That is, until now.
Now, we were camped halfway down the rolling slope of a huge valley, its far side little more than a purple-brown smudge in the distance. Below us, the caravan road twisted back and forth on itself, following a drunkard’s path downhill until it finally stumbled into the valley floor. From there, the road split.
One path ran east, toward fields of golden barley and dark green vineyards, dipping and rolling among the plenty until the details melted into one another. The gray-white line of an aqueduct was visible in the distance, as was a flickering line of silver. Small interruptions in the silver told me I was looking at boats and barges moving along the river Qadd, and not one of the many canals that were said to stem from it.
The river valley was a place of plenty, bursting with near-forgotten colors after what felt like an age spent among graceless browns and dirty grays. Even the blue of the sky seemed richer here, although I knew that was more me than any effect of the land on the heavens. A place that promised rich scents, damp earth, and cool water after a long journey.
It was also a place I knew I wasn’t going to be going.
I turned my attention to the other spur of the road below and followed it until it reached our true destination: the walls of el-Qaddice.
El-Qaddice was really two cities: one set above the other, separated by both geography and time. The upper city—the Old City—sat atop a narrow plateau that looked as if it had been dropped into the valley from the sky. Sheer white city walls rose from rust-colored cliffs, the faces of which had been shaped by generations of stone carvers to form the elaborate geometric patterns that signified the various Djanese gods. Behind the walls, towers and domes glittered in the late daylight, their surfaces set off by metal and glass and, in some cases, I was told, gems. I suspected it was a hell of a sight when the sun hit it in the morning.
Down at the base of the plateau, things weren’t nearly as resplendent. Even from here, I could see that the Lower City was a sprawling collection of whitewashed, mud brick buildings set behind a stout stone wall. A haze of smoke and dust hung over the place, and the only colors I could see came from laundry drying on the roofs. There was plenty of traffic in and out of the gates, though, and the sheep and goats wandering the pastures outside looked fat enough, so I didn’t expect to be waking into abject misery. I suppose in any other setting, the Lower City would have looked normal, possibly even prosperous, but with a prince’s ransom in gems perched on the shingles of the town above it? Well, maybe I was asking too much.
Regardless of how it was spilt up, el-Qaddice served as not only one of the summer capitals of the Despotate, but also a key pilgrimage and religious site. Even from the hill where our caravan had set its final camp, I could see saffron-clad dots—pilgrims—making their way up the twisting road that led from the Lower City to the Old; imagined I could almost hear the tinkling of the seven tin bells on their staffs. The thought made me shudder.
Four weeks on the road, and it had seemed as if every oasis, every caravansary, every damn well we’d stopped at had been festooned by at least one group of bell-jangling pilgrims. And each group had been happy—no, eager—to explain, at length, how the bells represented their trespasses, and how each bell would be replaced with a brass one for every pilgrimage they completed. And, of course, they’d rung their bells. A lot.
It wasn’t until two weeks into the trip I’d discovered that late summer was pilgrimage season in Djan, and that we were at its peak. I had refrained from making any fresh martyrs on the road, but it had been a near thing.
“What are you brooding about?” said Fowler as she came over and settled down on the rug beside me.
“Ritual sacrifice.”
She laughed. Fowler had taken to the local dress on the road, with a long tunic, short vest, head scarf, and hooded burnoose—all in greens, save for the pale wheat of the vest—while I’d stayed in a shirt and breeches. I’d finally traded out my doublet and jerkin for a sand-shaded coat and a striped kaffiyeh, more out of deference to necessity than style. Fowler wore her drapes well, though, with the sash drawing the tunic in just enough to hint at the form beneath. The hang of the rest of the clothes only added to the effect.
She gestured across the expanse of low, rocky hills that separated us from the city. “Considering your assault?”
“Something like that.” I pointed at the Lower City. “We’re going in there,” I said, indicating a wide, arched gate, “and we need to get up there.” My finger rose to indicate the Old City. “That’s where the Imperial Quarter is.” Most of the Lower City was open to foreigners, with only a few districts requiring an escort to enter; the Old City, though, required patronage to get through the gate.
“And you think that’s where Degan will be?”
I shrugged, then reached back to adjust his sword against my back. After a month, I’d gotten used to the feel of it against my ribs and spine. It was comforting—when it didn’t chafe, that is.
“Being Imperial,” I said, “the Quarter seems like the best place for us to start.”
Fowler nodded and stared out at the city. The sun had lightened her hair, making it almost white. It had also dusted her nose with freckles. I wasn’t sure when I’d decided I liked the freckles, but I did. Not that I’d said anything about it.
I allowed myself one last appreciative glance at her and then turned my attention back to the valley. Fowler sighed, clearly getting ready to speak. I wondered whether her thoughts had been running on the same line as mine.
They hadn’t.
“I need to talk to you about the troupe,” she said, not turning to face me.
I rolled my eyes. “Angels, not again.”
“Drothe—”
“No,” I said. “If Tobin wants to complain, he can do it to my face. Emperor knows he’s had enough practice. I won’t have him sending you—”
“No one sent me.” Fowler turned to face me. Her eyes were sharp and hard. “I’m here on my own. We need to talk about how you treat them.”
“I treat them just fine.”
“You almost stabbed Tobin yesterday. How is that fine?”
“I didn’t stab him,” I said. “I threatened to stab him. Big difference.”
“And you think that’s how you ought to act toward the leader of your troupe? What the hell kind of etiquette is that?”
“Knives don’t have etiquette.”
Fowler threw her hands up. “That’s my point! You’re treating them like a gang of Prigs to your Upright Man. They’re actors, Drothe, not Kin. And you’re their patron; that makes them your responsibility.”
“You think I don’t know what it means to be responsible for them? Why the hell do you think I’ve been paying their way and listening to them prattle and complain and boast? It’s certainly not for the pleasure of their company.” I started counting off on my fingers. “I’ve kept them fed; I’ve kept them safe; when Ezak told me they needed new wood for prop spears to practice with—in the middle of a fucking desert, I might add—I found him some. I’ve—”
“You’ve been doing it for yourself, and you know it.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve been doing it because you need them to get into el-Qaddice so you can find Degan. That’s all. If it weren’t for that, you wouldn’t even have them here.”
“I thought that was obvious,” I said. “I’ve never made any allusions about actually liking being their patron.”
“No, you haven’t,” said Fowler, her opinion thick on her tongue.
At some point while growing up on the street, I knew, Fowler had done a stint as a Kinchin: the younger half of a Palliard gang. Her job had been to beg and bawl and draw people’s attention while the embarrassed “mother” used the opportunity to lift purses, or whatever else was handy, off sympathetic observers. It hadn’t been true acting by any stretch of the imagination, but in Fowler’s head the time on the dodge had somehow made her a kindred spirit to the Boardsmen in the troupe.
Nor had the actors dissuaded her; if anything, Tobin had welcomed her with open arms, no doubt sensing a potential champion in the Oak Mistress. Nor had he been wrong, much to my annoyance.
“Listen,” I said. “As long as they do as they’re told—”
“They’re not pets, Drothe,” she said. “They’re actors. And what’s more, they’re your actors. They don’t see this as a dodge or a deal or a convenience—it’s an agreement. A pact. You give a damn about them, they’ll give a damn about you. Hell, maybe they’ll even write a play in your honor.”
I thought about that for a moment—about a play performed in my name, by my actors, and the rumors and misunderstandings and pure chaos even the smallest comedic line could stir up among the Kin—and shuddered. “I don’t need that kind of honor, thanks.”
Fowler looked at me for a long moment. “For a person who’s made a living off his wits for most of his life, you can be incredibly stupid sometimes.”
“I certainly hope not,” said a deep, easy voice behind us. I didn’t bother to turn around as Wolf sauntered up and settled himself beside me, on the opposite side from Fowler. He’d been at the caravan encampment outside Ildrecca as well, where we’d gathered before leaving—though not with Fowler. “I’d be more than a bit distressed to learn that I’d worked this hard, and traveled this far, only to end up with an idiot in my employ.”
“Don’t worry,” said Fowler, gathering her knees beneath herself and standing. “He may be an idiot about some things, but he’s a genius when it comes to saving his own ass. As long as his life’s on the line, you won’t be disappointed.”
“Ah. Good to know.” Wolf looked over at me. “Clearly, I must threaten you more often.”
I glanced up at Fowler. “Thanks a lot.”
“Do you some good to be on the receiving end for a bit,” she said, and she stalked away.
Wolf watched her go. “Among the Azaar, such a woman—”
“Would kick half your tribe’s ass,” I said. “Drop it.”
“As if it were a scorpion.” Wolf produced a wine skin from within his robe and took a long draw. He then proffered it to me, and shook his head when he saw my expression of distaste. “Not wine,” he said. “Sekanjabin.”
“Oh.” I took the skin and pulled a long draw. The liquid was warm, but even with that, short of leaping into an oasis’s pool, the well-diluted syrup of mint, sugar, and vinegar was one of the best ways to cool off I’d found on the trail.
I handed the skin back and waited.
“You have a plan for getting into the Old City?” he said after he had taken another pull and set the skin aside.
I jerked a thumb over my shoulder toward the sounds of the actors. Someone was yelling at someone else again. “You’ve been riding with it for a month.”
“And you think they will be enough to get you in?”
“That’s the plan.”
“And if your plan fails?”
I thought of the doublet lying in my tent and the thin packet stitched into its lining. Jelem had been adamant about not contacting his people until I was inside the Old City itself, insisting they couldn’t help me get in, and that seeking them out would only put them at risk politically. I suspected there was also some concern on his part about his contacts charging him for any favors they might do me, but his debts weren’t my problem.
“Then I’m going to see about leveraging a . . .” I stopped and turned to Wolf. He was watching me carefully. “Wait. You just said ‘in case you can’t get it,’ not ‘we.’”
“I did.”
“Meaning you’re not coming into the city with us?”
“Just so.”
I waited, got nothing more. “Are you coming into el-Qaddice at all?”
Wolf sniffed and turned his head away. “Perhaps.” He paused to clear a nostril. “I have business to take care of elsewhere first.”
“Business?” I said. “You set me up, put my organization at risk, and drag me to the heart of the Despotate, only to tell me you won’t be around when it comes time to do the dodge? When you’re the one who’s been pushing us to make time and miles ever since we left Ildrecca? What the hell kind of a cross is this?”
Wolf turned back and set his eyes on el-Qaddice, not looking at me. “You think I’d come this far, only to leave my Order’s future in the hands of a thief and a band of players?” He pursed his lips. “You know nothing.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I know nothing. Nothing about why an Order dedicated to the preservation of the empire sell themselves as mercenaries when they could be serving the emperor directly; nothing about why your highest form of payment isn’t money or advancement, but a promise; nothing about why it’s so important that you all agree on what it means to serve in the first place. And I certainly have no fucking clue why any of the emperors would let you all wander around like this, when I’m sure he can come up with better uses for you.” I gestured at the city before us. “All I know is that I’m being held over a barrel, and that every time I’m pushed further in, the only answer I get is ‘It’s for the Order. Best you don’t know.’ Well, fuck not knowing. If you want me in that city, working for you, you’ll tell me why it’s so damn important your Order not cut itself to pieces, because except for a former friend who might get caught in the middle of it, I don’t have one single reason to care.”
Wolf stared straight ahead. “You have reasons,” he said. “We discussed them before.”
“I have threats and obligations hanging over me,” I said. “Those aren’t the same thing.”
Wolf turned a solemn gaze my way. “I see the desert has given you time to think, time to ask questions the crowds of Ildrecca managed to keep from your mind.”
“When you’re on a camel twelve hours a day, you try to think about anything but.”
“True.” Wolf tapped a finger against his knee as he continued to watch me. “I will tell you this much,” he said. “We are not like the Sashes, Gold or White. We are degans, and that means we are our own men and women. Our Oath to defend the empire does not mean we bow and scrape at court. We do not answer to the generals on the field or the clerks in the hallway. Our purpose is higher than that.”
“The emperor?” I said.
Wolf shook his head. “If he called, we would come, I think, but I don’t expect him to. He has forgotten us over the incarnations, or at least decided he has no immediate need of us. In some ways, we’re like a fine blade, left to rust in a cabinet.” He turned gaze back out over the valley. “It’s shameful to be a warrior of purpose with no purpose.”
“So why become one in the first place?” I said. “They must have told you what it was like before you took the Oath.”
“Because for some of us, the possibility of serving a higher cause is preferable to the certainty of mediocrity.”
“And that’s why you have the Oath? To give you something to serve while you wait?”
“The Oath has been with us since the beginning; it’s not something that was decided upon later to fill a void. We’ve always had it, have always been under the Oath, just as we’ve always been willing to serve certain individuals with our Oath.” Wolf glanced at me without turning his head. “Bronze has told you the conditions of the Oath?”
I nodded, but stayed silent. When it came to details about the degan’s Oath, I didn’t trust myself to not say too much.
“Then you know we degans can be particular about who we swear to serve,” he said, his eyes still lingering on me. “It’s no light thing, for either party. Once, the Oaths were sworn and used to achieve specific purposes, but those days have passed.” He turned his attention back to the city before us. “Now some of my brothers and sisters swear for a cause or a belief, while others try to achieve an agenda, collecting favors like tokens to be cashed in at the end of a game. Still others choose their Oaths for personal reasons.”
“And you?” I said. “What’s your reason? When would Silver Degan take an Oath?”
I sat there for a while, studying his profile, waiting for an answer. Finally, Wolf cleared his throat and took another pull from the wine skin. “You asked why I’m not going to join you in the city right away,” he said, sidestepping the harder question by giving me the answer to an earlier one. “El-Qaddice is one of several capitals of the Despotate, and one of four possible summer seats for the despot himself. Her sister city, el-Beyad, stands a day’s ride to the northeast, near the other end of this valley.” He gestured in the other city’s direction with the skin. “It is also a summer capital. The despot has been known to travel back and forth between the two, sometimes weekly, as the fancy suits him. Clerks and messengers and eunuchs ride the road between them day and night. If Bronze isn’t here, it stands to reason that he may be there.”
I followed his gesture, resigned to the fact that, for the moment, he was done telling me about the Order. “And why would he be there?” I said.
“Because to come to el-Qaddice in summer is to come within the orbit of the despot’s court. If Bronze is here now, it can’t be a coincidence.”
“Are you saying you think he’s seeking service with the despot?” I said. “That’s insane! He broke his Oath and almost died defending what he thought was his duty to the empire—there’s no way he’d offer his sword to the empire’s enemy.”
“No?” said Wolf. “A man is capable of many things when his trust has been broken . . . or when his faith has been shattered. There’s no place for Bronze in the empire anymore; nothing that won’t summon up memories of pain and betrayal. Where better to get away from reminders of what he’s lost than in the enemy’s camp? Where better to go to no longer be a degan?”
Sworn in Steel Page 14
