The Crow Read online

  All this was in Saliman's mind as he contemplated his charge over the evening meal, a couple of weeks after Hem's escapade in Alimbar's garden. Hem was proving a more testing responsibility than he had expected, although he did not regret his decision to bring him to Turbansk. Beneath his exasperation, Saliman had grown to love this difficult, troubled boy, and he had a Truthteller's intuitive understanding of the contradictory emotions that were tearing Hem apart. What he didn't know, Saliman thought, was what to do about them.

  Hem was on his best behavior, and so was acting as if he were made of wood; in his nervousness he had already knocked over a full goblet of wine.

  I am a healer, Saliman thought to himself, and counted great in that art in this city; but these wounds are beyond me. Perhaps only Maerad could heal them... He thought of Hem's pale-skinned sister, in her own way almost as damaged and lonely as Hem was, and sighed.

  Saliman had arranged to eat alone with Hem that night, and Hem, conscious of his sins, was unusually tense and silent in the Bard's company. Only that morning he had endured yet another difficult interview with Urbika, who had patiently asked him why he felt obliged to use his single talent – that for unarmed combat – against his fellow students.

  Hem had stood before her, silent and scowling. He could not tell her that it was because Chyafa – the minor Bard whom he had, shortly before, left with a black eye – had called him a dirty white hlaf. Chyafa was Hem's principal enemy in Turbansk: a strongly built, handsome boy with an air of superiority who dropped his taunts with a carelessness that only intensified their sting. To report the insult was to compound Hem's humiliation: Hem understood enough Suderain to know what hlaf meant. It was the word for carrion crow, which as an insult meant an ignorant barbarian, and it particularly hurt because it referred to Ire as well. A number of other children had laughed at Chyafa's witticism and Hem knew then, with a sense of furious helplessness, that it had become their nickname for him.

  So he had said nothing, dumbly awaiting his punishment, and Urbika had pressed her lips tight with suppressed frustration. She was having a trying morning. Hem had been assigned the dawn duties for a week as a punishment, which meant waking before the first bell, shivering out of his bed in the dark hours before daylight to sweep out the Singing Hall and lay out bowls and spoons for the other Bards, and then working in the kitchen, stirring great cauldrons of dohl, the dried beans that were boiled with fermented milk and sweetened with honey for breakfast.

  It was a mild punishment: privately Hem didn't mind these duties, since he liked Soron, who oversaw the kitchens. He was a fair-haired, heavily built Bard from Til Amon, and he had a trick of wordless, unpatronizing kindness. He kept Hem supplied with meat for Ire, without Hem having to ask more than once, and gave him any sweetmeats left over from the previous evening, and never asked him questions about himself; which paradoxically meant that Hem was more chatty with Soron than with anyone except Saliman.

  Hem knew that Saliman was very busy; he had only that morning returned from one of his mysterious trips. This probably meant that tonight's meal had been arranged because he wanted to say something in particular. Hem feared, again, that he was to be sent away, that this latest outrage had torn even Saliman's patience with him. He was so nervous that his appetite had disappeared, and he merely picked at the fresh fruits piled on the table, although among them were some of his favorites: mangoes (sent as a courtesy, Saliman told him ironically, from Alimbar's private garden), star fruit, pomegranates, figs, green melons, and grapes.

  Ire, who had been granted special dispensation to come, was perched on the back of Hem's chair. The bird had no such inhibitions, and gulped down the pieces of meat and fruit Hem fed him, wiping his beak on the boy's hair. He then gave a contented babylike cheep and moved to Hem's shoulder, where he crouched close against his neck. Absently Hem reached up and scratched Ire's neck and the bird made little crooning noises, stretching out his head in bliss.

  "Ire certainly looks well," said Saliman. "You have been taking good care of him, for certain."

  "He likes me." Hem gave a small smile. "But only because I feed him."

  "There is more to care than food," answered Saliman. "Though I agree that is an important part of it."

  "I've trained him not to do his droppings inside. Though it's taken a bit of persuasion," said Hem proudly. "Eh, little one?" Ire gave a sleepy chirp.

  "Well, I am very glad of that."

  The conversation faltered again, and Saliman sat back, straightened his shoulders, and let out a long breath. "Well, Hem," he said. "There are a few things we must speak about."

  Hem looked up, unable to conceal his agitation. He had been waiting for Saliman to say something like this.

  "What are we going to do?" asked Saliman.

  Hem cleared his throat. "Do? About what?"

  "About you, of course."

  There was a short silence while Hem mentally surveyed his catalog of misdemeanors. "I don't know," he said forlornly.

  "In normal circumstances, I would know what to do," said Saliman. "It would simply be a matter of time; you are not used to life as a Bard, and it is a difficult life to adjust to, even for those who come here without your troubles. But time, I fear, is what we do not possess."

  Hem slouched down in his chair, staring at the table. Did this mean that he was going to be thrown out?

  "You know, Hem, that Turbansk is preparing for war."

  Everyone knew that. Hem sat up straight again. "Yes," he said.

  "I'm not entirely sure that you know what that means," said Saliman. "Which is why I wanted to talk to you tonight, although I should really be elsewhere. We have had terrible news today: the Iron Tower has marched on Baladh."

  Hem nodded. Baladh, he knew, was one hundred and fifty leagues east of Turbansk. Like everyone else in the School, he had heard the news, which had arrived by bird courier that morning and spread through Turbansk like wildfire. The students had been whispering about it in the corridors, shocked and subdued, and a girl whose family came from Baladh had started crying in one of the classes and had been taken away by Urbika.

  "We know very little yet about what is happening there," said Saliman. "I am grieved; many friends live there, and I don't know how they are faring, or even if they are still alive. Baladh is a School almost as old as Turbansk, and as venerable in the Knowing and the Lore. If it falls, and I fear that it cannot stand, it will be a loss beyond calculation."

  For a few moments the strain showed on Saliman's face and, for the first time that evening, Hem was jolted out of his self-absorption. He stared at the Bard with surprise; Saliman's eyes were bright with unshed tears. Hem couldn't find the words to say what stirred in his heart, and he merely stammered, before falling silent.

  "Well," said Saliman at length, "we will find out soon enough. And if Baladh does fall, nothing but a few small towns and hamlets will stand between Turbansk and the massed armies of the Nameless One, which even now issue from the poisoned land of Den Raven. It will not be long before we too shall be facing the same fate."

  For a few moments Hem felt himself fill with a black dread: this was the stuff of his nightmares, but unimaginably multiplied.

  "In two weeks or so, perhaps less, perhaps more, Turbansk will be assailed by the Black Army," Saliman continued. "I know we cannot expect any help from the north. We will be lucky if we do not have an army marching on us from there as well, although I think Enkir still plays his double game. Most Bards in Annar do not know of his dealing with the Dark, and will believe what he says and mistakenly follow him; and I doubt not that he moves against all the Seven Kingdoms, from Lirigon in the north to the Suderain in the south. But all the kingdoms will resist, if that is what Enkir plans; and I think if he does move, it will be first against the western kingdoms, against Culain and Ileadh and Lanorial. So, no threat from the north; but no help, either." Saliman's voice was quiet, as if he were speaking to himself, but Hem listened attentively.

  "But
will Turbansk really fall?" he asked, thinking of the power and pride of Turbansk, its thick walls and high towers, and its thousands of people. "It is stronger and bigger than Baladh, isn't it? Surely... ?"

  "Hem, I do not know if we shall prevail." Saliman smiled at him sadly. "It may be that I was born to see the last days of this city I love so well. Yes, we are mighty, and we are strong; but the force the Nameless One brings against us is the greatest seen since the Great Silence, when all Annar was conquered and the high cities of the Dhyllin cast to the ground. I fear that against the Darkness that rises now there shall be no prevailing."

  There was no arguing against the bleakness of Saliman's voice, and Hem, whose mouth was open to ask another question, said nothing. Saliman was silent for a time, lost in his thoughts, and then filled his goblet again with wine.

  "How do you know about the army?" Hem asked at last, to break the silence.

  Saliman looked up, startled. "I'm sorry, Hem, I was thinking. Where do you imagine I have been these past weeks? I and others with me have been finding out what we can about this army. The army that marches on Baladh is more than even Turbansk can resist."

  Hem looked at Saliman with renewed respect, and felt guilty for his resentment of Saliman's absences. He had had no idea that Saliman was doing anything as dangerous as spying out the forces of the Nameless One.

  "But, for all the hopelessness of our situation," Saliman continued, "we shall not despair. I do not think we will hold Turbansk, but that does not mean that we will give it up without a fight."

  Although Saliman spoke quietly, a passion throbbed in his voice that sent a strange shiver down Hem's spine, and he almost jumped up and shouted. But Saliman, who was not given to emotional utterances, visibly mastered himself, and smiled at Hem.

  "Which brings me to you, Hem. I ask again, what shall we do? In a few days, all those who cannot fight, the old, the infirm, the children – and they include the younger students of Turbansk School – will be leaving for Car Amdridh, where there is more hope of holding out against the Black Army than there is here. Shall you go with them?"

  "No!" It burst out of Hem before he could stop himself. "Not if you're not going! Don't send me away from you!"

  Saliman stared gravely at Hem, and the boy looked down at the table, feeling foolish. It was as clear a declaration of love as any he had made in his life. But Saliman did not smile; his dark face was sad and thoughtful, and the gaze he cast on Hem was full of a strange tenderness.

  "I have thought, for a number of reasons, that perhaps it would be better if you stayed with me," he said. "But it seemed also to me like a mad thought. Life will be very dangerous here, and to stay is to risk your life. I will demand a lot of you, if you remain with me."

  "I'll do anything you say," said Hem, his voice cracking with urgency. He most profoundly did not want to be sent away with the students: he did not want to be banished from Saliman's presence.

  "I will need you to be older than you are," said Saliman. "I will need you to be larger than you think you are, to think beyond your own petty concerns. I know you are capable of it."

  Hem thought again of his behavior over the past weeks, and regretted it sincerely for the first time.

  "I promise," he said. "I really do."

  Saliman studied Hem coolly, as if weighing his value, and the boy blushed and bowed his head under the scrutiny. "I don't want you to make a rash choice, Hem," the Bard said at last. "I would not contemplate your staying if I thought it was certain you would be killed, but the risk, all the same, is very great, and it will be harder than you now think. I do not walk safe paths."

  Hem looked up, and now the passion blazing within him was naked in his eyes. "I'll follow you anywhere," he said.

  There was a pause, and then Saliman smiled, but it was not a joyous smile.

  "Hem, my heart tells me that, like Maerad, you have some task in this struggle," he said. "I do not know what it is, but I believe it lies here, and not in Amdridh. And I think it is right that you stay here, as you wish. But it is not a decision I take without much misgiving."

  There was a long silence while Hem struggled with a strange exhilaration. He knew he ought to feel afraid, that he did feel afraid, but Saliman's promise to keep him in Turbansk filled him with a buoyant light. Saliman, he thought, with a surprise that was almost painful, trusted him.

  Ire, now wide awake, was bored by all the talk, and flapped onto the table to steal some food.

  "That means Ire too, doesn't it?" said Hem, his eyes shining. "I'm sure Ire can help. He could carry messages... and..."

  Saliman grinned suddenly, and all the strain seemed to vanish from his face. "As long as he keeps his house manners," he said dryly. "He does not eat as much as you, for all his greed, so perhaps we can afford him."

  Ire gulped down his pilfered food and, knowing they were speaking of him, cocked his head.

  You be good, said Hem sternly in the Speech. Yes?

  I good, said Ire, turning toward Hem and knocking over Saliman's goblet, for the second time that night, with his tail.

  Saliman rolled his eyes upward, and started mopping the table with a cloth. Hem scrambled up to help him, radiant with an awkward joy he was unable to conceal. For the first time since his arrival in Turbansk, he didn't feel unwanted and in the way.

  It was going to be all right, he thought. It really was going to be all right.

  III

  THE SHADOW OF WAR

  Survivors from the siege of Baladh and the conquest of the Nazar Plains began to straggle into Turbansk over the next two weeks. First came a fleet of craft fleeing across the Lamarsan Sea, a motley collection ranging from tiny coracles of hide to the long sailing dromonds, bearing as many as could be crammed inside them. A day or so later the remains of the mounted forces sent by Turbansk to reinforce the Baladh defense rode through the City Gate; they had been routed, and little more than half of their original strength returned home.

  Next came those who had been able to escape overland in the chaos of the battle. The first wave came on horseback, wild-eyed and gaunt, carrying many wounded with them; then families perched on wains drawn by exhausted horses and oxen, with thin, wide-eyed children who did not speak, and yet more hurt and dying; and lastly those on foot, filthy with the dust of the road, carrying children and others who could not walk because of hurt or age in makeshift sedans, or even on their backs.

  By the time the first survivors arrived, the evacuation of Turbansk was all but complete. Those students at the School younger than seventeen were among the first to leave for Amdridh, many with loud protests; among the loudest were Chyafa's, who resented it mightily when he heard that Hem alone, among all the children his age, was to stay behind for the defense of the city. Hem enjoyed a sweet feeling of revenge when he saw Chyafa's gaze turned upon him with rancorous envy, but he found he did not feel the need, this time, to rise to his sneers. Hem merely smiled at his enemy and said nothing, and saw with satisfaction that it made him even more annoyed.

  For days there was a stream of wagons and carriages and horses on the western road, carrying supplies and precious goods – the rarest of the irreplaceable scripts from the Library, treasures from the Turbansk palaces, the chief riches of every household – and all those who were not needed to defend the city. There were many grievous farewells; families were divided, fearing they would never meet again – parents from children, husbands from wives, brothers from sisters; lovers and old friends were parted. Hem witnessed many such despairing partings in the streets of Turbansk, and counted himself the luckier for staying.

  And so Turbansk changed: there were few children playing in the streets, and then none, and the adults who made their ways through the city were solemn and preoccupied. Saliman's Bardhouse seemed empty, as only a few people remained there; he had been mentor mostly to younger students. Hem's chamber no longer echoed with the faint sounds of conversation and music and laughter, which usually filtered through from the many ro
oms. He was unsettled by the quiet; it brought home what was happening in the city and sparked a growing sense of foreboding.

  And as the stream of people pouring out of Turbansk toward the west dwindled and then ceased, others came in from the east and filled the empty houses, pausing briefly before they too – those who were not too ill or exhausted to move, or who were not staying to defend Turbansk – took the long road west. Now there were also people from the villages and hamlets of the Balkir Plains between Turbansk and Baladh, fleeing from the advancing armies. The forces of the Nameless One were burning everything in their path – house and vine and orchard – and a faint black smudge was visible on the eastern horizon, turning the sunrise the color of blood.

  The Healing Houses were not large enough to house all the wounded from Baladh, and so the empty School was used as well, and Bards in white robes moved between rows of beds in the cloisters where only days before students had run and shouted and laughed. Hem was asked to help the healers, and he threw himself into the work with goodwill. Even Ire was pressed into service, and when he was not on his usual perch on Hem's shoulder, flapped around the buildings bearing scribbled notes or messages.

  Hem saw a lot of grim sights. There were many people, including a dozen Baladh children, with terrible burns that had not been attended to properly in their flight, and they suffered excruciating pain. The healers used a strong drug distilled from poppies and exerted all their Bardic arts to dull their agonies; but many of them died.