by Marcin Wrona
Chapter 10: A Song for Ekka
Night had fallen over Wacham’s Cradle. It was named, Akosh had explained, after a Lugal famed for his sobriety – prudishness, as some would have it. The irony was unmistakable. A linen banner hung over the lintel, home to an embroidered child that smiled beatifically, raising a plump hand in blessing over the whores gathered in the doorway.
As Kamvar passed beneath the sign, avoiding as best he could their predatory gazes, he felt a soft hand lightly tracing the lines of his scarred shoulder, and another teasing its way from a knee to inside his thigh. He shivered and turned to scowl at a local beauty with thick curls, a golden chain hanging from her wide hips. She withdrew her hand, but her eyes held more amusement than he would have liked.
I am grown too old for such foolishness. Kamvar turned briskly away from the whore, aware – and not entirely unashamed – that he’d grown hard at her touch.
Akosh had no such conscience to wrestle with. He barreled through the doorway in a manner that must have been expertly calculated to brush against as many women as possible, all the while grinning like a crocodile. One of the girls whispered something to him that Kamvar could not hear over the muted sound of pipes and the twang of a string instrument he could not identify. Akosh laughed and whispered something back. The old man was in his element.
That Tahmin had decided not to come along was probably good, all things considered. He’d likely have had a few choice words about the venue Akosh had chosen.
Inside the pleasure hall’s door was a corridor hung with tapestries in red and gold, depicting men and women walking together, eating together, and eventually laying together – the last in some detail. At its end stood guards from one exotic southern country or another, large men that had been shaven clean as babes. They were draped in silken fineries that by themselves must have been expensive enough to buy whatever forsaken village they’d been snatched from. One of the men looked Kamvar over, patted perfunctorily at his sides and legs, and nodded. “No fight. No weapon,” he said before waving him through.
Inside, fires crackled merrily in braziers set against the walls, and in such close quarters the air was sweltering. Everything stank of hashish smoke and incense, sweat and sex.
In the middle of the room, a trio of nude women twisted sinuously to the skirling pipes of a slightly built Ekkadi boy. To Kamvar’s fatherly sensibilities, he seemed much too young to be allowed in a place like this. The youth stomped his foot and the women clapped in response, accompanied by the scattered claps and catcalls of a drunken crowd seated amid a sea of azure-dyed pillows that followed the wall.
“This is… not what I am accustomed to,” Kamvar confessed to his friend, who laughed and tousled his hair, as though he were no older than the piper.
Akosh scanned the room intently and pointed to a ring of pillows around a small table, empty but for a fat man and the serving girl he’d pulled into his lap. They tiptoed around a crowd entranced by the dancers and sat down.
Kamvar nodded to their new neighbour, who in a moment of distraction allowed the girl just enough space to pry herself out of his arms. Before she could make her escape, however, Akosh grabbed the gauzy silk of her gown and tugged at it. She turned to him and smiled forcedly, but the old man’s designs were honourable enough. Kamvar had to strain to hear his order of beer and a pipe over the din. The girl nodded, bowed her head, and was gone.
Akosh leaned in close. “I’ve no idea if she heard me or not,” he said. “I hope you’re not too discerning. Who knows what we’ll end up with?”
Kamvar shrugged and reclined into the pillows, his back grateful for the luxury of their softness. They’d been training hard, he and Akosh, exorcising demons of idleness and boredom with fists and sticks. That his body complained of it was not a good sign. There had been too much sitting around; too many hours lost questioning this underworld maven or that, all to no avail. The Hunt had learned nothing conclusive, nor had their outriders, and the frustration was palpable – the men were short with each other when together, and given to solitude otherwise. More so, anyhow. Only Akosh seemed immune.
Kamvar looked over at his companion, who now clapped in time with the pipe player’s stomping foot and roared his approval at the dancers that leapt and twisted, a whirlwind of dark hair and slender legs. Kamvar turned to watch them and found his cares melting away into the sweet ache of longing. Sahar had dark hair and long legs, and if she could not dance as gracefully as these women, she could still make his blood sing.
The serving girl had evidently heard Akosh clearly. She returned, placing a jug of beer on the table before them. Behind her was a slender man carrying an ornate water pipe, a chimera of brass tubes and pots topped by a shallow bowl. The man bowed as he placed it before them. He took up the tongs and made his way to the nearest brazier, while the girl poured beer for them and eyed her erstwhile captor warily.
The male attendant returned with a glowing coal he placed atop the pipe, and Akosh thanked him with coins. The servants scurried away, bowing their heads in apology whenever they obscured someone’s sight of the dancers, who had slowed down somewhat.
Akosh reached for the pipe and puffed at it merrily while Kamvar drained his beer. The music stopped, suddenly, and for an instant all that Kamvar heard was the gurgle of the pipe, until the dancers bowed and applause rang out.
“Aha!” Akosh said, blowing a ring of smoke. “Finally lit.”
He explained that the pipe contained a brick of hashish, cut up into chips and mixed with a concoction of spices and fragrant leaves. He passed the mouthpiece to Kamvar, who pulled at it and held the smoke a moment in his lungs. It tasted of mint and something not unlike Bachiyan cardamom; a pleasant enough combination. He exhaled white smoke into air already thick with it and poured himself another cup of beer.
Akosh laughed as he reclaimed the pipe. “No coughing, eh? That’s interesting.”
“I’m not a priest, my friend,” Kamvar replied.
Akosh grinned crookedly around the pipe’s mouthpiece. “Could’ve fooled me, the way you ran from the fine young ladies outside.”
“I thought I’d leave a few for you. Consider it my respect for the elderly.”
“Oho!” Akosh swatted at him and passed the pipe. “Best watch that tone, stripling. I’m not too old to throw you around the room!”
That much, at least, was true. Akosh still got the better of the younger man more often than not. Kamvar found himself wondering what a menace he must have been in his prime. Akosh had told him a tale or two of blood spilled in dusty fields. He had not said much about his own role in those stories, but it was easy to imagine him young and strong, reaping a bloody harvest with his axe.
After a time rendered indistinct by pipe smoke – an hour, two? - a lanky man with a long beard walked into the centre of the room, and announced something that Kamvar could not hear over the conversations of other patrons. Having mumbled his piece, the man bowed and walked off, and another took the stage, an older man with a lyre in hand and the milk-white eyes of the injured blind.
The crowd quieted somewhat, and as Kamvar handed the pipe’s mouthpiece back to his companion, the musician began to strum. He repeated a single chord at first, while he introduced whatever it was he would play in a dialect with which Kamvar was unfamiliar. That chord was soon joined by another, and the old man began to sing.
Kamvar leaned back into the pillows and closed his eyes, and in the dark the music seemed strangely vivid, a wave that crested and fell, then reformed to the urgings of an old singer’s incongruously sweet voice. When the beat of drums joined in, faintly at first then growing more urgent, he imagined a thunderstorm drawing ever closer to the shore, bringing with it waves to crush ships and shatter homes. The voice, once warm, was now strident, a howling wind to churn the sea.
Kamvar felt strangely uncomfortable. He opened his eyes, and the musician seemed to shrink in his mind, turning from the raging Serpent that drove the tide before him
back into a frail, blind man, but his voice was powerful still. Although Kamvar could make little sense of the lyrics, he heard anger in them. He reached for his beer, hand unsteady, and met the eye of the fat man that sat nearby. There was anger in him, too, it seemed – a keen edge, barely disguised, a whispered menace.
Something... something is wrong. I should stop smoking. Clear my head.
He drained most of his cup, and watched the liquid inside ripple with the drumbeat that reverberated inside him, loud, insistent. He realized that the pipe was in his hand, and he put it down on the table, shaking his head as though to clear it of dust.
“Akosh. Something does not feel…right. Do you feel it?” he asked, and his friend turned to him, a thick white eyebrow raised quizzically.
“You’re just smoke-addled,” Akosh said, and his voice seemed muffled, as though it was far away, hidden away in a remote corner behind the soaring tenor of the stage musician.
“No, no. I’m not.” Yes, you are. “Yes. I am. But there’s something more. Akosh, this song. What is it about? There’s so much anger. Everywhere.”
Akosh turned to him, and Kamvar could see a fire smouldering in his eyes, threatening to break the skin and erupt, to bury the mountainside with molten stone.
“It is… nothing. Just a war song.”
He was lying. Kamvar was sure of it. Why would he lie? His mind swam as though through turgid water, a salt sea. He pushed slowly, laboriously, to an obvious conclusion.
“Conquest. This song is about us, isn’t it?”
He saw the fire leave Akosh’s eyes, replaced by something gentler. The old lion nodded, and surveyed the crowd around them from right to left. His eyes widened, and he gestured to Kamvar to lean closer.
“I think we should leave,” he said. “Quietly, now.”
His friend’s words sharpened Kamvar’s mind. There was wisdom in them. The drums were growing more insistent, the angry intent behind them more palpable. This was not, all things considered, the safest of places for a Sarvashi.
Kamvar stood up, a little shakily, and felt his head swim. He stepped carefully over the pillows and into the aisle between stage and seats, painfully aware of a hundred eyes coming to rest upon him as he left. He felt exposed and vulnerable. He sweated, concentrating on the feat that was walking in a straight line.
He passed the foreign guardsmen, glancing back to ensure that he was still being followed by Akosh’s reassuring bulk. He passed ladies that whispered and threw coy glances, beckoning and inviting them to spend the night, and then he was outside, breathing deeply of the cool night air. He had never felt so relieved to be under the Serpent’s gaze – a thought that seemed somehow less heretical this night than it might have – but even that momentary relief passed when his hand brushed his belt and found it empty of the comforting heft of his knife.
Kamvar’s heart pounded as he patted his thigh, his boot, the small of his back. Nothing. He was unarmed.
But…
Of course you’re unarmed, fool. You came unarmed.
He let out a barking laugh and shook his head, then flinched and cocked a fist when a hand came to rest on his shoulder. He spun on his heel, ready to let fly. Akosh. Of course.
“Are you quite well, lad?” asked Akosh, concerned.
Last damn time I smoke this shit. It was probably a lie, and he knew that full well, but at the moment it seemed a necessary one.
“I… yes. All’s well. I think I just need to sleep. Tonight is too strange.”
Akosh laughed. “You should see yourself, Kamvar. Leaping at shadows, wild-eyed. You look like a boy terrified that his father will find out what he’s been doing.” That was unflattering, perhaps, but difficult to gainsay. Akosh looked none the worse for wear. It irritated him somewhat.
“Come, lad, come. Let’s head back. It has been a long night, and my old bones could use some rest,” Akosh said. “Would’ve preferred to rest with a soft, young thing wrapped around me, but I suppose I’ll have to settle for your company.”
Kamvar chuckled at that. “I’ll not sleep with you, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” The cool night air was pleasant, refreshing. He felt as though the smoke of Hacham’s Cradle was leaving, wending its way up into a sky half-black, to fill the void left by feathers falling to the earth.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. I hear that’s what you Sarvashi use goats for.”
“Odd,” Kamvar replied. “We say the same of your people.”
“Aye. The Ekkadi say that too. Seems we’re all one big, happy empire of goat-fuckers.”
Kamvar did not laugh. Empire, it seemed, was a word he’d have to be more careful of in the future. Something in that smoke-filled bar had shaken him.
“You’re not… offended, are you?” Akosh asked. “By the whores, I mean. You seemed uncomfortable.”
“Hm? No.” He wasn’t, not really. “Some of the other men might be. Some are less… let’s call it ‘worldly’… than I.”
“That’s a relief. I have to say, I had a mind to just turn back when I saw you contort yourself to get away from that girl.” Akosh chuckled at that, stroking his beard.
“Ah, well. As to that: I’m not particularly afraid of women, Akosh. I just prefer my own. I almost felt that I was betraying her just by walking through that door, stupid as that may sound. I have not been touched by a woman other than Sahar in many, many years.”
“That doesn’t sound stupid, my boy. That sounds like you’re in love.”
“Were you ever married?” It occurred to Kamvar that he knew precious little about his friend, save what he’d been told of his exploits as a soldier.
Akosh regarded him quizzically, then sighed and looked up at the dark sky. “I was, once. It didn’t last long. Died in childbirth. Lost the wife, lost the child. Would have had a son, like you. I’d always intended to remarry, but it somehow fell by the wayside, and one day it was no longer important.”
“I’m sorry,” Kamvar said. “Perhaps I should not have asked.”
“Eh, it’s nothing. I’m an old man, I’ve had years to accept it.” He had, no doubt, but a sadness was there nonetheless. Akosh continued: “There was a time, not long ago, I thought I’d perhaps try again… but what do I have to offer? Only tales of long-forgotten glories and a talent for cleaving men in twain.”
“Ila-uanna,” Kamvar said. It was more statement than question, a voicing of an old curiosity, and he regretted the name the moment it left his mouth. Salt in old wounds, fool. Keep your mouth shut.
If indeed it hurt Akosh, he was content to shrug it away. “I’m that obvious, am I?”
Kamvar smiled. “You have many talents, friend. But I fear subtlety is not among them.”
“Perhaps not.” Akosh was quiet for a moment, reflective. Lost in old memories, no doubt. Finally, he let out a deep breath and spoke.
“We are being followed.”
What?
“Followed?” Kamvar whispered under his breath, cursing the fog in his mind. He had enough discipline – just barely – to stop from looking back over his shoulder.
“Four men, maybe five. Been behind us a while. Look natural.”
The two men continued walking. Akosh talked of inconsequential things – the saddling of horses the next morning, and the fine feast that would await them in the Lugal’s palace – anything that came to mind, anything that might extend their illusion of nonchalance.
The men behind them had no fear of the Lugal’s name. Their sandals slapped ever more swiftly against the paved streets. Akosh turned into a side street, and Kamvar followed. They entered something like a courtyard, an open space overlooked by the balconies of wealthy houses. There was no way out but the way they had come.
Akosh cursed. “I thought this was it,” he said. “Looks like we’ll need to fight this rabble.”
“Rabble, you say?” A new voice, confident and malicious. Kamvar turned to count five men blocking the street ahead. They were trapped.
“So, Sar
vashi,” said another man, clad in a striped robe, “you think you can come here and eat our food? Drink our beer? You think maybe that it belongs to you?”
Oh, fantastic. This will go well.
A third voice, this one younger than the first, asked if perhaps he had come to fuck Ekkadi women – or did they prefer boys in Sarvash? That earned a laugh from his friends. Thugs were always in such high spirits when they outnumbered their target. Kamvar cursed his empty belt. A knife would have been welcome on a night like this. Ahamash would see nothing. The darkness made evil men bold.
There was no place to run, and a cursory glance around revealed nothing that could be made into a weapon, save for a stone bench too heavy to swing. Akosh betrayed no trace of fear; only a sardonic amusement carved into his craggy features. He crossed his arms over his chest and stepped slightly ahead of Kamvar.
“Brother!” said the first man through a sneer, mockery plain in his voice. “Why do you protect that Sarvashi dog? If you do not stand back we shall have to gut you as well.”
Akosh barked out a laugh. “I’ve lots of gut to take, stripling. I hope you brought a big knife.”
The man drew out a cruel-looking hooked blade from the folds of his robe and waved it through the air in front of his face. “Will this serve? It looks suitably –”
Akosh leapt at the man, quick as Kamvar had ever seen him. He snatched the hand holding the blade, and slid behind the thug with the agility of a wrestler. Before the man could react, Akosh wrapped a meaty arm around his wrist and neck, adeptly trapping the thug’s blade to his own throat. Akosh squeezed like a python, smothering a thrashing attempt to break free.
Striped-robe, the first to recover from his surprise, rushed at Akosh with a cudgel in hand, but Kamvar was faster still. He lashed out with a fist, felt the pain of bone striking bone, and saw the man topple backwards into one of his comrades.
Beside him, Kamvar heard the thud of a man’s body hitting the ground. A quick glance confirmed it – Akosh had killed his man – and then Kamvar’s attention was torn away, to the bright flash headed in his direction. He leapt back and a new assailant, the boy so interested in his sexual habits, redoubled his efforts. He swung and thrusted his arm this way and that, the Eye reflecting from a knife in his fist.
Kamvar deflected one strike, leapt back from a second, and felt a heat in his arm that he knew meant drawn blood. The youth, encouraged by his success, made as if to strike again, leaning in to hide the direction of the blade. Striped-robe returned to the field of his vision, and Kamvar’s throat went dry with fear.
“Duck!” Kamvar dove to his side, turning as he did so, and a blur of movement filled the corner of his eye. Then a sharp crack, a grunt, and Akosh’s roaring laughter. The bench! The old man had swung it as though it were but a sack of grain, and where it struck it shattered bone.
Kamvar tried to stand, slipped in something slick, and clumsily regained his feet. Arms raised in protection like a wrestler’s, he peered this way and that. One man lay at his feet in a pool of blood, staring sightlessly at the sky. Striped-robe tried feebly to crawl away from Akosh. The youth lay against the wall, dead or unconscious. Of the last man there was no sign. Ran off, most likely. So much the better.
“We probably should run,” Kamvar said, breathing in time with his pounding heart. Akosh nodded and tossed the bench aside. Already there was light in the window of one of the courtyard’s buildings, and the silhouette of a woman peering out at what had taken place. Kamvar turned and ran, Akosh a step behind him, beard stained red with a man’s blood. If there was sin in what they had done, Ahamash had seen nothing.
“It is not deep,” Akosh said, releasing Kamvar’s arm. He nodded in satisfaction. Akosh was mostly unharmed as well, save for a long but shallow laceration where he’d grappled with the first man’s blade. His cheek was marked with what looked in the light of a brazier like the first tender redness of an ugly welt.
Akosh tore a strip from the bottom of his tunic and examined it with a critical eye.
“It is not precisely what I would call clean, but it will serve until we find a medic.” Akosh wrapped the strip of cloth around Kamvar’s bloodied arm, then tore another to bind his own. He leaned back and chuckled. “I have seen more fighting with you in a few weeks than in the last twenty years of my life.”
“Apologies. It seems fate finds me particularly unlikable these days,” said Kamvar, smiling ruefully. I could say the same for myself. I have never before seen battle so frequently.
“Think nothing of it. It’s probably for the best. I’ve been getting soft.”
Kamvar had to laugh. “Soft? Soft? You fight like a cornered bear! I’m glad I’m too young to have faced you on the battlefield.”
Akosh waved his hand dismissively, seemingly embarrassed. “I’m glad of it too, Kamvar. You’ve a wife and son to return to.”
The old man looked up, and Kamvar followed his gaze towards a sky black but for the Serpent’s Eye and the last few feathers that had not yet fallen to earth.
“It’s all so stupid,” Akosh said, shaking his head. “Men ready to die for a stretch of earth, because it has a name… because songs are sung about it. And here I sit in judgment, while my very own eyes clouded over with rage when that blind man was on stage. I’m too old to be such a fool. And yet…”
“And yet?”
“I look up, and I see a hundred twinkling fires that the priests tell me are my ancestors, and I feel as though they expect me to be ashamed to fight alongside a friend. Why? Because his stretch of earth has a different name than mine? How is it that such fictions can turn men against each other?”
If I knew…
They sat quietly for a time. Kamvar’s head felt heavy beneath the weight of a sleepless night, a cup of beer, a brick of hashish, and the mingling of doubts and revelations.
“You know,” said Kamvar, “We’d always been taught that Ekka was a land full of men who cared more about their purses than principles, men so practical that they welcomed our ‘civilizing influence’, our roads and way stations. That the Merezad was a kindly realm, a place that asked little of its subjects and gave them much in return.”
Akosh snorted.
“These last few weeks, I’ve actually been surprised at the resentment that simmers beneath the surface. Glares, whispers… and now spilled blood. How foolish I feel.”
Akosh’s hand came to rest on Kamvar’s shoulder. “We are all of us fools,” he said. “It’s just that some of us fools are the conquerors and some the conquered. And many years from now, perhaps more years than I have left, the Merezad will grow weak and a new conqueror will send his spearmen in. And then, a new blind idiot will sing about fallen Merezad and more blood will spill.”
Kamvar sighed. “You’ve a somewhat cynical view of the human condition, haven’t you?”
“It is what it is, youngster,” Akosh said, chuckling ruefully. “I should have asked Ila to marry years ago, you know.”
Kamvar looked to his friend, who gave him an old man’s knowing smile.
“Return home to your woman, Kamvar. Go home as soon as you can. You’re too young to mire yourself in other people’s conflicts. And too smart. Maybe if I’d been as smart then as you are now, there would be no songs of the Stone of Lanapish, and I would be tending farm with a plump wife and as many sons as I had goats.”
If only I could, Akosh. If only I could.
“I have sworn an oath,” Kamvar said.
Akosh shrugged.
“Break it. Your bird-god cannot see you, and my ancestors certainly do not care.”
Kamvar leaned against the alley wall and looked deep into the Serpent’s Eye. When he was a child, it had terrified him. But he was not a child any longer. Somewhere, in this green land between two swollen rivers, he had abandoned his fear.
“The night sky is beautiful,” he said.
“That it is.”
Steam and fragrant oils were good for a man, Kamvar decided, sinki
ng deeper into the copper basin until hot water lapped at his beard. A pleased groan from across the room told him he was not alone in holding that opinion.
“I feel like a courtier,” said Akosh. “But damn me, if it isn’t pleasant.”
His wound would probably reopen in the hot water, but at the moment, Kamvar did not care. They had spare bandages aplenty, and had the medic not ordered him to keep the cut clean? He’d asked somewhat more coin than was perhaps customary, but under the circumstances, it was difficult to fault him. Men who asked no questions could afford to be somewhat more demanding, and he’d held up his end of the unspoken agreement admirably.
Until he sells you out to the city guard, anyway. But no, that was silly. Men who needed the services of a silent medic were rarely averse to silencing one more permanently, if a tongue should wag. Besides, the Lugal’s men were allies, for all intents and purposes. Now, Hound Barsam…
Kamvar laughed and shook his head.
“What’s so funny?” asked Akosh.
In place of answering, Kamvar elected to slide deeper into the tub, submerging his head beneath the hot water. He worked his fingers through the tangles of his hair in the hope that the stink of hashish would wash away. A moment later, he emerged.
“Our dear Hound. I’ve spent the last hour thinking of suitable excuses, lest he find out what we’ve been up to. You were right, earlier. I feel like the child that broke his father’s pot. Stupid, isn’t it? I’m old enough to have a child of my own, yet here I am skulking about.”
“Bah. If he asks where you’ve been, tell him we were sparring and that it grew heated,” Akosh said. “The Lugal’s men won’t gainsay us. I owe them too much coin to be staked out in the desert, and your Barsam seems the sort to make those who displease him disappear.”
“There are stories. Not all of them terribly credible, mind.” Kamvar worked soap into his beard, realizing as he did so that it had been too long since it was last trimmed. Perhaps tomorrow. “It occurs to me,” he continued, “that Hound Barsam has been surprisingly couth around you. Almost as though he’s afraid of you.”
Akosh shook his head. “No, I doubt that. He’s a commander like many others, Kam. I’ve served under a few. He’s used to a certain amount of respect, and doesn’t know how to handle men he cannot intimidate. He’s just the biggest lout in the village. Or was, anyway.” The old man laughed again, seemingly pleased with himself, then gestured to one of the serving boys standing unobtrusively at the bath chamber’s doorway.
“I’m for leaving,” Akosh said, clambering out of his tub to a chorus of water spilling over the edge and splashing on the glazed floor. “Luxuries enough for one night. Besides, unless I miss my guess, it’ll be light soon. Wouldn’t want to earn you a spanking.”
When the Lugal’s palace gates came into view, he decided that the deception would do well enough. At the very least, he was clean. And if his tunic still stank a little, and the sleeve was crusted with dried blood… well, what were the odds of coming across Barsam before he reached the sanctuary of his bedroom? The feathers had already disappeared from view, but the Shimurg would not crest the mountains for another hour or two at earliest. Still…
Probably best not to worry.
As Kamvar drew closer to the Lugal’s palace, he noticed that the compound seemed unusually busy. The courtyard glowed with the soft light of oil lanterns. Surely, it was too early for men to be waking.
He turned to Akosh, who shook his head slowly, brow furrowed. He’d come to the same conclusion.
As they approached the gate, the guards posted there talked briefly among themselves, then one came running towards them.
“You are the Sarvashi Kamvar?” he asked. Kamvar nodded.
“You have been ordered to follow your general to Numush-ummi. I do not have all the details – you are to go immediately to the stables.”
“What?” Kamvar asked. Had the others left during the night?
“I do not know the details, only the orders,” said the guard. “The others have already gone.”
Kamvar groaned, cursing the night’s adventure. This could only end badly. Thanking the guard, he broke into a run towards the Lugal’s stable, Akosh not far behind.
The expression on Et-Halum’s face was inscrutable.
“Well,” said the captain, shaking his head disapprovingly. “I had wondered what you were doing, skulking about at night. I didn’t expect to find you pummeling the locals like some puffed-up farmhand.”
“We were sparring,” offered Akosh. “It got heated, so we went for a friendly drink after.”
Et-Halum raised an eyebrow, a sardonic smile beginning to play across his face. “Of course,” he said, shrugging. “Unfortunately, while you were off recovering…” The word bore a peculiar inflection. Kamvar attributed that to the smells of smoke and beer that no doubt still lingered about them. “…a missive came from one of our scouts. A girl and a young man fitting the description you provided us were spotted escaping Numush-ummi after several murders at…”
The captain leaned towards one of his soldiers, a wiry man with thick curls. The man whispered something into his ear. “…ah, yes. At Mushkenum Wajji’s inn, near the docks. Most men seem to agree that sorcery was involved, although of course we cannot verify this as you can.”
What a nightmare. Even Majid, kindly as he was, would have had harsh words for him, and probably a year of breakfast duty. Barsam… well, it was best not to think about how Barsam might react quite yet.
“When did they leave?” Kamvar asked.
“Several hours ago… near midnight. They waited for some time in the hope that you would show yourself, but eventually decided they would wait no more, and left orders for you to follow. They went by boat, and we haven’t another to spare, so I suggest you follow swiftly. I doubt you’ll be able to catch up to them before they reach Numush.”
Et-Halum pointed to a horse that a servant had just finished saddling. It was not Lugushu –Kamvar had, despite himself, grown strangely fond of the obstinate Ekkadi nag – but a far finer animal, chestnut brown and cleanly muscled, an alert look in its eyes. Others, already saddled, stood in the next stalls.
“Your personal effects and your weapons are already here, and there is food in the saddlebags. Now go.”
Servants led the two horses out of the stables. Kamvar swung gracefully into the saddle. “Thank you, and your Lugal, for your hospitality,” he said. Et-Halum nodded and waved him away.
Kamvar swung into the saddle and spurred his horse on, gripping in his hand the reins of two other fine beasts. He cantered through the palace gate, Akosh riding abreast.
“You know,” shouted Akosh over the sound of pounding hooves. “For all that this is likely to end badly for you, I can’t stop laughing!”
