by Eric Flint
Stared down at that. Up at the Pathan.
"I've never seen this man before in my life," he told the tracker quietly.
It was almost worth it, then, for Rana Sanga. After all those years, finally, to see the Pathan gape. Like an idiot beast.
"I'm just a poor peddler," whined the man, for the hundredth time. He moaned, pressing the bandage against his cheek. Moaned:
"My name is-"
"Shut up!" snarled Udai. "We know your name! What we want to know is where did you get the horses?"
The peddler stared up at the Rajput. Finally, something beyond squawling terror and babbling self-pity entered his mind.
Avarice.
"They're my horses!" he squealed. "You can't-"
"Shut up!" bellowed Udai. "Just shut up!"
Rana Sanga put a restraining hand on Udai's shoulder. His lieutenant's fury was just frightening the man senseless.
The Rajput king squatted, bringing his eyes level with those of the bloody-faced man sprawled in the dirt.
"Listen to me, peddler," he said quietly. Quietly, but very firmly. The peddler fell silent.
"My name is Rana Sanga."
The peddler's eyes widened. He was not Rajput, but he traded in Rajputana. He knew the name. Knew it well.
"We will take your horses." Quiet, iron words.
The peddler opened his mouth, began to squawl.
"Those horses were stolen from the royal courier service. To possess them is to be condemned to death. Impaled."
The peddler's mouth clamped shut. His eyes bulged.
Sanga raised his hand reassuringly.
"Have no fear. We have no interest in your execution. If you serve us well, we may even repay you for the loss of the horses."
Partly, he thought, watching the avarice leap back into the peddler's eyes. Whatever you paid for them. Which, I am quite certain, is much less than what they are worth. I think I am beginning to understand what that-that-fiend-
He took a deep breath.
No. What that fiendish mind has done here.
He glanced to the side. Thirty feet away, his Pathan tracker was holding up one of the horse's legs, examining the hoof. Very carefully.
Sanga turned back to the peddler.
"But now, man, you must tell me-very quickly, very simply, very clearly-how you got the horses."
"He was a Ye-tai," gasped out the peddler. Then, in a sudden rush of words:
"A deserter from the imperial bodyguard, I think. I'm not sure-I didn't ask! — not a Ye-tai-but. I think. I saw part of a uniform. Gold and red. He was on the run, I think. Had nothing but those fine horses, and seemed desperate to get out of Ajmer. So he-he-"
Suddenly, amazingly, the peddler burst into laughter. "Idiot Ye-tai! Stupid barbarian! He had no idea what those horses we're worth-none, I tell you! In the end-it only took me two hours of haggling-I traded them for three camels, some blankets, and a tent. Food. Maybe fifty pounds of water. Two big tureens full. And five bottles of wine. Cheap wine." Howling, howling. "Fucking idiot! Fucking savage!"
Sanga slapped the man's ear. "Silence."
The peddler's hysterical laughter stopped instantly. His faced turned pale.
"And what else?" grated Sanga. "There would have been something else."
The peddler's expression was a weird conglomeration of astonishment, fear, greed. Fear.
"How did you know?" he whispered.
"I know that-Ye-tai," replied Sanga quietly. "He would not have simply sent you on your way. He would have made sure you came this way. How?"
Fear. Greed. Fear.
"Show me."
It was one of the Emperor's emeralds.
A small emerald, very small, by imperial standards. Probably the least of the jewels which Belisarius had with him. But it had been a fortune to the peddler. Enough to send him off to Bharakuccha, with the promise of a matching emerald if he delivered the message to the proper party.
Who?
A Greek merchant. A ship captain.
His name? The name of the ship?
Jason. The Argo.
Show me the message.
Rana Sanga could read Greek, but only poorly. It did not matter. Most of the message was mathematics, and that he understood quite well. (India was the home of mathematics. Centuries later, Europeans would abandon Roman numerals and adopt a new, cunning arithmetic. They would call them "Arabic numerals," because they got them from the Arabs. But they had been invented in India.)
So he was able to understand the message, well enough.
Finally, in the end, a king of Rajputana could not restrain himself. He began laughing like a madman.
"What is it?" asked Jaimal, when Sanga's howling humor abated.
"It's a theorem," he said, weakly. "By some Greek named Pythagoras. It explains how to calculate angles."
The Pathan rose from his examination of the horse's hoof and stalked over.
"Not cut by stone on road. Knife cut. Done by meant-to purpose."
Sanga had already deduced as much.
"Exactly." He smiled, stroking his beard. "He knew we would spot the mark. And that, after weeks of following it, would stop thinking about anything else. So he switched in Ajmer, sent us charging off south while he drives straight across the Thar on camelback."
He glanced at the peddler, still ashen-faced.
"Three camels," he mused. "Enough to carry him-and his food and water-across the desert without stopping."
He rose to his feet. It was a sure, decisive movement.
"We'll never catch him now. By the time we got back to Ajmer and set off in pursuit he'd have at least eight days lead on us. With three camels and full supplies he'll move faster than we possibly could across that wasteland."
His lieutenants glared, but did not argue. They knew he was right. Five hundred expert cavalrymen can eventually outrun a single horseman, even with remounts. But not across the Thar.
That was camel country. There probably weren't five hundred camels available in Ajmer, to begin with. And even if there were-
Rajputs were not expert camel drivers.
"Stinking camels," grumbled Udai.
"Can't stand the fucking things," agreed Pratap.
"Good meat," stated the Pathan. The Rajputs glowered at him. The tracker was oblivious. His mind was elsewhere.
"So we give up, then?" asked Jaimal.
Sanga shook his head.
"No, we don't. But we'll not try chasing after the Roman again. Instead-"
He held up the message.
"We'll take his advice. Angles. Maybe-just maybe-we can make better time by taking two sides of the triangle while he takes one. We'll head for Bharakuccha-as fast as our horses can carry us. At Bharakuccha we'll requisition a ship-several ships-and sail north to Barbaricum. That's where he's headed, I'm sure of it."
He strode for his horse.
"We might be able to meet him there. Let's go!"
That night, by the campfire, the Pathan finally broke the silence he had maintained for hours.
"After adopt, make him clan chief. No. Make him king. First Pathan king ever." He grinned at the Rajputs over the flickering flames. "Then Pathan conquer world entire whole." A gracious nod to Sanga. "You was good master. When you my slave, I be good master too."
Three days later, as the Aravallis rolled by on their right, Jaimal leaned over his saddle and snarled to Sanga:
"If that Pathan keeps telling that same joke, I swear I'm going to kill him."
"Jaimal," the Rajput king replied, coldly. "He is not joking."
Chapter 22
Rao was amused by the reluctance with which his young men obeyed orders. His lieutenant Maloji was not.
"You're too easy on them, Rao," he complained. His words came easily, despite the fact that he and the Panther were racing along the steep slope of a ridge, just below the skyline. On the other side of that ridge, they could hear the roar of battle. The clash of steel was fading, slowly. The angry shouts of Ma
lwa officers were not.
"Here," said Rao. He scrambled up the slope, flinging himself to the ground just before reaching the crest. Maloji followed. On their bellies, the two men crawled to the crest itself, and peered over into the small valley below.
"You see?" hissed Maloji accusingly. He pointed angrily, with a bristling thrust of his beard. "Some of the disobedient dogs are still even using their swords."
"Only two," murmured Rao. He watched while the two young Marathas below finished cutting down a Malwa soldier before they began their own scramble up the slope on the opposite side. On the crest of that ridge, a line of guerillas was firing arrows into the swarming Malwa troops below.
"They are brothers, you know. One of them probably got tangled up and the other came to his rescue."
"Still-"
"Do not fret, Maloji. They will learn discipline soon enough." Grimly: "After they sustain heavy casualties from excessive enthusiasm."
He broke off, gauging the Malwa. The officers were finally bringing order back to their little army. At their command, ranks of soldiers began slogging up the slope. They suffered considerable losses from the arrows raining down on them, but their advance was inexorable. The Malwa had tried to cram too many soldiers down the narrow valley-not much more than a ravine. Those packed ranks made an easy, slow target for ambush, but, once they began their counter-attack, were far too massive to be repelled.
"They should break off now, the dogs!" snarled Maloji. "Your orders were very clear!"
Rao did not argue the point. He had, in fact, ordered his men to fire no more than two volleys after the Malwa began their counter-attack. The guerrillas should already have been retreating. Instead, the young Maratha rebels waited until the Malwa were halfway up the slope before they finally scrambled away.
Rao turned, and edged his way down the slope. Maloji followed, still grumbling.
"You shouldn't have given them those horses. That's why they're so bold. Disrespectful young dogs. They think those horses can outrun anything."
Now well below the skyline, Rao stood up. He grinned at his lieutenant. "Those horses can outrun anything. Anything these sorry Malwa have. The best horses foreign money could buy!"
Maloji rose and brushed himself off. "Fine steeds, I admit," he agreed reluctantly. "They were a wonderful gift."
"I think of it as an exchange," demurred Rao. He looked to the west. He could not see Bharakuccha, of course. The great port was many miles away, hidden behind the Satpura mountains. "They gave us the horses, we gave them the opportunity."
"Will they make their escape, do you think?"
Rao shrugged. "I should imagine. We stopped the couriers, and we've been"-a gesture toward the ridge; a wide grin-"distracting the Malwa."
He turned and began loping toward the dell where their own horses were hidden away. Speaking easily, despite the rigorous pace, he said over his shoulder:
"As I told you before, Maloji, those men are capable."
Capability was unneeded. The escape, at the end, was child's play.
Garmat simply marched across the ramp connecting the Axumite trader with the wharf, and presented himself to the captain. Before he had even reached the man, the captain was goggling.
"Stop looking like a frog, Endubis," he growled.
The captain gaped.
"And close your mouth, fool. Spies may see you."
Endubis' mouth snapped shut. The captain glanced hurriedly at the shore, scanning for danger with an experienced eye.
Like all Ethiopian merchant captains, Endubis was no stranger to combat. Such merchants served as a reserve for the Kingdom of Axum's navy. No seaman could reach the rank of ship captain, even in the merchant fleet, without the negusa nagast's approval. For all their relaxed customs in other areas of life, the Axumites were never casual about their naval power.
"Trouble?" asked Endubis.
Garmat smiled, thinly. "You might say so. The entire Malwa Empire is baying for our blood."
Endubis winced. "The Prince?"
"He is well." Garmat made a little gesture with his head. "In that warehouse. With his dawazz and the sarwen. Some others."
The adviser examined the ship briefly. "Thirteen men, in all. It will be crowded, but-"
"We'll manage," muttered Endubis. The captain turned and began bellowing orders. His seamen immediately scurried about the ship, preparing for departure.
"I wish you'd gotten here tomorrow," Endubis grumbled. "I'd have a cargo, then. I hate sailing empty. Surest way I know to poverty."
Garmat grinned. "Not so, Endubis. An empty ship will make a fast trip, and we'll not be too crowded. As for poverty-" His hand dipped into a pouch, came out, spread wide.
The captain, again, was goggling like a frog.
"You'll accept Malwa coin, I assume?" murmured Garmat. "Oh, and look! I believe there's even a ruby here. No-three rubies."
On the way out of Bharakuccha's harbor, a Malwa vessel hailed them and tried to come alongside.
"Ignore it," commanded the Prince. "Sail on."
The captain glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "That'll make it hard on the next Axumite trader," he pointed out.
Eon shrugged. "There won't be any `next Axumite trader.' We are at war, now, with Malwa."
The captain sighed. "Ah. Too bad. It was good business."
The officer in the bow of the Malwa ship hailed them again. His voice sounded angry.
"You can outsail them?" demanded Eon.
Endubis sneered. "That Malwa tub?" He disdained any further answer, beyond the orders he shouted at his seamen.
An hour later, the officer commanding the Malwa vessel broke off the pursuit.
He was practically gibbering.
Some of his rage was due to the superior seaworthiness of the Ethiopian ship. Most of it was due to the bare black ass hanging over the stern of the Axumite vessel, defecating. And the great, gleaming grin on the face above it.
A week later, in the port at Tamralipti on India's opposite coast, another Malwa naval officer grinned with sheer delight. As well he should. He had made more money that day than in the previous three months put together.
His lieutenant was grinning, too. His own cut of the nobleman's bribe was enough for a lavish spree in the Bay of Bengal's most notorious harbor district.
The lieutenant gestured with his head toward the merchant ship which was even now passing the harbor's breakwater.
"Should we notify Murshid and his men? There's a fortune in that nobleman's chests. And his wife's young. Pretty, too, probably. She and the other women would bring a good price."
The commanding officer stroked his beard, considering the question. He and his officers made a tidy profit, on the side, selling information on lucrative targets to the local pirates.
He did not ponder the matter for very long.
"No," he said firmly. "Not with that escort."
"There weren't more than thirty of them," argued his lieutenant. "Murshid can muster three ships, with over a hundred-"
The commander glared.
"A hundred what?" he snarled. "Three-to-one odds, you're talking about-four-to-one, at best. Murshid's rascals against-those?"
The lieutenant grimaced. "Well-"
The commander brushed the idea aside, as a man might brush away flies.
"Forget it. Murshid wouldn't thank us afterward, believe me. And what would our cut be-a barrel of guts? Two barrels?"
Looking back at them from the stern of his vessel, the captain of the merchant ship decided he was reading the posture of the Malwa officers properly. The distance was great, but he had very good eyes. And much experience.
Satisfied, he turned away. "We can relax," he said to his own lieutenant. "There'll be no problem."
His lieutenant heaved a sigh of relief. He had thought his captain mad, to accept such a cargo in these waters. They normally hauled nothing but bulk goods in the Bay of Bengal, infested as it was by pirates. The type of goods which no br
igand finds attractive.
But, his captain had decided to take the chance. The nobleman's offered price had been too good to pass up. A small fortune to transport him, his wife, and their retinue to Muziris, the principal port of the south Indian kingdom of Kerala.
Besides-
The lieutenant glanced at the nearest of the nobleman's soldiers. He was not certain, but he thought the man was the officer commanding the nobleman's escort.
The officer was leaning against the rail, watching the receding harbor, idly honing his sword with a small whetstone. It seemed a pointless exercise. The blade was already like a razor.
His eyes met the lieutenant's.
"Trouble?" The whetstone never ceased its motion.
The lieutenant shook his head.
"We don't think so."
No expression at all crossed the officer's face. It seemed, in its rigid immobility, like an iron mask.
"Too bad," he murmured. He held the blade up to the sunlight, inspecting its edge. "My men are a little rusty. Could use a bit of honing."
A month later, Rana Sanga returned to his home near Jaipur. He had not seen his family in a year, and he had decided he must do so before he went on to Kausambi. He might never have the chance again. When he reported his failure to capture Belisarius, he would be punished. Possibly even executed.
To Sanga's surprise, Lord Damodara was waiting for him at the Rajput king's residence. He had arrived two weeks earlier, sure that Sanga would come there first, whether the news was good or foul.
As eager as he was to greet his family-Lord Damodara politely offered to wait until he had done so-Sanga insisted on giving his report first. He and Damodara met in a small room adjoining the great hall which served Sanga as his royal audience chamber. They sat on cushions across from each other at a low table. Alone, after servants had placed tea and pastries for their refreshment.
Sanga's report was full, precise, and unsparing. But as he came to the final episodes of their pursuit of Belisarius, Damodara cut him short.
"Never mind the rest, Sanga. The gist, I assume, is that you found no sign of him in Barbaricum or any of the other small ports?"
Sanga shook his head. "None, Lord Damodara. I am convinced he took ship there, somewhere, but he disguised his traces perfectly. If they investigate-long enough-Nanda Lal's spies can probably discover the truth. But-"
