The forward tapestry flickered. “Accept the communication,” Lisse said.
The emblem that appeared was a trefoil flanked by two roses, one stem-up, one stem-down. Not for the first time, Lisse wondered why people from a culture that lavished attention on miniatures and sculptures were so intent on masking themselves in emblems.
“Commander Fai Guen, this is Envoy Nhai Bara.” A woman’s voice, deep and resonant, with an accent Lisse didn’t recognize.
Softly, she said to the ghost, “They were bound to catch up to us sooner or later.” Then, to the kite: “Communications to Envoy Nhai: I am Lisse of Rhaion. What words between us could possibly be worth exchanging? Your people are not known for mercy.”
“If you will not listen to me,” Nhai said, “perhaps you will listen to the envoy after me, or the one after that. We are patient and we are many. But I am not interested in discussing mercy: that’s something we have in common.”
“I’m listening,” Lisse said, despite the ghost’s chilly stiffness. All her life she had honed herself against the Imperium. It was unbearable to consider that she might have been mistaken. But she had to know what Nhai’s purpose was.
“Commander Lisse,” the envoy said, and it hurt like a stab to hear her name spoken by a voice other than the ghost’s, a voice that was not Rhaioni. Even if she knew, now, that the ghost was not Rhaioni, either. “I have a proposal for you. You have proven your military effectiveness—”
“—quite thoroughly. We are in need of a strong sword. What is your price for hire, Commander Lisse?”
“What is my—” She stared at the trefoil emblem, and then her face went ashen.
It is not true that the dead cannot be folded. Square becomes kite becomes swan; history becomes rumor becomes song. Even the act of remembrance creases the truth.
But the same can be said of the living.
THE SANDAL-BRIDE
Genevieve Valentine
Pilgrims always cried when they crested the hill and saw the spires of Miruna; they usually fell to their knees right in the middle of traffic.
All I saw was the gate that led to the Night Market.
We pulled barrels off the cart (salt, cinnamon, chilis, cardamom, and mazeflower safe in the center away from wandering hands), and when the moon rose and the women came it was as if we’d always been waiting.
They moved in pairs, holding back their veils, closing their eyes as the smell of mazeflower struck them.
“Goes well in baking,” Mark told a woman, “which you know all about, with those fine things in your basket.”
The whole night went well (Mark could sell spice to a stone), until I got peppered by a loose lid and staggered back, choking.
From behind me a woman asked, “Where are you going?”
“Who’s asking?” I snapped, and looked up into the ugliest face I’ve ever seen; teeth like old cheese, small black eyes, a thin mouth swallowed up by jowls.
“A passenger,” she said. “Where are you going?”
“South,” I said vaguely (never liked people knowing my business), then brushed pepper off my shirt and yelled, “Mark, so help me, I’ll sell your hide to the fur traders!”
The woman was still standing there, smiling, her hands folded in front of her politely.
“Did you need some salt?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
“Well, I wish you good journey,” I said, and then for some reason I’ll never know I asked, “Where do you travel?”
“South,” she said, and I realized exactly where she thought she was headed.
I’ve never known when to seal the barrel and shake on the deal. It’s how I ended up with a blue wagon and a partner like Mark in the first place.
“Not on any transport of mine,” I said.
“It’s for my husband,” she said. “A shoemaker in Okalide. I’ll join him there.”
I didn’t wonder why he’d left her behind. A face like that was bad for business.
Mark came around and stood behind me.
“I can’t take an unescorted woman,” I said. I didn’t care, but someone on the road would. This was a church state. “Find someone else to take you.”
As I turned to go she opened her hand and unfurled a necklace of sapphires as long as a man’s arm, flaming as they caught the dawn. Mark gasped.
It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I reached without thinking, and had to pull back my hand when I remembered myself. I knew the trouble a woman would bring on that road full of pilgrims and devout traders.
“I don’t accept bribes,” I said. Mark kicked my foot.
“It isn’t a bribe,” she said. “It’s a dowry.”
Mark stopped kicking.
“You want me to—” I paused.
She held out her hand draped in glittering blue, her eyes steady. “Sandal-brides are common enough on this road.”
“Not this common,” Mark muttered, and I surprised us both when I cut him off with, “Pack the wagon.”
Still muttering, he went, and then it was just the woman and me.
“Sandal-briding is dangerous,” I said. “Women go missing that way if the men get greedy.”
She smiled. “A greedy man wouldn’t have pulled back his hand.”
I found myself smiling, too, and by the time she said, “My husband has another when I am safely delivered,” somehow I had already decided to agree.
We went the back way; I didn’t want her to see Mark’s face until it was too late to object.
The ceremony was easier than border-crossing. I gave her a pair of sandals I’d bought on the way, and she showed the priest the necklace she was giving me in lieu of bed rights. I swore to release her at the end of the journey. He wrote my name down next to hers, marked us “Okalide,” and it was over.
Outside I said, “You could go pack your things.”
“I don’t have any things,” she said, and stopped to buy a blanket.
Mark was still packing when we got back, but he must have known what I was going to do, because he had made space in the back of the wagon for someone to sit.
I drove the oxen, which were fonder of me than of Mark (good salesmanship never fools oxen). Mark kept watch in the back of the wagon, when he was awake.
All morning I expected him to climb through and demand a seat away from the woman (my wife), but when we stopped in the scrub at midday and I let the oxen loose to find what they could in the stringy undergrowth, I saw him helping her down.
“We’ll rest half an hour,” I said.
Mark nodded and disappeared back into the wagon.
“Just kick him out of the way when we set off,” I said, unhooking my canteen.
She laughed and took a seat under the branches of the twisted pim. It was scant shade, but the flats were like this all the way to Okalide. There was a reason her husband made a living there; this ground wore out your shoes.
