“Look there—four round hills like babies’ buttocks, see? And to their right, a gap, and then a taller hill standing alone. That’s the Hermit. Don’t climb it, for the love of Ang! Round it to the east, until you come upon a little wall of fieldstones. One of us will meet you there.”
“The Hermit’s just a rendezvous point?”
“Precisely.”
“More skulking and sneaking,” says Chindilan. “Tell me something: are you a company of men or rats?”
“We’re rats, when necessary,” says Stilts. “Rats are good at staying alive.”
“Mr. Stilts,” says Kandri, “what’s waiting for us out there?”
The older man’s lips compress to a line. He looks at them a moment, then turns his face away.
A moment later, faint sounds reach their ears. Kandri turns and sees Mektu scrambling up the side of the ravine. At the bottom stands a young woman in a plain desert kanut; she gives Stilts a silent nod and turns away.
Kandri scrambles down the slope to meet his brother. Mektu is sweaty, disheveled, as though he too has been awake all night. He smiles at Kandri, misses a step, winces. But the smile never leaves his face.
Kandri tries to take his arm, but Mektu waves him off. “I’m just fine—stop making a fuss! But listen, brother, something’s not right. I think we’ve stayed too long.”
“It won’t be much longer,” says Kandri.
“Not much longer is too long.”
His fixed smile is disconcerting. Kandri thinks of how he smiled in Eternity Camp, breaking the news about the Spring Offensive. You’re with me, aren’t you? Kandri had felt heartless, turning on his heel, leaving the question unanswered. But what choice did he have? What answer could he have given but no?
“Lean on me, you’re hurting.”
“Forget it, Kan.”
They emerge from the ravine, and Eshett pounces, lifting Mektu’s shirt. The wound is angrier than ever. “You should have let Kandri help you,” she snaps.
Mektu glares at her. Then he breaks into a little dance, shuffling in his army boots, clapping his hands above his head and singing.
I’ve known sorrow and pain and nights in the rain,
But I’ve loved my share of ladies—
Stilts waves desperately for silence, grinning despite himself. Eshett does not grin. “More than your fucking share,” she says.
Mektu stops as suddenly as he began; the little caper has exhausted him.
“Nephew,” says Chindilan, “that wound is bad.”
Mektu is shocked—not by the diagnosis, but by the smith’s concession, at long last, of the bond they share. “It’s bad,” he says. “Yes, Uncle, it’s bad. But I have this feeling, you see. We should run. We should stop asking anyone to help us, and run. As for this”—he touches his side, twitches sharply—“I’m going to lance the fucker and be done with it.”
“Spoken like a peasant,” says Kandri. “‘Cut it open, bleed it clean.’ Gods, Mek, don’t you remember anything from—”
“Ariqina’s clinic?” says Mektu. “Oh, yes, I remember. You can be sure I do.”
Kandri tenses. His brother has a gleam in his eye; he is going to say something vile, something vicious, and they will have it out right here in front of Stilts and his men—
Eshett places a hand on Mektu’s cheek. She leans close, eyeball to eyeball. “Don’t touch your wound,” she says. “Promise me. Let the doctors take care of you.”
Kandri turns away, fighting for calm. Her gentleness, his uncle’s gesture: these unsettle him more than Mektu’s provocation. They are frightened for his brother, too frightened for the usual scolding.
“Where’s this doctor, Mr. Stilts?” he demands.
“Relax, boy, we’re on our way.” Stilts rests a hand on Chindilan’s shoulder. “You and Eshett must go back to the farmhouse; our sister down there will show you to the road. Pull your things together, and pay Yehita-Chen. Be generous: she’s a loyal supporter, but she still needs to live.” He gestures at Kandri and Mektu. “These two should be along by midday if all goes well. If it doesn’t, you’ll need to go to town and buy provisions for four.”
“What sort of provisions, exactly?” asks Chindilan.
Stilts narrows his eyes. “Water,” he says. “As much as you can carry, and new faska of bison or camel skin. Dry food, better headscarves. Bone meal, black limes, dates, and figs.”
Desert provisions, thinks Kandri. Why not just come out and say it?
“Set out well before sunset,” says Stilts. “You’ll need three hours to reach the Hermit by foot, and one more to round it in the dark.” He gestures to the brothers. “Come along, you two.”
The travelers look at one another. Orange light in their eyes, blue flies buzzing their faces. Chindilan scratches one bulky shoulder. “’Til midday, boys,” he says gruffly.
Kandri nods. “’Til midday, Uncle.”
Eshett looks at each brother in turn. She frowns, as though biting back some impulse, then gives Mektu’s hand an awkward squeeze. “Do as he tells you,” she says, “and come back healed.” She turns away, and Mektu’s hand rises a little of its own accord, reaching after her.
Although the northern gate is closer, Stilts takes them around the wall once more to the east. “You’ve yet to pass through the Dawn Gate,” he said seriously. “That’s a bit of good luck you don’t want to spurn. Not where you’re going.”
In the morning sun, the red-orange stone is even more beautiful, glowing with an inner fire. The guards are many, however, and as the three men approach, they rise and step forward, lowering their spears. Kandri nudges Mektu to keep his eyes downcast. We’re in your hands, Stilts. Ang’s tears, I hope you know what you’re doing.
But as it happens, the Naduman does nothing but smile. As soon as the guards catch his eye, they raise their spears and step backward. No one speaks. The brothers hesitate, but the older man pulls them on. Breathless with relief, they pass through the iron gates, under the glowing stone.
Kandri stops. A chill is passing over him, from his spine to the tips of his fingers. It is not the chill of fear, but it is deeply strange and unsettling. Mektu’s eyes have gone wide. Stilts looks from brother to brother.
“You feel it, then,” he says.
“I—yes. What is it?” The chill energy has not left him yet. Stilts turns them by the elbows, making them look back out through the Dawn Gate. Between the market tents, Kandri sees the sun rising over the plain, and a flock of egrets lifting, and the black, jagged line of the Arigs. His heart races. He is breathless, overcome by the immensity of what is out there, the infinite distances, the world he has never seen. And suddenly, he is eager for it all.
“The Gate’s blessing,” says Stilts. “Everyone feels it the first time, if they’re still young enough, that is. I guess you’re young enough.”
“And this is why you brought us here?” Kandri asks.
“I brought you here to save your brother from septic agony,” says Stilts, “and because my general so ordered.” He glances meaningfully at the guards, still carefully ignoring them. “You’ll be paying sixty-eight true gold for that little service, by the way. Let’s be off.”
They follow him into the city. Kandri is thinking of Tebassa’s ledger book. How deep in his debt are we sliding? How many ways will he collect?
Mab Makkutin remains in shadow; the sun has yet to clear the wall. Few lamps, dark doorways. Nothing stirs in the alleys between the white clay homes.
“Mr. Stilts?” says Mektu. “Why do they call you that? Were you in the circus as well?”
“Hmph,” says the older man. “Someone’s been talking.”
“Not true,” says Mektu. “But you know the girl, our crazy girl, and with a name like yours—”
“I worked for the circus,” says Stilts. “Quite a few of us did. Mansari walked the tightrope; he was our balance boy. Spider climbed like his namesake—walls, poles, stacked barrels, towers of chairs. He and Talupéké’s sergeant p
erformed as a team; she learned from both of them. And her grandmother Kereqa made it all happen. She was our founder, manager, bookkeeper, mistress of ceremonies. And her knife work was flawless; she’s never been equaled, although Tal herself might get there one day. We called her Tappu, the pole at the center of the tent. But enough reminiscing, by damn. That life ended a long time ago.”
“At least you had a life,” says Mektu. “Kandri and I have never gone anywhere. We’ve never done a fucking thing. How could we, when nothing happens in the Valley? You don’t know; it’s just horrible. People get so bored, they fuck donkeys. They throw strange things in the fireplace, hoping they’ll explode. Go on, tell us more. What did you do in the circus?”
Stilts gives him a sideways glance. “I took care of the freaks,” he says.
They follow the main avenue for several blocks, then veer into a side street. Now at last there are signs of life: men and women unlocking their storefronts, fanning coals under blackened tea kettles, chalking their doors with prayer symbols for a day’s prosperity.
“Mr. Stilts,” murmurs Kandri, “why didn’t Black Hat tell his men who we were?”
“That’s for him to explain, if he wishes.”
“He hasn’t decided whether to help us, has he?” asks Mektu.
Stilts gives him an ambiguous smile. “You’ll have to judge for yourself, I’m afraid.”
“Maybe he’s the one who’s afraid,” says Kandri.
Almost imperceptibly, the Naduman slows his step. He does not look at Kandri, but his voice is distinctly colder.
“Let me tell you something, boy. After the killing at the Megrev Defile, when the enemy tired of pouring blackworms on our dying troops and marched off, General Tebassa slid down the side of that gorge and crossed a stream and clawed up the opposite slope. He found a stand of trees. He got a fire started, somehow. Then he stripped the gold brocade from his scabbard and heated one end of the wire in the flames. He lay on his stomach and drove that wire into the worm-holes in the small of his back.”
“Jeshar!”
“Over and over,” says Stilts, “until he’d burned out all the worms and shriveled their eggs. When he was finished, his legs would not move, but if he hadn’t, those creatures would have burrowed all the way to his guts, devoured him, left him hollow as a gourd.
“Shall I tell you the rest? He was found two days later by the Jathra folk of the Megrev. He’d dragged himself to the outskirts of their village, through six miles of mountains, with just his arms. So spare me your thoughts about the general’s courage. Is that clear?”
Kandri nods; he can think of no retort. In his mind’s eye he sees the two severed heads. Exactly to order, sir. A man like that would kill them too, without a moment’s hesitation—kill them, or deliver them to death. And yet Tebassa seems truly fond of Talupéké. And he had arranged for this doctor, as well.
The streets narrow. They pass a soup kitchen (browning onions, that heavenly smell), a temple (incense, frangipani, sage), an alley full of ragpickers, still asleep. Mektu is pressing his hand to his side.
Piles on the devil’s ass! Kandri thinks. Why wouldn’t Tebassa just explain his intentions? Why not just say, I mean to help you escape?
Because he means to do nothing of the kind, says the voice of fear in Kandri’s head. But in that case, why bring them to the war council at all?
Of course, one of them was not.
The thought leaves Kandri cold. Talupéké had spoken to the general about Mektu, and Tebassa had barred him specifically. Had he chosen a different fate for Mektu?
“This doctor,” says Stilts, shattering his morbid thoughts, “may insist on examining your eyes. If he does—well, there’s nothing to be done except to get out of town quickly when you’re finished. Don’t try to bribe him; you can’t. And don’t lie if he asks you about the Prophet. In fact, don’t lie at all—except on one point.”
The brothers look at him quizzically.
“It’s a simple matter,” says the Naduman. “The doctor only treats patients he finds interesting—everyone else can go to hell. So we had to make your brother sound interesting. And there’s just one certain way to do that. We told him Mektu was a survivor of the Throat Rust.”
“The Throat Rust!” cries Mektu. “What, you mean the Plague?”
“The World Plague, exactly. You had it last year, and recovered. That’s all we said to him—all we needed to say. You can fill in the rest as you like, but for the love of Ang, keep your story straight. This man’s used to fakers. If you contradict yourself, he’ll toss you out with your pants down.”
“But I didn’t have the Plague!” says Mektu.
Stilts chuckles. “Sure you did.”
“What kind of doctor are we talking about?” says Kandri. “My brother’s flesh is rotting. He needs a wound treated, not some disease he never had.”
“You want him treated? Then stop jabbering and do as I say. We’ve had years to learn how these cuckoos think. Of course, they may not believe you. We’d like to scar your neck, as though you’d been clawing at yourself, trying to breathe. But you need at least a week for that. The bruises have to heal.”
Scar his neck. Kandri has a sinking feeling about the whole excursion. And Mektu is no different: behind Stilts’ back, he motions with his eyes. Let’s just run.
Kandri shakes his head. They walk another fifty yards, then turn left at a corner. Before them is a curious alley, very long and straight between high and featureless walls. No people. No windows or balconies: just a small door at the alley’s end, with a single torch beside it mounted in a sconce. “Excellent, no one’s waiting outside,” said Stilts. “We were wise to come early.”
Their footfalls echo strangely; the alley is devoid of other sounds. Also oddly clean. Strangest of all, the door when they reach it is iron—solid, massive iron, like the door of a vault. Stilts steps up to the door and pulls a chain; faintly, they hear the ringing of a bell.
“This is a hospital?” says Kandri.
“Of course not,” says Stilts.
A slit opens in the iron door, framing two eyes. They appear to belong to a young woman, but there is something curious about their color, or their shape.
“I’ve brought case number twenty-seven,” says Stilts. “Also an escort, his brother.”
The eyes swivel. “Turn around, twenty-seven. Chin high, if you please.”
A woman’s voice. An accent like nothing Kandri has ever heard. The brothers glance at one another and slowly turn in a circle.
“Just the patient,” snaps the voice. Kandri steps back. This woman is used to being obeyed.
“Your throat is unblemished and symmetrical,” she declares. “You haven’t had the Throat Rust, twenty-seven.”
“You’re wrong, I have,” says Mektu calmly. “I lay in bed from the first to the twenty-fourth day of autumn. I couldn’t speak for twenty days or chew food for sixteen. I lost twenty pounds. I ate papaya gruel and coconut water and goat’s milk when I could get it. The papaya burned my throat, so for four days I drank straight from the coconuts. For the last three days, I slept propped against the wall. My teeth hurt, my bowels were empty, I felt as though a hand were inserted there and squeezing. My tongue swelled like a—”
“Stop!” cries the woman. “You’re lying. You’re just making things up. Find a local doctor, or come back for our public clinic, three weeks from tomorrow.”
“Three weeks?” says Kandri. “We’ll be dead in three weeks!”
“We?”
“He. I said he. I meant he.”
Stilts turns away to hide his look of despair.
“I really did have the Plague,” says Mektu. “I thought you’d want specifics.”
“Specifics, were they?” says the woman. “Go ahead then; I took notes. Repeat those specifics. I am listening.”
“I lay in bed from the first to the twenty-fourth day of autumn. I couldn’t speak for twenty days or chew food for sixteen . . .”
Mektu says it all again, smooth as a priest at morning prayer. Kandri does not catch a slip. When Mektu finishes, there is silence from behind the door. Stilts glances at Kandri, his eyes gone wide.
“Stand by for processing, twenty-seven,” says the woman. The window slit bangs shut.
Gaping, Stilts leans close to Mektu. “I don’t know what the fuck just happened. But you’re in, somehow. Well done.” He straightens, speaks normally. “This is as far as I go. As for our next meeting, you’ve been warned to be punctual: heed that advice.” He lifts a hand in farewell. “The Gods’ luck be with you, gentlemen.”
Kandri, feeling a fool, takes Stilts’ hand in both of his and squeezes it. He sputters, “You’re close to Talupéké as well, aren’t you?”
Stilts raises his eyebrows. “She’s my sister’s grandchild, if you care to know.”
His face reveals no hint of encouragement. Kandri drops his hand. “Did you help her convince the general to aid us?” he asks.
“As you yourself observed,” says Stilts, “what he is convinced of remains to be seen.”
He starts to turn away, but once more Kandri stops him.
“Our names, Mr. Stilts. You said Talupéké didn’t tell you. So how did you know to call us Hinjumans?”
The Naduman smiles, suddenly roguish. “You feared that name had reached the streets already, along with your deeds. Nothing of the kind. It’s just that the two of you, standing there in the market, were like twin portraits of the man. Or competing portraits, maybe—one by a cold artist, an artist with a razor eye, the other by a wild exuberant. But in both of you I can see him plainly. I mean your father, that unbearable rascal. Ah, here’s the nurse.”
The iron door flies open with a boom and a strange hiss of air. Kandri and Mektu shield their eyes: a dazzling light is pouring into the alley. So are guards—small men in spotless, sand-colored uniforms, closing the brothers instantly in a circle of gleaming spears. They pay no attention whatsoever to Stilts, who is already a good distance away. Kandri wants to shout after him—You knew our father! Stop, talk to me!—but the spears press close, and the Naduman is all but running. Bewildered, Kandri turns to face the chamber again.
Master Assassins Page 34
