the tang of roasted meat. Something else, too — a sour, musky odor Beramun had never smelled before. It wasn’t the dragon or any human, no matter how filthy. It reminded her of predatory beasts, like panthers or wolves, but it was different, too. Stronger somehow, like a whole pack of flesh-eaters collected in one noisome spot.
The strange smell came from smaller, ruder log structures scattered among the huts. These small dens were too low for a human to stand in. Beramun and Roki gave them wide berth.
A shaft of light fell on the path before them. The women paused, tracing the yellow glow back to its source. Standing in the midst of the raiders’ huts was a larger, better-made dwelling with a moss-thatch roof and smooth wattle-and-daub walls. It even had windows, which were covered with wicker shutters. Voices could be heard, speaking from within.
Smitten with curiosity, Beramun crept up to the bigger house, ignoring Roki’s frantic tugs on her shirt. She leaned the spear against the wall and stood up on tip-toe, trying to see through the loosely woven shutters.
The light came from a mussel shell just inside the window. It was filled with burning fat. Beyond it, another lamp burned, and between them sat Zannian. He was drinking from a clay cup and listening to a heated harangue from a gray-haired woman sitting with her back to the window.
“… can’t be ready for another ten days,” the woman was saying. “The breastplates are made, but they’ve not been dyed the proper color yet.”
“You and your color,” Zannian said, irritated. “Why must your band have green hoods and chests?”
“To honor the Master. The Jade Men will fight to the death for him when I command.”
“When you command, Mother?”
Beramun could hardly contain her surprise. Of course Zannian had parents, but to find his mother working alongside him for the vicious green dragon was astounding. She crept forward, gripping the window sill to steady herself. Roki crouched at her feet, trembling.
“I command them, and the Master commands me, as you well know,” the old woman said.
He looked past her for a moment and his expression changed, just slightly, and only for the barest instant.
Zannian said, “All right, make your green dye. You can have ten extra slaves to help. Now go.”
“What’s the hurry?”
“I have other tasks.”
She knocked aside his empty cup. “Yes. Drinking. Very important!”
“Good night, Mother.”
His farewell, spoken with finality, silenced her at last. The old woman rose laboriously, leaning heavily on an oak crutch. Beramun saw her left leg was wrapped in leather trews. Her right leg, also wrapped, ended at the knee.
She hobbled to the door. Pausing there, she turned, and for the first time Beramun glimpsed her face. She had dark gray eyes, a sharp chin, and slender, bony hands. Though deeply lined, her face was not that of an old woman, but it did speak of a very hard life. Something about her face chilled Beramun. This, she decided, was a woman capable of anything.
“I hear there’s a girl in camp, a girl you fancy,” the woman said, and Beramun listened intently.
“Yes, so?” said Zannian.
“You’ve no time for girls, you know. Not until the Master’s plans are carried out.”
“Why don’t you let me worry about that?”
“Once we fake Yala-tene, you’ll have your pick of girls, Zan. Keep your mind on the Master’s will till then.”
He looked straight at the window where Beramun was peeping. “I will have what I will have. Neither you nor the Master need worry about it.”
Beramun shrank back from the window. Roki clutched her leg, inquiring with large, frightened eyes. Beramun wanted to run, but a flood of light appeared from the open door of the hut as Zannian’s mother hobbled away.
The women crouched low beneath the window. When the door flap closed again, Beramun moved. Before she could recover her spear, Zannian threw the shutter open, lamp in hand. Beramun was caught in a patch of soft yellow light. She froze, transfixed by the sudden illumination. Roki slunk away in the shadows, unseen.
“I thought I saw someone,” Zannian said, his youthful face flushed. “What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, not without irony. “I thought I’d walk around and see the rest of the camp.”
“Not a wise idea. The camp isn’t safe at night. Come inside.”
Zannian waited until she started toward the door, then he closed the shutter. Beramun knew if she ran, he’d overtake her before she could reach the trees. With a discreet wave to Roki, she continued to the door. Zannian was there, holding the hide flap open for her. She ducked under his arm and entered.
It was very warm inside, a condition aggravated by the heat of the flaming lamps. A sweet aroma she couldn’t identify hung in the air. Zannian sat down on the floor and bade her do likewise. He watched her closely as she sat, his guileless face betraying an obvious appreciation for her looks, dirty though she was.
“How long were you out there?”
She wouldn’t answer.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m pleased to see you,” he said, finally breaking his gaze and taking up a gourd. He poured a golden liquid from the gourd into a small clay cup. He held it out to her, and she realized this was the source of the sweet smell.
“Try it. We make it from the honey we collect from the hives.”
Beramun took the cup but waited until she saw Zannian pour himself another measure and drink it. She held the cup to her lips and sipped. The stuff tasted as sweet as it smelled but burned as it slid down her throat. Beramun coughed and coughed.
Zannian grinned. “Don’t let the sweet smell fool you. Mead’s strong.”
Eyes filling with tears, she set the cup down. He refilled both cups.
“You can’t escape, Beramun,” he said suddenly.
Her eyes met his. “I wasn’t — ”
“Yes, you were. You figured out we put tane pollen in the slaves’ evening meal. Last night you didn’t eat yours to test your notion, and tonight you tried to escape.”
Her incredulity was so obvious that he smiled.
Beramun was suddenly struck by a strange thought. Tidied up, Zannian would be handsome. His smile, like a conjurer pleased with a trick, gave his face a whole new aspect. At the river, he’d given her his blanket. He’d saved her from Kukul and risked the dragon’s wrath by defending her. Was he a good man in spite of himself?
“Nothing happens in Almurk I don’t know about,” Zannian said. “I was raised from the earliest age to rule this land, and I shall.”
The odd moment was shattered. Beramun shook her head, angry for entertaining such ridiculous thoughts, even for a moment. This was the man who’d led the murderers of her father, mother, and kinsmen!
He mistook her gesture for disbelief of his grand claim. “I will,” he insisted, “and you can be mine, Beramun — mate to the chief of all the plains.”
“Why do you keep after me?” she snapped. “Aren’t there girls here whose families you did not destroy?”
“My master and my mother taught me to take only the best,” said Zannian, unmoved by her rebuke. He tossed back his mead. His cheeks reddened. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Eyes like the night sky filled with starlight, hair darker than a raven’s wing… and I will have you!”
He spoke like a bard, which astonished Beramun, but she was even more stunned when, with frightening speed, he caught her by both wrists. She tried to twist free, then made fists and attempted to hit him, fighting as Zannian dragged her to him. She hit him in the ribs, a glancing blow. Snarling, he slapped her across the face with his open palm. The blow made her ears ring, and she spun to the floor. In a heartbeat he was over her, pinning her facedown on the cold clay.
“Don’t fight so hard,” he rasped in her ear. “This can be a pleasant night.”
The thought of an entire night at his mercy put new strength in her limbs. Beramun drove her elbow backward into his stomach, and he rolled aside, gasping. She got to her knees before he seized her by the shoulders and pulled her backward. Then Zannian let out a grunt and went limp. Momentum carried Beramun onto her back, and she landed atop the young chief.
She scrambled to her feet and whirled, panting with exertion, rage, and fear. Instead of Zannian, however,
