Mage's Blood

by David Hair

  On the third day, with hours still to go until sunset, Jamil made a pleased noise in his throat and pointed to a distinctive pillar of rock, a massive shaft the size of a house, with another as big lying athwart it. ‘Ha! We have arrived,’ he announced, and led them to a sandy space beneath the pillar. To their surprise it was heavily carved and shaped, and a door was set in the stone. As Jamil went in they glimpsed a sizable room within the rock. He emerged with a small gourd in his hands. He unstoppered it, took a deep swallow and winced. ‘Fenni!’ he said, and handed the gourd to Kazim. ‘Sit down, relax. We’ve reached our destination.’

  Kazim took the gourd and sipped – chod, the fenni was strong! – and stared truculently at the man. ‘Our destination? Here? I want to go to Hebusalim, not the middle of the Kesh desert. This is not our destination – if it’s yours, you can stay here, but I’m going.’

  Jamil grinned infuriatingly, and Kazim bridled, longing to smash that smile off his face. ‘What are we doing here?’ he shouted. ‘Why aren’t we going north? Just who the Hel are you?’

  ‘Me? I’m the one who pulled your fat out of the fire and babied you across the desert, that’s who.’ He lounged against the stone. ‘I’m the man who can get you to Hebusalim faster than any other, and right now that’s all you need to know.’

  Jai put a hand on one shoulder, Haroun grabbed his arm and they pulled Kazim away. They hunched together in the lee of a great rock. At last he growled, ‘Brothers, what are we going to do?’

  Haroun patted his shoulder. ‘Trust him, my friend. He has done all he said he would, and if he says he will take us to Hebusalim, he will. He is what he says, I promise you.’

  Kazim rounded on the spiritualist, asking angrily, ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘He is our guide, sent by Ahm Himself,’ Haroun answered emphatically.

  Kazim rolled his eyes and looked at Jai, who shook his head and glanced at Keita. ‘We don’t have much choice, Kaz. Let’s just keep our eyes open and see what happens. We’ve got nothing he couldn’t just take, have we? So maybe he’s genuine.’

  Kazim slowly unclenched his fists. ‘I’m sick of being led around by the nose.’

  Haroun patted his shoulder again. ‘Trust, my friend. Trust in Ahm and in Jamil.’

  The Keshi captain produced real weapons from the stone room, and all afternoon he drilled Kazim and Jai, working them hard. Kazim imagined each blow was at Jamil’s face – or Ramita’s husband, whoever he was.

  In the evening after the meal, he bolstered his nerves with the fenni, and whilst the others bedded down for the night he went and sat near Jamil. Jai and Keita were out of sight behind some rocks, but they were still in earshot. Kazim fought to stay civil as he asked, ‘Jamil, how do you know my father? You do not seem old enough.’

  The warrior was cleaning his helm with sand. He grunted. ‘Raz Makani was older than me, but I knew him. We are distantly related, in a manner of speaking.’

  ‘In a manner of speaking? What does that mean?’

  ‘Just that.’ He shrugged, uninterested. ‘I’m a distant cousin.’ He leaned back. ‘Boy, I like you. You’ve got courage, and you think fast in a fight – if you didn’t I’d have lost you when the Ingashir struck. I will get you to Hebusalim, and when we arrive, I will introduce you to some people who can help you recover your woman.’

  ‘Then why have we come here? Why aren’t we going northwest?’

  Jamil put his hands behind his head and leaned back. ‘You’ll see tomorrow – and before you ask me why I’m being mysterious about it, I will tell you: you’ll understand tomorrow. So stop being so spiky, lad, and get some sleep.’

  Jamil shook them awake before dawn. ‘Stand with me,’ he told them. ‘Don’t do anything foolish.’

  ‘I wasn’t doing anything foolish in my sleep, so why wake me?’ Jai grumbled. He put an arm around Keita. Kazim and Haroun blinked and looked around. The sun was still a distant gleam in the east; Luna’s crescent hung to the west, and the stars were a sea of twinkling light.

  Jamil raised a hand and pointed northwest into the sky. ‘There.’ His voice was low, and full of anticipation as a shape, darker than the night sky, flitted through the stars low to the ground.

  At first Kazim first thought it might be some kind of bird, but the shape was wrong and the size too. ‘Is that—?’ He looked at Jamil and took a step back. ‘Is that a windship?’

  Jamil grinned wolfishly. ‘It is what they call a “skiff”, boy.’ He bent over a lantern at his feet, lit it and swung it about his head.

  ‘But aren’t they Rondian?’

  ‘No. It’s one of ours.’

  ‘Ours? But …’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone.’ Jamil winked ironically. ‘It’s a secret.’

  Kazim gaped, struggling to find his voice. ‘But the Amteh preach that the magi are evil! Their powers are devil-bought – they are allies of Shaitan! You cannot just tell us, “it’s one of ours”: Rondian magic is evil, the magi are Shaitan-spawn, and we the Amteh are unstained. This is known.’ He looked up at Haroun. ‘Did you know about this?’

  Haroun nodded slowly. ‘Jamil told me a few days ago. Have faith, Kazim: if Ahm saw fit to give the enemy magic, would he not also give it to those of the true path?’ He reached out to Kazim, who brushed the scriptualist’s hand away.

  ‘Don’t touch me. You aren’t my friend – you never have been. You’re just like Jamil: you’re in the pay of someone, trying to make me do what you want. You’ve never been my friend.’ He stood up and walked away.

  Behind him he heard footsteps, which stopped, then some muttered conversation. Despite himself, his eyes were drawn to the approaching windskiff. A Rondian has married my love. I am going north to find her. And suddenly people are stepping forward to help me. Which means – what? This is insane.

  But it also looks like the only way to get to Hebusalim. Would they even let me go alone?

  He walked back to Jamil. The skiff was much closer, bearing down on their sandy clearing. ‘Who am I indebting myself to in accepting your aid?’ he demanded.

  ‘No one.’

  ‘What, no honour debts? No “I owe you” understandings?’

  Jamil shook his head, his expression unreadable in the pre-dawn shadow. ‘No obligations.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. Who do you work for?’

  ‘Come to Hebusalim and find out.’

  ‘Then you are working for someone!’

  Jamil looked mildly exasperated. ‘Of course I’m working for someone – everyone works for someone, whether they know it or not. But I’m on your side, Kazim Makani. I want what you want.’

  ‘And if I don’t come with you?’

  ‘Then you’ve got a long walk ahead of you.’ Jamil half-turned away. ‘And true love may not conquer all. That would be a shame. But, it’s your choice.’

  Kazim closed his eyes and groaned. ‘My choice, my arse! You bastard.’ He turned to Jai, ignoring Haroun, indeed fighting the urge to punch him, scriptualist or not. ‘What do you think, Jai?’

  Jai hung his head and murmured, ‘I’m tired, Kaz, and so is Keita. Let’s just go with them and think again when we get there, okay?’

  Kazim threw up his hands in resignation. ‘All right, all right: we go.’ He stalked to his pile of belongings and shouldered them, jammed his new scimitar in his belt and bowed to Jamil. ‘You win.’

  ‘We all win,’ Jamil replied evenly.

  The skiff landed with a flurry of activity from the one man aboard, tugging on ropes to lower the sail while holding the tiller steady between his thighs. It was larger than it had looked from the distance, and yet it was disappointingly small. In tales the windships of the Rondians were huge things, castles of the air. This was barely sixty feet long, and it had been crudely hacked from a hollowed-out log.

  The man was wrapped in a headscarf and flowing dun robes. As the hull crunched into the sand he leaped to the ground and came striding towards them, crying, ‘Praise be to Ahm, Jamil,
praise be.’ He threw his arms around the captain and kissed his cheeks in greeting.

  ‘We give praise, Molmar.’ Jamil hugged the man back intently, then buffeted his shoulder. ‘I trust you were not seen, my friend.’

  ‘No, no, the Rondians are shut up in the Hebb Valley. We could put a fleet in the air in broad daylight out here and go unremarked … not that we will be that indiscreet.’

  ‘No, we will not. Molmar, these are my travel companions: Haroun, Jai, Keita … and the sulking one is Kazim Makani. He’ll get over it, once he’s adjusted to the realities of the world.’ Jamil clapped Molmar on the shoulders. ‘If you can convince him that you haven’t sold yourself to Shaitan for the power to fly that windship, he will come with us.’

  Molmar raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah, that. Lad, forget what you’ve been told. The gnosis – that’s what this power is called – has nothing to do with Shaitan and devils. That’s just priest-talk. It’s—’

  Jamil raised a hand to stop him. ‘That’s all they need to know for now, Molmar. How far can we fly in daylight unseen by the enemy?’

  ‘There are no Rondian patrols this side of Saghostabad, trust me.’

  ‘Good, then let’s get under way.’ He looked at his companions and gestured at the skiff. ‘Throw any gear you want to take into the nets and if you need to shit or piss, do it now, before we take off.’ He clapped his hands. ‘I want to be gone from here in ten minutes.’

  Just like this, my whole world changes …

  Kazim sat in the prow, as far from the two Keshi warriors as possible. Jai and Keita huddled beside him; she was whimpering, her head hidden beneath a blanket. Haroun sat beside the mast. Jai and Keita had both vomited over the side within seconds of take-off, but Kazim had always stronger guts than his Lakh brother. Haroun appeared completely unmoved. Still, it was a frightening sensation, watching the ground fall away and the craft rise as Jamil hauled on the ropes and raised the single sail.

  I am flying aboard a vessel powered by the arts of Shaitan – or not, apparently. What am I to think?

  They swung stiffly in the barely moving air, then Molmar spoke softly and with a sudden rush a gust of wind came from nowhere and filled the sails. The nose dipped and straightened and as they picked up speed Kazim realised he had been holding his breath. He exhaled. For the first minute or so he fully expected them to plummet to the ground and die, then everything changed – not in the landscape, though that was astonishing, but inside his head: a sense of complete freedom filled him, which was entirely at odds with the way he appeared to have been manipulated by Jamil and whoever he worked for. It suddenly didn’t matter: he was moving towards his love, and he was experiencing this. Whether it was enabled by Ahm or Shaitan, he could not deny that flying was glorious.

  From above, the shapes of the land were revealed, details that had escaped them from ground-level. The sun rose and stretched its bright hand across the landscape, and in the southwest he could see the distant mountains on the horizon. The villages were like toys beneath him, herds were like beetle swarms. He saw a desert lynx, yawning on a rock below. Hawks shrieked indignantly at them and swooped away. The miles disappeared beneath them, but he never tired of the ever-changing views.

  No wonder the Rondians are said to be arrogant: if this was how they travel they must think themselves gods.

  They made stops twice-daily to relieve full bladders and bowels, rest and eat, always in the wilderness, and they flew well clear of the few towns they came across. Molmar knew the land well, leading them unerringly to waterholes at each stop. When they stopped at night for Molmar to sleep he occasionally got a glimpse of his unmuffled face. He looked uncannily similar to Jamil, and a deeper unease took Kazim. Again he contemplated walking away, but when he woke he could not resist the lure of flight.

  They travelled like this for a week, covering more than two hundred miles a day. Molmar unrolled a map and taught him what the lines on the leather meant, and he stared at it for hours over dinner, memorising it, trying to picture places from the descriptions Molmar and Jamil gave him. He hadn’t meant to talk to either of them, but after a while he felt like a fool and slunk into the circle about the campfire. They are useful, he reasoned, but it doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven them. Nor had he forgiven Haroun, though his anger towards the scriptualist was harder to sustain. Maybe I’ve misread him, he thought; perhaps his friendship is genuine. But he’d never been very good at backing down.

  For the first week they flew west, then swung northwest towards Dhassa. The waxing moon grew, dimming the stars, and as the plains became more populated, they changed to travelling only at night. Kazim found just as much joy soaring beneath the moon and stars, seeing the dim lights of campfires below and the way the waterways reflected the night sky. Eventually he asked Molmar to teach him how to use the rudder and set the sail. The first time he caught the wind and they began to skim across the sky like an eagle a burning exhilaration filled him.

  Molmar chatted amiably, though he refused to tell Kazim how it was that Amteh warriors had the devil-magic of the Rondians. ‘That’s for others to relate, not me, lad.’ If it hadn’t been for his resemblance to Jamil, Kazim could almost have liked him.

  Eventually, though, their airborne odyssey came to an end. ‘We are coming to the areas where the Rondian warships are known to patrol,’ Molmar told them, ‘so we must part company, my young friends.’ He set them down in a field just after midnight. He embraced Jamil and offered Kazim his callused hand. Kazim stared at the man for a long moment, then took it, and Molmar’s face broke into a smile. ‘My helmsman,’ he chuckled, then looked more serious. ‘Ahm be with you, Kazim Makani. May he guide your blade true.’ And within minutes the windskiff had disappeared into the night sky.

  Thereafter they travelled on foot from village to village, safe-house to safe-house. These were tended by the servants of Amteh scriptualists. Everywhere it seemed they were expected. Haroun spent most of his evenings with the holy men, but returned with snippets of news. Most of the talk was of the shihad, of course: Salim was supposedly negotiating with the mughal; Javon would soon join the shihad; the Rondians were reinforcing and refugees were already fleeing Dhassa in anticipation of disaster. They saw many such people on the road, weighed down by their belongings, stoically trudging through the dust.

  At the end of the month, under a full moon almost as bright as day, they entered Hebusalim in the back of a curtained camel-cart. The Godspeakers in Baranasi had claimed that Hebusalim was besieged, under constant attack, but though Kazim saw no sign of armies or fighting, the inner city walls were strongly manned and there were many ferang guards on the gates.

  ‘The sultan musters his armies east of the Gotan Heights,’ Jamil told him. ‘No one but insane Rondians makes war in midsummer. The Convocation did not reach agreement in time to mount a winter campaign – after ten years of wrangling we should be grateful they reached agreement at all.’ The Keshi captain’s voice was bleak and cynical.

  They did not enter the inner city, but turned into the tangle of streets in the outer city. There were people and noise everywhere, feverish commerce and raucous religion, traders and Godspeakers vying for customers, verbally bludgeoning passers-by with their promises of paradise.

  ‘They are desperate to squeeze as much from their businesses as they can before they flee the Crusaders,’ Jamil remarked. ‘The markets will be open past midnight – the traders have starving families and opium habits to feed. This city has become a cesspit.’ His voice was only mildly condemnatory.

  They passed whiteskin soldiers clad in chainmail and red tabards, drunkenly cursing and shoving their way through the alleys. They looked big and stupid. Jai had his arms around the shivering Keita and Haroun’s head was buried in a scroll, leaving Kazim with only Jamil to talk to.

  ‘There are rooms awaiting you near the Dom-al’Ahm,’ Jamil said. ‘There is someone you need to meet.’

  Kazim looked at him. ‘“No obligations”, remember?’
r />   ‘Of course. But if you wish to see your woman, we can help you.’

  ‘“We”’?’

  Jamil just smiled.

  Bastard. ‘Stop toying with me,’ he growled.

  Jamil leaned towards him. ‘Look around you, Kazim: this is a Hebb city, under the thumb of drunken whiteskins with less wit than the camel pulling this cart. How did this happen? Because Antonin Meiros and his Ordo Costruo allowed it to happen. Because he refused to do what decency and righteousness demanded and drown the emperor’s legions. He continues to compound this treachery by not reversing that decision, not aiding the shihad. This evil, lecherous creature is rolling in the mountain of gold the emperor paid him for that betrayal.’

  Kazim listened with little interest. ‘I’m here for Ramita, nothing else.’

  Jamil jabbed a hand finger into Kazim’s arm. ‘It affects you, Kazim Makani, because Antonin Meiros has recently revealed to the world that he has a new wife.’

  Kazim felt his whole skin tingle. He met Jamil’s eyes, barely comprehending.

  ‘He has a new Lakh wife,’ Jamil continued remorselessly, ‘named Ramita Ankesharan.’

  Kazim stared. ‘But Meiros – he died years ago – he is just a legend, not a real person—’

  ‘He is a jadugara who has stolen your woman,’ Jamil replied in a low voice.

  Kazim felt his throat constricting: Meiros: the bogeyman of every tale of the Crusades, Shaitan Incarnate himself. ‘My God, Ramita!’ He put his head in his hands. ‘How long have you known?’ he whispered. ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’

  ‘Would you have believed me? And if you did, would you have come, or would you have given up and gone home?’ Jamil asked, studying him intently. ‘Now you are here, and know the truth. What will you do about it?’