'Bring the child out into the light,' said Hearst. T want to get a good look at him.’
'Come on, 'Dansk,' said Resbit, enticing her child toward the door. 'Come outside with your mam.’
'What's his name?' said Hearst. 'Wasn't it Elkordansk?’
'Yes, but we call him 'Dansk for short,' said Resbit.
'You musn't do that,' said Hearst, leading the way out into the sunlight. 'It doesn't mean anything.’
'But Elkor said – he told me it meant son. Elkordansk. Son of Elkor. Your friend.’
'My friend,' said Hearst. 'Yes. But 'Dansk is for putting on the end of words. It doesn't mean anything by itself.' 'So what's the word for son?’
'The word for son is gada,' said Hearst. 'Elkordansk, na gada Elkor. Elkordansk, son of Elkor.’
'Shouldn't it be Elkordansk gada na Elkor?’
'No,' said Hearst. 'Na is a word meaning… meaning… this item which I have just brought to your attention is. That's the best way I can translate it. I don't suppose our Elkordansk has a single word of his father's language to his credit.’
T didn't know any to teach him,' said Resbit.
'So what does he speak? The Galish Trading Tongue?’
'That most of all. A little Estral – I speak to him sometimes in… in my own language. Then he speaks with the Melski. He plays with their children. But at the moment… sometimes when he's speaking it's all three languages jumbled up together,’
And she laughed.
Hearst smiled, then gestured at their surroundings.
'In a few days, this is going to be swarming with Collosnon soldiers. What were you going to do? You can't stay.’
'We were going to run north. With the Melski. They'd give us shelter.’
'I'm sure they would,' said Hearst, looking at Elkordansk. 'But the boy… he's meant for better things than living off fish with the green things. You say he speaks? He's very quiet,’
'He's shy, that's all,' said Resbit.
She picked him up, and held him. She was proud of him: her strong young son who, she was sure, was destined for great things.
'Come,' said Hearst. 'Let's go to the camp. There are other men who knew Alish. They will be pleased to see his son. We… we none of us wanted his death. It was…'
'A thing between men,' said Resbit.
'Yes,' said Hearst. 'A thing between men.’
'This man wants to take you west,' said Yen Olass. 'By way of Larbster Bay.’
'I'm not afraid to travel,' said Resbit. 'I'm not a child, you know.’
She had entirely forgotten her earlier fears of moving away from her homeland – or perhaps, over the years, she had just grown out of them.
'Let's go,' said Hearst.
And they set off for the camp together.
Monogail wanted to go with them, but Yen Olass held her back.
'Come into the house, Monogail. No, you can't go with them. No. Because I say sol’
In the house, it was dark and quiet, but for Monogail, who complained bitterly at being shut up inside. Yen Olass shut her up by giving her some smoked fish to chew. She sat on the bed, looking around at the interior of House Two. Was it really such a terrible place? It was a house of their own. It had sheltered them for years: them and their love.
What love? Resbit had left without protest. So how could there have been love? Didn't love mean loyalty? After all these years together, Resbit had yielded to a man without any protest at all. Of course, she had her son to think of. But is a son more than a lover? Resbit was too young: too innocent. She had never been a slave. She had never had bits cut out of her. She had never been kept like an animal, humiliated by… she had no idea of all the terrible things that could happen. Would happen.
They were safe here. Had been safe for years. To the north were the highest mountains of Penvash. Places no army could ever conquer. They could be safe there. With each other. Surely. It wasn't too late. Was it?
But Yen Olass knew it was too late. Far too late. A hero had come for Resbit – a brutal skullknuckle slaughterer with one swordgrip hand and a razor-sharp slicing hook glinting at his other wrist. He had promised Resbit a future, and she had already accepted – that was clear enough, no denying it now – and her time with Yen Olass was…
A silly thing, which was over now. A charade. A game.
Something that had happened, oh, long ago, in another world, altogether different from this one…
Yen Olass remembered Resbit lying face down on her coat on the beach, her naked body warmed by the sun. She remembered bending over and kissing Resbit on the buttocks, lightly, gently, with such… tenderness. They had been so good to each other. So tender. So happy. And now…
Now, fists clenched, eyes clenched, Yen Olass wept, her chest heaving as the hot wet tears squeezed out of her eyes.
'Mam?' said Monogail, patting her on the back. 'Mam?’
'Oh Monogail,' said Yen Olass, taking the child into her arms. 'Monogail, Monogail, Monogail.’
Her voice was fat and blubbery, distorted by her misery. She held Monogail in her arms, acknowledging the question she had tried to pretend she would never have to face:
– Monogail, Monogail, what will become of you?
Yen Olass Ampadara sat on the end of the wharf at the Melski trading post, watching her girlchild Monogail swimming in the waters of Lake Armansis in the company of a dozen Melski children. Monogail had been able to swim before she could walk; in the water, she was as confident as an otter.
Yen Olass watched two Melski children on a floating log. They were playing 'walking stones', where you fold your arms and walk straight into the other person, shouting 'walking stones'. The winner is the one left standing on the log, though usually both go overboard. Yen Olass knew she could survive amongst the Melski, but she had to think of Monogail. What kind of life would it be for the child, when Yen Olass died and Monogail, grown to maturity, was the only human in a tribe of Melski? Yet what kind of life would it be where they were going?
Sitting beside Yen Olass on the wharf was a battered leather pack holding all that she would be able to carry away from this lakeside life. There was food, blankets, spare clothing for herself and Monogail, a trifling amount of Galish gold, a sharp knife, two leather water bottles, a tinderbox, a small cooking pot, a string of amber beads, a stone globe filled with stars – and that was about it. Not much to carry away from a life.
She had thrown her best cast-iron skillet into the lake. Now she regretted getting rid of it, and thought about asking one of the Melski to dive for it. She resisted the temptation. As it was, she was going to have a struggle to pack everything she was taking over the Razorwind Pass. If she took the skillet, she would have to throw out some food – and Monogail hated to be hungry.
Morgan Hearst had offered help, but Yen Olass resolutely refused to accept it. Every man she had ever relied on had betrayed her. Khmar, who should have made her empress, had died in her arms instead. Lord Alagrace had committed suicide by indulging in futile last-stand heroics. Draven had tied her up and had left her for Chonjara. From now on, Yen Olass was not going to make any futile alliances with men.
She felt very much alone.
She looked along the lakeside, wondering if they had done it yet. Yes. Half a league away, smoke was rising. House Two was burning, so that nothing would be left for the Collosnon marauders. Yen Olass closed her eyes, feeling the sharp prick of tears. Poor House Two. They had been so happy there, at least for a while.
Yen Olass wept, quietly.
She remembered… the first step Monogail ever took, and the triumph on the child's face. The first word Monogail ever spoke: 'Mam'. A lot had been forgiven on the strength of that one word: Yen Olass, failing to adore her baby, nevertheless liked her child more and more as she grew. Now House Two was burning, and with it were burning so many bright hopes…
