Karis.”
“I know Norina, to whose house we are going. She will blame you that I put myself at your mercy. And you will indeed be in peril.” Karis crawled out of the burrow and whistled shrilly for the horse.
The snow lay deep upon the barren hills, which swelled like a lovely woman’s breasts under a gray silk sky. In the cleft between them clustered groves of leafless trees, and far away in the lower country Zanja thought she spotted a speck of light, perhaps a window of that farm where a warm fire burned behind thick windowpanes.
It was cold, bitter cold, and would be colder still if the wind picked up. Karis waded in knee-deep snow as she carried Zanja down the hillside to the waiting horse. Trembling had taken over her entire frame, and she stumbled in the snow like a dying animal struggling to remain afoot. Her skin, where Zanja touched it, was clammy, and the color had drained out of her face. Zanja had seen many a warrior stricken to the heart who looked no better than this: dazed and shiny-eyed as her soul already started down the last path. Karis managed to lift Zanja to the horse’s back, and stood leaning against the beast’s broad shoulder, breathing shallowly as though she might faint, fumbling one-handed at the buttons of her woolen shirt.
Zanja worked one hand under the cinch to hold herself steady on the horse’s unsaddled back. “Can I help?”
The raven, now perched upon the horse’s rump, said, “Leave her be.”
Zanja looked hastily away as Karis drew a smoke purse out from within her shirt. Zanja once had curiously examined such a purse in the marketplace, not realizing until later what it was for. It would contain a tin matchbox filled with expensive sulfur matches, a charred pipe of carved wood, and a supply of the drug, each small piece wrapped in a twist of waxed paper.
The raven said, “The horse will be unable to carry the two of you in such deep snow. You’ll have to ride alone, while she walks.”
“I will stay on the horse somehow,” Zanja said. She would tie herself to the cinch if she had to.
She heard the crack and sputter of a match being lit, and smelled the stink of sulfur, and then a second smell, like burning mold, the scent of dark alleyways and dilapidated doorways. Karis sighed out her breath and said, suddenly and clearly, “Zanja, the raven is only clever in certain ways. You will have to use your judgment.”
“I understand,” Zanja said, continuing to gaze out at the landscape.
“And you must instruct me—much as we both—dislike the idea. I will obey you. I will—have to.”
The raven said, “You didn’t take a second breath of smoke. Do it now.” Karis said nothing, but Zanja heard another heavy sigh. “Now pack the purse—shake the ashes out of the pipe first—and button your shirt.”
Zanja took off the sheepskin doublet and leaned down to put it on Karis. Karis allowed herself to be clothed and fastened against the cold, all the while gazing into Zanja’s face with the eyes of an infant: startlingly blue and terribly, invitingly helpless. Zanja said to her, her voice strange and rough in her ears, “Good raven, does she have no cap to wear?”
The answer, it seemed, was no, and neither could the raven reassure Zanja that Karis’s boots were well greased or her stockings warm enough to keep her feet from freezing. Karis had embarked on her cold journey no better equipped than a pauper.
Zanja would have to keep Karis moving so that she would not freeze, and perhaps in the end the horse would still have to carry them both. For now, though, Zanja wrapped herself in the heavy blanket, and hoped that their journey would not take so very long.
“It will take half the night at least,” the raven said, when they had started in the direction he told her.
Zanja sighed, dismayed anew. “Is Norina her commander? Her lover?”
The raven cawed a harsh and even bitter laugh. “Lover? Smoke deprives its users of both agency and desire.
“I know Norina, to whose house we are going. She will blame you that I put myself at your mercy. And you will indeed be in peril.” Karis crawled out of the burrow and whistled shrilly for the horse.
The snow lay deep upon the barren hills, which swelled like a lovely woman’s breasts under a gray silk sky. In the cleft between them clustered groves of leafless trees, and far away in the lower country Zanja thought she spotted a speck of light, perhaps a window of that farm where a warm fire burned behind thick windowpanes.
It was cold, bitter cold, and would be colder still if the wind picked up. Karis waded in knee-deep snow as she carried Zanja down the hillside to the waiting horse. Trembling had taken over her entire frame, and she stumbled in the snow like a dying animal struggling to remain afoot. Her skin, where Zanja touched it, was clammy, and the color had drained out of her face. Zanja had seen many a warrior stricken to the heart who looked no better than this: dazed and shiny-eyed as her soul already started down the last path. Karis managed to lift Zanja to the horse’s back, and stood leaning against the beast’s broad shoulder, breathing shallowly as though she might faint, fumbling one-handed at the buttons of her woolen shirt.
Zanja worked one hand under the cinch to hold herself steady on the horse’s unsaddled back. “Can I help?”
The raven, now perched upon the horse’s rump, said, “Leave her be.”
Zanja looked hastily away as Karis drew a smoke purse out from within her shirt. Zanja once had curiously examined such a purse in the marketplace, not realizing until later what it was for. It would contain a tin matchbox filled with expensive sulfur matches, a charred pipe of carved wood, and a supply of the drug, each small piece wrapped in a twist of waxed paper.
The raven said, “The horse will be unable to carry the two of you in such deep snow. You’ll have to ride alone, while she walks.”
“I will stay on the horse somehow,” Zanja said. She would tie herself to the cinch if she had to.
She heard the crack and sputter of a match being lit, and smelled the stink of sulfur, and then a second smell, like burning mold, the scent of dark alleyways and dilapidated doorways. Karis sighed out her breath and said, suddenly and clearly, “Zanja, the raven is only clever in certain ways. You will have to use your judgment.”
“I understand,” Zanja said, continuing to gaze out at the landscape.
“And you must instruct me—much as we both—dislike the idea. I will obey you. I will—have to.”
The raven said, “You didn’t take a second breath of smoke. Do it now.” Karis said nothing, but Zanja heard another heavy sigh. “Now pack the purse—shake the ashes out of the pipe first—and button your shirt.”
Zanja took off the sheepskin doublet and leaned down to put it on Karis. Karis allowed herself to be clothed and fastened against the cold, all the while gazing into Zanja’s face with the eyes of an infant: startlingly blue and terribly, invitingly helpless. Zanja said to her, her voice strange and rough in her ears, “Good raven, does she have no cap to wear?”
The answer, it seemed, was no, and neither could the raven reassure Zanja that Karis’s boots were well greased or her stockings warm enough to keep her feet from freezing. Karis had embarked on her cold journey no better equipped than a pauper.
Zanja would have to keep Karis moving so that she would not freeze, and perhaps in the end the horse would still have to carry them both. For now, though, Zanja wrapped herself in the heavy blanket, and hoped that their journey would not take so very long.
“It will take half the night at least,” the raven said, when they had started in the direction he told her.
Zanja sighed, dismayed anew. “Is Norina her commander? Her lover?”
The raven cawed a harsh and even bitter laugh. “Lover? Smoke deprives its users of both agency and desire.
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