The name of all things, p.4
The Name of All Things, page 4
part #2 of A Chorus of Dragons Series
Probably a farmer gone feral. That quality seemed infectious, given how often brigands had attacked them since Count Janel’s canton, Tolamer. However, there was an upside. Most ruling nobles in Jorat offered a bounty on captured bandits.
A fine way to earn a living if one didn’t mind the risk.
Brother Qown minded rather a lot, but it wasn’t his place to tell his count how to fill her coffers with metal.
The outlaw turned toward the woods. “Shut it!”
Janel’s smile broadened to a grin. “Give your men time. No horse is born saddled.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” the bandit admitted, then squared her shoulders as if reminding herself not to be distracted by a friendly victim. “See here. We’ve been following you and yours ever since you crossed the river, asking ourselves the whole while what a fancy mane like you is doing out here. You expect us to believe you have nothing but an ancient mare and a fat gelding for company?”
Brother Qown straightened. “Now hold on…”
“Oh, she don’t miss the obvious, do she?” Dorna said as she pulled herself up to her feet, still holding on to the iron fry pan. “I’m old, and you ain’t never passed by a second helping of noodles in your life.”
Brother Qown frowned. “Dorna, whose side are you on?”
A whistle interrupted them. Brother Qown jumped backward, not from training as much as animal instinct. An arrow hit Dorna’s fry pan, sending it flying.
Everyone stopped.
Count Janel’s lips thinned. She no longer looked amused.
“Ow! Why’d you do that for? I weren’t done cleaning that!” Dorna rubbed her hand and scrunched up her face in protest.
Brother Qown’s heart beat so fast he thought it might turn into a rabbit and scamper away. The last bandits they’d encountered had been all pitchforks and long knives—close-combat melee weapons, which played to the count’s strength. She looked so helpless; it always brought the wolves near.
Arrows were another matter. She possessed no immunity to arrows.
Neither did Qown nor Dorna.
The bandit tightened her grip on the sickle in her hand. “We’re not here to entertain you, crone. Give over your valuables. Now.” She pointed to Janel’s family sword, sheathed and hanging by its belt from a thick branch. “Whose is that?”
Janel tilted her head. “Mine.”
“Horse crap.” The woman laughed. “I’ll be damned if you could even lift metal so big. Where’s your guard? Out in the woods, maybe, relieving himself?”
Brother Qown looked toward the trees. The leaves rustled as the bandit’s men shifted position or expressed their impatience. Whoever had fired their bow either knew their business or had been blessed by Taja. But if they had more bows, if their main assault came as a volley of arrows …
Brother Qown suspected the count knew the danger, but she had a gleam in her eye, as if enjoying herself.
Brother Qown suspected she was enjoying herself.
He made a sign to the morning sun. He wondered what he’d done to upset Father Zajhera. Did this assignment serve as punishment?
“You’re so convinced I must have a guard,” Janel mused. “There’s a saying about judging how fast a horse runs by the color of her coat. It may apply here.” She stood then, brushing the remaining breakfast crumbs from her embroidered riding tunic before she bowed. “I offer you a deal.”
“You think you’re in a position to make deals?”
Brother Qown met Dorna’s eyes. The old woman made the smallest gesture toward the large camphor tree near them, one with thick roots perfect for ducking behind. Janel always did well in fights, but Dorna and Qown needed a place to hide.
Count Janel waved the complaint aside. “You’re the herd leader. You’re concerned about my guards, and rightly so; you don’t want your people injured. So I suggest a compromise. A duel. I’ll fight any of your associates—yourself, if you wish—using any weapon you choose. If you win, I’ll give you everything I have. You have my word.”
Brother Qown held his breath and watched to discover if the leader would take the bait and leap at that twitching, vulnerable tail …
The bandit said, “You must fancy I’m a fool or a weakling, and I’m neither.”
“You are a robber.” The insult had no sting to it; Janel’s smile harkened back to a child at play with her new best friend.
She seemed so pleased to fight another woman. Few women in Jorat turned to robbery. The bands she’d faced so far had been male.7
The bandit put one hand on her hip. “You’re getting on my nerves, little girl.”
Janel laughed outright. “I might care more if you weren’t robbing me.”
“Now I’ll take the sword too.”
“If I’d been polite, would you have left it?”
“And that fancy ring.” The woman pointed to the chain around Count Janel’s neck.
The Theranon family sword and the Tolamer Canton signet ring. Brother Qown fought to keep from sighing out loud, but at least their would-be robber hadn’t yet said no.
“And the deal,” Count Janel pressed, “will you take that too?”
The outlaw paced, then gestured toward the sword. “Oh yes. Fine. Fight me, but not with your blade—the branch it hangs from is the weapon I choose for you.”
Brother Qown couldn’t help but blink. The proffered “weapon”—a horizontal limb—spilled out from the main tree’s trunk. The bough was as thick as Count Janel’s arm; removing it required an ax.
They hadn’t brought an ax.
The bandit saw the look on Qown’s face, the raised eyebrows on Janel’s. “Now we’ll have no more games, little girl. All your valuables in the camp center and consider yourselves lucky we have no use for your horses.”
Something moved in the woods behind them. In the distance, hooves galloped.
The woman must have believed the galloping signaled that much-feared guard, returning to protect his noble lady. “Circle out!” she cried. “Make ready!”
As the bandits focused on the imagined reinforcements, Janel Theranon, twenty-fourth Count of Tolamer, reached over and ripped away the tree branch. The crack of splintering wood echoed through the clearing.
“I accept your terms,” said Janel. “Now let’s begin.”
The clearing stilled as the bandit leader realized her mistake. Brother Qown almost felt sorry for her. Who would ever think the count dangerous? Just a girl. So helpless.
The trembling, vulnerable worm wasn’t a free meal after all.
The air smelled like green resin and old woodsmoke and the coming day’s rain as men and women spilled from the woods. As many women as men, which startled Qown, but they didn’t look any friendlier than their male counterparts.
“What are you doing?” the bandit woman asked, shocked from her silence. “By the Eight! Why are you leaving cover? Back into the trees, you lot!”
Brother Qown was at a loss as well. He didn’t understand why her band had fled concealment instead of shooting when they had the chance. Mare Dorna and Brother Qown hadn’t yet made a break for shelter. They were unshielded, unprotected.
The bandits not only left the woods but put away their weapons, slung their bows over their shoulders.
The biggest, a large man with black-splattered gray skin, looked askance as he pointed to Janel. “She challenged you. You accepted.” His expression suggested the explanation was obvious.
A second man tugged on the big man’s sleeve. “Five chances the fancy mane goes down with the first hit.”
Dorna straightened. “Ah, now you’re running in my pasture. Put me down for ten thrones my count kicks your boss’s ass.” She tapped Brother Qown on the shoulder. “Priest, I need to borrow ten thrones.”
“Dorna, no!” Brother Qown said.
“You have to spend metal to make metal, you know.”
“You idiots,” their boss snapped, “I wasn’t serious!”
“This is Jorat.” The big outlaw folded his arms.
A woman with a white blaze down the center of her face said, “You don’t joke about contests in Jorat.”
“Are you lot this stupid?” The bandit leader made no effort to hide her exasperation.
Janel laughed and bounced the branch in her hand. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
At that moment, Arasgon trotted into the clearing.
In a sense, the bandit leader was right about Janel’s guard. If the count ever needed an escort, Arasgon qualified. He’d been her loyal companion from childhood. His mere presence while traveling had proved so intimidating that Janel had ordered Arasgon to stay away from camp lest he ruin her trap. But Arasgon wore no armor, carried no weapons, and wasn’t human at all.
The fireblood stood eighteen hands high, black as sable with a crimson mane and tail, what the Joratese call flame-kissed. The similarity to his cousin horse breeds ended there; red tiger stripes wrapped around his legs, and his eyes were the same ruby hue as his mistress Janel’s. He’d have made a magnificent horse, but firebloods were not horses. As firebloods delighted in reminding anyone foolish enough to call them a “horse” within range of their hooves.8
Arasgon voiced a noise that sounded like a cross between a neigh and something far more deliberate and sagacious. Brother Qown knew it was language, proper language, but he couldn’t understand a word, much to his endless frustration.
“I’m fine,” Janel said, glancing back over her shoulder toward Arasgon. “She’ll be no challen—”
Which was when the bandit kicked Janel in the head.
Three times.
The bandits cheered. They’d have broken out tankards and pennants if they could. And why not? Even with the fireblood’s presence, revered almost to holiness by the Joratese, the outlaws had them outnumbered four to one. This wasn’t a robbery; this was entertainment.
Easy enough to forget their leader fought a woman who could tear the limbs off trees.
Janel reeled from the blow, staggering so Brother Qown feared the fight would end right there. The brigand who had bet that outcome cheered.
Instead, Janel shook the fog from her head, her red eyes focusing on her attacker. “Oh, have we started? My mistake.” She wiped the blood from her mouth, leaving behind her bright smile.
The bandit leader stopped in her tracks. “How are you still standing? I’ve knocked him cold with that move.” She indicated the large man organizing the betting pool.
“I’m known for my stubbornness,” Janel answered. She punctuated the statement by wielding the tree limb, forcing the other woman to jump to the side as the wood hit the ground.
The thief who had bet on an easy win groaned and handed coins over to another bandit.
Janel closed in again. This time, as the bandit leader ducked under the branch’s swing, she also swept out with her leg, tripping Janel. The count just missed falling into the breakfast fire. Then the leader pressed her advantage, stomping down with her boot. Janel rolled to the side, putting a hand down into the burning coals as she stood back up again.
The cheering stopped, shocked.
Janel’s right glove was on fire. She looked down, sighed, and tucked the tree branch under her arm while she stripped the fabric from her fingers. The pitch-black skin underneath was very different from her face’s cinnamon hue. As far as Brother Qown could tell, she hadn’t been burned at all.
“That was my favorite pair of gloves,” she protested.
“Ah, foal,” Dorna said, “’twas your only pair of gloves.”
“That’s what I said, Mare Dorna,” Janel agreed. She steadied herself and swung the bough around her like a baton as she pointed at her adversary. “I underestimated you, thief.”
“Oh, likewise.” Wary concern tinted the woman’s laughter. “You’re wicked strong and sturdier than an ox, but you’ll never win with a tree branch.”
“Be grateful you didn’t choose the sword.”
The bandit’s laughter held a nervous edge. “You’d have to hit me first. I’m faster than anyone else here.”
The largest bandit turned to Dorna and confided, “It’s true. She’s the best fighter we have.” He tapped his chest. “And I went professional in the circuit.”
Janel smiled at her opponent. “I need only hit you once.”
Brother Qown forced himself to stop clenching his fists. Every imperial dominion had their own stereotypes. Khorveshans were great soldiers. Kirpisari prided themselves on their magical aptitude. Yorans were barbarians. The Joratese loved horses …
But he wished someone had warned him about the Joratese people’s love of fighting.
The whole time, Janel and the bandit leader circled each other, looking for another opening. The outlaw never attacked with her sickle, but she didn’t discard it either. Whenever Janel swung, the woman twisted aside or deflected the tree limb. Janel always ended up as the one punched or kicked.
Eventually, the thief would wear the count down.
“Not too shabby,” the woman said after Janel missed her for the umpteenth occasion, “but it’s a shame no one ever trained you.”
Janel lunged forward with the tree branch, and the bandit deflected, stepped to the side, and kicked her in the …
Her hindquarters, let’s say.
Count Janel stopped playing around, or maybe she just lost her temper. When she came in again, she wasn’t trying to dodge or avoid blows. She’d transformed into something relentless. The woman struck again, hard, but Janel just grunted, eyes narrowed. The count straightened and tossed the bough up in the air. It spun up and over end to end like a great leafy wheel.
She seemed unarmed.
Vulnerable …
The bandit leader didn’t waste the opportunity; she attacked.
Janel moved fast, jumping up and to the side. She caught the tree limb as it came down and swatted the sickle away, sending the ersatz weapon flying. Then Janel reversed the branch and slammed it down on her opponent’s leg, stretched out to deliver a hammer-like kick.
A loud crack split the air, followed by the bandit’s scream.
The woman’s leg bent in a way legs aren’t supposed to bend. She fell to the ground, sobbing.
Janel threw down the tree branch.
“Oh no,” she said. “I didn’t mean—” She blinked and stepped back. “Brother Qown! Help us!”
He ran forward. “I’m here, I’m here. Let me get my bag…”
The largest bandit took in the scene and frowned, crossing his hands over his chest. “That’s not how I figured this would go at all.”
Next to him, Mare Dorna held out a hand to gather her winnings.
2: A ROTTED FRUIT
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Two days since Xaltorath started a Hellmarch in the Capital
Brother Qown paused, his voice breaking.
“Tea might soothe your throat better than cider,” Janel said.
The priest nodded. “You’re right. I’ll go check the kitchen.” He gave Kihrin a polite nod as he passed.
The resulting silence left Kihrin and Janel staring at each other.
Kihrin asked, “Did that really happen?”
“What? Qown checking to see if there’s tea?” She rested her chin on a hand, grinned at him when he rolled his eyes. “Oh, you mean bandits attacking us.”
Kihrin returned her smile. “No, I meant when you ripped the branch off that tree.”
“Yes. I suppose that part is hard to believe.”
Kihrin set his upishiarral aside. “The way you handled the stable door—I can’t do that. My friend Star can’t do that. We both tried. But you closed and barred the front door like it was made from sugar floss and compliments.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Then perhaps that story is true.”
“Why don’t you tell this tale instead of Qown? Nice work on having your own chronicler, by the way1—but I doubt his version is unbiased.”
“And telling it from my viewpoint would be different? At least he remembered to document our travels. I was too distracted.”
“Maybe I’d just prefer to hear it from you.”
Their eyes met again.
Janel’s mouth twitched. “Answer a curiosity for me. Stallions or mares?”
Kihrin blinked. “What?”
She leaned forward, mirroring his position at the table. “Do you run with stallions? Or mares?”
“I’ve never put any thought into my horse’s gender—” He stopped. “But you’re not talking about horses, are you?”
“Not in the least,” she said. “There’s a trap in there for people who don’t understand our ways.”
“How do you mean?”
“There are multiple meanings to how we use the words stallion or mare.” She traced the table wood grain with a finger. “It’s important to know the context, or you might end up in trouble.”
“And your context right now?”
“The preferred sex of your bed partners, naturally.” Mischief sparkled in her eyes. “Do you run with stallions? Do you run with mares?” She shrugged. “Some don’t like to run at all, but that’s not you, is it?”
Kihrin scraped his hand through his hair. “No, that’s not me. Mares, then.” Kihrin hesitated. “Why is that a trap?”
“Because it’s the only time in Jorat where the words stallion, mare, and so on indicate the equipment between one’s legs. Normally, when one refers to a human as a stallion or mare, we’re discussing their gender.”
Kihrin stared. “And you weren’t talking about gender before? You’re a woman. Isn’t that what you mean by mare?”
Her mouth twisted. “You’re conflating gender with sex. My sex—my body—is female, yes. But that’s not my gender. I’m a stallion. And stallion is how Joratese society defines our men. So you’re wrong; I’m most certainly not a woman.”
Kihrin’s eyes widened. “You just said you were female.”
She sighed. “Who I am as a man is independent of”—she gestured to herself—“this. It wouldn’t matter if I were male, female, or neither; I would still be a stallion.”
