Free Bloodsongs by Robin W Bailey Page A

of her fists, garments cast in careless piles. There was no order to any of it.
    â€œNo, I’m not a thief,” he explained. “I wander the caravan roads. Amazing what they leave behind or what falls unheeded from their wagons. Or sometimes I fix a wheel or mend a harness, and they pay me with goods.”
    â€œYou should open a shop in Dashrani,” she said.
    â€œDon’t want to live in the city,” he answered disdainfully. “But when the baby comes I’ll probably have to sell some of it.”
    She spotted her possessions scattered about. There were her cook pots and a keg of her best beer. “Drink that,” she advised. “It will spoil quickly back here.” There were some of her skirts and Kirigi’s dumbeki . She ran her fingers over that, remembering. There were other items of Kirigi’s. She did her best to ignore them all. At last, she found her trunk half-covered by the carpets that had lined the floor of her small sleeping room.
    â€œYou didn’t miss much,” she said solemnly.
    Amalki shrugged. “There was lots more, but the sergeant was impatient.”
    Samidar swept the carpets aside and lifted the trunk’s lid. “Bring that light closer,” she said, kneeling. “Then for Teri’s sake you’d better leave me alone to change.”
    Amalki placed the lamp on a shelf where it could shine on the trunk’s contents. “For Teri’s sake,” he said with a barely concealed smirk, “or for mine?”
    She waited until he was gone. When she was alone she sank back with a sigh and leaned one arm on the old trunk. She felt like crying again, but there were no tears left. Instead, she listened to the rain as it smashed against the thin wooden walls, and she rubbed her arms and shoulders. It was cold in the drafty room.
    At last, she gathered her courage and bent over the rim. She emptied the trunk item by item, memory by memory. Here was the shawl Kimon had given her years ago, with its bright embroidery and pearls sewn along the edges. Here was the blanket that covered them that first night in their inn. Another blanket followed, the one Kimon had wrapped so proudly around his newborn son. There were a few garments under that. She set everything aside with tenderness. Amalki had no conception how much she was giving him or what she was leaving behind. He wouldn’t treat these things with much care. Maybe that was why she took her time.
    As she reached the bottom of the old trunk she found the things she sought. The clothes were worn, folded and bound into a bundle with a belt. She set them close at hand, separate from the other pile she had made of her memories, and reached back into the trunk.
    Her sword lay within. The leather sheath was battered and scratched, but the lamplight gleamed on the keen edge as she exposed a short length of blade. The smell of oil touched her nostrils, a bit of lubricant to protect the steel from rust. She slid the blade back home and regarded the unadorned hilt; the wrapping was dulled with the clear print of her hand.
    She cradled the weapon in the crook of her arm almost as if it were a child. A slow sigh escaped her lips as she leaned it against the trunk.
    A pair of boots came out next, once supple but now stiff from disuse.
    All that remained in the trunk was a circlet of twisted silver. The metal was tarnished with age and neglect, but nothing dimmed the polished moonstone inset. Long ago a good friend had given it to her. Samidar gathered her hair, put the damp mass through the circlet, and balanced it on her brow. She traced around the setting, recalling how much it resembled a third eye when seen in the right light or from the proper angle. It was one of her dearest treasures.
    She rose, wincing at the tingle of returning circulation in her legs. Slowly, almost ritualistically, she peeled off her wet tunic and untied the strings that held her skirts around her waist. They