Even in the best-run homes-
“Are you saying it isn’t the Khan I should be worrying about, but someone else in the city?”
The high priestess seemed to feel she’d already said too much. Abruptly she tucked her hands into her sleeves and bowed her head.
Kerian tried to persuade the priestess to reveal her thoughts. She strove to keep her voice level, but passion throbbed in every syllable. “Help us, Holy Mistress. Help me! I want to lead my people out of Khur, back to our ancestral lands, as soon as possible. We’re defenseless here. I have tried to make the Speaker see this, but he will not.”
“Yes, convince your king to leave Khur. That is the best course.”
“He will not listen!” Kerian kicked the sand, sending a spray of white grains into the air. “He’s tired of fighting and dreams of a new elven homeland in Khur, in that mythical valley!”
The priestess lifted her head abruptly, the tiny bells braided into her hair jangling discordantly. “The Valley of the Blue Sands does exist,” she said quietly. “The analects of the goddess speak of it quite clearly. She calls it ‘the refuge of the damned.”
Kerian snorted. Maybe Gilthas was onto something. Who was more damned these days than elves? She pushed these thoughts aside and concentrated on fulfilling her mission. “The Speaker respectfully requests any documents you might have with information on the valley. Will you lend them, Holy Mistress?”
The priestess raised a hand, and a young acolyte appeared silently in answer. Sa’ida murmured to the girl, who bowed and left.
“I gladly dispense the wisdom of the great goddess,” Sa’ida said. “I hope it will persuade your king to abandon this impossible notion.”
Kerian nodded. “Holy Mistress, I agree with you. My people’s future does not lie in Khur.”
In moments, the acolyte returned, accompanied by three others. Each of the four bore a leather case about three feet long. Sa’ida checked the clay tags on the four cases and gave her permission for them to be turned over to the Lioness.
As Kerian took one, the priestess reached out, resting a hand on hers. “I entrust these sacred texts to you, Kerianseray,” she said gravely. “By your word they must be safeguarded.”
Equally grave, the Lioness accepted the charge. She asked whether the priestess would land in trouble with Sahim-Khan, or the Torghanists, for helping the elves.
“Why should I, a humble servant of the great goddess, fear the enmity of men?” asked the priestess.
Humble servant? The Lioness was amused. The old woman before her exerted enormous influence in Khuri-Khan, not only at court but among the people as well. In a fiercely patriarchal society, the healer-pniestesses of Elir-Sana were accorded a respect and reverence given to no other women. This so-called humble servant was vital to the rule of Sahim-Khan. If the healers of Elir-Sana ever chose to withhold their skills from Sahim-Khan, his city would be in dire straits indeed.
Before leaving, Kerian offered a contribution to the temple’s coffers. The high priestess gave her a severe look. “Alms are always welcome, but one cannot buy the favors of the goddess.”
“I don’t want the goddess’s favor, just yours.”
Sa’ida rose to her feet, face flushing. “You offend!”
“Forgive me, Holy Mistress. The cowardly attack on myself and my young aide distressed me. Please forget my unfortunate words.”
Mention of the tattooed assassins had the desired effect. Sa’ida was plainly upset by the incident. In many ways, Torghan and Elir-Sana were polar opposites, even enemies. The god of the unforgiving desert, of revenge and rage, had little common ground with the goddess of healing, humility, and plenty.
Kerian bowed and turned to go, the three acolytes carrying the other leather cases trailing in her wake. However, Sa’ida called her back.
Stepping away from the Lioness, and turning to face the statue of Elir-Sana, the high priestess spread her hands and sank to her knees. She began to chant a rhythmic, unintelligible sentence. The three acolytes standing near Kerian bowed their heads immediately, but the elf general watched in wide-eyed fascination as the priestess reached out toward the statue’s base. Her hand passed into the marble pedestal without hindrance. The Lioness blinked rapidly, suspecting a trick of the light.
On her feet again, Sa’ida held out a closed fist. “For your bravery, and to ease your suffering, the goddess presents you with a gift,” she said.
This proved to be a smooth, heavy object. About the size of a goose egg, it resembled a giant opal, its white surface veined with pink, green, and gold. Pretty, but the Lioness couldn’t begin to fathom its purpose. She asked, and Sa’ida gave a suitably cryptic answer.
“It will stop the killing-at least for a time. Keep it close by, seeker.”
Their meeting was at an end. With Sa’ida in the lead and the three acolytes trailing behind, Kerian departed the sanctuary. The high priestess did not speak again until they reached the final portal, the double doors that would take Kerian outside. Sa’ida sent the three acolytes out, leaving her alone briefly with the Lioness.
“You and your people should depart Khur as soon as possible. No man in Khur is your friend-and only sorrow can come of your remaining here.”
With that, the high priestess of Elir-Sana turned and walked back into her temple’s shaded depths.
Chapter 3
The Khuri yl Nor was a conglomeration of halls, corridors, and antechambers, all grouped around a central citadel, the great keep known as the Nor-Khan. As much a defensive position as the residence of the Khan, the Nor-Khan boasted thick walls of stone and brick, a massive roof, and absolutely no windows. The interior was always dark and cool, no matter the time of day.
The low light couldn’t hide the magnificence of the Sapphire Throne of Khur. Torchlight only seemed to enhance its beauty. The six-foot-tall chair rested on a wide dais at one end of the throne room. Constructed of wood and covered with hammered gold, the throne was one of the few treasures successfully hidden from Malys and her minions. Its fan-shaped backrest contained two perfect star sapphires, the so-called Eyes of Kargath, the Khurish god of war. The flames of torches, reflecting in the gems, imparted an eerie appearance of life to them.
The Khan of All the Khurs, Sahim Zacca-Khur, was sitting in his impressive throne. He was richly attired in a trailing robe of sea-green silk slashed at the cuffs and hem with stripes of darker jade. Although he was past middle age, his black beard carried no hint of gray in its thick curls. Both chin and nose were proudly outthrust, like the prow of a ship. Heavy gold rings hung from his earlobes. On his head he wore the crown of Khur-a ten-inch-tall conical hat of stiff, red leather, its lower edge decorated by a band of hammered gold.
The Khan was staring pensively at the eleven men arrayed before him. The men were his geel-khana. Khuri-Khan was divided into eleven precincts, known as geel. Each had a commander of the guard, a geel-khana. Despite the moderate temperature of the room, they were sweating heavily.
After allowing the silence to lengthen sufficiently, Sahim-Khan finally spoke. His tone was calmly conversational; the expression in his dark eyes was anything but.
“Each day you report the streets of my city are calm. Yet the laddad queen was attacked by assassins at the doorway of one of our holiest temples. Who were the attackers?”
The eldest guard captain, like the Khan a member of the Khur tribe, replied, “Mighty One, they were followers of Torghan’
“From here in the city?” Sahim’s voice rose. “No, Great Khan. The two who were slain were nomads.”
The Khan grunted. At least the assassins who’d dared test his sovereignty were not locals. Nomads were another matter. None could say what desert wanderers might do.
“The laddad have my permission to be here, and they have the privilege of my protection. Why were they attacked?”
“Mighty One, we have been told”-the captain laid heavy emphasis on the last word, so his lord would know this opinion was not his o
wn-”that the Sons of the Crimson Vulture were driven to madness by the sight of so many foreigners in our city.”
“It is I who decides who is welcome in Khuri-Khan. Only I!” Sahim declared coldly.
He stood and began pacing slowly across the dais. Even through the thick carpet and with his heavy scarlet slippers, he could feel the ruts in the stone, claw marks left by the great dragon. Rather than upsetting, Sahim found the sensation comforting. The formidable beast Malys was gone, and he, Sahim Zacca-Khur, stood in the monster’s place.
Torchlight sent his distorted shadow rippling across the tapestries decorating the thick walls of the keep. The light also glittered on the design embroidered on his robe: two rampant golden dragons, the emblem of his line, faced each other across Sahim-Khan’s broad chest. The design rose and fell as he halted, breathing deeply, pondering in silence. This worried his underlings. A shouting Khan was expending his bile. A silent Khan was hoarding it for a future explosion.
At last he spoke, his voice so low they could barely hear it, even though they were straining to catch every nuance.
“I shall have to apologize to the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. Can any of you imagine how likely Jam to enjoy that?” Faces blanched, but no one spoke, and he bellowed, “Can you”
“I see no need for you to apologize to anyone.”
All eyes, including the Khan’s, turned to the man who had spoken. Below the dais, on Sahim’s left, was a tall, powerfully built man in foreign dress. He sat in a high-backed, western-style chair, the only person in the room, other than Sahim himself, allowed to sit. His face was clean shaven, his skin dark. His voice resembled the bellow of a bull, even in calm discourse.
“Lord Hengriff speaks truly,” the eldest guardsman said quickly. “The Mighty Khan need not stoop to apologize to the laddad.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Hengriff stood, letting his imposing bulk impress itself on the more numerous but shorter Khurs. His obsidian gaze briefly swept the assembly before fixing on Sahim. “Tell the elves their protection is an increasingly heavy drain on the royal coffers. Instead of apologizing, raise the fee you charge them for the right to remain here. Turn this misfortune into a fortune, Mighty One.”
For the first time that day, Sahim-Khan smiled, a slow grin of delight. “You’re a crafty rogue, my lord. Are you sure you aren’t some part Khurish?”
No answering smile came to Hengriff’s face. He merely sat down again, the heavy chair creaking under his weight.
Sahim ordered the high priest of the Temple of Torghan [brought before him. Soldiers had already collected him, and soon he stood before his khan. A sharp-faced former nomad named Minok, the priest, like most Khurish clergy, was beardless and kept his hair cropped close to his scalp. Ritual tattoos were visible at the wrists and neck of his plain cotton geb. Alone among all the Khurs in the room, Minok showed no fear of Sahim-Khan. He made proper obeisance to his liege, but looked Sahim in the eye when he spoke and did not waver when the Than denounced the devotees of the god for their attack on the elf queen.
“Men of the desert have noble souls, Great Khan,” Minok said proudly. “It is too much to expect them to look the other way while foreigners multiply and flourish in our land. Give the word, Great Khan, and the Sons of the Crimson Vulture will sweep the laddad contagion from all of Khur!”
Sahim-Khan appeared to weigh this proposal with due care. Intimates of the palace knew better. The priesthoods commanded the loyalty of thousands, but Minok’s followers had embarrassed the Khan. Whether or not he extorted a greater fee from the Speaker, Sahim did not take kindly to any challenge to his authority. Servants and guards in the throne room began quietly to wager on how long the priest of Torghan would live.
“Your patriotism and piety do you credit, holy one,” Sahim said at last. “I will consider what you have said. In the meantime, it is the will of your khan that the laddad not be molested. Restrain your devotees, priest, or I will. Is that clear?”
All Minok could do was agree to the order. He was surrounded by the Khan’s partisans. Sahim dismissed him, and the proud priest backed out of the room, bowing as he went. Once he disappeared through the double doors, Sahim nodded to soldiers waiting by the exit. They slipped out. Coins surreptitiously changed hands throughout the room. The priest of Torghan had even less time than most had thought.
Sahim sent the geel-khana on their way, too. As they. departed, he realized the usual crowd at court was short by one-his eldest son, Shobbat, was not present. Curiously, this pleased Sahim. The heir to the throne of Khur was not known for offering sage counsel to his father (not that his father would have accepted any), so Sahim had placed him in charge of the repair work on the palace. He must be busy elsewhere in the sprawling, half-ruined complex. This new diligence was refreshing. Sahim would make a khan out of his wastrel son yet.
When most of the audience had gone, Sahim addressed Hengriff. “What do your people make of this new agitation, my lord?”
“You said it yourself, Mighty Khan. Patriotism and piety. The people of Khur tire of the elven pestilence.”
Sahim shrugged. “A few fanatics. They will obey my decrees, or suffer the consequences.
“Hatred of the elves will spread, Great One. Mark my words.”
Sahim had no doubt of that. He knew the Nerakan greased palms all over Khuri-Khan, buying goodwill for his Order and ill will for the elves. Slyly, he asked, “Should I loose Holy Minok and his followers then?”
Hengriff cleared his throat, the sound like a panther’s snarl. “The zealous, once unleashed, are difficult to rein in.”
His meaning was abundantly clear. If the Torghanists were allowed to rid Khur of the elves, they might not stop there. The Khan himself might not meet their standards of purity.
“Better you should expel them yourself, Great One,” the Knight added. “The land would resound with your name for having rid it of their haughty presence.”
Sahim thanked the Nerakan emissary for his insight.
Hengriff bowed low and departed, taking with him the trio of drably dressed men at his back. No amount of broadcloth or linen could disguise the breadth of their shoulders or the watchfulness in their eyes. playing the game as he did, Hengriff never went anywhere without bodyguards.
Weary of the demands of court, the Khan withdrew to a small side chamber. The milling crowd of supplicants, lackeys, and sycophants bowed as he left.
The room he entered was lit by a single oil lamp; otherwise, it was dark as a crypt. Sahim shrugged off his heavy court robes, letting them fall to the floor, and scratched his sides. His ribs had been itching for an hour, but he could hardly sit on the throne of Khur and scratch like a mongrel dog. With more care he removed the crown of Khur and set it on a table, then applied his fingernails to his itching head.
As he poured himself a libation from an urn, something stirred in the room’s darkest corner. Sahim didn’t bother to look up. That distinctive, vaguely unpleasant odor could belong to only one person.
“Come forward. Don’t skulk in the corner like a rat,” he said, and drained his goblet.
A hunched figure limped toward the light. The figure was wrapped in a bulky brown robe whose deep hood hid its features completely. Long white fingers, the knuckles prominent showed briefly before they vanished into the copious sleeves. Sahim eyed the ragged robes and shook his head.
“Don’t you feel stifled in that garb, Faeterus?”
“On the contrary, Mighty One. I find it chilly here.” The voice was dry, hoarse, and whispery with extreme age. “I first came to Khur for its climate, you know:’
“And when was that, snow-for-blood” “Long before your time, Great Khan. Long before.”
Sahim snorted. Even he, born and bred to the climate, thought it oppressive. This shuffling mage had been his hireling for a year, and Sahim still found it absurd that anyone could bear to go about so heavily dressed.
He poured another draft of wine. “You heard the audience?” The
ancient nodded, a rustling movement of the layered hood. “So, what say you to Lord Hengriff’s notion? Pretty justice, don’t you think?”
Faeterus shifted from side to side, as though his crippled legs pained him. “Justice and money cannot exist together, Great Khan. Better to let the Sons of the Crimson Vulture wash their hands in elven blood. When all the laddad are dead, you can claim their treasure without further ado.”
The golden goblet halted an inch from Sahim’s lips. His black brows lifted. “What? You propose I exterminate your own people, the most ancient race in the world?”
A rasping sound, either laugh or cough, issued from the depths of the hood. “They are not my people. I am a race of one.”
“Well, whatever you are, for now you’re mine, bought and paid for. And I have a task for you: find out who attacked the elf queen, and why. Whether it’s Minok and his Torghanists or Hengriff and Nerakan steel, I want to know.” He set down his empty cup. “Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, Mighty One.”
The wine had warmed Sahim’s blood. Even in his sleeveless shift, he found the chamber too hot, too close. The smell emanating from his hired sorcerer was stronger now, musty and sour like the odor of the city’s vast underground cistern where he lived. Sahim fought down a quick wave of nausea. A living body shouldn’t smell like that. Faeterus stank not of flesh, but of old bones slowly disintegrating.
There was a knock on the chamber door. The muffled voice of a court lackey called for permission to enter. Even as Sahim replied, Faeterus faded into the shadows again.
The lackey delivered his news and departed quickly, knowing the word he brought would not be welcome. Minok had managed to evade the guards.
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