The tall man smiled a horrible, feral smile.
“Emperor Quintus has enough on his plate at the moment. I hear his generals are now in open rebellion. The Empire’s collapsing in on itself, my dear Trevistus, and the time has come for men like us. Men of independent means and supreme self-interest. Well… for men like me at least. Goodbye, my unfortunate friend.”
Asima closed her eyes as a brief whimper gave way to a gasp and was silenced with a slicing noise. There was the dull thud of a padded weight falling to the floor. She couldn’t believe what she had just heard and offered thanks to every God that might be listening that she at least had not seen what just happened.
She almost shrieked as something touched her elbow. Snapping her head round in panic, her eyes met those of Samir, who was gesturing urgently for her to follow him. Beyond him, Ghassan nodded sharply.
The light-stepping journey around the periphery of the warehouse, hidden by crated goods, was tense and slow, and the three heaved a sigh of relief that, by the time they reached the nearest ladder and prepared to climb, the warehouse doors had opened and the occupants had left with their grisly burden.
A gloomy silence accompanied the children on their unnoticed escape.
In which relationships are forged
The next winter would turn the boys’ world upside down. Asima had spent less time with the brothers since the incident at the warehouse and when they had seen her she wore a haunted look. Her eyes had darkened as though she slept little and she had become taciturn. On the few occasions she had visited, she looked uncharacteristically frail and frightened and had taken to sitting wrapped in Ghassan’s arms. Samir had pondered on this for a while, but had finally nodded and accepted that perhaps Asima currently needed Ghassan’s sober strength more than his own optimistic humour.
Then late one evening, as their mother was preparing the main meal and the boys sat alone in the communal room, there was a knock at the door. Knowing that their mother would be too busy to answer and that she would become angry if she had to ask them, Ghassan and Samir rushed to the front of the house where the ill-fitting wooden portal kept the worst of the weather out. A visitor was an exciting prospect. Asima rarely came to the house, and would certainly never knock at the front door where her arrival would be noted by their mother.
As the door swung open, the brothers looked up into the weathered face of a tall man. Dark hued and imposing, he wore the travelling garb of a desert nomad. A bag slung over his shoulder, he was otherwise unburdened. Before either boy could speak, the man smiled, his teeth surprisingly straight, white and neat. The effect, against his dark face, was unsettling to say the least, but the smile seemed genuine.
“You boys have grown beyond measure and expectation.” His voice was rich and deep, with a touch of humour and warmth.
The boys stared and there was a crash from the kitchen as their dinner hit the floor in its earthenware pot, shards scattered across the tiles. Samir and Ghassan were still looking up in silent confusion a moment later when their mother came running across the common room and jerked to a halt, breathing heavily behind them.
“Faraj?”
The man’s grin merely widened as he now stepped back to take in the three of them at the same time. Ghassan tugged at his mother’s belt.
“Who is Faraj?”
He was rewarded with a brusque cuff around his ear as their mother stared at the man, various expressions pulling at her face. The visitor opened his arms and spread them wide in an almost placatory gesture.
“Whereas you, my dear Nadia, remain unchanged by the… oh seven years since we last met?”
While Ghassan irritably rubbed his stinging ear and glared furtively at his mother, Samir was paying closer attention to the visitor. His sharp eyes had already picked out three details that had led him to form his own conclusions.
“Uncle Faraj?” he hazarded.
Ghassan’s head snapped round and he stared at his smaller brother. Samir smiled as the visitor raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“You look a little like father did” he explained. “And you’re a nomad with a barely-concealed sword on your back. And you’ve not seen mother for seven years, yet she dropped dinner at the mere sound of your voice.”
Faraj laughed and turned back to their mother.
“He’s sharp, this one.”
Samir risked a glance at his mother, but she was too busy staring at her brother-in-law to care about disciplining the boys now. Shaking her head, she gestured to invite their guest inside. As she rushed to make the cushioned seating area as comfortable as possible, the big man shuffled inside, ducking his head at the threshold, dropping his bag to one side and unslinging the sword from his back. He winked at Samir and patted Ghassan on the head as he stretched. The boys looked at one another, shrugged, and closed the door before rushing over to join the adults.
As they reached the communal seating area, their mother pointed to the kitchen.
“Dinner is made, but the rice will have to be washed thoroughly, if it can be saved. Go to it, and serve on four plates and then you may join us.”
The boys nodded unhappily and, as they hurried off toward the kitchen, their mother called after them.
“There is a bottle of date wine I have been saving. Fetch it and two mugs.”
Ghassan rushed about collecting the bottle and mugs while Samir gathered the fallen rice bowl. The container had smashed into three sizeable pieces, but much of the rice with its rich herbs and spices had been contained within the surviving arcs and, along with the spare that was being saved for the next day, there would be enough for four dinners. The boys went about their tasks in desperate silence as they listened in on the conversation from the other room.
“You once said I was always welcome?”
Their mother drew a deep breath.
“And I meant that, Faraj. But you should have come before… when your brother passed. You should have come some time to see the boys. They were babes the last time you were here. You have been gone so long and with no word. I didn’t even know you were alive.”
There was a brief uncomfortable silence.
“You are right, Nadia: my absence and lack of communication has been inexcusable. I have been fighting along the Pelasian borders in the southern desert, near the Shan’a Oasis. The Pelasian satrap of the area has been encroaching on Imperial lands and we have defended as best we could.”
He sighed.
“But that has now changed.”
Again there was a silence.
“Changed how? Why are you here, Faraj?”
The desert soldier shook his head sadly, seen from behind by the boys as they toiled in the kitchen to finish the dinner preparations.
“The limitani are to be disbanded. The governor will not continue our contract. We have been told that payment for all limitani from the capital has stopped; payment for almost everything from the capital has stopped! They say Velutio and Isera are in chaos; that the Emperor is at odds with his court and his generals, and that we are a stone’s throw away from collapse.”
There was a brief nervous laugh from their mother.
“People say such things. We have heard tales before, many times.”
“This is different,” Faraj objected. “The Empire has abandoned us to our fate on the border. Even now the more ambitious satraps are crossing the border and claiming parcels of Imperial land and we are not there to stop them. And so I have turned to the city. I must find employment.”
The boys, fascinated, began to ferry the dishes of food into the other room, trying to be unobtrusive while taking in everything they could.
“You will not return to the nomadic life?” their mother asked.
Faraj shook his head.
“It is too dangerous now. The satraps are looking for cheap conquests in their own bids for power. Only in the deepest desert would we be safe… or here, where Imperial power still holds sway. I will hire myself out in M’Dahz in whatever manner
I can.”
He smiled sadly.
“I do not wish to burden you unnecessarily, however. I would ask to stay here until I am employed and have a little money. Then I can either find my own accommodation, or pay upkeep towards yours and stay.”
As the boys brought in the final dish and sat cross-legged on cushions opposite the two adults, their mother shook her head.
“I will not hear of it, Faraj. You will stay here like the family you are. It will be good to have your company, and the boys will prosper with a man’s influence.”
She flicked a look at the two boys that made them turn their attention studiously to the food bowls in their lap. The brothers were well aware of the freedoms their mother’s busy schedule afforded them and of the chance that the arrival of their unknown uncle would curb the more excessive of their activities.
“I thank you, my sister” Faraj beamed. “You are generous as ever.”
He reached forward to pour the wine and, as he did so, caught and held the eyes of the twins while continuing to address their mother.
“The boys must miss their father terribly. I will do my best to fill that gap.”
Ghassan’s heart almost burst as he saw the wicked little secret smile their uncle flashed at them as he winked before straightening his face and turning away with the wine.
Samir and Ghassan listened half-heartedly to the rest of the conversation while sharing looks and unspoken thoughts. The meal progressed in quiet and polite tranquillity while their mother and uncle passed on every snippet of news they could think of and relived tales and events that pre-dated the boys. They waited patiently once they had finished until their mother noticed them and waved them casually away without interrupting her flow.
Samir and Ghassan rushed up the narrow stair case and into the small room that they shared, with its single rickety cupboard and two sleeping pallets covered with blankets. As soon as they closed the door, Samir turned to his brother and spoke excitedly under his breath.
“He’s a swordsman, Ghassan; a soldier. He can teach us to use a blade!”
He grinned at his brother, but realised that Ghassan had hardly heard him and was staring over his shoulder. Turning, he saw Asima sitting in the darkness of their room, wrapped in a blanket against the night chill that blew in through the window from the wide desert. Samir rolled his eyes as his brother walked over to the bed, sat against the wall and wrapped his arms around their guest.
Samir, his own mind racing through the days to come, imagining lessons in swordplay and uncle Faraj taking them to exciting places and buying them treats, sat across from the pair and pulled up his own blanket against the breeze.
He must have nodded off, for he woke with a start, shivering as he tightened his blanket. Outside, the town had gone quiet, just the distant ring of a bell or shout of a drunken reveller breaking the silence. The only other noise was the sound of quiet conversation floating up the stairs from the room below. Squinting into the darkness, he glanced across at the other bed. Ghassan was fast asleep, still slumped against the wall and with his arms protectively around Asima who hunched beneath a blanket, gripping his wrist lightly.
But her eyes were open.
And they were fixed on Samir.
He blinked in surprise. The smaller brother always lauded his twin’s intelligence, but he knew with unashamed certainty deep in his soul that, while Ghassan had a logical and retentive brain and would learn fast and easily, Samir was brighter. He would never remember a poem parrot-fashion like Ghassan, but his mind bridged gaps, solved puzzles and connected dots with lightning speed.
And he suddenly knew, just from one quick glance at Asima, that the girl may be seeking comfort from the strong brother, but her heart was already racing toward him.
A problem to be solved another day.
He closed his eyes and within moments he was dreaming once more of swinging a curved sword and standing on the ramparts of M’Dahz, defying the Pelasian warlords as they swarmed below him.
Some say that dreams can hold portents; glimpses of the world to come. Samir dreamed of many things that night; the last night the three would sit easily together.
In which things are learned, for better or for worse
The spring morning was glorious. It held that perfect blend. The sun shone bright in a deep blue sky and, though that was far from unusual in M’Dahz, the wind had turned north-easterly and was carrying a slightly salty but fresh and cooling breeze across the town and into the heartland of the desert. The meeting of scorching sun and cooling breeze was a welcome relief to the people and a note of positivity hung over the population as they went about their daily tasks.
The breeze was particularly strong up here on the tower of iron eagles, one of the more intact of the derelict turrets on the disused defensive walls of the town. The timber roof of the tower groaned under the load, but Faraj had assured the boys it was strong enough to take their combined weight several times over.
Samir squinted into the sun as he glanced along the line of the defences. He had dreamed more than once now of standing on these walls and fighting a heroic defence of M’Dahz. Fanciful, of course. From where he stood, the walls disappeared among the buildings of the city after the next two towers, where they had been used as the supporting walls of shops and houses. In the other direction the defences had entirely vanished after this point, leaving a long stretch of open land.
The clearing of a throat brought him back from his reveries. He turned to see uncle Faraj watching him with a raised eyebrow while Ghassan swept his wooden sword back and forth in practice swings.
Over the late winter and early spring, Faraj had quickly become an integral part of family life. The boys had almost forgotten what it had been like to have a father around, but everything had come flooding back with a welcome familiarity. The brothers had been as well behaved as possible for their uncle, reining in their more excessive habits. In return, Faraj had been thoughtful and kind and had begun taking the boys with him to interesting places and, when the occasion presented itself, buying them sherbet treats and fresh dates. But this was new and heart-stoppingly exciting. It was what Samir had been hoping for since that winter night when their uncle had first arrived.
It had taken only a few days after his arrival for Faraj to secure a position as a mercantile bodyguard, with reasonable pay and good working hours and, as the boys had watched him over the months, they had realised why Faraj had experienced no difficulty in finding worthy employment. One evening, as they had been returning from the late market, a slightly inebriated cutpurse had dashed out from an alley and attempted to rob them at knifepoint. By the time the boys had realised what was happening it was already over. Faraj had the man pinned to the wall by the neck with the flat of his sword, still in its sheath and attached to his belt. He had been that quick. Samir believed that it was this incident, when the boys would have been in grave danger without their uncle present, that had led eventually to the ex-soldier’s decision to teach them the rudiments of sword fighting.
Samir threw out his arm and shook it, freeing his muscles as much as possible. The wooden sword felt exceedingly heavy to him, but was excellently made. Had Faraj had a carpenter produce them or had he carved them himself?
Noting the glint of excitement in Ghassan’s otherwise sombre face, he stepped forward and hefted the sword.
“This is so heavy, if I swing it, I shall fall over, uncle.”
Faraj laughed.
“Then you will have to learn balance quickly. The sword is heavy, yes. Heavier than a real blade that size. What you have there is a replica Imperial short sword at one-and-one-third weight. Bear in mind that the curved desert sword on my back weighs more than twice that. But you’re right: you will find that the real Imperial blade is much lighter and easier to handle.”
Ghassan frowned.
“Then why practise with these?”
Their uncle smiled.
“Because you are lithe but not strong, either o
f you. Quick and supple, but without bulk. To hold your own in a real fight, you will also need power, and using this heavy sword will build your muscles. More than that; when I finally deem you ready for a real blade, you will find them so easy to use after the training sword that you will already have an extra edge.
Samir nodded. It made sense. He stepped forward once more and now the brothers faced one another across a short space. Faraj nodded.
“Very well. You are not armoured and these swords will hurt. If swung with enough force they will break a limb, so we are going to start light and slow. There will be no contact until I say that you are ready.”
He stepped between them and held out a long and sturdy stick.
“Swing your blades down and hit that.”
With some difficulty, Samir lifted the heavy sword, having to employ both hands as it neared head height. With some relief, he let it drop. Ghassan managed with one hand, his larger frame lending him extra strength, but the sweat on his brown told of the strain he was hiding. Neither blade connected with the stick as they fell.
“This may take some time,” Faraj laughed.
The sun rose slowly to its zenith and was already beginning its descent when the boys’ uncle allowed them to rest for more than a minute’s breather. Samir sat on the low wall at the tower’s edge. His arm ached more than he had believed possible and, though Faraj had made sure they had regular draughts of water, he found himself salivating at the thought of the water melon that he knew waited at home.
Ghassan was beginning to sag. Initially, his large build had lent him an advantage, but their uncle was no fool and had pressed the bulkier brother to reach higher and swing faster, thus placing a roughly equal exertion on both boys.
Dark Empress Page 3
