Free The Warrior Who Carried Life by Geoff Ryman Page B

gutting of a sick old man and the stoning of his sons—who you were pledged to protect. If you had ever seen anything like a battle, you could not sing so lightly of murder. You could not say it was beautiful!”
    Cara thought of her father, and it seemed suddenly that she would choke. She was weeping, and she stood up, desperate to get out of the room, and stumbling over the bench, strode quickly out of the chamber.
    Stefile remained behind. She sat erect, and raked each of the Angels and their women in turn with her eyes. Conversation gradually resumed, light chatter as if nothing had happened, but none of them could meet Stefile’s gaze. “Music! More music!” called Haliki, but the next, uncertain song was a long song.
    Outside, in the courtyard flooded by moonlight, Cara wept with rage and disgust and remembrance. It was some time before someone, a mere moving shadow in the ice-blue light, came silently towards her. It was Galad, the trainer.
    “What you said was the truth,” he whispered to Cara. “They will not forgive that.”
    “I know,” replied Cara, drawing in a shaky breath. “I will never be an Angel now, and I tell you I don’t want to be.”
    “You are here for a reason, aren’t you?” Galad said.
    Cara poised, hovering, and then answered him. “Yes.”
    “You won’t have time to learn any of the Angel techniques. But you have a sword and armour. I can teach you how to use those.”
    “Thank you,” replied Cara. “But how? When?”
    “It will have to be done at night, when the others are done. I think you will learn quickly.”
    “I have not much time.”
    “A word,” said Galad, glancing about him. “If it is Galo gro Galu you wish to . . . meet.” The trainer was in an agony of embarrassment. “Then only wear your loincloth.”
    Cara looked at him puzzled for a moment, and then understood.
    “That is why he comes to watch,” said Galad, and shrugged as if to cast something off. “We begin now?”
    “We begin now,” said Cara.
    The days passed in a pattern. Cara limbered and stretched, and found that this gave her more strength. It made her more at home in her body. Galad made a show of teaching her the basic lessons of the School. At night, under the clear sky of This Country, he taught Cara sword and shield play. “No, no, don’t think,” he hissed at her in exasperation. “The moment you think, I can see you go uncertain. Somehow your body knows all the tricks.” But it was good to be reminded: never sit with your back to a door, keep your sword on your left side, remember the aim is not to parry but to strike.
    Strangely enough, Haliki did not interfere with these nighttime sessions. “Country Boy knows he will not be here long, and he has the wit to see he cannot fight. Broken Nose teaches him ugly warfare, which is all he is good for.”
    It was Stefile who Haliki pressed mercilessly, calling her Dirty One Dress and Chin Dribble. “Her hands are so rough from work that they draw blood. It is a mystery to me how the two ruffians make love;” and then, “Poor little thing. What a shame you do not have a man to defend you.” It was done out of malice, human and inexplicable. During the day, Haliki practised fighting men with swords. “Do not fight him,” murmured Galad. All the time she was there, Cara held her temper, nursing her secret revenge.
    Every day at sunset, Galo gro Galu came to look at her.
    “When it happens,” Cara told Galad, “tell Stefile. Tell her to leave, then, quickly. If she asked where the Galu has taken me, don’t tell her. She must get away. We have arranged a place to meet outside the City. Make sure she leaves for there, gets out of the House. Tell her also,” Cara added, “that I think of her as my wife.”
    It was in the third week of Cara’s month that the Galu came at night, instead of sunset. He wore only his purple wrapping and his coiled necklace, and he sat on the edge of the wall, an almost luminous white in the