Three weeks. He’d almost laughed as he imagined the poor idiot whose task it was to wash the latrine’s linens looking at the filthy sodden towels and wondering why they were all smaller than he remembered, yet no one seemed to have pieced together the puzzle of the shrinking towels. And so Dev fashioned himself a rudimentary white tunic and a long strip of similarly white material – laboriously, and with painful bloody fingers, in the dark.
The guards were approaching now, their conversation a muffled hum, their booted feet crunching on the stony ground outside, for the ‘chamber of night’ was part of the ancillary buildings of the temple complex, within the wall on the hill, but outside the temple itself. The horsemen in the room, mostly silent and blind, began to shuffle towards the door in anticipation of the uncaring zealots who prodded them with spear butts, guiding the sightless to the latrine. Their supervision of their charges had gradually diminished as the blind began to outnumber the rest and the danger they posed decreased. They were now, to the guards, little more than cattle.
Dev kept his trousers and boots on, but discarded the tunic and vest in favour of his rough, stinking white tunic. As he shrugged it on, wrinkling his nose at the scent of a garment made from unwashed latrine towels used by a hundred men at a time, he began to shuffle around the edge of the room. Reaching into his trousers, he removed the strip of white material and wound it around his head in the best impression of a turban he could manage in the dark. It was rough but should pass, for he knew a turban’s wrapping well enough.
In Dev’s experience, people rarely saw details unless they were searching for them. He prayed that this was true of the guards today as he fell into position against the cold stone wall some four feet from the door.
A jingle of keys and a rattle of locks, and the door swung open. Light poured into the room in a wide beam, and the very few men who still had their eyes blinked in discomfort. The vast majority saw nothing. Dev chewed his lip, lurking in the darkness along the wall. He waited as the guards began to urge the men out, and finally, as the crowd in the room began to clear, his chance arose.
A number of the blind prisoners were milling about, uncertain where they were going until they bumped into something. The guards, irritated by the duty they had been assigned but doing it with the oddly disgruntled stoicism of their faith, entered the room and began to move like a farmer’s dogs, herding the blind and confused to the door.
Dev took a steadying breath, his pulse racing, and stepped out of the shadows into the crowd of bumbling sightless men pushing out into the world beyond. As though he were a leaf fallen into a meltwater stream, Dev found himself carried forth in the press of men. He emerged into the world once more, and edged his way to the periphery. Trying to look unobtrusive and haughty, he held his turbaned head high and joined in the irritated comments as the soldiers drove their herd towards the latrines.
Not a single man looked at him. He may have been wrapped in filthy and stinking material, but, at a passing glance, a man in a white tunic and white turban was just another guard. Dev strode along beside the miserable mob of blind captive horsemen as though he had every right in the world to be who and where he was. If there was one major flaw with his disguise it was the lack of a spear, a weapon that was carried by all the others, but there was nothing he could do about that. They crossed the open ground below the temple and passed through a postern in the temple’s boundary wall.
Outside, two more alert guards stood either side of the door, and Dev steeled himself as the crowd funnelled through the gap. The guards were paying attention to the men passing between them, and they would almost certainly single out the spear-less guard with the stinking white turban, even if he was clearly Inda like them.
Dev fell into position as the crowd funnelled through the doorway and, as he approached the exit, removed a stone from his pocket. It was not a large stone, perhaps two thumbnails in width, but was weighty enough. Raising his hand to his face as though to scratch it, he gave the stone a sharp jerk and cast it through the doorway just above the milling, sightless crowd. His luck held as the projectile cracked one of the blind men on the back of the head. The poor cavalryman gave a cry of pain and alarm and stumbled forward, knocking into other prisoners, who squawked their surprise and fell in a tangled heap.
The Faithful who had gone through first hurried over to deal with the mess, and another white-clad zealot only ten men in front of Dev pushed his way forward to help too. The guards to each side of the door should be distracted, if only briefly.
Dev emerged from the temple amid the flow of men, quickly moving aside so as not to become the focus of the two gate guards. The commotion at the front was quickly resolved and the gathering herded on once more. The gate guards resumed their inspection of the prisoners as they passed, having entirely missed the thing for which they searched.
Dev fell into step with them all once more as they descended the hill towards the latrine block just over halfway down the slope. He held his breath as they approached the mud-brick structure. The prisoners were roughly shoved into the doorway and the guards began to fan out near the entrance to wait for their charges to do their business. They would not go inside. They had no desire to share a latrine with unbeliever prisoners, and no need to keep such close tabs on them, for there was no escape route within. Dev had checked. Even the drains were too small for a man to pass along, and the windows were too narrow, to help contain the smell.
Dev spread out along with the other white-clad men, moving along the wall. Still hardly daring to breathe, he was so tense, the former prince of Initpur took the one chance he could grasp and slipped around the corner. He stopped there for only two heartbeats, half-expecting someone to shout after him. Nothing happened. No noise.
Then he moved. He was aware that he would smell. Despite having had the chance to use latrines and wash each day, none of them had properly bathed for three weeks, and the home-sewn white clothes he wore bore the odour of sewage. There was a faint breeze coming up the valley, as was often the case, and Dev had carefully chosen which side of the latrines to duck around based on that draught. With a quick silent prayer to Vayu of the Winds, he strode purposefully away from the squat mudbrick structure towards the massive campsite. The wind carried the aroma of the latrines this way, and his own smell was lost in the gusts. Better still, because of the prevailing odour of urine that often wafted this way, there were fewer men to be found there even than elsewhere in the camp.
Dev trod boldly down the dusty slope, between the first two unoccupied tents, and then moved among the large white canvas dwellings in a zigzag pattern. As soon as he was out of sight of the latrines he paused, listening. The timing was good. The chanting of the noon celebration was beginning at the temple and at each of the sun shrines strategically positioned around the valley for this purpose. The whole ritual took the best part of an hour, and it seemed from what Dev had observed that every man who was not engaged in important duties was expected to attend the ritual. There would be a diminished population in much of the camp for at least half an hour, and here in the lee of the latrines, it would be less still.
Dev heaved in a breath, trying to conjure up in his head the image he had burned into his memory each time he had emerged from that postern gate: a visual map of the camp. His plan only went so far before it relied upon luck and initiative, but he was not at that point yet. Pausing by one of the tents, he listened carefully. He could hear snoring and murmured conversation nearby, but nothing from this one. Preparing himself to face anything, he ducked inside.
Empty.
Sighing with relief, Dev scoured the tent until he found a clean white tunic and a belt. There was nothing else of use. Emerging back into the hot sun, he looked about quickly and then paused by another tent. The gentle sounds of a man asleep, presumably someone who had been on night duty. He moved swiftly on, pausing and listening again. Silence. Another tent produced trousers and a spare turban, which he purloined, using the stolen tunic as a
makeshift bag. Two more tents taught him to move with care, both of them occupied by muttering men. The third was silent, and he entered cautiously. To his delight, he found a spear lying by a seat with a rag beside it, the blade half-coated with polish. He hurriedly rubbed off the polish with the rag and ducked outside again. He now carried the perfect disguise, though he would still smell.
Checking his mental map once more, he hurried on between the white tents. Once, as he moved along the line of temporary homes, he almost came to grief, stumbling to a halt as two chatting soldiers emerged from another gap between tents. Dev ducked into the nearest doorway and held his breath, sending out prayers to a dozen of the more appropriate gods. A figure lay in one of the cots within. His eyes were open and he was muttering. Dev swallowed nervously. The man looked straight at him, then turned away and muttered on. It was then that Dev realised the reclining man was soaked with sweat and had a pale, waxy sheen to his skin.
Fever.
He waited, as far from the sick man as possible and trying not to breathe in too much of the fetid, moist air, until the two chatting soldiers moved away and their voices were lost. A moment later he emerged into the sun once more and took three deep cleansing breaths, hoping his contact with the feverish man was distant enough to save him from potential illness. He was alone outside once more. For a hundred heartbeats he hurried through the tents, passing close to the few men wandering around, but not close enough for them to pay him any real attention.
He found with dismay the place he sought. The large trough of water fed by a channel, buckets standing nearby, he’d spotted on several visits to the latrines, was unreachable. A small gathering of Faithful occupied the open space before it, their faces turned to the sun, chanting their litany. He could wait until they finished their ritual and dispersed, but by then there would be men everywhere again and the whole plan would be in jeopardy.
A thought struck him and he ducked to the side, moving between the tents in a wide arc until he found himself standing beside the raised channel that fed the basin. The water had to come from somewhere. Perhaps there was another place he could bathe and remove the tell-tale stink? He needed to be clean and changed before the devotions ended and men flooded the camp once more.
As swiftly as he could, he followed the water channel – a tube of pottery that rested on a wooden bridge-like structure which gradually rose as it came nearer to the source – and frowned as he came across something unexpected behind a small locked storage shed. A second channel branched from the first. He was torn momentarily, but logic dictated his decision. The source was further away and high up near the waterfall, but the second destination could not be much further from the one he’d just left. Decision made, he turned and followed the second branch. The channel wound its way through the camp and Dev followed it, his nervousness growing with every pace. He could hear the chanting and singing of the Faithful rising in a crescendo. Soon they would be done, and the camp would come to life again.
Three times as he followed the channel he had to duck out of sight and work his way around stray soldiers. He discovered the second pipe’s destination quite suddenly as he turned a corner and found himself staring out at open greenery. A fence separated him from a wide meadow of grass and the forty or fifty horses roaming the lush green, grazing contentedly. Two white figures were just visible on the far side of the corral, but they were mostly obscured by the herd of wandering horses.
Dev smiled as he understood the water’s destination.
A large trough sat just inside the fence, fresh water pouring into it constantly, four drains emptying the excess and channelling it along irrigation channels through the grass, keeping the paddock green. Swiftly, Dev propped his spear against the fence, climbed over and dropped down the other side. Praying that no one stumbled across him right now, he tore off his clothes and dropped them in the gap between the trough and the fence. Bracing himself, he dropped into the water and began to rub himself all over, vigorously. The trough was freezing despite the hot sun and Dev shivered, teeth clacking together as he swiftly bathed.
Rising, he alighted on the grass once more and straightened, squeezing the water from his hair and shaking to discard the worst of it. Hurriedly, he untied the tunic-bag and began to pull on his new clothes. He paused suddenly as he realised that the singing had stopped at some point while he was in the water. Even as he tried to listen to see if the ambient noise of the camp was increasing in this locale, he heard a bell being chimed frantically in the temple, the ringing picked up by others. His absence had apparently been noticed. Had they already found the small note he’d hastily written on a piece of torn material with the blood from his now-crusted fingers?
He threw on the tunic and began to wind a fresh turban expertly around his skull. Pulling on his boots finally, he momentarily wondered whether he might manage somehow to take a horse from the corral, but quickly dismissed the notion. It would be far too difficult. Leaping the fence, he collected his spear and began to move with a steady, assured pace through the camp. There was no need to run or hide now. He was dressed like them, looked like them even down to the two months’ growth of beard, smelled relatively fresh, and could speak their language with a local accent.
Indeed, no one spared him a second glance as the army flooded the camp once more, their devotions complete. Occasionally one of the warriors passing him would incline his head and utter the ritual phrase ‘Praise the light.’ Each time, Dev bowed his head in return and replied ‘The sun is the way.’ He had heard the damned exchange enough times in three weeks, after all.
Finally, he stopped at another water container, where thirsty soldiers were filling cups. He did the same, supping down the refreshing clear liquid as his gaze slowly circled the valley. Leaving the way he’d entered would be foolish and fraught with danger. Firstly, if he was being looked for, that would be the first place they would seal off. Secondly, that valley was well garrisoned by hidden men, as they had learned when they arrived.
He could see three possible alternatives. One rose to the north of the valley up a steep ravine to a quarry, which would be close and almost certainly a dead end. To the south-east another path rose, and he could see the glinting white dots of guards on it. They would be difficult to pass, and that route would be the second to be sealed after the main valley as the alarm spread. Dev needed to go south. He knew that, and so would the Sizhad.
The east was the nearest end of the valley. He had been navigating that way ever since the easterly breeze had carried the latrine scent to cover his escape. There lay the lake fed by the glittering cascade, which also fuelled the water channels that ran around the valley. There was no path into the surrounding peaks there, but the cascade fell in at least six falls over a steady decline, which meant that with luck and strength, a man might climb it. No one would look for him there. Of course, he would find himself in the mountains without a road to follow, but there was one possibility. The only great lake in this stretch of the mountains was the Channali Sea, which was the source of the river that eventually ran past the Initpur palace of Dev’s youth. The sheer volume of water coming over the cliff here hinted at a vast source that could very well be that same lake. It was a slim hope, but one Dev clung to. If that cascade led him to the Channali Sea, he could follow a second river down into the lowlands.
Moments later he was moving at speed towards the east. Horns were being blown all over the place now. The hunt for the escaped officer was on. Units were being called to attention. Men were hurrying this way and that. It was the perfect cover for Dev to move fast. In their urgency to catch him, they were helping mask his movements. It seemed like an eternity of running, but eventually he emerged from yet another line of tents onto a grassy sward beside the lake. Laundry-washing places were evident around its edge, and he could see the two large pipe bridges arcing up to the top of the first waterfall, the source for all the water distribution around the camp.
The southern fringe of the lake was gi
ven over to orchards, helping supply the huge army, and Dev felt a boost to his confidence. Scurrying along the line of the tents, he entered the orchard between two mango trees and disappeared amid the greenery, keeping his bearings by making sure the lake’s shore stayed just in sight on his left between the trees. Jackfruit and lemons, mango and pomegranate rushed past as he left the populated part of the camp behind. He reached the rocky slope at the edge of the lake without having encountered another human soul and stood at the bottom, looking up at the jagged rocks down which the cascade tumbled. Somehow it seemed a lot less feasible from this angle. He pondered silently as he watched the great torrent crashing down into the lake some four hundred paces out into the water. Should he dirty his clothes again now? Against the grey rock, the white would stand out. But then, if he could reach the falling water, the white would blend in well.
He almost died while considering the rock, and only comprehended the danger when he spotted the shadow of his assailant on the rocks. He lurched urgently aside, and the man’s spear point hit the huge boulder where he had been standing, damaging the steel badly as it scratched the rock and skittered off to the side.
Dev spun, letting his grip slide down his own spear shaft as he did, so that by the time he was coming round to face the man, he held it tightly by only one end. He smashed the seven-foot shaft into the man’s back and heard a crack of ribs. The attacker exhaled with a grunt and staggered, his weapon flailing. Dev was on him before he could recover. This was not about a swift kill now, but a silent one. He didn’t know how the man had found him and decided he was the missing prisoner, but he couldn’t have him shouting for his friends whatever the case.
He knocked the winded soldier to the ground and dropped onto the man’s back, his knees digging into his spine. Casting his own spear aside, he grasped the man’s head by the temples and pulled it back, slamming it down onto the hard ground. The man gasped in pain, and Dev repeated the attack again, and a third time. The man was thoroughly dazed now, his arms flopping, breath ragged. Dev released the pressure, rising for a moment, then retrieved his spear and brought it down hard in the middle of the man’s torso. It grated between ribs and transfixed organs before plunging on through flesh and bone and into the ground. An image from his youth flashed into his mind: he was on his back as yet again Jai’s sparring stick found his throat. How impressed Jai would be if he could see Dev now.
Jade Empire Page 18
