by Glen Cook
Zenobel protested. “But honor...”
“Honor hasn’t got a damned thing to do with it. And never has. All right. Say we try to get even for Dak-es-Souetta. Our men are poorly armed and out of training and not all of them are anxious to fight, anyway. Win or lose, we’d suffer badly. Say we did smash Fa’tad. Then with whatever we had left we’d had to deal with the surviving Herodians, then with the expeditions Cado sent out when they return, then with whatever Herod sends to restore order.”
“You have a negative outlook, bel-Sidek.”
“Would you say it’s unrealistic?”
“Damn it, no! I hate it, but you’re right.”
Carza snapped, “Yet with Nakar restored we’d suffer none of those weaknesses.”
King said, “I’d sooner swear allegiance to Herod.”
Carza seemed baffled.
Smugly, bel-Sidek asked, “Have you forgotten what it was like when Nakar was alive?”
“No,” Carza snapped back. “I haven’t forgotten.” His anger was in check by the strength of a whisker.
Carza’s family had been favored under the old order. So some there were who would welcome a restoration, not having had to bear the weight of the sorcerer’s previous incarnation.
For some reason bel-Sidek thought of the carpenter Aaron with his powerful resentments of those who had ruled before the conquest. There were tens of thousands of Aarons in Qushmarrah and they could well represent an additional factor in the already confused power equation.
Only Nakar the Abomination had been strong enough to rule without some degree of consent from the ruled.
The argument sputtered on without bel-Sidek contributing, reason gradually conquering passion. Carza’s view won no support. Bel-Sidek watched the Dartars move around in front of the citadel.
Speak of the devil! There the carpenter was, right in the middle of things.
But would he not be at that gate himself if it was his son imprisoned and scheduled for sacrifice? Hell, yes. And damned be the politics.
He could find nothing in his heart with which to condemn the man. “Carza. Will you come look at those people and see if you can tell what they’re doing?”
Carza did as he was told, with poor grace.
What kind of rule could they provide, should they come to power, when they could not manage courtesy, or even civility, among themselves?
A nasty thought tracked across his mind. If Herod and Fa’tad were pushed out, there might be a bloody period till a strongman emerged. And that man was unlikely to be Colonel Sisu bel-Sidek. He did not have the backing. Pressed, he would have to bet on Zenobel.
It was something to consider in his spare moments. His companions would be thinking about it, not that the possibility of independence actually existed.
Carza snorted, then laughed softly. “The fools are going at it from the wrong direction. They can’t get in through the main gate.”
Bel-Sidek’s stomach knotted suddenly. No! So much time had fled already. For all anyone knew they were bringing Nakar around right now...
He wished to hell he had some idea what was going on in there.
He tried to put that out of mind. Too much fear came with those thoughts. His stated attitudes condemned him as surely as any Dartar or Herodian should Nakar make his return.
King Dabdahd crept up beside him. “You were always the genius staffer, bel-Sidek. The strategist the old man counted on. What would you do with the citadel if you grabbed it? You think Fa’tad might?”
It was not like King to dither and flutter around the edges of something but it was not like him to have an original thought, either. Clearly, he had had one. He did not want to state it plainly because someone might laugh.
Bel-Sidek saw it clearly enough. “You could be right.”
Fa’tad might want the citadel itself as much as the treasures inside it. From within its impenetrable walls he could scour the city of every valuable before he left for his mountains-or he could stay and rule, harvesting Qushmarrah’s wealth slowly and more certainly. He might even rule with a certain benevolence, restricting his predations to Herodians and those who declared themselves his enemies.
He’d then have a place to spend treasures for the benefit of his people.
At last bel-Sidek thought he saw the true face of Fa’tad’s ambition. An ambition that would live or die according to whether or not he took the citadel before Nakar quickened.
“You’re right, King. Thanks for making me see it. I’ll give it some thought.” What it meant, though, he feared, was that the Living would have to try to prevent it-with all that implied in lives wasted and new vulnerabilities.
Salom Edgit asked, “Do we all have to be up here for this? I could use a chance to dry out.”
“I can go along with that,” Carza said.
Bel-Sidek nodded. Still, someone had to keep an eye on the Dartars. He asked for a volunteer, got King Dabdahd. The rest headed for shelter and continued debate.
The fleet from Qushmarrah reached the far shore of the Gulf of Tuhn sooner than anticipated. The weather was more hospitable there. The troops were ashore and ready to greet the Turoks before nightfall. Whatever happened elsewhere, those raiders would be numbered among General Lentello Cado’s triumphs.
Not a soul witnessed the Herodian landing.
Zouki followed Arif wherever he went, whatever he did. Arif fled, dismayed by the look in Zouki’s eyes, a terrible but unreasoning look. A beast look.
What did it mean? His young mind could not make sense of it. It was merely another fright among many.
The big man and another came to the cage. Arif was terrified. Something about the shorter man... Zouki was frightened, too. He ran to hide with the rock apes, though he remembered nothing directly.
The two men stared at Arif and spoke too softly to be overheard. Arif was sure they were talking about him. He wanted to run and hide, too, but was petrified. He did not want to get closer to Zouki, either. And there was nowhere else to run.
One of the girls came to Arif after the men left. She just stared at him. That made him uncomfortable. He said, “My dad will get me out.” He wanted to believe that so badly he had convinced himself it was true.
Belief made the terror almost bearable.
21
Aaron felt like a clown, carrying a knife and a sword. He could not help thinking his Dartar companions found him amusing. What did he know about swords? He had not had one in hand for six years and even back then all he’d done was keep his blade clean and sharp and oiled. That night in his own home was the only time he’d seriously tried to kill somebody.
Then he looked at the Dartars more closely. It was unlikely many were more experienced than he. They were too young. Fa’tad would have his veterans placed where the chances of real fighting were greatest. The advantage these boys had was that they had grown up in a harsher environment and fiercer culture.
The Herodian sorceress chattered steadily. Even Nogah could make no sense of what she said. He sent for someone to interpret.
The man who came was an older Dartar who made the youngsters nervous, obviously someone whose good opinion meant a lot to them.
“Mo’atabar,” Yoseh told Aaron. “Our captain’s second and a friend of our father. Having him here is like having Father’s ghost watching over our shoulders.” The boy was determinedly on his best behavior.
Mo’atabar translated as the sorceress rattled on. At first it seemed she was just talking to herself, thinking out loud, making little sense. Then she said something about men watching them. Everyone responded as though to an unexpected thunderclap. It took Mo’atabar a minute to stop her and back her up.
“Two men watching from the citadel, in the top of that tower.” She pointed with her nose. “Another half dozen on the roof of the red and white three-storey building with the balconies, there on the edge of the square.”
Aaron tried to appear unconcerned as he glanced that way. She meant the home of that crazy w
oman who owned the ships. He spied the silhouette of a head. The light was too poor and the distance too great to make out any features.
Mo’atabar said it. “The Living. They have been quiet as mice but you know they’re out there watching. Faruk, come here.” Mo’atabar whispered to the younger Dartar, who then ambled off toward the Residence.
The sorceress was on to something else now, muttering about the job at hand. “Something wrong with this pattern. Doesn’t feel like it goes anywhere. Almost like it folds in on itself. When am I going to get someone I can experiment with?”
“Soon,” Mo’atabar promised. “I just sent a man to find out.”
Liar, Aaron thought, catching enough of that to understand. Whatever message Faruk had carried, it had had to do with the Living. No one ever told the truth. Everyone was maneuvering and trying to manipulate everyone else. Which said what about his place in the middle of things?
He did not see how he could be any use to anyone anymore. The Dartars were paying him off by letting him tag along. Unless they used him as a symbol, a banner to be trotted out and pointed at as an inspiration for a noble cause.
He tried not to think of Arif, or of Arif s proximity, maybe no more than a stone’s throw away. He had to keep his head.
A troop of Dartar horsemen passed, coming from the direction of the Residence, looking like they were headed for trouble. Mo’atabar hailed their captain, who said they were headed into the Shu where some of the trapped Herodians had broken through a third-level closure and were trying to fight their way out of the maze. The outbreak had been contained but it needed to be pushed back and the breach sealed again. Right now there was fierce fighting on the tiers above the place where Aaron lived.
A moment of panic.
Then reason returned, accompanied by the realization that most of any bloodletting would take place in the Shu because most of Herod’s men were there.
“Yoseh, I need to get my family out of that. They’ll be in the middle of it.”
The boy looked at him like he wondered why he was wasting time. “I’ll tell Mo’atabar.”
Mo’atabar summoned Aaron and tied a piece of colored cord around his left arm, at the elbow. “So you’ll be known as a friend. But don’t push your luck.”
“I’ll be back.” Aaron started walking, expecting a challenge before he got out of sight of the citadel. Though he did not run he wasted no time.
Yoseh watched the carpenter hurry away. He tried not to worry about Tamisa. Not his place. No reason to trouble himself. She was as far beyond his reach now as she was before he met her.
Nogah asked, “What’s he up to?”
Yoseh explained.
“Good idea. I’m starting to think our witch is as useful as udders on a bull. When’s she going to do something besides talk to herself?”
Nogah was frightened! Damn! He was sure they would not break through in time.
Yoseh saw the same fear everywhere-and in the witch most of all. The citadel had given them a lot of time. Maybe they were playing games in there. Maybe they were just letting the invaders torment themselves.
Yoseh had not been tense till he began thinking about what a deadly race this was. The pressure had begun to mount. Now he wondered why he had talked himself into conning to this mad city. Mo’atabar was right. It was the city of lead and gold. Only the gold was imaginary and lead was what became of your dreams.
Men leading a string often prisoners came out of the rain-not Herodian prisoners of war, as Yoseh had expected, but Qush-marrahans with the ratty look of petty criminals. Mo’atabar lined them up in a sad parody of a formation.
“What we’re doing here is trying to get into the citadel,” Mo’atabar told them. “There’s a sorcery on the gate. We have to penetrate it. I won’t tell you your part isn’t dangerous but I won’t risk you unreasonably, either. Your chances of getting through are good. And once we’ve found our way inside you’ll be released.”
Yoseh knew he would have jumped at the chance had he been stuffed into a cell waiting to be chained to an oar in a Herodian galley.
“We got a choice here?” one man asked. He looked more hardened than his fellows.
“Of course. We won’t force anyone. If you don’t want to volunteer let me know. I’ll cut your throat and the rest of us can get on with our work.”
“‘Bout the way I thought it’d be.”
Mo’atabar told the sorceress, “They’re all yours. Tell me what you want to have them do.”
In the beginning Yoseh thought what the witch was doing was a lot of foolishness. She picked a prisoner, lined him up just so, had Mo’atabar tell him to take four baby steps forward. He was to remain motionless there till he received instructions otherwise. Then she had another man repeat that and take a couple of side steps, then three forward.
By the time the fifth went through his routine unharmed the others began to relax. And Yoseh realized there was something happening, after all.
That fifth man looked a little like he was behind the heat shimmer that rose off the Takes. And the sixth, once he got where he had been told to go, was only a vague discoloration except when Yoseh looked at him sort of sideways and indirectly.
The seventh man disappeared completely. There was no evidence he existed at all-except for his screams.
Aaron thought he was clever to move his family into Naszifs home. With no one in the streets, with every door and window barred so no one could see trouble coming, none of Naszifs neighbors would know who was staying inside.
He got them in unnoticed, with everything they could carry. Then Laella accompanied him to the door. There was a look in her eyes he had not seen since the day his company had left for the Seven Towers. She avoided touching the weapons he carried so clumsily. “Be careful, Aaron,” and the way she said it made it more than a parting caution. It was a prayer.
He kissed her forehead. “I will. Believe me, I will. I’m no hero.”
“Don’t say that. Yes, you are.”
He looked at each of them in turn, and Stafa the longest, then he went.
Aram had to be guiding him. Going home, down Char Street, he had run into no one, though he had been sure he would encounter Dartars who would not believe the cord around his arm. He had not. And it looked like his luck would continue now.
It did not occur to him to wonder what had become of all those horses and men who had hurried into Char Street supposedly to keep the Herodians from escaping.
“Aaron.”
He was so startled he almost drew his sword. He looked around-and there, in the mouth of an alley, was bel-Sidek. He looked around again, hastily, suspiciously, fearfully.
“I’m alone, Aaron. And unarmed.”
“What do you want?”
“I have a message for your Dartar friends.”
“What? Why?”
“Occasionally even our enemies do something we favor. We-my faction among the Living-have no desire for Nakar’s return. I’ve told Fa’tad I’d accept the looting of the citadel if that’s his price for leaving Qushmarrah.”
“So what’s the message?” Aaron did not believe a word the man said, but neither did he disbelieve. The captains of the factions all created their own truths. Parts of some might actually dovetail with reality.
“It’s direct and basic, Aaron. They’re trying to get into the citadel through the wrong door. The sorcery protecting the main gate is a fake and a decoy. The real entrance is a postern around to the south. The pattern guarding it has been in place two centuries, which is why no one knows about it. It leaves the wall looking unbroken. I’m told there are alarms built into the pattern. You won’t surprise anyone.”
“They know what we’re doing. They’ve been watching all morning.”
“Ah? Pass that along, then. Quickly. They’ve had too much time already.” Bel-Sidek glanced up and down the street, retreated into his alley.
Aaron looked around, too. He saw nothing but frowning buildings and falling rain. H
e shrugged and hurried uphill.
The Dartars seemed surprised to see him. He went straight to Mo’atabar with his story.
Mo’atabar seemed disinclined to credit it but Nogah butted in. “Let the witch decide. She’s the one who knows this stuff. And she sure isn’t getting anywhere going at it the way she is.”
Yoseh told Aaron, “She’s hit a dead end. She’s lost three prisoners in there and still can’t find the way.”
Mo’atabar scowled. He did not like being taught to suck eggs by his grandchildren. But he relayed the message, anyway.
The Herodian woman brightened. She began chattering more fervently than she had earlier. She dropped what she was doing and hastened around to the south face of the citadel. After a few back-and-forths she froze and stared. Her chatter became vehement.
Mo’atabar said, “You were right, carpenter. She’s cussing herself out for not having seen it. And answering herself, saying she missed it because it was so cunningly hidden.”
“She’s arguing with herself?”
“All Herodians are mad,” Mo’atabar declared.
Reyha had nothing to do and teetered at the brink of terror, so Naszif had her accompany him on his endless rounds of the barricades. He found her chores to occupy her hands and mind. She went along because she needed the distraction desperately.
Naszif himself was, in a sense, pleased to be caught in a desperate siege. Fending off those Dartar traitors left him no time to brood about Zouki.
The fending had grown easier. They no longer seemed interested in conquering Government House, only in keeping him confined, out of touch.
He cursed his inability to discover what was happening elsewhere. He cursed the rain. In better weather the siege would not have cut communications. The whole sprawl of Qushmarrah could be seen from the heights of Government House. Information could come and go via signal lights or semaphore.
Reason said Herodian arms had suffered a disaster. Else the nomads would have been driven from the acropolis by now.
