«I should hope so,» Roshnani said.
Panteles went to one knee before Abivard, one step short of the full prostration the Videssian wizard would have granted to Maniakes. «How may I serve you, most eminent sir?» he asked, his dark eyes eager and curious.
«I have a question I'd like answered by magical means,» Abivard said.
Panteles coughed and brought a hand up to cover his mouth. Like his face, his hands were thin and fine-boned: quick hands, clever hands. «What a surprise!» he exclaimed now. «And here I'd thought you'd summoned me to cook you up a stew of lentils and river fish.»
«One of the reasons I don't summon you more often is that viper you keep in your mouth and call a tongue,» Abivard said. Far from abashing Panteles, that made him preen like a peacock. Abivard sighed. Videssians were sometimes sadly deficient in notions of servility and subordination. «I presume you can answer such a question.»
«Oh, I can assuredly answer it, most eminent sir,» Panteles replied. He didn't lack confidence: Abivard sometimes thought that if Videssians were half as smart as they thought they were, they would rule the whole world, not just the Empire. «Whether knowing the answer will do you any good is another question altogether.»
«Yes, I've started to see that prophecy is about as much trouble as it's worth,» Abivard said «I'm not asking for divination, only for a clue. Will Sharbaraz King of Kings approve of the arrangement I've made here in Vaspurakan?»
«I can tell you this,» Panteles said. By the way he flicked an imaginary speck of lint from the sleeve of his robe, he'd expected something more difficult and complicated. But then he leaned forward like a hunting dog taking a scent «Why do you not ask your own mages for this service, rather than me?»
«Because news that I've put the question is less likely to get from you to Sharbaraz than it would be from a Makuraner wizard,» Abivard answered.
«Ah.» Panteles nodded. «Like the Avtokrator, the King of Kings is sensitive when magic is aimed his way, is he? I can understand that»
«Aye.» Abivard stopped there. He thought of Tzikas, who had tried to slay Maniakes by sorcery and had been lucky enough to escape after his attempt had failed. Sovereigns had good and cogent reasons for wanting magicians to leave them alone.
«A simple yes or no will suffice?» Panteles asked. Without waiting for an answer, he got out his paraphernalia and set to work. Among the magical materials was a pair of the round Vaspurakaner pastries covered with powdered sugar.
Pointing to them, Abivard said, «You need princes' balls to work your spell?»
«They are a symbol of Vaspurakan, are they not?» Panteles said. Then he let out a distinctly unsorcerous snort. He cut one of the pastries in half, setting each piece in a separate bowl. Then he poured pale Vaspurakaner wine over the two halves.
That done, he cut the other pastry in half. Those halves he set on the table, close by the two bowls. He tapped the rim of one bowl and said, «You will see a reaction here, most eminent sir, if the King of Kings is likely to favor the arrangement you have made.»
«And I'll see one in the other bowl if he opposes?» Abivard asked.
Panteles nodded. Abivard found another question: «What sort of reaction?»
«Without actually employing the cantrip, most eminent sir, I cannot say, for that will vary depending on a number of factors: the strength of the subject's feelings, the precise nature of the question, and so on.»
«That makes sense, I suppose,» Abivard said. «Let's see what happens.»
With another nod Panteles began to chant in a language that after a moment Abivard recognized as Videssian, but of so archaic a mode that he could understand no more than every other word. The wizard made swift passes with his right hand, first over the bowl where Sharbaraz' approval would be indicated. Nothing happened there. Abivard sighed. He hadn't really expected the King of Kings to be happy about his plan. But how unhappy would Sharbaraz be?
Panteles shifted his attention to the princes' ball soaking in the other bowl. Almost at once the white wine turned the color of blood. The wizard's eyebrows—so carefully arched, Abivard wondered if he plucked them—flew upward, but he continued his incantation. The suddenly red wine began to bubble and steam. Smoke started rising from the Vaspurakaner pastry in the bowl with it.
And then, for good measure, the other half of that princes' ball, the one not soaked in wine, burst into flame there on the table. With a startled oath Panteles snatched up the jar of Vaspurakaner wine and poured what was left in it over the pastry. For a moment Abivard wondered if the princes' ball would keep burning anyhow, as the fire some Videssian dromons threw would continue to burn even when floating on the sea. To his relief, the flaming confection suffered itself to be extinguished.
«I believe,» Panteles said with the ostentatious calm that masks a spirit shaken to the core, «I believe, as I say, Sharbaraz has heard ideas he's liked better.»
«Really?» Abivard deliberately made his eyes go big and round. «I never would have guessed.»
The messenger shook his head. «No, lord,» he repeated. «So far as I know, the Videssians have not gone over the strait to Across.»
Abivard kicked at the dirt in front of his wagon. He wanted Maniakes to do nice, simple, obvious things. If the Avtokrator of the Videssians had moved to reoccupy the suburb just on the far side of the Cattle Crossing, Abivard would have had no trouble figuring out what he was up to or why. As things were– «Well, what have the Videssians done?»
«Next to nothing, lord,» the messenger answered. «I have seen as much—or, rather, as little—with my own eyes. Their warships remain ever on patrol. We have had reports they are fighting the barbarians to the north again, but we do not know that for a fact. They seem to be gathering ships at the capital, but it's getting late in the year for them to set out on a full-scale campaign.»
«That's so,» Abivard agreed. Before too long, storms would make the seas deadly dangerous and the fall rains would turn the roads into muck through which one couldn't move swiftly and sometimes couldn't move at all. Nobody in his right mind, or even out of it, wanted to get stuck in that kind of mess. And after the fall rains came snow and then another round of rain… He thought for a while. «Do you suppose Maniakes aims to wait till the rains start and then take back Across, knowing we'll have trouble moving against him?»
«Begging your pardon, lord, but I couldn't even begin to guess,» the messenger said.
«You're right, of course,» Abivard said. The messenger was a young man who knew what his commander had told him and what he'd seen with his own eyes. Expecting him to have any great insights into upcoming Videssian strategy was asking too much.
More dust flew up as Abivard kicked again. If he pulled out of Vaspurakan now, the settlement he'd almost cobbled together here would fall apart. It was liable to fall apart anyhow; the Vaspurakaners, while convinced of his good faith, still didn't trust Mikhran, who had served under the hated Vshnasp and who formally remained their governor. Abivard could make them believe he'd go against Sharbaraz' will; Mikhran couldn't.
«Is there anything else, lord?» the messenger asked.
«No, not unless you—» Abivard stopped. «I take that back. How was your journey across the westlands? Did you have any trouble with Videssians trying to make sure you never got here?»
«No, lord, nothing of the sort,» the messenger answered. «I had a harder time prying remounts out of some of our stables than I did with any of the Videssians. In fact, there was this one girl—» He hesitated. «But you don't want to hear about that.»
«Oh, I might, over a mug of wine in a tavern,» Abivard said. «This isn't the time or the place for such stories, though; you're right about that. Speaking of wine, have yourself a mug or two, then go tell the cook to feed you till you can't eat any more.»
He stared thoughtfully at the messenger's back as the youngster headed off to refresh himself. If the Videssians weren't doing more to harass lone Makuraners traveling through their terr
itory, they didn't think Maniakes had any plans for this year. Maybe that was a good sign.
Rain pattered down on the cloth roof of the wagon. Abivard reminded himself to tell his children not to poke a forefinger up there against the fabric so that water would go through and run down it. He reminded them of that at the start of every rainy season and generally had to punctuate the reminders with swats on the backside till they got the message.
The rain wasn't hard yet, as it would be soon. So far it was just laying the dust, not turning everything into a quagmire. Probably it would ease up by noon, and they might have a couple of days of sun afterward, perhaps even a couple of days of summerlike heat.
From outside the wagon, Pashang the driver called out to Abivard: «Lord, here comes a Vaspurakaner; looks like he's looking for you.» After a moment he added, «I wouldn't want him looking for me.»
No one had ever accused Pashang of being a hero. All the same, Abivard belted on his sword before peering out. As raindrops splashed his face, he wished the pilos he was wearing had a brim.
He quickly discovered that donning the sword had been a useless gesture. The Vaspurakaner was mounted on an armored horse and wore full armor. He'd greased it with tallow; water beaded on his helmet and corselet but did not reach the iron.
«I greet you, Gazrik son of Bardzrabol,» Abivard said mildly. «Do you come in search of me armed head to foot?»
«Not in search of you, brother-in-law to the King of Kings.» Gazrik shook his head. Water sprayed out of his beard. «You treated me with honor, there when I bade you turn aside from Vaspurakan. You did not heed me, but you did not scorn me, either. One of your marshals, though, called me dog. I hoped to find him on the field when our force fought yours, but Phos did not grant me that favor. And so I have come now to seek him out»
«We were enemies then,» Abivard reminded him. «Now there is truce between Makuran and Vaspurakan. I want that truce to grow stronger and deeper, not to see it broken.»
Gazrik raised a thick, bushy eyebrow. «You misunderstand me, Abivard son of Godarz. This is not a matter of Vaspurakan and Makuran; this is a matter of man and man. Did a nakharar show me like insult, I would seek him out as well. Is it not the same among you? Or does a noble of Makuran suffer his neighbor to make his name into a thing of reproach?»
Abivard sighed. Gazrik was making matters as difficult as he could, no doubt on purpose. The Vaspurakaner knew whereof he spoke, too. Makuraner nobles were a proud and touchy lot, and the men of one domain often fought those of the next on account of some slight, real or imagined.
«Give me the name of the lout who styled me insolent dog,» Gazrik said.
«Romezan son of Bizhan is a noble of the Seven Clans of Makuran,» Abivard answered, as if to a backward child. By blood, Romezan was more noble than Abivard, who was but of the dihqan class, the minor nobility… but who was Sharbaraz' brother-in-law and marshal.
In any case, the distinction was lost on Gazrik, who judged by different standards. «No man not a prince of Vaspurakan can truly be reckoned of noble blood,» he declared; like Abivard, he was explaining something so obvious to him, it hardly needed explanation. He went on, «Regardless, I care nothing for what blood he bears, for I purpose spilling it. Where in this camp of yours can I find him?»
«You are alone here,» Abivard reminded him.
Gazrik's eyebrows twitched again. «And so? Would you keep a hound from the track? Would you keep a bear from the honey tree? Would you keep an insulted man from vengeance? Vshnasp excepted, you Makuraners are reputed to have honor; you yourself have shown as much. Would you throw that good name away?»
What Abivard would have done was throw Gazrik out of the encampment That, though, looked likely to cause more problems than it solved. «You will not attack Romezan without warning?»
«I am a man of honor, brother-in-law to the King of Kings,» Gazrik said with considerable dignity. «I wish to arrange a time and place where the two of us can meet to compose our differences.»
By composing their differences, he meant that one of them would start decomposing. Makuraner nobles were known to settle disputes in that fashion, although a mere dihqan would rarely presume to challenge a man of the Seven Clans. By Gazrik's bearing, though, he reckoned all non-Vaspurakaners beneath him and was honoring Romezan by condescending to notice himself insulted.
Abivard pointed to a sprawling silk pavilion a couple of furlongs away. Peroz King of Kings might have taken a fancier one into the field when he went over the Degird on his ill-fated expedition against the Khamorth, but not by much—and Romezan, however high his blood, was not King of Kings. «He dwells there.»
Gazrik's head turned toward the pavilion. «It is very fine,» he said. «I have no doubt some other man of your army will draw enjoyment from it once Romezan needs it no more.»
He bowed in the saddle to Abivard, then rode off toward Romezan's tent. Abivard waited uneasily for shouts and screams to break out, as might have happened had Gazrik lied about going simply to deliver a challenge. But evidently Gazrik had spoken the truth. And if Romezan acknowledged him as noble enough to fight, the man of the Seven Clans would grant his foe every courtesy—until the appointed hour came, at which point he would do his considerable best to kill him.
Abivard wished kingdoms and empires could settle their affairs so economically.
It was a patch of dirt a furlong in length and a few yards wide: an utterly ordinary patch of ground, one occasionally walked across by a Vaspurakaner or even a Makuraner but not one to have had itself recorded in the memories of men, not till today.
From now on, though, minstrels would sing of this rather muddy patch of ground. Whether the minstrels who composed the boldest, most spirited songs would wear pilos or three-crowned caps would be determined today.
Warriors from Makuran and Vaspurakan crowded around the long, narrow strip of ground, jostling one another and glaring suspiciously when they heard men close by speaking the wrong language, whichever that happened to be. Sometimes the glares and growls persisted; sometimes they dissolved in the excitement of laying bets.
Abivard stood in the middle of the agreed-upon dueling ground. When he motioned Romezan and Gazrik toward him from the opposite ends of the field, the throng of spectators fell into expectant silence. The noble of the Seven Clans and the Vaspurakaner nakharar slowly approached, each on his armored steed. Both men were armored, too. In their head-to-toe suits of mail and lamellar armor, they were distinguishable from each other only by their surcoats and by the red lion painted on Romezan's small, round shield. The Makuraner's chain mail veil hid the waxed spikes of his mustache, while Gazrik's veil came down over his formidable beard.
«You are both agreed combat is the only way you can resolve the differences between you?» Abivard asked. With faint raspings of metal, two heads bobbed up and down. Abivard persisted: «Will you not be satisfied with first blood here today?»
Now, with more rasping noises, both heads moved from side to side. «A fight has no meaning, be it not to the death,» Romezan declared.
«In this, if in no other opinion, I agree with my opponent,» Gazrik said.
Abivard sighed. Both men were too stubborn for their own good. Each saw it in the other, not in himself. Loudly, Abivard proclaimed, «This is a fight between two men, each angry at the other, not between Makuran and Vaspurakan. Whatever happens here shall have no effect on the truce now continuing between the two lands. Is it agreed?»
He pitched that question not to Romezan and Gazrik but to the crowd of spectators, a crowd that could become a brawl at any minute. The warriors nodded in solemn agreement. How well they would keep the agreement when one of their champions lay dead remained to be seen.
«May the God grant victory to the right,» Abivard said. «No, Phos and Vaspur the Firstborn, who watches over his children, the princes of Vaspurakan,» Gazrik said, sketching his deity's sun-circle above his left breast with a gauntleted hand. Many of the Vaspurakaners among the spectator
s imitated his gesture. Many of the Makuraners responded with a gesture of their own to turn aside any malefic influence.
«Ride back to your own ends of the field here,» Abivard said, full of misgivings but unable to stop a fight both participants wanted so much. «When I signal, have at each other. I tell you this: in spite of what you have said, you may give over at any time, with no loss of honor involved.» Romezan and Gazrik nodded. The nods did not say, We understand and agree. They said, Shut up, get out of the way, and let us fight.
Romezan, Abivard judged, had a better horse than did Gazrik, who was mounted on a sturdy but otherwise unimpressive gelding of Vaspurakaner stock. Other than that, he couldn't find a copper's worth of difference between the two men. He knew how good a warrior Romezan was; he did not know Gazrik, but the Vaspurakaner gave every impression of being able to handle himself. Abivard raised his hand. Both men leaned forward in the saddle, couching their lances. He let his hand fall. Because their horses wore ironmongery like their own, neither Romezan nor Gazrik wore spurs. They used reins, voice, their knees, and an occasional boot in the ribs to get their beasts to do as they required. The horses were well trained. They thundered toward each other, dirt fountaining up under their hooves.
Each rider brought up his shield to protect his left breast and most of his face. Crash! Both lances struck home. Romezan and Gazrik flew over their horses' tails as the crowd shouted at the clever blows. The horses galloped down to the far ends of the field. Each man's retainers caught the other's beast.
Gazrik and Romezan got slowly to their feet. They moved hesitantly, as if half-drunk; the falls they'd taken had left them stunned. In the shock of collision Gazrik's lance had shivered. He threw aside the stub and drew his long, straight sword. Romezan's lance was still intact. He thrust at Gazrik: he had a great advantage in reach now.
The Thousand Cities ttot-3 Page 9
