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Authors: Patricia C. Wrede
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been three days in the sun, but I don’t have any facts that can tell me why or how. When I find some, I’ll see that you’re told.”
Eleret nodded.
“It’s not only your mother’s death,” Weziral went on. He bent and picked up a plain wooden box from somewhere beside his feet. He set the box on the table in front of him and gazed at Eleret across the lid. “Someone tried to ambush the messenger team who brought me the news of Kesandir. They were amateurs, and unsuccessful ones at that, but that kind of thing isn’t supposed to happen in the middle of Ciaronese territory. And since this”—he tapped the box—“arrived three weeks ago, there have been two attempts to break into my office. Draw your own conclusions.”
“Ma found something that someone wants very badly,” Eleret said without hesitation.
“Exactly.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“No. I haven’t even opened the box; you can see that the seals are still intact,” Weziral replied. “I admit to an enormous curiosity, quite apart from my professional interest, and I would take it as a personal favor if you could see your way to opening it up here.”
“Of course.” The wooden box was nearly a foot and a half on a side, but from the way the Commander had lifted it there was not much inside. It would be simpler to unload it here, and she would attract less attention carrying a small bundle back to the inn.
Weziral beckoned, and Eleret came forward. She examined the seals briefly, then pulled out her knife and began removing them. Weziral’s eyes widened. “Is that a Sadorthan dagger?”
“Yes,” Eleret said, working the point carefully under the wax. “Ma gave it to me when I started hunting regularly, so I’d have a good one when I needed to skin something. It cost more than we could really afford, but Ma said it would be worth it in the long run.”
“I should think so. Do you have any idea how many people in Ciaron would cheerfully slit your throat to get their hands on that dagger?”
“On my knife ?” Eleret said incredulously.
“I didn’t think you did. You’d do well to keep it out of sight, unless you intend to go looking for trouble.”
“Cilhar don’t hunt trouble.” Eleret kept her face and voice neutral to avoid showing how much the conversation unsettled her.
“Trouble seems to find quite a few of them nevertheless,” Weziral replied. “Under the circumstances—”
“I’ll be careful.”
The last of the seals came loose as she spoke. Eleret wiped the film of wax from the end of her dagger and slid it through her pocket and into its sheath. Then she reached out with both hands and opened the box.
There was not much inside: a worn leather pouch for raven’s-feet, a dagger in an embroidered sheath, and a waterproof kit bag that covered the bottom of the box. Eleret lifted the things out one at a time and set them on the table. Suddenly she stiffened. Under the kit bag, lying crosswise in the bottom of the box, was a thick braid of chestnut hair. A strand of yellow wool wound through the coils, and both ends were bound with red cord. Yellow for honor; red for death in battle. How had the Ciaronese known? Eleret tore her gaze away and looked up, questioning.
“Salven wasn’t the only Cilhar at Kesandir,” Weziral said. “There aren’t many of your people in the army, but they keep track of one another. According to the report, one of them showed up at the medical tent shortly after Salven died and insisted on doing things his way. That was part of it.” He gestured at the braid.
“Part?” Eleret said unsteadily around a fist-sized knot in her throat.
“He also demanded that the body be burned.” Weziral looked at her sharply. “It was.”
Eleret nodded, beyond speech. She was too numb even to feel gratitude for the nameless man who had seen that the death rites were properly performed for Tamm Salven. Slowly she picked up the braid and set it on the table beside her mother’s
Eleret nodded.
“It’s not only your mother’s death,” Weziral went on. He bent and picked up a plain wooden box from somewhere beside his feet. He set the box on the table in front of him and gazed at Eleret across the lid. “Someone tried to ambush the messenger team who brought me the news of Kesandir. They were amateurs, and unsuccessful ones at that, but that kind of thing isn’t supposed to happen in the middle of Ciaronese territory. And since this”—he tapped the box—“arrived three weeks ago, there have been two attempts to break into my office. Draw your own conclusions.”
“Ma found something that someone wants very badly,” Eleret said without hesitation.
“Exactly.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“No. I haven’t even opened the box; you can see that the seals are still intact,” Weziral replied. “I admit to an enormous curiosity, quite apart from my professional interest, and I would take it as a personal favor if you could see your way to opening it up here.”
“Of course.” The wooden box was nearly a foot and a half on a side, but from the way the Commander had lifted it there was not much inside. It would be simpler to unload it here, and she would attract less attention carrying a small bundle back to the inn.
Weziral beckoned, and Eleret came forward. She examined the seals briefly, then pulled out her knife and began removing them. Weziral’s eyes widened. “Is that a Sadorthan dagger?”
“Yes,” Eleret said, working the point carefully under the wax. “Ma gave it to me when I started hunting regularly, so I’d have a good one when I needed to skin something. It cost more than we could really afford, but Ma said it would be worth it in the long run.”
“I should think so. Do you have any idea how many people in Ciaron would cheerfully slit your throat to get their hands on that dagger?”
“On my knife ?” Eleret said incredulously.
“I didn’t think you did. You’d do well to keep it out of sight, unless you intend to go looking for trouble.”
“Cilhar don’t hunt trouble.” Eleret kept her face and voice neutral to avoid showing how much the conversation unsettled her.
“Trouble seems to find quite a few of them nevertheless,” Weziral replied. “Under the circumstances—”
“I’ll be careful.”
The last of the seals came loose as she spoke. Eleret wiped the film of wax from the end of her dagger and slid it through her pocket and into its sheath. Then she reached out with both hands and opened the box.
There was not much inside: a worn leather pouch for raven’s-feet, a dagger in an embroidered sheath, and a waterproof kit bag that covered the bottom of the box. Eleret lifted the things out one at a time and set them on the table. Suddenly she stiffened. Under the kit bag, lying crosswise in the bottom of the box, was a thick braid of chestnut hair. A strand of yellow wool wound through the coils, and both ends were bound with red cord. Yellow for honor; red for death in battle. How had the Ciaronese known? Eleret tore her gaze away and looked up, questioning.
“Salven wasn’t the only Cilhar at Kesandir,” Weziral said. “There aren’t many of your people in the army, but they keep track of one another. According to the report, one of them showed up at the medical tent shortly after Salven died and insisted on doing things his way. That was part of it.” He gestured at the braid.
“Part?” Eleret said unsteadily around a fist-sized knot in her throat.
“He also demanded that the body be burned.” Weziral looked at her sharply. “It was.”
Eleret nodded, beyond speech. She was too numb even to feel gratitude for the nameless man who had seen that the death rites were properly performed for Tamm Salven. Slowly she picked up the braid and set it on the table beside her mother’s
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