by David Hair
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?’
‘You thought it would scare me.’
‘Does it not? Antonin Meiros is the most powerful mage in all Ahmedhassa.’
He remembered the tale of Ispal and Raz, told to him so many times: flying magi and firestorms, and Meiros betraying the Hebb after all he’d done for them. Was it even possible to steal Ramita back from such a man? ‘Why do you help me?’ he muttered.
‘Because your enemy is our enemy, Kazim. You have come to win back your woman and we applaud your courage. We stand with you. We will aid you. Accept our help.’
Kazim looked at him levelly. ‘“We”? Who is “we”, Jamil?’
‘We are the Amteh – the true Amteh, not the mainstream of the faith, but a select brotherhood, dedicated to ridding this land of the whiteskins. We have acquired Rondian gnosis, though I cannot yet reveal how. We have the ear of the Sultan of Kesh. We move the Convocation; we are the power that guides the shihad. And we want to help you rescue your woman.’ He held out his hand. ‘Only we can aid your quest. Will you accept our aid?’
What choice do I have? I know no one here; I don’t know where she is, or how to get to her. Without help I’m lost. And Antonin Meiros has my Ramita … Slowly, reluctantly, he took the offered hand.
Kazim sat on the dirt of the arena, panting slightly, his back propped against the wall, slurping from a water jug. His clothes were filthy, his face ran with perspiration. A blunted scimitar lay on the ground beside him. Ten yards away, the burly Hebb youth he had been sparring with lay writhing in the dust, clutching the welt across his face and moaning. Well deserved too, you smart-mouthed little shit.
Jamil was sitting on the wall, accepting coins from the other warriors with him. He waggled a heavy purse at Kazim, grinning: third bout today, third win – and that was after spending the morning drilling. Jamil told him he was good. He longed to try himself against the Keshi himself, just to see.
Haroun was somewhere with the scriptualists, and Jai was with Keita, of course – he was virtually married to her. He wished Jai joy, but he really thought he should forget her – after all, he could hardly take her back south when all this was over. Ispal Ankesharan would have a fit if his eldest son arrived with some homeless chit.
The arena was well away from the areas where the Rondians were. White-skins who entered the Southside ended up with knives in their backs, Jamil said, unless they had gold for opium, and then they might just be allowed to live – provided they intended to keep returning.
A newcomer leapt down into the little arena. He was clean, and his kurta and pants were silk, embroidered at the neck and seams. He picked up the fallen youth’s blunted blade and tested its weight. He had well-oiled shoulder-length hair, a beautifully trimmed beard and piercing green eyes. His boots were soft leather, expensive: surely some nobleman’s son – a Hebb, by the look of him, but paler than most. He probably never went out in direct sunlight, to preserve his pretty skin. But he was muscular, lithe and well-balanced. Kazim had seen his sort in Baranasi. Lakh noble families bred them by the score: perfumed pretty-boys, skilled at weaponry and poetry, with the morals of a snake.
The newcomer glanced down at Kazim. ‘You fight well, for a Lakh.’ His voice was odiously melodic.
Kazim stood up. He wasn’t that tired; the three bouts he had already won had been easy. ‘I’m not Lakh, I’m from Kesh. And my opponents were only Hebb, and everyone knows they’re gutless cock-suckers.’ He lifted his blunted blade. ‘You are clearly typical of the breed.’
The young noble smiled mildly. ‘I’ve killed for less than that, boy.’ He prodded the squirming Hebb boy at his feet with his boot. ‘Get up, worm.’ He pulled the boy to his feet, as if to see him off, but instead whirled suddenly and shoved the boy straight at Kazim.
Kazim had been half-expecting something, but not that; he caught the winded youth with his left arm and ducked low as the newcomer stepped in and rained a flurry of blows at Kazim’s head.
Kazim responded by using the semi-conscious youth as a shield, and the wooden blades cracked together time and again until Kazim straightened and flung the Hebb boy back at his opponent. The nobleman caught him, then thrust the hapless youth into the path of Kazim’s next blow. His blade smashed into the Hebb boy’s temple, knocking him unconscious, and the nobleman threw him aside. His lips parted into a fierce grin and his blade flickered, but Kazim had already darted away. He came back at the man, and the wooden blades clattered together and locked. Kazim moved in and hammered his forehead at the noble’s nose, but somehow it didn’t connect, and again he was pushed away. He circled, a little more wary now. The man was still smiling.
Arrogant prick. I’ll show you! Kazim leapt into his favourite attack, launching himself forward to land in a one-legged crouch, his blade at high-guard, his left leg lashing out, but his foe danced out of reach and retaliated with a series of powerful blows. Kazim rolled away and came up in time to catch a high thrust and turn it aside. The nobleman laughed joyously and circled to his right. Kazim followed him, turning in a circle.
‘Good, Kazim,’ the nobleman purred. ‘You are a fast learner.’
‘Shut up, cocksucker.’ Damn but the prick was good, leaning away that extra inch necessary to let the key blow of Kazim’s next combination pass by his nose, then almost slamming the tip of his weapon into Kazim’s belly with a counterblow. They whirled apart again, both panting now.
‘Well done, Kazim Makani,’ the nobleman said, circling out of reach and flicking up his blade, ending the duel. ‘I think with more intensive training you’ll be one of our best. We’ll put you into more qualified hands, try you against Rondian straight-swords, too. Jamil will teach you, and I myself, at times.’
‘You,’ Kazim sneered back, ‘what do you think you can teach me?’
The man’s face went still. ‘What indeed,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Well, let’s see—’ His left hand jabbed and suddenly Kazim felt as if he had been caught and tossed by an unseen bull, sending him sprawling into the dirt ten yards back, right against one of the walls. The air slammed out of his lungs in a whoosh, but he regained his feet and somehow managed to parry the nobleman’s blade. Then a boot smashed into his shin and he dropped to the ground again. An unseen fist grasped him, and then he was flying through the air and scraping his face in the gravel.
The nobleman was laughing now, and an emerald gem fell into view about his neck. A greenish bolt flew at Kazim from the man’s left hand, and as he dropped and rolled he saw it flash over him and burst against the stone wall. Another bolt stabbed towards him, forcing him to dart the other way, but as he came to his feet another unseen blow to the belly slammed him backwards and he struck the wall, slid down it and doubled over in the dirt.
The nobleman pushed the tip of his blade into Kazim’s mouth. ‘Who are you calling “cocksucker” now? Here, suck on this.’
Kazim jerked his mouth away and retched, no longer caring what the man might do to him. He felt terrified, but not so far gone that he would unman himself before this perfumed Shaitan.
To his intense surprise the man chuckled approvingly, then bent down and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You still have much to learn, boy. The first lesson is this: do not antagonise a mage. My name is Rashid. I am the man Jamil brought you to meet. I can deliver you to your beloved Ramita.’ He smiled as Kazim’s jaw dropped. ‘We shoul
d be friends, Kazim, son of Razir Makani. There is much we can do for each other.’ Again he found a hand extended towards him, offering everything and asking nothing. Yet.
He took it, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Rashid clapped his shoulder again. ‘Come, eat with me and I will tell you about your Indran beauty and what she wore to the Ordo Costruo banquet last month.’
Kazim stared, his heart banging inside his suddenly flimsy chest.
Kazim spent the next week training with Jamil. As he had come to suspect, Jamil was also a mage, and he had no compunction about using his powers to win. Kazim finished every session battered and bleeding, and though Jamil would run his fingers over the cuts and welts and ease the pain, Kazim was left totally drained, with barely enough energy to eat. He had no time to see his friends, until Jai sought him out one evening as he was lying on the roof watching the myriad stars. It was colder here at night than in Baranasi, and the skies were clearer. It was Moon-dark, the last week of the month.
‘What is it, brother?’ Kazim asked, seeing Jai was badly unnerved.
‘I saw Huriya today, in the souks,’ Jai started, and Kazim shot up, almost shaking with excitement.
‘Huriya – truly? You saw her?’ He seized Jai’s arm as questions poured out: ‘How was she? Was Ramita with her—?’
‘Slow down, brother! Huriya is well – she was alone, except for two Rondian guards. She took me to an Omali shrine, and we were able to talk for a while. Ramita is well – they both are, at least they are fed and have comfortable places to sleep. But Huriya says the jadugara keeps Ramita chained to her bed and has her every night. She can hear her screams, but no one intervenes.’ Jai was trembling.
Kazim felt fury choke him. He stood up and started pacing the roof, clenching and unclenching his fists as visions of his beautiful love, her divine face creased in agony, overwhelmed his mind. He found tears streaking his face and wiped them away. He was desperate for some way to save her. ‘We must free her, brother,’ he cried, ‘we must destroy that animal – it is our duty.’
Kazim clasped Jai’s hand and embraced him. ‘You are my true brother, Jai. We will crucify that madman and take back Ramita and you shall marry Huriya and we will be heroes – princes among men.’ He gripped his shoulder. ‘You and I, brother! We will kill Meiros and save our women.’
‘But Keita—’
‘Ha, forget that one. Huriya is far prettier – I always intended you would marry her.’
Jai looked uncertain. ‘I don’t think she’d have me, Kaz – she wants much more. She scares me, sometimes, you know.’
‘Ha! Man, don’t worry: I know my sister and she’s perfect for you. But first, we need to think about how to kill that bastard Meiros.’ He patted his sword hilt. ‘These Keshi jadugara think they are using me, but I am using them. We will free Ramita and live as princes.’
20
This Betrayal
The Trimurthi
The Holy Trinity of the Omali faith are the three principal deities, known collectively as the ‘Trimurthi’. Baraman is the creator, but his great task has been accomplished and he receives little direct worship. By contrast, Vishnarayan, who protects and sustains creation, and Sivraman, who presides over death and rebirth, are widely worshipped among the Omali.
ORDO COSTRUO HEBUSALIM, CHAPTER
Hebusalim, on the continent of Antiopia
Thani (Aprafor) 928
3 months until the Moontide
Kazim is here. She had dreamed of hearing those three words, had prayed to hear them – and now she had, they had destroyed her fragile peace. Over these four short months she had gradually let go of her old life and found some balance in her new one; she could go whole days without thinking of home. Her husband, at first so repellent, felt like a haven of safety.
But now it all came crashing back in on her: Baranasi’s tangled alleys, the hurly-burly of her people, the warmth of her mother’s arms, the laughter in her father’s voice, the clamour of her siblings. And Kazim, on the rooftops, kissing her. Kazim, gazing up at the moon, daydreaming of travel and adventure, recounting his street battles with the other boys, or some last-ball victory at kalikiti. The warmth of his arm around her shoulders, the musky scent of his body; the feel of his whiskers on her cheek. She had been in love with Kazim all her life, but the thought of seeing him terrified her.
Her husband was gentle and considerate, but he was a mage: he could pluck stray thoughts from her mind at will. Just one idle thought of Kazim could doom him. She began to picture her husband’s rage if he found her with another man, a mere human. What might he do to Kazim, or Huriya and Jai? She was almost paralysed with fear for them all.
She and Huriya spent hours together, their conversation swirling about wildly as they made and discarded a thousand plans: flight into the wilds; begging her husband on her knees to dissolve their marriage and let her go; imploring Kazim to leave … she even spoke wildly of killing herself, so that Kazim would give her up once and for all.
Huriya’s ideas vacillated just as madly: one moment she was indignant that their brothers had come to spoil their rich exile from the drudgery of Aruna Nagar Market; the next she was voicing murderous thoughts of slitting throats and escaping into the night.
Worst of all was when Ramita was alone with her husband. She was terrified of him catching her frantic thoughts, so she pleaded illness, then had to endure his concern. He came to her chamber, clearly wishing to lie with her, but she pleaded tiredness and he left, puzzled and disappointed.
Finally Huriya hatched a plan, and next morning, Ramita begged Meiros for the right to go herself to the old Pandit Omprasad’s mandir to pray. ‘Please, lord,’ she whispered, ‘I wish to make an offering each day for a child. I dreamed this would be the only way.’
Meiros looked sceptical. ‘You take your superstitions too seriously, Wife. What will aid your quickening is persistence. And eating well,’ he added, eyeing her half-touched bowl.
‘Please, Husband. Huriya goes there often. It is quite safe.’
‘It might be safe for her, but she is not Lady Meiros.’ He looked doubtful, and as he stared at her she felt her mouth go dry, her heart hammering. ‘You are working yourself into a state over this. Cannot that priest-fellow come here as before?’
‘The mandir – it is very sacred …’
‘Is it? Oh, very well – but just once!’ He thought for a moment, then said gently, ‘Wife, if it would please you, I will have a small shrine built here, for you to pray to your gods.’
She felt a horribly guilty twinge inside. A few weeks ago she would have been overjoyed that he acknowledged her beliefs, but now it was just an impediment to her seeing Kazim. She tried to look pleased. ‘Thank you, Husband,’ she said, her voice low.
He frowned. ‘Perhaps this visit will calm you down. You have been temperamental these past two weeks, Wife.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Don’t be anxious. All will be well.’
She bowed her head, swallowing her fear.
Jos Klein stomped into the mandir, followed by five soldiers, and glared about the tiny enclosure. The stones were fouled by pigeon droppings and rotting berries from the cherry tree in the corner of the tiny courtyard. The shrine was a six-by-six-foot pillared square, roofed, open on three sides. Inside sat a rough-hewn statue of the god, just the shape of a sitting man smeared in dyed paste, identified only by a Siv-lingam and engraved trident. Before it was a sandbox filled with burnt-out incense sticks and marigolds. Smoke rose from a small cooking-fire Omprasad was tending in the corner. There were two other men in priestly orange sitting with him, with the same tangled, ashy hair and beards, but they were younger and fitter-looking.
Klein glared at them. ‘Who are these?’
Huriya answered quickly, ‘They are “chela”, Captain, initiates of the Omali. They have been here a few weeks now. Morden has met them.’ The soldier nodded nervously when Klein looked at him.
‘Get them out of here,’ Klein said, pointing to a
middle-aged Lakh man and his family praying before the central shrine. They looked too frightened to protest, but stared curiously at the girls as Morden ushered them away.
Ramita was so afraid she could barely move. She kept her vision focused on the Sivraman idol and a stream of prayers poured from her lips as she fell to her knees before it. Huriya wriggled in beside her and they prayed fervently for several minutes. She felt ill with tension and lack of food.
‘The soldiers will get bored in a minute and go and sit by the gates,’ Huriya whispered. She pulled back her hood and called loudly, ‘Chela, pray with us!’ As the two young priests shuffled towards them, Huriya whispered, ‘I’ve been doing this every day so that Jos’ soldiers are used to it.’ She sounded excited, as if this were some marvellous adventure.
The initiates knelt between the side pillars. Ramita’s gaze flickered to the man who knelt beside her and her throat almost seized up as Kazim stared back at her, a world of longing in his eyes.
‘Ramita,’ Jai whispered from the other side, but she had eyes only for Kazim.
How changed he looked! His beard was fuller, his skin more weathered. His hair – well, clearly that was disguised by the ash, but it was longer, a real mess. She yearned to reach out and comb it with her fingers. And his eyes – oh, his eyes, so clear, pure, so full of light.
‘Mita,’ Kazim whispered and the timbre of his voice, full of longing, of the anguish of hope, vibrated through her. ‘Mita, are you well?’
She nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak. She glanced at Jai; his face was altered too. They both looked more mature, more manly. They had clearly been through much.
‘Ahem,’ coughed Huriya. ‘Let us pray.’ She spoke in Lakh. ‘You can talk, but look like you’re praying! We’ve only got a few minutes, so get on with it!’
Ramita wished she could reach out and touch him. ‘My love,’ she whispered, ‘are you well?’
‘Now that I have seen you. Huriya has told Jai of how you suffer, and it tears my heart.’
