breeze against the insides of his ears told him the direction of the wind. He became quiet and focused, then set the arrow against the string, pulled it back, and angled up to the sky to fire away at the moon. The arrow left with something like the pluck of a harp and shot up. It reached higher and higher, then began turning, moving away, then falling. It slammed into place no more than twenty paces from where he stood, becoming suddenly well burrowed in alluvial sediment and crumbling stone. It was not quite where he'd intended it to be; for all of his pride in his clan and its history, he was himself an uninspiring archer. He grunted; he'd have to do better.
           Vauhya cocked another arrow, leaned back, and took a second shot. Then another, and another. Slowly the first column formed, each shot becoming progressively easier as the target crosses grew farther away. He fell into a rhythm and more smoothly fired out a row that extended out from the column at a right angle. It was less even, but not quite laughable. As the ninth and final arrow found its spot he lowered his bow and turned. "There. Two sides. My apologies that the row at the end is off; I haven't shot a bow in seasons. But can you see how the rest of the crosses could be hit? Can you see where they are? The Yoichi we'll be fighting will be able to fire one volley, as a group, and guide off any two points to form such a grid. They have practiced for years, and when they are not out terrorizing you, that is all they do. I won't say you can nurture such skill in a week, because I'm no liar, but I will say that you could begin to approach it, and that it would be enough to defeat them." They looked among themselves, and to Atra, who nodded. "So do you see it? Do you trust this?" Rallan shifted, a scraping of cloth against dirt, and waved a hand.
           "No, but we trust you."
          

---v---

           I awoke this morning knowing that I'd awoken before, and finding myself alone, had cause for no little distress. It was outraining the drains at the bottom of the tower; the water came halfway up to the first step. This gave me further cause, for though a hrasi in a storm may appear quite bedraggled, she nonetheless has the insulation of her pelt, whereas my contemporary is bare. I checked the cellar, the bedroom, and the laboratories for her, hoping that she'd had the sense to stay inside, but she had not, so I took my heaviest cloak and went out to search for her.
           I should mention that upon leaving the tower and reaching the open ground I noticed that the little bushes growing against the outer walls of the manor have again changed in the distribution of their petals. A month ago they had a three to one predominance of white from red, which might lead one to suspect the dominance of that trait in the mind of the seed, but now their petals are nearly two-to-one red, and where they meet there is a band of bushes that buds both white and red petals on the same flower, and at a near fifteen to one ratio from white and red they have begun flowering orange (I must confess, I stopped to count them). There was no band of white and red before, and though I am sure it is the same species, I have never seen orange. Given that it was a month earlier when this miserably cold weather began blowing in from the east, this would seem provisional proof that inherent traits are sometimes subject to individual environmental conditions. It struck me as an excellent opportunity; if I could show that red-petaled flowers better weathered the cold and white the heat, I would be able to send my colleagues their divine intent theories carved and dressed on a platter, at least on some small scale.
           The flowers waylaid me for some time, I will admit. But I did continue. The meadows are no place to be in storms - as Maudil and I discovered last year while nearly killing ourselves, lightning gives great bias to height - so I ran through them and into the forest. Thankfully, at no point did I find a red, white, and charcoal black carcass splayed radially across the grasses.
           The forest didn't have her scent, nor did it bear her tracks, but then, it had been under a constant downpour for some time. I gave Rahkl some small voice of confidence - in hindsight, one probably unjustified - and headed for the village, where most sane hrasi would go in a storm. Even as I grew very close, though, I neither saw nor smelled any trace of my friend, and, rationality strained as it was, almost decided to turn back and look a different way. But I reached the village outskirts then, and it would have been foolish to search elsewhere without asking for her, so I continued, and they saw me.
           I am no moral philosopher, nor am I any sort of intellectual regarding the matters of the mind. I would say that I am barely apt enough to be cognizant of my vast inferiority in such matters. And yet, I cannot help but wonder at my people's terror of the outside. Is that which is outside necessarily in opposition? Nations sometimes have good neighbors, do they not? Losun is not Yoichi, but the one holds the other sacrosanct. Different blood runs through their citizens, and different histories through their pasts, and yet they are hardly set against one another; their squabbles are as trivial as those of rival siblings. Why then did this not occur? Was it Rahkl's admittedly monstrous appearance? Aury's presence? Or is it simply that such is the nature of people - that we are all intrinsically self-centric, that we project that patriot-centrism onto every group with which we associate, and that, consciously or not, everything outside our associations is perceived as threat, or at least a potential for it? Perhaps relations with those outside us are all tenuous, perpetually in jeopardy; perhaps the blood's dictations of bonds and self-preservation are the only ones we have any true chance of maintaining.
           Or perhaps I am merely too far past my expertise, and should remain a diviner of things and not people.
          
           -Agarin Mes'rah, journal (undated - 11/2182)
          
           "Rahkl? Rahkl." He leaned over her from his chair at her bedside, murmuring into her ear. He refused to touch her - well, they refused to let him touch her, for fear of witchcraft or gods knew what, but he was also highly concerned for her wellbeing. It would not do to have her wake to any sort of restraint and struggle, risking further clawing to already damaged skin.
           And she'd been damaged. Maudil had told him that they'd originally dragged her back through the dirt and left her bound in the old wine cellar, but that young Aury had convinced them to clean the muck off her and put her down in a real bed with a fireplace and a real blanket. Lucky Rahkl and smart Aury; she probably would have frozen otherwise, and even with the move had lost a shade of pallor. Rahkl still had dirt in her mane, still smelled like wounded prey, and still sported purple-blue discoloration along her arms and face, the only parts not swathed in rough homespun cloth.
           Maudil was a good man; he'd admitted to taking the shot at her, and so it was his cottage they'd put her in afterward. He stood guard in the corner, looking appropriately upset with the situation. Agarin understood and forgave him, but he wanted him out. He was far more concerned with his colleague's health than his old friend's momentary feelings. Not wanting to offend, he gave Maudil a pleading look. Maudil grimaced, but nodded.
           "You'll be all right alone?" Agarin dipped his head. "I won't be far if you need me," he rumbled, then looked down, opened the door, and disappeared into the rain. The door swung shut and Agarin stared at it, then turned back to Rahkl.
           "Hai... Rahkl." More insistently. "Rahkl." She didn't move, but continued her sparse, shallow breaths. "Gone into shock, have we? Well."
           There was a little table at the side of the bed, and a basket that had been placed below it. The basket was a mess of dirty cloth and debris; the table had a neat pile of clean cloths and a skin bag of medicines, along with a near empty bowl of hot water - another batch was boiling in a cauldron at the fireplace. He looked through the bag, sifting through the herbs and compounds for something strong enough to revive her. He found a bark oil extract that smelled promising; it resided in a tiny wooden bottle and smelled potent enough to raise the dead. Agarin gently unstoppered the bottle, then poured a few drops into an available spoon and replaced the cork. The oil glowed amber in the firelight. He turned the spoon sideways over her mouth and let the stuff drip out onto the back of her tongue.
           Rahkl came up gagging and coughing, spitting air and making horrible expressions. Agarin stuck his arm out over her and kept her from sitting up. "Ah, no - slow. Slow it down."
           She gasped something in her language, one of those flowing Rahkl words that sounded more like a burbling stream than coherent speech. "What?" she said then. "What is?" frightened; terrified.
           "Sshh. It's Agarin. I, Agarin. Friend." She stared at him, crazed, feral.
           "What? Where - where I? Where -"
           "Somewhere safe," he interrupted. He withdrew his arm and put his hands on the edge of the bed, safely away from her, then reared back his head. He kept his ears up, his claws pulled, and his teeth to himself; he tried to look as unintimidating as possible. "Rahkl, it's me. Be still. You're safe with me." He'd reverted to Rahkl-speech: speech simplified as it might be for a very young child. Well, if the child was one to lecture on pure mathematics and geology. She stared at him, but didn't move, and her breathing, once frantic, began to slow and smooth. Rahkl licked her lips.
           "Water? You have water?"
           "Of course." He fetched her a saucer, then stopped as he held it over her. "Ah, wrong shape for you."
           "Don't care," she mumbled, and so when she tipped her head up he put it to her mouth. She drained about a mouthful; considerably more splashed out onto the mattress. She groaned, then lolled her head back and stared at the roof, listening to the strikes of the raindrops, a steady scattering of seeds. "They shot me," she said. It wasn't a condemnation - there wasn't enough energy in it.
           "They didn't know. They thought you were going to hurt Aury."
           "Is he all right?"
           "He's fine."
           "And me?" Agarin shook his head.
           "I don't know. I haven't touched you since I arrived. I didn't want you to think I might hurt you." He held out a paw over her face, which she averted, squinting. He paused. "May I?"
           "Careful with the [ ]," was all she said. He put the hand down and ran his pads across that soft, damp, bare-skinned cheek. It was cold to the touch: too cold. He brushed one of the discolorations and she winced. "[ ]!" He pulled back in sudden realization.
           "Oh. I'm sorry - I didn't know what that was. I've never seen what a bruise looks like on bare skin." She closed her eyes and sighed.
           "It's fine. [ ] warm hands." He grinned.
           "Thank you."
           So he gingerly pulled the blanket and sheets away, stopping when he met resistance in the fabric and she flinched - there were places where dried blood and grime had stuck sheet to bare flesh, and at those points he was all but ripping away bandages. While the work went on Rahkl wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. "I look like [ ] art," she grumbled. After a moment the thought registered and his ears perked.
           "Fa," he laughed, "you do turn some interesting colors. I'm afraid I forgot to bring your jacket; I would have if I'd been more patient. I'm sorry." She shook her head.
           "I will live." And at that he frowned.
           "Huh. Interesting way to put it. Still - well, here," he said, and unbuttoned his shirt. It was rank with him - had been slept in repeatedly - but it was relatively dry and much warmer than the open air. He draped it crosswise over her and let her press it down.
           "Thanks," she mumbled, and he flicked an ear.
           No wound was ever beautiful, but hers gaped and hung and shone in all sorts of interesting shades that healthy flesh was not supposed to shine. The placement of the arrow itself was about as much as could have been hoped for, assuming the anatomy was analogous: slightly right of center belly, enough to the side to have avoided the disaster that would have been a puncture in the final lengths of the digestive tract, yet centered enough to have avoided the large arteries that led down to the circulatory nexuses of the lower thighs. The wound, though, was pathetic: it'd been plugged with a simple boiled leaf pulp compact, then halfway secured with a circle of bandage and some honey. One side of the patch had come off, and there was a yellowed slip of dead flesh beneath it. Agarin hissed lowly; he loved his commoner friends and was deeply grateful for their loyalty, but he wouldn't have trusted a one of them to take care of a splinter or split nail.
           "That bad?" Rahkl asked. And when he twitched an ear: "You got quiet."
           "Ah. No… no. The good of it is that you're wound is about three fingers away from lethal in nearly any direction - you could not have been hit in a better place for the torso. Well, assuming that you've been assembled something like a hrasi. Your body will fight off infection quite vigorously where you have been struck, and it'll be a relatively quick recovery. The bad of it is that progeny might be difficult to come by. I can't say so doubtlessly - you aren't hrasi, after all - but abdominal traumas usually have such a result."
           Her response baffled him. Rahkl turned her head aside and grinned, then laughed. It didn't sound forced, and though it was clearly tempered by pain, it was nonetheless genuine and good-humored. She shook lightly, chuckling; he held her with cautious concern. "What? What is it?"
           "You sound [ ] serious," she said finally, still smiling but less exuberant. "I [ ] myself to that fate when I [ ] here."
           "You can't be sure," he said soothingly, moving a hand to brush at her neck. It was light, soft. "I have you, and you I, and there will always be others."
           "I think that after countless years of [ ] [ ] we won't be much for [ ]," she retorted, then paused. "Wait. Agarin?"
           "Yes?"
           "What you mean, 'I have you'?"
           "You mean what do I mean."
           "What do you mean?" She repeated his comical overemphasis of the 'do' and he smiled.
           "I meant that we have each other. You know, partners? Bond?"
           "What? No," she protested, giving him an odd look. "Not together. Friends." His ears laid halfway down, but he caught them.
           "Friends, sure, but also bonded. You don't feel it?"
           "Feel what? Feel how?"
           "The difference." She shook her head. "Well, I do. You're soothing, relaxing. I focus better when you're with me."
           "What's 'bond'?"
           "You bond when you're together for a long time."
           "Same as love?" He shook his head and frowned
           "No. Not at all - completely different. The romantics call it love's opposite. It's - hai, you really don't feel it, do you?" Rahkl shook her head. "Huh. Species barrier. Hard to explain it then. It's the feeling of being safe, and home. It's the feeling of family."
           "That's not love?"
           "Well, but it's just animal instinct. Love - how do I say it? It has direction. It has intent. It has - maybe not logic, but at least reason - at least some civilized garb. Bond just is. It's inevitable, indiscriminate." He paused. "I wonder what it feels like to be of a people without bonds. I wonder if you live feeling the way we do alone or together. It's a strange idea, you know."
           "You are alone for time."
           "Was alone for a time. We still need to work on your connectives. And you don't need to remind me. I didn't realize how much it hurt until you came and it stopped. It was like sleeping inside a ringing bell, then realizing that it had finally gone quiet."
           "You're having [ ] and [ ] dreams," she scoffed. He only shook his head.
           "No, it's true. It's in the blood; the blood changes. I could prove it with an old blood sample."
           "I don't believe you," she said. "Your [ ] is [ ] - too simple, too old. And I am same. My blood is same."
           "Maybe, because you are not hrasi," he countered, "but my blood has changed to match yours." She snorted.
           "You say you have a way to prove?" He went to the medicine bag and readied himself to redress her wound as he continued.
           "A long time ago I developed a process to detect ratios of components in the blood." She gave him a look of utter confusion. "A, a way to find the numbers of things. Things in the blood. Well, so I was a student of a Yoichi weapons-master, a finder and breeder of molds, who apprenticed me at the royal armories in Lereham. She had quite a large stable of slaves from many places and families; she had long been trying to develop war tables that accurately specified which plagues would be most effective in battles and wars, based on the ancestries of the opponents."
           "I don't understand. She was who? She had people? [ ] Molds?"
           "She had molds. You know molds. Disease? She wanted to learn to use them well in fighting."
           "You mean, [ ] made them sick? On [ ]?"
           "Made them sick," he affirmed, "for her study of war." A horrified expression.
           "You?" she asked.
           "Alone I did not do that. I was an apprentice. I only grew things; I did not use them." She looked disgusted. "It was not my work."
           "But you had a [ ] [ ]! An [ ] to do right - it makes you a [ ] to [ ]!"
           "I can't defend myself; I did wrong at first. But you've never hurt someone with a mistake?" And suddenly Rahkl became very, very quiet. "Hai.
           "So she had her estate of slaves. I had just discovered my process. I liked some of them, so I started my own project, justified by my process, and drew off some her supply."
           "What'd you do?"
           "I told my master that I wanted to use my blood-ratio technique on the slaves to see if bonding affected the components of the blood - if that was the critical change. It was a means to socialize them in pairs, which at a week or two per pair kept them mine for a very long time. I kept records of whom I'd paired with whom, and drew and observed blood regularly."
           "And?" He flattened his ears and lowered his eyes.
           "And so I broke a lot of people. It was crueler than I had thought, but I didn't see that until afterwards."
           "Broke?" Rahkl raised an eyebrow. "Broke?"
           "Not the body, but the person."
           "It's that strong?"
           "If you let it be. If you let it, it can change you. Imagine all those changes at once, all being broken as soon as they were formed. It was a nightmare for an identity, for its values, for its associations with its group." He dipped his head. "But so I took my data. I found variances in a set of twenty-three components across four component groups. Each subject showed his or her own set of ratios of them when left alone - another psychological atrocity of mine - and they stayed steady when left that way. When I paired them their bloods' chemistries began to mimic one another. They began to show ratios that grew closer and closer. Then, when split, their natural states returned. I found a link between closeness of blood and intensity of bond, as well as between difficulty of bond and variance in blood chemistry. I wrote a paper on it."
           "Did she like it?" she asked. "Did your teacher?"
           "My teacher was murdered before I finished - killed by plague, ironically. The paper itself was well-received, I think, though the church labeled me a heretic and banished me - sent me away - from the continent for it." Her eyes widened and he shrugged. "It was too thorough to easily talk away."
           "Why did they send you away for that?"
           "Strength of bond is supposed to be about the justness of the pairing: the rich with the rich, the poor with the poor, the righteous with the righteous, the evil with the evil. My work showed that it was more about gender and family heritage. I don't think they wanted me saying that the gods didn't care who you associated with. Politics is a nasty little weed - it gets into everything."
           "Ah."
           "It was more, though, that the bond was supposed to be sacred. It was a gift from the gods; it brought civilization to our people; it was what separated us from the animals."
           "And it's harder to say 'this is from God' when you can explain it." He nodded.
           "But I don't much care. They left me alive, and even though I had no colleagues with me until you arrived, out here there is no one to suggest I find something to be true or prove something false. I'm free to have unpopular ideas."
           He had done good work in cleaning up the old patch to the wound; a good deal of it had been dug out. Now he went swabbing down and through it with a coarse-haired brush coated in honey, trying both to pick up debris and slather the unprotected flesh with a seal against the molds. Rahkl's muscles tightened, but she herself didn't much protest - either she was a irreconcilable stoic or, more likely, they'd simply drugged her out of her senses.
           "And so the people?"
           "Which?"
           "- the ones you used, I mean." He shrugged.
           "They weren't mine: I took a few, but most returned to the armory's estate. They were broken, you might say. Quiet; they'd lost themselves in the project. A few went violent, and a few suicidal, but mostly they just went quiet." He shrugged. "A few were so broken they decided that they actually liked me. Decided that my torture was better than the alternative, that despite ruining them I was their ally. There was a pair of them - fiercely loyal. I took them afterwards, and they came here with me. One is dead, died a long time ago; the other is very much alive. He shot you."
           "Him?" she bobbed her head out toward the door. "You… 'own' him?" He shook his head.
           "No. Not for a long time now. He is a dear friend."
           "But you did?"
           "Fa…" she only shook her head.
           "I [ ] be [ ]. That's wrong."
           "Probably so," he admitted. "Probably so. The island doesn't have any of that. This is the only village and I am the only authority."
           "How? How is? How is this?"
           "How is this here? How am I lord of the island? Iluin. She is an old friend. When the church tried to chase me into the Rhe'jah, she brought me here instead - Iluin knows where all of the old abandoned Naman sites are. I suspect that's because she was the only one in the royal palace with the sense to make use of the ancient library, but that's another issue entirely. She brought me these people, too - former slaves, mostly, or people she'd befriended on her travels. In many ways this is her sanctuary. She asked the villagers to yield to my wishes long ago, so that I could be a noble of sorts. I suspect they would have accepted that alone, but I have tried to ingratiate myself with them anyway. I am doctor, architect, wise man."
           "But you are the authority."
           "What little is necessary, yes." She set her head back and sighed. "Why - worried? They won't hurt you." He carefully re-swathed the wound, patching it with a steady, confident hand. "You'll be fine. This will heal soon." She frowned.
           "I don't think-"
           "-I know what you're going to argue," he said. "Trust me. It'll be quick. Two weeks if you upset the process." He smiled. "Most mainland healers, even most city doctors, still treat herbalism as an art. I've put it to numbers, and I've had a lot of experience with it." She grunted, unpersuaded.
           "My people can't do what you're claiming."
           "Not so advanced then, are you?" He retorted, ears forward in good-humored deference.
           "We have [ ] toilets - don't tell me about [ ] advanced." A grin at that
           He finished her new bandage carefully, then replaced her sheets and bedding. "I hope you don't mind staying here," Agarin murmured. She shook her head, then paused.
           "You aren't leaving, are you?" The concern in her tone made him laugh.
           "Hai, says the adamantly unbonded woman. Of course not." The relief in her face crossed the lines of speciation.
           "[ ] [ ]," she swore. "[ ] [ ]… Then, where did we stop? Before, I mean." The switch didn't at all surprise him, and he welcomed it with a grin.
           "Pfhol Dhirk, I think. The one after the totally pronounceable one."
           "Dirac? Yes. Uh…" Rahkl sunk back into her bed and her eyes glazed. "Okay. Well, remember, there are these two [ ] - one by [ ] and the other by [ ]. One is true for very big things, and the other for very small ones, but no one can [ ] them, because all the ink on the paper says they don't agree. But then this Dirac [ ] comes [ ], and he says look at it not in the [ ] [ ] way, but as a necessary [ ] of…"
           Agarin smiled, shook his head, and settled in to listen.
          

---v---

           In his youth Vauhya had spent time growing mushrooms in the palace kitchens with borrowed pots and vinegar broths. Lifting the heavy cloth off the bowl reminded him of it. It peeled back. Underneath, the agar had caked and dried into a curved disk. The bowl was cold; the fire had gone out. He took the square of cloth at his side and draped it over his hand so that he could safely pick out the cake. It was hard, yellowed, and crumbling, the water having been consumed - already it was veined with fracture lines. Carefully, with attention paid to each muscle in his hand, Vauhya removed the disk, folded it inside the cloth, and then set it on the ground. He kneaded it slowly and softly, using his knuckles and the backs of his hands so that he wouldn't risk tearing open the cloth with his claws, working to break up the disk, to scatter the lumps and bring the mixture to the texture of fine desert sand. When it was done he took the small spice bottle he'd gotten from Skie, funneled the powder in, then stoppered it shut. The cloth he folded and threw onto the woodpile next to wall. It would have to be burnt later.
           "Milord." He set the bottle down and rose to see Skie in the stable doorway.
           "Haven't been called that in a long time." She flicked an ear.
           "Rallan and Sahel want you. They're at the training grounds. Rallan says he is having trouble teaching the archers, and Elder Sahel wants to know what he supposed to balance the arrows with if not game feathers."
           "Feathers are fine."
           "Ah, no - he means they've run out." He stopped.
           "Oh. Well, and Atra doesn't know?"
           "She's working in the fields."
           "Then I'll be along shortly." Skie nodded and turned away. "Hai, Skie." She paused. "Shouldn't you be doctoring your patients?" Her ears dipped and she shifted.
           "They're doing better. Have been doing better for a few days now. A few are even well enough to move around and change bandages. I left them alone today - just set out some food, water, and fresh cloth this morning. I figure it won't matter how they fare if we lose, so I'm going to join the fight." Her head went down. He shrugged.
           "If they can handle themselves, I'm glad to have you. Come on, then; let's go."
           They left the stable, went out into the hot afternoon, and began the trek up and out of the township basin. Over the wall, through the fields, up the slope, past the forest hills - the sun warmed their backs as they went.
           He wished that his mentors could've been with him, to guide him. Initiative - one had take the initiative. The longer he waited, the more initiative he gave away; conversely, though, the sooner he moved the weaker his forces would be. But then where was the balancing point? And for that, one had to know one's foe - who were they? Did they know him? Was it perhaps a man or woman he'd classed with as a child? Family, no doubt. To war with them, actively seek their deaths…
           He was going to a very dark, very cold hell when he died.
           "Vauhya!"
           The Elder clapped him on his back and returned him to the present. "Glad you came," he rumbled. "We've snagged ourselves nicely with the fletching. There are no more feathers, and we don't have time to go hunting farther north for ground fowl." Vauhya's mind sputtered for a moment as it switched, but then he nodded slowly.
           "It's not a problem. We can use bark shavings - you just secure them with sap instead of tying them down. I'll show you how to carve them." He went with Sahel, still mentally ruminating and not fully concentrated. The elder led him down into a shallow gully littered with loose stones and broken wood. A half-dozen hrasi sat on either side, all with metal blades or edged rock, carving out shafts, smashing stones down into arrowheads, or fastening pieces together into a large and still growing pile of arrows. "How many do we have?"
           "A bit past three hundred, not counting those they're practicing with. We're hoping for four by day's end."
           "That's all? You've had days." Sahel frowned, and his tail set to lashing.
           "Well, now, we're farmers, not weapon smiths. And the first three days we spent on pikes, bows, and those damn shields. The whole lot of us is half plant, what with the number of splinters we've got." Vauhya grinned.
           "Well, good, then. Let's keep on making them - we'll need everything we can get."
           They went to the giant stack of bare shafts and loose wood. Vauhya picked out piece of wood and began shaving it down with his knife. As the bark stripped away the free wood became looser, more nearly flexible. He moved in slightly curved strokes, whittling out a thin slip that was even and smooth. The finished product was thin, long, and squat - like a cross-wise sliver of a claw. It was light, translucent against the sun. He pressed it into Sahel's palm. "Like this."
           "Vauhya." That from behind him. Rallan crouched at his side and nodded to him. "Would you come to the archery ground when you're done? They're drifting left with their shots - all of them, and I really have no idea why." Vauhya dipped an ear in assent.
           "Probably trying too hard to set the neck of the arrow on the bow. Rallan…how are they?" The man waited a moment in thought before replying.
           "Better. Still too slow, and still horrible judges of moving targets, but they understand how to work in the group, and they're decent with your grid approach. They've improved, but there's more to do."
           "I know. Gods, I know. But they're well enough?"
           "Fa." Vauhya closed his eyes and rubbed his palms together in conflicted anticipation.
           "All right. I want the initiative, Rallan. I want to move tomorrow." Rallan and Sahel both reared back, flustered. Rallan recovered first.
           "Tomorrow?" he hissed lowly. "But we have at least three more days, and I know that we could improve before-"
           "It won't matter," Vauhya said softly. He was looking down. "Won't matter at all. I've been thinking - as prepared as we'll become, we still won't have a chance against archers on mah'sur. The problem is range and speed. It's not something we could overcome without some sort of two-sided attack. I've tried to find one that would work, but I don't think we're organized enough for that to be possible. The scenario they've posed us is impossible - to succeed, we'll have to alter it.
           "If we attack first, early in the morning, we'll have the initiative. If we have the initiative, we may be able to dispatch a good number of them before they can reach their mounts. If we have the initiative, we able to start the fight before they can put their armor on. We know that one-to-one we're going to be inferior regardless; the more we can incapacitate or kill in a surprise move, the better odds we have for victory as a group."
           "Dishonorable," Sahel said. Vauhya looked at him.
           "Would you rather die?" There was no response. Finally Rallan shifted.
           "Fine. Tomorrow, then."
          

---v---

           All the buttons on his shirt were coming loose. The shirt itself was stained and threadbare, though it retained some of its old silk patterning on the band of the collar. There was nothing to do about it, though, and it was still a better indicator of his station than the ragged army cloak he covered it in. With a solemnity usually reserved for the most austere of monks, Vauhya pinned his cloak at the front with a simple wooden brooch carved with an image of the sun. He fastened his belt around his breeches and tied it at one hip, having lost the metal loop that secured it. On each side went one of his lleiri in its scabbard - the shorter to his left and the longer to his right. The bottle had its pouch; everything was snug under the cloak. He stood at the town wall's edge, draped in the chill night, checking one last time.
           "You're going up there, then?" Atra asked. Before he could turn to look there was that reassuring hand on his back. He nodded.
           "Going to meet the neighbors," he said.
           "You're a fool. You're going to die."
           "I won't," he answered. "I'll be among family. They're my subordinates, my servants. They'll grant me safe passage if announce myself."
           "No, you're a heretic they've been ordered to kill, and if you announce yourself they'll grant you safe passage and then slit your throat when you're in their hands."
           "There won't be any trouble. We're still a civilized people. Trust me, Atra - I know the tradition, and we Yoichi do not betray our traditions. I'll be safe."
           "Do I come with you?"
           "Why would you?" he asked, curious. She sighed.
           "I thought maybe - no, never mind."
           "What, that I'm going to warn them? Betray them?" There was no answer, just a kneading paw between his shoulderblades.
           "…well, you might have. The villagers don't know you're out here, do they?"
           "Sahel does," he said. "The others… safer not to risk that. They just know that they're supposed to find their beds early. But that's not my intent. I only want to know who's leading them."
           "Which is why you brought along your plague bottle. I saw you, Vauhya, and I'm not stupid." He turned around to look at her; her ears were half down in distress.
           "Not plague. It's the product of a mold that spoils food. Not the gray-green molds we usually see, but a subservient species, one you have to select for with specific nutrients. This is the substance that poisons, though it's much more concentrated because I have grown it as the dominant mold. It's not particularly lethal, nor is it very long lasting, but it does cause a wide range of dehabilitating symptoms. The advantage is that there's no ward for it."
           "I doubt they'll let you share it with them."
           "I'll find a way to slip it in." She shook her head.
           "No. They'll be watching you. They'll stop you, and they'll kill you - you can't possibly fight them all. Let me do it."
           Vauhya shook his head. "You're bright white. You think you could slip around like I could?"
           "Then give me the cloak. And yes, I can sneak just as well as you. Besides, I'll have it easier. Your big entrance will be enough of a distraction for a touring carnival to slip through their encampment. There's nothing like a social call from a condemned man." He only grunted. "You really expect me to stay here? What if you get killed? You think I want to spend the rest of my life with some anemic, hard-handed peasant boy? These people have already shown themselves to be too stupid to leave, and damned if I'm staying here. I'd say I have an interest in your survival." She smirked. "Besides, I dislike change, and you're good enough for me."
           Her face was so damned earnest. He sighed. "Promise you won't die?"
           "I haven't yet."
           "Dammit, Atra…" He unpinned his cloak and shrugged it off; she took it and donned it in turn. Then he gave her the pouch with the bottle. "They have to ingest it. That means mixing it with the water, the wine, the meat - everything you have a chance to. But don't overdo it, because it has some color, and it's not tasteless." She nodded.
           "I won't have any problems. As soon as you go up, I'll go in. You won't even have to wait for me." Then she stepped close and took his arm into her hand. "I hope you know what you're doing."
           "So do I." He leaned into her and they brushed cheeks. "Be safe," he murmured.
           She released him, gave him a last squeeze of the arm, then jumped the wall and headed out for the tree line. He watched her go, a stroke of unease snagged on his soul, before turning to head towards the camp.
           Alone and without the cloak to blend him into the ground, Vauhya felt particularly naked; he watched for movement as he walked out across the basin and towards the slope. The camp would have its sentinels grouped closely enough to see anyone approach from any side, so he knew that there were eyes on him. Whether those eyes belonged to someone with fingers on a bowstring remained to be seen. Given the detachment's antagonistic front, he worried. Vauhya had little faith in his ability to dodge arrows.
           As he crossed from the end of the basin into the beginning of the slope, he saw a flash of white on the hillcrest above. There were no sounds save the wind and the insects; no arrows pierced the night sky. All the same, he raised his left arm above him, palm out, in the gesture of the non-combatant. Nothing. As he climbed he kept his gaze searching upward, and became acutely aware of the stillness and the silence.
           "Stop."
           Vauhya halted. There was no one near him; he frowned, ears dropping. "Put the blades down." The voice came from behind him. It was firm, controlled, and even; the sound of someone who would not hesitate to back his words. He stood firm.
           "I am no threat. I am Yoichi."
           "Blades, down, now." So he crouched, and unhooked each, and laid them in the grass. "Get up and turn around."
           He stood. "I am no threat," he said, then turned slowly on his heel.
           The old soldier behind him was so stunned at his face that his blade went loose and fell from his hand. As it hit the ground the man's instincts came to him and he skittered a step backwards, drawing a nastily curved dagger from a sheath at his hip. Vauhya didn't move; he simply watched the soldier recover to a fighting stance. "I didn't come to fight," he said, "but only to talk. Give me safe passage and I won't be any trouble." The man didn't budge.
           "Mister Vauhya, there is a very large sum of money on your life, sir, and all we army men have orders to kill you."
           "Do you? And so will you kill your own prince?" A hard blink.
           "You're not a prince, sir. Been stripped of your rank and your family bonds. Church even branded you a heretic."
           "They can call me what they want - the blood in my veins is still that of the ancients. Now, do I have my safe passage, or are you going to try to kill me?" The soldier stood wavering. Then he lowered his guard, his blade dropping to his side.
           "Gods…. You're not one of us, sir. You broke the rules of engagement; you've been disowned, outcast. Our orders are to kill you, sir. I'll take you to the captain, but there are even odds that she'll take your head off before she so much as speaks a word to you." Vauhya bent and retrieved his lleiri, then took the man's sword and handed it over hilt-first.
           "Then that's all I ask." The soldier looked uneasy at his armament, but didn't protest. Instead he went past Vauhya and continued up to the top of the hill. Vauhya fell in at his side and they trudged upwards together.
           "Do you really use those lleiri?" the man asked.
           "I do."
           "How?"
           "The White One taught me. It's not so difficult as long as you don't treat them like simple blades."
           "Ah. There are rumors spreading, some very fantastical. I wondered if they were true."
           Vauhya looked at the man's hardened expression. "Rumors?"
           So the soldier told him. News traveled more quickly than he'd guessed. It became much further distorted as well, though. Most of it had been aggrandized or outright made up - there were rumors that he had fought and killed Yoichi's sher'amn at every encounter; that the garrisons at Saadat had been unable to stop him; that he had signed a pact with a mercenary band and become a ruthless highwayman. Most of it was ludicrous, but he found the trend itself quite revealing - he was forever cast as a disturbingly powerful villain. The clan's greater opinion, then, was set further against him than he'd thought. It was an unsettling discovery.
           When they topped the hill he spotted the camp. There were three fires going in a large and nearly equal-sided triangle, and together they illuminated eight or ten tents spread in a cluster within. Men and women crouched in the shadows, lounged near the fires, and moved as blurred shadows within the tents below. Once they'd traversed the slope down the other side - for the northern side of the crater abutted a valley instead of a plain - the soldier stopped them. "Wait here." Vauhya stood his ground as the soldier went forward and into the camp. The man nodded to a group playing some game in the dust at the outskirts, then continued on. He passed the outer line of tents and stopped at one near the center; without entering, he leaned into the doorway and spoke a word. A woman came out after a pause, and the soldier pointed out at him. He held fast as she stared - ready to bolt at the least sign, or perhaps to lunge forward in an equally futile gesture. But she only yelled something, and walked out to the camp's edge, scattering the men in her wake, sending them into the shadows of the camp. When they were gone she looked out at him again, gestured a come-hither, then turned to retreat back to her tent. What was there to do? He went.
           No one stopped him as he entered. He saw no face, nor scrap of fur, but he felt their presence. They were in their tents, or against those makeshift walls, waiting and listening - in their eagerness to not be noticed they left an unmistakably purposeful silence. He approached the captain's tent and paused at the doorway, wondering if he had erred horribly. Then he shrugged and entered.
           No traveling band ever burdened itself with extravagance, but their captain had nonetheless managed a spartan elegance. A large square of canvas had been sewn onto each end of the original tent, providing a simple oil-tan floor; there was wooden folding table half as tall as his knee in the center, partially covered with loose paper, a pair of books, and a small candle lantern; in the far corner two sets of well-polished armor and weapons glittered in neat stacks. There was even a set of battered, loose-threaded red pillows spread at the table's four sides. The captain herself was a tawny figure in a trim silk garb that'd gone from shimmering white to a dingy, worn beige. Her features, though, were unblemished and distinctly Noble-bred - angular, pointed, and possessive of an unmistakable hauteur. She gave him a close-eyed nod and swept a hand down to indicate that he should sit. "Please," she said, and so he sat, setting his lleiri down at a reassuring distance. She closed the tent flaps and moved past to sit opposite him. The first look he got was one of cautious unease. "Vauhya; so it is you. Why have you come here?"
           "I came to talk. To whom am I speaking?"
           "To Yhedhasa Aurkoan, captain of this cavalry unit, which is from the third battalion of the northern horsemen."
           "Yhedhasa, eldest daughter of Pauran Sehdt and Kifas Aurkoan, half-brother to Vieri Aurkoan, who is the fourth youngest cousin of my late mother. You are from Aurkoan prefecture; you grew up at Aurkoan Manor and schooled at the war academy in Eljun'adan with my brother when he was at his sixtieth season; you are a year my senior." Jade eyes flickered in recognition.
           "You certainly know your family history."
           "It's very hard to politick without knowing what your connections are. But so you're an Aurkoan, and half Sehdt at that. You must be skilled to have gained your rank so quickly."
           "Is that a slight against my clan?"
           "Certainly not - we Aurkoan have always been steadfast vassals, and the Sehdt I am told are quite affluent merchants. I only wonder that my brother trusts you. After all, the Yoichi with Aurkoan ties were always my supporters - they preferred my open candor. Maybe it was the association of your youth?" She pursed her lips.
           "It is very hard for me to distinguish your praise from your slander."
           "I didn't come here to insult you," he assured her. She frowned.
           "Why did you come here? You came from the village, of course."
           "Of course. And I came because I wanted to know why you're at war with peasants."
           "It is part of the army's new mobilization. We are to seek out those who do not pay taxes, who do not honor labor drafts, and who are generally unconnected with Yoichi. Our Lord feels that these people are the risks, as they have the fewest ties to the clan."
           "But you know that those farmers won't survive without their crops. There's no surplus to tax."
           "The truth of the matter, I think - though I am not in the habit of predicting or preempting my superiors - is that our Lord simply doesn't wasn't them there. If a settlement does not pay tribute to the province, and it has no inherent blood ties to our rulers, then it is at best a dormant, fledgling disease, for it will inevitably seek its own independence. His plan, I suspect, is to cleanse our territory of such stock."
           "That's incredibly small-minded," he growled, "and you know it. You're just rationalizing massacre. You don't win loyalty by killing everyone who doesn't support you any more than you teach a dancer control by cutting off his errant limbs. Loyalty by association doesn't mean that you can't trust anyone who isn't your kin." Her ears flicked back and her eyes narrowed in annoyance.
           "I never said that they were my views, only that they were the ones I'm enforcing."
           "So we're back to blind loyalty? Such conviction!"
           "Now you're just being provocative. I never suspected that someone so elusive could turn out to be such an idealistic little child. Mister Vauhya, this is not a study and I am not your governess - this is the borderland of civilization, quite possibly the borderland of an new dynasty, and we are held to account for the convictions we espouse. Whatever you think of your brother's statesmanship, you ought to recognize his skill in dictatorship. Lord Yoichi has situated all of the power holders in the province such that every one of us has another two at his back, watching for treachery. There are not nearly enough of we who are discontented to challenge him and live, even if we could coordinate without being turned in by one of your clan's eight thousand opportunists. And quite frankly, mister Vauhya, self-righteous, blithering polemic isn't nearly as persuasive as my instinct for self-preservation."
           "You're a coward." She scowled.
           "That's unfair. You have a skewed view of the world; you're already an exile, so you don't have to worry about keeping up a compliant façade."
           "Maybe so, but how many people are you willing to drown in the changing political currents to keep your head above water? You're really going to depopulate entire villages just to preserve your manged hide?"
           "I'm going to preserve my manged hide, yes."
           "And what happens when Hahrum decides he's had enough of you?"
           "He won't."
           "He will, and you'll have already slaughtered everyone that might've raised a hand in your defense, and so you'll lose your head to someone with even less conviction."
           "I suppose you'd have me go rogue." He nodded. "Damn fool, then. You'll learn soon enough: he will always have the numbers, and as long as he does you'll never beat him. If I were you, I'd run until my legs broke. There are empires to the far south and across the ocean, and places in them where you will never be found. Here, everyone wants you dead. Coming here to moralize to me is like throwing yourself to the slaughter."
           "These people you want to kill are just that - people. You use your fear to rationalize your actions and pretend that you're being forced to murder, but you and I know it's just the choice of luxury over decency. That's why I've stayed. You think I don't know that there are places beyond Yoichi or Rrsai influence, places where I could build wealth and power undisturbed? Of course I do. But this is my place, and its inhabitants are my people, and if you or my brother want to harm them, it's my duty to stop you."
           She snorted. "Good luck with that." Then she stretched and moved to rise. "I've heard enough - I was hoping for someone a bit more civil and a bit less boorish. You'll go back into hiding now. I believe we're scheduled to sack your friends in the next three days; leave beforehand or we'll kill you with the rest of them." He picked up his blades and got to his feet as well, fastening them to his belt.
           "I don't think that's likely, as I'll be their general." She raised an eyebrow, ears perking.
           "Will you? That's interesting. I wasn't aware that the slave-driver behind a ragged pack of conscripted farm hands qualified as a 'general'."
           "You shouldn't be so arrogant; you're far too pretty. Besides, I'm going to present you with a humiliatingly thorough defeat."
           "You think so? How charming. But then I suppose I should heed your counsel and kill you now, lest you waste my time and my men later with an organized defense."
           "You probably should. Likewise, I should probably behead you here. Alas, I'm a traditionalist, and I still believe in the rules of engagement. If you'd like to start a fight, though, I'd be happy to show you how far I've come with these lleiri." She smirked.
           "No, I'll let you leave. There will be no arrows or daggers flying at your back; I too have regard for honorable practices. But you'll go now, or I'll rescind the offer."
           "Aren't you going to have me for dinner?"
           "You can try to dine with us, mister Vauhya, but I do think you'd regret it." He humphed at that.
           "Good night, Yhedhasa Aurkoan."
           "Good riddance."