by Marcin Wrona
Chapter 14: One Arm, One Eye
“Can’t they make this thing go any faster?” asked Tahmin. He was seated in the stern of the ship that had carried them from Numush, eyes fixed on a limp mainsail.
“Unless you’d like to blow into the sails yourself, I think we’re out of luck,” Kamvar replied. “As you can plainly see, Ekka and wind are poorly acquainted.”
Tahmin sighed and turned his attention back to his spearhead. Boredom had gotten the better of him; he’d spent the last two hours sharpening and polishing the bronze.
“Keep this up, Tam, and you won’t have a spear any longer,” said Kamvar. “Besides, we’re making good time. The men are rowing hard.”
“We’d be faster on horseback.”
“You, maybe,” said Akosh, who lay splayed out on the deck with a skin of wine he’d bought before leaving the inn. “Another day in the saddle, and you’d have my death on your conscience.”
The old man grinned and took a long swig. “Besides, isn’t this pleasant?”
Tahmin shook his head. “I feel like I’ve been waiting around for something to happen ever since I was left behind in Numush to wait for you. Our brothers are fulfilling our holy duty in the face of who knows what danger, and here we are lazing about in the sun?”
“Ah, yes,” said Kamvar. “I know I’d rather be traveling with Barsam. The places I’d see! The old women I’d beat!”
“Kamvar…” Tahmin sounded weary.
I don’t much care. Not this time. The trip had been long, and like Tahmin, he was bored. Boredom made him combative.
“What? ‘Kamvar’ me all you want, Tam. I’ve read all the Scripture you have, and I can’t say there’s much in it about threatening and attacking the elderly.”
Tahmin sighed, loudly enough for Kamvar to know he was putting on airs. “You know, I don’t agree with all of Hound Barsam’s methods, but he is our superior, and a man famed for his piety. Enough with this disrespect.”
“Ahamash! Do you admire the brute?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Tahmin, “I do. He has sacrificed so much of himself in service to the Prophet, and you judge him as though he were your peer? Maybe he does what he does because it’s necessary. It is not our place to question.”
“Oh, stuff it. We were given reason in order to use it. I don’t care how many imprecations the scriptures toss at Daiva – I don’t remember the Prophet ever tearing the fingers off an innocent man to find one.”
“Innocent man? Which one? Was that the murdering slave, or the sewer-dwelling outlaw?”
Kamvar looked at Tahmin blankly. “Tahmin,” he said, fighting to keep his voice calm, “when Yazan ‘questioned’ … Nazimarut, I think was his name, you looked like you were going to be sick. I certainly felt that way, and I loved you for it. What is happening to you?”
Tahmin turned to him as though to retort, but said nothing. His expression seemed to fall inward, the anger leaving his eyes. “I… I’m sorry. I’m just… I don’t know. Since Majid died, and the others…”
Tahmin took a deep breath and steeled his expression. “Enough,” he said. “I don’t want to argue about this. You’re right. Of course you’re right. It all seems so… well, vile. But we must trust our Hound, Kamvar.”
Barsam is not our Hound. Majid was our Hound.
A throat cleared behind them. Kamvar looked back at Akosh curiously.
“I don’t want to intrude on what’s become a private conversation,” the soldier said gingerly. Tahmin reddened. “But Tahmin, even great men can grow petty and fall. You’re smart enough to make your own decisions. And if you aren’t, Kamvar is. You could do worse than to put your faith in him.”
A strange expression, one even Kamvar could not read, passed over Tahmin’s face. For a moment, he did not respond. “I made my decision to join the Hunt,” he said, looking into the sky as though asking Shimurg for guidance. “Now I have duty. I would think, as a soldier, that you could understand that.”
Akosh chuckled. “As a soldier, boy, I learned perfectly well that generals shit and bleed, lie and steal. Same as the rest of us.”
Kamvar said nothing, and watched a sail that did not billow.
Shimurg had reached the zenith of his flight, and now began to descend, swooping down to his nightly death on the side of the Serpent’s Bones that no living man had seen. There was something painful in the inevitability of it, Kamvar decided, a reminder that all things peaked and then fell, slowly or swiftly, to a shared end.
Of course, Shimurg would be reborn the next day. Kamvar’s own comrades were not so lucky. Is it not said that they will cross the Shinvat and live on forever at the right hand of Ahamash? Perhaps. But a priest’s words were scant consolation for a life cut tragically short. Was he ready to die? To leave Sahar alone, as his mother was alone? To leave Ashuz without a father, as he had been left without one? All at the insistence of men who could not possibly have experienced the things of which they spoke?
Another heresy, Kamvar? You seem quite fond of them, these days.
Was the Tahmin he had known dead? Had anguish, anger and a too-pious Hound killed the friend so loved? And now, you’re just being stupid. Tahmin is Tahmin. He’s just as confused and vulnerable as ever. He’ll make the right choice.
Life had been so much simpler when the Daiva were murderous heretics, ready to be dispatched with a spear thrust, dinner and drink waiting afterward. Now they hunted a child in this strange land between two rivers, which hid naked hate behind a servile mask.
Kamvar sighed. “Somebody, say something. I’m trapped in my own thoughts, and need an escape.”
For a moment, the only sound was the grunting of oarsmen and the splashing of the river, and then an earthy noise somewhere between grunt and laugh.
“You’ve been thinking again?” Akosh asked. “You should probably stop that. It makes you maudlin.”
“Ha! Kamvar? Stop brooding?” He heard no rancor in Tahmin’s voice, which was enough to lift his spirits. “Ask him if he likes the taste of mutton, and he’ll think on it for three hours, then ask ‘ram or ewe?’ Lost cause, Akosh.”
Kamvar could not help but laugh. “I do like mutton, as it happens. Besides, better to think too much than not at all. There’s a reason you’re always the one cooking our meals.”
“Oh?” said Tahmin. “You’ll be lucky to cook our meals for the next month, after your little stunt. You’ll be lucky to walk away with your head still on your shoulders.”
“That’s like to be a blessing for us all. At least then, we’ll be able to concentrate on dice and women instead of having this one ruminate on the mysteries of creation.” Akosh, this time. Kamvar was happy that he too joined their fun. There was something comforting, something fatherly, in the old man’s presence. Not for the first time, Kamvar found himself wondering what his own father would look like today, what he would think of his grandson, and what he would say to Kamvar’s struggle to make sense of this awful Hunt.
They arrived in Nerkut with Shimurg low in the sky, rested and refreshed from their leisurely trip along the river, if still sore from the gallop that had come before. He was glad not to have imposed his bulk on still more of this country’s wretched horses. The thought brought to mind Lugushu, the Ekkadi nag that had carried him from Ab-Ewarad to the manor where this all began. What had happened, he wondered, to the poor beast?
What could have happened? Probably carrying some poor farmer to market, or else stewing in a pot.
The dock guards had obviously been expecting them. Tahmin gave his name, and before his mouth formed words enough to explain why they had come, one of the guards saluted and explained that he would guide them to the rest of their group. He whistled, and moments later was joined by a man leading four horses by the reins.
Looks like you’ll tire some Ekkadi nags after all.
Nerkut seemed somewhat different from the other Ekkadi cities that Kamvar had seen. It was cleaner, for one thing – no surprise
, when you’ve spent the last month dispatched to the most dangerous cities this country has to offer – and seemed to be built on a smaller scale than Inatum or Numush. Here, the buildings were smaller, and the streets narrower. They were hung with colourful banners, and everywhere was music and song. A festival?
The multitude in the streets seemed to do all it could to melt into the walls, to create a lane for the Sarvashi soldiers and their armed escorts. It was slow going still, but the dock guard’s barking commands and flailing hands made it bearable. He wondered how long it would have taken to trot through these roads without an escort.
“Where are we going?” asked Tahmin.
“The temple of Kutuanu. Your people wait there. I must warn you, there has been battle. Some of your friends are dead.”
“What? What happened?” asked Tahmin.
The guard shrugged in response. “I do not have all the answers, but it seems like there have been more murders in the last week than the whole of last year. They do not tell us much, you understand – only that your soldiers were looking for a sorceress, and found her… but as they returned home, the sorceress’s friends ambushed them.”
Friends? What friends?
Tahmin looked distraught. “Can we not move faster?” he asked, trying to spur his horse on. It did not seem to be paying attention.
“We will be there shortly. We turn right into that street there.” The guard pointed to a corner dominated by an officious-looking building marked with the city’s seal, three sheafs of golden wheat on a green background. Kamvar remembered having seen it during their studies. “From there, you will see the temple. It is not far.”
Tahmin nodded, but he looked tense. Kamvar was surprised at how little emotion he felt as he charted the possibilities. Who would be suicidal enough to attack a Hunt? Might this Leonine have friends in Nerkut?
They turned the corner, and the temple came into view. In this, at least, Nerkut was suitably monumental. The ziggurat rose high into the air, its top level capped with gold that glowed warmly in the fading light of the day. The remaining steps were whitewashed. One could easily imagine a god residing in this pristine house.
What colour were Nin’s temples, I wonder? Heresy again. He had grown to enjoy its presence in the back of his mind, and the questions it posed.
They rode into the temple’s courtyard and dismounted. Attendants in white-and-gold robes bustled about them, bowing and pointing.
“I will take my leave,” said the guard, saluting. Tahmin saluted back, and the guard turned and was gone.
They were not led into the temple proper. Something of a shame, Kamvar decided. He would have liked to see what precisely was inside the great ziggurats of Ekka. Instead, they were taken to a large white tent that had the look of a hospital erected upon the field of battle.
Kamvar realized he was not far wrong. The tent had indeed been transformed into a hospital for the Sarvashi Hunt. Clean pallets were strewn about the room, and Hound Barsam lay on one of them, arm crossed over his chest.
“Well, now. My prodigal son returns to me.”
“Forgive us,” said Kamvar. “Akosh and I were sparring, and decided to –”
“Spare me your excuses.” Barsam cut him off with an imperious wave of his hand. “Your little desertion was for the best. Now we have more healthy men.”
“What happened?” asked Tahmin, kneeling down at the man’s bedside. Kamvar looked around the room. He recognized the other men under Barsam’s command – Hesam and Behrouz were here, the first waving cheerfully. And there, across the room, Yazan sat propped against the wall, his shoulder wrapped in bandages and a strange look on his ruined face. Of Parvish there was no sign.
“After we arrived,” Barsam pulled himself upright, and winced at the pain. “After we arrived, the man whose letter I received came to see us here. A temple scribe and a landowner from one of the western villages, and apparently the girl’s uncle.” Kamvar started at that. “Ah, yes, I suppose we did not tell you – the girl is from Nerkut. It’s funny. We have a hundred of our own diplomats and functionaries stationed in this city, and none of them can learn a thing. One Ekkadi shows good sense, and here we are.
“Anyway,” he continued. “This man told us the girl and her… guardian had come to stay at his home, and that it was his duty to turn them over to us. So we went, accompanied by some of the Lugal’s men. Sure enough, she was there, though the musician was absent. We took the girl and headed back this way… and no sooner had we entered the city than we were attacked, taken by surprise, by a number of people in the crowd. This…” he gestured around him, “…is all we’ve left to remind us of it. The girl was taken, Parvish killed, and many of us injured in some way or another.”
“Could they have been working for this Leonine, or whatever he calls himself?” asked Tahmin.
Barsam seemed unconvinced. “It is possible, I suppose, though I would think he’d be among them. Yazan tells me he was not. It seems obvious to me that there’s a traitor somewhere in this temple, though who precisely he is working with and what his desires are… that eludes me, still.” There was a mutter amongst the white-and-gold. Kamvar doubted they enjoyed being accused so openly of treachery. Still, it’s not illogical.
“Why do we not talk to the uncle?” asked Tahmin. “If he is a temple scribe, perhaps he would have some idea, and he seems willing to help us.”
Barsam’s mouth quirked. “I am not quite so old yet, my dear Tahmin, as to skip entirely over the obvious. We tried that. The man’s throat was cut. That was definitely our Leonine’s doing, although happily, he spared the wife and child.”
“Maybe he’s developing a conscience,” said Akosh.
Barsam turned to him and snorted derisively. “I would not read too much into it. Do not let your heart grow weak, thinking him a man. He is Daiva. That is all.”
Akosh rolled his eyes – quite exaggeratedly at that, thought Kamvar. “I care nothing for your superstitions, priest. Sorcerers are nothing new to these lands, and our cities still stand. I’ll do my duty, for Ila-uanna’s sake, but spare the sermons for your own men.”
“I could have you whipped for that, if I thought it would serve any purpose,” Barsam said, turning to Tahmin. “Take these friends of yours and start investigating the city. We have questioned the dead man’s – Uchu was his name – wife and son, and they had nothing of interest to tell us, nor have any of the priests here. There is more, but I tire of this. Scribe!”
Barsam clapped his hand against his chest and a man approached. His white-and-gold kilt was emblazoned with the slogan that had taken on such a sinister meaning in Kamvar’s memory. “Take these men to the High Priest, and have him tell them the rest of the story.”
“Begging your pardon, holiness, but the High Priest is saying his evening’s prayers. He cannot be –”
“He can pray to whatever little godling you people venerate later. Take these men to the High Priest, and take them there now.”
Anger tensed the scribe’s features, but he nodded and favoured them with a tight smile. “Very well. Follow me.”
They left the medical tent and crossed the courtyard. Some of the city-folk had filed in to share in the evening service. They sat at the foot of the ziggurat, chanting, watched over by bearded warriors who held drawn swords to the sky. The scribe led Kamvar and his friends past the courtyard, towards what appeared to be a doorway at the left side of the stepped staircase that led to the ziggurat’s peak.
Two warriors, attired similarly to those watching over the mendicants, greeted the scribe at the entrance, with what sounded like a ritualized chant in a dialect Kamvar had never studied. The scribe responded, and they bowed, swinging the large wooden doors open in front of them.
They followed a hallway hung at intervals with smouldering braziers and cascading ferns of a sort Kamvar had never seen before, overgrown with a thick tangle of green and purple leaves and dotted with tiny white flowers. The braziers made the hallway hot
ter than was entirely pleasant, but the plants seemed not to mind.
“I apologize for our Hound,” said Kamvar, breaking the silence. “His is a very small world.”
Tahmin looked at him, his expression almost comically aghast. Kamvar chose to ignore it.
The scribe did not say anything at first, then: “I will never understand a people that worship only a single god. But it seems, these days, that I must try.”
They walked quietly a moment, following a path of green tiles edged in gold leaf. Kamvar elected once again to break the stillness. “What manner of plants are these? I have not seen their like.”
“Rach-hachu,” said the scribe. It sounded like a sneeze. “It is said that this is the plant that grows in Kutuanu’s orchard. The leaves dull pain, and the flowers grant visions to the faithful… and a slow death to others.”
“And how do they know the difference?” asked Tahmin, his voice somewhat more mocking than curious.
“Our mysteries are not for you to know, Sarvashi.”
Silence again. They walked the rest of the way without a word, until they reached a staircase in the very heart of the temple. At its end was a hall similar to the one below, except that here there were small chambers between the braziers and plants. Kamvar peeked inside one, and saw tables and stacks of clay tablets. A library? At the hallway’s end was another staircase, and at its end another hallway.
They continued in this manner for three more levels, the hallways growing shorter each time, until they reached a set of bronze doors engraved with a winged man whose feet were like the talons of a hawk.
“You may not go further,” said the scribe. “Turn your backs to the door, and wait here.”
They did as instructed, and heard the doors pull open behind them with a creak and a scrape. They closed again, leaving them alone.
“Why did we not simply climb the temple?” asked Tahmin.
Akosh answered. “Oh, aye. Nothing like a pair of Sarvashi and a Karhani climbing the holy stair up to Kutuanu’s chamber to disturb the High Priest’s devotions. That would go over ever so well with the crowd below.”
“I don’t really care what the gathered masses have to say, Akosh. We are on a holy mi–”
Kamvar interrupted him. “Then start, Tahmin. Start caring. The more we anger the Ekkadi, the more needlessly difficult this mission of ours will become. Shimurg can not stop an irate crowd from tearing us to shreds.”
Tahmin started to say something, then thought better of it. “Sorry. You have the right of it. I’m not thinking.”
The door creaked open again, then footsteps, then it closed.
“You may turn now,” said a new voice, rich and melodic.
They turned to see a man dressed in ornate robes, his beard curled and oiled and hung with jewelry. He seemed younger than Kamvar would have expected of a High Priest.
“Brother, leave us.” The scribe bowed and turned around. When his footsteps grew quieter, the High Priest sighed. “Normally, I would ask him to stay, and perhaps bring some wine or beer for us. But these days it is difficult to know whom I can trust. You’ll have to forgive the indifferent reception. I am Ananta, High Priest of Kutuanu.”
“Not at all,” said Kamvar. “I am Kamvar, and these are my friends Tahmin and Akosh. We are sorry to disturb your devotions, Holiness, but it could not wait.”
“Yes, yes, I know. How much has your priest told you, I wonder. Do you know that Ilasin, the girl you are following, is my daughter?”
Kamvar stared at the man, agape.
“I suppose not. Here then, is the tale. I will keep it a short one. Ilasin always seemed an ordinary child, but when her mother was taken by disease, strange things began to happen. The other priests began to whisper that the temple cats had begun to avoid her, that ghosts followed her path…”
He sighed. “I knew what was happening, or thought I did. It is known to the priests of Kutuanu that hardship can unlock a person’s vision, and grant them access to the spirit world. In other days, we would have sent her to the priests of Nin, who knew more than we of such matters. In these days –” he looked at them pointedly, “– that is no longer an option. I tried to do nothing, for a time, to keep my daughter by my side… but soon, that opportunity was taken from me. She lost control. I do not know what happened, to this day. I suppose some children must have tried to beat her, for they were found dead by the guards. I should have imprisoned her and called for your Hound, but I could not. I cast her out instead.”
Kamvar understood. He too was a father. “I would have done the same.”
The High Priest regarded him quizzically. “What father would not? I wanted to make it look as though conspirators within the temple smuggled her out, and I asked my sister’s husband to ensure it. But at the same time I felt I had to make Ila hate me, so that she would not try to return. It would have been unsafe for all of us.”
“And that uncle was the temple scribe who sent for Barsam?” asked Kamvar.
The High Priest’s expression darkened. “Yes. I am not sure what to make of his betrayal. It is true that some priests believe I should have given Ilasin up. They connected him to me, and to her escape. It was hard for him. Uchu had always wanted to rise in the ranks, but that door closed. Still, to betray his own niece…”
Something about this whole situation bothered Kamvar. And I think I know what it is. “Why are we here, then? Surely, you did not ask the Hounds to find your daughter? And why are you even telling us this?”
“As to the first question: of course not. I never wanted you here. However, our Lugal is of the opinion that Nerkut must align itself as closely to Sarvagadis as possible. Your coming here was his doing.”
That unlocked the puzzle. Suddenly, Kamvar began to understand.
“As to the second,” Ananta continued. “It is ancient history. I could lie to you, but your charming Hound knows the truth. I suspect he enjoys making me repeat the tale of what he likes to call my treachery.”
Kamvar was almost there, standing on the cusp of knowledge. “If this treachery, as you call it, is so well known, how is it that you have remained in your position?”
The High Priest smiled wanly. “As you said earlier, you are a father. Who could blame me for doing as I did, in the heat of the moment? Oh, I was asked to step down, but a High Priest has some clout of his own. And besides, I am past caring who knows the truth of this. I would prefer that all of my people know, that they may all understand what has been done to me… to us.”
Kamvar nodded. “Tahmin, Akosh. Don’t repeat a word of this, or I’ll kill you.” That was aimed more squarely at Tahmin than the Karhani – he knew full well that the old man cared nothing for Barsam’s plans.
Kamvar continued. “I think I may have some idea of what is happening. How many people in the city, and in Kutuanu’s priesthood in particular, know that your daughter is a sorceress?”
“I do not know. Few, I should think,” said the High Priest. His expression was curious, and he measured Kamvar with his eyes. “There are rumours, of course. And who knows, perhaps they have spread further than I am aware. But I had men repeat a tale of my own – that she’d run away from home because I was so strict a father.”
“They want to capture your daughter, and make a spectacle of her,” Kamvar said. “I can think of no other explanation. They will kill… Ilasin, was it? There will be a trial, she will be found guilty, and then she will be staked out in the desert. That’s why we’re here.”
Kamvar felt sickened. It made sense. Sarvagadis had everything to gain from a puppet priest in a great city such as this. “We’re being used to humiliate you, to break you, to punish you for not betraying your own daughter. And to replace you with someone friendlier to the Lugal, and… well, us.”
“Kamvar, what in the world has possessed you?” Tahmin, incredulous, but he would be made to see. “We are simply doing our duty. We are catching a Daiva. All this… all this nonsense about politics is only that.”
The High Priest looked suddenly older, Kamvar thought, as though he had been drained of vitality. Ananta composed himself, and spoke. “I know,” he said. “I have suspected that this was the plan for some time. Not that I am not impressed with your powers of deduction, soldier.” He chuckled. “But I am no stranger to politics.”
The High Priest started to pace, back and forth, shaking his head. “And what,” he asked, “am I to make of you? You talk as though you disapprove, but you are soldiers, sworn to an oath. Bluntly, we are closer to enemies than friends.”
Kamvar looked at Akosh, then at Tahmin. Then, he sighed. “I do not wish to be a part of this. I am a father too. The thought of my Ashuz being killed over politics, and being used against me, no less… it is shameful.”
“Kamvar,” said Tahmin. There was a warning in his tone, and then he sighed.
“But it is as you say, High Priest,” Kamvar continued. “We have sworn an oath.”
And I will break it.
There was an uncertainty in Tahmin’s face. Akosh and the High Priest both looked deeply disappointed.
“I am sorry,” said Kamvar. “Truly, deeply sorry. I wish we had never been put in this situation. But I cannot go back on my word.”
Akosh turned away, sighing heavily, and Tahmin looked to the ceiling, mouthing a prayer. Only the High Priest looked in his direction.
Kamvar winked to him, and grinned as the man’s eyebrows rose.
Oh, I will break it.
Somewhere outside, a frenzied dog started to bark. A hiss came in response, and then two sets of claws scrabbling against the paved street. Moments later, Kamvar heard a high-pitched yowl cut raggedly short.
It was enough noise to wake the dead, but Tahmin remained asleep in the cot beside him. Kamvar had already been awake, too weary in both muscle and mind to drift into dreaming. Too many decisions, all of them bad. Ananta’s story had shaken him, but it also had in some strange way steeled a resolve to make the decision he knew in his heart to be right. He did not know how, or when, but he did know that he would not allow the girl, this Ilasin, to be a sacrifice for the basest political gain. Ahamash would understand. Ahamash the merciful would have to understand.
Will Tahmin? Kamvar looked over at his friend, and tears began to well up. He would betray Tahmin. He would have to. The Tahmin of a dozen years ago could have been reasoned with, but this one… could he understand? Could he…?
Oh, no more. Just sleep.
Kamvar drew a deep breath and blinked away tears. He closed his eyes and composed himself against the onslaught of doubt that assailed him. I will close my eyes, and I will sleep, and that will be the end of it.
And what of Sahar and Ashuz? If he betrayed his oath and his Hound, would they not be in danger? The Temple could be petty and vindictive. Was he damning his love, and the child that was their flesh and blood, to atone for his sins? A letter. He would have to write a letter, and somehow contrive to have it delivered to Ashavan. Perhaps Ananta could arrange such a thing, if he spoke to him. Or perhaps he could…
This isn’t sleep, Kamvar.
Kamvar rolled from his back to his side, burrowing more snugly under the clean linens and giving the weary muscles of his back some respite. The weary muscles of his side could take their turn chafing at their ill use. The motion drew an unintelligible mutter from Tahmin, but he did not awake.
More barking, this time with a response. Another dog – a bigger one, judging from the sonorous timbre of its greeting –accosted the first, and broke Kamvar’s much-desired silence. No doubt they argued in their doggish way over the corpse of whatever unfortunate had bled out moments ago into Nerkut’s streets.
I give up. There was no sleep to be had, not now, not with his mind whirling as it did. Kamvar shook his head and sighed wearily, then edged as quietly as he could to the end of his cot, where the too-heavy night tunic he’d shrugged off earlier lay crumpled. It was too hot for bed, but perhaps it would be cooler outside. Kamvar dressed quietly, and tiptoed out of the room with sandals and money pouch in hand, noting as he did so that his was not the only empty bed. It seemed he was not the only man with something weighty on his mind.
Kamvar left the battlefield tent that had been turned into the Hunt’s barracks and hospital, and stretched out in the pleasantly cool night air. The lower reaches of the night sky were beaded with light, above them inky emptiness slashed with the crescent Eye he’d once found so baleful. He reckoned that two, maybe three, hours remained until dawn and winced. Another sleepless night presaged another bone-wearying day.
He thought back – how long ago it seemed now – to the pleasant nights of Inatum, when his grief over the death of his comrades had been assuaged, perhaps too easily, by tussles with Akosh. Had the empty bed belonged to the old man? Some sparring would not go amiss. But no, had Akosh not taken the bed beside Tahmin? He’d gone to bed too early, and too tired, to remember their sleeping arrangements.
Perhaps it doesn’t matter. I am hardly fit company for anybody just now. I am – as Tam would say – too busy brooding.
Sometimes, it would be nice to see the world with the certainty and simplicity of his old friend. And yet, might not Tahmin be reasoned with? Could he not…
Ahamash! Stop it, already.
Kamvar shook his head and bent down, yanking the sandals he carried onto his feet and drawing the cinches tight. If these maudlin thoughts would not leave him be, he would sweat them out.
Kamvar broke into a jog that changed swiftly into a desperate sprint. He did not know where he was running, nor did he much care. The rhythmic slap of sandal leather against stone was comforting, and his breathing soon grew ragged and laboured, driving everything from his mind except the fierce burning in his lungs.
Thus cleansed, and now mindful of his protesting body, Kamvar slowed his run to a more methodical thing, breathing deeply and calculatedly. In his nightclothes, he must have looked a madman to the revelers that still swayed and stumbled in Nerkut’s streets.
When he’d had his fill, and his mind stopped trying new doors to see what worry lay behind them, Kamvar turned back. He was not certain how far he’d run, or how long, but he’d taken as straight a path as was possible. It would not be difficult to retrace his steps, even under a sky that had almost emptied of night-fires in the time he had spent outdoors.
The return trip was calmer. Kamvar’s mind turned again to Sahar and Ashuz, and the letter he would write to them, but his were now the clear thoughts of a man calmly planning, and not wild-eyed harridans that tore at the sleepless. He would not return to bed this night, Kamvar decided. If he were to lie down now, he’d awake to the morning bell no sooner than he managed to close his eyes. Instead, he would write the letter while there was still time, before the demands of this most despicable Hunt began once again to dominate his waking hours.
It would be a simple letter, one scrawled of necessity. “Leave town with Ashuz,” he would write. “Go to your uncle and have him arrange passage to…” Where? If he did what he planned to do, Kamvar had no doubt that he would be pursued. It would not be safe to meet his family, not for some time, and he doubted it would ever be a good idea to return to a city like Inatum, where his face was known. Perhaps one of the northern cities on the Hapur – Hatshut had a heavy Sarvashi presence, but why not Ab-Ewarad?
Perhaps he would ask Akosh for advice, or even contacts. He and Sahar had little money, and her uncle Farouz not much more. And besides, he was almost certain that Akosh would agree with his decision, or at the very least support it. But can I draw the old man into my treachery? No, I need to do this alone… or with Ananta’s help, perhaps.
When he awoke from
thought, Kamvar found himself nodding to a burly guard who tended a brazier outside the doors of a pleasure hall that marked the borders of Kamvar’s recognition. He had returned to the part of town where he’d find the white and gold temple of Kutuanu, and the Hunt’s tent.
Kamvar briefly considered whiling away what remained of the morning inside the hall, with a pipe to smoke and perhaps a cup or two of beer, but he decided against it. The guard’s eyes betrayed the sort of uncertainty one normally reserved for the crazy and potentially dangerous. Which, Kamvar supposed, was an entirely natural response to a sweaty, bearded soldier wandering the streets in his nightclothes. Besides, nightly excursions had already landed him outside of the Hound’s good graces. Ahamash knows the last thing I need is a reputation for this sort of thing.
Not that it mattered much, he supposed. The plans in his head where still hazy, but if he carried out something even close to what he was considering, debauch and licentiousness would be the least of his sins in the Temple’s eyes.
“So be it, then,” he said to nobody in particular, drawing a deep breath of cool night air.
The temple courtyard was not far. The walls and storefronts that had been at his right hand were suddenly replaced by well-tended garden boxes aligned in a neat row, punctuated at regular intervals by palms. Kutuanu’s imposing temple loomed over the square. At its foot, priests had already begun to congregate in preparation for the predawn service.
Kamvar decided to sit down and watch the bustling priests, his back leaning comfortably against one of the many palms lining the edges of the courtyard. This was as good a place as any to choose the right words for his letter to Sahar.
Dearest Sahar, he began, composing in his mind the letter he intended to send, Our work here in Ekka is nearly complete, and I wish for you and Ashuz to join me in celebration. The cities of this land are gleaming pearls, and it will do Ashuz well to see new things…
It was a good enough start, he supposed, though he’d have to find a subtle way to impress upon his wife the importance of following his request to the letter, and without informing too many people of too many particulars. If the letter was intercepted… Who would bother to read a letter from a little-known man to his wife? Still, stranger things had happened at the borders to Sarvash, and with the political nature of this Hunt, it was not unthinkable that his name, and those of his brothers, would be known at the way stations at which a messenger would stop.
As Kamvar sat thinking, his back against the smooth bark of a palm, he became gradually aware of a noise that had nothing to do with the droning of priests. There came a shuffling noise, that of a leather sole being dragged clumsily along the cobbles, and then a lurching clatter and silence.
A drunkard, Kamvar realized, and his hand fell from instinct to the spot on his waist where a knife would have hung had he not run from his tent in the middle of the night wearing nothing but a nightshirt. Unlikely to be dangerous, but one never knew with besotted men.
Slowly, Kamvar peered around the bole of the tree against which he sat, and started when his gaze met the gleam of a single eye. Barsam? Drunk?
“K… Kamvar?” Barsam’s gravelly voice was at first uncertain, but the commanding imperiousness returned swiftly, even if he slurred his words. “What are… what are you doing o-out here?
“I… I went for a stroll,” he answered. “It was too hot to sleep.”
Barsam’s eye narrowed as though in suspicion, but the Hound was clearly having some difficulty keeping his gaze steady. He sighed and waved his hand, as though giving up prematurely on what might have been a series of pointed questions.
“H-had too much to drink,” he said. “This fu… fucking festival. Not sure I can make the trip.”
What?
There was a plaintive quality to Barsam’s voice that absolutely did not belong. Was the man cracking? Had the deaths of his men broken his stone-hard heart? One-Eye? You must be mad.
“H-help me walk, Kamvar,” said Barsam. His tone was almost friendly, as though it was more a request than order. Kamvar took the Hound’s arm and draped it over his strong shoulders. He could not find any words.
Barsam leaned against Kamvar, blowing drink-laced air into the young man’s beard. He was heavy, almost surprisingly so, certainly more soldier than priest. Kamvar started walking gingerly toward the tents, setting a pace slow enough for the inquisitor to match.
“I’m not… not a monster.”
“What?” Kamvar asked. “What do you mean, why should you be– “
“Spare me, y-youngster. I’m drunk, not s-stupid. I know you think me a monster. You all do. Even my own men, sometimes.” Barsam’s voice cracked; he sounded like a man ready to burst into noisy tears.
How had this happened?
“Did they t-tell you I killed my own sister?” asked Barsam.
Kamvar did not answer, hoping against hope that his silence could buy respite.
“Well, did they?” Anger, now. Kamvar knew he had to be careful. There was not much room for error with a man like this, and the wages of insult were too great.
“I heard the rumours,” Kamvar answered, slowly. “I… I know that if they are true it is because you did what you had to.”
Barsam stopped in his tracks, his heavy arm quivering. A strange wail rose as though from the bottom of his throat, growing higher in pitch as it met the dry Ekkadi air.
Ahamash, he’s weeping.
“It’s… it’s t-true. All true. Oh, Ahamash.” Barsam pushed Kamvar away, and turned his face from him as though to hide the tears. “I… watched. Three days, I watched, while she c-cursed my name. It was all I could do. I had to do it, Kamvar. I had to.”
Kamvar, bewildered, stepped towards the weeping priest and laid what he hoped was a comforting hand on his shoulder. Barsam did not recoil, or shrug it away.
“D-do you have any idea what it is to kill your own sister?” Barsam was no longer weeping, though his speech remained thick with wine-soaked clumsiness. “My only sister. I loved her, Kamvar. I did. I am just a man.”
Barsam shook his head, then continued, more quietly this time. “Do you know, Kamvar, what it is like to have every s-stripling in our order repeat the rumours, as though he knows a damn thing about w-what I’ve done… what I’ve been through? Do you know what it’s like to have even the fucking Temple priests, those useless, sanct… sanctimonious… to hear them praise your ‘great sacrifice’. To be made a slogan? ‘One arm, one eye.’ Pfah.”
Barsam was growing angrier, but somehow Kamvar’s balance had returned. He no longer felt as though the priest might at any moment swing a meaty fist at him, or order him flogged. There was something altogether human about the man, an entirely prosaic self-loathing that at once stirred Kamvar’s pity and made him want to laugh.
One arm, one eye. The legendary Hound Barsam, stinking drunk, weeping at a soldier. It’s ridiculous.
“Do you know,” Barsam continued, “w-what it is to be reminded constantly of the worst day of your life… by idiots who want to make you an example? They throw my sister’s death at you children… children… as though it’s something laudable, as though I’ve done a great service to God. M-men who have never been faced with the decisions I curse having made, using my name to inspire young fools like you to throw their l-lives away.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Kamvar asked. The scene that had unfolded before him was unthinkable. Not only was Barsam tearfully confiding in a mere soldier, but he also spoke imprecations against the Temple that, coming from anybody else, the very same Hound would have punished with a flogging at the lightest.
Barsam turned to fix the younger man with a gaze Kamvar did not quite recognize, somewhere between sad and solicitous.
“Because you’re no fool, Kamvar. Not … not like the others. No, don’t look at me that way. You think I have no inkling of your little crisis of faith? You think I don’t know h-how often you’re out on nights like this, alone or with that Karhani you’ve
so completely tamed, thinking great big thoughts about your place in this world?” Barsam’s tone was mocking, but it was not mean-spirited; one could almost believe he was jesting with a friend.
Barsam’s voice softened, and he grew serious again. “Don’t turn into me, Kamvar. That’s my advice to you. W-when we are done here, leave the order and live a normal life… among family and friends. And take your idiot friend with you, because he’ll get himself killed in moments if you’re not there to stop him.
“I know that they… they tell you – hell, I know I would tell you – that doubt is weakness, lack of faith. Those are lies to children, Kamvar, and you are no child. What if I’d had a little more doubt, eh? Wh-what if I spent more time in thought as a young man than I do now as a sad old fool who doesn’t know any other way.”
I have done a great deal of thinking.
Barsam sighed, and turned his head to the black sky. He met the Serpent’s gaze, eye to silvery Eye, and said in a tremulous voice, “Maybe, if I’d been a little less sure of myself, Farshideh and her child would still be alive today.”
The Hound’s moment of introspection had ended. “I think I can walk now, without your help,” he said. “N-not a word of this to anyone.”
“Of… of course not,” Kamvar replied.
“And Kamvar? Take my advice. Good night.”
After Barsam left, Kamvar returned to his palm tree and watched the sky grow light with the birth of the Shimurg. Barsam’s confession – was there truly any other word for it? – had unsettled him. Having now taken some moments to reflect, and to chide himself for his naiveté, he found himself wondering how many others were aware of the resentment lurking beneath the Hound’s grotesque façade.
Don’t turn into me. Years of pain and guilt, distilled so neatly into advice Kamvar had every intention of following.
It would begin with the girl.
No, he corrected himself. The letter. It would begin with the letter.
He stood up and walked to where the priests had begun to gather, and asked around for a scribe.
Not long after he had finished his dictation and paid the scribe, he heard a bustle from the tent. Barsam, his words no longer slurred, shouted for a messenger, and said something Kamvar could not hear to an Ekkadi boy that answered the call. As the boy sped away, Tahmin stepped out of the tent, fully armoured. Kamvar waved, and jogged to his friend.
Tahmin nodded at Kamvar, “Morning, Kam. Couldn’t sleep again, I take it? Get your things together. We’re leaving.”
“The girl?” asked Kamvar.
Tahmin nodded in response. “Maybe ten minutes ago, Barsam felt her sorcery and roused us,” he explained. He took a quick look around and beckoned to Kamvar to come closer.
“Kam, is it my imagination, or has Hound Barsam been drinking?”
Kamvar chuckled in response. “You have no idea.”
