The Cursed Read online

  "Where real estate is concerned, there isn't such a man in Daling!" she howled.

  Tibal looked up. "Especially this one. Go away, Liam Saj."

  If Liam Gurshith himself had been one of her suitors, Gwin might have managed to accept him. He was much older than she was, but still a big, striking man. His face was heavy and arrogant, his black hair well groomed and oiled. He brought a fragrance of rosewater more appealing than Nogan's fishiness. Liam spurned the barbarian smock and breeches that had become accepted dress throughout Kuolia, even in this last remnant of empire. He went around garbed like one of the later emperors, in richly be-gemmed and embroidered tunics. Today it was scarlet, superbly tailored as always. Above his jeweled belt it fitted snugly, emphasizing his thick chest and still-flat belly; below it fell in elaborate pleats to his knees. His furred forearms protruded from slits in sleeves that hung to his ankles. His boots were decorated with gold.

  A man who took so much care over his own attire would have taken thought to his retainers'. The two hairy monsters behind wore only boots and breeches, to display their scars and bulging muscles. They were built like castles. They carried heavy cudgels.

  Liam inspected Tibal with distaste. "I don't know you."

  "And we do not wish to know you. Go."

  Gwin kicked Tibal warningly under the table.

  Liam snapped his fingers. One of the thugs lurched forward. "If that man says one more word, stun him."

  The henchman leered and raised his club. Tibal shrugged.

  Liam produced a paper. "Gwin Solith, this will not do. You were warned." He tore the note in half and dropped it. It was the letter she had written the previous day.

  She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and forced herself to meet his cruel eyes. There was a horrible taste in her mouth. "I told you, Liam Saj. Your terms are most generous." They were, too. "I would be honored to become a member of your fine family." That was less true, but in practical terms not very false. "If you were asking for my hand yourself, then I should accept most gratefully."

  And even that was not much of a lie. His age would not distress her unduly. Carp had been ten years older than she. Liam Gurshith was a man of wealth and great power in the city. His methods were brutal, but that was true of his opponents' methods also. She could live with them. She thought she could even live with Liam Gurshith if she had to.

  "But I am not available, dear lady. My son is."

  His son was a degenerate horror.

  She shivered. "You have another son!"

  Tibal had a sudden attack of coughing.

  Liam paid no attention. "He is fifteen. A woman eight years his senior would not be an appropriate match. I have other plans for him, anyway. You will marry Kolo, or... Look!"

  Gwin turned where he was pointing. Servants came pouring out of the passageway. Behind them came more of the thugs, six or seven of them, all just as huge and menacing as his bodyguards. Where did he trawl such monsters?

  "Domestics are hard to find these days, Gwin Solith, yes?"

  She looked up at him in disbelief. Why had she never realized he might turn his violence on her? He smiled. Then he stepped forward and slammed a fist into Tibal's face. Tibal toppled back off the stool and sprawled on the tiles. The stool clattered down beside him. The thug guarding him hefted his cudgel and looked hopefully at his master.

  Liam licked his knuckles. "I can have him beaten to death now, you know. I don't want to spoil the hostel's reputation by roughing up the guests, although I shall do so if you continue to be stubborn. I will have your answer. Otherwise I begin by setting my lads on your staff. Decide."

  Doors slammed upstairs as the other guests took refuge. She stared across the court to where the wolves were herding the sheep into a corner. It happened to be the brightest corner. Sunlight glinted on Niad's hair.

  This could not be happening! Her staff beaten up in broad daylight in her own home—murdered, even, or raped before her eyes? There was an Ivielscath amongst them. What if Niad retaliated, so that Liam and his toughs all fell ill before sunset? Even if the hostel were not burned by a crazed mob, the penalties for harboring Cursed would strip her of everything.

  She licked her lips. "You win."

  Tibal cleared his throat and sat up cautiously.

  Liam Gurshith took her hand and raised it to his lips. "Very wise, daughter-in-law! I shall have the engagement proclaimed by the crier. Kolo will call on you shortly to discuss the wedding—and become better acquainted, I expect. Come, lads."

  He beckoned to the rest of his gang, and headed to the door.

  Married to Kolo Liam? How long would it take him to drink himself to death? What sort of diseases would he inflict on her?

  Tibal rose to his feet, holding a hand over his right eye. "What a nice man!"

  Rousing herself from her attack of shivers, Gwin went to him and took his hand away. He was going to have a superb shiner.

  "Nothing serious!" He was grinning.

  "I'll get some beefsteak." She wondered if the servants would now desert in a body. "I am terribly sorry to have involved you—"

  Tibal started to laugh.

  She looked at him in alarm.

  He laughed harder, then suddenly threw his arms around her and hugged her. "Oh, Gwin Solith! Stop worrying! Liam Saj has no idea... Tomorrow is going to be a wonderful day!"

  8

  Thunder had been fast and was still game, but he had never been a gentle ride. Now he shattered his owner's jaw with every hoof beat. Bulion steadied himself by gripping the pommel with one hand and wondered how long he could endure without fainting. When that happened, the others would take him home, or carry him to the nearest farm. That would be the end.

  Cloak flapping wildly, he sweated and shivered and hung on. He stayed with the trails, which inevitably led him past all the nearby settlements. He trotted on by with a wave, not breaking stride. His followers shouted greetings and stayed close in around him. The neighbors must be wondering why the Tharns were not stopping to chat a moment, as they usually did. He ought to stop. He ought to be offering to invitations to accompany the outing, which was what Tharns usually did, which would be an especially welcome gesture now, with rumors of footpads in the district. He ought to be recruiting men to go and help Brankion with the fort. He did not want anyone to see his sickness. Was that caution, or just an old man's foolish vanity?

  Strange fragments of memory tormented him. He kept recalling Nadim, imagining what she would say. "Stupid old fool!" likely. Big, solid Nadim—a strong woman and a great joy in bed. Seven sons and four daughters she had given him. Ordim had been prettier, but not as durable. She had never managed to rule the clan the way Nadim had in her later years, and she had dreaded childbirth. Ordim had been a reluctant love-maker, even when she was already bearing, as if she had known what the fates had planned for her. Three sons and two daughters was all she had managed before her final miscarriage. Well, babies were women's duty and destiny. Mogion's Nimim had borne fourteen in twenty years and raised ten of them.

  Until a few days ago, Bulion had been seriously planning to take a third wife. He was still a strong man. He could have bred a few more Tharns for the valley. And he would yet, if he survived this tooth. The fates would decide, as always.

  He would not complain. Other peoples tried to bribe their gods. The Zarda had always accepted what was given them, the good and the bad. He had been granted more than most men. Sixteen children, and fourteen still living. It was a great fortune.

  Poul rose higher, drying the dew, hiding the hills in waves of heat haze. Hawks floated in the blue, once in a while plummeting down to the meadows to sink talons into something. Poul brought life and also death.

  Bulion's cloak fell off and he rode on without stopping. One of the others would pick it up. He was spitting blood and pus all the time. His mouth tasted like a pigpen. He chose the hill road to avoid the Ignamith place. If anyone in the district might be tempted to move on the Tharn Valley herds whil
e the master was absent and out of sorts, then it was Alkin Ignamith. He ought to be the strongest ally, and maybe he would be, when he had thought it through. There ought to be a dozen sturdy Ignamiths working on the fort at Tharn Valley right now.

  The fort. His father had started the tradition. Farmer or not, Gamion had been enough of a Zardon to think of defense as soon as he owned anything worth defending. He had fortified a part of the old villa. Bulion could remember hauling thorn bushes that first year, lumber the second. He seemed to have spent half his childhood putting up walls and fences. No enemies worse than foxes had ever attacked.

  Mogion had begun the stockade. Bulion had completed it, extended it twice. Again, no foe had ever threatened it.

  Now he had the work force to quarry the old ruins, a kiln to make mortar, and need to build a proper fort. There was war in the air. Any fool could smell it. He needed a real stronghold to lock up the harvest. If an army knew it would have to fight for its supper, it would choose another route or march straight by. No use locking up the grain if the cattle were loose. No use locking up the cattle and not guarding the people...

  Fools like Brankion muttered that sixty fighting men could not defend a place that size. They did not see that the problem was not just the Tharns'. The whole district ought to be involved, the Ignamiths and all the lesser families too. Bulion had been working on them: Help us build it and we give you refuge when you need it. They were coming around. He'd spent a lifetime establishing his reputation as a man of his word. Slowly, they were coming around. They hated the idea that the Tharns would then have control of the whole district, but they were coming around.

  Oh, this accursed tooth! Another five years, fates! I need another five years!

  #

  "All right, Father?"

  Bulion twitched himself back to consciousness and peered at the speaker. He had been two-thirds asleep, still riding. A bushel of slugs had died in his mouth. He could hardly see around the red fire of pain.

  It was Elim, his oldest daughter. A grandmother now, with silver in her hair. Mother of nine and promising another... The concern in her face was hateful.

  He shook his head, not sure his jaw would move enough for speech. He winked instead of trying a smile.

  "Wosion says it's time to rest the horses, Father."

  Now he registered the moorland—they were almost at the pond. And the sun not quite at the zenith, so they had made good time. That's what came of not stopping to gossip. Bulion nodded again, wondering if he would be able to mount after the break.

  #

  The pond had no name, but it was a popular stopping place. Trees and a hollow gave shelter when the wind blew. It was an accursed idiotic place to stop if there was trouble around, Bulion thought. Anyone could come sneaking up through that undergrowth. What sort of geese had he raised? Just because the country had been peaceful all their lives, couldn't any of them think?

  He did not try to tell them. He sat on a heathery tussock and leaned against a boulder, shivering and deathly weary. He took a long drink of the peaty water when Wosion brought it, but refused offers of food, even the fat grapes Elim thrust at him. Quite likely he would never eat again. Everyone else munched busily, jabbering and chattering with forced gaiety. Wosion was being unusually effusive. So was young Polion.

  Good sprout, that! He had a spark, quite unlike his father. He was a rebel born. He'd been in trouble since the day he could walk. How did you hold the bright ones? One day soon that stripling was going to decide that life held more interesting occupations than raising goats and chopping firewood. The family needed sparkle like his. Without it, they'd all be cabbages in another generation or two.

  Polion glanced his way. Bulion beckoned and saw the lad flinch. All his life being summoned had meant about-to-be-punished. Frogs in the beds, rotten eggs coming in through the window, ropes mysteriously tied around outhouses—any disaster in the vale had started a hunt for Polion. His mother used to swear he never missed a day, but he had been better lately. Unfortunately he had trained a generation of younger trouble-makers to follow in his footsteps.

  Now he waited a moment before rising and strolling over, earnestly seeming unconcerned. He squatted down, all bones and tan and fake smile.

  "You're face isn't as swollen, Grandfather."

  Yes it was, but Bulion could still move his jaw a little. "You're lying."

  Polion's eyes darkened, his smile vanished.

  "And I thank you for it." Bulion fumbled in his pouch. "I appreciate the effort. Ready to find yourself a wife in Daling?"

  "No. A girl or two, maybe."

  Impudent sprat! Bulion might have had trouble hiding a smile if his face had been working properly. "Meilim's a gossip. Learn to stay away from them."

  The boy nodded solemnly. "I'll know better next time."

  "Let's just hope you haven't started any real trouble! Here." Bulion passed over a gold coin, a Daling eagle.

  The boy took it, fingered it, stared at it, as if he smelled mockery. "Thanks? What's this for?"

  "An apology for poking fun at you. It'll buy you a night with the best in the house. Don't settle for less."

  Wild delight glowed through Polion's fuzzy whiskers... Screwing! Naked bodies. A girl on a bed with nothing on her but me! Sweat!! The lecherous thoughts rang through the old man's mind like a trumpet blast. Then another: Pain! Hunger! Fire in his jaw!

  The laughter and chatter stopped. Somebody screamed.

  Another volley: Hunger! Food there. Belly cramps. They're eating. Want some, want some. Fire in his jaw. Aneim on a bed, with her legs spread...

  "A Jaulscath!" Farion roared. He jumped to his feet, drawing his sword. "Kill it!"

  The other men copied him—all except Bulion, who sagged back against the boulder.

  Cursed! Cursed Jaulscath! The women were shouting or screaming or clapping their hands over their ears, but hands and noise would not muffle the flood of thought: Cursed of Jaul! Drive it away. Kill it. Hunger. It'll make us mad. They have food. Must be in the trees. Why don't these stupid bitches shut up so we can hear where it is? Hunger-pain in my belly.

  One solitary whisper that felt like Elim: Oh, the poor wretch!

  Some man was intent on bedding Aneim when they got to Daling, and it couldn't be Kilbion, who was home in the vale. Hearing one another's guilty secrets just made people think of their own. Petty jealousies burst out like boils, memories of foolish acts or remarks, long-ago unkind thoughts that haunted sleepless nights, slights forgotten by everyone else—every effort to stop thinking of them only made things worse. Hidden hates and lusts oozed to the surface; fear and shame echoed louder and louder from mind to mind. Bulion himself was tipping agony and deathbed repentance over everyone.

  He tried to open his mouth and realized he could never shout through all this racket. Over by the pond itself, the horses were kicking and plunging at the noise. He reached out to grab Polion's skinny leg. The boy was waving his sword dangerously, but he looked down at those fingers digging into his flesh. Nothing wrong with Bulion's grip yet.

  No need to speak—the very thought came echoing back from the Jaulscath. He's starving. Take him some food. Take that bag. Ask him to go away. The Jaulscath's own thoughts were all mixed in with it, telling of days without food, without shelter, of being driven away time and again. And so were all the other's thoughts: hatred and terror and guilt in insane confusion. But Polion understood.

  His own reply burst forth. Go into the woods? With a Jaulscath reading my mind? Knowing what I'm thinking? Telling everyone? Fear. Doubt. Not a real man yet.

  Bulion: Help me up and I'll do it. I'm scared too. We're all scared.

  Polion snatched up the sack. Prove manhood. Take the bag. Head up. Still flaunting his sword in his other hand, he went racing around the panicking mob, legs moving like flails, heading for the trees. Men started to follow him, thinking: Blood! Cursed of Jaul! Cut its lying head off.

  Wosion intervened then, spreading his arms
to block them. Despite his size, Wosion had always had good lungs and now he made himself heard over the noise. "No killing! That is not for Zarda!" He advanced. Swords fell back before him. "Only Qolians kill the Cursed."

  You can be a prissy old woman at times, son, Bulion thought, but I admire your courage. I always have. He could not tell if Wosion heard that tribute, or could know who sent it.

  Farion tried to go past; Wosion lurched in front of him, risking that naked sword. How long could the cripple hold the lid on this kettle? He had his pastor's authority to help, and they were his nephews, his cousins, but they were spiraling into madness. He must be serious about walking onto their blades, because no one could bluff now. That was the trouble. Any society, even a family, was glued together by deceit, and now every soul was naked to the light.

  Seventeen Tharns, all trumpeting their own most secret thoughts, squirmed with shame at what they were revealing, with horror at what they were learning, echoing all the resulting anger, envy, lust, and every paltry spite stored up for years. Their emotional skins were being stripped away, layer after layer. Stop! Stop! Stop! If they could not get their hands on the Jaulscath, they would fall on one another.

  Was that suppurating stream of resentment coming from old Himion? Which of those married women was so strongly lusting after Polion's youthful slimness?

  Polion himself did not seem to have detected that, fortunately; he was plunging through undergrowth, sending vague complaints of thorns and deadfall, together with a much more specific commentary on his own motives. Can't hurt me. I've got a sword. Show them all I'm not scared. Show I'm a man. Hope I don't pee my britches. Show Meilim I'm a man. Next time she gets it all. Show the whores in Daling. Mercenary soldier, not afraid.

  The Jaulscath: He's got a sword. But he's bringing food. The old man's in pain. Knows he's dying. Yes, dying. Won't ever get home again.

  That did it. A torrent of shock and sorrow burst from the family, drowning out the Jaulscath and Polion too, except for a sudden, Fates, but you're a skinny one! as the two met. A boy! A woman?