sword. We had been at it for two hours, and she had done little more than explain the different ways of holding it. As if it were a baby and not a piece of steel.
Now that I knew what to look for, I could see dozens of the Adem houses worked cunningly into the landscape. Heavy wooden doors were dug into bluffs. Others looked like little more than tumbles of stone. Some had grass growing on their roofs and could only be recognized by the stovepipes peeping out. A fat nanny goat grazed atop one of these, her udder swinging as she stretched out her neck to crop a mouthful of grass.
“Look at the land around you,” she said, spinning in a slow circle to take in the landscape. “The ground is too thin for the plow, too jagged for horses. The summer too wet for wheat, too harsh for fruit. Some mountains hold iron, or coal, or gold. But not these mountains. In winter the snow will pile higher than your head. In spring the storms will push you from your feet.”
She looked back at me. “This is our land because no one else wants it.” She shrugged. “Or rather, it became ours for that reason.”
Vashet adjusted her sword on her shoulder, then eyed me speculatively. “Sit and listen,” she said formally. “And I will tell a story of a time long gone.”
I sat on the grass, and Vashet took her place on a nearby stone. “Long ago,” she said, “the Adem were upheaved from our rightful place. Something we cannot remember drove us out. Someone stole our land, or ruined it, or made us flee in fear. We were forced to wander endlessly. Our whole nation mendicant, like beggars. We would find a place, and settle, and rest our flocks. Then those who lived nearby would drive us off.
“The Adem were fierce back then. If we had not been fierce, there would be none of us left today. But we were few, so we were always driven forth. Finally we found this thin and windy place, unwanted by the world. We dug our roots deep into the stone and made it ours.”
Vashet’s eyes wandered the landscape. “But this land had little to give us, a place for our flocks to graze, stone, and endless wind. We could not find a way to sell the wind, so we sold our fierceness to the world. So we lived, and slowly we sharpened ourselves into the thing we are today. No longer only fierce, but dangerous and proud. Unceasing as the wind and strong as stone.”
I waited a moment to make sure she was finished. “My people are wanderers too,” I said. “It is our way. Nowhere and everywhere is where we live.”
She shrugged, smiling. “It is a story, mind you. And an old one. Take from it what you will.”
“I am fond of stories,” I said.
“A story is like a nut,” Vashet said. “A fool will swallow it whole and choke. A fool will throw it away, thinking it of little worth.” She smiled. “But a wise woman finds a way to crack the shell and eat the meat inside.”
I got to my feet and walked to where she was sitting. I kissed her hands and her forehead and her mouth. “Vashet,” I said. “I am glad Shehyn gave me to you.”
“You are a foolish boy.” She looked down, but I could see a faint blush rising on her face as she spoke. “Come. We should go. You do not want to miss the chance to see Shehyn fight.”
Vashet led me to an unmarked piece of meadow where the thick grass had been grazed close to the ground. A few other Adem already stood nearby, waiting. Some folk had brought small stools or rolled pieces of log to use as benches. Vashet simply sat on the ground. I joined her.
A crowd slowly gathered. Only thirty people or so, but it was the most Adem I’d ever seen together other than in the dining hall. They gathered in twos and threes, moving from one conversation to another. Rarely did a group of five coalesce for any length of time.
Though there were a dozen conversations all within a stone’s throw of me, I couldn’t hear more than a murmur. The speakers stood close enough to touch, and the wind in the grass made more noise than their voices.
But I could tell the tone of each conversation from where I sat. Two months ago this gathering would have seemed eerily subdued. A gathering of fidgety, emotionless, near-mutes. But now I could plainly see one pair of Adem were teacher and student by how far apart they stood, by the deference in the younger woman’s hands. The cluster of three red-shirted men were friends, easy and joking as they jostled at each other. That man and woman were fighting. She was angry. He was trying to explain.
I suddenly wondered how I ever could have thought of these people as restless or fidgety. Every motion was to a purpose. Every shifting of the feet implied a change in attitude. Every gesture spoke volumes.
Vashet and I sat close to each other and kept our voices low, continuing our discussion in Aturan. She explained how each school had standing accounts with the Cealdish moneylenders. That meant far-flung mercenaries could deposit the school’s share of their earnings anywhere people used Cealdish currency, which meant anywhere in the entire civilized world. That money was then tallied to the appropriate account so the school could make use of it.
“How much does a mercenary send back to the school?” I asked, curious.
“Eighty percent,” she said.
“Eight percent?” I asked, holding up all my fingers but two, sure I had misheard.
“Eighty,” Vashet said firmly. “That is the proper amount, though many pride themselves on giving more. The same would be true for you,” she said dismissively, “if you stood a fiddler’s chance in hell of ever wearing the red.”
Seeing my astonishment, she explained. “It is not so much, when you think of it. For years, the school feeds and clothes you. It gives you a place to sleep. It gives you your sword, your training. After this investment, the mercenary supports the school. The school supports the village. The village produces children who hope to someday take the red.” She made a circle with her finger. “Thus all Ademre thrives.”
Vashet gave me a grave look. “Knowing this, perhaps you can begin to understand what you have stolen,” she said. “Not just a secret but the major export of the Adem. You have stolen the key to this entire town’s survival.”
It was a sobering thought. Suddenly Carceret’s anger made much better sense.
I caught a glimpse of Shehyn’s white shirt and roughly knitted yellow cap through the crowd. The scattered conversations grew still, and everyone began to gather into a large, loose circle.
It wasn’t just Shehyn fighting today, apparently. The first to fight were two boys a few years younger than myself, neither of them wearing red. They circled each other warily, then fell on each other in a flurry of blows.
It was too fast for my eye to follow, and I saw a dozen half-formed pieces of the Ketan scattered and discarded. It finally ended when one boy caught the other’s wrist and shoulder in Sleeping Bear. It was only when I saw the boy twist his opponent’s arm and force him to the ground that I recognized it as the grip Tempi had used in the bar fight in Crosson.
The boys separated, and two red-shirted mercenaries came out to talk to them, presumably their teachers.
Vashet leaned her head close to mine. “What do you think?”
“They’re very quick,” I said.
She looked at me. “But . . .”
“They seem rather sloppy,” I said, being careful to speak quietly. “Not at first, but after they started.” I pointed at one. “His feet were too close together. And the other kept leaning forward so his balance was off. That’s how he got caught in Sleeping Bear.”
Vashet nodded, pleased. “They fight like puppies. They are young, and boys. They are full of anger and impatience. Women have less trouble with these things. It’s part of what makes us better fighters.”
I was more than slightly surprised to hear her say that. “Women are better fighters?” I asked carefully, not wanting to contradict her.
“Generally speaking,” she said matter-of-factly. “There are exceptions, of course, but as a whole women are better.”
“But men are stronger,” I said. “Taller. They have better reach.”
She turned to look at me, slightly amused. “Are you stronger and taller than me then?”
I smiled. “Obviously not. But as a whole, you have to admit, men are bigger and stronger.”
Vashet shrugged. “And that would matter if fighting were the same as splitting wood or hauling hay. That is like saying a sword is better the longer and heavier it is. Foolishness. Perhaps for thugs this is true. But after taking the red, the key is knowing
