Markswoman (Asiana #1)(51)
Derla rose to leave, declining their offers of more tea or a hot meal. The day was getting on, she said, and she had a village meeting to attend before sunset. Sandi Meersil was summoned to escort the visitor back to the Ferghana Hub.
When she was out of earshot, Felda said, “We have two problems, Eldest. First, how are we going to deal with the murderous outlaws in the Thar? Second, how are we going to deal with Tamsyn?”
“Pit them against each other,” suggested Navroz, “and hope that Kai Tau wins.”
The two giggled like novices. “She is too strong for us, Felda,” said Navroz at last. “We cannot confront her. We will have to be indirect if we are to find out the truth of what happened the day Shirin Mam died.” She recounted her unsettling encounter with Tamsyn in the Mahimata’s cell.
“You did well not to try to open that package, Eldest,” said Felda. “If it is sealed by a word of power, then only the person it is intended for can safely access the contents. I wonder what’s in it. Perhaps I will make some discreet inquiries.”
A hint of steel entered Navroz’s voice. “You’ll do no such thing. Be careful, Felda. You are sometimes almost as obvious as Kyra was.”
Felda bristled. “I most certainly am not!” she snapped. Her face clouded. “Where is that dratted girl? Those wyr-wolves . . .”
“Led us a merry dance through the woods, didn’t they?” said Navroz. “Yet Akhtar was found coming from the opposite direction, from the hills of Gonur.”
“You think she found a Hub?” said Felda. “It’s the only logical explanation. I hope she hasn’t taken it into her head to go off to the Thar and attempt vengeance on the Taus all by herself.”
“I wouldn’t put it past her,” said Navroz. “All the more reason for us to act fast. Yes, child, what is it?”
It was Tonar Kalam, hovering at the edge of the red-brown carpet of leaves. She bowed and said, “To remind you, Eldest, that the petitioners are waiting. There are eleven today, six of them from quite far away. At least four require healing.”
Navroz sighed, and both elders rose. Shirin Mam’s death had done nothing to decrease the flow of petitioners. If anything, there seemed even more of them than usual these days, perhaps because Tamsyn did not deign to meet them. That work fell to Navroz.
She groaned inwardly as she surveyed the group of village folk squatting on the grass beneath the trees in the apple grove. There they were, waiting for their miracles, when all she had to offer was a combination of sensible advice, herbs, and a bit of thought-shaping.
Felda was already mumbling some excuse about a set of derivations and backing away. Happily, Navroz caught sight of Elena going toward the kitchen with her friend Nineth, and hailed the apprentice.
“I need your help, Elena,” she called, and the girl came willingly enough, though Nineth fled into the kitchen as if wyr-wolves were after her—no doubt trying to wheedle food out of Tarshana, the wretch.
Thank the Goddess for Elena with her nimble hands and eager mind. If not for her, Navroz would have been hard put finding anyone to train as her eventual replacement. Not that she planned on dying just yet. Still, she was seventy-seven years old, and of late she had been feeling every one of them.
If only Shirin hadn’t died . . .
But there was no use thinking that. Shirin was gone, but Kyra was still alive, somewhere out there. And one day she would return to the caves of Kali. Navroz held on to that thought like a talisman as she approached the petitioners, Elena in tow.
Part III
From The Weapons of the Great War, recounted by a historian of the clan of Arikken to Navroz Lan of the Order of Kali
The Great War was fought many ages ago. The kings and queens who battled for supremacy are long since dust. Not even their graves exist; so many died that they were burned or buried in vast, shallow pits. Some drowned, throwing themselves in the water to escape the burning metal poison that flowed over the earth and hung in the air, dark and suffocating to those who breathed its noxious fumes.
No structures remain of the golden time before the war, save the Fort of Sikandra—and no written tablets survive to tell us what the world looked like then. Everything burned, and what didn’t burn was looted by survivors, and what wasn’t looted succumbed to the wind and rain of the centuries that followed. We have no monument to these men and women of long ago.
Except their guns. Kalashiks do not erode with time. They glow darkly, as if new. Dust will not settle on their smooth flanks. They sit in our underground chamber in a gleaming row, waiting to be picked up and used again.
But we will never commit that sin. This is the injunction that our forefathers laid upon us: guard them well, but do not touch them. Do not even look upon them, or you will be in their thrall.
This is what we know: a kalashik can fire fifty rounds per second. It does not need to be reloaded. There is a replicating mechanism within the chambers of the weapon that constantly replenishes the ammunition, drawing energy for this task from its surroundings, or perhaps from its handler. A drawing made a hundred and twenty years ago by one of the more gifted elders of our clan partially reveals its inner structure.
This is what we guess: the metal of the kalashik is telepathic, like kalishium, but in a deformed way. The metal was made with evil intent and that evil lives on in the machines, twisting the minds of all but the strongest who attempt to wield their power. It is said that the machines are haunted, that they carry the memory of all the men and women they have killed.