Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 Read Online Free PDF

and woman
come occasionally to Summerfair, that is all."
                "But—I remember
something—"
                "That speaks well of your
learning," Rogan said dryly. "What you recall, I believe, is that one
of your ancestors, exiled from Homana, went into the service of Caledon and fought against Steppes border
raiders."
                "Carillon." Kellin nodded.
"And Finn, his Cheysuli liege man." He grinned. "I am kin to
both."
                "So you are." Rogan looked
again at the scarred warrior. "A formidable foe, but then Carillon himself
was a gifted soldier—"
                "—and Finn was Cheysuli."
Kellin's tone was definitive; nothing more need be said.
                "Aye." Rogan was resigned.
"Finn was indeed Cheysuli."
                Kellin stared hard at the Steppes
warrior. The forgotten suhoqla dripped spiced grease down the front of his
jerkin. It was in his mind to make the warrior acknowledge the preeminence of
the Cheysuli, to mark the presence of superiority; he wanted badly for the
fierceness of the scarred man to pale to insignificance beside the power of his
own race, men—and some women—who could assume the shape of animals at will. It
was important that the man be made to look at him, to see him, to know he was
Cheysuli, as was Finn, who had battled Steppes raiders a hundred years before.
                At last the black, slanting eyes
deigned to glance in his direction. Instinctively, Kellin raised his chin in
challenge. "I am Cheysuli."
                Rogan grunted. "I doubt he
speaks Homanan."
                "Then how does he know what
anyone says?"
                The young woman moved slightly, eyes
downcast. "I speak." Her voice was very soft, the Homanan words
heavily accented. "I speak, tell Tuqhoc what is said, Tuqhoc decides if
speaker lives."
                Kellin stared at her in
astonishment. "He decides!"
                "If insult is given, speaker
must die." The young woman glanced at the warrior, Tuqhoc, whose eyes had
lost their impassivity, and spoke rapidly in a strange tongue.
                Kellin felt a foolhardy courage fill
up his chest, driving him to further challenge. "Is he going to kill me
now?"
                The young woman's eyes remained
downcast. "I told him you understand the custom."
                "And if I insulted you?"
                "Kellin," Rogan warned.
"Play at no semantics with these people; such folly promises danger."
                The young woman was matter-of-fact.
"He would choose a knife, and you would die."
                Kellin stared at the array of knives
strapped against scarred flesh. "Which one?"
                She considered it seriously a
moment. "The king-knife. That one, one around his neck."
                "That one?" Kellin looked
at it. "Why?"
                Her smile was fleeting, and aimed at
the ground.
                "A king-knife for a king—or a
king's son."
                It was utterly unexpected. Heat
filled Kellin's face. Everyone else knew; he was no longer required to explain.
He had set aside such explanations years before. But now the young woman had
stirred up the emotions again, and he found the words difficult. "My
father is not a king."
                "You walk with dogs."
                "Dogs?" Baffled, Kellin
glanced up at Rogan.
                "He is my tutor, not a dog. He
teaches me things."
                "I try to," Rogan remarked
dryly.
                She was undeterred by the irony.
"Them," Her glance indicated the alerted Mujharan Guard, moving
closer now that their charge conversed with strangers from the Steppes.
                Kellin saw her gaze, saw her
expression, and imagined what she thought. It diminished him. In her