Child of Flame

“Alas,” Druthmar replied, with a pleasant smile, “I do not.”



Mistress Otlinde looked like the kind of merchant who recalled every least transaction she had ever made, not to mention the exact count of eggs she had sucked dry. “I pray you, let my son bring you ale. How may I help you?”



Sanglant’s attention was caught by his daughter, who had bolted away from Bayan and gone to examine the palanquin and the four male slaves. Without warning, she grabbed the edge, hoisted herself up, and slithered in through the gaudy draperies protecting the woman concealed within.



Anna shrieked in protest. The Ungrians called out in shock and dismay, and Bayan grabbed for Blessing’s small shod foot, just missing it as it vanished behind the curtains. The slaves leaped to their feet, as distressed as fowl caught napping by a fox. Bayan swore in Ungrian. He touched the curtain, jerked as if he’d been stung, and leaped back, face white.



“God have mercy!” cried Sapientia, not without satisfaction. She saw Sanglant and gestured broadly. “Look what trouble the child has caused already! How can we ever repair such an insult to a Kerayit shaman?”



Maybe she hoped to shame him into admitting he didn’t understand the powers of a Kerayit shaman, but he’d ridden with Bayan before, and where Bayan rode, his mother was never far behind. He reached the palanquin at a run only to be stopped by Bayan, who thrust out an arm to hold him back.



“Nay, my friend, I beg of you, go not to make it worse.”



“My daughter—” began Sanglant.



“Please, Daddy, can you wait?” Blessing’s voice sang out from behind the curtains, as cheerful as a sunny summer day. “I’m talking with the old lady.”



Sweating, Bayan wiped his eyes and called for a cup of ale. His interpreter, Brother Breschius, drew him aside and they fell into a whispered conversation until a soldier hurried up with a cup and a pitcher. The filled cup was passed around the assembled lords, drained, and filled again.



As they drank, there was silence except for the click and clack of beads swaying as the bearers shifted position again. In this summer heat the four slaves wore little enough clothing that Sanglant could not help but imagine Waltharia admiring them. Strange to think that an old woman like Bayan’s mother might have something in common with Villam’s heir, even if it was only a lascivious eye for the male figure. Not many women, or men for that matter, possessed Waltharia’s easy authority, blunt common sense, and playfully sharp disposition. How many times had he inadvertently found himself comparing Waltharia to Liath over these past weeks? Liath had none of Waltharia’s winning qualities: she was secretive, serious, and not one bit accustomed to presiding in authority over anyone except perhaps herself. But she was still the most glorious woman he had ever met, and even to think of her made him heartsick with longing.



Yet did she think of him and the child at all, wherever she had gone?



He heard Blessing’s voice chattering away and the occasional murmured reply, but something about the heavy curtains around the palanquin or the haze of magic known to a Kerayit shaman kept him from understanding their words. By his daughter’s tone it was quite obvious that she was in fine fettle, babbling happily. What on Earth could she and the old shaman have to talk about?



Unable to wait patiently, he examined Mistress Otlinde’s wares, laid out over racks: tabby linens and diamond twills from the island kingdom of Alba, marten, beaver, and fox pelts from the Starviki chiefdoms, and a pair of small tapestries depicting the fall of the Dariyan Empire to the Bwr horde. Somewhere she had found two score of Quman, mostly women with tangled, greasy hair and stick-thin children scratching fleas and sores who sat huddled abjectly in the dirt, having long since given up any hope of escape or succor. But among them stood a dozen Quman men with deceptively bovine stares, as concealed, in their own way, as Bayan’s mother was concealed behind her curtains. He knew that look; he’d seen it in other prisoners, the most dangerous kind. Any one of these men would happily claw out his eyes if he only got close enough to let them do it.



Zacharias glided up beside him, trembling a little, and spoke in a low voice. “They’re out of the Shatai tribe. You can see the cloven hoof of the red deer cut into that man’s shoulder.”



“Are they allies of the Pechanek?”



“Nay, they never have been. There has been fighting in the Karkaihi pasturage the last few years. That’s almost to the Bitter Sea.”



He examined the prisoners. They eyed him, silent, betraying neither hate nor fear. He admired the grim aloofness with which they endured their fate. He’d never hated the Quman, not like Bayan. Years ago Bulkezu had ruined his voice and killed too many of his soldiers, but the Quman had never done him any greater harm than had most of his other enemies. They’d done no greater harm to him than he’d done to them in his turn.