The Gathering Storm

Page 224

“You should see your face!” The young Kerayit woman rose, gave the bronze spoon she held to the older servant, and sat down on the broad bed. “Sit beside me. There isn’t as much smoke over here.”
Indeed, a fair amount of the smoke spiraled up and out the smoke hole, through which Liath still saw that same gray shimmer, neither day nor night. In the world above, nothing changed. That surety lent a little peace to her anxious thoughts. She sat beside Sorgatani.
“I did not expect to see you back so soon, Liath.”
“Here I am.” She smiled. “I am come to negotiate, but I’m discovering how little I like it. When I traveled with my father, just he and I all those years, we made a decision and acted. We had no one else to placate or argue with or persuade.”
“You lived and traveled alone, without kinfolk or tribe? Without herds? With no servants or companions? No cousins or aunts? Had you no mothers?”
“I had no mother.”
“No mothers!” The confession shocked Sorgatani, but she recovered quickly. “I am seeing there hangs a tale from those words.”
“So there does. If you travel with us west, to fight our enemies, then I can tell you that tale at length.”
Sorgatani had a lively, expressive face and the bright eyes common to people who love life. It was as much this vitality that made her beautiful as the actual pleasing composition of her individual features.
“Is this how you open your negotiations? You are too blunt. You must begin by discussing the season, and whether a spring storm will drive away the warmth and how much it will rain before summer. Then you go on with complimenting my lineage, my herds, and the clothing my servants wear. We share the tales of our grandmothers. That is just to begin. The day after next you may come finally to the point of your visit. Meanwhile, I must entertain you as befits a guest.”
She beckoned. The younger servant padded forward to offer them both steaming cups of dried leaves steeped in hot water.
“What is this?” asked Liath. The brew had a minty smell, heady and tantalizing.
“We call it khey. I do not know if there is a word for it in your language.”
“I don’t think so.” Liath sipped, and sighed. “That is good.” She drank again before settling back to regard Sorgatani. “Can I be blunt? We must move quickly. It will take many months to travel back to the west. We haven’t much time left. It will be difficult.”
“You intend to travel by land all the way back west. That might take years! The west is very far away.”
“How else are we to go?”
“Oh!” said Sorgatani. “Oh.” She fiddled with her earrings—today she wore tiny golden pigs dangling on delicate chains. “If nothing has been said to you, then I do not have permission to speak.”
“Must you have permission to speak?”
“We are the daughters of the Horse people, given into their hands many generations ago. As daughters, it is our duty and obligation to obey our mothers.”
“Your ‘mothers.’ But not your fathers. Where are all the male centaurs?”
Sorgatani stared at her blankly, hand dropping away from the tiny pigs. Liath might as well have said, “Where are all the talking dogs who rule as dukes among you?”
“Do they kill them?” Liath pressed.
“Do they kill who?”
“Do they kill the colts?”
“Of course they don’t kill the colts! No good herdsman does so. The choicest ones are held aside to be puras, and the rest are gelded. Geldings make sturdy and reliable mounts. We can trade them, too, since we’re known for the quality of our horseflesh. We trade along the oasis road. They prize our horses and pay well for them in silk, gold, spices, and khey, these leaves you drink.”
“Sorgatani. Where are the male Horse people?”
Sorgatani set down her cup and clapped her hands. The younger servant brought a tray of candied fruits, which she offered to Liath before taking some for herself. They were both sweet and spicy, tingling on her tongue as she waited.
“I see what you are asking,” Sorgatani said after she had savored an apricot and a pair of peach slices crusted with sugar. She licked her lips for the last grains of sugar. “They are with the herds.”
“With the herds?”
“Yes. Of course they never leave the herds.”
Liath drained her khey, pursing her lips at the sweet aftertaste. “What about the old stories of the Bwr assault on the Dariyan Empire? Their great general was Azaril the Cruel.”