The Dew of Flesh Read online

  Chapter 6

  A crack sounded in the stillness of the forest. Ilahe started in surprise and turned off the road, plunging into the impossibly thick undergrowth. Tall grasses that should have died under the shady canopy grew here; weeds wrapped themselves thick around wildflowers that still thrived. Ilahe grimaced as she pressed herself against the bole of a redwood and listened for pursuit.

  Long heartbeats passed before she heard another sound. A man, to judge by the voice. She listened more closely, but could not make out the words. He sounded frustrated, perhaps angry, but he did not sound like a man in command. Not soldiers, then, Ilahe hoped. She slunk closer to the path, moving slowly to keep the tall grasses from rippling with her movement.

  The voice grew louder, but it was still indistinct, muffled by the curtain of growth. Ilahe rested one hand on a sword. She had been attacked three times while crossing the Paths, and she had barely avoided a dozen similar situations. Her dark skin made her stand out in this too-green land, and with every mile she found people more and more hostile to Cenarbasins.

  Everything she had learned from her tutors about Nakhacevir was true, it seemed—a ruthless, bloody, mindless people. A people who worshipped slaughter. Bands of brigands controlled sections of the Paths, calling themselves liberators, god-slayers, new men. Ilahe did not believe them. All men were the same, blindness take them, and they had only liberated her of her coin. Her stomach growled, reminding her that without coin, she had also found herself inadvertently liberated of food as well.

  Whoever was out there was alone, it seemed, for no one answered. That did not impede his tirade. More out of boredom than any sense of security, Ilahe pushed through the grass and regained the road. She was tired of waiting, and one blind-fool man, even a sarkomancer, would not be a threat to her. Ilahe drew one sword as she climbed back onto the road, holding it easily at her side.

  A man with red-gold hair, who looked as though he would come no higher than Ilahe’s shoulder, paced back and forth behind a small covered wagon, hands in the air as he shouted what Ilahe now recognized as Khacen obscenities. He wore a dirty gray shirt with holes in the sleeves and yellow trousers that once might have been bright, but now were almost as dingy as the shirt.

  The small man turned and caught sight of Ilahe. With a squawk, he scrabbled into the wagon, disappearing under the canvas cover, and popped out at the front with bow and arrow in hand.

  “Stay back,” he shouted. “Or my guards will have you. I’ll shoot you myself, if I have to.”

  Ilahe shook her head. Blind, blind-fool man. “The bow’s not strung,” she said. “And where are your guards?”

  Flushing so that his cheeks almost matched his hair, the man said, “Not any closer. I’ll have it strung, and you’ll have an extra hole, before you can blink.”

  Blind as the black itself. “I’m not going to rob you,” Ilahe said. “I’ve been robbed myself. I don’t suppose you’d give a woman some food, though?” The Khacen were strange about women—some of their women were artists or laborers. Artists! It seemed ridiculous, but she had seen enough to assume it was true in part.

  The short man blinked and lowered the bow. “Tair fend, you are a woman. What are you doing with those swords?”

  “Protecting my honor,” Ilahe said dryly. She sheathed her blade, held up her hands, and took a step toward the wagon.

  The short man nodded, set down his bow, and climbed all the way out onto the seat. “And what’s a Cenarbasin doing this deep in the Paths? Khaskander the Liberator has stopped trade with ‘bow-bloods, no matter how much the merchants in Dus su or Terhequr scream. Tair protect any Cenarbasin within that Path; they were harvesting them in the streets when I left.”

  “They just took my money,” Ilahe said. The man’s words were disturbing; one of the Paths had declared war on Cenarbasi? Why? The gods-made-flesh did not trouble the solars, not with the Danma separating them. “Who is this man, this liberator?”

  With a short whistle, the man dropped to the ground. As Ilahe had expected, he barely reached her shoulder, but he seemed nonplussed by her height. He stuck one hand out, and Ilahe took it, squeezing hard. Men needed to know their place.

  He let out another whistle, drew back his hand, and rubbed it gingerly. “My name’s Ticar.” He held up his hand, examining it. “Tair protect me, if that’s how you greeted them, it’s a wonder they didn’t pay you to be on your way.”

  “Blind brigands,” Ilahe said and spat. “Is that who this liberator is?”

  “Tair no,” Ticar said. “Well, the men you ran into were most likely brigands. If they had been true liberators, they would have killed you on the spot. Cenarbasi is the new evil, it seems. Khaskander, though, he’s not a liberator. He’s the Liberator. The first man to kill a god-made-flesh. The tair of Dus su is no more.” Ticar’s voice fell at the end.

  Ilahe shook her head in disbelief. Her tutors had never prepared her for this, although it fit everything she knew about the Khacens. Gods that lived off the flesh of their worshippers were bound to cause dissent, and the Khacens were certainly bloodthirsty enough to kill their own gods. Doubt gripped her, though—why had her employer sought her out in Cenarbasi instead of turning to this Khaskander? The men on the trail had known she was coming. They had thought she was part of some larger plan. It set Ilahe’s teeth on edge.

  “And the other Paths? Do they bow to this Khaskander?”

  Ticar’s voice was still soft. “My dear girl, you don’t understand. Does no one in Cenarbasi know?”

  “What?” Ilahe asked.

  “Khaskander was the first,” Ticar said. “But not the last. The tair are dead. The last of the gods-made-flesh rules in Khi’ilan.”

  Even more disturbing. Khi’ilan, the city she was bound for, where the last of the gods-made-flesh lived, somehow surviving the rebellion that had brought down the rest of his kind. “And why has he not fallen? Twelve Paths against one should make for a short battle.”

  “Big questions,” Ticar said. “And I’m a small man. Politics are beyond me, my girl. All I know is that Khaskander has turned his attention to Cenarbasi—or, he will, once Samir Two-Knives is dead. Head east, if you wish to live. Samir Two-Knives is a traitor to the liberators, but he does not care one way or the other for Cenarbasi. If anything, he might welcome you with open arms, just to spite Khaskander.”

  Infighting among the rebels. That explained how the tair still held Khi’ilan. She was walking into a civil war. Civil wars, she corrected herself. It brought a smile to her face. Bringing down a god would be sweet. Watching this nation of blood-thirsting fanatics burn around her—well, that would almost make her treatment at the hands of the priests worth it. Her mind raced. Perhaps, if she were lucky, she would find something here that would give her an advantage in Cenarbasi. There were more gods than one that deserved to die.

  “My girl?” Ticar said.

  Ilahe realized she had let the conversation lag.

  “East at the next fork,” Ticar said. “It’s not far—a few leagues. Although, be warned, Khaskander’s men, or brigands, will have the spot guarded.”

  “Samir’s forces are so close?”

  “No,” Ticar said. “But war is expensive. You’ve already given your share to Khaskander’s cause, I think.”

  “And you, peddler?” Ilahe said. “Where are you going?”

  “Khi’ilan,” Ticar said. “I have foodstuffs to sell. Before the rebels turn their attention to the tair again.”

  “Foodstuffs?” Ilahe said. “Do not play me for a fool. This land produces more than the Khacens could ever hope to eat. A siege would have to last years to make an impact, and you do not carry enough in your wagon to tip that balance.”

  Ticar flushed again, as bright as before. “Regardless, my girl, I go to Khi’ilan. As soon as I finish my business.” He glanced at the back of the wagon.

  “What is it?” Ilahe said. “Is there a problem with your wagon?” She started back to look at it. Ilahe had n
ot had her sister’s extensive training in engineering, but any Cenarbasin woman worth her color knew more about machines than a man.

  “No,” Ticar said, trailing along behind her. “Well, a small problem. There’s a dead man in it. I don’t suppose you can help with that.”

  “What happened to him?” Ilahe glanced in the wagon. True to Ticar’s word, a dead man lay across the tailgate, his head nestled between crates. He looked a mercenary, or a brigand—worn, patched leather armor—a large gash in the side revealed at least one possible cause of death—scraggly blond beard, and more scars than Ilahe cared to count. Rich blue cloth hung over the edge of one open crate. Ticar scrambled up onto the tailgate and shoved the cloth inside the crate and slid the lid back into place. Ilahe watched him for a moment, wondering if she should press the issue, but Ticar dropped back to the ground and stared up at her.

  “He was my guard,” Ticar said. “Some self-proclaimed liberators tried to stop us. Gamid was always too angry. I would have talked to them, but he struck first. He killed all three, but here we are two days later, and now he is dead. There has been too much killing. I wonder if we are any better than the tair.”

  His words surprised Ilahe. Perhaps he was not as blind as he seemed. He seemed the closest thing to a civilized person—albeit, still a man—that Ilahe had met in Nakhacevir. Ilahe grabbed the dead man by the ankle and pulled him off the tailgate, ignoring Ticar’s protests. The dead man hit the ground and sagged to one side.

  “He’s taken care of,” Ilahe said.

  Ticar cut off, his already too-white skin going even paler. “I am not a beast,” he said, “to leave a good man’s body on the road. You may go now; I have given you all the help that I can.”

  His words hit Ilahe like a slap; shoulders set stiffly, he grabbed small spade from the wagon and started toward the tall grasses and the taller trees that marked the edge of the road. For the first time in a long while, Ilahe felt guilty. Ticar seemed a decent man, and she had not intended to hurt his feelings.

  She turned to head down the path, away from this man, but her stomach growled at her. Ticar knelt, half obscured by the tall grass, already digging. Perhaps he was a decent man. He seemed to truly care about his dead guard. Let’s hope he cares as much about a living one.

  “I’ll help you,” Ilahe said. “For some food.”

  He stopped digging and turned, face framed by the thick blades of grass. “What?”

  “I’ll help you bury him for food,” Ilahe said. “And I’ll be your guard.”

  “My girl,” he said, his voice softer, “take some food and go east. These roads, these Paths, are not safe.”

  “I will work for what I take,” Ilahe said, stalking over to him. She snatched the spade from his hand and hacked at a swath of grass, clearing space for her to work. “I am going to Khi’ilan. I need to hide from Khaskander’s men. You need a guard.” She examined the spot where he had started to dig. “You do not wish to bury him further from the road?”

  “Tair protect,” Ticar said. “No, it’s not worth our lives. There are deksu in these woods. Seiri too, I hear.”

  Deksu. Seiri. More superstitions. Ilahe shook her head again. Blind man.

  Ticar sat back on his haunches and watched as she worked. “You are kind to do this,” he said softly. “There used to be more people like you in the Paths. I wonder where they have gone.”

  Ilahe shook her head and worked in silence. Fool, blind man. Blind as the black. He still did not understand how the world worked. The strong took what they pleased. The weak suffered it.

  As she worked, though, Ilahe felt the tension in her muscles ease. She had a way to the city, and food, and perhaps coin when they arrived. One problem solved. Ilahe tried not to think of the god-made-flesh that knew she was coming.