“We’re not ungrateful, General,” says Chindilan. “Your generosity means a great deal to us.”
“Not so very much, it appears.”
“You’re wrong there, sir. We aren’t faithless men. In fact, we’re trying to keep a promise—”
“To whom?”
Chindilan works his hands, looking suddenly miserable. He cannot possibly mention Garatajik. “Another benefactor,” he says lamely.
“And where is this mysterious person?”
Kandri leaps to answer: “Kasralys City, General.”
“Kasralys,” says the general. “How in Ang’s wildest dreams do you propose to get there?”
“As part of that caravan, of course,” says Kandri, “at least until we reach the far shores of the desert. Then we can take our leave and finish the journey alone.”
“The caravan is out of the question,” says Tebassa.
“Why is that, General?” asks Chindilan.
“Because it departed hours ago, with my consent.”
Now it is the travelers who cry out in shock and rage. A deception, a trick. The general gives a casual signal, and his soldiers rush to lay hands on the four. Kandri lashes out, but he is immobilized before he can land a single blow. The others fare no better. In seconds, the three men are subdued, and Eshett is forced into a chair, her hands held firmly behind her. Kandri looks hard at the general.
“Honor?” he says.
Mansari turns with a whipcrack motion, striking him in the jaw. Kandri does not cry out or avert his eyes from the general. A taste of blood on his tongue. Mansari wears rings.
“Honor is for brethren,” says Tebassa. “I am bound by many promises to my soldiers, none to you.”
“My friends made no promises either,” says Eshett.
“Nor does a man swimming alongside a boat and begging for rescue,” says Stilts, a few paces behind the general. “Once aboard, though, he’s got to abide by the skipper’s rules.”
“Or be returned to the, hmm, elements,” adds Mansari.
“Release them,” says the general. “If they misbehave again, cut them to pieces.”
The soldiers step away from the travelers. The nearest dozen draw their blades.
“General Black Hat?” says Mektu. “I’d like to explain something. Eshett is telling the truth. We aren’t what we seem.”
“Obviously not,” says the general, “for you seem to be a witless ape with too much spittle in your mouth, and yet you hacked a path of death from Eternity Camp to my door. And when do you choose to arrive? Why, at the start of a true Darsunuk, a Time of Madness, plain as any storybook. Right down to the Gods’ flaming tears.”
Mektu gives him a lopsided smile. “There’s a lot more madness about than you realize, General.”
“Trust me, boy, I’ve seen every sort in Urrath.”
“Not my sort.”
The other travelers flinch, gazing at Mektu like a trio of murderers. Stop! Kandri howls at him silently. Don’t say another fucking word!
Tebassa leans forward, eyes keen as a raptor’s.
“We’re not special,” says Mektu, “but all these things that we’ve done, that have happened to us—it’s more than bad luck. When you struggle in a net, you just get more tangled.”
“You’re about to prove that point again.”
“Things went wrong from the start,” says Mektu. “Kandri attacked the priest because his girl disappeared—I mean my girl, she’s mine—and the town elders put him in jail, and the priest said eleven years. But then our captain went to the Old Man and made an offer, two for one, he said—”
“Two Sons of Heaven?”
“No, two recruits,” says Mektu. “The Prophet had nothing to do with it, really. Sometimes, her priests act alone. Father Marz, for example. Girls went to him for destiny services, to pray for rich husbands, not to be groped under their frocks.”
“That’s enough,” says Tebassa.
“He hated our family,” says Mektu, “and he took it out on me, in my boyhood, before Kandri and I ever met. That’s where it all started, sir.” Mektu lifts a trembling hand to his temples. “And now it’s back, you see. It’s happening again.”
Oh, Gods of Death.
Mektu is about to speak of the yatra. And that could be fatal: some of the fiercest warriors Kandri has ever known are afraid of the soul-thieves. And even if Tebassa does not believe in the wicked spirits, what if his men do? What if this ruthless general knows full well the danger of yatra-terror in the ranks?
A number of warriors already look suspicious: Mansari is studying Mektu with narrowed eyes. Panicked, Kandri leans close to his brother’s ear. “Shut the fuck up,” he whispers in Chilot.
“No, I’ll keep talking,” says Mektu aloud. “I’ll speak my mind while it’s still mine to speak. General Tebassa, the main thing is—”
Kandri, scalded by shame, pokes his brother right in his wound.
Mektu howls. He turns, grabs Kandri by the throat, but when Kandri makes no move to protect himself, his brother hesitates, one fist raised to strike.
For a moment, no one knows quite what is happening. Then the man called Spider rises to his feet. “General,” he says, “may I speak bluntly, sir?”
Tebassa sighs. “Why not, Captain? Perhaps you can elevate these proceedings.”
Spider bows. “I have served you twenty years, General. In that time, you have always shunned those whose presence would make us a target, unless they be committed body and soul to our cause.” He gestures at the travelers. “These four deserve nothing. They spurn our offer of brotherhood. And if they have truly killed the sons of the great Chiloto bitch, they are marked men—marked like no one we have ever harbored. They wish to go? Let them. But with no further assistance, save our boots to their backsides.”
There are murmurs of agreement: a great many, in fact. Kandri glances at Chindilan’s face, sees concern there to match his own. The ground is shifting again.
“I wish you no harm, Chilotos,” Spider continues. “Beyond all doubt, you are marvelous killers—prodigies, even, to have struck as you did.”
“Not true,” says Eshett.
“But you are not our killers,” says Spider, “and we have already rewarded you handsomely. Our sister Yehita-Chen sheltered you. Our influence opened the Xavasindrans’ door and saved one of you from death.”
“My acting talents opened that door,” says Mektu.
Chindilan, his breaking point reached at last, leans over and cuffs the side of Mektu’s head.
“Ouch!” cries Mektu. “What’s that for? What did I say?”
“You are the strangest men,” says Tebassa.
“Strange or simple, they have no right to ask more of us, General,” says Spider.
The affirmative voices are louder now. A second figure rises: the woman soldier from Oppuk’s Mill, the one with the immensely strong arms.
“General Tebassa,” she says, “Spider is right: assassins bring death to those who shelter them. We fight the Prophet already, Ang knows, but we are not first among her enemies. If they remain with us, that will change. Even aiding them further could lead that madwoman to seek revenge. Look what the mere rumor of their presence has done to Mab Makkutin.”
“And their eyes are stained,” puts in another. “They’ll be spotted anywhere we go.”
“They will be our doom,” says Spider. “Let us be rid of them, General, while there is still time. Drive them off.”
Nearly all the soldiers cry out in assent. Only those nearest the general—Stilts, Mansari, the old woman who had clashed with Spider—begin to argue to the contrary. “Drive them off?” says Stilts. “You might as well stab them dead and be done with it. Have you no hearts?”
The uproar is passionate. But after several minutes, a quiet laugh bubbles up through the mayhem: Tebassa’s laugh. When the soldiers perceive it, they fall silent at once. Tebassa wipes his eyes.
“Ah, Spider,” he says, “you have read the situation p
erfectly, but the lesson you draw from it is backwards. You think I’ve brought them here out of mercy, out of gratitude? Come, am I not your Black Hat?”
“You don’t even wear a hat,” says Mektu.
“Interrupt me again, slobbering ape,” says Tebassa, still smiling, “and by the Gods, I’ll take that poker from the fire and burn the tongue from your mouth, and your manhood from between your legs.”
Mektu hides his face in his elbow.
“Survival is for the cleverest,” says the general. “not just the strongest or most skilled with a knife. Yes, these men have spurned our friendship. They may live to regret that choice. But we shall keep them in our pocket nonetheless. Survival means wasting no tools.” He twists again in his chair. “And what sort of tool are they, pray? Can’t one of you tell me?”
Eyes flash around the room. The fire crackles. Kandri glances again at Mansari, sees the corners of his lips slowly curl into a smile.
“A dog whistle,” he says.
Tebassa nods. “An irresistible dog whistle, lads. An enchanted whistle. The kind that could send the Prophet anywhere we like. Look, says Sister Jiat, at what the mere rumor of their presence has done. Look, indeed. You there, Kandri. Tell us how the Ursad of Mab Makkutin fares tonight.”
Kandri’s nails bite into his palms. “The Ursad is dead,” he says.
Now the cries are amazed and joyful. The soldiers look at one another almost in disbelief, as though a great burden had suddenly been lifted from their hearts.
“The brothers Hinjuman spend fifteen hours in that town,” says Tebassa, “and bring an end to twenty years of rule by that backstabbing Ursad. What do you suppose the Prophet will do when she learns that they have been glimpsed in Sendu? When rumor has them breaking bread with the younger sartaph? We can kindle that rumor easily enough. It might not even be necessary to take the fools there.”
One of the soldiers laughs aloud. “Ang’s tears, General, the great whore will go mad!”
“And when the legions of Sendu lie eviscerated, and still the brothers are not found?”
Smiles all around the chamber. “Another rumor?” says Jiat.
“You have it, sister. Let the Prophet hear that they have slipped north through her fingers: say, into the embrace of the Važeks. With a little taunting and needling, she will follow the blood-scent north and abandon Sendu.”
“To us,” says Spider.
“To us,” agrees Tebassa, “as it should be. Can’t you see what we have here, brothers and sisters? The Hinjumans are priceless. They will clear mountains from our path.”
Looks of hope and wonder: the bulk of Tebassa’s soldiers are convinced. Weapons are raised in unison. Suddenly, the whole room is chanting.
“Black Hat! Black Hat!”
We’re tools, thinks Kandri. Nothing else. He planned this from the start.
And yet there are doubters in the chamber. Stilts is not smiling. Nor is Mansari, whose gaze has not left Mektu.
Chindilan is wild-eyed. “General,” he says, “if you’d only—”
“Cut the face of the next one who speaks uninvited,” says Tebassa. “Better yet, cut the other two. Don’t touch the Parthan woman, however. She is blameless—as far as we know.”
As he speaks, his gaze lifts to the back of the chamber. To Talupéké. The girl’s back is to the wall and her expression is stricken. With guilt? With pity? She must have answered all of Tebassa’s questions. Did she ask any of her own?
“We have taken the liberty of removing your effects from the high chambers,” says Tebassa. “There is a padlocked cell in the warren behind me; that will do for you, I think. And I’ll have to ask you to return those clothes. You have others, I trust?”
The travelers say nothing. Kandri takes care not to glance at Stilts. You know about the clothes we purchased. You haven’t reported our every word. That’s interesting.
“Our guests are less talkative, suddenly,” says the general. “No matter. Bring it all to me.”
A path opens, and the travelers’ mud-stiffened backpacks are arranged before the general. Men open the buckles, tear at the rawhide knots. Kandri’s breath grows short. You vile fucker. You’re going to—
“Rope,” says Tebassa, tugging the dusty coil from Mektu’s pack. “Empty faska. Sealed faska. A melted candle, that’s a fool thing to carry. Salt plums. Sugared dates. A copper cookpot. Someone’s idea of a hat.”
As he names each item, Tebassa sends it flying into the crowd. His men, taking the cue, begin to rend the clothes, stomp on the breakables, gnaw the leathery food.
“Underclothes—great Gods, burn them! No, don’t, actually: we’d send the whole cavern running from the smell.”
High hilarity grips the chamber. Mektu feeds it by his fury, seething and bucking in the soldiers’ grasp but not daring to speak. Kandri shares his rage, though he manages to deny the warriors the pleasure of seeing it. Chindilan just looks lost. He is searching the chamber with his eyes—for Talupéké, Kandri thinks. But the girl has disappeared.
The mattoglin, thinks Kandri suddenly. He’ll take that too, unless he leaves Eshett’s pack alone.
Tebassa has moved on to Kandri’s belongings. “Fish meal. Tooth powder—there’s someone who means to survive. A fine field telescope; hold onto that for me, Stilts. And see here: they’re not paupers after all.”
Tebassa holds up the purse of coins from Garatajik. Kandri’s heart, if possible, sinks even lower.
“Good and heavy,” says the general. He hands the purse to Stilts. “We’ll hold that in trust, to pay for their food and water and other expenses. You can start by subtracting the cost of that bribe you paid to get them past the gate at Mab Makkutin. Well, now, what’s this?”
Kandri’s eyes snap up. Oh no. You bastard. Don’t fucking touch it. No.
Tebassa is holding the stiff leather envelope containing Garatajik’s letter to Dr. Tsireem, Ariqina’s hero, the great physician of Kasralys. Kandri hurls himself at the general, to no avail. The men just grip him tighter, laughing. Tebassa notes his distress with amusement as an aide saws through the rawhide stitching.
No, no no! Kandri has never in his life felt so impotent. He cannot even speak. The aide pulls the envelope apart.
Within is a second envelope, of heavy linen with a curious sheen. “Waxed,” says the general, “against moisture and”—he sniffs—“I thought so: infused with sulfur, against the nibbling of insects or mice. Someone was very keen on this letter’s survival. What do you say, brothers, sisters? I confess my curiosity’s aroused.”
“Open it! Open it!”
The soldiers are having the time of their lives. Tebassa nods: If you insist. He tears open the letter, flattens the pages on his knee.
Chindilan makes a strangled sound. Eyes bulging, chest heaving like a draft horse, he manages to drag the six men holding him a yard closer to the general. Mansari slips casually between them, looking the smith up and down. Kandri recalls the words his uncle reported, Garatajik’s words. That letter must reach Dr. Tsireem. If I could trade my life for its certain delivery, I should do so at once.
Chindilan heaves again—and at the same time, Mansari moves in a blur. A slash with one foot at Chindilan’s ankle, an elbow thrust into his neck. The smith’s face spasms with pain as he crashes to the floor.
“You will have to forego the, hmm, beard trim,” purrs Mansari.
“Dear me,” says the general, holding the letter above the fray. Turning it to catch the torchlight, he reads in a loud, mock-formal voice.
“‘To My Cherished Senior Colleague, Mistress of Medicine and Science, Dr. Tsireem Fessjamu, May All Benevolent Powers Rain Down Gladness Upon You.’”
Shouts and jeers at the formal language. Tebassa glances at the travelers like a schoolteacher making sure he has his pupils’ attention.
“‘I beg you to forgive this most irregular of letters, but I find that two couriers unforeseen and indeed undesirable’—You brothers, I presume?—‘are departin
g the Mileya even now in great haste’ —there’s an understatement—‘with your city as their ultimate goal. Therefore, without the least elaboration’ —Good sir, you elaborate amply—‘I beg leave to inform you that I have solved our algebraic enigma. I do not jest. Read on, doctor, but be seated, for what you hold in your hand is nothing less than . . .’”
Tebassa’s voice dies. His lips freeze in mid-utterance. He raises his eyes to his warriors but does not appear to see them.
Silence falls; the entire room holds its breath as the old warrior tries to master himself. He gestures, the beginning of an order, but his hand shakes, and the words do not come. He looks down at the letter again, as though waiting for it to disappear. When it does not, the hand that holds it rises, ever so slowly, and presses the linen to his chest.
“Their belongings,” he whispers. “Replace them . . . repack them. The gold as well. And bring . . .” He waves, fumbling. “Cat gut. A needle. Mr. Stilts, you’ll seal this letter in my presence. The rest of you, the company—”
He focuses on them at last, but his gaze has no command, and almost no recognition.
“Dismissed,” he says.
VI. A LIFE WORTH LIVING
The lover you forsake in dreams becomes a wolf at daybreak:
run softly, leave no trace,
pass light-footed through the years.
Or else lie down with the wolf, let her find you.
One drop of blood will suffice.
ANONYMOUS, SHÔL
FROM TWELVE CENTURIES OF WAR
EDITED BY THEREL AGATHAR
“A cure,” says Mektu. “A cure for the Throat Rust, the Plague.”
“Apparently,” says Kandri.
“A cure.”
“Make him stop, hmm, saying that,” growls Mansari.
“A cure for the fucking World Plague, Kan. You were carrying that around in an envelope and never bothered to tell me?”
“He didn’t know himself,” says Eshett.
“How do you know he didn’t?” snaps Mektu, “and why are you always taking his side?”
“Because we’re secret lovers.” She meets his gaze, yielding nothing. Gods, thinks Kandri, Mek’s not the only one who can bluff.
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