The Windsingers

‘Nor would I demean your sensibilities by even offering such coins to you. What do you know of me? How can I gain the trust and thus the service I seek from you? These questions I have asked myself as we have stood here, in this unpleasantly noisy place, seeking to make a bargain like civilized folk in the midst of this most uncivilized din, in this whorl of disruptive movement and unharmonized noises. In this blatting of beasts, this heat, this caking of dust upon our countenances, in these body smells of those who pass disrespectfully close to us, how can I prove myself to you? How can I show you that I, though a Human and not endowed with those superior sensitivities that are the racial treasure of the T’cheria, am not totally without sensitivities myself?’

As Vandien slowly catalogued the discomforts that he knew annoyed the T’cherian to a far greater degree than he could imagine, he could almost see the creature shrinking back within its carapace. He shared the T’cherian preferences for coolness, dim lights, and muted sound. But in a town dominated by Human and Brurjan populations, this T’cherian must brave all discomfort to earn his algae for the day. That discomfort would turn this bargain for Vandien.

‘For no coin?’ the T’cherian mumbled. A T’cherian mumble consisted of aspirating the words, with almost no vocalization. But Vandien picked them out. It was the perfect opening.

A brown sash belted Vandien’s short tunic and supported his purse. Vandien’s hand went to it now, but he did not touch the purse itself. What he sought could not be bumped about with coins. He carefully spread the rolled cloth of the sash, until a small object wrapped in a soft grey cloth dropped into his waiting hand. The T’cherian had followed his every move. At first, his eye stalks had lengthened and begun to track Vandien’s hand, until he recalled himself to Human courtesy and retracted them. But Vandien was sure of his interest, and played his moment for maximum suspense.

Carefully he readjusted the sash that had cradled the fragile object. That done, he allowed himself a moment to straighten his tunic, and to wipe each hand in turn down his breeches. Only then did he begin to unfold the soft thin grey cloth. Slowly he unwound the wrapping, using both hands to remove the cloth as if fearful the object within would be lost. Vandien’s fingers gave the cloth a final twitch. The T’cherian gave a sudden rattle of its mandibles. Neither spoke.

Revealed on Vandien’s palm was an orange crystal, about the same length and diameter as his ring finger. With gentle fingers he held it to the light, as if the delicate thing would crumble at a touch. Held to the sun, the light touched the individual facets that made up the many crystals joined into one structure.

Vandien made a show of lifting the crystal to his nose and sniffing it delicately. To his nostrils, it gave off almost no odor. The T’cherian remained desperately silent. His agitation was betrayed by a bare tremble in the fingerlike pincers of his primary limbs. The clatter of the market went on, but Vandien let the T’cherian listen to the silence that had fallen between them. When he finally spoke, he whispered.

‘For no coin.’

‘What do you propose?’ the T’cherian hissed. ‘It is a very small crystal,’ he added hesitantly.

But Vandien was not to be fooled by the size of his ware. ‘Yes. It is. And of the deepest color. A crystal such as this would be an ornament to the richest of queens, small enough to be carried about with one, to be enjoyed whenever the turmoil of this workaday world threatened the inner peace so vital to any civilized creature. I have been in the home caves of wealthy T’cheria, who graced their walls with crystals, and hung them in ranks from their food grids, but seldom have I seen a crystal to match this one for color or bouquet. Long have I treasured its comforts upon the open road. To see its blinking light, to draw in its sweet odor of drowsy peace; these have solaced me in many trials. By this sign, I show you that I am a civilized creature, just as you are yourself. I am to be trusted, even when I come to rent your team away from you, and am forced by commercial convention to offer despised coin to you.’

Vandien’s brown eyes met the T’cherian’s stalked ones, radiating open sincerity. He casually began to wind the grey wrapping around the crystal again. The tremor of one T’cherian eye stalk betrayed him. He followed every shifting of the crystal. His mandibles rattled briefly before he recalled himself to Common.

‘Your sign impresses me, Human. Never before have I seen one of your kind with a sopor crystal, other than as a trade item. My name is [a hissing rattle here], called by your kind Web Shell, for my carapace markings.’

‘I am Vandien.’ Together they bowed gravely at this formal introduction that marked the true beginning of all T’cherian bargaining. What had gone before was but a prelude, an arranging of forces. ‘Then, Web Shell, you find out today that not all Humans are barbarians. Some of us treasure peace as dearly as yourselves.’

‘What is the job you would hire my team to do?’

‘A small bit of work in False Harbor.’

‘A rough town that is, with little to recommend it. No T’cheria reside there; and I have heard evil things of the Humans that make it their home. What surety will I have of the safety of my team? How can you guarantee that they will not be stolen, or poisoned, or maimed for sport?’

Vandien slowly waved the hand holding the crystal before his face, the Human equivalent of a T’cherian showing distress at the mere thought of something. ‘May the Moon forbid such evil deeds!’ Vandien’s hand went to his belt pouch. The T’cherian still tracked every motion of the hand that held the crystal. Vandien patted his purse so that the two small coins chinked together. ‘You present me with a dilemma. You seem to say that you would hire me your team, if you could be sure of their safety. Have I understood you, or has the limitations of this poor Common corrupted the thoughts you seek to convey?’

‘Let us take that as a premise,’ the T’cherian hedged. ‘If I were willing to hire out to you these precious skeel, more companions to me than work animals, what could you offer me as a bond for their well-being while in your care?’

Vandien again jingled the pouch. ‘What, indeed? Coin will pay you when I return, but that is not what is needed now. A crasser man than I might offer you coin now, not understanding that a show of money is not always a show of good faith. But I perceive that what is needed is not mere monetary security, but a personal commitment. A hostage, if you will.’ Vandien paused and turned his eyes up to the sky. He posed silently. Then, with seeming reluctance, he slipped the crystal back into his sash. The mandibles of the T’cherian rattled lightly at this, but Vandien appeared not to notice. With tightly folded lips and a resigned expression, he unscrewed a ring from his left hand. It came free slowly, revealing a band of whitened skin. With a great sigh, he held it out for the T’cherian’s inspection.

The eye stalks bent to it briefly. It was an exceptionally plain ring. The single black stone did not sparkle, though the facets of the square cut gleamed dully. The band was of plain-silver. Vandien hefted its heaviness.

‘There is this,’ he said slowly. ‘Long has it been since it left my hand. But if you would have a token of my good intentions, I offer you this. From my mother’s father’s grandmother, it was passed to me.’ He paused again and took a deep breath to clear the huskiness from his voice. ‘Little enough is left to me to remind me of the heights from which my line has fallen. But this I retain, a reminder to myself of all we once were, and all I hope to be again. Never would I forsake it! Never! If I were to leave your team to you in good health, or die trying!’

Vandien’s fist closed convulsively over the ring. For an instant every muscle and tendon in his arm and hand stood out against his skin. He blinked his eyes rapidly. Then, gravely, he extended his hand, palm up, to Web Shell. The hand that held the ring trembled.

‘Return your ring to your hand,’ the T’cherian said solemnly. ‘Although we put no metal ornaments upon our shells, we understand the high regard you Humans have for them. This one means too much for you to part with it as a token in a marketplace.’

But Vandien’s hand remained outstretched. ‘Yet your team I must hire. I am convinced only they could perform the task for me. Please! This discussion only prolongs my anixety and discomfort!’

The T’cherian rattled his mandibles loudly. Vandien clenched his jaws and turned his eyes away. He had deliberately used the phrase ‘anxiety and discomfort,’ knowing well it was the standard Common translation of a T’cherian phrase that signified the mental and emotional upset that preceded severe physical damage.

‘No!’ the T’cherian cried out. Vandien felt it actually touch his hand with its pincers. ‘Take away this family token of yours, Human. Your willingness to offer it is enough! I will not require it of you! You may rent my team from me. Your display of integrity has touched me. I shall not ask advance coin of you.’

Vandien stared at the T’cherian, and quickly replaced his ring on his finger. He struck a new pose. Crossing his arms over his chest approximated a humbled T’cherian. ‘You overwhelm me, sir! I cannot accept this generosity. I see that those who do business with you must protect you from your own courtesy. I have little to offer you, but some token of mine you must keep. I demand that you ask something of me! Anything!’

‘Anything?’ the T’cherian repeated, as if in wonder.

Vandien leaped gladly into the trap. ‘Anything! I promise to entrust you with it.’

‘I hesitate to ask it.’

‘I demand that you ask it!’

‘Your crystal, Human. Entrust it to me as I entrust my team to you.’

A look of dismay crept over Vandien’s face. He clutched at the crystal hidden in his sash. His shoulders slumped as he let his hands fall to the sides of his body. ‘I told you to ask,’ he said, speaking so softly that the T’cherian swayed closer to hear. Vandien gave a soft laugh, and shook his head over his own simplicity. ‘Well is it said, “The courtesy of a T’cherian is matched only by his shrewdness.” I demanded that you ask, and you have. Never did I consider that this would be your request. My peace, my sanctuary from the insanity of this world. And yet…’ Vandien reached into his sash and slowly withdrew the grey-wrapped crystal. ‘I am a being of my word.’

He extended the wrapped crystal to the T’cherian, whose pincers instantly closed on it. Web Shell unwrapped it swiftly while Vandien marvelled at his dexterity. Quivering mandibles closed on the crystal. Slender cilia appeared and caressed the crystal, ascertaining its quality. The T’cherian’s eye stalks began to sag gently. Vandien smiled. It was an excellent crystal. An itinerant trader he met near Kelso had offered it in exchange for three measures of salt. Kelso had no T’cherian population. As trade goods, the crystals had value only to a T’cherian. None of the other sentient populations had any use for them. But no T’cherian believed that.

Quickly Vandien began to ask pertinent questions about what commands this team responded to. He made arrangements for the time and place of their return. The T’cherian gave dreamy replies. By the time Vandien picked up a slender prod and moved the team off, the T’cherian was swaying softly to the silent music of his own harmonious visions. His cilia vibrated around the crystal in his mandibles.

One of his small coins brought Vandien a large dark loaf at the pastry stall. He would have preferred the greenish T’cherian bread, but knew that he would travel farther on the grain one. The large flat feet of his team stirred up great poufs of dust as they moved down the street. After a few efforts at stirring them to greater speed, Vandien became resigned to a leisurely stroll. He slackened his pace and turned his thoughts to False Harbor. Even at this speed it was no more than four days away. He would be there in plenty of time to try.

And if he succeeded? Fear and hope swirled in him. He rubbed irritably at the scar on his face. It was stiff and numb under his fingers. Was it only vanity to wish it was gone? Was he a fool to believe Srolan? Yes, and yes, his fear nagged him. And that was why he had not told Ki what he’d been offered. Because his own eagerness shamed him. He hated to imagine how Ki would perceive it; Ki, for whose sake he had taken the scar. He brooded on it, trudging along behind the dawdling skeel.

And yet…his quick nature flipped his hopes uppermost…and yet imagine greeting Ki with a clear face, seeing her amazement and pleasure. One thing he was certain of had he mentioned it to her, she would have come with him to False Harbor. She would have abandoned her own tasks to help him haul up the Windsingers’ chest. And that, he decided, coming full circle in his own personal logic, was exactly why he hadn’t told her. It would be wrong to bend her will to his by such a guile. He would not suffer her guilt or pity. Whatever flowed between them must flow freely, or not at all. But if she came, of her own will, he would welcome her. Alone, success might be as fearsome a thing to meet as failure. He would appreciate his friend’s being there.

FOUR (#ulink_9c138443-2337-5595-be3a-9ef4d3fffa5b)

The mellow sunlight of autumn slanted yellow across the wagon trail. ‘Trail!’ Ki snorted to herself at granting it such a title. Twin dents in the sod of the forest ran off ahead of her. Small bushes grew in between the tracks, to brush the bottom of her freight wagon as she passed over them. White birches dripping golden leaves, interspersed with cotton wood and tangles of willow, edged the side of the track. The occasional Harp tree stood foreign and speechless in the still warmth of the afternoon. She breathed the mossy forest scents and leaned back lazily on the cuddy door. She was rich, for today, in both time and wealth.

She felt only a small pang of conscience at dawdling. It was not for the sake of her customer. She could camp tonight and easily deliver her freight on time tomorrow. But there was Vandien to consider. He had not pressed her, but she knew he would welcome her in False Harbor. She would have gone, and speedily, if only it were not such a fool’s errand. She bit her lip, watching the steady undulation of muscles in the grey backs before her. She added up the days; six days since Vandien had left for False Harbor. He would be there by now, unless his luck had deserted him. As for herself, Ki could halt early tonight, and make a leisurely day of tomorrow, to bring in her freight on the fourth day’s afternoon.

Or, she reminded herself, she could stir up her team and push them on into Bitters before the middle of the night had passed. Bitters was spread out, a farming place, not a fortified town. There would be no city gates or guards to stop her. Yes, she could do that, and then push on to False Harbor – say a day and a half – and be there in plenty of time, but…damn the man! Here she was, chewing over his little predicament as if she were obliged to wrest him out of it. His own tongue had gotten him into it. He had taken care of himself for many years upon the road before taking up with her. Let him get himself out of this one. Perhaps he would not so lightly volunteer her team the next time. A little sweat would do him good. A wry grin replaced the worried look on Ki’s face. Let him stew it out. She’d meet him there, on the eleventh day perhaps, when he’d be properly thankful to see her. Let the little cockerel get his feathers wet first.

Ki’s nose twitched. She rose to stand on the wagon’s plank seat. Her slim body swayed to the steady rhythm of the wagon as she stretched the kinks from her limbs. Her green eyes narrowed as she tried to pierce the forest growth ahead of her. The trail was too winding. She could not yet see the river, but she sensed it, in the damp tang that came to her nostrils and by the pricked ears of her team. Long habit made her glance at the sun; she shrugged nonchalantly. She’d camp by the river tonight. Bitters could wait. She’d make camp while the sun was in the sky and take the time to wash and sluice the dust from her hair. It would be good to feel clean again. She settled on the seat.

As she approached the river, the trees thinned and receded to a wide grassy area, fringed with brush and vines. Dead branches and debris marked the edge of the river’s spring flood margin. The turning of the season had painted the river grasses in warm yellows and browns. Ki turned her team into them, pulling off the seldom used trail and paralleling the river. The tall wheels of her wagon crunched the dry standing grasses. The horses tossed their great heads, unhappy at encountering the extra resistance. But she urged them on until she found what she sought; a secluded clearing fronting on the river. Here was grass for the team, and a shallow area of quiet water where she could bathe.

The afternoon sun was still slanting warmly down when she finished unhitching the team. The big greys moved about freely in the tall grass. Staid Sigmund munched steadily at this coarse fare, but Sigurd dropped and rolled luxuriously in the scratchy stuff. Ki smiled. They would not stray. They knew no home but the wagon they pulled.

Her camp was made swiftly. She made a routine check of her freight, tugging at ropes to be sure they had not frayed or loosened from the day’s jolting. All was secure. The rest of the afternoon and the long evening were hers.

She climbed back to the wagon seat and slid open the cuddy’s wooden door, blinking her eyes to adjust them to the dim interior. A little sunlight trickled in through the shuttered window. Ki turned the four catches that secured it in place, and lifted the shutter down. The afternoon breeze came in the window hole; with winter coming, she would have to buy a piece of greased skin, to cover that hole and still admit light. Glass was too expensive, and could not withstand the heave and give of the wagon. But for now she refused to worry about it.

She caught up a clean tunic from a hook, and a leather belt to buckle it about her waist. She hesitated, then dug in the drawer for the vial of oil of Vanilly. It had been an extravagance, she knew, and it would be a vanity extreme to use it out here, with no one to smell it but herself. But small vanities were due to oneself, now and then.

On the riverbank she kicked off her boots, stripped her blouse off over her head and let the skirts fall in a puddle about her feet. She stepped out of them, and set the clean tunic and the vial of perfume on top of them. She freed her hair from the two thick braids that kept it free of snarls while she traveled, shaking it loose in a thick brown mass that fell just past her shoulders. It smelled like dust and sweat.

The cool air from the river pinched her skin up in goose flesh. Ki steeled herself, shivering, and then pranced out over the rounded gravel into the river and threw herself flat in it. She came up puffing and blowing from the shock of the cold water. Breathing in gasps, she gathered a handful of black sand from the river bottom and scoured herself with it. Soon her body gleamed pink with scrubbing and chill.