Daughter of Independence Page 6
She noticed Poloma staring at her strangely, and frowned.
‘You answered Kysor Nevri in Kydan,’ Poloma said beneath his breath.
‘Answer my question, Strategos Galys Valera,’ Kysor insisted, and then with a dollop of sarcasm, ‘you are, after all, an advisor to the council.’
Galys, although surprised and absurdly pleased she had unconsciously spoken in Kydan, continued in her own tongue to avoid making any mistakes in nuance or tense, trusting to Poloma to continue translating for her. ‘I will tell you how I can say that there is a way for us to defend ourselves against the Sefid, Councillor. Better yet, I will show you.’
She returned to the bench to retrieve the papers she had left there and held them up for all to see. ‘The secret is here! Until I read these papers it was a secret that was known only to Grammarian Kitayra Albyn, but now it is ours to do with what we can!’
‘What secret?’ Kysor Nevri demanded.
His question was echoed by a dozen other councillors and many from the gallery.
‘The secret of technology!’ she told them, still holding up the papers.
*
‘Captain?’
Ames Westaway was mentally siting the winter stables. Three of them, he thought, leeward of the wind break he would make from the fastest growing species of local tree he could find. The land was so flat north of Kydan that only trees would provide the cover he wanted. But how much land would he need? He had never been a musterer or station hand, let alone a horse breeder, but he had picked up a lot in his five years in the dragoons, and many of the men under his command had come from horse farms. Based on the hay and oats and other consumables the dragoons’ mounts needed, he estimated he would need . . . how did farmers measure land?
‘Captain?’
Back in the empire, farmers put square yards into rows, and rows into squarerows, and ten squarerows together made what was called a ‘living’. But that was for crops and orchards. For stock you had to double or triple the area if the land was fertile. In this part of the New Land the weather was dry in winter, but there was the Frey River nearby and very good rains early in the summer . . . so say four times the area . . . so he would need four livings. But how many horses could he raise on four livings? They would not all need the same amount of feed, of course –
‘Captain, the ferry’s here.’
Ames blinked, realising someone was addressing him. He had only been a captain for a tenday, and was still not used to the title. As far as he could figure out, the only reason he had been made a captain was because those in charge wanted someone higher than an ensign to take command of the dragoons and militia when Commander Gos Linsedd was away. It was not as if it brought him a higher salary. In fact, he had had to pay to have the extra stripes and pips put on his dragoon jacket by some shoddy tailor in Kydan, and then the council had gone and changed the uniform anyway.
He focused on the leathery face of his corporal. ‘What is it, Waverman?’
The trooper pointed south to the river, and Ames turned to see the ferry from Karhay waiting to transport his section back to the island. So soon? How long had he been daydreaming?
‘It’s just arrived, sir,’ Waverman said, as if reading Ames’s mind.
‘Right. Get the section boarded.’
Ames watched as the ten men and their horses carefully embarked on the ferry. He had brought them to the wide, flat land north of the river for a gallop and some practice at parade walking, and as always when he rode on the plain it revived his dream of one day owning a horse farm there. When he had boarded himself, and the ferry had started its return journey, he gazed northwards once more, going over where he would put stables and fences and sheds. More and more his dream took up his spare time, and he often found himself lost in the future he wanted instead of the present he was stuck with. When Ames had first joined the dragoons, he did not think he would ever want anything other than a military life. And yet now, with some guilt because as an officer he had responsibilities that went beyond his personal desires, he did not think he would ever be truly happy until he had his farm, and he could not imagine anything that might distract him from that . . .
‘You getting off ferry, or just enjoying river of this morning?’
For the second time that morning, Ames roused himself from his daydreaming. He had heard two voices, that of a young woman, and the ferryman’s rough translation into Hamilayan. The first speaker had a smooth, golden-skinned, intelligent face. She could have been no more than sixteen or seventeen, but she was as tall as Ames, long-limbed and with the deepest brown eyes he had ever seen.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said in something of a daze. ‘Did you say something?’
The woman pointed to his section waiting for him to disembark and blocking the shore road with their mounts and swords and carbines and boots. She had a pole across her shoulders with a basket hanging from each end; each basket was filled with small purple, turbanned shellfish.
‘Nice to have time to you self,’ she said pointedly, the ferryman translating, a smile on his face. ‘Unlike others who working to do, and would like to get on. Could you move your heroes out of the way?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Ames said.
He could not help staring at her face. At first, taken by her eyes, he thought she was very beautiful, but in fact she was not beautiful. Her head was a little too large for her body, and her nose too wide, and she had an obstinate jaw. If not beautiful, Ames thought, she certainly was not plain.
‘Sometime in near future would be good,’ she said.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, and signalled for Waverman to lead the section on. ‘I will catch up,’ he told the corporal, ignoring his leer. He turned to the woman. ‘Can I help with those . . .’ He waved at the baskets filled with shellfish, ‘. . . things?’
‘Cayadar,’ she said, and considered him.
‘Shells from the mangroves,’ the ferryman said, smacking his lips. Then of his own accord added, ‘Boiling water, butter, good.’ Eventually it was he who forced things along by clearing his throat and making busy with his ropes and tethers.
Ames left the ferry, clumsily trying to control his mount and at the same time keep his gaze on the woman. That made her smile, and he had the pleasure of seeing her face become beautiful again. He motioned for her to put her load across his horse, just in front of the saddle. She seemed wary of the animal, and when it snorted she quickly retreated a yard.
Ames shushed the horse, stroking its nose, then waved her forward. Without asking, he took one end of the pole and lifted, forcing her to shift her weight and lift the other end. Together they balanced it across the shoulders of his mount.
‘Which way?’ he asked.
She seemed to understand, because she nodded along the shore road, then traced a pattern on her palm showing she wanted to go to the opposite side of the island to catch the ferry between Karhay and Herris.
‘That’s a nice long walk,’ he said to himself in Hamilayan, smiling.
The woman seemed to understand anyway, and blushed.
*
Quenion Axkevleren was walking up and down the Long Bridge connecting the western half of the island of Herris with the Citadel. Below lay the Saddle, patchworked with fields and crisscrossed with irrigation channels. As she walked she kept glancing up at the Citadel and beneath it the entrance to the Great Quadrangle, the space that introduced the Assembly. It took her a while to figure out where she had stood when she had led the attack against Strategos Galys Valera’s militia, but the proportions and angles of all the buildings in front of her finally appeared right. She looked down. The stones were discoloured with a faint stain, barely recognisable as blood. It was the shape of the stain that gave it away, the viscous, spreading pattern, and the memory of the oily, coppery smell, and the memory of the warmth of his blood flowing down her fist and forearm. Here. She could feel her feet skidding out from underneath her, sliding on Numoya Kevleren’s blood, the terrible hot ice of it.
Passers-by stared at her, and Quenion realised she had been rubbing her right hand on her thigh so hard it was red raw. She held it up and looked at it. Flakes of pale white skin rimmed the palm. She turned away and supported herself against the bridge’s stone railing, feeling so nauseous she thought if she retched she would turn inside out.
I cannot stay in this city, she told herself. I will die here.
In that moment she had a clear vision of not slaying Numoya Kevleren, but of being slain by him instead, of feeling the stylus from under the nail of his little finger piercing her jugular, of her own blood, slick, like draping velvet, falling down her neck and over her breasts, and Numoya Wielding the Sefid as she died, creating a terrible fire that would burn away all his enemies.
But she, Quenion, had defeated him, had sacrificed his life to preserve her own. She had failed as his Beloved, and yet had spent almost her entire life wanting to die for him, to show him how much she loved him. In the end, because his love for her had been as hollow as a dead tree, she found her love for him – her passion for him – had wilted and died as well.
A gentle easterly moved her hair. She stood straighter, relieved to see she no longer drew the attention of any Kydans.
She did not belong here. She wanted to go home. She wanted to go to Sayenna.
*
Galys thought the councillors appeared bemused, but that did not dint her confidence.
‘There’s no secret to technology,’ Kysor Nevri scoffed. ‘We know what technology is.’
Some in the gallery laughed.
‘Did you know it is the one thing that terrifies the Kevlerens?’ she asked him, Poloma translating quickly.
Kysor snorted through his nose, but his expression showed he was on uncertain ground. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘In the Hamilayan empire, the Kevlerens ensure any new technology is either stillborn or under their direct control. Think about it, fellow Kydans. Using the Sefid, which they can only do by destroying something they care about, the Kevlerens can send messages to each other over long distances. The steam carriage does the same thing, slower for sure, but without sacrificing a bloody thing. And the steam carriage can also transport hundreds of people and wagons of ore and grain and goods just as far, again without any sacrifice, something the Kevlerens cannot do no matter how strongly they Wield; this is why they had steam-carriage lines constructed between Omeralt and the empire’s major ports.’
There were murmurs of agreement from the gallery. One or two of the councillors nodded as Galys spoke.
‘The Kevlerens do more than send messages to one another,’ Kysor said sternly. ‘They can slaughter hundreds at a distance! We all saw for ourselves in the Great Quadrangle not more than five years ago what a Kevleren can do! We will never forget that!’
‘Oh, yes,’ Galys agreed. ‘Using the Sefid, the Kevlerens can slaughter hundreds at a distance, as long as they kill a Beloved, the person they love most in the world. But so can longgons, and no one need sacrifice anyone to fire a longgon!’
The sounds of agreement from the gallery were louder than murmurs now.
‘She speaks the truth,’ one of the councillors said, and Galys understood him even before Poloma translated.
‘I speak the truth,’ she said. ‘And with technology comes industry, and with industry comes wealth, and with wealth comes strength, and with strength comes security. The Kevlerens know instinctively that any state that controls technology not possessed by the Kevlerens poses a threat to them. That is what these papers written by Grammarian Kitayra Albyn show us.’
‘Why should we provoke the Kevlerens?’ asked a new voice.
She saw Rodan Semjal half out of his chair, wearing a startled expression that bordered on the fearful. Even Kysor Nevri seemed surprised; after all, Rodan was one of Poloma’s political supporters and had always been reluctant to demonstrate any independence.
Galys stared grimly at the council. ‘I know that family, and by now so should you. The last time you were warned about them was before the summer, by Warden Kadburn Axkevleren. He knew the Kevlerens better than any of us, and told you Numoya Kevleren would attack. You doubted him then, but that did not stop Numoya Kevleren from attacking.’ Galys drew a great breath. ‘Like it or not, the Kevlerens have their eyes on the New Land. Kydan is independent from either Rivald or Hamilay, and that is something the family cannot – will not – tolerate. The Kevlerens are coming, sooner or later, but they are coming.’
‘If Numoya Kevleren’s Beloved spoke truly about the overthrow of that family in Rivald, then the kingdom is finished as a power in this world,’ Kysor said, sounding smug. ‘If Hamilay has no kingdom to compete against, why should the empire turn its attention to little Kydan, so far away across the Deepening Sea?’
Galys said, ‘Quenion Axkevleren would tell you the same thing were she standing here now. It is not Hamilay we need to be afraid of, it is the Kevlerens.’
A grim silence fell over the Assembly. Kysor sat down heavily. Rodan Semjal chewed on a nail, looking worried. Poloma, calm and expressionless, stood up.
‘Thank you, Strategos, for your advice. What are your recommendations?’
‘Rather than simply tell you,’ Galys said, ‘let me show you.’
*
Three things changed Arden’s life forever, none of them directly connected except that one followed on from the other. First, he had gone to Herris to get extra sand to make more cement for the wall around the new settlement. Second, after helping load boats with the sand, and then roping them together before waiting for the ferry to come across from Karhay to tow the boats back, he saw on the opposite side of the Sayeff Channel the young captain of dragoons talking to a native Kydan woman; well, trying to talk – there were as many hand signals as words as far as Arden could make out. The officer was obviously interested in the woman, and it was plain to see that she was interested in him. When she got on the ferry, the captain watched her for a long while before leading his horse away. All this Arden saw as the ferry came to Herris, and he could not help noticing how attractive the woman was when she got off the ferry. Not beautiful, perhaps, but definitely . . .
He did not know what the word was. As an Axkevleren from childhood he had been denied any normal sexual feelings and so did not know what they were like, and did not know how to express the obvious appeal this woman had for the men she passed. They looked at her sideways so as not to seem to be looking at her. Thinking about those feelings . . . urges most people took for granted, he found himself thinking of Heriot Fleetwood. While understanding what he felt for her was in no way sexual, he also understood that what he felt for her was love, and not the possessive, needy love he had felt as an Axkevleren for his mistress, or she for him, but a deep, necessary and entirely appropriate love. Arden wanted to give himself to Heriot, devote himself to her, not as a slave to a Kevleren but as an equal, as a friend and protector.
But he did not have the words.
The third thing that happened was that even as he was thinking of Heriot, he saw her coming down the ramp with many others he recognised, such as Galys and Poloma and Kadburn. Indeed, the whole council and many others were descending to the Saddle. But despite the crowd she was in, she seemed singled out to him, and he found himself half smiling.
‘Grim Arden, you coming back with us?’
He remembered where he was. His fellow workers had already tied the boats to the ferry and were waiting for him to board.
‘You go on,’ he said, and turned his attention back to Heriot. He would wait until she had finished whatever business she was involved in, then talk to her again. It did not matter if she did not find a lover. He should have told her before, but he would look after her all her days if she wanted.
*
Poloma had known what Galys was going to do, he had discussed it with her that morning during their boat trip down the Poloma Channel, so he did not think there would be any surprises in what followed. He
certainly had not expected to see the Hannemah, one of the three converted grain ships that had transported him as well as several hundred other colonists across the Deepening Sea, appear in the channel and manoeuvre between Herris and Kayned. He translated for Galys as she explained to the council that Kayned was the perfect location for a foundry and facilities for a major port. The vision was so grand most of the councillors could think of nothing to say, although Kysor Nevri was quick to ask why Kayned had to develop when everything could be built on Herris and thereby save costs. Poloma could not help grinning; whether he knew it or not, merely by discussing the siting of the development Kysor was inadvertently giving it his approval.
‘Because the only suitable location at sea level is here on the Saddle,’ Galys explained, ‘and building it here would mean losing a large portion of the city’s most valuable farming land.’
There were not many questions after that. Most of the council and those who had followed from the Assembly were filled with visions of the future Galys had painted for them, or absorbed in watching the Hannemah, despite its girth, easily navigating its way up and down the channel. Poloma was sure Galys had already convinced them to accept her proposal, but then she made sure she had everyone’s support by announcing that in her view, and of course subject to the approval of the council, the best person to be superintendent of the new port when it was finished was someone with commercial experience, political acumen and the good of Kydan close to his heart. Kysor Nevri, in other words.
Kysor himself was too stunned to say anything, but his supporters on the council cheered loudly, and when Poloma joined in, so did those belonging to the prefect’s faction.
Poloma, no longer needed as a translator, allowed himself some peace and quiet at the back of the crowd. Galys soon joined him, and together they observed everyone else talking excitedly among themselves as if the idea for a foundry and port had been their idea.
‘You have your future, Galys Valera,’ Poloma said to her.